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2023-11-16 18:36:52.4610900 | 6,041 | 14 |
Produced by Colin Bell, Joseph Cooper, Carol Ann Brown,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
Mundus Foppensis:
OR, THE
<DW2> Display'd.
BEING
The Ladies VINDICATION,
In Answer to a late Pamphlet, Entituled,
Mundus Muliebris: Or, The Ladies
Dressing-Room Unlocked, _&c._
In Burlesque.
Together with a short SUPPLEMENT
to the _Fop-Dictionary_: Compos'd for the
use of the Town _Beaus_.
_Prisca juvent alios; Ego me nunc denique natum,
Gratulor haec aetas moribus apta meis.
Non quia nunc terra lentum subducitur aurum
Lectaque diverso littore Concha venit.
Sed quia cultus adest, nec nostros mansit in Annos,
Rusticitas Priscis illa superstes avis._
_Ovid_ de Arte Amandi. _Lib. 3._
_London,_ Printed for John Harris at the Harrow
in the _Poultry_, 1691.
ADVERTISEMENT
There is newly published _The Present State of Europe_; or, _The
Historical and Political Mercury_: Giving an Account of all the publick
and private Occurrences that are most considerable in every Court, for
the Months of _August_ and _September_, 1690. With curious _Reflections_
upon every State. To be continued Monthly from the Original, published
at the _Hague_ by the Authority of the States of _Holland_ and
_West-Friesland_. Sold by John Harris at the Harrow in the _Poultrey_.
There is newly published _A plain Relation of the late Action at Sea_,
between the _English_ and _Dutch_, and the _French_ Fleets, from _June_
22th. to _July_ 5th. last: With _Reflections_ thereupon, and upon the
Present State of the Nation, _&c._
Written by the Author of the _Reflections upon the last Years
Occurrences_, &c. _London_, Printed for John Harris at the Harrow in the
_Poultrey_, Price 1 _s._
THE
PREFACE.
Ladies,
_In the Tacker together of Mundus Muliebris, As it was a very great
Piece of ill Manners, to unlock your Dressing-Rooms without your Leave,
so was it no less indecent in him to expose your Wardrobes to the World,
especially in such a Rhapsody of Rhime Doggeril as looks much more like
an Inventory than a Poem; however, he has only pilfer'd away the Names
of your Varieties without doing ye any other Mischief; for there is
nothing to be found in all his Index, nor his Dictionary neither, but
what becomes a Person of Quality to give, and a Person of Quality to
receive; and indeed, considering how frail the mortal Estates of mortal
Gentlemen are, it argues but a common Prudence in Ladies to take
Advantage of the Kindness of their Admirers_; to make Hay while the Sun
shines; _well knowing how often they are inveigl'd out of their
Jointures upon all Occasions: Besides, it is a_ _general Desire in Men,
that their Ladies should keep Home, and therefore it is but reasonable
they should make their Homes as delightful as it is possible; and
therefore this Bubble of an Inventory is not to be thought the Effect of
general Repentance, among your Servants and Adorers, but the capricious
Malice of some Person envious of the little Remunerations of your
Kindnesses for being disbandded from your Conversation; little indeed,
considering the Rewards due to your Merits, otherwise it would be the
greatest Injustice upon Earth for the Men to think of reforming the
Women before they reform themselves, who are ten times worse in all
respects, as you will have sufficient to retort upon them when you come
by and by to the Matter._
_But to shew that it is no new thing for Ladies to go gay and gaudy, we
find in Ovid, that the Women made use of great Variety of Colours for
the Silks of which they made their Garments, of which the chiefest in
request among them were Azure, Sea-green, Saffron colour, Violet, Ash
colour, Rose colour, Chesnut, Almond Colour, with several others, as
their Fancy thought fit to make choice; nor were they deny'd the Purple
in Grain, overlaid with Pearl, or embroider'd with Gold: Nor_ _was it a
strange thing for the Roman Women to die their Hair Yellow, as an
augmentation to their Beauty; nor did the severity of the times at all
oppose it, but rather allow'd it. Now, says Ovid, The Manner of dressing
is not of one sort, and therefore let every Lady choose what best
becomes her; first consulting her Looking-glass. And soon after, he
confesses that there were not more Leaves upon a large Oak, not so many
Bees in Hybla, nor so many wild Beasts ranging the Alps as he could
number differences of dressing Ladies. He tells ye how Laodamia drest to
set off a long Face. How Diana drest when she went a Hunting: And how
Iole was carelessly drest when she took Alcides Captive in the Dangles
of her Tresses: So that it is no such new thing for the Women of this
Age to desire rich and splendid Ornaments. And why their Grandmothers,
and Great Grandmothers confin'd themselves to their Nuptial Kirtles,
their Gowns and Petticoats that lasted so many Anniversaries; their
Virginals for Musick, and their Spanish Pavans, and Sellingers Rounds
for Recreation, after their long poring upon Tent-stitch, 'tis not a
farthing Matter for our Ladies to enquire: 'Twas their Misfortune they
knew no better; but because they_ _knew no better, 'tis no Argument that
our Ladies should be ty'd to their obsolete Examples: For the
Alterations of Times and Customs alter the Humors and Fashions of an
Age, and change the whole Frame of Conversation. Juno is by the Poets
trick'd up in Vestments embroidered with all the Colours of the
Peacocks; and no question the Poets spoke with Relation to the Gallantry
of the Women of those times. And who so gaudy as Madam Iris in the Skie,
and therefore said to be chief Maid of Honour to Jupiter's Wife. I could
give ye an Account of the Habits of Venus, and the Graces, which the
Poets adapting to the Modes of those Times, plainly demonstrates, that
the Ladies were no less curious in those days than now._
_So then, Ladies, for your comfort be it spoken, here's only a Great Cry
and little Wool; while the Unlocker of your Dressing-Rooms brings us a
long Bedroll of hard Names to prove that you make use of a great deal of
Variety to set forth and grace your Beauty, and render your Charms more
unresistable, and that you love to have your Closets splendidly and
richly furnish'd: Heavens be prais'd, he lays nothing Criminal to your
Charge; but only puts ye in mind of a Chapter in Isaiah, of which_ _you
are not bound to take much notice, in regard his mistaking the 6. for
the 3: may secure ye there is little heed to be given to his Divinity._
_But on the other side it makes me mad to hear what the Devil of a Roman
Satyr Juvenal speaks of his own Sex; for tho' he makes Women bad enough,
he makes it an easier thing to meet with Prodigies and Monsters, than
Men of Sense and Vertue._
Should I behold in _Rome_, that Man, _says he_,
That were of spotless Fame, and Life unblam'd;
More than a Wonder it would be to me,
And I that Monster would compare to damn'd:
Two-headed Boy, with double Members born,
Or Fish, by Plow turn'd up, where lately Corn
In fertile Acres grew; or Fole by Mule
Brought forth, as Heaven would Nature over-rule:
No less amaz'd, than if a stoney Showre
Should from the Skie upon the Pavement pour;
Or that some Swarm of Bees, ascending higher
Than usually, should cluster on the Temple Spire;
Or that some rapid and impetuous Stream,
Should roll into the Sea, all Bloud, or Cream.
_Heavens! how many Wonders do's Juvenal make at the sight of an Honest
Man in his time; and yet when he has spoken as bad as he could of_ _the
Women, we find no such severe Expressions of his upon the Female Sex.
Now Ladies if good Men are so scarce, what need you care what Fools and
bad Men say. 'Tis true it must be acknowledg'd a hard Censure upon Men;
but it was a Man that said it; and therefore it makes the better for the
Feminine Gender. Well, Ladies, you may be pleas'd to make what use of it
you think fit, as being that which will certainly defend ye against all
the Picklocks of your Dressing-Rooms for the future; besides the Liberty
which Ovid, an Authentick Author, gives ye, to make use of what Dresses,
what Ornaments, what Embellishments you please, according to the Mode
and Practice of those times, under one of the best Rulers of the Roman
Empire, and far more antient than when your Grandmothers and Great
Grandmothers spun Flax, and bespittl'd their Fingers._
THE
<DW2> Display'd;
OR,
The Ladies VINDICATION:
In ANSWER to
The Ladies Dressing-Room Unlock'd, _&c._
Fain wou'd I, Ladies, briefly know
How you have injur'd Bully _Beau_;
That he thus falls, with so much noise,
Upon your Trinkets, and your Toys?
Something was in't; for I protest t' ye,
He has most wonderfully drest ye:
Nor has his Wrath spar'd ye an inch,
To set ye out in Pedlars French;
And all his Readers to possess,
That Women conjure when they dress:
Malicious _Beau_-Design, to make
The Ladies Dressing-Room to speak
Hard Words, unknown to all their Gransires;
The Language like of Necromancers.
Heavens! must Men still be at th' Mercies
Of new _Medeas_, and new _Circes_;
Not working by the fatal Powers
Of old inchanting Herbs and Flowers;
But by the Magick of their Garments,
Conspiring to renew our Torments?
I'll not believe the venomous Satyr,
It cannot be in Ladies Nature,
So amiable, sweet, and active,
To Study Magical Attractive;
As if they Wanted Help of _Endor_,
Their Graces more Divine to render.
Rather we think this _Jargonry_
Beyond the Skill of Doctor Dee:
Hell's Preacher, _Phlegyas,_ from below,
Call'd up, and hous'd in carnal _Beau_;
With wicked Hells _Enthusiasm_,
Between each Sex to make a _Chasm_;
For _Virgil_, never tax'd of Nonsense;
Nor yet provok'd, to injure Lady
Brings in the same infernal Rabbi,
Among the Damn'd, disturb'd in Conscience;
And stirr'd with like Satyrick Rage,
Against the Females of that Age.
Ingratefull Rhimer! thus to vex
The more refin'd and lovely Sex,
By acting like officious Novice,
Informer in the Devil's _Crown-Office_,
If we mayn't rather take him for
Some busie, bold Apparator,
In Satan's Commons Court of Arches,
By his more Feminine Researches:
Tho' what if many a tainted Whore
Tormented him before his hour,
'Twas mean Revenge, howe'er, to fall
On the whole Sex in general;
'Cause 'twas his ill luck still to light
On Ware unsound, for want of Wit.
What if the Ladies will be brave,
Why may not they a Language have
To wrap their Trinkets up in Mystery?
Since Men are much more blam'd in History,
For tying up their Slipper peaks
With Silver Chains, that reach'd their Necks.
Was't not, d'ye think, a pleasant sight,
To see the smiling Surgeon slit
The swelling Figs, in Bum behind,
Caught by misusing of his Kind?
But Women, only for being quaint,
To signifie the Things they want
By proper Names, must be reproach'd;
For wanton, foolish, and debauch'd;
Yet Learning is no Crime to Ladies,
And Terms of Art are still where Trade is.
Printers speak Gibb'rish at their Cafes;
And Weavers talk in unknown Phrases;
And Blacksmith's 'Prentice takes his Lessons
From Arabick (to us) Expressions:
Why then mayn't Ladies, in their Stations,
Use novel Names for novel Fashions?
And is not _Colbertine_, God save us,
Much nearer far than _Wevus mavus_;
A sort of Cant, with which the young
Corrupted once their Mother Tongue:
Is such a Bumpkin Cant as that
Fit for an Age where only what
Is brisk and airy, new refin'd,
Exalts the Wit, and clears the mind?
No ladies, no; go on your way;
Gay Cloaths require gay Words, we say.
When Art has trimm'd up Head-Attire,
Fit for a Nation to admire;
And Head and Ornament are well met,
Like Amazonian Plume and Helmet;
To call that by a vulgar Name,
Would be too mean, and th' Artist shame;
Call it a _Septizonimum_, or _Tiara_;
Or what you please, that's new and rare-a.
May not the Head, the Seat of Sense,
Name it's own Dress, without Offence?
The Roman Ladies, you are told,
Wore such a Head-Attire of old;
And what if _Juvenal_ were such a Satyr,
The Roman Ladies to bespatter;
Tell _Juvenal_, he was a Fool,
And must not think to _England_ rule:
Why should her Jewels move my Spleen;
Let her out-dazle _Egypt_'s Queen:
It shows that Gold the Pocket lines,
Where such illustrious Glory shines;
And there's a sort of Pride becomes
The Pomp of Dress, as well as Rooms.
I would not for the world be thought
To pick a hole in Ladies Coat;
Because they make it their Delight,
To keep their Bodies trim and tite.
What though the Names be new, and such
As borrow from the French and Dutch?
Or strain'd from the Italian Idiom,
Rather from hence I take the Freedom,
To praise their Care, thus to enrich
And fructifie our barren Speech,
We owe to their Vocabulary,
That makes our Language full and airy,
Enlarging _Meige_'s Dictionary.
Where things want Names, Names must be had:
Shall Lady cry to Chamber-maid,
Bring me my Thing there, for my head;
My Thing there, quilted white and red;
My Thing there for my Wrists and Neck;
'Tis ten to One the Maids mistake;
Then Lady cries, The Devil take
Such cursed Sots; my tother Thing;
Then'stead of Shoes, the Cuffs they bring.
'Slife--Lady crys, if I rise up,
I'll send thee to the Devil to sup;
And thus, like _Babel_, in conclusion,
The Lady's Closet's all Confusion;
When as if Ladies name the Things,
The Maid, whate'er she bid her, brings;
Neither is Lady chaf'd with Anger,
Nor Bones of Maiden put in danger.
Sure then 'twas some ill-natur'd _Beau_,
To persecute the Ladies so;
For peopling, of their own accords,
_Phillip's English World of Words_:
A _Beau_ more cruel than the _Goths_,
Thus to deny the Women Cloaths:
As if to theirs the rich Additions
Were Heathen Rites, and Superstitions;
Or else, as if from _Picts_ descended,
He were with Women's Cloaths offended;
And spite of cold, or heat of air,
He lov'd to see Dame Nature bare.
Their Shoes and Stays, he says, are tawdry,
Not fit to wear 'cause of th' Embroidry.
For Petticoats he'd have e'm bare-breech'd,
From _India_ 'cause the Stuffs are far-fetch'd.
Their Points and Lace he damns to Hell;
Corruptions of the Common-Weal.
The vain Exceptions of Wiseacres,
Fit to goe herd among the Quakers;
And talk to _Maudlin_, in close Hood,
Things that themselves ne'er understood.
Now let us then the _Beau_ survey,
Has he no Baubles to display:
There's first the _Dango_, and the _Snake_,
Those _Dildoes_ in the Nape of Neck;
That dangle down behind, to shew
Dimensions of the _Snake_ below:
'Tis thick, and long; but pizzl'd at th' end,
And would be thought the Woman's Friend:
Yet they who many times have try'd,
By _Dango_ swear the _Snake_ bely'd.
Then th' insignificant _Knee-Rowl_,
A mere _Whim-wham_, upon my Soul;
For that 'twas never made, I fear,
To save the Master's Knees at Prayer:
Which being worn o'th' largest size,
That Man _Rolls_ full, the Bully cries.
A Term of Art for Knees Concinnity,
Beyond the Sense of School-Divinity.
What _Beau_ himself would so unman,
To ride in scandalous Sedan?
A Carriage only fit for Midwives,
That of their Burthens go to rid Wives;
Unless to hide, from Revelation,
Th' Adulterer's haste to Assignation.
What Dunces are our Tonsors grown,
Where's their Gold Filings in an Amber Box,
To strew upon their Masters Locks,
And make 'em glitter in the Sun?
Sure English _Beaus_ may out-vie _Venus_,
As well as _Commodus_, or _Gallienus_.
'Twas Goldilocks, my lovely Boy,
Made _Agamemnon_ ruine _Troy_.
I could produce ye Emperours
That sate in Womens Dress whole hours,
Expos'd upon the publick Stage
Their Catamites, Wives by Marr'age.
Your old Trunk-hose are laid aside,
For what-d'-ye-call-em's Tail to hide;
So strait and close upon the Skin,
As onely made for Lady's Eyne;
To see the shape of Thighs and Groin:
Hard case _Priapus_ should be so restrain'd,
That had whole Orchards at command.
Yet these are Toys, in Men, more wise,
To Womens innocent Vanities.
While soft Sir _Courtly Nice_ looks great,
With the unmortgag'd Rents of his Estate:
What is the Learning he adores,
But the Discourse of Pimps and Whores?
She who can tye, with quaintest Art,
The spruce Cravat-string, wins his Heart;
Where that same Toy does not exactly sit,
He's not for common Conversation fit.
How is the Barber held Divine,
That can a Perriwig _Carine_!
Or else _Correct_ it; which you please;
For these are _Terms_ too, now-a-days,
Of modern Gallants to entice
The Barber to advance his Price:
For if a Barber be not dear,
He must not cover Coxcomb's Ear.
Bless us! what's there? 'tis something walks,
A piece of Painting, and yet speaks:
Hard Case to blame the Ladies Washes,
When Men are come to mend their Faces.
Yet some there are such Women grown,
They cann't be by their Faces known:
Some wou'd be like the fair _Adonis_;
Some would be _Hyacinthus_ Cronies;
And then they study wanton use
Of Spanish Red, and white Ceruse;
The only Painters to the Life,
That seem with Natures self at strife;
As if she only the dead Colours laid,
But they the Picture perfect made.
What _Zeuxis_ dare provoke these Elves,
That to out-doe him paint themselves?
For tho' the Birds his painted Grapes did crave,
These paint and all Mankind deceive.
This sure must spend a World of Morning,
More than the Ladies quick adorning;
They have found out a shorter way,
Not as before, to wast the day;
They only comb, wash hands and face,
And streightway, with a comely Grace,
On the admired _Helmet_ goes,
As ready rigg'd as their lac'd Shoes.
Far much more time Men trifling wast,
E'er their soft Bodies can be drest;
The Looking-Glass hangs just before,
And each o'th' Legs requires an hour:
Now thereby, Ladies, hangs a Tale,
A Story for your Cakes and Ale.
A certain _Beau_ was lately dressing,
But sure, e'er he had crav'd Heavens Blessing;
When in comes Friend, and finds him laid
In mournfull plight, upon his Bed.
Dear _Tom_, quoth he, such a Mischance
As ne'er befell the Foes of _France_;
Nay, I must tell thee, _Fleury_ Battel
Was ne'er to _Europe_ half so fatal;
For by I know not what ill luck,
My Glass this Morn fell down and broke
Upon my Shin, just in my Rolling;
Now is not this worth thy condoling?
See Stocking cut, and bloody Shin,
Besides the Charge of healing Skin.
'Twas the only Kindness of my Fate,
It mist the solid Piece, my Pate.
Ladies, this was ill luck, but you
Have much the worser of the two;
The World is chang'd I know not how,
For Men kiss Men, not Women now;
And your neglected Lips in vain,
Of smugling _Jack_, and _Tom_ complain:
A most unmanly nasty Trick;
One Man to lick the other's Cheek;
And only what renews the shame
Of _J._ the first, and _Buckingham_:
He, true it is, his Wives Embraces fled
To slabber his lov'd _Ganimede_;
But to employ, those Lips were made
For Women in _Gomorrha_'s Trade;
Bespeaks the Reason ill design'd,
Of railing thus 'gainst Woman-kind:
For who that loves as Nature teaches,
That had not rather kiss the Breeches
Of Twenty Women, than to lick
The Bristles of one Male dear _Dick_?
Now wait on _Beau_ to his _Alsatia_,
A Place that loves no _Dei Gratia_;
Where the Undoers live, and Undone,
In _London_, separate from _London_;
Where go but Three Yards from the street,
And you with a new Language meet:
_Prig_, _Prigster_, _Bubble_, _Caravan_,
_Pure Tackle_, _Buttock_, _Purest pure_.
_Sealers_, _Putts_, _Equipp_, and _Bolter_;
_Lug out_, _Scamper_, _rub_ and _scowre_.
_Ready_, _Rhino_, _Coal_, and _Darby_,
_Meggs_, and _Smelts_, and _Hoggs_, and _Decus_;
_Tathers_, _Fambles_, _Tatts_ and _Doctors_,
_Bowsy_, _Smoaky_, _Progg_, and _Cleare_,
_Bolter_, _Banter_, _Cut a shamm_;
With more a great deal of the same.
Should _Saffold_ make but half this Rattle,
When Maidens visit his O-racle,
They'd take him for some Son of _Cham_,
Calling up Legion by his Name,
Add but to this the Flanty-Tant
Of Fopling Al-a-mode Gallant;
Why should not _Gris_, or _Jardine_,
Be as well allow'd as _Bien gaunte_;
_Cloaths_ is a paltry Word _Ma foy_;
But Grandeur in the French _Arroy_.
_Trimming_'s damn'd English, but _le Grass_
Is that which must for Modish pass.
To call a Shoe a Shoe, is base,
Let the genteel _Picards_ take Place.
Hang _Perriwig_, 'tis only fit
For Barbers Tongues that ne'er spoke Wit;
But if you'd be i'th' Fashion, choose
The far politer Term, _Chedreux_
What Clown is he that proudly moves,
With on his hands what we call Gloves?
No Friend, for more refin'd converse
Will tell ye they are _Orangers_.
So strangely does _Parisian_ Air
Change English Youth, that half a year
Makes 'em forget all Native Custome,
To bring French Modes, and _Gallic_ Lust home;
Nothing will these Apostates please,
But _Gallic_ Health, and French Disease.
In French their Quarrels, and their Fears,
Their Joys they publish, and their Cares;
In French they quarrel, and in French
_Mon coeur,_ they cry, to paltry Wench.
Why then should these Extravagants
Make | 1,188.48113 |
2023-11-16 18:36:52.4633200 | 391 | 52 |
E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.fadedpage.net)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustration.
See 32401-h.htm or 32401-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32401/32401-h/32401-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32401/32401-h.zip)
THE GIRLS OF HILLCREST FARM
Or
The Secret of the Rocks
by
AMY BELL MARLOWE
Author of
The Oldest of Four, A Little Miss Nobody,
The Girl from Sunset Ranch, Etc.
[Illustration: LUCAS TORE DOWN THE BANK AND WADED RIGHT INTO THE STREAM.
Frontispiece (Page 61.)]
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1914, by
Grosset & Dunlap
_The Girls of Hillcrest Farm_
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
I. EVERYTHING AT ONCE! 1
II. AUNT JANE PROPOSES 10
III. THE DOCTOR DISPOSES 24
IV. THE PILGRIMAGE 37
V. LUCAS PRITCHETT 51
VI. NEIGHBORS 61
VII. HILLCREST 73
VIII. THE WHISPER IN THE DARK 85
IX. MORNING AT HILLCREST 96
X. THE VENTURE 109
XI. AT THE SCHOOLHOUSE 126
XII. THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER 134
| 1,188.48336 |
2023-11-16 18:36:52.4741070 | 23 | 30 |
Transcribed from the 1880 Haughton and Co. edition by David Price, email
cc | 1,188.494147 |
2023-11-16 18:36:52.6640250 | 819 | 7 |
Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
HISTORY
OF
ANCIENT ART
BY
DR. FRANZ VON REBER
DIRECTOR OF THE BAVARIAN ROYAL AND STATE GALLERIES OF PAINTINGS
PROFESSOR IN THE UNIVERSITY AND POLYTECHNIC OF MUNICH
Revised by the Author
_TRANSLATED AND AUGMENTED_
BY
JOSEPH THACHER CLARKE
WITH 310 ILLUSTRATIONS AND A GLOSSARY OF TECHNICAL TERMS
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1882, by
HARPER & BROTHERS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
_All rights reserved._
The application of the historic method to the study of the Fine Arts,
begun with imperfect means by Winckelmann one hundred and twenty years
ago, has been productive of the best results in our own days. It has
introduced order into a subject previously confused, disclosing the
natural progress of the arts, and the relations of the arts of the
different races by whom they have been successively practised. It has
also had the more important result of securing to the fine arts their
due place in the history of mankind as the chief record of various
stages of civilization, and as the most trustworthy expression of the
faith, the sentiments, and the emotions of past ages, and often even of
their institutions and modes of life. The recognition of the
significance of the fine arts in these respects is, indeed, as yet but
partial, and the historical study of art does not hold the place in the
scheme of liberal education which it is certain before long to attain.
One reason of this fact lies in the circumstance that few of the general
historical treatises on the fine arts that have been produced during the
last fifty years have been works of sufficient learning or judgment to
give them authority as satisfactory sources of instruction. Errors of
statement and vague speculations have abounded in them. The subject,
moreover, has been confused, especially in Germany, by the intrusion of
metaphysics into its domain, in the guise of a professed but spurious
science of aesthetics.
Under these conditions, a history of the fine arts that should state
correctly what is known concerning their works, and should treat their
various manifestations with intelligence and in just proportion, would
be of great value to the student. Such, within its limits as a manual
and for the period which it covers, is Dr. Reber's _History of Ancient
Art_. So far as I am aware, there is no compend of information on the
subject in any language so trustworthy and so judicious as this. It
serves equally well as an introduction to the study and as a treatise to
which the advanced student may refer with advantage to refresh his
knowledge of the outlines of any part of the field.
The work was originally published in 1871; but so rapid has been the
progress of discovery during the last ten years that, in order to bring
the book up to the requirements of the present time, a thorough revision
of it was needed, together with the addition of much new matter and many
new illustrations. This labor of revision and addition has been jointly
performed by the author and the translator, the latter having had the
advantage of doing the greater part of his work with the immediate
assistance of Dr. Reber himself, and of bringing to it fresh resources
of his own, the result of original study and investigation. The
translator having been absent from the country, engaged in archaeological
research, during the printing of the volume | 1,188.684065 |
2023-11-16 18:36:52.7599060 | 7,435 | 26 |
Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Christine D. and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
THE SCRAP BOOK.
Vol. I. AUGUST, 1906. No. 6.
THE TOMB OF NAPOLEON.
BY ROBERT G. INGERSOLL.
A little while ago I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon--a magnificent
tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a deity dead--and gazed upon the
sarcophagus of rare and nameless marble, where rest at last the ashes of
that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade and thought about the
career of the greatest soldier of the modern world.
I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine contemplating suicide. I saw
him at Toulon. I saw him putting down the mob in the streets of Paris. I
saw him at the head of the army in Italy. I saw him crossing the bridge at
Lodi with the tricolor in his hand. I saw him in Egypt, in the shadow of
the Pyramids. I saw him conquer the Alps and mingle the eagles of France
with the eagles of the crags. I saw him at Marengo, at Ulm, and at
Austerlitz. I saw him in Russia, when the infantry of the snow and the
cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's withered
leaves. I saw him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster--driven by a million
bayonets back upon Paris--clutched like a wild beast--banished to Elba. I
saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his genius. I saw him
upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where chance and fate combined to
wreck the fortunes of their former king. And I saw him at St. Helena, with
his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the sad and solemn sea.
I thought of the widows and orphans he had made, of the tears that had
been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him, pushed
from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And I said I would rather
have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes; I would rather have
lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes growing
purple in the amorous kisses of the autumn sun; I would rather have been
that poor peasant, with my wife by my side knitting as the day died out of
the sky, with my children upon my knees and their arms about me; I would
rather have been this man and gone down to the tongueless silence of the
dreamless dust, than to have been that imperial personation of force and
murder known as Napoleon the Great.
The Latest Viewpoints of Men Worth While
President Roosevelt Calls Our Supreme Bench the Most
Dignified and Powerful Court in the World--Professor Peabody
Describes the German Kaiser as a Man of Peace--Chancellor
MacCracken Discusses Teaching as a Profession for College
Graduates--Ex-Secretary Herbert Denies that the Confederate
Soldiers Were Rebels--With Other Notable Expressions of
Opinion from Speakers Entitled to a Hearing.
_Compiled and edited for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.
WHAT THE SUPREME COURT STANDS FOR.
The Members of Our Highest Tribunal
Have to Be Not Only Jurists but
Constructive Statesmen.
Justice Brown, of the Supreme Court of the United States, has retired from
active service. Before he laid aside the robes of his office a dinner was
given in his honor by the bar of the District of Columbia, and on this
occasion short speeches were delivered by several prominent men, including
President Roosevelt, who said:
In all the world--and I think, gentlemen, you will acquit me
of any disposition to needless flattery--there is no body of
men of equal numbers that possesses the dignity and power
combined that inhere in that court over which, Mr. Chief
Justice, you preside. Owing to the peculiar construction of
our government, the man who does his full duty on that court
must of necessity be not only a great jurist, but a great
constructive statesman.
The Men and the Tradition.
It has been our supreme good fortune as a nation that we
have had on that court, from the beginning to the present
day, men who have been able to carry on in worthy fashion
the tradition which has thus made it incumbent upon the
members of the court to combine in such fashion the
qualities of the great jurist and of the constructive
statesman.
Mr. Justice, we Americans are sometimes accused of paying
too much heed to mere material success, the success which is
measured only by the acquisition of wealth. I do not think
that the accusation is well founded.
A great deal of notoriety attaches, and must attach, to any
man who acquires a great fortune. If he acquires it well and
uses it well, he is entitled to and should receive the same
meed of credit that attaches to any other man who uses his
talents for the public good.
The Nation Sound at Bottom.
But if you will turn to see those whom in the past the
nation has delighted to honor, and those in the present whom
it delights to honor, I think that you will all agree that
this nation is sound at bottom in the bestowal of its
admiration in the relative estimate it puts upon the
different qualities of the men who achieve prominence by
rendering service to the public.
The names that stand out in our history in the past are the
names of the men who have done good work for the body
politic, and in the present the names of those whom this
people really hold in highest honor are the names of the men
who have done all that was in them in the best and most
worthy fashion.
In no way is it possible to deserve better of the republic
than by rendering sane, honest, clear-sighted service on the
bench, and, above all, on the highest bench of this
country.
Men who fear for our democratic institutions too often forget the Supreme
Court. Macaulay evidently forgot it when he described our Constitution as
"all sail and no anchor."
THE GERMAN KAISER'S CAMPAIGN FOR AMITY.
In His Farewell Audience to Professor
Peabody, of Harvard, He Said:
"We Must Stand Together."
Back from Berlin, where he occupied for a time a chair at the University,
under the existing arrangement for exchanges, Professor Peabody, of
Harvard, is aiming to straighten the American conceptions of Germany. The
Kaiser, he declares, is not a war-lord, but a man of peace, working in the
interest of civilization--a peace-lord, so to speak.
Speaking to a German audience in New York a few weeks ago, Professor
Peabody said:
There seems to be a general idea abroad that the German
Emperor is constantly looking about for somebody to fight.
Nothing could be farther from the truth. Germany, by virtue
of the commercial expansion it now is working for, is
pledged to maintain the peace of the world, so far as her
own honor will allow.
The German Emperor, speaking at the opening of the
Reichstag, said:
"I consider it the most sacred duty imposed upon me by an
all-wise Providence to preserve peace."
The German Emperor has been misjudged as few characters have
been in history when he has been described as a careless,
heartless intriguer, always ready to strike a blow.
I do not think I am betraying any confidence if I repeat to
you a phrase which fell from the lips of the emperor at the
very last audience with which his imperial majesty honored
me. I was about to return to America. The emperor was
speaking not as a statesman or a diplomatist, but as an
idealist discussing the ideals of his life. At parting he
said:
"We must stand together."
What could we do better here to-night than to repeat that
phrase? I bring to you the confident assurance that in
anything you do here to-night to bring about the negotiation
of a stable treaty of arbitration with your old country you
will have with you the solid common sense of the American
people.
We must stand together, and we must find a safe, solid, and
ample ground on which to stand together. That ground is a
program in which the deliberations of reason must supplant
the folly of force.
We should have reciprocity in the fullest meaning of the
word. Not only commercial reciprocity, but a fair exchange
of truth, of trade, and of treaties. We must have the open
door, the open mind, and the open hand.
Truly, from Baron von Steuben, who lent his sword to Washington, to Carl
Schurz, who lately died after a life of patriotic devotion to his adopted
country, Germans have done much for America.
THE GENIAL SPORT OF GENEALOGISTS.
Clambering Among the Branches of the
Family Tree, One May Find
Royal Ancestors.
A little harmless fun with the people who are engaged in a hunt for
ancestors is indulged in by that playful journal, the New York _Evening
Post_.
The point arises in connection with the expose of a man who professes to
be able to link every American with royalty, by the chain of a common
ancestry, asserting that thus "you and your family, relatives, or friends
will have rare facilities in securing business contracts from European
governments." The reflections aroused in the _Post_ by this offer of
unearned greatness are in part as follows:
A fortune awaits the person who will thus bring genealogy
home to the hearts of the common people and make the
contemplation of a pedigree a source of daily happiness.
We fear that J. Henry Lea, who has just published a
hand-book entitled "Genealogical Research in England,
Scotland, and Ireland," misses the point of view. He is a
dryasdust, who is concerned about long, dull tables of the
probate courts, lists of marriage licenses, and parish
registers. He talks as if genealogy were a science--a notion
that also troubles a recent writer in the London
_Spectator_.
But if genealogy is to appeal to the masses, it must be an
art. Now, the strength of an art is not its grasp of facts,
but its flight of imagination. In a science the rule is,
abundant data and meager results; in an art, meager data and
abundant results.
Tell a scientific genealogist that your grandfather, a Welsh
cobbler, arrived in the steerage in 1860, and what do you
get? After three years and numerous fees for expenses, you
learn that for two centuries the heads of the family had
been mechanics or small tradesmen--a disgusting outcome.
Tell an artistic genealogist the same thing, and in three
weeks, for a stipulated sum, you have a neat picture of a
tree, proving that you are a Tudor, and that the English
Tudors got their start by marrying into your family. This is
why we set art above groveling science.
TEACHING IS A VERY POPULAR PROFESSION.
College Graduates in Increasing Proportion
Are Taking It Up Instead
of the Law and the Ministry.
College graduates in these times are found in all walks of life; but, of
course, there are more in the professions than in business--and more in
some professions than in others. Also there has been a change, during the
last twenty years, in the relative proportions of college men going into
different kinds of work.
Chancellor MacCracken, speaking at a commencement of New York University,
said:
What change, if any, has there been in the choice of
professions by college graduates in the last twenty years? I
was recently asked this question by a New York editor, and
was unable to answer him. I have since obtained this
information from the advance sheets of the new alumni
catalogue, issued to mark the seventy-fifth anniversary of
the university.
I have studied the record of ten classes of the College of
Arts, from 1885 until 1894, inclusive; also, of the ten
succeeding classes, from 1895 until 1904, inclusive. I find
most satisfactory reports have been obtained respecting the
occupation of these graduates. The chief results are as
follows:
Changes in Occupation.
There are two kinds of occupation which enlisted graduates
for the first decade and for the second in practically the
same proportions.
One is journalism, which enlisted two per cent in the first
decade and two and a half per cent in the second, an
increase of only one-half of one per cent.
The other is business in varied forms, which enlisted
sixteen and a half per cent of the college graduates in the
former decade and sixteen per cent in the latter decade.
On the other hand, three occupations show a decided falling
off. The graduates who have become clergymen numbered twenty
per cent in the first decade, but only seventeen per cent in
the second, a decrease of three per cent.
Those who entered the law were thirty-three per cent in the
first decade and twenty-six per cent in the second, a
decrease of seven per cent.
Those who became physicians were sixteen and a half per cent
in the first decade and fifteen and a half per cent in the
second, a decrease of one per cent; being a total decrease
in the recruits of these professions of eleven per cent.
Teaching Monopolizes the Increase.
Then comes the surprising fact that a single profession has
monopolized the entire increase. The profession of teaching,
which has twelve per cent in the ten classes first named,
has increased to no less than twenty-three per cent in the
ten classes down to the year before last.
The striking fact respecting college graduates is that
eleven per cent fewer of them go into law, medicine, and
divinity, and this entire eleven per cent have gone into
teaching.
What is the explanation? I answer, first, the teaching
profession has increased in dignity and reputation, and in
no part of the world more than in the region where New York
University finds its students.
A second reason is that philanthropic spirits find in
teaching to-day, compared with other professions, larger
scope than ever before. Law is less altruistic as a
profession and more commercial than a generation ago.
Theology is waiting for new statements of what to teach and
how to teach. Therefore, men who are inclined to teach turn
to the common school, the high school, and the college to
find scope for influencing others for good.
As further explanation of the vast increase in the number of
the teachers required for the higher positions, I can give
exact figures for only the year 1905, compared with the year
1900. In 1900 there were enrolled in the high schools of New
York City 11,706 students; last year there were enrolled
20,770 students; in other words, they have almost doubled in
the space of five years.
Can sordid covetousness long be charged against a people whose youth
increasingly seek entrance into "the poorest-paid profession"?
MEN OF THE SOUTH WERE NEVER REBELS.
Confederates and Federals Were Patriots
Settling a Constitutional Question,
Says Ex-Secretary Herbert.
In an oration over the graves of the Confederate dead in Arlington
Cemetery a few weeks ago, Hilary A. Herbert, former Secretary of the Navy,
gave force to the opinion that General Robert E. Lee, and those who fought
with him during the Civil War, though secessionists, were not "rebels." He
said:
Was Robert E. Lee and were these dead comrades of ours
traitors? With the great war in which they fought far away
in the dim past, what we have a right to ask is, Were they,
the history and Constitution of the United States
considered, either technically or legally traitors?
This may be purely an academic question. In one sense it is,
because all admit that practically the union of these States
is indissoluble; but in another sense it is not, because
there are those in the North who are fond of repeating, even
to this day, "The North was eternally right, and the South
eternally wrong."
This is declamation with which history will have nothing to
do.
Then, again, there are those in the South who say that if
the South ever had the right to secede, it has, though it
will never exercise it, that right to-day, because war
never settles a principle. This too is declamation; it loses
sight of history.
War Has Settled Great Questions.
Every international dispute about rights, about principles,
that could not be adjusted by diplomacy, has been settled by
war. Allegiances of people, forms of government, boundaries
of kingdoms and republics, all these time out of mind have
been submitted to the arbitrament of the sword, and the
results--treaties, not voluntary, but enforced at the
cannon's mouth--have been upheld by diplomats and
parliaments and courts, by every tribunal that has authority
to speak for law and order and the peace of the world.
It does not lie in the mouth of him who believed in the
right of a State in 1861 to secede, to deny now that the
question was settled by the war, and no formal treaty was
necessary as evidence of what all the world could see. We
had the right as sovereign States to submit to the
arbitrament of war. We did it, and, like others who have
gone to war, we must abide the issue. So that now if a State
should attempt to secede those who should cast their
fortunes with it would be rebels.
But not so in 1861. Then the right of a State to withdraw
from the Union was an open question. Nothing better
illustrates the situation at that time than this incident in
the life of General Lee:
General Lee's Rebuke.
When the great war was over and defeat had come to the
armies Lee had led, he was visiting the house of a friend in
Richmond. With that love of children that always
characterized him, the old hero took upon his knee a
fair-haired boy. The proud mother, to please her guest,
asked the child, "Who is General Lee?" Parrot-like the
expected answer came, "The great Virginian who was a
patriot, true to his native State." And then came the
question, "Who is General Scott?" and the reply, "A
Virginian who was a traitor to his country."
Putting down the child and turning to the mother, the
general said:
"Madam, you should not teach your child such lessons. I will
not listen to such talk. General Scott is not a traitor. He
was true to his convictions of duty, as I was to mine."
What General Lee here said and what even when the fires of
the late war were still smoldering he would have the mothers
of the South teach to their children was that he and
General Scott were both right, because each believed himself
to be right.
And that is precisely what that noble son of New England,
Charles Francis Adams, himself a gallant Union soldier, has
more recently said in a public address--that the North and
the South were both right, because each believed itself
right. And such is to be the verdict of history. We were all
patriots settling on the field of battle a constitutional
question that could be settled in no other way. Public
opinion is already moving, and moving rapidly, to the mark
of that final verdict.
With the interment of Confederate dead at Arlington much bitterness
disappears. The comradeship of death is unassailable by the arguments of
the living.
PLACE IN PUBLIC LIFE ONLY FOR PICKED MEN.
The Self-Made Have a Hard Time,
Those Born Rich Are Mostly Useless,
Says Speaker Cannon.
Somebody asked Speaker Cannon this question: "What would you say if a
young man of intelligence, education, and force, undecided as to what he
should adopt as a life career, should come to you for advice?"
Of his reply, as printed in the New York _World_, we quote the salient
passages, answering the further query as to the advisability of going into
politics:
I should say yes to the young man of intelligence, culture,
and efficiency, if these things were crossed with
patriotism. In the main those who go into public life are
picked men, and by just so much as they are picked men they
are ahead of the average. This is a fact in spite of the
oft-repeated assertion that the representatives of the
people are only of average grade.
If among a dozen young men, each of whom should decide to
devote his life to the public service and should qualify and
work hard and conscientiously for it, one--just one--should
get himself into public life and sustain himself with credit
to himself and benefit to the country, I should consider it
a great return for the effort put forth.
The man who has to make his own way, who is without a
competency to start with, and who enters public life these
days before he has saved enough to live independently of his
income as a public man, has a hard time before him.
Hard Time for the Poor Man.
The young man who has never earned his living for himself,
no matter what his advantages of circumstances or training,
is sure to make many mistakes through ignorance of hard,
practical life. Not personally having the same needs as the
man of the people, he doesn't know what to do or how to do
it.
Young men who enjoy the advantages of special training and
the opportunities that wealth gives may become especially
qualified for public life; such opportunities and training
are necessary to complete qualifications, but often they are
not equal to them. That which may be had without effort is
not often highly prized.
But all young men of ability, whether favored by fortunes or
not, owe it both to themselves and to the nation to give
attention to public affairs, to keep themselves in touch
with things, to be in constant preparation for public life
if the opportunity or necessity comes to them.
Everybody knows there is a large number of such young men in
the great business and industrial centers who give no
attention, or very little, to public affairs. The
manufacturing, the commercial or financial operations, the
contracting or transportation enterprises which they take up
give them so much better financial returns than public life
would yield that they lose sight altogether of the
government, upon whose proper conduct their success in their
various callings and enterprises depends--upon which, in
fact, the very chance to enter these callings and carry on
those enterprises rests, and whose demoralization would wipe
out everybody's chances in life.
Now, we can't prevent the evolution of such conditions in
this or any other civilized country. But these people, thus
completely absorbed in their callings and enterprises, whose
standpoint of self-interest now prevents them from giving
attention to public affairs, will surely be forced more and
more to broaden their culture--thorough knowledge of public
affairs is as necessary to truly broad culture as any other
sort of knowledge--as well as their patriotism.
Must Give More Than Money.
I don't say that these people should give, give, give--it
won't do for them to try to meet the situation merely by
being charitable with their money. Giving only gratifies
the giver. As a general rule, it pauperizes the people who
receive. The multimillionaire of to-day must give more than
his money. He must give some of his time, his attention, and
his thought to other and more important things than personal
money-getting.
The human animal accomplishes only as he works under the
pressure of necessity. The extensive development of the
United States in the last half century has kept the people
so busy in various industries, speculations, and
enterprises, in order to do their part in this development,
that many of them have neglected their duties as citizens,
or perhaps I should say as co-sovereigns in the government
of the great empire that has been built up by their efforts,
in which all men are equal at the ballot-box.
I myself am acquainted with many men who, merely because of
lucky location, though only of respectable ability, have sat
on the gateway of commerce, and, by simply levying toll,
have accumulated great fortunes.
In all their lives they have never got into touch with
public life; they know little about public questions, and
they give them no attention. These men, when pinched by the
unwise action of the majority of their fellows, are able to
do little except cover the latter with abuse.
Sometimes, however, such men try to enter public life
themselves. But then the people do not always acknowledge
their fitness for public position. Sometimes they seek
protection for their interests by improper methods instead
of trying to contribute their share in building up a wise
public sentiment.
The Most Dangerous Men.
It goes without saying that the most dangerous men in the
republic are those who, by inheritance or otherwise, have
vast fortunes, yielding great incomes, which enable them to
command the services of those who have ability, but not
conscience, and thus seek to control the average man--the
man who lives by the sweat of his face--by playing upon his
prejudices, his hopes, and his fears.
Is there a remedy for this? An offset to such evil
influences? Yes. A most efficient remedy. In the fulness of
time the multitude will find out from some actual and
painful experience that they have been misled. When, through
being misled, they begin to suffer; when they begin to be
oppressed they will seek to find new leadership and will
apply the proper remedies through the ballot-box.
Fortunately, in this republic there are plenty of men of
culture, ability, and wisdom--themselves of the people--who
cannot be bought or controlled by material considerations,
and who are daily performing the duties of citizenship, from
whom to select the required leaders not only among the rich
and well-to-do, but also among those who live by their daily
labor.
THEY WOULD KEEP THE PEACE-DOVE HOVERING.
Plans to Establish an International Parliament
for the Prevention of Conflicts
in the Future.
The year after a great war is naturally a period for talk of permanent
peace. The dove still coos, the ravages of conflict are still apparent,
the folly of an appeal to arms is evident in economic conditions. And so,
this summer, there has been more than the usual attention to plans for the
prevention of war in the future. Indeed, the time does seem ripe for the
establishment of an international parliament.
Among the addresses at the recent session of the Lake Mohonk Conference
was one by Judge W.L. Penfield, who said concerning the plan upon which
peace advocates are now agreed:
The institution of a parliament competent to legislate in
the international sphere, as the United States Congress is
within the Federal sphere, would undoubtedly present some
most difficult political problems, yet it would hardly be
more difficult for a body of jurists and statesmen to define
the bounds of authority of the international parliament than
it was for the framers of the Federal constitution to define
and distribute the powers of the Federal government.
Under existing political conditions the creation of an
international parliament clothed with the power of direct
legislation does not appear to be presently feasible. But it
is the unexpected that happens, as, for example, who would
have dared foretell five years ago the convocation of the
Russian Duma?
The Hague Conference as a Basis.
The call of an international parliament cannot be set down
as wholly improbable, and the way to that goal lies through
the more frequent calls and assemblages of The Hague
conference and by committing to it the task of codifying in
the form of treaties the leading branches of international
law. One of the subjects of its deliberations will be the
reciprocal rights and duties of neutrals and belligerents.
A more serious difficulty will arise in agreeing upon some
criterion to determine when articles of dual utility, for
war or peace, may be treated by a belligerent as absolutely
contraband of war.
There is the further question of the prize courts and of the
arrest and seizure by a belligerent's cruisers of neutral
ships and cargoes.
We may expect that another and kindred question will come
before the conference--the question of the immunity from
capture at sea of all non-contraband private property,
whether owned by the citizens or subjects of neutral or
belligerent states.
The Limits of Hospitality.
Another important subject which is likely to attract the
attention of the conference is the question of the
privileges and the limits of hospitality, of temporary
anchorage and asylum, and of the supply and repair of
belligerent war-ships in neutral ports.
It is understood that the subject which has been suggested
for the consideration of the conference is the question of
opening hostilities without previous declaration of war. It
is extremely doubtful whether the conference will attempt to
formulate any rule on so difficult a subject, and one so
intimately connected with the necessities of strategy.
There will be little objection, I imagine, to the view that
no government ought to use force to compel another
government to pay its public securities, its bonds, or other
national obligations which foreigners have voluntarily
purchased or subscribed to and taken.
But it is nearly certain that there will be a division of
opinion on the question whether any inflexible rule should
be laid down with respect to cases of individual foreigners
who have invested large sums of money in the development of
the natural resources of a country, under contract with its
government to do so, if the latter should then flagrantly
violate the contract and despoil them of the fruits of their
enterprises.
The experience had with the practical workings of The Hague
Tribunal suggests the desirability of certain amendments of
the convention of July 29, 1899, such as that only
disinterested arbitrators shall be eligible to seats on the
tribunal; that the arbitration of questions of a judicial
nature and of those concerning the interpretation and
execution of treaties shall be compulsory; that the medieval
idea that a sense of national honor, aside from the rights
of self-defense, can justify resort to war in any case shall
be abandoned, and, workable and in every way admirable as it
now is--when we consider its substance and the circumstances
of its formation--that the time is now ripe for the revision
and recasting of the convention of July 29, 1899.
Whether an international parliament can prevent war without the assistance
of an international police is another story.
LIQUOR DEALERS COME OUT FOR TEMPERANCE.
Rum-Sellers in Convention at Louisville
Praise the Work of the Societies that
Fight King Alcohol.
The National Liquor Dealers' Association, in annual convention at
Louisville, Kentucky, early in June, issued a startling address to the
public. These men, who are frequently thought to have no stronger desire
than that every person drink more than is good for him, actually commend
the work of the various temperance societies and urge that intoxication
should be considered a crime. They say:
From time to time during the past seventy-five or one
hundred years waves of public sentiment antagonistic to the
manufacture and sale of wine and spirits and other alcoholic
beverages have passed over this country, leaving in their
train State, county, and municipal legislation of a more or
less drastic character--legislation entirely out of sympathy
with the spirit of American institutions; legislation that
was bound to fail in its purpose in practically every
instance, and this because the sentiment that compelled it
was a sentiment engendered by agitation, and totally unripe
for its enforcement.
Prohibitory Laws Evaded.
That prohibitory laws are all evaded is clearly shown by the
fact that notwithstanding the adoption of prohibition by a
number of States, and by innumerable counties, until at the
present time it is unlawful to sell wines or spirits in more
than one-half of the geographical limits of the United
States, the demand for such beverages has increased in
almost the same proportion as our population, from the
legitimate trade, and in an enormously greater proportion | 1,188.779946 |
2023-11-16 18:36:52.7620330 | 1,261 | 11 |
Transcribed from the 1876 H. Colbran edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
ROME, TURKEY,
AND
JERUSALEM.
* * * * *
BY THE REV. E. HOARE,
VICAR OF TRINITY, TUNBRIDGE WELLS,
AND HONORARY CANON OF CANTERBURY.
* * * * *
_SECOND EDITION_.
* * * * *
LONDON:
HATCHARDS, PICCADILLY.
H. COLBRAN, CALVERLEY ROAD, TUNBRIDGE WELLS.
1876.
* * * * *
LONDON:
Printed by JOHN STRANGEWAYS,
Castle St. Leicester Sq.
CONTENTS.
ROME:— PAGE
THE OUTLINE 1
THE CONSUMPTION 18
TURKEY:—
THE EUPHRATES 36
THE FROGS 54
THE ADVENT 69
JERUSALEM 87
ROME.
I.
THE OUTLINE.
It is impossible to imagine anything more delightful than the prospect of
the promised return of our most blessed Saviour. How do the father and
the mother feel when they welcome their long-absent son from India? How
will many an English wife feel when she welcomes her husband from the
Arctic Expedition? And how must the Church of God feel when, after her
long night of toil and difficulty, she stands face to face before Him
whom her soul loveth, and enters into the full enjoyment of the promise,
‘So shall we ever be with the Lord?’ There will be no tears then, for
there will be no sorrow; no death then, for there will be no more curse;
no sin then, for we shall see Him as He is, and shall be like Him. Then
will be the time of resurrection, when all the firstborn of God shall
awake to a life without decay and without corruption; and then the time
of reunion, when the whole company of God’s elect shall stand together
before the Lord, never again to shed a tear over each other’s grave; and
then will be the time when those who have loved and longed after Him, as
they have journeyed on alone in their pilgrimage, will find themselves on
the right hand of His throne, and hear His delightful words, ‘Come, ye
blessed children of my Father: inherit the kingdom prepared for you from
the foundation of the world!’
No wonder then that the people of God are waiting with anxious hearts for
the Advent; and no wonder that many are ready to say, ‘Lord, how long?’
and to ask, What hope is there of His quick return? Have we, or have we
not, any reason to look out for it soon? To this inquiry I would
endeavour to draw your attention this morning; and in doing so, I do not
intend to examine into what are usually called ‘the signs of the times,’
but to study the great prophetic sketch of the world’s history as given
to us by the prophet Daniel. This may be termed the backbone of
prophecy, and almost all the great prophecies of Holy Scripture fit into
it at some point or other; so that, if we wish to understand them, we
must begin by studying it. I fear I may not interest those who aim
simply to have their hearts warmed by the ministry. But they must
remember that the real study of God’s Word requires work, and that work,
though it lays the best possible foundation for feeling, does not at the
time excite it. To-day, then, we are to work, and I hope the Lord may so
bless His Word, that through work we may be led to feel.
Our business, then, is to endeavour to discover whether the great
prophetic sketch of history, given through the prophet Daniel, encourages
the blessed hope that the coming of the Lord may be near. Daniel gives a
prophecy of the history of political power from his own day till the time
when ‘the Ancient of Days shall sit,’ and describes a succession of
events which must take place in the interval. It is clear that our
business is to ascertain how many of these events have taken place, or,
in other words, how far we have advanced in the series.
In the study of our subject we have the advantage of looking at two sides
of the picture, for it has pleased God to give us the same series as seen
in two different aspects. In the second and seventh chapters you will
find predictions of the same events under different figures. In the
second chapter the prophecy is given as a vision to a proud, idolatrous
monarch. So the different kingdoms about to arise appear to him as the
several parts of a mighty image, with himself as the head of gold. It
was given in just such a shape as should coincide with his idolatry and
his pride. Whereas, in the seventh chapter, the vision is given to one
of God’s people, and he sees in all this glory nothing better than a
series of wild beasts coming up one after another to devour. How
different is the estimate of the world from that of God! The world
regards Babylon as the head of gold, the summit of glory and greatness,
while God looks on it as a savage beast, to be dreaded by His saints!
The same difference of character may be observed in the visions of the
coming of the Lord. To the great king it appeared as a triumphant
kingdom, to the captive prophet as a manifestation of the Son of man.
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Produced by Paul Murray, Louise Pattison and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
THE COURT AND CABINETS
OF
GEORGE THE THIRD.
VOL. II.
[Illustration]
MEMOIRS
OF THE
COURT AND CABINETS
OF
GEORGE THE THIRD.
FROM ORIGINAL FAMILY DOCUMENTS.
BY
THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM AND CHANDOS,
K.G.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1853.
LONDON:
Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.
CONTENTS
OF
THE SECOND VOLUME.
1788.
(CONTINUED.)
THE KING'S ILLNESS--CONDUCT OF THURLOW--PLANS OF MINISTERS--DISCUSSIONS
IN PARLIAMENT--IRISH VIEW OF THE REGENCY QUESTION--PROCEEDINGS
OF THE PRINCE'S PARTY--THE RATS IN BOTH HOUSES 1-83
1789.
DEATH OF THE SPEAKER--MR. GRENVILLE ELECTED IN HIS PLACE--COMMITTEE
ON THE REGENCY--THE HOUSEHOLD BILL--CONDUCT OF THE
PRINCES--ADDRESS TO THE PRINCE OF WALES FROM THE IRISH PARLIAMENT--RECOVERY
OF THE KING--DECISIVE MEASURES OF LORD BUCKINGHAM--IRISH
PROMOTIONS AND CREATIONS--DISSENSIONS IN THE ROYAL
FAMILY--MR. GRENVILLE APPOINTED SECRETARY OF STATE--MR. ADDINGTON
ELECTED SPEAKER--LORD BUCKINGHAM RESIGNS THE GOVERNMENT OF
IRELAND 84-175
1790.
MR. GRENVILLE'S ELEVATION TO THE PEERAGE 176-181
1791.
THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CLAIMS--RESIGNATION OF THE DUKE OF LEEDS--FLIGHT
OF THE ROYAL FAMILY OF FRANCE--PROSPERITY OF ENGLAND
AT THIS PERIOD 182-198
1792.
MR. PITT'S BUDGET--THE STATE OF IRELAND--THE KING DISMISSES LORD
THURLOW--DISCONTENTS IN ENGLAND--FRENCH EMIGRANTS--RETREAT
OF THE DUKE OF BRUNSWICK--MEASURES OF INTERNAL DEFENCE--THE
FRENCH CONVENTION DECLARES WAR AGAINST ENGLAND AND HOLLAND 199-233
1793.
CAUSES AND OBJECTS OF THE WAR--SECESSIONS FROM THE OPPOSITION--REVERSES
IN HOLLAND--DISASTERS OF THE ALLIES--STATE OF FRANCE
AT THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 235-249
1794.
PREPARATIONS IN ENGLAND FOR THE PROSECUTION OF THE WAR--INACTIVITY
OF THE AUSTRIANS--LORD SPENCER AND MR. THOMAS GRENVILLE SENT ON
A MISSION TO VIENNA--HOSTILE RESOLUTIONS OF THE OPPOSITION--SEVERAL
OF THE LEADING WHIGS JOIN THE ADMINISTRATION--LORD CORNWALLIS
APPOINTED TO THE COMMAND ON THE CONTINENT--PROGRESS OF
THE NEGOTIATIONS--LORD FITZWILLIAM NOMINATED TO THE LORD-LIEUTENANCY
OF IRELAND--HIS CONDUCT ON THAT OCCASION 250-323
1795.
LORD FITZWILLIAM'S ADMINISTRATION IN IRELAND 324-338
1796.
THE PROSECUTION OF THE WAR SUSTAINED BY REPEATED MAJORITIES IN
PARLIAMENT--MR. BURKE'S SCHOOL FOR THE EDUCATION OF EMIGRANT
CHILDREN--BUONAPARTE APPOINTED TO THE COMMAND IN ITALY--LORD
MALMESBURY'S MISSION TO PARIS 339-360
1797.
DISCONTENTS IN ENGLAND--THE BREST SQUADRON--MOTION ON THE STATE
OF IRELAND--AFFAIRS OF THE CONTINENT--LORD MALMESBURY'S MISSION
TO LISLE 361-383
1798.
CONDITION OF ENGLAND--PLANS FOR THE NATIONAL DEFENCES--THE
AUGMENTATION OF THE MILITIA--VOLUNTARY SUBSCRIPTIONS--A REBELLION
BREAKS OUT IN IRELAND--LORD CORNWALLIS SUCCEEDS LORD
CAMDEN AS LORD-LIEUTENANT--LORD BUCKINGHAM VOLUNTEERS FOR
IRELAND--DIFFERENCES WITH LORD CORNWALLIS--MR. THOMAS GRENVILLE
IS APPOINTED ON A MISSION TO VIENNA AND BERLIN. 384-421
1799.
ENGLAND ENTERS INTO A TREATY WITH RUSSIA AGAINST FRANCE--MR.
THOMAS GRENVILLE'S MISSION TO THE CONTINENT--THE UNION BETWEEN
GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND--SUSPENSE RESPECTING THE FATE OF
MR. GRENVILLE--PROGRESS OF EVENTS ON THE CONTINENT--AUSTRIA
JOINS THE COALITION--VACILLATIONS AND INACTIVITY OF PRUSSIA--EXPEDITION
TO HOLLAND--FURTHER AUGMENTATION OF THE MILITIA--PROJECTS
FOR THE ENSUING YEAR 422-452
COURT AND CABINETS
OF
GEORGE III.
1788.
(CONTINUED.)
THE KING'S ILLNESS--CONDUCT OF THURLOW--PLANS OF MINISTERS--DISCUSSIONS
IN PARLIAMENT--IRISH VIEW OF THE REGENCY QUESTION--PROCEEDINGS OF THE
PRINCE'S PARTY--THE RATS IN BOTH HOUSES.
The fluctuations of the daily accounts from Windsor, and afterwards from
Kew, to which place the King was ultimately removed at the instance of
the Prince of Wales, and the effect they produced upon the public and
the Opposition, greatly increased the difficulties of the Government in
this unprecedented emergency. So long as there was the faintest hope of
His Majesty's recovery, Mr. Pitt was enabled to avert extremities
between the Administration and the Prince of Wales, by repeated
adjournments of Parliament. The interest, therefore, which attached to
the slightest items of intelligence contained in these letters may be
e | 1,188.884196 |
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Produced by Douglas E. Levy
CHRONICLE OF THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA
By Washington Irving
from the mss. of FRAY ANTONIO AGAPIDA
Author's Revised Edition
CONTENTS.
I..........Of the Kingdom of Granada, and the Tribute which it Paid
to the Castilian Crown.
II.........Of the Embassy of Don Juan de Vera to Demand Arrears of
Tribute from the Moorish Monarch.
III........Domestic Feuds in the Alhambra--Rival Sultanas--Predictions
concerning Boabdil, the Heir to the Throne--How
Ferdinand Meditates War against Granada, and how he
is Anticipated.
IV.........Expedition of the Muley Abul Hassan against the Fortress
of Zahara.
V..........Expedition of the Marques of Cadiz against Alhama.
VI.........How the People of Granada were Affected on Hearing of the
Capture of the Alhama; and how the Moorish King
sallied forth to Regain it.
VII........How the Duke of Medina Sidonia and the Chivalry of
Andalusia Hastened to the Relief of Alhama.
VIII.......Sequel of the Events at Alhama.
IX.........Events at Granada, and Rise of the Moorish King, Boabdil
el Chico.
X..........Royal Expedition against Loxa.
XI.........How Muley Abul Hassan made a Foray into the Lands of
Medina Sidonia, and how he was Received.
XII........Foray of Spanish Cavaliers among the Mountains of Malaga.
XIII.......Effects of the Disasters among the Mountains of Malaga.
XIV........How King Boabdil el Chico Marched over the Border.
XV.........How the Count de Cabra sallied forth from his Castle in
Quest of King Boabdil.
XVI........The Battle of Lucena.
XVII.......Lamentations of the Moors for the Battle of Lucena.
XVIII......How Muley Abul Hassan Profited by the Misfortunes of his
Son Boabdil.
XIX........Captivity of Boabdil el Chico.
XX.........Of the Treatment of Boabdil by the Castilian Sovereigns.
XXI........Return of Boabdil from Captivity.
XXII.......Foray of the Moorish Alcaydes, and Battle of Lopera.
XXIII......Retreat of Hamet el Zegri, Alcayde of Ronda.
XXIV.......Of the reception at Court of the Count de Cabra and the
Alcayde de los Donceles.
XXV........How the Marques of Cadiz concerted to Surprise Zahara,
and the Result of his Enterprise.
XXVI.......Of the Fortress of Alhama, and how Wisely it was Governed
by the Count de Tendilla.
XXVII......Foray of Christian Knights into the Territory of the Moors.
XXVIII.....Attempt of El Zagal to Surprise Boabdil in Almeria.
XXIX.......How King Ferdinand Commenced another Campaign against the
Moors, and how he Laid Siege to Coin and Cartama.
XXX........Siege of Ronda.
XXXI.......How the People of Granada invited El Zagal to the Throne,
and how he Marched to the Capital.
XXXII......How the Count de Cabra attempted to Capture another King,
and how he Fared in his Attempt.
XXXIII.....Expedition against the Castles of Cambil and Albahar.
XXXIV......Enterprise of the Knights of Calatrava against Zalea.
XXXV.......Death of Muley Abul Hassan.
XXXVI......Of the Christian Army which Assembled at the City of
Cordova.
XXXVII.....How Fresh Commotions broke out in Granada, and how the
People undertook to Allay them.
XXXVIII....How King Ferdinand held a Council of War at the Rock of
the Lovers.
XXXIX......How the Royal Army appeared Before the City of Loxa, and
how it was Received; and of the Doughty Achievements
of the English Earl.
XL.........Conclusion of the Siege of Loxa.
XLI........Capture of Illora.
XLII.......Of the Arrival of Queen Isabella at the Camp before Moclin;
and of the Pleasant Sayings of the English Earl.
XLIII......How King Ferdinand Attacked Moclin, and of the Strange
Events that attended its Capture.
XLIV.......How King Ferdinand Foraged the Vega; and of the Battle of
the Bridge of Pinos, and the Fate of the two Moorish
Brothers.
XLV........Attempt of El Zagal upon the Life of Boabdil, and how the
Latter was Roused to Action.
XLVI.......How Boabdil returned Secretly to Granada, and how he was
Received.--Second Embassy of Don Juan de Vera, and his
Perils in the Alhambra.
XLVII......How King Ferdinand laid Siege to Velez Malaga.
XLVIII.....How King Ferdinand and his Army were Exposed to Imminent
Peril before Velez Malaga.
XLIX.......Result of the Stratagem of El Zagal to Surprise King
Ferdinand.
L..........How the People of Granada Rewarded the Valor of El Zagal.
LI.........Surrender of the Velez Malaga and Other Places.
LII........Of the City of Malaga and its Inhabitants.--Mission of
Hernando del Pulgar.
LIII.......Advance of King Ferdinand against Malaga.
LIV........Siege of Malaga.
LV.........Siege of Malaga continued.--Obstinacy of Hamet el Zegri.
LVI........Attack of the Marques of Cadiz upon Gibralfaro.
LVII.......Siege of Malaga continued.--Stratagems of Various Kinds.
LVIII......Sufferings of the People of Malaga.
LIX........How a Moorish Santon Undertook to Deliver the City of
Malaga from the Power of its Enemies.
LX.........How Hamet el Zegri was Hardened in his Obstinacy by the
Arts of a Moorish Astrologer.
LXI........Siege of Malaga continued.--Destruction of a Tower by
Francisco Ramirez de Madrid.
LXII.......How the People of Malaga expostulated with Hamet el Zegri.
LXIII......How Hamet el Zegri Sallied forth with the Sacred Banner to
Attack the Christian Camp.
LXIV.......How the City of Malaga Capitulated.
LXV........Fulfilment of the Prophecy of the Dervise.--Fate of Hamet
el Zegri.
LXVI.......How the Castilian Sovereigns took Possession of the City
of Malaga, and how King Ferdinand signalized himself
by his Skill in Bargaining with the Inhabitants for
their Ransom.
LXVII......How King Ferdinand prepared to Carry the War into a
Different Part of the Territories of the Moors.
LXVIII.....How King Ferdinand Invaded the Eastern Side of the
Kingdom of Granada, and how He was Received by
El Zagal.
LXIX.......How the Moors made Various Enterprises against the
Christians.
LXX........How King Ferdinand prepared to Besiege the City of Baza,
and how the City prepared for Defence.
LXXI.......The Battle of the Gardens before Baza.
LXXII......Siege of Baza.--Embarrassments of the Army.
LXXIII.....Siege of Baza continued.--How King Ferdinand completely
Invested the City.
LXXIV......Exploit of Hernan Perez del Pulgar and Other Cavaliers.
LXXV.......Continuation of the Siege of Baza.
LXXVI......How Two Friars from the Holy Land arrived at the Camp.
LXXVII.....How Queen Isabella devised Means to Supply the Army
with Provisions.
LXXVIII....Of the Disasters which Befell the Camp.
LXXIX......Encounters between the Christians and Moors before Baza,
and the Devotion of the Inhabitants to the Defence of
their City.
LXXX.......How Queen Isabella arrived at the Camp, and the
Consequences of her Arrival.
LXXXI......Surrender of Baza.
LXXXII.....Submission of El Zagal to the Castilian Sovereigns.
LXXXIII....Events at Granada subsequent to the Submission of El Zagal.
LXXXIV.....How King Ferdinand turned his Hostilities against the City
of Granada.
LXXXV......The Fate of the Castle of Roma.
LXXXVI.....How Boabdil el Chico took the Field, and his Expedition
against Alhendin.
LXXXVII....Exploit of the Count de Tendilla.
LXXXVIII...Expedition of Boabdil el Chico against Salobrena.--Exploit
of Hernan Perez del Pulgar.
LXXXIX.....How King Ferdinand Treated the People of Guadix, and how
El Zagal Finished his Regal Career.
XC.........Preparations of Granada for a Desperate Defence.
XCI........How King Ferdinand conducted the Siege cautiously, and
how Queen Isabella arrived at the Camp.
XCII.......Of the Insolent Defiance of Tarfe the Moor, and the Daring
Exploit of Hernan Perez del Pulgar.
XCIII......How Queen Isabella took a View of the City of Granada, and
how her Curiosity cost the Lives of many Christians
and Moors.
XCIV.......The Last Ravage before Granada.
XCV........Conflagration of the Christian Camp.--Building of Santa Fe.
XCVI.......Famine and Discord in the City.
XCVII......Capitulation of Granada.
XCVIII.....Commotions in Granada.
XCIX.......Surrender of Granada.
C..........How the Castilian Sovereigns took Possession of Granada.
Appendix.
INTRODUCTION.
Although the following Chronicle bears the name of the venerable Fray
Antonio Agapida, it is rather a superstructure reared upon the fragments
which remain of his work. It may be asked, Who is this same Agapida, who
is cited with such deference, yet whose name is not to be found in any
of the catalogues of Spanish authors? The question is hard to answer. He
appears to have been one of the many indefatigable authors of Spain who
have filled the libraries of convents and cathedrals with their
tomes, without ever dreaming of bringing their labors to the press. He
evidently was deeply and accurately informed of the particulars of the
wars between his countrymen and the Moors, a tract of history but too
much overgrown with the weeds of fable. His glowing zeal, also, in the
cause of the Catholic faith entitles him to be held up as a model of the
good old orthodox chroniclers, who recorded with such pious exultation
the united triumphs of the cross and the sword. It is deeply to be
regretted, therefore, that his manuscripts, deposited in the libraries
of various convents, have been dispersed during the late convulsions
in Spain, so that nothing is now to be met of them but disjointed
fragments. These, however, are too precious to be suffered to fall into
oblivion, as they contain many curious facts not to be found in any
other historian. In the following work, therefore, the manuscript of the
worthy Fray Antonio will be adopted wherever it exists entire, but will
be filled up, extended, illustrated, and corroborated by citations
from various authors, both Spanish and Arabian, who have treated of the
subject. Those who may wish to know how far the work is indebted to the
Chronicle of Fray Antonio Agapida may readily satisfy their curiosity
by referring to his manuscript fragments, carefully preserved in the
Library of the Escurial.
Before entering upon the history it may be as well to notice the
opinions of certain of the most learned and devout historiographers of
former times relative to this war.
Marinus Siculus, historian to Charles V., pronounces it a war to avenge
ancient injuries received by the Christians from the Moors, to recover
the kingdom of Granada, and to extend the name and honor of the
Christian religion.*
* Lucio Marino Siculo, Cosas Memorabiles de Espana, lib. 20.
Estevan de Garibay, one of the most distinguished Spanish historians,
regards the war as a special act of divine clemency toward the Moors, to
the end that those barbarians and infidels, who had dragged out so many
centuries under the diabolical oppression of the absurd sect of Mahomet,
should at length be reduced to the Christian faith.*
* Garibay, Compend. Hist. Espana, lib. 18, c. 22.
Padre Mariana, also a venerable Jesuit and the most renowned historian
of Spain, considers the past domination of the Moors a scourge inflicted
on the Spanish nation for its iniquities, but the conquest of Granada
the reward of Heaven for its great act of propitiation in establishing
the glorious tribunal of the Inquisition! No sooner (says the worthy
father) was this holy office opened in Spain than there shone forth a
resplendent light. Then it was that, through divine favor, the nation
increased in power, and became competent to overthrow and trample down
the Moorish domination.*
* Mariana, Hist. Espana, lib. 25, c. 1.
Having thus cited high and venerable authority for considering this war
in the light of one of those pious enterprises denominated crusades, we
trust we have said enough to engage the Christian reader to follow us
into the field and stand by us to the very issue of the encounter.
NOTE TO THE REVISED EDITION.
The foregoing introduction, prefixed to the former editions of this
work, has been somewhat of a detriment to it. Fray Antonio Agapida was
found to be an imaginary personage, and this threw a doubt over the
credibility of his Chronicle, which was increased by a vein of irony
indulged here and there, and by the occasional heightening of some of
the incidents and the romantic coloring of some of the scenes. A word or
two explanatory may therefore be of service.*
* Many of the observations in this note have already appeared in
an explanatory article which at Mr. Murray's request, the author
furnished to the London Quarterly Review.
The idea of the work was suggested while I was occupied at Madrid in
writing the Life of Columbus. In searching for traces of his early life
I was led among the scenes of the war of Granada, he having followed the
Spanish sovereigns in some of their campaigns, and been present at the
surrender of the Moorish capital. I actually wove some of these scenes
into the biography, but found they occupied an undue space, and stood
out in romantic relief not in unison with the general course of the
narrative. My mind, however, had become so excited by the stirring
events and romantic achievements of this war that I could not return
with composure to the sober biography I had in hand. The idea then
occurred, as a means of allaying the excitement, to throw off a rough
draught of the history of this war, to be revised and completed at
future leisure. It appeared to me that its true course and character
had never been fully illustrated. The world had received a strangely
perverted idea of it through Florian's romance of "Gonsalvo of Cordova,"
or through the legend, equally fabulous, entitled "The Civil Wars of
Granada," by Ginez Perez de la Hita, the pretended work of an Arabian
contemporary, but in reality a Spanish fabrication. It had been woven
over with love-tales and scenes of sentimental gallantry totally
opposite to its real character; for it was, in truth, one of the
sternest of those iron conflicts sanctified by the title of "holy wars."
In fact, the genuine nature of the war placed it far above the need
of any amatory embellishments. It possessed sufficient interest in the
striking contrast presented by the combatants of Oriental and European
creeds, costumes, and manners, and in the hardy and harebrained
enterprises, the romantic adventures, the picturesque forays through
mountain regions, the daring assaults and surprisals of cliff-built
castles and cragged fortresses, which succeeded each other with a
variety and brilliancy beyond the scope of mere invention.
The time of the contest also contributed to heighten the interest.
It was not long after the invention of gunpowder, when firearms and
artillery mingled the flash and smoke and thunder of modern warfare with
the steely splendor of ancient chivalry, and gave an awful magnificence
and terrible sublimity to battle, and when the old Moorish towers and
castles, that for ages had frowned defiance to the battering-rams and
catapults of classic tactics, were toppled down by the lombards of
the Spanish engineers. It was one of the cases in which history rises
superior to fiction.
The more I thought about the subject, the more I was tempted to
undertake it, and the facilities at hand at length determined me. In the
libraries of Madrid and in the private library of the American consul,
Mr. Rich, I had access to various chronicles and other works, both
printed and in manuscript, written at the time by eyewitnesses, and
in some instances by persons who had actually mingled in the scenes
recorded and gave descriptions of them from different points of view and
with different details. These works were often diffuse and tedious,
and occasionally discolored by the bigotry, superstition, and fierce
intolerance of the age; but their pages were illumined at times with
scenes of high emprise, of romantic generosity, and heroic valor, which
flashed upon the reader with additional splendor from the surrounding
darkness. I collated these various works, some of which have never
appeared in print, drew from each facts relative to the different
enterprises, arranged them in as clear and lucid order as I could
command, and endeavored to give them somewhat of a graphic effect by
connecting them with the manners and customs of the age in which they
occurred. The rough draught being completed, I laid the manuscript aside
and proceeded with the Life of Columbus. After this was finished and
sent to the press I made a tour in Andalusia, visited the ruins of the
Moorish towns, fortresses, and castles, and the wild mountain-passes and
defiles which had been the scenes of the most remarkable events of the
war, and passed some time in the ancient palace of the Alhambra, the
once favorite abode of the Moorish monarchs. Everywhere I took notes,
from the most advantageous points of view, of whatever could serve to
give local verity and graphic effect to the scenes described. Having
taken up my abode for a time at Seville, I then resumed my manuscript
and rewrote it, benefited by my travelling notes and the fresh and vivid
impressions of my recent tour. In constructing my chronicle I adopted
the fiction of a Spanish monk as the chronicler. Fray Antonio Agapida
was intended as a personification of the monkish zealots who hovered
about the sovereigns in their campaigns, marring the chivalry of the
camp by the bigotry of the cloister, and chronicling in rapturous
strains every act of intolerance toward the Moors. In fact, scarce a
sally of the pretended friar when he bursts forth in rapturous eulogy of
some great stroke of selfish policy on the part of Ferdinand, or exults
over some overwhelming disaster of the gallant and devoted Moslems,
but is taken almost word for word from one or other of the orthodox
chroniclers of Spain.
The ironical vein also was provoked by the mixture of kingcraft and
priestcraft discernible throughout this great enterprise, and the
mistaken zeal and self-delusion of many of its most gallant and generous
champions. The romantic coloring seemed to belong to the nature of the
subject, and was in harmony with what I had seen in my tour through the
poetical and romantic regions in which the events had taken place. With
all these deductions the work, in all its essential points, was faithful
to historical fact and built upon substantial documents. It was a great
satisfaction to me, therefore, after the doubts that had been expressed
of the authenticity of my chronicle, to find it repeatedly and largely
used by Don Miguel Lafuente Alcantara of Granada in his recent
learned and elaborate history of his native city, he having had ample
opportunity, in his varied and indefatigable researches, of | 1,188.891223 |
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_A COMPANION TO BAKER'S READING CLUB._
ELOCUTION SIMPLIFIED;
WITH
AN APPENDIX ON LISPING, STAMMERING, STUTTERING,
AND OTHER DEFECTS OF SPEECH.
BY
WALTER K. FOBES,
GRADUATE OF BOSTON UNIVERSITY SCHOOL OF ORATORY.
WITH AN INTRODUCTION
BY
GEORGE M. BAKER,
AUTHOR OF THE READING-CLUB SERIES, ETC.
BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.
1877.
COPYRIGHT.
1877,
BY WALTER K. FOBES.
THIS LITTLE BOOK
IS DEDICATED TO
PROF. LEWIS B. MONROE,
IN TESTIMONY OF APPRECIATION OF HIS MANY QUALIFICATIONS AS A
TEACHER OF THIS ART, AND OF THE RESPECT AND AFFECTION
WITH WHICH HE WILL EVER BE
REGARDED BY HIS FRIEND
AND PUPIL,
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
"Why write this book?" say you.
"Because it is needed," say I.
There is no "digest" of elocution that is both methodical and practical,
and that is low in price, now in the market.
This book is an epitome of the science of elocution, containing nothing
that is not necessary for you to know, if you wish to make yourself a
good reader or speaker.
You who will thoroughly study and digest this book, and then put in
practice what you here have learned, will have started on the road, the
goal of which is Oratory.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
PREFACE 5
INTRODUCTION 11
ACKNOWLEDGMENT 15
METHOD OF STUDY OF ELOCUTION 15
PART I.
PHYSICAL GYMNASTICS 17
ATTITUDE 17
Standing Position 17
Speaker's Position 18
Sitting Position 18
Changing Position 18
Poise of Body 18
Rising on Toes 19
Holding the Book 19
Note on Attitude 19
CHEST EXPANSION 19
Active and Passive Chest 19
Arms at Side 19
Fore-arm Vertical 20
Full-arm Percussion 20
Hand Percussion 20
BODY MOVEMENTS 21
Bend Forward and Back 21
Bend Right and Left 21
Turn Right and Left 21
NECK MOVEMENTS 21
Bend Forward and Back 21
Bend Right and Left 21
Turn Right and Left 21
Note on Physical Gymnastics 21
PART II.
VOCAL GYMNASTICS 22
BREATHING 22
Abdominal 22
Costal 23
Dorsal 23
Puffing Breath 23
Puffing Breath, with pause 23
Puffing Breath, breathe between 23
Holding the Breath 24
TONE 24
Glottis Stroke 24
Soft Tones 25
Swelling Tones 25
PITCH 25
Learn Scale 26
Chant Sentences 26
Read Sentences 26
INFLECTION 26
Major Falling 26
Major Rising 27
Major Rising and Falling 27
Minor Rising and Falling 27
Circumflex 27
Monotone 27
QUALITY 28
Whisper 28
Aspirated 28
Pure 28
Orotund 28
FORCE 29
Gentle 29
Moderate 29
Loud 29
STRESS 29
Radical 29
Median 29
Terminal 30
Thorough 30
Compound 30
Tremolo 30
MOVEMENT 30
Quick 30
Moderate 30
Slow 31
ARTICULATION 31
ELEMENTARY SOUNDS 31
Vowels 31
Consonants 32
SUMMARY OF PHYSICAL AND VOCAL GYMNASTICS 33
PART III.
ELOCUTION 36
PLEASANT QUALITY 36
ARTICULATION 38
Syllables 38
Words 38
Accent 38
Phrases 39
Emphasis 39
Sentences 39
FULNESS AND POWER 42
INFLECTION 44
Major Rising 45
Major Falling 45
Minor Rising 46
Minor Falling 47
Circumflex 47
Monotone 48
PITCH 49
High 49
Middle 50
Low 51
Very Low 52
QUALITY 52
Whisper 53
Aspirate 53
Pure Tone 54
Orotund 55
MOVEMENT 56
Quick 56
Moderate 57
Slow 58
Very Slow 58
FORCE 59
Gentle 59
Moderate 60
Loud 61
Very Loud 61
STRESS 62
Radical 63
Median 63
Terminal 64
Thorough 65
Compound 65
Tremolo 66
TRANSITION 66
MODULATION 70
STYLE 77
Conversational 78
Narrative 79
Descriptive 79
Didactic 80
Public Address 81
Declamatory 82
Dramatic 83
PART IV.
HINTS ON ELOCUTION 85
DEFECTS OF SPEECH 93
INTRODUCTION.
Rev. Dr. Hall of New York says, "There is one accomplishment in
particular which I would earnestly recommend to you: cultivate
assiduously the ability to read well. I stop to particularize this,
because it is a thing so very much neglected, and because it is such an
elegant and charming accomplishment. Where one person is really
interested by music, twenty are pleased by good reading. Where one
person is capable of becoming a skilful musician, twenty may become good
readers. Where there is one occasion suitable for the exercise of
musical talent, there are twenty for that of good reading.
"What a fascination there is in really good reading! What a power it
gives one! In the hospital, in the chamber of the invalid, in the
nursery, in the domestic and in the social circle, among chosen friends
and companions, how it enables you to minister to the amusement, the
comfort, the pleasure, of dear ones, as no other accomplishment can! No
instrument of man's devising can reach the heart as does that most
wonderful instrument, the human voice. It is God's special gift to his
chosen creatures. Fold it not away in a napkin.
"Did you ever notice what life and power | 1,188.986259 |
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A LIFE'S SECRET.
A Novel.
By
MRS. HENRY WOOD,
AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," ETC.
[Illustration: Logo]
_EIGHTH EDITION._
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty.
1879.
[_All Rights of Translation and Reproduction are Reserved._]
CONTENTS.
PART THE FIRST.
CHAP. PAGE
I. WAS THE LADY MAD? 11
II. CHANGES 32
III. AWAY TO LONDON 39
IV. DAFFODIL'S DELIGHT 52
V. MISS GWINN'S VISIT 67
VI. TRACKED HOME 83
VII. MR. SHUCK AT HOME 103
VIII. FIVE THOUSAND POUNDS! 116
IX. THE SEPARATION OF HUNTER AND HUNTER 127
PART THE SECOND.
I. A MEETING OF THE WORKMEN 136
II. CALLED TO KETTERFORD 153
III. TWO THOUSAND POUNDS 168
IV. AGITATION 186
PART THE THIRD.
I. A PREMATURE AVOWAL 204
II. MR. COX 221
III. 'I THINK I HAVE BEEN A FOOL' 238
IV. SOMEBODY 'PITCHED INTO' 256
V. A GLOOMY CHAPTER 274
VI. THE LITTLE BOY AT REST 288
VII. MR. DUNN'S PIGS BROUGHT TO MARKET 294
VIII. A DESCENT FOR MR. SHUCK 309
IX. ON THE EVE OF BANKRUPTCY 326
X. THE YEARS GONE BY 342
XI. RELIEF 359
XII. CONCLUSION 369
A LIFE'S SECRET
PART THE FIRST.
CHAPTER I.
WAS THE LADY MAD?
On the outskirts of Ketterford, a town of some note in the heart of
England, stood, a few years ago, a white house, its green lawn,
surrounded by shrubs and flowers, sloping down to the high road. It
probably stands there still, looking as if not a day had passed over its
head since, for houses can be renovated and made, so to say, new again,
unlike men and women. A cheerful, bright, handsome house, of moderate
size, the residence of Mr. Thornimett.
At the distance of a short stone's-throw, towards the open country, were
sundry workshops and sheds--a large yard intervening between them and
the house. They belonged to Mr. Thornimett; and the timber and other
characteristic materials lying about the yard would have proclaimed
their owner's trade without the aid of the lofty sign-board--'Richard
Thornimett, Builder and Contractor.' His business was extensive for a
country town.
Entering the house by the pillared portico, and crossing the
black-and-white floor-cloth of the hall to the left, you came to a room
whose windows looked towards the timber-yard. It was fitted up as a sort
of study, or counting-house, though the real business counting-house was
at the works. Matting was on its floor; desks and stools stood about;
maps and drawings, plain and, were on its walls; not finished
and beautiful landscapes, such as issue from the hands of modern
artists, or have descended to us from the great masters, but skeleton
designs of various buildings--churches, bridges, terraces--plans to be
worked out in actuality, not to be admired on paper. This room was
chiefly given over to Mr. Thornimett's pupil: and you may see him in it
now.
A tall, gentlemanly young fellow, active and upright; his name, Austin
Clay. It is Easter Monday in those long-past years--and yet not so very
long past, either--and the works and yard are silent to-day. Strictly
speaking, Austin Clay can no longer be called a pupil, for he is
twenty-one, and his articles are out. The house is his home; Mr. and
Mrs. Thornimett, who have no children of their own, are almost as his
father and mother. They have said nothing to him about leaving, and he
has said nothing to them. The town, in its busy interference,
gratuitously opined that 'Old Thornimett would be taking him into
partnership.' Old Thornimett had given no indication of what he might
intend to do, one way or the other.
