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2023-11-16 18:36:44.0411500 | 81 | 24 | The Project Gutenberg Etext of God's Good Man, by Marie Corelli
#7 in our series by Marie Corelli
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Produced by Norman M. Wolcott
THE WRITINGS OF THOMAS PAINE, VOLUME I.
COLLECTED AND EDITED BY MONCURE DANIEL CONWAY
1774 - 1779
[Redactor's Note: Reprinted from the "The Writings of Thomas Paine
Volume I" (1894 - 1896). The author's notes are preceded by a "*".]
XIX. THE AMERICAN CRISIS
Table of Contents
Editor's Preface
The Crisis No. I
The Crisis No. II - To Lord Howe
The Crisis No. III
The Crisis No. IV
The Crisis No. V - To General Sir William Howe
- To The Inhabitants Of America
The Crisis No. VI - To The Earl Of Carlisle, General Clinton, And
William Eden, ESQ., British Commissioners At New York
The Crisis No. VII - To The People Of England
The Crisis No. VIII - Addressed To The People Of England
The Crisis No. IX - The Crisis Extraordinary - On the Subject
of Taxation
The Crisis No. X - On The King Of England's Speech
- To The People Of America
The Crisis No. XI - On The Present State Of News
- A Supernumerary Crisis (To Sir Guy Carleton.)
The Crisis No. XII - To The Earl Of Shelburne
The Crisis No. XIII - On The Peace, And The Probable Advantages
Thereof
A Supernumerary Crisis - (To The People Of America)
THE AMERICAN CRISIS.
EDITOR'S PREFACE.
THOMAS PAINE, in his Will, speaks of this work as The American Crisis,
remembering perhaps that a number of political pamphlets had appeared in
London, 1775-1776, under general title of "The Crisis." By the blunder
of an early English publisher of Paine's writings, one essay in the
London "Crisis" was attributed to Paine, and the error has continued
to cause confusion. This publisher was D. I. Eaton, who printed as
the first number of Paine's "Crisis" an essay taken from the London
publication. But his prefatory note says: "Since the printing of this
book, the publisher is informed that No. 1, or first Crisis in this
publication, is not one of the thirteen which Paine wrote, but a
letter previous to them." Unfortunately this correction is sufficiently
equivocal to leave on some minds the notion that Paine did write the
letter in question, albeit not as a number of his "Crisis "; especially
as Eaton's editor unwarrantably appended the signature "C. S.,"
suggesting "Common Sense." There are, however, no such letters in the
London essay, which is signed "Casca." It was published August, 1775,
in the form of a letter to General Gage, in answer to his Proclamation
concerning the affair at Lexington. It was certainly not written by
Paine. It apologizes for the Americans for having, on April 19, at
Lexington, made "an attack upon the King's troops from behind walls and
lurking holes." The writer asks: "Have not the Americans been driven
to this frenzy? Is it not common for an enemy to take every advantage?"
Paine, who was in America when the affair occurred at Lexington, would
have promptly denounced Gage's story as a falsehood, but the facts known
to every one in America were as yet not before the London writer. The
English "Crisis" bears evidence throughout of having been written in
London. It derived nothing from Paine, and he derived nothing from it,
unless its title, and this is too obvious for its origin to require
discussion. I have no doubt, however, that the title was suggested
by the English publication, because Paine has followed its scheme in
introducing a "Crisis Extraordinary." His work consists of thirteen
numbers, and, in addition to these, a "Crisis Extraordinary" and a
"Supernumerary Crisis." In some modern collections all of these have been
serially numbered, and a brief newspaper article added, making sixteen
numbers. But Paine, in his Will, speaks of the number as thirteen,
wishing perhaps, in his characteristic way, to adhere to the number
of the American Colonies, as he did in the thirteen ribs of his iron
bridge. His enumeration is therefore followed in the present volume, and
the numbers printed successively, although other writings intervened.
The first "Crisis" was printed in the Pennsylvania Journal, December
19, 1776, and opens with the famous sentence, "These are the times that
try men's souls"; the last "Crisis" appeared April 19,1783, (eighth
anniversary of the first gun of the war, at Lexington,) and opens with
the words, "The times that tried men's souls are over." The great
effect produced by Paine's successive publications has been attested by
Washington and Franklin, by every leader of the American Revolution,
by resolutions of Congress, and by every contemporary historian of the
events amid which they were written. The first "Crisis" is of especial
historical interest. It was written during the retreat of Washington
across the Delaware, and by order of the Commander was read to groups of
his dispirited and suffering soldiers. Its opening sentence was adopted
as the watchword of the movement on Trenton, a few days after its
publication, and is believed to have inspired much of the courage which
won that victory, which, though not imposing in extent, was of great
moral effect on Washington's little army.
THE CRISIS
THE CRISIS I. (THESE ARE THE TIMES THAT TRY MEN'S SOULS)
THESE are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the
sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their
country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man
and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this
consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the
triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness
only that gives every thing its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper
price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an
article as FREEDOM should not be highly rated. Britain, with an army to
enforce her tyranny, has declared that she has a right (not only to TAX)
but "to BIND us in ALL CASES WHATSOEVER," and if being bound in that
manner, is not slavery, then is there not such a thing as slavery upon
earth. Even the expression is impious; for so unlimited a power can
belong only to God.
Whether the independence of the continent was declared too soon, or
delayed too long, I will not now enter into as an argument; my own
simple opinion is, that had it been eight months earlier, it would have
been much better. We did not make a proper use of last winter, neither
could we, while we were in a dependent state. However, the fault, if it
were one, was all our own*; we have none to blame but ourselves. But
no great deal is lost yet. All that Howe has been doing for this month
past, is rather a ravage than a conquest, which the spirit of the
Jerseys, a year ago, would have quickly repulsed, and which time and a
little resolution will soon recover.
* The present winter is worth an age, if rightly employed; but, if
lost or neglected, the whole continent will partake of the evil; and
there is no punishment that man does not deserve, be he who, or what, or
where he will, that may be the means of sacrificing a season so precious
and useful.
I have as little superstition in me as any man living, but my secret
opinion has ever been, and still is, that God Almighty will not give up
a people to military destruction, or leave them unsupportedly to perish,
who have | 1,180.154206 |
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Produced by David Widger
THE ACORN-PLANTER
A California Forest Play
Planned To Be Sung By Efficient Singers
Accompanied By A Capable Orchestra
By Jack London
1916
ARGUMENT
In the morning of the world, while his tribe
makes its camp for the night in a grove, Red
Cloud, the first man of men, and the first man
of the Nishinam, save in war, sings of the duty
of life, which duty is to make life more abundant.
The Shaman, or medicine man, sings of
foreboding and prophecy. The War Chief, who
commands in war, sings that war is the only
way to life. This Red Cloud denies, affirming
that the way of life is the way of the acorn-
planter, and that whoso slays one man slays
the planter of many acorns. Red Cloud wins
the Shaman and the people to his contention.
After the passage of thousands of years, again
in the grove appear the Nishinam. In Red
Cloud, the War Chief, the Shaman, and the
Dew-Woman are repeated the eternal figures
of the philosopher, the soldier, the priest, and
the woman--types ever realizing themselves
afresh in the social adventures of man. Red
Cloud recognizes the wrecked explorers as
planters and life-makers, and is for treating
them with kindness. But the War Chief and
the idea of war are dominant The Shaman
joins with the war party, and is privy to the
massacre of the explorers.
A hundred years pass, when, on their seasonal
migration, the Nishinam camp for the night in
the grove. They still live, and the war formula
for life seems vindicated, despite the imminence
of the superior life-makers, the whites, who are
flooding into California from north, south, east,
and west--the English, the Americans, the
Spaniards, and the Russians. The massacre by
the white men follows, and Red Cloud, dying,
recognizes the white men as brother acorn-planters,
the possessors of the superior life-formula
of which he had always been a protagonist.
In the Epilogue, or Apotheosis, occur the
celebration of the death of war and the triumph
of the acorn-planters.
PROLOGUE
Time. _In the morning of the world._
Scene. _A forest hillside where great trees stand with wide
spaces between. A stream flows from a spring that bursts
out | 1,180.154409 |
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Produced by Julia Miller, Greg Bergquist, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
[Illustration: NOMAHANNA,
QUEEN OF THE SANDWICH ISLANDS.]
_London. Published by Henry Colburn & Richard Bentley. 1839._
A
NEW VOYAGE
ROUND
THE WORLD,
IN THE YEARS 1823, 24, 25, AND 26.
BY OTTO VON KOTZEBUE,
POST CAPTAIN IN THE RUSSIAN IMPERIAL NAVY.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1830.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY.
Dorset Street, Fleet Street.
CONTENTS
OF
THE SECOND VOLUME
Page
KAMTSCHATKA 1
NEW-ARCHANGEL 27
CALIFORNIA, AND THE NEW RUSSIAN SETTLEMENT, ROSS 69
THE SANDWICH ISLANDS 151
THE PESCADORES, RIMSKI-KORSAKOFF, ESCHSCHOLTZ, AND BRONUS ISLANDS 267
THE LADRONES AND PHILIPPINES 279
ST. HELENA 305
ZOOLOGICAL APPENDIX BY PROFESSOR ESCHSCHOLTZ 323
LIST OF PLATES.
Page
Reception of Captain Kotzebue at the Island of Otdia,
To face Title of Vol. I.
Plan of Mattaway Bay and Village 200
Chart of the Navigators' Islands 250
Chart of the Islands of Radak and Ralik 288
Nomahanna, Queen of the Sandwich Islands,
To face Title of Vol. II.
KAMTSCHATKA.
KAMTSCHATKA.
The wind, which continued favourable to us as far as the Northern
Tropic, was succeeded by a calm that lasted twelve days. The ocean, as
far as the eye could reach, was as smooth as a mirror, and the heat
almost insupportable. Sailors only can fully understand the
disagreeableness of this situation. The activity usual on shipboard gave
place to the most wearisome idleness. Every one was impatient; some of
the men felt assured that we should never have a wind again, and wished
for the most violent storm as a change.
One morning we had the amusement of watching two great sword-fish
sunning themselves on the surface of the water. I sent out a boat, in
the hope that the powerful creatures would, in complaisance, allow us
the sport of harpooning them, but they would not wait; they plunged
again into the depths of the sea, and we had disturbed their enjoyments
in vain.
Our water-machine was several times let down, even to the depth of a
thousand fathoms: on the surface, the temperature was 24 deg., and at
this depth, only 2 deg. of Reaumur.
On the 22nd of May, the anniversary of our frigate's leaving Stopel, we
got a fresh easterly wind, which carried us forward pretty quickly on
the still smooth surface of the sea.
On the 1st of June, when in latitude 42 deg. and longitude 201 deg., and
consequently opposite the coast of Japan, we descried a red stripe in
the water, about a mile long and a fathom broad. In passing over it we
drew up a pail-full, and found that its colour was occasioned by an
infinite number of crabs, so small as to be scarcely distinguishable by
the naked eye.
We now began daily to experience increasing inconveniences from the
Northern climate. The sky, hitherto so serene, became gloomy and covered
with storm-clouds, which seldom threatened in vain; we were, besides,
enveloped in almost perpetual mists, bounding our prospect to a few
fathoms. In a short time, the temperature of the air had fallen from 24
deg. to 3 deg. So sudden a change is always disagreeable, and often
dangerous. We had to thank the skill and attention of our physician,
Dr. Siegwald, that it did not prove so to us. Such rough weather is not
common to the latitude we were in at that season; but it is peculiar to
the Japanese coast even in summer. Whales and storm-birds showed
themselves in great numbers, reminding us that we were hastening to the
North, and were already far from the luxuriant groves of the South-Sea
islands.
The wind continued so favourable, that on the 7th of June we could
already see the high mountains of Kamtschatka in their winter clothing.
Their jagged summits reaching to the heavens, crested with everlasting
snow, which glitters in the sunbeams, while their declivities are begirt
with clouds, give a magnificent aspect to this coast. On the following
day, we reached Awatscha Bay, and in the evening anchored in the harbour
of St. Peter and St. Paul.
The great peninsula of Kamtschatka, stretching to the river Anadir on
the North, and South to the Kurilian Islands, bathed on the east by the
ocean, and on the west by the sea of Ochotsk, is, like many men, better
than its reputation. It is supposed to be the roughest and most desolate
corner of the world, and yet it lies under the same latitude as England
and Scotland, and is equal in size to both. The summer is indeed much
shorter, but it is also much finer; and the vegetation is more luxuriant
than in Great Britain. The winter lasts long, and its discomforts are
increased by the quantity of snow that falls; but in the southern parts
the cold is moderate; and experience has repeatedly refuted the
erroneous opinion, that on account of its long duration, and the
consequent curtailment of the summer season, corn cannot be
efficaciously cultivated here.
Although the snow lies in some of the valleys till the end of May,
because the high, over-shadowing mountains intercept the warm sunbeams,
yet garden-plants prosper. Potatoes generally yield a triple crop, and
would perfectly supply the want of bread, if the inhabitants cultivated
them more diligently: but the easier mode of providing fish in
super-abundance as winter food, has induced them to neglect the labour
of raising potatoes, although they have known years when the fishery has
barely protected them from famine.
The winter, as I have already said, is very unpleasant, from the heavy
snows, which, drifting from the mountains, often bury the houses, so
that the inhabitants are compelled to dig a passage out, while the
cattle walk on its frozen surface over their roofs.
Travelling in this season is very rapid and convenient. The usual mode
is in sledges drawn by six or more dogs. The only danger is from
snow-storms. The traveller, surprised by this sudden visitation, has no
chance for safety except in quietly allowing himself and his dogs to be
buried in the snow, and relieving himself from his covering when the
storm is past. This, however, is not always practicable; should the
storm, or, as it is called here, "purga," overtake him in the ravine of
a mountain, such an immense quantity of snow becomes heaped upon him,
that he has no power to extricate himself from his tomb. These
accidents, however, seldom occur; for the Kamtschatkans have acquired
of necessity great foresight in meteorology, and of course never
undertake a journey when they do not consider themselves sure of the
weather.
The principal reason why the climate of Kamtschatka is inferior to that
of other places under the same latitude, is to be found in the
configuration of the country. The mountains of England, for instance,
are of a very moderate height, and broken by extensive plains; here, on
the contrary, intersected only by a few valleys of small extent, a
single chain of mountains, its broken snow-crowned summits reaching to
the clouds, and in many parts far beyond them, stretches the whole
length of the Peninsula, and is based upon its breadth.
The panorama of Kamtschatka is a confused heap of granite blocks of
various heights, thickly piled together, whose pointed, jagged forms
bear testimony to the tremendous war of elements amidst which they must
have burst from the bowels of the earth. The struggle is even now
scarcely ended, as the smoking and burning of volcanoes, and frequent
shocks of earthquake, sufficiently intimate. One of the mountains,
called Kamtschatka Mountain, rivalling in height the loftiest in the
world, often vomits forth streams of lava on the surrounding country.
These mountains with their glaciers, and volcanoes emitting columns of
fire and smoke from amidst fields of ice, afford a picturesque contrast
with the beautiful green of the valleys. The most singular and
indescribably-splendid effect is produced by the crystal rocks on the
western coast, when illuminated by the sun; their whole refulgent
surface reflecting his rays in every various tint of the most brilliant
colours, resembles the diamond mountains of fairy-land, while the
neighbouring rocks of quartz shine like masses of solid gold.
Kamtschatka is a most interesting country to the professor of the
natural sciences. Great mineral treasures will certainly be one day
discovered here; the number and diversity of its stones is striking even
to the most uninitiated. It abounds in hot and salutary springs. To the
botanist it offers great varieties of plants, little if at all known;
and the zoologist would find here, amongst the animal tribes deserving
his attention, besides several kinds of bears, wolves and foxes, the
celebrated sable whose skin is sold for so great a price, and the native
wild sheep, which inhabits the tops of the highest mountains. It attains
the size of a large goat; the head resembles that of an ordinary sheep,
but is furnished with strong, crooked horns: the skin and form of the
body are like the reindeer, and it feeds chiefly on moss. It is fleet
and active, achieving, like the chamois, prodigious springs among the
rocks and precipices, and is, consequently, with difficulty killed or
taken. In preparing for these leaps, its eye measures the distance with
surprising accuracy; the animal then contracts its legs, and darts
forward head-foremost to the destined spot, where it alights upon its
feet, nor is it ever known to miss, although the point may be so small
as to admit its four feet only by their being closely pressed together.
The manner in which it balances itself after such leaps is also
admirable: our ballet-dancers would consider it a model of a perfect _a
plomb_. The monster of the antediluvian world, the mammoth, must have
been an inhabitant of this country, since many of its bones have been
found here.
The forests of Kamtschatka are not enlivened by singing-birds; indeed
land-birds are all scarce; but there are infinite numbers of waterfowl
of many species. Immense flocks of them are to be seen upon the lakes,
rivers, morasses, and even the sea itself, in the vicinity of the shore.
Fish is abundant, especially in the months of June and July. A single
draught of the net provided us with as many as the whole crew could
consume in several days. A sort of salmon, ling, and herrings, are
preferred for winter stock; the latter, dried in the air, supply food
for the dogs.
Kamtschatka was discovered in the year 1696, by a Cossack of Yakutsh, by
name Luca Semenoff, who, on a report being spread of the existence of
this country, set out with sixteen companions to make a journey hither.
In the following years, similar expeditions were repeated in greater
force, till Kamtschatka was subjected and made tributary to the Russian
crown. The conquest of this country cost many Russian lives; and from
the ferocity of the conquerors, and the difficulty of maintaining
discipline amongst troops so scattered, ended in nearly exterminating
the Kamtschatkans. Although subsequent regulations restrained the
disorders of the wild Cossacks, the population is still very thin; but
under a wise and careful government it will certainly increase.
The name of Kamtschatka, pronounced Kantschatka, conferred by the
Russians, was adopted from the native appellation of the great river
flowing through the country. This river derived its name, according to
tradition, from Kontschat, a warrior of former times, who had a
stronghold on its banks. It is strange that the Kamtschatkans had no
designation either for themselves or their country. They called
themselves simply men, as considering themselves either the only
inhabitants of the earth, or so far surpassing all others, as to be
alone worthy of this title. On the southern side of the peninsula, the
aborigines are believed to have been distinguished by the name of
Itelmen; but the signification of this word remains uncertain.
The Kamtschatkans acknowledged an Almighty Creator of the world, whom
they called Kutka. They supposed that he inhabited the heavens; but had
at one time dwelt in human form in Kamtschatka, and was the original
parent of their race. Even here the tradition of a universal deluge
prevails, and a spot is still shown, on the top of a mountain where
Kutka landed from a boat, in order to replenish the world with men. The
proverbial phrase current in Kamtschatka, to express a period long past,
is, "that was in Kutka's days."
Before the expeditions of the Russians to Kamtschatka, the inhabitants
were acquainted only with the neighbouring Koriacks and Tchuktchi.
They had also acquired some knowledge of Japan, from a Japanese ship
wrecked on their coast. They acknowledged no chief, but lived in perfect
independence, which they considered as their highest good.
Besides the supreme God Kutka, they had a host of inferior deities,
installed by their imaginations in the forests, the mountains, and the
floods. They adored them when their wishes were fulfilled, and insulted
them when their affairs went amiss; like the lower class of Italians,
who, when any disaster befalls them, take off their cap, enumerate into
it as many saints' names as they can call to mind, and then trample it
under foot. Two wooden household deities, Aschuschok and Hontai, were
held in particular estimation. The former, in the figure of a man,
officiated in scaring away the forest spirits from the house; for which
service he was remunerated in food, his head being daily anointed with
fish-soup. Hontai was half man, half fish, and on every anniversary of
the purification from sin, a new one was introduced and placed beside
his predecessors, so that the accumulated number of Hontais showed how
many years the inhabitants had occupied their house.
The Kamtschatkans believed in their own immortality, and in that of the
brute creation; but they expected in a future state to depend upon their
labour for subsistence, as in the present life; they only hoped that the
toil would be lightened, and its reward more abundant, that they might
never suffer hunger. This idea of itself sufficiently proves, that the
fisheries sometimes fail in their produce.
The several races of Kamtschatkans frequently waged war with each other;
caused either by the forcible abduction of the women, or a deficiency
in hospitality on their occasional interchange of visits, which was
considered an insult to the guest, demanding a bloody revenge.
Their wars were seldom carried on openly; they preferred stratagem and
artifice; and the conquerors practised the greatest cruelties on the
conquered. If a party was so beleaguered as to lose all hope of
effectual resistance, or of securing their safety by flight, knowing
that no mercy would await a surrender, their warlike spirit did not
desert them; they first murdered their women and children, and then
rushed furiously on the enemy, to sell their lives as dearly as
possible. Their weapons were lances, and bows and poisoned arrows.
To treat a guest with the utmost politeness, and leave no cause for
hostility, the host was expected to heat his subterranean dwelling till
it became almost insupportable: both parties then cast off all their
attire, an enormous quantity of food was placed before the guest, and
the fire was continually fed. When the visitor declared that he could no
longer eat, or endure the heat of the place, all that courtesy required
had been done, and the host expected a present in return for his
hospitality.
At such entertainments the moucho-more, a deleterious species of
mushroom, was usually introduced, as a mode of intoxication. Taken in
small quantities, it is said to excite an agreeable hilarity of spirits;
but if immoderately used, it will produce insanity of several days'
duration. Animated by these enjoyments, the host and guests found mutual
amusement in the exercise of their peculiar talent of mimicking men and
animals.
The children when grown up showed little affection for their parents,
neglected them in old age, and did not even consider it a violation of
filial duty to kill them when they became burdensome. They also murdered
their defective or weakly children, to spare them the misery of a
languishing existence. They did not bury their dead, but dragged the
corpse into the open air, by a thong tied about the neck, and left it a
prey to dogs; under the belief, that those devoured by these animals,
would in another world be drawn by the best dogs.
The mode of solemnizing marriages among the Kamtschatkans was tedious,
and, on the part of the bridegroom, attended with many difficulties. A
man who wished to marry a girl went to the house of her parents, and
without farther declaration took his share in the domestic labours. He
thus became the servant of the family, and was obliged to obey all their
behests, till he succeeded in winning the favour of the girl and her
parents. This might continue for years, and even in the end he was
liable to be dismissed, without any compensation for his trouble. If,
however, the maiden was pleased, and the parents were satisfied with
him, they gave him permission to catch his beloved; from this moment the
girl took all possible pains to avoid being alone with him, defended
herself with a fishing-net and numerous girdles, all which were to be
cut through with a stone knife, while all the family were upon the watch
to rescue her at the first outcry: the unfortunate lover had probably no
sooner laid hands upon his bride than he was seized by her relations,
beaten, and dragged away by his hair; yet was he compelled to conquer
and overpower her resistance, or to continue in unrewarded servitude.
When, however, the catching was accomplished, the fair one herself
proclaimed the victory, and the marriage was celebrated.
The present Kamtschatkans are an extremely good-natured, hospitable,
timid people; in colour and features nearly resembling the Chinese and
Japanese. They all profess the Christian religion; but secretly retain
many of their heathen customs, particularly that of killing their
deformed children.
The town, or rather village, adjoining the harbour of St. Peter and St.
Paul, where the present Governor of Kamtschatka, Captain Stanizky,
resides, though the principal place in the peninsula, contains but few
convenient houses. The rest, about fifty in number, are mere huts,
irregularly scattered up the side of a mountain. The inhabitants of this
place, which bears the same name as the harbour, are all Russians,
officers of the crown, sailors, disbanded soldiers, and some
insignificant traders.
The Kamtschatkans live inland in little villages on the banks of the
rivers, but seldom on the sea-coast.
From Krusenstern's representation, Kamtschatka appears very little
altered in five-and-twenty years. The only advance made in that period,
consists in the cultivation of potatoes by the inhabitants of St. Peter
and St. Paul, and the entire water-carriage of various goods and
necessaries of life, which were formerly needlessly enhanced in price by
being brought overland, through Siberia to Ochotsk.
The northern part of the peninsula and the adjoining country, even to
the icy sea, is inhabited by the Tschuktschi, a warlike nomad tribe,
removing with celerity from place to place by means of their reindeer.
They were not so easily conquered as the Kamtschatkans, and for
five-and-thirty years incessantly annoyed the Russians, to whom they now
only pay a small tribute in skins. Our cannon at length forced a peace
upon them, which had not been long concluded, before there was reason to
apprehend a breach of its conditions on their part, and an ambassador
was sent to their Tajon, or chief, to discover their intentions. The
chief drew a long knife from a sheath at his side, presented it to the
ambassador, making him observe that it had a broken point, and addressed
him as follows: "When my father died he gave me this knife, saying, 'My
son, I received this broken knife from my uncle, whom I succeeded in the
dignity of Tajon, and I promised him never to sharpen it against the
Russians, because we never prosper in our combats with them; I therefore
enjoin thee also to enter into no strife with them till this knife shall
of itself renew its point.' You see that the knife is still edgeless,
and my father's last will is sacred to me."
According to an accurate census taken of the population of Kamtschatka
in the year 1822, it amounts, with the exception of the Tschuktschi, who
cannot be computed, to two thousand four hundred and fifty-seven persons
of the male, and one thousand nine hundred and forty-one of the female
sex. Of these, the native Kamtschatkans were only one thousand four
hundred and twenty-eight males, and one thousand three hundred and
thirty females; the rest were Koriaks and Russians. They possessed
ninety-one horses, seven hundred and eighteen head of cattle, three
thousand eight hundred and forty-one dogs, and twelve thousand reindeer,
the latter belonging exclusively to the Koriaks.
Unimportant as was the place where we now landed, a change is always
agreeable after a long voyage; and the kind and hospitable reception we
met with from the commander as well as the inhabitants, contributed
greatly to our enjoyments.
We were gratified with a bear-hunt, which produced much sport, and gave
us the satisfaction of killing a large and powerful bear. This animal is
very numerous here, and is consequently easily met with by a
hunting-party. The usually timid Kamtschatkan attacks them with the
greatest courage. Often armed only with a lance and a knife, he
endeavours to provoke the bear to the combat; and when it rises on its
hind legs for defence or attack, the hunter rushes forward, and, resting
one end of the lance on the ground, plunges the other into its breast,
finally dispatching it with his knife. Sometimes, however, he fails in
the attempt, and pays for his temerity with his life.
The following anecdote evinces the hardihood of the bears. Fish, which
forms their chief nourishment, and which they procure for themselves
from the rivers, was last year excessively scarce. A great famine
consequently existed among them, and instead of retiring to their dens,
they wandered about the whole winter through, even in the streets of St.
Peter and St. Paul. One of them finding the outer gate of a house open,
entered, and the gate accidentally closed after him. The woman of the
house had just placed a large tea-machine,[1] full of boiling water, in
the court, the bear smelt to it and burned his nose; provoked at the
pain, he vented all his fury upon the kettle, folded his fore-paws round
it, pressed it with his whole strength against his breast to crush it,
and burnt himself, of course, still more and more. The horrible growl
which rage and pain forced from him, brought all the inhabitants of the
house and neighbourhood to the spot, and poor bruin was soon dispatched
by shots from the windows. He has, however, immortalized his memory, and
become a proverb amongst the town's people, for when any one injures
himself by his own violence, they call him "the bear with the
tea-kettle."
On the 14th of July, M. Preuss observed an eclipse of the sun, from
which he determined the geographical longitude of St. Peter and St. Paul
to be 201 deg. 10' 31". On the same day Dr. Siegwald and Messrs. Lenz and
Hoffman happily achieved the Herculean task of climbing the Owatscha
Mountain, which lies near the harbour. Its height, according to
barometrical measurement, is seven thousand two hundred feet. An
intermittent smoke arose from its crater, and a cap let down a few feet
within it was drawn up burnt. The gentlemen brought back with them some
pieces of crystallized sulphur, as evidence of their having really
pursued their examination quite into the mouth of the crater.
After having delivered all the articles which we had taken in for
Kamtschatka, we left the harbour of St. Peter and St. Paul on the
morning of the 20th of July, and with favouring breezes sailed for the
Russian settlement of New Archangel, on the north-west coast of America.
At sunset the majestic mountains of Kamtschatka appeared for the last
time within our horizon, and at a vast distance. This despised and
desolate country may perhaps one day become a Russian Mexico. The only
treasure of which we robbed it was, a swallow's nest! I mention it,
because it long supplied the whole ship's company with amusement.
In the harbour of St. Peter and St. Paul, there is sufficient depth of
water close to the shore to admit of landing by means of a plank only.
This proximity led a pair of swallows to mistake our frigate for a
building upon terra-firma, and to the infinite delight of the sailors,
who regarded it as a lucky omen, they deliberately built themselves a
nest close to my cabin. Undisturbed by the noise in the ship, the loving
pair hatched their brood in safety, fed their young ones with the
tenderest care, and cheered them with joyous songs. But when on a
sudden they saw their peaceful dwelling removing from the land, they
seemed astonished, and hovered anxiously about the ship, yet still
fetched food for their young from the shore, till the distance became
too great.
The struggle between the instincts of self-preservation and parental
love then became perceptible. They flew round the vessel, then vanished
for awhile, then suddenly returned to their hungry family, and
stretching their open beaks towards them, seemed to lament that no food
was to be found. This alternate disappearing and returning continued
some time, and terminated in the parents returning no more; the sailors
then took on themselves the care of the deserted orphans. They removed
them from the nest where the parents warmth was necessary, to another
lined with cotton, and fixed in a warm place, and fed them with flies,
which seemed to please their palates very well. The system at first
appeared to have perfectly succeeded, and we were in hopes of carrying
them safely to America; when, in spite of the most careful attention,
they fell sick, and on the eighth day, to the general sorrow, not one
of our nurslings remained alive.
They however afforded an additional proof how kindly the common people
of Russia are interested in all that is helpless.
NEW ARCHANGEL.
NEW ARCHANGEL.
The swallows brought us no good fortune. The very day after we left
Kamtschatka, one of our best sailors fell from the mast-head into the
scuttle, and immediately expired. He had climbed thither in safety in
the most violent storms, and executed the most difficult tasks with
ease; now, in fine weather, on a tranquil sea, he met this fate.
These accidents happen most frequently to the best and cleverest
sailors: they confide too much in their own ability, and consider too
little the risks they run. It is impossible to warn them sufficiently.
This fatal accident produced a general melancholy among us, which the
cloudy, wet, cold weather we soon encountered perpetually increased,
till we reached the coast of America. Fortunately, we had all the time a
strong west wind; by its help we passed the southern coasts of the
Aleutian Islands, and on the 7th of August already approached the
American coast. On this day the sun once more smiled on us; the sky
afterwards continued clear, and the air became milder and pleasanter as
we neared the land.
From our noon observation we were in latitude 55 deg. 36', and longitude
140 deg. 56'. In this region, some navigators have imagined they observed
a regular current to the north; but our experience does not confirm the
remark. A current carried us from twenty to thirty miles in twenty-four
hours, setting sometimes north, and sometimes south, according to the
impulse of the wind; close to shore only the current is regularly to the
north. The inhabitants concurred in this observation.
We now steered direct for the bay called by the English Norfolk Sound,
and by the Russians Sitka Bay, and the island at its back, which the
natives call Sitchachan, whence the Russian Sitka. This island, called
by the Russians New Archangel, is at present the principal settlement of
the Russian-American company.
On the morning of the 9th of August, we were, according to my
calculation, near land; but a thick fog concealed us from every object
so much as fifty fathoms distant. At length the mid-day sun burst forth,
and rapidly dispelling the curtain of cloud and fog, surprised us with a
view of the American coast. We were standing right for the mouth of the
above-mentioned bay, at a small distance from the Edgecumbe promontory;
a table-land so elevated, that in clear weather it serves for a safe
landmark at a distance of fifty miles.
We were all day prevented by a calm from making the bay, and were
obliged to content ourselves with admiring the wild high rocky coast,
with its fir forests. Though now in a much higher latitude than in
Kamtschatka, we yet saw no snow, even on the summits of the highest
mountains; a proof of the superior mildness of the climate on the
American, compared with the Asiatic coast.
The next day we took advantage of a light wind blowing towards the bay;
but so gloomy was the weather, that we could scarcely see land, and not
one of our crew had ever been in the bay before. It stretches from the
entrance to New Archangel twenty-five miles in length, and is full of
small islands and shallows; a pilot was not to be thought of; but we
happily overcame all our difficulties. We tacked through all the
intricacies of this navigation amidst heavy rain and a thick gloom, till
we dropped the anchor within musket-shot of the fortress.
We here found the frigate Kreissac, under the command of Captain
Lasaref, sent here by Government for the protection of trade, and whom
we were destined to succeed.
The appearance of a vessel of our native country, in so distant and
desolate a corner of the earth, naturally produced much joy amongst our
people. I immediately paid a visit to Captain Lasaref, and then to the
Governor of the Colony, Captain Murawief, an old acquaintance, whom I
had not seen for many years. At so great a distance from home,
friendships are quickly formed between compatriots, even if previously
unknown to each other,--how much then must their interest increase, when
long ago cemented in the native land! My intercourse with this
gentleman, equally distinguished for his noble character and cultivated
mind, conduced much to the comfort of a tedious residence in this
desert.
To my enquiry, whether my vessel must now remain stationary at the
colony, he replied, that until the first of March of the following year
(1825), my time was at my own disposal, but that after that period my
presence could not be dispensed with. I therefore proceeded to visit
California and the Sandwich Islands, and returned to New Archangel on
the 23rd of February 1825.
The nearer we drew to the land the milder the weather became, and we
were astonished, in so northern a country, to see the mountains at this
season of the year entirely free from snow to a considerable height.
Throughout this winter, however, which had been particularly mild, the
snow in many of the vallies | 1,180.310564 |
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THE BALL AND THE CROSS
G.K. Chesterton
CONTENTS
I. A Discussion Somewhat in the Air
II. The Religion of the Stipendiary Magistrate
III. Some Old Curiosities
IV. A Discussion at Dawn
V. The Peacemaker
VI. The Other Philosopher
VII. The Village of Grassley-in-the-Hole
VIII. An Interlude of Argument
IX. The Strange Lady
X. The Swords Rejoined
XI. A Scandal in the Village
XII. The Desert Island
XIII. The Garden of Peace
XIV. A Museum of Souls
XV. The Dream of MacIan
XVI. The Dream of Turnbull
XVII. The Idiot
XVIII. A Riddle of Faces
XIX. The Last Parley
XX. Dies Irae
I. A DISCUSSION SOMEWHAT IN THE AIR
The flying ship of Professor Lucifer sang through the skies like a
silver arrow; the bleak white steel of it, gleaming in the bleak
blue emptiness of the evening. That it was far above the earth was no
expression for it; to the two men in it, it seemed to be far above the
stars. The professor had himself invented the flying machine, and had
also invented nearly everything in it. Every sort of tool or apparatus
had, in consequence, to the full, that fantastic and distorted look
which belongs to the miracles of science. For the world of science and
evolution is far more nameless and elusive and like a dream than the
world of poetry and religion; since in the latter images and ideas
remain themselves eternally, while it is the whole idea of evolution
that identities melt into each other as they do in a nightmare.
All the tools of Professor Lucifer were the ancient human tools gone
mad, grown into unrecognizable shapes, forgetful of their origin,
forgetful of their names. That thing which looked like an enormous key
with three wheels was really a patent and very deadly revolver. That
object which seemed to be created by the entanglement of two corkscrews
was really the key. The thing which might have been mistaken for a
tricycle turned upside-down was the inexpressibly important instrument
to which the corkscrew was the key. All these things, as I say, the
professor had invented; he had invented everything in the flying ship,
with the exception, perhaps, of himself. This he had been born too
late actually to inaugurate, but he believed at least, that he had
considerably improved it.
There was, however, another man on board, so to speak, at the time. Him,
also, by a curious coincidence, the professor had not invented, and him
he had not even very greatly improved, though he had fished him up with
a lasso out of his own back garden, in Western Bulgaria, with the pure
object of improving him. He was an exceedingly holy man, almost entirely
covered with white hair. You could see nothing but his eyes, and he
seemed to talk with them. A monk of immense learning and acute intellect
he had made himself happy in a little stone hut and a little stony
garden in the Balkans, chiefly by writing the most crushing refutations
of exposures of certain heresies, the last professors of which had been
burnt (generally by each other) precisely 1,119 years previously. They
were really very plausible and thoughtful heresies, and it was really
a creditable or even glorious circumstance, that the old monk had been
intellectual enough to detect their fallacy; the only misfortune
was that nobody in the modern world was intellectual enough even to
understand their argument. The old monk, one of whose names was Michael,
and the other a name quite impossible to remember or repeat in our
Western civilization, had, however, as I have said, made himself quite
happy while he was in a mountain hermitage in the society of wild
animals. And now that his luck had lifted him above all the mountains in
the society of a wild physicist, he made himself happy still.
"I have no intention, my good Michael," said Professor Lucifer,
"of endeavouring to convert you by argument. The imbecility of your
traditions can be quite finally exhibited to anybody with mere ordinary
knowledge of the world, the same kind of knowledge which teaches us
not to sit in draughts or not to encourage friendliness in impecunious
people. It is folly to talk of this or that demonstrating the
rationalist philosophy. Everything demonstrates it. Rubbing shoulders
with men of all kinds----"
"You will forgive me," said the monk, meekly from under loads of white
beard, "but I fear I do not understand; was it in order that I might rub
my shoulder against men of all kinds that you put me inside this thing?"
"An entertaining retort, in the narrow and deductive manner of the
Middle Ages," replied the Professor, calmly, "but even upon your own
basis I will illustrate my point. We are up in the sky. In your religion
and all the religions, as far as I know (and I know everything), the sky
is made the symbol of everything that is sacred and merciful. Well, now
you are in the sky, you know better. Phrase it how you like, twist it
how you like, you know that you know better. You know what are a man's
real feelings about the heavens, when he finds himself alone in the
heavens, surrounded by the heavens. You know the truth, and the truth
is this. The heavens are evil, the sky is evil, the stars are evil. This
mere space, this mere quantity, terrifies a man more than tigers or the
terrible plague. You know that since our science has spoken, the bottom
has fallen out of the Universe. Now, heaven is the hopeless thing,
more hopeless than any hell. Now, if there be any comfort for all your
miserable progeny of morbid apes, it must be in the earth, underneath
you, under the roots of the grass, in the place where hell was of old.
The fiery crypts, the lurid cellars of the underworld, to which you once
condemned the wicked, are hideous enough, but at least they are more
homely than the heaven in which we ride. And the time will come when you
will all hide in them, to escape the horror of the stars."
"I hope you will excuse my interrupting you," said Michael, with a
slight cough, "but I have always noticed----"
"Go on, pray go on," said Professor Lucifer, radiantly, "I really like
to draw out your simple ideas."
"Well, the fact is," said the other, "that much as I admire your
rhetoric and the rhetoric of your school, from a purely verbal point
of view, such little study of you and your school in human history as I
have been enabled to make has led me to--er--rather singular conclusion,
which I find great difficulty in expressing, especially in a foreign
language."
"Come, come," said the Professor, encouragingly, "I'll help you out. How
did my view strike you?"
"Well, the truth is, I know I don't express it properly, but somehow
it seemed to me that you always convey ideas of that kind with most
eloquence, when--er--when----"
"Oh! get on," cried Lucifer, boisterously.
"Well, in point of fact when your flying ship is just going to run
into something. I thought you wouldn't mind my mentioning it, but it's
running into something now."
Lucifer exploded with an oath and leapt erect, leaning hard upon the
handle that acted as a helm to the vessel. For the last ten minutes they
had been shooting downwards into great cracks and caverns of cloud. Now,
through a sort of purple haze, could be seen comparatively near to them
what seemed to be the upper part of a huge, dark orb or sphere, islanded
in a sea of cloud. The Professor's eyes were blazing like a maniac's.
"It is a new world," he cried, with a dreadful mirth. "It is a new
planet and it shall bear my name. This star and not that other vulgar
one shall be 'Lucifer, sun of the morning.' Here we will have no
chartered lunacies, here we will have no gods. Here man shall be
as innocent as the daisies, as innocent and as cruel--here the
intellect----"
"There seems," said Michael, timidly, "to be something sticking up in
the middle of it."
"So there is," said the Professor, leaning over the side of the ship,
his spectacles shining with intellectual excitement. "What can it be? It
might of course be merely a----"
Then a shriek indescribable broke out of him of a sudden, and he flung
up his arms like a lost spirit. The monk took the helm in a tired way;
he did not seem much astonished for he came from an ignorant part of the
world in which it is not uncommon for lost spirits to shriek when they
see the curious shape which the Professor had just seen on the top of
the mysterious ball, but he took the helm only just in time, and by
driving it hard to the left he prevented the flying ship from smashing
into St. Paul's Cathedral.
A plain of sad- cloud lay along the level of the top of the
Cathedral dome, so that the ball and the cross looked like a buoy riding
on a leaden sea. As the flying ship swept towards it, this plain of
cloud looked as dry and definite and rocky as any grey desert. Hence it
gave to the mind and body a sharp and unearthly | 1,180.384252 |
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provided by the Internet Archive
SAINT ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES
_A Tale of Salt Lake City_
With A Bibliographical Note
By Robert Buchanan
_First Cheap Edition_
London
1896
TO OLD DAN CHAUCER.
Maypole dance and Whitsun ale,
Sports of peasants in the dale,
Harvest mirth and junketting,
Fireside play and kiss-in-ring,
Ancient fun and wit and ease, --
Gone are one and all of these;
All the pleasant pastime planned
In the green old Mother-land:
Gone are these and gone the time
Of the breezy English rhyme,
Sung to make men glad and wise
By great Bards with twinkling eyes:
Gone the tale and gone the song
Sound as nut-brown ale and strong,
Freshening the sultry sense
Out of idle impotence,
Sowing features dull or bright
With deep dimples of delight!
Thro' the Motherland I went
Seeking these, half indolent:
Up and down, saw them not:
Only found them, half forgot.
Buried in long-darken'd nooks
With thy barrels of old books,
Where the light and love and mirth
Of the morning days of earth
Sleeps, like light of sunken suns
Brooding deep in cob-webb'd tuns!
Everywhere I found instead,
Hanging her dejected head,
Barbing shafts of bitter wit,
The pale Modern Spirit sit--
While her shadow, great as Gog's
Cast upon the island fogs,
In the midst of all things dim
Loom'd, gigantically grim.
Honest Chaucer, thee I greet
In a verse with blithesomefeet.
And ino' modern bards may stare,
Crack a passing joke with Care!
Take a merry song and true
Fraught with inner meanings too!
Goodman Dull may croak and scowl:--
Leave him hooting to the owl!
Tight-laced Prudery may turn
Angry back with eyes that burn,
Reading on from page to page
Scrofulous novels of the age!
Fools may frown and humbugs rail,
Not for them I tell the Tale;
Not for them,, but souls like thee.
Wise old English Jollity!
Newport, October, 1872
ST. ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES
Art thou unto a helpmate bound?
Then stick to her, my brother!
But hast thou laid her in the ground?
Don't go to seek another!
Thou hast not sin'd, if thou hast wed,
Like many of our number,
But thou hast spread a thorny bed,
And there alas! must slumber!
St. Paul, Cor. I., 7, 27-28.
O let thy fount of love be blest
And let thy wife rejoice,
Contented rest upon her breast
And listen to her voice;
Yea, be not ravish'd from her side
Whom thou at first has chosen,
Nor having tried one earthly bride
Go sighing for a Dozen!
Sol. Prov. V., 18-20.
APPROACHING UTAH.--THE BOSS'S TALE.
I--PASSING THE HANCHE.
"Grrr!" shrieked the boss, with teeth clench'd
tight,
Just as the lone ranche hove in sight,
And with a face of ghastly hue
He flogg'd the horses till they flew,
As if the devil were at their back,
Along the wild and stony track.
From side to side the waggon swung,
While to the quaking seat I clung.
Dogs bark'd; on each side of the pass
The cattle grazing on the grass
Raised heads and stared; and with a cry
Out the men rush'd as we roll'd by.
"Grrr!" shriek'd the boss; and o'er and o'er
He flogg'd the foaming steeds and swore;
Harder and harder grew his face
As by the rançhe we swept apace,
And faced the hill, and past the pond,
And gallop'd up the height beyond,
Nor tighten'd rein till field and farm
Were hidden by the mountain's arm
A mile behind; when, hot and spent,
The horses paused on the ascent,
And mopping from his brow the sweat.
The boy glanced round with teeth still set,
And panting, with his eyes on me,
Smil'd with a | 1,180.610261 |
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Produced by Heather Clark, John Campbell 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
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Bold text is denoted by =equal signs=.
Superscript letters are denoted by ^, for example y^e and Serv^t.
A number following the ^ indicates the generation of the family, for
example Joseph,^3 is in the third generation of the (Parsons) family.
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.
=VOL. I. JULY, 1847. NO. 3.=
THE
NEW ENGLAND
=HISTORICAL & GENEALOGICAL REGISTER:=
PUBLISHED QUARTERLY,
UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE
NEW ENGLAND HISTORIC, GENEALOGICAL SOCIETY.
REV. WILLIAM COGSWELL, D. D., EDITOR.
[Illustration]
BOSTON:
SAMUEL G. DRAKE, PUBLISHER,
NO. 56 CORNHILL.
1847.
COOLIDGE & WILEY, Printers, 12 Water Street.
CONTENTS.
Page
Memoir of Governor Endecott, 201
Original Covenant of the First Church in Massachusetts Colony, 224
Heraldry, 225
Heraldic Plate, 231
Ratification of the Federal Constitution by Massachusetts, 232
Letter of Chief-Justice Sargent, 237
Complete List of the Ministers of Boston, 240
Congregational Ministers and Churches in Rockingham County, N. H., 244
Genealogy of the Wolcott Family, 251
Genealogy of the Minot Family, 256
Genealogy of the Parsons Family, 263
Ancient Bible in the Bradford Family, 275
Biographical Notices of Physicians in Rochester, N. H., 276
Sketches of Alumni at the different Colleges in New England, 278
Advice of a Dying Father to his Son, 284
Relationship, 285
Decease of the Fathers of New England, 286
New England, 288
Arrival of Early New England Ministers, 289
Genealogies and their Moral, 290
First Settlers of Rhode Island, 291
Marriages and Deaths, 292
Notices of New Publications, 293
[Illustration: (Portrait of John Endecott, Governor.)]
NEW ENGLAND
HISTORICAL AND GENEALOGICAL REGISTER.
VOL. I. JULY, 1847. NO. 3.
MEMOIR OF GOVERNOR ENDECOTT.[1]
It is now upwards of two centuries and a quarter since the despotic
sway of the English Sovereigns over the consciences of their
subjects, induced all who entertained different sentiments from those
of the established church, to turn their eyes towards the wilderness
of America, as an asylum from the unnatural persecutions of the
Mother Country.
With this in view, some of the principal men among those who had
already sought a refuge in Holland, commenced treating with the
Virginia Company, and at the same time took measures to ascertain
whether the King would grant them liberty of conscience should they
remove thither. They ultimately effected a satisfactory arrangement
with the Company, but from James they could obtain no public
recognition of religious liberty, but merely a promise, that if
they behaved peaceably he would not molest them on account of their
religious opinions.
On the 6th of September, 1620, a detachment from the Church at
Leyden set sail from Plymouth for the Virginia territory, but owing
to the treachery of the master,[2] they were landed at Cape Cod,
and ultimately at Plymouth, on the 11th day of December following.
Finding themselves without the jurisdiction of the Virginia Company,
they established a distinct government for themselves.
In the year 1624, the success of this plantation was so favorably
represented in the West of England, that the Rev. John White, a
distinguished minister in Dorchester, prevailed upon some merchants
and others to undertake another settlement in New England. Having
provided a common stock, they sent over several persons to begin a
plantation at Cape Ann, where they were joined by some disaffected
individuals from the Plymouth settlement. This project was soon
abandoned as unprofitable, and a portion of the settlers removed
westward within the territory of Naumkeag, which then included
what is now Manchester. By the intercession and great exertions
of Mr. White, the project of a settlement in that quarter was not
altogether relinquished, but a new company was soon afterwards
formed. One of this company, and the principal one to carry its
objects into immediate effect, was the subject of this Memoir. He
was in the _strictest_ sense of the word a _Puritan_,--one of a
sect composed, as an able foreign writer has said, of the "most
remarkable body of men which perhaps the world has ever produced.
They were men whose minds had derived a peculiar character from the
daily contemplation of superior beings and eternal interests. Not
content with acknowledging in general terms an overruling Providence,
they habitually ascribed every event to the will of the Great Being
for whose power nothing was too vast, for whose inspection nothing
was too minute. To know him, to serve him, to enjoy him, was with
them the great end of existence. They rejected with contempt the
ceremonious homage which other sects substituted for the homage of
the soul. On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they
looked down with contempt; for they esteemed themselves rich in a
more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime language;
nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and priests by the
imposition of a mightier hand."
* * * * *
JOHN ENDECOTT, whose name is so intimately associated with the first
settlement of this country, and with whose early history his own is
so closely interwoven, that, in the language of the late Rev. Dr.
Bentley,[3] "above all others he deserved the name of _the_ FATHER OF
NEW ENGLAND," was born in Dorchester, Dorsetshire, England, in the
year 1588. He was a man of good intellectual endowments and mental
culture, and of a fearless and independent spirit, which well fitted
him for the various and trying duties he was destined to perform. Of
his early life, and private and domestic character, little is known;
neither are we much better informed as to his parentage, except
that his family was of respectable standing and moderate fortunes.
He belonged to that class in England called esquires, or gentlemen,
composed mostly at that period of the independent landholders of the
realm. With the exception, therefore, of a few leading incidents,
we are reluctantly obliged to pass over nearly the whole period of
Mr. Endecott's life, previous to his engaging in the enterprise for
the settlement of New England. History is almost silent upon the
subject, and the tradition of the family has been but imperfectly
transmitted and preserved. His letters, the only written productions
which are left us, furnish internal evidence that he was a man of
liberal education and cultivated mind. There are proofs of his
having been, at some period of his life, a surgeon;[4] yet, as he
is always alluded to, in the earliest records of the Massachusetts
Company, by the title of Captain, there can be no doubt whatever
that at some time previous to his emigration to this country, he had
held a commission in the army; and his subsequently passing through
the several military grades to that of Sergeant Major-General of
Massachusetts, justifies this conclusion, while the causes which led
to this change in his profession cannot now be ascertained.
While a resident in London, he married a lady of an influential
family, by the name of Anna Gouer, by whom, it is understood, he
had no children. She was cousin to Matthew Cradock, the Governor
of the Massachusetts Company in England. If tradition be correct,
the circumstances which brought about this connection were similar
to those which are related of John Alden and Miles Standish. Some
needle-work, wrought by this lady, is still preserved in the Museum
of the Salem East India Marine Society.[5] Mr. Endecott was also a
brother-in-law of Roger Ludlow, Assistant and Deputy Governor of
Massachusetts Colony, in the year 1634, and afterwards famous for the
distinguished part he took in the government of Connecticut.
But Mr. Endecott's highest claim to distinction rests upon the fact
that he was an intrepid and successful leader of the Pilgrims, and
the earliest pioneer of the Massachusetts settlement under the
Patent. His name is found enrolled among the very foremost of that
noble band, the fathers and founders of New England--those pious and
devout men, who, firm in the faith of the gospel, and trusting in
God, went fearlessly forward in the daring enterprise, and hewed
their homes and their altars out of the wild forest, where they
could worship "the God of their fathers agreeably to the dictates
of their own consciences." Such was the persecution to which the
Non-conformists in England were at this period subjected, that the
works of nature were the only safe witnesses of their devotions.
Deriving no honor, so far as we know, from illustrious ancestry, Mr.
Endecott was the architect of his own fame, and won the laurels which
encircle his name amid sacrifices, sufferings, and trials, better
suited to adorn an historical romance, than to accompany a plain tale
of real life.
Under the guidance and influence of the Rev. Mr. Skelton, he embraced
the principles of the Puritans; and in the beginning of the year
1628, associated himself with Sir Henry Roswell, Sir John Young,
Simon Whetcomb, John Humphrey, and Thomas Southcoat, in the purchase
of a grant, "by a considerable sum of money," for the settlement
of the Massachusetts Bay, from the Plymouth Council in England.
This grant was subsequently confirmed by Patent from Charles I. Mr.
Endecott was one of the original patentees, and among the first of
that company who emigrated to this country.
Whatever may have been the objects of the first settlers generally
in colonizing New England, there can be no doubt that _his_ was the
establishment and enjoyment of the gospel and its ordinances, as he
supposed, in primitive purity, unmolested. With him it was wholly a
religious enterprise.
He sailed from Weymouth, in the ship Abigail, Henry Gauden, master,
on the 20th of June, 1628, and arrived in safety at Naumkeag, the
place of his destination, on the 6th of September following. The
company consisted of about one hundred planters.
The following extract from "Johnson's Wonder-Working Providence"
will illustrate the estimation in which he was held at this period.
"The much honored John Indicat came over with them, to governe; a
fit instrument to begin this Wildernesse-worke; of courage bold,
undaunted, yet sociable, and of a cheerfull spirit, loving and
austere, applying himselfe to either as occasion served. And now let
no man be offended at the Author's rude Verse, penned of purpose to
keepe in memory the Names of such worthies as Christ made strong for
himselfe, in this unwonted worke of his.
"_John Endicat, twice Governur of the English, inhabiting the
Mattachusets Bay in N. England._
"Strong valiant John, wilt thou march on, and take up station first,
Christ cal'd hath thee, his Souldier be, and faile not of thy trust;
Wilderness wants Christs grace supplants, then plant his Churches pure,
With Tongues gifted, and graces led, help thou to his procure;
Undaunted thou wilt not allow, Malignant men to wast:
Christs Vineyard heere, whose grace should cheer his well-beloved's tast.
Then honored be, thy Christ hath thee their General promoted:
To shew their love in place above, his people have thee voted.
Yet must thou fall, to grave with all the Nobles of the Earth.
Thou rotting worme to dust must turn, and worse but for new birth."
To this company, under Endecott, belongs the honor of having
formed the first permanent and legally recognized settlement of
the Massachusetts Colony. We do not say that they were the _first_
white men who ever trod the soil; for we know when Endecott landed
on these shores, he found here a few fishermen and others, the
remnant of a planting, trading, and fishing establishment, previously
commenced at Cape Ann, under the auspices of some gentlemen belonging
to Dorchester, his native place, but soon abandoned for want of
success. Their leader, the Rev. John Lyford, had already emigrated
to Virginia, and those of that company who removed their effects
to Salem, consisted at that time of some five or six persons, most
of whom were seceders from the settlement at Plymouth. They were,
however, only sojourners, disaffected with the place, and requiring
all the interest and entreaties of the Rev. John White, a noted
minister in Dorchester, to prevent them from forsaking it altogether,
and following Mr. Lyford to Virginia.[6] But higher motives and
deeper purposes fired the souls and stimulated the hearts of Mr.
Endecott and his friends to commence a settlement, and to form
new homes for themselves and their posterity in this wilderness,
before which the mere considerations of traffic and gain sink into
comparative insignificance. It was the love of religion implanted
deep in the heart, that gave impulse and permanency to the settlement
at Naumkeag, and the Massachusetts Colony generally; and the
commencement of this era was the arrival of Endecott with the first
detachment of those holy and devout men who valued earthly pursuits
only so far as they were consistent with religion. It was also at
this period that a sort of definite reality was imparted to this
region. Previously to this it had been viewed as a sort of _terra
incognita_, situated somewhere in the wilderness of America. But
the arrival of the Pilgrims at this time dispelled the uncertainty
in which it had before been wrapped, and at the same time threw
around it the warmest sympathies and most earnest solicitude of
large numbers who had now become deeply interested in its welfare.
We, therefore, consider the landing of Endecott at this place, as
emphatically the commencement of its permanent settlement, as an
asylum for the persecuted and oppressed of the Mother Country. All
previous visitors were comparatively adventurers, with motives and
purposes widely different from those of that little band who first
rested upon this spot on the 6th of September, 1628. On that day, so
to speak, was breathed into the settlement of Naumkeag the breath of
life, and it became as it were endued with a living soul, folding
within its embrace the dearest interests and most cherished rights of
humanity, unrivalled in the interest she will ever excite as the most
ancient town in the Massachusetts Patent.
On Mr. Endecott's arrival, he made known to the planters who preceded
him, that he and his associate patentees had purchased all the
property and privileges of the Dorchester partners, both here and at
Cape Ann. He shortly after removed from the latter place, for his own
private residence, the frame house, which a few years before had been
erected there by the Dorchester Company. It was a tasteful edifice,
of two stories high, and of the prevailing order of architecture at
that period, called the Elisabethean, which was but of slight remove
from the Gothic. Some of its hard oak frame may still be found in
the building at the corner of Washington and Church streets, Salem,
commonly known at this day as the "Endicott House."
The alteration which now took place in the affairs of the infant
colony did not meet with favor from the first planters, and for a
while prevented perfect harmony from prevailing in the settlement.
"One of the subjects of discord was the propriety of raising tobacco,
Mr. Endecott and his council believing such a production, except for
medicinal purposes, injurious both to health and morals." Besides
this, they probably viewed with no favorable eye the agreement
in sentiment between Mr. Endecott and the Plymouth Church as to
the propriety of abolishing the ritual forms of worship of the
Church of England; for an adherence to which they had already been
obliged to leave the Plymouth settlement. Mr. Endecott represented
these difficulties to the home government; and in answer to his
communication they say, "That it may appear as well to all the worlde
as to the old planters themselves, that we seke not to make them
slaves, as it seems by your letter some of them think themselves to
be become by means of our patent, they are allowed to be partakers
with us in all the privileges we have with so much labor and
intercession obtained from the King; to be incorporated into the
society, and enjoy not only those lands which formerly they have
manured, but such a further proportion as the civil authorities think
best." They were also allowed the _exclusive_ privilege of raising
their favorite weed--tobacco.
The Company's Court in London, actuated by that true sense of
justice which ever marked its deliberations, were determined not to
trespass on any of the rights of the aborigines; and to this purpose
in their first two communications to Mr. Endecott, they desired
him to take especial care, "that no wrong or injury be offered by
any of our people to the natives there," and to satisfy every just
claim which might be made by them to the territory of Naumkeag and
the plantation generally. To this record the sons of the Pilgrims
have ever turned with peculiar pride and exultation. And, says
Felt, "From his well-known promptitude and high sense of equity,
there can be no doubt that Mr. Endecott fulfilled every iota of
such instructions." In his first letters to the home government, he
suggested various things to advance the interests of the Colony; such
as the manufacture of salt, cultivation of vineyards, sending over
fruit-stones and kernels, grain for seed, wheat, barley, and rye;
also certain domesticated animals; all of which were shortly after
transported to this country.
The answer to this letter bears the date of April 19, 1629, wherein
they inform him, that the Company "are much enlarged since his
departure out of England," and for strengthening their grant from
the Council at Plymouth, they had obtained a confirmation of it from
his Majesty by his Letters Patent, under the broad seal of England;
incorporating them into a body politic, with ample powers to govern
and rule all his Majesty's subjects that reside within the limits of
their plantation; and that, in prosecution of the good opinion they
have always entertained of him, they have confirmed him Governor
of the Colony. No adventitious circumstances of fortune or birth
aided him in his appointment to this, even then responsible office;
for although the Colony was at this time few in numbers and feeble
in effort, yet in its success were involved the most momentous
interests, and every thing depended upon the right impulse and
direction being given to its affairs. In the words of the Record,
"having taken into due consideration the _meritt_, _worth_, and _good
desert_ of Captain John Endecott, and others lately gone over from
hence, with purpose to resyde and continue there, wee have with full
consent and authoritie of this Court, and ereccon of hands, chosen
and elected the said Captain John Endecott to the place of present
Governour of said Plantation." They further speak of the confidence
they repose in him, in thus committing the affairs of the Colony into
his hands. Gov. Cradock also compliments him upon his motives and
conduct; and the Company inform him, that they are disappointed of
the provisions ordered to be sent for himself and Mrs. Endecott, but
(God willing,) they purpose to send them by the next vessel. It is
also believed that at this time Mr. Endecott ordered the fruit-trees,
which afterwards constituted his orchard upon the farm granted him in
1632, of which one venerable patriarch, the celebrated old pear-tree,
yet remains, having withstood the "peltings of pitiless storms" for
upwards of two hundred winters, and still dropping down its rich
fruit into the bosoms of his distant descendants.
In a second letter, dated the 28th of May following, the Company
remark: "Wee have sithence our last, and according as we there
advised, at a _full_ and _ample_ Court assembled _elected_ and
_established_ you, Captain John Endecott, to the place of present
Governour of our Plantation there, as also some others to be of the
Council with you, as more particularly you will perceive by an Act of
Court herewith sent, confirmed by us at a General Court and sealed
with our common seal."
The model of the Government established by this "Act of Court,"
consisted of a Governor, and twelve persons as a Council, styled "THE
GOVERNOUR AND COUNCIL OF LONDON'S PLANTATION IN THE MATTACHUSETTS
BAY IN NEW ENGLAND." They were to elect a Deputy-Governor, for
the time being, from among their number; were authorized also to
choose a Secretary and other needful officers. They were empowered
to fill vacancies in their body, occasioned by death or otherwise.
The Governor, or in his absence the Deputy, might call Courts at
pleasure, and they had power to establish any laws not at variance
with those of England; "to administer justice upon malefactors, and
inflict condign punishment upon all offenders." To make an act valid,
the Governor or his Deputy was always to vote with the majority. A
form of oath was sent over at this time to be administered to Mr.
Endecott as Governor, and one also for the other officers of the
government. He took the oath and was inducted into office. Here,
then, we conceive, is direct and incontrovertible testimony that
Endecott was appointed the _first_ Governor of Massachusetts under
its Colonial Charter from the King. It is so stated by Joselyn,
Hutchinson, and Prince. He received the Charter, and the documentary
evidence of his constitutional authority as Governor, both at the
same time. To Mr. Endecott was given, to act under it, all the powers
which his immediate successors ever exercised. They were conferred
upon him too, by the same body who subsequently elected Mr. Winthrop
to that office. The abolishment of the board of control in England,
and the transfer of "the government of the plantation to those that
shall inhabit there," and instead of choosing the Colonial Governors
in Old England by members of the Company there, to choose them by
members of the same Company who were in New England, could not weaken
the validity of his claim to be considered the _first_ Governor of
the Massachusetts Colony.
It was well for Mr. Endecott that he possessed an ardent and sanguine
temperament, which nothing could daunt, otherwise the innumerable
discouraging circumstances which met him in this, his new abode, in
every form, amid sickness, death, and privations of every kind, well
suited to appal the stoutest hearts, would no doubt have wrought
their effects upon him, to the prejudice of the whole plantation.
But such was the energy and firmness of his character, aided, no
doubt, by a religious enthusiasm, which induced the belief that it
was the purpose of God to give them the land of the heathen as an
inheritance, that neither his faith nor confidence in the ultimate
success of the undertaking ever for a moment forsook him. In every
crisis, this little band looked to him, as the weather-beaten and
tempest-tossed mariner looks to his commander, next to God, for
encouragement and support; and they did not look in vain. Such was
the great mortality among them, during the first winter after their
arrival, arising from exposure to the rigors of an untried climate,
and their being badly fed and badly lodged, that there were scarcely
found in the settlement well persons enough to nurse and console
the sick. To enhance their distress, they were destitute of any
regular medical assistance. In this painful dilemma a messenger
was despatched by Mr. Endecott to Gov. Bradford, of the Plymouth
settlement, to procure the necessary aid; and Doctor Samuel Fuller,
the physician, who was a prominent member and deacon of the Plymouth
Church, was sent among them. During his visit, Mr. Endecott was
called by Divine Providence to suffer one of the heaviest of earthly
afflictions, in the death of his wife, the partner of all his
sorrows, who had forsaken home, kindred, and the sympathy of friends,
and consented to share with him the cares and privations incident to
a new settlement. Surrounded by savages, and from the circumstances
of the case, placed in a great degree beyond the pale of civilized
society, her sympathy and counsel must necessarily have been very
dear to him. She must have entwined herself about his affections, as
the tender ivy winds itself round the lordly oak. Her slender and
delicate frame was not proof against the rigors of a New England
climate. Born and nurtured in the midst of luxury and ease, she could
not withstand the privations and hardships of her new home, and she
fell a victim to her self-sacrificing disposition. Painful indeed
must have been the parting, and severe the trial to Mr. Endecott.
Under the influence of the feelings which this affliction produced,
he wrote the following letter to Gov. Bradford:--
"RIGHT WORSHIPFULLE SIR,--
"It is a thing not usual that servants of one Master, and of
the same household, should be strangers. I assure you I desire
it not; Nay, to speak more plainly, I _cannot_ be so to _you_.
God's people are all marked with one and the same mark, and have
for the main one and the same heart, guided by one and the same
spirit of truth; and where this is there can be no discord,
nay, here must needs be a sweet harmony; and the same request
with you, I make unto the Lord, that we as Christian brethren
be united by an heavenly and unfeigned love, binding all our
hearts and forces in furthering a work beyond our strength with
reverence and fear, fastening our eyes always on Him that is only
able to direct and prosper all our ways. I acknowledge myself
much bound to you, for your kind love and care in sending Mr.
Fuller amongst us, and rejoice much that I am by him satisfied,
touching your judgment of the outward form of God's worship:
It is as far as I can gather no other than is warranted by the
evidence of truth, and the same which I have professed and
maintained ever since the Lord in mercy revealed himself unto
mee, being far from the common report that hath been spread of
you in that particular; but God's people must not look for less
here below, and it is a great mercy of God that he strengtheneth
them to go through it. I shall not need at this time to enlarge
unto you for (God willing) I propose to see your face shortly; in
the mean tyme, I humbly take my leave of you, committing you to
the Lord's blessing and protection, and rest.
Your assured loving friend,
JO: ENDECOTT.
Naumkeag, May 11, 1629."
The foregoing epistle is alike honorable to the head and heart of
Mr. Endecott. Humble, devout, and chastened feelings pervade it
throughout. It speaks a mind sensibly alive to religious impressions.
The sentiments here expressed cannot fail to find a response in the
hearts of all reflecting men, in this and succeeding generations.
The magnitude of the undertaking in which they were engaged, the
necessity of union in their efforts, and the impossibility of success
without direct divine assistance, are here represented in language
appropriate and devout.
Whether Mr. Endecott carried into execution his design intimated in
this letter, of making Gov. Bradford a visit "shortly," is uncertain.
On the 27th of May, 1629, in a communication to the authorities at
home, he complained that some persons in his jurisdiction disregarded
the law of 1622, for the regulation of trade with the Indians,
and "desiring the Company would take the same into their serious
consideration, and to use some speedy means here for reformation
thereof." A petition was in consequence presented to the King, who
in compliance therewith issued a new proclamation, forbidding such
disorderly trading. These steps were no doubt taken in reference
to the associates of one Thomas Morton, whose residence at Mount
Wollaston, or Merry Mount, now Quincy, he visited shortly after his
arrival in this country. This man and his associates had alarmed
all the well-disposed settlers, from Piscataqua to Plymouth, by
selling arms and ammunition to the Indians, indulging themselves
in dissipation, and otherwise endangering the peace and welfare
of New England. The object of Mr. Endecott's visit was to rectify
abuses among the remaining confederates, Morton himself having been
already apprehended, and sent home to England for trial. He went
there, we are told, in the "purefying spirit of authority," and
caused their May-pole to be cut down, to which they had been in the
habit of affixing pieces of satirical composition against those who
opposed their wishes and practices, and "rebuked the inhabitants
for their profaneness, and admonished them to look to it that they
walked better." He also changed the name of the place, and called
it Mount Dagon. The precise period of this visit is not known, and
it is not improbable that Mr. Endecott extended his journey at the
time to Plymouth Colony. However this may be, a warm friendship soon
grew up between Gov. Bradford and himself, which continued without
interruption for the remainder of their lives.
As yet no steps had been taken in the Colony towards the
establishment of a reformed Church for propagating the gospel, which
they professed above all to be their aim in settling this Plantation.
June 30th, 1629, the Rev. Francis Higginson arrived at Naumkeag, and
the Rev. Mr. Skelton, the early friend and spiritual father of Mr.
Endecott, arrived about the same time. They had been sent over by
the home government. Mr. Higginson thus speaks of his reception by
Mr. Endecott: "The next morning (30th) the Governor came aboard to
our ship, and bade us kindly welcome, and invited mee and my wiffe
to come on shore and take our lodgings at his house; which we did
accordingly." The settlement, we are told, then consisted of "about
half a score of houses, with a fair house, newly built, for the
Governor. We found also abundance of corne planted by them, very good
and well liking. Our Governor hath a store of green pease growing in
his garden, as good as ever I eat in England. * * * * Our Governor
hath already planted a vineyard, with great hopes of increase;
also mulberries, plums, raspberries, currants, chesnuts, filberts,
walnuts, small nuts, hurtleberries, and haws of white thorn, near as
good as our cherries in England--they grow in plenty here."
Shortly after the arrival of Mr. Higginson and Mr. Skelton, the
necessary measures were taken preparatory to the settlement of a
religious congregation in accordance with the views of the Puritans.
In this they were aided by Mr. Endecott, and the most intelligent
of the colonists. Having first concluded a satisfactory form of
church government and discipline, which was submitted to Mr. Endecott
for approval, the 6th of August, 1629, just eleven months after
his arrival, was the time selected for this "little band of devout
Pilgrims to enter into solemn covenant[7] with God and one another,
and also for the ordaining of their ministers." By Mr. Endecott's
order, a solemn day of "humiliation" had been held on the 20th of
July preceding, for the choice of pastor | 1,180.85422 |
2023-11-16 18:36:44.8350910 | 2,407 | 13 |
Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
HARDING OF ALLENWOOD
[Illustration: "'PICK UP YOUR SKIRT,' HE SAID BLUNTLY; 'IT GETS
STEEPER.'"--Page 32]
HARDING OF ALLENWOOD
BY HAROLD BINDLOSS
AUTHOR OF PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN,
WINSTON OF THE PRAIRIE, ETC
WITH FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR
[Illustration]
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Copyright, 1915, by
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
All rights reserved
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE PIONEERS 1
II PORTENTS OF CHANGE 14
III AT THE FORD 26
IV THE OPENING OF THE RIFT 36
V THE SPENDTHRIFT 48
VI THE MORTGAGE BROKER 56
VII AN ACCIDENT 67
VIII AN UNEXPECTED ESCAPE 79
IX A MAN OF AFFAIRS 92
X THE CASTING VOTE 103
XI THE STEAM PLOW 118
XII THE ENEMY WITHIN 132
XIII THE TRAITOR 145
XIV A BOLD SCHEME 156
XV HARVEST HOME 169
XVI THE BRIDGE 182
XVII A HEAVY BLOW 192
XVIII COVERING HIS TRAIL 203
XIX THE BLIZZARD 215
XX A SEVERE TEST 225
XXI THE DAY OF RECKONING 236
XXII THE PRICE OF HONOR 245
XXIII A WOMAN INTERVENES 255
XXIV A GREAT TRIUMPH 264
XXV THE REBUFF 276
XXVI DROUGHT 287
XXVII THE ADVENTURESS 298
XXVIII FIRE AND HAIL 308
XXIX A BRAVE HEART 318
XXX THE INHERITANCE 326
HARDING, OF ALLENWOOD
CHAPTER I
THE PIONEERS
It was a clear day in September. The boisterous winds which had swept
the wide Canadian plain all summer had fallen and only a faint breeze
stirred the yellowing leaves of the poplars. Against the glaring blue of
the northern sky the edge of the prairie cut in a long, straight line;
above the southern horizon rounded cloud-masses hung, soft and white as
wool. Far off, the prairie was washed with tints of delicate gray, but
as it swept in to the foreground the color changed, growing in strength,
to brown and ocher with streaks of silvery brightness where the withered
grass caught the light. To the east the view was broken, for the banks
of a creek that wound across the broad level were lined with
timber--birches and poplars growing tall in the shelter of the ravine
and straggling along its crest. Their pale- branches glowed among
the early autumn leaves.
In a gap between the trees two men stood resting on their axes, and rows
of logs and branches and piles of chips were scattered about the
clearing. The men were dressed much alike, in shirts that had once been
blue but were now faded to an indefinite color, old brown overalls, and
soft felt hats that had fallen out of shape. Their arms were bare to the
elbows, the low shirt-collars left their necks exposed, showing skin
that had weathered, like their clothing, to the color of the soil.
Standing still, they were scarcely distinguishable from their
surroundings.
Harding was thirty years old, and tall and strongly built. He looked
virile and athletic, but his figure was marked by signs of strength
rather than grace. His forehead was broad, his eyes between blue and
gray, and his gaze gravely steady. He had a straight nose and a firm
mouth; and although there was more than a hint of determination in his
expression, it indicated, on the whole, a pleasant, even a magnetic,
disposition.
Devine was five years younger and of lighter build. He was the handsomer
of the two, but he lacked that indefinite something about his companion
which attracted more attention.
"Let's quit a few minutes for a smoke," suggested Devine, dropping his
ax. "We've worked pretty hard since noon."
He sat down on a log and took out an old corncob pipe. When it was
filled and lighted he leaned back contentedly against a friendly stump.
Harding remained standing, his hand on the long ax-haft, his chin
slightly lifted, and his eyes fixed on the empty plain. Between him and
the horizon there was no sign of life except that a flock of migrating
birds were moving south across the sky in a drawn-out wedge. The wide
expanse formed part of what was then the territory of Assiniboia, and is
now the province of Saskatchewan. As far as one could see, the soil was
thin alluvial loam, interspersed with the stiff "gumbo" that grows the
finest wheat; but the plow had not yet broken its surface. Small towns
were springing up along the railroad track, but the great plain between
the Saskatchewan and the Assiniboine was, for the most part, still a
waste, waiting for the tide of population that had begun to flow.
Harding was a born pioneer, and his expression grew intent as he gazed
across the wilderness.
"What will this prairie be like, Fred, when those poplars are tall
enough to cut?" he said gravely, indicating some saplings beside him.
"There's going to be a big change here."
"That's true; and it's just what I'm counting on. That's what made me
leave old Dakota. I want to be in on the ground-floor!"
Harding knit his brows, and his face had a concentrated look. He was not
given to talking at large, but he had a gift of half-instinctive
prevision as well as practical, constructive ability, and just then he
felt strangely moved. It seemed to him that he heard in the distance the
march of a great army of new home-builders, moving forward slowly and
cautiously as yet. He was one of the advance skirmishers, though the
first scouts had already pushed on and vanished across the skyline into
the virgin West.
"Well," he said, "think what's happening! Ontario's settled and busy
with manufactures; Manitoba and the Dakotas, except for the sand-belts,
are filling up. The older States are crowded, and somebody owns all the
soil that's worth working in the Middle West. England and Germany are
overflowing, and we have roughly seven hundred miles of country here
that needs people. They must come. The pressure behind will force them."
"But think what that will mean to the price of wheat! It's bringing only
a dollar and a half now. We can't raise it at a dollar."
"It will break the careless," Harding said, "but dollar wheat will come.
The branch railroads will follow the homesteads; you'll see the
elevators dotting the prairie, and when we've opened up this great
tableland between the American border and the frozen line, the wheat
will pour into every settlement faster than the cars can haul it out.
Prices will fall until every slack farmer has mortgaged all he owns."
"Then what good will it do? If the result is to be only mortgages?"
"Oh, but I said every _slack_ farmer. It will clear out the incompetent,
improve our methods. The ox-team and the grass trail will have to go.
We'll have steam gang-plows and graded roads. We'll have better machines
all round."
"And afterward?"
Harding's eyes sparkled.
"Afterward? Then the men with brains and grit who have held on--the
fittest, who have survived--will come into such prosperity as few
farmers have ever had. America, with her population leaping up, will
have less and less wheat to ship; England will steadily call for more;
we'll have wheat at a price that will pay us well before we're through.
Then there'll be no more dug-outs and log-shacks, but fine brick
homesteads, with all the farms fenced and mechanical transport on the
roads. It's coming, Fred! Those who live through the struggle will
certainly see it."
Harding laughed and lifted his ax.
"But enough of that! If we're to get our homesteads up before the frost
comes, we'll have to hustle."
The big ax flashed in the sunshine and bit deep into a poplar trunk; but
when a few more logs had been laid beside the rest the men stopped
again, for they heard a beat of hoofs coming toward them across the
prairie. The trees cut off their view of the rider, but when he rounded
a corner of the bluff and pulled up his horse, they saw a young lad,
picturesquely dressed in a deerskin jacket of Indian make, decorated
with fringed hide and embroidery, cord riding-breeches, and polished
leggings. His slouch hat was pushed back on his head, showing a handsome
face that had in it a touch of imperiousness.
"Hello!" he said, with a look of somewhat indignant surprise. "What are
you fellows doing here?"
Harding felt amused at the tone of superiority in the youngster's voice;
yet he had a curious, half-conscious feeling that there was something he
recognized about the boy. It was not that he had met him before, but
that well-bred air and the clean English intonation were somehow
familiar.
"If you look around you," Harding smiled, "you might be able to guess
that we're cutting down trees."
The boy gave an imperious toss of his head.
"What I meant was that you have no right on this property."
"No?"
"It belongs to us. And logs large enough for building are scarce enough
already. As a matter of fact, we're not allowed to cut these ourselves
without the Colonel's permission."
"Haven't met him yet," said Devine dryly. "Who's he?"
"Colonel Mowbray, of Allenwood Grange."
"And who's Colonel Mowbray? And where's Allenwood Grange?"
The boy seemed nettled by the twinkle in Devine's eyes, but Harding
noticed that pride compelled him to hide his feelings.
"You can't cut this lumber without asking leave! Besides, you're
spoiling one of our best coyote covers."
"Kyotes!" exclaimed Devine. "What do you | 1,180.855131 |
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file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
THE
BOOT AND SHOE MANUFACTURERS’ ASSISTANT AND GUIDE.
CONTAINING
A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE TRADE.
History of India-Rubber and Gutta-Percha,
AND THEIR APPLICATION TO THE MANUFACTURE OF BOOTS AND SHOES.
FULL INSTRUCTIONS IN THE ART,
WITH DIAGRAMS AND SCALES, ETC., ETC.
VULCANIZATION AND SULPHURIZATION,
ENGLISH AND AMERICAN PATENTS.
WITH
AN ELABORATE TREATISE ON TANNING.
“SUTOR ULTRA CREPIDAM.”
COMPILED AND EDITED BY
W. H. RICHARDSON, JR.
“Give good hearing to those who give the first information in
business.”—BACON.
BOSTON:
HIGGINS, BRADLEY & DAYTON,
20 WASHINGTON ST.
1858.
Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1858, by
W. H. RICHARDSON, JR.,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.
[Illustration]
In preparing the following pages, the author has aimed to supply a want
hitherto unsupplied. No work devoted to the wants of the Boot and
Shoe-maker, manufacturer, or merchant, has ever been compiled. Able
articles upon the “Trade,” statistical statements, and general comments
upon matters of interest local in their character, and having particular
reference to the state of the times in which they were written, have
been published, perused and forgotten. But no work, containing a history
of this important mechanical interest, together with instructions in the
science of the Boot and Shoe manufacture, has ever been written. The
Author does not flatter himself that he has, by any means, exhausted so
fruitful a subject, but that he has prepared and compiled important
facts and rules, and submitted valuable suggestions which are correct in
theory, and practical in their application, he has not a doubt.
Within a few years, this important industrial interest has assumed
almost wonderful proportions, and it now towers in magnitude and
importance, above all its compeers. New elements have been introduced
into the manufacture of boots and shoes, and fortunes have been expended
in endeavoring to introduce new methods by which to cheapen the process
of manufacture, as well as the raw material. The introduction of
India-rubber and Gutta-percha as articles of mechanical use, has
quickened the pulses of invention, and has already produced wonderful,
and important changes in all departments of the mechanic arts, and more
especially in that of boots and shoes. Already have these important
vegetable gums, and the thousand uses of which they are susceptible,
attracted the attention of the world, and last but not least, we are
indebted to the discovery and use of _Gutta-percha_ for the successful
insulation of the _Atlantic Cable_, without which substance, the cable
could not have been safely submerged. Establishments for the manufacture
of India-rubber, and Gutta-percha, into almost every conceivable shape,
have sprung up, as it were in a day. Patents for its use and
application, are constantly presenting themselves. Heretofore, it has
been the policy of all interested in the manufacture of India-rubber and
Gutta-percha, to surround their inventions with an air of mystery. “No
admittance” has been blazoned upon their laboratories, and no “open
sesame” pronounced by the uninitiated, has succeeded in opening the
doors to their carefully guarded treasures.
In this work, we have endeavored to make clear, simple, but important
facts, scientific discoveries and observations, which, from _practical
experience_, we know to be of great utility. A collection of the most
approved recipes for the preparation of compounds of India-rubber, and
Gutta-percha, would alone, make a volume worthy of preservation. But we
have endeavored to present all the important rules, practical hints, and
observations, necessary to the manufacture of boots and shoes, also an
important and _economical_ method of _repairing_ the same.
Herein may be found a history of the discovery of India-rubber and
Gutta-percha, its uses and applications, the inventions which they have
called into existence, the patents that have been taken out, the
“claims” set forth by different individuals | 1,180.95427 |
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book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)
THE PACE THAT KILLS
A Chronicle
By EDGAR SALTUS
"_Pourquoi la mort? Dites, plutot, pourquoi la vie?_"
--RADUSSON
CHICAGO, NEW YORK, AND SAN FRANCISCO
BELFORD, CLARKE & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
London: H. J. DRANE, Lovell's Court, Paternoster Row
Copyright, 1889,
BY EDGAR SALTUS.
TO
JOHN A. RUTHERFURD.
NEW YORK, _June 10, 1889_.
PART I.
I.
"I wish you a happy New Year, sir."
It was the servant, green of livery, the yellow waistcoat slashed with
black, bearing the coffee and fruit.
"Put it there, please," Roland answered. And then, in recognition of the
salutation, he added, "Thanks: the same to you."
"H'm," he mused, as the man withdrew, "I ought to have tipped him, I
suppose."
He leaned from the bed, poured some milk into a cup, and for a second
nibbled at a slice of iced orange. Through the transom came a faint odor
of home-made bread, and with it the rustle of a gown and a girl's clear
laugh. The room itself was small. It was furnished in a fashion which
was unsuggestive of an hotel, and yet did not resemble that of a
private house. The curtain had been already drawn. Beyond was a lake,
very blue in the sunlight, bulwarked by undulant hills. Below, on the
road, a dogcart fronted by a groom was awaiting somebody's pleasure.
"It is late," he reflected, and raised a napkin to his lips. As he did
so he noticed a package of letters which the napkin must have concealed.
He took up the topmost and eyed it. It had been addressed to the
Athenaeum Club, Fifth Avenue; but the original direction was erased, and
Tuxedo Park inserted in its stead. On the upper left-hand corner the
impress of a firm of tailors shone in blue. Opposite was the engraving
of a young woman supported by 2-1/2_d._ He put it down again and glanced
at the others. The superscriptions were characterless enough; each bore
a foreign stamp, and to one as practised as was he, each bore the token
of the dun.
"If they keep on bothering me like this," he muttered, "I shall
certainly place the matter in the hands of my attorney." And thereat,
with the air of a man who had said something insultingly original, he
laughed aloud, swallowed some coffee, and dashed his head in the pillow.
In and out of the corners of his mouth a smile still played; but
presently his fancy must have veered, for the muscles of his lips
compressed, and as he lay there, the arms clasped behind the head, the
pink silk of his sleeves framing and tinting his face, and in the eyes
the expression of one prepared to meet Fate and outwit it, a possible
observer who could have chanced that way would have sat himself down to
study and risen up perplexed.
Anyone who was at Columbia ten years ago will remember Roland
Mistrial,--Roland Mistrial 3d, if you please,--and will recall the wave
of bewilderment which swept the campus when that young gentleman, on the
eve of graduation, popularity on one side and honors on the other,
suddenly, without so much as a p. p. c., left everything where it was
and betook himself to other shores. The flight was indeed erratic, and
numerous were the rumors which it excited; but Commencement was at hand,
other issues were to be considered, bewilderment subsided as
bewilderment ever does, the college dispersed, and when it assembled
again the Mistrial mystery, though unelucidated, was practically forgot.
In the neighborhood of Washington Square, however, on the northwest
corner of Tenth Street and Fifth Avenue to be exact, there were others
whose memories were more retentive. Among them was Roland's grandfather,
himself a graduate, founder of the Mistrial fellowship, and judge of the
appellate court. And there was Roland's father, a graduate too, a
gentleman widely respected, all the more so perhaps because he had run
for the governorship and lost it. And again there was Roland's aunt, a
maiden lady of whom it is recorded that each day of her life she got
down on her knees and thanked God he had made her a Mistrial. In
addition to these, there were, scattered along the Hudson, certain
maternal relatives--the Algaroths, the Baxters, and the Swifts; Bishop
Algaroth in particular, who possessed such indomitable vigor that when
at the good old age of threescore and ten he decided to depart this
life, the impression prevailed that he had died very young for him. None
of these people readily forgot. They were a proud family and an
influential one--influential not merely in the social sense, but
influential in political, legal, in church and university circles as
well; a fact which may have had weight with the Faculty when it was
called upon to deal with Roland Mistrial 3d. But be that as it may, the
cause of the young man's disappearance was never officially given. Among
the rumors which it created was one to the effect that his health was
affected; in another his mind was implicated; and in a third it was his
heart. Yet as not one of these rumors had enough evidential value behind
it to concoct an anonymous letter on, they were suffered to go their way
undetained, very much as Roland had already gone his own.
That way led him straight to the Golden Gate and out of it to Japan.
Before he reached Yeddo his grandfather left the planet and a round sum
of money behind. Of that round sum the grandson came in for a portion.
It was not fabulous in dimensions, but in the East money goes far. In
this case it might have gone on indefinitely had not the beneficiary
seen fit to abandon the languors of the Orient for the breezier
atmosphere of the west. The Riviera has charms of its own. So, too, have
Paris and Vienna. Roland enjoyed them to the best of his ability. He
even found London attractive, and became acclimated in Pall Mall. In the
latter region he learned one day that his share of the round sum had
departed and his father as well. The conjunction of these incidents was
of such a character that he at once took ship for New York.
It was not that he was impatient to revisit the misgoverned city which
he had deserted ten years before. He had left it willingly enough, and
he had seldom regretted it since. The pins and needles on which he sat
were those of another make. He was uninformed of the disposition of his
father's property, and he felt that, were not every penny of it
bequeathed to him, he would be in a tight box indeed.
He was at that time just entering his thirtieth year--that age in which
a man who has led a certain life begins to be particular about the
quality of his red pepper, and anxious too that the supply of it shall
not tarry. Though meagre of late, the supply had been sufficient. But at
present the palate was a trifle impaired. Where a ten-pound note had
sufficed for its excitement, a hundred now were none too strong. Roland
Mistrial--3d no longer--wanted money, and he wanted plenty of it. He
had exact ideas as to its usefulness, and none at all regarding its
manufacture. He held, as many have done and will continue to do, that
the royal road to it leads through a testament; and it was in view of
the opening vistas which that road displayed that he set sail for New
York.
And now, six weeks later, on this fair noonday of a newer year, as he
lay outstretched in bed, you would have likened him to one well
qualified to keep a mother awake and bring her daughter dreams. Our
canons of beauty may be relative, but, such as they are, his features
accorded with them--disquietingly even; for they conveyed the irritating
charm of things we have hoped for, striven for, failed to get, and then
renounced with thanksgiving. They made you anxious about their
possessor, and fearful too lest the one dearly-beloved might chance to
see them, and so be subjugated by their spell. They were features that
represented good stock, good breeding, good taste, good looks--every
form of goodness, in fact, save, it may be, the proper one. But the
possible lack of that particular characteristic was a matter over which
hesitation well might be. We have all of us a trick of flattering
ourselves with the fancy that, however obtuse our neighbor is, we at
least are gifted with the insight of a detective--a faculty so rare and
enviable that the blunders we make must be committed with a view to its
concealment; yet, despite presumable shrewdness, now and then a face
will appear that eludes cataloguing, and leaves the observer perplexed.
Roland Mistrial's was one of these.
And now, as the pink silk of his shirt-sleeves tinted it, the expression
altered, and behind his contracted brows hurried processions of shifting
scenes. There was that initial catastrophe which awaited him almost on
the wharf--the discovery that his father had left him nothing, and that
for no other reason in the world than because he had nothing whatever
to leave--nothing, in fact, save the hereditary decoration of and right
of enrolment in the Society of the Cincinnati, the which, handed down
since Washingtonian days from one Mistrial to another, he held, as his
forefathers had before him, in trust for the Mistrials to be.
No, he could not have disposed of that, even had he so desired; but
everything else, the house on Tenth Street,--built originally for a
country-seat, in times when the Astor House was considered rather far
uptown,--bonds, scrip, and stocks, disappeared as utterly as had they
never been; for Roland's father, stricken with that form of dementia
which, to the complete discouragement of virtue, battens on men that
have led the chastest lives, had, at that age in which the typical rake
is forced to haul his standard down, surrendered himself to senile
debauchery, and in the lap of a female of uncertain attractions--of
whose mere existence no one had been previously aware--placed
title-deeds and certificates of stock. In a case such as this the
appeal of the rightful heir is listened to with such patience that judge
and jury too have been known to pass away and leave the tale unended.
And Roland, when the earliest dismay had in a measure subsided, saw
himself closeted with lawyers who offered modicums of hope in return for
proportionate fees. Then came a run up the Hudson, the welcomeless
greeting which waited him there, and the enervating imbecility of his
great aunt, whose fingers, mummified by gout, were tenacious enough on
the strings of her purse. That episode flitted by, leaving on memory's
camera only the degrading tableau of coin burrowed for and unobtained.
And through it all filtered torturesome uncertainties, the knowledge of
his entire inability to make money, the sense of strength misspent, the
perplexities that declined to take themselves away, forebodings of the
morrow, nay of the day even as well, the unbanishable dread of want.
But that for the moment had gone. He turned on his elbow and glanced
over at a card-case which lay among the silver-backed brushes beyond,
and at once the shock he had resummoned fled. Ah, yes! it had gone
indeed, but at the moment it had been appalling enough. The morrow at
least was secure; and as he pondered over its possibilities they faded
before certain episodes of the previous day--that chance encounter with
Alphabet Jones, who had insisted he should pack a valise and go down
with Trement Yarde and himself to Tuxedo; and at once the incidents
succeeding the arrival paraded through his thoughts. There had been the
late dinner to begin with; then the dance; the girl to whom some one had
presented him, and with whom he had sat it out; the escape of the year,
the health that was drunk to the new one, and afterwards the green baize
in the card-room; the bank which Trement Yarde had held, and finally the
successful operation that followed, and which consisted in cutting that
cherub's throat to the tune of three thousand dollars. It was all there
now in the card-case; and though, as sums of money go, it was hardly
quotable, yet in the abstract, forethought and economy aiding, it
represented several months of horizons solid and real. The day was
secure; as for the future, who knew what it might contain? A grave
perhaps, and in it his aunt.
II.
"If I had been killed in a duel I couldn't be better." It was Jones the
novelist describing the state of his health. "But how is my friend and
brother in virtue?"
"Utterly ramollescent," Roland answered, confidingly. "What the French
call _gaga_."
The mid-day meal was in progress, and the two men, seated opposite each
other, were dividing a Demidorf salad. They had been schoolmates at
Concord, and despite the fact that until the day before they had not met
for a decennium, the happy-go-lucky intimacy of earlier days had eluded
Time and still survived. Throughout the glass-enclosed piazza other
people were lunching, and every now and then Jones, catching a wandering
eye, would bend forward a little and smile. Though it was but the first
of the year, the weather resembled that of May. One huge casement was
wide open. There was sunlight everywhere, flowers too, and beyond you
could see the sky, a dome of opal and sapphire blent.
"Well," Jones replied, "I can't say you have altered much. But then who
does? You remember, don't you"--and Jones ran on with some anecdote of
earlier days.
But Roland had ceased to listen. It was very pleasant here, he told
himself. There was a freedom about it that the English country-house,
however charming, lacked. There was no one to suggest things for you to
do, there was no host or hostess to exact attention, and the women were
prettier, better dressed, less conventional, and yet more assured in
manner than any that he had encountered for years. The men, too, were a
good lot; and given one or two more little surprises, such as he had
found in the card-room, he felt willing to linger on indefinitely--a
week at least, a month if the fare held out. His eyes roamed through the
glitter of the room. Presently, at a neighboring table, he noticed the
girl with whom he had seen the old year depart: she was nodding to him;
and Roland, with that courtesy that betokens the foreigner a mile away,
rose from his seat as he bowed in return.
Jones, whom little escaped, glanced over his shoulder. "By the way, are
you on this side for good?" he asked; and Roland answering with the
vague shrug the undetermined give, he hastened to add--"or for bad?"
"That depends. I ran over to settle my father's estate, but they seem to
have settled it for me. After all, this is no place for a pauper, is
it?"
"The wolf's at the door, is he?"
Roland laughed shortly. "At the door? Good Lord! I wish he were! He's in
the room."
"There, dear boy, never mind. Wait till spring comes and marry an
heiress. There are so many hereabouts that we use them for export
purposes. They are a glut in the market. There's a fair specimen. Ever
meet her before?"
"Meet whom?"
"That girl you just bowed to. They call her father Honest Paul. Oh, if
you ask me why, I can't tell. It's a nick-name, like another. It may be
because he says Amen so loud in church. A number of people have made him
trustee, but whether on that account or not they never told. However,
he's a big man, owns a mile or two up there near the Riverside. I should
rate him at not a penny less than ten million."
"What did you say his name was?"
"Dunellen--the Hon. Paul Dunellen. At one time--"
Jones rambled on, and again Roland had ceased to listen. But it was not
the present now that claimed him. At the mention of the plutocrat
something from the past came back and called him there--a thing so
shadowy that, when he turned to interrogate, it eluded him and
disappeared. Then at once, without conscious effort, an episode which
he had long since put from him arose and detained his thought. But what
on earth, he wondered, had the name of Dunellen to do with that? And for
the moment dumbly perplexed, yet outwardly attentive, he puzzled over
the connection and tried to find the link; yet that too was elusive: the
name seemed to lose its suggestiveness, and presently it sank behind the
episode it had evoked.
"Of course," Jones was saying, in reference, evidently, to what had gone
before--"of course as millionaires go he is not first chop. Jerolomon
could match him head or tail for all he has, and never miss it if he
lost. Ten million, though, is a tidy sum--just enough to entertain on. A
penny less and you are pinched. Why, you would be surprised--"
"Has he any other children?"
"Who? Dunellen? None that he has acknowledged."
"Then his daughter will come in for it all."
"That's what I said. When she does, she will probably hand it over to
some man who wont know how to spend it. She's got a cousin--what's that
beggar's name? However, he's a physician, makes a specialty of nervous
diseases, I believe; good enough fellow in his way, but an everlasting
bore--the sort of man you would avoid in a club, and trust your sister
to. What the deuce _is_ his name?"
"Well, what of him?"
"Ah, yes. I fancy he wants to get married, and when he does, to
entertain. He is very devoted."
"But nowadays, barring royalty, no one ever marries a cousin."
"Dear boy, you forget; it isn't every cousin that has ten million. When
she has, the attempt is invariable." And Jones accentuated his remark
with a nod. "Now," he continued, "what do you say to a look at the
library? They have a superb edition of Kirschwasser in there, and a
full set of the works of Chartreuse."
The novelist had arisen; he was leaving the room, and Roland was about
to follow him, when he noticed that Miss Dunellen was preparing to leave
it too. Before she reached the hall he was at her side.
