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Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
[Illustration: When the swordsman clasped her hand she looked into his
eyes. | 1,128.485925 |
2023-11-16 18:35:52.5566790 | 1,073 | 6 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team
CAPTAIN MACKLIN
HIS MEMOIRS
By Richard Harding Davis
Illustrated By Walter Appleton Clark
{Illustration: "Go, Royal!" he cried, "and--God bless you!"}
To MY MOTHER
ILLUSTRATIONS (not available in this file)
"Go, Royal!" he cried, "and--God bless you!" FRONTISPIECE
He made our meeting something of a ceremony
We walked out to the woods
I was sure life in Sagua la Grande would always suit me
The moon rose over the camp... but still we sat
And the next instant I fell sprawling inside the barrack yard
I sprang back against the cabin
I
UNITED STATES MILITARY ACADEMY, WEST POINT
It may seem presumptuous that so young a man as myself should propose
to write his life and memoirs, for, as a rule, one waits until he has
accomplished something in the world, or until he has reached old age,
before he ventures to tell of the times in which he has lived, and of
his part in them. But the profession to which I belong, which is that
of a soldier, and which is the noblest profession a man can follow, is a
hazardous one, and were I to delay until to-morrow to write down what
I have seen and done, these memoirs might never be written, for, such
being the fortune of war, to-morrow might not come.
So I propose to tell now of the little I have accomplished in the first
twenty-three years of my life, and, from month to month, to add to these
memoirs in order that, should I be suddenly taken off, my debit and
credit pages may be found carefully written up to date and carried
forward. On the other hand, should I live to be an old man, this
record of my career will furnish me with material for a more complete
autobiography, and will serve as a safeguard against a failing memory.
In writing a personal narrative I take it that the most important events
to be chronicled in the life of a man are his choice of a wife and his
choice of a profession. As I am unmarried, the chief event in my life
is my choice of a profession, and as to that, as a matter of fact, I
was given no choice, but from my earliest childhood was destined to be
a soldier. My education and my daily environment each pointed to that
career, and even if I had shown a remarkable aptitude for any other
calling, which I did not, I doubt if I would have pursued it. I am
confident that had my education been directed in an entirely different
channel, I should have followed my destiny, and come out a soldier in
the end. For by inheritance as well as by instinct I was foreordained
to follow the fortunes of war, to delight in the clash of arms and the
smoke of battle; and I expect that when I do hear the clash of arms and
smell the smoke of battle, the last of the Macklins will prove himself
worthy of his ancestors.
I call myself the last of the Macklins for the reason that last year,
on my twenty-second birthday, I determined I should never marry. Women I
respect and admire, several of them, especially two of the young ladies
at Miss Butler's Academy I have deeply loved, but a soldier cannot
devote himself both to a woman and to his country. As one of our young
professors said, "The flag is a jealous mistress."
The one who, in my earliest childhood, arranged that I should follow
the profession of arms, was my mother's father, and my only surviving
grandparent. He was no less a personage than Major-General John M.
Hamilton. I am not a writer; my sword, I fear and hope, will always be
easier in my hand than my pen, but I wish for a brief moment I could
hold it with such skill, that I might tell of my grandfather properly
and gratefully, and describe him as the gentle and brave man he was. I
know he was gentle, for though I never had a woman to care for me as a
mother cares for a son, I never missed that care; and I know how brave
he was, for that is part of the history of my country. During many years
he was my only parent or friend or companion; he taught me my lessons by
day and my prayers by night, and, when I passed through all the absurd
ailments to which a child is heir, he sat beside my cot and lulled me to
sleep, or told me stories of the war. There was a childlike and simple
quality in his own nature, which made me reach out to him and confide in
him as I would have done to one of my own age. Later, I scoffed at this
virtue in him as something | 1,128.576719 |
2023-11-16 18:35:53.0550370 | 3,543 | 8 |
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:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/41665/41665-h/41665-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/41665/41665-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
http://archive.org/details/winningtouchdow00chadgoog
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
[Illustration: HE RAISED THE BALL IN HIS ARMS, AND PLACED IT OVER THE
CHALK MARK.]
THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN
A Story of College Football
by
LESTER CHADWICK
Author of "The Rival Pitchers," "A Quarter-Back's
Pluck," "Batting to Win," etc.
Illustrated
New York
Cupples & Leon Company
* * * * *
BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK
=THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES=
12mo. Illustrated
Price per volume, $1.00 postpaid
THE RIVAL PITCHERS
A Story of College Baseball
A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK
A Story of College Football
BATTING TO WIN
A Story of College Baseball
THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN
A Story of College Football
(Other volumes in preparation)
_Cupples & Leon Company, Publishers, New York_
* * * * *
Copyright 1911, by
Cupples & Leon Company
THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN
Printed in U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A MYSTERY 1
II MORE BAD NEWS 8
III ON THE TRAIL 19
IV ANOTHER DISAPPEARANCE 26
V FOOTBALL TALK 36
VI IN PRACTICE 43
VII A NEW TIMEPIECE 53
VIII ANOTHER IDEA 61
IX A CLASH WITH LANGRIDGE 67
X THE BIG CALIFORNIAN 73
XI A NEW COMPLICATION 80
XII THE MISSING DEED 89
XIII THE FIRST GAME 98
XIV THE HAZING OF SIMPSON 109
XV THE MIDNIGHT BLAZE 120
XVI ANOTHER CLEW 129
XVII A CRASH IN THE GALE 136
XVIII WITH HAMMER AND SAW 141
XIX SUSPICIONS 150
XX THE CLOCK COMES BACK 158
XXI SEEKING EVIDENCE 167
XXII BASCOME DENIES 173
XXIII HALED TO COURT 181
XXIV DEFEAT 188
XXV BITTER DAYS 200
XXVI MOSES IN PHYSICS 206
XXVII THE DANCE CARD 213
XXVIII THE LEGAL BATTLE 225
XXIX ONE POINT LOST 233
XXX AN UNEXPECTED CLEW 240
XXXI AFTER THE CHAIR 249
XXXII "THIS ISN'T OURS!" 260
XXXIII A GREAT FIND 271
XXXIV THE EXCITED STRANGER 276
XXXV THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN 283
THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN
CHAPTER I
A MYSTERY
"Great Cicero's ghost!"
That was Tom Parson's exclamation.
"It's gone!"
A horrified gasp from Sid Henderson.
"Who took it?"
That was what Phil Clinton wanted to know.
Then the three college chums, who had paused on the threshold of their
room, almost spellbound at the astounding discovery they had made,
advanced into the apartment, as if unable to believe what was only too
evident. Tom came to a halt near his bed, and gazed warily around.
"It's sure enough gone," he went on, with a long breath.
"Somebody pinch me to see if I'm dreaming," begged Sid, and Phil gave
him such a vigorous nip on the fleshy part of his leg that the tall
youth howled.
"Turn over; you're on your back," advised Tom, as he got down on his
hands and knees to peer under the beds.
"What are you looking for?" demanded Phil.
"Our old armchair, of course. I thought maybe some of the fellows
had been in here trying to be funny, and had hidden it. But it isn't
here--it's gone."
"As if it could be under a bed!" exploded Sid, rubbing his leg
reflectively. "You must be getting batty!"
"Maybe he thought it could be reduced to fractions or acted on by
chemicals, like some of the stuff in the laboratory test tubes," went
on Phil.
"That's all right!" fired back the varsity pitcher, rather sharply,
"it's gone, isn't it? Our old armchair, that stood by us, and----"
"And on which _we_ stood when we couldn't find the stepladder,"
interrupted Phil.
"Oh, quit your kidding!" expostulated Tom. "The old chair's gone; isn't
it?"
"You never said a truer word in all your life, my boy," declared Sid,
more gravely.
"Sort of queer, too," declared Phil. "It was here when we went out to
football practice, and now----"
"Well, all I've got to say is that I'd like to find the fellow who took
it!" broke out Tom, dramatically. "I'd make a complaint to the proctor
about him."
"Oh, you wouldn't do that; would you, Tom?" and Phil Clinton stepped
over to a creaking old sofa, and peered behind it, brushing up against
it, and causing a cloud of dust to blow out about the room. "You
wouldn't do that, Tom. Why, it isn't Randall spirit to go to the
authorities with any of our troubles that can be settled otherwise."
"But this isn't an ordinary trouble!" cried the pitcher. "Our old chair
has been taken, and I'm going to find out who's got it. When I do----"
He clenched his fists suggestively, and began to strip off his football
togs, preparatory to donning ordinary clothes.
"It isn't back there," announced Phil, as he leaned upright again, after
a prolonged inspection behind the big sofa. "But there's a lot of truck
there. I think I see my trigonometry." Getting down on his hands and
knees, and reaching under the antiquated piece of furniture, he pulled
out not one but several books.
"Oh, come out and let the stuff back of the sofa alone," suggested Tom.
"We can clean that out some other time," for the big piece of furniture
formed a convenient "catch-all" for whatever happened to be in the way
of the lads. If there was anything they did not have any immediate use
for, and for which room could not be found in, or on, the "Chauffeurs,"
as Holly Cross used to call the chiffonniers, back of the sofa it went,
until such time as the chums had an occasional room-cleaning. Then many
long-lost articles were discovered.
"Yes, there's no use digging any more," added Sid. "Besides, the chair
couldn't be there."
"Some of the fellows might have jammed it in back of the sofa, I
thought," spoke Phil. "But say, this is serious. We can't get along
without our chair!"
"I should say not," agreed Tom, who was almost dressed. "I'm going out
scouting for it. Bascome, Delafield or some of those fresh sports may
have taken it to get even with us."
"They knew we cared a lot for it," declared Sid. "Ever since we had that
row about it with Langridge, the time we moved into these dormitories,
some of the fellows have rigged us about it."
"If Langridge were here we could blame him, and come pretty near being
right," was Phil's opinion. "But he's at Boxer Hall yet--at least, I
suppose he is."
"Yes, he's on their eleven, too, I hear," added Tom. "But this sure is a
mystery, fellows. That chair never walked away by itself. And it's too
heavy and awkward for one fellow to carry alone. We've got to get busy
and find it."
"We sure have," agreed Phil. "Why, the room looks bare without it;
doesn't it?"
"Almost like a funeral," came mournfully from Sid, as he sank into the
depths of the sofa. And then a silence fell upon the inseparable chums,
a silence that seemed to fill the room, and which was broken only by the
ticking of a fussy little alarm clock.
"Oh, hang it!" burst out Tom, as he loosened his tie and made the knot
over. "I can't understand it! I'm going to see Wallops, the messenger.
Maybe he saw some one sneaking around our rooms."
"If we once get on the trail----" said Phil, significantly.
"It sure is rotten luck," spoke Sid, from the depths of the sofa. "I
don't have to do any boning to-night, and I was counting on sitting in
that easy chair, and reading a swell detective yarn Holly Cross loaned
me. Now--well, it's rotten luck--that's all."
"It certainly is!" agreed a voice at the door, as the portal opened to
give admittance to Dan Woodhouse--otherwise Kindlings. "Rotten luck
isn't the name for it. It's beastly! But how did you fellows hear the
news?"
"How did we hear it?" demanded Tom. "Couldn't we see that it wasn't here
as soon as we got in our room, a few minutes ago? But how did you come
to know of it? Say, Kindlings, you didn't have a hand in it, did you?"
and Tom strode over toward the newcomer.
"Me have a hand in it? Why, great Caesar's grandmother! Don't you suppose
I'd have stopped it if I could? I can't for the life of me, though,
understand where you heard it. Ed Kerr only told me ten minutes ago, and
he said I was the first to know it."
"Ed Kerr!" gasped Phil. "Did he have a hand in taking our old chair?"
"Your chair?" gasped Dan. "Who in the world is talking about your fuzzy
old chair?"
"Hold on!" cried Tom. "Don't you call our chair names, Kindlings,
or----"
"Tell us how you heard about it," suggested Sid.
"Say, are you fellows crazy, or am I?" demanded Dan, looking about in
curious bewilderment. "I come here with a piece of news, and I find you
firing conundrums at me about a chair that I wouldn't sit in if you gave
it to me."
"None of us is likely to sit in it now," spoke Phil, gloomily.
"Why not?" asked Dan.
"Because it's gone!" burst out Tom.
"Stolen," added Sid.
"Vanished into thin air," continued Phil.
"And if that isn't rotten luck, I don't know what you'd call it," put
in the pitcher, after a pause, long enough to allow the fact to sink
into Dan's mind. "Isn't it?"
"Say, that's nothing to what I've got to tell you," spoke Dan.
"Absolutely nothing. Talk about a fuzzy, musty, old second-hand chair
missing! Why, do you fellows know that Ed Kerr is going to leave the
football team?"
"Leave the eleven?" gasped Phil.
"What for?" cried Tom.
"Is that a joke?" inquired Sid.
"I only wish it were," declared Dan, gloomily. "It's only too true. Ed
just got a telegram stating that his father is very ill, and has been
ordered abroad to the German baths. Ed has to go with him. I was with
him when he got the message, and he told me about it. Then he went
to see Dr. Churchill, to arrange about leaving at once. That's the
rottenest piece of luck Randall ever stacked up against. It's going to
play hob with the team, just as we were getting in shape to do Boxer
Hall and Fairview Institute. Talk about a missing chair! Why, it simply
isn't in it!"
Once more a gloomy silence, at which the fussy little alarm clock seemed
to rejoice exceedingly, for it had the stage to itself, and ticked on
relentlessly.
CHAPTER II
MORE BAD NEWS
"And so Ed is going to leave," mused Tom, after a momentous pause. "It
sure will make a hole in the team."
"Oh, it's got me all broke up," gloomily declared Kindlings, who was
captain of the recently organized eleven. "I don't know what I'm going
to do to fill his place, and Mr. Lighton, while he says we'll make out
somehow, feels pretty bad over it. But it can't be helped, of course,
for Ed has to go."
For the time being, the news of the loss of one of Randall's best
football players overshadowed the matter of the missing chair. Tom had
changed his mind about going out to see if he could get on the trail
of who had taken it, and sat with Kindlings and his two other chums,
discussing what could be done to replace Kerr as right half-back.
"Bricktop Molloy might work in there," suggested Phil, "only he's too
good a tackle to take out of the line."
"Why can't you go there yourself, Phil?" asked Tom. "You've done some
playing back of the line."
"No, I need Phil at quarter," objected Dan. "We'll have to think of
something else. If I didn't need you at end, Tom, I'd try you in Ed's
place."
"Oh, I'm no good bucking the line," objected the tall lad who pitched
for the 'varsity nine.
"What's the matter with one of the Jersey Twins?" asked Sid.
"Both Jerry and Joe Jackson are too light," and Dan shook his head.
There were many suggestions, and various expedients offered, and, while
the discussion is under way perhaps a moment can be spared to make our
new readers a little better acquainted with the main characters of this
story.
In the initial volume of this "College Sports Series," entitled, "The
Rival Pitchers," there was told the story of how Tom Parsons, a rather
raw country lad, came to Randall College, made the 'varsity nine, and
twirled the horsehide in some big games, thereby doing much to help win
the pennant for Randall. He had an uphill fight, for Fred Langridge, a
rich bully, contested with him for the place in the box, and nearly won
out. There was fierce rivalry between them, not only in baseball, but
concerning a certain Miss Madge Tyler.
In the second volume, called "A Quarter-Back's Pluck," there was related
how Phil Clinton went into the championship game under heavy odds, and
how he won out, though his mind dwelt more on a fake telegram in his
pocket, telling him that his mother was dying, than on the game, and on
the players whom he at last piloted to victory.
A winter of study followed the games on the gridiron, and with the
advent of spring, longing eyes were cast toward the baseball diamond
whereon, as soon | 1,129.075077 |
2023-11-16 18:35:53.3556090 | 786 | 7 |
E-text prepared by Chris Curnow, Linda Hamilton, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images
generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 46937-h.htm or 46937-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/46937/46937-h/46937-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/46937/46937-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/bookofcornwall00bari
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
[=i] is used to represent the letter "i" with macron
above it.
[oe] represents the oe-ligature.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
A BOOK OF CORNWALL
----------------------------------------------------------------------
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE LIFE OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE
THE TRAGEDY OF THE CAESARS
THE DESERT OF SOUTHERN FRANCE
STRANGE SURVIVALS
SONGS OF THE WEST
A GARLAND OF COUNTRY SONG
OLD COUNTRY LIFE
YORKSHIRE ODDITIES
HISTORIC ODDITIES
OLD ENGLISH FAIRY TALES
AN OLD ENGLISH HOME
THE VICAR OF MORWENSTOW
FREAKS OF FANATICISM
A BOOK OF FAIRY TALES
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME
A BOOK OF BRITTANY
A BOOK OF DARTMOOR
A BOOK OF DEVON
A BOOK OF NORTH WALES
A BOOK OF SOUTH WALES
A BOOK OF THE RIVIERA
A BOOK OF THE RHINE
----------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: CORNISH FISHERMEN]
----------------------------------------------------------------------
A BOOK OF CORNWALL
by
S. BARING-GOULD
Author of "A Book of Brittany," "A Book of the Riviera," etc.
With Thirty-Three Illustrations
NEW EDITION
Methuen & Co.
36 Essex Street W.C.
London
----------------------------------------------------------------------
_First Published_ _August 1899_
_Second Edition_ _September 1902_
_New Edition_ _1906_
----------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE CORNISH SAINTS 1
II. THE HOLY WELLS 28
III. CORNISH CROSSES 38
IV. CORNISH CASTLES 44
V. TIN MINING 52
VI. LAUNCESTON 67
VII. CALLINGTON 96
VIII. CAMELFORD 114
IX. BUDE 134
X. SALTASH 151
XI. BODMIN 163
XII. THE TWO LOOES 173
XIII. FOWEY 188
XIV. THE FAL 200
XV. NEWQUAY 214
XVI. THE LIZARD 242
XVII. SMUGGLING 263
XVIII. PENZANCE 282
XIX. THE LAND'S END 305
XX. THE SCILLY ISLES 329
----------------------------------------------------------------------
ILLUSTRATIONS
CORNISH FISHERM | 1,129.375649 |
2023-11-16 18:35:53.4552150 | 538 | 9 |
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Trapped by Malays, A Tale of Bayonet and Kris, by George Manville Fenn.
________________________________________________________________________
This is good lively yarn by the master of suspense. There is continuous
action throughout the book, and you are kept on your toes wondering how
we are going to get through the latest apparent disaster. Sometimes
just a little reminiscent of The Middy and the Ensign, set in a similar
location, with similar personnel, but different enough to escape too
much criticism. Makes a good audiobook.
________________________________________________________________________
TRAPPED BY MALAYS, A TALE OF BAYONET AND KRIS, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.
CHAPTER ONE.
"TWO BAD BOYS"--SERGEANT RIPSY.
"Oh, bother!" The utterer of these two impatient words threw down a
sheet of notepaper from which he had been reading, carefully smoothed
out the folds to make it flat, and then, balancing it upon one finger as
he sat back in a cane chair with his heels upon the table, gave the
paper a flip with his nail and sent it skimming out of the window of his
military quarters at Campong Dang, the station on the Ruah River, far up
the west coast of the Malay Peninsula.
"What does the old chap want now? Another wigging, I suppose. What
have I been doing to make him write a note like that?--Note?" he
continued, after a pause. "I ought to have said despatch. Hang his
formality! Here, what did he say? How did he begin?" And he reached
out his hand towards the table as if for the note. "There's a fool!
Now, why did I send it skimming out of the window like that? It's too
hot to get up and go out to the front to find it, and it's no use to
shout, `_Qui-hi_,' for everybody will be asleep. Now, what did he say?
My memory feels all soaked. Now, what was it? Major John Knowle
requests the presence of Mr Archibald Maine--Mr Archibald Maine--
Archibald! What were the old people dreaming about? I don't know. It
always sets me thinking of old Morley--bald, with the top of his head as
shiny as a billiard-ball. Good old chap, though, even if he | 1,129.475255 |
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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
| 1,129.574901 |
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Produced by KD Weeks, 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 Note:
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited as _italic_. Bold font is delimited as =bold=.
Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please
see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding
the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------
=The Island of Fantasy=
A Romance
------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------
By FERGUS HUME
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Author of “When I Lived In Bohemia,” “The Mystery of a Hansom Cab,”
“The Man Who Vanished,” etc_.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sorrow and weariness,
Heartache and dreariness,
None should endure;
Scale ye the mountain peak,
Vale ’o the fountain seek,
There is the cure.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_R. F. FENNO & COMPANY_
9 and 11 East Sixteenth Street, New York
1905
------------------------------------------------------------------------
COPYRIGHT, 1892,
BY
UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY
---
[_All rights reserved_]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE ISLAND OF FANTASY.
------------------------------------
CHAPTER I.
A MIND DISEASED.
Your Eastern drugs, your spices, your perfumes,
Are all in vain;
They cannot snatch my soul from out its glooms,
Nor soothe the brain.
My mind is dark as cycle-sealèd tombs,
And must remain
In darkness till the light of God illumes
Its black inane.
It was eight o’clock on a still summer evening, and, the ladies having
retired, two men were lingering in a pleasant, indolent fashion over
their wine in the dining-room of Roylands Grange. To be exact, only the
elder gentleman was paying any attention to his port, for the young man
who sat at the head of the table stared vaguely on his empty glass, and
at his equally empty plate, as if his thoughts were miles away, which
was precisely the case. Youth was moody, age was cheerful, for, while
the former indulged in a brown study, the latter cracked nuts and sipped
wine, with a just appreciation of the excellence of both. Judging from
this outward aspect of things, there was something wrong with Maurice
Roylands, for if reverend age in the presentable person of Rector
Carriston could be merry, there appeared to be no very feasible reason
why unthinking youth should be so ineffably dreary. Yet woe was writ
largely on the comely face of the moody young man, and he joined but
listlessly in the jocund conversation of his companion, which was
punctuated in a very marked manner by the cracking of filberts.
Outside, a magical twilight brooded over the landscape, and the chill
odors of eve floated from a thousand sleeping flowers into the mellow
atmosphere of the room, which was irradiated by the soft gleam of many
wax candles rising white and slender from amid the pale roses adorning
the dinner-table. All was pleasant, peaceful, and infinitely charming;
yet Maurice Roylands, aged thirty, healthy, wealthy, and not at all
bad-looking, sat moodily frowning at his untasted dessert, as though he
bore the weight of the world on his shoulders.
In truth, Mr. Roylands, with the usual self-worship of latter-day youth,
thought he was being very hardly treated by Destiny, as that
all-powerful goddess had given him everything calculated to make a
mortal happy, save the capability of being happy. This was undeniably
hard, and might be called the very irony of fate, for one might as well
offer a sumptuous banquet to a dyspeptic, as give a man all the means of
enjoyment, without the faculty of taking advantage of such good fortune.
Roylands had considerable artistic power, an income of nearly six
thousand a year, a fine house, friends innumerable—of the summer season
sort; yet he neither cared about nor valued these blessings, for the
simple reason that he was heartily sick of them, one and all. He would
have been happier digging a patch of ground for his daily bread, than
thus idling through life on an independent income, for Ennui, twin
sister of Care, had taken possession of his soul, and in the midst of
all his comforts he was thoroughly unhappy.
The proverb that “The rich are more miserable than the poor,” is but a
trite one on which to preach a sermon, for did not Solomon say all that
there was to be said in the matter? It was an easier task to write a new
play on the theme of Hamlet, than to compose a novel discourse on the
“All is vanity” text; for on some subjects the final word has been said,
and he who preaches thereon says nothing new, but only repeats the ideas
of former orators, who in their turn doubtless reiterated the sayings of
still earlier preachers, and so on back to Father Adam, to whom the wily
serpent possibly delivered a sermon on the cynically wise saying
illustrated so exhaustively by Solomon ben David. Therefore, to remark
that Maurice was miserable amid all his splendors is a plagiarism, and
they who desire to study the original version for themselves must read
Ecclesiastes, which gives a minute analysis of the whole question, with
cruelly true comments thereon.
When Roylands ten years before had gone to London, against the desire of
his father, to take up the profession—if it can be called so—of a
sculptor, he was full of energy and ambition. He had fully determined to
set the Thames on fire by the creation of statues worthy of Canova, to
make a great name in the artistic world, to become a member of the
Academy, to inaugurate a new era in the history of English sculpture;
so, with all this glory before him, he turned his back on the flesh-pots
of Egypt and went to dwell in the land of Bohemia. In order to bring the
lad to his senses, Roylands senior refused to aid him with a shilling
until he gave up the pitiful trade—in this country squire’s opinion—of
chipping figures out of marble. Supplies being thus stopped, Maurice
suffered greatly in those artistic days for lack of an assured income;
yet in spite of all his deprivations, he was very happy in Bohemia until
he lived down his enthusiasms. When matters came to that pass, the wine
of life lost its zest for this young man, and he became a victim to
melancholia, that terrible disease for which there is rarely—if any
cure. He lived because he did not agree with Addison’s Cato regarding
the virtues of self-destruction, but as far as actual dying went it
mattered to him neither one way nor the other. If he had done but little
good during his life, at least he had done but little harm, so, thinking
he could scarcely be punished severely for such a negative existence, he
was quite willing to leave this world he found so dreary, provided the
entrance into the next one was not of too painful a nature.
It is a bad thing for a young man to | 1,130.480903 |
2023-11-16 18:35:54.4617430 | 6,541 | 14 |
Produced by Jo Churcher
REWARDS AND FAIRIES
By Rudyard Kipling
Contents
A Charm
Introduction
Cold Iron
Cold Iron
Gloriana
The Two Cousins
The Looking-Glass
The Wrong Thing
A Truthful Song
King Henry VII and the Shipwrights
Marklake Witches
The Way through the Woods
Brookland Road
The Knife and the Naked Chalk
The Run of the Downs
Song of the Men's Side
Brother Square-Toes
Philadelphia
If--
Rs
'A Priest in Spite of Himself'
A St Helena Lullaby
'Poor Honest Men'
The Conversion of St Wilfrid
Eddi's Service
Song of the Red War-Boat
A Doctor of Medicine
An Astrologer's Song
'Our Fathers of Old'
Simple Simon
The Thousandth Man
Frankie's Trade
The Tree of Justice
The Ballad of Minepit Shaw
A Carol
A Charm
Take of English earth as much
As either hand may rightly clutch.
In the taking of it breathe
Prayer for all who lie beneath--
Not the great nor well-bespoke,
But the mere uncounted folk
Of whose life and death is none
Report or lamentation.
Lay that earth upon thy heart,
And thy sickness shall depart!
It shall sweeten and make whole
Fevered breath and festered soul;
It shall mightily restrain
Over-busy hand and brain;
it shall ease thy mortal strife
'Gainst the immortal woe of life,
Till thyself restored shall prove
By what grace the Heavens do move.
Take of English flowers these--
Spring's full-faced primroses,
Summer's wild wide-hearted rose,
Autumn's wall-flower of the close,
And, thy darkness to illume,
Winter's bee-thronged ivy-bloom.
Seek and serve them where they bide
From Candlemas to Christmas-tide,
For these simples used aright
Shall restore a failing sight.
These shall cleanse and purify
Webbed and inward-turning eye;
These shall show thee treasure hid,
Thy familiar fields amid,
At thy threshold, on thy hearth,
Or about thy daily path;
And reveal (which is thy need)
Every man a King indeed!
Introduction
Once upon a time, Dan and Una, brother and sister, living in the English
country, had the good fortune to meet with Puck, alias Robin Goodfellow,
alias Nick o' Lincoln, alias Lob-lie-by-the-Fire, the last survivor
in England of those whom mortals call Fairies. Their proper name, of
course, is 'The People of the Hills'. This Puck, by means of the magic
of Oak, Ash, and Thorn, gave the children power
To see what they should see and hear what they should hear,
Though it should have happened three thousand year.
The result was that from time to time, and in different places on the
farm and in the fields and in the country about, they saw and talked to
some rather interesting people. One of these, for instance, was a Knight
of the Norman Conquest, another a young Centurion of a Roman Legion
stationed in England, another a builder and decorator of King Henry
VII's time; and so on and so forth; as I have tried to explain in a book
called PUCK OF POOK'S HILL.
A year or so later, the children met Puck once more, and though they
were then older and wiser, and wore boots regularly instead of going
barefooted when they got the chance, Puck was as kind to them as ever,
and introduced them to more people of the old days.
He was careful, of course, to take away their memory of their walks and
conversations afterwards, but otherwise he did not interfere; and Dan
and Una would find the strangest sort of persons in their gardens or
woods.
In the stories that follow I am trying to tell something about those
people.
COLD IRON
When Dan and Una had arranged to go out before breakfast, they did not
remember that it was Midsummer Morning. They only wanted to see the
otter which, old Hobden said, had been fishing their brook for weeks;
and early morning was the time to surprise him. As they tiptoed out of
the house into the wonderful stillness, the church clock struck five.
Dan took a few steps across the dew-blobbed lawn, and looked at his
black footprints.
'I think we ought to be kind to our poor boots,' he said. 'They'll get
horrid wet.'
It was their first summer in boots, and they hated them, so they took
them off, and slung them round their necks, and paddled joyfully over
the dripping turf where the shadows lay the wrong way, like evening in
the East. The sun was well up and warm, but by the brook the last of
the night mist still fumed off the water. They picked up the chain of
otter's footprints on the mud, and followed it from the bank, between
the weeds and the drenched mowing, while the birds shouted with
surprise. Then the track left the brook and became a smear, as though a
log had been dragged along.
They traced it into Three Cows meadow, over the mill-sluice to the
Forge, round Hobden's garden, and then up the <DW72> till it ran out
on the short turf and fern of Pook's Hill, and they heard the
cock-pheasants crowing in the woods behind them.
'No use!' said Dan, questing like a puzzled hound. 'The dew's drying
off, and old Hobden says otters'll travel for miles.'
'I'm sure we've travelled miles.' Una fanned herself with her hat. 'How
still it is! It's going to be a regular roaster.' She looked down the
valley, where no chimney yet smoked.
'Hobden's up!' Dan pointed to the open door of the Forge cottage. 'What
d'you suppose he has for breakfast?' 'One of them. He says they eat good
all times of the year,' Una jerked her head at some stately pheasants
going down to the brook for a drink.
A few steps farther on a fox broke almost under their bare feet, yapped,
and trotted off.
'Ah, Mus' Reynolds--Mus' Reynolds'--Dan was quoting from old
Hobden,--'if I knowed all you knowed, I'd know something.' [See 'The
Winged Hats' in PUCK OF POOK'S HILL.]
I say,'--Una lowered her voice--'you know that funny feeling of things
having happened before. I felt it when you said "Mus' Reynolds."'
'So did I,' Dan began. 'What is it?'
They faced each other, stammering with excitement.
'Wait a shake! I'll remember in a minute. Wasn't it something about a
fox--last year? Oh, I nearly had it then!' Dan cried.
'Be quiet!' said Una, prancing excitedly. 'There was something happened
before we met the fox last year. Hills! Broken Hills--the play at the
theatre--see what you see--'
'I remember now,' Dan shouted. 'It's as plain as the nose on your
face--Pook's Hill--Puck's Hill--Puck!'
'I remember, too,' said Una. 'And it's Midsummer Day again!' The young
fern on a knoll rustled, and Puck walked out, chewing a green-topped
rush.
'Good Midsummer Morning to you! Here's a happy meeting,' said he. They
shook hands all round, and asked questions.
'You've wintered well,' he said after a while, and looked them up and
down. 'Nothing much wrong with you, seemingly.'
'They've put us into boots,' said Una. 'Look at my feet--they're all
pale white, and my toes are squidged together awfully.'
'Yes--boots make a difference.' Puck wriggled his brown, square, hairy
foot, and cropped a dandelion flower between the big toe and the next.
'I could do that--last year,' Dan said dismally, as he tried and failed.
'And boots simply ruin one's climbing.'
'There must be some advantage to them, I suppose,'said Puck, or folk
wouldn't wear them. Shall we come this way?' They sauntered along side
by side till they reached the gate at the far end of the hillside. Here
they halted just like cattle, and let the sun warm their backs while
they listened to the flies in the wood.
'Little Lindens is awake,' said Una, as she hung with her chin on the
top rail. 'See the chimney smoke?'
'Today's Thursday, isn't it?' Puck turned to look at the old pink
farmhouse across the little valley. 'Mrs Vincey's baking day. Bread
should rise well this weather.' He yawned, and that set them both
yawning.
The bracken about rustled and ticked and shook in every direction. They
felt that little crowds were stealing past.
'Doesn't that sound like--er--the People of the Hills?'said Una.
'It's the birds and wild things drawing up to the woods before people
get about,' said Puck, as though he were Ridley the keeper.
'Oh, we know that. I only said it sounded like.'
'As I remember 'em, the People of the Hills used to make more noise.
They'd settle down for the day rather like small birds settling down for
the night. But that was in the days when they carried the high hand. Oh,
me! The deeds that I've had act and part in, you'd scarcely believe!'
'I like that!' said Dan. 'After all you told us last year, too!'
'Only, the minute you went away, you made us forget everything,' said
Una.
Puck laughed and shook his head. 'I shall this year, too. I've given you
seizin of Old England, and I've taken away your Doubt and Fear, but your
memory and remembrance between whiles I'll keep where old Billy Trott
kept his night-lines--and that's where he could draw 'em up and hide 'em
at need. Does that suit?' He twinkled mischievously.
'It's got to suit,'said Una, and laughed. 'We Can't magic back at you.'
She folded her arms and leaned against the gate. 'Suppose, now, you
wanted to magic me into something--an otter? Could you?'
'Not with those boots round your neck.' 'I'll take them off.' She threw
them on the turf. Dan's followed immediately. 'Now!' she said.
'Less than ever now you've trusted me. Where there's true faith, there's
no call for magic.' Puck's slow smile broadened all over his face.
'But what have boots to do with it?' said Una, perching on the gate.
'There's Cold Iron in them,' said Puck, and settled beside her. 'Nails
in the soles, I mean. It makes a difference.'
'How?' 'Can't you feel it does? You wouldn't like to go back to bare
feet again, same as last year, would you? Not really?'
'No-o. I suppose I shouldn't--not for always. I'm growing up, you know,'
said Una.
'But you told us last year, in the Long Slip--at the theatre--that you
didn't mind Cold Iron,'said Dan.
'I don't; but folks in housen, as the People of the Hills call them,
must be ruled by Cold Iron. Folk in housen are born on the near side of
Cold Iron--there's iron 'in every man's house, isn't there? They handle
Cold Iron every day of their lives, and their fortune's made or spoilt
by Cold Iron in some shape or other. That's how it goes with Flesh and
Blood, and one can't prevent it.'
'I don't quite see. How do you mean?'said Dan.
'It would take me some time to tell you.'
'Oh, it's ever so long to breakfast,' said Dan. 'We looked in the
larder before we came out.' He unpocketed one big hunk of bread and Una
another, which they shared with Puck.
'That's Little Lindens' baking,' he said, as his white teeth sunk in
it. 'I know Mrs Vincey's hand.' He ate with a slow sideways thrust and
grind, just like old Hobden, and, like Hobden, hardly dropped a crumb.
The sun flashed on Little Lindens' windows, and the cloudless sky grew
stiller and hotter in the valley.
'AH--Cold Iron,' he said at last to the impatient children. 'Folk in
housen, as the People of the Hills say, grow careless about Cold Iron.
They'll nail the Horseshoe over the front door, and forget to put it
over the back. Then, some time or other, the People of the Hills slip
in, find the cradle-babe in the corner, and--'
'Oh, I know. Steal it and leave a changeling,'Una cried.
'No,' said Puck firmly. 'All that talk of changelings is people's excuse
for their own neglect. Never believe 'em. I'd whip 'em at the cart-tail
through three parishes if I had my way.'
'But they don't do it now,' said Una.
'Whip, or neglect children? Umm! Some folks and some fields never alter.
But the People of the Hills didn't work any changeling tricks.
They'd tiptoe in and whisper and weave round the cradle-babe in the
chimney-corner--a fag-end of a charm here, or half a spell there--like
kettles singing; but when the babe's mind came to bud out afterwards,
it would act differently from other people in its station. That's no
advantage to man or maid. So I wouldn't allow it with my folks' babies
here. I told Sir Huon so once.'
'Who was Sir Huon?' Dan asked, and Puck turned on him in quiet
astonishment.
'Sir Huon of Bordeaux--he succeeded King Oberon. He had been a bold
knight once, but he was lost on the road to Babylon, a long while back.
Have you ever heard "How many miles to Babylon?"?'
'Of course,' said Dan, flushing.
'Well, Sir Huon was young when that song was new. But about tricks
on mortal babies. I said to Sir Huon in the fern here, on just such a
morning as this: "If you crave to act and influence on folk in housen,
which I know is your desire, why don't you take some human cradle-babe
by fair dealing, and bring him up among yourselves on the far side
of Cold Iron--as Oberon did in time past? Then you could make him a
splendid fortune, and send him out into the world."
'"Time past is past time," says Sir Huon. "I doubt if we could do it.
For one thing, the babe would have to be taken without wronging man,
woman, or child. For another, he'd have to be born on the far side of
Cold Iron--in some house where no Cold Iron ever stood; and for yet the
third, he'd have to be kept from Cold Iron all his days till we let
him find his fortune. No, it's not easy," he said, and he rode off,
thinking. You see, Sir Huon had been a man once. 'I happened to attend
Lewes Market next Woden's Day even, and watched the slaves being sold
there--same as pigs are sold at Robertsbridge Market nowadays. Only,
the pigs have rings on their noses, and the slaves had rings round their
necks.'
'What sort of rings?' said Dan.
'A ring of Cold Iron, four fingers wide, and a thumb thick, just like
a quoit, but with a snap to it for to snap round the slave's neck. They
used to do a big trade in slave-rings at the Forge here, and ship
them to all parts of Old England, packed in oak sawdust. But, as I was
saying, there was a farmer out of the Weald who had bought a woman with
a babe in her arms, and he didn't want any encumbrances to her driving
his beasts home for him.'
'Beast himself!' said Una, and kicked her bare heel on the gate.
'So he blamed the auctioneer. "It's none o' my baby," the wench puts in.
"I took it off a woman in our gang who died on Terrible Down yesterday."
"I'll take it off to the church then," says the farmer. "Mother
Church'll make a monk of it, and we'll step along home."
'It was dusk then. He slipped down to St Pancras' Church, and laid the
babe at the cold chapel door. I breathed on the back of his stooping
neck--and--I've heard he never could be warm at any fire afterwards. I
should have been surprised if he could! Then I whipped up the babe, and
came flying home here like a bat to his belfry.
'On the dewy break of morning of Thor's own day--just such a day as
this--I laid the babe outside the Hill here, and the People flocked up
and wondered at the sight.
'"You've brought him, then?" Sir Huon said, staring like any mortal man.
'"Yes, and he's brought his mouth with him, too," I said. The babe was
crying loud for his breakfast.
'"What is he?" says Sir Huon, when the womenfolk had drawn him under to
feed him.
'"Full Moon and Morning Star may know," I says. "I don't. By what I
could make out of him in the moonlight, he's without brand or blemish.
I'll answer for it that he's born on the far side of Cold Iron, for he
was born under a shaw on Terrible Down, and I've wronged neither man,
woman, nor child in taking him, for he is the son of a dead slave-woman."
'"All to the good, Robin," Sir Huon said. "He'll be the less anxious to
leave us. Oh, we'll give him a splendid fortune, and we shall act and
influence on folk in housen as we have always craved." His Lady came up
then, and drew him under to watch the babe's wonderful doings.' 'Who was
his Lady?'said Dan. 'The Lady Esclairmonde. She had been a woman once,
till she followed Sir Huon across the fern, as we say. Babies are no
special treat to me--I've watched too many of them--so I stayed on the
Hill. Presently I heard hammering down at the Forge there.'Puck pointed
towards Hobden's cottage. 'It was too early for any workmen, but it
passed through my mind that the breaking day was Thor's own day. A slow
north-east wind blew up and set the oaks sawing and fretting in a way I
remembered; so I slipped over to see what I could see.'
'And what did you see?' 'A smith forging something or other out of Cold
Iron. When it was finished, he weighed it in his hand (his back was
towards me), and tossed it from him a longish quoit-throw down the
valley. I saw Cold Iron flash in the sun, but I couldn't quite make out
where it fell. That didn't trouble me. I knew it would be found sooner
or later by someone.'
'How did you know?'Dan went on.
'Because I knew the Smith that made it,' said Puck quietly.
'Wayland Smith?' Una suggested. [See 'Weland's Sword' in PUCK OF POOK'S
HILL.]
'No. I should have passed the time o' day with Wayland Smith, of course.
This other was different. So'--Puck made a queer crescent in the air
with his finger--'I counted the blades of grass under my nose till the
wind dropped and he had gone--he and his Hammer.'
'Was it Thor then?' Una murmured under her breath.
'Who else? It was Thor's own day.' Puck repeated the sign. 'I didn't
tell Sir Huon or his Lady what I'd seen. Borrow trouble for yourself if
that's your nature, but don't lend it to your neighbours. Moreover,
I might have been mistaken about the Smith's work. He might have been
making things for mere amusement, though it wasn't like him, or he might
have thrown away an old piece of made iron. One can never be sure. So I
held my tongue and enjoyed the babe. He was a wonderful child--and the
People of the Hills were so set on him, they wouldn't have believed me.
He took to me wonderfully. As soon as he could walk he'd putter forth
with me all about my Hill here. Fern makes soft falling! He knew when
day broke on earth above, for he'd thump, thump, thump, like an old
buck-rabbit in a bury, and I'd hear him say "Opy!" till some one who
knew the Charm let him out, and then it would be "Robin! Robin!" all
round Robin Hood's barn, as we say, till he'd found me.'
'The dear!' said Una. 'I'd like to have seen him!' 'Yes, he was a boy.
And when it came to learning his words--spells and such-like--he'd sit
on the Hill in the long shadows, worrying out bits of charms to try on
passersby. And when the bird flew to him, or the tree bowed to him for
pure love's sake (like everything else on my Hill), he'd shout, "Robin!
Look--see! Look, see, Robin!" and sputter out some spell or other that
they had taught him, all wrong end first, till I hadn't the heart to
tell him it was his own dear self and not the words that worked the
wonder. When he got more abreast of his words, and could cast spells for
sure, as we say, he took more and more notice of things and people in
the world. People, of course, always drew him, for he was mortal all
through.
'Seeing that he was free to move among folk in housen, under or over
Cold Iron, I used to take him along with me, night-walking, where he
could watch folk, and I could keep him from touching Cold Iron. That
wasn't so difficult as it sounds, because there are plenty of things
besides Cold Iron in housen to catch a boy's fancy. He was a handful,
though! I shan't forget when I took him to Little Lindens--his first
night under a roof. The smell of the rushlights and the bacon on the
beams--they were stuffing a feather-bed too, and it was a drizzling warm
night--got into his head. Before I could stop him--we were hiding in
the bakehouse--he'd whipped up a storm of wildfire, with flashlights
and voices, which sent the folk shrieking into the garden, and a girl
overset a hive there, and--of course he didn't know till then such
things could touch him--he got badly stung, and came home with his face
looking like kidney potatoes! 'You can imagine how angry Sir Huon and
Lady Esclairmonde were with poor Robin! They said the Boy was never to
be trusted with me night-walking any more--and he took about as much
notice of their order as he did of the bee-stings. Night after night,
as soon as it was dark, I'd pick up his whistle in the wet fern, and
off we'd flit together among folk in housen till break of day--he asking
questions, and I answering according to my knowledge. Then we fell into
mischief again!'Puck shook till the gate rattled.
'We came across a man up at Brightling who was beating his wife with
a bat in the garden. I was just going to toss the man over his own
woodlump when the Boy jumped the hedge and ran at him. Of course the
woman took her husband's part, and while the man beat him, the woman
scratted his face. It wasn't till I danced among the cabbages like
Brightling Beacon all ablaze that they gave up and ran indoors. The
Boy's fine green-and-gold clothes were torn all to pieces, and he had
been welted in twenty places with the man's bat, and scratted by the
woman's nails to pieces. He looked like a Robertsbridge hopper on a
Monday morning.
'"Robin," said he, while I was trying to clean him down with a bunch of
hay, "I don't quite understand folk in housen. I went to help that old
woman, and she hit me, Robin!"
'"What else did you expect?" I said. "That was the one time when you
might have worked one of your charms, instead of running into three
times your weight."
'"I didn't think," he says. "But I caught the man one on the head that
was as good as any charm. Did you see it work, Robin?"
'"Mind your nose," I said. "Bleed it on a dockleaf--not your sleeve, for
pity's sake." I knew what the Lady Esclairmonde would say.
'He didn't care. He was as happy as a gipsy with a stolen pony, and the
front part of his gold coat, all blood and grass stains, looked like
ancient sacrifices.
'Of course the People of the Hills laid the blame on me. The Boy could
do nothing wrong, in their eyes.
'"You are bringing him up to act and influence on folk in housen, when
you're ready to let him go," I said. "Now he's begun to do it, why do
you cry shame on me? That's no shame. It's his nature drawing him to his
kind."
'"But we don't want him to begin that way," the Lady Esclairmonde
said. "We intend a splendid fortune for him--not your flitter-by-night,
hedge-jumping, gipsy-work."
'"I don't blame you, Robin," says Sir Huon, "but I do think you might
look after the Boy more closely."
'"I've kept him away from Cold Iron these sixteen years," I said. "You
know as well as I do, the first time he touches Cold Iron he'll find
his own fortune, in spite of everything you intend for him. You owe me
something for that."
'Sir Huon, having been a man, was going to allow me the right of it, but
the Lady Esclairmonde, being the Mother of all Mothers, over-persuaded
him.
'"We're very grateful," Sir Huon said, "but we think that just for the
present you are about too much with him on the Hill."
'"Though you have said it," I said, "I will give you a second chance."
I did not like being called to account for my doings on my own Hill. I
wouldn't have stood it even that far except I loved the Boy.
'"No! No!" says the Lady Esclairmonde. "He's never any trouble when he's
left to me and himself. It's your fault."
'"You have said it," I answered. "Hear me! From now on till the Boy has
found his fortune, whatever that may be, I vow to you all on my Hill, by
Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, and by the Hammer of Asa Thor"--again Puck made
that curious double-cut in the air--'"that you may leave me out of
all your counts and reckonings." Then I went out'--he snapped his
fingers--'like the puff of a candle, and though they called and cried,
they made nothing by it. I didn't promise not to keep an eye on the Boy,
though. I watched him close--close--close!
'When he found what his people had forced me to do, he gave them a piece
of his mind, but they all kissed and cried round him, and being only
a boy, he came over to their way of thinking (I don't blame him), and
called himself unkind and ungrateful; and it all ended in fresh shows
and plays, and magics to distract him from folk in housen. Dear heart
alive! How he used to call and call on me, and I couldn't answer, or
even let him know that I was near!'
'Not even once?' said Una. 'If he was very lonely?' 'No, he couldn't,'
said Dan, who had been thinking. 'Didn't you swear by the Hammer of Thor
that you wouldn't, Puck?'
'By that Hammer!' was the deep rumbled reply. Then he came back to his
soft speaking voice. 'And the Boy was lonely, when he couldn't see me
any more. He began to try to learn all learning (he had good teachers),
but I saw him lift his eyes from the big black books towards folk in
housen all the time. He studied song-making (good teachers he had too!),
but he sang those songs with his back toward the Hill, and his face
toward | 1,130.481783 |
2023-11-16 18:35:54.5606830 | 539 | 11 |
Produced by David Widger
COMIC BIBLE SKETCHES
Reprinted From "The Freethinker"
By G. W. Foote
Part I.
London:
Progressive Publishing Company
28 Stonecutter Street, E.C.
1885.
INTRODUCTION.
English literature has its Comic Histories, its Comic Grammars, its
Comic Geographies, and its Comic Law-Books, and Carlyle once prophesied
that it would some day boast its Comic Bible. Tough as the fine old
Sage of Chelsea was, he predicted this monstrosity with something of the
horror a barbarian might feel at the thought of some irreverent fellow
deliberately laughing at the tribal fetish. But what shocked our
latter-day prophet so greatly in mere anticipation has partially come to
pass. "La Bible Amusante" has had an extensive sale in France, and the
infectious irreverence has extended itself to England. Notwithstanding
that Mr. G. R. Sims, when he saw the first numbers of that abominable
publication, piously turned up the whites of his eyes, and declared his
opinion that no English Freethinker, however extreme, would think of
reproducing or imitating them, there were found persons so utterly
abandoned as not to scruple at this unparalleled profanity. Several
of the French drawings were copied with more or less fidelity in the
_Freethinker_, a scandalous print, as the Christians love to describe
it, which has been prosecuted twice for Blasphemy, and whose editor,
proprietor and publisher, have been punished respectively with twelve,
nine and three months' imprisonment like common felons, all for the
glory and honor of God, for the satisfaction of his dear Son, and for
the vindication of the Holy Spirit. In many cases the French originals
could not be reproduced in England, owing to their Gallic flavor. A
Parisian artist, disporting himself among those highly moral histories
in the Bible which our youths and maidens discover with unerring
instinct, was not a spectacle which one could dare to exhibit before
the pious and chaste British public; any more than an English poet could
follow the lead of Evariste Parny in his "Guerre des Dieux" and "Les
Amours de la Bible." But many others were free from this objection, and
a selection of them served as a basis for the Freethinker artist to work
on. A few were copied | 1,130.580723 |
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Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by Cornell University Digital Collections.)
THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE
Of Literature, Science, and Art.
VOLUME IV
AUGUST TO DECEMBER, 1851.
NEW-YORK:
STRINGER & TOWNSEND, 222 BROADWAY.
FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.
BY THE NUMBER, 25 CTS.; THE VOLUME, $1; THE YEAR, $3.
Transcriber's note: Contents for entire volume 4 in this text. However
this text contains only issue Vol. 4, No. 1. Minor typos have been
corrected and footnotes moved to the end of the article.
PREFACE TO THE FOURTH VOLUME.
The conclusion of the Fourth Volume of a periodical may be accepted as
a sign of its permanent establishment. The proprietors of the
INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE have the satisfaction of believing that, while
there has been a steady increase of sales, ever since the publication
of the first number of this work, there has likewise been as regular
an augmentation of its interest, value, and adaptation to the wants of
the reading portion of our community. While essentially an Eclectic,
relying very much for success on a reproduction of judiciously
selected and fairly acknowledged Foreign Literature, it has contained
from month to month such an amount of New Articles as justified its
claim to consideration as an Original Miscellany. And in choosing from
European publications, articles to reprint or to translate for these
pages, care has been taken not only to avoid that vein of
licentiousness in morals, and skepticism in religion, which in so
lamentable a degree characterize a large portion of the popular
literature of this age, but also to extract from foreign periodicals
that American element with which the rising importance of our country
has caused so many of them to be infused; so that, notwithstanding the
fact that more than half the contents of the INTERNATIONAL are from
the minds of Europeans, the Magazine is essentially more _American_
than any other now published.
For the future, the publishers have made arrangements that will insure
very decided and desirable improvements, which will be more fully
disclosed in the first number of the ensuing volume; eminent original
writers will be added to our list of contributors; from Germany,
France, and Great Britain, we have increased our literary resources;
and more attention will be given to the pictorial illustration of such
subjects as may be advantageously treated in engravings. Among those
authors whose contributions have appeared in the INTERNATIONAL
hitherto, we may mention:
MISS FENIMORE COOPER,
MISS ALICE CAREY,
MRS. E. OAKES SMITH,
MRS. M. E. HEWITT,
MRS. ALICE B. NEAL,
BISHOP SPENCER,
HENRY AUSTIN LAYARD,
PARKE GODWIN,
JOHN R. THOMPSON,
W. C. RICHARDS,
W. GILMORE SIMMS,
BAYARD TAYLOR,
ROBERT HENRY STODDARD,
ALFRED B. STREET,
THOMAS EWBANK,
E. W. ELLSWORTH,
G. P. R. JAMES,
DR. JOHN W. FRANCIS,
MAUNSELL B. FIELD,
DR. STARBUCK MAYO,
JOHN E. WARREN,
A. OAKEY HALL,
HORACE GREELEY,
RICHARD B. KIMBALL,
THE AUTHOR OF "NILE NOTES,"
THE AUTHOR OF "HARRY FRANCO."
REV. J. C. RICHMOND,
REV. H. W. PARKER,
JAMES T. FIELDS,
R. S. CHILTON.
The foreign writers, from whom we have selected, need not be
enumerated; they embrace the principal living masters of literary art;
and we shall continue to avail ourselves of their new productions as
largely as justice to them and the advantage and pleasure of our
readers may seem to justify.
NEW-YORK, December 1, 1851.
CONTENTS:
VOLUME IV. AUGUST TO DECEMBER, 1851.
Alred.--_By Elmina W. Carey_, 27
Alexander, Last days of the Emperor.--_A. Dumas_, 233
America, as Abused by a German, 448
American Intercommunication, 461
American Literature, Studies of.--_Philarete Chasles_, 163
American and European Scenery Compared.--_By the late J. F. Cooper_, 625
Anacreon. Twentieth Ode of.--_By Mary E. Hewitt_, 20
Animal Magnetism. Christopher North on, 27
Ariadne.--_By William C. Bennett_, 315
Autumn Ballad, An.--_By W. A. Sutliffe_, 598
August Reverie.--_By A. Oakey Hall_, 477
Art Expression. 401
Arts among the Aztecs and Indians.--_By Thomas Ewbank._ (Ten
Engravings.) 307
_Arts, the Fine._--Monuments to Public Men in Europe and America,
130.--Mosaics for the Emperor of Russia, 130.--Tenarani, the Italian
Sculptor, 131.--Group by Herr Kiss, 131.--English and American
Portrait Painters, 131--Mr. Pyne's English Landscapes, 131.--Paintings
by British Officers in Canada, 131.--Ovation to Rauch at Berlin,
131.--Healy's Picture of Webster's Reply to Hayne,
131.--Newly-discovered Raphael, 131.--Daguerreotypes, 131.--Letter
from Hiram Powers, 279.--Monument to Wordsworth, 279.--Monument to
Weber, 279.--Works of Cornelius, 279.--Greenonga's Group for the
Capital, 279.--The Twelve Virgins of Raphael, 279.--Tributes by Greece
to her Benefactors, 279.--Paul Delaroche, 417.--Winterhalter,
417.--New Scriptures in the Crystal Palace, 417.--London Art-Union,
417.--American Art-Union. 417.--Powers's Eve, 417.--Leutze, 417.--The
London Art-Journal on the Engravings of the American Art-Union.
561.--The Philadelphia Art-Union, 561.--The Western Art-Union,
562.--Mr. Healy's Picture of Webster's Reply to Hayne, 562.--Mr.
Lentze's Washington Crossing the Delaware, 562--Illustrations of
Martin Luther, 562.--Lentze's Washington. 743.--Colossal Statue of
Washington at Munich, 703.--Kaulbach's Frescoes, 703.--Cadame's
Compositions of the Seasons, 703.--Portraits of Bishop White and
Daniel Webster, 703.
_Authors and Books._--The Story of Talns, and the Sardonic Laughter,
by Merehlen, 122.--A German Treatise on Free Trade, 122.--Curious
Medical Works in Germany, 122.--Weiseler on the Theatre,
122.--Woodcuts of celebrated Masters, 123.--Recent German Poetry,
123.--Venedy's Schleswig-Holstein in 1850, 123.--Souvenirs of Early
Germans, 123.--Gutzkow, Reimer, and Gubitz. 123.--Mundi's Macchiavelli
and the Course of European Policy, 123.--New German Novels,
124.--Baner's Documents respecting the Monastery of Arnsburg,
121.--Mss. of Peter Schlemil, 124.--Professor O. L. B. Wohl's Poetic
and Prosaic Home Treasury, 124.--German opinion of Miss Weber,
124.--Professor Zahn at Pompeii, 124.--Barthohl's History of German
Cities, 124.--Cornell on Feurebach, 125.--New Book of the Planets by
Ernst, 125.--Waldmeister's Bridal Tour, 125.--German version of George
Copyway's Book, 125.--German Survey of American Institutions,
125.--Russian Literature, 125.--Jewish Professors in Austria,
125.--Dumas's new Works, 125.--Madame Reybaud, 125.--New Volume of
Thier's History of the Empire, 125.--Mignet's Life of Mary Queen of
Scots, 126.--Cormenin on the Revision of the Constitution,
126.--Literary Episodes in the East, by Marcellus, 126.--Victor Hugo.
126.--Madame Bocarme, 126.--Signatures to Articles in the French
Journals, 126.--Arago's loss of sight, 126.--George Sand to Dumas,
127.--Vacherot on the Philosophical School of Alexandria, 127.--Mss.
of Rousseau, 127.--Unpublished works of Balzac, 127.--M. Nisard,
127.--M. Gautier, 127.--Guizot's History of Representative Government,
127.--Mademoiselle de Belle Isle, 127.--Rev. T. W. Shelton, in
Sharpe's Magazine, 127.--Rev. Charles Kingsley, author of Alton Locke,
127 | 1,130.580963 |
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Produced by David Widger
AT SUNWICH PORT
BY
W. W. JACOBS
Part 2.
ILLUSTRATIONS
From Drawings by Will Owen
CHAPTER VI
For the first few days after his return Sunwich was full of surprises to
Jem Hardy. The town itself had changed but little, and the older
inhabitants were for the most part easily recognisable, but time had
wrought wonders among the younger members of the population: small boys
had attained to whiskered manhood, and small girls passing into
well-grown young women had in some cases even changed their names.
The most astounding and gratifying instance of the wonders effected by
time was that of Miss Nugent. He saw her first at the window, and with a
ready recognition of the enchantment lent by distance took the first
possible opportunity of a closer observation. He then realized the
enchantment afforded by proximity. The second opportunity led him
impetuously into a draper's shop, where a magnificent shop-walker, after
first ceremoniously handing him a high cane chair, passed on his order
for pins in a deep and thrilling baritone, and retired in good order.
[Illustration: "The most astounding and gratifying instance of the
wonders effected by time was that of Miss Nugent."]
By the end of a week his observations were completed, and Kate Nugent,
securely enthroned in his mind as the incarnation of feminine grace and
beauty, left but little room for other matters. On his second Sunday at
home, to his father's great surprise, he attended church, and after
contemplating Miss Nugent's back hair for an hour and a half came home
and spoke eloquently and nobly on "burying hatchets," "healing old
sores," "letting bygones be bygones," and kindred topics.
"I never take much notice of sermons myself," said the captain,
misunderstanding.
"Sermon?" said his son. "I wasn't thinking of the sermon, but I saw
Captain Nugent there, and I remembered the stupid quarrel between you.
It's absurd that it should go on indefinitely."
"Why, what does it matter?" inquired the other, staring. "Why shouldn't
it? Perhaps it's the music that's affected you; some of those old
hymns--"
"It wasn't the sermon and it wasn't the hymns," said his son,
disdainfully; "it's just common sense. It seems to me that the enmity
between you has lasted long enough."
"I don't see that it matters," said the captain; "it doesn't hurt me.
Nugent goes his way and I go mine, but if I ever get a chance at the old
man, he'd better look out. He wants a little of the starch taken out of
him."
"Mere mannerism," said his son.
"He's as proud as Lucifer, and his girl takes after him," said the
innocent captain. "By the way, she's grown up a very good-looking girl.
You take a look at her the next time you see her."
His son stared at him.
"She'll get married soon, I should think," continued the other. "Young
Murchison, the new doctor here, seems to be the favourite. Nugent is
backing him, so they say; I wish him joy of his father-in-law."
Jem Hardy took his pipe into the garden, and, pacing slowly up and down
the narrow paths, determined, at any costs, to save Dr. Murchison from | 1,130.583236 |
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Produced by Jane Robins, Jonathan Ingram and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOLUME 150, MAY 17, 1916.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Customer._ "HAVE YOU MY PASS BOOK?"
_Overworked Cashier._ "DID YOU LEAVE IT WITH US?"
_Customer._ "I DON'T KNOW, BUT I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT AS WELL LOOK FOR IT
BEFORE I DO."]
* * * * *
CHARIVARIA.
"We can never talk of the theatre without harking back to the play
itself," says "The Matinee Girl" in _The Evening News_. Funny how these
irrelevant trifles will obtrude themselves into the most facile critic's
train of thought.
***
So simple and successful has been the progress of the Daylight-Saving
Scheme, under which the clock is to be put forward an hour during the
summer months, that a movement is on foot to help the War Office
prophets by putting the War back a couple of years.
***
It is not generally known that during the week ending May 7th a fourth
Zeppelin was sunk by H.M.S. Feuilleton.
***
A tremendous boom in canaries is reported from New York. The colour is
believed to be a favourite one with the hyphenated.
***
Breconshire County Council is proposing to abolish Sunday fishing. It is
felt, however, that the demands of the Sabbath will be met if the
fishermen can be prevented from describing their exploits till Monday
morning.
***
An evening contemporary has the following heading:--
"HINDENBURG SEEDY.
Petrograd tale of a gloomy 'Papa' and
an angry Below."
Can the Prussian idol have contracted so vulgar an ailment as a pain in
his underneath?
***
Sabadilla, it appears, is a plant of the Lily family, from which is
extracted a poison that forms the basis of the German "tear" shells. An
allied form, "Crocodilla," also possessing lachrymatory properties, is
likewise extensively used by the German Government.
***
It is observed that the Committee to investigate the administration and
command of the Royal Flying Corps is composed of four lawyers and two
engineers. The large proportion of "doers" to "talkers"--nearly half the
total--is a startling innovation in British public affairs and a
satisfactory sign that the Government is thoroughly awake to the gravity
of the situation.
***
"Pawn-tickets are evidences of real poverty--when a man pawns his shirts
and so on," said Judge CLUER recently at Whitechapel. "And so off" would
have been a more logical way of putting it.
***
A Camberwell recruit has taken a white mouse in his pocket as a mascot.
It is to be hoped that he will not get into a tight corner and be
compelled to hoist the white mouse in token of surrender.
***
A sackful of comatose flies has been taken from the Coronation clock
tower at Surbiton. The authorities are said to be contemplating the
removal of a similar deposit from underneath Big Ben.
***
A German scientist has expressed the opinion that the product obtained
by mixing chaff or finely-chopped straw with pig's blood scarcely
deserves to be called bread. It is, however, expected that the German
trader, ever resourceful, will get over this little difficulty by
calling it cake and charging a little more for it.
***
A Dublin office boy, returning to his employment after a fortnight's
absence, informed his employer that he had been fighting and a prisoner;
whereas, of course, in similar circumstances an English lad would have
contented himself with explaining that he had merely been taking the
letters to the post.
***
The sports programme to be contested at Blackheath on May 20th will
include various events open to attested men. We wish the management
could have seen their way to include a Consolation Sack Race (with water
hazards) for Conscientious Objectors.
* * * * *
THE ENEMY WITHIN OUR GATES.
We know him under many a name
(His odour's always much the same)--
The type that gives the warm and woolly mitten
To every cause in which a free
Briton may prove his right to be
Pro-anything-on-earth-excepting-Britain.
When from the trenches came the call,
"Make good the gaps in England's wall!"
He loathed to take our shirkers and enlist 'em;
Content to pay the deadliest price
Sooner than have to sacrifice
His passion for a voluntary system.
Not on our soldiers facing death
Under the poison's foetid breath
His dear solicitude expends its labours;
He saves his sympathy for those
Whose conscience, bleating through their nose,
Elects to leave the fighting to their neighbours.
And witness Ireland, where our best,
Eager to serve a higher quest
And in the Great Cause know the joy of battle,
Gallant and young, by traitor hands
Leagued with a foe from alien lands,
Struck down in cold blood fell like butchered cattle;--
Not for their fate his bosom bleeds,
But theirs who wrought the rebel deeds,
For them his soul reserves its chief obsession;
The murdered he can soon forget,
But, if the murderers pay their debt,
He fears it might create a bad impression!
And in that hell of hidden fire,
Whose brave conductors so inspire
With native pride the maw of Mr. DILLON,
A bloody tragedy he finds
Of which, to all instructed minds,
England (as usual) is the leading villain. O. S.
* * * * *
UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.
No. XXXIX.
(_From_ JAMES J. SALTONTALE, _of New York City_.)
_KAISER WILLIAM_,--I guess you'll remember who I am when I tell you that
the Jay-Jay Lecture Agency and the Pushalong Dramatic Show Company were
invented by me and that I'm the sole possessor of these two world-wide
organisations. I wasn't always in with the high-brow crowd of the
lecturing business. To tell you the truth I began quite low down with a
six-legged pig that could spell out the word "pork" by touching the
letters with his snout on a big cardboard alphabet. He didn't last long.
Times were hard during his second winter, and--well, I never knew till
then how much bacon there is to a pig, even when it's a learned one with
six legs to it. It was always some trouble tying on them two extra legs,
and it was nervous work watching them while the show was open to see
they didn't work loose. So on the whole I wasn't altogether put into
mourning when old six-legs joined the dear departed and left me free to
speculate in Mexican dwarfs and a Bolivian giantess with a rich
contralto voice.
After that we rose to lions and tigers and a very massive elephant and a
few comic bears and a gorilla from Africa. It was profitable but tiring,
and after I'd saved a dollar or two I was able to retire from the
Mammoth Antediluvian Menagerie and devote myself to Lectures and the
Pushalong stunt, which is living pictures of an historic and improving
sort. So now you remember me, don't you?
Well, the fact is, Kaiser, that a notion's come into my head, and it's
this. When peace comes with all its horrors, you won't want to go on
every day explaining to the German people how you lost the War by being
too kind or by not having prepared yourself enough. And you won't want
to keep telling them why you spent so much time over Verdun and why the
British Fleet didn't make things as easy and comfortable for you as you
reckoned it ought to have done. The German people won't want to listen
to talk of that kind. They've been there and they'll know all about it
without being told. No, what you'll want to do will be to get into a new
atmosphere, with people all round you listening to you just as if you
were the only man in the world. You'll find all that in the United
States if you'll only put yourself in the hands of the Jay-Jay Lecturing
Agency and the Pushalong Dramatic Show Company. We shall engage the
halls and get together the audiences by our unique system of
advertisements, and all you've got to do is to appear at the time fixed
and address the meeting for an hour to an hour and a-half on such
subjects as "Why Belgium started the War," and "How Serbia used Poison
Gas," and "A Dozen Proofs that the _Lusitania_ was Sunk by the British
out of Spite," and "Turkey, the Saviour of the Armenians." There'll be
plenty of others, but these four will do as a good working basis, and we
can fill out the list later on, not forgetting the Monroe Doctrine and
how Germany is going to knock everyone who attacks it into pie.
Then, there can be living pictures of yourself, in all kinds of
uniforms, deciding reluctantly to issue an ultimatum, or packing your
valise for the Front, or leading two millions of men in a charge and
bringing back four millions of prisoners or setting an example to your
people by eating War-bread by the crumb. And then you can wind up the
evening's entertainment by showing yourself making a speech in which you
bring in that bit about the good old German God who has always been your
ally. And then the audience will stream out very devoutly, and all of
them will shake you by the hand and say they're pleased to meet you. I
tell you, WILLIAM HOHENZOLLERN, it will be great, and the dollars will
come pouring in. Leave it all to me, and I'll guarantee a success
that'll make you grateful to me for ever. If we could only get Uncle
FRANCIS JOSEPH to join--but no; that might distract attention from you,
and it's you I'm banking on. All I ask is a miserable twenty per cent.
on the profits. Is it a bargain?
Yours, _JAMES J. S._
* * * * *
A Vicarious Embrace.
"Taking the star and ribbon from the hand of an aide-de-camp,
General Mahon placed the latter round the neck of the French
General."--_Balkan News_.
"A lady wishes to recommend her lady-nurse who has lived with her
for 14 years, to take entire charge of a boy; not under 31."
_Morning Post._
Will the "Old Boys" Battalion please note?
* * * * *
Our unparliamentary correspondent states that the Daylight-Saving Scheme
had a narrow escape. The _Daily Mail_ could not for some time see its
way to sanction a proposal under which on the first day (new style) the
actual number of hours would be twenty-three--the total of the Cabinet.
* * * * *
"Bucks Vllge.--Fur villa to let. 3 mths."--_Daily Mail_.
Personally, when we take a Fur Villa, we object to even three moths
being left on the premises.
* * * * *
[Illustration: UNDER GOVERNMENT PATRONAGE.
RACING MAN. "THAT DON'T APPLY TO US. AS RUNCIMAN SAYS, WE'RE DOING OUR
BIT FOR THE COUNTRY."]
* * * * *
THE VESTY DEEP.
Which is the most valuable--life, comfort or self-respect? A little while
ago I should have said, without a moment's hesitation, life. But now----
To begin at the beginning, let me say that before the _Sussex_ was
torpedoed by the Quixotic Hun I had decided to go to France. Then came
that tragedy, and as a result letters from friends and the relatives
whose affection I still retain, urging first that the French enterprise
should be abandoned altogether, and, second, that, if not, a
life-preserving device should be instantly obtained. Advertisements cut
from newspapers accompanied some of these letters containing
testimonials in favour of this belt and that.
Having no particular reason for losing my life, at any rate without a
struggle--provided always that the operation was not too expensive--I
gave more attention to these advertisements than to any others since at
school, too long ago, the entrancing and persuasive firm of THEOBALD
spread his lures before us; and having done so I obediently obeyed their
instructions and wrote for illustrated pamphlets. [Does anyone, I wonder
by the way, collect illustrated pamphlets? The illustrated pamphlets of
this War alone should make a valuable exhibit some day.] Having studied
them, I found very quickly that, though the belts were of various kinds,
all were alike in two or three points, one being the description of
themselves as vests or waistcoats rather than belts; and another the
claims of each to be the best. Some relied for their buoyancy on the
element upon which Mr. PEMBERTON-BILLING has floated to notoriety, if
not fame, and had to be blown up; others trusted to some mysterious
fibre several times more buoyant than cork; a third--but these two will
serve as types of all.
Each, as I say, was the best; and, however different in material, all
were alike too in one effect, for each in saving one's life saved it the
right way up. There are, it seems, buoyant belts, or vest, so lost to
shame as to submerge the wearer's head and shoulders and leave only his
legs exposed. But not so with these; these had no such tricks; these
undertook to maintain me topside up with care. The pictures in the
pamphlets were invariably of gentlemen of vaster proportions even than
myself, all riding buoyantly and securely on the waves, like Dr. BURNEY
in BARRY'S fresco at the Society of Arts--and all dressed more or less
becomingly in the best vest.
Each being of superlative excellence, I had to apply other principles of
selection, and fell back upon the most usual of those, which is
financial. I had to answer the question. At what sum do I value my
life?--the range of price being from seven-and-six to two pounds ten.
Was my life worth two pounds ten? I inquired of myself. It's a lot of
money, I replied. Should it not rather go into Exchequer Bonds? What
would Mr. MCKENNA say? You see how complex the situation suddenly
became.
[Illustration: _Manager._ "THERE'S A RUMOUR THAT THREE ZEPPS ARE COMING
OVER."
_Leading Actor (playing to poor house)._ "WELL, YOU'VE GOT PLENTY OF
ROOM FOR 'EM IN FRONT!"]
After long deliberation and taking into consideration the circumstance
that the vest which was priced at fifty shillings had to be inflated
before it was of any use and that the arrival of a torpedo would
probably deprive me of all breath, or at any rate, of all blowing power,
I decided that two pounds ten was excessive. No life could be worth
that. I was therefore, after further communings, driven back on the
astonishing fibre at fifteen shillings; and one of these vests I ordered
to be sent to the boat. So far, so good.
Now I do not say that the advertisement and the illustrated pamphlet had
exactly called the vest a stylish addition to ordinary attire, but there
was reticence as to any unsightly effect upon the figure. So little
emphasis was laid on this that one quite naturally expected something
rather like a vest. Not of course such an article as that historic
waistcoat which DICKENS borrowed from MACREADY, but a vest not devoid of
vestiness--something that a gentleman could negligently pace the deck
in, without being too ostentatiously engaged in the task or pastime of
saving his life; or sleep in with comfort, all ready for the water when
the Hun arrived.
Imagine then my surprise on finding in my cabin a parcel that might by
its size have contained an assortment of pumpkins, from which I
extracted an article no doubt many times more buoyant than cork, but
adapted far less to walking a deck in or wooing reluctant slumbers in
than for (obviously its real purpose) assisting Sir HERBERT TREE to make
up as _Falstaff_.
Carefully locking the door, I put it on and tied its tapes and fastened
its buckles. The result was more than comic--it was grotesque; and with
an overcoat to cover it I looked like one of the two MACS of blessed
memory. Could life be saved thus? Only by sitting up in my cabin all
night, for as to going on deck in it--not for a ransom! And as for
sleeping in it--that was beyond all question. I therefore took it off,
and sadly I climbed the companion to see how the rest of the passengers
looked in their various vests; but either they had found a trimmer build
than mine, which I doubt, or they too had shirked the ordeal. The result
was that all our lives--even my fifteen-shilling one--were at the
disposal of the Hun. So is it to be English.
Anyhow, the saving of my own life is not, I am convinced, my forte. My
forte is fatalism and trust in a star that hitherto has not been too
capricious. Perhaps that is England's forte too.
* * * * *
DACTYLOMANIA.
'NEATH skies of inveterate azure,
Where bitterns incessantly boom,
And, thridding each elfin embrasure,
Sleek satyrs enamel the gloom,
The gaunt and impassive gorilla
Emits a melodious moan
As he treads a sedate seguidilla
Aloof and alone.
The sun, with an amber emotion,
Darts down his importunate rays,
Distilling a petulant potion
Of pale and impalpable haze;
And scents of ineffable sweetness
Float up from the misty lagoon,
Fulfilling in utter completeness
Life's ultimate boon.
I know not what demons abysmal
Will out of the welter emerge;
What dews of delight cataclysmal
My desolate brow will asperge;
I only am sure that this stanza,
When handled by slingers of slosh,
Will always remain a bonanza
For building up bosh.
* * * * *
THE APPEAL DEPRECATORY.
IN announcing their production as "One of those musical things," the
authors of the new Comedy revue have given a lead which it is hoped may
end in the establishment of happier relations between the advertiser and
the consumer. For a long time signs have not been absent that the star
of the mere hustler is set, and that the public are no longer to be
cowed into obedience by the Prussianism of Blank, who commands, "Buy my
soap and step lively about it. You'd better!"
The following essays in the less assertive mode of publicity are offered
by way of | 1,130.583248 |
2023-11-16 18:35:54.5632380 | 573 | 33 |
Produced by Demian Katz, Roger Frank and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Images
courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University
(http://digital.library.villanova.edu/))
[Illustration: The plunging monster glided by.--Page 38.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE BOY AVIATORS
WITH
THE AIR RAIDERS
A Story of the Great World War
BY
CAPTAIN WILBUR LAWTON
AUTHOR OF "THE DREADNOUGHT BOYS' SERIES," "THE BOY AVIATORS IN
NICARAGUA," "THE BOY AVIATORS ON SECRET SERVICE," "THE
BOY AVIATORS IN AFRICA," "THE BOY AVIATORS' TREASURE
QUEST," "THE BOY AVIATORS IN RECORD FLIGHT,"
"THE BOY AVIATORS' POLAR DASH," "THE BOY
AVIATORS' FLIGHT FOR A FORTUNE," ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
CHARLES L. WRENN
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1915,
BY
HURST & COMPANY
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Not Far from the Firing Line 5
II. The Work of German Spies 18
III. Saving the Great Seaplane 29
IV. The Escape 38
V. A Night on the Channel 49
VI. Under Shrapnel Fire 60
VII. The _Sea Eagle_ on Parade 72
VIII. A Safe Return 83
IX. Thrilling News 94
X. The Aeroplane Boys in Luck 106
XI. The Man in the Locker 117
XII. Frank Makes a Bargain 129
XIII. Not Caught Napping 142
XIV. The Peril in the Sky 151
XV. On Guard 162
XVI. The Coming of the Dawn 173
XVII. News by Wireless 185
XVIII. Off with the Air Raiders 196
XIX. How Zeebrugge was Bombarded 207
XX. Caught in a Snow Squall 218
XXI. A Startling Discovery 230
XXII. The Narrow Escape 241
XXIII. The Windmill Fort 252
XXIV | 1,130.583278 |
2023-11-16 18:35:57.9616730 | 3,052 | 7 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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Transcriber's Note
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and
punctuation remains unchanged.
Marsena
and Other Stories of the Wartime
Marsena
and Other Stories of the Wartime
BY
HAROLD FREDERIC
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1894
Copyright, 1894, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
TROW DIRECTORY
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
NEW YORK
TO MY FRIEND
EDMUND JUDSON MOFFAT
CONTENTS
PAGE
_Marsena_, 1
_The War Widow_, 97
_The Eve of the Fourth_, 149
_My Aunt Susan_, 185
Marsena
MARSENA
I.