Austin Clay was of good parentage, of gentle birth. Left an orphan at
the age of fourteen, with very small means, not sufficient to complete
his education, Ketterford wondered what was to become of him, and
whether he had not better get rid of himself by running away to sea. Mr.
Thornimett stepped in and solved the difficulty. The late Mrs.
Clay--Austin's mother--and Mrs. Thornimett were distantly related, and
perhaps a certain sense of duty in the matter made itself heard; that,
at least, combined with the great fact that the Thornimett household was
childless. The first thing they did was to take the boy home for the
Christmas holidays; the next, was to tell him he should stay there for
good. Not to be adopted as their son, not to leave him a fortune
hereafter, Mr. Thornimett took pains to explain to him, but to make him
into a man, and teach him to earn his own living.
'Will you be apprenticed to me, Austin?' subsequently asked Mr.
Thornimett.
'Can't I be articled, sir?' returned Austin, quickly.
'Articled?' repeated Mr. Thornimett, with a laugh. He saw what was
running in the boy's mind. He was a plain man himself; had built up his
own fortunes just as he had built the new house he lived in; had risen,
in fact, as many a working man does rise: but Austin's father was a
gentleman. 'Well, yes, you can be articled, if you like it better,' he
said; 'but I shall never call it anything but apprenticed; neither will
the trade. You'll have to work, young sir.'
'I don't care how hard I work, or what I do,' cried Austin, earnestly.
'There's no degradation in work.'
Thus it was settled; and Austin Clay became bound pupil to Richard
Thornimett.
'Old Thornimett and his wife have done it out of charity,' quoth
Ketterford.
No doubt they had. But as the time passed on they grew very fond of him.
He was an open-hearted, sweet-tempered, generous boy, and one of them at
least, Mr. Thornimett, detected in him the qualities that make a
superior man. Privileges were accorded him from the first: the going on
with certain of his school duties, for which masters came to him out of
business hours--drawing, mathematics, and modern languages chiefly--and
Austin went on himself with Latin and Greek. With the two latter Mrs.
Thornimett waged perpetual war. What would be the use of them to him,
she was always asking, and Austin, in his pleasant, laughing way, would
rejoin that they might help to make him a gentleman. He was that
already: Austin Clay, though he might not know it, was a true gentleman
born.
Had they repented their bargain? He was twenty-one now, and out of his
articles, or his time, as it was commonly called. No, not for an
instant. Never a better servant had Richard Thornimett; never, he would
have told you, one so good. With all his propensity to be a 'gentleman,'
Austin Clay did not shrink from his work; but did it thoroughly. His
master in his wisdom had caused him to learn his business practically;
but, that accomplished, he kept him to overlooking, and to other light
duties, just as he might have done by a son of his own. It had told
well.
Easter Monday, and a universal holiday Mr. Thornimett had gone out on
horseback, and Austin was in the pupil's room. He sat at a desk, his
stool on the tilt, one hand unconsciously balancing a ruler, the other
supporting his head, which was bent over a book.
'Austin!'
The call, rather a gentle one, came from outside the door. Austin,
buried in his book, did not hear it.
'Austin Clay!'
He heard that, and started up. The door opened in the same moment, and
an old lady, dressed in delicate lavender print, came briskly in. Her
cap of a round, old-fashioned shape, was white as snow, and a bunch of
keys hung from her girdle. It was Mrs. Thornimett.
'So you are here!' she exclaimed, advancing to him with short, quick
steps, a sort of trot. 'Sarah said she was sure Mr. Austin had not gone
out. And now, what do you mean by this?' she added, bending her
spectacles, which she always wore, on his open book. 'Confining yourself
indoors this lovely day over that good-for-nothing Hebrew stuff!'
Austin turned his eyes upon her with a pleasant smile. Deep-set grey
eyes they were, earnest and truthful, with a great amount of thought in
them for a young man. His face was a pleasing, good-looking face,
without being a handsome one, its complexion pale, clear, and healthy,
and the hair rather dark. There was not much of beauty in the
countenance, but there was plenty of firmness and good sense.
'It is not Hebrew, Mrs. Thornimett. Hebrew and I are strangers to each
other. I am only indulging myself with a bit of old Homer.'
'All useless, Austin. I don't care whether it is Greek or Hebrew, or
Latin or French. To pore over those rubbishing dry books whenever you
get the chance, does you no good. If you did not possess a constitution
of iron, you would have been laid upon a sick-bed long ago.'
Austin laughed outright. Mrs. Thornimett's prejudices against what she
called 'learning,' had grown into a proverb. Never having been troubled
with much herself, she, like the Dutch professor told of by George
Primrose,'saw no good in it.' She lifted her hand and closed the book.
'May I not spend my time as I like upon a holiday?' remonstrated Austin,
half vexed, half in good humour.
'No,' said she, authoritatively; 'not when the day is warm and bright as
this. We do not often get so fair an Easter. Don't you see that I have
put off my winter clothing?'
'I saw that at breakfast.'
'Oh, you did notice that, did you? I thought you and Mr. Thornimett were
both buried in that newspaper. Well, Austin, I never make the change
till I think warm weather is really coming in: and so it ought to be,
for Easter is late this year. Come, put that book up.'
Austin obeyed, a comical look of grievance on his face. 'I declare you
order me about just as you did when I came here first, a miserable
little muff of fourteen. You'll never get another like me, Mrs.
Thornimett. As if I had not enough outdoor work every day in the week!
And I don't know where on earth to go to. It's like turning a fellow out
of house and home!'
'You are going out for me, Austin. The master left a message for the
Lowland farm, and you shall take it over, and stay the day with them.
They will make as much of you as they would of a king. When Mrs. Milton
was here the other day, she complained that you never went over now; she
said she supposed you were growing above them.'
'What nonsense!' said Austin, laughing. 'Well, I'll go there for you at
once, without grumbling. I like the Miltons.'
'You can walk, or you can take the pony gig: whichever you like.'
'I will walk,' replied Austin, with alacrity, putting his book inside
the large desk. 'What is the message, Mrs. Thornimett?'
'The message----'
Mrs. Thornimett came to a sudden pause, very much as if she had fallen
into a dream. Her eyes were gazing from the window into the far
distance, and Austin looked in the same direction: but there was not
anything to be seen.
'There's nothing there, lad. It is but my own thoughts. Something is
troubling me, Austin. Don't you think the master has seemed very poorly
of late?'
'N--o,' replied Austin, slowly, and with some hesitation, for he was
half doubting whether something of the sort had not struck him.
Certainly the master--as Mr. Thornimett was styled indiscriminately on
the premises both by servants and workpeople, so that Mrs. Thornimett
often fell into the same habit--was not the brisk man he used to be. 'I
have not noticed it particularly.'
'That is like the young; they never see anything,' she murmured, as if
speaking to herself. 'Well, Austin, I have; and I can tell you that I do
not like the master's looks, or the signs I detect in him. Especially
did I not like them when he rode forth this morning.'
'All that I have observed is that of late he seems to be disinclined for
business. He seems heavy, sleepy, as though it were a trouble to him to
rouse himself, and he complains sometimes of headache. But, of
course----'
'Of course, what?' asked Mrs. Thornimett. 'Why do you hesitate?'
'I was going to say that Mr. Thornimett is not as young as he was,'
continued Austin, with some deprecation.
'He is sixty-six, and I am sixty-three. But, you must be going. Talking
of it, will not mend it. And the best part of the day is passing.'
'You have not given me the message,' he said, taking up his hat which
lay beside him.
'The message is this,' said Mrs. Thornimett, lowering her voice to a
confidential tone, as she glanced round to see that the door was shut.
'Tell Mr. Milton that Mr. Thornimett cannot answer for that timber
merchant about whom he asked. The master fears he might prove a slippery
customer; he is a man whom he himself would trust as far as he could
see, but no farther. Just say it into Mr. Milton's private ear, you
know.'
'Certainly. I understand,' replied the young man, turning to depart.
'You see now why it might not be convenient to despatch any one but
yourself. And, Austin,' added the old lady, following him across the
hall, 'take care not to make yourself ill with their Easter cheesecakes.
The Lowland farm is famous for them.'
'I will try not,' returned Austin.
He looked back at her, nodding and laughing as he traversed the lawn,
and from thence struck into the open road. His way led him past the
workshops, closed then, even to the gates, for Easter Monday in that
part of the country is a universal holiday. A few minutes, and he turned
into the fields; a welcome change from the dusty road. The field way
might be a little longer, but it was altogether pleasanter. Easter was
late that year, as Mrs. Thornimett observed, and the season was early.
The sky was blue and clear, the day warm and lovely; the hedges were
budding into leaf, the grass was growing, the clover, the buttercups,
the daisies were springing; and an early butterfly fluttered past
Austin.
'You have taken wing betimes,' he said, addressing the unconscious
insect. 'I think summer must be at hand.'
Halting for a moment to watch the flight, he strode on the quicker
afterwards. Supple, active, slender, his steps--the elastic, joyous,
tread of youth--scarcely seemed to touch the earth. He always walked
fast when busy with thought, and his mind was buried in the hint Mrs.
Thornimett had spoken, touching her fears for her husband's health. 'If
he is breaking, it's through his close attention to business,' decided
Austin, as he struck into the common and was nearing the end of his
journey. 'I wish he would take a jolly good holiday this summer. It
would set him up; and I know I could manage things without him.'
A large common; a broad piece of waste land, owned by the lord of the
manor, but appropriated by anybody and everybody; where gipsies encamped
and donkeys grazed, and geese and children were turned out to roam. A
wide path ran across it, worn by the passage of farmer's carts and other
vehicles. To the left it was bordered in the distance by a row of
cottages; to the right, its extent was limited, and terminated in some
dangerous gravel pits--dangerous, because they were not protected.
Austin Clay had reached the middle of the path and of the common, when
he overtook a lady whom he slightly knew. A lady of very strange
manners, popularly supposed to be mad, and of whom he once stood in
considerable awe, not to say terror, at which he laughed now. She was a
Miss Gwinn, a tall bony woman of remarkable strength, the sister of
Gwinn, a lawyer of Ketterford. Gwinn the lawyer did not bear the best of
characters, and Ketterford reviled him when they could do it secretly.
'A low, crafty, dishonest practitioner, whose hands couldn't have come
clean had | 1,189.079794 |
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SELECTED LETTERS OF
ST. JANE FRANCES DE CHANTAL
Nihil Obstat.
F. THOMAS BERGH, O.S.B.,
CENSOR DEPUTATUS.
Imprimatur.
EDM. CAN. SURMONT,
VICARIUS GENERALIS.
WESTMONASTERII,
_Die 6 Novembris, 1917._
[Illustration: ST. JANE FRANCES DE CHANTAL.
(_Foundress of the Order of the Visitation._)]
SELECTED LETTERS OF
SAINT JANE FRANCES
DE CHANTAL
TRANSLATED BY
| 1,189.08047 |
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PHILO GUBB
Correspondence-School
Detective
BY
ELLIS PARKER BUTLER
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1918
COPYRIGHT, 1913, 1914, AND 1915, BY THE RED BOOK CORPORATION
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published September 1918_
[Illustration: "IN THE DETECKATIVE LINE NOTHING SOUNDS FOOLISH" (_page
218_)]
CONTENTS
THE HARD-BOILED EGG 3
THE PET 21
THE EAGLE'S CLAWS 43
THE OUBLIETTE 66
THE UN-BURGLARS 95
THE TWO-CENT STAMP 113
THE CHICKEN 138
THE DRAGON'S EYE 156
THE PROGRESSIVE MURDER 171
THE MISSING MR. MASTER 185
WAFFLES AND MUSTARD 205
THE ANONYMOUS WIGGLE 227
THE HALF OF A THOUSAND 247
DIETZ'S 7462 BESSIE JOHN 266
HENRY 288
BURIED BONES 307
PHILO GUBB'S GREATEST CASE 329
ILLUSTRATIONS
"IN THE DETECKATIVE LINE NOTHING SOUNDS FOOLISH" _Frontispiece_
"THIS SHELL GAME IS EASY ENOUGH WHEN YOU KNOW HOW" 8
MR. WINTERBERRY | 1,189.080723 |
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_ADVERTISEMENTS._
MITCHELL, VANCE & CO.
836 & 838 BROADWAY,
And 13th Street, NEW YORK,
_Offer an Unequaled Assortment of_
GAS FIXTURES,
IN CRYSTAL, GILT, BRONZE, AND DECORATIVE
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IN BRONZE, GILT, PORCELAIN, CLOISONNÉ, ETC.
Elegant in Styles and in Greatest Variety.
_A Cordial Invitation to all to examine our Stock._
CHAS. E. BENTLEY,
(SUCCESSOR TO BENTLEY BROS.)
Manufacturer of
DECORATIVE ART-NEEDLEWORK
In Crewel, Silk, and Floss.
NOVELTIES IN EMBROIDERIES,
With Work Commenced and Materials to Finish.
Perforating Machines, Stamping Patterns, etc., etc.
_Wholesale, 39 & 41 EAST 13th ST.,_
_Retail, 854 BROADWAY._
FULL LINE OF MATERIALS USED IN FANCY-WORK.
ALL THE NEWEST STITCHES TAUGHT IN PRIVATE LESSONS BY THOROUGH EXPERTS.
STAMPING AND DESIGNING TO ORDER.
_Send 3 cents for Catalogue._
Gatherings from an Artist’s Portfolio.
By JAMES E. FREEMAN.
_One volume, 16mo._ _Cloth $1.25._
“The gifted American artist, Mr. James E. Freeman, who has for many
years been a resident of Rome, has brought together in this tasteful
little volume a number of sketches of the noted men of letters,
painters, sculptors, models, and other interesting personages whom he
has had an opportunity to study during the practice of his profession
abroad. Anecdotes and reminiscences of Thackeray, Hans Christian
Andersen, John Gibson, Vernet, Delaroche, Ivanoff, Gordon, the Princess
Borghese, Crawford, Thorwaldsen, and a crowd of equally famous
characters, are mingled with romantic and amusing passages from the
history of representatives of the upper classes of Italian society,
or of the humble ranks from which artists secure the models for their
statues and pictures.”--_New York Tribune._
“‘An Artist’s Portfolio’ is a charming book. The writer has gathered
incidents and reminiscences of some of the master writers, painters,
and sculptors, and woven them into a golden thread of story upon
which to string beautiful descriptions and delightful conversations.
He talks about Leslie, John Gibson, Thackeray, and that inimitable
writer, Father Prout (Mahony), in an irresistible manner.”--_New York
Independent._
New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street.
Appletons’ Home Books.
HOME AMUSEMENTS.
By M. E. W. S.,
AUTHOR OF “AMENITIES OF HOME,” ETC.
“There be some sports are painful; and their labour
Delight in them sets off.”
“Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves;
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him,
When he comes back!”
I do invoke ye all.
NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY | 1,189.180353 |
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DEVEREUX
BY
EDWARD BULWER LYTTON (Lord Lytton)
ADVERTISEMENT TO THE PRESENT EDITION.
IN this edition of a work composed in early youth, I have not attempted
to remove those faults of construction which may be sufficiently
apparent in the plot, but which could not indeed be thoroughly rectified
without re-writing the whole work. I can only hope that with the defects
of inexperience may be found some of the merits of frank and artless
enthusiasm. I have, however, lightened the narrative of certain
episodical and irrelevant passages, and relieved the general style of
some boyish extravagances of diction. At the time this work was written
I was deeply engaged in the study of metaphysics and ethics, and out of
that study grew the character of Algernon Mordaunt. He is represented
as a type of the Heroism of Christian Philosophy,--a union of love and
knowledge placed in the midst of sorrow, and labouring on through the
pilgrimage of life, strong in the fortitude that comes from belief in
Heaven.
KNEBWORTH, May 3, 1852.
E. B. L.
DEDICATORY EPISTLE
TO
JOHN AULDJO, ESQ., ETC.,
AT NAPLES
LONDON.
MY DEAR AULDJO,--Permit me, as a memento of the pleasant hours we passed
together, and the intimacy we formed by the winding shores and the rosy
seas of the old Parthenope, to dedicate to you this romance. It was
written in perhaps the happiest period of my literary life,--when
success began to brighten upon my labours, and it seemed to me a fine
thing to make a name. Reputation, like all possessions, fairer in the
hope than the reality, shone before me in the gloss of novelty; and I
had neither felt the envy it excites, the weariness it occasions, nor
(worse than all) that coarse and painful notoriety, that, something
between the gossip and the slander, which attends every man whose
writings become known,--surrendering the grateful privacies of life to
"The gaudy, babbling, and remorseless day."
In short, yet almost a boy (for, in years at least, I was little more,
when "Pelham" and "The Disowned" were conceived and composed), and full
of the sanguine arrogance of hope, I pictured to myself far greater
triumphs than it will ever be mine to achieve: and never did architect
of dreams build his pyramid upon (alas!) a narrower base, or a more
crumbling soil!... Time cures us effectually of these self-conceits, and
brings us, somewhat harshly, from the gay extravagance of confounding
the much that we design with the little that we can accomplish.
"The Disowned" and "Devereux" were both completed in retirement, and
in the midst of metaphysical studies and investigations, varied and
miscellaneous enough, if not very deeply conned. At that time I was
indeed engaged in preparing for the press a Philosophical Work which
I had afterwards the good sense to postpone to a riper age and a more
sobered mind. But the effect of these studies is somewhat prejudicially
visible in both the romances I have referred to; and the external and
dramatic colourings which belong to fiction are too often forsaken for
the inward and subtile analysis of motives, characters, and actions. The
workman was not sufficiently master of his art to forbear the vanity
of parading the wheels of the mechanism, and was too fond of calling
attention to the minute and tedious operations by which the movements
were to be performed and the result obtained. I believe that an author
is generally pleased with his work less in proportion as it is good,
than in proportion as it fulfils the idea with which he commenced it. He
is rarely perhaps an accurate judge how far the execution is in itself
faulty or meritorious; but he judges with tolerable success how far it
accomplishes the end and objects of the conception. He is pleased with
his work, in short, according as he can say, "This has expressed what
I meant it to convey." But the reader, who is not in the secret of the
author's original design, usually views the work through a different
medium; and is perhaps in this the wiser critic of the two: for the book
that wanders the most from the idea which originated it may often
be better than that which is rigidly limited to the unfolding and
_denouement_ of a single conception. If we accept this solution, we may
be enabled to understand why an author not unfrequently makes favourites
of some of his productions most condemned by the public. For my own
part, I remember that "Devereux" pleased me better than "Pelham" or
"The Disowned," because the execution more exactly corresponded with the
design. It expressed with tolerable fidelity what I meant it to express.
That was a happy age, my dear Auldjo, when, on finishing a work, we
could feel contented with our labour, and fancy we had done our best!
Now, alas I I have learned enough of the wonders of the Art to recognize
all the deficiencies of the Disciple; and to know that no author worth
the reading can ever in one single work do half of which he is capable.
What man ever wrote anything really good who did not feel that he had
the ability to write something better? Writing, after all, is a cold and
a coarse interpreter of thought. How much of the imagination, how much
of the intellect, evaporates and is lost while we seek to embody it
in words! Man made language and God the genius. Nothing short of an
eternity could enable men who imagine, think, and feel, to express
all they have imagined, thought, and felt. Immortality, the spiritual
desire, is the intellectual _necessity_.
In "Devereux" I wished to portray a man flourishing in the last century
with the train of mind and sentiment peculiar to the present; describing
a life, and not its dramatic epitome, the historical characters
introduced are not closely woven with the main plot, like those in
the fictions of Sir Walter Scott, but are rather, like the narrative
romances of an earlier school, designed to relieve the predominant
interest, and give a greater air of truth and actuality to the supposed
memoir. It is a fiction which deals less with the Picturesque than the
Real. Of the principal character thus introduced (the celebrated and
graceful, but charlatanic, Bolingbroke) I still think that my sketch,
upon the whole, is substantially just. We must not judge of the
politicians of one age by the lights of another. Happily we now demand
in a statesman a desire for other aims than his own advancement; but at
that period ambition was almost universally selfish--the Statesman was
yet a Courtier--a man whose very destiny it was to intrigue, to plot, to
glitter, to deceive. It is in proportion as politics have ceased to be
a secret science, in proportion as courts are less to be flattered and
tools to be managed, that politicians have become useful and honest
men; and the statesman now directs a people, where once he outwitted an
ante-chamber. Compare Bolingbroke--not with the men and by the rules of
this day, but with the men and by the rules of the last. He will lose
nothing in comparison with a Walpole, with a Marlborough on the one
side,--with an Oxford or a Swift upon the other.
And now, my dear Auldjo, you have had enough of my egotisms. As our
works grow up,--like old parents, we grow garrulous, and love to recur
to the happier days of their childhood; we talk over the pleasant pain
they cost us in their rearing, and memory renews the season of dreams
and hopes; we speak of their faults as of things past, of their merits
as of things enduring: we are proud to see them still living, and, after
many a harsh ordeal and rude assault, keeping a certain station in the
world; we hoped perhaps something better for them in their cradle, but
as it is we have good cause to be contented. You, a fellow-author, and
one whose spirited and charming sketches embody so much of personal
adventure, and therefore so much connect themselves with associations of
real life as well as of the studious closet; _you_ know, and must feel
with me, that these our books are a part of us, bone of our bone and
flesh of our flesh! They treasure up the thoughts which stirred us, the
affections which warmed us, years ago; they are the mirrors of how
much of what we were! To the world they are but as a certain number
of pages,--good or bad,--tedious or diverting; but to ourselves, the
authors, they are as marks in the wild maze of life by which we can
retrace our steps, and be with our youth again. What would I not give to
feel as I felt, to hope as I hoped, to believe as I believed, when this
work was first launched upon the world! But time gives while it takes
away; and amongst its recompenses for many losses are the memories I
referred to in commencing this letter, and gratefully revert to at
its close. From the land of cloud and the life of toil, I turn to that
golden clime and the happy indolence that so well accords with it; and
hope once more, ere I die, with a companion whose knowledge can
recall the past and whose gayety can enliven the present, to visit the
Disburied City of Pompeii, and see the moonlight sparkle over the waves
of Naples. Adieu, my dear Auldjo,
And believe me,
Your obliged and attached friend,
E. B. LYTTON.
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHER'S INTRODUCTION.
MY life has been one of frequent adventure and constant excitement. It
has been passed, to this present day, in a stirring age, and not without
acquaintance of the most eminent and active spirits of the time. Men of
all grades and of every character have been familiar to me. War, love,
ambition, the scroll of sages, the festivals of wit, the intrigues of
states,--all that agitate mankind, the hope and the fear, the labour and
the pleasure, the great drama of vanities, with the little interludes
of wisdom; these have been the occupations of my manhood; these will
furnish forth the materials of that history which is now open to your
survey. Whatever be the faults of the historian, he has no motive to
palliate what he has committed nor to conceal what he has felt.
Children of an after century, the very time in which these pages will
greet you destroys enough of the connection between you and myself to
render me indifferent alike to your censure and your applause. Exactly
one hundred years from the day this record is completed will the seal I
shall place on it be broken and the secrets it contains be disclosed.
I claim that congeniality with you which I have found not among my own
coevals. _Their_ thoughts, their feelings, their views, have nothing
kindred to my own. I speak their language, but it is not as a native:
_they_ know not a syllable of mine! With a future age my heart may have
more in common; to a future age my thoughts may be less unfamiliar, and
my sentiments less strange. I trust these confessions to the trial!
Children of an after century, between you and the being who has traced
the pages ye behold--that busy, versatile, restless being--there is but
one step,--but that step is a century! His _now_ is separated from your
now by an interval of three generations! While he writes, he is exulting
in the vigour of health and manhood; while ye read, the very worms are
starving upon his dust. This commune between the living and the dead;
this intercourse between that which breathes and moves and _is_,
and that which life animates not nor mortality knows,--annihilates
falsehood, and chills even self-delusion into awe. Come, then, and look
upon the picture of a past day and of a gone being, without apprehension
of deceit; and as the shadows and lights of a checkered and wild
existence flit before you, watch if in your own hearts there be aught
which mirrors the reflection.
MORTON DEVEREUX.
NOTE TO THE PRESENT EDITION (1852).
If this work possess any merit of a Narrative order, it will perhaps be
found in its fidelity to the characteristics of an Autobiography.
The reader must, indeed, comply with the condition exacted from his
imagination and faith; that is to say, he must take the hero of the
story upon the terms for which Morton Devereux himself stipulates;
and regard the supposed Count as one who lived and wrote in the last
century, but who (dimly conscious that the tone of his mind harmonized
less with his own age than with that which was to come) left his
biography as a legacy to the present. This assumption (which is not an
unfair one) liberally conceded, and allowed to account for occasional
anachronisms in sentiment, Morton Devereux will be found to write as a
man who is not constructing a romance, but narrating a life. He gives
to Love, its joy and its sorrow, its due share in an eventful and
passionate existence; but it is the share of biography, not of fiction.
He selects from the crowd of personages with whom he is brought into
contact, not only those who directly influence his personal destinies,
but those of whom a sketch or an anecdote would appear to a biographer
likely to have interest for posterity. Louis XIV., the Regent Orleans,
Peter the Great, Lord Bolingbroke, and others less eminent, but still
of mark in their own day, if growing obscure to ours, are introduced
not for the purposes and agencies of fiction, but as an autobiographer's
natural illustrations of the men and manners of his time.
And here be it pardoned if I add that so minute an attention has
been paid to accuracy that even in petty details, and in relation to
historical characters but slightly known to the ordinary reader, a
critic deeply acquainted with the memoirs of the age will allow that the
novelist is always merged in the narrator.
Unless the Author has failed more in his design than, on revising the
work of his early youth with the comparatively impartial eye of maturer
judgment, he is disposed to concede, Morton Devereux will also be found
with that marked individuality of character which distinguishes the man
who has lived and laboured from the hero of romance. He admits into his
life but few passions; those are tenacious and intense: conscious that
none who are around him will sympathize with his deeper feelings, he
veils them under the sneer of an irony which is often affected and never
mirthful. Wherever we find him, after surviving the brief episode of
love, we feel--though he does not tell us so--that he is alone in the
world. He is represented as a keen observer and a successful actor in
the busy theatre of mankind, precisely in proportion as no cloud from
the heart obscures the cold clearness of the mind. In the scenes of
pleasure there is no joy in his smile; in the contests of ambition there
is no quicker beat of the pulse. Attaining in the prime of manhood such
position and honour as would first content and then sate a man of this
mould, he has nothing left but to discover the vanities of this world
and to ponder on the hopes of the next; and, his last passion dying
out in the retribution that falls on his foe, he finally sits down in
retirement to rebuild the ruined home of his youth,--unconscious that to
that solitude the Destinies have led him to repair the waste and ravages
of his own melancholy soul.
But while outward Dramatic harmonies between cause and effect, and the
proportionate agencies which characters introduced in the Drama bring
to bear upon event and catastrophe, are carefully shunned,--as real life
does for the most part shun them,--yet there is a latent coherence in
all that, by influencing the mind, do, though indirectly, shape out the
fate and guide the actions.
Dialogue and adventures which, considered dramatically, would be
episodical,--considered biographically, will be found essential to the
formation, change, and development of the narrator's character. The
grave conversations with Bolingbroke and Richard Cromwell, the light
scenes in London and at Paris, the favour obtained with the Czar of
Russia, are all essential to the creation of that mixture of wearied
satiety and mournful thought which conducts the Probationer to the
lonely spot in which he is destined to learn at once the mystery of his
past life and to clear his reason from the doubts that had obscured the
future world.
Viewing the work in this more subtile and contemplative light, the
reader will find not only the true test by which to judge of its design
and nature, but he may also recognize sources of interest in the story
which might otherwise have been lost to him; and if so, the Author will
not be without excuse for this criticism upon the scope and intention of
his own work. For it is not only the privilege of an artist, but it is
also sometimes his duty to the principles of Art, to place the spectator
in that point of view wherein the light best falls upon the canvas. "Do
not place yourself there," says the painter; "to judge of my composition
you must stand where I place you."
CONTENTS.
Book I.
CHAPTER I.
Of the Hero's Birth and Parentage.--Nothing can differ more from the
End of Things than their Beginning
CHAPTER II.
A Family Consultation.--A Priest, and an Era in Life
CHAPTER III.
A Change in Conduct and in Character: our evil Passions will some-
times produce good Effects; and on the contrary, an Alteration for
the better in Manners will, not unfrequently, have amongst its
Causes a little Corruption of Mind; for the Feelings are so blended
that, in suppressing those disagreeable to others, we often suppress
those which are amiable in themselves
CHAPTER IV.
A Contest of Art and a League of Friendship.--Two Characters in
mutual Ignorance of each other, and the Reader no wiser than
either of them
CHAPTER V.
Rural Hospitality.--An extraordinary Guest.--A Fine Gentleman is
not necessarily a Fool
CHAPTER VI.
A Dialogue, which might be dull if it were longer
CHAPTER VII.
A Change of Prospects.--A new Insight into the Character of the Hero.
--A Conference between two Brothers
CHAPTER VIII.
First Love
CHAPTER IX.
A Discovery and a Departure
CHAPTER X.
A very short Chapter,--containing a Valet
CHAPTER XI.
The Hero acquits himself honourably as a Coxcomb.--A Fine Lady of
the Eighteenth Century, and a fashionable Dialogue; the Substance
of fashionable Dialogue being in all Centuries the same
CHAPTER XII.
The Abbe's Return.--A Sword, and a Soliloquy
CHAPTER XIII.
A mysterious Letter.-A Duel.--The Departure of one of the Family
CHAPTER XIV.
Being a Chapter of Trifles
CHAPTER XV.
The Mother and Son.--Virtue should be the Sovereign of the Feelings,
not their Destroyer
Book II.
CHAPTER I.
The Hero in London.--Pleasure is often the shortest, as it is the
earliest road to Wisdom, and we may say of the World what Zeal-of-
the-Land-Busy says of the Pig-Booth, "We escape so much of the
other Vanities by our early Entering"
CHAPTER II.
Gay Scenes and Conversations.--The New Exchange and the Puppet-
Show.--The Actor, the Sexton, and the Beauty
CHAPTER III.
More Lions
CHAPTER IV.
An intellectual Adventure
CHAPTER V.
The Beau in his Den, and a Philosopher discovered
CHAPTER VI.
A universal Genius.--Pericles turned Barber.--Names of Beauties in
171-.--The Toasts of the Kit-Cat Club
CHAPTER VII.
A Dialogue of Sentiment succeeded by the Sketch of a Character, in
whose Eyes Sentiment was to Wise Men what Religion is to Fools;
namely, a Subject of Ridicule
CHAPTER VIII.
Lightly won, lightly lost.--A Dialogue of equal Instruction and
Amusement.--A Visit to Sir Godfrey Kneller
CHAPTER IX.
A Development of Character, and a long Letter; a Chapter, on the
whole, more important than it seems
CHAPTER X.
Being a short Chapter, containing a most important Event
CHAPTER XI.
Containing more than any other Chapter in the Second Book of this
History
Book III.
CHAPTER I.
Wherein the History makes great Progress and is marked by one
important Event in Human Life
CHAPTER II.
Love; Parting; a Death-Bed.--After all human Nature is a beautiful
Fabric; and even its Imperfections are not odious to him who has
studied the Science of its Architecture, and formed a reverent
Estimate of its Creator
CHAPTER III.
A great Change of Prospects
CHAPTER IV.
An Episode.--The Son of the Greatest Man who (one only excepted)
_ever rose to a Throne_, but by no means of the Greatest Man (save
one) _who ever existed_
CHAPTER V.
In which the Hero shows Decision on more Points than one.--More of
Isora's Character is developed
CHAPTER VI.
An Unexpected Meeting.--Conjecture and Anticipation
CHAPTER VII.
The Events of a Single Night.--Moments make the Hues in which
Years are
Book IV.
CHAPTER I.
A Re-entrance into Life through the Ebon Gate, Affliction
CHAPTER II.
Ambitious Projects
CHAPTER III.
The real Actors Spectators to the false ones
CHAPTER IV.
Paris.--A Female Politician, and an Ecclesiastical One.--Sundry other
Matters
CHAPTER V.
A Meeting of Wits.--Conversation gone out to Supper in her Dress of
Velvet and Jewels
CHAPTER VI.
A Court, Courtiers, and a King
CHAPTER VII.
Reflections.--A Soiree.--The Appearance of one important in the
History.--A Conversation with Madame de Balzac highly satisfactory
and cheering.--A Rencontre with a curious old Soldier.--
The Extinction of a once great Luminary
CHAPTER VIII.
In which there is Reason to fear that Princes are not invariably free
from Human Peccadilloes
CHAPTER IX.
A Prince, an Audience, and a Secret Embassy
CHAPTER X.
Royal Exertions for the Good of the People
CHAPTER XI.
An Interview
Book V.
CHAPTER I.
A Portrait
CHAPTER II.
The Entrance into Petersburg.--A Rencontre with an inquisitive and
mysterious Stranger.--Nothing like Travel
CHAPTER III.
The Czar.--The Czarina.--A Feast at a Russian Nobleman's
CHAPTER IV.
Conversations with the Czar.--If Cromwell was the greatest Man
(Caesar excepted) who ever _rose_ to the Supreme Power, Peter was
the greatest Man ever _born_ to it
CHAPTER V.
Return to Paris.--Interview with Bolingbroke.--A gallant Adventure.
--Affair with Dubois.--Public Life is a Drama, in which private
Vices generally play the Part of the Scene-shifters
CHAPTER VI.
A long Interval of Years.--A Change of Mind and its Causes
Book VI.
CHAPTER I.
The Retreat
CHAPTER II.
The Victory
CHAPTER III.
The Hermit of the Well
CHAPTER IV.
The Solution of many Mysteries.--A dark View of the Life and Nature
of Man
CHAPTER V.
In which the History makes a great Stride towards the final Catastrophe.
--The Return to England, and the Visit to a Devotee
CHAPTER VI.
The Retreat of a celebrated Man, and a Visit to a great Poet
CHAPTER VII.
The Plot approaches its _Denouement_
CHAPTER VIII.
The Catastrophe
CONCLUSION
DEVEREUX.
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
OF THE HERO'S BIRTH AND PARENTAGE.--NOTHING CAN DIFFER MORE FROM THE END
OF THINGS THAN THEIR BEGINNING.
MY grandfather, Sir Arthur Devereux (peace be with his ashes!) was a
noble old knight and cavalier, possessed of a property sufficiently
large to have maintained in full dignity half a dozen peers,--such as
peers have been since the days of the first James. Nevertheless, my
grandfather loved the equestrian order better than the patrician | 1,189.283132 |
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Produced by Dagny; John Bickers
THE STORY OF A CHILD
By Pierre Loti
Translated by Caroline F. Smith
PREFACE
There is to-day a widely spread new interest in child life, a desire to
get nearer to children and understand them. To be sure child study is
not new; every wise parent and every sympathetic teacher has ever been
a student of children; but there is now an effort to do more consciously
and systematically what has always been done in some way.
In the few years since this modern movement began much has been
accomplished, yet there is among many thoughtful people a strong
reaction from the hopes awakened by the enthusiastic heralding of the
newer aspects of psychology. It had been supposed that our science would
soon revolutionize education; indeed, taking the wish for the fact, we
began to talk about the new and the old education (both mythical) and
boast of our millennium. I would not underrate the real progress, the
expansion of educational activities, the enormous gains made in many
ways; but the millennium! The same old errors meet us in new forms, the
old problems are yet unsolved, the waste is so vast that we sometimes
feel thankful that we cannot do as much as we would, and that Nature
protects children from our worst mistakes.
What is the source of this disappointment? Is it not that education,
like all other aspects of life, can never be reduced to mere science? We
need science, it must be increasingly the basis of all life; but exact
science develops very slowly, and meantime we must live. Doubtless the
time will come when our study of mind will have advanced so far that we
can lay down certain great principles as tested laws, and thus clarify
many questions. Even then the solution of the problem will not be in the
enunciation of the theoretic principle, but will lie in its application
to practice; and that application must always depend upon instinct,
tact, appreciation, as well as upon the scientific law. Even the aid
that science can contribute is given slowly; meanwhile we must work with
these children and lift them to the largest life.
It is in relation to this practical work of education that our effort to
study children gets its human value. There are always two points of
view possible with reference to life. From the standpoint of nature
and science, individuals count for little. Nature can waste a thousand
acorns to raise one oak, hundreds of children may be sacrificed that
a truth may be seen. But from the ethical and human point of view the
meaning of all life is in each individual. That one child should be lost
is a kind of ruin to the universe.
It is this second point of view which every parent and every teacher
must take; and the great practical value of our new study of children
is that it brings us into personal relation with the child world, and so
aids in that subtle touch of life upon life which is the very heart of
education.
It is therefore that certain phases of the study of child life have
a high worth without giving definite scientific results. Peculiarly
significant among these is the study of the autobiographies of
childhood. The door to the great universe is always to the personal
world. Each of us appreciates child life through his own childhood,
and though the children with whom it is his blessed fortune to be
associated. If then it is possible for him to know intimately another
child through autobiography, one more window has been opened into the
child world--one more interpretative unit is given him through which to
read the lesson of the whole.
It is true, autobiographies written later in life cannot give us the
absolute truth of childhood. We see our early experiences through the
mists, golden or gray, of the years that lie between. It is poetry as
well as truth, as Goethe recognized in the title of his own self-study.
Nevertheless the individual who has lived the life can best bring | 1,189.283506 |
2023-11-16 18:36:53.4112090 | 4,320 | 7 |
Produced by Emmy, Juliet Sutherland, Music transcribed by
June Troyer. and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net Music transcribed by Linda Cantoni.
THE CHAUTAUQUAN.
_A MONTHLY MAGAZINE DEVOTED TO THE PROMOTION OF TRUE CULTURE. ORGAN OF
THE CHAUTAUQUA LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC CIRCLE._
VOL. III. MARCH, 1883. No. 6.
Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle.
_President_, Lewis Miller, Akron, Ohio.
_Superintendent of Instruction_, J. H. Vincent, D. D., Plainfield, N. J.
_General Secretary_, Albert M. Martin, Pittsburgh, Pa.
_Office Secretary_, Miss Kate F. Kimball, Plainfield, N. J.
_Counselors_, Lyman Abbott, D. D.; J. M. Gibson, D. D.; Bishop H. W.
Warren, D. D.; W. C. Wilkinson, D. D.
Transcriber's Note: This table of contents of this
periodical was created to aid the reader.
Contents
REQUIRED READING
History of Russia
Chapter VIII.The Lithuanian and Livonian Orders 303
A Glance at the History and Literature of Scandinavia
Chapter V.The Romance of Axel 305
Pictures from English History
VI.A Picturesque Half-Century 309
SUNDAY READINGS
[March 4.]
The False Balance Detected by the True 311
[March 11.]
Three Dispensations in History and in the Soul 313
[March 18.]
Three Dispensations 314
[March 25.]
Three Dispensations 316
Practice and Habit 317
Thoughts and Aphorisms 318
The Comet That Came But Once 319
My Winter Garden 320
Science and Common Sense 321
The Sorrow of the Sea 322
Anecdotes of Fashion 323
Language in Animals 323
The Electric Light 325
Among the Mountains 326
New Mexico 327
Speculation in Theology 329
Advantage of Warm Clothing 332
In Him Confiding 335
The History of Education
V.Egypt, Phnicia, Judea 336
Song 338
Tales from ShakspereMacbeth 338
Before Daybreak, With the Great Comet of 1882 341
Social Duties in the Family 342
C. L. S. C. Work 345
C. L. S. C. Songs 346
A Sweet Surprise 346
Local Circles 347
Questions and Answers
One Hundred Questions and Answers on Recreations
in Astronomy 353
Answers to Questions For Further Study in the January Number 355
Outline of C. L. S. C. Studies 356
C. L. S. C. Round-TableHow to Read Together Profitably 356
The Study of French 358
Editors Outlook 359
Editors Note-Book 361
Editors Table 363
Our Daily Bread 363
New Books 364
REQUIRED READING
FOR THE
_Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle for 1882-83_.
MARCH.
HISTORY OF RUSSIA.
By MRS. MARY S. ROBINSON.
_CHAPTER VIII._
THE LITHUANIAN AND LIVONIAN ORDERS.
In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, three new races entered
Slavonia whose character essentially modified its subsequent history.
From the northwest came the Germans, from the east the Tartar Mongols,
from the west the Lithuanians. The modern Russian divisions of Livonia
and Esthonia, with the outlying regions, were peopled in the ninth
century with the Tchud or Lett tribes, of the Finnish race,the most
ancient, it is believed, of living European peoples. The Russian Finns
of the present time number one and a half million souls; but though
they long retained their distinctive nationality, they have yielded
to the process of Russification, and to-day, among the majority
of them, their ancient character is noticeable merely by certain
peculiarities of physiognomy and dialect. They are short and thick
of stature, tough as oak, and of a hickory hue. The countenance is
blurred and unfinished, so to speak. The face is broad and flat, the
cheek bones high, the nose depressed and bridgeless. Their dialects are
primitive and meager. Their manners and superstitions are traceable
to the earliest of known races; their religious observances antedate
those of any known form of paganism. They remain, in fact, pagan at
heart, loyal to their ancient gods, though with these they are willing
to give Saint Nicholas some qualified homage. They recognize a good
and an evil principle, both to be equally revered. An offspring and
mingling of the two is Keremet, who, with his progeny of Keremets, is
more mischievous than malevolent, and to whom, far in the depths of
the forests, offerings and sacrifices are made. The evil principle is
Shaïtan, philologically allied with the Arabic Shatana, and the still
older Hebrew Sâtân. The Finn buys his bride, by paying to her father a
_kalm_ or fee. With his fellows he practices an agricultural communism.
Through a thousand years he has remained without education, incapable,
apparently, of progress, unchangeable. At present, however, the Russian
Finn, along with the other races of the country, is being merged into
the ubiquitous, self-asserting Russian.
The Baltic Letts, occupying Esthonia, had been subjugated by the Dane,
Knut the Great, the conqueror of England. But Livonia had submitted to
the arms of Iaroslaf the Great, who founded there Iurief, later called
Dorpat; and Mstislaf, son of Vladimir Monomakh, had taken one of the
chief cities of the Tchudi. The princes of Polotsk and the republic
of Novgorod claimed the country and virtually bore rule over it. To
Livonia early in the twelfth century came the German merchant in search
of trade, and the Latin priest, seeking souls for his hire and subjects
for his Pope. The monk Meinhard, commissioned by the Archbishop of
Bremen, compulsorily brought the Livonians under his sway, and was
constituted bishop of their country. But this invasion of a stranger
race bearing the wares of commerce, and the authority of Rome behind
the symbol of the cross, implied the overthrow of the untutored but
brave descendants of the Tchud hero Kalevy, the extinction of their
liberties and their independence. In 1187 Meinhard completed a church
at Uexhüll, and surrounded it with a fortification. Eleven years later
the tribes revolted against their episcopal master, and killed him in
open warfare. They then plunged into the Dwina to wash off and send
back to Germany their baptism, and restored to their shrines their
ancient gods. Innocent III preached a crusade against them, and another
bishop, commander of a large fleet, built for his capital the town of
Riga (1200). In the following year was established the Order of the
Brothers of the Army of Christ, or the Sword Bearers, later known as
the Livonian Knights, men of iron, who broke the strength of the
tribes, and against whom the Russian princes, occupied with their
own dissensions, made no united resistance. The knights intrenched
themselves firmly in the regions whither they hewed with the sword a
pathway for the cross, and built fortifications of cemented stone,
that were a wonder and a terror to the simple natives, who were driven
in herds to the waters of baptism, or massacred if they offered
resistance. A song of the Tchudi of Pskof, entitled The Days of
Slavery, commemorates this period of misery: Destroying fiends were
unchained against us. The priests strangled us with their rosaries, the
greedy knights plundered us, murderers with their weapons cut us in
pieces. The father of the cross stole our wealth; he stole the treasure
from the hiding place. He hewed down the sacred tree, he polluted the
fountain, the waters of salvation. The axe smote the oak of Tara, the
cruel hatchet the tree of Kero.
About 1225, a second military order established itself in Livonia, and
built four considerable towns, among them Thorn and Koenigsberg, in
the depopulated country. Their black cross was borne, along with the
red cross of the sword-bearers, and in course of time the two orders
became associated, and together imposed a crushing servitude upon the
remnants of the Tchudi, who were reduced to a form of serfdom; and
though in later times their liberty has been yielded them again, the
German nobility retained their lands. The aboriginal Livonian remained
ever separate from his conqueror, the Papal German. The Kalevy-Poeg,
the epic of the Tchud Esthonians, recites the career of the son of
Kalev, the personification of the race, the hero of Titanic force. He
swam the Gulf of Finland. His club was the trunk of an oak; with his
horse and his immense harrow he plowed all Esthonia; he exterminated
the beasts of prey, conquered the magicians of Finland, and the genii
of the caves. He descended into hell and had single combat with Sarvig,
the horned. He sailed to the ends of the earth, and when the fiery
breath of the northern spirits burned his vessel, he built another of
silver. When the heavens were lurid with the flames of these spirits,
he laughed and said to his pilot: With their darts of fire they light
us on our way, since the sun has gone to rest, and we are passed beyond
the daylight. No fury of the elements could destroy him. He went to
the isle of flame, of smoke, and of boiling water, where the mountains
throw forth fire (Iceland). There he encountered a giant woman, who,
plucking grass for her kine, crushed with it several of his sailors, as
if they had been insects. He fought with men whose bodies were those
of dogs, possibly the Greenland Esquimaux; and pauses in his onward
strides only when told by a magician that the wall of the worlds end
is still far away. When he is told of the landing of the sword-bearers,
the men whose armor can neither be pierced with the spear nor cleft
with the axe, his unconquerable heart is troubled. He seeks the tomb
of his father for counsel, but the place is silent; the leaves murmur
plaintively, the winds sigh, the dew itself is moved, the eye of the
clouds is wet, all Esthonian nature shares in the forebodings of the
national hero. He gathers his warriors by the Embach, and raises the
battle cry. Bloody is the field, mournful the victory! All the brave
are slain, the brothers of Kalevy-Poeg among them. His charger is cut
down by the hand of the stranger. He who had overcome the demon Sarvig,
who had laughed at the spirits of the north, could not subdue the men
of iron, whose strength surpassed that of the gods. Captive to Mana,
god of death, his wrist held fast in a cleft of the rock hard by the
gate of hell, he comes no more to vindicate the liberties of his sons,
his people. Long looked they for his return; but like his kinsman,
perhaps his sire, Kolyvan, who lies under the rock whereon is built the
city of Revel, he is holden captive of Mana. Thus sorrowfully closes
the career of the Arthur of this primitive people.
The German planted region was destined to be a thorn in the side of
Russia. Protracted wars were maintained between the foreigners of the
west and the Slavs of the realm. Four hundred years passed ere an
appearance of tranquillity and of union was attained; and even now the
governments of Esthonia and Livonia are not among the more trusted
provinces of the empire. The people of that region, restive under
absolutism, dimly conscious of rights withheld, and of oppressive
restrictions, encourage the spirit of revolution, and invite to their
sea-bordered home many of the malcontents of the empire.
Up to the opening of the thirteenth century, Russian civilization had
kept a relative pace with that of the east. Receiving industries, arts
and religion from Byzantium, and civic form from Scandinavia, it had
been united under Iaroslaf the Great, and had maintained with some
degree of order feudal divisions corresponding to those of the other
European nations in the same centuries. This relative development the
empire bade fair to maintain without serious lapses, when a calamity
utterly without precedent, immeasurably disastrous, suddenly fell upon
the realm, and shattered her incipient civilization beyond the power
of repairing. Nature has been a step-mother to Russia, says one of her
native historians. Fate was a second, a harsher step-mother.
In those times, (1224) there came upon us, on account of our sins,
unknown nations, write the chroniclers. No one could tell their
origin, whence they came, what religion they professed. God alone knew
who they were: God, and perhaps a few wise men learned in books. All
Europe was affrighted at the apparition of these Asiatic hordes. The
Pope and the sovereigns prepared to meet them with combined forces.
But upon Russia alone fell the shock, the subjugation, the humiliating
servitude, imposed by these numberless and mysterious armies, whom
it was whispered among the people were Gog and Magog, prophesied to
come at the end of the world, when all things would be destroyed by
anti-Christ.
The Ta-ta, Das, or Tatars were Mongol, pastoral tribes, settled at the
base of the Altai Mountains. Occupied exclusively with their flocks,
they wandered from pasture to pasture, from river to river. The Land
of Grass is the name given to-day, by the inhabitants, to modern
Tartary. They built no walls nor towns, knew nothing of writing or
of arts beyond the simplest. Their treaties were made orally. They
were equally destitute of laws and of religion, save perhaps a vague
adoration of the sun. They respected nothing but strength and bravery:
age and weakness they despised, and like other barbarians, they left
the pining, the feeble and the aged among them to perish. Their food
was milk and the flesh of their herds: their clothing was made of the
skins of their animals. They practiced polygamy, and had a community
of wives; when the father died the son married his younger wives.
Trained to ride from their infancy, they were taught also to let fly
their arrows at birds and other small creatures, and thus acquired the
courage and skill essential to their predatory existence. They had no
infantry, and laid no sieges. When they would capture a town, they fell
upon the suburban villages. Each leader seized ten men and compelled
them to carry wood, stones, and whatever material was accessible
for the filling up of fosses. The prisoners were also forced to dig
trenches. But save for purposes of utility, they took no prisoners,
choosing rather the extermination of the entire population.
This barbarous and appalling people, in their earlier advances, invaded
China, whither they passed with incomprehensible suddenness: nor of
the direction of their movements, nor of their departure could aught
be presaged. The present dynasty of that country is of the Mantchoo
Tatars, who, in respect of political influence, are dominant in the
empire.
As they increased and formed a rude nationality, a mighty chief arose
among them, Temutchin, or Genghis Khan. In a general congress of their
princes, assembled early in the thirteenth century, he proclaimed
himself emperor, averring that as but one sun shone in the heavens, in
like manner the whole earth should be subject to one sole sovereign.
Placing himself at the head of this nation, composed of half a
million armed cavalry, he initiated a widely devastating conquest, by
destroying the teeming populations of Mantchuria, Tangut, Northern
China, Turkestan, Great Bokhara, and the remainder of Western Asia to
the plains of the Crimea.
The ruin inflicted by these wild hordes has never been repaired. During
the captainship of Genghis Khan, an approximately correct estimate
shows that eighteen million five hundred thousand human beings were
slaughtered by his horsemen in China and Tangut alone. Turkestan, once
called the Garden of the East, and Great Bokhara, after the lapse of
six centuries, bear the evidences of the Tatar invasion on their many
depopulated wastes. Upon the occupation of Nessa, a town in Kiva, the
people were bound together in couples, and above seventy thousand were
despatched thus by the Tatar arrows. At Merv, seven hundred thousand,
or, according to another authority, one million three hundred thousand
corpses were left to corrupt the atmosphere once teeming with life,
and rich in its bountiful fruitfulness. At Nishapoor, in Persia, seven
hundred and forty-seven thousand lives were extinguished. To prevent
the living from hiding under the piles of the dead, the bodies were
decapitated. At Herat, in Afghanistan, one million six hundred thousand
were mowed down by the Tatar cimetars. After the enemy had vanished,
forty persons, the mournful remnant from the massacre, came together
in the principal mosque of the ruined city. These regions have never
recovered a tithe of their former prosperity.
[To be continued.]
PRONOUNCING LIST OF RUSSIAN PROPER NAMES.
_Explanation of signs used_: _a_, _e_, _i_, _o_, _u_, long, as in
_fate_, _mete_, _mite_, _mote_, _mute_.
_a_, _e_, _i_, _o_, short, as in _add_, _met_, _if_, _off_.
_ö_ like the prolonged sound of _e_ in _her_.
_ä_, the Italian _a_, as in _arm_.
_ï_, the Italian _i_, like _e_.
_o_, in the syllables of most Russian words, has a sound between _o_
and _o_. For typographical reasons, however, we give simply the _o_,
advising that the vowel sound be not made too long.
_u_, in most Russian syllables, has a liquid sound like _yu_.
Consonants, when succeeding one another, unite their sounds rapidly.
Thus, in _Svi-at´o-slaf | 1,189.431249 |
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Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Marcia Brooks 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 ESCAPE OF MR. TRIMM
[Illustration: NOBODY PAID ANY ATTENTION TO MR. TRIMM.--_Frontispiece_
(_Page 18._)]
THE ESCAPE
OF MR. TRIMM
_HIS PLIGHT AND OTHER PLIGHTS_
BY
IRVIN S. COBB
AUTHOR OF
OLD JUDGE PRIEST,
BACK HOME, ETC.
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1910, 1911, 1912 AND 1913
BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1913
BY THE FRANK A. MUNSEY COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1913
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
[Transcriber's Note: A List of Illustrations has been added.]
TO MY WIFE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE ESCAPE OF MR. TRIMM 3
II. THE BELLED BUZZARD 54
III. AN OCCURRENCE UP A SIDE STREET 79
IV. ANOTHER OF THOSE CUB REPORTER STORIES 96
V. SMOKE OF BATTLE 142
VI. THE EXIT OF ANNE DUGMORE 179
VII. TO THE EDITOR OF THE SUN 202
VIII. FISHHEAD 244
IX. GUILTY AS CHARGED 260
ILLUSTRATIONS
NOBODY PAID ANY ATTENTION TO MR. TRIMM. Frontispiece
"TWO LONG WING FEATHERS DRIFTED SLOWLY DOWN." Facing page 70
"I WAS THE ONE THAT SHOT HIM--WITH THIS THING HERE." Facing Page 164
HE DRAGGED THE RIFLE BY THE BARREL, SO THAT ITS BUTT
MADE A CROOKED FURROW IN THE SNOW. Facing Page 193
THE ESCAPE OF MR. TRIMM
I
THE ESCAPE OF MR. TRIMM
Mr. Trimm, recently president of the late Thirteenth National Bank, was
taking a trip which was different in a number of ways from any he had
ever taken. To begin with, he was used to parlor cars and Pullmans and
even luxurious private cars when he went anywhere; whereas now he rode
with a most mixed company in a dusty, smelly day coach. In the second
place, his traveling companion was not such a one as Mr. Trimm would
have chosen had the choice been left to him, being a stupid-looking
German-American with a drooping, yellow mustache. And in the third
place, Mr. Trimm's plump white hands were folded in his lap, held in a
close and enforced companionship by a new and shiny pair of Bean's
Latest Model Little Giant handcuffs. Mr. Trimm was on his way to the
Federal penitentiary to serve twelve years at hard labor for breaking,
one way or another, about all the laws that are presumed to govern
national banks.
* * * * *
All the time Mr. Trimm was in the Tombs, fighting for a new trial, a
certain question had lain in his mind unasked and unanswered. Through
the seven months of his stay in the jail that question had been always
at the back part of his head, ticking away there like a little watch
that never needed winding. A dozen times a day it would pop into | 1,189.4988 |
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Internet Archive) Last Edit of Project Info
The Old Willow-tree
and other stories by
CARL EWALD
Translated by A. Teixeira de Mattos
Drawings by Helen M. Jacobs & G. E. Lee
[Illustration]
Thornton Butterworth Limited
15 Bedford St Strand London. W. C. 2
_First published October, 1921._
_Copyright U.S.A., 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons._
THE
ROYAL ROAD
LIBRARY
THE OLD WILLOW-TREE
AND OTHER STORIES
THE ROYAL ROAD LIBRARY
THE CARL EWALD BOOKS
Translated by
ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS
1. TWO-LEGS
2. THE OLD WILLOW TREE
and other stories
THE NETTA SYRETT BOOKS
3. TOBY & THE ODD BEASTS
4. RACHEL & THE SEVEN WONDERS
THE W. H. KOEBEL BOOKS
5. THE BUTTERFLIES' DAY
[Illustration: 'YOU HAVE DISTURBED MY AFTERNOON NAP']
FOR THE HONBLE. MRS. HENRY MCLAREN.
DEAR CHRISTABEL,
From the first, your interest in Carl Ewald has been kindly, gracious
and insistent; as Michael Finsbury might have said, "you were his friend
through thick and thin;" and it is very much due to you (not to mention
Betty and Charles) that this volume has seen the light of day. Most of
the stories are new to this country; and I dedicate my translation to
you in all gratitude.
A. T. DE M.
CHELSEA, _23 September, 1921_.
[Illustration: List of Stories]
CHAPTER I _Page_
THE OLD WILLOW-TREE 13
CHAPTER II
THE MISTLETOE 47
CHAPTER III
THE LILAC-BUSH 59
CHAPTER IV
THE BEECH AND THE OAK 69
CHAPTER V
THE WEEDS 81
CHAPTER VI
THE ANEMONES 89
CHAPTER VII
THE WOOD AND THE HEATH 101
CHAPTER VIII
SOMEWHERE IN THE WOOD 111
CHAPTER IX
THE COUSINS 123
[Illustration: List of Pictures]
'You have disturbed my afternoon nap'
(_Coloured_) _Frontispiece._
'I want to pick some for myself!'
(_Coloured_) 40
The old dog stood on his hind-legs and
blinked with his blind eyes 50
'You really ought not to be so wasteful
with your leaves, old friend,' said
the bear, licking his paws 70
'Hide me! Save me!' (_Coloured_) 80
'Fie, for shame!' they cried to the
beech-leaves. 'It's you that are
killing us' 94
'Good-bye,' said the maiden-pink 114
There sat the mouse in the sugar-basin
(_Coloured_) 128
[Illustration: The Old Willow-tree]
I
There are many kinds of willows and they are so unlike that you would
hardly believe them to be relations.
There are some so small and wretched that they creep along the ground.
They live on the heath, or high up in the mountains, or in the cold
arctic regions. In the winter, they are quite hidden under the snow; in
the summer, they just poke up their noses above the tops of the heather.
There are people who shrink from notice because they are so badly off.
It is simply stupid to be ashamed of being poor; and the little
dwarf-willows are not a bit ashamed. But they know that the soil they
grow in is so poor that they can never attain the height of proper
trees. If they tried to shoot up and began to carry their heads like
their stately cousins the poplars, they would soon learn the difference.
For the poplars are their cousins. They are the stateliest of all the
willow-trees and they know it, as any one can see by looking at them
with half an eye. You only have to notice the way in which they hold
themselves erect to perceive it.
The beech and the oak and the birch and whatever the other trees are
called stick out one polite branch on this side and one polite branch on
that.
"May I beg you kindly to give me a little bit of sunshine?" says the
branch up in the air.
"Can I help you to a little bit of shadow?" says the branch down by the
ground.
But the poplars sing a very different tune. With them it is:
"Every branch straight up on high! Close up to the trunk with you!
There's nothing to stare at down below! Look above you! Heads up!...
March!"
And all the branches strut right up to the sky and the whole tree shoots
up, straight and proud as a pikestaff.
It's tiring. But it's elegant. And it pays. For has any one ever seen a
smarter tree than one of those real, regular poplars, as stiff as a tin
soldier and as tall as a steeple?
And, when the poplars stand along the road, in a long row on either
side, you feel very respectful as you walk between them and are not in
the least surprised when it appears that the avenue leads right up to a
fine country-house.
The dwarf-willows and the poplars belong to the same family. The first
are the commonest on the common side, the second are the smartest on the
smart side. Between them are a number of other willow-trees. There are
some whose leaves are like silver underneath and some whose leaves
quiver so mournfully in the warm summer wind that the poets write verses
about them. There are some whose branches droop so sorrowfully towards
the ground that people plant them on their graves and some whose
branches are so tough and flexible that people use them to weave baskets
of. There are some out of which you can carve yourself a grand flute, if
you know how. And then there are a heap about which there is nothing
very remarkable to tell.
2
The willow-tree in this story was just one of the middling sort. But he
had a destiny; and that is how he came to find his way into print.
His destiny began with this, that one of the proud poplars who stood in
the avenue leading to the manor-house was blown down in a terrible
storm. He snapped right down at his roots; the stump was dug up; and it
left a very ugly gap in the middle of the long row of trees. As soon as
spring came, therefore, the keeper brought a cutting and stuck it where
the old poplar used to stand, stamped down the ground firmly all around
it and nodded to it:
"Hurry, now, and shoot up," he said. "I know it's in | 1,189.520361 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: "Then he shot down, head foremost, and again found
himself in the grass." (Page 96.)]
*'POSSUM*
BY
MARY GRANT BRUCE
Author of "Glen Eyre," "Mates at Billabong,"
"Norah of Billabong," "Jim and Wally,"
etc., etc.
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO
To
My Mother
*CONTENTS*
I The "House Beautiful"
II Breaking Bad News
III Gordon's Farm
IV Into the Unknown
V The Home-Coming
VI A Day in the Country
VII The Riding of Jane
VIII Rain--And a Friend
IX "Maggie or Something"
X 'Possum Takes Hold
XI Farmers in Earnest
XII Sailing
XIII Amateur Surgery
XIV A Boating Holiday
XV Santa Claus and Clothes
XVI A Little Boy
XVII 'Possum Becomes a Pupil
XVIII The Regatta
XIX The Order of Release
*'POSSUM*
*CHAPTER I*
*THE "HOUSE BEAUTIFUL"*
The trim suburban garden blazed with flowers. Over the porch at the gate
mandevillea hung in a curtain of fragrant white, and an archway over the
path that wound through the close-shaven lawn was a miracle of Fortune's
yellow roses--gold and rose and copper blended gloriously. There were
beds aflame with "bonfire" salvia, and others gay with many-hued
annuals. Gaudy tulips reared splendid heads near a great clump of arum
lilies that fringed a tiny pool where little Garth Macleod's solitary
goldfish swam in lonely state. Everywhere there were roses; in
standards in the smooth, well-kept beds, or trained along the wide
verandas, forming a screen of exquisite blossom. Their sweetness lay
like a charm over the garden.
It was a hot spring afternoon. Tom Macleod, digging busily in a corner,
pushed his Panama back from his flushed face, and stood erect for a
moment to ease his aching back. As he did so a motor whirred to the
gate, stopped, and a stout little man hurried up the path, waving a
capable hand towards the shirt-sleeved worker across the lawn.
"Hullo, Doctor!" Macleod called.
"See you presently, Tom," was all the doctor vouchsafed him. He
disappeared behind the roses on the veranda, and Macleod returned to his
work with a furrow between his eyes that had not been there before.
From time to time he cast half-impatient glances towards the house,
whence no sound issued. Finally, with a hasty movement, he plunged his
spade into the soil, and went with long strides across the
grass--meeting, at the step, the doctor, who plunged out of the house
like a plump Jack-in-the-box.
"Oh!" said Macleod vaguely. "How's the kid?"
"The kid? why, going on first-rate," said the doctor, laughing. "Can't
a man stay five minutes talking to his patient's mother without your
making up your mind that the kid must be dying?"
Tom Macleod grinned a little shamefacedly.
"The last three weeks have rather unsettled my nervous system, I
believe," he said. "I didn't know I had one until Garth took to trying
to die. You needn't be so superior, old man. I believe the little
beggar shook up yours, too!"
"Well--it hasn't been too jolly a time," admitted the doctor. "One
doesn't like to see a nice kid suffering: and Garth and I are old chums.
Anyhow, he's better. Come and sit down; it's an extraordinary thing,
but I have time for a cigarette."
He went with quick, short steps towards a bench under a drooping pepper
tree, Macleod following with his long, easy stride. No two men could
have been a greater contrast: the short, plump doctor, with his
humorous, ugly face, which every child loved at the first glance, and
the tall, lean Australian, clean-limbed and handsome--almost boyish, but
for a certain worn expression, and for the lines of anxiety which his
boy's illness had graven round his eyes and mouth. They lit their
cigarettes and stared at each other.
"On the rare occasions when you announce that you've time to smoke, I
have noticed that you generally have something to communicate--probably
unpleasant," said Macleod. "What is it, old man?"
"I wish you weren't so observant," said the doctor; "it's disconcerting.
Well, I _have_ something. It isn't exactly new: I hinted at it to you
six months ago. Now I've got to speak plainly."
"You mean----?"
"I mean that if I had a boy like Garth I wouldn't run the risk of trying
to bring him up in a city," the doctor answered. "I haven't been
satisfied with the little chap for a long time. His constitution's all
right--there's nothing radically the matter. But he doesn't thrive.
You've seen that for yourself, Tom."
"Yes--I've seen it," said the father heavily. "Of course, we've kept
hoping he would grow stronger. As you say, there seemed nothing really
wrong, and he's pretty wiry----"
"If he hadn't been wiry I could not have pulled him through the last
three weeks," Dr. Metcalf said. "You may thank your stars he's wiry."
"If he hadn't picked up this unlucky illness----"
"Well--I don't know," said the doctor. "I'm inclined to think you may
yet consider it a blessing in disguise. You might have gone on pouring
tonics and patent messes into him, and hoping he'd improve. You can't
do it now. It's up to you and Aileen to give him every chance, if you
want a strong son instead of a weakling."
"That's final?" Macleod asked.
"That's my considered opinion. I know your difficulties, old man. But
I know you don't value anything in the world beyond Garth. Take him to
the country; let him live out of doors, and run as wild as a rabbit;
give him unlimited fresh milk--not the stuff you buy out of a
can--country food, and pure air: let him wear old clothes all the time
and sleep out of doors--and in a year I'd stake my professional
reputation you won't know him. Keep him in a Melbourne suburb, and I
won't be answerable for the consequences."
"That's pretty straight, anyhow," said Macleod.
"I mean it to be straight. I haven't known you since you were at school
to mince matters with you now. And I'm fond of the kid: I want to see
him grow into a decent man, with all the best that is in him given a
fair chance."
"We've tried to do that," Macleod said. He looked round the glowing
garden. "It's such a jolly home, and he does love it."
"It's one of the jolliest little homes I've ever seen, and it's going to
hurt both of you badly to leave it," the doctor rejoined. "The trouble
is, it is too jolly. You have made yourself a little Paradise inside
the tallest paling fence you could build, and you've shut out all that
lies outside that fence--miles on miles of teeming streets, packed and
jammed with people. You're in the midst of grass and roses and things,
with a sprinkler going on your tulips, or whatever those rainbow affairs
are--and you don't think about the street outside, dry and baking, with
a hot wind swirling the germ-laden dust about--blowing it probably upon
the meat and fruit and milk you'll buy to-morrow. The air comes to you
over thousands of houses, clean and dirty, and thousands of people
breathe it. You've got to get where there's no second-hand air."
"Great Scott!" ejaculated Macleod. "Will you tell me how any children
manage to live at all?"
"It's a special dispensation of Providence that most youngsters don't
die from germs," said the doctor, laughing. "I'm aware that the
infantile population of Melbourne is pretty healthy, but it's always a
mystery to me how children in any big city survive their surroundings.
After all, Melbourne's cleaner than most places. However, there is only
one among its hordes of kids that is interesting you and me at the
moment, and that's Garth. You've got to get him out of it, Tom."
"When?"
"As soon as you can make your arrangements. I know you can't do that in
a moment, but, of course, he could not be moved just yet. When he is
strong enough Aileen could take him somewhere until you were ready. But
get him to the country. His poor little head is full of stories and
make-believes: let him forget what a book looks like, and introduce him
to a pony. By the way, it's going to be enormously good for you and
Aileen, too."
"Is it?" Macleod asked, smiling grimly. "I'll worry along somehow,
though I know mighty little of anything outside a city. But it's rough
on her, poor girl. She just loathes the country--hasn't any use for
scrub and bad roads, and discomfort generally. I'll never be able to
get her a servant--there aren't any, I believe, once you get more than a
mile from a picture theatre. And she has never had to work."
"Don't you worry your head about Aileen," said the little doctor,
rising. "She has her head screwed on the right way--and women have a
way of doing what they've got to do. She can imagine herself her own
grandmother, fresh out from England, and tackling the Bush as all our
plucky little grandmothers did. Pity there are not more like them now:
we live too softly nowadays, and our backbones don't stiffen. But
you'll find Aileen will come out all right. In a year you'll all be
blessing me. When you come to think of it, I'm the only one to be
pitied. I'm going to miss you badly." There was a twisted smile on his
lips as he wrung his friend's hand. "Good-bye: my patients will be
calling down maledictions on my head if I don't hurry."
Macleod saw him into his dusty motor and watched it glide down the hot
street. Then he turned and went back through the scent of the garden,
instinctively making his footsteps noiseless as he crossed the veranda
and entered the house.
It was a trim house of one story, with a square hall where tall palms
gave an effect of green coolness. An embroidered curtain screened a
turn into a passage where, through an open door, could be heard the
sound of a low voice reading. A childish call cut across the soft
tones.
"Is that you, Daddy?"
"That's me," said Macleod cheerfully, if ungrammatically. "Are you sure
you ought not to be asleep?" He entered the room and smiled down at his
little son.
"A fellow can't sleep all day," Garth said. "'Sides, I needn't sleep so
much now. Doctor says I'm nearly well, Daddy."
"That's good news," said his father heartily. "We'll have you out in the
garden soon, and getting fat. The tulips are blossoming, Garth, and
your poor old goldfish is awfully lonesome. He says even Bran doesn't
go near him now."
"Bran is too busy nursing his master," said Garth's mother, looking at
the rough head of the Irish terrier curled up on a chair beside the
boy's bed. "We'll all get out together in a few days, and find out all
the beautiful things that have happened in the garden since we were
there. Won't it be lovely, Tom?"
She leaned back until her head touched her husband--a tall, pale girl,
with lovely features and a mass of fair hair that glinted like Garth's
when the sunlight fell on it, and eyes as blue as violets. Her long
hands, blue-veined and delicate, lay idly in her lap, one finger keeping
open the book from which she had been reading. She was like an
exquisite piece of china--fragile, to all outward appearance, and
dainty; graceful in every line. Tom Macleod looking down at her, felt as
he had felt ten year' ago, before they married, that he must let no wind
blow upon her roughly.
Now he had to tell her that they must go away, away from the ordered
comfort of city life, which was all that she had ever known, to whatever
the country had in store for them. Even for himself, always a townsman,
the prospect carried something of dread, as do all unfamiliar prospects.
But he knew that, whatever hardships the Bush holds for a man, it is
hardest on a woman.
Garth was chattering away, oblivious of his father's grave face.
"Doctor says I can talk as much as I like," he proclaimed happily. "And
he says I'll be perflickly well in a little bit, and then Mother can
take me down to the sea. And she says she will, didn't you, Mother?
And then you can come down for week-ends, Daddy. Or do you think the
Office would give you a holiday, like it did the time we went to Black
Rock?"
"It might," said his father.
"Do make it," Garth begged. "It would be so lovely, Daddy--and you
could teach me to swim." His little thin face, for which the brown eyes
were so much too large, was alight with eagerness. "Bran'll come too--he
loves going away, doesn't he? D'you know, Daddy, I think Bran was just
cut out for a country dog! He's so awful interested when he gets away
from the streets."
"I'm not sure that that's not very good taste on Bran's part," said
Macleod: and at something in his tone his wife looked up sharply. "What
do you think about it yourself, Garth?"
"Oh, I just love the country," Garth answered. "You get so tired with
streets--they all look alike, nothing but motors and dust. The Gardens
are jolly, of course, and so's Fawkner Park; but they're not the same as
the real country. D'you remember the time we went to Gippsland for the
holidays? Wasn't it lovely? I always felt when we went out walking that
we might meet anything whatever--fairies, or Bunyips, or--or all sorts
of things!"
"But you never did, I suppose?"
"N-no," Garth admitted. "But I used to pretend I did, and that was fun.
And I truly did see some rabbits and a wallaby, only the people at the
farm weren't a bit pleased when I told them about the rabbits. Mr.
Brown said he'd rather see a gorilla on any of _his_ land. Isn't it a
pity rabbits are such damageous things, Daddy? Anyhow, I used to
pretend that all the really bad fairies had got locked up inside
rabbits, to do as much mischief as ever they could, until they got good
again. But Mr. Brown said that if ever he heard of a rabbit getting
good he'd eat his hat."
"Seeing that Brown told me he'd just spent two hundred pounds netting
his land against rabbits, you couldn't expect him to love them," Macleod
said.
"Two hundred pounds is an awful lot of money, isn't it?" Garth asked
innocently. "But you've got heaps more than that, haven't you, Daddy?"
"Not as big a heap as I would like," his father answered. He walked
across the room and stood looking out of the window, his eye wandering
over the well-kept garden. A lucky legacy had enabled him to buy his
home just before his marriage: now he wished with all his heart that he
had not spent so much, in the years that followed, in making it nearer
and nearer to their hearts' desire. They had built a room here, a
veranda there: had installed electric light and cooking power, electric
fans and electric irons--had filled the house with every modern device
for ease and comfort. His salary was good: there was no need for
economy. He had lavished it on the garden they loved, until its high
walls enclosed, in truth, a little paradise. Their personal tastes had
been expensive: stalls at the theatres, little dinners at the Savoy,
races, dances, bridge parties, had all been commonplaces in their happy,
careless life. Best of all had he loved to dress Aileen beautifully.
"When a fellow has the loveliest wife in Australia, it's up to him to
see that she's decently rigged out," he would say, bringing home a fur
coat, a costly sunshade, a piece of exquisite lace. He hardly knew how
much his own clothes, quietly good, had cost him: Garth had been the
best turned out boy in the neighbourhood. Their servants, well-paid and
lightly-worked, had kept the household machinery moving silently on
oiled wheels. There had seemed not one crumpled petal in the
rose-leaves that strewed their path.
The trained nurse entered softly, bearing on a little brass tray Garth's
tea-service--dainty china, painted with queer, long-necked cats.
"This is the first day I've felt really int'rested in tea," Garth
proclaimed cheerfully, wriggling up on his pillows. His mother moved
quickly to help him, slipping a wrap round the thin little shoulders.
Then a gong chimed softly from the hall, and she turned to her husband.
Her fingers lay on his shoulder for a moment.
"Tea, Tom."
"Oh, all right," he said, and turned from the window. "So long, old
son--eat a big tea."
"I'll eat a 'normous one, if Nurse will only give it to me," Garth said,
eyeing his tray hungrily. "Mind you do, too, Daddy. And come back
soon."
"I will," Macleod said. He smiled at the eager face as he followed his
wife from the room.
*CHAPTER II*
*BREAKING BAD NEWS*
It was one of Aileen Macleod's whims that she liked to brew her own tea.
A copper kettle bubbled busily over a spirit lamp on the tray as they
entered the drawing-room, and her husband flung himself into an
arm-chair and watched the slim, beautiful hands busy with the silver
tea-caddy and the quaint, squat teapot. Neither spoke until she came to
his side with his cup.
"I beg your pardon, dear," he said, trying to rise. She kept him back,
a hand on his shoulder.
"You've been working: why shouldn't I bring you your tea?" she said,
smiling at him.
"Because I ought to be looking after you," he rejoined. He was on his
feet with a quick movement, took her by the shoulders laughingly, and
put her into a big chair, bringing tea and hot cakes to a tiny table
beside her.
"There!" he said. "No: you want another cushion. Now lie back,
sweetheart, and rest; you're ever so much more tired than you'll admit,
even to yourself."
"Being tired doesn't matter, now," she said. "Nothing matters, now that
Garth is safe. But it's nice to be bullied." She smiled at him, with a
little restful movement, then took up her cup. Over it she looked at him
questioningly.
"Dr. Metcalfe _is_ quite satisfied, Tom? What were you and he talking
about for so long?"
"Oh, he's quite satisfied with the boy's progress," Macleod answered.
"He says you and he can go away quite soon. We--we were just yarning."
Something tied his tongue; she looked so tired, and yet so peaceful. He
would not tell her just yet.
Aileen opened her | 1,189.700016 |
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Transcriber's Note:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible. | 1,189.700023 |
2023-11-16 18:36:53.8717660 | 4,028 | 7 |
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from the Internet Archive.)
_ENGLISH MEN OF LETTERS_
_PRESCOTT_
[Illustration: image of the book's cover]
_ENGLISH MEN OF LETTERS_
WILLIAM HICKLING
PRESCOTT
BY
HARRY THURSTON PECK
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
1905
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1905,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published May, 1905.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
To
WILLIAM ARCHIBALD DUNNING
_AMICITIAE CAUSA_
PREFATORY NOTE
For the purely biographical portion of this book an especial
acknowledgment of obligation is due to the valuable collection of
Prescott's letters and memoranda made by his friend George Ticknor, and
published in 1864 as part of Ticknor's _Life of W. H. Prescott_. All
other available sources, however, have been explored, and are
specifically mentioned either in the text or in the footnotes.
H. T. P.
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY,
March 1, 1905.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
THE NEW ENGLAND HISTORIANS 1
CHAPTER II
EARLY YEARS 13
CHAPTER III
THE CHOICE OF A CAREER 39
CHAPTER IV
SUCCESS 54
CHAPTER V
IN MID CAREER 72
CHAPTER VI
THE LAST TEN YEARS 99
CHAPTER VII
"FERDINAND AND ISABELLA"--PRESCOTT'S STYLE 121
CHAPTER VIII
"THE CONQUEST OF MEXICO" AS LITERATURE AND AS
HISTORY 133
CHAPTER IX
"THE CONQUEST OF PERU"--"PHILIP II." 160
CHAPTER X
PRESCOTT'S RANK AS AN HISTORIAN 173
INDEX 181
_PRESCOTT_
WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT
CHAPTER I
THE NEW ENGLAND HISTORIANS
Throughout the first few decades of the nineteenth century, the United
States, though forming a political entity, were in everything but name
divided into three separate nations, each one of which was quite unlike
the other two. This difference sprang partly from the character of the
population in each, partly from divergent tendencies in American
colonial development, and partly from conditions which were the result
of both these causes. The culture-history, therefore, of each of the
three sections exhibits, naturally enough, a distinct and definite phase
of intellectual activity, which is reflected very clearly in the records
of American literature.
In the Southern States, just as in the Southern colonies out of which
they grew, the population was homogeneous and of English stock. Almost
the sole occupation of the people was agriculture, while the tone of
society was markedly aristocratic, as was to be expected from a
community dominated by great landowners who were also the masters of
many slaves. These landowners, living on their estates rather than in
towns and cities, caring nothing for commerce or for manufactures,
separated from one another by great distances, and cherishing the
intensely conservative traditions of that England which saw the last of
the reigning Stuarts, were inevitably destined to intellectual
stagnation. The management of their plantations, the pleasures of the
chase, and the exercise of a splendid though half-barbaric hospitality,
satisfied the ideals which they had inherited from their Tory ancestors.
Horses and hounds, a full-blooded conviviality, and the exercise of a
semi-feudal power, occupied their minds and sufficiently diverted them.
Such an atmosphere was distinctly unfavourable to the development of a
love of letters and of learning. The Southern gentleman regarded the
general diffusion of education as a menace to his class; while for
himself he thought it more or less unnecessary. He gained a practical
knowledge of affairs by virtue of his position. As for culture, he had
upon the shelves of his library, where also were displayed his weapons
and the trophies of the chase, a few hundred volumes of the standard
essayists, poets, and dramatists of a century before. If he seldom read
them and never added to them, they at least implied a recognition of
polite learning and such a degree of literary taste as befitted a
Virginian or Carolinian gentleman. But, practically, English literature
had for him come to an end with Addison and Steele and Pope and their
contemporaries. The South stood still in the domain of letters and
education. Not that there were lacking men who cherished the ambition to
make for themselves a name in literature. There were many such, among
whom Gayarre, Beverly, and Byrd deserve an honourable remembrance; but
their surroundings were unfavourable, and denied to them that
intelligent appreciation which inspires the man of letters to press on
to fresh achievement. An interesting example is found in the abortive
history of Virginia undertaken by Dr. William Stith, who was President
of William and Mary College, and who possessed not only scholarship but
the gift of literary expression. The work which he began, however, was
left unfinished, because of an utter lack of interest on the part of the
public for whom it had been undertaken. Dr. Stith's own quaint comment
throws a light upon contemporary conditions. He had laboured diligently
in collecting documents which represented original sources of
information; yet, when he came to publish the first and only volume of
his history, he omitted many of them, giving as his reason:--
"I perceive, to my no small Surprise and Mortification, that some
of my Countrymen (and those too, Persons of high Fortune and
Distinction) seemed to be much alarmed, and to grudge, that a
complete History of their own Country would run to more than one
Volume, and cost them above half a Pistole. I was, therefore,
obliged to restrain my Hand,... for fear of enhancing the Price,
to the immense Charge and irreparable Damage of such generous and
publick-spirited Gentlemen."[1]
The Southern universities were meagrely attended; and though the sons of
wealthy planters might sometimes be sent to Oxford or, more usually, to
Princeton or to Yale, the discipline thus acquired made no general
impression upon the class to which they belonged. In fact, the
intellectual energy of the South found its only continuous and powerful
expression in the field of politics. To government and statesmanship
its leading minds gave much attention, for only thus could they retain
in national affairs the supremacy which they arrogated to themselves and
which was necessary to preserve their peculiar institution. Hence, there
were to be found among the leaders of the Southern people a few
political philosophers like Jefferson, a larger number of political
casuists like Calhoun, and a swarm of political rhetoricians like
Patrick Henry, Hayne, Legare, and Yancey. But beyond the limits of
political life the South was intellectually sterile. So narrowing and so
hostile to liberal culture were its social conditions that even to this
day it has not produced a single man of letters who can be truthfully
described as eminent, unless the name of Edgar Allan Poe be cited as an
exception whose very brilliance serves only to prove and emphasise the
rule.
In the Middle States, on the other hand, a very different condition of
things existed. Here the population was never homogeneous. The English
Royalists and the Dutch in New York, the English Quakers and the Germans
in Pennsylvania and the Swedes in Delaware, made inevitable, from the
very first, a cosmopolitanism that favoured variety of interests, with a
resulting breadth of view and liberality of thought. Manufactures
flourished and foreign commerce was extensively pursued, insuring
diversity of occupation. The two chief cities of the nation were here,
and not far distant from each other. Wealth was not unevenly
distributed, and though the patroon system had created in New York a
landed gentry, this class was small, and its influence was only one of
many. Comfort was general, religious freedom was unchallenged,
education was widely and generally diffused. The large urban population
created an atmosphere of urbanity. Even in colonial times, New York and
Philadelphia were the least provincial of American towns. They attracted
to themselves, not only the most interesting people from the other
sections, but also many a European wanderer, who found there most of the
essential graces of life, with little or none of that combined austerity
and rawness which elsewhere either disgusted or amused him. We need not
wonder, then, if it was in the Middle States that American literature
really found its birth, or if the forms which it there assumed were
those which are touched by wit and grace and imagination. Franklin,
frozen and repelled by what he thought the bigotry of Boston, sought
very early in his life the more congenial atmosphere of Philadelphia,
where he found a public for his copious writings, which, if not
precisely literature, were, at any rate, examples of strong, idiomatic
English, conveying the shrewd philosophy of an original mind. Charles
Brockden Brown first blazed the way in American fiction with six novels,
amid whose turgid sentences and strange imaginings one may here and
there detect a touch of genuine power and a striving after form.
Washington Irving, with his genial humour and well-bred ease, was the
very embodiment of the spirit of New York. Even Professor Barrett
Wendell, whose critical bias is wholly in favour of New England,
declares that Irving was the first of American men of letters, as he was
certainly the first American writer to win a hearing outside of his own
country. And to these we may add still others,--Freneau, from whom both
Scott and Campbell borrowed; Cooper, with his stirring sea-tales and
stories of Indian adventure; and Bryant, whose early verses were thought
to be too good to have been written by an American. And there were also
Drake and Halleck and Woodworth and Paine, some of whose poetry still
continues to be read and quoted. The mention of them serves as a
reminder that American literature in the nineteenth century, like
English literature in the fourteenth, found its origin where wealth,
prosperity, and a degree of social elegance made possible an
appreciation of belles-lettres.
Far different was it in New England. There, as in the South, the
population was homogeneous and English. But it was a Puritan population,
of which the environment and the conditions of its life retarded, and at
the same time deeply influenced, the evolution of its literature. One
perceives a striking parallel between the early history of the people of
New England and that of the people of ancient Rome. Each was forced to
wrest a living from a rugged soil. Each dwelt in constant danger from
formidable enemies. The Roman was ready at every moment to draw his
sword for battle with Faliscans, Samnites, or Etruscans. The New
Englander carried his musket with him even to the house of prayer,
fearing the attack of Pequots or Narragansetts. The exploits of such
half-mythical Roman heroes as Camillus and Cincinnatus find their
analogue in the achievements credited to Miles Standish and the doughty
Captain Church. Early Rome knew little of the older and more polished
civilisation of Greece. New England was separated by vast distances from
the richer life of Europe. In Rome, as in New England, religion was
linked closely with all the forms of government; and it was a religion
which appealed more strongly to men's sense of duty and to their fears,
than to their softer feelings. The Roman gods needed as much
propitiation as did the God of Jonathan Edwards. When a great calamity
befell the Roman people, they saw in it the wrath of their divinities
precisely as the true New Englander was taught to view it as a
"providence." In both commonwealths, education of an elementary sort was
deemed essential; but it was long before it reached the level of
illumination.