There is this about the New York girl--her beauty is often bewildering,
yet unless a husband catch her in the nick of time the bewilderment of
that beauty fades. At sixteen Justine Dunellen had been enchanting, at
twenty-three she was plain. Her face still retained its oval, but from
it something had evaporated and gone. Her mouth, too, had altered. In
place of the volatile brilliance of earlier years, it was drawn a
little; it seemed resolute, and it also seemed subdued. But one feature
had not changed: her eyes, which were of the color of snuff, enchanted
still. They were large and clear, and when you looked in them you saw
such possibilities of tenderness and sincerity that the escape of the
transient was unregretted; you forgot the girl that had been, and loved
the woman that was.
And lovable she was indeed. The world is filled with charming people
whom, parenthetically, many of us never meet; yet, however scant our
list may be, there are moments when from Memory's gardens a vision
issues we would fain detain. Who is there to whom that vision has not
come? Nay, who is there that has | 1,181.786773 |
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[Illustration: Birds in Winter]
The
“LOOK ABOUT YOU”
Nature Study Books
BY
THOMAS W. HOARE
TEACHER OF NATURE STUDY
to the Falkirk School Board and Stirlingshire County Council
BOOK III.
[Illustration: Publisher’s Logo]
LONDON: T. C. & E. C. JACK
16 HENRIETTA STREET, W.C.
AND EDINBURGH
_Printed by M‘Farlane & Erskine, Edinburgh._
PREFACE.
This little book should be used as a simple guide to the practical study
of Nature rather than as a mere reader.
Every lesson herein set down has, during the author’s many years’
experience in teaching Nature Study, been taught by observation and
practice again and again; and each time with satisfactory result. The
materials required for most of the lessons—whether they be obtained from
the naturalist-dealer or from the nearest hedge, ditch, or pond—are
within everybody’s reach.
There is nothing that appeals to the heart of the ordinary child like
_living things_, be they animal or vegetable, and there is no branch of
education at the present day that bears, in the young mind, such
excellent fruit as the study of the simple, living things around us.
Your child is nothing if not curious. He wants to understand everything
that lives and moves and has its being in his bright little world.
Nature Study involves so many ingenious little deductions, that the
reasoning powers are almost constantly employed, and intelligence grows
proportionately. The child’s powers of observation are stimulated, and
his memory is cultivated in the way most pleasing to his inquiring
nature. By dissecting seeds, bulbs, buds, and flowers, his hand is
trained, and methods expeditious and exact are inculcated. By drawing
his specimens, no matter how roughly or rapidly, his eye is trained more
thoroughly than any amount of enforced copying of stiff, uninteresting
models of prisms, cones, etc., ever could train it.
The love of flowers and animals is one of the most commendable traits in
the disposition of the wondering child, and ought to be encouraged above
all others.
It is the author’s fondest and most sanguine hope that the working out
of the exercises, of which this booklet is mainly composed, may prove
much more of a joy than a task, and that the practical knowledge gained
thereby may tempt his little readers to study further the great book of
Nature, whose broad pages are ever open to us, and whose silent answers
to our manifold questions are never very difficult to read.
T. W. H.
CONTENTS
LESSON PAGE
I. Birds in Winter 7
II. Seed-Eaters and Insect-Eaters 12
III. Buds 16
IV. A Baby Plant 25
V. How a Plant Grows 30
VI. More about Seeds 36
VII. The Horse Pond in Spring 44
VIII. Uncle George’s Tank 49
IX. Tadpoles 54
X. Frogs, Toads, and Newts 61
XI. Underground Stems 66
XII. Caterpillars 76
XIII. The White Butterfly 82
XIV. The Toiling Caddis 88
Appendix 95
“LOOK ABOUT YOU.”
BOOK III.
I.—BIRDS IN WINTER.
“When we look out there, it makes us feel thankful that we have a nice
cosy room to play in and a warm fire to sit beside.”
It was Uncle George who spoke. His two nephews, Frank and Tom, stood at
the window watching the birds feeding outside, while Dolly, their little
sister, was busy with her picture-blocks on the carpet.
“Yes, it is better to be inside in winter,” said Frank, the elder boy.
“These poor little birds must have a hard time out in the cold all
night.”
“I should not mind being a bird during the rest of the year, though,”
said little Tom. “It must be so jolly to be able to fly wherever you
like.”
Uncle George smiled, and said, “Birds are very happy little creatures,
Tom, but they have many enemies. Their lives are in constant danger.
They must always be on the look-out for cats, hawks, guns, and cruel
boys. Those birds that stay with us all the year round have often a hard
fight for life in winter-time. In fact, many of them starve to death.
“Most of our birds fly to warmer countries in autumn, and come back to
us in spring. These miss the frost and snow, but a great number of them
get drowned while crossing the sea. I think, as a little boy, you are
much better off.
“Let me see; have you put out any food for the birds this morning?”
“Yes, Uncle George, we have done exactly as you told us,” said Frank.
“Mother made a little net, which we filled with suet and scraps of meat
for the tomtits. We hung it on the ivy, quite near the window. We also
put plenty of crumbs and waste bits from the kitchen on the space you
cleared for the birds yesterday.”
“Very good,” said Uncle George, “and I see your feathered friends are
busy in both places.”
He looked out and saw a crowd of birds hopping on the frozen lawn round
the well-filled dish. The little net, which hung just outside the
window, was alive with hungry tomtits. They pecked eagerly at the suet,
and chattered their thanks between every mouthful.
“What a lot of birds we have to-day,” Uncle George remarked. “Do you
know the names of them all, boys?”
“We know those you pointed out to us yesterday,” said Frank. “There is
the chaffinch, the thrush, the greenfinch, the blackbird, and the
hedge-sparrow, but I don’t know that one with the bright red breast,
black velvet head, and grey wings. And there is a new one among the
tomtits. He has a very long tail, and is like a small parrot.”
[Illustration: ]
Robin. Starling. Hedge-Sparrow.
Greenfinch. Bullfinch. Sparrow.
Chaffinch. Long-tailed Tit. Linnet.
Blackbird. Rook. Thrush.
“Oh,” said Uncle George, “the first you spoke of is the bullfinch. He is
so easily tamed that he makes a splendid pet. The hen bullfinch is there
too, I see. She has a dull brown breast, and is not quite so pretty as
her husband. The bullfinch is very fond of berries. If we could get some
hawthorn or rowan berries, we should have all the bullfinches in the
district around us. The other bird is the long-tailed tit. He is also a
very amusing little chap.”
[Illustration: Bullfinches.]
“Why do the tomtits make such a fuss about the suet?” asked Tom. “The
bullfinches do not come near it.”
“That is because the tomtit is a flesh-eater, Tom. He lives on insects.
The bullfinch feeds on berries and seeds. He is also blamed for eating
the young buds of fruit-trees in spring-time, but I am not quite sure
that he does this.”
“Where are all the insects in winter, Uncle George?” asked Frank.
“Well, most of them are buried deep in the ground. Some of them are
tucked up in warm cases, and hidden in the chinks of trees and walls.”
“Then why don’t the birds that feed on insects search those trees and
walls for them,” Frank asked.
“So the birds do, but the sleeping insects are very hard to find. The
cases which hold them are often coloured exactly like the tree or wall
which they are fixed to; so that even the sharp eyes of a hungry bird
cannot see them.”
Exercises on Lesson I.
1. Write out the names of all the wild birds you have seen.
2. Some of these we do not see in winter. How is this?
3. Why should we remember the birds in winter-time?
4. Describe the robin. How does he differ from the bullfinch?
II.—SEED-EATERS AND INSECT-EATERS.
The snow did not go away for some days. While it lasted, Frank and Tom
watched the birds very closely. They learned many new and curious things
about them.
The sparrows and robins had grown so tame that they would fly right up
to the window-sill, and eat the crumbs and seeds that were placed there
for them; while the tomtits paid great attention to the little net bag
that hung quite close to the window. So long as they stood back a short
distance from the window, the two boys could watch the funny tricks of
these hungry little visitors.
Amongst other things, they learned to tell a seed-eating bird from one
that feeds on insects.
[Illustration: Tomtits.]
Seed-eating birds, as their uncle told them, have short, stout, hard
bills, just the thing for shelling seeds. The insect-eaters have longer
and more slender bills; while birds that live upon both seeds and
insects have bills hard enough to shell seeds and yet long and sharp
enough to pick insects out of their hiding-places.
So many birds came to the feast, that Uncle George cleared the snow from
another part of the lawn and spread some dry ashes upon it. Upon one
patch he scattered seeds and crumbs, and on the other he placed a large
flat dish.
In this dish were put all sorts of waste scraps from the kitchen, such
as bones, potatoes, and pieces of meat. Uncle George did this so that
the boys could tell flesh-eating birds from those that lived upon seeds.
[Illustration: Starling.]
The starlings came to the dish first, and fought among themselves for
the food, although there was much more than enough for them all.
Then came a few rooks, who walked about the dish in quite a lordly way.
Every now and again one of them would seize a huge crust of bread or a
potato in his clumsy bill and fly with it a short distance away. The
starlings, thrushes, and blackbirds hopped nimbly about, picking up a
choice morsel here and there.
The new patch was often crowded with finches of all kinds. The boys
noticed that many of the birds fed at both places. Among these were
sparrows, robins, chaffinches, thrushes, and starlings. These birds,
their uncle explained to them, fed on a mixed food of insects, seeds,
and fruits.
It amused them very much to watch how the rooks and jackdaws always
dragged the food away from the dish, as if they were stealing it; while
now and then a blackbird would fly away with a loud chatter, as if he
had been suddenly found out whilst doing something very wrong.
“These birds,” said Uncle George, “are looked upon as enemies by farmers
and gardeners. They are scared out of our fields and gardens by every
possible means. That is what makes them steal even the food that is
given to them.”
[Illustration: Rook.]
“But they pick the newly-sown seeds out of the ground, and steal the
fruit when it is ripe,” said Frank. “That is what the gardener says.”
“If the gardener only knew how much they help him, by eating up the
grubs and beetles that damage his plants, he would not grudge them a few
seeds and berries, Frank,” Uncle George replied. “The rook is one of the
farmer’s best friends; and if it were not for thrushes, starlings,
blackbirds, and such insect-eating birds, our gardens would be overrun
with insects. If these insects were allowed to increase, we should not
be able to grow anything. Even the sparrow is the gardener’s friend. He
eats the caterpillars that would spoil our fruit trees and bushes.”
Exercises on Lesson II.
1. Why do we put out suet and scraps of meat for certain birds in
winter?
2. How can you tell a flesh-eating from an insect-eating bird?
3. Write down the names of all the birds which belong to the crow
family.
4. What makes the jackdaw steal all his food?
5. Why are jackdaws, rooks, | 1,181.879658 |
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THE LANDLORD AT LION'S HEAD
By William Dean Howells
Part II.
XXVII.
Jackson kept his promise to write to Westover, but he was better than his
word to his mother, and wrote to her every week that winter.
"I seem just to live from letter to letter. It's ridic'lous," she said to
Cynthia once when the girl brought the mail in from the barn, where the
men folks kept it till they had put away their horses after driving over
from Lovewell with it. The trains on the branch road were taken off in
the winter, and the post-office at the hotel was discontinued. The men
had to go to the town by cutter, over a highway that the winds sifted
half full of snow after it had been broken out by the ox-teams in the
morning. But Mrs | 1,181.881437 |
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
* * * * *
[Illustration: coverpage]
[Illustration: titlepage]
_The World's Great Sermons_
VOLUME IX
CUYLER TO VAN <DW18>
THE
WORLD'S
GREAT
SERMONS
COMPILED BY
GRENVILLE KLEISER
Formerly of Yale Divinity School Faculty;
Author of "How to Speak
in Public," Etc.
With Assistance from Many of the Foremost
Living Preachers and Other Theologians
INTRODUCTION BY
LEWIS O. BRASTOW, D.D.
Professor Emeritus of Practical Theology
in Yale University
IN TEN VOLUMES
VOLUME IX--CUYLER TO VAN <DW18>
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
NEW YORK and LONDON
COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
_Printed in the United States of America_
CONTENTS
VOLUME IX
CUYLER (Born in 1822). Page
The Value of Life 1
BROADUS (1827-1895).
Let us Have Peace With God 19
WILBERFORCE (Born in 1840).
The Mother Church 37
SPALDING (Born in 1840).
Education and the Future of Religion 49
MACARTHUR (Born in 1841).
Christ--The Question of the Centuries 73
CARPENTER (Born in 1841).
The Age of Progress 91
PARKHURST (Born in 1842).
Constructive Faith 111
PATTON (Born in 1843).
Glorification Through Death 129
SCOTT HOLLAND (Born in 1847).
The Story of a Disciple's Faith 145
STALKER (Born in 1848).
Temptation 165
BURRELL (Born in 1849).
How to Become a Christian 183
WATSON (1850-1907).
Optimism 199
NICOLL (Born in 1851).
Gethsemane, the Rose Garden of God 211
VAN <DW18> (Born in 1852).
The Meaning of Manhood 231
CUYLER
THE VALUE OF LIFE
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
Theodore Ledyard Cuyler, Presbyterian divine, was born at Aurora,
New York, in 1822. He took his degree at Princeton in 1841, and
studied theology in Princeton Seminary. He was ordained to the
ministry in 1848, but after discharging the duties of three pastoral
positions, took up the prosecution of more general activities,
including temperance and philanthropic work. He has been a
voluminous writer, having contributed some four thousand articles to
leading religious organs. He died February 26, 1909.
CUYLER
1822-1909
THE VALUE OF LIFE
_The spirit of God hath made me, and the breath of the Almighty
hath given me life._--Job xxxiii., 4.
There are two conflicting theories, nowadays, as to the origin
of man. One theory brings him upward from the brute, the other,
downward from God; one gives him an ascent from the ape, the other
a descent from the Almighty. I shall waste no time in refuting the
first theory. The most profound physicist of Europe, Professor
Virchow, of Berlin, has lately asserted that this theory of man's
evolution from the brute has no solid scientific foundation. Why
need you and I seek to disprove what no man has ever yet proved or
will prove? The other theory of man's origin comes down to us in the
oldest book in existence, the Book of Job, and tallies exactly with
the narrative in the next oldest books, those compiled by Moses:
"The spirit of God hath made me, and the breath of the Almighty hath
given me life." That is the Bible account of your ancestry and mine.
We make a great deal of ancestry. The son of a duke may become a
duke; the child of a king has royal blood in his veins; and a vast
deal of honor is supposed to descend with an honorable descent.
Grant this true, it proves a great deal; it proves more than some
of us imagine. It proves that there is something grander than for
man to have for his sire a king or an emperor, a statesman or
a conqueror, a poet or a philosopher. It looks to the grandest
genealogy in the universe, the ancestry of a whole race; not a few
favored individuals, but all humanity. My brethren, fellow sharers
of immortality, open this family record. Trace your ancestry back to
the most august parentage in the universe: One is our Father, God;
One our elder brother, Jesus. We all draw lineage from the King of
kings and the Lord of lords. Herein consists the value and dignity
of human life. I go back to the origin of the globe. I find that
for five days the creative hand of the Almighty is busy in fitting
up an abode of palatial splendor. He adorns it; He hollows the seas
for man's highway, rears the mountains for his observatories, stores
the mines for his magazines, pours the streams to give him drink,
and fertilizes the fields to give him daily bread. The mansion is
carpeted with verdure, illuminated with the greater light by day,
lesser lights by night. Then God comes up to the grandest work of
all. When the earth is to be fashioned and the ocean to be poured
into its bed, God simply says, "Let them be," and they are. When man
is to be created, the Godhead seems to make a solemn pause, retires
into the recesses of His own tranquillity, looks for a model, and
finds it in Himself. "And God said, let us make man in our image,
after our likeness.... So God created man in his own image, in the
image of God created he him; male and female created he them.... So
God breathed into man's nostrils the breath of life and he became a
living soul." No longer a beautiful model, no longer a speechless
statue, but vivified. Life, that subtle, mysterious thing that no
physicist can define, whose lurking place in the body no medical eye
hath yet found out--life came into the clay structure. He began to
breathe, to walk, to think, to feel in the body the "nephesh": the
word in the Hebrew means, in the first place, the breath of life,
then, finally, by that immortal essence called the soul.
Now, it is not my intention to enter into any analysis of this
expression, "the spirit," but talk to you on life, its reach and
its revenue, its preciousness and its power, its rewards and its
retributions, life for this world and the far-reaching world beyond.
Life is God's gift; your trust and mine. We are the trustees of the
Giver, unto whom at last we shall render account for every thought,
word and deed in the body.
I. In the first place, life, in its origin, is infinitely important.
The birth of a babe is a mighty event. From the frequency of births,
as well as the frequency of deaths, we are prone to set a very
low estimate on the ushering into existence of an animate child,
unless the child be born in a palace or a presidential mansion, or
some other lofty station. Unless there be something extraordinary
in the circumstances, we do not attach the importance we ought to
the event itself. It is only noble birth, distinguished birth,
that is chronicled in the journals or announced with salvos of
artillery. I admit that the relations of a prince, of a president
and statesman, are more important to their fellow men and touch them
at more points than those of an obscure pauper; but when the events
are weighed in the scales of eternity, the difference is scarcely
perceptible. In the darkest hovel in Brooklyn, in the dingiest attic
or cellar, or in any place in which a human being sees the first
glimpse of light, the eye of the Omniscient beholds an occurrence
of prodigious moment. A life is begun, a life that shall never end.
A heart begins to throb that shall beat to the keenest delight or
the acutest anguish. More than this--a soul commences a career
that shall outlast the earth on which it moves. The soul enters
upon an existence that shall be untouched by time, when the sun is
extinguished like a taper in the sky, the moon blotted out, and the
heavens have been rolled together as a vesture and changed forever.
The Scandinavians have a very impressive allegory of human life.
They represent it as a tree, the "Igdrasil" or the tree of
existence, whose roots grow deep down in the soil of mystery; the
trunk reaches above the clouds; its branches spread out over the
globe. At the foot of it sit the Past, the Present, and the Future,
watering the roots. Its boughs, with their unleafing, spread
out through all lands and all time; every leaf of the tree is a
biography, every fiber a word, a thought or a deed; its boughs are
the histories of nations; the rustle of it is the noise of human
existence onward from of old; it grows amid the howling of the
hurricane, it is the great tree of humanity. Now in that conception
of the half savage Norsemen, we learn how they estimated the
grandeur of human life. It is a transcendent, momentous thing, this
living, bare living, thinking, feeling, deciding. It comes from God;
He is its Author; it should rise toward God, its Giver, who is alone
worthy of being served; that with God it may live forever.
II. In the next place, human life is transcendently precious from
the services it may render to God in the advancement of His glory.
Man was not created as a piece of guesswork, flung into existence as
a waif. There is a purpose in the creation of every human being.
God did not breathe the breath of life into you, my friend, that you
might be a sensuous or a splendid animal. That soul was given you
for a purpose worthy of yourself, still more of the Creator.
What is the purpose of life? Is it advancement? Is it promotion? Is
it merely the pursuit of happiness? Man was created to be happy, but
to be more--to be holy. The wisdom of those Westminster fathers that
gathered in the Jerusalem chamber, wrought it into the well-known
phrase, "Man's chief end is to glorify God and enjoy him forever."
That is the double aim of life: duty first, then happiness as the
consequence; to bring in revenues of honor to God, to build up His
kingdom, spread His truth; to bring this whole world of His and lay
it subject at the feet of the Son of God. That is the highest end
and aim of existence, and every one here that has risen up to that
purpose of life lives. He does not merely vegetate, he does not
exist as a higher type of animal: he lives a man's life on earth,
and when he dies he takes a man's life up to mingle with the loftier
life of paradise. The highest style of manhood and womanhood is to
be attained by consecration to the Son of God. That is the only
right way, my friends, to employ these powers which you have brought
back to your homes from your sanctuary. That is the only idea of
life which you are to take to-morrow into the toils and temptations
of the week. That is the only idea of life that you are to carry
unto God in your confessions and thanksgivings in the closet. That
is the only idea of life on which you are to let the transcendent
light | 1,181.899621 |
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THE
COMIC ALMANACK.
1ST SERIES, 1835-1843.
_NOTICE._
A SECOND SERIES of "_THE COMIC ALMANACK_," embracing the years 1844—53,
a ten years' gathering of the BEST HUMOUR, the WITTIEST SAYINGS, the
Drollest Quips, and the Best Things of THACKERAY, MAYHEW, ALBERT SMITH,
A'BECKETT, ROBERT BROUGH, with nearly one thousand Woodcuts and Steel
Engravings by the inimitable CRUIKSHANK, HINE, LANDELLS—
may also be had of the Publishers of this volume, and uniform
with it, nearly 600 pages, price 7_s._ 6_d._
[Illustration:
The Cold Water Cure
]
THE
COMIC ALMANACK
AN EPHEMERIS IN JEST AND EARNEST, CONTAINING
MERRY TALES, HUMOROUS POETRY,
QUIPS, AND ODDITIES.
BY
THACKERAY, ALBERT SMITH, GILBERT A. BECKETT,
THE BROTHERS MAYHEW.
[Illustration:
"FULL INSIDE, SIR, BUT PLENTY OF ROOM ON THE ROOF."
]
=With many Hundred Illustrations=
BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK
AND OTHER ARTISTS.
_FIRST SERIES, 1835-1843._
=London:=
CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY.
CONTENTS
NOTICE
PRELIMINARY
THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1835.
THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1836.
THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1837.
THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1838.
THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1839.
THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1840.
THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1841.
THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1842.
THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1843.
PRELIMINARY
THE "Comic Almanacks" of George Cruikshank have long been regarded by
admirers of this inimitable artist as among his finest, most
characteristic productions. Extending over a period of nineteen years,
from 1835 to 1853, inclusive, they embrace the best period of his
artistic career, and show the varied excellences of his marvellous
power.
The late Mr. Tilt, of Fleet Street, first conceived the idea of the
"Comic Almanack," and at various times there were engaged upon it such
writers as Thackeray, Albert Smith, the Brothers Mayhew, the late Robert
Brough, Gilbert A'Beckett, and it has been asserted, Tom Hood, the
elder. Thackeray's stories of "Stubbs' Calendar, or the Fatal Boots,"
which subsequently appeared as "Stubbs' Diary;" and "Barber Cox, or the
Cutting of his Comb," formed the leading attractions in the numbers for
1839 and 1840. The Almanack was published at 2_s._ 6_d._, but in 1848-9
the size was reduced and the price altered to 1_s._ The change did not
produce the increased circulation expected, and in 1850 it was again
enlarged and published at 2_s._ 6_d._ In this year some very spiritedly
designed folding plates were added, and this feature continued until
1853, when Mr. Tilt's partner, the late Mr. Bogue, thought proper to
discontinue the work.
For many years past, sets of the Almanack have been eagerly sought after
by collectors, and as much as 6_l._ and 7_l._ have been given for good
copies.
THE
COMIC ALMANACK
FOR 1835.
PRELUDIUM.
SCENE.—_An Apartment in the House of_ FRANCIS MOORE, _in which that
renowned Physician and Astrologer is discovered, lying at the
point of death_. _The_ NURSE _is holding up his head, while a
skilful_ MEDICINER _is dispensing a potion_. _Sundry_ OLD WOMEN
_surround his couch, in an agony of grief_. _The_ ASTROLOGER
_starteth up in a paroxysm of rage_.
| 1,182.060386 |
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AFTERWARDS
AND OTHER STORIES
By Ian Maclaren
1898
TO
LADY GRAINGER-STEWART
IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE DAYS OF LONG AGO AND THE FRIENDS WHO ARE FAR AWAY
AFTERWARDS
I
He received the telegram in a garden where he was gazing on a vision
of blue, set in the fronds of a palm, and listening to the song of the
fishers, as it floated across the bay.
"You look so utterly satisfied," said his hostess, in the high, clear
voice of Englishwomen, "that, I know you are tasting the luxury of
a contrast. The Riviera is charming in December; imagine London, and
Cannes, is Paradise."
As he smiled assent in the grateful laziness of a hard-worked man,
his mind was stung with the remembrance of a young wife swathed in the
dreary fog, who, above all things, loved the open air and the shining of
the sun.
Her plea was that Bertie would weary alone, and that she hated
travelling, but it came to him quite suddenly that this was always the
programme of their holidays--some Mediterranean villa, full of clever
people, for him, and the awful dulness of that Bloomsbury street for
her; or he went North to a shooting-lodge, where he told his best
stories in the smoking-room, after a long day on the purple heather; and
she did her best for Bertie at some watering-place, much frequented on
account of its railway facilities and economical lodgings. Letters of
invitation had generally a polite reference to his wife--"If Mrs.
Trevor can accompany you I shall be still more delighted"--but it was
understood that she would not accept "We have quite a grudge against
Mrs. Trevor, because she will never come with her husband; there is some
beautiful child who monopolises her," his hostess would explain on his
arrival; and Trevor allowed it to be understood that his wife was quite
devoted to Bertie, and would be miserable without him.
When he left the room, it was explained: "Mrs. Trevor is a hopelessly
quiet person, what is called a 'good wife,' you know."
"The only time she dined with us, Tottie Fribbyl--he was a Theosophist
then, it's two years ago--was too amusing for words, and told us what
incarnation he was going through.
"Mrs. Trevor, I believe, had never heard of Theosophy, and looked quite
horrified at the idea of poor Tottie's incarnation.
"'Isn't it profane to use such words?' she said to me. So I changed to
skirt dancing, and would you believe me, she had never seen it?
"What can you do with a woman like that? Nothing remains but religion
and the nursery. Why do clever men marry those impossible women?"
Trevor was gradually given to understand, as by an atmosphere, that he
was a brilliant man wedded to a dull wife, and there were hours--his
worst hours--when he agreed.
_Cara mia, cara mia_, sang the sailors; and his wife's face in its
perfect refinement and sweet beauty suddenly replaced the Mediterranean.
Had he belittled his wife, with her wealth of sacrifice and delicate
nature, beside women in spectacles who wrote on the bondage of marriage,
and leaders of fashion who could talk of everything from horse-racing to
palmistry?
He had only glanced at her last letter; now he read it carefully:--
"The flowers were lovely, and it was so mindful of you to send them,
just like my husband. Bertie and I amused ourselves arranging and
rearranging them in glasses, till we had made our tea-table lovely. But
I was just one little bit disappointed not to get a letter--you see
how exacting I am, sir. I waited for every post, and Bertie said, 'Has
father's letter come yet?' When one is on holiday, writing letters is
an awful bore; but please just a line to Bertie and me. We have a map of
the Riviera, and found out all the places you have visited in the yacht;
and we tried to imagine you sailing on that azure sea, and landing among
those silver olives. I am so grateful to every one for being kind to
you, and I hope you will enjoy yourself to the full. Bertie is a little
stronger, I'm sure; his cheeks were quite rosy to-day for him. It was
his birthday on Wednesday, and I gave him a little treat The sun was
shining brightly in the forenoon, and we had a walk in the Gardens,
and made believe that it was Italy! Then we went to Oxford Street, and
Bertie chose a regiment of soldiers for his birthday present He wished
some guns so much that I allowed him to have them as a present from you.
They only cost one-and-sixpence, and I thought you would like him to
have something. Jane and he had a splendid game of hide-and-seek in the
evening, and my couch was the den, so you see we have our own gaiety in
Bloomsbury.
"Don't look sulky at this long scri | 1,182.07906 |
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HONEST MONEY
HONEST MONEY
BY
ARTHUR I. FONDA
New York
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND LONDON
1895
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1895,
BY MACMILLAN AND CO.
Norwood Press:
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
PREFACE.
In an article in the "American Journal of Politics" for July, 1893, I
gave a brief statement of the conclusions I had reached in an attempt
to analyze the requirements of a perfect money.
The limits of a magazine article prevented a full discussion of the
subject; many points were left untouched, and all quotations from the
works of other writers, in support of the brief arguments given, were
of necessity omitted.
As the course of events since the article referred to was written has
more fully confirmed the conclusions stated therein, a desire to give
the subject ampler treatment, which its importance seems to demand, has
led to the writing of this little work.
If apology is needed for a further contribution to the mass of
literature on the subject of money, with which the country has of late
been flooded, it must be found in the above explanation of the reasons
which have led to the production of the present volume, coupled with
the fact that the questions involved are far from being settled, and
that the loud complaints, and the many financial schemes and plans,
that have appeared all over the country make it probable that further
legislation on the subject will be attempted in the near future.
It must be conceded that there is something radically wrong in a
country like the United States, rich in all of the necessaries and
most of the luxuries of life, where nature has been most bounteous,
and | 1,182.081829 |
2023-11-16 18:36:46.1343730 | 601 | 26 | HISTORY OF SAUL AND THE WITCH OF ENDOR***
Transcribed from the 1816 R. Thomas edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
[Picture: Public domain book cover]
A
FEW REMARKS
ON THE
Scripture History
OF
SAUL,
AND
_THE WITCH OF ENDOR_,
* * * * *
BY J. CHURCH,
_SURRY TABERNACLE_.
* * * * *
TRY THE SPIRITS WHETHER THEY BE OF GOD.—John.
FOR SATAN TRANSFORMETH HIMSELF INTO AN ANGEL OF LIGHT.—Paul.
WHAT WILL YE DO IN THE DAY OF YOUR VISITATION, WHERE WILL YE
FLEE FOR HELP.—Isaiah.
* * * * *
Sold in the Vestry.
* * * * *
_SOUTHWARK_;
PRINTED BY R. THOMAS, RED LION STREET, BOROUGH.
1816.
* * * * *
_REMARKS_
ON THE SCRIPTURE HISTORY OF
SAUL, &c.
“WOE ALSO TO THEM WHEN I DEPART FROM THEM.” Hosea ix, 12.
“GOD IS DEPARTED FROM ME, AND ANSWERETH ME NOT.”
1 Sam. xxviii. 15.
_To all those who love the Lord Jesus Christ in Sincerity_.
BELOVED,
IT is your mercy the divine Spirit is the glorifier of Jesus; that he has
set him forth in his word as the Christ of God; what he is, what he has
done, and what he has graciously said to his people. This is the work of
our faith, to receive as we need, these things, all the way to heaven.
The person of Jesus is the delight of the Father, the glory of heaven,
and the foundation of the Church, considered as God-man Mediator.—The
glories of his person is revealed in the word, but we must die to see
them in full perfection, and no doubt that will be an heaven worth dying
for: but blessed be God we are not wholly in the dark about these
excellencies, so runs the promise, _They __shall all know me_, _from the
least to the greatest_.—His person is truly blessed; his love is
immutable; his work is honorable and glorious, exactly suited to all the
necessities, of his people. His covenant engagements, his precious
offices, his sweet titles and characters, the Father’s gracious
acceptance of the work he accomplished, and to which he had called and
appointed him. These, and a thousand more interesting points, are set
forth as matters | 1,182.154413 |
2023-11-16 18:36:46.2437720 | 910 | 61 |
Produced by David Widger
THE CONFESSIONS OF JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU
(In 12 books)
Privately Printed for the Members of the Aldus Society
London, 1903
BOOK IX.
My impatience to inhabit the Hermitage not permitting me to wait until
the return of fine weather, the moment my lodging was prepared I hastened
to take possession of it, to the great amusement of the 'Coterie
Holbachaque', which publicly predicted I should not be able to support
solitude for three months, and that I should unsuccessfully return to
Paris, and live there as they did. For my part, having for fifteen years
been out of my element, finding myself upon the eve of returning to it,
I paid no attention to their pleasantries. Since contrary to my
inclinations, I have again entered the world, I have incessantly
regretted my dear Charmettes, and the agreeable life I led there. I felt
a natural inclination to retirement and the country: it was impossible
for me to live happily elsewhere. At Venice, in the train of public
affairs, in the dignity of a kind of representation, in the pride of
projects of advancement; at Paris, in the vortex of the great world, in
the luxury of suppers, in the brilliancy of spectacles, in the rays of
splendor; my groves, rivulets, and solitary walks, constantly presented
themselves to my recollection, interrupted my thought, rendered me
melancholy, and made me sigh with desire. All the labor to which I had
subjected myself, every project of ambition which by fits had animated my
ardor, all had for object this happy country retirement, which I now
thought near at hand. Without having acquired a genteel independence,
which I had judged to be the only means of accomplishing my views, I
imagined myself, in my particular situation, to be able to do without it,
and that I could obtain the same end by a means quite opposite. I had no
regular income; but I possessed some talents, and had acquired a name.
My wants were few, and I had freed myself from all those which were most
expensive, and which merely depended on prejudice and opinion. Besides
this, although naturally indolent, I was laborious when I chose to be so.
and my idleness was less that of an indolent man, than that of an
independent one who applies to business when it pleases him.
My profession of a copyist of music was neither splendid nor lucrative,
but it was certain. The world gave me credit for the courage I had shown
in making choice of it. I might depend upon having sufficient employment
to enable me to live. Two thousand livres which remained of the produce
of the 'Devin du Village', and my other writings, were a sum which kept
me from being straitened, and several works I had upon the stocks
promised me, without extorting money from the booksellers, supplies
sufficient to enable me to work at my ease without exhausting myself,
even by turning to advantage the leisure of my walks. My little family,
consisting of three persons, all of whom were usefully employed, was not
expensive to support. Finally, from my resources, proportioned to my
wants and desires, I might reasonably expect a happy and permanent
existence, in that manner of life which my inclination had induced me to
adopt.
I might have taken the interested side of the question, and, instead of
subjecting my pen to copying, entirely devoted it to works which, from
the elevation to which I had soared, and at which I found myself capable
of continuing, might have enabled me to live in the midst of abundance,
nay, even of opulence, had I been the least disposed to join the
manoeuvres of an author to the care of publishing a good book. But I
felt that writing for bread would soon have extinguished my genius, and
destroyed my talents, which were less in my pen than in my heart, and
solely proceeded from an elevated and noble manner of thinking, by which
alone | 1,182.263812 |
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Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive.)
THE MEDIAEVAL MIND
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
LONDON. BOMBAY. CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK. BOSTON. CHICAGO
ATLANTA. SAN FRANCISCO
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
THE MEDIAEVAL MIND
A HISTORY OF THE DEVELOPMENT
OF THOUGHT AND EMOTION
IN THE MIDDLE AGES
BY HENRY OSBORN TAYLOR
IN | 1,182.279177 |
2023-11-16 18:36:46.2734530 | 3,910 | 19 | ***
Produced by David Widger.
*THE COUNTESS DE SAINT-GERAN*
_By_
*Alexandre Dumas, Pere*
_From the set of Eight Volumes of "Celebrated Crimes"_
1910
CONTENTS
*THE COUNTESS DE SAINT-GERAN--1639*
*THE COUNTESS DE SAINT-GERAN--1639*
About the end of the year 1639, a troop of horsemen arrived, towards
midday, in a little village at the northern extremity of the province of
Auvergne, from the direction of Paris. The country folk assembled at the
noise, and found it to proceed from the provost of the mounted police
and his men. The heat was excessive, the horses were bathed in sweat,
the horsemen covered with dust, and the party seemed on its return from
an important expedition. A man left the escort, and asked an old woman
who was spinning at her door if there was not an inn in the place. The
woman and her children showed him a bush hanging over a door at the end
of the only street in the village, and the escort recommenced its march
at a walk. There was noticed, among the mounted men, a young man of
distinguished appearance and richly dressed, who appeared to be a
prisoner. This discovery redoubled the curiosity of the villagers, who
followed the cavalcade as far as the door of the wine-shop. The host
came out, cap in hand, and the provost enquired of him with a swaggering
air if his pothouse was large enough to accommodate his troop, men and
horses. The host replied that he had the best wine in the country to
give to the king's servants, and that it would be easy to collect in the
neighbourhood litter and forage enough for their horses. The provost
listened contemptuously to these fine promises, gave the necessary
orders as to what was to be done, and slid off his horse, uttering an
oath proceeding from heat and fatigue. The horsemen clustered round the
young man: one held his stirrup, and the provost deferentially gave way
to him to enter the inn first. No, more doubt could be entertained that
he was a prisoner of importance, and all kinds of conjectures were made.
The men maintained that he must be charged with a great crime, otherwise
a young nobleman of his rank would never have been arrested; the women
argued, on the contrary, that it was impossible for such a pretty youth
not to be innocent.
Inside the inn all was bustle: the serving-lads ran from cellar to
garret; the host swore and despatched his servant-girls to the
neighbours, and the hostess scolded her daughter, flattening her nose
against the panes of a downstairs window to admire the handsome youth.
There were two tables in the principal eating-room. The provost took
possession of one, leaving the other to the soldiers, who went in turn
to tether their horses under a shed in the back yard; then he pointed to
a stool for the prisoner, and seated himself opposite to him, rapping
the table with his thick cane.
"Ouf!" he cried, with a fresh groan of weariness, "I heartily beg your
pardon, marquis, for the bad wine I am giving you!"
The young man smiled gaily.
"The wine is all very well, monsieur provost," said he, "but I cannot
conceal from you that however agreeable your company is to me, this halt
is very inconvenient; I am in a hurry to get through my ridiculous
situation, and I should have liked to arrive in time to stop this affair
at once."
The girl of the house was standing before the table with a pewter pot
which she had just brought, and at these words she raised her eyes on
the prisoner, with a reassured look which seemed to say, "I was sure
that he was innocent."
"But," continued the marquis, carrying the glass to his lips, "this wine
is not so bad as you say, monsieur provost."
Then turning to the girl, who was eyeing his gloves and his ruff--
"To your health, pretty child."
"Then," said the provost, amazed at this free and easy air, "perhaps I
shall have to beg you to excuse your sleeping quarters."
"What!" exclaimed the marquis, "do we sleep here?"
"My lord;" said the provost, "we have sixteen long leagues to make, our
horses are done up, and so far as I am concerned I declare that I am no
better than my horse."
The marquis knocked on the table, and gave every indication of being
greatly annoyed. The provost meanwhile puffed and blowed, stretched out
his big boots, and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. He was a
portly man, with a puffy face, whom fatigue rendered singularly
uncomfortable.
"Marquis," said he, "although your company, which affords me the
opportunity of showing you some attention, is very precious to me, you
cannot doubt that I had much rather enjoy it on another footing. If it
be within your power, as you say, to release yourself from the hands of
justice, the sooner you do so the better I shall be pleased. But I beg
you to consider the state we are in. For my part, I am unfit to keep the
saddle another hour, and are you not yourself knocked up by this forced
march in the great heat?"
"True, so I am," said the marquis, letting his arms fall by his side.
"Well, then, let us rest here, sup here, if we can, and we will start
quite fit in the cool of the morning."
"Agreed," replied the marquis; "but then let us pass the time in a
becoming manner. I have two pistoles left, let them be given to these
good fellows to drink. It is only fair that I should treat them, seeing
that I am the cause of giving them so much trouble."
He threw two pieces of money on the table of the soldiers, who cried in
chorus, "Long live M. the marquis!" The provost rose, went to post
sentinels, and then repaired to the kitchen, where he ordered the best
supper that could be got. The men pulled out dice and began to drink and
play. The marquis hummed an air in the middle of the room, twirled his
moustache, turning on his heel and looking cautiously around; then he
gently drew a purse from his trousers pocket, and as the daughter of the
house was coming and going, he threw his arms round her neck as if to
kiss her, and whispered, slipping ten Louis into her hand--
"The key of the front door in my room, and a quart of liquor to the
sentinels, and you save my life."
The girl went backwards nearly to the door, and returning with an
expressive look, made an affirmative sign with her hand. The provost
returned, and two hours later supper was served. He ate and drank like a
man more at home at table than in the saddle. The marquis plied him with
bumpers, and sleepiness, added to the fumes of a very heady wine, caused
him to repeat over and over again--
"Confound it all, marquis, I can't believe you are such a blackguard as
they say you are; you seem to me a jolly good sort."
The marquis thought he was ready to fall under the table, and was
beginning to open negotiations with the daughter of the house, when, to
his great disappointment, bedtime having come, the provoking provost
called his sergeant, gave him instructions in an undertone, and
announced that he should have the honour of conducting M. the marquis to
bed, and that he should not go to bed himself before performing this
duty. In fact, he posted three of his men, with torches, escorted the
prisoner to his room, and left him with many profound bows.
The marquis threw himself on his bed without pulling off his boots,
listening to a clock which struck nine. He heard the men come and go in
the stables and in the yard.
An hour later, everybody being tired, all was perfectly still. The
prisoner then rose softly, and felt about on tiptoe on the chimneypiece,
on the furniture, and even in his clothes, for the key which he hoped to
find. He could not find it. He could not be mistaken, nevertheless, in
the tender interest of the young girl, and he could not believe that she
was deceiving him. The marquis's room had a window which opened upon the
street, and a door which gave access to a shabby gallery which did duty
for a balcony, whence a staircase ascended to the principal rooms of the
house. This gallery hung over the courtyard, being as high above it as
the window was from the street. The marquis had only to jump over one
side or the other: he hesitated for some time, and just as he was
deciding to leap into the street, at the risk of breaking his neck, two
taps were struck on the door. He jumped for joy, saying to himself as he
opened, "I am saved!" A kind of shadow glided into the room; the young
girl trembled from head to foot, and could not say a word. The marquis
reassured her with all sorts of caresses.
"Ah, sir," said she, "I am dead if we are surprised."
"Yes," said the marquis, "but your fortune is made if you get me out of
here."
"God is my witness that I would with all my soul, but I have such a bad
piece of news----"
She stopped, suffocated with varying emotions. The poor girl had come
barefooted, for fear of making a noise, and appeared to be shivering.
"What is the matter?" impatiently asked the marquis.
"Before going to bed," she continued, "M. the provost has required from
my father all the keys of the house, and has made him take a great oath
that there are no more. My father has given him all: besides, there is a
sentinel at every door; but they are very tired; I have heard them
muttering and grumbling, and I have given them more wine than you told
me."
"They will sleep," said the marquis, nowise discouraged, "and they have
already shown great respect to my rank in not nailing me up in this
room."
"There is a small kitchen garden," continued the girl, "on the side of
the fields, fenced in only by a loose hurdle, but----"
"Where is my horse?"
"No doubt in the shed with the rest."
"I will jump into the yard."
"You will be killed."
"So much the better!"
"Ah monsieur marquis, what have, you done?" said the young girl with
grief.
"Some foolish things! nothing worth mentioning; but my head and my
honour are at stake. Let us lose no time; I have made up my mind."
"Stay," replied the girl, grasping his arm; "at the left-hand corner of
the yard there is a large heap of straw, the gallery hangs just over
it--"
"Bravo! I shall make less noise, and do myself less mischief." He made a
step towards the door; the girl, hardly knowing what she was doing,
tried to detain him; but he got loose from her and opened it. The moon
was shining brightly into the yard; he heard no sound. He proceeded to
the end of the wooden rail, and perceived the dungheap, which rose to a
good height: the girl made the sign of the cross. The marquis listened
once again, heard nothing, and mounted the rail. He was about to jump
down, when by wonderful luck he heard murmurings from a deep voice. This
proceeded from one of two horsemen, who were recommencing their
conversation and passing between them a pint of wine. The marquis crept
back to his door, holding his breath: the girl was awaiting him on the
threshold.
"I told you it was not yet time," said she.
"Have you never a knife," said the marquis, "to cut those rascals'
throats with?"
"Wait, I entreat you, one hour, one hour only," murmured the young girl;
"in an hour they will all be asleep."
The girl's voice was so sweet, the arms which she stretched towards him
were full of such gentle entreaty, that the marquis waited, and at the
end of an hour it was the young girl's turn to tell him to start.
The marquis for the last time pressed with his mouth those lips but
lately so innocent, then he half opened the door, and heard nothing this
time but dogs barking far away in an otherwise silent country. He leaned
over the balustrade, and saw: very plainly a soldier lying prone on the
straw.
"If they were to awake?" murmured the young girl in accents of anguish.
"They will not take me alive, be assured," said the marquis.
"Adieu, then," replied she, sobbing; "may Heaven preserve you!"
He bestrode the balustrade, spread himself out upon it, and fell heavily
on the dungheap. The young girl saw him run to the shed, hastily detach
a horse, pass behind the stable wall, spur his horse in both flanks,
tear across the kitchen garden, drive his horse against the hurdle,
knock it down, clear it, and reach the highroad across the fields.
The poor girl remained at the end of the gallery, fixing her eyes on the
sleeping sentry, and ready to disappear at the slightest movement. The
noise made by spurs on the pavement and by the horse at the end of the
courtyard had half awakened him. He rose, and suspecting some surprise,
ran to the shed. His horse was no longer there; the marquis, in his
haste to escape, had taken the first which came to hand, and this was
the soldier's. Then the soldier gave the alarm; his comrades woke up.
They ran to the prisoner's room, and found it empty. The provost came
from his bed in a dazed condition. The prisoner had escaped.
Then the young girl, pretending to have been roused by the noise,
hindered the preparations by mislaying the saddlery, impeding the
horsemen instead of helping them; nevertheless, after a quarter of an
hour, all the party were galloping along the road. The provost swore
like a pagan. The best horses led the way, and the sentinel, who rode
the marquis's, and who had a greater interest in catching the prisoner,
far outstripped his companions; he was followed by the sergeant, equally
well mounted, and as the broken fence showed the line he had taken,
after some minutes they were in view of him, but at a great distance.
However, the marquis was losing ground; the horse he had taken was the
worst in the troop, and he had pressed it as hard as it could go.
Turning in the saddle, he saw the soldiers half a musket-shot off; he
urged his horse more and more, tearing his sides with his spurs; but
shortly the beast, completely winded, foundered; the marquis rolled with
it in the dust, but when rolling over he caught hold of the holsters,
which he found to contain pistols; he lay flat by the side of the horse,
as if he had fainted, with a pistol at full cock in his hand. The
sentinel, mounted on a valuable horse, and more than two hundred yards
ahead of his serafile, came up to him. In a moment the marquis, jumping
up before he had tune to resist him, shot him through the head; the
horseman fell, the marquis jumped up in his place without even setting
foot in the stirrup, started off at a gallop, and went away like the
wind, leaving fifty yards behind him the non-commissioned officer,
dumbfounded with what had just passed before his eyes.
The main body of the escort galloped up, thinking that he was taken; and
the provost shouted till he was hoarse, "Do not kill him!" But they
found only the sergeant, trying to restore life to his man, whose skull
was shattered, and who lay dead on the spot.
As for the marquis, he was out of sight; for, fearing a fresh pursuit,
he had plunged into the cross roads, along which he rode a good hour
longer at full gallop. When he felt pretty sure of having shaken the
police off his track, and that their bad horses could not overtake him,
he determined to slacken to recruit his horse; he was walking him along
a hollow lane, when he saw a peasant approaching; he asked him the road
to the Bourbonnais, and flung him a crown. The man took the crown and
pointed out the road, but he seemed hardly to know what he was saying,
and stared at the marquis in a strange manner. The marquis shouted to
him to get out of the way; but the peasant remained planted on the
roadside without stirring an inch. The marquis advanced with threatening
looks, and asked how he dared to stare at him like that.
"The reason is," said the peasant, "that you have----", and he pointed
to his shoulder and his ruff.
The marquis glanced at his dress, and saw that his coat was dabbled in
blood, which, added to the disorder of his clothes and the dust with
which he was covered, gave him a most suspicious aspect.
"I know," said he. "I and | 1,182.293493 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration]
JULY
Vol. V. No. 9.
1885.
OUR LITTLE ONES
AND
THE
NURSERY
THE RUSSELL PUBLISHING CO.
36 BROMFIELD ST BOSTON
THOS. NELSON AND SONS, LONDON.
Copyright, 1885, by RUSSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY.] [Entered at the P. O.
at Boston as second-class matter.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
A PICTURE JACK BARLOW 259
(Illustrated by R. W. Vonnoh.)
NAUGHTY NASNA LAURA E. RICHARDS 260
(Illustrated by Culmer Barnes.)
"CHOW-CHOW" BESSIE PEDDER 263
(Illustrated by Arthur Douglas.)
POLLY'S BABY M. D. BRINE 266
(Illustrated by Jessie C. Shepherd.)
HICKORY, DICKORY, DOCK! PENN SHIRLEY 268
(Illustrated by Jessie C. Shepherd.)
A MEADOW SONG ELIZABETH A. DAVIS 270
(Illustrated by E. P. Hayden.)
OUR MOCKING BIRD VAN BUREN 273
(Illustrated by A. S. Cox.)
TROTTIE'S DOINGS JENNIE JUDSON 274
(Illustrated by F. T. Merrill.)
"SEVENTEEN, EIGHTEEN, MAIDS IN WAITING" MARGARET JOHNSON 276
(Illustrated by Jessie McDermott.)
THE PIGS' CHOWDER PARTY FRANCES P. CHAPLIN 278
(Illustrated by A. Buhler.)
PUSSY'S ADOPTED CHILDREN S. D. L. H. 280
(Illustrated by Ellen Oakford.)
SEVEN TIMES ONE DAY NOBLE 282
(Illustrated by Miss C. A. Northam.)
WHAT KATY DID AUNT FANNY 284
(Illustrated by Miss M. Humphrey.)
PULL THE WEEDS M. E. MCKEE 286
(Illustrated by Miss E. S. Tucker.)
THISTLEDOWN JENNIE JOY 288
(Music by T. Crampton.)
The Illustrative Department under the direction of Mr. GEORGE T. ANDREW.
OUR LITTLE ONES AND THE NURSERY,
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RUSSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY, BOSTON, MASS.
BUTTON'S
RAVEN GLOSS
SHOE DRESSING
[Illustration: Button's
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The proprietors of a household article recently
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Fourth Cover | 1,182.480112 |
2023-11-16 18:36:46.5050370 | 1,210 | 18 |
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: WITH THE UTMOST GENTLENESS HE LAID HIS HAND AGAIN UPON
HERS. "ARE YOU AFRAID TO SAY IT?" HE SAID. Drawn by E. L. Crompton.
(_See page_ 98)]
The
Hundredth Chance
BY
ETHEL M. DELL
AUTHOR OF
THE LAMP IN THE DESERT,
THE SWINDLER, ETC.
FRONTISPIECE BY
EDNA CROMPTON
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
COPYRIGHT. 1917
BY
ETHEL M. DELL
The Way of an Eagle
The Knave of Diamonds
The Rocks of Valpre
The Swindler
The Keeper of the Door
Bars of Iron
Rosa Mundi
The Hundredth Chance
The Safety Curtain
Greatheart
The Lamp in the Desert
The Tidal Wave
The Top of the World
The Obstacle Race
This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
I Dedicate This Book
to
My Old Friend
W. S. H.
In Affectionate Remembrance of Many Kindnesses
"The plowman shall overtake the reaper,
And the treader of grapes him that soweth seed."
Obadiah 9-13.
CONTENTS
_PART 1_
THE START
I.--Beggars
II.--The Idol
III.--The New Acquaintance
IV.--The Accepted Suitor
V.--In the Dark
VI.--The Unwilling Guest
VII.--The Magician
VIII.--The Offer
IX.--The Real Man
X.--The Head of the Family
XI.--The Declaration of War
XII.--The Reckoning
XIII.--The Only Port
XIV.--The Way of Escape
XV.--The Closed Door
XVI.--The Champion
XVII.--The Wedding Morning
XVIII.--The Wedding Night
XIX.--The Day After
XX.--A Friend of the Family
XXI.--The Old Life
XXII.--The Faithful Widower
XXIII.--The Narrowing Circle
XXIV.--Brothers
XXV.--Misadventure
XXVI.--The Word Unspoken
XXVII.--The Token
XXVIII.--The Visitor
XXIX.--Her Other Self
XXX.--The Rising Current
XXXI.--Light Relief
XXXII.--The Only Solution
XXXIII.--The Furnace
XXXIV.--The Sacrifice
XXXV.--The Offer of Freedom
XXXVI.--The Bond
_PART II_
THE RACE
I.--Husks
II.--The Poison Plant
III.--Confidences
IV.--The Letter
V.--Rebellion
VI.--The Problem
VII.--The Land of Moonshine
VIII.--The Warning
IX.--The Invitation
X.--The Mistake
XI.--The Reason
XII.--Refuge
XIII.--The Lamp before the Altar
XIV.--The Open Door
XV.--The Downward Path
XVI.--The Revelation
XVII.--The Last Chance
XVIII.--The Whirlpool
XIX.--The Outer Darkness
XX.--Deliverance
XXI.--The Poison Fruit
XXII.--The Loser
XXIII.--The Storm Wind
XXIV.--The Great Burden
XXV.--The Blow
XXVI.--The Deed of Gift
XXVII.--The Impossible
XXVIII.--The First of the Vultures
XXIX.--The Dutiful Wife
XXX.--The Lane of Fire
XXXI.--The New Boss
XXXII.--Old Scores
Epilogue: The Finish
The Hundredth Chance
PART I
THE START
CHAPTER I
BEGGARS
"My dear Maud, I hope I am not lacking in proper pride. But it is an
accepted--though painful--fact that beggars cannot be choosers."
Lady Brian spoke with plaintive emphasis the while she drew an elaborate
initial in the sand at her feet with the point of her parasol.
"I cannot live in want," she said, after a thoughtful moment or two.
"Besides, there is poor little Bunny to be considered." Another
thoughtful pause; then: "What did you say, dear?"
Lady Brian's daughter made an abrupt movement without taking her eyes
off the clear-cut horizon; beautiful eyes of darkest, deepest blue under
straight black brows that gave them a somewhat forbidding look. There
was nothing remarkable about the rest of her face. It was thin and
sallow and at the moment rather drawn, not a contented face, and yet
possessing a quality indefinable that made it sad rather than bitter.
Her smile was not very frequent, but when it came it transfigured her
utterly. No one ever pictured that smile of hers beforehand. It came so
brilliantly, so suddenly, like a burst of sunshine over a brown and
desolate landscape, making so vast a difference that all who saw it for
the first time marvelled at the unexpected glow.
But it was very far from her face just now. In fact she looked as if
she could never smile again as she said: | 1,182.525077 |
2023-11-16 18:36:46.5598400 | 6,743 | 15 |
Produced by Laura McDonald (http://www.girlebooks.com) and
Marc D'Hooghe (http:www.freeliterature.org)
THE ADVENTURES OF ELIZABETH IN RUeGEN
BY
THE AUTHOR OF "ELIZABETH AND HER GERMAN GARDEN"
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
1904
[Illustration: map of Ruegen]
CONTENTS
THE FIRST DAY--From Miltzow to Lauterbach
THE SECOND DAY--Lauterbach and Vilm
THE THIRD DAY--From Lauterbach to Goehren
THE FOURTH DAY--From Goehren to Thiessow
THE FOURTH DAY (continued)--At Thiessow
THE FIFTH DAY--From Thiessow to Sellin
THE FIFTH DAY (continued)--From Sellin to Binz
THE SIXTH DAY--The Jagdschloss
THE SIXTH DAY (continued)--The Granitz Woods, Schwarze See, and Kiekoewer
THE SEVENTH DAY--From Binz to Stubbenkammer
THE SEVENTH DAY (continued)--At Stubbenkammer
THE EIGHTH DAY--From Stubbenkammer to Glowe
THE NINTH DAY--From Glowe to Wiek
THE TENTH DAY--From Wiek to Hiddensee
THE ELEVENTH DAY--From Wiek Home
THE ADVENTURES OF ELIZABETH IN RUeGEN
THE FIRST DAY
FROM MILTZOW TO LAUTERBACH
Every one who has been to school and still remembers what he was taught
there, knows that Ruegen is the biggest island Germany possesses, and
that it lies in the Baltic Sea off the coast of Pomerania.
Round this island I wished to walk this summer, but no one would walk
with me. It is the perfect way of moving if you want to see into the
life of things. It is the one way of freedom. If you go to a place on
anything but your own feet you are taken there too fast, and miss a
thousand delicate joys that were waiting for you by the wayside. If you
drive you are bound by a variety of considerations, eight of the most
important being the horses' legs. If you bicycle--but who that loves to
get close to nature would bicycle? And as for motors, the object of a
journey like mine was not the getting to a place but the going there.
Successively did I invite the most likely of my women friends, numbering
at least a dozen, to walk with me. They one and all replied that it
would make them tired and that it would be dull; and when I tried to
remove the first objection by telling them how excellent it would be for
the German nation, especially those portions of it that are still to
come, if its women walked round Ruegen more often, they stared and
smiled; and when I tried to remove the second by explaining that by our
own spirits are we deified, they stared and smiled more than ever.
Walking, then, was out of the question, for I could not walk alone. The
grim monster Conventionality whose iron claws are for ever on my
shoulder, for ever pulling me back from the harmless and the wholesome,
put a stop to that even if I had not been afraid of tramps, which I was.
So I drove, and it was round Ruegen that I drove because one hot
afternoon when I was idling in the library, not reading but fingering
the books, taking out first one and then another, dipping into them,
deciding which I would read next, I came across Marianne North's
_Recollections of a Happy Life_, and hit upon the page where she begins
to talk of Ruegen. Immediately interested--for is not Ruegen nearer to me
than any other island?--I became absorbed in her description of the
bathing near a place called Putbus, of the deliciousness of it in a
sandy cove where the water was always calm, and of how you floated about
on its crystal surface, and beautiful jelly-fish, stars of purest
colours, floated with you. I threw down the book to ransack the shelves
for a guide to Ruegen. On the first page of the first one I found was
this remarkable paragraph:--
'Hearest thou the name Ruegen, so doth a wondrous spell come over thee.
Before thine eyes it rises as a dream of far-away, beauteous fairylands.
Images and figures of long ago beckon thee across to the marvellous
places where in grey prehistoric times they dwelt, and on which they
have left the shadow of their presence. And in thee stirs a mighty
desire to wander over the glorious, legend-surrounded island. Cord up,
then, thy light bundle, take to heart Shylock's advice to put money in
thy purse, and follow me without fear of the threatening sea-sickness
which may overtake thee on the short crossing, for it has never yet done
any one more harm than imposing on him a rapidly-passing discomfort.'
This seemed to me very irresistible. Surely a place that inspired such a
mingling of the lofty and the homely in its guide-books must be well
worth seeing? There was a drought just then going on at home. My eyes
were hot with watching a garden parch browner day by day beneath a sky
of brass. I felt that it only needed a little energy, and in a few hours
I too might be floating among those jelly-fish, in the shadow of the
cliffs of the legend-surrounded island. And even better than being
surrounded by legends those breathless days would it be to have the sea
all round me. Such a sea too! Did I not know it? Did I not know its
singular limpidity? The divineness of its blue where it was deep, the
clearness of its green where it was shallow, lying tideless along its
amber shores? The very words made me thirsty--amber shores; lazy waves
lapping them slowly; vast spaces for the eye to wander over; rocks, and
seaweed, and cool, gorgeous jelly-fish. The very map at the beginning of
the guide-book made me thirsty, the land was so succulently green, the
sea all round so bland a blue. And what a fascinating island it is on
the map--an island of twists and curves and inland seas called Bodden;
of lakes, and woods, and frequent ferries; with lesser islands dotted
about its coasts; with bays innumerable stretching their arms out into
the water; and with one huge forest, evidently magnificent, running
nearly the whole length of the east coast, following its curves, dipping
down to the sea in places, and in others climbing up chalk cliffs to
crown them with the peculiar splendour of beeches.
It does not take me long to make up my mind, still less to cord up my
light bundle, for somebody else does that; and I think it was only two
days after I first found Marianne North and the guide-book that my maid
Gertrud and I got out of a suffocating train into the freshness that
blows round ryefields near the sea, and began our journey into the
unknown.
It was a little wayside station on the line between Berlin and
Stralsund, called Miltzow, a solitary red building on the edge of a
pine-wood, that witnessed the beginning of our tour. The carriage had
been sent on the day before, and round it, on our arrival, stood the
station authorities in an interested group. The stationmaster,
everywhere in Germany an elaborate, Olympic person in white gloves,
actually helped the porter to cord on my hold-all with his own hands,
and they both lingered over it as if loth to let us go. Evidently the
coachman had told them what I was going to do, and I suppose such an
enterprising woman does not get out at Miltzow every day. They packed us
in with the greatest care, with so much care that I thought they would
never have done. My hold-all was the biggest piece of luggage, and they
corded it on in an upright position at our feet. I had left the choosing
of its contents to Gertrud, only exhorting her, besides my pillow, to
take a sufficiency of soap and dressing-gowns. Gertrud's luggage was
placed by the porter on her lap. It was almost too modest. It was one
small black bag, and a great part of its inside must, I knew, be taken
up by the stockings she had brought to knit and the needles she did it
with; yet she looked quite as respectable the day we came home as she
did the day we started, and every bit as clean. My dressing-case was put
on the box, and on top of it was a brown cardboard hat-box containing
the coachman's wet-weather hat. A thick coat for possible cold days made
a cushion for my back, and Gertrud's waterproof did the same thing for
hers. Wedged in between us was the tea-basket, rattling inharmoniously,
but preventing our slipping together in sloping places. Behind us in the
hood were the umbrellas, rugs, guide-books, and maps, besides one of
those round shiny yellow wooden band-boxes into which every decent
German woman puts her best hat. This luggage, and some mysterious
bundles on the box that the coachman thought were hidden by his legs but
which bulged out unhideable on either side, prevented our looking
elegant; but I did not want to look elegant, and I had gathered from the
remarks of those who had refused to walk that Ruegen was not a place
where I should meet any one who did.
Now I suppose I could talk for a week and yet give no idea whatever of
the exultation that filled my soul as I gazed on these arrangements. The
picnic-like simplicity of them was so full of promise. It was as though
I were going back to the very morning of life, to those fresh years when
shepherd boys and others shout round one for no reason except that they
are out of doors and alive. Also, during the years that have come after,
years that may properly be called riper, it has been a conviction of
mine that there is nothing so absolutely bracing for the soul as the
frequent turning of one's back on duties. This was exactly what I was
doing; and oh ye rigid female martyrs on the rack of daily
exemplariness, ye unquestioning patient followers of paths that have
been pointed out, if only you knew the wholesome joys of sometimes being
less good!
The point at which we were is the nearest from which Ruegen can be
reached by persons coming up from the south and going to drive. No one
ever gets out there who is bound for Ruegen, because no one ever drives
to Ruegen. The ordinary tourist, almost exclusively German, goes first to
Stralsund, is taken across the narrow strip of water, train and all, on
the steam ferry, and continues without changing till he reaches the open
sea on the other side of the island at Sassnitz. Or he goes by train
from Berlin to Stettin and then by steamer down the Oder, crosses the
open sea for four hours, and arrives, probably pensive for the boats are
small and the waves are often big, at Goehren, the first stopping-place
on the island's east coast.
We were not ordinary tourists, and having got to Miltzow were to be
independent of all such wearinesses as trains and steamers till the day
we wanted to come back again. From Miltzow we were going to drive to a
ferry three miles off at a place called Stahlbrode, cross the mile of
water, land on the island's south shore, and go on at once that
afternoon to the jelly-fish of Miss North's Putbus, which were beckoning
me across to the legend-surrounded island far more irresistibly than any
of those grey figures the guide-book talked about.
The carriage was a light one of the victoria genus with a hood; the
horses were a pair esteemed at home for their meekness; the coachman,
August, was a youth who had never yet driven straight on for an
indefinite period without turning round once, and he looked as though he
thought he were going to enjoy himself. I was sure I was going to enjoy
myself. Gertrud, I fancy, was without these illusions; but she is old,
and has got out of the habit of being anything but resigned. She was the
sop on this occasion thrown to the Grim One of the iron claws, for I
would far rather have gone alone. But Gertrud is very silent; to go with
her would be as nearly like being alone as it is possible to be when you
are not. She could, I knew, be trusted to sit by my side knitting,
however bumpy the road, and not opening her lips unless asked a
question. Admirable virtue of silence, most precious, because most rare,
jewel in the crown of female excellences, not possessed by a single one
of those who had refused to walk! If either of them had occupied
Gertrud's place and driven with me would she not, after the way of
women, have spent the first half of the time telling me her secrets and
the other half being angry with me because I knew them? And then
Gertrud, after having kept quiet all day, would burst into activities at
night, unpack the hold-all, produce pleasant things like slippers, see
that my bed was as I like it, and end by tucking me up in it and going
away on tiptoe with her customary quaint benediction, bestowed on me
every night at bedtime: 'The dear God protect and bless the gracious
one,' says Gertrud as she blows out the candle.
'And may He also protect and bless thee,' I reply; and could as ill
spare my pillow as her blessing.
It was half-past two in the afternoon of the middle Friday in July when
we left the station officials to go back to their dull work and trotted
round the corner into the wide world. The sky was a hot blue. The road
wound with gentle ups and downs between fields whitening to harvest.
High over our heads the larks quivered in the light, shaking out that
rapturous song that I can never hear without a throb of gratitude for
being alive. There were no woods or hills, and we could see a long way
on either side, see the red roofs of farms clustered wherever there was
a hollow to protect them from the wild winds of winter, see the straight
double line of trees where the high road to Stralsund cut across ours,
see a little village a mile ahead of us with a venerable church on a
mound in the middle of it gravely presiding over the surrounding wide
parish of corn. I think I must have got out at least six times during
the short drive between Miltzow and the ferry pretending I wanted
flowers, but really to enjoy the delight of loitering. The rye was full
of chickory and poppies, the ditches along the road where the spring
dampness still lingered were white with the delicate loveliness of
cow-parsley, that most spiritual of weeds. I picked an armful of it to
hold up against the blue of the sky while we were driving; I gave
Gertrud a bunch of poppies for which she thanked me without enthusiasm;
I put little posies of chickory at the horses' ears; in fact I felt and
behaved as if I were fifteen and out for my first summer holiday. But
what did it matter? There was nobody there to see.
Stahlbrode is the most innocent-looking place--a small cluster of
cottages on grass that goes down to the water. It was quite empty and
silent. It has a long narrow wooden jetty running across the marshy
shore to the ferry, and moored to the end of this jetty lay a big
fishing-smack with furled brown sails. I got out and walked down to it
to see if it were the ferry-boat, and whether the ferryman was in it.
Both August and the horses had an alarmed, pricked-up expression as they
saw me going out into the jaws of the sea. Even the emotionless Gertrud
put away her stocking and stood by the side of the carriage watching me.
The jetty was roughly put together, and so narrow that the carriage
would only just fit in. A slight wooden rail was all the protection
provided; but the water was not deep, and heaved limpidly over the
yellow sand at the bottom. The shore we were on was flat and vividly
green, the shore of Ruegen opposite was flat and vividly green; the sea
between was a lovely, sparkling blue; the sky was strewn across with
loose clusters of pearly clouds; the breeze that had played so gently
among the ears of corn round Miltzow danced along the little waves and
splashed them gaily against the wooden posts of the jetty as though the
freshness down there on the water had filled it with new life. I found
the boat empty, a thing of steep sides and curved bottom, a thing that
was surely never intended for the ferrying across of horses and
carriages. No other boat was to be seen. Up the channel and down the
channel there was nothing visible but the flat green shores, the dancing
water, the wide sky, the bland afternoon light.
I turned back thoughtfully to the cottages. Suppose the ferry were only
used for ferrying people? If so, we were in an extremely tiresome fix. A
long way back against the sky I could see the line of trees bordering
the road to Stralsund, and the whole dull, dusty distance would have to
be driven over if the Stahlbrode ferry failed us. August took off his
hat when I came up to him, and said ominously, 'Does the gracious one
permit that I speak a few words?'
'Speak them, August.'
'It is very windy.'
'Not very.'
'It is far to go on water.'
'Not very.'
'Never yet have I been on the sea.'
'Well, you are going on it now.'
With an expression made up of two parts fright and one resignation he
put on his hat again and relapsed into a silence that was grim. I took
Gertrud with me to give me a countenance and walked across to the inn, a
new red-brick house standing out boldly on a bit of rising ground, end
ways on to the sea. The door was open and we went in, knocking with my
sunshade on the floor. We stirred up no life of any sort. Not even a dog
barked at us. The passage was wide and clean with doors on each side of
it and an open door at either end--the one we had come in by followed by
the afternoon sun, and the other framing a picture of sky with the sea
at the bottom, the jetty, the smack with folded sails, and the coast of
Ruegen. Seeing a door with _Gaststube_ painted on it I opened it and
peeped in. To my astonishment it was full of men smoking in silence, and
all with their eyes fixed on the opening door. They must have heard us.
They must have seen us passing the window as we came up to the house. I
concluded that the custom of the district requires that strangers shall
in no way be interfered with until they actually ask definite questions;
that it was so became clear by the alacrity with which a yellow-bearded
man jumped up on our asking how we could get across to Ruegen, and told
us he was the ferryman and would take us there.
'But there is a carriage--can that go too?' I inquired anxiously,
thinking of the deep bottom and steep sides of the fishing-smack.
'_Alles, Alles_,' he said cheerily; and calling to a boy to come and
help he led the way through the door framing the sea, down a tiny, sandy
garden prickly with gooseberry bushes, to the place where August sat
marvelling on his box.
'Come along!' he shouted as he ran past him.
'What, along that thing of wood?' cried August. 'With my horses? And my
newly-varnished carriage?'
'Come along!' shouted the ferryman, half-way down the jetty.
'Go on, August,' I commanded.
'It can never be accomplished,' said August, visibly breaking out into a
perspiration.
'Go on,' I repeated sternly; but thought it on the whole more discreet
to go on myself on my own feet, and so did Gertrud.
'If the gracious one insists----' faltered August, and began to drive
gingerly down to the jetty with the face of one who thinks his last hour
well on the way.
As I had feared, the carriage was very nearly smashed getting it over
the sides of the smack. I sat up in the bows looking on in terror,
expecting every instant to see the wheels wrenched off, and with their
wrenching the end of our holiday. The optimistic ferryman assured us
that it was going in quite easily--like a lamb, he declared, with great
boldness of imagery. He sloped two ineffectual planks, one for each set
of wheels, up the side of the boat, and he and August, hatless,
coatless, and breathless, lifted the carriage over on to them. It was a
horrid moment. The front wheels twisted right round and were as near
coming off as any wheels I saw in my life. I was afraid to look at
August, so right did he seem to have been when he protested that the
thing could not be accomplished. Yet there was Ruegen and here were we,
and we had to get across to it somehow or turn round and do the dreary
journey to Stralsund.
The horses, both exceedingly restive, had been unharnessed and got in
first. They were held in the stern of the boat by two boys, who needed
all their determination to do it. Then it was that I was thankful for
the boat's steep sides, for if they had been lower those horses would
certainly have kicked themselves over into the sea; and what should I
have done then? And how should I have faced him who is in authority over
me if I returned to him without his horses?
'We take them across daily,' the ferryman remarked, airily jerking his
thumb in the direction of the carriage.
'Do so many people drive to Ruegen?' I asked astonished, for the plank
arrangements were staringly makeshift.
'Many people?' cried the ferryman. 'Rightly speaking, crowds.'
He was trying to make me happy. At least it reassured August to hear it;
but I could not suppress a smile of deprecation at the size of the fib.
By this time we were under weigh, a fair wind sending us merrily over
the water. The ferryman steered; August stood at his horses' heads
talking to them soothingly; the two boys came and sat on some coiled
ropes close to me, leaned their elbows on their knees and their chins on
their hands, and fixing their blue fisher-boy eyes on my face kept them
there with an unwinking interest during the entire crossing. Oh, it was
lovely sitting up there in the sun, safe so far, in the delicious quiet
of sailing. The tawny sail, darned and patched in divers shades of brown
and red and orange, towered above us against the sky. The huge mast
seemed to brush along across the very surface of the little white
clouds. Above the rippling of the water we could hear the distant larks
on either shore. August had put on his scarlet stable-jacket for the
work of lifting the carriage in, and made a beautiful bit of colour
among the browns of the old boat at the stern. The eyes of the ferryman
lost all the alertness they had had on shore, and he stood at the rudder
gazing dreamily out at the afternoon light on the Ruegen meadows. How
perfect it was after the train, after the clattering along the dusty
road, and the heat and terror of getting on board. For one exquisite
quarter of an hour we were softly lapped across in the sun, and for all
that beauty we were only asked to pay three marks, which included the
horses and carriage and the labour of getting us in and out. For a
further small sum the ferryman became enthusiastic and begged me to be
sure to come back that way. There was a single house on the Ruegen shore
where he lived, he said, and from which he would watch for us. A little
dog came down to welcome us, but we saw no other living creature. The
carriage conducted itself far more like a lamb on this side, and I drove
away well pleased to have got over the chief difficulty of the tour, the
soft-voiced ferryman wishing us Godspeed, and the two boys unwinking to
the last.
So here we were on the legend-surrounded island. 'Hail, thou isle of
fairyland, filled with beckoning figures!' I murmured under my breath,
careful not to appear too unaccountable in Gertrud's eyes. With eager
interest I looked about me, and anything less like fairyland and more
like the coast of Pomerania lately left I have seldom seen. The road, a
continuation of the road on the mainland, was exactly like other roads
that are dull as far as a rambling village three miles farther on called
Garz--persons referring to the map at the beginning of this book will
see with what a melancholy straightness it proceeds to that village--and
after Garz I ceased to care what it was like, for reasons which I will
now set forth.
There was that afternoon in the market-place of Garz, and I know not
why, since it was neither a Sunday nor a holiday, a brass band playing
with a singular sonorousness. The horses having never before been
required to listen to music, their functions at home being solely to
draw me through the solitudes of forests, did not like it. I was
astonished at the vigour of the dislike they showed who were wont to be
so meek. They danced through Garz, pursued by the braying of the
trumpets and the delighted shouts of the crowd, who seemed to bray and
shout the louder the more the horses danced, and I was considering
whether the time had not come for clinging to Gertrud and shutting my
eyes when we turned a corner and got away from the noise on to the
familiar rattle of the hard country road. I gave a sigh of relief and
stretched out my head to see whether it were as straight a bit as the
last. It was quite as straight, and in the distance bearing down on us
was a black speck that swelled at an awful speed into a motor car. Now
the horses had not yet seen a motor car. Their nerves, already shaken by
the brass band, would never stand such a horrid sight I thought, and
prudence urged an immediate getting out and a rushing to their heads.
'Stop, August!' I cried. 'Jump out, Gertrud--there's a dreadful thing
coming--they're sure to bolt----'
August slowed down in apparent obedience to my order, and without
waiting for him to stop entirely, the motor being almost upon us, I
jumped out on one side and Gertrud jumped out on the other. Before I had
time to run to the horses' heads the motor whizzed past. The horses
strange to say hardly cared at all, only mildly shying as August drove
them slowly along without stopping.
'That's all right,' I remarked, greatly relieved, to Gertrud, who still
held her stocking. 'Now we'll get in again.'
But we could not get in again because August did not stop.
'Call to him to stop,' I said to Gertrud, turning aside to pick some
unusually big poppies.
She called, but he did not stop.
'Call louder, Gertrud,' I said impatiently, for we were now a good way
behind.
She called louder, but he did not stop.
Then I called; then she called; then we called together, but he did not
stop. On the contrary, he was driving on now at the usual pace, rattling
noisily over the hard road, getting more and more out of reach.
'Shout, shout, Gertrud!' I cried in a frenzy; but how could any one so
respectable as Gertrud shout? She sent a faint shriek after the
ever-receding August, and when I tried to shout myself I was seized with
such uncontrollable laughter that nothing whatever of the nature of a
noise could be produced.
Meanwhile August was growing very small in the distance. He evidently
did not know we had got out when the motor car appeared, and was under
the pleasing impression that we were sitting behind him being jogged
comfortably towards Putbus. He dwindled and dwindled with a rapidity
distressing to witness. 'Shout, shout,' I gasped, myself contorted with
dreadful laughter, half-wildest mirth and half despair.
She began to trot down the road after him waving her stocking at his
distant back and emitting a series of shrill shrieks, goaded by the
exigencies of the situation.
The last we saw of the carriage was a yellow glint as the sun caught the
shiny surface of my bandbox; immediately afterwards it vanished over the
edge of a far-away dip in the road, and we were alone with Nature.
Gertrud and I stared at each other in speechless dismay. Then she looked
on in silence while I sank on to a milestone and laughed. There was
nothing, her look said, to laugh at, and much to be earnest over in our
tragic predicament, and I knew it but I could not stop. August had had
no instructions as to where he was driving to or where we were going to
put up that night; of Putbus and Marianna North he had never heard. With
the open ordnance map on my lap I had merely called out directions,
since leaving Miltzow, at cross-roads. Therefore in all human
probability he would drive straight on till dark, no doubt in growing
private astonishment at the absence of orders and the length of the way;
then when night came he would, I supposed, want to light his lamps, and
getting down to do so would | 1,182.57988 |
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Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive/American
Libraries.)
Fishing and
Shooting Sketches
BY
GROVER CLEVELAND
Illustrated by
HENRY S. WATSON
NEW YORK
THE OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY
1906
COPYRIGHT, 1901, 1902, 1903, 1904, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING CO.
COPYRIGHT, 1903, 1904, 1905, 1906, BY THE INDEPENDENT.
COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY THE PRESS PUBLISHING CO.
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY THE COUNTRY CALENDAR.
COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY THE OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY.
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England.
_All Rights Reserved._
THE OUTING PRESS
DEPOSIT, N. Y.
[Illustration: From Copyright Photo, by Pach.
Yours truly
Grover Cleveland]
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE MISSION OF SPORT AND OUTDOOR LIFE 3
A DEFENSE OF FISHERMEN 19
THE SERENE DUCK HUNTER 49
THE MISSION OF FISHING AND FISHERMEN 79
SOME FISHING PRETENSES AND AFFECTATIONS 111
SUMMER SHOOTING 139
CONCERNING RABBIT SHOOTING 153
A WORD TO FISHERMEN 165
A DUCK HUNTING TRIP 179
QUAIL SHOOTING 197
The Mission of Sport and Outdoor Life
I am sure that it is not necessary for me, at this late day, to dwell
upon the fact that I am an enthusiast in my devotion to hunting and
fishing, as well as every other kind of outdoor recreation. I am so
proud of this devotion that, although my sporting proclivities have at
times subjected me to criticism and petty forms of persecution, I make
no claim that my steadfastness should be looked upon as manifesting the
courage of martyrdom. On the contrary, I regard these criticisms and
persecutions as nothing more serious than gnat stings suffered on the
bank of a stream--vexations to be borne with patience and afterward
easily submerged in the memory of abundant delightful accompaniments.
Thus, when short fishing excursions, in which I have sought relief
from the wearing labors and perplexities of official duty, have been
denounced in a mendacious newspaper as dishonest devices to cover
scandalous revelry, I have been able to enjoy a sort of pleasurable
contempt for the author of this accusation, while congratulating myself
on the mental and physical restoration I had derived from these
excursions. So, also, when people, more mistaken than malicious, have
wagged their heads in pitying fashion and deprecated my indulgence
in hunting and fishing frivolity, which, in high public service, I
have found it easy to lament the neglect of these amiable persons
to accumulate for their delectation a fund of charming sporting
reminiscence; while, at the same time, I sadly reflected how their
dispositions might have been sweetened and their lives made happier if
they had yielded something to the particular type of frivolity which
they deplored.
I hope it may not be amiss for me to supplement these personal
observations by the direct confession that, so far as my attachment to
outdoor sports may be considered a fault, I am, as related to this
especial predicament of guilt, utterly incorrigible and shameless. Not
many years ago, while residing in a non-sporting but delightfully
cultured and refined community, I found that considerable indignation
had been aroused among certain good neighbors and friends, because it
had been said of me that I was willing to associate in the field with
any loafer who was the owner of a dog and gun. I am sure that I did not
in the least undervalue the extreme friendliness of those inclined to
intervene in my defense; and yet, at the risk of doing an apparently
ungracious thing, I felt inexorably constrained to check their kindly
efforts by promptly conceding that the charge was too nearly true to be
denied.
There can be no doubt that certain men are endowed with a sort of
inherent and spontaneous instinct which leads them to hunting and
fishing indulgence as the most alluring and satisfying of all
recreations. In this view, I believe it may be safely said that the true
hunter or fisherman is born, not made. I believe, too, that those who
thus by instinct and birthright belong to the sporting fraternity and
are actuated by a genuine sporting spirit, are neither cruel, nor greedy
and wasteful of the game and fish they pursue; and I am convinced that
there can be no better conservators of the sensible and provident
protection of game and fish than those who are enthusiastic in their
pursuit, but who, at the same time, are regulated and restrained by the
sort of chivalric fairness and generosity, felt and recognized by every
true sportsman.
While | 1,182.607914 |
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Produced by D.R. Thompson
HISTORY OF FRIEDRICH II. OF PRUSSIA
FREDERICK THE GREAT
By Thomas Carlyle
BOOK XXI.--AFTERNOON AND EVENING OF FRIEDRICH'S LIFE--1763-1786.
Chapter I.--PREFATORY.
The Twelve Hercules-labors of this King have ended here; what was
required of him in World-History is accomplished. There remain to
Friedrich Twenty-three Years more of Life, which to Prussian History are
as full of importance as ever; but do not essentially concern European
History, Europe having gone the road we now see it in. On the grand
World-Theatre the curtain has fallen for a New Act; Friedrich's part,
like everybody's for the present, is played out. In fact, there is,
during the rest of his Reign, nothing of World-History to be dwelt on
anywhere. America, it has been decided, shall be English; Prussia be a
Nation. The French, as finis of their attempt to cut Germany in Four,
find themselves sunk into torpor, abeyance and dry-rot; fermenting
towards they know not what. Towards Spontaneous Combustion in the year
1789, and for long years onwards!
There, readers, there is the next milestone for you, in the History of
Mankind! That universal Burning-up, as in hell-fire, of Human Shams. The
oath of Twenty-five Million men, which has since become that of all men
whatsoever, "Rather than live longer under lies, we will die!"--that
is the New Act in World-History. New Act,--or, we may call it New PART;
Drama of World-History, Part Third. If Part SECOND was 1,800 years ago,
this I reckon will be Part THIRD. This is the truly celestial-infernal
Event: the strangest we have seen for a thousand years. Celestial in
one part; in the other, infernal. For it is withal the breaking out
of universal mankind into Anarchy, into the faith and practice
of NO-Government,--that is to say (if you will be candid), into
unappeasable Revolt against Sham-Governors and Sham-Teachers,--which
I do charitably define to be a Search, most unconscious, yet in deadly
earnest, for true Governors and Teachers. That is the one fact of
World-History worth dwelling on at this day; and Friedrich cannot be
said to have had much hand farther in that.
Nor is the progress of a French or European world, all silently ripening
and rotting towards such issue, a thing one wishes to dwell on. Only
when the Spontaneous Combustion breaks out; and, many-, with loud
noises, envelops the whole world in anarchic flame for long hundreds of
years: then has the Event come; there is the thing for all men to
mark, and to study and scrutinize as the strangest thing they ever saw.
Centuries of it yet lying ahead of us; several sad Centuries, sordidly
tumultuous, and good for little! Say Two Centuries yet,--say even Ten of
such a process: before the Old is completely burnt out, and the New in
any state of sightliness? Millennium of Anarchies;--abridge it, spend
your heart's-blood upon abridging it, ye Heroic Wise that are to
come! For it is the consummation of All the Anarchies that are and
were;--which I do trust always means the death (temporary death) of
them! Death of the Anarchies: or a world once more built wholly on Fact
better or worse; and the lying jargoning professor of Sham-Fact, whose
name is Legion, who as yet (oftenest little conscious of himself) goes
tumulting and swarming from shore to shore, become a species extinct,
and well known to be gone down to Tophet!--
There were bits of Anarchies before, little and greater: but till that
of France in 1789, there was none long memorable; all were pygmies in
comparison, and not worth mentioning separately. In 1772 the Anarchy of
Poland, which had been a considerable Anarchy for about three
hundred years, got itself extinguished,--what we may call
extinguished;--decisive surgery being then first exercised upon it: an
Anarchy put in the sure way of extinction. In 1775, again, there began,
over seas, another Anarchy much more considerable,--little dreaming that
IT could be called an Anarchy; on the contrary, calling itself Liberty,
Rights of Man; and singing boundless Io-Paeans to itself, as is common
in such cases; an Anarchy which has been challenging the Universe
to show the like ever since. And which has, at last, flamed up as an
independent Phenomenon, unexampled in the hideously SUICIDAL way;--and
does need much to get burnt out, that matters may begin anew on truer
conditions. But neither the PARTITION OF POLAND nor the AMERICAN WAR OF
INDEPENDENCE have much general importance, or, except as precursors
of 1789, are worth dwelling on in History. From us here, so far as
Friedrich is concerned with them, they may deserve some transient
mention, more or less: but World-History, eager to be at the general
Funeral-pile and ultimate Burning-up of Shams in this poor World, will
have less and less to say of small tragedies and premonitory symptoms.
Curious how the busy and continually watchful and speculating Friedrich,
busied about his dangers from Austrian encroachments, from Russian-Turk
Wars, Bavarian Successions, and other troubles and anarchies close
by, saw nothing to dread in France; nothing to remark there, except
carelessly, from time to time, its beggarly decaying condition, so
strangely sunk in arts, in arms, in finance; oftenest an object of pity
to him, for he still has a love for France;--and reads not the least
sign of that immeasurable, all-engulfing FRENCH REVOLUTION which was in
the wind! Neither Voltaire nor he have the least anticipation of such a
thing. Voltaire and he see, to their contentment, Superstition
visibly declining: Friedrich rather disapproves the heat of Voltaire's
procedures on the INFAME. "Why be in such heat? Other nonsense, quite
equal to it, will be almost sure to follow. Take care of your own skin!"
Voltaire and he are deeply alive, especially Voltaire is, to the
horrors and miseries which have issued on mankind from a Fanatic Popish
Superstition, or Creed of Incredibilities,--which (except from the
throat outwards, from the bewildered tongue outwards) the orthodox
themselves cannot believe, but only pretend and struggle to believe.
This Voltaire calls "THE INFAMOUS;" and this--what name can any of us
give it? The man who believes in falsities is very miserable. The man
who cannot believe them, but only struggles and pretends to believe;
and yet, being armed with the power of the sword, industriously keeps
menacing and slashing all round, to compel every neighbor to do like
him: what is to be done with such a man? Human Nature calls him a Social
Nuisance; needing to be handcuffed, gagged and abated. Human Nature, if
it be in a terrified and imperilled state, with the sword of this fellow
swashing round it, calls him "Infamous," and a Monster of Chaos. He
is indeed the select Monster of that region; the Patriarch of all the
Monsters, little as he dreams of being such. An Angel of Heaven the poor
caitiff dreams himself rather, and in cheery moments is conscious of
being:--Bedlam holds in it no madder article. And I often think he will
again need to be tied up (feeble as he now is in comparison, disinclined
though men are to manacling and tying); so many helpless infirm souls
are wandering about, not knowing their right hand from their left, who
fall a prey to him. "L'INFAME" I also name him,--knowing well enough how
little he, in his poor muddled, drugged and stupefied mind, is conscious
of deserving that name. More signal enemy to God, and friend of the
Other Party, walks not the Earth in our day.
Anarchy in the shape of religious slavery was what Voltaire and
Friedrich saw all round them. Anarchy in the shape of Revolt against
Authorities was what Friedrich and Voltaire had never dreamed of as
possible, and had not in their minds the least idea of. In one, or
perhaps two places you may find in Voltaire a grim and rather glad
forethought, not given out as prophecy, but felt as interior assurance
in a moment of hope, How these Priestly Sham Hierarchies will be pulled
to pieces, probably on the sudden, once people are awake to them. Yes,
my much-suffering M. de Voltaire, be pulled to pieces; or go aloft,
like the awakening of Vesuvius, one day,--Vesuvius awakening after
ten centuries of slumber, when his crater is all grown grassy, bushy,
copiously "tenanted by wolves" I am told; which, after premonitory
grumblings, heeded by no wolf or bush, he will hurl bodily aloft, ten
acres at a time, in a very tremendous manner! [First modern Eruption of
Vesuvius, A.D. 1631, after long interval of rest.] A thought like this,
about the Priestly Sham-Hierarchies, I have found somewhere in Voltaire:
but of the Social and Civic Sham-Hierarchies (which are likewise
accursed, if they knew it, and indeed are junior co-partners of the
Priestly; and, in a sense, sons and products of them, and cannot escape
being partakers of their plagues), there is no hint, in Voltaire, though
Voltaire stood at last only fifteen years from the Fact (1778-1793); nor
in Friedrich, though he lived almost to see the Fact beginning.
Friedrich's History being henceforth that of a Prussian King, is
interesting to Prussia chiefly, and to us little otherwise than as the
Biography of a distinguished fellow-man, Friedrich's Biography, his
Physiognomy as he grows old, quietly on his own harvest-field, among his
own People: this has still an interest, and for any feature of this we
shall be eager enough; but this withal is the most of what we now want.
And not very much even of this; Friedrich the unique King not having
as a man any such depth and singularity, tragic, humorous, devotionally
pious, or other, as to authorize much painting in that aspect. Extreme
brevity beseems us in these circumstances: and indeed there are,--as has
already happened in different parts of this Enterprise (Nature
herself, in her silent way, being always something of an Artist in such
things),--other circumstances, which leave us no choice as to that of
detail. Available details, if we wished to give them, of Friedrich's
later Life, are not forthcoming: masses of incondite marine-stores,
tumbled out on you, dry rubbish shot with uncommon diligence for a
hundred years, till, for Rubbish-Pelion piled on Rubbish-Ossa, you lose
sight of the stars and azimuths; whole mountain continents, seemingly
all of cinders and sweepings (though fragments and remnants do lie
hidden, could you find them again):---these are not details that will be
available! Anecdotes there are in quantity; but of uncertain quality;
of doubtful authenticity, above all. One recollects hardly any
Anecdote whatever that seems completely credible, or renders to us the
Physiognomy of Friedrich in a convincing manner. So remiss a creature
has the Prussian Clio been,--employed on all kinds of loose errands over
the Earth and the Air; and as good as altogether negligent of this most
pressing errand in her own House. Peace be with her, poor slut;
why should we say one other hard word on taking leave of her to all
eternity!--
The Practical fact is, what we have henceforth to produce is more of
the nature of a loose Appendix of Papers, than of a finished Narrative.
Loose Papers,--which, we will hope, the reader can, by industry, be made
to understand and tolerate: more we cannot do for him. No continuous
Narrative is henceforth possible to us. For the sake of Friedrich's
closing Epoch, we will visit, for the last time, that dreary imbroglio
under which the memory of Friedrich, which ought to have been, in all
the epochs of it, bright and legible, lies buried; and will try to
gather, as heretofore, and put under labels. What dwells with oneself
as human may have some chance to be humanly interesting. In the wildest
chaos of marine-stores and editorial shortcomings (provided only the
editors speak truth, as these poor fellows do) THIS can be done.
Part the living from the dead; pick out what has some meaning, leave
carefully what has none; you will in some small measure pluck up the
memory of a hero, like drowned honor by the locks, and rescue it, into
visibility.
That Friedrich, on reaching home, made haste to get out, of the bustle
of joyances and exclamations on the streets; proceeded straight to his
music-chapel in Charlottenburg, summoning the Artists, or having them
already summoned; and had there, all alone, sitting invisible wrapt in
his cloak, Graun's or somebody's grand TE-DEUM pealed out to him, in
seas of melody,--soothing and salutary to the altered soul, revolving
many things,--is a popular myth, of pretty and appropriate character;
but a myth only, with no real foundation, though it has some loose
and apparent. [In PREUSS, ii. 46, all the details of it.] No doubt,
Friedrich had his own thoughts on entering Berlin again, after such
a voyage through the deeps; himself, his Country still here, though
solitary and in a world of wild shipwrecks. He was not without piety;
but it did not take the devotional form, and his habits had nothing of
the clerical.
What is perfectly known, and much better worth knowing, is the
instantaneous practical alacrity with which he set about repairing that
immense miscellany of ruin; and the surprising success he had in dealing
with it. His methods, his rapid inventions and procedures, in this
matter, are still memorable to Prussia; and perhaps might with advantage
be better known than they are in some other Countries. To us, what is
all we can do with them here, they will indicate that this is still the
old Friedrich, with his old activities and promptitudes; which indeed
continue unabated, lively in Peace as in War, to the end of his life and
reign.
The speed with which Prussia recovered was extraordinary. Within little
more than a year (June 1st, 1764), the Coin was all in order again; in
1765, the King had rebuilt, not to mention other things, "in Silesia
8,000 Houses, in Pommern 6,500." [Rodenbeck, ii. 234, 261.] Prussia has
been a meritorious Nation; and, however cut and ruined, is and was in a
healthy state, capable of recovering soon. Prussia has defended itself
against overwhelming odds,--brave Prussia; but the real soul of its
merit was that of having merited such a King to command it. Without this
King, all its valors, disciplines, resources of war, would have availed
Prussia little. No wonder Prussia has still a loyalty to its great
Friedrich, to its Hohenzollern Sovereigns generally. Without these
Hohenzollerns, Prussia had been, what we long ago saw it, the unluckiest
of German Provinces; and could never have had the pretension to exist
as a Nation at all. Without this particular Hohenzollern, it had been
trampled out again, after apparently succeeding. To have achieved a
Friedrich the Second for King over it, was Prussia's grand merit.
An accidental merit, thinks the reader? No, reader, you may believe me,
it is by no means altogether such. Nay, I rather think, could we look
into the Account-Books of the Recording Angel for a course of centuries,
no part of it is such! There are Nations in which a Friedrich is, or can
be, possible; and again there are Nations in which he is not and
cannot. To be practically reverent of Human Worth to the due extent,
and abhorrent of Human Want of Worth in the like proportion, do
you understand that art at all? I fear, not,--or that you are much
forgetting it again! Human Merit, do you really love it enough, think
you;--human Scoundrelism (brought to the dock for you, and branded as
scoundrel), do you even abhor it enough? Without that reverence and
its corresponding opposite-pole of abhorrence, there is simply no
possibility left. That, my friend, is the outcome and summary of all
virtues in this world, for a man or for a Nation of men. It is the
supreme strength and glory of a Nation;--without which, indeed, all
other strengths, and enormities of bullion and arsenals and warehouses,
are no strength. None, I should say;--and are oftenest even the REVERSE.
Nations who have lost this quality, or who never had it, what Friedrich
can they hope to be possible among them? Age after age they grind
down their Friedrichs contentedly under the hoofs of cattle on their
highways; and even find it an excellent practice, and pride themselves
on Liberty and Equality. Most certain it is, there will no Friedrich
come to rule there; by and by, there will none be born there. Such
Nations cannot have a King to command them; can only have this or
the other scandalous swindling Copper Captain, constitutional Gilt
Mountebank, or other the like unsalutary entity by way of King; and the
sins of the fathers are visited upon the children in a frightful and
tragical manner, little noticed in the Penny Newspapers and Periodical
Literatures of this generation. Oh, my friends--! But there is plain
Business waiting us at hand.
Chapter II.--REPAIRING OF A RUINED PRUSSIA.
That of Friedrich's sitting wrapt in a cloud of reflections
Olympian-Abysmal, in the music-chapel at Charlottenburg, while he had
the Ambrosian Song executed for him there, as the preliminary step, was
a loose myth; but the fact lying under it is abundantly certain. Few
Sons of Adam had more reason for a piously thankful feeling towards the
Past, a piously valiant towards the Future. What king or man had seen
himself delivered from such strangling imbroglios of destruction, such
devouring rages of a hostile world? And the ruin worked by them lay
monstrous and appalling all round. Friedrich is now Fifty-one gone;
unusually old for his age; feels himself an old man, broken with years
and toils; and here lies his Kingdom in haggard slashed condition, worn
to skin and bone: How is the King, resourceless, to remedy it? That is
now the seemingly impossible problem. "Begin it,--thereby alone will it
ever cease to be impossible!" Friedrich begins, we may say, on the
first morrow morning. Labors at his problem, as he did in the march to
Leuthen; finds it to become more possible, day after day, month after
month, the farther he strives with it.
