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2023-11-16 18:37:00.8651210 | 1,771 | 235 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Ernest Schaal, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
SHADOWINGS
BY LAFCADIO HEARN
LECTURER ON ENGLISH LITERATURE IN
THE IMPERIAL UNIVERSITY, TOKYO, JAPAN
_AUTHOR OF_ "EXOTICS AND RETROSPECTIVES,"
"IN GHOSTLY JAPAN," ETC., ETC.
[Decoration]
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1919
_Copyright, 1900_,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
Printers
S. J. PARKHILL & CO. BOSTON, U. S. A.
Contents
STORIES FROM STRANGE BOOKS:
I. THE RECONCILIATION 5
II. A LEGEND OF FUGEN-BOSATSU 15
III. THE SCREEN-MAIDEN 23
IV. THE CORPSE-RIDER 33
V. THE SYMPATHY OF BENTEN 41
VI. THE GRATITUDE OF THE SAMEBITO 57
JAPANESE STUDIES:
I. SEMI 71
II. JAPANESE FEMALE NAMES 105
III. OLD JAPANESE SONGS 157
FANTASIES:
I. NOCTILUCAE 197
II. A MYSTERY OF CROWDS 203
III. GOTHIC HORROR 213
IV. LEVITATION 225
V. NIGHTMARE-TOUCH 235
VI. READINGS FROM A DREAM-BOOK 249
VII. IN A PAIR OF EYES 265
Illustrations
_Facing page_
PLATE I 72
1-2, _Young Semi._
3-4, _Haru-Zemi_, also called _Nawashiro-Zemi_.
PLATE II 76
"_Shinne-Shinne_" also called _Yama-Zemi_, and
_Kuma-Zemi_.
PLATE III 80
_Aburazemi._
PLATE IV 84
1-2, _Mugikari-Zemi_, also called _Goshiki-Zemi_.
3, _Higurashi_.
4, "_Min-Min-Zemi_."
PLATE V 88
1, "_Tsuku-tsuku-Boshi_," also called
"_Kutsu-kutsu-Boshi_," etc. (_Cosmopsaltria
Opalifera?_)
2, _Tsurigane-Zemi_.
3, _The Phantom_.
STORIES FROM STRANGE BOOKS
Il avait vu bruler d'etranges pierres,
Jadis, dans les brasiers de la pensee...
EMILE VERHAEREN
The Reconciliation[1]
[Decoration]
[1] The original story is to be found in the curious volume
entitled _Konseki-Monogatari_
THERE was a young Samurai of Kyoto who had been reduced to poverty by
the ruin of his lord, and found himself obliged to leave his home, and
to take service with the Governor of a distant province. Before quitting
the capital, this Samurai divorced his wife,--a good and beautiful
woman,--under the belief that he could better obtain promotion by
another alliance. He then married the daughter of a family of some
distinction, and took her with him to the district whither he had been
called.
* * * * *
But it was in the time of the thoughtlessness of youth, and the sharp
experience of want, that the Samurai could not understand the worth of
the affection so lightly cast away. His second marriage did not prove a
happy one; the character of his new wife was hard and selfish; and he
soon found every cause to think with regret of Kyoto days. Then he
discovered that he still loved his first wife--loved her more than he
could ever love the second; and he began to feel how unjust and how
thankless he had been. Gradually his repentance deepened into a remorse
that left him no peace of mind. Memories of the woman he had
wronged--her gentle speech, her smiles, her dainty, pretty ways, her
faultless patience--continually haunted him. Sometimes in dreams he saw
her at her loom, weaving as when she toiled night and day to help him
during the years of their distress: more often he saw her kneeling alone
in the desolate little room where he had left her, veiling her tears
with her poor worn sleeve. Even in the hours of official duty, his
thoughts would wander back to her: then he would ask himself how she was
living, what she was doing. Something in his heart assured him that she
could not accept another husband, and that she never would refuse to
pardon him. And he secretly resolved to seek her out as soon as he could
return to Kyoto,--then to beg her forgiveness, to take her back, to do
everything that a man could do to make atonement. But the years went
by.
At last the Governor's official term expired, and the Samurai was free.
"Now I will go back to my dear one," he vowed to himself. "Ah, what a
cruelty,--what a folly to have divorced her!" He sent his second wife to
her own people (she had given him no children); and hurrying to Kyoto,
he went at once to seek his former companion,--not allowing himself even
the time to change his travelling-garb.
* * * * *
When he reached the street where she used to live, it was late in the
night,--the night of the tenth day of the ninth month;--and the city was
silent as a cemetery. But a bright moon made everything visible; and he
found the house without difficulty. It had a deserted look: tall weeds
were growing on the roof. He knocked at the sliding-doors, and no one
answered. Then, finding that the doors had not been fastened from
within, he pushed them open, and entered. The front room was matless and
empty: a chilly wind was blowing through crevices in the planking; and
the moon shone through a ragged break in the wall of the alcove. Other
rooms presented a like forlorn condition. The house, to all seeming, was
unoccupied. Nevertheless, the Samurai determined to visit one other
apartment at the further end of the dwelling,--a very small room that
had been his wife's favorite resting-place. Approaching the
sliding-screen that closed it, he was startled to perceive a glow
within. He pushed the screen aside, and uttered a cry of joy; for he saw
her there,--sewing by the light of a paper-lamp. Her eyes at the same
instant met his own; and with a happy smile she greeted him,--asking
only:--"When did you come back to Kyoto? How did you find your way here
to me, through all those black rooms?" The years had not changed her.
Still she seemed as fair and young as in his fondest memory of her;--but
sweeter than any memory there came to him the music of her voice, with
its trembling of pleased wonder.
Then joyfully he took his place beside her, and told her all:--how
deeply he repented his selfishness,--how wretched he had been without
her,--how constantly he had regretted her,--how long he had hoped and
planned to make amends;--caressing her the while, and asking her
forgiveness over and over again. She answered him, with loving
gentleness, according to his heart's desire, | 1,196.885161 |
2023-11-16 18:37:01.1279420 | 4,572 | 13 |
Produced by Stephen Blundell 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.)
EARLY
DOUBLE MONASTERIES
A Paper read before the Heretics' Society
on December 6th, 1914
BY
CONSTANCE STONEY
NEWNHAM COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE
CAMBRIDGE:
DEIGHTON, BELL & CO., LIMITED.
LONDON:
G. BELL & SONS, LIMITED.
1915
EARLY DOUBLE MONASTERIES.
The system of double monasteries, or monasteries for both men and women,
is as old as that of Christian monasticism itself, though the phrase
"monasteria duplicia"[1] dates from about the C6. The term was also
sometimes applied to twin monasteries for men; Bede uses it in this
sense with reference to Wearmouth and Yarrow, while he generally speaks
of a double monastery as "monasterium virginum."
The use of the word "double" is important. The monastery was not mixed;
men and women did not live or work together, and in many cases did not
use the same Church; and though the chief feature of the system was
association, there was in reality very little, when compared with the
amount of separation. In time, the details of organisation varied, such,
for example, as whether an abbot or an abbess ruled the whole monastery,
though it was generally the latter. Details of the rule of the community
naturally altered at different times and in different places, but the
essential character remained the same.
As to the object of such an arrangement, opinions differ. Some have
regarded it as a sort of moral experiment; others have seen in it only
the natural outcome of the necessity for having priests close at hand to
celebrate Mass, hear confessions and minister in general to the
spiritual needs of the nuns. There is, too, the practical side of the
plan--namely, that each side of the community was economically dependant
on the other, as will be seen later. However this may be, the practice
of placing the two together under one head seems to be as ancient as
monasticism itself.
The double monastery in its simplest form was that organisation said to
have been founded in the C4 by S. Pachomius,[2] an Egyptian monk. He
settled with a number of men, who had consecrated themselves to the
spiritual life, at Tabenna, by the side of the Nile. About the same
time, his sister Mary went to the opposite bank of the Nile, and began
to gather round her women disciples.
This settlement soon became a proper nunnery under the control of the
superior of the monks, who delegated elderly men to care for its
discipline. With the exception of regulations concerning dress, both
monks and nuns observed the same rule which S. Pachomius wrote for
them[3]. It was very simple. There were to be twelve prayers said
during the day, twelve at twilight, twelve at night, and a psalm at each
meal. Mass was celebrated on Saturday and Sunday. Meals were to be eaten
all together and the amount of food was unlimited. A monk could eat or
fast as he pleased, but the more he ate, the more work must he do. They
were to sleep three in a cell. No formal vows were to be taken, but the
period of probation before entry into the community, was to be three
years. The men provided the food, and did the rough work for the women,
building their dwellings, etc., while the women made clothes for the
men. When a nun died her companions brought her body to the river bank
and then retired; presently some monks fetched away the body, rowed back
across the Nile, and buried it in their cemetery.[4]
That the communities of S. Basil and his sister Macrina (also in the C4)
were of this type, may be seen from the rule of S. Basil. The
communities, like those of Pachomius, were on opposite banks of a
river--in this case, the Iris; and Macrina's nunnery is supposed to have
been in the village of Annesi, near Neo-Caesarea, and founded 357 A.D.
In her nunnery lived her mother and her younger brother Peter, who
afterwards became a priest. The life of this saintly family and the
relation between the two communities may be learned from the charmingly
written Life of S. Macrina by her brother Gregory of Nyssa.[5]
The Rule of S. Basil is written in the form of question and answer, and
much of it refers to the relations between monks and nuns, while all
impress upon the religious the duty of giving no occasion to the enemy
to blaspheme. "May the head of the monastery speak often with the
abbess? May he speak with any of the sisters other than the abbess, on
matters of faith? May the abbess be angry if a priest orders the sisters
to do anything without her knowledge? If a sister refuses to sing the
psalms, is she to be compelled to do so?" All the answers urge both
parts of the community to avoid giving ground for scandal. The nuns, in
this case, seem to have had a separate church, for Gregory speaks of the
"Chorus of Virgins" who awaited him when he came to visit his sister
Macrina on her death bed. There were, too, schools for boys and girls
attached to S. Basil's house, for he makes regulations concerning their
education.
There is practically no evidence for double monasteries in the C5, but
at the opening of the C6 we find them again. In the West the earliest
monastic communities had been founded by S. Martin of Tours, first at
Milan in 371 and afterwards in Gaul, which from then became the chief
monastic centre.
It is here, then, that another brother and sister figure as the founders
of a double monastery. S. Caesarius, Bishop of Arles,[6] persuaded his
sister Caesaria to leave Marseilles, where she was in a convent, and
join him at Arles to preside over the women who had gathered there to
live under his guidance; and the rule which he afterwards wrote for
these nuns is the first Western rule for nuns, and was afterwards
followed in many double monasteries.[7] He arranged it, as he himself
says, according to the teachings of the fathers of the Church. He
stipulates that all joining the community shall, on their entry,
renounce all claims to outside property. Only those women are to enter
who accept the rule of their own accord and are prepared to live in
perfect equality and without servants. Much attention is paid in the
rule to the instruction of the nuns; they were to devote considerable
time to music, as being an art through which God could fittingly be
praised; to be taught reading and writing; to practice cooking, and
weaving both of Church vestments and their own clothing.
They were to attend to the sick and infirm, and above all they were not
to quarrel. They were not entirely cut off from the outside world, since
they were permitted to entertain women from other convents; but, says
the Rule, "Dinners and entertainments shall not be provided for
churchmen, laymen and friends." We have only indirect evidence that
Arles was a double monastery. The confusion, for example in Caesarius's
will between his two foundations of S. John's and S. Mary's, resolves
itself, if we suppose that the monks were at the one, and the nuns at
the other, and that they associated in the great church in the
monastery, described by the authors of the Life of S. Caesarius, as
being dedicated to S. Mary, S. John and S. Martin.[8] Such an
arrangement was common in later double monasteries.
Another famous C6 monastery in Gaul now supposed to have been double was
that of S. Rhadagund at Poitiers about 566.[9] S. Rhadagund was married
to King Clothair against her will, and their life together was a series
of quarrels. She was so devoted to charitable work, we are told, that
she often annoyed the King by keeping him waiting at meals, left him
whenever possible and behaved in such a way that the king declared that
he was married to a nun rather than a queen. Finally the murder of her
young brother, at the instigation of the king, determined her to leave
the court, and flying to the protection of Bishop Medardus, she
demanded to be consecrated a nun.[10]
After some natural hesitation on the part of the Bishop, she was made a
Deaconess--a term applying to anyone who, without belonging to any
special order, was under the protection of the Church.[11] She devoted
herself to the relief of every kind of distress, bodily and spiritual;
and at length the desire came to her to provide permanently for the men
and women who came to her for help. So, on an estate which she owned at
Poitiers, she founded a nunnery dedicated to the Holy Name, and,
probably at the same time, the house for men, separated from the convent
by the town wall and dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary. It was in S.
Mary's that Rhadagund was buried and after her death, her name was added
to the dedication. Beside this evidence of association between the two
houses, the only other is the correspondence of Rhadagund and the Abbess
Agnes with the poet Fortunatus, who was probably a monk of S. Mary's. He
certainly seems to have been the director and counsellor of the nuns,
and to have been often engaged in business for them; but he did not live
in the same house with them for in one of his letters he laments the
fact. His letters and verses addressed to the two women throw a strong
light on the friendship, and real affection which existed among the
three friends. He says that he will work day and night for Rhadagund,
draw the water, tend the vines and the garden, cook, wash dishes,
anything, rather than that she should do the heavy and menial work of
the house. He begs the abbess Agnes to talk often of him with the
sisters that he may feel more really that she is his mother. He sends
gifts of flowers for their sanctuary, and baskets which he has plaited;
and with a basket of violets he sends the following charming verses.[12]
(I give a translation which must necessarily be inadequate.)
"If the season had yielded me white lilies, according to its wont, or
red roses with sweet smelling savour, I had plucked them from the
countryside, or from the turf of my little garden, and had sent them,
small gifts for great ladies! But since I lack the first, I e'en pay the
second, for he presents roses in the eyes of love, who offers only
violets. Yet, these violets I send are, among perfumed herbs, of noble
stock, and with equal grace breathe in their royal purple, while
fragrance with beauty vies to steep their petals. May you, likewise,
both have each charm that these possess, and may the perfume of your
future reward be a glory that blooms everlastingly."
The nuns of Ste. Croix, too, seem not to have been lacking in
generosity. Fortunatus frequently thanks them for gifts of eggs, fruit,
milk, etc.; and on one occasion he receives more dishes than one servant
could carry. He must have stood in some official relation to Rhadagund,
for such freedom of intercourse to be possible; and if his verses
sometimes suggest the courtier rather than the monk, it must be
remembered that they are the work of a poet who had first been a friend
of princes and was among the most fashionable men of letters of his day
in Ravenna; and that they are addressed to a woman who was, after all, a
queen.
In 587 Rhadagund died and Bishop Gregory of Tours tells how greatly she
was mourned by the whole community, and how some 200 women crowded round
her bier, bewailing their loss. One of them, the nun Baudonivia, several
years afterwards, cannot, she says, even speak of the death of Rhadagund
without being choked with sobs.[13]
It will be seen from these examples, that in all probability, the
origin of the double monastery need not be sought, as has been supposed,
in Ireland, since it seems to have been known in Gaul before S.
Columbanus and his Irish disciples landed there and preached a great
religious revival, at the end of the C6. Indeed, though there are
scattered notices in the lives of the Irish saints, which seem to
suggest that there were double monasteries in Ireland in very early
times, there is no definite evidence until the description in
Cogitosus's "Life of S. Bridget," of one at Kildare, probably in the C8.
The monasteries actually founded by S. Columbanus himself, were all for
men.
On the other hand, the double monastery seems always to have flourished
wherever the fervour of the Irish missionaries penetrated. Perhaps, as
Montalembert[14] suggests, the ideal atmosphere of divine simplicity and
single-mindedness which characterised them, was particularly favorable
to the growth of such an institution.
S. Columbanus dedicated Burgundofara, or Fara, as a child, to the
religious life; and she afterwards founded the monastery of Brie to the
south-east of Paris, which we learn from Jonas, who was a monk there,
and from Bede, was a double monastery.
It is clear that this house was one of those ruled by an abbess, for
Jonas says that no distinction was recognised between the sexes, and
that the abbess treated both alike. The discipline here, however, seems
to have been very severe, for he adds that some of the new nuns tried to
escape by ladders from the dormitory. Brie is interesting to us as
forming one of the links between Continental and English monasticism at
this time. Bede says of the daughter of Erconberht, King of Kent, "She
was a most virtuous maiden, always serving God in a monastery in France,
built by a most noble abbess, Fara by name, at a place called Brie; for
at that time, but few monasteries being built in the country of the
Angles, many were wont, for the sake of monastic conversation, to repair
to the monasteries of the Franks or Gauls; and they also sent their
daughters there to be educated and given to their Heavenly Bridegroom,
especially in the monasteries of Brie, Chelles, and Andelys."[15]
He adds that two daughters of King Anna of East Anglia, "though
strangers, were for their virtue made abbesses of the monastery of
Brie."
Little is known of Andelys, except that it was founded by Queen
Clotilda. At Chelles, founded by Queen Bathilda in 662, ten miles from
Paris, on the river Marne, many famous persons, both men and women,
received their education. Among them was a Northumbrian princess,
Hereswith, whose sister was Hild, the most famous of English abbesses.
The prevalence and influence of the double monastery in England may
perhaps be better understood by a reference to the position of women
generally in Anglo-Saxon society. Nothing astonished the Romans more
than the austere chastity of the Germanic women, and the religious
respect paid by men to them, and nowhere has their influence been more
fully recognised or more enduring than among the Anglo-Saxons. This fact
largely accounts for the extreme importance attached by them to marriage
alliances, particularly those between members of royal houses.[16] These
unions gave to the princess the office of mediatrix; in Beowulf she is
called Freothowebbe, "the peace-weaver."[17] From this rose the high
position held by queens. Their signatures appear in acts of foundation,
decrees of councils, charters, etc. Sometimes they reigned with full
royal authority, as did Seaxburg, Queen of the West Saxons, after the
death of her husband.[18] From the beginning of Christianity in England,
the women, and particularly these royal women, were as active and
persevering in furthering the Faith, as their men. "Christianity," says
Montalembert,[19] "came to a people which had preserved the instinct
and sense of the necessity for venerating things above," and "they at
least honoured the virtue which they did not themselves always
practise."
Consequently, when the young Anglo-Saxon women, having been initiated
into the life of the cloister abroad, returned to England to found
monasteries in their own land, they were received by their countrymen
with reverence and respect. This respect soon expressed itself in the
national law, which placed under the safeguard of severe penalties the
honour and freedom of those whom it called the "Brides of God."
Princesses, royal widows, sometimes reigning queens, began to found
monasteries, where they lived on terms of equality with the daughters of
ceorls and bondmen; and perhaps it is fair to say that it was not the
lowest in rank who made the greatest sacrifice.
But the influence of these women did not cease with their retirement to
the cloister. When one of them, by the choice of her companions, or the
nomination of the bishops, became invested with the right of governing
the community, she was also given the liberties and privileges of the
highest rank. Abbesses often had the retinue and state of princesses.
They were present at most great religious and national gatherings, and
often affixed their signatures to the charters granted on these
occasions.[20]
I have already referred to one of the greatest of these abbesses, Hild
of Whitby. She was the grandniece of Edwin, the first Christian King of
Northumbria and had been baptised with her uncle at York in 627 by the
Roman Missionary Paulinus.[21] Bede says that, before consecrating her
life to religion, "she had lived thirty-three years very nobly among her
family." When she realised her vocation, she went into East Anglia where
her brother-in-law was king, intending to cross over to the continent
and take the veil at Chelles. She spent a year here in preparation, but
before she could accomplish her purpose, Bishop Aidan invited her to the
north, to take charge of the double monastery of Hartlepool, which had
been founded by Heiu, the first nun in England. "When," says Bede, "she
had for some years governed this monastery, wholly intent upon
establishing the regular life, it happened that she also undertook the
construction or arrangement of a monastery in the place which is called
Streonesheal (Whitby), and diligently accomplished the work enjoined
upon her. For in this monastery, as in the first, she established the
discipline of the regular life, and indeed, she taught there also,
justice, piety, chastity, and other virtues, but especially the guarding
of peace and charity; so that, after the example of the primitive
church, no one there was rich and none poor, all things were common to
all and no one had property. So great was her prudence, moreover, that
not only ordinary persons in their necessity, but even kings and princes
sought and received counsel of her. She made those who were under her
direction give so much time to the reading of the Divine Scriptures, and
exercise themselves so much in the works of righteousness, that many
could readily be met with there, who were fit to take up ecclesiastical
office, that is, the service of the altar." Bede goes on to mention six
men from Hild's monastery, who afterwards became bishops. The most
famous was perhaps S. John of Beverley, who was first bishop of Hexham,
and afterwards of York, and who was noted for his piety and learning.
Aetta held the see of Dorchester for a time. Bosa, another scholarly
disciple of Hild, became Archbishop of York, and Tatfrith was elected
bishop of the Hwicce, though he died before his consecration.
None of these, however, have a greater claim to be remembered than the
cow-herd Caedmon, the first English poet, and the story as given by Bede
is | 1,197.147982 |
2023-11-16 18:37:01.2943540 | 4,681 | 12 |
Produced by David Widger
A THOUGHTLESS YES
By Helen H. Gardener
Author Of
"Men, Women, and Gods;" "Sex in Brain;" "Pulpit, Pew, and Cradle;" "Is
this Your Son, my Lord?" "Pushed by Unseen Hands," "Pray you, Sir, whose
Daughter?" "An Unofficial Patriot," and "Facts and Fictions of Life."
Tenth Edition.
Copyright, 1890,
Dedication.
To the many strangers who, after reading such of these stories as have
before been printed, have written me letters that were thoughtful or gay
or sad, I dedicate this volume.
These letters have come from far and near; from rich and from poor; from
Christian and from unbeliever; from a bishop's palace and from behind
prison walls.
If this collection of stories shall give to my friends, known and
unknown, as much pleasure and mental stimulus as their letters gave to
me, I shall be content.
HELEN H. GARDENER.
CONTENTS
A Splendid Judge of a Woman
The Lady of the Club
Under Protest
For the Prosecution
A Rusty Link in the Chain
The Boler House Mystery
The Time-lock of Our Ancestors
Florence Campbell's Fate
My Patient's Story
PREFACE TO THE EIGHTH EDITION.
In issuing a new edition of this book, it has been thought wise to state
that an unauthorized edition is now on the market, and it is desirable
that the public shall know that all copies of this book not bearing the
imprint of the Commonwealth Company are sold against the will and in
violation of the rights of the author.
Since some persons have been puzzled to make the connection between
the title of the book and the stories themselves, and to apply Colonel
Ingersoll's exquisite autograph sentiment more clearly, a part of "An
Open Letter," which was written in reply to an editorial review of the
book when it first appeared, is here reprinted, in the hope that it may
remove the difficulty for all.
AN OPEN LETTER.
I have, this morning, read your review of "A Thoughtless Yes." I wish
to thank you for the pleasant things said and also to make the
connection--which I am surprised to see did not present itself to your
mind--between the title and the burden of the stories or sketches.
It is not so easy as you may suppose to get a title which shall be
exactly and fully descriptive of a collection of tales or sketches,
each one of which was written to suggest thoughts and questions on some
particular topic or topics to which people usually pay the tribute of a
thoughtless yes. With one--possibly two--exceptions each sketch means to
suggest to the reader that there may be a very large question mark put
after many of the social, religious, economic, medical, journalistic, or
legal fiats of the present civilization.
You say that "in 'The Lady of the Club' she [meaning me] does not show
how poverty results from a thoughtless yes. Perhaps she does not see
that it does." I had in my mind exactly that point when I wrote the
story and when I decided upon the title for the book. No, I do not
attempt in such sketches to show _how_, but to show _that_, such and
such conditions exist and that it is wrong. I want to suggest a question
of the justice and the right of several things; but I want to leave each
person free to think out, not my conclusion or remedy, but a conclusion
and a remedy, and at all events to make him refuse, henceforth, the
thoughtless yes of timid acquiescence to things as they are simply
because they are. In the "Lady of the Club" I meant to attack the
impudent authority that makes such a condition of poverty possible,
by calling sympathetic attention to its workings. There are one or two
other ideas sustained by authority, to which, to the readers of that
tale, I wished to make a thoughtless yes henceforth impossible. At least
I hoped to arouse a question. One is taxation of church property. I
wished to point out that by shirking their honest debts churches heap
still farther poverty and burden upon the poor. I hoped, too, to
suggest that the idea of "charity," to which most people give a warmly
thoughtless yes, must be an indignity or impossibility where, even they
would say, it was most needed. I wanted to call attention to the fact
that a physician and a man of tender heart and lofty soul were compelled
to make themselves criminals, before the law, to even be kind to the
dead. That conditions are so savage under the present system that such a
case is absolutely hopeless while the victims live and outrageous after
they are dead. To all of these dictates of impudent authority, to which
most story readers pay the tribute of a thoughtless yes, I wanted to
call attention in such a way that henceforth a question must arise in
their minds. I hoped to show, too, that even so lofty a character
as Roland Barker was tied hand and foot--until it made him almost a
madman--by a system of economics and religion and law which so interlace
as to sustain each other and combine to not only crush the poor but to
prevent the rich from helping along even where they desire to do so.
These were the main points upon which that particular tale was intended
to arouse a mental attitude of thoughtful protest There are other, minor
ones, which I need not trouble you to recall. If you will notice, nearly
all of the tales end (or stop without an end) with an open question for
the reader to settle--to settle his way, not mine. Indeed, I am not yet
convinced that my own ideas of the changes needed and the way to bring
them about are infallible. I am still open to conviction. I have tried
to grasp the Socialist, Communist, Anarchist, Single-tax, Free-land, and
other ideas and to comprehend just what each could be fairly expected
to accomplish if established--to see the _pros_ and _cons_ of these
and other schemes for social improvement. These, and the varying cults
ranged between, each seems to me to have certain strong points and
certain weak ones. Each seems to me to overlook some essential feature;
and yet I have no system to offer that I think would be better or would
work better than some of these. Indeed, I do most earnestly believe that
_the_ inspired way is yet to be struck out, and I do not believe that
I am the one to do it Meanwhile I can do some things. I can suggest
questions, and, sometimes, answers. But I am not a god, and I do not
want all people to answer my way. I do want to help prevent, now and
henceforth, the tribute of a thoughtless yes from being given to a good
many established wrongs.
Since such able thinkers as you are have--in the main--already refused
such tribute, I am perfectly satisfied to let each of these answer the
questions I have suggested or may suggest in my fiction in the way that
seems most hopeful to him.
Meantime, the vast majority of story readers have not yet had their
emotions touched by the dramatic presentation of "the other side."
Fiction has--in the main--worked to make them accept without question
all things as authority has presented them. Who knows but that a lofty
discontent may be stirred in some soul who can solve the awful problems
and at the same time reconcile the various cults of warring philosophers
so that they may combine for humanity and cease to divide for
revenue--or personal pique? I do not believe that the province of a
story is to assume to give the solution of philosophical questions that
have puzzled and proved too much for the best and ablest brains. I have
no doubt that fiction may stir and arouse to thought many who cannot
understand and will not heed essays or argument or preaching, while
it may also present the same thoughts in a new light to those who do.
Personally I do not believe in tacking on to fiction a "moral" or an
"in conclusion" which shall switch all such aroused thoughts into one
channel. Clear thinking and right feeling may lead some one, who is new
to such protest, to solutions that I have not reached. So let us each
question "impudent authority," whether it be in its stupid blindness to
heredity or to environment; and I shall be content that you solve the
new order by an appeal to Anarchism _via_ free land; or that Matilda
Joslyn Gage solve it by the ballot for women and hereditary freedom from
slavish instincts stamped upon a race bom of superstitious and subject
mothers.
Personally I do not believe that all the free land, free money or
freedom in the world, which shall leave the mothers of the race (whether
in or out of marriage) a subject class or in a position to transmit to
their children the vices or weaknesses of a dominated dependent, will
ever succeed in populating the world with self-reliant, self-respecting,
honorable and capable people.
On the other hand, I do not see how the ballot in the hands of woman
will do for her all that many believe it will. That it is her right
and would go far is clear; but after that, your question of economics
touches her in a way that it does not and cannot touch men, and I am
free to confess that as yet I have heard of no economic or social plan
that would not of necessity, in my opinion, bear heaviest upon those who
are mothers. So you will see that when I suggested the desirability in
"For the Prosecution" of having mothers on the bench and as jurors where
a case touched points no man living does or can understand in all its
phases, I do not think that would right all the wrong nor solve all the
questions suggested by such a trial; but I thought it would help push
the car of right and justice in the direction of light which we all hope
is ahead.
You believe more in environment than in heredity; I believe in both, and
that both are sadly and awfully awry, largely because too many people
in too many ways pay to impudent authority the tribute of a thoughtless
yes.
It is one of the saddest things in this world to see the brave and
earnest men who fight so nobly for better and fairer economic conditions
for "Labor," pay, much too often, the tribute of a thoughtless yes to
the absolute pauper status of all womanhood They resent with spirit
the idea that men should labor for a mere subsistence and always be
dependent upon and at the financial mercy of the rich. They do not
appear to see that to one-half of the race even that much economic
independence would be a tremendous improvement upon her present status.
How would Singletax or Free-land help this? You may reply that Anarchism
would solve that problem. Would it? With maternity and physical
disabilities in the scale? To my mind, all the various economic schemes
yet put forward lack an essential feature. They provide for a free
and better manhood, but they pay the tribute of a thoughtless yes to
impudent authority in the case of womanhood, in many things. And so long
as motherhood is serfhood, just so long will this world be populated
with a race easy to subjugate, weak to resist oppression, criminal
in its instincts of cruelty toward those in its power, and humble and
subservient toward authority and domination. Character rises but little
above its source. The mother molds the man. If she have the status, the
instincts, and the spirit of a subordinate, she will transmit these,
and the more enlightened she is the surer is this, because of her
consciousness of her own degradation.
Look at the Kemmler horror. People all marvel at his "brutish nature
and his desire to kill." No one says anything about the fact, which was
merely mentioned at his trial, that his "father was a butcher and his
mother helped in the business." Did you know that this is also true of
Jesse Pomeroy; the boy who "from infancy tortured animals and killed
whatever he could?"
Would all this sort of thing mean absolutely nothing to women of the
same social and scientific status enjoyed by the men who assisted at the
trials of these two and at the legal murder of one? In ordinary women,
of course, it would not stir very deep thought But these were not
ordinary men. They were far more than that, Almost all the women who
have spoken or written to me of the Kemmler horror have touched that
thought Have you heard a man discuss it? Is there a reason for this? Do
we pay the tribute of a thoughtless yes to all that clusters about the
present ideas on such subjects and about their criminal medicolegal
aspects? But this letter grows too long.
With great respect and hearty good wishes,
I am sincerely,
Helen H. Gardener.
A SPLENDID JUDGE OF A WOMAN.
_"We look at the one little woman's face we lovey as we look at the
face of our mother earth, and see all sorts of answers to our own
yearnings."_--George Eliot.
"But after all it is not fair to blame her as you do, Cuthbert. She is
what she must be. It is not at all strange. Midge--"
"I am quite out of patience with you, Nora;" exclaimed Cuthbert Wagner,
vehemently. "How can you excuse her? Midge, as you call her, has been no
friend to you. She was deceitful and designing all along. She even tried
in every way she could think of to undermine you in _my_ affections!" He
tossed his head contemptuously and strode to the window where he stood
glaring out into the moonlight in fierce and indignant protest. His wife
had so often spoken well of Margaret Mintem. She did not appear to hold
the least resentment toward the school-friend of her past years, while
Cuthbert could see nothing whatever that was good or deserving of
praise in the character of the young lady in question. He was bitterly
resentful because Margaret Mintem had spoken ill of his wife while she
was only his betrothed, and Cuthbert Wagner did not forgive easily.
Nora crossed the room with her swift, graceful tread, and the sweep of
her lace gown over the thick rug had not reached her husband's ear as he
stood thumping on the window pane. He started a little, therefore, when
a soft hand was laid upon his arm and a softer face pressed itself close
to his shoulder.
"It is very sweet of you, dear," she said in her low, gentle voice,
"It is very sweet of you to feel so keenly any thrust made at me; but
darling, you are unfair to Midge, poor girl! My heart used often to
bleed for her. It must be terribly hard for her to fight her own nature,
as she does,--as she _must_,--and lose the battle so often after all."
"Fight fiddle-sticks!" said Cuthbert, and then went on grumbling in
inarticulate sounds, at which his wife laughed out merrily.
"Oh, boo, boo, boo," she said, pretending to imitate his unuttered
words.
"I don't believe a word of it. _I know Margaret Mintern_. Did I not
room with her for three long years? And do I not know that she is a good
girl, and a very noble one, too, in spite of her little weakness of envy
or jealousy?
"She can't help that. I am sure she must be terribly humiliated by it.
Indeed, indeed, dear, I know that she is; but she cannot master it. It
is a part of her. I do not know whether she was bom with it or not; but
I do know that all of her life since she was a very little girl she has
been so situated that just that particular defect in her character is
the inevitable result. Don't you believe, Cuthbert, that all such things
are natural productions? Why, dearie, it seems to me that you might as
reasonably feel angry with me because my hair is brown as toward Midge
because her envy sometimes overbears her better qualities. The real
fault lies--"
"O Nora, suppose you take the stump! Lecture on 'Whatever is is right,'
and have done with it."
"Aha, my dear," laughed his wife, "I have caught you napping again. I do
not say that it is right; but I do say that it is natural for Margaret
to be just what she is. That is just the point people always overlook,
it seems to me. Nature is wrong about half of the time--even inanimate
nature. Just look over there! See those splendid mountains and the
lovely little valley all touched with moonlight; but, oh, how the
eye longs for water! A lake, a splendid river, the ocean in the
distance--something that is water--_anything_ that is water! But no, it
is valley and mountain and mountain and valley, until the most beautiful
spot in the world, when first you see it, grows hateful and tiresome and
lacking in the most important feature."
Cuthbert laughed. "A lake would look well just over there by McGuire's
barn, now, wouldn't it? And, come to think of it, how a few mountains
would improve things over at Newport or Long Beach." He stopped to thump
a bug from his wife's shoulder.
"How pretty you look in that black lace, little woman. I don't believe
nature needed any improver once in her life anyhow--when she made you."
Nora smiled. A pleased, gratified little dimple made itself visible at
one corner of her mouth. Her husband stooped over and kissed it lightly,
just as the portiere was drawn aside and a guest announced by James, the
immaculate butler.
"We've just been having a quarrel, Bailey," said Mr. Wagner, as he
advanced to greet the visitor, "and now I mean to leave it to you if--"
"Yes," drawled Mr. Bailey, "I noticed that as I came in. You were just
punctuating your quarrel as James drew back the portiere. That is the
reason I coughed so violently as I stepped inside. Don't be alarmed
about my health. It isn't consumption. It is only assumption, I do
assure you. I assumed that you assumed that you were alone--that there
wasn't an interested spectator; but, great Scott! Bert, I don't blame
you, so don't apologize;" and with a low bow of admiration to his
friend's wife, he joined in the laugh.
"But what was the row? I'm consumed to hear it," he added, as they were
seated. "I should be charmed to umpire the matter--so long as it ended
that way. Now, go on; but I want to give you fair warning, old man, that
I am on Mrs. Wagner's side to start with, so you fire off your biggest
guns and don't attempt to roll any twisted balls."
"_Curved_ balls," laughed Nora, "not twisted; and it seems to me you
mixed your games just a wee bit. There isn't any game with guns and
balls both, is there?"
"Oh, yes, yes indeed," replied Mr. Bailey, promptly. "The old, old game
in which there is brought to bear a battery of eyes."
"Oh, don't," said Cuthbert. "I am not equal to it! But after all, I
can't see that you are well out of this, Ned. Where do the balls come
in?"
"What have you against eyeballs that roll in a fine frenzy when a
battery of handsome eyes is trained upon a bashful fellow like me?" he
asked quite gravely, and then all three laughed and Cuthbert pretended
to faint.
"I shall really have to protest, myself, if you go any farther, Mr.
Bailey," said Nora.
"You are getting into deep water, and if you are to be on my side in the
coming contest, I want you to have a cool head and--"
"A clean heart;" put in Cuthbert.
"Mrs. Wagner never asks for impossibilities, I am sure," said Mr.
Bailey, dryly.
"But she does. That is just it. She wants to make me believe that a girl
who traduced her and acted like a little fiend generally, is an adorable
creature--a natural production which couldn't help itself--had to behave
that way. We--"
"I believe I started in by saying that I should be on your side, Mrs.
Wagner," said their guest, assuming a judicial attitude and bracing
himself behind an imaginary pile of accumulated evidence, "but I'm
beginning to wobble already. If Bert makes another home run like that, I
warn you, madam, that while I shall endeavor to be a fair and impartial
judge, I shall decide against you."
Nora's eyes had a twinkle in their depths for an instant, but her face
had grown grave.
"Wait. Let me tell you." she said. "Even Cuthbert does not know just
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Produced by Polly Stratton
THE TAVERN KNIGHT
By Rafael Sabatini
CONTENTS
I. ON THE MARCH
II. ARCADES AMBO
III. THE LETTER
IV. AT THE SIGN OF THE MITRE
V. AFTER WORCESTER FIELD
VI. COMPANIONS IN MISFORTUNE
VII. THE TAVERN KNIGHT'S STORY
VIII. THE TWISTED BAR
IX. THE BARGAIN
X. THE ESCAPE
XI. THE ASHBURNS
XII. THE HOUSE THAT WAS ROLAND MARLEIGH'S
XIII. THE METAMORPHOSIS OF KENNETH
XIV. THE HEART OF CYNTHIA ASHBURN
XV. JOSEPH'S RETURN
XVI. THE RECKONING
XVII. JOSEPH DRIVES A BARGAIN
XVIII. COUNTER-PLOT
XIX. THE INTERRUPTED JOURNEY
XX. THE CONVERTED HOGAN
XXI. THE MESSAGE KENNETH BORE
XXII. SIR CRISPIN'S UNDERTAKING
XXIII. GREGORY'S ATTRITION
XXIV. THE WOOING OF CYNTHIA
XXV. CYNTHIA'S FLIGHT
XXVI. TO FRANCE
XXVII. THE AUBERGINE DU SOLEIL
THE TAVERN KNIGHT
CHAPTER I. ON THE MARCH
He whom they called the Tavern Knight laughed an evil laugh--such a
laugh as might fall from the lips of Satan in a sardonic moment.
He sat within the halo of yellow light shed by two tallow candles, whose
sconces were two empty bottles, and contemptuously he eyed the youth
in black, standing with white face and quivering lip in a corner of
the mean chamber. Then he laughed again, and in a hoarse voice, sorely
suggestive of the bottle, he broke into song. He lay back in his chair,
his long, spare legs outstretched, his spurs jingling to the lilt of his
ditty whose burden ran:
On the lip so red of the wench that's sped
His passionate kiss burns, still-O!
For 'tis April time, and of love and wine
Youth's way is to take its fill-O!
Down, down, derry-do!
So his cup he drains and he shakes his reins,
And rides his rake-helly way-O!
She was sweet to woo and most comely, too,
But that was all yesterday-O!
Down, down, derry-do!
The lad started forward with something akin to a shiver.
"Have done," he cried, in a voice of loathing, "or, if croak you must,
choose a ditty less foul!"
"Eh?" The ruffler shook back the matted hair from his lean, harsh
face, and a pair of eyes that of a sudden seemed ablaze glared at his
companion; then the lids drooped until those eyes became two narrow
slits--catlike and cunning--and again he laughed.
"Gad's life, Master Stewart, you have a temerity that should save
you from grey hairs! What is't to you what ditty my fancy seizes on?
'Swounds, man, for three weary months have I curbed my moods, and worn
my throat dry in praising the Lord; for three months have I been a
living monument of Covenanting zeal and godliness; and now that at last
I have shaken the dust of your beggarly Scotland from my heels, you--the
veriest milksop that ever ran tottering from its mother's lap would
chide me because, yon bottle being done, I sing to keep me from waxing
sad in the contemplation of its emptiness!"
There was scorn unutterable on the | 1,197.391338 |
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[Illustration: CALLE DEL PISTOR]
LITERARY LANDMARKS
OF
VENICE
BY
LAURENCE HUTTON
AUTHOR OF “LITERARY LANDMARKS OF LONDON”
“LITERARY LANDMARKS OF EDINBURGH”
“LITERARY LANDMARKS OF JERUSALEM”
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration: colophon]
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1896
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
TO
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
WHOSE VENETIAN LIFE
MADE | 1,197.47987 |
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TOUR
OF
THE AMERICAN LAKES,
AND AMONG
THE INDIANS
OF THE
NORTH-WEST TERRITORY,
IN 1830:
DISCLOSING THE CHARACTER AND PROSPECTS OF THE
INDIAN RACE.
BY C. COLTON.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
FREDERICK WESTLEY AND A. H. DAVIS,
MDCCCXXXIII.
LONDON
R. CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD-STREET-HILL.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
Page
ADVERTISEMENT ix
INTRODUCTION xi
CHAP. I.
The Falls of Niagara 1
CHAP. II.
Niagara Whirlpool 12
CHAP. III.
Geographical description of the Great Lakes of North
America 21
CHAP. IV.
The Author’s motives for undertaking the _Tour_; character
of wild Indians 28
CHAP. V.
Romantic expectations; impressions of nursery tales
respecting Indians; the savage proper; embarkation
from Buffalo; beauties of Lake Erie; arrival
at Detroit 33
CHAP. VI.
History of Detroit:--early trading posts; Pontiac’s
conspiracy; Detroit saved; Pontiac’s death; description
and beauties of the Territory of Michigan 40
CHAP. VII.
Remarkable instance of capital crime 48
CHAP. VIII.
Embarkation from Detroit; Captain Symmes’s theory
of the earth; sail over Lake St. Clair; interest of
the scene; delta of the River St. Clair; relics of
French population; a picture of French and Indians 54
CHAP. IX.
River St. Clair; visit to Fort Gratiot; memoranda of
Lake Huron:--wild and picturesque scenery of its
northern regions; meeting with a canoe, manned by
eight Indians with the paddle; their dexterity and
the celerity of their movement; an Indian encampment;
their lodges; the Indian paddle quicker than
steam; the Indian’s love of money and whiskey;
an Indian salute; and several interesting incidents
of the passage among the islands of the north
margin of Huron 63
CHAP. X.
Arrival at the _Saut de St. Marie_; origin of this name;
the Falls; an interesting young lady, whose mother
was an Indian and her father a Scotchman; peculiar
and moral power of Indian languages 80
CHAP. XI.
Voyage from the Saut de St. Marie to Green Bay;
the thirty-two thousand islands; the scenery they
create; description of Michillimackinack; the sugar-loaf
and arched rock; arrival at Green Bay in the
North-West Territory 88
CHAP. XII.
Political relations of the American Indian tribes | 1,197.483158 |
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The
Fern Bulletin.
Vol. XI. No. 4.
A Quarterly Devoted to Ferns.
OCTOBER
Binghamton, N. Y.
THE FERN BULLETIN CO.
1903
THE FERN BULLETIN
A QUARTERLY DEVOTED TO FERNS
WILLARD N. CLUTE, Editor
THE FERN BULLETIN CO., PUBLISHERS, BINGHAMTON, N. Y.
20 Cents a Copy; 75 Cents a Year.
Awarded Grand Prize at the Paris Exposition.
To insure subscribers against loss of one or more numbers between the
expiration and renewal of their subscriptions the journal will be sent
until ordered stopped. All arrearages must be paid. Personal Checks Must
Contain Ten Cents Extra for Collection. Otherwise credit will be given
for the amount less collection fees.
Entered at the postoffice, Binghamton, N. Y., as second-class mail
matter.
THE LINNAEAN FERN CHAPTER
President, B. D. Gilbert, Clayville, N. Y. Secretary, Homer D. House, N.
Y. Bot. Garden, Bronx, New York City.
Fern students are cordially invited to join the Chapter. Address either
the President or Secretary for further information. The annual dues are
$1.00 and should be sent direct to Jas. A. Graves, Treasurer,
Susquehanna, Pa.
FERNS FOR SALE
A Fern Student of many years standing who has made a specialty of
cultivating New England Ferns is prepared to supply plants for Ferneries
and House. For prices and variety address,
C. C. BROWNE, South Groveland, Mass.
“MOSSES WITH A HAND LENS”
BY DR A. J. GROUT
It is the only book of its kind in the English language. It makes the
mosses as easy to study as the flowering plants. Eight full page plates
and ninety figures in the text. Price $1.10 postpaid. Send for sample
pages to O. T. Louis, 59 Fifth Avenue, N. Y. City.
WANTS AND EXCHANGES
_Special announcements inserted here for One Cent a word. No notice
received for less than 25c. No charge for address._
EXCHANGE—I will exchange three flowering plants of California for any
one desired fern of the United States. Send me your list of duplicates.
GEORGE B. GRANT, 637 Summit Ave., Pasadena, California.
EATON’S FERNS FOR $35.00
Eaton’s “Ferns of North America” has been out of print for some time and
is constantly advancing in price. We can offer a second-hand copy, the
two volumes bound in cloth, clean and in good condition, for $35.00,
express paid. There are 81 colored plates, and all the North American
ferns are described. Address,
THE FERN BULLETIN, Binghamton, N. Y.
[Illustration: WILLIAM RALPH MAXON.]
CONTENTS
THE FERN FLORA OF NEW YORK. 97
Ophioglossaceae. 98
Osmundaceae. 99
Schizaeaceae. 100
Polypodiaceae. 100
Equisetaceae. 103
Isoetaceae. 103
Lycopodiaceae. 103
Salviniaceae. 104
Selaginellaceae. 104
FERNWORT NOTES—IV. 105
SCOLOPENDRIUM FROM CANADA. 107
THE GENUS EQUISETUM IN NORTH AMERICA. 108
THE SPECIES-CONCEPTION AMONG THE TERNATE BOTRYCHIUMS. 115
NEW FORMS OF FERNS. 118
FERNS IN BOTTLES. 120
WILLIAM RALPH MAXON. 121
ANOTHER STATION FOR ASPLENIUM EBENEUM HORTONAE. 122
INDEX TO CURRENT LITERATURE RELATING TO FERNS. 122
EDITORIAL. 123
BOOK NEWS. 125
A WORD FROM THE EDITOR 129
THE FERN BULLETIN
_VOL. XI._ _OCTOBER, 1903._ _No. 4_
THE FERN FLORA OF NEW YORK.
By B. D. Gilbert.
The State of New York has the largest area of any northern State east of
Michigan. It also possesses a great diversity of surface, with its two
mountain ranges, its numerous lakes, its interior salt basin, and its
seashore confined entirely to the southern extremity. On its eastern
side it stretches through more than four degrees of north latitude, and
as these are the degrees just south of the 45th parallel, it is easy to
understand that there is liable to be a greater intermixture of northern
and southern forms of ferns than there would be in a State lying farther
south. And the fact is that certain species from the north and others
from the south do meet within its borders. This also accounts for the
large number of species found in the State: California and Texas, the
one State having four times the area of New York, and the other five
times that area, being the only ones which contain as large or a larger
number of species.
For the purpose of fern classification, the State may be divided into
four distinct zones, as follows:
I. The Littoral.—This comprises Long Island and Staten Island. Only one
fern is peculiar to this zone, viz. _Woodwardia angustifolia_; but there
are two Lycopods, viz. _L. alopecuroides_ and its variety _adpressum_.
II. The Catskill Mountain Region, extending down to Manhattan
Island.—This being the southern mountain range of the State, it is here
that three southern species find their northern limit, viz. _Asplenium
Bradleyi_, _A. montanum_ and _Cheilanthes vestita_. It may be a question
whether the Connecticut stations for _Asplenium montanum_ lie farther
north than the New York stations, but it is certain that there can be
but little difference between them in this respect.
III. The Adirondack Region, extending as far south as Little Falls.—Here
there are a few of the northern species that descend to their southern
limit in this country. Among them may be mentioned _Nephrodium
fragrans_, _Polystichum Braunii_, _Woodsia glabella_, and _W.
hyperborea_. There are also two Lycopods to be included in this list,
_L. annotinum pungens_ and _L. Sitchense_.
IV. The Western Region, extending from the mountain regions to the
State’s western boundary, the southern part drained by the Susquehanna
and its tributaries, and the northern part containing (a) _The Salt
Basin_ of Syracuse and its vicinity, the home of _Scolopendrium_ and
_Botrychium On | 1,197.614583 |
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A
NEW GUIDE FOR EMIGRANTS
TO THE
WEST,
CONTAINING SKETCHES OF
OHIO, INDIANA, ILLINOIS, MISSOURI, MICHIGAN, WITH
THE TERRITORIES OF WISCONSIN AND ARKANSAS,
AND THE ADJACENT PARTS.
BY J. M. PECK, A. M.
OF ROCK SPRING, ILL
BOSTON:
GOULD, KENDALL & LINCOLN.
FOR SALE BY THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED STATES.
1836.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1836,
By GOULD, KENDALL & LINCOLN,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.
INDEX.
CHAP. I.
GENERAL VIEW OF THE VALLEY OF THE MISSISSIPPI.
Extent--Subdivisions--Population--Physical Features--Animal,
Vegetable and Mineral Productions--History--Prospective
Increase of Population, 11
CHAP. II.
GENERAL VIEW, &C., CONTINUED.
Productions, 32
CHAP. III.
CLIMATE.
Comparative View of the Climate with the Atlantic
States--Diseases--Means of Preserving Health, 37
CHAP. IV.
CHARACTER, MANNERS AND PURSUITS OF THE PEOPLE.
Cotton and Sugar Planters--Farmers--Population of
the large Towns and Cities--Frontier Class--Hunters
and Trappers--Boatmen, 102
CHAP. V.
PUBLIC LANDS.
System of Surveys--Meridian and Base Lines--Townships--Diagram
of a Township surveyed into Sections--Land Districts and
Offices--Pre-emption Rights--Military and Bounty
Lands--Taxes--Valuable Tracts of Country unsettled, 130
CHAP. VI.
ABORIGINES.
Conjecture respecting their former Numbers and Condition--
Present Number and State--Indian Territory appropriated as
their Permanent Residence--Plan and Operations of the U. S.
Government--Missionary Efforts and Stations--Monuments and
Antiquities, 144
CHAP. VII.
WESTERN PENNSYLVANIA.
Face of the Country--Soil, Agriculture and Internal
Improvements--Chief Towns--Pittsburg--Coal--Sulphur and
Hot Springs--Wheeling, 163
CHAP. VIII.
MICHIGAN.
Extent--Situation--Boundaries--Face of the Country--Rivers--Lakes,
&c.--Soil and Productions--Subdivisions--Counties--Towns--
Detroit--Education--Internal | 1,197.709862 |
2023-11-16 18:37:01.8852570 | 2,468 | 30 |
Transcribed from the 1894 Chapman and Hall "Christmas Stories" edition by
David Price, email [email protected]
MRS. LIRRIPER'S LEGACY
CHAPTER I--MRS. LIRRIPER RELATES HOW SHE WENT ON, AND WENT OVER
Ah! It's pleasant to drop into my own easy-chair my dear though a little
palpitating what with trotting up-stairs and what with trotting down, and
why kitchen stairs should all be corner stairs is for the builders to
justify though I do not think they fully understand their trade and never
did, else why the sameness and why not more conveniences and fewer
draughts and likewise making a practice of laying the plaster on too
thick I am well convinced which holds the damp, and as to chimney-pots
putting them on by guess-work like hats at a party and no more knowing
what their effect will be upon the smoke bless you than I do if so much,
except that it will mostly be either to send it down your throat in a
straight form or give it a twist before it goes there. And what I says
speaking as I find of those new metal chimneys all manner of shapes
(there's a row of 'em at Miss Wozenham's lodging-house lower down on the
other side of the way) is that they only work your smoke into artificial
patterns for you before you swallow it and that I'd quite as soon swallow
mine plain, the flavour being the same, not to mention the conceit of
putting up signs on the top of your house to show the forms in which you
take your smoke into your inside.