Like influences yield like results. The Roman character, as moulded in
the Republic's early years, was one of sternness and efficiency. It
lacked gayety, warmth, and flexibility. And the New England character
resembled it in all of these respects. The historic worthies of Old Rome
would have been very much at ease in early Massachusetts. Cato the
Censor could have hobnobbed with old Josiah Quincy, for they were
temperamentally as like as two peas. It is only the Romans of the Empire
who would have felt out of place in a New England environment. Horace
might conceivably have found a smiling _angulus terrarum_ somewhere on
the lower Hudson, but he would have pined away beside the Nashua; while
to Ovid, Beacon Street would have seemed as ghastly as the frozen <DW72>s
of Tomi. And when we compare the native period of Roman literature with
the early years of New England's literary history, the parallel becomes
more striking still. In New England, as in Rome, beneath all the forms
of a self-governing and republican State, there existed a genuine
aristocracy whose prestige was based on public service of some sort;
and in New England, as in Rome, public service had in it a theocratic
element. In civil life, the most honourable occupation for a free
citizen was to share in this public service. Hence, the disciplines
which had a direct relation to government were the only civic
disciplines to be held in high consideration. Such an attitude
profoundly affected the earliest attempts at literature. The two
literary or semi-literary pursuits which have a close relation to
statesmanship are oratory and history--oratory, which is the statesman's
instrument, and history, which is in part the record of his
achievements. Therefore, at Rome, a line of native orators arose before
a native poet won a hearing, and therefore, too, the annalists and
chroniclers precede the dramatists.
In New England it was much the same. Almost from the founding of the
Massachusetts Bay Colony, there were men among the colonists who wrote
down with diffusive dulness the records of whatever they had seen and
suffered. Governor William Bradford composed a history of New England;
and Thomas Prince, minister of the Old South Church, compiled another
work of like title, described by its author as told "in the Form of
Annals." Hutchinson prepared a history of Massachusetts Bay; and many
others had collected local traditions, which seemed to them of great
moment, and had preserved them in books, or else in manuscripts which
were long afterwards to be published by zealous antiquarians. Cotton
Mather's curious _Magnalia_, printed in 1700, was intended by its author
to be history, though strictly speaking it is theological and is clogged
with inappropriate learning,--Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. The parallel
between early Rome and early Massachusetts breaks down, however, when we
consider the natural temperament of the two peoples as distinct from
that which external circumstances cultivated in them. Underneath the
sternness and severity which were the fruits of Puritanism, there
existed in the New England character a touch of spirituality, of
idealism, and of imagination such as were always foreign to the Romans.
Under the repression of a grim theocracy, New England idealism still
found its necessary outlet in more than one strange form. We can trace
it in the hot religious eloquence of Edwards even better than in the
imitative poetry of Mrs. Bradstreet. It is to be found even in such
strange panics as that which shrieked for the slaying of the Salem
"witches." Time alone was needed to bring tolerance and intellectual
freedom, and with them a freer choice of literary themes and moods. The
New England temper remained, and still remains, a serious one; yet
ultimately it was to find expression in forms no longer harsh and rigid,
but modelled upon the finer lines of truth and beauty.
The development was a gradual one. The New England spirit still exacted
sober subjects of its writers. And so the first evolution of New England
literature took place along the path of historical composition. The
subjects were still local or, at the most, national; but there was a
steady drift away from the annalistic method to one which partook of
conscious art. In the writings of Jared Sparks there is seen imperfectly
the scientific spirit, entirely self-developed and self-trained. His
laborious collections of historical material, and his dry but accurate
biographies, mark a distinct advance beyond his predecessors. Here, at
least, are historical scholarship and, in the main, a conscientious
scrupulosity in documentation. It is true that Sparks was charged, and
not quite unjustly, with garbling some of the material which he
preserved; yet, on the whole, one sees in him the founder of a school of
American historians. What he wrote was history, if it was not
literature. George Bancroft, his contemporary, wrote history, and was
believed for a time to have written it in literary form. To-day his six
huge volumes, which occupied him fifty years in writing, and which bring
the reader only to the inauguration of Washington, make but slight
appeal to a cultivated taste. The work is at once too ponderous and too
rhetorical. Still, in its way, it marks another step.
Up to this time, however, American historians were writing only for a
restricted public. They had not won a hearing beyond the country whose
early history they told. Their themes possessed as yet no interest for
foreign nations, where the feeble American Republic was little known and
little noticed. The republican experiment was still a doubtful one, and
there was nothing in the somewhat paltry incidents of its early years to
rivet the attention of the other hemisphere. "America" was a convenient
term to denote an indefinite expanse | 1,189.891806 |
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STAND UP, YE DEAD
BY
NORMAN MACLEAN
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON -- NEW YORK -- TORONTO
MCMXVI
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
DWELLERS IN THE MIST
HILLS OF HOME
CAN THE WORLD BE WON FOR CHRIST?
THE BURNT-OFFERING
AFRICA IN TRANSFORMATION
THE GREAT DISCOVERY
{v}
PREFACE
Two years ago the writer published a book called _The Great Discovery_.
It seemed to him in those days, when the nation chose the ordeal of
battle rather than dishonour, that the people, as if waking from sleep,
discovered God once more. But, now, after an agony unparalleled in the
history of the world, the vision of God has faded, and men are left
groping in the darkness of a great bewilderment. The cause may not be
far to seek. For every vision of God summons men to the girding of
themselves that they may bring their lives more into conformity with
His holy will. And when men decline the venture to which the vision
beckons, then the vision fades.
It is there that we have failed. We were called to put an end to
social evils {vi} which are sapping our strength and enfeebling our arm
in battle, but we refused. We wanted victory over the enemy, but we
deemed the price of moral surgery too great even for victory. In the
rush and crowding of world-shaking cataclysms, memory is short. We
have already almost forgotten the moral tragedy of April 1915. It was
then that the White Paper was issued by the Government, and the nation
was informed of startling facts which our statesmen knew all the time.
At last the nation was told that our armies were wellnigh paralysed for
lack of munitions, while thousands of men were daily away from their
work because of drunkenness; that the repairing of ships was delayed
and transports unable to put to sea because of drunkenness; that goods,
vital to the State, could not be delivered because of drunkenness; that
Admiral Jellicoe had warned the Government that the efficiency of the
Fleet was threatened because of drunkenness; and that shipbuilders and
munition manufacturers had made a strong {vii} appeal to our rulers to
put an end to drunkenness. It was then that the King, by his example,
called upon the people to renounce alcohol, and the nation waited for
its deliverance. But the Government refused to follow the King. There | 1,189.979318 |
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[Illustration: "HOW GOOD OF YOU TO COME!" SHE EXCLAIMED. BESSIE SAW SHE
HAD BEEN CRYING.]
OUR BESSIE
BY
ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY
AUTHOR OF "MERLE'S CRUSADE," "NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS,"
"ONLY THE GOVERNESS," ETC.
THE MERSHON COMPANY
RAHWAY, N. J. NEW YORK
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
BESSIE MEETS WITH AN ADVENTURE 1
CHAPTER II.
"HERE IS OUR BESSIE" 16
CHAPTER III.
HATTY 31
CHAPTER IV.
A COSY MORNING 46
CHAPTER V.
THE OATLANDS POST-MARK 61
CHAPTER VI.
LITTLE MISS MUCH-AFRAID 74
CHAPTER VII.
IN THE KENTISH LANES 87
CHAPTER VIII.
AT THE GRANGE 101
CHAPTER IX.
RICHARD SEFTON 115
CHAPTER X.
BESSIE IS INTRODUCED TO BILL SYKES 129
CHAPTER XI.
EDNA HAS A GRIEVANCE 148
CHAPTER XII.
THE FIRST SUNDAY AT THE GRANGE 156
CHAPTER XIII.
WHITEFOOT IN REQUISITION 171
CHAPTER XIV.
BESSIE SNUBS A HERO 183
CHAPTER XV.
"SHE WILL NOT COME" 197
CHAPTER XVI.
A NOTE FROM HATTY 209
CHAPTER XVII.
"TROUBLE MAY COME TO ME ONE DAY" 222
CHAPTER XVIII.
"FAREWELL, NIGHT" 236
CHAPTER XIX.
"I MUST NOT THINK OF MYSELF" 249
CHAPTER XX.
"BESSIE'S SECOND FLITTING" 263
CHAPTER XXI.
ON THE PARADE 276
CHAPTER XXII.
BESSIE BUYS A JAPANESE FAN 289
CHAPTER XXIII.
MRS. SEFTON HAS ANOTHER VISITOR 303
CHAPTER XXIV.
IN THE COOMBE WOODS 318
OUR BESSIE.
CHAPTER I.
BESSIE MEETS WITH AN ADVENTURE.
It was extremely tiresome!
It was vexatious; it was altogether annoying!
Most people under similar circumstances would have used stronger
expressions, would have bemoaned themselves loudly, or at least
inwardly, with all the pathos of self-pity.
To be nearly at the end of one's journey, almost within sight and sound
of home fires and home welcomes, and then to be snowed up, walled,
imprisoned, kept in durance vile in an unexpected snowdrift--well, most
human beings, unless gifted with angelic patience, and armed with
special and peculiar fortitude, would have uttered a few groans under
such depressing circumstances.
Fortunately, Bessie Lambert was not easily depressed. She was a cheerful
young person, an optimist by nature; and, thanks to a healthy
organization, good digestion, and wholesome views of duty, was not
given to mental nightmares, nor to cry out before she was hurt.
Bessie would have thought it faint-hearted to shrink at every little
molehill of difficulty; she had plenty of what the boys call pluck (no
word is more eloquent than that), and a fund of quiet humor that tided
her safely over many a slough of despond. If any one could have read
Bessie's thoughts a few minutes after the laboring engine had ceased to
work, they would have been as follows, with little staccato movements
and pauses:
"What an adventure! How Tom would laugh, and Katie too! Katie is always
longing for something to happen to her; but it would be more enjoyable
if I had some one with me to share it, and if I were sure father and
mother would not be anxious. An empty second-class compartment is not a
particularly comfortable place on a cold afternoon. I wonder how it
would be if all the passengers were to get out and warm themselves with
a good game of snowballing. There is not much room, though; we should
have to play it in a single file, or by turns. Supposing that, instead
of that, the nice, white-haired old gentleman who got in at the last
station were to assemble us all in the third-class carriage and tell us
a story about Siberia; that would be nice and exciting. Tom would
suggest a ghost story, a good creepy one; but that would be too dismal.
The hot-water tin is getting cold, but I have got a rug, I am thankful
to say, so I shall not freeze for the next two hours. If I had only a
book, or could go to sleep--oh!" in a tone of relief, as the guard's
face was suddenly thrust in at the open window.
"I beg your pardon, miss; I hope I did not startle you; but there is a
young lady in the first-class compartment who, I take it, would be the
better for a bit of company; and as I saw you were alone, I thought you
might not object to change your carriage."
"No, indeed; I shall be delighted to have a companion," returned Bessie
briskly. "How long do you think we shall be detained here, guard?"
"There is no knowing, miss; but one of our men is working his way back
to the signals. We have not come more than three miles since we left
Cleveley. It is only a bit of a drift that the snow-plow will soon
clear, and it will be a matter of two or three hours, I dare say; but it
has left off snowing now."
"Will they telegraph to Cliffe the reason of the delay?" asked Bessie, a
little anxiously.
"Oh, yes, they will do that right enough; you needn't be uneasy. The
other young lady is in a bit of a fuss, too, but I told her there was no
danger. Give a good jump, miss; there, now you are all right. I will
take care of your things. Follow me, please; it is only a step or so."
"This is more of an adventure than ever," thought Bessie, as she
followed the big, burly guard. "What a kind man he is! Perhaps he has
daughters of his own." And she thanked him so warmly and so prettily as
he almost lifted her into the carriage, that he muttered, as he turned
away:
"That's a nice, pleasant little woman. I like that sort."
The first-class compartment felt warm and snug. Its only tenant was a
fair, pretty-looking girl, dressed very handsomely in a mantle trimmed
with costly fur, and a fur-lined rug over her knees.
"Oh, thank you! How good of you to come!" she exclaimed eagerly; and
Bessie saw at once that she had been crying. "I was feeling so
frightened and miserable all by myself. I got it into my head that
another train would run into us, and I was quite in a panic until the
guard assured me there was no danger. He told me that there was another
young lady alone, and that he would bring her to me."
"Yes, that was so nice of him; and of course it is pleasanter to be able
to speak to somebody," returned Bessie cheerfully; "and it is so much
warmer here."
"Take some of my rug; I do not need it all myself; and we may as well be
as comfortable as we can, under the miserable circumstances."
"Well, do you know I think it might be worse?"
"Worse! how can you talk so?" with a shudder.
"Why, it can hardly be a great hardship to sit for another two hours in
this nice warm carriage, with this beautiful rug to cover us. It
certainly was a little dull and cold in the other compartment, and I
longed to get out and have a game of snowballing to warm myself." But
here her companion gave a little laugh.
"What a funny idea! How could you think of such a thing?" And here she
looked, for the first time, rather scrutinizingly at Bessie. Oh, yes,
she was a lady--she spoke nicely and had good manners; but how very
shabbily she was dressed--at least, not shabbily; that was not the right
word--inexpensively would have been the correct term.
Bessie's brown tweed had evidently seen more seasons than one; her
jacket fitted the trim figure, but was not made in the last fashion; and
the brown velvet on her hat was decidedly worn. How was the young lady
to know that Bessie was wearing her oldest things from a sense of
economy, and that her new jacket and best hat--a very pretty one--were
in the neat black box in the luggage-van?
Certainly the two girls were complete opposites. Bessie, who, as her
brother Tom often told her, was no beauty, was, notwithstanding, a
bright, pleasant-looking girl, with soft gray eyes that could express a
great deal of quiet sympathy on occasions, or could light up with fun.
People who loved her always said Bessie's face was better than a
beautiful one, for it told nothing but the truth about itself. It did
not say, "Come, admire me," as some faces say, but, "Come, trust me if
you can."
The fashionably dressed young stranger had a very different type of
face. In the first place, it was undeniably pretty; no one ever thought
of contradicting that fact, though a few people might have thought it a
peculiar style of beauty, for she had dark-brown eyes and fair
hair--rather an uncommon combination.
She was small, too, and very pale, and yet not fragile-looking; on the
contrary, she had a clear look of health, but there was a petulant curve
about the mouth that spoke of quick temper, and the whole face seemed
capable of great mobility, quick changes of feeling that were perfectly
transparent.
Bessie was quite aware that her new acquaintance was taking stock of
her; she was quietly amused, but she took no apparent notice.
"Is Cliffe-on-Sea your destination?" she asked presently.
"No; is it yours?" with a quick note of alarm in her voice. "Oh, I am so
sorry!" as Bessie nodded. "I hoped we should have travelled together to
London. I do dislike travelling alone, but my friend was too ill to
accompany me, and I did not want to stay at Islip another day; it was
such a stupid place, so dull; so I said I must come, and this is the
result."
"And you are going to London? Why, your journey is but just beginning.
Cliffe-on-Sea is where I live, and we cannot be more than two miles off.
Oh, what will you do if we are detained here for two or three hours?"
"I am sure I don't know," returned the other girl disconsolately, and
her eyes filled with tears again. "It is nearly five now, and it will
be too late to go on to London; but I dare not stay at a hotel by
myself. What will mamma say? She will be dreadfully vexed with me for
not waiting for Mrs. Moultrie--she never will let me travel alone, and
I have disobeyed her."
"That is a great pity," returned Bessie gravely; but politeness forbade
her to say more. She was old-fashioned enough to think that disobedience
to parents was a heinous offence. She did not understand the present
code, that allows young people to set up independent standards of duty.
To her the fifth commandment was a very real commandment, and just as
binding in the nineteenth century as when the young dwellers in tents
first listened to it under the shadow of the awful Mount.
Bessie's gravely disapproving look brought a mocking little smile to the
other girl's face; her quick comprehension evidently detected the
rebuke, but she only answered flippantly:
"Mamma is too much used to my disobedience to give it a thought; she
knows I will have my way in things, and she never minds; she is sensible
enough to know grown-up girls generally have wills of their own."
"I think I must have been brought up differently," returned Bessie
simply. "I recollect in our nursery days mother used to tell us that
little bodies ought not to have grown-up wills; and when we got older,
and wanted to get the reins in our own hands, as young people will, she
would say, 'Gently, gently, girls; you may be grown up, but you will
never be as old as your parents--'" But here Bessie stopped, on seeing
that her companion was struggling with suppressed merriment.
"It does sound so funny, don't you know! Oh, I don't mean to be rude,
but are not your people just a little bit old-fashioned and behind the
times? I don't want to shock you; I am far too grateful for your
company. Mamma and I thoroughly understand each other. I am very fond of
her, and I am as sorry as possible to vex her by getting into this
mess;" and here the girl heaved a very genuine sigh.
"And you live in London?" Bessie was politely changing the subject.
"Oh, no; but we have some friends there, and I was going to break my
journey and do a little shopping. Our home is in Kent; we live at
Oatlands--such a lovely, quiet little place--far too quiet for me; but
since I came out mamma always spends the season in town. The
Grange--that is our house--is really Richard's--my brother's, I mean."
"The Grange--Oatlands? I am sure I know that name," returned Bessie, in
a puzzled tone; "and yet where could I have heard it?" She thought a
moment, and then added quickly, "Your name cannot be Sefton?"
"To be sure it is," replied the other girl, opening her brown eyes
rather wildly; "Edna Sefton; but how could you have guessed it?"
"Then your mother's name is Eleanor?"
"I begin to think this is mysterious, and that you must be a witch, or
something uncanny. I know all mamma's friends, and I am positive not
one of them ever lived at Cliffe-on-Sea."
"And you are quite sure of that? Has your mother never mentioned the
name of a Dr. Lambert?"
"Dr. Lambert! No. Wait a moment, though. Mamma is very fond of talking
about old days, when she was a girl, don't you know, and there was a
young doctor, very poor, I remember, but his name was Herbert."
"My father's name is Herbert, and he was very poor once, when he was a
young man; he is not rich now. I think, many years ago, he and your
mother were friends. Let me tell you all I know about it. About a year
ago he asked me to post a letter for him. I remember reading aloud the
address in an absent sort of way: 'Mrs. Sefton, The Grange, Oatlands,
Kent;' and my father looked up from his writing, and said, 'That is only
a business letter, Bessie, but Mrs. Sefton and I are old correspondents.
When she was Eleanor Sartoris, and I was a young fellow as poor as a
church mouse, we were good friends; but she married, and then I married;
but that is a lifetime ago; she was a handsome girl, though.'"
"Mamma is handsome now. How interesting it all is! When I get home I
shall coax mamma to tell me all about it. You see, we are not strangers
after all, so we can go on talking quite like old friends. You have made
me forget the time. Oh dear, how dark it is getting! and the gas gives
only a glimmer of light."
"It will not be quite dark, because of the snow. Do not let us think
about the time. Some of the passengers are walking about. I heard them
say just now the man must have reached Cleveley, so the telegram must
have gone--we shall soon have help. Of course, if the snow had not
ceased falling, it would have been far more serious."
"Yes," returned Miss Sefton, with a shiver; "but it is far nicer to read
of horrid things in a cheerful room and by a bright fire than to
experience them one's self. Somehow one never realizes them."
"That is what father says--that young people are not really
hard-hearted, only they do not realize things; their imagination just
skims over the surface. I think it is my want of imagination helps me. I
never will look round the corner to try and find out what disagreeable
thing is coming next. One could not live so and feel cheerful."
"Then you are one of those good people, Miss Lambert, who think it their
duty to cultivate cheerfulness. I was quite surprised to see you look so
tranquil, when I had been indulging in a babyish fit of crying, from
sheer fright and misery; but it made me feel better only to look at
you."
"I am so glad," was Bessie's answer. "I remember being very much struck
by a passage in an essay I once read, but I can only quote it from
memory; it was to the effect that when a cheerful person enters a room
it is as though fresh candles are lighted. The illustration pleases me."
"True, it was very telling. Yes, you are cheerful, and you are very fond
of talking."
"I am afraid I am a sad chatterbox," returned Bessie, blushing, as
though she were conscious of an implied reproof.
"Oh, but I like talking people. People who hold their tongues and listen
are such bores. I do detest bores. I talk a great deal myself."
"I think I have got into the way for Hatty's sake. Hatty is the sickly
one of our flock; she has never been strong. When she was a tiny, weeny
thing she was always crying and fretful. Father tells us that she cannot
help it, but he never says so to her; he laughs and calls her 'Little
Miss Much-Afraid.' Hatty is full of fear. She cannot see a mouse, as I
tell her, without looking round the corner for pussy's claws."
"Is Hatty your only sister, Miss Lambert?"
"Oh, no; there are three more. I am the eldest--'Mother's crutch,' as
they call me. We are such a family for giving each other funny names.
Tom comes next. I am three-and-twenty--quite an old person, as Tom
says--and he is one-and-twenty. He is at Oxford; he wants to be a
barrister. Christine comes next to Tom--she is nineteen, and so pretty;
and then poor Hatty--'sour seventeen,' as Tom called her on her last
birthday; and then the two children, Ella and Katie; though Ella is
nearly sixteen, and Katie fourteen, but they are only school-girls."
"What a large family!" observed Miss Sefton, stifling a little yawn.
"Now, mamma has only got me, for we don't count Richard."
"Not count your brother?"
"Oh, Richard is my step-brother; he was papa's son, you know; that makes
a difference. Papa died when I was quite a little girl, so you see what
I mean by saying mamma has only got me."
"But she has your brother, too," observed Bessie, somewhat puzzled by
this.
"Oh, yes, of course." But Miss Sefton's tone was enigmatical, and she
somewhat hastily changed the subject by saying, plaintively, "Oh, dear,
do please tell me, Miss Lambert, what you think I ought to do when we
reach Cliffe, if we ever do reach it. Shall I telegraph to my friends in
London, and go to a hotel? Perhaps you could recommend me one, or----"
"No; you shall come home with me," returned Bessie, moved to this sudden
inspiration by the weary look in Miss Sefton's face. "We are not
strangers; my father and your mother were friends; that is sufficient
int | 1,190.080815 |
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HISTORY
OF THE
ROYAL REGIMENT OF ARTILLERY.
COMPILED FROM THE ORIGINAL RECORDS.
BY CAPTAIN FRANCIS DUNCAN, M.A., D.C.L.
ROYAL ARTILLERY.
SUPERINTENDENT OF THE ROYAL ARTILLERY REGIMENTAL RECORDS;
FELLOW OF THE GEOLOGICAL SOCIETY OF LONDON,
AND THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY.
[Illustration]
VOL. I.—_TO THE PEACE OF 1783._
WITH A PORTRAIT.
LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET.
1872.
_The right of Translation is reserved._
[Illustration:
ALBERT BORGARD.
FIRST COLONEL OF THE ROYAL ARTILLERY
]
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
TO
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS
FIELD-MARSHAL THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE,
K.G., G.C.B., K.P., G.C.M.G.,
COLONEL OF THE ROYAL REGIMENT OF ARTILLERY,
THIS
HISTORY OF ITS SERVICES
IS RESPECTFULLY, AND BY PERMISSION,
DEDICATED BY
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE TO THIRD EDITION.
A FURTHER reorganization of the Royal Artillery, involving alterations
in the nomenclature of Batteries, having taken place since the
publication of the Second Edition, the Author has deemed it desirable to
issue a Third, with tables added to Appendix C, in the Second Volume,
which will enable the reader to keep up the continuity.
These frequent changes are embarrassing to the student of history, but
| 1,190.08481 |
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PAX MUNDI.
PAX MUNDI
A CONCISE ACCOUNT OF THE PROGRESS OF
THE MOVEMENT FOR PEACE
BY MEANS OF ARBITRATION, NEUTRALIZATION,
INTERNATIONAL LAW AND DISARMAMENT
BY
K.P. ARNOLDSON
_Member of the Second Chamber of the Swedish Riksdag_
AUTHORIZED ENGLISH EDITION
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THE BISHOP OF DURHAM
[Illustration]
London
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO.
PATERNOSTER SQUARE
1892
BUTLER & TANNER,
THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS,
FROME, AND LONDON.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 1
ARBITRATION 8
NEUTRALITY 40
FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS 82
THE PROSPECTS 138
APPENDIX 165
PREFATORY NOTE.
This little work, written by one who has long been known as a
consistent and able advocate of the views herein maintained, has been
translated by a lady who has already rendered great services to the
cause, in the belief that it will be found useful by the increasing
number of those who are interested in the movement for the substitution
of Law for War in international affairs.
J.F.G.
INTRODUCTION TO THE ENGLISH EDITION.
It is natural that the advocates of international Peace should
sometimes grow discouraged and impatient through what they are tempted
to consider the slow progress of their cause. Sudden outbursts of
popular feeling, selfish plans for national aggrandisement, unremoved
causes of antipathy between neighbours, lead them to overlook the
general tendency of circumstances and opinions which, when it is
regarded on a large scale, is sufficient to justify their loftiest
hopes. It is this general tendency of thought and fact, corresponding
to the maturer growth of peoples, which brings to us the certain
assurance that the Angelic Hymn which welcomed the Birth of Christ
advances, slowly it may be as men count slowness, but at least
unmistakably, towards fulfilment. There are pauses and interruptions
in the movement; but, on the whole, no one who patiently regards the
course of human history can doubt that we are drawing nearer from
generation to generation to a practical sense of that brotherhood and
that solidarity of men--both words are necessary--which find their
foundation and their crown in the message of the Gospel.
Under this aspect the Essay of Mr. Arnoldson is of great value, as
giving a calm and comprehensive view of the progress of the course of
Peace during the last century, and of the influences which are likely
to accelerate its progress in the near future.
Mr. Arnoldson, who, as a member of the Swedish Parliament, is a
practical statesman, indulges in no illusions. The fulness with which
he dwells on the political problems of Scandinavia shows that he is
not inclined to forget practical questions under the attraction of
splendid theories. He marks the chief dangers which threaten the peace
of Europe, without the least sign of dissembling their gravity. And
looking steadily upon them, he remains bold in hope; for confidence
in a great cause does not come from disregarding or disparaging the
difficulties by which it is beset, but from the reasonable conviction
that there are forces at work which are adequate to overcome them.
We believe that it is so in the case of a policy of Peace; and the
facts to which Mr. Arnoldson directs attention amply justify the
belief. It is of great significance that since 1794 there have been "at
least sixty-seven instances in which disputes of a menacing character
have been averted by arbitration | 1,190.1856 |
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MEMOIRS OF MY DEAD LIFE
BY
GEORGE MOORE
CONTENTS
APOLOGIA PRO SCRIPTIS MEIS
I. SPRING IN LONDON
II. FLOWERING NORMANDY
III. A WAITRESS
IV. THE END OF MARIE PELLEGRIN
V. LA BUTTE
VI. SPENT LOVES
VII. NINON'S TABLE D'HOTE
VIII. THE LOVERS OF ORELAY
IX. IN THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS
X. A REMEMBRANCE
XI. BRING IN THE LAMP
XII. SUNDAY EVENING IN LONDON
XIII. RESURGAM
APOLOGIA PRO SCRIPTIS MEIS
[_The_ APOLOGIA _which follows needs, perhaps, a word of
explanation, not to clear up Mr. Moore's text--that is as delightful,
as irrelevantly definite, as paradoxically clear as anything this
present wearer of the Ermine of English Literature has ever
written--but to explain why it was written and why it is published.
When the present publisher, who is hereinafter, in the words of
Schopenhauer, "flattened against the wall of the Wisdom of the East,"
first read and signified his pride in being able to publish these
"Memoirs," the passages now consigned to "the late Lord ----'s
library" were not in the manuscript. On the arrival of the final copy
they were discovered, and thereby hangs an amusing tale, consisting of
a series of letters which, in so far as they were written with a
certain caustic, humorous Irish pen, have taken their high place among
the "Curiosities of Literature." The upshot of the matter was that the
publisher, entangled in the "weeds" brought over by his_ Mayflower
_ancestors, found himself as against the author in the position of
Mr. Coote as against Shakespeare; that is, the matter was so
beautifully written that he had not the heart to decline it, and yet
in parts so--what shall we say?--so full of the "Wisdom of the East"
that he did not dare to publish it in the West. Whereupon he adopted
the policy of Mr. Henry Clay, which is, no doubt, always a mistake.
And the author, bearing in mind the make-up of that race of Man called
publishers, gave way on condition that this _APOLOGIA_ should
appear without change. Here it is, without so much as the alteration
of an Ibsen comma, and if the _Mayflower_ "weeds" mere instrumental
in calling it forth, then it is, after all, well that they grew_.--THE
PUBLISHER.]
Last month the post brought me two interesting letters, and the reader
will understand how interesting they were to me when I tell him that
one was from Mr. Sears, of the firm of Appleton, who not knowing me
personally had written to Messrs. Heinemann to tell them that the firm
he represented could not publish the "Memoirs" unless two stories were
omitted; "The Lovers of Orelay," and "In the Luxembourg Gardens,"--Messrs.
Heinemann had forwarded the letter to me; my interest in the
other letter was less direct, but the reader will understand that it was
not less interesting when I tell that it came from the secretary of a
certain charitable institution who had been reading the book in question,
and now wrote to consult me on many points of life and conduct. He had
been compelled to do so, for the reading of the "Memoirs" had disturbed
his mind. The reader will agree with me that disturbed is probably the
right word to use. To say that the book had undermined his convictions
or altered his outlook on life would be an exaggeration. "Outlook on life"
and "standard of conduct" are phrases from his own vocabulary, and they
depict him.
"Your outlook on life is so different from mine that I can hardly
imagine you being built of the same stuff as myself. Yet I venture to
put my difficulty before you. It is, of course, no question of mental
grasp or capacity or artistic endowment. I am, so far as these are
concerned, merely the man in the street, the averagely endowed and the
ordinarily educated. I call myself a Puritan and a Christian. I run
continually against walls of convention, of morals, of taste, which
may be all wrong, but which I should feel it wrong to climb over. You
range over fields where my make-up forbids me to wander.
"Such frankness as yours is repulsive, forbidding, demoniac! You speak
of woman as being the noblest subject of contemplation for man, but
interpreted by your book and your experiences this seems in the last
analysis to lead you right into sensuality, and what I should call
illicit connections. Look at your story of Doris! I _do_ want to
know what you feel about that story in relation to right and wrong. Do
you consider that all that Orelay adventure was put right, atoned,
explained by the fact that Doris, by her mind and body, helped you to
cultivate your artistic sense? Was Goethe right in looking upon all
women merely as subjects for experiment, as a means of training his
aesthetic sensibilities? Does it not justify the seduction of any girl
by any man? And does not that take us straight back to the dissolution
of Society? The degradation of woman (and of man) seems to be
inextricably involved. Can you regard imperturbedly a thought of your
own sister or wife passing through Doris' Orelay experience?"
* * * * *
The address of the charitable institution and his name are printed on
the notepaper, and I experience an odd feeling of surprise whenever
this printed matter catches my eye, or when I think of it; not so much
a sense of surprise as a sense of incongruity, and while trying to
think how I might fling myself into some mental attitude which he
would understand I could not help feeling that we were very far apart,
nearly as far apart as the bird in the air and the fish in the sea.
"And he seems to feel toward me as I feel toward him, for does he not
say in his letter that it is difficult for him to imagine me built of
the same stuff as himself?" On looking into his letter again I
imagined my correspondent as a young man in doubt as to which road he
shall take, the free road of his instincts up the mountainside with
nothing but the sky line in front of him or the puddled track along
which the shepherd drives the meek sheep; and I went to my writing
table asking myself if my correspondent's spiritual welfare was my
real object, for I might be writing to him in order to exercise myself
in a private debate before committing the article to paper, or if I
was writing for his views to make use of them. One asks oneself these
questions but receives no answer. He would supply me with a point of
view opposed to my own, this would be an advantage; so feeling rather
like a spy within the enemy's lines on the eve of the battle I began
my letter. "My Dear Sir: Let me assure you that we are 'built of the
same stuff.' Were it not so you would have put my book aside. I even
suspect we are of the same kin; were it otherwise you would not have
written to me and put your difficulties so plainly before me." Laying
the pen aside I meditated quite a long while if I should tell him that
I imagined him as a young man standing at the branching of the roads,
deciding eventually that it would not be wise for me to let him see
that reading between the lines I had guessed his difficulty to be a
personal one. "We must proceed cautiously," I said, "there may be a
woman in the background.... The literary compliments he pays me and
the interest that my book has excited are accidental, circumstantial.
Life comes before literature, for certain he stands at the branching
of the roads, and the best way I can serve him is by drawing his
attention to the fallacy, which till now he has accepted as a truth,
that there is one immutable standard of conduct for all men and all
women." But the difficulty of writing a sufficient letter on a subject
so large and so intricate puzzled me and I sat smiling, for an odd
thought had dropped suddenly into my mind. My correspondent was a
Bible reader, no doubt, and it would be amusing to refer him to the
chapter in Genesis where God is angry with our first parents because
they had eaten of the tree of good and evil. "This passage" I said to
myself, "has never been properly understood. Why was God angry? For no
other reason except that they had set up a moral standard and could be
happy no longer, even in Paradise. According to this chapter the moral
standard is the origin of all our woe. God himself summoned our first
parents before him, and in what plight did they appear? We know how
ridiculous the diminutive fig leaf makes a statue seem in our museums;
think of the poor man and woman attired in fig leaves just plucked
from the trees! I experienced a thrill of satisfaction that I should
have been the first to understand a text that men have been studying
for thousands of years, turning each word over and over, worrying over
it, all in vain, yet through no fault of the scribe who certainly
underlined his intention. Could he have done it better than by
exhibiting our first parents covering themselves with fig leaves, and
telling how after getting a severe talking to from the Almighty they
escaped from Paradise pursued by an angel? The story can have no other
meaning, and that I am the first to expound it is due to no
superiority of intelligence, but because my mind is free. But I must
not appear to my correspondent as an exegetist. Turning to his letter
again I read:
"I am sorely puzzled. Is your life all of a piece? Are your 'Memoirs'
a pose? I can't think the latter, for you seem sincere and frank to
the verge of brutality (or over). But what is your standard of
conduct? Is there a right and a wrong? Is everything open to any man?
Can you refer me now to any other book of yours in which you view life
steadily and view it whole from our standpoint? Forgive my intrusion.
You see I don't set myself as a judge, but you sweep away apparently
all my standards. And you take your reader so quietly and closely into
your confidence that you tempt a response. I see your many admirable
points, but your center of living is not mine, and I do want to know
as a matter of enormous human interest what your subsumptions are. I
cannot analyze or express myself with literary point as you do, but
you may see what I aim at. It is a bigger question to me than the
value or force of your book. It goes right to the core of the big
things, and I approach you as one man of limited outlook to another of
wider range."
The reader will not suspect me of vanity for indulging in these
quotations; he will see readily that my desire is to let the young man
paint his own portrait, and I hope he will catch glimpses as I seem to
do of an earnest spirit, a sort of protestant Father Gogarty,
hesitating on the brink of his lake. "There is a lake in every man's
heart"--but I must not quote my own writings. If I misinterpret him
... the reader will be able to judge, having the letter before him.
But if my view of him is right, my task is a more subtle one than
merely to point out that he will seek in vain for a moral standard
whether he seeks it in the book of Nature or in the book of God. I
should not move him by pointing out that in the Old Testament we are
told an eye for an eye is our due, and in the New the rede is to turn
the left cheek after receiving a blow on the right. Nor would he be
moved by referring him to the history of mankind, to the Boer War, for
instance, or the massacres which occur daily in Russia; everybody
knows more or less the history of mankind, and to know it at all is to
know that every virtue has at some time or other been a vice. But man
cannot live by negation alone, and to persuade my correspondent over
to our side it might be well to tell him that if there be no moral
standard he will nevertheless find a moral idea if he looks for it in
Nature. I reflected how I would tell him that he must not be
disappointed because the idea changes and adapts itself to
circumstance, and sometimes leaves us for long intervals; if he would
make progress he must learn to understand that the moral world only
becomes beautiful when we relinquish our ridiculous standards of what
is right and wrong, just as the firmament became a thousand times more
wonderful and beautiful when Galileo discovered that the earth moved.
Had Kant lived before the astronomer he would have been a great
metaphysician, but he would not have written the celebrated passage
"Two things fill the soul with undying and ever-increasing admiration,
the night with its heaven of stars above us and in our hearts the
moral law." The only fault I find with this passage is that I read the
word "law" where I expected to read the word "idea," for the word
"law" seems to imply a Standard, and Kant knew there is none. Is the
fault with the translator or with Kant, who did not pick his words
carefully? The metaphysician spent ten years thinking out the
"Critique of Pure Reason" and only six months writing it; no doubt his
text might be emendated with advantage. If there was a moral standard
the world within us would be as insignificant as the firmament was
when the earth was the center of the universe and all the stars were
little candles and Jehovah sat above them, a God who changed his mind
and repented, a whimsical, fanciful God who ordered the waters to rise
so that his creatures might be overwhelmed in the flood, all except
one family (I need not repeat here the story of Noah's Ark and the
doctrine of the Atonement) if there was one fixed standard of right
and wrong, applicable to everybody, black, white, yellow, and red men
alike, an eternal standard that circumstance could not change. Those
who believe in spite of every proof to the contrary that there is a
moral standard cannot appreciate the beautiful analogy which Kant
drew, the moral idea within the heart and the night with its heaven of
stars above us. "It is strange," I reflected, "how men can go on
worrying themselves about Rome and Canterbury four hundred years after
the discovery that the earth moved, and involuntarily a comparison
rose up in my mind of a squabble between two departments in an office
after the firm has gone bankrupt.... But how to get all these vagrant
thoughts into a sheet of paper? St. Paul himself could not proselytize
within such limitations, and apparently what I wrote was not
sufficient to lead my correspondent out of the narrow lanes of
conventions and prejudices into the open field of inquiry. Turning to
his letter, I read it again, misjudging him, perhaps... but the
reader shall form his own estimate.
"I honestly felt and feel a big difficulty in reading and thinking
over your 'Memoirs' for you are a propagandist whether you recognize
that as a conscious mission or not. There is in your book a
challenging standard of life which will not wave placidly by the side
of the standard which is generally looked up to as his regimental
colors by the average man. One must go down. And it was because I felt
the necessity of choosing that I wrote to you.
"'Memoirs' is clearly to me a sincere book. You have built your life
on the lines there indicated. And there is a charm not merely in that
sincerity but in the freedom of the life so built. I could not, for
instance, follow my thoughts as you do. I do not call myself a coward
for these limitations. I believe it to be a bit of my build; you say
that limitation has no other sanction than convention--race
inheritance, at least so I gather. Moral is derived from mos. Be it
so. Does not that then fortify the common conviction that the moral is
the best? Men have been hunting the best all their history long by a
process of trial and error. Surely the build of things condemns the
murderer, the liar, the sensualist, and the coward! and how do you
come by 'natural goodness' if your moral is merely your customary? No,
with all respect for your immense ability and your cultured outlook, I
do not recognize the lawless variability of the right and the wrong
standard which you posit. How get you your evidence? From human
actions? But it is the most familiar of facts that men do things they
feel to be wrong. I have known a thief who stole every time in pangs
of conscience; not merely in the fear of detection. There is a higher
and a lower in morals, but the lower is recognized as a lower, and
does not appeal to a surface reading of the code of an aboriginal in
discussing morals. That, I think is only fair. Your artistic sense is
finely developed, but it is none the less firmly based, although there
are Victorian back parlors and paper roses.
"You see you are a preacher, not merely an artist. Every glimpse of
the beautiful urges the beholder to imitation and _vice versa_.
And that is why your 'Memoirs' are not merely 'an exhibition' of the
immoral; they are 'an incitement' to the immoral. Don't you think so?
And thinking so would you not honestly admit, that society (in the
wide sense, of course--civilization) would relapse, go down,
deliquesce, if all of us were George Moores as depicted in your book?"
His letter dropped from my hand, and I sat muttering, "How
superficially men think!" How little they trouble themselves to
discover the truth! While declaring that truth is all important, they
accept any prejudice and convention they happen to meet, fastening on
to it like barnacles. How disappointing is that passage about the
murderer, the sensualist, the liar, and the coward; but of what use
would it be to remind my correspondent of Judith who went into the
tent of Holofernes to lie with him, and after the love feast drove a
nail into the forehead of the sleeping man. She is in Scripture held
up to our admiration as a heroine, the saviour of our nation.
Charlotte Corday stabbed Marat in his bath, yet who regards Charlotte
Corday as anything else but a heroine? In Russia men know that the
fugitives lie hidden in the cave, yet they tell the Cossack soldiers
they have taken the path across the hill--would my correspondent
reprove them and call them liars? I am afraid he has a lot of leeway
to make up, and it is beyond my power to help him.
Picking up his letter I glanced through it for some mention of "Esther
Waters," for in answer to the question if I could recommend him to any
book of mine in which I viewed life--I cannot bring myself to
transcribe that tag from Matthew Arnold--I referred him to "Esther
Waters," saying that a critic had spoken of it as a beautiful
amplification of the beatitudes. Of the book he makes no mention in
his letter, but he writes: "There is a challenging standard of life in
your book which will not wave placidly by the side of the standard
which is generally looked up to as his regimental colors by the
average man." The idea besets him, and he refers to it | 1,190.210746 |
2023-11-16 18:36:54.2596190 | 1,460 | 16 |
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Three Girls from School
By L.T. Meade
Illustrations by Percy Tarrant
Published by W and R Chambers, Ltd, London, Edinburgh.
This edition dated 1907.
Three Girls from School, by L.T. Meade.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
THREE GIRLS FROM SCHOOL, BY L.T. MEADE.
CHAPTER ONE.
LETTERS.
Priscilla Weir, Mabel Lushington, and Annie Brooke were all seated
huddled up close together on the same low window-sill. The day was a
glorious one in the beginning of July. The window behind the girls was
open, and the softest of summer breezes came in and touched their young
heads, playing with the tumbled locks of hair of different shades,
varying from copper-colour to dark, and then to brightest gold.
Priscilla was the owner of the dark hair; Mabel possessed the
copper-colour, Annie Brooke the gold. All three girls looked much about
the same age, which might have been anything from sixteen to eighteen.
Priscilla was perhaps slightly the youngest of the trio. She had
dark-grey, thoughtful eyes; her face was pale, her mouth firm and
resolved. It was a sad mouth for so young a girl, but was also capable
of much sweetness. Mabel Lushington was made on a big scale. She was
already well developed, and the copper in her lovely hair was
accompanied by a complexion of peachlike bloom, by coral lips, and
red-brown eyes. Those lips of hers were, as a rule, full of laughter.
People said of Mabel that she was always either laughing or smiling.
She was very much liked in the school, for she was at once good-natured
and rich.
Annie Brooke was small. She was the sort of girl who would be described
as _petite_. Her hair was bright and pretty. She had beautiful hands
and feet, and light-blue eyes. But she was by no means so
striking-looking as Mabel Lushington, or so thoughtful and intellectual
as Priscilla Weir.
The post had just come in, and two of the girls had received letters.
Priscilla read hers, turned a little paler than her wont, slipped it
into her pocket, and sat very still, Mabel, on the contrary, held her
unopened letter in her lap, and eagerly began to question Priscilla.
"Whom have you heard from? What is the matter with you? Why don't you
divulge the contents?"
"Yes, do, Priscilla, please," said Annie Brooke, who was the soul of
curiosity. "You know, Priscilla, you never could have secrets from your
best friends."
"I have got to leave school," said Priscilla; "there is nothing more to
be said. My uncle has written; he has made up his mind; he says I am to
learn farming."
"Farming!" cried the other two. "You--a girl!"
"Oh, dairy-work," said Priscilla, "and the managing of a farm-house
generally. If I don't succeed within six months he will apprentice me,
he says, to a dressmaker."
"Oh, poor Priscilla! But you are a lady."
"Uncle Josiah doesn't mind."
"What an old horror he must be!" said Annie Brooke.
"Yes. Don't let us talk about it." Priscilla jumped up, walked across
the room, and took a book from its place on the shelf. As she did so
she turned and faced her two companions.
The room in which the three found themselves was one of the most
beautiful of the many beautiful rooms at Mrs Lyttelton's school. The
house was always called the School-House; and the girls, when asked
where they were educated, replied with a certain modest pomposity, "At
Mrs Lyttelton's school." Those who had been there knew the value of the
announcement, for no school in the whole of England produced such girls:
so well-bred, so thoroughly educated, so truly taught those things which
make for honour, for purity, for a life of good report.
Mrs Lyttelton had a secret known but to a few: how to develop the very
best in each girl brought under her influence. She knew how to give
liberty with all essential restraints, and how to cultivate ambition
without making the said ambition too worldly-minded. She was adored by
all the girls, and there were very few who did not shed tears when the
time came for them to leave the School-House.
The said School-House was situated in the most lovely part of Middlesex,
not very far from Hendon. It was quite in the country, and commanded a
splendid view. The house was old, with many gables, quaint old windows,
long passages, and innumerable rooms. Each girl over fifteen had a
bedroom to herself in Mrs Lyttelton's school, and each girl over fifteen
who deserved the privilege was accorded the _entree_ to the older girls'
sitting-room. Into this room no teacher was allowed to enter without
permission. The room as completely belonged to the girls as though
there were no teachers in the school. Here they could give
entertainments; here they could conduct debates; here they could lounge
and read and chatter and enjoy themselves to their hearts' delight.
The room wanted for no lack of dainty furnishing. There were cosy nooks
in more than one corner; there were easy-chairs galore; and from the
low, old-fashioned windows could be seen the most perfect view of the
outside world.
Priscilla Weir now turned to look at this view. She had a passionate
love for all beautiful things. There was a dimness before her eyes.
From the view she glanced at Mabel Lushington; then she looked at Annie
Brooke.
Both girls sympathised with her; and yet, not in the way she wanted.
She turned abruptly and left the room.
When the door closed behind her Mabel immediately rose, and as she did
so the unopened letter tumbled from her lap. Annie Brooke took it up
and handed it to her.
"How upset she is!" said Annie.
"Oh yes," replied Mabel; "but I only wish I were in her shoes. Oh, I
know, of course, Annie, it is jolly here, and Mrs Lyttelton is a
darling; but I want to get into the big world I shall be eighteen in a
month, and it seems absurd to keep any girl | 1,190.279659 |
2023-11-16 18:36:54.2682810 | 627 | 13 |
Produced by David Edwards and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
[Illustration: title page]
VIRGIN SAINTS
AND MARTYRS
By S. BARING-GOULD
Author of “_The Lives of the Saints_”
WITH SIXTEEN FULL-PAGE
ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. ANGER
New York THOMAS Y. CROWELL & Co.
Publishers 1901
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. BLANDINA THE SLAVE 1
II. S. CÆCILIA 19
III. S. AGNES 39
IV. FEBRONIA OF SIBAPTE 53
V. THE DAUGHTER OF CONSTANTINE 75
VI. THE SISTER OF S. BASIL 93
VII. GENEVIÈVE OF PARIS 111
VIII. THE SISTER OF S. BENEDICT 129
IX. S. BRIDGET 149
X. THE DAUGHTERS OF BRIDGET 179
XI. S. ITHA 197
XII. S. HILDA 217
XIII. S. ELFLEDA 231
XIV. S. WERBURGA 253
XV. A PROPHETESS 275
XVI. S. CLARA 295
XVII. S. THERESA 315
XVIII. SISTER DORA 349
[Illustration: BLANDINA THE SLAVE.]
I
_BLANDINA THE SLAVE_
In the second century Lyons was the Rome of Gaul as it is now the second
Paris of France. It was crowded with temples and public monuments. It
was moreover the Athens of the West, a resort of scholars. Seated at the
confluence of two great rivers, the Rhône and the Sâone, it was a centre
of trade. It is a stately city now. It was more so in the second century
when it did not bristle with the chimneys of factories pouring forth
their volumes of black smoke, which the atmosphere, moist from the
mountains, carries down so as to envelop everything in soot.
In the great palace, now represented by the hospital, the imbecile
Claudius and the madman Caligula were born. To the east and south far
away stand Mont Blanc and the snowy range on the Dauphiné Alps.
Lyons is a city that has at all times summed in it the finest as well as
the worst characteristic of the Gallic people. The rabble of Lyons were
ferocious in 177, and ferocious | 1,190.288321 |
2023-11-16 18:36:54.2842570 | 4,319 | 8 | THOMPSON***
E-text prepared by Matt Whittaker, Suzanne Shell, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
**********************************************************************
* Transcriber's Note: *
* *
* Obvious typographical errors were corrected and the use of hyphens *
* was made consistent throughout. All other spelling and punctuation *
* was retained as it appeared in the original text. *
**********************************************************************
MY LIFE:
Or
The Adventures of Geo. Thompson.
Being the Auto-Biography of an
Author. Written by Himself.
Why rove in _Fiction's_ shadowy land,
And seek for treasures there,
When _Truth's_ domain, so near at hand,
Is filled with things most rare--
When every day brings something new,
Some great, stupendous change,
Something exciting, wild and _true_,
Most wonderful and strange!
[ORIGINAL.]
{First published 1854}
[Illustration: Yellow Cover of Thompson's _My Life_. Original size 6 x
9-1/8". Courtesy, American Antiquarian Society.]
INTRODUCTION
_In which the author defineth his position._
It having become the fashion of distinguished novelists to write their
own lives--or, in other words, to blow their own trumpets,--the author
of these pages is induced, at the solicitation of numerous friends,
whose bumps of inquisitiveness are strongly developed, to present his
auto-biography to the public--in so doing which, he but follows the
example of Alexandre Dumas, the brilliant French novelist, and of the
world-renowned Dickens, both of whom are understood to be preparing
their personal histories for the press.
Now, in comparing myself with the above great worthies, who are so
deservedly distinguished in the world of literature, I shall be accused
of unpardonable presumption and ridiculous egotism--but I care not what
may be said of me, inasmuch as a total independence of the opinions,
feelings and prejudices of the world, has always been a prominent
characteristic of mine--and that portion of the world and the "rest of
mankind" which does not like me, has my full permission to go to the
devil as soon as it can make all the necessary arrangements for the
journey.
I shall be true and candid, in these pages. I shall not seek to conceal
one of my numerous faults which I acknowledge and deplore; and, if I
imagine that I possess one solitary merit, I shall not be backward in
making that merit known. Those who know me personally, will never accuse
me of entertaining one single atom of that despicable quality,
self-conceit; those who do not know me, are at liberty to think what
they please.--Heaven knows that had I possessed a higher estimation of
myself, a more complete reliance upon my own powers, and some of that
universal commodity known as "cheek," I should at this present moment
have been far better off in fame and fortune. But I have been
unobtrusive, unambitious, retiring--and my friends have blamed me for
this a thousand times. I have seen writers of no talent at all--petty
scribblers, wasters of ink and spoilers of paper, who could not write
six consecutive lines of English grammar, and whose short paragraphs for
the newspapers invariably had to undergo revision and correction--I have
seen such fellows causing themselves to be invited to public banquets
and other festivals, and forcing their unwelcome presence into the
society of the most distinguished men of the day.
I have spoken of my friends--now a word or two in regard to my enemies.
Like most men who have figured before the public, in whatever capacity,
I have secured the hatred of many persons, who, jealous of my humble
fame, have lost no opportunity of spitting out their malice and opposing
my progress. The friendship of such persons is a misfortune--their
enmity is a blessing.
I assure them that their hatred will never cause me to lose a fraction
of my appetite, or my nightly rest. They may consider themselves very
fortunate, if, in the following pages, they do not find themselves
immortalized by my notice, although they are certainly unworthy of so
great a distinction. I enjoy the friendship of men of letters, and am
therefore not to be put down by the opposition of a parcel of senseless
blockheads, without brain, or heart, or soul.
I shall doubtless find it necessary to make allusions to local places,
persons, incidents, &c. Those will add greatly to the interest of the
narrative. Many portraits will be readily recognized, especially those
whose originals reside in Boston, where the greater portion of my
literary career has been passed.
_The life of an author_, must necessarily be one of peculiar and
absorbing interest, for he dwells in a world of his own creation, and
his tastes, habits, and feelings are different from those of other
people. How little is he understood--how imperfectly is he appreciated,
by a cold, unsympathising world! his eccentricities are ridiculed--his
excesses are condemned by unthinking persons, who cannot comprehend the
fact that a writer, whose mind is weary, naturally longs for physical
excitement of some kind of other, and too often seeks for a temporary
mental oblivion in the intoxicating bowl. Under any and every
circumstance, the author is certainly deserving of some degree of
charitable consideration, because he labors hard for the public
entertainment, and draws heavily on the treasures of his imagination, in
order to supply the continual demands of the reading community. When the
author has led a life of stirring adventure, his history becomes one of
extraordinary and thrilling interest. I flatter myself that this
narrative will be found worthy of the reader's perusal.
And now a few words concerning my personal identity. Many have insanely
supposed me to be George Thompson, the celebrated English abolitionist
and member of the British Parliament, but such cannot be the case, that
individual having returned to his own country. Again--others have taken
me for George Thompson, the pugilist; but by far the greater part of the
performers in this interesting "Comedy of Errors" have imagined me to be
no less a personage than the celebrated "_One-eyed Thompson_," and they
long continued in this belief, even after that talented but most
unfortunate man had committed suicide in New York, and in spite of the
fact that his name was William H., and not George. Two circumstances,
however, seemed to justify the belief before the man's death:--he, like
myself, had the great misfortune to be deprived of an eye. How the
misfortune happened to _me_, I shall relate in the proper place. I have
written many works of fiction, but I have passed through adventures
quite as extraordinary as any which I have drawn from the imagination.
In order to establish my claim to the title of "author," I will
enumerate a few of the works which I have written:--
Gay Girls of New York, Dissipation, The Housekeeper, Venus in Boston,
Jack Harold, Criminal, Outlaw, Road to Ruin, Brazen Star, Kate
Castleton, Redcliff, The Libertine, City Crimes, The Gay Deceiver, Twin
Brothers, Demon of Gold, Dashington, Lady's Garter, Harry Glindon,
Catharine and Clara.
In addition to these works--which have all met with a rapid sale and
most extensive circulation--I have written a sufficient quantity of
tales, sketches, poetry, essays and other literary stock of every
description, to constitute half a dozen cart loads. My adventures,
however, and not my productions must employ my pen; and begging the
reader's pardon for this rather lengthy, but very necessary,
introduction, I begin my task.
CHAPTER I
_In which I begin to Acquire a Knowledge of the World._
I have always thought, and still think, that it matters very little
where or when a man is born--it is sufficient for him to know that he is
_here_, and that he had better adapt himself, as far as possible, to the
circumstances by which he is surrounded, provided that he wishes to
toddle through the world with comfort and credit to himself and to the
approbation of others. But still, in order to please all classes of
readers, I will state that some thirty years ago a young stranger
struggled into existence in the city of New York; and I will just merely
hint that the twenty-eighth day of August, in the year of our Lord one
thousand eight hundred and twenty-three, should be inserted in the next
(comic) almanac as having been the birth-day of a great man--for when an
individual attains a bodily weight of two hundred pounds and over, may
he not be styled _great_?
My parents were certainly respectable people, but they both
inconsiderately died at a very early period of my life, leaving me a few
hundred dollars and a thickheaded uncle, to whom was attached an
objectionable aunt, the proprietress of a long nose and a shrewish
temper. The nose was adapted to the consumption of snuff, and the temper
was effective in the destruction of my happiness and peace of mind. The
worthy couple, with a prophetic eye, saw that I was destined to become,
in future years, somewhat of a _gourmand_, unless care should be taken
to prevent such a melancholy fate; therefore, actuated by the best
motives, and in order to teach me the luxury of abstinence, they began
by slow but sure degrees to starve me. Good people, how I reverence
their memory!
One night I committed burglary upon a closet, and feloniously carried
off a chunk of bread and meat, which I devoured in the cellar.
"Oh, my prophetic soul--_my uncle_!" That excellent man caught me in the
act of eating the provender, and--my bones ache at this very moment as I
think of the licking I got! I forgot to mention that I had a rather
insignificant brother, four years older than myself, who became my
uncle's apprentice, and who joined that gentleman in his persecutions
against me. My kind relatives were rather blissful people in the way of
ignorance, and they hated me because they imagined that I regarded
myself as their superior--a belief that was founded on the fact that I
shunned their society and passed the greater portion of my time in
reading and writing.
I lived at that time in Thomas street, very near the famous brothel of
Rosina Townsend, in whose house that dreadful murder was committed
which the New York public will still remember with a thrill of horror. I
allude to the murder of the celebrated courtezan Ellen Jewett. Her
lover, Richard P. Robinson, was tried and acquitted of the murder,
through the eloquence of his talented counsel, Ogden Hoffman, Esq. The
facts of the case are briefly these:--Robinson was a clerk in a
wholesale store, and was the paramour of Ellen, who was strongly
attached to him. Often have I seen them walking together, both dressed
in the height of fashion, the beautiful Ellen leaning upon the arm of
the dashing Dick, while their elegant appearance attracted universal
attention and admiration. But all this soon came to a bloody
termination. Dick was engaged to be married to a young lady of the
highest respectability, the heiress of wealth and the possessor of
surpassing loveliness. He informed Ellen that his connection with her
must cease in consequence of his matrimonial arrangements, whereupon
Ellen threatened to expose him to his "intended" if he abandoned her.
Embarrassed by the critical nature of his situation, Dick, then, in an
evil hour, resolved to kill the courtezan who threatened to destroy his
anticipated happiness. One Saturday night he visited her as usual; and
after a splendid supper, they returned to her chamber. Upon that
occasion, as was afterwards proved on the trial, Dick wore an ample
cloak, and several persons noticed that he seemed to have something
concealed beneath it. His manner towards Ellen and also his words, were
that night unusually caressing and affectionate. What passed in that
chamber, and who perpetrated that murder the Almighty knows--_and,
perhaps, Dick Robinson, if he is still alive, also knows_![A] The next
morning (Sunday,) at a very early hour, smoke was seen to proceed from
Ellen's chamber, and the curtains of her bed were found to have been set
on fire. The flames were with difficulty extinguished, and there in the
half consumed bed, was found the mangled corpse of Ellen Jewett, having
on the side of her head an awful wound, which had evidently been
inflicted by a hatchet. Dick Robinson was nowhere to be found, but in
the garden, near a fence, were discovered his cloak and a bloody
hatchet. With many others, I entered the room in which lay the body of
Ellen, and never shall I forget the horrid spectacle that met my gaze!
There, upon that couch of sin, which had been scathed by fire, lay
blackened the half-burned remains of a once-beautiful woman, whose head
exhibited the dreadful wound which had caused her death. It had plainly
been the murderer's intention to burn down the house in order to destroy
the ghastly evidence of his crime; but fate ordained that the fire
should be discovered and extinguished before the _fatal wound_ became
obliterated. Robinson, as I said before, was tried and pronounced
guiltless of the crime, through the ingenuity of his counsel, who termed
him an "_innocent boy_." The public, however, firmly believed in his
guilt; and the question arises--"If Dick Robinson did not kill Ellen
Jewett, _who did_?" I do not believe that ever before was presented so
shameful an instance of perverted justice, or so striking an
illustration of the "glorious uncertainty of the law." It is rather
singular that Furlong, a grocer, who swore to an _alibi_ in favor of
Robinson, and who was the chief instrument employed to effect the
acquittal of that young man, some time afterwards committed suicide by
drowning, having first declared that his conscience reproached him for
the part which he played at the trial!
The Sabbath upon which this murder was brought to light was a dark,
stormy day, and I have reason to remember it well, for, in the
afternoon, that good old pilgrim--my uncle, of course,--discovered that
I had played truant from Sunday School in the morning, and for that
atrocious crime, he, in his holy zeal for my spiritual and temporal
welfare, resolved to bestow upon me a wholesome and severe flogging,
being aided and abetted in the formation of that laudable resolution by
my religious aunt and my sanctimonious brother, the latter of whom had
turned _informer_ against me. Sweet relatives? how I love to think of
them--and never do I fail to remember them in my prayers. Well, I was
lugged up into the garret, which was intended to be the scene of my
punishment. If I recollect rightly, I was then about twelve years of
age, and rather a stout youth considering my years. I determined to
rebel against the authority of my beloved kindred, assert my
independence, and defend myself to the best of my ability. "I have
suffered enough;" said I to myself, "and now I'm _going in_."
"Sabbath-breaker, strip off your jacket," mildly remarked by dear uncle
as he savagely flourished a cowhide of most formidable aspect and
alarming suppleness.
My reply was brief, but expressive:
"I'll see you d----d first," said I.
My uncle turned pale, my aunt screamed, and my brother rolled up the
white of his eyes and groaned.
"What, what did you say?" demanded my uncle, who could not believe the
evidence of his own senses, for up to that moment I had always tamely
submitted to the good man's amiable treatment of me, and he found it
impossible to imagine that I was capable of resisting him. Well, if
there ever _was_ an angel on earth, that uncle of mine was that
particular angel. Saints in general are provided with pinched noses,
green eyes, and voices like unto the wailings of a small pig, which is
suffering the agonies of death beneath a cart-wheel. And, if there ever
was a cherub, my brother _was_ certainly that individual cherub,
although, in truth, my pious recollections do not furnish me with the
statement that cherubs are remarkable for swelled heads and bandy legs.
"I say," was my reply to my uncle's astonished inquiry, "that I ain't
going to stand any more abuse and beatings. I've stood bad treatment
long enough from the whole pack of you. I'm almost starved, and I'm
kicked about like a dog. Let any of you three tyrants touch me, and I'll
show you what is to get desperate. I disown you all as relatives, and
hereafter I'm going to live where I please, and do as I please."
Furious with rage, my sweet-tempered uncle raised the cowhide and with
it struck me across the face. I immediately pitched into that portion of
his person where he was accustomed to stow away his Sabbath beans, and
the excellent man fell head over heels down the garret stairs, landing
securely at the bottom and failing to pick himself up, for the simple
reason that he had broken his leg. What a pity it would have been, and
what a loss society would have sustained, if, instead of his leg, the
holy man had broken his _neck_!
My dear brother, accompanied by my affectionate aunt, now choked me, but
I was not to be conquered just then, for "thrice is he armed who hath
his quarrel just." The lady I landed in a tub of impure water that
happened to be standing near; and she presented quite an interesting
appearance, kicking up her heels and squalling like a cat in
difficulties. My other assailant I hurled into a heap of ashes, and the
way he blubbered was a caution to a Nantucket whaleman. Rushing down the
stairs, I passed over the prostrate form of my crippled uncle, who
requested me to come back, so that he might kick me with his serviceable
foot; but, brute that I was, I disregarded him--requested him to go to a
place which shall be nameless--and then left the house as expeditiously
as possible, fully determined never to return, whatever might be the
consequences.
"I am now old enough, and big enough," I mentally reflected, "to take
care of myself; and to-morrow I'll look for work, and try to get a
chance to learn a trade. Where shall I sleep to-night? It's easy enough
to ask that question, but deuced hard to answer it. I wish to-day wasn't
Sunday!"
Rather an impious wish, but quite natural under the circumstances. I
felt in my pockets, to see if I was the proprietor of any loose change;
my search was magnificently successful, for I discovered that I had a
sixpence!
Yes, reader, a new silver sixpence, that glittered in my hand like a
bright star of hope, urging | 1,190.304297 |
2023-11-16 18:36:54.2949420 | 2,704 | 22 |
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A DAUGHTER OF THE MORNING
[Illustration: Cosma]
A DAUGHTER OF THE MORNING
by
ZONA GALE
Author of
Friendship Village, When I Was a Little Girl
Neighborhood Stories, etc.
Illustrated by W. B. King
Indianapolis
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
Publishers
Copyright 1917
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
Press of
Braunworth & Co.
Book Manufacturers
Brooklyn, N. Y.
A Daughter of the Morning
CHAPTER I
I found this paper on the cellar shelf. It come around the boys' new
overalls. When I was cutting it up in sheets with the butcher knife on
the kitchen table, Ma come in, and she says:
"What you doin' _now_?"
The way she says "now" made me feel like I've felt before--mad and ready
to fly. So I says it right out, that I'd meant to keep a secret. I says:
"I'm makin' me a book."
"Book!" she says. "For the receipts you know?" she says, and laughed
like she knows how. I hate cooking, and she knows it.
I went on tying it up.
"Be writing a book next, I s'pose," says Ma, and laughed again.
"It ain't that kind of a book," I says. "This is just to keep track."
"Well, you'd best be doing something useful," says Ma. "Go out and pull
up some radishes for your Pa's supper."
I went on tying up the sheets, though, with pink string that come around
Pa's patent medicine. When it was done I run my hand over the page, and
I liked the feeling on my hand. Then I saw Ma coming up the back steps
with the radishes. I was going to say something, because I hadn't gone
to get them, but she says:
"Nobody ever tries to save me a foot of travelin' around."
And then I didn't care whether I said it or not. So I kept still. She
washed off the radishes, bending over the sink that's in too low. She'd
wet the front of her skirt with some suds of something she'd washed out,
and her cuffs was wet, and her hair was coming down.
"It's rack around from morning till night," she says, "doing for folks
that don't care about anything so's they get their stomachs filled."
"You might talk," I says, "if you was Mis' Keddie Bingy."
"Why? Has anything more happened to her?" Ma asked.
"Nothing new," I says. "Keddie was drinking all over the house last
night. I heard him singing and swearing--and once I heard her scream."
"He'll kill her yet," says Ma. "And then she'll be through with it. I'm
so tired to-night I wisht I was dead. All day long I've been at
it--floors to mop, dinner to get, water to lug."
"Quit going on about it, Ma," I says.
"You're a pretty one to talk to me like that," says Ma.
She set the radishes on the kitchen table and went to the back door. One
of her shoes dragged at the heel, and a piece of her skirt hung below
her dress.
"Jim!" she shouted, "your supper's ready. Come along and eat it,"--and
stood there twisting her hair up.
Pa come up on the porch in a minute. His feet were all mud from the
fields, and the minute he stepped on Ma's clean floor she begun on him.
He never said a word, but he tracked back and forth from the wash bench
to the water pail, making his big black footprints every step. I should
think she _would_ have been mad. But she said what she said about half a
dozen times--not mad, only just whining and complaining and like she
expected it. The trouble was, she said it so many times.
"When you go on so, I don't care how I track up," says Pa, and dropped
down to the table. He filled up his plate and doubled down over it, and
Ma and I got ours.
"What was you and Stacy talkin' about so long over the fence?" Ma says,
after a while.
"It's no concern of yours," says Pa. "But I'll tell ye, just to show ye
what some women have to put up with. Keddie Bingy hit her over the head
with a dish in the night. It's laid her up, and he's down to the Dew
Drop Inn, filling himself full."
"She's used to it by this time, I guess," Ma says. "Just as well take
it all at once as die by inches, _I_ say."
"Trot out your pie," says Pa.
As soon as I could after we'd done the dishes, I took my book up to the
room. Ma and I slept together. Pa had the bedroom off the dining-room. I
had the bottom bureau drawer to myself for my clothes. I put my book in
there, and I found a pencil in the machine drawer, and I put that by it.
I'd wanted to make the book for a long time, to set down thoughts in,
and keep track of the different things. But I didn't feel like making
the book any more by the time I got it all ready. I went to laying out
my underclothes in the drawer so's the lace edge would show on all of
'em that had it.
Ma come to the side door and called me.
"Cossy," she says, "is Luke comin' to-night?"
"I s'pose so," I says.
"Well, then, you go right straight over to Mis' Bingy's before he gets
here," Ma says.
I went down the stairs--they had a blotched carpet that I hated because
it looked like raw meat and gristle.
"Why don't you go yourself?" I says.
"Because Mis' Bingy'll be ashamed before me," she says; "but she won't
think you know about it. Take her this."
I took the loaf of steam brown bread.
"If Luke comes," I says, "have him walk along after me."
The way to Mis' Bingy's was longer to go by the road, or short through
the wood-lot. I went by the road, because I thought maybe I might meet
somebody. The worst of the farm wasn't only the work. It was never
seein' anybody. I only met a few wagons, and none of 'em stopped to say
anything. Lena Curtsy went by, dressed up in black-and-white, with a
long veil. She looks like a circus rider, not only Sundays but every
day. But Luke likes the look of her, he said so.
"You're goin' the wrong way, Cossy!" she calls out.
"No, I ain't, either," I says, short enough. I can't bear the sight of
her. And yet, if I have anything to brag about, it's always her I want
to brag it to.
Just when I turned off to Bingy's, I met the boys. We never waited
supper for 'em, because sometimes they get home and sometimes they
don't. They were coming from the end of the street-car line, black from
the blast furnace.
"Where you goin', kid?" says Bert.
I nodded to the house.
"Well, then, tell her she'd better watch out for Bingy," says Henny.
"He's crazy drunk down to the Dew Drop. I wouldn't stay there if I was
her."
I ran the rest of the way to the Bingy house. I went round to the back
door. Mis' Bingy was in the kitchen, sitting on the edge of the bed. She
had the bed put up in the kitchen when the baby was born, and she'd kept
it there all the year. When I stepped on to the boards, she jumped and
screamed.
"Here's some steam brown bread," I says.
She set down again, trembling all over. The baby was laying over back in
the bed, and it woke up and whimpered. Mis' Bingy kind of poored it
with one hand, and with the other she pushed up the bandage around her
head. She was big and wild-looking, and her hair was always coming down
in a long, coiled-up mess on her shoulders. Her hands looked worse than
Ma's.
"I guess I look funny, don't I?" she says, trying to smile. "I cut my
head open some--by accident."
I hate a lie. Not because it's wicked so much as because it never fools
anybody.
"Mis' Bingy," I says, "I know that Mr. Bingy threw a dish at you last
night and cut your head open, because he was drunk. Well, I just met
Henny, and he says he's down to the Inn, crazy drunk. Henny don't want
you should stay here."
She kind of give out, as though her spine wouldn't hold up. I guess she
had the idea none of the neighbors knew.
"Where can I go?" she says.
There was only one place that I could think of. "Come on over with me,"
I says. "Pa and the boys are there. They won't let him hurt you."
She shook her head. "I'd have to come back some time," she says.
"Why would you?" I asked her.
She looked at me kind of funny.
"He's my husband," she says--and she kind of straightened up and looked
dignified, without meaning to. I just stood and looked at her. Think of
it making her look like that to own that drunken coward for a husband!
"What if he is?" I says. "He's a brute, and we all know it."
She cried a little. "You hadn't ought to speak to me so," she says. "If
I go, how'll I earn my living, and the baby's?" she says.
I hadn't thought of that. "That's so," I says. "You are tied, ain't
you?"
I couldn't get her to come with me. She's got the bed made up in the
front room up-stairs, and she was going up there that night and lock her
door, and leave the kitchen open.
"He may not be so bad," she says. "Maybe he'll be so drunk he'll tumble
on the bed asleep, or maybe he'll be sick. I always hope for one of
them."
I went back through the wood-lot. It was so different out there from
home and Mis' Bingy's that it felt good. I found a place in a book once
that told about the woods. It gave me a nice feeling. I used to get it
out of the school library whenever it was in and read the place over, to
get the feeling again. Almost always it gave it to me. In the real woods
I didn't always get it. They come so close up to me that they bothered
me. I always thought I was going to get to something, and I never did.
And yet I always liked it in the wood-lot. And it was nice to be away
from home and from Mis' Bingy's.
I forgot the whole bunch of 'em for a while. It was the night of a moon,
and you could see it in the trees, like a big fat face that was friends
with you. When a bird did just one note, it felt pleasant. After a while
I stopped still, because it seemed as if something was near to me; but I
wasn't scared, even if it was quite dark. I thought to myself that I
wisht my family and all the folks I knew was still and | 1,190.314982 |
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Produced by Charles Keller
HISTORIC GIRLS
Stories Of Girls Who Have Influenced The History Of Their Times
By E. S. Brooks
PREFACE.
In these progressive days, when so much energy and discussion are
devoted to what is termed equality and the rights of woman, it is well
to remember that there have been in the distant past women, and girls
even, who by their actions and endeavors proved themselves the equals of
the men of their time in valor, shrewdness, and ability.
This volume seeks to tell for the girls and boys of to-day the stories
of some of their sisters of the long-ago,--girls who by eminent position
or valiant deeds became historic even before they had passed the
charming season of girlhood.
Their stories are fruitful of varying lessons, for some of these
historic girls were wilful as well as courageous, and mischievous as
well as tender-hearted.
But from all the lessons and from all the morals, one truth stands out
most clearly--the fact that age and country, time and surroundings, make
but little change in the real girl-nature, that has ever been impulsive,
trusting, tender, and true, alike in the days of the Syrian Zenobia and
in those of the modern American school-girl.
After all, whatever the opportunity, whatever the | 1,190.379891 |
2023-11-16 18:36:54.3599390 | 1,262 | 10 |
Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 734. SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1878. PRICE 1½_d._]
THE STORY OF THIERS.
In a densely populated street of the quaint sea-port of Marseilles
there dwelt a poor locksmith and his family, who were so hard pressed
by the dearness of provisions and the general hardness of the times,
that the rent and taxes for the wretched tenement which they called
a home had been allowed to fall many weeks into arrear. But the good
people struggled on against their poverty; and the locksmith (who
was the son of a ruined cloth-merchant), though fallen to the humble
position of a dock-porter, still managed to wade through life as if
he had been born to opulence. This poor labourer’s name was Thiers,
and his wife was a descendant of the poet Chenier; the two being
destined to become the parents of Louis Adolphe Thiers, one of the most
remarkable men that ever lived.
The hero of our story was at his birth mentally consigned to oblivion
by his parents, while the neighbours laughed at the ungainly child,
and prognosticated for him all kinds of evil in the future. And it is
more than probable that these evil auguries would have been fulfilled
had it not been for the extraordinary care bestowed upon him by his
grandmother. But for her, perhaps our story had never been written.
Under her fostering care the child survived all those diseases which
were, according to the gossips, to prove fatal to him; but while his
limbs remained almost stationary, his head and chest grew larger, until
he became a veritable dwarf. By his mother’s influence with the family
of André Chenier, the lad was enabled to enter the Marseilles Lyceum
at the age of nine; and here the remarkable head and chest kept the
promise they made in his infancy, and soon fulfilled Madame Thiers’
predictions.
Louis Adolphe Thiers was a brilliant though somewhat erratic pupil. He
was noted for his practical jokes, his restlessness, and the ready and
ingenious manner in which he always extricated himself from any scrapes
into which his bold and restless disposition had led him. Thus the
child in this case would appear to have been ‘father to the man,’ by
the manner in which he afterwards released his beloved country from one
of the greatest ‘scrapes’ she ever experienced.
On leaving school Thiers studied for the law, and was eventually called
to the bar, though he never practised as a lawyer. He became instead
a local politician; and so well did the rôle suit him, that he soon
evinced a strong desire to try his fortune in Paris itself. He swayed
his auditory, when speaking, in spite of his diminutive stature,
Punch-like physiognomy, and shrill piping speech; and shout and yell
as his adversaries might, they could not drown his voice, for it arose
clear and distinct above all the hubbub around him. While the studious
youth was thus making himself a name in his native town, he was ever on
the watch for an opportunity to transfer his fortunes to the capital.
His almost penniless condition, however, precluded him from carrying
out his design without extraneous assistance of some kind or other;
but when such a stupendous ambition as that of governing one of the
greatest nations of the earth filled the breast of the Marseilles
student, it was not likely that the opportunity he was seeking would be
long in coming.
The Academy of Aix offered a prize of a few hundred francs for a
eulogium on _Vauvenargues_, and here was the opportunity which Louis
Adolphe Thiers required. He determined to compete for the prize,
and wrote out two copies of his essay, one of which he sent to the
Academy’s Secretary, and the other he submitted to the judgment of
his friends. This latter indiscretion, however, would appear to have
been the cause of his name being mentioned to the Academicians as a
competitor; and as they had a spite against him, and disapproved of his
opinions, they decided to reject any essay which he might submit to
them.
On the day of the competition they were as good as their word, and
Thiers received back his essay with only an ‘honourable mention’
attached to it. The votes, however, had been equally divided, and the
principal prize could not be adjudged until the next session. The
future statesman and brilliant journalist was not, however, to be cast
aside in this contemptuous manner, and he accordingly adopted a _ruse
de guerre_, which was perfectly justifiable under the circumstances. He
sent back his first essay for the second competition with his own name
attached thereto, and at the same time transmitted another essay, by
means of a friend, through the Paris post-office. This paper was signed
‘Louis Duval;’ and as M. Thiers knew that they had resolved to reject
his essay and accept the next best on the list, he made it as near as
possible equal to the other in point of merit.
The Academicians were thoroughly out-generalled by this clever
artifice, and the prize was awarded to the essay signed ‘Louis Duval;’
but the chagrin of the dons when the envelope was opened and the name
of Louis Adolphe Thiers was read out, can be better imagined than
described. The prize, which amounted to about twenty pounds | 1,190.379979 |
2023-11-16 18:36:54.4594600 | 6,040 | 28 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
CONTEMPORARY
RUSSIAN NOVELISTS
Translated from the French of Serge Persky
By FREDERICK EISEMANN
JOHN W. LUCE AND COMPANY
BOSTON 1913
_Copyright, 1912_
BY C. DELAGRAVE
_Copyright, 1913_
BY L. E. BASSETT
To
THE MEMORY OF
F. N. S.
BY
THE TRANSLATOR
PREFACE
The principal aim of this book is to give the reader a good general
knowledge of Russian literature as it is to-day. The author, Serge
Persky, has subordinated purely critical material, because he wants
his readers to form their own judgments and criticize for
themselves. The element of literary criticism is not, however, by
any means entirely lacking.
In the original text, there is a thorough and exhaustive treatment
of the "great prophet" of Russian literature--Tolstoy--but the
translator has deemed it wise to omit this essay, because so much
has recently been written about this great man.
As the title of the book is "Contemporary Russian Novelists," the
essay on Anton Tchekoff, who is no longer living, does not rightly
belong here, but Tchekoff is such an important figure in modern
Russian literature and has attracted so little attention from
English writers that it seems advisable to retain the essay that
treats of his work.
Finally, let me express my sincerest thanks to Dr. G. H. Maynadier
of Harvard for his kind advice; to Miss Edna Wetzler for her
unfailing and valuable help, and to Miss Carrie Harper, who has gone
over this work with painstaking care.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A Brief Survey of Russian Literature 1
II. Anton Tchekoff 40
III. Vladimir Korolenko 76
IV. Vikenty Veressayev 108
V. Maxim Gorky 142
VI. Leonid Andreyev 199
VII. Dmitry Merezhkovsky 246
VIII. Alexander Kuprin 274
IX. Writers in Vogue 289
CONTEMPORARY RUSSIAN NOVELISTS
I
A BRIEF SURVEY OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE
In order to get a clear idea of modern Russian literature, a
knowledge of its past is indispensable. This knowledge will help us
in understanding that which distinguishes it from other European
literatures, not only from the viewpoint of the art which it
expresses, but also as the historical and sociological mirror of the
nation's life in the course of centuries.
The dominant trait of this literature is found in its very origins.
Unlike the literatures of other European countries, which followed,
in a more or less regular way, the development of life and
civilization during historic times, Russian literature passed
through none of these stages. Instead of being a product of the
past, it is a protestation against it; instead of retracing the old
successive stages, it appears, intermittently, like a light
suddenly struck in the darkness. Its whole history is a long
continual struggle against this darkness, which has gradually melted
away beneath these rays of light, but has never entirely ceased to
veil the general trend of Russian thought.
As a result of the unfortunate circumstances which characterize her
history, Russia was for a long time deprived of any relations with
civilized Europe. The necessity of concentrating all her strength on
fighting the Mongolians laid the corner-stone of a sort of
semi-Asiatic political autocracy. Besides, the influence of the
Byzantine clergy made the nation hostile to the ideas and science of
the Occident, which were represented as heresies incompatible with
the orthodox faith. However, when she finally threw off the
Mongolian yoke, and when she found herself face to face with Europe,
Russia was led to enter into diplomatic relations with the various
Western powers. She then realized that European art and science were
indispensable to her, if only to strengthen her in warfare against
these States. For this reason a number of European ideas began to
come into Russia during the reigns of the last Muscovite sovereigns.
But they assumed a somewhat sacerdotal character in passing through
the filter of Polish society, and took on, so to speak, a dogmatic
air. In general, European influence was not accepted in Russia
except with extreme repugnance and restless circumspection, until
the accession of Peter I. This great monarch, blessed with unusual
intelligence and a will of iron, decided to use all his autocratic
power in impressing, to use the words of Pushkin, "a new direction
upon the Russian vessel;"--Europe instead of Asia.
Peter the Great had to contend against the partisans of ancient
tradition, the "obscurists" and the adversaries of profane science;
and this inevitable struggle determined the first character of
Russian literature, where the satiric element, which in essence is
an attack on the enemies of reform, predominates. In organizing
grotesque processions, clownish masquerades, in which the
long-skirted clothes and the streaming beards of the honorable
champions of times gone by were ridiculed, Peter himself appeared as
a pitiless destroyer of the ancient costumes and superannuated
ideas.
The example set by the practical irony of this man was followed,
soon after the death of the Tsar, by Kantemir, the first Russian
author who wrote satirical verses. These verses were very much
appreciated in his time. In them, he mocks with considerable fervor
the ignorant contemners of science, who taste happiness only in the
gratification of their material appetites.
At the same time that the Russian authors pursued the enemies of
learning with sarcasm, they heaped up eulogies, which bordered on
idolatry, on Peter I, and, after him, on his successors. In these
praises, which were excessively hyperbolical, there was always some
sincerity. Peter had, in fact, in his reign, paved the way for
European civilization, and it seemed merely to be waiting for the
sovereigns, Peter's successors, to go on with the work started by
their illustrious ancestor. The most powerful leaders, and the first
representatives of the new literature, strode ahead, then, hand in
hand, but their paths before long diverged. Peter the Great wanted
to use European science for practical purposes only: it was only to
help the State, to make capable generals, to win wars, to help
savants find means to develop the national wealth by industry and
commerce; he--Peter--had no time to think of other things. But
science throws her light into the most hidden corners, and when it
brings social and political iniquities to light, then the government
hastens to persecute that which, up to this time, it has encouraged.
The protective, and later hostile, tendencies of the government in
regard to authors manifested themselves with a special violence
during the reign of Catherine II. This erudite woman, an admirer of
Voltaire and of the French "encyclopedistes," was personally
interested in writing. She wrote several plays in which she
ridiculed the coarse manners and the ignorance of the society of her
time. Under the influence of this new impulse, which had come from
one in such a high station in life, a legion of satirical journals
flooded the country. The talented and spiritual von Vizin wrote
comedies, the most famous of which exposes the ignorance and cruelty
of country gentlemen; in another, he shows the ridiculousness of
people who take only the brilliant outside shell from European
civilization. Shortly, Radishchev's "Voyage from Moscow to
St. Petersburg" appeared. Here the author, with the fury of
passionate resentment, and with sad bitterness, exposes the
miserable condition of the people under the yoke of the high and
mighty. It was then that the empress, Catherine the Great, so gentle
to the world at large and so authoritative at home, perceiving that
satire no longer spared the guardian principles necessary for the
security of the State, any more than they did popular superstitions,
manifested a strong displeasure against it. Consequently, the
satirical journals disappeared as quickly as they had appeared. Von
Vizin, who, in his pleasing "Questions to Catherine" had touched on
various subjects connected with court etiquette, and on the miseries
of political life, had to content himself with silence. Radishchev
was arrested, thrown into a fortress, and then sent to Siberia.
They went so far as to accuse Derzhavin, the greatest poet of this
time, the celebrated "chanter of Catherine," in his old age, of
Jacobinism for having translated into verse one of the psalms of
David; besides this, the energetic apostle of learning, Novikov, a
journalist, a writer, and the founder of a remarkable society which
devoted itself to the publication and circulation of useful books,
was accused of having had relations with foreign secret societies.
He was confined in the fortress at Schluesselburg after all his
belongings had been confiscated. The critic and the satirist had had
their wings clipped. But it was no longer possible to check this
tendency, for, by force of circumstances, it had been planted in the
very soul of every Russian who compared the conditions of life in
his country with what European civilization had done for the
neighboring countries.