"Why not leave it to Nature?" think many, with the Dismal Science
at their elbow. Well; that was the easiest plan, but it was not
Friedrich's. His remaining moneys, 25 million thalers ready for a
Campaign which has not come, he distributes to the most necessitous:
"all his artillery-horses" are parted into plough-teams, and given to
those who can otherwise get none: think what a fine figure of rye
and barley, instead of mere windlestraws, beggary and desolation, was
realized by that act alone. Nature is ready to do much; will of herself
cover, with some veil of grass and lichen, the nakedness of ruin: but
her victorious act, when she can accomplish it, is that of getting YOU
to go with her handsomely, and change disaster itself into new wealth.
Into new wisdom and valor, which are wealth in all kinds; California
mere zero to them, zero, or even a frightful MINUS quantity! Friedrich's
procedures in this matter I believe to be little less didactic than
those other, which are so celebrated in War: but no Dryasdust, not even
a Dryasdust of the Dismal Science, has gone into them, rendered men
familiar with them in their details and results. His Silesian Land-Bank
(joint-stock Moneys, lent on security of Land) was of itself, had I room
to explain it, an immense furtherance. [Preuss, iii. 75; _OEuvres de
Frederic,_ vi. 84.] Friedrich, many tell us, was as great in Peace as
in War: and truly, in the economic and material provinces, my own
impression, gathered painfully in darkness, and contradiction of the
Dismal-Science Doctors, is much to that effect. A first-rate Husbandman
(as his Father had been); who not only defended his Nation, but made it
rich beyond what seemed possible; and diligently sowed annuals into it,
and perennials which flourish aloft at this day.
Mirabeau's _Monarchie Prussienne,_ in 8 thick Volumes 8vo,--composed, or
hastily cobbled together, some Twenty years after this period,--contains
the best tabular view one anywhere gets of Friedrich's economics,
military and other practical methods and resources:--solid exact Tables
these are, and intelligent intelligible descriptions, done by Mauvillon
FILS, the same punctual Major Mauvillon who used to attend us in Duke
Ferdinand's War;--and so far as Mirabeau is concerned, the Work consists
farther of a certain small Essay done in big type, shoved into the belly
of each Volume, and eloquently recommending, with respectful censures
and regrets over Friedrich, the Gospel of Free Trade, dear to Papa
Mirabeau. The Son is himself a convert; far above lying, even to
please Papa: but one can see, the thought of Papa gives him new fire of
expression. They are eloquent, ruggedly strong Essays, those of Mirabeau
Junior upon Free Trade:--they contain, in condensed shape, everything
we were privileged to hear, seventy years later, from all organs,
coach-horns, jews-harps and scrannel-pipes, PRO and CONTRA, on the same
sublime subject: "God is great, and Plugson of Undershot is his Prophet.
Thus saith the Lord, Buy in the cheapest market, sell in the dearest!"
To which the afflicted human mind listens what it can;--and after
seventy years, mournfully asks itself and Mirabeau, "M. le Comte, would
there have been in Prussia, for example, any Trade at all, any Nation at
all, had it always been left 'Free'? There would have been mere sand and
quagmire, and a community of wolves and bisons, M. le Comte. Have the
goodness to terminate that Litany, and take up another!"
We said, Friedrich began his problem on the first morrow morning; and
that is literally true, that or even MORE. Here is how Friedrich takes
his stand amid the wreck, speedy enough to begin: this view of our old
friend Nussler and him is one of the Pieces we can give,--thanks to Herr
Busching and his _Beitrage_ for the last time! Nussler is now something
of a Country Gentleman, so to speak; has a pleasant place out to east of
Berlin; is LANDRATH (County Chairman) there, "Landrath of Nether-Barnim
Circle;" where we heard of the Cossacks spoiling him: he, as who not,
has suffered dreadfully in these tumults. Here is Busching's welcome
Account.
LANDRATH NUSSLER AND THE KING (30th March-3d April, 1763).
"MARCH 30th, 1763, Friedrich, on his return to Berlin, came by the route
of Tassdorf,"--Tassdorf, in Nether-Barnim Circle (40 odd miles from
Frankfurt, and above 15 from Berlin);--"and changed horses there. During
this little pause, among a crowd assembled to see him, he was addressed
by Nussler, Landrath of the Circle, who had a very piteous story to
tell. Nussler wished the King joy of his noble victories, and of the
glorious Peace at last achieved: 'May your Majesty reign in health
and happiness over us many years, to the blessing of us all!'--and
recommended to his gracious care the extremely ruined, and, especially
by the Russians, uncommonly devastated Circle, for which," continues
Busching "this industrious Landrath had not hitherto been able to
extract any effective help." Generally for the Provinces wasted by the
Russians there had already some poor 300,000 thalers (45,000 pounds)
been allowed by a helpful Majesty, not over-rich himself at the moment;
and of this, Nether-Barnim no doubt gets its share: but what is this to
such ruin as there is? A mere preliminary drop, instead of the bucket
and buckets we need!--Busching, a dull, though solid accurate kind
of man, heavy-footed, and yet always in a hurry, always slipshod, has
nothing of dramatic here; far from it; but the facts themselves fall
naturally into that form,--in Three Scenes:--
I. TASSDORF (still two hours from Berlin), KING, NUSSLER AND A CROWD OF
PEOPLE, Nussler ALONE DARING TO SPEAK.
KING (from his Carriage, ostlers making despatch). "What is your Circle
most short of?"
LANDRATH NUSSLER. "Of horses for ploughing the seedfields of rye to sow
them, and of bread till the crops come."
KING. "Rye for bread, and to sow with, I will give; with horses I cannot
assist."
NUSSLER. "On representation of Privy-Councillor van Brenkenhof [the
Minister concerned with such things], your Majesty has been pleased to
give the Neumark and Pommern an allowance of Artillery and Commissariat
Horses: but poor Nether-Barnim, nobody will speak for it; and unless
your Majesty's gracious self please to take pity on it, Nether-Barnim is
lost!" (A great many things more he said, in presence of a large crowd
of men who had gathered round the King's Carriage as the horses were
being changed; and spoke with such force and frankness that the King was
surprised, and asked:)--
KING. "Who are you?" (has forgotten the long-serviceable man!)
NUSSLER. "I am the Nussler who was lucky enough to manage the Fixing of
the Silesian Boundaries for your Majesty!"
KING. "JA, JA, now I know you again! Bring me all the Landraths of the
Kurmark [Mark of Brandenburg Proper, ELECTORAL Mark] in a body; I will
speak with them."
NUSSLER. "All of them but two are in Berlin already."
KING. "Send off estafettes for those two to come at once to Berlin; and
on Thursday," day after to-morrow, "come yourself, with all the others,
to the Schloss to me: I will then have some closer conversation, and
say what I can and will do for helping of the country," (King's Carriage
rolls away, with low bows and blessings from Nussler and everybody).
II. THURSDAY, APRIL 1st, NUSSLER AND ASSEMBLED LANDRATHS AT THE SCHLOSS
OF BERLIN. To them, enter KING....
NUSSLER (whom they have appointed spokesman).... "Your Majesty has given
us Peace; you will also give us Well-being in the Land again: we
leave it to Highest-the-Same's gracious judgment [no limit to
Highest-the-Same's POWER, it would seem] what you will vouchsafe to us
as indemnification for the Russian plunderings."
KING. "Be you quiet; let me speak. Have you got a pencil (HAT ER
CRAYON)? Yes! Well then, write, and these Gentlemen shall dictate to
you:--
"'How much rye for bread; How much for seed; How many Horses, Oxen,
Cows, their Circles do in an entirely pressing way require?'
"Consider all that to the bottom; and come to me again the day after
to-morrow. But see that you fix everything with the utmost exactitude,
for I cannot give much." (EXIT King.)
NUSSLER (to the Landraths). "MEINE HERREN, have the goodness to
accompany me to our Landschaft House [we have a kind of County Hall, it
seems]; there we will consider everything."
And Nussler, guiding the deliberations, which are glad to follow him
on every point, and writing as PRO-TEMPORE Secretary, has all things
brought to luminous Protocol in the course of this day and next.
III. SATURDAY, APRIL 3d, IN THE SCHLOSS AGAIN: NUSSLER AND LANDRATHS. To
them, the KING.
Nussler. "We deliver to your Majesty the written Specification you
were graciously pleased to command of us. It contains only the
indispensablest things that the Circles are in need of. Moreover, it
regards only the STANDE [richer Nobility], who pay contribution; the
Gentry [ADEL], and other poor people, who have been utterly plundered
out by the Russians, are not included in it:--the Gentry too have
suffered very much by the War and the Plundering."
KING. "What EDELLEUTE that are members of STANDE have you [ER] got in
your Circle?"
NUSSLER (names them; and, as finis of the list, adds):... "I myself,
too, your Majesty, I have suffered more than anybody: I absolutely could
not furnish those 4,000 bushels of meal ordered of me by the Russians;
upon which they--"
KING. "I cannot give to all: but if you have poor Nobles in your Circle,
who can in no way help themselves, I will give them something."
NUSSLER (has not any in Nether-Barnim who are altogether in that extreme
predicament; but knows several in Lebus Circle, names them to the
King;--and turning to the Landrath of Lebus, and to another who is
mute): "Herr, you can name some more in Lebus; and you, in Teltow
Circle, Herr Landrath, since his Majesty permits."... In a word, the
King having informed himself and declared his intention, Nussler leads
the Landraths to their old County Hall, and brings to Protocol what had
taken place.
Next day, the Kammer President (Exchequer President), Van der Groben,
had Nussler, with other Landraths, to dinner. During dinner, there came
from Head Secretary Eichel (Majesty's unwearied Clerk of the PELLS,
Sheepskins, or PAPERS) an earnest request to Von der Groben for
help,--Eichel not being able to remember, with the requisite precision,
everything his Majesty had bid him put down on this matter. "You will
go, Herr von Nussler; be so kind, won't you?" And Nussler went, and
fully illuminated Eichel....
To the poorest of the Nobility, Busching tells us, what is otherwise
well known, the King gave considerable sums: to one Circle 12,000
pounds, to another 9,000 pounds, 6,000 pounds, and so on. By help
of which bounties, and of Nussler laboring incessantly with all his
strength, Nieder-Barnim Circle got on its feet again, no subject having
been entirely ruined, but all proving able to recover. [Busching,
_Beitrage_ (Nussler), i. 401-405.]
This Busching Fragment is not in the style of the Elder Dramatists, or
for the Bankside Theatre; but this represents a Fact which befell in
God's Creation, and may | 1,182.679398 |
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and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net.
THE WORKS OF HONORE De BALZAC
About Catherine de' Medici
Seraphita
AND OTHER STORIES
With Introductions by
GEORGE SAINTSBURY
UNIVERSITY EDITION
AVIL PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA.
COPYRIGHTED 1901
BY
John D. Avil
_All Rights Reserved_
CONTENTS
PART I
PAGE
_INTRODUCTION_ ix
_ABOUT CATHERINE DE' MEDICI_:
(_Sur Catherine de Medicis_)
PREFACE 3
PART I. THE CALVINIST MARTYR 44
" II. THE RUGGIERI'S SECRET 233
" III. THE TWO DREAMS 308
_GAMBARA_ 327
(_Gambara_)
PART II
_INTRODUCTION_ ix
_SERAPHITA_:
(_Seraphita_)
I. SERAPHITUS 2
II. SERAPHITA 22
III. SERAPHITA--SERAPHITUS 40
IV. THE CLOUDS OF THE SANCTUARY 82
V. THE FAREWELL 112
VI. THE ROAD TO HEAVEN 123
VII. THE ASSUMPTION 134
_LOUIS LAMBERT_ 145
(_Louis Lambert_)
_THE EXILES_
(_Les Proscrits_)
ALMAE SORORI 259
_MAITRE CORNELIUS_ 293
(_Maitre Cornelius_)
_THE ELIXIR OF LIFE_ 359
(_L'Elixir de longue Vie_)
(Translators, CLARA BELL AND JAMES WARING)
ILLUSTRATIONS
PART I
QUADRANGLE OF THE COLLEGE OF VENDOME WHERE
BALZAC WAS EDUCATED _Frontispiece_
PAGE
"I AM CHAUDIEU!" 53
PLACED HIMSELF IN FRONT OF A LOOKING-GLASS 328
PART II
TOWER IN WHICH BALZAC PASSED MOST OF HIS TIME
AT COLLEGE 164
HE NOW SAW WITH A TERRIFIED SHUDDER THAT THERE
WAS A BRIGHT LIGHT ON THE STAIRS, AND PERCEIVED
CORNELIUS, IN HIS OLD DALMATIC, CARRYING
HIS LAMP 324
ABOUT CATHERINE DE' MEDICI
AND
GAMBARA
INTRODUCTION
This book (as to which it is important to remember the _Sur_ if injustice
is not to be done to the intentions of the author) has plenty of interest
of more kinds than one; but it is perhaps more interesting because of the
place it holds in Balzac's work than for itself. He had always considerable
hankerings after the historical novel: his early and lifelong devotion to
Scott would sufficiently account for that. More than one of the _Oeuvres
de Jeunesse_ attempts the form in a more or less conscious way: the
_Chouans_, the first successful book, definitely attempts it; but by far
the most ambitious attempt is to be found in the book before us. It is most
probable that it was of this, if of anything of his own, that Balzac was
thinking when, in 1846, he wrote disdainfully to Madame Hanska about Dumas,
and expressed himself towards _Les Trois Mousquetaires_ (which had whiled
him through a day of cold and inability to work) nearly as ungratefully as
Carlyle did towards Captain Marryat. And though it is, let it be repeated,
a mistake, and a rather unfair mistake, to give such a title to the book as
might induce readers to regard it as a single and definite novel, of which
Catherine is the heroine, though it is made up of three parts written at
very different times, it has a unity which the introduction shows to some
extent, and which a rejected preface given by M. de Lovenjoul shows still
better.
To understand this, we must remember that Balzac, though not exactly an
historical scholar, was a considerable student of history; and that,
although rather an amateur politician, he was a constant thinker and writer
on political subjects. We must add to these remembrances the fact of his
intense interest in all such matters as Alchemy, the Elixir of Life, and so
forth, to which the sixteenth century in general, and Catherine de' Medici
in particular, were known to be devoted. All these interests of his met in
the present book, the parts of which appeared in inverse order, and the
genesis of which is important enough to make it desirable to incorporate
some of the usual bibliographical matter in the substance of this preface.
The third and shortest, _Les Deux Reves_, a piece partly suggestive of the
famous _Prophecy of Cazotte_ and other legends of the Revolution (but with
more retrospective than prospective view), is dated as early as 1828
(before the turning-point), and was actually published in a periodical in
1830. _La Confidence des Ruggieri_, written in 1836 (and, as I have noted
in the general introduction, according to its author, in a single night)
followed, and _Le Martyr Calviniste_, which had several titles, and was
advertised as in preparation for a long time, did not come till 1841.
It is unnecessary to say that all are interesting. The personages, both
imaginary and historical, appear at times in | 1,182.688517 |
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Internet Archive.)
Shakespeare in the Theatre
[Illustration: Yours truly, Wm. Poel.
_Photo. Bassano._]
SHAKESPEARE IN THE THEATRE
BY WILLIAM POEL
FOUNDER AND DIRECTOR OF
THE ELIZABETHAN STAGE SOCIETY
LONDON AND TORONTO
SIDGWICK AND JACKSON, LTD.
1913
_All rights reserved._
NOTE
These papers are reprinted from the _National Review_, the _Westminster
Review_, the _Era_, and the _New Age_, by kind permission of the owners of
the copyrights. The articles are collected in one volume, in the hope that
they may be of use to those who are interested in the question of stage
reform, more especially where it concerns the production of Shakespeare's
plays.
W. P.
_May, 1913._
ADDENDUM
An acknowledgement of permission to reprint should also have been made to
the _Nation_, in which several of the most important of these papers
originally appeared.
W. P.
_Shakespeare in the Theatre_
CONTENTS
PAGE
I THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE
The Elizabethan Playhouse--The Plays and the Players 3
II THE PLAYS OF SHAKESPEARE
Some Mistakes of the Editors--Some Mistakes of the
Actors--The Character of Lady Macbeth--Shakespeare's
Jew and Marlowe's Christians--The Authors of "King
Henry the Eighth"--"Troilus and Cressida" 27
III SOME STAGE VERSIONS
"The Merchant of Venice"--"Romeo and
Juliet"--"Hamlet"--"King Lear" 119
IV THE NATIONAL THEATRE
The Repertory Theatre--The Elizabethan Stage
Society--Shakespeare at Earl's Court--The Students'
Theatre--The Memorial Scheme 193
INDEX 241
I
THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE
THE ELIZABETHAN PLAYHOUSE
THE PLAYS AND THE PLAYERS
SHAKESPEARE IN THE THEATRE
I
THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE
THE ELIZABETHAN PLAYHOUSE.[1]
The interdependence of Shakespeare's dramatic art with the form of theatre
for which Shakespeare wrote his plays is seldom emphasized. The ordinary
reader and the everyday critic have no historic knowledge of the
Elizabethan playhouse; and however full the Elizabethan dramas may be of
allusions to the contemporary stage, the bias of modern dramatic students
is so opposed to any belief in the superiority of past methods of acting
Shakespeare over modern ones, as to effectually bar any serious inquiry. A
few sceptics have recognized dimly that a conjoint study of Shakespeare
and the stage for which he wrote is possible; but they have not conducted
their researches either seriously or impartially, and their conclusions
have proved disputable and disappointing. With a very hazy perception of
the connection between Elizabethan histrionic art and its literature, they
have approached a comparison of the Elizabethan drama with the
Elizabethan stage as they would a Chinese puzzle. They have read the plays
in modern printed editions, they have seen them acted on the
picture-stage, they have heard allusions made to old tapestry, rushes, and
boards, and at once they have concluded that the dramatist found his
theatre inadequate to his needs.
Now the first, and perhaps the strongest, evidence which can be adduced to
disfavour this theory is the extreme difficulty--it might almost be said
the impossibility--of discovering a single point of likeness between the
modern idea of an Elizabethan representation of one of Shakespeare's
plays, and the actual light in which it presented itself before the eyes
of Elizabethan spectators. It is wasted labour to try to account for the
perversities of the human intellect; but displays of unblushing ignorance
have undoubtedly discouraged | 1,182.69961 |
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SECOND BASE SLOAN
[Illustration: The White Boy, the Black Boy, and the Yellow Dog]
Second Base Sloan
BY
CHRISTY MATHEWSON
AUTHOR OF
FIRST BASE FAULKNER,
CATCHER CRAIG, ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY
E. C. CASWELL
[Illustration]
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1917, by
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I TWO BOYS AND A DOG 3
II JUNE STRIKES A BARGAIN 13
III THE SEARCH FOR WORK 28
IV DISPOSSESSED 44
V WAYNE PARTS WITH SAM 57
VI THE NEW HOME 71
VII THE LUCK CHANGES 84
VIII WAYNE LOSES A JOB AND FINDS ONE 100
IX BIG TOM MAKES AN OFFER 118
X NEW FRIENDS 131
XI THE CHENANGO CLUB 143
XII MEDFIELD CELEBRATES 159
XIII WAYNE BEATS OUT THE BALL 172
XIV “A GENTLEMAN TO SEE MR. SLOAN” 186
XV PATTERN GIVES ADVICE 198
XVI OFF TO HARRISVILLE 210
XVII TURNED DOWN! 225
XVIII “BADGERS” VS. “BILLIES” 236
XIX WAYNE LENDS A HAND 250
XX JUNE GOES TO WORK 263
XXI MR. MILBURN PROMISES 274
XXII SECOND BASE SLOAN 287
ILLUSTRATIONS
The white boy, the black boy, and the yellow dog (Page 12)
_Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
Wayne’s cry was uttered involuntarily as he leaped forward 104
Every other Medfield adherent made a joyful noise 182
His conviction that he could hit that ball was still strong 296
SECOND BASE SLOAN
CHAPTER I
TWO BOYS AND A DOG
Two boys and a dog sat at the edge of a little wood and shiveringly
watched the eastern sky pale from inky blue to gray. One of the boys
was white and the other was black; and the dog was yellow. The white
boy was seventeen years old, the black boy sixteen, and the yellow
dog--well, no one knew just how old he was. The white boy’s name was
Wayne Torrence Sloan, the black boy’s name was Junius Brutus Bartow
Tasker, and the dog’s name was Sam. An hour ago they had been rudely
awakened from their sleep in a box car and more rudely driven forth
into cold and darkness and mystery. They had had no complaint to make,
for they had lain undisturbed in the car ever since the middle of the
previous afternoon; and between that time and an hour ago had rumbled
and jolted over miles and miles of track, just how many miles there was
no way of telling until, having learned their present whereabouts,
Wayne should puzzle out the matter of distance on the frayed and
tattered time-table in his pocket. Travelling as they had travelled,
on foot or stealing rides when the chance offered, makes a philosopher
of one, and instead of objecting to the fate that had overtaken them
when a suspicious train hand had flashed his lantern into the gloomy
recesses of the box car, they had departed hurriedly and in silence,
being thankful that the exodus had not been forced on them long before.
Minute by minute the sky brightened. The steely gray became softer in
tone and began to flush with a suggestion of rose. The stars paled. A
wan gleam of approaching daylight fell on one burnished rail of the
track which lay a few rods distant. The trees behind them took on form
and substance and their naked branches became visibly detailed against
the sky. The dog whined softly and curled himself tighter in Wayne’s
arms. Wayne stretched the corner of his gray sweater over the thin back
and eased himself from the cramped position against the trunk of a
small tree.
“What would you do, June, if someone came along about now with a can of
hot coffee?” he asked, breaking the silence that had lasted for many
minutes. The <DW64> boy aroused from his half doze and flashed the
whites of his eyes in the gloom.
“Mas’ Wayne,” he answered fervently, “I’d jus’ about love that Mister
Man. M-m-mm! Hot coffee! Lawsy-y! You reckon it ever goin’ to get
lightsome, Mas’ Wayne?”
“I reckon we can start along pretty soon now, June. Whereabouts do you
suspect we are?”
“I reckon we must be gettin’ mighty nigh New York. How far was we
yesterday?”
“’Most two hundred and fifty miles. If we’d just kept right on going
all night we might have been in New York right now, but that freight
was standing still more times than it was moving, I reckon. Look
yonder, June. Daylight’s surely coming, isn’t it?”
Junius Brutus Bartow Tasker turned an obedient gaze toward the east,
but his reply was pessimistic. A <DW64> who is cold is generally
pessimistic, and June was certainly cold. Unlike Wayne, he had no
sweater under his shabby jacket, nor was there much of anything else
under it, for the coarse gingham shirt offered little resistance to
the chill of the March night, and June and undershirts had long been
strangers. Early spring in southern Georgia is a different matter from
the same season up North, a fact which neither boy had allowed for.
“I reckon Christmas is comin’ too,” muttered June gloomily, “but it’s
a powerful long way off. How come the nights is so long up here, Mas’
Wayne?”
“I reckon there isn’t any difference, not really,” answered Wayne.
“They just seem like they were longer. Sam, you wake up and stretch
yourself. We’re going to travel again pretty soon now. Go catch
yourself a rabbit or something.”
The dog obeyed instructions so far as stretching himself was concerned,
and, after finding that he was not to be allowed to return to the
warmth of his master’s lap, even set off in a half-hearted, shivering
fashion to explore the surrounding world.
“I reckon he can projeck ’roun’ a mighty long time before he starts a
rabbit,” said June discouragedly. “It’s a powerful mean-lookin’ country
up this way, ain’ it? What state you-all reckons we’s in, Mas’ Wayne?”
Wayne shook his head. Shaking his head was very easy because he only
had to let the tremors that were agitating the rest of him extend above
the turned-up collar of his jacket! “I reckon it might be Maryland,
June. Somewheres around there, anyway.” He felt for the time-table in
his pocket, but he didn’t bring it forth for it was still too dark to
read. “I ’most wish I was back home, June,” he went on wistfully,
after a minute’s silence. “I sure do!”
“I done told you we hadn’t no business comin’ up this yere way. Ain’
nothin’ up here but Northerners, I reckon. If we’d gone West like I
said we’d been a heap better off.”
“Nobody asked you to come, anyway,” responded Wayne sharply. “There
wasn’t any reason for you coming. You--you just butted in!”
As there was no denying that statement, June wisely chose to change
the subject. “Reckon someone’s goin’ to give us some breakfast pretty
soon?” he asked.
But Wayne had a grievance now and, feeling a good deal more homesick
than he had thought he ever could feel, and a lot colder and emptier
than was pleasant, he nursed it. “I couldn’t stay there any longer and
slave for that man,” he said. “I stuck it out as long as I could. Ever
since mother died it’s been getting worse and worse. He hasn’t got any
hold on me, anyway. Stepfathers aren’t kin. I had a right to run away
if I wanted to, and he can’t fetch me back, not anyway, not even by
law!”
“No, sir, he can’,” agreed June soothingly.
“But you didn’t have any right to run away, June. You----”
“How come I ain’t” demanded the <DW64>. “He ain’ no kin to me, neither,
is he? I was jus’ a-workin’ for him. Mister Higgins ain’ got no more
’sponsibility about me than he has about you, Mas’ Wayne.”
“Just the same, June, he can fetch you back if he ever catches you.”
“Can, can he? Let me tell you somethin’. He ain’ _goin’_ to catch me!
Nobody ain’ goin’ to catch me! folkses is free an’ independent
citizens, ain’ they? Ain’ they, Mas’ Wayne?”
“Maybe they’re free,” answered his companion grimly, “but if you get to
acting independent I’ll just about lick the hide off you! I ought to
have done it back yonder and sent you home where you belong.”
“I’se where I belong right now,” replied June stoutly. “Ain’ we been
together ever since we was jus’ little fellers, Mas’ Wayne? Wasn’ my
mammy your mammy’s <DW65> for years an’ years? How come I ain’ got no
right here? Ain’ my mammy always say to me, ‘You Junius Brutus Tasker,
you watch out for Young Master an’ don’ you ever let no harm come to
him, ’cause if you do I’ll tan your hide’? Ain’ she always tell me that
ever since I was so high? What you think I was goin’ to do, Mas’ Wayne,
when I seen you sneakin’ off that night? Wasn’ but jus’ one thing _to_
do, was there? How you ’spects I was goin’ to watch out for you like my
mammy tells me if I didn’ go along with you? Huh? So I jus’ track along
till you get to the big road, an’ then I track along till you get to
Summitty, and then I track along----”
“Yes, and you climbed into that freight car after me and the man saw
you and we all got thrown out,” continued Wayne. “I reckon you meant
all right, June, but what do you suppose I’m going to do with you up
North here? I got to find work to do and it’s going to be hard enough
to look after Sam here without having a pesky darkey on my hands. Best
thing you can do is hike back home before you starve to death.”
“Huh! I ain’ never starved to death yet, Mas’ Wayne, an’ I ain’ lookin’
to. Jus’ like I told you heaps of times, you ain’ got to do no worryin’
about June. I reckon I can find me a job of work, too, can’ I? Reckon
folkses has to plough an’ plant an’ pick their cotton up here jus’ like
they does back home.”
“There isn’t any cotton in the North, June.”
“Ain’ no cotton?” ejaculated the other incredulously. “What all they
plant up here, then, Mas’ Wayne?”
“Oh, apples, I reckon, and----”
“I can pick apples, then. I done pick peaches, ain’ I? What else they
plant?”
“Why----” Wayne didn’t have a very clear notion himself, but it didn’t
do to appear ignorant to June. “Why, they--they plant potatoes--white
potatoes, you know--and--and peas and--oh, lots of things, I reckon.”
June pondered that in silence for a moment. Then: “But how come they
don’t plant cotton?” he asked in puzzled tones.
“Too cold. It won’t grow for them up here.”
June gazed rather contemptuously about the gray morning landscape and
grunted comprehendingly. “Uh-huh. Reckon I wouldn’t neither if I was a
cotton plant! It surely is a mighty--mighty _mean_-lookin’ place, ain’
it?”
Well, it really was. Before them ran the railroad embankment,
behind them was the little grove of bare trees and on either hand
an uncultivated expanse of level field stretched away into the gray
gloom. No habitation was as yet in sight. The telegraph poles showed
spectrally against the dawn, and a little breeze, rising with the
rising sun, made a moaning sound in the clustered wires. Sam came back
from his profitless adventures and wormed himself between Wayne’s legs.
June blew on his cold hands and crooned a song under his breath. The
eastern sky grew lighter and lighter and suddenly, like a miracle,
a burst of rose glow spread upward toward the zenith, turning the
grayness into the soft hues of a dove’s breast! Wayne sprang to his
feet, with an exclamation of pain as his cramped and chilled muscles
responded to the demand, and stretched his arms and yawned prodigiously.
“Come along and let’s find that hot coffee, June,” he said almost
cheerfully. “There must be a house somewhere around here, I reckon.”
“Sure must!” replied the other, falling instantly into Wayne’s humour.
“Lawsy-y, I can jus’ taste that coffee now! Which way we goin’, Mas’
Wayne?”
Wayne stamped his feet on the still frosty ground and considered. At
last: “North,” he replied, “and north’s over that way. Come along!”
He led the way back toward the track, followed by June and Sam,
and after squeezing himself between the wires of a fence climbed
the embankment and set off over the ties with a speed born of long
practice. The rose hue was fast changing to gold now, and long rays of
sunlight streamed upward heralding the coming of His Majesty the Sun;
and against the glory of the eastern sky the three travellers stood
out like animated silhouettes cut from blue-black cardboard as they
trudged along--the white boy, the black boy, and the yellow dog.
CHAPTER II
JUNE STRIKES A BARGAIN
That they didn’t travel absolutely due north was only because the
track chose to lead more westerly. By the time the sun was really in
sight they had covered the better part of a half-mile and had caught a
glimpse of a good-sized town in the distance. Tall chimneys and a spire
or two pointed upward above a smoky haze. They crossed a big bridge
beneath which flowed a broad and sluggish river, and had to flatten
themselves against the parapet, Sam held tightly in Wayne’s arms, while
a long freight train pounded past them on the single line of track.
Beyond the bridge a “Yard Limit” sign met them, and the rails branched
and switches stood up here and there like sentries and a roundhouse was
near at hand. But they found their first habitation before that in a
tiny white cottage set below the embankment, its gate facing a rambling
clay road, rutted and pitted, that disappeared under a bridge. There
was a path worn down the bank to the road, and Wayne and June and Sam
descended it. A trail of smoke arose from the chimney of the house
straight into the morning sunlight and suggested that the occupants
were up and about.
Wayne’s knock on the door was answered by a tall, thin, slatternly
woman who scowled questioningly.
“Good morning, ma’am,” began Wayne. “Could you give us a cup of coffee,
please? We’ve been----”
“Get out of my yard,” was the prompt response. “I don’t feed tramps!”
“We aren’t tramps, ma’am. We’ll pay for the coffee----”
“And steal the doormat! I know your sort!” There was no doormat in
sight, but Wayne didn’t notice the fact. “Go on now before I call my
man to you.” The door slammed shut.
Wayne viewed June in surprise and the <DW64> boy shook his head
helplessly. “She surely is a powerful disgrumpled lady, Mas’ Wayne!
Yes, sir! Reckon we better move along.”
“Maybe she isn’t well,” said Wayne, as they left the inhospitable
dwelling behind and again climbed to the track. “Just the same, she
didn’t have any right to call us tramps, did she? I suppose we’d better
keep on to the town, June. It isn’t much farther.”
So they went on, past sidings laden with long lines of freight cars,
past locomotives sizzling idly, past a crossing where eight burnished
rails, aglow in the sunlight, crossed their path, under a big signal
tower, their eyes very busy and their stomachs, since they had not
eaten since early the preceding afternoon, very empty. A long freight
shed was reached, and as they passed it one of the many doors slid
slowly open and a brawny man stood revealed against the dimness beyond.
He stretched his arms, yawned, caught sight of the passers and stood
there, framed in the square opening, staring interestedly. Wayne
stopped.
“Howdy,” he said. “Can you tell me where I can get something to eat,
sir?”
“Sure! Cross over back of the yellow building and you’ll see a
lunch-wagon. Maybe you’re looking for the hotel, though?”
Wayne shook his head. “I reckon a lunch-wagon’s good enough. What is
this place, please?”
“Medfield, son. Aren’t lost, are you?”
“No, sir. What--what state are we in?”
“Pennsylvania. What state might you be looking for, son?”
“New York. Is it very far?”
“Second state on the right,” laughed the man. “What part of it are you
aiming for?”
“New York City, I reckon. How far would that be?”
“About a hundred and fifty miles.”
Wayne sighed. “I thought we were nearer than that. Thank you, sir.”
“Say, hold on! Where’d you come from, anyway?”
Wayne pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Back there a ways,” he
answered vaguely.
“Tramping it?”
“Yes, sir, some. Rode on the cars, too.”
The big man in the doorway winked down at him. “When they didn’t see
you, eh? You look like a smart kid. What are you beating your way
around the country for? Why don’t you get a job and go to work?”
“I’m looking for work,” answered Wayne eagerly. “Know where I can find
some?”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you won’t have to look very
far, son, if you really want a job. The trouble with your sort is that
you don’t _want_ to work. How far south do you come from?”
“Georgia, sir. How’d you know?”
“How’d I know!” laughed the man. “That’s a good one! What’s Friday’s
name?”
“What, sir?” asked Wayne, puzzled.
The man nodded at Wayne’s companion. “What’s his name? Abraham Lincoln
White?”
“June,” answered Wayne, a trifle stiffly, beginning to suspect that the
man was laughing at him.
“June, eh? Say, he got North about three months too soon, didn’t he?
Where’d you get the alligator hound? Don’t you ever feed him anything?”
Wayne moved away, followed by his retinue, but the man in the door was
blind to offended dignity. “All right, son!” he called after them.
“Good luck! Tell Denny that Jim Mason sent you and that he’s to give
you a good feed.”
Wayne found the lunch-wagon without difficulty, but it didn’t seem
to him that it deserved the name of wagon for it was set on a brick
foundation in a weed-grown piece of land under the shadow of the big
yellow factory and looked as though it had been there for many years.
Still, there might be wheels hidden behind the bricks, he reflected.
The words “Golden Star Lunch” were painted on the front. They climbed
the steps and seated themselves on stools, while Sam searched
famishedly about the floor for stray crumbs. The proprietor was a
short, chunky youth with light hair slicked down close and a generous
supply of the biggest and reddest freckles Wayne had ever seen. He
observed June doubtfully.
“We don’t generally feed <DW65>s here,” he said. “You two fellers
together?”
“Yes,” answered Wayne. “If you don’t want to serve him we’ll get out.”
He started to slide off the stool.
“Oh, well, never mind,” said the white-aproned youth. “The rush is over
now. What’ll you have?”
“Coffee and two ham sandwiches, please.”
“Mas’ Wayne,” said June, “I’d rather have a piece of that sweet-potato
pie yonder, please, sir.”
“That ain’t sweet-potato pie,” laughed the proprietor. “That’s squash,
Snowball.”
“Please, sir, Mister, don’t call me out of my name,” begged June
earnestly. “My name’s Junius.”
“All right, Junius.” The proprietor of the lunch-wagon grinned at Wayne
and winked, but Wayne only frowned.
“You’ll have a sandwich, June,” he said. “Pie isn’t good for you. Two
ham sandwiches, please.”
“All right, sir.”
June watched wistfully while the knife slipped through the end of the
ham, and at last hunger got the better of manners. “Mister Denny, sir,
would you please, sir, just bear down a little heavier on that fat
meat?” he requested.
“Sure, you can have all the fat you want. How’d you know my name,
though?”
Wayne answered for him. “A man at the freight shed directed us.”
“Yes, sir, and he said we was to tell you to give us a mighty good
feed, Mister Denny,” added June. “But I reckon you-all goin’ to do that
anyway, ain’ you?”
The proprietor laughed as he covered two slices of buttered bread
with generous slices of ham. “That’s right, Snow--I mean Junius,” he
responded. “If that ain’t enough you come back. Want something for your
dog?”
“Thanks, I’ll give him some of my sandwich,” said Wayne, trying not to
look impatient.
“You don’t need to.” The man scooped up some trimmings from the ham
on the blade of the broad knife, dumped them on a slice of bread and
leaned over the counter. “Here you are, Bingo. Catch!” Sam caught as
much as he could and it disappeared as though by magic. After that he
licked up the few scraps that had got away from him, wagged his tail
delightedly, and gazed inquiringly and invitingly up again. “Say, he’s
a smart dog, ain’t he?” said the man. “What’s his name?”
“Sam. Are those sandwiches ready, please?”
“Huh? Gee, didn’t I serve you yet? What do you know about that? Coffee,
you said, didn’t you? Here you are.” He went back to an appraisal of
the dog while Wayne and June, side by side, drank deep draughts of the
hot coffee and bit huge mouthfuls from the delicious sandwiches. “Guess
some more breakfast wouldn’t bust him,” said the proprietor, cutting
off another slice of bread and buttering it liberally. “Can he do any
tricks?”
“A few,” replied Wayne rather inarticulately by reason of having his
mouth occupied by other things than words. “Sit up, Sam, and ask for
it.”
Sam sat up, a trifle unsteadily, and barked three shrill barks. The man
laughed. “Good boy! Here you are, then!” The piece of bread disappeared
instantly. “Say, he’s sure hungry! What kind of a dog is he?”
“Reckon he’s just dog,” answered Wayne. “He don’t boast of his family
much, Sam don’t, but he’s a good old chap.”
“Man over yonder at the railroad called him a alligator hound,” said
June resentfully. “That’s the best dog in Colquitt County, Mister
Denny. Yes, sir!”
“Where’s that, Junius?”
“Colquitt? That’s where we lives at when we’re to home. Colquitt
County’s the finest----”
“Shut up, June. Don’t talk so much,” said Wayne. “Sam, stand up and
march for the gentleman. Come on! Forward! March!”
Sam removed his appealing gaze from the countenance of “Mister Denny,”
sighed--you could actually hear that sigh!--reared himself on his
slender hind legs and stepped stiffly down the length of the floor and
back again.
“Halt!” commanded Wayne, and Sam halted so suddenly that he almost
went over backward. “Salute!” Sam’s right paw flopped up and down in a
sketchy salute. “Fall out!” Sam came down on all-fours with alacrity,
barked his relief and again took up his station under the good-natured
“Mr. Denny.” The latter applauded warmly.
“Some dog you’ve got there, kid!” he declared. “What’ll you take for
him?”
“I wouldn’t sell him,” answered Wayne, washing down the last of his
sandwich with the final mouthful of coffee.
“Give you ten dollars,” said the man.
Wayne shook his head with decision.
“Fifteen? Well, any time you do want to sell him, Mister, you give me
first | 1,182.780677 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: _The First Crusaders in Sight of Jerusalem_]
THE STORY OF
THE CRUSADES
BY
E. M. WILMOT-BUXTON
F.R.Hist.S.
AUTHOR OF
'BRITAIN LONG AGO' 'THE BOOK OF RUSTEM'
'TOLD BY THE NORTHMEN' ETC.
GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO. LTD.
LONDON BOMBAY SYDNEY
_First published December 1910_
_by_ GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO.
_39-4l Parker Street, Kingsway, London, W.C.2
Reprinted September 1913
Reprinted in the present series:
March 1912; May 1914; January 1919; March 1924;
January 1927; November 1927; July 1930_
_Printed in Great Britain by Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh_
Contents
I. The Story of Mohammed the Prophet
II. Mohammed as Conqueror
III. The Spread of Islam
IV. The Rise of Chivalry
V. The Story of Peter the Hermit
VI. The Story of the Emperor Alexios and the First Crusade
VII. The Siege of Antioch
VIII. The Holy City is won
IX. Bernard of Clairvaux and the Second Crusade
X. The Loss of Jerusalem
XI. The Story of the Third Crusade
XII. The Adventures of Richard Lion-Heart
XIII. The Story of Dandolo, the Blind Doge
XIV. The Forsaking of the High Enterprise
XV. The Story of the Latin Empire of Constantinople
XVI. The Story of the Children's Crusade
XVII. The Emperor Frederick and the Sixth Crusade
XVIII. The Story | 1,182.780744 |
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Produced by Dianna Adair, 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)
THE BLUE LIGHTS
Illustration: A hasty examination of the sailing list showed her the
astonishing truth. Richard was not on board.
THE
BLUE LIGHTS
BY
ARNOLD FREDERICKS
AUTHOR OF
THE IVORY SNUFF BOX, ETC.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
WILL GREFE
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY
W. J. WATT & COMPANY
THE BLUE LIGHTS
CHAPTER I
The big, mud-spattered touring car, which for the past hour had been
plowing its way steadily northward from the city of Washington,
hesitated for a moment before the gateway which marked the end of the
well kept drive, then swept on to the house.
A man, stoutly built, keen of eye, showing haste in his every movement,
sprang from the machine and ascended the veranda steps.
"Does Richard Duvall live here?" he inquired, curtly, of the smiling old
<DW52> woman who came to the door.
"'Deed he do, suh. Does you want to see him?"
"Yes. At once, please. Tell him it is most important. My name is
Hodgman."
The servant eyed him with cool disfavor. "Set down, suh," she remarked
stiffly. "I'll tell him you is here."
The caller watched her, as she disappeared into the house, then cast
himself impatiently into a chair and lit a cigar.
He paid no attention to the attempts of two clumsy collie puppies to
attract his favorable notice, but contented himself with making a quick
survey of the wide comfortable veranda, with its big roomy chairs, the
wicker table, bearing a great jar of red peonies, the smooth green
lawns, swept by the late afternoon sun.
"Fine old place," he muttered to himself. "Wonder if I can persuade him
to go?"
As the car which had brought Mr. Hodgman on his hasty trip from
Washington dashed up to the front of the house, Grace Duvall, looking
very charming in a blue linen dress, was just approaching it from the
rear.
She held a pair of shears in her hand, and her apron was filled to
overflowing with hundred-leaf roses. "Dick--oh, Dick!" she called, as
she came down the long avenue of syring | 1,182.78089 |
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Produced by Brian Coe, John Campbell 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
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
A superscript is denoted by ^x or ^{xx}, for example Esq^{re}.
Some minor changes are noted 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 General's Office, Horse Guards._
London.
_Printed by Authority._]
HISTORICAL RECORD
OF
THE FIFTY-THIRD,
OR
THE SHROPSHIRE REGIMENT OF FOOT.
CONTAINING
AN ACCOUNT OF THE FORMATION OF THE REGIMENT
IN 1755
AND OF ITS SUBSEQUENT SERVICES
TO 1848.
COMPILED BY
RICHARD CANNON, ESQ.,
ADJUTANT-GENERAL'S OFFICE, HORSE GUARDS.
ILLUSTRATED WITH PLATES.
LONDON:
PARKER, FURNIVALL, & PARKER,
30, CHARING-CROSS.
MDCCCXLIX.
LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET,
FOR HER MAJESTY'S STATIONERY OFFICE.
THE FIFTY-THIRD,
OR
THE SHROPSHIRE REGIMENT OF FOOT,
BEARS ON THE REGIMENTAL COLOUR
THE WORD "NIEUPORT;"
IN COMMEMORATION OF ITS DISTINGUISHED GALLANTRY IN THE DEFENCE OF THAT
FORTRESS IN OCTOBER, 1793;
THE WORD "TOURNAY;"
IN TESTIMONY OF ITS HEROIC CONDUCT IN ACTION AGAINST A SUPERIOR
FORCE OF THE ENEMY IN MAY, 1794;
THE WORDS "ST. LUCIA;"
AS A MARK OF DISTINCTION FOR ITS BRAVERY DISPLAYED AT THE CAPTURE OF
ST. LUCIA, IN MAY, 1796;
THE WORDS
"TALAVERA," "SALAMANCA," "VITTORIA," "PYRENEES,"
"NIVELLE," "TOULOUSE," AND "PENINSULA,"
TO COMMEMORATE THE MERITORIOUS SERVICES OF THE _Second_ BATTALION
DURING THE PENINSULAR WAR, FROM 1809 TO 1814;
AND THE WORDS
"ALIWAL," AND "SOBRAON;"
AS A LASTING TESTIMONY OF THE GALLANT CONDUCT OF THE REGIMENT
ON THE BANKS OF THE SUTLEJ, ON THE 28TH JANUARY, AND
10TH FEBRUARY, 1846.
THE FIFTY-THIRD,
OR
THE SHROPSHIRE REGIMENT.
CONTENTS
OF THE
HISTORICAL RECORD.
YEAR PAGE
INTRODUCTION i
1755 Formation of the Regiment 1
---- Colonel W. Whitmore appointed to the colonelcy -
---- Numbered the FIFTY-FIFTH, and afterwards the
FIFTY-THIRD regiment -
---- Station, uniform, and facing -
---- Officers appointed to commissions 2
1756 Embarked for Gibraltar -
1759 Appointment of Colonel John Toovey to the colonelcy,
in succession to Colonel Whitmore, removed to the
ninth regiment -
1768 Returned from Gibraltar, and embarked for Ireland 3
1770 Appointment of Colonel R. D. H. Elphinstone to the
colonelcy, in succession to Colonel Toovey, deceased -
1776 Embarked for North America -
1777 Engaged with the American forces -
1782 The American war terminated 4
---- The regiment directed to assume the county title of
Shropshire regiment in addition to its Numerical title -
1789 Returned to England from North America -
1790 Embarked on board of the fleet to serve as Marines -
1791 Proceeded to Scotland 5
1793 Embarked for service in Flanders -
---- Engaged at Famars -
---- -------- the siege and capture of Valenciennes -
---- -------- the siege of Dunkirk 6
---- -------- Nieuport -
---- Received the Royal Authority to bear the word
"_Nieuport_" on the colours -
1794 Major-General Gerald Lake, afterwards Viscount Lake,
appointed to the colonelcy, in succession to
General Elphinstone, deceased -
---- Engaged in operations at Vaux, Prémont, Marets, &c. 7
---- ---- at the siege and capture of Landrécies -
---- -------- repulse of the enemy at Cateau -
---- -------------------------------- Tournay -
---- -------- capture of Lannoy, Roubaix, and Mouveaux -
---- ---- in the masterly retreat to Leers 8
---- ---- storming the village of Pontéchin 9
---- Received the Royal Authority to bear the word
"_Tournay_" on its colours 10
1795 Returned to England --
---- Encamped at Southampton --
---- Embarked with an expedition for the West Indies --
1796 Attack and Capture of St. Lucia --
1796 Received the Royal Authority to bear the words
"_St. Lucia_" on its colours 11
---- Embarked for St. Vincent --
---- Engaged in quelling an insurrection, and expelling
the Caribs from the Island of St. Vincent --
---- Received the thanks of the General Officer commanding,
and of the Council and Assembly of the Island 12
---- Appointment of Major-General W. E. Doyle to the
colonelcy, in succession to General Lake, removed
to the 73rd regiment --
1797 Engaged in the capture of Trinidad --
---- Employed in an unsuccessful attempt at Porto Rico --
---- Returned to St. Vincent 13
1798 Lieut.-General Crosbie appointed to the colonelcy,
in succession to Major-General Doyle, deceased --
1800 Removed from St. Vincent to St. Lucia --
1802 Returned to England on the surrender of St. Lucia to
France according to the treaty of peace concluded
at Amiens --
1803 Marched under the command of Lieut.-Colonel Lightburne,
for Shrewsbury --
1805 The First Battalion embarked for India --
---- Arrived at Fort St. George, Madras, and proceeded to
Dinapore --
1806 Removed from Dinapore to Berhampore | 1,182.780918 |
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Distributed Proofreaders
The Turquoise Cup, and, The Desert
By
Arthur Cosslett Smith
1903
"KHADIJA BELIEVES IN ME"
CONTENTS
I The Turquoise Cup
II The Desert
THE TURQUOISE CUP
The Cardinal Archbishop sat on | 1,182.854345 |
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Produced by Turgut Dincer, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
WALKING ESSAYS
WALKING ESSAYS
BY
A. H. SIDGWICK
LONDON
EDWARD ARNOLD
1912
_All rights reserved_
_DEDICATION_
_COMITIBUS_
_O you who walked the ways with me
On hill and plain and hollow:
I ask your pardon, frank and free,
For all the things that follow.
Let me at least make one thing clear;
In these--I know no name for them--
These dreary talks | 1,182.879938 |
2023-11-16 18:36:46.9655780 | 1,699 | 17 |
Produced by Avinash Kothare, Tom Allen, Charles Franks,
Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College
By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A. M.
PHILADELPHIA
HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY
Copyright, 1914
[Illustration: The Door Was Cautiously Opened to Mrs. Elwood.]
CONTENTS
I. Overton Claims Her Own
II. The Unforseen
III. Mrs. Elwood to the Rescue
IV. The Belated Freshman
V. The Anarchist Chooses Her Roommate
VI. Elfreda Makes a Rash Promise
VII. Girls and Their Ideals
VIII. The Invitation
IX. Anticipation
X. An Offended Freshman
XI. The Finger of Suspicion
XII. The Summons
XIII. Grace Holds Court
XIV. Grace Makes a Resolution
XV. The Quality of Mercy
XVI. A Disgruntled Reformer
XVII. Making Other Girls Happy
XVIII. Mrs. Gray's Christmas Children
XIX. Arline's Plan
XX. A Welcome Guest
XXI. A Gift to Semper Fidelis
XXII. Campus Confidences
XXIII. A Fault Confessed
XXIV. Conclusion
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
The Door Was Cautiously Opened to Mrs. Elwood.
"It Is My Theme."
Each Girl Carried an Unwieldy Bundle.
The Two Boxes Contained Elfreda's New Suit and Hat.
Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College
CHAPTER I
OVERTON CLAIMS HER OWN
"Oh, there goes Grace Harlowe! Grace! Grace! Wait a minute!" A
curly-haired little girl hastily deposited her suit case, golf bag, two
magazines and a box of candy on the nearest bench and ran toward a
quartette of girls who had just left the train that stood puffing
noisily in front of the station at Overton.
The tall, gray-eyed young woman in blue turned at the call, and, running
back, met the other half way. "Why, Arline!" she exclaimed. "I didn't
see you when I got off the train." The two girls exchanged affectionate
greetings; then Arline was passed on to Miriam Nesbit, Anne Pierson and
J. Elfreda Briggs, who, with Grace Harlowe, had come back to Overton
College to begin their second year's course of study.
Those who have followed the fortunes of Grace Harlowe and her friends
through their four years of high school life are familiar with what
happened during "Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School,"
the story of her freshman year. "Grace Harlowe's Sophomore Year at
High School" gave a faithful account of the doings of Grace and her
three friends, Nora O'Malley, Anne Pierson and Jessica Bright, during
their sophomore days. "Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High
School" and "Grace Harlowe's Senior Year at High School"
told of her third and fourth years in Oakdale High School and of how
completely Grace lived up to the high standard of honor she had set for
herself.
After their graduation from high school the four devoted chums spent a
summer in Europe; then came the inevitable separation. Nora and Jessica
had elected to go to an eastern conservatory of music, while Anne and
Grace had chosen Overton College. Miriam Nesbit, a member of the Phi
Sigma Tau, had also decided for Overton, and what befell the three
friends as Overton College freshmen has been narrated in "Grace
Harlowe's First Year at Overton College."
Now September had rolled around again and the station platform of the
town of Overton was dotted with groups of students laden with suit
cases, golf bags and the paraphernalia belonging peculiarly to the
college girl. Overton College was about to claim its own. The joyous
greetings called out by happy voices testified to the fact that the next
best thing to leaving college to go home was leaving home to come back
to college.
"Where is Ruth?" was Grace's first question as she surveyed Arline with
smiling, affectionate eyes.
"She'll be here directly," answered Arline. "She is looking after the
trunks. She is the most indefatigable little laborer I ever saw. From
the time we began to get ready to come back to Overton she refused
positively to allow me to lift my finger. She is always hunting
something to do. She says she has acquired the work habit so strongly
that she can't break herself of it, and I believe her," finished Arline
with a sigh of resignation. "Here she comes now."
An instant later the demure young woman seen approaching was surrounded
by laughing girls.
"Stop working and speak to your little friends," laughed Miriam Nesbit.
"We've just heard bad reports of you."
"I know what you've heard!" exclaimed Ruth, her plain little face alight
with happiness. "Arline has been grumbling. You haven't any idea what a
fault-finding person she is. She lectures me all the time."
"For working," added Arline. "Ruth will have work enough and to spare
this year. Can you blame me for trying to make her take life easy for a
few days?"
"Blame you?" repeated Elfreda. "I would have lectured her night and day,
and tied her up to keep her from work, if necessary."
"Now you see just how much sympathy these worthy sophomores have for
you," declared Arline.
"Do you know whether 19-- is all here yet?" asked Anne.
"I don't know a single thing more about it than do you girls," returned
Arline. "Suppose we go directly to our houses, and then meet at Vinton's
for dinner to-night. I don't yearn for a Morton House dinner. The meals
there won't be strictly up to the mark for another week yet. When the
house is full again, the standard of Morton House cooking will rise in a
day, but until then--let us thank our stars for Vinton's. Are you going
to take the automobile bus? We shall save time."
"We might as well ride," replied Grace, looking inquiringly at her
friends. "My luggage is heavy and the sooner I arrive at Wayne Hall the
better pleased I shall be."
"Are you to have the same rooms as last year?" asked Ruth Denton.
"I suppose so, unless something unforeseen has happened."
"Will there be any vacancies at your house this year?" inquired Arline.
"Four, I believe," replied Anne Pierson. "Were you thinking of changing?
We'd be glad to have you with us."
"I'd love to come, but Morton House is like home to me. Mrs. Kane calls
me the Morton House Mascot, and declares her house would go to rack and
ruin without me. She only says that in fun, of course."
"I think you'd make an ideal mascot for the sophomore basketball team
this year," laughed Grace. "Will you accept the honor?"
"With both hands," declared Arline. "Now, we had better start, or we'll
never get back to Vinton's. Ruth, you have my permission to walk with
Anne as far as your corner. It's five o'clock now. Shall we agree to
meet at Vinton's at half-past six? That will give us an hour and a half
to get the soot off our faces, and if the expressman should experience a
change of heart and deliver our trunks we might possibly appear in fresh
gowns. The | 1,182.985618 |
2023-11-16 18:36:46.9658370 | 4,244 | 55 |
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THE HEROES
OF THE SCHOOL
Or
The Darewell Chums
Through Thick and Thin
BY
ALLEN CHAPMAN
AUTHOR OF "BART STIRLING'S ROAD TO SUCCESS," "WORKING
HARD TO WIN," "BOUND TO SUCCEED," "THE YOUNG
STOREKEEPER," "NAT BORDEN'S FIND," ETC.
[Illustration:
_The_
GOLDSMITH
_Publishing Co._
CLEVELAND OHIO
MADE IN U.S.A.]
Copyright, 1908, by
Cupples & Leon Company
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Expelling a Pupil 1
II. The Wrong Slide 9
III. A Queer Character 15
IV. A Hut in the Woods 22
V. The Challenge 30
VI. A Great Game of Ball 38
VII. Alice has a Chance 47
VIII. The Strange Boatman 52
IX. A Plot Against Bart 59
X. A Cow in School 67
XI. Honoring the Seniors 73
XII. Frank's Queer Letter 82
XIII. Sandy on Guard 89
XIV. Peculiar Operations 96
XV. Ned Stops a Panic 104
XVI. A River Trip 111
XVII. The Tramp's Headquarters 116
XVIII. A Night Scare 123
XIX. The Farmer and the Bull 130
XX. Followed by Sandy 137
XXI. At the Fair 143
XXII. Up in a Balloon 149
XXIII. Above the Clouds 157
XXIV. Into the River 164
XXV. Captured 175
XXVI. Planning to Escape 183
XXVII. The Escape 192
XXVIII. The Pursuit 199
XXIX. An Unexpected Meeting 208
XXX. Striking Oil--Conclusion 215
THE HEROES OF THE SCHOOL
CHAPTER I
EXPELLING A PUPIL
"What are you looking so glum about this morning, Stumpy?" asked Ned
Wilding as he greeted his chum, Fenn Masterson, otherwise known as
"Stumpy" because of his short, stout figure. "Haven't you got your
lessons, or are you going to be expelled?"
"I'm not to be expelled but some one else is, Ned."
"What's that? Some one going to be expelled?" asked Bart Keene, coming
up in time to hear what Fenn said.
"John Newton is," replied Stumpy.
"What's that got to do with you?" asked Bart, for, as had Ned, he
noticed that Fenn looked worried.
"It might have something to do with me if John--"
Just then the bell of the Darewell High School began to ring, and, as it
was the final summons to classes the three boys and several other pupils
hurried into the building. On the way up the stairs Ned Wilding was
joined by a tall youth with dark hair and eyes.
"What's this I hear about John Newton?" asked the tall lad.
"Hello, Frank! Why Stumpy says John's got to leave the school, but it's
the first I heard about it."
"Are they going to expel him this morning?"
"Seems so. We'll soon know."
A little later several hundred boys and girls were gathered in the
auditorium of the school for the usual morning exercises. When they were
over the principal, Professor McCloud, came to the edge of the platform.
"I have a very unpleasant duty to perform," he began.
Most of the boys and girls knew what was coming. The principal never
prefaced his remarks that way unless he had to expel a pupil. Ned and
Bart looked over toward where Fenn sat. They wanted to see if there was
any reason for Stumpy's seeming apprehension.
"John Newton!" called Professor McCloud, and a tall youth, with eyes
that squinted slightly, left his seat and shambled forward.
"It's coming now," whispered Fenn, and Frank Roscoe, who was sitting
beside him, looked at his chum and wondered.
"Any one would think it was you who had to face the music," declared
Frank.
By this time John Newton was standing in front of the raised platform on
which the principal and teachers sat during the morning exercises. He
did not seem to mind the humility or disgrace of his position. He turned
half around and looked toward Fenn.
"If he says anything--" began Stumpy, whispering to himself, but he did
not finish the sentence for Professor McCloud was speaking.
"John Newton," the principal said, "I am deeply grieved that I have to
do this. It is very painful." It was the same speech the pupils had
heard before. The principal always used it, with such slight variations
as might be necessary. "You have been dilatory in your studies. You have
been insubordinate. You have played mean tricks. You have refused to
mend your ways."
The principal took a long breath. He always did at this particular point
in his painful duty. But this time there was a variation from the usual
scene. John Newton stepped forward and addressed the principal. It was a
thing unheard of in the Darewell school.
"Professor McCloud," said John, "I want to say that while I'm partly to
blame in this matter, Fenn Mas--"
"That will do! That will do!" interrupted Mr. McCloud so sharply that
John started. A number of the pupils turned in their seats to gaze at
Stumpy, who looked painfully self-conscious.
"There's something in the wind," whispered Ned to Bart.
"I'm not going to take all the blame," persisted John, ignoring the
principal's command to remain silent. "Fenn Mast--"
"I said that would do," and Mr. McCloud spoke so decisively that John
remained silent. "I know what you would say," the professor went on.
"I have looked into that matter thoroughly. No one is to blame but
yourself, and your effort to shift the punishment to some other boy
does not do you any good. You should not have attempted to mention any
pupil's name. I will not refer to it again, except to say that no one
is involved but yourself. I am fully satisfied on this point."
Frank noticed that Fenn seemed much relieved at the professor's
announcement, and he wondered what connection there could have been
between his chum and John Newton.
"You have been given several opportunities to reform," the principal
went on, "but you have refused to profit by them. You are a dangerous
element to have in this school. Therefore, we return you to your
friends," and, with a wave of his glasses toward the door to emphasize
his remark, the principal indicated that John Newton might go. That
ended it. John was expelled.
The pupils went to their various classes, and, though there was
considerable whispering back and forth during the morning session as to
what caused John's expulsion, and what his reference to Fenn might mean,
there was no chance to discuss the matter until the noon recess. Then
questions and answers flew thick and fast.
"Now Fenn, tell us all about it," said Ned Wilding when he and the two
other boys who had remarked Stumpy's apprehension, were gathered in the
basement where lunches were usually eaten. "What was John driving at?
What were you afraid of?"
"Didn't you hear Professor McCloud say it was all ended and he was
satisfied I had no hand in it?"
"Yes, but that doesn't satisfy us," said Bart. "We want the whole
story."
"There isn't much to it," Fenn declared. "You must promise not to repeat
it."
"We'll promise but I guess John will tell it all over town," said Frank.
"You know John and I used to be pretty friendly," Fenn began, getting
his chums off into a corner. "He lives near me and I used to go fishing
with him once in a while. But he got down on me because I wouldn't lend
him my best reel one day, though for a while I didn't know he wasn't
friendly.
"He's always playing some kind of tricks in school, but most of 'em
aren't any worse than those we get up. But this last one was the limit."
"What was it?" asked Ned.
"He'd been reading some book on India, and how they catch tigers by
smearing bird-lime on the leaves near the water-hole. He made some of
the lime. I helped him. Got some of the stuff from the laboratory. Then
he put it all over the papers in Mr. McCloud's desk, one night after
school, and they got so fastened together they couldn't be separated."
"You don't mean to say you helped him do that?" asked Frank.
"Who said I did? I only helped make the bird-lime. He told me we could
catch rabbits with it. I didn't know what he was up to or I wouldn't
have done that much. When he learned he was discovered, for he left his
knife in the desk, he said he was going to make me take part of the
blame for helping him make the lime. That's what I was afraid of this
morning, when I heard he was going to be expelled."
"He did try to give you away," interrupted Bart.
"Yes, rather mean, too. But it seems Mr. McCloud had been investigating,
though I didn't know it. He must have found out that I didn't have any
hand in putting the stuff in the desk, even if I did help John make it."
"Lucky for you that he did," commented Ned. "Do you think John will try
to do anything more to make trouble for you?"
"I hope not," Fenn replied.
"He was always up to tricks," commented Frank. "Once he daubed tar on
the bottoms of his shoes and walked through the classroom, leaving black
marks all over. He pasted paper caps on the pestle when the chemistry
class was going to recite and Professor Long thought the powder he was
mixing went off at the wrong time."
"Yes, and do you remember the time he whistled like a bird in school,"
put in Ned, "and made the teacher believe a canary was loose somewhere.
My, but he can whistle!" he went on. "He can do as well as some of the
fellows on the stage. I'm sorry he got expelled, but I'm glad you're out
of it, Stumpy."
CHAPTER II
THE WRONG SLIDE
The four boys spent some time discussing the affair of the morning, and
speculating as to what John Newton would do now that he could no longer
attend school.
"Guess he'll not worry much," remarked Fenn. "He was saying the other
day he thought he'd go off somewhere and try to get work in the city."
"Work? He's too lazy to work," put in Ned.
"He said he'd like to get a job in a theater," Fenn added.
"Shoving scenery around, or being part of the mob in Julius Caesar would
be his limit, I guess," said Bart.
"Speaking of Caesar reminds me that Fenn fell down in his Latin this
morning," said Frank.
"Yes, I should have boned away on it last night but I didn't," admitted
Stumpy.
"I know why," put in Ned.
"Why?"
"Saw you out walking with Jennie Smith, and I s'pose you didn't get in
until late."
"Did she recite poetry to you?" asked Frank, for Jennie was somewhat
inclined to verse.
"Say you fellows dry up!" exclaimed Fenn. "You don't dare walk with a
girl. Don't know how to behave in company!"
"It takes Fenn to please the girls," retorted Ned, and he dodged to
escape a blow Stumpy aimed at him. Then the gong rang for the afternoon
session and the pupils went back to their classrooms.
While the boys are at their lessons, which is about the only time, save
when they are asleep, that they are not talking or doing something,
there will be opportunity of telling who they are.
Ned Wilding's mother had been dead some years. His father was cashier in
the only bank in Darewell, a thriving manufacturing town not far from
Lake Erie. The Still river ran through the place and it was a journey of
about ten miles to the lake on that stream.
Frank Roscoe lived with his uncle Abner Dent, who was a wealthy farmer,
residing on the outskirts of the town. Frank had been with his relative
as long as he could remember. He never knew his father or mother, and
his uncle never mentioned them. The boy had been brought up with the
idea that both his parents were dead. He was a manly youth, but there
was a certain strangeness and an air of mystery about him. It was
puzzling to his comrades, though they liked him none the less for it.
As for Bart Keene, it would be hard to find a finer specimen of American
boy. He was stout and sturdy, and would rather play ball than eat. His
father, who was proprietor of a large factory, used to say Bart talked
sports in his sleep. Bart had a sister Alice, as gentle as he was rough,
though his roughness was not at all offensive. She had an idea she would
like to be a trained nurse, and used every opportunity of practicing for
her chosen profession. Let any one cut his finger, or run a sliver into
it and Alice would exclaim:
"Oh, do let me bandage it up! I'm so glad it happened--no, I don't mean
that--I mean it's such good practice for me!" Then she would hustle
around for salve and strips of cloth and render first-aid-to-the-injured
after the most approved fashion.
You couldn't help liking Fenn Masterson. "Stumpy" was the jolliest chap
in seven counties, his friends used to say, and, it seemed with truth.
He had blue eyes that always seemed to be laughing at you, as though
his very figure, about as broad as it was long, was the best joke in the
world.
But Fenn was not proud of his shape. He often deplored it, especially
when he went walking with a girl, which he did whenever he got the
chance. Stumpy was fond of the girls, and some of them liked
him,--especially Jennie Smith already mentioned. She used to confide to
her chum, Alice Keene, that Fenn reminded her somewhat of Falstaff, whom
you can read about in Shakespeare, if you wish.
The boys had been chums all through the grammar school and their
friendship was further cemented when they continued on at the high
school. They were four of the best-liked boys in the institution, and
the leaders when it came to sport, fun or doings of any sort. They were
generally seen together and if anything was undertaken the "Darewell
Chums," as they were called from the name of the town, were sure to be
found in the van.
The boys lived in the same neighborhood in the better part of the place,
all save Frank, whose uncle's house was about a mile outside the town,
but on the same highway on which his chums resided.
Going home from school that afternoon the four chums saw John Newton
standing on a street corner. As they passed him John called:
"Hey Stumpy, I want to speak to you a minute."
Fenn dropped behind his chums and spoke to John for some time. Ned, Bart
and Frank walked on, and then waited for him.
"Is he going to pay you off?" asked Ned, as Fenn joined his companions.
"No, he wanted to tell me he was sorry he tried to throw the blame on
me."
"Look out for him, Stumpy," advised Bart.
"Oh John is thoughtless, but he doesn't mean anything bad," Fenn said.
"I guess this was quite a lesson for him."
In school the next afternoon Frank, Bart and Fenn each received a note
from Ned, the papers being passed along in that mysterious postal
fashion which prevails in all schools. The missives read:
"Watch for some fun at the science lecture."
This was a talk given every Friday afternoon by Professor Long, who used
stereoptican slides. The lecture was usually on some popular topic.
It was quite a large class that assembled in the darkened laboratory at
the last period of the afternoon. The professor began his talk. It was
about volcanoes, and he described their formation, the theories
regarding them, and the causes for their terrific action.
"I will now throw on the screen," the instructor said, "a picture of Mt.
Vesuvius in full action. It is a wonderful view of a wonderful
phenomenon."
There was a moment's delay, and he slipped a slide into the lantern. Ned
nudged his chums.
"Watch!" he whispered.
The next instant there was shown on the screen a picture of a boy
setting off a giant fire-cracker under the chair of a sleeping man, who
was depicted in the act of rising high into the air under the propulsion
of the pyrotechnic. It was an irruption, but one not down on the
program.
CHAPTER III
A QUEER CHARACTER
A chorus of laughter broke out among the students. It certainly was
mirth-provoking to see that picture in place of the fire and clouds of
smoke from the volcano. The class was in an uproar.
Professor Long waited patiently until the noise had subsided. He even
allowed the wrong slide to remain on the screen. The boys finally ceased
laughing. Then the instructor spoke.
"I presume that was done as a joke," he said. "If so I think it was a
very poor one. I don't mind fun, but I like it in the right place. A
certain amount is good, even in the schoolroom."
His tone was sarcastic now, and Ned began to feel a little uncomfortable.
"You young gentlemen," and he seemed to hesitate at the word, "you young
gentlemen are sent here to learn. If you can do so and have fun, all
right. I am paid by the city to teach you. I am expected to put a
certain amount of knowledge into your brains. I can't unless you let
me. I'm not a magician."
"I thought you would be interested in this lecture. It seems you would
rather have a lot of horse-play and rowdyism instead. If I had known
that I might have provided a different set of pictures. But not in
school hours. The school authorities expect me to instruct you in
physics and chemistry; not in foolishness. Young gentlemen, the lecture
is over, but you can remain in your seats in the darkness until the
usual hour for dismissing the class."
This was a different ending to the joke than Ned had anticipated. It was
he who had put the wrong slide in with the others, having had access to
the laboratory that morning. There were several murmurs from the boys
not in on the plot. They did not relish sitting in the darkness for half
an hour.
Professor Long began putting away | 1,182.985877 |
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by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber’s Notes.
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation and spelling remain unchanged except where in conflict
with the index.
Italics are represented thus _italic_, and superscripts thus 6^{th}.
The ancient documents reproduced, particularly in Appendix IX, contain
abbreviations represented by symbols no longer in use. These have been
represented by the tilde˜.
Lower case Latin numbers surmounted by xx (score) are shown thus iiij∕xx.
_UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME_
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_With 146 Illustrations and a Reproduction of Agas’ Map of London in
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The Survey of London
MEDIÆVAL
LONDON
ECCLESIASTICAL
MEDIÆVAL
LONDON
VOL. II
ECCLESIASTICAL
BY
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[Illustration]
LONDON
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK
1906
CONTENTS
PART I
THE GOVERNMENT OF LONDON
CHAP. PAGE
1. THE RECORDS 3
2. THE CHARTER OF HENRY THE SECOND 8
3. THE COMMUNE 11
4. THE WARDS 24
5. THE FACTIONS OF THE CITY 35
6. THE CENTURY OF UNCERTAIN STEPS 66
7. AFTER THE COMMUNE 72
8. THE CITY COMPANIES 108
PART II
ECCLESIASTICAL LONDON
1. THE RELIGIOUS LIFE 127
2. CHURCH FURNITURE 159
3. THE CALENDAR OF THE YEAR 164
4. HERMITS AND ANCHORITES 170
5. PILGRIMAGE 179
6. ORDEAL 191
7. SANCTUARY 201
8. MIRACLE AND MYSTERY PLAYS 213
9. SUPERSTITIONS, ETC. 218
10. ORDER OF BURIAL 223
PART III
RELIGIOUS HOUSES
1. GENERAL 227
2. ST. MARTIN’S-LE-GRAND 234
3. THE PRIORY OF THE HOLY TRINITY, OR CHRIST CHURCH PRIORY 241
4. THE CHARTER HOUSE 245
5. ELSYNG SPITAL 248
6. ST. BARTHOLOMEW 250
7. ST. THOMAS OF ACON 263
8. ST. ANTHONY’S 268
9. THE PRIORY OF ST. JOHN OF JERUSALEM 270
10. THE CLERKENWELL NUNNERY 284
11. ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST, OR HOLIWELL NUNNERY 286
12. BERMONDSEY ABBEY 288
13. ST. MARY OVERIES 297
14. ST. THOMAS’S HOSPITAL 309
15. ST. GILES-IN-THE-FIELDS 311
16. ST. HELEN’S 313
17. ST. MARY SPITAL 322
18. ST. MARY OF BETHLEHEM 325
19. THE CLARES 329
20. ST. KATHERINE’S BY THE TOWER 334
21. CRUTCHED FRIARS 342
22. AUSTIN FRIARS 344
23. GREY FRIARS 348
24. THE DOMINICANS 354
25. WHITEFRIARS 360
26. ST. MARY OF GRACES 363
27. THE SMALLER FOUNDATIONS 365
28. FRATERNITIES 382
29. HOSPITALS 385
APPENDICES
1. LIST OF WARDS OF LONDON 391
2. LIST OF ALDERMEN 393
3. ALPHABETICAL LIST OF ALDERMEN WHOSE NAMES ARE AFFIXED TO DEEDS
IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY 395
4. LIST OF PARISHES 397
5. PATRONAGE OF CITY CHURCHES 400
6. FESTIVALS 401
7. AN ANCHORITE’S CELL 404
8. THE MONASTIC HOUSES 406
9. A DOMINICAN HOUSE 407
10. THE PAPEY 411
11. CHARITABLE ENDOWMENT 413
12. FRATERNITIES 420
INDEX 423
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Extract from Letter-Book E, dated 1316, relating to the
Grocers’ Company 5
Obverse and Original Reverse of the Seal of the City of London,
showing Figure of St. Thomas à Becket 13
Old Mayoralty Seal, Thirteenth Century 15
King John signing Magna Charta _Facing_ 20
Aldgate House, Bethnal Green 25
Parts of the South and West Walls of a Convent 30
The Tower of London about 1480 39
The Crown offered to Richard III. at Baynard’s Castle _Facing_ 56
King Richard holding a Council of Nobles and Prelates 61
Henry of Bolingbroke challenges the Crown 62
Richard II. consulting with his Friends in Conway Castle 63
Richard II. and his Patron Saints 69
Whittington and his Cat 73
Death | 1,183.054223 |
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Produced by Greg Bergquist, John Campbell 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
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
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.
Revolutionary Reader
REMINISCENCES AND
INDIAN LEGENDS
COMPILED BY
SOPHIE LEE FOSTER
STATE REGENT
DAUGHTERS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION OF GEORGIA
ATLANTA, GA.:
BYRD PRINTING COMPANY
1913
_COPYRIGHTED 1913_
_BY_
_SOPHIE LEE FOSTER_
_DEDICATION_
_As my work has been a labor of love, I therefore affectionately
dedicate this book to the Daughters of the
American Revolution of Georgia._
September 4, 1913.
MRS. SHEPPARD W. FOSTER,
Atlanta, Georgia.
My Dear Mrs. Foster:--To say that I am delighted with your
Revolutionary Reader is to state the sheer truth in very mild
terms. It is a marvel to me how you could gather together so many
charmingly written articles, each of them illustrative of some
dramatic phase of the great struggle for independence. There
is much in this book of local interest to each section. There
is literally nothing which does not carry with it an appeal of
the most profound interest to the general reader, whether in
Georgia or New England. You have ignored no part of the map. I
congratulate you upon your wonderful success in the preparation of
your Revolutionary Reader. It is marvelously rich in contents and
broadly American in spirit.
Sincerely your friend,
(Signed) LUCIAN LAMAR KNIGHT.
September 8, 1913.
MRS. S. W. FOSTER,
711 Peachtree Street.
I like very much your plan of a Revolutionary reader. I hope it
will be adopted by the school boards of the various states as a
supplementary reader so that it may have a wide circulation.
Yours sincerely,
JOSEPH T. DERRY.
CONTENTS
PAGE
America 11
Washington's Name 12
Washington's Inauguration 13
Important Characters of the Revolutionary Period in American
History 14
Battle of Alamance 20
Battle of Lexington 22
Signers of Declaration 35
Life at Valley Forge 37
Old Williamsburg 46
Song of the Revolution 52
A True Story of the Revolution 53
Georgia Poem 55
Forts of Georgia 56
James Edward Oglethorpe 59
The Condition of Georgia During the Revolution 61
Fort Rutledge of the Revolution 65
The Efforts of LaFayette for the Cause of American
Independence 72
James Jackson 77
Experiences of Joab Horne 79
Historical Sketch of Margaret Katherine Barry 81
Art and Artists of the Revolution 84
"Uncle Sam" Explained Again 87
An Episode of the War of the Revolution 88
State Flowers 93
Georgia State History, Naming of the Counties 95
An Historic Tree 100
Independence Day 101
Kitty 102
Battle of Kettle Creek 108
A Daring Exploit of Grace and Rachael Martin 111
A Revolutionary Puzzle 112
South Carolina in the Revolution 112
Lyman Hall 118
A Romance of Revolutionary Times 120
Fort Motte, South Carolina 121
Peter Strozier 123
Independence Day 125
Sarah Gilliam Williamson 127
A Colonial Hiding Place 129
A Hero of the Revolution 131
John Paul Jones 132
The Real Georgia Cracker 135
The Dying Soldier 136
When Benjamin Franklin Scored 139
A Revolutionary Baptising 139
George Walton 140
Thomas Jefferson 143
Orators of the American Revolution 150
The Flag of Our Country (Poem) 154
The Old Virginia Gentleman 155
When Washington Was Wed (Poem) 160
Rhode Island in the American Revolution 162
Georgia and Her Heroes in the Revolution 168
United States Treasury Seal 173
Willie Was Saved 174
Virginia Revolutionary Forts 175
Uncrowned Queens and Kings as Shown Through Humorous
Incidents of the Revolution 185
A Colonial Story 192
Molly Pitcher for Hall of Fame 195
Revolutionary Relics 196
Tragedy of the Revolution Overlooked by Historians 197
John Martin 204
John Stark, Revolutionary Soldier 206
Benjamin Franklin 209
Captain Mugford 211
Governor John Clarke 214
Party Relations in England and Their Effect on the American
Revolution 221
Early Means of Transportation by Land and Water 228
Colonel Benjamin Hawkins 236
Governor Jared Irwin 240
Education of Men and Women of the American Revolution 243
Nancy Hart 252
Battle of Kings Mountain (Poem) 255
William Cleghorn 257
The Blue Laws of Old Virginia 259
Elijah Clarke 264
Francis Marion 266
Light Horse Harry 274
Our Legacy (Poem) 276
The Ride of Mary Slocumb 277
The Hobson Sisters 284
Washington's March Through Somerset County, N. J. 289
Hannah Arnett 293
Button Gwinnett 298
Forced by Pirates to Walk The Plank 300
Georgia Women of Early Days 301
Robert Sallette 308
General LaFayette's Visit to Macon 312
Yes! Tomorrow's Flag Day (Poem) 317
Flag Day 319
End of the Revolution 328
Indian Legends
Counties of Georgia Bearing Indian Names 330
Story of Early Indian Days 331
Chief Vann House 332
Indian Tale 334
William White and Daniel Boone 336
The Legend of Lovers' Leap 337
Indian Mound 344
Storiette of States Derived from Indian Names 346
Cherokee Alphabet 348
The Boy and His Arrow 351
Indian Spring, Georgia 353
Tracing The McIntosh Trail 367
Georgia School Song 369
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
Facing
Page
Fraunces Tavern 11
Ruins of Old Fort at Frederica 58
Monument to Gen. Oglethorpe 60
Indian Treaty Tree 98
The Old Liberty Bell 130
Carpenter's Hall 170
Monument Site of Old Cornwallis 266
Birthplace of Old Glory 318
Chief Vann House 330
Map of McIntosh Trail 366
Map of Georgia, Showing Colonial, Revolutionary and
Indian War Period Forts, Battle Fields and Treaty Spots 370
PREFACE.
Since it is customary to write a preface, should any one attempt the
somewhat hazardous task of compiling a book, it is my wish, as the
editor, in sending this book forth (to live or die according to its
merits) to take advantage of this custom to offer a short explanation
as to its mission. It is not to be expected that a volume, containing
so many facts gathered from numerous sources, will be entirely free
from criticism. The securing of material for compiling this book was
first planned through my endeavors to stimulate greater enthusiasm
in revolutionary history, biography of revolutionary period, Indian
legends, etc., by having storiettes read at the various meetings of the
Daughters of the American Revolution, and in this way not only creating
interest in Chapter work, but accumulating much valuable heretofore
unpublished data pertaining to this important period in American
history; with a view of having same printed in book form, suitable for
our public schools, to be known as a Revolutionary Reader.
At first it was my intention only to accept for this reader unpublished
storiettes relating to Georgia history, but realizing this work could
not be completed under this plan, during my term of office as State
Regent, I decided to use material selected from other reliable sources,
and endeavored to make it as broad and general in scope as possible
that it might better fulfill its purpose.
To the Daughters of the American Revolution of Georgia this book is
dedicated. Its production has been a labor of love, and should its
pages be the medium through which American patriotism | 1,183.061544 |
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Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.
American Fairy Tales
By L. FRANK BAUM
Author of
FATHER GOOSE; HIS BOOK,
THE WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ, ETC.
CONTENTS
THE BOX OF ROBBERS
THE GLASS DOG
THE QUEEN OF QUOK
THE GIRL WHO OWNED A BEAR
THE ENCHANTED TYPES
THE LAUGHING HIPPOPOTAMUS
THE MAGIC BON BONS
THE CAPTURE OF FATHER TIME
THE WONDERFUL PUMP
THE DUMMY THAT LIVED
THE KING OF THE POLAR BEARS
THE MANDARIN AND THE BUTTERFLY
THE BOX OF ROBBERS
No one intended to leave Martha alone that afternoon, but it
happened that everyone was called away, for one reason or another.
Mrs. McFarland was attending the weekly card party held by the
Women's Anti-Gambling League. Sister Nell's young man had called
quite unexpectedly to take her for a long drive. Papa was at the
office, as usual. It was Mary Ann's day out. As for Emeline, she
certainly should have stayed in the house and looked after the
little girl; but Emeline had a restless nature.
"Would you mind, miss, if I just crossed the alley to speak a word
to Mrs. Carleton's girl?" she asked Martha.
"'Course not," replied the child. "You'd better lock the back door,
though, and take the key, for I shall be upstairs."
"Oh, I'll do that, of course, miss," said the delighted maid, and
ran away to spend the afternoon with her friend, leaving Martha
quite alone in the big house, and locked in, into the bargain.
The little girl read a few pages in her new book, sewed a few
stitches in her embroidery and started to "play visiting" with her
four favorite dolls. Then she remembered that in the attic was a
doll's playhouse that hadn't been used for months, so she decided
she would dust it and put it in order.
Filled with this idea, the girl climbed the winding stairs to the
big room under the roof. It was well lighted by three dormer windows
and was warm and pleasant. Around the walls were rows of boxes and
trunks, piles of old carpeting, pieces of damaged furniture, bundles
of discarded clothing and other odds and ends of more or less value.
Every well-regulated house has an attic of this sort, so I need not
describe it.
The doll's house had been moved, but after a search Martha found it
away over in a corner near the big chimney.
She drew it out and noticed that behind it was a black wooden chest
which Uncle Walter had sent over from Italy years and years
ago--before Martha was born, in fact. Mamma had told her about it
one day; how there was no key to it, because Uncle Walter wished it
to remain unopened until he returned home; and how this wandering
uncle, who was a mighty hunter, had gone into Africa to hunt
elephants and had never been heard from afterwards.
The little girl looked at the chest curiously, now that it had by
accident attracted her attention.
It was quite big--bigger even than mamma's traveling trunk--and was
studded all over with tarnished brassheaded nails. It was heavy,
too, for when Martha tried to lift one end of it she found she could
not stir it a bit. But there was a place in the side of the cover
for a key. She stooped to examine the lock, and saw that it would
take a rather big key to open it.
Then, as you may suspect, the little girl longed to open Uncle
Walter's big box and see what was in it. For we are all curious, and
little girls are just as curious as the rest of us.
"I don't b'lieve Uncle Walter'll ever come back," she thought. "Papa
said once that some elephant must have killed him. If I only had a
key--" She stopped and clapped her little hands together gayly as
she remembered a big basket of keys on the shelf in the linen
closet. They were of all sorts and sizes; perhaps one of them would
unlock the mysterious chest!
She flew down the stairs, found the basket and returned with it to
the attic. Then she sat down before the brass-studded box and began
trying one key after another in the curious old lock. Some were too
large, but most were too small. One would go into the lock but would
not turn; another stuck so fast that she feared for a time that she
would never get it out again. But at last, when the basket was
almost empty, an oddly-shaped, ancient brass key slipped easily into
the lock. With a cry of joy Martha turned the key with both hands;
then she heard a sharp "click," and the next moment the heavy lid
flew up of its own accord!
The little girl leaned over the edge of the chest an instant, and
the sight that met her eyes caused her to start back in amazement.
Slowly and carefully a man unpacked himself from the chest | 1,183.106668 |
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Produced by Dianne Nolan and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note: Italics are indicated by _underscores_.
Not Paul, But Jesus
BY JEREMY BENTHAM, ESQR.,--The Eminent
Philosopher of Sociology, Jurisprudence,
&c., of London.
With Preface Containing Sketches of His Life and
Works Together with Critical Notes by John
J. Crandall, Esqr., of the New Jersey Bar--author
of Right to Begin and Reply
EDITOR'S PREFACE.
Jeremy Bentham, an eminent English judicial or jural philosopher, was
born in London, February 15, 1748, and died at Westminster, his
residence for six years previously, June 6, 1832. His grandfather was a
London | 1,183.484669 |
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Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger
TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE
By Mark Twain
Contents
CHAPTER I. AN INVITATION FOR TOM AND HUCK
CHAPTER II. JAKE DUNLAP
CHAPTER III. A DIAMOND ROBBERY
CHAPTER IV. THE THREE SLEEPERS
CHAPTER V. A TRAGEDY IN THE WOODS
CHAPTER VI. PLANS TO SECURE THE DIAMONDS
CHAPTER VII. A NIGHT'S VIGIL
CHAPTER VIII. TALKING WITH THE GHOST
CHAPTER IX. FINDING OF JUBITER DUNLAP
CHAPTER X. THE ARREST OF UNCLE SILAS
CHAPTER XI. TOM SAWYER DISCOVERS THE MURDERERS
CHAPTER I. AN INVITATION FOR TOM AND HUCK
[Note: Strange as the incidents of this story are, they
are not inventions, but facts--even to the public confession
of the accused. I take them from an old-time Swedish
criminal trial, change the actors, and transfer the scenes
to America. I have added some details, but only a couple of
them are important ones. -- M. T.]
WELL, it was the next spring after me and Tom Sawyer set our old <DW65>
Jim free, the time he was chained up for a runaway slave down there on
Tom's uncle Silas's farm in Arkansaw. The frost was working out of the
ground, and out of the air, too, and it was getting closer and closer
onto barefoot time every day; and next it would be marble time, and next
mumbletypeg, and next tops and hoops, and next kites, and then right
away it would be summer and going in a-swimming. It just makes a boy
homesick to look ahead like that and see how far off summer is. Yes, and
it sets him to sighing and saddening around, and there's something the
matter with him, he don't know what. But anyway, he gets out by himself
and mopes and thinks; and mostly he hunts for a lonesome place high up
on the hill in the edge of the woods, and sets there and looks away off
on the big Mississippi down there a-reaching miles and miles around the
points where the timber looks smoky and dim it's so far off and still,
and everything's so solemn it seems like everybody you've loved is dead
and gone, and you'most wish you was dead and gone too, and done with it
all.
Don't you know what that is? It's spring fever. That is what the name of
it is. And when you've got it, you want--oh, you don't quite know what
it is you DO want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it
so! It seems to you that mainly what you want is to get away; get away
from the same old tedious things you're so used to seeing and so tired
of, and set something new. That is the idea; you want to go and be a
wanderer; you want to go wandering far away to strange countries where
everything is mysterious and wonderful and romantic. And if you can't do
that, you'll put up with considerable less; you'll go anywhere you CAN
go, just so as to get away, and be thankful of the chance, too.
Well, me and Tom Sawyer had the spring fever, and had it bad, too; but
it warn't any use to think about Tom trying to get away, because, as he
said, his Aunt Polly wouldn't let him quit school and go traipsing off
somers wasting time; so we was pretty blue. We was setting on the front
steps one day about sundown talking this way, when out comes his aunt
Polly with a letter in her hand and says:
"Tom, I reckon you've got to pack up and go down to Arkansaw--your aunt
Sally wants you."
I'most jumped out of my skin for joy. I reckoned Tom would fly at his
aunt and hug her head off; but if you believe me he set there like a
rock, and never said a word. It made me fit to cry to see him act so
foolish, with such a noble chance as this opening up. Why, we might lose
it if he didn't speak up and show he was thankful and grateful. But he
set there and studied and studied till I was that distressed I didn't
know what to do; then he says, very ca'm, and I could a shot him for it:
"Well," he says, "I'm right down sorry, Aunt Polly, but I reckon I got
to be excused--for the present."
His aunt Polly was knocked so stupid and so mad at the cold impudence of
it that she couldn't say a word for as much as a half a minute, and this
gave me a chance to nudge Tom and whisper:
"Ain't you got any sense? Sp'iling such a noble chance as this and
throwing it away?"
But he warn't disturbed. He mumbled back:
"Huck Finn, do you want me to let her SEE how bad I want to go? Why,
she'd begin to doubt, right away, and imagine a lot of sicknesses and
dangers and objections, and first you know she'd take it all back. You
lemme alone; I reckon I know how to work her."
Now I never would 'a' thought of that. But he was right. Tom Sawyer was
always right--the levelest head I ever see, and always AT himself and
ready for anything you might spring on him. By this time his aunt Polly
was all straight again, and she let fly. She says:
"You'll be excused! YOU will! Well, I never heard the like of it in all
my days! The idea of you talking like that to ME! Now take yourself off
and pack your traps; and if I hear another word out of you about what
you'll be excused from and what you won't, I lay I'LL excuse you--with a
hickory!"
She hit his head a thump with her thimble as we dodged by, and he let on
to be whimpering as we struck for the stairs. Up in his room he
hugged me, he was so out of his head for gladness because he was going
traveling. And he says:
"Before we get away she'll wish she hadn't let me go, but she won't know
any way to get around it now. After what she's said, her pride won't let
her take it back."
Tom was packed in ten minutes, all except what his aunt and Mary would
finish up for him; then we waited ten more for her to get cooled down
and sweet and gentle again; for Tom said it took her ten minutes to
unruffle in times when half of her feathers was up, but twenty when they
was all up, and this was one of the times when they was all up. Then we
went down, being in a sweat to know what the letter said.
She was setting there in a brown study, with it laying in her lap. We
set down, and she says:
"They're in considerable trouble down there, and they think you and
Huck'll be a kind of diversion for them--'comfort,' they say. Much of
that they'll get out of you and Huck Finn, I reckon. There's a neighbor
named Brace Dunlap that's been wanting to marry their Benny for three
months, and at last they told him point blank and once for all, he
COULDN'T; so he has soured on them, and they're worried about it. I
reckon he's somebody they think they better be on the good side of, for
they've tried to please him by hiring his no-account brother to help
on the farm when they can't hardly afford it, and don't want him around
anyhow. Who are the Dunlaps?"
"They live about a mile from Uncle Silas's place, Aunt Polly--all the
farmers live about a mile apart down there--and Brace Dunlap is a long
sight richer than any of the others, and owns a whole grist of <DW65>s.
He's a widower, thirty-six years old, without any children, and is proud
of his money and overbearing, and everybody is a little afraid of him. I
judge he thought he could have any girl he wanted, just for the asking,
and it must have set him back a good deal when he found he couldn't get
Benny. Why, Benny's only half as old as he is, and just as sweet and
lovely as--well, you've seen her. Poor old Uncle Silas--why, it's pitiful,
him trying to curry favor that way--so hard pushed and poor, and yet
hiring that useless Jubiter Dunlap to please his ornery brother."
"What a name--Jubiter! Where'd he get it?"
"It's only just a nickname. I reckon they've forgot his real name long
before this. He's twenty-seven, now, and has had it ever since the first
time he ever went in swimming. The school teacher seen a round brown
mole the size of a dime on his left leg above his knee, and four little
bits of moles around it, when he was naked, and he said it minded him
of Jubiter and his moons; and the children thought it was funny, and so
they got to calling him Jubiter, and he's Jubiter yet. He's tall,
and lazy, and sly, and sneaky, and ruther cowardly, too, but kind of
good-natured, and wears long brown hair and no beard, and hasn't got a
cent, and Brace boards him for nothing, and gives him his old clothes to
wear, and despises him. Jubiter is a twin."
"What's t'other twin like?"
"Just exactly like Jubiter--so they say; used to was, anyway, but he
hain't been seen for seven years. He got to robbing when he was nineteen
or twenty, and they jailed him; but he broke jail and got away--up North
here, somers. They used to hear about him robbing and burglaring now and
then, but that was years ago. He's dead, now. At least that's what they
say. They don't hear about him any more."
"What was his name?"
"Jake."
There wasn't anything more said for a considerable while; the old lady
was thinking. At last she says:
"The thing that is mostly worrying your aunt Sally is the tempers that
that man Jubiter gets your uncle into."
Tom was astonished, and so was I. Tom says:
"Tempers? Uncle Silas? Land, you must be joking! I didn't know he HAD
any temper."
"Works him up into perfect rages, your aunt Sally says; says he acts as
if he would really hit the man, sometimes."
"Aunt Polly, it beats anything I ever heard of. Why, he's just as gentle
as mush."
"Well, she's worried, anyway. Says your uncle Silas is like a changed
man, on account of all this quarreling. And the neighbors talk about it,
and lay all the blame on your uncle, of course, because he's a preacher
and hain't got any business to quarrel. Your aunt Sally says he hates
to go into the pulpit he's so ashamed; and the people have begun to cool
toward him, and he ain't as popular now as he used to was."
"Well, ain't it strange? Why, Aunt Polly, he was always so good and kind
and moony and absent-minded and chuckle-headed and lovable--why, he was
just an angel! What CAN be the matter of him, do you reckon?"
CHAPTER II. JAKE DUNLAP
WE had powerful good luck; because we got a chance in a stern-wheeler
from away North which was bound for one of them bayous or one-horse
rivers away down Louisiana way, and so we could go all the way down the
Upper Mississippi and all the way down the Lower Mississippi to that
farm in Arkansaw without having to change steamboats at St. Louis; not
so very much short of a thousand miles at one pull.
A pretty lonesome boat; there warn't but few passengers, and all old
folks, that set around, wide apart, dozing, and was very quiet. We was
four days getting out of the "upper river," because we got aground so
much. But it warn't dull--couldn't be for boys that was traveling, of
course.
From the very start me and Tom allowed that there was somebody sick in
the stateroom next to ourn, because the meals was always toted in there
by the waiters. By and by we asked about it--Tom did and the waiter said
it was a man, but he didn't look sick.
"Well, but AIN'T he sick?"
"I don't know; maybe he is, but 'pears to me he's just letting on."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because if he was sick he would pull his clothes off SOME time or
other--don't you reckon he would? Well, this one don't. At least he don't
ever pull off his boots, anyway."
"The mischief he don't! Not even when he goes to bed?"
"No."
It was always nuts for Tom Sawyer--a mystery was. If you'd lay out a
mystery and a pie before me and him, you wouldn't have to say take your
choice; it was a thing that would regulate itself. Because in my nature
I have always run to pie, whilst in his nature he has always run to
mystery. People are made different. And it is the best way. Tom says to
the waiter:
"What's the man's name?"
"Phillips."
"Where'd he come aboard?"
"I think he got aboard at Elexandria, up on the Iowa line."
"What do you reckon he's a-playing?"
"I hain't any notion--I never thought of it."
I says to myself, here's another one that runs to pie.
"Anything peculiar about him?--the way he acts or talks?"
"No--nothing, except he seems so scary, and keeps his doors locked night
and day both, and when you knock he won't let you in till he opens the
door a crack and sees who it is."
"By jimminy, it's int'resting! I'd like to get a look at him. Say--the
next time you're going in there, don't you reckon you could spread the
door and--"
"No, indeedy! He's always behind it. He would block that game."
Tom studied over it, and then he says:
"Looky here. You lend me your apern and let me take him his breakfast in
the morning. I'll give you a quarter."
The boy was plenty willing enough, if the head steward wouldn't mind.
Tom says that's all right, he reckoned he could fix it with the head
steward; and he done it. He fixed it so as we could both go in with
aperns on and toting vittles.