Marsena Pulford, what time the village of Octavius knew him, was a
slender and tall man, apparently skirting upon the thirties, with
sloping shoulders and a romantic aspect.
It was not alone his flowing black hair, and his broad shirt-collars
turned down after the ascertained manner of the British poets, which
stamped him in our humble minds as a living brother to "The Corsair,"
"The Last of the Suliotes," and other heroic personages engraved in the
albums and keepsakes of the period. His face, with its darkling eyes
and distinguished features, conveyed wherever it went an impression
of proudly silent melancholy. In those days—that is, just before the
war—one could not look so convincingly and uniformly sad as Marsena
did without raising the general presumption of having been crossed in
love. We had a respectful feeling, in his case, that the lady ought to
have been named Iñez, or at the very least Oriana.
Although he went to the Presbyterian Church with entire regularity,
was never seen in public save in a long-tailed black coat, and in the
winter wore gloves instead of mittens, the local conscience had always,
I think, sundry reservations about the moral character of his past. It
would not have been reckoned against him, then, that he was obviously
poor. We had not learned in those primitive times to measure people by
dollar-mark standards. Under ordinary conditions, too, the fact that he
came from New England—had indeed lived in Boston—must have counted
rather in his favor than otherwise. But it was known that he had been
an artist, a professional painter of pictures and portraits, and we
understood in Octavius that this involved acquaintanceship, if not even
familiarity, with all sorts of occult and deleterious phases of city
life.
Our village held all vice, and especially the vice of other and larger
places, in stern reprobation. Yet, though it turned this matter of the
newcomer's previous occupation over a good deal in its mind, Marsena
carried himself with such a gentle picturesqueness of subdued sorrow
that these suspicions were disarmed, or, at the worst, only added
to the fascinated interest with which Octavius watched his spare and
solitary figure upon its streets, and noted the progress of his efforts
to find a footing for himself in its social economy.
It was taken for granted among us that he possessed a fine and
well-cultivated mind, to match that thoughtful countenance and that
dignified deportment. This assumption continued to hold its own in
the face of a long series of failures in the attempt to draw him out.
Almost everybody who was anybody at one time or another tried to
tap Marsena's mental reservoirs—and all in vain. Beyond the barest
commonplaces of civil conversation he could never be tempted. Once,
indeed, he had volunteered to the Rev. Mr. Bunce the statement that
he regarded Washington Allston as in several respects superior to
Copley; but as no one in Octavius knew who these men were, the remark
did not help us much. It was quoted frequently, however, as indicating
the lofty and recondite nature of the thoughts with which Mr. Pulford
occupied his intellect. As it became more apparent, too, that his
reserve must be the outgrowth of some crushing and incurable heart
grief, people grew to defer to it and to avoid vexing his silent moods
with talk.
Thus, when he had been a resident and neighbor for over two years,
though no one knew him at all well, the whole community regarded him
with kindly and even respectful emotions, and the girls in particular
felt that he was a distinct acquisition to the place.
I have said that Marsena Pulford was poor. Hardly anybody in Octavius
ever knew to what pathetic depths his poverty during the second winter
descended. There was a period of several months, in sober truth, during
which he fed himself upon six or seven cents a day. As he was too proud
to dream of asking credit at the grocer's and butcher's, and walked
about more primly erect than ever, meantime, in his frock-coat and
gloves, no idea of these privations got abroad. And at the end of this
long evil winter there came a remarkable spring, which altered in a
violent way the fortunes of millions of people—among them Marsena. We
have to do with events somewhat subsequent to that even, and with the
period of Mr. Pulford's prosperity.
The last discredited strips of snow up in the ravines on the hill-sides
were melting away; the robins had come again, and were bustling busily
across between the willows, already in the leaf, and the budded elms;
men were going about the village streets without their overcoats, and
boys were telling exciting tales about the suckers in the creek; our
old friend Homer Sage had returned from his winter's sojourn in the
county poorhouse at Thessaly, and could be seen daily sitting in the
sunshine on the broad stoop of the Excelsior Hotel. It was April of
1862.
A whole year had gone by since that sudden and memorable turn in
Marsena Pulford's luck. So far from there being signs now of a possible
adverse change, this new springtide brought such an increase of good
fortune, with its attendant responsibilities, that Marsena was unable
to bear the halcyon burden alone. He took in a partner to help him, and
then the firm jointly hired a boy. The partner painted a signboard to
mark this double event, in bold red letters of independent form upon a
yellow ground:
PULFORD & SHULL.
EMPIRE STATE PORTRAIT ATHENÆUM AND
STUDIO.
War Likenesses at Peace Prices.
Marsena discouraged the idea of hanging this out on the street; and, as
a compromise, it was finally placed at the end of the operating-room,
where for years thereafter it served for the sitters to stare at when
their skulls had been clasped in the iron head-rest and they had been
adjured to look pleasant. A more modest and conventional announcement
of the new firm's existence was put outside, and Octavius accepted it
as proof that the liberal arts were at last established within its
borders on a firm and lucrative basis.
The head of the firm was not much altered by this great wave of
prosperity. He had been drilled by adversity into such careful ways
with his wardrobe that he did not need to get any new clothes. Although
the villagers, always kindly, sought now with cordial effusiveness to
make him feel one of themselves, and although he accepted all their
invitations and showed himself at every public meeting in his capacity
as a representative and even prominent citizen, yet the heart of his
mystery remained unplucked. Marsena was too busy in these days to be
much upon the streets. When he did appear he still walked alone, slowly
and with an air of settled gloom. He saluted such passers-by as he knew
in stately silence. If they stopped him or joined him in his progress,
at the most he would talk sparingly of the weather and the roads.
Neither at the fortnightly sociables of the Ladies' Church Mite
Society, given in turn at the more important members' homes, nor in the
more casual social assemblages of the place, did Marsena ever unbend.
It was not that he held himself aloof, as some others did, from the
simple amusements of the evening. He never shrank from bearing his part
in "pillow," "clap in and clap out," "post-office," or in whatever
other game was to be played, and he went through the kissing penalties
and rewards involved without apparent aversion. It was also to be
noted, in fairness, that, if any one smiled at him full in the face,
he instantly smiled in response. But neither smile nor chaste salute
served to lift for even the fleeting instant that veil of reserve which
hung over him.
Those who thought that by having Marsena Pulford take their pictures
they would get on more intimate terms with him fell into grievous
error. He was more sententious and unapproachable in his studio, as he
called it, than anywhere else. In the old days, before the partnership,
when he did everything himself, his manner in the reception-room
downstairs, where he showed samples, gave the prices of frames, and
took orders, had no equal for formal frigidity—except his subsequent
demeanor in the operating-room upstairs. The girls used to declare
that they always emerged from the gallery with "cold shivers all over
them." This, however, did not deter them from going again, repeatedly,
after the outbreak of the war had started up the universal notion of
being photographed.
When the new partner came in, in this April of 1862, Marsena was able
to devote himself exclusively to the technical business of the camera
and the dark-room, on the second floor. He signalled this change by
wearing now every day an old russet- velveteen jacket, which
we had never seen before. This made him look even more romantically
melancholy and picturesque than ever, and revived something of the
fascinating curiosity as to his hidden past; but it did nothing toward
thawing the ice-bound shell which somehow came at every point between
him and the good-fellowship of the community.
The partnership was scarcely a week old when something happened.
The new partner, standing behind the little show-case in the
reception-room, transacted some preliminary business with two customers
who had come in. Then, while the sound of their ascending footsteps was
still to be heard on the stairs, he hastily left his post and entered
the little work-room at the back of the counter.
"You couldn't guess in a baker's dozen of tries who's gone upstairs,"
he said to the boy. Without waiting for even one effort, he added:
"It's the Parmalee girl, and Dwight Ransom's with her, and he's got a
Lootenant's uniform on, and they're goin' to be took together!"
"What of it?" asked the unimaginative boy. He was bending over a crock
of nitric acid, transferring from it one by one to a tub of water a
lot of spoiled glass plates. The sickening fumes from the jar, and the
sting of the acid on his cracked skin, still further diminished his
interest in contemporary sociology. "Well, what of it?" he repeated,
sulkily.
"Oh, I don't know," said the new partner, in a listless, disappointed
way. "It seemed kind o' curious, that's all. Holdin' her head up as
high in the air as she does, you wouldn't think she'd so much as look
at an ordinary fellow like Dwight Ransom."
"I suppose this is a free country," remarked the boy, rising to rest
his back.
"Oh, my, yes," returned the other; "if she's pleased, I'm quite
agreeable. And—I don't know, too—I dare say she's gettin' pretty well
along. May be she thinks they ain't any too much time to lose, and is
making a grab at what comes handiest. Still, I should 'a' thought she
could 'a' done better than Dwight. I worked with him for a spell once,
you know."
There seemed to be very few people with whom Newton Shull had not at
one time or another worked. Apparently there was no craft or calling
which he did not know something about. The old phrase, "Jack of all
trades," must surely have been coined in prophecy for him. He had
turned up in Octavius originally, some years before, as the general
manager of a "Whaler's Life on the Rolling Deep" show, which was
specially adapted for moral exhibitions in connection with church
fairs. Calamity, however, had long marked this enterprise for its
own, and at our village its career culminated under the auspices of
a sheriff's officer. The boat, the harpoons, the panorama sheet and
rollers, the whale's jaw, the music-box with its nautical tunes—these
were sold and dispersed. Newton Shull remained, and began work as a
mender of clocks. Incidentally, he cut out stencil-plates for farmers
to label their cheese-boxes with, and painted or gilded ornamental
designs on chair-backs through perforated paper patterns. For a time
he was a maker of children's sleds. In slack seasons he got jobs to
help the druggist, the tinsmith, the dentist, or the Town Clerk, and
was equally at home with each. He was one | 1,133.981713 |
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[Transcriber’s Note:
This e-text includes a few characters that will only display in UTF-8
(Unicode) text readers, including
ȝ (yogh)
œ (oe ligature)
There are also a few lines of Greek, and some rarer characters:
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This very long book has been separated into independent units, set off
by triple rows of asterisks:
[1] Early English Text Society (information and list of titles)
[2] Introductory pages with full table of contents
[3] General Preface (“Forewords”)
[4] Preface to Russell, _Boke of Nurture_
[5] Collations and Corrigenda
(see beginning of “Corrigenda” for details of corrections)
[6] John Russell’s _Boke of Nurture_ with detailed table of contents
[7] Notes to _Boke of Nurture_
(longer linenotes, printed as a separate section in original text)
[8] Lawrens Andrewe on Fish
[9] “Illustrative Extracts” (titles listed in Table of Contents)
and Recipes
[10] _Boke of Keruynge_ and _Boke of Curtasye_, with Notes
[11] _Booke of Demeanor_ and following shorter selections
[12] _The Babees Book_ and following shorter selections
[13] Parallel texts of _The Little Children’s Boke_
and _Stans Puer ad Mensam_
[14] General Index (excluding Postscript)
[15] Postscript “added after the Index had been printed”
[16] Collected Sidenotes (section added by transcriber: editor’s
sidenotes can be read as a condensed version of full text)
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* * * * *
* * * *
* * * * *
Early English Text Society.
Original Series, 32.
Early English Meals and Manners:
John Russell’s Boke of Nurture,
Wynkyn de Worde’s Boke of Keruynge,
The Boke of Curtasye,
R. Weste’s Booke of Demeanor,
Seager’s Schoole of Vertue,
The Babees Book, Aristotle’s ABC, Urbanitatis,
Stans Puer ad Mensam, The Lytylle Childrenes Lytil Boke,
For to serve a Lord, Old Symon, The Birched School-Boy,
&c. &c.
with some
Forewords on Education in Early England.
Edited by
FREDERICK J. FURNIVALL, M.A.,
Trin. Hall, Cambridge.
London:
Published for the Early English Text Society
by Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co., Limited,
Dryden House, 43, Gerrard Street, Soho, W.
1868.
[_Re-printed 1894, 1904._]
Early English Text Society
Committee of Management:
Director: DR. FREDERICK J. FURNIVALL, M.A.
Treasurer: HENRY B. WHEATLEY, Esq.
Hon. Sec.: W. A. DALZIEL, Esq., 67 VICTORIA ROAD, FINSBURY PARK, N.
Hon. Secs. for America:
{ North & East: Prof. G. L. KITTREDGE, Harvard Coll., Cambr., Mass.
{ South & West: Prof. J. W. BRIGHT, Johns Hopkins Univ., Baltimore.
LORD ALDENHAM, M.A.
ISRAEL GOLLANCZ, M.A.
SIDNEY L. LEE, M.A., D.Lit.
Rev. Prof. J. E. B. MAYOR, M.A.
Dr. J. A. H. MURRAY, M.A.
Prof. NAPIER, M.A., Ph.D.
EDWARD B. PEACOCK, Esq.
ALFRED W. POLLARD, M.A.
Rev. Prof. WALTER W. SKEAT, Litt.D.
Dr. HENRY SWEET, M.A.
Dr. W. ALDIS WRIGHT, M.A.
(_With power to add Workers to their number._)
Bankers: THE UNION BANK OF LONDON, 2, PRINCES STREET, E.C.
The Early English Text Society was started by Dr. Furnivall in 1864 for
the purpose of bringing the mass of Old English Literature within the
reach of the ordinary student, and of wiping away the reproach under
which England had long rested, of having felt little interest in the
monuments of her early language and life.
On the starting of the Society, so many Texts of importance were at once
taken in hand by its Editors, that it became necessary in 1867 to open,
besides the _Original Series_ with which the Society began, an _Extra
Series_ which should be mainly devoted to fresh editions of all that is
most valuable in printed MSS. and Caxton’s and other black-letter books,
though first editions of MSS. will not be excluded when the convenience
of issuing them demands their inclusion in the Extra Series.
During the thirty-nine years of the Society’s existence, it has
produced, with whatever shortcomings, an amount of good solid work for
which all students of our Language, and some of our Literature, must be
grateful, and which has rendered possible the beginnings (at least) of
proper Histories and Dictionaries of that Language and Literature, and
has illustrated the thoughts, the life, the manners and customs of our
forefathers and foremothers.
But the Society’s experience has shown the very small number of those
inheritors of the speech of Cynewulf, Chaucer, and Shakspere, who care
two guineas a year for the records of that speech: ‘Let the dead past
bury its dead’ is still the cry of Great Britain and her Colonies, and
of America, in the matter of language. The Society has never had money
enough to produce the Texts that could easily have been got ready for
it; and many Editors are now anxious to send to press the work they have
prepared. The necessity has therefore arisen for trying to increase the
number of the Society’s members, and to induce its well-wishers to help
it by gifts of money, either in one sum or by instalments. The Committee
trust that every Member will bring before his or her friends and
acquaintances the Society’s claims for liberal support. Until all Early
English MSS. are printed, no proper History of our Language or Social
Life is possible.
The Subscription to the Society, which constitutes membership, is £1 1s.
a year for the ORIGINAL SERIES, and £1 1s. for the EXTRA SERIES, due in
advance on the 1st of JANUARY, and should be paid by Cheque, Postal
Order, or Money-Order, crost ‘Union Bank of London,’ to the Hon.
Secretary, W. A. DALZIEL, Esq., 67, Victoria Rd., Finsbury Park,
London, N. Members who want their Texts posted to them, must add to
their prepaid Subscriptions 1s. for the Original Series, and 1s. for the
Extra Series, yearly. The Society’s Texts are also sold separately at
the prices put after them in the Lists; but Members can get back-Texts
at one-third less than the List-prices by sending the cash for them in
advance to the Hon. Secretary.
-> The Society intends to complete, as soon as its funds will allow, the
Reprints of its out-of-print Texts of the year 1866, and also of nos.
20, 26 and 33. Prof. Skeat has finisht _Partenay_; Dr. McKnight of Ohio
_King Horn_ and _Floris and Blancheflour_; and Dr. Furnivall his
_Political, Religious and Love Poems_ and _Myrc’s Duties of a Parish
Priest_. Dr. Otto Glauning has undertaken _Seinte Marherete_; and Dr.
Furnivall has _Hali Meidenhad_ in type. As the cost of these Reprints,
if they were not needed, would have been devoted to fresh Texts, the
Reprints will be sent to all Members in lieu of such Texts. Though
called ‘Reprints,’ these books are new editions, generally with valuable
additions, a fact not noticed by a few careless receivers of them, who
have complained that they already had the volumes. As the Society’s
copies of the _Facsimile of the Epinal MS._ issued as an Extra Volume
in 1883 are exhausted, Mr. J. H. Hessels, M.A., of St. John’s Coll.,
Cambridge, has kindly undertaken an edition of the MS. for the Society.
This will be substituted for the Facsimile as an 1883 book, but will be
also issued to all the present Members.
JULY 1904. The Original-Series Texts for 1903 were: No. 122, Part II of
_The Laud MS. Troy-Book_, edited from the unique Laud MS. 595 by Dr.
J. E. Wülting; and No. 123, Part II of Robert of Brunne’s _Handlyng
Synne_, and its French original, ed. by Dr. F. J. Furnivall.
The Extra-Series Texts for 1903 are to be: No. LXXXVIII, _Le Morte
Arthur_, in 8-line stanzas, re-edited from the unique MS. Harl. 2252,
by Prof. J. Douglas Bruce (issued), No. LXXXIX, Lydgate’s _Reason and
Sensuality_, edited by Dr. Ernst Sieper, Part II, and _English Fragments
from Latin Medieval Service-Books_, edited, and given to the Society, by
Mr. Henry Littlehales.
The Original-Series Texts for 1904 will be No. 124, t. Hen. V,
_Twenty-six Political and other Poems_ from the Digby MS. 102, &c,
edited by Dr. J. Kail, and No. 125, Part I of the _Medieval Records of
a London City Church_ (St. Mary-at-Hill), A.D. 1420-1559, copied and
edited by Mr. Henry Littlehales from the Church Records in the
Guildhall, the cost of the setting and corrections of the text being
generously borne by its Editor. This book will show the income and
outlay of the church; the drink provided for its Palm-Sunday players,
its officers’ excursions into Kent and Essex, its dealing with the
Plague, the disposal of its goods at the Reformation, &c., &c., and will
help our members to realize the church-life of its time. The third Text
will be Part I of _An Alphabet of Tales_, a very interesting collection,
englisht in the Northern Dialect, about 1440, from the Latin _Alphabetum
Narrationum_ by Etienne de Bésançon, and edited by Mrs. M. M. Banks from
the unique MS. in the King’s Library in the British Museum; the
above-named three texts are now ready for issue. Those for 1905 | 1,134.981677 |
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BIRDS AND NATURE.
ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.
Vol. XII. OCTOBER, 1902. No. 3.
CONTENTS.
AUTUMN WOODS. 97
THE PHILIPPINE SUN-BIRD. (_Cinnyris jugularis_.) 98
Fly, white butterflies, out to sea 98
THE ANIMALS’ FAIR. PART II—THE FAIR. 101
A DAY. 104
THE GREAT GRAY OWL. (_Scotiaptex cinerea_.) 107
MY SUMMER ACQUAINTANCES. 108
THE BIRD OF PEACE. 109
THE GREEN-CRESTED FLYCATCHER. (_Empidonax virescens_.) 110
CHARACTER IN BIRDS. 113
Frowning, the owl in the oak complained him 116
THE LOUISIANA WATER-THRUSH. (_Seiurus motacilla_.) 119
SOME DOGS. 120
PECULIAR MEXICAN BREAD. 121
NATURE’S GLORY. 121
LAPIS LAZULI, AMBER AND MALICHITE. 122
THE LEAF BUTTERFLY. (_Kallima paralekta_.) 131
IN AUTUMN. 132
BEAUTIFUL VINES TO BE FOUND IN OUR WILD WOODS. 133
SOME SNAILS OF THE OCEAN. 134
JOIN A SUNRISE CLUB. 140
THE TOMATO. (_Lycopersicum esculentum_.) 143
THE BROOK. 144
AUTUMN WOODS.
Ere, in the northern gale,
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.
The mountains that infold,
In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,
That guard the enchanted ground.
I roam the woods that crown
The uplands, where the mingled splendors glow,
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.
My steps are not alone
In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play,
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown
Along the winding way.
And far in heaven, the while,
The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile—
The sweetest of the year.
—William Cullen Bryant.
THE PHILIPPINE SUN-BIRD.
(_Cinnyris jugularis_.)
Darlings of children and of bard,
Perfect kinds by vice unmarred,
All of worth and beauty set
Gems in Nature’s cabinet:
These the fables she esteems
Reality most like to dreams.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Nature.”
The sun-birds bear a similar relation to the oriental tropics that the
humming birds do to the warmer regions of the Western hemisphere. Both
have a remarkably brilliant plumage which is in harmony with the
gorgeous flowers that grow in the tropical fields. It is probable that
natives of Asia first gave the name sun-birds to these bright creatures
because of their splendid and shining plumage. By the Anglo-Indians they
have been called hummingbirds, but they are perching birds while the
hummingbirds are not. There are over one hundred species of these birds.
They are graceful in all their motions and very active in their habits.
Like the hummingbirds, they flit from flower to flower, feeding on the
minute insects which are attracted by the nectar, and probably to some
extent on the honey, for their tongues are fitted for gathering it.
However, their habit while gathering food is unlike that of the
hummingbird, for they do not hover over the flower, but perch upon it
while feeding. The plumage of the males nearly always differs very
strongly from that of the females. The brilliantly colored patches are
unlike those of the hummingbirds for they blend gradually and are not
sharply contrasted, though the iridescent character is just as marked.
The bills are long and slender, finely pointed and curved. The edges of
the mandibles are finely serrated.
The nests are beautiful structures suspended from the end of a bough or
even from the underside of a leaf. The entrance is near the top and
usually on the side. Over the entrance a projecting portico is often
constructed. The outside of the nest is usually covered with coarse
materials, apparently to give the effect of a pile of rubbish. Two eggs
are usually laid in these cozy homes, but in rare instances three have
been found. The Philippine Sun-bird of our illustration is a native of
the Philippines and is found on nearly all the islands from Luzon to
Mindanao. The throat | 1,135.079565 |
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Produced by Jeremy Woodburn
THE SUNDERING FLOOD
by
WILLIAM MORRIS
from
The Collected Works of William Morris
Volume XXI
The Sundering Flood
Unfinished Romances
Longmans Green and Company
Paternoster Row London
New York Bombay Calcutta
MDCCCCXIV
CONTENTS
Chapter I. Of a River Called the Sundering Flood, and of the Folk that
Dwelt Thereby
Chapter II. Of Wethermel and the Child Osberne
Chapter III. Wolves Harry the Flock
Chapter IV. Surly John Falls Out with the Goodman
Chapter V. Osberne Slays the Wolves
Chapter VI. They Fare to the Cloven Mote
Chapter VII. Of a Newcomer, and His Gift to Osberne
Chapter VIII. The Goodman Gets a New Hired Man
Chapter IX. The Bight of the Cloven Knoll
Chapter X. Osberne and Elfhild Hold Converse Together
Chapter XI. Osberne Shoots a Gift Across the Flood
Chapter XII. Of a Guest Called Waywearer
Chapter XIII. Steelhead Gives Osberne the Sword Boardcleaver
Chapter XIV. The Gifts of Steelhead
Chapter XV. Surly John Brings a Guest to Wethermel
Chapter XVI. Hardcastle Would Seize Wethermel
Chapter XVII. The Slaying of Hardcastle
Chapter XVIII. Elfhild Hears of the Slaying
Chapter XIX. The Winter Passes and Elfhild Tells of the Death of Her
Kinswoman
Chapter XX. Osberne Fares to Eastcheaping and Brings Gifts for Elfhild
Chapter XXI. Warriors from Eastcheaping Ride into the Dale
Chapter XXII. Osberne Takes Leave of Elfhild
Chapter XXIII. Osberne Is Chosen Captain of the Dalesmen
Chapter XXIV. A Skirmish with the Baron of Deepdale in the Marshes
Chapter XXV. Stephen Tells of an Adventure in the Camp of the Foemen
Chapter XXVI. They Bring the Baron into Eastcheaping
Chapter XXVII. They Parley from the Walls
Chapter XXVIII. The Baron of Deepdale Makes Peace
Chapter XXIX. Osberne and His Men Return to Wethermel
Chapter XXX. Osberne Goes to the Trysting-Place
Chapter XXXI. They Meet Through Autumn and Winter
Chapter XXXII. Foemen Among the West Dalers
Chapter XXXIII. Osberne Seeks Tidings of Elfhild
Chapter XXXIV. Osberne Sorrows for the Loss of Elfhild
Chapter XXXV. Osberne Seeks Counsel of Steelhead
Chapter XXXVI. The Staves which Osberne Taught to the Dalesmen
Chapter XXXVII. Osberne Takes Leave of Wethermel
Chapter XXXVIII. Osberne Parts from Stephen the Eater
Chapter XXXIX. Osberne Gets Him a New Master
Chapter XL. Osberne Rides with Sir Godrick
Chapter XLI. They Joust with the Knight of the Fish
Chapter XLII. They Deliver the Thorp-Dwellers from the Black Skinners
Chapter XLIII. They Come to the Edge of the Wood Masterless
Chapter XLIV. They Reach Longshaw and Osberne Gets Him a New Name
Chapter XLV. The Red Lad Scatters the Host of the Barons
Chapter XLVI. Osberne Enters the City of the Sundering Flood
Chapter XLVII. The Battle in the Square
Chapter XLVIII. Sir Godrick Is Chosen Burgreve of the City
Chapter XLIX. Of the City King and the Outland King
Chapter L. The Red Lad Speaks Privily with Sir Godrick
Chapter LI. Osberne is Beguiled by Felons
Chapter LII. The Meeting of Osberne and Elfhild
Chapter LIII. Strangers Come to Wethermel
Chapter LIV. The Carline Beginneth Her Tale
Chapter LV. The Blue Knight Buys the Maiden of the Chapman
Chapter LVI. The Blue Knight Talks with the Maiden by the Way
Chapter LVII. They Come to Brookside
Chapter LVIII. Peaceful Days in the Castle of Brookside
Chapter LIX. Tidings of Longshaw and of the Hosting of the Barons'
League
Chapter LX. The Blue Knight Gathers Men and Departs from Brookside
Chapter LXI. The Maiden and the Carline Flee to the Grey Sisters
Chapter LXII. They Fall in with Three Chapmen
Chapter LXIII. They Escape from the Chapmen by the Carline's Wizardry
Chapter LXIV. The Carline Endeth Her Tale
Chapter LXV. Osberne and Elfhild Make Themselves Known to Their People
Chapter LXVI. The Lip of the Sundering Flood
Chapter LXVII. A Friend at Need
Chapter LXVIII. The Knight of Longshaw Gathereth Force
ILLUSTRATIONS
Map of the country of the Sundering Flood
THE SUNDERING FLOOD
Chapter I. Of a River Called the Sundering Flood, and of the Folk that
Dwelt Thereby
It is told that there was once a mighty river which ran south into the
sea, and at the mouth thereof was a great and rich city, which had
been builded and had waxed and thriven because of the great and most
excellent haven which the river aforesaid made where it fell into the
sea. And now it was like looking at a huge wood of barked and
smoothened fir-trees when one saw the masts of the ships that lay in
the said haven.
But up in this river ran the flood of tide a long way, so that the
biggest of dromonds and round-ships might fare up it, and oft they lay
amid pleasant up-country places, with their yards all but touching the
windows of the husbandman's stead, and their bowsprits thrusting forth
amongst the middens, and the routing swine, and querulous hens. And
the uneasy lads and lasses sitting at high-mass of the Sunday in the
grey church would see the tall masts amidst the painted saints of the
aisle windows, and their minds would wander from the mass-hackled
priest and the words and the gestures of him, and see visions of far
countries and outlandish folk, and some would be heart-smitten with
that desire of wandering and looking on new things which so oft the
sea-beat board and the wind-strained pine bear with them to the
dwellings of the stay-at-homes: and to some it seemed as if, when they
went from out the church, they should fall in with St. Thomas of India
stepping over the gangway, and come to visit their uplandish Christmas
and the Yule-feast of the field-abiders of midwinter frost. And
moreover, when the tide failed, and there was no longer a flood to
bear the sea-going keels up-stream (and that was hard on an hundred of
miles from the sea), yet was this great river a noble and
wide-spreading water, and the downlong stream thereof not so heavy nor
so fierce but that the barges and lesser keels might well spread their
sails when the south-west blew, and fare on without beating; or if the
wind were fouler for them, they that were loth to reach from shore to
shore might be tracked up by the draught of horses and bullocks, and
bear the wares of the merchants to many a cheaping.
Other rivers moreover not a few fell into this main flood, and of the
some were no lesser than the Thames is at Abingdon, where I, who
gathered this tale, dwell in the House of the Black Canons; blessed be
St. William, and St. Richard, and the Holy Austin our candle in the
dark! Yea and some were even bigger, so that the land was well
furnished both of fisheries and water-ways.
Now the name of this river was the Sundering Flood, and the city at
the mouth thereof was called the City of the Sundering Flood. And it
is no wonder, considering all that I have told concerning the wares
and chaffer that it bore up-country, though the folk of the City and
its lands (and the city-folk in special) knew no cause for this name.
Nay, oft they jested and gibed and gabbed, for they loved their river
much and were proud of it; wherefore they said it was no sunderer but
a uniter; that it joined land to land and shore to shore; that it had
peopled the wilderness and made the waste places blossom, and that no
highway for wheels and beasts in all the land was so full of blessings
and joys as was their own wet Highway of the Flood. Nevertheless, as
meseemeth that no name is given to any town or mountain or river
causeless, but that men are moved to name all steads for a remembrance
of deeds that have been done and tidings that have befallen, or some
due cause, even so might it well be with the Sundering Flood, and
whereas also I wot something of that cause I shall now presently show
you the same.
For ye must know that all this welfare of the said mighty river was
during that while that it flowed through the plain country anigh the
city, or the fertile pastures and acres of hill and dale and down
further to the north. But one who should follow it up further and
further would reach at last the place where it came forth from the
mountains. There, though it be far smaller than lower down, yet is it
still a mighty great water, and it is then well two hundred miles from
the main sea. Now from the mountains it cometh in three great forces,
and many smaller ones, and perilous and awful it is to behold; for
betwixt those forces it filleth all the mountain ghyll, and there is
no foothold for man, nay for goat, save at a hundred foot or more
above the water, and that evil and perilous; and is the running of a
winter millstream to the beetles and shrew-mice that haunt the
greensward beside it, so is the running of that flood to the sons of
Adam and the beasts that serve them: and none has been so bold as to
strive to cast a bridge across it.
But when ye have journeyed with much toil and no little peril over the
mountain-necks (for by the gorge of the river, as aforesaid, no man
may go) and have come out of the mountains once more, then again ye
have the flood before you, cleaving a great waste of rocks mingled
with sand, where groweth neither tree nor bush nor grass; and now the
flood floweth wide and shallow but swift, so that no words may tell of
its swiftness, and on either side the water are great wastes of
tumbled stones that the spates have borne down from the higher ground.
And ye shall know that from this place upward to its very wells in the
higher mountains, the flood decreaseth not much in body or might,
though it be wider or narrower as it is shallower or deeper, for
nought but mere trickles of water fall into it in the space of this
sandy waste, and what feeding it hath is from the bents and hills on
either side as you wend toward the mountains to the north, where, as
aforesaid, are its chiefest wells.
Now when ye have journeyed over this waste for some sixty miles, the
land begins to better, and there is grass again, yet no trees, and it
rises into bents, which go back on each side, east and west, from the
Flood, and the said bents are grass also up to the tops, where they
are crested with sheer rocks black of colour. As for the Flood itself,
it is now gathered into straiter compass, and is deep, and exceeding
strong; high banks it hath on either side thereof of twenty foot and
upward of black rock going down sheer to the water; and thus it is for
a long way, save that the banks be higher and higher as the great
valley of the river rises toward the northern mountains.
But as it rises the land betters yet, and is well grassed, and in
divers nooks and crannies groweth small wood of birch and whiles of
quicken tree; but ever the best of the grass waxeth nigh unto the lips
of the Sundering Flood, where it rises a little from the Dale to the
water; and what little acre-land there is, and it is but little, is up
on knolls that lie nearer to the bent, and be turned somewhat
southward; or on the east side of the Flood (which runneth here nigh
due north to south), on the bent-side itself, where, as it windeth and
turneth, certain <DW72>s lie turned to southwest. And in these places
be a few garths, fenced against the deer, wherein grow rye, and some
little barley whereof to make malt for beer and ale, whereas the folk
of this high-up windy valley may have no comfort of wine. And it is to
be said that ever is that land better and the getting more on the east
side of the Sundering Flood than on the west.
As to the folk of this land, they are but few even now, and belike
were fewer yet in the time of my tale. There was no great man amongst
them, neither King, nor Earl, nor Alderman, and it had been hard
living for a strong-thief in the Dale. Yet folk there were both on the
east side and the west of the Flood. On neither side were they utterly
cut off from the world outside the Dale; for though it were toilsome,
it was not perilous to climb the bents and so wend over the necks east
and west, where some forty miles from the west bank and fifty from the
east you might come down into a valley fairly well peopled, wherein
were two or three cheaping-towns: and to these towns the dalesmen had
some resort, that they might sell such of their wool as they needed
not to weave for themselves, and other small chaffer, so that they
might buy wrought wares such as cutlery and pots, and above all boards
and timber, whereof they had nought at home.
But this you must wot and understand, that howsoever the Sundering
Flood might be misnamed down below, up in the Dale and down away to
the southern mountains it was such that better named it might not be,
and that nought might cross its waters undrowned save the fowl flying.
Nay, and if one went up-stream to where it welled forth from the great
mountains, he were no nearer to passing from one side to the other,
for there would be nought before him but a wall of sheer rock, and
above that rent and tumbled crags, the safe strong-houses of erne and
osprey and gerfalcon. Wherefore all the dealings which the folk on the
east Dale and the west might have with each other was but shouting and
crying across the swirling and gurgling eddies of the black water,
which themselves the while seemed to be talking together in some dread
and unknown tongue.
True it is that on certain feast days and above all on Midsummer
night, the folk would pluck up a heart, and gather together as gaily
clad as might be where the Flood was the narrowest (save at one place,
whereof more hereafter), and there on each side would trundle the
fire-wheel, and do other Midsummer games, and make music of
string-play and horns, and sing songs of old time and drink to each
other, and depart at last to their own homes blessing each other. But
never might any man on the east touch the hand of any on the west,
save it were that by some strange wandering from the cheaping-towns
aforesaid they might meet at last, far and far off from the Dale of
the Sundering Flood.
Chapter II. Of Wethermel and the Child Osberne
Draw we nigher now to the heart of our tale, and tell how on the east
side of the Sundering Flood was erewhile a stead hight Wethermel: a
stead more lonely than most even in that Dale, the last house but one,
and that was but a cot, toward the mountains at the head of the Dale.
It was not ill set down, for its houses stood beneath a low spreading
knoll, the broader side whereof was turned to the south-west, and
where by consequence was good increase of corn year by year. The said
knoll of Wethermel was amidst of the plain of the Dale a mile from the
waterside, and all round about it the pasture was good for kine and
horses and sheep all to the water's lip on the west and half way up
the bent on the east; while towards the crown of the bent was a wood
of bushes good for firewood and charcoal, and even beyond the crown of
the bent was good sheep-land a long way.
Nevertheless, though its land was fruitful as for that country, yet
had Wethermel no great name for luck, and folk who had the choice
would liever dwell otherwhere, so that it was hard for the goodman to
get men to work there for hire. Many folk deemed that this ill-luck
came because the knoll had been of old time a dwelling of the Dwarfs
or the Land-wights, and that they grudged it that the children of Adam
had supplanted them, and that corn grew on the very roof of their
ancient house. But however that might be, there was little thriving
there for the most part: and at least it was noted by some, that if
there were any good hap, it ever missed one generation, and went not
from father to son, but from grandsire to grandson: and even so it was
now at the beginning of this tale.
For he who had been master of Wethermel had died a young man, and his
wife followed him in a month or two, and there was left in the house
but the father and mother of these twain, hale and stout folk, he of
fifty winters, she of forty-five; an old woman of seventy, a kinswoman
of the house who had fostered the late goodman; and a little lad who
had to name Osberne, now twelve winters old, a child strong and bold,
tall, bright and beauteous. These four were all the folk of Wethermel,
save now and then a hired man who was hard pressed for livelihood
would be got to abide there some six months or so. It must be told
further that there was no house within ten miles either up or down the
water on that side, save the little cot abovesaid nigher to the
mountains, and that was four miles up-stream; it hight Burcot, and was
somewhat kenspeckle. Withal as to those Cloven Motes, as they were
called, which were between the folk on either side, they were holden
at a stead seven miles below Wethermel. So that in all wise was it a
lonely and scantly-manned abode: and because of this every man on the
stead must work somewhat hard and long day by day, and even Osberne
the little lad must do his share; and up to this time we tell of, his
work was chiefly about the houses, or else it was on the knoll, or
round about it, scaring fowl from the corn; weeding the acre-ground,
or tending the old horses that fed near the garth; or goose-herding at
whiles. Forsooth, the two elders, who loved and treasured the little
carle exceedingly, were loth to trust him far out of sight because of
his bold heart and wilful spirit; and there were perils in the Dale,
and in special at that rough and wild end of thereof, though they came
not from weaponed reivers for the more part, though now and again some
desperate outcast from the thicker peopled lands had strayed into it;
and there was talk from time to time of outlaws who lay out over the
mountain-necks, and might not always do to lack a sheep or a neat or a
horse. Other perils more of every-day there were for a young child, as
the deep and hurrying stream of the Sundering Flood, and the wolves
which haunted the bent and the foothills of the mountains; and ever
moreover there was the peril from creatures seldom seen, Dwarfs and
Land-wights to wit, who, as all tales told, might be well pleased to
have away into their realm so fair a child of the sons of Adam as was
this Osberne.
Forsooth for the most part the lad kept within bounds, for love's sake
rather than fear, though he wotted well that beating abode
bound-breaking; but ye may well wot that this quietness might not
always be. And one while amongst others he was missing for long, and
when his grandsire sought him he found him at last half way between
grass and water above the fierce swirling stream of the river; for he
had clomb down the sheer rock of the bank, which all along the water
is fashioned into staves, as it were organ-pipes, but here and there
broken by I wot not what mighty power. There then was my lad in an
ingle-nook of the rock, and not able either to go down or come up,
till the goodman let a rope down to him and hauled him on to the
grass.
Belike he was a little cowed by the peril, and the beating he got for
putting his folk in such fear; but though he was somewhat moved by his
grandam's tears and lamentations over him, and no less by the old
carline's bewailing for his days that he would so surely shorten, yet
this was not by a many the last time he strayed from the stead away
into peril. On a time he was missing again nightlong, but in the
morning came into the house blithe and merry, but exceeding hungry,
and when the good man asked him where he had been and bade him
whipping-cheer, he said that he cared little if beaten were he, so
merry a time he had had; for he had gone a long way up the Dale, and
about twilight (this was in mid-May) had fallen in with a merry lad
somewhat bigger than himself, who had shown him many merry plays, and
at last had brought him to his house, "which is not builded of stone
and turf, like to ours," saith he, "but is in a hole in the rock; and
there we wore away the night, and there was no one there but we two,
and again he showed me more strange plays, which were wondrous; but
some did frighten me."
Then his grandsire asked him what like those plays were. Said Osberne:
"He took a stone and stroked it, and mumbled, and it turned into a
mouse, and played with us nought afraid a while; but presently it grew
much bigger, till it was bigger than a hare; and great game meseemed
that was, till on a sudden it stood on its hind-legs, and lo it was
become a little child, and O, but so much littler than I; and then it
ran away from us into the dark, squealing the while like a mouse
behind the panel, only louder. Well, thereafter, my playmate took a
big knife, and said: 'Now, drudgling, I shall show thee a good game
indeed.' And so he did, for he set the edge of the said knife against
his neck, and off came his head; but there came no blood, nor did he
tumble down, but took up his head and stuck it on again, and then he
stood crowing like our big red cock. Then he said: 'Poultry, cockerel,
now I will do the like by thee.' And he came to me with the knife; but
I was afraid, and gat hold of his hand and had the knife from him; and
then I wrestled with him and gave him a fall; but I must needs let him
get up again presently, whereas he grew stronger under my hand; then
he thrust me from him and laughed exceeding much, and said: 'Here is a
champion come into my house forsooth! Well, I will leave thine head on
thy shoulders, for belike I might not be able to stick it on again,
which were a pity of thee, for a champion shalt thou verily be in the
days to come.' After this all his play with me was to sit down and bid
me hearken; and then he took out a little pipe, and put it to his
mouth, and made music out of it, which was both sweet and merry. And
then he left that, and fell to telling me tales about the woods where
big trees grow, and how his kindred had used to dwell therein, and
fashioned most fair things in smith's work of gold and silver and
iron; and all this liked me well; and he said: 'I tell thee that one
day thou shalt have a sword of my father's father's fashioning, and
that will be an old one, for they both were long-lived.' And as he
spake I deemed that he was not like a child any more, but a little,
little old man, white-haired and wrinkle-faced, but without a beard,
and his hair shone like glass. And then--I went to sleep, and when I
woke up again it was morning, and I looked around and there was no one
with me. So I arose and came home to you, and I am safe and sound if
thou beat me not, kinsman."
Now ye may judge if his fore-elders were not scared by the lad's tale,
for they knew that he had fallen in with one of the Dwarf-kin, and his
grandam caught him up and hugged him and kissed him well favouredly;
and the carline, whose name was Bridget, followed on the like road;
and then she said: "See you, kinsmen, if it be not my doing that the
blessed bairn has come back to us. Tell us, sweetheart, what thou hast
round thy neck under thy shirt." Osberne laughed. Said he: "Thou didst
hang on me a morsel of parchment with signs drawn thereon, and it is
done in a silk bag. Fear not, foster-mother, but that I will wear it
yet, since thou makest such to-do over it."
"Ah! the kind lad thou art, my dear," said the carline. "I will tell
you, kinsmen, that I had that said parchment from our priest, and it
is strong neckguard against all evil things, for on it is scored the
Holy Rood, and thereon are the names of the three Holy Kings, and
other writing withal which I may not read, for it is clerks' Latin."
And again the two women made much of the little lad, while the goodman
stood by grumbling and grunting; but this time did Osberne escape his
beating, though he was promised a drubbing which should give him much
to think on if he went that way again; and the women prayed and
besought him to be obedient to the goodman herein.
But one thing he had not told his kinsfolk, to wit, that the Dwarf had
given him for a gift that same knife wherewith he had played the game
of heads-off, and a fair sheath went with it, and he had done him to
wit that most like luck would go with it. Wherefore little Osberne had
the said knife hidden under his raiment, along with the parchment
whereon was scored the Holy Rood and the good words of wisdom written.
Chapter III. Wolves Harry the Flock
Now these matters, and other strayings and misdoings of the youngling,
befel before the time whereof I now tell, when he was, as aforesaid,
passed of twelve years; and it was in latter autumn, when the nights
are lengthening. At this time there was a hired man dwelling with
them, whose work it was to drive the sheep afield, either up on to the
eastern bents or away off down to the water, so as they might not eat
the grass of the kine from them. But Osberne, both of his own will and
at the bidding of the goodman, went off afield with this man John and
helped him to keep the sheep from straying over-far. Now one day at
evening, somewhat later than he was wont, when, as it chanced, Osberne
had not fared with him, back comes John from the bents, and he looked
scared and pale, and he tells the tale that as the light began to fail
up there, three huge wolves fell upon the sheep, and slew sundry of
them, and it was easy to be seen of him that he had held no very close
battle with the wolves, but had stood aloof till they had done their
supper, and then gathered what he could of the sheep without going
over-near the field of deed. The goodman berated him for his
cowardice, and seemed to begrudge him his victuals somewhat that
night, whereas, what with them | 1,135.081378 |
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MY SERVICE IN THE U. S.
CAVALRY
A PAPER READ BEFORE
THE OHIO COMMANDERY OF THE LOYAL LEGION
MARCH 4, 1908
BY
FREDERICK W. BROWNE, SECOND LIEUT.
| 1,135.285967 |
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Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
In
The
Time
That
Was
Dedicated
to
_Ah-Koo_
Done into English
by
J. Frederic Thorne
(_Kitchakahaech_)
Illustrated
by
Judson T. Sergeant
(_To-u-sucka_)
Seattle,
Washington,
U. S. A.
BEING THE FIRST
volume _of_ a series
of Legends _of_ the tribe
of Alaskan Indians
known as the Chilkats--_of_
the Klingats
_As told by Zachook the "Bear"
to Kitchakahaech the "Raven"_
[Illustration]
_In the Time That Was_
"And There Was Light."
Zachook of the Chilkats told me these tales of The Time That Was.
But before the telling, he of the Northland and I of the Southland
had travelled many a mile with dog-team, snowshoes, and canoe.
If the stories suffer in the telling, as suffer they must afar from
that wondrous Alaskan background of mountain and forest, glacier
and river, wrenched from the setting of campfires and trail, and
divorced from the soft gutturals and halting throat notes in which
they have been handed down from generation to generation of Chilkat
and Chilkoot, blame not Zachook, who told them to me, and forbear
to blame me who tell them to you as best I may in this stiff
English tongue. They were many months in the telling and many weary
miles have I had to carry them in my memory pack.
* * * * *
I had lost count of the hours, lost count of the days that at best
are marked by little change between darkness and dawn in the
Northland winter, until I knew not how long I had lain there in my
blanket of snow, waiting for the lingering feet of that dawdler,
Death, to put an end to my sufferings.
Some hours, or days, or years before I had been pushing along the
trail to the coast, thinking little where I placed my feet and much
of the eating that lay at Dalton Post House; and of other things
thousands of miles from this bleak waste, where men exist in the
hope of ultimate living, with kaleidoscope death by their side;
other things that had to do with women's faces, bills of fare from
which bacon and beans were rigidly excluded, and comforts of the
flesh that some day I again might enjoy.
Then, as if to mock me, teach me the folly of allowing even my
thoughts to wander from her cold face, the Northland meted swift
punishment. The packed snow of the trail beneath my feet gave way,
there was a sharp click of steel meeting steel, and a shooting pain
that ran from heel to head. For a moment I was sick and giddy from
the shock and sudden pain, then, loosening the pack from my
shoulders, fell to digging the snow with my mittened hands away
from what, even before I uncovered it, I knew to be a bear trap
that had bitten deep into my ankle and held it in vise clutch.
Roundly I cursed at the worse than fool who had set bear trap in
man trail, as I tore and tugged to free myself. As well might I
have tried to wrench apart the jaws of its intended victim.
Weakened at last by my efforts and the excruciating pain I lay back
upon the snow. A short rest, and again I pulled feebly at the steel
teeth | 1,135.374506 |
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Transcriber’s Note: As a result of editorial shortcomings in the
original, some reference letters in the text don’t have matching
entries in the reference-lists, and vice versa.
THE HISTORIANS’ HISTORY OF THE WORLD
[Illustration: CHEYNE]
THE HISTORIANS’
HISTORY
OF THE WORLD
A comprehensive narrative of the rise and development of nations
as recorded by over two thousand of the great writers of all ages:
edited, with the assistance of a distinguished board of advisers
and contributors, by
HENRY SMITH WILLIAMS, LL.D.
[Illustration]
IN TWENTY-FIVE VOLUMES
VOLUME II--ISRAEL, INDIA, PERSIA, PHOENICIA,
MINOR NATIONS OF WESTERN ASIA
The Outlook Company
New York
The History Association
London
1905
COPYRIGHT, 1904,
BY HENRY SMITH WILLIAMS.
_All rights reserved._
THE TROW PRESS
201-213 E. 12TH ST.
NEW YORK
U. S. A.
Contributors, and Editorial Revisers.
Prof. Adolf Erman, University of Berlin.
Prof. Joseph Halévy, College of France.
Prof. Thomas K. Cheyne, Oxford University.
Prof. Andrew C. McLaughlin, University of Michigan.
Prof. David H. Müller, University of Vienna.
Prof. Alfred Rambaud, University of Paris.
Capt. F. Brinkley, Tokio.
Prof. Eduard Meyer, University of Berlin.
Dr. James T. Shotwell, Columbia University.
Prof. Theodor Nöldeke, University of Strasburg.
Prof. Albert B. Hart, Harvard University.
Dr. Paul Brönnle, Royal Asiatic Society.
Dr. James Gairdner, C.B., London.
Prof. Ulrich von Wilamowitz Möllendorff, University of Berlin.
Prof. H. Marczali, University of Budapest.
Dr. G. W. Botsford, Columbia University.
Prof. Julius Wellhausen, University of Göttingen.
Prof. Franz R. von Krones, University of Graz.
Prof. Wilhelm Soltau, Zabern University.
Prof. R. W. Rogers, Drew Theological Seminary.
Prof. A. Vambéry, University of Budapest.
Prof. Otto Hirschfeld, University of Berlin.
Dr. Frederick Robertson Jones, Bryn Mawr College.
Baron Bernardo di San Severino Quaranta, London.
Dr. John P. Peters, New York.
Prof. Adolph Harnack, University of Berlin.
Dr. S. Rappoport, School of Oriental Languages, Paris.
Prof. Hermann Diels, University of Berlin.
Prof. C. W. C. Oman, Oxford University.
Prof. I. Goldziher, University of Vienna.
Prof. W. L. Fleming, University of West Virginia.
Prof. R. Koser, University of Berlin.
CONTENTS
VOLUME II
PART IV. ISRAEL
PAGE
INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. ISRAEL AS A WORLD INFLUENCE. By Bernhard Stade 1
A CRITICAL SURVEY OF THE SCOPE AND SOURCES OF ISRAELITIC HISTORY
TO THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM 4
HEBREW HISTORY IN OUTLINE (1180 B.C.-70 A.D.) 30
CHAPTER I
LAND AND PEOPLE 45
The land, 46. The people, 48.
CHAPTER II
ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY (2300-1200 B.C.) 56
The age of the patriarchs, 57. Early movements of the
Israelites, 57. The Egyptian sojourn, 58. Biblical account of
Moses and the Exodus, 61. Israel’s early neighbours, 63. The
conquest of Canaan, 66.
CHAPTER III
THE JUDGES (1200-1020 B.C.) 72
CHAPTER IV
SAMUEL AND SAUL (1020 B.C.-1002 B.C.) 77
Samuel and Saul, 78. The rise of David, 79. David in revolt
against Saul, 80. The death of Saul and the struggle for the
succession, 83. David secures the crown, 85.
CHAPTER V
DAVID’S REIGN (1002-970 B.C.) 86
David’s greatness in time of peace, 89. Further wars break out,
91. David and Absalom, 93. Renan’s estimate of David, 98.
CHAPTER VI
SOLOMON IN HIS GLORY (970-930 B.C.) 99
The early years of Solomon’s reign, 100.
CHAPTER VII
DECAY AND CAPTIVITY (930-586 B.C.) 106
The schism of the Ten Tribes, 106. The Moabite stone, 109.
Destruction of the two kingdoms, 113. The Babylonian Captivity,
118.
CHAPTER VIII
THE RETURN FROM CAPTIVITY (586-415 B.C.) 122
The prophecy of the return, 122. The condition of the exiles,
125. The coming of Cyrus, 126. The return to Jerusalem, 127.
The walls upraised again, 130.
CHAPTER IX
FROM NEHEMIAH TO ANTIOCHUS (415-166 B.C.) 133
Under Persian rule, 133. Persian influences on Jewish religion,
134. Alexander the Great, 134. Under the Seleucids, 135. The
Syrian dominion; Antiochus the Great, 138. Antiochus Epiphanes,
139. Jason and Antiochus torment the people, 140.
CHAPTER X
THE MACCABÆAN WAR (166-142 B.C.) 147
Independence, 156.
CHAPTER XI
FROM THE MACCABEES TO THE ROMANS (135-4 B.C.) 159
The warring sects, 160. Antipater, 163 | 1,135.378192 |
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Internet Archive)
THE MADNESS OF PHILIP
_AND OTHER TALES OF CHILDHOOD_
_BY_
JOSEPHINE DODGE DASKAM
[Illustration]
_Illustrated by F. Y. Cory_
❦
MCCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.
NEW YORK
1902
COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY
McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.
1901, by Harper & Bros.
1900, 1901 and 1902, by S. S. McClure Co.
❦
_Published, March, 1902_
SECOND IMPRESSION
_To my Father
kindest of many kind critics
these stories are
dedicated_
❦
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
❦
PAGE
THE MADNESS OF PHILIP 1
A STUDY IN PIRACY 31
BOBBERT’S MERRY CHRISTMAS 69
THE HEART OF A CHILD 95
ARDELIA IN ARCADY 119
EDGAR, THE CHOIR BOY UNCELESTIAL 153
THE LITTLE GOD AND DICKY 191
THE MADNESS OF PHILIP
[Illustration: “_Checking her vivid denunciations by a judicious
application of the pillow._”]
His mother, being a woman of perception, realized early that something
was wrong. Even before breakfast she found Philip trying to put his
sister into the bolster case, checking her vivid denunciations by a
judicious application of the pillow. After breakfast it was impossible
to get him ready in time, as his rubbers had been hidden by a revengeful
sister, and the bus was kept waiting fully five minutes, to the
irritation of the driver, who made up the lost interval by a rapid pace.
This jolted the children about, and frightened the youngest ones, so
that they arrived at the kindergarten bumped and breathless, and only
too disposed to take offense at the first opportunity. This opportunity
Philip supplied. As they swarmed out of the bus he irritated Joseph
Zukoffsky by a flat contradiction of his pleased statement that he was
to lead the line into the house.
“Oh, no, you ain’t!” said Philip.
Joseph stared and reiterated his assertion Philip again denied it. He
did nothing to prevent Joseph from assuming the head of the line, but
his tone was most exasperating, and Joseph sat down on the lowest step
of the bus and burst into angry tears—he was not a person of strong
character.
Some of the more sympathetic children joined their tears to his, and the
others disputed violently if vaguely; they lacked a clear idea of the
difficulty, but that fact did not prevent eager partisanship. Two
perplexed teachers quieted the outbreak and marshaled a wavering line,
one innocently upholding Philip to the disgusted group, “because he
walks along so quietly,” the other supporting Joseph, whose shoulders
heaved convulsively as he burst out into irregular and startling sobs.
It was felt that the day had begun inauspiciously.
They sat down on the hall floor and began to pull off their rubbers and
mufflers. As Philip’s eye fell to the level of his feet a disagreeable
association stirred his thoughts, and in a moment it had taken definite
form: his rubbers had been stolen and hidden! His under lip crept slowly
out; a distinctly dangerous expression grew in his eyes; he looked
balefully about him. Marantha Judd pirouetted across his field of
vision, vainglorious in a new plaid apron with impracticable pockets.
Her pigtails bobbed behind her. She had just placed her diminutive
rubbers neatly parallel, and was attaching the one to the other with a
tight little clothes-pin provided for the purpose.
[Illustration: “_Tore off the clothes-pin with a jerk._”]
Casually, and as if unconscious that Marantha was curiosity incarnate,
Philip took his own clothes-pin and adjusted it to his nose. It gave him
an odd and, to Marantha, a distinguished appearance, and she inquired of
him if the sensations he experienced were pleasurable. His answer
expressed unconditional affirmation, and unclasping her clothes-pin
Marantha snapped it vigorously over her own tip-tilted little feature. A
sharp and uncompromising tweak was the result, and Marantha, shrieking,
tore off the clothes-pin with a jerk that sent little Richard Willetts
reeling against his neighbor. Out of the confusion—Richard was a
timorous creature, and fully convinced that the entire kindergarten
meditated continual assault upon his small person—rose the chiding voice
of Marantha:
“You are a bad, _bad_ boy, Philup, you are!”
To her tangled accusations the bewildered teacher paid scant heed.
“I can’t see why all you little children find so much fault with
Philip,” she said reprovingly. “What if he did put his clothes-pin on
his nose? It was a foolish thing to do, but why need you do it? _You_
have made more trouble than he, Marantha, for you frightened little
Richard!”
Marantha’s desperation was dreadful to witness. She realized that her
vocabulary was hopelessly inadequate to her situation: she knew herself
unable to present her case effectively, but she felt that she was the
victim of a glaring injustice. Her chin quivered, she sank upon the
stairs, and her tears were even as the tears of Joseph Zukoffsky.
The youngest assistant now appeared on the scene.
“Miss Hunt wants to know why you’re so late with them,” she inquired.
“She hopes nothing’s the matter. Mrs. R. B. M. Smith is here to-day to
visit the primary schools and kindergartens, and——”
“Oh, goodness!” the attempted consolation of Marantha ceased abruptly.
“I can’t _bear_ that woman! She’s always read Stanley Hall’s _last_
article that proves that what he said before was wrong! Come along,
Marantha, and don’t be a foolish little girl any longer. We shall be
late for the morning exercise.”
Upstairs a large circle was forming under the critical scrutiny of a
short, stout woman with crinkly, gray hair. They took their places,
Marantha pink-nosed and mutinous, Joseph not yet recovered from a
distressing tendency to burst out into gulping sobs—he was naturally
pessimistic and treasured his grievances indefinitely. Philip’s eyes
were fixed upon the floor.
“Now what shall we sing?” inquired the principal briskly. “I think we
will let Joseph choose, because he doesn’t look very happy this bright
morning. Perhaps we can cheer him up.”
[Illustration: “_Marantha... upheld Joseph with all her powers of heart
and voice._”]
In a husky voice Joseph suggested “My heart is God’s little garden.” In
reply to Miss Hunt’s opening question Eddy Brown had proposed “Happy
greeting to the rain,” a sufficiently maudlin request, as there was
absolutely no indication of that climatic condition, past, present, or
future. Eddy possessed the not unusual combination of a weak mind and a
strong voice, and though the piano prelude was that of Joseph’s choice,
the effect of a voice near him starting the well-known air of his own
suggestion was overwhelming, and Eddy began shouting it lustily.
Marantha, whose susceptibilities were, like those of others of her sex,
distinctly sharpened by suffering, | 1,135.380579 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: "Jack saw that it was a boy not much older than himself"
(_see page_ 43).]
*THE
BOY HUNTERS
OF KENTUCKY*
BY
*EDWARD S. ELLIS*
_Author of "Red Feather," "Blazing Arrow," "The Forest Messengers,"
"Wolf Ear, the Indian," etc, etc._
SIXTIETH THOUSAND
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
London, Toronto, Melbourne and Sydney
1889
Uniform With This Volume
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
Lost in the Rockies
Captured by Indians
The Daughter of the Chieftain
Red Feather
Wolf Ear, the Indian
Astray in the Forest
Bear Cavern
River and Forest
The Lost River
The Boy Hunters of Kentucky
_Printed in Great Britain_
*CONTENTS.*
CHAPTER I.
A YOUNG PIONEER
CHAPTER II.
TRAINING A KENTUCKY RIFLEMAN
CHAPTER III.
THE MEETING ON THE BRIDGE
CHAPTER IV.
THE HOME OF JACK
CHAPTER V.
THE YOUNG WYANDOT
CHAPTER VI.
THE WRESTLING BOUT
CHAPTER VII.
JACK RESUMES HIS JOURNEY
CHAPTER VIII.
TRAVELLING SOUTHWARD
CHAPTER IX.
ROYAL GAME
CHAPTER X.
HUNTING THE HUNTERS
CHAPTER XI.
GEORGE MAKES A SHOT
CHAPTER XII.
THE STRANGE CAMP FIRE
CHAPTER XIII.
CAPTIVE AND CAPTORS
CHAPTER XIV.
THE SIGNAL AND ITS REPLY
CHAPTER XV.
ANOTHER ARRIVAL
CHAPTER XVI.
HOW TO CONQUER AN ENEMY
CHAPTER XVII.
A FRIEND AT COURT
CHAPTER XVIII.
CONCLUSION
*THE
BOY HUNTERS OF KENTUCKY.*
*CHAPTER I.*
*A YOUNG PIONEER.*
There was no happier boy in all Kentucky than Jack Gedney on the morning
that completed the first twelve years of his life, for on that day his
father presented him with a fine rifle.
Now, you must know that some of the best riflemen in the world have been
born and reared in Kentucky, where the early settlers had to fight not
only the wild beasts, but the fierce red men. The battles between the
Indians and pioneers were so many that Kentucky came to be known as the
Dark and Bloody Ground.
Some of you may have heard that the most famous pioneer in American
history was Daniel Boone, who entered all alone the vast wilderness
south of the Ohio, and spent many months there before the Revolution
broke out. The emigrants began flocking thither as soon as it became
known that the soil of Kentucky was rich, and that the woods abounded
with game.
Among those who went thither, towards the close of the last century,
were Thomas Gedney and his wife Abigail. With a dozen other families,
they floated down the Ohio in a flat boat, until a short distance below
the mouth of the Licking, when they landed, and, taking the boat apart,
used the material in building their cabins.
It happened at that period that there was less trouble than usual with
the red men. Some of the settlers believed that the Indians, finding
themselves unable to stay the tide of immigration that was pouring over
the west, would move deeper into the solitudes which stretched beyond
the Mississippi. Instead of putting up their cabins close together, a
part of the pioneers pushed farther into the woods, and began their
houses where they found better sites. Most of them were near natural
"clearings," where the fertile soil was easily made ready for the corn
and vegetables, without the hard work of cutting down the trees and
clearing out the stumps.
Thomas Gedney and his wife were among those who went farther than the
spot where they landed from the flat boat. Indeed, they pushed deeper
into the woods than any one else who helped to found the little
settlement that was planted a hundred years ago on the southern bank of
the Ohio. Their nearest neighbours were the members of the Burton
family, who lived a mile to the eastward, while a mile farther in that
direction were the little group of cabins that marked the beginning of
one of the most prosperous towns of to-day in Kentucky.
Mr. Gedney was fortunate enough to find a clearing of an acre in extent,
with a small stream running near. Since he had helped his neighbours to
put up their cabins, they in return gave him such aid that in a few days
he had a strong, comfortable structure of logs, into which he moved with
his wife and only child, Jack, then but six years old.
The sturdy men who built their homes in the depths of the wilderness a
century ago were never in such haste that they forgot to make them
strong and secure. The red men might be peaceful, and might make
promises to molest the white people no more, but the pioneers knew
better than to trust to such promises. There are no more treacherous
people in the whole world than the American Indians, and no man is wise
who places much faith in their pledges.
But I have not started to tell you the history of the pioneers who came
down the Ohio in the flat boat, but to give an account of some strange
adventures that befell Jack Gedney, shortly after his rifle was given to
him by his father. Jack had been trained in sighting and firing a gun
as soon as he could learn to close his left eye while he kept the other
open. His father's rifle was too heavy for him to aim off-hand, but
kneeling behind a fallen tree, or a stump, or rock, his keen vision was
able to direct the little bullet with such precision, that Daniel Boone
himself, who one day watched the little fellow, gave him much praise.
In those days there was nothing in which a Kentuckian took more pride
than in his skill with his rifle. Thomas Gedney had never met his
superior, and he meant that if his boy Jack lived the same should be
said of him. And so, while the mother gave the boy instruction in
reading and writing, the father took many long tramps with him through
the woods, and taught him how to become a great hunter. He showed him
the difference between the tracks of the various game, and told him of
the peculiar habits of the wild animals and the best method of
outwitting them. More than all, he did his best to teach Jack how to
guard against his most dangerous of all foes--man himself.
Mr. Gedney was a man who took great precautions when constructing his
cabin. He built it just as strongly as it was possible to make it. The
windows were so narrow that no grown person could force his body
through, the roof was so steep that the most agile red man could not
climb it, and the heavy door, when closed and barred inside, was really
as stout as the solid walls of logs themselves.
I have not time to tell you about several incidents that proved his
wisdom in taking so much pains to guard himself and family against their
dusky foes the Indians, but the time came when the woodcraft thus taught
to the boy proved of the greatest value to him.
Among the important rules laid down by the father for the son | 1,135.380658 |
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[Illustration]
PERCY.
A TRAGEDY,
IN | 1,135.38821 |
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file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Teutonic Mythology
Gods and Goddesses
of the Northland
IN
THREE VOLUMES
By VIKTOR RYDBERG, Ph.D.,
MEMBER OF THE SWEDISH ACADEMY; AUTHOR OF THE "THE LAST ATHENIAN"
AND OTHER WORKS.
_AUTHORISED TRANSLATION FROM THE SWEDISH_
BY
RASMUS B. ANDERSON, LL.D.,
EX-UNITED STATES MINISTER TO DENMARK; AUTHOR OF "NORSE
MYTHOLOGY," "VIKING TALES," ETC.
HON. RASMUS B. ANDERSON, LL.D., Ph.D.,
EDITOR IN CHIEF.
J. W. BUEL, Ph.D.,
MANAGING EDITOR.
VOL. I.
PUBLISHED BY THE
NORROENA SOCIETY,
LONDON COPENHAG | 1,135.473559 |
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Produced by Bill Brewer
THE JIMMYJOHN BOSS AND OTHER STORIES
By Owen Wister
To Messrs. Harper & Bothers and Henry Mills Alden whose friendliness and
fair dealing I am glad of this chance to record
Owen Wister
Preface
It's very plain that if a thing's the fashion--
Too much the fashion--if the people leap
To do it, or to be it, in a passion
Of haste and crowding, like a herd of sheep,
Why then that thing becomes through imitation
Vulgar, excessive, obvious, and cheap.
No gentleman desires to be pursuing
What every Tom and Dick and Harry's doing.
Stranger, do you write books? I ask the question,
Because I'm told that everybody writes
That what with scribbling, eating, and digestion,
And proper slumber, all our days and nights
Are wholly filled. It seems an odd suggestion--
But if you do write, stop it, leave the masses,
Read me, and join the small selected classes.
The Jimmyjohn Boss
I
One day at Nampa, which is in Idaho, a ruddy old massive jovial man
stood by the Silver City stage, patting his beard with his left hand,
and with his right the shoulder of a boy who stood beside him. He had
come with the boy on the branch train from Boise, because he was a
careful German and liked to say everything twice--twice at least when it
was a matter of business. This was a matter of very particular business,
and the German had repeated himself for nineteen miles. Presently the
east-bound on the main line would arrive from Portland; then the Silver
City stage would take the boy south on his new mission, and the man
would journey by the branch train back to Boise. From Boise no one could
say where he might not go, west or east. He was a great and pervasive
cattle man in Oregon, California, and other places. Vogel and Lex--even
to-day you may hear the two ranch partners spoken of. So the veteran
Vogel was now once more going over his notions and commands to his
youthful deputy during the last precious minutes until the east-bound
should arrive.
"Und if only you haf someding like dis," said the old man, as he tapped
his beard and patted the boy, "it would be five hoondert more dollars
salary in your liddle pants."
The boy winked up at his employer. He had a gray, humorous eye; he was
slim and alert, like a sparrow-hawk--the sort of boy his father openly
rejoices in and his mother is secretly in prayer over. Only, this boy
had neither father nor mother. Since the age of twelve he had looked out
for himself, never quite without bread, sometimes attaining champagne,
getting along in his American way variously, on horse or afoot, across
regions of wide plains and mountains, through towns where not a soul
knew his name. He closed one of his gray eyes at his employer, and
beyond this made no remark.
"Vat you mean by dat vink, anyhow?" demanded the elder.
"Say," said the boy, confidentially--"honest now. How about you and me?
Five hundred dollars if I had your beard. You've got a record and I've
got a future. And my bloom's on me rich, without a scratch. How many
dollars you gif me for dat bloom?" The sparrow-hawk sailed into a
freakish imitation of his master.
"You are a liddle rascal!" cried the master, shaking with entertainment.
"Und if der peoples vas to hear you sass old Max Vogel in dis style they
would say, 'Poor old Max, he lose his gr-rip.' But I don't lose it." His
great hand closed suddenly on the boy's shoulder, his voice cut clean
and heavy as an axe, and then no more joking about him. "Haf you
understand that?" he said.
"Yes, sir."
"How old are you, son?"
"Nineteen, sir."
"Oh my, that is offle young for the job I gif you. Some of dose man you
go to boss might be your father. Und how much do you weigh?"
"About a hundred and thirty."
"Too light, too light. Und I haf keep my eye on you in Boise. You are
not so goot a boy as you might be."
"Well, sir, I guess not."
"But you was not so bad a boy as you might be, neider. You don't lie
about it. Now it must be farewell to all that foolishness. Haf you
understand? You go to set an example where one is needed very bad. If
those men see you drink a liddle, they drink a big lot. You forbid them,
they laugh at you. You must not allow one drop of whiskey at the whole
place. Haf you well understand?"
"Yes, sir. Me and whiskey are not necessary to each other's happiness."
"It is not you, it is them. How are you mit your gun?"
Vogel took the boy's pistol from its holster and aimed at an empty
bottle which was sticking in the thin Deceiver snow. "Can you do this?"
he said, carelessly, and fired. The snow struck the bottle, but the
unharming bullet was buried half an inch to the left.
The boy took his pistol with solemnity. "No," he said. "Guess I can't do
that." He fired, and the glass splintered into shapelessness. "Told you
I couldn't miss as close as you did," said he.
"You are a darling," said Mr. Vogel. "Gif me dat lofely weapon."
A fortunate store of bottles lay, leaned, or stood about in the white
snow of Nampa, and Mr. Vogel began at them.
"May I ask if anything is the matter?" inquired a mild voice from the
stage.
"Stick that lily head in-doors," shouted Vogel; and the face and
eye-glasses withdrew again into the stage. "The school-teacher he will
be beautifool virtuous company for you at Malheur Agency," continued
Vogel, shooting again; and presently the large old German destroyed a
bottle with a crashing smack. "Ah!" said he, in unison with the smack.
"Ah-ha! No von shall say der old Max lose his gr-rip. I shoot it efry
time now, but the train she whistle. I hear her."
The boy affected to listen earnestly.
"Bah! I tell you I hear de whistle coming."
"Did you say there was a whistle?" ventured the occupant of the stage.
The snow shone white on his glasses as he peered out.
"Nobody whistle for you," returned the robust Vogel. "You listen to me,"
he continued to the boy. "You are offle yoong. But I watch you plenty
this long time. I see you work mit my stock on the Owyhee and the
Malheur; I see you mit my oder men. My men they say always more and
more, 'Yoong Drake he is a goot one,' und I think you are a goot one
mine own self. I am the biggest cattle man on the Pacific <DW72>, und I
am also an old devil. I have think a lot, und I like you."
"I'm obliged to you, sir."
"Shut oop. I like you, und therefore I make you my new sooperintendent
at my Malheur Agency r-ranch, mit a bigger salary as you don't get
before. If you are a sookcess, I r-raise you some more."
"I am satisfied now, sir."
"Bah! Never do you tell any goot business man you are satisfied mit vat
he gif you, for eider he don't believe you or else he think you are a
fool. Und eider ways you go down in his estimation. You make those men
at Malheur Agency behave themselves und I r-raise you. Only I do vish, I
do certainly vish you had some beard on that yoong chin."
The boy glanced at his pistol.
"No, no, no, my son," said the sharp old German. "I don't want gunpowder
in dis affair. You must act kviet und decisif und keep your liddle shirt
on. What you accomplish shootin'? You kill somebody, und then, pop!
somebody kills you. What goot is all that nonsense to me?"
"It would annoy me some, too," retorted the boy, eyeing the capitalist.
"Don't leave me out of the proposition."
"Broposition! Broposition! Now you get hot mit old Max for nothing."
"If you didn't contemplate trouble," pursued the boy, "what was your
point just now in sampling my marksmanship?" He kicked some snow in the
direction of the shattered bottle. "It's understood no whiskey comes on
that ranch. But if no gunpowder goes along with me, either, let's call
the deal off. Buy some other fool."
"You haf not understand, my boy. Und you get very hot because I happen
to make that liddle joke about somebody killing you. Was you thinking
maybe old Max not care what happen to you?"
A moment of silence passed before the answer came: "Suppose we talk
business?"
"Very well, very well. Only notice this thing. When oder peoples talk
oop to me like you haf done many times, it is not they who does the
getting hot. It is me--old Max. Und when old Max gets hot he slings them
out of his road anywheres. Some haf been very sorry they get so slung.
You invite me to buy some oder fool? Oh, my boy, I will buy no oder fool
except you, for that was just like me when I was yoong Max!" Again the
ruddy and grizzled magnate put his hand on the shoulder of the boy, who
stood looking away at the bottles, at the railroad track, at anything
save his employer.
The employer proceeded: "I was afraid of nobody und noding in those
days. You are afraid of nobody and noding. But those days was different.
No Pullman sleepers, no railroad at all. We come oop the Columbia in
the steamboat, we travel hoonderts of miles by team, we sleep, we eat
nowheres in particular mit many unexpected interooptions. There was
Indians, there was offle bad white men, und if you was not offle
yourself you vanished quickly. Therefore in those days was Max Vogel
hell und repeat."
The magnate smiled a broad fond smile over the past which he had kicked,
driven, shot, bled, and battled through to present power; and the boy
winked up at him again now.
"I don't propose to vanish, myself," said he.
"Ah-ha! you was no longer mad mit der old Max! Of coorse I care what
happens to you. I was alone in the world myself in those lofely wicked
days."
Reserve again made flinty the boy's face.
"Neider did I talk about my feelings," continued Max Vogel, "but I nefer
show them too quick. If I was injured I wait, and I strike to kill. We
all paddles our own dugout, eh? We ask no favors from nobody; we must
win our spurs! Not so? Now I talk business with you where you interroopt
me. If cow-boys was not so offle scarce in the country, I would long ago
haf bounce the lot of those drunken fellows. But they cannot be spared;
we must get along so. I cannot send Brock, he is needed at Harper's. The
dumb fellow at Alvord Lake is too dumb; he is not quickly courageous.
They would play high jinks mit him. Therefore I send you. Brock he say
to me you haf joodgement. I watch, and I say to myself also, this boy
haf goot joodgement. And when you look at your pistol so quick, I tell
you quick I don't send you to kill men when they are so scarce already!
My boy, it is ever the moral, the say-noding strength what gets
there--mit always the liddle pistol behind, in case--joost in case. Haf
you understand? I ask you to shoot. I see you know how, as Brock told
me. I recommend you to let them see that aggomplishment in a friendly
way. Maybe a shooting-match mit prizes--I pay for them--pretty soon
after you come. Und joodgement--und joodgement. Here comes that train.
Haf you well understand?"
Upon this the two shook hands, looking square friendship in each other's
eyes. The east-bound, long quiet and dark beneath its flowing clots of
smoke, slowed to a halt. A few valises and legs descended, ascended,
herding and hurrying; a few trunks were thrown resoundingly in and out
of the train; a woolly, crooked old man came with a box and a bandanna
bundle from the second-class car; the travellers of a thousand miles
looked torpidly at him through the dim, dusty windows of their Pullman,
and settled again for a thousand miles more. Then the east-bound,
shooting heavier clots of smoke laboriously into the air, drew its slow
length out of Nampa, and away.
"Where's that stage?" shrilled the woolly old man. "That's what I'm
after."
"Why, hello!" shouted Vogel. "Hello, Uncle Pasco! I heard you was dead."
Uncle Pasco blinked his small eyes to see who hailed him. "Oh!" said he,
in his light, crusty voice. "Dutchy Vogel. No, I ain't dead. You guessed
wrong. Not dead. Help me up, Dutchy."
A tolerant smile broadened Vogel's face. "It was ten years since I see
you," said he, carrying the old man's box.
"Shouldn't wonder. Maybe it'll be another ten till you see me next." He
stopped by the stage step, and wheeling nimbly, surveyed his old-time
acquaintance, noting the good hat, the prosperous watch-chain, the big,
well-blacked boots. "Not seen me for ten years. Hee-hee! No. Usen't to
have a cent more than me. Twins in poverty. That's how Dutchy and me
started. If we was buried to-morrow they'd mark him 'Pecunious' and me
'Impecunious.' That's what. Twins in poverty."
"I stick to von business at a time, Uncle," said good-natured,
successful Max.
A flicker of aberration lighted in the old man's eye. "H'm, yes," said
he, pondering. "Stuck to one business. So you did. H'm." Then, suddenly
sly, he chirped: "But I've struck it rich now." He tapped his box.
"Jewelry," he half-whispered. "Miners and cow-boys."
"Yes," said Vogel. "Those poor, deluded fellows, they buy such stuff."
And he laughed at the seedy visionary who had begun frontier life
with him on the bottom rung and would end it there. "Do you play that
concertina yet, Uncle?" he inquired.
"Yes, yes. I always play. It's in here with my tooth-brush and socks."
Uncle Pasco held up the bandanna. "Well, he's getting ready to start. I
guess I'll be climbing inside. Holy Gertrude!"
This shrill comment was at sight of the school-master, patient within
the stage. "What business are you in?" demanded Uncle Pasco.
"I am in the spelling business," replied the teacher, and smiled,
faintly.
"Hell!" piped Uncle Pasco. "Take this."
He handed in his bandanna to the traveller, who received it politely.