Excluded from journalism, this satiric tendency took refuge in
literature, where the novel and the story trace the incidents of
daily life. Since the writers could not touch the evil at its
source, they showed its consequences for social life. They
represented with eloquence the empty and deplorable banality of the
existence forced upon most of them. By expressing in various ways
general aspirations towards something better, they let literature
continue its teaching, even in times particularly hostile to
freedom of thought, like the reign of Nicholas I, the most typical
and decided adversary of the freedom of the pen that Europe has ever
seen. Literature was, then, considered as an inevitable evil, but
one from which the world wanted to free itself; and every man of
letters seemed to be under suspicion. During this reign, not only
criticisms of the government, but also praises of it, were
considered offensive and out of place. Thus, the chief of the secret
police, when he found that a writer of that time, Bulgarine, whose
name was synonymous with accuser and like evils, had taken the
liberty to praise the government for some insignificant improvements
made on a certain street, told him with severity: "You are not asked
to praise the government, you must only praise men of letters."
Nothing went to print without the authorization of the general
censor, an authorization that had to be confirmed by the various
parts of the complex machine, and, finally, by a superior committee
which censored the censors. The latter were themselves so terrorized
that they scented subversive ideas even in cook-books, in technical
musical terms, and in punctuation marks. It would seem that under
such conditions no kind of literature, and certainly no satire,
could exist. Nevertheless, it was at this period that Gogol produced
his best works. The two most important are, his comedy "The
Revizor," where he stigmatizes the abuses of administration, and
"Dead Souls," that classic work which de Voguee judges worthy of
being given a place in universal literature, between "Don Quixote"
and "Gil Blas," and which, in a series of immortal types,
flagellates the moral emptiness and the mediocrity of life in high
Russian society at that time.
At the same time, Griboyedov's famous comedy, "Intelligence Comes to
Grief," which the censorship forbade to be produced or even
published, was being circulated in manuscript form. This comedy, a
veritable masterpiece, has for its hero a man named Chatsky, who was
condemned as a madman by the aristocratic society of Moscow on
account of his independent spirit and patriotic sentiments. It is
true that in all of these works the authors hardly attack important
personages or the essential bases of political organization. The
functionaries and proprietors of Gogol's works are "petites gens,"
and the civic pathos of Chatsky aims at certain individuals and not
at the national institutions. But these attacks, cleverly veiling
the general conditions of Russian life, led the intelligent reader
to meditate on certain questions, and it also permitted satire to
live through the most painful periods. Later, with the coming of the
reforms of Alexander II, satire manifested itself more openly in
the works of Saltykov, who was not afraid to use all his talent in
scourging, with his biting sarcasm, violence and arbitrariness.
Another salient trait of Russian literature is its tendency toward
realism, the germ of which can be seen even in the most
old-fashioned works, when, following the precepts of the West, they
were taken up first with pseudo-classicism, and then with the
romantic spirit which followed.
Pseudo-classicism had but few worthy representatives in Russia, if
we omit the poet Derzhavin, whom Pushkin accused of having a poor
knowledge of his mother tongue, and whose monotonous work shows
signs of genius only here and there.
As to romanticism! Here we find excellent translations of the German
poets by Zhukovsky, and the poems of Lermontov and Pushkin, all
impregnated with the spirit of Byron. But these two movements came
quickly to an end. Soon realism, under the influence of Dickens and
Balzac, installed itself as master of this literature, and, in spite
of the repeated efforts of the symbolist schools, nothing has yet
been able to wipe it out. Thus, the triumph of realism was not, as
in the case of earlier tendencies, the simple result of the spirit
of imitation which urges authors to choose models that are in
vogue, but it was a response to a powerful instinct. The truth of
this statement is very evident in view of the fact that realism
appeared in Russian literature at a time when it was still a novelty
in Europe. The need of representing naked reality, without any
decorations, is, so to speak, innate in the Russian author, who
cannot, for any length of time, be led away from this practice. This
is the very reason why the Byronian influence, at the time of
Pushkin and Lermontov, lasted such a short time. After having
written several poems inspired by the English poet, Pushkin soon
disdained this model, which was the sole object of European
imitation. "Byron's characters," he says, "are not real people, but
rather incarnations of the various moods of the poet," and he ends
by saying that Byron is "great but monotonous." We find the same
thing in Lermontov, who was fond of Byron, not only in a transient
mood of snobbery, but because the very strong and sombre character
of his imagination naturally led him to choose this kind of intense
poetry. He was exerting himself to regard reality seriously and to
reproduce it with exactitude, at the very time when he was killed in
a duel at the youthful age of twenty-seven.
Pushkin's best work, his novel in verse, "Evgeny Onyegin," although
it came so early, was constructed according to realistic
principles; and although we still distinguish romantic tints, it is
a striking picture of Russian society at the beginning of the 19th
century. We find the same tendency in Lermontov's prose novel, "A
Hero of Our Times," in which the hero, Pechorin, has many traits in
common with Evgeny Onyegin. This book immediately made a deep
impression. It was really nothing more than a step taken in a new
direction by its author. But it was a step that promised much. An
absurd fatality destroyed this promise, and hindered the poet,
according to the expression of an excellent critic of that time,
from "rummaging with his eagle eye, among the recesses of the
world."
The works of writers of secondary rank, contemporaneous with the
above mentioned, also reveal a realistic tendency. Then appeared, to
declare it with a master's power, that genius of a realist, of whom
we have already made mention, Gogol. There was general enthusiasm;
Gogol absorbed almost the entire attention of the public and men of
letters. The great critic and publicist Byelinsky, in particular,
took it upon himself to elaborate in his works the theories of
realism; he formulated the program about 1850 under the name of the
"naturalistic school." Thus the germs of the past had expanded
triumphantly in the work of Gogol, and the way was now clear for
Turgenev, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Goncharov, Ostrovsky, and Pisemsky,
who, while enlarging the range and perfecting the methods of the
naturalistic school, conquered for their native literature the place
which it has definitely assumed in the world.
Although we may infer that Russian realism has its roots in a
special spiritual predilection, we must not nevertheless forget the
historical conditions which prepared the way for it and made its
logical development easy. Russian literature, called on to struggle
against tremendous obstacles, could hardly have gone astray in the
domain of a nebulous idealism.
The third distinctive trait of this literature is found in its
democratic spirit. Most of the heroes are not titled personages;
they are peasants, bourgeois, petty officials, students, and,
finally, "intellectuals." This democratic taste is explained by the
very constitution of Russian society.
The spirit of the literature of a nation is usually a reflection of
the social class which possesses the preponderant influence from a
political or economic standpoint or which is marked by the strength
of its numbers. The preponderance of the upper middle class in
England has impressed on all the literature of that country the seal
of morality belonging to that class; while in France, where
aristocracy predominated, one still feels the influence of the
aristocratic traditions which are so brilliantly manifested in the
pseudo-classic period of its literature. But many reasons have
hindered the aristocracy and the bourgeoisie from developing in
Russia. The Russian bourgeois was, for a long time, nothing but a
peasant who had grown rich, while the noble was distinguished more
by the number of his serfs and his authority than by his moral
superiority. Deprived of independence, these two classes blended and
still blend with the immense number of peasants who surround them on
all sides and submerge them irresistibly, however they may wish to
free themselves.
Very naturally, the first Russian authors came from the class of
proprietors, rural lords, who were the most intelligent, not to say
the only intelligent people. In general, the life of the lord was
barely distinguishable from that of the peasant. As he was usually
reared in the country, he passed his childhood among the village
children; the people most dear to his heart, often more dear to him
than his father or mother, were his nurse and the other
servants,--simple people, who took care of him and gave him the
pleasures of his youthful existence. Before he entered the local
government school, he had been impregnated with goodness and popular
poetry, drawn from stories, legends, and tales to which he had been
an ardent listener. We find the great Pushkin dedicating his most
pathetic verses to his old nurse, and we often see him inspired by
the most humble people. In this way, to the theoretic democracy
imported from Europe is united, in the case of the Russian author, a
treasure of ardent personal recollections; democracy is not for him
an abstract love of the people, but a real affection, a tenderness
made up of lasting reminiscences which he feels deeply.
This then was the mental state of the most intelligent part of this
Russian nobility, which showed itself a pioneer of the ideas of
progress in literature and life. There were even singular political
manifestations produced. Rostopchin said: "In France the shoemakers
want to become noble; while here, the nobles would like to turn
shoemakers." But, in spite of all, the greater part of this caste,
with its essential conservative instincts, was nothing more than an
inert mass, without initiative, and incapable even of defending its
own interests except by the aid of the government.
Rostopchin did not suspect the profound truth of his capricious
saying.
This truth burst forth in all its strength about 1870, the time of
the great reforms undertaken by Alexander II, when the interests of
the people were, for the first time, the order of the day. It was
at this period that a great deal of studying was being done with
great enthusiasm and that a general infatuation for folklore and for
a "union with the masses" was being shown. The desire to become
"simplified," that is to say to have all people live the same kind
of life, the appearance of a type, celebrated under the sarcastic
name of "noble penitent" (meaning the titled man who is ashamed of
his privileged position as if it were a humiliating and infamous
thing), the politico-socialistic ideology of the first Slavophiles,
still half conservative, but wholly democratic; all these things
were the results of the manifestations which astonished Rostopchin
and made the more intelligent class of Russians fraternize more with
the masses. In our day, this tendency has been eloquently
illustrated by the greatest Russian artist and thinker, Tolstoy, who
was the very incarnation of the ideas named above, and who always
appears to us as a highly cultured peasant. The hero of
"Resurrection" sums up in a few words this sympathy for the people:
"This is it, the big world, the true world!" he says, on seeing the
crowd of peasants and workingmen packed into a third-class
compartment.
In the last half of the 19th century, Russian literature took a
further step in the way of democracy. It passed from the hands of
the nobility into the hands of the middle class, as the conditions
under which it existed brought it closer to the people and made it
therefore more accessible to their aspirations. It is no longer the
great humanitarians of the privileged class who paint the miserable
conditions among which people vegetate; it is the people themselves
who are beginning to speak of their miseries and of their hopes for
a better life. The result is a deep penetration of the popular mind,
in conjunction with an acute, and sometimes sickly, nervousness,
which is shown in the works of the great Uspensky, and, more
recently still, in Tchekoff, Andreyev, and many others.
None of these writers belong to the aristocracy, and two of
them--Tchekoff and Gorky--have come up from the masses: the former
was the son of a serf, and the latter the son of a workingman. Let
me add that, among the women of letters, the one who is most
distinguished by her talent in describing scenes from popular
life--Mme. Dmitrieva--is the daughter of a peasant woman.
Thus, as we have shown, the Russian writers alone, under the cover
of imaginative works which became expressive symbols, could
undertake a truly efficacious struggle against tyranny and
arbitrariness. They found themselves in that way placed in a
peculiar social position with corresponding duties. Men expected
from them, naturally, a new gospel and also a plan of conduct
necessary in order to escape from the circle of oppression. The best
of the Russian writers have undertaken a difficult and perilous
task; they have become the guides, and, so to speak, the "masters"
of life. This tendency constitutes a new trait in Russian
literature, one of its most characteristic; not that other
literatures have neglected it, but no other literature in the world
has proclaimed this mission with such a degree of energy and with
such a spirit of sacrifice. Never, in any other country, have
novelists or poets felt with such intensity the burden on their
souls. At this point Gogol, first of all, became the victim of this
state of things.
The enthusiasm stirred up by his works and by the immense hopes that
he had evoked suddenly elevated him to such a height in the minds of
his contemporaries that he felt real anguish. Artist he was, and now
he forced himself to become a moralist; he rushed into philosophical
speculations which led him on to a nebulous mysticism, from which
his talent suffered severely. When he realized what had happened,
despair seized him, his ideas troubled him, and he died in terrible
intellectual distress.
We see also the great admirer of Gogol--Dostoyevsky--under different
pretexts making known in almost all his novels and especially in
his magazine articles, "Recollections of an Author," his opinions on
the reforms about to be realized. He studies the problems of
civilization which concern humanity in general, and particularly
insists upon the mission of the Russian people, who are destined, he
believes, to end all the conflicts of the world by virtue of a
system based upon Christian love and pity.
Turgenev, himself, although above all an artist, does not remain
aloof from this educational work. In his "Annals of a Sportsman," he
attacks bondage. And when it was abolished, and when in the very
heart of Russian society, among the younger generation, the
revolutionists appeared, Turgenev attempted to paint these "new
men." Thus in his novel, "Fathers and Sons," he sketches in bold
strokes the character of the nihilist Bazarov. This celebrated type
cannot, however, be considered a true representative of the
mentality of the "new men," for it gave only a few aspects of their
character, which, besides, did not have Turgenev's sympathy.
They are valued in an entirely different way by Chernyshevsky in his
novel, "What Is To Be Done?" where the author, one of the most
powerful representatives of the great movement toward freedom from
1860 to 1870, carefully studied the bases of the new morals and the
means to be used in struggling against the prejudices of the old
society. Finally let us mention Tolstoy, whose entire literary
activity was a constant search for truth, till the day when his mind
found an answer to his doubts in the religion of love and harmony
which he preached from then on.
The earnestness which sees an apostle in a writer has not ceased to
grow and has almost blinded the public.
For example, Gorky needed only to write some stories in which he
places before us beings belonging to the most miserable classes of
society, to be suddenly, and perhaps against his own will, elevated
to the role of prophet of a | 1,190.4795 |
2023-11-16 18:36:54.4640270 | 592 | 9 |
Produced by Charles Aldarondo
FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS;
or, Two Ways of Living in the World.
Edited by By T. S. Arthur
PHILADELPHIA:
1856
PREFACE.
WE were about preparing a few words of introduction to this volume, the
materials for which have been culled from the highways and byways of
literature, where our eyes fell upon these fitting sentiments, the
authorship of which we are unable to give. They express clearly and
beautifully what was in our own mind:--
"If we would only bring ourselves to look at the subjects that surround
as in their true flight, we should see beauty where now appears
deformity, and listen to harmony where we hear nothing but discord. To
be sure there is a great deal of vexation and anxiety in the world; we
cannot sail upon a summer sea for ever; yet if we preserve a calm eye
and a steady hand, we can so trim our sails and manage our helm, as to
avoid the quicksands, and weather the storms that threaten shipwreck.
We are members of one great family; we are travelling the same road, and
shall arrive at the same goal. We breathe the same air, are subject
to the same bounty, and we shall, each lie down upon the bosom of
our common mother. It is not becoming, then, that brother should hate
brother; it is not proper that friend should deceive friend; it is not
right that neighbour should deceive neighbour. We pity that man who can
harbour enmity against his fellow; he loses half the enjoyment of life;
he embitters his own existence. Let us tear from our eyes the
medium that invests every object with the green hue of jealousy and
suspicion; turn, a deal ear to scandal; breathe the spirit of charity
from our hearts; let the rich gushings of human kindness swell up as a
fountain, so that the golden age will become no fiction and islands of
the blessed bloom in more than Hyperian beauty."
It is thus that friends and neighbours should live. This is the right
way. To aid in the creation of such true harmony among men, has the book
now in your hand, reader, been compiled. May the truths that glisten on
its pages be clearly reflected in your mind; and the errors it points
out be shunned as the foes of yourself and humanity.
CONTENTS.
GOOD IN ALL
HUMAN PROGRESS
MY WASHERWOMAN
FORGIVE AND FORGET
OWE NO MAN ANYTHING
RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL
PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGHBOUR'S POCKET
KIND WORDS
NEIGHBOUR | 1,190.484067 |
2023-11-16 18:36:54.6601850 | 2,415 | 666 |
Produced by Emmy, MFR, Sam W. and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive). Dedicated, with much affection, to our
friend Emmy, who "fell off the planet" far too soon.
The Boy Scouts
of
Woodcraft Camp
By
Thornton W. Burgess
Author of
The Boy Scouts on Swift River
The Boy Scouts on Lost Trail
The Boy Scouts in a Trapper's Camp
[Illustration]
Illustrated by C. S. Corson
The Penn Publishing
Company Philadelphia
1922
COPYRIGHT
1912 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE CHIEF GREETED HIM PLEASANTLY]
_To my Wife_
_whose faith and encouragement
have placed me in her debt
beyond my power to pay_
Introduction
The Boy Scout movement has appealed to me from the very first as a
long step in the right direction. It stands for an organized boyhood
on a world-wide plan. It has in it the essentials for a stronger and
better manhood, based on character building and physical development.
Clear and clean thinking and self-reliance are its fundamental
principles. Its weakness has been and is the difficulty in securing
leaders, men with an understanding of and sympathy with boys, who can
give the necessary time to active work in the field with the patrols,
and who are themselves sufficiently versed in the lore of the woods
and fields.
For years, before ever the Boy Scouts were organized, I had dreamed of
a woodcraft camp for boys, a camp which in its appointments and
surroundings should make constant appeal to the imagination of
red-blooded, adventure-loving boys, and which should at the same time
be a true "school of the woods" wherein woodcraft and the ways of
nature should be taught along much the same lines as those on which
the Boy Scout movement is founded.
In this and succeeding volumes, "The Boy Scouts on Swift River," "The
Boy Scouts on Lost Trail," "The Boy Scouts in a Trapper's Camp," I
have sought to portray the life of such a school camp under Boy Scout
rules. "The Boy Scouts of Woodcraft Camp" has been written with a
twofold purpose: To stimulate on the part of every one of my boy
readers a desire to master for himself the mysteries of nature's great
out-of-doors, the secrets of field and wood and stream, and to show by
example what the Boy Scout's oath means in the development of
character. Many of the incidents in the succeeding pages are drawn
from my own experiences. And if, because of reading this story, one
more boy is led to the Shrine of the Hemlock, there to inhale the
pungent incense from a camp-fire and to master the art of tossing a
flapjack, I shall feel that I have not written in vain.
THE AUTHOR.
Contents
I. THE TENDERFOOT 11
II. WOODCRAFT CAMP 26
III. FIRST IMPRESSIONS 39
IV. THE INITIATION 56
V. THE RECALL 71
VI. THE SPECTER IN CAMP 86
VII. FIRST LESSONS 100
VIII. LONESOME POND 116
IX. A SHOT IN THE DUSK 136
X. A BATTLE FOR HONOR 161
XI. BUXBY'S BUNCOMBE 184
XII. LOST 199
XIII. THE HONEY SEEKERS 220
XIV. THE SUPREME TEST 237
XV. CRAFTY MIKE 254
XVI. THE POACHER OF LONESOME POND 273
XVII. THE HAUNTED CABIN 288
XVIII. ON GUARD 304
XIX. FOR THE HONOR OF THE TRIBE 319
XX. THE HOME TRAIL 337
Illustrations
THE CHIEF GREETED HIM PLEASANTLY _Frontispiece_
DIAGRAM OF WOODCRAFT CAMP 41
"TELL HIM YOU ARE TO BE A DELAWARE" 51
HE HAD BUILT A FIRE 118
BILLY'S APPARATUS FOR MAKING FIRE 207
"RUN!" HE YELLED 233
THE BOYS WERE DRILLED IN WIG-WAG SIGNALING 308
The Boy Scouts of Woodcraft Camp
CHAPTER I
THE TENDERFOOT
In the semi-darkness of daybreak a boy of fourteen jumped from a
Pullman sleeper and slipped a quarter into the hand of the dusky
porter who handed down his luggage.
"You are sure this is Upper Chain?" he inquired.
"'Spects it is, boss, but I ain't no ways sho'. Ain't never been up
this way afore," replied the porter, yawning sleepily.
The boy vainly strove to pierce the night mist which shrouded
everything in ghostly gray, hoping to see the conductor or a brakeman,
but he could see barely half the length of the next Pullman. A warning
rumble at the head of the long train admonished him that he must act
at once; he must make up his mind to stay or he must climb aboard
again, and that quickly.
The long night ride had been a momentous event to him. He had slept
little, partly from the novelty of his first experience in a sleeping
car, and partly from the excitement of actually being on his way into
the big north woods, the Mecca of all his desires and daydreams.
Consequently he had kept a fairly close record of the train's running
time, dozing off between stations but waking instantly whenever the
train came to a stop. According to his reckoning he should now be at
Upper Chain. He had given the porter strict orders to call him twenty
minutes before reaching his destination, but to his supreme disgust he
had had to perform that service for the darkey. That worthy had then
been sent forward to find the conductor and make sure of their
whereabouts. Unsuccessful, he had returned just in time to hand down
the lad's duffle.
Now, as the preliminary jerk ran down the heavy train, the boy once
more looked at his watch, and made up his mind. If the train was on
time, and he felt sure that it was, this was Upper Chain, the
junction where he was to change for the final stage of his journey. He
would stay.
The dark, heavy sleepers slowly crept past as the train gathered way,
till suddenly he found himself staring for a moment at the red and
green tail lights. Then they grew dim and blinked out in the
enveloping fog. He shivered a bit, for the first time realizing how
cold it was at this altitude before daybreak. And, to be quite honest,
there was just a little feeling of loneliness as he made out the dim
black wall of evergreens on one side and the long string of empty
freight cars shutting him in on the other. The whistle of the laboring
locomotive shrieked out of the darkness ahead, reverberating with an
eery hollowness from mountain to mountain. Involuntarily he shivered
again. Then, with a boyish laugh at his momentary loss of nerve, he
shouldered his duffle bag and picked up his fishing-rod.
"Must be a depot here somewhere, and it's up to me to find it," he
said aloud. "Wonder what I tipped that stupid porter for, anyway! Dad
would say I'm easy. Guess I am, all right. Br-r-r-r, who says this is
July?"
Trudging along the ties he soon came to the end of the string of
empties and, a little way to his right, made out the dim outlines of a
building. This proved to be the depot. A moment later he was in the
bare, stuffy little waiting-room, in the middle of which a big stove
was radiating a welcome warmth.
On a bench at one side sat two roughly-dressed men, who glanced up as
the boy entered. One was in the prime of vigorous manhood. Broad of
shoulder, large of frame, he was spare with the leanness of the
professional woodsman, who lives up to the rule that takes nothing
useless on the trail and, therefore, cannot afford to carry
superfluous flesh. The gray flannel shirt, falling open at the neck,
exposed a throat which, like his face, was roughened and bronzed by
the weather.
The boy caught the quick glance of the keen blue eyes which, for all
their kindly twinkle, bored straight through him. Instinctively he
felt that here was one of the very men his imagination had so often
pictured, a man skilled in woodcraft, accustomed to meeting danger,
clear-headed, resourceful--in fact just such a man as was Deerslayer,
whose rifle had so often roused the echoes in these very woods.
The man beside him was short, thick-set, black-haired and mare-browed.
His skin was swarthy, with just a tinge of color to hint at Indian
ancestry among his French forebears. He wore the large check mackinaw
of the French Canadian lumberman. Against the bench beside him rested
a double-bladed axe. A pair of beady black eyes burned their way into
the boy's consciousness. They were not good eyes; they seemed to carry
a hint of hate and evil, an unspoken threat. The man, taking in the
new khaki suit of the boy and the unsoiled case of the fishing-rod,
grunted contemptuously and spat a mouthful of tobacco juice into the
box of sawdust beside the stove. The boy flushed and turned to meet
the kindly, luminous eyes of the other man.
"If you please, is this Upper Chain?" he inquired.
"Sure, son," was the prompt response. "Reckon we must hev come in on
th' same train, only I was up forward. Guess you're bound for
Woodcraft Camp. So'm I, so let's shake. My name's Jim Everly--'Big
Jim' they call me--and I'm goin' in t' guide fer Dr. Merriam th' rest
o' th' summer and try to teach you youngsters a few o' th' first
principles. What might yer name be an' whar be yer from?"
"Walter Upton, but the boys mostly call me 'Walt.' My home is in New
York," replied the boy.
"Never hit th' trail t' th' big woods afore, did yer?" inquired the
big guide, rising to stretch.
"No | 1,190.680225 |
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The Theatrocrat
A TRAGIC PLAY OF CHURCH AND STAGE
BY
JOHN DAVIDSON
LONDON
E. GRANT RICHARDS
1905
TO THE GENERATION KNOCKING AT THE DOOR
Break--break it open; let the knocker rust:
Consider no "shalt not", and no man's "must":
And, being entered, promptly take the lead,
Setting aside tradition, custom, creed;
Nor watch the balance of the huckster's beam;
Declare your hardiest thought, your proudest dream:
Await no summons; laugh at all rebuff;
High hearts and youth are destiny enough.
The mystery and the power enshrined in you
Are old as time and as the moment new:
And none but you can tell what part you play,
Nor can you tell until you make assay,
For this alone, this always, will succeed,
The miracle and magic of the deed.
John Davidson.
INTRODUCTION
WORDSWORTH'S IMMORALITY AND MINE
Poetry is immoral. It will state any and every morality. It has done
so. There is no passion of man or passion of Matter outside its
province. It will expound with equal zest the twice incestuous
intrigue of Satan, Sin, and Death, and the discarnate adoration of
Dante for the most beatified lady in the world's record. There is no
horror of deluge, fire, plague, or war it does not rejoice to utter;
no evanescent hue, or scent, or sound, it cannot catch, secure, and
reproduce in word and rhythm. The worship of Aphrodite and the
worship of the Virgin are impossible without its ministration. It
will celebrate the triumph of the pride of life riding to victory
roughshod over friend and foe, and the flame-clad glory of the martyr
who lives in obloquy and dies in agony for an idea or a dream. Poetry
is a statement of the world and of the Universe as the world can know
it. Sometimes it is of its own time: sometimes it is ahead of time,
reaching forward to a new and newer understanding and
interpretation. In the latter case poetry is not only immoral in the
Universal order; but also in relation to its own division of time: a
great poet is very apt to be, for his own age and time, a great
immoralist. This is a hard saying in England, where the current
meaning of immorality is so narrow, nauseous, and stupid. I wish to
transmute this depreciated word, to make it so eminent that men shall
desire to be called immoralists. To be immoral is to be different:
that says it precisely, stripped of all accretions, barnacles and
seaweed, rust and slime: the keen keel swift to furrow the deep. The
difference is always one of conduct: there is no other difference
between man and man: from the first breath to the last, life in all
its being and doing is conduct. The difference may be as slight as a
change in the form of poetical expression or the mode of wearing the
hair; or it may be as important as the sayings of Christ, as vast
and significant as the French Revolution and the career of Napoleon.
Nothing in life is interesting except that differentiation which is
immorality: the world would be a putrid stagnation without it, and
greatness and glory impossible. Morality would never have founded the
British Empire in India; it was English piracy that wrested from
Iberia the control of the Spanish Main and the kingdom of the sea.
War is empowered immorality: poetry is a warfare.
What I mean by Wordsworth's immorality begins to appear. This most
naive and majestic person, leading the proudest, cleanest | 1,190.784322 |
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THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.
A MAGAZINE OF
_Literature, Science, Art, and Politics._
V | 1,190.879791 |
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[Illustration: WITH THE UTMOST GENTLENESS HE LAID HIS HAND AGAIN UPON
HERS. "ARE YOU AFRAID TO SAY | 1,190.980169 |
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THE CASSOWARY
[Illustration: "I HAVE BEEN NARROW," SAID THE MINISTER]
THE CASSOWARY
What Chanced in the Cleft Mountains
BY STANLEY WATERLOO
Author of "The Story of Ab,"
"The Seekers,"
"The Wolf's Long Howl,"
"The Story of a Strange Career,"
Etc., Etc.
PUBLISHERS
MONARCH BOOK COMPANY
CHICAGO
COPYRIGHT 1906 BY
MONARCH BOOK COMPANY
CHICAGO
CONTENTS
Chapter
I. WHAT CHANCED IN THE CLEFT MOUNTAINS
II. A MAN
III. JOHN LIPSKY'S SIGN
IV. A SPECIAL PROVIDENCE
V. THE "FAR AWAY LADY"
VI. THE LIFE LINE
VII. A TOAD AND A SONG
VIII. ALAN MACGREGOR'S BROWN LEG
IX. THE HUGE HOUND'S MOOD
X. THE SIREN
XI. THE PORTER'S STORY
XII. THE PURPLE STOCKING
XIII. HESITANT
XIV. A TEST OF ATTITUDE
XV. A SAMOAN IDYL
XVI. A WOMAN AND SHEEP
XVII. THE ENCHANTED COW
XVIII. LOVE AND A ZULU
XIX. AT BAY SOFTLY
XX. LOVE WILL FIND THE WAY
XXI. A LITERARY LOVE AFFAIR
XXII. ABERCROMBIE'S WOOING
XXIII. EVAN CUMMINGS' COURTSHIP
XXIV. THE SWISS FAMILY ROBERTSON
XXV. THE LOWRY-TURCK LOVE ENTANGLEMENT
XXVI. THE PALE PEACOCK AND THE PURPLE HERRING
XXVII. THE RELEASE
XXVIII. LOVE'S INSOLENCE
XXIX. AT LAST
ILLUSTRATIONS
"THE STOREKEEPER!" HE EXCLAIMED
"I HAVE BEEN NARROW," SAID THE MINISTER
THEY PLUNGED INTO THE WHITENESS
THE GREAT SNAKE BEGAN ITS WORK OF DEGLUTITION
THE BIG BODY RELAXED AND STRAIGHTENED OUT
THE MAYOR HAD BEEN GETTING INTERESTED
THE AWARD COULD BUT GO TO UNA LOA
THE CHILDREN CARRIED AWAY ARMFULS OF FLOWERS
SIR GLADYS ESCORTED THE LADY FLORETTA HOME
HE WAS UNCONSCIOUS AS A CHILD
A DOZEN OR MORE NESTS WERE FOUND
"WE SHALL MEET AT BREAKFAST"
THE CASSOWARY
CHAPTER I
WHAT CHANCED IN THE CLEFT MOUNTAINS
The blizzard snorted and raged at midnight up the narrow pass west of
Pike's Peak, at the bottom of which lay the railroad track, and with
this tumult of the elements the snow was falling in masses which were
caught up and tossed about in the gale until the air was but a white,
swirling, yeasty mass through which nothing could be seen a yard away.
The canyon was filling rapidly and the awful storm showed no sign of
abatement. The passage was not of the narrowest at the place to which
this description refers. The railroad builders had done good work in
what had been little more than a gorge. They had blasted and carried
away after the manner of man who, if resolute enough, must find the way.
He may sweat for it; he may freeze for it, but he attains his end, as he
did in forcing a passage through the vainglorious labyrinths of the
Rockies. So, he had made a road between the towering heights of the
Cleft Mountains. He had done well, but he had left a way so indefensible
that indecent Nature, seeking reprisals, might do almost anything there
in winter. Just now, with the accompanying war-whoop of the roaring
blast, she was building up an enormous buttress across the King's
Highway. The canyon was filled to the depth of many feet, and the
buttress was growing higher every moment.
And, plunging forward from the West toward this buttress of snow, now
came tearing ahead boisterously the trans-continental train from San
Francisco. Its crew had hoped to get through the pass while yet the
thing was possible. On it came at full speed, the big train, with all
its great weight and tremendous force of impact, and plunged, like a
bull with lowered horns, into the uplifting mountain of snow. It tore
its way forward, resistlessly at first, then more slowly, and slower
still, until, at last, it stopped quiveringly. But it was not beaten
yet. Back it went hundreds of yards and hurled itself a second time into
the growing drift. It made a slight advance, and that was all. Again and
again it charged, but it was useless. Nature had won! Paralyzed and
inefficient, the train lay still.
Then to the wild clamor of the storm was added another note. The whistle
screamed like a woman. Why it should be sounded at all none but the
engineer could tell--perhaps it was the instinct of a railroad man to
sound the whistle anywhere in an emergency. Speaking the voice of the
train, its cry seemed to be, at first, one of alarm and protest, then,
as the hand on the throttle wavered, one of pleading, until, finally,
beaten and discouraged, it sank sobbingly into silence, awaiting that
first aid for the wounded in the case of railroad trains--the telegraph.
Upon the trains which must adventure the passes of the Rocky Mountains
in winter are carried all the means for wire-tapping, that communication
may be had with the outside world on any occasion of disaster at a
distance from a station, the climbing spikes, the cutters, tweezers and
leather gloves, and all the kit of a professional line repairer.
Ordinarily, too, some one of the train crew, or a professional
telegrapher, in times of special apprehension is prepared to do the work
of the emergency. This particular train had all the necessary kit, but,
to the alarm of the conductor and engineer and all the train crew, it
was discovered, after they had met in hurried consultation, that while
they had the means, they lacked the man. What was to be done? They must
reach the outside world somehow; they must reach Belden, whence must
come the relief train headed by the huge snow-plow which would
eventually release them. The conductor was a man of action: "It may be,"
he said, "it may be that there is some one on the train who can do the
job. It's a mighty doubtful thing, but I'll find out."
He was a big, red-faced, heavy-moustached man, with a big voice, and he
started promptly on his way, bellowing through each car:
"Is there anybody here who can cut in on a wire, and telegraph? Is there
anybody here who can cut in on a wire, and telegraph?"
The strident call aroused everybody as he passed along, but response was
lacking. He became discouraged. As he reached the drawing-room car he
was tempted to abandon the idea. He hesitated, unwilling to disturb the
sleepers in--or rather the occupants of the berths, for the general
tumult outside had awakened them--but pulled himself together and kept
on. He entered the car roaringly as he had the others:
"Is there anybody here who can cut in on a wire, and telegraph? Is
there anybody here who can cut in on a wire, and telegraph?"
The curtains of one of the berths were drawn apart, and a head appeared,
the head of a man of about forty years of age with clean-cut features,
distinctly those of a gentleman. There was force in the aquiline nose
and the strong jaw, but the voice was gentle enough when he spoke:
"I might do it, possibly. What's the matter? Stalled?"
The conductor was astounded. The drawing-room car was the last place
from which he had expected or hoped assistance, but he answered
promptly:
"Yes, sir," he said, "we are in a bad way, half buried in a snow
mountain. We've got to reach Belden by wire, but we've no one to make
the connection and send the message. If you can help us it will be a
great thing. I hate to ask you. It's going to be an awful job."
"Have you got the tools?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I'll try it."
John Stafford dressed hurriedly. He emerged, a straight,
broad-shouldered man, possessed apparently of exceptional strength and
vigor, qualities soon to be tested to the utmost. He went forward with
the conductor to the car at the front, in which the trainmen were
assembled. He equipped himself for the work, then, lamp in hand, he
stepped out upon the platform and looked about him. He could see
nothing.
He was enclosed between walls of white, the substance of which was
revolving, curling and twisting uncannily. What seemed almost the
impenetrable was beside him. All vision was cut off. There was but the
mystery of the filled canyon. And he must venture out into that
sinister, invisible space, find a telegraph pole and climb it and cut
the wire and talk with Belden! The thing was appalling.
But a resolute and courageous man was John Stafford, civil engineer, and
he had been building railroads in Siberia. He gave swift directions to
the trainmen:
"Get together and light all the lamps you have and bring them here," he
ordered; "set some of them in this window and hang some of them against
it. I want the brightest beacon I can have. Keep the glass of the window
clean and clear, inside and outside." Then, with a coil of wire about
him, and lamp in hand, he stepped out into that wicked vastness.
He plunged into snow up to his neck. He realized now more than ever
what was the task he had undertaken. He stamped to clear as well as he
could a little space about him and took his bearings. Practical railroad
man, he had reasoned out his course. He had with him a pocket compass
and upon this alone he relied. He knew the distance from the track to
the telegraph line and knew that by going just so many yards north and
then going directly east or west he would reach a pole. But the distance
he could only estimate, and who could accomplish that feat with any
degree of accuracy under such conditions?
Then began a fight which must remain a desperate memory with the man
forever.
Straight north he began his way, plowing, digging, almost burrowing. It
was fearful work, body-distressing, soul-trying. To acquire an added
yard in his progress was a task. Cold as it was, he was perspiring
violently in no time. The snow had begun to pack, and in the slight
depressions, where it was deepest, he had even to heave his chest
against it to force his way. His feet became clogged and heavy. But he
floundered on. He became angry over it all. He would not be beaten! At
last, as he estimated, he reached a point which must lie somewhere in
the line between poles, but he was not sure. He could not judge of
distance, in such a struggle. He lay down in the snow and drew long
breaths and rested until the cold, checking the welling perspiration,
warned him that, if he would live, he must work again.
Straight east by the compass he started, and there was renewed the same
fierce, exhausting struggle, but this time maintained much longer. He
kept it up until he knew he must have compassed more than half the
distance--all that was required--between two poles, but he could not
find one. The situation was becoming desperate. The lamp gave light for
only a yard ahead, no more, because of the wall of falling snow. Back
and forth he went, almost exhausted now, his heart thumping, his breath
exhausted. And then, just as he was about to lie down again to a rest
which would have been more than dangerous, he stumbled upon a telegraph
pole. It was but fortune.
Stafford's strength returned with the finding of the pole. He would at
least accomplish what he sought to do! He rested long against the pole
and then began the ascent. Everything was easy now. The work in hand was
nothing compared with the battle in the drift. He cut in on the wire,
made the connection, talked with Belden and got assurance of instant
gathering of every force at command there for the rescue. The relief
train would start at once. There is sympathy and understanding and swift
aid where they have learned to know the perils of the passes.
Stafford came down the pole at ease. Everything was all right now. All
he had to do was to go back to the train and rest. He would follow his
back track. He looked for it, but there was no back track! The densely
falling snow had obliterated it completely. He fell back upon the
compass again, and all the desperate work was but repeated. He was
becoming faint and thoroughly exhausted now. He looked for the beacon
light in the window but he might as well have tried to look through a
stone wall. He feared his case was hopeless, but he did not flinch nor
lose his courage. He sat down in the snow, unable for the moment to go
further, and shouted with all the force of which his strained lungs were
capable, but, at first, with no result. At last he thought he heard an
answering call, and later he was assured of it. That revived him. He got
upon his feet again and stumbled forward, following the direction of the
sound. Two forms appeared beside him suddenly. They were those of the
conductor and engineer. He was taken by each arm, and, staggering
between the two, was lifted into the car. He was approaching a state of
entire collapse, but brandy stimulated him into ability to tell of what
he had accomplished. The trainmen were more than grateful. They removed
his outer clothing, and, half-carrying him to his berth, left him there
enveloped in a warm blanket. He was oblivious to all things in a moment,
sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion.
CHAPTER II
A MAN
Weary of fighting off thoughts, tired with the insistent intrusions of
memory, John Stafford, who | 1,190.988967 |
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ARCHERY
PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
LONDON
[Illustration: Your's truly
Horace A. Ford]
THE
THEORY AND PRACTICE
OF
ARCHERY
BY THE LATE
HORACE FORD
CHAMPION ARCHER OF ENGLAND FOR THE YEARS 1850 TO 1859 AND 1867
_NEW EDITION_
_THOROUGHLY REVISED AND RE-WRITTEN_
BY
W. BUTT, M.A.
FOR MANY YEARS HON. SECRETARY OF THE ROYAL TOXOPHILITE SOCIETY
LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
1887
_All rights reserved_
PREFACE.
No excuse need be offered to archers for presenting to them a new
edition of the late Mr. Horace A. Ford's work on the Theory and Practice
of Archery. It first appeared as a series of articles in the columns of
the 'Field,' which were republished in book form in 1856; a second
edition was published in 1859, which has been long out of print, and no
book on the subject has since appeared. Except, therefore, for a few
copies of this book, which from time to time may be obtained from the
secondhand booksellers, no guide is obtainable by which the young archer
can learn the principles of his art. On hearing that it was in
contemplation to reprint the second edition of Mr. Ford's book, it
seemed to me a pity that this should be done without revision, and
without bringing it up to the level of the knowledge of the present day.
I therefore purchased the copyright of the work from Mr. Ford's
representatives, and succeeded in inducing Mr. Butt, who was for many
years the secretary of the Royal Toxophilite Society, to undertake the
revision.
A difficulty occurred at the outset as to the form in which this
revision should be carried out. If it had been possible, there would
have been advantages in printing Mr. Ford's text untouched, and in
giving Mr. Butt's comments in the form of notes. This course would,
however, have involved printing much matter that has become entirely
obsolete, and, moreover, not only would the bulk of the book have been
increased to a greater extent even than has actually been found
necessary, but also Mr. Butt's portion of the work, which contains the
information of the latest date, and is therefore of highest practical
value to young archers, would have been relegated to a secondary and
somewhat inconvenient position. Mr. Butt has therefore rewritten the
book, and it would hardly perhaps be giving him too much credit to
describe the present work as a Treatise on the Theory and Practice of
Archery by him, based on the work of the late Horace A. Ford.
In writing his book, Mr. Ford committed to paper the principles by means
of which he secured his unrivalled position as an archer. After
displaying a clever trick, it is the practice of some conjurers to
pretend to take the spectators into their confidence, and to show them
'how it is done.' In such cases the audience, as a rule, is not much the
wiser; but a more satisfactory result has followed from Mr. Ford's
instructions.
Mr. Ford was the founder of modern scientific archery. First by example,
and then by precept, he changed what before was 'playing at bows and
arrows' into a scientific pastime. He held the Champion's medal for
eleven years in succession--from 1849 to 1859. He also won it again in
1867. After this time, although he was seen occasionally in the archery
field, his powers began to wane. He died in the year 1880. His best
scores, whether at public matches or in private practice, have never
been surpassed. But, although no one has risen who can claim that on him
has fallen the mantle of Mr. Ford, his work was not in vain. Thanks to
the more scientific and rational principles laid down by this great
archer, any active lad nowadays can, with a few months' practice, make
scores which would have been thought fabulous when George III. was king.
The Annual Grand National Archery Meetings were started in the year 1844
at York, and at the second meeting, in 1845, held also at York, when the
Double York Round was shot for the first time, Mr. Muir obtained the
championship, with 135 hits, and a score of 537. Several years elapsed
before the championship was won with a score of over 700. Nowadays, a
man who cannot make 700 is seldom in the first ten, and, moreover, the
general level both among ladies and gentlemen continues to rise. We have
not yet, however, found any individual archer capable of beating in
public the marvellous record of 245 hits and 1,251 score, made by Mr.
Ford at Cheltenham in 1857.
One chief cause of the improvement Mr. Ford effected was due to his
recognising the fallacy in the time-honoured saying that the archer
should draw to the ear. When drawn to the ear, part of the arrow must
necessarily lie outside the direct line of sight from the eye to the
gold. Consequently, if the arrow points apparently to the gold, it must
fly to the left of the target when loosed, and in order to hit the
target, the archer who draws to the ear must aim at some point to the
right. Mr. Ford laid down the principle that the arrow must be drawn
directly beneath the aiming eye, and lie in its whole length in the same
vertical plane as the line between the eye and the object aimed at.
It is true that in many representations of ancient archers the arrow is
depicted as being drawn beyond the eye, and consequently outside the
line of sight. No doubt for war purposes it was a matter of importance
to shoot a long heavy arrow, and if an arrow of a standard yard long or
anything like it was used, it would be necessary for a man to draw it
beyond his eye, unless he had very long arms indeed. But in war, the
force of the blow was of more importance than accuracy of aim, and Mr.
Ford saw that in a pastime where accuracy of aim was the main object,
this old rule no longer held good. This was only one of many
improvements effected by Mr. Ford; but it is a fact that this discovery,
which seems obvious enough now that it is stated, was the main cause of
the marvellous improvement which has taken place in shooting.
The second chapter in Mr. Ford's book, entitled 'A Glance at the Career
of the English Long-Bow,' has been omitted. It contained no original
matter, being compiled chiefly from the well-known works of Roberts,
Moseley, and Hansard. The scope of the present work is practical, not
historical; and to deal with the history of the English long-bow in a
satisfactory manner would require a bulky volume. An adequate history of
the bow in all ages and in all countries has yet to be written.
In the chapters on the bow, the arrow, and the rest of the paraphernalia
of archery, much that Mr. Ford wrote, partly as the result of the
practice and experiments of himself and others, and partly as drawn from
the works of previous writers on the subject, still holds good; but
improvements have been effected since his time, and Mr. Butt has been
able to add a great deal of useful information gathered from the long
experience of himself and his contemporaries.
The chapters which deal with Ascham's well-known five points of
archery--standing, nocking, drawing, holding, and loosing--contain the
most valuable part of Mr. Ford's teaching, and Mr. Butt has endeavoured
to develope further the principles laid down by Mr. Ford. The chapters
on ancient and modern archery practice have been brought up to date, and
Mr. Butt has given in full the best scores made by ladies or gentlemen
at every public meeting which has been held since the establishment of
the Grand National Archery Society down to 1886.
The chapter on Robin Hood has been omitted for the same reasons which
determined the omission of the chapter on the career of the English
long-bow, and the rules for the formation of archery societies, which
are cumbrous and old-fashioned, have also been left out.
The portrait of Major C. H. Fisher, champion archer for the years
1871-2-3-4, is reproduced from a photograph taken by Mr. C. E. Nesham,
the present holder of the champion's medal.
In conclusion, it is hoped that the publication of this book may help to
increase the popularity of archery in this country. It is a pastime
which can never die out. The love of the bow and arrow seems almost
universally planted in the human heart. But its popularity fluctuates,
and though it is now more popular than at some periods, it is by no
means so universally practised as archers would desire. One of its
greatest charms is that it is an exercise which is not confined to men.
Ladies have attained a great and increasing amount of skill with the
bow, and there is no doubt that it is more suited to the fairer sex than
some of the more violent forms of athletics now popular. Archery has
perhaps suffered to some extent from comparison with the rifle. The
rifleman may claim for his weapon that its range is greater and that it
shoots more accurately than the bow. The first position may be granted
freely, the second only with reserve. Given, a well-made weapon of
Spanish or Italian yew, and arrows of the best modern make, and the
accuracy of the bow is measured only by the skill of the shooter. If he
can loose his arrow truly, it will hit the mark; more than that can be
said of no weapon. That a rifleman will shoot more accurately at ranges
well within the power of the bow than an archer of similar skill is
certain; but the reason is that the bow is the more difficult, and
perhaps to some minds on that account the more fascinating, weapon. The
reason why it is more difficult is obvious, and in stating it we see one
of the many charms of archery. The rifleman has but to aim straight and
to hold steady, and he will hit the bull's-eye. But the archer has also
to supply the motive force which propels his arrow. As he watches the
graceful flight of a well-shot shaft, he can feel a pride in its
swiftness and strength which a rifleman cannot share. And few pastimes
can furnish a more beautiful sight than an arrow speeding swiftly and
steadily from the bow, till with a rapturous thud it strikes the gold at
a hundred yards.
C. J. LONGMAN.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. OF THE ENGLISH LONG-BOW 1
II. HOW TO CHOOSE A BOW, AND HOW TO USE AND PRESERVE
IT WHEN CHOSEN 17
III. OF THE ARROW 27
IV. OF THE STRING, BRACER, AND SHOOTING-GLOVE 44
V. OF THE GREASE-BOX, TASSEL, BELT, ETC. 67
VI. OF BRACING, OR STRINGING, AND NOCKING 78
VII. OF ASCHAM'S FIVE POINTS, POSITION STANDING, ETC. 83
VIII. DRAWING 94
IX. AIMING 107
X. OF HOLDING AND LOOSING 122
XI. OF DISTANCE SHOOTING, AND DIFFERENT ROUNDS 132
XII. ARCHERY SOCIETIES, 'RECORDS,' ETC. 140
XIII. THE PUBLIC ARCHERY MEETINGS AND THE DOUBLE
YORK AND OTHER ROUNDS 148
XIV. CLUB SHOOTING AND PRIVATE PRACTICE 279
_PLATES._
PORTRAIT OF MR. FORD _Frontispiece_
PORTRAIT OF MAJOR C. H. FISHER _To face p. 122_
ARCHERY
CHAPTER I.
_OF THE ENGLISH LONG-BOW_
Of the various implements of archery, the bow demands the first
consideration. It has at one period or another formed one of the chief
weapons of war and the chase in almost every nation, and is, indeed, at
the present day in use for both these purposes in various parts of the
world. It has differed as much in form as in material, having been made
curved, angular, and straight; of wood, metal, horn, cane, whalebone, of
wood and horn, or of wood and the entrails and sinews of animals and
fish combined: sometimes of the rudest workmanship, sometimes finished
with the highest perfection of art.
No work exists which aims at giving an exhaustive description of the
various forms of bows which have been used by different nations in
ancient and modern times, and such an undertaking would be far beyond
the scope of the present work. The only form of the bow with which we
are now concerned is the _English long-bow_, and especially with the
English long-bow as now used for target-shooting as opposed to the more
powerful weapon used by our forefathers for the purposes of war. The
cross-bow never took a very strong hold on the English nation as
compared with the long-bow, and, as it has never been much employed for
recreation, it need not be here described.
It is a matter of surprise and regret that so few genuine specimens of
the _old_ English long-bow should remain in existence at the present
day. One in the possession of the late Mr. Peter Muir of Edinburgh is
said to have been used in the battle of Flodden in 1513: it is of
self-yew, a single stave, apparently of English growth, and very roughly
made. Its strength has been supposed to be between 80 and 90 lbs.; but
as it could not be tested without great risk of breaking it, its actual
strength remains a matter of conjecture only. This bow was presented to
Mr. P. Muir by Colonel J. Ferguson, who obtained it from a border house
contiguous to Flodden Field, where it had remained for many generations,
with the reputation of having been used at that battle.
There are likewise in the Tower two bows that were taken out of the
'Mary Rose,' a vessel sunk in the reign of Henry VIII. They are
unfinished weapons, made out of single staves of magnificent yew,
probably of foreign growth, quite round from end to end, tapered from
the middle to each end, and without horns. It is difficult to estimate
their strength, but it probably does not exceed from 65 to 70 lbs.
Another weapon now in the Museum of the United Service Institution came
from the same vessel. Probably the oldest specimen extant of the English
long-bow is in the possession of Mr. C. J. Longman. It was dug out of
the peat near Cambridge, and is unfortunately in very bad condition. It
can never have been a very powerful weapon. Geologists say that it
cannot be more recent than the twelfth or thirteenth century, and may be
much more ancient. Indeed, from its appearance it is more probable that
it is a relic of the weaker archery of the Saxons than that it is a
weapon made after the Normans had introduced their more robust shooting
into this country.
Before the discussion of the practical points connected with the bow is
commenced, it must be borne in mind that these pages profess to give
the result of actual experience, and nothing that is advanced is mere
theory or opinion unsupported by proof, but the result only of long,
patient, and practical investigation and of constant and untiring
experiment. Whenever, therefore, one kind of wood, or one shape of bow,
or one mode or principle of shooting, &c., is spoken of as being better
than another, or the best of all, it is asserted to be so simply
because, after a full and fair trial of every other, the result of such
investigation bore out that assertion. No doubt some of the points
contended for were in Mr. Ford's time in opposition to the then
prevailing opinions and practice, and were considered innovations. The
value of theory, however, is just in proportion as it can be borne out
by practical results; and in appealing to the success of his own
practice as a proof of the correctness of the opinions and principles
upon which it was based, he professed to be moved by no feeling of
conceit or vanity, but wholly and solely by a desire to give as much
force as possible to the recommendations put forth, and to obtain a fair
and impartial trial of them.
The English bows now in use may be divided primarily into two
classes--the _self-bow_ and the _backed bow_; and, to save space and
confusion, the attention must first be confined to the self-bow,
reserving what has to be said respecting the backed bow. Much, however,
that is said of the one applies equally to the other.
The self-bow of a single stave is the real old English weapon--the one
with which the mighty deeds that rendered this country renowned in
bygone times were performed; for until the decline and disappearance of
archery in war, as a consequence of the superiority of firearms, and the
consequent cessation of the importation of bow-staves, backed bows were
unknown. Ascham, who wrote in the sixteenth century, when archery had
already degenerated into little else than an amusement, mentions none
other than self-bows; and it may therefore be concluded that such only
existed in his day. Of the woods for self-bows, yew beyond all question
carries off the palm. Other woods have been, and still are, in use, such
as lance, cocus, Washaba, rose, snake, laburnum, and others; but they
may be summarily dismissed (with the exception of lance, of which more
hereafter) with the remark that self-bows made of these woods are all so
radically bad, heavy in hand, apt to jar, dull in cast, liable to
chrysal, and otherwise prone to break, that no archer should use them so
long as a self-yew or a good backed bow is within reach.
The only wood, then, for self-bows is yew, and the best yew is of
foreign growth (Spanish or Italian), though occasionally staves of
English wood are met with which almost rival those of foreign growth.
This, however, is the exception; as a rule, the foreign wood is the
best: it is straighter, and finer in grain, freer from pins, stiffer and
denser in quality, and requires less bulk in proportion to the strength
of the bow.
The great bane of yew is its liability to knots and _pins_, and rare
indeed it is to find a six-feet stave without one or more of these
undesirable companions. Where, however, a pin occurs, it may | 1,191.083735 |
2023-11-16 18:36:55.1615830 | 627 | 17 |
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the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
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[Illustration: Book Cover]
OLD FORT SNELLING
From a painting by Captain Seth Eastman, reproduced in Mrs. Eastman's
_Dahcotah; or, Life and Legends of the Sioux around Fort Snelling_
[Illustration: OLD FORT SNELLING]
OLD FORT SNELLING
1819-1858
BY
MARCUS L. HANSEN
[Illustration: Publisher's Logo.]
PUBLISHED AT IOWA CITY IOWA IN 1918 BY
THE STATE HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF IOWA
THE TORCH PRESS
CEDAR RAPIDS
IOWA
EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION
The establishment in 1917 of a camp at Fort Snelling for the training of
officers for the army has aroused curiosity in the history of Old Fort
Snelling. Again as in the days of the pioneer settlement of the
Northwest the Fort at the junction of the Minnesota and Mississippi
rivers has become an object of more than ordinary interest.
Old Fort Snelling was established in 1819 within the Missouri Territory
on ground which later became a part of the Territory of Iowa. Not until
1849 was it included within Minnesota boundaries. Linked with the early
annals of Missouri, Michigan, Wisconsin, Iowa, Minnesota, and the
Northwest, the history of Old Fort Snelling is the common heritage of
many commonwealths in the Upper Mississippi Valley.
The period covered in this volume begins with the establishment of the
Fort in 1819 and ends with the temporary abandonment of the site as a
military post in 1858.
BENJ. F. SHAMBAUGH
OFFICE OF THE SUPERINTENDENT AND EDITOR
THE STATE HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF IOWA
IOWA CITY IOWA
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
The position which the military post holds in western history is
sometimes misunderstood. So often has a consideration of it been left to
the novelist's pen that romantic glamour has obscured the permanent
contribution made by many a lonely post to the development of the
surrounding region. The western fort was more than a block-house or a
picket. Being the home of a handful of soldiers did not give it its real
importance: it was an institution and should be studied as such. Old
Fort Snelling is a type of the many remote military stations which were
scattered throughout the West upon the upper waters of the rivers or at
intermediate places on the interminable stretches of the westward
trails.
This study of the history and influence of Old Fort Snelling was first
undertaken at the suggestion of Dr. Louis Pelzer of the State University
of Iowa, and was carried on under his supervision. The results of the
invest | 1,191.181623 |
2023-11-16 18:36:55.3591890 | 447 | 12 | The Project Gutenberg Etext of Rise of the New West, 1819-1829,
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Title: Rise of the New West, 1819-1829
Volume 14 in the series American Nation: A History
Author: Frederick Jackson Turner
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.
2. Images have been moved from the middle of a paragraph to the
closest paragraph break.
3. The word manoeuvre uses an oe ligature in the original.
4. Printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation,
and ligature usage have been retained.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. CL.
APRIL 26, 1916.
CHARIVARIA.
GENERAL VILLA, in pursuit of whom a United States army has already
penetrated four hundred miles into Mexico, is alleged to have died.
It is not considered likely, however, that he will escape as easily
as all that.
***
"Germans net the Sound," says a recent issue of a contemporary. We
don't know what profit they will get out of it, but we ourselves in
these hard times are only too glad to net anything.
***
Bags of coffee taken from a Norwegian steamer and destined for German
consumption have been found to contain rubber. Once more the
immeasurable superiority of the German chemist as a deviser of
synthetic substitutes for ordinary household commodities is clearly
illustrated. What a contrast to our own scientists, whose use of this
most valuable food substitute has never gone far beyond an occasional
fowl or beefsteak.
***
It has been suggested that in honour of the tercentenary of
SHAKSPEARE'S birth Barclay's brewery should be replaced by a new
theatre, a replica of the old Globe Theatre, whose site it is supposed
to occupy; and Mr. REGINALD MCKENNA is understood to have stated that
it is quite immaterial to him.
***
"Horseflesh is on sale in the West End," says _The Daily Telegraph_,
"and the public analyst at Westminster reports having examined a
smoked horseflesh sausage and found it genuine." It is only fair to
our readers, however, to point out that the method of testing sausages
now in vogue, _i.e._ with a stethoscope, is only useful for
ascertaining the identity of the animal (if any) contained therein,
and is valueless in the case of sausages that are filled with sawdust,
india-rubber shavings, horsehair and other vegetables.
***
Wandsworth Borough has refused the offer of a horse trough on the
ground that there are not enough horses to use it. But there are
always plenty of shirkers.
***
Colonel CHURCHILL was reported on Tuesday last as having been seen
entering the side door of No. 11, Downing Street. It was, of course,
the critical stage door.
***
The Austrian Government has issued an appeal for dogs "for sanitary
purposes." The valuable properties of the dog for sterilising sausage
casings have long been a secret of the Teuton.
* * * * *
Commercial Candour.
"Real Harris Hand-Knitted Socks, _1s. 6d._: worth _2s. 6d._;
unwearable."--_Scotch Paper._
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Shopkeeper._ "YES, I WANT A GOOD USEFUL LAD TO BE
PARTLY INDOORS AND PARTLY OUTDOORS."
_Applicant._ "AND WHAT BECOMES OF ME WHEN THE DOOR SLAMS?"]
* * * * *
A Chance for the Illiterate.
"Wanted, a good, all-round Gardener; illegible."--_Provincial
Paper._
"Gardener.--Wanted at once, clever experienced man with good
knowledge of toms., cucs., mums., &c., to work up small
nursery."
_Provincial Paper._
One with a knowledge of nursery language preferred.
* * * * *
"MANCHESTER, ENG. The election of directors of the Manchester
Chamber of Commerce resulted in the return of eighteen out of
twenty-two directors who are definitely committed to the
policy of no free trade with the 60th Canadian Battalion."
_Victoria Colonist (B.C.)._
We hope the battalion will not retaliate by refusing protection to
Manchester, Eng.
* * * * *
THE CURSE OF BABEL.
Let me tell you about the Baronne de Blanqueville and her grandson.
The Baronne is a Belgian lady who came to England in the early days of
the refugee movement, and established herself here in our village.
With her came her younger daughter and Lou-lou, the infant son of an
elder daughter, who had for some reason to be left behind in Belgium.
Lou-lou was a year old when, with his grandmother and his aunt, he
settled in England as an _emigre_. He was then inarticulate; now he
has gained the use of his tongue.
He has had a little English nursemaid to attend on him, and he has
become a familiar object in many English families of the
neighbourhood.
In fact, he has had a very English bringing up, and now that he is
more than two years old and can talk, he insists on talking English
with volubility and understanding it with completeness.
I may mention, by the way, that someone has taught him some
expressions unusual in so young a mouth. The other day I met him in
his perambulator. He said, "I take the air. I'm damn comfable;"
whereupon the nursemaid blushed and chid him.
That, however, is not the point--at any rate, not the whole of it.
What I wish to make clear is this: the Baronne neither speaks nor
understands English, whereas Lou-lou speaks a great deal of English
and no French at all. He rejects that language with a violent shake of
his curly head. He stamps his small foot and tells his adoring
grandmother to speak English or leave him alone.
Thus a gulf has begun to yawn between the Baronne and her beloved
Lou-lou. Communications are all but broken off. Lou-lou's aunt is in
better case, for she is slowly acquiring English; but the Baronne, I
think, will never learn _any_ English.
What is to be done?
* * * * *
"The rage for flower-trimming is nothing short of an
obeisance."--_Evening Paper._
In spite of the War we still bow to the decrees of fashion.
* * * * *
THE JOY TAX.
[By one who is prepared to accept it like a patriot without
further protest.]
Now Spring comes laughing down the sky
To see her buds all busy hatching;
With tender green the woods are gay,
And birds, as is their April way,
Chirp merrily on the bough, and I
Chirp, too, because it's catching.
Full many a joy I must eschew
And to the tempter's voice "No! No!" say;
With taxes laid on all delights
Must miss, with other mirthful sights,
On Monday next my annual view
Of England's Art Expose.
I must forgo (and bear the worst
With what I can of noble calm) a
Pure bliss from which I only part
With horrid pain about the heart--
I mean the humour unrehearsed
Of serious British drama.
But, thank the Lord, I need not miss
The birds that in their leafy nook coo;
Young Spring is mine to taste at large,
The Ministry has made no charge
For earth that warms to April's kiss;
They haven't taxed the cuckoo! O. S.
* * * * *
A VOLUNTEER CASUALTY.
We were "standing easy" prior to the assault on the undefended heights
of Spanker's Hill when the voice of the platoon-commander disturbed
our thoughts of home and loved ones, and particularly of our Sunday
dinners, which would be very much out of season before we could get at
them.
"Number 4," he said, in a tone that thrilled us to the bottom twist of
our puttees, "these Body-Snatchers (thus coarsely he alluded to the
Ambulance Section) have been following us all day and haven't had a
single casualty so far. That is why, in the coming advance, I shall be
wounded. Sergeant, you will take over the command, should the worst
befall. Smith and Williams, as you are both big and heavy, you'd
better be knocked out too."
It was with mingled feelings that I heard my name mentioned. In the
first place, a feeling of annoyance was engendered at having my
proportions thus publicly referred to. But other, and I trust
worthier, thoughts came to me, and, turning to my neighbour, I gave
him a few last messages of a suitably moving nature to be delivered to
my friends. The kind-hearted fellow was deeply affected, and in a
voice broken by emotion offered to take charge of my loose change, and
asked for my watch as a keepsake. I thanked him with tears in my eyes,
but said that the burial party would forward all my valuables to my
relations.
Our conversation was interrupted by the command "Platoon--'SHUN. To
the left, to six paces, ex-TEND." By an oversight the preliminary
formation usually adopted as a precaution against artillery had been
omitted, and in a moment we were advancing up the hill in open order.
Scarcely had we started when our officer, the pride of the platoon,
threw up his hands and fell. A moment later, chancing on a piece of
tempting grass, I decided to lie down, and with a choking gurgle
collapsed. As I lay on my back in an appropriate attitude (copied from
the cinema) I wondered when the stretcher-party would appear, for the
grass was damp and the April wind was chilly; but it was not long
before a bright boy, rather over than under military age, ran up and,
after a brief glance at me, began to signal with great vigour. He
meant well, and out of consideration for his feelings I restrained a
desire to tell him that he was creating a beastly draught. However, I
asked him if he had any brandy, and, on receiving an answer in the
negative, groaned deeply.
"Are you very bad?" he asked.
"No," I replied; "but if I lie here much longer I'll catch cold. Tell
your people to hurry up."
When the stretcher-party arrived they decided that I had been shot in
the chest, and, to get at the wound, began to remove my garments, till
arrested by some virile language thrown off from the part affected.
Then they began to carry me towards the gate of the park, despite the
fact that the stretcher had been meant to hold someone about six
inches shorter than I. Almost immediately the rear man, tripping on a
root, fell on top of me, and the front man, being brought to a sudden
stop, sat on my feet. When we had sorted ourselves out, and I had
stopped talking, more from lack of breath than of matter, we resumed
our journey.
After a matter of some three hundred yards the bearers began to feel
tired, and, suddenly rolling me off the stretcher, they informed me
that I was discharged as cured. Thus rapidly does a soldier of the
Volunteers recover. It speaks volumes not only for their high state of
physical condition but for the resilience of their _moral_.
* * * * *
Intelligent Anticipation.
"Bucharest, 8.--The 'Universul' has opened a list of
subscriptions in favour of the widows and victims of the
coming Austro-Roumanian war."--_Balkan News._
* * * * *
"'WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD' AT THE ---- PICTURE
THEATRE."--_Hastings Observer._
The management doesn't mind so long as the fools rush in.
* * * * *
"The Smyth-Pigotts are the owners of Brockley Court and
Brockley Hall, near Congresbury, a pretty village which--like
Majoribanks--is pronounced Coomesbury."--_Daily Sketch._
Just as, according to the old story, Cholmondeley is pronounced
Marjoribanks.
* * * * *
"Monster Carnival! In aid of Returned Soldiers' Association.
Novel Attractions!!! Realistic Egyptian Pillage, just as our
soldiers saw it. Egyptian goods can be purchased
here."--_Adelaide Register._
We hope this does not mean that our gallant Anzacs have been spoiling
the Egyptians.
* * * * *
"A LADY would like to let her beautifully furnished HOUSE or
part, or three or four paying guests; from L2 10s. each."
_Bournemouth Daily Echo._
We have heard of paying guests whom their hosts would have been glad
to part with at an even lower figure.
* * * * *
"Notice.--Found, a Broadwood Piano. Apply, Barrack Warden,
No. 1, Barrack Store, ---- Barracks."--_Aldershot Command
Orders._
We think some recent criticism of Army administration is undeserved.
Care is evidently taken in regard to even little things carelessly
left about by the soldier.
* * * * *
"When the election does come there will be no need to ask
these useless M.P.'s to resign. They can be kicked out, and
there are plenty of workmen in the country who are ready to
lend a hand at the kicking. The genuine Labour M.P. is known
now, so also is the impostor, who, like the party hack, hails
from nowhere."
_Letter in "The Times."_
We suppose the manual kick, as described above, is the non-party hack.
* * * * *
[Illustration: SERBIA COMES AGAIN.
THE BULGAR. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD."]
* * * * *
THE WATCH DOGS.
XXXVIII.
MY DEAR CHARLES,--One of these days I will tell you the more intimate
history of the Corps to which I have the honour to belong, and this
will give you some cause for mirth. Its members are of all sorts, ages
and origins, and they have had between them some odd experiences since
that first day when, parading hastily in Kensington Gardens, they
wished they hadn't been quite so glib, in their anxiety to get to war,
about professing full knowledge of the ways and wiles of the motor
bicycle. One at least of them paid the price of inexactitude then and
there; he still shudders to think how, put to the test, he
unintentionally left the Park for a no less fashionable but much more
crowded thoroughfare, to arrive eventually, in the prone position, in
a byway of Piccadilly, where small fragments of the machine may still
be collected by industrious seekers of curios.
Another, whom the low cunning of the Criminal Bar enabled to avoid the
immediate test, paid the full price, with compound interest, later on.
Casual observers of the retreat, had there been any, would have become
familiar with the sight of him bringing up the rear--a very poor last.
To see him arrive, perspiring, over the brow of a hill, with his
faithful motor at his side, was to know that the Huns were at the
bottom of it. On one occasion they even beat him in the day's march,
but were too kind or too blind to seize their advantage. As usual he
was taking his obsession along with him, though, if he had but known,
he might have got it to do the work by the simple formality of turning
the petrol tap from OFF to ON. His was ever a curious life, from the
first moment of his joining the Army in tails, a bowler hat, and a
large sword wrapped in a homely newspaper. But the inward fun of it
all is not for the present, Charles; our clear old friends, the
Exigencies, forbidding.
I am reminded of it all by having just crossed with one of the
later-joined members. He came fresh from the line to a Head-quarters,
and he was walking about in a lane, working off some of his awe of his
new surroundings, when he was overtaken by a car containing a General,
who stopped and asked him what he was. So imposing was the account he
gave of himself that it was said to him, "No doubt, then, you'll know
the way to ----," a village at the back of beyond, where a division
was lying at rest. In the Army, at any rate at a Head-quarters, we all
know everything. So he said, "No doubt, Sir," hoping, if the worst
came to the worst, to give some vague directions and not to be present
when they were found wanting. But it was his bad luck to have struck
one of the more affable Generals. Could he spare the time to come
along and direct the driver?
So on to the box he got (it was a closed car) and, with the General's
eye always upon his back, he did his best as guide, a task for which
his previous career of stockbroker had ill qualified him. The first
thing to happen was that the car, proceeding down a narrow lane, got
well into the middle of a battalion on the march, which, when the car
was firmly jammed amongst the transport, ceased to be on the march,
and took a generous ten minutes' halt.... The second thing to happen
was a level crossing; which, as they approached it, changed its mind
about being a road and became a railway. A nice long train duly
arrived, and (this needs no exaggeration) stayed there, with a few
restless movements, for twenty minutes by the clock.... The third
thing to happen was that he lost himself (and the General); the fourth
was the falling of dusk, and the fifth a ploughed field, with which my
friend, alighting, had to confess that he was not so intimately
acquainted as he could have wished.
[Illustration: THE TRENCH TOUCH.
_Warrior in bunker (to caddie, who is seeing if the course is clear)._
"KEEP DOWN, YOU FOOL!"]
Had there been a scene, he could, he says, have endured the worst
bravely, standing to attention and taking it as it came. Not so,
however; his was the wrong sort of General for the purpose. As does
the partner at the dance, over whose priceless gown you have upset the
indelible ice, he said it didn't matter. He said he'd give the
division a miss, and return whence they had come. This they began to
do, when they had got the car out of the ploughed field, and this they
went on doing until the sixth thing happened, which was a burst tyre.
Again, had there been a scene, my man could have explained that this
wasn't his fault; but no one _said_ it was his fault. Equally it was
never openly alleged that he was to blame for the driver's not being
prepared with a spare wheel ready for use. But his embarrassment was
such that my man was grateful to heaven for reminding him at this
juncture of the existence of R.F.C. Head-quarters, about a kilometre
away. He said he'd run and borrow a wheel off them, and before the
General could say him nay he'd started.... He ran all the way, and
burst, panting, into the officers' mess, where he had the misfortune
to strike another itinerant General.
It never rains but it pours, and the area seemed to be infested with
Generals of quite the wrong sort. He couldn't have hit upon a more
kind and genial and inappropriate one than this. No, he wouldn't allow
a word of apology or explanation from this exhausted lieutenant until
the latter had rested and refreshed himself with a cup of tea. No, not
out of that pot; it had been standing too long. Tea which had stood
should not be drunk, for reasons detailed at length. No doubt the
Colonel, whose guest he was, would order some more to be made. It
would take two minutes--it did take twenty. No, no; there was nothing
to say and nothing need be | 1,191.580021 |
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Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Making of America
http://www.archive.org/details/hesperusorforty01paulgoog
2. Greek words are transliterated within brackets, e.g. [Greek:
| 1,191.591069 |
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Produced by Janet Kegg and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
The PALACE of DARKENED WINDOWS
By
MARY HASTINGS BRADLEY
AUTHOR OF "THE FAVOR OF KINGS"
ILLUSTRATED BY EDMUND FREDERICK
NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1914
[Frontispiece illustration: "'It is no use,' he repeated.
'There is no way out for you.'" (Chapter IV)]
TO
MY HUSBAND
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE EAVESDROPPER
II. THE CAPTAIN CALLS
III. AT THE PALACE
IV. A SORRY QUEST
V. WITHIN THE WALLS
VI. A GIRL IN THE BAZAARS
VII. BILLY HAS HIS DOUBTS
VIII. THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR
IX. A DESPERATE GAME
X. A MAID AND A MESSAGE
XI. OVER THE GARDEN WALL
XII. THE GIRL FROM THE HAREM
XIII. TAKING CHANCES
XIV. IN THE ROSE ROOM
XV. ON THE TRAIL
XVI. THE HIDDEN GIRL
XVII. AT BAY
XVIII. DESERT MAGIC
XIX. THE PURSUIT
XX. A FRIEND IN NEED
XXI. CROSS PURPOSES
XXII. UPON THE PYLON
XXIII. THE BETTER MAN
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"'It is no use,' he repeated. 'There is no way out for you'"
_Frontispiece_
"'I do not want to stay here'"
"He found himself staring down into the bright dark eyes of a girl
he had never seen"
"Billy went to the mouth, peering watchfully out"
THE PALACE OF DARKENED WINDOWS
CHAPTER I
THE EAVESDROPPER
A one-eyed man with a stuffed crocodile upon his head paused before
the steps of Cairo's gayest hotel and his expectant gaze ranged
hopefully over the thronged verandas. It was afternoon tea time; the
band was playing and the crowd was at its thickest and brightest.
The little tables were surrounded by travelers of all nations, some
in tourist tweeds and hats with the inevitable green veils; others,
those of more leisurely sojourns, in white serges and diaphanous
frocks and flighty hats fresh from the Rue de la Paix.
It was the tweed-clad groups that the crocodile vender scanned for a
purchaser of his wares and harshly and unintelligibly exhorted to
buy, but no answering gaze betokened the least desire to bring back
a crocodile to the loved ones at home. Only Billy B. Hill grinned
delightedly at him, as Billy grinned at every merry sight of the
spectacular East, and Billy shook his head with cheerful
convincingosity, so the crocodile merchant moved reluctantly on
before the importunities of the Oriental rug peddler at his heels.
Then he stopped. His turbaned head, topped by the grotesque,
glassy-eyed, glistening-toothed monster, revolved slowly as the
Arab's single eye steadily followed a couple who passed by him up
the hotel steps. Billy, struck by the man's intense interest, craned
forward and saw that one of the couple, now exchanging farewells at
the top of the steps, was a girl, a pretty girl, and an American,
and the other was an officer in a uniform of considerable green and
gold, and obviously a foreigner.
He might be any kind of a foreigner, according to Billy's lax
distinctions, that was olive of complexion and very black of hair
and eyes. Slender and of medium height, he carried himself with an
assurance that bordered upon effrontery, and as he bowed himself
down the steps he flashed upon his former companion a smile of
triumph that included and seemed to challenge the verandaful of
observers.
The girl turned and glanced casually about at the crowded groups
that were like little samples of all the nations of the earth, and
with no more than a faint awareness of the battery of eyes upon her
she passed toward the tables by the railing. She was a slim little
fairy of a girl, as fresh as a peach blossom, with a cloud of pale
gold hair fluttering round her pretty face, which lent her a most
alluring and deceptive appearance of ethereal mildness. She had a
soft, satiny, rose-leaf skin which was merely flushed by the heat of
the Egyptian day, and her eyes were big and very, very blue. There
were touches of that blue here and there upon her creamy linen suit,
and a knot of blue upon her parasol and a twist of blue about her
Panama hat, so that she could not be held unconscious of the
flagrantly bewitching effect. Altogether she was as upsettingly
pretty a young person as could be seen in a year's journey, and the
glances of the beholders brightened vividly at her approach.
There was one conspicuous exception. This exception was sitting
alone at the large table which backed Billy's tiny table into a
corner by the railing, and as the girl arrived at that large table
the exception arose and greeted her with an air of glacial chill.
"Oh! Am I so terribly late?" said the girl with great pleasantness,
and arched brows of surprise at the two other places at the table
before which used tea things were standing.
"My sister and Lady Claire had an appointment, so they were obliged
to have their tea and leave," stated the young man, with an air of
politely endeavoring to conceal his feelings, and failing
conspicuously in the endeavor. "They were most sorry."
"Oh, so am I!" declared the girl, in clear and contrite tones which
carried perfectly to Billy B. Hill's enchanted ears. "I never
dreamed they would have to hurry away."
"They did not hurry, as you call it," and the young man glanced at
his watch, "for nearly an hour. It was a disappointment to them."
"Pin-pate!" thought Billy, with intense disgust. "Is he kicking at a
two-some?"
"And have you had your tea, too?" inquired the girl, with an air of
tantalizing unconcern.
"I waited, naturally, for my guest."
"Oh, not _naturally_!" she laughed. "It must be very unnatural for
you to wait for anything. And you must be starving. So am I--do you
think there are enough | 1,191.683292 |
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Produced by Barbara Kosker 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.)
COMPANY "A,"
CORPS OF ENGINEERS, U. S. A.,
1846-'48,
IN THE
MEXICAN WAR.
BY
GUSTAVUS W. SMITH,
FORMERLY LIEUTENANT OF ENGINEERS, AND BVT. CAPTAIN,
U. S. ARMY.
THE BATTALION PRESS,
1896.
PREFACE.
Executive Document, No. 1, United States Senate, December 7, 1847,
contains a Communication from the Secretary of War, transmitting to
Congress the official reports of commanding generals and their
subordinates in the Mexican War.
The Secretary says: "The company of engineer soldiers, authorized by the
act of May 15, 1846, has been more than a year on active duty in Mexico,
and has rendered efficient service. I again submit, with approval, the
proposition of the Chief Engineer for an increase of this description of
force." (Senate-Ex. Doc. No. 1, 1847, p. 67.)
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
Page
| 1,191.781154 |
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Produced by Charles Klingman
FIVE PEBBLES
From
THE BROOK.
A Reply
TO
"A DEFENCE OF CHRISTIANITY"
WRITTEN BY
EDWARD EVERETT,
GREEK PROFESSOR OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY
IN ANSWER TO
"THE GROUNDS OF CHRISTIANITY EXAMINED
BY
COMPARING THE NEW TESTAMENT WITH THE OLD"
BY
GEORGE BETHUNE ENGLISH.
"Should a wise man utter vain knowledge, and fill his belly with the
east wind?"
"Should he reason with unprofitable talk? or with speeches
wherewith he can do no good?--Thou chooseth[fn1] the tongue of
the crafty. Thy own mouth condemneth thee, and not I: yea, thine
own lips testify against thee."
"Behold I will make thee a new sharp threshing instrument having
teeth."
PHILADELPHIA:
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR.
1824.
[PG Editor's Note: Many printer's errors in this text
have been retained as found in the original--in particular
the will be found a large number of mismatched and
wrongspace quotation marks.]
ADVERTISEMENT.
WHEN I left America, I had no intention of giving Mr. Everett's
book a formal answer: but having learned since my arrival in the
Old World, that: the controversy in which I had engaged myself
had attracted some attention, and had been reviewed by a
distinguished member of a German university, my hopes of being
serviceable to the cause of truth and philanthrophy are revived,
and I have therefore determined to give a reply to Mr. Everett's
publication.
In this Work, as in my prior writings, I have taken for granted the
Divine Authority of the Old Testament, and I have argued upon the
principle that every book, claiming to be considered as a Divine
revelation and building itself upon the Old Testament as upon a
foundation, must agree with it, otherwise the superstructure
cannot stand. The New Testament, the Talmud, and the Koran are
all placed by their authors upon the Law and the Prophets, as an
edifice is upon its foundation; and if it be true that any or all of
them be found to be irreconcileable with the primitive Revelation
to which they all refer themselves, the question as to their Divine
Authority is decided against them, most obviously and completely.
This work was written in Egypt and forwarded to the U. States,
while I was preparing to accompany Ismael Pacha to the conquest
of Ethiopia; an expedition in which I expected to perish, and
therefore felt it to be my duty to leave behind me, something from
which my countrymen might learn what were my real sentiments
upon a most important and interesting subject; and as I hoped
would learn too, how grossly they had been deluded into building
their faith and hope upon a demonstrated error.
On my arrival from Egypt I found that the MS. had not been
published, and I was advised by several, of my friends to abandon
the struggle and to imitate their example; in submitting to the
despotism of popular opinion, which, they said, it was imprudent to
oppose. I was so far influenced by these representations--
extraordinary indeed in a country which boasts that here freedom
of opinion and of speech is established by law--that I intended to
confine myself to sending the MS. to Mr. Everett; in the belief that
when he should have the weakness of his arguments in behalf of
what he defended and the injustice of his aspersions upon me,
fairly and evidently laid before him, that he would make me at
least a private apology. He chose to preserve a sullen silence,
probably believing that he is so securely seated in the saddle
which his brethren have girthed upon the back of "a strong ass"
that; there is no danger that the animal will give him a fall.
Not a little moved at this, I determined to do my myself justice, and
to publish the pages following.
This book is not the work of an Infidel. I am not an infidel; what I
have learned and seen in Europe, Asia and Africa, while it has
confirmed my reasons for rejecting the New Testament, has
rooted in my mind the conviction that the ancient Bible does
contain a revelation from the God of Nature, as firmly as my belief
in the first proposition of Euclid.
The whole analogy of Nature, while it is in many respects opposed
to the characteristics ascribed to the Divinity by the
metaphysicians, yet bears witness in my opinion, that this world
was made and is governed by just such a Being as the Jehovah of
the Old Testament; while the palpable fulfillment of predictions
contained in that book, and which is so strikingly manifest in the
Old World, leaves in my mind no doubt whatever, of the ultimate
fulfillment of all that it promises, and all that it threatens.
I cannot do better than to conclude these observations with the
manly declaration of the celebrated Christian orator Dr. Chalmers,
"We are ready, (says he,) to admit that as the object of the inquiry
is not the character, but the Truth of Christianity, the philosopher
should be careful to protect his mind from the delusions of its
charms. He should separate the exercises of the understanding
from the tendencies of the fancy or of the heart. He should be
prepared to follow the light of evidence, though it should lead him
to conclusions the most painful and melancholy. He should train
his mind to all the hardihood of abstract and unfeeling intelligence.
He should give up every thing to the supremacy of argument and
he able to renounce without a sigh all the tenderest
possessions[fn 2] of infancy, the moment that TRUTH demands of
him the sacrifice." (Dr. Chalmers on the Evidence and Authority of
the Christian Religion. Ch. I.)
Finally, let the Reader remember, that "there is one thing in the
world more contemptible than the slave of a tyrant--it is the dupe
of a SOPHIST."
G. B. E.
PEBBLE I
And David "chose him five smooth stones out of the brook, and
put them in a shepherd's bag which he had, even in a scrip: and
his sling was in his hand: and he drew near to the Philistine."
Mr. Everett commences his work with the following remarks. "Was
Jesus Christ the person foretold by the prophets, as the Messiah
of the Jews?; one method, and a very obvious one, of examining
his claims to this character, is to compare his person, life, actions,
and doctrine, with the supposed predictions of them. But if it also
appear that this Jesus wrought such works, as evinced that he
enjoyed the supernatural assistance and cooperation of God, this
certainly is a fact of great importance. For we cannot say, that in
estimating the validity of our Lord's claims to the character of
Messiah, it is of no consequence whether, while he advanced
those claims, he wrought such works as proved his intimacy with
the God of truth. While he professed himself the Messiah, is it
indifferent whether he was showing himself to be as being beyond
delusion, and above imposture?--Let us make the case our own.
Suppose that we were witnesses of the miraculous works of a
personage of pretensions like our Lord's, should we think it
necessary or reasonable to resort to long courses of argument, or
indeed to any process of the understanding, except what was
requisite to establish the fact of the miracles? Should we, while he
was opening the eyes of the blind, and raising the dead from their
graves, feel it necessary to be deciphering prophecies, and
weighing these[fn 3] difficulties? Now we may transfer this case to
that of Christianity. The miracles of our Lord are either true or
false. The infidel if he maintain the latter must prove it; and if the
former can be made to appear, they are beyond all comparison
the | 1,191.880016 |
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Produced by David Widger
HUCKLEBERRY FINN
By Mark Twain
Part 8.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
AS soon as we reckoned everybody was asleep that night we went down the
lightning-rod, and shut ourselves up in the lean-to, and got out our pile
of fox-fire, and went to work. We cleared everything out of the way,
about four or five foot along the middle of the bottom log. Tom said we
was right behind Jim's bed now, and we'd dig in under it, and when we got
through there couldn't nobody in the cabin ever know there was any hole
there, because Jim's counter-pin hung down most to the ground, and you'd
have to raise it up and look under to see the hole. So we dug and dug
with the case-knives till most midnight; and then we was dog-tired, and
our hands was blistered, and yet you couldn't see we'd done anything
hardly. At last I says:
"This ain't no thirty-seven year job; this is a thirty-eight year job,
Tom Sawyer."
He never said nothing. But he sighed, and pretty soon he stopped
digging, and then for a good little while I knowed that he was thinking.
Then he says:
"It ain't no use, Huck, it ain't a-going to work. If we was prisoners it
would, because then we'd have as many years as we wanted, and no hurry;
and we wouldn't get but a few minutes to dig, every day, while they was
changing watches, and so our hands wouldn't get blistered, and we could
keep it up right along, year in and year out, and do it right, and the
way it ought to be done. But WE can't fool along; we got to rush; we
ain't got no time to spare. If we was to put in another night this way
we'd have to knock off for a week to let our hands get well--couldn't
touch a case-knife with them sooner."
"Well, then, what we going to do, Tom?"
"I'll tell you. It ain't right, and it ain't moral, and I wouldn't like
it to get out; but there ain't only just the one way: we got to dig him
out with the picks, and LET ON it's case-knives."
"NOW you're TALKING!" I says; "your head gets leveler and leveler all
the time, Tom Sawyer," I says. "Picks is the thing, moral or no moral;
and as for me, I don't care shucks for the morality of it, nohow. When I
start in to steal a <DW65>, or a watermelon, or a Sunday-school book, I
ain't no ways particular how it's done so it's done. What I want is my
<DW65>; or what I want is my watermelon; or what I want is my
Sunday-school book; and if a pick's the handiest thing, that's the thing
I'm a-going to dig that <DW65> or that watermelon or that Sunday-school
book out with; and I don't give a dead rat what the authorities thinks
about it nuther."