Being here before your eyes my dear in my own easy-chair in my own quiet
room in my own Lodging-House Number Eighty-one Norfolk Street Strand
London situated midway between the City and St. James's--if anything is
where it used to be with these hotels calling themselves Limited but
called unlimited by Major Jackman rising up everywhere and rising up into
flagstaffs where they can't go any higher, but my mind of those monsters
is give me a landlord's or landlady's wholesome face when I come off a
journey and not a brass plate with an electrified number clicking out of
it which it's not in nature can be glad to see me and to which I don't
want to be hoisted like molasses at the Docks and left there telegraphing
for help with the most ingenious instruments but quite in vain--being
here my dear I have no call to mention that I am still in the Lodgings as
a business hoping to die in the same and if agreeable to the clergy
partly read over at Saint Clement's Danes and concluded in Hatfield
churchyard when lying once again by my poor Lirriper ashes to ashes and
dust to dust.
Neither should I tell you any news my dear in telling you that the Major
is still a fixture in the Parlours quite as much so as the roof of the
house, and that Jemmy is of boys the best and brightest and has ever had
kept from him the cruel story of his poor pretty young mother Mrs. Edson
being deserted in the second floor and dying in my arms, fully believing
that I am his born Gran and him an orphan, though what with engineering
since he took a taste for it and him and the Major making Locomotives out
of parasols broken iron pots and cotton-reels and them absolutely a
getting off the line and falling over the table and injuring the
passengers almost equal to the originals it really is quite wonderful.
And when I says to the Major, "Major can't you by _any_ means give us a
communication with the guard?" the Major says quite huffy, "No madam it's
not to be done," and when I says "Why not?" the Major says, "That is
between us who are in the Railway Interest madam and our friend the Right
Honourable Vice-President of the Board of Trade" and if you'll believe me
my dear the Major wrote to Jemmy at school to consult him on the answer I
should have before I could get even that amount of unsatisfactoriness out
of the man, the reason being that when we first began with the little
model and the working signals beautiful and perfect (being in general as
wrong as the real) and when I says laughing "What appointment am I to
hold in this undertaking gentlemen?" Jemmy hugs me round the neck and
tells me dancing, "You shall be the Public Gran" and consequently they
put upon me just as much as ever they like and I sit a growling in my
easy-chair.
My dear whether it is that a grown man as clever as the Major cannot give
half his heart and mind to anything--even a plaything--but must get into
right down earnest with it, whether it is so or whether it is not so I do
not undertake to say, but Jemmy is far out-done by the serious and
believing ways of the Major in the management of the United Grand
Junction Lirriper and Jackman Great Norfolk Parlour Line, "For" says my
Jemmy with the sparkling eyes when it was christened, "we must have a
whole mouthful of name Gran or our dear old Public" and there the young
rogue kissed me, "won't stump up." So the Public took the shares--ten at
ninepence, and immediately when that was spent twelve Preference at one
and sixpence--and they were all signed by Jemmy and countersigned by the
Major, and between ourselves much better worth the money than some shares
I have paid for in my time. In the same holidays the line was made and
worked and opened and ran excursions and had collisions and burst its
boilers and all sorts of accidents and offences all most regular correct
and pretty. The sense of responsibility entertained by the Major as a
military style of station-master my dear starting the down train behind
time and ringing one of those little bells that you buy with the little
coal-scuttles off the tray round the man's neck in the street did him
honour, but noticing the Major of a night when he is writing out his
monthly report to Jemmy at school of the state of the Rolling Stock and
the Permanent Way and all the rest of it (the whole kept upon the Major's
sideboard and dusted with his own hands every morning before varnishing
his boots) I notice him as full of thought and care as full can be and
frowning in a fearful manner, but indeed the Major does nothing by halves
as witness his great delight in going out surveying with Jemmy when he
has Jemmy to go with, carrying a chain and a measuring-tape and driving I
don't know what improvements right through Westminster Abbey and fully
believed in the streets to be knocking everything upside down by Act of
Parliament. As please Heaven will come to pass when Jemmy takes to that
as a profession!
Mentioning my poor Lirriper brings into my head his own youngest brother
the Doctor though Doctor of what I am sure it would be hard to say unless
Liquor, for neither Physic nor Music nor yet Law does Joshua Lirriper
know a morsel of except continually being summoned to the County Court
and having orders made upon him which he runs away from, and once was
taken in the passage of this very house with an umbrella up and the
Major's hat on, giving his name with the door-mat round him as Sir
Johnson Jones, K.C.B. in spectacles residing at the Horse Guards. On
which occasion he had got into the house not a minute before, through the
girl letting him on the mat when he sent in a piece of paper twisted more
like one of those spills for lighting candles than a note, offering me
the choice between thirty shillings in hand and his brains on the
premises marked immediate and waiting for an answer. My dear it gave me
such a dreadful turn to think of the brains of my poor dear Lirriper's
own flesh and blood flying about the new oilcloth however unworthy to be
so assisted, that I went out of my room here to ask him what he would
take once for all not to do it for life when I found him in the custody
of two gentlemen that I should have judged to be in the feather-bed trade
if they had not announced the law, so fluffy were their personal
appearance. "Bring your chains, sir," says Joshua to the littlest of the
two in the biggest hat, "rivet on my fetters!" Imagine my feelings when
I pictered him clanking up Norfolk Street in irons and Miss Wozenham
looking out of window! "Gentlemen," I says all of a tremble and ready to
drop "please to bring him into Major Jackman's apartments." So they
brought him into the Parlours, and when the Major spies his own curly-
brimmed hat on him which Joshua Lirriper had whipped off its peg in the
passage for a military disguise he goes into such a tearing passion that
he tips it off his head with his hand and kicks it up to the ceiling with
his foot where it grazed long afterwards. "Major" I says "be cool and
advise me what to do with Joshua my dead and gone Lirriper's own youngest
brother." "Madam" says the Major "my advice is that you board and lodge
him in a Powder Mill, with a handsome gratuity to the proprietor when
exploded." "Major" I says "as a Christian you cannot mean your words."
"Madam" says the Major "by the Lord I do!" and indeed the Major besides
being with all his merits a very passionate man for his size had a bad
opinion of Joshua on account of former troubles even unattended by
liberties taken with his apparel. When Joshua Lirriper hears this
conversation betwixt us he turns upon the littlest one with the biggest
hat and says "Come sir! Remove me to my vile dungeon. Where is my
mouldy straw?" My dear at the picter of him rising in my mind dressed
almost entirely in padlocks like Baron Trenck in Jemmy's book I was so
overcome that I burst into tears and I says to the Major, "Major take my
keys and settle with these gentlemen or I shall never know a happy minute
more," which was done several times both before and since, but still I
must remember that Joshua Lirriper has his good feelings and shows them
in being always so troubled in his mind when he cannot wear mourning for
his brother. Many a long year have I left off my widow's mourning not
being wishful to intrude, but the tender point in Joshua that I cannot
help a little yielding to is when he writes "One single sovereign would
enable me to wear a decent suit of mourning for my much-loved brother. I
vowed at the time of his lamented death that I would ever wear sables in
memory of him but Alas how short-sighted is man, How keep that vow when
penniless!" It says a good deal for the strength of his feelings that he
couldn't have been seven year old when my poor Lirri | 1,197.905297 |
2023-11-16 18:37:01.9783270 | 4,574 | 10 |
Produced by Bryan Ness, Steve Read 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)
[Illustration]
THE WOODPECKERS
BY
FANNIE HARDY ECKSTORM
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1901
COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY FANNIE HARDY ECKSTORM
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_To_ MY FATHER MR. MANLY HARDY _A Lifelong Naturalist_
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
FOREWORD: THE RIDDLERS 1
I. HOW TO KNOW A WOODPECKER 4
II. HOW THE WOODPECKER CATCHES A GRUB 9
III. HOW THE WOODPECKER COURTS HIS MATE 15
IV. HOW THE WOODPECKER MAKES A HOUSE 20
V. HOW A FLICKER FEEDS HER YOUNG 24
VI. FRIEND DOWNY 28
VII. PERSONA NON GRATA. (YELLOW-BELLIED SAPSUCKER) 33
VIII. EL CARPINTERO. (CALIFORNIAN WOODPECKER) 46
IX. A RED-HEADED COUSIN. (RED-HEADED WOODPECKER) 55
X. A STUDY OF ACQUIRED HABITS 60
XI. THE WOODPECKER'S TOOLS: HIS BILL 68
XII. THE WOODPECKER'S TOOLS: HIS FOOT 77
XIII. THE WOODPECKER'S TOOLS: HIS TAIL 86
XIV. THE WOODPECKER'S TOOLS: HIS TONGUE 99
XV. HOW EACH WOODPECKER IS FITTED FOR HIS OWN
KIND OF LIFE 104
XVI. THE ARGUMENT FROM DESIGN 110
APPENDIX 113
A. KEY TO THE WOODPECKERS OF NORTH AMERICA 114
B. DESCRIPTIONS OF THE WOODPECKERS OF
NORTH AMERICA 117
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Flicker () _Frontispiece_
Boring Larva 10
Indian Spear 12
Solomon Islander's Spear 13
Downy Woodpecker () _facing_ 28
Bark showing Work of Sapsucker 34
Yellow-bellied Sapsucker () _facing_ 34
Trunk of Tree showing Work of Californian Woodpecker 47
Californian Woodpecker () _facing_ 48
Red-headed Woodpecker () _facing_ 56
Head of the Lewis's Woodpecker 59
Head of Ivory-billed Woodpecker 70
Foot of Woodpecker 77
Diagram of Right Foot 79
Foot of Three-toed Woodpecker 80
Tail of Hairy Woodpecker 86
Tails of Brown Creeper and Chimney Swift 87
Middle Tail Feathers of Flicker, Ivory-billed
Woodpecker, and Hairy Woodpecker 89
Diagram of Curvature of Tails of Woodpeckers 90
Patterns of Tails 91
Under Side of Middle Tail Feather of
Ivory-billed Woodpecker 97
Tongue of Hairy Woodpecker 99
Tongue-bones of Flicker 100
Skull of Woodpecker, showing Bones of Tongue 101
Hyoids of Sapsucker and Golden-fronted Woodpecker 102
Diagram of Head of a Flicker 113
_The illustrations are by Louis Agassiz Fuertes.
The text cuts are from drawings by John L. Ridgway._
THE WOODPECKERS
FOREWORD: THE RIDDLERS
Long ago in Greece, the legend runs, a terrible monster called the
Sphinx used to waylay travelers to ask them riddles: whoever could not
answer these she killed, but the man who did answer them killed her and
made an end of her riddling.
To-day there is no Sphinx to fear, yet the world is full of unguessed
riddles. No thoughtful man can go far afield but some bird or flower or
stone bars his way with a question demanding an answer; and though many
men have been diligently spelling out the answers for many years, and we
for the most part must study the answers they have proved, and must
reply in their words, yet those shrewd old riddlers, the birds and
flowers and bees, are always ready for a new victim, putting their heads
together over some new enigma to bar the road to knowledge till that,
too, shall be answered; so that other men's learning does not always
suffice. So much of a man's pleasure in life, so much of his power,
depends on his ability to silence these persistent questioners, that
this little book was written with the hope of making clearer the kind of
questions Dame Nature asks, and the way to get correct answers.
This is purposely a _little_ book, dealing only with a single group of
birds, treating particularly only some of the commoner species of that
group, taking up only a few of the problems that present themselves to
the naturalist for solution, and aiming rather to make the reader
_acquainted with_ the birds than _learned about_ them.
The woodpeckers were selected in preference to any other family because
they are patient under observation, easily identified, resident in all
parts of the country both in summer and in winter, and because more than
any other birds they leave behind them records of their work which may
be studied after the birds have flown. The book provides ample means for
identifying every species and subspecies of woodpecker known in North
America, though only five of the commonest and most interesting species
have been selected for special study. At least three of these five
should be found in almost every part of the country. The Californian
woodpecker is never seen in the East, nor the red-headed in the far
West, but the downy and the hairy are resident nearly everywhere, and
some species of the flickers and sapsuckers, if not always the ones
chosen for special notice, are visitors in most localities.
Look for the woodpeckers in orchards and along the edges of thickets,
among tangles of wild grapes and in patches of low, wild berries, upon
which they often feed, among dead trees and in the track of forest
fires. Wherever there are boring larvae, beetles, ants, grasshoppers, the
fruit of poison-ivy, dogwood, june-berry, wild cherry or wild grapes,
woodpeckers may be confidently looked for if there are any in the
neighborhood. Be patient, persistent, wide-awake, sure that you see what
you think you see, careful to remember what you have seen, studious to
compare your observations, and keen to hear the questions propounded
you. If you do this seven years and a day, you will earn the name of
Naturalist; and if you travel the road of the naturalist with curious
patience, you may some day become as famous a riddle-reader as was that
Oedipus, the king of Thebes, who slew the Sphinx.
I
HOW TO KNOW A WOODPECKER
The woodpecker is the easiest of all birds to recognize. Even if
entirely new to you, you may readily decide whether a bird is a
woodpecker or not.
The woodpecker is always striking and is often gay in color. He is
usually noisy, and his note is clear and characteristic. His shape and
habits are peculiar, so that whenever you see a bird clinging to the
side of a tree "as if he had been thrown at it and stuck," you may
safely call him a woodpecker. Not that all birds which cling to the bark
of trees are woodpeckers,--for the chickadees, the crested titmice, the
nuthatches, the brown creepers, and a few others like the kinglets and
some wrens and wood-warblers more or less habitually climb up and down
the tree-trunks; but these do it with a pretty grace wholly unlike the
woodpecker's awkward, cling-fast way of holding on. As the largest of
these is smaller than the smallest woodpecker, and as none of them
(excepting only the tiny kinglets) ever shows the patch of yellow or
scarlet which always marks the head of the male woodpecker, and which
sometimes adorns his mate, there is no danger of making mistakes.
The nuthatches are the only birds likely to be confused with
woodpeckers, and these have the peculiar habit of traveling down a
tree-trunk with their heads pointing to the ground. A woodpecker never
does this; he may move down the trunk of the tree he is working on, but
he will do it by hopping backward. A still surer sign of the woodpecker
is the way he sits upon his tail, using it to brace him. No other birds
except the chimney swift and the little brown creeper ever do this. A
sure mark, also, is his feet, which have two toes turned forward and two
turned backward. We find this arrangement in no other North American
birds except the cuckoos and our one native parroquet. However, there is
one small group of woodpeckers which have but three toes, and these are
the only North American land-birds that do not have four well-developed
toes.
In coloration the woodpeckers show a strong family likeness. Except in
some young birds, the color is always brilliant and often is gaudy.
Usually it shows much clear black and white, with dashes of scarlet or
yellow about the head. Sometimes the colors are "solid," as in the
red-headed woodpecker; sometimes they lie in close bars, as in the
red-bellied species; sometimes in spots and stripes, as in the downy and
hairy; but there is always a _contrast_, never any blending of hues. The
red or yellow is laid on in well-defined patches--square, oblong, or
crescentic--upon the crown, the nape, the jaws, or the throat; or else
in stripes or streaks down the sides of the head and neck, as in the
logcock, or pileated woodpecker.
There is no rule about the color markings of the sexes, as in some
families of birds. Usually the female lacks all the bright markings of
the male; sometimes, as in the logcock, she has them but in more
restricted areas; sometimes, as in the flickers, she has all but one of
the male's color patches; and in a few species, as the red-headed and
Lewis's woodpeckers, the two sexes are precisely alike in color. In the
black-breasted woodpecker, sometimes called Williamson's sapsucker, the
male and female are so totally different that they were long described
and named as different birds. It sometimes happens that a young female
will show the color marks of the male, but will retain them only the
first year.
Though the woodpeckers cling to the trunks of trees, they are not
exclusively climbing birds. Some kinds, like the flickers, are quite as
frequently found on the ground, wading in the grass like meadowlarks.
Often we may frighten them from the tangled vines of the frost grape and
the branches of wild cherry trees, or from clumps of poison-ivy, whither
they come to eat the fruit. The red-headed woodpecker is fond of sitting
on fence posts and telegraph poles; and both he and the flicker
frequently alight on the roofs of barns and houses and go pecking and
pattering over the shingles. The sapsuckers and several other kinds will
perch on dead limbs, like a flycatcher, on the watch for insects; the
flickers, and more rarely other kinds, will sit crosswise of a limb
instead of crouching lengthwise of it, as is the custom with
woodpeckers.
All these points you will soon learn. You will become familiar with the
form, the flight, and the calls of the different woodpeckers; you will
learn not only to know them by name, but to understand their characters;
they will become your acquaintances, and later on your friends.
This heavy bird, with straight, chisel bill and sharp-pointed
tail-feathers; with his short legs and wide, flapping wings, his
unmusical but not disagreeable voice, and his heavy, undulating,
business-like flight, is distinctly bourgeois, the type of a bird
devoted to business and enjoying it. No other bird has so much work to
do all the year round, and none performs his task with more energy and
sense. The woodpecker makes no aristocratic pretensions, puts on none of
the coy graces and affectations of the professional singer; even his gay
clothes fit him less jauntily than they would another bird. He is
artisan to the backbone,--a plain, hard-working, useful citizen,
spending his life in hammering holes in anything that appears to need a
hole in it. Yet he is neither morose nor unsocial. There is a vein of
humor in him, a large reserve of mirth and jollity. We see little of it
except in the spring, and then for a time all the laughter in him
bubbles up; he becomes uproarious in his glee, and the melody which he
cannot vent in song he works out in the channels of his trade, filling
the woodland with loud and harmonious rappings. Above all other birds he
is the friend of man, and deserves to have the freedom of the fields.
II
HOW THE WOODPECKER CATCHES A GRUB
Did you ever see a hairy woodpecker strolling about a tree for what he
could pick up?
There is a _whur-r-rp_ of gay black and white wings and the flash of a
scarlet topknot as, with a sharp cry, he dashes past you, strikes the
limb solidly with both feet, and instantly sidles behind it, from which
safe retreat he keeps a sharp black eye fixed upon your motions. If you
make friends with him by keeping quiet, he will presently forgive you
for being there and hop to your side of the limb, pursuing his ordinary
work in the usual way, turning his head from side to side, inspecting
every crevice, and picking up whatever looks appetizing. Any knot or
little seam in the bark is twice scanned; in such places moths and
beetles lay their eggs. Little cocoons are always dainty morsels, and
large cocoons contain a feast. The butterfly-hunter who is hoping to
hatch out some fine cecropia moths knows well that a large proportion of
all the cocoons he discovers will be empty. The hairy woodpecker has
been there before him, and has torn the chrysalis out of its silken
cradle. For this the farmer should thank him heartily, even if the
butterfly-hunter does not, for the cecropia caterpillar is destructive.
But sometimes, on the fair bark of a smooth limb, the woodpecker stops,
listens, taps, and begins to drill. He works with haste and energy,
laying open a deep hole. For what? An apple-tree borer was there cutting
out the life of the tree. The farmer could see no sign of him; neither
could the woodpecker, but he could hear the strong grub down in his
little chamber gnawing to make it longer, or, frightened by the heavy
footsteps on his roof, scrambling out of the way.
[Illustration: Boring larva.]
It is easy to hear the borer at work in the tree. When a pine forest has
been burned and the trees are dead but still standing, there will be
such a crunching and grinding of borers eating the dead wood that it can
be heard on all sides many yards away. Even a single borer can sometimes
be heard distinctly by putting the ear to the tree. Sound travels much
farther through solids than it does through air; notice how much farther
you can hear a railroad train by the click of the rails than by the
noise that comes on the air. Even our dull ears can detect the woodworm,
but we cannot locate him. How, then, is the woodpecker to do what we
cannot do?
Doubtless experience teaches him much, but one observer suggests that
the woodpecker places the grub by the sense of touch. He says he has
seen the red-headed woodpecker drop his wings till they trailed along
the branch, as if to determine where the vibrations in the wood were
strongest, and thus to decide where the grub was boring. But no one else
appears to have noticed that woodpeckers are in the habit of trailing
their wings as they drill for grubs. It would be a capital study for one
to attempt to discover whether the woodpecker locates his grub by
feeling, or whether he does it by hearing alone. Only one should be sure
he is looking for grubs and not for beetles' eggs, nor for ants, nor for
caterpillars. By the energy with which he drills, and the size of the
hole left after he has found his tidbit, one can decide whether he was
working for a borer.
But when the borer has been located, he has yet to be captured. There
are many kinds of borers. Some channel a groove just beneath the bark
and are easily taken; but others tunnel deep into the wood. I measured
such a hole the other day, and found it was more than eight inches long
and larger than a lead-pencil, bored through solid rock-maple wood. The
woodpecker must sink a hole at right angles to this channel and draw the
big grub out through his small, rough-sided hole. You would be
surprised, if you tried to do the same with a pair of nippers the size
of the woodpecker's bill, to find how strong the borer is, how he can
buckle and twist, how he braces himself against the walls of his house.
Were your strength no greater than the woodpecker's, the task would be
much harder. Indeed, a large grub would stand a good chance of getting
away but for one thing, the woodpecker _spears_ him, and thereby saves
many a dinner for himself.
[Illustration: Indian spear.]
Here is a primitive Indian fish-spear, such as the Penobscots used. To
the end of a long pole two wooden jaws are tied loosely enough to spring
apart a little under pressure, and midway between them, firmly driven
into the end of the pole, is a point of iron. When a fish was struck,
the jaws sprung apart under the force of the blow, guiding the iron
through the body of the fish, which was held securely in the hollow
above, that just fitted around his sides, and by the point itself.
[Illustration: Solomon Islander's spear.]
The tool with which the woodpecker fishes for a grub is very much the
same. His mandibles correspond to the two movable jaws. They are
knife-edged, and the lower fits exactly inside the upper, so that they
give a very firm grip. In addition, the upper one is movable. All birds
can move the upper mandible, because it is hinged to the skull. (Watch a
parrot some day, if you do not believe it.) A medium-sized woodpecker,
like the Lewis's, can elevate his upper mandible at least a quarter of
an inch without opening his mouth at all. This enables him to draw his
prey through a smaller hole than would be needed if he must open his
jaws along their whole length. Between the mandibles is the
sharp-pointed tongue, which can be thrust entirely through a grub,
holding him impaled. Unlike the Indian's spear-point, the woodpecker's
tongue is barbed heavily on both sides, and it is extensile. As a tool
it resembles the Solomon Islander's spear. A medium-sized woodpecker can
dart his tongue out two inches or | 1,197.998367 |
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Produced by Nick Wall, Anne Storer, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber's Notes:
1) Morrumbidgee/Murrumbidgee each used on several occasions
and left as in the original. 'Morrumbidgee' is the aboriginal
name for the Murrumbidgee.
2) Used on numerous occasions, civilisation/civilization;
civilised/civilized; civilising/civilizing; uncivilised/uncivilized:
left as in the original.
3) Same with variations of colonisation/colonization, and a few other
"z" words that should be "s" words in their English form.
* * * * *
The
Englishman's Library.
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CHRONICLES OF THE SCHOeNBERG-COTTA FAMILY
BY TWO OF THEMSELVES.
NEW YORK:
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE.
To those unfamiliar with the history of Luther and his times, the title
of this unique work may not sufficiently indicate its character.
The design of the author is to so reproduce the times of the Reformation
as to place them more vividly and impressively before the mind of the
reader than has been done by ordinary historical narratives.
She does this with such remarkable success, that it is difficult to
realize we are not actually hearing Luther and those around him speak.
We seem to be personal actors in the stirring scenes of that eventful
period.
One branch of the Cotta family were Luther's earliest, and ever after,
his most intimate friends. Under the title of "Chronicles" our author
makes the members of this family, (which she brings in almost living
reality before us), to record their daily experiences as connected with
the Reformation age.
This Diary is fictitious, but it is employed with wonderful skill in
bringing the reader face to face with the great ideas and facts
associated with Luther and men of his times, as they are given to us by
accredited history, and is written with a beauty, tenderness and power
rarely equalled.
I.
Else's Story.
Friedrich wishes me to write a chronicle of my life. Friedrich is my
eldest brother. I am sixteen, and he is seventeen, and I have always
been in the habit of doing what he wishes; and therefore, although it
seems to me a very strange idea, I do so now. It is easy for Friedrich
to write a chronicle, or anything else, because he has thoughts. But I
have so few thoughts, I can only write what I see and hear about people
and things. And that is certainly very little to write about, because
everything goes on so much the same always with us. The people around me
are the same I have known since I was a baby, and the things have
changed very little; except that the people are more, because there are
so many little children in our home now, and the things seem to me to
become less, because my father does not grow richer: and there are more
to clothe and feed. However, since Fritz wishes it, I will try;
especially as ink and paper are the two things which are plentiful among
us, because my father is a printer.
Fritz and I have never been separated all our lives until now. Yesterday
he went to the University at Erfurt. It was when I was crying at the
thought of parting with him that he told me his plan about the
chronicle. He is to write one, and I another. He said it would be a help
to him, as our twilight talk has been--when always, ever since I can
remember, we two have crept away in summer into the garden, under the
great pear-tree, and in winter into the deep window of the lumber-room
inside my father's printing-room, where the bales of paper are kept, and
old books are piled up, among which we used to make ourselves a seat.
It may be a help and comfort to Fritz, but I do not see how it ever can
be any to me. He had all the thoughts, and he will have them still. But
I--what shall I have for his voice and his dear face, but cold, blank
paper, and no thoughts at all! Besides, I am so very busy, being the
eldest; and the mother is far from strong, and the father so often wants
me to help him at his types, or to read to him while he sets them.
However, Fritz wishes it, and I shall do it. I wonder what his chronicle
will be like!
But where am I to begin? What is a chronicle? Two of the books in the
Bible are called "Chronicles" in Latin--at least Fritz says that is what
the other long word[1] means--and the first book begins with "Adam," I
know, because I read it one day to my father for his printing. But Fritz
certainly cannot mean me to begin so far back as that. Of course I could
not remember. I think I had better begin with the oldest person I know,
because she is the furthest on the way back to Adam; and that is our
grandmother Von Schoenberg. She is very old--more than sixty--but her
form is so erect, and her dark eyes so piercing, that sometimes she
looks almost younger than her daughter, our precious mother, who is
often bowed down with ill-health and cares.
[Footnote 1: Paralipomenon.]
Our grandmother's father was of a noble Bohemian family, and that is
what links us with the nobles, although my father's family belongs to
the burgher class. Fritz and I like to look at the old seal of our
grandfather Von Schoenberg, with all its quarterings, and to hear the
tales of our knightly and soldier ancestors--of crusader and baron. My
mother, indeed, tells us this is a mean pride, and that my father's
printing-press is a symbol of a truer nobility than any crest of
battle-axe or sword; but our grandmother, I know, thinks it a great
condescension for a Schoenberg to have married into a burgher family.
Fritz feels with my mother, and says the true crusade will be waged by
our father's black types far better than by our great-grandfather's
lances. But the old warfare was so beautiful, with the prancing horses
and the streaming banners! And I cannot help thinking it would have been
pleasanter to sit at the window of some grand old castle like the
Wartburg, which towers above our town, and wave my hand to Fritz, as he
rode, in flashing armour, on his war-horse, down the steep hill side,
instead of climbing up on piles of dusty books at our lumber-room
window | 1,198.091854 |
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AMELIA
Complete
By Henry Fielding
Edited By George Saintsbury
With Illustrations By Herbert Railton & E. J. Wheeler.
MDCCCXCIII
INTRODUCTION
DEDICATION TO RALPH ALLEN, ESQ
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I. Containing the exordium, &c.
CHAPTER II. The history sets out. Observations on the excellency of the
English constitution and curious examinations before a justice of peace
CHAPTER III. Containing the inside of a prison
CHAPTER IV. Disclosing further secrets of the prison-house
CHAPTER V. Containing certain adventures which befel Mr. Booth in the
prison
CHAPTER VI. Containing the extraordinary behaviour of Miss Matthews
on her meeting with Booth, and some endeavours to prove, by reason and
authority, that it is possible for a woman to appear to be what she
really is not
CHAPTER VII. In which Miss Matthews begins her history
CHAPTER VIII. The history of Miss Matthews continued
CHAPTER IX. In which Miss Matthews concludes her relation
CHAPTER X. Table-talk, consisting of a facetious discourse that passed
in the prison
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I. In which Captain Booth begins to relate his history
CHAPTER II. Mr. Booth continues his story. In this chapter there are
some passages that may serve as a kind of touchstone by which a young
lady may examine the heart of her lover. I would advise, therefore, that
every lover be obliged to read it over in the presence of his mistress,
and that she carefully watch his emotions while he is reading
CHAPTER III. The narrative continued. More of the touchstone
CHAPTER IV. The story of Mr. Booth continued. In this chapter the reader
will perceive a glimpse of the character of a very good divine, with
some matters of a very tender kind
CHAPTER V. Containing strange revolutions of fortune
CHAPTER VI. Containing many surprising adventures
CHAPTER VII. The story of Booth continued--More surprising adventures
CHAPTER VIII. In which our readers will probably be divided in their
opinion of Mr. Booth's conduct
CHAPTER IX. Containing a scene of a different kind from any of the
preceding
BOOK III.
CHAPTER I. In which Mr. Booth resumes his story
CHAPTER II. Containing a scene of the tender kind
CHAPTER III. In which Mr. Booth sets forward on his journey
CHAPTER IV A sea piece
CHAPTER V. The arrival of Booth at Gibraltar, with what there befel him
CHAPTER VI. Containing matters which will please some readers
CHAPTER VII. The captain, continuing his story, recounts some
particulars which, we doubt not, to many good people, will appear
unnatural
CHAPTER VIII. The story of Booth continued
CHAPTER IX. Containing very extraordinary matters
CHAPTER X. Containing a letter of a very curious kind
CHAPTER XI. In which Mr. Booth relates his return to England
CHAPTER XII. In which Mr. Booth concludes his story
BOOK IV.
CHAPTER I. Containing very mysterious matter
CHAPTER II. The latter part of which we expect will please our reader
better than the former
CHAPTER III. Containing wise observations of the author, and other
matters
CHAPTER IV. In which Amelia appears in no unamiable light
CHAPTER V. Containing an eulogium upon innocence, and other grave
matters
CHAPTER VI. In which may appear that violence is sometimes done to the
name of love
CHAPTER VII. Containing a very extraordinary and pleasant incident
CHAPTER VIII. Containing various matters
CHAPTER IX. In which Amelia, with her friend, goes to the oratorio
BOOK V.
CHAPTER I. In which the reader will meet with an old acquaintance
CHAPTER I. Containing a brace of doctors and much physical matter
CHAPTER II. In which Booth pays a visit to the noble lord
CHAPTER III. Relating principally to the affairs of serjeant Atkinson
CHAPTER IV. Containing matters that require no preface
CHAPTER V. Containing much heroic matter
CHAPTER VI. In which the reader will find matter worthy his
consideration
CHAPTER VII. Containing various matters
CHAPTER VIII. The heroic behaviour of Colonel Bath
CHAPTER IX. Being the last chapter of the fifth book
BOOK VI.
CHAPTER I. Panegyrics on beauty, with other grave matters
CHAPTER II. Which will not appear, we presume, unnatural to all married
readers
CHAPTER III. In which the history looks a little backwards
CHAPTER IV. Containing a very extraordinary incident
CHAPTER V. Containing some matters not very unnatural
CHAPTER VI. A scene in which some ladies will possibly think Amelia's
conduct exceptionable
CHAPTER VII. A chapter in which there is much learning
CHAPTER VIII. Containing some unaccountable behaviour in Mrs.. Ellison
CHAPTER IX. Containing a very strange incident
BOOK VII.
CHAPTER I. A very short chapter, and consequently requiring no preface
CHAPTER II. The beginning of Mrs. Bennet's history
CHAPTER III. Continuation of Mrs. Bennet's story
CHAPTER IV. Farther continuation
CHAPTER V. The story of Mrs. Bennet continued
CHAPTER VI. Farther continued
CHAPTER VII. The story farther continued
CHAPTER VIII. Farther continuation
CHAPTER IX. The conclusion of Mrs. Bennet's history
CHAPTER X. Being the last chapter of the seventh book
BOOK VIII.
CHAPTER I. Being the first chapter of the eighth book
CHAPTER II. Containing an account of Mr. Booth's fellow-sufferers
CHAPTER III. Containing some extraordinary behaviour in Mrs. Ellison
CHAPTER IV. Containing, among many matters, the exemplary behaviour of
Colonel James
CHAPTER V. Comments upon authors
CHAPTER VI. Which inclines rather to satire than panegyric
CHAPTER VII. Worthy a very serious perusal
CHAPTER VIII. Consisting of grave matters
CHAPTER IX. A curious chapter, from which a curious reader may draw
sundry observations
CHAPTER X. In which are many profound secrets of philosophy
BOOK IX.
CHAPTER I In which the history looks backwards
CHAPTER II. In which the history goes forward
CHAPTER III. A conversation between Dr Harrison and others
CHAPTER IV. A dialogue between Booth and Amelia
CHAPTER V. A conversation between Amelia and Dr Harrison, with the
result
CHAPTER VI. Containing as surprising an accident as is perhaps recorded
in history
CHAPTER VII. In which the author appears to be master of that profound
learning called the knowledge of the town
CHAPTER VIII. In which two strangers make their appearance
CHAPTER IX. A scene of modern wit and humour
CHAPTER X. A curious conversation between the doctor, the young
clergyman, and the young clergyman's father
BOOK X.
CHAPTER I. To which we will prefix no preface
CHAPTER II. What happened at the masquerade
CHAPTER III. Consequences of the masqtierade, not uncommon nor
surprizing
CHAPTER IV. Consequences of the masquerade
CHAPTER V. In which Colonel Bath appears in great glory
CHAPTER VI. Read, gamester, and observe
CHAPTER VII. In which Booth receives a visit from Captain Trent
CHAPTER VIII. Contains a letter and other matters
CHAPTER IX. Containing some things worthy observation
BOOK XI
CHAPTER I. Containing a very polite scene
CHAPTER II. Matters political
CHAPTER III. The history of Mr. Trent
CHAPTER IV. Containing some distress
CHAPTER V. Containing more wormwood and other ingredients
CHAPTER VI. A scene of the tragic kind
CHAPTER VII. In which Mr. Booth meets with more than one adventure
CHAPTER VIII. In which Amelia appears in a light more amiable than gay
CHAPTER IX. A very tragic scene
BOOK XII.
CHAPTER I. The book begins with polite history
CHAPTER II. In which Amelia visits her husband
CHAPTER III. Containing matter pertinent to the history
CHAPTER IV. In which Dr Harrison visits Colonel James
CHAPTER V. What passed at the bailiff's house
CHAPTER VI. What passed between the doctor and the sick man
CHAPTER VII. In which the history draws towards a conclusion
CHAPTER VIII. Thus this history draws nearer to a conclusion
CHAPTER IX. In which the history is concluded
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
FIELDING'S BIRTHPLACE, SHARPHAM PARK
SHE THEN GAVE A LOOSE TO HER PASSION
THEY OPENED THE HAMPER
HE SEIZED HIM BY THE COLLAR
AMELIA AND HER CHILDREN
COLONEL BATH
LAWYER MURPHY
LEANING BOTH HIS ELBOWS ON THE TABLE, FIXED HIS EYES ON HER
BOOTH BETWEEN A BLUE DOMINO AND A SHEPHERDESS
DR HARRISON
INTRODUCTION.
Fielding's third great novel has been the subject of much more
discordant judgments than either of its forerunners. If we take the
period since its appearance as covering four generations, we find
the greatest authority in the earliest, Johnson, speaking of it with
something more nearly approaching to enthusiasm than he allowed himself
in reference to any other work of an author, to whom he was on the whole
so unjust. The greatest man of letters of the next generation, Scott
(whose attitude to Fielding was rather undecided, and seems to speak
a mixture of intellectual admiration and moral dislike, or at least
failure in sympathy), pronounces it "on the whole unpleasing," and
regards it chiefly as a sequel to _Tom Jones_, showing what is to
be expected of a libertine and thoughtless husband. But he too
is enthusiastic over the heroine. Thackeray (whom in this special
connection at any rate it is scarcely too much to call the greatest
man of the third generation) overflows with predilection for it, but
chiefly, as it would seem, because of his affection for Amelia herself,
in which he practically agrees with Scott and Johnson. It would be
invidious, and is noways needful, to single out any critic of our own
time to place beside these great men. But it cannot be denied that the
book, now as always, has incurred a considerable amount of hinted
fault and hesitated dislike. Even Mr. Dobson notes some things in it
as "unsatisfactory;" Mr. Gosse, with evident consciousness of temerity,
ventures to ask whether it is not "a little dull." The very absence
of episodes (on the ground that Miss Matthews's story is too closely
connected with the main action to be fairly called an episode) and of
introductory dissertations has been brought against it, as the presence
of these things was brought against its forerunners.
I have sometimes wondered whether _Amelia_ pays the penalty of an
audacity which, _a priori_, its most unfavourable critics would
indignantly deny to be a fault. It begins instead of ending with the
marriage-bells; and though critic after critic of novels has exhausted
his indignation and his satire over the folly of insisting on these as
a finale, I doubt whether the demand is not too deeply rooted in the
English, nay, in the human mind, to be safely neglected. The essence
of all romance is a quest; the quest most perennially and universally
interesting to man is the quest of a wife or a mistress; and the
chapters dealing with what comes later have an inevitable flavour of
tameness, and of the day after the feast. It is not common now-a-days to
meet anybody who thinks Tommy Moore a great poet; one has to encounter
either a suspicion of Philistinism or a suspicion of paradox if one
tries to vindicate for him even his due place in the poetical hierarchy.
Yet I suspect that no poet ever put into words a more universal
criticism of life than he did when he wrote "I saw from the beach," with
its moral of--
"Give me back, give me back, the wild freshness of morning--Her smiles
and her tears are worth evening's best light."
If we discard this fallacy boldly, and ask ourselves whether _Amelia_ is
or is not as good as _Joseph Andrews_ or _Tom Jones_, we shall I think
be inclined to answer rather in the affirmative than in the negative.
It is perhaps a little more easy to find fault with its characters
than with theirs; or rather, though no one of these characters has the
defects of Blifil or of Allworthy, it is easy to say that no one of them
has the charm of the best personages of the earlier books. The idolaters
of Amelia would of course exclaim at this sentence as it regards that
amiable lady; and I am myself by no means disposed to rank amiability
low in the scale of things excellent in woman. But though she is by no
means what her namesake and spiritual grand-daughter. Miss Sedley, must,
I fear, be pronounced to be, an amiable fool, there is really too
much of the milk of human kindness, unrefreshed and unrelieved of its
mawkishness by the rum or whisky of human frailty, in her. One could
have better pardoned her forgiveness of her husband if she had in the
first place been a little more conscious of what there was to forgive;
and in the second, a little more romantic in her attachment to him. As
it is, he was _son homme_; he was handsome; he had broad shoulders;
he had a sweet temper; he was the father of her children, and that was
enough. At least we are allowed to see in Mr. Booth no qualities other
than these, and in her no imagination even of any other qualities. To
put what I mean out of reach of cavil, compare Imogen and Amelia, and
the difference will be felt.
But Fielding was a prose writer, writing in London in the eighteenth
century, while Shakespeare was a poet writing in all time and all space,
so that the comparison is luminous in more ways than one. I do not think
that in the special scheme which the novelist set himself here he can be
accused of any failure. The life is as vivid as ever; the minor sketches
may be even called a little more vivid. Dr Harrison is not perfect. I do
not mean that he has ethical faults, for that is a merit, not a defect;
but he is not quite perfect in art. His alternate persecution and
patronage of Booth, though useful to the story, repeat the earlier fault
of Allworthy, and are something of a blot. But he is individually
much more natural than Allworthy, and indeed is something like what
Dr Johnson would have been if he had been rather better bred, less
crotchety, and blessed with more health. Miss Matthews in her earlier
scenes has touches of greatness which a thousand French novelists
lavishing "candour" and reckless of exaggeration have not equalled; and
I believe that Fielding kept her at a distance during the later scenes
of the story, because he could not trust himself not to make her more
interesting than Amelia. Of the peers, more wicked and less
wicked, there is indeed not much good to be said. The peer of the
eighteenth-century writers (even when, as in Fielding's case, there was
no reason why they should "mention him with _Kor_," as Policeman X. has
it) is almost always a faint type of goodness or wickedness dressed out
with stars and ribbons and coaches-and-six. Only Swift, by combination
of experience and genius, has given us live lords in Lord Sparkish and
Lord Smart. But Mrs. Ellison and Mrs. Atkinson are very women, and the
serjeant, though the touch of "sensibility" is on him, is excellent;
and Dr Harrison's country friend and his prig of a son are capital; and
Bondum, and "the author," and Robinson, and all the minor characters,
are as good as they can be.
It is, however, usual to detect a lack of vivacity in the book, an
evidence of declining health and years. It may be so; it is at least
certain that Fielding, during the composition of _Amelia,_ had much less
time to bestow upon elaborating his work than he had previously had,
and that his health was breaking. But are we perfectly sure that if the
chronological order had been different we should have pronounced the
same verdict? Had _Amelia_ come between _Joseph_ and _Tom,_ how many
of us might have committed ourselves to some such sentence as this: "In
_Amelia_ we see the youthful exuberances of _Joseph Andrews_ corrected
by a higher art; the adjustment of plot and character arranged with
a fuller craftsmanship; the genius which was to find its fullest
exemplification in _Tom Jones_ already displaying maturity"? And do
we not too often forget that a very short time--in fact, barely three
years--passed between the appearance of _Tom Jones_ and the appearance
of _Amelia?_ that although we do not know how long the earlier work had
been in preparation, it is extremely improbable that a man of Fielding's
temperament, of his wants, of his known habits and history, would have
kept it when once finished long in his desk? and that consequently
between some scenes of _Tom Jones_ and some scenes of _Amelia_ it is not
improbable that there was no more than a few months' interval? I do not
urge these things in mitigation of any unfavourable judgment against the
later novel. I only ask--How much of that unfavourable judgment ought
in justice to be set down to the fallacies connected with an imperfect
appreciation of facts?
To me it is not so much a question of deciding whether I like _Amelia_
less, and if so, how much less, than the others, as a question what part
of the general conception of this great writer it supplies? I do not
think that we could fully understand Fielding without it; I do not think
that we could derive the full quantity of pleasure from him without
it. The exuberant romantic faculty of Joseph Andrews and its pleasant
satire; the mighty craftsmanship and the vast science of life of _Tom
Jones;_ the ineffable irony and logical grasp of _Jonathan Wild_,
might have left us with a slight sense of hardness, a vague desire
for unction, if it had not been for this completion of the picture.
We should not have known (for in the other books, with the possible
exception of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, the characters are a little too
determinately goats and sheep) how Fielding could draw _nuances_, how
he could project a mixed personage on the screen, if we had not had Miss
Matthews and Mrs. Atkinson--the last especially a figure full of the
finest strokes, and, as a rule, insufficiently done justice to by
critics.
And I have purposely left to the last a group of personages about whom
indeed there has been little question, but who are among the triumphs of
Fielding's art--the two Colonels and their connecting-link, the wife of
the one and the sister of the other. Colonel Bath has necessarily united
all suffrages. He is of course a very little stagey; he reminds us that
his author had had a long theatrical apprenticeship: he is something too
much _d'une piece_. But as a study of the brave man who is almost more
braggart than brave, of the generous man who will sacrifice not only
generosity but bare justice to "a hogo of honour," he is admirable, and
up to his time almost unique. Ordinary writers and ordinary readers have
never been quite content to admit that bravery and braggadocio can go
together, that the man of honour may be a selfish pedant. People have
been unwilling to tell and to hear the whole truth even about Wolfe and
Nelson, who were both favourable specimens of the type; but Fielding the
infallible saw that type in its quiddity, and knew it, and registered it
for ever.
Less amusing but more delicately faithful and true are Colonel James and
his wife. They are both very good sort of people in a way, who live in
a lax and frivolous age, who have plenty of money, no particular
principle, no strong affection for each other, and little individual
character. They might have been--Mrs. James to some extent is--quite
estimable and harmless; but even as it is, they are not to be wholly
ill spoken of. Being what they are, Fielding has taken them, and, with a
relentlessness which Swift could hardly have exceeded, and a good-nature
which Swift rarely or never attained, has held them up to us as
dissected preparations of half-innocent meanness, scoundrelism, and
vanity, such as are hardly anywhere else to be found. I have used the
word "preparations," and it in part indicates Fielding's virtue, a
virtue shown, I think, in this book as much as anywhere. But it does not
fully indicate it; for the preparation, wet or dry, is a dead thing, and
a museum is but a mortuary. Fielding's men and women, once more let
it be said, are all alive. The palace of his work is the hall, not of
Eblis, but of a quite beneficent enchanter, who puts burning hearts into
his subjects, not to torture them, but only that they may light up for
us their whole organisation and being. They are not in the least the
worse for it, and we are infinitely the better.
[Illustration.]
[Illustration.] | 1,198.181141 |
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note:
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic | 1,198.280305 |
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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See 53675-h.htm or 53675-h.zip:
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Images of the original pages are available through
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https://archive.org/details/storyofgravelyst00saunuoft
THE STORY OF THE GRAVELYS
* * * * * *
Works of Marshall Saunders
Beautiful Joe’s Paradise. Net $1.20
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Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation ligatures, diacritical marks and spelling in
the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical
errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Characters which can't be represented in the Latin 1 character set
have been marked as follows:
oe/OE ligature: replaced with oe or OE
other ligatures: [AV]
single or double letters with macron: [=MR]
letter with breve: [)e]
letter with ring above: [ deg.V]
dagger symbol: +
single or double letters with tilde: [~AD]
single or double letters with arch above: [^IF]
The anchor for Footnote 11 is missing in the text. Its location has
been approximated.
The reference to Hexham church on page 157 is a possible typo.
The comma in the Roman numeral on page 204 is a possible typo.
Schmarzow on pages 230 and 405 should possibly be Schmarsow.
The index entry to Giovanni Buoni da Bissone points to entries for both
Buoni and Bono, and Bissone and Bissoni.
THE CATHEDRAL BUILDERS
[Illustration: CLOISTER OF S. JOHN LATERAN, ROME, 12TH CENTURY.
_Frontispiece_ (_From a photograph by Alinari._) _page 66._]
THE
CATHEDRAL BUILDERS
_THE STORY OF A GREAT MASONIC GUILD_
BY LEADER SCOTT
Honorary Member of the 'Accademia delle Belle Arti,' Florence
Author of 'The Renaissance of Art in Italy,' 'Handbook of
Sculpture,' 'Echoes of Old Florence,' etc.
With Eighty-three Illustrations
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
153-157 FIFTH AVENUE
1899
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON & BUNGAY.
PROEM
In most histories of Italian art we are conscious of a vast hiatus of
several centuries, between the ancient classic art of Rome--which was
in its decadence when the Western Empire ceased in the fifth century
after Christ--and that early rise of art in the twelfth century which
led to the Renaissance.
This hiatus is generally supposed to be a time when Art was utterly
dead and buried, its corpse in Byzantine dress lying embalmed in its
tomb at Ravenna. But all death is nothing but the germ of new life.
Art was not a corpse, it was only a seed, laid in Italian soil to
germinate, and it bore several plants before the great reflowering
period of the Renaissance.
The seed sown by the Classic schools formed the link between them and
the Renaissance, just as the Romance Languages of Provence and
Languedoc form the link between the dying out of the classic Latin and
the rise of modern languages.
Now where are we to look for this link?
In language we find it just between the Roman and Gallic Empires.
In Art it seems also to be on that borderland--Lombardy--where the
_Magistri Comacini_, a mediaeval Guild of _Liberi Muratori_
(Freemasons), kept alive in their traditions the seed of classic art,
slowly training it through Romanesque forms up to the Gothic, and
hence to the full Renaissance. It is a significant coincidence that
this obscure link in Art, like the link-languages, is styled by many
writers Provencal or Romance style, for the Gothic influence spread in
France even before it expanded so gloriously in Germany.
I think if we study these obscure Comacine Masters we shall find that
they form a firm, perfect, and consistent link between the old and the
new, filling completely that ugly gap in the History of Art. So fully
that all the different Italian styles, whose names are legion--being
Lombard-Byzantine at Ravenna and Venice, Romanesque at Pisa and Lucca,
Lombard-Gothic at Milan, Norman-Saracen in Sicily and the south,--are
nothing more than the different developments in differing climates and
ages, of the art of one powerful guild of sculptor-builders, who
nursed the seed of Roman art on the border-land of the falling Roman
Empire, and spread the growth in far-off countries.
We shall see that all that was architecturally good in Italy during
the dark centuries between 500 and 1200 A.D. was due to the Comacine
Masters, or to their influence. To them can be traced the building of
those fine Lombard Basilicas of S. Ambrogio at Milan, Theodolinda's
church at Monza, S. Fedele at Como, San Michele at Pavia, and San
Vitale at Ravenna; as well as the florid cathedrals of Pisa, Lucca,
Milan, Arezzo, Brescia, etc. Their hand was in the grand Basilicas of
S. Agnese, S. Lorenzo, S. Clemente, and others in Rome, and in the
wondrous cloisters and aisles of Monreale and Palermo.
Through them architecture and sculpture were carried into foreign
lands, France, Spain, Germany, and England, and there developed into
new and varied styles according to the exigencies of the climate, and
the tone of the people. The flat roofs, horizontal architraves, and
low arches of the Romanesque, which suited a warm climate, gradually
changed as they went northward into the pointed arches and sharp
gables of the Gothic; the steep sloping lines being a necessity in a
land where snow and rain were frequent.
But however the architecture developed in after times, it was the
Comacine Masters who carried the classic germs and planted them in
foreign soils; it was the brethren of the _Liberi Muratori_ who, from
their head-quarters at Como, were sent by Gregory the Great to England
with Saint Augustine, to build churches for his converts; by Gregory
II. to Germany with Boniface on a similar mission; and were by
Charlemagne taken to France to build his church at Aix-la-Chapelle,
the prototype of French Gothic.
How and why such a powerful and influential guild seemed to spring
from a little island in Lake Como, and how their world-wide reputation
grew, the following scraps of history, borrowed from many an ancient
source, will, I hope, explain.
It is strange that Art historians hitherto have made so little of the
Comacine Masters. I do not think that Cattaneo mentions them at all.
Hope, although divining a universal Masonic Guild, enlarges on all
their work as Lombard; Fergusson disposes of them in a single
unimportant sentence; and Symonds is not much more diffuse; while
Marchese Ricci gives them the credit of the early Lombard work and no
more. I was led at length to a closer study of them by the two
ponderous tomes on the _Maestri Comacini_[1] by Professor Merzario,
who has got together a huge amount of material from old writers, old
deeds, and old stones. But valuable as the material is, Merzario is
bewildering in his redundancy, confusing in his arrangement, and not
sufficiently clear in his deductions, his chief aim being to show how
many famous artists came from Lombardy.
I wrote to ask Signor Merzario if I might associate his name with mine
in preparing a work for the English public, in which his research
would furnish me with so much that is valuable to the history of art,
but to my regret I found he had died since the book was written, so I
never received his permission; though his publisher was very kind in
permitting me to use the book as a chief work of reference. With
Merzario I have collated many other recognized authorities on
architecture and archaeology, besides archivial documents, and old
chronicles. I have tried to make some slight chronological
arrangement, and some intelligible lists of the names of the Masters
at different eras. The researches of the great archivist Milanesi in
his _Documenti per la Storia dell' Arte Senese_, and Cesare Guasti in
his lately published collection of documents relating to the building
of the Duomo of Florence, have been of immense service in throwing a
light on the organization of the Lodges and their government. All that
Signor Merzario dimly guessed from the more fragmentary earlier
records of Parma, Modena, and Verona, shines out clear and
well-defined under the fuller light of these later records, and helps
us to read many a dark saying of the older times.
My thanks for much kind assistance in supplying me with facts or
authorities, are due to the Rev. Canonico Pietro Tonarelli of Parma
cathedral; the Rev. Vincenzo Rossi, Priore of Settignano; Commendatore
John Temple Leader of Florence; and to my brother, the Rev. William
Miles Barnes, Rector of Monkton, who has written the "English link"
for me. Acknowledgments are also due to Signor Alinari and Signor
Brogi of Florence, and to Signor Ongania of Venice, for permitting the
use of their photographs as illustrations.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Professor Giuseppe Merzario.--_I Maestri Comacini. Storia
Artistica di Mille duecento anni, 600-1800._ Published in 1893 by
Giacomo Agnelli, of 2, Via S. Margherita, Milan. Two vols., large
octavo. (Price 12 frcs.)