He didn't sleep much, he was in such a sweat to get in there and find
out the mystery about Phillips; and moreover he done a lot of guessing
about it all night, which warn't no use, for if you are going to find
out the facts of a thing, what's the sense in guessing out what ain't
the facts and wasting ammunition? I didn't lose no sleep. I wouldn't
give a dern to know what's the matter of Phillips, I says to myself.
Well, in the morning we put on the aperns and got a couple of trays of
truck, and Tom he knocked on the door. The man opened it a crack, and
then he let us in and shut it quick. By Jackson, when we got a sight of
him, we'most dropped the trays! and Tom says:
"Why, Jubiter Dunlap, where'd YOU come from?"
Well, the man was astonished, of course; and first off he looked like
he didn't know whether to be scared, or glad, or both, or which, but
finally he settled down to being glad; and then his color come back,
though at first his face had turned pretty white. So we got to talking
together while he et his breakfast. And he says:
"But I aint Jubiter Dunlap. I'd just as soon tell you who I am, though,
if you'll swear to keep mum, for I ain't no Phillips, either."
Tom says:
"We'll keep mum, but there ain't any need to tell who you are if you
ain't Jubiter Dunlap."
"Why?"
"Because if you ain't him you're t'other twin, Jake. You're the spit'n
image of Jubiter."
"Well, I'm Jake. But looky here, how do you come to know us Dunlaps?"
Tom told about the adventures we'd had down there at his uncle Silas's
last summer, and when he see that there warn't anything about his
folks--or him either, for that matter--that we didn't know, he opened out
and talked perfectly free and candid. He never made any bones about his
own case; said he'd been a hard lot, was a hard lot yet, and reckoned
he'd be a hard lot plumb to the end. He said of course it was a
dangerous life, and--He give a kind of gasp, and set his head like a
person that's listening. We didn't say anything, and so it was very
still for a second or so, and there warn't no sounds but the screaking
of the woodwork and the chug-chugging of the machinery down below.
Then we got him comfortable again, telling him about his people, and how
Brace's wife had been dead three years, and Brace wanted to marry Benny
and she shook him, and Jubiter was working for Uncle Silas, and him and
Uncle Silas quarreling all the time--and then he let go and laughed.
"Land!" he says, "it's like old times to hear all this tittle-tattle,
and does me good. It's been seven years and more since I heard any. How
do they talk about me these days?"
"Who?"
"The farmers--and the family."
"Why, they don't talk about you at all--at least only just a mention,
once in a long time."
"The nation!" he says, surprised; "why is that?"
"Because they think you are dead long ago."
"No! Are you speaking true?--honor bright, now." He jumped up, excited.
"Honor bright. There ain't anybody thinks you are alive."
"Then I'm saved, I'm saved, sure! I'll go home. They'll hide me and save
my life. You keep mum. Swear you'll keep mum--swear you'll never, never
tell on me. Oh, boys, be good to a poor devil that's being hunted day
and night, and dasn't show his face! I've never done you any harm; I'll
never do you any, as God is in the heavens; swear you'll be good to me
and help me save my life."
We'd a swore it if he'd been a dog; and so we done it. Well, he couldn't
love us enough for it or be grateful enough, poor cuss; it was all he
could do to keep from hugging us.
We talked along, and he got out a little hand-bag and begun to open it,
and told us to turn our backs. We done it, and when he told us to turn
again he was perfectly different to what he was before. He had on blue
goggles and the naturalest-looking long brown whiskers and mustashes
you ever see. His own mother wouldn't 'a' knowed him. He asked us if he
looked like his brother Jubiter, now.
"No," Tom said; "there ain't anything left that's like him except the
long hair."
"All right, I'll get that cropped close to my head before I get there;
then him and Brace will keep my secret, and I'll live with them as
being a stranger, and the neighbors won't ever guess me out. What do you
think?"
Tom he studied awhile, then he says:
"Well, of course me and Huck are going to keep mum there, but if you
don't keep mum yourself there's going to be a little bit of a risk--it
ain't much, maybe, but it's a little. I mean, if you talk, won't people
notice that your voice is just like Jubiter's; and mightn't it make them
think of the twin they reckoned was dead, but maybe after all was hid
all this time under another name?"
"By George," he says, "you're a sharp one! You're perfectly right.
I've got to play deef and dumb when there's a neighbor around. If I'd a
struck for home and forgot that little detail--However, I wasn't striking
for home. I was breaking for any place where I could get away from these
fellows that are after me; then I was going to put on this disguise and
get some different clothes, and--"
He jumped for the outside door and laid his ear against it and listened,
pale and kind of panting. Presently he whispers:
"Sounded like cocking a gun! Lord, what a life to lead!"
Then he sunk down in a chair all limp and sick like, and wiped the sweat
off of his face.
CHAPTER III. A DIAMOND ROBBERY
FROM that time out, we was with him'most all the time, and one or
t'other of us slept in his upper berth. He said he had been so lonesome,
and it was such a comfort to him to have company, and somebody to talk
to in his troubles. We was in a sweat to find out what his secret was,
but Tom said the best way was not to seem anxious, then likely he
would drop into it himself in one of his talks, but if we got to asking
questions he would get suspicious and shet up his shell. It turned out
just so. It warn't no trouble to see that he WANTED to talk about it,
but always along at first he would scare away from it when he got on the
very edge of it, and go to talking about something else. The way it come
about was this: He got to asking us, kind of indifferent like, about
the passengers down on deck. We told him about them. But he warn't
satisfied; we warn't particular enough. He told us to describe them
better. Tom done it. At last, when Tom was describing one of the
roughest and raggedest ones, he gave a shiver and a gasp and says:
"Oh, lordy, that's one of them! They're aboard sure--I just knowed it. I
sort of hoped I had got away, but I never believed it. Go on."
Presently when Tom was describing another mangy, rough deck passenger,
he give that shiver again and says:
"That's him!--that's the other one. If it would only come a good black
stormy night and I could get ashore. You see, they've got spies on me.
They've got a right to come up and buy drinks at the bar yonder forrard,
and they take that chance to bribe somebody to keep watch on me--porter
or boots or somebody. If I was to slip ashore without anybody seeing me,
they would know it inside of an hour."
So then he got to wandering along, and pretty soon, sure enough, he was
telling! He was poking along through his ups and downs, and when he come
to that place he went right along. He says:
"It was a confidence game. We played it on a julery-shop in St.
Louis. What we was after was a couple of noble big di'monds as big as
hazel-nuts, which everybody was running to see. We was dressed up fine,
and we played it on them in broad daylight. We ordered the di'monds
sent to the hotel for us to see if we wanted to buy, and when we was
examining them we had paste counterfeits all ready, and THEM was the
things that went back to the shop when we said the water wasn't quite
fine enough for twelve thousand dollars."
"Twelve-thousand-dollars!" Tom says. "Was they really worth all that
money, do you reckon?"
"Every cent of it."
"And you fellows got away with them?"
"As easy as nothing. I don't reckon the julery people know they've been
robbed yet. But it wouldn't be good sense to stay around St. Louis, of
course, so we considered where we'd go. One was for going one way, one
another, so we throwed up, heads or tails, and the Upper Mississippi
won. We done up the di'monds in a paper and put our names on it and put
it in the keep of the hotel clerk, and told him not to ever let either
of us have it again without the others was on hand to see it done; then
we went down town, each by his own self--because I reckon maybe we all
had the same notion. I don't know for certain, but I reckon maybe we
had."
"What notion?" Tom says.
"To rob the others."
"What--one take everything, after all of you had helped to get it?"
"Cert'nly."
It disgusted Tom Sawyer, and he said it was the orneriest, low-downest
thing he ever heard of. But Jake Dunlap said it warn't unusual in the
profession. Said when a person was in that line of business he'd got to
look out for his own intrust, there warn't nobody else going to do it
for him. And then he went on. He says:
"You see, the trouble was, you couldn't divide up two di'monds amongst
three. If there'd been three--But never mind about that, there warn't
three. I loafed along the back streets studying and studying. And I says
to myself, I'll hog them di'monds the first chance I get, and I'll have
a disguise all ready, and I'll give the boys the slip, and when I'm safe
away I'll put it on, and then let them find me if they can. So I got the
false whiskers and the goggles and this countrified suit of clothes,
and fetched them along back in a hand-bag; and when I was passing a shop
where they sell all sorts of things, I got a glimpse of one of my pals
through the window. It was Bud Dixon. I was glad, you bet. I says to
myself, I'll see what he buys. So I kept shady, and watched. Now what do
you reckon it was he bought?"
"Whiskers?" said I.
"No."
"Goggles?"
"No."
"Oh, keep still, Huck Finn, can't you, you're only just hendering all
you can. What WAS it he bought, Jake?"
"You'd never guess in the world. It was only just a screwdriver--just a
wee little bit of a screwdriver."
"Well, I declare! What did he want with that?"
"That's what I thought. It was curious. It clean stumped me. I says to
myself, what can he want with that thing? Well, when he come out I stood
back out of sight, and then tracked him to a second-hand slop-shop and
see him buy a red flannel shirt and some old ragged clothes--just the
ones he's got on now, as you've described. Then I went down to the wharf
and hid my things aboard the up-river boat that we had picked out, and
then started back and had another streak of luck. I seen our other pal
lay in HIS stock of old rusty second-handers. We got the di'monds and
went aboard the boat.
"But now we was up a stump, for we couldn't go to bed. We had to set up
and watch one another. Pity, that was; pity to put that kind of a strain
on us, because there was bad blood between us from a couple of weeks
back, and we was only friends in the way of business. Bad anyway, seeing
there was only two di'monds betwixt three men. First we had supper, and
then tramped up and down the deck together smoking till most midnight;
then we went and set down in my stateroom and locked the doors and
looked in the piece of paper to see if the di'monds was all right, then
laid it on the lower berth right in full sight; and there we set, and
set, and by | 1,183.554301 |
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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 | 1,183.555763 |
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Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer
THE POETICS OF ARISTOTLE
By Aristotle
A Translation By S. H. Butcher
[Transcriber's Annotations and Conventions: the translator left
intact some Greek words to illustrate a specific point of the original
discourse. In this transcription, in order to retain the accuracy of
this text, those words are rendered by spelling out each Greek letter
individually, such as {alpha beta gamma delta...}. The reader can
distinguish these words by the enclosing braces {}. Where multiple
words occur together, they are separated by the "/" symbol for clarity.
Readers who do not speak or read the Greek language will usually neither
gain nor lose understanding by skipping over these passages. Those who
understand Greek, however, may gain a deeper insight to the original
meaning and distinctions expressed by Aristotle.]
Analysis of Contents
I 'Imitation' the common principle of the Arts of Poetry.
II The Objects of Imitation.
III The Manner of Imitation.
IV The Origin and Development of Poetry.
V Definition of the Ludicrous, and a brief sketch of the rise of
Comedy.
VI Definition of Tragedy.
VII The Plot must be a Whole.
VIII The Plot must be a Unity.
IX (Plot continued.) Dramatic Unity.
X (Plot continued.) Definitions of Simple and Complex Plots.
XI (Plot continued.) Reversal of the Situation, Recognition, and
Tragic or disastrous Incident defined and explained.
XII The 'quantitative parts' of Tragedy defined.
XIII (Plot continued.) What constitutes Tragic Action.
XIV (Plot continued.) The tragic emotions of pity and fear should
spring out of the Plot itself.
XV The element of Character in Tragedy.
XVI (Plot continued.) Recognition: its various kinds, with examples.
XVII Practical rules for the Tragic Poet.
XVIII Further rules for the Tragic Poet.
XIX Thought, or the Intellectual element, and Diction in Tragedy.
XX Diction, or Language in general.
XXI Poetic Diction.
XXII (Poetic Diction continued.) How Poetry combines elevation of
language with perspicuity.
XXIII Epic Poetry.
XXIV (Epic Poetry continued.) Further points of agreement with Tragedy.
XXV Critical Objections brought against Poetry, and the principles on
which they are to be answered.
XXVI A general estimate of the comparative worth of Epic Poetry and
Tragedy.
ARISTOTLE'S POETICS
I
I propose to treat of Poetry in itself and of its various kinds, noting
the essential quality of each; to inquire into the structure of the plot
as requisite to a good poem; into the number and nature of the parts of
which a poem is composed; and similarly into whatever else falls within
the same inquiry. Following, then, the order of nature, let us begin
with the principles which come first.
Epic poetry and Tragedy, Comedy also and Dithyrambic: poetry, and the
music of the flute and of the lyre in most of their forms, are all in
their general conception modes of imitation. They differ, however, from
one: another in three respects,--the medium, the objects, the manner or
mode of imitation, being in each case distinct.
For as there are persons who, by conscious art or mere habit, imitate
and represent various objects through the medium of colour and form, or
again by the voice; so in the arts above mentioned, taken as a whole,
the imitation is produced by rhythm, language, or 'harmony,' either
singly or combined.
Thus in the music of the flute and of the lyre, 'harmony' and rhythm
alone are employed; also in other arts, such as that of the shepherd's
pipe, which are essentially similar to these. In dancing, rhythm alone
is used without 'harmony'; for even dancing imitates character, emotion,
and action, by rhythmical movement.
There is another art which imitates by means of language alone, and
that either in prose or verse--which, verse, again, may either combine
different metres or consist of but one kind--but this has hitherto been
without a name. For there is no common term we could apply to the mimes
of Sophron and Xenarchus and the Socratic dialogues on the one hand;
and, on the other, to poetic imitations in iambic, elegiac, or any
similar metre. People do, indeed, add the word'maker' or 'poet' to
the name of the metre, and speak of elegiac poets, or epic (that is,
hexameter) poets, as if it were not the imitation that makes the poet,
but the verse that entitles them all indiscriminately to the name. Even
when a treatise on medicine or natural science is brought out in verse,
the name of poet is by custom given to the author; and yet Homer and
Empedocles have nothing in common but the metre, so that it would be
right to call the one poet, the other physicist rather than poet. On the
same principle, even if a writer in his poetic imitation were to combine
all metres, as Chaeremon did in his Centaur, which is a medley composed
of metres of all kinds, we should bring him too under the general term
poet. So much then for these distinctions.
There are, again, some arts which employ all the means above mentioned,
namely, rhythm, tune, and metre. Such are Dithyrambic and Nomic poetry,
and also Tragedy and Comedy; but between them the difference is, that in
the first two cases these means are all employed in combination, in the
latter, now one means is employed, now another.
Such, then, are the differences of the arts with respect to the medium
of imitation.
II
Since the objects of imitation are men in action, and these men must be
either of a higher or a lower type (for moral character mainly answers
to these divisions, goodness and badness being the distinguishing marks
of moral differences), it follows that we must represent men either as
better than in real life, or as worse, or as they are. It is the same
in painting. Polygnotus depicted men as nobler than they are, Pauson as
less noble, Dionysius drew them true to life.
Now it is evident that each of the modes of imitation above mentioned
will exhibit these differences, and become a distinct kind in imitating
objects that are thus distinct. Such diversities may be found even in
dancing, flute-playing, and lyre-playing. So again in language, whether
prose or verse unaccompanied by music. Homer, for example, makes men
better than they are; Cleophon as they are; Hegemon the Thasian, the
inventor of parodies, and Nicochares, the author of the Deiliad, worse
than they are. The same thing holds good of Dithyrambs and Nomes;
here too one may portray different types, as Timotheus and Philoxenus
differed in representing their Cyclopes. The same distinction marks
off Tragedy from Comedy; for Comedy aims at representing men as worse,
Tragedy as better than in actual life.
III
There is still a third difference--the manner in | 1,183.584556 |
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[Illustration: (cover)]
[Illustration: (frontispiece)]
"SOME SAY"
NEIGHBOURS IN CYRUS
BY
LAURA E. RICHARDS
Author of "Captain January," "Melody," "Queen Hildegarde,"
"Five-Minute Stories," "When I Was Your Age,"
"Narcissa," "Marie," "Nautilus," etc.
TWELFTH THOUSAND
[Illustration]
BOSTON
DANA ESTES & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1896_,
BY ESTES & LAURIAT
_All rights reserved_
Colonial Press:
C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
Electrotyped by Geo. C. Scott & Sons
"SOME SAY"
TO MY
Dear Sister,
FLORENCE HOWE HALL,
THIS VOLUME
IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED
* * * * *
"SOME SAY."
Part I.
"And some say, she expects to get him married to Rose Ellen before the
year's out!"
"I want to know if she does!"
"Her sister married a minister, and her father was a deacon, so mebbe
she thinks she's got a master-key to the Kingdom. But I don't feel so
sure of her gettin' this minister for Rose Ellen. Some say he's so
wropped up in his garden truck that he don't know a gal from a
gooseberry bush. He! he!"
The shrill cackle was answered by a slow, unctuous chuckle, as of a
fat and wheezy person; then a door was closed, and silence fell.
The minister looked up apprehensively; his fair face was flushed, and
his mild, blue eyes looked troubled. He gazed at the broad back of his
landlady, as she stood dusting, with minute care, the china ornaments
on the mantelpiece; but her back gave no sign. He coughed once or
twice; he said, "Mrs. Mellen!" tentatively, first low, then in his
ordinary voice, but there was no reply. Was Mrs. Mellen deaf? he had
not noticed it before. He pondered distressfully for a few moments;
then dropped his eyes, and the book swallowed him again. Yet the sting
remained, for when presently the figure at the mantelpiece turned
round, he looked up hastily, and flushed again as he met his hostess'
gaze, calm and untroubled as a summer pool.
"There, sir!" said Mrs. Mellen, cheerfully. "I guess that's done to
suit. Is there anything more I can do for you before I go?"
The minister's mind hovered between two perplexities; a glance at the
book before him decided their relative importance.
"Have you ever noticed, Mrs. Mellen, whether woodcocks are more apt to
fly on moonshiny nights, as White assures us?"
"Woodbox?" said Mrs. Mellen. "Why, yes, sir, it's handy by; and when
there's no moon, the lantern always hangs in the porch. But I'll see
that Si Jones keeps it full up, after this."
Decidedly, the good woman was deaf, and she had not heard. Could those
harpies be right? If any such idea as they suggested were actually in
his hostess' mind, he must go away, for his work must not be
interfered with, and he must not encourage hopes,--the minister
blushed again, and glanced around to see if any one could see him.
But he was so comfortable here, and Miss Mellen was so intelligent, so
helpful; and this seemed the ideal spot on which to compile his New
England "Selborne."
He sighed, and thought of the woodcock again. Why should the bird
prefer a moonshiny night? Was it likely that the creature had any
appreciation of the beauties of nature? Shakespeare uses the woodcock
as a simile of folly, to express a person without brains. Ha!
The door opened, and Rose Ellen came in, her eyes shining with
pleasure, her hands full of gold and green.
"I've found the 'Squarrosa,' Mr. Lindsay!" she announced. "See, this
is it, surely!"
The minister rose, and inspected the flowers delightedly. "This is it,
surely!" he repeated. "Stem stout, hairy above; leaves large, oblong,
or the lower spatulate-oval, and tapering into a marginal petiole,
serrate veiny; heads numerous; seeds obtuse or acute; disk-flowers, 16
x 24. This is, indeed, a treasure, for Gray calls it 'rare in New
England.' I congratulate you, Miss Mellen."
"Late, sir?" said Mrs. Mellen, calmly. "Oh, no, 'tisn't hardly five
o'clock yet. Still, 'tis time for me to be thinkin' of gettin'
supper."
"Don't you want I should make some biscuit for supper, mother?" asked
Rose Ellen, coming out of her rapt contemplation of the goldenrod that
Gray condescended to call rare, he to whom all things were common.
Her mother made no answer.
"Don't you want I should make a pan of biscuit?" Rose Ellen repeated.
Still there was no reply, and the girl turned to look at her mother in
some alarm.
"Why, mother, what is the matter? why don't you answer me?"
"Your mother's deafness," the minister put in, hurriedly, "seems
suddenly increased: probably a cold,--"
"Was you speakin' to me, Rose Ellen?" said Mrs. Mellen.
"Why, yes!" said the girl, in distress.
"Why, mother, how did you get this cold? you seemed all right when I
went out."
"Gettin' old!" cried Mrs. Mellen. "'Tis nothin' of the sort, Rose
Ellen! I've took a cold, I shouldn't wonder. I went out without my
shawl just for a minute. I expect 'twas careless, but there! life is
too short to be thinkin' all the time about the flesh,'specially when
there's as much of it as I have. I've ben expectin' I should grow hard
of hearin', though, these two years past. The Bowlers do, you know,
Rose Ellen, 'long about middle life. There was your Uncle Lihu. I can
hear him snort now, sittin' in his chair, like a pig for all the
world, and with no idea he was makin' a sound."
"But it's come on so sudden!" cried Rose Ellen, in distress.
"That's Bowler!" said her mother. "Bowler for all the world! They take
things suddin, whether it's hoarsin' up, or breakin' out, or what it
is. There! you've heard me tell how my Aunt Phoebe 'Lizabeth come out
with spots all over her face, when she was standin' up to be married.
Chicken-pox it was, and they never knew where she got it; but my
grand'ther said 'twas pure Bowler, wherever it come from."
She gazed placidly at her daughter's troubled face; then, patting her
with her broad hand, pushed her gently out of the room before her.
"Mr. Lindsay's heard enough of my bein' hard of hearin', I expect,"
she said, cheerfully, as they passed into the kitchen.
"Don't you fret, Rose Ellen! You won't have to get a fog-horn yet
awhile. I don't know but it would be a good plan for you to mix up a
mess o' biscuit, if you felt to: Mr. Lindsay likes your biscuit real
well, I heard him say so."
"That's what I was going to do," said Rose Ellen, still depressed. "I
wish't you'd see the doctor, mother. I don't believe but he could help
your hearing, if you take it before it's got settled on you."
"Well, I won't, certain!" said Mrs. Mellen. "The idea, strong and well
as I be! Bowler blood's comin' out, that's all; and the only wonder is
it hasn't come out before."
All that day, and the next, the minister did not seem like himself. He
was no more absent-minded than usual, perhaps,--that could hardly be.
But he was grave and troubled, and the usual happy laugh did not come
when Rose Ellen checked him gently as he was about to put pepper into
his tea. Several times he seemed about to speak: his eye dwelt
anxiously on the cream-jug, in which he seemed to be seeking
inspiration; but each time his heart failed him, and he relapsed with
a sigh into his melancholy reverie.
Rose Ellen was silent, too, and the burden of the talk fell on her
mother. At supper on the second day, midway between the ham and the
griddle-cakes, Mrs. Mellen announced:
"Rose Ellen, I expect you'd better go down to Tupham to-morrow, and
stay a spell with your grandm'ther. She seems to be right poorly, and
I expect it'd be a comfort to her to have you with her. I guess you'd
better get ready to-night, and Calvin Parks can take you up as he goes
along."
Rose Ellen and the minister both looked up with a start, and both
flushed, and both opened wide eyes of astonishment.
"Why, mother!" said the girl. "I can't go away and leave you now, with
this cold on you."
Her mother did not hear her, so Rose Ellen repeated the words in a
clear, high-pitched voice, with a note of anxiety which brought a
momentary shade to Mrs. Mellen's smooth brow. The next moment,
however, the brow cleared again.
"I guess you'd better go!" she said again. "It'd be a pity if Mr.
Lindsay and I couldn't get along for a month or six weeks; and I wrote
mother yesterday that you would be up along to-morrow, so she'll be
looking for you. I don't like to have mother disappointed of a thing
at her age, it gives her the palpitations."
"You--wrote--that I was coming!" repeated Rose Ellen. "And you never
told me you was writing, mother? I--I should have liked to have known
before you wrote."
"Coat?" said Mrs. Mellen. "Oh, your coat'll do well enough, Rose
Ellen. Why, you've only just had it bound new, and new buttons put on.
I should take my figured muslin, if I was you, and have Miss Turner
look at it and see how you could do it over: she has good ideas,
sometimes, and it'd be a little different from what the girls here was
doin', maybe. Anyway, I'd take it, and your light sack, too. 'Twon't
do no harm to have 'em gone over a little."
Rose Ellen looked ready to cry, but she kept the tears back
resolutely.
"I--don't--want to leave you, with this deafness coming on!" she
shouted, her usually soft voice ringing like a bugle across the
tea-table.
"There! there! don't you grow foolish," her mother replied, with
absolute calm.
"Why, I can hear ye as well as ever, when you raise your voice a mite,
like that. I should admire to know why you should stay at home on my
account. I suppose I know my way about the house, if I be losin' my
hearing just a dite. It isn't going to spoil my cooking, that I can
see; and I guess Mr. Lindsay won't make no opposition to your going,
for any difference it'll make to him."
Mr. Lindsay, thus appealed to, stammered, and blushed up to his eyes,
and stammered again; but finally managed to say, with more or less
distinctness, that of course whatever was agreeable to Mrs. and Miss
Mellen was agreeable to him, and that he begged not to be considered
in any way in the formation of their plans.
"That's just what I was thinking!" said his hostess. "A man don't want
no botheration of plans. So that's settled, Rose Ellen."
Rose Ellen knew it was settled. She was a girl of character and
resolution, but she had never resisted her mother's will, nor had any
one else, so far as she knew. She cried a good deal over her packing,
and dropped a tear on her silk waist, the pride of her heart, and was
surprised to find that she did not care. "There's no one there to care
whether I look nice or not!" she said aloud; and then blushed
furiously, and looked around the room, fearfully, to be sure that she
was alone.
Early next morning the crack of a whip was heard, and Calvin Parks's
voice, shouting cheerfully for his passenger. The minister, razor in
hand, peeped between his shutters, and saw Rose Ellen come from the
house, wiping her eyes, and looking back, with anxious eyes. A wave of
feeling swept through him, and he felt, for the moment, that he hated
Mrs. Mellen. He had never hated any one before in his innocent life;
while he was pondering on this new and awful sensation, the pale,
pretty face had sunk back in the depths of the old red-lined stage,
the whip cracked, and Calvin drove away with his prey.
Mrs. Mellen came out on the steps, and looked after the stage. Then,
with a movement singularly swift for so stout a person, she made a few
paces down the walk, and, turning, looked up at the windows of the
houses on either side of her own. In both houses a figure was leaning
from a window, thrown half out over the sill, in an attitude of eager
inquiry. At sight of Mrs. Mellen they dodged back, and only a slight
waving of curtains betrayed their presence. The good woman folded her
arms deliberately, and stood for five minutes, absorbed in the distant
landscape; then she turned, and went slowly back to the house.
"There!" she said, as she closed the door behind her. "That'll keep
'em occupied for one while!" and there was infinite content in her
tone.
Mr. Lindsay, coming in to breakfast, found his hostess beaming behind
the teakettle, placid and cheerful as usual. He still hated her, and
found difficulty in replying with alacrity to her remarks on the
beauty of the morning.
"I expect you and me'll have a right cozy time together!" she
announced. "You no need to put yourself out to talk to me, 'cause I
reelly don't seem to be hearing very good; and I won't talk to you,
save and except when you feel inclined. I know an elder does love to
have a quiet house about him. My sister married a minister, and my
father was a deacon himself, so I'm accustomed to the ways of the
ministry."
Mr. Lindsay stirred his tea, gloomily. The words recalled to his mind
those which had so disturbed him a day or two ago, just when all this
queer business of the deafness had come on. He remembered the spiteful
tones of the two neighbours, and recalled how the words had hissed in
his ears. He had thought of going away himself, lest he should
encourage false hopes in the breast of his gentle young friend--or her
mother; surely Rose Ellen,--as he said the name to himself, he felt
his ears growing pink, and knew that he had not said the name before,
even to himself; straightway said it again, to prove the absurdity of
something, he was not sure what, and felt his throat dry and hot. Now
Rose Ellen herself was gone, and for an indefinite time. She had not
gone willingly, of that he was sure; but it was equally evident that
her mother had no such thoughts as those two harridans had suggested.
He glanced up furtively, to meet a broad, beaming glance, and the
question whether he felt feverish any.
"You seem to flush up easy!" said Mrs. Mellen. "I should be careful,
if I was you, Mr. Lindsay, and not go messing round ponds and such at
this season of the year. It's just this time we commonly look for
sickness rising in the air."
Mr. Lindsay stirred his tea again, and sighed. His mind seemed
singularly distracted; and that, too, when the most precious moments
of the year were passing. He must put all other matters out of his
head, and think only of his great work.
Had the Blackburnian Warbler been seen in this neighbourhood, as he
had been told? He could hardly believe in such good fortune. The shy,
mistrustful bird, hunting the thickest foliage of the tallest forest
trees,--how should his landlady's daughter have seen it when she was
seeking for ferns? yet her description had been exactly that of the
books: "Upper parts nearly uniform black, with a whitish scapular
stripe and a large white patch in the middle of the wing coverts; an
oblong patch--" but she had not been positive about the head. No, but
she _was_ positive as to the bright orange-red on chin, throat, and
forepart of the breast, and the three white tail-feathers. Ah! | 1,183.65848 |
2023-11-16 18:36:47.8532370 | 2,808 | 121 |
Produced by Chuck Greif 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.)
[Illustration: LEONARDO DA VINCI]
Leonardo da Vinci
A PSYCHOSEXUAL STUDY OF AN
INFANTILE REMINISCENCE
BY
PROFESSOR DR. SIGMUND FREUD, LL.D.
(UNIVERSITY OF VIENNA)
TRANSLATED BY
A. A. BRILL, PH.B., M.D.
Lecturer in Psychoanalysis and Abnormal
Psychology, New York University
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY
1916
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY
MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY
ILLUSTRATIONS
Leonardo Da Vinci _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
Mona Lisa 78
Saint Anne 86
John the Baptist 94
LEONARDO DA VINCI
I
When psychoanalytic investigation, which usually contents itself with
frail human material, approaches the great personages of humanity, it is
not impelled to it by motives which are often attributed to it by
laymen. It does not strive "to blacken the radiant and to drag the
sublime into the mire"; it finds no satisfaction in diminishing the
distance between the perfection of the great and the inadequacy of the
ordinary objects. But it cannot help finding that everything is worthy
of understanding that can be perceived through those prototypes, and it
also believes that none is so big as to be ashamed of being subject to
the laws which control the normal and morbid actions with the same
strictness.
Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519) was admired even by his contemporaries as
one of the greatest men of the Italian Renaissance, still even then he
appeared as mysterious to them as he now appears to us. An all-sided
genius, "whose form can only be divined but never deeply fathomed,"[1]
he exerted the most decisive influence on his time as an artist; and it
remained to us to recognize his greatness as a naturalist which was
united in him with the artist. Although he left masterpieces of the art
of painting, while his scientific discoveries remained unpublished and
unused, the investigator in him has never quite left the artist, often
it has severely injured the artist and in the end it has perhaps
suppressed the artist altogether. According to Vasari, Leonardo
reproached himself during the last hour of his life for having insulted
God and men because he has not done his duty to his art.[2] And even if
Vasari's story lacks all probability and belongs to those legends which
began to be woven about the mystic master while he was still living, it
nevertheless retains indisputable value as a testimonial of the judgment
of those people and of those times.
What was it that removed the personality of Leonardo from the
understanding of his contemporaries? Certainly not the many sidedness of
his capacities and knowledge, which allowed him to install himself as a
player of the lyre on an instrument invented by himself, in the court of
Lodovico Sforza, nicknamed Il Moro, the Duke of Milan, or which allowed
him to write to the same person that remarkable letter in which he
boasts of his abilities as a civil and military engineer. For the
combination of manifold talents in the same person was not unusual in
the times of the Renaissance; to be sure Leonardo himself furnished one
of the most splendid examples of such persons. Nor did he belong to that
type of genial persons who are outwardly poorly endowed by nature, and
who on their side place no value on the outer forms of life, and in the
painful gloominess of their feelings fly from human relations. On the
contrary he was tall and symmetrically built, of consummate beauty of
countenance and of unusual physical strength, he was charming in his
manner, a master of speech, and jovial and affectionate to everybody. He
loved beauty in the objects of his surroundings, he was fond of wearing
magnificent garments and appreciated every refinement of conduct. In his
treatise[3] on the art of painting he compares in a significant passage
the art of painting with its sister arts and thus discusses the
difficulties of the sculptor: "Now his face is entirely smeared and
powdered with marble dust, so that he looks like a baker, he is covered
with small marble splinters, so that it seems as if it snowed on his
back, and his house is full of stone splinters, and dust. The case of
the painter is quite different from that; for the painter is well
dressed and sits with great comfort before his work, he gently and very
lightly brushes in the beautiful colors. He wears as decorative clothes
as he likes, and his house is filled with beautiful paintings and is
spotlessly clean. He often enjoys company, music, or some one may read
for him various nice works, and all this can be listened to with great
pleasure, undisturbed by any pounding from the hammer and other noises."
It is quite possible that the conception of a beaming jovial and happy
Leonardo was true only for the first and longer period of the master's
life. From now on, when the downfall of the rule of Lodovico Moro forced
him to leave Milan, his sphere of action and his assured position, to
lead an unsteady and unsuccessful life until his last asylum in France,
it is possible that the luster of his disposition became pale and some
odd features of his character became more prominent. The turning of his
interest from his art to science which increased with age must have also
been responsible for widening the gap between himself and his
contemporaries. All his efforts with which, according to their opinion,
he wasted his time instead of diligently filling orders and becoming
rich as perhaps his former classmate Perugino, seemed to his
contemporaries as capricious playing, or even caused them to suspect him
of being in the service of the "black art." We who know him from his
sketches understand him better. In a time in which the authority of the
church began to be substituted by that of antiquity and in which only
theoretical investigation existed, he the forerunner, or better the
worthy competitor of Bacon and Copernicus, was necessarily isolated.
When he dissected cadavers of horses and human beings, and built flying
apparatus, or when he studied the nourishment of plants and their
behavior towards poisons, he naturally deviated much from the
commentators of Aristotle and came nearer the despised alchemists, in
whose laboratories the experimental investigations found some refuge
during these unfavorable times.
The effect that this had on his paintings was that he disliked to handle
the brush, he painted less and what was more often the case, the things
he began were mostly left unfinished; he cared less and less for the
future fate of his works. It was this mode of working that was held up
to him as a reproach from his contemporaries to whom his behavior to his
art remained a riddle.
Many of Leonardo's later admirers have attempted to wipe off the stain
of unsteadiness from his character. They maintained that what is blamed
in Leonardo is a general characteristic of great artists. They said that
even the energetic Michelangelo who was absorbed in his work left many
incompleted works, which was as little due to his fault as to Leonardo's
in the same case. Besides some pictures were not as unfinished as he
claimed, and what the layman would call a masterpiece may still appear
to the creator of the work of art as an unsatisfied embodiment of his
intentions; he has a faint notion of a perfection which he despairs of
reproducing in likeness. Least of all should the artist be held
responsible for the fate which befalls his works.
As plausible as some of these excuses may sound they nevertheless do not
explain the whole state of affairs which we find in Leonardo. The
painful struggle with the work, the final flight from it and the
indifference to its future fate may be seen in many other artists, but
this behavior is shown in Leonardo to highest degree. Edm. Solmi[4]
cites (p. 12) the expression of one of his pupils: "Pareva, che ad ogni
ora tremasse, quando si poneva a dipingere, e pero no diede mai fine ad
alcuna cosa cominciata, considerando la grandezza dell'arte, tal che
egli scorgeva errori in quelle cose, che ad altri parevano miracoli."
His last pictures, Leda, the Madonna di Saint Onofrio, Bacchus and St.
John the Baptist, remained unfinished "come quasi intervenne di tutte le
cose sue." Lomazzo,[5] who finished a copy of The Holy Supper, refers in
a sonnet to the familiar inability of Leonardo to finish his works:
"Protogen che il penel di sue pitture
Non levava, agguaglio il Vinci Divo,
Di cui opra non e finita pure."
The slowness with which Leonardo worked was proverbial. After the most
thorough preliminary studies he painted The Holy Supper for three years
in the cloister of Santa Maria delle Grazie in Milan. One of his
contemporaries, Matteo Bandelli, the writer of novels, who was then a
young monk in the cloister, relates that Leonardo often ascended the
scaffold very early in the morning and did not leave the brush out of
his hand until twilight, never thinking of eating or drinking. Then days
passed without putting his hand on it, sometimes he remained for hours
before the painting and derived satisfaction from studying it by
himself. At other times he came directly to the cloister from the palace
of the Milanese Castle where he formed the model of the equestrian
statue for Francesco Sforza, in order to add a few strokes with the
brush to one of the figures and then stopped immediately.[6] According
to Vasari he worked for years on the portrait of Monna Lisa, the wife of
the Florentine de Gioconda, without being able to bring it to
completion. This circumstance may also account for the fact that it was
never delivered to the one who ordered it but remained with Leonardo who
took it with him to France.[7] Having been procured by King Francis I,
it now forms one of the greatest treasures of the Louvre.
When one compares these reports about Leonardo's way of working with the
evidence of the extraordinary amount of sketches and studies left by
him, one is bound altogether to reject the idea that traits of
flightiness and unsteadiness exerted the slightest influence on
Leonardo's relation to his art. On the contrary one notices a very
extraordinary absorption in work, a richness in possibilities in which a
decision could be reached only hestitatingly, claims which could hardly
be satisfied, and an inhibition in the execution which could not even be
explained by the inevitable backwardness of the artist behind his ideal
purpose. The slowness which was striking in Leonardo's works from the
very beginning proved to be a symptom of his inhibition, a forerunner of
his turning away from painting which manifested itself later.[8] It was
this slowness which decided the not undeserving fate of The Holy
Supper. Leonardo could not take kindly to the art of fresco painting
which demands quick work while the background is still moist, it was for
this reason that he chose oil colors, the drying of which permitted him
to complete the picture according to his mood and leisure. But these
colors separated themselves from the background upon which they were
painted and which isolated them from the brick wall; the blemishes of
this wall and the vicissitudes to which the room was subjected seemingly
contributed to the inevitable deterioration of the picture.[9]
The picture of the cavalry battle of Anghiari, which in competition with
Michelangelo he began to paint later on a wall of the Sala de Consiglio
in Florence and which he also left in an unfinished state, seemed to
have perished through the failure of a similar technical process. It
seems here as if a peculiar interest, that of the experimenter, at first
reenforced the artistic, only later to damage the art production.
The character of the man Leonardo evinces still some other unusual
traits and apparent contradictions. Thus a certain inactivity and
indifference seemed very evident in him. At a time when every individual
sought to gain the widest latitude for his activity, which could not
take place without the development of energetic aggression towards
others, he surprised every one through his quiet peacefulness, his
shunning of all competition and controversies. He was mild and | 1,183.873277 |
2023-11-16 18:36:47.8595700 | 1,254 | 13 | VOLUME I (OF 3) ***
Produced by Al Haines.
*ADVENTURES*
*OF*
*AN AIDE-DE-CAMP:*
*OR,*
*A CAMPAIGN IN CALABRIA.*
BY
JAMES GRANT, ESQ.
AUTHOR OF "THE ROMANCE OF WAR."
_Claud._ I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye,
That liked, but had a rougher task in hand
Than to drive liking to the name of love:
But now I am returned, and that war thoughts
Have left their places vacant; in their rooms
Come thronging soft and delicate desires,
All prompting me how fair young Hero is,
Saying how I liked her ere I went to war.
SHAKSPEARE.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
SMITH, ELDER, AND CO., CORNHILL.
1848.
London:
Printed by STEWART and MURRAY,
Old Bailey.
*CONTENTS.*
CHAPTER
I.--The Landing in Calabria
II.--The Pigtail
III.--The Visconte Santugo
IV.--Double or Quit
V.--Truffi the Hunchback
VI.--The Calabrian Free Corps
VII.--The Battle of Maida
VIII.--The Cottage.--Capture of the Eagle
IX.--Lives for Ducats!--Bianca D'Alfieri
X.--A Night with the Zingari
XI.--The Hunchback Again!
XII.--The Hermitage
XIII.--The Hermit's Confession
XIV.--The Siege Of Crotona
XV.--The Abduction.--A Scrape
XVI.--The Summons of Surrender
XVII.--Marching 'Out' with the Honours of War
XVIII.--Another Dispatch
XIX.--Narrative of Castelermo
XX.--The Villa Belcastro
XXI.--Sequel to the Story of Castelermo
*PREFACE.*
The very favourable reception given by the Press and Public generally,
to "The Romance of War," and its "Sequel," has encouraged the Author to
resume his labours in another field.
Often as scenes of British valour and conquest have been described, the
brief but brilliant campaign in the Calabrias (absorbed, and almost
lost, amid the greater warlike operations in the Peninsula) has never,
he believes, been touched upon: though a more romantic land for
adventure and description cannot invite the pen of a novelist; more
especially when the singular social and political ideas of those unruly
provinces are remembered.
Indeed it is to be regretted that no narrative should have been
published of Sir John Stuart's Neapolitan campaign. It was an
expedition set on foot to drive the French from South Italy; and (but
for the indecision which sometimes characterized the ministry of those
days) that country might have become the scene of operations such as
were carried on so successfully on the broader arena of the Spanish
Peninsula.
Other campaigns and victories will succeed those of the great Duke, and
the names of Vittoria and Waterloo will sound to future generations as
those of Ramillies and Dettingen do to the present. Materials for
martial stories will never be wanting: they are a branch of literature
peculiarly British; and it is remarkable that, notwithstanding the love
of peace, security and opulence, which appears to possess us now, the
present age is one beyond all others fond of an exciting style of
literature.
Military romances and narratives are the most stirring of all. There
are no scenes so dashing, or so appalling, as those produced by a state
of warfare, with its contingent woes and horrors; which excite the
energies of both body and mind to the utmost pitch.
The author hopes, that, though containing less of war and more of love
and romantic adventure than his former volumes, these now presented to
the Reader will be found not the less acceptable on this account. They
differ essentially from the novels usually termed military; most of the
characters introduced being of another cast.
The last chapters are descriptive of the siege of Scylla; a passage of
arms which, when the disparity of numbers between the beleaguered
British and the besieging French is considered, must strike every reader
as an affair of matchless bravery.
Several of the officers mentioned have attained high rank in their
profession--others a grave on subsequent battle-fields: their names may
be recognised by the military reader. Other characters belong to
history.
The names of the famous brigand chiefs may be familiar to a few:
especially Francatripa. He cost the French, under Massena, more lives
than have been lost in the greatest pitched battle. All the attempts of
Buonaparte to seduce him to his faction, or capture him by force, were
fruitless; and at last, when his own followers revolted, and were about
to deliver him up to the iron-hearted Prince of Essling, he had the
address to escape into Sicily with all their treasure, the accumulated
plunder of years. Being favoured by the Queen, he, no doubt, spent the
close of his years in ease and opulence. Scarolla became a true
patriot, and died "Chief of the Independents of Basilicata."
It is, perhaps, needless to observe, that many scenes purely fanciful
are mingled with the real military details.
The story of the Countess of La Torre, however, is a fact: the shocking
incidents narrated actually occurred in an Italian family of rank, many
years ago. Strazzoldi's victim received no less than thirty-three
wounds from his poniard | 1,183.87961 |
2023-11-16 18:36:47.9341500 | 2,764 | 11 |
Produced by Sue Asscher and David Widger
SOME REMINISCENCES
By Joseph Conrad
A Familiar Preface.
As a general rule we do not want much encouragement to talk about
ourselves; yet this little book is the result of a friendly suggestion,
and even of a little friendly pressure. I defended myself with some
spirit; but, with characteristic tenacity, the friendly voice insisted:
"You know, you really must."
It was not an argument, but I submitted at once. If one must!...
You perceive the force of a word. He who wants to persuade should put
his trust, not in the right argument, but in the right word. The power
of sound has always been greater than the power of sense. I don't
say this by way of disparagement. It is better for mankind to be
impressionable than reflective. Nothing humanely great--great, I mean,
as affecting a whole mass of lives--has come from reflection. On the
other hand, you cannot fail to see the power of mere words; such words
as Glory, for instance, or Pity. I won't mention any more. They are not
far to seek. Shouted with perseverance, with ardour, with conviction,
these two by their sound alone have set whole nations in motion and
upheaved the dry, hard ground on which rests our whole social fabric.
There's "virtue" for you if you like!... Of course the accent must
be attended to. The right accent. That's very important. The capacious
lung, the thundering or the tender vocal chords. Don't talk to me
of your Archimedes' lever. He was an absent-minded person with a
mathematical imagination. Mathematics command all my respect, but I have
no use for engines. Give me the right word and the right accent and I
will move the world.
What a dream--for a writer! Because written words have their accent too.
Yes! Let me only find the right word! Surely it must be lying somewhere
amongst the wreckage of all the plaints and all the exultations poured
out aloud since the first day when hope, the undying, came down on
earth. It may be there, close by, disregarded, invisible, quite at hand.
But it's no good. I believe there are men who can lay hold of a needle
in a pottle of hay at the first try. For myself, I have never had such
luck.
And then there is that accent. Another difficulty. For who is going to
tell whether the accent is right or wrong till the word is shouted,
and fails to be heard, perhaps, and goes downwind leaving the world
unmoved. Once upon a time there lived an Emperor who was a sage and
something of a literary man. He jotted down on ivory tablets thoughts,
maxims, reflections which chance has preserved for the edification of
posterity. Amongst other sayings--I am quoting from memory--I remember
this solemn admonition: "Let all thy words have the accent of heroic
truth." The accent of heroic truth! This is very fine, but I am thinking
that it is an easy matter for an austere Emperor to jot down grandiose
advice. Most of the working truths on this earth are humble, not heroic:
and there have been times in the history of mankind when the accents of
heroic truth have moved it to nothing but derision.
Nobody will expect to find between the covers of this little book words
of extraordinary potency or accents of irresistible heroism. However
humiliating for my self-esteem, I must confess that the counsels of
Marcus Aurelius are not for me. They are more fit for a moralist than
for an artist. Truth of a modest sort I can promise you, and also
sincerity. That complete, praiseworthy sincerity which, while it
delivers one into the hands of one's enemies, is as likely as not to
embroil one with one's friends.
"Embroil" is perhaps too strong an expression. I can't imagine either
amongst my enemies or my friends a being so hard up for something to do
as to quarrel with me. "To disappoint one's friends" would be nearer
the mark. Most, almost all, friendships of the writing period of my life
have come to me through my books; and I know that a novelist lives
in his work. He stands there, the only reality in an invented world,
amongst imaginary things, happenings, and people. Writing about them,
he is only writing about himself. But the disclosure is not complete. He
remains to a certain extent a figure behind the veil; a suspected rather
than a seen presence--a movement and a voice behind the draperies of
fiction. In these personal notes there is no such veil. And I cannot
help thinking of a passage in the "Imitation of Christ" where the
ascetic author, who knew life so profoundly, says that "there are
persons esteemed on their reputation who by showing themselves destroy
the opinion one had of them." This is the danger incurred by an author
of fiction who sets out to talk about himself without disguise.
While these reminiscent pages were appearing serially I was remonstrated
with for bad economy; as if such writing were a form of self-indulgence
wasting the substance of future volumes. It seems that I am not
sufficiently literary. Indeed a man who never wrote a line for print
till he was thirty-six cannot bring himself to look upon his existence
and his experience, upon the sum of his thoughts, sensations and
emotions, upon his memories and his regrets, and the whole possession
of his past, as only so much material for his hands. Once before, some
three years ago, when I published "The Mirror of the Sea," a volume of
impressions and memories, the same remarks were made to me. Practical
remarks. But, truth to say, I have never understood the kind of thrift
they recommended. I wanted to pay my tribute to the sea, its ships and
its men, to whom I remain indebted for so much which has gone to make me
what I am. That seemed to me the only shape in which I could offer it to
their shades. There could not be a question in my mind of anything else.
It is quite possible that I am a bad economist; but it is certain that I
am incorrigible.
Having matured in the surroundings and under the special conditions of
sea-life, I have a special piety towards that form of my past; for its
impressions were vivid, its appeal direct, its demands such as could be
responded to with the natural elation of youth and strength equal to the
call. There was nothing in them to perplex a young conscience. Having
broken away from my origins under a storm of blame from every quarter
which had the merest shadow of right to voice an opinion, removed by
great distances from such natural affections as were still left to
me, and even estranged, in a measure, from them by the totally
unintelligible character of the life which had seduced me so
mysteriously from my allegiance, I may safely say that through the blind
force of circumstances the sea was to be all my world and the merchant
service my only home for a long succession of years. No wonder then that
in my two exclusively sea books, "The <DW65> of the 'Narcissus'" and
"The Mirror of the Sea" (and in the few short sea stories like "Youth"
and "Typhoon"), I have tried with an almost filial regard to render the
vibration of life in the great world of waters, in the hearts of the
simple men who have for ages traversed its solitudes, and also that
something sentient which seems to dwell in ships--the creatures of their
hands and the objects of their care.
One's literary life must turn frequently for sustenance to memories and
seek discourse with the shades; unless one has made up one's mind to
write only in order to reprove mankind for what it is, or praise it for
what it is not, or--generally--to teach it how to behave. Being neither
quarrelsome, nor a flatterer, nor a sage, I have done none of these
things; and I am prepared to put up serenely with the insignificance
which attaches to persons who are not meddlesome in some way or other.
But resignation is not indifference. I would not like to be left
standing as a mere spectator on the bank of the great stream carrying
onwards so many lives. I would fain claim for myself the faculty of so
much insight as can be expressed in a voice of sympathy and compassion.
It seems to me that in one, at least, authoritative quarter of criticism
I am suspected of a certain unemotional, grim acceptance of facts;
of what the French would call secheresse du coeur. Fifteen years of
unbroken silence before praise or blame testify sufficiently to my
respect for criticism, that fine flower of personal expression in the
garden of letters. But this is more of a personal matter, reaching the
man behind the work, and therefore it may be alluded to in a volume
which is a personal note in the margin of the public page. Not that
I feel hurt in the least. The charge--if it amounted to a charge at
all--was made in the most considerate terms; in a tone of regret.
My answer is that if it be true that every novel contains an element of
autobiography--and this can hardly be denied, since the creator can only
express himself in his creation--then there are some of us to whom an
open display of sentiment is repugnant. I would not unduly praise the
virtue of restraint. It is often merely temperamental. But it is not
always a sign of coldness. It may be pride. There can be nothing more
humiliating than to see the shaft of one's emotion miss the mark either
of laughter or tears. Nothing more humiliating! And this for the reason
that should the mark be missed, should the open display of emotion fail
to move, then it must perish unavoidably in disgust or contempt. No
artist can be reproached for shrinking from a risk which only fools run
to meet and only genius dare confront with impunity. In a task which
mainly consists in laying one's soul more or less bare to the world, a
regard for decency, even at the cost of success, is but the regard for
one's own dignity which is inseparably united with the dignity of one's
work.
And then--it is very difficult to be wholly joyous or wholly sad on this
earth. The comic, when it is human, soon takes upon itself a face of
pain; and some of our griefs (some only, not all, for it is the capacity
for suffering which makes man august in the eyes of men) have their
source in weaknesses which must be recognised with smiling compassion as
the common inheritance of us all. Joy and sorrow in this world pass into
each other, mingling their forms and their murmurs in the twilight
of life as mysterious as an overshadowed ocean, while the dazzling
brightness of supreme hopes lies far off, fascinating and still, on the
distant edge of the horizon.
Yes! I too would like to hold the magic wand giving that command over
laughter and tears which is declared to be the highest achievement of
imaginative literature. Only, to be a great magician one must surrender
oneself to occult and irresponsible powers, either outside or within
one's own breast. We have all heard of simple men selling their
souls for love or power to some grotesque devil. The most ordinary
intelligence can perceive without much reflection that anything of the
sort is bound to be a fool's bargain. I don't lay claim to particular
wisdom because of my dislike and distrust of such transactions. It may
be my sea-training acting upon a natural disposition to keep good hold
on the one thing really mine, but the fact is that I have a positive
horror of losing even for one moving moment that full possession of
myself which is the first condition of good service. And I have carried
my notion of good service from my earlier into my later existence. I,
who have never sought in the written word anything else but a form of
the Beautiful, I have carried over that article of creed from the decks
of ships to the more circumscribed space of my desk; and by that act,
I suppose, I have become permanently imperfect in the eyes of the
ineffable company of pure esthetes.
As in political so in literary action a man wins friends for himself
mostly by the passion of his prejudices and by the consistent narrowness
of his outlook. But I have never been able to love what was not
lo | 1,183.95419 |
2023-11-16 18:36:47.9595460 | 1,261 | 7 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
"It is due to Messrs. Blackie to say that no firm of publishers turns
out this class of literature with more finish. We refer not only to the
novel tinting of the illustrations and the richness of the covers, but
more particularly to the solidity of the binding, a matter of great
importance in boys' books."--_The Academy._
BLACKIE & SON'S
BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.
_The New Season's Books._
BY G. A. HENTY.
THE LION OF THE NORTH:
A TALE OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS AND THE WARS OF RELIGION.
THROUGH THE FRAY:
A STORY OF THE LUDDITE RIOTS.
FOR NAME AND FAME:
OR, THROUGH AFGHAN PASSES.
THE DRAGON AND THE RAVEN:
OR, THE DAYS OF KING ALFRED.
BY G. MANVILLE FENN.
BROWNSMITH'S BOY.
PATIENCE WINS:
OR, WAR IN THE WORKS.
A NEW EDITION OF GULLIVER'S TRAVELS
WITH 100 ILLUSTRATIONS BY GORDON BROWNE.
BY PROFESSOR A. J. CHURCH.
TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO:
OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A ROMAN BOY.
BY HARRY COLLINGWOOD.
THE CONGO ROVERS:
A TALE OF THE SLAVE SQUADRON.
BY HENRY FRITH.
THE SEARCH FOR THE TALISMAN:
A STORY OF LABRADOR.
BY MRS. R. H. READ.
SILVER MILL:
A TALE OF THE DON VALLEY.
BY EMMA LESLIE.
GYTHA'S MESSAGE:
A TALE OF SAXON ENGLAND.
BY MISS M. A. PAULL.
MY MISTRESS THE QUEEN.
BY MRS. AUSTIN.
MARIE'S HOME:
OR, A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST.
BY J. C. HUTCHESON.
THE PENANG PIRATE AND THE LOST PINNACE.
BY THOMAS ARCHER.
LITTLE TOTTIE,
AND TWO OTHER STORIES.
FAMOUS DISCOVERIES BY SEA AND LAND.
STIRRING EVENTS IN HISTORY.
New Eighteenpenny Books.
A TERRIBLE COWARD. By G. MANVILLE FENN.
YARNS ON THE BEACH. By G. A. HENTY.
THE PEDLAR AND HIS DOG. By MARY C. ROWSELL.
TOM FINCH'S MONKEY, and other Yarns. By J. C. HUTCHESON.
MISS GRANTLEY'S GIRLS, and the Stories She Told Them. By THOMAS ARCHER.
Also, New Books in the Shilling, Sixpenny, and Fourpenny Series
By JULIA GODDARD, ANNIE S. SWAN, DARLEY DALE, GREGSON GOW, EMMA LESLIE,
and other favourite Authors.
BY PROFESSOR CHURCH.
TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO:
Or, The Adventures of a Roman Boy. By Professor A. J. CHURCH, Author of
"Stories from the Classics." With 12 full-page Illustrations by ADRIEN
MARIE, in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges,
6_s._
Prof. Church has in this story sought to revivify that most
interesting period, the last days of the Roman Republic. Scarcely
recovered from the effects of her long struggle for supremacy in
Italy, and from the evils of the terrible strife of the nobles
against the people, Rome was engaged in suppressing the revolt of
Spartacus and the slaves and the insurrection of Sertorius, while at
the same time she was waging war with Mithradates, king of Pontus.
Meanwhile the pirates held almost undisputed possession of the
Mediterranean Sea, till Pompey eventually put them down in B.C. 67.
The hero of the story, Lucius Marius, is a young Roman who, through
the influence of Cicero, obtains an official appointment in Sicily.
He has a very chequered career, being now a captive in the hands of
Spartacus, again an officer on board a vessel detailed for the
suppression of the pirates, and anon a captive once more, on a pirate
ship. He escapes to Tarsus, gets a position under Deiotarus, tetrarch
of Galatia, is taken prisoner in the war with Mithradates, and
detained by the latter in Pontus for a number of years. There is thus
plenty of scope for the narration of stirring adventure and exciting
episode.
While boys will follow with the deepest interest the career of
Lucius, they will gain a clear insight into the history and life of
the ancient Roman world.
THE UNIVERSE:
OR THE INFINITELY GREAT AND THE INFINITELY LITTLE. A Sketch of
Contrasts in Creation, and Marvels revealed and explained by Natural
Science. By F. A. POUCHET, M.D. Illustrated by 273 Engravings on wood.
8th Edition, medium 8vo, cloth elegant, gilt edges, 7_s._ 6_d._;
morocco antique, 16_s._
"We can honestly commend this work, which is admirably, as it is
copiously illustrated."--_Times._
"As interesting as the most exciting romance, and a great deal more
likely to be remembered to good purpose."--_Standard._
| 1,183.979586 |
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Produced by David Widger
THE PAPERS AND WRITINGS OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN
VOLUME FIVE
CONSTITUTIONAL EDITION
By Abraham Lincoln
Edited by Arthur Brooks Lapsley
THE WRITINGS OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN, Volume Five, 1858-1862
TO SYDNEY SPRING, GRAYVILLE, ILL.
SPRINGFIELD, June 19, 1858.
SYDNEY SPRING, Esq.
MY DEAR SIR:--Your letter introducing Mr. Faree was duly received. There
was no opening to nominate him for Superintendent of Public Instruction,
but through him Egypt made a most valuable contribution to the convention.
I think it may be fairly said that he came off the lion of the day--or
rather of the night. Can you not elect him to the Legislature? It seems to
me he would be hard to beat. What objection could be made to him? What is
your Senator Martin saying and doing? What is Webb about?
Please write me. Yours truly,
A. LINCOLN.
TO H. C. WHITNEY.
SPRINGFIELD, June 24, 1858
H. C. WHITNEY, ESQ.
DEAR SIR:--Your letter enclosing the attack of the Times upon me was
received this morning. Give yourself no concern about my voting against
the supplies. Unless you are without faith that a lie can be successfully
contradicted, there is not a word of truth in the charge, and I am just
considering a little as to the best shape to put a contradiction in. Show
this to whomever you please, but do not publish it in the paper.
Your friend as ever,
A. LINCOLN.
TO J. W. SOMERS.
SPRINGFIELD, June 25, 1858.
JAMES W. SOMERS, Esq.
MY DEAR SIR:--Yours of the 22nd, inclosing a draft of two hundred dollars,
was duly received. I have paid it on the judgment, and herewith you
have the receipt. I do not wish to say anything as to who shall be the
Republican candidate for the Legislature in your district, further than
that I have full confidence in Dr. Hull. Have you ever got in the way of
consulting with McKinley in political matters? He is true as steel, and
his judgment is very good. The last I heard from him, he rather thought
Weldon, of De Witt, | 1,183.983896 |
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Produced by Clare Graham and Marc D'Hooghe at Free
Literature (online soon in an extended version, also linking
to free sources for education worldwide... MOOC's,
educational materials,...) Images generously made available
by the Internet Archive.
Philosophical Letters:
OR,
MODEST REFLECTIONS
Upon some Opinions in
_NATURAL PHILOSOPHY_,
MAINTAINED
By several Famous and Learned Authors of this Age,
Expressed by way of LETTERS:
By the Thrice Noble, Illustrious, and Excellent Princess,
The Lady MARCHIONESS of _NEWCASTLE_.
_LONDON_, Printed in the Year, 1664.
TO HER EXCELLENCY
The Lady Marchioness of NEWCASTLE
On her Book of Philosophical Letters.
_'Tis Supernatural, nay 'tis Divine,
To write whole Volumes ere I can a line.
I'mplor'd the Lady Muses, those fine things,
But they have broken all their Fidle-strings
And cannot help me; Nay, then I did try
Their_ Helicon, _but that is grown all dry:_
_Then on_ Parnassus _I did make a sallie,
But that's laid level, like a Bowling-alley;
Invok'd my Muse, found it a Pond, a Dream,
To your eternal Spring, and running Stream;
So clear and fresh, with Wit and Phansie store,
As then despair did bid me write no more._
W. Newcastle.
TO HIS EXCELLENCY
The Lord Marquis of NEWCASTLE.
My Noble Lord,
Although you have, always encouraged me in my harmless pastime of
Writing, yet was I afraid that your Lordship would be angry with
me for Writing and Publishing this Book, by reason it is a Book
of Controversies, of which I have heard your Lordship say, That
Controversies and Disputations make Enemies of Friends, and that such
Disputations and Controversies as these, are a pedantical kind of
quarrelling, not becoming Noble Persons. But your Lordship will be
pleased to consider in my behalf, that it is impossible for one Person
to be of every one's Opinion, if their opinions be different, and that
my Opinions in Philosophy, being new, and never thought of, at least
not divulged by any, but my self, are quite different from others: For
the Ground of my Opinions is, that there is not onely a Sensitive, but
also a Rational Life and Knowledge, and so a double Perception in all
Creatures: And thus my opinions being new, are not so easily understood
as those, that take up several pieces of old opinions, of which
they patch up a new Philosophy, (if new may be made of old things,)
like a Suit made up of old Stuff bought at the Brokers: Wherefore to
find out a Truth, at least a Probability in Natural Philosophy by a
new and different way from other Writers, and to make this way more
known, easie and intelligible, I was in a manner forced to write this
Book; for I have not contradicted those Authors in any thing, but
what concerns and is opposite to my opinions; neither do I anything,
but what they have done themselves, as being common amongst them to
contradict each other: which may as well be allowable, as for Lawyers
to plead at the Barr in opposite Causes. For as Lawyers are not Enemies
to each other, but great Friends, all agreeing from the Barr, although
not at the Barr: so it is with Philosophers, who make their Opinions
as their Clients, not for Wealth, but for Fame, and therefore have no
reason to become Enemies to each other, by being Industrious in their
Profession. All which considered, was the cause of Publishing this
Book; wherein although I dissent from their opinions, yet doth not this
take off the least of the respect and esteem I have of their Merits
and Works. But if your Lordship do but pardon me, I care not if I be
condemned by others; for your Favour is more then the World to me, for
which all the actions of my Life shall be devoted and ready to serve
you, as becomes,
My Lord,
_Your Lordships_
_honest Wife, and humble Servant_,
M. N.
TO THE MOST FAMOUS UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE.
Most Noble, Ingenious, Learned, and Industrious Students.
_Be not offended, that I dedicate to you this weak and infirm work of
mine; for though it be not an offering worthy your acceptance, yet it
is as much as I can present for this time; and I wish from my Soul, I
might be so happy as to have some means or ways to express my Gratitude
for your Magnificent favours to me, having done me more honour then
ever I could expect, or give sufficient thanks for: But your Generosity
is above all Gratitude, and your Favours above all Merit, like as your
Learning is above Contradiction: And I pray God your University may
flourish to the end of the World, for the Service of the Church, the
Truth of Religion, the Salvation of Souls, the instruction of Youth,
the preservation of Health, and prolonging of Life, and for the
increase of profitable Arts and Sciences: so as your several studies
may be, like several Magistrates, united for the good and benefit of
the whole Common-wealth, nay, the whole World. May Heaven prosper you,
the World magnifie you, and Eternity record your same; Which are the
hearty wishes and prayers of,_
Your most obliged Servant
_M. NEWCASTLE._
A PREFACE TO THE READER.
_Worthy Readers_,
I did not write this Book out of delight, love or humour to
contradiction; for I would rather praise, then contradict any Person
or Persons that are ingenious; but by reason Opinion is free, and may
pass without a pass-port, I took the liberty to declare my own opinions
as other Philosophers do, and to that purpose I have here set down
several famous and learned Authors opinions, and my answers to them in
the form of Letters, which was the easiest way for me to write; and by
so doing, I have done that, which I would have done unto me; for I am
as willing to have my opinions contradicted, as I do contradict others:
for I love Reason so well, that whosoever can bring most rational
and probable arguments, shall have my vote, although against my own
opinion. But you may say, If contradictions were frequent, there would
be no agreement amongst Mankind. I answer; it is very true: Wherefore
Contradictions are better in general Books, then in particular
Families, and in Schools better then in Publick States, and better in
Philosophy then in Divinity. All which considered, I shun, as much as I
can, not to discourse or write of either Church or State. But I desire
so much favour, or rather Justice of you, _Worthy Readers_, as not to
interpret my objections or answers any other ways then against several
opinions in Philosophy; for I am confident there is not any body, that
doth esteem, respect and honour learned and ingenious Persons more then
I do: Wherefore judg me neither to be of a contradicting humor, nor of
a vain-glorious mind for differing from other mens opinions, but rather
that it is done out of love to Truth, and to make my own opinions the
more intelligible, which cannot better be done then by arguing and
comparing other mens opinions with them. The Authors whose opinions I
mention, I have read, as I found them printed, in my native Language,
except _Des Cartes_, who being in Latine, I had some few places
translated to me out of his works; and I must confess, that since
I have read the works of these learned men, I understand the names
and terms of Art a little better then I did before; but it is not so
much as to make me a Scholar, nor yet so little, but that, had I read
more before I did begin to write my other Book called _Philosophical
Opinions_, they would have been more intelligible; for my error was,
I began to write so early, that I had not liv'd so long as to be
able to read many Authors; I cannot say, I divulged my opinions as
soon as I had conceiv'd them, but yet I divulged them too soon to
have them artificial and methodical. But since what is past, cannot
be recalled, I must desire you to excuse those faults, which were
committed for want of experience and learning. As for School-learning,
had I applied my self to it, yet I am confident I should never have
arrived to any; for I am so uncapable of Learning, that I could never
attain to the knowledge of any other Language but my native, especially
by the Rules of Art: wherefore I do not repent that I spent not my
time in Learning, for I consider, it is better to write wittily then
learnedly; nevertheless, I love and esteem Learning, although I am
not capable of it. But you may say, I have expressed neither Wit nor
Learning in my Writings: Truly, if not, I am the more sorry for it; but
self-conceit, which is natural to mankind, especially to our Sex, did
flatter and secretly perswade me that my Writings had Sense and Reason,
Wit and Variety; but Judgment being not called to Counsel, I yielded
to Self-conceits flattery, and so put out my Writings to be Printed as
fast as I could, without being reviewed or Corrected: Neither did I
fear any censure, for Self-conceit had perswaded me, I should be highly
applauded; wherefore I made such haste, that I had three or four Books
printed presently after each other.
But to return to this present Work, I must desire you, _worthy
Readers_, to read first my Book called _Philosophical and Physical
Opinions_, before you censure this, for this Book is but an explanation
of the former, wherein is contained the Ground of my Opinions, and
those that will judge well of a Building, must first consider
the Foundation; to which purpose I will repeat some few Heads and
Principles of my Opinions, which are these following: First, That
Nature is Infinite, and the Eternal Servant of God: Next, That she is
Corporeal, and partly self-moving, dividable and composable; that all
and every particular Creature, as also all perception and variety in
Nature, is made by corporeal self-motion, which I name sensitive and
rational matter, which is life and knowledg, sense and reason. Again,
That these sensitive and rational parts of matter are the purest
and subtilest parts of Nature, as the active parts, the knowing,
understanding and prudent parts, the designing, architectonical and
working parts, nay, the Life and Soul of Nature, and that there is
not any Creature or part of nature without this Life and Soul; and
that not onely Animals, but also Vegetables, Minerals and Elements,
and what more is in Nature, are endued with this Life and Soul, Sense
and Reason: and because this Life and Soul is a corporeal Substance,
it is both dividable and composable; for it divides and removes parts
from parts, as also composes and joyns parts to parts, and works in a
perpetual motion without rest; by which actions not any Creature can
challenge a particular Life and Soul to it self, but every Creature may
have by the dividing and composing nature of this self-moving matter
more or fewer natural souls and lives.
These and the like actions of corporeal Nature or natural Matter
you may find more at large described in my afore-mentioned Book of
_Philosophical Opinions_, and more clearly repeated and explained in
this present. 'Tis true, the way of arguing I use, is common, but the
Principles, Heads and Grounds of my Opinions are my own, not borrowed
or stolen in the least from any; and the first time I divulged them,
was in the year 1653: since which time I have reviewed, reformed and
reprinted them twice; for at first, as my Conceptions were new and my
own, so my Judgment was young, and my Experience little, so that I had
not so much knowledge as to declare them artificially and methodically;
for as I mentioned before, I was always unapt to learn by the Rules of
Art. But although they may be defective for want of Terms of Art, and
artificial expressions, yet I am sure they are not defective for want
of Sense and Reason: And if any one can bring more Sense and Reason to
disprove these my opinions, I shall not repine or grieve, but either
acknowledge my error, if I find my self in any, or defend them as
rationally as I can, if it be but done justly and honestly, without
deceit, spight, or malice; for I cannot chuse but acquaint you, _Noble
Readers_, I have been informed, that if I should be answered in my
Writings, it would be done rather under the name and cover of a Woman,
then of a Man, the reason is, because no man dare or will set his name
to the contradiction of a Lady; and to confirm you the better herein,
there has one Chapter of my Book called _The Worlds Olio_, treating of
a Monastical Life, been answer'd already in a little Pamphlet, under
the name of a woman, although she did little towards it; wherefore it
being a Hermaphroditical Book, I judged it not worthy taking notice of.
The like shall I do to any other that will answer this present work of
mine, or contradict my opinions indirectly with fraud and deceit. But
I cannot conceive why it should be a disgrace to any man to maintain
his own or others opinions against a woman, so it be done with respect
and civility; but to become a cheat by dissembling, and quit the
Breeches for a Petticoat, meerly out of spight and malice, is base, and
not fit for the honour of a man, or the masculine sex. Besides, it will
easily be known; for a Philosopher or Philosopheress is not produced on
a sudden. Wherefore, although I do not care, nor fear contradiction,
yet I desire it may be done without fraud or deceit, spight and malice;
and then I shall be ready to defend my opinions the best I can, whilest
I live, and after I am dead, I hope those that are just and honorable
will also defend me from all sophistry, malice, spight and envy, for
which Heaven will bless them. In the mean time, _Worthy Readers_, I
should rejoyce to see that my Works are acceptable to you, for if you
be not partial, you will easily pardon those faults you find, when you
do consider both my sex and breeding; for which favour and justice, I
shall always remain,
_Your most obliged Servant,_
M. N.
Philosophical Letters.
Sect. I.
I.
_MADAM,_
You have been pleased to send me the Works of four Famous and Learned
Authors, to wit, of two most Famous Philosophers of our Age | 1,184.033419 |
2023-11-16 18:36:48.0341490 | 6,646 | 30 |
Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 109.
SEPTEMBER 7, 1895.
THAT POOR PENNY DREADFUL!
["Is the 'Penny Dreadful' and its influence so very dreadful, I
wonder?"--JAMES PAYN.]
Alas! for the poor "Penny Dreadful"!
They say if a boy gets his head-full
Of terrors and crimes,
_He_ turns pirate--sometimes;
Or of horrors, at least, goes to bed full.
Now _is_ this according to Cocker?
Of Beaks one would not be a mocker,
But _do_ many lads
Turn thieves or foot-pads,
Through reading the cheap weekly Shocker?
Such literature is _not_ healthy;
But _does_ it make urchins turn stealthy
Depleters of tills,
Destroyers of wills,
Or robbers of relatives wealthy?
I have gloated o'er many a duel,
I've heard of DON PEDRO the Cruel:
Heart pulsing at high rate,
I've read how my Pirate
Gave innocent parties their gruel.
Yet I have ne'er felt a yearning
For stabbing, or robbing, or burning.
No highwayman clever
And handsome, has ever
Induced _me_ to take the wrong turning!
A lad who's a natural "villing,"
When reading of robbing and killing
_May_ feel wish to do so;
But SHEPPARD--like CRUSOE--
To your average boy's only "thrilling."
Ah! thousands on Shockers have fed full,
And yet _not_ of crimes got a head-full.
Let us put down the vile,
Yet endeavour the while,
To be _just_ to the poor "Penny Dreadful"!
* * * * *
[Illustration: EVIDENT.
_George._ "EH--HE'S A BIG 'UN; AIN'T HE, JACK?"
_Minister_ (_overhearing_). "YES, MY LAD; BUT IT'S NOT WITH EATING AND
DRINKING!"
_Jack._ "I'LL LAY IT'S NOT ALL WI' FASTIN' AN' PRAYIN'!"]
* * * * *
FOR WHEEL OR WOE.
The Rural District Council at Chester resolved recently to station
men on the main roads leading into the city to count the number
of cyclists, with a view to estimating what revenue would accrue
from a cycle tax. Extremely high and public-spirited of the Chester
authorities to take the matter up. These dwellers by the Dee ought to
adopt as their motto, "The wheel has come full cycle."
* * * * *
"WHO IS SYLVIA?"--An opera, from the pen of Dr. JOSEPH PARRY, the
famous Welsh composer, entitled _Sylvia_, has been successfully
produced at the Cardiff Theatre Royal. The _libretto_ is by Mr.
FLETCHER and Mr. MENDELSSOHN PARRY, the _maestro's_ son, so that the
entire production is quite _parry-mutuel_.
* * * * *
THE RAILWAY RACE.
[Illustration]
A new British sport has arisen, or rather has, after a seven years'
interval, been revived within the last week or so, and the British
sporting reporter, so well-known for his ready supply of vivid and
picturesque metaphor, has, as usual, risen to the occasion. That large
and growing class of sedentary "sportsmen," whose athletic proclivities
are confined to the perusal of betting news, have now a fresh item
of interest to discuss in the performances of favourite and rival
locomotives. More power has been added to the elbows of the charming
and vociferous youths, who push their way through the London streets
with the too familiar cry of "Win-nerr!" (which, by the way, has quite
superseded that of "Evening Piper!"). And the laborious persons who
assiduously compile "records" have enough work to do to keep pace with
their daily growing collection. Even the mere "Man in the Street" knows
the amount of rise in the Shap Fell and Potter's Bar gradients, though
possibly, if you cross-question him, he could not tell you where they
are. However, the great daily and evening papers are fully alive to the
occasion, and the various sporting "Majors" and "Prophets" are well to
the fore with such "pars" as the following:--
Flying Buster, that smart and rakish yearling from the Crewe stud, was
out at exercise last evening with a light load of eighty tons, and did
some very satisfactory trials.
* * * * *
Invicta, the remarkably speedy East Coast seven-year-old, made a very
good show in her run from Grantham to York yesterday. She covered the
80-1/2 miles in 78 minutes with Driver TOMKINS up, and a weight of some
120 tons, without turning a hair. She looked extremely well-trained,
and I compliment her owners on her appearance.
* * * * *
Really something ought to be done with certain of the Southern
starters. I will name no names, but I noticed one the other day whose
pace was more like thirty hours a mile than thirty miles an hour. I
have heard of donkey-engines, and this one would certainly win a donkey
race.
* * * * *
These long-distance races are, no doubt, excellent tests for the
strength and stamina of our leading cross-country "flyers," but I
must enter a protest against the abnormally early hours at which the
chief events are now being pulled off. A sporting reporter undergoes
many hardships for the good of the public, but not the least is the
disagreable duty of being in at the finish at Aberdeen, say at 4.55
A.M. The famous midnight steeple-chase was nothing to it.
* * * * *
There was some very heavy booking last night at Euston, and Puffing
Billy the Second was greatly fancied. He has much finer action and
bigger barrel than his famous sire, not to mention being several hands
higher. It is to be hoped that he will not turn out a roarer, like the
latter.
* * * * *
There are dark rumours abroad that the King's Cross favourite has been
got at. She was in the pink of condition two days ago; but when I saw
her pass at Peterborough to-day, she was decidedly touched in the wind.
The way she laboured along was positively distressing. Besides, she was
sweating and steaming all over.
* * * * *
I will wire my prophecies for to-day as soon as I know the results.
THE SHUNTER.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST."
_Hackney_ (_to Shire Horse_). "LOOK HERE, FRIEND DOBBIN, I'LL BE SHOD
IF THEY WON'T DO AWAY WITH US ALTOGETHER SOME OF THESE DAYS!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: PICKINGS FROM PICARDY.
AFTER THE PROCESSION. A SOLO BY GRAND-PERE.]
* * * * *
CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY "COPPER."
(_After Wordsworth's "Character of the Happy Warrior."_)
[Sir JOHN BRIDGE, at Bow Street, bidding farewell to Detective-Sergeant
PARTRIDGE, retiring after thirty years' service, described the virtues
of the perfect policeman. He must be "absolutely without fear," "gentle
and mild in manner," and utterly free from "swagger," &c., &c.]
Who is the happy "Copper"? Who is he
Whom every Man in Blue should wish to be?
--It is the placid spirit, who, when brought
Near drunken men, and females who have fought,
Surveys them with a glance of sober thought;
Whose calm endeavours check the nascent fight,
And "clears the road" from watchers fierce and tight.
Who, doomed to tramp the slums in cold or rain,
Or put tremendous traffic in right train,
_Does_ it, with plucky heart and a cool brain;
In face of danger shows a placid power,
Which is our human nature's highest dower;
Controls crowds, roughs subdues, outwitteth thieves,
Comforts lost kids, yet ne'er a tip receives
For objects which he would not care to state.
Cool-headed, cheery, and compassionate;
Though skilful with his fists, of patience sure
,
And menaced much, still able to endure.
--'Tis he who is Law's vassal; who depends
Upon that Law as freedom's best of friends;
Whence, in the streets where men are tempted still
By fine superfluous pubs to swig and swill
Drink that in quality is not the best,
The Perfect Bobby brings cool reason's test
To shocks and shindies, and street-blocking shows;
Men argue, women wrangle,--Bobby _knows_!
--Who, conscious of his power of command
Stays with a nod, and checks with lifted hand,
And bids this van advance, that cab retire,
According to his judgment and desire;
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
Keeps true with stolid singleness of aim;
And therefore does not stoop nor lie in wait
For beery guerdon, or for bribery's bait;
Thieves he must follow; should a cab-horse fall,
A lost child bellow, a mad woman squall,
His powers shed peace upon the sudden strife,
And crossed concerns of common civic life,
A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
But who, if he be called upon to face
Some awful moment of more dangerous kind,
Shot that may slay, explosion that may blind,
Is cool as a cucumber; and attired
In the plain blue earth's cook-maids have admired,
Calm, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law,
Fearless, unswaggering, and devoid of "jaw."
Or if some unexpected call succeed
To fire, flood, fight, he's equal to the need;
--He who, though thus endowed with strength and sense,
To still the storm and quiet turbulence,
Is yet a soul whose master bias leans
To home-like pleasures and to jovial scenes;
And though in rows his valour prompt to prove,
Cooks and cold mutton share his manly love:--
'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high
On a big horse at some festivity,
Conspicuous object in the people's eye,
Or tramping sole some slum's obscurity,
Who, with a beat that's quiet, or "awful hot,"
Prosperous or want-pinched, to his taste or not,
Plays, in the many games of life, that one
In which the Beak's approval may be won;
And which may earn him, when he quits command,
Good, genial, Sir JOHN BRIDGE'S friendly shake o' the hand.
Whom neither knife nor pistol can dismay,
Nor thought of bribe or blackmail can betray:
Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering, to the last,
To be with PARTRIDGE, ex-detective, class'd:
Who, whether praised by bigwigs of the earth,
Or object of the Stage's vulgar mirth,
Plods on his bluchered beat, cool, gentle, game,
And leaves _somewhere_ a creditable name;
Finds honour in his cloth and in his cause,
And, when he dips into retirement, draws
His country's gratitude, the Bow Street Beak's applause:
This is the happy "Copper"; this is he
Whom every Man in Blue should wish to be.
* * * * *
"TWENTY MINUTES ON THE CONTINENT."
(_By Our Own Intrepid Explorer._)
"I tell you what you want," said my friend SAXONHURST. "You find your
morning dumb-bells too much for you, and complain of weakness--you
ought to get a blow over to France."
[Illustration]
The gentleman who made the suggestion is a kind guardian of my health.
He is not a doctor, although I believe he did "walk the hospitals" in
his early youth, but knows exactly what to advise. As a rule, when I
meet him he proposes some far-a-field journey. "What!" he exclaims,
in a tone of commiseration; "got a bad cold! Why not trot over to
Cairo? The trip would do you worlds of good." I return: "No doubt it
would, but I havn't the time." At the mere suggestion of "everyone's
enemy," SAXONHURST roars with laughter. He is no slave to be bound by
time. He has mapped out any number of pleasant little excursions that
can be carried out satisfactorily during that period known to railway
companies (chiefly August and September) as "the week's end." He has
discovered that within four-and-twenty hours you can thoroughly "do"
France, and within twice that time make yourself absolutely conversant
with the greater part of Spain. So when he tells me that I want "a blow
over" to the other side of the Channel, I know that he is proposing no
lengthy proceedings.
"About twenty minutes or so on the continent will soon set you to
rights," continues SAXONHURST, in a tone of conviction. "Just you
trust to the London, Chatham and Dover Railway and they will pull you
through. Keep your eye on the 9 A.M. Express from Victoria and you will
never regret it."
Farther conversation proved to me that it was well within the resources
of modern civilization to breakfast comfortably in Belgravia, lunch
sumptuously at Calais, and be back in time for a cup of (literally)
five o'clock tea at South Kensington. Within eight hours one could
travel to the coast, cross the silver streak twice, call upon the
Gallic _douane_, test the _cuisine_ of the _buffet_ attached to the
Hotel Terminus, and attend officially Mrs. ANYBODY'S "last Any-day." It
seemed to be a wonderful feat, and yet when I came to perform it, it
was as easy as possible.
There is no deception at 9 A.M. every morning at the Victoria Station.
A sign-post points out the Dover Boat Express, and tells you at the
same time whether you are to have the French-flagged services of the
_Invicta_ and the _Victoria_, or sail under the red ensign of the
_Calais-Douvres_. Personally, I prefer the latter, as I fancy it is
the fastest of the speedy trio. Near to the board of information is a
document heavy with fate. In it you can learn whether the sea is to
be "smooth," "light," "moderate," or "rather rough." If you find that
your destiny is one of the two last mentioned, make up your mind for
breezy weather, with its probable consequences. Of course, if you can
face the steward with cheerful unconcern in a hurricane, you will have
nothing to fear. But if you find it necessary to take chloral before
embarking (say) on the Serpentine in a dead calm, then beware of the
trail of the tempest, and the course of the coming storm. If a man who
is obliged to go on insists that "it will be all right," take care, and
beware. "Trust him not," as the late LONGFELLOW poetically suggested,
as it is quite within the bounds of possibility that he may be "fooling
thee." But if the meteorological report points to "set fair," then
away with all idle apprehensions, and hie for the first-class smoking
compartment, that stops not until it gets to Dover pier, for the pause
at Herne Hill scarcely counts for anything.
As you travel gaily along through the suburbs of Surrey and the hops of
Kent, you have just time to glance from your comfortable cushioned seat
at "beautiful Battersea," "salubrious Shortlands," "cheerful Chatham,"
"smiling Sittingbourne," "favoured (junction for Dover and Ramsgate)
Faversham," and last, but not least, "cathedral-cherishing Canterbury."
You hurry through the quaint old streets of "the Key to Brompton" (I
believe that is the poetical _plus_ strategical designation of the
most warlike of our cinque ports), and in two twos you are on board
the _Calais-Douvres_, bound for the _buffet_ of _buffets_, the pride
of the caterer's craft, or rather (to avoid possible misapprehension)
his honourable calling. The Channel is charming. This marvellous twenty
miles of water is as wayward as a woman. At one time it will compel
the crews of the steamers to appear in complete suits of oil-skin; at
another it is as smooth as a billiard-table, and twice as smiling. The
report at Victoria has not been misleading. We are to have a pleasant,
and consequently prosperous passage.
On board I find a goodly company of lunchers. Mr. Recorder BUNNY,
Q.C., sedate and silent--once the terror of thieves of all classes,
and ruffians of every degree, now partly in retreat. Then there is the
MACSTORM, C.B., warrior and novelist. Foreign affairs are represented
by MM. BONHOMMIE and DE CZARVILLE, excellent fellows both, and capable
correspondents in London. Then there are a host of celebrities. DICKY
HOGARTH, the caricaturist; SAMUEL STEELE SHERIDAN, the dramatist; and
SHAKSPEARE JOHNSON COCKAIGNE, the man of literary all-work.
"It is very fine this to me when therefore I come out why," observes an
Italian explorer, who has the reputation of speaking five-and-twenty
languages fluently, and is particularly proud of his English.
"Certainly," I answer promptly, because my friend is a little
irritable, and still believes in the possibilities of the _duello_.
"Therefore maybe you find myself when I am not placed which was
consequently forwards." And with this the amiable explorer from the
sunny south, no doubt believing that he has been imparting information
of the most valuable character, relapses into a smiling silence.
In the course of the voyage I find that, if I pleased, I could wait
until a quarter to four, and then return to my native shores. This
would give me more than three hours in Calais. But what should I do
with them?
"You might go to the Old Church," says Mr. Recorder BUNNY, Q.C., "which
was an English place of worship in the time of Queen MARY. Some of the
chapels are still dedicated to English Saints, and there are various
other memorials of the British occupation."
"Or you can go to the _plage_," puts in the MACSTORM. "Great fun in
fine weather. Whole families pic-nic on the sands. They feed under
tents or in chalets. In the water all day long, except at meal-times.
At night they retire, I think, to a little collection of timber-built
villas, planted in a neatly-kept square. The whole thing rather
suggestive of ALEXANDER SELKIRK _plus_ an unlimited supply of a
quarter-inch deal flooring, canvas, and cardboard."
[Illustration]
In spite, however, of the unrivalled attractions of Calais, I determine
to go no further than the _buffet_. Acting under the instructions of
Mr. Recorder BUNNY, Q.C., who seems to know the ropes thoroughly well,
I allow the "goers on" (passengers bound for Paris and the Continent
generally) to satisfy their cravings for food, and then give my orders.
A waiter, who has all the activity of his class, representing, let us
say, the best traditions of the Champs Elysee, takes me in hand. We
make out a _menu_ on the spot--Melon, _tete de veau a la vinaigrette_,
_caneton aux petits pois_, and a cheese omelette. Then half a bottle
of red wine, a demi-syphon, and a _cafe_ and _chasse_. All good. Then
the _garcon_ skips away, placing knives and forks at this table, a
dish of fruit at that, and a basket of bread at the one yonder. These
athletic exercises (that are sufficiently encouraging to promise
the performer--if he wishes it--a prosperous career on the lofty
_trapeze_), are undertaken in the interests of the expected voyagers
Albion bound. Before the arrival of the Paris train I have eaten my
lunch, settled my bill (moderate), and taken my deck chair on the good
steamer that is to carry me back to my native land.
Ah! never shall I forget the dear old shores of England as I watch
them after _dejeuner a la fourchette_ through the perfumed haze of an
unusually good cigar. "Low capped and turf crowned, they are not a
patch upon the wild magnificence of the fierce Australian coast line,
but in my eyes they are beautiful beyond compare." I remember that
at one time or another I have heard "the finest music in the world,
but at that moment there comes stealing into my ears a melody worth
all that music put together, the chime of English village bells." I
recollect that I have heard these beautiful expressions used in the
Garrick Theatre on the occasion of the revival of a certain little
one-act piece. Mr. ARTHUR BOUCHIER was then eloquent (on behalf of
the author) in praise of Dover, and I now agree with him. What can
be more beautiful than the white cliffs of Albion and the sound of
English village bells--after a capital lunch at Calais, and during the
enjoyment of an unusually good cigar?
The trusty ship gets to England at 2.30, the equally trusty train
arrives at Victoria a couple of hours later. I am in capital time for
Mrs. ANYBODY'S "last Any-day."
"How well you are looking," observes my kind hostess, pouring out a cup
of tea.
"And I am feeling well," I return; "and all this good health I owe to
twenty minutes on the continent."
And these last words sound so like the tag to a piece that they shall
serve (by the kind permission of the British public) as the title and
the end to an article.
* * * * *
SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--My pater reads the Bristol newspapers, but I don't,
because there's never any pirates or red Indians in them, but happening
to look in one the other day I noticed an awfully good thing. It said
that at a place called Stapleton all the parents were very indignant at
the way in which the schoolmistress had been treated by the manigers,
and to show their symperthy they decided to keep their children from
school. The school was nearly empty in consequents. Now I don't think
my schoolmaster has half enough sympathy shown him. He does know how
to cane, certainly, but he isn't really such a beast as fellows make
out--at least not just the day or so before the holidays begin--and
would you mind telling parents that they ought to keep their boys at
home for a week or a fortnight after next term begins, to show how much
they symperthise with him? Poor chap, he has lots of trouble--I know he
has, because I give him some.
Yours respekfully, BLOGGS JUNIOR.
* * * * *
BAWBEES THANKFULLY RECEIVED.--A National Scottish Memorial to BURNS
is in the Ayr. "Surely," writes a perfervid one, "BURNS did as much
for our country and the world as SCOTT, yet how very different the
monuments of the two in Edinburgh and Glasgow! I am sure no Scotchman
would grudge his mite, however poor, for such a purpose." Quite so. But
it would take a good many "Cotter's Saturday mites" to build anything
like the Scott Memorial in Princes Street. And what is this that the
Rev. Dr. BURRELL, of New York, said in presenting a new panel for the
Ayr statue of BURNS from American lovers of the poet? "The stream of
pilgrims," he observed, "from America to the banks of the Doon was
twice as large as that which found its way to the banks of the Avon."
Then why should not the stream of dollars follow, and erect a colossal
"Burns Enlightening the Nations" somewhere down the Clyde--say, at the
Heads of Ayr? _Hamlet_ beaten by _Tam O'Shanter_, and Avon taking a
back seat to Doon! Flodden is, indeed, avenged.
* * * * *
THE WEARING O' THE GREEN.--There was a discussion at the Cork
Corporation's meeting on a recommendation of the Works Committee, that
"a new uniform, of Irish manufacture, be ordered for the hall-porter."
What should be the colour, was the difficulty? "Some members," we
regret to read, "were in favour of blue"; and then the debate went on
thus--
Mr. BIBLE he thought they should stick to the green Mr. FARINGTON said
that green uniforms rot; Mr. LUCY denounced such a statement as mean,
And--"never change colour!"--advised Sir JOHN SCOTT.
So the hall-porter will have a uniform of "green and gold"--the green
to be durable," and the gold to make it endurable!
* * * * *
CABBY? OR, REMINISCENCES OF THE RANK AND THE ROAD.
(_By "Hansom Jack."_)
No. II.--IN THE SHELTER. ME AND BILLY BOGER.
[The first Cabman's Shelter or "Rest" in the Metropolis was set up at
the Stand in Acacia Road, St. John's Wood, on February 6, 1875.]
There! After a two 'ours slow crawl through a fog, _with_ a cough, and
a fare as is sour and tight-fisted,
Why, even a larky one drops a bit low, and the tail of 'is temper gits
terrible twisted.
And that's where the Shelter comes 'andily in.
With a cup of 'ot corfee, a slice and a "sojer,"
_And_ 'bacca to follow, life don't look so bad!
What do _you_ think? I says to my pal BILLY BOGER.
Brown-crusted one, BILLY; 'ard baked from 'is birth. Drives a
"Growler" yer see, and behaves quite according.
Rum picter 'e makes with 'is 'at on 'is nose, and 'is back rounded up
like, against a damp hoarding.
Kinder kicks it at comfort, contrairy-wise, BILL do; won't take it on
nohow, the orkurd old Tartar.
The sort as won't 'ave parrydise as a gift if so be it pervents 'em
from playing the martyr!
"That's 'Jackdaw' the Snapshotter all up and down!" says BILL with a
grunt. That's a nickname 'e's guv me
Along of my liking for looking at life. Well, the world is a floorer
all round; but Lord love me
Mere grumble's no good; doesn't mend things a mite; world rolls on and
larfs at us; don't seem a doubt of it;
Cuss it and cross it, and over _you_ go! Better far to stand by and
look on, till you're out of it.
"Heye like a bloomin' old robin, _you_ 'ave," says BILL (meaning _me_),
"allus cocked at creation
As though you was recknin' it up for a bid like. And what is the end
of your fine 'observation'?
You squint, and you heft, and you size people up, sorter 'grading
'em out' as Yank JONATHAN puts it.
And when you are through, what's the hodds? All my heye! You boss
till you're blind, and then death hups and shuts it!"
Carn't 'it it, we carn't. But we're pals all the same, becos BILL is
more 'onest than some who're more 'arty. We kid, and we kibosh each
other like fun, but when H. J. wants backing old BILLY'S the party,
And when BILLY busts JACK is all there, you bet, although _I_ tool a
Forder and _'e_ a old Growler.
But pickles ain't in it for sourness with BILLY, nor yet fresh-laid
widders for | 1,184.054189 |
2023-11-16 18:36:48.0384360 | 914 | 7 |
Produced by Eric Eldred
THE NATURALIST IN LA PLATA
BY
W. H. HUDSON, C.M.Z.S.
JOINT AUTHOR OF "ARGENTINE ORNITHOLOGY"
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. SMIT
THIRD EDITION.
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1895
PREFACE.
The plan I have followed in this work has been to sift and arrange the
facts I have gathered concerning the habits of the animals best known to
me, preserving those only, which, in my judgment, appeared worth
recording. In some instances a variety of subjects have linked
themselves together in my mind, and have been grouped under one heading;
consequently the scope of the book is not indicated by the list of
contents: this want is, however, made good by an index at the end.
It is seldom an easy matter to give a suitable name to a book of this
description. I am conscious that the one I have made choice of displays
a lack of originality; also, that this kind of title has been used
hitherto for works constructed more or less on the plan of the famous
_Naturalist on the Amazons._ After I have made this apology the reader,
on his part, will readily admit that, in treating of the Natural History
of a district so well known, and often described as the southern portion
of La Plata, which has a temperate climate, and where nature is neither
exuberant nor grand, a personal narrative would have seemed superfluous.
The greater portion of the matter contained in this volume has already
seen the light in the form of papers contributed to the _Field,_ with
other journals that treat of Natural History; and to the monthly
magazines:--_Longmans', The Nineteenth Century, The Gentleman's
Magazine,_ and others: I am indebted to the Editors and Proprietors of
these periodicals for kindly allowing me to make use of this material.
Of all animals, birds have perhaps afforded me most pleasure; but most
of the fresh knowledge I have collected in this department is contained
in a larger work _(Argentine Ornithology),_ of which Dr. P. L. Sclater
is part author. As I have not gone over any of the subjects dealt with
in that work, bird-life has not received more than a fair share of
attention in the present volume.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. THE DESERT PAMPAS
CHAPTER II. CUB PUMA, OR LION OF AMERICA
CHAPTER III. WAVE OF LIFE
CHAPTER IV. SOME CURIOUS ANIMAL WEAPONS
CHAPTER V. FEAR IN BIRDS
CHAPTER VI. PARENTAL AND EARLY INSTINCTS
CHAPTER VII. THE MEPHITIC SKUNK
CHAPTER VIII. MIMICRY AND WARNING COLOURS IN GRASSHOPPERS
CHAPTER IX. DRAGON-FLY STORMS
CHAPTER X. MOSQUITOES AND PARASITE PROBLEMS
CHAPTER XI. HUMBLE-BEES AND OTHER MATTERS
CHAPTER XII. A NOBLE WASP
CHAPTER XIII. NATURE'S NIGHT-LIGHTS
CHAPTER XIV. FACTS AND THOUGHTS ABOUT SPIDERS
CHAPTER XV. THE DEATH-FEIGNING INSTINCT
CHAPTER XVI. HUMMING-BIRDS
CHAPTER XVII. THE CRESTED SCREAMER
CHAPTER XVIII. THE WOODHEWER FAMILY
CHAPTER XIX. MUSIC AND DANCING IN NATURE
CHAPTER XX. BIOGRAPHY OF THE VIZCACHA
CHAPTER XXI. THE DYING HUANACO
CHAPTER XXII. THE STRANGE INSTINCTS OF CATTLE
CHAPTER XXIII. HORSE AND MAN
CHAPTER XXIV. SEEN AND LOST
APPENDIX
INDEX
THE NATURALIST IN LA PLATA,
CHAPTER I.