"Well," he says, "there's excuse for picks and letting-on in a case like
this; if it warn't so, I wouldn't approve of it, nor I wouldn't stand by
and see the rules broke--because right is right, and wrong is wrong, and
a body ain't got no business doing wrong when he ain't ignorant and knows
better. It might answer for YOU to dig Jim out with a pick, WITHOUT any
letting on, because you don't know no better; but it wouldn't for me,
because I do know better. Gimme a case-knife."
He had his own by him, but I handed him mine. He flung it down, and
says:
"Gimme a CASE-KNIFE."
I didn't know just what to do--but then I thought. I scratched around
amongst the old tools, and got a pickaxe and give it to him, and he took
it and went to work, and never said a word.
He was always just that particular. Full of principle.
So then I got a shovel, and then we picked and shoveled, turn about, and
made the fur fly. We stuck to it about a half an hour, which was as long
as we could stand up; but we had a good deal of a hole to show for it.
When I got up stairs I looked out at the window and see Tom doing his
level best with the lightning-rod, but he couldn't come it, his hands was
so sore. At last he says:
"It ain't no use, it can't be done. What you reckon I better do? Can't
you think of no way?"
"Yes," I says, "but I reckon it ain't regular. Come up the stairs, and
let on it's a lightning-rod."
So he done it.
Next day Tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass candlestick in the house,
for to make some pens for Jim out of, and six tallow candles; and I hung
around the <DW65> cabins and laid for a chance, and stole three tin
plates. Tom says it wasn't enough; but I said nobody wouldn't ever see
the plates that Jim throwed out, because they'd fall in the dog-fennel
and jimpson weeds under the window-hole--then we could tote them back and
he could use them over again. So Tom was satisfied. Then he says:
"Now, the thing to study out is, how to get the things to Jim."
"Take them in through the hole," I says, "when we get it done."
He only just looked scornful, and said something about nobody ever heard
of such an idiotic idea, and then he went to studying. By and by he said
he had ciphered out two or three ways, but there warn't no need to decide
on any of them yet. Said we'd got to post Jim first.
That night we went down the lightning-rod a little after ten, and took
one of the candles along, and listened under the window-hole, and heard
Jim snoring; so we pitched it in, and it didn't wake him. Then we
whirled in with the pick and shovel, and in about two hours and a half
the job was done. We crept in under Jim's bed and into the cabin, and
pawed around and found the candle and lit it, and stood over Jim awhile,
and found him looking hearty and healthy, and then we woke him up gentle
and gradual. He was so glad to see us he most cried; and called us
honey, and all the pet names he could think of; and was for having us
hunt up a cold-chisel to cut the chain off of his leg with right away,
and clearing out without losing any time. But Tom he showed him how
unregular it would be, and set down and told him all about our plans, and
how we could alter them in a minute any time there was an alarm; and not
to be the least afraid, because we would see he got away, SURE. So Jim
he said it was all right, and we set there and talked over old times
awhile, and then Tom asked a lot of questions, and when Jim told him
Uncle Silas come in every day or two to pray with him, and Aunt Sally
come in to see if he was comfortable and had plenty to eat, and both of
them was kind as they could be, Tom says:
"NOW I know how to fix it. We'll send you some things by them."
I said, "Don't do nothing of the kind; it's one of the most jackass ideas
I ever struck;" but he never paid no attention to me; went right on. It
was his way when he'd got his plans set.
So he told Jim how we'd have to smuggle in the rope-ladder pie and other
large things by Nat, the <DW65> that fed him, and he must be on the
lookout, and not be surprised, and not let Nat see him open them; and we
would put small things in uncle's coat-pockets and he must steal them
out; and we would tie things to aunt's apron-strings or put them in her
apron-pocket, if we got a chance; and told him what they would be and
what they was for. And told him how to keep a journal on the shirt with
his blood, and all that. He told him everything. Jim he couldn't see no
sense in the most of it, but he allowed we was white folks and knowed
better than him; so he was satisfied, and said he would do it all just as
Tom said.
Jim had plenty corn-cob pipes and tobacco; so we had a right down good
sociable time; then we crawled out through the hole, and so home to bed,
with hands that looked like they'd been chawed. Tom was in high spirits.
He said it was the best fun he ever had in his life, and the most
intellectural; and said if he only could see his way to it we would keep
it up all the rest of our lives and leave Jim to our children to get out;
for he believed Jim would come to like it better and better the more he
got used to it. He said that in that way it could be strung out to as
much as eighty year, and would be the best time on record. And he said
it would make us all celebrated that had a hand in it.
In the morning we went out to the woodpile and chopped up the brass
candlestick into handy sizes, and Tom put them and the pewter spoon in
his pocket. Then we went to the <DW65> cabins, and while I got Nat's
notice off, Tom shoved a piece of candlestick into the middle of a
corn-pone that was in Jim's pan, and we went along with Nat to see how it
would work, and it just worked noble; when Jim bit into it it most mashed
all his teeth out; and there warn't ever anything could a worked better.
Tom said so himself. Jim he never let on but what it was only just a
piece of rock or something like that that's always getting into bread,
you know; but after that he never bit into nothing but what he jabbed his
fork into it in three or four places first.
And whilst we was a-standing there in the dimmish light, here comes a
couple of the hounds bulging in from under Jim's bed; and they kept on
piling in till there was eleven of them, and there warn't hardly room in
there to get your breath. By jings, we forgot to fasten that lean-to
door! The <DW65> Nat he only just hollered "Witches" once, and keeled
over on to the floor amongst the dogs, and begun to groan like he was
dying. Tom jerked the door open and flung out a slab of Jim's meat, and
the dogs went for it, and in two seconds he was out himself and back
again and shut the door, and I knowed he'd fixed the other door too.
Then he went to work on the <DW65>, coaxing him and petting him, and
asking him if he'd been imagining he saw something again. He raised up,
and blinked his eyes around, and says:
"Mars Sid, you'll say I's a fool, but if I didn't b'lieve I see most a
million dogs, er devils, er some'n, I wisht I may die right heah in dese
tracks. I did, mos' sholy. Mars Sid, I FELT um--I FELT um, sah; dey was
all over me. Dad fetch it, I jis' wisht I could git my han's on one er
dem witches jis' wunst--on'y jis' wunst--it's all I'd ast. But mos'ly I
wisht dey'd lemme 'lone, I does."
Tom says:
"Well, I tell you what I think. What makes them come here just at this
runaway <DW65>'s breakfast-time? It's because they're hungry; that's the
reason. You make them a witch pie; that's the thing for YOU to do."
"But my lan', Mars Sid, how's I gwyne to make'm a witch pie? I doan'
know how to make it. I hain't ever hearn er sich a thing b'fo'."
"Well, then, I'll have to make it myself."
"Will you do it, honey?--will you? I'll wusshup de groun' und' yo' foot,
I will!"
"All right, I'll do it, seeing it's you, and you've been good to us and
showed us the runaway <DW65>. But you got to be mighty careful. When we
come around, you turn your back; and then whatever we've put in the pan,
don't you let on you see it at all. And don't you look when Jim unloads
the pan--something might happen, I don't know what. And above all, don't
you HANDLE the witch-things."
"HANNEL'm, Mars Sid? What IS you a-talkin' 'bout? I wouldn' lay de
weight er my finger on um, not f'r ten hund'd thous'n billion dollars, I
wouldn't."
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THAT was all fixed. So then we went away and went to the rubbage-pile in
the back yard, where they keep the old boots, and rags, and pieces of
bottles, and wore-out tin things, and all such truck, and scratched
around and found an old tin washpan, and stopped up the holes as well as
we could, to bake the pie in, and took it down cellar and stole it full
of flour and started for breakfast, and found a couple of shingle-nails
that Tom said would be handy for a prisoner to scrabble his name and
sorrows on the dungeon walls with, and dropped one of them in Aunt
Sally's apron-pocket which was hanging on a chair, and t'other we stuck
in the band of Uncle Silas's hat, which was on the bureau, because we
heard the children say their pa and ma was going to the runaway <DW65>'s
house this morning, and then went to breakfast, and Tom dropped the
pewter spoon in Uncle Silas's coat-pocket, and Aunt Sally wasn't come
yet, so we had to wait a little while.
And when she come she was hot and red and cross, and couldn't hardly wait
for the blessing; and then she went to sluicing out coffee with one hand
and cracking the handiest child's head with her thimble with the other,
and says:
"I've hunted high and I've hunted low, and it does beat all what HAS
become of your other shirt."
My heart fell down amongst my lungs and livers and things, and a hard
piece of corn-crust started down my throat after it and got met on the
road with a cough, and was shot across the table, and took one of the
children in the eye and curled him up like a fishing-worm, and let a cry
out of him the size of a warwhoop, and Tom he turned kinder blue around
the gills, and it all amounted to a considerable state of things for
about a quarter of a minute or as much as that, and I would a sold out
for half price if there was a bidder. But after that we was all right
again--it was the sudden surprise of it that knocked us so kind of cold.
Uncle Silas he says:
"It's most uncommon curious, I can't understand it. I know perfectly
well I took it OFF, because--"
"Because you hain't got but one ON. Just LISTEN at the man! I know you
took it off, and know it by a better way than your wool-gethering memory,
too, because it was on the clo's-line yesterday--I see it there myself.
But it's gone, that's the long and the short of it, and you'll just have
to change to a red flann'l one till I can get time to make a new one.
And it 'll be the third I've made in two years. It just keeps a body on
the jump to keep you in shirts; and whatever you do manage to DO with'm
all is more'n I can make out. A body 'd think you WOULD learn to take
some sort of care of 'em at your time of life."
"I know it, Sally, and I do try all I can. But it oughtn't to be
altogether my fault, because, you know, I don't see them nor have nothing
to do with them except when they're on me; and I don't believe I've ever
lost one of them OFF of me."
"Well, it ain't YOUR fault if you haven't, Silas; you'd a done it if you
could, I reckon. And the shirt ain't all that's gone, nuther. Ther's a
spoon gone; and THAT ain't all. There was ten, and now ther's only nine.
The calf got the shirt, I reckon, but the calf never took the spoon,
THAT'S certain."
"Why, what else is gone, Sally?"
"Ther's six CANDLES gone--that's what. The rats could a got the candles,
and I reckon they did; I wonder they don't walk off with the whole place,
the way you're always going to stop their holes and don't do it; and if
they warn't fools they'd sleep in your hair, Silas--YOU'D never find it
out; but you can't lay the SPOON on the rats, and that I know."
"Well, Sally, I'm in fault, and I acknowledge it; I've been remiss; but I
won't let to-morrow go by without stopping up them holes."
"Oh, I wouldn't hurry; next year 'll do. Matilda Angelina Araminta
PHELPS!"
Whack comes the thimble, and the child snatches her claws out of the
sugar-bowl without fooling around any. Just then the <DW65> woman steps
on to the passage, and says:
"Missus, dey's a sheet gone."
"A SHEET gone! Well, for the land's sake!"
"I'll stop up them holes to-day," says Uncle Silas, looking sorrowful.
"Oh, DO shet up!--s'pose the rats took the SHEET? WHERE'S it gone,
Lize?"
"Clah to goodness I hain't no notion, Miss' Sally. She wuz on de
clo'sline yistiddy, but she done gone: she ain' dah no mo' now."
"I reckon the world IS coming to an end. I NEVER see the beat of it in
all my born days. A | 1,191.980086 |
2023-11-16 18:36:56.0608760 | 293 | 12 |
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.)
THE VOYAGE OF THE
_OREGON_
FROM SAN FRANCISCO
TO SANTIAGO IN
1898
_AS TOLD BY_
ONE OF THE CREW
_PRIVATELY PRINTED_
THE MERRYMOUNT PRESS
_BOSTON_
1908
[_One hundred and twenty-five copies printed_]
To the Reader
_Almost ten years have passed since the country followed, in scanty
telegram from port to port, the Oregon speeding down one side of a
continent and up the other to Bahia; then came two anxious, silent
weeks when apprehension and fear pictured four Spanish cruisers with a
pack of torpedo boats sailing out into the west athwart the lone ship's
course, the suspense ending only when tidings came of her arrival at
Jupiter Inlet; then off Santiago, after a month of waiting, there is
the outcoming of Cervera's squadron, when this splendid ship, with
steam all the time up, leaps to the front of her sisters of the fleet,
like an unleashed hound, and joins the historic company of the Bon
Homme Richard, the Constitution, the Hartford, in our naval annals.
From the start at the Golden Gate | 1,192.080916 |
2023-11-16 18:36:56.0612990 | 4,679 | 10 |
Produced by Ting Man Tsao
Transcriber's Note: This e-book is based on an extant copy at
Special Collections Research Center, Earl Gregg Swem Library,
College of William and Mary. The transcriber is grateful to the
librarians there for providing assistance in accessing this rare
fragile book. A few typos in the original text were corrected.
LETTERS TO CHILDREN.
BY REV. E.C. BRIDGMAN,
MISSIONARY IN CHINA.
Written for the Massachusetts Sabbath School Society,
and Revised by the Committee of Publication.
SECOND EDITION.
BOSTON:
MASSACHUSETTS SABBATH SCHOOL SOCIETY.
Depository, No. 13, Cornhill.
1838.
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1834,
BY CHRISTOPHER C. DEAN,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.
______
INDEX.
LETTER I.
Introduction; Chinese are Idolaters; Confucian, Taon, and Buddha
Sects,
LETTER II.
Temples, Priest, Priestesses and Idols,
LETTER III.
Pagodas, Idol Worship,
LETTER IV.
Soldiers; Merchants,
LETTER V.
Mechanics,
LETTER VI.
Husbandmen,
LETTER VII.
Scholars,
LETTER VIII.
Sailors,
LETTER IX.
Character and Condition of Females,
LETTER X.
Marriage Ceremony,
LETTER XI.
Beggars; Food and Clothing,
LETTER XII.
Crimes: Lying, Gambling, Quarrelling, Theft, Robbery, and
Bribery,
LETTER XIII.
Ideas of Death, style of Mourning, Funerals, &c.
LETTER XIV.
Dr. Morrison translates the Bible into the Chinese Language,
LETTER XV.
Dr. Milne; Missionary Stations,
LETTER XVI.
Leang Afa,
LETTER XVII.
Canton City; Population, &c.
LETTER XVIII.
To Parents and Teachers,
______
TO THE READER
______
This little Book contains eighteen Letters, written by Rev. E.C.
BRIDGMAN, Missionary in China, addressed to the Children of the
Sabbath School in Middleton, Mass. and published in the Sabbath
School Treasury and Visitor. Though the letters were addressed
to children in a particular Sabbath School, they are none the less
adapted to other children, and they cannot fail to interest any
one, who would see China converted to Christ.
______
LETTERS FROM CHINA.
______
Letter I.
_Canton_, (_China_,) _Oct._ 17, 1831
MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS:‑‑The general agent of the Massachusetts
Sabbath School Union has requested me to write something which
I have "seen, heard, or thought of" for the _Treasury_. He proposed
that I should write in the form of letters, and address them to
you. This I shall be very happy to do, so far as I have any leisure
to write.
Some of you, perhaps, will remember what I used to tell you of
the children, and men, and women, who had no Bibles, and who were
ignorant of the true God, and of Jesus Christ the Savior of
sinners. I can remember very well what some of the little children
used to say, and how they used to look, when I talked to them about
being a missionary, and of going far away from home, perhaps never
to return. I did not then think of going so far off; indeed, I
did not know where I should go; had some thoughts of going to
Greece, or to Armenia. We do not always know what is best, but
God does, for He knows all things, and will direct all things for
his own glory; and if we love and obey him. He will make all things
work together for our good.
I am very glad I came to China, and I wish a great many more
missionaries would come here. Before I came among the heathen,
I had no idea how much they are to be pitied, and how much they
need the Bible. Now that I live among them, and see their poor
dumb idols every day, I desire to tell you a great many things
which, I hope, will make you more careful to improve your own
privileges, and more anxious also that the same blessed
privileges may be enjoyed by all other children every where.
Now, children, if you will look on your maps, you will see that
China is situated in that part of the earth, which is directly
opposite to the United States: so that when it is noon in one
place, it is midnight in the other. The two countries, you will
see, occupy nearly the same extent of the earth's surface. They
are, also, bounded on the north and south, by nearly the same
degrees of latitude. (China is situated a little farther south
than the United States.) This makes the seasons,‑‑summer and
winters, spring and autumn,‑‑and also the climate of the two
countries, quite alike. But in regard to population, religion,
and almost every thing else, they are very different from each
other.
China is a very ancient nation; and has, at the present time, a
vast population,‑‑probably twenty or thirty times as many people
as there are in all the United States of America. If there are,
then, _three millions_ in the United States to be gathered into
the Sabbath schools, and there Sabbath after Sabbath, instructed
in the Holy Scriptures; there are here in China more than _sixty
millions_, of the same age, who know not even that there are any
Sabbath, or any Sabbath day, or any Holy Bible.
You can now, dear children, from these few facts, estimate how
many there are in China who need the Bible; and how much there
is to be done, how many missionaries and Christian teachers will
be wanted, before all these millions of immortal beings shall have
the word of God, and be as blessed and as happy in their
privileges, as you now are. You, truly, enjoy great privileges,
because you have the Holy Bible, and can, every day, read of Jesus
Christ: and if you believe in him, you will have great joy and
comfort, and when you die, go to heaven and be forever with the
Lord. But O, what do you think will become of all these poor
heathen children, who have no Bibles, and who have never heard
of the name of Jesus? In the fourth chapter of Acts, you read,
that, "_there is no other name under heaven given among men,
whereby we must be saved_."
The Chinese are idolaters. Their fathers, and their grandfather,
for hundreds and thousands of generations, have been idolaters,
and worshipped idols of wood and stone which their own hands have
made. These idols are very numerous; as numerous, the Chinese
themselves say, as the sands on the banks of a great river.
The Chinese are divided into three religious sects. The Confucian
sect; the Taon sect; and the Buddha sect. I will now tell you
something about each of these three.
The _Confucian_ sect is composed of the _learned_ men of China,
who are in their disposition and character like the proud and
self‑righteous pharisees, mentioned in the New Testament. They
call them the _disciples_ of Confucius. They adore and worship
him; they have a great many temples dedicated to him; and they
offer various sacrifices to him, as the children of Israel did
to Jehovah, the true God, in the time of Moses. Confucius was born
538 years before Christ. His disciples relate many strange
stories about their master. But he taught them nothing about the
true God and Jesus Christ, and nothing about the soul after death.
_Life and immortality were not revealed to him_. His disciples
are as ignorant as their master was. They neither know nor
acknowledge the eternal power and Godhead, so "clearly seen,
being understood by the things that are made." Professing
themselves to be wise, they become fools, and like the Romans,
"changed the glory of the incorruptible God into an image like
to corruptible man, and to birds, and four‑footed beasts," &c.
&c. I wish you to read the last half of the first chapter of Romans,
and you will have a good account of the disciples of Confucius.
Taontsze, which being interpreted, means _old boy_, was the
founder of the _Taon_ sect. His followers to this day call him
the supreme venerable prince; and relate many curious stories
about him; and say that he was an _ignorant good man_.
The religion of _Buddha_ was brought from India, and became a
common religion of China, probably, about the time, or soon after
the crucifixion of our Savior. Both this religion and that of the
Taon sect are dreadfully wicked, and full of abominations; and
their priests are the most ignorant and miserable people in China.
I will tell you more of these hereafter.
Besides these three sects, there are some Roman Catholics, some
Mohammedans, and a few Jews, scattered in different parts of
China.
Since I have now commenced, I wish to write you several short
letters; and this I will try to do, if God our heavenly Father
gives me time and strength. Earnestly desiring that he will give
you all good things, I remain,
Your true friends,
E.C. BRIDGMAN.
______
LETTER II.
_Canton_, (_China_,) _Oct._ 19, 1831.
MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS,‑‑In the first letter, I told you something
about the situation and the vast population of China, and the
three religious sects into which the people are divided. In this
letter I propose to give you a short account of their temples,
priests, priestesses, and idols.
_Idol temples_ are very different from meeting‑houses. I have
visited a good many of these temples, in and about Canton and
Macao. There is very little, if any, difference between the
temples of the Buddha and the Taon sects. Those which I have seen
are brick, and usually firm and well built. A common village
temple occupies about half an acre of ground, enclosed by a wall
twelve or fifteen feet high, and consists of several houses for
the priests, a number of small rooms and niches for the idols,
and an open court and alleys. Some of the temples are large,
including within their outer wall three or four acres, having
beautiful trees and gardens, and sometimes a furnace, in which
the dead bodies of priests are burnt, and also a kind of tomb,
filled with urns, in which their ashes are afterwards deposited.
These are more than thirteen hundred idol temples in the province
of Canton; and, at the same rate of reckoning, there will be, in
the eighteen provinces into which China is divided, more than
_twenty‑three thousand idol temples_.
I have never visited any of the temples dedicated to Confucius.
They are, it is said, distinguished from those of Buddha and Taon,
by their dignified simplicity, the exclusion of images from all
the principal halls, and by substituting, in their stead,
commemorative tablets, bearing the names of Confucius and his
most distinguished disciples.
_Priests_ are numerous. One temple in Peking has, it is said,
eight hundred priests. One which I have visited, _near_ Canton,
has more than one hundred and fifty. Those of Buddha shave their
heads perfectly bald. They usually appear dressed in a large grey
gown, with sleeves often a full yard wide. They live principally
on vegetables; they eat no meat, are not allowed to marry, are
idle, and, except by persons of their own sect, utterly
disrespected. The priests of the Taon sect shave their heads,
except a spot about the size of a man's hand, of which the crown
of the head is the centre. This, indeed, every Chinese does. Every
man and every boy must have his head shaved, as a mark of
submission to the Emperor. This has been the custom for almost
two hundred years. But, while the common people braid their hair
into a "long tail," which hangs down to their heels, the priests
of Taon fold theirs up in a knot on the top of the head. When they
appear in public, they usually wear a yellow robe. They eat flesh,
and are permitted to marry. No priest of either sect ever teaches
in public and but seldom in private. They spend much of their time
in devotions, which are nothing but "vain repetitions," saying
over and over again the same words, as fast as they can, hundreds
and thousands of times. They are sometimes called to pray for the
dead, and sometimes to go in funeral processions.
Persons may become priests at any age they please; they are
usually, however, dedicated to the service when quite young, even
in infancy. A few days ago, in the streets, I saw a lad only eight
or ten years old, all dressed up in his priestly robes. There are
no priests belonging to the Confucian sect.
_Priestesses_ are more wicked, but not so numerous as priests.
There are three sorts of these poor miserable creatures. Those
that belong to the sects of Buddha and Taon wear a peculiar kind
of dress. Those of the Buddha sect shave their heads, and the
people of Canton call them "women padres." Those of third sort
form a kind of sisterhood, live wholly on vegetables, and dress
like other women. These are all very wicked, ugly people. They
pretend to sing songs to the gods, and drive away demons. There
are other old women, still worse, if possible, than these; such
as witches, conjurers, and necromancers. They pretend to hold
intercourse with the dead, and give responses to their living
kindred, telling them that their dead friends are in great
distress for want of food and clothing. Many of the deluded people
believe them, and, by these lies and tricks, they contrive to get
food and clothing for themselves.
_Idols_, in China, are numerous beyond all calculation. These
idols are to be seen every where; in ships, in boats, houses, in
temples, shops, streets, fields, on the hills, and in the vallies,
and along the banks of all the rivers and canals. Some of these
idols are very large, huge monsters, several feet high. Some of
them are made of wood, some are stone, some are earthen, others
are brass, iron, &c. &c. They are most commonly made somewhat in
the likeness of men; but sometimes they are like beasts, and
birds, and creeping things. There are places where these _gods_
are manufactured and sold just as people make and sell chairs,
tables, &c. I am going to send a parcel of them to the Society
of Inquiry respecting Missions, at the Theological Seminary,
Andover, where if you wish, you can go and see them.
Adieu, dear children. May the Lord, in great mercy, keep you from
all sin, and make you happy in this life and in that which is to
come. Remembering you often in my prayers,
I remain, your true friend,
E.C. BRIDGMAN.
______
LETTER III.
_Canton_, (_China_,) _Oct_. 20, 1831.
MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS,‑‑In my letter, yesterday, I forgot to tell
you of some very high buildings, called _pagodas_. These are found
in almost every part of China. They were introduced soon after
the religion of Buddha, in which they seem to have had their
origin, in this country. These lofty buildings present every
where nearly the same appearance; but differ in height from three
to thirteen stories. They are usually hollow, with stairs
ascending up through the centre; and are usually built on the top
of some high hill. They are believed, by those who build them,
to be a defence against evil spirits, pestilence, misfortunes,
&c. One of the finest pagodas in China, is in Nanking, and was
built about 400 years ago. It is called the porcelain pagoda. It
is 200 feet high, divided into nine stories; and is, at the base,
122 feet in circumference. It was nineteen years in building, and
cost more than three millions of dollars; more than three times
as much as the American Board have yet expended for foreign
missions.
I will close this letter with some account of _idol worship_, as
it is performed here, all around us, every day.
The Chinese never assemble for religious worship as Christians
do, who go to the house of God, there to worship him, who is a
Spirit, in spirit and in truth. Their worship is very unholy, and
offensive to God, and injurious to man. They have no preaching;
their priests never set as public, religious teachers. Their
worship consists of prayers and offerings, made to their false
gods, and to their departed friends, to the sages and heroes of
antiquity, and to their emperors‑‑both living and the dead. All
their acts of worship are accompanied with a great many, and very
tedious ceremonies.
Some of the priests make very long prayers. In a temple near
Canton, I have seen more than 50 priests altogether, at one time,
engaged in their devotions. At the appointed hour, they assembled
in a large hall where were a number of idols, and altars for
offering incense, and also a drum and a bell to _wake_ up the
sleepy gods, and make them listen to their prayers.
As soon as they were assembled, they took their places in ranks,
and commenced their worship. One of the oldest priests acted as
chief, and took the lead; and the others, with loud voices, all
joined with him and chanted their evening prayers. Sometimes,
they all stood erect, with their hands all joined with him, and
chanted their evening prayers. Sometimes they all stood erect,
with their hands clasped before them. Sometimes, in files, they
went round and round their altars. At one time, they all kneeled;
and again, they all bowed down their heads, and placed them in
the very dust. All the time they were doing these things, which
occupied about an hour, candles and lamps were kept burning, and
incense was offered on the altars.
The Chinese never pray in their families and closets as Christians
are taught to do. Individuals sometimes go to the temples to pray,
and pay their vows, and to make offerings to the idol gods. I have
repeatedly seen women, sometimes with their young children,
bowing before the altars in the temples. The Chinese observe many
times and seasons, in which they make religious offerings, some
of which are very expensive.
There are appointed seasons when the Emperor of China worships
his ancestors, and the heavens, and the earth, and also some of
the great mountains and rivers of the empire. Early in the morning
on the first day of the year, all the people worship their gods,
praying for riches. In the spring of every year, there is an
appointed time, when every body goes to the hills‑‑some travel
hundreds of miles‑‑to worship at the tombs of their fathers, and
mothers, and uncles, &c. While at the tombs, they offer costly
sacrifices of fish, fowls, sheep, goats, swine and the like, with
oblations of wine and oil, to the names of their departed
relatives. On the first and fifteenth of every moon, they have
some special religious rites to perform, such as firing off
thousands and thousands of gunpowder crackers, beating their
gongs, or drums, &c. This they do to keep off evil spirits. Every
day, especially at evening, offerings of paper‑‑a kind of gold
paper‑‑and oil, and fragrant wood, are made to the household
Gods, to the gods of the streets, shops, boats. Indeed, there
seems to be no end to their superstitions. And thus, alas! all
this numerous people are given to idolatry, and offer sacrifices
to devils. They worship they know not what.
And now, my dear young friends, do you think all this vain and
wicked worship constitute _a cheap and easy religion?_ Think of
the priests and priestesses devoted to idleness, and to
abominable rites and services. Think of the hundreds of temples
and idleness, and to abominable rites and services. Think of the
hundreds of temples and pagodas, and thousands of idols which
cover and fill the land. Think, too, of all the times and seasons;
all the costly offerings and sacrifices employed in this idol
worship; and again I ask, and I wish you to give an answer,‑‑_Do
you think this a cheap and easy religion?_ I think it a most costly
religion, and most grievous to be borne. Oh, | 1,192.081339 |
2023-11-16 18:36:56.1631740 | 885 | 28 |
Produced by David Widger
A ROMANCE OF YOUTH
By Francois Coppee
With a Preface by JOSE DE HEREDIA, of the French Academy
FRANCOIS COPPEE
FRANCOIS EDOUARD JOACHIM COPPEE was born in Paris, January 12, 1842.
His father was a minor 'employe' in the French War Office; and, as the
family consisted of six the parents, three daughters, and a son (the
subject of this essay)--the early years of the poet were not spent in
great luxury. After the father's death, the young man himself entered
the governmental office with its monotonous work. In the evening he
studied hard at St. Genevieve Library. He made rhymes, had them even
printed (Le Reliquaire, 1866); but the public remained indifferent until
1869, when his comedy in verse, 'Le Passant', appeared. From this period
dates the reputation of Coppee--he woke up one morning a "celebrated
man."
Like many of his countrymen, he is a poet, a dramatist, a novelist,
and a writer of fiction. He was elected to the French Academy in 1884.
Smooth shaven, of placid figure, with pensive eyes, the hair brushed
back regularly, the head of an artist, Coppee can be seen any day
looking over the display of the Parisian secondhand booksellers on
the Quai Malaquais; at home on the writing-desk, a page of carefully
prepared manuscript, yet sometimes covered by cigarette-ashes; upon
the wall, sketches by Jules Lefebvre and Jules Breton; a little in the
distance, the gaunt form of his attentive sister and companion, Annette,
occupied with household cares, ever fearful of disturbing him. Within
this tranquil domicile can be heard the noise of the Parisian faubourg
with its thousand different dins; the bustle of the street; the clatter
of a factory; the voice of the workshop; the cries of the pedlers
intermingled with the chimes of the bells of a near-by convent-a
confusing buzzing noise, which the author, however, seems to enjoy; for
Coppee is Parisian by birth, Parisian by education, a Parisian of the
Parisians.
If as a poet we contemplate him, Coppee belongs to the group commonly
called "Parnassiens"--not the Romantic School, the sentimental lyric
effusion of Lamartine, Hugo, or De Musset! When the poetical lute
was laid aside by the triad of 1830, it was taken up by men of quite
different stamp, of even opposed tendencies. Observation of exterior
matters was now greatly adhered to in poetry; it became especially
descriptive and scientific; the aim of every poet was now to render
most exactly, even minutely, the impressions received, or faithfully to
translate into artistic language a thesis of philosophy, a discovery of
science. With such a poetical doctrine, you will easily understand the
importance which the "naturalistic form" henceforth assumed.
Coppee, however, is not only a maker of verses, he is an artist and a
poet. Every poem seems to have sprung from a genuine inspiration. When
he sings, it is because he has something to sing about, and the result
is that his poetry is nearly always interesting. Moreover, he respects
the limits of his art; for while his friend and contemporary, M.
Sully-Prudhomme, goes astray habitually into philosophical speculation,
and his immortal senior, Victor Hugo, often declaims, if one may venture
to say so, in a manner which is tedious, Coppee sticks rigorously to
what may be called the proper regions of poetry.
Francois Coppee is not one of those superb high priests disdainful
of the throng: he is the poet of the "humble," and in his work, 'Les
Humbles', he paints with a sincere emotion his profound sympathy for
the sorrows, the mis | 1,192.183214 |
2023-11-16 18:36:56.2826770 | 743 | 7 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Les Galloway and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation and spelling remain unchanged except where in conflict
with the index.
Page numbers have been added to the index entries for City Police, the,
and for Kingston-on-Hull
Italics are represented thus _italic_, bold thus =bold= and underlining
thus +underline+.
+The Survey of London+
MEDIÆVAL
LONDON
HISTORICAL AND SOCIAL
_UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME_
PRICE =30/= NET EACH
LONDON
IN THE TIME OF THE TUDORS
_With 146 Illustrations and a Reproduction of Agas’ Map of London in
1560._
“For the student, as well as for those desultory readers who are drawn
by the rare fascination of London to peruse its pages, this book
will have a value and a charm which are unsurpassed by any of its
predecessors.”—_Pall Mall Gazette._
“A vivid and fascinating picture of London life in the sixteenth
century—a novelist’s picture, full of life and movement, yet with the
accurate detail of an antiquarian treatise.”—_Contemporary Review._
LONDON
IN THE TIME OF THE STUARTS
_With 116 Illustrations and a Reproduction of Ogilby’s Map of London in
1677._
“It is a mine in which the student, alike of topography and of manners
and customs, may dig and dig again with the certainty of finding
something new and interesting.”—_The Times._
“The pen of the ready writer here is fluent; the picture wants nothing
in completeness. The records of the city and the kingdom have been
ransacked for facts and documents, and they are marshalled with
consummate skill.”—_Pall Mall Gazette._
LONDON
IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
_With 104 Illustrations and a Reproduction of Rocque’s Map of London in
1741-5._
“The book is engrossing, and its manner delightful.”—_The Times._
“Of facts and figures such as these this valuable book will be found
full to overflowing, and it is calculated therefore to interest all
kinds of readers, from the student to the dilettante, from the romancer
in search of matter to the most voracious student of Tit-Bits.”—_The
Athenæum._
[Illustration: EDWARD IV. AND HIS COURTIERS.
From MS. in British Museum. Royal 15 E4.]
MEDIÆVAL
LONDON
VOL. I
HISTORICAL & SOCIAL
BY
SIR WALTER BESANT
[Illustration]
LONDON
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK
1906
CONTENTS
PART I
MEDIÆVAL SOVEREIGNS
CHAP. PAGE
1. HENRY II. 3
2. RICHARD I. 9
3. JOHN 13
4. HENRY III. 20
5. ED | 1,192.302717 |
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Produced by Katie Hernandez, Shaun Pinder and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
| 1,192.390767 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
ALICE LORRAINE:
_A TALE OF THE SOUTH DOWNS_.
BY
RICHARD DODDRIDGE BLACKMORE,
AUTHOR OF “THE MAID OF SKER,” “LORNA DOONE,” ETC.
οὕτως ἔχει σοι ταῦτα, καὶ δείξεις τάχα,
εἴτ’ εὐγενὴς πέφυκας, εἴτ’ ἐσθλῶν κακή.
SOPH. _Ant._
_NEW AND CHEAPER EDITION._
LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY,
_LIMITED_,
St. Dunstan’s House,
FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1893.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
To
PROFESSOR OWEN, C.B., F.R.S., &c.,
WITH THE WRITER’S GRATITUDE,
FOR WORDS OF TRUE ENCOURAGEMENT,
AND MANY ACTS OF KINDNESS,
This Work
MOST HEARTILY IS DEDICATED
_April, 1875._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--ALL IN THE DOWNS 1
II.--COOMBE LORRAINE 3
III.--LINEAGE AND LINEAMENTS 5
IV.--FATHER AND FAVOURITE 7
V.--THE LEGEND OF THE ASTROLOGER 11
VI.--THE LEGEND CONTINUED 14
VII.--THE LEGEND CONCLUDED 17
VIII.--ASTROLOGICAL FORECAST 20
IX.--THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER 24
X.--A BOY AND A DONKEY 27
XI.--CHAMBER PRACTICE 35
XII.--WITH THE COSTERMONGERS 45
XIII.--TO THE CHERRY-ORCHARDS 49
XIV.--BEAUTIES OF THE COUNTRY 55
XV.--OH, RUDDIER THAN THE CHERRY! 59
XVI.--OH, SWEETER THAN THE BERRY! 66
XVII.--VERY SHY THINGS 72
XVIII.--THE KEY OF THE GATE 78
XIX.--FOUR YOUNG LADIES 84
XX.--A RECTOR OF THE OLDEN STYLE 92
XXI.--A NOTABLE LADY 96
XXII.--A MALIGNANT CASE 100
XXIII.--THE BAITER BAITED 105
XXIV.--A FATHERLY SUGGESTION 109
XXV.--THE WELL OF THE SIBYL 112
XXVI.--AN OPPORTUNE ENVOY 117
XXVII.--A GOOD PARSON’S HOLIDAY 121
XXVIII.--NOT TO BE RESISTED 126
XXIX.--ABSURD SURDS 130
XXX.--OUR LAD STEENIE 135
XXXI.--IN A MARCHING REGIMENT 139
XXXII.--PUBLIC AND PRIVATE OPINION 144
XXXIII.--RAGS AND BONES 149
XXXIV.--UNDER DEADLY FIRE 157
XXXV.--HOW TO FRY NO PANCAKES 161
XXXVI.--LADY COKE UPON LITTLETON 166
XXXVII.--ACHES _v._ ACRES 172
XXXVIII.--IN THE DEADLY BREACH 177
XXXIX.--SHERRY SACK 183
XL.--BENEATH BRIGHT EYES 191
XLI.--DONNAS PRAY AND PRACTISE 195
XLII.--AN UNWELCOME ESCORT 200
XLIII.--IN AMONG THE BIG-WIGS 209
XLIV.--HOW TO TAKE BAD TIDINGS 216
XLV.--INNOCENCE IN NO SENSE 220
XLVI.--HARD RIDING AND HARD READING 226
XLVII.--TRY TO THINK THE BEST OF ME 234
XLVIII.--SOMETHING WORTH KISSING 239
XLIX.--A DANGEROUS COMMISSION 245
L.--STERLING AND STRIKING AFFECTION 250
LI.--EMPTY LOCKERS 259
LII.--BE NO MORE OFFICER OF MINE 264
LIII.--FAREWELL, ALL YOU SPANISH LADIES 268
LIV.--GOING UP THE TREE 275
LV.--THE WOEBURN 281
LVI.--GOING DOWN THE HILL 290
LVII.--THE PLEDGE OF A LIFE 297
LVIII.--A HERO’S RETURN 304
LIX.--THE GRAVE OF THE ASTROLOGER 312
LX.--COURTLY MANNERS 316
LXI.--A SAMPLE FROM KENT 322
LXII.--A FAMILY ARRANGEMENT 327
LXIII.--BETTER THAN THE DOCTORS 332
LXIV.--IMPENDING DARKNESS 335
LXV.--A FINE CHRISTMAS SERMON 341
LXVI.--COMING DOWN IN EARNEST 344
LXVII.--THE LAST CHANCE LOST 348
LXVIII.--THE DEATH-BOURNE 353
LXIX.--BOTTLER BEATS THE ELEMENTS 357
LXX.--OH, HARO! HARO! HARO! 361
LXXI.--AN ARGUMENT REFUTED 367
LXXII.--ON LETHE’S WHARF 370
LXXIII.--POLLY’S DOLL 374
LXXIV.--FROM HADES’ GATES 377
LXXV.--SOMETHING LIKE A LEGACY 380
LXXVI.--SCIENTIFIC SOLUTION 385
LXXVII.--HER HEART IS HIS 387
LXXVIII.--THE LAST WORD COMES FROM BONNY 390
ALICE LORRAINE.
CHAPTER I.
ALL IN THE DOWNS.
Westward of that old town Steyning, and near Washington and Wiston, the
lover of an English landscape may find much to dwell upon. The best way
to enjoy it is to follow the path along the meadows, underneath the
inland rampart of the Sussex hills. Here is pasture rich enough for
the daintiest sheep to dream upon; tones of varied green in stripes
(by order of the farmer), trees as for a portrait grouped, with the
folding hills behind, and light and shadow making love in play to one
another. Also, in the breaks of meadow and the footpath bendings,
stiles where love | 1,192.479958 |
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Produced by Tracy Camp and David Widger
VICTORY: AN ISLAND TALE
By Joseph Conrad
Contents
NOTE TO THE FIRST EDITION
AUTHOR'S NOTE
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
PART TWO
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
PART THREE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
PART FOUR
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
NOTE TO THE FIRST EDITION
The last word of this novel was written on 29 May 1914. And that last
word was the single word of the title.
Those were the times of peace. Now that the moment of publication
approaches I have been considering the discretion of altering the
title-page. The word "Victory" the shining and tragic goal of noble
effort, appeared too great, too august, to stand at the head of a mere
novel. There was also the possibility of falling under the suspicion of
commercial astuteness deceiving the public into the belief that the book
had something to do with war.
Of that, however, I was not afraid very much. What influenced my
decision most were the obscure promptings of that pagan residuum of
awe and wonder which lurks still at the bottom of our old humanity.
"Victory" was the last word I had written in peace-time. It was the last
literary thought which had occurred to me before the doors of the Temple
of Janus flying open with a crash shook the minds, the hearts, the
consciences of men all over the world. Such coincidence could not be
treated lightly. And I made up my mind to let the word stand, in the
same hopeful spirit in which some simple citizen of Old Rome would have
"accepted the Omen."
The second point on which I wish to offer a remark is the existence (in
the novel) of a person named Schomberg.
That I believe him to be true goes without saying. I am not likely to
offer pinchbeck wares to my public consciously. Schomberg is an old
member of my company. A very subordinate personage in Lord Jim as far
back as the year 1899, he became notably active in a certain short story
of mine published in 1902. Here he appears in a still larger part, true
to life (I hope), but also true to himself. Only, in this instance, his
deeper passions come into play, and thus his grotesque psychology is
completed at last.
I don't pretend to say that this is the entire Teutonic psychology; but
it is indubitably the psychology of a Teuton. My object in mentioning
him here is to bring out the fact that, far from being the incarnation
of recent animosities, he is the creature of my old deep-seated, and, as
it were, impartial conviction.
J. C.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
On approaching the task of writing this Note for Victory, the first
thing I am conscious of is the actual nearness of the book, its nearness
to me personally, to the vanished mood in which it was written, and to
the mixed feelings aroused by the critical notices the book obtained
when first published almost exactly a year after the beginning of the
war. The writing of it was finished in 1914 long before the murder of an
Austrian Archduke sounded the first note of warning for a world already
full of doubts and fears.
The contemporaneous very short Author's Note which is preserved in this
edition bears sufficient witness to the feelings with which I consented
to the publication of the book. The fact of the book having been
published in the United States early in the year made it difficult
to delay its appearance in England any longer. It came out in the
thirteenth month of the war, and my conscience was troubled by the awful
incongruity of throwing this bit of imagined drama into the welter
of reality, tragic enough in all conscience, but even more cruel than
tragic and more inspiring than cruel. It seemed awfully presumptuous to
think there would be eyes to spare for those pages in a community which
in the crash of the big guns and in the din of brave words expressing
the truth of an indomitable faith could not but feel the edge of a sharp
knife at its throat.
The unchanging Man of history is wonderfully adaptable both by his power
of endurance and in his capacity for detachment. The fact seems to
be that the play of his destiny is too great for his fears and too
mysterious for his understanding. Were the trump of the Last Judgement
to sound suddenly on a working day the musician at his piano would go on
with his performance of Beethoven's sonata and the cobbler at his
stall stick to his last in undisturbed confidence in the virtues of the
leather. And with perfect propriety. For what are we to let ourselves be
disturbed by an angel's vengeful music too mighty for our ears and too
awful for our terrors? Thus it happens to us to be struck suddenly
by the lightning of wrath. The reader will go on reading if the book
pleases him and the critic will go on criticizing with that faculty of
detachment born perhaps from a sense of infinite littleness and which is
yet the only faculty that seems to assimilate man to the immortal gods.
It is only when the catastrophe matches the natural obscurity of our
fate that even the best representative of the race is liable to lose his
detachment. It is very obvious that on the arrival of the gentlemanly
Mr. Jones, the single-minded Ricardo, and the faithful Pedro, Heyst, the
man of universal detachment, loses his mental self-possession, that fine
attitude before the universally irremediable which wears the name of
stoicism. It is all a matter of proportion. There should have been a
remedy for that sort of thing. And yet there is no remedy. Behind this
minute instance of life's hazards Heyst sees the power of blind destiny.
Besides, Heyst in his fine detachment had lost the habit of asserting
himself. I don't mean the courage of self-assertion, either moral or
physical, but the mere way of it, the trick of the thing, the readiness
of mind and the turn of the hand that come without reflection and lead
the man to excellence in life, in art, in crime, in virtue, and, for the
matter of that, even in love. Thinking is the great enemy of perfection.
The habit of profound reflection, I am compelled to say, is the most
pernicious of all the habits formed by the civilized man.
But I wouldn't be suspected even remotely of making fun of Axel Heyst. I
have always liked him. The flesh-and-blood individual who stands
behind the infinitely more familiar figure of the book I remember as a
mysterious Swede right enough. Whether he was a baron, too, I am not so
certain. He himself never laid claim to that distinction. His detachment
was too great to make any claims, big or small, on one's credulity. I
will not say where I met him because I fear to give my readers a
wrong impression, since a marked incongruity between a man and his
surroundings is often a very misleading circumstance. We became very
friendly for a time, and I would not like to expose him to unpleasant
suspicions though, personally, I am sure he would have been indifferent
to suspicions as he was indifferent to all the other disadvantages of
life. He was not the whole Heyst of course; he is only the physical and
moral foundation of my Heyst laid on the ground of a short acquaintance.
That it was short was certainly not my fault for he had charmed me by
the mere amenity of his detachment which, in this case, I cannot help
thinking he had carried to excess. He went away from his rooms without
leaving a trace. I wondered where he had gone to--but now I know.
He vanished from my ken only to drift into this adventure that,
unavoidable, waited for him in a world which he persisted in looking
upon as a malevolent shadow spinning in the sunlight. Often in the
course of years an expressed sentiment, the particular sense of a phrase
heard casually, would recall him to my mind so that I have fastened on
to him many words heard on other men's lips and belonging to other men's
less perfect, less pathetic moods.
The same observation will apply mutatis mutandis to Mr. Jones, who is
built on a much slenderer connection. Mr. Jones (or whatever his name
was) did not drift away from me. He turned his back on me and walked out
of the room. It was in a little hotel in the island of St. Thomas in
the West Indies (in the year '75) where we found him one hot afternoon
extended on three chairs, all alone in the loud buzzing of flies to
which his immobility and his cadaverous aspect gave a most gruesome
significance. Our invasion must have displeased him because he got off
the chairs brusquely and walked out, leaving with me an indelibly weird
impression of his thin shanks. One of the men with me said that the
fellow was the most desperate gambler he had ever come across. I said:
"A professional sharper?" and got for an answer: "He's a terror; but I
must say that up to a certain point he will play fair...." I wonder
what the point was. I never saw him again because I believe he went
straight on board a mail-boat which left within the hour for other
ports of call in the direction of Aspinall. Mr. Jones's characteristic
insolence belongs to another man of a quite different type. I will say
nothing as to the origins of his mentality because I don't intend to
make any damaging admissions.
It so happened that the very same year Ricardo--the physical
Ricardo--was a fellow passenger of mine on board an extremely small and
extremely dirty little schooner, during a four days' passage between two
places in the Gulf of Mexico whose names don't matter. For the most part
he lay on deck aft as it were at my feet, and raising himself from time
to time on his elbow would talk about himself and go on talking, not
exactly to me or even at me (he would not even look up but kept his
eyes fixed on the deck) but more as if communing in a low voice with
his familiar devil. Now and then he would give me a glance and make the
hairs of his stiff little moustache stir quaintly. His eyes were green
and every cat I see to this day reminds me of the exact contour of his
face. What he was travelling for or what was his business in life he
never confided to me. Truth to say, the only passenger on board that
schooner who could have talked openly about his activities and purposes
was a very snuffy and conversationally delightful friar, the superior
of a convent, attended by a very young lay brother, of a particularly
ferocious countenance. We had with us also, lying prostrate in the dark
and unspeakable cuddy of that schooner, an old Spanish gentleman, owner
of much luggage and, as Ricardo assured me, very ill indeed. Ricardo
seemed to be either a servant or the confidant of that aged and
distinguished-looking invalid, who early on the passage held a long
murmured conversation with the friar, and after that did nothing but
groan feebly, smoke cigarettes, and now and then call for Martin in a
voice full of pain. Then he who had become Ricardo in the book would go
below into that beastly and noisome hole, remain there mysteriously,
and coming up on deck again with a face on which nothing could be read,
would as likely as not resume for my edification the exposition of his
moral attitude towards life illustrated by striking particular instances
of the most atrocious complexion. Did he mean to frighten me? Or seduce
me? | 1,192.479981 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Draw Swords! by George Manville Fenn.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
DRAW SWORDS! BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.
CHAPTER ONE.
A FEATHER IN HIS CAP.
"Oh, I say, what a jolly shame!"
"Get out; it's all gammon. Likely."
"I believe it's true. Dick Darrell's a regular pet of Sir George
Hemsworth."
"Yes; the old story--kissing goes by favour."
"I shall cut the service. It's rank favouritism."
"I shall write home and tell my father to get the thing shown up in the
House of Commons."
"Why, he's only been out here a year."
Richard Darrell, a well-grown boy of seventeen, pretty well tanned by
the sun of India, stood flashed with annoyance, looking sharply from one
speaker to another as he stood in the broad veranda of the officers'
quarters in the Roumwallah Cantonments in the northern portion of the
Bengal Presidency, the headquarters of the artillery belonging to the
Honourable the East India Company, commonly personified as "John Company
of Leadenhall Street." It was over sixty years ago, in the days when,
after a careful training at the Company's college near Croydon, young
men, or, to be more correct, boys who had made their marks, received
their commission, and were sent out to join the batteries of artillery,
by whose means more than anything else the Company had by slow degrees
conquered and held the greater part of the vast country now fully added
to the empire and ruled over by the Queen.
It was a common affair then for a lad who had been a schoolboy of
sixteen, going on with his studies one day, to find himself the next, as
it were, a commissioned officer, ready to start for the East, to take
his position in a regiment and lead stalwart men, either in the
artillery or one of the native regiments; though, of course, a great
deal of the college training had been of a military stamp.
This was Richard Darrell's position one fine autumn morning a year
previous to the opening of this narrative. He had bidden farewell to
father, mother, and Old England, promised to do his duty like a man, and
sailed for Calcutta, joined his battery, served steadily in it for a
year, and now stood in his quiet artillery undress uniform in that
veranda, looking like a strange dog being bayed at by an angry pack.
The pack consisted of young officers of his own age and under. There
was not a bit of whisker to be seen; and as to moustache, not a lad
could show half as much as Dick, while his wouldn't have made a
respectable eyebrow for a little girl of four.
Dick was flushed with pleasurable excitement, doubly flushed with anger;
but he kept his temper down, and let his companions bully and hector and
fume till they were tired.
Then he gave an important-looking blue letter he held a bit of a wave,
and said, "It's no use to be jealous."
"Pooh! Who's jealous--and of you?" said the smallest boy present, one
who had very high heels to his boots. "That's too good."
"For, as to being a favourite with the general, he has never taken the
slightest notice of me since I joined."
"There, that'll do," said one of the party; "a man can't help feeling
disappointment. Every one is sure to feel so except the one who gets
the stroke of luck. I say, `Hurrah for Dick Darrell!'"
The others joined in congratulations now.
"I say, old chap, though," said one, "what a swell you'll be!"
"Yes; won't he? We shall run against him capering about on his spirited
Arab, while we poor fellows are trudging along in the hot sand behind
the heavy guns."
"Don't cut us, Dick, old chap," said another.
"He won't; he's not that sort," cried yet another. "I say, we must give
him a good send-off."
"When are you going?"
"The despatch says as soon as possible."
"But what troop are you to join?"
"The Sixth."
"The Sixth! I know; at Vallumbagh. Why, that's the crack battery,
where the fellows polish the guns and never go any slower than a racing
gallop. I say, you are in luck. Well, I am glad!"
The next minute every one present was ready to declare the same thing,
and for the rest of that day the young officer to whom the good stroke
of fortune had come hardly knew whether he stood upon his head or heels.
The next morning he was summoned to the general's quarters, the quiet,
grave-looking officer telling him that, as an encouragement for his
steady application to master his profession, he had been selected to
fill a vacancy; that the general hoped his progress in the horse brigade
would be as marked as it had been hitherto; and advising him to see at
once about his fresh uniform and accoutrements, which could follow him
afterwards, for he was to be prepared to accompany the general on his
march to Vallumbagh, which would be commenced the very next day.
Dick was not profuse in thanks or promises, but listened quietly, and,
when expected to speak, he merely said that he would do his best.
"That is all that is expected of you, Mr Darrell," said the general,
giving him a friendly nod. "Then, as you have many preparations to
make, and I have also, I will not detain you."
Dick saluted, and was leaving, when a sharp "Stop!" arrested him.
"You will want a horse. I have been thinking about it, and you had
better wait till you get to Vallumbagh, where, no doubt, the officers of
the troop will help you to make a choice. They will do this, for they
have had plenty of experience, and are careful to keep up the prestige
of the troop for perfection of drill and speed."
"No one would think he had been an old school-fellow of my father," said
Dick to himself as he went out; "he takes no more notice of me than of
any other fellow."
But the general was not a demonstrative man.
The preparations were soon made, the most important to Richard Darrell
being his visit to the tailor who supplied most of the officers with
their uniforms. The little amount of packing was soon done, and, after
the farewell dinner had been given to those leaving the town, the time
came when the young subaltern took his place in the general's train, to
follow the detachment of foot artillery which had marched with their
guns and baggage-train for Vallumbagh, where the general was taking
charge, and preparations in the way of collecting troops were supposed
to be going on.
Travelling was slow and deliberate in those days before railways, and
the conveniences and comforts, such as they were, had to be carried by
the travellers themselves; but in this case the young officer found his
journey novel and pleasant. For it was the cool season; the dust was
not quite so horrible as it might have been, and the tent arrangements
were carried out so that a little camp was formed every evening; and
this was made the more pleasant for the general's staff by the fact that
there were plenty of native servants, and one of the most important of
these was the general's cook.
But still the journey grew monotonous, over far-stretching plains,
across sluggish rivers; and it was with a feeling of thankfulness, after
many days' journey, always north and west, that Richard Darrell learned
that they would reach their destination the next morning before the heat
of the day set in.
That morning about ten o'clock they were met a few miles short of the
town, which they could see through a haze of dust, with its temples and
minarets, by a party of officers who had ridden out to welcome the
general, and who announced that the detachment of artillery had marched
in during the night with the heavy guns, elephants, and bullock-wagons.
In the evening, after meeting the officers of his troop at the
mess-table and not being very favourably impressed, Richard Darrell took
possession of his quarters in the barracks overlooking the broad
parade-ground, and, utterly tired out, lay down to sleep once more under
a roof, feeling dreary, despondent, and utterly miserable.
"India's a wretched, desolate place," he thought as he lay listening to
the hum of insects, and the night felt breathless and hot. He wished
himself back among his old companions at Roumwallah, for everything now
was depressing and strange.
A couple of hours later he was wishing himself back at the old military
college in England, and when midnight arrived without a wink of sleep he
began to think of his old country home, and how different a soldier's
life was, with its dreary routine, to the brilliant pictures he had
conjured up as a boy; for everything so far in his twelvemonth's career
had been horribly uneventful and tame.
At last, when he had arrived at the most despondent state possible to a
lad of his years--when his skin felt hot and feverish, and his pillow
and the one sheet which covered him seemed to be composed of some
irritating material which grew hotter and hotter--a pleasant moisture
broke out all over him, bringing with it a sudden sense of confusion
from which he slipped into nothingness and slept restfully till the
morning bugle rang out, when he started from his bed wondering where he
was.
Then it all came back, and he was bathing and dressing long before he
needed to leave his couch, but the desire for sleep was gone. He had to
nerve himself to master as manfully as he could the horribly depressing
feeling of strangeness; for the officers he had for companions in the
journey were with their own company, quite away from his quarters, and
his new companions were men who would look down upon him for being such
a boy; and at last he found himself wishing that he had been able to
keep as he was, for the honour and glory of belonging to the dashing
troop of horse artillery seemed to be nothing better than an empty
dream.
The next three days were days of desolation to the lad, for he was left,
as he expressed it, horribly alone. There was a good deal of business
going on in the settling of the new-comers in the barracks, and his new
brother-officers were away with the troop. He knew nobody; nobody
seemed to know him, or to want to know him. There was the native town
to see, but it did not attract him; and there were moments when he
longed to go to the general, his father's friend, and beg that he might
be sent back to his old company. But then there were moments when he
came to his senses again and felt that this was folly; but he could not
get rid of a strange longing to be back home once more.
Then he grew better all at once; the troop of horse artillery filed into
the barrack-yard, and he hurried out to look at the men, horses, and
guns, whose aspect chilled him, for they were in undress and covered
with perspiration and dust. There was nothing attractive or glorious
about them, and he went back to his quarters with his heart sinking once
more.
Then it rose again with a jump, for his native servant met him at the
door, showing his white teeth in a broad smile, to inform the sahib that
the cases had come; and there they were, with each bearing his name
branded thereon: "Lieutenant Richard Darrell, Bengal Horse Artillery."
"Hah!"
It was a loud expiration of the breath, and the lad felt better already.
Those cases had come from the regimental tailor's, a long journey
across the plains, and looked very ordinary, and cumbered the room; but
then there were the contents--medicine to the disconsolate lad at a time
like that--a tonic which completely carried the depression away.
CHAPTER TWO.
FINE FEATHERS MAKE FINE BIRDS.
Richard Darrell was not a vain or conceited lad, but the time had
arrived when he could not help feeling like a young peacock. He had
gone on for a long time in his ordinary dowdy plumage, till one fine
spring day the dull feathers began to drop out, and there was a flash
here and a gleam there--a bit of blue, a bit of gold, a bit of purple
and violet, and golden green and ruddy bronze--and he was strutting
along in the sunshine in the full panoply of his gorgeous feathers, from
the tuft on his head to the grand argus-eyed train which slants from the
back, and is carried so gingerly that the tips may not be sullied by the
dirt; all which makes him feel that he is a bird right glorious to
behold.
And the day had come when, in the secrecy of his own room, Dick was
about to moult from the simple uniform of the foot and preparatory days
into the splendid full dress of the Bengal Horse Artillery, a commission
in which was a distinction, a feather in any young soldier's cap.
Call it vanity what you will; but it was a glorious sensation, that
which came over Dick, and he would have been a strangely unnatural lad
if he had not felt excited.
No wonder that he shut himself up for the first full enjoyment of the
sensation alone, though perhaps there was a feeling of dread that he
might be laughed at by any one who saw him for the first time, since he
was painfully conscious of being very young and slight and smooth-faced,
although there was a suggestion of something coming up on the narrow
space just beneath his nose.
Those things did not come from the military tailor's in common
brown-paper parcels, but in special japanned tin cases, with his name in
white letters and "R.H.A."
How everything smelt of newness! The boxes even had their odour. It
was not a scent, nor was it unpleasant--it was, as the classic term
goes, _sui generis_; and what a rustle there was in the silver
tissue-paper which wrapped the garments!
But he did not turn to them first, for his natural instinct led him to
open the long case containing his new sabre, which was taken out,
glittering in its polish, and glorious with the golden knot so neatly
arranged about the hilt.
It felt heavy--too heavy, for it was a full-grown sabre; and when he
drew it glistening from its sheath, he felt that there was not muscle
enough in his arm for its proper management.
"But that will come," he said to himself as he drew it slowly till the
point was nearly bare, and then slowly thrust it back, when, pulling
himself together, he flashed it out with a rasping sound, to hold it up
to attention.
Yes, it was heavy and long, but not too long for a mounted man, and the
hilt well balanced its length. Nothing could have been better, and,
after restoring it to its scabbard, he attached it to the slings of the
handsome belt and laid it aside upon the bed.
The cartouche-box and cross-belt followed, and were examined with the
most intense interest. He had seen them before as worn by officers, but
this one looked brighter, newer, and more beautiful, for it was his very
own, and it went slowly and reluctantly to take its place beside the
sword upon the bed. For there was the sabretache to examine and admire,
with its ornate embossings and glittering embroidery.
"Pity it all costs so much," said Dick to himself as he thought of his
father, the quiet doctor, at home; "but then one won't want anything of
this kind new again for years to come, and aunt has paid for this."
But soon he forgot all about the cost; there was no room in his mind for
such a thing, with all that military panoply before his eyes. He had to
buckle on the belt, too, and walk to and fro with the sabretache
flapping against his leg, while he felt strange and awkward; but that
was of no consequence, for a side-peep in the looking-glass showed that
it appeared magnificent.
He was about to unbuckle the belt and take it off, but hesitated,
feeling that it would not be in his way. But the boy was strong-minded;
he had made up his mind to try everything separately, and he determined
to keep to his plan. So the belt was taken off, sabretache and all, and
the case opened to draw out _that_ jacket.
Yes, that jacket with its gorgeous cross-braiding of gold forming quite
a cuirass over the padded breast, and running in cords and lines and
scrolls over the seams at the back and about the collar and cuffs. It
was heavy, and was certain to be very hot to wear, especially in the
tremendous heat of India and the violent effort of riding at a furious
gallop. But what of that? Who would mind heat in a uniform so
brilliant?
The jacket was laid down with a sigh of satisfaction, and the breeches
taken up.
There is not much to be admired in a pair of breeches, be they ever so
well cut; but still they were satisfactory, for, in their perfect
whiteness, they threw up the beauty of the jacket and made a most
effective contrast with the high, black jack-boots--the uniform of the
Bengal Horse Artillery-man of those days being a compromise between that
of our own corps and a Life Guardsman.
The temptation was strong to try the white garments, and then draw on
the high, black boots in their pristine glossiness; but that was
deferred till a more convenient season, for there was the capital of the
human column to examine--that glistening, gorgeous helmet of gilded
metal, with its protecting Roman pattern comb, surmounted by a plume of
scarlet horsehair, to stream right back and wave and spread over the
burnished metal, to cool and shade from the torrid beams of the sun,
while the front bore its decoration of leopard-skin, emblematic of the
fierce swiftness of the animal's attack and the dash and power of the
Flying Artillery, that arm of the service which had done so much in the
subjugation of the warlike potentates of India and their savage armies.
It was almost idol-worship, and Dick's cheeks wore a heightened colour
as he examined his casque inside and out, gave it a wave in the air to
make the plume swish, tapped it with his knuckles, and held it at
arm's-length as proudly as any young knight of old donning his helmet
for the first time.
At last he put it on, adjusted the scaled chin-strap, gave his head a
shake to see if it fitted on tightly, and then turned to the glass and
wished, "Oh, if they could only see me now!"
But _they_ were far away in the little Devon town, where Dr Darrell
went quietly on with his daily tasks as a general practitioner, and Mrs
Darrell sighed as she performed her domestic duties and counted the days
that must elapse before the next mail came in, wondering whether it
would bring a letter from her boy in far-away Bengal, and feeling many a
motherly shiver of dread about fevers and cholera and wounds, and
accidents with horses, or cannons which might go off when her boy was in
front.
And the boy made all this fuss about a suit of clothes and the
accoutrements just brought to his quarters from the military tailor's.
Does any lad who reads this mentally exclaim, with an accompanying look
of contempt, "What a vain, weak, conceited ass Dick Darrell must have
been! Why, if under such circumstances I had received the uniform I
should have behaved very differently, and treated it all as a mere
matter of course."
At seventeen? Hum! ha! perhaps so. It would be rude for me, the
writer, to say, "I don't believe you, my lad," but one cannot help
thinking something of the kind, for we all have a touch of vanity in our
composition; and as for the uniform of the Bengal Horse Artillery, there
was not a man who did not wear it with a feeling of pride.
Dick fell proud enough as he gazed in the glass to see a good-looking,
sun-browned face surmounted by that magnificent helmet; but the lad's
head was screwed on the right way, and he was not one of those who were
turned out when fools were being made. For, as he gazed at himself and
admired his noble helmet and plume, his proud delight was dashed with
disappointment.
"I've got such a little face," he said to himself, "and it's so smooth
and boyish. I seem so young and thin. I wish I hadn't tried so hard to
get appointed | 1,192.480115 |
2023-11-16 18:36:56.4659400 | 869 | 7 |
Produced by David Widger
THE DIARY OF SAMUEL PEPYS M.A. F.R.S.
CLERK OF THE ACTS AND SECRETARY TO THE ADMIRALTY
TRANSCRIBED FROM THE SHORTHAND MANUSCRIPT IN THE PEPYSIAN LIBRARY
MAGDALENE COLLEGE CAMBRIDGE BY THE REV. MYNORS BRIGHT M.A. LATE FELLOW
AND PRESIDENT OF THE COLLEGE
(Unabridged)
WITH LORD BRAYBROOKE'S NOTES
EDITED WITH ADDITIONS BY
HENRY B. WHEATLEY F.S.A.
DIARY OF SAMUEL PEPYS.
JUNE & JULY
1668
June 1st. Up and with Sir J. Minnes to Westminster, and in the Hall there
I met with Harris and Rolt, and carried them to the Rhenish wine-house,
where I have not been in a morning--nor any tavern, I think, these seven
years and more. Here I did get the words of a song of Harris that I
wanted. Here also Mr. Young and Whistler by chance met us, and drank with
us. Thence home, and to prepare business against the afternoon, and did
walk an hour in the garden with Sir W. Warren, who do tell me of the great
difficulty he is under in the business of his accounts with the
Commissioners of Parliament, and I fear some inconveniences and troubles
may be occasioned thereby to me. So to dinner, and then with Sir J.
Minnes to White Hall, and there attended the Lords of the Treasury and
also a committee of Council with the Duke of York about the charge of this
year's fleete, and thence I to Westminster and to Mrs. Martin's, and did
hazer what je would con her, and did once toker la thigh de su landlady,
and thence all alone to Fox Hall, and walked and saw young Newport, and
two more rogues of the town, seize on two ladies, who walked with them an
hour with their masks on; perhaps civil ladies; and there I left them, and
so home, and thence to Mr. Mills's, where I never was before, and here
find, whom I indeed saw go in, and that did make me go thither, Mrs.
Hallworthy and Mrs. Andrews, and here supped, and, extraordinary merry
till one in the morning, Mr. Andrews coming to us: and mightily pleased
with this night's company and mirth I home to bed. Mrs. Turner, too, was
with us.
2nd. Up, and to the office, where all the morning. At noon home to
dinner, and there dined with me, besides my own people, W. Batelier and
Mercer, and we very merry. After dinner, they gone, only Mercer and I to
sing a while, and then parted, and I out and took a coach, and called
Mercer at their back-door, and she brought with her Mrs. Knightly, a
little pretty sober girl, and I carried them to Old Ford, a town by Bow,
where I never was before, and there walked in the fields very pleasant,
and sang: and so back again, and stopped and drank at the Gun, at Mile
End, and so to the Old Exchange door, and did buy them a pound of
cherries, cost me 2s., and so set them down again; and I to my little
mercer's Finch, that lives now in the Minories, where I have left my
cloak, and did here baiser su moher, a belle femme, and there took my
cloak which I had left there, and so by water, it being now about nine
o'clock, down to Deptford, where I have not been many a day, and there it
being dark I did by agreement aller a la house de Bagwell, and there | 1,192.48598 |
2023-11-16 18:36:56.6003480 | 5,847 | 7 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
ESSAYS
_OTHER WORKS BY Mr. A. C. BENSON_
_In Verse_
POEMS, 1893
LYRICS, 1895
_In Prose_
MEMOIRS OF
ARTHUR HAMILTON, 1886
ARCHBISHOP LAUD: A STUDY,
1887
MEN OF MIGHT (in conjunction
with H. F. W. TATHAM), 1890
ESSAYS
BY
ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON
OF ETON COLLEGE
_Post aliquot, mea regna videns, mirabor aristas!_
LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN
1896
_All rights reserved_
_To_
HENRY JAMES
THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED
BY
HIS AFFECTIONATE FRIEND
THE AUTHOR
PREFACE
It would be easy, if need were, to devise a theory of coherence for the
Essays here selected for re-publication, but the truth is that they are
fortuitous. The only claim that I can consistently make, is that I have
always chosen, for biographical and critical study, figures whose
personality or writings have seemed to me to possess some subtle,
evasive charm, or delicate originality of purpose or view. Mystery,
inexplicable reticence, haughty austerity, have a fascination in life
and literature, that is sometimes denied to sanguine strength and easy
volubility. I am well aware that vitality and majesty are the primary
qualities to demand both in life and literature. I have nothing but
rebellious horror for the view that languor, if only it be subtle and
serpentine, is in itself admirable. But there are two kinds of languor.
Just as the poverty of a man born needy, and incapable of acquiring
wealth, is different in kind from the poverty of one who has sacrificed
wealth in some noble cause, so the deliberate, the self-conscious
languor "about three degrees on this side of faintness," of which Keats
wrote in his most voluptuous mood, is a very different thing from the
languor of Hamlet, the fastidious despair of ever realising some lofty
conception, the prostrate indifference of one who has found the world
too strong. I do not say that the note of failure is a characteristic of
all the figures in my narrow gallery of portraits. But I will say that
they were most of them persons about whom hung an undefined promise of
greater strength than ever issued in performance. The causes of their
comparative failure are difficult to disentangle. With one perhaps it
was the want of a sympathetic _entourage_; with another a dreamy or
mystical habit of thought; with this one, the immersion in uncongenial
pursuits; with that a certain failure in physical vitality; with
another, the work, accomplished in dignified serenity, has fallen too
swiftly into neglect, and we must endeavour to divine the cause: and yet
in no case can we trace any inherent weakness, any moral obliquity, any
degrading or enervating concession.
Perhaps one of the greatest mistakes we make in literature and art is
the passionate individualism into which we are betrayed. We cannot bring
ourselves to speak or think very highly of the level of a man's work,
unless the positive and tangible results of that work are in themselves
very weighty and pure. We forget all about the inspirers and teachers of
poets and artists. How often does the poet, and the artist too, in
autobiographical allusion, speak with absorbing gratitude and devotion
of some humble name of which we take no note, as the "fons et origo" to
himself of enthusiasm and proficiency.
It is with no affectation of fastidious superiority, but with a frank
confession of conscious pettiness, that I say that this book will only
appeal to a few. The critic is no hero: he is at best but a skipping
peltast, engaged as often as not in inglorious flight. To flounder in
images, criticism is nothing but a species of mistletoe, sprouting in a
sleek bunch in the chink of a lofty forest tree. I had rather have been
Lovelace than Sainte-Beuve, and write one immortal lyric than
thirty-five volumes of the acutest discrimination. But a minority has a
right to its opinions, and may claim to be amused: a man who thinks the
Rhine vulgar, and the Jungfrau exaggerated, may be foolishly delighted
with a backwater on the Thames, and a view of the Berkshire downs. In
fact, the only kind of criticism of which one may be impatient is the
criticism which abuses an author for not writing something else. What
critics can do, what I have attempted to do, is to strengthen and define
the impression that a casual reader may derive from a book, a reader who
wishes to see what is good, but has not the knack described by the poet,
who says "what is best he firmly lights upon, as birds on sprays."
On the other hand we may reasonably doubt what is the exact worth of the
cultivation, of the point of view which we meekly accept at the hands
of a convincing critic. Does it not require a special insight to
understand even criticism? After all, we agree with, we do not accept
criticism: we select from it some preference, strongly and convincingly
stated, which jumps with our own preconceived ideas. If we merely
swallow it down, like the camel, to be reproduced in fetid stagnation,
whenever a necessity for it arises, are we so much higher after all? The
delicate psychologist who has accepted my dedication, speaks in one of
his latest stories of the expression on the face of a Royal Princess,
who had been _told_ everything in the world, and had never _perceived_
anything. Culture, criticism, in certain sterile natures, are like
Sheridan's famous apophthegm: they lie "like lumps of marl on a barren
moor, encumbering what it is not in their power to fertilise."
In art, in literature, it is the periods of republicanism that have left
their mark on the world: the periods that have been very conscious of,
and very deferential to authority, have been invariably retrograde.
What a dreary period in English literature was the reign of Dr. Johnson.
The chief legacies of that era to literature are the letters of Gray and
Horace Walpole, and the life of the Dictator himself. But these are not
creative literature at all. Gray, as a poet, was comparatively sterile.
Imagination, the jewel of the soul, had fallen from its elaborate
setting. But the more that literature declined, the more sententious
grew the critics. Nowadays, when literature is very active, and not very
profound--impressionist, journalistic, supremely content if it can
produce lively and superficial sensations--the bludgeoning of the early
part of the century has gone out: no longer does the critic feel it a
duty, as the oracle said to Oenomaus, to "draw the bow and slaughter the
innumerable geese that graze upon the green." Indeed would not some have
us believe that criticism of contemporaries is all a matter of private
interest, apart from any just or earnest conviction?
But there is still a class of readers, not very large or important
perhaps, haunted by a native instinct for literature, a relish for fine
phrases, a hankering for style--to whom the manner of saying a thing is
as important, or more important than the matter, readers, who are not
satisfied with fiction, unless it be combined, as by Robert Louis
Stevenson, with a wealth, a curiousness, a preciosity of phrase, to
which in criticism only Walter Pater can lay claim, and which may secure
for these two a station in literature to which the majority of our busy,
voluble, graphic writers must aspire in vain.
A. C. B.
ETON, _July, 1895_.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE EVER-MEMORABLE JOHN HALES 1
A MINUTE PHILOSOPHER 19
HENRY MORE, THE PLATONIST 35
ANDREW MARVELL 68
VINCENT BOURNE 96
THOMAS GRAY 119
WILLIAM BLAKE 147
THE POETRY OF KEBLE 180
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 203
THE LATE MASTER OF TRINITY 238
HENRY BRADSHAW 252
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 268
THE POETRY OF EDMUND GOSSE 292
EPILOGUE 310
_Eight of these Essays have appeared in "Macmillan's Magazine," viz.:
"The Ever-Memorable John Hales," "A Minute Philosopher," "Andrew
Marvell." "Vincent Bourne," "Thomas Gray," "Elizabeth Barrett Browning,"
"Henry Bradshaw," "The Late Master of Trinity"; two in the "Contemporary
Review," viz.: "Henry More, the Platonist" and the "Poetry of Keble";
one in the "National Review," "Christina Rossetti"; and one in the "New
Review," the "Poetry of Edmund Gosse." My acknowledgements and thanks
are due to the proprietors and editors of these periodicals for the
leave kindly accorded me to republish them. The Study, "William Blake,"
is now printed for the first time._
_I desire also to record my gratitude to F. E. B. Duff, Esq., of King's
College, Cambridge, who has revised the book throughout, and made many
valuable suggestions._
THE EVER-MEMORABLE JOHN HALES
The churchyard at Eton is a triangular piece of ground, converging into
a sharp remote angle, bordered on one side by the Long Walk, and
screened from it by heavy iron railings. On the second side it is
skirted and overlooked by tall irregular houses, and on the third side
by the deep buttressed recesses of the chapel, venerable with ivy and
mouldering grey stone.
It is a strangely quiet place in the midst of bustling life; the
grumbling of waggons in the road, the hoarse calling of the jackdaws,
awkwardly fluttering about old red-tiled roofs, the cracked clanging of
the college clock, the voices of boys from the street, fall faintly on
the ear: besides, it has all the beauty of a deserted place, for it is
many years since it has been used for a burial-ground: the grass is long
and rank, the cypresses and yews grow luxuriantly out of unknown vaults,
and push through broken rails; the gravestones slant and crumble; moss
grows into the letters of forgotten names, and creepers embrace and
embower monumental urns; here and there are heaps of old carven,
crumbling stones; on early summer mornings a resident thrush stirs the
silence with flute-notes marvellously clear; and on winter evenings when
wet, boisterous winds roll steadily up, and the tall chapel windows
flame, the organ's voice is blown about the winding overgrown paths, and
the memorials of the dead.
Just inside the gate, visible from the road among the dark evergreens,
stands a tall, conspicuous altar-tomb, conspicuous more for the
miserable way in which a stately monument has been handled, than for its
present glories. It has been patched and slobbered up with grey stucco;
and the inscription scratched on the surface is three-quarters
obliterated. Let into the sides are the grey stone panels of the older
tomb, sculptured with quaint emblems of life and death, a mattock and an
uncouth heap of bones, an hourglass and a skull, a pot of roses and
lily-flowers--such is the monument of one of Eton's gentlest servants
and sons. "I ordain," runs the quaint conclusion of his will, "that at
the time of the next evensong after my departure (if conveniently it may
be), my body be laid in the church-yard of the town of Eton (if I chance
to die there), as near as may be [a strangely pathetic touch of love
from the childless philosopher, the friend of courtiers and divines], to
the body of my little godson, Jack Dickenson the elder; and this to be
done in plain and simple manner, without any sermon or ringing the bell,
or calling the people together; without any unseasonable commessation or
compotation, or other solemnity on such occasions usual; _for as in my
life I have done the church no service, so I will not that in my death
the church do me any honour_."
And the prophecy is fulfilled to the letter; in such a tomb he rests;
and by a strange irony of fate, the pompous title claiming so universal
and perennial a fame--the "ever-memorable"--is the only single fact
which is commonly mentioned about him--he has even been identified with
Sir Matthew Hale of just memory.
John Hales was neither an Etonian nor a Kingsman: he was of a
Somersetshire family; and was educated at Corpus Christi College,
Oxford, where he spent no less than six years before taking his degree
(in 1603), from the age of thirteen to the age of nineteen.
The Warden of Merton at that time was Sir Henry Savile, Queen
Elizabeth's Greek tutor, supposed the most learned savant of the time,
founder of the Savilian professorships for astronomy and geometry, a
severe, clear-headed student. It is recorded of him that he had a great
dislike for brilliant instinctive abilities, and only respected the slow
cumulative processes. "Give me the plodding student," he said: "if I
would look for wits, I would go to Newgate: there be the wits." He was
not popular among the rising young men in consequence; John Earle, the
author of the _Microcosmography_, that delightful gallery of characters
that puts Theophrastus into the shade, was the only man he ever
admitted, on his reputation as a wit, into the sacred society of Merton.
For such intellects as he desired, he made search in a way that was then
described as "hedge-beating."
Savile was attracted by Hales; he found in him a mind which, young as it
was, showed signs of profundity. Savile's choice is a great testimony to
the _depth_ of Hales' attainments; for his later reputation was acquired
more by his grace and originality of mind than for his breadth of
learning. Savile was then at work on his _Chrysostom_, printed privately
at Eton in the grave collegiate house in Weston's Yard, now the most
inconvenient residence of the Praecentor. Hales became a congenial
fellow-labourer, and in 1613 was moved to a fellowship at Eton, of which
College Savile had for seventeen years been Provost.
A Fellow of Eton is now a synonym for a member of the Governing Body,
that is to say, a gentleman in some public position, who is willing to
give up a fraction of his time to the occasional consideration and
summary settlement of large educational problems. Twenty years ago a
Fellowship meant a handsome competence, light residence, a venerable
house, and a good living in the country. In Hales's time it meant a few
decent rooms, a small dividend, home-made bread and beer at stated
times, a constant attendance at the church service, and the sustaining
society of some six or seven earnest like-minded men, grave
students,--at least under Savile,--mostly celibates. To such the life
was dignified and attractive. Early rising, and a light breakfast. A
long, studious morning, with Matins, an afternoon dinner, a quiet talk
round the huge fire, or a stroll in the stately college garden with
perhaps some few promising boys from the school--then merely an adjunct
of the more reverend college, not an absorbing centre of life--more
quiet work and early to bed. Busy, congenial monotony! There is no
secret like that for a happy life!
After three years, this was broken into by a piece of vivid
experience--Hales accompanied Sir Dudley Carleton, Ambassador to
Holland, as his chaplain, and was despatched by him in 1618 to the Synod
of Dort.
It must be clearly borne in mind that theological and religious problems
then possessed a general interest for the civilised world, and for
Englishmen in particular, which it cannot be pretended that they possess
now. Political gossip has taken the place of theological discussion.
Then, contemporary writers thought fit to lament the time that common
folk wasted in such disputes; when the Trinitarian controversy could be
discussed on the benches of an alehouse, and apprentices neglect their
work to argue the question of prevenient grace, we feel that we are in
an atmosphere which if not religious, was at any rate theological.
Hales went to Dort a Calvinist--that, in those days, is equivalent to
saying that he had never given his theological position much attention.
What he heard there is uncertain, for a more unbusinesslike meeting was
never held; "ignorance, passion, animosity, injustice," said Lord
Clarendon, were its characteristics. There was no one to whose ruling
speakers deferred. No one knew what subject was to be discussed next,
often hardly what was under discussion. A third of the members
disappeared, after what an eye-witness called a "pondering speech" from
the President. Such a theological schooling is too severe for a
reflective mind. Hales came home what was called a Latitudinarian,
having, as he quaintly says, at the "well pressing" of St. John iii. 16,
by Episcopius (a divine, present at the Synod), "bid John Calvin
good-night." A Latitudinarian translated into modern English would be a
very broad churchman indeed. For it is evident that Haley's native
humour, which was very strong, prevented him from even considering
religious differences in a serious light; "theological scarecrows!" he
said, half bitterly, half humorously. When in later years he was found
reading one of Calvin's books, he said playfully, "Formerly I read it to
reform myself, but now I read it to reform him." And the delightful
comparison which he makes in one of his tracts is worth quoting, as
showing the natural bent of his mind to the ludicrous side of these
disputes; he compares the wound of sin and the supposed remedy of
confession, to Pliny's cure for the bite of a scorpion--to go and
whisper the fact into the ear of an ass.
Only once did he encounter the little restless, ubiquitous,
statesman-priest, who so grievously mistook and under-rated the forces
with which he had to deal, and the times in which he had fallen--Laud.
The whole incident is dramatic and entertaining in the highest degree.
Hales, for the edification of some weak-minded friends, wrote out his
views on schism, treating the whole subject with a humorous contempt for
Church authority. This little tract got privately printed, and a copy
fell into Laud's hands (as indeed, what dangerous matter did not?),
which he read and marked. He instantly sent for his recalcitrant
subaltern, to be rated and confuted and silenced. The matter is
exquisitely characteristic of Laud, both in the idea and in the method
of carrying it out. "Mr. Hales came," says Heylyn, "about nine o'clock
to Lambeth on a summer morning," with considerable heart-sinking no
doubt. The Archbishop had him out into the garden, giving orders that
they were on no account to be disturbed. The bell rang for prayers, to
which they went by the garden door into the chapel, and out again till
dinner was ready--hammer and tongs all the time: then they fell to
again, but Lord Conway and several other persons of distinction having
meantime arrived, the servants were obliged to go and warn the
disputants how the time was going. It was now about four in the
afternoon. "So in they came," says Heylyn, "high and almost
panting for want of breath; enough to show that there had been some
heats between them not then fully cooled." The two little cassocked
figures (both were very small men), with their fresh complexions, set
off by tiny mustachios and imperials such as churchmen then wore, pacing
up and down under the high elms of the garden, and arguing to the verge
of exhaustion, form a wonderful picture.
Hales afterwards confessed that the interview had been dreadful. "He had
been ferreted," he said, "from one hole to another, till there was none
left to afford him any further shelter; that he was now resolved to be
orthodox, and declare himself a true son of the Church of England both
for doctrine and discipline."
Laud evidently saw the mettle of the man with whom he had to deal, and
what a very dangerous, rational opponent he was, so he made him his own
chaplain, and got the king to offer him a canonry at Windsor in such a
way that refusal, much to Hales's distaste, was out of the question thus
binding him to silence in a manner that would make further speech
ungracious. "And so," said Hales, quietly grumbling at his wealthy loss
of independence, "I had a hundred and fifty more pounds a year than I
cared to spend."
During all these years Hales was a member of the celebrated Mermaid
Club, so called from the tavern of that name in Friday Street. Thither
Shakespeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, Donne, and many more repaired. There he
must have seen the coarse, vivacious figure of Ben Jonson, the presiding
genius of the place, drinking his huge potations of canary, and warming
out of his native melancholy into wit and eloquence, merging at last
into angry self-laudation, and then into drunken silence, till at last
he tumbled home with his unwieldy body, rolling feet, and big, scorbutic
face, to sleep and sweat and write far into the night; a figure
strangely similar down to the smallest characteristics, in his gloom,
his greediness, his disputatious talk, to the great Samuel of that ilk,
in all but the stern religious fibre that is somehow the charm of the
latter.
It was in London, at one of these convivial gatherings, that Suckling,
Davenant, Endymion Porter, Ben Jonson, and Hales were talking together;
Jonson, as was his wont, railing surlily at Shakespeare's fame,
considering him to be much overrated,--"wanting art," as he told
Drummond at Hawthornden.