CONTENTS
PAGE
PROEM V
BOOK I
ROMANO-LOMBARD ARCHITECTS
CHAP.
I. THE GUILD OF THE COMACINE MASTERS 3
II. THE COMACINES UNDER THE LONGOBARDS 31
III. CIVIL ARCHITECTURE UNDER THE LONGOBARDS 60
IV. COMACINE ORNAMENTATION IN THE LOMBARD ERA 71
V. COMACINES UNDER CHARLEMAGNE 90
VI. IN THE TROUBLOUS TIMES 108
BOOK II
FIRST FOREIGN EMIGRATIONS OF THE COMACINES
I. THE NORMAN LINK 121
II. THE GERMAN LINK 133
III. THE ORIGIN OF SAXON ARCHITECTURE (A SUGGESTION),
BY THE REV. W. MILES BARNES 139
IV. THE TOWERS AND CROSSES OF IRELAND 161
BOOK III
ROMANESQUE ARCHITECTS
I. TRANSITION PERIOD 171
II. THE MODENA-FERRARA LINK 192
III. THE TUSCAN LINK. 1. PISA 206
2. LUCCA AND PISTOJA 225
IV. ROMANESQUE AND GOTHIC ORNAMENTATION 242
V. CIVIL ARCHITECTURE OF THE ROMANESQUE ERA 256
BOOK IV
ITALIAN-GOTHIC, AND RENAISSANCE ARCHITECTS
I. THE SECESSION OF THE PAINTERS 265
II. THE SIENA AND ORVIETO LODGES 282
III. THE FLORENTINE LODGE 308
IV. THE MILAN LODGE 345
1. THE COMACINES UNDER THE VISCONTI 349
2. THE CERTOSA OF PAVIA 372
V. THE VENETIAN LINK 383
VI. THE ROMAN LODGE 400
EPILOGUE 423
AUTHORITIES CONSULTED 427
INDEX 429
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Cloister of S. John Lateran, Rome _Frontispiece_
Comacine Panel from the Church of San Clemente,
Rome _To face page 9_
Frescoes in the Subterranean Church of San
Clemente, Rome " 10
Church of Sta. Costanza, Rome " 12
Door of the Church of S. Marcello at Capua " 13
Ancient Sculpture in Monza Cathedral " 38
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Transcribed from the 1913 Hodder and Stoughton edition by David Price,
email [email protected]
CATHARINE FURZE
CHAPTER I
It was a bright, hot, August Saturday in the market town of Eastthorpe,
in the eastern Midlands, in the year 1840. Eastthorpe lay about five
miles on the western side of the Fens, in a very level country on the
banks of a river, broad and deep, but with only just sufficient fall to
enable its long-lingering waters to reach the sea. It was an ancient
market town, with a six-arched stone bridge, and with a High Street from
which three or four smaller and narrower streets connected by courts and
alleys diverged at right angles. In the middle of the town was the
church, an immense building, big enough to hold half Eastthorpe, and
celebrated for its beautiful spire and its peal of eight bells. Round
the church lay the churchyard, fringed with huge elms, and in the Abbey
Close, as it was called, which was the outer girdle of the churchyard on
three sides, the fourth side of the square being the High Street, there
lived in 1840 the principal doctor, the lawyer, the parson, and two aged
gentlewomen with some property, who were daughters of one of the former
partners in the bank, had been born in Eastthorpe, and had scarcely ever
quitted it. Here also were a young ladies' seminary and an ancient
grammar school for the education of forty boys, sons of freemen of the
town. The houses in the Close were not of the same class as the rest;
they were mostly old red brick, with white sashes, and they all had
gardens, long, narrow, and shady, which, on the south side of the Close,
ran down to the river. One of these houses was even older,
black-timbered, gabled, plastered, the sole remains, saving the church,
of Eastthorpe as it was in the reign of Henry the Eighth.
Just beyond the church, going from the bridge, the High Street was so
wide that the houses on either side were separated by a space of over two
hundred feet. This elongated space was the market-place. In the centre
was the Moot Hall, a quaint little building, supported on oak pillars,
and in the shelter underneath the farmers assembled on market day. All
round the Moot Hall, and extending far up and down the street, were
cattle-pens and sheep-pens, which were never removed. Most of the shops
were still bow-windowed, with small panes of glass, but the first
innovation, indicative of the new era at hand, had just been made. The
druggist, as a man of science and advanced ideas, had replaced his bow-
window with plate-glass, had put a cornice over it, had stuccoed his
bricks, and had erected a kind of balustrade of stucco, so as to hide as
much as possible the attic windows, which looked over, meekly protesting.
Nearly opposite the Moot Hall was the Bell Inn, the principal inn in the
town. There were other inns, respectable enough, such as the Bull, a
little higher up, patronised by the smaller commercial travellers and
farmers, but the entrance passage to the Bull had sand on the floor, and
carriers made it a house of call. To the Bell the two coaches came which
went through Eastthorpe, and there they changed horses. Both the Bull
and the Bell had market dinners, but at the Bell the charge was three-and-
sixpence; sherry was often drunk, and there the steward to the Honourable
Mr. Eaton, the principal landowner, always met the tenants. The Bell was
Tory and the Bull was Whig, but no stranger of respectability, Whig or
Tory, visiting Eastthorpe could possibly hesitate about going to the
Bell, with its large gilded device projecting over the pathway, with its
broad archway at the side always freshly gravelled, and its handsome
balcony on the first floor, from which the Tory county candidates, during
election times, addressed the free and independent electors and cattle.
Eastthorpe was a malting town, and down by the water were two or three
large malthouses. The view from the bridge was not particularly
picturesque, but it was pleasant, especially in summer, when the wind was
south-west. The malthouses and their cowls, the wharves and the gaily
painted sailing barges alongside, the fringe of slanting willows turning
the silver-gray sides of their foliage towards the breeze, the island in
the middle of the river with bigger willows, the large expanse of sky,
the soft clouds distinct in form almost to the far distant horizon, and,
looking eastwards, the illimitable distance towards the fens and the
sea--all this made up a landscape, more suitable perhaps to some persons
than rock or waterfall, although no picture had ever been painted of it,
and nobody had ever come to see it.
Such was Eastthorpe. For hundreds of years had the shadow of St. Mary's
swept slowly over the roofs underneath it, and, of all those years,
scarcely a line of its history survived, save what was written in the
churchyard or in the church registers. The town had stood for the
Parliament in the days of the Civil War, and there had been a skirmish in
the place; but who fought in it, who were killed in it, and what the
result was, nobody knew. Half a dozen old skulls of much earlier date
and of great size were once found in a gravel pit two miles away, and
were the subject of much talk, some taking them for Romans, some for
Britons, some for Saxons, and some for Danes. As it was impossible to be
sure if they were Christian, they could not be put in consecrated ground;
they were therefore included in an auction of dead and live stock, and
were bought by the doctor. Surnames survived in Eastthorpe with singular
pertinacity, for it was remote from the world, but what was the
relationship between the scores of Thaxtons, for example, whose deaths
were inscribed on the tombstones, some of them all awry and weather-worn,
and the Thaxtons of 1840, no living Thaxton could tell, every spiritual
trace of them having disappeared more utterly than their bones. Their
bones, indeed, did not disappear, and were a source of much trouble to
the sexton, for in digging a new grave they came up to the surface in
quantities, and had to be shovelled in and covered up again, so that the
bodily remains of successive generations were jumbled together, and
Puritan and Georgian Thaxtons were mixed promiscuously with their
descendants. Nevertheless, Eastthorpe had really had a history. It had
known victory and defeat, love, hatred, intrigue, hope, despair, and all
the passions, just as Elizabeth, King Charles, Cromwell, and Queen Anne
knew them, but they were not recorded.
It was a bright, hot, August Saturday, as we have said, and it was market
day. Furthermore, it was half-past two in the afternoon, and the guests
at Mr. Furze's had just finished their dinner. Mr. Furze was the largest
ironmonger in Eastthorpe, and sold not only ironmongery, but ploughs and
all kinds of agricultural implements. At the back of the shop was a
small foundry where all the foundry work for miles round Eastthorpe was
done. It was Mr. Furze's practice always to keep a kind of open house on
Saturday, and on this particular day, at half-past two, Mr. Bellamy, Mr.
Chandler, Mr. Gosford, and Mr. Furze were drinking their
whiskey-and-water and smoking their pipes in Mr. Furze's parlour. The
first three were well-to-do farmers, and with them the whiskey-and-water
was not a pretence. Mr. Furze was a tradesman, and of a different build.
Strong tobacco and whiskey at that hour and in that heat were rather too
much for him, and he played with his pipe and drank very slowly. The
conversation had subsided for a while under the influence of the beef,
Yorkshire pudding, beer, and spirits, when Mr. Bellamy observed--
"Old Bartlett's widow still a-livin' up at the Croft?"
"Yes," said Mr. Gosford, after filling his pipe again and pausing for at
least a minute, "Bartlett's dead."
"Bartlett wur a slow-coach," observed Mr. Chandler, after another pause
of a minute, "so wur his mare. I mind me I wur behind his mare about
five years ago last Michaelmas, and I wur well-nigh perished. I wur a-
goin' to give her a poke with my stick, and old Bartlett says, 'Doan't
hit her, doan't hit her; yer can't alter her.'"
The three worthy farmers roared with laughter, Mr. Furze smiling gently.
"That was a good 'un," said Mr. Bellamy.
"Ah," replied Chandler, "I mind that as well as if it wur yesterday."
Mr. Bellamy at this point had to leave, and Mr. Furze was obliged to
attend to his shop. Gosford and Chandler, however, remained, and Gosford
continued the subject of Bartlett's widow.
"What's she a-stayin' on for up there?"
"Old Bartlett's left her a goodish bit."
"She wur younger than he."
A dead silence of some minutes.
"She ain't a-goin' to take the Croft on herself," observed Gosford.
"Them beasts of the squire's," replied Chandler, "fetched a goodish lot.
Scaled just over ninety stone apiece."
"Why doan't you go in for the widow, Chandler?"
Mr. Chandler was a widower.
"Eh!" (with a nasal tone and a smile)--"bit too much for me."
"Too much? Why, there ain't above fourteen stone of her. Keep yer warm
o' nights up at your cold place."
Mr. Chandler took the pipe out of his mouth, put it inside the fender,
compressed his lips, rubbed his chin, and looked up to the ceiling.
"Well, I must be a-goin'."
"I suppose I must too," and they both went their ways, to meet again at
tea-time.
At five punctually all had again assembled, the additions to the party
being Mrs. Furze and her daughter Catharine, a young woman of nineteen.
Mrs. Furze was not an Eastthorpe lady; she came from Cambridge, and Mr.
Furze had first seen her when she was on a visit in Eastthorpe. Her
father was a draper in Cambridge, which was not only a much bigger place
than Eastthorpe, but had a university, and Mrs. Furze talked about the
university familiarly, so that, although her education had been slender,
a university flavour clung to her, and the farmers round Eastthorpe would
have been quite unable to determine the difference between her and a
senior wrangler, if they had known what a senior wrangler was.
"Ha," observed Mr. Gosford, when they were seated, "I wur sayin', Mrs.
Furze, to Chandler as he ought to go in for old Bartlett's widow. Now
what do _you_ think? Wouldn't they make a pretty pair?" and he twisted
Chandler's shoulders round a little till he faced Mrs. Furze.
"Don't you be a fool, Gosford," said Chandler in good temper, but as he
disengaged himself, he upset his tea on Mrs. Furze's carpet.
"Really, Mr. Gosford," replied Mrs. Furze, with some dignity and
asperity, "I am no judge in such matters. They are best left to the
persons concerned."
"No offence, ma'am, no offence."
Mrs. Furze was not quite a favourite with her husband's friends, and he
knew it, but he was extremely anxious that their dislike to her should
not damage his business relationships with them. So he endeavoured to
act as mediator.
"No doubt, my dear, no doubt, but at the same time there is no reason why
Mr. Gosford should not make any suggestion which may be to our friend
Chandler's advantage,"
But Mr. Gosford was checked and did not pursue the subject. Catharine
sat next to him.
"Mr. Gosford, when may I come to Moat Farm again?"
"Lord, my dear, whenever you like you know that. Me and Mrs. G. is
always glad to see you. _When_ever you please," and Mr. Gosford
instantly recovered the good-humour which Mrs. Furze had suppressed.
"Don't forget us," chimed in Mr. Bellamy. "We'll turn out your room and
store apples in it if you don't use it oftener."
"Now, Mr. Bellamy," said Catharine, holding up her finger at him, "you'll
be sick of me at last. You've forgotten when I had that bad cold at your
house, and was in bed there for a week, and what a bother I was to Mrs.
Bellamy."
"Bother!" cried Bellamy--"bother! Lord have mercy on us! why the missus
was sayin' when you talked about bother, my missus says, 'I'd sooner have
Catharine here, and me have tea up there with her, notwithstanding there
must be a fire upstairs and I've had to send Lucy to the infirmary with a
whitlow on her thumb--yes, I would, than be at a many tea-parties I
know.'"
Mrs. Furze gave elaborate tea-parties, and was uncomfortably uncertain
whether or not the shaft was intended for her.
"My dear Catharine, I shall be delighted if you go either to Mr.
Gosford's or to Mr. Bellamy's, but you must consider your wardrobe a
little. You will remember that the last time on each occasion a dress
was torn in pieces."
"But, mother, are not dresses intended to keep thorns from our legs; or,
at any rate, isn't that _one_ reason why we wear them?"
"Suppose it to be so, my dear, there is no reason why you should plunge
about in thorns."
Catharine had a provoking way of saving "yes" or "no" when she wished to
terminate a controversy. She stated her own opinion, and then, if
objection was raised, at least by some people, her father and mother
included, she professed agreement by a simple monosyllable, either
because she was lazy, or because she saw that there was no chance of
further profit in the discussion. It was irritating, because it was
always clear she meant nothing. At this instant a servant opened the
door, and Alice, a curly brown retriever, squeezed herself in, and made
straight for Catharine, putting her head on Catharine's lap.
"Catharine, Catharine!" cried her mother, with a little scream, "she's
dripping wet. Do pray, my child, think of the carpet."
But Catharine put her lips to Alice's face and kissed it deliberately,
giving her a piece of cake.
"Mr. Gosford, my poor bitch has puppies--three of them--all as true as
their mother, for we know the father."
"Ah!" replied Gosford, "you're lucky, then, Miss Catharine, for dogs,
especially in a town--"
Mrs. Furze at this moment hastily rang the bell, making an unusual
clatter with the crockery: Mr. Furze said the company must excuse him,
and the three worthy farmers rose to take their departure.
CHAPTER II
It was Mr. Furze's custom on Sunday to go to sleep for an hour between
dinner and tea upstairs in what was called the drawing-room, while Mrs.
Furze sat and read, or said she read, a religious book. On hot summer
afternoons Mr. Furze always took off his coat before he had his nap, and
sometimes divested himself of his waistcoat. When the coat and waistcoat
were taken off, Mrs. Furze invariably drew down the blinds. She had
often remonstrated with her husband for appearing in his shirt-sleeves,
and objected to the neighbours seeing him in this costume. There was a
sofa in the room, but it was horsehair, with high ends both alike, not
comfortable, which were covered with curious complications called
antimacassars, that slipped off directly they were touched, so that
anybody who leaned upon them was engaged continually in warfare with
them, picking them up from the floor or spreading them out again. There
was also an easy chair, but it was not easy, for it matched the sofa in
horsehair, and was so ingeniously contrived, that directly a person
placed himself in it, it gently shot him forwards. Furthermore, it had
special antimacassars, which were a work of art, and Mrs. Furze had
warned Mr. Furze off them. "He would ruin them," she said, "if he put
his head upon them." So a windsor chair with a high back was always
carried by Mr. Furze upstairs after dinner, together with a common
kitchen chair, and on these he slumbered. The room was never used, save
on Sundays and when Mrs. Furze gave a tea-party. It overlooked the
market-place, and, although on a Sunday afternoon the High Street was
almost completely silent, Mrs. Furze liked to sit so near the window that
she could peep out at the edge of the blind when she was not dozing. It
is true no master nor mistress ever stirred at that hour, but every now
and then a maidservant could be seen, and she was better than nothing for
the purpose of criticism. A round table stood in the middle of the room
with a pink vase on it containing artificial flowers, and on the
mantelpiece were two other pink vases and two great shells. Over the
mantelpiece was a portrait of His Majesty King George the Fourth in his
robes, and exactly opposite was a picture of the Virgin Mary, which was
old and valuable. Mr. Furze bought it at a sale with some other things,
and did not quite like it. It savoured of Popery, which he could not
abide; but the parson one day saw it and told Mrs. Furze it was worth
something; whereupon she put it in a new maple frame, and had it hung in
a place of honour second to that occupied by King George, and so arranged
that he and the Virgin were always looking at one another. On the other
side of the room were a likeness of Mr. Eaton in hunting array, with the
dogs, and a mezzotint of the Deluge.
Mr. Furze had just awaked on the Sunday afternoon following the day of
which the history is partly given in the first chapter.
"My dear," said his wife, "I have been thinking a good deal of Catharine.
She is not quite what I could wish."
"No," replied Mr. Furze, with a yawn.
"To begin with, she uses bad language. I was really quite shocked
yesterday to hear the extremely vulgar word, almost--almost,--I do not
know what to call it--profane, I may say, which she applied to her dog
when talking of it to Mr. Gosford. Then she goes in the foundry; and I
firmly believe that all the money which has been spent on her music is
utterly thrown away."
"The thing is--what is to be done?"
"Now, I have a plan."
In order to make Mrs. Furze's plan fully intelligible, it may be as well
to explain that, up to the year 1840, the tradesmen of Eastthorpe had
lived at their shops. But a year or two before that date some houses had
been built at the north end of the town and called "The Terrace." A new
doctor had taken one, the brewer another, and a third had been taken by
the grocer, a man reputed to be very well off, who not only did a large
retail business, but supplied the small shops in the villages round.
"Well, my dear, what is your plan?"
"Your connection is extending, and you want more room. Now, why should
you not move to the Terrace? If we were to go there, Catharine would be
withdrawn from the society in which she at present mixes. You could not
continue to give market dinners, and gradually her acquaintance with the
persons whom you now invite would cease. I believe, too, that if we were
in the Terrace Mrs. Colston would call on us. As the wife of a brewer,
she cannot do so now. Then there is just another thing which has been on
my mind for a long time. It is settled that Mr. Jennings is to leave,
for he has accepted an invitation from the cause at Ely. I do not think
we shall like anybody after Mr. Jennings, and it would be a good
opportunity for us to exchange the chapel for the church. We have
attended the chapel regularly, but I have always felt a kind of prejudice
there against us, or at least against myself, and there is no denying
that the people who go to church are vastly more genteel, and so are the
service and everything about it--the vespers--the bells--somehow there is
a respectability in it."
Mr. Furze was silent. At last he said, "It is a very serious matter. I
must consider it in all its bearings."
It _was_ a serious matter, and he did consider it--but not in all its
bearings, for he did nothing but think about it, so that it enveloped
him, and he could not put himself at such a distance that he could see
its real shape. He was now well over fifty and was the kind of person
with whom habits become firmly fixed. He was fixed even in his dress. He
always wore a white neckcloth, and his shirt was frilled--fashions which
were already beginning to die out in Eastthorpe. His manner of life was
most regular: breakfast at eight, dinner at one, tea at five, supper at
nine with a pipe afterwards, was his unvarying round. He never left
Eastthorpe for a holiday, and read no books of any kind. He was a most
respectable member of a Dissenting congregation, but he was not a member
of the church, and was never seen at the week-night services or the
prayer-meetings. He went through the ceremony of family worship morning
and evening, but he did not pray extempore, as did the elect, and
contented himself with reading prayers from a book called "Family
Devotions." The days were over for Eastthorpe when a man like Mr. Furze
could be denounced, a man who paid his pew-rent regularly, and
contributed to the missionary societies. The days were over when any
expostulations could be addressed to him, or any attempts made to bring
him within the fold, and Mr. Jennings therefore called on him, and
religion was not mentioned. It may seem extraordinary that, without
convictions based on any reasoning process, Mr. Furze's outward existence
should have been so correct and so moral. He had passed through the
usually stormy period of youth without censure. It is true he was
married young, but before his marriage nobody had ever heard a syllable
against him, and, after marriage, he never drank a drop too much, and
never was guilty of a single dishonest action. Day after day passed by
like all preceding days, in unbroken, level succession, without even the
excitement of meeting-house emotion. Naturally, therefore, his wife's
proposals made him uneasy, and even alarmed him. He shrank from them
unconsciously, and yet his aversion was perfectly wise; more so, perhaps,
than any action for which he could have assigned a definite motive. With
men like Mr. Furze the unconscious reason, which is partly a direction by
past and forgotten experiences, and partly instinct, is often more to be
trusted than any mental operation, strictly so-called. An attempt to use
the mind actively on subjects which are too large, or with which it has
not been accustomed to deal, is pretty nearly sure to mislead. He knew,
or it knew, whatever we like to call it, that to break him from his
surroundings meant that he himself was to be broken, for they | 1,198.503182 |
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WOODSTOCK
AN HISTORICAL SKETCH
BY
CLARENCE WINTHROP BOWEN, PH.D.
READ AT ROSELAND PARK, WOODSTOCK, CONNECTICUT, AT THE BI-CENTENNIAL
CELEBRATION OF THE TOWN, ON TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1886
NEW YORK & LONDON
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
The Knickerbocker Press
1886
COPYRIGHT BY
CLARENCE WINTHROP BOWEN
1886
Press of
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
New York
As a full history of Woodstock has been in preparation for several
years and will, it is hoped, be published in the course of another
year, this brief sketch is issued as it was read at the Bi-Centennial
Anniversary of the town.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. INTRODUCTION 7
II. THE SETTLEMENT OF MASSACHUSETTS BAY
AND OF ROXBURY | 1,198.572394 |
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| Transcriber's Note: |
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| Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For |
| a complete list, please see the end of this document. |
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* * * * *
[Illustration: ARMSTRONG GUN FROM FORT FISHER.]
GUIDE
TO
WEST POINT,
AND THE
U.S. MILITARY ACADEMY.
WITH
MAPS AND ENGRAVINGS.
NEW YORK:
D. VAN NOSTRAND, 192 BROADWAY.
1867.
GUIDE TO WEST POINT.
Fifty-one miles above New York, on the west bank of the Hudson river,
in the midst of scenery of the most picturesque and impressive
character, and on a bold shelving plateau, formed by the crossing of a
range of the Alleghany Mountains, which here assume almost Alpine
proportions, is a name dear to every lover of his country--a name
replete with memories of the struggle for Independence, and clustering
with historic associations.
WEST POINT, the property of the United States by purchase, possesses a
primary interest from its military importance during the period of the
American Revolution, and a secondary one from its being the seat of
the National Military Academy. The creative hand of natural
beauty--the romance of war--the distinguished career of those who
have gone forth from this locality in the defense of American Liberty,
and the spectacle presented by those preparing for future public
usefulness, have united to inspire the visitor with emotions unlike
those excited at any place of popular resort within the limits of the
United States.
Ninety years ago, when West Point possessed no attraction beyond that
presented by similar adjoining wild and uncultivated woodland tracts
in the Highlands, a band of Commissioners, appointed by the Provincial
Congress of the Colony of New York, instituted an undertaking which
first imparted a public interest to this favored spot. The war for
American Independence was in progress, and then, as now, the Hudson
river afforded the principal channel of communication between the
theatre of the strife and the country lying northward to Canada and
the west.
Nor was its importance thus limited. As a strategic line, separating
the New England Colonies from the more productive region south-west
of them, the control of the Hudson became, early in the war, one of
the principal objects toward which the attention of the military
authorities directing the contending parties was attracted.
Between abrupt and lofty mountains above West Point, the gorge through
which the river flows, yet bearing its ancient name of Wey Gat, or
Wind Gate, is partially obstructed at | 1,198.679513 |
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EZRA POUND: HIS METRIC AND POETRY
By T. S. Eliot
BOOKS BY EZRA POUND
PROVENCA, being poems selected from Personae, Exultations, and
Canzoniere. (Small, Maynard, Boston, 1910)
THE SPIRIT OF ROMANCE: An attempt to define somewhat the charm
of the pre-renaissance literature of Latin-Europe. (Dent,
London, 1910; and Dutton, New York)
THE SONNETS AND BALLATE OF GUIDO CAVALCANTI. (Small, Maynard,
Boston, 1912)
RIPOSTES. (Swift, London, 1912; and Mathews, London, 1913)
DES IMAGISTES: An anthology of the Imagists, Ezra Pound,
Aldington, Amy Lowell, Ford Maddox Hueffer, and others
GAUDIER-BRZESKA: A memoir. (John Lane, London and New York,
1916)
NOH: A study of the Classical Stage of Japan with Ernest
Fenollosa. (Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1917; and Macmillan,
London, 1917)
LUSTRA with Earlier Poems. (Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1917)
PAVANNES AHD DIVISIONS. (Prose. In preparation: Alfred A. Knopf,
New York)
EZRA POUND: HIS METRIC AND POETRY
I
"All talk on modern poetry, by people who know," wrote Mr. Carl
Sandburg in _Poetry_, "ends with dragging in Ezra Pound
somewhere. He may be named only to be cursed as wanton and
mocker, poseur, trifler and vagrant. Or he may be classed as
filling a niche today like that of Keats in a preceding epoch.
The point is, he will be mentioned."
This is a simple statement of fact. But though Mr. Pound is well
known, even having been the victim of interviews for Sunday
papers, it does not follow that his work is thoroughly known.
There are twenty people who have their opinion of him for every
one who has read his writings with any care. Of those twenty,
there will be some who are shocked, some who are ruffled, some
who are irritated, and one or two whose sense of dignity is
outraged. The twenty-first critic will probably be one who knows
and admires some of the poems, but who either says: "Pound is
primarily a scholar, a translator," or "Pound's early verse was
beautiful; his later work shows nothing better than the itch for
advertisement, a mischievous desire to be annoying, or a
childish desire to be original." There is a third type of
reader, rare enough, who has perceived Mr. Pound for some years,
who has followed his career intelligently, and who recognizes
its consistency.
This essay is not written for the first twenty critics of
literature, nor for that rare twenty-second who has just been
mentioned, but for the admirer of a poem here or there, whose
appreciation is capable of yielding him a larger return. If the
reader is already at the stage where he can maintain at once the
two propositions, "Pound is merely a scholar" and "Pound is
merely a yellow journalist," or the other two propositions,
"Pound is merely a technician" and "Pound is merely a prophet of
chaos," then there is very little hope. But there are readers of
poetry who have not yet reached this hypertrophy of the logical
faculty; their attention might be arrested, not by an outburst
of praise, but by a simple statement. The present essay aims
merely at such a statement. It is not intended to be either a
biographical or a critical study. It will not dilate upon
"beauties"; it is a summary account of ten years' work in
poetry. The citations from reviews will perhaps stimulate the
reader to form his own opinion. We do not wish to form it for
him. Nor shall we enter into other phases of Mr. Pound's
activity during this ten years; his writings and views on art
and music; though these would take an important place in any
comprehensive biography.
II
Pound's first book was published in Venice. Venice was a halting
point after he had left America and before he had settled in
England, and here, in 1908, "A Lume Spento" appeared. The
volume is now a rarity of literature; it was published by the
author and made at a Venetian press where the author was able
personally to supervise the printing; on paper which was a
remainder of a supply which had been used for a History of the
Church. Pound left Venice in the same year, and took "A Lume
Spento" with him to London. It was not to be expected that a
first book of verse, published by an unknown American in Venice,
should attract much attention. The "Evening Standard" has the
distinction of having noticed the volume, in a review summing it
up as:
wild and haunting stuff, absolutely poetic, original,
imaginative, passionate, and spiritual. Those who do not
consider it crazy may well consider it inspired. Coming
after the trite and decorous verse of most of our decorous
poets, this poet seems like a minstrel of Provence at a
suburban musical evening.... The unseizable magic of poetry
is in the queer paper volume, and words are no good in
describing it.
As the chief poems in "A Lume Spento" were afterwards
incorporated in "Personae," the book demands mention only as a
date in the author's history. "Personae," the first book
published in London, followed early in 1909. Few poets have
undertaken the siege of London with so little backing; few books
of verse have ever owed their success so purely to their own
merits. Pound came to London a complete stranger, without either
literary patronage or financial means. He took "Personae" to Mr.
Elkin Mathews, who has the glory of having published Yeats'
"Wind Among the Reeds," and the "Books of the Rhymers' Club," in
which many of the poets of the '90s, now famous, found a place.
Mr. Mathews first suggested, as was natural to an unknown
author, that the author should bear part of the cost of
printing. "I have a shilling in my pocket, if that is any use to
you," said the latter. "Well," said Mr. Mathews, "I want to
publish it anyway." His acumen was justified. The book was, it
is true, received with opposition, but it was received. There
were a few appreciative critics, notably Mr. Edward Thomas, the
poet (known also as "Edward Eastaway"; he has since been killed
in France). Thomas, writing in the "English Review" (then in its
brightest days under the editorship of Ford Madox Hueffer),
recognized the first-hand intensity of feeling in "Personae":
He has... hardly any of the superficial good qualities of
modern versifiers.... He has not the current melancholy or
resignation or unwillingness to live; nor the kind of
feeling for nature which runs to minute description and
decorative metaphor. He cannot be usefully compared with any
living writers;... full of personality and with such power
to express it, that from the first to the last lines of most
of his poems he holds us steadily in his own pure grave,
passionate world.... The beauty of it (In Praise of Ysolt)
is the beauty of passion, sincerity and intensity, not of
beautiful words and images and suggestions... the thought
dominates the words and is greater than they are. Here
(Idyll for Glaucus) the effect is full of human passion and
natural magic, without any of the phrases which a reader of
modern verse would expect in the treatment of such a
subject.
Mr. Scott James, in the "Daily News," speaks in praise of his
metres:
At first the whole thing may seem to be mere madness and
rhetoric, a vain exhibition of force and passion without
beauty. But, as we read on, these curious metres of his seem
to have a law and order of their own; the brute force of Mr.
Pound's imagination seems to impart some quality of
infectious beauty to his words. Sometimes there is a strange
beating of anapaests when he quickens to his subject; again
and again he unexpectedly ends a line with the second half
of a reverberant hexameter:
"Flesh shrouded, bearing the secret."
... And a few lines later comes an example of his favourite
use of spondee, followed by dactyl and spondee, which comes
in strangely and, as we first read it, with the appearance
of discord, but afterwards seems to gain a curious and
distinctive vigour:
"Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes."
Another line like the end of a hexameter is
"But if e'er I come to my love's land."
But even so favourable a critic pauses to remark that
He baffles us by archaic | 1,198.802563 |
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THE FACTS CONCERNING THE RECENT CARNIVAL OF CRIME IN CONNECTICUT
by Mark Twain
I was feeling blithe, almost jocund. I put a match to my cigar, and
just then the morning's mail was handed in. The first superscription I
glanced at was in a handwriting that sent a thrill of pleasure through
and through me. It was Aunt Mary's; and she was the person I loved and
honored most in all the world, outside of my own household. She had been
my boyhood's idol; maturity, which is fatal to so many enchantments,
had not been able to dislodge her from her pedestal; no, it had only
justified her right to be there, and placed her dethronement permanently
among the impossibilities. To show how strong her influence over me was,
I will observe that long after everybody else's "do-stop-smoking" had
ceased to affect me in the slightest degree, Aunt Mary could still stir
my torpid conscience into faint signs of life when she touched upon the
matter. But all things have their limit in this world. A happy day came
at last, when even Aunt Mary's words could no longer move me. I was
not merely glad to see that day arrive; I was more than glad--I was
grateful; for when its sun had set, the one alloy that was able to mar
my enjoyment of my aunt's society was gone. The remainder of her stay
with us that winter was in every way a delight. Of course she pleaded
with me just as earnestly as ever, after that blessed day, to quit my
pernicious habit, but to no purpose whatever; the moment she opened
the subject I at once became calmly, peacefully, contentedly
indifferent--absolutely, adamantinely indifferent. Consequently the
closing weeks of that memorable visit melted away as pleasantly as a
dream, they were so freighted for me with tranquil satisfaction. I could
not have enjoyed my pet vice more if my gentle tormentor had been a
smoker herself, and an advocate of the practice. Well, the sight of her
handwriting reminded me that I way getting very hungry to see her again.
I easily guessed what I should find in her letter. I opened it. Good!
just as I expected; she was coming! Coming this very day, too, and by
the morning train; I might expect her any moment.
I said to myself, "I am thoroughly happy and content now. If my most
pitiless enemy could appear before me at this moment, I would freely
right any wrong I may have done him."
Straightway the door opened, and a shriveled, shabby dwarf entered. He
was not more than two feet high. He seemed to be about forty years old.
Every feature and every inch of him was a trifle out of shape; and so,
while one could not put his finger upon any particular part and say,
"This is a conspicuous deformity," the spectator perceived that this
little person was a deformity as a whole--a vague, general, evenly
blended, nicely adjusted deformity. There was a fox-like cunning in the
face and the sharp little eyes, and also alertness and malice. And
yet, this vile bit of human rubbish seemed to bear a sort of remote
and ill-defined resemblance to me! It was dully perceptible in the
mean form, the countenance, and even the clothes, gestures, manner,
and attitudes of the creature. He was a farfetched, dim suggestion of
a burlesque upon me, a caricature of me in little. One thing about him
struck me forcibly and most unpleasantly: he was covered all over with
a fuzzy, greenish mold, such as one sometimes sees upon mildewed bread.
The sight of it was nauseating.
He stepped along with a chipper air, and flung himself into a doll's
chair in a very free-and-easy way, without waiting to be asked. He
tossed his hat into the waste-basket. He picked up my old chalk pipe
from the floor, gave the stem a wipe or two on his knee, filled the
bowl from the tobacco-box at his side, and said to me in a tone of pert
command:
"Gimme a match!"
I blushed to the roots of my hair; partly with indignation, but mainly
because it somehow seemed to me that this whole performance was very
like an exaggeration of conduct which I myself had sometimes been
guilty of in my intercourse with familiar friends--but never, never with
strangers, I observed to myself. I wanted to kick the pygmy into the
fire, but some incomprehensible sense of being legally and legitimately
under his authority forced me to obey his order. He applied the match
to the pipe, took a contemplative whiff or two, and remarked, in an
irritatingly familiar way:
"Seems to me it's devilish odd weather for this time of year."
I flushed again, and in anger and humiliation as before; for the
language was hardly an exaggeration of some that I have uttered in
my day, and moreover was delivered in a tone of voice and with an
exasperating drawl that had the seeming of a deliberate travesty of my
style. Now there is nothing I am quite so sensitive about as a mocking
imitation of my drawling infirmity of speech. I spoke up sharply and
said:
"Look here, you miserable ash-cat! you will have to give a little more
attention to your manners, or I will throw you out of the window!"
The manikin smiled a smile of malicious content and security, puffed
a whiff of smoke contemptuously toward me, and said, with a still more
elaborate drawl:
"Come--go gently now; don't put on too many airs with your betters."
This cool snub rasped me all over, but it seemed to subjugate me, too,
for a moment. The pygmy contemplated me awhile with his weasel eyes, and
then said, in a peculiarly sneering way:
"You turned a tramp away from your door this morning."
I said crustily:
"Perhaps I did, perhaps I didn't. How do you know?"
"Well, I know. It isn't any matter how I know."
"Very well. Suppose I did turn a tramp away from the door--what of it?"
"Oh, nothing; nothing in particular. Only you lied to him."
"I didn't! That is, I--"
"Yes, but you did; you lied to him."
I felt a guilty pang--in truth, I had felt it forty times before that
tramp had traveled a block from my door--but still I resolved to make a
show of feeling slandered; so I said:
"This is a baseless impertinence. I said to the tramp--"
"There--wait. You were about to lie again. I know what you said to him.
You said the cook was gone down-town and there was nothing left from
breakfast. Two lies. You knew the cook was behind the door, and plenty
of provisions behind her."
This astonishing accuracy silenced me; and it filled me with wondering
speculations, too, as to how this cub could have got his information. Of
course he could have culled the conversation from the tramp, but by what
sort of magic had he contrived to find out about the concealed cook? Now
the dwarf spoke again:
"It was rather pitiful, rather small, in you to refuse to read that poor
young woman's manuscript the other day, and give her an opinion as to
its literary value; and she had come so far, too, and so hopefully. Now
wasn't it?"
I felt like a cur! And I had felt so every time the thing had recurred
to my mind, I may as well confess. I flushed hotly and said:
"Look here, have you nothing better to do than prowl around prying into
other people's business? Did that girl tell you that?"
"Never mind whether she did or not. The main thing is, you did that
contemptible thing. And you felt ashamed of it afterward. Aha! you feel
ashamed of it now!"
This was a sort of devilish glee. With fiery earnestness I responded:
"I told that girl, in the kindest, gentlest way, that I could not
consent to deliver judgment upon any one's manuscript, because an
individual's verdict was worthless. It might underrate a work of high
merit and lose it to the world, or it might overrate a trashy production
and so open the way for its infliction upon the world: I said that the
great public was the only tribunal competent to sit in judgment upon
a literary effort, and therefore it must be best to lay it before that
tribunal in the outset, since in the end it must stand or fall by that
mighty court's decision anyway."
"Yes, you said all that. So you did, you juggling, small-souled
shuffler! And yet when the happy hopefulness faded out of that poor
girl's face, when you saw her furtively slip beneath her shawl the
scroll she had so patiently and honestly scribbled at--so ashamed of her
darling now, so proud of it before--when you saw the gladness go out of
her eyes and the tears come there, when she crept away so humbly who had
come so--"
"Oh, peace! peace! | 1,198.905282 |
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Ernest Schaal, and the Online Distributed Proofreading
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 107.
AUGUST 4, 1894.
* * * * *
SPORT FOR RATEPAYERS.
_August 1st._--Deer-shooting in Victoria Park commences.
_2nd._--Distribution of venison to "Progressive" County Councillors and
their families--especially to Aldermen.
_3rd._--Stalking American bison in the Marylebone disused grave-yard is
permitted from this day. A staff of competent surgeons will be outside
the palings.
_4th._--Chamois-coursing in Brockwell Park.
_5th._--A few rogue elephants having been imported (at considerable
expense to the rates), and located in the Regent's Park, the Chairman of
the L. C. C., assisted by the Park-keepers, will give an exhibition of
the method employed in snaring them. The elephants in the Zoological
Gardens will be expected to assist.
_6th._--_Bank Holiday._--Popular festival on Hampstead Heath. Two herds
of red deer will be turned on to the Heath at different points, and
three or four specially procured man-eating Bengal tigers will be let
loose at the Flag-staff to pursue them. Visitors may hunt the deer or
the tigers, whichever they prefer. Express rifles recommended, also the
use of bullet-proof coats. No dynamite to be employed against the
tigers. Ambulances in the Vale of Health. The Council's Band, up some of
the tallest trees, will perform musical selections.
_7th._--Races at Wormwood Scrubbs between the Council's own ostriches
and leading cyclists. A force of the A1 Division of the Metropolitan
Police, mounted on some of the reindeer from the enclosure at Spring
Gardens, will be stationed round the ground to prevent the ostriches
escaping into the adjoining country.
_8th._--Sale of ostrich feathers (dropped in the contests) to West-End
bonnet-makers at Union prices.
_9th._--Grand review of all the Council's animals on Clapham Common.
Procession through streets (also at Union rate). Banquet on municipal
venison, tiger chops, elephant steaks, and ostrich wings at Spring
Gardens. Progressive fireworks.
* * * * *
[Illustration: GENEROSITY.
_Andrew (preparing to divide the orange)._ "WILL YOU CHOOSE THE BIG
HALF, GEORGIE, OR THE WEE HALF?"
_George._ "'COURSE I'LL CHOOSE THE BIG HALF."
_Andrew (with resignation)._ "THEN I'LL JUST HAVE TO MAKE 'EM EVEN."]
* * * * *
RATHER A CHANGE--FOR THE BETTER.--They (the dockers) wouldn't listen to
BEN TILLETT. They cried out to him, "We keep you and starve ourselves."
Hullo! the revolt of the sheep! are they beginning to think that their
leaders and instigators are after all _not_ their best friends? "O
TILLETT not in Gath!" And Little BEN may say to himself, "I'll wait
TILL-ETT's over."
* * * * *
LINES IN PLEASANT PLACES.
V.--SCHOOL. "A DISTANT VIEW."
"Distance lends enchantment"--kindly Distance!
Wiping out all troubles and disgraces,
How we seem to cast, with your assistance,
All our boyish lines in pleasant places!
Greek and Latin, struggles mathematic,
These were worries leaving slender traces;
Now we tell the boys (we wax emphatic)
How our lines fell all in pleasant places.
How we used to draw (immortal _Wackford_!)
EUCLID's figures, more resembling faces,
Surreptitiously upon the black-board,
Crude yet telling lines in pleasant places.
Pleasant places! That was no misnomer.
Impositions?--little heed scape-graces;
Writing out a book or so of HOMER,
Even those were lines in pleasant places!
How we scampered o'er the country, leading
Apoplectic farmers pretty chases,
Over crops, through fences all unheeding,
Stiff cross-country lines in pleasant places.
Yes, and how--too soon youth's early day flies--
In the purling brook which seaward races
_How_ we used to poach with luscious May-flies,
Casting furtive lines in pleasant places.
Then the lickings! How we took them, scorning
Girlish outcry, though we made grimaces;
Only smiled to find ourselves next morning
Somewhat marked with lines in pleasant places!
Alma Mater, whether young or olden,
Thanks to you for hosts of friendly faces,
Treasured memories, days of boyhood golden,
Lines that fell in none but pleasant places!
* * * * *
LONDON BICYCLISTS.
["Mr. ASQUITH said that he was informed by the Chief
Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police that undoubtedly
numerous accidents were caused by bicycles and tricycles, though
he was not prepared to say from the cause of the machines
passing on the near instead of the off side of the road.
Bicycles and tricycles were carriages, and should conform to the
rules of the road, and the police, as far as possible, enforced
the law as to riding to the common danger."--_Daily Graphic,
July 25._]
Round the omnibus, past the van,
Rushing on with a reckless reel,
Darts that horrible nuisance, an
Ardent cyclist resolved that he'll
Ride past everything he can,
Heed not woman, or child, or man,
Beat some record, some ride from Dan
To Beersheba; that seems his plan.
Why does not the Home Office ban
London fiends of the whirling wheel?
Let them ride in the country so,
Dart from Duncansbay Head to Deal,
Shoot as straight as the flight of crow,
Sweep as swallow that seeks a meal,
We don't care how the deuce they go,
But in thoroughfares where we know
Cyclists, hurrying to and fro,
Make each peaceable man their foe,
Riders, walkers alike cry "Whoa!
Stop these fiends of the whirling wheel!"
* * * * *
ODE ON SACRIFICE.
Amid the glowing pageant of the year
There comes too soon th' inevitable shock,
That token of the season sere,
To the unthinking fair so cheaply dear,
Who, like to shipwreck'd seamen, do it hail,
And cry, "A Sale! a Sale!
A Sale! a Summer Sale of Surplus Stock!"
See, how, like busy-humming bees
Around the ineffable fragrance of the lime,
Woman, unsparing of the salesman's time,
Reviews the stock, and chaffers at her ease,
Nor yet, for all her talking, purchases,
But takes away, with copper-bulged purse,
The textile harvest of a quiet eye,
Great bargains still unbought, and power to buy.
Or she, her daylong, garrulous labour done,
Some victory o'er reluctant remnants won,
Fresh from the trophies of her skill,
Things that she needed not, nor ever will,
She takes the well-earned bun;
Ambrosial food, DEMETER erst design'd
As the appropriate food of womankind,
Plain, or with comfits deck'd and spice;
Or, daintier, dallies with an ice.
Nor feels in heart the worse
Because the haberdashers thus disperse
Their surplus stock at an astounding sacrifice!
Yet Contemplation pauses to review
The destinies that meet the silkworm's care,
The fate of fabrics whose materials grew
In the same fields of cotton or of flax,
Or waved on fellow-flockmen's fleecy backs,
And the same mill, loom, case, emporium, shelf, did share.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "ADDING INSULT," &c.
SCENE--_Hunters cantering round Show Ring._
_Youth on hard-mouthed Grey (having just cannoned against old
Twentystun)._ "'SCUSE ME, SIR,--'BLIGED TO DO IT. NOTHING LESS THAN A
HAYSTACK STOPS HIM!"]
* * * * *
THE RIDER'S VADE MECUM.
(_For Use in Rotten Row._)
_Question._ What part of London do you consider the most dangerous for
an equestrian?
_Answer._ That part of the Park known as Rotten Row.
_Q._ Why is it so dangerous?
_A._ Because it is overcrowded in the Season, and at all times
imperfectly kept.
_Q._ What do you mean by "imperfectly kept"?
_A._ I mean that the soil is not free from bricks and other impediments
to comfortable and safe riding.
_Q._ Why do you go to Rotten Row?
_A._ Because it is the most convenient place in London for the residents
of the West End.
_Q._ But would not Battersea Park do as well?
_A._ It is farther afield, and at present, so far as the rides are
concerned, given over to the charms of solitude.
_Q._ And is not the Regent's Park also available for equestrians?
_A._ To some extent; but the roads in that rather distant pleasaunce are
not comparable for a moment with the ride within view of the Serpentine.
_Q._ Would a ride in Kensington Gardens be an advantage?
_A._ Yes, to some extent; still it would scarcely be as convenient as
the present exercising ground.
_Q._ Then you admit that there are (and might be) pleasant rides other
than Rotten Row?
_A._ Certainly; but that fact does not dispense with the necessity of
reform in existing institutions.
_Q._ Then you consider the raising of other issues is merely a plan to
confuse and obliterate the original contention?
_A._ Assuredly; and it is a policy that has been tried before with
success to obstructors and failure to the grievance-mongers.
_Q._ So as two blacks do not make one white you and all believe that
Rotten Row should be carefully inspected and the causes of the recent
accidents ascertained and remedied?
_A._ I do; and, further, am convinced that such a course would be for
the benefit of the public in general and riders in Rotten Row in
particular.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "PERSONALLY CONDUCTED."]
* * * * *
"PERSONALLY CONDUCTED."
'Tis a norrible tale I'm a-going to narrate;
It happened--vell, each vone can fill in the date!
It's a heartrending tale of three babbies so fine.
Whom to spifflicate promptly their foes did incline.
Ven they vos qvite infants they lost their mamma;
They vos left all alone in the vorld vith their pa.
But to vatch o'er his babbies vos always _his_ plan--
(_Chorus_)--
'Cos their daddy he vos sich a keerful old man!
He took those three kiddies all into his charge,
And kep them together so they shouldn't "go large."
Two hung to his coat-tails along the hard track.
And the third one, he clung to his neck pick-a-back.
The foes of those kiddies they longed for their bleed,
And they swore that to carry 'em _he_ shouldn't succeed,
But to save them poor babbies he hit on a plan--
(_Chorus_)--
'Cos their dadda he vos sich a artful old man!
Some hoped, from exposure, the kids would ketch cold,
And that croup or rheumatics would lay 'em in the mould;
But they seemed to survive every babbyish disease,
Vich their venomous enemies did not qvite please.
But, in course, sich hard lines did the kiddies no good;
They got vet in the storm, they got lost in the vood,
But their dad cried, "I'll yet save these kids if I can!"--
(_Chorus_)--
'Cos their feyther he vos sich a dogged old man!
Foes hoped he'd go out of his depth,--or his mind,--
Or, cutting his stick, leave his babbies behind,
Ven they came to the margin of a vide roaring stream.
And the kids, being frightened, began for to scream.
But he cries, cheery like, "Stash that hullabulloo!
_Keep your eye on your father, and HE'll pull you through!!_"--
Vich some thinks he _vill_ do--if any von can--
| 1,199.003525 |
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Produced by Distributed Proofreaders
SELECTIONS FROM POE
Edited with Biographical and Critical Introduction and Notes
BY
J. MONTGOMERY GAMBRILL
Head of the Department of History and Civics
Baltimore Polytechnic Institute
INSCRIBED TO THE POE AND LOWELL LITERARY SOCIETIES OF THE
BALTIMORE POLYTECHNIC INSTITUTE
[Illustration: EDGAR ALLAN POE. After an engraving by Cole]
PREFACE
Edgar Allan Poe has been the subject of so much controversy that he is
the one American writer whom high-school pupils (not to mention
teachers) are likely to approach with ready-made prejudices. It is
impossible to treat such a subject in quite the ordinary
matter-of-course way. Furthermore, his writings are so highly
subjective, and so intimately connected with his strongly held
critical theories, as to need somewhat careful and extended study.
These facts make it very difficult to treat either the man or his art
as simply as is desirable in a secondary text-book. Consequently the
Introduction is longer and less simple than the editor would desire
for the usual text. It is believed, however, that the teacher can take
up this Introduction with the pupil in such a way as to make it
helpful, significant, and interesting.
The text of the following poems and tales is that of the
Stedman-Woodberry edition (described in the Bibliography, p. xxx), and
the selections are reprinted by permission of the publishers, Duffield
& Company; this text is followed exactly except for a very few changes
in punctuation, not more than five or six in all. My obligations to
other works are too numerous to mention; all the publications included
in the Bibliography, besides a number of others, have been examined,
but I especially desire to acknowledge the courtesy of Dr. Henry
Barton Jacobs of Baltimore, who sent me from Paris a copy of Émile
Lauvrière's interesting and important study, "Edgar Poe: Sa vie et son
oeuvre; étude de psychologie pathologique." To my wife I am indebted
for valuable assistance in the tedious work of reading proofs and
verifying the text.
CONTENTS
PREFACE
INTRODUCTION
BIBLIOGRAPHY
POEMS
SONG
SPIRITS OF THE DEAD
TO ----
ROMANCE
TO THE RIVER
TO SCIENCE
TO HELEN
ISRAFEL
THE CITY IN THE SEA
THE SLEEPER
LENORE
THE VALLEY OF UNREST
THE COLISEUM
HYMN
TO ONE IN PARADISE
TO F----
TO F----S S. O----D
TO ZANTE
BRIDAL BALLAD
SILENCE
THE CONQUEROR WORM
DREAM-LAND
THE RAVEN
EULALIE
TO M.L. S----
ULALUME
TO ---- ----
AN ENIGMA
TO HELEN
A VALENTINE
FOR ANNIE
THE BELLS
ANNABEL LEE
TO MY MOTHER
ELDORADO
THE HAUNTED PALACE
TALES
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
WILLIAM WILSON
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTRÖM
THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH
THE GOLD-BUG
THE PURLOINED LETTER
NOTES
INTRODUCTION
EDGAR ALLAN POE: HIS LIFE, CHARACTER, AND ART
Edgar Allan Poe is in many respects the most fascinating figure in
American literature. His life, touched by the extremes of fortune, was
on the whole more unhappy than that of any other of our prominent men
of letters. His character was strangely complex, and was the subject
of misunderstanding during his life and of heated dispute after his
death; his writings were long neglected or disparaged at home, while
accepted abroad as our greatest literary achievement. Now, after more
than half a century has elapsed since his death, careful biographers
have furnished a tolerably full account of the real facts about his
life; a fairly accurate idea of his character is winning general
acceptance; and the name of Edgar Allan Poe has been conceded a place
among the two or three greatest in our literature.
LIFE AND CHARACTER
In December, 1811, a well-known actress of the time died in Richmond,
leaving destitute three little children, the eldest but four years of
age. This mother, who was Elizabeth (Arnold) Poe, daughter of an
English actress, had suffered from ill health for several years and
had long found the struggle for existence difficult. Her husband,
David Poe, probably died before her; he was a son of General David
Poe, a Revolutionary veteran of Baltimore, and had left his home and
law books for the stage several years before his marriage. The second
of the three children, born January 19, 1809, in Boston, where his
parents happened to be playing at the time, was Edgar Poe, the future
poet and story-writer. The little Edgar was adopted by the wife of
Mr. John Allan, a well-to-do Scotch merchant of the city, who later
became wealthy, and the boy was thereafter known as Edgar Allan
Poe. He was a beautiful and precocious child, who at six years of age
could read, draw, dance, and declaim the best poetry with fine effect
and appreciation; report says, also, that he had been taught to stand
on a chair and pledge Mr. Allan's guests in a glass of wine with
"roguish grace."