Max Vogel lifted the box of cheap jewelry; and both he and the boy came
behind to boost the old man up on the stage step. But with a nettled
look he leaped up to evade them, tottered half-way, and then, light as a
husk of grain, got himself to his seat and scowled at the schoolmaster.
After a brief inspection of that pale, spectacled face, "Dutchy," he
called out of the door, "this country is not what it was."
But old Max Vogel was inattentive. He was speaking to the boy, Dean
Drake, and held a flask in his hand. He reached the flask to his new
superintendent. "Drink hearty," said he. "There, son! Don't be shy. Haf
you forgot it is forbidden fruit after now?"
"Kid sworn off?" inquired Uncle Pasco of the school-master.
"I understand," replied this person, "that Mr. Vogel will not allow
his cow-boys at the Malheur Agency to have any whiskey brought there.
Personally, I feel gratified." And Mr. Bolles, the new school-master,
gave his faint smile.
"Oh," muttered Uncle Pasco. "Forbidden to bring whiskey on the ranch?
H'm." His eyes wandered to the jewelry-box. "H'm," said he again; and
becoming thoughtful, he laid back his moth-eaten sly head, and spoke no
further with Mr. Bolles.
Dean Drake climbed into the stage and the vehicle started.
"Goot luck, goot luck, my son!" shouted the hearty Max, and opened and
waved both his big arms at the departing boy: He stood looking after the
stage. "I hope he come back," said he. "I think he come back. If he come
I r-raise him fifty dollars without any beard."
II
The stage had not trundled so far on its Silver City road but that a
whistle from Nampa station reached its three occupants. This was the
branch train starting back to Boise with Max Vogel aboard; and the boy
looked out at the locomotive with a sigh.
"Only five days of town," he murmured. "Six months more wilderness now."
"My life has been too much town," said the new school-master. "I am
looking forward to a little wilderness for a change."
Old Uncle Pasco, leaning back, said nothing; he kept his eyes shut and
his ears open.
"Change is what I don't get," sighed Dean Drake. In a few miles,
however, before they had come to the ferry over Snake River, the recent
leave-taking and his employer's kind but dominating repression lifted
from the boy's spirit. His gray eye wakened keen again, and he began
to whistle light opera tunes, looking about him alertly, like the
sparrow-hawk that he was. "Ever see Jeannie Winston in 'Fatinitza'?" he
inquired of Mr. Bolles.
The school-master, with a startled, thankful countenance, stated that he
had never.
"Ought to," said Drake.
"You a man? that can't be true!
Men have never eyes like you."
"That's what the girls in the harem sing in the second act. Golly whiz!"
The boy gleamed over the memory of that evening.
"You have a hard job before you," said the school-master, changing the
subject.
"Yep. Hard." The wary Drake shook his head warningly at Mr. Bolles to
keep off that subject, and he glanced in the direction of slumbering
Uncle Pasco. Uncle Pasco was quite aware of all this. "I wouldn't take
another lonesome job so soon," pursued Drake, "but I want the money.
I've been working eleven months along the Owyhee as a sort of junior
boss, and I'd earned my vacation. Just got it started hot in Portland,
when biff! old Vogel telegraphs me. Well, I'll be saving instead of
squandering. But it feels so good to squander!"
"I have never had anything to squander," said Bolles, rather sadly.
"You don't say! Well, old man, I hope you will. It gives a man a lot
he'll never get out of spelling-books. Are you cold? Here." And despite
the school-master's protest, Dean Drake tucked his buffalo coat round
and over him. "Some day, when I'm old," he went on, "I mean to live
respectable under my own cabin and vine. Wife and everything. But not,
anyway, till I'm thirty-five."
He dropped into his opera tunes for a while; but evidently it was
not "Fatinitza" and his vanished holiday over which he was chiefly
meditating, for presently he exclaimed: "I'll give them a shooting-match
in the morning. You shoot?"
Bolles hoped he was going to learn in this country, and exhibited a
Smith & Wesson revolver.
Drake grieved over it. "Wrap it up warm," said he. "I'll lend you a
real one when we get to the Malheur Agency. But you can eat, anyhow.
Christmas being next week, you see, my programme is, shoot all A.M. and
eat all P.M. I wish you could light on a notion what prizes to give my
buccaroos."
"Buccaroos?" said Bolles.
"Yep. Cow-punchers. Vaqueros. Buccaroos in Oregon. Bastard Spanish word,
you see, drifted up from Mexico. Vogel would not care to have me give
'em money as prizes."
At this Uncle Pasco opened an eye.
"How many buccaroos will there be?" Bolles inquired.
"At the Malheur Agency? It's the headquarters of five of our ranches.
There ought to be quite a crowd. A dozen, probably, at this time of
year."
Uncle Pasco opened his other eye. "Here, you!" he said, dragging at his
box under the seat. "Pull it, can't you? There. Just what you're after.
There's your prizes." Querulous and watchful, like some aged, rickety
ape, the old man drew out his trinkets in shallow shelves.
"Sooner give 'em nothing," said Dean Drake.
"What's that? What's the matter with them?"
"Guess the boys have had all the brass rings and glass diamonds they
want."
"That's all you know, then. I sold that box clean empty through the
Palouse country last week, 'cept the bottom drawer, and an outfit on
Meacham's hill took that. Shows all you know. I'm going clean through
your country after I've quit Silver City. I'll start in by Baker City
again, and I'll strike Harney, and maybe I'll go to Linkville. I know
what buccaroos want. I'll go to Fort Rinehart, and I'll go to the Island
Ranch, and first thing you'll be seeing your boys wearing my stuff all
over their fingers and Sunday shirts, and giving their girls my stuff
right in Harney City. That's what."
"All right, Uncle. It's a free country."
"Shaw! Guess it is. I was in it before you was, too. You were wet behind
the ears when I was jammin' all around here. How many are they up at
your place, did you say?"
"I said about twelve. If you're coming our way, stop and eat with us."
"Maybe I will and maybe I won't." Uncle Pasco crossly shoved his box
back.
"All right, Uncle. It's a free country," repeated Drake.
Not much was said after this. Uncle Pasco unwrapped his concertina from
the red handkerchief and played nimbly for his own benefit. At Silver
City he disappeared, and, finding he had stolen nothing from them, they
did not regret him. Dean Drake had some affairs to see to here before
starting for Harper's ranch, and it was pleasant to Bolles to find how
Drake was esteemed through this country. The school-master was to board
at the Malheur Agency, and had come this way round because the new
superintendent must so travel. They were scarcely birds of a feather,
Drake and Bolles, yet since one remote roof was to cover them, the
in-door man was glad this boy-host had won so much good-will from
high and low. That the shrewd old Vogel should trust so much in a
nineteen-year-old was proof enough at least of his character; but when
Brock, the foreman from Harper's, came for them at Silver City, Bolles
witnessed the affection that the rougher man held for Drake. Brock shook
the boy's hand with that serious quietness and absence of words which
shows the Western heart is speaking. After a look at Bolles and a silent
bestowing of the baggage aboard the team, he cracked his long whip and
the three rattled happily away through the dips of an open country where
clear streams ran blue beneath the winter air. They followed the Jordan
(that Idaho Jordan) west towards Oregon and the Owyhee, Brock often
turning in his driver's seat so as to speak with Drake. He had a long,
gradual chapter of confidences and events; through miles he unburdened
these to his favorite:
The California mare was coring well in harness. The eagle over at
Whitehorse ranch had fought the cat most terrible. Gilbert had got a
mule-kick in the stomach, but was eating his three meals. They had a new
boy who played the guitar. He used maple-syrup an his meat, and claimed
he was from Alabama. Brock guessed things were about as usual in most
ways. The new well had caved in again. Then, in the midst of his gossip,
the thing he had wanted to say all along came out: "We're pleased about
your promotion," said he; and, blushing, shook Drake's hand again.
Warmth kindled the boy's face, and next, with a sudden severity, he
said: "You're keeping back something."
The honest Brock looked blank, then labored in his memory.
"Has the sorrel girl in Harney married you yet?" said Drake. Brock
slapped his leg, and the horses jumped at his mirth. He was mostly
grave-mannered, but when his boy superintendent joked, he rejoiced with
the same pride that he took in all of Drake's excellences.
"The boys in this country will back you up," said he, next day; and
Drake inquired: "What news from the Malheur Agency?"
"Since the new Chinaman has been cooking for them," said Brock, "they
have been peaceful as a man could wish."
"They'll approve of me, then," Drake answered. "I'm feeding 'em hyas
Christmas muck-a-muck."
"And what may that be?" asked the schoolmaster.
"You no kumtux Chinook?" inquired Drake. "Travel with me and you'll
learn all sorts of languages. It means just a big feed. All whiskey is
barred," he added to Brock.
"It's the only way," said the foreman. "They've got those Pennsylvania
men up there."
Drake had not encountered these.
"The three brothers Drinker," said Brock. "Full, Half-past Full, and
Drunk are what they call them. Them's the names; they've brought them
from Klamath and Rogue River."
"I should not think a Chinaman would enjoy such comrades," ventured Mr.
Bolles.
"Chinamen don't have comrades in this country," said Brock, briefly.
"They like his cooking. It's a lonesome section up there, and a Chinaman
could hardly quit it, not if he was expected to stay. Suppose they kick
about the whiskey rule?" he suggested to Drake.
"Can't help what they do. Oh, I'll give each boy his turn in Harney City
when he gets anxious. It's the whole united lot I don't propose to have
cut up on me."
A look of concern for the boy came over the face of foreman Brock.
Several times again before their parting did he thus look at his
favorite. They paused at Harper's for a day to attend to some matters,
and when Drake was leaving this place one of the men said to him: "We'll
stand by you." But from his blithe appearance and talk as the slim boy
journeyed to the Malheur River and Headquarter ranch, nothing seemed
to be on his mind. Oregon twinkled with sun and fine white snow. They
crossed through a world of pines and creviced streams and exhilarating
silence. The little waters fell tinkling through icicles in the
loneliness of the woods, and snowshoe rabbits dived into the brush. East
Oregon, the Owyhee and the Malheur country, the old trails of General
Crook, the willows by the streams, the open swales, the high woods
where once Buffalo Horn and Chief E-egante and O-its the medicine-man
prospered, through this domain of war and memories went Bolles the
school-master with Dean Drake and Brock. The third noon from Harper's
they came leisurely down to the old Malheur Agency, where once the
hostile Indians had drawn pictures on the door, and where Castle Rock
frowned down unchanged.
"I wish I was going to stay here with you," said Brock to Drake. "By
Indian Creek you can send word to me quicker than we've come."
"Why, you're an old bat!" said the boy to his foreman, and clapped him
farewell on the shoulder.
Brock drove away, thoughtful. He was not a large man. His face was
clean-cut, almost delicate. He had a well-trimmed, yellow mustache, and
it was chiefly in his blue eye and | 1,135.473663 |
2023-11-16 18:35:59.4590940 | 1,680 | 31 |
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Images of the original pages are available through
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http://archive.org/details/readingweather00longrich
READING THE WEATHER
[Illustration: SHOWER BEHIND VALLEY FORGE
_Courtesy of Richard F. Warren_]
READING THE WEATHER
by
T. MORRIS LONGSTRETH
Illustrated with Photographs by Richard F. Warren
Outing Handbooks
Number 43
New York
Outing Publishing Company
MCMXV
Copyright, 1915, by
Outing Publishing Company
All rights reserved.
DEDICATED
with love, to my grandmother
MARY GIBSON HALDEMAN
herself responsible for so
much sunshine.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
FORECAST i
I OUR WELL-ORDERED ATMOSPHERE 11
II THE CLEAR DAY 20
III THE STORM CYCLE 42
IV SKY SIGNS FOR CAMPERS 64
THE CLOUDS 65
THE WINDS 76
TEMPERATURES 86
RAIN AND SNOW 99
DEW AND FROST 112
THE THUNDERSTORM EXPOSED 116
THE TORNADO 129
THE HURRICANE 133
THE CLOUDBURST 139
THE HALO 140
V THE BAROMETER 147
VI THE SEASONS 157
VII THE WEATHER BUREAU 167
VIII A CHAPTER OF EXPLOSIONS 175
CONDENSATIONS 185
SIGNS OF FAIR WEATHER 185
SIGNS OF COMING STORM 187
SIGNS OF CLEARING 189
WHEN WILL IT RAIN? 190
SIGNS OF TEMPERATURE CHANGE 191
SOME UNSOLVED WEATHER PROBLEMS 192
WHAT THE WEATHER FLAGS MEAN 193
OUR FOUR WORLD'S RECORDS,--AND OTHERS 195
ILLUSTRATIONS
Shower Behind Valley Forge _Frontispiece_
PAGE
Cirrus Deepening to Cirro-Stratus 16
Cirro Stratus with Cirro-Cumulus Beneath 32
Cirro-Cumulus to Alto-Stratus 48
Alto-Stratus 80
Cumulus 96
Stratus 128
Nimbus 160
FORECAST
Science is certainly coming into her own nowadays,--and into everybody
else's. Every activity of man and most of Nature's have felt her
quickening hand. Her eye is upon the rest. Drinking is going out because
the drinker is inefficient. The fly is going out because he carries germs.
And for everything that goes out something else comes in that makes people
healthier and more comfortable, and, perhaps, wiser.
One strange thing about this flood-tide of science is that it overwhelms
the old, buttressed superstitions the easiest of all, once it really sets
about it. For instance, nothing could have been better fortified for
centuries than the fact that night air is injurious and should be shut out
of house. Then, science turned its eye upon night air, found it a little
cooler, a trifle moister, and somewhat cleaner than day air with the
result that we all invite it indoors, now, and even go out to meet it.
Once interested in the air, science soon began to take up that
commonplace but baffling phase of it called the weather. Now, of all
matters under the sun the weather was the deepest intrenched in
superstition and hearsay. From the era of Noah it had been made the
subject of more remarks unrelieved by common sense than any other. It was
at once the commonest topic for conversation and the rarest for thought.
Considering the opportunities for study of the weather this conclusion, we
must admit, is more surprising than complimentary to the human race. But
it is so. The fact that science had to face was this: that the weather had
been and remained a tremendous, dimly-recognized factor in our level of
living. So talk about it all must. And science set about finding some easy
fundamental truths to talk instead of the hereditary gossip about
old-fashioned winters or the usual meaningless conversational coin.
Two groups of men had always known a good deal about the weather from
experience: the sailor had to know it to save his life, and the farmer had
to cultivate a weather eye along with his early peas. But the ordinary
business man (and wife), the town-dweller, and even the suburbanite knew
so few of the proven facts that the weather from day to day, from hour to
hour, was a continual puzzle to them. The rain not only fell upon the
just and unjust but it fell unquestioned, or misunderstood.
At last Science established some sort of a Weather Bureau in 1870, in our
country, and after this had triumphed over great handicaps, the Government
set it upon its present footing in 1891. An intelligent interest in the
weather was in likelihood of being aroused by maps, pamphlets, frost and
flood warnings that saved dollars and lives. Then suddenly, or almost
suddenly, a new force was felt in every community. It was the call of
outdoors. The new land of woods and lakes was explored. Men learned that
living by bread alone (without air) made a very stuffy existence. Hence
the man in town opened all his windows at night, the suburban majority
planned to build sleeping porches, the youngsters begged to go to camp,
their fathers went hunting and fishing in increasing numbers, and, most
important of all, the fathers' wives began to accompany them into the
woods.
Thus, living has been turned inside out,--the very state of things that
old scientist Plato recommended some thirty thousand moons ago. And among
the manifestations of nature the weather is holding its place, important
and even fascinating. For the person who most depends on umbrellas and the
subway in the city needs to watch the sky most carefully in the woods.
That old academic question as to whether it be wise or foolish to come in
out of the wet was never settled by the wilderness veteran. The veteran's
wife settles it very quickly. She considers the cloud. When the commuter
goes camping he rightly likes his comforts. A wet skin is not one of
these. Therefore he studies the feel of the wind.
And so it comes about that the person who talks about storm centers and
areas of high pressure and cumulus clouds is no longer regarded as
slightly unhinged. Men are eager to learn the laws of the snowstorm and
the cold wave; for, with the knowledge that snow is not poison and cold
not necessarily discomfort, January has been opened up for enjoyments that
July could never give.
Bookwriting and camping are both explained by the same fact,--a certain
fondness for the thing. I wanted to see the commoner weather pinned down
to facts. The following chapters resulted. They constitute a | 1,135.479134 |
2023-11-16 18:35:59.5593910 | 1,411 | 8 | VOLUMES 1-3) ***
Produced by Al Haines.
*THE ROMANCE OF WAR:*
OR,
THE HIGHLANDERS
IN FRANCE AND BELGIUM.
A SEQUEL TO
THE HIGHLANDERS IN SPAIN.
BY
JAMES GRANT, ESQ.
_Late 62nd Regiment._
"In the garb of old Gaul, with the fire of old Rome,
From the heath-covered mountains of Scotia we come;
Our loud-sounding pipe breathes the true martial strain,
And our hearts still the old Scottish valour retain."
_Lt.-Gen. Erskine._
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,
GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1847.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY MAURICE AND CO., HOWFORD BUILDINGS,
FENCHURCH STREET.
*CONTENTS*
Chapter
I. Toulouse
II. Adventures
III. The Lady of Elizondo
IV. Cifuentes
V. Home
VI. The Torre de Los Frayles
VII. Spanish Law
VIII. An Acquaintance, and "Old England on the Lee"
IX. Flanders
X. Cameron of Fassifern
XI. The 17th June, 1815
XII. The 18th of June
XIII. The Sister of Charity
XIV. France
XV. The Chateau de Marielle
XVI. Paris, De Mesmai, and the Hotel de Clugny
XVII. A Catastrophe
XVIII. The Homeward March
XIX. Edinburgh
XX. Lochisla
XXI. Alice
XXII. News from Afar
XXIII. Conclusion
*PREFACE.*
Numerous inquiries having been made for the conclusion of "The Romance
of War," it is now presented to the Public, whom the Author has to thank
for the favourable reception given to the first three volumes of his
Work.
In following out the adventures of the Highlanders, he has been obliged
to lead them through the often-described field of Waterloo. But the
reader will perceive that he has touched on the subject briefly; and,
avoiding all general history, has confined himself, as much as possible,
to the movements of Sir Dennis Pack's brigade.
Notwithstanding that so many able military narratives have of late years
issued from the press, the Author believes that the present work is _the
first_ which has been almost exclusively dedicated to the adventures of
a Highland regiment during the last war; the survivors of which he has
to congratulate on their prospect of obtaining the long-withheld, but
well-deserved, _medal_.
Few--few indeed of the old corps are now alive; yet these all remember,
with equal pride and sorrow,
"How, upon bloody Quatre Bras,
Brave CAMERON heard the wild hurra
Of conquest as he fell;"
and, lest any reader may suppose that in these volumes the national
enthusiasm of the Highlanders has been over-drawn, I shall state one
striking incident which occurred at Waterloo.
On the advance of a heavy column of French infantry to attack La Haye
Sainte, a number of the Highlanders sang the stirring verses of "Bruce's
Address to his Army," which, at such a time, had a most powerful effect
on their comrades; and long may such sentiments animate their
representatives, as they are the best incentives to heroism, and to
honest emulation!
EDINBURGH,
_June_ 1847.
*THE ROMANCE OF WAR*
*CHAPTER I.*
*TOULOUSE.*
"One crowded hour of glorious life,
Is worth an age without a name!"
The long and bloody war of the Peninsula had now been brought to a final
close, and the troops looked forward with impatience to the day of
embarkation for their homes. The presence of the allied army was no
longer necessary in France; but the British forces yet lingered about
the Garonne, expecting the long-wished and long-looked for route for
Britain. The Gordon Highlanders were quartered at Muret, a small town
on the banks of the Garonne, and a few miles from Toulouse. One evening,
while the mess were discussing, over their wine, the everlasting theme
of the probable chances of the corps being ordered to Scotland, the
sound of galloping hoofs and the clank of accoutrements were heard in
the street of the village. A serjeant of the First Dragoons, with the
foam-bells hanging on his horse's bridle, reined up at the door of the
inn where the officers of the Highlanders had established a temporary
mess-house. Old Dugald Cameron was standing at the door, displaying his
buirdly person to a group of staring villagers, with whom he was
attempting to converse in a singular mixture of broad northern Scots,
Spanish, and French, all of which his hearers found not very
intelligible.
The horseman dashed up to the door with the splendid air of the true
English dragoon, and with an importance which caused the villagers to
shrink back. Inquiring for Colonel Cameron, he handed to Dugald two
long official packets; and after draining a deep hornful of liquor which
the Celt brought him, he wheeled his charger round, and rode slowly
away.
"Letters frae the toon o' Toulouse, sir," said Dugald, as, with his flat
bonnet under his arm, and smoothing down his white hair, he advanced to
Fassifern's elbow, and laid the despatches before him; after which he
retired a few paces, and waited to hear the contents, in which he
considered he had as much interest as any one present. The clamour and
laughter of the mess-room were instantly hushed, and every face grew
grave, from the ample visage of Campbell, who was seated on the
colonel's right hand, down to the fair-cheeked ensigns, (or Johny
Newcomes,) who always ensconced themselves at the foot of the table, to
be as far away as possible from the colonel and seniors.
"Fill your glasses | 1,135.579431 |
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NUGGETS IN THE DEVIL'S PUNCH BOWL
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THE ARENA.
EDITED BY JOHN CLARK RIDPATH, LL. D.
VOL. XVIII
JULY TO DECEMBER, 1897
PUBLISHED BY
THE ARENA COMPANY
BOSTON, MASS.
1897
COPYRIGHTED, 1897
BY
THE ARENA COMPANY.
SKINNER, BARTLETT & CO., 7 Federal Court, Boston.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
The Citadel of the Money Power:
I. Wall Street, Past, Present, and Future HENRY CLEWS 1
II. The True Inwardness of Wall Street JOHN CLARK RIDPATH 9
The Reform Club's Feast of Unreason Hon. CHARLES A. TOWNE 24
Does Credit Act on Prices? A. J. UTLEY 37
Points in the American and French Constitutions Compared,
NIELS GROeN 49
Honest Money; or, A True Standard of Value: A Symposium.
I. WILLIAM JENNINGS BRYAN 57
II. M. W. HOWARD 58
III. WHARTON BARKER 59
IV. ARTHUR I. FONDA 60
V. Gen. A. J. WARNER 62
The New Civil Code of Japan TOKICHI MASAO, M. L., D. C. L. 64
John Ruskin: A Type of Twentieth-Century Manhood B. O. FLOWER 70
The Single Tax in Operation Hon. HUGH H. LUSK 79
Natural Selection, Social Selection, and Heredity,
Prof. JOHN R. COMMONS 90
Psychic or Supermundane Forces CORA L. V. RICHMOND 98
The American Institute of Civics HENRY RANDALL WAITE, Ph. D. 108
An Industrial Fable HAMILTON S. WICKS 116
Plaza of the Poets:
Reply to "Locksley Hall Sixty Years After," BARTON LOMAX PITTMAN 122
John Brown COATES KINNEY 125
Demos W. H. VENABLE, LL. D. 126
The Editor's Evening: Leaf from My Samoan Notebook (A. D.
2297); _Vita Longa_; Kaboto (a Sonnet) 128
A Stroke for the People: A Farmer's Letter to THE ARENA 134
Evolution: What It Is and What It Is Not Dr. DAVID STARR JORDAN 145
Has Wealth a Limitation? ROBERT N. REEVES 160
The Battle of the Money Metals:
I. Bimetallism Simplified GEORGE H. LEPPER 168
II. Bimetallism Extinguished JOHN CLARK RIDPATH 180
The Segregation and Permanent Isolation of Criminals,
NORMAN ROBINSON 192
How to Increase National Wealth by the Employment of Paralyzed
Industry B. O. FLOWER 200
Open Letter to Eastern Capitalists CHARLES C. MILLARD 211
The Telegraph Monopoly: Part XIII. Prof. FRANK PARSONS 218
The Provisional Government of the Cubans THOMAS W. STEEP 226
A Noted American Preacher DUNCAN MACDERMID 232
The Civic Outlook HENRY RANDALL WAITE, Ph. D. 245
"The Tempest" the Sequel to "Hamlet" EMILY DICKEY BEERY 254
The Creative Man STINSON JARVIS 262
Plaza of the Poets:
The New Woman MILES MENANDER DAWSON 275
Under the Stars COATES KINNEY 275
The Cry of the Valley CHARLES MELVIN WILKINSON 276
A Radical ROBERT F. GIBSON 277
The Editor's Evening: Our Totem; _Vive La France! Le Siecle_
(a Sonnet) 278
The Concentration of Wealth: Its Causes and Results: Part I,
HERMAN E. TAUBENECK 289
The Future of the Democratic Party: A Reply DAVID OVERMYER 302
The Multiple Standard for Money ELTWEED POMEROY 318
Anticipating the Unearned Increment I. W. HART 339
Studies in Ultimate Society:
I. A New Interpretation of Life LAURENCE GRONLUND 351
II. Individualism _vs._ Altruism K. T. TAKAHASHI 362
General Weyler's Campaign CRITTENDEN MARRIOTT 374
The Author of "The Messiah" B. O. FLOWER 386
Open Letter to President Andrews THE EDITOR 399
Plaza of the Poets:
The Onmarch FREEMAN E. MILLER 403
The Toil of Empire JOHN VANCE CHENEY 404
The Day Love Came THEODOSIA PICKERING 405
The Question JULIA NEELY-FINCH 405
Triolet CURTIS HIDDEN PAGE 406
The Cry of the Poor JOHN CLARK RIDPATH 407
The Editor's Evening: A Knotty Problem; A Case of Prevision;
Concerning Eternity; A. L. (a Sonnet) 419
The New Ostracism Hon. CHARLES A. TOWNE 433
The Concentration of Wealth: Its Causes and Results: Part II,
HERMAN E. TAUBENECK 452
The Rights of the Public over Quasi-Public Services,
Hon. WALTER CLARK 470
Prosperity: the Sham and the Reality JOHN CLARK RIDPATH 486
Jefferson and His Political Philosophy MARY PLATT PARMELEE 505
The Latest Social Vision B. O. FLOWER 517
The Dead Hand in the Church Rev. CLARENCE LATHBURY 535
Hypnotism in its Scientific and Forensic Aspects,
MARION L. DAWSON, B. L. 544
Suicide: Is It Worth While? CHARLES B. NEWCOMB 557
Plaza of the Poets:
Old Glory IRONQUILL 562
_Vita Sum_ JUNIUS L. HEMPSTEAD 563
Gold CLINTON SCOLLARD 564
Richard Realfe REUBIE CARPENTER 565
The Dreamer HELENA M. RICHARDSON 565
The Editor's Evening: The Greatest Lyric; "Thrift, Thrift, Horatio;"
The Pessimist; The Physician's Last Call (a Sonnet). 566
Freedom and Its Opportunities: Part I Hon. JOHN R. ROGERS 577
"The Case Against Bimetallism" Judge GEORGE H. SMITH 590
The Initiative and the Referendum ELIHU F. BARKER 613
The Telegraph Monopoly: Part XIV Prof. FRANK PARSONS 628
The Laborer's View of the Labor Question:
I. How the Laborer Feels HERBERT M. RAMP 644
II. Up or Down? W. EDWARDS 654
III. The Farm Hand: An Unknown Quantity WILLIAM EMORY KEARNS 661
Practical Measures for Promoting Manhood and Preventing Crime,
B. O. FLOWER 673
The Demand for Sensational Journals JOHN HENDERSON GARNSEY 681
Is History a Science? JOHN CLARK RIDPATH 687
Plaza of the Poets:
Our Brother Simon ANNIE L. MUZZEY 707
Thou Knowest Not HELENA M. RICHARDSON 708
Optim: A Reply GEORGE H. WESTLEY 709
The Murdered Trees BENJAMIN S. PARKER 709
The | 1,135.585372 |
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Transcriber's Note
Illustration captions in {brackets} have been added by the
transcriber, with reference to the list of illustrations, for the
convenience of the reader.
THE
ANIMAL STORY BOOK
EDITED BY
ANDREW LANG
_WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. J. FORD_
[Illustration: {TWO ORAN OTANS}]
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
FOURTH AVENUE & 30TH STREET, NEW YORK
LONDON, BOMBAY, CALCUTTA AND MADRAS
1914
_Copyright, 1896,_
By Longmans, Green, & Co.
_All rights reserved._
First Edition, September, 1896.
Reprinted, November, 1896, July, 1899,
June, 1904, February, 1909,
September, 1914.
THE FAIRY BOOK SERIES
Edited by Andrew Lang
_New and Cheaper Issue_
EACH VOLUME, $1.00 NET
THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK. With 138 Illustrations.
THE RED FAIRY BOOK. With 100 Illustrations.
THE GREEN FAIRY BOOK. With 101 Illustrations.
THE GREY FAIRY BOOK. With 65 Illustrations.
THE YELLOW FAIRY BOOK. With 104 Illustrations.
THE PINK FAIRY BOOK. With 67 Illustrations.
THE BLUE POETRY BOOK. With 100 Illustrations.
THE TRUE STORY BOOK. With 66 Illustrations.
THE RED TRUE STORY BOOK. With 100 Illustrations.
THE ANIMAL STORY BOOK. With 67 Illustrations.
THE RED BOOK OF ANIMAL STORIES. With 65 Illustrations.
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS ENTERTAINMENTS. With 66 Illustrations.
THE VIOLET FAIRY BOOK. With 8 Plates and 54 other
Illustrations.
THE CRIMSON FAIRY BOOK. With 8 Plates and 43 other
Illustrations.
THE BROWN FAIRY BOOK. With 8 Plates and 42 other
Illustrations.
THE OLIVE FAIRY BOOK. With 8 Plates and 43 other
Illustrations.
THE ORANGE FAIRY BOOK. With 8 Plates and 50 other
Illustrations.
THE BOOK OF ROMANCE. With 8 Plates and 44 other
Illustrations.
THE RED ROMANCE BOOK. With 8 Plates and 44 other
Illustrations.
THE BOOK OF PRINCES AND PRINCESSES. By Mrs. Lang. With 8
Plates and 43 other Illustrations.
THE RED BOOK OF HEROES. By Mrs. Lang. With 8 Plates
and 40 other Illustrations.
THE LILAC FAIRY BOOK. With 6 Plates and 46 other
| 1,135.58564 |
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CASHEL BYRON'S PROFESSION
By George Bernard Shaw
PROLOGUE
I
Moncrief House, Panley Common. Scholastic establishment for the sons of
gentlemen, etc.
Panley Common, viewed from the back windows of Moncrief House, is
a tract of grass, furze and rushes, stretching away to the western
horizon.
One wet spring afternoon the sky was full of broken clouds, and the
common was swept by their shadows, between which patches of green
and yellow gorse were bright in the broken sunlight. The hills to the
northward were obscured by a heavy shower, traces of which were drying
off the slates of the school, a square white building, formerly a
gentleman's country-house. In front of it was a well-kept lawn with a
few clipped holly-trees. At the rear, a quarter of an acre of land was
enclosed for the use of the boys. Strollers on the common could hear, at
certain hours, a hubbub of voices and racing footsteps from within the
boundary wall. Sometimes, when the strollers were boys themselves,
they climbed to the coping, and saw on the other side a piece of common
trampled bare and brown, with a few square yards of concrete, so worn
into hollows as to be unfit for its original use as a ball-alley. Also
a long shed, a pump, a door defaced by innumerable incised inscriptions,
the back of the house in much worse repair than the front, and about
fifty boys in tailless jackets and broad, turned-down collars. When the
fifty boys perceived a stranger on the wall they rushed to the spot with
a wild halloo, overwhelmed him with insult and defiance, and dislodged
him by a volley of clods, stones, lumps of bread, and such other
projectiles as were at hand.
On this rainy spring afternoon a brougham stood at the door of Moncrief
House. The coachman, enveloped in a white india-rubber coat, was
bestirring himself a little after the recent shower. Within-doors, in
the drawing-room, Dr. Moncrief was conversing with a stately lady aged
about thirty-five, elegantly dressed, of attractive manner, and only
falling short of absolute beauty in her complexion, which was deficient
in freshness.
"No progress whatever, I am sorry to say," the doctor was remarking.
"That is very disappointing," said the lady, contracting her brows.
"It is natural that you should feel disappointed," replied the doctor.
"I would myself earnestly advise you to try the effect of placing him
at some other--" The doctor stopped. The lady's face had lit up with a
wonderful smile, and she had raised her hand with a bewitching gesture
of protest.
"Oh, no, Dr. Moncrief," she said. "I am not disappointed with YOU; but
I am all the more angry with Cashel, because I know that if he makes no
progress with you it must be his own fault. As to taking him away, that
is out of the question. I should not have a moment's peace if he were
out of your care. I will speak to him very seriously about his conduct
before I leave to-day. You will give him another trial, will you not?"
"Certainly. With the greatest pleasure," exclaimed the doctor, confusing
himself by an inept attempt at gallantry. "He shall stay as long as
you please. But"--here the doctor became grave again--"you cannot too
strongly urge upon him the importance of hard work at the present time,
which may be said to be the turning-point of his career as a student. He
is now nearly seventeen; and he has so little inclination for study that
I doubt whether he could pass the examination necessary to entering one
of the universities. You probably wish him to take a degree before he
chooses a profession."
"Yes, of course," said the lady, vaguely, evidently assenting to the
doctor's remark rather than expressing a conviction of her own. "What
profession would you advise for him? You know so much better than I."
"Hum!" said Dr. Moncrief, puzzled. "That would doubtless depend to some
extent on his own taste--"
"Not at all," said the lady, interrupting him with vivacity. "What does
he know about the world, poor boy? His own taste is sure to be something
ridiculous. Very likely he would want to go on the stage, like me."
"Oh! Then you would not encourage any tendency of that sort?"
"Most decidedly not. I hope he has no such idea."
"Not that I am aware of. He shows so little ambition to excel in any
particular branch that I should say his choice of a profession may be
best determined by his parents. I am, of course, ignorant whether his
relatives possess influence likely to be of use to him. That is often
the chief point to be considered, particularly in cases like your son's,
where no special aptitude manifests itself."
"I am the only relative he ever had, poor fellow," said the lady, with
a pensive smile. Then, seeing an expression of astonishment on the
doctor's face, she added, quickly, "They are all dead."
"Dear me!"
"However," she continued, "I have no doubt I can make plenty of interest
for him. But it is difficult to get anything nowadays without passing
competitive examinations. He really must work. If he is lazy he ought to
be punished."
The doctor looked perplexed. "The fact is," he said, "your son can
hardly be dealt with as a child any longer. He is still quite a boy in
his habits and ideas; but physically he is rapidly springing up into a
young man. That reminds me of another point on which I will ask you
to speak earnestly to him. I must tell you that he has attained some
distinction among his school-fellows here as an athlete. Within due
bounds I do not discourage bodily exercises: they are a recognized part
of our system. But I am sorry to say that Cashel has not escaped that
tendency to violence which sometimes results from the possession of
unusual strength and dexterity. He actually fought with one of the
village youths in the main street of Panley some months ago. The matter
did not come to my ears immediately; and, when it did, I allowed it to
pass unnoticed, as he had interfered, it seems, to protect one of the
smaller boys. Unfortunately he was guilty of a much more serious fault
a little later. He and a companion of his had obtained leave from me to
walk to Panley Abbey together. I afterwards found that their real object
was to witness a prize-fight that took place--illegally, of course--on
the common. Apart from the deception practised, I think the taste they
betrayed a dangerous one; and I felt bound to punish them by a severe
imposition, and restriction to the grounds for six weeks. I do not hold,
however, that everything has been done in these cases when a boy has
been punished. I set a high value on a mother's influence for softening
the natural roughness of boys."
"I don't think he minds what I say to him in the least," said the lady,
with a sympathetic air, as if she pitied the doctor in a matter that
chiefly concerned him. "I will speak to him about it, of course.
Fighting is an unbearable habit. His father's people were always
fighting; and they never did any good in the world."
"If you will be so kind. There are just the three points: the necessity
for greater--much greater--application to his studies; a word to him
on the subject of rough habits; and to sound him as to his choice of a
career. I agree with you in not attaching much importance to his ideas
on that subject as yet. Still, even a boyish fancy may be turned to
account in rousing the energies of a lad."
"Quite so," assented the lady. "I will certainly give him a lecture."
The doctor looked at her mistrustfully, thinking perhaps that she
herself would be the better for a lecture on her duties as a mother. But
he did not dare to tell her so; indeed, having a prejudice to the effect
that actresses were deficient in natural feeling, he doubted the use of
daring. He also feared that the subject of her son was beginning to bore
her; and, though a doctor of divinity, he was as reluctant as other men
to be found wanting in address by a pretty woman. So he rang the bell,
and bade the servant send Master Cashel Byron. Presently a door was
heard to open below, and a buzz of distant voices became audible.
The doctor fidgeted and tried to think of something to say, but his
invention failed him: he sat in silence while the inarticulate buzz rose
into a shouting of "By-ron!" "Cash!" the latter cry imitated from the
summons usually addressed to cashiers in haberdashers' shops.
Finally there was a piercing yell of "Mam-ma-a-a-a-ah!" apparently in
explanation of the demand for Byron's attendance in the drawing-room.
The doctor reddened. Mrs. Byron smiled. Then the door below closed,
shutting out the tumult, and footsteps were heard on the stairs.
"Come in," cried the doctor, encouragingly.
Master Cashel Byron entered blushing; made his way awkwardly to his
mother, and kissed the critical expression which was on her upturned
face as she examined his appearance. Being only seventeen, he had not
yet acquired a taste for kissing. He inexpertly gave Mrs. Byron quite a
shock by the collision of their teeth. Conscious of the failure, he drew
himself upright, and tried to hide his hands, which were exceedingly
dirty, in the scanty folds of his jacket. He was a well-grown youth,
with neck and shoulders already strongly formed, and short auburn hair
curling in little rings close to his scalp. He had blue eyes, and an
expression of boyish good-humor, which, however, did not convey any
assurance of good temper.
"How do you do, Cashel?" said Mrs. Byron, in a queenly manner, after a
prolonged look at him.
"Very well, thanks," said he, grinning and avoiding her eye.
"Sit down, Byron," said the doctor. Byron suddenly forgot how to sit
down, and looked irresolutely from one chair to another. The doctor made
a brief excuse, and left the room; much to the relief of his pupil.
"You have grown greatly, Cashel. And I am afraid you are very awkward."
Cashel and looked gloomy.
"I do not know what to do with you," continued Mrs. Byron. "Dr. Moncrief
tells me that you are very idle and rough."
"I am not," said Cashel, sulkily. "It is bec--"
"There is no use in contradicting me in that fashion," said Mrs. Byron,
interrupting him sharply. "I am sure that whatever Dr. Moncrief says is
perfectly true."
"He is always talking like that," said Cashel, plaintively. "I can't
learn Latin and Greek; and I don't see what good they are. I work as
hard as any of the rest--except the regular stews, perhaps. As to
my being rough, that is all because I was out one day with Gully
Molesworth, and we saw a crowd on the common, and when we went to see
what was up it was two men fighting. It wasn't our fault that they came
there to fight."
"Yes; I have no doubt that you have fifty good excuses, Cashel. But I
will not allow any fighting; and you really must work harder. Do you
ever think of how hard _I_ have to work to pay Dr. Moncrief one hundred
and twenty pounds a year for you?"
"I work as hard as I can. Old Moncrief seems to think that a fellow
ought to do nothing else from morning till night but write Latin verses.
Tatham, that the doctor thinks such a genius, does all his constering
from cribs. If I had a crib I could conster as well--very likely
better."
"You are very idle, Cashel; I am sure of that. It is too provoking to
throw away so much money every year for nothing. Besides, you must soon
be thinking of a profession."
"I shall go into the army," said Cashel. "It is the only profession for
a gentleman."
Mrs. Byron looked at him for a moment as if amazed at his presumption.
But she checked herself and only said, "I am afraid you will have to
choose some less expensive profession than that. Besides, you would have
to pass an examination to enable you to enter the army; and how can you
do that unless you study?"
"Oh, I shall do that all right enough when the time comes."
"Dear, dear! You are beginning to speak so coarsely, Cashel. After all
the pains I took with you at home!"
"I speak the same as other people," he replied, sullenly. "I don't see
the use of being so jolly particular over every syllable. I used to have
to stand no end of chaff about my way of speaking. The fellows here know
all about you, of course."
"All about me?" repeated Mrs. Byron, looking at him curiously.
"All about your being on the stage, I mean," said Cashel. "You complain
of my fighting; but I should have a precious bad time of it if I didn't
lick the chaff out of some of them."
Mrs. Byron smiled doubtfully to herself, and remained silent and
thoughtful for a moment. Then she rose and said, glancing at the
weather, "I must go now, Cashel, before another shower begins. And do,
pray, try to learn something, | 1,135.675746 |
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Produced by John Stuart Middleton
THE STROLLING SAINT
Being the Confessions of the High & Mighty Agostino D'Anguissola Tyrant
of Mondolfo & Lord of Carmina, in the State of Piacenza
By Raphael Sabatini
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE
THE OBLATE
CHAPTER
I. NOMEN ET OMEN
II. GINO FALCONE
III. THE PIETISTIC THRALL
IV. LUISINA
V. REBELLION
VI. FRA GERVASIO
BOOK TWO
GIULIANA
I. THE HOUSE OF ASTORRE FIFANTI
II. HUMANITIES
III. PREUX-CHEVALIER
IV. MY LORD GAMBARA CLEARS THE GROUND
V. PABULUM ACHERONTIS
VI. THE IRON GIRDLE
BOOK THREE
THE WILDERNESS
I. THE HOME-COMING
II. THE CAPTAIN OF JUSTICE
III. GAMBARA'S INTERESTS
IV. THE ANCHORITE OF MONTE ORSARO
V. THE RENUNCIATION
VI. HYPNEROTOMACHIA
VII. INTRUDERS
VIII. THE VISION
IX. THE ICONOCLAST
BOOK FOUR
THE WORLD
I. PAGLIANO
II. THE GOVERNOR OF MILAN
III. PIER LUIGI FARNESE
IV. MADONNA BIANCA
V. THE WARNING
VI. THE TALONS OF THE HOLY OFFICE
VII. THE PAPAL BULL
VIII. THE THIRD DEGREE
IX. THE RETURN
X. THE NUPTIALS OF BIANCA
XI. THE PENANCE
XII. BLOOD
XIII. THE OVERTHROW
XIV. THE CITATION
XV. THE WILL OF HEAVEN
BOOK I. THE OBLATE
CHAPTER I. NOMEN ET OMEN
In seeking other than in myself--as men will--the causes of my
tribulations, I have often inclined to lay the blame of much of the ill
that befell me, and the ill that in my sinful life I did to others, upon
those who held my mother at the baptismal font and concerted that she
should bear the name of Monica.
There are in life many things which, in themselves, seeming to the
vulgar and the heedless to be trivial and without consequence, may yet
be causes pregnant of terrible effects, mainsprings of Destiny itself.
Amid such portentous trifles I would number the names so heedlessly
bestowed upon us.
It surprises me that in none of the philosophic writings of the learned
scholars of antiquity can I find that this matter of names has been
touched upon, much less given the importance of which I account it to be
deserving.
Possibly it is because no one of them ever suffered, as I have suffered,
from the consequences of a name. Had it but been so, they might in their
weighty and impressive manner have set down a lesson on the subject,
and so relieved me--who am all-conscious of my shortcomings in this
direction-from the necessity of repairing that omission out of my own
experience.
Let it then, even at this late hour, be considered what a subtle
influence for good or ill, what a very mould of character may lie within
a name.
To the dull clod of earth, perhaps, or, again, to the truly
strong-minded nature that is beyond such influences, it can matter
little that he be called Alexander or Achilles; and once there was a man
named Judas who fell so far short of the noble associations of that name
that he has changed for all time the very sound and meaning of it.
But to him who has been endowed with imagination--that greatest boon and
greatest affliction of mankind--or whose nature is such as to crave for
models, the name he bears may become a thing portentous by the images
it conjures up of some mighty dead who bore it erstwhile and whose life
inspires to emulation.
Whatever may be accounted the general value of this premiss, at least as
it concerns my mother I shall hope to prove it apt.
They named her Monica. Why the name was chosen I have never learnt; but
I do not conceive that there was any reason for the choice other than
the taste of her parents in the matter of sounds. It is a pleasing
enough name, euphoniously considered, and beyond that--as is so commonly
the case--no considerations were taken into account.
To her, however, at once imaginative and of a feeble and dependent
spirit, the name was fateful. St. Monica was made the special object of
her devotions in girlhood, and remained so later when she became a wife.
The Life of St. Monica was the most soiled and fingered portion of an
old manuscript collection of the life histories of a score or so of
saints that was one of her dearest possessions. To render herself worthy
of the name she bore, to model her life upon that of the sainted woman
who had sorrowed and rejoiced so much in her famous offspring, became
the obsession of my mother's soul. And but that St. Monica had wed and
borne a son, I do not believe that my mother would ever have adventured
herself within the bonds of wedlock.
How often in the stressful, stormy hours of my most unhappy youth did I
not wish that she had preferred the virginal life of the cloister, and
thus spared me the heavy burden of an existence which her unholy and
mistaken saintliness went so near to laying waste!
I like to think that in the days when my father wooed her, she forgot
for a spell in the strong arms of that fierce ghibelline the pattern
upon which it had become her wont to weave her life; so that in all
that drab, sackcloth tissue there was embroidered at least one warm and
brilliant little wedge of colour; so that in all that desert waste, in
all that parched aridity of her existence, there was at least one little
patch of garden-land, fragrant, fruitful, and cool.
I like to think it, for at best such a spell must have been brief
indeed; and for that I pity her--I, who once blamed her so very
bitterly. Before ever I was born it must have ceased; whilst still she
bore me she put from her lips the cup that holds the warm and
potent wine of life, and turned her once more to her fasting, her
contemplations, and her prayers.
That was in the year in which the battle of Pavia was fought and won by
the Emperor. My father, who had raised a condotta to lend a hand in the
expulsion of the French, was left for dead upon that glorious field.
Afterwards he was found still living, but upon the very edge and border
of Eternity; and when the news of it was borne to my mother I have
little doubt but that she imagined it to be a visitation--a punishment
upon her for having strayed for that brief season of her adolescence
from the narrow flinty path that she had erst claimed to tread in the
footsteps of Holy Monica.
How much the love of my father may still have swayed her I do not know.
But to me it seems that in what next she did there was more of duty,
more of penitence, more of re | 1,135.677973 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charlie Howard, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber’s note: The Table of Contents was added by the Transcriber
and placed into the Public Domain.
Contents
Fiction
Makers of Modern American Fiction
Booth Tarkington
Robert W. Chambers
Richard Harding Davis
Jack London
Rex Beach
Stewart Edward White
Makers of Modern American Fiction
Norris’ Real | 1,135.678175 |
2023-11-16 18:35:59.6595940 | 55 | 7 |
Produced by David Widger
SHIP'S COMPANY
By W.W. Jacobs
[Illustration: 'I tell you, I am as innercent as a new-born babe'.]
SKILLED ASSISTANCE
The night-watchman, who had left | 1,135.679634 |
2023-11-16 18:35:59.6603140 | 4,504 | 192 |
Produced by MFR, Adrian Mastronardi, The Philatelic Digital
Library Project at http://www.tpdlp.net and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber’s Note: Punctuation and typographical errors have been
corrected without note. A list of the more substantial amendments made to
the text appears at the end.
[Illustration: “The primary step in connection with second-class mail
is taken in the forests of the American continent.”--_Senator J. P.
Dolliver._]
Postal Riders and Raiders
_Are we fools? If we are not fools, why then continue to
act foolishly, thus inviting railroad, express company
and postoffice officials to treat
us as if we were fools?_
By The Man On The Ladder
(W. H. GANTZ)
Issued By The Independent Postal League
CHICAGO, U. S. A.
1912
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY THE AUTHOR
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Price $1.50, Prepaid to Any Address.
Independent Postal League,
No. 5037 Indiana Ave.,
Chicago
FOREWORD TO THE READER.
The mud-sills of this book are hewn from the presupposition that the
person who reads it has not only the essentially necessary equipment to
do his own thinking, but also a more or less practiced habit of doing it.
It is upon such foundation the superstructure of this volume was built.
It is written in the hope of promoting, or provoking, thought on certain
subjects, along certain lines--not to create or school thinkers. So, if
the reader lacks the necessary cranial furnishing to do his own thinking,
or, if having that, he has a cultivated habit of letting other people do
his hard thinking and an ingrown desire to let them continue doing so,
such reader may as well stop at this period. In fact, he would better
do so. The man who has his thinking done by proxy is possibly as happy
and comfortable on a siding as he would be anywhere--as he is capable
of being. I have no desire to disturb his state or condition of static
felicity. Besides, such a man might “run wild” or otherwise interfere
with the traffic if switched onto the main line.
Emerson has somewheres said, “Beware when God turns a thinker loose in
the world.” Of course Emerson cautioned about constructive and fighting
thinkers, not thinkers who think they know because somebody told them so,
or who think they have thought till they know all about some unknowable
thing--the ratio of the diameter to the circumference of the circle, how
to construct two hills without a valley between, to build a bunghole
bigger than the barrel, and the like.
There are thinkers and thinkers. Emerson had the distinction between
them clearly in mind no doubt when he wrote that quoted warning. So,
also, has the thinking reader. It is for him this volume is planned;
to him its arguments and statements of fact are intended to appeal.
Its chapters have been hurriedly written--some of them written under
conditions of physical distress. The attempts at humor may be attempts
only; the irony may be misplaced or misapplied; the spade-is-a-spade
style may be blunt, harsh or even coarse to the point of offensiveness.
Still, if its reading provokes or otherwise induces thought, the purpose
of its writing, at least in some degree, will have been attained. It is
not asked that the reader agree with the conclusions of the text. If he
read the facts stated and thinks--_thinks for himself_--he will reach
right conclusions. The facts are of easy comprehension. It requires no
superior academic knowledge nor experience of years to understand them
and their significance--their lesson.
Just read and think. Do not let any “official” noise nor breakfast-food
rhetoric so syncopate and segregate your thought as to derail it from
the main line of facts. Lofty, persuasive eloquence is often but the
attractive drapery of planned falsehood, and the beautifully rounded
period is often but a “steer” for an ulterior motive--a “tout” for a
marked-card game. Do not be a “come-on” for any verbal psychic work
or worker. Just stubbornly persist in doing your own thinking, ever
remembering that in this vale of tears, “Plain hoss sense’ll pull you
through when ther’s nothin’ else’ll do.”
As a thinker, you will now have lots of company, and they are still
coming in droves. Respectable company, too. Mr. Roosevelt suddenly
_arrived_ a few days since at Columbus, Ohio. Then there is Mr. Carnegie
and Judge Gary. The senior Mr. Rockefeller, also, has announced, through
a representative, that he is on the way. These latter, of course, have
been thinkers for many years--thinkers on personal service lines chiefly,
it has been numerously asserted. Now, however, if press accounts are
true, they have begun to think, a little at least, about the general
welfare, about the common good--about the other fellow.
Whether this change in mental effort and direction, if change it be, has
followed upon a more careful study of conditions which have so long,
so wastefully, or ruthlessly and viciously governed, or results from
the fact that the advancing years have brought these gentlemen so near
Jericho that they see a gleam of the clearer light and occasionally hear
the “rustle of a wing,” I do not know. Nor need one know nor care. That
they come to join the rapidly-growing company of thinkers is sufficient.
CHICAGO, March 1, 1912.
Postal Riders and Raiders
CHAPTER I.
MAL-ADMINISTRATION RUN RIOT.
This is nice winter weather. However, as The Man on the Ladder was born
some distance prior to the week before last, there’s a tang and chill
in the breezes up here about the ladder top which makes the temperature
decidedly less congenial than is the atmosphere in the editorial rooms of
my publisher.
But, say, the view from this elevation is mighty interesting. The
mobilization of the United States soldiery far to the Southwest; the
breaking up of corrals and herds to the West; the starting of activities
about mining camps in the West and Northwest; the lumber jacks and teams
in the spruce forests of the north are indeed inspiring things to look
upon; and over the eastern horizon, there in the lumber sections of New
England and to the Southeast, in the soft maple, the cottonwood and
basswood districts, the people appear to be industriously and happily
active; away to the South----
Say! What’s that excitement over there at Washington, D. C.?
“Hello, Central! Hello! Yes, this is The Man on the Ladder.”
“Get me Washington, D. C., on the L.-D. in a hurry--and get Congressman
Blank on that end of the wire. The House is in session, and certainly he
ought to be found in not more than five minutes.”
It is something unusually gratifying to see that activity about that
sleepy group of capitol buildings--the “House of Dollars,” the house of
the _hoi polloi_, and the White House--a scene that will linger in the
freshness and fragrance of my remembrance until the faculty of memory
fades away. There are messengers and pages flitting about from house to
house as if the prairies were afire behind them. Excited Congressmen are
in heated discourse on the esplanade, on the capitol steps and in the
corridors and cloak rooms. And there are numerous groups of Senators,
each a kingly specimen of what might be a _real man_ if there was not so
much pickled dignity oozing from his stilted countenance and pose. There
now go four of them to the White House, probably to see the President,
our smiling William. I wonder what they are after. I wonder----
“Yes, yes! Hello! Is that you, Congressman Jim?” “Yes? What can I do for
you?”
“Well, this is The Man on the Ladder, Jim, and I want to know in the
name of heaven--any other spot you can think of quickly will do as
well--what’s the occasion and cause for all that external excitement and
activity I see around the capitol building? There must be a superthermic
atmosphere inside both the Senate and House to drive so many of our
statesmen to the open air and jolt them into a quickstep in their
movements. Now go on and tell, and tell me straight.”
Well, Well! If I did not know my Congressman friend so well, I would
scarcely be persuaded to believe what he has just phoned me.
It appears that a _conspiracy_--yes, I mean just that--a conspiracy has
been entered into between our Chief Executive, a coterie of Senators,
possibly a Congressman or two and a numerous gang of corporate and vested
interests, cappers and beneficiaries, to penalize various independent
weekly and monthly periodicals. Penalize is what I said. But that word
is by no means strong enough. The intent of the conspirators was--and
_is--to put certain periodicals out of business and to establish a press
censorship in the person of the Postmaster General as will enable him to
put any periodical out of existence which does not print what it is told
to publish_.
It would seem that when the Postoffice appropriation bill left the House,
where all revenue measures must originate, it was a fairly clean bill,
carrying some $258,000,000 of the people’s money _for the legitimate
service of the people_. Of course it carried many service excesses,
just as it has carried in each of the past thirty or forty years, and
several of those _looting_ excesses so conspicuous in every one of the
immediately past fifteen years.
But otherwise, it may be stated, the House approval carried this
bill to the Senate in its usual normal cleanliness. It was referred
to the Senate Committee on Postoffices and Postroads, the members of
which, _after conference with the President_, annexed to it an alleged
_revenue-producing_ “rider.”
This rider I will later on discuss for the information of my readers.
Here I desire only to call the reader’s attention to the fact that under
the Constitution of the United States the United States Senate has no
more right or authority to originate legislation for producing federal
revenues than has the Hamilton Club of Chicago or the Golf Club at Possum
Run, Kentucky. But the conspirators--I still use the milder term, though
I feel like telling the truth, which could be expressed only by some term
that would class their action as that of _assassinating education_ in
this country. These conspirators, I say, did not hesitate to exceed and
violate their constitutional obligations and prerogatives. They added a
revenue-producing “rider” to House resolution 31,539. The rider was to
raise certain kinds of second-class matter from a one-cent per pound rate
to a four-cent per pound rate. Not only that, but they managed to induce
Postmaster General Hitchcock to push into the Senate several _ulterior
motive_ reports and letters to boost the outlawry to successful passage.
But, more of this later.
My friend Congressman Jim has just informed me that the conspirators were
beginning to fear their ability even to get their “rider” to the post for
a start; that many members and representatives of the Periodical Press
Association of New York City, as well as those of other branches of the
printing industry, hearing of the attempt to put this confiscatory rider
over in the closing hours--the crooked hours--of Congress, hurried to
Washington and sought to inform Senators and members of the House of the
_truth about second-class mail matter_. Congressman Jim also informed me
that a delegation representing the publishing interests of Chicago had
arrived a few hours before and were scarcely on the ground before “things
began to happen.” “People talk about Chicagoans making a noise,” said Jim
in his L.-D. message, “but when it comes to doing things you can count on
them to go to it suddenly, squarely and effectively. That delegation is
one of the causes of the excitement which you notice here. Good-by.”
Friend Jim, being a Chicago boy, may be pardoned even when a little
profuse or over-confident in speaking of what his townsmen can do,
but Congressman Jim is a live-wire Congressman, and has been able to
do several things himself while on his legislative job, even against
stacked-up opposition.
While reporting on Congressman Jim’s message from Washington, I phoned
the leading features to the office and have just received peremptory
orders to write up not only this attempt but other attempts to raid the
postal revenues of the country by means of crooked riders and otherwise.
So there is nothing to do but go to it.
Incidentally, my editor, knowing my tendency to write with a club,
cautions me to adopt the dignified style of composition while writing
upon this subject. I assure my readers that I shall be as dignified as
the heritage of my nature will allow and the subject warrants. If I
occasionally fall from the expected dignified altitude I trust the reader
will be indulgent, will charge the fault, in part at least, to my remote
Alsatian ancestor. He fought with a club. I have therefore an inherited
tendency to write (fight), with a club. So here goes.
In opening on this important subject, for vastly important it is from
whatever angle one views it, I wish first to speak of the governmental
postoffice department and then of Postmaster Generals.
First I will say that this government has not had, at least within
the range of my mature recollection, any business management of its
postoffice department above the level of that given to Reuben’s country
store of Reubenville, Arkansas.
The second fact I desire to put forward is that since the days of
Benjamin Franklin there have been but few, a possible three or four,
Postmaster Generals who had any qualifications whatsoever, business
or other, to direct the management of so large a business as that
comprehended in the federal postal service. Not only are the chiefs,
the Postmaster Generals, largely or wholly lacking in business and
executive ability to manage so large an industrial and public service,
but their chosen assistants (Second, Third and on up to the Fourth or
Fifth “Assistant Postmaster Generals”), have been and _are_ likewise
lacking in most or _all_ of the essential qualifications fundamentally
necessary to the management and direction of large industrial or service
business enterprises. I venture to say that none of them have read, and
few of them even heard of, the splendid book written by Mr. Frederick
W. Taylor explaining, really giving the A, B, C of the “Science of
Business Management,” which for several years has been so beneficial in
the business and industrial methods in this country as almost to have
worked an economic revolution. I equally doubt if they have even read the
series of articles in one of the monthly periodicals, which Postmaster
General Hitchcock and his coterie of conspirators tried to stab in the
back with that Senate “rider” on the postoffice appropriation bill. Yet
Mr. Taylor wrote these articles, and Mr. Taylor must _know_ a great deal
about economic, scientific business management. _He must know_, otherwise
the Steel Corporation, the great packing concerns, several railroads,
the Yale and Towne Manufacturing Company, the Link Belt Company and
a number of other large concerns, as well as the trained editors of
several engineering and industrial journals, would not have so generally,
likewise profitably, adopted and approved his recommendations and
directions.
Yet while most of these “Assistant Postmaster Generals” and _their_
subassistants have been glaringly--yes, discouragingly--incompetent
to manage and direct the work of their divisions, some of them have
shown an elegance of aptitude, a finished adroitness in using their
official positions to misappropriate, _likewise to appropriate to their
own coffers_, the funds and revenues of the Postoffice Department.
Reference needs only to be made to the grace and deftness displayed by
August W. Machen, George W. Beavers and their copartners. The one was
Superintendent of Free Delivery, the other Superintendent of Salaries
and Allowances, and the way they, for several years, made the postoffice
funds and revenues “come across” beat any get-rich-quick concern about
forty rods in any mile heat that was reported in the sporting columns of
the daily press.
General Leonard Wood, Congressman Loud and a few other reputable
officials induced President Roosevelt to institute an investigation. The
investigation was made under the direction of Joseph L. Bristow. Then
things were uncovered; that is, some things were uncovered. In speaking
of the nastiness disclosed William Allen White in 1904 wrote, in part, as
follows:
“Most of the Congressmen knew there was something wrong in Beaver’s
department; and Beaver knew of their suspicions; so Congressmen generally
got from him what they _went after_, and the crookedness thrived.
“When it was stopped by President Roosevelt, this crookedness was so
far-reaching that when a citizen went to the postoffice to buy a stamp
the cash register which gave him his change was full of graft, the ink
used in canceling the stamp was full of graft, the pad which furnished
the ink was full of graft, the clock which kept the clerk’s time was
full of graft, the carrier’s satchel tie-straps, his shoulder straps, and
his badge were subject to illegal taxation, the money order blanks were
full of graft, the letter boxes on the street were fraudulently painted,
fraudulently fastened to the posts, fraudulently made, and equipped--many
of them with fraudulent time-indicators. Often the salaries of the clerks
were full of graft. And in the case of hundreds of thousands of swindling
letters and advertisements that were dropped in the box--they were full
of graft.”
We will now get down to the present Postmaster General, Mr. Frank H.
Hitchcock. I have read, and shall later print in this volume the Senate
“rider” to the postoffice department appropriation bill, which, so far
as The Man on the Ladder has been able to learn, Mr. Hitchcock either
wrote or “steered” in its writing. I have also read his series of letters
to Senator Penrose, Chairman of the Senate Committee on Postoffices and
Postroads; also his 1910 report. At this point I shall make my comment on
Postmaster General Hitchcock brief but, mayhap, somewhat pointed.
Most Postmaster Generals for the past thirty or more years have been
incompetent. There have been a few notable and worthy exceptions,
but their worthiness was almost completely lost in the department by
reason of previously planted corruption and political interference.
Most Postmaster Generals, as has been stated, have had little or no
qualification for the management and administration of so large a service
industry as that covered by the federal postoffice department.
Mr. Hitchcock, in his administration of the department, in his reports
and recent letters to the Senate and the House, has shown himself
scarcely up to the _average_ of his incompetent predecessors.
Mr. Hitchcock’s “rider” to the 1911 postoffice appropriation bill and
his recent letters to Senator Penrose and others will convince any
fair-minded, informed reader that he is either an “influenced” man or
is densely ignorant. I wish to make this point emphatic: The careless,
loose, hurried--yes, even silly--wording of that “rider” and the false
and foolish statements in his letters to Senator Penrose, relating to his
demand for an increase of three cents a pound on certain periodicals now
carried in the mails as second-class matter at one cent a pound, he to be
given authority to pick out and designate the periodicals which should be
subject to the increased rate--his false and foolish statements in that
“rider,” and in his recent letters, I say, must show to any intelligent
mind that Mr. Hitchcock is either an “influenced” man or a six-cylinder,
chain-tired, hill-climber of an ignoramus in | 1,135.680354 |
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Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer
THE GOLD BAG
By Carolyn Wells
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE CRIME IN WEST SEDGWICK
II. THE CRAWFORD HOUSE
III. THE CORONER'S JURY
IV. THE INQUEST
V. FLORENCE LLOYD
VI. THE GOLD BAG
VII. YELLOW ROSES
VIII. FURTHER INQUIRY
IX. THE TWELFTH ROSE
X. THE WILL
XI. LOUIS'S STORY
XII. LOUIS'S CONFESSION
XIII. MISS LLOYD'S CONFIDENCE
XIV. MR. PORTER'S VIEWS.
XV. THE PHOTOGRAPH EXPLAINED
XVI. A CALL ON MRS. PURVIS
XVII. THE OWNER OF THE GOLD BAG
XVIII. IN MR. GOODRICH'S OFFICE
XIX. THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN
XX. FLEMING STONE
XXI. THE DISCLOSURE
THE GOLD BAG
I. THE CRIME IN WEST SEDGWICK
Though a young detective, I am not entirely an inexperienced one, and
I have several fairly successful investigations to my credit on the
records of the Central Office.
The Chief said to me one day: "Burroughs, if there's a mystery to be
unravelled; I'd rather put it in your hands than to trust it to any
other man on the force.
"Because," he went on, "you go about it scientifically, and you
never jump at conclusions, or accept them, until they're indubitably
warranted."
I declared myself duly grateful for the Chief's kind words, but I was
secretly a bit chagrined. A detective's ambition is to be, considered
capable of jumping at conclusions, only the conclusions must always
prove to be correct ones.
But though I am an earnest and painstaking worker, though my habits are
methodical and systematic, and though I am indefatigably patient and
persevering, I can never make those brilliant deductions from seemingly
unimportant clues that Fleming Stone can. He holds that it is nothing
but observation and logical inference, but to me it is little short of
clairvoyance.
The smallest detail in the way of evidence immediately connotes in his
mind some important fact that is indisputable, but which would never
have occurred to me. I suppose this is largely a natural bent of his
brain, for I have not yet been able to achieve it, either by study or
experience.
Of course I can deduce some facts, and my colleagues often say I am
rather clever at it, but they don't know Fleming Stone as well as I
do, and don't realize that by comparison with his talent mine is
insignificant.
And so, it is both by way of entertainment, and in hope of learning from
him, that I am with him whenever possible, and often ask him to "deduce"
for me, even at risk of boring him, as, unless he is in the right mood,
my requests sometimes do.
I met him accidentally one morning when we both chanced to go into a
basement of the Metropolis Hotel in New York to have our shoes shined.
It was about half-past nine, and as I like to get to my office by ten
o'clock, I looked forward to a pleasant half-hour's chat with him. While
waiting our turn to get a chair, we stood talking, and, seeing a pair
of shoes standing on a table, evidently there to be cleaned, I said
banteringly:
"Now, I suppose, Stone, from looking at those shoes, you can deduce all
there is to know about the owner of them."
I remember that Sherlock Holmes wrote once, "From a drop of water, a
logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without
having seen or heard of one or the other," but when I heard Fleming
Stone's reply to my half-laughing challenge, I felt that he had outdone
the mythical logician. With a mild twinkle in his eye, but with a
perfectly grave face, he said slowly,
"Those shoes belong to a young man, five feet eight inches high. He does
not live in New York, but is here to visit his sweetheart. She lives in
Brooklyn, is five feet nine inches tall, and is deaf in her left ear.
They went to the theatre last night, and neither was in evening dress."
"Oh, pshaw!" said I, "as you are acquainted with this man, and know how
he spent last evening, your relation of the story doesn't interest me."
"I don't know him," Stone returned; "I've no idea what his name is,
I've never seen him, and except what I can read from these shoes I know
nothing about him."
I stared at him incredulously, as I always did when confronted by his
astonishing "deductions," and simply said,
"Tell this little Missourian all about it."
"It did sound well, reeled off like that, didn't it?" he observed,
chuckling more at my air of eager curiosity than at his own achievement.
"But it's absurdly easy, after all. He is a young man because his shoes
are in the very latest, extreme, not exclusive style. He is five feet
eight, because the size of his foot goes with that height of man, which,
by the way, is the height of nine out of ten men, any way. He doesn't
live in New York or he wouldn't be stopping at a hotel. Besides, he
would be down-town at this hour, attending to business."
"Unless he has freak business hours, as you and I do," I put in.
"Yes, that might be. But I still hold that he doesn't live in New York,
or he couldn't be staying at this Broadway hotel overnight, and sending
his shoes down to be shined at half-past nine in the morning. His
sweetheart is five feet nine, for that is the height of a tall girl.
I know she is tall, for she wears a long skirt. Short girls wear short
skirts, which make them look shorter still, and tall girls wear very
long skirts, which make them look taller."
"Why do they do that?" I inquired, greatly interested.
"I don't know. You'll have to ask that of some one wiser than I. But I
know it's a fact. A girl wouldn't be considered really tall if less than
five feet nine. So I know that's her height. She is his sweetheart, for
no man would go from New York to Brooklyn and bring a lady over here to
the theatre, and then take her home, and return to New York in the early
hours of the morning, if he were not in love with her. I know she lives
in Brooklyn, for the paper says there was a heavy shower there last
night, while I know no rain fell in New York. I know that they were out
in that rain, for her long skirt became muddy, and in turn muddied the
whole upper of his left shoe. The fact that only the left shoe is so
soiled proves that he walked only at her right side, showing that she
must be deaf in her left ear, or he would have walked part of the time
on that side. I know that they went to the theatre in New York, because
he is still sleeping at this hour, and has sent his boots down to be
cleaned, instead of coming down with them on his feet to be shined here.
If he had been merely calling on the girl in Brooklyn, he would have
been home early, for they do not sit up late in that borough. I know
they went to the theatre, instead of to the opera or a ball | 1,135.682012 |
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ONCE UPON A TIME AND OTHER CHILD-VERSES
By Mary E. Wilkins
Author Of "The Pot Of Gold," "Jane Field," "A New England Nun,"
"An Humble Romance," "Pembroke," Etc.
Illustrated By Etheldred B. Barry
Boston:
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.
1897
[Illustration: 0001]
[Illustration: 0004]
PREFACE
[Illustration: 9007]
|TRUSTING to the sweet charity of little folk
To find some grace, in spite of halting rhyme
And frequent telling, in these little tales,
I say again:--Now, once upon a time!
[Illustration: 0007]
ONCE UPON A TIME
|NOW, once upon a time, a nest of fairies
Was in a meadow 'neath a wild rose-
tree;
And, once upon a time, the violets clustered
So thick around it one could scarcely see;
And, once upon a time, a | 1,135.776988 |
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Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
STORIES BY FOREIGN AUTHORS
POLISH, GREEK, BELGIAN, HUNGARIAN
THE LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
THE PLAIN SISTER BY DEMETRIOS BIKELAS
THE MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS BY MAURICE MAETERLINCK
SAINT NICHOLAS EVE BY CAMILLE LEMONNIER
IN LOVE WITH THE CZARINA BY MAURICE JOKAI
THE LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL
BY
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
From "Yanko the Musician and other Stories." Translated by Jeremiah
Curtin. Published by Little, Brown & Co.
Copyright, 1893, by Little, Brown & Co.
CHAPTER I
On a time it happened that the light-house keeper in Aspinwall, not far
from Panama, disappeared without a trace. Since he disappeared during a
storm, it was supposed that the ill-fated man went to the very edge of
the small, rocky island on which the light-house stood, and was swept
out by a wave. This supposition seemed the more likely as his boat was
not found next day in its rocky niche. The place of light-house keeper
had become vacant. It was necessary to fill this place at the earliest
moment possible, since the light-house had no small significance for
the local movement as well as for vessels going from New York to
Panama. Mosquito Bay abounds in sandbars and banks. Among these
navigation, even in the daytime, is difficult; but at night, especially
with the fogs which are so frequent on those waters warmed by the sun
of the tropics, it is nearly impossible. The only guide at that time
for the numerous vessels is the light-house.
The task of finding a new keeper fell to the United States consul
living in Panama, and this task was no small one: first, because it was
absolutely necessary to find the man within twelve hours; second, the
man must be unusually conscientious,--it was not possible, of course,
to take the first comer at random; finally, there was an utter lack of
candidates. Life on a tower is uncommonly difficult, and by no means
enticing to people of the South, who love idleness and the freedom of a
vagrant life. That light-house keeper is almost a prisoner. He cannot
leave his rocky island except on Sundays. A boat from Aspinwall brings
him provisions and water once a day, and returns immediately; on the
whole island, one acre in area, there is no inhabitant. The keeper
lives in the light-house; he keeps it in order. During the day he gives
signals by displaying flags of various colors to indicate changes of
the barometer; in the evening he lights the lantern. This would be no
great labor were it not that to reach the lantern at the summit of the
tower he must pass over more than four hundred steep and very high
steps; sometimes he must make this journey repeatedly during the day.
In general, it is the life of a monk, and indeed more than that,--the
life of a hermit. It was not wonderful, therefore, that Mr. Isaac
Falconbridge was in no small anxiety as to where he should find a
permanent successor to the recent keeper; and it is easy to understand
his joy when a successor announced himself most unexpectedly on that
very day. He was a man already old, seventy years or more, but fresh,
erect, with the movements and bearing of a soldier. His hair was
perfectly white, his face as dark as that of a Creole; but, judging
from his blue eyes, he did not belong to a people of the South. His
face was somewhat downcast and sad, but honest. At the first glance he
pleased Falconbridge. It remained only to examine him. Therefore the
following conversation began:
"Where are you from?"
"I am a Pole."
"Where have you worked up to this time?"
"In one place and another."
"A light-house keeper should like to stay in one place."
"I need rest."
"Have you served? Have you testimonials of honorable government
service?"
The old man drew from his bosom a piece of faded silk resembling a
strip of an old flag, unwound it, and said:
"Here are the testimonials. I received this cross in 1830. This second
one is Spanish from the Carlist War; the third is the French legion;
the fourth I received in Hungary. Afterward I fought in the States
against the South; there they do not give crosses."
Falconbridge took the paper and began to read.
"H'm! Skavinski? Is that your name? H'm! Two flags captured in a
bayonet attack. You were a gallant soldier."
"I am able to be a conscientious light-house keeper."
"It is necessary to ascend the tower | 1,135.880318 |
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TALES FROM
THE TELLING-HOUSE
[Illustration:
TALES FROM THE
TELLING-HOUSE
BY
R. D. BLACKMORE
AUTHOR OF “LORNA DOONE,” ETC.
1. SLAIN BY THE DOONES
2. FRIDA; OR, THE LOVER’S LEAP
3. GEORGE BOWRING
4. CROCKER’S HOLE
LONDON
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY
LIMITED
St. Dunstan’s House
1896
]
PREFACE.
Sometimes of a night, when the spirit of a dream flits away for a waltz
with the shadow of a pen, over dreary moors and dark waters, I behold
an old man, with a keen profile, under a parson’s shovel hat, riding
a tall chestnut horse up the western <DW72> of Exmoor, followed by his
little grandson upon a shaggy and stuggy pony.
In the hazy folds of lower hills, some four or five miles behind them,
may be seen the ancient Parsonage, where the lawn is a russet sponge of
moss, and a stream tinkles under the dining-room floor, and the pious
rook, poised on the pulpit of his nest, reads a hoarse sermon to the
chimney-pots below. There is the home not of rooks alone, and parson,
and dogs that are scouring the moor; but also of the patches of hurry
we can see, and the bevies of bleating haste, converging by force of
men and dogs towards the final _rendezvous_, the autumnal muster of the
clans of wool.
For now the shrill piping of the northwest wind, and the browning
of furze and heather, and a scollop of snow upon Oare-oak Hill,
announce that the roving of soft green height, and the browsing of
sunny hollow, must be changed for the durance of hurdled quads, and
the monotonous munch of turnips. The joy of a scurry from the shadow
of a cloud, the glory of a rally with a hundred heads in line, the
pleasure of polishing a coign of rock, the bliss of beholding flat
nose, brown eyes, and fringy forehead, approaching round a corner for
a sheepish talk, these and every other jollity of freedom--what is
now become of them? Gone! Like a midsummer dream, or the vision of a
blue sky, pastured--to match the green hill--with white forms floating
peacefully; a sky, where no dog can be, much less a man, only the
fleeces of the gentle flock of heaven. Lackadaisy, and well-a-day! How
many of you will be woolly ghosts like them, before you are two months
older!
My grandfather knows what fine mutton is, though his grandson indites
of it by memory alone. “Ha, ha!” shouts the happier age, amid the
bleating turmoil, the yelping of dogs, and the sprawling of shepherds;
“John Fry, put your eye on that wether, the one with his J. B. upside
down, we’ll have a cut out of him on Sunday week, please God. Why, you
stupid fellow, you don’t even know a B yet! That is Farmer Passmore’s
mark you have got hold of. Two stomachs to a B; will you never
understand? Just look at what you’re doing! Here come James Bowden’s
and he has got a lot of ours! _Shep_ is getting stupid, and deaf as a
post. _Watch_ is worth ten of him. Good dog, good dog! You won’t let
your master be cheated. How many of ours, John Fry? Quick now! You can
tell, if you can’t read; and I can read quicker than I can tell.”
“Dree score, and vower Maister; ‘cardin’ to my rackonin’. Dree score
and zax it waz as us toorned out, zeventh of June, God knows it waz.
Wan us killed, long of harvest-taime; and wan tummled into bog-hole,
across yanner to Mole’s Chimmers.”
“But,” says the little chap on the shaggy pony, “John Fry, where are
the four that ought to have R. D. B. on them? You promised me, on the
blade of your knife, before I went to school again, that my two lambs
should have their children marked the same as they were.”
John turns redder than his own sheep’s-redding. He knows that he has
been caught out in a thumping lie, and although that happens to him
almost every day, his conscience has a pure complexion still. “’Twaz
along of the rains as wasshed ’un out.” In vain has he scratched his
head for a finer lie.