Suckling took up the cudgels with great warmth, and the dispute
proceeded; Hales in the background, sitting meekly, with the dry smile
which he affected--deliberately dumb, not from want of enthusiasm or
knowledge, but of choice. Ben Jonson, irritated at last beyond the
bounds of patience, as men of his stamp are wont to be, by a silent
humorous listener, turned on him suddenly and began to taunt him with "a
want of Learning, and Ignorance of the Ancients." Hales at last emerged
from his shell, and told Jonson, with considerable warmth, that if Mr.
Shakespeare had not read the ancients, he had likewise not stolen
anything from them--"a fault," adds the biographer, "the other made no
conscience of--and that if he would produce any one topic finely treated
of by any of them, he would undertake to show something upon the same
subject, at least as well written by Shakespeare."
This is an extraordinary instance of perspicuity of literary judgment;
that Hales should draw a favourable comparison between Shakespeare and
his contemporaries, would not be surprising; but to find him, classicist
as he was, deliberately putting Shakespeare above all writers of any
date is a very notable proof of critical acumen.
Neither did the combat end here. The enemies of Shakespeare would not
give in: so it came to a trial of skill. The place agreed on for these
literary jousts was Hales's rooms at Eton; a number of books were sent
down, and on the appointed day Lord Falkland and Suckling, and several
other persons of wit and quality came down; the books were opened, and
Shakespeare was arraigned before antiquity, and unanimously (except for
Sir John) awarded the palm. We may be sure it would have been different
if old Ben Jonson had been present; there would have been less unanimity
and more heat; but he was much troubled with symptoms of an old,
recurrent paralysis, of which he had only partly got the better, and he
was melancholic and therefore kept away. Still it is a scene to think of
with envy--little Lord Falkland with his untuneable voice, brisk wit,
and sweet manner, moderating the assembly; the summer afternoon, the
stately collegiate room, overlooking the studious garden, girdled about
by the broad and even-flowing Thames, among sedge and osier-beds, and
haunted by no human presence. This period was probably the happiest
time of Hales's life; he was at the height of his social reputation.
He was a man of an inveterately companionable disposition. He disliked
being alone, except for study--in congenial company a sympathetic
talker; once a year for a short time he used to resort to London for the
polite conversation which he so much enjoyed, and when the Court was at
Windsor he was greatly in request, being not only a good talker, but a
better listener, as his biographer says; not only divines and scholars
resorting to the rooms of this _bibliotheca ambulans_, as Provost Wotton
called | 1,192.620388 |
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Library, Agnes Scott College.
JURGEN
_A Comedy of Justice_
By
JAMES BRANCH CABELL
1922
_"Of JURGEN eke they maken mencioun,
That of an old wyf gat his youthe agoon,
And gat himselfe a shirte as bright as fyre
Wherein to jape, yet gat not his desire
In any countrie ne condicioun."_
TO
BURTON RASCOE
Before each tarradiddle,
Uncowed by sciolists,
Robuster persons twiddle
Tremendously big fists.
| 1,192.788355 |
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Produced by Joseph B. Yesselman. HTML version by Al Haines.
Sentence Numbers, shown thus (1), have been added by volunteer.
A Theologico-Political Treatise
Part III - Chapters XI to XV
by Baruch Spinoza
TABLE OF CONTENTS:
CHAPTER XI - An Inquiry whether the Apostles wrote their
Epistles as Apostles and Prophets, or merely as Teachers,
and an Explanation of what is meant by Apostle.
The epistles not in the prophetic style.
The Apostles not commanded to write or preach in particular places.
Different methods of teaching adopted by the Apostles.
CHAPTER XII - Of the true Original of the Divine Law,
and wherefore Scripture is called Sacred, and the Word of God.
How that, in so far as it contains the Word of God,
it has come down to us uncorrupted.
CHAPTER XIII - It is shown, that Scripture teaches only very Simple Doctrines,
such as suffice for right conduct.
Error in speculative doctrine not impious - nor knowledge pious.
Piety consists in obedience.
CHAPTER XIV - Definitions of Faith, the True Faith, and the Foundations
of Faith, which is once for all separated from Philosophy.
Danger resulting from the vulgar idea of faith.
The only test of faith obedience and good works.
As different men are disposed to obedience by different opinions,
universal faith can contain only the simplest doctrines.
Fundamental distinction between faith and philosophy -
the key-stone of the present treatise.
CHAPTER XV - Theology is shown not to be subservient to
Reason, nor Reason to Theology: a Definition of the reason
which enables us to accept the Authority of the Bible.
Theory that Scripture must be accommodated to Reason -
maintained by Maimonides - already refuted in Chapter vii.
Theory that Reason must be accommodated to Scripture -
maintained by Alpakhar - examined.
And refuted.
Scripture and Reason independent of one another.
Certainty, of fundamental faith not mathematical but moral.
Great utility of Revelation.
Author's Endnotes to the Treatise.
CHAPTER XI - AN INQUIRY WHETHER THE APOSTLES WROTE THEIR
EPISTLES AS APOSTLES AND PROPHETS, OR MERELY AS TEACHERS;
AND AN EXPLANATION OF WHAT IS MEANT BY AN APOSTLE.
(1) No reader of the New Testament can doubt that the Apostles were
prophets; but as a prophet does not always speak by revelation, but only, at
rare intervals, as we showed at the end of Chap. I., we may fairly inquire
whether the Apostles wrote their Epistles as prophets, by revelation and
express mandate, as Moses, Jeremiah, and others did, or whether only as
private individuals or teachers, especially as Paul, in Corinthians xiv:6,
mentions two sorts of preaching.
(2) If we examine the style of the Epistles, we shall find it totally
different from that employed by the prophets.
(3) The prophets are continually asserting that they speak by the command of
God: "Thus saith the Lord," "The Lord of hosts saith," "The command of the
Lord," &c.; and this was their habit not only in assemblies of the prophets,
but also in their epistles containing revelations, as appears from the epistle
of Elijah to Jehoram, 2 Chron. xxi:12, which begins, "Thus saith the Lord."
(4) In the Apostolic Epistles we find nothing of the sort. (5) Contrariwise,
in I Cor. vii:40 Paul speaks according to his own opinion and in many
passages we come across doubtful and perplexed phrase; such as, "We think,
therefore," Rom. iii:28; "Now I think," [Endnote 24], Rom. viii:18, and so
on. (6) Besides these, other expressions are met with very different from
those used by the prophets. (7) For instance, 1 Cor. vii:6, "But I speak
this by permission, not by commandment;" "I give my judgment as one that
hath obtained mercy of the Lord to be faithful" (1 Cor. vii:25), and so on
in many other passages. (8) We must also remark that in the aforesaid
chapter the Apostle says that when he states that he has or has
not the precept or commandment of God, he does not mean the precept or
commandment of God revealed to himself, but only the words uttered by Christ
in His Sermon on the Mount. (9) Furthermore, if we examine the manner in
which the Apostles give out evangelical doctrine, we shall see that it
differs materially from the method adopted by the prophets. (10) The
Apostles everywhere reason as if they were arguing rather than prophesying;
the prophecies, on the other hand, contain only dogmas and commands. (11)
God is therein introduced not as speaking to reason, but as issuing decrees
by His absolute fiat. (12) The authority of the prophets does not submit to
discussion, for whosoever wishes to find rational ground for his arguments,
by that very wish submits them to everyone's private judgment. (13) This
Paul, inasmuch as he uses reason, appears to have done, for he says in 1
Cor. x:15, "I speak as to wise men, judge ye what I say." (14) The prophets,
as we showed at the end of Chapter I., did not perceive what was revealed by
virtue of their natural reason, and though there are certain passages in the
Pentateuch which seem to be appeals to induction, they turn out, on nearer
examination, to be nothing but peremptory commands. (15) For instance, when
Moses says, Deut. xxxi:27, "Behold, while I am yet alive with you, this day
ye have been rebellious against the Lord; and how much more after
my death," we must by no means conclude that Moses wished to convince the
Israelites by reason that they would necessarily fall away from the worship
of the Lord after his death; for the argument would have been false, as
Scripture itself shows: the Israelites continued faithful during the lives
of Joshua and the elders, and afterwards during the time of Samuel, David,
and Solomon. (16) Therefore the words of Moses are merely a moral
injunction, in which he predicts rhetorically the future backsliding of the
people so as to impress it vividly on their imagination. (17) I say that
Moses spoke of himself in order to lend likelihood to his prediction, and
not as a prophet by revelation, because in verse 21 of the same chapter we
are told that God revealed the same thing to Moses in different words, and
there was no need to make Moses certain by argument of God's prediction and
decree; it was only necessary that it should be vividly impressed on
his imagination, and this could not be better accomplished than by
imagining the existing contumacy of the people, of which he had had frequent
experience, as likely to extend into the future.
(18) All the arguments employed by Moses in the five books are to be
understood in a similar manner; they are not drawn from the armoury of
reason, but are merely, modes of expression calculated to instil with
efficacy, and present vividly to the imagination the commands of God.
(19) However, I do not wish absolutely to deny that the prophets ever argued
from revelation; I only maintain that the prophets made more legitimate use
of argument in proportion as their knowledge approached more nearly to
ordinary knowledge, and by this we know that they possessed a knowledge
above the ordinary, inasmuch as they proclaimed absolute dogmas,
decrees, or judgments. (20) Thus Moses, the chief of the prophets, never
used legitimate argument, and, on the other hand, the long deductions and
arguments of Paul, such as we find in the Epistle to the Romans, are in
nowise written from supernatural revelation.
(21) The modes of expression and discourse adopted by the Apostles in the
Epistles, show very clearly that the latter were not written by revelation
and Divine command, but merely by the natural powers and judgment of the
authors. (22) They consist in brotherly admonitions and courteous
expressions such as would never be employed in prophecy, as for instance,
Paul's excuse in Romans xv:15, "I have written the more boldly unto you in
some sort, my brethren."
(23) We may arrive at the same conclusion from observing that we never read
that the Apostles were commanded to write, but only that they went
everywhere preaching, and confirmed their words with signs. (24) Their
personal presence and signs were absolutely necessary for the conversion and
establishment in religion of the Gentiles; as Paul himself expressly states
in Rom. i:11, "But I long to see you, that I may impart to you some
spiritual gift, to the end that ye may be established."
(25) It may be objected that we might prove in similar fashion that the
Apostles did not preach as prophets, for they did not go to particular
places, as the prophets did, by the command of God. (26) We read in
the Old Testament that Jonah went to Nineveh to preach, and at the
same time that he was expressly sent there, and told that he most preach.
(27) So also it is related, at great length, of Moses that he went to Egypt
as the messenger of God, and was told at the same time what he should say to
the children of Israel and to king Pharaoh, and what wonders he should work
before them to give credit to his words. (28) Isaiah, Jeremiah, and
Ezekiel were expressly commanded to preach to the Israelites. Lastly, the
prophets only preached what we are assured by Scripture they had received
from God, whereas this is hardly ever said of the Apostles in the New
Testament, when they went about to preach. (29) On the contrary, we find
passages expressly implying that the Apostles chose the places where they
should preach on their own responsibility, for there was a difference
amounting to a quarrel between Paul and Barnabas on the subject (Acts xv:37,
38). (30) Often they wished to go to a place, but were prevented, as Paul
writes, Rom. i:13, "Oftentimes I purposed to come to you, but was let
hitherto;" and in I Cor. xvi:12, "As touching our brother Apollos, I greatly
desired him to come unto you with the brethren, but his will was not at all
to come at this time: but he will come when he shall have convenient time."
(31) From these expressions and differences of opinion among the Apostles,
and also from the fact that Scripture nowhere testifies of them, as of the
ancient prophets, that they went by the command of God, one might conclude
that they preached as well as wrote in their capacity of teachers, and not
as prophets: but the question is easily solved if we observe the difference
between the mission of an Apostle and that of an Old Testament prophet. (32)
The latter were not called to preach and prophesy to all nations, but to
certain specified ones, and therefore an express and peculiar mandate was
required for each of them; the Apostles, on the other hand, were called to
preach to all men absolutely, and to turn all men to religion. (33)
Therefore, whithersoever they went, they were fulfilling Christ's
commandment; there was no need to reveal to them beforehand what they should
preach, for they were the disciples of Christ to whom their Master Himself
said (Matt. X:19, 20): "But, when they deliver you up, take no thought
how or what ye shall speak, for it shall be given you in that same
hour what ye shall speak." (34) We therefore conclude that the Apostles
were only indebted to special revelation in what they orally preached and
confirmed by signs (see the beginning of Chap. 11.); that which they taught
in speaking or writing without any confirmatory signs and wonders
they taught from their natural knowledge. (See I Cor. xiv:6.) (35) We need
not be deterred by the fact that all the Epistles begin by citing the
imprimatur of the Apostleship, for the Apostles, as I will shortly show,
were granted, not only the faculty of prophecy, but also the authority to
teach. (36) We may therefore admit that they wrote their Epistles as
Apostles, and for this cause every one of them began by citing the Apostolic
imprimatur, possibly with a view to the attention of the reader by asserting
that they were the persons who had made such mark among the faithful by
their preaching, and had shown by many marvelous works that they were
teaching true religion and the way of salvation. (37) I observe that what is
said in the Epistles with regard to the Apostolic vocation and the Holy
Spirit of God which inspired them, has reference to their former preaching,
except in those passages where the expressions of the Spirit of God and the
Holy Spirit are used to signify a mind pure, upright, and devoted to
God. (38) For instance, in 1 Cor. vii:40, Paul says: But she is happier if
she so abide, after my judgment, and I think also that I have the Spirit of
God." (39) By the Spirit of God the Apostle here refers to his mind, as
we may see from the context: his meaning is as follows: "I account blessed
a widow who does not wish to marry a second husband; such is my opinion, for
I have settled to live unmarried, and I think that I am blessed." (40) There
are other similar passages which I need not now quote.
(41) As we have seen that the Apostles wrote their Epistles solely by the
light of natural reason, we must inquire how they were enabled to teach by
natural knowledge matters outside its scope. (42) However, if we bear in
mind what we said in Chap. VII. of this treatise our difficulty will vanish:
for although the contents of the Bible entirely surpass our understanding,
we may safely discourse of them, provided we assume nothing not told
us in Scripture: by the same method the Apostles, from what they saw
and heard, and from what was revealed to them, were enabled to form and
elicit many conclusions which they would have been able to teach to men had
it been permissible.
(43) Further, although religion, as preached by the Apostles, does not come
within the sphere of reason, in so far as it consists in the narration of
the life of Christ, yet its essence, which is chiefly moral, like the whole
of Christ's doctrine, can readily, be apprehended by the natural
faculties of all.
(44) Lastly, the Apostles had no lack of supernatural illumination for the
purpose of adapting the religion they had attested by signs to the
understanding of everyone so that it might be readily received; nor for
exhortations on the subject: in fact, the object of the Epistles is to teach
and exhort men to lead that manner of life which each of the Apostles judged
best for confirming them in religion. (45) We may here repeat our former
remark, that the Apostles had received not only the faculty of preaching the
history, of Christ as prophets, and confirming it with signs, but also
authority for teaching and exhorting according as each thought best. (46)
Paul (2 Tim. i:11), "Whereunto I am appointed a preacher, and an apostle,
and a teacher of the Gentiles;" and again (I Tim. ii:7), "Whereunto I am
ordained a preacher and an apostle (I speak the truth in Christ and lie
not), a teacher of the Gentiles in faith and verity." (47) These passages, I
say, show clearly the stamp both of the apostleship and the teachership:
the authority for admonishing whomsoever and wheresoever he pleased is
asserted by Paul in the Epistle to Philemon, v:8: "Wherefore, though I might
be much bold in Christ to enjoin thee that which is convenient, yet," &c.,
where we may remark that if Paul had received from God as a prophet
what he wished to enjoin Philemon, and had been bound to speak in his
prophetic capacity, he would not have been able to change the command of God
into entreaties. (48) We must therefore understand him to refer to the
permission to admonish which he had received as a teacher, and not as a
prophet. (49) We have not yet made it quite clear that the Apostles might
each choose his own way of teaching, but only that by virtue of their
Apostleship they were teachers as well as prophets; however, if we
call reason to our aid we shall clearly see that an authority to teach
implies authority to choose the method. (50) It will nevertheless be,
perhaps, more satisfactory to draw all our proofs from Scripture; we are
there plainly told that each Apostle chose his particular method (Rom. xv:
20): "Yea, so have I strived to preach the gospel, not where Christ was
named, lest I should build upon another man's foundation." (51) If
all the Apostles had adopted the same method of teaching, and had all built
up the Christian religion on the same foundation, Paul would have had no
reason to call the work of a fellow-Apostle "another man's foundation,"
inasmuch as it would have been identical with his own: his calling it
another man's proved that each Apostle built up his religious instruction on
different foundations, thus resembling other teachers who have each their
own method, and prefer instructing quite ignorant people who have never
learnt under another master, whether the subject be science, languages, or
even the indisputable truths of mathematics. (52) Furthermore, if we go
through the Epistles at all attentively, we shall see that the Apostles,
while agreeing about religion itself, are at variance as to the foundations
it rests on. (53) Paul, in order to strengthen men's religion, and show them
that salvation depends solely on the grace of God, teaches that no one can
boast of works, but only of faith, and that no one can be justified by works
(Rom. iii:27,28); in fact, he preaches the complete doctrine of
predestination. (54) James, on the other hand, states that man is justified
by works, and not by faith only (see his Epistle, ii:24), and omitting all
the disputations of Paul, confines religion to a very few elements.
(55) Lastly, it is indisputable that from these different ground; for
religion selected by the Apostles, many quarrels and schisms distracted the
Church, even in the earliest times, and doubtless they will continue so to
distract it for ever, or at least till religion is separated from
philosophical speculations, and reduced to the few simple doctrines taught
by Christ to His disciples; such a task was impossible for the Apostles,
because the Gospel was then unknown to mankind, and lest its novelty should
offend men's ears it had to be adapted to the disposition of
contemporaries (2 Cor. ix:19, 20), and built up on the groundwork most
familiar and accepted at the time. (56) Thus none of the Apostles
philosophized more than did Paul, who was called to preach to the Gentiles;
other Apostles preaching to the Jews, who despised philosophy, similarly,
adapted themselves to the temper of their hearers (see Gal. ii. 11), and
preached a religion free from all philosophical speculations. (57) How blest
would our age be if it could witness a religion freed also from all the
trammels of superstition!
CHAPTER XII - OF THE TRUE ORIGINAL OF THE DIVINE LAW, AND
WHEREFORE SCRIPTURE IS CALLED SACRED, AND THE WORD OF GOD.
HOW THAT, IN SO FAR AS IT CONTAINS THE WORD OF GOD,
IT HAS COME DOWN TO US UNCORRUPTED.
(1) Those who look upon the Bible as a message sent down by God from Heaven
to men, will doubtless cry out that I have committed the sin against the
Holy Ghost because I have asserted that the Word of God is faulty,
mutilated, tampered with, and inconsistent; that we possess it only in
fragments, and that the original of the covenant which God made with the
Jews has been lost. (2) However, I have no doubt that a little reflection
will cause them to desist from their uproar: for not only reason but the
expressed opinions of prophets and apostles openly proclaim that God's
eternal Word and covenant, no less than true religion, is Divinely inscribed
in human hearts, that is, in the human mind, and that this is the true
original of God's covenant, stamped with His own seal, namely, the idea of
Himself, as it were, with the image of His Godhood.
(3) Religion was imparted to the early Hebrews as a law written down,
because they were at that time in the condition of children, but afterwards
Moses (Deut. xxx:6) and Jeremiah (xxxi:33) predicted a time coming when the
Lord should write His law in their hearts. (4) Thus only the Jews, and
amongst them chiefly the Sadducees, struggled for the law written on
tablets; least of all need those who bear it inscribed on their hearts join
in the contest. (5) Those, therefore, who reflect, will find nothing in what
I have written repugnant either to the Word of God or to true religion and
faith, or calculated to weaken either one or the other: contrariwise, they
will see that I have strengthened religion, as I showed at the end of
Chapter X.; indeed, had it not been so, I should certainly have decided to
hold my peace, nay, I would even have asserted as a way out of all
difficulties that the Bible contains the most profound hidden
mysteries; however, as this doctrine has given rise to gross superstition
and other pernicious results spoken of at the beginning of Chapter V., I
have thought such a course unnecessary, especially as religion stands in no
need of superstitious adornments, but is, on the contrary, deprived by such
trappings of some of her splendour.
(6) Still, it will be said, though the law of God is written in the heart,
the Bible is none the less the Word of God, and it is no more lawful to say
of Scripture than of God's Word that it is mutilated and corrupted. (7) I
fear that such objectors are too anxious to be pious, and that they are in
danger of turning religion into superstition, and worshipping paper and ink
in place of God's Word.
(8) I am certified of thus much: I have said nothing unworthy of Scripture
or God's Word, and I have made no assertions which I could not prove by most
plain argument to be true. (9) I can, therefore, rest assured that I have
advanced nothing which is impious or even savours of impiety.
(10) from what I have said, assume a licence to sin, and without any reason,
at I confess that some profane men, to whom religion is a burden, may, the
simple dictates of their lusts conclude that Scripture is everywhere faulty
and falsified, and that therefore its authority is null; but such men are
beyond the reach of help, for nothing, as the pro verb has it, can be said
so rightly that it cannot be twisted into wrong. (11) Those who wish to give
rein to their lusts are at no loss for an excuse, nor were those men of old
who possessed the original Scriptures, the ark of the covenant, nay, the
prophets and apostles in person among them, any better than the people of
to-day. (12) Human nature, Jew as well as Gentile, has always been the same,
and in every age virtue has been exceedingly rare.
(13) Nevertheless, to remove every scruple, I will here show in what sense
the Bible or any inanimate thing should be called sacred and Divine;
also wherein the law of God consists, and how it cannot be contained in a
certain number of books; and, lastly, I will show that Scripture, in so far
as it teaches what is necessary for obedience and salvation, cannot have
been corrupted. (14) From these considerations everyone will be able to
judge that I have neither said anything against the Word of God nor given
any foothold to impiety.
(15) A thing is called sacred and Divine when it is designed for promoting
piety, and continues sacred so long as it is religiously used: if the users
cease to be pious, the thing ceases to be sacred: if it be turned to base
uses, that which was formerly sacred becomes unclean and profane. (16) For
instance, a certain spot was named by the patriarch Jacob the house of God,
because he worshipped God there revealed to him: by the prophets the same
spot was called the house of iniquity (see Amos v:5, and Hosea x:5), because
the Israelites were wont, at the instigation of Jeroboam, to sacrifice there
to idols. (17) Another example puts the matter in the plainest light. (18)
Words gain their meaning solely from their usage, and if they are arranged
according to their accepted signification so as to move those who read them
to devotion, they will become sacred, and the book so written will be sacred
also. (19) But if their usage afterwards dies out so that the words have no
meaning, or the book becomes utterly neglected, whether from unworthy
motives, or because it is no longer needed, then the words and the book will
lose both their use and their sanctity: lastly, if these same words be
otherwise arranged, or if their customary meaning becomes perverted into its
opposite, then both the words and the book containing them become, instead
of sacred, impure and profane.
(20) From this it follows that nothing is in itself absolutely sacred, or
profane, and unclean, apart from the mind, but only relatively thereto. (21)
Thus much is clear from many passages in the Bible. (22) Jeremiah (to select
one case out of many) says (chap. vii:4), that the Jews of his time
were wrong in calling Solomon's Temple, the Temple of God, for, as he goes
on to say in the same chapter, God's name would | 1,193.085414 |
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HOSPITAL TRANSPORTS.
A MEMOIR
_of the_
EMBARKATION OF THE SICK AND WOUNDED
FROM THE PENINSULA OF VIRGINIA
IN THE SUMMER OF
1862.
_Compiled and Published at the request of the
Sanitary Commission._
[Illustration]
_Boston_:
TICKNOR AND FIELDS.
1863.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District | 1,193.180025 |
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IN THE SIXTIES
By Harold Frederic
New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons
1893
[Illustration: 0007]
PREFACE TO A UNIFORM EDITION
In nothing else under the latter-day sun-not even in the mysterious
department of woman’s attire-has Fashion been more variable, or more
eccentric in its variations, than in the matter of prefaces. The eternal
revolution of letters devours its own children so rapidly that for the
hardiest of them ten years count as a generation; each succeeding decade
has whims of its own about prefaces. Now it has been the rule to make
them long and didactic, and now brief and with a twist toward flippancy.
Upon occasion it has been thought desirable to throw upon this
introductory formula the responsibility of explaining everything that
was to follow in the book, and, again, nothing has seemed further from
the proper function of a preface than elucidation of any sort. Sometimes
the prevalent mode has discouraged prefaces altogether--and thus it
happens that the present author, doomed to be doing in England at least
something of what the English do, has never before chanced to write one.
Yet now it seems that in America prefaces are much in vogue-and this is
an American edition.
The apology of the exile ends abruptly, however, with this confession
that the preface is strange ground. The four volumes under comment were
all, it is true, written in England, but they do not belong to the Old
World in any other sense.
In three of them the very existence of Europe is scarcely so much as
hinted at. The fourth concerns itself, indeed, with events in which
Europeans took an active part; but what they were doing, on the one side
and on the other, was in its results very strictly American.
The idea which finally found shape and substance in this last-named
book, “In the Valley,” seems now in retrospect to have been always in
my mind. All four of my great-grandfathers had borne arms in the
Revolutionary War, and one of them indeed somewhat indefinitely expanded
this record by fighting on both sides. My earliest recollections are of
tales told by my grandmother about local heroes of this conflict, who
were but middle-aged people when she was a child. She herself had come
into curious relation with one of the terrible realities of that period.
At the age of six it was her task to beat linen upon the stones of a
brook running through the Valley farm upon which she was reared, and the
deep-hole close beside where she worked was the spot in which the owner
of the farm had lain hidden in the alders, immersed to his chin, for two
days and nights while Brant’s Indians were looking for him. Thus, by a
single remove, I came myself into contact with the men who held Tryon
County against the King, and my boyish head was full of them. Before
I left school, at the age of twelve, I had composed several short but
lurid introductions to a narrative which should have for its central
feature the battle of Oriskany; for the writing of one of these, indeed,
or rather for my contumacy in refusing to give up my manuscript to the
teacher when my crime was detected, I was expelled from the school.
The plan of the book itself dated from 1877, the early months of which I
busied myself greatly in inciting my fellow-citizens to form what is now
the Oneida Historical Society, and to prepare for a befitting
celebration of the coming hundredth anniversary of Oriskany. The
circumstance that I had not two dollars to spare prevented my becoming a
member of the Society, but in no way affected the marked success of the
celebration it organized and superintended. It was at this time that I
gathered the first materials for my projected work, from members of the
Fonda and other families. Eight years later I was in the position of
having made at least as many attempts to begin this book, which I had
never ceased to desire to write, and for which I had steadily collected
books and other data; one of these essays ran to more than twenty
thousand words, and several others were half that length, but they were
all failures.
In 1885, after I had been a year in London, the fact that a journalist
friend of mine got two hundred and fifty dollars from the _Weekly Echo_
for a serial story, based upon his own observations as a youngster in
Ireland, gave me a new idea. He seemed to make his book with extreme
facility, never touching the weekly instalment until the day for sending
it to the printer’s had arrived, and then walking up and down dictating
the new chapters in a very loud voice, to drown the racket of his
secretary’s typewriter. This appeared to be a highly simple way of
earning two hundred and fifty dollars, and I went home to start a story
of my own at once. When I had written the opening chapter, I took it to
the editor of the _Weekly Echo_, who happened to be a friend of mine as
well. He read it, suggested the word “comely” instead of some other on
the first page, and said it was too American for any English paper, but
might do well in America. The fading away of the two hundred and fifty
dollars depressed me a good deal, but after a time a helpful reaction
came. I realized that I had consumed nearly ten years in fruitless
mooning over my Revolutionary novel, and was no nearer achievement than
at the outset, simply because I did not know how to make a book of any
kind, let alone a historical book of the kind which should be the most
difficult and exacting of all. This determined me to proceed with the
contemporary story I had begun--if only to learn what it was really like
to cover a whole canvas. The result was “Seth’s Brother’s Wife”--which
still has the _Echo_ man’s suggested “comely” in its opening description
of the barn-yard.
At the time, I thought of this novel almost wholly in the light of
preparation for the bigger task I had to do, and it is still easiest for
me to so regard it. Certainly its completion, and perhaps still more the
praise which was given to it by those who first saw it, gave me a degree
of confidence that I had mastered the art of fiction which I look back
upon now with surprise--and not a little envy. It was in the fine flush
of this confidence that I hastened to take up the real work, the book
I had been dreaming of so long, and, despite the immense amount
of material in the shape of notes, cross-references, dates, maps,
biographical facts, and the like, which I had perforce to drag along
with me, my ardor maintained itself to the finish. “In the Valley” was
written in eight months--and that, too, at a time when I had also a
great deal of newspaper work to do as well.
“The Lawton Girl” suggested itself at the outset as a kind of sequel to
“Seth’s Brother’s Wife,” but here I found myself confronted by agencies
and influences the existence of which I had not previously suspected. In
“Seth’s Brother’s Wife” I had made the characters do just what I wanted
them to do | 1,193.364213 |
2023-11-16 18:36:57.3618420 | 4,034 | 13 |
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/))
THE CURSE OF
POCAHONTAS
By WENONA GILMAN
HART SERIES NO. 102
Copyright 1895, by George Munro's Sons
Copyright, 1912 by The Arthur Westbrook Co.
Published by
THE ARTHUR WESTBROOK COMPANY,
Cleveland Ohio, U. S. A.
THE CURSE OF POCAHONTAS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
CHAPTER I.
Mrs. de Barryos sat beside a window overlooking a dainty rose-garden,
the golden sunshine streaming over her, the balmly air lifting the soft
curls of dark hair that was artistically touched with gray. Her hands
were folded idly over a letter that lay in her lap--small hands that
looked as if they had never known the meaning of toil, they were pale
and thin, like the face of the woman to whom they belonged, for Mrs. de
Barryos was an invalid.
She had been pretty before her face acquired its present angles through
suffering; never beautiful, but pretty in a dainty, meaningless sort of
way; inoffensively pretty some people might have called her, for there
was no strength in it, nor character. Her eyes were innocent, wide-open
brown ones that were like those of an obedient child. Her chin was
decidedly weak, and about the mouth had grown with her age a sort of
querulous tremble, as if she felt that the world had used her unfairly,
and wanted all mankind to sympathize with and pet her because of it.
She was never known to miss an opportunity to tell people of all the
wretchedness that had been so bravely and uncomplainingly borne. She
had fancied for the past five years that death was imminent, that its
shadows lay across her threshold, and yet she was apparently as far
from it as she had been at the beginning of the five years.
There was another thing about Mrs. de Barryos' life of which she was
apparently as proud as of her illness and patience, and that was the
fact that she was a lineal descendant of the renowned Pocahontas, a
fact at which some people laughed; but it was an undisputed fact, all
the same, for the historical Indian maiden had given birth to one of
the grandfathers upon the maternal side, and the curling hair and
weakness of character had been inherited from the branch of the family
that should have imparted its strength.
And it was of that same ancestress that Mrs. de Barryos was thinking as
she sat there beside the window, her eyes mechanically following the
flitting movements of a graceful form in the garden that was bending
above the roses.
And surely the girl was beautiful enough to look upon.
It might have been easy enough to believe that there was the blood of
an Indian flowing through her veins, for the clear olive complexion,
the inky blackness of the hair, which still was not straight, the
touch of crimson in the cheeks, and the great velvet eyes might have
indicated it. There was a better explanation of it, however, in the
fact that her father was a Mexican.
After a little she came toward the window at which her mother sat, her
arms filled with the lovely crimson blossoms that fitted her dusky
beauty so royally, and seated herself upon the sill of the window,
dropping the roses about her in gorgeous profusion as she prepared to
bind them into a bouquet.
"Aren't they exquisite?" she asked, admiringly, her voice a full, rich
contralto that made music even of the most ordinary speech. "It seems
to me that I never saw them so fine before."
"I wish you would put them away!" exclaimed her mother, querulously.
"It seems to me, Carlita, that you are always working among the
flowers, and that I never get a moment in which to speak to you."
The girl threw one swift glance of blended astonishment and reproach
in her mother's direction, then rose quietly, gathered up her flowers,
entered the room, and placed them upon a table, then drew a stool to
her mother's feet and sat upon it.
"I am awfully sorry if I have neglected you, dearest," she said,
gently. "Was there anything special that you wanted to speak to me
about?"
"Yes, there is," returned the plaintive voice. "There is something I
want to tell you. I have just had a letter from--from Jessica."
"Well?"
"I--I wrote to her mother the other day. I know you don't like me to be
making preparations for my death, Carlita, but--"
"Oh, mother!"
"Well, what is a woman to do when she sees death staring her in the
face and no one will believe it?" cried the woman, fretfully. "I wanted
to make some provision for you, and--"
"My dear, my dear, if you knew how this pains me, I am sure--"
"If I don't know, it isn't because you haven't told me often enough,
Heaven knows!" exclaimed Mrs. de Barryos, with irritation. "You never
think of any one but yourself, Carlita."
For a moment it seemed as if the girl were about to utter a protest;
then she thought better of it, and contented herself with a little
gesture of deprecation and silence.
After a brief hesitation, her mother continued more quietly, soothed,
perhaps, by her daughter's submission:
"Your Aunt Erminie and I never agreed, and so I knew that you would not
desire to live there at my death, and so I have written to Jessica's
mother, who was my old school friend, asking if I might appoint her
your guardian. She has written today, through Jessica, to say that she
will be very happy to accept the trust. I have not seen Louise for a
very great many years; but I have always loved her, and I am quite sure
that she will be kind to my little motherless girl."
"Oh, mother! Why will you persist in saying such dreadful things?"
"Because I know the end is not far off, my dear, and--"
"You have said that same thing for five years."
"Then the end is five years nearer. I never can have any satisfaction
in talking to you, Carlita. You won't sit down and reason a thing out,
as other people do."
The girl leaned her exquisite face upon her hand and looked dreamily
through the window.
"I beg your pardon," she said, softly. "I will not interrupt again."
"I feel so satisfied," her mother continued, spreading out her hands
curiously; "now that Louise has undertaken your guardianship, I can die
quite contented. You will have Jessica for a companion, and--"
"I have never seen Jessica or her mother."
"There you go again! What difference can that possibly make? Louise
and I were the greatest friends as girls. I shall never forget how she
cried when I told her that I was going to marry your father.
"'My dear Dorindah,' she said, 'you will regret it to the last day of
your life. Jose de Barryos is a hot-tempered Mexican, and you know how
dreadful they are.'
"It was quite true, Carlita. I never knew a moment's happiness from
the time I married your father until the day he died."
The girl moved restlessly; there was intense pain depicted in her
countenance; but her mother continued as if she had not observed:
"He ruined my life, made me the wreck that I am--I, who was called one
of the greatest beauties of my day. I was never happy for a single
moment after I became his wife; but that is only what I might have
expected from the curse that rests upon me."
"The curse that rests upon you?" returned Carlita, looking at her
mother for the first time with a dawning interest. "Why, what curse
rests upon you?"
"It is that about which I wanted to talk to you, that about which I
wanted to tell you. My poor child, when you go into the world, at my
death, you will go with the same curse upon you that has spoiled my
life, and that must wreck yours."
"Mother, what do you mean?" asked Carlita.
"It is a curse of Pocahontas, child--the curse that falls, from
generation to generation, upon one girl child who shows the trace of
the Indian, and you are that one! I was the one of my generation, you
of yours."
"Mother, you are jesting."
"I am in most deadly earnest, Carlita. You know that we are descendants
of Pocahontas. She married a white man--John Rolf, if you remember--and
died a broken-hearted woman. She left one son, and upon her death-bed
she pronounced a curse--a curse that has never failed to fall. It was
that one girl descendant of each generation should suffer, through
her love, even as she had suffered. It was that she should know no
happiness; that if she dared to love, the most bitter misery should
fall upon her and the man of her choice. And the curse has never
failed, Carlita. It has never failed and it never can fail. Think!
You have heard the story of how, when your great-aunt and uncle were
coming from their wedding, the skiff in which they were crossing the
river capsized, and all within it were drowned--six of them! Your
great-grandmother went mad, and died a raving maniac, when her husband
was killed right before her eyes. Your grandmother died of a broken
heart when her husband wandered away, and no one ever knew whether
the Indians killed him, or he simply deserted her. He was never heard
of afterward. Your mother's pitiful history you know well enough; it
needs no repetition. I want you to know all this, and that the curse
has descended to you, in order that you may escape the misery and
heartache that has fallen upon the others of your race. If you would
save yourself from suffering and death, you must never love!"
The girl sprang to her feet, the crimson color passionately staining
her cheeks.
"Mother!" she cried, hotly, "what are you saying? Would you rob a
young life of all that makes it worth the living? Would you make of
me a hermit, shunning the whole world, and shunned in turn? Would you
deprive me of that sentiment for which God created me woman?"
The invalid stretched out her hands again deprecatingly.
"I have only told you the truth," she said, without the slightest
compassion for her daughter's suffering, because she could not
understand it. "I have warned you and done my duty. I shall not be
here to look after you and protect you, and all that I can do is to
warn you. The truth stands there, and you must recognize it. If you
love, if you wed, you will not only ruin your own life, but that of
the man who tempts you to marriage. You have that to keep before you
always--always. If I had done it I should not be the wreck I am today;
but I had no one to warn me against the fate I was preparing for
myself. Just keep these words ever fresh within your memory, and you
will be safe: 'The curse of Pocahontas rests upon me!'"
CHAPTER II.
Shortly after that, to the surprise of everybody, Mrs. de Barryos did
die.
People had expected that she was going to be one of those who lived
eternally, eternally complaining, and her death came in the nature of
a sort of shock to the community. Carlita was looked upon with general
favor, and there were those who, while they sighed, exclaimed to each
other consolingly:
"Well it is the first freedom of any sort the poor child ever had. She
will grieve, of course, but as soon as the first shock has worn off,
she'll be happier than she ever was in her life before."
But any kind of a mother is better than no mother at all, and there was
the sincerest sorrow in Carlita's heart. There was enough of the warm
Mexican blood in her veins to fill her with a passion that was beyond
the understanding of those colder, more northern folk, and she had
loved her mother very sincerely. She was frightened, too, at the time
of her mother's death by the remembrance of that curse which her mother
had impressed upon her many times before the end came, and felt that
shrinking sense of loneliness, of bitter oppression, of isolation from
all the world that is so hard to bear.
When Jose de Barryos died he left his fortune, and it was considerable,
equally to his wife and daughter, the daughter under her guardianship
and that of a brother who did not long survive him, so that at the
time of Mrs. de Barryos' death there was considerable interest felt as
to who she had appointed guardian of her daughter in her own place,
Carlita being still under legal age. Some said that she would appoint
her husband's sister, Mrs. Erminie Blanchard but there were others
who knew that there had not been sufficient friendship between the
two women for that, and there was a rustle of excitement felt when
two ladies in mourning arrived on the day of the funeral, two women
whom none of them had ever seen before, but who went at once to the
great de Barryos mansion, for it was nothing less in that country, and
established themselves in the house.
There was considerable talk among the neighbors, who stood off and
looked at them from a distance like frightened sheep, feeling somehow
an embarrassment that they were never known to exhibit before.
Both of them were large women, the elder inclined to be stout, with a
waist that was suspiciously small for the size of bust and hips. Her
hair was yellow--a brilliant, half-greenish yellow--that contrasted
oddly with her very dark eyebrows and black lashes. Her eyes were a
dark blue, and her complexion very white and very pink about the cheeks.
She was startlingly young-looking to confess to being the mother of the
young woman who accompanied her.
She--the daughter--was a curious contrast to her mother, while
following at the same time upon much the same lines. Her hair was
red--that glorious dark rich auburn--her eyes dark brown and rather
fine, her complexion singularly like that of her mother. She was not
beautiful--not even pretty--but there was a certain sort of dangerous
fascination about her that even inexperienced people recognized.
Carlita rather gasped when they bore down upon her suddenly the day
of her mother's funeral, their mourning was so heavy, so crisp, so
new, and they gushed over her in such a curious way, calling her "a
dear thing!" "darling!" and all the rest of it, which was quite new to
Carlita, and they took such absolute possession of everything. But she
explained it all to herself by remembering that letter which her mother
had received signed "Jessica," and tried to be satisfied.
When the will was read, the good people understood it all better.
Mrs. Louise Chalmers has been appointed guardian of the orphaned
heiress, and Mrs. Louise Chalmers was that rather large, rather showy,
rather overdressed, while yet in mourning, woman, and to her had been
left an income of eight thousand dollars a year so long as she remained
Carlita's guardian.
Her black-bordered handkerchief was pressed very closely to her eyes
during the reading of the will; but although an occasional sob was
heard by those who sat nearest to her, there wasn't an atom of moisture
on the handkerchief when it was removed. Her little, black King Charles
spaniel fidgeted and sneezed on her lap during the entire time, not
quite able to comprehend why he should be neglected for the first time
in all his absurdly spoiled life.
It did not seem quite appropriate to those plain Southern folks that
Mrs. Chalmers should hold a dog on her lap during the reading of her
old friend's will; but they rather forgave her when she went up to
Carlita, and, in a really very pretty way, put her arms about the young
orphan's neck, and said in her sweetest and most maternal voice:
"I can not take your mother's place, my darling, but I shall try to be
a second one to you. It is a very sacred trust that she has left me,
and I shall try with all my heart to be worthy of it."
And she immediately took the place of "second mother," taking the
direction of everything in her own hands with a clear sweep that rather
staggered Carlita. Her mother had been ill for five years before her
death, as has already been told, and the girl had been housekeeper
in entire charge, so that to be so completely swept aside in her own
domain was something which she had not calculated upon. Still, she
submitted, because there did not seem to be anything else to be done.
There were not many changes made in the house, because practically
there was no way of making them. The town was not full of
opportunities. The people were slow and inactive. Jose de Barryos had
owned a huge cotton plantation just outside the limits of the town, and
had been contented to have his dwelling-place there, though it must
be confessed that he had not spent much of his time at home. He and
his wife had not agreed sufficiently well | 1,193.381882 |
2023-11-16 18:36:57.3950180 | 751 | 7 |
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Wood-Pigeons and Mary
By Mrs Molesworth
Illustrations by H.R. Millar
Published by Macmillan and Co, Limited, London.
This edition dated 1901.
The Wood-Pigeons and Mary, by Mrs Molesworth.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
THE WOOD-PIGEONS AND MARY, BY MRS MOLESWORTH.
CHAPTER ONE.
"SUCH BIG TEARS."
"Mary is crying," said Mr Coo.
"No!" replied Mrs Coo.
But Mr Coo said again--
"Mary is crying," and though Mrs Coo repeated--
"No!" she knew by the way he held his head on one side and looked at
her, that he was very much in earnest indeed.
I must tell you that when Mrs Coo said `no,' it went off into a soft
sound that was almost like `coo'; indeed most of her talking, and of Mr
Coo's too, sounded like that, which is the reason, I daresay, that many
people would not have understood their conversation. But it would be
rather tiresome to write "no," or other words, with double o's at the
end, so I will leave it to be fancied, which will do just as well.
There is a great deal of conversation in the world which careless people
don't understand; a great deal which _no one_ can understand properly,
however much they try; but also a great deal that one _can_ get to
understand, if one tries, even without the gift which the dear fairy
bestowed on the very lucky prince in the long ago story. I forget his
name, but I daresay some of you remember it. The gift was the power to
understand all that the beasts and birds say.
This very morning the wind has been talking to me a good deal--it was
the south wind, and her stories are always very sweet, though sometimes
sad, yet I understand a good deal of them.
After this second "No," Mr and Mrs Coo sat looking at each other for a
moment or two, without speaking.
Then said Mr Coo--
"It must be something--serious. For Mary scarcely ever cries."
"True," said Mrs Coo, "true."
But she did not say anything more, only she too held her head on one
side and kept her reddy-brown eyes fixed on Mr Coo. They seemed to
ask, "What is to be done?" only as she nearly always depended on Mr Coo
for settling what was to be done or if anything was to be done, she did
not need to say the words.
"Mary scarcely ever cries," he repeated. "There were large drops, quite
large ones on her cheeks."
"As large as raindrops?" asked Mrs Coo.
"Larger--that is to say as large as large raindrops--the kind that come
when it thunders," said Mr Coo.
"Oh dear," sighed Mrs Coo, thinking to herself that Mary's trouble must
be a very bad one indeed if her tears were _so_ large. She wanted very
much for once, to ask what could be done, but she saw that Mr Coo was
considering very deeply, so she did not interrupt his thoughts.
At last he turned to her.
"I heard something," he said. "Very little, but enough to help me to
put two and two together."
"To make four," said Mrs Coo quickly | 1,193.415058 |
2023-11-16 18:36:57.7134310 | 5,847 | 9 |
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generously made available by The Internet Archive)
MEDICAL SKETCHES
OF THE
_EXPEDITION TO EGYPT_,
FROM INDIA.
BY JAMES M‘GREGOR, A.M.
Member of the Royal College of Surgeons, of London;
Surgeon to the Royal Regiment of Horse Guards;
and lately Superintending Surgeon to the
Indian Army in Egypt.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR JOHN MURRAY, 32, FLEET-STREET;
BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH; AND
GILBERT AND HODGES, DUBLIN.
1804.
_W. Marchant, Printer, 3, Greville-Street, Holborn._
TO
SIR LUCAS PEPYS, BART.
Physician General, &c. &c.
THOMAS KEATE, ESQ. F. R. S.
Surgeon General, &c. &c.
AND TO
FRANCIS KNIGHT, ESQ.
Inspector General of Hospitals, &c. &c.
THE MEMBERS OF THE ARMY MEDICAL BOARD,
THESE SKETCHES
are dedicated, with the utmost respect,
by their most obedient
and very humble servant,
JAMES M‘GREGOR.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION v-xv
PART I.
_Journal of the Indian Expedition to Egypt_ 1-55
PART II.
_Of the Causes of the Diseases which prevailed in
the Indian Army_ 56-97
PART III.
_Of the Diseases of the Indian Army in Egypt_ 99
FIRST, THE ENDEMIC DISEASES OF EGYPT.
_Of the Plague_ 100-146
_Of the Ophthalmia of Egypt_ 146-159
_General Remarks on the Diseases_ 160-161
SECONDLY, OF THE OTHER DISEASES OF
THE INDIAN ARMY.
_Fever_ 162-170
_Hepatitis_ 171-180
_Dysentery_ 181-192
_Pneumonia and Rheumatism_ 193-194
_Small-Pox_ 195-197
_Diarrhœa_ 198
_Scurvy_ 199
_Syphilis_ 200-201
_The Guinea-Worm_ 202-217
_Ulcers_ 218
_Tetanus_ 219-222
_General Remarks on the Yellow Fever, and the
Resemblance which this Disease bears to the
Plague_ 223-238
TABLE I. _The Points of Resemblance between
the Plague and the Yellow Fever._
TABLE II. _State of the Diseases and Deaths
in the Indian Army._
ERRATA.
Page 6, line 17, for _time_ read _service_.
— 9, — 6, for _Ghenna_ read _Ghenné_.
— 15, — 3, from bottom, for _Ghiza_ read _Damietta_.
— 23, — 1, _et passim_, for _Thiza_ read _Ghiza_.
— 26, last line, for _typhaid_ read _typhoid_.
— 47, — 11, for _prevent_ read _prevents_.
— 48, — 7, for _Hepiopolis_ read _Heliopolis_.
— 48, — 7, for _B El Hadje_ read _Birket El Hadje_.
— 50, — 12, dele _the_.
— 73, — 14, for _the matter_ read _it_.
— 73, — 15, for _quantity_ read _piece_.
— 83, — 12, dele _where_.
— 86, — 12, for _gums_ read _germs_.
— 94, — 4, for _inspired_ read _imposed_.
— 101, — 3, from bottom, for _prevent_ read _preventing_.
— 103, — 4, from bottom, for _goal_ read _jail_.
— 122, — 12, from bottom, for _appears_ read _appear_.
— 128, — 6, from bottom, for _viluces_ read _vibices_.
— 129, — 5, after _often_ a _comma_.
— 129, — 6, after _perceptible_ a _comma_.
— 133, — 13, for _patient_ read _patients_.
— 137, — 9, dele the first _as_.
— 151, — 11, after _flowed_ insert _down_.
— 166, — 5, for _healthiness_ read _unhealthiness_.
— 171, — 7, for _decubities_ read _decubitus_.
— 190, — 8, from bottom, note, for _instantly_ read _constantly_.
— 191, — 10, for _man_ read _men_.
Transcriber’s Note: the above errata have been corrected, and in
addition, those listed below. Where there were two spelling variants in
use in equal measure (e.g. diarrhœa/diarrhæa; Signior Positti/Posetti),
both are left as printed.
Page
22 “conside-derable” changed to “considerable” (mortality of
the month was very considerable).
23 “fumegation” changed to “fumigation” (regarding cleanliness
and fumigation).
44 “O’Farrol” changed to “O’Farrel” (Mr O’Farrel, who had
charge of the pest-house).
45 “O’Farrol” changed to “O’Farrel” (went to Aboukir to relieve
Mr O’Farrel).
98 “medidicine” changed to “medicine” (the practice of
medidicine is more simple).
99 “occured” changed to “occurred” (cases of the plague, which
occurred).
103 “diminsh” changed to “diminish” (will tend to diminish).
113 “fom” changed to “from” (some matter from the bubo).
117 “medecine” changed to “medicine” (he could not get him to
swallow any medicine).
117 “inflamation” changed to “inflammation” (I discovered some
inflammation of the glands).
122 “prevost’s” changed to “provost’s” (The provost’s guard and
his prisoners).
126 “abcess” changed to “abscess” (an abscess, of the size of a
pigeon’s egg).
130 “succeded” changed to “succeeded” (that he had never
succeeded in exciting sweating).
136 “medecine” changed to “medicine” (a morsel of food nor any
medicine).
137 “spunging” changed to “sponging” (washing their patients
with vinegar and sponging them with it).
138 “possesion” changed to “possession” and “infalliable” changed
to “infallible” (I am in possession of an infallible remedy).
139 “veneral” changed to “venereal” (an old venereal complaint).
145 “nitrie” changed to “nitric” (When our stock of nitric was
at length exhausted).
153 “camphir” changed to “camphor” (a weak solution of sugar of
lead, or of camphor).
158 “medecine” changed to “medicine” (Mr Paton, previously to
embracing the military profession, had studied medicine).
160 “GENERAL REMARKS ON THE DISEASES.” Heading added.
161 “convalecents” changed to “convalescents” (convalescents
would frequently suffer a relapse).
223 “GENERAL REMARKS ON THE YELLOW FEVER, AND THE RESEMBLANCE
WHICH THIS DISEASE BEARS TO THE PLAGUE.” Heading added.
Footnote 5 duplicated word “down” removed (On being brought
down to Rosetta).
INTRODUCTION.
In consequence of orders, from the Court of Directors to the Government
in India, it became my duty to give some account of the health of the
troops employed on the late expedition from India to Egypt, and to
describe the prevailing diseases.
The sources of information, to which I had recourse, were the reports
made to me, and an extensive correspondence with the medical gentlemen of
the army; particularly those employed in the pest-establishments. Besides
these, to which my situation, at the head of the medical department
of the army from India, gave me access, other sources of information,
regarding the plague, were open to me, as a Member of the Board of Health
in Egypt.
Some may think the present a very short, and many may think it an
incomplete account; but, I trust, it will not be found incorrect. I have
purposely avoided doubtful speculations and hypotheses. Anxious, above
all things, to adhere closely to facts, and keep these unmixed with any
notions of my own, I have, in most cases, published the extracts from
letters to me, without altering a word of the correspondence.
Of the numerous imperfection of these Sketches, I am abundantly sensible.
The life of a medical man in the army is at no time very favourable to
literary pursuits; mine has been peculiarly unfavourable; and I have had
little time or opportunity, since I first entered the army, to attend
to the ornaments of diction. For the last fifteen years of my life;
mostly spent in the East Indies, West Indies, or at the Cape of Good
Hope; sometimes at sea, sometimes on land; my time has been occupied in a
laborious attention to my duty in the army.
Some necessary avocations oblige me to dismiss this tract in a more
imperfect form than it might have appeared in, perhaps with more leisure.
As it is, it conveyed to government, in India, all the information which
they required; and I must mention, that it comes before the public very
nearly in the state in which I presented it as a report in India. From
materials in my possession, I could have enlarged most parts of it, and
rendered the whole more complete; but, when I drew up the following
account in India, it never occurred to me, that my imperfect Memoir
would be the only medical account of the Egyptian expedition. I expected,
on my arrival in England, to have found complete histories of the climate
and diseases of Egypt, during the time that it was occupied by the
English, from some of the medical staff of the British army; several of
whom were known to be fully equal to the task. If any of these gentlemen
should hereafter give to the world the medical history of this renowned
campaign, my Memoir may stand in some stead: it gives some facts and it
will supply some information to which no one but myself had access.
At the present moment, I have not leisure to enlarge or alter it; and
some friends, who have seen the manuscript, press its publication at the
present time.
In the execution of my duty, during a long and perilous voyage, and alter
the most fatiguing marches, I sometimes laboured under difficulties; but
my duty was in every instance much facilitated, and it would be unjust
in me not to mention it. I acknowledge my obligations to all the medical
gentlemen of the Indian army, by whom I was most cordially and well
seconded in all that I undertook.
From the nature of the prevailing diseases, the campaign in Egypt was,
in a particular degree, a service of danger. To their regret, the Indian
army arrived too late in Egypt to share in any other dangers than
those arising from the diseases of the country; and here, the medical
gentlemen had the post of honour. The zeal, attention, and perseverance,
displayed, particularly by those employed in the plague-establishments,
deserve every praise. Nothing can so powerfully incite the exertions
of medical men, in such circumstances of danger, as the consciousness
of co-operating with the best and most enlightened of mankind, for the
alleviation of human misery. Intrepidity is more a military than a
medical virtue; but seldom I believe has there been a greater display of
it than among the medical officers, in Egypt, whose duty it became to
reside in the pest-houses.[1]
There are two names which I cannot pass over with general praise. At
a period of universal alarm, and of real danger, when the plague was
committing the greatest ravages, two gentlemen stepped forward, and
generously volunteered their services in the pest-houses. It so happened,
too, that, from their acquirements, these two were the best calculated,
of any in the army, to succeed in this dangerous duty. Dr Buchan had
acquired a perfect knowledge of the disease in the former year; and while
on duty at the pest-house, at Aboukir, had got the infection there,
soon after the memorable landing of Sir Ralph Abercrombie. Mr Price
had made the history of the plague his particular study, and, from his
acquaintance with the oriental languages, was peculiarly calculated to be
master of every thing relating to it. As will be seen hereafter, in the
execution of his duty at El-Hammed, he, likewise, caught the infection.
To the exertions of these two gentlemen, the service owes much; their
country very much. I would fain hope, that from them, who are so able to
do it, we may look for something like a history of the plague in Egypt.
Dr Shapter, who was for some time in charge of the medical department of
the Indian army, and who succeeded Mr Young, as head of the medical staff
of the English Army, deserves our thanks for his very ready accommodation
on every occasion, and compliance with every request for assistance, and
for many things, of which an army which had traversed an immense desert
was necessarily destitute.
Thus far I have discharged debts which I felt that I owed. I must add a
few words more, in explanation.
To some, it may appear that, in the following Sketches, I have given too
large a space to the journal; and that I have been too copious in my
extracts from letters. Both of these are, no doubt, to many, dry and
uninteresting; but, as statements of facts, from which every one can
form deductions for himself, as they stand, they appeared to me much
more useful than any conjectures which I might hazard to advance. It
is to be feared that, too often, facts and details are made to bend to
preconceived opinions and theories.
On the causes of diseases, I have dwelt a shorter time than to some may
have appeared necessary. But I thought that, while the general causes
of the diseases of soldiers and sailors have been so ably handled by a
Pringle and a Lind, a Cleghorn and a Huxam, a Blane and a Hunter—from me,
little could be expected. All that appeared necessary for me to do, was,
to assign the extraordinary causes—those incidental to the expedition, or
peculiar to Egypt; those, in fine, which rendered the service treated of
different from former services, either on the continent of Europe, or in
tropical climates.
It will be observed, that the diseases which occurred in the Indian army
were but few; and, except on the plague, I detain the reader but a short
time on this part of my subject. A long description of the symptoms,
or of the history, of dysentery, diarrhæa, hepatitis, or ophthalmia,
appeared to me superfluous; when, besides the very clear and perfect
nosological account of the illustrious Cullen, we have many complete
histories of these diseases, in books which are in the hands of every
person.
Finally: in justice to myself, and in extenuation of errors in these
Sketches, I must mention, that, when they were preparing for the press,
I laboured under many and very considerable disadvantages. I was on duty
in a remote corner of the kingdom, and have been, necessarily from the
same reason, at a distance from the press, since, and while the printing
went on: circumstances which, I hope, will conciliate the indulgence of
readers in general, and shield me from the severity of criticism.
_MEDICAL SKETCHES, &c. &c._
PART I.
In complying with the orders of government in India, I have sincere
pleasure in being able, from original documents, to present them with
a correct account of the diseases and mortality which occurred in
their army during the late expedition to Egypt. From the period of the
first sailing of the expedition, and my appointment to the medical
superintendance of it, I retained both the reports of the different
medical gentlemen employed in it, and my own memorandums written on
the spot. During the period in which Dr Shapter acted, and until I was
re-appointed, I likewise kept states of the sick and mortality of the
army, and thereafter, till the return and landing of every corps of the
army at Calcutta, Madras, and Bombay, or at Ceylon.
The India government has ever been peculiarly anxious about every thing
that related to the health of their troops, zealous in collecting any
fact and circumstance touching the causes of diseases or the means of
obviating them, and most liberal in every thing that regarded the health
of the sick soldier.
During an uncommonly long voyage, in a march over extensive deserts, and
in a country and climate described as the most inimical to the human
race, the Indian army enjoyed a considerable degree of health, and
suffered but a small mortality. The causes of this I shall attempt to
develope: the investigation may be useful.
The prevention of disease is usually the province, and is mostly in the
power, of the military officer; the cure lies with the medical: in the
expedition to Egypt very much was done by both.
The medical officers deserve my grateful thanks, and I readily
acknowledge my obligations to them. For every assistance in their power,
I am under not fewer obligations to the military officers. In no army,
perhaps, was the health of every soldier in it more the care of every
officer, from the general downwards, than in the Indian army.
It would be doing violence to my feelings not to mention how much my duty
was abridged by having such a commander-in-chief as General Baird. His
military abilities are well known. His extreme attention to every thing
which regarded the health and comfort of the soldier, I must mention, was
a principal cause of the great degree of health enjoyed by the army.
To Brigadier-General Beresford the army owes very much likewise. It
is not my business to say how much all were indebted to the man, who,
under circumstances the most discouraging, led the advance over the
desert. In my official capacity I cannot but notice how much the British
army, as well as that from India, were indebted to him, as President
of the Board of Health, and as Commandant of Alexandria. The excellent
police established by him gave security to the army as well as to the
inhabitants; and, more than any other circumstance, tended to the
exclusion of the plague from Alexandria.
The route which we took from India to Egypt is remarkable for having been
that by which, in the earliest ages, the commerce of Asia, its spices,
its gums, its perfumes, and all the luxuries of the East, were conveyed
to Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Rome, Marseilles, and in a word to all the
coasts of the Mediterranean, from Egypt, a country rendered extremely
interesting by various recollections.—The situation of the army from
India has accordingly excited no common share of interest.
It penetrated Egypt by a route over the desert of Thebes, a route
unattempted by any army for perhaps two or three thousand years.
Independently of late circumstances, Egypt and Arabia peculiarly interest
every man of science, and more particularly medical men, from the
occurrence of the plague, and the ophthalmia, or the disorder of the
eyes, in Egypt.
On one account the situation of the Indian army in Egypt is not a little
curious. It consisted of about eight thousand men; of which number about
one-half were natives of India, and the other half Europeans. We have
often seen the changes effected on a European habit by a removal to a
tropical or to a warm climate, but not, till now, the changes in the
constitution of an Asiatic army brought to a cold climate: for such were
the bleak shores of the Mediterranean to the feeble Indian.
The following Sketches I have divided into three parts. The first gives
the medical history, or rather the journal, of the expedition: in the
second, after attempting to assign the causes of the diseases which
prevailed, some modes of prevention are offered: and in the third there
is some account of the diseases.
The first division of the army intended for the expedition to Egypt,
under Colonel Murray, sailed from Bombay in January, 1801. Their voyage
was rather a tedious one, and the small-pox and a remittent fever broke
out among them. They touched for refreshments at Mocha and at Jedda, and
on the 16th May, 1801, came to anchor in Kossier-bay; the prevailing
winds in the Red Sea, at this time, rendering it impossible to get so far
up as Suez.
The second division of troops, (originally intended for another service,)
under Colonel Beresford, sailed from Point de Galle, in Ceylon, on the
19th February; and on the 19th May disembarked at Kossier.
The last division, under Colonel Ramsay, sailed from Trincomalée, in
Ceylon. They were later of arriving at Kossier, and were not able to
cross the desert before July.
At Kossier there is a fort and a town, if they deserve the name. They are
built of mud, and the Arabs inhabit them only at the season when caravans
arrive with the pilgrims for Mecca, and with corn for that and the other
ports on the opposite Arabian coast.
Like every other place described by Mr Bruce, that we have seen, we found
Kossier most accurately laid down by that traveller in lat. 26° 7″, and
long. 34. 04.
Kossier is situated on the western coast of the Red Sea. Here, vessels
for the expedition were daily arriving, and the troops in general landed
in a very healthy condition. In one column of an annexed table, intended
to show the diseases and mortality of the army, will be seen the strength
of the different corps employed in that service.
JUNE, 1801.
At the beginning of this month we were in camp near the village of
Kossier. Soon after the arrival of the troops at Kossier, all were
attacked with a diarrhœa, occasioned by the water, which contained much
sulphate of magnesia. At first it greatly debilitated the men; but, as
they became used to it, the water ceased to affect the bowels. On the
whole it appeared to have produced salutary effects, and the army was,
for some time, uncommonly healthy.
On the 19th, the 88th, with two companies of the 80th regiment, under the
command of Colonel Beresford, as the advance of the army, commenced the
march across the desert. Having the digging of wells and other duties to
perform, the advance did not reach the banks of the Nile until the next
month. The rest of the army marched on the following days, the marches
being always performed by night; and the army, with a very inconsiderable
loss, reached the banks of the Nile in a very healthy state. The course
which we took was nearly that travelled by Mr Bruce. For a considerable
way after we left Kossier, the road had the strongest resemblance to the
bed of a river. As we advanced from Kossier, the water became daily less
salt, and less bitter. At Le Gita, and at Bir Amber, the two stations
nearest to Ghenné, it was not much complained of.
The winds in Kossier camp, from nine to twelve o’clock, generally blew
from the N. W. accompanied with torrents of sand.
On the march, a very hot suffocating wind from the W. set in about ten
and continued till three o’clock. The thermometer at Kossier could not be
attended to.
On the 29th, at Le Gita, in my tent, at three P. M. the mercury stood at
114°. In the soldiers tents it could not have been less than 118°. At
six o’clock in the morning, in a well three feet deep, it was at 69°;
and, after taking it out, it fell to 63°: but evaporation must have had
a share in the reduction. In other places, on the march, the degree of
heat must have been higher. Le Gita is not a situation favourable to the
centration of heat: it is situated in a large open plain of many miles
extent.
There was but little sickness in this month, and yet almost every
exciting cause existed. The heat was intense. In the currents of dust,
| 1,193.733471 |
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AMOURS DE VOYAGE
Arthur Hugh Clough
1903 Macmillan edition
Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio,
And taste | 1,193.792248 |
2023-11-16 18:36:57.8589710 | 67 | 13 | INDIVIDUAL***
E-text prepared by John Hagerson, Kevin Handy, and Project Gutenberg
Distributed Proofreaders
THE CREATIVE PROCESS IN THE INDIVIDUAL
BY T. TROWARD
1915
FOREWORD
In the present volume I have endeavored to set before the reader the
| 1,193.879011 |
2023-11-16 18:36:57.9591330 | 1,463 | 52 |
Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced from
scanned images of public domain material from the Internet
Archive.
The Bread Line
[Illustration]
The Bread Line
A Story of a Paper
By
Albert Bigelow Paine
[Illustration]
New York
The Century Co.
1900
Copyright, 1899,
By THE J. B. LIPPINCOTT CO.
* * * * *
Copyright, 1900,
By THE CENTURY CO.
To Those Who have Started
Papers, to Those Who have
Thought of Starting Papers,
and to Those Who are
Thinking of Starting Papers.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE FIRST DINNER 1
II FRISBY'S SCHEME 15
III A LETTER FROM THE "DEAREST GIRL IN THE WORLD,"
OTHERWISE MISS DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND, TO MR.
TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK 29
IV SOME PREMIUMS 36
V A LETTER FROM MR. TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK
TO MISS DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND 52
VI CASH FOR NAMES 61
VII A LETTER FROM MISS DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND TO
MR. TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK 84
VIII THE COURSE OF EVENTS 92
IX IN THE SANCTUM 108
X A LETTER FROM MR. TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK
TO MISS DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND 116
XI THE GENTLE ART OF ADVERTISING 125
XII A LETTER FROM MISS DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND TO MR.
TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK 144
XIII THE HOUR OF DARK FOREBODING 149
XIV A LETTER FROM MR. TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK TO MISS
DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND 158
XV FINAL STRAWS 165
XVI AT THE END OF THE RAINBOW 176
XVII A TELEGRAM FROM MISS DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND TO MR.
TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK 187
XVIII GRABBING AT STRAWS 188
XIX A LETTER FROM MR. TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK TO MISS
DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND 196
XX THE BARK OF THE WOLF 204
XXI THE LETTER LIVINGSTONE READ 209
XXII THE BREAD LINE 214
XXIII THE LAST LETTER--TO MR. AND MRS. TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE, OLD
POINT COMFORT, VIRGINIA 227
The Bread Line
I
THE FIRST DINNER
This is the story of a year, beginning on New Year's eve.
In the main it is the story of four--two artists and two writers--and of
a paper which these four started. Three of them--the artists and one of
the writers--toiled and dwelt together in rooms near Union Square, and
earned a good deal of money sometimes, when matters went well. The
fourth--the other writer--did something in an editorial way, and thus
had a fixed income; that is, he fixed it every Saturday in such manner
that it sometimes lasted until Wednesday of the following week. Now and
then he sold a story or a poem "outside" and was briefly affluent, but
these instances were unplentiful. Most of his spare time he spent in
dreaming vague and hopeless dreams. His dreams he believed in, and,
being possessed of a mesmeric personality, Barrifield sometimes
persuaded others to believe also.
It began--the paper above mentioned--in the cafe of the Hotel Martin,
pronounced with the French "tang," and a good place to get a good dinner
on New Year's eve or in any other season except that of adversity, no
recollection of which period now vexed the mind of the man who did
something in an editorial way, or those of the two artists and the
writer who worked and dwelt together in rooms near Union Square. In
fact, that era of prosperity which began in New York for most bohemians
in the summer of '96 was still in its full tide, and these three had
been caught and borne upward on a crest that as yet gave no signs of
undertow and oblivion beneath. But Barrifield, still editing at his old
salary, had grown uneasy and begun to dream dreams. He did not write
with ease, and his product, though not without excellence, was of a sort
that found market with difficulty in any season and after periods of
tedious waiting. He had concluded to become a publisher.
He argued that unless publishers were winning great fortunes they could
not afford to pay so liberally for their wares.
He had been himself authorized to pay as much as fifteen cents per word
for the product of a certain pen. He forgot, or in his visions refused
to recognize, the possibility of this being the result of competition in
a field already thickly trampled by periodicals, many of them backed by
great capital and struggling, some of them at a frightful loss, toward
the final and inevitable survival of the richest. As for his companions,
they were on the outside, so to speak, and swallowed stories of
marvelous circulations and advertising rates without question. Not that
Barrifield was untruthful. Most of what he told them had come to him on
good authority. If, in the halo of his conception and the second bottle
of champagne, he forgot other things that had come to him on equally
good authority, he was hardly to be blamed. We all do that, more or
less, in unfolding our plans, and Barrifield was uncommonly optimistic.
He had begun as he served the roast. Previous to this, as is the habit
in bohemia, they had been denouncing publishers and discussing work
finished, in hand, and still to do; also the prices and competition for
their labors. The interest in Barrifield's skill at serving, however,
had brought a lull, and the champagne a golden vapor that was fraught
with the glory of hope. It was the opportune moment. The publication of
the "Whole Family" may be said to have dated from that hour.
Barrifield spoke very slowly, pausing at the end of each sentence to
gather himself for the next. Sometimes he would fill a plate as he
deliberated. At other times he would half close his eyes and | 1,193.979173 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Christian
Boissonnas, The Internet Archive for some images and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
BIRDS AND ALL NATURE.
ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.
VOL. VI. NOVEMBER, 1899. NO. 4
CONTENTS
Page
A RARE HUMMING BIRD. 145
THE LADY'S SLIPPER. 146
JIM AND I. 149
WHY AND WHEREFORE OF THE COLORS OF BIRDS' EGGS. 152
TEA. 155
THE TOWHEE; CHEWINK. 158
WEE BABIES. 161
WISH-TON-WISH. 162
THE BEE AND THE FLOWER. 164
THE CANARY. 167
THE PAROQUET. 169
THE CAROLINA PAROQUET. 170
WHAT THE WOOD FIRE SAID TO A LITTLE BOY. 173
THE MISSISSIPPI. 174
INDIAN SUMMER. 176
THE CHIPMUNK. 179
TED'S WEATHER PROPHET. 180
THREATENED EXTERMINATION OF THE FUR SEAL. 181
THE PEACH. 182
THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE VICEROY. 185
BIRD LORE OF THE ANCIENT FINNS. 186
BIRD NOTES. 187
STORY OF A NEST. 188
COMMON MINERALS AND VALUABLE ORES. 191
WHEN ANIMALS ARE SEASICK. 192
A RARE HUMMING BIRD.
HOW ONE OF THESE LITTLE FAIRY CREATURES WAS TAMED.
P. W. H.
Instances are very rare where birds are familiar with human beings,
and the humming birds especially are considered unapproachable, yet a
naturalist tells how he succeeded in catching one in his hand. Several
cases are on record of attempts to tame humming birds, but when placed
in a cage they do not thrive, and soon die. The orange groves of
southern California abound in these attractive creatures, and several
can often be seen about the flowering bushes, seeking food or chasing
each other in play. "Once, when living on the <DW72>s of the Sierra
Madre mountains, where they were very plentiful, I accomplished the
feat of taking one in my hand," says the naturalist.
"I first noticed it in the garden, resting on a mustard stalk, and,
thinking to see how near I could approach, I gradually moved toward it
by pretending to be otherwise engaged, until I was within five feet of
it. The bird looked at me calmly and I moved slowly nearer, whistling
gently to attract its attention, as I began to think something was the
matter with it. It bent its head upon one side, eyed me sharply, then
flew to another stalk a few feet away, contemplating me as before.
Again I approached, taking care not to alarm it, and this time I was
almost within reaching distance before it flew away. The bird seemed to
have a growing confidence in me, and I became more and more deliberate
in my movements until I finally stood beside it, the little creature
gazing at me with its head tipped upon one side as if questioning what
I was about. I then withdrew and approached again, repeating this
several times before I stretched out my hand to take it, at which it
flew to another bush. But the next time it allowed me | 1,194.079301 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: THEY TACKLES ANYTHING I LEADS 'EM UP TO]
Side-stepping
with Shorty
_By_
Sewell Ford
_Illustrated by_
_Francis Vaux Wilson_
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
| 1,194.108318 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber’s Note: Italic text is indicated by _underscores_, boldface
by =equals signs=.
OTHER PEOPLE’S MONEY
AND HOW THE BANKERS USE IT
OTHER PEOPLE’S MONEY
AND HOW THE BANKERS USE IT
BY
LOUIS D. BRANDEIS
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1913, 1914, by_
THE MCCLURE PUBLICATIONS
_Copyright, 1914, by_
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
FASCo _March, 1914_
PREFACE
While Louis D. Brandeis’s series of articles on the money trust was
running in Harper’s Weekly many inquiries came about publication in
more accessible permanent form. Even without such urgence through the
mail, however, it would have been clear that these articles inevitably
constituted a book, since they embodied an analysis and a narrative
by that mind which, on the great industrial movements of | 1,194.108324 |
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Produced by David Widger
AT SUNWICH PORT
BY
W. W. JACOBS
Part 2.
ILLUSTRATIONS
From Drawings by Will Owen
CHAPTER VI
For the first few days after his return Sunwich was full of surprises to
Jem Hardy. The town itself had changed but little, and the older
inhabitants were for the most part easily recognisable, but time had
wrought wonders among the younger members of the population: small boys
had attained to whiskered manhood, and small girls passing into
well-grown young women had in some cases even changed their names.
The most astounding and gratifying instance of the wonders effected by
time was that of Miss Nugent. He saw her first at the window, and with a
ready recognition of the enchantment lent by distance took the first
possible opportunity of a closer observation. He then realized the
enchantment afforded by proximity. The second opportunity led him
impetuously into a draper's shop, where a magnificent shop-walker, after
first ceremoniously handing him a high cane chair, passed on his order
for pins in a deep and thrilling baritone, and retired in good order.
[Illustration: "The most astounding and gratifying instance of the
wonders effected by time was that of Miss Nugent."]
By the end of a week his observations were completed, and Kate Nugent,
securely enthroned in his mind as the incarnation of feminine grace and
beauty, left but little room for other matters. On his second Sunday at
home, to his father's great surprise, he attended church, and after
contemplating Miss Nugent's back hair for an hour and a half came home
and spoke eloquently and nobly on "burying hatchets," "healing old
sores," "letting bygones be bygones," and kindred topics.
"I never take much notice of sermons myself," said the captain,
misunderstanding.
"Sermon?" said his son. "I wasn't thinking of the sermon, but I saw
Captain Nugent there, and I remembered the stupid quarrel between you.
It's absurd that it should go on indefinitely."
"Why, what does it matter?" inquired the other, staring. "Why shouldn't
it? Perhaps it's the music that's affected you; some of those old
hymns--"
"It wasn't the sermon and it wasn't the hymns," said his son,
disdainfully; "it's just common sense. It seems to me that the enmity
between you has lasted long enough."
"I don't see that it matters," said the captain; "it doesn't hurt me.
Nugent goes his way and I go mine, but if I ever get a chance at the old
man, he'd better look out. He wants a little of the starch taken out of
him."
"Mere mannerism," said his son.
"He's as proud as Lucifer, and his girl takes after him," said the
innocent captain. "By the way, she's grown up a very good-looking girl.
You take a look at her the next time you see her."
His son stared at him.
"She'll get married soon, I should think," continued the other. "Young
Murchison, the new doctor here, seems to be the favourite. Nugent is
backing him, so they say; I wish him joy of his father-in-law."
Jem Hardy took his pipe into the garden, and, pacing slowly up and down
the narrow paths, determined, at any costs, to save Dr. Murchison from
such a father-in-law and Kate Nugent from any husband except of his
choosing. He took a seat under an old apple tree, and, musing in the
twilight, tried in vain to think of ways and means of making her
acquaintance.
Meantime they passed each other as strangers, and the difficulty of
approaching her only made the task more alluring. In the second week he
reckoned up that he had seen her nine times. It was a satisfactory
total, but at the same time he could not shut his eyes to the fact that
five times out of that number he had seen Dr. Murchison as well, and
neither of them appeared to have seen him.
He sat thinking it over in the office one hot afternoon. Mr. Adolphus
Swann, his partner, had just returned from lunch, and for about the fifth
time that day was arranging his white hair and short, neatly pointed
beard in a small looking-glass. Over the top of it he glanced at Hardy,
who, leaning back in his chair, bit his pen and stared hard at a paper
before him.
"Is that the manifest of the North Star?" he inquired.
"No," was the reply.
Mr. Swann put his looking-glass away and watched the other as he crossed
over to the window and gazed through the small, dirty panes at the
bustling life of the harbour below. For a short time Hardy stood gazing
in silence, and then, suddenly crossing the room, took his hat from a peg
and went out.
"Restless," said the senior partner, wiping his folders with great care
and putting them on. "Wonder where he's put that manifest."
He went over to the other's desk and opened a drawer to search for it.
Just inside was a sheet of foolscap, and Mr. Swann with growing
astonishment slowly mastered the contents.
[Illustration: "Mr. Swann with growing astonishment slowly mastered the
contents."]
"See her as often as possible."
"Get to know some of her friends."
"Try and get hold of the old lady."
"Find out her tastes and ideas."
"Show my hand before Murchison has it all his own way."
"It seems to me," said the bewildered shipbroker, carefully replacing the
paper, "that my young friend is looking out for another partner. He
hasn't lost much time."
He went back to his seat and resumed his work. It occurred to him that
he ought to let his partner know what he had seen, and when Hardy
returned he had barely seated himself before Mr. Swann with a mysterious
smile crossed over to him, bearing a sheet of foolscap.
"Try and dress as well as my partner," read the astonished Hardy.
"What's the matter with my clothes? What do you mean?"
Mr. Swann, in place of answering, returned to his desk and, taking up
another sheet of foolscap, began to write again, holding up his hand for
silence as Hardy repeated his question. When he had finished his task he
brought it over and placed it in the other's hand.
"Take her little brother out for walks."
Hardy crumpled the paper up and flung it aside. Then, with his face
crimson, he stared wrathfully at the benevolent Swann.
"It's the safest card in the pack," said the latter. "You please
everybody; especially the little brother. You should always hold his
hand--it looks well for one thing, and if you shut your eyes--"
"I don't want any of your nonsense," said the maddened Jem. "What do you
mean by reading my private papers?"
"I came over to look for the manifest," said Mr. Swann, "and I read it
before I could make out what it was. You must admit it's a bit cryptic.
I thought it was a new game at first. Getting hold of the old lady
sounds like a sort of blind-man's buff. But why not get hold of the
young one? Why waste time over--"
"Go to the devil," said the junior partner.
"Any more suggestions I can give you, you are heartily welcome to," said
Mr. Swann, going back to his seat. "All my vast experience is at your
service, and the best and sweetest and prettiest girls in Sunwich regard
me as a sort of second father."
"What's a second father?" inquired Jim, looking up--"a grandfather?"
"Go your own way," said the other; "I wash my hands of you. You're not
in earnest, or you'd clutch at any straw. But let me give you one word
of advice. Be careful how you get hold of the old lady; let her
understand from the commencement that it isn't her."
Mr. Hardy went on with his work. There was a pile of it in front of him
and an accumulation in his drawers. For some time he wrote assiduously,
but work was dry after the subject they had been discussing. He looked
over at his partner and, seeing that that gentleman was gravely busy,
reopened the matter with a jeer.
"Old maids always know most about rearing children," he remarked; "so I
suppose old bachelors, looking down on life from the top shelf, think
they know most about marriage."
"I wash my hands of you," repeated the senior, placidly. "I am not to be
taunted into rendering first aid to the wounded."
The conscience-stricken junior lost his presence of mind. "Who's trying
to taunt you?" he demanded, hotly. "Why, you'd do more harm than good."
"Put a bandage round the head instead of the heart, I expect," assented
the chuckling Swann. "Top shelf, I think you said; well, I climbed there
for safety."
"You must have been much run after," said his partner.
"I was," said the other. "I suppose that's why it is I am always so
interested in these affairs. I have helped to marry so many people in
this place, that I'm almost afraid to stir out after dark."
Hardy's reply was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Edward Silk, a young
man of forlorn aspect, who combined in his person the offices of
messenger, cleaner, and office-boy to the firm. He brought in some
letters, and placing them on Mr. Swann's desk retired.
"There's another," said the latter, as the door closed. "His complaint
is Amelia Kybird, and he's got it badly. She's big enough to eat him,
but I believe that they are engaged. Perseverance has done it in his
case. He used to go about like a blighted flower--"
"I am rather busy," his partner reminded him.
Mr. Swann sighed and resumed his own labours. For some time both men
wrote in silence. Then the elder suddenly put his pen down and hit his
desk a noisy thump with his fist.
"I've got it," he said, briskly; "apologize humbly for all your candour,
and I will give you a piece of information which shall brighten your dull
eyes, raise the corners of your drooping mouth, and renew once more the
pink and cream in your youthful cheeks."
"Look here--" said the overwrought Hardy.
"Samson Wilks," interrupted Mr. Swann, "number three, Fullalove Alley,
at home Fridays, seven to nine, to the daughter of his late skipper, who
always visits him on that day. Don't thank me, Hardy, in case you break
down. She's a very nice girl, and if she had been born twenty years
earlier, or I had been born twenty years later, or you hadn't been born
at all, there's no saying what might not have happened."
"When I want you to interfere in my business," said Hardy, working
sedulously, "I'll let you know."
"Very good," replied Swann; "still, remember Thursdays, seven to nine."
"Thursdays," said Hardy, incautiously; "why, you said Fridays just now."
Mr. Swann made no reply. His nose was immersed in the folds of a large
handkerchief, and his eyes watered profusely behind his glasses. It was
some minutes before he had regained his normal composure, and even then
the sensitive nerves of his partner were offended by an occasional
belated chuckle.
Although by dint of casual and cautious inquiries Mr. Hardy found that
his partner's information was correct, he was by no means guilty of any
feelings of gratitude towards him; and he only glared scornfully when
that excellent but frivolous man mounted a chair on Friday afternoon, and
putting the clock on a couple of hours or so, urged him to be in time.
The evening, however, found him starting slowly in the direction of
Fullalove Alley. His father had gone to sea again, and the house was
very dull; moreover, he felt a mild curiosity to see the changes wrought
by time in Mr. Wilks. He walked along by the sea, and as the church
clock struck the three-quarters turned into the alley and looked eagerly
round for the old steward.
The labours of the day were over, and the inhabitants were for the most
part out of doors taking the air. Shirt-sleeved householders, leaning
against their door-posts smoking, exchanged ideas across the narrow space
paved with cobble-stones which separated their small and ancient houses,
while the matrons, more gregariously inclined, bunched in little groups
and discussed subjects which in higher circles would have inundated the
land with libel actions. Up and down the alley a tiny boy all ready for
bed, with the exception of his nightgown, mechanically avoided friendly
palms as he sought anxiously for his mother.
[Illustration: "Fullalove Alley."]
The object of Mr. Hardy's search sat at the door of his front room, which
opened on to the alley, smoking an evening pipe, and noting with an
interested eye the doings of his neighbours. He was just preparing to
draw himself up in his chair as the intruder passed, when to his utter
astonishment that gentleman stopped in front of him, and taking
possession of his hand shook it fervently.
"How do you do?" he said, smiling.
Mr. Wilks eyed him stupidly and, releasing his hand, coyly placed it in
his trouser-pocket and breathed hard.
"I meant to come before," said Hardy, "but I've been so busy. How are
you?"
Mr. Wilks, still dazed, muttered that he was very well. Then he sat bolt
upright in his chair and eyed his visitor suspiciously.
"I've been longing for a chat with you about old times," said Hardy; "of
all my old friends you seem to have changed the least. You don't look a
day older."
"I'm getting on," said Mr. Wilks, trying to speak coldly, but observing
with some gratification the effect produced upon his neighbours by the
appearance of this well-dressed acquaintance.
"I wanted to ask your advice," said the unscrupulous Hardy, speaking in
low tones. "I daresay you know I've just gone into partnership in
Sunwich, and I'm told there's no man knows more about the business and
the ins and outs of this town than you do."
Mr. Wilks thawed despite himself. His face glistened and his huge mouth
broke into tremulous smiles. For a moment he hesitated, and then
noticing that a little group near them had suspended their conversation
to listen to his he drew his chair back and, in a kind voice, invited the
searcher after wisdom to step inside.
Hardy thanked him, and, following him in, took a chair behind the door,
and with an air of youthful deference bent his ear to catch the pearls
which fell from the lips of his host. Since he was a babe on his
mother's knee sixty years before Mr. Wilks had never had such an
attentive and admiring listener. Hardy sat as though glued to his chair,
one eye on Mr. Wilks and the other on the clock, and it was not until
that ancient timepiece struck the hour that the ex-steward suddenly
realized the awkward state of affairs.
"Any more 'elp I can give you I shall always be pleased to," he said,
looking at the clock.
Hardy thanked him at great length, wondering, as he spoke, whether Miss
Nugent was of punctual habits. He leaned back in his chair and, folding
his arms, gazed thoughtfully at the perturbed Mr. Wilks.
"You must come round and smoke a pipe with me sometimes," he said,
casually.
Mr. Wilks flushed with gratified pride. He had a vision of himself
walking up to the front door of the Hardys, smoking a pipe in a
well-appointed room, and telling an incredulous and envious Fullalove
Alley about it afterwards.