In 1815 Mr. Allan went to England, where he remained five years. Edgar
was placed in an old English school in the suburbs of London, among
historic, literary, and antiquarian associations, and possibly was
taken to the Continent by his foster parents at vacation seasons. The
English residence and the sea voyages left deep impressions on the
boy's sensitive nature. Returning to Richmond, he was prepared in good
schools for the University of Virginia, which he entered at the age of
seventeen, pursuing studies in ancient and modern languages and
literatures. During this youthful period he was already developing a
striking and peculiar personality. He was brilliant, if not
industrious, as a student, leaving the University with highest honors
in Latin and French; he was quick and nervous in his movements and
greatly excelled in athletics, especially in swimming; in character,
he was reserved, solitary, sensitive, and given to lonely reverie.
Some of his aristocratic playmates remembered to his discredit that he
was the child of strolling players, and their attitude helped to add a
strain of defiance to an already intensely proud nature. Though kindly
treated by his foster parents, this strange boy longed for an
understanding sympathy that was not his. Once he thought he had found
it in Mrs. Jane Stannard, mother of a schoolmate; but the new friend
soon died, and for months the grief-stricken boy, it is said, haunted
the lonely grave at night and brooded over his loss and the mystery of
death--a not very wholesome experience for a lonely and melancholy lad
of fifteen years.
At the University he drank wine, though not intemperately, and played
cards a great deal, the end of the term finding him with gambling
debts of twenty-five hundred dollars. These habits were common at the
time, and Edgar did not incur any censure from the faculty; but
Mr. Allan declined to honor the gambling debt, removed Edgar, and
placed him in his own counting room. Such a life was too dull for the
high-spirited, poetic youth, and he promptly left his home.
Going to Boston, he published a thin volume of boyish verse,
"Tamerlane, and Other Poems," but realizing nothing financially,[1] he
enlisted in the United States Army as Edgar A. Perry. After two years
of faithful and efficient service, he procured through Mr. Allan (who
was temporarily reconciled to him) an appointment to the West Point
Military Academy, entering in July, 1830. In the meantime, he had
published in Baltimore a second small volume of poems. Fellow-students
have described him as having a "worn, weary, discontented look";
usually kindly and courteous, but shy, reserved, and exceedingly
sensitive; an extraordinary reader, but noted for carping criticism.
Although a good student, he seemed galled beyond endurance by the
monotonous routine of military duties, which he deliberately neglected
and thus procured his dismissal from the Academy. He left, alone and
penniless, in March, 1831.
[Footnote 1: In November, 1900, a single copy of this little volume
sold in New York for $2550.]
Going to New York, Poe brought out another little volume of poems
showing great improvement; then he went to Baltimore, and after a
precarious struggle of a year or two, turned to prose, and, while in
great poverty, won a prize of one hundred dollars from the Baltimore
_Saturday Visitor_ for his story, "The Manuscript Found in a
Bottle." Through John P. Kennedy[1], one of the judges whose
friendship the poverty-stricken author gained, he procured a good deal
of hack work, and finally an editorial position on the _Southern
Literary Messenger_, of Richmond. The salary was fair, and better
was in sight; yet Poe was melancholy, dissatisfied, and miserable. He
wrote a pitiable letter to Mr. Kennedy, asking to be convinced "that
it is at all necessary to live."
[Footnote 1: A well-known Marylander, author of "Horse-Shoe Robinson,"
"Swallow Barn," "Rob of the Bowl," and other popular novels of the
day, and later Secretary of the Navy.]
For several years he had been making his home with an aunt, Mrs.
Clemm, and her daughter, Virginia, a girl beautiful in character and
person, but penniless and probably already a victim of the consumption
that was eventually to cause her death. In 1836, when she was only
fourteen years old, Poe married his cousin, to whom he was
passionately attached. His devotion to her lasted through life, and
the tenderest affection existed between him and Mrs. Clemm, who was
all a mother could have been to him; so that the home life was always
beautiful in spirit, however poor in material comfort.
In January, 1837, his connection with the _Messenger_ was
severed, probably because of his occasional lapses from sobriety; but
his unfortunate temperament and | 1,199.004422 |
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Produced by Chris Nash, Suzanne Shell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE GUESTS OF HERCULES
BOOKS BY
C. N. and A. M. WILLIAMSON
The Golden Silence
The Motor Maid
Lord Loveland Discovers America
Set in Silver
The Lightning Conductor
The Princess Passes
My Friend the Chauffeur
Lady Betty Across the Water
Rosemary in Search of a Father
The Princess Virginia
The Car of Destiny
The Chaperon
[Illustration: "MARY WAS A GODDESS ON A GOLDEN PINNACLE. THIS WAS LIFE;
THE WINE OF LIFE"]
The
Guests of Hercules
BY
C. N. and A. M. WILLIAMSON
ILLUSTRATED BY
M. LEONE BRACKER & ARTHUR H. BUCKLAND
GARDEN CITY NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1912
Copyright, 1912, by
C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSON
All rights reserved, including that of
translation into Foreign Languages,
including the Scandinavian
TO
THE LORD OF THE GARDEN
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Mary was a goddess on a golden pinnacle. This was life;
the wine of life" . . . . . . . Frontispiece
Mary Grant . . . . . . . . FACING PAGE 22
"'I can't promise!' she exclaimed. 'I've never wanted to marry.'" . 286
"'It was Fate brought you--to give you to me. Do you regret it?'" . 398
I
THE GUESTS OF HERCULES
Long shadows of late afternoon lay straight and thin across the garden
path; shadows of beech trees that ranged themselves in an undeviating
line, like an inner wall within the convent wall of brick; and the
soaring trees were very old, as old perhaps as the convent itself, whose
stone had the same soft tints of faded red and brown as the autumn
leaves which sparsely jewelled the beeches' silver.
A tall girl in the habit of a novice walked the path alone, moving
slowly across the stripes of sunlight and shadow which inlaid the gravel
with equal bars of black and reddish gold. There was a smell of autumn
on the windless air, bitter yet sweet; the scent of dying leaves, and
fading flowers loth to perish, of rose-berries that had usurped the
place of roses, of chrysanthemums chilled by frost, of moist earth
deprived of sun, and of the green moss-like film overgrowing all the
trunks of the old beech trees. The novice was saying goodbye to the
convent garden, and the long straight path under the wall, where every
day for many years she had walked, spring and summer, autumn and winter;
days of rain, days of sun, days of boisterous wind, days of white
feathery snow--all the days through which she had passed, on her way
from childhood to womanhood. Best of all, she had loved the garden and
her favourite path in spring, when vague hopes like dreams stirred in
her blood, when it seemed that she could hear the whisper of the sap in
the veins of the trees, and the crisp stir of the buds as they unfolded.
She wished that she could have been going out of the garden in the
brightness and fragrance of spring. The young beauty of the world would
have been a good omen for the happiness of her new life. The sorrowful
incense of Nature in decay cast a spell of sadness over her, even of
fear, lest after all she were doing a wrong thing, making a mistake
which could never be amended.
The spirit of the past laid a hand upon her heart. Ghosts of sweet days
gone long ago beckoned her back to the land of vanished hours. The
garden was the garden of the past; for here, within the high walls
draped in flowering creepers and ivy old as history, past, present, and
future were all as one, and had been so for many a tranquil generation
of calm-faced, dark-veiled women. Suddenly a great homesickness fell
upon the novice like an iron weight. She longed to rush into the house,
to fling herself at Reverend Mother's feet, and cry out that she wanted
to take back her decision, that she wanted everything to be as it had
been before. But it was too late to change. What was done, was done.
Deliberately, she had given up her home, and all the kind women who had
made the place home for her, from the time when she was a child eight
years old until now, when she was twenty-four. Sixteen years! It was a
lifetime. Memories of her child-world before convent days were more like
dreams than memories of real things that had befallen her, Mary Grant.
And yet, on this her last day in the convent, recollections of the first
were crystal clear, as they never had been in the years that lay
between.
Her father had brought her a long way, in a train. Something dreadful
had happened, which had made him stop loving her. She could not guess
what, for she had done nothing wrong so far as she knew: but a few days
before, her nurse, a kind old woman of a comfortable fatness, had put
her into a room where her father was and gently shut the door, leaving
the two alone together. Mary had gone to him expecting a kiss, for he
was always kind, though she did not feel that she knew him well--only a
little better, perhaps, than the radiant young mother whom she seldom
saw for more than five minutes at a time. But instead of kissing her as
usual, he had turned upon her a look of dislike, almost of horror, which
often came to her afterward, in dreams. Taking the little girl by the
shoulder not ungently, but very coldly, and as if he were in a great
hurry to be rid of her, he pushed rather than led her to the door.
Opening it, he called the nurse, in a sharp, displeased voice. "I don't
want the child," he said. "I can't have her here. Don't bring her to me
again without being asked." Then the kind, fat old woman had caught Mary
in her arms and carried her upstairs, a thing that had not happened for
years. And in the nursery the good creature had cried over the "poor
bairn" a good deal, mumbling strange things which Mary could not
understand. But a few words had lingered in her memory, something about
its being cruel and unjust to visit the sins of others on innocent
babies. A few days afterward Mary's father, very thin and
strange-looking, with hard lines in his handsome brown face, took her
with him on a journey, after nurse had kissed her many times with
streaming tears. At last they had got out of the train into a carriage,
and driven a long way. At evening they had come to a tall, beautiful
gateway, which had carved stone animals on high pillars at either side.
That was the gate of the Convent of Saint Ursula-of-the-Lake, the gate
of Mary's home-to-be: and in a big, bare parlour, with long windows and
a polished oak floor that reflected curious white birds and dragons of
an escutcheon on the ceiling, Reverend Mother had received them. She had
taken Mary on her lap; and when, after much talk about school and years
to come, the child's father had gone, shadowy, dark-robed women had
glided softly into the room. They had crowded round the little girl,
like children round a new doll, petting and murmuring over her: and she
had been given cake and milk, and wonderful preserved fruit, such as she
had never tasted.
Some of those dear women had gone since then, not as she was going, out
into an unknown, maybe disappointing, world, but to a place where
happiness was certain, according to their faith. Mary had not forgotten
one of the kind faces--and all those who remained she loved dearly; yet
she was leaving them to-day. Already it was time. She had wished to come
out into the garden alone for this last walk, and to wear the habit of
her novitiate, though she had voluntarily given up the right to it
forever. She must go in and dress for the world, as she had not dressed
for years which seemed twice their real length. She must go in, and bid
them all goodbye--Reverend Mother, and the nuns, and novices, and the
schoolgirls, of whose number she had once been.
She stood still, looking toward the far end of the path, her back turned
toward the gray face of the convent.
"Goodbye, dear old sundial, that has told so many of my hours," she
said. "Goodbye, sweet rose-trees that I planted, and all the others I've
loved so long. Goodbye, dear laurel bushes, that know my thoughts.
Goodbye, everything."
Her arms hung at her sides, lost in the folds of her veil. Slowly tears
filled her eyes, but did not fall until a delicate sound of
light-running feet on grass made her start, and wink the tears away.
They rolled down her white cheeks in four bright drops, which she
hastily dried with the back of her hand; and no more tears followed.
When she was sure of herself, she turned and saw a girl running to her
from the house, a pretty, brown-haired girl in a blue dress that looked
very frivolous and worldly in contrast to Mary's habit. But the bushes
and the sundial, and the fading flowers that tapestried the ivy on the
old wall, were used to such frivolities. Generations of schoolgirls,
taught and guarded by the Sisters of Saint Ursula-of-the-Lake, had
played and whispered secrets along this garden path.
"Dearest Mary!" exclaimed the girl in blue. "I begged them to let me
come to you just for a few minutes--a last talk. Do you mind?"
Mary had wanted to be alone, but suddenly she was glad that, after all,
this girl was with her. "You call me 'Mary'!" she said. "How strange it
seems to be Mary again--almost wrong, and--frightening."
"But you're not Sister Rose any longer," the girl in blue answered.
"There's nothing remote about you now. You're my dear old chum, just as
you used to be. And will you please begin to be frivolous by calling me
Peter?"
Mary smiled, and two round dimples showed themselves in the cheeks still
wet with tears. She and this girl, four years younger than herself, had
begun to love each other dearly in school days, when Mary Grant was
nineteen, and Mary Maxwell fifteen. They had gone on loving each other
dearly till the elder Mary was twenty-one, and the younger seventeen.
Then Molly Maxwell--who named herself "Peter Pan" because she hated the
thought of growing up--had to go back to her home in America and "come
out," to please her father, who was by birth a Scotsman, but who had
made his money in New York. After three gay seasons she had begged to
return for six months to school, and see her friend Mary Grant--Sister
Rose--before the final vows were taken. Also she had wished to see
another Mary, who had been almost equally her friend ("the three Maries"
they had always been called, or "the Queen's Maries"); but the third of
the three Maries had disappeared, and about her going there was a
mystery which Reverend Mother did not wish to have broken.
"Peter," Sister Rose echoed obediently, as the younger girl clasped her
arm, making her walk slowly toward the sundial at the far end of the
path.
"It does sound good to hear you call me that again," Molly Maxwell said.
"You've been so stiff and different since I came back and found you
turned into Sister Rose. Often I've been sorry I came. And now, when
I've got three months still to stay, you're going to leave me. If only
you could have waited, to change your mind!"
"If I had waited, I couldn't have changed it at all," Sister Rose
reminded her. "You know----"
"Yes, I know. It was the eleventh hour. Another week, and you would have
taken your vows. Oh, I don't mean what I said, dear. I'm glad you're
going--thankful. You hadn't the vocation. It would have killed you."
"No. For here they make it hard for novices on purpose, so that they may
know the worst there is to expect, and be sure they're strong enough in
body and heart. I wasn't fit. I feared I wasn't----"
"You weren't--that is, your body and heart are fitted for a different
life. You'll be happy, very happy."
"I wonder?" Mary said, in a whisper.
"Of course you will. You'll tell me so when we meet again, out in my
world that will be your world, too. I wish I were going with you now,
and I could, of course. Only I had to beg the pater so hard to let me
come here, I'd be ashamed to cable him, that I wanted to get away before
the six months were up. He wouldn't understand how different everything
is because I'm going to lose you."
"In a way, you would have lost me if--if I'd stayed, and--everything had
been as I expected."
"I know. They've let you be with me more as a novice than you could be
as a professed nun. Still, you'd have been under the same roof. I could
have seen you often. But I _am_ glad. I'm not thinking of myself. And
we'll meet just as soon as we can, when my time's up here. Father's
coming back to his dear native Fifeshire to fetch me, and I'll make him
take me to you, wherever you are, or else you'll visit me; better still.
But it seems a long time to wait, for I really _did_ come back here to
be a 'parlour boarder,' a heap more to see you than for any other
reason. And, besides, there's another thing. Only I hardly know how to
say it, or whether I dare say it at all."
Sister Rose looked suddenly anxious, as if she were afraid of something
that might follow. "What is it?" she asked quickly, almost sharply. "You
must tell me."
"Why, it's nothing to _tell_--exactly. It's only this: I'm worried.
I'm glad you're not going to be a nun all your life, dear;
delighted--enchanted. You're given back to me. But--I worry because I
can't help feeling that I've got something to do with the changing of
your mind so suddenly; that if ever you should regret anything--not that
you will, but if you should--you might blame me, hate me, perhaps."
"I never shall do either, whatever happens," the novice said, earnestly
and gravely. She did not look at her friend as she spoke, though they
were so nearly of the same height as they walked, their arms linked
together, that they could gaze straight into one another's eyes.
Instead, she looked up at the sky, through the groined gray ceiling of
tree-branches, as if offering a vow. And seeing her uplifted profile
with its pure features and clear curve of dark lashes, Peter thought how
beautiful she was, of a beauty quite unearthly, and perhaps unsuited to
the world. With a pang, she wondered if such a girl would not have been
safer forever in the convent where she had lived most of her years. And
though she herself was four years younger, she felt old and mature, and
terribly wise compared with Sister Rose. An awful sense of
responsibility was upon her. She was afraid of it. Her pretty blond
face, with its bright and shrewd gray eyes, looked almost drawn, and
lost the fresh colour that made the little golden freckles charming as
the dust of flower-pollen on her rounded cheeks.
"But I _have_ got something to do with it, haven't I?" she persisted,
longing for contradiction, yet certain that it would not come.
"I hardly know--to be quite honest," Mary answered. "I don't know what I
might have done if you hadn't come back and told me things about your
life, and all your travels with your father--things that made me tingle.
Maybe I should never have had the courage without that incentive. But,
Peter, I'll tell you something I couldn't have told you till to-day.
Since the very beginning of my novitiate I was never happy, never at
rest."
"Truly? You wanted to go, even then, for two whole years?"
"I don't know what I wanted. But suddenly all the sweet calm was broken.
You've often looked out from the dormitory windows over the lake, and
seen how a wind springing up in an instant ruffles the clear surface.
It's just like a mirror broken into a thousand tiny fragments. Well, it
was so with me, with my spirit. And after all these years, when I'd been
so contented, so happy that I couldn't even bear, as a schoolgirl, to go
away for two or three days to visit Lady MacMillan in the holidays,
without nearly dying of homesickness before I could be brought back! As
a postulant I was just as happy, too. You know, I wouldn't go out into
the world to try my resolve, as Reverend Mother advised. I was so sure
there could be no home for me but this. Then came the change. Oh, Peter,
I hope it wasn't the legacy! I pray I'm not so mean as that!"
"How long was it after your novitiate began that the money was left
you?" Peter asked: for this was the first intimate talk alone and
undisturbed that she had had with her old school friend since coming
back to the convent three months ago. She knew vaguely that a cousin of
Mary's dead father had left the novice money, and that it had been
unexpected, as the lady was not a Roman Catholic, and had relations just
as near, of her own religion. But Peter did not quite know when the news
had come, or what had happened then.
"It was the very next day. That was odd, wasn't it? Though I don't know,
exactly, why it should have seemed odd. It had to happen on some day.
Why not that one? I was glad I should have a good dowry--quite proud to
be of some use to the convent. I didn't think what I might have done for
myself, if I'd been in the world--not then. But afterward, thoughts
crept into my head. I used to push them out again as fast as they
crawled in, and I told myself what a good thing I had a safe refuge,
remembering my father, what he wrote about himself, and my mother."
For a moment she was silent. There was no need to explain, for Peter
knew all about the terrible letter that had come from India with the
news of Major Grant's death. It had arrived before Mary resolved to take
vows, while she was still a fellow schoolgirl of Peter's, older than
most of the girls, looked up to and adored, and probably it had done
more than anything else to decide her that she had a "vocation." Mary
had told about the letter at the time, with stormy tears: how her father
in dying wrote down the story of the past, as a warning to his daughter,
whom he had not loved; told the girl that her mother had run away with
one of his brother officers; that he, springing from a family of
reckless gamblers, had himself become a gambler; that he had thrown away
most of his money; and that his last words to Mary were, "You have wild
blood in your veins. Be careful: don't let it ruin your life, as two
other lives have been ruined before you."
"Then," Mary went on, while Peter waited, "for a few weeks, or a few
days, I would be more peaceful. But the restlessness always came again.
And, after the end of the first year, it grew worse. I was never happy
for more than a few hours together. Still I meant to fight till the end.
I never thought seriously of giving it up."
"Until after I came?" Peter broke in.
"Oh, I was happier for a while after you came. You took my mind off
myself."
"And turned it to _my_self, or, rather, to the world I lived in. I'm
glad, yes, I'm glad, I was in time, and yet--oh, Mary, you _won't_ go to
Monte Carlo, will you?"
Mary stopped short in her walk, and turned to face Peter.
"Why do you say that?" she asked, sharply. "What can make you think of
Monte Carlo?"
"Only, you seemed so interested in hearing me tell about staying with
father at Stellamare, my cousin's house. You asked me such a lot of
questions about it and about the Casino, more than about any other
place, even Rome. And you looked excited when I told you. Your cheeks
grew red. I noticed then, but it didn't matter, because you were going
to live here always, and be a nun. Now----"
"Now what does it matter?" the novice asked, almost defiantly. "Why
should it occur to me to go to Monte Carlo?"
"Only because you were interested, and perhaps I may have made the
Riviera seem even more beautiful and amusing than it really is. And
besides--if it should be true, what your father was afraid of----"
"What?"
"That you inherit his love of gambling. Oh, I couldn't bear it, darling,
to think I had sent you to Monte Carlo."
"He didn't know enough about me to know whether I inherited anything
from him or not. I hardly understand what gambling means, except what
you've told me. It's only a word like a bird of ill omen. And what you
said about the play at the Casino didn't interest me as other things
did. It didn't sound attractive at all."
"It's different when you're there," Peter said.
"I don't think it would be for me. I'm almost sure I'm not like that--if
I can be sure of anything about myself. Perhaps I can't! But you
described the place as if it were a sort of paradise--and all the
Riviera. You said you would go back in the spring with your father. You
didn't seem to think it wicked and dangerous for yourself."
"Monte Carlo isn't any more wicked than other places, and it's dangerous
only for born gamblers," Peter argued. "I'm not one. Neither is my
father, except in Wall Street. He plays a little for fun, that's all.
And my cousin Jim Schuyler never goes near the Casino except for a
concert or the opera. But _you_--all alone there--you who know no more
of life than a baby! It doesn't bear thinking of."
"Don't think of it," said Mary, rather dryly. "I have no idea of going
to Monte Carlo."
"Thank goodness! Well, I only wanted to be sure. I couldn't help
worrying. Because, if anything had drawn you there, it would have been
my fault. You would hardly have heard of Monte Carlo if it hadn't been
for my stories. A cloistered saint like you!"
"Is that the way you think of me in these days?" The novice blushed and
smiled, showing her friendly dimples. "I wish I felt a saint."
"You are one. And yet"--Peter gazed at her with sudden keenness--"I
don't believe you were _made_ to be a saint. It's the years here that
have moulded you into what you are. But, there's something different
underneath."
"Nothing very bad, I hope?" Mary looked actually frightened, as if she
did not know herself, and feared an unfavourable opinion, which might be
true.
"No, indeed. But different--quite a different _You_ from what any of us,
even yourself, have ever seen. It will come out. Life will bring it
out."
"You talk," said Mary, "as if you were older than I."
"So I am, in every way except years, and they count least. Oh, Mary, how
I do wish I were going with you!"
"So do I. And yet perhaps it will be good for me to begin alone."
"You won't be alone."
"No. Of course, there will be Lady MacMillan taking me to London. And
afterward there'll be my aunt and cousin. But I've never seen them since
I was too tiny to remember them at all, except that my cousin Elinor had
a lovely big doll she wouldn't let me touch. It's the same as being
alone, going to them. I shall have to get acquainted with them and the
world at the same time."
"Are you terrified?"
"A little. Oh, a good deal! I think now, at the last moment, I'd take
everything back, and stay, if I could."
"No, you wouldn't, if you had the choice, and you saw the gates closing
on you--forever. You'd run out."
"I don't know. Perhaps. But how I shall miss them all! Reverend Mother,
and the sisters, and you, and the garden, and looking out over the lake
far away to the mountains."
"But there'll be other mountains."
"Yes, other mountains."
"Think of the mountains of Italy."
"Oh, I do. When the waves of regret and homesickness come I cheer myself
with thoughts of Italy. Ever since I can remember, I've wanted Italy;
ever since I began to study history and look at maps, and even to read
the lives of the saints, I've cared more about Italy than any other
country. When I expected to spend all my life in a convent, I used to
think that maybe I could go to the mother-house in Italy for a while
some day. You can't realize, Peter--you, who have lived in warm
countries--how I've pined for warmth. I've _never_ been warm enough,
never in my life, for more than a few hours together. Even in summer
it's never really hot here, never hot with the glorious burning heat of
the sun that I long to feel. How I do want to be warm, all through my
veins. I've wanted it always. Even at the most sacred hours, when I
ought to have forgotten that I had a body, I've shivered and yearned to
be warm--warm to the heart. I shall go to Italy and bask in the sun."
"Marie used to say that, too, that she wanted to be warm," Peter
murmured in an odd, hesitating, shamefaced way. And she looked at the
novice intently, as she had looked before. Mary's white cheeks were
faintly stained with rose, and her eyes dilated. Peter had never seen
quite the same expression on her face, or heard quite the same ring in
her voice. The girl felt that the different, unknown self she had
spoken of was beginning already to waken and stir in the nun's soul.
"Marie!" Sister Rose repeated. "It's odd you should have spoken of
Marie. I've been thinking about her lately. I can't get her out of my
head. And I've dreamed of seeing her--meeting her unexpectedly
somewhere."
"Perhaps she's been thinking of you, wherever she is, and you feel her
mind calling to yours. I believe in such things, don't you?"
"I never thought much about them before, I suppose because I've had so
few people outside who were likely to think of me. No one but you. Or
perhaps Marie, if she ever does think of old times. I wish I could meet
her, not in dreams, but really."
"Queerer things have happened. And if you're going to travel you can't
tell but you may run across each other," said Peter. "I've sometimes
caught myself wondering whether I should see her in New York, for there
it's like London and Monte Carlo--the most unexpected people are always
turning up."
"Is Monte Carlo like that?" Mary asked, with the quick, only half-veiled
curiosity which Peter had noticed in her before when relating her own
adventures on the Riviera.
"Yes. More than any other place I've ever been to in the world. Every
one comes--anything can happen--there. But I don't want to talk about
Monte Carlo. You really wouldn't find it half as interesting as your
beloved Italy. And I shouldn't like to think of poor Marie drifting
there, either--Marie as she must be now."
"I used to hope," Mary said, "that she might come back here, after
everything turned out so dreadfully for her, and that she'd decide to
take the vows with me. Reverend Mother would have welcomed her gladly,
in spite of all. She loved Marie. So did the sisters; and though none of
them ever talk about her--at least, to me--I feel sure they haven't
forgotten, or stopped praying for her."
"Do you suppose they guess that we found out what really happened to
Marie, after she ran away?" Peter wanted to know.
"I hardly think so. You see, we couldn't have found out if it hadn't
been for Janet Churchill, the one girl in school who didn't live in the
convent. And Janet wasn't a bit the sort they would expect to know such
things."
"Or about anything else. Her stolidity was a very useful pose. You'd
find it a useful one, too, darling, 'out in the world,' as you call it;
but you'll never be clever in that way, I'm afraid."
"In what way?"
"In hiding things you feel. Or in not feeling things that are
uncomfortable to feel."
"Don't frighten me!" Mary exclaimed. They had walked to the end of the
path, and were standing by the sundial. She turned abruptly, and looked
with a certain eagerness toward the far-off facade of the convent, with
its many windows. On the leaded panes of those in the west wing the sun
still lingered, and struck out glints as of rubies in a gold setting.
All the other windows were in shadow now. "We must go in," Mary said.
"Lady MacMillan will be coming soon, and I have lots to do before I
start."
"What have you to do, except to dress?"
"Oh!--to say goodbye to them all. And it seems as if I could never
finish saying goodbye."
Peter did not meet her friend again after they had gone into the house
until Mary had laid away the habit of Sister Rose the novice and put on
the simple gray travelling frock in which Mary Grant was to go "out into
the world." Peter had been extremely curious to see her in this, for it
was three years ago and more since she had last had a sight of Mary in
"worldly dress." That was on the day when Molly Maxwell had left the
convent as a schoolgirl, to go back to America with her father; and
almost immediately Mary Grant had given up such garments, as she thought
forever, in becoming a postulant.
Not since then had Peter seen Mary's hair, which by this time would have
been cut close to her head if she had not suddenly discovered, just in
time, that she had "lost her vocation." Mary had beautiful hair. All the
girls in school had admired it. Peter had hated to think of its being
cut off; and lately, since the sudden change in Mary's mind, the
American girl had wondered if the peculiar, silvery blond had darkened.
It would be a pity if it had, for her hair had been one of Mary's chief
beauties, and if it had changed she would not be as lovely as of old,
particularly as she had lost the brilliant bloom of colour she had had
as a schoolgirl, her cheeks becoming white instead of pink roses.
It seemed to Peter that she could not remember exactly what Mary had
been like, in those first days, for the novice's habit had changed her
so strangely, seeming to chill her warm humanity, turning a lovely,
glowing young girl into a beautiful marble saint. But under the marble,
warm blood had been flowing, and a hot, rebellious heart throbbing,
after all. Peter delighted in knowing that this was true, though she was
anxious about the statue coming to life and walking out of its sheltered
niche. When she was called to say goodbye formally, with other friends
who had loved Mary as schoolgirl and novice, Peter's own heart was
beating fast.
The instant she caught sight of the tall, slight, youthful-looking
figure in gray, the three years fell away like a crumbling wall, and
gave back the days of the "three Maries." No, the silvery blond hair had
not faded or lost its sparkle.
Mary Grant, in her short gray skirt and coat, with her lovely hair in an
awkwardly done clump at the nape of a slender neck, looked a mere
schoolgirl. She | 1,199.006557 |
2023-11-16 18:37:02.9885080 | 6,072 | 74 |
Produced by James Rusk
"I SAY NO"
By Wilkie Collins
BOOK THE FIRST--AT SCHOOL.
CHAPTER I. THE SMUGGLED SUPPER.
Outside the bedroom the night was black and still.
The small rain fell too softly to be heard in the garden; not a leaf
stirred in the airless calm; the watch-dog was asleep, the cats were
indoors; far or near, under the murky heaven, not a sound was stirring.
Inside the bedroom the night was black and still.
Miss Ladd knew her business as a schoolmistress too well to allow
night-lights; and Miss Ladd's young ladies were supposed to be fast
asleep, in accordance with the rules of the house. Only at intervals the
silence was faintly disturbed, when the restless turning of one of
the girls in her bed betrayed itself by a gentle rustling between the
sheets. In the long intervals of stillness, not even the softly audible
breathing of young creatures asleep was to be heard.
The first sound that told of life and movement revealed the mechanical
movement of the clock. Speaking from the lower regions, the tongue of
Father Time told the hour before midnight.
A soft voice rose wearily near the door of the room. It counted the
strokes of the clock--and reminded one of the girls of the lapse of
time.
"Emily! eleven o'clock."
There was no reply. After an interval the weary voice tried again, in
louder tones:
"Emily!"
A girl, whose bed was at the inner end of the room, sighed under
the heavy heat of the night--and said, in peremptory tones, "Is that
Cecilia?"
"Yes."
"What do you want?"
"I'm getting hungry, Emily. Is the new girl asleep?"
The new girl answered promptly and spitefully, "No, she isn't."
Having a private object of their own in view, the five wise virgins of
Miss Ladd's first class had waited an hour, in wakeful anticipation
of the falling asleep of the stranger--and it had ended in this way!
A ripple of laughter ran round the room. The new girl, mortified and
offended, entered her protest in plain words.
"You are treating me shamefully! You all distrust me, because I am a
stranger."
"Say we don't understand you," Emily answered, speaking for her
schoolfellows; "and you will be nearer the truth."
"Who expected you to understand me, when I only came here to-day? I have
told you already my name is Francine de Sor. If want to know more, I'm
nineteen years old, and I come from the West Indies."
Emily still took the lead. "Why do you come _here?_" she asked. "Who
ever heard of a girl joining a new school just before the holidays? You
are nineteen years old, are you? I'm a year younger than you--and I have
finished my education. The next big girl in the room is a year younger
than me--and she has finished her education. What can you possibly have
left to learn at your age?"
"Everything!" cried the stranger from the West Indies, with an outburst
of tears. "I'm a poor ignorant creature. Your education ought to have
taught you to pity me instead of making fun of me. I hate you all. For
shame, for shame!"
Some of the girls laughed. One of them--the hungry girl who had counted
the strokes of the clock--took Francine's part.
"Never mind their laughing, Miss de Sor. You are quite right, you have
good reason to complain of us."
Miss de Sor dried her eyes. "Thank you--whoever you are," she answered
briskly.
"My name is Cecilia Wyvil," the other proceeded. "It was not, perhaps,
quite nice of you to say you hated us all. At the same time we have
forgotten our good breeding--and the least we can do is to beg your
pardon."
This expression of generous sentiment appeared to have an irritating
effect on the peremptory young person who took the lead in the room.
Perhaps she disapproved of free trade in generous sentiment.
"I can tell you one thing, Cecilia," she said; "you shan't beat ME in
generosity. Strike a light, one of you, and lay the blame on me if Miss
Ladd finds us out. I mean to shake hands with the new girl--and how can
I do it in the dark? Miss de Sor, my name's Brown, and I'm queen of the
bedroom. I--not Cecilia--offer our apologies if we have offended you.
Cecilia is my dearest friend, but I don't allow her to take the lead in
the room. Oh, what a lovely nightgown!"
The sudden flow of candle-light had revealed Francine, sitting up in her
bed, and displaying such treasures of real lace over her bosom that
the queen lost all sense of royal dignity in irrepressible admiration.
"Seven and sixpence," Emily remarked, looking at her own night-gown and
despising it. One after another, the girls yielded to the attraction of
the wonderful lace. Slim and plump, fair and dark, they circled round
the new pupil in their flowing white robes, and arrived by common
consent at one and the same conclusion: "How rich her father must be!"
Favored by fortune in the matter of money, was this enviable person
possessed of beauty as well?
In the disposition of the beds, Miss de Sor was placed between Cecilia
on the right hand, and Emily on the left. If, by some fantastic turn of
events, a man--say in the interests of propriety, a married doctor, with
Miss Ladd to look after him--had been permitted to enter the room, and
had been asked what he thought of the girls when he came out, he would
not even have mentioned Francine. Blind to the beauties of the expensive
night-gown, he would have noticed her long upper lip, her obstinate
chin, her sallow complexion, her eyes placed too close together--and
would have turned his attention to her nearest neighbors. On one side
his languid interest would have been instantly roused by Cecilia's
glowing auburn hair, her exquisitely pure skin, and her tender blue
eyes. On the other, he would have discovered a bright little creature,
who would have fascinated and perplexed him at one and the same time. If
he had been questioned about her by a stranger, he would have been at
a loss to say positively whether she was dark or light: he would have
remembered how her eyes had held him, but he would not have known of
what color they were. And yet, she would have remained a vivid picture
in his memory when other impressions, derived at the same time, had
vanished. "There was one little witch among them, who was worth all the
rest put together; and I can't tell you why. They called her Emily. If
I wasn't a married man--" There he would have thought of his wife, and
would have sighed and said no more.
While the girls were still admiring Francine, the clock struck the
half-hour past eleven.
Cecilia stole on tiptoe to the door--looked out, and listened--closed
the door again--and addressed the meeting with the irresistible charm of
her sweet voice and her persuasive smile.
"Are none of you hungry yet?" she inquired. "The teachers are safe in
their rooms; we have set ourselves right with Francine. Why keep the
supper waiting under Emily's bed?"
Such reasoning as this, with such personal attractions to recommend
it, admitted of but one reply. The queen waved her hand graciously, and
said, "Pull it out."
Is a lovely girl--whose face possesses the crowning charm of expression,
whose slightest movement reveals the supple symmetry of her figure--less
lovely because she is blessed with a good appetite, and is not ashamed
to acknowledge it? With a grace all her own, Cecilia dived under
the bed, and produced a basket of jam tarts, a basket of fruit and
sweetmeats, a basket of sparkling lemonade, and a superb cake--all
paid for by general subscriptions, and smuggled into the room by kind
connivance of the servants. On this occasion, the feast was especially
plentiful and expensive, in commemoration not only of the arrival of the
Midsummer holidays, but of the coming freedom of Miss Ladd's two leading
young ladies. With widely different destinies before them, Emily and
Cecilia had completed their school life, and were now to go out into the
world.
The contrast in the characters of the two girls showed itself, even in
such a trifle as the preparations for supper.
Gentle Cecilia, sitting on the floor surrounded by good things, left it
to the ingenuity of others to decide whether the baskets should be all
emptied at once, or handed round from bed to bed, one at a time. In the
meanwhile, her lovely blue eyes rested tenderly on the tarts.
Emily's commanding spirit seized on the reins of government, and
employed each of her schoolfellows in the occupation which she was
fittest to undertake. "Miss de Sor, let me look at your hand. Ah! I
thought so. You have got the thickest wrist among us; you shall draw
the corks. If you let the lemonade pop, not a drop of it goes down your
throat. Effie, Annis, Priscilla, you are three notoriously lazy girls;
it's doing you a true kindness to set you to work. Effie, clear the
toilet-table for supper; away with the combs, the brushes, and the
looking-glass. Annis, tear the leaves out of your book of exercises, and
set them out for plates. No! I'll unpack; nobody touches the baskets but
me. Priscilla, you have the prettiest ears in the room. You shall act as
sentinel, my dear, and listen at the door. Cecilia, when you have done
devouring those tarts with your eyes, take that pair of scissors (Miss
de Sor, allow me to apologize for the mean manner in which this school
is carried on; the knives and forks are counted and locked up every
night)--I say take that pair of scissors, Cecilia, and carve the cake,
and don't keep the largest bit for yourself. Are we all ready? Very
well. Now take example by me. Talk as much as you like, so long as you
don't talk too loud. There is one other thing before we begin. The men
always propose toasts on these occasions; let's be like the men. Can any
of you make a speech? Ah, it falls on me as usual. I propose the first
toast. Down with all schools and teachers--especially the new teacher,
who came this half year. Oh, mercy, how it stings!" The fixed gas in the
lemonade took the orator, at that moment, by the throat, and effectually
checked the flow of her eloquence. It made no difference to the girls.
Excepting the ease of feeble stomachs, who cares for eloquence in
the presence of a supper-table? There were no feeble stomachs in that
bedroom. With what inexhaustible energy Miss Ladd's young ladies ate
and drank! How merrily they enjoyed the delightful privilege of talking
nonsense! And--alas! alas!--how vainly they tried, in after life, to
renew the once unalloyed enjoyment of tarts and lemonade!
In the unintelligible scheme of creation, there appears to be no
human happiness--not even the happiness of schoolgirls--which is ever
complete. Just as it was drawing to a close, the enjoyment of the feast
was interrupted by an alarm from the sentinel at the door.
"Put out the candle!" Priscilla whispered "Somebody on the stairs."
CHAPTER II. BIOGRAPHY IN THE BEDROOM.
The candle was instantly extinguished. In discreet silence the girls
stole back to their beds, and listened.
As an aid to the vigilance of the sentinel, the door had been left ajar.
Through the narrow opening, a creaking of the broad wooden stairs of
the old house became audible. In another moment there was silence. An
interval passed, and the creaking was heard again. This time, the
sound was distant and diminishing. On a sudden it stopped. The midnight
silence was disturbed no more.
What did this mean?
Had one among the many persons in authority under Miss Ladd's roof heard
the girls talking, and ascended the stairs to surprise them in the act
of violating one of the rules of the house? So far, such a proceeding
was by no means uncommon. But was it within the limits of probability
that a teacher should alter her opinion of her own duty half-way up the
stairs, and deliberately go back to her own room again? The bare idea
of such a thing was absurd on the face of it. What more rational
explanation could ingenuity discover on the spur of the moment?
Francine was the first to offer a suggestion. She shook and shivered in
her bed, and said, "For heaven's sake, light the candle again! It's a
Ghost."
"Clear away the supper, you fools, before the ghost can report us to
Miss Ladd."
With this excellent advice Emily checked the rising panic. The door was
closed, the candle was lit; all traces of the supper disappeared. For
five minutes more they listened again. No sound came from the stairs; no
teacher, or ghost of a teacher, appeared at the door.
Having eaten her supper, Cecilia's immediate anxieties were at an end;
she was at leisure to exert her intelligence for the benefit of her
schoolfellows. In her gentle ingratiating way, she offered a composing
suggestion. "When we heard the creaking, I don't believe there was
anybody on the stairs. In these old houses there are always strange
noises at night--and they say the stairs here were made more than two
hundred years since."
The girls looked at each other with a sense of relief--but they waited
to hear the opinion of the queen. Emily, as usual, justified the
confidence placed in her. She discovered an ingenious method of putting
Cecilia's suggestion to the test.
"Let's go on talking," she said. "If Cecilia is right, the teachers are
all asleep, and we have nothing to fear from them. If she's wrong, we
shall sooner or later see one of them at the door. Don't be alarmed,
Miss de Sor. Catching us talking at night, in this school, only means
a reprimand. Catching us with a light, ends in punishment. Blow out the
candle."
Francine's belief in the ghost was too sincerely superstitious to be
shaken: she started up in bed. "Oh, don't leave me in the dark! I'll
take the punishment, if we are found out."
"On your sacred word of honor?" Emily stipulated.
"Yes--yes."
The queen's sense of humor was tickled.
"There's something funny," she remarked, addressing her subjects, "in
a big girl like this coming to a new school and beginning with a
punishment. May I ask if you are a foreigner, Miss de Sor?"
"My papa is a Spanish gentleman," Francine answered, with dignity.
"And your mamma?"
"My mamma is English."
"And you have always lived in the West Indies?"
"I have always lived in the Island of St. Domingo."
Emily checked off on her fingers the different points thus far
discovered in the character of Mr. de Sor's daughter. "She's ignorant,
and superstitious, and foreign, and rich. My dear (forgive the
familiarity), you are an interesting girl--and we must really know more
of you. Entertain the bedroom. What have you been about all your life?
And what in the name of wonder, brings you here? Before you begin I
insist on one condition, in the name of all the young ladies in the
room. No useful information about the West Indies!"
Francine disappointed her audience.
She was ready enough to make herself an object of interest to her
companions; but she was not possessed of the capacity to arrange
events in their proper order, necessary to the recital of the simplest
narrative. Emily was obliged to help her, by means of questions. In
one respect, the result justified the trouble taken to obtain it. A
sufficient reason was discovered for the extraordinary appearance of a
new pupil, on the day before the school closed for the holidays.
Mr. de Sor's elder brother had left him an estate in St. Domingo, and a
fortune in money as well; on the one easy condition that he continued
to reside in the island. The question of expense being now beneath the
notice of the family, Francine had been sent to England, especially
recommended to Miss Ladd as a young lady with grand prospects, sorely
in need of a fashionable education. The voyage had been so timed, by
the advice of the schoolmistress, as to make the holidays a means of
obtaining this object privately. Francine was to be taken to Brighton,
where excellent masters could be obtained to assist Miss Ladd. With six
weeks before her, she might in some degree make up for lost time; and,
when the school opened again, she would avoid the mortification of being
put down in the lowest class, along with the children.
The examination of Miss de Sor having produced these results was
pursued no further. Her character now appeared in a new, and not very
attractive, light. She audaciously took to herself the whole credit of
telling her story:
"I think it's my turn now," she said, "to be interested and amused. May
I ask you to begin, Miss Emily? All I know of you at present is, that
your family name is Brown."
Emily held up her hand for silence.
Was the mysterious creaking on the stairs making itself heard once more?
No. The sound that had caught Emily's quick ear came from the beds, on
the opposite side of the room, occupied by the three lazy girls. With
no new alarm to disturb them, Effie, Annis, and Priscilla had yielded
to the composing influences of a good supper and a warm night. They were
fast asleep--and the stoutest of the three (softly, as became a young
lady) was snoring!
The unblemished reputation of the bedroom was dear to Emily, in her
capacity of queen. She felt herself humiliated in the presence of the
new pupil.
"If that fat girl ever gets a lover," she said indignantly, "I shall
consider it my duty to warn the poor man before he marries her.
Her ridiculous name is Euphemia. I have christened her (far more
appropriately) Boiled Veal. No color in her hair, no color in her
eyes, no color in her complexion. In short, no flavor in Euphemia. You
naturally object to snoring. Pardon me if I turn my back on you--I am
going to throw my slipper at her."
The soft voice of Cecilia--suspiciously drowsy in tone--interposed in
the interests of mercy.
"She can't help it, poor thing; and she really isn't loud enough to
disturb us."
"She won't disturb _you_, at any rate! Rouse yourself, Cecilia. We are
wide awake on this side of the room--and Francine says it's our turn to
amuse her."
A low murmur, dying away gently in a sigh, was the only answer. Sweet
Cecilia had yielded to the somnolent influences of the supper and the
night. The soft infection of repose seemed to be in some danger of
communicating itself to Francine. Her large mouth opened luxuriously in
a long-continued yawn.
"Good-night!" said Emily.
Miss de Sor became wide awake in an instant.
"No," she said positively; "you are quite mistaken if you think I am
going to sleep. Please exert yourself, Miss Emily--I am waiting to be
interested."
Emily appeared to be unwilling to exert herself. She preferred talking
of the weather.
"Isn't the wind rising?" she said.
There could be no doubt of it. The leaves in the garden were beginning
to rustle, and the pattering of the rain sounded on the windows.
Francine (as her straight chin proclaimed to all students of
physiognomy) was an obstinate girl. Determined to carry her point she
tried Emily's own system on Emily herself--she put questions.
"Have you been long at this school?"
"More than three years."
"Have you got any brothers and sisters?"
"I am the only child."
"Are your father and mother alive?"
Emily suddenly raised herself in bed.
"Wait a minute," she said; "I think I hear it again."
"The creaking on the stairs?"
"Yes."
Either she was mistaken, or the change for the worse in the weather
made it not easy to hear slight noises in the house. The wind was still
rising. The passage of it through the great trees in the garden began
to sound like the fall of waves on a distant beach. It drove the rain--a
heavy downpour by this time--rattling against the windows.
"Almost a storm, isn't it?" Emily said
Francine's last question had not been answered yet. She took the
earliest opportunity of repeating it:
"Never mind the weather," she said. "Tell me about your father and
mother. Are they both alive?"
Emily's reply only related to one of her parents.
"My mother died before I was old enough to feel my loss."
"And your father?"
Emily referred to another relative--her father's sister. "Since I have
grown up," she proceeded, "my good aunt has been a second mother to me.
My story is, in one respect, the reverse of yours. You are unexpectedly
rich; and I am unexpectedly poor. My aunt's fortune was to have been
my fortune, if I outlived her. She has been ruined by the failure of
a bank. In her old age, she must live on an income of two hundred a
year--and I must get my own living when I leave school."
"Surely your father can help you?" Francine persisted.
"His property is landed property." Her voice faltered, as she referred
to him, even in that indirect manner. "It is entailed; his nearest male
relative inherits it."
The delicacy which is easily discouraged was not one of the weaknesses
in the nature of Francine.
"Do I understand that your father is dead?" she asked.
Our thick-skinned fellow-creatures have the rest of us at their mercy:
only give them time, and they carry their point in the end. In sad
subdued tones--telling of deeply-rooted reserves of feeling, seldom
revealed to strangers--Emily yielded at last.
"Yes," she said, "my father is dead."
"Long ago?"
"Some people might think it long ago. I was very fond of my father. It's
nearly four years since he died, and my heart still aches when I think
of him. I'm not easily depressed by troubles, Miss de Sor. But his death
was sudden--he was in his grave when I first heard of it--and--Oh, he
was so good to me; he was so good to me!"
The gay high-spirited little creature who took the lead among them
all--who was the life and soul of the school--hid her face in her hands,
and burst out crying.
Startled and--to do her justice--ashamed, Francine attempted to make
excuses. Emily's generous nature passed over the cruel persistency
that had tortured her. "No no; I have nothing to forgive. It isn't your
fault. Other girls have not mothers and brothers and sisters--and get
reconciled to such a loss as mine. Don't make excuses."
"Yes, but I want you to know that I feel for you," Francine insisted,
without the slightest approach to sympathy in face, voice, or manner.
"When my uncle died, and left us all the money, papa was much shocked.
He trusted to time to help him."
"Time has been long about it with me, Francine. I am afraid there is
something perverse in my nature; the hope of meeting again in a better
world seems so faint and so far away. No more of it now! Let us talk of
that good creature who is asleep on the other side of you. Did I tell
you that I must earn my own bread when I leave school? Well, Cecilia
has written home and found an employment for me. Not a situation as
governess--something quite out of the common way. You shall hear all
about it."
In the brief interval that had passed, the weather had begun to change
again. The wind was as high as ever; but to judge by the lessening
patter on the windows the rain was passing away.
Emily began.
She was too grateful to her friend and school-fellow, and too deeply
interested in her story, to notice the air of indifference with which
Francine settled herself on her pillow to hear the praises of Cecilia.
The most beautiful girl in the school was not an object of interest to a
young lady with an obstinate chin and unfortunately-placed eyes.
Pouring warm from the speaker's heart the story ran smoothly on, to the
monotonous accompaniment of the moaning wind. By fine degrees Francine's
eyes closed, opened and closed again. Toward the latter part of the
narrative Emily's memory became, for the moment only, confused between
two events. She stopped to consider--noticed Francine's silence, in an
interval when she might have said a word of encouragement--and looked
closer at her. Miss de Sor was asleep.
"She might have told me she was tired," Emily said to herself quietly.
"Well! the best thing I can do is to put out the light and follow her
example."
As she took up the extinguisher, the bedroom door was suddenly opened
from the outer side. A tall woman, robed in a black dressing-gown, stood
on the threshold, looking at Emily.
CHAPTER III. THE LATE MR. BROWN.
The woman's lean, long-fingered hand pointed to the candle.
"Don't put it out." Saying those words, she looked round the room, and
satisfied herself that the other girls were asleep.
Emily laid down the extinguisher. "You mean to report us, of course,"
she said. "I am the only one awake, Miss Jethro; lay the blame on me."
"I have no intention of reporting you. But I have something to say."
She paused, and pushed her thick black hair (already streaked with gray)
back from her temples. Her eyes, large and dark and dim, rested on
Emily with a sorrowful interest. "When your young friends wake to-morrow
morning," she went on, "you can tell them that the new teacher, whom
nobody likes, has left the school."
For once, even quick-witted Emily was bewildered. "Going away," she
said, "when you have only been here since Easter!"
Miss Jethro advanced, not noticing Emily's expression of surprise. "I am
not very strong at the best of times," she continued, "may I sit down
on your bed?" Remarkable on other occasions for her cold composure, her
voice trembled as she made that request--a strange request surely, when
there were chairs at her disposal.
Emily made room for her with the dazed look of a girl in a dream. "I
beg your pardon, Miss | 1,199.008548 |
2023-11-16 18:37:03.0802200 | 2,388 | 12 | FROM ELIZABETH TO ANNE***
E-text prepared by MWS 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/englishlandslett02mitc
Project Gutenberg has the other three volumes of this work.
I: From Celt to Tudor
see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54168
III: Queen Anne and the Georges
see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37226
IV: The Later Georges to Victoria
see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54143
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
A carat character is used to denote superscription. A
single character following the carat is superscripted
(example: R^t).
ENGLISH LANDS LETTERS AND KINGS
From Elizabeth to Anne
* * * * * *
ENGLISH LANDS LETTERS AND KINGS
_By Donald G. Mitchell_
I. From Celt to Tudor
II. From Elizabeth to Anne
III. Queen Anne and the Georges
_Each one volume, 12mo, cloth, gilt top, $1.50_
* * * * * *
ENGLISH LANDS LETTERS AND KINGS
From Elizabeth to Anne
by
DONALD G. MITCHELL
[Illustration]
New York
Charles Scribner’s Sons
MDCCCXCVI
Copyright, 1890, by
Charles Scribner’S Sons
Trow’S
Printing and Bookbinding Company,
New York.
_PREFATORY LETTER._
[TO MRS. J. C. G. PIATT, OF UTICA SCHOOL, N. Y.]