THE DESERT PAMPAS.
During recent years we have heard much about the great and rapid changes
now going on in the plants and animals of all the temperate regions of
the globe colonized by Europeans. These changes, if taken merely as
evidence of material progress, must be a matter of rejoicing to those
who are satisfied, and more than satisfied, with our system of | 1,184.058476 |
2023-11-16 18:36:48.1605410 | 4,675 | 6 |
Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charlie Kirschner and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE
MAID-AT-ARMS
A Novel
By
Robert W. Chambers
Illustrated by
Howard Chandler Christy
1902
TO
MISS KATHARINE HUSTED
PREFACE
After a hundred years the history of a great war waged by a successful
nation is commonly reviewed by that nation with retrospective
complacency.
Distance dims the panorama; haze obscures the ragged gaps in the pageant
until the long lines of victorious armies move smoothly across the
horizon, with never an abyss to check their triumph.
Yet there is one people who cannot view the past through a mirage. The
marks of the birth-pangs remain on the land; its struggle for breath was
too terrible, its scars too deep to hide or cover.
For us, the pages of the past turn all undimmed; battles, brutally
etched, stand clear as our own hills against the sky--for in this land
we have no haze to soften truth.
Treading the austere corridor of our Pantheon, we, too, come at last to
victory--but what a victory! Not the familiar, gracious goddess,
wide-winged, crowned, bearing wreaths, but a naked, desperate creature,
gaunt, dauntless, turning her iron face to the west.
The trampling centuries can raise for us no golden dust to cloak the
flanks of the starved ranks that press across our horizon.
Our ragged armies muster in a pitiless glare of light, every man
distinct, every battle in detail.
Pangs that they suffered we suffer.
The faint-hearted who failed are judged by us as though they failed
before the nation yesterday; the brave are re-enshrined as we read; the
traitor, to us, is no grotesque Guy Fawkes, but a living Judas
of to-day.
We remember that Ethan Allen thundered on the portal of all earthly
kings at Ticonderoga; but we also remember that his hatred for the great
state of New York brought him and his men of Vermont perilously close to
the mire which defiled Charles Lee and Conway, and which engulfed poor
Benedict Arnold.
We follow Gates's army with painful sympathy to Saratoga, and there we
applaud a victory, but we turn from the commander in contempt, his
brutal, selfish, shallow nature all revealed.
We know him. We know them all--Ledyard, who died stainless, with his own
sword murdered; Herkimer, who died because he was not brave enough to do
his duty and be called a coward for doing it; Woolsey, the craven Major
at the Middle Fort, stammering filthy speeches in his terror when Sir
John Johnson's rangers closed in; Poor, who threw his life away for
vanity when that life belonged to the land! Yes, we know them
all--great, greater, and less great--our grandfather Franklin, who
trotted through a perfectly cold and selfishly contemptuous French
court, aged, alert, cheerful to the end; Schuyler, calm and
imperturbable, watching the North, which was his trust, and utterly
unmindful of self or of the pack yelping at his heels; Stark, Morgan,
Murphy, and Elerson, the brave riflemen; Spencer, the interpreter;
Visscher, Helmer, and the Stoners.
Into our horizon, too, move terrible shapes--not shadowy or lurid, but
living, breathing figures, who turn their eyes on us and hold out their
butcher hands: Walter Butler, with his awful smile; Sir John Johnson,
heavy and pallid--pallid, perhaps, with the memory of his broken
parole; Barry St. Leger, the drunken dealer in scalps; Guy Johnson,
organizer of wholesale murder; Brant, called Thayendanegea, brave,
terrible, faithful, but--a Mohawk; and that frightful she-devil, Catrine
Montour, in whose hot veins seethed savage blood and the blood of a
governor of Canada, who smote us, hip and thigh, until the brawling
brooks of Tryon ran blood!
No, there is no illusion for us; no splendid armies, banner--laden,
passing through unbroken triumphs across the sunset's glory; no winged
victory, with smooth brow laurelled to teach us to forget the holocaust.
Neither can we veil our history, nor soften our legends. Romance alone
can justify a theme inspired by truth; for Romance is more vital than
history, which, after all, is but the fleshless skeleton of Romance.
R.W.C.
BROADALBIN,
May 26, 1902.
CONTENTS
I. THE ROAD TO VARICKS'. II. IN THE HALLWAY. III. COUSINS. IV. SIR
LUPUS. V. A NIGHT AT THE PATROON'S. VI. DAWN. VII. AFTERMATH. VIII.
RIDING THE BOUNDS. IX. HIDDEN FIRE. X. TWO LESSONS. XI. LIGHTS AND
SHADOWS. XII. THE GHOST-RING. XIII. THE MAID-AT-ARMS. XIV. ON DUTY. XV.
THE FALSE-FACES. XVI. ON SCOUT. XVII. THE FLAG. XVIII. ORISKANY. XIX.
THE HOME TRAIL. XX. COCK-CROW. XXI. THE CRISIS. XXII. THE END OF THE
BEGINNING.
ILLUSTRATIONS
"I SAT DOWN HEAVILY IN HOMESICK SOLITUDE".
"YOU'RE MY COUSIN, GEORGE ORMOND, OR I'M THE FATTEST LIAR SOUTH OF
MONTREAL!".
"SHE SUFFERED US TO SALUTE HER HAND".
"NOW LOOSE ME--FOR THE FOREST ENDS!".
"THIS IS THE END, O YOU WISE MEN AND SACHEMS!".
"JACK MOUNT LOOMED A COLOSSAL FIGURE IN HIS BEADED BUCKSKINS".
"INSTANTLY MOUNT TRIPPED THE MAN".
"A STRANGE SHYNESS SEEMED TO HOLD US APART".
THE MAID-AT-ARMS
I
THE ROAD TO VARICKS'
We drew bridle at the cross-roads; he stretched his legs in his
stirrups, raised his arms, yawned, and dropped his huge hands upon
either thigh with a resounding slap.
"Well, good-bye," he said, gravely, but made no movement to leave me.
"Do we part here?" I asked, sorry to quit my chance acquaintance of the
Johnstown highway.
He nodded, yawned again, and removed his round cap of silver-fox fur to
scratch his curly head.
"We certainly do part at these cross-roads, if you are bound for
Varicks'," he said.
I waited a moment, then thanked him for the pleasant entertainment his
company had afforded me, and wished him a safe journey.
"A safe journey?" he repeated, carelessly. "Oh yes, of course; safe
journeys are rare enough in these parts. I'm obliged to you for the
thought. You are very civil, sir. Good-bye."
Yet neither he nor I gathered bridle to wheel our horses, but sat there
in mid-road, looking at each other.
"My name is Mount," he said at length; "let me guess yours. No, sir!
don't tell me. Give me three sportsman's guesses; my hunting-knife
against the wheat straw you are chewing!"
"With pleasure," I said, amused, "but you could scarcely guess it."
"Your name is Varick?"
I shook my head.
"Butler?"
"No. Look sharp to your knife, friend."
"Oh, then I have guessed it," he said, coolly; "your name is Ormond--and
I'm glad of it."
"Why are you glad of it?" I asked, curiously, wondering, too, at his
knowledge of me, a stranger.
"You will answer that question for yourself when you meet your kin, the
Varicks and Butlers," he said; and the reply had an insolent ring that
did not please me, yet I was loath to quarrel with this boyish giant
whose amiable company I had found agreeable on my long journey through a
land so new to me.
"My friend," I said, "you are blunt."
"Only in speech, sir," he replied, lazily swinging one huge leg over the
pommel of his saddle. Sitting at ease in the sunshine, he opened his
fringed hunting-shirt to the breeze blowing.
"So you go to the Varicks?" he mused aloud, eyes slowly closing in the
sunshine like the brilliant eyes of a basking lynx.
"Do you know the lord of the manor?" I asked.
"Who? The patroon?"
"I mean Sir Lupus Varick."
"Yes; I know him--I know Sir Lupus. We call him the patroon, though he's
not of the same litter as the Livingstons, the Cosbys, the Phillipses,
Van Rensselaers, and those feudal gentlemen who juggle with the high
justice, the middle, and the low--and who will juggle no more."
"Am I mistaken," said I, "in taking you for a Boston man?"
"In one sense you are," he said, opening his eyes. "I was born in
Vermont."
"Then you are a rebel?"
"Lord!" he said, laughing, "how you twist our English tongue! 'Tis his
Majesty across the waters who rebels at our home-made Congress."
"Is it not dangerous to confess such things to a stranger?" I asked,
smiling.
His bright eyes reassured me. "Not to all strangers," he drawled,
swinging his free foot over his horse's neck and settling his bulk on
the saddle. One big hand fell, as by accident, over the pan of his long
rifle. Watching, without seeming to, I saw his forefinger touch the
priming, stealthily, and find it dry.
"You are no King's man," he said, calmly.
"Oh, do you take me for a rebel, too?" I demanded.
"No, sir; you are neither the one nor the other--like a tadpole with
legs, neither frog nor pollywog. But you will be."
"Which?" I asked, laughing.
"My wisdom cannot draw that veil for you, sir," he said. "You may take
your chameleon color from your friends the Varicks and remain gray, or
from the Butlers and turn red, or from the Schuylers and turn blue
and buff."
"You credit me with little strength of character," I said.
"I credit you with some twenty-odd years and no experience."
"With nothing more?"
"Yes, sir; with sincerity and a Spanish rifle--which you may have need
of ere this month of May has melted into June."
I glanced at the beautiful Spanish weapon resting across my pommel.
"What do you know of the Varicks?" I asked, smiling.
"More than do you," he said, "for all that they are your kin. Look at
me, sir! Like myself, you wear deer-skin from throat to ankle, and your
nose is ever sniffing to windward. But this is a strange wind to you.
You see, you smell, but your eyes ask, 'What is it?' You are a woodsman,
but a stranger among your own kin. You have never seen a living Varick;
you have never even seen a partridge."
"Your wisdom is at fault there," I said, maliciously.
"Have you seen a Varick?"
"No; but the partridge--"
"Pooh! a little creature, like a gray meadow-lark remoulded! You call it
partridge, I call it quail. But I speak of the crested thunder--drumming
cock that struts all ruffed like a Spanish grandee of ancient times.
Wait, sir!" and he pointed to a string of birds' footprints in the dust
just ahead. "Tell me what manner of creature left its mark there?"
I leaned from my saddle, scanning the sign carefully, but the bird that
made it was a strange bird to me. Still bending from my saddle, I heard
his mocking laugh, but did not look up.
"You wear a lynx-skin for a saddle-cloth," he said, "yet that lynx never
squalled within a thousand miles of these hills."
"Do you mean to say there are no lynxes here?" I asked.
"Plenty, sir, but their ears bear no black-and-white marks. Pardon, I do
not mean to vex you; I read as I run, sir; it is my habit."
"So you have traced me on a back trail for a thousand miles--from
habit," I said, not exactly pleased.
"A thousand miles--by your leave."
"Or without it."
"Or without it--a thousand miles, sir, on a back trail, through forests
that blossom like gigantic gardens in May with flowers sweeter than our
white water-lilies abloom on trees that bear glossy leaves the year
round; through thickets that spread great, green, many-fingered hands at
you, all adrip with golden jasmine; where pine wood is fat as bacon;
where the two oaks shed their leaves, yet are ever in foliage; where the
thick, blunt snakes lie in the mud and give no warning when they deal
death. So far, sir, I trail you, back to the soil where your baby
fingers first dug--soil as white as the snow which you are yet to see
for the first time in your life of twenty-three years. A land where
there are no hills; a land where the vultures sail all day without
flapping their tip-curled wings; where slimy dragon things watch from
the water's edge; where Greek slaves sweat at indigo-vats that draw
vultures like carrion; where black men, toiling, sing all day on the
sea-islands, plucking cotton-blossoms; where monstrous horrors, hornless
and legless, wallow out to the sedge and graze like cattle--"
"Man! You picture a hell!" I said, angrily, "while I come from
paradise!"
"The outer edges of paradise border on hell," he said. "Wait! Sniff that
odor floating."
"It is jasmine!" I muttered, and my throat tightened with a homesick
spasm.
"It is the last of the arbutus," he said, dropping his voice to a gentle
monotone. "This is New York province, county of Tryon, sir, and yonder
bird trilling is not that gray minstrel of the Spanish orange-tree,
mocking the jays and the crimson fire-birds which sing 'Peet! peet!'
among the china-berries. Do you know the wild partridge-pea of the pine
barrens, that scatters its seeds with a faint report when the pods are
touched? There is in this land a red bud which has burst thundering into
crimson bloom, scattering seeds o' death to the eight winds. And every
seed breeds a battle, and every root drinks blood!"
He straightened in his stirrups, blue eyes ablaze, face burning under
its heavy mask of tan and dust.
"If I know a man when I see him, I know you," he said. "God save our
country, friend, upon this sweet May day."
"Amen, sir," I replied, tingling. "And God save the King the whole year
round!"
"Yes," he repeated, with a disagreeable laugh, "God save the King; he is
past all human aid now, and headed straight to hell. Friend, let us part
ere we quarrel. You will be with me or against me this day week. I knew
it was a man I addressed, and no tavern-post."
"Yet this brawl with Boston is no affair of mine," I said, troubled.
"Who touches the ancient liberties of Englishmen touches my country,
that is all I know."
"Which country, sir?"
"Greater Britain."
"And when Greater Britain divides?"
"It must not!"
"It has."
I unbound the scarlet handkerchief which I wore for a cap, and held it
between my fingers to dry its sweat in the breeze. Watching it
flutter, I said:
"Friend, in my country we never cross the branch till we come to it, nor
leave the hammock till the river-sands are beneath our feet. No
hunting-shirt is sewed till the bullet has done its errand, nor do men
fish for gray mullet with a hook and line. There is always time to pray
for wisdom."
"Friend," replied Mount, "I wear red quills on my moccasins, you wear
bits of sea-shell. That is all the difference between us. Good-bye.
Varick Manor is the first house four miles ahead."
He wheeled his horse, then, as at a second thought, checked him and
looked back at me.
"You will see queer folk yonder at the patroon's," he said. "You are
accustomed to the manners of your peers; you were bred in that land
where hospitality, courtesy, and deference are shown to equals; where
dignity and graciousness are expected from the elders; where duty and
humility are inbred in the young. So is it with us--except where you are
going. The great patroon families, with their vast estates, their
patents, their feudal systems, have stood supreme here for years. Theirs
is the power of life and death over their retainers; they reign absolute
in their manors, they account only to God for their trusts. And they are
great folk, sir, even yet--these Livingstons, these Van Rensselaers,
these Phillipses, lords of their manors still; Dutch of descent,
polished, courtly, proud, bearing the title of patroon as a noble bears
his coronet."
He raised his hand, smiling. "It is not so with the Varicks. They are
patroons, too, yet kin to the Johnsons, of Johnson Hall and Guy Park,
and kin to the Ormond-Butlers. But they are different from either
Johnson or Butler--vastly different from the Schuylers or the
Livingstons--"
He shrugged his broad shoulders and dropped his hand: "The Varicks are
all mad, sir. Good-bye."
He struck his horse with his soft leather heels; the animal bounded out
into the western road, and his rider swung around once more towards me
with a gesture partly friendly, partly, perhaps, in menace. "Tell Sir
Lupus to go to the devil!" he cried, gayly, and cantered away through
the golden dust.
I sat my horse to watch him; presently, far away on the hill's crest,
the sun caught his rifle and sparkled for a space, then the point of
white fire went out, and there was nothing on the hill-top save the
dust drifting.
Lonelier than I had yet been since that day, three months gone, when I
had set out from our plantation on the shallow Halifax, which the
hammock scarcely separates from the ocean, I gathered bridle with
listless fingers and spoke to my mare. "Isene, we must be moving
eastward--always moving, sweetheart. Come, lass, there's grain somewhere
in this Northern land where you have carried me." And to myself,
muttering aloud as I rode: "A fine name he has given to my cousins the
Varicks, this giant forest-runner, with his boy's face and limbs of
iron! And he was none too cordial concerning the Butlers,
either--cousins, too, but in what degree they must tell me, for I
don't know--"
The road entering the forest, I ceased my prattle by instinct, and again
for the thousandth time I sniffed at odors new to me, and scanned leafy
depths for those familiar trees which stand warden in our Southern
forests. There were pines, but they were not our pines, these feathery,
dark-stemmed trees; there were oaks, but neither our golden water oaks
nor our great, green-and-silver live-oaks. Little, pale flowers bloomed
everywhere, shadows only of our bright blossoms of the South; and the
rare birds I saw were gray and small, and chary of song, as though the
stillness that slept in this Northern forest was a danger not to be
awakened. Loneliness fell on me; my shoulders bent and my head hung
heavily. Isene, my mare, paced the soft forest-road without a sound, so
quietly that the squatting rabbit leaped from between her forelegs, and
the slim, striped, squirrel-like creatures crouched paralyzed as we
passed ere they burst into their shrill chatter of fright or anger, I
know not which.
Had I a night to spend in this wilderness I should not know where to
find a palmetto-fan for a torch, where to seek light-wood for splinter.
It was all new to me; signs read riddles; tracks were sealed books; the
east winds brought rain, where at home they bring heaven's own balm to
us of the Spanish grants on the seaboard | 1,184.180581 |
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Produced by David Widger
THE POETICAL WORKS
OF
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
[Volume 3 of the 1893 three volume set]
BEFORE THE CURFEW
AT MY FIRESIDE
AT THE SATURDAY CLUB
OUR DEAD SINGER. H. W. L.
TWO POEMS TO HARRIET BEECHER STOWE ON HER SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY.
I. AT THE SUMMIT
II. THE WORLD'S HOMAGE
A WELCOME TO DR. BENJAMIN APTHORP GOULD
TO FREDERICK HENRY HEDGE ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY
TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY
PRELUDE TO A VOLUME PRINTED IN RAISED LETTERS
FOR THE BLIND
BOSTON TO FLORENCE
AT THE UNITARIAN FESTIVAL, MARCH 8, 1882
POEM FOR THE TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FOUNDING OF
HARVARD COLLEGE
POST-PRANDIAL: PHI BETA KAPPA, 1881
THE FLANEUR: DURING THE TRANSIT OF VENUS, 1882
AVE
KING'S CHAPEL READ AT THE TWO HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY
HYMN FOR THE SAME OCCASION
HYMN.--THE WORD OF PROMISE
HYMN READ AT THE DEDICATION OF THE OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES HOSPITAL AT
HUDSON, WISCONSIN, JUNE 7, 1887
ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD
THE GOLDEN FLOWER
HAIL, COLUMBIA!
POEM FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE FOUNTAIN AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON,
PRESENTED
BY GEORGE CHILDS, OF PHILADELPHIA
TO THE POETS WHO ONLY READ AND LISTEN
FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE NEW CITY LIBRARY
FOR THE WINDOW IN ST. MARGARET'S
JAMES RUSSELL LO WELL: 1819-1891
AT MY FIRESIDE
ALONE, beneath the darkened sky,
With saddened heart and unstrung lyre,
I heap the spoils of years gone by,
And leave them with a long-drawn sigh,
Like drift-wood brands that glimmering lie,
Before the ashes hide the fire.
Let not these slow declining days
The rosy light of dawn outlast;
Still round my lonely hearth it plays,
And gilds the east with borrowed rays,
While memory's mirrored sunset blaze
Flames on the windows of the past.
March 1, 1888.
AT THE SATURDAY CLUB
THIS is our place of meeting; opposite
That towered and pillared building: look at it;
King's Chapel in the Second George's day,
Rebellion stole its regal name away,--
Stone Chapel sounded better; but at last
The poisoned name of our provincial past
Had lost its ancient venom; then once more
Stone Chapel was King's Chapel as before.
(So let rechristened North Street, when it can,
Bring back the days of Marlborough and Queen Anne!)
Next the old church your wandering eye will meet--
A granite pile that stares upon the street--
Our civic temple; slanderous tongues have said
Its shape was modelled from St. Botolph's head,
Lofty, but narrow; jealous passers-by
Say Boston always held her head too high.
Turn half-way round, and let your look survey
The white facade that gleams across the way,--
The many-windowed building, tall and wide,
The palace-inn that shows its northern side
In grateful shadow when the sunbeams beat
The granite wall in summer's scorching heat.
This is the place; whether its name you spell
Tavern, or caravansera, or hotel.
Would I could steal its echoes! you should find
Such store of vanished pleasures brought to mind
Such feasts! the laughs of many a jocund hour
That shook the mortar from King George's tower;
Such guests! What famous names its record boasts,
Whose owners wander in the mob of ghosts!
Such stories! Every beam and plank is filled
With juicy wit the joyous talkers spilled,
Ready to ooze, as once the mountain pine
The floors are laid with oozed its turpentine!
A month had flitted since The Club had met;
The day came round; I found the table set,
The waiters lounging round the marble stairs,
Empty as yet the double row of chairs.
I was a full half hour before the rest,
Alone, the banquet-chamber's single guest.
So from the table's side a chair I took,
And having neither company nor book
To keep me waking, by degrees there crept
A torpor over me,--in short, I slept.
Loosed from its chain, along the wreck-strown track
Of the dead years my soul goes travelling back;
My ghosts take on their robes of flesh; it seems
Dreaming is life; nay, life less life than dreams,
So real are the shapes that meet my eyes.
They bring no sense of wonder, no surprise,
No hint of other than an earth-born source;
All seems plain daylight, everything of course.
How dim the colors are, how poor and faint
This palette of weak words with which I paint!
Here sit my friends; if I could fix them so
As to my eyes they seem, my page would glow
Like a queen's missal, warm as if the brush
Of Titian or Velasquez brought the flush
Of life into their features. Ay de mi!
If syllables were pigments, you should see
Such breathing portraitures as never man
Found in the Pitti or the Vatican.
Here sits our POET, Laureate, if you will.
Long has he worn the wreath, and wears it still.
Dead? Nay, not so; and yet they say his bust
Looks down on marbles covering royal dust,
Kings by the Grace of God, or Nature's grace;
Dead! No! Alive! I see him in his place,
Full-featured, with the bloom that heaven denies
Her children, pinched by cold New England skies,
Too often, while the nursery's happier few
Win from a summer cloud its roseate hue.
Kind, soft-voiced, gentle, in his eye there shines
The ray serene that filled Evangeline's.
Modest he seems, not shy; content to wait
Amid the noisy clamor of debate
The looked-for moment when a peaceful word
Smooths the rough ripples louder tongues have stirred.
In every tone I mark his tender grace
And all his poems hinted in his face;
What tranquil joy his friendly presence gives!
How could. I think him dead? He lives! He lives!
There, at the table's further end I see
In his old place our Poet's vis-a-vis,
The great PROFESSOR, strong, broad-shouldered, square,
In life's rich noontide, joyous, debonair.
His social hour no leaden care alloys,
His laugh rings loud and mirthful as a boy's,--
That lusty laugh the Puritan forgot,--
What ear has heard it and remembers not?
How often, halting at some wide crevasse
Amid the windings of his Alpine pass,
High up the cliffs, the climbing mountaineer,
Listening the far-off avalanche to hear,
Silent, and leaning on his steel-shod staff,
Has heard that cheery voice, that ringing laugh,
From the rude cabin whose nomadic walls
Creep with the moving glacier as it crawls
How does vast Nature lead her living train
In ordered sequence through that spacious brain,
As in the primal hour when Adam named
The new-born tribes that young creation claimed!--
How will her realm be darkened, losing thee,
Her darling, whom we call _our_ AGASSIZ!
But who is he whose massive frame belies
The maiden shyness of his downcast eyes?
Who broods in silence till, by questions pressed,
Some answer struggles from his laboring breast?
An artist Nature meant to dwell apart,
Locked in his studio with a human heart,
Tracking its eaverned passions to their lair,
And all its throbbing mysteries laying bare.
Count it no marvel that he broods alone
Over the heart he studies,--'t is his own;
So in his page, whatever shape it wear,
The Essex wizard's shadowed self is there,--
The great ROMANCER, hid beneath his veil
Like the stern preacher of his sombre tale;
Virile in strength, yet bashful as a girl,
Prouder than Hester, sensitive as Pearl.
From his mild throng of worshippers released,
Our Concord Delphi sends its chosen priest,
Prophet or poet, mystic, sage, or seer,
By every title always welcome here.
Why that ethereal spirit's frame describe?
You know the race-marks of the Brahmin tribe,
The spare, slight form, the sloping shoulders' droop,
The calm, scholastic mien, the clerkly stoop,
The lines of thought the sharpened features wear,
Carved by the edge of keen New England air.
List! for he speaks! As when a king would choose
The jewels for his bride, he might refuse
This diamond for its flaw,--find that less bright
Than those, its fellows, and a pearl less white
Than fits her snowy neck, and yet at last,
The fairest gems are chosen, and made fast
In golden fetters; so, with light delays
He seeks the fittest word to fill his phrase;
Nor vain nor idle his fastidious quest,
His chosen word is sure to prove the best.
Where in the realm of thought, whose air is song,
Does he, the Buddha of the West, belong?
He seems a winged Franklin, sweetly wise,
Born to unlock the secrets of the skies;
And which the nobler calling,--if 't is fair
Terrestrial with celestial to compare,--
To guide the storm-cloud's elemental flame,
Or walk the chambers whence the lightning came,
Amidst the sources of its subtile fire,
And steal their effluence for his lips and lyre?
If lost at times in vague aerial flights,
None treads with firmer footstep when he lights;
A soaring nature, ballasted with sense,
Wisdom without her wrinkles or pretence,
In every Bible he has faith to read,
And every altar helps to shape his creed.
Ask you what name this prisoned spirit bears
While with ourselves this fleeting breath it shares?
Till angels greet him with a sweeter one
In heaven, on earth we call him EMERSON.
I start; I wake; the vision is withdrawn;
Its figures fading like the stars at dawn;
Crossed from the roll of life their cherished names,
And memory's pictures fading in their frames;
Yet life is lovelier for these transient gleams | 1,184.268562 |
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Produced by Barbara Tozier and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+------------------------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in |
| this text. For a complete list, please see the bottom of |
| this document. |
+------------------------------------------------------------+
[Illustration: THOMAS | 1,184.269693 |
2023-11-16 18:36:48.2590400 | 7,436 | 21 |
Produced by Moti Ben-Ari and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
SIX WOMEN AND THE INVASION
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
London. Bombay. Calcutta. Madras
Melbourne
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
New York. Boston. Chicago
Dallas. San Francisco
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
Toronto
SIX WOMEN
AND THE INVASION
BY
GABRIELLE & MARGUERITE YERTA
WITH PREFACE BY
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON
1917
COPYRIGHT
PREFACE
This little book gives a very graphic and interesting account by an
eye-witness--who knows how to write!--of life in the occupied provinces
of France under the daily pressure of the German invasion. There are
many repulsive and odious incidents recorded here of the German
occupation, but, mercifully, few "atrocities," such as those which make
of the French Governmental Reports, or that of the Bryce Commission,
tales of horror and infamy that time will never wash out. These pages
relate to the neighbourhood of Laon, and the worst brutalities committed
by German soldiers in France seem to have happened farther south, along
the line of the German retreat during the battle of the Marne, and in
the border villages of Lorraine. But the picture drawn of the Germans in
possession of a French country district, robbing and bullying its
inhabitants, and delighting in all the petty tyrannies of their military
regime, is one that writes in large-hand the lesson of this war. "There
must be no next time!" If Europe cannot protect itself in future against
such conduct on the part of a European nation, civilisation is doomed.
And that this little book under-states the case rather than over-states
it, can be proved by a mass of contemporary evidence. I pass for
instance from Madame Yerta's graphic account of the endless
"requisitions," "perquisitions," "inquisitions," to which the
inhabitants of Morny in the Laonnois were subject in 1915, to a
paragraph in this week's _Morning Post_ (Tuesday, September 18), where a
letter found upon a German soldier, and written to a comrade in Flanders
from this very district, gleefully says: "We take from the French
population all their lead, tin, copper, cork, oil, candlesticks, kitchen
pots, or anything at all like that, which is sent off to Germany. I had
a good haul the other day with one of my comrades. In one walled-up room
we found fifteen copper musical instruments, a new bicycle, 150 pairs of
sheets, some towels, and six candlesticks of beaten copper. You can
imagine the kind of noise the old hag made who owned them. I just
laughed. The Commandant was very pleased."
No doubt the Commandant was of the same race as the Von Bernhausens or
the Bubenpechs, whom Madame Yerta pillories in these lively and
sarcastic pages. It would be too much indeed to expect that any
Frenchwoman who had passed through fifteen months of such a life should
write with complete impartiality of her temporary masters. She would be
less than human were it possible. Yet in the sketches of the two German
officers "Barbu" and "Crafleux," billeted on the "six women," there is
no more than a laughing malice, and an evident intention to be fair to
men who had no evident intention to be cruel. But of the bullying
Commandant, Lieutenant von Bernhausen, and of the officer, Lieutenant
Bubenpech, who succeeded him as the absolute master of the French
village which is the scene of the book, Madame Yerta gives us portraits
in which every touch bites. The drunken, sensual manners of such men,
combined with German conceit and German arrogance, make up a type of
character only too real, only too common, to which throughout the
districts where the Germans have passed, French experience bears
inexorable and damning witness.
It is clear, however, that these six brave women--Madame Valaine, her
four daughters and her daughter-in-law, the writer of the book--were
well able to take care of themselves. The tale of their courage, their
gaiety, their resource under the endless difficulties and petty
oppressions of their lot, lights up the miserable scene, kindling in the
reader the same longing for retribution and justice on a barbarian race,
as burnt in their French hearts.
Madame Yerta describes for us how neighbours helped each other, how they
met in the farm kitchens, behind their closed doors and windows, to pass
on such news as they could get, to pray for France, and scoff at the
invader; how they ingeniously hid their most treasured possessions, how
they went hungry and cold because the Germans had robbed them of food,
clothing and blankets--(they are doing it afresh at this very moment in
occupied France and Belgium!)--and how village and town alike would have
starved but for the Spanish-American Relief Commission.
The result is a typically French book, both in its lightness of touch
and in the passionate feeling that breaks through its pages. The old
Latin civilisation makes the background of it--with its deeply rooted
traditions, its gifts of laughter and of scorn, its sense of manners and
measure, its humanity, its indomitable spirit. When the writer at last,
after fifteen months of bondage, sees once more the fields of "la douce
France," she puts simply and sharply into words the thoughts and
sufferings of thousands--thousands of ill-treated, innocent and
oppressed folk--to whom, as we pray, the course of this just war will
before long bring comfort and release.
Her book deserves a wide audience, and will, I hope, find it.
MARY A. WARD.
_September 1917._
CONTENTS
PAGE
PART I. 1
PART II. 67
PART III. 241
PART I
"It is no longer the pillar of fire. It is the pillar of cloud, it is
the dark shadow of invasion that approaches."
CHAPTER I
As you know only too well, in the year 1914 war set Europe on fire. That
is to say, you the men made war, and we the women had but to comply. Let
us be honest and true: whereas you, heart of my heart, now gone to fight
for your country, wished for this contest with the enthusiasm, spirit,
and rage of youth, I wished for it too, but with terror, anguish, and
remorse. Such is the difference.
The Place? The Ile de France, the part of my country blessed among all,
sweeter to my eyes than the most loudly sung; and in the Ile de France,
Morny, a village of the Laonnois, situated on a level plain. At ten
miles' distance, to the west of Morny, Laon is perched on a steep low
hill. To the north, fields and meadows stretch out as far as the eye can
reach, and towards the south, the forest of St. Gobain makes a long dark
blot on the landscape; beyond, a blue line of mountains closes the
horizon like a wall. This peaceful scene, with its green meadows,
fertile fields, rich forests, villages nestling among orchards, with its
good-humoured tenants wrapt up in a love of their country, sums up the
treasures of the Ile de France. But it is also "the seasoning of the
French pie, this rotten ferment whose canker-like nature, frivolity,
inconstancy, and folly, have spread into the noblest parts of France."
You were not aware of this? No more was I, but I learned it from
Hummel's _Geography_, published in 1876 for "German families," and it is
a conviction that Teutonic babies imbibe with their mothers' milk.
The _dramatis personae_? Six women, I have said. My mother-in-law, her
four daughters, and I. Let me introduce them. Mme. Valaine, my
mother-in-law, charms by her gentle dignity and by her handsome face,
still young under waving grey hair. As to her daughters, when they all
were little girls in pinafores, an old woman once cried out at the sight
of their childish beauty, "One is prettier than another." To which my
husband--at that time a teasing schoolboy--retorted, "One is naughtier
than another." We do not believe this last assertion. I will only
maintain that their beauty has grown with them.
Genevieve, the eldest, is my favourite sister, another me; and for a
long while we have not been able to do without one another. A supple
shape, a lovely expressive face fringed with golden hair, clear eyes
between black eyelashes, added to a fine intellect and well-poised
faculties, make of her a privileged being. Her steadfast character
always deals straightforwardly, whereas mine, just as tenacious, does
not disdain manoeuvring.
Her sisters are tall and graceful. Yvonne has large black eyes, a tiny
mouth, and splendid golden locks. She is the musician of the family;
thinks nothing better in the world than the harmony of sweet sounds, and
lives only for her art. Antoinette bears proudly an imperial beauty and
a bachelor's degree, which she has recently carried off. As to Colette,
the pet child of the family, by turns charming and execrable, she counts
seventeen summers, and rejoices our eyes with the sweetest face ever
seen, a rose-bud complexion, and cornflower eyes.
Two representatives of the opposite sex intrude upon this company of
women. My husband first. He is the tallest, the handsomest of the sons
of men. "When I see him, I think I behold a young god," said one of our
friends a few years ago; and I shall not cheapen these terms of praise
by any description of him. If I confide to you that he is growing bald
on his temples, be sure you don't go and tell him so; the loss is due to
sojourns in Saigon and Panama; for this half of myself is a true
globe-trotter, and has seen the whole world--without me alas! He is a
man of great learning, and is deeply skilled in philology and theology.
Such as he is, I adore him, and think it better to own it honestly, for
fear my partiality might remain unperceived. The other specimen of the
sterner sex, with whom I have to deal here, is a small Parisian boy,
nine years old, owner of the most flippant tongue. By a stroke of
carelessness he was sent to us for a fortnight, and like many another
has now to stay as a prisoner on account of the Invasion.
Out of common politeness I have not yet mentioned my own person. The
task of describing it is hateful. Of this self fortunately there is not
much--fifty kilos at the utmost. In other words, I am slender. I have a
pink and white complexion and very long auburn hair, a small
insignificant nose, a large mouth, and serious eyes. I am generally
called "Grandmother," in memory of a time when we acted _Little Red
Riding Hood_. My husband always calls me Mr. Monkey, your Poisonous
Ladyship, or Mrs. Kid, vexatious names, truly, for a woman. We live in
Paris the greater part of the year, but it is with pleasure that the
whole family meets every summer in our country-house at Morny, to spend
its holidays.
When, about the 20th of July 1914, Genevieve, Yvonne and I arrived in
the dear old place, my husband and Colette had been enjoying it for a
fortnight; my mother-in-law and Antoinette were expected shortly. We had
taken with us little Pierre Prat, whose mother, a good friend of ours,
could not leave Paris for the present, and the health of the interesting
boy required the country. We had hardly exchanged the usual kisses, and
renewed our knowledge of the place, we were hardly seated at the
dinner-table, when Colette cried out: "Oh, grandmother, how lovely!
Fancy, there will be a war. The day it is declared I shall dress like a
boy and become a soldier!"
"Of course, you will cut your beautiful locks, besmear your cheeks, and
there you are. But tell me in earnest, Posy, do you think there will be
a war?"
I suppose my husband has a name of his own, but no one knows it. For the
whole family he is "Brother," and I call him "Posy."
Now Mr. Posy thought war unavoidable, and began to expound the reasons
that strengthened his opinion.
A little tired of the journey, happy to be again in the country, I
listened to the deep sounds of the dear voice I had not heard for the
last fortnight, but gave little heed to the meaning of his words.
Besides, I was so sure there would be no war at all! We began to lead a
blissful life; we enjoyed walks in the large garden, and praised the sun
and the green. What delightful holidays we would have! The mere thought
of it led to lyrism. O Nature! O Idyll! O blessed rest!
At first nothing happened to trouble our peace. It will be remembered
that the newspapers were rather encouraging. Optimism prevailed; my
husband alone talked of an impending conflict; but he wished it so
eagerly that I thought he might be mistaken in his prophecies. "War is
talked of every year," I said; "it is but a summer topic."
On the 26th of July there were alarming rumours, confirmed the day
after. We then began to talk of war, to talk always about that, to talk
of nothing else. Colette herself held no other conversation, and from
her crimson lips dropped no other words than mobilisation, armament,
concentration.
I shall never forget the night when troops crossed the village. I saw
war that night, war, the man-eater, the great killer, war himself. The
hour was grave. France was preparing to withstand her enemies, and was
sending her armies to protect the frontiers. Troops marched through the
village the whole night. First came the foot soldiers, who filed off to
the strains of the "Marseillaise" and the "Chant du Depart." Leaning out
of my window, in a nightgown, I tried to catch sight of something, and I
saw only a black flood, endlessly rolling on. The sight of this dark
mass which marched on and sang was striking indeed. The young voices had
an accent of resolution and rage, and gave the impression that all
hearts throbbed as if by one impulse. The men knew they were marching on
to death, and they sang as the volunteers of '92 may have sung.
Sometimes there was silence, and nothing was to be heard save the sound
of steps as rhythmical as a heavy shower.
As the first battalion passed, my husband laid his book aside, lifted up
his head, and declared: "There can be no more doubt of it now." And
resuming his Henri Houssaye and his cigarette, he buried himself again
in his reading. I was not so easily resigned to the situation. A
certitude had seized upon me too. "It is war." I was trembling like a
leaf, shaken by the wind, and I could not master my emotion. I was not
frightened, I felt easy in my mind, but my body--was it due to primeval
memory, to misgivings, or to the terrible thought that has been handed
down from wars of yore? I do not know--but my frightened body was
trembling convulsively.
When I was not leaning out of the window, I thought, lying by the side
of my husband: "War is coming, may God protect us!" I clasped his dear
head in despair, I kissed him in an agony, and said over and over again:
"War will carry him off." And I thought: "All over France the roads are
covered with troops, and thousands of women, close to the man they love,
are listening to the steps of the soldiers and the rumbling of the
cannon; broken-hearted, they kiss an adored face, and with bitter tears
repeat: 'War will carry him off!'"
Cavalry followed infantry; then came gunners, cannon, and powder-carts.
The heavy pieces rolled on with the noise of thunder, and shook the
house to its foundations. It was about three o'clock in the morning. A
cold mist fell as if reluctantly from the cloudy sky. The night was less
dark, and the moving forms passed slowly like shadows before my sight,
horses, cannon, and gunners wrapt up in their cloaks. Dark in the dark
haze, the outlines of men and animals seemed to sketch a new dance of
death, in the midst of which the grim monster might have appeared at
any moment. I was so deeply impressed by this phantasmagorical marching
past that I almost expected to see Death go up behind a gunner or get
astride a cannon. I felt intensely that I was seeing war, war and death.
War, the terrible tyrant, was marching along, and nothing would impede
his progress.
Still more foot soldiers. The men sing no more. Dawn is unfavourable to
enthusiasm. You set forth in the evening sanguine of success, seeing at
the end of the road Victory, Triumph, and Glory. But when morning comes,
dark and cold, your exaltation sinks. Not that you feel less resolute,
but behind the brilliant phantoms your fancy had conjured up the night
before, you see grimacing slaughter and death and fire.
Day broke bright and clear. In the sun's lively beams all fears melted
away. There will be a war? Be it so. The men will go and fight, and we
too will do something for France. The following week was a medley of
enthusiasms and sadnesses. At last war and revenge were no more mere
words; at last Germany would be crushed. Too long our enemy had wronged
us; we would wreak a tardy but fearful vengeance for our still unavenged
disgrace, for grievous humiliations daily inflicted on us.
O revenge, O sun, you rise, and your first rays make our hearts sing
like the granite of old Egypt. We lived in a fever. War, which
approached, cast its shadow before, but it was a bright shadow, the
shadow of Glory, of more than human courage, of manifold heroism. It was
the pillar of fire which, shielding our hearts from the enemy and the
terrors to come, hid them from our eyes. The passing breath of
enthusiasm quickened the beating of our hearts. As to myself, I put a
good face upon the matter, but all the time I thought with anguish: "It
is war. I shall be alone.... War will sever us from all we love, blood
and tears will be shed everywhere. May God save France, and have pity
upon us!"
On the 2nd of August war was an unquestioned fact: mobilisation was
proclaimed. My husband has served in the Navy, and had to go to
Cherbourg the next day. We then began preparations for the departure of
our sailor, who increased my cares by saying over and over again: "Don't
expect me to remain in the Navy, there is nothing to do there. I will be
sent to the east of France, and see the white of the Prussians' eyes."
The luggage being ready, we went for a stroll in the village. War was of
course the one topic of the day. To qualify them for the toils of Mars,
the men had duly sacrificed to Bacchus, and their patriotism was none
the less fiery for that. Most women were silent. Many had cried their
eyes quite red. One day more, and they would be alone with groups of
small children. A very young woman, almost a girl, declared with a toss
of her light hair: "Bachelors who have but their own body to care for
ought to go and fight, that's right, but fathers of a family!..." Her
neighbour next door, Mme. Turgau, nodded assent. She had a baby in her
arms, and was pensively listening to her husband who, hot with anger,
was speechifying not very far off. In his quality of orator, he
discoursed not only upon Germans, but upon spies also. In the morning
two Germans had been arrested in Laon, and the day before a man who was
going to blow up a bridge had been shot. But look! Two strangers
appeared at the corner of the street. All faces grew serious, and
Turgau, advancing towards the men, demanded their papers. When they
refused to show them, the crowd grew nervous, and Turgau thought himself
insulted. Cries and bad names filled the air, until the soldiers,
astonished at the uproar, took the culprits away to examine their
papers.
The lover of justice came back home greatly pleased with himself. People
gathered round him, and declared: "Policemen, gendarmes, all humbug!
Fortunately we are here to maintain order." And all together they went
to the next inn, and from the adventure drew this moral lesson: No more
strangers, France for Frenchmen!
Pleasant and peaceful, the last evening was drawing to its close, the
last of many evenings that will never come again. The following morning
I went to the station with my husband. There was a large crowd on the
platform. The men, high in spirit, seemed delighted to go off to the
army. Silent and gloomy, the women stood close to their husbands, and
their eyes betrayed a sadness past remedy. Then came the train, full of
soldiers of the reserve, singing at the top of their voices. All get
into the crowded carriages, a whistle is heard, the train moves forward.
A last kiss, a last handshake. The dear face leans out of the window, my
eyes raised up towards it, until its features disappear and vanish in
the distance. It is all over; he is gone; they are gone. Towards Glory,
towards Death! Who knows? I came back home, forlorn and sad. In vain
Colette's endearing words and Genevieve's warm affection awaited me;
love had deserted the house.
The following days glided by tiresome and empty, but fortunately we soon
found an occupation. A regiment of artillery was formed in the
neighbourhood. Two batteries were quartered in Morny, and willing
needlewomen were required to put the uniforms of the soldiers into good
condition. Very well. There are no opportunities for high deeds, let us
be content with small ones. We put together needles, scissors, and
thread, and thus armed ran to the school where other women were already
working. And what work! We were told to shorten trousers, to let jackets
out, to sew stripes, and to stitch numbers on collars and sleeves. A
noisy and merry activity prevailed in the yard. When off duty, the
soldiers gathered about the big nut-tree, whose shadow protected the
needle-women from the sun. Harmless jokes were exchanged, and Germany of
course had to bear the brunt of them. There was a tailor, a giant with a
jolly face, who declared that he would get all he wanted on the other
side of the Rhine, and for a ball of thread or a missing button would
send you straight to Berlin. These good-natured and simple ways were all
the more touching on account of the dangers which lay ahead. And, what
we highly appreciated, the soldiers behaved like gentlemen. We spent
many hours with them, and never heard a rough or coarse word. For
truth's sake, I must say their Captain kept a sharp look-out upon his
men. He was about forty-five, had nice eyes and a kindly face. We heard
his name, and found out that he was a famous man, whose works we greatly
admired. We had common friends too, and it was not long before we became
real comrades, and told him how eager we were to be of some use to our
country.
"Don't you think we might nurse a few wounded soldiers in our house?" we
asked.
The Captain was good enough to like the idea.
"All right," he said, "if your rooms are large enough and airy."
"Come and see yourself."
The Captain came first alone, and the day after with two Surgeon-Majors.
They made calculations, and then declared that we might receive thirty
soldiers. Two empty houses our neighbours offered out of kindness would
contain twenty other beds. Fifty soldiers would compose quite a
sufficient ambulance, and to our heart's delight we might devote our
strength to the wounded.
"In Laon, they will be only too pleased to send you convalescents," M.
Vinchamps told us; "plenty of patients will soon fill the hospitals; and
a doctor from the town will come every day to tend your invalids."
This medical visit did not remain the only one M. Vinchamps paid us.
About nine o'clock, his day's work over, our new friend came round and
knocked at the window. Our talk was chiefly on war, the only topic we
took an interest in.
"Men are good for nothing," M. Vinchamps said; "courage is their only
gift. That is why I am delighted with the present war. At peace, men are
out of their right element."
"Then you must improve the occasion, and make the best of it, for
certainly there will be universal peace after the present war, and you
men will be for ever out of your element."
No one answered, and our silence called up a picture of dead and wounded
stretched upon a plain where a battle had taken place. And again we
talked of Belgian courage, of that heroic Liege which had to face such
fearful odds, and did not yield to brute strength. We likened the
storming party to the turbulent waters which beat furiously against a
<DW18>. But we knew the <DW18> was strong, and would not give way.
The Germans were not highly appreciated by Captain Vinchamps.
"They are not intelligent," he declared.
"But----"
"They are not. I do not deny their qualities. They are fine imitators,
but no creators. They make good use of others' inventions, and derive
benefit from discoveries they would be unable to make themselves. Their
talents--quite practical--are not what is called intelligence. Cuvier,
Pasteur, Lamarck have no rivals on the other side of the Rhine, and
their work no equal. Besides, consider that for fifty years our
neighbours have thought of but one goal: a victorious war."
"But that is very important just now."
"Never mind. Intelligence will get the better of brute strength and
crush it."
The mere thought of victory sent a thrill of rapturous joy through our
hearts.
On going out through the yard, lit up by the moon's rays, the Captain
listened to the whistle of the trains, and said with a smile:
"Food for powder!"
At full speed the trains rolled on both lines day and night; the food
for powder went by without ceasing.
Food for powder!
And yet the expression is not right. For the soul of every man was
awake. At the call of war all men were ready to fight and to die; all
shouted "victory," in the assurance that it would come to us.
In the village our confidence met some distrust. Mme. Tassin, who acts
as housekeeper when we are away, tossed her grey head.
"I was young when I saw _them_ for the first time in '70. What shall I
do at my age if they come here now?"
Genevieve was filled with horror at the mere suggestion. In the farm
near by Mme. Lantois expressed the very same unreasonable fears. "Do you
think we shall have them here?" she asked a young lieutenant, who was as
bitterly disgusted as we were.
Meanwhile our gunners were ready from head to foot, and their horses
from mane to hoof. We heard the last exhortations of the Captain to his
men, and the next day we got up at four o'clock in the morning to see
them off. It was magnificent. The sun shone in triumph upon the martial
train; the flower-covered cannon had a good-humoured air; the horses
pawed the ground; and the gunners had not smiles enough to throw to us,
nor caps enough wherewith to salute us.
Captain Vinchamps, before he took leave, introduced his horse. It was a
"skittish" little mare, he thought, clever and sweet-tempered. Once more
we wished him success, and once more hoped that the war would spare him
and his men; and all, soldiers, officers, and horses, galloped off, and
were soon hidden from our sight amid the poplar trees in the sun and the
dust.
The last soldier had departed. The village was empty of men, and the
women from sunrise to sunset were working in the fields. We led an
uninteresting life. In fact we did not live in Morny, but in Belgium
where our soldiers were fighting. Our overburdened minds looked forward
passionately to the result of the first conflict. What was going to
happen?
CHAPTER II
First came a letter from my husband. He had written it in the first
fever of war. The letter was a week late, and he marvelled at the
splendid eagerness and union of France. "'Tis the world upside down," he
wrote. "In my detachment, out of 1200 seamen, not one was missing or
drunk on getting to Cherbourg. As to myself, I am more decided than ever
not to go to sea. I will see the Prussians face to face. Yesterday I had
a talk with a field officer, and he promised to get me an interesting
post. That is a good thing; I now depend only on him."
I thought I saw him rubbing his hands with satisfaction. An interesting
post! It means, doesn't it, to run into jeopardy, to seek after perilous
missions? Oh, dare-devil! oh, heart of stone! Wrapped up in his joy, he
has no thought for the pangs of those whose hearts are hanging upon his
life!
Soon after there arrived unexpectedly Mme. Valaine and Antoinette,
whose journey had been greatly delayed by the mobilisation. We had got
but scanty news from Paris, and listened in amazement to their
descriptions of the capital, the fine frenzy of the soldiers leaving for
the front, the plunder of German shops, and then in our turn told them
the little that we had seen in the country.
When our stories and greetings were finished, it was time to prepare
rooms for the travellers.
I will seize upon the occasion to give a short description of our dear
old house. Notched like a saw, the gabled front presents a row of
shutters, which, like grey eyelids, secure us from indiscreet looks. To
the right and the left two large iron gates, always carefully closed,
lead one into a paved yard, the other into a narrow road, planted with
trees. The side of the house, looking out on the high-walled garden,
throws off the reserve in which the front is shrouded; windows and doors
are always wide open to the air, the sun, and the creepers, whose
branches penetrate even the rooms themselves. Inside, a passage
separates the house into two parts, the dining- and the drawing-rooms on
one side, and on the other the bedrooms and the kitchen. Genevieve,
Colette, and Mme. Valaine have their rooms downstairs. Upstairs the
attic has been cut up pleasantly into three. Outside, parallel with the
house, a small building opens into the yard, containing a wash-house, a
room--the small room--a coach-house, a stable, and the whole is topped
by an attic.
The house--this does not allow of discussion--is too small, or the
family is too large, and Antoinette, who wanted a room to herself,
declared: "I will settle in 'the small room,'" and we could not get it
out of her head, although we enlarged,--with some complacency--upon the
dangers she might run alone by night.
"The walls are high, the doors strong. I am not afraid, and then there
are the dogs."
Indeed, Gracieuse and Percinet, the collies we dote on, live next door,
and have sharp sets of teeth which they show to all intruders.
"Grandmamma," said Antoinette the next morning, "last night, about
twelve...."
"The proper time for crimes."
"I was startled out of my sleep."
"You were dreaming of the Germans."
"No, no. Some one was in the attic above my room."
"There you are! A spy! Have you run him in?"
"Without joking, Grandmamma. I heard steps quite clearly."
"Do you know that deserters are | 1,184.27908 |
2023-11-16 18:36:48.3341930 | 2,734 | 14 |
Produced by David Widger
PLAYS IN THE FOURTH SERIES
A BIT O' LOVE
By John Galsworthy
PERSONS OF THE PLAY
MICHAEL STRANGWAY
BEATRICE STRANGWAY
MRS. BRADMERE
JIM BERE
JACK CREMER
MRS. BURLACOMBE
BURLACOMBE
TRUSTAFORD
JARLAND
CLYST
FREMAN
GODLEIGH
SOL POTTER
MORSE, AND OTHERS
IVY BURLACOMBE
CONNIE TRUSTAFORD
GLADYS FREMAN
MERCY JARLAND
TIBBY JARLAND
BOBBIE JARLAND
SCENE: A VILLAGE OF THE WEST
The Action passes on Ascension Day.
ACT I. STRANGWAY'S rooms at BURLACOMBE'S. Morning.
ACT II. Evening
SCENE I. The Village Inn.
SCENE II. The same.
SCENE III. Outside the church.
ACT III. Evening
SCENE I. STRANGWAY'S rooms.
SCENE II. BURLACOMBE'S barn.
A BIT O' LOVE
ACT I
It is Ascension Day in a village of the West. In the low
panelled hall-sittingroom of the BURLACOMBE'S farmhouse on the
village green, MICHAEL STRANGWAY, a clerical collar round his
throat and a dark Norfolk jacket on his back, is playing the
flute before a very large framed photograph of a woman, which is
the only picture on the walls. His age is about thirty-five his
figure thin and very upright and his clean-shorn face thin,
upright, narrow, with long and rather pointed ears; his dark
hair is brushed in a coxcomb off his forehead. A faint smile
hovers about his lips that Nature has made rather full and he
has made thin, as though keeping a hard secret; but his bright
grey eyes, dark round the rim, look out and upwards almost as if
he were being crucified. There is something about the whole of
him that makes him seen not quite present. A gentle creature,
burnt within.
A low broad window above a window-seat forms the background to
his figure; and through its lattice panes are seen the outer
gate and yew-trees of a churchyard and the porch of a church,
bathed in May sunlight. The front door at right angles to the
window-seat, leads to the village green, and a door on the left
into the house.
It is the third movement of Veracini's violin sonata that
STRANGWAY plays. His back is turned to the door into the house,
and he does not hear when it is opened, and IVY BURLACOMBE, the
farmer's daughter, a girl of fourteen, small and quiet as a
mouse, comes in, a prayer-book in one hand, and in the other a
gloss of water, with wild orchis and a bit of deep pink
hawthorn. She sits down on the window-seat, and having opened
her book, sniffs at the flowers. Coming to the end of the
movement STRANGWAY stops, and looking up at the face on the
wall, heaves a long sigh.
IVY. [From the seat] I picked these for yu, Mr. Strangway.
STRANGWAY. [Turning with a start] Ah! Ivy. Thank you. [He puts
his flute down on a chair against the far wall] Where are the
others?
As he speaks, GLADYS FREMAN, a dark gipsyish girl, and CONNIE
TRUSTAFORD, a fair, stolid, blue-eyed Saxon, both about sixteen,
come in through the front door, behind which they have evidently
been listening. They too have prayer-books in their hands.
They sidle past Ivy, and also sit down under the window.
GLADYS. Mercy's comin', Mr. Strangway.
STRANGWAY. Good morning, Gladys; good morning, Connie.
He turns to a book-case on a table against the far wall, and
taking out a book, finds his place in it. While he stands thus
with his back to the girls, MERCY JARLAND comes in from the
green. She also is about sixteen, with fair hair and china-blue
eyes. She glides in quickly, hiding something behind her, and
sits down on the seat next the door. And at once there is a
whispering.
STRANGWAY. [Turning to them] Good morning, Mercy.
MERCY. Good morning, Mr. Strangway.
STRANGWAY. Now, yesterday I was telling you what our Lord's coming
meant to the world. I want you to understand that before He came
there wasn't really love, as we know it. I don't mean to say that
there weren't many good people; but there wasn't love for the sake of
loving. D'you think you understand what I mean?
MERCY fidgets. GLADYS'S eyes are following a fly.
IVY. Yes, Mr. Strangway.
STRANGWAY. It isn't enough to love people because they're good to
you, or because in some way or other you're going to get something by
it. We have to love because we love loving. That's the great thing
--without that we're nothing but Pagans.
GLADYS. Please, what is Pagans?
STRANGWAY. That's what the first Christians called the people who
lived in the villages and were not yet Christians, Gladys.
MERCY. We live in a village, but we're Christians.
STRANGWAY. [With a smile] Yes, Mercy; and what is a Christian?
MERCY kicks afoot, sideways against her neighbour, frowns over
her china-blare eyes, is silent; then, as his question passes
on, makes a quick little face, wriggles, and looks behind her.
STRANGWAY. Ivy?
IVY. 'Tis a man--whu--whu----
STRANGWAY. Yes?--Connie?
CONNIE. [Who speaks rather thickly, as if she had a permanent slight
cold] Please, Mr. Strangway, 'tis a man what goes to church.
GLADYS. He 'as to be baptised--and confirmed; and--and--buried.
IVY. 'Tis a man whu--whu's gude and----
GLADYS. He don't drink, an' he don't beat his horses, an' he don't
hit back.
MERCY. [Whispering] 'Tisn't your turn. [To STRANGWAY] 'Tis a man
like us.
IVY. I know what Mrs. Strangway said it was, 'cause I asked her
once, before she went away.
STRANGWAY. [Startled] Yes?
IVY. She said it was a man whu forgave everything.
STRANGWAY. Ah!
The note of a cuckoo comes travelling. The girls are gazing at
STRANGWAY, who seems to have gone of into a dream. They begin
to fidget and whisper.
CONNIE. Please, Mr. Strangway, father says if yu hit a man and he
don't hit yu back, he's no gude at all.
MERCY. When Tommy Morse wouldn't fight, us pinched him--he did
squeal! [She giggles] Made me laugh!
STRANGWAY. Did I ever tell you about St. Francis of Assisi?
IVY. [Clasping her hands] No.
STRANGWAY. Well, he was the best Christian, I think, that ever
lived--simply full of love and joy.
IVY. I expect he's dead.
STRANGWAY. About seven hundred years, Ivy.
IVY. [Softly] Oh!
STRANGWAY. Everything to him was brother or sister--the sun and the
moon, and all that was poor and weak and sad, and animals and birds,
so that they even used to follow him about.
MERCY. I know! He had crumbs in his pocket.
STRANGWAY. No; he had love in his eyes.
IVY. 'Tis like about Orpheus, that yu told us.
STRANGWAY. Ah! But St. Francis was a Christian, and Orpheus was a
Pagan.
IVY. Oh!
STRANGWAY. Orpheus drew everything after him with music; St.
Francis by love.
IVY. Perhaps it was the same, really.
STRANGWAY. [looking at his flute] Perhaps it was, Ivy.
GLADYS. Did 'e 'ave a flute like yu?
IVY. The flowers smell sweeter when they 'ear music; they du.
[She holds up the glass of flowers.]
STRANGWAY. [Touching one of the orchis] What's the name of this
one?
[The girls cluster; save MERCY, who is taking a stealthy
interest in what she has behind her.]
CONNIE. We call it a cuckoo, Mr. Strangway.
GLADYS. 'Tis awful common down by the streams. We've got one medder
where 'tis so thick almost as the goldie cups.
STRANGWAY. Odd! I've never noticed it.
IVY. Please, Mr. Strangway, yu don't notice when yu're walkin'; yu
go along like this.
[She holds up her face as one looking at the sky.]
STRANGWAY. Bad as that, Ivy?
IVY. Mrs. Strangway often used to pick it last spring.
STRANGWAY. Did she? Did she?
[He has gone off again into a kind of dream.]
MERCY. I like being confirmed.
STRANGWAY. Ah! Yes. Now----What's that behind you, Mercy?
MERCY. [Engagingly producing a cage a little bigger than a
mouse-trap, containing a skylark] My skylark.
STRANGWAY. What!
MERCY. It can fly; but we're goin' to clip its wings. Bobbie caught
it.
STRANGWAY. How long ago?
MERCY. [Conscious of impending disaster] Yesterday.
STRANGWAY. [White hot] Give me the cage!
MERCY. [Puckering] I want my skylark. [As he steps up to her and
takes the cage--thoroughly alarmed] I gave Bobbie thrippence for it!
STRANGWAY. [Producing a sixpence] There!
MERCY. [Throwing it down-passionately] I want my skylark!
STRANGWAY. God made this poor bird for the sky and the grass. And
you put it in that! Never cage any wild thing! Never!
MERCY. [Faint and sullen] I want my skylark.
STRANGWAY. [Taking the cage to the door] No! [He holds up the cage
and opens it] Off you go, poor thing!
[The bird flies out and away. The girls watch with round eyes
the fling up of his arm, and the freed bird flying away.]
IVY. I'm glad!
[MERCY kicks her viciously and sobs. STRANGWAY comes from the
door, looks at MERCY sobbing, and suddenly clasps his head. The
girls watch him with a queer mixture of wonder, alarm, and
disapproval.]
GLADYS. [Whispering | 1,184.354233 |
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Produced by Barbara Tozier, Annie McGuire, Bill Tozier and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
+----------------------------------------------------------+
|Alternative and inconsistent spellings in the original |
|have been retained. |
| |
|Underlined words in the original book are shown as =bold=.|
+----------------------------------------------------------+
GAMES FOR ALL OCCASIONS
BY
MARY E. BLAIN
CHICAGO
BREWER, BARSE & CO.
Copyright, 1909
By Brewer, Barse & Co.
PREFACE
"A Merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance."
The desire to play and frolic seems to be a heritage of mankind. In
infancy and early childhood this joy and exuberance of spirit is given
full sway. In youth, that effervescent stage of human existence, "joy is
unconfined." But in middle age and later life we are prone to stifle
this wholesome atmosphere of happiness, with care and worry and perhaps,
when a vexed or worried feeling has been allowed to control us, even
forbid the children to play at that time. Why not reverse things and
drown care and strife in the well-spring of joy given and received by
reviving the latent spark of childhood and youth; joining in their
pleasures passively or actively and being one of them at heart. So
presuming that "men are but children of a larger growth," the games,
pastimes and entertainments described herewith were collected,
remembered and originated respectively with the view of pleasing all of
the children, from the tiny tot to, and including the "grown-up," each
according to their age and temperament.
M. E. B.
GAMES FOR TINY TOTS
A RUNNING MAZE
Form a long line of children--one behind the other. The leader starts
running, and is followed by all the rest. They must be sharp enough to
do exactly as the leader does.
After running for a moment or two in the ordinary running step, the
leader changes to a hopping step, then to a marching step, quick time,
then to a marching step, slow time, claps and runs with hands on sides,
hands on shoulders, hands behind, etc.
Finally the leader runs slowly round and round into the centre, and can
either wind the children up tightly or can turn them on nearing the
centre and run out again. For another change the long line can start
running and so unwind the spiral.
BEAN BAG
All stand in a line except one who is the leader who stands a short
distance opposite the line.
The leader throws the bean bag to the child at the head of the line who
returns it to the leader. The leader throws it to the next child, who
throws it back to the leader, and so it is thrown back and forth to each
child in turn. Any one in the line who fails to catch the bag must go to
the foot of the line.
If the leader fails to catch the bag he must go to the foot of the line
and the one at the head of the line takes his place.
"BIRDS FLY."
This is a very simple game. Each player places a finger on the table,
which he must raise whenever the conductor of the game says: "Birds
fly," "Pigeons fly," or any other winged creatures "fly."
If he names any creature without wings, such as "Pigs fly," and any
player thoughtlessly raises his finger, that player must pay a forfeit,
as he must also do if he omits to raise his finger when a winged
creature is named.
BUTTON, BUTTON
All the children except the one who passes the button sit in a circle
with hands placed palm to palm in their laps.
The child passing the button holds it between her palms and goes to each
one, in turn, slipping her hands between the palms of the children. As
she goes around the circle she drops the button into some child's hands,
but continues going around as long after as she pleases, so the rest
will not know who has it.
Then she stands in the middle of the circle and says: "Button, button,
who has the button?" All the children guess who | 1,184.375477 |
2023-11-16 18:36:48.3729070 | 1,143 | 22 |
Produced by Demian Katz and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy
of the Digital Library@Villanova University
(http://digital.library.villanova.edu/))
[Illustration:
WILL ROSSITER’S
TALKALOGUES
BY THE WORLD’S BEST WRITERS
J. S. OGILVIE 57 ROSE STREET
PUBLISHING COMPANY NEW YORK
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WILL ROSSITER’S
ORIGINAL
TALKALOGUES.
BY
AMERICAN JOKERS.
-------
(COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY WILL ROSSITER.)
-------
NEW YORK:
J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY,
57 ROSE STREET.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Try Murine Eye Remedy
[Illustration: MURINE FOR YOUR EYES
AN EYE TONIC]
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of the Blood Supply which Nourishes the Eye, and Restore a Healthful
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Inflamed Conditions.
Murine is compounded in the Laboratory of the Murine Eye Remedy Co.,
Chicago, by Oculists, as used for years in Private Practice, and is Safe
and Pleasant in its Application to the most Sensitive Eye, or to the
Eyes of a nursing Infant. Doesn’t Smart.
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tell you all about them and how to use them.
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
If at times you’re feeling blue,
Take this book and read it through;
Pass it on to friend or brother;
For yourself—just buy another!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Contents
TALKALOGUES 9-33
_By E. P. Moran_
MORE TALKALOGUES 34-38
_By Joseph Horrigan_
LOVE AND LAGER BEER 38
_By Leontine Stanfield_
THE MAN FROM SQUASHOPOLIS 40-49
_By Harry L. Newton_
THE PACIFIC <DW72> 49-60
_By Harry L. Newton_
WOULDN’T GOLF DIALECT DO? 60-62
SOME WESTERN STORIES 62-64
HAPPENINGS IN KEROSENELAMPVILLE 64-67
BITS OF VERSE AND PROSE 68-72
_By Edwards & Ronney_
RAPID FIRE 73-85
_By Harry L. Newton_
“A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME” 86
AN ORIGINAL HABEAS CORPUS CASE 87-89
LI HUNG CHANG’S JOKE 89
FIFTEEN MINUTES WITH A PLAYWRIGHT 90-95
_By Harry L. Newton_
POPULAR SONGS APPROPRIATELY APPLIED 96
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WILL ROSSITER’S
Original
Talkalogues
Well, well! here we are again! I just did manage to get here on time,
too. I never thought I’d be able to do it in the world. My wife and I
were out riding in our automobile, and we got into a heated argument as
to which of us was the better chauffeur. During the excitement of the
argument we both neglected to hold the lines of the automobile, and it
shied at a piece of paper and ran away.
Instinct told us both to make a grab, I for the lever and she for my
hair. Just then the automobile struck the curb-stone, and my wife and I
had a “falling out.”
[Illustration:
My wife and I had a “falling out.”
]
There I was, several miles from the theater, with a broken-down
automobile and an angry wife that wouldn’t speak to me. Wasn’t that
suffering for you? I felt sure that I could make it to the theater all
right, but I didn’t know whether I’d have time to “make up” or not.
This trying to please a woman is a tough game. I tell you, ladies, the
trouble is the men don’t know just how to take their wives | 1,184.392947 |
2023-11-16 18:36:48.4342840 | 2,501 | 15 |
Produced by Anthony Matonac and Paul Selkirk.
TIK-TOK OF OZ
by
L. FRANK BAUM
To Louis F. Gottschalk,
whose sweet and dainty melodies
breathe the true spirit of fairyland,
this book is affectionately dedicated
To My Readers
The very marked success of my last year's fairy book, "The Patchwork
Girl of Oz," convinces me that my readers like the Oz stories "best of
all," as one little girl wrote me. So here, my dears, is a new Oz story
in which is introduced Ann Soforth, the Queen of Oogaboo, whom Tik-Tok
assisted in conquering our old acquaintance, the Nome King. It also
tells of Betsy Bobbin and how, after many adventures, she finally
reached the marvelous Land of Oz.
There is a play called "The Tik-Tok Man of Oz," but it is not like this
story of "Tik-Tok of Oz," although some of the adventures recorded in
this book, as well as those in several other Oz books, are included in
the play. Those who have seen the play and those who have read the
other Oz books will find in this story a lot of strange characters and
adventures that they have never heard of before.
In the letters I receive from children there has been an urgent appeal
for me to write a story that will take Trot and Cap'n Bill to the Land
of Oz, where they will meet Dorothy and Ozma. Also they think
Button-Bright ought to get acquainted with Ojo the Lucky. As you know,
I am obliged to talk these matters over with Dorothy by means of the
"wireless," for that is the only way I can communicate with the Land of
Oz. When I asked her about this idea, she replied: "Why, haven't you
heard?" I said "No." "Well," came the message over the wireless, "I'll
tell you all about it, by and by, and then you can make a book of that
story for the children to read."
So, if Dorothy keeps her word and I am permitted to write another Oz
book, you will probably discover how all these characters came together
in the famous Emerald City. Meantime, I want to tell all my little
friends--whose numbers are increasing by many thousands every
year--that I am very grateful for the favor they have shown my books
and for the delightful little letters I am constantly receiving. I am
almost sure that I have as many friends among the children of America
as any story writer alive; and this, of course, makes me very proud and
happy.
L. Frank Baum.
"OZCOT"
at HOLLYWOOD
in CALIFORNIA,
1914.
LIST OF CHAPTERS
1 - Ann's Army
2 - Out of Oogaboo
3 - Magic Mystifies the Marchers
4 - Betsy Braves the Bellows
5 - The Roses Repulse the Refugees
6 - Shaggy Seeks His Stray Brother
7 - Polychrome's Pitiful Plight
8 - Tik-Tok Tackles a Tough Task
9 - Ruggedo's Rage is Rash and Reckless
10 - A Terrible Tumble Through a Tube
11 - The Famous Fellowship of Fairies
12 - The Lovely Lady of Light
13 - The Jinjin's Just Judgment
14 - The Long-Eared Hearer Learns by Listening
15 - The Dragon Defies Danger
16 - The Naughty Nome
17 - A Tragic Transformation
18 - A Clever Conquest
19 - King Kaliko
20 - Quox Quietly Quits
21 - A Bashful Brother
22 - Kindly Kisses
23 - Ruggedo Reforms
24 - Dorothy is Delighted
25 - The Land of Love
TIK-TOK of OZ
Chapter One
Ann's Army
"I won't!" cried Ann; "I won't sweep the floor. It is beneath my
dignity."
"Some one must sweep it," replied Ann's younger sister, Salye; "else we
shall soon be wading in dust. And you are the eldest, and the head of
the family."
"I'm Queen of Oogaboo," said Ann, proudly. "But," she added with a
sigh, "my kingdom is the smallest and the poorest in all the Land of
Oz."
This was quite true. Away up in the mountains, in a far corner of the
beautiful fairyland of Oz, lies a small valley which is named Oogaboo,
and in this valley lived a few people who were usually happy and
contented and never cared to wander over the mountain pass into the
more settled parts of the land. They knew that all of Oz, including
their own territory, was ruled by a beautiful Princess named Ozma, who
lived in the splendid Emerald City; yet the simple folk of Oogaboo
never visited Ozma. They had a royal family of their own--not
especially to rule over them, but just as a matter of pride. Ozma
permitted the various parts of her country to have their Kings and
Queens and Emperors and the like, but all were ruled over by the lovely
girl Queen of the Emerald City.
The King of Oogaboo used to be a man named Jol Jemkiph Soforth, who for
many years did all the drudgery of deciding disputes and telling his
people when to plant cabbages and pickle onions. But the King's wife
had a sharp tongue and small respect for the King, her husband;
therefore one night King Jol crept over the pass into the Land of Oz
and disappeared from Oogaboo for good and all. The Queen waited a few
years for him to return and then started in search of him, leaving her
eldest daughter, Ann Soforth, to act as Queen.
Now, Ann had not forgotten when her birthday came, for that meant a
party and feasting and dancing, but she had quite forgotten how many
years the birthdays marked. In a land where people live always, this is
not considered a cause for regret, so we may justly say that Queen Ann
of Oogaboo was old enough to make jelly--and let it go at that.
But she didn't make jelly, or do any more of the housework than she
could help. She was an ambitious woman and constantly resented the fact
that her kingdom was so tiny and her people so stupid and
unenterprising. Often she wondered what had become of her father and
mother, out beyond the pass, in the wonderful Land of Oz, and the fact
that they did not return to Oogaboo led Ann to suspect that they had
found a better place to live. So, when Salye refused to sweep the floor
of the living room in the palace, and Ann would not sweep it, either,
she said to her sister:
"I'm going away. This absurd Kingdom of Oogaboo tires me."
"Go, if you want to," answered Salye; "but you are very foolish to
leave this place."
"Why?" asked Ann.
"Because in the Land of Oz, which is Ozma's country, you will be a
nobody, while here you are a Queen."
"Oh, yes! Queen over eighteen men, twenty-seven women and forty-four
children!" returned Ann bitterly.
"Well, there are certainly more people than that in the great Land of
Oz," laughed Salye. "Why don't you raise an army and conquer them, and
be Queen of all Oz?" she asked, trying to taunt Ann and so to anger
her. Then she made a face at her sister and went into the back yard to
swing in the hammock.
Her jeering words, however, had given Queen Ann an idea. She reflected
that Oz was reported to be a peaceful country and Ozma a mere girl who
ruled with gentleness to all and was obeyed because her people loved
her. Even in Oogaboo the story was told that Ozma's sole army consisted
of twenty-seven fine officers, who wore beautiful uniforms but carried
no weapons, because there was no one to fight. Once there had been a
private soldier, besides the officers, but Ozma had made him a
Captain-General and taken away his gun for fear it might accidentally
hurt some one.
The more Ann thought about the matter the more she was convinced it
would be easy to conquer the Land of Oz and set herself up as Ruler in
Ozma's place, if she but had an Army to do it with. Afterward she could
go out into the world and conquer other lands, and then perhaps she
could find a way to the moon, and conquer that. She had a warlike
spirit that preferred trouble to idleness.
It all depended on an Army, Ann decided. She carefully counted in her
mind all the men of her kingdom. Yes; there were exactly eighteen of
them, all told. That would not make a very big Army, but by surprising
Ozma's unarmed officers her men might easily subdue them. "Gentle
people are always afraid of those that bluster," Ann told herself. "I
don't wish to shed any blood, for that would shock my nerves and I
might faint; but if we threaten and flash our weapons I am sure the
people of Oz will fall upon their knees before me and surrender."
This argument, which she repeated to herself more than once, finally
determined the Queen of Oogaboo to undertake the audacious venture.
"Whatever happens," she reflected, "can make me no more unhappy than my
staying shut up in this miserable valley and sweeping floors and
quarreling with Sister Salye; so I will venture all, and win what I
may."
That very day she started out to organize her Army.
The first man she came to was Jo Apple, so called because he had an
apple orchard.
"Jo," said Ann, "I am going to conquer the world, and I want you to
join my Army."
"Don't ask me to do such a fool thing, for I must politely refuse Your
Majesty," said Jo Apple.
"I have no intention of asking you. I shall command you, as Queen of
Oogaboo, to join," said Ann.
"In that case, I suppose I must obey," the man remarked, in a sad
voice. "But I pray you to consider that I am a very important citizen,
and for that reason am entitled to an office of high rank."
"You shall be a General," promised Ann.
"With gold epaulets and a sword?" he asked.
"Of course," said the Queen.
Then she went to the next man, whose name was Jo Bunn, as he owned an
orchard where graham-buns and wheat-buns, in great variety, both hot
and cold, grew on the trees.
"Jo," said Ann, "I am going to conquer the world, and I command you to
join my Army."
"Impossible!" he exclaimed. "The bun crop has to be picked."
"Let your wife and children do the picking," said Ann.
"But I'm a man of great importance, Your Majesty," he protested.
"For that reason you shall be one of my Generals, and wear a cocked hat
with gold braid, | 1,184.454324 |
2023-11-16 18:36:48.4981240 | 2,141 | 7 |
E-text prepared by KD Weeks, Greg Bergquist, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) images page generously made
available by Internet Archive/American Libraries
(http://archive.org/details/americana)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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See 43020-h.htm or 43020-h.zip:
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Images of the original pages are available through
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
There are two footnotes, which are positioned directly
following the paragraph where they are referenced.
More detailed comments may be found at the end of this
text.
[Illustration: GARFIELD PEAK.]
THE CREST OF THE CONTINENT:
A Record of a Summer's Ramble in the Rocky Mountains and Beyond.
by
ERNEST INGERSOLL.
"We climbed the rock-built breasts of earth!
We saw the snowy mountains rolled
Like mighty billows; saw the birth
Of sudden dawn; beheld the gold
Of awful sunsets; saw the face
Of God, and named it boundless space."
Twenty Ninth Edition.
Chicago:
R. R. Donnelley & Sons, Publishers.
1887.
Copyright,
By S. K. Hooper,
1885.
R. R. Donnelley & Sons, The Lakeside Press, Chicago.
TO
THE PEOPLE OF COLORADO,
SAGACIOUS IN PERCEIVING, DILIGENT IN DEVELOPING,
AND WISE IN ENJOYING
THE
RESOURCES AND ATTRACTIONS OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS,
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
WITH
THE HOMAGE OF
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
Probably nothing in this artificial world is more deceptive than
absolute candor. Hence, though the ensuing text may lack nothing in
straightforwardness of assertion, and seem impossible to misunderstand,
it may be worth while to say distinctly, here at the start, that it is
all true. We actually _did_ make such an excursion, in such cars, and
with such equipments, as I have described; and we would like to do it
again.
It was wild and rough in many respects. Re-arranging the trip, luxuries
might be added, and certain inconveniences avoided; but I doubt whether,
in so doing, we should greatly increase the pleasure or the profit.
"No man should desire a soft life," wrote King Aelfred the Great.
Roughing it, within reasonable grounds, is the marrow of this sort of
recreation. What a pungent and wholesome savor to the healthy taste
there is in the very phrase! The zest with which one goes about an
expedition of any kind in the Rocky Mountains is phenomenal in itself; I
despair of making it credited or comprehended by inexperienced
lowlanders. We are told that the joys of Paradise will not only actually
be greater than earthly pleasures, but that they will be further
magnified by our increased spiritual sensitiveness to the "good times"
of heaven. Well, in the same way, the senses are so quickened by the
clear, vivifying climate of the western uplands in summer, that an
experience is tenfold more pleasurable there than it could become in the
Mississippi valley. I elsewhere have had something to say about this
exhilaration of body and soul in the high Rockies, which you will
perhaps pardon me for repeating briefly, for it was written honestly,
long ago, and outside of the present connection.
"At sunrise breakfast is over, the mules and everybody else have been
good-natured and you feel the glory of mere existence as you vault into
the saddle and break into a gallop. Not that this or that particular day
is so different from other pleasant mornings, but all that we call _the
weather_ is constituted in the most perfect proportions. The air is
'nimble and sweet,' and you ride gayly across meadows, through sunny
woods of pine and aspen, and between granite knolls that are piled up in
the most noble and romantic proportions....
"Sometimes it seems, when camp is reached, that one hardly has strength
to make another move; but after dinner one finds himself able and
willing to do a great deal....
"One's sleep in the crisp air, after the fatigues of the day, is sound
and serene.... You awake at daylight a little chilly, re-adjust your
blankets, and want again to sleep. The sun may pour forth from the
'golden window of the east' and flood the world with limpid light; the
stars may pale and the jet of the midnight sky be diluted to that pale
and perfect morning-blue into which you gaze to unmeasured depths; the
air may become a pervading Champagne, dry and delicate, every draught of
which tingles the lungs and spurs the blood along the veins with joyous
speed; the landscape may woo the eyes with airy undulations of prairie
or snow-pointed pinnacles lifted sharply against the azure--yet sleep
chains you. That very quality of the atmosphere which contributes to all
this beauty and makes it so delicious to be awake, makes it equally
blessed to slumber. Lying there in the open air, breathing the pure
elixir of the untainted mountains, you come to think even the
confinement of a flapping tent oppressive, and the ventilation of a
sheltering spruce-bough bad."
That was written out of a sincere enthusiasm, which made as naught a
whole season's hardship and work, before there was hardly a wagon-road,
much less a railway, beyond the front range.
This exordium, my friendly reader, is all to show to you: That we went
to the Rockies and beyond them, as we say we did; that we knew what we
were after, and found the apples of these Hesperides not dust and ashes
but veritable golden fruit; and, finally, that you may be persuaded to
test for yourself this natural and lasting enjoyment.
The grand and alluring mountains are still there,--everlasting hills,
unchangeable refuges from weariness, anxiety and strife! The railway
grows wider and permits a longer and even more varied journey than was
ours. Cars can be fitted up as we fitted ours or in a way as much better
as you like. Year by year the facilities for wayside comforts and short
branch-excursions are multiplied, with the increase of population and
culture.
If you are unable, or do not choose, to undertake all this preparation,
I still urge upon you the pleasure and utility of going to the Rocky
Mountains, travelling into their mighty heart in comfortable and
luxurious public conveyances. Nowhere will a holiday count for more in
rest, and in food for subsequent thought and recollection.
CONTENTS.
I--AT THE BASE OF THE ROCKIES.
First Impressions of the Mountains. A Problem, and its Solution.
Denver--Descriptive and Historical. The Resources which Assure
its Future. Some General Information concerning the Mining, Stock
Raising and Agricultural Interests of Colorado. 13
II--ALONG THE FOOTHILLS.
The Expedition Moves. Its Personnel. The Romantic Attractions of the
Divide. Light on Monument Park. Colorado Springs, a City of
Homes, of Morality and Culture. Its Pleasant Environs: Glen
Eyrie, Blair Athol, Austin's Glen, the Cheyenne Canyons 26
III--A MOUNTAIN SPA.
Manitou, and the Mineral Springs. The Ascent of Pike's Peak;
bronchos and blue noses. Ute Pass, and Rainbow Falls. The Garden
of the Gods. Manitou Park. Williams' Canyon, and the Cave of the
Winds. An Indian Legend. 36
IV--PUEBLO AND ITS FURNACES.
The Largest Smelter in the World. The Colorado Coal and Iron Company.
Pueblo's Claims as a Trade Center, and its Tributary Railway
System. A Chapter of Facts and Figures in support of the New
Pittsburgh. 51
V--OVER THE SANGRE DE CRISTO.
Up and down Veta Mountain, with some Extracts from a letter. Veta
Pass, and the Muleshoe Curve. Spanish Peaks. Beautiful Scenery,
and Famous Railroading. A general outline of the Rocky Mountain
Ranges. 60
VI--SAN LUIS PARK.
A Fertile and Well-watered Valley. The Method of Irrigation. Sierra
Blanca. A Digression to describe the Home on Wheels. Alamosa,
Antonito and Conejos. Cattle, Sheep and Agriculture in the largest
Mountain Park. 71
VII--THE INVASION OF NEW MEXICO.
Barranca, among the Sunflowers. An Excursion to Ojo Caliente, and
Description of the Hot Springs. Pre-historic Relics--a Rich Field
for the Archaeologist. Senor _vs._ Burro. An Ancient Church, with
its Sacred Images. 81
VIII--EL MEXICANO Y PUEBLOANO.
Comanche Canyon and Embudo. The Penitentes. The Rio Grande Valley;
Alcalde, Chamita and Espanola. New Mexican Life, Homes and
Industries. The Indian Pueblos, and their Strange History.
| 1,184.518164 |
2023-11-16 18:36:48.4982530 | 4,625 | 9 |
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_THE WORKS_
OF
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
[Illustration]
THE WORKS
OF
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
EDITED BY
WILLIAM GEORGE CLARK, M.A.
FELLOW AND TUTOR OF TRINITY
COLLEGE, AND PUBLIC ORATOR IN
THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE;
AND WILLIAM ALDIS WRIGHT, M.A.
LIBRARIAN OF TRINITY COLLEGE,
CAMBRIDGE.
_VOLUME V_.
Cambridge and London:
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1864.
CAMBRIDGE:
PRINTED BY C. J. CLAY, M.A.
AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS.
CONTENTS.
THE Preface. . . . vii
THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI. . . . 3
Notes to The First Part of King Henry VI. . . . 103
THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. . . . 109
Notes to The Second Part of King Henry VI. . . . 223
THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI. . . . 229
Notes to The Third Part of King Henry VI. . . . 339
THE FIRST PART OF THE CONTENTION, &c. . . . 343
Notes to The First Part of the Contention,
&c. . . . 405
THE TRUE TRAGEDIE OF RICHARD DUKE
OF YORKE, AND THE GOOD KING HENRY THE SIXT. . . . 407
Notes to The True Tragedie of Richard Duke of
Yorke. . . . 469
KING RICHARD III. . . . 473
Notes to King Richard III. . . . 637
PREFACE.
_The First Part of King Henry the Sixth_ was printed for the first
time, so far as we know, in the Folio of 1623. The same edition
contained also for the first time in their present form, ‘The second
Part of King Henry the Sixt, with the death of the Good Duke Humfrey,’
and ‘The third Part of King Henry the Sixt, with the death of the Duke
of Yorke.’
The play upon which the Second part of Henry the Sixth was founded was
first printed in quarto (Q1), in 1594, with the following title:
The | First part of the Con- tention betwixt the two famous houses of
Yorke | and Lancaster, with the death of the good | Duke Humphrey:
| And the banishment and death of the Duke of | _Suffolke_, and the
Tragicall end of the proud Cardinall | of _Winchester_, with the
notable Rebellion | of _Iacke Cade:_ | _And the Duke of Yorkes first
claime vnto the_ | _Crowne_. | LONDON | Printed by Thomas Creed, for
Thomas Millington, | and are to be sold at his shop vnder Saint Peters
| Church in Cornwall. | 1594. |
The only copy known of this edition is in the Bodleian Library (Malone,
Add. 870), and is probably the same which was once in Malone’s
possession, and which he collated with the second Quarto printed in
1600. Mr Halliwell, in the preface to ‘The first sketches of the
second and third parts of King Henry the Sixth,’ edited by him for the
Shakespeare Society, is inclined to doubt this, on the ground that
Malone quotes, from the copy in his possession, a reading which does
not exist in that now in the Bodleian. The passage in question is in
Scene IX. line 12, p. 370 of the present volume, ‘Honouring him as
if he were their king:’ on which Mr Halliwell in his note observes,
‘Malone, who has collated his copy of the edition of 1600, “printed by
W. W.,” with a copy of the 1594 edition formerly in his possession,
distinctly writes--
“_Thinking_ him as if he were their king,”
as the reading of his copy of the first edition. If so, it must have
been a different copy from that now in the Bodleian, from which
the present text is reprinted, and another instance of the curious
variations in different copies of the same editions, which were first
discovered by Steevens (Boswell’s _Malone_, Vol. X. p. 73), and
recently applied to good use by Mr Collier.’ Mr Halliwell has here
inadvertently fallen into error. Malone’s collation is made in a copy
of the edition of 1600, in which the line stands thus:
‘Honouring him as if he were _a king_.’
At the foot of the page he wrote ‘their king,’ which is the reading
of the edition of 1594 for the two last words, but which Mr Halliwell
misread ‘thinking’ and regarded as a various reading for ‘Honouring.’
It is still possible, therefore, that Malone’s copy and that at present
in the Bodleian may be identical.
The second edition (Q2) of the First Part of the Contention appeared
in quarto in 1600, with the following title:
The | First part of the Con-|tention betwixt the two famous hou-|_ses
of Yorke and Lancaster, with the_ | death of the good Duke | Humphrey:
| And the banishment and death of the Duke of | Suffolke, and the
Tragical end of the prowd Cardinall | _of Winchester, with the notable
Rebellion of_ | _Iacke Cade_: | _And the Duke of Yorkes first clayme
to the_ | _Crowne_. | LONDON | Printed by Valentine Simmes for Thomas
Millington, and | are to be sold at his shop vnder S. Peters church |
in Cornewall. | 1600. |
Copies with this title are in the Library of the Duke of Devonshire,
and in the Bodleian (Malone, 867). An imperfect copy, wanting the last
seven leaves, is in the Capell collection. Another impression bearing
the same date, ‘Printed by W. W. for Thomas Millington,’ is said to
exist, but we have been unable to find it. The MS. title quoted by Mr
Halliwell from a copy in the Bodleian (Malone, 36) is prefixed to what
appears to us unquestionably the same edition as the above. The minute
correspondence of misplaced and defective letters between this copy and
Capell’s, with which, as well as with the other copy in the Bodleian,
we have compared it, proves beyond question that all three must have
been printed from the same form, and that the MS. title inserted in
Malone’s copy is out of place. So far therefore from Capell’s imperfect
copy of this edition being unique, as Mr Halliwell states, there are
at least two other perfect copies in existence, besides one which only
wants the title-page. In Lowndes’s _Bibliographer’s Manual_ (ed. Bohn,
p. 2281), another is said to be in the possession of Mr Tite. The late
Mr George Daniel is stated, on the same authority, to have had the
editions printed by Valentine Simmes and by W. W. in one volume, but
they were not sold at his sale, and we have been unable to trace them.
In 1619, a third edition (Q3) without date, printed by Isaac Jaggard,
and including also ‘The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York,’ appeared
with the following title:
The | Whole Contention | betweene the two Famous Houses, LANCASTER
and | YORKE. | _With the Tragicall ends of the good Duke_ | Humfrey,
Richard Duke of Yorke, | _and King Henrie the_ | _sixt_. | Diuided
into two Parts: And newly corrected and | enlarged. Written by
_William Shake-_|_speare_, Gent. | Printed at LONDON, for T. P. |
On the title-page of his copy of this edition, Capell has added in MS.
the date ‘1619.--at the same time with the Pericles that follows;
as appears by the continuation of the signatures.’ The signatures of
‘The whole Contention’ are from A to Q in fours, while in _Pericles_,
‘Printed for T. P. 1619,’ the first page has signature R, which shows
that the two must have formed part of the same volume.
‘The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York,’ which formed the
ground-work of The Third part of King Henry the Sixth, was first
printed in small 8vo. in 1595, with the following title:
The | true Tragedie of Richard | _Duke of Yorke, and the death of_ |
good King Henrie the Sixt, | _With the whole contention betweene_ |
the two Houses Lancaster | and Yorke, as it was sundrie times | acted
by the Right Honoura-|ble the Earle of Pem-|brooke his seruants. |
Printed at London by P. S. for Thomas Milling-|_ton, and are to be
sold at his shoppe vnder_ | _Saint Peters Church in_ | _Cornwal_,
1595. |
A unique copy of this edition is in the Bodleian Library (Malone, 876).
Although printed in 8vo. we have quoted it as Q1, in order to avoid
introducing a new notation.
The second edition (Q2) was printed in 1600, with the following title:
The | True Tragedie of | Richarde Duke of | Yorke, and the death of
good | King Henrie the sixt: | With the whole contention betweene the
two | Houses, Lancaster and Yorke; as it was | sundry times acted by
the Right | Honourable the Earle | of Pembrooke his | seruantes. |
Printed at London by _W. W._ for _Thomas Millington_, | and are to be
sold at his shoppe vnder Saint | Peters Church in Cornewall. | 1600. |
Copies of this edition are in the Duke of Devonshire’s Library, the
Bodleian (Malone, 36), and the British Museum. In Malone’s Shakespeare
(ed. 1790, Vol. I. Pt. I. p. 235), among the ‘Dramatick Pieces on which
plays were formed by Shakespeare,’ an edition of The True Tragedy is
mentioned, bearing date ‘1600, V. S. for Thomas Millington,’ but in
a note to the ‘Third Part of King Henry VI.’ (Vol. VI. p. 261) he
confesses, ‘I have never seen the quarto copy of the _Second_ part of
The whole Contention, &c. printed by _Valentine Simmes_ for Thomas
Millington, 1600;’ and it is extremely doubtful whether such a one
exists. A copy of The True Tragedy, and not, as stated in Bohn’s
Lowndes, of The First Part of the Contention, printed by W. W. 1600,
was sold at Rhodes’s sale in 1825 (No. 2113). The only authority
therefore for the existence of an edition of The First Part of the
Contention, printed by W. W. in 1600, is the MS. title-page of Malone’s
copy in the Bodleian Library. Capell merely quotes it on the authority
of Pope, and all that Pope says in the Table at the end of his first
edition, after giving the title of The Whole Contention printed in
1619, is, ‘Since Printed under the same Title by _W. W._ for _Tho.
Millington_, with the true Tragedy of _Richard_ D. of _York_, and the
Death of good King _Henry_ the 6th, acted by the Earl of Pembroke his
servants 1600.’ This clearly refers to the second Quarto of The True
Tragedy, not to that of The First Part of the Contention, and appears
to us to be the origin of the error†.
──────────
† This view is further confirmed by a manuscript note at the back
of the title-page of Steevens’s copy of The True Tragedy, ed. 1600,
now in the British Museum. It shews that Pope is the only authority
for the statement, and is as follows: ‘This is only the _third_ part
of K. Henry VI. The _second_ part, according to Pope, was likewise
printed in 1600, by W. W. for Thos. Millington. MALONE.’
The third edition (Q3) of The True Tragedy formed the second part of
The Whole Contention described above. It has no separate title-page,
but merely the heading:
The Second Part. | Containing the Tragedie of | Richard Duke of Yorke,
and the | _good King Henrie the_ | Sixt. |
We have reprinted the text of The First Part of the Contention and
of The True Tragedy from the first edition of each, giving in notes
at the foot of the page the various readings of the second and third
editions. For this purpose we collated Mr Halliwell’s reprint for the
Shakespeare Society with the originals in the Bodleian Library. The
accuracy of Mr Halliwell’s work materially facilitated our labours,
and we can only hope that the errors of our own reprint may be as
few and as unimportant as those we have discovered in his. For the
readings of the second Quartos of The First Part of the Contention and
The True Tragedy we collated the copies in the Bodleian and the Duke
of Devonshire’s Library, using also for the former the imperfect copy
in the Capell collection. The readings of The Whole Contention (Q3)
have been given from Capell’s copy verified by reference to that in the
Devonshire Library.
With regard to the authorship of The First Part of the Contention and
The True Tragedy, while we cannot agree with Malone on the one hand
that they contain nothing of Shakespeare’s, nor with Mr Knight on the
other that they are entirely his work, there are so many internal
proofs of his having had a considerable share in their composition,
that, in accordance with our principle, we have reprinted them in a
smaller type.
The first edition of KING RICHARD is a Quarto printed in 1597, with the
following title-page:
The Tragedy of | King Richard the third. | Containing, | His
treacherous Plots against his brother Clarence: | the pittiefull
murther of his innocent nephewes: | his tyrannicall vsurpation: with
the whole course | of his detested life, and most deserued death.
| As it hath beene lately Acted by the | Right honourable the Lord
Chamber-|laine his seruants. | AT LONDON | Printed by Valentine Sims,
for Andrew Wise, | dwelling in Paules Church-yard, at the | Sign of
the Angell. | 1597. |
This edition is referred to, in our notes, as Q1.
We have collated a complete copy belonging to the Duke of Devonshire
and also an imperfect copy formerly belonging to Malone and now in
the Bodleian. Malone had supplied the missing leaves by the insertion
of some from the second Quarto†. There is no copy in the Capell
collection.
──────────
† He says in a MS. note: ‘This copy of the original edition of King
Richard III. was imperfect, when I purchased it, wanting signat.
C 1 and 2, D 4, L 4, and M 1, 2, and 3. These seven leaves I have
supplied from a later copy (that of 1598), and have collated with
the edition of 1597. The variations are set down in the margin.’ He
adds: ‘Mr Penn Ashton Curzon and Mr Kemble are possessed of copies
of this original edition of this play: I know of no other, except
that in this volume.’ Mr Kemble’s copy is now in the Devonshire
Library, and Mr Curzon’s is probably the same which was sold at
Mr Daniel’s sale and is now in the possession of Mr Huth. Besides
the leaves of Malone’s copy which are missing, signatures C 3 and
C 4 are imperfect, the upper half of each being supplied from the
edition of 1598.