"I shall be very pleased, sir," he said, impressively.
"Come round on Tuesday," said his visitor. "I shall be at home then."
Mr. Wilks thanked him and, spurred on to hospitality, murmured something
about a glass of ale, and retired to the back to draw it. He came back
with a jug and a couple of glasses, and draining his own at a draught,
hoped that the example would not be lost upon his visitor. That astute
person, however, after a modest draught, sat still, anchored to the
half-empty glass.
"I'm expecting somebody to-night," said the ex-steward, at last.
"No doubt you have a lot of visitors," said the other, admiringly.
Mr. Wilks did not deny it. He eyed his guest's glass and fidgeted.
"Miss Nugent is coming," he said.
Instead of any signs of disorder and preparations for rapid flight, Mr.
Wilks saw that the other was quite composed. He began to entertain a
poor idea of Mr. Hardy's memory.
"She generally comes for a little quiet chat," he said.
"Indeed!"
"Just between the two of us," said the other.
His visitor said "Indeed," and, as though some chord of memory had been
touched, sat gazing dreamily at Mr. Wilks's horticultural collection in
the window. Then he changed colour a little as a smart hat and a pretty
face crossed the tiny panes. Mr. Wilks changed colour too, and in an
awkward fashion rose to receive Miss Nugent.
"Late as usual, Sam," said the girl, sinking into a chair. Then she
caught sight of Hardy, who was standing by the door.
[Illustration: "She caught sight of Hardy."]
"It's a long time since you and I met, Miss Nugent," he said, bowing.
"Mr. Hardy?" said the girl, doubtfully.
"Yes, miss," interposed Mr. Wilks, anxious to explain his position. "He
called in to see me; quite a surprise to me it was. I 'ardly knowed
him."
"The last time we three met," said Hardy, who to his host's discomfort
had resumed his chair, "Wilks was thrashing me and you were urging him
on."
Kate Nugent eyed him carefully. It was preposterous that this young man
should take advantage of a boy and girl acquaintance of eleven years
before--and such an acquaintance!--in this manner. Her eyes expressed a
little surprise, not unmixed with hauteur, but Hardy was too pleased to
have them turned in his direction at all to quarrel with their
expression.
"You were a bit of a trial in them days," said Mr. Wilks, shaking his
head. "If I live to be ninety I shall never forget seeing Miss Kate
capsized the way she was. The way she----"
"How is | 1,194.108332 |
2023-11-16 18:36:58.1834500 | 4,679 | 9 |
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
OTHER BOOKS
BY BERTHA B. AND ERNEST COBB
ARLO
CLEMATIS
ANITA
PATHWAYS
ALLSPICE
DAN'S BOY
PENNIE
ANDRE
ONE FOOT ON THE GROUND
ROBIN
----------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: "Are you going to sit here all day, little girl?"]
----------------------------------------------------------------------
CLEMATIS
By
BERTHA B. AND ERNEST COBB
Authors of Arlo, Busy Builder's Book,
Hand in Hand With Father Time, etc.
With illustrations by
A. G. Cram
and
Willis Levis
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
New York and London
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1917
By BERTHA B. and ERNEST COBB
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
for Foreign Countries
Twenty-second Impression
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, must
not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Made in the United States of America
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Somerset, Mass.
Dear Priscilla:
You have taken such a fancy to little Clematis that we hope other
children may like her, too. We may not be able to buy you all the
ponies, and goats, and dogs, and cats that you would like, but we
will dedicate the book to you, and then you can play with all the
animals Clematis has, any time you wish.
With much love, from
Bertha B. and Ernest Cobb.
To Miss Priscilla Cobb.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
1. Lost in a Big City 1
2. The Children's Home 16
3. The First Night 28
4. Who is Clematis? 41
5. Clematis Begins to Learn 52
6. Clematis Has a Hard Row to Hoe 61
7. What Clematis Found 72
8. A Visitor 86
9. The Secret 97
10. Two Doctors 109
11. A Long, Anxious Night 121
12. Getting Well 134
13. Off for Tilton 145
14. The Country 160
15. Clematis Tries to Help 172
16. Only a Few Days More 186
17. Where is Clematis? 200
18. Hunting for Clematis 215
19. New Plans 230
20. The True Fairy Story 237
----------------------------------------------------------------------
ILLUSTRATIONS
1. "Are you going to sit here all day, little girl?"
2. "I don't want to stay here if you're going to throw my cat away."
3. With Katie in the kitchen.
4. Thinking of the land of flowers.
5. Clematis held out her hand.
6. Clematis is better.
7. Off for Tilton.
8. In the country at last.
9. The little red hen.
10. Clematis watched the little fishes by the shore.
11. "I shan't be afraid."
12. A little girl was coming up the path.
13. Deborah was very hungry.
14. "Didn't you ever peel potatoes?"
15. "What are you sewing?"
16. Clematis stuck one hand out.
17. She could see the little fish.
18. In Grandfather's house.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
CLEMATIS
CHAPTER I
LOST IN THE BIG CITY
It was early Spring. A warm sun shone down upon the city street. On
the edge of the narrow brick sidewalk a little girl was sitting.
Her gingham dress was old and shabby. The short, brown coat had lost
all its buttons, and a rusty pin held it together.
A faded blue cap partly covered her brown hair, which hung in short,
loose curls around her face.
She had been sitting there almost an hour when a policeman came
along.
"I wonder where that girl belongs," he said, as he looked down at
her. "She is a new one on Chambers Street."
He walked on, but he looked back as he walked, to see if she went
away.
The child slowly raised her big, brown eyes to look after him. She
watched him till he reached the corner by the meat shop; then she
looked down and began to kick at the stones with her thin boots.
At this moment a bell rang. A door opened in a building across the
street, and many children came out.
As they passed the little girl, some of them looked at her. One
little boy bent down to see her face, but she hid it under her arm.
"What are you afraid of?" he asked. "Who's going to hurt you?"
She did not answer.
Another boy opened his lunch box as he passed, and shook out the
pieces of bread, left from his lunch.
Soon the children were gone, and the street was quiet again.
The little girl kicked at the stones a few minutes; then she looked
up. No one was looking at her, so she reached out one little hand
and picked up a crust of bread.
In a wink the bread was in her mouth. She reached out for another,
brushed off a little dirt, and ate that also.
Just then the policeman came down the street from the other corner.
The child quickly bent her head and looked down.
This time he came to where she sat, and stopped.
"Are you going to sit here all day, little girl?" he asked.
She did not answer.
"Your mother will be looking for you. You'd better run home now,
like a good girl. Where do you live, anyway?"
He bent down and lifted her chin, so she had to look up at him.
"Where do you live, miss? Tell us now, that's a good girl."
"I don't know." The child spoke slowly, half afraid.
"O come now, of course you know, a big girl like you ought to know.
What's the name of the street?"
"I don't know."
"Ah, you're only afraid of me. Don't be afraid of Jim Cunneen now.
I've a little girl at home just about your age."
He waited for her to answer, but she said nothing.
"Come miss, you must think. How can I take you home if you don't
tell me where you live?"
"I don't know."
"Oh, dear me! That is all I get for an answer. Well then, I'll have
to take you down to the station. May be you will find a tongue down
there."
As he spoke, he took hold of her arm to help her up. Then he tried
one more question.
"What is your name?"
"My name is Clematis."
As she spoke she moved her arm, and out from the coat peeped a
kitten. It was white, with a black spot over one eye.
"There, that is better," answered the policeman. "Now tell me your
last name."
"That is all the name I have, just Clematis."
"Well then, what is your father's name?"
"I haven't any father."
"Ah, that is too bad, dear. Then tell me your mother's name." He
bent down lower to hear her reply.
"I haven't any mother, either."
"No father? No mother?" The policeman lifted her gently to her feet.
"Well miss, we won't stay here any longer. It is getting late."
Just then the kitten stuck its head out from her coat and said,
"Miew."
It seemed very glad to move on.
"What's that now, a cat? Where did you get that?"
"It is my kitty, my very own, so I kept it. I didn't steal it. Its
name is Deborah, and it is my very own."
"Ah, now she is finding her tongue," said the policeman, smiling;
while Clematis hugged the kitten.
But the little girl could tell him no more, so he led her along the
street toward the police station.
Before they had gone very far, they passed a baker's shop.
In the window were rolls, and cookies, and buns, and little cakes
with jam and frosting on them.
The smell of fresh bread came through the door.
"What is the matter, miss?" The man looked down, as Clematis stood
still before the window.
She was looking through the glass, at the rolls, and cakes, and
cookies.
[Illustration: "I don't want to stay here if you are going to
throw my cat away"]
The policeman smelled the fresh bread, and it made him hungry.
"Are you hungry, little girl?" he asked, looking down with a smile.
"Wouldn't you be hungry if you hadn't had anything to eat all day
long?" Clematis looked up at him with tears in her big brown eyes.
"Nothing to eat all day? Why, you must be nearly starved!" As he
spoke, the policeman started into the store, pulling Clematis after
him.
She was so surprised that she almost dropped her kitten.
"Miew," said poor Deborah, as if she knew they were going to starve
no longer. But it was really because she was squeezed so tight she
couldn't help it.
"Now, Miss Clematis, do you see anything there you like?"
Jim Cunneen smiled down at Clematis, as she peeped through the glass
case at the things inside.
She stood silent, with her nose right against the glass.
There were so many things to eat it almost took her breath away.
"Well, what do you say, little girl? Don't you see anything you
like?"
"May I choose anything I want?"
"Yes, miss. Just pick out what you like best."
The lady behind the counter smiled, as the policeman lifted Clematis
a little, so she could see better. There were cakes, and cookies,
and buns, and doughnuts.
"May I have a cream cake?" asked Clematis.
"Of course you may. What else?" He lifted her a bit higher.
"Miew!" said Deborah, from under her coat.
"Oh, excuse me, cat," he said, as he set Clematis down. "I forgot
you were there too."
The woman laughed, as she took out a cream cake, a cookie with nuts
on it, and a doughnut.
"May I eat them now?" asked Clematis, as she took the bag.
"You start right in, and if that's not enough, you can have more.
But don't forget the cat."
Jim Cunneen laughed with the baker woman, while Clematis began to
eat the doughnut, as they started out.
Before long they came to a brick building that had big doors.
"Here we are," said the policeman. They turned, and went inside.
There another policeman was sitting at a desk behind a railing.
"Well, who comes here?" asked the policeman at the desk.
"That is more than I know," replied Jim Cunneen. "I guess she's lost
out of the flower show. She says her name is Clematis."
Clematis said nothing. Her mouth was full of cream cake now, and a
little cream was running over her fingers.
Deborah was silent also. She was eating the last crumbs of the
doughnut.
"Is that all you could find out?" The other man looked at Clematis.
"She says she has no father and no mother. Her cat is named Deborah.
That is all she told me."
"Oh, well, I guess you scared her, Jim. Let me ask her. I'll find
out."
The new policeman smiled at Clematis. "Come on now, sister," he
said. "Tell us where you live. That's a good girl."
Clematis reached up one hand and took hold of her friend's big
finger. She looked at the new policeman a moment.
"If you didn't know where you lived, how could you tell anyone?" she
said.
Jim Cunneen laughed. He liked to feel her little hand.
"See how scared she is of me," he said. "We are old friends now."
Again they asked the little girl all the questions they could think
of. But it was of no use. She could not tell them where she lived.
She would not tell them very much about herself.
At last the Captain came in. They told him about this queer little
girl.
He asked her questions also. Then he said:
"We shall have to send her to the Home. If anyone claims her he can
find her there."
So Clematis and Deborah were tucked into the big station wagon, and
Jim Cunneen took her to the Home, where lost children are sheltered
and fed.
CHAPTER II
THE CHILDREN'S HOME
As they climbed the steps leading to the Home, Clematis looked up at
the policeman.
"What is this place?" she asked.
"This is the Children's Home, miss. You will have a fine time
here."
A young woman with a kind face opened the door.
The policeman did not go in. "Here is a child I found on Chambers
Street," he said. "We can't find out where she lives."
"Oh, I see," said the woman.
"Could you take her in for a while, till we can find her parents?"
"Yes, I guess we have room for her. Come in, little girl."
At that moment there was a scratching sound, and Deborah stuck her
head out.
"Miew," said Deborah, who was still hungry. Perhaps she thought it
was another bakery.
"Dear me!" cried the young woman, "we can't have that cat in here."
Clematis drew back, and reached for Jim Cunneen's hand.
"It's a very nice cat, I'm sure," said the policeman.
He felt sorry for Clematis. He knew how she loved her kitten.
"But it's against the rules. The children can never have cats or
dogs in here."
Clematis, with tears in her eyes, turned away.
"Come on," she said to her big friend. "Let us go."
But Jim Cunneen drew her back. He loved little girls, and was also
fond of cats.
"Don't you think the cook might need it for a day or two, to catch
the rats?" he asked, with his best smile.
"Oh dear me, I don't know. I don't think so. It's against the rules
for children to bring in pets."
"Ah then, just wait a minute. I'll be right back."
The policeman ran down the steps and around the corner of the house,
while the young woman asked Clematis questions.
"It's all right then, I'm sure," he called as he came back. "Katie
says she would be very glad to have that cat to help her catch the
rats."
The young woman laughed; Clematis dried her tears, and Jim Cunneen
waved his hand and said goodby.
In another moment the door opened, and Clematis, with Deborah still
in her arms, was in her new home.
It was supper hour at the Children's Home. In the big dining room
three long tables were set.
At each place on the clean, bare table was a plate, a small yellow
bowl, and a spoon.
Beside each plate was a blue gingham bib.
Jane, one of the girls in the Home, was filling the bowls on her
table with milk from a big brown pitcher.
Two little girls worked at each of the tables. While one filled the
bowls, the other brought the bread.
She put two thick slices of bread and a big cookie on each plate.
The young woman who had let Clematis in, came to the table near the
door.
"There is a new girl at your table tonight, Jane," she said. "She
will sit next to me."
"All right, Miss Rose," answered Jane, carefully filling the last
yellow bowl.
"Please may I ring the bell tonight, Miss Rose?" asked Sally, who
had been helping Jane.
Miss Rose looked at the table. Every slice of bread and every cookie
was in place.
"Yes, dear; your work is well done. You may ring."
At the sound of the supper bell, a tramping of many feet sounded in
the long hall.
The doors of the dining room were opened, and Mrs. Snow came in,
followed by a double line of little girls.
Each girl knew just where to find her place, and stood waiting for
the signal to sit.
A teacher stood at the head of each table, and beside Miss Rose was
the little stranger.
Mrs. Snow was the housemother. She asked the blessing, while every
little girl bowed her head.
Clematis stared about at the other children all this time, and
wondered what they were doing.
Now they were seated, and each girl buttoned her bib in place before
she tasted her supper.
Sally sat next to Clematis.
"They gave you a bath, didn't they?" she said, as she put her bread
into her bowl.
Clematis nodded.
"And you got a nice clean apron like ours, didn't you?"
Clematis nodded again.
"Oh, see her hair, it's lovely!" sighed a little girl across the
table, who had short, straight hair.
Clematis' soft brown curls were neatly brushed, and tied with a dark
red ribbon.
She did not look much like the child who came in an hour before.
"What's her name?" asked Jane, looking at Miss Rose.
"We'll ask her tomorrow. Now stop talking please, so she can eat her
supper."
At that, the little girl looked up at Miss Rose and said: "My name
is Clematis, and my kitty's name is Deborah."
Just as she said this, a very strange noise was heard. Every child
stopped eating. Miss Rose turned red, and Mrs. Snow looked up in
surprise.
"Miew, miew, miew," came from under the table. In another minute a
little head peeped over the edge of the table where Clematis sat. It
was a kitten, with a black spot over one eye.
"Miew, miew," Deborah continued, and stuck her little red tongue
right into the yellow bowl. She was very hungry, and could wait no
longer.
[Illustration: Deborah was very hungry]
Mrs. Snow rapped on the table, for every child laughed right out.
What fun it was! No one had ever seen a cat in there before.
"Miss Rose, will you kindly put that cat out. Put her out the front
door." Mrs. Snow was very stern. She didn't wish any cats in the
Home.
Clematis looked at Mrs. Snow. Her eyes filled with tears, and she
began to sob.
Miss Rose turned as red as Deborah's tongue. She had not asked Mrs.
Snow if she might let the cat in. She thought it would stay in the
kitchen with Katie.
"Did you hear me, Miss Rose? I wish you would please put the cat out
the door. We can't have it here."
Miss Rose started to get up, when Clematis slipped out of her chair,
hugging Deborah tightly to her breast.
The tears were running down her cheeks, as she started for the
door.
"Where are you going, little girl?" said Mrs. Snow.
Clematis did not answer, but kept right on.
"Stop her, Miss Rose. What is the matter, anyway? Dear me, what a
fuss!"
Miss Rose caught Clematis by the arm.
"Wait, dear," she said. "Don't act like that. Answer Mrs. Snow."
"I don't care," sobbed Clematis, looking back. "I don't want to stay
here if you are going to throw my cat away."
"I should have asked you, Mrs. Snow," said Miss Rose. "She had the
kitten with her. She cried to bring it in, and Katie said she would
care for it in the kitchen."
"Oh, so that is it. Well, don't cry, child. Take it back to Katie,
and tell her to keep the door shut."
"She's hungry," said Clematis, drying her eyes on her sleeve.
"Well, ask Katie to feed her then, and come right back to the
table."
CHAPTER III
THE FIRST NIGHT
Supper was soon finished, with many giggles from the little girls,
who hoped that Deborah would get in again.
Clematis ate every crumb of her bread and cookie. Her yellow bowl
looked as if Deborah had lapped it dry.
"After supper, we play games. It's great fun," said Sally, as they
were folding their bibs.
The bell rang, and the long line of children formed once more.
They marched out through the long hall, up the broad stairs to the
play room.
There were little tables, with low chairs to match. Some of the
tables held games.
In one corner of the room was a great doll house, that a rich lady
had given to the Home.
In another corner was a small wooden swing with two seats.
A rocking horse stood near the window, and a box of bean bags lay on
a low shelf near by.
Soon all were playing happily, except Clematis, who stood near the
window.
She was looking at the trees, which were sending out red buds. The
sun had set, and the sky was rosy with the last light of day.
"Don't you want to play?" asked Miss Rose, coming across the room.
Clematis shook her head.
"What would you like to do, dear?"
Clematis thought a moment.
"I should like to help | 1,194.20349 |
2023-11-16 18:36:58.2599370 | 2,016 | 13 |
Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
UP IN MAINE
Stories of Yankee Life Told in Verse
By Holman F. Day
With an Introduction by C. E. Littlefield
Boston: Small, Maynard & Company
1900
[Illustration: 0001]
[Illustration: 0010]
[Illustration: 0013]
TO MY FRIEND
AND FELLOW IN THE CRAFT OF LETTERS
WINFIELD M. THOMPSON
TO WHOM I AM INDEBTED
FOR MORE THAN ONE OF THE STORIES
TOLD HEREIN
THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED
PREFACE
I don’t know how to weave a roundelay,
I couldn’t voice a sighing song of love;
No mellow lyre that on which I play;
I plunk a strident lute without a glove.
The rhythm that is running through my stuff
Is not the whisp of maiden’s trailing gown;
The metre, maybe, gallops rather rough,
Like river-drivers storming down to town.
--It’s more than likely something from the
wood,
Where chocking axes scare the deer and
moose;
A homely rhyme, and easy understood
--An echo from the weird domain of Spruce.
Or else it’s just some Yankee notion, dressed
In rough-and-ready “Uncle Dudley” phrase;
Some honest thought we common folks suggest,
--Some tricksy mem’ry-flash from boyhood’s
days.
I cannot polish off this stilted rhyme
With all these homely notions in my brain.
A sonnet, sir, would stick me every time;
Let’s have a chat ’bout common things in
Maine.
Holman F. Day.
|A_BOUT three thousand years ago the “Preacher” declared that “of
making many books there is no end.” This sublimely pessimistic truism
deserves to be considered in connection with the time when it was
written; otherwise it might accomplish results not intended by its
author.
It must be remembered that in the “Preacher’s” time books were
altogether in writing. It should also be borne in mind that if the
handwriting which we have in these days, speaking of the period prior to
the advent of the female typewriter, is to be accepted as any criterion,
--and inasmuch as all concede that history repeats itself, that may
well be assumed,--is easy to understand how, by reason of its
illegibility, he was also led to declare that “much study is a weariness
of the flesh.” It is quite obvious that this was the moving cause of his
delightfully doleful utterance as to books. Had he lived in this year
nineteen hundred, at either the closing of the nineteenth or the dawning
of the twentieth century,--as to whether it is closing or dawning I
make no assertion,--he might well have made same criticism, but from an
optimistic standpoint.
A competent litterateur informs me that there are now extant
3,725,423,201 books; that in America and England alone during the last
year 12,888 books entered upon a precarious existence, with the faint
though unexpressed hope of surviving “life’s fitful fever!” If the
conditions of the “Preacher’s” time obtained to-day, the vocabulary of
pessimism would be inadequate for the expression of similar views.
A careful examination by the writer, of all these well-nigh innumerable
monuments of learning, discloses the fact that the work now being
introduced to what I trust may be an equally innumerable army of readers
has no parallel in literature. If justification were needed, that fact
alone justifies its existence. This fact, however, is not necessary, as
the all-sufficient fact which warrants the collection of these unique
sketches in book form is that no one can read them without being
interested, entertained, and amused, as well as instructed and improved.
“The stubborn strength of Plymouth Rock” is nowhere better exemplified
than on the Maine farm, in the Maine woods, on the Maine coast, or in
the Maine workshop. From them, the author of “Up in Maine” has drawn his
inspiration. Rugged independence, singleness of purpose, unswerving
integrity, philosophy adequate for all occasions, the great realities
of life, and a cheerful disregard of conventionalities, are here found
in all their native strength and vigor. These peculiarities as
delineated may be rough, perhaps uncouth, but they are characteristic,
picturesque, engaging, and lifelike. His subjects are rough diamonds.
They have the inherent qualities from which great characters are
developed, and out of which heroes are made.
Through every chink and crevice of these rugged portrayals glitters the
sheen of pure gold, gold of standard weight and fineness, “gold tried in
the fire.” Finally it should be said that this is what is now known as a
book with a purpose, and that purpose, as the author confidentially
informs me, is to sell as many copies as possible, which he confidently
expects to do. To this most worthy end I trust I may have, in a small
degree, contributed by this introduction._
C. LITTLEFIELD.
Washington, D.C., March 17,1900.
‘ROUND HOME
AUNT SHAW’S PET JUG
Now there was Uncle Elnathan Shaw,
--Most regular man you ever saw!
Just half-past four in the afternoon
He’d start and whistle that old jig tune,
Take the big blue jug from the but’ry shelf
And trot down cellar, to draw himself
Old cider enough to last him through
The winter ev’nin’. Two quarts would do.
--Just as regular as half-past four
Come round, he’d tackle that cellar door,
As he had for thutty years or more.
And as regular, too, as he took that jug
Aunt Shaw would yap through her old
mug,
“Now, Nathan, for goodness’ sake take care
You allus trip on the second stair;
It seems as though you were just possessed
To break that jug. It’s the very best
There is in town and you know it, too,
And ’twas left to me by my great-aunt Sue.
For goodness’ sake, why don’t yer lug
A tin dish down, for ye’ll break that jug?”
Allus the same, suh, for thirty years,
Allus the same old twits and jeers
Slammed for the nineteenth thousand time
And still we wonder, my friend, at crime.
But Nathan took it meek’s a pup
And the worst he said was “Please shut up.”
You know what the Good Book says befell
The pitcher that went to the old-time well;
Wal, whether ’twas that or his time had come,
Or his stiff old limbs got weak and numb
Or whether his nerves at last giv’ in
To Aunt Shaw’s everlasting chin--
One day he slipped on that second stair,
Whirled round and grabbed at the empty air.
And clean to the foot of them stairs, ker-smack,
He bumped on the bulge of his humped old back
And he’d hardly finished the final bump
When old Aunt Shaw she giv’ a jump
And screamed downstairs as mad’s a bug
“Dod-rot your hide, did ye break my jug?”
Poor Uncle Nathan lay there flat
Knocked in the shape of an old cocked hat,
But he rubbed his legs, brushed off the dirt
And found after all that he warn’t much hurt.
And he’d saved the jug, for his last wild thought
Had been of that; he might have caught
At the cellar shelves and saved his fall,
But he kept his hands on the jug through all.
And now as he loosed his jealous hug
His wife just screamed, “Did ye break my
jug?”
Not a single word for his poor old bones
Nor a word when she heard his awful groans,
But the blamed old hard-shelled turkle just
Wanted to know if that jug was bust.
Old Uncle Nathan he let one roar
And he shook his fist at the cellar door;
“Did ye break my jug?” she was yellin’ still.
“No, durn yer pelt, but I swow I will.”
And you’d thought that the house was a-going
to fall
When the old jug smashed on the cellar wall.
OLD BOGGS’S SLARNT
Old Bill Boggs is always sayin’ that he’d like to
but he carn’t;
He hain’t never had no chances, he hain’t never
got no slarnt.
Says it’s all dum foolish tryin’, ’less ye git the
proper start,
Says he’s never seed no op’nin’ so he’s never
had no heart.
But he’s ch | 1,194.279977 |
2023-11-16 18:36:58.2600580 | 7,437 | 28 | DEVELOPMENT OF ART***
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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See 44509-h.htm or 44509-h.zip:
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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=).
Greek transliterations are enclosed by curly braces
(example: {kosmos}).
The transcriber's descriptions of illustrations are in
parentheses.
A MANUAL OF THE HISTORICAL DEVELOPMENT OF ART.
[Illustration: CHART OF THE HISTORICAL DEVELOPMENT OF ART.]
A MANUAL OF THE HISTORICAL DEVELOPMENT OF ART
Pre-historic--Ancient--Classic--Early Christian
With Special Reference to Architecture, Sculpture, Painting,
and Ornamentation
by
G. G. ZERFFI, PH.D., F.R.S.L.
One of the Lecturers of H. M. Department of Science and Art.
London:
Hardwicke & Bogue, 192 Piccadilly, W.
1876.
London: Printed by
Spottiswoode and Co., New-Street Square
and Parliament Street
The right of translation is reserved.
This Book is Inscribed
TO
E. J. POYNTER, ESQ., R.A.
DIRECTOR OF THE ART TRAINING SCHOOLS,
SOUTH KENSINGTON,
IN RECOGNITION OF HIS GENIUS AS A PAINTER,
AND OF
HIS UNTIRING EFFORTS IN PROMOTING
HIGHER ART EDUCATION.
PREFACE.
An experience of more than eight years as Lecturer on the 'Historical
Development of Art,' at the National Art Training School, South
Kensington, has convinced me of the necessity for a short and concise
Manual, which should serve both the public and students as a guide to
the study of the history of art. In all our educational establishments,
colleges, and ladies' schools, the study of art-history, which ought to
form one of the most important subjects of our educational system, is
entirely neglected. To suggest and to excite to such a study is the aim
of this book. It would be impossible to exhaust in a short volume even
that section of the subject which I propose to treat, and the most that
can be done is to give outlines, which must be filled in by further
studies.
Art is at last assuming a better position with us, thanks to the
influence of the lamented Prince Consort, to whom we undoubtedly owe
the revival of the culture of sciences and arts, and the indefatigable
exertions of the Government, aided by munificent grants of Parliament.
But much more is to be desired from the public. If the 'National
Association for the Promotion of Social Science' is a faithful mirror
of our intellectual stand-point, we certainly have not yet attained a
very high position as an artistic national body. For twenty years the
Association has met and has discussed a variety of topics, and this
year, for the _first_ time, it occurred to the learned socialists that
there was such a factor in humanity as art, and the congress allowed
an art-section to be opened under the presidency of Mr. E. J. Poynter,
R.A., the director of the 'National Art Training School.' _Four_
questions were proposed for discussion, and I gave anticipatory answers
to these, before the congress was opened, in my introductory lecture to
the students of the Art Training School. These answers will serve as so
many reasons for the issue of this book, and I therefore reproduce them
here, with the questions to which they refer.
1. 'What are the best methods of securing the improvement of Street
Architecture, especially as regards its connection with public
buildings?'
_Answer._--Architects must be trained in art-history to prevent them
from committing glaring anachronisms in brick, mortar, stone, iron,
wood, or any other building material. Our street architecture cannot
improve so long as we allow any _original_ genius to _copy_ mediaeval
oddities, and revive by-gone monstrosities at random, in perfect
contradiction to the spirit of our times.
2. 'How best can the encouragement of Mural Decoration, especially
Frescoes, be secured?'
_Answer._--This might be attained by enlarging the area of national
interest beyond horse-racing, pigeon-shooting, and deer-stalking, the
buying of old china, mediaeval candlesticks, ewers and salvers, or of
old pictures, that can scarcely be seen; and extending our general
art-support to our own talented artists, even though they may not
all be Michael Angelos or Raphaels. We could allow them to decorate
the walls of our town-houses, public buildings, chapels, churches,
banks, and museums. We must, however, first train their minds to a
correct appreciation of art-history, of the world's history, and of the
glorious History of England, thus enriching their imaginations with the
illustrious deeds of the past, in which they may mirror our present
state, and foreshadow a continually progressing glorious future. For
there is a mysterious and marvellous 'one-ness' in the religious,
social, and artistic development of humanity which I have tried in the
pages of this book continually to point out.
No civilised and wealthy country on the surface of our globe, can
boast of more heroic deeds on sea and land, in and out of Parliament;
of more splendid conquests by warlike and peaceful means than ours.
The Wars of the Roses, the colonisation of America, the occupation
of India, the peopling of Australia, the struggles of conformists
and non-conformists, of Cavaliers and Roundheads, of Churchmen and
Puritans, of Independents and Royalists, of <DW7>s and Covenanters,
of Iconoclasts and Free-thinkers, all offer stirring scenes; and yet,
if we want to see on canvas pictures of our past, we must turn to
France or Germany for them. I am sorry to say that until lately the
Iconoclasts have borne all before them. As, however, the 'National
Association' has at length consented to allow the discussion of art,
and as words are in general precursors of deeds, we may expect some
results from our awakened interest in art-matters.
3. 'What is the influence of academies upon the art of the nation?'
_Answer._--Academies have no influence whatever, if the nation itself
takes no interest in art, and has no art-education from a general,
theoretical, and historical point of view. So long as art is considered
a mere luxury, because a house does not keep out cold and wet better,
if it be outwardly decorated; so long as it is thought that a parlour
need but have red curtains to be a parlour; that our walls may be
covered with any description of hideously-shaped, realistically-wrought
Chinese or Japanese flowers, if they are only kept in greenish or
brownish neutral tints; so long as we fancy that our wainscotings may
be bright light, though the paper above be dark; and that a window is
admirable, if only provided with a pointed arch, and some trefoil or
quatrefoil to keep out as much light as possible; academies can do
nothing. So long as we neglect higher esthetical culture and training
in our public schools, our academy will but reflect this neglect.
In reviewing the past I have throughout endeavoured to show the
close connection of art-forms with the general, social, religious,
intellectual, and moral conditions of the different nations and periods
in which they appeared. It is erroneous to suppose that art has only to
treat of straight or waving lines, of triangles, squares, and circles,
of imitations of flowers, animals, and men, of nature and nothing but
nature. The study of art comprises man in all his thoughts and actions,
and has to add to this the phenomena of the whole outer world, from
crystallisations to the heavenly vault, studded with innumerable stars
at night, or glowing with light and life in colours at day-time. If our
academy were to take this to heart, and expand its curriculum so as to
have the students taught the beauties of Greek, English, and German
poetry, we should not be obliged to turn to foreigners for worthy
illustrations of our immortal Shakespeare, Milton, or even Tennyson.
The art-historian knows that academies neither produced a Pheidias
nor a Praxiteles, neither a Raphael nor an Albert Duerer; neither a
Rubens nor a Holbein; neither a Gainsborough nor a Hogarth; neither a
Canova nor a Flaxman. For art-academies, as mere outgrowths of fashion,
unless rooted in the earnest, artistic spirit of a nation, only foster
mannerism, pander to the general bad taste of the wealthy classes, and
one-sidedly cultivate portrait-painting, whilst they shut out landscape
or historical figure-painting. Academies have rarely encouraged grand
ideas; they create a kind of parlour or bed-room art, with nice, but
very small, sentiments, water-colour effusions and flower imitations,
in which the Chinese surpass us by far. So long as our academy will
have great names on its programmes, as nominal lecturers, so called
because they do not lecture; so long as it will systematically neglect
to teach our rising artists Universal History, Art History, Archaeology,
Comparative Mythology, Symbolism, Iconography, Esthetics from a higher
scientific point, and Psychology with special reference to artistic
composition, and so long as these subjects are ignored in our general
educational establishments, we shall in vain try to compete at large
with other nations, however many isolated great artists we may produce.
Artists in all ages reflected in their products the general sentiments
of the times in which they lived, and of the people for whom they
worked; every page of this book bears out this assertion. Art is a
mighty civiliser of humanity and elevates the whole of our earthly
existence, for it purifies passions and pacifies our mind. Art is the
eternally-active genius of humanity. Let our academy acknowledge this,
and it will at least try to imitate the Art Training School at South
Kensington, which has continually worked in the direction of enlarging
the range of the studies of its students.
4. 'What is the influence upon society of Decorative Art and
Art-workmanship in all household details?'
_Answer._--If this question had been asked with an eye to business,
we might answer that decorative art makes trade brisk, induces people
to buy ornaments, and fills the pockets of dealers in curiosities.
But this is not our aim. So long as we fail to look upon art as an
earnest and serious study, as important and necessary to our social
wellbeing as either ethics or science, the influence of decorative art
must be confined to enticing people to plaster their walls with all
sorts of China plate, or pay dearly for Japanese trays, screens, or
cupboards, because they have not learnt to distinguish between the
quaint and the comical, the beautiful and the ugly. Their taste is
still on a level with that of untrained children, who have plenty of
money in their pockets, do not know what to buy, and rush to purchase
the ugliest monstrosities. If half the money that is wasted in these
directions were to be devoted to the encouragement of our hard-working
rising artists, we might soon boast of still greater successes than
we can proudly point to, despite the adverse circumstances under
which artists have to labour amongst us. Art with us is still looked
upon as an extravagance, a luxury, as it was with the Romans of
old, and this produces a craving for oddities. We hang up big china
cockatoos, or place big china dogs, or stags with big china antlers,
on our hearth-rugs. We have coarse china frogs and lizards, crabs or
lobsters, from which we eat our fruit or fish; or a life-like salmon
with staring eyes is brought on our table, its back takes off, and we
scoop out the real cooked salmon with which its inside is filled. Form
of dish, association of ideas, and action of the host are more worthy
of anthropophagi than civilised beings of the nineteenth century. So
long as art-history and esthetics are not made regular studies, not
only in art-schools but also in general educational establishments,
and especially ladies' schools, our national consciousness of art in
general and the requirements of our age in particular cannot improve.
Art is a branch of human knowledge, ingenuity, and creative force
in which ladies, trained to appreciate beauty, might be made better
'helps,' than in the kitchen, the pantry, or the larder. The national
wealth of France consists in the nation's superiority in taste and
artistic skill. The French arrange a few artificial flowers with
an exquisite understanding of the juxtaposition of colours and the
combination of forms, and make us pay for a 'bouquet' on a bonnet from
fifty to sixty francs, whilst the raw material costs from five to six
francs; they do the same in terra-cotta, bronze, or iron. So long as
everyone with us thinks himself justified in having his own bad taste
gratified, because he can pay for it, decorative artists will serve
that bad taste in all our household details. Art-history comprises
not merely measurements of temples, heights of spires in feet, or of
statues in cubits and inches.
We have of late years made gigantic strides in the advancement
of street-architecture, though we do not yet know how to create
perspective views of artistic beauty; we still indulge too much in
mediaeval crookedness and unintelligible windings. We still decorate
too gaudily, or, falling into the other extreme, too much in neutral
colours; but we are beginning to understand that man does not live on
stone and brick alone, but also on taste in arranging and decorating
the stone. London, with the exception of some of our monstrous railway
bridges and railway stations, begins to look worthy of its position
as the centre of the world's commerce. Our streets have lately put
on some stately 'Sunday clothing' in terra-cotta, Portland cement,
and iron railings. Our glass and china, our furniture and carpets,
begin to have more variegated patterns, though I am sorry to hear that
foreigners are still generally appointed as the principal modellers. I
base this assertion on the Report on the National Competition of the
Works of Schools of Art for 1876, in which the examiners say: 'Our want
of that workman-like power over the material, which is so noticeable
in all French productions in modelling, is still very conspicuous. As
long as this continues a large proportion of the decorative figure or
ornamental designs in relief made for the English market will be in
the hands of foreign artists.' The panacea of this evil will and can
only be a higher intellectual training, not merely of the faculty of
imitating and combining given forms in nature, but of endowing them
with ideal beauty, fostered by a correct study of art-history.
There are no illustrations to this work, but I have annexed a long
list of illustrated works on art. My aim in teaching, and writing,
has been consistently to induce my hearers and readers to think and
study for themselves. Bad or even good wood-cuts are by no means
essential in art-books, for we possess in the British, Christy's,
and South Kensington Museums such invaluable art-collections, that
we may write books without illustrations if we can induce readers
and students to verify what we say by a diligent study of these
specimens. Theoretical generalisation ought always to precede our
special studies. We only then know when we are able to systematise, to
group, to draw analogies, or to arrange our details according to some
general principle. If we enter on any study without having prepared
our mind to grasp the connecting links in an artistic or scientific
subject, our knowledge of an incoherent mass of details will only dwarf
our understanding, instead of brightening and clearing it, and we
shall become technically-trained machines, instead of self-conscious
and self-reasoning creators in any branch of art. The Art Library
at the South Kensington Museum is, without any exaggeration, the
completest in the world; it abounds in the best illustrated works of
all nations. Art-books with bad or indifferent illustrations, or even
with good illustrations, are not so much needed as art-books with
unbiased theories, esthetical principles, and philosophical ideas,
which may awaken the power of reasoning in both readers and students.
It is only too often the case that, in seeing bad illustrations, the
student imagines he knows everything about the work spoken of and
produced in outlines. He must, however, go and see for himself. Art
has its own fairy domain and its own most catholic realm, in which
everyone is welcome who can contribute to the improvement, delight,
and happiness of man. To induce readers and students to visit, with
some fore-thought and fore-knowledge, our vast and unparalleled
art-collections, and to convince them, that to detach the study of art
from a correct appreciation of the ideas that engendered its forms, is
an impossibility, was the task I set myself in writing the pages of
this book.
LONDON: _October 1876_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PROLEGOMENA.
PAGE
The phenomena of destruction and combination in Nature--The
difference between the sublime and beautiful--Without man
no beauty--Science, industry, and art--The utilitarian
principle--Choice--The realistic, historical, and critical
points of view in art--Crystallisations and their elements
--Symmetry and eurythmy--Proportion, action, and expression
--Man is the symbol of earthly perfection 1
CHAPTER II.
ETHNOLOGY IN ITS BEARING ON ART.
The <DW64>, the Turanian, and the Aryan: their characteristics,
facial angle, amount of brain, and artistic capacities--
Space and time--Art treated historically--Pottery in its
development--Generalisation and its advantage 22
CHAPTER III.
PRE-HISTORIC AND SAVAGE ART.
Traces of man's inventive and decorative force in by-gone
ages--Classification of pre-historic products--The old
stone age--The new stone age--The bronze and iron ages--
Man's first dwellings--Houses and temples--Lake-or
pile-dwellings in their gradual development--Cranoges
or wooden islands--Art in the western hemisphere--The
stucco in the rock-hewn temple at Mitla in Mexico--
Difference between art-products in North, Central, and
South America--Cuzco, near Lake Titicaca--Pottery as a
reliable historical record--The wild and fantastic mode
of ornamentation in America, and its causes 32
CHAPTER IV.
CHINESE ART.
The Chinese language--The holy books of the Chinese--The
sacred number five--Principle of ornamentation--Their
towns--The wall with the Chinese not yet a completing
part of the building--The enclosure, the frame, and
the substructure--The trellis-work of the Chinese and
its subdivision--Their Tshao-pings and Miaos--Mode of
colouring--Silk-weavings and their usual patterns--
Feather works and embroideries--Their deficiencies in
painting--Their pottery--Causes of their failings in
art in a higher sense. 45
CHAPTER V.
INDIA, PERSIA, ASSYRIA, AND BABYLON.
The Aryans on this and the other side of the Himalayan
Mountains--Science and art the offsprings of religion--
Endeavours to express abstract phenomena in concrete
signs--The symbolic, dialectic, and mythological periods--
The Indian trinity--The principal divinities of India, and
their analogy with the Egyptian, Persian, and Greek gods--
Indian epic poetry--The rock-hewn temples and Buddha--
Stucco ornamentation--Causes of the gorgeousness of
Indian art--Persia and the Persians--Their five cosmical
elements--Historical development--The Zend-Avesta--
Persepolis and its oldest monuments--Zoroaster--The
Persian trinity--Light and darkness--Why no temples
were constructed--The Babylonians and Ninivites--Their
principles of ornamentation--Their wall decorations 60
CHAPTER VI.
EGYPTIAN ART.
The sphinx the emblem of Egyptian art--Long and short
chronologists--Lepsius and his list of Egyptian dynasties--
State of Egypt under Menes, who ruled 3892 B.C., according
to Lepsius--Division of Egyptian art into periods--The
forty-two holy books of the Egyptians--Their gods of the
first, second, and third orders--The Egyptian trinity--The
pyramidal period--The hieratic style--The Ptolemaic style
--Their mode of ornamentation and symmetrophobia 103
CHAPTER VII.
HEBREW ART.
The Hebrews are a mixed race--Social and political condition
of the Jews during 6,000 years--Description of the country
and aspect of nature--Rabbi Manasseh Ben Israel--
Architecture a sure measure of a nation's social and
political development--Egotistical character of nomadic
traders--The temple and palace of Solomon, the only
architectural efforts of the Jews--Sketch of their history,
divided into eight periods--The tabernacle a tent--The
first temple constructed on its plan--Ben David on the
mysterious empty room above the Holy of Holies--Causes why
the Jews had no art, and never attempted to have any 132
CHAPTER VIII.
GREEK ART.
Meshiah (humanity) was first freed by the Greeks in form,
and by Christ in spirit--Aspect of nature--India, Egypt,
and Persia as the component parts of Greek development--
The different dialects of the Greeks--Their mythology--
Traces of intelligible facts and historical events in the
Greek myths--Zeus and his character--Prometheus and
Faust--The nine muses and their leader--Greek life a
continuous festivity--Greek poetry and philosophy--Greek
artistic development--The Olympian, Pythian, Nemaean,
and Isthmian games--Greek architecture: the temple--
Building materials--Site of temples--Proportion--Plan
of temples--The Doric, Ionic, and Korinthian orders and
their subdivisions--The Attic style--Greek pottery and
Greek sculpture--Different periods--The British Museum
and Greek art--Onatas, Ageladas, Kalamis, Pheidias,
Praxiteles, Skopas, and Lysippus--The Parthenon--
Aphrodite no longer draped--The groups of Niobe, Laokoon,
and the Farnese bull--Causes of the decline of Greek art 153
CHAPTER IX.
ETRUSKAN ART.
The first settlers in Etruria--Their gods of the first and
second orders--The ritual of thunder--Temples and tombs--
Subdivision of tombs--Cinerary chests--Excavations at
Praeneste--Pottery and metal works--Their style either
Archaic or Etruskan--Division of Etruskan works of art
into five principal categories 212
CHAPTER X.
ROMAN ART.
Characteristic differences between Greeks and Romans--The
triple theocracy of Rome--The mythical period of the seven
kings of Rome--Rome as republic--Roman mythology--Rome
under the emperors--Roman public games--Roman literature
the outgrowth of Greek literature--Polylithic wall
decorations--The arch, cross-vault, and cupola--Periods of
Roman art and their subdivisions--Temples--Fora and
theatres--The mausoleum of Augustus--Hadrian, the divine
architect--Triumphal arches--The baths of Caracalla--The
advent of Christianity 228
CHAPTER XI.
EARLY CHRISTIAN ART.
North and south of our globe--Buddhism and Christianity--
Christ's divine teachings--Romanesque and Byzantine
art-forms--Symbols, allegories, emblems, and myths--
Catacombs at Rome and Naples--The sacredness of the number
seven--Christian art in its essence and different phases--
The spiritual element predominates--The first Christian
churches--Constantine--Ravenna and its early churches--
St. Sophia in the Byzantine style--Migration of northern
nations--Their religious notions--The Teutons turn
Christians--Wood and ivory carvings--Art in its relation
to the progressive development of mankind--Summary and
conclusion 264
BIBLIOGRAPHY for the study of the historical development of
Art 301
INDEX 305
MANUAL
OF THE
HISTORICAL DEVELOPMENT OF ART
CHAPTER I.
PROLEGOMENA.
Gazing at the heavens on a starry night, we see, in addition to
myriads of sparkling worlds floating in the air, a great quantity of
nebulae--either decayed systems of worlds, or worlds in formation.
Worlds which have lost their centre of gravity and fallen to pieces; or
worlds which are seeking, according to the general law of gravitation,
to form a central body by the attraction of cosmical ether. The one
phenomenon is that of destruction, the other that of new formation.
This double process is continually repeating itself in the development
of art. Consciously or unconsciously, the artists of the different
nations, at different periods, devote themselves to the dissolution
or reconstruction of artistic products. To become acquainted with
this process, to trace the elements from which art is built up, or the
influences which engender a dissolution of artistic forms, is of the
greatest importance.
Art must be looked upon as the phenomenal result of certain religious,
social, intellectual, and natural conditions. To trace these
conditions, their origin, influence, and gradual development, by means
of a critical and historical investigation into the causes which
produced them, will be our task. For art is like a mirror: whatever
looks into it is reflected by it. If a poor, untrained imagination
stares into it, no one must be astonished that poor and distorted
images result.
It is usually accepted as a truism that the essence of art is the
reproduction of nature. Wherever, then, nature were reflected in
the 'Art-mirror,' we should have the best work of art. But this is
not so. For art has to reflect the phenomena of the makrokosm as
a subjectively-conceived mikrokosm. We do not see matters as they
really are, as each thing is surrounded by a thick fog of incidental,
objective, and subjective peculiarities. This fog must be cleared
away, to show us nature in the bright colours of intellectual and
self-conscious idealisation.
Nature furnishes us with mortar and stones for the building, but the
architect's intellectual power has to arrange these elements, and to
bring them into an artistic shape. Nature furnishes us with flowers,
trees, animals and men; but the ornamental designer or painter has to
reproduce and to group them so as to impress the forms of nature with
an intellectual vitality.
Before the artist proceeds to his work he must become thoroughly
conscious of the distinction between the SUBLIME and the BEAUTIFUL.
It is essential that he should draw a strict line of demarcation
between the two conceptions; in order not to waste his energies on the
reproduction of objects which are beyond the powers of art.
During the long period of the cosmical formation of the earth, when
mountains were towered upon mountains, rocks upheaved, islands
submerged; when air, water, fire, and solid matter seemed engaged in
never-ending conflict--nature was _sublime_. The dynamic force appeared
to be the only element, and the counterbalancing static force was
without influence. Gradually vegetable and animal life, in their first
crude forms, commenced to show themselves.
Zoophites were developed into megatheriums and mastodons. Mammoths
and elks sported on plains which now form the mountain tops of our
continents. Scarcely visible coral animals were still engaged in
constructing mountain chains, and a luxuriant vegetation covered the
small continents. Such transformations, convulsions, and changes are
gigantic, grand, awe-inspiring--sublime, but not beautiful. Whenever
nature is at work, disturbing the air with electric currents or shaking
huge mountains, so that they bow their lofty summits, or when the dry
soil is rent asunder, and sends forth streams of glowing lava, we
are in the presence of the sublime, not of the beautiful. Whenever
man's nature is overawed, whenever he is made to feel his impotence
by the phenomena of nature, he faces the sublime. In art, only a few
divinely-gifted and chosen geniuses have ever reached the sublime.
When, however, the cosmical forces had expended their exuberant
powers--when a diversified climate had produced those plants and
animals that surround us--when man appeared on this revolving
planet, and by degrees reached self-consciousness as his highest
development--then only beauty acquired existence and dominion on earth.
Without men capable of understanding what is beautiful, art would have
no meaning.
The aim of science is to vanquish error; the province of industry to
subdue matter, and the vocation of art to produce beauty. The artist
must not neglect science, for he has to be truthful, as error is ugly;
he must make himself well acquainted with matter, for he has to use,
to transform, and to modify it; and, finally, he has to hallow this
scientifically-treated matter by impressing it with the stamp of ideal
beauty.
The attainment of this, the perfection of art, has been slow and
gradual. Though art, like all the inventions, took its origin in
want and necessity, the _utilitarian_ spirit is the very bane of
art, for art flourishes only under the influence of the very highest
intellectual culture.
Nature produces like art; but the products of nature are the
unconscious effects of the immutable law of causation. The products of
art are the results of the conscious intellectual power of the artist.
It is the free, yet well-regulated, consciousness of the artist that
elevates his productions into works of art. Undoubtedly the great
store-house of the artist is nature; he learns from nature how to
ornament, but he has to discern, to combine, to adapt, to select, his
forms. The whole success of the artist, in whatever branch he works,
must depend on an earnest and severe use of the word CHOICE.
'He is truly great who knows the value of everything, and distinguishes
what is more or less great, and what is most estimable, so as to
begin from that, and to apply the genius, and fix the desires upon
the execution of things worthy and great.' This mode of thinking was
followed by the most celebrated and enlightened artists from the
ancient Greeks to our own time. They knew to distinguish that which
was most worthy in nature, and to this they directed their study,
diligence, and industry. Inferior geniuses, because they are attached
to mediocrity, believe that a mere clinging to nature constitutes all
art; and the lowest artists are enchanted with the minutiae of little
works, taking them for principal things; so that human ignorance passes
from the trifling to the useless, from the useless to the ugly, and
from the ugly to the false and chimerical.
In treating of the historical development of art, to enable artists
to distinguish and to choose the best, and not only to imitate but
to create consciously for themselves, it is necessary to make them
_theoretically_ acquainted with the progress of art.
To trace historically the changes art had to undergo is necessary
for all really self-conscious artists. Art with us is still looked
upon as entirely subject to individual taste. Everyone thinks himself
competent to have an opinion on products of art. '_De gustibus non
est disputandum_' is heard not only in our drawing-rooms, but also in
art-circles. This false and utterly untenable adage is the cause of the
chaotic anarchy in our art-world.
So little as there can be differences in truth, can there be
differences in beauty. It is the duty of philosophy to strive for
truth; it is the task | 1,194.280098 |
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produced from images generously made available by The
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_A Battery at Close Quarters_
_A Paper_
READ BEFORE THE OHIO COMMANDERY
OF THE LOYAL LEGION
October 6, 1909
BY
HENRY M. NEIL
Captain Twenty-second Ohio Battery
COLUMBUS, OHIO
1909
THE CHAMPLIN PRESS
COLUMBUS, OHIO
A BATTERY AT CLOSE QUARTERS.
BEING THE STORY OF THE ELEVENTH OHIO BATTERY AT IUKA AND CORINTH.
During the Civil War artillery projectiles were divided as to structure
into _solid_, _hollow_ and _case shot_. The solid shot were intended to
batter down walls or heavy obstructions. Hollow projectiles, called
shell and shrapnel, were for use against animate objects; to set fire to
buildings and destroy lighter obstructions. Under the head of case shot
we had grape and canister. Grape shot is no longer used; being
superseded by the machine gun. Canister is simply a sheet iron case
filled with bullets and is effective only at very short ranges.
The foremost European military writer, Hohenloe, states that in the
Franco-Prussian war, the batteries of the Prussian Guard expended about
twenty-five thousand shells and one canister, and that this one canister
was broken in transport.
In the official reports of the recent Russo-Japanese War we find that
the Arisaka gun, which was the Japanese field piece, has a range of
6,600 meters. The Russian field pieces were said to give good results at
8,000 meters, or five miles. The Japanese, and later the Russians, made
a great feature of indirect fire. Having located a mass of the enemy,
probably beyond two ranges of hills, they would stake out a line
indicating the direction, then secure the range by the use of shells
which gave out a yellowish vapor on bursting. This vapor being observed
and signaled by scouts also indicated the necessary angles of departure
from the line of stakes and enabled the artillerymen, miles away from
actual contact, to complacently try experiments in battle ballistics
with very little fear of being interrupted by an enemy.
The range of modern field artillery being officially reported at five
miles, permit me to take you back to a day, over forty-seven years ago,
when an Ohio battery, placed in the extreme front of battle, fought at
less than fifty yards.
The village of Iuka lies in the northeast corner of the State of
Mississippi. | 1,194.385698 |
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Boissonnas, The Internet Archive for some images and the
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BIRDS AND NATURE.
ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.
VOL. VIII. DECEMBER, 1900. NO. 5.
CONTENTS.
Page
DECEMBER. 193
THE WESTERN HORNED OWL. 194
THE OWL. 198
THE LONG-CRESTED JAY. 201
THE SUNRISE SERENADE. 202
A VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCES. 203
THE FULVOUS TREE-DUCK. 204
HOW THE SWIFTS CAME TO BUILD IN AUNT DOROTHY'S CHIMNEY. 207
THE RED-BREASTED SAPSUCKER. 213
A WHITE TABLE IN THE WOODS. 214
THE MOON-BABY. 215
THE CECROPIA AND PROMETHEA MOTHS. 216
A PLEA FOR LEGISLATIVE PROTECTION. 221
THE DOG AND ITS ANCESTORS. 225
A FAVORITE HAUNT. 227
CARNIVOROUS PLANTS. 228
MAPLE LEAVES. 232
MAY-APPLE. 235
INDEX.
DECEMBER.
The lakes of ice gleam bluer than the lakes
Of water 'neath the summer sunshine gleamed;
Far fairer than when placidly it streamed,
The brook its frozen architecture makes,
And under bridges white its swift way takes.
Snow comes and goes as messenger who dreamed
Might linger on the road; or one who deemed
His message hostile, gently, for their sakes
Who listened, might reveal it by degrees.
We gird against the cold of winter wind
Our loins now with mighty bands of sleep,
In longest, darkest nights take rest and ease,
And every shortening day, as shadows creep
O'er the brief noontide, fresh surprises find.
--Helen Hunt Jackson
Best of all, old King December,
Laughs beside the burning ember,
With his children round his knees,
And a look of jovial ease.
He is crowned Lord of Misrule--
Here's his Queen, and there's his fool.
He is wreathed with frosty green,
And ever the gay song between
"Wassail!" shouts he, "health to all!"
And re-echoes the old hall.--
Kind December!
--Walter Thornbury, "The Twelve Brothers."
Copyright, 1900, by A. W. Mumford.
THE WESTERN HORNED OWL.
(_Bubo virginianus subarcticus._)
"Bird of the silent wing and expansive eye, grimalkin in feathers,
feline, mousing, haunting ruins and towers, and mocking the midnight
stillness with thy uncanny cry."--_John Burroughs, Birds and Poets._
Among the birds of prey (Raptores) none are better known, more written
about or more cosmopolitan than that nocturnal division (Family
Strigidae), which includes the two hundred or more species of Owls.
From the Arctic regions of the north to the Antarctic regions of the
south they are known. Most of the genera are represented in both
hemispheres, though eight are peculiar to the Old World and three to
the New. The majority of the species finds a home in the forests,
though a few live in marshes and on the plains. Some invade the
buildings of civilization and may be found in the unfrequented towers
of churches and in outbuildings.
Disliked by all birds its appearance during the day is the signal for a
storm of protests and, knowing that there is little need of fear of his
power at this time, they flock about him, pecking and teasing him till
he is obliged to retreat to his obscure roosting place.
The Owls in most countries of both the New World as well as the Old are
regarded as birds of ill omen and messengers of woe, and are protected
from harm by some uncivilized and superstitious peoples, some believing
that spirits of the wicked reside in their bodies. By others they have
been called "Devil's Birds." The belief of some unlearned people in the
close relationship of the Owl with death and the grave dates back at
least to the time of Shakespeare, who speaks of the Owl's hoot as "A
song of death." Among the ancient races only the Athenians seem not to
have possessed this popular fear and superstition. They venerated the
Owl and regarded it as the favorite bird of Minerva. On the other hand
the Romans looked upon the Owl with fear and detestation, dreading its
appearance as the embodiment of all evil and the omen of unfortunate
events to come. By them the Owl was consecrated to Proserpine, the wife
of Hades and queen of the underworld. Pliny tells us that the city of
Rome underwent a solemn cleansing because of the visit of one of these
birds. When the unearthly character of their cries and their quiet,
spirit-like motion, as they fly through the night hours, are taken
into consideration, it is not surprising that they have been and are
held in awe and dread by many people. The characteristics of the two
sexes are practically the same, except that the female is somewhat the
larger. The young resemble the adults, but are usually darker in color.
Excepting those species that are whitish in color, the Owls are usually
a mixture of black, brown, rufous gray, yellow and white, and barring
is common on the wings and tail. Their bills are blackish, dusky or
yellowish. Their eyes are so fixed that they have little power of
turning the eye-balls and thus are obliged to turn the head when they
wish to change their range of vision. This they do with great rapidity,
in fact, the motion is so rapid that without close observation the bird
seems to turn its head in one direction for several revolutions if the
object looked at passes around the perch upon which the Owl rests.
A remarkable characteristic is the reversible fourth toe or digit,
enabling the Owl to perch with either one or two toes behind.
[Illustration: WESTERN HORNED OWL.
(Bubo virginianus subarcticus.)
About 1/3 Life-size.
FROM COL. F. M. WOODRUFF
COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
A. W. MUMFORD, CHICAGO.]
Mr. Evans tells us that "the note varies from a loud hoot to a low,
muffled sound or a clear, musical cry; the utterance of both young and
adults being in some cases a cat-like mew, while the screech-owl
snores when stationary. The hoot is said to be produced by closing the
bill, puffing out the throat, and then liberating the air, a proceeding
comparable to that of the Bitterns. On the whole the voice is mournful
and monotonous, but occasionally it resembles a shrill laugh." The
utterances of the Owls are, however, quite various | 1,194.481848 |
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version by Al Haines.
The After House
by
Mary Roberts Rinehart
CONTENTS
I I PLAN A VOYAGE
II THE PAINTED SHIP
III I UNCLENCH MY HANDS
IV I RECEIVE A WARNING
V A TERRIBLE NIGHT
VI IN THE AFTER HOUSE
VII WE FIND THE AXE
VIII THE STEWARDESS'S STORY
IX PRISONERS
X "THAT'S MUTINY"
XI THE DEAD LINE
XII THE FIRST MATE TALKS
XIII THE WHITE LIGHT
XIV FROM THE CROW'S NEST
XV A KNOCKING IN THE HOLD
XVI JONES STUMBLES OVER SOMETHING
XVII THE AXE IS GONE
XVIII A BAD COMBINATION
XIX I TAKE THE STAND
XX OLESON'S STORY
XXI "A BAD WOMAN"
XXII TURNER'S STORY
XXIII FREE AGAIN
XXIV THE THING
XXV THE SEA AGAIN
CHAPTER I
I PLAN A VOYAGE
By the bequest of an elder brother, I was left enough money to see me
through a small college in Ohio, and to secure me four years in a
medical school in the East. Why I chose medicine I hardly know.
Possibly the career of a surgeon attracted the adventurous element in
me. Perhaps, coming of a family of doctors, I merely followed the line
of least resistance. It may be, indirectly but inevitably, that I
might be on the yacht Ella on that terrible night of August 12, more
than a year ago.
I got through somehow. I played quarterback on the football team, and
made some money coaching. In summer I did whatever came to hand, from
chartering a sail-boat at a summer resort and taking passengers, at so
much a head, to checking up cucumbers in Indiana for a Western pickle
house.
I was practically alone. Commencement left me with a diploma, a new
dress-suit, an out-of-date medical library, a box of surgical
instruments of the same date as the books, and an incipient case of
typhoid fever.
I was twenty-four, six feet tall, and forty inches around the chest.
Also, I had lived clean, and worked and played hard. I got over the
fever finally, pretty much all bone and appetite; but--alive. Thanks to
the college, my hospital care had cost nothing. It was a good thing: I
had just seven dollars in the world.
The yacht Ella lay in the river not far from my hospital windows. She
was not a yacht when I first saw her, nor at any time, technically,
unless I use the word in the broad sense of a pleasure-boat. She was a
two-master, and, when I saw her first, as dirty and disreputable as are
most coasting-vessels. Her rejuvenation was the history of my
convalescence. On the day she stood forth in her first coat of white
paint, I exchanged my dressing-gown for clothing that, however loosely
it hung, was still clothing. Her new sails marked my promotion to
beefsteak, her brass rails and awnings my first independent excursion
up and down the corridor outside my door, and, incidentally, my return
to a collar and tie.
The river shipping appealed to me, to my imagination, clean washed by
my illness and ready as a child's for new impressions: liners gliding
down to the bay and the open | 1,194.57993 |
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by The Internet Archive)
MILDRED ARKELL.
A Novel.
BY MRS. HENRY WOOD,
AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS," "TREVLYN HOLD," ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND
1865.
_All rights of Translation and Reproduction are reserved._
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. WHICH IS NOTHING BUT AN INTRODUCTION 1
II. THE MISS HUGHES'S HOME 21
III. THE ADVENT OF CHARLOTTE TRAVICE 34
IV. ROBERT CARR'S REQUEST 50
V. THE FLIGHT 68
VI. A MISERABLE MISTAKE 87
VII. A HEART SEARED 107
VIII. BETSEY TRAVICE 124
IX. DISPLEASING EYES 147
X. GOING OUT AS LADY'S MAID 160
XI. MR. CARR'S OFFER 179
XII. MARRIAGES IN UNFASHIONABLE LIFE 194
XIII. GOING ON FOR LORD MAYOR 213
XIV. OLD YEARS BACK AGAIN 228
XV. THE DEAN'S DAUGHTER 249
XVI. A CITY'S DESOLATION 269
XVII. A DIFFICULTY ABOUT TICKETS 288
XVIII. THE CONCERT 303
MILDRED ARKELL.
CHAPTER I.
WHICH IS NOTHING BUT AN INTRODUCTION.
I am going to tell you a story of real life--one of those histories that
in point of fact are common enough; but, hidden within themselves as
they generally are, are thought to be so rare, and, if proclaimed to the
world in all their strange details, are looked upon as a romance, not
reality. Some of the actors in this one are living now, but I have the
right to tell it, if I please.
A fair city is Westerbury; perhaps the fairest of the chief towns in all
the midland counties. Its beautiful cathedral rises in the midst, the
red walls of its surrounding prebendal houses looking down upon the
famed river that flows gently past; a cathedral that shrouds itself in
its unapproachable exclusiveness, as if it did not belong to the busy
town outside. For that town is a manufacturing one, and the aristocracy
of the clergy, with that of the few well-born families time had gathered
round them, and the democracy of trade, be it ever so irreproachable, do
not, as you know, assimilate. In the days gone by--and it is to them we
must first turn--this feeling of exclusiveness, this line of
demarcation, if you will, was far more conspicuous than it is now: it
was indeed carried to a pitch that would now scarcely be believed in.
There were those of the proud old prebendaries, who would never have
acknowledged to knowing a manufacturer by sight; who would not have
spoken to one in the street, had it been to save their stalls. You don't
believe me? I said you would not. Nevertheless, I am telling you the
simple truth. And yet, some of those manufacturers, in their intrinsic
worth, in their attainments, ay, and in their ancestors, if you come to
that, were not to be despised.
In those old days no town was more flourishing than Westerbury. Masters
and workmen were alike enjoying the fruits of their skill and industry:
the masters in amassing a rich competency; the workmen, or operatives,
as it has become the fashion to call them of late years, in earning an
ample living, and in bringing up their children without a struggle. But
those times changed. The opening of our ports to foreign goods brought
upon Westerbury, if not destruction, something very like it; and it was
only the more wealthy of the manufacturers who could weather the storm.
They lost, as others did, a very great deal; but they had (at least,
some few of them) large resources to fall back upon, and their business
was continued as before, when the shock was over; and none in the outer
world knew how deep it had been, or how far it had shaken them.
Conspicuous amidst this latter class was Mr. George Arkell. He had made
a great deal of money--not by the griping hand of extortion; by
badly-paid, or over-tasked workmen; but by skill, care, industry, and
honourable dealing. In all high honour he worked on his way; he could
not have been guilty of a mean action; to take an unfair advantage of
another, no matter how he might have benefited himself, would have been
foreign to his nature. And this just dealing in trade, as in else, let
me tell you, generally answers in the end. A better or more benevolent
man than George Arkell did not exist, a more just or considerate master.
His rate of wages was on the highest scale--and there were high and low
scales in the town--and in the terrible desolation hinted at above, he
had _never_ turned from the poor starving men without a helping hand.
It could not be but that such a man should be beloved in private life,
respected in public; and some of those grand old cathedral clergy, who,
with their antiquated and obsolete notions, were fast dropping off to a
place not altogether swayed by exclusiveness, might have made an
exception in favour of Mr. Arkell, and condescended to admit their
knowledge, if questioned, that a man of that name did live in
Westerbury.
George Arkell had one son: an only child. No expense had been spared
upon William Arkell's education. Brought up in the school attached to
the cathedral, the college school as it was familiarly called, he had
also a private tutor at home, and private masters. In accordance with
the good old system obtaining in the past days--and not so very long
past either, as far as the custom is concerned--the college school
confined its branches of instruction to two: Greek and Latin. To teach a
boy to read English and to spell it, would have been too derogatory.
History, geography, any common branch you please to think of;
mathematics, science, modern languages, were not so much as recognised.
Such things probably did exist, but certainly nothing was known of them
in the college school. Mr. Arkell--perhaps a little in advance of his
contemporaries--believed that such acquirements might be useful to his
son, and a private tutor had been provided for him. Masters for every
accomplishment of the day were also given him; and those
accomplishments were less common then than now. It was perhaps
excusable: William Arkell was a goodly son: and he grew to manhood not
only a thoroughly well-read classical scholar and an accomplished man,
but a gentleman. "I should like you to choose a profession, William,"
Mr. Arkell had said to him, when his schooldays were nearly over. "You
shall go to Oxford, and fix upon one while there; there's no hurry."
William laughed; "I don't care to go to Oxford," he said; "I think I
know quite enough as it is; and I intend to come into the manufactory to
you."
And William maintained his resolution. Indulged as he had been, he was
somewhat accustomed to like his own way, good though he was by nature,
dutiful and affectionate by habit. Perhaps Mr. Arkell was not sorry for
the decision, though he laughingly told his son that he was too much of
a gentleman for a manufacturer. So William Arkell was entered at the
manufactory; and when the proper time came he was taken into partnership
with his father, the firm becoming "George Arkell and Son."
Mr. George Arkell had an elder brother, Daniel; rarely called anything
but Dan. _He_ had not prospered. He had had the opportunity of
prospering just as much as his brother had, but he had not done it. A
fatal speculation into which Dan always said he was "drawn," but which
everybody else said he had plunged into of himself with confiding
eagerness, had gone very far towards ruining him. He did not fail; he
was of the honourable Arkell nature; and he paid every debt he owed to
the uttermost penny--paid grandly and liberally; but it left him with no
earthly possession except the house he lived in, and that he couldn't
part with. Dan was a middle-aged man then, and he was fain to accept a
clerkship in the city bank at a hundred a year salary; and he abjured
speculation for the future, and lived quietly on in the old house with
his wife and two children, Peter and Mildred. But wealth, as you are
aware, is always bowed down to, and Westerbury somehow fell into the
habit of calling the wealthy manufacturer "Mr. Arkell," and the elder
"Mr. Dan."
How contrary things run in this world! The one cherished dream of Peter
Arkell's life was to get to the University, for his heart was set on
entering the Church; and poor Peter could not get to it. His cousin
William, who might have gone had it cost thousands, declined to go;
Peter, who had no thousands--no, nor pounds, either, at his command, was
obliged to relinquish it. It is possible that had Mr. Arkell known of
this strong wish, he might have smoothed the way for his nephew, but
Peter never told it. He was of a meek, reticent, somewhat shy nature;
and even his own father knew not how ardently the wish had been
cherished.
"You must do something for your living, Peter," Mr. Dan Arkell had said,
when his son quitted the college school in which he had been educated.
"The bank has promised you a clerkship, and thirty pounds a year to
begin with; and I think you can't do better than take it."
Poor, shy, timid Peter thought within himself he could do a great deal
better, had things been favourable; but they were not favourable, and
the bank and the thirty pounds carried the day. He sat on a high stool
from nine o'clock until five, and consoled himself at home in the
evenings with his beloved classics.
Some years thus passed on, and about the time that William Arkell was
taken into partnership by his father, Mr. Daniel Arkell died, and Peter
was promoted to the better clerkship, and to the hundred a year salary.
He saw no escape now; he was a banker's clerk for life.
And now that all this preliminary explanation is over--and I assure you
I am as glad to get it over as you can be--let us go on to the story.
In one of the principal streets of Westerbury, towards the eastern end
of the town, you might see a rather large space of ground, on which
stood a handsome house and other premises, the whole enclosed by iron
gates and railings, running level with the foot pavement of the street.
Removed from the bustle of the town, which lay higher up, the street was
a quiet one, only private houses being in it--no shops. It was, however,
one of the principal streets, and the daily mails and other
stage-coaches, not yet exploded, ran through it. The house mentioned lay
on the right hand, going towards the town, and not far off, behind
various intervening houses, rose the towers of the cathedral. This house
lay considerably back from the street--on a level with it, at some
distance, was a building whose many windows proclaimed it what it was--a
manufactory; and at the back of the open-paved yard, lying between the
house and the manufactory, was a coach-house and stable--behind all, was
a large garden.
Standing at the door of that house, one autumn evening, the red light of
the setting sun falling sideways athwart his face, was a gentleman in
the prime of life. Some may demur to the expression--for men estimate
the stages of age differently--and this gentleman must have seen
fifty-five years; but in his fine, unwrinkled, healthy face, his
slender, active, upright form, might surely be read the indications that
he was yet in his prime. It was the owner of the house and its
appendages--the principal of the manufactory, George Arkell.
He was drawing on a pair of black gloves as he stood there, and the
narrow crape-band on his hat proclaimed him to be in slight mourning. It
was the fashion to remain in mourning longer then than now. Daniel
Arkell had been dead twelve months, but the Arkell family had not put
away entirely the signs. Suddenly, as Mr. Arkell looked towards the iron
gates--both standing wide open--a gentlemanly young man turned in, and
came with a quick step across the yard.
There was not much likeness between the father and son, save in the
bright dark eyes, and in the expression of the countenance--_that_ was
the same in both; good, sensitive, benevolent. William was taller than
his father, and very handsome, with a look of delicate health on his
refined features, and a complexion almost as bright as a girl's. At the
same moment that he was crossing the yard, an open carriage, well built
and handsome, but drawn by only one horse, was being brought round from
the stables. Nearly every afternoon of their lives, Sundays excepted,
Mr. and Mrs. Arkell went out for a drive in this carriage, the only one
they kept.
"How late you are starting!" exclaimed William to his father.
"Yes; I have been detained. I had to go into the manufactory after tea,
and since then Marmaduke Carr called, and he kept me."
"It is hardly worth while going now."
"Yes, it is. Your mother has a headache, and the air will do her good;
and we want to call in for a minute on the Palmers."
The carriage had come to a stand-still midway from the stables. There
was a small seat behind for the groom, and William saw that it was open;
when the groom did not attend them, it remained closed. Never lived
there a man of less pretension than George Arkell; and the taking a
servant with him for show would never have entered his imagination. They
kept but this one man--he was groom, gardener, anything; his state-dress
(in which he was attired now) being a long blue coat with brass buttons,
drab breeches, and gaiters.
"You are going to take Philip to-night?" observed William.
"Yes; I shall want him to stay with the horse while we go in to the
Palmers'. Heath Hall is a goodish step from the road, you know."
"I will tell my mother that the carriage is ready," said William,
turning into the house.
But Mr. Arkell put up his finger with a detaining movement.
"Stop a minute, William. Marmaduke Carr's visit this evening had
reference to you. He came to complain."
"To complain!--of me?" echoed William Arkell, his tone betraying his
surprise. "What have I done to him?"
"At least, it sounded very like a complaint to my ears," resumed the
elder man; "and though he did not say he came purposely to prefer it,
but introduced the subject in an incidental sort of manner, I am sure he
did come to do it."
"Well, what have I done?" repeated William, an amused expression
mingling with the wonder on his face.
"After conversing on other topics, he began speaking of his son, and
that Hughes girl. He has come to the determination, he says, of putting
a final stop to it, and he requests it as a particular favour that you
won't mix yourself up in the matter and will cease from encouraging
Robert in it."
"_I!_" echoed William. "That's good. I don't encourage it."
"Marmaduke Carr says you do encourage it. He tells me you were strolling
with the girl and Robert last Sunday afternoon in the fields on the
other side the water. I confess I was surprised to hear this, William."
William Arkell raised his honest eyes, so clear and truthful, straight
to the face of his father.
"How things may be distorted!" he exclaimed. "Do you remember, sir, my
mother asked me, as we left the cathedral after service, to go and
inquire whether there was any change for the better in Mrs. Pembroke?"
"I remember it quite well."
"Well, I went. Coming back, I chose the field way, and I had no sooner
got into the first field, than I overtook Robert Carr and Martha Ann
Hughes. I walked with him through the fields until we came to the
bridge, and then I came on alone. Much 'encouragement' there was in
that!"
"It was countenancing the thing, at any rate, if not encouraging it,"
remarked Mr. Arkell.
"There's no harm in it; none at all."
"Do you mean in the affair itself, or in your having so far lent
yourself to it?"
"In both," fearlessly answered William. "I wonder who it is that carries
these tales to old Carr! We did not meet a soul, that I remember; he
must have spies at work."
The remark rather offended Mr. Arkell.
"William," he gravely asked, "do you consider it fitting that Robert
Carr should marry that girl?"
William's eyes opened rather wide at the remark.
"He is not likely to do that, sir; he would not make a simpleton of
himself."
"Then you consider that he should choose the other alternative, and turn
rogue?" rejoined Mr. Arkell, indignation in his suppressed tone.
"William, had anyone told me this of you, I would not have believed it."
William Arkell's sensitive cheek flushed red.
"Sir, you are entirely mistaking me; I am sure you are mistaking the
affair itself. I believe that the girl is as honest and good a girl as
ever lived; and Robert Carr knows she is."
"Then what is it that he proposes to himself in frequenting her society?
If he has no end at all in view, why does he do it?"
"I don't think he _has_ any end in view. There is really nothing in
it--as I believe; we all form acquaintances and drop them. Marmaduke
Carr need not put himself in a fever."
"We form acquaintances in our own sphere of life, mind you, young sir;
they are the safer ones. I wonder some of the ladies don't give a hint
to the two Miss Hughes's to take better care of their sister--she's but
a young thing. At any rate, William, do not you mix yourself up in it."
"I have not done it, indeed, sir. As to my walking through the fields
with them, when we met, as I tell you, accidentally, I could not help
myself, friendly as I am with Robert Carr. There was no harm in it; I
should do it again to-morrow under the circumstances; and if old Carr
speaks to me, I shall tell him so."
The carriage came up, and no more was said. Philip had halted to do
something to the harness. Mrs. Arkell came out.
She was tall, and for her age rather an elegant woman. Her face must
once have been delicately beautiful: it was easy to be seen whence
William had inherited his refined features; but she was simple in manner
as a child.
"What have you been doing, William? Papa was speaking crossly to you,
was he not?"
She sometimes used the old fond word to him, "papa." She looked fondly
at her son, and spoke in a joking manner. In truth, William gave them
little cause to be "cross" with him; he was a good son, in every sense
of the term.
"Something a little short of high treason," replied William, laughing,
as he helped her in; "Papa can tell you, if he likes."
Mr. Arkell took the reins, Philip got up behind, and they drove out of
the yard. William Arkell went indoors, put down a roll of music he had
been carrying, and then left the house again.
Turning to his right hand as he quitted the iron gates, he continued his
way up the street towards the busier portion of the city. It was not his
intention to go so far as that now. He crossed over to a wide, handsome
turning on the left, and was speedily close upon the precincts of the
cathedral. It was almost within the cathedral precincts that the house
of Mrs. Daniel Arkell was situated. Not a large | 1,194.679605 |
2023-11-16 18:36:58.7622470 | 293 | 11 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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AUNT FRIENDLY'S
PICTURE BOOK.
[Illustration]
AUNT FRIENDLY'S
PICTURE BOOK.
CONTAINING
THIRTY-SIX PAGES OF PICTURES Printed in Colours by Kronheim. WITH
LETTER-PRESS DESCRIPTIONS.
[Illustration]
LONDON: FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. BEDFORD STREET, COVENT GARDEN. NEW YORK:
SCRIBNER, WELFORD AND ARMSTRONG.
Preface.
New and old Nursery favourites are here offered to our Young
Friends--Nursery Alphabet, Sing-a-Song of Sixpence, The Frog's Wooing,
The Three Little Pigs, Puss in Boots, have for many generations
delighted the Nurseries of Great Britain. We trust that they and their
worthy new companion, The Ugly Duckling, which has come to us from over
the Sea, will still afford many hours of quiet amusement to little
Readers.
Contents.
NURSERY ALPHABET.
SING-A-SONG OF SIXPENCE.
THE FROG WHO WOULD A W | 1,194.782287 |
2023-11-16 18:36:59.0648540 | 4,036 | 13 |
E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Christine P. Travers, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 27765-h.htm or 27765-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/7/7/6/27765/27765-h/27765-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/7/7/6/27765/27765-h.zip)
Transcriber's note:
Obvious printer's errors have been corrected. All other
inconsistencies are as in the original. The author's
spelling has been retained.
Text enclosed by equal signs was in bold face in the
original (=bold=).
The original book did not have a Table of Contents, and
one has been created for the convenience of the reader.
A YEOMAN'S LETTERS
by
P. T. ROSS
* * * * *
SOME PRESS OPINIONS.
=_DAILY TELEGRAPH._=--'... Nothing better of this kind has yet appeared
than "A Yeoman's Letters," by P. T. Ross.... Bright, breezy, and vivid
are the stories of his adventures.... Corporal Ross not only writes
lively prose, but really capital verse. His "Ballad of the Bayonet" is
particularly smart. He is also a clever draughtsman, and his rough but
effective caricatures form not the least attractive feature of a very
pleasant book.'
=_STANDARD._=--'In "A Yeoman's Letters," Mr. P. T. Ross has written the
liveliest book about the War which has yet appeared. Whatever amusement
can be extracted from a tragic theme will be found in his vivacious
"Letters." He seems one of those high-spirited and versatile young men
who notice the humorous side of everything, and can add to the jollity
of a company by a story, a song, an "impromptu" poem, or a pencilled
caricature.'
=_SCOTSMAN._=--'The war literature now includes books of all sorts; but
there is nothing in it more racy or readable than this collection of
letters, what may be called familiar letters to the general public....
In spite of its subject, there is more fun than anything else in the
book.... But a deeper interest is not lacking to the book, either in its
animated descriptions of serious affairs or in the substantial gravity
which a discerning reader will see between the lines of voluble and
entertaining talk.'
=_CHRONICLE.=_--'Our Yeoman is a droll fellow, a facetious dog, whether
with pen or sketching pencil, and we laughed heartily at many of his
japes and roughly-drawn sketches.'
* * * * *
[Illustration: CORPL. P. T. ROSS.]
A YEOMAN'S LETTERS
by
P. T. ROSS
(_Late Corporal 69th Sussex Company I.Y._)
Illustrated by the Author.
"And you, good Yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not."
_Shakespeare._
Third Edition.
London:
Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton,
Kent & Co., Limited.
1901.
Printed by Burfield & Pennells,
Hastings.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
FOREWORD.
The Sussex Yeomanry.
PART 1.
On the Trek.
WITH ROBERTS.
The Occupation of Johannesburg.
Pretoria Taken.
Diamond Hill and After.
Back to Pretoria.
Entertaining a Guest.
The Mails Arrive.
The Nitral's Nek Disaster.
WITH MAHON.
A General Advance to Balmoral and Back.
To Rustenburg.
Ambushed.
Heavy Work for the Recording Angel.
Relief of Eland's River Garrison. Join in the great De Wet hunt.
After De Wet.
The Yeoman, the Argentine and the Farrier-Sergeant.
Commandeering by Order.
WITH CLEMENTS.
Cattle Lifting.
Delarey gives us a Field Day.
Burnt to Death.
The Infection of Spring again.
Death of Lieutenant Stanley.
His Burial.
Promoted to Full Corporal.
Petty Annoyances--The <DW65>.
A Wet Night.
The Great Egg Trick.
Our Friend "Nobby."
"The Roughs" leave us for Pretoria.
The breaking up of the Composite Squadron.
Life on a Kopje.
Death and Burial of Captain Hodge.
Camp Life at Krugersdorp.
Lady Snipers at Work.
Treatment of the Sick.
Veldt Church Service.
Comradeship.
IN HOSPITAL.
The Story of Nooitgedacht.
Two Field Hospitals--A Contrast.
Christmas in Hospital.
The Career of an Untruth.
The Sisters' Albums.
"Long live the King!"
The Irish Fusilier's Ambition.
"War without End."
Invitations--and a Concert.
Our Orderly's Blighted Heart.
Southward Ho!
R.A.M.C. Experiences and Impressions.
The Mythical and Real Officer.
The R.A.M.C. Sergeant-Major, and other annoyances.
At the Base.
Another Album!!
Reasons.
Home.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
"A Hot Time!" 2
"A Camp Sing-Song" 7
"The Great Small Game Quest(ion)" 9
"The Mealie and Oat Fatigue" 23
"Stable Guard" 31
"A Terrible Reckoning" 44
"Some of the Pomp and Circumstance of Glorious War" 52
"A New Rig-out" 58
"Oliver Twist on the Veldt" 65
"Hate" 68
"Mails Up" 87
"I'kona" 89
"Nobby" 94
"Consolation" 112
"On Pass" 114
"A Peep at Our Domestic Life" 118
"Hymns and their Singers" 129
"A Friendly Boer Family" 141
"Well, it's the best Oi can do for yez" 144
"Sick" and "Who said C.I.V.'s?" 148
"Got His Ticket" 153
"The Thoughtless Sister" 156
"God Save the King" 159
"Tommy's Spittoon" 171
FOREWORD.
"More khaki," sniffed a bored but charming lady, as she glanced at a
picture of the poor Yeomanry at Lindley, and then hastily turned away to
something of greater interest. I overheard the foregoing at the Royal
Academy, soon after my return from South Africa, last May, and thanked
the Fates that I was in mufti. It was to a certain extent indicative of
the jaded interest with which the War is now being followed by a large
proportion of the public at home, the majority of whom, I presume, have
no near or dear ones concerned in the affair; a public which cheered
itself hoarse and generally made "a hass" of itself many months ago in
welcoming certain warriors whose period of active service had been
somewhat short. I wonder how the veterans of the Natal campaign, the
gallant Irish Brigade, and others, will be received when they return?
"Come back from the War! What War?"
And yet in spite of this apathy, "War Books" keep appearing, and here is
a simple Yeoman thrusting yet another on the British Public. Still
'twere worse than folly to apologise, for _qui s'excuse, s'accuse_.
The present unpretentious volume is composed of letters written to a
friend from South Africa, during the past twelve months, with a few
necessary omissions and additions; the illustrations which have been
introduced, are reproductions in pen and ink of pencil sketches done on
the veldt or in hospital. The sole aim throughout has been to represent
a true picture of the every-day life of a trooper in the Imperial
Yeomanry. In many cases the "grousing" of the ranker may strike the
reader as objectionable, and had this record been penned in a
comfortable study, arm-chair philosophy might have caused many a passage
to be omitted. But the true campaigning atmosphere would have been
sacrificed.
As the Sussex Squadron of Imperial Yeomanry was, in popular parlance,
"on its own" till the end of May, the letters dealing with that period
have been excluded. However, a brief account of the doings of the
Squadron up to that time is necessary to give continuity to the story,
so here it is:
THE SUSSEX YEOMANRY.
The Yeomanry is a Volunteer Force, and as is generally known, was
embodied in Great Britain during the wars of the French Revolution.
History records that at the period named, the County of Sussex
possessed one of the finest Corps in England. _Autres temps, autres
moeurs_, and so from apathy and disuse the Sussex Yeomanry gradually
dwindled in numbers and importance, until it eventually became
extinct. Then came the dark days of November and December, in the
year eighteen-hundred-and-ninety-nine. Who will ever forget them?