MY DEAR JULIA,--_We have both known, in the past, a certain delightsome
country home; you--in earliest childhood, and I--in latest youth-time: and
I think we both relish those reminders--perhaps a Kodak view, or an autumn
gentian plucked by the road-side, or actual glimpse of its woods, or
brook, on some summer’s drive--which have brought back the old homestead,
with its great stretch of undulating meadow--its elms--its shady
lanes--its singing birds--its leisurely going big-eyed oxen--its long,
tranquil days, when the large heart of June was pulsing in all the leaves
and all the air:_
_Well, even so, and by these light tracings of Lands and Kings, and little
whiffs of metric music, I seek to bring back to you, and to your pupils
and associates (who have so kindly received previous and kindred
reminders) the rich memories of that great current of English letters
setting steadily forward amongst these British lands, and these
sovereigns, from Elizabeth to Anne. But slight as these glimpses are, and
as this synopsis may be, they will together serve, I hope, to fasten
attention where I wish to fasten it, and to quicken appetite for those
fuller and larger studies of English Literature and History, which shall
make even these sketchy outlines valued--as one values little flowerets
plucked from old fields--for bringing again to mind the summers of
youth-time, and a world of summer days, with their birds and abounding
bloom._
_Affectionately yours,
D. G. M._
_EDGEWOOD; MARCH, 1890._
_CONTENTS._
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
PRELIMINARY, 1
THE STUART LINE, 4
JAMES I., 6
WALTER RALEIGH, 11
NIGEL AND HARRISON, 19
A LONDON BRIDE, 23
BEN JONSON AGAIN, 26
AN ITALIAN REPORTER, 29
SHAKESPEARE AND THE GLOBE, 32
CHAPTER II.
GOSSON AND OTHER PURITANS, 42
KING JAMES’ BIBLE, 44
SHAKESPEARE, 56
SHAKESPEARE’S YOUTH, 61
FAMILY RELATIONS, 67
SHAKESPEARE IN LONDON, 73
WORK AND REPUTATION, 77
HIS THRIFT AND CLOSING YEARS, 81
CHAPTER III.
WEBSTER, FORD, AND OTHERS, 88
MASSINGER, BEAUMONT, AND FLETCHER, 93
KING JAMES AND FAMILY, 99
A NEW KING AND SOME LITERARY SURVIVORS, 105
WOTTON AND WALTON, 109
GEORGE HERBERT, 115
ROBERT HERRICK, 120
REVOLUTIONARY TIMES, 126
CHAPTER IV.
KING CHARLES AND HIS FRIENDS, 132
JEREMY TAYLOR, 135
A ROYALIST AND A PURITAN, 140
COWLEY AND WALLER, 144
JOHN MILTON, 150
MILTON’S MARRIAGE, 157
THE ROYAL TRAGEDY, 161
CHANGE OF KINGS, 167
LAST DAYS, 174
CHAPTER V.
CHARLES II. AND HIS FRIENDS, 182
ANDREW MARVELL, 189
AUTHOR OF HUDIBRAS, 193
SAMUEL PEPYS, 198
A SCIENTIST, 207
JOHN BUNYAN, 209
CHAPTER VI.
THREE GOOD PROSERS, 221
JOHN DRYDEN, 227
THE LONDON OF DRYDEN, 234
LATER POEMS AND PURPOSE, 240
JOHN LOCKE, 248
END OF THE KING AND OTHERS, 255
CHAPTER VII.
KINGS CHARLES, JAMES, AND WILLIAM, 261
SOME LITERARY FELLOWS, 268
A PAMPHLETEER, 272
OF QUEEN ANNE, 277
AN IRISH DRAGOON, 280
STEELE’S LITERARY QUALITIES, 285
JOSEPH ADDISON, 288
SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY, 291
CHAPTER VIII.
ROYAL GRIEFS AND FRIENDS, 301
BUILDERS AND STREETS, 306
JOHN GAY, 308
JONATHAN SWIFT, 312
SWIFT’S POLITICS, 324
HIS LONDON JOURNAL, 328
IN IRELAND AGAIN, 333
_ENGLISH LANDS, LETTERS, & KINGS._
CHAPTER I.
We take outlook to-day from the threshold of the seventeenth century.
Elizabeth is dead (1603), but not England. The powers it had grown to
under her quickening offices are all alive. The great Spanish dragon has
its teeth drawn; Cadiz has been despoiled, and huge galleons, gold-laden,
have come trailing into Devon ports. France is courteously friendly.
Holland and England are in leash, as against the fainter-growing blasts of
Popedom. In Ireland, Tyrone has been whipped into bloody quietude. A
syndicate of London merchants, dealing in pepper and spices, has made the
beginnings of that East-Indian empire which gives to the present British
sovereign her proudest title. London is growing apace in riches and in
houses; though her shipping counts for less than the Dutch shipping, great
cargoes come and go through the Thames--spices from the East, velvets and
glass from the Mediterranean, cloths from the Baltic. Cheapside is
glittering with the great array of goldsmiths’ shops four stories high,
and new painted and new gilded (in 1594) by Sir Richard Martin, Mayor. The
dudes of that time walk and “publish” their silken suits there, and thence
through all the lanes leading to Paul’s Walk--which is, effectively, the
aisle of the great church. There are noblemen who have tall houses in the
city and others who have built along the Strand, with fine grounds
reaching to the river and looking out upon the woods which skirt the
bear-gardens of Bankside in Southwark. The river is all alive with
boats--wherries, barges, skiffs. There are no hackney carriages as yet for
hire; but rich folks here and there rumble along the highways in heavy
Flemish coaches.
Some of the great lights we have seen in the intellectual firmament of
England have set. Burleigh is gone; Hooker is gone, in the prime of his
years; Spenser gone, Marlowe gone, Sidney gone. But enough are left at the
opening of the century and at the advent of James (1603) to keep the great
trail of Elizabethan literary splendors all aglow. George Chapman (of the
Homer) is alive and active; and so are Raleigh, and Francis Bacon, and
Heywood, and Dekker, and Lodge. Shakespeare is at his best, and is acting
in his own plays at the newly built Globe Theatre. Michael Drayton is in
full vigor, plotting and working at the tremendous poem from which we
culled--in advance--a pageful of old English posies. Ben Jonson, too, is
all himself, whom we found a giant and a swaggerer, yet a man of great
learning and capable of the delicious bits of poesy which I cited. You
will further remember how we set right the story of poor Amy Robsart--told
of the great Queen’s vanities--of her visitings--of her days of
illness--and of the death of the last sovereign of the name of Tudor.
_The Stuart Line._
Henceforth, for much time to come, we shall meet--when we encounter
British royalty at all--with men of the house of Stuart. But how comes
about this shifting of the thrones from the family of Tudor to the family
of Stuart? I explained in a recent chapter how the name of Tudor became
connected with the crown, by the marriage of a Welsh knight--Owen
Tudor--with Katharine, widow of Henry V. Now let us trace, if we can, this
name of | 1,199.10026 |
2023-11-16 18:37:03.0803630 | 1,095 | 11 |
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: The good-natured Giant]
THE
TWO STORY MITTENS
AND THE
LITTLE PLAY MITTENS:
BEING
THE FOURTH BOOK OF THE SERIES.
BY
AUNT FANNY,
AUTHOR OF THE SIX NIGHTCAP BOOKS, ETC.
NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
443 & 445 BROADWAY.
LONDON: 16 LITTLE BRITAIN.
1867.
Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1862, by
FANNY BARROW,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the
Southern District of New York.
I DEDICATE
THESE TWO STORIES AND THIS LITTLE PLAY
TO MY FRIEND
MR. FRANK A----,
who makes fun of me before my face and speaks well of me behind my back.
I don't mind the first a bit; and as long as he continues to practise
the second, we will fight under the same flag.
LONG MAY IT AND HE WAVE!
CONTENTS.
PAGE
MORE ABOUT THE MITTENS, 7
THE PARTY LILLIE GAVE FOR MISS FLORENCE, 12
THE FAIRY BENEVOLENCE, 45
MASTER EDWARD'S TRIAL, 80
THE LITTLE PLAY MITTENS, 139
MORE ABOUT THE MITTENS.
THE mittens were coming bravely on. Some evenings, Aunt Fanny could not
send a story; and then the little mother read an entertaining book, or
chatted pleasantly with her children.
There had been twelve pairs finished, during the reading of the third
book, and several more were on the way. George had written the most
delightful letters, each of which was read to his eagerly-listening
sisters and brothers several times, for they were never tired of hearing
about life in camp.
This evening, the mother drew another letter, received that day, out of
her pocket. The very sight of the envelope, with the precious flag in
the corner, caused their eyes to sparkle, and their fingers to fly at
their patriotic and loving work.
"Attention!" said the mother in a severe, military tone. Everybody burst
out laughing, choked it off, immediately straightened themselves up as
stiff as ramrods, and she began:
"DEAR MOTHER, CAPTAIN, AND ALL THE BELOVED
SQUAD:--Our camp is splendid! We call it Camp
Ellsworth. It covers the westward <DW72> of a
beautiful hill. The air is pure and fresh, and our
streets (for we have real ones) are kept as clean
as a pin. Not an end of a cigar, or an inch of
potato peeling, dare to show themselves. Directly
back of the camp strong earthworks have been
thrown up, with rifle pits in front; and these are
manned by four artillery companies from New York.
Our commissary is a very good fellow, but I wish
he would buy pork with less fat. I am like the boy
in school, who wrote home to his mother, his face
all puckered up with disgust: "They make us eat
p-h-a-t!!" When I swizzle it (or whatever you call
that kind of cooking) in a pan over the fire,
there is nothing left of a large slice, but a
little shrivelled brown bit, swimming in about
half a pint of melted lard, not quarter enough to
satisfy a great robin redbreast like me; but I
make the most of it, by pointing my bread for some
time at it, and then eating a lot of bread before
I begin at the pork. The pointing, you see, gives
the bread a flavor."
The children screamed with laughter at this, and wanted to have some
salt pork cooked immediately to try the "pointing" flavor. Their mother
promised to have some for breakfast, and went on reading:
"We are very busy at drills. I give the boys
plenty of field exercise, quick step, skirmishes,
double quick, and all manner of manoeuvres. After
drill, we sing songs, tell jokes, and _play_ jokes
upon each other, but we don't forget, in doing
this, that we are _gentlemen_.
"Oh dear mother, I am crazy to be in action! I am
afraid, if we don't have a battle soon, I shall
get motheaten. Our General is a glorious fellow,
and is just as anxious as we are to have it over;
peace will come all the sooner. Hol | 1,199.100403 |
2023-11-16 18:37:03.0812230 | 2,056 | 24 | ELECTIONS AND ELECTIONEERING IN THE OLD DAYS***
E-text prepared by MWS, Wayne Hammond, and the Online Distributed
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available by Internet Archive/American Libraries
(https://archive.org/details/americana)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 52156-h.htm or 52156-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/52156/52156-h/52156-h.htm)
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Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
https://archive.org/details/historyofparliam00greg
Transcriber’s note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
A carat character is used to denote superscription. A
single character following the carat is superscripted
(example: y^e). Multiple superscripted characters are
enclosed by curly brackets (example: hon^{ble}).
A HISTORY OF PARLIAMENTARY ELECTIONS
AND ELECTIONEERING IN THE OLD DAYS
[Illustration: “THE RIGHTS of WOMEN” or the EFFECTS of FEMALE
ENFRANCHISEMENT]
A HISTORY OF PARLIAMENTARY ELECTIONS
AND ELECTIONEERING IN THE OLD DAYS
Showing the State of Political Parties and Party
Warfare at the Hustings and in the House of
Commons from the Stuarts to Queen Victoria
[Illustration: CANDIDATES ADDRESSING THEIR CONSTITUENTS.]
Illustrated from the Original Political Squibs, Lampoons
Pictorial Satires, and Popular Caricatures of the Time
by
JOSEPH GREGO
Author of “James Gillray, the Caricaturist: His Life, Works, and Times”
“Rowlandson, the Caricaturist: His Life, Times, and Works,” etc.
London
Chatto and Windus, Piccadilly
1886
[The right of translation is reserved]
“I think the Tories love to buy
‘Your Lordships’ and ‘Your Graces,’
By loathing common honesty,
And lauding commonplaces....
I think the Whigs are wicked Knaves
(And very like the Tories)
Who doubt that Britain rules the waves,
_And ask the price of glories_.”
W. M. PRAED (1826).
“A friend to freedom and freeholders--yet
No less a friend to government--he held
That he exactly the just medium hit
’Twixt place and patriotism; albeit compell’d,
Such was his sovereign’s pleasure (though unfit,
He added modestly, when rebels rail’d),
To hold some sinecures he wish’d abolish’d,
But that with them all law would be demolish’d.”
LORD BYRON.
PREFACE.
Apart from political parties, we are all concerned in that important
national birthright, the due representation of the people. It will be
conceded that the most important element of Parliaments--specially
chosen to embody the collective wisdom of the nation--is the legitimate
method of their constitution. Given the unrestricted rights of
election, a representative House of Commons is the happy result;
the opposite follows a tampering with the franchise, and debauched
constituencies. The effects of bribery, intimidation, undue influence,
coercion on the part of the Crown or its responsible advisers, an
extensive system of personal patronage, boroughmongering, close or
pocket boroughs, and all those contraband devices of old to hamper
the popular choice of representatives, have inevitably produced a
legislature more or less corrupt, as history has registered. Bad as
were the workings of the electoral system anterior to the advent
of parliamentary reform, it speaks volumes for the manly nature of
British electors and their representatives that Parliaments thus basely
constituted were, on the whole, fairly honest, nor unmindful altogether
of those liberties of the subject they were by supposition elected to
maintain; and when symptoms of corruption in the Commons became patent,
the degeneracy was not long countenanced, the national spirit being
sufficiently vigorous to crush the threatened evils, and bring about a
healthier state of things.
The comprehensive subject of parliamentary elections is rich in
interest and entertainment; the history of the rise, progress, and
development of the complex art of electioneering recommends itself to
the attention of all who have an interest in the features inseparable
from that constitution which has been lauded as a model for other
nations to imitate. The strong national characteristics surrounding, in
bygone days, the various stages of parliamentary election--peculiarly a
British institution, in which, of all people, our countrymen were most
at home--are now, by an improved elective procedure, relegated to the
limbo of the past, while the records of electioneering exist but as
traditions in the present.
With the modifying influence of progress, and a more advanced
civilisation, the time may come when the narrative of the robustious
scenes of canvassing, polling, chairing, and election-feasting, with
their attendant incidents of all-prevailing bribery, turbulence, and
intrigue, may be regarded with incredulity as fictions of an impossible
age.
It has been endeavoured to give the salient features of the most
remarkable election contests, from the time when seats began to
be sought after until comparatively recent days. The “Spendthrift
Elections,” remarkable in the annals of parliamentary and party
warfare, are set down, with a selection from the literature, squibs,
ballads, and broadsides to which they gave rise. The illustrations
are selected from the pictorial satires produced contemporaneously
upon the most famous electoral struggles. The materials, both literary
and graphic, are abundant, but scattered; it is hoped that both
entertainment and enlightenment may be afforded to a tolerant public by
the writer’s efforts to bring these resources within the compass of a
volume.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
The assembling of parliaments--Synopsis of parliamentary
history--Orders for the attendance of members--Qualifications
for the franchise: burgesses, burgage-tenures, scot and lot,
pot-wallopers, <DW19>-votes, splitting--Disqualifications:
alms, charity, “<DW19>s,” “occasionality”--Election of knights
of the shire, and burgesses--Outlines of an election in the
Middle Ages--Queen Elizabeth and her faithful Commons--An
early instance of buying a seat in the Commons--Returns
vested in the municipal corporations; “Money makes the
mayor to go”--Privileges of parliament--“Knights girt with
a sword”--Inferior standing of the citizens and burgesses
sent to Parliament--Reluctance of early constituencies to
sending representatives to parliament--Paid members--Members
chosen and nominated by the “great families”--The Earl of
Essex nominating his partisans and servants--Exemption
from sending representatives to the Commons esteemed
a privilege--The growth of legislative and electoral
independence--The beginning of “contested elections”--Coercion
at elections--Lords-lieutenant calling out the train-bands for
purposes of intimidation--Early violence--_Nugæ Antiquæ_; the
election of a Harrington for Bath, 1658-9; the present of a
horse to paid members--The method of election for counties,
cities, and boroughs--Relations of representatives with their
constituents--The “wages” of members of parliament--“Extracts
from the Proceedings of Lynn Regis”--An account rendered to the
burgesses--The civil wars--Peers returned for the Commons in
the Long Parliament after the abolition of the House of Lords. 1
CHAPTER II.
Influence of administration under Charles I.--Ballad on
the Commonwealth--House of Commons: “A General Sale of
Rebellious Household Stuff”--The Parliament under the
Restoration--Pepys and Prynne on the choosing of “knights
of the shire”--Burgesses sent up at the discretion of the
sheriffs--The king’s writ--Evils attending the cessation of
wages to parliamentary representatives--Andrew Marvell’s ballad
on a venal House of Commons--The parliament waiting on the
king--Charles II. and his Commons--“Royal Resolutions,” and
disrespect for the Commons--The Earl of Rochester on Charles
II.’s parliament--Interference in elections--Independence
of legislators _versus_ paid members--The Peers as “born
legislators and councillors”--“The Pensioner Parliament”
coincident with the remission of salaries to members of the
Commons--“An Historical Poem,” by Andrew Marvell--Andrew
Marvell as a paid member; his kindly relations with his Hull
constituents--Writ for recovering arrears of parliamentary
wages--Uncertainty of calling another parliament-- | 1,199.101263 |
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DIO'S ROME
AN
HISTORICAL NARRATIVE
ORIGINALLY COMPOSED IN GREEK
DURING THE REIGNS OF
SEPTIMIUS SEVERUS, GETA
AND CARACALLA, MACRINUS,
ELAGABALUS AND ALEXANDER SEVERUS:
AND
NOW PRESENTED IN ENGLISH FORM
BY
HERBERT BALDWIN FOSTER,
A.B. (Harvard), Ph.D. (Johns Hopkins),
Acting Professor of Greek in Lehigh University
_FIFTH VOLUME: Extant Books 61-76 (A.D. 54-211)._
1906
* * * * *
VOLUME CONTENTS
* * * * *
Book Sixty-one
Book Sixty-two
Book Sixty-three
Book Sixty-four
Book Sixty-five
Book Sixty-six
Book Sixty-seven
Book Sixty-eight
Book Sixty-nine
Book Seventy
Book Seventy-one
Book Seventy-two
Book Seventy-three
Book Seventy-four
Book Seventy-five
Book Seventy-six
Book Seventy-seven
DIO'S ROMAN HISTORY
61
Nero seizes the sovereignty (chapters 1, 2).
At the beginning he is accustomed to yield to the influence of his mother,
whom Seneca and Burrus thrust aside from control of affairs (chapter 3).
Nero's exhibitions of wantonness and his extravagance: the death of
Silanus (chapters 4-6).
Love for Acte: Britannicus slain: discord with Agrippina (chapters 7, 8).
How Nero's mind began to give way (chapter 9).
About the faults and immoralities of the philosopher Seneca (chapter 10).
Sabina an object of love: Agrippina murdered (chapters 11-16).
Domitia put to death: festivities: Nero sings to the accompaniment of his
lyre (chapters 17-21).
DURATION OF TIME.
M. Asinius Marcellus, Manius Acilius Aviola. (A.D. 54 = a.u. 807 = First
of Nero, from Oct. 13th).
Nero Caesar Aug., L. Antistius Vetus. (A.D. 55 = a.u. 808 = Second of
Nero).
Q. Volusius Saturninus, P. Cornelius Scipio. (A.D. 56 = a.u. 809 = Third
of Nero).
Nero Caesar Aug. (II), L. Calpurnius Piso. (A.D. 57 = a.u. 810 = Fourth of
Nero).
Nero Caesar Aug. (III), M. Valerius Messala. (A.D. 58 = a.u. 811 = Fifth
of Nero).
C. Vipsanius Apronianus, L. Fonteius Capito. (A.D. 59 = a.u. 812 = Sixth
of Nero).
Nero Caesar Aug. (IV), Cornelius Lentulus Cossus. (A.D. 60 = a.u. 813 =
Seventh of Nero).
[Sidenote: A.D. 54 (a.u. 807)] [Sidenote:--1--] At the death of Claudius
the leadership on most just principles belonged to Britannicus, who had
been born a legitimate son of Claudius and in physical development was
beyond what would have been expected of his years. Yet by law the power
passed to Nero on account of his adoption. No claim, indeed, is stronger
than that of arms. Every one who possesses superior force has always the
appearance of both saying and doing what is more just. So Nero, having
first disposed of Claudius's will and having succeeded him as master of
the whole empire, put Britannicus and his sisters out of the way. Why,
then, should one stop to lament the misfortunes of other victims?
[Sidenote:--2--] The following signs of dominion had been observed in his
career. At his birth just before dawn rays not cast by any beam of
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The Hound of the Baskervilles
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
CONTENTS
Chapter 1--Mr. Sherlock Holmes
Chapter 2--The Curse of the Baskervilles
Chapter 3--The Problem
Chapter 4--Sir Henry Baskerville
Chapter 5--Three Broken Threads
Chapter 6--Baskerville Hall
Chapter 7--The Stapletons of Merripit House
Chapter 8--First Report of Dr. Watson
Chapter 9--The Light Upon The Moor
Chapter 10--Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson
Chapter 11--The Man on the Tor
Chapter 12--Death on the Moor
Chapter 13--Fixing the Nets
Chapter 14--The Hound of the Baskervilles
Chapter 15--A Retrospection
Chapter 1
Mr. Sherlock Holmes
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings,
save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all
night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the
hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left
behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood,
bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as a "Penang lawyer."
Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch
across. "To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the
C.C.H.," was engraved upon it, with the date "1884." It was just
such a stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to
carry--dignified, solid, and reassuring.
"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"
Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no
sign of my occupation.
"How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in
the back of your head."
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NOTES
ON THE
FLORIDIAN PENINSULA;
ITS
LITERARY HISTORY,
INDIAN TRIBES AND ANTIQUITIES.
BY
DANIEL G. BRINTON, A. B.
PHILADELPHIA:
PUBLISHED BY JOSEPH SABIN,
NO. 27 SOUTH SIXTH STREET, ABOVE CHESTNUT.
1859.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by
DANIEL G. BRINTON,
In the Clerk’s office of the District Court, in and for the
Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
KING & BAIRD, PRINTERS, PHILADA.
TO THE
LOVERS AND CULTIVATORS
OF THE
HISTORY AND ARCHÆOLOGY OF OUR COUNTRY,
THIS WORK
IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED,
BY THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
The present little work is the partial result of odd hours spent in the
study of the history, especially the ancient history--if by this term I
may be allowed to mean all that pertains to the aborigines and first
settlers--of the peninsula of Florida. In some instances, personal
observations during a visit thither, undertaken for the purposes of
health in the winter of 1856-57, have furnished original matter, and
served to explain, modify, or confirm the statements of previous
writers.
Aware of the isolated interest ever attached to merely local history, I
have endeavored, as far as possible, by pointing out various analogies,
and connecting detached facts, to impress upon it a character of general
value to the archæologist and historian. Should the attempt have been
successful, and should the book aid as an incentive to the rapidly
increasing attention devoted to subjects of this nature, I shall feel
myself amply repaid for the hours of toil, which have also ever been
hours of pleasure, spent in its preparation.
THORNBURY, PENNA., APRIL, 1859.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
LITERARY HISTORY.
PAGE.
Introductory Remarks.--The Early Explorations.--The
French Colonies.--The First Spanish Supremacy.--The
English Supremacy.--The Second Spanish
Supremacy.--The Supremacy of the United States.--Maps
and Charts 13
CHAPTER II.
THE APALACHES.
Derivation of the Name.--Earliest Notices of.--Visited
and Described by Bristock, in 1653.--Authenticity of
his Narrative.--Subsequent History and Final Extinction 92
CHAPTER III.
TRIBES OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
§ 1. SITUATION AND SOCIAL CONDITION.--Caloosas.--Ais
and Tegesta.--Tocobaga.--Vitachuco.--Utina.--Soturiba.--Method
of Government.
§ 2. CIVILIZATION.--Appearance.--Games.--Agriculture.--Construction
of Dwellings.--Clothing.
§ 3. RELIGION.--General Remarks.--Festivals in Honor
of the Sun and Moon.--Sacrifices.--Priests.--Sepulchral
Rites.
§ 4 | 1,204.900371 |
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WOMAN
In all ages and in all countries
GREEK WOMEN
by
MITCHELL CARROLL, Ph.D.
Professor of Classical Philology in the George
Washington University
_Copyrighted 1907-1908_
GENERAL INTRODUCTION
The history of woman is the history of the world. Strait orthodoxy may
remind us that man preceded woman in the scheme of creation and that
therefore history does not begin with woman; but this is a specious
plea. The first historical information that we gain regarding Adam is
concerned with the creation of woman, and there is nothing to show us
that prior to that time Adam was more active in mind or even in body
than a mollusc. It was not until the coming of woman that history began
to exist; and if the first recorded act of the woman was disastrous in
its consequences, at least it possesses the distinction of making
history. So that it may well be said that all that we are we owe to
woman. Whether or not the story of the Garden of Eden is to be
implicitly accepted, there can be no doubt that from the moment of the
first appearance of mankind on the scene woman has been the ruling cause
of all effect.
The record of woman is one of extremes. There is an average woman, but
she has not been found except in theory. The typical woman, as she is
seen in the pages of history, is either very good or very bad. We find
women saints and we find women demons; but we rarely find a mean. Herein
is a cardinal distinction between the sexes. The man of history is
rarely altogether good or evil; he has a distinct middle ground, in
which we are most apt to find him in his truest aspect. There are
exceptions, and many; but this may be taken as a rule. Even in the
instances of the best and noblest men of whom we have record this rule
will hold. Saint Peter was bold and cautious, brave and cowardly, loving
and a traitor; Saint Paul was boastful and meek, tender and severe;
Saint John cognized beyond all others the power of love, and wished to
call down fire from heaven upon a village which refused to hear the
Gospel; and it is most probable that the true Peter and Paul and John
lived between these extremes. Not so with the women of the same story.
They were throughout consistent with themselves; they were utterly pure
and holy, as Mary Magdalene,--to whose character great wrong has been
done in the past by careless commentary,--or utterly vile, as Herodias.
Extremism is a chief feminine characteristic. Extremist though she be,
woman is always consistent in her extremes; hence her power for good and
for evil.
It is a mistaken idea which places the "emancipation" of woman at a late
date in the world's history. From time immemorial, woman has been
actively engaged in guiding the destinies of mankind. It is true that
the advent of Christianity undoubtedly broadened the sphere of woman and
that she was then given her true place as the companion and helper
rather than the toy of man; but long before this period woman had
asserted her right to be heard in the councils of the wise, and the
right seems to have been conceded in the cases where the demand was
made. Those who look upon the present as the emancipation period in the
history of woman have surely forgotten Deborah, whose chant of triumph
was sung in the congregation of the people and was considered worthy of
preservation for all future ages to read; Semiramis, who led her armies
to battle when the Great King, Ninus, had let fall the sceptre from his
weary hand, and who ruled her people with wisdom and justice; and others
whose fame, even if legendary in its details, has come down to us.
Through all the ages there was opportunity for woman, when she chose to
seize it; and in many cases it was thus seized. Rarely indeed do we find
the history of any age unconcerned with its women. Though their part may
at times seem but minor, yet do they stand out to the observant eye as
the prime causes of many of the great events which make or mark epochs.
When we think of the Trojan War, it is Agamemnon and Priam, Achilles and
Hector, who rise up before our mental vision as the protagonists in that
great struggle; but if there had been no Helen, there would have been no
war, and therefore no Iliad or Odyssey. We read Macaulay's stirring
ballad of_ Horatius at the Bridge, _and we thrill at the recital of
strength and daring; but if it had not been for the virtue of Lucretia,
there would have been no combat for the bridge, and the Tarquins might
have ended their days in peace in the Eternal City. And, in later times,
though Mirabeau and Robespierre and Danton and Marat fill the eye of the
student of the cataclysmic events of the French Revolution, it was the
folly of Marie Antoinette that gave these men their opportunity and even
paved the way for the rise and meteoric career of a greater than them
all.
These are instances of mediate influence upon great events; but there
have been many women who ham exerted immediate influence upon the story
of mankind. That which is usually mistermed weakness is generally held
to be a feminine attribute; and if we replace the term by the truer
word,--gentleness,--the statement may be conceded. But there have been
many women who have been strong in the general sense; and these have
usually been terribly strong. Look at Catherine of Russia, vicious to
the core, but powerful in intellect and will above the standard of
masculine rulers. Look at Elizabeth of England, crafty and false, full
of a ridiculous vanity, yet strong with a strength before which even
such men as Burleigh and Essex and Leicester were compelled to bow.
Look at Margaret of Lancaster, fighting in her husband's stead for the
crown of England and by her undaunted spirit plucking victory again and
again from the jaws of defeat, and yielding at last only when deserted
by every adherent. Look at Clytemmstra and Lady Macbeth, creatures of
the poet's fancy if you will, yet true types of a class of femininity.
They have had prototypes and antitypes, and many.
Women have achieved their most decisive and remarkable effects upon the
history of mankind by reaching and clinging to extremes. Extremism is
always a mark of enthusiasm, and enthusiasm accomplishes effects which
must have been left forever unattained by mere regulated and
conscientious effort. The stories of the Christian martyrs show in
golden letters the devotion of women to a cause; and I have no doubt
whatever that it was in the deaths of young maidens, in their hideous
sufferings borne with resignation and even joy, that there came the
conviction of truth which is known as the seed which was sown in the
blood of the martyrs. The high enthusiasm which supported a Catherine
and a Cecilia in their hours of trial was strong to persuade where the
death of a man for his convictions would have been looked upon as a
matter of course. It is from this enthusiasm and extremism that there
sounds one of the key-notes of woman's nature--her loyalty. Loyalty is
one of the blending traits of the sexes; yet, if I were compelled to
attribute it distinctively to one sex, I should class it as feminine in
its nature.
Loyalty to one idea, to one ideal, has been a predominant characteristic
of woman from time immemorial. Sometimes this loyalty takes the form of
patriotism, sometimes of altruism, sometimes of piety in true sense; but
always it has its origin and life in love. The love may be diffused or
concentrated, general or particular, but it is always the soul of the
true woman, and without it she cannot live. Love for her God, love for
her race, love for her country, love for the man whom she delights to
honor--these may exist separately or as one, but exist for her they
must, or her life is barren and her soul but a dead thing. Love, in the
true sense of the word, is the essence of the woman-soul; it is the soul
itself. She must love, or she is dead, however she may seem to live.
That she does not always ask whether the object of her love, be it
abstract or concrete, be worthy of her devotion is not to be attributed
to her as a fault, but rather as a virtue, since the love itself expands
and vivifies her soul if itself be worthy. It is at once the expression
and the expenditure of the unsounded depths of her soul; it is through
its power over her that she recognises her own nature, that she knows
herself for what she is. The woman who has not loved, even in the
ordinary human and limited meaning of the word, has no conception of her
own soul.
Thus far I have spoken of love in its broad sense, as the highest
impulse of the human soul. But there is another and a lower aspect of
love, and this is the one most usually meant when we use the word,--the
attraction of sex. Even thus, though in this aspect love becomes a far
lesser thing, it possesses no less power. The passion of man for woman
has been the underlying cause of all history in its phenomenal aspects.
The favorite example of this power has always been that of Cleopatra and
Mark Antony; but history is full of equally convincing instances.
To love and to be loved; such is the ultimate lot of woman. It matters
not what accessories of existence fate may have to offer; this is the
supreme meaning of life to woman, and it is here that she finds her true
value in the world. She may read that meaning in divers manners; she may
make of her place in life a curse or a blessing to mankind. It matters
not; all returns to the same cause, the same source of power_. _The
strongest woman is weak if she be not loved, for she lacks her chief
weapon with which to conquer; the weakest is strong if she truly have
won love, for through this she can work miracles. Her strength is more
than doubled; heart and brain and hand are in equal measure, for that
with which the heart inspires the brain will be transmitted by the heart
to the hand, and the message will be too imperative to fear failure.
It is a strange thing--though not inexplicable--that your ambitious
woman is far more ruthless, far more unscrupulous, far more determined
to win at any cost, than is the most ambitious of men. Again comes the
law of extreme to show cause that this should be; but the fact is so
sure that cause is of less interest. Not Machiavelli was so false, not
Caligula was so cruel, not Caesar was so careless of right, as the woman
whose political ambition has taken form and strength. That which bars
her path must be swept aside, be it man or notion or principle. She sees
but the one object, her goal, looming large before her; and she moves on
with her eyes fixed, crushing beneath her feet all that would turn her
steps.
I have spoken of the cruelty of an ambitious woman; and it is worth
while to pause a moment to consider this trait as displayed in
women--not as a means, but as an end. There have been men who loved
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Transcriber's Note:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible. Some changes of spelling have been made. They are listed
at the end of the text.
OE ligatures have been expanded.
Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
CHILDREN IN PRISON
AND
OTHER CRUELTIES
OF
PRISON LIFE.
MURDOCH & CO.,
26, PATERNOSTER SQUARE,
LONDON.
PUBLISHERS' NOTE.
The circumstance which called forth this letter is a woeful one for
Christian England. Martin, the Reading warder, is found guilty of
feeding the hungry, nursing the sick, of being kindly and humane. These
are his offences in plain unofficial language.
This pamphlet is tendered to earnest persons as evidence that the prison
system is opposed to all that is kind and helpful. Herein is shown a
process that is dehumanizing, not only to the prisoners, but to every
one connected with it.
Martin was dismissed. It happened in May last year. He is still out of
employment and in poor circumstances. Can anyone help him?
_February, 1898._
SOME CRUELTIES OF PRISON LIFE.
THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY CHRONICLE.
SIR,--I learn with great regret, through an extract from the columns of
your paper, that the warder Martin, of Reading Prison, has been
dismissed by the Prison Commissioners for having given some sweet
biscuits to a little hungry child. I saw the three children myself on
the Monday preceding my release. They had just been convicted, and were
standing in a row in the central hall in their prison dress, carrying
their sheets under the arms previous to their being sent to the cells
allotted to them. I happened to be passing along one of the galleries on
my way to the reception room, where I was to have an interview with a
friend. They were quite small children, the youngest--the one to whom
the warder gave the biscuits--being a tiny little chap, for whom they
had evidently been unable to find clothes small enough to fit. I had, of
course, seen many children in prison during the two years during which I
was myself confined. Wandsworth Prison, especially, contained always a
large number of children. But the little child I saw on the afternoon of
Monday, the 17th, at Reading, was tinier than any one of them. I need
not say how utterly distressed I was to see these children at Reading,
for I knew the treatment in store for them. The cruelty that is
practised by day and night on children in English prisons is incredible,
except to those who have witnessed it and are aware of the brutality of
the system.
People nowadays do not understand what cruelty is. They regard it as a
sort of terrible mediaeval passion, and connect it with the race of men
like Eccelin da Romano, and others, to whom the deliberate infliction of
pain gave a real madness of pleasure. But men of the stamp of Eccelin
are merely abnormal types of perverted individualism. Ordinary cruelty
is simply stupidity. It comes from the entire want of imagination. It is
the result in our days of stereotyped systems, of hard-and-fast rules,
of centralisation, of officialism, and of irresponsible authority.
Wherever there is centralisation there is stupidity. What is inhuman in
modern life is officialism. Authority is as destructive to those who
exercise it as it is to those on whom it is exercised. It is the Prison
Board, with the system that it carries out, that is the primary source
of the cruelty that is exercised on a child in prison. The people who
uphold the system have excellent intentions. Those who carry it out are
humane in intention also. Responsibility is shifted on to the
disciplinary regulations. It is supposed that because a thing is the
rule it is right.
The present treatment | 1,205.003794 |
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BAMBI
by Marjorie Benton Cooke
Illustrated by Mary Greene Blumenschein
Originally Published in 1914
DEDICATION
TO BAMBI
With thanks to her for being Herself!
M.B.C.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
She saw Jarvis before the curtain, making a first-night speech.
Bambi fluttered the joy-bringing letter above her head and circled the
breakfast-room in a whirl of happiness.
"Good evening, Mrs. New York, and all you people out there! We're here,
Jarvis and I."
"Well, believe me, that high-brow stuff is on the toboggan."
"Tell your husband to put you in a play, and I'll put it on." "Much
obliged, I'll tell him. Good morning."
Her tale had the place of honour and was illustrated by James Montgomery
Flagg, the supreme desire of every young writer.
"Softlings! Poor softlings!" Jarvis muttered, Bambi's words coming back
to him.
"I have got to do something violent, Ardelia. I am going to jerk the
stems off of berries, chop the pits out of cherries, and skin peaches."
He taught himself to abandon his old introspective habits during these
days on the box.
BAMBI
I
"Professor James Parkhurst, I consider you a colossal failure as an
educator," said Francesca, his daughter, known to friend and family as
Bambina, or Bambi for short.
Professor Parkhurst lifted a startled face from his newspaper and
surveyed his only child across the breakfast table.
"My dear, what causes this sweeping assertion of my incompetence?"
"I do! I do! Just what did you expect me to do when I grew up?"
"Why, to be happy."
"That's the profession you intended me for? Who's to pay the piper? It's
expensive to be happy and also unlucrative."
"I have always expected to support you until your husband claimed that
privilege."
"Suppose I want a husband who can't support me?"
"Dear me, that would be unfortunate. It is the first duty of a husband
to support his wife."
"Old-fashioned husbands, yes--but not modern ones. Lots of men marry to
be supported nowadays. How on earth could I support the man I love?"
"You are not without talents, my dear."
"Talents? You almost said accomplishments! If you were not living in the
Pliocene age, Professor James Parkhurst, you would know that
accomplishments are a curse--accomplishment is the only thing that
counts. I can sing a little, play the piano a little, auction bridge a
good deal; I can cook, and sew fancy things. The only thing I can do
well is to dance, and no real man wants to be supported by his
wife's toes."
The Professor smiled mirthlessly. "Is this a general discussion, or are
you leading to a specific point, Bambi?" he inquired.
"It's a specific charge of incompetence against you and me. Why didn't
you teach me something? You know more about mathematics than the man who
invented them, and I am not even sure that two and two make four."
"You're young yet, my dear; you can learn. What is it you want to
study?"
"Success, and how to get it."
"Success, in the general sense of the word, has never seemed very
important to me. To do your work well----"
"Yes, I know. It is the fact that you have not thought success important
that hampers me so in the choice of a husband."
"Bambina, that is the second time a husband has been mentioned in this
discussion. Have you some individual under consideration?"
"I have. I have practically decided on him."
"You don't tell me! Do I know the young man?"
"Oh, yes--Jarvis Jocelyn."
"He has proposed to you?"
"Oh, no. He doesn't know anything about it. I have just decided on him."
"But, my dear, he is penniless."
"That's why I reproach you that you haven't brought me up to support
Jarvis in a luxury he will have to get used to."
"But why have you settled on this youth? I seem to recall a great many
young men who are always about. I presume they admire you. Certainly
this dreamer is the most ineligible of them all."
"Oh, that--yes. That's why I must take him. He'll starve to death unless
some one takes him on, and looks after him."
"Isn't there some asylum, perhaps?"
Bambi's laugh rang out like a chime.
"A home for geniuses. There's an idea! No, Professor Parkhurst, Society
does not yet provide for that particular brand of incompetents."
"It seems as if you were going rather far in your quixotism to marry
him."
Again the girl laughed.
"I total him up like this: fine family, good blood, decent habits,
handsome, healthy, poetic. He might even be affectionate. His one fault
is that he is not adjusted to modern commercial standards. He cannot
make money, or he will not--it comes to the same thing."
"I am unable to see why you are elected to take care of him. He must fit
his time, or perish. You don't happen to be in love with him, do you?"
"No, I--I think not. He interests me more than anybody. I suppose I am
fond of him rather."
"Have you any reason for thinking him in love with you?"
"Mercy, no! He hardly knows I'm alive. He uses me for a conversational
blotting-pad. That's my only use in his eyes."
"He's so very impractical."
"I am used to impractical men. I have taken care of you since I was five
years old."
"Yes, my dear. But I am not trying to feed the world bread when it
demands cheese."
"No, you are distinctly practical. You are only trying to prove a fourth
dimension, when three have sufficed the world up to date."
"Yes, but----"
"No buts. If it had not been for me you would have gone naked and been
arrested, or have forgotten to eat and starved to death."
"Now, my dear Bambi, I protest----"
"It will do you no good. Don't I remember how you started off to meet
your nine o'clock class clad in your pyjamas?"
"Oh, my child!"
"Don't talk to me about impracticality. It's my birthright."
"Well, I can prove to you----"
"I never believe anything you have to prove. If I can't see it, first
thing, without any process, it isn't true."
"But if you represent yourself as Y, and Jarvis as X, an unknown
quantity----"
"Professor Parkhurst, stop there! There's nothing so unreliable as
figures, and everybody but a mathematician knows that. Figures lie right
to your face."
"Bambina, if you could coin your conversation----" Professor Parkhurst
began.
"I am sorry to find you unreasonable about Jarvis, Professor."
He gazed at her, in his absent-minded, startled way. He had never
understood her since she was first put into his hands, aged six months,
a fluffy bundle of motherless babyhood. She never ceased to startle him.
She was an enigma beyond any puzzle in mathematics he had ever brought
his mind to bear upon.
"How old are you, Bambina?"
"Shame on you, and you a mathematician. If James is forty-five, and
Bambina is two thirds of half his age, how old is Bambi? I'm nineteen."
His startled gaze deepened.
"Oh, you cannot be!" he objected.
"There you are. I told you figures lie. It says so in the family Bible,
but maybe I'm only two."
"Nineteen years old! Dearie me!"
"You see I'm quite old enough to know my own mind. Have you a nine
o'clock class this morning?"
"I have."
"Well, hasten, Professor, or you'll get a tardy mark. It's ten minutes
of nine now."
He jumped up from his chair and started for the door.
"Don't you want this notebook?" she called, taking up the pad beside his
plate.
"Yes, oh, yes, those are my notes. Where have I laid my glasses? Quick,
my dear! I must not be late."
"On your head," said she.
She followed him to the hall, reminded him of his hat, his umbrella,
restored the notebook, and finally saw him off, his thin back, with its
scholarly stoop, disappearing down the street.
Bambina went back to the breakfast table, and took up the paper. She
read all the want "ads" headed "female."
"Nothing promising here," she said. "I wonder if I could bring myself to
teach little kids one, two, and one, two, three, in a select dancing
class? I'd loathe it."
A ponderous black woman appeared in the door and filled it.
"Is you froo?"
"Yes, go ahead, Ardelia."
"Hab the Perfessor gone already?"
"Yes, he's gone."
"Well, he suttinly did tell me to remin' him of suthin' this mohnin',
and I cain't des perzactly bemember what it was."
"Was it important?"
"Yassum. Seemed lak I bemember he tell me it was impo'tant."
"Serves him right for not telling me."
"It suttinly am queer the way he can't bemember. Seem lak his haid so
full of figgers, or what you call them, ain' no room for nuthin' else."
"You and father get zero in memory--that's sure."
"I ain't got no trubble dat way, Miss Bambi. I bemember everything,
'cepting wot you tell me to bemember."
The dining-room door flew open at this point, and a handsome youth, with
his hair upstanding, and his clothes in a wrinkle, appeared on the
threshold. Bambi rose and started for him.
"Jarvis!" she exclaimed. "What has happened? Where have you been?"
"Sleeping in the garden."
"Dat's it--dat's it! Dat was wat I was to remin' the Perfessor of, dat a
man was sleepin' in the garden."
"Sleeping in our garden? But why?"
"Because of the filthy commercialism of this age! Here I am, at the
climax of my big play, a revolutionary play, I tell you, teeming with
new and vital ideas, for a people on the down-slide, and a landlady, a
puny, insignificant ant of a female, interrupts me to demand money, and
when I assure her, most politely, that I have none, she puts me out,
actually puts me out!"
Bambi choked back a laugh.
"Why didn't you come here?"
"I did. Your father refused to see me; he was working at his crazy
figures. I burst in, and demanded you, but he couldn't remember where
you had gone."
"What a pity! Well----"
"I told him I would wait in the garden. If necessary, I would sleep
there."
"Yas'm, yas'm, dat's when he called me in, to tell me to bemin' him."
"That will do, Ardelia."
"Yassum," said the handmaiden, and withdrew.
"Now, go on."
"I was full of my big act, so I walked and walked for hours. Then I lay
down in the summer-house, and I must have gone to sleep."
"Go up and take a bath, and come down to some breakfast. I will send
Ardelia to get some of father's things for you if you need them."
"All right, but don't delay with breakfast. If I don't get this act
down, I may lose it. That fiend, in female guise, held my paper."
"Go on! Get ready!"
He plunged out, and Bambi went to send Ardelia to him, while she cooked
his eggs and fried his bacon. As she worked, she smiled, out of sheer
amusement.
In due course of time, he appeared, freshened up, and with renewed
eagerness to be at work. He scarcely noticed Bambina as she served his
breakfast. He ate as if he were starved.
"I suppose the landlady held your clothes?"
"I don't know. I didn't ask. It was unimportant."
"How much do you owe her?"
He looked at her in surprise.
"I have no idea."
"Have you any money at all?"
"Certainly not. I'd have given it to her if I had, so she wouldn't
interrupt me."
"What are you going to do?"
"Oh, I don't know. I can't think about it now. I am full of this big
idea. It's a dramatization of the Brotherhood of Man, of a sublime,
socialistic world----"
"Has it occurred to you, ever, Jarvis, that the world isn't ready for
the Brotherhood of Man yet? It's just out of the tent stage, where War
is the whole duty of Man."
"But it must be ready," he urged, seriously, "for I am here with my
message."
She smiled at him as one would at a conceited child.
"Poor old Jarvis, strayed out of Elysian fields! Were you thinking of
sleeping in the summer-house permanently?"
"Oh, it doesn't matter; only the play matters. Give me some paper,
Bambi, and let me get to work."
She rose and went to stand before him.
"Would you mind looking at me?"
He turned his eyes on her.
"Not just your eyes, Jarvis. Look at me with your mind."
"What's the matter with you?" he asked, slightly irritated.
"Do you like my looks?"
"I've never noticed them."
"That's what I'm asking you to do. Look me over."
He stared at her.
"Yes, you're pretty--you're very pretty. Some people might call you
beautiful."
"Don't overdo it, Jarvis! Have you ever noticed my disposition?"
"No--yes. Well, I know you're patient, and you must be good-natured."
"I am. I am also healthy and cheerful."
"I don't doubt it. Where is the paper?"
She put her hands on his shoulders and shook him gently.
"Jarvis, I want you to give me your full attention for five minutes."
"What ails you to-day, Bambi?"
"The only thing I lack is a useful education, so that I am not sure I
can make a very big living just at first, unless I dance on the stage."
"What are you driving at?"
"Would you have any special objection to marrying me, Jarvis?"
"Marrying you? Are you crazy?"
"Obviously. Have you?"
"Certainly I won't marry you. I am too busy. You disappoint me, Bambi;
you do, indeed. I always thought you were such a sensible girl----"
"Father can help out a little, at first, but I may as well tell you, he
doesn't approve of you as a son-in-law."
"I don't approve of him, impractical dreamer! Where is that paper?"
"You've got to be taken care of until you get an awful tumble. Then you
will wake up and do big things, but in the meantime you must eat."
"You talk nonsense, and you're interrupting me. If I don't get at that
scene----"
"Will you marry me? I can't take care of you if you don't, because the
neighbours will talk."
"I won't marry you. I don't love you."
"No more do I love you. That's got nothing to do with it. Here's one of
father's empty notebooks. Say yes, and you can have it."
His eyes fairly glistened as they fell on the book.
"For heaven's sake, don't torture me. Give me the book and have it your
own way, whatever it is you want."
She laughed, gave him the book, and he was at the table instantly,
sweeping back the dishes with a ruthless hand.
"No, no, into the study you go, while I make a descent on your landlady,
rescue your clothes, and get the license and the minister, my
liege lord."
She settled him at his desk, where he was immediately lost to his
surroundings.
Bambi slipped out noiselessly, dressed for the street, humming a little
song, and presently departed.
Meanwhile, his first recitations being over, the Professor returned for
two hours' research in his study, to find Jarvis ensconced there,
oblivious to the outside world. "Go away, go away!" he shouted to
Professor Parkhurst.
"I'll trouble you to get out of my study," said the Professor.
"You'll get your filthy money in due time, my good woman, so go away!"
cried Jarvis.
"Whom are you addressing? Good woman, indeed!"
At this moment Bambi returned, and sensed the situation.
"Oh, I didn't expect you back, Father Professor. This is Jarvis. You see
he's come. He has no objection at all to my marrying him, so I got a
minister."
"A minister? You got him?"
"Yes, you see Jarvis is busy. There is no need of our waiting, so we are
going to be married in half an hour or so."
"To-day? Here?"
"Yes, right here, as soon as Jarvis finishes this scene."
"Is he going to occupy my library permanently?" wailed the Professor.
"No, no. I'll fix him a place on the top floor."
"He's not at all my choice," said Professor Parkhurst firmly, gazing at
the unconscious Jocelyn. "You can see by the way he tosses paper about
that he is neither methodical nor orderly."
"Those are husband traits that I can do without, thank you."
Ardelia appeared.
"'Scuse me, but yo' all expectin' the preacher up here? He say Miss
Bambi tol' him to cum here at eleben o'clock."
"Yes, show him right in here."
"Yassum."
Ardelia reappeared with the Reverend Dr. Short at her heels. Bambi
greeted him, and Professor Parkhurst shook hands absently. Bambi went to
lean over Jarvis. He suddenly threw down his pen, stretched himself,
and groaned.
"Now, if I can just get the last act outlined----"
"Jarvis, just a minute, please."
He suddenly looked at her, and at the other two.
"This is Reverend Dr. Short, Mr. Jarvis Jocelyn."
"I have nothing to say to orthodoxy," Jarvis began, but Bambi
interrupted him.
"Doctor Short has come to marry us. Stand up here for a few moments, and
then you can go on with your third act."
She laid her hand on his arm, and drew him to his feet.
"The shortest possible service, please, Doctor Short. Jarvis is so busy
to-day."
Doctor Short looked from the strange pair to Professor Parkhurst, who
looked back at him.
"You are sure this is all right?" he questioned.
"Do tell him to be quick, Bambi. If it's about that landlady I cannot----"
"'Sh! Go ahead, Doctor Short."
Doctor Short read the service, and between the three of them they
induced Jarvis to make the proper responses. He seemed utterly unaware
of what was going on about him, and at the end of a brief service, when
Bambi's hand was taken from his arm, he sat down to work at once. Bambi
led the other two men from the room.
"He acted as if he were drunk, or drugged, but he isn't. He's just full
of an idea," she smilingly explained.
"Have you known this young man long?" Doctor Short asked the Professor.
"Have we, my dear?"
"We have known him fifteen years," she answered.
"Well, of course that makes a difference," murmured the reverend
gentleman. "I wish you every happiness, Mrs. Jocelyn," he added, and
took his departure.
"How soon can you get him out of my study?" asked the Professor, looking
at his watch. "I have only one hour left before lunch."
"Felicitate me, Professor, felicitate me on my marriage."
"I hope you will be happy, my dear, but I doubt it. His lack of
consideration in taking my study----"
Bambina looked at him, and began to laugh. Peal followed peal of
laughter until tears stood in her eyes.
"I'll go rescue the study, Herr Professor. Oh, this is too rich! Bernard
Shaw ought to know about me," she laughed, as she tripped upstairs.
So it was that Bambina acquired a husband.
II
Two days later Jarvis, shaved, properly dressed, and apparently sane,
appeared on the piazza, where Bambi and the Professor were at lunch. He
hesitated on the threshold until they both turned toward him.
"Good morning," he ventured.
"Good morning, Jarvis," said Bambi gayly.
"Morning," tersely, from the head of the house.
"Might I ask how long I have been sojourning on the top floor of this
house, and how I got there?"
"Do you mean to say you don't know?"
"Haven't an idea. I have a faint recollection of a big disturbance, and
then peace, heavenly peace, with black coffee every once in a while, and
big ideas flowing like Niagara."
Bambina's eyes shone at him, but her father looked troubled.
"You know what the big disturbance was, don't you?" he asked.
"It seems to me I wanted paper--that somebody was taking my things
away----"
"You'd better tell him, Francesca; he doesn't remember, so I don't think
it can be legal."
Jarvis looked from one to the other.
"What's all this? I don't seem to get you."
Bambi's laugh bubbled over.
"You get me, all right."
"For goodness' sake, talk sense."