“Grandfather, you know that I had two lambs, and you let me put
R. D. B. on them with both my hands, after the shearing-time last year,
and I got six shillings for their wool the next time, and I gave it to
a boy who thrashed a boy that bullied me. And Aunt Mary Anne wrote to
tell me at school that my two lambs had increased two each, all of them
sheep; and there was sure to be a lot of money soon for me. And so I
went and promised it right and left, and how can I go back to school,
and be called a liar? You call this the _Telling-house_, because
people come here to tell their own sheep from their neighbours’, when
they fetch them home again. But I should say it was because they tell
such stories here. And if that is the reason, I know who can tell the
biggest ones.”
With the pride of a conscious author, he blushes, that rogue of a John
Fry blushes, wherever he has shaved within the last three weeks of his
false life.
“Never mind, my boy; story-telling never answers in the end,” says my
Grandfather--oh how could he thus foresee my fate? “Be sure you always
speak the truth.”
That advice have I followed always. And if I lost my four sheep then,
through the plagiarism of that bad fellow, by hook or crook I have
fetched four more out of the wilderness of the past; and I only wish
they were better mutton, for the pleasure of old friends who like a
simple English joint.
R.D.B.
_Old Christmas Day, 1896_
CONTENTS.
PAGE
SLAIN BY THE DOONES:
I. AFTER A STORMY LIFE, 1
II. BY A QUIET RIVER, 12
III. WISE COUNSEL, 22
IV. A COTTAGE HOSPITAL, 33
V. MISTAKEN AIMS, 43
VI. OVER THE BRIDGE, 55
FRIDA; OR, THE LOVER’S LEAP, 69
GEORGE BOWRING, 135
CROCKER’S HOLE, 203
SLAIN BY THE DOONES.
CHAPTER I.
AFTER A STORMY LIFE.
To hear people talking about North Devon, and the savage part called
Exmoor, you might almost think that there never was any place in the
world so beautiful, or any living men so wonderful. It is not my
intention to make little of them, for they would be the last to permit
it; neither do I feel ill will against them for the pangs they allowed
me to suffer; for I dare say they could not help themselves, being
so slow-blooded, and hard to stir even by their own egrimonies. But
when I look back upon the things that happened, and were for a full
generation of mankind accepted as the will of God, I say, that the
people who endured them must have been born to be ruled by the devil.
And in thinking thus I am not alone; for the very best judges of that
day stopped short of that end of the world, because the law would not
go any further. Nevertheless, every word is true of what I am going
to tell, and the stoutest writer of history cannot make less of it by
denial.
My father was Sylvester Ford of Quantock, in the county of Somerset,
a gentleman of large estate as well as ancient lineage. Also of high
courage and resolution not to be beaten, as he proved in his many
rides with Prince Rupert, and woe that I should say it! in his most
sad death. To this he was not looking forward much, though turned of
threescore years and five; and his only child and loving daughter,
Sylvia, which is myself, had never dreamed of losing him. For he
was exceeding fond of me, little as I deserved it, except by loving
him with all my heart and thinking nobody like him. And he without
anything to go upon, except that he was my father, held, as I have
often heard, as good an opinion of me.
Upon the triumph of that hard fanatic, the Brewer, who came to a
timely end by the justice of high Heaven--my father, being disgusted
with England as well as banished from her, and despoiled of all his
property, took service on the Continent, and wandered there for many
years, until the replacement of the throne. Thereupon he expected, as
many others did, to get his estates restored to him, and perhaps to be
held in high esteem at court, as he had a right to be. But this did
not so come to pass. Excellent words were granted him, and promise of
tenfold restitution; on the faith of which he returned to Paris, and
married a young Italian lady of good birth and high qualities, but with
nothing more to come to her. Then, to his great disappointment, he
found himself left to live upon air--which, however distinguished, is
not sufficient--and love, which, being fed so easily, expects all who
lodge with it to live upon itself.
My father was full of strong loyalty; and the king (in his value of
that sentiment) showed faith that it would support him. His majesty
took both my father’s hands, having learned that hearty style in
France, and welcomed him with most gracious warmth, and promised him
more than he could desire. But time went on, and the bright words
f | 1,135.881165 |
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THE
UNCONSTITUTIONALITY
OF
SLAVERY.
BY LYSANDER SPOONER.
BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY BELA MARSH,
NO. 25 CORNHILL.
1845.
ENTERED according to Act of Congress, in the year 1845, by LYSANDER
SPOONER, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.
DOW & JACKSON'S ANTI-SLAVERY PRESS.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.--WHAT IS LAW? PAGE 5
" II.--WRITTEN CONSTITUTIONS, 18
" III.--THE COLONIAL CHARTERS, 24
" IV.--COLONIAL STATUTES, 36
" V.--THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE, 42
" VI.--THE STATE CONSTITUTIONS OF 1789.
(MEANING OF THE WORD "FREE,") 46
" VII.--THE ARTICLES OF CONFEDERATION, 61
" VIII.--THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES, 65
" IX.--THE INTENTIONS OF THE CONVENTION, 135
" X.--THE PRACTICE OF THE GOVERNMENT, 145
" XI.--THE UNDERSTANDING OF THE PEOPLE, 147
" XII.--THE STATE CONSTITUTIONS OF 1845, 150
" XIII.--THE CHILDREN OF SLAVES ARE BORN FREE, 153
THE
UNCONSTITUTIONALITY OF SLAVERY.
CHAPTER I.
WHAT IS LAW?
Before examining the language of the Constitution, in regard to Slavery,
let us obtain a view of the principles, by virtue of which _law_ arises
out of those constitutions and compacts, by which people agree to
establish government.
To do this it is necessary to define the term _law_. Popular opinions
are very loose and indefinite, both as to the true definition of law,
and also as to the principle, by virtue of which law results from the
compacts or contracts of mankind with each other.
What then is LAW? That law, I mean, which, and which only, judicial
tribunals are morally bound, under all circumstances, to declare and
sustain?
In answering this question, I shall attempt to show that law is an
intelligible principle of right, necessarily resulting from the nature
of man; and not an arbitrary rule, that can be established by mere will,
numbers or power.
To determine whether this proposition be correct, we must look at the
_general_ signification of the term _law_.
The true and general meaning of it, is that _natural_, permanent,
unalterable principle, which governs any particular thing or class of
things. The principle is strictly a _natural_ one; and the term applies
to every _natural_ principle, whether mental, moral or physical. Thus
we speak of the laws of mind; meaning thereby those _natural_, universal
and necessary principles, according to which mind acts, or by which it
is governed. We speak too of the moral law; which is merely an universal
principle of moral obligation, that arises out of the nature of men, and
their relations to each other, and to other things--and is consequently
as unalterable as the nature of men. And it is solely because it is
unalterable in its nature, and universal in its application, that it is
denominated law. If it were changeable, partial or arbitrary, it would
be no law. Thus we speak of physical laws; of the laws, for instance,
that govern the solar system; of the laws of motion, the laws of
gravitation, the laws of light, &c., &c.--Also the laws that govern the
vegetable and animal kingdoms, in all their various departments: among
which laws may be named, for example, the one that like produces like.
Unless the operation of this principle were uniform, universal and
necessary, it would be no law.
Law, then, applied to any object or thing whatever, signifies a
_natural_, unalterable, universal principle, governing such object or
thing. Any rule, not existing in the nature of things, or that is not
permanent, universal and inflexible in its application, is no law,
according to any correct definition of the term law.
What, then, is that _natural_, universal, impartial and inflexible
principle, which, under all circumstances, _necessarily_ fixes,
determines, defines and governs the civil rights of men? Those rights of
person, property, &c., which one human being has, as against other human
beings?
I shall define it to be simply _the rule, principle, obligation or
requirement of natural justice_.
This rule, principle, obligation or requirement of natural justice, has
its origin in the natural rights of individuals, results necessarily
from them, keeps them ever in view as its end and purpose, secures their
enjoyment, and forbids their violation. It also secures all those
acquisitions of property, privilege and claim, which men have a
_natural_ right to make by labor and contract.
Such is the true meaning of the term law, as applied to the civil rights
of men. And I doubt if any other definition of law can be given, that
will prove correct in every, or necessarily in any possible case. The
very idea of law originates in men's natural rights. There is no other
standard, than natural rights, by which civil law can be measured. Law
has always been the name of that rule or principle of justice, which
protects those rights. Thus we speak of _natural law_. Natural law, in
fact, constitutes the great body of the law that is _professedly_
administered by judicial tribunals: and it always necessarily must
be--for it is impossible to anticipate a thousandth part of the cases
that arise, so as to enact a special law for them. Wherever the cases
have not been thus anticipated, the natural law prevails. We thus
politically and judicially _recognize_ the principle of law as
originating in the nature and rights of men. By recognizing it as
originating in the nature of men, we recognize it as a principle, that
is necessarily as immutable, and as indestructible as the nature of man.
We also, in the same way, recognize the impartiality and universality of
its application.
If, then, law be a natural principle--one necessarily resulting from the
very nature of man, and capable of being destroyed or changed only by
destroying or changing the nature of man--it necessarily follows that it
must be of higher and more inflexible obligation than any other rule of
conduct, which the arbitrary will of any man, or combination of men, may
attempt to establish. Certainly no rule can be of such high, universal
and inflexible obligation, as that, which, if observed, secures the
rights, the safety and liberty of all.
Natural law, then, is the paramount law. And, being the paramount law,
it is necessarily the only law: for, being applicable to every possible
case that can arise touching the rights of men, any other principle or
rule, that should arbitrarily be applied to those rights, would
necessarily conflict with it. And, as a merely arbitrary, partial and
temporary rule must, of necessity, be of less obligation than a natural,
permanent, equal and universal one, the arbitrary one becomes, in
reality, of no obligation at all, when the two come in collision.
Consequently there is, and can be, correctly speaking, _no law but
natural law_. There is no other principle or rule, applicable to the
rights of men, that is obligatory in comparison with this, in any case
whatever. And this natural law is no other than that rule of natural
justice, which results either directly from men's natural rights, or
from such acquisitions as they have a _natural_ right to make, or from
such contracts as they have a _natural_ right to enter into.
Natural law recognizes the validity of all contracts which men have a
_natural_ right to make, and which justice requires to be fulfilled:
such, for example, as contracts that render equivalent for equivalent,
and are at the same time consistent with morality, the natural rights of
men, and those rights of property, privilege, &c., which men have a
natural right to acquire by labor and contract.
Natural law, therefore, inasmuch as it recognizes the natural right of
men to enter into obligatory contracts, permits the formation of
government, founded on contract, as all our governments profess to be.
But in order that the contract of government may be valid and lawful, it
must purport to authorize nothing inconsistent with natural justice, and
men's natural rights. It cannot lawfully authorize government to destroy
or take from men their natural rights: for natural rights are
inalienable, and can no more be surrendered to government--which is but
an association of individuals--than to a single individual. They are a
necessary attribute of man's nature; and he can no more part with
them--to government or any body else--than with his nature itself. But
the contract of government may lawfully authorize the adoption of
means--not inconsistent with natural justice--for the better protection
of men's natural rights. And this is the legitimate and true object of
government. And rules and statutes, not inconsistent with natural
justice and men's natural rights, if enacted by such government, are
binding, on the ground of contract, upon those who are parties to the
contract, which creates the government, and authorizes it to pass rules
and statutes to carry out its objects.[1]
But natural law tries the contract of government, and declares it lawful
or unlawful, obligatory or invalid, by the same rules by which it tries
all other contracts between man and man. A contract for the
establishment of government, being nothing but a voluntary contract
between individuals for their mutual benefit, differs, in nothing that
is essential to its validity, from any other contract between man and
man, or between nation and nation. If two individuals enter into a
contract to commit trespass, theft, robbery or murder upon a third, the
contract is unlawful and void, simply because it is a contract to
violate natural justice, or men's natural rights. If two nations enter
into a treaty, that they will unite in plundering, enslaving or
destroying a third, the treaty is unlawful, void, and of no obligation,
simply because it is contrary to justice and men's natural rights. On
the same principle, if the majority, however large, of the people of a
country, enter into a contract of government, called a constitution, by
which they agree to aid, abet or accomplish any kind of injustice, or to
destroy or invade the natural rights of any person or persons
whatsoever, whether such persons be parties to the compact or not, this
contract of government is unlawful and void--and for the same reason
that a treaty between two nations for a similar purpose, or a contract
of the same nature between two individuals, is unlawful and void. Such a
contract of government has no moral sanction. It confers no rightful
authority upon those appointed to administer it. It confers no legal or
moral rights, and imposes no legal or moral obligation upon the people
who are parties to it. The only duties, which any one can owe to it, or
to the government established under color of its authority, are
disobedience, resistance, destruction.
Judicial tribunals, sitting under the authority of this unlawful
contract or constitution, are bound, equally with other men, to declare
it, and all unjust enactments passed by the government in pursuance of
it, unlawful and void. These judicial tribunals cannot, by accepting
office under a government, rid themselves of that paramount obligation,
that all men are under, to declare, if they declare any thing, that
justice is law; that government can have no lawful powers, except those
with which it has been invested by lawful contract; and that an unlawful
contract for the establishment of government, is as unlawful and void as
any other contract to do injustice.
No oaths, which judicial or other officers may take, to carry out and
support an unlawful contract or constitution of government, are of any
moral obligation. It is immoral to take such oaths, and it is criminal
to fulfil them. They are, both in morals and law, like the oaths which
individual pirates, thieves and bandits give to their confederates, as
an assurance of their fidelity to the purposes for which they are
associated. No man has any moral right to assume such oaths; they impose
no obligation upon those who do assume them; they afford no moral
justification for official acts, in themselves unjust, done in pursuance
of them.
If these doctrines are correct, then those contracts of government,
state and national, which we call constitutions, are void, and unlawful,
so far as they purport to authorize, (if any of them do authorize,) any
thing in violation of natural justice, or the natural rights of any man
or class of men whatsoever. And all judicial tribunals are bound, by the
highest obligations that can rest upon them, to declare that these
contracts, in all such particulars, (if any such there be,) are void,
and not law. And all agents, legislative, executive, judicial and
popular, who voluntarily lend their aid to the execution of any of the
unlawful purposes of the government, are as much personally guilty,
according to all the moral and legal principles, by which crime, in its
essential character, is measured, as though they performed the same acts
independently, and of their own volition.
Such is the true character and definition of law. Yet, instead of being
allowed to signify, as it in reality does, that natural, universal and
inflexible principle, which has its origin in the nature of man, keeps
pace every where with the rights of man, as their shield and protector,
binds alike governments and men, weighs by the same standard the acts of
communities and individuals, and is paramount in its obligation to any
other requirement which can be imposed upon men--instead, I say, of the
term law being allowed to signify, as it really does, this immutable and
overruling principle of natural justice it has come to be applied to
mere arbitrary rules of conduct, prescribed by individuals, or
combinations of individuals, self-styled governments, who have no other
title to the prerogative of establishing such rules, than is given them
by the possession or command of sufficient physical power to coerce
submission to them.
The injustice of these rules, however palpable and atrocious it may be,
has not deterred their authors from dignifying them with the name of
_law_. And, what is much more to be deplored, such has been the
superstition of the people, and such their blind veneration for physical
power, that this injustice has not opened their | 1,135.983621 |
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Transcriber’s Note:
###################
This e-text is based on the 1908 edition of the book. Minor
punctuation errors have been tacitly corrected. Inconsistencies
in hyphenation and spelling, such as ‘ale-house’/‘alehouse’ and
‘Mary Wilcocks’/‘Mary Willcocks,’ have been retained. The asterism
symbols in the book catalogue at the end of this text have been
inverted for presentation on electronic media.
The following passage has been corrected:
# p. 126: ‘1852’ → ‘1825’
# p. 685: ‘fro mthe’ → ‘from the’
Italic text has been symbolised by underscores (_italic_); forward
slashes represent small caps (/small caps/). Caret symbols (^)
signify superscript characters; multiple characters have been
grouped inside curly braces: ^{superscript}.
DEVONSHIRE CHARACTERS
AND STRANGE EVENTS
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
YORKSHIRE ODDITIES
TRAGEDY OF THE CÆSARS
CURIOUS MYTHS
LIVES OF THE SAINTS
ETC. ETC.
[Illustration:
_G. Clint, A.R.A., pinxt._ _Thos. Lupton. sculpt._
MARIA FOOTE, AFTERWARDS COUNTESS OF HARRINGTON, AS MARIA DARLINGTON IN
THE FARCE OF “A ROWLAND FOR AN OLIVER” (1824)]
DEVONSHIRE
CHARACTERS
AND STRANGE EVENTS
BY S. BARING-GOULD, /M.A./
WITH 55 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
REPRODUCED FROM OLD PRINTS, ETC.
O Jupiter!
Hanccine vitam? hoscine mores? hanc dementiam?
/Terence/, _Adelphi_ (Act IV).
LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMVIII
PLYMOUTH: WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LIMITED, PRINTERS
PREFACE
In treating of Devonshire Characters, I have had to put aside the chief
Worthies and those Devonians famous in history, as George Duke of
Albemarle, Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Drake, Sir Joshua Reynolds,
the Coleridges, Sir Stafford Northcote, first Earl of Iddesleigh, and
many another; and to content myself with those who lie on a lower
plane. So also I have had to set aside several remarkable characters,
whose lives I have given elsewhere, as the Herrings of Langstone (whom
I have called Grym or Grymstone) and Madame Drake, George Spurle the
Post-boy, etc. Also I have had to pretermit several great rascals,
as Thomas Gray and Nicholas Horner. But even so, I find an _embarras
de richesses_, and have had to content myself with such as have had
careers of some general interest. Moreover, it has not been possible to
say all that might have been said relative to these, so as to economize
space, and afford room for others.
So also, with regard to strange incidents, some limitation has been
necessary, and such have been selected as are less generally known.
I have to thank the kind help of many Devonshire friends for the
loan of rare pamphlets, portraits, or for information not otherwise
acquirable--as the Earl of Iddesleigh, Lady Rosamond Christie, Mrs.
Chichester of Hall, Mrs. Ford of Pencarrow, Dr. Linnington Ash, Dr.
Brushfield, Capt. Pentecost, Miss M. P. Willcocks, Mr. Andrew Iredale,
Mr. W. H. K. Wright, Mr. A. B. Collier, Mr. Charles T. Harbeck, Mr.
H. Tapley Soper, Miss Lega-Weekes, who has contributed the article
on Richard Weekes; Mrs. G. Radford, Mr. R. Pearse Chope, Mr. Rennie
Manderson, Mr. M. Bawden, the Rev. J. B. Wollocombe, the Rev. W. H.
Thornton, Mr. A. M. Broadley, Mr. Samuel Gillespie Prout, Mr. S. H.
Slade, Mr. W. Fleming, Mrs. A. H. Wilson, Fleet-Surgeon Lloyd Thomas,
the Rev. W. T. Wellacott, Mr. S. Raby, Mr. Samuel Harper, Mr. John
Avery, Mr. Thomas Wainwright, Mr. A. F. Steuart, Mr. S. T. Whiteford,
and last, but not least, Mr. John Lane, the publisher of this volume,
who has taken the liveliest interest in its production.
Also to Messrs. Macmillan for kindly allowing the use of an engraving
of Newcomen’s steam engine, and to Messrs. Vinton & Co. for allowing
the use of the portrait of the Rev. John Russell that appeared in
_Bailey’s Magazine_.
I am likewise indebted to Miss M. Windeatt Roberts for having
undertaken to prepare the exhaustive Index, and to Mr. J. G. Commin for
placing at my disposal many rare illustrations.
For myself I may say that it has been a labour of love to grope among
the characters and incidents of the past in my own county, and with
Cordatus, in the Introduction to Ben Jonson’s _Every Man out of his
Humour_, I may say that it has been “a work that hath bounteously
pleased me; how it will answer the general expectation, I know not.”
* * * * *
I am desired by my publisher to state that he will be glad to
receive any information as to the whereabouts of pictures by another
“Devonshire Character,” James Gandy, born at Exeter in 1619, and a
pupil of Vandyck. He was retained in the service of the Duke of Ormond,
whom he accompanied to Ireland, where he died in 1689. It is said that
his chief works will be found in that country and the West of England.
Jackson of Exeter, in his volume _The Four Ages_, says: “About the
beginning of the eighteenth century was a painter in Exeter called
Gandy, of whose colouring Sir Joshua Reynolds thought highly. I heard
him say that on his return from Italy, when he was fresh from seeing
the pictures of the Venetian school, he again looked at the works of
Gandy, and that they had lost nothing in his estimation. There are many
pictures of this artist in Exeter and its neighbourhood. The portrait
Sir Joshua seemed most to value is in the Hall belonging to the College
of Vicars in that city, but I have seen some very much superior to it.”
Since then, however, the original picture has been taken from the
College of Vicars, and has been lost; but a copy, I believe, is still
exhibited there, and no one seems to know what has become of the
original.
Not only is Mr. Lane anxious to trace this picture, but any others in
Devon or Ireland, as also letters, documents, or references to this
artist and his work.
CONTENTS
PAGE
/Hugh Stafford and the Royal Wilding/ 1
/The Alphington Ponies/ 16
/Maria Foote/ 21
/Caraboo/ 35
/John Arscott, of Tetcott/ 47
/Wife-sales/ 58
/White Witches/ 70
/Manly Peeke/ 84
/Eulalia Page/ 95
/James Wyatt/ 107
/The Rev. W. Davy/ 123
/The Grey Woman/ 128
/Robert Lyde and the “Friend’s Adventure”/ 136
/Joseph Pitts/ 152
/The Demon of Spreyton/ 170
/Tom Austin/ 175
/Frances Flood/ 177
/Sir William Hankford/ 181
/Sir John Fitz/ 185
/Lady Howard/ 194
/The Bidlakes, of Bidlake/ 212
/The Pirates of Lundy/ 224
/Tom D’Urfey/ 238
/The Bird of the Oxenhams/ 248
/“Lusty” Stucley/ 262
/The Bideford Witches/ 274
/Sir “Judas” Stukeley/ 278
/The Sampford Ghost/ 286
/Philippa Cary and Anne Evans/ 292
/Jack Rattenbury/ 301
/John Barnes, Taverner and Highwayman/ 320
/Edward Capern/ 325
/George Medyett Goodridge/ 332
/John Davy/ 351
/Richard Parker, the Mutineer/ 355
/Benjamin Kennicott/, /D.D./ 369
/Captain John Avery/ 375
/Joanna Southcott/ 390
/The Stoke Resurrectionists/ 405
/“The Beggars’ Opera” and Gay’s Chair/ 414
/Bampfylde-Moore Carew/ 425
/William Gifford/ 436
/Benjamin R. Haydon/ 457
/John Cooke/ 478
/Savery and Newcomen, Inventors/ 487
/Andrew Brice, Printer/ 502
/Devonshire Wrestlers/ 514
/Two Hunting Parsons/ 529
/Samuel Prout/ 564
/Fontelautus/ 581
/William Lang, of Bradworthy/ 594
/William Cookworthy/ 600
/William Jackson, Organist/ 608
/John Dunning, First Lord Ashburton/ 618
/Governor Shortland and the Princetown Massacre/ 633
/Captain John Palk/ 700
/Richard Weekes, Gentleman at Arms and Prisoner in the Fleet/ 709
/Steer Nor’-West/ 718
/George Peele/ 726
/Peter Pindar/ 737
/Dr. J. W. Budd/ 754
/Rear-Admiral Sir Edward Chichester, Bart./ 772
ILLUSTRATIONS
/Maria Foote, afterwards Countess of
Harrington/ _Frontispiece_
From an engraving by Thomas Lupton, after a picture by
G. Clint, /A.R.A./
to face page
/Hugh Stafford/ 2
From the original painting in the collection of the
Earl of Iddesleigh
/The Roasted Exciseman, or the Jack Boot’s Exit/ 4
From an old print
/The Tyburn Interview: a New Song/ 8
By a Cyder Merchant, of South-Ham, Devonshire.
Dedicated to Jack Ketch
/The Misses Durnford. The Alphington Ponies/ 16
From a lithograph
/The Misses Durnford. The Alphington Ponies/
(Back View) 18
Lithographed by P. Gauci. Pub. Ed. Cockrem
/Maria Foote, afterwards Countess of Harrington/ 22
From an engraved portrait in the collection of A. M.
Broadley, Esq.
/Caraboo, Princess of Javasu,/ _alias_ /Mary Baker/ 36
From an engraving by Henry Meyer, after a picture by E.
Bird
/Mary Wilcocks, of Witheridge, Devonshire,/ _alias_
/Caraboo/ 44
Drawn and engraved by N. Branwhite
/Arscott of Tetcott/ 48
From the picture by J. Northcote, /R.A./
/Old Tetcott House/ 54
/Mariann Voaden, Bratton/ 74
/Mariann Voaden’s Cottage, Bratton/ 74
/A Village “Wise Man”/ 78
/Manly Peeke in his Encounter with Three Adversaries
Armed with Rapiers and Poignards/ 90
/James Wyat/, /ÆTAT./ 40 108
Reproduced from the frontispiece to _The Life and
Surprizing Adventures of James Wyatt, Written by
Himself_, 1755
/Rev. W. Davy/ 124
From an engraving by R. Cooper, after a picture by Wm.
Sharland
/Slanning’s Oak/ 188
From an oil painting by A. B. Collier, 1855
/Frontispiece to “The Bloudie Booke; or the Tragical
End of Sir John Fitz”/ 192
/Lady Howard/ 194
/Bidlake/ 212
/Thomas D’Urfey/ 238
From an engraving by G. Virtue, after a picture by E.
Gouge
/Frontispiece to “A True Relation of an Apparition,”
etc., by James Oxenham/ 248
/John Rattenbury, of Beer, Devonshire, “The Rob Roy of
the West”/ 302
From a lithograph
/Edward Capern, the Postman-Poet of Devonshire/ 326
From a painting by William Widgery, in the Free
Library, Bideford
/Charles Medyett Goodridge in his Seal-skin Dress/ 332
/Richard Parker/ 356
From a drawing by Bailey
/B. Kennicott/, /S.T.P./ 370
From the portrait at Exeter College, Oxford
/Captain Avery and his Crew taking one of the Great
Mogul’s Ships/ 376
From a drawing by Wm. Jeit
/Joanna Southcott/ 390
Drawn from life by Wm. Sharp
/Silver Pap-boat prepared for the Coming of Shiloh,
presented to Joanna Southcott in June, 1814/ 402
From the original in the collection of A. M. Broadley,
Esq.
/Crib presented to Joanna Southcott in anticipation
of the Birth of the Shiloh by Believers in her Divine
Mission as “A Goodwill Offering by Faith to the
Promised Seed”/ 402
Reproduced from the original print in the collection of
A. M. Broadley, Esq.
/Mr. Gay/ 414
From an old print
/The Grammar School, Barnstaple, where Gay was
Educated/ 416
/Gay’s Chair/ 422
/Bampfylde Moore Carew, “King of the Beggars”/ 426
From an engraving by Maddocks
/W. Gifford/ 436
From an engraving by R. H. Cromek, after a picture by
I. Hoppner, /R.A./
/B. R. Haydon/ 458
From a drawing by David Wilkie
/Captain Cooke, 1824, aged 58/ 478
Drawn, from nature, on the stone by N. Whittock
/The Noted John Cooke of Exeter, Captain of the
Sheriff’s Troop at Seventy-four Assizes for the County
of Devon/ 482
From a lithograph by Geo. Rowe
/Thomas Savery/ 488
/Sketch of Newcomen’s House, Lower Street, Dartmouth,
before it was demolished/ 494
/The Chimney-piece at which Newcomen sat when he
Invented the Steam Engine/ 494
/The Steam Engine, near Dudley Castle./ Invented by
Capt. Savery and Mr. Newcomen. Erected by y^e later,
1712 496
From a drawing by Barney. Reproduced by kind permission
of Messrs. Macmillan & Co.
/Andrew Brice, Printer/ 502
Reproduced by kind permission from a print in the
possession of Dr. Brushfield
/The Wrestling Champion of England, Abraham Cann/ 518
From a drawing
/Rev. John Russell/ 530
Reproduced by permission of the Editor of _Bailey’s
Magazine_
/The Rev. John Russell’s Port-wine Glass, Chamberlain
Worcester Breakfast Service, and Barometer/ 558
Purchased at the sale of his effects in 1883 by Mrs.
Arnull and presented by her to Mr. John Lane, in whose
possession they now are
/Samuel Prout/ 564
From a drawing in the possession of Samuel Gillespie
Prout, Esq.
/William Cookworthy of Plymouth/ 600
From the original portrait by Opie in the possession of
Edward Harrison, Esq., of Watford
/Mr. Jackson, the Celebrated Composer/ 608
From an engraving after J. Walker
/Lord Ashburton/ 618
From an engraving by F. Bartolozzi, after a picture by
Sir Joshua Reynolds
/Horrid Massacre at Dartmoor Prison, England/ 648
From an old print
/Plan of Dartmoor Prison/ 650
/North Wyke/ 710
/Dr. Wolcot/ 738
/Dr. John W. Budd/ 754
From a photograph by his brother Dr. Richard Budd, of
Barnstaple
/Rear-Admiral Sir Edward Chichester, Bart./ 772
DEVONSHIRE CHARACTERS AND STRANGE EVENTS
HUGH STAFFORD AND THE ROYAL WILDING
Hugh Stafford, Esq., of Pynes, born 1674, was the last of the Staffords
of Pynes. His daughter, Bridget Maria, carried the estate to her
husband, Sir Henry Northcote, Bart., from whom is descended the present
Earl of Iddesleigh. Hugh Stafford died in 1734. He is noted as an
enthusiastic apple-grower and lover of cyder.
He wrote a “Dissertation on Cyder and Cyder-Fruit” in a letter to a
friend in 1727, but this was not published till 1753, and a second
edition in 1769. The family of Stafford was originally Stowford, of
Stowford, in the parish of Dolton. The name changed to Stoford and
then to Stafford. One branch married into the family of Wollocombe,
of Wollocombe. But the name of Stowford or Stafford was not the most
ancient designation of the family, which was Kelloway, and bore as its
arms four pears. The last Stafford turned from pears to apples, to
which he devoted his attention and became a connoisseur not in apples
only, but in the qualities of cyder as already intimated.
To a branch of this family belonged Sir John Stowford, Lord Chief Baron
in the reign of Edward III, who built Pilton Bridge over the little
stream of the Yeo or Yaw, up which the tide flows, and over which the
passage was occasionally dangerous. The story goes that the judge one
day saw a poor market woman with her child on a mudbank in the stream
crying for aid, which none could afford her, caught and drowned by the
rising flood, whereupon he vowed to build the bridge to prevent further
accident. The rhyme ran:--
Yet Barnstaple, graced though thou be by brackish Taw,
In all thy glory see that thou not forget the little Yaw.
Camden asserts that Judge Stowford also constructed the long bridge
over the Taw consisting of sixteen piers. Tradition will have it,
however, that towards the building of this latter two spinster ladies
(sisters) contributed by the profits of their distaffs and the pennies
they earned by keeping a little school.
I was travelling on the South Devon line some years ago after there
had been a Church Congress at Plymouth, and in the same carriage with
me were some London reporters. Said one of these gentry to another:
“Did you ever see anything like Devonshire parsons and pious ladies?
They were munching apples all the time that the speeches were being
made. Honour was being done to the admirable fruit by these worthy
Devonians. I was dotting down my notes during an eloquent harangue on
‘How to Bring Religion to Bear upon the People’ when chump, chump went
a parson on my left; and the snapping of jaws on apples, rending off
shreds for mastication, punctuated the periods of a bishop who spoke
next. At an ensuing meeting on the ‘Deepening of Personal Religion’
my neighbour was munching a Cornish gilliflower, which he informed me
in taste and aroma surpassed every other apple. I asked in a low tone
whether Devonshire people did not peel their fruit before eating. He
answered _leni susurro_ that the flavour was in the rind.”
[Illustration: HUGH STAFFORD
_From the original painting in the collection of the Earl of
Iddesleigh_]
Cyder was anciently the main drink of the country people in the West of
England. Every old farmhouse had its granite trough (circular) in which
rolled a stone wheel that pounded the fruit to a “pummice,” and the
juice flowed away through a lip into a keeve. Now, neglected and cast
aside, may be seen the huge masses of stone with an iron crook fastened
in them, which in the earliest stage of cyder-making were employed for
pressing the fruit into pummice. But these weights were superseded by
the screw-press that extracted more of the juice.
In 1763 Lord Bute, the Prime Minister, imposed a tax of 10s. per
hogshead on cyder and perry, to be paid by the first buyer. The
country gentlemen, without reference to party, were violent in their
opposition, and Bute then condescended to reduce the sum and the mode
of levying it, proposing 4s. per hogshead, to be paid, not by the first
buyer, but by the grower, who was to be made liable to the regulations
of the excise and the domiciliary visits of excisemen. Pitt thundered
against this cyder Bill, inveighing against the intrusion of excise
officers into private dwellings, quoting the old proud maxim, that
every Englishman’s house was his castle, and showing the hardship
of rendering every country gentleman, every individual that owned a
few fruit trees and made a little cyder, liable to have his premises
invaded by officers. The City of London petitioned the Commons, the
Lords, the throne, against the Bill; in the House of Lords forty-nine
peers divided against the Minister; the cities of Exeter and Worcester,
the counties of Devonshire and Herefordshire, more nearly concerned in
the question about cyder than the City of London, followed the example
of the capital, and implored their representatives to resist the tax
to the utmost; and an indignant and general threat was made that the
apples should be suffered to fall and rot under the trees rather than
be made into cyder, subject to such a duty and such annoyances. No
fiscal question had raised such a tempest since Sir Robert Walpole’s
Excise Bill in 1733. But Walpole, in the plenitude of his power and
abilities, and with wondrous resources at command, was constrained to
bow to the storm he had roused, and to shelve his scheme. Bute, on
the other hand, with a power that lasted but a day, with a position
already undermined, with slender abilities and no resources, but with
Scotch stubbornness, was resolved that his Bill should pass. And it
passed, with all its imperfections; and although there were different
sorts of cyder, varying in price from 5s. to 50s. per hogshead, they
were all taxed alike--the poor man having thus to pay as heavy a duty
for his thin beverage as the affluent man paid for the choicest kind.
The agitation against Lord Bute grew. In some rural districts he was
burnt under the effigy of a _jack-boot_, a rustic allusion to his name
(Bute); and on more than one occasion when he walked the streets he was
accused of being surrounded by prize-fighters to protect him against
the violence of the mob. Numerous squibs, caricatures, and pamphlets
appeared. He was represented as hung on the gallows above a fire, in
which a jack-boot fed the flames and a farmer was throwing an excised
cyder-barrel into the conflagration, whilst a Scotchman, in Highland
costume, in the background, commented, “It’s aw over with us now, and
aw our aspiring hopes are gone”; whilst an English mob advanced waving
the banners of Magna Charta, and “Liberty, Property, and No Excise.”
[Illustration: The ROASTED EXCISEMAN | 1,135.983751 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
[Transcriber’s Note:
Italicized text delimited by underscores.
This project uses utf-8 encoded characters. If some characters are not
readable, check your settings of your browser to ensure you have a
default font installed that can display utf-8 characters.]
WHAT THE WHITE RACE MAY
LEARN FROM THE INDIAN
BOOKS BY GEORGE WHARTON JAMES
What the White Race May Learn from the Indian.
In and Around the Grand Canyon.
Indians of the Painted Desert Region.
In and Out of the Old Missions of California.
The Wonders of the Colorado Desert.
The Story of Scraggles.
Indian Basketry.
How to Make Indian and Other Baskets.
Travelers’ Handbook to Southern California.
The Beacon Light.
[Illustration: GROUP OF HOPI MAIDENS AND AN OLD MAN AT MASHONGANAVI.]
What the White Race May
Learn from the Indian
BY
GEORGE WHARTON JAMES
AUTHOR OF “IN AND AROUND THE GRAND CANYON,” “INDIAN BASKETRY,” “HOW
TO MAKE INDIAN AND OTHER BASKETS,” “PRACTICAL BASKET MAKING,”
“THE INDIANS OF THE PAINTED DESERT REGION,” “TRAVELERS’ HANDBOOK
TO SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA,” “IN AND OUT OF THE OLD
MISSIONS OF CALIFORNIA,” “THE STORY OF SCRAGGLES,”
“THE WONDERS OF THE COLORADO DESERT,” “THROUGH
RAMONA’S COUNTRY,” “LIVING THE RADIANT
LIFE,” “THE BEACON LIGHT,” ETC.
[Illustration]
CHICAGO
FORBES & COMPANY
1908
COPYRIGHT, 1908
BY
EDITH E. FARNSWORTH
The Lakeside Press
R. R. DONNELLEY & SONS COMPANY
CHICAGO
[Illustration: WHAT THE WHITE RACE MAY LEARN FROM THE INDIAN]
FOREWORD
I would not have it thought that I commend indiscriminately everything
that the Indian does and is. There are scores of things about the
Indian that are reprehensible and to be avoided. Most Indians smoke,
and to me the habit is a vile and nauseating one. Indians often wear
filthy clothes. They are often coarse in their acts, words, and their
humor. Some of their habits are repulsive. I have seen Indian boys
and men maltreat helpless animals until my blood has boiled with an
indignation I could not suppress, and I have taken the animals away
from them. They are generally vindictive and relentless in pursuit of
their enemies. They often content themselves with impure and filthy
water when a little careful labor would give them a supply of fairly
good water.
Indeed, in numerous things and ways I have personally seen the Indian
is not to be commended, but condemned, and his methods of life avoided.
But because of this, I do not close my eyes to the many good things
of his life. My reason is useless to me unless | 1,136.079133 |
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Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This book was produced from images made available by the
HathiTrust Digital Library.)
Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
VOLUME I, No. 10. OCTOBER, 1911
THE REVIEW
A MONTHLY PERIODICAL, PUBLISHED BY THE NATIONAL PRISONERS’ AID
ASSOCIATION AT 135 EAST 15th STREET, NEW YORK CITY.
TEN CENTS A COPY. ONE DOLLAR A YEAR
T. F. Carver, President.
Wm. F. French, Vice President.
O. F. Lewis, Secretary, Treasurer and Editor Review.
Edward Fielding, Chairman Ex. Committee.
F. Emory Lyon, Member Ex. Committee.
W. G. McClaren, Member Ex. Committee.
A. H. Votaw, Member Ex. Committee.
E. A. Fredenhagen, Member Ex. Committee.
Joseph P. Byers, Member Ex. Committee.
R. B. McCord, Member Ex. Committee.
SOME PRISON PROBLEMS
[At the recent meeting of the American Prison Association, Frank L.
Randall, Superintendent of the Minnesota State reformatory at St.
Cloud, read as chairman the report of the committee on reformatory work
and parole, from which we print the following extracts.]
To the chief executive officers of penal and correctional institutions
in the United States and Canada was submitted the following question:
“To what extent do you recognize mental inadequacy and constitutional
inferiority among the persons in your charge?”
The estimates are various. Among prisons for adults they range from
3 persons out of 240 in Wyoming, to 10 per cent. in Nebraska and
Philadelphia, 20 per cent. in Rhode Island, 25 per cent. in Vermont, 30
per cent. in Indiana, 30 per cent. to 40 per cent. in Wisconsin, fully
50 per cent. in Kansas, 60 per cent. in West Virginia, 50 per cent. to
75 per cent. in Minnesota, and a still higher percentage of prisoners
lacking in energy, mentally or physically, in one Michigan prison.
Major McClaughry, and Warden Wood of Virginia, wrote that they could
not answer the question.
From state reformatories came estimates covering a range from 25 per
cent. to 40 per cent. only in Iowa, Washington, Kansas, and New York
(Elmira). The writer, regretting his inability to report more exactly,
because the work in his institution has not been completed, feels
safe in concurring in the general approximations cited by reformatory
superintendents.
From the New York reformatory for women at Bedford Hills we have the
following: “Realizing that a large percentage are subnormal, July 1,
1911, we employed a trained psychologist who will make it a year’s
study.” From juvenile institutions the returns are neither more
hopeful, nor more satisfying, and many institutions of that class | 1,136.387484 |
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This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler.
[Picture: Look what a fine morning it is... Insects, Birds, & Animals,
are all enjoying existence]
MARY
WOLLSTONECRAFT’S
ORIGINAL
STORIES
WITH FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS
BY
WILLIAM BLAKE
* * * * *
WITH AN INTRODUCTION
BY
E. V. LUCAS
* * * * *
LONDON
HENRY FROWDE
1906
* * * * *
OXFORD: HORACE HART
PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION
The germ of the _Original Stories_ was, I imagine, a suggestion (in the
manner of publishers) from Mary Wollstonecraft’s employer, Johnson of St.
Paul’s Churchyard, that something more or less in the manner of Mrs.
Trimmer’s _History of the Robins_, the great nursery success of 1786,
might be a profitable speculation. For I doubt if the production of a
book for children would ever have occurred spontaneously to an author so
much more interested in the status of women and other adult matters.
However, the idea being given her, she quickly wrote the book—in 1787 or
1788—carrying out in it to a far higher power, in Mrs. Mason, the
self-confidence and rectitude of Mrs. Trimmer’s leading lady, Mrs.
Benson, who in her turn had been preceded by that other flawless
instructor of youth, Mr. Barlow. None of these exemplars could do wrong;
but the Mrs. Mason whom we meet in the following pages far transcends the
others in conscious merit. Mrs. Benson in the _History of the Robins_
(with the author of which Mary Wollstonecraft was on friendly terms) was
sufficiently like the Protagonist of the Old Testament to be, when among
Mrs. Wilson’s bees, ‘excessively pleased with the ingenuity and industry
with which these insects collect their honey and wax, form their cells,
and deposit their store’; but Mrs. Mason, as we shall see, went still
farther.
It has to be remembered that the _Original Stories_ were written when the
author was twenty-nine, five years before she met Gilbert Imlay and six
years before her daughter Fanny Imlay was born. I mention this fact
because it seems to me to be very significant. I feel that had the book
been written after Fanny’s birth, or even after the Imlay infatuation, it
would have been somewhat different: not perhaps more entertaining,
because its author had none of that imaginative sympathy with the young
which would direct her pen in the direction of pure pleasure for them;
but more human, more kindly, better. One can have indeed little doubt as
to this after reading those curious first lessons for an infant which
came from Mary Wollstonecraft’s pen in or about 1795, (printed in volume
two of the _Posthumous Works_, 1798), and which give evidence of so much
more tenderness and reasonableness (and | 1,136.542173 |
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Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously
made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
A Source Book of Philippine History
To Supply a Fairer View of Filipino Participation and Supplement the
Defective Spanish Accounts
PHILIPPINE PROGRESS PRIOR TO 1898
By AUSTIN CRAIG and CONRADO BENITEZ
Of the College of Liberal Arts Faculty of the University of the
Philippines
Philippine Education Co., Inc., Manila, 1916
The following 720 pages are divided into two volumes, each of which,
for the convenience of the reader, is paged separately and has its
index, or table of contents:
VOLUME I
I. The Old Philippines' Industrial Development
(Chapters of an Economic History)
I.--Agriculture and Landholding at the time of the Discovery
and Conquest. II.--Industries at the Time of Discovery and
Conquest. III.--Trade and Commerce at the Time of Discovery and
Conquest. IV.--Trade and Commerce; the Period of Restriction. V.--The
XIX Century and Economic Development.
By Professor Conrado Benitez
II. The Filipinos' Part in the Philippines' Past
(Pre-Spanish Philippine History A. D. 43-1565; Beginnings of Philippine
Nationalism.)
By Professor Austin Craig
VOLUME II
III. The Former Philippines thru Foreign Eyes
(Jagor's Travels in the Philippines; Comyn's State of the Philippines
in 1810; Wilkes' Manila and Sulu in 1842; White's Manila in 1819;
Virchow's Peopling of the Philippines; 1778 and 1878; English Views
of the People and Prospects of the Philippines; and Karuth's Filipino
Merchants of the Early 1890s)
Edited by Professor Craig
Made in Manila--Press of E. C. McCullough & Co.--The Work of Filipinos
EDITOR'S EXPLANATIONS AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This work is pre-requisite to the needed re-writing of Philippine
history as the story of its people. The present treatment, as a chapter
of Spanish history, has been so long accepted that deviation from
the standard story without first furnishing proof would demoralize
students and might create the impression that a change of government
justified re-stating the facts of the past in the way which would
pander to its pride.
With foreigners' writing, the extracts herein have been extensive, even
to the inclusion of somewhat irrelevant matter to save any suspicion
that the context might modify the quotation's meaning. The choice of
matter has been to supplement what is now available in English, and,
wherever possible, reference data have taken the place of quotation,
even at the risk of giving a skeletony effect.
Another rule has been to give no personal opinion, where a quotation
within reasonable limits could be found to convey the same idea, and,
where given, it is because an explanation is considered essential. A
conjunction of circumstances fortunate for us made possible this
publication. Last August the Bureau of Education were feeling
disappointment over the revised school history which had failed to
realize their requirements; the Department of History, Economics and
Sociology of the University were regretting their inability to make
their typewritten material available for all their students; and
Commissioner Quezon came back from Washington vigorously protesting
against continuing in the public schools a Philippine history text
which took no account of what American scholarship has done to
supplement Spain's stereotyped story. Thus there were three problems
but the same solution served for all.
Commissioner Rafael Palma, after investigation, championed furnishing
a copy of such a book as the present work is and Chairman Leuterio of
the Assembly Committee on Public Instruction lent his support. With
the assistance of Governor-General Harrison and Speaker Osmena,
and the endorsement of Secretary Martin of the Department of Public
Instruction, the Bureau of Education obtained the necessary item
in their section of the general appropriation act. Possibly no one
deserves any credit for conforming to plain duty, but after listing
all these high officials, it may not be out of place to mention that
neither has there come from any one of them, nor from any one else
for that matter, any suggestion of what should be said or left unsaid
or how it should be said, nor has any one asked to see, or seen,
any of our manuscript till after its publication. Insular Purchasing
Agent Magee, who had been, till his promotion, Acting Director of the
Bureau of Education, Director Crone, returned from the San Francisco
Exposition, and Acting Auditor Dexter united to smoothe the way for
rapid work so the order placed in January is being filled in less than
three months. Three others whose endorsements have materially assisted
in the accomplishment of the work are President Villamor of our
University, Director Francisco Benitez of its School of Education, and
Director J. A. Robertson of the Philippine Library. And in recalling
the twelve years of study here which has shown the importance of
these notes there come to mind the names of those to whom I have
been accustomed to go for suggestion and advice: Mariano Ponce,
of the Assembly Library, Manuel Artigas, of the Filipiniana Section
of the Philippines Library, Manuel Iriarte of the Executive Bureau
Archives, Dr. T. H. Pardo de Tavera and Epifanio de los Santos,
associates in the Philippine Academy, Leon and Fernando Guerrero,
Jaime C. De Veyra, Valentin Ventura, of Barcelona, J. M. Ramirez, of
Paris, the late Rafael del Pan, Jose Basa, of Hongkong, and Doctor
Regidor, of London, all Filipinos, Doctor N. M. Saleeby, H. Otley
Beyer, Dr. David P. Barrows, now of the University of California,
along with assistance from the late Professor Ferdinand Blumentritt,
of Leitmeritz, Dr. C. | 1,136.542185 |
2023-11-16 18:36:00.5229850 | 93 | 9 |
Produced by John Bickers, Dagny, and Bonnie Sala
AN HISTORICAL MYSTERY
(The Gondreville Mystery)
By Honore De Balzac
Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley
DEDICATION
To Monsieur de Margone.
In grateful remembrance, from his guest at the Chateau de Sache.
De Balzac.
AN HISTORICAL MYSTERY
| 1,136.543025 |
2023-11-16 18:36:00.5614840 | 3,009 | 7 |
Produced by Adrian Mastronardi, Rene Anderson Benitz, and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net.
Project Gutenberg has Volume II of this book. See
http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38957.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Obvious typos have been amended. Variations in spelling in the
original text have been retained, except where usage frequency was
used to determine the common spelling and/or hyphenation. These
amendments are listed at the end of the text. Minor printer errors
have been amended without note.
The INTRODUCTION has been added to this volume as per author intent
in the Preface to Volume II. Color plate notations of specified
birds have been relocated to follow the title of the bird.
The full INDEX from Volume II has been added to this volume. (It has
also been added to the Table of Contents.)
In this e-text the letters a and u with a macron are represented by
[=a] and [=u], respectively.
ARGENTINE ORNITHOLOGY.
A
DESCRIPTIVE CATALOGUE
OF THE
BIRDS OF THE
ARGENTINE REPUBLIC.
BY
P. L. SCLATER, M.A., Ph.D., F.R.S., Etc.
_WITH NOTES ON THEIR HABITS_
BY
W. H. HUDSON, C.M.Z.S.,
LATE OF BUENOS AYRES.
[Illustration: THE CARIAMA.]
VOLUME I.
LONDON:
R. H. PORTER, 6 TENTERDEN STREET, W.
1888.
[Illustration: (Printer's Mark) ALERE FLAMMAM.
PRINTED BY TAYLOR AND FRANCIS.
RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.]
ARGENTINE ORNITHOLOGY.
The Edition of this work being strictly limited
to +200+ copies for Subscribers, each copy is
numbered and signed by the Authors.
[Illustration: No. 6
Signed P L Sclater
W. H. Hudson]
PREFACE TO THE FIRST VOLUME.
The present volume contains an account of the Passeres of the Argentine
Republic, which, as at present known, number some 229 species. The
second volume, which it is hoped will be ready in the course of next
year, will be devoted to the history of the remaining Orders of Birds,
and will also contain the Introduction and Index, and complete the work.
All the personal observations recorded in these pages are due to Mr.
Hudson, while I am responsible for the arrangement, nomenclature, and
scientific portions of the work.
I have to acknowledge with many thanks a donation of L40 from the Royal
Society, which has enabled Mr. Hudson to devote a portion of his time to
the compilation of his interesting notes.
P. L. S.
_December 1, 1887._
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
Fam. I. TURDIDAE, or THRUSHES.
Page
1. _Turdus leucomelas_, Vieill. (Dusky Thrush.) 1
2. _Turdus rufiventris_, Vieill. (Red-bellied Thrush.) 3
3. _Turdus magellanicus_, King. (Magellanic Thrush.) 3
4. _Turdus fuscater_, d'Orb. et Lafr. (Argentine Blackbird.) 4
5. _Turdus nigriceps_, Cab. (Black-headed Thrush.) 4
6. _Mimus modulator_, Gould. (Calandria Mocking-bird.) 5
7. _Mimus patachonicus_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Patagonian
Mocking-bird.) 7
8. _Mimus triurus_ (Vieill.). (White-banded Mocking-bird.)
[Plate I.] 8
Fam. II. CINCLIDAE, or DIPPERS.
9. _Cinclus schulzi_, Cab. (Schulz's Dipper.) [Plate II.] 11
Fam. III. MUSCICAPIDAE, or FLYCATCHERS.
10. _Polioptila dumicola_ (Vieill.). (Brush-loving Fly-snapper.) 12
Fam. IV. TROGLODYTIDAE, or WRENS.
11. _Donacobius atricapillus_ (Linn.). (Black-headed Reed-Wren.) 13
12. _Troglodytes furvus_ (Gm.). (Brown House-Wren.) 13
13. _Troglodytes auricularis_, Cab. (Eared Wren.) 15
14. _Cistothorus platensis_ (Lath.). (Platan Marsh-Wren.) 15
Fam. V. MOTACILLIDAE, or WAGTAILS.
15. _Anthus correndera_, Vieill. (Cachila Pipit.) 17
16. _Anthus furcatus_, d'Orb. et Lafr. (Forked-tail Pipit.) 19
Fam. VI. MNIOTILTIDAE, or WOOD-SINGERS.
17. _Parula pitiayumi_ (Vieill.). (Pitiayumi Wood-singer.) 20
18. _Geothlypis velata_ (Vieill.). (Veiled Wood-singer.) 20
19. _Basileuterus auricapillus_, Sw. (Golden-crowned Wood-singer.) 21
20. _Setophaga brunneiceps_, d'Orb. et Lafr. (Brown-capped
Wood-singer.) 21
Fam. VII. VIREONIDAE, or GREENLETS.
21. _Vireosylvia chivi_ (Vieill.). (Chivi Greenlet.) 22
22. _Hylophilus poecilotis_, Max. (Brown-headed Wood-bird.) 23
23. _Cyclorhis ochrocephala_ (Tsch.). (Ochre-headed
Greenlet-Shrike.) [Plate III. fig. 1.] 23
24. _Cyclorhis altirostris_, Salvin. (Deep-billed Greenlet-Shrike.)
[Plate III. fig. 2.] 24
Fam. VIII. HIRUNDINIDAE, or SWALLOWS.
25. _Progne furcata_, Baird. (Purple Martin.) 24
26. _Progne chalybea_ (Gm.). (Domestic Martin.) 25
27. _Progne tapera_ (Linn.). (Tree-Martin.) 26
28. _Petrochelidon pyrrhonota_ (Vieill.). (Red-backed Rock-Martin.) 30
29. _Tachycineta leucorrhoa_ (Vieill.). (White-rumped Swallow.) 30
30. _Atticora cyanoleuca_ (Vieill.). (Bank-Swallow.) 33
31. _Atticora fucata_ (Temm.). (Brown Martin.) 35
32. _Stelgidopteryx ruficollis_ (Vieill.). (Red-necked Swallow.) 36
Fam. IX. TANAGRIDAE, or TANAGERS.
33. _Euphonia nigricollis_ (Vieill.). (Black-necked Tanager.) 37
34. _Euphonia chlorotica_ (Linn.). (Purple-and-Yellow Tanager.) 37
35. _Pipridea melanonota_ (Vieill.). (Dark-backed Tanager.) 37
36. _Stephanophorus leucocephalus_ (Vieill.). (White-capped
Tanager.) [Plate IV.] 38
37. _Tanagra sayaca_, Linn. (Blue Tanager.) 39
38. _Tanagra bonariensis_ (Gm.). (Blue-and-Yellow Tanager.) 39
39. _Pyranga azarae_, d'Orb. (Azara's Tanager.) 40
40. _Trichothraupis quadricolor_ (Vieill.). (Four- Tanager.) 40
41. _Thlypopsis ruficeps_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Red-capped Tanager.) 40
42. _Buarremon citrinellus_, Cab. (Yellow-striped Tanager.) 41
43. _Arremon orbignii_, Sclater. (D'Orbigny's Tanager.) 41
44. _Saltator similis_, d'Orb. et Lafr. (Allied Saltator.) 41
45. _Saltator caerulescens_, Vieill. (Greyish Saltator.) 42
46. _Saltator aurantiirostris_, Vieill. (Yellow-billed Saltator.) 42
Fam. X. FRINGILLIDAE, or FINCHES.
47. _Pheucticus aureiventris_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Black-and-Yellow
Thick-bill.) 43
48. _Guiraca cyanea_ (Linn.). (Indigo Finch.) 43
49. _Guiraca glaucocaerulea_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Glaucous Finch.) 44
50. _Oryzoborus maximiliani_, Cab. (Prince Max.'s Finch.) 44
51. _Spermophila palustris_, Barrows. (Marsh Finch.) 45
52. _Spermophila melanocephala_ (Vieill.). (Black-headed Finch.) 45
53. _Spermophila caerulescens_, Vieill. (Screaming Finch.) 46
54. _Paroaria cucullata_, Lath. (Cardinal Finch.) 47
55. _Paroaria capitata_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Lesser Cardinal Finch.) 48
56. _Coryphospingus cristatus_ (Gm.). (Red-crested Finch.) 48
57. _Lophospingus pusillus_ (Burm.). (Dark-crested Finch.) 48
58. _Donacospiza albifrons_ (Vieill.). (Long-tailed Reed-Finch.) 49
59. _Poospiza nigrorufa_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Black-and-Chestnut
Warbling Finch.) 49
60. _Poospiza whitii_, Scl. (White's Warbling Finch.) 50
61. _Poospiza erythrophrys_, Scl. (Red-browed Warbling Finch.) 50
62. _Poospiza assimilis_, Cab. (Red-flanked Warbling Finch.) 51
63. _Poospiza ornata_ (Landb.). (Pretty Warbling Finch.) 51
64. _Poospiza torquata_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Ringed Warbling Finch.) 51
65. _Poospiza melanoleuca_ (Vieill.). (White-and-Grey Warbling
Finch.) 52
66. _Phrygilus gayi_ (Eyd. et Gerv.). (Gay's Finch.) 52
67. _Phrygilus caniceps_ (Burm.). (Grey-headed Finch.) 53
68. _Phrygilus dorsalis_, Cab. (Red-backed Finch.) 53
69. _Phrygilus unicolor_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Slaty Finch.) 53
70. _Phrygilus fruticeti_ (Kittl.). (Mourning Finch.) 54
71. _Phrygilus carbonarius_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Blackish Finch.) 54
72. _Gubernatrix cristatella_ (Vieill.). (Yellow Cardinal.) 55
73. _Diuca grisea_ (Less.). (Diuca Finch.) 55
74. _Diuca minor_, Bp. (Lesser Diuca Finch.) 56
75. _Catamenia analis_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Red-stained Finch | 1,136.581524 |
2023-11-16 18:36:00.5674060 | 548 | 19 |
Produced by Al Haines (This file was produced from images
obtained from The Internet Archive)
PATHFINDERS OF
THE GREAT PLAINS
A Chronicle of La Verendrye and his Sons
BY
LAWRENCE J. BURPEE
TORONTO
GLASGOW, BROOK & COMPANY
1914
Copyright in all Countries subscribing to
the Berne Convention
{ix}
CONTENTS
Page
I. EARLY SERVICE...................... 1
II. FIRST ATTEMPT AT EXPLORATION .............. 20
III. ACROSS THE PLAINS.................... 44
IV. THE MANDAN INDIANS ................... 55
V. THE DISCOVERY OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS .......... 72
VI. LA VERENDRYES' LATTER DAYS ............... 92
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE .................. 113
INDEX.......................... 115
ILLUSTRATIONS
LA VERENDRYE EXPLORATIONS, 1731-43......... _Facing page_ 1
Map by Bartholomew.
AN INDIAN ENCAMPMENT................ " " 48
Painting by Paul Kane.
AN ASSINIBOINE INDIAN ............... " " 52
From a pastel by Edmund Morris.
MANDAN GIRLS.................... " " 68
From Pritchard's 'Natural History of Man.'
TABLET DEPOSITED BY LA VERENDRYE, 1743....... | 1,136.587446 |
2023-11-16 18:36:00.6182270 | 2,039 | 9 |
Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Wayne Hammond and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
[Transcriber’s Note:
Italicized text delimited by underscores.
This project uses utf-8 encoded characters. If some characters are not
readable, check your settings of your browser to ensure you have a
default font installed that can display utf-8 characters.]
WHAT THE WHITE RACE MAY
LEARN FROM THE INDIAN
BOOKS BY GEORGE WHARTON JAMES
What the White Race May Learn from the Indian.
In and Around the Grand Canyon.
Indians of the Painted Desert Region.
In and Out of the Old Missions of California.
The Wonders of the Colorado Desert.
The Story of Scraggles.
Indian Basketry.
How to Make Indian and Other Baskets.
Travelers’ Handbook to Southern California.
The Beacon Light.
[Illustration: GROUP OF HOPI MAIDENS AND AN OLD MAN AT MASHONGANAVI.]
What the White Race May
Learn from the Indian
BY
GEORGE WHARTON JAMES
AUTHOR OF “IN AND AROUND THE GRAND CANYON,” “INDIAN BASKETRY,” “HOW
TO MAKE INDIAN AND OTHER BASKETS,” “PRACTICAL BASKET MAKING,”
“THE INDIANS OF THE PAINTED DESERT REGION,” “TRAVELERS’ HANDBOOK
TO SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA,” “IN AND OUT OF THE OLD
MISSIONS OF CALIFORNIA,” “THE STORY OF SCRAGGLES,”
“THE WONDERS OF THE COLORADO DESERT,” “THROUGH
RAMONA’S COUNTRY,” “LIVING THE RADIANT
LIFE,” “THE BEACON LIGHT,” ETC.
[Illustration]
CHICAGO
FORBES & COMPANY
1908
COPYRIGHT, 1908
BY
EDITH E. FARNSWORTH
The Lakeside Press
R. R. DONNELLEY & SONS COMPANY
CHICAGO
[Illustration: WHAT THE WHITE RACE MAY LEARN FROM THE INDIAN]
FOREWORD
I would not have it thought that I commend indiscriminately everything
that the Indian does and is. There are scores of things about the
Indian that are reprehensible and to be avoided. Most Indians smoke,
and to me the habit is a vile and nauseating one. Indians often wear
filthy clothes. They are often coarse in their acts, words, and their
humor. Some of their habits are repulsive. I have seen Indian boys
and men maltreat helpless animals until my blood has boiled with an
indignation I could not suppress, and I have taken the animals away
from them. They are generally vindictive and relentless in pursuit of
their enemies. They often content themselves with impure and filthy
water when a little careful labor would give them a supply of fairly
good water.
Indeed, in numerous things and ways I have personally seen the Indian
is not to be commended, but condemned, and his methods of life avoided.
But because of this, I do not close my eyes to the many good things
of his life. My reason is useless to me unless it teaches me what to
accept and what to reject, and he is kin to fool who refuses to accept
good from a man or a race unless in everything that man or race is
perfect. There is no perfection, in man at least, on earth, and all the
good I have ever received from human beings has been from imperfect men
and women. So I fully recognize the imperfections of the Indian while
taking lessons from him in those things that go to make life fuller,
richer, better.
Neither must it be thought that everything here said of the Indians
with whom I have come in contact can be said of all Indians. Indians
are not all alike any more than white men and women are all alike. One
can find filthy, disgusting slovens among white women, yet we do not
condemn all white women on the strength of this indisputable fact. So
with Indians. Some are good, some indifferent, some bad. In dealing
with them as a race, a people, therefore, I do as I would with my own
race, I take what to me seem to be racial characteristics, or in other
words, the things that are manifested in the lives of the best men and
women, and which seem to represent their habitual aims, ambitions, and
desires.
This book lays no claim to completeness or thoroughness. It is merely
suggestive. The field is much larger than I have gleaned over. The
chapters of which the book is composed were written when away from
works of reference, and merely as transcripts of the remembrances
that flashed through my mind at the time of writing. Yet I believe in
everything I have said I have kept strictly within the bounds of truth,
and have written only that which I personally know to be fact.
The original articles from which these pages have been made were
written in various desultory places,--on the cars, while traveling
between the Pacific and the Atlantic, on the elevated railways of the
metropolis, standing at the desk of my New York friend in his office on
Broadway, even in the woods of Michigan and in the depths of the Grand
Canyon. Two of the new chapters were written at the home of my friend
Bass, at Bass Camp, Grand Canyon, but the main enlargement and revision
has occurred at Santa Clara College, the site of the Eighth Mission
in the Alta California chain of Franciscan Missions. The bells of the
Mission Church have hourly rung in my ears, and the Angelus and other
calls to prayer have given me sweet memories of the good old padres
who founded this and the other missions, as well as shown me pictures
of the devoted priests of to-day engaged in their solemn services. I
have heard the merry shouts of the boys of this college at their play,
for the Jesuits are the educators of the boys of the Catholic Church.
Here from the precincts of this old mission, I call upon the white race
to incorporate into its civilization the good things of the Indian
civilization; to forsake the injurious things of its pseudo-civilized,
artificial, and over-refined life, and to return to the simple,
healthful, and natural life which the Indians largely lived before and
after they came under the dominion of the Spanish padres.
If all or anything of that which is here presented leads any of my
readers to a kinder and more honest attitude of mind towards the
Indians, then I shall be thankful, and the book will have amply
accomplished its mission.
GEORGE WHARTON JAMES.
SANTA CLARA, CALIFORNIA, November 27, 1907.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
FOREWORD 9
I. THE WHITE RACE AND ITS TREATMENT OF THE INDIAN 15
II. THE WHITE RACE AND ITS CIVILIZATION 28
III. THE INDIAN AND NASAL AND DEEP BREATHING 39
IV. THE INDIAN AND OUT-OF-DOOR LIFE 49
V. THE INDIAN AND SLEEPING OUT OF DOORS 70
VI. THE INDIAN AS A WALKER, RIDER, AND CLIMBER 79
VII. THE INDIAN IN THE RAIN AND THE DIRT 93
VIII. THE INDIAN AND PHYSICAL LABOR 105
IX. THE INDIAN AND PHYSICAL LABOR FOR GIRLS AND WOMEN 111
X. THE INDIAN AND DIET 119
XI. THE INDIAN AND EDUCATION 130
XII. THE INDIAN AND HOSPITALITY 143
XIII. THE INDIAN AND CERTAIN SOCIAL TRAITS AND CUSTOMS 156
XIV. THE INDIAN AND SOME LUXURIES 162
XV. THE INDIAN AND THE SEX QUESTION 175
XVI. THE INDIAN AND HER BABY 183
XVII. THE INDIAN AND THE SANCTITY OF NUDITY 197
XVIII. THE INDIAN AND FRANKNESS 204
XIX. THE INDIAN AND REPINING 207
XX. THE INDIAN AND THE SUPERFLUITIES OF LIFE 210
XXI. THE INDIAN AND MENTAL POISE 217
XXII. THE INDIAN AND SELF-RESTRAINT 229
XXIII. THE INDIAN AND AFFECTATION 235
XXIV. THE INDIAN AND ART WORK 240
XXV. THE INDIAN AND RELIGIOUS WORSHIP 250
XXVI. THE INDIAN AND IMMORTALITY 259
XXVII. VISITING THE INDIANS 265
XXVIII. CONCLUSION 268
CHAPTER I
THE WHITE RACE AND ITS TREATMENT OF THE INDIAN | 1,136.638267 |
2023-11-16 18:36:00.6660670 | 1,806 | 12 |
Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1895. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVI.--NO. 831. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
SEA RANGERS.
BY KIRK MUNROE,
AUTHOR OF "ROAD RANGERS," THE "MATE" SERIES, "FUR-SEAL'S TOOTH,"
"SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES," ETC.
CHAPTER I.
EARNING THEIR BICYCLES.
"I say, Hal, do you realize that the Ready Rangers will have been in
existence a whole year on the 30th?" asked Will Rogers, as he and Hal
Bacon walked homeward from school one afternoon of the May following the
Rangers' memorable trip to New York. "I remember the exact date, because
it was Decoration day, and the first time I was out after my accident."
"That's so," replied Lieutenant Hal, "and I think we ought to do
something in the way of a celebration."
"My idea exactly; and at the meeting to-night I want to talk it over. So
bring along any suggestions you can pick up, and let's see what can be
done."
Never had the Berks boys, who were also Rangers, worked so hard as
during the winter just passed. In spite of the allurements of skating,
coasting, and all the other fascinating winter sports of country life,
they had never lost sight of the coveted bicycles that Tom Burgess's
father had promised to let them have at much less than cost, if only
they could earn the money to pay for them. At the suggestion of Reddy
Cuddeback, their newest member, of whom they were intensely proud,
because he held the five-mile racing record of the United States, they
had decided to make a common fund of all their earnings, and place it in
the hands of honorary member Pop Miller for safe keeping. They did this,
because, while it was necessary to the success of their organization
that every member should own a bicycle, some of them were possessed of
greater advantages or abilities for earning money than others. Also
those who already owned machines, and so were not obliged to earn them,
could still work with enthusiasm for the fund. Besides these reasons the
Rangers proposed to raise some of the money by giving entertainments,
the proceeds from which would necessarily go into a common fund.
So, while several of the boys under direction of "Cracker" Bob Jones,
who had a great head for business, gathered nuts in the autumn for
shipment to New York, caught fish through the ice during the winter, and
sold them in the village, and made maple sugar, to order, in the early
spring, others split wood or did similar chores for neighbors. Will
Rogers and Hal Bacon organized a mail-and-package delivery service. Beth
Barlow, working on behalf of her brother, the naval cadet member, made
the caramels and pop-corn balls that little Cal Moody sold to his
school-mates at recess, while Reddy Cuddeback, who proved to be
possessed of decided dramatic talent, arranged and managed the several
entertainments given by the Rangers during the winter.
One of these was a minstrel show, the first ever seen in Berks. Another
was a Good Roads talk, given by a distinguished highway engineer, and
illustrated by stereopticon views, while the third, which was the
crowning success of the season, was a play written by Will Rogers and
Beth Barlow. It was called _Blue Billows_--a title cribbed from
_Raftmates_--_or, Fighting for the Old Flag_: a nautical drama in two
watches, founded on facts more thrilling than fiction. This play was
suggested by the story of Reddy Cuddeback's father, as told by Admiral
Marlin to his Road-Ranger guests the summer before, and in order that it
should present a realistic picture of naval life, its leading scenes and
all of its conversation were in closest imitation of _Pinafore_, which
the Rangers had been taken to see in New York, and which was their chief
source of knowledge concerning life on the ocean wave. So they had a
Little Buttercup, only she was called Pink Clover, a midshipmite
represented by little Cal Moody, a Jack Jackstraw, a Bill Bullseye, and
a close imitation of Sir Joseph Porter, named Sir Birch Beer. They sang
sea-songs, danced what they believed to be hornpipes, hitched their
white duck trousers, shivered their timbers, and were altogether so salt
and tarry, that had not the dazzled spectators known better they might
have believed the Rangers to be regular oakum-pickers who had never trod
dry land in their lives. So well was this performance received in Berks
that the boys were induced to repeat it in Chester, whereby they added a
very tidy sum to their fund.
This was their final effort at money-making, for about this time a
letter was received from Mr. Burgess stating that he found it necessary
to dispose of his stock of bicycles at once, and asking if the Rangers
were not ready to relieve him of them. So the meeting called by Captain
Will Rogers, to be held in Range Hall, as the boys termed Pop Miller's
house, was for the purpose of learning the amount of the fund and
deciding upon its disposal. The speculations as to its size, and what it
would purchase, were as numerous as there were members, and as diverse
as were the characters of the boys. Little Cal Moody hoped it might
reach the magnificent sum of one hundred dollars; while "Cracker" Bob
Jones thought one thousand dollars would more nearly represent the
amount obtained. "That's what we've got to have," he argued, "for there
are ten members without wheels, not counting what I owe Reddy Cuddeback
on mine, and I don't believe even Mr. Burgess can afford to sell such
beauties as those we rode last fall for less than a hundred apiece. So
there you are; and if we haven't got a thousand dollars, some of us will
have to go without wheels, or else only own 'em on shares."
This statement from so eminent an authority caused considerable
uneasiness among the other boys, and they almost held their breath with
anxiety as Mr. Pop Miller wiped his spectacles, and, producing a small
blue bank-book, prepared to make the important announcement.
"Mr. President and fellow-members of the most honorable body of Ready
Rangers," began the little old gentleman, beaming upon the expectant
faces about him. "It is with gratified pride and sincere pleasure that I
contemplate the wonderful success now crowning your tireless efforts of
the past winter. I must confess that both your perseverance and the
result accomplished have exceeded my expectations, and I congratulate
you accordingly. As treasurer of the Rangers' bicycle fund, I have the
honor to announce that, with all expenses for entertainments, etc.,
deducted, there is now on deposit in the First National Bank of Berks,
and subject to your order, the very creditable sum of three hundred and
eighty-five dollars and twelve cents. All of which is respectfully
submitted by
"P. MILLER, Treasurer."
"Hooray!" shouted little Cal Moody, forgetting his surroundings in the
excitement of what he regarded as the vastness of this sum. As no one
else echoed his shout, he blushed, looked very sheepish, and wished he
had kept his mouth shut.
The Rangers had done well, remarkably well, as any one must acknowledge
who has tried to raise money under similar conditions; but in view of
"Cracker" Bob's recent statement, most of them felt that their great
undertaking had resulted in what was almost equivalent to failure, and
were correspondingly cast down.
"It is too bad!" exclaimed Sam Ray, breaking a gloomy silence. "Of
course we've got to pay the thirty-five dollars that Bob still owes
Reddy, for that is promised | 1,136.686107 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Robert Prince, Charles
Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team, from
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for Historical Microreproductions.
THE COMING OF THE PRINCESS; AND OTHER POEMS.
BY
KATE SEYMOUR MACLEAN, KINGSTON, ONTARIO.
AN INTRODUCTION, BY THE EDITOR OF "THE CANADIAN MONTHLY."
INTRODUCTION.
BY G MERCER ADAM.
The request of the author that I should write a few words of
preface to this collection of poems must be my excuse for obtruding
myself upon the reader. Having frequently had the pleasure as
editor of _The Canadian Monthly_, of introducing many of Mrs.
MacLean's poems to lovers of verse in the Dominion it was thought
not unfitting that I should act as foster father to the collection
of them here made and to bespeak for the volume at the hands at
least of all Canadians the appreciative and kindly reception due to a
Child of the first winds and suns of a nation.
Accepting the task assigned to me the more readily as I discern the
high and sustained excellence of the collection as a whole let me
ask that the volume be received with interest as a further and most
meritorious contribution to the poetical literature of our young
country (the least that can be said of the work), and with sympathy
for the intellectual and moral aspirations that have called it into
being.
There is truth, doubtless, in the remark, that we are enriched less
by what we have than by what we hope to have. As the poetic art in
Canada has had little of an appreciable past, it may therefore be
thought that the songs that are to catch and retain the ear of the
nation lie still in the future, and are as yet unsung. Doubtless
the chords have yet to be struck that are to give to Canada the
songs of her loftiest genius; but he would be an ill friend of the
country's literature who would slight the achievements of the
present in reaching solely after what, it is hoped, the coming time
will bring.
But whatever of lyrical treasure the future may enshrine in
Canadian literature, and however deserving may be the claims of the
volumes of verse that have already appeared from the native press,
I am bold to claim for these productions of Mrs. MacLean's muse a
high place in the national collection and a warm corner in the
national heart.
To discern the merit of a poem is proverbially easier than to say
how and in what manner it is manifested. In a collection the task
of appraisement is not so difficult. Lord Houghton has said: "There
is in truth no critic of poetry but the man who enjoys it, and the
amount of gratification felt is the only just measure of
criticism." By this test the present volume will, in the main, be
judged. Still, there are characteristics of the author's work which
I may be permitted to point out. In Mrs. MacLean's volume what
quickly strikes one is not only the fact that the poems are all of
a high order of merit, but that a large measure of art and instinct
enters into the composition | 1,136.734554 |
2023-11-16 18:36:00.7155680 | 555 | 15 | ***
Produced by Al Haines.
_A Marriage
Under the Terror_
_By_
_Patricia Wentworth_
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
Knickerbocker Press
1910
COPYRIGHT, 1910
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Published, April, 1910
Reprinted, May, 1910
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
Advertisement
To _A Marriage Under the Terror_ has been awarded in England the first
prize in the Melrose Novel Competition, a competition that was not
restricted to first stories. The distinguished literary reputation of
the three judges--Mrs. Flora Annie Steel, Miss Mary Cholmondeley, and
Mrs. Henry de la Pasture--was a guaranty alike to the contestants and to
the public that the story selected as the winner would without question
be fully entitled to that distinction. In consequence, many authors of
experience entered the contest, with the result that the number of
manuscripts submitted was greater than that in the competition
previously conducted by Mr. Melrose.
Among such a number of good stories individual taste must always play an
important part in the decision. It is, therefore, no small tribute to
the transcendent interest of the winning novel that, though the judges
worked independently, each selected _A Marriage Under the Terror_ as the
most distinctive novel in the group.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. A Purloined Cipher
II. A Forced Entrance
III. Shut out by a Prison Wall
IV. The Terror Let Loose
V. A Carnival of Blood
VI. A Doubtful Safety
VII. The Inner Conflict
VIII. An Offer of Friendship
IX. The Old Ideal and the New
X. The Fate of a King
XI. The Irrevocable Vote
XII. Separation
XIII. Disturbing Insinuations
XIV. A Dangerous Acquaintance
XV. Sans Souci
XVI. An Unwelcome Visitor
XVII. Distressing News
XVIII. A Trial and a Wedding
XIX. The Barrier
XX. A Royalist Plot
XXI. A New Environment
XXII. At Home and Afield
XXIII. Return of Two Fugitives
XXIV. Burning of the Chateau
XXV. Escape of Two Madcaps
XX | 1,136.735608 |
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Produced by Giovanni Fini, David Edwards 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: SLEDDING UP THE CHILKAT VALLEY]
GOLD-SEEKING
ON THE DALTON TRAIL
_BEING THE ADVENTURES OF TWO
NEW ENGLAND BOYS IN ALASKA
AND THE NORTHWEST TERRITORY_
BY
ARTHUR R. THOMPSON
Illustrated
BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1900
_Copyright, 1900_,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
UNIVERSITY PRESS. JOHN WILSON AND SON. CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
TO
My Comrade of Many Camp-Fires
DEXTER WADLEIGH LEWIS
PREFACE
Among my first passions was that for exploration. The Unknown--that
region of mysteries lying upon the outskirts of commonplace
environment--drew me with a mighty attraction. My earliest
recollections are of wanderings into the domains of the neighbors, and
of excursions--not infrequently in direct contravention to parental
warnings--over fences, stone-walls, and roofs, and into cobwebbed
attics, fragrant hay-lofts, and swaying tree-tops. Of my favorite tree,
a sugar maple, I remember that, so thoroughly did I come to know every
one of its branches, I could climb up or down unhesitatingly with eyes
shut. At that advanced stage of acquaintance, however, it followed
naturally that the mysteriousness, and hence the subtle attractiveness,
of my friend the maple was considerably lessened.