And who does not remember with pride the great outburst of
patriotism, which, like a volcanic eruption, swept every obstacle
before it, banishing Party rancour and class prejudice, thus welding
the British race in one gigantic whole, ready to do and die for the
honour of the Old Flag, and in defence of the Empire which has been
built up by the blood and brains of its noblest sons. The call for
Volunteers for Active Service was answered in a manner which left no
doubt as to the issue. From North, South, East, and West, came
offers of units, then tens, then hundreds, and finally, thousands,
the flower of the Nation, were in arms ready for action. The Hon. T.
A. Brassey, a Sussex man, holding a commission in the West Kent
Yeomanry, applied for permission and undertook, early in February,
1900, to form a squadron of Yeomanry from Sussex. The enlistment was
principally done at Eastbourne, as were also the preliminary drills.
We went into quarters at Shorncliffe where we trained until the last
week in March, when early, very early, one dark cold morning, a
wailing sleepy drum and fife band played us down to the Shorncliffe
Station, where we entrained for the Albert Docks, London. There the
transport "Delphic" received us, together with a squadron of Paget's
Horse (the 73rd I.Y.), and soon after noon the officers and troopers
were being borne down the river, and with mixed feelings, were
beginning to realise they were actually off at last. Many, alas,
were destined never to return.
It is more amusing than ever, now, to recall the remarks of cheerful,
chaffing friends, who indulged in sly digs at the poor Yeomen previous
to their departure. At that time, as now, "the end was in sight" only we
had not got used to it. It was a common experience to be greeted with,
"Ha, going out to South Africa! Why it'll be all over before you get
there," or "Well, it'll be a pleasant little trip there and back, for I
don't suppose they'll land you." Subsequent experience of troopships has
dispelled even "the pleasant trip" illusion. Another favourite phrase,
was "Well, if they do use you, they'll put you on the lines of
communications." Sometimes a generous friend would confidentially ask,
"Do you think they'll let you start?" And one, a lady, anxious on
account of gew-gaws, observed, "Oh, I hope they'll give you a medal."
Eventually the slow but sure S.S. "Delphic," having stopped at St.
Helena to land bullocks for Cronje, Schiel and their friends, disgorged
us at Cape Town. Our anxiety as to whether the war was over was soon
allayed, and we gaily marched, a perspiring company, to Maitland Camp.
Here amid sand and flies we began to conceive what the real thing would
be like. An extract or two from letters written while at that salubrious
spot may serve to give an idea of the life there:
"This place is a perfect New Jerusalem as regards Sheenies, every
civilian about the camp appearing to be a German Jew refugee.
They have stalls and sell soap, buns, braces, belts, &c., and so
forth. Every now and again a big Semitic proboscis appears at our
tent door, and the question 'Does anypody vant to puy a vatch' is
propounded."
Hungarian horses were drawn and quartered by our lines, and saddlery
served out. By-the-way, I have always flattered myself there was at
least one good thing about the 69th Squadron I.Y., they had excellent
saddles. The first time we turned out in full marching order was a
terrible affair, and the following may help to convey an idea of the
_tout ensemble_ of an erstwhile peaceful citizen:
"Please imagine me as an average Yeoman in full marching order.
Dangling on each side of the saddle are apparently two small
hay-ricks in nets; then wallets full, and over them a rolled
overcoat and an extra pair of boots. Behind, rolled
waterproof-sheet and army blanket, with iron picketing-peg and
rope, and mess-tin on top. Elsewhere the close observer mentally
notes a half-filled nosebag. So much for the horse, and then,
loaded with the implements of war, bristling with cartridges,
water-bottle, field-glass, haversack, bayonet and so on, we
behold the Yeoman. With great dexterity (not always) he fits
himself into the already apparently superfluously-decorated
saddle, and once there, though he may wobble about, takes some
displacing.
"I really must remark on the marvellous head for figures that we
Yeomen are expected to have. Read this. Comment from myself will
be superfluous.
"My Company number is 51.
"My regimental number is 16,484.
"My rifle and bayonet, 2,502.
"The breech-block and barrel of the rifle are numbered 4,870.
"My horse's number is 1,388.
"There may be a few more numbers attached to me; if so, I have
overlooked them."
_En passant_, I must mention we were with our proper battalion, the
14th, commanded by Colonel Brookfield, M.P., at Maitland. Eventually,
thanks to the fact of his Grace the Duke of Norfolk being attached to
our squadron, when we got the order to go up country we left the rest of
the battalion behind at Bloemfontein, cursing, and proceeded by rail as
far as Smaldeel, where we detrained with our horses and commenced
treking after the immortal "Bobs."
His Grace's servant, rather an old fellow, did not seem to particularly
care for campaigning, and, often, dolefully regarding his khaki
garments, would sorrowfully remark, "To think as 'ow I've served 'im all
these years, and now 'e should bring me hout 'ere. It does seem 'ard." I
think a pilgrimage would have been more to his liking.
Our first experience of "watering horses" on the trek was both
interesting and exciting, it occurred at Smaldeel.
"The horses we proceeded to water at once; I had the pleasure of
taking two and of proving the proverb, _re_ leading horses to the
water. _En route_ were dead horses to the right and dead horses
to the left; in the water, which was black, one was dying in an
apparently contented manner, while another lay within a few
yards of it doing the same thing in a don't-care-a-bit sort of
way. Regarded from five hours later, I fancy my performances with
the two noble steeds in my charge must have been distinctly
amusing to view, had anyone been unoccupied enough to watch me.
Vainly did I try to induce them to drink of the
printer's-ink-like fluid, water and mud, already stirred up by
hundreds of other horses. When they did go in, they went for a
splash, a paddle, and a roll, not to imbibe, and I had to go with
them a little way, nearly up to my knees, in the mud. I have
arrived at the conclusion that the noble quadruped is not an
altogether pleasant beast. Still, I suppose he has an opinion of
us poor mortals. In death he is also far from pleasant, as was
conclusively proved when night came on, and a dead one near us
began to assert his presence with unnecessary emphasis. Phew!
It's all very well saying that a live donkey is better than a
dead lion, but judging from my experience of dead horses, which
is just commencing, I should say that the dead lion would prove
mightily offensive."
The water in the Free State, as a rule, was most unsatisfactory.
Marching in the wake of an army of about 50,000 men, however, one would
scarcely expect water to remain unstirred or unpolluted. I always found
my | 1,195.084894 |
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[Illustration: FORT SUMTER.]
REMINISCENCES
OF
FORTS SUMTER AND MOULTRIE
IN 1860-'61
BY ABNER DOUBLEDAY
BREVET MAJOR-GENERAL U.S.A.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS
FRANKLIN SQUARE
1876
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875 | 1,195.279341 |
2023-11-16 18:36:59.3596150 | 234 | 94 | Project Gutenberg's The Complete Works of Artemus Ward, Part 7
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THE SOUL OF SUSAN YELLAM
by
HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL
Author of
Some Happenings, Quinneys,
Blinds Down, Loot, etc.
[Illustration: printer's decoration]
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Copyright, 1918,
By George H. Doran Company
Printed in the United States | 1,195.606297 |
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[Illustration: “Tarry thou till I come!”
[_see page 3._
COPYRIGHT 1901 BY FUNK & WAGNALLS CO.]
[Illustration]
THULSTRUP ILLUSTRATED EDITION
TARRY THOU
TILL I COME
OR
SALATHIEL, THE WANDERING JEW
_By_
GEORGE CROLY
_Introductory Letter by_
Gen. LEWIS WALLACE
_With Twenty Full-Page Drawings
by_
T. DE THULSTRUP
NEW YORK & LONDON
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
·M·C·M·I·
COPYRIGHT, 1901
By FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
Published May, 1901
[Registered | 1,195.713276 |
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[Illustration: "THIS IS THE MOST BLESSED OF ALL YOUR
CONTRADICTIONS"--_Page 267_]
A CHAIN
OF EVIDENCE
_BY_
CAROLYN WELLS
AUTHOR OF "THE GOLD BAG," "THE CLUB"
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR BY
GAYLE HOSKINS
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1912
COPYRIGHT, 1907
BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1912
BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY | 1,195.725323 |
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E-text prepared by Giovanni Fini, Greg Bergquist, and the Online
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(https://archive.org/details/americana)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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See 46642-h.htm or 46642-h.zip:
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Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
https://archive.org/details/sportingdogsthei00bart
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
SPORTING DOGS
[Illustration: _Photo by T. Fall, Baker St._] [_Frontispiece._
HEAD OF BLOODHOUND CHAMPION SULTAN.]
SPORTING DOGS
Their Points: and Management; in Health, and Disease
by
FRANK TOWNEND BARTON
M.R.C.V.S.
Veterinary Surgeon to the Gamekeepers' Kennel Association
Veterinary Adviser to the "Gamekeepers' Gazette"
Author of
"Non-Sporting Dogs," "Toy Dogs,"
"Everyday Ailments and Accidents to the Dog,"
"Sound and Unsound Horses," "Our Friend the Horse,"
"Breaking and Training Horses,"
"How to Choose a Horse," "The Horse Owner's Companion,"
"The Veterinary Manual," "The Age of the Horse,"
"Diseases and Accidents of Cattle,"
etc., etc.
Copiously Illustrated From Photographs
London
R. A. Everett & Co., Ltd.
1905
[All Rights Reserved]
Surely the lines--
"Trust, oh! trust me, I will be
Still true for ever, true to thee."
have never been more practically demonstrated, than in the following
extract, from an account of a poaching affray, published in the
_Gamekeepers' Gazette_.
"The dead gamekeeper's dog was to be seen by the roadside restlessly
waiting for its master, while he lay in a cottage fatally riddled with
shot."
TO
BREEDERS
EXHIBITORS, AND FANCIERS
OF
SPORTING DOGS
THROUGHOUT THE KING'S DOMINIONS
PREFACE
_This work_--Sporting Dogs: Their Points and Management in Health and
Disease--_has been prepared as a companion volume to those already
published, viz._, Non-Sporting Dogs: Their Points, etc., _and_ Toy
Dogs, _in response to numerous inquiries from readers of those volumes,
asking for a work upon Sporting Dogs, to complete the series_, at a
proportionate _price_.
The Points _of the various breeds used by Sportsmen have been freely
discussed, supplemented by illustrations from photographs of the most
celebrated animals known_.
_Kennel Management, The Management of Hounds, Diseases, Accidents and
Simple Operations forms an important section of the work--features
that should render the book of far greater practical utility than one
dealing solely with the different varieties of dogs._
_Both Author and Publisher, will be satisfied, if it meets with the
hearty reception accorded to the companion publications._
_In conclusion, the Author wishes to express most hearty thanks to
all Breeders and Exhibitors who have so generously supplied him with
Photographs: to_ Our Dogs Gazette; The Kennel Gazette; The Gamekeeper,
_etc._
CONTENTS
SECTION A
PAGE
CHAPTER I 3
=The Pointer=
Head--Colour--Eyes--Back--Hind-quarters--Faults--Value
of Points.
CHAPTER II 18
=The English Setter=
Laverack Setters--Coat--Colour--Skull--Ears--Eyes--Neck
--Back-quarters--Tail--Fore-limbs--Weight--Faults.
=The Irish Setter=
Coat--Ears--Eyes--Neck--Forelegs-Loins.
=The Black=and=T | 1,195.779478 |
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Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
http://www.archive.org/details/overshadowednove00grigrich
OVERSHADOWED.
A Novel.
by
SUTTON E. GRIGGS
Author of "Imperium in Imperio."
Nashville, Tenn.:
The Orion Publishing Co.
1901.
Copyrighted
Sutton E. Griggs
1901.
DEDICATION.
To the Memory of
ALBERTA,
Who, in the absence of this her oldest
brother, crossed over the dark stream, smiling
as she went, this volume is most
affectionately dedicated by
_THE AUTHOR._
AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
The task assigned to the <DW64>s of the United States is unique in the
history of mankind.
He whose grandfather was a savage and whose father was a slave has been
bidden to participate in a highly complex civilization on terms of
equality with the most cultured, aggressive and virile type of all
times, the Anglo-Saxon.
The stupendous character of the task is apparent when it is called to
mind that the civilization in which they are to work out their
respective destinies is fitted to the nature of the Anglo-Saxon, because
he evolved it; while, on the other hand, the nature of the <DW64> _must
be fitted to the civilization_, thus necessitating the casting aside of
all that he had evolved.
This attempt on the part of the infant child of modern civilization to
keep pace with the hale and hearty parent thereof, has served to
contribute its quota of tragedies to the countless myriads that have
been enacted under the sun, since the Cosmic forces first broke forth
out of night into light, and began their upward, sightless, or shall we
rather say, full visioned tread in quest of the "music of the spheres"
and the higher purposes of the GREAT BEYOND.
What part in the great final programme these Cosmic forces have assigned
to the attempt of the | 1,195.880114 |
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[Transcriber’s Note:
Italicized text delimited by underscores.
There are many special characters in this text that require a utf-8
compliant font. If you find characters that appear as a question mark
in a black box or a small rectangle with numbers in it, you should
check your reader’s default font. If you have a font installed with SIL
after the font name, you should use that one.]
THE
WORKS
OF
RICHARD HURD, D.D.
LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.
VOL. VI.
Printed by J. Nichols and Son,
Red Lion Passage, Fleet Street, London.
THE
WORKS
OF
RICHARD HURD, D.D.
LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.
IN EIGHT VOLUMES.
VOL. VI.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND.
1811.
THEOLOGICAL WORKS.
VOL. II.
SERMONS
PREACHED AT
LINCOLN’S-INN,
BETWEEN THE YEARS 1765 AND 1776:
WITH
A LARGER DISCOURSE,
ON
CHRIST’S DRIVING THE MERCHANTS
OUT OF THE TEMPLE;
IN WHICH THE NATURE AND END OF THAT FAMOUS
TRANSACTION IS EXPLAINED.
SATIS ME VIXISSE ARBITRABOR, ET OFFICIUM
HOMINIS IMPLESSE, SI LABOR MEUS ALIQUOS
HOMINES, AB ERRORIBUS LIBERATOS, AD ITER
CŒLESTE DIREXERIT.
LACTANTIUS.
TO THE
MASTERS OF THE BENCH
OF THE HONOURABLE SOCIETY OF
LINCOLN’S INN,
THE FOLLOWING SERMONS,
IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF THEIR MANY AND
GREAT FAVOURS,
ARE BY THE AUTHOR
MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.
CONTENTS
OF
THE SIXTH VOLUME.
SERMON I. Preached Feb. 3, 1771.
MAT. xiii. 51, 52.
_Jesus saith unto them, Have ye understood
all these things? They say unto him, Yea,
Lord. Then said he unto them, Therefore
every scribe which is instructed unto the
kingdom of heaven, is like unto a man that
is an householder, which bringeth forth out
of his treasure things new and old._ 1
SERMON II. Preached Nov. 8, 1767.
1 COR. x. 15.
_I speak as to wise men: judge ye what I
say._ 23
SERMON III. Preached May 17, 1767.
ROM. ii. 14, 15.
_When the Gentiles, which have not the Law_,
DO _by Nature the things contained in the
Law, these, having not the Law, are a Law
unto themselves: which shew the work of
the Law written in their hearts, their_ CONSCIENCE
_also bearing witness, and their
thoughts in the mean while_ ACCUSING _or else_
EXCUSING _one another_. 37
SERMON IV. Preached May 24, 1767.
GAL. iii. 19.
_Wherefore then serveth the Law?_ 52
SERMON V. Preached May 1, 1768.
HEB. ii. 3.
_How shall we escape, if we neglect so great
Salvation?_ 67
SERMON VI. Preached Nov. 16, 1766.
JOHN xiv. 8.
_Philip saith to him, Lord, shew us the Father,
and it sufficeth us._ 83
SERMON VII. Preached in the year 1771.
JAMES iv. 1.
_From whence come wars and fightings among
you? Come they not hence, even of your
lusts that war in your members?_ 101
SERMON VIII. Preached April 29, 1770.
1 TIM. i. 5.
_The end of the Commandment is Charity, out of
a pure heart, and of a good conscience, and
of faith unfeigned._ 116
SERMON IX. Preached Nov. 9, 1766.
ROM. xii. 10.
—_In honour preferring one another._ 130
SERMON X. Preached May 6, 1770.
JOHN xiii. 8.
—_Jesus answered him, if I wash thee not,
thou host no part with me._ 143
SERMON XI. Preached June 20, 1773.
MARK ix. 49.
_For every one shall be salted with fire, and
every sacrifice shall be salted with salt._ 160
SERMON XII. Preached Feb. 9, 1766.
GAL. vi. 3.
_If a man think himself to be something, when
he is nothing, he deceiveth himself._ 174
SERMON XIII. Preached May 16, 1773.
2 COR. x. 12.
_We dare not make ourselves of the number, or
compare ourselves, with some that commend
themselves: But they, measuring themselves
by themselves, and comparing themselves
among themselves, are not wise._ 187
SERMON XIV. Preached April 27, 1766.
St. MARK iv. 24.
_Take heed what ye hear._
Or, as the equivalent phrase is in
St. LUKE, viii. 18.
_Take heed_ HOW _ye hear_. 201
SERMON XV. Preached Nov. 24, 1765.
ROM. xvi. 19.
_I would have you wise unto that which is good,
and simple concerning evil._ 215
SERMON XVI. Preached Dec. 1, 1765.
ROM. xvi. 19.
_I would have you wise unto that which is good,
and simple concerning evil._ 230
SERMON XVII. Preached Nov. 22, 1772.
JOHN v. 44.
_How can ye believe, which receive honour one
of another, and seek not the honour that
cometh of God only?_ 245
SERMON XVIII. Preached April 23, 1769.
JOHN ix. 41.
_Jesus saith to them, If ye were blind, ye should
have no sin; but now ye say, we see; therefore
your sin remaineth._ 260
SERMON XIX. Preached May 12, 1771.
1 COR. viii. 1.
_Knowledge puffeth up; but Charity edifieth._ 276
SERMON XX. Preached Nov. 19, 1769.
ACTS OF THE APOSTLES xxvi. 9.
_I verily thought with myself, that I ought to
do many things contrary to the name of
Jesus of Nazareth._ 290
SERMON XXI. Preached May 10, 1767.
St. LUKE vi. 26.
_Woe unto you, when all men speak well of you._ 304
SERMON XXII. Preached Feb. 6, 1774.
St. JOHN viii. 11.
_Jesus said to her, Neither do I condemn thee;
Go, and sin no more._ 319
SERMON XXIII. Preached March 1, 1772.
St. MATTHEW xi. 29.
_Learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in
heart: and ye shall find rest unto your
souls._ 333
SERMON XXIV. Preached April 30, 1769.
LUKE xvi. 14.
_And the Pharisees also, who were covetous,
heard all those things: and they derided
him._ 350
SERMON XXV. Preached June 25, 1775.
ECCLESIASTES v. 10.
_He that loveth silver, shall not be satisfied
with silver._ 366
SERMON XXVI. Preached Feb. 21, 1773.
1 COR. vi. 20.
_Therefore glorify God in your body, and in
your spirit, which are God’s._ 378
SERMON XXVII. Preached March 13, 1774.
JOB xiii. 26.
_Thou writest bitter things against me, and
makest me to possess the iniquities of my
youth._ 393
SERMON XXVIII. Preached May 28, 1769.
ECCLESIASTES vii. 21, 22.
_Take no heed unto all words that are spoken,
lest thou hear thy servant curse thee. For
oftentimes, also, thine own heart knoweth,
that thou thyself, likewise, hast cursed
others._ 407
SERMON I.
PREACHED FEBRUARY 3, 1771.
ST. MATTH. xiii. 51, 52.
_Jesus saith unto them, Have ye understood all these things? They say
unto him, Yea, Lord. Then said he unto them, Therefore every scribe
which is instructed unto the kingdom of heaven, is like unto a man that
is an householder, which bringeth forth out of his treasure things new
and old._
If there be any difficulty in these words, it will be removed by
considering the _manners_ of that time, in which Jesus lived, and the
_ideas_ of those persons, to whom he addressed himself.
The Israelites were a plain, frugal people; abundantly supplied
with all things needful to the convenient support of life, but
very sparingly with such as come under the notion of ornaments or
superfluities. They drew their means of subsistence chiefly from
pasturage, agriculture, and other rural occupations. Gold and Silver
was scarce among the ancient Jews; and the less necessary to them, as
they had little traffic among themselves, and still less with their
pagan neighbours; the wisdom of their Law having purposely restrained,
and, upon the matter, prohibited, all the gainful ways of commerce.
Now, to a people, thus circumstanced, unfurnished, in a good degree,
with arts and manufactures, and but slenderly provided with the _means
of exchange_ for the commodities they produce; management, thrift,
and what we call _good husbandry_, must have been a capital virtue.
_Householders_ were especially concerned to hoard up, and keep by them,
in readiness, all such things as might be requisite either to cloath or
feed their respective families. And therefore, as they were continually
making fresh additions to their stock, so they carefully preserved
what things they had, provided they were of a nature to be preserved,
although time and use had impaired the grace, or diminished the
value, of them. Thus, they had things _new and old_ laid up in their
store-house, or _treasury_ (for these provisions were indeed their
_treasure_), which, as the text says, they could _bring forth_, on any
emergency that called for them.
And to this Jewish _Householder_, thus furnished and prepared for all
occasions, our Lord compares _the scribe, instructed unto the kingdom
of heaven_, in other words, the minister, or preacher of the Gospel.
Every such _scribe_ was to be suitably provided with what might be
serviceable to those committed to his charge: And the Text delivers
it, as _a general inference_ from the example of Christ himself (who,
from a variety of topics, some _new_, some _old_, had been instructing
his disciples in this chapter), that WE, the teachers of his religion,
should likewise have in store a variety of knowledge for the supply
of his church, and that we should not be backward or sparing, as we
see occasion, in the use of it. THEREFORE, says he, that is, _for
this end_[1] that your respective charges may be well and perfectly
instructed by you, as you have been by me, _every scribe, which is
instructed unto the kingdom of heaven, is like unto a man that is an
householder, which bringeth forth out of his treasure things new and
old_.
It is true, if this instruction of our Lord and Master had concerned
_only_ the preachers of the word, I might have found a fitter place and
occasion for a discourse upon it. But the case is much otherwise; and
it concerns _all_ the faithful to understand what the duty of those is,
who are intrusted to dispense the word of life, lest they take offence
at the ministry, without cause, and so deprive themselves of the fruit
which they might otherwise reap from it.
Let me therefore lay before you some plain considerations on the
aphorism in the text; and submit it to yourselves how far they may
deserve the notice of all Christians.
It would be ridiculous, no doubt, to torture a meer figure of speech;
and to pursue a metaphor through all the minute applications, which an
ordinary imagination might find or invent for it. But I shall not be
suspected of trifling in this sort, when I only conclude, from the
comparison of a _Christian Scribe_ to the _Jewish Householder_;
I. That all the treasures of knowledge, which the MINISTER OF THE
GOSPEL may have laid up in his mind, are destined, _not to the purposes
of vanity, but to the use of his charge_; for such must have been the
intention of a reasonable _Householder_, in the stock of provisions he
had so carefully collected:
II. That such use must be estimated from the apparent _wants of those,
to whom this knowledge is dispensed_; for so the frugal _householder_
expends his provisions on those who evidently stand in need of them: And
III. Lastly, That among these wants, some, at certain conjunctures,
may be _more general_, or _more pressing_, than ordinary; and then his
first care must be to relieve these, though other real, and perhaps
considerable wants, be, for the present, neglected by him: just, again,
as the discreet _householder_ is anxious to provide against an uncommon
distress that befalls his whole family, or the greater part of it, or
that threatens the immediate destruction of those whom it befalls,
though he suspend his care, for a season, of particular, or less
momentous distresses.
In these THREE respects, then, I propose to illustrate and enforce the
comparison of the Text, without any apprehension of being thought to do
violence to it.
I. The knowledge of a _well-instructed Scribe_ must be directed to the
edification of his charge, and not at all to the gratification of his
own vanity.
This conclusion results immediately from the _subject_ of the
comparison. For the _Christian Scribe_ is not compared to a _prince_,
who is allowed, and even expected, to consult his own state and
magnificence; or, to one of those popular _magistrates_ in ancient
times, whose office it was to exhibit splendid shews, and furnish
expensive entertainments, to their fellow-citizens: but to a plain
Jewish _householder_, who had nothing to regard beyond the necessary,
or, at most, decent accommodation of his family.
And the comparison is _aptly_ made, as we shall see if we consider,
either the _end_ of a preacher’s office, or the _decorum_ of his
character.
His OFFICE obliges him to intend the most essential interests of
mankind, the reformation of their lives, and the salvation of their
souls. And when the object of his care is so important, what wonder if
all inferior considerations fall before it?
Besides, the Christian preacher has a _commission_ to discharge, a
divine _message_ to deliver. And in such a case, men look not for
ingenuity, but fidelity. An ancient, or a modern sophist may make
what excursions he thinks fit into the wide fields of science; and
may entertain us with his learning, or his wit, as he finds himself
able. He _may_, I say, do this; for he has only to recommend himself
to our esteem, and to acquire a little popular reputation. But WE
have a _dispensation_ committed to us, _a form of sound words_, from
which we must not depart, _a doctrine_, which we are to deliver with
_uncorruptness_, _gravity_, _sincerity_[2]. We please not men, but God;
or if men, _to their good_, only, _to edification_[3].
The DECORUM of our character requires, too, that we be superior to all
the arts of vanity and ostentation. Even in secular professions, it is
expected that this rule of propriety be observed. A _Physician_ would
be ridiculous, that was more curious in penning a prescription, than in
weighing the matter of it: and the _Advocate_ would be little esteemed,
that should be more solicitous to display himself, than to serve his
client. How much more then may it be expected from _a preacher of
righteousness_, that HE should forget his own personal importance amid
the high concerns of his profession!
And such was indeed the conduct of our best guides, in the ministry.
The ancient Fathers were, many of them, richly furnished with all the
endowments, that might be required to set themselves off to the utmost
advantage. Yet we find them, in their homilies and discourses to the
people, inattentive to every thing but their main end; delivering
themselves, with an energy indeed, but a plainness and even negligence
of expression[4], that tempts frivolous readers, sometimes, to make
a doubt of their real, and, from other monuments of their skill and
pains, unquestioned abilities.
And, in this contempt of secular fame, they did but copy the example
of St. Paul himself, the great Apostle of the Gentiles; who, though
distinguished by the sublimest parts, though profound in his knowledge
of the Law, and not unacquainted with Gentile learning, affected no
display either of his natural or acquired talents, but, as he tells
us himself (and his writings attest the truth of his declaration),
_determined to know nothing_, among the faithful, _save Jesus Christ,
and him crucified_[5].
Not that what abilities we have, are always to lie concealed. There are
occasions, no doubt, when they may properly, that is, usefully, be
exerted. But the minister of the Gospel does not go in quest of such
occasions: he only adapts himself to them, when they come in his way;
and then pursues them no farther than the end, he has in view, the
edification of others, not his own credit, demands from him.
By this rule, the preachers of the word are to conduct themselves.
By the same rule, it will, therefore, be but just to estimate their
charitable labours; and, when we see nothing to admire in them, to
conclude, That this plainness of character may not be always owing
to incapacity, but sometimes, at least, to discretion and the higher
regards of duty.
And this candour, as liable as it is to misinterpretation, will not be
thought excessive, if you reflect, that, as, in general, they are bound
to consult the good of their charge, and to deliver nothing to their
auditors, but what they foresee, or presume at least, will be _useful_
to them: So
II. In the next place, The _degree_ of that utility must be regarded by
the prudent dispenser of God’s word, and can only be estimated by the
apparent _wants_ of those, to whom his instructions are addressed.
It is an especial part of the _householder’s_ prudence to take care,
that his treasure be laid out on those, who have most need of it.
He has enough to do, perhaps, to satisfy the more pressing demands
of his domestics; and the rules of a good œconomy require that he
regard those, before their humourous inclinations, or even their more | 1,195.881783 |
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[Illustration: _Geo. S. M^cWatters_
Photographed by Brady.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
KNOTS UNTIED:
OR,
_WAYS AND BY-WAYS_
IN THE
HIDDEN LIFE
OF
AMERICAN DETECTIVES.
BY
=OFFICER GEORGE S. McWATTERS,=
LATE OF THE METROPOLITAN POLICE,
NEW YORK.
[Illustration]
A NARRATIVE OF MARVELLOUS EXPERIENCES AMONG ALL CLASSES
OF SOCIETY,--CRIMINALS IN HIGH LIFE, SWINDLERS, BANK
ROBBERS, THIEVES, LOTTERY AGENTS, GAMBLERS,
NECROMANCERS, COUNTERFEITERS, BURGLARS,
ETC., ETC., ETC.
[Illustration]
=HARTFORD:=
=J. B. BURR AND HYDE.=
=1871.=
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
J. B. BURR AND HYDE,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Electrotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry,
No. 19 Spring Lane.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.
--------------
I am aware that the preface of a book is usually the last portion of it
which is read--if read it is--and, therefore, of little import; and I
have, consequently, deliberated somewhat whether I would encumber the
following tales with a prefix or not, but perhaps it is due to the
reader to say (what, however, is apparent enough in some of the tales
themselves) that the experiences and observations therein narrated, are
not all personally mine; that some of them have, at different times,
been detailed to me by old and tried personal friends, of deep
knowledge of the world, and of extreme sagacity, and that I have
presented them here, together with my own, in special instances, as
being equally illustrative with mine of subtle human nature.
What is specifically my own in these tales, and what little I am
indebted for to my good friends, I leave to such as may be curious, to
determine for themselves. It must now suffice them (for in the
experiment of "book-making" I have nearly lost my best patience--amidst
its multiplicity of perplexities; its "proof-reading," the awful
blunders of the printers, the "bungling" of the mails, the calls for
"more copy" at inopportune moments, etc., etc.)--it must suffice them,
I repeat, simply to know, that whatever experiences here recited are
not my own, are equally authentic with mine, and, in my judgment, add
to the merits of "Knots Untied" (if merits it has) rather than detract
therefrom. So, since it cannot be that the reader will peruse my book
for my sake, but for the book's sake and for his own, let him thank me
for whatever "clearer light" I have accepted from others for his
benefit.
It was only at the instance--I might properly say by the repeated
importunity--of certain partial friends of mine, that I was first
induced to put into readable form some of the notes of my experiences
and observations, particularly those running through a period of a
dozen years of official life, preceded by a dozen more of a
quasi-official character. I would remark here, that no chronological
order has been observed in the collation of the tales composing "Knots
Untied."
Having, from my early days, been interested with various sociological
problems, it has been my wont to fix in memoranda, of one form or
another, such data as I conceived worthy, as simple statistics or
eccentric facts, bearing upon the great general question of human
suffering and crime, and their causes, and the means of their
depiction, and final extinction also (as I firmly believe) in "the good
time coming," when Science shall have ripened the paltry and distracted
civilization of the present into that enlightenment in which alone the
race should be contented to live,--in which only, in truth, they can be
fully content with existence,--and which the now subject classes could,
if they were wise enough to know their rights and their power, command
in concert, for themselves, and the ruling classes as well.
And these partial friends of mine have thought I might do some good,
and that I ought to, however little it may prove, to the cause of human
happiness,--in the intent thereby of enlarging the security of the
innocent from the machinations of the depraved,--by the detail of
certain wily "offences against the law and good order of society,"
while demonstrating therein how sure of final discovery and punishment
are the criminally vicious, however crafty and subtle, in these days,
when the art of police detection has become almost an exact science.
Authors are sometimes sensitive (I believe), about the reception which
they, "by their works," may meet with at the hands of the public; and
not seldom do they, in more or less ingenious ways, attempt to cajole
their readers, through well-studied prefaces, into a prejudicedly
favorable mood regarding the body of their books. Perhaps mine is a
singularly good fortune, in that my partial and importuning friends
before alluded to, have given me consoling courage to "go forward" and
publish what they are so kind as to be pleased with, by the assurance
that they will take upon themselves, and patiently bear, all the severe
criticism, the curses, the wanton blows, etc., which may be aimed at me
by "hypercritical critics," or by vexed and wrathful readers; while I
shall be left to enjoy, unalloyed, all the "blessings" with which the
rest of the public may be pleased to favor me.
I regarded this as so excellent an expression of human[e] goodness upon
the part of these my friends, that I consented to honor it, by
submission to their will. Hence these tales, in their printed
form,--designed at first to beguile an hour for particular friends in
the reading, as the same had beguiled many long hours for me in the
writing,--and not primarily intended to be put into the form of a book.
If any good to the world accrues from their publication, through the
instruction which they may afford to some, perhaps; or by their
possibly enlarging the scope of the reader's charity for the erring, or
in any way, I shall be gratified; and so (it _is_ but fair in me to add
this, for they are human, and sensitive to the joys which "a good done"
brings)--and so, to repeat, will also be my aforesaid partial, good
friends.
GEORGE S. MCWATTERS.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
--------------
PAGE
PUBLISHERS' INTRODUCTION. 18
=BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES.=
=OFFICER GEORGE S. McWATTERS.=
PERSONAL DESCRIPTION--ALWAYS TEMPERATE--IN WONDERFUL
PRESERVATION--"A GOOD FACE TO LOOK INTO"--NEITHER SCOTCH,
IRISH, NOR ENGLISH IN APPEARANCE. 21
=WHERE HE WAS BORN AND REARED.=
NO MATTER WHERE A MAN IS BORN--KILMARNOCK, SCOTLAND--NORTH OF
IRELAND--AMBITIOUS BOYHOOD--"THE BEAUTIFUL LAND BEYOND THE
WESTERN WATERS"--INTENSELY DEMOCRATIC--BECOMES A MECHANIC. 21
=REMOVES TO LONDON.=
FOLLOWS HIS TRADE IN LONDON--MARRIES THERE--HIS INTERESTING
FAMILY--MISS CHARLOTTE, HIS ELDEST DAUGHTER--HER
MARRIAGE--SIGNOR ERRANI. 23
=MIGRATES TO THE UNITED STATES.=
OFFICER McWATTERS | 1,196.186835 |
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Produced by Al Haines
_THE EXPOSITOR'S LIBRARY_
MODERN SUBSTITUTES
FOR CHRISTIANITY
BY THE VERY REV.
PEARSON McADAM MUIR D.D.
MINISTER OF GLASGOW CATHEDRAL
CHAPLAIN IN ORDINARY TO THE KING
_Christus vincit, Christus regnat, Christus imperat_
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON -- NEW YORK -- TORONTO
First Published... December 1909
Second Edition ... October 1912
IN MEMORIAM
S. A. M.
JUNE 3, 184 | 1,196.186908 |
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EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY
EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS
FICTION
THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY JULIUS BRAMONT
THE PUBLISHERS OF _EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY_ WILL BE PLEASED TO SEND FREELY
TO ALL APPLICANTS A LIST OF THE PUBLISHED AND PROJECTED VOLUMES TO BE
COMPRISED UNDER THE FOLLOWING THIRTEEN HEADINGS:
TRAVEL
SCIENCE
FICTION
THEOLOGY & PHILOSOPHY
HISTORY
CLASSICAL
FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
ESSAYS
ORATORY
POETRY & DRAMA
BIOGRAPHY
REFERENCE
ROMANCE
[Illustration: Decoration]
IN FOUR STYLES OF BINDING: CLOTH, FLAT BACK, TOP; LEATHER,
ROUND CORNERS, GILT TOP; LIBRARY BINDING IN CLOTH, & QUARTER PIGSKIN
LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS, LTD. NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.
A TALE WHICH HOLDETH CHILDREN FROM PLAY
& OLD MEN FROM THE CHIMNEY CORNER
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
THE HOUSE _of the_ DEAD
_or Prison Life in Siberia_
BY FEDOR DOSTOIEFFSKY
[Illustration: Decoration]
LONDON: PUBLISHED
by J.M. DENT & SONS LTD
AND IN NEW YORK
BY E. P. DUTTON & CO
FIRST ISSUE OF THIS EDITION 1911
REPRINTED 1914
INTRODUCTION
"The Russian nation is a new and wonderful phenomenon in the history of
mankind. The character of the people differs to such a degree from that
of the other Europeans that their neighbours find it impossible to
diagnose them." This affirmation by Dostoieffsky, the prophetic
journalist, offers a key to the treatment in his novels of the troubles
and aspirations of his race. He wrote with a sacramental fervour whether
he was writing as a personal agent or an impersonal, novelist or
journalist. Hence his rage with the calmer men, more gracious
interpreters of the modern Sclav, who like Ivan Tourguenieff were able
to see Russia on a line with the western nations, or to consider her
maternal throes from the disengaged, safe retreat of an arm-chair exile
in Paris. Not so was _l'ame Russe_ to be given her new literature in the
eyes of M. Dostoieffsky, strained with watching, often red with tears
and anger.
Those other nations, he said--p | 1,196.279724 |
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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 4.
PHILADELPHIA, DECEMBER, 1909.
$1.00 a year
15 cents a copy
CONTENTS.
PAGE
HISTORY SYLLABI, by Prof. Walter L. Fleming 71
TENTATIVE LIST OF SYLLABI 72
AN HISTORICAL LABORATORY, by Prof. William MacDonald 73
ORGANIZATION OF THE RECITATION, by Prof. N. M. Trenholme | 1,196.293321 |
2023-11-16 18:37:00.2733090 | 940 | 8 |
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A Hermit of Carmel
And Other Poems
By
George Santayana
New York
Charles Scribner's Sons
1901
CONTENTS
A HERMIT OF CARMEL
THE KNIGHT'S RETURN. A Sequel to A Hermit of Carmel
ELEGIAC AND LYRIC POEMS
Premonition
Solipsism
Sybaris
Avila
King's College Chapel
On an Unfinished Statue
Midnight
In Grantchester Meadows
Futility
Before a Statue of Achilles
Odi et Amo
Cathedrals by the Sea
Mont Brevent
The Rustic at the Play
Resurrection
TRANSLATIONS
From Michael Angelo
From Alfred de Musset: _Souvenir_
From Théophile Gautier: l'_Art_
CONVIVIAL AND OCCASIONAL VERSES
Prosit Neujahr
Fair Harvard
College Drinking Song
Six Wise Fools
Athletic Ode
The Bottles and the Wine
The Poetic Medium
Young Sammy's first Wild Oats
Spain in America
Youth's Immortality
A HERMIT OF CARMEL
SCENE.--_A ravine amid the <DW72>s of Mount Carmel. On one side a
hermitage, on the other a rustic cross. The sun is about to set in the
sea, which fills the background_.
HERMIT. Thou who wast tempted in the wilderness,
Guard me this night, for there are snares in sleep
That baffle watching. O poisoned, bitter life
Of doubt and longing! Were death possible,
Who would not choose it? But that dim estate
Might plunge my witless ghost in grosser matter
And in still closer meshes choke my life.
Yet thus to live is grievous agony,
When sleep and thirst, hunger and weariness,
And the sharp goads of thought-awakened lust
Torture the flesh, and inward doubt of all
Embitters with its lurking mockery
Virtue's sad victories. This wilderness
Whither I fly from the approach of men
Keeps not the devil out. The treacherous glens
Are full of imps, and ghosts in moonlit vesture
Startle the watches of the lidless night.
The giant forest, in my youth so fair,
Is now a den of demons; the hoarse sea
Is foul with monsters hungry for my soul;
The dark and pregnant soil, once innocent
Mother of flowers, reeks with venomous worms,
And sore temptation is in all the world.
But hist! A sound, as if of clanking hoofs.
Saint Anthony protect me from the fiend,
Whether he come in guise of horned beast
Or of pernicious man! If I must die
Be it upon this hallowed ground, O Lord!
[_Hides in the hut._
_Enter a young_ KNIGHT.
KNIGHT [_reining in his horse_].
Rest, Albus, rest.--Doth the sun sink in glory
Because he sinks to rise?--
Breathe here a space; here bends the promontory,
There Acra's haven lies.
Those specks are galleys waiting for the gale
To make for Christian shores.
To-morrow they will fly with bellying sail
And plash of swinging oars,
Bearing us both to where the freeman tills
The plot where he was born,
And belfry answers belfry from the hills
Above the fields of corn.
Thence one less sea to traverse ere we come
Where all our hopes abide,
One truant journey less to end in home,
Thy mistress, and my bride. [_He dismounts._
Good Albus, 't is enough for one day's riding.
Here shall our bivouac be.
Surely by that green sward some brook is hiding
To welcome thee and me.
Yes, hark! Its laugh betrays it. | 1,196.293349 |
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Separation and Service
OR
THOUGHTS ON
NUMBERS VI, VII.
BY
J. HUDSON TAYLOR.
London
MORGAN & SCOTT, 12, PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS, E.C.
CHINA INLAND MISSION, NEWINGTON GREEN, N.
PRINTED BY
WOODFALL AND KINDER, LONG ACRE
LONDON
CONTENTS.
Separation and Service.
PAGE
Introductory 7
PART I.
SEPARATION TO GOD: Numbers vi, 1-21.
Institution of the Order of Nazarites 11
Implicit Obedience 13
Entire Consecration 16
Holiness to the LORD 19
Unwitting Defilement 22
The Heinousness of Sin 23
Cleansing only through Sacrifice 25
Acceptance only in CHRIST 27
The Presentation of the Nazarites 33
The Law of the Offerings 35
The Burnt-Offering 39
The Sin and Peace-Offerings 41
PART II.
THE BLESSING OF GOD: Numbers vi, 22-27.
Why Found Here? 44
The Real Meaning of Blessing 49
The Three-fold Benediction 52
The Blessing of the FATHER 53
The Second Person of the Trinity 60
The Blessing of the SON and BRIDEGROOM 63
The LORD, the SPIRIT 70
The Blessing of the HOLY SPIRIT 73
Sealing with the Name of GOD 80
PART III.
PRINCELY SERVICE: Numbers vii.
The Constraint of Love 89
GOD'S Delight in Love-gifts 90
Free-will Offerings 93
Gladsome Acceptance 96
According to his Service 101
The Dedicatory Offerings 107
The Display of the Gifts 109
The Person of the Offerer 113
The Importance of the Altar 117
Separation and Service.
Numbers vi, vii.
INTRODUCTORY.
For many years these chapters had no special interest to me; but I have
never ceased to be thankful that I was early led to read the Word of GOD
in regular course: it was through this habit that these chapters first
became specially precious to me. I was travelling on a missionary tour
in the province of CHEH-KIANG, and had to pass the night in a very
wicked town. All the inns were dreadful places; and the people seemed to
have their consciences seared, and their hearts sealed against the
Truth. My own heart was oppressed, and could find no relief; and I awoke
the next morning much cast down, and feeling spiritually hungry and
thirsty indeed.
On opening my Bible at the seventh chapter of Numbers, I felt as though
I could not then read that long chapter of repetitions; that I _must_
turn to some chapter that would feed my soul. And yet I was not happy in
leaving my regular portion; so after a little conflict I resolved to
read it, praying to GOD to bless me, even through Numb. vii. I fear
there was not much faith in the prayer; but oh! how abundantly it was
answered, and what a feast GOD gave me! He revealed to me His own great
heart of love, and gave me the key to understand this and the previous
chapter as never before. May GOD make our meditations upon them as
helpful to others as they were then and have ever since continued to be
to myself.
Much is revealed in these chapters in germ which is more fully brought
out in the New Testament. Under the Old Covenant many blessings were
enjoyed in measure and for a season, which in this dispensation are ours
in their fulness and permanence. For instance, the atoning sacrifices of
the seventh month had to be repeated every year; but CHRIST, in offering
Himself once for all, perfected for ever them that are sanctified. The
Psalmist needed to pray, "Take not Thy HOLY SPIRIT from me;" but CHRIST
has given us the COMFORTER to abide with us for ever. In like manner the
Israelite might vow the vow of a Nazarite and separate himself unto GOD
for a season; but it is the privilege of the Christian believer to know
himself as always separated to GOD. Many other lessons, which are
hidden from careless and superficial readers, are suggested by these
chapters, which the HOLY SPIRIT will reveal to prayerful students of His
most precious and most perfect Book.
The portions we have selected consist of first a short chapter, and then
a very long one, which at first sight appears to have no special
connection with it. But on more careful reflection we shall see that the
order of the subjects referred to shows that there is really a natural
and close connection between them. We shall find that Separation to GOD
is followed by Blessing from GOD; and that those who receive large
blessing from Him, in turn render to Him acceptable Service: service in
which GOD takes delight, and which He places in everlasting
remembrance.
PART I.
Separation to GOD.
NUMB. VI. 1-21.
THE INSTITUTION OF THE ORDER OF NAZARITES.
The first twenty-one verses of Numb. vi. give us an account of the
institution and ordinances of the order of Nazarites. And let us note at
the outset that this institution, like every other good and perfect
gift, came from above; that GOD Himself gave this privilege--unasked--to
His people; thereby showing His desire that "whosoever will" of His
people may be brought into closest relationship to Himself.
It was very gracious of GOD to _permit_ His people to become Nazarites.
Israel might have been "a kingdom of priests;" but through their own sin
they had nationally forfeited this privilege, and a special family had
been set apart to the priesthood. GOD, however, still opened the way for
individuals who wished to draw near to Him to do so, and for any period
which their own hearts might dictate.
But it is important to notice that though the vow might only be one of
temporary consecration, yet it involved while it lasted an
ABSOLUTE ACCEPTANCE
of the will of GOD, even in regard to matters which might appear trivial
and unimportant. So, in the present day, GOD is willing to give to His
people fulness of blessing, but it must be on His own lines. Though we
are not our own, it is, alas! possible to live as though we were;
devotion to GOD is still a voluntary thing; hence the differences of
attainment among Christians. While salvation is a free gift, the
"winning CHRIST" can only be through unreserved consecration and
unquestioning obedience. Nor is this a hardship, but the highest
privilege.
Let us now look into the law of the Nazarite.
IMPLICIT OBEDIENCE: verses 3, 4.
_"He shall separate himself from wine and strong drink, and shall
drink no vinegar of wine, or vinegar of strong drink, neither shall
he drink any liquor of grapes, nor eat moist grapes, or dried. All
the days of his separation shall he eat nothing that is made of the
vine tree, from the kernels even to the husk."_
The first thing that we note is, that as the obedience of Adam was
tested in the Garden by the prohibition of one tree--a tree pleasant to
look upon, and good for food--so was the obedience of the Nazarite
tested. He was not forbidden to eat poison berries, nor was he merely
required to abstain from the wine and strong drink which might easily
become a snare; fresh grapes and dried raisins were equally prohibited.
It was not that the thing was harmful in itself, but that the doing the
will of GOD, in a matter of seeming indifference, was essential to his
acceptance.
Not less true is this of the Christian Nazarite. Whether he eat or
drink, or whatsoever he do, the will of GOD and not self-indulgence must
be his one aim. Christians often get into perplexity about worldly
allurements by asking, Where is the sin of this, or the danger of that?
There _may_ be danger that the questioner cannot see: Satan's baits
often skilfully conceal a sharp hook; but supposing that the thing be
harmless, it does not follow that it would be pleasing to GOD, or
spiritually helpful.
The fruit of the vine is a type of earth-born pleasures; those who would
enjoy Nazarite nearness to GOD must count His love "better than wine."
To win CHRIST, the Apostle Paul gladly suffered the loss of all things,
and counted them as dross and dung for the excellency of the knowledge
of CHRIST JESUS his LORD. The things he gave up were not bad things, but
good--things that in themselves were gain to him; and CHRIST Himself for
our redemption emptied Himself, and came to seek not His own, but the
will of Him that sent Him.
The highest service demands the greatest sacrifice, but it secures the
fullest blessing and the greatest fruitfulness. CHRIST _could not remain
in His FATHER'S bosom and redeem the world; missionaries cannot win the
heathen and enjoy their home surroundings; nor can they be adequately
sustained without the loving sacrifices of many friends and donors. You,
dear reader, know the MASTER'S choice; what is YOURS? is it to do His
will even if it mean to leave all for Him, to give all to Him?_
ENTIRE CONSECRATION: verse 5.
_"All the days of the vow of his separation there shall no razor come
upon his head: until the days be fulfilled, in the which he separateth
himself unto the LORD, he shall be holy, and shall let the locks of
the hair of his head grow."_
We have already seen that GOD tested the obedience of the Nazarite in
the matter of food: pleasing GOD was rather to be chosen than the most
tempting cluster of grapes. But in the foregoing words we find that his
obedience is further tested, and this in a way which to many might prove
a more severe trial. GOD claims the right of determining the personal
appearance of His servant, and directs that separated ones should be
manifestly such. To many minds there is the greatest shrinking from
appearing peculiar; but GOD would often have His people unmistakably
peculiar. We sometimes hear the argument, "all the world" thinks this,
or does that, given as a reason for our doing likewise; but that is an
argument that should have no weight with the Christian, who is commanded
_not_ to be conformed to the world. While we are not to seek to be
peculiar for its own sake, we are not to hesitate to be so when duty to
GOD renders it necessary, or when the privilege of self-denial for the
benefit of others calls for it.
Further, this command again reminded the Nazarite that he was not his
own, but was utterly the LORD'S; that GOD claimed the very hair of his
head. He was not at liberty to cut or trim it as he saw fit, nor to wear
it as long or as short as might be agreeable to himself. So absolute was
GOD'S claim upon him, that not merely while his vow lasted was that hair
to be recognised as GOD'S possession, but when his vow was fulfilled the
whole of it was to be shaved off, and was to be burnt upon the altar.
Like the burnt-offering, it was to be recognised as for GOD'S use alone,
whether or not any utilitarian purpose were accomplished by the
sacrifice.
So now, in the present dispensation, we are told "the very hairs of
your head are all numbered"--so minute is GOD'S care for His people, so
watchful is He over all that affects them. It is beautiful to see the
fond love of a young mother as she passes her fingers through the silken
locks of her darling child--her treasure and her delight; _but she never
counts those hairs_. He only, who is the source of mother-love, does
that! And shall not _we_, who are not our own, but bought with a price,
_gladly_ render to Him _all_ we are and have--every member of our body,
every fibre of our being, every faculty of our mind, all our will-power,
and all our love?
HOLINESS TO THE LORD: verses 6-8.
_"All the days that he separateth himself unto the LORD he shall
come at no dead body. He shall not make himself unclean for his
father, or for his mother, for his brother, or for his sister,
when they die; because the consecration of his GOD is upon his
head. All the days of his separation he is holy unto the LORD."_
Here we have a most solemn and important prohibition--to refrain from
all uncleanness caused by contact with death. Death is the wages of sin:
the consecrated one was alike to keep aloof from sin and from its
consequences.
No requirement of GOD'S Word is more clear than the command to honour
and obey our earthly parents; but even for his father or mother a
Nazarite might not _defile_ himself: "he that loveth father or mother
more than ME, is not worthy of ME."
But let no young Christian think lightly of the requirements of parents,
when these do _not_ conflict with GOD'S written Word. Young Christians
are sometimes distressed because their desire to preach the Gospel to
the heathen has been opposed by parents: such should be encouraged to
_thank_ GOD for the obstacle; and to seek by prayer its removal. When
they have learnt to move man through GOD at home, they will be the
better prepared to do the same thing in the mission-field. Where there
is fitness for the work, the way will probably be made plain after a
time of patient waiting.
These verses teach us that mere contact with death is defiling: how vain
then is the imagination of the unconverted that by dead works--the best
efforts of those who are themselves dead in trespasses and sins--they
can render themselves acceptable to GOD! The good works of the unsaved
may indeed benefit their fellow-creatures; but until life in CHRIST has
been received, they cannot please GOD.
UNWITTING DEFILEMENT: verses 9-12.
_"If any man die very suddenly by him, and he hath defiled the head
of his consecration; then he shall shave his head in the day of his
cleansing, on the seventh day shall he shave it. And on the eighth
day he shall bring two turtles, or two young pigeons, to the
priest, to the door of the tabernacle of the congregation: and the
priest shall offer the one for a sin-offering, and the other for a
burnt-offering, and make an atonement for him, for that he sinned
by the dead, and shall hallow his head that same day. And he shall
consecrate unto the LORD the days of his separation, and shall
bring a lamb of the first year for a trespass-offering: but the
days that were before shall be lost, because his separation was
defiled."_
A most important truth is here taught--that even unwitting contact with
death might bring sin upon the Nazarite. Sometimes we are tempted to
excuse ourselves, and to forget the absolute sinfulness of sin, apart
altogether from the question of premeditation, or even of consciousness,
_at the time_, on our part. The one who became defiled, _was defiled_,
whether intentionally or not; GOD'S requirement was absolute, and where
not fulfilled the vow was broken; the sin-offering had to be offered,
and the service recommenced.
THE HEINOUSNESS OF SIN.
The teaching here, and that of offerings for sins of ignorance, is much
needed in this day, when there is a dangerous tendency in some quarters
to regard sin as misfortune, and not as guilt. The awful _character_ of
sin is shown to mankind by its _consequences_. Man's heart is so
darkened by the Fall, and by personal sinfulness, that otherwise he
would regard sin as a very small matter. But when we think of all the
pain that men and women have endured since the Creation, of all the
miseries of which this world has been witness, of all the sufferings of
the animal creation, and of the eternal as well as temporal consequences
of sin, we must see that that which has brought such a harvest of misery
into the world is far more awful than sin-blinded men have thought it to
be.
The highest evidence, however, of the terrible character of sin is to be
found at the Cross; that it needed such a sacrifice--the sacrifice of
the SON of GOD--to bring in atonement and everlasting salvation, is
surely the most convincing proof of its heinous character.
Death was brought into the world by sin; and, like all the other
consequences of sin, it is loathsome and defiling. Man seeks to adorn
death; the pageantry of the funeral, the attractiveness of the cemetery,
all show this. The Egyptian sought in vain to make the mortal body
incorruptible by embalming it. But we have to bury our dead out of our
sight, and the believer is taught to look forward to the resurrection.
CLEANSING ONLY THROUGH SACRIFICE.
Let us not lose sight of the fact that the accidental death of any one
near the Nazarite--that the thoughtless putting forth of the hand
even--might violate his vow of consecration as truly, if not as
guiltily, as an act of deliberate transgression; in either case all the
previous time was lost, and the period of consecration had to be
recommenced after his cleansing. And that cleansing could only be
brought about through sacrifice; the sin-offering must _die_; the
burnt-offering must _die_; without shedding of blood there could be no
remission. So serious was the effect of transgression--and yet, thank
GOD, it was not irremediable.
The bearing of this on the life of consecration to GOD in the present
day is important. Nearness to GOD calls for tenderness of conscience,
thoughtfulness in service, and implicit obedience. If we become
conscious of the slightest failure, even through inadvertence, let us
not excuse it, but at once humble ourselves before GOD, and confess it,
seeking forgiveness and cleansing on the ground of the accepted
sacrifice of CHRIST. GOD'S Word is, "If we confess our sins, He is
faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and _to cleanse us_ from all
unrighteousness." This cleansing must be accepted by faith, and a walk
"in the light" be at once resumed. And shall we not reverently ask and
trust the HOLY SPIRIT to guard and keep us from inadvertence, and to
bring to our remembrance those things which we may be in danger of
forgetting?
ACCEPTANCE ONLY IN CHRIST: verses 13-15.
_"And this is the law of the Nazarite, when the days of his
separation are fulfilled: he shall be brought unto the door of the
tabernacle of the congregation; And he shall offer his offering
unto the LORD, one he-lamb of the first year without blemish for
a burnt-offering, and one ewe-lamb of the first year without
blemish for a sin-offering, and one ram without blemish for
peace-offerings, and a basket of unleavened bread, cakes of fine
flour mingled with oil, and wafers of unleavened bread anointed
with oil, and their meat-offering, and their drink-offerings."_
Having seen the character of the vow of the Nazarite, and of the
ordinances to be observed should the vow be violated, the case of a
Nazarite who has duly fulfilled his vow is next dealt with. He has
carried out all GOD'S requirements, and his conscience is void of
offence: before GOD and man he is blameless. May he not now congratulate
himself, and claim some measure of merit, seeing he has rendered to GOD
an acceptable service, and among men has borne a consistent testimony?
The offerings to be made on the conclusion of his vow give an impressive
answer to this question, and bring out the important difference between
being _blameless_ and being _sinless_. Having fulfilled the ordinances
he was blameless; but the necessity alike for sin-offering, for
burnt-offering, and for peace offering, remind us of the sin of our holy
things; and that not our worst, but our best, is only acceptable to GOD
through the atonement of our LORD JESUS CHRIST | 1,196.379691 |
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_Plashers Mead_
Compton Mackenzie
PLASHERS MEAD
[Illustration: GUY AND PAULINE]
PLASHERS MEAD
BY
COMPTON MACKENZIE
AUTHOR OF _CARNIVAL_
[Illustration]
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK & LONDON
Copyright, 1915, by Harper & Brothers
TO
GENERAL
SIR IAN HAMILTON
G.C.B., D.S.O.
AND THE GENERAL STAFF OF THE
MEDITERRANEAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. AUTUMN
SEPTEMBER: OCTOBER: NOVEMBER 3
II. WINTER
DECEMBER: JANUARY: FEBRUARY 55
III. SPRING
MARCH: APRIL: MAY 99
IV. SUMMER
JUNE: JULY: AUGUST 155
V. ANOTHER AUTUMN
SEPTEMBER: OCTOBER: NOVEMBER 205
VI. ANOTHER WINTER
DECEMBER: JANUARY: FEBRUARY 253
VII. ANOTHER SPRING
MARCH: APRIL: MAY 297
VIII. ANOTHER SUMMER
JUNE: JULY: AUGUST 339
IX. EPIGRAPH
GUY: PAULINE 371
AUTUMN
SEPTEMBER
The slow train puffed away into the unadventurous country; and the bees
buzzing round the wine-dark dahlias along the platform were once again
audible. The last farewell that Guy Hazlewood flung over his shoulder to
a parting friend was more casual than it would have been had he not at
the same moment been turning to ask the solitary porter how many cases
of books awaited his disposition. They were very heavy, it seemed; and
the porter, as he led the way towards the small and obscure purgatory
through which every package for Shipcot must pass, declared he was
surprised to hear these cases contained merely books. He would not go so
far as to suggest that hitherto he had never faced the existence of
books in such quantity, for the admission might have impugned official
omniscience; yet there was in his attitude just as much incredulity
mingled with disdain of useless learning as would preserve his dignity
without jeopardizing the financial compliment his services were owed.
"Ah, well," he decided, as if he were trying to smooth over Guy's
embarrassment at the sight of these large packing-cases in the
parcel-office. "You'll want something as'll keep you busy this
winter--for you'll be the gentleman who've come to live down Wychford
way?"
Guy nodded.
"And Wychford is mortal dead in winter. Time walks very lame there, as
they say. And all these books, I suppose, were better to come along of
the 'bus to-night?"
Guy looked doubtful. It was seeming a pity to waste this afternoon
without unpacking a single case. "The trap...." he began.
But the porter interrupted him firmly; he did not think Mr. Godbold
would relish the notion of one of these packing-cases in his new trap.
"I could give you a hand...." Guy began again.
The porter stiffened himself against the slight upon his strength.
"It's not the heffort," he asserted. "Heffort is what I must look for
every day of my life. It's Mr. Godbold's trap."
The discussion was given another turn by the entrance of Mr. Godbold
himself. He was not at all concerned for his trap, and indeed by an
asseverated indifference to its welfare he conveyed the impression that,
new though it were, it was so much firewood, if the gentleman wanted
firewood. No, the trap did not matter, but what about Mr. Hazlewood's
knees?
"Ah, there you are," said the porter, and he and Mr. Godbold both stood
dumb in the presence of the finally insuperable.
"I suppose it must be the 'bus," said Guy. On such a sleepy afternoon he
could argue no longer. The books must be unpacked to-morrow; and the
word lulled like an opiate the faint irritation of his disappointment.
The porter's reiterated altruism was rewarded with a fee so absurdly in
excess of anything he had done, that he began to speak of a possibility
if, after all, the smallest case might not be squeezed... but Mr.
Godbold flicked the pony, and the trap rattled up the station road at a
pace quite out of accord with the warmth of the afternoon. Presently he
turned to his fare:
"Mrs. Godbold said to me only this morning, she said, 'You ought to have
had a luggage-flap behind and that I shall always say,' And she was
right. Women is often right, what's more," the husband postulated.
Guy nodded absently; he was thinking about the books.
"Very often right," Mr. Godbold murmured.
Still Guy paid no attention.
"Very often," he repeated, but as Guy would neither contradict nor agree
with him, Mr. Godbold relapsed into meditation upon the justice of his
observation. The pony had settled down to his wonted pace and jogged on
through the golden haze of fine September weather. Soon the village of
Shipcot was left behind, and before them lay the long road winding
upward over the wold to Wychford. Guy thought of the friend who had left
him that afternoon and wished that Michael Fane were still with him to
enjoy this illimitable sweep of country. He had been the very person to
share in the excitement of arranging a new house. Guy could not remember
that he had ever made a suggestion for which he had not been asked; nor
could he call to mind a single occasion when his appreciation had
failed. And now to-night, when for the first time he was going to sleep
in his own house, his friend was gone. There had been no hint of
departure during the six weeks of preparation they had spent together at
the Stag Inn, and it was really perverse of Michael to rush back to
London now. Guy jumped down from the trap, which was climbing the hill
very slowly, and stretched his long legs. He was rather bored by his
loneliness, but as soon as he had stated so much to himself, he was
shocked at the disloyalty to his ambition. After all, he reassured
himself, he was not going back to a dull inn-parlor; to-night he was
going to sleep in an hermitage for the right to enjoy the seclusion of
which he had been compelled to fight very hard. It was weak to imagine
he was lonely already, and to fortify himself against this mood he
pulled out of his pocket his father's last letter and read it again
while he walked up the hill behind the trap.
FOX HALL, GALTON, HANTS,
_September 10th_.
DEAR GUY,--I agree with some of what you say, but I disagree with
a good deal more, and I am entirely opposed to your method of
procedure, which is to put it very mildly rather casual. Your
degree was not so good as it ought to have been, but I did not
reproach you, because in the Consular Service you had chosen a
career which did not call specially for a first. At the same time
you could, if you had worked, have got a first quite easily. Your
six months with the Macedonian Relief people seems to have knocked
all your consular ambitions on the head rather too easily, I
confess, to make me feel very happy about your future. And now
without consulting me you take a house in the country for the
purpose of writing poetry! You imply in answer to my remonstrances
that I am unable to appreciate the "necessity" for your step. That
may be, but I cannot help asking where you would be now if I at
your age, instead of helping my father with his school, had gone
off to Oxfordshire to write poetry. Perhaps I had ambitions to
make a name for myself with the pen. If I had, I quenched them in
order to devote myself to what I considered my duty. I do not
reproach you for refusing to carry on the school at Fox Hall. Your
dear mother's last request was that I should not urge you to be a
schoolmaster, unless you were drawn to the vocation. Her wishes I
have respected, and I repeat that I am not hurt at your refusal.
At the same time I cannot encourage what can only be described as
this whim of yours to bury yourself in a remote village where,
having saddled yourself with the responsibilities of a house, you
| 1,196.415824 |
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Produced by Mark C. Orton, Henry Gardiner and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note: The original publication has been replicated
faithfully except as shown in the TRANSCRIBER'S AMENDMENTS at the end of
the text. This etext presumes a mono-spaced font on the user's device,
such as Courier New. Words in italics are indicated like _this_. Text
emphasized with bold characters or other treatment is shown like =this=.
Superscripts are indicated like this: S^{ta} Maria. Subscripts are
indicated like this: H_{2}O.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "_He wrought a work upon the wheels, and the vessel that he
made of clay was marred in the hands of the Potter: so he made it again
another vessel, as seemed good to the Potter to make it._"--(JEREMIAH.)]
POTTERY,
FOR ARTISTS
CRAFTSMEN
& TEACHERS
BY
GEORGE J COX, ARCA.
INSTRUCTOR in POTTERY & MODELLING AT
TEACHERS COLLEGE--COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
ILLUSTRATED by the AUTHOR
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
COPYRIGHT, 1914,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 1914.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U. S. A.
"O Master, pardon me, if yet in vain
Thou art my Master, and I fail to bring
Before men's eyes the image of the thing
My heart is filled with."
--WILLIAM MORRIS.
EXPLANATION
In such a spacious craft as Pottery it is difficult to steer a fair course
between the empirical and the scientific. With that in mind this book sets
out to tell in simple terms some of the processes of Potting, practicable
to the student and to the more finished craftsman.
It is an intricate task to combine successfully the view-points of the
artist and the scientist; but it seems that, without neglecting the many
benefits bestowed by the advance of science, the Potter should stand with
the former. The best in his craft has been produced by men that were
artists rather than chemists. And what has been accomplished by loving,
patient craftsmanship may surely be done again only in such ways.
To the artist craftsman, for whom chiefly this book is intended, a little
scientific knowledge is a dangerous thing; for that reason no great stress
is laid on formulas and analysis. Unless thoroughly understood they are a
hindrance rather than an aid.
Although many schools teach elementary pottery, the expense of equipment
possibly delays its introduction on a larger scale. For that reason I have
preferred to err on the side of over-exactness of description and
profuseness of illustration.
The slight historical review and introductory remarks are to be excused on
the ground that they are intended to help to a study of the best work of
the best periods, and so to foster a taste for the finest Ceramics. This
is a vital matter when laying the foundations of a craft so fascinating
and so full of alluring avenues to beckon the student from the true path.
To the scientific critic I would offer a hundred books with a thousand
different compounds; amongst none of them will he find how to make a Sung
bowl or a Rakka drug pot.
This book will achieve its purpose if it sets one or two sincere students
to the making of some of the many beautiful objects of utility and art
with which the craft abounds. Then it will have done something, if never
so little, to accelerate the arrival of that time when the artist will
come once more into his own in the most ancient and noble of Crafts.
Some of the many books consulted, to which I am indebted, are given at the
end of the book. Among friends my thanks are especially due to Richard
Lunn, Esq., of the Royal College of Art, London, and to Professor Arthur
Wesley Dow of Teachers College, Columbia University, for my introduction
to and opportunity of further study of the Craft to which I subscribe
myself an humble devotee.
G. J. C.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
EXPLANATION vii
CHAPTER
I. HISTORICAL SUMMARY 1
II. CLAYS AND PASTES 19
III. BUILT SHAPES 26
IV. MOULDING, CASTING, AND PRESSING 34
V. JIGGER AND JOLLEY WORK 51
VI. THROWN SHAPES 59
VII. TURNING OR SHAVING 73
VIII. TILE-MAKING 80
IX. DRYING: FINISHING 89
X. FIRING BISCUIT 93
XI. GLOST FIRING 107
XII. GLAZES AND LUSTRES 117
XIII. DECORATION 129
XIV. FIGURINES 141
XV. KILNS 151
XVI. THE EDUCATIONAL VALUE OF POTTERY 170
APPENDIX I. EQUIPMENT FOR A SMALL POTTERY OR A
SCHOOL 177
APPENDIX II. GLOSSARY AND GENERAL INFORMATION 185
POTTERY FOR ARTISTS, CRAFTSMEN, AND TEACHERS
CHAPTER I
HISTORICAL SUMMARY
"After this he led them into his garden, where was great variety
of Flowers. Then said he again, Behold, the Flowers are diverse
in stature, in quality, and colour, and smell, and virtue, and
some are better than some."
--BUNYAN.
Without attempting a history of pottery which, however brief, would be
somewhat out of place in a Craft Book, a short summary of its evolution,
emphasizing those periods in which it was most beautifully developed,
seems essential to help the beginner in the selection and appreciation of
good form, colour, and decoration. These are very vital matters and easily
overlooked in the struggle to acquire a craft that is full of fascination
from the first fumbled shape upon the wheel to the finished product of
time and art and craft.
Too much stress cannot be laid upon the importance of close study of the
best work, both ancient and modern; for it is a truism that however
handily a craftsman may work, his output will be worthless if he has not,
with his increasing powers of technique, developed a sound judgement and
refined taste. To-day, these alone can replace the lost traditions of the
old masters.
The Potter's Craft had a coeval birth in various parts of the earth, but
the obscurity is such that no clear idea can be gained of its antiquity.
It was, probably, the first form of handicraft, if we except the
fashioning of flints and clubs. Accident or the funeral pyre may have
suggested the extraordinary durability the clay shape obtained when
burned, and doubtless siliceous glazes were first the result of chance.
All early work was built up by hand and for that reason possesses wide
mouths and simple forms. The introduction of the wheel is lost in a mist
of time, but drawings from the tombs of Beni Hassan show the potter at his
wheel substantially as he works in Asia to this day. The wheel-made or
thrown shape is distinguished by far more grace and symmetry than the
built shape, and by an infinitely greater variety of form.
In burial mounds from prehistoric Egypt are found many bowls and platters
rudely scratched, and the earliest examples from mounds, lake dwellings,
and tombs show the quick development of the pot, not only as an object of
utility, but as a vehicle of art. The first kinds of decoration were
incised lines followed by strappings and bandings, painted stripes and
scrolls and hieroglyphs, with later additions in slip and modelled clay.
Primitive wares from their method of production exhibit an interesting
similarity of shape and style in such widely divergent countries as China,
Egypt, and Peru.
It was only when the craftsman had acquired considerable dexterity that we
find his nationality influencing his shapes and producing the wonderful
variety in form and decoration that characterizes and distinguishes the
pottery of all nations. Once established, the prevalence of type is
strong. This traditional style is particularly noticeable in Egypt, much
modern work being identical with that of the early dynasties.
Before turning to more sophisticated work it would be well to learn the
lesson of simplicity and fitness here taught by primitive folks. The
simple beginning leads to the simple, strong, and satisfying end. Much of
this primitive work is inspiring for its freshness or naivete; its
unspoiled innate taste allied to downright common sense. Properly
approached, it should be a sure corrective to any desire for unsightly
_new_ shapes or extravagance in decoration. A few careful studies will do
much to drive home this valuable lesson in fine, simple line and spacing.
In Egypt the thrown shape was not distinguished by any extraordinary
beauty or variety. Nevertheless their small _Ushabti_, glazed gods and
demons, show a very advanced knowledge of enamels, and their
fabrication of a hard sandy paste for glazing shows the first great step
in the science of pottery. Their glaze was purely alkaline.
The Assyrians appear to have been the first to use tin glazes,
and although few pieces of pottery survive, the enamelled friezes from
Korsobad and Sousa are striking evidence of their proficiency in
tile-making.
From Egypt and Mesopotamia the craft spread east and west to Phoenicia,
Attica, and Greece; through Persia and Arabia to India. Here it mingled
with currents from China, then invading Korea, Japan, and Siam, the united
floods rising until the potter was a power in every land.
Phoenician pottery forms, with Cretan and early Grecian, a beautiful
sequence from the primitive work of early dynasties to the refinements of
later Grecian wares.
It will prove an interesting and instructive study to trace the
developments that led finally to the zenith of Greek pottery. The
primitive Hissarlik ware leads through Mycenaean, Dipylon, Phalaeron,
Rhodian, and Corinthian right up to the wonderful figure vases of about
300 B.C. Although limited in paste and colour, with a thin transparent
glaze or lustre, these vases were exquisitely fashioned. Large and small
shapes of wide diversity were decorated in black, red, and white, ornament
and figures both drawn straight on to the body with a sureness of touch
and refinement of line that excite the envy of a master. Many of their
forms are strongly influenced by contemporary bronze work and for that
reason are not the best guides for shapes. Their incomparable terra-cottas
known as Tanagras form a link between Pottery and Sculpture.
Again, from Phoenician work one may see dimly by way of Samian, Rhodian
and old Cairene wares the lineage of the royal wares of Persia, and recent
investigations point to Old Cairo as the birthplace of lustre.
From Persia come some of the finest pottery, painted in colours and
lustres, that the world can show. Their wares stand pre-eminent in that
class wherein the chief beauty is the painted decoration. Their one-colour
pieces, whilst not comparable with the Chinese, nevertheless reach a high
standard. Their lustres have never been surpassed or rarely equalled.
Their shapes are true potter's shapes, and a delight to the eye. The
finest pieces were painted in simple blues, greens, reds, and faint
purples, with black pencilling. This appears to have been done on an
engobe of finely ground flint, and covered with an alkaline glaze giving a
broken white ground. This would account in some measure for the
extraordinary freshness of both drawing and colour. Later on raised
ornament, finely conceived and used with restraint, is seen along with
pierced decoration having translucent effects.
Rhodes and Damascus produced a somewhat coarser ware, but bold and free in
brushwork and varied with a bright red. Syrian pottery abounds in virile
individual shapes. Turkey also was not without a fine and vigorous style.
Much time can be most profitably spent studying the masterpieces of
Persia. A representative collection like that at South Kensington will
show vases, bottles, bowls, pots, and tiles in bewildering variety and of
infinite freshness. They are directly painted, with free renderings of
flowers within geometric forms and often with an inscription in rich
Arabic characters. The exquisite Moore Collection in the Metropolitan
Museum, New York City, is smaller but is remarkable for the unusually high
standard of taste shown in its acquisition. At its purest period human or
animal figures were rarely or never represented and those shapes or tiles
with such decoration belong to a more decadent but still fine period.
Again we have the eternal lesson of simplicity and fitness. Again it will
be borne in upon the student that originality does not mean weirdness, but
rather a fresh spontaneous treatment of simple, well-known natural forms,
with, above all, a fine appreciation of good line and space. No sincere
student can fail to develop here a respect and veneration of a craft and
of craftsmen capable of producing such glorious works.
From this teeming home the craft spread to Arabia and west across the
Mediterranean to Spain. Here in the twelfth century the Moors were
producing their famous Hispano-Mooresque lustred wares. Their large
plaques offer a wonderful variety of pure brushwork ornament with spirited
heraldic additions. Sometimes the backs of these dishes are as beautifully
lustred as the fronts.
For a proper appreciation of their purely geometric decoration and its
possibilities in pottery we must turn to the Alcazzar at Madrid. Here the
use of opaque tin glaze permitted the extensive use of a coarse body for
tiles and bricks. The Moors, however, first introduced glazes with a lead
base and from that time we begin to lose the fresh _wet_ colour always
associated with the alkaline glazes of the Persians. Analysis shows that
they used lead, but only occasionally and in small quantities, to aid
their lustres. The lustred wares of Spain declined late in the thirteenth
century, but not before its exportation to Italy by way of Majorca had
stimulated the production of Italian Majolica. Della Robbia, about 1415,
succeeded in colouring his tin glazes, and his finely modelled but
somewhat crudely reliefs usher in the era of Italian Faience.
Patronized by the nobles the craft quickly took root and was blossoming
profusely at Urbino, Gubbio, Pesaro, Faenza and other cities at the end of
the fifteenth century.
Here we break ground and leave the chaste simplicity of the golden age to
riot a blaze of exuberant decoration. Scraffito, slip, inlaid, applied,
incised, raised, embossed and modelled and painted embellishments; all are
here. This era is chiefly notable for its splendid ruby lustres and the
remarkable power and freedom, amounting to absolute abandon, of the
brushwork and drawing shown by its artists. They used their lustres to
heighten the effects of their painting and the results are in keeping with
that romantic age. Alongside of it our best modern work is apt to look
spiritless and dull.
Much splendid work was produced in Italy at this period, but in such a
wide field there are naturally some places that exhibit technique rather
than art. The student must go into it with appreciative faculties alert
lest mere splendour should sweep him off his feet.
The wares and the potters of Italy penetrated north into Europe, to
France, the Holy Roman Empire and Britain, starting or stimulating what
was to prove an overwhelming flood of production. In Europe in pre-Roman
times, a coarse, unglazed, built-up ware was general, it being of simple,
somewhat clumsy but vigorous form, low-fired and friable. It was used
chiefly for cinerary purposes, the Germanic peoples having a decided
preference for vessels of horn, wood, or metal.
The Romans introduced the wheel and produced a far higher class of ware.
Their importation of the fine red Samian pottery resulted in the
fabrication of the vigorous Gallo-Roman and Romano-British pottery. This
was good in shape and paste and characteristically decorated with slip,
bosses, dots, and indentations. The later Gaulish work shows applied
figures and highly finished scroll work. After the decline of Rome, Saxon
and Germanic work shows a distinctly retrograde tendency. It is often
built up, strapped, banded, and bossed in imitation of the Romano-British.
Though coarse and lacking in finish, it is full of freshness and
character.
In Mediaeval England, when pottery making was at a low ebb, the monasteries
and travelling guilds of potters produced splendid encaustic tiles. These
were inlaid with simple yet striking geometric designs, or animal or bird
forms, both heraldic and symbolic.
In Europe for many years the domestic pottery remained coarse and
primitive, showing still the arresting hand of the barbarian conquerors of
Rome. The first signs of the Italian Renaissance are to be found in the
rare Henri Deux or Orion ware. Palissy's desperate and romantic search for
enamels was the prelude to the development of Rouen, Nevers, Lille,
Moustiers, Sevres, Marseilles, and other less important potteries. In
France also early experiments led eventually to the fabrication of
porcelain much on the lines of English porcelain, a frit being used
instead of kaolin.
In Germany, as early as the fifteenth century, they produced fine
stoneware highly decorated with relief patterns and colours. After long
research Boettiger, by a lucky accident, discovered kaolin. Porcelain was
made at Dresden in 1709, and many of the Dresden figures show a remarkably
sympathetic alliance of potting, modelling and painting.
The success of the German ceramists led to a wide patronage of potters by
kings and princes which quickly spread the knowledge of porcelain
throughout Europe.
Long before this in the early part of the seventeenth century, potteries
were established at Delft in Holland. Here was made the well-known ware
painted in blue camaien on a fine white ground. This was for a time
produced in great quantities, and the process of painting directly on to
an absorbent ground led to a surprisingly fresh and skilful style.
In the middle of the seventeenth century English wares commenced to rise
from the stagnation in which they seemed sunk since Saxon times. Toft,
with his tygs and platters, Dwight, and his bellarmines, and Elers, with
turned shapes, started | 1,196.641342 |
2023-11-16 18:37:00.7592520 | 754 | 22 | WEAKNESS***
E-text prepared by Larry B. Harrison and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)
Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/ourintellectuals00jgborich
Royal Society of Canada Series.
No. 1.
OUR INTELLECTUAL STRENGTH AND WEAKNESS.
* * * * * *
WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
Parliamentary Practice and Procedure, with a review of the origin,
growth, and operation of parliamentary institutions in Canada. And
an Appendix containing the British North America Act of 1867 and
amending acts, Governor-General's commission and instructions, forms of
proceeding in the Senate and House of Commons, etc.; 2nd ed., revised
and enlarged, 8vo., pp. 970, cloth and calf. Montreal: Dawson Bros.,
1892. $8.
A Manual of the Constitutional History of Canada, from the earliest
period to the year 1888, including the B. N. A. Act of 1867, and a
digest of judicial decisions on questions of legislative jurisdiction.
12mo. pp. 238. Montreal: Dawson Bros. Cloth, $1.25.
Canadian Studies in Comparative Politics: I. Canada and English
Institutions; II. Canada and the United States; III. Canada and
Switzerland. Large 4to. pp. 100. Montreal: Dawson Bros. Cloth, $1.
Local Government in Canada. 8vo. pp. 72. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
University Studies. Paper, 50c.
Federal Government in Canada. 8vo. pp. 172. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
University Studies, 1889. Paper, 50c.
Parliamentary Government in Canada: an historical and constitutional
study. Annals of American Historical Association. 8vo. pp. 98.
Washington: Government Printing Office, 1893. Paper, $1.
Descriptive and Historical Account of the Island of Cape Breton,
and of its Memorials of the French Regime, with bibliographical,
historical and critical notes, and old maps; plans and illustrations
of Louisbourg. Large 4to. pp. 180. Montreal: Foster Brown & Co., 1892.
Fancy cloth, $3.
* * * * * *
Royal Society of Canada Series.
OUR INTELLECTUAL STRENGTH AND WEAKNESS
A Short Historical and Critical Review of Literature,
Art and Education in Canada,
by
J. G. BOURINOT, C.M.G., LL.D., D.C.L., D.L. (LAVAL).
Author of "Cape Breton and Its Memorials of the French Regime," and of
Several Works on Federal and Parliamentary Government
in the Dominion of Canada.
Montreal:
Foster Brown & Co.
London:
Bernard Quaritch.
1893
Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada by J. G. BOURINOT, in
the Office of the Minister of Agriculture, in the year 1893.
Gazette Printing Company, Montreal.
To my Friends
SIR J. W. DAWSON, (C.M.G., F.R.S.C., LL.D.)
AND
MONSIGNOR HAMEL, (M.A., F.R.S.C.),
WHO REPRESENT THE CULTURE AND LEARNING | 1,196.779292 |
2023-11-16 18:37:00.7593860 | 822 | 14 |
Produced by David Widger
HUCKLEBERRY FINN
By Mark Twain
Part 6.
CHAPTER XXVI.
WELL, when they was all gone the king he asks Mary Jane how they was off
for spare rooms, and she said she had one spare room, which would do for
Uncle William, and she'd give her own room to Uncle Harvey, which was a
little bigger, and she would turn into the room with her sisters and
sleep on a cot; and up garret was a little cubby, with a pallet in it.
The king said the cubby would do for his valley--meaning me.
So Mary Jane took us up, and she showed them their rooms, which was plain
but nice. She said she'd have her frocks and a lot of other traps took
out of her room if they was in Uncle Harvey's way, but he said they
warn't. The frocks was hung along the wall, and before them was a
curtain made out of calico that hung down to the floor. There was an old
hair trunk in one corner, and a guitar-box in another, and all sorts of
little knickknacks and jimcracks around, like girls brisken up a room
with. The king said it was all the more homely and more pleasanter for
these fixings, and so don't disturb them. The duke's room was pretty
small, but plenty good enough, and so was my cubby.
That night they had a big supper, and all them men and women was there,
and I stood behind the king and the duke's chairs and waited on them, and
the <DW65>s waited on the rest. Mary Jane she set at the head of the
table, with Susan alongside of her, and said how bad the biscuits was,
and how mean the preserves was, and how ornery and tough the fried
chickens was--and all that kind of rot, the way women always do for to
force out compliments; and the people all knowed everything was tiptop,
and said so--said "How DO you get biscuits to brown so nice?" and "Where,
for the land's sake, DID you get these amaz'n pickles?" and all that kind
of humbug talky-talk, just the way people always does at a supper, you
know.
And when it was all done me and the hare-lip had supper in the kitchen
off of the leavings, whilst the others was helping the <DW65>s clean up
the things. The hare-lip she got to pumping me about England, and blest
if I didn't think the ice was getting mighty thin sometimes. She says:
"Did you ever see the king?"
"Who? William Fourth? Well, I bet I have--he goes to our church." I
knowed he was dead years ago, but I never let on. So when I says he goes
to our church, she says:
"What--regular?"
"Yes--regular. His pew's right over opposite ourn--on t'other side the
pulpit."
"I thought he lived in London?"
"Well, he does. Where WOULD he live?"
"But I thought YOU lived in Sheffield?"
I see I was up a stump. I had to let on to get choked with a chicken
bone, so as to get time to think how to get down again. Then I says:
"I mean he goes to our church regular when he's in Sheffield. That's
only in the summer time, when he comes there to take the sea baths."
"Why, how you talk--Sheffield ain't on the sea."
"Well, who said it was?"
"Why, you did."
"I DIDN'T nuther."
"You did!"
"I didn't."
"You did."
"I never said nothing | 1,196.779426 |
2023-11-16 18:37:00.7704170 | 447 | 9 |
Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
The Missioner
BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
Author of "Anna, the Adventuress," "A Prince of
Sinners," "The Master Mummer," etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BY FRED PEGRAM
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1907,_
BY THE PEARSON PUBLISHING COMPANY.
_Copyright, 1907,_
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
Published January, 1909.
Fourth Printing
[ Illustration: "DO YOU MIND EXPLAINING YOURSELF?" SHE ASKED.
[Page 23.] FRONTISPIECE.]
CONTENTS
BOOK I
CHAPTER PAGE
I MISTRESS AND AGENT 1
II THE HUNTER AND HIS QUARRY 13
III FIRST BLOOD 22
IV BEATING HER WINGS 32
V EVICTED 41
VI CRICKET AND PHILOSOPHY 52
VII AN UNDERNOTE OF MUSIC 61
VIII ROSES 70
IX SUMMER LIGHTNING 78
X THE STILL FIGURE IN THE CHAIR 85
XI THE BAYING OF THE HOUNDS 93
XII RETREAT 100
XIII A CREATURE OF IMPULSE 105
XIV SEARCHING THE PAPERS 114
XV ON THE SPREE 121
XVI THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 129
XVII THE VICTIMS OF SOCIETY 138
XVIII LETTY'S DILEMMA 147
XIX A REPORT FROM PARIS 155
XX LIKE A TRAPPED ANIMAL 162
BOOK II
CHAPTER PAGE
I RATHER | 1,196.790457 |
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