"You came here, three days ago, in a trance, and announced that you had
been bounced from the boarding-house, and that you needed paper to blot
up the big ideas--the Niagara ideas----"
"Did I?"
"So I took you in, redeemed your clothes for you----"
"It was you who planted me upstairs in that heavenly quiet place, and
brought black coffee?"
She nodded.
"God bless you for it."
"I did something else, too."
"Did you? What?"
"I married you."
He looked at her, dazed, and then at the Professor.
"What's the joke?" he asked.
"There is no joke," said the Professor sternly. "She did it. I tried to
stop her, but she never listens to me."
"Do you mean, Bambi----" he began.
"I mean you told me to go ahead, so I got a license and a minister, and
married you."
"But where was I when you did it?"
"You were there, I thought, but it didn't seem to take. Can't you
remember anything at all about it, Jarvis?"
"Not a thing. Word of honour! How long have we been married?"
"Three days. You couldn't come out of the play, so I dragged you
upstairs, fed you at stated periods, and let you alone."
He looked at her as if for the first time.
"Why, Bambi," he said, "you are a wonderful person."
"I have known it all along," she replied, sweetly.
"But why, in God's name, did you do it?"
"That's what I say," interpolated the Professor.
"Oh, it just came to me when I saw you needed looking after----"
"Don't you believe it. She intended to do it all along," said her
father, grimly. "I tried to dissuade her. I told her you were a dreamer,
penniless, and always would be, but she wouldn't listen to my
practical talk."
"I seem to get a pretty definite idea of your opinion of me, sir. Why
didn't you wake me up, so I could prevent this catastrophe?"
"I supposed you were awake. I didn't know you worked in a cataleptic
fit."
"Catastrophe!" echoed Bambina.
"Certainly. Why don't you look at it in a practical way, as your father
says? I never had any money. I probably never will. I hate the stuff.
It's the curse of the age."
"I know all that."
"You will be wanting food and clothes no doubt, and you will expect me
to provide them."
"Oh, never! You don't think I would take such an advantage of you,
Jarvis, as to marry you when you were in a work fit and then expect you
to support me?"
The Professor shook his head in despair, and arose.
"It's beyond me, all this modern madness. I wash my hands of the whole
affair."
"That's right, Professor Parkhurst. I married him, you know; you
didn't."
"Well, keep him out of my study," he warned.
Then he gathered up his scattered belongings, and turned his absent gaze
on Bambi.
"What is it I want? Oh, yes. Call Ardelia."
Bambi rang, and Ardelia answered the summons.
"Ardelia, did I ask you to remind me of anything this morning?"
She scratched her head in deep thought.
"No, sah, not's as I recolleck. It was yistiddy you tol' me to remin'
you, and I done forgot what it was."
"Ardelia, you are not entirely reliable," he remarked, as he passed her.
"No, sah. I ain't jes' what you call----" she muttered, following him out.
Bambi brought up the rear, chuckling over this daily controversy, which
never failed to amuse her.
When the front door slammed, she came back to where Jarvis sat, his
untouched luncheon before him. He watched her closely as she flashed
into the room, like some swift, vivid bird perching opposite him.
"I spoiled your luncheon," she laughed.
"Bambi, why did you do this thing?"
"Good heavens, I don't know. I did it because I'm I, I suppose."
"You wanted to marry me?" he persisted.
"I thought I ought to. Somebody had to look after you, and I am used to
looking after father. I like helpless men."
"So you were sorry for me? It was pity----"
"Rubbish. I believe in you. If you have a chance to work out your
salvation you will be a big man. If you are hectored to death, you will
kill yourself, or compromise, and that will be the end of you."
"You see that--you understand----"
He pushed back his chair and came to her.
"You think that little you can stand between me and these things that I
must compromise with?"
She nodded at him, brightly. He leaned over, took her two small hands,
and leaned his face against them.
"Thank you," he said, simply; "but I won't have it."
"Why not?"
"Because I am not worth it. You saw me in a work fit. I'm a devil. I'm
like one possessed. I swear and rave if I am interrupted. I can't eat
nor sleep till I get the madness out of me. I am not human. I am not
normal. I am not fit to live with."
"Very well, we will build a cage at the top of the house, and when you
feel a fit coming on you can go up there. I'll slip you food through a
wire door so you can't bite me, and I'll exhibit you for a fee as the
wildest genius in captivity."
"Bambi, be serious. This is no joke. This is awful!"
"You consider it awful to be married to me?"
"I am not thinking of myself. I am thinking of you. You have got
yourself into a | 1,205.008819 |
2023-11-16 18:37:08.9888710 | 7,435 | 10 |
Produced by Bryan Ness, Emmanuel Ackerman, extra images
from The Internet Archive (TIA) 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.)
Transcriber's Note:
Words which were in italics in the original book are surrounded by
underlines (_italic_). Words which were originally printed in small
caps are in all caps. Obvious misprints have been fixed. Archaic and
unusual words, spellings and styling have been maintained. Details of
the changes are in the Detailed Transcriber's Notes at the end of the
book.
FRUITS
OF THE
HAWAIIAN ISLANDS
BY
GERRIT PARMILE WILDER
(REVISED EDITION, INCLUDING VOL. 1, 1906.)
ILLUSTRATED BY ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-ONE HALF-TONE
PLATES WITH DESCRIPTIONS OF SAME
Copyright December 1906, December 1911
GERRIT PARMILE WILDER
HONOLULU, T. H.
PUBLISHED BY THE HAWAIIAN GAZETTE CO., LTD.
1911
INDEX
Preface 5
Persea gratissima, Avocado, Palta or Alligator Pear, Plate I 7
Persea gratissima, Avocado, Plate II 9
Persea gratissima, Guatamala Avocado, Plate III 11
Punica Granatum, Pomegranate, Plate IV 13
Ficus Carica (common var.), Fig, Plate V 15
Ficus Carica, Fig, Plate VI 17
Ficus Carica (white or lemon var.), Fig, Plate VII 19
Jambosa malaccensis, Mountain Apple or "Ohia Ai," Plate VIII 21
Jambosa sp., Water Apple, Plate IX 23
Jambosa sp. (white var.), Water Apple, Plate X 25
Jambosa sp. (red var.), Water Apple, Plate XI 27
Eugenia Jambos, Rose Apple, Plate XII 29
Eugenia brasiliensis, Brazilian Plum or Spanish Cherry, Plate XIII 31
Eugenia uniflora, French Cherry, Plate XIV 33
Eugenia sp., Plate XV 35
Syzygium Jambolana, Java Plum, Plate XVI 37
Syzygium Jambolana (small variety), Java Plum, Plate XVII 39
Averrhoa Carambola, Plate XVIII 41
Achras Sapota, Sapodilla or Naseberry, Plate XIX 43
Casimiroa edulis, White Sapodilla, Plate XX 45
Prunus Persica, Peach, Plate XXI 47
Chrysophyllum Cainito (purple var.), Star Apple, Plate XXII 49
Chrysophyllum Cainito (white var.), Star Apple, Plate XXIII 51
Chrysophyllum monopyrenum, Plate XXIV 53
Mimusops Elengi, Plate XXV 55
Spondias dulcis, "Wi," Plate XXVI 57
Spondias lutea, Hog Plum, Plate XXVII 59
Mammea Americana, Mammee Apple, Plate XXVIII 61
Tamarindus indica, Tamarind, Plate XXIX 63
Durio zibethinus, Durion, Plate XXX 65
Coffea arabica, Arabian Coffee, Plate XXXI 67
Coffea liberica, Liberian Coffee, Plate XXXII 69
Clausena Wampi, Wampi, Plate XXXIII 71
Physalis peruviana, Cape Gooseberry or "Poha," Plate XXXIV 73
Carica Papaya, Papaya (fruit, female tree), Plate XXXV 75
Carica Papaya, Papaya (fruit, male tree), Plate XXXVI 77
Carica quercifolia, Plate XXXVII 79
Citrus Japonica (var. "Hazara"), Chinese Orange, Plate XXXVIII 81
Citrus Japonica, Kumquat, Plate XXXIX 83
Citrus Nobilis, Mandarin Orange, Plate XL 85
Citrus medica limetta, Lime, Plate XLI 87
Citrus medica limonum, Lemon, Plate XLII 89
Citrus medica (var. limonum), Rough-skin Lemon, Plate XLIII 91
Citrus Aurantium Sinense, Waialua Orange, Plate XLIV 93
Citrus Aurantium, Bahia or Washington Navel Orange, Plate XLV 95
Citrus Decumana, Pomelo or Shaddock (pear-shaped var.), Plate XLVI 97
Citrus Decumana, Pomelo or Shaddock (round var.), Plate XLVII 99
Artocarpus incisa, Breadfruit (Hawaiian var.) or "Ulu," Plate XLVIII 101
Artocarpus incisa, Breadfruit (Samoan var.), Plate XLIX 103
Artocarpus incisa, Breadfruit (Tahitian var.), Plate L 105
Artocarpus incisa, Fertile Breadfruit, Plate LI 107
Artocarpus integrifolia, Jack Fruit, Plate LII 109
Anona muricata, Sour Sop, Plate LIII 111
Anona Cherimolia, Cherimoyer, Plate LIV 113
Anona reticulata, Custard Apple, Plate LV 115
Anona squamosa, Sugar Apple or Sweet Sop, Plate LVI 117
Psidium Guayava pomiferum, Common Guava, Plate LVII 119
Psidium Guayava, Sweet Red Guava, Plate LVIII 121
Psidium Guayava, White Lemon Guava, Plate LIX 123
Psidium Guayava pyriferum, "Waiawi," Plate LX 125
Psidium Cattleyanum, Strawberry Guava, Plate LXI 127
Psidium Cattleyanum (var. lucidum), Plate LXII 129
Psidium molle, Plate LXIII 131
Mangifera indica, Mango, Plate LXIV 133
Mangifera indica, Manini Mango, Plate LXV 135
Mangifera indica, No. 9 Mango, Plate LXVI 137
Musa (var.), Banana or "Maia," Plate LXVII 139
Morinda citrifolia, "Noni," Plate LXVIII 141
Vaccinium reticulatum, "Ohelo," Plate LXIX 143
Solanum pimpinellifolium, Currant Tomato, Plate LXX 145
Solanum Lycopersicum, Grape Tomato, Plate LXX 145
Solanum nodiflorum, "Popolo," Plate LXXI 147
Aleurites moluccana, Candlenut Tree or "Kukui Nut," Plate LXXII 149
Terminalia Catappa, Tropical Almond or "Kamani," Plate LXXIII 151
Calophyllum inophyllum "Kamani," Plate LXXIV 153
Noronhia emarginata, Plate LXXV 155
Castanea sativa, Japanese Chestnut, Plate LXXVI 157
Inocarpus edulis, Tahitian Chestnut, Plate LXXVII 159
Canarium commune, Canary Nut, Plate LXXVIII 161
Canarium commune, Canary Nut (round var.), Plate LXXIX 163
Macadamia ternifolia, Queensland Nut, Plate LXXX 165
Macadamia sp., Plate LXXXI 167
Aegle Marmelos, Bhel or Bael Fruit, Plate LXXXII 169
Diospyros decandra, Brown Persimmon, Plate LXXXIII 171
Lucuma Rivicoa, Plate LXXXIV 173
Eriobotrya Japonica, Loquat, Plate LXXXV 175
Litchi Chinensis, "Lichee," Plate LXXXVI 177
Euphoria Longana, Longan, Plate LXXXVII 179
Morus nigra, Mulberry, Plate LXXXVIII 181
Garcinia mangostana, Mangosteen, Plate LXXXIX 183
Garcinia Xanthochymus, Plate XC 185
Bunchosia sp., Plate XCI 187
Malpighia glabra, Barbados Cherry, Plate XCII 189
Theobroma Cacao, Cocoa or Chocolate Tree, Plate XCIII 191
Hibiscus Sabdariffa, Roselle, Plate XCIV 193
Monstera deliciosa, Plate XCV 195
Anacardium occidentale, Cashew Nut, Plate XCVI 197
Ziziphus Jujuba, "Jujube," Plate XCVII 199
Phyllanthus emblica, Plate XCVIII 201
Phyllanthus distichus, Otaheiti Gooseberry, Plate XCIX 203
Olea Europea, Olive, Plate C 205
Vitis Labrusca, "Isabella Grape," Plate CI 207
Pyrus Sinensis, Sand pear, Plate CII 209
Passiflora quadrangularis, Granadilla Vine, Plate CIII 211
Passiflora edulis, Purple Water Lemon or "Lilikoi," Plate CIV 213
Passiflora laurifolia, Yellow Water Lemon, Plate CV 215
Passiflora alata, Plate CVI 217
Passiflora var. foetida, Plate CVII 219
Cereus triangularis, Night-blooming Cereus, Plate CVIII 221
Kigelia pinnata, Sausage Tree, Plate CIX 223
Phoenix dactylifera, The Date Palm, Plate CX 225
Phoenix dactylifera, Date (red and yellow var.), Plate CXI 227
Acrocomia sp., Plate CXII 229
Cocos nucifera, Cocoanut Palm or "Niu," Plate CXIII 231
Cordia collococca, Clammy Cherry, Plate CXIV 233
Flacourtia cataphracta, Plate CXV 235
Atalantia buxifolia, Plate CXVI 237
Bumelia sp., Plate CXVII 239
Ochrosia elliptica, Plate CXVIII 241
Ananas sativus, Pineapple, Plate CXIX 243
Opuntia Tuna, Prickly Pear or "Panini," Plate CXX 245
Prosopis juliflora, Algaroba or "Kiawe," Plate CXXI 247
PREFACE
My original intention with regard to this work, was to publish it in a
series of three volumes; and to that end, the first volume was presented
to the public in 1906.
Since that time, however, I have deemed it advisable, for various
reasons, to incorporate all my data in one volume.
I desire to acknowledge my indebtedness for help in my researches, to
various works on Horticulture, and to many of my personal friends who
have given me valuable assistance.
I trust that this work will prove of some interest, as I believe that it
contains a fairly comprehensive list of both the indigenous and
naturalized Fruits of the Hawaiian Islands.
GERRIT PARMILE WILDER.
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE I
_Persea gratissima._
AVOCADO, PALTA OR ALLIGATOR PEAR.
Grown in the garden of Gerrit Wilder.
[Illustration: PLATE I.--_Avocado._]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE II
_Persea gratissima._
AVOCADO.
This spreading evergreen tree is a native of Tropical America. In the
Hawaiian Islands, the first trees of its kind were said to have been
planted in Pauoa Valley, Oahu, by Don Marin. It attains a height of from
10 to 40 feet, and is adverse to drought. Its leaves are
elliptico-oblong, from 4 to 7 inches in length. The flowers are
greenish-yellow and downy. The fruit, which ripens from June until
November, is a round or pear-shaped drupe, covered with a thin, rather
tough skin, which is either green or purple in color. The flesh is
yellow, firm and marrow-like, and has a delicious nutty flavor. The
seed-cavity is generally large, containing one round or oblong seed,
covered by a thin, brown, parchment-like skin. The quality of the pear
is judged, not only by its flavor, but by the presence or absence of
strings or fibre in the meat, and also by the quantity of flesh as
compared to the size of the seed. Innumerable variations as to size,
shape, and quality have been produced from seedlings--some of which may
be seen in the accompanying illustration. The Avocado is easily
reproduced by budding and grafting, and the best varieties may be
obtained in this manner.
[Illustration: PLATE II.--_Avocado._
One third natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE III
_Persea gratissima._
GUATAMALA AVOCADO.
This variety is a native of Mexico, and although known as the Guatamala
Avocado, it is more commonly to be found in the markets of the City of
Mexico. Its leaves are purplish-green. The flowers, which appear in May
and June, are like those of the preceding variety; and the drupe, which
matures in the early part of the year, has a long stem. This fruit is
round, from 3 to 5 inches in diameter, has a thick, tough, rough rind,
which when ripe is a deep claret color, and the meat, which is a
golden-yellow, is tinged with purple next to the rind, and is free from
strings or fibres. There are but two trees of this variety bearing fruit
in Honolulu. They were propagated from seeds brought here in 1890 by
Admiral Beardsley. These two trees are growing in private gardens.
[Illustration: PLATE III.--_Guatamala Avocado._
One half natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE IV
_Punica Granatum._
POMEGRANATE.
The name was derived from the word punicus, of Carthage, near which city
it is said to have been discovered; hence malumpunicum, Apple of
Carthage, which was the early name of the Pomegranate. It is a native of
Northern Africa, and of Southwestern Asia, and is grown in the Himalayas
up to an elevation of 6000 feet. It is a deciduous shrub, which by
careful training can be made to grow into a tree from 10 to 15 feet
high. Many shoots spring from the base of the tree, and should be cut
away, as they draw the sap which should go to the fruit-bearing stems.
The branches are slender, twiggy, nearly cylindrical, and somewhat
thorny. The bark contains about 32 per cent. tannin, and is used for
dying the yellow Morocco leather. The peel of the fruit serves also as a
dye. There are several varieties of Pomegranate growing in Hawaii: the
double-flowering variety is popular as an ornamental plant. All of the
varieties are of easy culture, and are readily propagated by means of
cuttings of the ripe wood. The leaves are lanceolate, glabrous, and a
glossy-green with red veins. The flowers are axillary, solitary or in
small clusters, and in color are a very showy rich orange-red. The fruit
is about the size of an ordinary orange, has a persistent calyx, and is
made up of many small compartments arranged in two series, one above the
other. The crisp, sweet, watery pink pulp enveloping each seed is the
edible portion of the Pomegranate.
[Illustration: PLATE IV.--_Pomegranate._
One half natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE V
_Ficus Carica_ (common variety).
FIG.
The Fig is the most ancient, as well as one of the most valuable of all
fruit trees. Its name is nearly the same in all European languages. The
tree is supposed to be a native of Caria in Asia Minor. The intelligent
cultivators of Anatolia, by whom the Smyrna Figs are produced, adhere to
the caprification process, used from time immemorial. In California,
efforts have been made to test this process. In the Hawaiian Islands,
the Portuguese seem to be the most successful cultivators of the Fig,
and several varieties are to be found throughout the group. This common
variety grows to a height of from 10 to 20 feet, is hardy, and can
easily be propagated from cuttings. Its leaves are alternate, 3 to 5
deeply lobed, and are shed during the fall months, at which season
careful pruning will increase the following year's yield. The fruit is
single, appearing from the axils of the leaves, on the new wood. It is a
hollow, pear-shaped receptacle, containing many minute seeds, scattered
throughout a soft, pinkish-white pulp.
[Illustration: PLATE V.--_Fig._
One half natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE VI
_Ficus Carica._
FIG.
Some years ago, this variety of Fig was to be found growing in large
numbers at Makawao, and in the Kula district of Maui. Now, however,
there are few, if any, trees remaining, as a destructive blight,
together with the lack of proper attention, has caused their
extermination. This variety is very prolific. The fruit is small,
pear-shaped, and has a particularly sweet and delicious flavor.
[Illustration: PLATE VI.--_Fig._
One half natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE VII
_Ficus Carica_ (white or lemon variety).
FIG.
This is a low-growing tree with compact foliage. The leaves are small,
and the fruit is round-turbinate, about 1 to 11/2 inches in diameter. The
skin is very thin, is light-green in color, turning to a greenish-yellow
when thoroughly ripe. The pulp is pink, very sweet, and when quite ripe
is free from milky juice. This variety is also prolific, is easily
dried, and on this account would find a ready sale in our markets.
[Illustration: PLATE VII.--_Fig._
One half natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE VIII
_Jambosa malaccensis._
MOUNTAIN APPLE, "OHIA AI."
This tree is found on all the large islands of the Polynesian groups,
and in the Malaysian Archipelago. In the Hawaiian Islands it confines
itself almost entirely to the moist, shady valleys, and thrives well, up
to an elevation of 1800 feet. It is generally gregarious, and on the
north side of East Maui it forms a forest belt. It attains a height of
from 25 to 50 feet. Its dark, shiny, glabrous leaves are opposite,
elliptico-oblong, and from 6 to 7 inches long, and from 21/2 to 3 inches
broad. The flowers are crimson, fluffy balls, appearing in March and
April, on the naked branches and upper trunk of the tree. The fruit,
which ripens from July until December, generally contains one seed, is
obovate, about 3 inches in diameter. The skin is so thin as to be barely
perceptible, and the fruit is very easily bruised. In color, it is a
deep, rich crimson, shading into pink and white; the pulp is firm,
white, and juicy, with a very agreeable flavor.
[Illustration: PLATE VIII.--_Mountain Apple._
One third natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE IX
_Jambosa sp._ (Solomon Island variety).
WATER APPLE.
This low-growing tree is very rare in the Hawaiian Islands. It was
introduced here, from the Solomon Islands, by Mr. A. Jaeger. The foliage
and crimson flowers resemble those of the _Jambosa malaccensis_, but the
drupe is not so highly, and is, in shape, much more elongated.
Specimens of this sweet, edible fruit have measured 5 inches in length.
[Illustration: PLATE IX.--_Water Apple._
One fourth natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE X
_Jambosa sp._ (white variety).
WATER APPLE.
This tree is a native of the Malay Islands. The foliage is symmetrical,
and its opposite, shiny leaves are broad, lanceolate, and
obtusely-acuminate. The pure white flowers, which bloom from March until
June, are about 1/2-inch in diameter, and are produced in bunches on the
naked branches. The fruit, which is also produced in bunches, ripens in
October. It is transversely oval in shape, about 1 to 11/2 inches in
diameter at its largest end. It contains from 1 to 3 seeds. Even when
quite ripe, the fruit remains pure white in color, and has a tart,
insipid flavor.
[Illustration: PLATE X.--_Water Apple._
One half natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE XI
_Jambosa sp._ (red variety).
WATER APPLE.
This low-growing tree with its bright evergreen foliage, is not common
in Hawaii. The flowers are small, deep crimson, and appear on the
branches either singly or in bunches. The contrast between these
brilliant flowers and the fresh green leaves makes a very beautiful
sight when the tree is in full bloom. The fruit, which ripens in July,
appears in clusters; it is the same shape as that of the preceding
variety, but in color it is a bright scarlet. It contains from 1 to 3
seeds, which are somewhat difficult to germinate. The fruit is crisp,
watery, and has a sub-acid flavor.
[Illustration: PLATE XI.--_Water Apple._
One third natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE XII
_Eugenia Jambos._
ROSE APPLE.
This evergreen tree, which is a native of the West Indies, is of medium
size, reaching a height of from 20 to 30 feet. It grows well in Hawaii,
and is found at an elevation of 2000 feet. It is propagated from seed,
as well as from cuttings of the ripe wood. The leaves are lanceolate,
acuminate, thick and shiny. The large, fluffy flowers which appear from
January until April, are produced freely, and are a beautiful
creamy-white. The fruit is a somewhat compressed, globular shell,
varying in size from 1 to 2 inches in diameter, and with a large cavity,
containing generally one seed. This shell, which is the edible portion
of the fruit, is a light creamy-yellow, with a tinge of pale-pink on one
side; it requires from 2 to 21/2 months to mature. It is firm, crisp, and
has a delicious flavor, somewhat resembling an apricot, and with a rose
odor. The season for the fruit varies according to the elevation, but
generally ends about August or September.
[Illustration: PLATE XII.--_Rose Apple._
One half natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE XIII
_Eugenia brasiliensis._
BRAZILIAN PLUM, OR SPANISH CHERRY.
This evergreen shrub, or low-growing tree, which in many countries is
said to reach a height of but 6 feet, in Hawaii attains a height of 20
feet; and although it thrives in comparatively high altitudes, it bears
best below the 200-foot elevation, and requires considerable moisture.
The bluntish, dark, shiny leaves, which are scale-like along the
branches, are obovate, oblong, and about 3 inches in length. The
blossoming season varies according to the location; however, the tree
generally has flowers and fruit from July until December. The fruit is
the size of a cherry, is deep purple in color, and the persistent calyx
is very prominent. The sweet pulp has a very agreeable flavor.
Probably the first plants of this variety were brought here by Don
Marin, about a century ago. Some fine trees may be found in Pauoa and
Makiki valleys, and also in Nuuanu, in the garden which formerly
belonged to Dr. Hillebrand.
[Illustration: PLATE XIII.--_Brazilian Plum, or Spanish Cherry._
One half natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE XIV
_Eugenia uniflora._
FRENCH CHERRY.
This shrub is said to be a native of Brazil. In Hawaii, it is a common
garden plant, sometimes reaching a height of 10 feet. Its glossy leaves
are ovate-lanceolate, and its peduncles short. It has small, single,
white fragrant flowers. The mature fruit, which resembles a cherry, is
about 1 inch in diameter, and is ribbed longitudinally. It has a
delicious, spicy, acid flavor. There is generally one large, round,
smooth seed.
[Illustration: PLATE XIV.--_French Cherry._
One third natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE XV
_Eugenia sp._
This is a small Malayan tree which is rare in Hawaii. It has regular,
opposite, large, broad leaves; with the stems and branches four-sided.
The purplish-white flowers are produced in clusters. The waxy
light-green fruits, with a persistent calyx, resemble a small guava.
These fruits have a very tough, pithy skin and pulp combined, which is
edible, but too dry to be agreeable. The seed is large in proportion to
the size of the fruit.
[Illustration: PLATE XV.--_Eugenia sp._
One half natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE XVI
_Syzygium Jambolana._
JAVA PLUM.
This tall, hardy tree is a native of Southern Asia. In Polynesia it
grows well, up to an elevation of 5000 feet. It is a very common tree in
the Hawaiian Islands. Its leaves, which are from 4 to 6 inches long, and
from 2 to 3 inches broad, are opposite, obtuse or shortly-acuminate. The
flowers, which bloom in June, July and August, are white and quite
fragrant, and are especially attractive to the honey-bee. The oblong
fruit grows in large clusters, ripens from September until November, and
varies in size from a cherry to a pigeon's egg. It is purplish-black in
color, and is edible only when thoroughly ripe. It contains one large,
oblong seed.
[Illustration: PLATE XVI.--_Java Plum._
One half size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE XVII
_Syzygium Jambolana_ (small variety).
JAVA PLUM.
This tree, which is also very common in the Hawaiian Islands, is said to
have been introduced by Dr. Hillebrand. It bears but one crop a year,
will grow in any soil, and withstands dry weather. The foliage is
smaller than that of the preceding variety; its leaves are narrower, and
a lighter green in color. It blooms at about the same time of year, but
its flowers are not as large, and appear in thick bunches. The purplish
fruit ripens from September until December.
[Illustration: PLATE XVII.--_Java Plum._
One half natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE XVIII
_Averrhoa Carambola._
This tree, which is said to have been named after Averrhoes, an Arabian
physician, is a native of Insular India, and is much cultivated in India
and China. It is evergreen, with dense foliage, and grows to a height of
from 15 to 20 feet. It is easily propagated from seeds, and fruits in
about three years. In Hawaii it bears one crop annually, the flowers
appearing in July and the fruit in November and December. The leaves are
alternate, odd-pinnate. The flowers, which are borne in clusters on the
naked stems and branches, are minute, fragrant, and in color shading
from a pale pink to a deep purplish-red. The fruit, varying in size from
a hen's egg to an orange, is ovate, and has five acutely-angled
longitudinal ribs. The fragrant, light-yellow skin is very thin, and the
pulp is watery; it contains a number of flat, brown seeds. This fruit is
of two varieties: the sweet, which may be eaten raw, and the acid which
is delicious when preserved. A very appetizing pickle may be made from
the half-ripe fruit of the acid variety.
[Illustration: PLATE XVIII.--_Averrhoa Carambola._
One half natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE XIX
_Achras Sapota._
SAPODILLA, OR NASEBERRY.
This tree, which grows on almost all of the Islands of the Hawaiian
group, is a fine evergreen, growing to a height of from 10 to 20 feet,
and producing a fruit which is much prized in warm countries. The bark
possesses tonic properties, and from the juice chewing-gum is made. Its
foliage is dense, and the shiny leaves are thick, lance-oblong, entire,
and clustered at the ends of the branches. The flowers, which are small,
whitish, and perfect, are borne on the rusty pubescent growths of the
season. The fruit, of which there are two varieties, the round and the
oblong, is about the size of a hen's egg. It has a rough skin, the color
of a russet apple, beneath which is a firm, somewhat stringy, sweet
pulp, having the flavor of an apricot. This pulp is divided into 10 to
12 compartments, and contains from 4 to 6 large, flat, smooth, black
seeds.
[Illustration: PLATE XIX.--_Sapodilla, or Naseberry._
One half natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE XX
_Casimiroa edulis._
WHITE SAPOTA.
This tree, which is a native of Mexico, is said to have been named after
Cardinal Casimiro Gomez. The first tree of its kind in Hawaii was
planted in 1884, at the Government Nursery, Honolulu. The seed came from
Santa Barbara, California, where there grows today, a tree more than
eighty years old, and which still bears its fruit. It is a tall
evergreen with irregular branches; its digitate leaves are dark and
glossy. The trunk is ashen-grey, with warty excrescences. The fruit,
which matures in April and May, is large, 1 to 4 inches in diameter; it
is depressed-globular and somewhat ribbed, like a tomato; in color it is
a light-green, turning to a dull yellow when ripe, and it has a very
thin skin. The pulp is yellow, resembling that of an over-ripe, and has
a melting, peach-like flavor. It contains from 1 to 3 large, oblong
seeds, which are said to be deleterious.
[Illustration: PLATE XX.--_White Sapota._
One fourth natural size.]
_G. P. W. Collection._ PLATE | 1,205.008911 |
2023-11-16 18:37:09.0800850 | 370 | 27 |
Produced by David Widger
THE POETICAL WORKS
OF
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
[Volume 3 of the 1893 three volume set]
VERSES FROM THE OLDEST PORTFOLIO
FROM THE "COLLEGIAN," 1830, ILLUSTRATED ANNUALS, ETC.
FIRST VERSES: TRANSLATION FROM THE THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS
THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR
THE TOADSTOOL
THE SPECTRE PIG
TO A CAGED LION
THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY
ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE: "A SPANISH GIRL REVERIE"
A ROMAN AQUEDUCT
FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL
LA GRISETTE
OUR YANKEE GIRLS
L'INCONNUE
STANZAS
LINES BY A CLERK
THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE
THE POET'S LOT
TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER
TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN" IN THE ATHENAEUM GALLERY
THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN
A NOONTIDE LYRIC
THE HOT SEASON
A PORTRAIT
AN EVENING THOUGHT. WRITTEN AT SEA
THE WASP AND THE HORNET
"QUI VIVE?"
VERSES FROM THE OLDEST PORTFOLIO
Nescit vox missa reverti.--Horat. Ars Poetica.
Ab lis qua non adjuvant | 1,205.100125 |
2023-11-16 18:37:09.1777530 | 965 | 11 |
His Glorious Appearing
An Exposition of Matthew Twenty-Four
By
James Springer White
Revised and Illustrated
"What shall be the sign of thy coming, and of the end of the
world?"--DISCIPLES.
"When ye shall see all these things, know that it is near, even at the
doors."--JESUS.
Eleventh Edition.
Review and Herald Publishing Co.
Battle Creek, Mich.
1895
CONTENTS
Introductory.
Christ's Prophecy.
Persecution And False Prophets.
Iniquity Abounds.
The End.
When Shall These Things Be?
What Shall Be The Sign Of Thy Coming?
Shortened For The Elect's Sake.
Lo, Here, And Lo, There.
The Signs Of Christ's Coming.
"And The Stars Shall Fall."
"The Powers Of Heaven Shall Be Shaken."
"Sign Of The Son Of Man."
Parable Of The Fig-Tree.
"The Day And Hour."
Noah's Time And Ours.
Peace And Safety.
The Final Separation.
Those Who Watch Will Know The Time.
The Faithful And Wise Servant.
The Evil Servant.
Conclusion.
Choice Religious Books.
[Book Cover]
[Illustration]
The Light of the World
INTRODUCTORY.
"Surely the Lord God will do nothing, but he revealeth his secret unto his
servants the prophets." Amos 3:7.
No truth of inspiration can be more clearly demonstrated than that God
reveals his designs to his prophets, that men and nations may be prepared
for their accomplishment. Before visiting with judgments, God has
uniformly sent forth warnings sufficient to enable the believing to escape
his wrath, and to condemn those who have not heeded the warning. This was
the case before the flood. The wickedness of the world had become very
great. Every imagination of the thoughts of the hearts of men was only
evil. It would seem that they had forfeited all claims for consideration.
Violence and corruption filled the earth, and the only way to eradicate
evil was to destroy it with its workers. But before doing so, the world
must be warned of the impending doom; and there was found one man who
would engage in the work. Noah had faith in God, and preached for one
hundred and twenty years the message of warning and salvation. His work
also testified with his words.
"By faith Noah, being warned of God of things not seen as yet,
moved with fear, prepared an ark to the saving of his house; by
the which he condemned the world." Heb. 11:7.
At a later period, when the nations had again become sunken in idolatry
and crime, and the destruction of wicked Sodom and Gomorrah was
determined, the Lord said,--
"Shall I hide from Abraham that thing which I do; seeing that
Abraham shall surely become a great and mighty nation, and all the
nations of the earth shall be blessed in him?" Gen. 18:17, 18.
And due notice was given to righteous Lot, who, with his daughters, was
preserved; and none, even in that guilty city, perished without due
warning. Lot evidently warned the people; and in thus communing with them,
was "vexed with the filthy conversation of the wicked." 2 Peter 2:7, 8.
His righteous life had been a rebuke to them; and we have every reason to
believe that the holy example of Abraham in his worship of the true God
was known to them. He had at one time been their saviour, and rescued
their captives and spoil from the victorious enemy who was carrying them
away. But when Lot warned his friends of the approaching doom, "he seemed
as one that mocked." Gen. 19:14. They, like the antediluvians, persisted
in sin, and drank of the wrath of God.
At a subsequent time the sins of Nineveh rose to heaven, and Jonah was
sent to bear to that proud capital the startling message, "Yet forty days
and Nineveh shall be destroyed." The consciences of those sinners told
them the message was true; and from the least of them to the greatest they
humbled themselves, and the overhanging judgment was averted.
Before Christ commenced his earthly mission, John the | 1,205.197793 |
2023-11-16 18:37:09.2797950 | 4,992 | 14 |
Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.fadedpage.net
A NOVELIST ON NOVELS
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
NOVELS:
A BED OF ROSES
THE CITY OF NIGHT
ISRAEL KALISCH[1]
THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN[2]
THE SECOND BLOOMING
THE STRANGERS' WEDDING
OLGA NAZIMOV (Short Stories)
MISCELLANEOUS:
WOMAN AND TO-MORROW
ANATOLE FRANCE
DRAMATIC ACTUALITIES
THE INTELLIGENCE OF WOMAN ETC.
[Footnote 1: Published in the U.S.A. and Canada under the title, 'Until
the Day Break']
[Footnote 2: Published in the U.S.A. and Canada under the title, 'The
Little Beloved']
A NOVELIST
ON
NOVELS
BY
W. L. GEORGE
LONDON: 48 PALL MALL
W. COLLINS SONS & CO. LTD.
GLASGOW MELBOURNE AUCKLAND
Copyright 1918
NOTE
The chapters that follow have been written in varying moods, and express
the fluctuating feelings aroused in the author by the modern novel and
its treatment at the hands of the public. Though unrelated with the
novel, the chapters on 'Falstaff,' 'The Esperanto of Art,' and 'The
Twilight of Genius' have been included, either because artistically in
keeping with other chapters, or because their general implications
affect the fiction form.
A half of the book has not before now been published in Great Britain
and Dominions.
CONTENTS
PAGE
A DECEPTIVE DEDICATION 1
LITANY OF THE NOVELIST 24
WHO IS THE MAN? 62
THREE YOUNG NOVELISTS:
1. _D. H. LAWRENCE_ 90
2. _AMBER REEVES_ 101
3. _SHEILA KAYE-SMITH_ 109
FORM AND THE NOVEL 118
SINCERITY: THE PUBLISHER AND THE POLICEMAN 124
THREE COMIC GIANTS:
1. _TARTARIN_ 147
2. _FALSTAFF_ 161
3. _MUeNCHAUSEN_ 177
THE ESPERANTO OF ART 191
THE TWILIGHT OF GENIUS 208
A Deceptive Dedication
I
I have shown the manuscript of this book to a well-known author. One of
those staid, established authors whose venom has been extracted by the
mellow years. My author is beyond rancour and exploit; he has earned the
right to bask in his own celebrity, and needs to judge no more, because
no longer does he fear judgment. He is like a motorist who has sowed his
wild petrol. He said to me: 'You are very, very unwise. I never
criticise my contemporaries, and, believe me, it doesn't pay.' Well, I
am unwise; I always was unwise, and this has paid in a coin not always
recognised, but precious to a man's spiritual pride. Why should I not
criticise my contemporaries? It is not a merit to be a contemporary.
Also, they can return the compliment; some of them, if I may venture
upon a turn of phrase proper for Mr Tim Healy, have returned the
compliment before they got it. It may be unwise, but I join with
Voltaire in thanking God that he gave us folly. So I will affront the
condemnatory vagueness of wool and fleecy cloud, be content to think
that nobody will care where I praise, that everybody will think me
impertinent where I judge. I will be content to believe that the
well-known author will not mind if I criticise him, and that the others
will not mind either. I will hope, though something of a Sadducee, that
there is an angel in their hearts.
I want to criticise them and their works because I think the novel, this
latest born of literature, immensely interesting and important. It is
interesting because, more faithfully than any other form, it expresses
the mind of man, his pains that pass, his hopes that fade and are born
again, his discontent pregnant with energy, the unrulinesses in which he
misspends his vigour, the patiences that fit him to endure all things
even though he dare them not. In this, all other forms fail: history,
because it chronicles battles and dates, yet not the great movements of
the peoples; economics, because in their view all men are vile;
biography, because it leads the victim to the altar, but never
sacrifices it. Even poetry fails; I do not try to shock, but I doubt
whether the poetic is equal to the prose form.
I do not want to fall into the popular fallacy that prose and poetry
each have their own field, strictly preserved, for prose is not always
prosy, nor poetry always poetic; prose may contain poetry, poetry cannot
contain prose, just as some gentlemen are bounders, but no bounders are
gentlemen. But the admiration many people feel for poetry derives from a
lack of intelligence rather than from an excess of emotion, and they
would be cured if, instead of admiring, they read. Some subjects and
ideas naturally fall into poetry, mainly the lyric ideas; 'To Anthea,'
and 'The Skylark' would, in prose, lie broken-pinioned upon the ground,
but the exquisiteness of poetry, when it conveys the ultimate aspiration
of man, defines its limitations. Poetry is child of the austerity of
literature by the sensuality of music. Thus it is more and less than its
forbears; speaking for myself alone, I feel that 'Epipsychidion' and the
'Grecian Urn' are just a little less than the Kreutzer Sonata, that
Browning and Whitman might have written better in prose, though they
might thus have been less quoted. For poetry is too often
_schwaermerei_, a thing of lilts; when it conveys philosophical ideas,
as in Browning and in that prose writer gone astray, Shakespeare, it
suffers the agonising pains of constriction. Rhyme and scansion tend to
limit and hamper it; everything can be said in prose, but not in poetry;
to prose no licence need be granted, while poetry must use and abuse it,
for prose is free, poetry shackled by its form. No doubt that is why
poetry causes so much stir, for it surmounts extraordinary difficulties,
and men gape as at a tenor who attains a top note. However exquisite,
the scope of poetry is smaller than that of prose, and if any doubt it
let him open at random an English Bible and say if Milton can
out-thunder Job, or Swinburne outcloy the sweetness of Solomon's Song.
More than interesting, the novel is important because, low as its status
may be, it does day by day express mankind, and mankind in the making.
Sometimes it is the architect that places yet another brick upon the
palace of the future. Always it is the showman of life. I think of
'serious books,' of the incredible heaps of memoirs, works on finance,
strategy, psychology, sociology, biology, omniology... that fall every
day like manna (unless from another region they rise as fumes) into the
baskets of the reviewers. All this paper... they dance their little
dance to four hundred readers and a great number of second-hand
booksellers, and lo! the dust of their decay is on their brow. They live
a little longer than an article by Mr T. P. O'Connor, and live a little
less.
The novel, too, does not live long, but I have known one break up a
happy home, and another teach revolt to several daughters; can we give
greater praise? Has so much been achieved by any work entitled _The
Foundations of the Century_, or something of that sort? The novel,
despised buffoon that it is, pours out its poison and its pearls within
reach of every lip; its heroes and heroines offer examples to the reader
and make him say: 'That bold, bad man... you wouldn't think it to look
at me, who'm a linen-draper, but it's me.' If, in this preface, I may
introduce a personal reminiscence, I can strengthen my point by saying
that after publishing _The Second Blooming_ I received five letters from
women I did not know, who wholly recognised themselves in my principal
heroine, of course the regrettable one.
The novel moulds by precept and example, and therefore we modern
jesters, inky troubadours, are responsible for the gray power which we
wield behind the throne. Given this responsibility, it is a pity there
should be so many novels, for the reader is distracted with various
examples, and painfully hesitates between the career of Raffles and that
of John Inglesant. Thus the novel fires many a sanctimoniousness, makes
lurid many a hesitating life. If only we could endow it! But we cannot,
for the old saying can be garbled: call no novelist famous until he is
dead.
It is a fascinating idea, this one of endowing the novel. In principle
it is not difficult, only we must assume our capable committee and that
is quite as difficult as ignoring the weight of the elephant. I wonder
what would happen if an Act of Parliament were to endow genius! I wonder
who would sit on the sub-committee appointed by the British Government
to endow literature. I do not wonder, I know. There would be Professor
Saintsbury, Mr Austin Dobson, Professor Walter Raleigh, Sir Sidney Lee,
Professor Gollancz, all the academics, all the people drier than the
drought, who, whether the god of literature find himself in the car or
in the cart, never fail to get into the dickey. I should not even wonder
if, by request of the municipality of Burton-on-Trent, it were found
desirable to infuse a democratic element into the sub-committee by
adding the manager of the Army and Navy Stores and, of course, Mr
Bottomley. Do not protest: Mr Bottomley has recently passed embittered
judgments, under the characteristic heading 'Dam-Nation,' on Mr Alec
Waugh, who ventured, in a literary sketch, to show English soldiers
going over the top with oaths upon their lips and the courage born of
fear in their hearts. I think Mr Bottomley would like to have Mr Waugh
shot, and the editor of _The Nation_ confined for seven days in the
Press Bureau, for having told the truth in literary form. I do not
impugn his judgment of what it feels like to go over the top, for he
has had long experience of keeping strictly on the surface.
No, our sub-committee would be appointed without the help of Thalia and
Calliope. It would register judgments such as those of the famous
sub-committee that grants the Nobel Prizes. That committee, during its
short life, has managed to reward Sully-Prudhomme and to leave out
Swinburne, to give a prize to Sienkewicz, whom a rather more recent
generation has found so suitable for the cinema. It has even given a
prize to Mr Rudyard Kipling, but whether in memory of literature or
dynamite is not known.
So literary genius must, as before, look for its endowment in the
somewhat barren heart of man, and continue to shed a hundred seeds in
its stony places, in the forlorn hope that the fowls of the air may not
devour them all, and that a single ear of corn may wilt and wither its
way into another dawn.
II
The reading of most men and women provides distressing lists. So far as
I can gather from his conversation, the ordinary, busy man, concerned
with his work, finds his mental sustenance in the newspapers,
particularly in _Punch_, in the illustrated weeklies and in the journals
that deal with his trade; as for imaginative literature, he seems to
confine himself to Mr Nat Gould, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mr W. W.
Jacobs, Mr Mason, and such like, who certainly do not strain his
imaginative powers; he is greatly addicted to humour of the coarser
kind, and he dissipates many of his complexes by means of vile stories
which he exchanges with his fellows; these do not at all represent his
kindliness and his respectability. Sometimes he reads a shocker, the
sort that is known as 'railway literature,' presumably because it cannot
hold the attention for more than the time that elapses between two
stops.
The more serious and scholarly man, who abounds in every club, is
addicted to the monthly reviews, (price two-and-six; he does not like
the shilling ones), to the _Times_, to the _Spectator_; that kind of man
is definitely stodgy and prides himself upon being sound. He is fond of
memoirs, rather sodden accounts of aristocrats and politicians, of the
dull, ordinary lives of dull, ordinary people; when he has done with the
book it goes to the pulping machine, but some of the pulp gets into that
man's brain. ('Ashes to ashes, pulp to pulp.') He likes books of travel,
biographies, solid French books (strictly by academicians), political
works, economic works. His conversation sounds like it, and that is why
his wife is so bored; his emotions are reflex and run only round the
objects he can see; art cannot touch him, and no feather ever falls upon
his brow from an airy wing. He commonly tells you that good novels are
not written nowadays; he must be excused that opinion, for he never
tries to read them. The only novels with which the weary Titan refreshes
his mind are those of Thackeray, sometimes of Trollope; the more
frivolous sometimes go so far as to sip a little of the honey that falls
from the mellifluous lips of Mr A. C. Benson.
The condition of women is different. They care for little that ends in
'ic,' and so their consumption of novels is enormous. The commonplace
woman is attracted by the illustrated dailies and weeklies, but she also
needs large and continuous doses of religious sentimentality, of papier
mache romance, briefly, of novels described in literary circles as
'bilge,' such as the works of Mr Hall Caine, Mrs Barclay, Miss E. M.
Dell, and a great many more; if she is of the slightly faster kind that
gives smart lunch parties at the Strand Corner House, her diet is
sometimes a little stronger; she takes to novels of the orchid house and
the tiger's lair, to the artless erotics of Miss Elinor Glyn, Mr Hubert
Wales, and Miss Victoria Cross. She likes memoirs too, memoirs of vague
Bourbons and salacious Bonapartes; she takes great pleasure in the
historical irregularities of cardinals. She likes poetry too as conveyed
by Miss Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
If that type of woman were not a woman the arts could base as few hopes
on her as they do on men, but the most stupid woman is better ground
than the average man, because she is open, while he is smug. So it is no
wonder that among the millions of women who mess and muddle their way
through the conservatories and pigsties of literature, should be found
the true reading public, the women who are worth writing for, who read
the best English novels, who are in touch with French and Russian
literature, who reads plays, and even essays, ancient and modern. Hail
Mary, mother of mankind; but for these the arts must starve!
That fine public cannot carry us very far. They are not enough to keep
literature vigorous by giving it what it needs: a consciousness of
fellowship with many readers. If literature is to flourish (of which I
am not sure, though endure in some form it will), the general public
taste must be raised. I feel that taste can be raised and cultivated,
and many have felt that too. From the middle of the nineteenth century
onwards, and especially since 1870, an ascending effort has been made to
stimulate the taste of the rising artisan. Books like Lord Avebury's
_Pleasures of Life_, like _Sesame and Lilies_, collections such as the
_Hundred Best Books_ and the _Hundred Best Pictures_, have all been
attuned to that key. The only pity is that the selections, nearly all of
them excellent, were immeasurably above the heads of the public for
which they were meant. Two recent instances are worth analysing. One of
them is _A Library for Five Pounds_ by Sir William Robertson Nicoll,
(whom Mr Arnold Bennett delighteth to revile), the other _Literary Taste
and How to Form It_, by Mr Bennett himself. Now Sir William Robertson
Nicoll's book is much more sensible than the funereal lists available at
most polytechnics. The author does not pretend that one should read
Plato in one's bath; he seems to realise the state of mind of the
ordinary, fairly busy, fairly willing, fairly intelligent person. A sign
of it is that he selects only sixty-one works, and out of those allows
twenty-seven novels. Of the rest, most are readable, except _Pilgrim's
Progress_ and _The Origin of Species_, a touching couple. The list is by
far the best guide I have ever seen, but... there is not a living
author in it. It is not a library, it is a necropolis. The novelists
that Sir William Robertson Nicoll recommends are Scott, Jane Austen,
Dickens, Thackeray, Charlotte Bronte, George Eliot, Hawthorne, Trollope,
Blackmore, Defoe, and Swift. All their books are readable, but they do
not take by the hand the person who has thought wrong or not thought at
all. When you want to teach a child history you do not dump upon its
desk Hume and Smollett, in forty volumes; you lead it by degrees, by
means of text-books, that is _according to plan_. That is how I conceive
literary education, but before suggesting a list, let us glance at
_Literary Taste and How to Form It_. In this book the author shows
himself much more unpractical and much less sympathetic than Sir William
Robertson Nicoll (whom Mr Bennett delighteth to revile). The book itself
is very interesting; it is bright, intelligent; it teaches you how to
read, and how to make allowances for the classics; it tells you how you
may woo your way to Milton, but, after all, when you have done, you find
that you have not wooed your way an inch nearer. That is because Mr
Arnold Bennett takes up to his public an attitude more highbrowed than I
could imagine if I were writing a skit on his book. Mr Bennett's idea of
a list for the aspirant to letters is to throw the London Library at his
head; he lays before us a stodgy lump of two or three hundred volumes,
many of them excellent, and many more absolutely penal. It is enough to
say that he seriously starts his list with the Venerable Bede's
_Ecclesiastical History_. Bede! the dimmest, most distant of English
chroniclers, who depicts the dimmest and most distant period of English
history; once, in an A.B.C., I saw a shopman reading _Tono-Bungay_,
which was propped against the cruet. Does Mr Bennett imagine that man
dropping the tear of emotion and the gravy of excitement upon the
Venerable Bede? And if one goes on with the list and discovers the
_Autobiography of Lord Herbert of Cherbury_, _Religio Medici_,
Berkeley's _Principles of Human Knowledge_, Reynold's _Discourses on
Art_, the works of Pope, _Voyage of the Beagle_... one comes to
understand how such readers may have been made by such masters. From the
beginning to the end of that list my mind is obsessed by the word
'stodge,' and the novels do not relieve it much. There are a good many,
but they comprise the usual Thackeray, Scott, Dickens... need I go on?
Relief is found only in Fielding, Sterne, and in one book each of
Marryat, Lever, Kingsley, and Gissing. These authors are admitted
presumably because they are dead.
In all this, where is hope? How many green daffodil heads, trying to
burst their painful way through the heavy earth of a dull life, has Mr
Bennett trampled on? Is it impossible to find some one who is (as Mr
Bennett certainly is), capable of the highest artistic appreciation and
of high literary achievement, and who will, for a moment, put himself in
the place of the people he is addressing? Is it impossible for an adult
to remember that as a boy he hated the classics? Has he forgotten that
as a young man he could be charmed, but educated only by means of a
machine like the one they use for stuffing geese? The people we want to
introduce to literature are, nearly all of them, people who work; some
earn thirty shillings a week, and ponder a great deal on how to live on
it; some earn hundreds a year and are not much better off; all are
occupied with material cares, their work, their games, their gardens,
their loves; nearly all are short of time, and expend on work, transit,
and meals, ten to twelve hours a day. They read in tubes and omnibuses,
in the midst of awful disturbance and overcrowding; also they are deeply
corrupted by the daily papers, where nothing over a column is ever
printed, where the news are conveyed in paragraphs and headlines, so
that they never have to concentrate, and find it difficult to do so;
they are corrupted too by the vulgarity and sensationalism which are the
bones and blood of the magazines, until they become unable to think | 1,205.299835 |
2023-11-16 18:37:09.2807210 | 4,992 | 15 |
Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
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 house, as was Mr.
Arkell's, but a pretty compact red-brick residence, with a small garden
lying before the front windows, which looked out on the Dean's garden
and the cathedral elm-trees.
William Arkell opened the door and entered. In a little bit of a room on
the left, sat Peter Arkell, deep in some abstruse Greek play. This
little room was called Peter's study, for it had been appropriated to
the boy and his books ever since he could remember. William looked in,
just gave him a nod, and then entered the room on the other side the
entrance-passage.