The second edition, also in Quarto, which we call Q2, was published
in the following year, with the name of the author. It is in other
respects a reprint of the first. The title-page is as follows:
THE | TRAGEDIE | of King Richard | the third. | Conteining his
treacherous Plots against his | brother _Clarence_: the pitiful
murther of his innocent | Nephewes: his tyrannicall vsurpation: with
| the whole course of his detested life, and most | _deserued death_.
| _As it hath beene lately Acted by the Right honourable_| _the Lord
Chamberlaine his seruants_. | _By_ William Shakespeare.| LONDON |
Printed by Thomas Creede, for Andrew Wise, | dwelling in Paules
Church-yard, at the signe | of the Angell. 1598. |
The third Quarto, our Q3, has the following title-page:
THE | TRAGEDIE | of King Richard | the third. | _Conteining his
treacherous Plots against his brother_ | _Clarence_: the pittifull
murther of his innocent Ne-|phewes: his tyrannicall vsurpation: with
the | whole course of his detested life, and | most deserued death.
| _As it hath bene lately Acted by the Right Honourable_ | _the
Lord Chamberlaine his seruants_. | Newly augmented,| By _William
Shakespeare_. | LONDON | Printed by Thomas Creede, for Andrew Wise,
dwelling | in Paules Churchyard, at the signe of the | Angell. 1602.|
Notwithstanding the words ‘newly augmented,’ this edition contains
nothing that is not found in the second Quarto, from which it is
reprinted, except some additional errors of the press.
The fourth Quarto, our Q4, was printed from the third, by the same
printer for a different bookseller, as appears by the title-page:
THE | TRAGEDIE | of King Richard | the third. | _Conteining his
treacherous Plots against his brother | Clarence_: the pittifull
murther of his innocent Ne-|phewes: his tyrannicall vsurpation:
with the | whole course of his detested life, and | most deserued
death. | _As it hath bin lately Acted by the Right Honourable | the
Lord Chamberlaine his seruants_. | Newly augmented, | By _William
Shake-speare_. | LONDON, | Printed by Thomas Creede, and are to be
sold by _Mathew | Lawe_, dwelling in Paules Church-yard, at the Signe
| of the Foxe, neare S. Austins gate, 1605. |
There is no copy of Q4 in the Capell collection. We have collated one
in the Bodleian which formerly belonged to Malone. It is numbered 880.
The fifth Quarto, Q5, was printed in 1612, not from its immediate
predecessor, but from the Quarto of 1602, although it was printed by
the same printer and for the same bookseller as that of 1605. The
title-page of Q5 is as follows:
THE | TRAGEDIE | of King Richard | the third. | _Containing his
treacherous Plots against his brother | Clarence_: the pittifull
murther of his innocent Ne-phewes: his tyrannicall vsurpation: with
the | whole course of his detested life, and | most deserued death. |
_As it hath beene lately Acted by the Kings Maiesties | seruants_. |
Newly augmented, | By _William Shake-speare_. | LONDON, | Printed by
Thomas Creede, and are to be sold by Mathew | Lawe, dwelling in Pauls
Church-yard, | 1,184.518293 |
2023-11-16 18:36:48.8640320 | 2,141 | 8 |
Produced by Afra Ullah, Michael Ciesielski and PG Distributed
Proofreaders
PHRASES FOR PUBLIC SPEAKERS
AND
PARAGRAPHS FOR STUDY
Compiled by Grenville Kleiser
1910
TO THE STUDENT
The experienced public speaker acquires through long practise hundreds
of phrases which he uses over and over again. These are essential to
readiness of speech, since they serve to hold his thought well together
and enable him to speak fluently even upon short notice.
This book is one of practise, not theory. The student should read aloud
daily several pages of these phrases, think just what each one means,
and whenever possible till out the phrase in his own words. A month's
earnest practise of this kind will yield astonishing results.
He should also study the paragraphs, reprinted here from notable
speeches, and closely observe the use made of climax and other effects.
The phrase and the paragraph are the principal elements in the public
speaker's English style, and the student will be amply repaid for any
time he devotes to their analysis.
GRENVILLE KLEISER
CONTENTS
USEFUL PHRASES
PARAGRAPHS FROM NOTABLE SPEECHES
USEFUL PHRASES
A further objection to
Again, can we doubt
Again, we have abundant instances
Alas! how often
All experience evinces that
All that I have been stating hitherto
All that is quite true.
All this, I know well enough
All this is unnatural because
All we do know is that
Am I mistaken in this?
Amid so much that is uncertain
And, again, it is to be presumed that
And, finally, have not these
And, further, all that I have said
And hence it continually happens
And hence it is that
And here, in passing, let us notice
And here observe that
And if I know anything of
And if it is further asked why
And I sometimes imagine that
And I wish also to say that
And, in fact, it is
And it is certainly true
And it may be admitted that
And just here we touch the vital point in
And let me here again refer to
And now it begins to be apparent
And now we are naturally brought on to
And now we are told
And pursuing the subject
And so again in this day
And so, in like manner
And strange to say
And such, I say, is
And the same is true of
And the whole point of these observations is
And this is manifestly true
Any thoughtful man can readily perceive
As far as my experience goes
As for me, I say
As it were
At first it does seem as tho
At this very moment, there are
At times we hear it said.
Be it so.
Be true to your own sense of right.
Believe me, it is quite impossible for
But all is not done.
But bear in mind that
But by no kind of calculation can we
But do not tell me that
But further still
But here we take our stand.
But I am not quite sure that
But I digress.
But I do not desire to obtrude a
But I recollect that
But I shall go still farther.
But I submit whether it
But I will not dwell on
But I will not pause to point out
But if you look seriously at facts
But in any case
But in fact there is no reason for
But is it in truth so easy to
But is it rationally conceivable that
But it is fitting I should say
But, it may be urged, if
But lest it should still be argued that
But let it be once understood that
But let us suppose all these
But look at the difference.
But my idea of it is
But now, I repeat,
But now, lastly, let us suppose
But now let us turn to
But now, on the other hand, could
But now some other things are to be noted
But somehow all is changed!
But the question for us is
But to go still further
But waiving this assumption
But we dwell too long
But we have faith that
But what is the motive?
But what then?
But with us how changed!
But why do we speak of
But you may say truly
But you must remember
Can there be a better illustration than
Can you doubt it?
Certainly, I did not know
Compare now the case of
Did time admit I could show you
Does anybody believe that
Do you dream that
Do not entertain so weak an imagination
Do not misunderstand me.
Enough has been said of
Even apart from the vital question of
Everybody has to say that
Few people will dispute
First, sir, permit me to observe
For instance,
For instance, there surely is
For my part, I can say that I desire
For the sake of clearness
For this simple reason
For what?
Fortunately I am not obliged
From time to time
Happily for us
Has the gentleman done?
Have we any right to such a
He can not do it.
Heaven forbid!
Hence, I repeat, it is
Hence it is that
Hence, too, it has often, been said
Here I have to speak of
Here I wish I could stop.
Here it will be objected to me
Here let me meet one other question
History is replete with
How are we to explain this
How do you account for
I acknowledge the force of
I admire the indignation which
I admit it.
I admit, that if
I allude to
I am advised that already
I am aware that
I am distinctly maintaining
I am expecting to hear next
I am going to suggest
I am in sympathy with
I am justified in regarding
I am led to make one remark
I am mainly concerned with
I am myself of opinion that
I am naturally led on to speak of
I am no friend to
I am not arguing the
I am not ashamed to acknowledge
I am not complaining of
I am not denying that
I am not disposed to deny
I am not going to attempt to
I am not here to defend the
I am not insensible of
I am not justifying the
I am not speaking of exceptions.
I am not trying to absolve
I am obliged to mention
I am perfectly astounded at
I am perfectly confident that
I am perfectly indifferent concerning
I am persuaded that
I am quite certain that
I am sanguine that those who
I am speaking to-night for myself.
I am sure, at least, that
I am sure you will allow me
I am sure you will do me the justice
I am told that the reason
I am well aware that
I am willing to admit that
I appeal to you on behalf of
I ask how you are going to
I ask myself
I ask, then, as concerns the
I ask your attention to this point.
I assume that the argument for
I assume, then, that
I beg not to be interrupted here
I beg respectfully to differ from
I beg to assure you
I believe I speak the sentiment of
I believe in it as firmly as
I believe in the
I believe you feel, as I feel, that
I can not believe it.
I can not but feel that
I can not do better than
I can not even imagine why
I can not, therefore, agree with
I can not very well
I can scarcely conceive anything
I carry with me no hostile remembrance.
I certainly do not recommend
I come now to observe
I come, then, to this
I conclude that it was
I confess I can not help agreeing with
I confess my notions are
I confess that I like to dwell on
I confess truly
I dare say
I dare say to you
I differ very much from
I do not absolutely assert
I do not believe that
I do not blush to acknowledge
I do not contend that
I do not forget that
I do not know on what pretense
I do not mean to propose
I do not mean to say
I do not mistrust the future.
I do not overlook tho fact that
I do not pretend to believe
I do not question this.
I do not stand here before you
I do not think it unfair reasoning to
I do not vouch for
I do not want to argue the question of
I do not wish to be partial.
I do not wish you to suppose that
I do not yield to any one
I entirely agree upon this point.
I fear I only need refer to
I firmly believe that
I grant, of course, that
I grant that there are
I grant, too, of course, that
I have all along been showing
I have already alluded to
I have already said, and I repeat it
I have always argued that
I have another objection to
I have appealed to the testimony
I have a right to think that
I have been interested in hearing
I have been requested to say a word,
I have heard it said recently
I have hitherto been adducing instances
I have indicted
I have listened with pleasure to
I have never been able to understand
I have never fancied that
I have no confidence, then, in
I have no desire in this instance
I have no doubt that it is
I have only to add that
I have read of the
I have said that
I have so high a respect for
I have spoken of
I have the confident hope that
I have the strongest reason for
I have to appeal to you
I heartily hope and trust
I hope I have now made it clear that
I hope you will acquit me of
I insist that you do not
I invite you to consider
I know it is not uncommon for
I know that there is a difference of
I know that this will sound strange
I know well the sentiments of
I know whereof I speak.
I leave it | 1,184.884072 |
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Produced by Greg Bergquist, Charlie Howard, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
TWENTY YEARS IN EUROPE.
[Illustration: Heidelberg Castle.]
Twenty Years in Europe
A CONSUL-GENERAL'S MEMORIES
OF NOTED PEOPLE, WITH LETTERS
FROM GENERAL W. T. SHERMAN
BY
S. H. M. BYERS,
_U. S. Consul-General to Switzerland and Italy_,
AUTHOR OF
"SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA," "THE HAPPY ISLES,"
"SWITZERLAND AND THE SWISS," ETC.
_PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED._
[Illustration]
CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:
RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS.
Copyright, 1900, by Rand, McNally & Co.
INSCRIBED
TO
MARGARET GILMOUR BYERS.
Time robs us all of some things we would keep,
And favoring winds to-morrow may forsake;
But, joyous thought--O! Future! Smile or weep,
The happy years behind us none can take!
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR.
While staying in Switzerland and Italy as a consular officer, during a
period of well on to twenty years, I kept a diary of my life. Without
being a copy of the diary, this book is made up from its pages and
from my own recollections of men, scenes, and events. It was during an
interesting period, too. There were stirring times in Europe. Two great
wars took place; one great empire was born; another became a republic;
and the country of Victor Emmanuel changed from a lot of petty dukedoms
to a free Italy. It seemed a great period everywhere, and everything of
men and events jotted down at such a time would of necessity have its
interest. This book is not a history--only some recollections and some
letters.
Among the letters are some fifty from General Sherman, whose intimate
friendship I enjoyed from the war times till the day of his death. They
are printed with permission of those now interested, and they may be
regarded as in a way supplementary to the series of more public letters
of General Sherman printed by me in the North American Review during
his lifetime. They possess the added interest that must attach to the
intimate letters of friendship coming from a brilliant mind. Their
publication can only help to lift the veil a little from a life that
was as true and good in private as it was | 1,184.884317 |
2023-11-16 18:36:48.9594440 | 745 | 21 |
E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Josephine Paolucci, and the Project
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 28183-h.htm or 28183-h.zip:
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or
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SHADOW AND LIGHT
[Illustration: Very truly yours, M. W. Gibbs]
SHADOW AND LIGHT
An Autobiography
With Reminiscences of the Last and Present Century.
by
MIFFLIN WISTAR GIBBS
With an Introduction by Booker T. Washington
A Fatherless Boy, Carpenter and Contractor, Anti-Slavery Lecturer,
Merchant, Railroad Builder, Superintendent of Mine, Attorney-at-Law,
County Attorney, Municipal Judge Register of United States Lands,
Receiver of Public Monies for U. S., United States Consul to
Madagascar--Prominent Race Leaders, etc.
Washington, D. C.
1902.
Copyright, 1902.
PREFACE.
During the late years abroad, while reading the biographies of
distinguished men who had been benefactors, the thought occurred that I
had had a varied career, though not as fruitful or as deserving of
renown as these characters, and differing as to status and aim. Yet the
portrayal might be of benefit to those who, eager for advancement, are
willing to be laborious students to attain worthy ends.
I have aimed to give an added interest to the narrative by embellishing
its pages with portraits of men who have gained distinction in various
fields, who need only to be seen to present the career of those now
living as worthy models, and the record of the dead, who left the world
the better for having lived. To enjoy a life prominent and prolonged is
a desire as natural as worthy, and there have been those who sought to
extend its duration by nostrums and drinking-waters said to bestow the
virtue of "perpetual life." But if "to live in hearts we leave behind is
not to die," to be worthy of such memorial we must have done or said
something that blessed the living or benefited coming generations. Hence
autobiography is the record, for "books are as tombstones made by the
living, but destined soon to remind us of the dead."
Trusting that any absence of literary merit will not impair the author's
cherished design to "impart a moral," should he fail to "adorn a tale."
Little Rock, Ark., January, 1902.
INTRODUCTION.
By BOOKER T. WASHINGTON.
It is seldom that one man, even if he has lived as long as Judge M. W.
Gibbs is able to record his impressions of so many widely separated
parts of the earth's surface as Judge Gibbs can, or to recall personal
experiences in so many important occurrences.
Born in Philadelphia, and living there when that city--almost on the
border line between slavery and freedom--was the scene of some of the
most stirring incidents in the abolition agitation, he was able as a
free youth, going to Maryland to work, to see and judge of the
condition of the slaves in that State. Some of the most | 1,184.979484 |
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Produced by David Widger
MARK TWAIN A BIOGRAPHY
THE PERSONAL AND LITERARY LIFE OF SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS
BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE
VOLUME I, Part 1: 1835-1866
TO
CLARA CLEMENS GABRILOWITSCH WHO STEADILY UPHELD THE
AUTHOR'S PURPOSE TO WRITE HISTORY RATHER THAN EULOGY AS
THE STORY OF HER FATHER'S LIFE
AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Dear William Dean Howells, Joseph Hopkins Twichell, Joseph T. Goodman,
and other old friends of Mark Twain:
I cannot let these volumes go to press without some grateful word to you
who have helped me during the six years and more that have gone to their
making.
First, I want to confess how I have envied you your association with Mark
Twain in those days when you and he "went gipsying, a long time ago."
Next, I want to express my wonder at your willingness to give me so
unstintedly from your precious letters and memories, when it is in the
nature of man to hoard such treasures, for himself and for those who
follow him. And, lastly, I want to tell you that I do not envy you so
much, any more, for in these chapters, one after another, through your
grace, I have gone gipsying with you all. Neither do I wonder now, for I
have come to know that out of your love for him grew that greater
unselfishness (or divine selfishness, as he himself might have termed
it), and that nothing short of the fullest you could do for his memory
would have contented your hearts.
My gratitude is measureless; and it is world-wide, for there is no land
so distant that it does not contain some one who has eagerly contributed
to the story. Only, I seem so poorly able to put my thanks into words.
Albert Bigelow Paine.
PREFATORY NOTE
Certain happenings as recorded in this work will be found to differ
materially from the same incidents and episodes as set down in the
writings of Mr. Clemens himself. Mark Twain's spirit was built of the
very fabric of truth, so far as moral intent was concerned, but in his
earlier autobiographical writings--and most of his earlier writings were
autobiographical--he made no real pretense to accuracy of time, place, or
circumstance--seeking, as he said, "only to tell a good story"--while in
later years an ever-vivid imagination and a capricious memory made
history difficult, even when, as in his so-called "Autobiography," his
effort was in the direction of fact.
"When I was younger I could remember anything, whether it happened or
not," he once said, quaintly, "but I am getting old, and soon I shall
remember only the latter."
The reader may be assured, where discrepancies occur, that the writer of
this memoir has obtained his data from direct and positive sources:
letters, diaries, account-books, or other immediate memoranda; also from
the concurring testimony of eye-witnesses, supported by a unity of
circumstance and conditions, and not from hearsay or vagrant printed
items.
MARK TWAIN
A BIOGRAPHY
I
ANCESTORS
On page 492 of the old volume of Suetonius, which Mark Twain read until
his very last day, there is a reference to one Flavius Clemens, a man of
wide repute "for his want of energy," and in a marginal note he has
written:
"I guess this is where our line starts."
It was like him to write that. It spoke in his whimsical fashion the
attitude of humility, the ready acknowledgment of shortcoming, which was
his chief characteristic and made him lovable--in his personality and in
his work.
Historically, we need not accept this identity of the Clemens ancestry.
The name itself has a kindly meaning, and was not an uncommon one in
Rome. There was an early pope by that name, and it appears now and again
in the annals of the Middle Ages. More lately there was a Gregory
Clemens, an English landowner who became a member of Parliament under
Cromwell and signed the death-warrant of Charles I. Afterward he was
tried as a regicide, his estates were confiscated, and his head was
exposed on a pole on the top of Westminster Hall.
Tradition says that the family of Gregory Clemens did not remain in
England, but emigrated to Virginia (or New Jersey), and from them, in
direct line, descended the Virginia Clemenses, including John Marshall
Clemens, the father of Mark Twain. Perhaps the line could be traced, and
its various steps identified, but, after all, an ancestor more or less
need not matter when it is the story of a descendant that is to be
written.
Of Mark Twain's immediate forebears, however, there is something to be
said. His paternal grandfather, whose name also was Samuel, was a man of
culture and literary taste. In 1797 he married a Virginia girl, Pamela
Goggin; and of their five children John Marshall Clemens, born August 11,
1798, was the eldest--becoming male head of the family at the age of
seven, when his father was accidentally killed at a house-raising. The
family was not a poor one, but the boy grew up with a taste for work. As
a youth he became a clerk in an iron manufactory, at Lynchburg, and
doubtless studied at night. At all events, he acquired an education, but
injured his health in the mean time, and somewhat later, with his mother
and the younger children, removed to Adair County, Kentucky, where the
widow presently married a sweetheart of her girlhood, one Simon Hancock,
a good man. In due course, John Clemens was sent to Columbia, the
countyseat, to study law. When the living heirs became of age he
administered his father's estate, receiving as his own share three <DW64>
slaves; also a mahogany sideboard, which remains among the Clemens
effects to this day.
This was in 1821. John Clemens was now a young man of twenty-three,
never very robust, but with a good profession, plenty of resolution, and
a heart full of hope and dreams. Sober, industrious, and unswervingly
upright, it seemed certain that he must make his mark. That he was
likely to be somewhat too optimistic, even visionary, was not then
regarded as a misfortune.
It was two years later that he met Jane Lampton; whose mother was a Casey
--a Montgomery-Casey whose father was of the Lamptons (Lambtons) of
Durham, England, and who on her own account was reputed to be the
handsomest girl and the wittiest, as well as the best dancer, in all
Kentucky. The Montgomeries and the Caseys of Kentucky had been Indian
fighters in the Daniel Boone period, and grandmother Casey, who had been
Jane Montgomery, had worn moccasins in her girlhood, and once saved her
life by jumping a fence and out-running a redskin pursuer. The
Montgomery and Casey annals were full of blood-curdling adventures, and
there is to-day a Casey County next to Adair, with a Montgomery County
somewhat farther east. As for the Lamptons, there is an earldom in the
English family, and there were claimants even then in the American
branch. All these things were worth while in Kentucky, but it was rare
Jane Lampton herself--gay, buoyant, celebrated for her beauty and her
grace; able to dance all night, and all day too, for that matter--that
won the heart of John Marshall Clemens, swept him off his feet almost at
the moment of their meeting. Many of the characteristics that made Mark
Twain famous were inherited from his mother. His sense of humor, his
prompt, quaintly spoken philosophy, these were distinctly her
contribution to his fame. Speaking of her in a later day, he once said:
"She had a sort of ability which is rare in man and hardly existent in
woman--the ability to say a humorous thing with the perfect air of not
knowing it to be humorous."
She bequeathed him this, without doubt; also her delicate complexion; her
wonderful wealth of hair; her small, shapely hands and feet, and the
pleasant drawling speech which gave her wit, and his, a serene and
perfect setting.
It was a one-sided love affair, the brief courtship of Jane Lampton and
John Marshall Clemens. All her life, Jane Clemens honored her husband,
and while he lived served him loyally; but the choice of her heart had
been a young physician of Lexington with whom she had quarreled, and her
prompt engagement with John Clemens was a matter of temper rather than
tenderness. She stipulated that the wedding take place at once, and on
May 6, 1823, they were married. She was then twenty; her husband
twenty-five. More than sixty years later, when John Clemens had long
been dead, she took a railway journey to a city where there was an Old
Settlers' Convention, because among the names of those attending she had
noticed the name of the lover of her youth. She meant to humble herself
to him and ask forgiveness after all the years. She arrived too late;
the convention was over, and he was gone. Mark Twain once spoke of this,
and added:
"It is as pathetic a romance as any that has crossed the field of my
personal experience in a long lifetime."
II
THE FORTUNES OF JOHN AND JANE CLEMENS
With all his ability and industry, and with the-best of intentions, John
Clemens would seem to have had an unerring faculty for making business
mistakes. It was his optimistic outlook, no doubt--his absolute
confidence in the prosperity that lay just ahead--which led him from one
unfortunate locality or enterprise to another, as long as he lived. About
a year after his marriage he settled with his young wife in Gainsborough,
Tennessee, a mountain town on the Cumberland River, and here, in 1825,
their first child, a boy, was born. They named him Orion--after the
constellation, perhaps--though they changed the accent to the first
syllable, calling it Orion. Gainsborough was a small place with few
enough law cases; but it could hardly have been as small, or furnished as
few cases; as the next one selected, which was Jamestown, Fentress
County, still farther toward the Eastward Mountains. Yet Jamestown had
the advantage of being brand new, and in the eye of his fancy John
Clemens doubtless saw it the future metropolis of east Tennessee, with
himself its foremost jurist and citizen. He took an immediate and active
interest in the development of the place, established the county-seat
there, built the first Court House, and was promptly elected as circuit
clerk of the court.
It was then that he decided to lay the foundation of a fortune for
himself and his children by acquiring Fentress County land. Grants could
be obtained in those days at the expense of less than a cent an acre, and
John Clemens believed that the years lay not far distant when the land
would increase in value ten thousand, twenty, perhaps even a hundred
thousandfold. There was no wrong estimate in that. Land covered with
the finest primeval timber, and filled with precious minerals, could
hardly fail to become worth millions, even though his entire purchase of
75,000 acres probably did not cost him more than $500. The great tract
lay about twenty nines to the southward of Jamestown. Standing in the
door of the Court House he had built, looking out over the "Knob" of the
Cumberland Mountains toward his vast possessions, he said:
"Whatever befalls me now, my heirs are secure. I may not live to see
these acres turn into silver and gold, but my children will."
Such was the creation of that mirage of wealth, the "Tennessee land,"
which all his days and for long afterward would lie just ahead--a golden
vision, its name the single watchword of the family fortunes--the dream
fading with years, only materializing at last as a theme in a story of
phantom riches, The Gilded Age.
Yet for once John Clemens saw clearly, and if his dream did not come true
he was in no wise to blame. The land is priceless now, and a corporation
of the Clemens heirs is to-day contesting the title of a thin fragment of
it--about one thousand acres--overlooked in some survey.
Believing the future provided for, Clemens turned his attention to
present needs. He built himself a house, unusual in its style and
elegance. It had two windows in each room, and its walls were covered
with plastering, something which no one in Jamestown had ever seen
before. He was regarded as an aristocrat. He wore a swallow-tail coat
of fine blue jeans, instead of the coarse brown native-made cloth. The
blue-jeans coat was ornamented with brass buttons and cost one dollar and
twenty-five cents a yard, a high price for that locality and time. His
wife wore a calico dress for company, while the neighbor wives wore
homespun linsey-woolsey. The new house was referred to as the Crystal
Palace. When John and Jane Clemens attended balls--there were continuous
balls during the holidays--they were considered the most graceful
dancers.
Jamestown did not become the metropolis he had dreamed. It attained
almost immediately to a growth of twenty-five houses--mainly log houses
--and stopped there. The country, too, was sparsely settled; law
practice was slender and unprofitable, the circuit-riding from court to
court was very bad for one of his physique. John Clemens saw his reserve
of health and funds dwindling, and decided to embark in merchandise. He
built himself a store and put in a small country stock of goods. These
he exchanged for ginseng, chestnuts, lampblack, turpentine, rosin, and
other produce of the country, which he took to Louisville every spring
and fall in six-horse wagons. In the mean time he would seem to have
sold one or more of his slaves, doubtless to provide capital. There was
a second baby now--a little girl, Pamela,--born in September, 1827.
Three years later, May 1830, another little girl, Margaret, came. By
this time the store and home were in one building, the store occupying
one room, the household requiring two--clearly the family fortunes were
declining.
About a year after little Margaret was born, John Clemens gave up
Jamestown and moved his family and stock of goods to a point nine miles
distant, known as the Three Forks of Wolf. The Tennessee land was safe,
of course, and would be worth millions some day, but in the mean time the
struggle for daily substance was becoming hard.
He could not have remained at the Three Forks long, for in 1832 we find
him at still another place, on the right bank of Wolf River, where a
post-office called Pall Mall was established, with John Clemens as
postmaster, usually addressed as "Squire" or "Judge." A store was run in
connection with the postoffice. At Pall Mall, in June, 1832, another
boy, Benjamin, was born.
The family at this time occupied a log house built by John Clemens
himself, the store being kept in another log house on the opposite bank
of the river. He no longer practised law. In The Gilded Age we have
Mark Twain's picture of Squire Hawkins and Obedstown, written from
descriptions supplied in later years by his mother and his brother Orion;
and, while not exact in detail, it is not regarded as an exaggerated
presentation of east Tennessee conditions at that time. The chapter is
too long and too depressing to be set down here. The reader may look it
up for himself, if he chooses. If he does he will not wonder that Jane
Clemens's handsome features had become somewhat sharper, and her manner a
shade graver, with the years and burdens of marriage, or that John
Clemens at thirty-six-out of health, out of tune with his environment
--was rapidly getting out of heart. After all the bright promise of the
beginning, things had somehow gone wrong, and hope seemed dwindling away.
A tall man, he had become thin and unusually pale; he looked older than
his years. Every spring he was prostrated with what was called
"sunpain," an acute form of headache, nerve-racking and destroying to all
persistent effort. Yet he did not retreat from his moral and
intellectual standards, or lose the respect of that shiftless community.
He was never intimidated by the rougher element, and his eyes were of a
kind that would disconcert nine men out of ten. Gray and deep-set under
bushy brows, they literally looked you through. Absolutely fearless, he
permitted none to trample on his rights. It is told of John Clemens, at
Jamestown, that once when he had lost a cow he handed the minister on
Sunday morning a notice of the loss to be read from the pulpit, according
to the custom of that community. For some reason, the minister put the
document aside and neglected it. At the close of the service Clemens
rose and, going to the pulpit, read his announcement himself to the
congregation. Those who knew Mark Twain best will not fail to recall in
him certain of his father's legacies.
The arrival of a letter from "Colonel Sellers" inviting the Hawkins
family to come to Missouri is told in The Gilded Age. In reality the
letter was from John Quarles, who had married Jane Clemens's sister,
Patsey Lampton, and settled in Florida, Monroe County, Missouri. It was
a momentous letter in The Gilded Age, and no less so in reality, for it
shifted the entire scene of the Clemens family fortunes, and it had to do
with the birthplace and the shaping of the career of one whose memory is
likely to last as long as American history.
III
A HUMBLE BIRTHPLACE
Florida, Missouri, was a small village in the early thirties--smaller
than it is now, perhaps, though in that day it had more promise, even if
less celebrity. The West was unassembled then, undigested, comparatively
unknown. Two States, Louisiana and Missouri, with less than half a
million white persons, were all that lay beyond the great river. St.
Louis, with its boasted ten thousand inhabitants and its river trade with
the South, was the single metropolis in all that vast uncharted region.
There was no telegraph; there were no railroads, no stage lines of any
consequence--scarcely any maps. For all that one could see or guess, one
place was as promising as another, especially a settlement like Florida,
located at the forks of a pretty stream, Salt River, which those early
settlers believed might one day become navigable and carry the
merchandise of that region down to the mighty Mississippi, thence to the
world outside.
In those days came John A. Quarles, of Kentucky, with his wife, who had
been Patsey Ann Lampton; also, later, Benjamin Lampton, her father, and
others of the Lampton race. It was natural that they should want Jane
Clemens and her husband to give up that disheartening east Tennessee
venture and join them in this new and promising land. It was natural,
too, for John Quarles--happy-hearted, generous, and optimistic--to write
the letter. There were only twenty-one houses in Florida, but Quarles
counted stables, out-buildings--everything with a roof on it--and set
down the number at fifty-four.
Florida, with its iridescent promise and negligible future, was just the
kind of a place that John Clemens with unerring instinct would be certain
to select, and the Quarles letter could have but one answer. Yet there
would be the longing for companionship, too, and Jane Clemens must have
hungered for her people. In The Gilded Age, the Sellers letter ends:
"Come!--rush!--hurry!--don't wait for anything!"
The Clemens family began immediately its preparation for getting away.
The store was sold, and the farm; the last two wagon-loads of produce
were sent to Louisville; and with the aid of the money realized, a few
hundred dollars, John Clemens and his family "flitted out into the great
mysterious blank that lay beyond the Knobs of Tennessee." They had a
two-horse barouche, which would seem to have been preserved out of their
earlier fortunes. The barouche held the parents and the three younger
children, Pamela, Margaret, anal the little boy, Benjamin. There were
also two extra horses, which Orion, now ten, and Jennie, the | 1,184.986656 |
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Produced by Martin Robb
TOBY TYLER
or
TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS
By James Otis
I. TOBY'S INTRODUCTION TO THE CIRCUS
"Wouldn't you give more 'n six peanuts for a cent?" was a question asked
by a very small boy, with big, staring eyes, of a candy vender at a
circus booth. And as he spoke he looked wistfully at the quantity of
nuts piled high up on the basket, and then at the six, each of which now
looked so small as he held them in his hand.
"Couldn't do it," was the reply of the proprietor of the booth, as he
put the boy's penny carefully away in the drawer.
The little fellow looked for another moment at his purchase, and then
carefully cracked the largest one.
A shade--and a very deep shade it was--of disappointment passed over his
face, and then, looking up anxiously, he asked, "Don't you swap 'em when
they're bad?"
The man's face looked as if a smile had been a stranger to it for a long
time; but one did pay it a visit just then, and he tossed the boy two
nuts, and asked him a question at the same time. "What is your name?"
The big brown eyes looked up for an instant, as if to learn whether
the question was asked in good faith, and then their owner said, as he
carefully picked apart another nut, "Toby Tyler."
"Well, that's a queer name."
"Yes, I s'pose so, myself; but, you see, I don't expect that's the
name that belongs to me. But the fellers call me so, an' so does Uncle
Dan'l."
"Who is Uncle Daniel?" was the next question. In the absence of other
customers the man seemed disposed to get as much amusement out of the
boy as possible.
"He hain't my uncle at all; I only call him so because all the boys do,
an' I live with him."
"Where's your father and mother?"
"I don't know," said Toby, rather carelessly. "I don't know much about
'em, an' Uncle Dan'l says they don't know much about me. Here's another
bad nut; goin' to give me two more?"
The two nuts were given him, and he said, as he put them in his pocket
and turned over and over again those which he held in his hand: "I
shouldn't wonder if all of these was bad. S'posen you give me two for
each one of 'em before I crack 'em, an' then they won't be spoiled so
you can't sell 'em again."
As this offer of barter was made, the man looked amused, and he asked,
as he counted out the number which Toby desired, "If I give you these,
I suppose you'll want me to give you two more for each one, and you'll
keep that kind of a trade going until you get my whole stock?"
"I won't open my head if every one of em's bad."
"All right; you can keep what you've got, and I'll give you these
besides; but I don't want you to buy any more, for I don't want to do
that kind of business."
Toby took the nuts offered, not in the least abashed, and seated himself
on a convenient stone to eat them, and at the same time to see all that
was going on around him. The coming of a circus to the little town of
Guilford was an event, and Toby had hardly thought of anything else
since the highly colored posters had first been put up. It was yet quite
early in the morning, and the tents were just being erected by the men.
Toby had followed, with eager eyes, everything that looked as if it
belonged to the circus, from the time the first wagon had entered the
town until the street parade had been made and everything was being
prepared for the afternoon's performance.
The man who had made the losing trade in peanuts seemed disposed to
question the boy still further, probably owing to the fact that he had
nothing better to do.
"Who is this Uncle Daniel you say you live with? Is he a farmer?"
"No; he's a deacon, an' he raps me over the head with the hymn book
whenever I go to sleep in meetin', an' he says I eat four times as much
as I earn. I blame him for hittin' so hard when I go to sleep, but I
s'pose he's right about my eatin'. You see," and here his tone grew both
confidential and mournful, "I am an awful eater, an' I can't seem to
help it. Somehow I'm hungry all the time. I don't seem ever to get
enough till carrot time comes, an' then I can get all I want without
troublin' anybody."
"Didn't you ever have enough to eat?"
"I s'pose I did; but you see Uncle Dan'l he found me one mornin' on his
hay, an' he says I was cryin' for something to eat then, an' I've kept
it up ever since. I tried to get him to give me money enough to go into
the circus with; but he said a cent was all he could spare these hard
times, an' I'd better take that an' buy something to eat with it, for
the show wasn't very good, anyway. I wish peanuts wasn't but a cent a
bushel."
"Then you would make yourself sick eating them."
"Yes, I s'pose I should; Uncle Dan'l says I'd eat till I was sick, if I
got the chance; but I'd like to try it once."
He was a | 1,185.081742 |
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Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber Note
Text emphasis denoted as _Italics_.
=== THE ===
Cleveland Medical Gazette
----------------------------------------------------------------------
_VOL. I._ _FEBRUARY, 1886._ _No. 4._
----------------------------------------------------------------------
ORIGINAL LECTURES.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
ULCER OF THE STOMACH.
A LECTURE BY PROF. L. OSER OF VIENNA, AUSTRIA.
[Translated for the Cleveland Medical Gazette by Dr. C. Rosenwasser].
Gentlemen! The disease which we intend to study to-day is one, the
traces of which are found much oftener at post-mortems than the disease
itself in the clinic. A great many cases are overlooked and improperly
diagnosed for reasons which I shall state hereafter.
It has been called by various names. Round ulcer, perforating ulcer,
chronic ulcer, corroding ulcer and simple ulcer are only different
designations for one and the same condition. I prefer to call it
_peptic ulcer_, as it is always the result of self-digestion of a part
of the walls of the stomach, but is not always round, nor perforating,
nor chronic, nor corroded; nor is it always simple, several ulcers
having occasionally been found in one and the same stomach.
Pathologists have not yet come to a positive decision on the _modus
operandi_ of its origin, but several conditions are mentioned as
necessary for its development.
1. The self-digestion of a part of the stomach by the gastric juice.
2. Disturbances of the circulation of the blood in the walls of the
stomach.
3. The alkalinity of the blood circulating in the walls of the stomach
prevents the digestion of the mucous membrane. If this action on the
walls of the stomach is prevented in any way, the development of an
ulcer is aided. This clause has been accepted until recently, when
it has been rendered somewhat doubtful by the results of certain
experiments.
The first clause is sustained by the fact that the peptic ulcer is only
found in those parts which are brought into direct contact with the
gastric juice. It is further proven by the softening of the stomach so
frequently found at post-mortem. But as long as the circulation of the
blood in the walls of the stomach is normal, ulcers do not form. The
formation of an ulcer in the stomach presupposes a local disturbance
of the circulation. It is usual to find thrombi and diseases of
the bloodvessels in cases where ulcers of the stomach occur. For
this reason the latter is more common in anaemic persons where the
circulation is retarded and the bloodvessels frequently subject to
fatty degeneration.
Virchow regards embolism of a small vessel as the origin of ulcer of
the stomach. Cohnheim disproved this beyond doubt by showing that there
is an abundant circulation in the walls of the stomach by which the
parts affected are again quickly supplied with blood. Klebs takes for
granted a spasmodic contraction of single bloodvessels as the cause
of the retardation of the circulation, while Rindfleich attributes
it to the poor anastomotic connection of the gastric veins. He calls
attention to the frequent coincidence of ulcer and hemorrhagic
infarct in the walls of the stomach. Cohnheim injected chromate of
lead into the gastric branch of the splenic artery in animals, and
when he succeeded in cutting off the arterial supply of the mucous
and subm | 1,185.081903 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Volume One, Chapter I.
HIS HOUSE.
Early morning at Saltinville, with the tide down, and the calm sea
shimmering like damasked and deadened silver in the sunshine. Here and
there a lugger was ashore, delivering its take of iris-hued mackerel to
cart and basket, as a busy throng stood round, some upon the sands, some
knee-deep in water, and all eager to obtain a portion of the fresh fish
that fetched so good a price amongst the visitors to the town.
The trawler was coming in, too, with its freight of fine thick soles and
turbot, with a few gaily-scaled red mullet; and perhaps a staring-eyed
John Dory or two, from the trammel net set overnight amongst the rocks:
all choice fish, these, to be bought up ready for royal and noble use,
for London would see no scale of any of the fish caught that night.
The unclouded sun flashed from the windows of the houses on the cliff,
giving them vivid colours that the decorator had spared, and lighting up
the downs beyond, so that from the sea Saltinville looked a very picture
of all that was peaceful and bright. There were no huge stucco palaces
to mar the landscape, for all was modest as to architecture, and as
fresh as green and stone- paint applied to window-frame, veranda
and shutter could make it. Flowers of variety were not plentiful, but
great clusters of orange marigolds flourished bravely, and, with
broad-disked sunflowers, did no little towards giving warmth of colour
to the place. There had been no storms of late--no windy nights when
the spray was torn from the tops of waves to fly in showers over the
houses, and beat the window-panes, crusting them afterwards with a coat
of dingy salt. The windows, then, were flashing in the sun; but all the
same, by six o'clock, Isaac Monkley, the valet, body-servant, and
footman-in-ordinary to Stuart Denville, Esquire, MC, was busy, dressed
in a striped jacket, and standing on the very top of a pair of steps,
cloth in one hand and wash-leather in the other, carefully cleaning
windows that were already spotless. For there was something in the
exterior of the MC's house that suggested its tenant. Paint, glass,
walls, and doorstep were so scrupulously clean that they recalled the
master's face, and seemed to have been clean-shaven but an hour before.
Isaac was not alone in his task, for, neat in a print dress and snowy
cap, Eliza, the housemaid, was standing on a chair within; and as they
cleaned the windows in concert, they courted in a special way.
There is no accounting for the pleasure people find in very ordinary
ways. Isaac and Eliza found theirs in making the glass so clear that
they could smile softly at each other without let or hindrance produced
by smear or speck in any single pane. Their hands, too, were kept in
contact, saving for cloth and glass, and moved in unison, describing
circles and a variety of other figures, going into the corners together,
changing from cloth to wash-leather, and moving, as it were, by one set
of muscles till the task was concluded with a chaste salute--a kiss
through the glass.
Meanwhile, anyone curious about the house would, if he had raised his
eyes, have seen that one of the upstairs windows had a perfect screen of
flowers, that grew from a broad, green box along the sill. Sweet peas
clustered, roses bloomed, geraniums dotted it with brilliant tiny
pointless stars of scarlet, and at one side there was a string that ran
up from a peg to a nail, hammered, unknown to the MC, into the wall.
That peg was an old tooth-brush handle, and the nail had been driven in
with the back of a hairbrush; but bone handle and string were invisible
now, covered by the twining strands of so many ipomaeas, whose
heart-shaped leaves and trumpet blossoms formed one of the most lovely
objects of the scene. Here they were of richest purple, fading into
lavender and grey; there of delicate pink with well-formed starry
markings in the inner bell, and moist with the soft air of early
morning. Each blossom was a thing of beauty soon to fade, for, as the
warm beams of the sun kissed them, the edges began to curl; then there
would be a fit of shrivelling, and the bloom of the virgin flower passed
under the sun-god's too ardent caress.
About and above this screen of flowers, a something ivory white, and
tinged with peachy pink, kept darting in and out. Now it touched a
rose, and a shower of petals fell softly down; now a geranium leaf that
was turning yellow disappeared; now again a twig that had borne roses
was taken away, after a sound that resembled a steely click. Then the
little crimson and purple blossoms of a fuchsia were touched, and
shivered and twinkled in the light at the soft movements among the
graceful stems as dying flowers were swept away.
For a minute again all was still, but the next, there was a fresh
vibration amongst the flowers as this ivory whiteness appeared in a new
place, curving round a plant as if in loving embrace; and at such times
the blooms seemed drawn towards another and larger flower of thicker
petal and of coral hue, that peeped out amongst the fresh green leaves,
and then it was that a watcher would have seen that this ivory something
playing about the window garden was a soft white hand.
Again a fresh vibration amongst the clustering flowers, as if they were
trembling with delight at the touches that were once more to come. Then
there was a brilliant flash as the sun's rays glanced from a bright
vessel, the pleasant gurgle of water from a glass carafe, and once more
stillness before the stems were slowly parted, and a larger flower
peeped out from the leafy screen--the soft, sweet face of Claire
Denville--to gaze at the sea and sky, and inhale the morning air.
Richard Linnell was not there to look up and watch the changes in the
sweet, candid face, with its high white forehead, veined with blue, its
soft, peachy cheeks and clear, dark-grey eyes, full of candour, but
searching and firm beneath the well-marked brows. Was her mouth too
large? Perhaps so; but what a curve to that upper lip, what a bend to
the lower over that retreating dimpled chin. If it had been smaller the
beauty of the regular teeth would have been more hidden, and there would
have been less of the pleasant smile that came as Claire brushed aside
her wavy brown hair, turned simply back, and knotted low down upon her
neck.
Pages might be written in Claire Denville's praise: let it suffice that
she was a tall, graceful woman, and that even the most disparaging
scandalmonger of the place owned that she was "not amiss."
Claire Denville's gaze out to sea was but a short one. Then her face
disappeared; the stems and blossoms darted back to form a screen, and
the tenant of the barely-furnished bedroom was busy for some time,
making the bed and placing all in order before drawing a tambour frame
to the window, and unpinning a piece of paper that guarded the gay silks
and wools. Then for the next hour Claire bent over her work, the
glistening needle passing rapidly in and out as she gazed intently at
the pattern rapidly approaching completion, a piece of work that was to
be taken surreptitiously to Miss Clode's library and fancy bazaar for
sale, money being a scarce commodity in the MC's home.
From below, time after time, came up sounds of preparation for the
breakfast of the domestics, then for their own, and Claire sighed as she
thought of the expenses incurred for three servants, and how much
happier they might be if they lived in simpler style.
The chiming of the old church clock sounded sweetly on the morning air.
_Ting-dong_--quarter-past; and Claire listened attentively.
_Ting-dong_--half-past.
_Ting-dong_--quarter to eight.
"How time goes!" she cried, with a wistful look at her work, which she
hurriedly covered, and then her print dress rustled as she ran
downstairs to find her father already in the little pinched parlour,
dubbed breakfast-room, standing thin and pensive in a long faded
dressing-gown, one arm resting upon the chimney-piece, snuff-box in
hand, the other raised level with his face, holding the
freshly-dipped-for pinch--in fact, standing in a studied attitude, as if
for his portrait to be limned.
Volume One, Chapter II.
HIS BREAKFAST.
"Ah, my child, you are late," said the Master of the Ceremonies, as
Claire ran to meet him and kissed his cheek. "`Early to bed and early
to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.' It will do the same
for you, my child, and add bloom to your cheek, though, of course, we
cannot be early in the season."
"I am a little late, papa dear," said Claire, ringing a tinkling bell,
with the result that Isaac, in his striped jacket and the stiffest of
white cravats, entered, closed the door behind him, and then stood
statuesque, holding a brightly-polished kettle, emitting plenty of
steam.
"Any letters, Isaac?"
"No, sir, none this morning," and then Isaac carefully poured a small
quantity of the boiling water into the teapot, whose lid Claire had
raised, and stood motionless while she poured it out again, and then
unlocked a very small tea-caddy and spooned out three very small
spoonfuls--one apiece, and none for the over-cleaned and de-silvered
plated pot. This done, Isaac filled up, placed the kettle on the hob,
fetched a Bible and prayer-book from a sideboard, placed them at one end
of the table and went out.
"Why is not Morton down?" said the MC sternly.
"He came down quite an hour ago, papa. He must have gone for a walk.
Shall we wait?"
"Certainly not, my child."
At that moment there was a little scuffling outside the door, which was
opened directly after by Isaac, who admitted Eliza and a very
angular-looking woman with two pins tightly held between her lips--pins
that she had intended to transfer to some portion of her garments, but
had not had time. These three placed themselves before three chairs by
the door, and waited till the MC had gracefully replaced his snuff-box,
and taken two steps to the table, where he and Claire sat down. Then
the servants took their seats, and then "Master" opened the Bible to
read in a slow, deliberate way, and as if he enjoyed the names, that New
Testament chapter on genealogies which to youthful ears seemed to be
made up of a constant repetition of the two words, "which was."
This ended, all rose and knelt down, Isaac with the point of his elbow
just touching the point of Eliza's elbow, for he comforted his
conscience over this tender advance by the reflection that marriage,
though distant, was a sacred thing; and he made up for his unspiritual
behaviour to a great extent by saying the "Amens" in a much louder voice
than Cook, and finished off in the short space of silence after the
Master of the Ceremonies had read the last Collect, and when all were
expected to continue their genuflexions till that personage sighed and
made a movement as if to rise, by adding a short extempore prayer of his
own, one which he had repeated religiously for the past four years
without effect, the supplication being:
"And finally, may we all get the arrears of our wages, evermore. Amen."
Isaac had finished his supplementary prayer; the MC sighed and rose,
and, the door being opened by the footman, the two maids stepped out.
Isaac followed, and in a few minutes returned with a very coppery rack,
containing four thin pieces of toast, and a little dish whose contents
were hidden by a very battered cover. These were placed with the
greatest form upon the table, and the cover removed with a flourish, to
reveal two very thin and very curly pieces of streaky bacon, each of
which had evidently been trying to inflate itself like the frog in the
fable, but with no other result than the production of a fatty bladdery
puff, supported by a couple of patches of brown.
Isaac handed the toast to father and daughter, and then went off with
the cover silently as a spirit, and the breakfast was commenced by the
MC softly breaking a piece of toast with his delicate fingers and
saying:
"I am displeased with Morton. After yesterday's incident, he should
have been here to discuss with me the future of his campaign."
"Here he is, papa," cried Claire eagerly, and she rose to kiss her
brother affectionately as he came rather boisterously into the room,
looking tall, thin and pale, but healthy and hungry, as an overgrown boy
of nineteen would look who had been out at the seaside before breakfast.
"You were not here to prayers, Morton," said the MC sternly.
"No, father; didn't know it was so late," said the lad, beginning on the
toast as soon as he was seated.
"I trust that you have not been catching--er--er--dabs, this morning."
The word was distasteful when the fish was uncooked, and required an
effort to enunciate.
"Oh, but I have, though. Rare sport this morning. Got enough for
dinner."
The MC was silent for a few moments, and gracefully sipped his thin tea.
He was displeased, but there was a redeeming feature in his son's
announcement--enough fish for dinner. There would be no need to order
anything of the butcher.
"Hush, Morton," said Claire softly, and she laid her soft little hand on
his, seeing their father about to speak.
"I am--er--sorry that you should be so thoughtless, Morton," said his
father; "at a time, too, when I am making unheard-of efforts to obtain
that cornetcy for you; how can you degrade yourself--you, the son of a--
er--man--a--er--gentleman in my position, by going like a common boy
down below that pier to catch--er--dabs!"
"Well, we want them," retorted the lad. "A good dinner of dabs isn't to
be sneezed at. I'm as hungry as hungry, sometimes. See how thin I am.
Why, the boys laugh, and call me Lanky Denville."
"What is the opinion of boys to a young man with your prospects in
life?" said his father, carefully ignoring the question of food supply.
"Besides, you ought to be particular, sir, for the sake of your sister
May, who has married so well."
"What, to jerry-sneaky Frank Burnett? A little humbug."
"Morton!"
"Well, so he is, father. I asked him to lend me five shillings the day
before yesterday, and he called me an importunate beggar."
"You had no business to ask him for money, sir."
"Who am I to ask, then? I must have money. You won't let me go out to
work."
"No, sir; you are a gentleman's son, and must act as a gentleman."
"I can't act as a gentleman without money," cried the lad, eating away,
for, to hide the look of pain in her face, Claire kept diligently
attending to her brother's wants by supplying him with a fair amount of
thin tea and bread and butter, as well as her own share of the bacon.
"My dear son," said the MC with dignity, "everything comes to the man
who will wait. Your sister May has made a wealthy marriage. Claire
will, I have no doubt, do the same, and I have great hopes of your
prospects."
"Haven't any prospects," said the lad, in an ill-used tone.
"Not from me," said the MC, "for I am compelled to keep up appearances
before the world, and my fees and offerings are not nearly so much as
people imagine."
"Then why don't we live accordingly?" said the lad roughly.
"Allow me, with my experience, sir, to know best; and I desire that you
will not take that tone towards me. Recollect, sir, that I am your
father."
"Indeed, dear papa, Morton does not mean to be disrespectful."
"Silence, Claire. And you, Morton; I will be obeyed."
"All right, father. I'll obey fast enough, but it does seem precious
hard to see Ikey down in the kitchen stuffing himself, and us up in the
parlour going short so as to keep up appearances."
"My boy," said the MC pathetically, "it is Spartan-like. It is
self-denying and manly. Have courage, and all will end well. I know it
is hard. It is my misfortune, but I appeal to you both, do I ever
indulge myself at your expense? Do I ever spare myself in my efforts
for you?"
"No, no, no, dear," cried Claire, rising with tears in her eyes to throw
her arm round his neck and kiss him.
"Good girl!--good girl!" he said, smiling sadly, and returning the
embrace. "But sit down, sit down now, and let us discuss these very
weighty matters. Fortune is beginning to smile upon us, my dears. May
is off my hands--well married."
Claire shook her head sadly.
"I say well married, Claire," said her father sternly, "and though we
have still that trouble ever facing us, of a member of our family
debauched by drunkenness, and sunk down to the degradation of a common
soldier--"
"Oh! I say, father, leave poor old Fred alone," cried Morton. "He
isn't a bad fellow; only unlucky."
"Be silent, sir, and do not mention his name again in my presence. And
Claire, once for all, I forbid his coming to this house."
"He only came to the back door," grumbled Morton.
"A son who is so degraded that he cannot come to the front door, and
must lower himself to the position of one of our servants, is no
companion for my children. I forbid all further communication with
him."
"Oh, papa!" cried Claire, with the tears in her eyes.
"Silence! Morton, my son, I have hopes that by means of my interest a
certain person will give you a commission in the Light Dragoons, and--
For what we have received may the Lord make us truly thankful."
"Amen," said Morton. "Claire, I want some more bread and butter."
"Claire," said the Master of the Ceremonies, rising from the table as a
faint tinkle was heard, "there is the Countess's bell."
He drew the girl aside and laid a thin white finger upon her shoulder.
"You must give her a broader hint this morning, Claire. Six months, and
she has paid nothing whatever. I cannot, I really cannot go on finding
her ladyship in apartments and board like this. It is so unreasonable.
A woman, too, with her wealth. Pray, speak to her again, but don't
offend her. You must be careful. Delicately, my child--delicately. A
leader of fashion even now. A woman of exquisite refinement. Of the
highest aristocracy. Speak delicately. It would never do to cause her
annoyance about such a sordid thing as money--a few unsettled debts of
honour. Ah, her bell again. Don't keep her waiting."
"If you please, ma'am, her ladyship has rung twice," said Isaac,
entering the room; "and Eliza says shall she go?"
"No, Isaac, your mistress will visit her ladyship," said the MC with
dignity. "You can clear away, Isaac--you can clear away."
Stuart Denville, Esquire, walked to the window and took a pinch of
snuff. As soon as his back was turned Isaac grinned and winked at
Morton, making believe to capture and carry off the bread and butter;
while the lad hastily wrote on a piece of paper:
"Pour me out a cup of tea in the pantry, Ike, and I'll come down."
Five minutes later the room was cleared, and the MC turned from the
window to catch angrily from the table some half-dozen letters which the
footman had placed ready for him to see.
"Bills, bills, bills," he said, in a low, angry voice, thrusting them
unread into the drawer of a cabinet; "what am I to do? How am I to
pay?"
He sat down gracefully, as if it were part of his daily life, and his
brow wrinkled, and an old look came into his face as he thought of the
six months' arrears of the lady who occupied his first floor, and his
hands began to tremble strangely as he seemed to see open before him an
old-fashioned casket, in which lay, glittering upon faded velvet,
necklet, tiara, brooch, earrings and bracelets--large diamonds of price;
a few of which, if sold, would be sufficient to pay his debts, and
enable him to keep up appearances, and struggle on, till Claire was well
married, and his son well placed.
Money--money--always struggling on for money in this life of beggarly
gentility; while only on the next floor that old woman on the very brink
of the grave had trinkets, any one of which--
He made a hasty gesture, as if he were thrusting back some temptation,
and took up a newspaper, but let it fall upon his knees as his eyes lit
upon a list of bankrupts.
Was it come to that? He was heavily in debt to many of the
tradespeople. The epidemic in the place last year had kept so many
people away, and his fees had been less than ever. Things still looked
bad. Then there was the rent, and Barclay had said he would not wait,
and there were the bills that Barclay held--his acceptances for money
borrowed at a heavy rate to keep up appearances when his daughter May--
his idol--the pretty little sunbeam of his house--became Mrs Frank
Burnett.
"Barclay is hard, very hard," said the Master of the Ceremonies to
himself. "Barclay said--"
He again made that gesture, a gracefully made gesture of repelling
something with his thin, white hands, but the thought came back.
"Barclay said that half the ladies of fashion when short of money,
through play, took their diamonds to their jeweller, sold some of the
best, and had them replaced with paste. It took a connoisseur to tell
the difference by candlelight."
Stuart Denville, poverty-stricken gentleman, the poorest of men,
suffering as he did the misery of one struggling to keep up appearances,
rose to his feet with a red spot in each of his cheeks, and a curious
look in his eyes.
"No, no," he ejaculated excitedly as he walked up and down, "a
gentleman, sir--a gentleman, if poor. Better one's razors or a pistol.
They would say it was all that I could do. Not the first gentleman who
has gone to his grave like that."
He shuddered and stood gazing out of the window at the sea, which
glittered in the sunshine like--yes, like diamonds.
Barclay said he had often changed diamonds for paste, and no one but a
judge could tell what had been done. Half a dozen of the stones from a
bracelet replaced with paste, and he would be able to hold up his head
for a year, and by that time how changed everything might be.
Curse the diamonds! Was he mad? Why did the sea dance and sparkle, and
keep on flashing like brilliants? Was it the work of some devil to
tempt him with such thoughts? Or was he going mad?
He took pinch after pinch of snuff, and walked up and down with studied
dancing-master strides as if he were being observed, instead of alone in
that shabby room, and as he walked he could hear the dull buzz of voices
and a light tread overhead.
He walked to the window again with a shudder, and the sea still seemed
to be all diamonds.
He could not bear it, but turned to his seat, into which he sank
heavily, and covered his face with his hands.
Diamonds again--glistening diamonds, half a dozen of which, taken--why
not borrowed for a time from the old woman who owed him so much, and
would not pay? Just borrowed for the time, and paste substituted till
fate smiled upon him, and his plans were carried out. How easy it would
be. And she, old, helpless, would never know the difference--and it was
to benefit his children.
"I cannot bear it," he moaned; and then, "Barclay would do it for me.
He is secret as the tomb. He never speaks. If he did, what reputations
he could blast."
So easy; the old woman took her opiate every night, and slept till
morning. She would not miss the cross--yes, that would be the one--no,
a bracelet better. She never wore that broad bracelet, Claire said, now
she had realised that her arms were nothing but bone.
"Am I mad?" cried the old man, starting up again. "Yes, what is it?"
"Messenger from Mr Barclay, sir, to say he will call to-morrow at
twelve, and he hopes you will be in."
"Yes, yes, Isaac; say yes, I will be in," said the wretched man, sinking
back in his chair with the perspiration starting out all over his brow.
And then, as he was left alone, "How am I to meet him? What am I to
say?" he whispered. "Oh, it is too horrible to bear!"
Once more he started to his feet and walked to the window and looked out
upon the sea.
Diamonds--glittering diamonds as far as eye could reach, and the Master
of the Ceremonies, realising more and more the meaning of the word
temptation, staggered away from the window with a groan.
Volume One, Chapter III.
THE FLICKERING FLAME.
"Draw the curtains, my dear, and then go into the next room, and throw
open the French window quite wide."
It was a mumbling | 1,185.179031 |
2023-11-16 18:36:49.2618690 | 190 | 46 |
Produced by Chuck Greif 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 spelling (sometimes archaic: shew, extacy, stopt, etc.) of the
original book has been retained. (Note of transcriber)]
GOMEZ ARIAS;
OR,
THE MOORS OF THE ALPUJARRAS.
A SPANISH HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
BY
DON TELESFORO DE TRUEBA Y COSIO.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
PREFACE.
CHAPTER I., II., III., IV., V., VI., VII., VIII., IX., X., XI.,
XII., XIII., XIV.
VOL. II.
CHAPTER I., II., III., IV., V., VI., VII | 1,185.281909 |
2023-11-16 18:36:49.2618760 | 1,255 | 7 |
Produced by Amy E Zelmer, Barb Grow, Derek Thompson and David Widger
THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH
By Oliver Goldsmith (Sir Joshua Reynolds)
Oxford Edition
Edited with Introduction and Note by Austin Dobson
PREFATORY NOTE
This volume is a reprint, extended and revised, of the Selected Poems
of Goldsmith issued by the Clarendon Press in 1887. It is 'extended,'
because it now contains the whole of Goldsmith's poetry: it is'revised'
because, besides the supplementary text, a good deal has been added in
the way of annotation and illustration. In other words, the book has
been substantially enlarged. Of the new editorial material, the bulk
has been collected at odd times during the last twenty years; but fresh
Goldsmith facts are growing rare. I hope I have acknowledged obligation
wherever it has been incurred; I trust also, for the sake of those
who come after me, that something of my own will be found to have been
contributed to the literature of the subject.
AUSTIN DOBSON.
Ealing, September, 1906.
CONTENTS
Introduction Chronology of Goldsmith's Life and Poems
POEMS Descriptive Poems The Traveller; or, A Prospect of Society page 3
The Deserted Village page 23 Lyrical and Miscellaneous Pieces Prologue
of Laberius page 41 On a Beautiful Youth struck Blind with Lightning
page 42 The Gift. To Iris, in Bow Street page 43 The Logicians Refuted
page 44 A Sonnet page 46 Stanzas on the Taking of Quebec page 46 An
Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize page 47 Description of an Author's Bedchamber
page 48 On seeing Mrs. *** perform in the Character of **** page 49
On the Death of the Right Hon.*** page 50 An Epigram. Addressed to the
Gentlemen reflected on in 'The Rosciad', a Poem, by the Author page 51
To G. C. and R. L. page 51 Translation of a South American Ode page 51
The Double Transformation. A Tale page 52 A New Simile, in the Manner of
Swift page 56 Edwin and Angelina page 59 Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog
page 65 Song ('When Lovely Woman,' etc.) page 67 Epilogue to The Good
Natur'd Man page 68 Epilogue to The Sister page 70 Prologue to Zobeide
page 72 Threnodia Augustalis: Sacred to the Memory of Her Late
Royal Highness the Princess Dowager of Wales page 74 Song ('Let
school-masters,' etc.) page 84 Epilogue to She Stoops to Conquer page
85 Retaliation page 87 Song ('Ah, me! when shall I marry me?') page 94
Translation ('Chaste are their instincts') page 94
page v
The Haunch of Venison page 95 Epitaph on Thomas Parnell page 100 The
Clown's Reply page 100 Epitaph on Edward Purdon page 100 Epilogue for
Lee Lewes page 101 Epilogue written for She Stoops to Conquer (1)
page 103 Epilogue written for She Stoops to Conquer (2) page 108 The
Captivity. An Oratorio Verses in Reply to an Invitation to Dinner page
128 Letter in Prose and Verse to Mrs. Bunbury page 130 Vida's Game of
Chess page 135
NOTES Introduction to the Notes page 159 Editions of the Poems page
161 The Traveller page 162 The Deserted Village page 177 Prologue of
Laberius page 190 On a Beautiful Youth struck Blind with Lightning page
192 The Gift page 193 The Logicians Refuted page 194 A Sonnet page 196
Stanzas on the Taking of Quebec page 196 An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize
page 197 Description of an Author's Bedchamber page 199 On seeing Mrs.
*** perform in the Character of **** page 202 On the Death of the
Right Hon. *** page 202 An Epigram page 203 To G. C. and R. L. page 203
Translation of a South American Ode page 203 The Double Transformation
page 203 A New Simile page 205 Edwin and Angelina page 206 Elegy on the
Death of a Mad Dog page 212 Song (from The Vicar of Wakefield) page 213
Epilogue (The Good Natur'd Man) page 214 Epilogue (The Sister) page 215
Prologue (Zobeide) page 216 Threnodia Augustalis page 218 Song (from She
Stoops to Conquer) page 219
page vi
Epilogue (She Stoops to Conquer) page 220 Retaliation page 222 Song
intended for She Stoops to Conquer page 235 Translation page 236 The
Haunch of Venison page 236 Epitaph on Thomas Parnell page 243 The
Clown's Reply page 244 Epitaph on Edward Purdon page 244 Epilogue for
Lee Lewes's Benefit page 245 Epilogue (She Stoops to Conquer) (1) page
246 Epilogue (She Stoops to Conquer) (2) page 248 The Captivity page 249
Verses in Reply to an Invitation to Dinner page 250 Letter in Prose and
Verse to Mrs. Bunbury page 252 Vida's Game of Chess page 255
APPENDIXES Portraits of Goldsmith page 259 Descriptions of Newell's
Views of Lissoy, etc. page 262 The Epithet 'Sentimental' page 264
Fragments of Trans | 1,185.281916 |
2023-11-16 18:36:49.2631880 | 439 | 11 |
Produced by David Widger
THE DORE GALLERY OF BIBLE ILLUSTRATIONS
Illustrated by Gustave Dore
Complete
This volume, as its title indicates, is a collection of engravings
illustrative of the Bible--the designs being all from the pencil of the
greatest of modern delineators, Gustave Dore. The original work, from
which this collection has been made, met with an immediate and warm
recognition and acceptance among those whose means admitted of its
purchase, and its popularity has in no wise diminished since its first
publication, but has even extended to those who could only enjoy it
casually, or in fragmentary parts. That work, however, in its entirety,
was far too costly for the larger and ever-widening circle of M. Dore's
admirers, and to meet the felt and often-expressed want of this class,
and to provide a volume of choice and valuable designs upon sacred
subjects for art-loving Biblical students generally, this work was
projected and has been carried forward. The aim has been to introduce
subjects of general interest--that is, those relating to the most
prominent events and personages of Scripture--those most familiar to all
readers; the plates being chosen with special reference to the known
taste of the American people. To each cut is prefixed a page of
letter-press--in, narrative form, and containing generally a brief
analysis of the design. Aside from the labors of the editor and
publishers, the work, while in progress, was under the pains-taking and
careful scrutiny of artists and scholars not directly interested in the
undertaking, but still having a generous solicitude for its success. It
is hoped, therefore, that its general plan and execution will render it
acceptable both to the appreciative and friendly patrons of the great
artist, and to those who would wish to possess such a work solely as a
choice collection of illustrations upon sacred themes.
GUSTAVE DORE.
The subject of this sketch is, perhaps, the most original | 1,185.283228 |
2023-11-16 18:36:49.3736050 | 819 | 11 |
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.)
VILLAGE FOLK-TALES OF CEYLON
Vol. I
Collected and Translated by
H. PARKER
Late of the Irrigation Department, Ceylon
LONDON
LUZAC & CO
Publishers to the India Office
1910
CONTENTS
PAGE
Introduction 1
PART I.
STORIES OF THE CULTIVATING CASTE AND VAEDDAS.
NO.
1 The Making of the Great Earth 47
2 The Sun, the Moon, and Great Paddy 52
3 The Story of Senasura 54
4 The Glass Princess 57
5 The Frog Prince 67
6 The Millet Trader 72
7 The Turtle Dove 79
8 The Prince and the Princess 93
9 Tamarind Tikka 100
10 Matalange Loku-Appu 108
11 The White Turtle 113
12 The Black Storks' Girl 120
13 The Golden Kaekiri Fruit 129
14 The Four Deaf Persons 134
15 The Prince and the Yaka 137
16 How a Yaka and a Man fought 146
17 Concerning a Man and Two Yakas 148
18 The Three Questions 150
19 The Faithless Princess 157
20 The Prince who did not go to School 160
21 Nagul-Munna 169
22 The Kule-baka Flowers 173
23 Kurulu-gama Appu, the Soothsayer 179
24 How a Prince was chased by a Yaksani 186
25 The Wicked King 191
26 The Kitul Seeds 197
27 The Speaking Horse 199
28 The Female Quail 201
29 The Pied Robin 206
30 The Jackal and the Hare 209
31 The Leopard and the Mouse-deer 213
32 The Crocodile's Wedding 216
33 The Gamarala's Cakes 219
34 The Kinnara and the Parrots 224
35 How a Jackal settled a Lawsuit 228
36 The Jackal and the Turtle 234
37 The Lion and the Turtle 241
PART II.
STORIES OF THE LOWER CASTES.
38 The Monkey and the Weaver-Bird (Potter) 247
39 The Jackal Devatawa (Washerman) 249
STORIES OF THE TOM-TOM BEATERS.
The Foolishness of Tom-tom Beaters 252
40 A Kadambawa Man's Journey to Puttalam 253
41 The Kadambawa Men and the Hares 255
42 The Kadambawa Men and the Mouse-deer 256
43 The Kadambawa Men and the Bush 257
44 How the Kadambawa Men counted Themselves 258
45 The Kadambawa Men and the Dream 260
46 The Four Tom-tom Beaters 262
47 The Golden Tree 264
| 1,185.393645 |
2023-11-16 18:36:49.4596190 | 1,765 | 13 |
Produced by Marius Masi, Jonathan Ingram and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's note:
The following typographical errors have been corrected:
In page 58 "He was was an alien, he was supported by the guns of alien
warships,..." 'was was' corrected to 'was'.
In page 226 "I liked the end of that yarn no better than the
begining." 'begining' amended to 'beginning'.
THE WORKS OF
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
SWANSTON EDITION
VOLUME XVII
_Of this SWANSTON EDITION in Twenty-five
Volumes of the Works of ROBERT LOUIS
STEVENSON Two Thousand and Sixty Copies
have been printed, of which only Two Thousand
Copies are for sale._
_This is No._..........
[Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF THE BEACH OF FALESA AND NEIGHBOURING
COUNTRY]
THE WORKS OF
ROBERT LOUIS
STEVENSON
VOLUME SEVENTEEN
LONDON: PUBLISHED BY CHATTO AND
WINDUS: IN ASSOCIATION WITH CASSELL
AND COMPANY LIMITED: WILLIAM
HEINEMANN: AND LONGMANS GREEN
AND COMPANY MDCCCCXII
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
A FOOTNOTE TO HISTORY
EIGHT YEARS OF TROUBLE IN SAMOA
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE ELEMENTS OF DISCORD: NATIVE 5
II. THE ELEMENTS OF DISCORD: FOREIGN 15
III. THE SORROWS OF LAUPEPA (1883 _to September_ 1887) 27
IV. BRANDEIS (_September_ 1887 _to August_ 1888) 53
V. THE BATTLE OF MATAUTU (_September_ 1888) 70
VI. LAST EXPLOITS OF BECKER (_September--November_ 1888) 83
VII. THE SAMOAN CAMPS (_November_ 1888) 103
VIII. AFFAIRS OF LAULII AND FANGALII (_November--December_
1888) 112
IX. "FUROR CONSULARIS" (_December_ 1888 _to March_ 1889) 128
X. THE HURRICANE (_March_ 1889) 142
XI. LAUPEPA AND MATAAFA (1889-1892) 156
ISLAND NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS
The Beach of Falesa:
I. A SOUTH SEA BRIDAL 193
II. THE BAN 206
III. THE MISSIONARY 228
IV. DEVIL-WORK 240
V. NIGHT IN THE BUSH 258
THE BOTTLE IMP 275
THE ISLE OF VOICES 311
A FOOTNOTE TO HISTORY
EIGHT YEARS OF TROUBLE IN SAMOA
PREFACE
An affair which might be deemed worthy of a note of a few lines in any
general history has been here expanded to the size of a volume or large
pamphlet. The smallness of the scale, and the singularity of the manners
and events and many of the characters, considered, it is hoped that, in
spite of its outlandish subject, the sketch may find readers. It has
been a task of difficulty. Speed was essential, or it might come too
late to be of any service to a distracted country. Truth, in the midst
of conflicting rumours and in the dearth of printed material, was often
hard to ascertain, and since most of those engaged were of my personal
acquaintance, it was often more than delicate to express. I must
certainly have erred often and much; it is not for want of trouble taken
nor of an impartial temper. And if my plain speaking shall cost me any
of the friends that I still count, I shall be sorry, but I need not be
ashamed.
In one particular the spelling of Samoan words has been altered; and the
characteristic nasal _n_ of the language written throughout _ng_ instead
of _g_. Thus I put Pango-Pango, instead of Pago-Pago; the sound being
that of soft _ng_ in English, as in _singer_, not as in _finger_.
R.L.S.
VAILIMA,
UPOLU,
SAMOA.
EIGHT YEARS OF TROUBLE IN SAMOA
CHAPTER I
THE ELEMENTS OF DISCORD: NATIVE
The story I have to tell is still going on as I write; the characters
are alive and active; it is a piece of contemporary history in the most
exact sense. And yet, for all its actuality and the part played in it by
mails and telegraphs and iron war-ships, the ideas and the manners of the
native actors date back before the Roman Empire. They are Christians,
church-goers, singers of hymns at family worship, hardy cricketers;
their books are printed in London by Spottiswoode, Truebner, or the Tract
Society; but in most other points they are the contemporaries of our
tattooed ancestors who drove their chariots on the wrong side of the
Roman wall. We have passed the feudal system; they are not yet clear of
the patriarchal. We are in the thick of the age of finance; they are in
a period of communism. And this makes them hard to understand.
To us, with our feudal ideas, Samoa has the first appearance of a land
of despotism. An elaborate courtliness marks the race alone among
Polynesians; terms of ceremony fly thick as oaths on board a ship;
commoners my-lord each other when they meet--and urchins as they play
marbles. And for the real noble a whole private dialect is set apart.
The common names for an axe, for blood, for bamboo, a bamboo knife, a
pig, food, entrails, and an oven are taboo in his presence, as the
common names for a bug and for many offices and members of the body are
taboo in the drawing-rooms of English ladies. Special words are set
apart for his leg, his face, his hair, his belly, his eyelids, his son,
his daughter, his wife, his wife's pregnancy, his wife's adultery,
adultery with his wife, his dwelling, his spear, his comb, his sleep,
his dreams, his anger, the mutual anger of several chiefs, his food, his
pleasure in eating, the food and eating of his pigeons, his ulcers, his
cough, his sickness, his recovery, his death, his being carried on a
bier, the exhumation of his bones, and his skull after death. To address
these demigods is quite a branch of knowledge, and he who goes to visit
a high chief does well to make sure of the competence of his
interpreter. To complete the picture, the same word signifies the
watching of a virgin and the warding of a chief; and the same word means
to cherish a chief and to fondle a favourite child.
Men like us, full of memories of feudalism, hear of a man so addressed,
so flattered, and we leap at once to the conclusion that he is
hereditary and absolute. Hereditary he is; born of a great family, he
must always be a man of mark; but yet his office is elective and (in a
weak sense) is held on good behaviour. Compare the case of a Highland
chief: born one of the great ones of his clan, he was sometimes
appointed its chief officer and conventional father; was loved, and
respected, and served, and fed, and died for implicitly, if he gave
loyalty a chance; and yet if he sufficiently outraged | 1,185.479659 |
2023-11-16 18:36:49.5751230 | 276 | 16 |
Produced by Stephen Kerr and Martin Robb
THE DEERSLAYER
By James Fenimore Cooper
Chapter I.
"There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore.
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal"
Childe Harold.
On the human imagination events produce the effects of time. Thus, he
who has travelled far and seen much is apt to fancy that he has lived
long; and the history that most abounds in important incidents soonest
assumes the aspect of antiquity. In no other way can we account for the
venerable air that is already gathering around American annals. When the
mind reverts to the earliest days of colonial history, the period seems
remote and obscure, the thousand changes that thicken along the links
of recollections, throwing back the origin of the nation to a day so
distant as seemingly to reach the mists of time; and yet four lives of | 1,185.595163 |
2023-11-16 18:36:49.7606500 | 1,145 | 37 |
Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Craig Kirkwood, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This book was produced from images made available by the
HathiTrust Digital Library.)
Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_), and text
enclosed by equal signs is in bold (=bold=).
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
The History Teacher’s Magazine
Volume I.
Number 2.
PHILADELPHIA, OCTOBER, 1909.
$1.00 a year
15 cents a copy
CONTENTS.
PAGE
GAIN, LOSS AND PROBLEM IN RECENT HISTORY TEACHING, by Prof.
William MacDonald 23
TRAINING THE HISTORY TEACHER IN THE ORGANIZATION OF HIS FIELD
OF STUDY, by Prof. N. M. Trenholme 24
INSTRUCTION IN AMERICAN GOVERNMENT IN SECONDARY SCHOOLS, by
Prof. William A. Schaper 26
LESSONS DRAWN FROM THE PAPERS OF HISTORY EXAMINATION
CANDIDATES, by Elizabeth Briggs 27
THE STUDY OF WESTERN HISTORY IN OUR SCHOOLS, by Prof. Clarence
W. Alvord 28
THE NEWEST STATE ASSOCIATION AND AN OLDER ONE, by H. W.
Edwards and Prof. Eleanor L. Lord 30
AN ANCIENT HISTORY CHARACTER SOCIAL, by Mary North 31
EDITORIAL 32
EUROPEAN HISTORY IN THE SECONDARY SCHOOL, by Daniel C.
Knowlton 33
ENGLISH HISTORY IN THE SECONDARY SCHOOL, by C. B. Newton 34
ROBINSON AND BEARD’S “DEVELOPMENT OF MODERN EUROPE,” reviewed
by Prof. S. B. Fay 35
AMERICAN HISTORY IN THE SECONDARY SCHOOL, by Arthur M. Wolfson 36
JAMES AND SANFORD’S NEW TEXTBOOK ON AMERICAN HISTORY, reviewed
by John Sharpless Fox 37
ANCIENT HISTORY IN THE SECONDARY SCHOOL, by William Fairley 38
FOWLER’S “SOCIAL LIFE AT ROME,” reviewed by Prof. Arthur C.
Howland 39
HISTORY IN THE GRADES--THE COLUMBUS LESSON, by Armand J.
Gerson 40
REPORTS FROM THE HISTORICAL FIELD, edited by Walter H. Cushing:
The Colorado Movement; Raising the Standard in Louisiana;
the North Central Association; Syllabus in Civil Government;
Report of the Committee of Eight; the New England Association;
Bibliographies; Exchange of Professors in Summer Schools 41
CORRESPONDENCE 44
Published monthly, except July and August, by McKinley Publishing Co.,
Philadelphia, Pa.
Copyright, 1909, McKinley Publishing Co.
* * * * *
Good Words from Correspondents Concerning the Magazine
“The first number of the ‘Magazine’ is exceedingly interesting, and the
program for the October number promises just as good a one.” J. C. E.
“I am delighted with it. There is a great field for just such a
magazine.... If future numbers are as good as the first, I shall have
spent few dollars to as good advantage.” R. O. H.
“It is an opportune publication, and merits all encouragement.” J. W. B.
“I am very much interested in your new magazine. Think it will be very
helpful in my work.” M. S.
“Am delighted with the copy I have seen, and trust it will fill a
longfelt need.” M. E. E.
“The copy of ‘The History Teacher’s Magazine’ reached me this morning,
and I am very much interested in and pleased with it. I wish you all
success in the undertaking.” M. M.
“After looking carefully over sample copy of ‘The History Teacher’s
Magazine,’ I find that I can use it to a great advantage in many
instances. It is the only magazine I have ever seen that dealt with the
subject of History from the teacher’s standpoint.” F. F. M.
“I have received ‘The History Teacher’s Magazine,’ and like it very
much.” L. R. H.
“‘The History Teacher’s Magazine’ is to the point. It will meet a very
real need.
“I am glad that the problems of college history teaching will find
space in the magazine. No teachers need more to exchange ideas at this
time than do college history teachers.” R. W. K.
“‘The History Teacher’s Magazine’ is excellent, and I have every reason
to believe that the following numbers will be just as good. This sort
of magazine is just what is needed by every teacher of history.” H. C.
S.
“I am delighted with your first copy of ‘The History Teacher’s
Magazine.’ It has long been needed. Every teacher of history will
welcome it.” R. R.
“The magazine is exactly what I want. I am an ambitious history
teacher, and I find in it the needed help.” N. E. S.
“Allow | 1,185.78069 |
2023-11-16 18:36:49.9664050 | 191 | 57 |
Produced by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer.
KWAIDAN: Stories and Studies of Strange Things
By Lafcadio Hearn
A Note from the Digitizer
On Japanese Pronunciation
Although simplified, the following general rules will help the reader
unfamiliar with Japanese to come close enough to Japanese pronunciation.
There are five vowels: a (as in fAther), i (as in machIne), u (as in
fOOl), e (as in fEllow), and o (as in mOle). Although certain vowels
become nearly "silent" in some environments, this phenomenon can be
safely ignored for the purpose at hand.
Consonants roughly approximate their corresponding sounds in English,
except for r, which is actually somewhere between r and l (this is why
the Japanese have trouble distinguishing between English r and l), and
f, which is much closer | 1,185.986445 |
2023-11-16 18:36:50.0597030 | 4,244 | 124 |
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Gentleman Cadet
His Career and Adventures at the Royal Military Academy
Woolwich By Lt. Col. A.W. Drayson
Illustrations by C.J. Staniland
Published by Griffith and Farran, London.
The Gentleman Cadet, by Lt. Col. A.W. Drayson.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
THE GENTLEMAN CADET, BY LT. COL. A.W. DRAYSON.
PREFACE.
The following pages contain a history of the life of a Woolwich Cadet as
it was about thirty years ago. The hero of the tale is taken through
the then usual routine of a cram-school at Woolwich, and from thence
passed into the Royal Military Academy. The reformation that has taken
place--both in the preparatory schools and also at the Academy--may be
judged of by those who read this book and are acquainted with existing
conditions. The habits and life of a Cadet of the present day are well
known, but the singular laws and regulations--written and unwritten--in
former times may not be so generally understood; and, as memory of the
past fades away, the following pages have been penned, to give a history
of the singular life and manners of the old Cadet. The work has no
other pretensions than to give this history, and to afford amusement to
the young aspirant for military glory.
_Southsea, September_, 1874.
CHAPTER ONE.
MY HOME LIFE.
On the borders of the New Forest, in Hampshire, stands an old-fashioned
thatch-roofed family-house, surrounded by cedars and firs, with a
clean-shaved, prim-looking lawn opposite the drawing-room windows, from
which a magnificent view was visible of the forest itself and the
Southampton waters beyond. In that house I was born; and there I passed
the first fourteen years of my existence in a manner that must be
briefly recorded, in order to make the reader acquainted with my state
of education previous to a somewhat eventful career in a more busy
scene.
My father had been intended for the Church, but having at Cambridge
taken a dislike to holy orders, and finding himself left, by the death
of my grandfather, sole possessor of a sum of about thirty thousand
pounds invested in Consols, he decided to live an easy life, and enjoy
himself, instead of taking up any profession--an error that caused him
to be what may be called "a mistake" all his life, and which was the
cause of much suffering to me.
Having devoted some eight or ten years to travelling and seeing the
world, my father married, and selected for his wife the youngest of
seven daughters of a very worthy but very poor clergyman in Wiltshire,
who bore him two daughters and myself; after which she sickened and died
at the early age of twenty-six.
In order to have some one to whom he could entrust the care of his three
children, my father took into his house his eldest sister, who was some
fifteen years his senior, and to whom was given the sole charge of
myself and my two sisters. Aunt Emma, as we used to term her, was my
abhorrence; she had a singular facility of making herself disagreeable,
especially with us young people. That she used to teach us our letters
and our reading and writing was certainly kind on her part--at least, so
she assured me--but she had a way of teaching that was not one at all
suitable to gaining the esteem or affection of a child. Her principal
object in teaching seemed to be to impress on us children that we were
the most stupid, dull, and lazy children in the world, whom it was
little short of martyrdom to try to teach; whilst we were informed that
she, as a child and as a schoolgirl, had always been famous for
quickness in learning, attention to her studies, and love to her
schoolmistress.
We were also being daily impressed with the idea that we were awfully
wicked and selfish, and quite unworthy of any kindness from her or our
father, whilst we were also accused of having a bad motive for
everything we did.
Aunt Emma was a great expert in slapping. Often have I lain in bed and
cried for hours at the remembrance of the unmerited and severe slaps
that my poor little delicate sister had received during the day from
Aunt Emma. There was, I feel glad to say, no real anger in those
feelings, but a sense of utter misery and regret that Aunt Emma should
feel so little for the unhappiness she caused, and for the injustice of
which she was guilty. I was a child then, and I had yet to learn that
there are people in the world who take a delight in making others
unhappy, who attribute to all, except themselves, bad, selfish, or
spiteful motives for every word and act, and to whom the world is an
enemy on which they are justified in renting their spleen.
It may seem to the reader out of place to speak thus of Aunt Emma, but
as she had much to do with my early life, and as her specialities must
then be brought forward, there is really no object in concealing either
her weaknesses or defects.
At the date to which I am referring, some forty years ago, there was a
great taste in many private families for immoderate physicking. Aunt
Emma possessed this taste in no small degree; that she believed in its
efficacy there can be no doubt, because she used to physic herself with
the same generous freedom that she bestowed on us children. Each spring
we regularly, for some five weeks, were put through a course of
brimstone and treacle; each morning we were given a spoonful of treacle
in which the gritty brimstone had been stirred with a free hand. If we
looked pale or tired, or were more than ordinarily stupid at our
lessons, Aunt Emma decided that a three-grain blue pill at night,
followed by a cup of senna tea in the morning, was urgently needed.
These doses came with dangerous frequency, and I can conscientiously
say, not once for a fortnight, from the time I was five years old till
nearly eleven, was I free of physic.
Whether it was from this or from any other cause, I cannot say for
certain, but up to twelve years of age I was a pale, weak, sickly boy,
given to sick headaches, sleepless nights, vomitings, and general
debility, with a strong tendency to get alone somewhere, and either
dream away the hours, or read and re-read any book that I was fortunate
enough to procure.
Up to the age of twelve my life was a kind of tideless sea; time passed,
but there were no events to mark it. Companions I had none, except my
two sisters, and sometimes a forest lad, the son of a gamekeeper, who
used to take me out squirrel-hunting or birds'-nesting. These
expeditions, however, were all but forbidden by my aunt, who visited
with her severe displeasure either absence from a meal or a late arrival
for one.
Having given priority in description to my aunt, I must now endeavour to
describe my father. If I were to write pages I could not more fully
delineate my father's character better than to state that he had but one
fault, viz, he was too kind. This kindness actually degenerated into
weakness, or, as some people might term it, feebleness or indifference.
This peculiar attribute manifested itself in a neglect of my early
education, and of that of my sisters. If it were suggested to him that
I was old enough to go to a school, he invariably found some excuse,
such as that I was just then too much out of health, or he could not
spare me, or I was doing very well at home, or he could not select a
school where he could be sure I should receive proper attention. The
true reason for these excuses was, I believe, that he could not make up
his mind to part with me. I was almost his only companion, for our
nearest neighbour was three miles off, and he was a man devoted to
hunting only, and had none of those refined tastes or love for
literature and art that my father was famous for. The result of these
conditions was that at the age of thirteen I was very old in manner and
thought; I was prematurely old before I was young; but I lacked the
knowledge, education, and experience which usually come with age, and I
was, as regards other boys, the most veritable ignoramus as to the
world--knowing nothing of boys, or of the great school-world, a complete
dunce as regards those points of education on which all other lads of my
own age were well-informed--having a somewhat exaggerated idea of my own
talents, genius, and acquirements, and disposed to look down on those
boys, sons of the neighbouring gentry, who about twice a year came to
our house to partake of our hospitality, and enjoy a picnic in the
forest.
My father was a perfect gentleman, in the full meaning of the word. He
was most sensitive himself, and, believing all those with whom he
associated to be equally gifted, he was most careful and considerate in
all he said or did. With him it was little short of a crime to say or
do anything that could by any chance hurt the feelings of even an
acquaintance. I remember once hearing an anecdote related about my
father, which may show how great was the belief at least of his
sympathies with others. A guest at his dinner-table, on one occasion,
upset by accident a glass of sherry on the table-cloth. The visitor
apologised for his awkwardness, in most humble terms, blushed deeply,
and again commenced a second apology. My father tried to place the
guest at his ease, but, noticing how uncomfortable he appeared, my
father (it was said, purposely) upset his own glass of wine, at which he
laughed immoderately, and was joined by all at table, the result being
that no further apologies were offered or awkwardness exhibited by the
clumsy guest.
My father's pet hobby was Natural History. He had a splendid collection
of all the moths and butterflies to be found in England. It was a great
treat for me to walk with him under the wide-spreading arms of the giant
beech-trees or grand old oaks that grew around us, and watch him select
the grub or cocoon of some insect that would have escaped the attention
of common eyes, and hear him describe the changes through which this
creature passed in its material career.
Many are the happy hours that I have passed with him watching the
gambols of the squirrel, or, with a pair of powerful opera glasses,
scrutinising the detail labours of various birds as they built their
nests. The peculiar habits of various birds and insects were well known
to me long before some of them were made known to the reading world by
those gentlemen whose books on natural history were written from their
experience gained in the library of the British Museum.
Long before naturalists had begun to speculate on the cause of that
peculiar drumming noise made by the snipe when on the wing, my father
and I had convinced ourselves that it was due to the bird spreading open
the pinion feathers as it stooped in its flight. The New Forest was
especially suited for the residence of a naturalist, as in it were many
rare birds and insects, and the opportunities for watching the habits of
these were frequent.
About my future course in life my father never spoke; he seemed disposed
to let matters drift on; and I believe his wish was that I never should
leave home for the purpose of taking up a profession, but that at his
death I should still continue the quiet, peaceful life that we had
hitherto led in the forest.
It is possible that I might have continued contented as a mere forest
boy with country tastes, somewhat feeble powers, and what may be termed
a wasted life, had I not by chance met an individual who in one short
day turned the whole current of my thoughts into a new channel, and
raised in my mind longings and wishes to which I had hitherto been a
stranger. As my whole future life turned at this point I must devote a
new chapter to a description of my meeting with this person.
CHAPTER TWO.
MY FIRST ADVENTURE.
I was in the habit of taking long walks, accompanied by my dog, through
the forest and over those wastes of moorland which are to be found in
various parts of Hampshire. Whilst thus wandering one day, I saw on a
prominent knoll, from which an extensive view could be obtained of the
surrounding country, two men, one of whom had on a red uniform. My life
had been passed so entirely in the wilds of the forest that I had never
before seen a soldier, and my curiosity was at once excited by this
red-coat, and I consequently made my way towards him, intending to
examine him as I would a new specimen of natural history.
On coming near the two persons I saw at once that the one in civilian
dress was a gentleman. To me he looked old, but I afterwards found out
he was only twenty-four; but a man of twenty-four is old to a boy of
fourteen. This gentleman was busily occupied with a strange-looking
instrument, which seemed made partly of brass and partly of wood. It
stood on three legs, which were separated so as to form a pyramid, and
on the apex of this was the brass apparatus referred to. I had
approached to within about twenty yards of this instrument when the
gentleman ceased looking at it, and, turning towards me, said, "Now,
young fellow, mind you don't get shot."
"I beg pardon," I said, "I didn't know you were going to fire." And as
I said so I saw that what appeared rather like a tube was pointing
towards me.
"If you get shot it will be your own fault," said the gentleman; "so
don't expect me to be responsible. Don't you see the muzzle is pointing
at you?"
I slipped round very quickly, so as to place myself, as I supposed,
behind the gun, but, in a moment, round went the instrument with a touch
of the gentleman's finger, and again the tube pointed at me.
"There you are again, right in the way," said the stranger. "If you are
not shot it's a marvel to me."
Seeing a smile on the face of the soldier, I began to suspect that I was
being made fun of, so I said, "I don't believe that is a gun."
"Not a gun? Why, what a disbelieving young Jew you are?"
"I'm not a Jew," I replied indignantly. "I'm a gentleman."
"That's good," exclaimed the stranger, with a laugh. "Then you mean to
assert that a Jew can't be a gentleman? You'd better mind what you're
saying, sir, for I'm a Jew."
I looked at him with surprise, for I had my own idea of what a Jew was
on account of a Jew pedlar coming to our lodge twice a year with a pack
of all sorts of odds and ends to sell; and certainly, as I looked at the
tall, handsome-looking stranger, I saw no similarity between him and the
pedlar. I had lived hitherto in a most matter-of-fact world, where such
a thing as a joke was rare, and what is termed "chaff" was unknown, so I
did not understand the meaning of these remarks, and certainly felt no
inclination to smile.
"Do you live in these parts?" asked the stranger.
"Yes," I replied. "Do you know the forest well?"
"Every part of it."
"Now come here," said the stranger. "Do you see those tall pines--those
on that hill?"
"Yes."
"Well, what is the name of that place?"
"That's Castle Malwood."
"Castle Malwood; and it's well known about here by that name?"
"Yes, of course it is."
"If I were to ask one of these chawbacon foresters to show me where
Castle Malwood was, he would point out that place, eh?"
"Yes; every forester knows that."
"How about the name of that house down there with the yew-trees round
it?"
"That's Blackthorn Lodge, where I live."
"Oh, that's your house, is it? And what's your governor?"
"A gentleman."
"I suppose you are home for the midsummer holidays?"
"No; I don't go to school."
"Tutor at home, I suppose?"
"No."
"Who teaches you, then?"
"Aunt did, and now my father does."
"And what are you going to be?"
"I don't know."
"You ought to be a cadet, and join the Engineers."
I made no reply to this; for I had never thought of any career in the
future, and had never had any ideas beyond our quiet forest home, so I
was not prepared with any remark.
"How do you amuse yourself here?" said the stranger. "Rather a dull
place, I fancy."
"I watch the birds and insects, and study natural history," I replied.
"You are fond of that, are you? You should have been with me in Africa,
then, where you could have watched a herd of wild elephants, or seen a
lion stalk a buck, or a gigantic snake kill a bustard: that's the place
for a naturalist."
"Have you ever seen a wild elephant or lion?" I inquired, looking with
a sudden feeling of respect at the gentleman.
"Seen them and shot them, too, and have been in a country where you had
to burn fires all round you to prevent being trodden down by the herds
of wild animals that come about you of a night."
"Are you a soldier?" I inquired.
"I flatter myself I am. I am an officer of Engineers, and am here now
surveying, and want all the information I can get about the forest; so,
if you like, I'll meet you to-morrow near your house, as I shall be
taking angles on the heath near you."
"Then that thing isn't a gun?"
"No; it's a theodolite, used for surveying. I often chaff the
chawbacons here, by telling them I am going to fire, and then they don't
come bothering. What's your name?"
"Shepard."
"By George! that's odd; why, my governor was at Cambridge with yours,
and told me to call on you when I came down here. Is your governor at
home?"
"Yes."
"Then pack up the instrument, Roberts. I'll come home with you, and see
your governor, for I have a letter for him which I ought to have
delivered before."
The officer watched the instrument being packed up, and then started
with me towards our house. On the way he described to me the country
from which he had lately returned, and gave a vivid description of the
vast plains covered with wild animals, of the forest te | 1,186.079743 |
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THE QUAKERS
PAST AND PRESENT
THE QUAKERS
PAST AND PRESENT
BY
DOROTHY M. RICHARDSON
"The Quaker religion... is something which
it is impossible to overpraise."
WILLIAM JAMES:
_The Varieties of Religious
Experience_
NEW YORK
DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY
214-220 EAST 23RD STREET
FOREWORD
The following chapters are primarily an attempt at showing the position
of the Quakers in the family to which they belong--the family of the
mystics.
In the second place comes a consideration of the method of worship and
of corporate living laid down by the founder of Quakerism, as best
calculated to foster mystical gifts and to strengthen in the community
as a whole that sense of the Divine, indwelling and accessible, to which
some few of his followers had already attained, and of which all those
he had gathered round him had a dawning apprehension.
The famous "peculiarities" of the Quakers fall into place as following
inevitably from their central belief.
The ebb and flow of that belief, as it is found embodied in the history
of the Society of Friends, has been dealt with as fully as space has
allowed.
My thanks are due to Mr. Norman Penney, F.S.A., F.R.Hist.S., Librarian
of the Friends' Reference Library, for a helpful revision of my
manuscript.
D. M. R.
LONDON,
1914.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE BIRTH OF QUAKERISM 1
II. THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS 16
III. THE QUAKER CHURCH 33
IV. THE RETREAT OF QUAKERISM 52
V. QUAKERISM IN AMERICA 61
VI. QUAKERISM AND WOMEN 71
VII. THE PRESENT POSITION 81
CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE 94
BIBLIOGRAPHY 94
NOTE 96
THE QUAKERS PAST AND PRESENT
CHAPTER I
THE BIRTH OF QUAKERISM
The Quakers appeared about a hundred years after the decentralization of
authority in theological science. The Reformers' dream of a remade
church had ended in a Europe where, over against an alienated parent,
four young Protestant communions disputed together as to the doctrinal
interpretation of the scriptures. Within these communions the goal
towards which the breaking away from the Roman centre had been an
unconscious step was already well in view. It was obvious that the
separated churches were helpless against the demands arising in their
midst for the right of individual interpretation where they themselves
drew such widely differing conclusions. The Bible, abroad amongst the
people for the first time, helped on the loosening of the hold of
stereotyped beliefs. Independent groups appeared in every direction.
In England, the first movement towards the goal of "religious liberty"
was made by a body of believers who declared that a national church was
against the will of God. Catholic in ideal, democratic in form, they set
their hope upon a world-wide Christendom of self-governing
congregations. They increased with great rapidity, suffered persecution,
martyrdom, and temporary dispersal.[1]
Following on this first challenge came the earliest stirring of a more
conservative catholicism. Fed by such minds as that of Nicholas Farrer,
grieving in scholarly seclusion over the ravages of the Protestantisms,
it found expression in Laud's effort to restore the broken continuity of
tradition in the English church, to reintroduce beauty into her
services, and, while preserving her identity as a developing national
body, to keep open a rearward window to the light of accumulated
experience and teaching. But hardly-won freedom saw popery in his every
act, and his final absolutism, his demand for executive power
independent of Parliament, wrecked the effort and cost him his life.
[Footnote 1: The Brownists; now represented in the Congregational
Union.]