By degrees the boundary line of the unknown was pushed back into
surrounding fields. Wonderful caves were hollowed in sandy banks.
Small pools, to the imaginative eyes of the six-year-old, became
lakes abounding with delightful adventures. The wintry alternations
of freezing and thawing were processes to be observed with closest
attention and never-failing interest. Nature displayed some new charm
with every mood.
There came a day when I looked beyond the fields, when even the river,
sluggish and muddy in summer, a broad, clear torrent in spring, was
known from end to end. Then it was that the range of low mountains--to
me sublime in loftiness--at the western horizon held my fascinated
gaze. To journey thither on foot became ambition's end and aim. This
feat, at first regarded as undoubtedly beyond the powers of man unaided
by horse and carry-all (the thing had once been done in that manner on
the occasion of a picnic), was at length proved possible.
What next? Like Alexander, I sought new worlds. Nothing less than real
camping out could satisfy that hitherto unappeasable longing. This
dream was realized in due season among the mountains of New Hampshire;
but the craving, far from losing its keenness, was whetted. Of late it
has been fed, but never satiated, by wider rovings on land and sea.
Perhaps it is in the blood and can never be eliminated.
Believing that this restlessness, accompanied by the love of
adventure and out-of-door life, is natural to every boy, I have
had in mind particularly in the writing of this narrative those
thousands of boys in our cities who are bound within a restricted,
and it may be unromantic, sphere of activity. To them I have wished
to give a glimpse of trail life, not with a view to increasing their
restlessness,--for I have not veiled discomforts and discouragements in
relating enjoyments,--but to enlarge their horizon,--to give them, in
imagination at least, mountain air and appetites, journeys by lake and
river, and an acquaintance with men and conditions as they now exist
in the great Northwest.
The Dalton trail, last year but little known, may soon become a much
travelled highway. With a United States garrison at Pyramid, and the
village of Klukwan a bone of contention between the governments of this
country and Canada, the region which it traverses is coming more and
more into notice. I would only add that natural features, scenery, and
people, have been described faithfully, however inadequately, and the
story throughout is based upon real happenings. Should any of my young
readers pass over the trail to-day in the footsteps of David and Roly,
they would find, save for possible vandalism of Indians or whites, the
cabins on the North Alsek and in the Kah Sha gorge just as they are
pictured, and they could be sure of a welcome from Lucky, Long Peter,
and Coffee Jack.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A LETTER FROM ALASKA 1
II. BUYING AN OUTFIT 7
III. FROM SEATTLE TO PYRAMID HARBOR 18
IV. THE FIRST CAMP 28
V. THE GREAT NUGGET, AND HOW UNCLE WILL HEARD OF IT 38
VI. ROLY IS HURT 47
VII. CAMP AT THE CAVE 54
VIII. SLEDDING 60
IX. KLUKWAN AND THE FORDS 69
X. A PORCUPINE-HUNT AT PLEASANT CAMP 77
XI. THE MYSTERIOUS THIRTY-SIX 88
XII. THE SUMMIT OF CHILKAT PASS 101
XIII. DALTON'S POST 112
XIV. FROM THE STIK VILLAGE TO LAKE DASAR-DEE-ASH 120
XV. STAKING CLAIMS 127
XVI. A CONFLAGRATION 135
XVII. THROUGH THE ICE 142
XVIII. BUILDING THE CABIN 149
XIX. THE FIRST PROSPECT-HOLE 157
XX. ROLY GOES DUCK-HUNTING 166
XXI. LAST DAYS AT PENNOCK'S POST 175
XXII. A HARD JOURNEY 182
XXIII. THE LAKE AFFORDS TWO MEALS AND A PERILOUS CROSSING 192
XXIV. DAVID GETS HIS BEAR-SKIN 201
XXV. MORAN'S CAMP 210
XXVI. HOW THE GREAT NUGGET NEARLY COST THE BRADFORDS DEAR 216
XXVII. AN INDIAN CREMATION 223
XXVIII. THE PLAGUE OF MOSQUITOES 231
XXIX. LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS 238
XXX. WASHING OUT THE GOLD 248
XXXI. DAVID MAKES A BOAT-JOURNEY 256
XXXII. CHAMPLAIN'S LANDING 264
XXXIII. ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS 272
XXXIV. RAIDED BY A WOLF 279
XXXV. A LONG MARCH, WITH A SURPRISE AT THE END OF IT 289
XXXVI. HOW DAVID MET THE OFFENDER AND WAS PREVENTED FROM
SPEAKING HIS MIND 297
XXXVII. HOMEWARD BOUND 306
XXXVIII. A CARIBOU, AND HOW IT WAS KILLED 314
XXXIX. DANGERS OF THE SUMMER FORDS 321
XL. SUNDAY IN KLUKWAN 331
XLI. THE ROBBERS AT LAST 339
XLII. PYRAMID, SKAGWAY, AND DYEA.--CONCLUSION 348
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
SLEDDING UP THE CHILKAT VALLEY _Frontispiece_
PYRAMID HARBOR, PYRAMID MOUNTAIN IN THE DISTANCE 26
MAP OF THE DALTON TRAIL 28
A CURIOUS PHENOMENON BESIDE THE TRAIL 89
THE CAMP OF THE MYSTERIOUS THIRTY-SIX 93
"PRESENTLY SOME LITTLE YELLOW SPECKS WERE UNCOVERED" 131
CHILDREN OF THE WILDERNESS 192
RAFTING DOWN THE NORTH ALSEK 265
A HERD OF CATTLE.--YUKON DIVIDE IN THE DISTANCE 267
FORDING THE KLAHEENA 325
"SALMON BY THE THOUSAND" 349
GOLD-SEEKING
ON
THE DALTON TRAIL
CHAPTER I
A LETTER FROM ALASKA
In a large, old-fashioned dwelling which overlooked from its hillside
perch a beautiful city of Connecticut, the Bradford family was
assembled for the evening meal. It was early in February, and the wind,
which now and then whirled the snowflakes against the window-panes,
made the pretty dining-room seem doubly cozy. But Mrs. Bradford
shivered as she poured the tea.
"Just think of poor Will," she said, "away off in that frozen
wilderness! Oh, if we could only know that he is safe and well!" and
the gentle lady's brown eyes sought her husband's face as if for
reassurance.
Mr. Bradford was a tall, strongly built man of forty-five, with
light-brown hair and mustache, and features that betrayed much care
and responsibility. Upon him as treasurer had fallen a great share
of the burden of bringing a large manufacturing establishment through
two years of financial depression, and his admirable constitution had
weakened under the strain. But now a twinkle came into his gray eyes as
he said, "My dear, I hardly think Will is suffering. At least he wasn't
a month ago."
"Why, how do you know?" asked Mrs. Bradford. "Has he written at last?"
For answer Mr. Bradford drew from the depths of an inside pocket a
number of letters, from which he selected one whose envelope was torn
and travel-stained. It bore a Canadian and an American postage stamp,
as if the sender had been uncertain in which country it would be
mailed, and wished to prepare it against either contingency.
At sight of the foreign stamp Ralph,--or "Roly," as he had been known
ever since a certain playmate had called him "Roly-poly" because of his
plumpness,--aged fifteen, was awake in an instant. Up to that moment
his energies had been entirely absorbed in the laudable business of
dulling a very keen appetite, but it quickly became evident that his
instincts as a stamp collector were even keener. He had paused in the
act of raising a bit of bread to his mouth, and made such a comical
figure with his lips expectantly wide apart that his younger sister
Helen, a little maid of nine, was betrayed into a sudden and violent
fit of laughter, in which, in spite of the superior dignity of eighteen
years, their brother David was compelled to join.
"Yes," said Mr. Bradford, "I received a letter from Will this
afternoon. Suppose I read it aloud." Absolute quiet being magically
restored, he proceeded as follows:--
RAINY HOLLOW, CHILKAT PASS, Jan. 9, 1898.
DEAR BROTHER CHARLES,--I am storm-bound at this place, and waiting for
an opportunity to cross the summit, so what better can I do than write
the letter so long deferred?
I have been as far west as the Cook Inlet region, and have acquired
some good coal properties. While there I heard from excellent
authorities that rich gold placers have been discovered on the Dalton
trail, which leads from Pyramid Harbor to Dawson City, at a point about
two hundred miles inland. I thought it best to investigate the truth of
this rumor, and am now on the way to the designated locality, with an
Indian guide and dog-team.
Now, as you know, I was able to take claims for you as well as for
myself in the Cook Inlet country, by the powers of attorney which you
sent me, but in the Canadian territory to which I am going the law does
not allow this, and you can only secure a claim by purchase, or by
being here in person to take it up.
I don't suppose you are in a position to buy claims; but it struck
me, Charles, that it would be a grand good thing if you could leave
that work of yours awhile and rough it in these mountains. You looked
worn out when I saw you last, and you need a change. This is a rugged
country, but a healthful one if a man takes care of himself, and
nothing would do you more good than to take my advice and come. Why not
bring the boys along? Too much schooling isn't good for growing lads,
and they will lose nothing in the long run.
Come prepared to stay six months. I will write our friend Kingsley at
Seattle in regard to your outfit, and will send him directions for
the journey. Start at once, for I think there'll be a rush in this
direction very soon.
You'll be surprised to find how comfortable you can be in your tent
on the snow, even with the mercury below zero. Trust the directions I
shall send to Kingsley, and I'll guarantee you against the suffering
you read of, most of which is the result of ignorance and carelessness.
I send this letter out by an Indian who leaves here to-morrow.
With love to you all, I am,
Your brother,
WILLIAM C. BRADFORD.
"Uncle Will's a brick!" exclaimed Roly, promptly. "Of course we shall
go." Whereupon Helen burst into tears because she was not a boy. David
managed to preserve outward calmness, but his eyes sparkled as he
thought of the wonders he might soon see. As for Mrs. Bradford, she
scarcely knew whether to be sad or glad. She was willing to believe her
enthusiastic brother-in-law would not urge his own relatives to face
unreasonable dangers. But to think of being separated from them half a
year! After all, she could do no better than leave the matter to her
husband.
"Well, Charles," she said quite calmly, "what do you propose to do?"
David and Roly trembled in their seats, while Mr. Bradford regarded
them thoughtfully.
"I am inclined," he said at last, "to think favorably of Will's
proposal, so far as it concerns myself."
At the word "favorably" both boys jumped, but when they heard the last
of the sentence they looked very wretched and crestfallen. They did not
understand the whole of Uncle Will's letter, but there was absolutely
no doubt that he had suggested their coming. David ventured to remind
his father that they were both a year in advance of most boys of their
age in their school-work.
This argument appeared to have weight with Mr. Bradford. He reflected,
too, on the many youthful adventures of his own in the Adirondack
woods, which he had often narrated in their hearing. It was but natural
that they should wish to go. He was bound to admit that they had
studied carefully and well, and had fairly earned an outing. David,
dark-haired and brown-eyed like his mother, had reached the age of
rapid growth. He was shooting up like a weed, and his face was paler
than it should be. Roly was of light complexion, and round and ruddy.
Nothing more could be desired of him in the matter of health, yet his
father knew how keenly he would feel the disappointment if his brother
were permitted to go and he were left behind.
Mr. Bradford looked inquiringly at his wife. "Can you spare them?" he
asked.
It was a hard question. Mrs. Bradford would have preferred to keep the
boys at home, but she had travelled extensively before her marriage,
and knew the value of travel. She was ambitious for her sons and
wished them to have every advantage. But it was not without a flood of
affectionate tears that she consented at last to let them go.
The matter being thus decided, at a sitting, as it were, the evening
was spent in a study of maps and guide-books; and long after they went
to bed the boys lay awake and talked over their good fortune.
CHAPTER II
BUYING AN OUTFIT
In spite of his brother's injunction to hurry, Mr. Bradford was unable
to complete his arrangements until the first of March.
Mrs. Bradford's heart sank as she said "Good-by" to the three, and
watched the train roll away in the distance. Helen, too, was quite awed
by the solemnity of the occasion, but was comforted by the thought that
her Aunt Charlotte was coming in the absence of the rest of the family.
As for the boys, their spirits rose quickly after the sad moments of
parting, it being the pleasant privilege of youth to see only bright
skies ahead, and to leave responsibility to wiser brains. Neither David
nor Roly had been beyond New York, and the next few days were filled
with novel sights and experiences.
How strange it seemed to sit down to one of the little tables in the
dining-car, with its white spread and dainty dishes, and calmly make a
meal while being whirled through the country at sixty miles an hour!
But that was nothing to the sensation of lying in bed in a long,
dimly lighted sleeping-car which seemed to be flying through space.
What a delicious sense of motion! What power and speed the swaying on
the curves betrayed! Now they hear the hollow roar of a bridge, then
presently the deadened sound of the firm ground again; and they know
they are passing through a village when they recognize the clattering
echoes from freight-cars on a siding. And now the electric lights of
a large town gleam through the windows, and the train slows down and
stops. There is a babel of voices, the rumble of a truck along the
platform, the clink of a hammer against the car-wheels, and at last the
distant "All aboard!" and they are off again.
It was a long, long journey, and the boys realized as never before
the length and resources of their country. They crossed the snowy
prairies of Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, made a flying change of cars
at Chicago, passed through Wisconsin in a night, and found themselves
at St. Paul on the Mississippi, where, in the course of their rambles
about the city, David petitioned for a camera,--a petition which Mr.
Bradford willingly granted.
They crossed Minnesota that night, and North Dakota with its prairies
and Bad Lands the next day.
At Mandan the boys discovered near the station a taxidermist's shop in
which were finely mounted heads of moose, antelope, and buffalo,--the
latter worth two hundred dollars apiece. Stuffed but very lifelike
foxes looked craftily out from every corner, and gorgeous birds of
various species were perched all about. There were wonderful Indian
relics, too,--bows and arrows, headdresses of feathers, brightly beaded
moccasins, and great clubs of stone with wooden handles.
Through Montana and Idaho the surface of the country was diversified by
the spurs and peaks of the Rocky Mountains, while in Washington they
passed alternately through fertile tracts dotted with ranches, and
barren, sandy plains where only the gray sage-bushes thrived.
As in the Rockies, two engines were required to draw the heavy train
up the <DW72>s of the Cascade Range. Through a whole afternoon the
scenery was of the most beautiful description. They wound about the
forest-covered heights, now through a dark tunnel or a snowshed, now
along the edge of a precipice from which they could see the winding
valley far below and the snow-crowned peaks beyond. The change from the
sandy barrens to the deep snows and rich forests of the mountains was
as refreshing as it was sudden. Darkness was falling over the landscape
when the highest point of the pass was gained. The laborious puffing
and panting of the engines ceased, and the train ran swiftly down the
grades by the simple force of gravitation. Late that evening, after a
brief stop at Tacoma, they rumbled into Seattle,--six days from New
York.
Mr. Kingsley, who had been notified by telegraph of the time of
arrival, awaited the Bradfords on the platform. He shook Mr.
Bradford's hand warmly. They had been chums in their boyhood days, and
many years had passed since they had seen each other. The boys were
then introduced, and he greeted them cordially. He insisted that they
should stay at his home while they were in the city, and led the way to
a carriage, first cautioning Mr. Bradford against pickpockets, of whom
there were many in town at that time.
They were driven rapidly through lighted business streets, then up
several steep hills, and presently the carriage stopped before a
pleasant house, surrounded by a wide lawn with shrubs and shade trees,
some of which were putting forth green buds. Here Mrs. Kingsley and her
daughter Flora, aged fifteen, received the travellers.
David was awakened from a most refreshing slumber next morning by the
songs of birds outside his window. He roused Roly, and together they
jumped up and looked out. Below them to the west lay the city, and
beyond it sparkled the waters of Puget Sound. Beyond the Sound towered
a range of majestic snowy peaks which, they afterward learned, were
the Olympic Mountains. Turning to the south window, they saw in the
southeast the graceful form of Mount Rainier looming over fourteen
thousand feet into the clouds. It was a glorious morning, bright and
balmy.
At the breakfast table Mr. Kingsley said he had received full
directions regarding their needs on the trail, together with a rough
map of the country through which they were to travel. He was a jolly,
red-faced man, and the boys were sorry he was not going to accompany
them. He declared, however, when Mr. Bradford suggested it, that he was
too stout to walk so far, and wouldn't be hired to go until he could
ride in a railroad-car.
The entire day was devoted to the purchase of the outfit. As soon as
breakfast was over, Mr. Bradford and the boys, in company with Mr.
Kingsley, boarded a cable-car, which soon carried them down a hill
so steep that it was only with great difficulty that the passengers,
especially those unaccustomed to the performance, kept themselves from
sliding in a heap to the front of the car. Roly thought the sensation a
good deal like tobogganing, except that they did not go so fast.
There was a liveliness and stir in the crowds which thronged the
business streets, betokening the excitement due to the recent gold
discoveries. Hundreds of roughly dressed men crowded into the
outfitting establishments. Many of them were picturesque in yellow
Mackinaw coats, broad-brimmed felt hats, and knee boots. They came from
every State in the Union, but all had a common purpose, and seemed for
the most part strong, brave, good-tempered fellows, ready to laugh at
hardships and able to overcome all sorts of difficulties.
Entering one of the large stores recommended by Mr. Kingsley, Mr.
Bradford opened negotiations for the necessary clothing, aided by the
list which his brother had prepared. Suits of heavy black Mackinaw were
selected, and as time was precious and fit not important, Mr. Bradford
and David were provided for from the ready-made stock. Roly was just
too small for the smallest suit in the store, but the proprietor
promised to make him a suit of the right material and have it ready in
two days. Stout canvas coats and blue overalls were then selected, and
underwear both heavy and light. Blue flannel shirts, rubber gloves for
the work of panning, heavy woollen caps, stockings and mittens, stout
shoes, and broad-brimmed felt hats were added. Then came rubber boots
reaching to the hips, and rubber "packs" for use with the snow-shoes.
Creepers, consisting of leather soles studded with sharp spikes, for
travel over ice, completed the list of footwear.
Owing to the lateness of the season, it was considered best to take
no furs, and very thick blankets and down quilts were substituted for
sleeping-bags. Two small mosquito-proof tents and one larger tent were
next secured.
The morning's work was completed by the selection of various small
articles such as towels, handkerchiefs, mosquito netting to fit over
their hats, toilet articles, a sewing kit, and dark glasses to protect
the eyes from the glare of the snow. They had brought a partial supply
of these things from home, owing to the forethought of good Mrs.
Bradford.
That afternoon the boys were given their freedom, as they could be of
no assistance to their father in the purchase of the hardware. At Mrs.
Kingsley's suggestion, with Flora for a guide, they took a cable-car to
Lake Washington, east of the city, where a great land-slide had wrecked
many houses.
When they returned it was nearly supper-time. Mr. Bradford had
completed his purchases, and the goods had been delivered at the house.
The boys could hardly wait for supper to be over, so eager were they
to rush out into the storeroom and inspect the new supplies, but at
last they were free to go. There stood three pairs of fine snow-shoes
made in Michigan. Mr. Kingsley slyly remarked that he would like to
be present when they first tried to use them, but when Mr. Bradford
observed that he had already been invited, the jolly gentleman
laughed and said he supposed, if he accepted, he would have to be a
participator in the gymnastics instead of a spectator, which might
interfere with his enjoyment of the occasion.
Mr. Bradford now took from its canvas case a double-barrelled shot-gun
of excellent workmanship and very light weight, which he handed to
David. The latter thought at once of the bear-skin which he had already
resolved to bring back to Flora, to whom he had taken a great fancy.
What a delight it would be to own the beautiful weapon now in his
hands! He had no idea that his father was about to test his sense of
fairness.
"I intend," said Mr. Bradford, "to give this gun to one of you boys.
Now, Dave, which do you think ought to have it?"
David found his desire and his generosity at once engaged in a
struggle. He had asked for a camera and received it. Ought he to have
all the good things? Thanks to his affection for Roly and his strong
sense of right, the struggle was brief.
"I think, sir," he replied after a moment, "that if you believe Roly is
old enough and careful enough, he ought to have it," and to prove his
sincerity he immediately turned the gun over to that delighted youth,
who was no less pleased than Mr. Bradford at this outcome. The latter
stepped to the corner of the room and presently returned, holding
something behind his back.
"Since you have made the right decision," said he, smiling, "I'm very
glad to give you this," and he handed to David a fine rifle.
David could hardly realize his good fortune, but he thanked his father
again and again and expressed his pleasure as well as he was able.
Mrs. Kingsley asked Mr. Bradford if he did not fear they would shoot
themselves or somebody else, to which that gentleman replied that
he should personally instruct them in the use of the weapons, and
take care that they were competent and careful before he allowed them
to hunt by themselves. As for himself, he expected to carry only a
revolver.
Outside the door stood three strong sleds, one about six feet long and
the others two feet shorter, which were to carry their supplies. Then
there were bread-tins, a frying-pan, and aluminum kettles and cups,
very light in weight, and made to nest one within another, thus taking
up the smallest possible space. The plates, forks, and spoons were also
of aluminum; but the knives, which required greater strength and a keen
edge, were of steel. There were three handsome hunting-knives and belts.
As his brother had a portable sheet-iron stove, as well as a whip-saw
and other tools, Mr. Bradford omitted those articles, but thought it
best to provide an axe for himself and hatchets for the boys, some
rope, a shovel, a pick, a gold-pan, compasses, fishing-lines and flies,
and a supply of medicines.
A rainstorm set in on the following day, but the boys were not to be
kept in the house. They visited a shipyard where eighteen light-draught
steamers were in process of construction for the Yukon River. Then at
Roly's suggestion they went down to the wharves, where countless great
sea-gulls flew to and fro, dipping occasionally to pick up stray bits
of food. Here they were just in time to witness the arrival of the
ocean steamer "Walla Walla," from San Francisco, with hundreds of
Klondikers on board,--a motley collection of rough-looking men, and not
a few women. They also saw an antiquated steamer with a very loud bass
whistle and a great stern paddle-wheel which churned up the water at a
furious rate.
While the boys were thus occupied, Mr. Bradford had been busy with the
food supply, and reported at the supper table that he had completed the
work, and the provisions had been sent down to the "Farallon,"--the
steamer which was to carry the little party northward. Being desired
by the boys to make known what sort of fare they might expect on the
trail, he read the list of the articles of food, the amount in each
case being estimated as sufficient for six months.
Mr. Kingsley asked if it was not the rule of the Canadian mounted
police to turn back at the boundary line all persons who did not have a
year's supplies, to which Mr. Bradford replied that such was the case
on the Chilkoot and White Pass trails from Dyea and Skagway, but he
understood that so few miners had yet gone in by the Dalton trail from
Pyramid Harbor through the Chilkat River valley that the police had not
yet established a post upon that trail.
The provisions upon Mr. Bradford's list included bacon, salt pork,
ham, flour, corn meal, rolled oats, beans, rice, crystallized eggs;
evaporated fruits such as apples, peaches, apricots, plums, and
prunes; evaporated vegetables, including potatoes, onions, cabbages,
and soup vegetables; raisins, canned butter, hard-tack, baking powder,
sugar, salt, pepper, concentrated vinegar, mustard, tea, coffee, cocoa,
condensed milk, and beef tablets.
With such a variety the boys felt sure they could live very
comfortably, and were surprised that so many fruits and vegetables, and
even butter and eggs, could be had in such convenient forms.
CHAPTER III
FROM SEATTLE TO PYRAMID HARBOR
Late in the afternoon of the following day, the 9th of March, the
travellers embarked on the "Farallon," commanded by the genial Captain
Roberts. The "Farallon" was not as graceful a vessel as the Eastern
steamers to which the boys were accustomed, but she appeared to be
stanch and seaworthy,--qualities eminently to be desired in view of the
six days' voyage of a thousand miles which lay before her.
Her decks were now thronged with hopeful Klondikers of all ages and
descriptions, the majority men, though there were a few brave women who
preferred roughing it with their husbands to staying behind in physical
comfort, but alone. On the bow temporary stalls had been built for a
score of horses intended for use in the coast towns or on the trails.
As the wharf receded David caught a glimpse of a girlish figure and a
face framed in wavy light hair, among the crowd. Flora saw him at the
same moment and waved her handkerchief. How pretty and winsome she
looked! David vowed then and there to bring her that bear-skin at all
hazards. At last, when he could see her no longer, he turned toward
the stateroom on the upper deck abaft the pilot-house, where his father
was stowing away the brown canvas bags which contained their clothing
and such small articles as they would need on the trail.
We must pass rapidly over the events of the voyage, filled though it
was with experiences quite new to the Bradfords. At Victoria, the
pleasant little capital of British Columbia, situated on the southern
point of Vancouver Island, where the steamer remained half a day, Mr.
Bradford procured two mining licenses which gave himself and David the
right to locate claims in Canadian territory, cut timber, and take game
and fish. These licenses cost ten dollars apiece, and no claim could be
legally staked without one. Poor Roly, not having reached the required
age of eighteen, could take neither license nor claim. This business
completed, they wandered through the city, David securing a picture of
the magnificent Parliament building then just finished.
Two days later, after passing up the sheltered Gulf of Georgia and
crossing the broad, blue expanse of Queen Charlotte's Sound, the
steamer entered a narrow waterway between | 1,136.743119 |
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Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
(This book was produced from scanned images of public
domain material from the Google Print project.)
SOME ACCOUNT OF THE PUBLIC LIFE OF THE LATE LIEUTENANT-GENERAL
SIR GEORGE PREVOST, BART.
PARTICULARLY OF HIS SERVICES
IN
THE CANADAS;
INCLUDING
A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES ON HIS MILITARY CHARACTER,
CONTAINED
IN AN ARTICLE IN THE QUARTERLY REVIEW FOR OCTOBER, 1822.
"Either this is envy in you, folly, or mistaking; the
very stream of his life, and the business he hath
helmed, must upon a warranted need give him a better
proclamation. Let him be but testimonied in his own
bringings forth, and he shall appear a statesman and a
soldier. Therefore you speak unskilfully; or if your
knowledge be more, it is much darkened in your malice."
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR T. CADELL, STRAND;
AND
T. EGERTON, WHITEHALL.
1823.
J. M'Creery, Printer,
Tooks Court, Chancery Lane.
SOME ACCOUNT
OF
THE PUBLIC LIFE OF THE LATE LIEUT.-GENERAL
SIR GEORGE PREVOST, BART.
_&c. &c._
The character and conduct of individuals in high and responsible
situations, will naturally and necessarily be the subject of free and open
discussion. The conduct of a soldier is more particularly exposed to this
scrutiny. His success or his failure is a matter of such powerful interest
to his country, that he generally receives even more than his full measure
of approbation or of blame. Notwithstanding all the difficulties of forming
a correct judgment on the merits of military operations, there is perhaps
no subject upon which public opinion expresses itself so quickly and so
decidedly. Disappointed in the sanguine hopes which they had entertained,
and mortified by the consciousness of defeat, the public too frequently
imagine cause for censure, and without a competent knowledge of the facts
necessary to enable them to form a sound and satisfactory judgment,
unhesitatingly condemn those who have perhaps passed in their service a
long life of anxiety and labour. But while, in the moment of irritation,
they are thus disposed to impugn the conduct of their military servants,
they are no less ready, on more deliberate inquiry, and a fuller
understanding of the facts, to grant them a candid and generous acquittal.
These observations are peculiarly applicable to the case of the late
Lieutenant-General Sir George Prevost, who, after having devoted to his
country thirty-five of the best years of his life; after having
distinguished himself in many gallant actions; and after having preserved
to the crown of Great Britain some of its most valuable foreign
possessions, was called upon, at the close of his honourable career, to
answer charges which vitally affected his reputation, and which he was
prevented by death from fully and clearly refuting.
Painful as it was to the friends of Sir George Prevost to allow a single
stain to rest upon the memory of so brave and distinguished a soldier, more
especially when they possessed the means of removing every doubt as to his
conduct, they yet considered an appeal to the candour and justice of his
country as unnecessary. The violent prejudices which at one period existed
against the late Commander of the Forces in the Canadas were gradually
wearing away; his memory had been honored by a just tribute of his
Sovereign's regret and approbation; and the scenes in which he had been so
conspicuous an actor, had ceased to be a matter of general interest. Under
these circumstances, the relatives of Sir George Prevost would confidently
have entrusted his reputation to the unprejudiced judgment of posterity,
had they not seen, with equal regret and indignation, a late attempt to
revive the almost exploded calumnies and misrepresentations of which he had
been the victim. That the Quarterly Review[1] should have lent its pages to
an attack like this, will, upon the perusal of the present volume, excite
the surprise of every candid person; and it is chiefly for the purpose of
correcting the mis-statements into which the Reviewer has been led, that
the following pages are presented to the public.
Before entering more particularly upon the subject of Sir George Prevost's
conduct, so wantonly attacked in the article above alluded to, it may not
be thought improper briefly to advert to his father's services and to his
own early history. From his military career, previous to his appointment to
the chief command in British North America, it will clearly appear that he
was not without reason selected by his Majesty's Government for the
discharge of that important trust.
Major-General Augustin Prevost, the father of the late Sir George Prevost,
was by birth a citizen of Geneva: he entered the British service as a
Cornet in the Earl of Albemarle's regiment of Horse Guards, and was present
at the battle of Fontenoy, where he was wounded.
Having attained the rank of Major in the 60th regiment in 1759, he had the
honor of serving under General Wolfe, and received a severe wound in the
head, whilst gallantly forcing a landing, twenty miles above Quebec, under
the immediate command of General Carleton, afterwards Lord Dorchester. Upon
the reduction of Canada, Major Prevost was promoted to the rank of
Lieutenant-Colonel, and served with reputation at the capture of Martinique
and the Havannah. In 1775, he was appointed to the command in East Florida,
and, in 1778, he eminently distinguished himself by his defence of
Savannah, against the attack of a very superior force of French and
Americans, under the Comte d'Estaing and General Lincoln. The garrison
consisted of only 2,300 men, while the force of the besiegers amounted to
8,000, supported by a fleet of twenty-two sail of the line. Such, however,
was the determined energy of Major-General Prevost, and of the British
soldiers and sailors under his command, that the enemy were compelled to
abandon the enterprize, after thirty-three days' close siege.[2]
In 1780, Major-General Prevost, after having served twenty-two years in
North America and the West Indies, returned to England, to enjoy the
pleasing consciousness of having always discharged his duty with zeal and
effect. His health was much impaired by a long residence in climates
unfavorable to an European constitution, and, on the 6th May, 1786, he
died, at Greenhill Grove, near Barnet, in the sixty-third year of his age.
In 1765, Major-General Prevost married, at Lausanne, a daughter of M.
Grand, of that place;[3] and, on her husband's departure to America, Mrs.
Prevost accompanied him thither. George, their eldest son, was born while
General Prevost was stationed in the province of New Jersey, on the 19th
May, 1767. Being designed by his father for the military profession, he
was placed with that view at Lochee's academy, at Chelsea, and his
education was finished at Colmar, on the continent. He obtained his first
commission in the 60th regiment, and being removed upon promotion to the
28th foot, he joined that corps at Gibraltar in 1784. He obtained his
majority in 1790, and early in 1791, he took the command of the 3d
battalion of the 60th regiment at Antigua. In March, 1794, he was promoted
to a Lieutenant-Colonelcy in the 60th, and, in 1795, he proceeded to
Demerara, and from thence to St. Vincent's, at that time attacked by the
French. He was there actively employed in suppressing the Carib
insurrection, and in resisting the French invasion, and at the storming of
the Vigie he commanded a column. In October, 1795, he was ordered to
Dominica, to relieve Lieutenant-Colonel Madden in the command of the troops
in that island; but in January, 1796, he resumed the command of the 3d
battalion of the 60th regiment at St. Vincent's, where he was twice
severely wounded in successfully resisting the enemy's progress towards the
capital of the colony, after the defeat of Major-General Stewart at
Colonary. In consequence of his wounds, Lieutenant-Colonel Prevost obtained
leave to return to England. The sense which the inhabitants of St.
Vincent's entertained of his services was warmly expressed in an address
from the Council and House of Representatives in that island.[4]
On his arrival in England, Lieutenant-Colonel Provost was appointed
Inspecting Field Officer. In January, 1798, he obtained the rank of
Colonel, and proceeded in the same year to the West Indies as
Brigadier-General. In 1798, he was removed from the command of the troops
at Barbadoes to St. Lucie, as Commandant, where he was afterwards appointed
Lieutenant-Governor, in compliance with a request from the inhabitants.[5]
Brigadier-General Prevost continued to perform the duties of Governor of
St. Lucie until the peace of 1802, when that colony was restored to the
French. The address which he received from the inhabitants of the island on
his departure, fully evinces the popularity which he had acquired;[6] while
the letters addressed to him, and to Colonel Brownrigg, Secretary to H.R.H.
the Commander in Chief, by Sir Thomas Trigge, at that time Commander of the
Forces in the West Indies, satisfactorily prove that he merited the
confidence reposed in him by Government.[7]
In July, Brigadier-General Prevost arrived in England, when the government
of Dominica was immediately offered to him by Lord Hobart. Having accepted
the appointment, he embarked for that island in the following November, and
landed there on the 25th of December, 1802.
In the following year, he volunteered his services on the expedition
against St. Lucie and Tobago, and served as second in command under
Lieutenant-General Grenfield, who in his general order, after the capture
of Morne Fortunee, thus mentions his conduct upon that occasion:--
"To the cool and determined conduct of Brigadier-general Prevost and
Brigadier-General Brereton, who led the two columns of attack, may be
attributed the success of the action; but to Brigadier-General Prevost it
must be acknowledged, that to his counsel and arrangements the Commander of
the forces attributes the glory of the day."[8]
The important services of Brigadier-General Prevost upon this expedition,
received numerous tributes of approbation from distinguished military
characters;[9] and even the French Commander could not refrain from
expressing the esteem and admiration with which he regarded his generous
enemy.[10] Upon the successful termination of this affair,
Brigadier-General Prevost returned to his Government at Dominica, where
nothing worthy of notice occurred until the 22d February, 1805, when an
unexpected attack was made by a French squadron from Rochefort. The result
of that attack was highly creditable to the valour and military talents of
the Governor, who after having, with the few troops under his command,
disputed inch by inch the landing of the French force, amounting to 4,000
men, and covered by an overwhelming fire from the ships, succeeded in
effecting a retreat to the fort of Prince Rupert. The French Commander in
Chief, after vainly summoning him to surrender, reimbarked the whole of his
troops, and sailed to Guadaloupe.[11]
The terms in which H. R. H. the Commander in Chief was pleased to express
his sense of General Prevost's conduct upon this occasion, were highly
gratifying to his feelings.[12] In consequence of his gallant and
successful defence of the Colony, General Prevost received a communication
from the Speaker of the House of Assembly,[13] conveying to him the thanks
of that body, and informing him that a Thousand Guineas had been voted by
them for the purchase of a sword and a service of plate, to be presented to
him in testimony of their gratitude and approbation.[14] A similar
testimonial to the conduct of General Prevost upon this occasion was given
by | 1,136.744159 |
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Produced by David Widger
AT SUNWICH PORT
BY
W. W. JACOBS
Drawings by Will Owen
Contents
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
List of Illustrations
"His Perturbation Attracted the Attention of His Hostess."
"A Welcome Subject of Conversation in Marine Circles."
"The Suspense Became Painful."
"Captain Hardy Lit his Pipe Before Replying."
"Mr. Wilks Watched It from the Quay."
| 1,136.782352 |
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Produced by D. Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
MARCO PAUL'S
ADVENTURES
IN PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE.
FORESTS OF MAINE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
ROLLO, JONAS, AND LUCY BOOKS.
BOSTON:
T. H. CARTER & COMPANY,
118 1/2 WASHINGTON STREET.
1843.
Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1843,
BY T. H. CARTER,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.
STEREOTYPED BY
GEORGE A. CURTIS,
N. ENGLAND TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY, BOSTON.
[Illustration: FROM THE BOYS' AND GIRLS' MAGAZINE.]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE MOUTH OF THE KENNEBEC. 11
II. THE LOST BUCKET. 21
III. A RAFT. 32
IV. THE DESERT ISLAND. 43
V. THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT. 54
VI. EBONY AND PINE. 66
VII. THE BEAR IN THE MILL. 77
VIII. THE BIVOUACK. 88
IX. THE ENCAMPMENT. 98
X. LOST IN THE WOODS. 110
XI. THE SHINGLE WEAVER'S. 120
XII. A VOYAGE ON THE POND. 130
[Illustration: _"Joe and two others were despatched to row it
ashore."_--See p. 31.]
PREFACE.
The design of the series of volumes, which it is intended to issue under
the general title of MARCO PAUL'S ADVENTURES IN THE PURSUIT OF
KNOWLEDGE, is not merely to entertain the reader with a narrative of
juvenile adventures, but also to communicate, in connexion with them, as
extensive and varied information as possible, in respect to the
geography, the scenery, the customs and the institutions of this
country, as they present themselves to the observation of the little
traveller, who makes his excursions under the guidance of an intelligent
and well-informed companion, qualified to assist him in the acquisition
of knowledge and in the formation of character. The author will endeavor
to enliven his narrative, and to infuse into it elements of a salutary
moral influence, by means of personal incidents befalling the actors in
the story. These incidents are, of course, imaginary--but the reader may
rely upon the strict and exact truth and fidelity of all the
descriptions of places, institutions and scenes, which are brought
before his mind in the progress of the narrative. Thus, though the
author hopes that the readers, who may honor these volumes with their
perusal, will be amused and interested by them, his design throughout
will be to instruct rather than to entertain.
MARCO PAUL IN THE FORESTS
OF MAINE.
CHAPTER I.
THE MOUTH OF THE KENNEBEC.
One summer, Forester and Marco Paul formed a plan for going to Quebec.
Marco was very much interested in going to Quebec, as he wanted to see
the fortifications. Forester had told him that Quebec was a
strongly-fortified city, being a military post of great importance,
belonging to the British government. Marco was very much pleased at the
idea of seeing the fortifications, and the soldiers that he supposed
must be placed there to defend them.
On their way to Quebec, they had to sail up the Kennebec in a steamboat.
As they were passing along, Marco and Forester sat upon the deck. It was
a pleasant summer morning. They had been sailing all night upon the sea,
on the route from Boston to the mouth of the Kennebec. They entered the
mouth of the Kennebec very early in the morning, just before Forester
and Marco got up. And thus it happened that when they came up upon the
deck, they found that they were sailing in a river. The water was smooth
and glassy, shining brilliantly under the rays of the morning sun, which
was just beginning to rise.
The shores of the river were rocky and barren. Here and there, in the
coves and eddies, were what appeared to Marco to be little fences in the
water. Forester told him that they were for catching fish. The steamboat
moved very slowly, and every moment the little bell would ring, and the
engine would stop. Then the boat would move more slowly still, until the
bell sounded again for the engine to be put | 1,136.883797 |
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AUTOBIOGRAPHY
OF
SIR GEORGE BIDDELL AIRY, K.C.B.,
M.A., LL.D., D.C.L., F.R.S., F.R.A.S.,
HONORARY FELLOW OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE,
ASTRONOMER ROYAL FROM 1836 TO 1881.
EDITED BY
WILFRID AIRY, B.A., M.Inst.C.E.
1896
PREFACE.
The life of Airy was essentially that of a hard-working, business man,
and differed from that of other hard-working people only in the
quality and variety of his work. It was not an exciting life, but it
was full of interest, and his work brought him into close relations
with many scientific men, and with many men high in the State. His
real business life commenced after he became Astronomer Royal, and
from that time forward, during the 46 years that he remained in
office, he was so entirely wrapped up in the duties of his post that
the history of the Observatory is the history of his life. For writing
his business life there is abundant material, for he preserved all his
correspondence, and the chief sources of information are as follows:
(1) His Autobiography.
(2) His Annual Reports to the Board of Visitors.
(3) His printed Papers entitled "Papers by G.B. Airy."
(4) His miscellaneous private correspondence.
(5) His letters to his wife.
(6) His business correspondence.
(1) His Autobiography, after the time that he became Astronomer Royal,
is, as might be expected, mainly a record of the scientific work
carried on at the Greenwich Observatory: but by no means exclusively
so. About the time when he took charge of the Observatory there was an
immense development of astronomical enterprise: observatories were
springing up in all directions, and the Astronomer Royal was expected
to advise upon all of the British and Colonial Observatories. It was
necessary also for him to keep in touch with the Continental
Observatories and their work, and this he did very diligently and
successfully, both by correspondence and personal intercourse with the
foreign astronomers. There was also much work on important subjects
more or less connected with his official duties--such as geodetical
survey work, the establishment of time-balls at different places,
longitude determinations, observation of eclipses, and the
determination of the density of the Earth. Lastly, there was a great
deal of time and work given to questions not very immediately
connected with his office, but on which the Government asked his
assistance in the capacity of general scientific adviser: such were
the Correction of the Compass in iron ships, the Railway Gauge
Commission, the Commission for the Restoration of the Standards of
Length and Weight, the Maine Boundary, Lighthouses, the Westminster
Clock, the London University, and many other questions.
Besides those above-mentioned there were a great many subjects which
he took up out of sheer interest in the investigations. For it may
fairly be said that every subject of a distinctly practical nature,
which could be advanced by mathematical knowledge, had an interest for
him: and his incessant industry enabled him to find time for many of
them. Amongst such subjects were Tides and Tidal Observations,
Clockwork, and the Strains in Beams and Bridges. A certain portion of
his time was also given to Lectures, generally on current astronomical
questions, for he held it as his duty to popularize the science as far
as lay in his power. And he attended the meetings of the Royal
Astronomical Society with great regularity, and took a very active
part in the discussions and business of the Society. He also did much
work for the Royal Society, and (up to a certain date) for the British
Association.
All of the foregoing matters are recorded pretty fully in his
Autobiography up to the year 1861. After that date the Autobiography
is given in a much more abbreviated form, and might rather be regarded
as a collection of notes for his Biography. His private history is
given very fully for the first part of his life, but is very lightly
touched upon during his residence at Greenwich. A great part of the
Autobiography is in a somewhat disjointed state, and appears to have
been formed by extracts from a number of different sources, such as
Official Journals, Official Correspondence, and Reports. In editing
the Autobiography it has been thought advisable to omit a large number
of short notes relating to the routine work of the Observatory, to
technical and scientific correspondence, to Papers communicated to
various Societies and official business connected with them, and to
miscellaneous matters of minor importance. These in the aggregate
occupied a great deal of time and attention. But, from their detached
nature, they would have but little general interest. At various places
will be found short Memoirs and other matter by the Editor.
(2) All of his Annual Reports to the Board of Visitors are attached to
his Autobiography and were evidently intended to be read with it and
to form part of it. These Reports are so carefully compiled and are so
copious that they form a very complete history of the Greenwich
Observatory and of the work carried on there during the time that he
was Astronomer Royal. The first Report contained only four pages, but
with the constantly increasing amount and range of work the Reports
constantly increased in volume till the later Reports contained 21
pages. Extracts from these Reports relating to matters of novelty and
importance, and illustrating the principles which guided him in his
conduct of the Observatory, have been incorporated with the
Autobiography.
(3) The printed "Papers by G.B. Airy" are bound in 14 large quarto
volumes. There are 518 of these Papers, on a great variety of
subjects: a list of them is appended to this history, as also is a
list of the books that he wrote, and one or two of the Papers which
were separately printed. They form a very important part of his
life's work, and are frequently referred to in the present
history. They are almost all to be found in the Transactions of
Societies or in newspapers, and extend over a period of 63 years (1822
to 1885). The progress made in certain branches of science during this
long period can very fairly be traced by these Papers.
(4) His private correspondence was large, and like his other papers it
was carefully arranged. No business letters of any kind are included
under this head. In this correspondence letters are occasionally found
either dealing with matters of importance or in some way
characteristic, and these have been inserted in this biography. As
already stated the Autobiography left by Airy is confined almost
entirely to science and business, and touches very lightly on private
matters or correspondence.
(5) The letters to his wife are very numerous. They were written
during his occasional absences from home on business or for
relaxation. On these occasions he rarely let a day pass without
writing to his wife, and sometimes he wrote twice on the same
day. They are full of energy and interest and many extracts from them
are inserted in this history. A great deal of the personal history is
taken from them.
(6) All correspondence in any way connected with business during the
time that he was Astronomer Royal is to be found at the Royal
Observatory. It is all bound and arranged in the most perfect order,
and any letter throughout this time can be found with the greatest
ease. It is very bulky, and much of it is, in a historical sense,
very interesting. It was no doubt mainly from this correspondence that
the Autobiography, which so far as related to the Greenwich part of it
was almost entirely a business history, was compiled.
The history of the early part of his life was written in great detail
and contained a large quantity of family matter which was evidently
not intended for publication. This part of the Autobiography has been
compressed. The history of the latter part of his life was not written
by himself at all, and has been compiled from his Journal and other
sources. In both these cases, and occasionally in short paragraphs
throughout the narrative, it has been found convenient to write the
history in the third person.
2, THE CIRCUS,
GREENWICH.
NOTE.
The Syndics of the Cambridge University Press desire to express their
thanks to Messrs Macmillan & Co. for their courteous permission to use
in this work the steel engraving of Sir George Biddell Airy published
in _Nature_ on October 31, 1878.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Personal Sketch of George Biddell Airy
CHAPTER II.
From his birth to his taking his B.A. Degree at Cambridge
CHAPTER III.
At Trinity College, Cambridge, from his taking his B.A. Degree to his
taking charge of the Cambridge Observatory as Plumian Professor
CHAPTER IV.
At Cambridge Observatory, from his taking charge of the Cambridge
Observatory to his residence at Greenwich Observatory as Astronomer
Royal
CHAPTER V.
At Greenwich Observatory, 1836-1846
CHAPTER VI.
At Greenwich Observatory, 1846-1856
CHAPTER VII.
At Greenwich Observatory, 1856-1866
CHAPTER VIII.
At Greenwich Observatory, 1866-1876
CHAPTER IX.
At Greenwich Observatory, from January 1st, 1876, to his resignation
of office on August 15th, 1881
CHAPTER X.
At the White House, Greenwich, from his resignation of office on
August 15th, 1881, to his death on January 2nd, 1892
APPENDIX.
List of Printed Papers by G.B. Airy, and List of Books written by
G.B. Airy
INDEX.
CHAPTER I.
PERSONAL SKETCH OF GEORGE BIDDELL AIRY.
The history of Airy's life, and especially the history of his life's
work, is given in the chapters that follow. But it is felt that the
present Memoir would be incomplete without a reference to those
personal characteristics upon which the work of his life hinged and
which can only be very faintly gathered from his Autobiography.
He was of medium stature and not powerfully built: as he advanced in
years he stooped a good deal. His hands were large-boned and
well-formed. His constitution was remarkably sound. At no period in
his life does he seem to have taken the least interest in athletic
sports or competitions, but he was a very active pedestrian and could
endure a great deal of fatigue. He was by no means wanting in physical
courage, and on various occasions, especially in boating expeditions,
he ran considerable risks. In debate and controversy he had great
self-reliance, and was absolutely fearless. His eye-sight was
peculiar, and | 1,136.943359 |
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WE CAN'T HAVE EVERYTHING
By Rupert Hughes
BOOKS BY RUPERT HUGHES
We Can't Have Everything
In A Little Town
The Thirteenth Commandment
Clipped Wings
What Will People Say?
The Last Rose Of Summer
Empty Pockets
[Illustration: WAR, THE SUNDERER, HAD REACHED THEM WITH HIS GREAT
DIVORCE]
WE CAN'T HAVE EVERYTHING
A NOVEL BY RUPERT HUGHES
AUTHOR OF _What Will People Say?_
ILLUSTRATED BY JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG
CONTENTS
THE FIRST BOOK MISS KEDZIE THROPP COMES TO TOWN
THE SECOND BOOK MRS. TOMMIE GILFOYLE HAS HER PICTURE TAKEN
THE THIRD BOOK MRS. JIM DYCKMAN IS NOT SATISFIED
THE FOURTH BOOK THE MARCHIONESS HAS QUALMS
THE FIRST BOOK
MISS KEDZIE THROPP COMES TO TOWN
CHAPTER I
Kedzie Thropp had never seen Fifth Avenue or a yacht or a butler or a
glass of champagne or an ocean or a person of social prominence. She
wanted to see them.
For each five minutes of the day and night, one girl comes to New York
to make her life; or so the compilers of statistics claim.
This was Kedzie Thropp's five minutes.
She did not know it, and the two highly important, because extremely
wealthy, beings in the same Pullman car never suspected her--never
imagined that the tangle they were already in would be further knotted,
then snipped, then snarled up again, by this little mediocrity.
We never can know these things, but go blindly groping through the crowd
of fellow-gropers, guessing at our presents and getting our pasts all
wrong. What could we know of our futures?
Jim Dyckman, infamously rich (through no fault of his own), could not
see far enough past Charity Coe Cheever that day to make out Kedzie
Thropp, a few seats removed. Charity Coe--most of Mrs. Cheever's friends
still called her by her maiden name--sat with her back turned to Kedzie;
and latterly Charity Coe was not looking over her shoulder much. She did
not see Kedzie at all.
And Kedzie herself, shabby and commonplace, was so ignorant that if she
looked at either Jim or Charity Coe she gave them no heed, for she had
never even heard of them or seen their pictures, so frequent in the
papers.
They were among the whom-not-to-know-argues-one-self-unknowns. But
there were countless other facts that argued Kedzie Thropp unknown and
unknowing. As she was forever saying, she had never had anything or been
anywhere or seen anybody worth having, being, or seeing.
But Jim Dyckman, everybody said, had always had everything, been
everywhere, known everybody who was anybody. As for Charity Coe, she had
given away more than most people ever have. And she, too, had traveled
and met.
Yet Kedzie Thropp was destined (if there is such a thing as being
destined--at any rate, it fell to her lot) to turn the lives of those
two bigwigs topsy-turvy, and to get her picture into more papers than
both of them put together. A large part of latter-day existence has
consisted of the fear or the favor of getting pictures in the papers.
It was Kedzie's unusual distinction to win into the headlines at her
first entrance into New York, and for the quaintest of reasons. She had
somebody's else picture published for her that time; but later she had
her very own published by the thousand until the little commoner, born
in the most neglected corner of oblivion, grew impudent enough to weary
of her fame and prate | 1,136.944503 |
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by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
THE
NATURAL HISTORY
OF
THE VARIETIES OF MAN.
THE
NATURAL HISTORY
OF
THE VARIETIES OF MAN.
BY
ROBERT GORDON LATHAM, M.D., F.R.S.,
LATE FELLOW OF KING'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE;
ONE OF THE VICE-PRESIDENTS OF THE ETHNOLOGICAL SOCIETY, LONDON;
CORRESPONDING MEMBER TO THE ETHNOLOGICAL SOCIETY,
NEW YORK, ETC.
LONDON:
JOHN VAN VOORST, PATERNOSTER ROW.
M.D.CCCL.
LONDON:
Printed by S. & J. BENTLEY and HENRY FLEY,
Bangor House, Shoe Lane.
TO
EDWIN NORRIS, ESQ.,
OF THE ROYAL ASIATIC SOCIETY,
TO WHOSE VALUABLE INFORMATION AND SUGGESTIONS
MANY OF THE STATEMENTS AND OPINIONS OF THE PRESENT VOLUME
OWE THEIR ORIGIN,
~The following Pages are Inscribed~,
BY HIS FRIEND,
THE AUTHOR.
London, July 25th, 1850.
PREFACE.
If the simple excellence of a book were a sufficient reason for making
it the only one belonging to the sciences which it professed to
illustrate, few writers would be desirous of attempting a systematic
work upon the Natural History of their species, after the admirable
Physical History of Mankind, by the late and lamented Dr. Prichard,--a
work which even those who are most willing to defer to the supposed
superior attainments of Continental scholars, are not afraid to place
on an unapproached eminence in respect to both our own and other
countries. The fact of its being the production of one who was at
one and the same time a physiologist amongst physiologists, and a
scholar amongst scholars, would have made it this; since the grand
ethnological _desideratum_ required at the time of its publication, was
a work which, by combining the historical, the philological, and the
anatomical methods, should command the attention of the naturalist, as
well as of the scholar. Still it was a work of a rising rather than of
a stationary science; and the very stimulus which it supplied, created
and diffused a spirit of investigation, which--as the author himself
would, above all men, have desired--rendered subsequent investigations
likely to modify the preceding ones. A subject that a single book,
however encyclopædic, can represent, is scarcely a subject worth taking
up in earnest.
Besides this, there are two other reasons of a more special and
particular nature for the present addition to the literature of
Ethnology.
I. For each of the great sections of our species, the accumulation of
facts, even in the eleventh hour, has out-run the anticipations of
the most impatient; indeed so rapidly did it take place during the
latter part of Dr. Prichard's own lifetime, that the learning which he
displays in his latest edition, is, in its way, as admirable as the
bold originality exhibited in the first sketch of his system, published
as early as 1821; rather in the shape of a university thesis than of a
full and complete production. Thus--
For Asia, there are the contributions of Rosen to the philology of
Caucasus; without which (especially the grammatical sketch of the
Circassian dialects) the present writer would have considered his
evidence as disproportionate to his theory. Then, although matters
of Archæology rather than of proper Ethnography, come in brilliant
succession, the labours of Botta, Layard, and Rawlinson, on Assyrian
antiquity, to which may be added the bold yet cautious criticism and
varied observations of Hodgson, illustrating the obscure Ethnology
of the Sub-Himalayan Indians, and preeminently confirmatory of the
views of General Briggs and others as to the real affinities of the
mysterious hill-tribes of Hindostan. Add to these much new matter in
respect to the Indo-Chinese frontiers of China, Siam, and the Burmese
Empire; and add to this the result of the labours of Fellowes, Sharpe,
and Forbes, upon the monuments and language of Asia Minor. I do not
say that any notable proportion of these latter investigations have
been incorporated in the present work; their proper place being in a
larger and more discursive work. Nevertheless, they have helped to
determine those results to the general truth of which the present
writer commits himself.
Africa has had a bright light thrown over more than one of its darkest
portions by Krapff for the eastern coast, by Dr. Beke for Abyssinia,
by the Tutsheks for the Gallas and Tumalis, by the publications of
the Ethnological Society of Paris, and the researches of the American
and English Missionaries for many other of its ill-understood and
diversified populations, especially those to the south and west.
The copious extract from Mr. Jukes's Voyage of the _Fly_, show at once
how much has been added; yet, at the same time, how much remains to be
learned in respect to our knowledge of New Guinea; whilst the energy of
the Rajah Brooke has converted Borneo, from a _terra incognita_, into
one of the clear points of the ethnological world.
In _South_ America, although many of the details of Sir Robert
Schomburgk were laid before the world previous to the publication of
the fifth volume of the Physical History, many of them, though now
published, were at that time still in manuscript.
The great field, however, has been the _northern_ half of the New
World; and the researches which have illustrated this have illustrated
Polynesia and Africa as well. What may be called the _personal_ history
of the United States Exploring Expedition, was published in 1845. The
greatest mass, however, of philological _data_ ever accumulated by a
single enquirer--the contents of Mr. Hale's work on the philology
of the voyage--is recent. The areas which this illustrates are the
Oregon territory and California; and the proper complements to it are
Pickering's work on the Races of Man, the Smithsonian Contributions
to Knowledge, and the last work of the venerable Gallatin on the
Semi-civilized nations of America.
Surely these are elements pregnant with modifying doctrines!
II. For each of the great sections of our species, the present
classification presents some differences, which if true, are important.
Whether such novelties (so to say) are of a value at all proportionate
to that of the fresh _data_, is a matter for the reader rather than
the writer to determine--the latter is satisfied with indicating
them. The extension of the Seriform group, so as to include the
Caucasian Georgians and Circassians on the one side, and the Indians
of Hindostan on the other; the generalization of the term Oceanic so
as to include the Australians and Papuans--the definitude given to
the Micronesian origin of the Polynesians--the new distribution of
the Siberian Samöeids, Yeniseians, and Yukahiri--the formation of
the class of Peninsular Mongolidæ, so as to affiliate the Americans
(previously recognised as fundamentally of one and the same stock) with
the north-eastern Asiatics--the sequences in the way of transition from
the Semitic Arab to the <DW64>--the displacement of the Celtic nations,
and the geographical extension given to the original Slavonians, are
points for which the present writer is responsible; not, however,
without previous minute investigation. The proofs thereof lie in tables
of vocabularies, analyses of grammars, and ethnological reasonings,
far too elaborate to be fit for aught else than a series of special
monographs; not for a general view of the human species, as classified
according to its varieties.
This _classification_ is the _chief_ end of his work; and, more than
anything else, it is this attempt at classification which has given
a subordinate position to certain other departments of his subject.
Where such is not the case, one of three reasons stands in its place
to account for the matters enlarged upon, apparently at the expense of
others.
1. The novelty of the information acquired.
2. The extent to which the subject has been previously either
overlooked or thrown in the back-ground.
3. And, finally (though perhaps the plea is scarcely a legitimate one),
the degree of attention which has been paid to the particular question
by its expositor.
LONDON, _July 25th, 1850_.
BIBLIOGRAPHY.
_Notice of the chief works either used as authorities, and not
particularly quoted, or else illustrative of certain portions of the
subject._
Arnold.--History of Rome--Early Italian nations.
| 1,137.040207 |
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OSCAR WILDE
This Edition consists of 500 copies.
Fifty copies have been printed on
hand-made paper.
[Illustration: 'HOW UTTER.']
Oscar Wilde
A STUDY
FROM THE FRENCH OF
ANDRÉ GIDE
WITH INTRODUCTION, NOTES AND BIBLIOGRAPHY
BY
STUART MASON
Oxford
THE HOLYWELL PRESS
MCMV
* * * * *
TO
DONALD BRUCE WALLACE,
OF NEW YORK,
IN MEMORY OF A VISIT LAST SUMMER TO
BAGNEUX CEMETERY,
A PILGRIMAGE OF LOVE WHEN WE
WATERED WITH OUR TEARS THE ROSES AND LILIES
WITH WHICH WE COVERED
THE POET'S GRAVE.
Oxford,
September, 1905.
[The little poem on the opposite page first saw the light in the pages
of the _Dublin University Magazine_ for September, 1876. It has not
been reprinted since. The Greek quotation is taken from the _Agamemnon_
of Æschylos, l. 120. ]
Αἴλινον, αἴινον εἰπὲ,
Τὸ δ᾽ ευ̉ νικάτω
O well for him who lives at ease
With garnered gold in wide domain,
Nor heeds the plashing of the rain,
| 1,137.040302 |
2023-11-16 18:36:01.0211700 | 4,747 | 11 |
E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Linda Cantoni, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 24627-h.htm or 24627-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/4/6/2/24627/24627-h/24627-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/4/6/2/24627/24627-h.zip)
Transcriber's note:
Some illustrations have been moved so as not to break up the
flow of the text.
BOOKER T. WASHINGTON
Builder of a Civilization
by
EMMETT J. SCOTT and LYMAN BEECHER STOWE
With a Preface by Theodore Roosevelt
[Illustration: logo]
Illustrated from Photographs
Garden City New York
Doubleday, Page & Company
1918
Copyright, 1916, by
Doubleday, Page & Company
All rights reserved, including that of
translation into foreign languages,
including the Scandinavian
Copyright, 1916, by the Outlook Publishing Co.
[Illustration: BOOKER T. WASHINGTON]
FOREWORD
In the passing of a character so unique as Dr. Booker T. Washington,
many of us, his friends, were anxious that his biography should be
written by those best qualified to do so. It is therefore a source of
gratification to us of his own race to have an account of Dr.
Washington's career set forth in a form at once accurate and readable,
such as will inspire unborn generations of <DW64>s and others to love
and appreciate all mankind of whatever race or color. It is especially
gratifying that this biography has been prepared by the two people in
all America best fitted, by antecedents and by intimate acquaintance
and association with Dr. Washington, to undertake it. Mr. Lyman
Beecher Stowe is the grandson of Harriet Beecher Stowe, whose "Uncle
Tom's Cabin" had a very direct influence on the abolition of slavery,
and Mr. Emmett J. Scott was Dr. Washington's loyal and trusted
secretary for eighteen years.
ROBERT R. MOTON.
Principal Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute.
_Tuskegee Institute, Alabama,_
_August 1, 1916._
AUTHORS' PREFACE
This is not a biography in the ordinary sense. The exhaustive "Life
and Letters of Booker T. Washington" remains still to be compiled. In
this more modest work we have simply sought to present and interpret
the chief phases of the life of this man who rose from a slave boy to
be the leader of ten millions of people and to take his place for all
time among America's great men. In fact, we have not even touched upon
his childhood, early training, and education, because we felt the
story of those early struggles and privations had been ultimately well
told in his own words in "Up from Slavery." This autobiography,
however, published as it was fifteen years before his death, brings
the story of his life only to the threshold of his greatest
achievements. In this book we seek to give the full fruition of his
life's work. Each chapter is complete in itself. Each presents a
complete, although by no means exhaustive, picture of some phase of
his life.
We take no small satisfaction in the fact that we were personally
selected by Booker Washington himself for this task. He considered us
qualified to produce what he wanted: namely, a record of his struggles
and achievements at once accurate and readable, put in permanent form
for the information of the public. He believed that such a record
could best be furnished by his confidential associate, working in
collaboration with a trained and experienced writer, sympathetically
interested in the welfare of the <DW64> race. This, then, is what we
have tried to do and the way we have tried to do it.
We completed the first four chapters before Mr. Washington's death,
but he never read them. In fact, it was our wish, to which he agreed,
that he should not read what we had written until its publication in
book form.
EMMETT J. SCOTT,
LYMAN BEECHER STOWE.
PREFACE
It is not hyperbole to say that Booker T. Washington was a great
American. For twenty years before his death he had been the most
useful, as well as the most distinguished, member of his race in the
world, and one of the most useful, as well as one of the most
distinguished, of American citizens of any race.
Eminent though his services were to the people of his own color, the
white men of our Republic were almost as much indebted to him, both
directly and indirectly. They were indebted to him directly, because
of the work he did on behalf of industrial education for the <DW64>,
thus giving impetus to the work for the industrial education of the
White Man, which is, at least, as necessary; and, moreover, every
successful effort to turn the thoughts of the natural leaders of the
<DW64> race into the fields of business endeavor, of agricultural
effort, of every species of success in private life, is not only to
their advantage, but to the advantage of the White Man, as tending to
remove the friction and trouble that inevitably come throughout the
South at this time in any <DW64> district where the <DW64>s turn for
their advancement primarily to political life.
The indirect indebtedness of the White Race to Booker T. Washington
is due to the simple fact that here in America we are all in the end
going up or down together; and therefore, in the long run, the man who
makes a substantial contribution toward uplifting any part of the
community has helped to uplift all of the community. Wherever in our
land the <DW64> remains uneducated, and liable to criminal suggestion,
it is absolutely certain that the whites will themselves tend to tread
the paths of barbarism; and wherever we find the <DW52> people as a
whole engaged in successful work to better themselves, and respecting
both themselves and others, there we shall also find the tone of the
white community high.
The patriotic white man with an interest in the welfare of this
country is almost as heavily indebted to Booker T. Washington as the
<DW52> men themselves.
If there is any lesson, more essential than any other, for this
country to learn, it is the lesson that the enjoyment of rights should
be made conditional upon the performance of duty. For one failure in
the history of our country which is due to the people not asserting
their rights, there are hundreds due to their not performing their
duties. This is just as true of the White Man as it is of the <DW52>
Man. But it is a lesson even more important to be taught the <DW52>
Man, because the <DW64> starts at the bottom of the ladder and will
never develop the strength to climb even a single rung if he follow
the lead of those who dwell only upon their rights and not upon their
duties. He has a hard road to travel anyhow. He is certain to be
treated with much injustice, and although he will encounter among
white men a number who wish to help him upward and onward, he will
encounter only too many who, if they do him no bodily harm, yet show a
brutal lack of consideration for him. Nevertheless his one safety lies
in steadily keeping in view that the law of service is the great law
of life, above all in this Republic, and that no man of color can
benefit either himself or the rest of his race, unless he proves by
his life his adherence to this law. Such a life is not easy for the
White Man, and it is very much less easy for the Black Man; but it is
even more important for the Black Man, and for the Black Man's people,
that he should lead it.
As nearly as any man I have ever met, Booker T. Washington lived up to
Micah's verse, "What more doth the Lord require of thee than to do
Justice and love Mercy and walk humbly with thy God." He did justice
to every man. He did justice to those to whom it was a hard thing to
do justice. He showed mercy; and this meant that he showed mercy not
only to the poor, and to those beneath him, but that he showed mercy
by an understanding of the shortcomings of those who failed to do him
justice, and failed to do his race justice. He always understood and
acted upon the belief that the Black Man could not rise if he so acted
as to incur the enmity and hatred of the White Man; that it was of
prime importance to the well-being of the Black Man to earn the good
will of his white neighbor, and that the bulk of the Black Men who
dwell in the Southern States must realize that the White Men who are
their immediate physical neighbors are beyond all others those whose
good will and respect it is of vital consequence that the Black Men of
the South should secure.
He was never led away, as the educated <DW64> so often is led away,
into the pursuit of fantastic visions; into the drawing up of plans
fit only for a world of two dimensions. He kept his high ideals,
always; but he never forgot for a moment that he was living in an
actual world of three dimensions, in a world of unpleasant facts,
where those unpleasant facts have to be faced; and he made the best
possible out of a bad situation from which there was no ideal best to
be obtained. And he walked humbly with his God.
To a very extraordinary degree he combined humility and dignity; and I
think that the explanation of this extraordinary degree of success in
a very difficult combination was due to the fact that at the bottom
his humility was really the outward expression, not of a servile
attitude toward any man, but of the spiritual fact that in very truth
he walked humbly with his God.
Nowhere was Booker T. Washington's wisdom shown better than in the
mixture of moderation and firmness with which he took precisely the
right position as to the part the Black Man should try to take in
politics. He put the whole case in a nutshell in the following
sentences:
"In my opinion it is a fatal mistake to teach the young black man and
the young white man that the dominance of the white race in the South
rests upon any other basis than absolute justice to the weaker man. It
is a mistake to cultivate in the mind of any individual or group of
individuals the feeling and belief that their happiness rests upon the
misery of some one else, or their wealth upon the poverty of some one
else. I do not advocate that the <DW64> make politics or the holding of
office an important thing in his life. I do urge, in the interests of
fair play for everybody, that a <DW64> who prepares himself in
property, in intelligence, and in character to cast a ballot, and
desires to do so, should have the opportunity."
In other words, while he did not believe that political activity
should play an important part among <DW64>s as a whole, he did believe
that in the interests of the White, as well as in the interests of the
<DW52> race, the upright, honest, intelligent Black Man or <DW52>
Man should be given the right to cast a ballot if he possessed the
qualities which, if possessed by a White Man, would make that White
Man a valuable addition to the suffrage-exercising class.
No man, White or Black, was more keenly alive than Booker T.
Washington to the threat of the South, and to the whole country, and
especially to the Black Man himself, contained in the mass of
ignorant, propertyless, semi-vicious Black voters, wholly lacking in
the character which alone fits a race for self-government, who
nevertheless have been given the ballot in certain Southern States.
In my many conversations and consultations with him it is, I believe,
not an exaggeration to say that one-half the time we were discussing
methods for keeping out of office, and out of all political power, the
ignorant, semi-criminal, shiftless Black Man who, when manipulated by
the able and unscrupulous politician, Black or White, is so dreadful a
menace to our political institutions. But he felt very strongly, and I
felt no less strongly, that one of the most efficient ways of warring
against this evil type was to show the <DW64> that, if he turned his
back on that type, and fitted himself to be a self-respecting citizen,
doing his part in sustaining the common burdens of good citizenship,
he would be freely accorded by his White neighbors the privileges and
rights of good citizenship. Surely there can be no objection to this.
Surely there can be no serious objection thus to keep open the door of
hope for the thoroughly decent, upright, self-respecting man, no
matter what his color.
In the same way, while Booker T. Washington firmly believed that the
attention of the <DW52> race should be riveted, not on political
life, but on success sought in the fields of honest business endeavor,
he also felt, and I agreed with him, that it was to the interest of
both races that there should be appointments to office of Black Men
whose characters and abilities were such that if they were White Men
their appointments would be hailed as being well above the average,
and creditable from every standpoint. He also felt, and I agreed with
him, that it was essential that these appointments should be made
relatively most numerous in the North--for it is worse than useless to
preach virtue to others, unless the preachers themselves practise it;
which means that the Northern communities, which pride themselves on
possessing the proper attitude toward the <DW64>, should show this
attitude by their own acts within their own borders.
I profited very much by my association with Booker T. Washington. I
owed him much along many different lines. I valued greatly his
friendship and respect; and when he died I mourned his loss as a
patriot and an American.
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
_Sagamore Hill,_
_August 28, 1916._
CONTENTS
PAGE
FOREWORD BY ROBERT R. MOTON v
AUTHORS' PREFACE vii
PREFACE BY THEODORE ROOSEVELT ix
CHAPTER
I. THE MAN AND HIS SCHOOL IN THE MAKING 3
II. LEADER OF HIS RACE 19
III. WASHINGTON: THE EDUCATOR 57
IV. THE RIGHTS OF THE <DW64> 82
V. MEETING RACE PREJUDICE 107
VI. GETTING CLOSE TO THE PEOPLE 135
VII. BOOKER WASHINGTON AND THE <DW64> FARMER 164
VIII. BOOKER WASHINGTON AND THE <DW64> BUSINESS MAN 185
IX. BOOKER WASHINGTON AMONG HIS STUDENTS 222
X. RAISING HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS A YEAR 248
XI. MANAGING A GREAT INSTITUTION 272
XII. WASHINGTON: THE MAN 300
ILLUSTRATIONS
Booker T. Washington _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
Tuskegee in the making. Nothing delighted Mr.
Washington more than to see his students doing
the actual work of erecting the Tuskegee
Institute buildings 12
Tuskegee Institute students laying the foundation
for one of the four Emery buildings 14
"His influence, like that of his school, was at first
community wide, then county wide, then State
wide, and finally nation wide" 16
A study in black. Note the tensity of expression
with which the group is following his each and
every word 32
Showing some of the teams of farmers attending the
Annual Tuskegee <DW64> Conference 58
An academic class. A problem in brick masonry 62
Mr. Washington in characteristic pose addressing
an audience 136
Mr. Washington silhouetted against the crowd upon
one of his educational tours 136
Mr. Washington in typical pose speaking to an
audience 136
A party of friends who accompanied Dr. Washington
on one of his educational tours 138
This old woman was a regular attendant at the
Tuskegee <DW64> Conference 170
The cosmopolitan character of the Tuskegee student
body is shown by the fact that during the
past year students have come from the foreign
countries or colonies of foreign countries indicated
by the various flags shown in this picture 238
In 1906 the Tuskegee Institute celebrated its 25th
Anniversary. A group of well-known American
characters attended 248
Some of Mr. Washington's humble friends 274
Soil analysis. The students are required to work
out in the laboratory the problems of the field
and the shop 274
Mr. Washington was a great believer in the sweet
potato 280
Mr. Washington had this picture especially posed
to show off to the best advantage a part of the
Tuskegee dairy herd 290
Mr. Washington feeding his chickens with green
stuffs raised in his own garden 306
Mr. Washington in his onion patch 306
Mr. Washington sorting in his lettuce bed 306
BOOKER T. WASHINGTON
BUILDER OF A CIVILIZATION
CHAPTER ONE
THE MAN AND HIS SCHOOL IN THE MAKING
It came about that in the year 1880, in Macon County, Alabama, a
certain ex-Confederate colonel conceived the idea that if he could
secure the <DW64> vote he could beat his rival and win the seat he
coveted in the State Legislature. Accordingly, the colonel went to the
leading <DW64> in the town of Tuskegee and asked him what he could do
to secure the <DW64> vote, for <DW64>s then voted in Alabama without
restriction. This man, Lewis Adams by name, himself an ex-slave,
promptly replied that what his race most wanted was education and what
they most needed was industrial education, and that if he (the
colonel) would agree to work for the passage of a bill appropriating
money for the maintenance of an industrial school for <DW64>s, he
(Adams) would help to get for him the <DW64> vote and the election.
This bargain between an ex-slaveholder and an ex-slave was made and
faithfully observed on both sides, with the result that the following
year the Legislature of Alabama appropriated $2,000 a year for the
establishment of a normal and industrial school for <DW64>s in the
town of Tuskegee. On the recommendation of General Armstrong of
Hampton Institute a young <DW52> man, Booker T. Washington, a recent
graduate of and teacher at the Institute, was called from there to
take charge of this landless, buildingless, teacherless, and
studentless institution of learning.
This move turned out to be a fatal mistake in the political career of
the colonel. The appellation of "<DW65> lover" kept him ever after
firmly wedged in his political grave. Thus, by the same stroke, was
the career of an ex-slaveholder wrecked and that of an ex-slave made.
This political blunder of a local office-seeker gave to education one
of its great formative institutions, to the <DW64> race its greatest
leader, and to America one of its greatest citizens.
One is tempted to feel that Booker T. Washington was always popular
and successful. On the contrary, for many years he had to fight his
way inch by inch against the bitterest opposition, not only of the
whites, but of his own race. At that time there was scarcely a <DW64>
leader of any prominence who was not either a politician or a
preacher. In the introduction to "Up from Slavery," Mr. Walter H. Page
says of his first experience many years ago with Booker Washington: "I
had occasion to write to him, and I addressed him as 'The Rev. Booker
T. Washington.' In his reply there was no mention of my addressing him
as a clergyman. But when I had occasion to write to him again, and
persisted in making him a preacher, his second letter brought a
postscript: 'I have no claim to Rev.' I knew most of the <DW52> men
who at that time had become prominent as leaders of their race, but I
had not then known one who was neither a politician nor a preacher;
and I had not heard of the head of an important school who
was not a preacher. 'A new kind of man in the world,' I said
to myself--'a new kind of man surely if he looks upon his task as an
economic one instead of a theological one."
And just because Booker Washington did look "upon his task as an
economic one instead of a theological one" he was at first regarded
with suspicion by most of the preachers of his race and by some openly
denounced as irreligious and the founder of an irreligious school.
Like so many men of greater opportunity in all ages and places, many
of these <DW64> ministers confounded theology and religion. Finding no
theology about Booker Washington or his school, they assumed there was
no religion. Some of them even went | 1,137.04121 |
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The
Story of Genesis and Exodus,
AN EARLY ENGLISH SONG,
ABOUT A.D. 1250.
EDITED
FROM A UNIQUE MS. IN THE LIBRARY OF CORPUS CHRISTI COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE,
WITH INTRODUCTION, NOTES, AND GLOSSARY,
BY THE
REV. RICHARD MORRIS, LL.D.,
AUTHOR OF "HISTORICAL OUTLINES OF ENGLISH ACCIDENCE;"
EDITOR OF "HAMPOLE'S PRICKS OF CONSCIENCE;" "EARLY ENGLISH ALLITERATIVE
POEMS,"
ETC. ETC.;
ONE OF THE VICE-PRESIDENTS OF THE PHILOLOGICAL SOCIETY.
[Second and Revised Edition, 1873.]
LONDON:
PUBLISHED FOR THE EARLY ENGLISH TEXT SOCIETY,
BY N. TRÜBNER & CO., 57 & 59, LUDGATE HILL.
MDCCCLXV.
PREFACE.
DESCRIPTION OF THE MANUSCRIPT, ETC.
The Editor of the present valuable and interesting record of our old
English speech will, no doubt, both astonish and alarm his readers by
informing them that he has never seen the manuscript from which the work he
professes to edit has been transcribed.
But, while the truth must be told, the reader need not entertain the
slightest doubt or distrust as to the accuracy and faithfulness of the
present edition; for, in the first place, the text was copied by Mr F. J.
Furnivall, an experienced editor and a zealous lover of Old English lore;
and, secondly, the proof sheets have been most carefully read with the
manuscript by the Rev. W. W. Skeat, who has spared no pains to render the
text an accurate copy of the original.[1] I have not been satisfied with
merely the general accuracy of the text, but all _doubtful_ or _difficult_
passages have been most carefully referred to, and compared with the
manuscript, so that the more questionable a word may appear, either as
regards its _form_ or _meaning_, the more may the reader rest assured of
its correctness, so that he may be under no apprehension that he is
perplexed by any typographical error, but feel confident that he is dealing
with the reading of the original copy.
The editorial portion of the present work includes the punctuation,
marginal analysis, conjectural readings, a somewhat large body of
annotations on the text of the poem, and a Glossarial Index, which, it is
hoped, will be found to be complete, as well as useful for reference.