Two ladies sat in this, both of them in mourning: Mrs. Daniel Arkell, a
stout, comfortable-looking woman, in widow's weeds; Mildred in a pretty
dress of black silk. Peter and William were about the same age; Mildred
was two years younger. She was a quiet, sensible, lady-like girl, with a
gentle face and the sweetest look possible in her soft brown eyes. She
had not been educated fashionably, according to the custom of the
present day; she had never been to school, but had received, as we are
told of Moses Primrose, a "sort of miscellaneous education at home." She
possessed a thorough knowledge of her own language, knew a good deal of
Latin, insensibly acquired through being with Peter when he took his
earlier lessons in it from | 1,205.300761 |
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Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
MY DANISH SWEETHEART
A Novel
BY W. CLARK RUSSELL
AUTHOR OF 'THE WRECK OF THE GROSVENOR,' 'THE LIFE OF ADMIRAL
LORD COLLINGWOOD,' 'A MARRIAGE AT SEA,' ETC., ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. III.
Methuen & Co.
18, BURY STREET, LONDON, W.C.
1891
[_All rights reserved_]
CONTENTS OF VOL. III.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. WE SPEAK A SHIP 1
II. I MAKE FREE 34
III. JOPPA IS IN EARNEST 58
IV. A NIGHT OF HORROR 87
V. A CONFERENCE 116
VI. HELGA'S PLOT 146
VII. FIRE! 177
VIII. HOME 221
MY DANISH SWEETHEART.
CHAPTER I.
WE SPEAK A SHIP.
On the afternoon of this same day of Tuesday, October 31, Helga having
gone to her cabin, I stepped on deck to smoke a pipe--for my pipe was in
my pocket when I ran to the lifeboat, and Captain Bunting had given me a
square of tobacco to cut up.
We had dined at one. During the course of the meal Helga and I had said
but very little, willing that the Captain should have the labour of
talking. Nor did he spare us. His tongue, as sailors say, seemed to have
been slung in the middle, and it wagged at both ends. His chatter was an
infinite variety of nothing; but he spoke with singular enjoyment of
the sound of his own voice, with ceaseless reference, besides, in his
manner, to Helga, whom he continued silently and self-complacently to
regard in a way that rendered her constantly uneasy, and kept her
downward-looking and silent.
But nothing more at that table was said about our leaving his ship.
Indeed, both Helga and I had agreed to drop the subject until an
opportunity for our transference should arrive. We might, at all events,
be very certain that he would not set us ashore in the Canary Islands;
nor did I consider it politic to press him to land us there, for,
waiving all consideration of other reasons which might induce him to
detain us, it would have been unreasonable to entreat him to go out of
his course to oblige us, who were without the means to repay him for his
trouble and for loss of time.
He withdrew to his cabin after dinner. Helga and I sat over his
draughtboard for half an hour; she then went below, and I, as I have
already said, on deck, to smoke a pipe.
The wind had freshened since noon, and was now blowing a brisk and
sparkling breeze out of something to the northward of east; sail had
been heaped upon the barque, and when I gained the deck I found her
swarming through it under overhanging wings of studdingsail, a broad
wake of frost-like foam stretching behind, and many flying fish sparking
out of the blue curl from the vessel's cutwater ere the polished round
of brine flashed into foam abreast of the fore-rigging. Mr. Jones
stumped the deck, having relieved Abraham at noon. The fierce-faced,
lemon- creature with withered brow and fiery glances grasped the
wheel. As I crouched under the lee of the companion-hatch to light my
pipe, I curiously and intently inspected him; strangely enough, finding
no hindrance of embarrassment from his staring at me too; which, I take
it, was owing to his exceeding ugliness, so that I looked at him as at
something out of nature, whose sensibilities were not of a human sort to
grieve | 1,205.399363 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Alex and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: LA FAYETTE AND THE BRITISH AMBASSADOR.]
ST. NICHOLAS.
Vol. XIII. JULY, 1886. No. 9.
[Copyright, 1886, by THE CENTURY CO.]
LA FAYETTE.
By Mrs. Eugenia M. Hodge.
One hundred and nine years ago, in the month of February, 1777, a young
French guardsman ran away to sea.
And a most singular running away it was. He did not wish to be a sailor,
but he was so anxious to go that he bought a ship to run away in,--for he
was a very wealthy young man; and though he was only nineteen, he held a
commission as major-general in the armies of a land three thousand miles
away--a land he had never seen and | 1,205.507545 |
2023-11-16 18:37:09.4876110 | 686 | 11 |
E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell and the 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 35972-h.htm or 35972-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/35972/35972-h/35972-h.htm)
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FOR THE SCHOOL COLOURS
* * * * *
By ANGELA BRAZIL
"Angela Brazil has proved her undoubted talent for writing a story of
schoolgirls for other schoolgirls to read."--Bookman.
The School in the South.
Monitress Merle.
Loyal to the School.
A Fortunate Term.
A Popular Schoolgirl.
The Princess of the School.
A Harum-Scarum Schoolgirl.
The Head Girl at the Gables.
A Patriotic Schoolgirl.
For the School Colours.
The Madcap of the School.
The Luckiest Girl in the School.
The Jolliest Term on Record.
The Girls of St. Cyprian's.
The Youngest Girl in the Fifth.
The New Girl at St. Chad's.
For the Sake of the School.
The School by the Sea.
The Leader of the Lower School.
A Pair of Schoolgirls.
A Fourth Form Friendship.
The Manor House School.
The Nicest Girl in the School.
The Third Class at Miss Kaye's.
The Fortunes of Philippa.
LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LTD., 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "WHAT'S THIS? WHAT HAVE THEY SENT ME?" SHE GASPED
_page 199_]
FOR THE SCHOOL COLOURS
by
ANGELA BRAZIL
Author of "A Patriotic Schoolgirl"
"The Luckiest Girl in the School"
"The Madcap of the School"
&c. &c.
Illustrated by Balliol Salmon
Blackie and Son Limited
London Glasgow and Bombay
Printed and bound in Great Britain
Contents
CHAP. Page
I. ENTER AVELYN 9
II. AN INVASION 22
III. WALDEN 37
IV. AN ENCOUNTER 51
V. RUCTIONS 65
VI. REPRISALS 79
VII. MISS HOPKINS 94
VIII. SPRING-HEELED JACK 104
IX. CONCERNS DAY GIRLS 120
X. MISCHIEF 131
XI. MOSS COTTAGE 145
XII. "LADY TRACY'S AT HOME" 158
XIII. REPORTS 168
XIV. WAR WORK 178
XV. THE SCHOOL BIRTHDAY 193
XVI. UNDER THE PINES 204
XVII. THE LAVENDER LAD | 1,205.507651 |
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Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger
THE EIGHTEENTH BRUMAIRE OF LOUIS BONAPARTE
by Karl Marx
Translator's Preface
"The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte" is one of Karl Marx' | 1,205.598591 |
2023-11-16 18:37:09.5794180 | 2,018 | 11 | The Project Gutenberg Etext of NEVER AGAIN! by Edward Carpenter
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etext from as a PROJECT GUTEN | 1,205.599458 |
2023-11-16 18:37:09.5827320 | 871 | 13 |
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Wilson's
Tales of the Borders
AND OF SCOTLAND.
HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.
WITH A GLOSSARY.
REVISED BY
ALEXANDER LEIGHTON,
_One of the Original Editors and Contributors._
VOL. XX.
LONDON:
WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE,
AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.
1884.
CONTENTS.
THE DOMINIE OF ST FILLAN'S, (_Alexander Leighton_) 1
SAYINGS AND DOINGS OF PETER PATERSON, (_John Mackay Wilson_) 34
THE HEROINE: A LEGEND OF THE CANONGATE, (_Alexander Leighton_) 66
THE BARLEY BANNOCK, (_Alexander Campbell_) 93
GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT, (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_)--
xx. JOHN GOVAN'S NARRATIVE 111
xxi. "OLD BLUNTIE" 120
xxii. THOMAS HARKNESS OF LOCKERBEN 124
xxiii. THE SHOES REVERSED 132
THE LOST HEIR OF THE HOUSE OF ELPHINSTONE, (_Rev. G. Thomson_) 143
TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS, (_John Mackay Wilson_) 194
THE MISER OF NEWABBEY, (_Alexander Leighton_) 226
THE SEA SKIRMISH, (_Anon._) 258
WILSON'S
TALES OF THE BORDERS,
AND OF SCOTLAND.
THE DOMINIE OF ST FILLAN'S.
CHAPTER I.
PLEASANT REMINISCENCES OF MY FATHER.
It is now about twenty years sin' I first raised my voice in the desk o'
the kirk o' St Fillan's, in the parish o' that name, and He wha out o'
the mouths o' babes and sucklins did ordain praise, hath never thought
meet, by means o' ony catarrh, cynanche, quinsy, toothache, or lock-jaw,
to close up my mouth, and prevent me frae leadin the congregation in a
clear, melodious strain, to the worship o' the Chief Musician. When I
was ordained session clerk, schoolmaster, and precentor, I had already
passed about thirty years o' my pilgrimage; yet filled wi' Latin and
Greek, till my _pia mater_ was absolutely like to burst, I had,
notwithstanding, nae trade by the hand. The reason was this. My father,
who had been for forty years sexton o' the parish, had seen, wi' an e'e
lang practised in searchin for traces o' death in the faces o'
parishioners--for the labourer maun live by his hire, and the merchant
by his customers, "and thou shalt eat the labour of thine hands"--a
pleasant leucophlegmatic tinge about the gills o' Jedediah Cameron, my
predecessor in the three offices already mentioned. Weel, as the
husbandman in dry weather, when his fields are parched, and his braird
thin and weak, watches the clouds that contain rain--mair precious to
him than the ointment that ran down upon the beard, even Aaron's dry
beard--my guid father watched the dropsical signs or indications in
Jedediah's face, daily and hourly, in the fair and legitimate hope o'
gettin the aridity o' my starvin condition quenched and satisfied. He
was an argute sexton, and had learned, in his younger days, some
smatterin o' Latin, though I never could ascertain that he retained | 1,205.602772 |
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.
Minor typographical errors and inconsistencies have been silently
normalized. Inconsistent capitalizations of christian and christianity
have been left as in the original.
A SERMON DELIVERED BEFORE HIS EXCELLENCY EDWARD EVERETT, GOVERNOR, HIS
HONOR GEORGE HULL, LIEUTENANT GOVERNOR, THE HONORABLE COUNCIL, AND THE
LEGISLATURE OF MASSACHUSETTS, ON THE ANNIVERSARY ELECTION, JANUARY 2,
1839.
BY MARK HOPKINS, D. D. President of Williams College.
Boston:
DUTTON AND WENTWORTH, PRINTERS TO THE STATE.
1839.
Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
SENATE, JANUARY 3, 1839.
_Ordered_, That Messrs. Filley, Quincy, and Kimball, be a Committee
to present the thanks of the Senate to the Rev. MARK HOPKINS, D. D.
for the discourse yesterday delivered by him, before the Government
of the Commonwealth, and to request a copy thereof for publication.
Attest,
CHARLES CALHOUN, _Clerk_.
SERMON.
Acts v. 29.
WE OUGHT TO OBEY GOD RATHER THAN MAN.
Man was made for something higher and better, than either to make, or
to obey, merely human laws. He is the creature of God, is subject to
his laws, and can find his perfection, and consequent happiness, only
in obeying those laws. As his moral perfection, the life of his life,
is involved in this obedience, it is impossible that any power should
lay him under obligation to disobey. The known will of God, if not the
foundation of right, is its paramount rule, and it is because human
governments are ordained by him, that we owe them obedience. We are
bound to them, not by compact, but only as God's institutions for the
good of the race. This is what the Bible, though sometimes referred to
as supporting arbitrary power, really teaches. It does not support
arbitrary power. Rightly understood, it is a perfect rule of duty, and
as in every thing else, so in the relations of subjects and rulers.
It lays down the true principles, it gives us the guiding light. When
the general question is whether human governments are to be obeyed,
the answer is, "He that resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance
of God." "The powers that be are ordained of God." But when these
powers overstep their appointed limits, and would lord it over the
conscience, and come between man and his maker, then do we hear it
uttered in the very face of power, and by the voice of inspiration, no
less than of indignant humanity, "We ought to obey God rather than
men."
It has been in connexion with the maintenance of this principle, first
proclaimed by an Apostle of Christ eighteen hundred years ago, that
all the civil liberty now in the world has sprung up. It is to the
fearless assertion of this principle by our forefathers, that we owe
it that the representatives of a free people are assembled here this
day to worship God according to the dictates of their own consciences,
to seek to Him for wisdom in their deliberations, and to acknowledge
the subordination of all human governments to that which is divine.
Permit me then, as appropriate to the present occasion, to call the
attention of this audience, 1st. To the grounds on which all men are
bound to adhere to the principle stated in the text; and
2d. To the consequences of such adherence, on the part, both of
subjects, and of rulers.
* * * * *
I observe, then, that we ought to obey God rather than men, because
human governments are comparatively so limited and negative in their
bearing upon the great purposes, first, of individual, and second, of
social existence.
The purposes for which man was made, must evidently involve in their
accomplishment, both his duty and his happiness; and nothing can be
his duty which would contravene those purposes. Among them, as already
intimated, the highest is the moral perfection of the individual; for
as it is by his moral nature that man is distinguished from the
inferior animals, so it is only in the perfection of that nature, that
his perfection, as man, can consist. As absolute perfection can belong
only to God, that of man must be relative, that is, it must consist in
the proper adjustment of relations, and especially in the relation of
his voluntary actions to the end for which God designed him. This is
our idea of perfection, when we affirm it of the works of man. It
involves, mainly, such a relation of parts as is necessary to the
perfect accomplishment of the end in view. A watch is perfect when it
is so constructed that its motions exactly correspond in their little
revolutions with those of the sun in the heavens; and man is perfect
when his will corresponds in its little circle of movement with the
will of God in heaven. This correspondence, however, is not to be
produced by the laws of an unconscious mechanism, but by a voluntary,
a cheerful, a filial co-operation. It is this power of controlling his
faculties with reference to an ultimate end, of accepting or rejecting
the purpose of his being, as indicated by God in the very structure of
his powers, and proclaimed in his word, that contradistinguishes man
from every inferior being, and gives scope for what is properly
termed, character. Inferior beings have qualities by which they are
distinguished, they have characteristics, but not _character_, which
always involves a moral element. A brute does not govern its own
instincts, it is governed by them. A tree is the product of an agency
which is put forth through it, but of which it is not conscious, and
which it does not control. But God gives man to himself, and then sets
before him, in the tendency of every thing that has unconscious life
towards its own perfection, the great moral lesson that nature was
intended to teach. He then causes every blade of grass, and every
tree, to become a preacher and a model, calling upon him to put forth
his faculties, not without law, but to accept the law of his being,
and to work out a character and a happiness in conformity with that.
It is, as I have said, the power which man has to accept or reject
this law of his being, the great law of love, that renders him capable
of character, and it is evidently as a theatre, on which this may be
manifested, that the present scene of things is sustained. Not with
more certainty do the processes of vegetation point to the blossoms
and the fruit as the results to which they conspire, than does every
thing in the nature and condition of man indicate the formation of a
specific, voluntary, moral character, as the purpose for which God
placed him here. But this purpose is not recognized at all by human
governments, and we have only to observe the limited and negative
agency which they incidentally bring to bear upon it, to see how
insignificant must be their claims when they would come into conflict
with those of the government of God.
I observe then, first, that human governments regard man solely as the
member of a community; whereas it is chiefly as an individual, that
the government of God regards him. Isolate a man from society, take
him beyond the reach of human government, and his faculties are not
changed. He is still the creature of God, a dweller in his universe,
retaining every thing he ever possessed that was noble in reason, or
grand in destiny, and in his solitude, where yet he would not be
alone, the government of God would follow him, and would require of
him such manifestations of goodness as he might there exercise--the
adoration of his Creator, resignation to his will, and a temperate and
prudent use of the blessings within his power. Indeed, so far as
responsibility is concerned, the divine government considers man,
whether in solitude or in a crowd, solely as an individual, and
produces an isolation of each as complete as if he were the only
person in the universe. God knows nothing of divided responsibility,
and whether acting alone, or as a member of a corporation or of a
legislature, every man is responsible to him for just what he does as
a moral being, and for nothing more. The responsibility of each is
kept disentangled from that of all others, and lies as well defined in
the eye of God, as if that eye were fixed upon him alone. The kingdom
of God is within man, and there it is, in the secret soul of each,
that the contest between light and darkness, between God and Satan is
going on, and in the struggle, in the victory or the defeat, he who
walks the city is as much alone as the hermit in his cell. It is over
the thoughts of man, his affections, his passions, his purposes, which
mock at human control, that the government of God claims dominion; it
is with reference to these, and not to the artificial index of
appearances which we set to catch the eye of the world, that the
register of Heaven is kept. On the other hand, how very few of the
moral actions of man can human government reach, how imperfectly can
it reach even these! It is only of overt acts, those which it can
define, and which can be proved before a human tribunal, that it can
take cognizance; and its treatment even of these can never be adjusted
to the varying shades of guilt. It has no eye to reach the springs of
action. It may see the movements of the machinery above, perplexed,
and apparently contradictory; but it cannot uncover the great wheel,
and look in upon the simple principle which makes character, and sets
the whole in motion.
But I observe again, that human governments are not only thus limited,
but are also chiefly negative in their influence upon the formation of
individual character. There is, indeed, a positive and widely
pervading moral influence connected with the character, and station,
and acts, of those who are in authority. This cannot be too
prominently stated, the responsibility connected with it cannot be too
carefully regarded; still this influence is entirely incidental, and
is the same in kind with that exerted by any distinguished private
individual. Human governments have also positive power to furnish
_facilities_, as distinguished from _inducements_. They can authorise
and guard the issue of paper money, to give facilities to men of
business; they can lay down rail-roads, thus opening facilities to the
spirit of enterprise, and calling out the neglected resources of the
State; they can too, and our fathers did it, construct and keep in
repair the _rail-roads of the mind_, thus giving facilities to the
poorest boy in the glens of the mountains to come | 1,205.60281 |
2023-11-16 18:37:09.5828430 | 2,570 | 18 |
Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer
THE YELLOW WALLPAPER
By Charlotte Perkins Gilman
It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure
ancestral halls for the summer.
A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house,
and reach the height of romantic felicity--but that would be asking too
much of fate!
Still I will proudly declare that there is something queer about it.
Else, why should it be let so cheaply? And why have stood so long
untenanted?
John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage.
John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience with faith, an
intense horror of superstition, and he scoffs openly at any talk of
things not to be felt and seen and put down in figures.
John is a physician, and PERHAPS--(I would not say it to a living
soul, of course, but this is dead paper and a great relief to my
mind)--PERHAPS that is one reason I do not get well faster.
You see he does not believe I am sick!
And what can one do?
If a physician of high standing, and one's own husband, assures friends
and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but
temporary nervous depression--a slight hysterical tendency--what is one
to do?
My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says
the same thing.
So I take phosphates or phosphites--whichever it is, and tonics, and
journeys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to "work"
until I am well again.
Personally, I disagree with their ideas.
Personally, I believe that congenial work, with excitement and change,
would do me good.
But what is one to do?
I did write for a while in spite of them; but it DOES exhaust me a good
deal--having to be so sly about it, or else meet with heavy opposition.
I sometimes fancy that in my condition if I had less opposition and more
society and stimulus--but John says the very worst thing I can do is to
think about my condition, and I confess it always makes me feel bad.
So I will let it alone and talk about the house.
The most beautiful place! It is quite alone, standing well back from the
road, quite three miles from the village. It makes me think of English
places that you read about, for there are hedges and walls and gates
that lock, and lots of separate little houses for the gardeners and
people.
There is a DELICIOUS garden! I never saw such a garden--large and shady,
full of box-bordered paths, and lined with long grape-covered arbors
with seats under them.
There were greenhouses, too, but they are all broken now.
There was some legal trouble, I believe, something about the heirs and
coheirs; anyhow, the place has been empty for years.
That spoils my ghostliness, I am afraid, but I don't care--there is
something strange about the house--I can feel it.
I even said so to John one moonlight evening, but he said what I felt
was a DRAUGHT, and shut the window.
I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes. I'm sure I never used to
be so sensitive. I think it is due to this nervous condition.
But John says if I feel so, I shall neglect proper self-control; so I
take pains to control myself--before him, at least, and that makes me
very tired.
I don't like our room a bit. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the
piazza and had roses all over the window, and such pretty old-fashioned
chintz hangings! but John would not hear of it.
He said there was only one window and not room for two beds, and no near
room for him if he took another.
He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special
direction.
I have a schedule prescription for each hour in the day; he takes all
care from me, and so I feel basely ungrateful not to value it more.
He said we came here solely on my account, that I was to have perfect
rest and all the air I could get. "Your exercise depends on your
strength, my dear," said he, "and your food somewhat on your appetite;
but air you can absorb all the time." So we took the nursery at the top
of the house.
It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with windows that look
all ways, and air and sunshine galore. It was nursery first and then
playroom and gymnasium, I should judge; for the windows are barred for
little children, and there are rings and things in the walls.
The paint and paper look as if a boys' school had used it. It is
stripped off--the paper--in great patches all around the head of my bed,
about as far as I can reach, and in a great place on the other side of
the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life.
One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic
sin.
It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough
to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the
lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit
suicide--plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard
of contradictions.
The color is repellent, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow,
strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight.
It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in
others.
No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to
live in this room long.
There comes John, and I must put this away,--he hates to have me write a
word.
We have been here two weeks, and I haven't felt like writing before,
since that first day.
I am sitting by the window now, up in this atrocious nursery, and
there is nothing to hinder my writing as much as I please, save lack of
strength.
John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases are serious.
I am glad my case is not serious!
But these nervous troubles are dreadfully depressing.
John does not know how much I really suffer. He knows there is no REASON
to suffer, and that satisfies him.
Of course it is only nervousness. It does weigh on me so not to do my
duty in any way!
I meant to be such a help to John, such a real rest and comfort, and
here I am a comparative burden already!
Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little I am
able,--to dress and entertain, and order things.
It is fortunate Mary is so good with the baby. Such a dear baby!
And yet I CANNOT be with him, it makes me so nervous.
I suppose John never was nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about
this wall-paper!
At first he meant to repaper the room, but afterwards he said that I
was letting it get the better of me, and that nothing was worse for a
nervous patient than to give way to such fancies.
He said that after the wall-paper was changed it would be the heavy
bedstead, and then the barred windows, and then that gate at the head of
the stairs, and so on.
"You know the place is doing you good," he said, "and really, dear, I
don't care to renovate the house just for a three months' rental."
"Then do let us go downstairs," I said, "there are such pretty rooms
there."
Then he took me in his arms and called me a blessed little goose,
and said he would go down to the cellar, if I wished, and have it
whitewashed into the bargain.
But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things.
It is an airy and comfortable room as any one need wish, and, of course,
I would not be so silly as to make him uncomfortable just for a whim.
I'm really getting quite fond of the big room, all but that horrid
paper.
Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious deepshaded
arbors, the riotous old-fashioned flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees.
Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a little private wharf
belonging to the estate. There is a beautiful shaded lane that runs
down there from the house. I always fancy I see people walking in these
numerous paths and arbors, but John has cautioned me not to give way to
fancy in the least. He says that with my imaginative power and habit of
story-making, a nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead to all manner
of excited fancies, and that I ought to use my will and good sense to
check the tendency. So I try.
I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write a little it
would relieve the press of ideas and rest me.
But I find I get pretty tired when I try.
It is so discouraging not to have any advice and companionship about
my work. When I get really well, John says we will ask Cousin Henry and
Julia down for a long visit; but he says he would as soon put fireworks
in my pillow-case as to let me have those stimulating people about now.
I wish I could get well faster.
But I must not think about that. This paper looks to me as if it KNEW
what a vicious influence it had!
There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a broken neck and
two bulbous eyes stare at you upside down.
I get positively angry with the impertinence of it and the
everlastingness. Up and down and sideways they crawl, and those absurd,
unblinking eyes are everywhere. There is one place where two breadths
didn't match, and the eyes go all up and down the line, one a little
higher than the other.
I never saw so much expression in an inanimate thing before, and we all
know how much expression they have! I used to lie awake as a child and
get more entertainment and terror out of blank walls and plain furniture
than most children could find in a toy store.
I remember what a kindly wink the knobs of our big, old bureau used to
have, and there was one chair that always seemed like a strong friend.
I used to feel that if any of the other things looked too fierce I could
always hop into that chair and be safe.
The furniture in this room is no worse than inharmonious, however, for
we had to bring it all from downstairs. I suppose when this was used
as a playroom they had to take the nursery things out, and no wonder! I
never saw such ravages as the children have made here.
The wall-paper, as I said before, is torn off in spots, and it sticketh
closer than a brother--they must have had perseverance as well as
hatred.
Then the floor is scratched and gouged and splintered, the plaster
itself is dug out here and there, and this great heavy bed which is all
we found in the room, looks as if it had been through the wars.
But I don't mind it a bit--only the paper.
There comes John's sister. Such a dear girl as she is, and so careful of
me! I must not let her find me writing.
She is a perfect and enthusiastic housekeeper, and hopes for no better
profession. I verily believe she thinks it is the writing which made me
sick!
But I can write when she is out, and see her a long way off from these
windows.
There is one that commands the road, a lovely shaded winding road, and
one that just looks off over the country. A lovely country, too, full of
great elms and velvet meadows.
This wall-paper has | 1,205.602883 |
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The Project Gutenberg Etext of The 1913 Webster Unabridged Dictionary
Version 0.50 Letters M, N & O: #665 in our series, by MICRA, Inc.
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UNDER | 1,205.602889 |
2023-11-16 18:37:09.6842530 | 59 | 52 |
Transcribed from the 1894 Chapman and Hall "Christmas Stories" edition by
David Price, email [email protected]
MRS. LIRRIPER'S LODGINGS
CHAPTER I--HOW MRS. LIRRIPER CARRIED | 1,205.704293 |
2023-11-16 18:37:09.6895300 | 116 | 103 |
Produced by Richard Tonsing, David Kline, and The Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from scans of public domain works at the
University of Michigan's Making of America collection.)
HARPER'S
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
VOLUME V.
JUNE TO NOVEMBER, 1852.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
329 & 331 PEARL STREET,
| 1,205.70957 |
2023-11-16 18:37:09.9774050 | 87 | 6 |
Produced by Kathryn Lybarger, Paul Ereaut and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE HALO
[Illustration: BRIGIT]
The
HALO
BY
BETTINA von HUTTEN
_Author of "PAM," "PAM DECIDES," ETC._
_WITH FRONTISPIECE_
By B. | 1,205.997445 |
2023-11-16 18:37:09.9814910 | 1,912 | 14 |
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 ORIENTAL RUG
[Illustration:
PLATE I.
ANTIQUE LADIK
_Prayer Rug_
FROM THE COLLECTION OF MR. GEORGE H. ELLWANGER
Size: 3.10 x 6]
THE ORIENTAL RUG
A MONOGRAPH ON
EASTERN RUGS AND CARPETS,
SADDLE-BAGS, MATS & PILLOWS.
WITH A CONSIDERATION OF KINDS
AND CLASSES, TYPES, BORDERS,
FIGURES, DYES, SYMBOLS ETC.
TOGETHER WITH SOME PRACTICAL
ADVICE TO COLLECTORS.
BY W. D. ELLWANGER
Author of
"A Summer Snowflake"
NEW YORK:
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY.
1909
_Copyright, 1903_
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
Published September, 1903
PREFACE
That Oriental rugs are works of art in the highest sense of the term, and
that fine antique specimens, of even modest size, have a financial value
of ten, fifteen, or thirty-eight thousand dollars, has been recently
determined at public auction. At this auction, several nations had a
representative voice in the bidding, and the standard of price was fairly
established. The value of rugs may have been imaginary and sentimental
heretofore; it is now a definite fact, with figures apparently at the
minimum. What the maximum may prove, remains to be seen.
Choice old rugs, therefore, to-day come into the same class with genuine
paintings of the old Dutch School; with canvases of Teniers, Ruysdael,
Cuyp, Ostade, or whatever similar artist's work may have escaped the
museums. They vie in prestige with the finest examples of Corot, Diaz,
Troyon, or Daubigny; and in monetary supremacy they overtop the rarest and
grandest of Chinese porcelains.
And yet the Oriental rug, as against such competitors for the wealthy
collectors' favour, has hardly a history, and is practically without a
name or a pedigree. Experts will tell you at a glance whether or not your
Wouverman is genuine, or inform you where every true Corot was owned or
whence it was bartered or stolen. In Chinese porcelains, the knowing
dealer will easily prove to you not only under what dynasty but in what
decade or year a particular piece was produced.
The painting has descent, signature, or the brush mark of a school to
father it. The Chinese vase, bowl, or jar has its marks, cyphers, stamps
and dates, and an undoubted genealogy to vouch for its authenticity. The
rug must speak for itself and go upon its intrinsic merits. It is its own
guarantee and certificate of artistic and financial value.
The study of Oriental rugs, therefore, can never lead to an exact science
or approximate dogmatic knowledge. Whoever is interested in them must
needs rely upon his personal judgment or the seller's advice. There is
practically only one current book authority in the premises.
A new volume on the subject would thus seem to be well justified. It is
the hope of the author that this book may prove itself sound and
practical, and that it may help to make more clear and simple the right
appreciation of a valuable rug.
W. D. ELLWANGER
ROCHESTER, N.Y., 1903
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
I. THE MYSTERY OF THE RUG 3
II. GENERAL CLASSIFICATION 13
III. OF THE MAKING, AND OF DESIGNS, BORDERS, ETC. 21
IV. OF THE DYEING 35
V. OF PERSIAN RUGS, SPECIFICALLY 43
VI. CAUCASIAN RUGS, DAGHESTAN AND RUSSIAN TYPES 61
VII. OF TURKISH VARIETIES 69
VIII. TURKOMAN OR TURKESTAN RUGS 79
IX. OF ORIENTAL CARPETS, SADDLE-BAGS, PILLOWS, ETC. 93
X. AUCTIONS, AUCTIONEERS, AND DEALERS 107
XI. INSCRIPTIONS AND DATES 121
XII. GENERAL OBSERVATIONS AND PARTICULAR ADVICE 131
LIST OF PLATES
PLATE
I. LADIK _Frontispiece_
II. KONIAH _Facing page_ 22
III. KAZAK " " 36
IV. SEHNA " " 44
V. CHICHI " " 50
VI. KABISTAN " " 62
VII. GHEORDEZ " " 70
VIII. KOULAH " " 72
IX. MELEZ " " 74
X. BELUCHISTAN " " 80
XI. ANATOLIAN PILLOWS " " 94
XII. BERGAMA " " 124
The Oriental Rug
CHAPTER I
THE MYSTERY OF THE RUG
To judge of an Oriental rug rightly, it must be looked at from several
points of view, or, at least, from two aspects; against the light and with
the light. From the first standpoint, against the light of knowledge,
speaking figuratively, there may be seen only a number of rude and awkward
figures in crude colours scattered erratically on a dark or dingy-looking
background, a fringe of coarse and ragged strings at either end, and rough
frays of yarn at the sides. This is what is accepted by many people as an
Oriental rug. And indeed this is what most rugs are.
If, on the other hand, we view our rugs with the light of a better wisdom
and happier experience, we will see the richest and softest of colours,
the most harmonious shadings and blendings, medallions brilliant as
jewels, or geometrical designs beautiful as the rose windows of a
cathedral; or, again, graceful combinations of charmingly conventionalized
flowers and delicate traceries and arabesques,--all these displaying new
glories of ever changing and never tiring beauty. Each woven picture, too,
is as soft to tread upon as a closely mown lawn, and caresses the feet
that sink into its pile. These are Oriental rugs as their admirers know
and love them.
Perhaps the chief charm of all such beautiful rugs is in their mystery.
Their designs are odd and strange and full of hidden meanings, and their
effects are often evolved from the crudest and clumsiest figures, hooks
and squares and angles; they owe their wealth of colour to simple
vegetable dyes from the woods and fields and gardens, and yet the secret
of many of these dyes is still a secret, or has long ago been lost. The
places whence the rugs come, the people who make them and those who sell
them, all are mysterious and hard to know and understand.
Moreover, broadly speaking, there are no experts on the subject, no
authorities, no literature. He who would know them must learn them by
experience. The rug dealers, for the most part, seem to treat their wares
merely as so much merchandise, and what knowledge concerning them they are
willing to impart is so contradictory as to be almost valueless. Few of
them would agree upon the name of an example which might be out of the
ordinary, or be able to tell where it was made. Ask of them what a "Mecca"
is, and they will stammer in their varying answers. And yet the Armenians
who handle most of the rugs in this country are often highly educated, and
fully appreciate the beauty of their wares. Their taste, however, is not
always our taste, and all the Orientalists seem to retain their barbaric
fondness for crude and startling colours. When we would turn to books for
information in the matter we find that the authorities are not many. They
might be numbered on your fingers and thumbs. These few books, moreover,
have been published only in limited editions at high prices, and are not
easily obtainable. One of the most important of such works is the
sumptuously illustrated | 1,206.001531 |
2023-11-16 18:37:09.9815640 | 2,558 | 11 |
Produced by Michelle Shephard, Tiffany Vergon, Charles
Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
FRA BARTOLOMMEO and ANDREA D'AGNOLO
By Leader Scott
Author Of "A Nook In The Apennines"
Re-Edited By Horace Shipp and Flora Kendrick, A.R.B.S.
_The reproductions in this series are from official photographs of the
National Collections, or from photographs by Messrs. Andersen, Alinari
or Braun._
FOREWORD
Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael: the three great names of the noblest
period of the Renaissance take our minds from the host of fine artists
who worked alongside them. Nevertheless beside these giants a whole
host of exquisite artists have place, and not least among them the
three painters with whom Mr. Leader Scott has dealt in these pages. Fra
Bartolommeo linking up with the religious art of the preceding period,
with that of Masaccio, of Piero de Cosimo, his senior student in the
studio of Cosimo Roselli, and at last with that of the definitely
"modern" painters of the Renaissance, Raphael, Leonardo and Michelangelo
himself, is a transition painter in this supreme period. Technique and
the work of hand and brain are rapidly taking the place of inspiration
and the desire to convey a message. The aesthetic sensation is becoming
an end in itself. The scientific painters, perfecting their studies of
anatomy and of perspective, having a conscious mastery over their tools
and their mediums, are taking the place of such men as Fra Angelico.
As a painter at this end of a period of transition--a painter whose
spiritual leanings would undoubtedly have been with the earlier men, but
whose period was too strong for him--Fra Bartolommeo is of particular
interest; and Albertinelli, for all the fiery surface difference of his
outlook is too closely bound by the ties of his friendship for the Frate
to have any other viewpoint.
Andrea del Sarto presents yet another phenomenon: that of the artist
endowed with all the powers of craftsmanship yet serving an end
neither basically spiritual nor basically aesthetic, but definitely
professional. We have George Vasari's word for it; and Vasari's blame
upon the extravagant and too-well-beloved Lucrezia. To-day we are so
accustomed to the idea of the professional attitude to art that we can
accept it in Andrea without concern. Not that other and earlier artists
were unconcerned with the aspect of payments. The history of Italian
art is full of quarrels and bickerings about prices, the calling in of
referees to decide between patron and painter, demands and refusals
of payment. Even the unworldly Fra Bartolommeo was the centre of such
quarrels, and although his vow of poverty forbade him to receive money
for his work, the order to which he belonged stood out firmly for the
_scudi_ which the Frate's pictures brought them. In justice to Andrea it
must be added that this was not the only motive for his activities;
it was not without cause that the men of his time called him "_senza
errori_," the faultless painter; and the production of a vast quantity
of his work rather than good prices for individual pictures made his art
pay to the extent it did. A pot-boiler in masterpieces, his works have
place in every gallery of importance, and he himself stands very close
to the three greatest; men of the Renaissance.
Both Fra Bartolommeo and Albertinelli are little known in this country.
Practically nothing has been written about them and very few of their
works are in either public galleries or private collections. It is in
Italy, of course, that one must study their originals, although the
great collections usually include one or two. Most interesting from
the viewpoint of the study of art is the evolution of the work of the
artist-monk as he came under the influence of the more dramatic modern
and frankly sensational work of Raphael, of the Venetians and of
Michelangelo. In this case (many will say in that of the art of
the world) this tendency detracted rather than helped the work. The
draperies, the dramatic poses, the artistic sensation arrests the mind
at the surface of the picture. It is indeed strange that this devout
churchman should have succumbed to the temptation, and there are moments
when one suspects that his somewhat spectacular pietism disguised the
spirit of one whose mind had little to do with the mysticism of the
mediaeval church. Or perhaps it was that the strange friendship between
him and Albertinelli, the man of the cloister and the man of the world,
effected some alchemy in the mind of each. The story of that lifelong
friendship, strong enough to overcome the difficulties of a definite
partnership between the strict life of the monastery and the busy life
of the _bottega_, is one of the most fascinating in art history.
Mr. Leader Scott has in all three lives the opportunity for fascinating
studies, and his book presents them to us with much of the flavour of
the period in which they lived. Perhaps to-day we should incline to
modify his acceptance of the Vasari attitude to Lucrezia, especially
since he himself tends to withdraw the charges against her, but leaves
her as the villainess of the piece upon very little evidence. The
inclusion of a chapter upon Ghirlandajo, treated merely as a follower
of Fra Bartolommeo, scarcely does justice in modern eyes to this fine
artist, whose own day and generation did him such honour and paid him
so well. But the author's general conclusions as to the place in art
and the significance of the lives of the three painters with whom he
is chiefly concerned remains unchallenged, and we have in the volume a
necessary study to place alongside those of Leonardo, of Michelangelo
and of Raphael for an understanding of the culmination of the
Renaissance in Italy.
HORACE SHIPP.
CONTENTS.
FRA BARTOLOMMEO.
CHAPTER
I. THOUGHTS ON THE RENAISSANCE
II. THE "BOTTEGA" OF COSIMO ROSELLI. A.D. 1475-1486
III. THE GARDEN AND THE CLOISTER. A.D. 1487-1495
IV. SAN MARCO. A.D. 1496-1500
V. FRA BARTOLOMMEO IN THE CONVENT. A.D. 1504-1509
VI. ALBERTINELLI IN THE WORLD. A.D. 1501-1510
VII. CONVENT PARTNERSHIP. A.D. 1510-1513
VIII. CLOSE OF LIFE. A.D. 1514-1517
IX. PART I.--SCHOLARS OF FRA BARTOLOMMEO
PART II.--SCHOLARS OF MARIOTTO ALBERTINELLI
X. RIDOLFO GHIRLANDAJO
ANDREA DEL SARTO.
CHAPTER I. YOUTH AND EARLY WORKS. A.D. 1487-1511
II. THE SERVITE CLOISTER. A.D. 1511-1512
III. SOCIAL LIFE AND MARRIAGE. A.D. 1511-1516
IV. WORKS IN FLORENCE. A.D. 1511-1515
V. GOING TO FRANCE. A.D. 1518-1519
VI. ANDREA AND OTTAVIANO DE' MEDICI. A.D. 1521-1523
VII. THE PLAGUE AND THE SIEGE. A.D. 1525-1531
VIII. SCHOLARS OF ANDREA DEL SARTO
BIBLIOGRAPHY INDEX
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
ADORATION. By BARTOLOMMEO PROCESSION TO CALVARY. By GHIRLANDAIO A
SCULPTOR. By ANDREA DEL SARTO MADONNA AND CHILD WITH SS. JOHN AND
ELIZABETH. By ANDREA DEL SARTO THE HOLY FAMILY. By BARTOLOMMEO THE
SAVIOUR. By ALBERTINELLI VIRGIN AND CHILD. By ANDREA DEL SARTO ECCE
<DW25>. By BARTOLOMMEO
FRA BARTOLOMMEO.
CHAPTER I.
THOUGHTS ON THE RENAISSANCE.
It seems to be a law of nature that progress, as well as time, should be
marked by periods of alternate light and darkness--day and night.
This law is nowhere more apparent than in the history of Art. Three
times has the world been illuminated by the full brilliance of Art, and
three times has a corresponding period of darkness ensued.
The first day dawned in Egypt and Assyria, and its works lie buried in
the tombs of prehistoric Pharaohs and Ninevite kings. The second day
the sun rose on the shores of many-isled Greece, and shed its rays over
Etruria and Rome, and ere it set, temples and palaces were flooded with
beauty. The gods had taken human form, and were come to dwell with men.
The third day arising in Italy, lit up the whole western world with the
glow of colour and fervour, and its fading rays light us yet.
The first period was that of mythic art; the world like a child
wondering at all around tried to express in myths the truths it could
not comprehend.
The second was pagan art which satisfies itself that in expressing the
perfection of humanity, it unfolds divinity. The third era of Christian
art, conscious that the divine lies beyond the human, fails in aspiring
to express infinitude.
Tracing one of these periods from its rise, how truly this similitude
of the dawn of day is carried out. See at the first streak of light
how dim, stiff, and soulless all things appear! Trees and objects bear
precisely the relation to their own appearance in broad daylight as the
wooden Madonnas of the Byzantine school do to those of Raphael.
Next, when the sun--the true light--first appears, how it bathes the sea
and the hills in an ethereal glory not their own! What fair liquid tints
of blue, and rose, and glorious gold! This period which, in art, began
with Giotto and ended with Botticelli, culminated in Fra Angelico, who
flooded the world of painting with a heavenly spiritualism not material,
and gave his dreams of heaven the colours of the first pure rays of
sunshine.
But as the sun rises, nature takes her real tints gradually. We see
every thing in its own colour; the gold and the rose has faded away with
the truer light, and a stern realism takes its place. The human form
must be expressed, in all its solidity and truth, not only in its
outward semblance, but the hidden soul must be seen through the veil of
flesh. And in this lies the reason of the decline; only to a few great
masters it was given to reveal spirituality in humanity--the others
could only emulate form and colour, and failed.
It is impossible to contemplate art apart from religion; as truly as the
celestial sun is the revealer of form, so surely is the heavenly light
of religion the first inspirer of art.
Where would the Egyptian, Assyrian, and Etruscan paintings and
sculptures have been but for the veneration of the mystic gods of the
dead, which both prompted and preserved them?
What would Greek sculpture have been without the deified
personifications of the mysterious powers | 1,206.001604 |
2023-11-16 18:37:09.9829200 | 6,077 | 37 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team.
[Illustration: Julius Caesar]
CAESAR
_A SKETCH_
BY
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE, M.A.
FORMERLY FELLOW OF EXETER COLLEGE, OXFORD
_"Pardon, gentles all
The flat unraised spirit that hath dared
On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth
So great an object."_
--SHAKESPEARE, Henry V.
PREFACE.
I have called this work a "sketch" because the materials do not exist
for a portrait which shall be at once authentic and complete. The
original authorities which are now extant for the life of Caesar are
his own writings, the speeches and letters of Cicero, the eighth book
of the "Commentaries" on the wars in Gaul and the history of the
Alexandrian war, by Aulus Hirtius, the accounts of the African war and
of the war in Spain, composed by persons who were unquestionably
present in those two campaigns. To these must be added the "Leges
Juliae" which are preserved in the Corpus Juris Civilis. Sallust
contributes a speech, and Catullus a poem. A few hints can be gathered
from the Epitome of Livy and the fragments of Varro; and here the
contemporary sources which can be entirely depended upon are brought to
an end.
The secondary group of authorities from which the popular histories of
the time have been chiefly taken are Appian, Plutarch, Suetonius, and
Dion Cassius. Of these the first three were divided from the period
which they describe by nearly a century and a half, Dion Cassius by
more than two centuries. They had means of knowledge which no longer
exist--the writings, for instance, of Asinius Pollio, who was one of
Caesar's officers. But Asinius Pollio's accounts of Caesar's actions,
as reported by Appian, cannot always be reconciled with the
Commentaries; and all these four writers relate incidents as facts
which are sometimes demonstrably false. Suetonius is apparently the
most trustworthy. His narrative, like those of his contemporaries, was
by tradition. His biographies of the earlier Caesars betray the
same spirit of animosity against them which taints the credibility of
Tacitus, and prevailed for so many years in aristocratic Roman society.
But Suetonius shows nevertheless an effort at veracity, an antiquarian
curiosity and diligence, and a serious anxiety to tell his story
impartially. Suetonius, in the absence of evidence direct or
presumptive to the contrary, I have felt myself able to follow. The
other three writers I have trusted only when I have found them
partially confirmed by evidence which is better to be relied upon.
The picture which I have drawn will thus be found deficient in many
details which have passed into general acceptance, and I have been
unable to claim for it a higher title than that of an outline drawing.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
Free Constitutions and Imperial Tendencies.--Instructiveness of Roman
History.--Character of Historical Epochs.--The Age of
Caesar.--Spiritual State of Rome.--Contrasts between Ancient and Modern
Civilization.
CHAPTER II.
The Roman Constitution.--Moral Character of the Romans.--Roman
Religion.--Morality and Intellect.--Expansion of Roman Power.--The
Senate.--Roman Slavery.--Effects of Intercourse with Greece.--Patrician
Degeneracy.--The Roman Noble.--Influence of Wealth.--Beginnings of
Discontent.
CHAPTER III.
Tiberius Gracchus.--Decay of the Italian Yeomanry.--Agrarian
Law.--Success and Murder of Gracchus.--Land Commission.--Caius
Gracchus.--Transfer of Judicial Functions from the Senate to the
Equites.--Sempronian Laws.--Free Grants of Corn.--Plans for Extension
of the Franchise.--New Colonies.--Reaction.--Murder of Caius Gracchus
CHAPTER IV.
Victory of the Optimates.--The Moors.--History of Jugurtha.--The Senate
corrupted.--Jugurthine War.--Defeat of the Romans.--Jugurtha comes to
Rome.--Popular Agitation.--The War renewed.--Roman Defeats in Africa
and Gaul.--Caecilius Metellus and Caius Marius.--Marriage of
Marius.--The Caesars.--Marius Consul.--First Notice of Sylla.--Capture
and Death of Jugurtha
CHAPTER V.
Birth of Cicero.--The Cimbri and Teutons.--German Immigration into
Gaul.--Great Defeat of the Romans on the Rhone.--Wanderings of the
Cimbri.--Attempted Invasion of Italy.--Battle of Aix.--Destruction of
the Teutons.--Defeat of the Cimbri on the Po.--Reform in the Roman
Army.--Popular Disturbances in Rome.--Murder of Memmius.--Murder of
Saturninus and Glaucia
CHAPTER VI.
Birth and Childhood of Julius Caesar.--Italian Franchise.--Discontent
of the Italians.--Action of the Land Laws.--The Social War.--Partial
Concessions.--Sylla and Marius.--Mithridates of Pontus.--First Mission
of Sylla into Asia.
CHAPTER VII.
War with Mithridates.--Massacre of Italians in Asia.--Invasion of
Greece.--Impotence and Corruption of the Senate.--End of the Social
War.--Sylla appointed to the Asiatic Command.--The Assembly transfer
the Command to Marius.--Sylla marches on Rome.--Flight of
Marius.--Change of the Constitution.--Sylla sails for the East.--Four
Years' Absence.--Defeat of Mithridates.--Contemporary Incidents at
Rome.--Counter Revolution.--Consulship of Cinna.--Return of
Marius.--Capitulation of Rome.--Massacre of Patricians and
Equites.--Triumph of Democracy.
CHAPTER VIII.
The Young Caesar.--Connection with Marius.--Intimacy with the
Ciceros.--Marriage of Caesar with the Daughter of
Cinna.--Sertorius.--Death of Cinna.--Consulships of Norbanus and
Scipio.--Sylla's Return.--First Appearance of Pompey.--Civil
War.--Victory of Sylla.--The Dictatorship and the
Proscription.--Destruction of the Popular Party and Murder of the
Popular Leaders.--General Character of Aristocratic Revolutions.--The
Constitution remodelled.--Concentration of Power in the
Senate.--Sylla's General Policy.--The Army.--Flight of Sertorius to
Spain.--Pompey and Sylla.--Caesar refuses to divorce his Wife at
Sylla's Order.--Danger of Caesar.--His Pardon.--Growing Consequence of
Cicero.--Defence of Roscius.--Sylla's Abdication and Death
CHAPTER IX.
Sertorius in Spain.--Warning of Cicero to the Patricians.--Leading
Aristocrats.--Caesar with the Army in the East.--Nicomedes of
Bithynia.--The Bithynian Scandal.--Conspiracy of Lepidus.--Caesar
returns to Rome.--Defeat of Lepidus.--Prosecution of Dolabella.--Caesar
taken by Pirates.--Senatorial Corruption.--Universal Disorder.--Civil
War in Spain.--Growth of Mediterranean Piracy.--Connivance of the
Senate.--Provincial Administration.--Verres in Sicily.--Prosecuted by
Cicero.--Second War with Mithridates.--First Success of
Lucullus.--Failure of Lucullus, and the Cause of it.--Avarice of Roman
Commanders.--The Gladiators.--The Servile War.--Results of the Change
in the Constitution introduced by Sylla
CHAPTER X.
Caesar Military Tribune.--Becomes known as a Speaker.--Is made
Quaestor.--Speech at his Aunt's Funeral.--Consulship of Pompey and
Crassus.--Caesar marries Pompey's Cousin.--Mission to
Spain.--Restoration of the Powers of the Tribunes.--The Equites and the
Senate.--The Pirates.--Food Supplies cut off from Rome.--The Gabinian
Law.--Resistance of the Patricians.--Suppression of the Pirates by
Pompey.--The Manilian Law.--Speech of Cicero.--Recall of
Lucullus.--Pompey sent to command in Asia.--Defeat and Death of
Mithridates.--Conquest of Asia by Pompey
CHAPTER XI.
History of Catiline.--A Candidate for the Consulship.--Catiline and
Cicero.--Cicero chosen Consul.--Attaches Himself to the Senatorial
Party.--Caesar elected Aedile.--Conducts an Inquiry into the Syllan
Proscriptions.--Prosecution of Rabirius.--Caesar becomes Pontifex
Maximus--and Praetor.--Cicero's Conduct as Consul.--Proposed Agrarian
Law.--Resisted by Cicero.--Catiline again stands for the
Consulship.--Violent Language in the Senate.--Threatened
Revolution.--Catiline again defeated.--The Conspiracy.--Warnings sent
to Cicero.--Meeting at Catiline's House.--Speech of Cicero in the
Senate.--Cataline joins an Army of Insurrection in Etruria.--His
Fellow-conspirators.--Correspondence with the Allobroges.--Letters read
in the Senate.--The Conspirators seized.--Debate upon their
Fate.--Speech of Caesar.--Caesar on a Future State.--Speech of
Cato--and of Cicero.--The Conspirators executed untried.--Death of
Catiline.
CHAPTER XII.
Preparations for the Return of Pompey.--Scene in the Forum.--Cato and
Metellus.--Caesar suspended from the Praetorship.--Caesar supports
Pompey.--Scandals against Caesar's Private Life.--General Character of
them.--Festival of the Bona Dea.--Publius Clodius enters Caesar's House
dressed as a Woman.--Prosecution and Trial of Clodius.--His Acquittal,
and the Reason of it.--Successes of Caesar as Propraetor in
Spain.--Conquest of Lusitania.--Return of Pompey to Italy.--First
Speech in the Senate.--Precarious Position of Cicero.--Cato and the
Equites.--Caesar elected Consul.--Revival of the Democratic
Party.--Anticipated Agrarian Law.--Uneasiness of Cicero.
CHAPTER XIII.
The Consulship of Caesar.--Character of his Intended Legislation.--The
Land Act first proposed in the Senate.--Violent Opposition.--Caesar
appeals to the Assembly.--Interference of the Second Consul
Bibulus.--The Land Act submitted to the People.--Pompey and Crassus
support it.--Bibulus interposes, but without Success.--The Act
carried--and other Laws.--The Senate no longer being
Consulted.--General Purpose of the Leges Juliae.--Caesar appointed to
Command in Gaul for Five Years.--His Object in accepting that
Province.--Condition of Gaul, and the Dangers to be apprehended from
it.--Alliance of Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus.--The
Dynasts.--Indignation of the Aristocracy.--Threats to repeal Caesar's
Laws.--Necessity of Controlling Cicero and Cato.--Clodius is made
Tribune.--Prosecution of Cicero for Illegal Acts when Consul.--Cicero's
Friends forsake him.--He flies, and is banished.
CHAPTER XIV.