These characteristic neo-Protestantisms were obscured at the moment of
the appearance of the Quakers by the opening in this country of the full
blossom of the Genevan theology. The fate of the Presbyterian system,
which covered England like a network, and had threatened during the
shifting policies of Charles's long struggle for absolute monarchy to
become the established church of England, was sealed, it is true, when
Cromwell's Independent army checked the proceedings of a Presbyterian
House of Commons; but the Calvinian reading of the scriptures had
prevailed over the popular imagination, and in the Protectorate Church
where Baptists, Independents, and Presbyterians held livings side by
side with the clergy of the Protestant Establishment, where the use of
the Prayer-Book was forbidden and the scriptures were at last supreme,
the predominant type of religious culture was what we have since learned
to call Puritanism. In 1648 Puritanism had reached its great moment. Its
poet[2] was growing to manhood, tortured by the uncertainty of election,
half-maddened by his vision of the doom hanging over a sin-stained
world.
But far away beneath the institutional confusions and doctrinal dilemmas
of this post-Reformation century fresh life was welling up. The
unsatisfied religious energy of the maturing Germanic peoples, groping
its own way home, had produced Boehme and his followers, and filled the
by-ways of Europe with mystical sects. Outwards from free Holland--whose
republic on a basis of religious toleration had been founded in
1579--spread the Anabaptists, Mennonites, and others. Coming to England,
they reinforced the native groups--the Baptists, Familists, and
Seekers--who were preaching personal religion up and down the country
under the protection of Cromwell's indulgence for "tender" consciences,
and found their characteristically English epitome and spokesman in
George Fox.
[Footnote 2: Bunyan was born in 1628, four years later than Fox.]
Born in an English village[3] of homely pious parents,[4] who were both
in sympathy with their thoughtful boy, his genius developed harmoniously
and early.
Until his twentieth year he worked with a shoemaker, who was also a
dealer in cattle and wool, and proved his capacity for business life.
Then a crisis came, brought about by an incident meeting him as he went
about his master's affairs. He had been sent on business to a fair, and
had come upon two friends, one of them a relative, who tried to draw him
into a bout of health-drinking. George, who had had his one glass, laid
down a groat and went home in a state of great disturbance, for he knew
both these men to be professors of religion. He grappled with the
difficulty at once. He spent the hours of that night in pacing up and
down his room, in prayer and crying out, in sitting still and
reflecting. In the light of the afternoon's incidents he saw and felt
for the first time the average daily life of the world about him, "how
young people go together into vanity, and old people into the earth,"
all that gave meaning to life for him had no existence in their lives,
even in the lives of professing Christians. He was thrown in on himself.
If God was not with those who professed him, where was He?
[Footnote 3: In 1624, at Drayton-in-the-Clay, in Leicestershire.]
[Footnote 4: His father, a weaver by trade, and known as " | 1,186.179353 |
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LOVE SONNETS OF AN
OFFICE BOY
[Illustration]
Love Sonnets of an
Office Boy
By
Samuel Ellsworth Kiser
Illustrated by
John T. McCutcheon
Forbes & Company
Boston and Chicago
1902
_Copyright, 1902_
BY SAMUEL ELLSWORTH KISER
Published by arrangement with
THE CHICAGO RECORD-HERALD
Colonial Press: Electrotyped and Printed
by C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U.S.A.
LOVE SONNETS OF AN
OFFICE BOY
I.
Oh, if you only knowed how much I like
To stand here, when the "old man" ain't around,
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produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
VOL. 1091.
SALEM CHAPEL BY MRS. OLIPHANT.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
By the same Author,
THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS 2 vols.
MARGARET MAITLAND 1 vol.
AGNES 2 vols.
MADONNA MARY 2 vols.
THE MINISTER'S WIFE 2 vols.
THE RECTOR AND THE DOCTOR'S FAMILY 1 vol.
Chronicles of Carlingford
SALEM CHAPEL
BY
MRS. OLIPHANT.
_COPYRIGHT EDITION._
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1870.
_The Right of Translation is reserved._
SALEM CHAPEL.
CHAPTER I.
Towards the west end of Grove Street, in Carlingford, on the shabby side
of the street, stood a red brick building, presenting a pinched gable
terminated by a curious little belfry, not intended for any bell, and
looking not unlike a handle to lift up the edifice by to the public
observation. This was Salem Chapel, the only Dissenting place of worship
in Carlingford. It stood in a narrow strip of ground, just as the little
houses which flanked it on either side stood in their gardens, except
that the enclosure of the chapel was flowerless and sombre, and showed
at the farther end a few sparsely-scattered tombstones--unmeaning slabs,
such as the English mourner loves to inscribe his sorrow on. On either
side of this little tabernacle were the humble houses--little detached
boxes, each two storeys high, each fronted by a little flower-plot--clean,
respectable, meagre, little habitations, which contributed most largely
to the ranks of the congregation in the Chapel. The big houses opposite,
which turned their backs and staircase windows to the street, took
little notice of the humble Dissenting community. Twice in the winter,
perhaps, the Miss Hemmings, mild evangelical women, on whom the late
rector--the Low-Church rector, who reigned before the brief and
exceptional incumbency of the Rev. Mr. Proctor--had bestowed much of his
confidence, would cross the street, when other profitable occupations
failed them, to hear a special sermon on a Sunday evening. But the Miss
Hemmings were the only representatives of anything which could, by the
utmost stretch, be called Society, who ever patronised the Dissenting
interest in the town of Carlingford. Nobody from Grange Lane had ever
been seen so much as in Grove Street on a Sunday, far less in the
chapel. Greengrocers, dealers in cheese and bacon, milkmen, with some
dressmakers of inferior pretensions, and teachers of day-schools of
similar humble character, formed the _elite_ of the congregation. It is
not to be supposed, however, on this account, that a prevailing aspect
of shabbiness was upon this little community; on the contrary, the grim
pews of Salem Chapel blushed with bright colours, and contained both
dresses and faces on the summer Sundays which the Church itself could
scarcely have surpassed. Nor did those unadorned walls form a centre of
asceticism and gloomy religiousness in the cheerful little town.
Tea-meetings were not uncommon occurrences in Salem--tea-meetings which
made the little tabernacle festive, in which cakes and oranges were
diffused among the pews, and funny speeches made from the little
platform underneath the pulpit, which woke the unconsecrated echoes with
hearty outbreaks of laughter. Then the young people had their
singing-class, at which they practised hymns, and did not despise a
little flirtation; and charitable societies and missionary auxiliaries
diversified the congregational routine, and kept up a brisk succession
of "Chapel business," mightily like the Church business which occupied
Mr. Wentworth and his Sisters of Mercy at St. Roque's. To name the two
communities, however, in the same breath, would have been accounted
little short of sacrilege in Carlingford. The names which figured
highest in the benevolent lists of Salem Chapel, were known to society
only as appearing, in gold letters, upon the backs of those mystic
tradesmen's books, which were deposited every Monday in little heaps at
every house in Grange Lane. The Dissenters, on their part, aspired to no
conquests in the unattainable territory of high life, as it existed in
Carlingford. They were content to keep their privileges among
themselves, and to enjoy their superior preaching and purity with a
compassionate complacence. While Mr. Proctor was rector, indeed, Mr.
Tozer, the butterman, who was senior deacon, found it difficult to
refrain from an audible expression of pity for the "Church folks" who
knew no better; but, as a general rule, the congregation of Salem kept
by itself, gleaning new adherents by times at an "anniversary" or the
coming of a new minister, but knowing and keeping "its own place" in a
manner edifying to behold.
Such was the state of affairs when old Mr. Tufton declined in
popularity, and impressed upon the | 1,186.600631 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Three Commanders, by W.H.G. Kingston.
________________________________________________________________________
This is the third in the tetralogy commencing "The Three Midshipmen" and
ending with "The Three Admirals," so the three principal characters will
have been familiar to Kingston's youthful readers. As with the other
books it is a very good introduction to Naval life in the middle of the
nineteenth century, but there are other things we can learn from this
book, as well.
The action soon after the start moves to East Africa, where we see how
the anti-slave trade was pursued. The British were against slavery, but
the Portuguese, the Americans, the Arabs, and some of the East African
states were getting on with it whenever the British backs were turned.
Then we move to the Crimea, where we get a very good view of the naval
participation in that war. If you want to know more about the Crimea,
you should definitely read this book.
Finally we move to the Pacific, to Sydney and to Hawaii. Here again it
is interesting, particularly with regard to the volcanoes of the Hawaii
group of islands.
________________________________________________________________________
THE THREE COMMANDERS, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON.
CHAPTER ONE.
MURRAY'S HIGHLAND HOME--A VISIT FROM ADMIRAL TRITON--ADAIR AND HIS
NEPHEW APPEAR--MURRAY APPOINTED TO THE OPAL, ADAIR FIRST LIEUTENANT--
PREPARATIONS FOR DEPARTURE--ADMIRAL TRITON AND MRS DEBORAH INVITE MRS
MURRAY TO STAY AT SOUTHSEA--THE OPAL AND HER CREW--A POETICAL
LIEUTENANT--PARTING BETWEEN MISS ROGERS AND ADAIR--THE OPAL SAILS FOR
THE EAST COAST OF AFRICA.
Alick Murray had not over-praised the Highland home of which he had so
often spoken when far away across the wide ocean. The house,
substantially built in a style suited to that clime, stood some way up
the side of a hill which rose abruptly from the waters of Loch Etive, on
the north side of which it was situated. To the west the hills were
comparatively low, the shores alternately widening and contracting, and
projecting in numerous promontories. The higher grounds were clothed
with heath and wood, while level spaces below were diversified by
cultivated fields. To the east of the house, up the loch, the scenery
assumed a character much more striking and grand. Far as the eye could
reach appeared a succession of lofty and barren mountains, rising sheer
out of the water, | 1,186.602811 |
2023-11-16 18:36:50.6606040 | 821 | 6 |
Produced by Geoffrey Cowling
HOW I FOUND LIVINGSTONE
Travels, Adventures and Discoveries in Central Africa including four
months residence with Dr. Livingstone
By Sir Henry M. Stanley, G.C.B.
Abridged
CHAPTER I.-- INTRODUCTORY. MY INSTRUCTIONS TO FIND AND RELIEVE
LIVINGSTONE.
On the sixteenth day of October, in the year of our Lord one thousand
eight hundred and sixty-nine, I was in Madrid, fresh from the carnage
at Valencia. At 10 A.M. Jacopo, at No.-- Calle de la Cruz, handed me a
telegram: It read, "Come to Paris on important business." The telegram
was from Mr. James Gordon Bennett, jun., the young manager of the 'New
York Herald.'
Down came my pictures from the walls of my apartments on the second
floor; into my trunks went my books and souvenirs, my clothes were
hastily collected, some half washed, some from the clothes-line half
dry, and after a couple of hours of hasty hard work my portmanteaus were
strapped up and labelled "Paris."
At 3 P.M. I was on my way, and being obliged to stop at Bayonne a
few hours, did not arrive at Paris until the following night. I went
straight to the 'Grand Hotel,' and knocked at the door of Mr. Bennett's
room.
"Come in," I heard a voice say. Entering, I found Mr. Bennett in bed.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"My name is Stanley," I answered.
"Ah, yes! sit down; I have important business on hand for you."
After throwing over his shoulders his robe-de-chambre Mr. Bennett asked,
"Where do you think Livingstone is?"
"I really do not know, sir."
"Do you think he is alive?"
"He may be, and he may not be," I answered.
"Well, I think he is alive, and that he can be found, and I am going to
send you to find him."
"What!" said I, "do you really think I can find Dr Livingstone? Do you
mean me to go to Central Africa?"
"Yes; I mean that you shall go, and find him wherever you may hear that
he is, and to get what news you can of him, and perhaps"--delivering
himself thoughtfully and deliberately--"the old man may be in
want:--take enough with you to help him should he require it. Of
course you will act according to your own plans, and do what you think
best--BUT FIND LIVINGSTONE!"
Said I, wondering at the cool order of sending one to Central Africa to
search for a man whom I, in common with almost all other men, believed
to be dead, "Have you considered seriously the great expense you are
likely, to incur on account of this little journey?"
"What will it cost?" he asked abruptly.
"Burton and Speke's journey to Central Africa cost between L3,000 and
L5,000, and I fear it cannot be done under L2,500."
"Well, I will tell you what you will do. Draw a thousand pounds now; and
when you have gone through that, draw another thousand, and when that
is spent, draw another thousand, and when you have finished that, draw
another thousand, and so on; but, FIND LIVINGSTONE."
Surprised but not confused at the order--for I knew that Mr. Bennett
when once he had made up his mind was not easily drawn aside from his
purpose--I yet thought, seeing it was such a gigantic scheme, that he
had not quite considered in his own mind the pros and cons of the case;
I said, "I have heard that should your father die you would sell the
'Herald' and retire from business | 1,186.680644 |
2023-11-16 18:36:50.6969760 | 7,436 | 9 |
Produced by 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.)
NOT QUITE EIGHTEEN.
[Illustration: The fox stared at her, and she stared back at the
fox.--PAGE 16.]
NOT QUITE EIGHTEEN.
BY SUSAN COOLIDGE,
AUTHOR OF "WHAT KATY DID," "THE NEW YEAR'S BARGAIN,"
"THE BARBERRY BUSH," "A GUERNSEY LILY,"
"IN THE HIGH VALLEY," ETC.
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1894.
_Copyright, 1894_,
BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. HOW BUNNY BROUGHT GOOD LUCK 7
II. A BIT OF WILFULNESS 30
III. THE WOLVES OF ST. GERVAS 42
IV. THREE LITTLE CANDLES 62
V. UNCLE AND AUNT 83
VI. THE CORN-BALL MONEY 111
VII. THE PRIZE GIRL OF THE HARNESSING CLASS 123
VIII. DOLLY PHONE 142
IX. A NURSERY TYRANT 165
X. WHAT THE PINK FLAMINGO DID 179
XI. TWO PAIRS OF EYES 200
XII. THE PONY THAT KEPT THE STORE 211
XIII. PINK AND SCARLET 227
XIV. DOLLY'S LESSON 239
XV. A BLESSING IN DISGUISE 252
XVI. A GRANTED WISH 269
HOW BUNNY BROUGHT GOOD LUCK.
It was Midsummer's Day, that delightful point toward which the whole
year climbs, and from which it slips off like an ebbing wave in the
direction of the distant winter. No wonder that superstitious people in
old times gave this day to the fairies, for it is the most beautiful day
of all. The world seems full of bird-songs, sunshine, and flower-smells
then; storm and sorrow appear impossible things; the barest and ugliest
spot takes on a brief charm and, for the moment, seems lovely and
desirable.
"That's a picturesque old place," said a lady on the back seat of the
big wagon in which Hiram Swift was taking his summer boarders to drive.
They were passing a low, wide farmhouse, gray from want of paint, with a
shabby barn and sheds attached, all overarched by tall elms. The narrow
hay-field and the vegetable-patch ended in a rocky hillside, with its
steep ledges, overgrown and topped with tall pines and firs, which made
a dense green background to the old buildings.
"I don't know about its being like a picter," said Hiram, dryly, as he
flicked away a fly from the shoulder of his horse, "but it isn't much
by way of a farm. That bit of hay-field is about all the land there is
that's worth anything; the rest is all rock. I guess the Widow Gale
doesn't take much comfort in its bein' picturesque. She'd be glad
enough to have the land made flat, if she could."
"Oh, is that the Gale farm, where the silver-mine is said to be?"
"Yes, marm; at least, it's the farm where the man lived that, 'cordin'
to what folks say, said he'd found a silver-mine. I don't take a great
deal of stock in the story myself."
"A silver-mine! That sounds interesting," said a pretty girl on the
front seat, who had been driving the horses half the way, aided and
abetted by Hiram, with whom she was a prime favorite. "Tell me about it,
Mr. Swift. Is it a story, and when did it all happen?"
"Well, I don't know as it ever did happen," responded the farmer,
cautiously. "All I know for certain is, that my father used to tell a
story that, before I was born (nigh on to sixty years ago, that must
have been), Squire Asy Allen--that used to live up to that red house on
North Street, where you bought the crockery mug, you know, Miss
Rose--come up one day in a great hurry to catch the stage, with a lump
of rock tied in his handkerchief. Old Roger Gale had found it, he said,
and they thought it was silver ore; and the Squire was a-takin' it down
to New Haven to get it analyzed. My father, he saw the rock, but he
didn't think much of it from the looks, till the Squire got back ten
days afterward and said the New Haven professor pronounced it silver,
sure enough, and a rich specimen; and any man who owned a mine of it had
his fortune made, he said. Then, of course, the township got excited,
and everybody talked silver, and there was a great to-do."
"And why didn't they go to work on the mine at once?" asked the pretty
girl.
"Well, you see, unfortunately, no one knew where it was, and old Roger
Gale had taken that particular day, of all others, to fall off his
hay-riggin' and break his neck, and he hadn't happened to mention to any
one before doing so where he found the rock! He was a close-mouthed old
chap, Roger was. For ten years after that, folks that hadn't anything
else to do went about hunting for the silver-mine, but they gradooally
got tired, and now it's nothin' more than an old story. Does to amuse
boarders with in the summer," concluded Mr. Swift, with a twinkle. "For
my part, I don't believe there ever was a mine."
"But there was the piece of ore to prove it."
"Oh, that don't prove anything, because it got lost. No one knows what
became of it. An' sixty years is long enough for a story to get
exaggerated in."
"I don't see why there shouldn't be silver in Beulah township," remarked
the lady on the back seat. "You have all kinds of other minerals
here,--soapstone and mica and emery and tourmalines and beryls."
"Well, ma'am, I don't see nuther, unless, mebbe, it's the Lord's will
there shouldn't be."
"It would be so interesting if the mine could be found!" said the pretty
girl.
"It would be _so_, especially to the Gale family,--that is, if it was
found on their land. The widow's a smart, capable woman, but it's as
much as she can do, turn and twist how she may, to make both ends meet.
And there's that boy of hers, a likely boy as ever you see, and just
hungry for book-l'arnin', the minister says. The chance of an eddication
would be just everything to him, and the widow can't give him one."
"It's really a romance," said the pretty girl, carelessly, the wants and
cravings of others slipping off her young sympathies easily.
Then the horses reached the top of the long hill they had been climbing,
Hiram put on the brake, and they began to grind down a hill equally
long, with a soft panorama of plumy tree-clad summits before them,
shimmering in the June sunshine. Drives in Beulah township were apt to
be rather perpendicular, however you took them.
Some one, high up on the hill behind the farmhouse, heard the clank
of the brakes, and lifted up her head to listen. It was Hester
Gale,--a brown little girl, with quick dark eyes, and a mane of curly
chestnut hair, only too apt to get into tangles. She was just eight
years old, and to her the old farmstead, which the neighbors scorned
as worthless, was a sort of enchanted land, full of delights and
surprises,--hiding-places which no one but herself knew, rocks and
thickets where she was sure real fairies dwelt, and cubby-houses sacred
to the use of "Bunny," who was her sole playmate and companion, and the
confidant to whom she told all her plans and secrets.
Bunny was a doll,--an old-fashioned doll, carved out of a solid piece of
hickory-wood, with a stern expression of face, and a perfectly
unyielding figure; but a doll whom Hester loved above all things. Her
mother and her mother's mother had played with Bunny, but this only made
her the dearer.
The two sat together between the gnarled roots of an old spruce which
grew near the edge of a steep little cliff. It was one of the loneliest
parts of the rocky hillside, and the hardest to get at. Hester liked it
better than any of her other hiding-places, because no one but herself
ever came there.
Bunny lay in her lap, and Hester was in the middle of a story, when she
stopped to listen to the wagon grinding down-hill.
"So the little chicken said, 'Peep! Peep!' and started off to see what
the big yellow fox was like," she went on. "That was a silly thing for
her to do, wasn't it, Bunny? because foxes aren't a bit nice to
chickens. But the little chicken didn't know any better, and she
wouldn't listen to the old hens when they told her how foolish she was.
That was wrong, because it's naughty to dis--dis--apute your elders,
mother says; children that do are almost always sorry afterward.
"Well, she hadn't gone far before she heard a rustle in the bushes on
one side. She thought it was the fox, and then she _did_ feel
frightened, you'd better believe, and all the things she meant to say to
him went straight out of her head. But it wasn't the fox that time; it
was a teeny-weeny little striped squirrel, and he just said, 'It's a
sightly day, isn't it?' and, without waiting for an answer, ran up a
tree. So the chicken didn't mind _him_ a bit.
"Then, by and by, when she had gone a long way farther off from home,
she heard another rustle. It was just like--Oh, what's that, Bunny?"
Hester stopped short, and I am sorry to say that Bunny never heard the
end of the chicken story, for the rustle resolved itself into--what do
you think?
It was a fox! A real fox!
There he stood on the hillside, gazing straight at Hester, with his
yellow brush waving behind him, and his eyes looking as sharp as the row
of gleaming teeth beneath them. Foxes were rare animals in the Beulah
region. Hester had never seen one before; but she had seen the picture
of a fox in one of Roger's books, so she knew what it was.
The fox stared at her, and she stared back at the fox. Then her heart
melted with fear, like the heart of the little chicken, and she jumped
to her feet, forgetting Bunny, who fell from her lap, and rolled
unobserved over the edge of the cliff. The sudden movement startled the
fox, and he disappeared into the bushes with a wave of his yellow brush;
just how or where he went, Hester could not have told.
"How sorry Roger will be that he wasn't here to see him!" was her first
thought. Her second was for Bunny. She turned, and stooped to pick up
the doll--and lo! Bunny was not there.
High and low she searched, beneath grass tangles, under "juniper
saucers," among the stems of the thickly massed blueberries and
hardhacks, but nowhere was Bunny to be seen. She peered over the ledge,
but nothing met her eyes below but a thick growth of blackish, stunted
evergreens. This place "down below" had been a sort of terror to
Hester's imagination always, as an entirely unknown and unexplored
region; but in the cause of the beloved Bunny she was prepared to risk
anything, and she bravely made ready to plunge into the depths.
It was not so easy to plunge, however. The cliff was ten or twelve feet
in height where she stood, and ran for a considerable distance to right
and left without getting lower. This way and that she quested, and at
last found a crevice where it was possible to scramble down,--a steep
little crevice, full of blackberry briers, which scratched her face and
tore her frock. When at last she gained the lower bank, this further
difficulty presented itself: she could not tell where she was. The
evergreen thicket nearly met over her head, the branches got into her
eyes, and buffeted and bewildered her. She could not make out the place
where she had been sitting, and no signs of Bunny could be found. At
last, breathless with exertion, tired, hot, and hopeless, she made her
way out of the thicket, and went, crying, home to her mother.
She was still crying, and refusing to be comforted, when Roger came in
from milking. He was sorry for Hester, but not so sorry as he would have
been had his mind not been full of troubles of his own. He tried to
console her with a vague promise of helping her to look for Bunny "some
day when there wasn't so much to do." But this was cold comfort, and, in
the end, Hester went to bed heartbroken, to sob herself to sleep.
"Mother," said Roger, after she had gone, "Jim Boies is going to his
uncle's, in New Ipswich, in September, to do chores and help round a
little, and to go all winter to the academy."
The New Ipswich Academy was quite a famous school then, and to go there
was a great chance for a studious boy.
"That's a bit of good luck for Jim."
"Yes; first-rate."
"Not quite so first-rate for you."
"No" (gloomily). "I shall miss Jim. He's always been my best friend
among the boys. But what makes me mad is that he doesn't care a bit
about going. Mother, why doesn't good luck ever come to us Gales?"
"It was good luck for me when you came, Roger. I don't know how I should
get along without you."
"I'd be worth a great deal more to you if I could get a chance at any
sort of schooling. Doesn't it seem hard, Mother? There's Squire Dennis
and Farmer Atwater, and half a dozen others in this township, who are
all ready to send their boys to college, and the boys don't want to go!
Bob Dennis says that he'd far rather do teaming in the summer, and take
the girls up to singing practice at the church, than go to all the
Harvards and Yales in the world; and I, who'd give my head, almost, to
go to college, can't! It doesn't seem half right, Mother."
"No, Roger, it doesn't; not a quarter. There are a good many things that
don't seem right in this world, but I don't know who's to mend 'em. I
can't. The only way is to dig along hard and do what's to be done as
well as you can, whatever it is, and make the best of your'musts.'
There's always a'must.' I suppose rich people have them as well as poor
ones."
"Rich people's boys can go to college."
"Yes,--and mine can't. I'd sell all we've got to send you, Roger, since
your heart is so set on it, but this poor little farm wouldn't be half
enough, even if any one wanted to buy it, which isn't likely. It's no
use talking about it, Roger; it only makes both of us feel bad.--Did you
kill the 'broilers' for the hotel?" she asked with a sudden change of
tone.
"No, not yet."
"Go and do it, then, right away. You'll have to carry them down early
with the eggs. Four pairs, Roger. Chickens are the best crop we can
raise on this farm."
"If we could find Great-uncle Roger's mine, we'd eat the chickens
ourselves," said Roger, as he reluctantly turned to go.
"Yes, and if that apple-tree'd take to bearing gold apples, we wouldn't
have to work at all. Hurry and do your chores before dark, Roger."
Mrs. Gale was a Spartan in her methods, but, for all that, she sighed a
bitter sigh as Roger went out of the door.
"He's such a smart boy," she told herself, "there's nothing he couldn't
do,--nothing, if he had a chance. I do call it hard. The folks who have
plenty of money to do with have dull boys; and I, who've got a bright
one, can't do anything for him! It seems as if things weren't justly
arranged."
Hester spent all her spare time during the next week in searching for
the lost Bunny. It rained hard one day, and all the following night; she
could not sleep for fear that Bunny was getting wet, and looked so pale
in the morning that her mother forbade her going to the hill.
"Your feet were sopping when you came in yesterday," she said; "and
that's the second apron you've torn. You'll just have to let Bunny go,
Hester; no two ways about it."
Then Hester moped and grieved and grew thin, and at last she fell ill.
It was low fever, the doctor said. Several days went by, and she was no
better. One noon, Roger came in from haying to find his mother with her
eyes looking very much troubled. "Hester is light-headed," she said; "we
must have the doctor again."
Roger went in to look at the child, who was lying in a little bedroom
off the kitchen. The small, flushed face on the pillow did not light up
at his approach. On the contrary, Hester's eyes, which were unnaturally
big and bright, looked past and beyond him.
"Hessie, dear, don't you know Roger?"
"He said he'd find Bunny for me some day," muttered the little voice;
"but he never did. Oh, I wish he would!--I wish he would! I do want her
so much!" Then she rambled on about foxes, and the old spruce-tree, and
the rocks,--always with the refrain, "I wish I had Bunny; I want her so
much!"
"Mother, I do believe it's that wretched old doll she's fretted herself
sick over," said Roger, going back into the kitchen. "Now, I'll tell you
what! Mr. Hinsdale's going up to the town this noon, and he'll leave
word for the doctor to come; and the minute I've swallowed my dinner,
I'm going up to the hill to find Bunny. I don't believe Hessie'll get
any better till she's found."
"Very well," said Mrs. Gale. "I suppose the hay'll be spoiled, but we've
got to get Hessie cured at any price."
"Oh, I'll find the doll. I know about where Hessie was when she lost it.
And the hay'll take no harm. I only got a quarter of the field cut, and
it's good drying weather."
Roger made haste with his dinner. His conscience pricked him as he
remembered his neglected promise and his indifference to Hester's
griefs; he felt in haste to make amends. He went straight to the old
spruce, which, he had gathered from Hester's rambling speech, was the
scene of Bunny's disappearance. It was easily found, being the oldest
and largest on the hillside.
Roger had brought a stout stick with him, and now, leaning over the
cliff edge, he tried to poke with it in the branches below, while
searching for the dolly. But the stick was not long enough, and slipped
through his fingers, disappearing suddenly and completely through the
evergreens.
"Hallo!" cried Roger. "There must be a hole there of some sort. Bunny's
at the bottom of it, no doubt. Here goes to find her!"
His longer legs made easy work of the steep descent which had so puzzled
his little sister. Presently he stood, waist-deep, in tangled hemlock
boughs, below the old spruce. He parted the bushes in advance, and moved
cautiously forward, step by step. He felt a cavity just before him, but
the thicket was so dense that he could see nothing.
Feeling for his pocket-knife, which luckily was a stout one, he stood
still, cutting, slashing, and breaking off the tough boughs, and
throwing them on one side. It was hard work, but after ten minutes a
space was cleared which let in a ray of light, and, with a hot, red face
and surprised eyes, Roger Gale stooped over the edge of a rocky cavity,
on the sides of which something glittered and shone. He swung himself
over the edge, and dropped into the hole, which was but a few feet deep.
His foot struck on something hard as he landed. He stooped to pick it
up, and his hand encountered a soft substance. He lifted both objects
out together.
The soft substance was a doll's woollen frock. There, indeed, was the
lost Bunny, looking no whit the worse for her adventures, and the hard
thing on which her wooden head had lain was a pickaxe,--an old iron
pick, red with rust. Three letters were rudely cut on the handle,--R. P.
G. They were Roger's own initials. Roger Perkins Gale. It had been his
father's name also, and that of the great-uncle after whom they both
were named.
With an excited cry, Roger stooped again, and lifted out of the hole a
lump of quartz mingled with ore. Suddenly he realized where he was and
what he had found. This was the long lost silver-mine, whose finding and
whose disappearance had for so many years been a tradition in the
township. Here it was that old Roger Gale had found his "speciment,"
knocked off probably with that very pick, and, covering up all traces of
his discovery, had gone sturdily off to his farm-work, to meet his death
next week on the hay-rigging, with the secret locked within his breast.
For sixty years the evergreen thicket had grown and toughened and
guarded the hidden cavity beneath its roots; and it might easily have
done so for sixty years longer, if Bunny,--little wooden Bunny, with her
lack-lustre eyes and expressionless features,--had not led the way into
its tangles.
Hester got well. When Roger placed the doll in her arms, she seemed to
come to herself, fondled and kissed her, and presently dropped into a
satisfied sleep, from which she awoke conscious and relieved. The "mine"
did not prove exactly a mine,--it was not deep or wide enough for that;
but the ore in it was rich in quality, and the news of its finding made
a great stir in the neighborhood. Mrs. Gale was offered a price for her
hillside which made her what she considered a rich woman, and she was
wise enough to close with the offer at once, and neither stand out for
higher terms nor risk the chance of mining on her own account. She and
her family left the quiet little farmhouse soon after that, and went to
live in Worcester. Roger had all the schooling he desired, and made
ready for Harvard and the law-school, where he worked hard, and laid
the foundations of what has since proved a brilliant career. You may be
sure that Bunny went to Worcester also, treated and regarded as one of
the most valued members of the family. Hester took great care of her,
and so did Hester's little girl later on; and even Mrs. Gale spoke
respectfully of her always, and treated her with honor. For was it not
Bunny who broke the long spell of evil fate, and brought good luck back
to the Gale family?
A BIT OF WILFULNESS.
There was a great excitement in the Keene's pleasant home at Wrentham,
one morning, about three years ago. The servants were hard at work,
making everything neat and orderly. The children buzzed about like
active flies, for in the evening some one was coming whom none of them
had as yet seen,--a new mamma, whom their father had just married.
The three older children remembered their own mamma pretty well; to the
babies, she was only a name. Janet, the eldest, recollected her best of
all, and the idea of somebody coming to take her place did not please
her at all. This was not from a sense of jealousy for the mother who
was gone, but rather from a jealousy for herself; for since Mrs. Keene's
death, three years before, Janet had done pretty much as she liked, and
the idea of control and interference aroused within her, in advance, the
spirit of resistance.
Janet's father was a busy lawyer, and had little time to give to the
study of his children's characters. He liked to come home at night,
after a hard day at his office, or in the courts, and find a nicely
arranged table and room, and a bright fire in the grate, beside which he
could read his newspaper without interruption, just stopping now and
then to say a word to the children, or have a frolic with the younger
ones before they went to bed. Old Maria, who had been nurse to all the
five in turn, managed the housekeeping; and so long as there was no
outward disturbance, Mr. Keene asked no questions.
He had no idea that Janet, in fact, ruled the family. She was only
twelve, but she had the spirit of a dictator, and none of the little
ones dared to dispute her will or to complain. In fact, there was not
often cause for complaint. When Janet was not opposed, she was both kind
and amusing. She had much sense and capacity for a child of her years,
and her brothers and sisters were not old enough to detect the mistakes
which she sometimes made.
And now a stepmother was coming to spoil all this, as Janet thought. Her
meditations, as she dusted the china and arranged the flowers, ran
something after this fashion:
"She's only twenty-one, Papa said, and that's only nine years older than
I am, and nine years isn't much. I'm not going to call her 'Mamma,'
anyway. I shall call her 'Jerusha,' from the very first; for Maria said
that Jessie was only a nickname, and I hate nicknames. I know she'll
want me to begin school next fall, but I don't mean to, for she don't
know anything about the schools here, and I can judge better than she
can. There, that looks nice!" putting a tall spike of lilies in a pale
green vase. "Now I'll dress baby and little Jim, and we shall all be
ready when they come."
It was exactly six, that loveliest hour of a lovely June day, when the
carriage stopped at the gate. Mr. Keene helped his wife out, and looked
eagerly toward the piazza, on which the five children were grouped.
"Well, my dears," he cried, "how do you do? Why don't you come and kiss
your new mamma?"
They all came obediently, pretty little Jim and baby Alice, hand in
hand, then Harry and Mabel, and, last of all, Janet. The little ones
shyly allowed themselves to be kissed, saying nothing, but Janet, true
to her resolution, returned her stepmother's salute in a matter-of-fact
way, kissed her father, and remarked:
"Do come in, Papa; Jerusha must be tired!"
Mr. Keene gave an amazed look at his wife. The corners of her mouth
twitched, and Janet thought wrathfully, "I do believe she is laughing at
me!" But Mrs. Keene stifled the laugh, and, taking little Alice's hand,
led the way into the house.
"Oh, how nice, how pretty!" were her first words. "Look at the flowers,
James! Did you arrange them, Janet? I suspect you did."
"Yes," said Janet; "I did them all."
"Thank you, dear," said Mrs. Keene, and stooped to kiss her again. It
was an affectionate kiss, and Janet had to confess to herself that this
new--person was pleasant looking. She had pretty brown hair and eyes, a
warm glow of color in a pair of round cheeks, and an expression at once
sweet and sensible and decided. It was a face full of attraction; the
younger children felt it, and began to sidle up and cuddle against the
new mamma. Janet felt the attraction, too, but she resisted it.
"Don't squeeze Jerusha in that way," she said to Mabel; "you are
creasing her jacket. Jim, come here, you are in the way."
"Janet," said Mr. Keene, in a voice of displeasure, "what do you mean by
calling your mother 'Jerusha'?"
"She isn't my real mother," explained Janet, defiantly. "I don't want to
call her 'Mamma;' she's too young."
Mrs. Keene laughed,--she couldn't help it.
"We will settle by and by what you shall call me," she said. "But,
Janet, it can't be Jerusha, for that is not my name. I was baptized
Jessie."
"I shall call you Mrs. Keene, then," said Janet, mortified, but
persistent. Her stepmother looked pained, but she said no more.
None of the other children made any difficulty about saying "Mamma" to
this sweet new friend. Jessie Keene was the very woman to "mother" a
family of children. Bright and tender and firm all at once, she was
playmate to them as well as authority, and in a very little while they
all learned to love her dearly,--all but Janet; and even she, at times,
found it hard to resist this influence, which was at the same time so
strong and so kind.
Still, she did resist, and the result was constant discomfort to both
parties. To the younger children the new mamma brought added happiness,
because they yielded to her wise and reasonable authority. To Janet she
brought only friction and resentment, because she would not yield.
So two months passed. Late in August, Mr. and Mrs Keene started on a
short journey which was to keep them away from home for two days. Just
as the carriage was driving away, Mrs. Keene suddenly said,--
"Oh, Janet! I forgot to say that I would rather you didn't go see Ellen
Colton while we are away, or let any of the other children. Please tell
nurse about it."
"Why mustn't I?" demanded Janet.
"Because--" began her mother, but Mr. Keene broke in.
"Never mind 'becauses,' Jessie; we must be off. It's enough for you,
Janet, that your mother orders it. And see that you do as she says."
"It's a shame!" muttered Janet, as she slowly went back to the house. "I
always have gone to see Ellen whenever I liked. No one ever stopped me
before. I don't think it's a bit fair; and I wish Papa wouldn't speak to
me like that before--her."
Gradually she worked herself into a strong fit of ill-temper. All day
long she felt a growing sense of injury, and she made up her mind not to
bear it. Next morning, in a towering state of self-will, she marched
straight down to the Coltons, resolved at least to find out the meaning
of this vexatious prohibition.
No one was on the piazza, and Janet ran up-stairs to Ellen's room,
expecting to find her studying her lessons.
No; Ellen was in the bed, fast asleep. Janet took a story-book, and sat
down beside her. "She'll be surprised when she wakes up," she thought.
The book proved interesting, and Janet read on for nearly half an hour
before Mrs. Colton came in with a cup and spoon in her hand. She gave a
scream when she saw Janet.
"Mercy!" she cried, "what are you doing here? Didn't your ma tell you?
Ellen's got scarlet-fever."
"No, she didn't tell me _that_. She only said I mustn't come here."
"And why did you come?"
Somehow Janet found it hard to explain, even to herself, why she had
been so determined not to obey.
Very sorrowfully she walked homeward. She had sense enough to know how
dreadful might be the result of her disobedience, and she felt humble
and wretched. "Oh, if only I hadn't!" was the language of her heart.
The little ones had gone out to play. Janet hurried to her own room, and
locked the door.
"I won't see any of them till Papa comes," she thought. "Then perhaps
they won't catch it from me | 1,186.717016 |
2023-11-16 18:36:50.7594820 | 1,636 | 39 |
Produced by Col Choat. HTML version by Al Haines.
The Recollections of Geoffrey Hamlyn
by
Henry Kingsley
TO
MY FATHER AND MOTHER
THIS BOOK, THE FRUIT OF SO MANY WEARY
YEARS OF SEPARATION, IS DEDICATED WITH
THE DEEPEST LOVE AND REVERENCE
CONTENTS
I INTRODUCTORY.
II THE COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE OF JOHN THORNTON, CLERK, AND THE
BIRTH OF SOME ONE WHO TAKES RATHER A CONSPICUOUS PART IN OUR
STORY.
III THE HISTORY OF (A CERTAIN FAMILY LIVING IN) EUROPE, FROM THE
BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR TO THE PEACE OF 1818, CONTAINING FACTS
HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED.
IV SOME NEW FACES.
V IN WHICH THE READER IS MADE ACCOMPLICE TO A MISPRISION OF
FELONY.
VI GEORGE HAWKER GOES TO THE FAIR--WRESTLES, BUT GETS THROWN ON
HIS BACK, SHOOTS AT A MARK, BUT MISSES IT.
VII MAJOR BUCKLEY GIVES HIS OPINION ON TROUT-FISHING, ON
EMIGRATION, AND ON GEORGE HAWKER.
VIII THE VICAR HEARS SOMETHING TO HIS ADVANTAGE.
IX WHEN THE KYE CAME HAME.
X IN WHICH WE SEE A GOOD DEAL OF MISCHIEF BREWING.
XI IN WHICH THE VICAR PREACHES A FAREWELL SERMON.
XII IN WHICH A VERY MUSCULAR CHRISTIAN INDEED, COMES ON THE STAGE.
XIII THE DISCOVERY OF THE FORGERIES.
XIV THE MAJOR'S VISIT TO THE "NAG'S-HEAD."
XV THE BRIGHTON RACES, AND WHAT HAPPENED THEREAT.
XVI THE END OF MARY'S EXPEDITION.
XVII EXODUS.
XVIII THE FIRST PUFF OF THE SOUTH WIND.
XIX I HIRE A NEW HORSEBREAKER.
XX A WARM CHRISTMAS DAY.
XXI JIM STOCKBRIDGE BEGINS TO TAKE ANOTHER VIEW OF MATTERS.
XXII SAM BUCKLEY'S EDUCATION.
XXIII TOONARBIN.
XXIV IN WHICH MARY HAWKER LOSES ONE OF HER OLDEST SWEETHEARTS.
XXV IN WHICH THE NEW DEAN OF B---- MAKES HIS APPEARANCE, AND
ASTONISHES THE MAJOR OUT OF HIS PROPRIETY.
XXVI WHITE HEATHENS
XXVII THE GOLDEN VINEYARD.
XXVIII A GENTLEMAN FROM THE WARS.
XXIX SAM MEETS WITH A RIVAL, AND HOW HE TREATED HIM.
XXX HOW THE CHILD WAS LOST, AND HOW HE GOT FOUND AGAIN--WHAT
CECIL SAID TO SAM WHEN THEY FOUND HIM--AND HOW IN CASTING
LOTS, ALTHOUGH CECIL WON THE LOT, HE LOST THE PRIZE.
XXXI HOW TOM TROUBRIDGE KEPT WATCH FOR THE FIRST TIME.
XXXII WHICH IS THE LAST CHAPTER BUT ONE IN THE SECOND VOLUME.
XXXIII IN WHICH JAMES BRENTWOOD AND SAMUEL BUCKLEY, ESQUIRES,
COMBINE TO DISTURB THE REST OF CAPTAIN BRENTWOOD, R.A. AND
SUCCEED IN DOING SO.
XXXIV HOW THEY ALL WENT HUNTING FOR SEA ANEMONES AT CAPE
CHATHAM--AND HOW THE DOCTOR GOT A TERRIBLE FRIGHT--AND HOW
CAPTAIN BLOCKSTROP SHOWED THAT THERE WAS GOOD REASON FOR IT.
XXXV A COUNCIL OF WAR.
XXXVI AN EARTHQUAKE, A COLLIERY EXPLOSION, AND AN ADVENTURE.
XXXVII IN WHICH GEORGE HAWKER SETTLES AN OLD SCORE WITH WILLIAM LEE,
MOST HANDSOMELY, LEAVING, IN FACT, A LARGE BALANCE IN HIS
OWN FAVOUR.
XXXVIII HOW DR. MULHAUS GOT BUSHED IN THE RANGES, AND WHAT BEFEL HIM
THERE.
XXXIX THE LAST GLEAM BEFORE THE STORM.
XL THE STORM BURSTS.
XLI WIDDERIN SHOWS CLEARLY THAT HE IS WORTH ALL THE MONEY SAM
GAVE FOR HIM.
XLII THE FIGHT AMONG THE FERN-TREES.
XLIII ACROSS THE SNOW.
XLIV HOW MARY HAWKER HEARD THE NEWS.
XLV IN WHICH THERE ARE SOME ASTONISHING REVELATIONS WITH REGARD
TO DR. MULHAUS AND CAPTAIN DESBOROUGH.
XLVI IN WHICH SAM MEETS WITH A SERIOUS ACCIDENT, AND GETS CRIPPLED
FOR LIFE.
XLVII HOW MARY HAWKER SAID "YES."
XLVIII THE LATEST INTELLIGENCE.
Chapter I
INTRODUCTORY.
Near the end of February 1857, I think about the 20th or so, though it
don't much matter; I only know it was near the latter end of summer,
burning hot, with the bushfires raging like volcanoes on the ranges,
and the river reduced to a slender stream of water, almost lost upon
the broad white flats of quartz shingle. It was the end of February, I
said, when Major Buckley, Captain Brentwood (formerly of the
Artillery), and I, Geoffry Hamlyn, sat together over our wine in the
veranda at Baroona, gazing sleepily on the grey plains that rolled away
east and north-east towards the sea.
We had sat silent for some time, too lazy to speak, almost to think.
The beautiful flower-garden which lay before us, sloping towards the
river, looked rather brown and sere, after the hot winds, although the
orange-trees were still green enough, and vast clusters of purple
grapes were ripening rapidly among the yellowing vine-leaves. On the
whole, however, the garden was but a poor subject of contemplation for
one who remembered it in all its full November beauty, and so my eye
travelled away to the left, to a broad paddock of yellow grass which
bounded the garden on that side, and there I watched an old horse
feeding.
A very old horse indeed, a horse which seemed to have reached the
utmost bounds of equine existence. And yet such a beautiful beast. Even
as I looked some wild young colts were let out of the stockyard, and
came galloping and whinnying towards him, and then it was a sight to
see the old fellow as he trotted towards them, with his nose in the
air, and his tail arched, throwing his legs out before him with the
ease and grace of a four-year-old, and making me regret that he wasn't
my property and ten years younger;--altogether, even then, one of the
finest horses of his class I had ever seen, and suddenly a thought | 1,186.779522 |
2023-11-16 18:36:50.8597370 | 191 | 20 | NUMBER 60, OCTOBER 1862***
E-text prepared by Joshua Hutchinson, David Kline, and Project Gutenberg
Distributed Proofreaders
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.
VOL. X.--OCTOBER, 1862.--NO. LX.
A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.
AUTUMNAL TINTS.
Europeans coming to America are surprised by the brilliancy of our
autumnal foliage. There is no account of such a phenomenon in English
poetry, because the trees acquire but few bright colors there. The most
that Thomson says on this subject in his "Autumn" is contained in the
lines,--
"But see the fading many- woods,
Shade deepening over shade, the country round
Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun,
Of every hue, from wan declining | 1,186.879777 |
2023-11-16 18:36:51.1654140 | 5,921 | 28 |
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE PROSE WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
FOR THE FIRST TIME COLLECTED,
_WITH ADDITIONS FROM UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPTS_.
Edited, with Preface, Notes and Illustrations,
BY THE REV. ALEXANDER B. GROSART, ST. GEORGE'S, BLACKBURN, LANCASHIRE.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
POLITICAL AND ETHICAL.
LONDON: EDWARD MOXON, SON, AND CO. 1 AMEN CORNER, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1876.
AMS Press, Inc. New York 10003 1967
Manufactured in the United States of America
TO THE QUEEN.
MADAM,
I have the honour to place in your Majesty's hands the hitherto
uncollected and unpublished Prose Works of
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
--name sufficient in its simpleness to give lustre to any page.
Having been requested thus to collect and edit his Prose Writings by
those who hold his MSS. and are his nearest representatives, one little
discovery or recovery among these MSS. suggested your Majesty as the one
among all others to whom the illustrious Author would have chosen to
dedicate these Works, viz. a rough transcript of a Poem which he had
inscribed on the fly-leaf of a gift-copy of the collective edition of
his Poems sent to the Royal Library at Windsor Castle. This very tender,
beautiful, and pathetic Poem will be found on the other side of this
Dedication. It must 'for all time' take its place beside the living
Laureate's imperishable verse-tribute to your Majesty.
I venture to thank your Majesty for the double permission so
appreciatively given--of this Dedication itself and to print (for the
first time) the Poem. The gracious permission so pleasantly and
discriminatingly signified is only one of abundant proofs that your
Majesty is aware that of the enduring names of the reign of Victoria,
Wordsworth's is supreme as Poet and Thinker.
Gratefully and loyally, ALEXANDER B. GROSART.
Deign, Sovereign Mistress! to accept a lay,
No Laureate offering of elaborate art;
But salutation taking its glad way
From deep recesses of a loyal heart.
Queen, Wife, and Mother! may All-judging Heaven
Shower with a bounteous hand on Thee and Thine
Felicity that only can be given
On earth to goodness blest by grace divine.
Lady! devoutly honoured and beloved
Through every realm confided to thy sway;
Mayst Thou pursue thy course by God approved,
And He will teach thy people to obey.
As Thou art wont, thy sovereignty adorn
With woman's gentleness, yet firm and staid;
So shall that earthly crown thy brows have worn
Be changed for one whose glory cannot fade.
And now, by duty urged, I lay this Book
Before thy Majesty, in humble trust
That on its simplest pages Thou wilt look
With a benign indulgence more than just.
Nor wilt Thou blame an aged Poet's prayer,
That issuing hence may steal into thy mind
Some solace under weight of royal care,
Or grief--the inheritance of humankind.
For know we not that from celestial spheres,
When Time was young, an inspiration came
(Oh, were it mine!) to hallow saddest tears,
And help life onward in its noblest aim?
W.W.
9th January 1846.
PREFACE.
In response to a request put in the most gratifying way possible of the
nearest representatives of WORDSWORTH, the Editor has prepared this
collection of his _Prose Works_. That this should be done _for the first
time_ herein seems somewhat remarkable, especially in the knowledge of
the permanent value which the illustrious Author attached to his Prose,
and that he repeatedly expressed his wish and expectation that it would
be thus brought together and published, _e.g._ in the 'Memoirs,'
speaking of his own prose writings, he said that but for COLERIDGE'S
irregularity of purpose he should probably have left much more in that
kind behind him. When COLERIDGE was proposing to publish his 'Friend,'
he (WORDSWORTH) had offered contributions. COLERIDGE had expressed
himself pleased with the offer, but said, "I must arrange my principles
for the work, and when that is done I shall be glad of your aid." But
this "arrangement of principles" never took place. WORDSWORTH added: "_I
think my nephew, Dr. Wordsworth, will, after my death, collect and
publish all I have written in prose_...." "On another occasion, I
believe, he intimated a desire that his _works in Prose should be edited
by his son-in-law, Mr. Quillinan_."[1] Similarly he wrote to Professor
REED in 1840: 'I am much pleased by what you say in your letter of the
18th May last, upon the Tract of the "Convention of Cintra," and _I
think myself with some interest upon its being reprinted hereafter along
with my other writings_ [in prose]. But the respect which, in common
with all the rest of the rational part of the world, I bear for the DUKE
OF WELLINGTON will prevent my reprinting the pamphlet during his
lifetime. It has not been in my power to read the volumes of his
Despatches, which I hear so highly spoken of; but I am convinced that
nothing they contain could alter my opinion of the injurious tendency of
that or any other Convention, conducted upon such principles. _It was, I
repeat, gratifying to me that you should have spoken of that work as you
do, and particularly that you should have considered it in relation to
my Poems, somewhat in the same manner as you had done in respect to my
little volume on the Lakes_.'[2]
[1] 'Memoirs,' vol. ii. p. 466.
[2] Ibid. vol. i. p. 420.
It is probable that the _amount_ of the Prose of WORDSWORTH will come as
a surprise--surely a pleasant one--on even his admirers and students.
His own use of 'Tract' to describe a goodly octavo volume, and his
calling his 'Guide' a 'little volume' while it is a somewhat
considerable one, together with the hiding away of some of his most
matterful and weightiest productions in local and fugitive publications,
and in Prefaces and Appendices to Poems, go far to explain the
prevailing unacquaintance with even the _extent_, not to speak of the
importance, of his Prose, and the light contentment with which it has
been permitted so long to remain (comparatively) out of sight. That the
inter-relation of the Poems to the Prose, and of the Prose to the
Poems--of which above he himself wrote--makes the collection and
publication of the Prose a duty to all who regard WILLIAM WORDSWORTH as
one of the supreme intellects of the century--as certainly the glory of
the Georgian and Victorian age as ever SHAKESPEARE and RALEIGH were of
the Elizabethan and Jacobean--will not be questioned to-day.
The present Editor can only express his satisfaction at being called to
execute a task which, from a variety of circumstances, has been too long
delayed; but only delayed, inasmuch as the members of the Poet's family
have always held it as a sacred obligation laid upon them, with the
additional sanction that WORDSWORTH'S old and valued friend, HENRY CRABB
ROBINSON, Esq., had expressed a wish in his last Will (1868) that the
Prose Works of his friend should one day be collected; and which wish
alone, from one so discriminating and generous--were there no other
grounds for doing so--the family of WORDSWORTH could not but regard as
imperative. He rejoices that the delay--otherwise to be regretted--has
enabled the Editor to furnish a much fuller and more complete collection
than earlier had perhaps been possible. He would now briefly notice the
successive portions of these Volumes:
VOL. I.
I. POLITICAL.
(a) _Apology for the French Revolution_, 1793.
This is from the Author's own MS., and is published _for the first
time_. Every reader of 'The Recluse' and 'The Excursion' and the 'Lines
on the French Revolution, as it appeared to Enthusiasts at its
Commencement'--to specify only these--is aware that, in common with
SOUTHEY and the greater COLERIDGE, WORDSWORTH was in sympathy with the
uprising of France against its tyrants. But it is only now that we are
admitted to a full discovery of his youthful convictions and emotion by
the publication of this Manuscript, carefully preserved by him, but
never given to the world. The title on the fly-leaf--'Apology,' &c.,
being ours--in the Author's own handwriting, is as follows:
A
LETTER
TO THE
BISHOP OF LANDAFF
ON THE EXTRAORDINARY AVOWAL OF HIS
POLITICAL PRINCIPLES,
CONTAINED IN THE
APPENDIX TO HIS LATE SERMON:
BY A
REPUBLICAN.
It is nowhere dated, but inasmuch as Bishop WATSON'S Sermon, with the
Appendix, appeared early in 1793, to that year certainly belongs the
composition of the 'Letter.' The title-page of the Sermon and Appendix
may be here given;
A SERMON PREACHED BEFORE THE STEWARDS OF THE WESTMINSTER DISPENSARY, AT
THEIR ANNIVERSARY MEETING, CHARLOTTE STREET CHAPEL, APRIL 1785.
WITH AN APPENDIX, BY R. WATSON, D.D. LORD BISHOP OF LANDAFF.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR T. CADELL IN THE STRAND; AND T. EVANS IN PATERNOSTER
ROW.
1793 [8vo].
In the same year a'second edition' was published, and also separately
the Appendix, thus:
STRICTURES ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION AND THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION, AS
WRITTEN IN 1793 IN AN APPENDIX TO A SERMON PREACHED BEFORE THE STEWARDS
OF THE WESTMINSTER DISPENSARY, AT THEIR ANNIVERSARY MEETING, CHARLOTTE
STREET CHAPEL, APRIL 1785,
BY R. WATSON, D.D. LORD BISHOP OF LANDAFF.
_Reprinted at Loughborough, (With his Lordship's permission) by Adams,
Jun. and Recommended by the Loughborough Association For the Support of
the Constitution to The Serious Attention of the Public_.
Price Twopence, being one third of the original price,
1793 [small 8vo],
The Sermon is a somewhat commonplace dissertation on 'The Wisdom and
Goodness of God in having made both Rich and Poor,' from Proverbs xxii.
2: 'The rich and poor meet together, the Lord is the Maker of them all.'
It could not but be most irritating to one such as young
WORDSWORTH--then in his twenty-third year--who passionately felt as well
with as for the poor of his native country, and that from an intimacy of
knowledge and intercourse and sympathy in striking contrast with the
serene optimism of the preacher,--all the more flagrant in that Bishop
Watson himself sprang from the very humblest ranks. But it is on the
Appendix this Letter expends its force, and, except from BURKE on the
opposite side, nothing more forceful, or more effectively argumentative,
or informed with a nobler patriotism, is to be found in the English
language. If it have not the kindling eloquence which is Demosthenic,
and that axiomatic statement of principles which is Baconian, of the
'Convention,' every sentence and epithet pulsates--as its very
life-blood--with a manly scorn of the false, the base, the sordid, the
merely titularly eminent. It may not be assumed that even to old age
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH would have disavowed a syllable of this 'Apology.'
Technically he might not have held to the name 'Republican,' but to the
last his heart was with the oppressed, the suffering, the poor, the
silent. Mr. H. CRABB ROBINSON tells us in his Diary (vol. ii. p. 290, 3d
edition): 'I recollect once hearing Mr. WORDSWORTH say, half in joke,
half in earnest, "I have no respect whatever for Whigs, but I have a
great deal of the Chartist in me;"' and his friend adds: 'To be sure he
has. His earlier poems are full of that intense love of the people, as
such, which becomes Chartism when the attempt is formally made to make
their interests the especial object of legislation, as of deeper
importance than the positive rights hitherto accorded to the privileged
orders.' Elsewhere the same Diarist speaks of 'the brains of the noblest
youths in England' being 'turned' (i. 31, 32), including WORDSWORTH.
There was no such 'turning' of brain with him. He was deliberate,
judicial, while at a red heat of indignation. To measure the quality of
difference, intellectually and morally, between WORDSWORTH and another
noticeable man who entered into controversy with Bishop WATSON, it is
only necessary to compare the present Letter with GILBERT WAKEFIELD'S
'Reply to some Parts of the Bishop of Landaff's Address to the People of
Great Britain' (1798).
The manuscript is wholly in the handwriting of its author, and is done
with uncharacteristic painstaking; for later, writing was painful and
irksome to him, and even his letters are in great part illegible. One
folio is lacking, but probably it contained only an additional sentence
or two, as the examination of the Appendix is complete. Following on our
ending are these words: 'Besides the names which I.'
That the Reader may see how thorough is the Answer of WORDSWORTH to
Bishop WATSON, the 'Appendix' is reprinted _in extenso_. Being
comparatively brief, it was thought expedient not to put the student on
a vain search for the long-forgotten Sermon. On the biographic value of
this Letter, and the inevitableness of its inclusion among his prose
Works, it cannot be needful to say a word. It is noticed--and little
more--in the 'Memoirs' (c. ix. vol. i. pp. 78-80). In his Letters (vol.
iii.) will be found incidental allusions and vindications of the
principles maintained in the 'Apology.'
_(b) Concerning the Relations of Great Britain, Spain, and Portugal, to
each other and the common Enemy, at this Crisis; and specifically as
affected by the Convention of Cintra: the whole brought to the test of
those Principles, by which alone the Independence and Freedom of Nations
can be Preserved or Recovered_. 1809.
As stated in its 'Advertisement,' two portions of this treatise (rather
than 'Tract'), 'extending to p. 25' of the completed volume, were
originally printed in the months of December and January (1808-9), in
the 'Courier' newspaper. In this shape it attracted the notice of no
less a reader than Sir WALTER SCOTT, who thus writes of it: 'I have read
WORDSWORTH'S lucubrations[3] in the 'Courier,' _and much agree with
him_. Alas! we want everything but courage and virtue in this desperate
contest. Skill, knowledge of mankind, ineffable unhesitating villany,
combination of movement and combination of means, are with our
adversary. We can only fight like mastiffs--boldly, blindly, and
faithfully. I am almost driven to the pass of the Covenanters, when they
told the Almighty in their prayers He should no longer be their God; and
I really believe a few Gazettes more will make me turn Turk or
infidel.'[4]
[3] Lucubrations = meditative studies. It has since deteriorated in
meaning.
[4] Lockhart's 'Life of Scott,' vol. iii. pp. 260-1 (edition, 1856).
What WORDSWORTH'S own feelings and impulses were in the composition of
the 'Convention of Cintra' are revealed with unwonted as fine passion in
his 'Letters and Conversations' (vol. iii. pp. 256-261, &c.), whither
the Reader will do well to turn, inasmuch as he returns and re-returns
therein to his standing-ground in this very remarkable and imperishable
book. The long Letters to (afterwards) Sir CHARLES W. PASLEY and
another--_never before printed_--which follow the 'Convention of Cintra'
itself, are of special interest. The Appendix of Notes, 'a portion of
the work which WORDSWORTH regarded as executed in a masterly manner, was
drawn up by De Quincey, who revised the proofs of the whole' ('Memoirs,'
i. 384). Of the 'Convention of Cintra' the (now) Bishop of Lincoln
(WORDSWORTH) writes eloquently as follows: 'Much of WORDSWORTH'S life
was spent in comparative retirement, and a great part of his poetry
concerns natural and quiet objects. But it would be a great error to
imagine that he was not an attentive observer of public events. He was
an ardent lover of his country and of mankind. He watched the progress
of civil affairs in England with a vigilant eye, and he brought the
actions of public men to the test of the great and lasting principles of
equity and truth. He extended his range of view to events in foreign
parts, especially on the continent of Europe. Few persons, though
actually engaged in the great struggle of that period, felt more deeply
than WORDSWORTH did in his peaceful retreat for the calamities of
European nations, suffering at that time from the imbecility of their
governments, and from the withering oppression of a prosperous
despotism. His heart burned within him when he looked forth upon the
contest, and impassioned words proceeded from him, both in poetry and
prose. The contemplative calmness of his position, and the depth and
intensity of his feelings, combined together to give a dignity and
clearness, a vigour and splendour, and, consequently, a lasting value,
to his writings on measures of domestic and foreign policy, qualities
that rarely belong to contemporaneous political effusions produced by
those engaged in the heat and din of the battle. This remark is
specially applicable to his tract on the Convention of Cintra....
Whatever difference of opinion may prevail concerning the relevance of
the great principles enunciated in it to the questions at issue, but one
judgment can exist with respect to the importance of those principles,
and the vigorous and fervid eloquence with which they are enforced. If
WORDSWORTH had never written a single verse, this Essay alone would be
sufficient to place him in the highest rank of English poets.... Enough
has been quoted to show that the Essay on the Convention of Cintra was
not an ephemeral production, destined to vanish with the occasion which
gave it birth. If this were the case, the labour bestowed upon it was
almost abortive. The author composed the work in the discharge of what
he regarded a sacred duty, and for the permanent benefit of society,
rather than with a view to any immediate results.'[5] The Bishop adds
further these details: 'He foresaw and predicted that his words would be
to the public ear what midnight storms are to men who sleep:
[5] 'Memoirs,' as before, vol. i. pp. 383, 399.
"I dropp'd my pen, and listen'd to the wind,
That sang of trees uptorn and vessels tost--
A midnight harmony, and wholly lost
To the general sense of men, by chains confined
Of business, care, or pleasure, or resign'd
To timely sleep. Thought I, the impassion'd strain,
Which without aid of numbers I sustain,
Like acceptation from the world will find.
Yet some with apprehensive ear shall drink
A dirge devoutly breath'd o'er sorrows past;
And to the attendant promise will give heed--
The prophecy--like that of this wild blast,
Which, while it makes the heart with, sadness shrink,
Tells also of bright calms that shall succeed."[6]
It is true that some few readers it had on its first appearance; and it
is recorded by an ear-witness that Canning said of this pamphlet that he
considered it the most eloquent production since the days of Burke;[7]
but, by some untoward delays in printing, it was not published till the
interest in the question under discussion had almost subsided. Certain
it is, that an edition, consisting only of five hundred copies, was not
sold off; that many copies were disposed of by the publishers as waste
paper, and went to the trunkmakers; and now there is scarcely any volume
published in this country which is so difficult to be met with as the
tract on the Convention of Cintra; and if it were now reprinted, it
would come before the public with almost the unimpaired freshness of a
new work.'[8] In agreement with the closing statement, at the sale of
the library of Sir James Macintosh a copy fetched (it has been reported)
ten guineas. Curiously enough not a single copy was preserved by the
Author himself. The companion sonnet to the above, 'composed while the
author was engaged in writing a tract occasioned by the Convention of
Cintra, 1808,' must also find a place here:
'Not'mid the world's vain objects that enslave
The free-born soul--that world whose vaunted skill
In selfish interest perverts the will,
Whose factions lead astray the wise and brave--
Not there; but in dark wood and rocky cave,
And hollow vale which foaming torrents fill
With omnipresent murmur as they rave
Down their steep beds, that never shall be still,
Here, mighty Nature, in this school sublime
I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering Spain;
For her consult the auguries of time,
And through the human heart explore my way,
And look and listen--gathering where I may
Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain.'[9]
_(c) Letter to Major-General Sir Charles W. Pasley, K.C.B., on his
'Military Policy and Institutions of the British Empire,' with
another--now first printed--transmitting it_.
[6] 'Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty,' viii.
[7] Southey's 'Life and Correspondence,' vol. iii. p. 180; 'Gentleman's
Magazine' for June 1850, p. 617.
[8] 'Memoirs,' as before, vol. i, pp. 404-5.
[9] 'Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty,' vii.
The former is derived from the 'Memoirs' (vol. i. pp. 405-20). In
forwarding it to the (now) Bishop of Lincoln, Sir CHARLES thus wrote of
it: 'The letter on my "Military Policy" is particularly interesting....
Though WORDSWORTH agreed that we ought to step forward with all our
military force as principals in the war, he objected to any increase of
our own power and resources by continental conquest, in which I now
think he was quite right. I am not, however, by any means shaken in the
opinion then advanced, that peace with Napoleon would lead to the loss
of our naval superiority and of our national independence,... and I
fully believe that the Duke of Wellington's campaigns in the Spanish
Peninsula saved the nation, though no less credit is due to the Ministry
of that day for not despairing of eventual success, but supporting him
under all difficulties in spite of temporary reverses, and in opposition
to a powerful party and to influential writers.' The letter
transmitting the other has only recently been discovered on a
reexamination of the Wordsworth MSS. Both letters have a
Shakespearian-patriotic ring concerning 'This England.' It is inspiring
to read in retrospect of the facts such high-couraged writing as in
these letters.
_(d) Two Addresses to the Freeholders of Westmoreland_, 1818.
The 'Mr. BROUGHAM' of these 'Two Addresses' was, as all the world knows,
the (afterwards) renowned and many-gifted HENRY, Lord BROUGHAM and VAUX.
In his Autobiography he refers very good-humouredly to his three defeats
in contesting the representation of Westmoreland; but there is no
allusion whatever to WORDSWORTH. With reference to his final effort he
thus informs us: 'Parliament was dissolved in 1826, when for the third
time I stood for Westmoreland; and, after a hard-fought contest, was
again defeated. I have no wish to enter into the local politics of that
county, but I cannot resist quoting an extract from a letter of my
esteemed friend Bishop BATHURST to Mr. HOWARD of Corby, by whose
kindness I am enabled to give it: "Mr. BROUGHAM has struggled nobly for
civil and religious liberty; and is fully entitled to the celebrated
eulogy bestowed by Lucan upon Cato--
'Victrix causa Diis placuit, sed victa Catoni.'
How others may feel I know not, but for my own part I would much rather
be in his situation than in that of the two victorious opponents;
notwithstanding the cold discouraging maxim of Epictetus, which is
calculated to check every virtuous effort--[Greek: Aniketos einai
dunasai, ean ouk eis medena agona katabaines, ou ouk estin epinikesai]
[=You may be invincible if you never go down into the arena when you are
not secure of victory: Enchiridion, cxxv.]. He will not, I hope, suffer
from his exertions, extraordinary in every way. I respect exceedingly
his fine abilities, and the purpose to which he | 1,187.185454 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
BEES IN AMBER
A LITTLE BOOK OF THOUGHTFUL VERSE
BY JOHN OXENHAM
1913
TO THOSE I HOLD DEAREST
THIS OF MY BEST.
CONTENTS
CREDO
NEW YEAR'S DAY AND EVERYDAY
PHILOSOPHER'S GARDEN
FLOWERS OF THE DUST
THE PILGRIM WAY
EVERYMAID
BETTER AND BEST
THE SHADOW
THE POTTER
NIGHTFALL
THE PRUNER
THE WAYS
SEEDS
WHIRRING WHEELS
THE BELLS OF YS
THE LITTLE POEM OF LIFE
CUP OF MIXTURE
WEAVERS ALL
THE CLEARER VISION
SHADOWS
THE INN OF LIFE
LIFE'S CHEQUER-BOARD
CROSS-ROADS
QUO VADIS?
TAMATE
BURDEN-BEARERS
THE IRON FLAIL
SARK
E.A.
THE PASSING OF THE QUEEN
THE GOLDEN CORD
THANK GOD FOR PEACE!
GOD'S HANDWRITING
STEPHEN--SAUL
PAUL
WAKENING
MACEDONIA, 1903
HEARTS IN EXILE
WANDERED
BIDE A WEE!
THE WORD THAT WAS LEFT UNSAID
DON'T WORRY!
THE GOLDEN ROSE
GADARA, A.D. 31
THE BELLS OF STEPAN ILINE
BOLT THAT DOOR!
GIANT CIRCUMSTANCE
THE HUNGRY SEA
WE THANK THEE, LORD
THE VAIL
NO EAST OR WEST
THE DAY--THE WAY
LIBERTY, EQUALITY, FRATERNITY
FREEMEN
THE LONG ROAD
THE CHRIST
THE BALLAD OF LOST SOULS
PROFIT AND LOSS
FREE MEN OF GOD
TREASURE-TROVE
THE GATE
BRING US THE LIGHT
ALL'S WELL!
HIS MERCY ENDURETH FOR EVER
GOD IS GOOD
SOME--AND SOME
THE PRINCE OF LIFE
JUDGMENT DAY
DARKNESS AND LIGHT
INDIA
LIVINGSTONE
LIVINGSTONE THE BUILDER
LIVINGSTONE'S SOLILOQUY
KAPIOLANI
THEY COME!
PROCESSIONALS
FAITH
"I WILL!"
A LITTLE TE DEUM OF THE COMMONPLACE
POLICEMAN X
YOUR PLACE
IN NARROW WAYS
SHUT WINDOWS
PROPS
BED-ROCK
AFTER WORK
KAPIOLANI IN RAROTONGAN
AUTHOR'S APOLOGY
In these rushful days an apology is advisable, if not absolutely
essential, from any man, save the one or two elect, who has the temerity
to publish a volume of verse.
These stray lines, such as they are, have come to me from time to time,
I hardly know how or whence; certainly not of deliberate intention or of
malice aforethought. More often than not they have come to the
interruption of other, as it seemed to me, more important--and
undoubtedly more profitable--work.
They are for the most part, simply attempts at concrete and
rememberable expression of ideas--ages old most of them--which "asked
for more."
Most writers, I imagine, find themselves at times in that same
predicament--worried by some thought which dances within them and
stubbornly refuses to be satisfied with the sober dress of prose. For
their own satisfaction and relief, in such a case, if they be not fools
they endeavour to garb it more to its liking, and so find peace. Or, to
vary the metaphor, they pluck the Bee out of their Bonnet and pop it
into such amber as they happen to have about them or are able to
evolve, and so put an end to its buzzing.
In their previous states these little Bonnet-Bees of mine have
apparently given pleasure to quite a number of intelligent and
thoughtful folk; and now--chiefly, I am bound to say, for my own
satisfaction in seeing them all together--I have gathered
them into one bunch.
If they please you--good! If not, there is no harm done, and one man is
content.
JOHN OXENHAM
CREDO
Not what, but WHOM, I do believe,
That, in my darkest hour of need,
Hath comfort that no mortal creed
To mortal man may give;--
Not what, but WHOM!
For Christ is more than all the creeds,
And His full life of gentle deeds
Shall all the creeds outlive.
Not what I do believe, but WHOM!
WHO walks beside me in the gloom?
WHO shares the burden wearisome?
WHO all the dim way doth illume,
And bids me look beyond the tomb
The larger life to live?--
Not what I do believe,
BUT WHOM!
Not what,
But WHOM!
NEW YEAR'S DAY--AND EVERY DAY
_Each man is Captain of his Soul,
And each man his own Crew,
But the Pilot knows the Unknown Seas,
And He will bring us through_.
We break new seas to-day,--
Our eager keels quest unaccustomed waters,
And, from the vast uncharted waste in front,
The mystic circles leap
To greet our prows with mightiest possibilities;
Bringing us--what?
--Dread shoals and shifting banks?
--And calms and storms?
--And clouds and biting gales?
--And wreck and loss?
--And valiant fighting-times?
And, maybe, Death!--and so, the Larger Life!
_For should the Pilot deem it best
To cut the voyage short,
He sees beyond the sky-line, and
He'll bring us into Port_.
And, maybe, Life,--Life on a bounding tide,
And chance of glorious deeds;--
Of help swift-born to drowning mariners;
Of cheer to ships dismasted in the gale;
Of succours given unasked and joyfully;
Of mighty service to all needy souls.
_So--Ho for the Pilot's orders,
Whatever course He makes!
For He sees beyond the sky-line,
And He never makes mistakes_.
And, maybe, Golden Days,
Full freighted with delight!
--And wide free seas of unimagined bliss,
--And Treasure Isles, and Kingdoms to be won,
--And Undiscovered Countries, and New Kin.
_For each man captains his own Soul,
And chooses his own Crew,
But the Pilot knows the Unknown Seas,
And He will bring us through_.
PHILOSOPHER'S GARDEN
"_See this my garden,
Large and fair_!"
--Thus, to his friend,
The Philosopher.
"'_Tis not too long_,"
His friend replied,
With truth exact,--
"_Nor yet too wide.
But well compact,
If somewhat cramped
On every side_."
Quick the reply--
"_But see how high!--
It reaches up
To God's blue sky_!"
Not by their size
Measure we men
Or things.
Wisdom, with eyes
Washed in the fire,
Seeketh the things
That are higher--
Things that have wings,
Thoughts that aspire.
FLOWERS OF THE DUST
The Mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small--
So soft and slow the great wheels go they scarcely move at all;
But the souls of men fall into them and are powdered into dust,
And in that dust grow the Passion-Flowers--Love, Hope, Trust.
Most wondrous their upspringing, in the dust of the Grinding-Mills,
And rare beyond the telling the fragrance each distils.
Some grow up tall and stately, and some grow sweet and small,
But Life out of Death is in each one--with purpose grow they all.
For that dust is God's own garden, and the Lord Christ tends it fair,
With oh, such loving tenderness! and oh, such patient care!
In sorrow the seeds are planted, they are watered with bitter tears,
But their roots strike down to the Water-Springs and the Sources of the
Years.
These flowers of Christ's own providence, they wither not nor die,
But flourish fair, and fairer still, through all eternity.
In the Dust of the Mills and in travail the amaranth seeds are sown,
But the Flowers in their full beauty climb the Pillars of the Throne.
NOTE.--The first line only is adapted from the Sinngedichte of
Friedrich von Logau.
THE PILGRIM WAY
But once I pass this way,
And then--no more.
But once--and then, the Silent Door
Swings on its hinges,--
Opens... closes,--
And no more
I pass this way.
So while I may,
With all my might,
I will essay
Sweet comfort and delight,
To all I meet upon the Pilgrim Way.
For no man travels twice
The Great Highway,
That climbs through Darkness up to Light,--
Through Night
To Day.
EVERYMAID
King's Daughter!
Wouldst thou be all fair,
Without--within--
Peerless and beautiful,
A very Queen?
Know then:--
Not as men build unto the Silent One,--
With clang and clamour,
Traffic of rude voices,
Clink of steel on stone,
And din of hammer;--
Not so the temple of thy grace is reared.
But,--in the inmost shrine
Must thou begin,
And build with care
A Holy Place,
A place unseen,
Each stone a prayer.
Then, having built,
Thy shrine sweep bare
Of self and sin,
And all that might demean;
And, with endeavour,
Watching ever, praying ever,
Keep it fragrant-sweet, and clean:
So, by God's grace, it be fit place,--
His Christ shall enter and shall dwell therein.
Not as in earthly fane--where chase
Of steel on stone may strive to win
Some outward grace,--
_Thy temple face is chiselled from within_.
BETTER AND BEST
Better in bitterest agony to lie,
Before Thy throne,
Than through much increase to be lifted up on high,
And stand alone.
Better by one sweet soul, constant and true,
To be beloved,
Than all the kingdoms of delight to trample through,
Unloved, unloved.
Yet best--the need that broke me at Thy feet,
In voiceless prayer,
And cast my chastened heart, a sacrifice complete,
Upon Thy care.
For all the world is nought, and less than nought,
Compared with this,--
That my dear Lord, with His own life, my ransom bought,
And I am His.
THE SHADOW
Shapeless and grim,
A Shadow dim
O'erhung the ways,
And darkened all my days.
And all who saw,
With bated breath,
Said, "It is Death!"
And I, in weakness
Slipping towards the Night,
In sore affright
Looked up. And lo!--
No Spectre grim,
But just a dim
Sweet face,
A sweet high mother-face,
A face like Christ's Own Mother's face,
Alight with tenderness
And grace.
"Thou art not Death!" I cried;--
For Life's supremest fantasy
Had never thus envisaged Death to me;--
"Thou art not Death, the End!"
In accents winning,
Came the answer,--"_Friend,
There is no Death!
I am the Beginning,
--Not the End_!"
THE POTTER
A Potter, playing with his lump of clay,
Fashioned an image of supremest worth.
"_Never was nobler image made on earth,
Than this that I have fashioned of my clay.
And I, of mine own skill, did fashion it,--
I--from this lump of clay_."
The Master, looking out on Pots and Men,
Heard his vain boasting, smiled at that he said.
"_The clay is Mine, and I the Potter made,
As I made all things,--stars, and clay, and men.
In what doth this man overpass the rest?
--Be thou as other men_!"
He touched the Image,--and it fell to dust,
He touched the Potter,--he to dust did fall.
Gently the Master,--"_I did make them all,--
All things and men, heaven's glories, and the dust.
Who with Me works shall quicken death itself,
Without Me--dust is dust_."
NIGHTFALL
Fold up the tent!
The sun is in the West.
To-morrow my untented soul will range
Among the blest.
And I am well content,
For what is sent, is sent,
And God knows best.
Fold up the tent,
And speed the parting guest!
The night draws on, though night and day are one
On this long quest.
This house was only lent
For my apprenticement--
What is, is best.
Fold up the tent!
Its slack ropes all undone,
Its pole all broken, and its cover rent,--
Its work is done.
But mine--tho' spoiled and spent
Mine earthly tenement--
Is but begun.
Fold up the tent!
Its tenant would be gone,
To fairer skies than mortal eyes
May look upon.
All that I loved has passed,
And left me at the last
Alone!--alone!
Fold up the tent!
Above the mountain's crest,
I hear a clear voice calling, calling clear,--
"To rest! To rest!"
And I am glad to go,
For the sweet oil is low,
And rest is best!
THE PRUNER
God is a zealous pruner,
For He knows--
Who, falsely tender, spares the knife
But spoils the rose.
THE WAYS
To every man there openeth
A Way, and Ways, and a Way.
And the High Soul climbs the High way,
And the Low Soul gropes the Low,
And in between, on the misty flats,
The rest drift to and fro.
But to every man there openeth
A High Way, and a Low.
And every man decideth
The Way his soul shall go.
SEEDS
What shall we be like when
We cast this earthly body and attain
To immortality?
What shall we be like then?
Ah, who shall say
What vast expansions shall be ours that day?
What transformations of this house of clay,
To fit the heavenly mansions and the light of day?
Ah, who shall say?
But this we know,--
We drop a seed into the ground,
A tiny, shapeless thing, shrivelled and dry,
And, in the fulness of its time, is seen
A form of peerless beauty, robed and crowned
Beyond the pride of any earthly queen,
Instinct with loveliness, and sweet and rare,
The perfect emblem of its Maker's care.
This from a shrivelled seed?--
--Then may man hope indeed!
For man is but the seed of what he shall be.
When, in the fulness of his perfecting,
He drops the husk and cleaves his upward way,
Through earth's retardings and the clinging clay,
Into the sunshine of God's perfect day.
No fetters then! No bonds of time or space!
But powers as ample as the boundless grace
That suffered man, and death, and yet, in tenderness,
Set wide the door, and passed Himself before--
As He had promised--to prepare a place.
Yea, we may hope!
For we are seeds,
Dropped into earth for heavenly blossoming.
Perchance, when comes the time of harvesting,
His loving care
May find some use for even a humble tare.
We know not what we shall be--only this--
That we shall be made like Him--as He is.
WHIRRING WHEELS
Lord, when on my bed I lie,
Sleepless, unto Thee I'll cry;
When my brain works overmuch,
Stay the wheels with Thy soft touch.
Just a quiet thought of Thee,
And of Thy sweet charity,--
Just a little prayer, and then
I will turn to sleep again.
THE BELLS OF YS
When the Bells of Ys rang softly,--softly,
_Soft--and sweet--and low_,
Not a sound was heard in the old gray town,
As the silvery tones came floating down,
But life stood still with uncovered head,
And doers of ill did good instead,
And abroad the Peace of God was shed,
_When the bells aloft sang softly--softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low,--
The Silver Bells and the Golden Bells,--
Aloft, and aloft, and alow_.
And still those Bells ring softly--softly,
_Soft--and sweet--and low_.
Though full twelve hundred years have gone,
Since the waves rolled over the old gray town,
Bold men of the sea, in the grip of the flow,
Still hear the Bells, as they pass and go,
Or win to life with their hearts aglow,
_When the Bells below sing softly--softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low,--
The Silver Bells and the Golden Bells,--
Alow, and alow, and alow_.
O the Mystical Bells, they still ring softly,
_Soft--and sweet--and low_,--
For the sound of their singing shall never die
In the hearts that are tuned to their melody;
And down in the world's wild rush and roar,
That sweeps us along to the Opening Door.
Hearts still beat high as they beat of yore,
_When the Bells sing softly--softly--softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low,
The Silver Bells and the Golden Bells,--
Alow, and aloft, and alow_.
THE LITTLE POEM OF LIFE
I;--
Thou;--
We;--
They;--
Small words, but mighty.
In their span
Are bound the life and hopes of man.
For, first, his thoughts of his own self are full;
Until another comes his heart to rule.
For them, life's best is centred round their love;
Till younger lives come all their love to prove.
CUP OF MIXTURE
For every Guest who comes with him to sup,
The Host compounds a strangely mingled cup;--
Red Wine of Life and Dregs of Bitterness,
And, will-he, nil-he, each must drink it up.
WEAVERS ALL
Warp and Woof and Tangle,--
_Weavers of Webs are we_.
Living and dying--and mightier dead,
For the shuttle, once sped, is sped--is sped;--
_Weavers of Webs are we_.
White, and Black, and Hodden-gray,--
_Weavers of Webs are we_.
To every weaver one golden strand
Is given in trust by the Master-Hand;--
_Weavers of Webs are we_.
And that we weave, we know not,--
_Weavers of Webs are we_.
The threads we see, but the pattern is known
To the Master-Weaver alone, alone;--
_Weavers of Webs are we_.
THE CLEARER VISION
When, with bowed head,
And silent-streaming tears,
With mingled hopes and fears,
To earth we yield our dead;
The Saints, with clearer sight,
Do cry in glad accord,--
"_A soul released from prison
Is risen, is risen,--
Is risen to the glory of the Lord_."
SHADOWS
Shadows are but for the moment--
Quickly past;
And then the sun the brighter shines
That it was overcast.
For Light is Life!
Gracious and sweet,
The fair life-giving sun doth scatter blessings
With his light and heat,--
And shadows.
But the shadows that come of the life-giving sun
Crouch at his feet.
No mortal life but has its shadowed times--
Not one!
Life without shadow could not taste the full
Sweet glory of the sun.
No shadow falls, but there, behind it, stands
The Light
Behind the wrongs and sorrows of life's troublous ways
Stands RIGHT.
THE INN OF LIFE
_As It was in the Beginning,--
Is Now,--
And...?
Anno Domini I_.
* * * * *
"No room!
No room!
The Inn is full,
Yea--overfull.
No room have we
for such as ye--
Poor folk of Galilee,
Pass on! Pass on!"
"Nay then!--
Your charity
Will ne'er deny
Some corner mean,
Where she may lie unseen.
For see!--
Her time is nigh."
"Alack! And she
So young and fair!
Place have we none;
And yet--how bid ye gone?
Stay then!--out there
Among the beasts
Ye may find room,
And eke a truss
To lie upon."
_Anno Domini 1913, etc., etc_.
* * * * *
"No room!
| 1,187.185535 |
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generously made available by The Internet Archive/American
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THE CAT
[Illustration: WHITE CAT AND KITTENS.]
THE CAT:
_ITS NATURAL HISTORY; DOMESTIC
VARIETIES; MANAGEMENT AND
TREATMENT._
(_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS._)
BY PHILIP M. RULE.
_WITH AN ESSAY ON FELINE INSTINCT,
BY BERNARD PEREZ._
London:
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN, LOWREY & CO.,
PATERNOSTER SQUARE.
1887.
Butler & Tanner,
The Selwood Printing Works,
Frome, and London.
TO JOHN COLAM, ESQ.,
SECRETARY TO THE ROYAL SOCIETY FOR THE
PREVENTION OF CRUELTY TO ANIMALS,
THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED,
IN RECOGNITION OF THE NOBLE AND UNFAILING
DEVOTION DISPLAYED BY HIM IN ADVOCATING
THE CAUSE OF HUMANITY;
AND IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF THE AUTHOR'S
APPRECIATION OF HIS REGARD FOR AND INTEREST IN
THE SUBJECT OF THE FOLLOWING PAGES.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS 1
CHAPTER II.
GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS (_continued_) 10
CHAPTER III.
FOOD 31
CHAPTER IV.
ON THE MANAGEMENT AND TREATMENT OF CATS 45
CHAPTER V.
DOMESTIC VARIETIES 58
CHAPTER VI.
ON THE DISEASES OF CATS 80
CHAPTER VII.
ON THE DISEASES OF CATS (_continued_) 102
ESSAY ON FELINE INSTINCT 133
PREFACE.
Before sending forth this little book, I consider it my duty to request
the attention of the patient reader to a few introductory and explanatory
remarks. During some portion of the past year I contributed a series of
short papers upon the cat to that most admirable monthly _The Animal
World_. Through the kind and hearty manner in which the Editor brought the
papers out from month to month, and also by the expressed desire of many
friends, I have been encouraged to reproduce the papers in the present
form. Some slight revision has, of course, been found necessary; but very
little addition has been made, it being my desire to produce a small and
attractive volume, with the hope that it may reach to many homes where the
hints it contains can perhaps be of some practical service. Nevertheless,
I hope there may be found enough interesting or instructive matter to
excite in the mind and heart of some a deeper interest in or regard for an
animal that too often is esteemed worthy of but slight attention.
I am indebted to Mr. Harrison Weir for his kindness in supplying me with a
few particulars connected with the organization of the first Cat Show,
held at the Crystal Palace, in 1871.
In the last chapter the reader will see that I have made several
quotations, somewhat at length: I have done so with the very kind and
ready permission of the writer, MR. HAROLD LEENEY, M.R.C.V.S.
P. M. RULE.
MAIDSTONE.
THE CAT.
CHAPTER I.
_GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS._
The origin of the domestic cat (_Felis domestica_) is a subject about
which there has been much conjecture and scientific discussion, but
without any positive issue. Very long before the cat was kept in this
country as a domesticated animal it was possessed by the ancient Egyptians
in a tame state, and was, moreover, held in reverence by that remarkable
and superstitious people, being regarded sacred to the goddess Pasht. At
death the body was embalmed with devout care, and specimens of cat mummies
may be seen in the British Museum. The Egyptian cat (_Felis maniculata_)
may, however, be regarded as probably the original source of our familiar
puss. This wild cat is of a sandy-grey or tawny colour, and with more or
less indistinct markings of the tabby character. It is of about ordinary
size; the tail is in form somewhat like that of most of our cats, and the
ears are largish and pointed in a slightly lynx-like fashion. It is
supposed that domesticated animals spread from Egypt with the tide of
civilization westward. I may here notice that, unlike the dog, the cat
has never been tamed by the savage races of mankind. But by the
civilized, or even the semi-civilized, peoples of the world the cat is at
the present day more or less valued as a useful mouser or as a cherished
household pet. It is remarkable that at a time when the wild cat (_Felis
catus_) was very abundant in England, the house-cat was unknown. It was
evidently an animal of foreign importation, and so highly valued as a
mouser as to have been protected by royal statute. The earliest record of
the tame cat in this country is as remote as A.D. 948. Prince Howel Dda,
or Howel the Good, enforced the very just but primitive fine of a milch
ewe, its fleece and lamb, or as much wheat from the destroyer or robber
of a cat at the Royal granary as would cover it to the tip of the tail,
the animal being suspended by that member, with the head only touching the
ground.
As the domestic cat in different parts of the world will breed
occasionally with the wild races of the locality, and as cats are conveyed
from country to country, it is probable that our cats are of somewhat
compound pedigree. It is considered probable that our fine English tabbies
have a trace of the British wild-cat blood in their veins, although it may
be obscure. The domestic cat is not regarded in zoology as the typical
form to represent the beautiful group known as the _Felidae_, or the cat
family, as might naturally be supposed; and it might have justly been so.
But the animal chosen as the generic example is the common wild cat, and
therefore known in science as _Felis catus_, _felis_ being the generic
title and _catus_ the specific name, which every reader will understand to
signify cat. It will be beyond the scope and aim of this chapter to
describe all the known distinct species of wild cat. In describing the
true cats, such as the Pampas cat, or the Colocolo of America, the Chaus,
or the Serval of Africa, the Viverrine, or the Leopard cat of India, our
subject would lead us on from these and other "tiger cats," as the Ocelot,
and the Riman-Dahan, without power to define a clear line of distinction,
up to the leopards, and finally to the "King of Beasts" himself. Of all
these _Felidae_ there are upwards of half a hundred distinct species known,
to say nothing of the permanent varieties--which, with regard to domestic
animals, are termed "breeds"--and the casual "sports," and variations of
colour, etc. But the true wild cat (_Felis catus_) is deserving of notice,
being the only form that is a native of this country, and often termed by
us the British wild cat, although now almost totally extinct on our
island. Its last haunt here is in the remote parts of Scotland; and so
scarce has it become, that its existence, even there, is now somewhat
doubtful. But it is still now to be found, with but slight local
variations, on the continent of Europe and Northern Asia, and is,
therefore, also known as the European wild cat. It is not found very far
north, and neither in Norway nor Sweden; there the lynx reigns supreme.
The wild cat is a fine animal, of larger growth than the cat of our
familiar acquaintance, and stands tall. It is a strong, muscular,
well-built cat,--a perfect tabby,--and so fierce an animal as to have been
justly termed the "British Tiger." An adult male measures about
twenty-eight inches in length from the nose to the root of the tail, and
the tail is about thirteen inches, which is proportionately short, and it
does not taper at the end, as does that of our domestic cats, but is about
the same thickness throughout, resembling somewhat that of the Serval.
When the animal is excited, and the tail enlarges, after the manner of all
cats, it presents a splendid brush.
[Illustration: WILD CAT.]
In country places, where rabbits are abundant,--and, we may add, the
smaller, but not less destructive, rodents, and a variety of feathered
game,--the barn-door cat is sometimes tempted to abscond and take to a
romantic and semi-wild life in the woods. Kittens born of such parents
have no desire for the domestic hearth, and are wild and suspicions to a
degree. Were it not for the vigilance and unremitting persecution of
gamekeepers and others, which has robbed our land of the noble _Felis
catus_, in common with many other rare and interesting creatures, it is
probable that but very few consecutive generations would suffice to
produce a truly wild race.
CHAPTER II.
_GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS._
(_Continued._)
A short time ago I had two kittens which were born in the Zoological
Gardens, Regent's Park, and bred between the domestic tortoiseshell and
the British wild cat, that have for several years occupied together a cage
in the winter aviary. This crescent-shaped row of cages, although
originally an aviary, has for some years been occupied by animals of a
decidedly bird-fancying character. There the animals in question may have
been seen, and in an adjoining cage a specimen of the Viverrine cat--so
named from the somewhat civet-like form of the muzzle. But it is a true
cat, every inch, and bears every cat in countenance by its love of fish.
Being most unusually adroit at capturing fish from shallow water, it is
commonly named the Fishing Cat. The specimen I allude to was brought from
India by the Prince of Wales, and graciously presented to the Zoological
Society. These cages contain also other animals of interest, such as the
Civet, Poradoxure, etc.[1] But to return to the kittens. When only able
to crawl, as I examined the litter, the little things spat most
vigorously, for probably they had not before seen anybody in the cage
except their keeper. The two I selected were a red tabby and a
tortoiseshell. The red tabby was a male, as red tabby cats generally are,
and he decidedly resembled his father, if not in colour, in disposition
and temperament. I took them from the litter at the early age of nearly
seven weeks. The contrast between their behaviour and that of tame kittens
was most remarkable. At the slightest surprise or displeasure they would
spit with wide-open mouth and a display of ivory fangs in a most
threatening manner. When I gave them milk, they would in a very unpolite
fashion growl together. They never ate near each other, but pouncing upon
their meat and carrying it to a far corner apart, would growl in a most
warning tone, and answer back again and again till the last morsel should
be consumed. On one occasion they had quite a desperate tug of war over
the same piece of meat, and it was with some difficulty that I could part
them, for fear of using too much force and hurting their young teeth. But
when not feeding, the tortoiseshell became not only docile, but most
affectionate and pleasing, in her little ways. She would fondle and purr
in a manner that won the affection of my heart. On the other hand, the
tabby was, at the best, passively composed, but always watchful, and never
certain in mood. I can hardly say which of the two I prized most. In the
one I admired the manifestations of its inborn nature, and would on no
account check or discourage such signs of high blood. Towards the other I
felt there was a mutual and spiritual bond of affection, which I can
better conceive than describe. Dryden's lines upon a tame leopard express
very nearly my feelings respecting these two little beasts (see page 21).
Unfortunately, the kittens died very suddenly, and at the same hour, after
a short career of three months. There is reason to suspect that poison was
the cause of their untimely end. Nothing now remains but the stuffed
skins, mounted in admirable style, under a glass case.
Probably the veneration with which the Egyptians regarded the cat was in
no way diminished by the probable utility of their revered favourites in
keeping under the increase of such remarkably prolific and fast-growing
rodents as are mice and rats; and it is reasonable to suppose these little
animals must have been harmful in the vast stores of grain which are
recorded in ancient history. Pussy's valuable qualities as a mouser are to
the present day too well known to need much comment. A friend of mine told
me the other day that once, when he removed to another house, and had
also deposited his favourite cat, with the usual precaution of buttering
paws, and consolation of a more solid nature in addition, the servant, on
entering the kitchen in the morning, found fourteen mice lying dead on the
hearth-rug, most of them decapitated. The usual preference which cats have
for the heads of their prey is remarkable, and has been noticed in both
tame and wild animals. One of the most noticeable characteristics of the
cat kind is the silent tread. Even the footfall of the huge tigers, as
they pace to and fro in their roomy cages or in their open-air enclosures
at the Zoological Gardens is hardly to be heard. For not only is the cat a
digitigrade animal, walking absolutely "tiptoe" in the most perfect
manner, but the toes are furnished with a most elastic membrane,
constituting what are commonly called pussy's "pads." She is thus enabled
to skulk stealthily in search of her desired prey, and can on all
occasions move with that unobtrusive grace and silent ease peculiarly
characteristic of her race. The retractile construction of the peculiarity
sharp claws is also a beautiful adaptation to the requirements of these
Nimrods of creation. Generally these useful weapons are held back, nicely
sheathed and safe from harm. They are readily, however, protruded at will
when required for offensive or defensive service, in holding secure an
unfortunate victim, or as hooks to assist in climbing trees, etc. The
senses of the cat are all highly developed. That of hearing is most acute.
The sense of smell is not so acute as in the dog and some other
animals--at least, it is assumed so; but it is quite evident that the ear
and the eye are put to the best service by the cat. But dirt and bad
smells are much disliked, while, on the other hand, there is a remarkable
partiality for some smells. Cats appear to enjoy the perfume of many
flowers, and their fondness for the odour of cat-mint or valerian is
remarkable. As may be noticed by the prompt, unerring manner in which a
cat will dart at a mouse or any small moving object in almost total
darkness, she has the power to see near objects without the light required
by ourselves and most animals. Absolutely total darkness is evidently not
advantageous to pussy's vision, and the assertion that the cat can see
better in the dark must not be regarded in an abstract, but in a
comparative, sense. The pupil of the eye has the round shape, as in
ourselves, only during darkness, when it is dilated so as to receive every
ray of light available. By day, on the other hand, when there is more
light than the eye requires, the pupil contracts to an ellipse, or, in the
strongest light, to a mere line. This peculiarity is absent in the lion
and tiger and a few others. A peculiarity in the cat and some other
animals may be noticed in the highly-developed bristles, commonly called
"whiskers," but more appropriately termed "feelers." These are not, as
some may suppose, only common hairs of larger growth, but are deeply
implanted, having large swollen roots, somewhat in the form of young
onions, and are connected with highly sensitive nerves which communicate
with the brain. By means of these bristles the cat is enabled to feel its
way the more stealthily, avoiding the clumsy disturbance of surrounding
objects that might impede its progress.