The Corpus manuscript[2] is a small volume (about 8 in. × 4½ in.), bound in
vellum, written on parchment in a hand of about 1300 A.D., with several
final long ſ's, and consisting of eighty-one leaves. Genesis ends on fol.
49_b_; Exodus has the last two lines at the top of fol. 81_a_.
The writing is clear and regular; the letters are large, but the words are
often very close together. Every initial letter has a little dab of red on
it, and they are mostly capitals, except the _b_, the _f_, the _ð_, and
sometimes other letters. Very rarely, however, _B_, _F_, and _Ð_ are found
as initial letters.
The illuminated letters are simply large vermilion letters without
ornament, and are of an earlier form than the writing of the rest of the
manuscript. Every line ends with a full stop (or metrical point), except,
very rarely, when omitted by accident. Whenever this stop occurs in the
middle of a line it has been marked thus (.) in the text.
DESCRIPTION OF THE POEM.
Our author, of whom, unfortunately, we know nothing, introduces his subject
to his readers by telling them that they ought to love a rhyming story
which teaches the "layman" (though he be learned in no books) how to love
and serve God, and to live peaceably and amicably with his fellow
Christians. His poem, or "song," as he calls it, is, he says, turned out of
Latin into English speech; and as birds are joyful to see the dawning, so
ought Christians to rejoice to hear the "true tale" of man's fall and
subsequent redemption related in the vulgar tongue ("land's speech"), and
in easy language ("small words").
So eschewing a "high style" and all profane subjects, he declares that he
will undertake to sing no other song, although his present task should
prove unsuccessful.[3] Our poet next invokes the aid of the Deity for his
song in the following terms:—
"Fader god of alle ðhinge,
Almigtin louerd, hegeſt kinge,
ðu giue me ſeli timinge
To thaunen ðis werdes biginninge,
ðe, leuerd god, to wurðinge,
Queðer ſo hic rede or ſinge!"[4]
Then follows the Bible narrative of Genesis and Exodus, here and there
varied by the introduction of a few of those sacred legends so common in
the mediæval ages, but in the use of which, however, our author is far less
bold than many subsequent writers, who, seeking to make their works
attractive to the "lewed," did not scruple to mix up with the sacred
history the most absurd and childish stories, which must have rendered such
compilations more amusing than instructive. It seems to have been the
object of the author of the present work to present to his readers, in as
few words as possible, the most important facts contained in the Books of
Genesis and Exodus without any elaboration or comment, and he has,
therefore, omitted such facts as were not essentially necessary to the
completeness of his narrative;[5] while, on the other hand, he has included
certain portions of the Books of Numbers and Deuteronomy,[6] so as to
present to his readers a complete history of the wanderings of the
Israelites, and the life of Moses their leader.
In order to excite the reader's curiosity, we subjoin a few passages, with
a literal translation:—
LAMECH'S BIGAMY.
Lamech is at ðe sexte kne,
ðe ſeuende man after adam,
ðat of caymes kinde cam.
ðiſ lamech waſ ðe firme man,
ðe bigamie firſt bi-gan.
Bigamie is unkinde ðing,
On engleis tale, twie-wifing;
for ai was rigt and kire bi-forn,
On man, on wif, til he was boren.
Lamech him two wifes nam,
On adda, an noðer wif ſellam.
Adda bar him ſune Iobal,
He was hirde wittere and wal;
Of merke, and kinde, and helde, & ble,
ſundring and ſameni[n]g tagte he;
Iobal iſ broðer ſong and glew,
Wit of muſike, wel he knew;
On two tableſ of tigel and braſ
wrot he ðat wiſtom, wiſ he was,
ðat it ne ſulde ben undon
If fier or water come ðor-on.
Sella wuneð oc lamech wið,
ghe bar tubal, a ſellic ſmið;
Of irin, of golde, ſiluer, and bras
To ſundren and mengen wiſ he was;
Wopen of wigte and tol of grið,
Wel cuðe egte and ſafgte wið.
Lamech is at the sixth degree,
The seventh man after Adam,
That of Cain's kin came.
This Lamech was the first man
Who bigamy first began.
Bigamy is unnatural thing,
In English speech, twi-wiving;
For aye was right and purity before,
One man, one wife, till he was born.
Lamech to him two wives took,
One Adah, another wife Zillah.
Adah bare him a son Jubal,
He was a [shep-]herd wise and able;
Of mark,[7] breed, age, and colour,
Separating and assembling taught he;
Jubal his brother poetry and music,
Craft of music, well he knew;
On two tables of tile and brass,
Wrote he that wisdom, wise he was,
That it should not be effaced
If fire or water came thereon.
Zillah dwelleth also Lamech with,
She bare Tubal, a wonderful smith;
Of iron, of gold, silver and brass
To separate and mix, wise he was;
Weapon of war and tool of peace,
Well could he hurt and heal with.
—(ll. 444-470.)
DEATH OF CAIN.
Lamech ledde long lif til ðan
ðat he wurð biſne, and haued a man
ðat ledde him ofte wudeſ ner,
To scheten after ðe wilde der;
Al-so he miſtagte, alſo he ſchet,
And caim in ðe wude iſ let;
His knape wende it were a der,
An lamech droge iſ arwe ner,
And letet flegen of ðe ſtreng,
Caim unwar[_n_]de it under-feng,
Gruſnede, and ſtrekede, and ſtarf wið-ðan.
Lamech wið wreðe iſ knape nam,
Vn-bente iſ boge, and bet, and slog,
Til he fel dun on dedeſ ſ<DW76>.
Twin-wifing and twin-manſlagt,
Of his ſoule beð mikel hagt.
Lamech led long life till then
That he became blind and had a man
That led him oft to woods near,
To shoot after the wild deer (animals);
As he mistaught, so he shot,
And Cain in the wood is let;
His knave (servant) weened it were a deer,
And Lamech drew his arrow near
And let it fly off the string,
Cain unwarned it received,
Groaned, fell prostrate (stretched) and died with-that.
Lamech with wrath his knave seized,
Unbent his bow, and beat and slew,
Till he fell down in death's swoon.
Twi-wiving (bigamy) and twi-slaughter (double homicide)
On his soul is great trouble (anxiety).
—(ll. 471-486.)
HOW THE CHILD MOSES BEHAVED BEFORE PHARAOH.
Ghe brogte him bi-foren pharaon,
And ðiſ king wurð him in herte mild,
So ſwide faiger was ðiſ child;
And he toc him on ſunes ſtede,
And hiſ corune on his heued he dede,
And let it ſtonden ayne ſtund;
ðe child it warp dun to ðe grund.
Hamoneſ likeneſ was ðor-on;
ðiſ crune is broken, ðiſ iſ miſdon.
Biſſop Eliopoleos
ſag ðiſ timing, & up he roſ;
"If ðiſ child," quad he, "mote ðen,
He ſal egyptes bale ben."
If ðor ne wore helpe twen lopen,
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[Illustration: Frontispiece THE TWO WAYS.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DOWN THE SNOW STAIRS;
OR,
FROM GOOD-NIGHT TO GOOD-MORNING.
BY ALICE CORKRAN,
Author of “Margery Merton’s Girlhood,” etc., etc.
WITH SIXTY ILLUSTRATIONS BY GORDON BROWNE.
[Illustration: Publisher’s Logo]
NEW YORK:
A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
----------
CHAP. PAGE
I. Christmas Eve 1
II. Kitty and Johnnie 17
III. Down the Snow Stairs 34
IV. Naughty Children Land 48
V. “To Daddy Coax’s House” 67
VI. Daddy Coax 85
VII. On the Other Side of the 112
Stream
VIII. Pictures in the Fog 122
IX. Love Speaks 151
X. In the Wood 162
XI. Kitty Dances with Strange 177
Partners
XII. “Eat or Be Eaten” 192
XIII. Play-Ground, and After 206
XIV. “I and Myself” 215
XV. Was it Johnnie’s Face? 229
XVI. At the Gate 242
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
----------
PAGE
The Two Ways FRONTISPIECE.
Restless Kitty 1
Johnnie and His Art Treasures 5
The Snow-Man 16
Down the Wide Staircase 16
Kitty’s Tears 22
Sliding Down the Balusters 28
The Snow-Man Visits Kitty 35
Following the Snow-Man 39
The Drollest Creature 40
Kitty and the Elf 45
Broken Toy Land 49
A Dismal Chorus 51
“A black creature glared at 54
her”
A Disagreeable Acquaintance 56
Little Cruel-Heart 61
A Good Fight 64
The Song of the Sillies 69
“I am not vain” 73
A Jam-Tart Too Many 78
Kitty and Daddy Coax 87
A Lively Wig 89
Sweetening the Fury 95
All Jam and No Powder 98
Little Spitfire 100
The Fight for the Flute 108
The Shadow of the Rod 111
“Peering out of the mist” 114
The White-Robed Stranger 119
Entangled in the Web 123
The Tramp of Weary Feet 126
Ice-Children 130
The Right One to Kick 133
A Hard Lesson 139
“Oh, to be hungry again!” 141
Faces! Faces!—a World of 145
Faces!
The Cry for the Kiss 152
Kitty’s Guardian Child 155
Kitty’s Naughty-Self Goblin 161
The Hanging Dwarf 166
Goblin Sloth 169
“Real yawning” 172
“At one bound she sprang 176
across”
The Frog-Like One 178
Step, Wriggle, and Bow 181
The Little Courtiers 185
Kitty’s Musings 188
Apple-Pie Corner 193
The Boy with the Suetty Voice 199
Struggling Onward 204
I and Myself 217
Mr. Take-care-of-himself 220
“A <DW36> like Johnnie” 226
A Merry Game 232
The Goblin Crew 236
Out of the Mist 241
At the Locked Gate 244
The Mist of Punishment Land 248
Home Again 251
“It is a secret” 254
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
CHRISTMAS EVE.
TOSS! toss! from one side to the other; still Kitty could not sleep.
The big round moon looked in at the window, for the curtain had not been
drawn, and it made a picture of the window on the wall opposite, and
showed the pattern on the paper; nosegays of roses, tied with blue
ribbon; roses and knots of blue ribbon; like no roses Kitty had ever
seen, and no blue ribbon she had ever bought.
Toss! toss! toss! she shut her eyes not to see the picture of the window
on the wall or the roses and the blue ribbon, yet she could not go to
sleep. It was always toss! toss! from one side to the other.
It was Christmas Eve, and outside the world was white with snow.
“It had been a dreadful day,” Kitty said to herself. “The last nine days
had been dreadful days, and this had been the dreadfulest of all.”
Her brother Johnnie was very ill; he was six years old, just two years
younger than herself; but he was much smaller, being a tiny <DW36>.
Next to her mother Kitty loved him more than anybody in the whole world.
All through those “dreadful” nine days she had not been allowed to see
him. She had many times knelt outside his door, and listened to his
feeble moan, but she had not been permitted to enter his room.
That morning she had asked the doctor if she could see Johnnie, as it
was Christmas Eve. The doctor had shaken his head and patted her hair.
“He must not be excited; he is still very ill. If he gets better after
to-night—then—perhaps!” he said.
She had overheard what he whispered to Nurse. “To-night will decide; if
he pulls through to-night.”
All day Kitty had thought of those words.
“To-night, if he pulls through to-night.” What did they mean? did they
mean that Johnnie might die to-night?
She had waited outside Johnnie’s room; but her mother had said, “No; you
cannot go in;” and Nurse had said, “You will make Johnnie worse if you
stand about, and he hears your step.”
Kitty’s heart was full of misery. “It was unkind not to let me in to see
Johnnie,” she said again and again to herself. She loved him so much!
She loved him so much! Then there was a “dreadful” reason why his
illness was worse for her to bear than for any one else. Kitty
remembered that ten days ago there had been a snow-storm; when the snow
had ceased she had gone out and made snowballs in the garden, and she
had asked her mother if Johnnie might come out and make snow-balls also.
“On no account,” her mother had answered; “Johnnie is weak; if he caught
a cold it would be very bad for him.”
Kitty remembered how the next morning she had gone into the meadow
leading out of the garden. There the gardener had helped her to make a
snow-man; and they had put a pipe into his mouth. She had danced around
the snow-man, and she had longed for Johnnie to see it.
Kitty remembered how she had run indoors and found Johnnie sitting by
the fire in his low crimson chair, his tiny crutch beside him, his
paint-box on the little table before him. He was painting a yellow sun,
with rays all round it.
It was Johnnie’s delight to paint. He would make stories about his
pictures; he told those stories to Kitty only. They were secrets. He
kept his pictures in an old tea-chest which their mother had given him,
and it had a lock and key. Johnnie kept all his treasures there—all his
little treasures, all his little secrets. They were so pretty and so
pitiful! They were his tiny pleasures in life. Johnnie was painting
“Good Children Land” and “Naughty Children Land.” Good Children Land he
painted in beautiful yellow gamboge; Naughty Children Land in black
India ink.
[Illustration]
Kitty in her bed to-night seemed to see the whole scene, and to hear her
own and Johnnie’s voices talking. She had rushed in, and Johnnie had
looked up, and he had begun to tell her the story of his picture.
“Look, Kitty!” he had said; “this is the portrait of the naughtiest
child, the very, very naughtiest that ever was; and he has come into
Good Children Land—by mistake, you know. Look! he has furry legs like a
goat, and horns and a tail, just because he is so naughty; but he is
going to become good. I will paint him getting good in my next picture.”
Kitty remembered how she had just glanced at the picture; “the
naughtiest child that ever was” looked rather like a big blot with a
tail, standing in front of the yellow sun. But she had been so full of
the thought of the snow-man that she had begun to speak about him at
once.
“Oh, Johnnie!” she had said, skipping about first on one foot, then on
the other. “The gardener and I have made such a snow-man. He’s as big as
the gardener, and ever so much fatter; and he’s got hands, but no legs,
only a stump, you know; and we’ve put a pipe into his mouth.”
[Illustration: THE SNOW-MAN.—Page 6.]
At this description Johnnie’s eyes had sparkled, and he had cried, “Oh!
I wish I could see him!”
Then she had gone on to say, still skipping about: “He has two holes for
his eyes, and they seem to look at me; and his face is as round as a
plate; he just looks like the man in the moon smoking a pipe.”
This description had roused Johnnie’s excitement, and he had stretched
an eager little hand toward his crutch.
“Please take me to see him! please take me to see him!” he had
entreated.
Kitty remembered that she had hesitated. “I am afraid it would give you
a cold,” she had said, looking at Johnnie with her head on one side.
“I shall put on my hat and comforter,” Johnnie had replied, grasping his
crutch.
Still, she remembered, she had hesitated.
Her mother had said, “Johnnie must not go out in the snow.” But then
Kitty had thought: “The sun is shining; and it will be for a moment
only.” She did so long for Johnnie to see the snow-man, and he wished it
so much. She remembered she had thought: “It can do him no harm just for
a moment.”
She had helped Johnnie on with his overcoat, and wrapped his comforter
round him, and put on his hat, and together they had gone out. There was
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Robert Annys: Poor Priest
[Illustration]
Robert Annys: Poor Priest
A Tale of the Great Uprising
By
ANNIE NATHAN MEYER
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd.
1901
_All rights reserved_
Copyright, 1901,
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Norwood Press
J. B. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
TO THE READER
Admirers of William Morris--among whom I count all his readers--will
recognize the personal description of John Ball as taken from his "A
Dream of John Ball." They will also note that some parts of his sermon
as well are from the same book. It seemed to me that certain bits of
Morris's imaginative work were too fine and true to be spared in any
attempt to set the blunt old poor priest before the modern reader. I
have no fear of bearing off undeserved palms; for just as a few of the
sayings of John Ball bear the marks of authenticity too clearly upon
them to be mistaken for mine, so such as are taken from Morris are as
clearly distinguished by the marks of supreme beauty and genius.
In the course of many years of close reading, it is inevitable that
there should have been woven into this book some of the ideas and
prepossessions of certain Church historians. Although many other
writers have been exceedingly helpful and suggestive, I want especially
to acknowledge my indebtedness to Renan, Kingsley, Fisher, Baldwin
Brown, Gosselin, Braun, Montalembert, Vincent, and Sheppard.
I
The great Minster of the Fens never looked lovelier than at the close
of a November day, 1379. The coloring of Fenland is not attuned to
the brightness of Spring or Summer, but there is in the late Autumn
a subtle quality that brings out its true charm. The dull browns
and yellows of the marshes, the warm red-browns of the rushes, the
pale greens of the swamp grasses with the glint of the sun low down
at their feet,--all on this day found just the right complement in
the great, heavy, gray clouds that broke here and there only to show
irregular bars of saffron sky. Just before night fell there was one
supreme moment when a patch of gold lingered in the north just over the
wonderful octagon, the glorious crown of St. Audrey, and the great west
front with its noble tower and its wealth of windows flung the orange
gleam of the setting sun over the landscape as a gauntlet proudly
thrown in the face of Night. The lordly outlines of the vast edifice
looked lordlier than ever as the slowly gathering darkness descended
and drew it up into itself.
The east wind blowing from over the sea, pungent with the odor of marsh
plants, was keen, and caused a man who was surveying the scene to
gather his thin gown more closely about him. Until he stirred, this man
might almost have been taken for a part of the landscape, so admirably
did his garb of coarse russet sacking harmonize with his surroundings.
Although he shivered slightly, he did not move from his position, but
remained with arms tightly folded on his breast, and his deep-set eyes
fixed earnestly upon the solemn pile before him. A solitary figure
he stood in the vast stretch of sky and land, and he felt himself
peculiarly alone. Yet as he faced the Cathedral there was no sign of
faltering or dread in his face, but rather a distinct note of defiance.
Not long before, the stately procession of priests had departed from
the Vesper service. A choir boy of angelic countenance, but impish
spirit, had for an instant trailed his violet robe in the dust and
flung the stone he picked up straight at the russet form. Not a priest
in line but envied the boy. Outwardly, the russet priest showed no
sign. He thought of St. Francis who had been stoned by the very ones
who later placed those stones under his direction. Also he thought of
the stoning of One greater than St. Francis.
One year before, at Oxford, Robert Annys had bidden farewell to his
beloved master, John Wyclif, and had become one of his noble band of
poor priests,--or russet priests, as they were familiarly dubbed,--who
went about the country, preaching the Gospel and teaching the people
how to read, that they might bring Holy Writ more closely into their
lives. As a student, he had passed many happy years by the side of
his great master at Balliol, translating the Bible into the language
of the people so that they might come to know God and love God by
themselves without the shadow of the priestly office ever between.
Nevertheless, although he had been well content to pass all his life in
that beautiful manner, when the time came that his master ordered him
out into the world, he went without a murmur and bravely, empty handed,
with no more thought of the morrow than had the twelve whom Christ had
bidden:--
"Take nothing for your journey, neither staff, nor wallet, nor bread,
nor money; neither have two coats."
Since then he had lived close to the people, he had been of the people.
He had come to them, not with the crumbs from the Communion table but
with the strong bread of life. He had preached the Gospel in the fields
while the heat rose in palpitating waves, and on the downs while the
hail beat on his bare head; he had prayed over them while the shears
dripped white from the sheep of their overlord; he had hungered with
them and thirsted with them and shared such coarse food as they had; he
had watched with them as some worn soul departed from its worn body.
His way had led to no sumptuous oratories of towered castles, to no
cushioned _prie-dieux_ in scented chambers. He had shrived, not grand
seigneurs and haughty dames whose momentary comfort had been disturbed
by the pricking of a superficial regret, but strong, simple souls who
trembled from the sway of tremendous feeling--men who thirsted for
the blood of their child's betrayer, victims who raged at infamous
injustice and brooded over desperate means to escape their thraldom.
No lightly felt peccadilloes were confessed to him, but the agony and
shame of those whose tortured souls hung betwixt heaven and hell.
And he had grown to love this life. He had thought to have a peculiar
aptitude for letters, and his master had never altered translation
wrought by him. Yet he knew now that his gift lay rather in swaying
men, and one short year had done much to make his name known from
Sussex to Lincolnshire. No wonder, then, that he had joy in his work,
for it is not given to man to know greater happiness than this: to
watch the face of a fellow-man kindle with a new and great hope, which
he knows he has planted within the other's breast. Yet deep down within
there had been slowly growing in his heart a secret questioning. He
had been warned by his master to hold himself strictly to the work
of spreading the knowledge of the Gospel, and he had been clearly
enjoined against undoing the peace of the realm and setting serfs
against their masters, as a certain mad priest named John Ball was even
at that moment doing, both by the reckless violence of his language
and the revolutionary quality of his theories. It was easy for Wyclif
in the shelter of the University to warn against over-haste and to
protest that education must come before a lasting reform could be
accomplished, and that one must build on solid foundations for the
future. It was not so easy for the wandering poor priest, with the
sufferings of the people ever before him, to refrain from pressing the
Gospel into immediate action. Annys began very soon to suspect that
it was impossible to feed the people with the knowledge of Holy Writ
and expect no indigestion to come from the strange diet. If Life truly
began to be tested by Holy Writ, some idols must fall--if the Church
Hierarchical, alas for it! If Christian society were to be modelled on
the plain teachings of its Founder, some strange sights would be seen.
Annys had not needed to be stoned to feel rise up within him a fierce
hatred toward that stately church that reared its head so haughtily
to heaven. Ah, truly he held with St. Boniface of old that "in the
catacombs the candlesticks were of wood, but the priests were golden.
_Now the candlesticks are of gold._"
That morning, when he preached to the men in the fields and told them
in homely language of the life of their Lord and His death to save
them, a summons had come from the Bishop of Ely bidding Robert Annys
appear before him. And, wondering what the Bishop could want of him
(unless to order him peremptorily from his diocese, in which case it
was scarcely necessary to do so in person), he had had himself rowed
over the wide-spreading meres that separated the isle of Ely from the
mainland. As he slowly approached the glorious pile, there came over
him with a curious stir the memory of that King Canute who had also
been thus rowed across and who had bade the oarsmen pause midway that
he might listen to the beautiful chanting of the monks.
Truth to tell, for all his passionate disdain for what lay outside of
the true heart of Christianity, he was more profoundly moved by the
beauty of Ely Minster than he would have dreamed it possible. For he
was an ardent student of history, and here before him was wrought as
true and noble an epic as ever was writ on parchment. Into these noble
arches and soaring towers, these delicate pinnacles, these exquisite
traceries, surely the adoring heart of Mediaevalism had lavishly poured
itself. This russet priest was an artist and worshipped beauty,
hence he could not look on Ely unmoved. He was an Englishman to the
fingertips, hence he could not stand on ground so alive with heroic
traditions and not thrill to the memory of them. As he stood there
in the gathering darkness before the church, he saw a long struggle
before him. He saw the Bishop of Ely and the whole powerful Church of
Rome leagued against him. And why? Because he followed Christ's clear
mandates. Yet he was certain that nothing that the Hierarchy could do
would conquer him. He would stand to the end, alone if need be, but
fearlessly true to his convictions, true to the master who had sent him
out into the world to do His work. Something of the grim determination
of those Saxons of old entered into him, those hardy warriors who had | 1,137.137737 |
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Note: Images of the original pages are available through
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http://archive.org/details/champagnestandar00lanerich
THE CHAMPAGNE STANDARD
by
MRS. JOHN LANE
Author of "Kitwyk," "Brown's Retreat," etc.
London: John Lane, The Bodley Head
New York: John Lane Company
MDCCCCV
Copyright, 1905,
by John Lane Company
The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
TO THE PUBLISHER
MY GENIAL AND
SUGGESTIVE CRITIC
_My Preface_
I was sitting alone with a lead-pencil, having a _tete-a-tete_ with a
sheet of paper. A brisk fire burned on the hearth, and through the
beating of the rain against the little, curved Georgian windows I could
hear the monotonous roll of the sea at the foot of the narrow street,
and the tear and crunching of the pebbles down the shingle as the waves
receded.
I had been ordered to write a preface to explain the liberty I had taken
in making miscellaneous observations about two great nations, and then
putting a climax to my effrontery by having them printed. So here I was
trying, with the aid of a lead-pencil and a sheet of paper, to construct
a preface, and that without the ghost of an idea how to begin. Nor was
the dim electric light illuminating; nor, in the narrow street, the
nasal invocation of an aged man with a green shade over his eyes, arm
in arm with an aged woman keenly alive to pennies, somewhere out of
whose interiors there emanated a song to the words, "Glowry, glowry,
hallaluh!"
In fact, all the ideas that did occur to me were miles away from a
preface. It was maddening! I even demanded that the ocean should stop
making such a horrid noise, if only for five minutes. And that set me
idly to thinking what would happen to the world if the tides should
really be struck motionless even for that short space of time. The idea
is so out of my line that it is quite at the service of any distressed
romancer, dashed with science, who, also, may be nibbling his pencil.
I sat steeped in that profound melancholy familiar to authors who are
required to say something and who have nothing to say. Finally, in a
despair which is familiar to such as have seen the first act of _Faust_,
I invoked that Supernatural Power who comes with a red light and bestows
inspiration.
"If you'll only help me to begin," I cried, "I'll do the rest!" For I
realised in what active demand his services must be.
I didn't believe anything would happen. Nothing ever does except in the
first act of _Faust_, and I must really take this opportunity to beg
Faust not to unbutton his old age so obviously. Still, that again has
nothing to do with my preface!
I reclined on a red plush couch before the fire and thought gloomily of
Faust's buttons, and how the supernatural never comes to one's aid these
material days, when my eyes, following the elegant outlines of the
couch, strayed to a red plush chair at its foot, strangely and
supernaturally out of place. And how can I describe my amazement and
terror when I saw on that red plush chair a big black cat, with his tail
neatly curled about his toes! A strange black cat where no cat had ever
been seen before! He stared at me, and I stared at him. Was he the Rapid
Reply of that Supernatural Power I had so rashly invoked? At the mere
thought I turned cold.
"Are you a message 'from the night's Plutonian shore'?" I said,
trembling, "or do you belong to the landlady?"
His reply was merely to blink, and indeed he was so black and the
background was so black that but for his blink I shouldn't have known he
was there.
"If," I murmured, "he recognises quotations from _The Raven_, it will be
a sign that he is going to stay forever." Whereupon I declaimed all the
shivery bits of that immortal poem, which I had received as a Christmas
present.
He was so far from being agitated that before I had finished he had
settled down in a cosy heap, with his fore-paws tucked under his black
shirt front, and was fast asleep, delivering himself of the emotional
purr of a tea kettle in full operation. For a moment I was appalled. Was
this new and stodgy edition of _The Raven_ going to stay forever?
"'Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore,'" I
urged, but all he did was to open one lazy eye, and wink. For a moment I
was frozen with horror. Was I doomed to live forever in the society of a
strange black cat, of possibly supernatural antecedents?
"'Take thy form from off my door,'" I was about to address him, but
paused, for, strictly speaking, he was not on my door. And just as I
was quite faint with apprehension, common-sense, which does not usually
come to the aid of ladies in distress, came to mine. Like a flash it
came to me that even if he stayed forever, _I_ needn't. I had only taken
the lodgings by the week. He was foiled.
With a new sense of security I again studied him, and I observed a
subtle change. He was evidently a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde kind of cat. I
became conscious of a complex personality. Though to the careless
observer he might appear to be only a chubby cat, full of purr, to me he
was rapidly developing into something more; in fact, mind | 1,137.137959 |
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_BEDTIME STORIES_
BULLY AND BAWLY NO-TAIL
(THE JUMPING FROGS)
BY
HOWARD R. GARIS | 1,137.283078 |
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
A superscript is denoted by ^x or ^{x}; for example, und^r or 19^{th}.
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.
More detail can be found at the end of the book.
[Illustration:
BY COMMAND OF His late Majesty WILLIAM THE IV^{TH}.
_and under the Patronage of_
Her Majesty the Queen
HISTORICAL RECORDS,
_OF THE_
British Army
_Comprising the
History of every Regiment
IN HER MAJESTY'S SERVICE._
_By Richard Cannon Esq^{re}._
_Adjutant Generals Office, Horse Guards._
London
_Printed by Authority_:
1837.
_Silvester & C^o. 27 Strand._
HISTORICAL RECORDS
OF THE
BRITISH | 1,137.383381 |
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Transcriber's Note.
A list of the changes made can be found at the end of the book.
Formatting and special characters are indicated as follows:
_italic_
_{subscript}
^{superscript}
[=i] i with macron
[)i] i with inverted breve
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
_PLAYER, POET, AND PLAYMAKER_
[Illustration]
[Illustration: W. Heydemann, Sc.
EDWARD ALLEYN.]
A CHRONICLE HISTORY
OF THE
LIFE AND | 1,137.385501 |
2023-11-16 18:36:01.4677360 | 2,096 | 8 | VOL. 153, SEPT. 12, 1917***
E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Punch, or the London Charivari, Sandra
Brown, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 153.
SEPTEMBER 12TH, 1917.
CHARIVARIA.
The _Cologne Gazette_ is of the opinion that the American troops, when
they arrive in France, will be hampered by their ignorance of the
various languages. But we understand that the Americans can shoot in any
language.
***
A weekly periodical is giving away a bicycle every other week. Meanwhile
_The Daily Telegraph_ continues to give away a Kaiser every day.
***
"I decline to have anything to do with the War," said a Conscientious
Objector to a North of England magistrate, "and I resent this
interference with my liberty." Indeed he is said to be so much annoyed
that he intends sending the War Office a jolly snappy letter about it.
***
CHARLIE CHAPLIN says a gossip writer is coming to England in the Autumn.
This disposes of the suggestion that arrangements were being made for
England to be taken over to him.
***
_Incidentally_ we notice that CHARLIE CHAPLIN has become a naturalised
American, with, we presume, permission to use the rank of Honorary
Britisher.
***
Before a Northern Tribunal an applicant stated that he was engaged in
the completion of an invention which would enable dumb people to speak
or signal with perfection. He was advised, however, to concentrate for a
while on making certain Germans say "Kamerad."
***
An Isle of Wight man has succeeded in growing a vegetable marrow which
weighs forty-three pounds. To avoid its being mistaken for the island he
has scratched his name and address on it.
***
Those in search of a tactless present will bear in mind that Mr. MARK
HAMBOURG has written a book entitled "How to Play the Piano."
***
The great flagstaff at Kew Gardens, which weighs 18 tons and is 215 feet
long, is not to be erected until after the War. This has come as a great
consolation to certain people who had feared the two events would clash.
***
In Mid Cheshire there is a scarcity of partridges, but there is plenty
of other game in Derbyshire. The Mid-Cheshire birds are of the opinion
that this cannot be too strongly advertised.
***
Thirteen years after it was posted at Watford a postcard has just
reached an Ealing lady inviting her to tea, and of course she rightly
protested that the tea was cold.
***
An estate near Goole has been purchased for L118,000, the purchaser
having decided not to carry out his first intention of investing that
amount in a couple of boxes of matches.
***
Herr Erzberger is known among his friends as "The Singing Socialist." We
are afraid however that if he wants peace he will have to whistle for it.
***
The Provisional Government in Russia, according to _The Evening News,_
has "always regarded an international debate on the questions of war and
pease as useful." But our Government, not being exactly provisional,
prefers to go on giving the enemy beans.
* * * * *
[Illustration: COMFORTING THOUGHT
When there are no taxis on your return from your holidays:
"OUR TRUE STRENGTH IS TO KNOW OUR OWN WEAKNESS."--_CHARLES KINGSLEY_.]
* * * * *
THE END OF AN EPISODE.
I write this in the beginning of a minor tragedy; if indeed the
severance of any long, helpful and sympathetic association can ever be
so lightly named. For that is precisely what our intercourse has been
these many weeks past; one of nervous and quickly roused irritation on
my part, of swift and gentle ministration on his.
At least once a day we have met during that period (and occasionally,
though rarely, more often), usually in those before-breakfast hours when
the temper of normal man is most exacting and uncertain. But his temper
never varied; the perfection of it was indeed among his finest
qualities. Morning after morning, throughout a time that, as it chanced,
has been full of distress and disappointment, would his soothing and
infinitely gentle touch recall me to content. That stroking caress of
his was a thing indescribable; one before which the black shadows left
by the hours of night seemed literally to dissolve and vanish.
And now the long expected, long dreaded has begun to happen. He, too, is
turning against me, as so many others of his fellows have done in the
past. Who knows the reason? What continued roughness on my part has at
last worn out even him? But for some days now there has been no
misreading the fatal symptoms--increasing irritability on the one side,
harshness turning to blunt indifference on the other. And this morning
came the unforgivable offence, the cut direct.
That settles it; to-morrow, with a still smarting regret, I unwrap a new
razor-blade.
* * * * *
THE WHOLE HOG.
["Victorian love-making was at best a sloppy business... modern
maidens have little use for half measures.... Primitive ideas
are beginning to assert themselves."--_Daily Paper._]
Betty, when you were in your teens
And shielded from sensation,
Despite a lack of ways and means
In various appropriate scenes
I sighed my adoration.
You did not smile upon my suit;
Pallid I grew and pensive;
My disappointment was acute,
Life seemed a worthless thing and mute.
I moped, then tuned my laggard lute
And launched a new offensive.
Thus you were wooed in former days
When maids were won by waiting;
The modern lover finds it pays
To imitate the forceful ways
Of prehistoric mating.
Man is more primitive (a snub
Has no effect), so if you
Should still refuse a certain "sub."
He will not pine or spurn his grub,
But, seizing the ancestral club,
Into submission biff you.
* * * * *
MAKING THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS.
"As honorary organist at ---- Wesleyan Church he has established
a sound and compact business as wholesale grocer and Italian
warehouseman."--_Provincial Paper._
* * * * *
"Maid (superior) wanted for lady, gentleman, small flat, strong
girl, able to assist lady with rheumatism."--_Glasgow Herald._
If we hear of a small flat girl we will send her along; but this shaped
figure is rather out of fashion just now.
* * * * *
THE SUPER-PIPE.
When Jackson first joined the jolly old B.E.F. he smoked a pipe. He
carried it anyhow. Loose in his pocket, mind you. A pipe-bowl at his
pocket's brim a simple pipe-bowl was to him, and it was nothing more. Of
course no decent B.E.F. mess could stand that. Jackson was told that a
pipe was _anathema maranatha_, which is Greek for _no bon._
"What will I smoke then?" said Jackson, who was no Englishman. We waited
for the Intelligence Officer to reply. We knew him. The Intelligence
Officer said nothing. He drew something from his pocket. It was a parcel
wrapped in cloth-of-gold. He removed the cloth-of-gold and there was
discovered a casket, which he unlocked with a key attached to his
identity disc. Inside the casket was a padlocked box, which he opened
with a key attached by gold wire to his advance pay-book. Inside the box
was a roll of silk. To cut it all short, he unwound puttee after puttee
of careful wrapping till he reached a chamois-leather chrysalis, which
he handled with extreme reverence, and from this he drew something with
gentle fingers, and set it on the table-cloth before the goggle-eyed
Jackson.
"A pipe," said Jackson.
There was a shriek of horror. The Intelligence Officer fainted. Here was
wanton sacrilege.
"Man," said the iron-nerved Bombing Officer, "it's a Brownhill."
"What's a Brownhill?" asked Jackson.
We gasped. How could we begin to tell him of that West End shrine from
which issue these lacquered symbols of a New Religion?
The Intelligence Officer was reviving. We looked to him.
"The prophet Brownhill," he said, "was once a tobacconist--an ordinary
tobacconist who sold pipes."
We shuddered.
"He discovered one day that man wants more than mere pipes. He wants
a--a super-pipe, something to reverence and--er--look after, you know,
as well as to smoke. So he invented the Brownhill. It is an _affaire de
coeur_--an affair of art," translated the I.O. proudly. "It is as glossy
as a chestnut in its native setting, and you can buy furniture polish
from the prophet Brownhill which will keep it always so. It has its
year, like a famous vintage, it has a silver wind-pipe, and it costs
anything up to fifty guineas."
"D | 1,137.487776 |
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THE
ORIENTAL REPUBLIC OF URUGUAY
AT THE
WORLD'S COLUMBIAN EXHIBITION,
CHICAGO, 1893
++ PLEASE NOTE MAP.
THE
ORIENTAL REPUBLIC OF URUGUAY
AT THE
WORLD'S COLUMBIAN EXHIBITION,
CHICAGO, 1893.
GEOGRAPHY, RURAL INDUSTRIES, COMMERCE, GENERAL STATISTICS.
BY
CARLOS MARIA DE PENA
AND
HONORE ROUSTAN, Director of the General Statistics Office
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH BY J. J. RETHORE.
MONTEVIDEO.
1893
NOTICE.
MONTEVIDEO, December 31st, 1892.
_To the Hon. President of "Chicago Exhibition" Executive Committee:_
On delivering the Spanish text of these notes and statistical
inquiries, the compiling of which we have taken under our care as
a patriotic duty, it is convenient to observe that, if the present
work principally contains facts and particulars only relative to the
year 1891, it is because complete general statistics covering the
year 1892 are not yet to be had, as the "Board of Statistics" do not
publish the "Annual" till the second quarter of the year 1893, and
also because it has been considered better to conserve a certain
general unity in the compiling of facts and particulars. If, in a few
special cases, any particulars of the year 1892 have been quoted, it
was merely with the purpose of supplying to some deficiency.
The time which the Commission has had to dispose has been very short
for a work of this kind; the particulars that existed at the "Board
of Statistics" had to be used, and it was impossible to get any new
ones, at least as completely and as quickly as it was required; and
that if, notwithstanding so many difficulties, it has been possible
to deliver the present work in due time, it is because the Director
of the "Board of General Statistics" had already compiled nearly all
of it, so that the only thing to be done has been to introduce a few
short amplifications, sometimes to change the order, and some others
to make a few important corrections.
The only thing we are sorry for, is not to have received all the
particulars and information we had asked for, so as to give to the
present work a greater novelty and a more seducing form--that, with a
greater number of facts and particulars, might reveal what is, what
can be, and what is to be, one day or other the Oriental Republic,
with all its economical and social elements, and with all the new
elements that will be created, owing to the benefits of peace and
owing to the work and energy of the inhabitants, under the protecting
shield of a severe and provident Administration.
Having concluded this work which was committed to our care, and
thinking that the translator, Mr. J. J. RETHORE, will finish his in
the first fortnight of the next year, we have the honor of saluting
the Honorable President with all our greatest consideration and
esteem.
HONORE ROUSTAN.
CARLOS M. DE PENA.
MINISTER OF FOREIGN RELATIONS,
MONTEVIDEO, Jan. 27, 1893.
_To the Consul-General:_
The Government has this day issued the following decree:
Ministry of Foreign Relations. Decree. Montevideo, January 27,
1893.
In view of the representation made by the Ministry of Public Works
(Fomento) in a note of present date, the President of the Republic
decrees:
ARTICLE 1. The following are appointed as members of the Commission
representing the Republic of Uruguay in the Universal Exposition at
Chicago: President, Senor Don Prudencio de Murguiondo, Consul-General
in the United States of North America; Special Commissioner, Don
Lucio Rodriguez Diez; and Regular Commissioner, Don Alberto Gomez
Ruano, Dr. Don Eduardo Chucarro, and Don Ricardo Hughes.
ART. 2. The said Commissioners will arrange directly with the Central
Commission at Montevideo in everything relating to their duties.
ART. 3. Let this decree be published and recorded.
Signed: HERRERA Y OBES,
MANUEL HERRERO Y ESPINOSA.
Any information regarding Uruguay will be cheerfully given by the
Commissioners at Chicago till the Exposition closes, and after that
by the Consul-General of Uruguay, at Washington, D. C., or the
following Consuls and Vice-Consuls.
_CONSULS._
THOMAS A. EDDY, NEW YORK.
KAFAEL S. SALAS, SAVANNAH, GA.
JOSE COSTA, SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.
LEONCE RABILLON, BALTIMORE, MD.
JAMES E. MARRETT, PORTLAND, MAINE.
EDUARDO FORNIAS, PHILADELPHIA.
C. C. TURNER, CHICAGO, ILL.
_VICE-CONSULS._
ARTHUR CARROLL, BOSTON, MASS.
THOMAS C. WATSON, PENSACOLA, FLA.
HENRY T. DUNN, BRUNSWICK, GA.
W. A. MURCHIE, CALAIS, MAINE.
N. B. BORDEN, FERNANDINA, FLA.
JAMES HAUGHTON, {NORFOLK, NEWPORT NEWS
{ AND YORKTOWN.
GEORGE A. BARKSDALE, RICHMOND, VA.
WILLIAM N. HARRIS, WILMINGTON, N. C.
G. H. GREEN, NEW ORLEANS.
F. B. GENOVAE, ST. AUGUSTINE, FLA.
CHARLES F. HUCHET, CHARLESTON, S. C.
R. W. STEWART, BANGOR, MAINE.
ALFRED THOMAS SHAW, MOBILE, ALA.
ARTHUR HOMER, GALVESTON, TEXAS.
H. F. KREBS, PASCAGOULA, MISS.
THE ORIENTAL REPUBLIC OF URUGUAY.
(SOUTH AMERICA.)
Discovery--Situation--Limits--Configuration--Perimeter--Superficies.
The territory of the Oriental Republic of Uruguay, situated within
the temperate zone of South America, was discovered in the beginning
of the sixteenth century by the famous Spanish cosmographer, Juan
Diaz de Solis.
Its geographical situation is comprised between the 30 deg., 5' and 35 deg.
degrees of latitude S. and the 56th 15' and 60th 45' of longitude W.,
according to the Paris meridian.
North and eastward it confines with the United States of Brazil, and
westward with the Argentine Republic.
Its limits are: On the north, the river Cuareim, the _cuchilla_ or
ridge of hills of Santa Ana, and the right bank of the river Yaguaron
Grande; on the east, the occidental coast of Lake Merin and the river
Chuy, which empties into the Atlantic ocean; on the west, the river
Uruguay, which separates it from the Argentine Republic; on the
south, the river Plate.
Its configuration is somewhat that of a many-sided polygon,
surrounded in its greatest part by water, except its northern part,
where it is bounded by the terrestrial frontier, which separates it
from the Brazilian Republic.
Its perimeter is of 1846 kilom. 850 m., out of which 1073 kilom.
750 m. are sea and river coasts, remaining 773 kilom. 100 m. of
terrestrial line.
Its superficies is 186,920 square kilom.
Aspect--Climate--Meteorology.
The prevailing aspect of the country presents itself with continuous
undulations, formed by the numerous _cuchillas_ or ridges of hills,
which shoot in all directions.
The hills are covered with rich pasture grounds.
Trees of all kinds stand along the banks of the principal rivers and
rivulets which flow, winding about, over great extensions of land,
and water the fertile meadows, forming, under a quiet and generally
clear sky, a charming landscape all over, which invites to employ
usefully such manifold natural riches that have just begun, being
cultivated and worked in a vast scale and with fruitful results.
Although it is not a mountainous country, its highlands are numerous.
The principal heights are the hills of Santa Ana, 490 m.; the hills
of Haedo, 400 m.; the Cuchilla Grande (high hills), 458 m. To all
these hills join a great many others less high, the declivity of
which form the lakes, ponds and rivers that give a great variety to
the hydrography of | 1,137.53466 |
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Distributed Proofreaders
THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.
VOL. 10, No. 262.] SATURDAY, JULY 7, 1827. [PRICE 2d.
* * * * *
HIS MAJESTY'S PONEY PHAETON.
[Illustration]
We commence our tenth volume of the MIRROR with an embellishment quite
novel in design from the generality of our graphic illustrations, but
one which, we flatter ourselves, will excite interest among our friends,
especially after so recently, presenting them with a Portrait and Memoir
of his Majesty in the Supplement, which last week completed our ninth
volume. His Majesty, when residing at his cottage in Windsor Forest, the
weather being favourable, seldom allows a day to pass without taking his
favourite drive by the Long Walk, and Virginia Water, in his poney
phaeton, as represented in the above engraving. Windsor Park being
situated on the south side of the town, and 14 miles in circumference,
is admirably calculated for the enjoyment of a rural ride. The entrance
to the park is by a road called the _Long Walk_, near three miles in
length, through a double plantation of trees on each side, leading to the
Ranger's Lodge: on the north east side of the Castle is the _Little Park_,
about four miles in circumference: _Queen Elizabeth's Walk_ herein is
much frequented. At the entrance of this park is the _Queen's Lodge_,
a modern erection. This building stands on an easy ascent opposite the
upper court, on the south side, and commands a beautiful view of the
surrounding country. The gardens are elegant, and have been much
enlarged by the addition of the gardens and house of the duke of St.
Albans, purchased by his late majesty. The beautiful _Cottage Ornee_, an
engraving of which graces one of our early volumes, is also in the park,
and to which place of retirement his present Majesty resorts, and passes
much of his time in preference to the bustle and splendour of a royal
town life.
Having now given as much description of the engraving as the subject
requires, we shall proceed to lay before our readers some further
anecdotes connected with the life of his Majesty; for our present
purpose, the following interesting article being adapted to our limits,
we shall introduce an
_Original Letter of his present Majesty, when Prince of Wales, to
Alexander Davison, Esq., on the death of Lord Nelson._
I am extremely obliged to you, my dear sir, for your confidential
letter, which I received this morning. You may be well assured,
that, did it depend upon me, there would not be a wish, a desire of
our-ever-to-be-lamented and much-loved friend, as well as adored
hero, that I should not consider as a solemn obligation upon his
friends and his country to fulfil; it is a duty they owe his memory,
and his matchless and unrivalled excellence: such are my sentiments,
and I should hope that there is still in this country sufficient
honour, virtue, and gratitude to prompt us to ratify and to carry
into effect the last dying request of our Nelson, and by that means
proving not only to the whole world, but to future ages, that we
were worthy of having such a man belonging to us. It must be
needless, my dear sir, to discuss over with you in particular the
irreparable loss dear Nelson ever must be, not merely to his friends
but to his country, especially at the present crisis--and during the
present most awful contest, his very name was a host of itself;
Nelson and Victory were one and the same to us, and it carried
dismay and terror to the hearts of our enemies. But the subject is
too painful a one to dwell longer upon; as to myself, all that I can
do, either publicly or privately, to testify the reverence, the
respect I entertain for his memory as a Hero, and as the greatest
public character that ever embellished the page of history,
independent of what I can with the greatest truth term, the
enthusiastic attachment I felt for him as a friend, I consider it as
my duty to fulfil, and therefore, though I may be prevented from
taking that ostensible and prominent situation at his funeral which
I think my birth and high rank entitled me to claim, still nothing
shall prevent me in a private character following his remains to
their last resting place; for though the station and the character
may be less ostensible, less prominent, yet the feelings of the
heart will not therefore be the less poignant, or the less acute.
I am, my dear sir, with the greatest truth,
Ever very sincerely your's,
G. P.[1]
_Brighton, Dec, 18th, 1805_.
[1] _New London Literary Gazette_.
* * * * *
BYRON AND OTHER POETS COMPARED.
(_For the Mirror._)
There is a natural stimulus in man to offer adoration at the shrine of
departed genius.--
"There is a tear for all that die."
But, when a transcendant genius is checked in its early age--when its
spring-shoots had only began to open--when it had just engaged in a new
feature devoted to man, and man to it, we cannot rest
"In silent admiration, mixed with grief."
Too often has splendid genius been suffered to live almost unobserved;
and have only been valued as their lives have been lost. Could the
divine Milton, or the great Shakspeare, while living, have shared that
profound veneration which their after generations have bestowed on their
high talents, happier would they have lived, and died more
extensively beloved.
True, a Byron has but lately paid a universal debt. His concentrated
powers--his breathings for the happiness and liberty of mankind--his
splendid intellectual flowers, culled from a mind stored with the
choicest exotics, and cultivated with the most refined taste are all
still fresh in recollection. As the value of precious stones and metals
have become estimated by their scarcity, so will the fame of Byron live.
A mind like Lord Byron's,
"----born, not only to surprise, but cheer
With warmth and lustre all within its sphere,"
was one of Nature's brightest gems, whose splendour (even when
uncompared) dazzled and attracted all who passed within its sight.
"So let him stand, through ages yet unborn."
As comparison is a medium through which we are enabled to obtain most
accurate judgment, let us use it in the present instance, and compare
Lord Byron with the greatest poets that have preceded him, by which
means the world of letters will see what they have _really_ lost in Lord
Byron. To commence with the great Shakspeare himself, to whom universal
admiration continues to be paid. Had Shakspeare been cut off at the same
early period as Byron, _The Tempest, King Lear, Othello, Macbeth, Julius
Caesar, Coriolanus_, and several others of an equal character, would
never have been written. The high reputation of Dryden would also have
been limited--his fame, perhaps, unknown. The _Absalom_ and _Achitophel_
is the earliest of his best productions, which was written about his
fiftieth year; his principal production, at the age of Byron, was his
_Annus Mirabilis_; for nearly the whole of his dramatic works were
written at the latter part of his life. Pope is the like situated; that
which displayed most the power of his mind--which claims for him the
greatest praise--his _Essay on Man_, &c. appeared after his fortieth
year. _Windsor Forest_ was published in his twenty-second or
twenty-third year, both were the labour of some _years_; and the
immortal Milton, who published some few things before his thirtieth
year, sent not his great work, _Paradise Lost_, to the world until he
verged on sixty.
With the poets, and the knowledge of what Byron _was_, we may ask what
he would have been had it pleased the Great Author of all things to
suffer the summer of his consummate mental powers to shine upon us? Take
the works of any of the abovenamed distinguished individuals previous to
their thirty-eighth year, and shall we perceive that flexibility of the
English language to the extent that Byron has left behind him? His
versatility was, indeed, astonishing and triumphant. His _Childe
Harold_, the _Bride of Abydos_, the _Corsair_, and _Don Juan_, (though
somewhat too freely written,) are established proofs of his unequalled
energy of mind. His power was unlimited; not only eloquent, but the
sublime, grave and gay, were all equally familiar to his muse.
Few words are wanted to show that Byron was not depraved at heart; no
man possessed a more ready sympathy, a more generous mind to the
distressed, or was a more enthusiastic admirer of noble actions. These
feelings all strongly delineated in his character, would never admit, as
Sir Walter Scott has observed, "an imperfect moral sense, nor feeling,
dead to virtue." Severe as the
"Combined usurpers on the throne of taste"
have been, his character is marked by some of the best principles in
many parts of his writings.
"The records there of friendships, held like rocks,
And enmities like sun-touch'd snow resign'd,"
are frequently visible. His glorious attachment to the Grecian cause is
a sufficient recompense for _previous_ follies exaggerated and
propagated by calumny's poisonous tongue. In a word, "there is scarce a
passion or a situation which has escaped his pen; and he might be drawn,
like Garrick, between the weeping and the laughing muses."
A. B. C.
* * * * *
THE SONG OF THE WIDOWED MOTHER TO HER CHILD.
BY THE AUTHOR Of "AHAB."
(_For the Mirror._)
O Sink to sleep, my darling boy,
Thy father's dead, thy mother lonely,
Of late thou wert his pride, his joy,
But now thou hast not one to own thee.
The cold wide world before us lies,
But oh! such heartless things live in it,
It makes me weep--then close thine eyes
Tho' it be but for one short minute.
O sink to sleep, my baby dear,
A little while forget thy sorrow,
The wind is cold, the night is drear,
But drearier it will be to-morrow.
For none will help, tho' many see
Our wretchedness--then close thine eyes, love,
Oh, most unbless'd on earth is she
Who on another's aid relies, love.
Thou hear'st me not! thy heart's asleep
Already, and thy lids are closing,
Then lie thee still, and I will weep
Whilst thou, my dearest, art reposing,
And wish that I could slumber free,
And with thee in yon heaven awaken,
O would that it our home might be,
For here we are by all forsaken.
* * * * *
PAY OF THE JUDGES IN FORMER TIMES.
(_For the Mirror._)
In the twenty-third year of the reign of king Henry III., the salary of
the justices of the bench (now called the Common Pleas) was 20l. per
annum; in the forty-third year, 40l. In the twenty-seventh year, the
chief baron had 40 marks; the other barons, 20 marks; and in the forty,
ninth year, 4l. per annum. The justices _coram rege_ (now called the
King's Bench) had in the forty-third year of Henry III. 40l. per annum.;
the chief of the bench, 100 marks per annum; and next year, another
chief of the same court, had 100l.; but the chief of the court _coram
rege_ had only 100 marks per annum.
In the reign of Edward I., the salaries of the justices were very
uncertain, and, upon the whole, they sunk from what they had been in the
reign of Henry III. The chief justice of the bench, in the seventh year
of Edward I., had but 40l. per annum, and the other justices there, 40
marks. This continued the proportion in both benches till the
twenty-fifth year of Edward III., then the salary of the chief of the
King's Bench fell to 50 marks, or 33l. 6s. 8d., while that of the chief
of the bench was augmented to 100 marks, which may be considered as an
evidence of the increase of business and attendance there. The chief
baron had 40l.; the salaries of the other justices and barons were
reduced to 20l.
In the reign of Edward II., the number of suitors so increased in the
common bench, that whereas there had usually been only three justices
there, that prince, at the beginning of his reign, was constrained to
increase them to six, who used to sit in two places,--a circumstance not
easy to be accounted for. Within three years after they were increased
to seven; next year they were reduced to six, at which number they
continued.
The salaries of the judges, though they had continued the same from the
time of Edward I. to the twenty-fifth year of | 1,137.5347 |
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Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer
UNDER THE RED ROBE
By Stanley J. Weyman
Transcriber's Note:
In this Etext, text in italics has been written in capital letters.
Many French words in the text have accents, etc. which have been
omitted.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. AT ZATON'S
CHAPTER II. AT THE GREEN PILLAR
CHAPTER III. THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD
CHAPTER IV. MADAM AND MADEMOISELLE
CHAPTER V. REVENGE
CHAPTER VI. UNDER THE PIC DU MIDI
CHAPTER VII. A MASTER STROKE
CHAPTER VIII. A MASTER STROKE--Continued
CHAPTER IX. THE QUESTION
CHAPTER X. CLON
CHAPTER XI. THE ARREST
CHAPTER XII. THE ROAD TO PARIS
CHAPTER XIII. AT THE FINGER-POST
CHAPTER XIV. ST MARTIN'S EVE
CHAPTER XV. ST MARTIN'S SUMMER
UNDER THE RED ROBE
CHAPTER I. AT ZATON'S
'Marked cards!'
There were a score round us when the fool, little knowing the man with
whom he had to deal, and as little how to lose like a gentleman, flung
the words in my teeth. He thought, I'll be sworn, that I should storm
and swear and ruffle it like any common cock of the hackle. But that was
never Gil de Berault's way. For a few seconds after he had spoken I
did not even look at him. I passed my eye instead--smiling, BIEN
ENTENDU--round the ring of waiting faces, saw that there was no one
except De Pombal I had cause to fear; and then at last I rose and looked
at the fool with the grim face I have known impose on older and wiser
men.
'Marked cards, M. l'Anglais?' I said, with a chilling sneer. 'They are
used, I am told, to trap players--not unbirched schoolboys.'
'Yet I say that they are marked!' he replied hotly, in his queer foreign
jargon. 'In my last hand I had nothing. You doubled the stakes. Bah,
sir, you knew! You have swindled me!'
'Monsieur is easy to swindle--when he plays with a mirror behind him,' I
answered tartly.
At that there was a great roar of laughter, which might have been
heard in the street, and which brought to the table everyone in the
eating-house whom his voice had not already attracted. But I did not
relax my face. I waited until all was quiet again, and then waving aside
two or three who stood between us and the entrance, I pointed gravely to
the door.
'There is a little space behind the church of St Jacques, M.
l'Etranger,' I said, putting on my hat and taking my cloak on my arm.
'Doubtless you will accompany me thither?'
He snatched up his hat, his face burning with shame and rage.
'With pleasure!' he blurted out. 'To the devil, if you like!'
I thought the matter arranged, when the Marquis laid his hand on the
young fellow's arm and checked him.
'This must not be,' he said, turning from him to me with his grand,
fine-gentleman's air. 'You know me, M. de Berault. This matter has gone
far enough.'
'Too far! M. de Pombal,' I answered bitterly. 'Still, if you wish to
take your friend's place, I shall raise no objection.'
'Chut, man!' he retorted, shrugging his shoulders negligently. 'I
know you, and I do not fight with men of your stamp. Nor need this
gentleman.'
'Undoubtedly,' I replied, bowing low, 'if he prefers to be caned in the
streets.'
That stung the Marquis.
'Have a care! have a care!' he cried hotly. 'You go too far, M.
Berault.'
'De Berault, if you please,' I objected, eyeing him sternly. 'My family
has borne the DE as long as yours, M. de Pombal.'
He could not deny that, and he answered, 'As you please;' at the same
time restraining his friend by a gesture. 'But none the less,' he
continued, 'take my advice. The Cardinal has forbidden duelling, and
this time he means it! You have been in trouble once and gone free.
A second time it may fare worse with you. Let this gentleman go,
therefore, M. de Berault. Besides--why, shame upon you, man!' he
exclaimed hotly; 'he is but a lad!'
Two or three who stood behind me applauded that, But I turned and they
met my eye; and they were as mum as mice.
'His age is his own concern,' I said grimly. 'He was old enough a while
ago to insult me.'
'And I will prove my words!' the lad cried, exploding at last. He had
spirit enough, and the Marquis had had hard work to restrain him so
long. 'You do me no service, M. de Pombal,' he continued, pettishly
shaking off his friend's hand. 'By your leave, this gentleman and I will
settle this matter.'
'That is better,' I said, nodding drily, while the Marquis stood aside,
frowning and baffled. 'Permit me to lead the way.'
Zaton's eating-house stands scarcely a hundred paces from St Jacques la
Boucherie, and half the company went thither with us. The evening was
wet, the light in the streets was waning, the streets themselves were
dirty and slippery. There were few passers in the Rue St Antoine; and
our party, which earlier in the day must have attracted notice and a
crowd, crossed unmarked, and entered without interruption the paved
triangle which lies immediately behind the church. I saw in the distance
one of the Cardinal's guard loitering in front of the scaffolding round
the new Hotel Richelieu; and the sight of the uniform gave me pause for
a moment. But it was too late to repent.
The Englishman began at once to strip off his clothes. I closed mine
to the throat, for the air was chilly. At that moment, while we stood
preparing, and most of the company seemed a little inclined to stand off
from me, I felt a hand on my arm, and turning, saw the dwarfish tailor
at whose house, in the Rue Savonnerie, I lodged at the time. The
fellow's presence was unwelcome, to say the least of it; and though for
want of better company I had sometimes encouraged him to be free with
me at home, I took that to be no reason why I should be plagued with
him before gentlemen. I shook him off, therefore, hoping by a frown to
silence him.
He was not to be so easily put down, however, and perforce I had to
speak to him.
'Afterwards, afterwards,' I said hurriedly. 'I am engaged now.
'For God's sake, don't, sir!' the poor fool cried, clinging to my
sleeve. 'Don't do it! You will bring a curse on the house. He is but a
lad, and--'
'You, too!' I exclaimed, losing patience. 'Be silent, you scum! What do
you know about gentlemen's quarrels? Leave me; do you hear?'
'But the Cardinal!' he cried in a quavering voice. 'The Cardinal, M. de
Berault! The last man you killed is not forgotten yet. This time he will
be sure to--'
'Leave me, do you hear?' I hissed. The fellow's impudence passed all
bounds. It was as bad as his croaking. 'Begone!' I added. 'I suppose you
are afraid that he will kill me, and you will lose your money.'
Frison fell back at that almost as if I had struck him, and I turned
to my adversary, who had been awaiting my motions with impatience. God
knows he did look young as he stood with his head bare and his fair hair
drooping over his smooth woman's forehead--a mere lad fresh from the
college of Burgundy, if they have such a thing in England. I felt a
sudden chill as I looked at him: a qualm, a tremor, a presentiment. What
was it the little tailor had said? That I should--but there, he did not
know. What did he know of such things? If I let this pass I must kill a
man a day, or leave Paris and the eating-house, and starve.
'A thousand pardons,' I said gravely, as I drew and took my place. 'A
dun. I am sorry that the poor devil caught me so inopportunely. Now
however, I am at your service.'
He saluted and we crossed swords and began. But from the first I had
no doubt what the result would be. The slippery stones and fading
light gave him, it is true, some chance, some advantage, more than he
deserved; but I had no sooner felt his blade than I knew that he was no
swordsman. Possibly he had taken half-a-dozen lessons in rapier art,
and practised what he learned with an Englishman as heavy and awkward
as himself. But that was all. He made a few wild clumsy rushes, parrying
widely. When I had foiled these, the danger was over, and I held him at
my mercy.
I played with him a little while, watching the sweat gather on his brow
and the shadow of the church tower fall deeper and darker, like the
shadow of doom, on his face. Not out of cruelty--God knows I have never
erred in that direction!--but because, for the first time in my life,
I felt a strange reluctance to strike the blow. The curls clung to his
forehead; his breath came and went in gasps; I heard the men behind me
and one or two of them drop an oath; and then I slipped--slipped, and
was down in a moment on my right side, my elbow striking the pavement so
sharply that the arm grew numb to the wrist.
He held off. I heard a dozen voices cry, 'Now! now you have him!' But he
held off. He stood back and waited with his breast heaving and his point
lowered, until I had risen and stood again on my guard.
'Enough! enough!' a rough voice behind me cried. 'Don't hurt the man
after that.'
'On guard, sir!' I answered coldly--for he seemed to waver, and be in
doubt. 'It was an accident. It shall not avail you again.'
Several voices cried 'Shame!' and one, 'You coward!' But the Englishman
stepped forward, a fixed look in his blue eyes. He took his place
without a word. I read in his drawn white face that he had made up his
mind to the worst, and his courage so won my admiration that I would
gladly and thankfully have set one of the lookers-on--any of the
lookers-on--in his place; but that could not be. So I thought of Zaton's
closed to me, of Pombal's insult, of the sneers and slights I had long
kept at the sword's point; and, pressing him suddenly in a heat of
affected anger, I thrust strongly over his guard, which had grown
feeble, and ran him through the chest.
When I saw him lying, laid out on the stones with his eyes half shut,
and his face glimmering white in the dusk--not that I saw him thus long,
for there were a dozen kneeling round him in a twinkling--I felt an
unwonted pang. It passed, however, in a moment. For I found myself
confronted by a ring of angry faces--of men who, keeping at a distance,
hissed and cursed and threatened me, calling me Black Death and the
like.
They were mostly canaille, who had gathered during the fight, and had
viewed all that passed from the farther side of the railings. While
some snarled and raged at me like wolves, calling me 'Butcher!' and
'Cut-throat!' or cried out that Berault was at his trade again, others
threatened me with the vengeance of the Cardinal, flung the edict in my
teeth, and said with glee that the guard were coming--they would see me
hanged yet.
'His blood is on your head!' one cried furiously. 'He will be dead in an
hour. And you will swing for him! Hurrah!'
'Begone,' I said.
'Ay, to Montfaucon,' he answered, mocking me.
'No; to your kennel!' I replied, with a look which sent him a yard
backwards, though the railings were between us. And I wiped my blade
carefully, standing a little apart. For--well, I could understand it--it
was one of those moments when a man is not popular. Those who had come
with me from the eating-house eyed me askance, and turned their backs
when I drew nearer; and those who had joined us and obtained admission
| 1,137.544444 |
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Produced by Frank van Drogen, Chris Logan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by the Bibliotheque nationale de France (BnF/Gallica) at
http://gallica.bnf.fr)
THE
DIPLOMATIC CORRESPONDENCE
OF THE
AMERICAN REVOLUTION.
VOL. XI.
THE
DIPLOMATIC CORRESPONDENCE
OF THE
AMERICAN REVOLUTION;
BEING
THE LETTERS OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, SILAS DEANE, JOHN ADAMS, JOHN JAY,
ARTHUR LEE, WILLIAM LEE, RALPH IZARD, FRANCIS DANA, WILLIAM
CARMICHAEL, HENRY LAURENS, JOHN LAURENS, M. DE LAFAYETTE, M. DUMAS,
AND OTHERS, CONCERNING THE FOREIGN RELATIONS OF THE UNITED STATES
DURING THE WHOLE REVOLUTION;
TOGETHER WITH
THE LETTERS IN REPLY FROM THE SECRET COMMITTEE OF CONGRESS, AND THE
SECRETARY OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS.
ALSO,
THE ENTIRE CORRESPONDENCE OF THE FRENCH MINISTERS, GERARD AND LUZ | 1,137.58497 |
2023-11-16 18:36:01.7648570 | 3,009 | 15 |
Produced by HTML version by Al Haines.
The King of the Golden River
by
John Ruskin
PREFACE
"The King of the Golden River" is a delightful fairy tale told with all
Ruskin's charm of style, his appreciation of mountain scenery, and with
his usual insistence upon drawing a moral. None the less, it is quite
unlike his other writings. All his life long his pen was busy
interpreting nature and pictures and architecture, or persuading to
better views those whom he believed to be in error, or arousing, with
the white heat of a prophet's zeal, those whom he knew to be
unawakened. There is indeed a good deal of the prophet about John
Ruskin. Though essentially an interpreter with a singularly fine
appreciation of beauty, no man of the nineteenth century felt more
keenly that he had a mission, and none was more loyal to what he
believed that mission to be.
While still in college, what seemed a chance incident gave occasion and
direction to this mission. A certain English reviewer had ridiculed the
work of the artist Turner. Now Ruskin held Turner to be the greatest
landscape painter the world had seen, and he immediately wrote a
notable article in his defense. Slowly this article grew into a
pamphlet, and the pamphlet into a book, the first volume of "Modern
Painters." The young man awoke to find himself famous. In the next
few years four more volumes were added to "Modern Painters," and the
other notable series upon art, "The Stones of Venice" and "The Seven
Lamps of Architecture," were sent forth.
Then, in 1860, when Ruskin was about forty years old, there came a
great change. His heaven-born genius for making the appreciation of
beauty a common possession was deflected from its true field. He had
been asking himself what are the conditions that produce great art, and
the answer he found declared that art cannot be separated from life,
nor life from industry and industrial conditions. A civilization
founded upon unrestricted competition therefore seemed to him
necessarily feeble in appreciation of the beautiful, and unequal to its
creation. In this way loyalty to his mission bred apparent disloyalty.
Delightful discourses upon art gave way to fervid pleas for humanity.
For the rest of his life he became a very earnest, if not always very
wise, social reformer and a passionate pleader for what he believed to
be true economic ideals.
There is nothing of all this in "The King of the Golden River." Unlike
his other works, it was written merely to entertain. Scarcely that,
since it was not written for publication at all, but to meet a
challenge set him by a young girl.
The circumstance is interesting. After taking his degree at Oxford,
Ruskin was threatened with consumption and hurried away from the chill
and damp of England to the south of Europe. After two years of
fruitful travel and study he came back improved in health but not
strong, and often depressed in spirit. It was at this time that the
Guys, Scotch friends of his father and mother, came for a visit to his
home near London, and with them their little daughter Euphemia. The
coming of this beautiful, vivacious, light-hearted child opened a new
chapter in Ruskin's life. Though but twelve years old, she sought to
enliven the melancholy student, absorbed in art and geology, and bade
him leave these and write for her a fairy tale. He accepted, and after
but two sittings, presented her with this charming story. The incident
proved to have awakened in him a greater interest than at first
appeared, for a few years later "Effie" Grey became John Ruskin's wife.
Meantime she had given the manuscript to a friend. Nine years after it
was written, this friend, with John Ruskin's permission, gave the story
to the world.
It was published in London in 1851, with illustrations by the
celebrated Richard Doyle, and at once became a favorite. Three
editions were printed the first year, and soon it had found its way
into German, Italian, and Welsh. Since then countless children have
had cause to be grateful for the young girl's challenge that won the
story of Gluck's golden mug and the highly satisfactory handling of the
Black Brothers by Southwest Wind, Esquire.
For this edition new drawings have been prepared by Mr. Hiram P.
Barnes. They very successfully preserve the spirit of Doyle's
illustrations, which unfortunately are not technically suitable for
reproduction here.
In the original manuscript there was an epilogue bearing the heading
"Charitie"--a morning hymn of Treasure Valley, whither Gluck had
returned to dwell, and where the inheritance lost by cruelty was
regained by love:
The beams of morning are renewed The valley laughs their light to see
And earth is bright with gratitude And heaven with charitie.
R.H. COE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
HOW THE AGRICULTURAL SYSTEM OF THE BLACK BROTHERS WAS INTERFERED WITH
BY SOUTHWEST WIND, ESQUIRE
CHAPTER II
OF THE PROCEEDINGS OF THE THREE BROTHERS AFTER THE VISIT OF SOUTHWEST
WIND, ESQUIRE; AND HOW LITTLE GLUCK HAD AN INTERVIEW WITH THE KING OF
GOLDEN RIVER
CHAPTER III
HOW MR. HANS SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION TO THE GOLDEN RIVER, AND HOW HE
PROSPERED THEREIN
CHAPTER IV
HOW MR. SCHWARTZ SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION TO THE GOLDEN RIVER, AND HOW
HE PROSPERED THEREIN
CHAPTER V
HOW LITTLE GLUCK SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION TO THE GOLDEN RIVER, AND HOW
HE PROSPERED THEREIN, WITH OTHER MATTERS OF INTEREST
THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER
CHAPTER I
HOW THE AGRICULTURAL SYSTEM OF THE BLACK BROTHERS WAS INTERFERED WITH
BY SOUTHWEST WIND, ESQUIRE
In a secluded and mountainous part of Stiria there was in old time a
valley of the most surprising and luxuriant fertility. It was
surrounded on all sides by steep and rocky mountains rising into peaks
which were always covered with snow and from which a number of torrents
descended in constant cataracts. One of these fell westward over the
face of a crag so high that when the sun had set to everything else,
and all below was darkness, his beams still shone full upon this
waterfall, so that it looked like a shower of gold. It was therefore
called by the people of the neighborhood the Golden River. It was
strange that none of these streams fell into the valley itself. They
all descended on the other side of the mountains and wound away through
broad plains and by populous cities. But the clouds were drawn so
constantly to the snowy hills, and rested so softly in the circular
hollow, that in time of drought and heat, when all the country round
was burned up, there was still rain in the little valley; and its crops
were so heavy, and its hay so high, and its apples so red, and its
grapes so blue, and its wine so rich, and its honey so sweet, that it
was a marvel to everyone who beheld it and was commonly called the
Treasure Valley.
The whole of this little valley belonged to three brothers, called
Schwartz, Hans, and Gluck. Schwartz and Hans, the two elder brothers,
were very ugly men, with overhanging eyebrows and small, dull eyes
which were always half shut, so that you couldn't see into THEM and
always fancied they saw very far into YOU. They lived by farming the
Treasure Valley, and very good farmers they were. They killed
everything that did not pay for its eating. They shot the blackbirds
because they pecked the fruit, and killed the hedgehogs lest they
should suck the cows; they poisoned the crickets for eating the crumbs
in the kitchen, and smothered the cicadas which used to sing all summer
in the lime trees. They worked their servants without any wages till
they would not work any more, and then quarreled with them and turned
them out of doors without paying them. It would have been very odd if
with such a farm and such a system of farming they hadn't got very
rich; and very rich they DID get. They generally contrived to keep
their corn by them till it was very dear, and then sell it for twice
its value; they had heaps of gold lying about on their floors, yet it
was never known that they had given so much as a penny or a crust in
charity; they never went to Mass, grumbled perpetually at paying
tithes, and were, in a word, of so cruel and grinding a temper as to
receive from all those with whom they had any dealings the nickname of
the "Black Brothers."
The youngest brother, Gluck, was as completely opposed, in both
appearance and character, to his seniors as could possibly be imagined
or desired. He was not above twelve years old, fair, blue-eyed, and
kind in temper to every living thing. He did not, of course, agree
particularly well with his brothers, or, rather, they did not agree
with HIM. He was usually appointed to the honorable office of
turnspit, when there was anything to roast, which was not often, for,
to do the brothers justice, they were hardly less sparing upon
themselves than upon other people. At other times he used to clean the
shoes, floors, and sometimes the plates, occasionally getting what was
left on them, by way of encouragement, and a wholesome quantity of dry
blows by way of education.
Things went on in this manner for a long time. At last came a very wet
summer, and everything went wrong in the country round. The hay had
hardly been got in when the haystacks were floated bodily down to the
sea by an inundation; the vines were cut to pieces with the hail; the
corn was all killed by a black blight. Only in the Treasure Valley, as
usual, all was safe. As it had rain when there was rain nowhere else,
so it had sun when there was sun nowhere else. Everybody came to buy
corn at the farm and went away pouring maledictions on the Black
Brothers. They asked what they liked and got it, except from the poor
people, who could only beg, and several of whom were starved at their
very door without the slightest regard or notice.
It was drawing towards winter, and very cold weather, when one day the
two elder brothers had gone out, with their usual warning to little
Gluck, who was left to mind the roast, that he was to let nobody in and
give nothing out. Gluck sat down quite close to the fire, for it was
raining very hard and the kitchen walls were by no means dry or
comfortable-looking. He turned and turned, and the roast got nice and
brown. "What a pity," thought Gluck, "my brothers never ask anybody to
dinner. I'm sure, when they've got such a nice piece of mutton as
this, and nobody else has got so much as a piece of dry bread, it would
do their hearts good to have somebody to eat it with them."
Just as he spoke there came a double knock at the house door, yet heavy
and dull, as though the knocker had been tied up--more like a puff than
a knock.
"It must be the wind," said Gluck; "nobody else would venture to knock
double knocks at our door."
No, it wasn't the wind; there it came again very hard, and, what was
particularly astounding, the knocker seemed to be in a hurry and not to
be in the least afraid of the consequences. Gluck went to the window,
opened it, and put his head out to see who it was.
It was the most extraordinary-looking little gentleman he had ever seen
in his life. He had a very large nose, slightly brass-colored; his
cheeks were very round and very red, and might have warranted a
supposition that he had been blowing a refractory fire for the last
eight-and-forty hours; his eyes twinkled merrily through long, silky
eyelashes; his mustaches curled twice round like a corkscrew on each
side of his mouth; and his hair, of a curious mixed pepper-and-salt
color, descended far over his shoulders. He was about four feet six in
height and wore a conical pointed cap of nearly the same altitude,
decorated with a black feather some three feet long. His doublet was
prolonged behind into something resembling a violent exaggeration of
what is now termed a "swallowtail," but was much obscured by the
swelling folds of an enormous black, glossy-looking cloak, which must
have been very much too long in calm weather, as the wind, whistling
round the old house, carried it clear out from the wearer's shoulders
to about four times his own length.
Gluck was so perfectly paralyzed by the singular appearance of his
visitor that he remained fixed without uttering a word, until the old
gentleman, having performed another and a more energetic concerto on
the knocker, turned round to look after his flyaway cloak. In so doing
he caught sight of Gluck's little yellow head jammed in the window,
with its mouth and eyes very wide open indeed.
"Hollo!" said the little gentleman; | 1,137.784897 |
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E-text prepared by Anne Soulard, Charles Aldarondo,
Tiffany Vergon, John R. Bilderback,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net)
and revised by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.
THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS
by
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
First published in serial form in the _Fortnightly Review_ from July,
1871, to February, 1873, and in book form in 1872
CONTENTS
I. Lizzie Greystock
II. Lady Eustace
III. Lucy Morris
IV. Frank Greystock
V. The Eustace Necklace
VI. Lady Linlithgow's Mission
VII. Mr. Burke's Speeches
VIII. The Conquering Hero Comes
IX. Showing What the Miss Fawns Said, and What Mrs. Hittaway
Thought
X. Lizzie and Her Lover
XI. Lord Fawn at His Office
XII. "I Only Thought of It"
XIII. Showing What Frank Greystock Did
XIV. "Doan't Thou Marry for Munny"
XV. "I'll Give You a Hundred Guinea Brooch"
XVI. Certainly an Heirloom
XVII. The Diamonds Are Seen in Public
XVIII. "And I Have Nothing to Give"
XIX. "As My Brother"
XX. The Diamonds Become Troublesome
XXI. "Ianthe's Soul"
XXII. Lady Eustace Procures a Pony for the Use of Her Cousin
XXIII. Frank Greystock's First Visit to Portray
XXIV. Showing What Frank Greystock Thought About Marriage
XXV. Mr. Dove's Opinion
XXVI. Mr. Gowran Is Very Funny
XXVII. Lucy Morris Misbehaves
XXVIII. Mr. Dove in His Chambers
XXIX. "I Had Better Go Away"
XXX. Mr. Greystock's Troubles
XXXI. Frank Greystock's Second Visit to Portray
XXXII. Mr. and Mrs. Hittaway in Scotland
XXXIII. "It Won't Be True"
XXXIV. Lady Linlithgow at Home
XXXV. Too Bad for Sympathy
XXXVI. Lizzie's Guests
XXXVII. Lizzie's First Day
XXXVIII. Nappie's Grey Horse
XXXIX. Sir Griffin Takes an Unfair Advantage
XL. "You Are Not Angry?"
XLI. "Likewise the Bears in Couples Agree"
XLII. Sunday Morning
XLIII. Life at Portray
XLIV. A Midnight Adventure
XLV. The Journey to London
XLVI. Lucy Morris in Brook Street
XLVII. Matching Priory
XLVIII. Lizzie's Condition
XLIX. Bunfit and Gager
L. In Hertford Street
LI. Confidence
LII. Mrs. Carbuncle Goes to the Theatre
LIII. Lizzie's Sick-Room
LIV. "I Suppose I May Say a Word"
LV. Quints or Semitenths
LVI. Job's Comforters
LVII. Humpty Dumpty
LVIII. "The Fiddle with One String"
LIX. Mr. Gowran Up in London
LX. "Let It Be As Though It Had Never Been"
LXI. Lizzie's Great Friend
LXII. "You Know Where My Heart Is"
LXIII. The Corsair Is Afraid
LXIV. Lizzie's Last Scheme
LXV. Tribute
LXVI. The Aspirations of Mr. Emilius
LXVII. The Eye of the Public
LXVIII. The Major
LXIX. "I Cannot Do It"
LXX. Alas!
LXXI. Lizzie Is Threatened with the Treadmill
LXXII. Lizzie Triumphs
LXXIII. Lizzie's Last Lover
LXXIV. Lizzie at the Police-Court
LXXV. Lord George Gives His Reasons
LXXVI. Lizzie Returns to Scotland
LXXVII. The Story of Lucy Morris Is Concluded
LXXVIII. The Trial
LXXIX. Once More at Portray
LXXX. What Was Said About It All at Matching
VOLUME I
CHAPTER I
Lizzie Greystock
It was admitted by all her friends, and also by her enemies,--who
were in truth the more numerous and active body of the two,--that
Lizzie Greystock had done very well with herself. We will tell the
story of Lizzie Greystock from the beginning, but we will not dwell
over it at great length, as we might do if we loved her. She was the
only child of old Admiral Greystock, who in the latter years of his
life was much perplexed by the possession of a daughter. The admiral
was a man who liked whist, wine,--and wickedness in general we may
perhaps say, and whose ambition it was to live every day of his life
up to the end of it. People say that he succeeded, and that the
whist, wine, and wickedness were there, at the side even of his dying
bed. He had no particular fortune, and yet his daughter, when she was
little more than a child, went about everywhere with jewels on her
fingers, and red gems hanging round her neck, and yellow gems pendent
from her ears, and white gems shining in her black hair. She was
hardly nineteen when her father died and she was taken home by that
dreadful old termagant, her aunt, Lady Linlithgow. Lizzie would have
sooner gone to any other friend or relative, had there been any other
friend or relative to take her possessed of a house in town. Her
uncle, Dean Greystock, of Bobsborough, would have had her, and a more
good-natured old soul than the dean's wife did not exist,--and there
were three pleasant, good-tempered girls in the deanery, who had
made various little efforts at friendship with their cousin Lizzie;
but Lizzie had higher ideas for herself than life in the deanery at
Bobsborough. She hated Lady Linlithgow. During her father's lifetime,
when she hoped to be able to settle herself before his death, she was
not in the habit of concealing her hatred for Lady Linlithgow. Lady
Linlithgow was not indeed amiable or easily managed. But when the
admiral died, Lizzie did not hesitate for a moment in going to the
old "vulturess," as she was in the habit of calling the countess in
her occasional correspondence with the girls at Bobsborough.
The admiral died greatly in debt;--so much so that it was a marvel
how tradesmen had trusted him. There was literally nothing left
for anybody,--and Messrs. Harter and Benjamin of Old Bond Street
condescended to call at Lady Linlithgow's house in Brook Street, and
to beg that the jewels supplied during the last twelve months might
be returned. Lizzie protested that there were no jewels,--nothing
to signify, nothing worth restoring. Lady Linlithgow had seen the
diamonds, and demanded an explanation. They had been "parted with,"
by the admiral's orders,--so said Lizzie,--for the payment of other
debts. Of this Lady Linlithgow did not believe a word, but she could
not get at any exact truth. At that moment the jewels were in very
truth pawned for money which had been necessary for Lizzie's needs.
Certain things must be paid for,--one's own maid for instance; and
one must have some money in one's pocket for railway-trains and
little knick-knacks which cannot be had on credit. Lizzie when she
was nineteen knew how to do without money as well as most girls; but
there were calls which she could not withstand, debts which | 1,137.787089 |
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Produced by Colin Bell, Sam W. and the Online Distributed
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THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN;
WHAT IS IT?
| 1,137.985097 |
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Produced by David Reed
TO HAVE AND TO HOLD
By Mary Johnston
TO
THE MEMORY OF
MY MOTHER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. IN WHICH I THROW AMBS-ACE
CHAPTER II. IN WHICH I MEET MASTER JEREMY SPARROW
CHAPTER III. IN WHICH I MARRY IN HASTE
CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH I AM LIKE TO REPENT AT LEISURE
CHAPTER V. IN WHICH A WOMAN HAS HER WAY
CHAPTER VI. IN WHICH WE GO TO JAMESTOWN
CHAPTER VII. IN WHICH WE PREPARE TO FIGHT THE SPANIARD
CHAPTER VIII. IN WHICH ENTERS MY LORD CARNAL
CHAPTER IX. IN WHICH TWO DRINK OF ONE CUP
CHAPTER X. IN WHICH MASTER PORY GAINS TIME TO SOME PURPOSE
CHAPTER XI. IN WHICH I MEET AN ITALIAN DOCTOR
CHAPTER XII. IN WHICH I RECEIVE A WARNING AND REPOSE A TRUST
CHAPTER XIII. IN WHICH THE SANTA TERESA DROPS DOWN-STREAM
CHAPTER XIV. IN WHICH WE SEEK A LOST LADY
CHAPTER XV. IN WHICH WE FIND THE HAUNTED WOOD
CHAPTER XVI. IN WHICH I AM RID OF AN UNPROFITABLE SERVANT
CHAPTER XVII. IN WHICH MY LORD AND I PLAY AT BOWLS
CHAPTER XVIII. IN WHICH WE GO OUT INTO THE NIGHT
CHAPTER XIX. IN WHICH WE HAVE UNEXPECTED COMPANY
CHAPTER XX. IN WHICH WE ARE IN DESPERATE CASE
CHAPTER XXI. IN WHICH A GRAVE IS DIGGED
CHAPTER XXII. IN WHICH I CHANGE MY NAME AND OCCUPATION
CHAPTER XXIII. IN WHICH WE WRITE UPON THE SAND
CHAPTER XXIV. IN WHICH WE CHOOSE THE LESSER OF TWO EVILS
CHAPTER XXV. IN WHICH MY LORD HATH HIS DAY
CHAPTER XXVI. IN WHICH I AM BROUGHT TO TRIAL
CHAPTER XXVII. IN WHICH I FIND AN ADVOCATE
CHAPTER XXVIII. IN WHICH THE SPRINGTIME IS AT HAND
CHAPTER XXIX. IN WHICH I KEEP TRYST
CHAPTER XXX. IN WHICH WE START UPON A JOURNEY
CHAPTER XXXI. IN WHICH NANTAUQUAS COMES TO OUR RESCUE
CHAPTER XXXII. IN WHICH WE ARE THE GUESTS OF AN EMPEROR
CHAPTER XXXIII. IN WHICH MY FRIEND BECOMES MY FOE
CHAPTER XXXIV. IN WHICH THE RACE IS NOT TO THE SWIFT
CHAPTER XXXV. IN WHICH I COME TO THE GOVERNOR'S HOUSE
CHAPTER XXXVI. IN WHICH I HEAR ILL NEWS
CHAPTER XXXVII. IN WHICH MY LORD AND I PART COMPANY
CHAPTER XXXVIII. IN WHICH I GO UPON A QUEST
CHAPTER XXXIX. IN WHICH WE LISTEN TO A SONG
TO HAVE AND TO HOLD
CHAPTER I IN WHICH I THROW AMBS-ACE
THE work of the day being over, I sat down upon my doorstep, pipe in
hand, to rest awhile in the cool of the evening. Death is not more still
than is this Virginian land in the hour when the sun has sunk away, and
it is black beneath the trees, and the stars brighten slowly and softly,
one by one. The birds that sing all day have hushed, and the horned
owls, the monster frogs, and that strange and ominous fowl (if fowl it
be, and not, as some assert, a spirit damned) which we English call the
whippoorwill, are yet silent. Later the wolf will howl and the panther
scream, but now there is no sound. The winds are laid, and the restless
leaves droop and are quiet. The low lap of the water among the reeds is
like the breathing of one who sleeps in his watch beside the dead.
I marked the light die from the broad bosom of the river, leaving it
a dead man's hue. Awhile ago, and for many evenings, it had been
crimson,--a river of blood. A week before, a great meteor had shot
through the night, blood-red and bearded, drawing a slow-fading fiery
trail across the heavens; and the moon had risen that same night
blood-red, and upon its disk there was drawn in shadow a thing most
marvelously like a scalping knife. Wherefore, the following day being
Sunday, good Mr. Stockham, our minister at Weyanoke, exhorted us to be
on our guard, and in his prayer besought that no sedition or rebellion
might raise its head amongst the Indian subjects of the Lord's anointed.
Afterward, in the churchyard, between the services, the more timorous
began to tell of divers portents which they had observed, and to recount
old tales of how the savages distressed us in the Starving Time. The
bolder spirits laughed them to scorn, but the women began to weep and
cower, and I, though I laughed too, thought of Smith, and how he ever
held the savages, and more especially that Opechancanough who was now
their emperor, in a most deep distrust; telling us that the red men
watched while we slept, that they might teach wiliness to a Jesuit, and
how to bide its time to a cat crouched before a mousehole. I thought
of the terms we now kept with these heathen; of how they came and went
familiarly amongst us, spying out our weakness, and losing the salutary
awe which that noblest captain had struck into their souls; of how many
were employed as hunters to bring down deer for lazy masters; of how,
breaking the law, and that not secretly, we gave them knives and arms, a
soldier's bread, in exchange for pelts and pearls; of how their emperor
was forever sending us smooth messages; of how their lips smiled
and their eyes frowned. That afternoon, as I rode home through the
lengthening shadows, a hunter, red-brown and naked, rose from behind a
fallen tree that sprawled across my path, and made offer to bring me my
meat from the moon of corn to the moon of stags in exchange for a gun.
There was scant love between the savages and myself,--it was answer
enough when I told him my name. I left the dark figure standing, still
as a carved stone, in the heavy shadow of the trees, and, spurring my
horse (sent me from home, the year before, by my cousin Percy), was soon
at my house,--a poor and rude one, but pleasantly set upon a <DW72> of
green turf, and girt with maize and the broad leaves of the tobacco.
When I had had my supper, I called from their hut the two Paspahegh lads
bought by me from their tribe the Michaelmas before, and soundly flogged
them both, having in my mind a saying of my ancient captain's, namely,
"He who strikes first oft-times strikes last."
Upon the afternoon of which I now speak, in the midsummer of the year of
grace 1621, as I sat upon my doorstep, my long pipe between my teeth and
my eyes upon the pallid stream below, my thoughts were busy with these
matters,--so busy that I did not see a horse and rider emerge from the
dimness of the forest into the cleared space before my palisade, nor
knew, until his voice came up the bank, that my good friend, Master John
Rolfe, was without and would speak to me.
I went down to the gate, and, unbarring it, gave him my hand and led the
horse within the inclosure.
"Thou careful man!" he said, with a laugh, as he dismounted. "Who else,
think you, in this or any other hundred, now bars his gate when the sun
goes down?"
"It is my sunset gun," I answered briefly, fastening his horse as I
spoke.
He put his arm about my shoulder, for we were old friends, and together
we went up the green bank to the house, and, when I had brought him a
pipe, sat down side by side upon the doorstep.
"Of what were you dreaming?" he asked presently, when we had made for
ourselves a great cloud of smoke. "I called you twice."
"I was wishing for Dale's times and Dale's laws."
He laughed, and touched my knee with his hand, white and smooth as a
woman's, and with a green jewel upon the forefinger.
"Thou Mars incarnate!" he cried. "Thou first, last, and in the meantime
soldier! Why, what wilt thou do when thou gettest to heaven? Make it too
hot to hold thee? Or take out letters of marque against the Enemy?"
"I am not there yet," I said dryly. "In the meantime I would like a
commission against--your relatives."
He laughed, then sighed, and, sinking his chin into his hand and softly
tapping his foot against the ground, fell into a reverie.
"I would your princess were alive," I said presently.
"So do I," he answered softly. "So do I." Locking his hands behind his
head, he raised his quiet face to the evening star. "Brave and wise and
gentle," he mused. "If I did not think to meet her again, beyond that
star, I could not smile and speak calmly, Ralph, as I do now."
"'T is a strange thing," I said, as I refilled my pipe. "Love for your
brother-in-arms, love for your commander if he be a commander worth
having, love for your horse and dog, I understand. But wedded love! to
tie a burden around one's neck because 't is pink and white, or clear
bronze, and shaped with elegance! Faugh!"
"Yet I came with half a mind to persuade thee to that very burden!" he
cried, with another laugh.
"Thanks for thy pains," I said, blowing blue rings into the air.
"I have ridden to-day from Jamestown," he went on. "I was the only
man, i' faith, that cared to leave its gates; and I met the world--the
bachelor world--flocking to them. Not a mile of the way but I
encountered Tom, Dick, and Harry, dressed in their Sunday bravery and
making full tilt for the city. And the boats upon the river! I have seen
the Thames less crowded."
"There was more passing than usual," I said; "but I was busy in the
fields, and did not attend. What's the lodestar?"
"The star that draws us all,--some to ruin, some to bliss ineffable,
woman."
"Humph! The maids have come, then?"
He nodded. "There's a goodly ship down there, with a goodly lading."
"Videlicet, some fourscore waiting damsels and milkmaids, warranted
honest by my Lord Warwick," I muttered.
"This business hath been of Edwyn Sandys' management, as you very well
know," he rejoined, with some heat. "His word is good: therefore I hold
them chaste. That they are fair I can testify, having seen them leave
the ship."
"Fair and chaste," I said, "but meanly born."
"I grant you that," he answered. "But after all, what of it? Beggars
must not be choosers. The land is new and must be peopled, nor will
those who come after us look too curiously into the lineage of those
to whom a nation owes its birth. What we in these plantations need is
a loosening of the bonds which tie us to home, to England, and a
tightening of those which bind us to this land in which we have cast our
lot. We put our hand to the plough, but we turn our heads and look
to our Egypt and its fleshpots. 'T is children and wife--be that wife
princess or peasant--that make home of a desert, that bind a man with
chains of gold to the country where they abide. Wherefore, when at
midday I met good Master Wickham rowing down from Henricus to Jamestown,
to offer his aid to Master Bucke in his press of business to-morrow, I
gave the good man Godspeed, and thought his a fruitful errand and one
pleasing to the Lord."
"Amen," I yawned. "I love the land, and call it home. My withers are
unwrung."
He rose to his feet, and began to pace the greensward before the door.
My eyes followed his trim figure, richly though sombrely clad, then fell
with a sudden dissatisfaction upon my own stained and frayed apparel.
"Ralph," he said presently, coming to a stand before me, "have you ever
an hundred and twenty pounds of tobacco in hand? If not, I"--
"I have the weed," I replied. "What then?"
"Then at dawn drop down with the tide to the city, and secure for
thyself one of these same errant damsels."
I stared at him, and then broke into laughter, in which, after a space
and unwillingly, he himself joined. When at length I wiped the water
from my eyes it was quite dark, the whippoorwills had begun to call, and
Rolfe must needs hasten on. I went with him down to the gate.
"Take my advice,--it is that of your friend," he said, as he swung
himself into the saddle. He gathered up the reins and struck spurs into
his horse, then turned to call back to me: "Sleep upon my words, Ralph,
and the next time I come I look to see a farthingale behind thee!"
"Thou art as like to see one upon me," I answered.
Nevertheless, when he had gone, and I climbed the bank and reentered the
house, it was with a strange pang at the cheerlessness of my hearth,
and an angry and unreasoning impatience at the lack of welcoming face or
voice. In God's name, who was there to welcome me? None but my hounds,
and the flying squirrel I had caught and tamed. Groping my way to the
corner, I took from my store two torches, lit them, and stuck them into
the holes pierced in the mantel shelf; then stood beneath the clear
flame, and looked with a sudden sick distaste upon the disorder which
the light betrayed. The fire was dead, and ashes and embers were
scattered upon the hearth; fragments of my last meal littered the table,
and upon the unwashed floor lay the bones I had thrown my dogs. Dirt
and confusion reigned; only upon my armor, my sword and gun, my hunting
knife and dagger, there was no spot or stain. I turned to gaze upon
them where they hung against the wall, and in my soul I hated the piping
times of peace, and longed for the camp fire and the call to arms.
With an impatient sigh, | 1,138.081846 |
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Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Charles
Kirschner, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team
THE WHEEL O' FORTUNE
BY
LOUIS TRACY
Author of "The Wings of the Morning," "The Pillar of Light," "The
Captain of the Kansas" etc.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. WHEREIN FORTUNE TURNS HER WHEEL
CHAPTER II. THE COMPACT
CHAPTER III. A CHANGE OF SKY, BUT NOT OF HABIT
CHAPTER IV. VON KERBER EXPLAINS
CHAPTER V. MISS FENSHAWE SEEKS AN ALLY
CHAPTER VI. AT THE PORTAL
CHAPTER VII. MRS. HAXTON RECEIVES A SHOCK
CHAPTER VIII. MASSOWAH | 1,138.183789 |
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Produced by David Widger
THE DIARY OF SAMUEL PEPYS M.A. F.R.S.
CLERK OF THE ACTS AND SECRETARY TO THE ADMIRALTY
TRANSCRIBED FROM THE SHORTHAND MANUSCRIPT IN THE PEPYSIAN LIBRARY
MAGDALENE COLLEGE CAMBRIDGE BY THE REV. MYNORS BRIGHT M.A. LATE FELLOW
AND PRESIDENT OF THE COLLEGE
(Unabridged)
WITH LORD BRAYBROOKE'S NOTES
EDITED WITH ADDITIONS BY
HENRY B. WHEATLEY F.S.A.
DIARY OF SAMUEL PEPYS.
1661-62. January 1st. Waking this morning out of | 1,138.188812 |
2023-11-16 18:36:02.2599990 | 1,205 | 40 |
E-text prepared by Emmy, MFR, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by
Internet Archive (https://archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustration.
See 54219-h.htm or 54219-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/54219/54219-h/54219-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/54219/54219-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/littleenggallery00guinrich
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
A carat character is used to denote superscription. A
single character following the carat is superscripted
(example: 9^a).
[Illustration]
A LITTLE ENGLISH GALLERY
by
LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY
[Illustration]
New York
Harper and Brothers
MDCCCXCIV
Copyright, 1894, by Harper & Brothers.
All rights reserved.
TO
EDMUND GOSSE
THIS FRIENDLY TRESPASS ON HIS FIELDS
PREFATORY NOTE
THE studies in this book are chosen from a number written at irregular
intervals, and from sheer interest in their subjects, long ago.
Portions of them, or rough drafts of what has since been wholly
remodelled from fresher and fuller material at first hand, have
appeared within five years in _The Atlantic Monthly_, _Macmillan’s_,
_The Catholic World_, and _Poet-Lore_; and thanks are due the
magazines for permission to reprint them. Yet more cordial thanks,
for kind assistance on biographical points, belong to the Earl of
Powis; the Rev. R. H. Davies, Vicar of old St. Luke’s, Chelsea; the
Rev. T. Vere Bayne, of Christchurch, and H. E. D. Blakiston, Esq.,
of Trinity College, Oxford; T. W. Lyster, Esq., of the National
Library of Ireland; Aubrey de Vere Beauclerk, Esq.; Miss Langton,
of Langton-by-Spilsby; the Vicars of Dauntsey, Enfield Highway, and
Montgomery, and especially those of High Ercall and Speke; and the
many others in England through whose courtesy and patience the tracer
of these unimportant sketches has been able to make them approximately
life-like.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. LADY DANVERS (1561-1627) 1
II. HENRY VAUGHAN (1621-1695) 53
III. GEORGE FARQUHAR (1677-1707) 119
IV. TOPHAM BEAUCLERK (1739-1780)
AND
BENNET LANGTON (1741-1800) 171
V. WILLIAM HAZLITT (1778-1830) 229
I
LADY DANVERS
1561-1627
MR. MATTHEW ARNOLD somewhere devotes a grateful sentence to the women
who have left a fragrance in literary history, and whose loss of long
ago can yet inspire men of to-day with indescribable regret. Lady
Danvers is surely one of these. As John Donne’s dear friend, and George
Herbert’s mother, she has a double poetic claim, like her unforgotten
contemporary, Mary Sidney, for whom was made an everlasting epitaph.
If Dr. Donne’s fraternal fame have not quite the old lustre of the
incomparable Sir Philip’s, it is, at least, a greater honor to own
Herbert for son than to have perpetuated the race of Pembroke. Nor is
it an inharmonious thing to remember, in thus calling up, in order to
rival it, the sweet memory of “Sidney’s sister,” that Herbert and
Pembroke have long been, and are yet, married names.
Magdalen, the youngest child of Sir Richard Newport, and of Margaret
Bromley, his wife, herself daughter of that Bromley who was
Privy-Councillor, Lord Chief-Justice, and executor to Henry VIII., was
born in High Ercall, Salop; the loss or destruction of parish registers
leaves us but 1561-62 as the probable date. Of princely stock, with
three sisters and an only brother, and heir to virtue and affluence,
she could look with the right pride of unfallen blood upon “the many
fair coats the Newports bear” over their graves at Wroxeter. It was
the day of learned and thoughtful girls; and this girl seems to have
been at home with book and pen, with lute and viol. She married, in
the flower of her youth, Richard Herbert, Esquire, of Blache Hall,
Montgomery, black-haired and black-bearded, as were all his line; a man
of some intellectual training, and of noted courage, descended from
a distinguished brother of the yet more distinguished Sir Richard
Herbert of Edward IV.’s time, and from the most ancient rank of Wales
and England. At Eyton in Salop, in 1581, was born their eldest child,
Edward, afterwards Lord Herbert of Cherbury, a writer who is still the | 1,138.280039 |
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[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "_Down sank the gallant ship, driving her crew to the
spar-deck._" Page | 1,138.384027 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
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Transcriber's Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
| 1,138.387956 |
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Stevensoniana
[Illustration: Robert Louis Stevenson]
Stevensoniana
BEING A REPRINT OF
VARIOUS LITERARY AND
PICTORIAL MISCELLANY
ASSOCIATED WITH
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
THE MAN AND HIS WORK
The Bankside Press
M. F. MANSFIELD, 14 WEST 22ND STREET, NEW YORK
Copyright
1900
M. F. Mansfield
_Contents_
Biographical 3
Scotland
London
The Riviera
The Golden Gate
The South Seas
Apparition 16
Stevenson's First Book 17
Books Which Have Influenced Me 19
A Stevenson Letter 33
A Justification 33
The Davos Platz Books 40
Stevenson's Later Letters 44
A Stevenson Shrine 49
Stevenson and Hazlitt 55
On Beranger 57
Stevenson of the Letters 61
Apropos Vailima Letters 62
A Visit to Stevenson's Pacific Isle 65
A Pen Portrait 76
Appreciation and Homage 78
R. L. S. and Music 81
_Illustrations_
Frontispiece Portrait. From Etching by Hollyer
Facsimile Title Page
Travels With a Donkey } 17
An Inland Voyage } 17
Facsimile Title Page
Not I } 40
Black Canyon } 40
Facsimile Title Page
A Pentland Rising 49
Facsimile Title Page
A New Form of Intermittent Light 64
_Stevensoniana_
_By Way of Introduction_
The early days of the literary career of Robert Louis Stevenson can hardly
be said to have been entirely devoid of recognition, though it would
appear doubtful if the world at large was willing to recognize his
abilities had it not been for his wonderful personality; with a soul and
an imagination far above those of his early associates he gradually drew
around him the respect and admiration of that larger world of letters, the
London coterie. The following biographical notes are to be considered then
as a mere resume of the various chronological periods and stages of his
career as is shown by the many facts which have already become the common
property of the latter day reader, but which by reason of the scattered
source of supply and the extreme unlikelyhood of their being included in
any authoritative life or biography, makes them at once interesting and
valuable.
As sponsor for the abilities of Robert Louis Stevenson, stands first and
foremost, the name of William Ernest Henley a belief which was latterly
endorsed by most literary critics from Gladstone to LeGallienne.
Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson was born in Howard Place, Edinburgh, on the
13th of November, 1850. From his eighteenth year he seldom, if ever,
signed himself aught but Robert Louis Stevenson, omitting the name Balfour
therefrom. From birth he was of a slight and excitable nature and suffered
keenly from chronic and frequent illness. His recognized literary labors
may be said to have commenced at the immature age of six when, it is
recalled, he wrote, presumably for his own amusement and that of his
immediate family, "A History of Moses," and some years later an account of
his "Travels in Perth."
In these early years there also took shape and form in his imagination
what was afterwards given forth to the world in the pages of "Treasure
Island."
At eight, Stevenson was at school, and at eleven entered the Academy of
his native city. Here he began his first real literary labors, publishing,
editing and even writing and illustrating the contents of a small school
periodical.
Stevenson was emphatically a bird of passage, for regardless of the ties
of kindred and sentiment he was ever on the wing, and when in after years
as a seeker after health he proved none the less a careful observer than
he had been in his schoolboy days, small wonder it is that he was able to
give to the reading world such charming and novel descriptions of things
seen.
In his schooldays he journeyed far into the country round about, the
inevitable outcome of which was for him to ultimately to write out in his
own picturesque and imaginative words a record of his observations. From
"Random Memories" we learn of his pleasure at having taken a journey in
company with his father around among the lighthouses of the Scottish
coast, "_the first in the complete character of a man, without the help of
petticoats_." And with these excursions into Fife began his wanderings so
charmingly and characteristically chronicled in his later letters and
reminiscences.
In 1862 he went abroad to Germany and Holland, and in the next year and in
that following to Italy and the Riviera. In 1865 he wintered at Torquay,
an English winter resort on the south coast.
At seventeen, at Edinburgh University, Stevenson became a pupil of
Fleeming Jenkin, Professor of Engineering, whose biography he wrote with
much pride and devotion some | 1,138.388771 |
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Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Tony Towers and PG Distributed Proofreaders
THE EUROPEAN ANARCHY
By G. Lowes Dickinson
1916
CONTENTS
1. INTRODUCTION
Europe since the Fifteenth Century--Machiavellianism--Empire and the
Balance of Power
2. THE TRIPLE ALLIANCE AND THE ENTENTE
Belgian Dispatches of 1905-14.
3. GREAT BRITAIN
The Policy of Great Britain--Essentially an Overseas Power
4. FRANCE
The Policy of France since 1870--Peace and Imperialism--Conflicting
Elements
5. RUSSIA
The Policy of Russia--Especially towards Austria
6. AUSTRIA-HUNGARY
The Policy of Austria-Hungary--Especially towards the Balkans
7. GERMANY
The Policy of Germany--From 1866 to the Decade 1890-1900--A Change
8. OPINION IN GERMANY
German "Romanticism"--New Ambitions.
9. OPINION ABOUT GERMANY
Bourdon--Beyens--Cambon--Summary
10. GERMAN POLICY FROM THE DECADE 1890-1900
Relation to Great Britain--The Navy.
11. VAIN ATTEMPTS AT HARMONY
Great Britain's Efforts for Arbitration--Mutual Suspicion
12. EUROPE SINCE THE DECADE 1890-1900 | 1,138.578834 |
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Produced by the Mormon Texts Project,
http://bencrowder.net/books/mtp. Volunteers: Eric Heaps
with a little help from Benjamin Bytheway and Ben Crowder.
_The_ Mormons _and the_ Theatre
OR
_The History of Theatricals in Utah_
With Reminiscences and Comments
Humorous and Critical
_By_ JOHN S. LINDSAY
SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH
1905
CHAPTER I.
In rather sharp contrast to other Christian denominations, the Mormons
believe in and are fond of dancing and the theatre. So much is this
the case that Friday evening of each week during the amusement season
is set apart by them in all the settlements throughout Mormondom for
their dance night. Their dances are generally under the supervision of
the presiding bishop and are invariably opened with prayer or
invocation, and closed or dismissed in the same manner, with a brief
return of thanks to the Almighty for the good time they have enjoyed.
The theatre is so popular among the Mormon people, that in almost
every town and settlement throughout their domains there is an amateur
dramatic company.
It is scarcely to be wondered at that Salt Lake has the enviable
distinction of being the best show town of its population in the
United States, and when we say that, we may as well say in the whole
world. It is a well established fact that Salt Lake spends more money
per capita in the theatre than any city in our country.
Such a social condition among a strictly religious people is not
little peculiar, and is due, largely, to the fact that Brigham Young
was himself fond of the dance and also of the theatre. He could "shake
a leg" with the best of them, and loved to lead the fair matrons and
maidens of his flock forth into its giddy, bewildering mazes. Certain
round dances, the waltz and polka, were always barred at dances
Brigham Young attended, and only the old-fashioned quadrilles and
cotillions and an occasional reel like Sir Roger de Coverly or the
Money Musk were tolerated by the great Mormon leader.
That Brigham Young was fond of the theatre also, and gave great
encouragement to it, his building of the Salt Lake Theatre was a
striking proof. He recognized the natural desire for innocent
amusement, and the old axiom "All work and no play makes Jack a dull
boy," had its full weight of meaning to him. Keep the people in a
pleasurable mood, then they will not be apt to brood and ponder over
the weightier concerns of life.
There may have been a stroke of this policy in Brigham Young's
amusement scheme; but whether so or not he must be credited with both
wisdom and liberality, for the policy certainly lightened the cares
and made glad the hearts of the people.
Although Salt Lake City has been the chief nursery of these twin
sources of amusement for the Mormon people, to find the cradle in
which they were first nursed into life, we will have to go back to a
time and place anterior to the settlement of Salt Lake. Back in the
days of Nauvoo, before Brigham Young was chief of the Mormon church,
under the rule of its original prophet, Joseph Smith, the Mormon
people were encouraged in the practice of dancing and going to witness
plays. Indeed, the Mormons have always been a fun-loving people; it is
recorded of their founder and prophet that he was so fond of fun that
he would often indulge in a foot race, or pulling sticks, or even a
wrestling match. He often amazed and sometimes shocked the
sensibilities of the more staid and pious members of his flock by his
antics.
Before the Mormons ever dreamed of emigrating to Utah (or Mexico, as
it was then), they had what they called a "Fun Hall," or theatre and
dance hall combined, where they mingled occasionally in the merry
dance or sat to witness a play. Then, as later in Salt Lake, their
prophet led them through the mazy evolutions of the terpsichorean
numbers and was the most conspicuous figure at all their social
gatherings.
While building temples and propagating their new revelation to the
world, the Mormons have always found time to sing and dance and play
and have a pleasant social time, excepting, of course, in their days
of sore trial. Indeed, they are an anomaly among religious sects in
this respect, and that is what has made Salt Lake City proverbially a
"great show town."
Mormonism during the Nauvoo days had numerous missionaries in the
field and many converts were added to the new faith. Among others that
were attracted to the modern Mecca to look into the claims of the new
evangel, was Thomas A. Lyne, known more familiarly among his
theatrical associates as "Tom" Lyne.
Lyne, at this time, 1842, was an actor of wide and fair repute, in the
very flush of manhood, about thirty-five years of age. He had played
leading support to Edwin Forrest, the elder Booth, Charlotte Cushman,
Ellen Tree (before she became Mrs. Charles Kean), besides having
starred in all the popular classic roles. Lyne was the second actor in
the United States to essay the character of Bulwer's Richelieu--Edwin
Forrest being the first.
The story of "Tom" Lyne's conversion to the Mormon faith created quite
a sensation in theatrical circles of the time, and illustrates the
great proselyting power the elders of the new religion possessed.
Lyne, when he encountered Mormonism, was a skeptic, having outgrown
belief in all of the creeds. It was in 1841 that George J. Adams, a
brother-in-law of Lyne's, turned up suddenly in Philadelphia (Lyne's
home) where he met the popular actor and told him the story of his
conversion to the Mormon faith. Adams had been to Nauvoo, met the
prophet and become one of his most enthusiastic disciples. Adams had
been an actor, also, of more than mediocre ability, and as a preacher
proved to be one of the most brilliant and successful expounders of
the new religion. Elder Adams had been sent as a missionary to
Philadelphia in the hope that his able exposition of the new evangel
would convert that staid city of brotherly love to the new and
everlasting covenant.
In pursuance of the New Testament injunction, the Mormon missionaries
are sent out into their fields of labor without purse or scrip, so
Elder Adams, on arriving at his field of labor, lost no time in
hunting up his brother-in-law, "Tom" Lyne, to whom he related with
dramatic fervor and religious enthusiasm the story of his wonderful
conversion, his subsequent visit to Nauvoo, his meeting with the young
"Mohammed of the West," for whom he had conceived the greatest
admiration, as well as a powerful testimony of the divinity of his
mission.
| 1,138.589244 |
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Produced by Tom Cosmas and the Online Distributed
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produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
Breeding Minks in Louisiana
FOR THEIR FUR
A Profitable Industry
[Illustration]
BY
WILLIAM ANDRE ELFER
FOR SALE BY THE
GESSNER CO.,
611 CANAL ST., NEW ORLEANS, LA.
COPYRIGHTED
BY
W. A. ELFER
1909
Press of J. G. Hauser
"The Legal Printer"
620-622 Poydras St.
New Orleans
PREFACE
This little volume is issued in illustration of the feasibility of
breeding minks in Louisiana for their fur. It is the result of
experiments conducted by the author himself, and he feels that it
should be of interest to many and of value to the few who are looking
for fields for profitable investment. It is the author's aim to issue
a more elaborate work on the same subject sometime during the early
part of next year.
W. A. E.
[Illustration: A Louisiana Mink. Notice the Small Eyes, and the Low,
Rounded Ears, Scarcely Projecting Beyond the Adjacent Fur.]
For the following description of the American mink I am indebted to
the Encyclopaedia Britannica:
"In size it much resembles the English polecat--the length of the
head and body being usually from fifteen to eighteen inches; that
of the tail to the end of the hair about nine inches. The female is
considerably smaller than the male. The tail is bushy, but tapering
at the end. The ears are small, low, rounded, and scarcely project
beyond the adjacent fur. The pelage consists of a dense, soft,
matted under-fur, mixed with long, stiff, lustrous hairs on all
parts of the body and tail. The gloss is greatest on the upper
parts; on the tail the bristly hairs predominate. Northern
specimens have the finest and most glistening pelage; in those
from the southern regions there is less difference between the
under- and over-fur, and the whole pelage is coarser and harsher.
In color, different specimens present a considerable range of
variation, but the animal is ordinarily of a rich, dark brown,
scarcely or not paler below than on the general upper parts; but
the back is usually the darkest, and the tail is nearly black. The
under jaw, from the chin about as far back as the angle of the
mouth, is generally white. In the European mink the upper lip is
also white, but, as this occasionally occurs in American specimens,
it fails as an absolutely distinguishing character. Besides the
white on the chin, there are often other irregular white patches on
the under parts of the body. In very rare instances the tail is
tipped with white. The fur, like that of most of the animals of the
group to which it belongs, is an important article of commerce."
The fur market has always been a good market. It has grown firmer | 1,138.637439 |
2023-11-16 18:36:02.6205990 | 7,436 | 130 |
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Increasing Personal Efficiency
Women
Musical Culture
Oratory
Self Help
Some Advice to Young Men
_By_ RUSSELL H. CONWELL
VOLUME 5
NATIONAL
EXTENSION UNIVERSITY
597 Fifth Avenue, New York
OBSERVATION--EVERY MAN HIS OWN UNIVERSITY
Copyright, 1917, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
_Increasing Personal Efficiency_
I
WOMEN
Some women may be superficial in education and accomplishments,
extravagant in tastes, conspicuous in apparel, something more than
self-assured in bearing, devoted to trivialities, inclined to frequent
public places. It is, nevertheless, not without cause that art has
always shown the virtues in woman's dress, and that true literature
teems with eloquent tributes and ideal pictures of true womanhood--from
Homer's Andromache to Scott's Ellen Douglas, and farther. While
Shakespeare had no heroes, all his women except Ophelia are heroines,
even if Lady Macbeth, Regan, and Goneril are hideously wicked. In the
moral world, women are what flowers and fruit are in the physical. "The
soul's armor is never well set to the heart until woman's hand has
braced it; and it is only when she braces it loosely that the honor of
manhood fails."
Men will mainly be what women make them, and there can never be
_entirely free men_ until there are _entirely free women_ with no
special privileges, but with all her rights. The wife makes the home,
the mother makes the man, and she is the creator of joyous boyhood and
heroic manhood; when women fulfil their divine mission, all reform
societies will die, brutes will become men, and men shall be divine.
There are unkind things said of her in the cheaper writings of
to-day--perhaps because their authors have seen her only in
boarding-houses, restaurants, theaters, dance-halls, and at
card-parties; and the poor, degraded stage with its warped mirror shows
her up to the ridicule of the cheaper brood. The greatest writings and
the greatest dramas of all time have more than compensated for all this
indignity, and we have only to read deep into the great literature to be
disillusioned of any vulgar estimations of womanhood, and to understand
the beauty and power of soul of every woman who is true to the royalty
of womanhood.
There are few surer tests of a manly character than the estimation he
has of women, and it is noteworthy that the men who stand highest in the
esteem of both men and women are always men with worthy ideas of
womanhood, and with praiseworthy ideals for their mothers, sisters,
wives, and daughters. As men sink in self-respect and moral worth, their
esteem of womanhood lowers. The women who become the theme for poets and
philosophers and high-class playwrights are the women who have been bred
mainly in the home. They seem without exception to abhor throngs, and
only stern necessity can induce them to appear in them; the motherly,
matronly, and filial graces appeal strongly to them--such as are
portrayed in Cornelia, Portia, and Cordelia. They may yearn for society,
but it is the best society--for the "women whose beauty and sweetness
and dignity and high accomplishments and grace make us understand the
Greek mythology, and for the men who mold the time, who refresh our
faith in heroism and virtue, who make Plato and Zeno and Shakespeare and
all Shakespeare's gentlemen possible again."
If there is any inferiority in women, it is the result of environment
and of lack of opportunity--never from lack of intelligence and other
soul-powers. There is no sex in spiritual endowments, and woman seems
entitled to all the rights of man--plus the right of protection. Ruskin
says, "We are foolish without excuse in talking of the superiority of
one sex over the other; each has attributes the other has not, each is
completed by the other, and the happiness of both depends upon each
seeking and receiving from the other what the other can alone give."
In speaking of the time when perfect manhood and perfect womanhood has
come, Tennyson says in "The Princess":
Yet in the long years liker must they grow:
The man be more of woman, she of man;
He gain in sweetness and in moral height,
Nor lose the _wrestling_ thews that throw the world;
She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care,
Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind.
Home is the true sphere for woman; her best work for humanity has always
been done there, or has had its first impulse from within those four
walls. It was home with all its duties that made the Roman matron
Cornelia the type of the lofty woman of the world and the worthy mother.
While it endowed her with the power to raise two sons as worthy as any
known to history, who sacrificed their lives in defense of the Roman
poor, it also endowed her with courage to say to the second of her sons
when he was leaving her for the battle which brought his death, "My son,
see that thou returnest with thy shield or on it." Napoleon claimed
that it was the women of France who caused the loss at Waterloo, not its
men.
"Man's intellect is for speculation and invention, and his energy is for
just war and just conquest; woman's intellect is for sweet ordering,
arrangement, and decision; her energy is not for battle, but for rule."
Apparently relying upon man's magnanimity not to resent her abdicating
her home, woman's exigencies--and perhaps her ambitions--have forced her
more and more during the past fifty years into man's domains of
speculation and energy--perhaps into some war and some conquest. The
ever-increasing demand for her in these man-realms which she has invaded
or into which she has intruded herself is abundant evidence that she has
creditably acquitted herself in the betterment of business, education,
and literature, as well as in the numberless things which she has
invented to add beauty and comfort to the home, and to remove much of
the bitter drudgery from house and office, and to promote the health and
happiness of millions. All these helps she has given, even if she has
undoubtedly lost some of the graces which have always made so lovable
the woman of whom Andromache, Portia, and Cordelia are but types.
Although matrimony and motherhood were the first conditions of women and
only conditions that poets sing about and philosophers write about, and
although these are still the conditions where she is doing her largest
and noblest work in humanizing, yet her proper sphere is as man's,
wherever she can live nobly and work nobly. How many myriads in this
country alone are drudging or almost drudging in shops and offices to
relieve the too stern pressure of pain or poverty from some one who is
dear to them, yet are doing it unselfishly and uncomplainingly! A young
woman lately told me that she had for several years been employed to
interview women applicants for positions; that during these years she
had interviewed scores of women daily, and had learned much of their
private lives; that although the majority were working partly or
entirely to maintain others, yet had she never heard one complaint of
the sacrifices this service involved. Hundreds of other women, like
George Eliot, Charlotte Bronte and Helen Hunt will long continue to
bring pleasure and profit to millions through their writings.
It is women, too, whose inventions have not only lightened domestic work
and brightened the home, but also have so far removed the modern
schoolroom from the little red schoolhouse of long ago; and it is women
who have improved the books and the studies for children. They seem to
have entered almost every activity outside of the home, and their finer
powers of observation, aided by their innate love of the beautiful and
the practicality they have learned while in service, seem mainly to have
bettered conditions for wage-earners as well as for home and childhood.
Think of the thousands upon thousands in this land whose work with the
smaller children of the school could never be so well done by men! Think
of the service daily rendered by women outside the home, and picture the
confusion that would now arise if all these remained at home, even for
one week!
As a class, women do not speak so well as men, but they excel him as a
talker. In truth it is less difficult for them to talk little, than to
talk well. Somebody has said that there is nothing a woman cannot endure
if she can only talk. It is the woman who is ordained to teach talking
to infancy. Those who see short distances see clearly, which probably
accounts for woman's being able to see into and through character so
much better than men. A man admires a woman who is worthy of admiration.
As dignity is a man's quality, loveliness is a woman's; her heart is
love's favorite seat; women who are loyal to their womanhood can ever
influence the gnarliest hearts. They go farther in love than men, but
men go farther in friendship than women. Women mourn for the lost love,
says Dr. Brinton, men mourn for the lost loved-one. A woman's love
consoles; a man's friendship supports. What a real man most desires in a
woman is womanhood. As every woman despises a womanish man, so every man
despises a mannish woman.
Men are more sincere with the women of most culture, although mere
brain-women never please them so much as heart-women. Men feel that it
is the exceptional woman who should have exceptional rights; but they
scorn women whose soul has shrunk into mere intellect, and a godless
woman is a supreme horror to them. When to her womanly attributes she
adds the lady's attributes of veracity, delicate honor, deference, and
refinement, she becomes a high school of politeness for all who know
her. "True women," says Charles Reade, "are not too high to use their
arms, nor too low to cultivate their minds," but Hamerton believes that
her greatest negative quality is, that she does not of her own force
push forward intellectually; that she needs watchful masculine
influence for this. It is claimed that single women are mainly best
comforters, best sympathizers, best nurses, best companions.
Dean Swift says: "So many marriages prove unhappy because so many young
women spend their time in making nets, not in making cages." Perhaps
this is why they say that, in choosing a wife, the ear is a safer guide
than the eye. The gifts a gentlewoman seeks are packed and locked up in
a manly heart. Without a woman's love, a man's soul is without its
garden. He is happiest in marriage who selects as his wife the woman he
would have chosen as his bosom-companion, a happy marriage demands a
soul-mate as for as a house-mate or a yoke-mate. Spalding says that it
is doubtful whether a woman should ever marry who cannot sing and does
not love poetry. The conceptions of a wife differ. When the Celt
married, he put necklace and bracelets upon his wife; when the Teuton
married, he gave his wife a horse, an ox, a spear, and a shield. A true
wife delights both sense and soul; with her, a man unfolds a mine of
gold. Like a good wine, the happiest marriages take years to attain
perfection, and Hamerton says that marriage is a long, slow intergrowth,
like that of two trees closely planted in a forest. The marriage of a
deaf man and a blind woman is always happy; but this does not imply that
conjugal happiness is attained only under these conditions. The greatest
merit of many a man is his wife, but no real woman ever wears her
husband as her appendage.
Maternity is the loveliest word in the language, and every worthy mother
is an aristocrat. Mothers are the chief requisites of all educational
systems, and the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world. The home
has always been the best school in the world, and nothing else that is
known to education can ever supersede it. The cradle is the first room
in the school of life, and what is learned there lasts to the grave.
Dearth of real mothers is responsible for dearth of real education. Each
boy and each man is what his mother has made him, and every worthy
mother rears her children to stand upon their own two feet, and to do
without her.
While a thoughtful wife and mother is busied with the affairs of home,
she is never done with her intellectual education, for she realizes
early in her career that a mother loses half her influence with her
children when she ceases to be their intellectual superior.
Women are far more observant of little things than men, and the
greatest among them have marvelous powers of observation. It is this
power that made Mrs. Gladstone and Mrs. Disraeli the sturdy helpmates
they were to their husbands in all their trying cares of government. It
is said of Gladstone that it was not unusual for him to adjourn a
Cabinet meeting through a desire "to consult with Catherine." Had there
not been large power of observation, we should never have had the works
of George Eliot, Charlotte Bronte, Jane Austin, Helen Hunt, and all the
other notable women creators of fiction. Charlotte Cushman was the
greatest actress America has ever produced because her observation was
so close that not the smallest detail of the character she played
escaped her or was neglected. The beautifying of Athens owes its
inception to Aspasia rather than to Pericles.
II
MUSICAL CULTURE
Of all the arts, none is more difficult to define than music. No two
persons seem to agree as to what it is, and a harsh sound to one is
often sweet music to another. When music is controlled by those who use
carefully their powers of observation, it will be vastly more useful to
mankind. The need of music in the advancement of humanity it too
apparent to admit of discussion. From the Greek instrument with one
string down to the wonderful pipe-organ, music has been intensely
attractive and marvelously helpful, and for the good of the human
family.
No art or science needs more to be developed to-day than that of music.
Its influence on soul and body has been noticed and advanced by some of
the greatest thinkers of ancient and modern times, therefore it is not
necessary to discuss the supreme need for real music to bring into
harmony motives and movements for good. When we duly consider the
subject of music, and ask where we shall find the great musicians who
are to-day so much in demand, we feel that many so-called schools of
music are often more misleading than instructive, and that they follow
fashions that are far more unreasonable than the fashions of dress.
The art of music needs philosophic study, and it should be begun with a
far better understanding of the many causes which contribute to its
composition. The singing of birds is literally one of the most
discordant expressions of sound. Indeed, the tones of the nightingale
and the meadow-lark are only shrill whistles when they are considered
with reference only to the tones of their voice, yet they furnish the
ideal of some of the richest music to which the ear has ever listened,
being one part of the delicate orchestra of nature. The lowing of the
cow, the bellow of the bull, the bark of an angry dog echoing among the
hills at eventide, combined with so many other different sounds and
impressions, has become enticingly sweet to the pensive listener. The
insect-choir of night has as much of the calming and refining influences
as the bird-choir of the morning.
Real music requires not only that the tones should be clear and
resonant, but that they should be uttered amid harmonious surroundings.
"Dixie" and "Yankee Doodle," sung with a banjo accompaniment on a lawn
in the evening, surrounded by gay companions, may be the most delightful
music, which will start the blood coursing or rest the disturbed mind,
but it would not be called music if sung at a funeral. "I Know That My
Redeemer Liveth" is glorious music when it is sung in a great cathedral,
with echoes from its shadowy arches and the dim light of its
stained-glass windows. But the same solo would be in awful discord with
a ballroom jig.
Harmonious circumstances and appropriate environment are as essential
for perfect effects in music as is the concord of sweet sounds. The
foolish idea that music consists in screaming up to the highest C and
growling down to the lowest B has misled many an amateur, and destroyed
her helpfulness to a world that has far too much misery and far too
little of the joy that comes from a sweet-voiced songster. The beginner
in voice culture who attempts to wiggle her voice like a hired mourner,
and with her tremulous effects sets the teeth of her audience on edge,
has surely been misled into darkest delusion as to music, and will soon
be lost amid the throng of vocal failures. Extremists are out of place
anywhere, but the myriads of them in the musical world make humanity
shudder.
What is needed in music to-day more than anything else is a standard of
musical culture which shall demand careful discipline in all the
influences that contribute to good music. True music is the music that
always produces benign effects, the music that holds the attention of
the auditor and permanently influences him to nobler thought, feeling,
and action. Those large-hearted, artistic-souled men and women who are
capable of interpreting into feeling what they have heard from voice or
instrument must be the final court of appeal. A trapeze performance in
acoustics is not music.
It has been frequently shown that music is potent in its effects upon
the body as well as upon the soul. In 1901, a notable illustration of
the power of music over disease was given at the Samaritan Hospital,
connected with Temple University in Philadelphia, although the
experiments were made under disadvantageous circumstances and
environment. The patients were informed what the physicians were
endeavoring to do, and the efforts of the first few months were wasted
for the most part. Many of the patients who were placed under the
influence of the music grew confident that they were going to be cured.
While the recovery of some seemed miraculous, those who conducted the
experiments felt that the healing might be largely due to the influence
of the mind and not directly to the music. The matter was dropped for
several months, until the patients were nearly all new cases. The
doctors charged the nurses not to let the patients know for what cause
the music was placed in the hospital. They eliminated also the personal
influence of the nurses as well as the use of drugs at the time the
music was produced. The experiment convinced those who conducted it that
music has a powerful restorative effect even upon a person who is
suffering from a combination of diseases. So many of the patients who
recovered at that time from the influence of the music are alive and in
good health to-day that common honesty disposes us to conclude that
there is some undiscovered benefit in music which should be immediately
investigated. This will never be attained by musical faddists or by
selfish musicians who sing or perform for applause or money. Some plain,
every day-man or woman will ultimately be the apostle of music for the
people, and the experiments at Samaritan Hospital furnish only a
suggestion of the resources of music which must soon be known to the
world.
There was one patient in the hospital who had lost his memory through
"softening of the brain." He lay most of the time unconscious, but
occasionally talked irrationally upon all sorts of subjects. A quartet
sang several pieces in his ward, but the nurses who sat upon each side
of him noticed no effect whatever upon him until the quartet sang "My
Old Kentucky Home." Then his eyes brightened and he began to hum the
tune. Before they had finished the third verse, he asked the nurse about
the singing, and requested the quartet to repeat the song. His
intelligence seemed completely normal for a little while after the music
ceased. He asked and answered questions clearly, but soon relapsed into
his incoherent talk and listlessness.
When the man's lawyer heard of the effects upon the patient, he asked
that the song might be sung while he was present, that he might then ask
the patient about some very important papers of great value to the
patient's family. As soon as the song was again sung by the quartet his
intelligence returned. He informed the lawyer accurately as to the bank
vault in which his box was locked, and told where he had left the keys
in a private drawer of his desk.
Although the effect of the music was not permanent as to his case, many
persons who know of it feel that some time music may be so applied as
permanently to cure even such cases, if kept up for a sufficient length
of time. Accidents to the skull, heart diseases, nervous exhaustion, and
spinal ailments seem especially amenable to music. Two of the hospital
cases of paralysis were permanently relieved by music. In one of these
cases instrumental music seemed to produce a strong electric effect.
While four violins were accompanied by an organ, the patient could use
his feet and hands, but it was several weeks before he could walk
without music. In the other case, vocal music put an insomnia patient to
sleep, but after sleeping through the program, the patient was better;
after a few trials he returned home.
Some of the hundred cases experimented upon were complete failures. But
those conducting the experiments were convinced that the failure was
attributable to the fact that they were unable to find the right kind of
music. In the use of religious selections, "Pleyel's Hymn" made the
patients of every ward worse; but "The Dead March" from Saul was
soothing to typhoid patients. When this march was rendered softly, the
nurses discovered that two cases had been so susceptible to the
influences of the music that the physicians omitted the usual treatment
and the patients recovered sooner than some other patients who had the
disease in a less dangerous form.
Children were helped by a different class of music from that used with
adults, and difference in sex also was noted. Mothers who sing to their
children may become the best investigators as to the power of vocal
music on the healthy development of childhood.
In the Baptist Temple, Philadelphia, several hymns were once forcefully
rendered by the great chorus of the church to a congregation of three
thousand people. At the close, slips of paper were passed to the
worshipers, and they were asked to write upon the paper what thoughts
the music had suggested to them. While there was nothing in the anthems
suggestive of youth, and the burden of the stanzas seemed to divert from
childhood, yet more than half of the two thousand slips returned
attested that the hearer had been reminded of his schooldays and of the
games of childhood; these slips were collected before the congregation
had time to confer. It shows that the music was not in accord with the
words, and that it had greater power upon the mind than the words had.
It proves that, to produce its highest effects, sacred music must
harmonize with the meaning of the words and with the environment. It
also shows that the purpose for which one sings is an important
factor--random vociferations or a display of vocal gymnastics even of
the most cultured kind is both inartistic and unmusical.
These pages have been written to suggest that music is still with the
common people; that the future blessings which mankind shall derive from
musical art and science are probably dependent upon some observant
person who is free from the trammels of misguided and misdirected
culture, and who may come to it with an independent genius, and handle
the subject in the light of every-day common-sense.
III
ORATORY
Oratory has always been a potent influence for good. The printing-press
with its newspapers and magazines and tens of thousands of books has
done much during the past fifty years to draw attention away from
oratory. The printing-press is a huge blessing, and has greatly advanced
during these years that oratory has declined in public esteem or public
attention. But we are learning that there is yet something in the
_living_ man, in his voice and his manner and his mesmeric force, which
cannot be expressed through the cold lead of type. Hence the need for
orators, both men and women, has been steadily increasing during the
past few years, until there seems to be a pressing demand for the
restoration of the science and the art of oratory.
The country lad or the hard-working laborer or mechanic who thinks that
public speaking is beyond his reach has done himself a wrong. It was
such as they who oftener than can be told have become some of the
greatest orators of history. Men who afterward became great as effective
debaters made their first addresses to the cows in the pasture, to the
pigs in pens, to the birds in trees, and to the dog and the cat upon the
hearth. They often drew lessons concerning the effects of their
addresses from the actions of the animal auditors which heard their
talk, and were attracted or repulsed by what they heard and saw.
There is a mystery about public speaking. After years of study and
application, some men cannot accomplish as much by their addresses as
some uncultured laborer can do with his very first attempt. Some have
imperfectly called this power "personal magnetism." While this is mainly
born with men and women--as the power of the true poet and the true
teacher--yet it can be cultivated to a surprising degree. The schools of
elocution so often seem to fail to recognize the wide gulf that exists
between elocution and oratory. The former is an art which deals
primarily with enunciation, pronunciation, and gesture; the work of the
later science is persuasive--it has to do mainly with influencing the
head and the heart.
There is a law of oratory which does not seem to be understood or
recognized by elocution teachers. The plow-boy in a debating society of
the country school may feel that natural law, like Daniel Webster,
without being conscious that he is following it. But there is a danger
of losing this great natural power through injurious cultivation. The
powerful speaker is consciously or unconsciously observant at all times
of his audience, and he naturally adopts the tones, the gesture, and the
language which attract the most attention and leave the most potent
influence upon the audience. That is the law of all oratory, whether it
applies to the domestic animals, to conversation with our fellows, to
debates or addresses, lectures, speeches, sermons, or arguments. Where
the orator has not been misdirected or misled by some superficial
teacher of elocution, his aim will be first "to win the favorable
attention of his audience" and then to strongly impress them with his
opening sentence, his appearance, his manners, and his subject. His
reputation will have also very much to do with winning this favorable
impression at first. The words of the speaker either drive away or
attract, and the speaker endeavors at the outset to command the
attention of the hearers, whether they be dogs or congregation.
The beginner in oratory who is true to his instincts strives to adopt
the methods which he feels will favorably impress those for whom he has
a message. In his oration at the funeral of Julius Caesar, Mark Anthony
disarmed the enemies of Caesar and of himself by opening his oration
with, "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. I come to bury
Caesar, not to _praise_ him." Almost any man or woman can become an
orator of power by keeping himself or herself natural while talking.
The second condition of a successful oration is the statements of the
important facts or truths. Cicero, the elder Pitt, and Edward Everett
held strictly to the statement of all the facts at the outset of their
speech. Facts and truths are the most important things in all kinds of
oratory; as they are the most difficult to handle, the audience is more
likely to listen to them at the opening of the talk, and they must be
placed before the hearers clearly and emphatically, before the speaker
enters upon the next division of his address.
The third condition of a successful address is the argument, or
reasoning which is used to prove the conclusion he wishes his hearers to
reach. It is here that logic has its special place; it is at this vital
point that many political speakers fail to convince the men they
address. After he has thus reasoned, the natural orator makes his
appeal, which is the _chief purpose_ of all true oratory. It is here
where the orator becomes vehement, here where he shows all the ornament
of his talk in appropriate figures of speech. The most effective orators
are always those whose hearts are in strong sympathy with humanity, and
whose sympathies are always aroused to plead for men. This is the
condition that accounts for the eloquence--the power to arouse
hearers--which characterizes men like Logan, the American Indian, and
which characterizes many of the religious enthusiasts like Peter the
Hermit, who have surprised the world and often moved them to mighty
deeds.
So long as our government depends upon the votes of the people, just so
long must there be a stirring need of men and women orators to teach the
principles of government and to keep open to the light of truth the
consciences of the thousands and millions whose votes will decide the
welfare or the misfortune of our nation. As the speaker must adapt
himself and his message to all kinds of people, it is difficult to
advise any one in certain terms how to accomplish this. It is another
instance of the necessity of cultivating the daily habit of observation,
and of being always loyal to our instincts.
While schools and colleges have their uses, they are by no means a
necessity for those who will accomplish great things through their
oratory. Many a man laden with a wealth of college accomplishment has
been an utter failure on the platform. Where reading-matter is as
abundant and as cheap as it is in America, the poor boy at work upon the
farm or in the factory, with no time but his evenings for study, may get
the essentials of education, and by observing those who speak may give
himself forms of oratorical expression that will enable him to outshine
those with scholarship who have been led into fads.
We must be impressed with a high sense of duty in becoming an orator of
any class; we must feel that it is our calling to adhere to the truth
always and in all things, to warn our hearers of dangers, and to
encourage the good and help those who are struggling to be so. We must
have a passion for oratory which shall impel us to vigorous thought and
eloquent expression. The greatest oratory is that which is most
persuasive. It is not so fully in what an orator says or the vehemence
with which he says it that counts, but the practical good that results
from it. Many an oration has been elegant enough from its choice diction
and labored phraseology, yet it has fallen flat upon the audience.
When a man has been worked into natural passion over his theme, his
words will strike root and inspire his hearers into similar passion. It
is wonderful how true are our instincts in detecting what comes from the
heart and that which is mere words. The greatest orators have been those
who have not learned "by rote" what they have spoken. When Lincoln broke
away in his celebrated Cooper Institute address, and pictured the word
freedom written by the Lord across the skies in rainbow hues, the hearts
of his audience stopped beating for the instant. It is foolhardy for any
one to presume to speak with no preparation, for those who wish to give
themselves to oratory should carefully study the great debaters, learn
how they expressed themselves, and then accumulate important truths and
facts concerning their subject. But we must not forget that too much
study as to nicety of expression may lose something of the mountainous
effects of what we wish to state.
When an orator _feels_ his subject, his soul overflows with a thrill
indescribable, which is known only to those who have felt it. Genius is
lifted free for the moment to fly at will to the mountain heights, and
finds supreme delight therein. Everything that is food for the mind is
helpful to the orator, whether it come from school or work. But it is an
attainment which can be reached by the every-day plain man employed in
any every-day occupation. Demosthenes, the greatest orator the world has
yet known, found his School of Oratory along the shore talking to the
waves. John B. Gough and Henry Clay and both the elder and the younger
Pitt gained all their powers by means as humble. The mere study of
grammar has never yet made a correct speaker; the mere study of rhetoric
has never yet made a correct and powerful writer; and the study of
elocution cannot make an orator. Grammar, rhetoric, and elocution may
teach him only the laws which govern speech, writing, oratory, and leave
him | 1,138.640639 |
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Howard, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
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MY YEAR OF THE GREAT WAR
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
GOING TO WAR IN GREECE
THE WAYS OF THE SERVICE
| 1,138.64519 |
2023-11-16 18:36:02.7631810 | 7,437 | 21 |
Produced by Meredith Bach, Rene Anderson Benitz and the
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(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber's Note: Variations in hyphenation and spelling have been
retained as in the original. Minor printer errors have been amended
without note.
_By Ellen N. La Motte_
The Tuberculosis Nurse
The Backwash of War
The
Backwash of War
The Human Wreckage of the Battlefield
as Witnessed by an American
Hospital Nurse
By
Ellen N. La Motte
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1916
Copyright, 1916
BY
ELLEN N. LA MOTTE
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
To
MARY BORDEN-TURNER
"The Little Boss"
TO WHOM I OWE MY EXPERIENCE IN
THE ZONE OF THE ARMIES
INTRODUCTION
This war has been described as "Months of boredom, punctuated by moments
of intense fright." The writer of these sketches has experienced many
"months of boredom," in a French military field hospital, situated ten
kilometres behind the lines, in Belgium. During these months, the
lines have not moved, either forward or backward, but have remained
dead-locked, in one position. Undoubtedly, up and down the long-reaching
kilometres of "Front" there has been action, and "moments of intense
fright" have produced glorious deeds of valour, courage, devotion, and
nobility. But when there is little or no action, there is a stagnant
place, and in a stagnant place there is much ugliness. Much ugliness is
churned up in the wake of mighty, moving forces. We are witnessing a
phase in the evolution of humanity, a phase called War--and the slow,
onward progress stirs up the slime in the shallows, and this is the
Backwash of War. It is very ugly. There are many little lives foaming up
in the backwash. They are loosened by the sweeping current, and float to
the surface, detached from their environment, and one glimpses them,
weak, hideous, repellent. After the war, they will consolidate again
into the condition called Peace.
After this war, there will be many other wars, and in the intervals
there will be peace. So it will alternate for many generations. By
examining the things cast up in the backwash, we can gauge the progress
of humanity. When clean little lives, when clean little souls boil up in
the backwash, they will consolidate, after the final war, into a peace
that shall endure. But not till then.
E. N. L. M.
CONTENTS
PAGE
HEROES 3
LA PATRIE RECONNAISSANTE 17
THE HOLE IN THE HEDGE 35
ALONE 49
A BELGIAN CIVILIAN 63
THE INTERVAL 77
WOMEN AND WIVES 95
POUR LA PATRIE 115
LOCOMOTOR ATAXIA 129
A SURGICAL TRIUMPH 143
AT THE TELEPHONE 159
A CITATION 167
AN INCIDENT 181
HEROES
When he could stand it no longer, he fired a revolver up through the
roof of his mouth, but he made a mess of it. The ball tore out his left
eye, and then lodged somewhere under his skull, so they bundled him into
an ambulance and carried him, cursing and screaming, to the nearest
field hospital. The journey was made in double-quick time, over rough
Belgian roads. To save his life, he must reach the hospital without
delay, and if he was bounced to death jolting along at breakneck speed,
it did not matter. That was understood. He was a deserter, and
discipline must be maintained. Since he had failed in the job, his life
must be saved, he must be nursed back to health, until he was well
enough to be stood up against a wall and shot. This is War. Things like
this also happen in peace time, but not so obviously.
At the hospital, he behaved abominably. The ambulance men declared that
he had tried to throw himself out of the back of the ambulance, that he
had yelled and hurled himself about, and spat blood all over the floor
and blankets--in short, he was very disagreeable. Upon the operating
table, he was no more reasonable. He shouted and screamed and threw
himself from side to side, and it took a dozen leather straps and four
or five orderlies to hold him in position, so that the surgeon could
examine him. During this commotion, his left eye rolled about loosely
upon his cheek, and from his bleeding mouth he shot great clots of
stagnant blood, caring not where they fell. One fell upon the immaculate
white uniform of the Directrice, and stained her, from breast to shoes.
It was disgusting. They told him it was _La Directrice_, and that he
must be careful. For an instant he stopped his raving, and regarded her
fixedly with his remaining eye, then took aim afresh, and again covered
her with his coward blood. Truly it was disgusting.
To the _Medecin Major_ it was incomprehensible, and he said so. To
attempt to kill oneself, when, in these days, it was so easy to die with
honour upon the battlefield, was something he could not understand. So
the _Medecin Major_ stood patiently aside, his arms crossed, his supple
fingers pulling the long black hairs on his bare arms, waiting. He had
long to wait, for it was difficult to get the man under the anaesthetic.
Many cans of ether were used, which went to prove that the patient was a
drinking man. Whether he had acquired the habit of hard drink before or
since the war could not be ascertained; the war had lasted a year now,
and in that time many habits may be formed. As the _Medecin Major_
stood there, patiently fingering the hairs on his hairy arms, he
calculated the amount of ether that was expended--five cans of ether, at
so many francs a can--however, the ether was a donation from America, so
it did not matter. Even so, it was wasteful.
At last they said he was ready. He was quiet. During his struggles, they
had broken out two big teeth with the mouth gag, and that added a little
more blood to the blood already choking him. Then the _Medecin Major_
did a very skilful operation. He trephined the skull, extracted the
bullet that had lodged beneath it, and bound back in place that erratic
eye. After which the man was sent over to the ward, while the surgeon
returned hungrily to his dinner, long overdue.
In the ward, the man was a bad patient. He insisted upon tearing off his
bandages, although they told him that this meant bleeding to death. His
mind seemed fixed on death. He seemed to want to die, and was thoroughly
unreasonable, although quite conscious. All of which meant that he
required constant watching and was a perfect nuisance. He was so
different from the other patients, who wanted to live. It was a joy to
nurse them. This was the _Salle_ of the _Grands Blesses_, those most
seriously wounded. By expert surgery, by expert nursing, some of these
were to be returned to their homes again, _reformes_, mutilated for
life, a burden to themselves and to society; others were to be nursed
back to health, to a point at which they could again shoulder eighty
pounds of marching kit, and be torn to pieces again on the firing line.
It was a pleasure to nurse such as these. It called forth all one's
skill, all one's humanity. But to nurse back to health a man who was to
be court-martialled and shot, truly that seemed a dead-end occupation.
They dressed his wounds every day. Very many yards of gauze were
required, with gauze at so many francs a bolt. Very much ether, very
much iodoform, very many bandages--it was an expensive business,
considering. All this waste for a man who was to be shot, as soon as he
was well enough. How much better to expend this upon the hopeless
<DW36>s, or those who were to face death again in the trenches.
The night nurse was given to reflection. One night, about midnight, she
took her candle and went down the ward, reflecting. Ten beds on the
right hand side, ten beds on the left hand side, all full. How pitiful
they were, these little soldiers, asleep. How irritating they were,
these little soldiers, awake. Yet how sternly they contrasted with the
man who had attempted suicide. Yet did they contrast, after all? Were
they finer, nobler, than he? The night nurse, given to reflection,
continued her rounds.
In bed number two, on the right, lay Alexandre, asleep. He had received
the _Medaille Militaire_ for bravery. He was better now, and that day
had asked the _Medecin Major_ for permission to smoke. The _Medecin
Major_ had refused, saying that it would disturb the other patients. Yet
after the doctor had gone, Alexandre had produced a cigarette and
lighted it, defying them all from behind his _Medaille Militaire_. The
patient in the next bed had become violently nauseated in consequence,
yet Alexandre had smoked on, secure in his _Medaille Militaire_. How
much honour lay in that?
Here lay Felix, asleep. Poor, querulous, feeble-minded Felix, with a
foul fistula, which filled the whole ward with its odour. In one
sleeping hand lay his little round mirror, in the other, he clutched his
comb. With daylight, he would trim and comb his moustache, his poor,
little drooping moustache, and twirl the ends of it.
Beyond lay Alphonse, drugged with morphia, after an intolerable day.
That morning he had received a package from home, a dozen pears. He had
eaten them all, one after the other, though his companions in the beds
adjacent looked on with hungry, longing eyes. He offered not one, to
either side of him. After his gorge, he had become violently ill, and
demanded the basin in which to unload his surcharged stomach.
Here lay Hippolyte, who for eight months had jerked on the bar of a
captive balloon, until appendicitis had sent him into hospital. He was
not ill, and his dirty jokes filled the ward, provoking laughter, even
from dying Marius. How filthy had been his jokes--how they had been
matched and beaten by the jokes of others. How filthy they all were,
when they talked with each other, shouting down the length of the ward.
Wherein lay the difference? Was it not all a dead-end occupation,
nursing back to health men to be patched up and returned to the
trenches, or a man to be patched up, court-martialled and shot? The
difference lay in the Ideal.
One had no ideals. The others had ideals, and fought for them. Yet had
they? Poor selfish Alexandre, poor vain Felix, poor gluttonous Alphonse,
poor filthy Hippolyte--was it possible that each cherished ideals,
hidden beneath? Courageous dreams of freedom and patriotism? Yet if so,
how could such beliefs fail to influence their daily lives? Could one
cherish standards so noble, yet be himself so ignoble, so petty, so
commonplace?
At this point her candle burned out, so the night nurse took another
one, and passed from bed to bed. It was very incomprehensible. Poor,
whining Felix, poor whining Alphonse, poor whining Hippolyte, poor
whining Alexandre--all fighting for _La Patrie_. And against them the
man who had tried to desert _La Patrie_.
So the night nurse continued her rounds, up and down the ward,
reflecting. And suddenly she saw that these ideals were imposed from
without--that they were compulsory. That left to themselves, Felix, and
Hippolyte, and Alexandre, and Alphonse would have had no ideals.
Somewhere, higher up, a handful of men had been able to impose upon
Alphonse, and Hippolyte, and Felix, and Alexandre, and thousands like
them, a state of mind which was not in them, of themselves. Base metal,
gilded. And they were all harnessed to a great car, a Juggernaut,
ponderous and crushing, upon which was enthroned Mammon, or the Goddess
of Liberty, or Reason, as you like. Nothing further was demanded of them
than their collective physical strength--just to tug the car forward, to
cut a wide swath, to leave behind a broad path along which could
follow, at some later date, the hordes of Progress and Civilization.
Individual nobility was superfluous. All the Idealists demanded was
physical endurance from the mass.
Dawn filtered in through the little square windows of the ward. Two of
the patients rolled on their sides, that they might talk to one another.
In the silence of early morning their voices rang clear.
"Dost thou know, _mon ami_, that when we captured that German battery a
few days ago, we found the gunners chained to their guns?"
PARIS,
18 December, 1915.
LA PATRIE RECONNAISSANTE
They brought him to the _Poste de Secours_, just behind the lines, and
laid the stretcher down gently, after which the bearers stretched and
restretched their stiffened arms, numb with his weight. For he was a big
man of forty, not one of the light striplings of the young classes of
this year or last. The wounded man opened his eyes, flashing black eyes,
that roved about restlessly for a moment, and then rested vindictively
first on one, then on the other of the two _brancardiers_.
"_Sales embusques!_" (Dirty cowards) he cried angrily. "How long is it
since I have been wounded? Ten hours! For ten hours have I laid there,
waiting for you! And then you come to fetch me, only when it is safe!
Safe for you! Safe to risk your precious, filthy skins! Safe to come
where I have stood for months! Safe to come where for ten hours I have
laid, my belly opened by a German shell! Safe! Safe! How brave you are
when night has fallen, when it is dark, when it is safe to come for me,
ten hours late!"
He closed his eyes, jerked up his knees, and clasped both dirty hands
over his abdomen. From waist to knees the old blue trousers were soaked
with blood, black blood, stiff and wet. The _brancardiers_ looked at
each other and shook their heads. One shrugged a shoulder. Again the
flashing eyes of the man on the stretcher opened.
"_Sales embusques!_" he shouted again. "How long have you been engaged
in this work of mercy? For twelve months, since the beginning of the
war! And for twelve months, since the beginning of the war, I have stood
in the first line trenches! Think of it--twelve months! And for twelve
months you have come for us--when it was safe! How much younger are you
than I! Ten years, both of you--ten years, fifteen years, or even more!
Ah, _Nom de Dieu_, to have influence! Influence!"
The flaming eyes closed again, and the bearers shuffled off, lighting
cheap cigarettes.
Then the surgeon came, impatiently. Ah, a _grand blesse_, to be hastened
to the rear at once. The surgeon tried to unbutton the soaking trousers,
but the man gave a scream of pain.
"For the sake of God, cut them, _Monsieur le Major_! Cut them! Do not
economize. They are worn out in the service of the country! They are
torn and bloody, they can serve no one after me! Ah, the little
economies, the little, false economies! Cut them, _Monsieur le Major_!"
An assistant, with heavy, blunt scissors, half cut, half tore the
trousers from the man in agony. Clouts of black blood rolled from the
wound, then a stream bright and scarlet, which was stopped by a handful
of white gauze, retained by tightly wrapped bands. The surgeon raised
himself from the task.
"_Mon pauvre vieux_," he murmured tenderly. "Once more?" and into the
supine leg he shot a stream of morphia.
Two ambulance men came in, Americans in khaki, ruddy, well fed,
careless. They lifted the stretcher quickly, skilfully. Marius opened
his angry eyes and fixed them furiously.
"_Sales etrangers!_" he screamed. "What are _you_ here for? To see me,
with my bowels running on the ground? Did you come for me ten hours ago,
when I needed you? My head in mud, my blood warm under me? Ah, not you!
There was danger then--you only come for me when it is safe!"
They shoved him into the ambulance, buckling down the brown canvas
curtains by the light of a lantern. One cranked the motor, then both
clambered to the seat in front, laughing. They drove swiftly but
carefully through the darkness, carrying no lights. Inside, the man
continued his imprecations, but they could not hear him.
"Strangers! Sightseers!" he sobbed in misery. "Driving a motor, when it
is I who should drive the motor! Have I not conducted a Paris taxi for
these past ten years? Do I not know how to drive, to manage an engine?
What are they here for--France? No, only themselves! To write a book--to
say what they have done--when it was safe! If it was France, there is
the Foreign Legion--where they would have been welcome--to stand in the
trenches as I have done! But do they enlist? Ah no! It is not safe! They
take my place with the motor, and come to get me--when it is too late."
Then the morphia relieving him, he slept.
* * * * *
In a field hospital, some ten kilometres behind the lines, Marius lay
dying. For three days he had been dying and it was disturbing to the
other patients. The stench of his wounds filled the air, his curses
filled the ward. For Marius knew that he was dying and that he had
nothing to fear. He could express himself as he chose. There would be no
earthly court-martial for him--he was answerable to a higher court. So
Marius gave forth freely to the ward his philosophy of life, his hard,
bare, ugly life, as he had lived it, and his comments on _La Patrie_ as
he understood it. For three days, night and day, he screamed in his
delirium, and no one paid much attention, thinking it was delirium. The
other patients were sometimes diverted and amused, sometimes exceedingly
annoyed, according to whether or not they were sleepy or suffering. And
all the while the wound in the abdomen gave forth a terrible stench,
filling the ward, for he had gas gangrene, the odour of which is
abominable.
Marius had been taken to the _Salle_ of the abdominal wounds, and on one
side of him lay a man with a faecal fistula, which smelled atrociously.
The man with the fistula, however, had got used to himself, so he
complained mightily of Marius. On the other side lay a man who had been
shot through the bladder, and the smell of urine was heavy in the air
round about. Yet this man had also got used to himself, and he too
complained of Marius, and the awful smell of Marius. For Marius had gas
gangrene, and gangrene is death, and it was the smell of death that the
others complained of.
Two beds farther down, lay a boy of twenty, who had been shot through
the liver. Also his hand had been amputated, and for this reason he was
to receive the _Croix de Guerre_. He had performed no special act of
bravery, but all _mutiles_ are given the _Croix de Guerre_, for they
will recover and go back to Paris, and in walking about the streets of
Paris, with one leg gone, or an arm gone, it is good for the _morale_ of
the country that they should have a _Croix de Guerre_ pinned on their
breasts. So one night at about eight o'clock, the General arrived to
confer the _Croix de Guerre_ on the man two beds from Marius. The
General was a beautiful man, something like the Russian Grand Duke. He
was tall and thin, with beautiful slim legs encased in shining tall
boots. As he entered the ward, emerging from the rain and darkness
without, he was very imposing. A few rain drops sparkled upon the golden
oak leaves of his cap, for although he had driven up in a limousine, he
was not able to come quite up to the ward, but had been obliged to
traverse some fifty yards of darkness, in the rain. He was encircled in
a sweeping black cloak, which he cast off upon an empty bed, and then,
surrounded by his glittering staff, he conferred the medal upon the man
two beds below Marius. The little ceremony was touching in its dignity
and simplicity. Marius, in his delirium, watched the proceedings
intently.
It was all over in five minutes. Then the General was gone, his staff
was gone, and the ward was left to its own reflections.
Opposite Marius, across the ward, lay a little _joyeux_. That is to say,
a soldier of the _Bataillon d'Afrique_, which is the criminal regiment
of France, in which regiment are placed those men who would otherwise
serve sentences in jail. Prisoners are sent to this regiment in peace
time, and in time of war, they fight in the trenches as do the others,
but with small chance of being decorated. Social rehabilitation is their
sole reward, as a rule. So Marius waxed forth, taunting the little
_joyeux_, whose feet lay opposite his feet, a yard apart.
"_Tiens!_ My little friend!" he shouted so that all might hear. "Thou
canst never receive the _Croix de Guerre_, as Francois has received it,
because thou art of the _Bataillon d'Afrique_! And why art thou there,
my friend? Because, one night at a cafe, thou didst drink more wine than
was good for thee--so much more than was good for thee, that when an old
_boulevardier_, with much money in his pocket, proposed to take thy girl
from thee, thou didst knock him down and give him a black eye! Common
brawler, disturber of the peace! It was all due to the wine, the good
wine, which made thee value the girl far above her worth! It was the
wine! The wine! And every time an attempt is made in the Chamber to
abolish drinking the good wine of France, there is violent opposition.
Opposition from whom? From the old _boulevardier_ whose money is
invested in the vineyards--the very man who casts covetous eyes upon thy
Mimi! So thou goest to jail, then to the _Bataillon d'Afrique_, and the
wine flows, and thy Mimi--where is she? Only never canst thou receive
the _Croix de Guerre_, my friend--_La Patrie Reconnaissante_ sees to
that!"
Marius shouted with laughter--he knew himself so near death, and it was
good to be able to say all that was in his heart. An orderly approached
him, one of the six young men attached as male nurses to the ward.
"Ha! Thou bidst me be quiet, _sale embusque_?" he taunted. "I will shout
louder than the guns! And hast thou ever heard the guns, nearer than
this safe point behind the lines? Thou art here doing woman's work!
Caring for me, nursing me! And what knowledge dost thou bring to thy
task, thou ignorant grocer's clerk? Surely thou hast some powerful
friend, who got thee mobilized as _infirmier_--a woman's task--instead
of a simple soldier like me, doing his duty in the trenches!"
Marius raised himself in bed, which the _infirmier_ knew, because the
doctor had told him, was not a right position for a man who has a wound
in his stomach, some thirty centimetres in length. Marius, however, was
strong in his delirium, so the _infirmier_ called another to help him
throw the patient upon his back. Soon three were called, to hold the
struggling man down.
Marius resigned himself. "Summon all six of you!" he shouted. "All six
of you! And what do you know about illness such as mine? You, a grocer's
clerk! You, barber! You, _cultivateur_! You, driver of the boat train
from Paris to Cherbourg! You, agent of the Gas Society of Paris! You,
driver of a Paris taxi, such as myself! Yet here you all are, in your
wisdom, your experience, to nurse me! Mobilized as nurses because you
are friend of a friend of a deputy! Whilst I, who know no deputy, am
mobilized in the first line trenches! _Sales embusques! Sales
embusques! La Patrie Reconnaissante!_"
He laid upon his back a little while, quiet. He was very delirious, and
the end could not be far off. His black eyebrows were contracted into a
frown, the eyelids closed and quivering. The grey nostrils were pinched
and dilated, the grey lips snarling above yellow, crusted teeth. The
restless lips twitched constantly, mumbling fresh treason, inaudibly.
Upon the floor on one side lay a pile of coverlets, tossed angrily from
the bed, while on each side the bed dangled white, muscular, hairy legs,
the toes touching the floor. All the while he fumbled to unloose the
abdominal dressings, picking at the safety-pins with weak, dirty
fingers. The patients on each side turned their backs to him, to escape
the smell, the smell of death.
A woman nurse came down the ward. She was the only one, and she tried to
cover him with the fallen bedding. Marius attempted to clutch her hand,
to encircle her with his weak, delirious, amorous arms. She dodged
swiftly, and directed an orderly to cover him with the fallen blankets.
Marius laughed in glee, a fiendish, feeble, shrieking laugh. "Have
nothing to do with a woman who is diseased!" he shouted. "Never! Never!
Never!"
So they gave him more morphia, that he might be quiet and less indecent,
and not disturb the other patients. And all that night he died, and all
the next day he died, and all the night following he died, for he was a
very strong man and his vitality was wonderful. And as he died, he
continued to pour out to them his experience of life, his summing up of
life, as he had lived it and known it. And the sight of the woman nurse
evoked one train of thought, and the sight of the men nurses evoked
another, and the sight of the man who had the _Croix de Guerre_ evoked
another, and the sight of the _joyeux_ evoked another. And he told the
ward all about it, incessantly. He was very delirious.
His was a filthy death. He died after three days' cursing and raving.
Before he died, that end of the ward smelled foully, and his foul words,
shouted at the top of his delirious voice, echoed foully. Everyone was
glad when it was over.
The end came suddenly. After very much raving it came, after terrible
abuse, terrible truths. One morning, very early, the night nurse looked
out of the window and saw a little procession making its way out of the
gates of the hospital enclosure, going towards the cemetery of the
village beyond. First came the priest, carrying a wooden cross that the
carpenter had just made. He was chanting something in a minor key, while
the sentry at the gates stood at salute. The cortege passed through,
numbering a dozen soldiers, four of whom carried the bier on their
shoulders. The bier was covered with the glorious tricolour of France.
She glanced instinctively back towards Marius. It would be just like
that when he died. Then her eyes fell upon a Paris newspaper, lying on
her table. There was a column headed, "_Nos Heros! Morts aux Champs
d'Honneur! La Patrie Reconnaissante._" It would be just like that.
Then Marius gave a last, sudden scream.
"_Vive la France!_" he shouted. "_Vive les sales embusques! Hoch le
Kaiser!_"
The ward awoke, scandalized.
"_Vive la Patrie Reconnaissante!_" he yelled. "_Hoch le Kaiser!_"
Then he died.
PARIS,
19 December, 1915.
THE HOLE IN THE HEDGE
The field hospital stood in a field outside the village, surrounded by a
thick, high hedge of prickly material. Within, the enclosure was filled
by a dozen little wooden huts, painted green, connected with each other
by plank walks. What went on outside the hedge, nobody within knew. War,
presumably. War ten kilometres away, to judge by the map, and by the
noise of the guns, which on some days roared very loudly, and made the
wooden huts shake and tremble, although one got used to that, after a
fashion. The hospital was very close to the war, so close that no one
knew anything about the war, therefore it was very dull inside the
enclosure, with no news and no newspapers, and just quarrels and
monotonous work. As for the hedge, at such points as the prickly thorn
gave out or gave way, stout stakes and stout boarding took its place,
thus making it a veritable prison wall to those confined within. There
was but one recognized entrance, the big double gates with a sentry box
beside them, at which box or within it, according to the weather, stood
a sentry, night and day. By day, a drooping French flag over the gates
showed the ambulances where to enter. By night, a lantern served the
same purpose. The night sentry was often asleep, the day sentry was
often absent, and each wrote down in a book, when they thought it
important, the names of those who came and went into the hospital
grounds. The field ambulances came and went, the hospital motors came
and went, now and then the General's car came and went, and the people
attached to the hospital also came and went, openly, through the gates.
But the comings and goings through the hedge were different.
Now and then holes were discovered in the hedge. Holes underneath the
prickly thorn, not more than a foot high, but sufficient to allow a
crawling body to wriggle through on its stomach. These holes persisted
for a day or two or three, and then were suddenly staked up, with strong
stakes and barbed wire. After which, a few days later, perhaps, other
holes like them would be discovered in the hedge a little further along.
After each hole was discovered, curious happenings would take place
amongst the hospital staff.
Certain men, orderlies or stretcher bearers, would be imprisoned. For
example, the nurse of _Salle I._, the ward of the _grands blesses_,
would come on duty some morning and discover that one of her orderlies
was missing. Fouquet, who swept the ward, who carried basins, who gave
the men their breakfasts, was absent. There was a beastly hitch in the
ward work, in consequence. The floor was filthy, covered with cakes of
mud tramped in by the stretcher bearers during the night. The men
screamed for attention they did not receive. The wrong patients got the
wrong food at meal times. And then the nurse would look out of one of
the little square windows of the ward, and see Fouquet marching up and
down the plank walks between the _baracques_, carrying his eighty pounds
of marching kit, and smiling happily and defiantly. He was "in prison."
The night before he had crawled through a hole in the hedge, got blind
drunk in a neighbouring _estaminet_, and had swaggered boldly through
the gates in the morning, to be "imprisoned." He wanted to be. He just
could not stand it any longer. He was sick of it all. Sick of being
_infirmier | 1,138.783221 |
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[Illustration: _The Fairy Violet's introduction to the Fire-King._]
HOW THE FAIRY VIOLET
LOST AND WON
HER WINGS.
BY MARIANNE L. B. KER.
_Author of "Eva's Victory," "Sybil Grey," &c._
ILLUSTRATED BY J. A. MARTIN.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
GRIFFITH AND FARRAN, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH YARD.
1872.
HOW THE FAIRY VIOLET
LOST AND WON HER WINGS.
The Fairy Violet lived in the heart of a beautiful | 1,138.783972 |
2023-11-16 18:36:02.7657960 | 2,704 | 22 |
Produced by Rose Mawhorter, Jeff G. and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)
THE MESSIAH
IN
MOSES AND THE PROPHETS.
BY
ELEAZAR LORD.
NEW-YORK:
CHARLES SCRIBNER, 145 NASSAU STREET.
1853.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by
ELEAZAR LORD,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New-York.
TO THE DESCENDANTS OF ISRAEL.
From the earliest periods a belief has prevailed among Jews and
Gentiles, that in one mode or another the Supreme Being has appeared
visibly on earth. In the Eastern World, Divine incarnations are taught
in the Brahminical and other systems.
For the origin of such a belief we must undoubtedly recur to the Divine
appearances recorded in Moses and the prophets. Such visible appearances
and the doctrine of the incarnation are taught in the Hebrew as well as
in the Christian Scriptures.
It is the object of the ensuing pages to show that He who truly became
incarnate, and is announced as Jesus, the Christ, and also as Jehovah,
Immanuel, _God with us_, is the same who in the Hebrew oracles is often
called Jehovah and Elohim, and designated also by official titles, as
the Messiah, the Messenger, Adonai, the Elohe of Abraham; and that,
under various designations, he appeared visibly in a form like that of
man to the Patriarchs, and to Moses, and others. In Him, in accordance
with their Scriptures, the descendants of Israel will at length discern
the True Messiah, who took man's nature, and in his stead, and as his
substitute, was slain a sacrifice for sin, the Just for the unjust; who
rose from the dead, and ascended on high in his glorified body; and who
will come again, visibly, to sit and rule as King on the throne of
David; to destroy the great Adversary and his works; to vindicate his
earlier administration; to accomplish the ancient predictions concerning
the SEED of Abraham, the land promised as an everlasting inheritance,
and his own sacerdotal, prophetic, and regal offices; and to receive due
homage of the universe as Creator, Ruler, and Redeemer.
Of him as Jehovah and as the Messenger, it is affirmed that he led the
children of Israel out of Egypt. (See Exodus ii. and Judges i.) And,
after the lapse of nine hundred years, He himself proclaimed to their
dispersed and afflicted descendants: "Behold the days come, saith
Jehovah, that it shall no more be said, Jehovah liveth that brought up
the children of Israel out of the land of Egypt; but, Jehovah liveth
that brought up the children of Israel from the land of the north, and
from all the lands whither he had driven them: and I will bring them
again into _their land that I gave_ _unto their fathers_. For mine eyes
are upon all their ways: they are not hid from my face:--and they shall
know that my name is Jehovah." Jer. xvi. 14, 15, 17, 21.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Reasons for examining the Hebrew Records of the Messiah.
CHAPTER II.
The Messiah announced by Malachi, as Adonai, even Melach, the Messenger
of the Covenant--His appearance to Jacob at Bethel; and to Isaiah,
Abraham, Moses, Gideon, and others, under various designations, as
Adonai, Melach, a Man, Jehovah Zebaoth, the Holy One, El-Shadai, &c.
CHAPTER III.
Reasons for rendering the formula "Melach Jehovah," the Messenger (who
is) Jehovah; and not _the_ Angel, or _an_ Angel _of_ the Lord.
CHAPTER IV.
Visible Appearance of the Messenger Jehovah to Hagar.
CHAPTER V.
No visible Divine Appearances ever made except of the Messiah, the
Mediator in all the Relations of God to the World.
CHAPTER VI.
Appearances of the Messenger Jehovah to Abraham and to Jacob.
CHAPTER VII.
References to various Appearances of Jehovah and Elohim to the
Patriarchs.
CHAPTER VIII.
Of the Doctrines, Worship, and Faith of those earliest mentioned in
Scripture--Reference to the History of Moses, Noah, Joshua.
CHAPTER IX.
Narrative concerning Job.
CHAPTER X.
Further notice of Divine Manifestations to Abraham and Jacob--Mysteriousness
attending the Divine Appearance--The visible Form
always like that of Man.
CHAPTER XI.
Of the official Person and Relations of the Messiah.
CHAPTER XII.
Local and visible Manifestations, Intercourse and Instructions, as
characterizing the primeval and Mosaic Dispensations--Local Presence of
the Messenger Jehovah in the Tabernacle.
CHAPTER XIII.
Of the Chaldee Paraphrasts--Their method of designating the Personal
WORD or Revealer--Occasion and Necessity of it.
CHAPTER XIV.
Citations from the Chaldee Paraphrases.
CHAPTER XV.
Reasons of the Failure of the modern Versions of the Scriptures to
exhibit clearly the Hebrew designations of the Messiah--The Masoretic
Punctuation--Reference to the term Melach and the formula Melach
Jehovah.
CHAPTER XVI.
Continuation of the subject of the preceding Chapter--Combined influence
of Rabbinical and figurative Interpretations--German method of Hebrew
study--Preposterous notion of the inadequacy of Language as a Vehicle of
Thought.
CHAPTER XVII.
Relation of the Antagonism between the Messiah and the great Adversary
to the local, personal, and visible Manifestations of the former--Modes
of Visibility on the part of the latter, through human agents and
various instrumentalities.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Illustration of the subject of the last Chapter, exhibiting the
Antagonism as carried on by visible agencies, instrumentalities, and
events, in the plagues of Egypt and at the Red Sea.
CHAPTER XIX.
Further Illustration of the Antagonism--Idolatry a Counterfeit Rival
System in opposition to the Messiah and the True Worship--Its Origin and
Nature--Satan the God of it--The Tower of Babel devoted to his
Worship--That Worship extended thence over the Earth at the Dispersion.
CHAPTER XX.
The system of Idolatry founded on a perversion of the Doctrine of
Mediation--References to the Worshippers of Baal, Israelite and Pagan.
CHAPTER XXI.
Idolatry an imposing and delusive Counterfeit of the Revealed System, in
respect to the leading features of its Ritual, and the prerogatives
ascribed to the Arch-deceiver--Reference to the Symbols of the
Apocalypse.
CHAPTER XXII.
On the question, How it has happened, since the origin of the Nicene
Creed, that the Old Testament has been understood to ascribe the
Creation, not to the Christ, but to the Father?
CHAPTER XXIII.
Continuation of the subject of the foregoing Chapter--Reference to the
Heresies, respecting the Creator, of the three first and ensuing
centuries.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Subject of the last Chapter continued--Results of the earliest and most
prevalent Heresies.
CHAPTER XXV.
The great Antagonism--in what manner will it terminate?
NOTES.
A--Relating to the Exposition of the Apocalypse, by D. N. Lord.
B--The primary ground of Mediation, &c.
THE MESSIAH
IN
MOSES AND THE PROPHETS.
CHAPTER I.
Reasons for examining the Hebrew Records of the Messiah.
It is said of the Messiah, in a discourse with two of his disciples,
that "Beginning at Moses, and all the prophets, he expounded unto them
in all the Scriptures, the things concerning himself." And subsequently:
"These are the words which I spake unto you while I was yet with you,
that all things must be fulfilled which were written in the law of
Moses, and in the prophets, and in the Psalms, concerning me. Then
opened he their understandings, that they might understand the
Scriptures." On another occasion he said: "Search the Scriptures; for in
them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of
me." And again: "Had ye believed Moses, ye would have believed me; for
he wrote of me. But if ye believe not his writings, how shall ye believe
my words?"
At his advent he was, pursuant to a prediction of Isaiah, called
Immanu-El, _God with us_. In conformity with another prediction, it was
the office of his fore-runner to prepare the way of Jehovah--_the Lord_.
And an angel announced to the shepherds: "Unto you is born a Saviour,
which is Christ the Lord," (_Jehovah_.) "Philip saith to Nathaniel, We
have found him of whom Moses in the law, and the prophets, did write,
_Jesus_ of Nazareth."
We should naturally infer from these passages that the delegated
official Person, Jesus, the Christ, was the theme of the Old Testament
Scriptures; that his official agency and relations were there
continuously and amply treated of; that his complex character, his
divine prerogatives, his prophetical, sacerdotal and regal offices, his
works as Creator, Lawgiver, and Ruler, and his relations as Covenanter
and Redeemer, were there conspicuously set forth, and were the
recognized and acknowledged objects of the faith and trust of
patriarchs, prophets, and all true worshippers.
And such undoubtedly was the case. He was the Jehovah of the Old
Testament; the Elohe of the patriarchs and of Israel; the Angel or
Messenger Jehovah, the Jehovah Zebaoth, the Adonai, the Messiah of the
ancient dispensations. Under these and other designations Moses, the
psalmists, and the prophets wrote of him; saw, acknowledged, and
believed in him; worshipped and praised him in the tabernacle and
temple; recognized and obeyed him as their Lawgiver, and trusted in him
as their Saviour.
Their faith rested on him as the present object of their homage and
trust, asserting his prerogatives, dispensing his benefits, and in all
his relations exerting his official agency. They regarded him not merely
as he was typified, but as he then manifested himself and executed his
offices. In some respects his future manifestations, and especially his
sufferings and death for the expiation of sin, were vividly prefigured
by typical rites, and were objects of their faith; but in other
respects, as their Mediator, Prophet, Lawgiver, Priest, and King, he was
the present object of their homage, faith, love, and obedience. The
faith of Abel, Enoch, Noah, Abraham, and their successors, embraced his
person and his official prerogatives and works, and was therefore
effectual unto justification, precisely as that of believers under the
present dispensation, who are therefore described as walking in the
steps of that faith of Abraham which was counted for righteousness. The
faith which was instrumental in his justification was the exemplar alike
of that of all believers under the ancient, and of those under the
present dispensation. To him the patriarchs erected altars and offered
sacrifices and prayers, and from him received gifts and promises. To him
the ministerial offices and typical services of the Levitical priesthood
had immediate reference. In the tabernacle and temple, as Prophet,
Priest, and King, he instructed them, prescribed their worship and
obedience; and as their present Lawgiver and Ruler, exercised over them
his providential and moral government.
All this is implied, indeed, in the facts that the Church of that and
the present day is the same; that the method of salvation through faith
in him was the same then as now; and that he was the Saviour and
Mediator alike them and at present: and otherwise it is not perceived
how an intelligible or satisfactory answer can be given to the
questions, How did he exercise the office of Med | 1,138.785836 |
2023-11-16 18:36:02.7669530 | 739 | 18 | STUDIES IN PESSIMISM***
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Josephine Paolucci, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE ESSAYS OF ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER: STUDIES IN PESSIMISM
TRANSLATED BY
T. BAILEY SAUNDERS, M.A.
CONTENTS.
ON THE SUFFERINGS OF THE WORLD
ON THE VANITY OF EXISTENCE
ON SUICIDE
IMMORTALITY: A DIALOGUE
PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS
ON EDUCATION
OF WOMEN
ON NOISE
A FEW PARABLES
NOTE.
The Essays here presented form a further selection from Schopenhauer's
_Parerga_, brought together under a title which is not to be found
in the original, and does not claim to apply to every chapter in
the volume. The first essay is, in the main, a rendering of the
philosopher's remarks under the heading of _Nachtraege zur Lehre vom
Leiden der Welt_, together with certain parts of another section
entitled _Nachtraege zur Lehre von der Bejahung und Verneinung des
Willens zum Leben_. Such omissions as I have made are directed chiefly
by the desire to avoid repeating arguments already familiar to readers
of the other volumes in this series. The _Dialogue on Immortality_
sums up views expressed at length in the philosopher's chief work, and
treated again in the _Parerga_. The _Psychological Observations_ in
this and the previous volume practically exhaust the chapter of the
original which bears this title.
The essay on _Women_ must not be taken in jest. It expresses
Schopenhauer's serious convictions; and, as a penetrating observer
of the faults of humanity, he may be allowed a hearing on a question
which is just now receiving a good deal of attention among us.
T.B.S.
ON THE SUFFERINGS OF THE WORLD.
Unless _suffering_ is the direct and immediate object of life, our
existence must entirely fail of its aim. It is absurd to look upon
the enormous amount of pain that abounds everywhere in the world, and
originates in needs and necessities inseparable from life itself, as
serving no purpose at all and the result of mere chance. Each separate
misfortune, as it comes, seems, no doubt, to be something exceptional;
but misfortune in general is the rule.
I know of no greater absurdity than that propounded by most systems of
philosophy in declaring evil to be negative in its character. Evil is
just what is positive; it makes its own existence felt. Leibnitz is
particularly concerned to defend this absurdity; and he seeks to
strengthen his position by using a palpable and paltry sophism.[1]
It is the good which is negative; in other words, happiness and
satisfaction always imply some desire fulfilled, some state of pain
brought to an end.
[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_, cf. _Theod_, sec. 153.--Leibnitz
argued that evil is a negative quality--_i.e_., the absence of good; and
that its active and seemingly positive character is an incidental and
not an essential part of its nature. Cold, he said, is only the absence
of the power of heat, and the active | 1,138.786993 |
2023-11-16 18:36:02.8614110 | 1,901 | 14 | TIBER***
E-text prepared by Frank van Drogen, Greg Bergquist, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Transcriber's note:
The punctuation and spelling from the original text have been
preserved faithfully. Only obvious typographical errors have
been corrected.
PILGRIMAGE FROM THE ALPS TO THE TIBER.
Or
The Influence of Romanism on Trade, Justice, and Knowledge.
by
REV. J.A. WYLIE, LL.D.
Author of "The Papacy," &c. &.c.
Edinburgh
Shepherd & Elliot, 15, Princes Street.
London: Hamilton, Adams, & Co.
MDCCCLV.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
THE INTRODUCTION, 1
CHAPTER II.
THE PASSAGE OF THE ALPS, 8
CHAPTER III.
RISE AND PROGRESS OF CONSTITUTIONALISM IN PIEDMONT, 23
CHAPTER IV.
STRUCTURE AND CHARACTERISTICS OF THE VAUDOIS VALLEYS, 43
CHAPTER V.
STATE AND PROSPECTS OF THE VAUDOIS CHURCH, 62
CHAPTER VI.
FROM TURIN TO NOVARA--PLAIN OF LOMBARDY, 83
CHAPTER VII.
FROM NOVARA TO MILAN--DOGANA--CHAIN OF THE ALPS, 94
CHAPTER VIII.
CITY AND PEOPLE OF MILAN, 105
CHAPTER IX.
ARCO DELLA PACE--ST AMBROSE, 119
CHAPTER X.
THE DUOMO OF MILAN, 126
CHAPTER XI.
MILAN TO BRESCIA--THE REFORMERS, 137
CHAPTER XII.
THE PRESENT THE IMAGE OF THE PAST, 152
CHAPTER XIII.
SCENERY OF LAKE GARDA--PESCHIERA--VERONA, 158
CHAPTER XIV.
FROM VERONA TO VENICE--THE TYROLESE ALPS, 168
CHAPTER XV.
VENICE--DEATH OF NATIONS, 178
CHAPTER XVI.
PADUA--ST ANTONY--THE PO--ARREST, 198
CHAPTER XVII.
FERRARA--RENEE AND OLYMPIA MORATA, 209
CHAPTER XVIII.
BOLOGNA AND THE APENNINES, 216
CHAPTER XIX.
FLORENCE AND ITS YOUNG EVANGELISM, 237
CHAPTER XX.
FROM LEGHORN TO ROME--CIVITA VECCHIA, 262
CHAPTER XXI.
MODERN ROME, 276
CHAPTER XXII.
ANCIENT ROME--THE SEVEN HILLS, 289
CHAPTER XXIII.
SIGHTS IN ROME--CATACOMBS--PILATE'S STAIRS--PIO NONO, &C., 302
CHAPTER XXIV.
INFLUENCE OF ROMANISM ON TRADE, 333
CHAPTER XXV.
INFLUENCE OF ROMANISM ON TRADE--(CONTINUED), 352
CHAPTER XXVI.
JUSTICE AND LIBERTY IN THE PAPAL STATES, 366
CHAPTER XXVII.
EDUCATION AND KNOWLEDGE IN THE PAPAL STATES, 401
CHAPTER XXVIII.
MENTAL STATE OF THE PRIESTHOOD IN ITALY, 415
CHAPTER XXIX.
SOCIAL AND DOMESTIC CUSTOMS OF THE ROMANS, 430
CHAPTER XXX.
THE ARGUMENT FROM THE WHOLE, OR, ROME HER OWN WITNESS, 447
ROME,
AND
THE WORKINGS OF ROMANISM
IN ITALY.
CHAPTER I.
THE INTRODUCTION.
I did not go to Rome to seek for condemnatory matter against the Pope's
government. Had this been my only object, I should not have deemed it
necessary to undertake so long a journey. I could have found materials
on which to construct a charge in but too great abundance nearer home.
The cry of the Papal States had waxed great, and there was no need to go
down into those unhappy regions to satisfy one's self that the
oppression was "altogether according to the cry of it." I had other
objects to serve by my journey.
There is one other country which has still more deeply influenced the
condition of the race, and towards which one is even more powerfully
drawn, namely, Judea. But Italy is entitled to the next place, as
respects the desire which one must naturally feel to visit it, and the
instruction one may expect to reap from so doing. Some of the greatest
minds which the pagan world has produced have appeared in Italy. In that
land those events were accomplished which have given to modern history
its form and colour; and those ideas elaborated, the impress of which
may still be traced upon the opinions, the institutions, and the creeds
of Europe. In Italy, too, empire has left her ineffaceable traces, and
art her glorious footsteps. There is, all will admit, a peculiar and
exquisite pleasure in visiting such spots: nor is there pleasure only,
but profit also. One's taste may be corrected, and his judgment
strengthened, by seeing the masterpieces of ancient genius. New trains
of thought may be suggested, and new sources of information opened, by
the sight of men and of manners wholly new. But more than this,--I
believed that there were lessons to be learned there, which it was
emphatically worth one's while going there to learn, touching the
working of that politico-religious system of which Italy has so long
been the seat and centre. I had previously been at some little pains to
make myself acquainted with this system in its principles, and wished to
have an opportunity of studying it in its effects upon the government of
the country, and the condition of the people, as respects their trade,
industry, knowledge, liberty, religion, and general happiness. All I
shall say in the following pages will have a bearing, more or less
direct, upon this main point.
It is impossible to disjoin the present of these countries from the
past; nor can the solemn and painful enigma which they exhibit be
unriddled but by a reference to the past, and that not the immediate,
but the remote past. There is truth, no doubt, in the saying of the old
moralist, that nations lose in moments what they had acquired in years;
but the remark is applicable rather to the accelerated speed with which
the last stages of a nation's ruin are accomplished, than to the slow
and imperceptible progress which usually marks its commencement. Unless
when cut off by the sudden stroke of war, it requires five centuries at
least to consummate the fall of a great people. One must pass,
therefore, over those hideous abuses which are the immediate harbingers
of national disaster, and which exclusively engross the attention of
ordinary inquirers, and go back to those remote ages, and those minute
and apparently insignificant causes, amid which national declension,
unsuspected often by the nation itself, takes its rise. The destiny of
modern Europe was sealed so long ago as A.D. 606, when the Bishop of
Rome was made head of the universal Church by the edict of a man stained
with the double guilt of usurpation and murder. Religion is the parent
of liberty. The rise of tyrants can be prevented in no other way but by
maintaining the supremacy of God and conscience; and in the early
corruptions of the gospel, the seeds were sown of those frightful
despotisms which have since arisen, and of those tremendous convulsions
which are now rending society. The evil principle implanted in the
European commonwealth in the seventh century appeared to lie dormant for
ages; but all the while it was busily at work beneath those imposing
imperial structures which arose in the middle ages. It had not been cast
out of the body politic; it was still there, operating with noiseless
but resistless energy and terrible strength; and while monarchs were
busily engaged founding empires and consolidating their rule, it was
preparing to signalize, at a future day, the superiority of its own
power by the sudden and irretrievable overthrow of theirs. Thus society
had come to resemble the lofty mountain, whose crown of white snows and
robe of fresh verdure but conceal those hidden fires which are
smouldering within its bowels. Under the appearance of robust health, a
moral cancer was all the while preying upon the vitals of society,
eating out by slow degrees the faith, the virtue, the obedience of the
world. The ground at last gave way, and thrones and hierarchies came
tumbling down. Look at the Europe of our day | 1,138.881451 |
2023-11-16 18:36:02.8616300 | 3,004 | 8 |
Produced by Steve Read, Suzanne Shell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: Cronkey Gudehart
[Page 103
THE FIRST GLOOMSTER]
THE DREAMERS
A Club. _Being a More or Less Faithful
Account of the Literary Exercises
of the First Regular Meeting
of that Organization, Reported by_
JOHN KENDRICK BANGS
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_
_By_ EDWARD PENFIELD
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1899
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
PEEPS AT PEOPLE. Passages from the Writings of Anne Warrington
Witherup, Journalist. Illustrated by EDWARD PENFIELD. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, Uncut Edges and Top, $1.25.
GHOSTS I HAVE MET, AND SOME OTHERS. With Illustrations by NEWELL,
FROST, and RICHARDS. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.
A HOUSE-BOAT ON THE STYX. Being Some Account of the Divers Doings
of the Associated Shades. Illustrated by PETER NEWELL. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.25.
THE PURSUIT OF THE HOUSE-BOAT. Being Some Further Account of the
Doings of the Associated Shades, under the Leadership of Sherlock
Holmes, Esq. Illustrated by PETER NEWELL. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental,
$1.25.
PASTE JEWELS. Being Seven Tales of Domestic Woe. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental $1.00.
THE BICYCLERS, AND THREE OTHER FARCES. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.25.
A REBELLIOUS HEROINE. A Story. Illustrated by W. T. SMEDLEY. 16mo,
Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut Edges, $1.25.
MR. BONAPARTE OF CORSICA. Illustrated by H. W. MCVICKAR. 16mo,
Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.
THE WATER GHOST, AND OTHERS. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental,
$1.25.
THE IDIOT. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.00.
THREE WEEKS IN POLITICS. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, Ornamental, 50
cents.
COFFEE AND REPARTEE. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, Ornamental, 50
cents.
NEW YORK AND LONDON:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS.
Copyright, 1899, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
Dedicated
WITH ALL
DUE RESPECT AND PROPER APOLOGIES
TO
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
RUDYARD KIPLING
HALL CAINE
SUNDRY MAGAZINE POETS
ANTHONY HOPE
THE WAR CORRESPONDENTS
A. CONAN DOYLE
IAN MACLAREN
JAMES M. BARRIE
THE INVOLVULAR CLUB
AND
MR. DOOLEY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE IDEA 1
II. IN WHICH THOMAS SNOBBE, ESQ., OF YONKERS, UNFOLDS A TALE 21
III. IN WHICH A MINCE-PIE IS RESPONSIBLE FOR A REMARKABLE
COINCIDENCE 44
IV. BEING THE CONTRIBUTION OF MR. BEDFORD PARKE 59
V. THE SALVATION OF FINDLAYSON 80
VI. IN WHICH HARRY SNOBBE RECITES A TALE OF GLOOM 102
VII. THE DREAMERS DISCUSS A MAGAZINE POEM 123
VIII. DOLLY VISITS CHICAGO 142
IX. IN WHICH YELLOW JOURNALISM CREEPS IN 163
X. THE MYSTERY OF PINKHAM'S DIAMOND STUD 185
XI. LANG TAMMAS AND DRUMSHEUGH SWEAR OFF 207
XII. CONCLUSION--LIKEWISE MR. BILLY JONES 228
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
THE FIRST GLOOMSTER _Frontispiece_
DISCUSSING THE IDEA 3
AND SO TO DREAM 17
THE DREAMERS DINE 25
"'REMEMBER TO BE BRAVE'" 35
"'ELEANOR HUYLER HAS DISAPPEARED'" 39
"WRIT A POME ABOUT A KID" 47
"I BOUGHT A BOOK OF VERSE" 51
"IT FILLED ME WITH DISMAY" 55
"'COME IN'" 61
MARY 65
EDWARDS REBELS 71
THE VICEROY EXAMINES HIS RUINED SMILE 85
THEY GAVE HIM _PUNCH_ 89
THE DONKEY ENGINE CALLS ON FINDLAYSON 93
THE END OF THE GLOOMSTER 109
WISHED HER A HAPPY NEW-YEAR 117
"'O ARGENT-BROWED SARCOPHAGUS'" 125
"_SARCOPHAGUSTUS_" 131
MR. BILLY JONES 137
"'I MUST SEE HIM,' SAID DOLLY" 145
"'KAPE YOUR HOOSBAND HOME'" 155
MIXING ILLUSTRATIONS 159
THE SHIP'S BARBER AT WORK 167
A CLEVER CAROM 177
SINKING THE _CASTILLA_ 181
THE LAMP-POSTS WERE TWISTED 191
HOLMES IN DISGUISE INTERVIEWS WATTLES 199
"'YOU DID TOO!' SAID POLLY" 203
"'HOOT MON!'" 209
"A SWEET-FACED NURSE APPEARED" 213
TAMMAS MEETS DRUMSHEUGH 221
MR. JONES BEGINS 231
HE DID NOT SEE 243
THE STENOGRAPHER SLEPT 247
[Illustration: The Dreamers: A Club]
THE DREAMERS: A CLUB
I
THE IDEA
The idea was certainly an original one. It was Bedford Parke who
suggested it to Tenafly Paterson, and Tenafly was so pleased with it
that he in turn unfolded it in detail to his friend Dobbs Ferry,
claiming its inception as his very own. Dobbs was so extremely
enthusiastic about it that he invited Tenafly to a luncheon at the
Waldoria to talk over the possibilities of putting the plan into
practical operation, and so extract from it whatever of excellence it
might ultimately be found to contain.
"As yet it is only an idea, you know," said Dobbs; "and if you have ever
had any experience with ideas, Tenny, you are probably aware that,
unless reduced to a practical basis, an idea is of no more value than a
theory."
"True," Tenafly replied. "I can demonstrate that in five minutes at the
Waldoria. For instance, you see, Dobbsy, I have an idea that I am as
hungry as a bear, but as yet it is only a theory, from which I derive no
substantial benefit. Place a portion of whitebait, a filet Bearnaise,
and a quart of Sauterne before me, and--"
"I see," said Dobbsy. "Come along."
[Illustration: DISCUSSING THE IDEA]
And they went; and the result of that luncheon at the Waldoria was the
formation of "The Dreamers: A Club." The colon was Dobbs Ferry's
suggestion. The objects of the club were literary, and Dobbs, who was an
observant young man, had noticed that the use of the colon in these days
of unregenerate punctuation was confined almost entirely to the literary
contingent and its camp-followers. With small poets particularly was
it in vogue, and Dobbs--who, by-the-way, had written some very dainty
French poems to the various _fiancees_ with whom his career had been
checkered--had a sort of vague idea that if his brokerage business would
permit him to take the necessary time for it he might become famous as a
small poet himself. The French poems and his passion for the colon,
combined with an exquisite chirography which he had assiduously
cultivated, all contributed to assure him that it was only lack of time
that kept him in the ranks of the mute, inglorious Herricks.
As formulated by Dobbs and Tenafly, then, Bedford Parke's suggestion
that a Dreamers' Club be formed was amplified into this: Thirteen choice
spirits, consisting of Dobbs, Tenafly, Bedford Parke, Greenwich Place,
Hudson Rivers of Hastings, Monty St. Vincent, Fulton Streete, Berkeley
Hights, Haarlem Bridge, the three Snobbes of Yonkers--Tom, Dick, and
Harry--and Billy Jones of the _Weekly Oracle_, were to form themselves
into an association which should endeavor to extract whatever latent
literary talent the thirteen members might have within them. It was a
generally accepted fact, Bedford Parke had said, that all literature,
not even excepting history, was based upon the imagination. Many of the
masterpieces of fiction had their basis in actual dreams, and, when they
were not founded on such, might in every case be said to be directly
attributable to what might properly be called waking dreams. It was the
misfortune of the thirteen gentlemen who were expected to join this
association that the business and social engagements of all, with the
possible exception of Billy Jones of the _Weekly Oracle_, were such as
to prevent their indulgence in these waking dreams, dreams which should
tend to lower the colors of Howells before those of Tenafly Paterson,
and cause the memory of Hawthorne to wither away before the scorching
rays of that rising sun of genius, Tom Snobbe of Yonkers. Snobbe,
by-the-way, must have inherited literary ability from his father, who
had once edited a church-fair paper which ran through six editions in
one week--one edition a day for each day of the fair--adding an
unreceipted printer's bill for eighty-seven dollars to the proceeds to
be divided among the heathen of Central Africa.
"It's a well-known fact," said Bedford--"a sad fact, but still a
fact--that if Poe had not been a hard drinker he never would have
amounted to a row of beans as a writer. His dreams were induced--and I
say, what's the matter with our inducing dreams and then putting 'em
down?"
That was the scheme in a nutshell--to induce dreams and put them down.
The receipt was a simple one. The club was to meet once a month, and eat
and drink "such stuff as dreams are made of"; the meeting was then to
adjourn, the members going immediately home and to bed; the dreams of
each were to be carefully noted in their every detail, and at the
following meeting were to be unfolded such soul-harrowing tales as
might with propriety be based thereon. An important part of the
programme was a stenographer, whose duty it would be to take down the
stories as they were told and put them in type-written form, which Dobbs
was sure he had heard an editor say was one of the first steps towards a
favorable consideration by professional readers of the manuscripts of
the ambitious.
"I am told," said he, "that many a truly meritorious production has gone
unpublished for years because the labor of deciphering the author's
handwriting proved too much for the reader's endurance--and it is very
natural that it should be so. A professional reader is, after all, only
human, and when to the responsibilities of his office is added the
wearisome task of wading through a Spencerian morass after the
will-o'-wisp of an idea, I don't blame him for getting impatient. Why, I
saw the original manuscript of one of Charles Dickens's novels once, and
I don't see how any one knew it was good enough to publish until it got
into print!"
"That's simply a proof of what I've always said," observed one of the
Snobbe boys. "If Charles Dickens's works had been written by me, no one
would ever have published them."
"I haven't a doubt of it," returned Billy Jones of the _Oracle_, dryly.
"Why, Snobbey, my boy, I believe if you had written the plays of
Shakespeare they'd have been forgotten ages ago!"
"So do I," returned Snobbe, innocently. "This is a queer world."
"The stenographer will save us a great deal of trouble," said Bedford | 1,138.88167 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
A caret character is used to denote superscription: a bracketed group
following the caret is superscripted (example: ^{16 88} - these are page
number references in the original). Page numbers enclosed by curly braces
(example: {25}) have been incorporated to facilitate the use of these
references and the Index.
* * * * *
THE NEW YORK OBELISK
Cleopatra's Needle
_WITH A PRELIMINARY SKETCH OF THE HISTORY
ERECTION, USES, AND SIGNIFICATION
OF OBELISKS_
BY
CHARLES E. MOLDENKE, A.M., PH.D.
NEW YORK
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH AND CO.
38 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET
1891
_Copyright_, 1891,
BY CHARLES E. MOLDENKE.
University Press:
PRESSWORK BY
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
{iii}TABLE OF CONTENTS.
Chapter I. Obelisks--where found, and when, and by whom
erected. 1-11
§1. The present site of obelisks. 1-5.
§2. By whom obelisks were erected. 5-7.
§3. By whom obelisks were ransported. 7-8.
§4. List of obelisks. 8-11.
I. Erect Obelisks. 9-10. II. Prostrate Obelisks. 10-11.
Chapter II. The quarrying, transporting, and raising of obelisks. 12-17
§1. How obelisks were quarried. 12-15.
§2. How obelisks were transported. 15-17.
§3. How obelisks were raised. 17.
Chapter III. The form, name, dimensions, invention, material,
and use of obelisks. 18-25
§1. The form of the obelisk and the pyramidion. 18-21.
§2. The derivation of the name "obelisk". 21-22.
§3. The dimensions of obelisks. 22-23.
§4. The material of obelisks. 23-24.
§5. The invention of obelisks and the use they were put to.
24-25.
Chapter IV. The signification of the obelisk and the worship
of the sun. 26-34
Chapter V. The history of the New York Obelisk, and its removal
from Alexandria. 35-45
§1. History of the New York Obelisk. 35-40.
§2. The removal of the obelisk to New York City. 40-45.
Chapter VI. The inscriptions of the New York Obelisk. 46-78
I. Inscriptions of Thothmes III. 46-61.
The Pyramidion. 46-55. The Obelisk Proper. 56-61.
II. Inscriptions of Ramses II. 62-71. {iv}
Vertical columns. 62-70. The base. | 1,139.180775 |
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produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
[Illustration: _From stereograph copyright--1904, by Underwood &
Underwood, N. Y._
AT THE GATE
With tickets fastened to coats and dresses, the immigrants pass out
through the gate to enter into their new inheritance, and become our
fellow citizens.]
ON THE TRAIL
OF
THE IMMIGRANT
EDWARD A. STEINER'S
Studies of Immigration
_From Alien to Citizen_
The Story of My Life in America
Illustrated net $1.50
In this interesting autobiography we see Professor Steiner
pressing ever forward and upward to a position of international
opportunity and influence.
_The wonderful varied Life-story of the author of
"On the Trail of the Immigrant."_
_The Broken Wall_
Stories of the Mingling Folk.
Illustrated net $1.00
"A big heart and a sense of humor go a long way toward making
a good book. Dr. Edward A. Steiner has both these qualifications
and a knowledge of immigrants' traits and character."
--_Outlook._
_Against the Current_
Simple Chapters from a Complex Life.
12mo, cloth net $1.25
"As frank a bit of autobiography as has been published for
many a year. The author has for a long time made a close
study of the problems of immigration, and makes a strong
appeal to the reader."--_The Living Age._
_The Immigrant Tide--Its Ebb and Flow_
Illustrated, 8vo, cloth net $1.50
"May justly be called an epic of present day immigration,
and is a revelation that should set our country thinking."
--_Los Angeles Times._
_On the Trail of The Immigrant_
Illustrated, 12mo, cloth net $1.50
"Deals with the character, temperaments, racial traits, aspirations
and capabilities of the immigrant himself. Cannot fail to afford
excellent material for the use of students of immigrant
problems."--_Outlook._
_The Mediator_
A Tale of the Old World and the New.
Illustrated, 12mo, cloth net $1.25
"A graphic story, splendidly told."--ROBERT WATCHORN,
_Former Commissioner of Immigration_.
_Tolstoy, the Man and His Message_
A Biographical Interpretation.
_Revised and enlarged._ Illustrated, 12mo, cloth net $1.50
ON THE TRAIL
OF
THE IMMIGRANT
EDWARD A. STEINER
_Professor in Iowa College, Grinnell, Iowa_
_ILLUSTRATED_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK CHICAGO TORONTO
Fleming H. Revell Company
LONDON AND EDINBURGH
Copyright, 1906, by
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY
New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
Chicago: 125 No. Wabash Ave.
Toronto: 25 Richmond Street, W.
London: 21 Paternoster Square
Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street
_This book is affectionately dedicated to
"The Man at the Gate"
ROBERT WATCHORN,
United States Commissioner of Immigration
at the
Port of New York:
Who, in the exercise of his office has been loyal to the interests
of his country, and has dealt humanely, justly and without
prejudice, with men of "Every kindred and tongue and people and
nation."_
_ACKNOWLEDGMENT_
_Cordial recognition is tendered to the editors of The Outlook for
their courtesy in permitting the use of certain portions of this
book which have already appeared in that journal._
CONTENTS
I. BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION 9
II. THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL 16
III. THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE STEERAGE 30
IV. LAND, HO! 48
V. AT THE GATEWAY 64
VI. "THE MAN AT THE GATE" 78
VII. THE GERMAN IN AMERICA 94
VIII. THE SCANDINAVIAN IMMIGRANT 112
IX. THE JEW IN HIS OLD WORLD HOME 126
X. THE NEW EXODUS 143
XI. IN THE GHETTOS OF NEW YORK 154
XII. THE SLAVS AT HOME 179
XIII. THE SLAVIC INVASION 198
XIV. DRIFTING WITH THE "HUNKIES" 213
XV. THE BOHEMIAN IMMIGRANT 225
XVI. LITTLE HUNGARY 238
XVII. THE ITALIAN AT HOME 252
XVIII. THE ITALIAN IN AMERICA 262
XIX. WHERE GREEK MEETS GREEK 282
XX. THE NEW AMERICAN AND THE NEW PROBLEM 292
XXI. THE NEW AMERICAN AND OLD PROBLEMS 309
XXII. RELIGION AND POLITICS 321
XXIII. BIRDS OF PASSAGE 334
XXIV. IN THE SECOND CABIN 347
XXV. AU REVOIR 359
APPENDIX 365
INDEX 371
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_Facing page_
AT THE GATE _Title_
AS SEEN BY MY LADY OF THE FIRST CABIN 10
THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL 26
WILL THEY LET ME IN? 50
THE SHEEP AND THE GOATS 66
BACK TO THE FATHERLAND 92
FAREWELL TO HOME AND FRIENDS 114
ISRAELITES INDEED 140
THE GHETTO OF THE NEW WORLD 156
FROM THE BLACK MOUNTAIN 180
WITHOUT THE PALE 208
HO FOR THE PRAIRIE! 246
THE BOSS 270
IN AN EVENING SCHOOL, NEW YORK 294
A SLAV OF THE BALKANS 302
ON THE DAY OF ATONEMENT 330
ON THE TRAIL OF THE IMMIGRANT
I
BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION
_My Dear Lady of the First Cabin_:
On the fourth morning out from Hamburg, after your maid had disentangled
you from your soft wrappings of steamer rugs, and leaning upon her arm,
you paced the deck for the first time, the sun smiled softly upon the
smooth sea, and its broken reflections came back hot upon your pale
cheeks. Then your gentle eyes wandered from the illimitable sea back to
the steamer which carried you. You saw the four funnels out of which
came pouring clouds of smoke trailing behind the ship in picturesque
tracery; you watched the encircling gulls which had been your fellow
travellers ever since we left the white cliffs of Albion; and then your
eyes rested upon those mighty Teutons who stood on the bridge, and whose
blue eyes searched the sea for danger, or rested upon the compass for
direction.
From below came the sweet notes of music, gentle and wooing, one of the
many ways in which the steamship company tried to make life pleasant
for you, to bring back your "Bon appetit" to its tempting tables. Then
suddenly, you stood transfixed, looking below you upon the deck from
which came rather pronounced odours and confused noises. The notes of a
jerky harmonica harshly struck your ears attuned to symphonies; and the
song which accompanied it was gutteral and unmusical.
The deck which you saw, was crowded by human beings; men, women and
children lay there, many of them motionless, and the children, numerous
as the sands of the sea,--unkempt and unwashed, were everywhere in
evidence.
You felt great pity for the little ones, and you threw chocolate cakes
among them, smiling as you saw them in their tangled struggle to get
your sweet bounty.
You pitied them all; the frowsy headed, ill clothed women, the men who
looked so hungry and so greedy, and above all you pitied, you said
so,--do you remember?--you said you pitied your own country for having
to receive such a conglomerate of human beings, so near to the level of
the beasts. I well recall it; for that day they did look like animals.
It was the day after the storm and they had all been seasick; they had
neither the spirit nor the appliances necessary for cleanliness. The
toilet rooms were small and hard to reach, and sea water as you well
know is not a good cleanser. They were wrapped in gray blankets which
they had brought from their bunks, and you were right; they did look
like animals, but not half so clean as the cattle which one sees so
often on an outward journey; certainly not half so comfortable.
[Illustration: _From stereograph copyright--1905, by Underwood &
Underwood, N. Y._
AS SEEN BY MY LADY OF THE FIRST CABIN.
The fellowship of the steerage makes good comrades, where no barriers
exist and introductions are neither possible nor necessary.]
You were taken aback when I spoke to you. I took offense at your
suspecting us to be beasts, for I was one of them; although all that
separated you and me was a little iron bar, about fifteen or twenty
rungs of an iron ladder, and perhaps as many dollars in the price of our
tickets.
You were amazed at my temerity, and did not answer at once; then you
begged my pardon, and I grudgingly forgave you. One likes to have a
grudge against the first cabin when one is travelling steerage.
The next time you came to us, it was without your maid. You had quite
recovered and so had we. The steerage deck was more crowded than ever,
but we were happy, comparatively speaking; happy in spite of the fact
that the bread was so doughy that we voluntarily fed the fishes with it,
and the meat was suspiciously flavoured.
Again you threw your sweetmeats among us, and asked me to carry a basket
of fruit to the women and children. I did so; I think to your
satisfaction. When I returned the empty basket, you wished to know all
about us, and I proceeded to tell you many things--who the Slavs are,
and I brought you fine specimens of Poles, Bohemians, Servians and
Slovaks,--men, women and children: and they began to look to you like
men, women and children, and not like beasts. I introduced to you,
German, Austrian and Hungarian Jews, and you began to understand the
difference. Do you remember the group of Italians, to whom you said
good-morning in their own tongue, and how they smiled back upon you all
the joy of their native land? And you learned to know the difference
between a Sicilian and a Neapolitan, between a Piedmontese and a
Calabrian. You met Lithuanians, Greeks, Magyars and Finns; you came in
touch with twenty nationalities in an hour, and your sympathetic smile
grew sweeter, and your loving bounty increased day by day.
You wondered how I happened to know these people so well; and I told you
jokingly, that it was my Social nose which over and over again, had led
me steerage way across the sea, back to the villages from which the
immigrants come and onward with them into the new life in America.
You suspected that it was not a Social nose but a Social heart; that I
was led by my sympathies and not by my scientific sense, and I did not
dispute you. You urged me to write what I knew and what I felt, and now
you see, I have written. I have tried to tell it in this book as I told
it to you on board of ship. I told you much about the Jews and the
Slavs because they are less known and come in larger numbers. When I had
finished telling you just who these strangers are, and something of
their life at home and among us, in the strange land, you grew very
sympathetic, without being less conscious how great is the problem which
these strangers bring with them.
If I succeed in accomplishing this for my larger audience, the public, I
shall be content.
You were loth to listen to figures; for you said that statistics were
not to your liking and apt to be misleading; so I leave them from these
pages and crowd them somewhere into the back of the book, where the
curious may find them if they delight in them.
My telling deals only with life; all I attempt to do is to tell what I
have lived among the immigrants, and not much of what I have counted.
Here and there I have dropped a story which you said might be worth
re-telling; and I tell it as I told it to you--not to earn the smile
which may follow, but simply that it may win a little more sympathy for
the immigrant.
If here and there I stop to moralize, it is largely from force of habit;
and not because I am eager to play either preacher or prophet. If I
point out some great problems, I do it because I love America with a
love passing your own; because you are home-born and know not the lot
of the stranger.
You may be incredulous if I tell you that I do not realize that I was
not born and educated here; that I am not thrilled by the sight of my
cradle home, nor moved by my country's flag.
I know no Fatherland but America; for after all, it matters less where
one was born, than where one's ideals had their birth; and to me,
America is not the land of mighty dollars, but the land of great ideals.
I am not yet convinced that the peril to these ideals lies in those who
come to you, crude and unfinished; if I were, I would be the first one
to call out: "Shut the gates," and not the last one to exile myself for
your country's good.
I think that the peril lies more in the first cabin than in the
steerage; more in the American colonies in Monte Carlo and Nice than in
the Italian colonies in New York and Chicago. Not the least of the peril
lies in the fact that there is too great a gulf between you and the
steerage passenger, whose virtues you will discover as soon as you learn
to know him.
I send out this book in the hope that it will mediate between the first
cabin and the steerage; between the hilltop and lower town; between the
fashionable West side and the Ghetto.
Do you remember my Lady of the First Cabin, what those Slovaks said to
you as you walked down the gangplank in Hoboken? What they said to you,
I now say to my book: "Z'Boghem," "The Lord be with thee."
II
THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL
Some twenty years ago, while travelling from Vienna on the Northern
Railway, I was locked into my compartment with three Slavic women, who
entered at a way station, and who for the first time in their lives had
ventured from their native home by way of the railroad. In fear and awe
they looked out the window upon the moving landscape, while with each
recurring jolt they held tightly to the wooden benches.
One of them volunteered the information that they were journeying a
great distance, nearly twenty-five miles from their native village. I
ventured to say that I was going much further than twenty-five miles,
upon which I was asked my destination. I replied: "America," expecting
much astonishment at the announcement; but all they said was: "Merica?
where is that? is it really further than twenty-five miles?"
Until about the time mentioned, the people of Eastern and Southeastern
Europe had remained stationary; just where they had been left by the
slow and glacial like movement of the races and tribes to which they
belonged. Scarcely any traces of their former migrations survive,
except where some warlike tribe has exploited its history in song,
describing its escape from the enemy, into some mountain fastness, which
was of course deserted as soon as the fury of war had spent itself.
From the great movements which changed the destinies of other European
nations, these people were separated by political and religious
barriers; so that the discovery of America was as little felt as the
discovery of the new religious and political world laid bare by the
Reformation. Each tribe and even each smaller group developed according
to its own native strength, or according to how closely it leaned
towards Western Europe, which was passing through great evolutionary and
revolutionary changes.
On the whole, it may be said that in many ways they remained stationary,
certainly immobile. Old customs survived and became laws; slight
differentiations in dress occurred and became the unalterable costume of
certain regions; idioms grew into dialects and where the native genius
manifested itself in literature, the dialect became a language. These
artificial boundaries became impassable, especially where differences in
religion occurred. Each group was locked in, often hating its nearest
neighbours and closest kinsmen, and also having an aversion to anything
which came from without. Social and economic causes played no little
part, both in the isolation of these tribes and groups and in the
necessity for migration. When the latter was necessary, they moved
together to where there was less tyranny and more virgin soil. They went
out peacefully most of the time, but could be bitter, relentless and
brave when they encountered opposition.
But they did not go out with the conqueror's courage nor with the
adventurer's lust for fame; they were no iconoclasts of a new
civilization, nor the bearers of new tidings. They went where no one
remained; where the Romans had thinned the ranks of the Germans, where
Hun, Avar and Turk had left valleys soaked in blood and made ready for
the Slav's crude plow; where Roman colonies were decaying and Roman
cities were sinking into the dunes made by ocean's sands. They destroyed
nothing nor did they build anything; they accepted little or nothing
which they found on conquered soil, but lived the old life in the new
home, whether it was under the shadow of the Turkish crescent, or where
Roman conquerors had left empty cities and decaying palaces.
In travelling through that most interesting Austrian province, Dalmatia,
on the shores of the Adriatic, opposite Italy, I came upon the palace of
Diocletian, in which the Slav has built a town, using the palace walls
for the foundations of his dwellings. In spite of the fact that both
strength and beauty lie imbedded in these foundations, the houses are
as crude and simple as those built in an American mining camp. Upon the
ruins of the ancient city of Salona, I found peasants breaking the
Corinthian pillars into gravel for donkey paths. These people although
surrounded by conquering nations were not amalgamated, and were enslaved
but not changed. Art lived and died in their midst but bequeathed them
little or no culture.
This is true not only of many of the Slavs but also of many of the Jews
who live among them and who have remained unimpressed and unchanged for
centuries; except as tyrannical governments played shuffle-board with
them, pushing them hither and thither as policy or caprice dictated.
The Italian peasant began his wanderings earlier than the other nations,
at least to other portions of Europe, where he was regarded as
indispensable in the building of railroads. These movements, however,
were spasmodic, and he soon returned to his native village to remain
there, locked in by prejudice and superstition, and unbaptized by the
spirit of progress.
But all this is different now; and the change came through that word
quite unknown in those regions twenty-five years ago--the word AMERICA.
Having exhausted the labour supply of northern Europe which, as for
instance in Germany, needed all its strength for the up-building of its
own industries, American capitalists deemed it necessary to find new
human forces to increase their wealth by developing the vast, untouched
natural resources. Just how systematically the recruiting was carried on
is hard to tell, but it is sure that it did not require much effort, and
that the only thing necessary was to make a beginning.
In nearly all the countries from which new forces were to be drawn there
was chronic, economic distress, which had lasted long, and which grew
more painful as new and higher needs disclosed themselves to the lower
classes of society. Most of the land as a rule, was held by a privileged
class, and labour was illy paid. The average earning of a Slovak peasant
during the harvest season was about twenty-five cents a day, which sank
to half that sum the rest of the time, with work as scarce as wages were
low.
If a load of wood was brought to town, it was besieged by a small army
of labourers ready to do the necessary sawing; other work than wood
sawing there practically was none, and consequently in the winter time
much distress prevailed.
The labour of women was still more poorly paid. A muscular servant girl,
who would wash, scrub, attend to the garden and cattle and help with the
harvesting, received about ten dollars a year, with a huge cake and
perhaps a pair of boots no less huge as a premium. These wages were
paid only in the most prosperous portion of the Slavic world, being much
lower in other regions, while in the mountains neither work nor wages
were obtainable.
The hard rye bread, scantily cut and rarely unadulterated, with an
onion, was the daily portion, while meat to many of the people was a
luxury obtainable only on special holidays. I remember vividly the
untimely passing away of a pig, which belonged to a titled estate.
According to the law, which reached with its mighty arm to this small
village, the pig must be decently buried and covered by--not balsam and
spices, but quick lime and coal oil. Hardly had these rites been
performed when the carcass mysteriously disappeared--but meat was
scarce, and the peasants were hungry.
During this same period, the Jewish people who were scattered through
Eastern Europe, began to feel not only economic distress, but existence
itself was often made unbearable by the newly awakened national feeling,
which reacted against the Jews in waves of cruel persecution. Such trade
as could be diverted into other channels was taken from them and they
grew daily poorer, living became precarious and life insecure. It did
not take much agitation to induce any of these people to emigrate, and
when the first venturesome travellers returned with money in the bank,
silver watches in their pockets, "store clothes" on their backs, and a
feeling of "I am as good as anybody" in their minds, each one of them
became an agent and an agitator, and if paid agents ever existed, they
might have been immediately dispensed with.
Now one can stand in any district town of Hungary, Poland or Italy and
see, coming down the mountains or passing along the highways and byways
of the plains, larger or smaller groups of peasants, not all
picturesquely clad, passing in a never ending stream, on, towards this
new world. The stream is growing larger each day, and the source seems
inexhaustible.
Sombre Jews come, on whose faces fear and care have plowed deep furrows,
whose backs are bent beneath the burden of law and lawlessness. They
come, thousands at a time, at least 5,000,000 more may be expected; and
he does not know what misery is, who has not seen them on that march
which has lasted nearly 2,000 years beneath the burden heaped by hate
and prejudice. Both peasant and Jew come from Russian, Austrian or
Magyar rule, under which they have had few of the privileges of
citizenship but many of its burdens. From valleys in the crescent shaped
Carpathians, from the sunny but barren <DW72>s of the Alps and from the
Russian-Polish plains they are coming as once they went forth from
earlier homes; peaceful toilers, who seek a field for their surplus
labour or as traders to use their wits, and it is a longer journey than
any of their timid forbears ever undertook.
The most venturesome of the Slavs, the Bohemians, in whom the love of
wandering was always alive, started this stream of emigration as early
as the seventeenth century, sending us the noblest of their sons and
daughters, the heroes and heroines of the reformatory wars; idealists,
who like the Pilgrim Fathers, came for "Freedom to worship God." Their
descendants have long ago been blended into the common life of the
people of America, scarcely conscious of the fact that they might have
the same pride in ancestry which the descendants of the Pilgrims delight
to exhibit. Not until the latter part of the nineteenth century, in the
70s, did the Bohemian immigrants come in large numbers and in a steady
stream, bringing with them the Czechs of Moravia, a neighbouring
province. Together they make some 200,000 of our population, fairly
distributed throughout the country, and about equally divided between
tillers of the soil and those following industrial pursuits. Nearly all
Bohemian immigrants come to stay, and adjust themselves more or less
easily to their environment. The economic distress which has brought
them here, while never acute, threatens to become so now from the over
accentuated language struggle which diverts the energies of the people
and makes proper legislation impossible. The building of railroads and
other governmental enterprises have been retarded by parliamentary
obstructionists, to whom language is more than bread and butter.
Business relations with the Germanic portions of Austria have come
almost to a standstill; conditions which are bound to increase
emigration from Bohemia's industrial centres.
The Poles were the next of the Western Slavs to be drawn out of the
seclusion of their villages; those from Eastern Prussia being the
earliest, and those from Russian Poland the latest who have swelled the
stream of emigration.
The largest number of the Polish immigrants is composed of unskilled
labourers, most of them coming from villages where they worked in the
fields during the summer time, and in winter went to the cities where
they did the cruder work in the factories. The Poles from Germany's part
of the divided kingdom have furnished nearly their quota of immigrants,
and those remaining upon their native acres will continue to remain
there, if only to spite the Germans who are grievously disappointed not
to see them grow less under the repressive measures of the government.
They are the thorn in the Emperor's flesh, and with social Democrats
make enough trouble, to verify the saying: "Uneasy lies the head that
wears a crown," true! even with regard to that most imperial of
emperors.
The Austrian Poles who have retained many of their liberties and have
also gained new privileges, have had a national and intellectual
revival, under the impulse of which the peasantry has been lifted to a
higher level which has reacted upon their economic condition; and
although that condition is rather low in Galicia, as that portion of
Poland is called, immigration from there has reached its high water
mark. The largest increase in immigration among the Poles is to be
looked for from Russian Poland where industrial and political conditions
are growing worse, and where it will take a long time to establish any
kind of equilibrium which will pacify the people and hold them to the
soil.
The Slovaks, who were relatively the best off, and further away from the
main arteries of travel, are, comparatively speaking, newcomers and
furnish at present the largest element in the Western Slavic
immigration. They have retained most staunchly many of their Slavic
characteristics, are the least impressionable among the Western Slavs,
and usually come, lured by the increased wages. They are most liable to
return to the land of their fathers after saving money enough materially
to improve their lot in life.
From the Austrian provinces, Carinthia and Styria, come increasingly
large numbers of Slovenes who are really the link between the Eastern
and Western Slavs. They belong to the highest type of that race, but
represent only a small portion of the large Slavic family. Of the
Eastern Slavs, only the Southern group has moved towards America, the
Russian peasant being bound to the soil, and unable to free himself from
the obligation of paying the heavy taxes, by removal to a foreign
country. With the larger freedom which is bound to come to him, will
also come economic relief so that the emigration of the Russian peasant
in large numbers is not a likelihood.
Lured by promises of higher wages in our industrial centres, Croatians
and Slovenians come in increasingly large numbers, while in smaller
numbers come Servians and Bulgarians.
The only Slavs who are thorough seamen and who are coming to our coasts
in increasingly large numbers as sailors and fishermen, are the
Dalmatians; and last but most heroic of all the Slavs, is the
Montenegrin, who has held his mountain fastnesses against the Turk and
who has been the living wall, resisting the victories of Islam. His
little country is blessed by but a few crumbs of soil between huge
mountains and boulders, and in the measure in which peace reigns in the
Balkans, he is without occupation and sustenance; so that he is
compelled to seek these more fertile shores, where he will for the
first time in history and quite unconsciously, "Turn the sword into a
plowshare and the spear into a pruning hook."
[Illustration: THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL.
The Wanderlust of the olden time still gets its grip on the peasants of
the great plains of Eastern Europe.]
Tennyson does not over-idealize this Montenegrin in his admirable
sonnet:
They rose to where their sovran eagle sails,
They kept their faith, their freedom, on the height,
Chaste, frugal, savage, arm'd by day and night
Against the Turk; whose inroad nowhere scales
Their headlong passes, but his footstep fails,
And red with blood the Crescent reels from fight
Before their dauntless hundreds, in prone flight
By thousands down the crags and thro' the vales.
O smallest among peoples! rough rock-throne
Of Freedom! warriors beating back the swarm
Of Turkish Islam for five hundred years.
Great Tsernogora! never since thine own
Black ridges drew the cloud and brake the storm
Has breathed a race of mightier mountaineers.
From Lithuania, a province of Russia, come smaller groups of non-Slavic
emigrants; people with an old civilization of which little remains, and
with a language which leans closest to Sanscrit, yet who, because of
their subjection to Russia, have sunk to the level of the Russian
peasants. Then there are Magyars and Finns, rather close kinsmen, who
because one lives in the South and the other far North, are as different
as the South is from the North; Greeks and Syrians, traders all of them
and workers only when they must be. We shall follow them more closely as
they pass into our own national life.
The Italian emigration, the largest which we receive from any one
source, comes primarily from Southern Italy, from the crowded cities
with their unspeakable vices; the smallest number of emigrants come from
the villages where they have all the virtues of tillers of the soil. The
most volatile of our foreign population, and perhaps the most clannish,
they represent a problem recognized by their home government, which was
the first to concern itself with it, to study it systematically, and to
aid our government so far as possible in a rational solution. The number
of Italian emigrants is still undiminished, and in spite of the fact
that in recent years more than 200,000 of them have annually left their
native land, their withdrawal is scarcely felt and the number could be
doubled without perceptible diminution at home.
There are then upon this immigrant trail, many people of varied cultural
development; some of them coming from countries in which they have been
part of a very high type of civilization, while others come from the
veritable back woods of Europe, into which neither steam nor electricity
has entered to disturb the old order, nor has yet awakened a new life.
None of them starts for America tempted by wealth which can be picked
up in the streets. That mythical man who, upon landing, refused to take
a quarter from the side-walk, because he had heard that dollars were
lying about loose, in America, has found it true because he has gone
into politics.
The immigrant of to-day, be he Slav, Italian or Jew, starts upon this
trail, with no culture, it is true, but with a virgin mind in which it
may be made to grow. Not always with a keen mind, but with a surplus of
muscle, which he is ready to exchange at the mouth of the pit or by the
furnace's hot blast, for a higher wage than he could earn in the miry
fields of his native village;--but it is by no means settled who gets
the best of the bargain.
III
THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE STEERAGE
Back of Warsaw, Vienna, Naples and Palermo, with no place on the world's
map to mark their existence, are small market | 1,139.19389 |
2023-11-16 18:36:03.5207500 | 1,344 | 13 |
Produced by Dagny; John Bickers
THE STORY OF A CHILD
By Pierre Loti
Translated by Caroline F. Smith
PREFACE
There is to-day a widely spread new interest in child life, a desire to
get nearer to children and understand them. To be sure child study is
not new; every wise parent and every sympathetic teacher has ever been
a student of children; but there is now an effort to do more consciously
and systematically what has always been done in some way.
In the few years since this modern movement began much has been
accomplished, yet there is among many thoughtful people a strong
reaction from the hopes awakened by the enthusiastic heralding of the
newer aspects of psychology. It had been supposed that our science would
soon revolutionize education; indeed, taking the wish for the fact, we
began to talk about the new and the old education (both mythical) and
boast of our millennium. I would not underrate the real progress, the
expansion of educational activities, the enormous gains made in many
ways; but the millennium! The same old errors meet us in new forms, the
old problems are yet unsolved, the waste is so vast that we sometimes
feel thankful that we cannot do as much as we would, and that Nature
protects children from our worst mistakes.
What is the source of this disappointment? Is it not that education,
like all other aspects of life, can never be reduced to mere science? We
need science, it must be increasingly the basis of all life; but exact
science develops very slowly, and meantime we must live. Doubtless the
time will come when our study of mind will have advanced so far that we
can lay down certain great principles as tested laws, and thus clarify
many questions. Even then the solution of the problem will not be in the
enunciation of the theoretic principle, but will lie in its application
to practice; and that application must always depend upon instinct,
tact, appreciation, as well as upon the scientific law. Even the aid
that science can contribute is given slowly; meanwhile we must work with
these children and lift them to the largest life.
It is in relation to this practical work of education that our effort to
study children gets its human value. There are always two points of
view possible with reference to life. From the standpoint of nature
and science, individuals count for little. Nature can waste a thousand
acorns to raise one oak, hundreds of children may be sacrificed that
a truth may be seen. But from the ethical and human point of view the
meaning of all life is in each individual. That one child should be lost
is a kind of ruin to the universe.
It is this second point of view which every parent and every teacher
must take; and the great practical value of our new study of children
is that it brings us into personal relation with the child world, and so
aids in that subtle touch of life upon life which is the very heart of
education.
It is therefore that certain phases of the study of child life have
a high worth without giving definite scientific results. Peculiarly
significant among these is the study of the autobiographies of
childhood. The door to the great universe is always to the personal
world. Each of us appreciates child life through his own childhood,
and though the children with whom it is his blessed fortune to be
associated. If then it is possible for him to know intimately another
child through autobiography, one more window has been opened into the
child world--one more interpretative unit is given him through which to
read the lesson of the whole.
It is true, autobiographies written later in life cannot give us the
absolute truth of childhood. We see our early experiences through the
mists, golden or gray, of the years that lie between. It is poetry as
well as truth, as Goethe recognized in the title of his own self-study.
Nevertheless the individual who has lived the life can best bring us
into touch with it, and the very poetry is as true as the fact because
interpretative of the spirit.
It is peculiarly necessary that teachers harassed with the routine of
their work, and parents distracted with the multitude of details of
daily existence, should have such windows opened through which they may
look across the green meadows and into the sunlit gardens of childhood.
The result is not theories of child life but appreciation of children.
How one who has read understandingly Sonva Kovalevsky's story of her
girlhood could ever leave unanswered a child starving for love I cannot
see. Mills' account of his early life is worth more than many theories
in showing the deforming effect of an education that is formal
discipline without an awakening of the heart and soul. Goethe's great
study of his childhood and youth must give a new hold upon life to any
one who will appreciatively respond to it.
A better illustration of the subtle worth of such literature, in
developing appreciation of those inner deeps of child life that escape
definition and evaporate from the figures of the statistician, could
scarcely be found than Pierre Loti's "Story of a Child." There is hardly
a fact in the book. It tells not what the child did or what was done to
him, but what he felt, thought, dreamed. A record of impressions through
the dim years of awakening, it reveals a peculiar and subtle type of
personality most necessary to understand. All that Loti is and has been
is gathered up and foreshadowed in the child. Exquisite sensitiveness
to impressions whether of body or soul, the egotism of a nature much
occupied with its own subjective feelings, a being atune in response to
the haunting melody of the sunset, and the vague mystery of the seas,
a subtle melancholy that comes from the predominance of feeling over
masculine power of action, leading one to drift like Francesca with the
winds of emotion, terrible or sweet, rather than to fix the tide of the
universe in the centre of the forceful deed--all these qualities are in
the dreams of the child as in the life of the man.
And the style?--dreamy, suggestive, melodious, flowing on and on with
its exquisite music, wakening sad reveries, and hint | 1,139.54079 |
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Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously
made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
PSYCHE
By
LOUIS COUPERUS
Translated from the Dutch,
with the author's permission,
By
B. S. Berrington, B.A.
With Twelve Illustrations by Dion Clayton Calthrop
London: Alston Rivers, Ltd.
Brooke Street, Holborn Bars, E.C.
1908
"Cry no more now and go to sleep, and if you cannot sleep,
I will tell you a story, a pretty story of flowers and
gems and birds, of a young prince and a little princess.
... For in the world there is nothing more than a story."
PSYCHE
CHAPTER I
Gigantically massive, with three hundred towers, on the summit of a
rocky mountain, rose the king's castle high into the clouds.
But the summit was broad, and flat as a plateau, and the castle spread
far out, for miles and miles, with ramparts and walls and pinnacles.
And everywhere rose up the towers, lost in the clouds, and the castle
was like a city, built upon a lofty rock of basalt.
Round the castle and far away lay the valleys of the kingdom, receding
into the horizon, one after the other, and ever and ever.
Ever changing was the horizon: now pink, then silver; now blue, then
golden; now grey, then white and misty, and gradually fading away,
and never could the last be seen.
In clear weather there loomed behind the horizon always another
horizon. They circled one another endlessly, they were lost in the
dissolving mists, and suddenly their silhouette became more sharply
defined.
Over the lofty towers stretched away at times an expanse of variegated
clouds, but below rushed a torrent, which fell like a cataract into
a fathomless abyss, that made one dizzy to look at.
So it seemed as if the castle rose up to the highest stars and went
down to the central nave of the earth.
Along the battlements, higher than a man, Psyche often wandered,
wandered round the castle from tower to tower, from wall to wall,
with a dreamy smile on her face, then she looked up and stretched out
her hands to the stars, or gazed below at the dashing water, with
all the colours of the rainbow, till her head grew dizzy, and she
drew back and placed her little hands before her eyes. And long she
would sit in the corner of an embrasure, her eyes looking far away,
a smile on her face, her knees drawn up and her arms entwining them,
and her tiny wings spread out against the mossy stone-work, like a
butterfly that sat motionless.
And she gazed at the horizon, and however much she gazed, she always
saw more.
Close by were the green valleys, dotted with grazing sheep, soft
meadows with fat cattle, waving corn-fields, canals covered with ships,
and the cottage roofs of a village. Farther away were lines of woods,
hill-tops, mountain-ridges, or a mass of angular, rough-hewn basalt.
Still farther off, misty towers with minarets and domes, cupolas and
spires, smoking chimneys, and the outline of a broad river. Beyond,
the horizon became milk-white, or like an opal, but not a line more
was there, only tint, the reflection of the last glow of the sun,
as if lakes were mirrored there; islands rose, low, in the air,
aerial paradises, watery streaks of blue sea, oceans of ether and
light quivering nothingness!...
And Psyche gazed and mused.... She was the third princess, the
youngest daughter of the old king, monarch of the Kingdom of the
Past.... She was always very lonely. Her sisters she seldom saw,
her father only for a moment in the evening, before she went to bed;
and when she had the chance she fled from the mumbling old nurse, and
wandered along the battlements and dreamed, with her eyes far away,
gazing at the vast kingdom, beyond which was nothingness....
Oh, how she longed to go farther than the castle, to the meadows,
the woods, the towns--to go to the shining lakes, the opal islands,
the oceans of ether, and then to that far, far-off nothingness, that
quivered so, like a pale, pale light!... Would she ever be able to pass
out of the gates?--Oh, how she longed to wander, to seek, to fly!... To
fly, oh! to fly, to fly as the sparrows, the doves, the eagles!
And she flapped her weak, little wings.
On her tender shoulders there were two wings, like those of a very
large butterfly, transparent membranes, covered with crimson and soft,
yellow dust, streaked with azure and pink, where they were joined to
her back. And on each wing glowed two eyes, like those on a peacock's
tail, but more beautiful in colour and glistening like jewels, fine
sapphires and emeralds on velvet, and the velvet eye set four times
in the glittering texture of the wings.
Her wings she flapped, but with them she could not fly.
That, that was her great grief--that, that made her think, what were
they for, those wings on her shoulders? And she shook them and flapped
them, but could not rise above the ground; her delicate form did not
ascend into the air, her naked foot remained firm on the ground, and
only her thin, fine veil, that trailed a little round her snow-white
limbs, was slightly raised by the gentle fluttering of her wings.
CHAPTER II
To fly! oh, to fly!
She was so fond of birds. How she envied them! She enticed them with
crumbs of bread, with grains of corn, and once she had rescued a dove
from an eagle. The dove she had hidden under her veil, pressed close
to her bosom, and the eagle she had courageously driven off with her
hand, when in his flight he overshadowed her with his broad wings,
calling out to him to go away and leave her dove unhurt.
Oh, to seek! to seek!
For she was so fond of flowers, and gladly in the woods and meadows,
or farther away still, would she have sought for those that were
unknown. But she cultivated them within the walls, on the rocky ground,
and she had made herself a garden; the buds opened when she looked
at them, the stems grew when she stroked them, and when she kissed
a faded flower it became as fresh again as ever.
To wander, oh, to wander | 1,139.641035 |
2023-11-16 18:36:03.6210670 | 78 | 11 |
Produced by Earle Beach, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team
WE CAN'T HAVE EVERYTHING
By Rupert Hughes
BOOKS BY RUPERT HUGHES
We Can't Have Everything
In A Little Town
The Thirteenth Commandment
Clipped Wings
What Will People Say?
The Last Rose Of Summer
Empty P | 1,139.641107 |
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