It will be seen by the foregoing brief description of its leading physical
characteristics that the cat is, of all animals, the most perfectly and
beautifully formed for the fulfilments of the instincts and requirements
of its nature. The silent, soft tread of the velvet paw, with the finely
pointed and carefully preserved claws, the terrible fangs, the keen eye,
and the light, easy, soft, yet powerful and unerring, action of the whole
body--all these render the cats, from the great Bengal tiger downwards,
the most charming and graceful creatures in animated nature.
The panther, sure the noblest next the hind,
And fairest creature of the spotted kind;
Oh, could her inborn stains be washed away,
She were too good to be a beast of prey!
How can I praise or blame, and not offend,
Or how divide the frailty from the friend?
Her faults and virtues lie so mixed that she
Nor wholly stands condemned, nor wholly free.
But there is yet another physical peculiarity worthy of passing notice;
viz., the remarkably loose skin. This is connected with the flesh by a
layer of very loose fibres. The cat's loose skin serves her well on many
occasions as a shield of protection, especially when scuffling with her
neighbours--an occurrence which will sometimes take place. This
peculiarity may be occasionally seen well exhibited in the jaguars and
other great cats at the Zoological Gardens, more especially | 1,187.185775 |
2023-11-16 18:36:51.2591000 | 4,319 | 13 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER
BY GEORGE W. CABLE
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1894
Copyright, 1894, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
THE CAXTON PRESS
NEW YORK
CONTENTS
I. SUEZ
II. TO A GOOD BOY
III. TWO FRIENDS
IV. THE JUDGE'S SON MAKES TWO LIFE-LONG ACQUAINTANCES, AND IS OFFERED A
THIRD
V. THE MASTER'S HOME-COMING
VI. TROUBLE
VII. EXODUS
VIII. SEVEN YEARS OF SUNSHINE
IX. LAUNCELOT HALLIDAY
X. FANNIE
XI. A BLEEDING HEART
XII. JOHN THINKS HE IS NOT AFRAID
XIII. FOR FANNIE
XIV. A MORTGAGE ON JOHN
XV. ARRIVALS AT ROSEMONT
XVI. A GROUP OF NEW INFLUENCES
XVII. THE ROSEMONT ATMOSPHERE
XVIII. THE PANGS OF COQUETRY
XIX. MR. RAVENEL SHOWS A "MORE EXCELLENT WAY"
XX. FANNIE SUGGESTS
XXI. MR. LEGGETT'S CHICKEN-PIE POLICY
XXII. CLIMBING LOVER'S LEAP
XXIII. A SUMMONS FOR THE JUDGE
XXIV. THE GOLDEN SPIKE
XXV. BY RAIL
XXVI. JOHN INSULTS THE BRITISH FLAG
XXVII. TO SUSIE--FROM PUSSIE
XXVIII. INFORMATION FOR SALE
XXIX. RAVENEL ASKS
XXX. ANOTHER ODD NUMBER
XXXI. MR. FAIR VENTURES SOME INTERROGATIONS
XXXII. JORDAN
XXXIII. THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT
XXXIV. DAPHNE AND DINWIDDIE: A PASTEL IN PROSE
XXXV. A WIDOW'S ULTIMATUM
XXXVI. A NEW SHINGLE IN SUEZ
XXXVII. WISDOM AND FAITH KISS EACH OTHER
XXXVIII. RUBBING AGAINST MEN
XXXIX. SAME AFTERNOON
XL. ROUGH GOING
XLI. SQUATTER SOVEREIGNTY
XLII. JOHN HEADS A PROCESSION
XLIII. ST. VALENTINE'S DAY
XLIV. ST. VALENTINE'S: EVENING
XLV. A LITTLE VOYAGE OF DISCOVERIES
XLVI. A PAIR OF SMUGGLERS
XLVII. LEVITICUS
XLVIII. DELILAH
XLIX. MEETING OF STOCKHOLDERS
L. THE JAMBOREE
LI. BUSINESS
LII. DARKNESS AND DOUBT
LIII. SWEETNESS AND LIGHT
LIV. AN UNEXPECTED PLEASURE
LV. HOME-SICKNESS ALLEVIATED
LVI. CONCERNING SECOND LOVE
LVII. GO ON, SAYS BARBARA
LVIII. TOGETHER AGAIN
LIX. THIS TIME SHE WARNS HIM
LX. A PERFECT UNDERSTANDING
LXI. A SICK MAN AND A SICK HORSE
LXII. RAVENEL THINKS HE MUST
LXIII. LETTERS AND TELEGRAMS
LXIV. JUDICIOUS JOHANNA
LXV. THE ENEMY IN THE REAR
LXVI. WARM HEARTS, HOT WORDS, COOL FRIENDS
LXVII. PROBLEM: IS AN UNCONFIRMED DISTRUST NECESSARILY A DEAD ASSET?
LXVIII. FAREWELL, WIDEWOOD
LXIX. IN YANKEE LAND
LXX. ACROSS THE MEADOWS
LXXI. IN THE WOODS
LXXII. MY GOOD GRACIOUS, MISS BARB
LXXIII. IMMEDIATELY AFTER CHAPEL
LXXIV. COMPLETE COLLAPSE OF A PERFECT UNDERSTANDING
LXXV. A YEAR'S VICISSITUDES
LXXVI. AGAINST OVERWHELMING NUMBERS
LXXVII. "LINES OF LIGHT ON A SULLEN SEA"
LXXVIII. BARBARA FINDS THE RHYME
JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER
I.
SUEZ
In the State of Dixie, County of Clearwater, and therefore in the very
heart of what was once the "Southern Confederacy," lies that noted seat
of government of one county and shipping point for three, Suez. The
pamphlet of a certain land company--a publication now out of print and
rare, but a copy of which it has been my good fortune to
secure--mentions the battle of Turkey Creek as having been fought only a
mile or so north of the town in the spring of 1864. It also strongly
recommends to the attention of both capitalist and tourist the beautiful
mountain scenery of Sandstone County, which adjoins Clearwater a few
miles from Suez on the north, and northeast, as Blackland does, much
farther away, on the southwest.
In the last year of our Civil War Suez was a basking town of twenty-five
hundred souls, with rocky streets and breakneck sidewalks, its dwellings
dozing most months of the twelve among roses and honeysuckles behind
anciently whitewashed, much-broken fences, and all the place wrapped in
that wide sweetness of apple and acacia scents that comes from whole
mobs of dog-fennel. The Pulaski City turnpike entered at the northwest
corner and passed through to the court-house green with its hollow
square of stores and law-offices--two sides of it blackened ruins of
fire and war. Under the town's southeasternmost angle, between yellow
banks and over-hanging sycamores, the bright green waters of Turkey
Creek, rambling round from the north and east, skipped down a gradual
stairway of limestone ledges, and glided, alive with sunlight, into that
true Swanee River, not of the maps, but which flows forever, "far, far
away," through the numbers of imperishable song. The river's head of
navigation was, and still is, at Suez.
One of the most influential, and yet meekest among the "citizens"--men
not in the army--whose habit it was to visit Suez by way of the
Sandstone County road, was Judge Powhatan March, of Widewood. In years
he was about fifty. He was under the medium stature, with a gentle and
intellectual face whose antique dignity was only less attractive than
his rich, quiet voice.
His son John--he had no other child--was a fat-cheeked boy in his eighth
year, oftenest seen on horseback, sitting fast asleep with his hands
clutched in the folds of the Judge's coat and his short legs and browned
feet spread wide behind the saddle. It was hard straddling, but it was
good company.
One bright noon about the close of May, when the cotton blooms were
opening and the cornsilk was turning pink; when from one hot pool to
another the kildee fluttered and ran, and around their edges arcs of
white and yellow butterflies sat and sipped and fanned themselves, like
human butterflies at a seaside, Judge March--with John in his accustomed
place, headquarters behind the saddle--turned into the sweltering shade
of a tree in the edge of town to gossip with an acquaintance on the
price of cotton, the health of Suez and the last news from
Washington--no longer from Richmond, alas!
"Why, son!" he exclaimed, as by and by he lifted the child down before a
hardware, dry-goods, drug and music store, "what's been a-troublin' you?
You a-got tear marks on yo' face!" But he pressed the question in vain.
"Gimme yo' han'ke'cher, son, an' let me wipe 'em off."
But John's pockets were insolvent as to handkerchiefs, and the Judge
found his own no better supplied. So they changed the subject and the
son did not have to confess that those dusty rivulet beds, one on either
cheek, were there from aching fatigue of a position he would rather have
perished in than surrender.
This store was the only one in Suez that had been neither sacked nor
burned. In its drug department there had always been kept on sale a
single unreplenished, undiminished shelf of books. Most of them were
standard English works that took no notice of such trifles as children.
But one was an exception, and this world-renowned volume, though
entirely unillustrated, had charmed the eyes of Judge March ever since
he had been a father. Year after year had increased his patient
impatience for the day when his son should be old enough to know that
book's fame. Then what joy to see delight dance in his brave young eyes
upon that volume's emergence from some innocent concealment--a gift from
his father!
Thus far, John did not know his a-b-c's. But education is older than
alphabets, and for three years now he had been his father's constant,
almost confidential companion. Why might not such a book as this, even
now, be made a happy lure into the great realm of letters? Seeing the
book again to-day, reflecting that the price of cotton was likely to go
yet higher, and touched by the child's unexplained tears, Judge March
induced him to go from his side a moment with the store's one
clerk--into the lump-sugar section--and bought the volume.
II.
TO A GOOD BOY
In due time the Judge and his son started home.
The sun's rays, though still hot, slanted much as the two rose into oak
woodlands to the right of the pike and beyond it. Here the air was cool
and light. As they ascended higher, and oaks gave place to chestnut and
mountain-birch, wide views opened around and far beneath. In the south
spread the green fields and red fallows of Clearwater, bathed in the
sheen of the lingering sun. Miles away two white points were the spires
of Suez.
The Judge drew rein and gazed on five battle-fields at once. "Ah, son,
the kingdom of romance is at hand. It's always at hand when it's within
us. I'll be glad when you can understand that, son."
His eyes came round at last to the most western quarter of the landscape
and rested on one part where only a spray had dashed when war's fiery
deluge rolled down this valley. "Son, if there wa'n't such a sort o'
mist o' sunshine between, I could show you Rosemont College over yondeh.
You'll be goin' there in a few years now. That'll be fine, won't it,
son?"
A small forehead smote his back vigorously, not for yea, but for
slumber.
"Drowsy, son?" asked the Judge, adding a backward caress as he moved on
again. "I didn't talk to you enough, did I? But I was thinkin' about
you, right along." After a silence he stopped again.
"Awake now, son?" He reached back and touched the solid little head.
"See this streak o' black land where the rain's run down the road? Well,
that means silveh, an' it's ow lan'."
They started once more. "It may not mean much, but we needn't care, when
what doesn't mean silveh means dead loads of other things. Make haste
an' grow, son; yo' peerless motheh and I are only wait'n'--" He ceased.
In the small of his back the growing pressure of a diminutive bad hat
told the condition of his hidden audience. It lifted again.
"'Evomind, son, I can talk to you just as well asleep. But I can tell
you somepm that'll keep you awake. I was savin' it till we'd get home to
yo' dear motheh, but yo' ti-ud an' I don't think of anything else
an'--the fact is, I'm bringing home a present faw you." He looked behind
till his eyes met a brighter pair. "What you reckon you've been sitt'n'
on in one of them saddle pockets all the way fum Suez?"
John smiled, laid his cheek to his father's back and whispered, "A
kitt'n."
"Why, no, son; its somepm powerful nice, but--well, you might know it
wa'n't a kitt'n by my lett'n' you sit on it so long. I'd be proud faw
you to have a kitt'n, but, you know, cats don't suit yo' dear motheh's
high strung natu'e. You couldn't be happy with anything that was a
constant tawment to her, could you?"
The head lying against the questioner's back nodded an eager yes!
"Oh, you think you might, son, but I jes' know you couldn't. Now, what
I've got faw you is ever so much nicer'n a kitt'n. You see, you
a-growin' so fast you'll soon not care faw kitt'ns; you'll care for what
I've got you. But don't ask what it is, faw I'd hate not to tell you,
and I want yo' dear motheh to be with us when you find it out."
It was fairly twilight when their horse neighed his pleasure that his
crib was near. Presently they dismounted in a place full of stumps and
weeds, where a grove had been till Halliday's brigade had camped there.
Beyond a paling fence and a sandy, careworn garden of altheas and
dwarf-box stood broadside to them a very plain, two-story house of
uncoursed gray rubble, whose open door sent forth no welcoming gleam.
Its windows, too, save one softly reddened by a remote lamp, reflected
only the darkling sky. This was their home, called by every mountaineer
neighbor "a plumb palace."
As they passed in, the slim form of Mrs. March entered at the rear door
of the short hall and came slowly through the gloom. John sprang, and
despite her word and gesture of nervous disrelish, clutched, and smote
his face into, her pliant crinoline. The husband kissed her forehead,
and, as she staggered before the child's energy, said:
"Be gentle, son." He took a hand of each. "I hope you'll overlook a
little wildness in us this evening, my dear." They turned into a front
room. "I wonder he restrains himself so well, when he knows I've brought
him a present--not expensive, my deah, I assho' you, nor anything you
can possible disapprove; only a B-double-O-K, in fact. Still, son, you
ought always to remember yo' dear mother's apt to be ti-ud."
Mrs. March sank into the best rocking-chair, and, while her son kissed
her diligently, said to her husband, with a smile of sad reproach:
"John can never know a woman's fatigue."
"No, Daphne, deah, an' that's what I try to teach him."
"Yes, Powhatan, but there's a difference between teaching and
terrifying."
"Oh! Oh! I was fah fum intend'n' to be harsh."
"Ah! Judge March, you little realize how harsh your words sometimes
are." She showed the back of her head, although John plucked her sleeves
with vehement whispers. "What _is_ it child?"
Her irritation turned to mild remonstrance. "You shouldn't interrupt
your father, no matter how long you have to wait."
"Oh, I'd finished, my deah," cried the Judge, beaming upon wife and son.
"And now," he gathered up the saddle-bags, "now faw the present!"
John leaped--his mother cringed.
"Oh, Judge March--before supper?"
"Why, of co'se not, my love, if you----"
"Ah, Powhatan, please! Please don't say if I." The speaker smiled
lovingly--"I don't deserve such a rebuke!" She rose.
"Why, my deah!"
"No, I was not thinking of I, but of others. There's the tea-bell.
Servants have rights, Powhatan, and we shouldn't increase their burdens
by heartless delays. That may not be the law, Judge March, but it's the
gospel."
"Oh, I quite agree with you, Daphne, deah!" But the father could not
help seeing the child's tearful eyes and quivering mouth. "I'll tell you
mother, son--There's no need faw anybody to be kep' wait'n'. We'll go to
suppeh, but the gift shall grace the feast!" He combed one soft hand
through his long hair. John danced and gave a triple nod.
Mrs. March's fatigue increased. "Please yourself," she said. "John and I
can always make your pleasure ours. Only, I hope he'll not inherit a
frivolous impatience."
"Daphne, I----" The Judge made a gesture of sad capitulation.
"Oh, Judge March, it's too late to draw back now. That were cruel!"
John clambered into his high chair--said grace in a pretty rhyme of his
mother's production--she was a poetess--and ended with:
"Amen, double-O-K. I wish double-O-K would mean firecrackers;
firecrackers and cinnamon candy!" He patted his wrists together and
glanced triumphantly upon the frowsy, barefooted waitress while Mrs.
March poured the coffee.
The Judge's wife, at thirty-two, was still fair. Her face was thin, but
her languorous eyes were expressive and her mouth delicate. A certain
shadow about its corners may have meant rigidity of will or only a habit
of introspection, but it was always there.
She passed her husband's coffee, and the hungry child, though still all
eyes, was taking his first gulp of milk, when over the top of his mug he
saw his father reach stealthily down to his saddle-bags and straighten
again.
"Son."
"Suh!"
"Go on with yo' suppeh, son." Under the table the paper was coming off
something. John filled both cheeks dutifully, but kept them so,
unchanged, while the present came forth. Then he looked confused and
turned to his mother. Her eyes were on her husband in deep dejection, as
her hand rose to receive the book from the servant. She took it, read
the title, and moaned:
"Oh! Judge March, what is your child to do with 'Lord Chesterfield's
Letters to his Son?'"
John waited only for her pitying glance. Then the tears burst from his
eyes and the bread and milk from his mouth, and he cried with a great
and continuous voice, "I don't like presents! I want to go to bed!"
Even when the waitress got him there his mother could not quiet him. She
demanded explanations and he could not explain, for by | 1,187.27914 |
2023-11-16 18:36:51.2621500 | 4,141 | 26 |
Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny
THE ILLUSTRIOUS GAUDISSART
By Honore De Balzac
Translated By Katharine Prescott Wormeley
DEDICATION
To Madame la Duchesse de Castries.
THE ILLUSTRIOUS GAUDISSART
CHAPTER I
The commercial traveller, a personage unknown to antiquity, is one of
the striking figures created by the manners and customs of our present
epoch. May he not, in some conceivable order of things, be destined to
mark for coming philosophers the great transition which welds a period
of material enterprise to the period of intellectual strength? Our
century will bind the realm of isolated power, abounding as it does
in creative genius, to the realm of universal but levelling might;
equalizing all products, spreading them broadcast among the masses, and
being itself controlled by the principle of unity,--the final expression
of all societies. Do we not find the dead level of barbarism succeeding
the saturnalia of popular thought and the last struggles of those
civilizations which accumulated the treasures of the world in one
direction?
The commercial traveller! Is he not to the realm of ideas what our
stage-coaches are to men and things? He is their vehicle; he sets them
going, carries them along, rubs them up with one another. He takes from
the luminous centre a handful of light, and scatters it broadcast among
the drowsy populations of the duller regions. This human pyrotechnic is
a scholar without learning, a juggler hoaxed by himself, an unbelieving
priest of mysteries and dogmas, which he expounds all the better for his
want of faith. Curious being! He has seen everything, known everything,
and is up in all the ways of the world. Soaked in the vices of Paris, he
affects to be the fellow-well-met of the provinces. He is the link which
connects the village with the capital; though essentially he is neither
Parisian nor provincial,--he is a traveller. He sees nothing to the
core: men and places he knows by their names; as for things, he looks
merely at their surface, and he has his own little tape-line with which
to measure them. His glance shoots over all things and penetrates none.
He occupies himself with a great deal, yet nothing occupies him.
Jester and jolly fellow, he keeps on good terms with all political
opinions, and is patriotic to the bottom of his soul. A capital mimic,
he knows how to put on, turn and turn about, the smiles of persuasion,
satisfaction, and good-nature, or drop them for the normal expression of
his natural man. He is compelled to be an observer of a certain sort in
the interests of his trade. He must probe men with a glance and guess
their habits, wants, and above all their solvency. To economize time he
must come to quick decisions as to his chances of success,--a practice
that makes him more or less a man of judgment; on the strength of which
he sets up as a judge of theatres, and discourses about those of Paris
and the provinces.
He knows all the good and bad haunts in France, "de actu et visu." He
can pilot you, on occasion, to vice or virtue with equal assurance.
Blest with the eloquence of a hot-water spigot turned on at will, he can
check or let run, without floundering, the collection of phrases which
he keeps on tap, and which produce upon his victims the effect of a
moral shower-bath. Loquacious as a cricket, he smokes, drinks, wears a
profusion of trinkets, overawes the common people, passes for a lord
in the villages, and never permits himself to be "stumped,"--a slang
expression all his own. He knows how to slap his pockets at the right
time, and make his money jingle if he thinks the servants of the
second-class houses which he wants to enter (always eminently
suspicious) are likely to take him for a thief. Activity is not the
least surprising quality of this human machine. Not the hawk swooping
upon its prey, not the stag doubling before the huntsman and the hounds,
nor the hounds themselves catching scent of the game, can be compared
with him for the rapidity of his dart when he spies a "commission," for
the agility with which he trips up a rival and gets ahead of him, for
the keenness of his scent as he noses a customer and discovers the sport
where he can get off his wares.
How many great qualities must such a man possess! You will find in all
countries many such diplomats of low degree; consummate negotiators
arguing in the interests of calico, jewels, frippery, wines; and often
displaying more true diplomacy than ambassadors themselves, who, for
the most part, know only the forms of it. No one in France can doubt the
powers of the commercial traveller; that intrepid soul who dares all,
and boldly brings the genius of civilization and the modern inventions
of Paris into a struggle with the plain commonsense of remote villages,
and the ignorant and boorish treadmill of provincial ways. Can we ever
forget the skilful manoeuvres by which he worms himself into the minds
of the populace, bringing a volume of words to bear upon the refractory,
reminding us of the indefatigable worker in marbles whose file eats
slowly into a block of porphyry? Would you seek to know the utmost power
of language, or the strongest pressure that a phrase can bring to bear
against rebellious lucre, against the miserly proprietor squatting
in the recesses of his country lair?--listen to one of these great
ambassadors of Parisian industry as he revolves and works and sucks like
an intelligent piston of the steam-engine called Speculation.
"Monsieur," said a wise political economist, the
director-cashier-manager and secretary-general of a celebrated
fire-insurance company, "out of every five hundred thousand francs of
policies to be renewed in the provinces, not more than fifty thousand
are paid up voluntarily. The other four hundred and fifty thousand are
got in by the activity of our agents, who go about among those who are
in arrears and worry them with stories of horrible incendiaries until
they are driven to sign the new policies. Thus you see that eloquence,
the labial flux, is nine tenths of the ways and means of our business."
To talk, to make people listen to you,--that is seduction in itself.
A nation that has two Chambers, a woman who lends both ears, are soon
lost. Eve and her serpent are the everlasting myth of an hourly fact
which began, and may end, with the world itself.
"A conversation of two hours ought to capture your man," said a retired
lawyer.
Let us walk round the commercial traveller, and look at him well. Don't
forget his overcoat, olive green, nor his cloak with its morocco collar,
nor the striped blue cotton shirt. In this queer figure--so original
that we cannot rub it out--how many divers personalities we come across!
In the first place, what an acrobat, what a circus, what a battery,
all in one, is the man himself, his vocation, and his tongue! Intrepid
mariner, he plunges in, armed with a few phrases, to catch five or six
thousand francs in the frozen seas, in the domain of the red Indians
who inhabit the interior of France. The provincial fish will not rise
to harpoons and torches; it can only be taken with seines and nets and
gentlest persuasions. The traveller's business is to extract the gold
in country caches by a purely intellectual operation, and to extract
it pleasantly and without pain. Can you think without a shudder of the
flood of phrases which, day by day, renewed each dawn, leaps in cascades
the length and breadth of sunny France?
You know the species; let us now take a look at the individual.
There lives in Paris an incomparable commercial traveller, the
paragon of his race, a man who possesses in the highest degree all the
qualifications necessary to the nature of his success. His speech is
vitriol and likewise glue,--glue to catch and entangle his victim and
make him sticky and easy to grip; vitriol to dissolve hard heads, close
fists, and closer calculations. His line was once the _hat_; but his
talents and the art with which he snared the wariest provincial had
brought him such commercial celebrity that all vendors of the "article
Paris"[*] paid court to him, and humbly begged that he would deign to
take their commissions.
[*] "Article Paris" means anything--especially articles of
wearing apparel--which originates or is made in Paris.
The name is supposed to give to the thing a special value in
the provinces.
Thus, when he returned to Paris in the intervals of his triumphant
progress through France, he lived a life of perpetual festivity in
the shape of weddings and suppers. When he was in the provinces, the
correspondents in the smaller towns made much of him; in Paris, the
great houses feted and caressed him. Welcomed, flattered, and fed
wherever he went, it came to pass that to breakfast or to dine alone was
a novelty, an event. He lived the life of a sovereign, or, better still,
of a journalist; in fact, he was the perambulating "feuilleton" of
Parisian commerce.
His name was Gaudissart; and his renown, his vogue, the flatteries
showered upon him, were such as to win for him the surname of
Illustrious. Wherever the fellow went,--behind a counter or before a
bar, into a salon or to the top of a stage-coach, up to a garret or to
dine with a banker,--every one said, the moment they saw him, "Ah! here
comes the illustrious Gaudissart!"[*] No name was ever so in keeping
with the style, the manners, the countenance, the voice, the language,
of any man. All things smiled upon our traveller, and the traveller
smiled back in return. "Similia similibus,"--he believed in homoeopathy.
Puns, horse-laugh, monkish face, skin of a friar, true Rabelaisian
exterior, clothing, body, mind, and features, all pulled together to put
a devil-may-care jollity into every inch of his person. Free-handed and
easy-going, he might be recognized at once as the favorite of grisettes,
the man who jumps lightly to the top of a stage-coach, gives a hand to
the timid lady who fears to step down, jokes with the postillion about
his neckerchief and contrives to sell him a cap, smiles at the maid and
catches her round the waist or by the heart; gurgles at dinner like a
bottle of wine and pretends to draw the cork by sounding a filip on his
distended cheek; plays a tune with his knife on the champagne glasses
without breaking them, and says to the company, "Let me see you do
_that_"; chaffs the timid traveller, contradicts the knowing one, lords
it over a dinner-table and manages to get the titbits for himself. A
strong fellow, nevertheless, he can throw aside all this nonsense and
mean business when he flings away the stump of his cigar and says, with
a glance at some town, "I'll go and see what those people have got in
their stomachs."
[*] "Se gaudir," to enjoy, to make fun. "Gaudriole," gay
discourse, rather free.--Littre.
When buckled down to his work he became the slyest and cleverest of
diplomats. All things to all men, he knew how to accost a banker like a
capitalist, a magistrate like a functionary, a royalist with pious and
monarchical sentiments, a bourgeois as one of themselves. In short,
wherever he was he was just what he ought to be; he left Gaudissart at
the door when he went in, and picked him up when he came out.
Until 1830 the illustrious Gaudissart was faithful to the article Paris.
In his close relation to the caprices of humanity, the varied paths of
commerce had enabled him to observe the windings of the heart of man. He
had learned the secret of persuasive eloquence, the knack of loosening
the tightest purse-strings, the art of rousing desire in the souls of
husbands, wives, children, and servants; and what is more, he knew
how to satisfy it. No one had greater faculty than he for inveigling
a merchant by the charms of a bargain, and disappearing at the instant
when desire had reached its crisis. Full of gratitude to the hat-making
trade, he always declared that it was his efforts in behalf of the
exterior of the human head which had enabled him to understand its
interior: he had capped and crowned so many people, he was always
flinging himself at their heads, etc. His jokes about hats and heads
were irrepressible, though perhaps not dazzling.
Nevertheless, after August and October, 1830, he abandoned the hat
trade and the article Paris, and tore himself from things mechanical and
visible to mount into the higher spheres of Parisian speculation. "He
forsook," to use his own words, "matter for mind; manufactured products
for the infinitely purer elaborations of human intelligence." This
requires some explanation.
The general upset of 1830 brought to birth, as everybody knows, a number
of old ideas which clever speculators tried to pass off in new bodies.
After 1830 ideas became property. A writer, too wise to publish
his writings, once remarked that "more ideas are stolen than
pocket-handkerchiefs." Perhaps in course of time we may have an Exchange
for thought; in fact, even now ideas, good or bad, have their consols,
are bought up, imported, exported, sold, and quoted like stocks. If
ideas are not on hand ready for sale, speculators try to pass off words
in their stead, and actually live upon them as a bird lives on the seeds
of his millet. Pray do not laugh; a word is worth quite as much as an
idea in a land where the ticket on a sack is of more importance than the
contents. Have we not seen libraries working off the word "picturesque"
when literature would have cut the throat of the word "fantastic"?
Fiscal genius has guessed the proper tax on intellect; it has accurately
estimated the profits of advertising; it has registered a prospectus of
the quantity and exact value of the property, weighing its thought at
the intellectual Stamp Office in the Rue de la Paix.
Having become an article of commerce, intellect and all its products
must naturally obey the laws which bind other manufacturing interests.
Thus it often happens that ideas, conceived in their cups by certain
apparently idle Parisians,--who nevertheless fight many a moral battle
over their champagne and their pheasants,--are handed down at their
birth from the brain to the commercial travellers who are employed to
spread them discreetly, "urbi et orbi," through Paris and the provinces,
seasoned with the fried pork of advertisement and prospectus, by means
of which they catch in their rat-trap the departmental rodent commonly
called subscriber, sometimes stockholder, occasionally corresponding
member or patron, but invariably fool.
"I am a fool!" many a poor country proprietor has said when, caught by
the prospect of being the first to launch a new idea, he finds that he
has, in point of fact, launched his thousand or twelve hundred francs
into a gulf.
"Subscribers are fools who never can be brought to understand that to
go ahead in the intellectual world they must start with more money than
they need for the tour of Europe," say the speculators.
Consequently there is endless warfare between the recalcitrant public
which refuses to pay the Parisian imposts and the tax-gatherer who,
living by his receipt of custom, lards the public with new ideas, turns
it on the spit of lively projects, roasts it with prospectuses (basting
all the while with flattery), and finally gobbles it up with some
toothsome sauce in which it is caught and intoxicated like a fly with
a black-lead. Moreover, since 1830 what honors and emoluments have been
scattered throughout France to stimulate the zeal and self-love of the
"progressive and intelligent masses"! Titles, medals, diplomas, a sort
of legion of honor invented for the army of martyrs, have followed each
other with marvellous rapidity. Speculators in the manufactured products
of the intellect have developed a spice, a ginger, all their own. From
this have come premiums, forestalled dividends, and that conscription
of noted names which is levied without the knowledge of the unfortunate
writers who bear them, and who thus find themselves actual co-operators
in more enterprises than there are days in the year; for the law, we may
remark, takes no account of the theft of a patronymic. Worse than all
is the rape of ideas which these caterers for the public mind, like the
slave-merchants of Asia, tear from the paternal brain before they are
well matured, and drag half-clothed before the eyes of their blockhead
of a sultan, their Shahabaham, their terrible public, which, if they
don't amuse it, will cut off their heads by curtailing the ingots and
emptying their pockets.
This madness of our epoch reacted upon the illustrious Gaudissart, and
here follows the history of how it happened. A life-insurance company
having been told of his irresistible eloquence offered him an unheard-of
commission, which he graciously accepted. The bargain concluded and
the treaty signed, our traveller was put in training, or we might say
weaned, by the secretary-general of the enterprise, who freed his mind
of its swaddling-clothes, showed him the dark holes of the business,
taught him its dialect, took the mechanism apart bit by bit, dissected
for his instruction the particular public he was expected to gull,
crammed him with phrases, fed him with impromptu replies, provisioned
him with unanswerable arguments, and, so to speak, sharpened the file of
the tongue which was about to operate upon the life of France.
The puppet amply rewarded the pains bestowed upon him. The heads of the
company boasted of the illustrious Gaudissart, showed him such attention
and proclaimed the great talents of this perambulating prospectus so
loudly in the sphere of exalted | 1,187.28219 |
2023-11-16 18:36:51.6257910 | 4,677 | 7 |
Produced by Susan Skinner, Charlie Howard, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber’s Notes
Sidenotes were printed in italics, but in the Plain Text format of this
eBook, they are indicated by diamonds: ♦text♦, either preceding their
paragraphs or within them. Other italic text is indicated by
_underscores_.
THE STORY OF
PAPER-MAKING
[Illustration: A MODERN PAPER-MILL]
THE STORY OF
PAPER-MAKING
AN ACCOUNT OF PAPER-MAKING
FROM ITS EARLIEST KNOWN RECORD
DOWN TO THE PRESENT TIME
_ILLUSTRATED_
J. W. BUTLER PAPER COMPANY
CHICAGO :: :: :: MDCCCCI
COPYRIGHTED
BY J. W. BUTLER PAPER COMPANY
JANUARY, 1901
THE ABSENCE OF NON-TECHNICAL WORKS UPON THIS INTERESTING
SUBJECT PROMPTS THE AUTHORS TO PRESENT A TREATISE FROM THE
STANDPOINT OF THE LAYMAN, AND FOR HIS USE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. ARTICLES SUPPLANTED BY PAPER 1
II. PAPYRUS AND PARCHMENT 12
III. ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF PAPER 20
IV. EARLY METHODS OF PAPER-MAKING 49
V. MODERN PAPER-MAKING 55
VI. WATER-MARKS AND VARIETIES OF PAPER 95
VII. EXTENT OF THE BUSINESS IN THE UNITED STATES 123
PREFACE
It is a rare privilege to stand as we do at the meeting-point of
the centuries, bidding a reluctant farewell to the old, while
simultaneously we cry “All hail!” to the new; first looking back over
the open book of the past, then straining eager eyes for a glimpse
of the mysteries that the future holds hidden, and which are to be
revealed only moment by moment, hour by hour, and day by day.
The nineteenth century, so preëminently one of progress in almost every
line of mental and material activity, has witnessed a marvelous growth
in the paper industry. It was in the early years of the century that
crude old methods, with their meager machinery, began yielding to the
pressure of advanced thought, and the development since has kept full
pace with the flying years. The hundred years that have written the
modern history of paper-making mark also the period during which the
J. W. BUTLER PAPER COMPANY, or its immediate predecessors, have been
associated with the industry in this country. It has therefore seemed
to the present representatives of the company that the closing year of
the century was an especially fitting time to put into story form the
history of the wonderful and valuable product evolved almost wholly
from seemingly useless materials, and they consider it their privilege,
as well as the fulfillment of a pleasant obligation, to present this
account to their friends and associates in the paper, printing, and
auxiliary trades. We
“Know not what the future hath
Of marvel and surprise,”
but we feel confident that the incoming century will bring changes and
improvements as wonderful as any the past has wrought, and we hope
that it may be our good fortune to in some measure be instrumental in
promoting whatever tends to a greater development of the industry with
which our name has been so long associated.
J. W. BUTLER PAPER COMPANY.
CHAPTER I
ARTICLES EARLY USED FOR PURPOSES NOW SUPPLIED BY PAPER
Full of dignity, significance, and truth is the noble conception which
finds expression in Tennyson’s verse, that we are the heirs of the
ages, the inheritors of all that has gone before us.
♦We are the heirs of the ages♦
Through countless cycles of time men have been struggling and aspiring;
now “mounting up with wings, as eagles,” now thrown back to earth by
the crushing weight of defeat, but always rising again, undaunted
and determined. “The fathers have wrought, and we have entered into
the reward of their labors.” We have profited by their striving and
aspiration. All the wisdom of the past, garnered by patient toil and
effort, all the wealth of experience gained by generations of men
through alternating defeat and triumph, belongs to us by right of
inheritance. It has been truly said, “We are what the past has made us.
The results of the past are ourselves.”
♦Tradition untrustworthy♦
But to what agency do we owe the preservation of our inheritance?
What conservator has kept our rich estate from being scattered to
the four winds of heaven? For the wealth that is ours to-day we are
indebted in large measure to man’s instinctive desire, manifested in
all ages, to perpetuate his knowledge and achievements. Before the
thought of a permanent record had begun to take shape in men’s minds,
oral tradition, passing from father to son, and from generation to
generation, sought to keep alive the memory of great achievements and
valorous deeds. But tradition proved itself untrustworthy. Reports were
often imperfect, misleading, exaggerated. Through dull ears, the spoken
words were received into minds beclouded by ignorance, and passed on
into the keeping of treacherous memories. As the races advanced in
learning and civilization, they realized that something more permanent
and accurate was necessary; that without written records of some sort
there could be little, if any, progress, since each generation must
begin practically where the preceding one had begun, and pass through
the same stages of ignorance and inexperience.
♦Hieroglyphic records♦
In this strait, men sought help from Nature, and found in the huge
rocks and bowlders shaped by her mighty forces a means of perpetuating
notable events in the histories of nations and the lives of
individuals. From the setting up of stones to commemorate great deeds
and solemn covenants, it was but a step to the hewing of obelisks, upon
which the early races carved their hieroglyphs, rude pictures of birds
and men, of beasts and plants. As early as four thousand years before
Christ, these slender shafts of stone were reared against the deep blue
of the Egyptian sky, and for ages their shadows passed with the sun
over the restless, shifting sands of the desert. Most of the ancient
obelisks have crumbled to dust beneath Time’s unsparing hand, but a few
fragmentary specimens are still in existence, while the British Museum
is so fortunate as to be in possession of one shaft of black basalt
that is in perfect condition. A part of it is covered with writing,
a part with bas-reliefs. In Egypt these hieroglyphs were employed
almost exclusively for religious writings--a purpose suggested by the
derivation of the word itself, which comes from the Greek, _ieros_, a
priest, and _glypha_, a carving.
♦Inscriptions on stone and clay♦
As the obelisk had taken the place of the rude stones and unwieldy
bowlders which marked man’s first effort to solve an ever-recurring
problem, so it in turn was superseded. The temples were sacred places,
and especially fitted to become the repositories of the records that
were to preserve for coming generations the deeds of kings and priests.
Accordingly, the pictured stories of great events were graven on stone
panels in the temple walls, or on slabs or tablets of the same enduring
material. Then came a forward step to the easier and cheaper method
of writing on soft clay. The monarchs, not being obliged to take into
consideration questions of ease or economy, continued to make use of
the stone tablets, but private individuals usually employed clay,
not only for literary and scientific writings, but in their business
transactions as well. A careful baking, either by artificial heat or
in the burning rays of a tropic sun, rendered the clay tablets very
enduring, so that many which have been dug from ancient ruins are now
in a remarkable state of preservation, bearing letters and figures as
clear as any of the inscriptions on marble, stone, or metal that have
come to us from the splendid days of Greece or Rome. The people of
Assyria and Chaldea recorded almost every transaction, whether public
or private in character, upon tablets of clay, forming thus a faithful
transcript of their daily lives and occupations, which may be read
to-day by those who hold the key; thus it is we bridge the gulf of
centuries. From the ruins of ancient Nineveh and Babylon, records of
almost every sort have been unearthed, all inscribed on indestructible
terra-cotta. There are bank-notes and notes of hand, deeds of property,
public records, statements of private negotiations, and memoranda of
astronomical observations. The life in which they played a part has
passed into history; the once proud and mighty cities lie prostrate,
and upon their ruins other cities have risen, only to fall as they
fell. The terra-cotta to which they committed their records is all that
is left, and the tablets that were fashioned and inscribed so long ago
give to us the best histories of Chaldea, Babylonia, and Assyria.
♦Assyrian, Babylonian and Chaldean records♦
One of the largest collections of these clay-writings is now in the
British Museum and was taken from a great edifice in Assyria, which was
probably the residence of Sennacherib. Several series of narratives
are comprehended in the collection; one referring to the language,
legends, and mythology of the Assyrians; another recording the story of
creation, in which “Water-deep” is said to be the creator of all forms
of life then in existence, while a third relates to the deluge and the
story of the Assyrian Moses. But however interesting these facts may be
in themselves, we refer to them only by way of illustration, since we
are dealing not so much with the writing itself as with the material on
which writing was done.
♦Inscriptions on prisms♦
Another form of tablet, a somewhat singular variation it may seem,
was in use among the Assyrians at a very early date. This was a
prism, having either six or eight sides, and made of exceedingly fine
terra-cotta. Such prisms were frequently deposited by the Assyrian
kings at the corners of temples, after having been inscribed with
accounts of the notable events in their lives, interspersed with
numerous invocations. Apparently the custom was similar to that
followed at the present day, and the ancient Assyrian tablets no doubt
served the same purpose as the records, newspapers, and documents that
are now deposited in the corner-stones of public or other important
buildings. The prisms used as tablets varied in length from a foot and
a half to three feet, and were covered very closely with small writing.
That the writers’ endeavor was to make the most of the space at their
disposal is suggested by the fact that upon a prism found in the ruins
of the ancient city of Ashur the inscriptions are so crowded that there
are thirty lines in the space of six inches, or five lines to the inch.
The prism recites the valiant deeds of Tiglath-Pileser I., who reigned
from 1120 to 1100 B. C., and undertook campaigns against forty-two
other nations and their kings. He was a monarch whose very name
inspired terror among the surrounding peoples, and his reign was filled
with stirring events and brilliant achievements. ♦Economy of space♦
Small wonder that it was necessary to crowd the inscriptions upon the
prism! Rawlinson’s “Ancient Monarchies,” in an account of the writings
that have come down to us from the earliest days of the world’s
recorded history, has this to say: “The clay tablets are both numerous
and curious. They are of various sizes, ranging from nine inches long
by six and a half wide to an inch and a half long by an inch wide, or
even less. Sometimes they are entirely covered by writings, while at
others they exhibit on a portion of their surface impressions of seals,
mythological emblems, and the like. Some thousands have been recovered.
Many are historical, and still more are mythological.” Their use in
writing and drawing was almost universal, and we read that the prophet
Ezekiel, when dwelling with “them of the captivity at Telabib, that
dwelt by the river of Chebar,” was commanded, “Take thee a tile and lay
it before thee, and portray upon it the city, even Jerusalem.” (Ezekiel
iv. 1.)
We get a glimpse of another side of that ancient life in a tablet
of Nile clay, preserved in the British Museum, which is one of the
earliest specimens of writing now in existence. It is a proposal of
marriage, and was written about 1530 B. C., more than thirty-four
hundred years ago, by a Pharaoh asking the hand of a daughter of the
Babylonian king. Forty years later, in 1491 B. C., the ten commandments
were graven on tablets of stone.
♦The works of Homer♦
In the early efforts of men to find a means of preserving in lasting
and convenient form the records of their lives and achievements, some
queer materials were pressed into service. Plates of metal were used,
even the precious gold and silver being employed for the purpose.
Skins of animals, tanned to a sort of leather, found favor among many
peoples, while their bones, and even their intestines, were by no means
disdained. The works of Homer, preserved in one of the great Egyptian
libraries in the days of the Ptolemies, were written in letters of gold
on the skins of serpents. Ivory was used, also wood and the bark of
trees. In the early days of Rome, the reports of notable events were
engraved on wooden tablets, which were then exposed to view in public
places, and citizens of all classes, mingling freely, according to
custom, in the great Forum that was the center of the city’s life, were
easily and quickly informed of the important happenings of the day. The
greatest defect in this method was remedied when, later on, wax was
used to form a surface upon the wood, thus admitting of corrections and
erasures, and making it possible to use the same table indefinitely,
simply by scraping off the coating after it had served its purpose,
and supplying other coatings as they were needed. But the first real
advance toward modern writing materials came in the use of the leaves
of olive, palm, poplar, and other trees, which were prepared by being
cut in strips, soaked in boiling water, and then rubbed over wood to
make them soft and pliable.
♦Old materials necessarily discarded♦
It will be readily understood, however, that these crude materials and
primitive methods could not long keep pace with the steady march of
progress. The peoples of the earth were increasing rapidly; they were
advancing in the arts and sciences, and in the experiences that inspire
thought, poetry, and philosophy; they had a heritage of knowledge
to which they were constantly adding, while business transactions,
together with other deeds worthy of record, had greatly multiplied.
It was but natural that the materials which had once been entirely
adequate should now be discarded as cumbersome and unfitted to the new
conditions. The sands in the hour-glass were beginning to run golden;
time was taking on a value unknown before. A deed of land written in
clay and put away to bake might answer the purpose when real-estate
transfers were infrequent and attended with much ceremony. A clay
tablet might serve in a marriage proposal by a king who had the power
to meet and vanquish all rivals, but terra-cotta was not suited either
for the record of numerous and rapid business transactions or for the
writing of books. The biography of one man, or a single treatise in
philosophy, would have required a whole building, while a library of
modern dimensions, as to the number of books, would probably have left
little room in a city for the dwellings of its inhabitants.
♦Discovery of papyrus♦
What was to take the place of the old and cumbersome materials? Even at
a very early date men were asking this question, and it was the good
fortune of Egypt to be able to give answer. Along the marshy banks
of the Nile grew a graceful water-plant, now almost extinct, which
was peculiarly fitted to meet the new demands, as we shall see in the
succeeding chapter. The discovery of its value led to an extensive
industry, through which the land of the Pharaohs was enabled to take
high rank in letters and learning, and, to maintain a position of
wealth, dignity, power, and influence that otherwise would have been
impossible, even in those remote days when printing was still many
centuries beyond the thoughts or dreams of men.
CHAPTER II
PAPYRUS AND PARCHMENT
♦The bulrush of the Nile♦
The graceful water-plant whose plumy, drooping heads were swayed by
the breezes that ruffled the waters of the Nile was one of the most
useful plants known to Egypt, in whose commerce it long held a leading
place. As early as 2000 B. C., or five hundred years before Moses led
the children of Israel out of bondage, there was made from its smooth
green stems a material called by the same name, papyrus, a kind of
crude paper, which came into universal use, and was so valuable and in
such great demand that one of the kings proposed to maintain his army
from the sale of this product alone. The plant was the familiar bulrush
of the Nile, which grew in forest-like profusion along the banks of
that mighty stream; and from its strong stems was woven the ark in
which the infant Moses was hidden away “among the flags by the river’s
brink,” and so saved from the death that menaced him under Pharaoh’s
cruel decree. The Egyptian papyrus was thus the means of preserving to
the world the life of the greatest law-giver of history. It has been
equally instrumental in perpetuating the code of laws whose principles
still serve as foundation for the jurisprudence of the leading nations
of the earth, nearly four thousand years after they were first
promulgated to his own people, the wandering tribes in the desert.
♦Many uses for papyrus♦
The papyrus, a tall, smooth-stemmed reed of triangular form, grew to
a height of ten or fifteen feet, and terminated in a tufted plume of
leaves and flowers. Like so many plants that grow beneath the ardent
skies of the tropics, it had numerous uses. It was noted especially for
the soft, cellular substance found in the interior of its stems, which
was a common article of food, both cooked and in its natural state.
It was employed also for the making of mats, sail-cloth, cordage, and
wearing apparel; while in Abyssinia, in whose marshes it is still to
be found, boats were fashioned by weaving the stems closely together
and covering them with a sort of resinous matter. At a very early day,
judging from sculptures of the fourth dynasty, Egypt made a similar
use of the papyrus, employing it in the construction of light skiffs
suited to the navigation of the pools and shallows of the Nile. It is
believed that Isaiah referred to boats of this sort when he spoke
of the “vessels of bulrushes upon the waters.” But valuable as the
papyrus was through these manifold uses, its enduring fame was due to
an entirely different source. It held closely wrapped within its green
stems the scrolls upon which, through hundreds of years, the history
and literature of the world were to be written; and that fact alone was
sufficient to engrave its name deeply on the thoughts and memories of
men.
♦The preparation of papyrus♦
In the manufacture of this Egyptian paper, papyrus, the outer rind of
the stem was first removed, exposing an interior made up of numerous
successive fiber layers, some twenty in number. These were separated
with a pointed instrument, or needle, arranged side by side on a
hard, smooth table, crossed at right-angles with another set of slips
placed above, and then dampened. After pressure had been applied for a
number of hours, the sheets were taken out and rubbed with a piece of
ivory, or with a smooth stone or shell, until the desired surface was
obtained, when the process was complete, except for drying in the sun.
The inner layers of the plant furnished the best product, the outer
ones being coarse and suitable only for the making of cordage. Single
sheets made in this way were fastened together, as many as might
be required, to form the papyrus rolls, of which hundreds have been
discovered in recent years. It is said that the Romans, when they
undertook the manufacture of papyrus, made a great improvement in the
sheets by sizing them with flour | 1,187.645831 |
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Produced by Larry B. Harrison. Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
POEMS
BY
JENNIE EARNGEY HILL
s [Illustration: colophon]
BOSTON
THE GORHAM PRESS
MCMXVIII
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY JENNIE EARNGEY HILL
All Rights Reserved
Made in the United States of America
The Gorham Press, Boston, U.S.A.
TO
MY BELOVED AUNT
MRS. JENNIE HEWES CALDWELL, PH.D.
CONTENTS
PAGE
SONG OF THE BROOK 9
A SLEIGHING SONG 10
THE DRESDEN MAID 12
SONG OF THE BEE 13
THE GOLDFINCH 14
BONNY BUNNY 15
WHEN SNOWFLAKES FALL 16
OUR COW 17
ODE TO A BROOK 18
CONSECRATION 19
ENCHANTMENT 20
LIFE’S DAY 21
FOR YOU 22
DISTANCE 23
ALONE 24
WINTER 25
LOVE’S MESSAGE 26
MY TRIBUTE 27
HEARTBLOOM 28
DEATH’S SPECTRE 29
DREAMING 30
SAILING 31
FISHIN’ 32
LIFE’S SUNSET 34
THE MEADOWLARK 35
NATURE’S GAME 37
A BIT O’ CHEER 38
THOT 39
POEMS
SONG OF THE BROOK
Whispering brooklet running nigh,
Do tell why love must die,
Brooklet onward toward yon sea,
Speak to me! speak to me!
Do tell why love must die,
Tiny brooklet flowing by.
For aye! Oh, tell why!
Brooklet gently gurgling by
Must love die e’en for aye,
Tell why shouldst love die;
Oh, why must love die,
Tell why! For aye! For aye!
The above was set to the music “The Brook” by Theodore Lack.
A SLEIGHING SONG
Slipping, sliding, high then low,
O’er the ice and fleecy snow,
Hearts attune with all around,
Merrily away we bound;
While jubilant our spirits fling
Echoes of their reigning king,
Till circling air seems drunken quite,
Breathing revelry tonight.
Boist’rously we raise good cheer,
One in voice and accent clear;
As bracing wine such atmosphere,
With love like thine,
Maiden of the dell,
Loud thy praises swell,
Life’s rhapsody
For me but thee,
Thru the livelong day
If at work or play.
’Tis living dew thy lips impart,
Nectar to a fainting heart;
Thine eyes--gems of beauteous hues,
Amber mid the blues,
Gleam Paradise--’gainst yon sparkling snow,
Twinkling as they go;
Thy cheeks transmit roseate light,
Tint the dancing white,
Heart-throb bespeaks
Earthly paragon,
Binding two in one,
In this--our sleighing time, our playing time,
Our sleighing, playing, sleighing time.
Moonbeams falling, gently trace
Lovers’ secrets on each face,
As to and fro they skip--perchance,
Lending joy with each fond glance,
While slipping, sliding, high then low,
O’er the ice and drifting snow,
Till circling air seems drunken quite
Breathing revelry tonight;
Boist’rously we raise good cheer,
One in voice and accent clear;
As bracing wine such atmosphere
With love like thine,
Maiden of the dell,
Loud thy praises swell,
Life’s rhapsody for me but thee,
Thru the livelong day
If at work or play.
I love you in the sleighing time,
I love you with a love sublime,
Oh, give to me that heart of thine,
In this, our sleighing time, our playing time,
Our sleighing, playing, sleighing time.
Set to music “Arabesque,” by Eric Meyer Helmund.
THE DRESDEN MAID
Thou pretty, dainty Dresden maid,
Tripping thru the grass,
Dandelion lifts shining head,
Gleaming as you pass.
(CHORUS)
Thou Dresden maid
My heart rings true,
Speak but the word,
I’d give my life for you.
Simply clad with flowered kirtle,
Ever bloom more fair!
Azure petals like yon myrtle
Touch thy nutbrown hair.
(CHORUS)
Wistful eyes of violet shade,
Tinting morn’s own dew,
Love pure as thine could never fade,
Grown in heart so true.
(CHORUS)
Blossoms adored by thee, sweetheart,
Flourish but a day,
One smile thou canst to me impart,
Lendeth hope alway.
(CHORUS)
SONG OF THE BEE
Buzz! buzz!
You’re just a honey-bee,
Yet a simple song you say,
Turneth work into play.
Buzz! buzz!
As flitting here and there,
Among the flowers by the way,
Work turneth to play.
Buzz! buzz!
While seeking clover sweet
For its nectar thru the day,
Work turneth to play.
Buzz! buzz!
A lesson true you’d teach,
A song in the heart alway,
Turneth work into play.
THE GOLDFINCH
Oh, tiny goldfinch richly clad,
Your joyousness bespeaks the morn,
Whose beauty tends to make you glad,
And eager just that you were born.
You dart about o’er crag and moor,
To us bequeath your choicest boon,
Your silvery note so soft and pure,
A simple, mellow twitter-tune.
You ride away on rippling crest,
Over hill and stony shallow,
You seek the thorny thistle-pest,
As it thrives on field and fallow.
Your sheaves of down you garner in,
And store them in your covert-mow,
Away from human noise and din,
To fluff your nest in bush or bough.
The Hoary Alder catkin-hung,
Where tinkling waters wander round,
And Marigold is Music’s tongue,
Here holds your cup in fork fast-bound;
A leafy canopy of green,
Above eggs touched by sea and sky,
Which ling’ringly, you laid unseen,
Save by the pale Day-moon on high.
BONNY BUNNY
Bonny bunny!
Tracks so funny!
Playing round our cottage door,
Fruits and food are here a-plenty,
Laid away for winter’s store.
Bonny bunny!
Tracks so funny!
Whiter even than the snow,
As it dances all about you,
Have a pear before you go.
Bonny bunny!
Tracks so funny!
Why are you so timid, pray!
Cold will soon be fast upon us,
Let’s be friends, don’t run away.
WHEN SNOWFLAKES FALL
I love you in the springtime,
Still I love you in the fall,
And I love you in the winter,
With the snowflakes merry call.
Yes, I love you best of all
With the snowflakes as they fall,
While the winters biting cold,
Makes me sense a warmth untold.
Then I love you in glad summer,
When birds and flowers breathe cheer,
To me this seems the gladdest time
Of all the season’s year.
But I love you best of all,
With the snowflakes as they fall,
While the winter’s biting cold
Makes me sense a warmth untold.
OUR COW
Our Jersey cow is just as kind
And friendly as can be,
A wisp of hay I hand to her,
She gives her milk to me.
All day she tramps the meadow grass,
And browses on the hill,
She seems to like the clover best,
While wand’ring at her will.
Moo! moo! she always seems to say,
She never minds the showers,
We children love to hear her low,
Thru all the pleasant hours.
ODE TO A BROOK
I wish I were a stream, O brook!
If but for a single day,
Then would we wander on and on,
While rippling a roundelay.
I wish I were a stream, O brook!
Just to sense all you would say,
Then could we wander on and on,
Still babbling along our way.
I wish I were a stream, O brook!
Each forest-flower I’d know,
Like wild birds we’d sail on and on,
Joyfully prattling we’d go.
I wish I were a stream, O brook!
We’d wind thru lane and lea,
Playfully gurgling on and on,
Till at last we’d reach the sea.
CONSECRATION
“Give God the glory,” ’tis thus speaks my soul,
“Take thou my life, Lord, in sweetest control;
When blinding storms of sorrow assail me,
Oh, thou! who didst walk on blue Galilee,
Beneath thy rich mantle sheltered I’d be.
Dub thou me knight, Lord, our most holy King,
While rend’ring thee service, trophies I’d bring,
If mid life’s fray thou wouldst call me today,
Oh, Christ! who canst raise the fallen, lift me,
To bask in thy presence eternally.
Truth as the emblem, ’tis right royally,
Under her flag, firm, united we’d be,
Dark powers of might at thy Word prostrate lie,
While blazoned with love our banner waves high,
In homage to him who reigneth--the King.
ENCHANTMENT
Ethereal bursts yon morn, bluebirds awake,
Joy-notes break forth, Heav’n born, for love’s sweet sake,
Thy face, in waking dreams, reveals the day,
Sunlight in beauty streams, pointing the way.
’Tis but a dainty flower I bring to you,
Bathed in celestial light, mingled with dew,
Still deeply rooted in this heart so true,
Is wealth the world holds not, treasured in you.
Fairest of all the bloom I proffer thee,
Plucked from yon garden rare, Sincerity;
Pure bud of enduring love, shield thou me,
And bear my soul to God in chastity.
LIFE’S DAY
Thou Sun! whose smile wreathes early Morn,
A cheerful light to those forlorn,
And dries the dripping eyes of dawn,
Bless Life’s fleet day ere she be gone.
Teach her to shine as unto thee,
A lesser light as needs must be,
A ray bent toward lonely places,
Sun! whose beams reflect glad faces.
I ask when Life’s young day is done,
E’en as thy afterglow, O Sun!
I might bequeath one worthy song,
A candle in a world of wrong.
FOR YOU
The golden sun sinks
On a bosom of blue,
A-smiling for you;
While each bird in the nest
Lulls her tired brood to rest,
A-crooning for you.
The weed-blossoms blow
Full as wild flowers do,
A-blooming for you;
’T is my heart | 1,187.779055 |
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GETTING MARRIED
Preface To "Getting Married"
By Bernard Shaw
1908
Transcriber's Note -- The edition from which this play was taken was
printed without most contractions, such as dont for don't and so forth.
These have been left as printed in the original text. Also, abbreviated
honorifics have no trailing period, and the word show is spelt shew.
PREFACE TO GETTING MARRIED
THE REVOLT AGAINST MARRIAGE
There is no subject on which more dangerous nonsense is talked and
thought than marriage. If the mischief stopped at talking and thinking
it would be bad enough; but it goes further, into disastrous anarchical
action. Because our marriage law is inhuman and unreasonable to the
point of downright abomination, the bolder and more rebellious spirits
form illicit unions, defiantly sending cards round to their friends
announcing what they have done. Young women come to me and ask me
whether I think they ought to consent to marry the man they have decided
to live with; and they are perplexed and astonished when I, who am
supposed (heaven knows why!) to have the most advanced views attainable
on the subject, urge them on no account to compromize themselves without
the security of an authentic wedding ring. They cite the example of
George Eliot, who formed an illicit union with Lewes. They quote
a saying attributed to Nietzsche, that a married philosopher is
ridiculous, though the men of their choice are not philosophers. When
they finally give up the idea of reforming our marriage institutions by
private enterprise and personal righteousness, and consent to be led to
the Registry or even to the altar, they insist on first arriving at an
explicit understanding that both parties are to be perfectly free to sip
every flower and change every hour, as their fancy may dictate, in
spite of the legal bond. I do not observe that their unions prove
less monogamic than other people's: rather the contrary, in fact;
consequently, I do not know whether they make less fuss than ordinary
people when either party claims the benefit of the treaty; but the
existence of the treaty shews the same anarchical notion that the law
can be set aside by any two private persons by the simple process of
promising one another to ignore it.
MARRIAGE NEVERTHELESS INEVITABLE
Now most laws are, and all laws ought to be, stronger than the
strongest individual. Certainly the marriage law is. The only people
who successfully evade it are those who actually avail themselves of its
shelter by pretending to be married when they are not, and by Bohemians
who have no position to lose and no career to be closed. In every other
case open violation of the marriage laws means either downright ruin or
such inconvenience and disablement as a prudent man or woman would get
married ten times over rather than face. And these disablements and
inconveniences are not even the price of freedom; for, as Brieux has
shewn so convincingly in Les Hannetons, an avowedly illicit union is
often found in practice to be as tyrannical and as hard to escape from
as the worst legal one.
We may take it then that when a joint domestic establishment, involving
questions of children or property, is contemplated, marriage is in
effect compulsory upon all normal people; and until the law is altered
there is nothing for us but to make the best of it as it stands. Even
when no such establishment is desired, clandestine irregularities are
negligible as an alternative to marriage. How common they are nobody
knows; for in spite of the powerful protection afforded to the parties
by the law of libel, and the readiness of society on various other
grounds to be hoodwinked by the keeping up of the very thinnest
appearances, most of them are probably never suspected. But they are
neither dignified nor safe and comfortable, which at once rules them out
for normal decent people. Marriage remains practically inevitable; and
the sooner we acknowledge this, the sooner we shall set to work to make
it decent and reasonable.
WHAT DOES THE WORD MARRIAGE MEAN
However much we may all suffer through marriage, most of us think
so little about it that we regard it as a fixed part of the order of
nature, like gravitation. Except for this error, which may be regarded
as constant, we use the word with reckless looseness, meaning a dozen
different things by it, and yet always assuming that to a respectable
man it can have only one meaning. The pious citizen, suspecting the
Socialist (for example) of unmentionable things, and asking him heatedly
whether he wishes to abolish marriage, is infuriated by a sense of
unanswerable quibbling when the Socialist asks him what particular
variety of marriage he means: English civil marriage, sacramental
marriage, indissoluble Roman Catholic marriage, marriage of divorced
persons, Scotch marriage, Irish marriage, French, German, Turkish, or
South Dakotan marriage. In Sweden, one of the most highly civilized
countries in the world, a marriage is dissolved if both parties wish it,
without any question of conduct. That is what marriage means in Sweden.
In Clapham that is what they call by the senseless name of Free Love.
In the British Empire we have unlimited Kulin polygamy, Muslim polygamy
limited to four wives, child marriages, and, nearer home, marriages
of first cousins: all of them abominations in the eyes of many worthy
persons. Not only may the respectable British champion of marriage mean
any of these widely different institutions; sometimes he does not
mean marriage at all. He means monogamy, chastity, temperance,
respectability, morality, Christianity, anti-socialism, and a dozen
other things that have no necessary connection with marriage. He often
means something that he dare not avow: ownership of the person of
another human being, for instance. And he never tells the truth about
his own marriage either to himself or any one else.
With those individualists who in the mid-XIXth century dreamt of doing
away with marriage altogether on the ground that it is a private concern
between the two parties with which society has nothing to do, there
is now no need to deal. The vogue of "the self-regarding action" has
passed; and it may be assumed without argument that unions for the
purpose of establishing a family will continue to be registered and
regulated by the State. Such registration is marriage, and will continue
to be called marriage long after the conditions of the registration
have changed so much that no citizen now living would recognize them as
marriage conditions at all if he revisited the earth. There is therefore
no question of abolishing marriage; but there is a very pressing
question of improving its conditions. I have never met anybody really
in favor of maintaining marriage as it exists in England to-day. A Roman
Catholic may obey his Church by assenting verbally to the doctrine of
indissoluble marriage. But nobody worth counting believes directly,
frankly, and instinctively that when a person commits a murder and is
put into prison for twenty years for it, the free and innocent husband
or wife of that murderer should remain bound by | 1,187.879142 |
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Produced by David A. Schwan
HOW MEMBERS OF CONGRESS ARE BRIBED.
An Open Letter.
A Protest and a Petition.
From a Citizen of California to the United States Congress
by Joseph H. Moore.
The Lobbyist.
If a persistent intermeddler without proper warrant in Government
affairs, an unscrupulous dealer in threats and promises amongst public
men, a constant menace to sworn servants of the people in their offices
of trust, a tempter of the corrupt and a terror to the timid who are
delegated to power a remorseless enemy to wholesome legislation, a
constant friend to conspirators against the common welfare for private
gain--if such a compound of dangerous and insolent qualities merged
in one personality, active, vigilant, unblushing, be a Lobbyist--then
Collis P. Huntington is a Lobbyist at the doors of Congress, in its
corridors and in its councils, at Washington.
He is the spirit incarnate of Monopoly in its most aggressive form.
Among the intrenched powers which have sapped the vitality and are a
menace to the existence of our form of republican government, he is
strong with their strength, dangerous with their power, perilous with
the insolence of their courtesies, the blandishment of their open or
covert threats.
For nearly thirty years he has engendered broadcast political corruption
in order to enrich himself and his associate railroad magnates at the
public cost.
The declared representative now of those who have been thus far
successful conspirators against the general Treasury and ruthless
oppressors of every vital interest of defenceless California, with
resonant voice and open hand he is clearly visible upon parade,
demanding attention from the elected servants of all the people, and
easily dwarfing the lessor lobby by the splendor of his equipment.
The English Parliament would relegate such an intruder to the street;
the French Deputies point to his credentials with infinite scorn;
Italian statesmen would shrink from a perusal of his record, and the
Spanish Cortes decline to listen to any plea that men who are at one and
the same time known robbers and declared beggars have blended and vested
rights as both such to millions of public money.
To the vision of thoughtful rulers and myriads of patriots throughout
the world, reading history now as it is being created from day to day,
the Anarchist naturally looms in the background of such a spectacle.
A Search-Light.
In order that a proper side-light be flashed upon him; that his choice
methods of dealing with men and accomplishing his purposes may pass
in review; that some Californians and many national legislators may be
informed of that which they never knew, or reminded of that which
they may have forgotten; that the record of his accidental and forced
confession in open Court of an appalling use of money in defending
stolen millions and grasping after more shall be revived; that his low
estimate of the honor and integrity of public men, and his essential
contempt for the masses, may be contrasted with his high appreciation of
the debauching power of money; that the enslavement by himself and his
associates of the naturally great State of California and her indignant
people may be once more proclaimed with bitter protest and earnest
appeal to all the citizens of our sister States throughout our vast
commonwealth; and to the end that no such palpable embodiment of
political infamy may continue to stalk without rebuke through all
the open ways and sacred recesses of popular power crystallized at
Washington--I propose to revive the recollection of--and to briefly
comment on--the whilom notorious Huntington-Colton Letters which became
public property as part of the records of the Superior Court of Sonoma
County in this State.
Huntington-Colton Letters.
Of an apparent nearly 600, only about 200 are in evidence. It | 1,187.891541 |
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Produced by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Jana Srna and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was made using scans of public domain works in
the International Children's Digital Library.)
[Illustration: NETTIE COMFORTS HER MOTHER.]
THE
CARPENTER'S DAUGHTER.
"Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called
the children of God."
BY THE AUTHORS OF "THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD," ETC. ETC.
WITH FRONTISPIECE.
LONDON:
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.
BY THE AUTHORS OF "THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD."
Price ONE SHILLING each, with Frontispiece
THE | 1,187.897159 |
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Produced by Stephen Hutcheson and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
OLD MINES
OF
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
_Desert-Mountain-Coastal Areas_
_Including the
Calico-Salton Sea Colorado River Districts
and
Southern Counties_
1965
Frontier Book Company
Toyahvale, Texas 79786
_Reprinted From_
_The Report of The State Mineralogist
1893_
_Limited to 1000 copies_
LOS ANGELES COUNTY.
By W. H. Storms, Assistant in the Field.
The mining industry in this county is not as extensive as that of some
of the neighboring counties, but there are mines in Los Angeles County
of unquestioned value, and others which have a prospective value,
dependent to a great extent upon the success achieved in working certain
base ores, which occur in comparative abundance.
THE KELSEY MINE.
One of the most interesting mines in the county is located in the rugged
mountains about 8 miles from the town of Azusa, in the San Gabriel
Cañon. It is commonly known as the Kelsey Mine, and has become famous as
a producer of silver ore of fabulous richness.
The country is made up almost entirely of metamorphic rocks, having
schistose, gneissoid, and massive structure. Both hornblende and mica
occur in these rocks abundantly, the former being frequently altered to
chlorite, or by further change to epidote. Dikes of porphyritic rock
have been intruded into the crystalline schists. In the immediate
vicinity of the Kelsey vein are intrusions of a dark green, much
decomposed, and shattered rock, probably diorite. Faults, great and
small, are numerous throughout the region. Within a few hundred feet of
the mine is a great fault, which may be plainly seen cutting the
mountain. The displacement must reach many hundreds of feet. It has
resulted in bringing in contact on a horizontal plane rocks of entirely
different character. On the south side of the fault the rocks are made
up of quite regularly bedded micaceous sandstones, more or less
schistose, and having a prevailing buff or light gray color. These rocks
dip east at an angle of 20° to 30°. On the north side of the fault the
rocks are harder, of a dark gray color, and containing considerable
hornblende. These rocks are more gneissoid and massive than schistose.
The dip is much less regular than on the south side of the displacement.
Large, lenticular masses of quartzose and feldspathic rock are of
frequent occurrence in the hornblende gneiss, evidently the result of
the segregation of the contained minerals. On the whole there is much
more evidence of the disturbance on the north side of the fault than on
the south side. It is in this area of greatly disturbed strata that the
Kelsey vein has formed.
The vein is of the fissure type and occupies the line of a fault plane,
that at first, perhaps, was a mere crack, but which has become enlarged
by the movement upon themselves of the rock masses forming the walls,
resulting in a grinding and crushing of the rocks by the attrition and
pressure incident to this movement. Into this crevice mineral waters
found their way, carrying in solution | 1,188.183547 |
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FLETCHERISM: WHAT IT IS
HORACE FLETCHER'S WORKS
THE A.B.-Z. OF OUR OWN NUTRITION. Thirty-fourth thousand. 462 pp.
THE NEW MENTICULTURE; OR, THE A-B-C OF TRUE LIVING. Fifty-third
thousand. 310 pp.
THE NEW GLUTTON OR EPICURE; OR, ECONOMIC NUTRITION. Eighteenth
thousand. 344 pp.
HAPPINESS AS FOUND IN FORETHOUGHT MINUS FEARTHOUGHT. Fifteenth
thousand. 251 pp.
THAT LAST WAIF; OR, SOCIAL QUARANTINE. Sixth thousand. 270 pp.
FLETCHERISM: WHAT IT IS; OR, HOW I BECAME YOUNG AT SIXTY. 240 pp.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR]
FLETCHERISM
WHAT IT IS
OR
HOW I BECAME YOUNG
AT SIXTY
BY
HORACE FLETCHER, A.M.
_Fellow American Association for the Advancement of Science_
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
_September, 1913_
THE.PLIMPTON.PRESS
NORWOOD.MASS.U.S.A
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTION ix
PREFACE xi
I HOW I BECAME A FLETCHERITE 1
II SCIENTIFIC TESTS 15
III WHAT I AM ASKED ABOUT
FLETCHERISM 32
IV RULES OF FLETCHERISM 51
V WHAT IS PROPER MASTICATION? 64
VI WHAT IS HEAD DIGESTION? 73
VII CHITTENDEN ON CAREFUL
CHEWING 84
VIII THE THREE INCHES OF PERSONAL
RESPONSIBILITY 91
IX QUESTION PRESCRIPTION AND
PROSCRIPTION 104
X WHAT CONSTITUTES A FLETCHERITE 116
XI ALL DECENT EATERS ARE
FLETCHERITES 126
XII FLETCHERIZING AS A TEMPERANCE
EXPEDIENT 138
XIII THE MENACE OF MODERN MIXED
MENUS 158
XIV THE CRUX OF FLETCHERISM 170
XV FLETCHERISM AND VEGETARIANISM 180
APPENDIX 197
INDEX 221
ILLUSTRATIONS
The Author _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
The Author Testing His Endurance by Means
of the Kellog Mercurial Dynamometer 16
The Author Undergoing a Test at Yale When
He Made a World's Record on the Irving
Fisher Endurance Testing Machine 28
The Author Feeling Himself to Be the Most
Fortunate Person Alive 70
Horace Fletcher in His Master of Arts Robes 98
The Author, on his Sixtieth Birthday, Performing
Feats of Agility and Strength which
Would Be Remarkable Even in a Young
Athlete 100
INTRODUCTION
Fletcherism has become a fact.
A dozen years ago it was laughed at as the "chew-chew" cult; to-day
the most famous men of Science endorse it and teach its principles.
Scientific leaders at the world's foremost Universities--Cambridge,
England; Turin, Italy; Berne, Switzerland; La Sorbonne, France; Berlin,
Prussia; Brussels, Belgium; St. Petersburg, Russia; as well as Harvard,
Yale and Johns Hopkins in America--have shown themselves in complete
accord with Mr. Fletcher's teachings.
The intention of the present volume is that it shall stand as a compact
statement of the Gospel of Fletcherism, whereas his other volumes treat
the subject more at length and are devoted to different phases of Mr.
Fletcher's philosophy. The author here relates briefly the story of
his regeneration, of how he rescued himself from the prospect of an
early grave, and brought himself to his present splendid physical and
mental condition. He tells of the discovery of his principles, which
have helped millions of people to live better, happier, and healthier
lives.
Mr. Fletcher writes with all his well-known literary charm and
vivacity, which have won for his works such a wide-spread popular
demand.
It is safe to say that no intelligent reader will peruse this work
without becoming convinced that Mr. Fletcher's principles as to
eating and living are the sanest that have ever been propounded; that
Fletcherism demands no heroic sacrifices of the enjoyments that go to
make life worth living, but, to the contrary, that the path to Dietetic
Righteousness, which Mr. Fletcher would have us tread, must be the
pleasantest of all life's pleasant ways.
THE PUBLISHERS
PREFACE
"_What is good for the richest man in the world, must be also good for
the poorest, and all in between._" _Daily Express, London, May 15th,
1913._
This quotation was apropos of an announcement in the _Evening Mail_, of
New York, telling that the Twentieth Century Croesus and financial
philosopher, John D. Rockefeller, had uttered a Confession of his Faith
in the fundamental principles of Dietetic Righteousness and General
Efficiency as follows:
"Don't gobble your food. Fletcherize, or chew very slowly while you
eat. Talk on pleasant topics. Don't be in a hurry. Take time to
masticate and cultivate a cheerful appetite while you eat. So will
the demon indigestion be encompassed round about and his slaughter
complete."
* * * * *
At the time this compendium of physiological and psychological wisdom
concerning the source of health, comfort, and happiness came to my
notice I was engaged in furnishing my publishers with a "compact
statement of the Gospel of Fletcherism," as they call it, and hence the
able assistance of Mr. Rockefeller was welcomed most cordially. Here it
was in a nutshell, crystallized, compact, refined, monopolized as to
brevity of description, masterly, and practically leaving little more
to be said.
The Grand Old Man of Democracy in England, William Ewart Gladstone, had
had his say on the same subject some years before, and will be known
to the future of physiological fitness more permanently on account
of his glorification of Head Digestion of food than for his Liberal
Statesmanship.
In like manner, Mr. Rockefeller will deserve more gratitude from
posterity for having prescribed the secret of highest mental and
physical efficiency in thirty-three words, than for the multiple
millions he is dedicating to Science and Sociological Betterment.
It will be interesting, however, to seekers after supermanish health
and strength to know how the author took the "straight tip" of Mr.
Gladstone, and "worked it for all it was worth" until Mr. Rockefeller
referred to the process of common-sense involved as "Fletcherizing."
I assure you it is an interesting story. It has taken nearly fifteen
years to bring the development to the point where Mr. Rockefeller,
who is carefulness personified when it comes to committing himself
for publication, is willing to express his opinion on the subject. It
has cost the author unremitting, completely-absorbing, and prayerful
concentration of attention, and nearly twenty thousand pounds sterling
($100,000), spent in fostering investigations and securing publicity of
the results of the inquiries, with some of the best people in Science,
Medicine, and Business helping him with generous assistance, to
accomplish this triumph of natural sanity.
In addition to other co-operation, and the most effective, perhaps, it
is appropriate to say that there is scarcely a periodical published in
all the world, either technical, news-bearing, or otherwise, on the
staff of which there has not been some member who has not received
some personal benefit from the suggestions carried by the economic
system now embodied in the latest dictionaries of many nations as
"Fletcherism."
The first rule of "Fletcherism" is to feel gratitude and to express
appreciation for and of all the blessings which Nature, intelligence,
civilization, and imagination bring to mankind; and this utterance
will be endorsed, I am sure, by the millions of persons who have
found economy, health, and general happiness through attention to the
requirements of dietetic righteousness. It will be especially approved
by those who, like Mr. Rockefeller, gained new leases of life after
having burned the candle of prudence at both ends and in the middle, to
the point of nearly going out, in the struggle for money.
Yet the secret of preserving natural efficiency is even more valuable
than cure or repair of damages due to carelessness and over-strain.
In this respect the simple rules of Fletcherizing, embodying the
requirements of Nature in co-operative nutrition, are made effective by
formulating exercises whereby habit-of-conformity is formed, and takes
command of the situation so efficiently, that no more thought need be
given to the matter than is necessary in regard to breathing, quenching
thirst, or observing "the rule of the road" in avoiding collisions in
crowded public thoroughfares.
Mr. Rockefeller's thirty-three words not only comprise the practical
gist of Fletcherism, but also state the most important fact, that by
these means the real dietetic devil, the devil of devils, is kept at a
safe distance.
The mechanical act of mastication is easy to manage; but this is
not all there is to head digestion. Bad habits of inattention and
indifference have to be conquered before good habits of deliberation
and appreciation are formed. These requirements of healthy nutrition
have been studied extensively and analyzed thoroughly, to the end that
we know that they may be acquired with ease if sought with serious
interest and respect.
I began the preface by quoting the statement that "What is good for the
_richest man in the world_ must be also good for the poorest, and all
in between." I will close by asserting that
"_Doing the right thing in securing right nutrition is easier than not
if you only know how._"
FLETCHERISM:
WHAT IT IS
CHAPTER I
HOW I BECAME A FLETCHERITE
My Turning Point--How I had Ignored My Responsibility--What Happens
during Mastication--The Four Principles of Fletcherism
Over twenty years ago, at the age of forty years, my hair was white; I
weighed two hundred and seventeen pounds (about fifty pounds more than
I should for my height of five feet six inches); every six months or so
I had a bad attack of "influenza"; I was harrowed by indigestion; I was
afflicted with "that tired feeling." I was an old man at forty, on the
way to a rapid decline.
It was at about this time that I applied for a life-insurance policy,
and was "turned down" by the examiners as a "poor risk." This was
the final straw. I was not afraid to die; I had long ago learned to
look upon death with equanimity. At the same time I had a keen desire
to live, and then and there made a determination that I would find
out what was the matter, and, if I could do so, save myself from my
threatened demise.
I realised that the first thing to do was, if possible, to close up my
business arrangements so that I could devote myself to the study of how
to keep on the face of the earth for a few more years. This I found it
possible to do, and I retired from active money-making.
The desire of my life was to live in Japan, where I had resided for
several years, and to which country I was passionately devoted. My
tastes were in the direction of the fine arts. Japan had been for years
my Mecca--my household goods were already there, waiting until I
should take up my permanent residence; and it required no small amount
of will-power to turn away from the cherished hope of a lifetime, to
continue travelling over the world, and concentrate upon finding a way
to keep alive.
I turned my back on Japan, and began my quest for health. For a time, I
tried some of the most famous "cures" in the world. Here and there were
moments of hope, but in the end I was met with disappointment.
THE TURNING POINT
It was partly accidental and partly otherwise that I finally found a
clue to the solution of my health disabilities. A faint suggestion
of possibilities of arrest of decline had dawned upon me in the city
of Galveston, Texas, some years before, and had been strengthened by
a visit to an Epicurean philosopher who had a snipe estate among the
marshlands of Southern Louisiana and a truffle preserve near Pau,
in France. He was a disciple of Gladstone, and faithfully followed
the rules relative to thorough chewing of food which the Grand Old
Man of England had formulated for the guidance of his children. My
friend in Louisiana attributed his robustness of health as much to
this protection against overeating as to the exercise incident to his
favourite sports. But these impressions had not been strong enough to
have a lasting effect.
One day, however, I was called to Chicago to attend to some unfinished
business affairs. They were difficult of settlement, and I was
compelled to "mark time" in the Western city with nothing especially
to do. It was at this time, in 1898, that I began to think seriously
of eating and its effect upon health. I read a great many books, only
to find that no two authors agreed; and I argued from this fact that
no one had found the truth, or else there would be some consensus of
agreement. So I stopped reading, and determined to consult Mother
Nature herself for direction.
HOW I HAD IGNORED MY RESPONSIBILITY
I began by trying to find out why Nature required us to eat, and how
and when. The key to my search was a firm belief in the good intentions
of Nature in the interest of our health and happiness, and a belief
also that anything less than good health and high efficiency was due to
transgressions against certain good and beneficent laws. Hence, it was
merely a question of search to find out the nature of the transgression.
The fault was one of nutrition, evidently.
I argued that if Nature had given us personal responsibility it was not
hidden away in the dark folds and coils of the alimentary canal where
we could not control it. The fault or faults must be committed before
the food was swallowed. I felt instinctively that here was the key to
the whole situation. The point, then, was to study the cavity of the
mouth; and the first thought was: "What happens there?" and "What is
present there?" The answer was: Taste, Smell (closely akin to taste
and hardly to be distinguished from it), Feeling, Saliva, Mastication,
Appetite, Tongue, Teeth, etc.
I first took up the careful study of Taste, necessitating keeping food
in the mouth as long as possible, to learn its course and development;
and, as I tried it myself, wonders of new and pleasant sensations were
revealed. New delights of taste were discovered. Appetite assumed new
leanings. Then came the vital discovery, which is this: I found that
each of us has what I call a food-filter: a discriminating muscular
gate located at the back of the mouth where the throat is shut off from
the mouth during the process of mastication. Just where the tongue
drops over backward toward its so-called roots there are usually five
(sometimes seven, we are told) little teat-like projections placed
in the shape of a horseshoe, each of them having a trough around it,
and in these troughs, or depressions, terminate a great number of
taste-buds, or ends of gustatory nerves. Just at this point the roof of
the mouth, or the "hard palate," ends; and the "soft palate," with the
uvula at the end of it, drops down behind the heavy part of the tongue.
During the natural act of chewing the lips are closed, and there is
also a complete closure at the back part of the mouth by the pressing
of the tongue against the roof of the mouth. During mastication, then,
the mouth is an airtight pouch.
After which brief description, please note, the next time you take food,
WHAT HAPPENS DURING MASTICATION
Hold the face down, so that the tongue hangs perpendicularly in the
mouth. This is for two reasons: one, because it will show how food,
when properly mixed with saliva, will be lifted up in the hollow part
in the middle of the tongue, against the direct force of gravity, and
will collect at the place where the mouth is shut off at the back, the
food-gate.
It is a real gate; and while the food is being masticated, so that it
may be mixed with saliva and chemically transformed from its crude
condition into the chemical form that makes it possible of digestion
and absorption, this gate will remain tightly shut, and the throat will
be entirely cut off from the mouth.
But as the food becomes creamy, so to speak, through being mixed with
saliva, or emulsified, or alkalised, or neutralised, or dextrinised, or
modified in whatever form Nature requires, the creamy substance will
be drawn up the central conduit of the tongue until it reaches the
food-gate.
If it is found by the taste-buds there located around the
"circumvalate papillae" (the teat-like projections on the tongue
which I mentioned above) to be properly prepared for acceptance
and further digestion, the food-gate will open, and the food thus
ready for acceptance into the body will be sucked back and swallowed
unconsciously--that is, without conscious effort.
I now started to experiment on myself. I chewed my food carefully until
I extracted all taste from it there was in it, and until it slipped
unconsciously down my throat. When the appetite ceased, and I was
thereby told that I had had enough, I stopped; and I had no desire to
eat any more until a real appetite commanded me again. Then I again
chewed carefully--eating always whatever the appetite craved.
THE FIVE PRINCIPLES OF FLETCHERISM
I have now found out five things; | 1,188.327194 |
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The Camp Fire Girls at the Seashore
Or, Bessie King's Happiness
Camp Fire Girls Series, Volume VI
By JANE L. STEWART
The Saalfield Publishing Company
Chicago Akron, Ohio New York
Copyright, 1914
By The Saalfield Publishing Company
[Illustration: They had hearty appetites for the camp breakfast.]
The Camp Fire Girls at the Seashore
CHAPTER I
FROM THE ASHES
The sun rose over Plum Beach to shine down on a scene of confusion and
wreckage that might have caused girls less determined and courageous
than those who belonged to the Manasquan Camp Fire of the Camp Fire
Girls of America to feel that there was only one thing to do--pack up
and move away. But, though the camp itself was in ruins, there were no
signs of discouragement among the girls themselves. Merry laughter vied
with the sound of the waves, and the confusion among the girls was more
apparent than real.
"Have you got everything sorted, Margery--the things that are completely
ruined and those that are worth saving?" asked Eleanor Mercer, the
Guardian of the Camp Fire.
"Yes, and there's more here that we can save and still use than anyone
would have dreamed just after we got the fire put out," replied Margery
Burton, one of the older girls, who was a Fire-Maker. In the Camp Fire
there are three ranks--the Wood-Gatherers, to which all girls belong
when they join; the Fire-Makers, next in order, and, finally, the
Torch-Bearers, of which Manasquan Camp Fire had none. These rank next to
the Guardian in a Camp Fire, and, as a rule, there is only one in each
Camp Fire. She is a sort of assistant to the Guardian, and, as the name
of the rank implies, she is supposed to hand on the light of what the
Camp Fire has given her, by becoming a Guardian of a new Camp Fire as
soon as she is qualified.
"What's next?" cried Bessie King, who had been working with some of the
other girls in sorting out the things which could be used, despite the
damage done by the fire that had almost wiped out the camp during the
night.
"Why, we'll start a fire of our own!" said Eleanor. "There's no sort of
use in keeping any of this rubbish, and the best way to get rid of it is
just to burn it. All hands to work now, piling it up and seeing that
there is a good draught underneath, so that it will burn up. We can get
rid of ashes easily, but half-burned things are a nuisance."
"Where are we going to sleep to-night?" asked Dolly Ransom, ruefully
surveying the places where the tents had stood. Only two remained, which
were used for sleeping quarters by some of the girls.
"I'm more bothered about what we're going to eat," said Eleanor, with a
laugh. "Do you realize that we've been so excited that we haven't had
any breakfast? I should think you'd be starved, Dolly. You've had a
busier morning than the rest of us, even."
"I _am_ hungry, when I'm reminded of it," said Dolly, with a comical
gesture. "Whatever are we going to do, Miss Eleanor?"
"I'm just teasing you, Dolly," said Eleanor. "Mr. Salters came over from
Green Cove in his boat, when he saw the fire, to see if he couldn't help
in some way, and he's gone in to Bay City. He'll be out pretty soon with
a load of provisions, and as many other things as he can stuff into the
_Sally S_."
"Then we're really going to stay here?" said Bessie King.
"We certainly are!" said Eleanor, her eyes flashing. "I don't see why we
should let a little thing like this fire drive us away! We are going to
stay here, and, what's more, we're going to have just as good a time as
we planned to have when we came here--if not a better one!"
"Good!" cried half a dozen of the girls together.
Soon all the rubbish was collected, and a fire had been built. And,
while Margery Burton applied a light to it, the girls formed a circle
about it, and danced around, singing the while the most popular of Camp
Fire songs, Wo-he-lo.
"That's like burning all the unpleasant things that have happened to us,
isn't it?" said Eleanor. "We just toss them into the flames,
and--they're gone! What's left is clean and good and useful, and we will
make all the better use of it for having lost what is burning now."
"Isn't it strange, Miss Eleanor," said Bessie King, "that this should
have happened to us so soon after the fire that burned up the Pratt's
farm?"
"Yes, it is," replied Eleanor. "And there's a lesson in it for us, just
as there was for them in their fire. We didn't expect to find them in
such trouble when we started to walk there, but we were able to help
them, and to show them that there was a way of rising from the ruin of
their home, and being happier and more prosperous than they had been
before."
"We're going to do that, too," said Dolly, with spirit. "I felt terrible
when I first saw the place in the light, after the fire was all out, but
it looks different already."
"Mr. Salters will be here soon," said Eleanor. "And now there's nothing
more to do until he comes. We'll have a fine meal--and if you're half as
hungry as I am you'll be glad of that--and we'll spend the afternoon in
getting the place to rights. But just now the best thing for all of us
to do is to rest."
"I'll be glad to do that," said Dolly Ransom, as she linked her arm with
Bessie's and drew her away. "I am pretty tired."
"I should think you would be, Dolly. I haven't had a chance to thank you
yet for what you did for me."
"Oh, nonsense, Bessie!" said Dolly, flushing. "You'd have done it for
me, wouldn't you? I'm only just as glad as I can be that I was able to
do anything to get you away from Mr. Holmes--you and Zara."
"Zara's gone to pieces completely, Dolly. She was terribly
frightened--more than I was, I think, and yet I don't see how that can
be, because I was as frightened as I think anyone could have been."
"I never saw them get hold of you at all, Bessie. How did it happen?"
"Well, that's pretty hard to say, Bessie. You know, after we found out
that that yacht was here just to watch us, I was nervous, and so were
you."
"I think we had reason to be nervous, don't you?"
"I should say so! Well, anyhow, as soon as I saw that the tents were on
fire, I was sure that the men on the yacht had had something to do with
it. But, of course, there wasn't anything to do but try as hard I could
to help put out the fire, and it was so exciting that I didn't think
about any other danger until I saw a man from the boat that had come
ashore pick Zara up and start to carry her out to it."
"They pretended to be helping us with the fire, and they really did
help, Bessie. I guess we wouldn't have saved any of the tents at all if
it hadn't been for them."
"Oh, I saw what they were doing! When I saw the man pick Zara up,
though, I knew right away what their plan was. And I was just going to
scream when another man got hold of me, and he kept me from shouting,
and carried me off to the yacht in the boat. Zara had fainted, and they
kept us down below in a cabin and said they were going to take us along
the coast until we came to the coast of the state Zara and I were in
when we met you girls first."
"We guessed that, Bessie. That was one of the things we were all
worrying about when we came here--that they might try to carry you two
off that way. I don't see how it can be that you're all right as long as
you're in this state, and in danger as soon as you go back to the one
you came from."
"Well, you see, Zara and I really did run away, I suppose. Zara's father
is in prison, so they said she had to have a guardian, and I left the
Hoovers. So that old Farmer Weeks--you know about him, don't you?--is
our guardian in that state, and he's got an order from the judge near
Hedgeville putting us in his care until we are twenty-one."
"But that order's no good in this state?"
"No, because here Miss Mercer is our guardian. But if they can get us
into that other state, no matter how, they can hold us."
"Oh, I see! And, of course, Miss Eleanor understood right away. When we
told the men who had helped us with the fire that you were missing, they
said they were afraid you must have been caught in the fire, but Miss
Eleanor said she was sure you were on the yacht. And they just laughed."
"I heard that big man, Jeff, talking to her when she went aboard the
yacht."
"Yes. They wouldn't let her look for you, and he threatened to put her
off if she didn't come ashore. You heard that, didn't you?"
"Oh, yes! Zara and I could hear everything she said when she was in the
cabin on the yacht. But we couldn't let her know where we were."
"Well, just as soon as she could get to a telephone, Miss Eleanor called
up Bay City, and asked them to send policemen or some sort of officers
who could search the yacht. But we were terribly afraid that they would
sail away before those men could get here, and then, you see, we
couldn't have done a thing. There wouldn't have been any way of catching
them."
"And they'd have done it, too, if it hadn't been for you, Dolly! I don't
see how you ever thought of it, and how you were brave enough to do what
you did when you did think of it."
"Oh, pshaw, Bessie--it was easy! I knew enough about yachts to
understand that if their screw was twisted up with rope it wouldn't
turn, and that would keep them there for a little while, anyhow. And
they never seemed to think of that possibility at all. So I swam out
there, and, of course, I could dive and stay down for a few seconds at a
time. It was easier, because I had something to hold on to."
"It was mighty clever, and mighty plucky of you, too, Dolly."
"There was only one thing I regretted, Bessie. I wish I'd been able to
hear what they said when they found out they couldn't get away!"
"I wish you'd been there, too, Dolly," said Bessie, laughing. "They were
perfectly furious, and everyone on board blamed everyone else. It took
them quite a while to find out what was the matter, and then even after
they found out, it meant a long delay before they could clear the screw
and get moving."
"I never was so glad of anything in my life, Bessie, as when we saw the
men from Bay City coming while that yacht was still here! We kept
watching it all the time, of course, and we saw them send the sailor
over to dive down and find out what was wrong. Then we could see him
going down and coming up, time after time, and it seemed as if he would
get it done in time."
"It must have been exciting, Dolly."
"I guess it was just as exciting for you, wasn't it? But it would have
been dreadful if, after having held them so long, it hadn't been quite
long enough."
"Well, it _was_ long enough, Dolly, thanks to you! I hate to think of
where I would be now if you hadn't managed it so cleverly."
"What will they do to those men on the yacht, do you suppose?"
"I don't know. Miss Eleanor wants to prove that it was Mr. Holmes who
got them to do it, I think. But that won't be decided until her cousin,
Mr. Jamieson, the lawyer, comes. He'll know what we'd better do, and I'm
sure Miss Eleanor will leave it to him to decide."
"I tell you one thing, Bessie. This sort of persecution of you and Zara
has got to be stopped. I really do believe they've gone too far this
time. Of course, if they had got you away, they'd have been all right,
because in that other state where you two came from what they did was
all right. But they got caught at it. I certainly do hope that Mr.
Jamieson will be able to find some way to stop them."
"I'm glad we're going to stay here, aren't you, Dolly? Do you know, I
really feel that we'll be safer here now than if we went somewhere else?
They've tried their best to get at us here, and they couldn't manage it.
Perhaps now they'll think that we'll be on our guard too much, and leave
us alone."
"I hope so, Bessie. But look here, there were two girls on guard last
night, and what good did it do us?"
"You don't think they were asleep, do you, Dolly?"
"No, I'm sure they weren't. But they just didn't have a chance to do
anything. What happened was this. Margery and Mary were sitting back to
back, so that one could watch the yacht and the other the path that
leads up to the spring on top of the bluff, where those two men we had
seen were sitting."
"That was a good idea, Dolly."
"First rate, but those people were too clever. They didn't row ashore in
a boat--not here, at least. And no one came down the path, until later,
anyhow. The first thing that made Margery think there was anything wrong
was when she smelt smoke and then, a second later, the big living tent
was all ablaze."
"It might have been an accident, Dolly, I suppose--"
"Oh, yes, it might have been, but it wasn't! They were here too soon,
and it fitted in too well with their plans. Miss Eleanor thinks she
knows how they started the fire."
"But how could they have done that, if there were none of them here on
the beach, Dolly?"
"She says that if they were on the bluff, above the tents, they could
very easily have thrown down bombs that would smoulder, and soon set the
canvas on fire. And there was a high wind last night, and it wouldn't
have taken long, once a spark had touched the canvas, for everything to
blaze up. They couldn't have picked a much better night."
"I don't suppose that can be proved, though, Dolly."
"I'm afraid not. That's what Miss Eleanor says, too. She says you can
often be so sure of a thing yourself that it seems that it must have
happened, without being able to prove it to someone else. That's where
they are so clever, and that's what makes them so dangerous. They can
hide their tracks splendidly."
"I don't see why men who can do such things couldn't keep straight, and
really make more money honestly than they can by being crooked."
"It does seem strange, doesn't it, Bessie? Oh, look, there's the _Sally
S._ with our breakfast--and there's another boat coming in. I wonder if
Mr. Jamieson can be here already?"
In a moment his voice proved that it _was_ possible, and a few minutes
later, while the girls were helping Captain Salters to unload the stores
he had brought with him, Eleanor was greeting her attorney from Bay
City.
CHAPTER II
A NEW ALLY
"I guess you haven't met Billy Trenwith properly yet, Eleanor," said
Charlie Jamieson, smiling.
"Maybe not," said Eleanor, returning the smile, "but I regard him as a
friend already, Charlie. He was splendid this morning. If he hadn't
understood so quickly, and acted at once, the way he did, I don't know
what would have happened."
"I'm afraid I didn't really understand at all, Miss Mercer," said
Trenwith, a good looking young fellow, with light brown hair and grey
blue eyes, that, although mild and pleasant enough now, had been as cold
as steel when Bessie had seen him on the yacht. "But I could understand
readily enough that you were in trouble, and I knew that Charlie's
cousin wouldn't appeal to me unless there was a good reason. So I didn't
feel that I was taking many chances in doing what you wished."
"I'm afraid you took more chances than you know about, Billy," said
Charlie, gravely. "You're in politics, aren't you? And you have
ambitions for more of a job than you've got now?"
"Oh, yes, I'm in politics, after a fashion," admitted Trenwith. "But I
guess I could manage to keep alive if I never got another political
office. I had a bit of a practice before I became district attorney, and
I think I could build it up again."
"Well, I hope this isn't going to make any difference, Billy. But it's
only fair for you to know the sort of game you're running into. I don't
want to feel that you're going ahead to help us without understanding
the situation just as it is."
"You talk as if this might be a pretty complicated bit of business,
Charlie | 1,188.327668 |
2023-11-16 18:36:52.3591060 | 2,229 | 8 | The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Memoirs of Napoleon--1814, v12
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