Caesar's Military Narrative.--Divisions of Gaul.--Distribution of
Population.--The Celts.--Degree of Civilization.--Tribal System.--The
Druids.--The AEdui and the Sequani.--Roman and German
Parties.--Intended Migration of the Helvetii.--Composition of Caesar's
Army.--He goes to Gaul.--Checks the Helvetii.--Returns to Italy for
Larger Forces.--The Helvetii on the Saone.--Defeated, and sent back to
Switzerland.--Invasion of Gaul by Ariovistus.--Caesar invites him to a
Conference.--He refuses.--Alarm in the Roman Army.--Caesar marches
against Ariovistus.--Interview between them.--Treachery of the Roman
Senate.--Great Battle at Colmar.--Defeat and Annihilation of the
Germans.--End of the First Campaign.--Confederacy among the
Belgae.--Battle on the Aisne.--War with the Nervii.--Battle of
Maubeuge.--Capture of Namur.--The Belgae conquered.--Submission of
Brittany.--End of the Second Campaign.
CHAPTER XV.
Cicero and Clodius.--Position and Character of Clodius.--Cato sent to
Cyprus.--Attempted Recall of Cicero defeated by Clodius.--Fight in the
Forum.--Pardon and Return of Cicero.--Moderate Speech to the
People.--Violence in the Senate.--Abuse of Piso and Gabinius.--Coldness
of the Senate toward Cicero.--Restoration of Cicero's
House.--Interfered with by Clodius.--Factions of Clodius and
Milo.--Ptolemy Auletes expelled by his Subjects.--Appeals to Rome for
Help.--Alexandrian Envoys assassinated.--Clodius elected aedile.--Fight
in the Forum.--Parties in Rome.--Situation of Cicero.--Rally of the
Aristocracy.--Attempt to repeal the Leges Juliae.--Conference at
Lucca.--Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus.--Cicero deserts the
Senate.--Explains his Motives.--Confirmation of the Ordinances of
Lucca.--Pompey and Crassus Consuls.--Caesar's Command prolonged for
Five Additional Years.--Rejoicings in Rome.--Spectacle in the
Amphitheater.
CHAPTER XVI.
Revolt of the Veneti.--Fleet prepared in the Loire.--Sea-fight at
Quiberon.--Reduction of Normandy and of Aquitaine.--Complete Conquest
of Gaul.--Fresh Arrival of Germans over the Lower Rhine.--Caesar orders
them to retire, and promises them Lands elsewhere.--They refuse to
go--and are destroyed.--Bridge over the Rhine.--Caesar invades
Germany.--Returns after a Short Inroad.--First Expedition into
Britain.--Caesar lands at Deal, or Walmer.--Storm and Injury to the
Fleet.--Approach of the Equinox.--Further Prosecution of the Enterprise
postponed till the following Year.--Caesar goes to Italy for the
Winter.--Large Naval Preparations.--Return of Spring.--Alarm on the
Moselle.--Fleet collects at Boulogne.--Caesar sails for Britain a
Second Time.--Lands at Deal.--Second and more Destructive Storm.--Ships
repaired, and placed out of Danger.--Caesar marches through
Kent.--Crosses the Thames, and reaches St. Albans.--Goes no further,
and returns to Gaul.--Object of the Invasion of Britain.--Description
of the Country and People.
CHAPTER XVII.
Distribution of the Legions after the Return from Britain.--Conspiracy
among the Gallic Chiefs.--Rising of the Eburones.--Destruction of
Sabinus, and a Division of the Roman Army.--Danger of Quintus
Cicero.--Relieved by Caesar in Person.--General Disturbance.--Labienus
attacked at Lavacherie.--Defeats and kills Induciomarus.--Second
Conquest of the Belgae.--Caesar again crosses the Rhine.--Quintus
Cicero in Danger a Second Time.--Courage of a Roman
Officer.--Punishment of the Revolted Chiefs.--Execution of Acco.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Correspondence of Cicero with Caesar.--Intimacy with Pompey and
Crassus.--Attacks on Piso and Gabinius.---Cicero compelled to defend
Gabinius--and Vatinius.--Dissatisfaction with his Position.--Corruption
at the Consular Elections.--Public Scandal.--Caesar and Pompey.--Deaths
of Aurelia and Julia.--Catastrophe in the East.--Overthrow and Death of
Crassus.--Intrigue to detach Pompey from Caesar.---Milo a Candidate for
the Consulship.--Murder of Clodius.--Burning of the
Senate-house.--Trial and Exile of Milo.--Fresh Engagements with
Caesar.--Promise of the Consulship at the End of his Term in Gaul.
CHAPTER XIX.
Last Revolt of Gaul.--Massacre of Romans at
Gien.--Vercingetorix.--Effect on the Celts of the Disturbances at
Rome.--Caesar crosses the Cevennes.--Defeats the Arverni.--Joins his
Army on the Seine.--Takes Gien, Nevers, and Bourges.--Fails at
Gergovia.--Rapid March to Sens.--Labienus at Paris.--Battle of the
Vingeanne.--Siege of Alesia.--Caesar's Double Lines.--Arrival of the
Relieving Army of Gauls.--First Battle on the Plain.--Second
Battle.--Great Defeat of the Gauls.--Surrender of Alesia.--Campaign
against the Carnutes and the Bellovaci.--Rising on the
Dordogne.--Capture of Uxellodunum.--Caesar at Arras.--Completion of the
Conquest.
CHAPTER XX.
Bibulus in Syria.--Approaching Term of Caesar's Government.--Threats of
Impeachment.--Caesar to be Consul or not to be Consul?--Caesar's
Political Ambition.--Hatred felt toward him by the Aristocracy.--Two
Legions taken from him on Pretense of Service against the
Parthians.--Caesar to be recalled before the Expiration of his
Government.--Senatorial Intrigues.--Curio deserts the Senate.--Labienus
deserts Caesar.--Cicero in Cilicia.--Returns to Rome.--Pompey
determined on War.--Cicero's Uncertainties.--Resolution of the Senate
and Consuls.--Caesar recalled.--Alarm in Rome.--Alternative
Schemes.--Letters of Cicero.--Caesar's Crime in the Eyes of the
Optimates.
CHAPTER XXI.
Caesar appeals to his Army.--The Tribunes join him at Rimini.--Panic
and Flight of the Senate.--Incapacity of Pompey.--Fresh
Negotiations.--Advance of Caesar.--The Country Districts refuse to arm
against him.--Capture of Corfinium.--Release of the Prisoners.--Offers
of Caesar.--Continued Hesitation of Cicero.--Advises Pompey to make
Peace.--Pompey, with the Senate and Consuls, flies to Greece.--Cicero's
Reflections.--Pompey to be another Sylla.--Caesar Mortal, and may die
by more Means than one.
CHAPTER XXII.
Pompey's Army in Spain.--Caesar at Rome.--Departure for
Spain.--Marseilles refuses to receive him.--Siege of
Marseilles.--Defeat of Pompey's Lieutenants at Lerida.--The whole Army
made Prisoners.--Surrender of Varro.--Marseilles taken.--Defeat of
Curio by King Juba in Africa.--Caesar named Dictator.--Confusion in
Rome.--Caesar at Brindisi.--Crosses to Greece in Midwinter.--Again
offers Peace.--Pompey's Fleet in the Adriatic.--Death of
Bibulus.--Failure of Negotiations.--Caelius and Milo killed.--Arrival
of Antony in Greece with the Second Division of Caesar's Army.--Siege
of Durazzo.--Defeat and Retreat of Caesar.--The Senate and
Pompey.--Pursuit of Caesar.--Battle of Pharsalia.--Flight of
Pompey.--The Camp taken.--Complete Overthrow of the Senatorial
Faction.--Cicero on the Situation once more.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Pompey flies to Egypt.--State of Parties in Egypt.--Murder of
Pompey.--His Character.--Caesar follows him to Alexandria.--Rising in
the City.--Caesar besieged in the Palace.--Desperate Fighting.--Arrival
of Mithridates of Pergamus.--Battle near Cairo, and Death of the Young
Ptolemy.--Cleopatra.--The Detention of Caesar enables the Optimates to
rally.--Ill Conduct of Caesar's Officers in Spain.--War with
Pharnaces.--Battle of Zela, and Settlement of Asia Minor.
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Aristocracy raise an Army in Africa.--Supported by Juba.--Pharsalia
not to end the War.--Caesar again in Rome.--Restores Order.--Mutiny in
Caesar's Army.--The Mutineers submit.--Caesar lands in
Africa.--Difficulties of the Campaign.--Battle of Thapsus.--No more
Pardons.--Afranius and Faustus Sylla put to Death.--Cato kills himself
at Utica.--Scipio killed.--Juba and Petreius die on each other's
Swords.--A Scene in Caesar's Camp.
CHAPTER XXV.
Rejoicings in Rome.--Caesar Dictator for the Year.--Reforms the
Constitution.--Reforms the Calendar--and the Criminal
Law.--Dissatisfaction of Cicero.--Last Efforts in Spain of Labienus and
the Young Pompeys.--Caesar goes thither in Person, accompanied by
Octavius.--Caesar's Last Battle at Munda.--Death of Labienus.--Capture
of Cordova.--Close of the Civil War.--General Reflections.
CHAPTER XXVI.
Caesar once more in Rome.--General Amnesty.--The Surviving Optimates
pretend to submit.--Increase in the Number of Senators.--Introduction
of Foreigners.--New Colonies.--Carthage.--Corinth.--Sumptuary
Regulations.--Digest of the Law.--Intended Parthian War.--Honors heaped
on Caesar.--The Object of them.--Caesar's Indifference.--Some
Consolations.--Hears of Conspiracies, but disregards
them.--Speculations of Cicero in the Last Stage of the War.--Speech in
the Senate.--A Contrast, and the Meaning of it.--The Kingship.--Antony
offers Caesar the Crown, which Caesar refuses.--The Assassins.--Who
they were.--Brutus and Cassius.--Two Officers of Caesar's among
them.--Warnings.--Meeting of the Conspirators.--Caesar's Last
Evening.--The Ides of March.--The Senate-house.--Caesar killed.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Consternation in Rome.--The Conspirators in the Capitol.--Unforeseen
Difficulties.--Speech of Cicero.--Caesar's Funeral.--Speech of
Antony.--Fury of the People.--The Funeral Pile in the Forum.--The King
is dead, but the Monarchy survives.--Fruitlessness of the
Murder.--Octavius and Antony.--Union of Octavius, Antony, and
Lepidus.--Proscription of the Assassins.--Philippi, and the end of
Brutus and Cassius.--Death of Cicero.--His Character.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
General Remarks on Caesar.--Mythological Tendencies.--Supposed
Profligacy of Caesar.--Nature of the
Evidence.--Servilia.--Cleopatra.--Personal Appearance of Caesar.--His
Manners in Private Life.--Considerations upon him as a Politician, a
Soldier, and a Man of Letters.--Practical Justice his Chief Aim as a
Politician.--Universality of Military Genius.--Devotion of his Army to
him, how deserved.--Art of reconciling Conquered Peoples.--General
Scrupulousness and Leniency.--Oratorical and Literary Style.--Cicero's
Description of it.--His Lost Works.--Cato's Judgment on the Civil
War.--How Caesar should be estimated.--Legend of Charles V.--Spiritual
Condition of the Age in which Caesar lived.--His Work on Earth to
establish Order and Good Government, to make possible the Introduction
of Christianity.--A Parallel.
CAESAR: A SKETCH
CHAPTER I.
To the student of political history, and to the English student above
all others, the conversion of the Roman Republic into a military empire
commands a peculiar interest. Notwithstanding many differences, the
English and the Romans essentially resemble one another. The early
Romans possessed the faculty of self-government beyond any people of
whom we have historical knowledge, with the one exception of ourselves.
In virtue of their temporal freedom, they became the most powerful
nation in the known world; and their liberties perished only when Rome
became the mistress of conquered races, to whom she was unable or
unwilling to extend her privileges. If England was similarly supreme,
if all rival powers were eclipsed by her or laid under her feet, the
Imperial tendencies, which are as strongly marked in us as our love of
liberty, might lead us over the same course to the same end. If there
be one lesson which history clearly teaches, it is this, that free
nations cannot govern subject provinces. If they are unable or
unwilling to admit their dependencies to share their own constitution,
the constitution itself will fall in pieces from mere incompetence for
its duties.
We talk often foolishly of the necessities of things, and we blame
circumstances for the consequences of our own follies and vices; but
there are faults which are not faults of will, but faults of mere
inadequacy to some unforeseen position. Human nature is equal to much,
but not to everything. It can rise to altitudes where it is alike
unable to sustain itself or to retire from them to a safer elevation.
Yet when the field is open it pushes forward, and moderation in the
pursuit of greatness is never learnt and never will be learnt. Men of
genius are governed by their instinct; they follow where instinct leads
them; and the public life of a nation is but the life of successive
generations of statesmen, whose horizon is bounded, and who act from
day to day as immediate interests suggest. The popular leader of the
hour sees some present difficulty or present opportunity of
distinction. He deals with each question as it arises, leaving future
consequences to those who are to come after him. The situation changes
from period to period, and tendencies are generated with an
accelerating force, which, when once established, can never be
reversed. When the control of reason is once removed, the catastrophe
is no longer distant, and then nations, like all organized creations,
all forms of life, from the meanest flower to the highest human
institution, pass through the inevitably recurring stages of growth and
transformation and decay. A commonwealth, says Cicero, ought to be
immortal, and for ever to renew its youth. Yet commonwealths have
proved as unenduring as any other natural object:
Everything that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
And this huge state presenteth nought but shows,
Whereon the stars in silent influence comment.
Nevertheless, "as the heavens are high above the earth, so is wisdom
above folly." Goethe compares life to a game at whist, where the cards
are dealt out by destiny, and the rules of the game are fixed: subject
to these conditions, the players are left to win or lose, according to
their skill or want of skill. The life of a nation, like the life of a
man, may be prolonged in honor into the fulness of its time, or it may
perish prematurely, for want of guidance, by violence or internal
disorders. And thus the history of national revolutions is to
statesmanship what the pathology of | 1,206.00296 |
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ON THE PLANTATION
A Story Of A Georgia Boy's Adventures During The War
By Joel Chandler Harris
Author Of Uncle Remus
With Twenty-Three Illustrations By E. W. Kemble
New York
D. Appleton And Company
1892
JOSEPH ADDISON TURNER
LAWYER, EDITOR, SCHOLAR, PLANTER,
AND PHILANTHROPIST THIS MIXTURE
OF FACT AND FICTION IS INSCRIBED
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
Some of my friends who have read in serial form the chronicles that
follow profess to find in them something more than an autobiographical
touch. Be it so. It would indeed be difficult to invest the commonplace
character and adventures of Joe Maxwell with the vitality that belongs
to fiction. Nevertheless, the lad himself, and the events which are
herein described, seem to have been born of a dream. That which is
fiction pure and simple in these pages bears to me the stamp of truth,
and that which is true reads like a clumsy invention. In this matter
it is not for me to prompt the reader. He must sift the fact from the
fiction and label it to suit himself.
J. C. H.
ON THE PLANTATION.
CHAPTER I--JOE MAXWELL MAKES A START
The post-office in the middle Georgia village of Hillsborough used
to be a queer little place, whatever it is now. It was fitted up in
a cellar; and the postmaster, who was an enterprising gentleman from
Connecticut, had arranged matters so that those who went after their
letters and papers could at the same time get their grocery supplies.
Over against the wall on one side was a faded green sofa. It was not an
inviting seat, for in some places the springs peeped through, and one of
its legs was broken, giving it a suspicious tilt against the wall. But
a certain little boy found one corner of the rickety old sofa a very
comfortable place, and he used to curl up there nearly every day,
reading such stray newspapers as he could lay hands on, and watching the
people come and go.
To the little boy the stock of goods displayed for sale was as curious
in its variety as the people who called day after day for the letters
that came or that failed to come. To some dainty persons the mingled
odor of cheese, cam-phene, and mackerel would have been disagreeable;
but Joe Maxwell--that was the name of the little boy--had a healthy
disposition and a strong stomach, and he thought the queer little
post-office was one of the pleasantest places in the world.
A partition of woodwork and wire netting cut off the post-office and the
little stock of groceries from the public at large, but outside of that
was an area where a good many people could stand and wait for their
letters. In one corner of this area was the rickety green sofa, and
round about were chairs and boxes and barrels on which tired people
could rest themselves.
The Milledgeville papers had a large circulation in the county. They
were printed at the capital of the State, and were thought to be very
important on that account. They had so many readers in the neighborhood
that the postmaster, in order to save time and trouble, used to pile
them up on a long shelf outside the wooden partition, where each
subscriber could help himself. Joe Maxwell took advantage of this
method, and on Tuesdays, when the Milledgeville papers arrived, he could
always be found curled up in the corner of the old green sofa reading
the _Recorder_ and the _Federal Union_. What he found in those papers to
interest him it would be hard to say. They were full of political essays
that were popular in those days, and they had long reports of political
conventions and meetings from all parts of the State. They were papers
for grown people, and Joe Maxwell was only twelve years old, and small
for his age.
There was another place that Joe found it pleasant to visit, and that
was a lawyer's office in one of the rooms of the old tavern that looked
out on the pillared veranda. It was a pleasant place to him, not because
it was a law-office, but because it was the office of a gentleman
who was very friendly to the youngster. The gentleman's name was Mr.
Deometari, and Joe called him Mr. Deo, as did the other people of
Hillsborough. He was fat and short and wore whiskers, which gave him a
peculiar appearance at that time. All the rest of the men that Joe knew
wore either a full beard or a mustache and an imperial. For that reason
Mr. Deometari's whiskers were very queer-looking. He was a Greek, and
there was a rumor among the people about town that he had been compelled
to leave his country on account of his politics. Joe never knew until
long afterward that politics could be a crime. He thought that politics
consisted partly in newspaper articles signed "Old Subscriber" and "Many
Citizens" and "Vox Populi" and "Scrutator," and partly in arguments
between the men who sat in fine weather on the dry-goods boxes under the
china-trees. But there was a mystery about Mr. Deometari, and it pleased
the lad to imagine all sorts of romantic stories about the fat lawyer.
Although Mr. Deometari was a Greek, there was no foreign twang to his
tongue. Only as close an observer as the boy could have told from his
talk that he was a foreigner. He was a good lawyer and a good speaker,
and all the other lawyers seemed to like him. They enjoyed his company
so well that it was only occasionally that Joe found him in his office
alone.
[Illustration: 0026]
Once Mr. Deometari took from his closet a military uniform and put it
on. Joe Maxwell thought it was the most beautiful uniform he had ever
seen. Gold braid ran down the sides of the trousers, gold cords hung
loosely on the breast of the coat, and a pair of tremendous epaulets
surmounted the shoulders. The hat was something like the hats Joe had
seen in picture-books. It was caught up at the sides with little
gold buttons, and trimmed with a long black feather that shone like a
pigeon's breast. Fat as Mr. Deometari was, the lad thought he looked
very handsome in his fine uniform. This was only one incident. In his
room, which was a large one, Mr. Deometari had boxes packed with books,
and he gave Joe leave to ransack them. Many of the volumes were in
strange tongues, but among them were some quaint old English books,
and these the lad relished beyond measure. After a while Mr. Deometari
closed his office and went away to the war.
It would not be fair to say that Joe was a studious lad. On the
contrary, he was of an adventurous turn of mind, and he was not at all
fond of the books that were in his desk at Hillsborough Academy. He was
full of all sorts of pranks and capers, and there were plenty of people
in the little town ready to declare that he would come to some bad end
if he was not more frequently dosed with what the old folks used to call
hickory oil. Some of Joe Maxwell's pranks were commonplace, but others
were ingenious enough to give him quite a reputation for humor, and
one prank in particular is talked of by the middle-aged people of
Hillsborough to this day.
The teacher of the academy had organized a military company among the
pupils--it was just about the time when rumors and hints of war had
begun to take shape--and a good deal of interest was felt in the
organization, especially by the older boys. Of this company Joe Maxwell
was the fourth corporal, a position which gave him a place at the foot
of the company. The Hillsborough Cadets drilled every school-day, and
sometimes on Saturdays, and they soon grew to be very proud of their
proficiency.
At last, after a good deal of manoeuvring on the playgrounds and in the
public square, the teacher, who was the captain, concluded that the boys
had earned a vacation, and it was decided that the company should go
into camp for a week on the Oconee River, and fish and hunt and have a
good time generally. The boys fairly went wild when the announcement was
made, and some of them wanted to hug the teacher, who had hard work to
explain that an attempt of this sort was not in accord with military
tactics or discipline.
All the arrangements were duly made. Tents were borrowed from the
Hillsborough Rifles, and the drum corps of that company was hired to
make music. A half-dozen wagons carried the camp outfit and the small
boys, while the larger ones marched. It was an entirely new experience
for Joe Maxwell, and he enjoyed it as only a healthy and high-spirited
boy could enjoy it. The formal and solemn way in which the guard was
mounted was very funny to him, and the temptation to make a joke of it
was too strong to be resisted.
The tents were pitched facing each other, with the officers' tent at the
head of the line thus formed. At the other end of the lane and a little
to the rear was the baggage-tent, in which the trunks, boxes, and
commissaries were stored. Outside of all, the four sentinels marched
up and down. The tents were pitched in an old field that was used as
a pasture, and Joe noticed during the afternoon two mules and a horse
browsing around. He noticed, too, that these animals were very much
disturbed, especially when the drums began to beat, and that their
curiosity would not permit them to get very far from the camp, no matter
how frightened they were.
It happened that one of Joe's messmates was to go on guard duty at
twelve o'clock that night. He was a fat, awkward, good-natured fellow,
this messmate, and a heavy sleeper, too, so that, when the corporal
of the guard undertook to arouse him, all the boys in the tent
were awakened. All except Joe quickly went to sleep again, but this
enterprising youngster quietly put on his clothes, and, in the confusion
of changing the guard, slipped out of the lines and hid in a convenient
gully not far from the camp.
It was his intention to worry if not to frighten his messmate, and while
he lay there trying to think out the best plan to pursue, he heard the
horse and mules trampling and snorting not very far off. Their curiosity
was not yet satisfied, and they seemed to be making their way toward the
camp for the purpose of reconnoitering.
Joe's mind was made up in an instant.
He slipped down the gully until the animals were between him and the
camp, and then, seizing a large pine brush that happened to be lying
near, he sprang toward them. The mules and horse were ripe for a
stampede. The camp itself was an object of suspicion, and this attack
from an unexpected quarter was too much for them. Snorting with terror
they rushed in the direction of the tents. The sleepy sentinel, hearing
them coming, fired his gun in the air and ran yelling into the camp,
followed by the horse and one of the mules. The other mule shied to the
right when the gun was fired, and ran into the baggage-tent. There was
a tremendous rattle and clatter of boxes, pots, pans, and crockery ware.
The mule, crazed with fright | 1,206.005098 |
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MASTERPIECES IN COLOUR
EDITED BY--T. LEMAN HARE
BERNARDINO LUINI
IN THE SAME SERIES
ARTIST. AUTHOR.
VELAZQUEZ. S. L. BENSUSAN.
REYNOLDS. S. L. BENSUSAN.
TURNER. C. LEWIS HIND.
ROMNEY. C. LEWIS HIND.
GREUZE. ALYS EYRE MACKLIN.
BOTTICELLI. HENRY B. BINNS.
ROSSETTI. LUCIEN PISSARRO.
BELLINI. GEORGE HAY.
FRA ANGELICO. JAMES MASON.
REMBRANDT. JOSEF ISRAELS.
LEIGHTON. A. LYS BALDRY.
RAPHAEL. PAUL G. KONODY.
HOLMAN HUNT. MARY E. COLERIDGE.
TITIAN. S. L. BENSUSAN.
MILLAIS. A. LYS BALDRY.
CARLO DOLCI. GEORGE HAY.
GAINSBOROUGH. MAX ROTHSCHILD.
TINTORETTO. S. L. BENSUSAN.
LUINI. JAMES MASON.
FRANZ HALS. EDGCUMBE STALEY.
_In Preparation_
VAN DYCK. PERCY M. TURNER.
WHISTLER. T. MARTIN WOOD.
LEONARDO DA VINCI. M. W. BROCKWELL.
RUBENS. S. L. BENSUSAN.
BURNE-JONES. A. LYS BALDRY.
J. F. MILLET. PERCY M. TURNER.
CHARDIN. PAUL G. KONODY.
FRAGONARD. C. HALDANE MACFALL.
HOLBEIN. S. L. BENSUSAN.
BOUCHER. C. HALDANE MACFALL.
VIGEE LE BRUN. C. HALDANE MACFALL.
WATTEAU. C. LEWIS HIND.
MURILLO. S. L. BENSUSAN.
AND OTHERS.
[Illustration: PLATE I.--MADONNA AND CHILD. Frontispiece
(In the Wallace Collection)
This is another admirably painted study of the artist's favourite
subject. The attitude of the child is most engaging, the painting of
the limbs is full of skill, and the background adds considerably to
the picture's attractions. It will be noted that Luini appears to have
employed the same model for most of his studies of the Madonna.]
Bernardino LUINI
BY JAMES MASON
ILLUSTRATED WITH EIGHT REPRODUCTIONS IN COLOUR
[Illustration]
LONDON: T. C. & E. C. JACK
NEW YORK: FREDERICK A. STOKES CO.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Plate
I. Madonna and Child Frontispiece
In the Wallace Collection
Page
II. Il Salvatore 14
In the Ambrosiana, Milan
III. Salome and the Head of St. John the Baptist 24
In the Uffizi Gallery, Florence
IV. The Mystic Marriage of St. Catherine 34
In the Brera, Milan
V. The Madonna of the Rose 40
In the Brera, Milan
VI. Detail of Fresco 50 | 1,206.09793 |
2023-11-16 18:37:10.1812690 | 908 | 25 |
E-text prepared by Delphine Lettau and Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.
Transcriber's note:
In 1834, at age 19, Anthony Trollope became a junior clerk
in the British postal service. He did not get on well with
his superiors, and his career looked like a dead end. In
1841 he accepted an assignment in Ireland as an inspector,
remaining there for ten years. It was there that his civil
service career began to flourish. It was there, also, that
he began writing novels.
Several of Trollope's early novels were set in Ireland,
including _The Macdermots of Ballycloran_, his first
published novel, and _Castle Richmond_. Readers of those
early Irish novels can easily perceive Trollope's great
affection for and sympathy with the Irish people,
especially the poor.
In 1882 Ireland was in the midst of great troubles,
including boycotts and the near breakdown of law and
order. In May of that year Lord Frederick Cavendish, the
newly-appointed Chief Secretary for Ireland, and Thomas
Burke, a prominent civil servant, were assassinated in
Dublin. The news stirred Trollope, despite his poor
health, to travel to Ireland to see for himself the state
of things. Upon his return to England he began writing
_The Landleaguers_. He made a second journey to Ireland
in August, 1882, to seek more material for his book. He
returned to England exhausted, but he continued writing.
He had almost completed the book when he suffered a stroke
on November 3, 1882. He never recovered, and he died on
December 6.
Trollope's second son, Henry, arranged for publication of
the almost finished novel. The reader should note Henry
Trollope's preface to Volume I and Postscript at the end
of the book.
Readers familiar with Trollope's early Irish novels
will be struck, as they read _The Landleaguers_, by his
bitterness at what was happening in Ireland in 1881 and
1882.
THE LANDLEAGUERS
by
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
In Three Volumes--VOL. I.
London
Chatto & Windus, Piccadilly
1883
[All rights reserved]
Charles Dickens and Evans,
Crystal Palace Press.
CONTENTS
Chapter
I. MR. JONES OF CASTLE MORONY.
II. THE MAN IN THE MASK.
III. FATHER BROSNAN.
IV. MR. BLAKE OF CARNLOUGH.
V. MR. O'MAHONY AND HIS DAUGHTER.
VI. RACHEL AND HER LOVERS.
VII. BROWN'S.
VIII. CHRISTMAS-DAY, 1880.
IX. BLACK DALY.
X. BALLYTOWNGAL.
XI. MOYTUBBER.
XII. "DON'T HATE HIM, ADA."
XIII. EDITH'S ELOQUENCE.
XIV. RACHEL'S CORRESPONDENCE.
XV. CAPTAIN YORKE CLAYTON.
XVI. CAPTAIN CLAYTON COMES TO THE CASTLE.
NOTE.
This novel was to have contained sixty chapters. My father had
written as much as is now published before his last illness. It will
be seen that he had not finished the forty-ninth chapter; and the
fragmentary portion of that chapter stands now just as he left it.
He left no materials from which the tale could be completed, and no
attempt at completion will be made. At the end of the third volume I
have stated what were his intentions with regard to certain people in
the story; but beyond what is there said I know nothing.
HENRY M. TROLLOPE.
THE LANDLEAGUERS.
CHAPTER I.
MR. JONES OF CASTLE MORONY.
In the year 1850 the two estates of Ballintubber and Morony were sold
to Mr. Philip Jones, under the Estates Court, which had then been
establish | 1,206.201309 |
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FIVE MINUTE STORIES
[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and
italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.]
Books by Laura E. Richards
=STEPPING WESTWARD=
This charming autobiography by the daughter of Julia
Ward Howe and Samuel Gridley Howe is replete with
amusing anecdotes and portraits, especially of famous
literary figures of Boston. It epitomizes a long and
useful life. Illustrated. $3.00
=FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE=
The absorbing story of “The Angel of the Crimea” told
by the daughter of the person most responsible for
encouraging Miss Nightingale to become a nurse. $1.75
=JOAN OF ARC=
The stirring life and pathetic death of Domremy’s
girlish heroine, who once saved France and today
inspires it. $2.00
=ELIZABETH FRY=
The true story of Elizabeth Fry, the famous Quakeress,
who through extraordinary zeal revolutionized the
English prison system and was known as the “Angel of
the Prisons.” $1.75
ABIGAIL ADAMS AND HER TIMES
A biography of the interesting and active wife of
John Adams, based | 1,206.203298 |
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Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.
MRS. WIGGS OF THE CABBAGE PATCH
BY
ALICE CALDWELL HEGAN
NEW YORK.. MCMII
Copyright, 1901, by
THIS LITTLE STORY IS
LOVINGLY DEDICATED
TO MY MOTHER, WHO
FOR YEARS HAS BEEN
THE GOOD ANGEL OF
"THE CABBAGE PATCH"
CONTENTS
MRS. WIGGS'S PHILOSOPHY
WAYS AND MEANS
THE "CHRISTMAS LADY"
THE ANNEXATION OF CUBY
A REMINISCENCE
A THEATER PARTY
"MR. BOB"
MRS. WIGGS AT HOME
HOW SPRING CAME TO THE CABBAGE PATCH
AUSTRALIA'S MISHAP
THE BENEFIT DANCE
MRS. WIGGS OF THE CABBAGE PATCH
CHAPTER I
MRS. WIGGS'S PHILOSOPHY
"In the mud and scum of things
Something always always sings!"
"MY, but it's nice an' cold this mornin'! The thermometer's done
fell up to zero!"
Mrs. Wiggs made the statement as cheerfully as if her elbows were
not sticking out through the boy's coat that she wore, or her teeth
chattering in her head like a pair of castanets. But, then, Mrs.
Wiggs was a philosopher, and the sum and substance of her philosophy
lay in keeping the dust off her rose- spectacles. When Mr.
Wiggs traveled to eternity by the alcohol route, she buried his
faults with him, and for want of better virtues to extol she always
laid stress on the fine hand he wrote. It was the same way when
their little country home burned and she had to come to the city to
seek work; her one comment was: "Thank God, it was the pig instid of
the baby that was burned!"
So this bleak morning in December she pinned the bed-clothes around
the children and made them sit up close to the stove, while she
pasted brown paper over the broken window-pane and made sprightly
comments on the change in the weather.
The Wiggses lived in the Cabbage Patch. It was not a real cabbage
patch, but a queer neighborhood, where ramshackle cottages played
hop-scotch over the railroad tracks. There were no streets, so when
a new house was built the owner faced it any way his fancy prompted.
Mr. Bagby's grocery, it is true, conformed to convention, and
presented a solid front to the railroad track, but Miss Hazy's
cottage shied off sidewise into the Wiggses' yard, as if it were
afraid of the big freight-trains that went thundering past so many
times a day; and Mrs. Schultz's front room looked directly into the
Eichorns' kitchen. The latter was not a bad arrangement, however,
for Mrs. Schultz had been confined to her bed for ten years, and her
sole interest in life consisted in watching what took place in her
neighbor's family.
The Wiggses' house was the most imposing in the neighborhood. This
was probably due to the fact that it had two front doors and a tin
roof. One door was nailed up, and the other opened outdoors, but you
would never guess it from the street. When the country house burned,
one door had been saved. So Mrs. Wiggs and the boys brought it to
the new home and skilfully placed it at the front end of the side
porch. But the roof gave the house its chief distinction; it was the
only tin roof in the Cabbage Patch. Jim and Billy had made it of old
cans which they picked up on the commons.
Jim was fifteen and head of the family; his shoulders were those of
a man, and were bent with work, but his body dwindled away to a pair
of thin legs that seemed incapable of supporting the burden imposed
upon them. In his anxious eyes was the look of a bread-winner who
had begun the struggle too soon. Life had been a tragedy to Jim: the
tragedy that comes when a child's sensitive soul is forced to meet
the responsibilities of manhood, yet lacks the wisdom that only
experience can bring.
Billy Wiggs was differently constituted; responsibilities rested
upon him as lightly as the freckles on his nose. When occasion or
his mother demanded he worked to good purposes with a tenacity that
argued well for his future success, but for the most part he played
and fought and got into trouble with the aptitude characteristic of
the average small boy.
It was Mrs. Wiggs's boast that her three little girls had geography
names; first came Asia, then Australia. When the last baby arrived,
Billy had stood looking down at the small bundle and asked
anxiously: "Are you goin' to have it fer a boy or a girl, ma?" Mrs.
Wiggs had answered: "A girl, Billy, an' her name's Europena!"
On this particular Sunday morning Mrs. Wiggs bustled about the
kitchen in unusual haste.
"I am goin' to make you all some nice Irish pertater soup fer
dinner," she said, as she came in from the parlor, where she kept
her potatoes and onions. "The boys'll be in soon, an' we'll have
to hurry and git through 'fore the childern begin to come to
Sunday-school."
For many years Sunday afternoon had been a trying time in the
neighborhood, so Mrs. Wiggs had organized a Sunday-school class at
which she presided.
"If there don't come Chris an' Pete a'ready!" said Asia, from her
post by the stove; "I bet they've had their dinner, an' jes' come
early to git some of ours!"
"Why, Asia!" exclaimed Mrs. Wiggs, "that ain't hospit'le, an' Chris
with one leg, too! 'T ain't no trouble at all. All I got to do is to
put a little more water in the soup, an' me and Jim won't take but
one piece of bread."
When Jim and Billy came in they found their places at the table
taken, so they sat on the floor and drank their soup out of
tea-cups.
"Gee!" said Billy, after the third help, "I've drinken so much that
when I swallers a piece er bread I can hear it splash!"
"Well, you boys git up now, an' go out and bring me in a couple of
planks to put acrost the cheers fer the childern to set on."
By two o 'clock the Sunday-school had begun; every seat in the
kitchen, available and otherwise, was occupied. The boys sat in the
windows and on the table, and the girls squeezed together on the
improvised benches. Mrs. Wiggs stood before them with a dilapidated
hymn-book in her hand.
"Now, you all must hush talking so we kin all sing a hymn; I'll
read it over, then we'll all sing it together.
'When upon life's billers you are tempest tossed,
When you are discouraged thinking all is lost,
Count yer many blessin's, name 'em one by one,
An' it will surprise you what the Lord hath done!'"
Clear and strong rose the childish voices in different keys and
regardless of time, but with a genuine enthusiasm that was in itself
a blessing. When they had sung through the three stanzas Mrs. Wiggs
began the lesson.
"What did we study 'bout last Sunday?" she asked.
No response, save a smothered giggle from two of the little girls.
"Don't you all remember what the Lord give Moses up on the
mountain?"
A hand went up in the corner, and an eager voice cried:
"Yas'm, I know! Lord give Moses ten tallers, an' he duveled 'em."
Before Mrs. Wiggs could enter into an argument concerning this new
version of sacred history, she was hit in the eye with a paper wad.
It was aimed at Billy, but when he dodged she became the victim.
This caused some delay, for she had to bathe the injured member, and
during the interval the Sunday-school became riotous.
"Mith Wiggs, make Tommy thop thpittin' terbaccer juice in my hat!"
"Miss Wiggs, I know who hit you!"
"Teacher, kin I git a drink?"
It was not until Mrs. Wiggs, with a stocking tied over her eye,
emerged from the bedroom and again took command that order was
restored.
"Where is Bethlehem?" she began, reading from an old lesson | 1,206.302117 |
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Produced by Clare Boothby, Clare Elliott and the Online
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The Tudor Facsimile Texts
The Tragedy of
Dido Queen of Carthage
Written by
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE and THOMAS NASH
1594
_Date of this the earliest known edition_.... 1594
[_Bodleian_]
_Reproduced in Facsimile_.... 1914
The Tudor Facsimile Texts
_Under the Supervision and Editorship of_
JOHN S. FARMER
The Tragedy of
Dido Queen of Carthage
Written by
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE and THOMAS NASH
1594
_Issued for Subscribers by the Editor of_
THE TUDOR FACSIMILE TEXTS
MCMXIV
The Tragedy of
Dido Queen of Carthage
Written by CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE and THOMAS NASH
1594
_This play is facsimiled from the Bodley copy. Other examples
(says Sir Sidney Lee, but unrecorded by Greg) are at Bridgewater
House and at Chatsworth; the Devonshire Collection of Plays has
recently been disposed of to an American collector_.
_For other and bibliographical details see D.N.B. I have
included in this facsimile the page of manuscript in the Bodley
example inasmuch as it contains matter of interest to the
student._
_The reproduction from the original was made by The Clarendon
Press, Oxford_.
_JOHN S. FARMER_.
[Transcriber's Note: The following paragraphs have been
transcribed from a handwritten page. Some text is illegible, and
this has been marked with asterisks where appropriate.]
The tragedy of _Dido_ is one of the scarcest plays in the English
language. There are but two copies known to be extant; in the
possession of D^r Wright and M^r Reed.
M^r Warton speaks in his _Hist. of Eng. Poet_ (III. p. 435) of an
Elegy being prefixed to it on the death of Marlowe; but no such
is found in either of those copies. In answer to my inquiries on
this subject he informed me by letter, [crossed-out text] that a
copy of this play was in Osborne's catalogue in the year 1754,
that he then saw it in his shop (together with several of M^r
Oldys's books that Osborne had purchased), + that the elegy in
question--"on Marlowe's untimely death" was inserted immediately
after the title page; that it mentioned a play of Marlowe's
entitled _The Duke of Guise_ and four others; but whether
particularly by _name_, he could not recollect. Unluckily he did
not purchase this rare piece, + it is now God knows where.
Bishop Tanner likewise mentions this elegy in so particular a
manner that he must have seen it. "Marlovius (Christopherus),
quondam in academia Cantabrigiensi musarum alumnus; postea actor
scenicus; deinde poeta dramaticus tragicus, paucis inferior
Scripsit plurimas tragedias, sc. Tamerlane.-Tragedie of Dido
Queen of Carthage. Pr. Come gentle Ganymed. Hanc perfecit +
edidit Tho. Nash Lond. 1594. 4^to.--Petrarius in praefatione ad
Secundam partem Herois et Leandri multa in Marlovii
commendationem adfert; hoc etiam facit Tho. Nash in _Carmine
Elegiaco Tragidiae Didonis praefiso in obitum Christop. Marlovii_,
ubi quatuor ejus tragidiarum mentionem facit, nec non et alterius
_de duce Guisio_." _Bib. Britan._ 1740.
I suspect M^r Warton had no other authority than | 1,207.40305 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "An' the bridal couple 'd be holdin' hands an' gazin'
over the spanker-boom at the full moon." [Page 242.]]
RUNNING FREE
BY
JAMES B. CONNOLLY
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
NEW YORK ::::::::::::::::::::: 1917
COPYRIGHT, 1913, 1915, 1917, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published September, 1917
COPYRIGHT, 1912, 1913, 1917, BY P. F. COLLIER & SON, INCORPORATED
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
CONTENTS
The Strategists
The Weeping Annie
The Bull-Fight
A Bale of Blankets
Breath o' Dawn
Peter Stops Ashore
The Sea-Birds
The Medicine Ship
One Wireless Night
Dan Magee: White Hope
ILLUSTRATIONS
"An' the bridal couple'd be holdin' hands an' gazin' over the
spanker-boom at the full moon" Frontispiece
"All stand clear of the main entrance"
"It was drive, drive, drive, from midnight to daylight"
It took till the daylight was all but gone before I knocked him down
for the last time
"You doubted my courage, maybe?" I asked
"'Quiscanto vascamo mirajjar,' which is Yunzano for 'I am satisfied, I
can now die happy'"
The Strategists
I arrived in Santacruz in the early evening, and as I stepped out of
the carriage with the children the majordomo came rushing out from
under the hotel portales and said: "Meesus Trench, is it? Your suite
awaits, madam. The Lieutenant Trench from the American warship has
ordered, madam."
There was a girl, not too young, sitting over at a small table, and at
the name Trench, pronounced in the round voice of the majordomo,
she--well, she was sitting by herself, smoking a cigarette, and I did
not know why she should smile and look at me--in just that way, I mean.
But I can muster some poise of manner myself when I choose--I looked at
her. And she looked me over and smiled again. And I did not like that
smile. It was as if--as Ned would say--she had something on me.
She and I were to be enemies--already I saw that. She was making smoke
rings, and she never hurried the making of a single one of them as she
looked at me; nor did I hurry a particle the ushering of the two
children and the maid into the hotel. But I did ask, after I had
greeted Nan and her mother inside: "Auntie--or you, Nan--who is the
oleander blossom smoking the cigarette out under the portales?"
It spoke volumes to me that Nan and her mother, without looking, at
once knew whom I meant. She was the Carmen Whiffle of whom nearly
every other American woman waiting to be taken home on the next
transport had been whispering--and not always whispering--for weeks in
Santacruz.
Nan, of course, had a good word for her. Is there a living creature on
earth she wouldn't? "I think she is wonderfully good-looking," said
Nan.
"No woman with a jaw like that," said Nan's mother, "can be
good-looking. And she sat at the piano there early this evening and
raved over the 'Melody in F'; but when she tried to play it, it was
with fingers of wood. What she really did play with spirit,
Nettie--when she thought there were none of us American women around to
hear her--was: 'I Want What I Want When I Want _It_.'"
Auntie went on to tell then how this creature was a divorcee who had
married an oil millionaire and within six months got her second divorce
and a half-million alimony out of him. And as a baby she was
christened--not Carmen, but Hannah! "Now, what's the psychology,
Nettie," said auntie, "of a woman who changes her name from Hannah to
Carmen? She wants what she wants when she wants it--and she'll come
pretty near getting it, Nettie. If I had a husband within a thousand
miles of her, I'd lock him up."
You may understand from the foregoing that Mrs. Wedner--Nan's
mother--is a woman of convictions; and so she is. The Lady with the
Wallop is what Ned tells me the men folks call her. But I am not
without convictions myself.
"I have a husband within a thousand miles of her," I said, "and if you
mean that for me, auntie, I won't lock him up--not even if he were the
to-be-locked-up kind. When I can't hold my man, auntie, against any
specimen of her species, I won't call in the police to help me. And I
think I'll give her another look-over before the evening is ended."
"Don't bother your head with her," said auntie. "And sit down and have
something to eat." And we did have something to eat, but up-stairs in
my suite.
The children and I were eating, and Nan and auntie were giving me all
the gossip since I'd seen them last, when the maid came in to say that
the trunk with the children's things in it hadn't been sent up with the
others. There's no use leaving such things to a maid in those
countries--I went down to see about it myself; and there it was, as I
expected, lying in the lobby where a lazy porter hadn't yet got around
to it.
I told the fat majordomo a thing or two, and the trunk was soon on its
upward way; and then--as I was down-stairs--I thought to take a glance
about to see if anybody I knew had arrived in the meantime. You must
remember that American refugees were coming in from the interior on
every train, the revolutionary general Podesta being expected to enter
the city almost any day--or hour.
I saw the back of a man's head, and I said to myself: "If that isn't
Larry Trench's head as anything on earth can be!"--the shapely,
overhanging back head and the uncrushable hair that went with it.
There was a row of palmettos in tubs, and I walked around to make
certain. It was Larry. And he was with a young woman. And the young
woman was Carmen Whiffle, and her heavy-lashed agate eyes were gazing
into the steady, deep-set, blue-green eyes of Larry. One look was all
I needed to know what that lady's intentions were in the present case.
"So!" I said to myself--"that's what you meant when you smiled at the
name Trench? Perhaps you thought Larry was my husband!"
Now, I hadn't seen a single officer or man of our ships on my way from
the station, nor while I had been down-stairs with Nan and auntie
earlier. Which was significant in itself, for a fleet of our
battleships were anchored in the harbor, my Ned's among them. I looked
around now. No, there wasn't one officer of ours in the dining-room,
nor in the plaza outside. So what was Larry, a young officer of our
marine corps, doing all by himself ashore?
And Larry was my Ned's young brother and my own little Neddo's
godfather, and long ago I had decided that Larry should marry my own
chum and cousin Nan, the very best girl that ever lived. And--well, if
ever a woman looked like the newspaper photographs of the other woman
of a dozen celebrated cases, Carmen Whiffle was that woman.
I stood there at the end of that row of palmettos, hesitating; and
while I hesitated the orchestra struck up, and I saw the lady lead
Larry out for a dance.
I did not have to see Carmen Whiffle dance to know that she could
dance. If they never learn to do anything else on earth, women of her
kind do learn to dance. All women who have men in their minds learn to
dance. She could dance. If I had never seen her lift a toe off the
floor, the lines of her figure were there to prove that she could
dance. But she lifted her toe. More than her toe. She danced--I have
to give her credit for it--with grace; and after she warmed up to it,
not only with grace but with abandon; with so much abandon that all the
other women who were trying to dance with abandon ceased their feeble
efforts and stood against the wall to watch her.
After that dance Carmen Whiffle never had another chance with me. I
almost ran up to my room. Little Anna was already asleep; but Neddo,
aged six, was wide-awake. Nan and her mother had gone to their room,
which was across the hall on the same floor.
"Neddo, dear, do you know your uncle Larry is down-stains?" I asked him.
"Oh-h, mummie!" he cried, and came leaping out of his cot bed. "I must
see him, mummie!"
"I'm going to let you go down-stairs all by yourself, Neddo, and see
him. And then be sure to bring him up here, to have a look at sister.
And then be sure to take him to the balcony at the end of the hallway
and tell him to draw the lattices and wait there. It's to be a
surprise, Neddo, tell him; but not a single word more than that."
I waited two minutes or so, and then followed Neddo. I was in time to
see Neddo throw himself at Larry, and wrap his arms around his neck and
smother him with kisses. "Uncle Larry! O Uncle Larry! Come and see
who's up-stairs! No telling, you know!"
From where I was, on the screened balcony overlooking the
lounging-room, I needed no ship's spy-glass to read the suspicion in
Carmen Whiffle's eyes when she looked at little Neddo. I do believe
she could even suspect that innocent, affectionate child with playing a
game.
The tears were in Larry's eyes. "My godson, my brother's boy," he
explained. "If you don't mind my running away for a few minutes, Miss
Whiffle, I'll hurry back. I'll explain to Neddo's mother that you are
waiting and hurry right back."
"Don't explain anything," said Miss Whiffle, just a bit tartly. "Never
mind any explaining, but come back as soon as you can. I shall be
waiting here."
Are you at all given to the habit of fancying in human beings the
resemblance to different kinds of birds and beasts? Looking down on
Carmen Whiffle just then, I could see where, if her well-cushioned
features were chiselled away, she would look startlingly like a hawk.
I may be unjust, I know, but I was thinking of more than one thing just
then. I was thinking of what I read in Carmen Whiffle's glance and
smile at me when I passed under the portales of that hotel that
evening. A devoted, slavish wife and mother was what she was thinking
I was; and possibly I am. But women of her kind are altogether too
quick to think that the devoted wife and mother hasn't any brains.
And more than all the brains in the world is the wisdom that comes of
knowing men. Carmen Whiffle may have known several men in her day; but
if she did it was to know them incompletely; and to know any number of
men incompletely is never truly to know any one, while to know one man
well is to know many. And when that one in my case was Larry's own
brother, why, I wasn't worrying over a battle with Carmen Whiffle,
superbly equipped though she doubtless thought herself.
Ned and his brother Larry were natively pretty much alike; but my Ned
was trained early in a rigid profession and early assumed the
responsibilities of marriage and a home; and--he told me so more than
once--so saved himself more than one drift to leeward. It is no gain
for us women to dodge facts in this life. To a man with a conscience,
a wife and two children are better than many windward anchors, as Ned
would say. Larry was Ned, minus the wife and two children, and plus a
little more of youth and the not yet, perhaps, disciplined Trench
temperament.
And for every child a woman bears mark her up a decade of years in
human wisdom. And twice a decade in hardening resolution. It had
already become marble in me--my resolution to save from the talons of
this hawk this brother of my Ned's--a twenty-five-year-old man of war
according to stupid bureau files, but in reality a little child playing
in the garden of life with never a thought of any bird of prey hovering
in the air above him.
I watched Larry go bounding up the wide staircase with Neddo, and then
I waited long enough for them to get well out of sight ahead; for Neddo
to lead his uncle up the second flight, to show him baby in her bed
asleep; and Larry--I could picture him--time to stoop over and kiss the
dear, warm, plump little face.
"And now you must hide--I'll show you, Uncle Larry--till mummie comes,"
said Neddo, and led him back to the hall and onto the balcony, which
looked down on the patio of the hotel. And there Neddo left him, after
closing him in behind the lattice, as I had told him.
I then went to get Nan, who had been sentenced to read her mother to
sleep with something out of Trollope. Nan's mother carried volumes of
Trollope with her as other women carry hot-water bottles. Twenty
minutes of dear old Trollope and she was good for her eight hours'
sleep, she would say, as she did now; but this time without keeping Nan
twenty minutes.
"Nettie, the way you go around commandeering people, you ought to be a
general in the army," said auntie, but with perfect good nature. "Go
along with her, Nan."
I led Nan to where Neddo was waiting in his crib. "Did you tell Cousin
Nan yet, mummie?" asked Neddo in what he thought was a whisper.
"Tell me what, Neddo?" asked Nan.
"Neddo!" I said, and raised a finger. "Sh-h, Neddo!" and Neddo sh-h-d,
and I led Nan into the hall. "I'm dying to have a talk with you," I
whispered to Nan--"out here, where Neddo won't be kept awake and the
maid won't hear us."
And so, just when Larry was, no doubt, thinking of breaking out of his
hiding-place, he heard a door in the hall open, and through the slats
of the lattice saw two women's shadowy forms tiptoeing down the hall
toward his balcony.
Nan went straight to the lattice. "Let's let the air in, Nettie."
"No, no, Nan," I cried, "don't throw open the lattice!"
"Why not?" she asked, her hands on the latch.
"Flying things! Tropical night-birds! Bats!"
"Bats! Ugh-h-h!" cried Nan, and let the lattice alone.
"Let's sit here," I said, setting our chairs almost against the
lattice. Larry could not escape then if he wanted to, because it was a
twenty-foot drop onto a lot of marble vases or the spiked edges of some
cactus plants, and more than a twenty-foot drop to a marble walk or
into the depths of some kind of a spouting fountain in the patio.
He had to stay, and, being an officer and a gentleman, of course, he
was trying not to hear; but the lattice slats were loose-fitting and we
were sitting not two feet from them.
"Where did you hear of Larry last, Nan?" I began.
"Oh," said Nan, "I've been getting mamma to take all kinds of trips,
Nettie, and every trip with the one idea of seeing Larry somewhere.
Wherever I thought any of our war-ships came, there I'd specially get
mamma to go. I can draw a map of this coast-line with all its ports in
their proper places with my eyes shut. And the places in the different
ports I've peeked into, Nettie!--knowing how curious Larry always was
to see everything going on and hoping to run across him in that way. I
even got mamma to go to a bull-fight last Sunday."
"A bull-fight, Nan!" I said.
"Why not?" retorted Nan. "In our country we have prize-fights. And
which is worse--for men to maul beasts or to maul each other?"
"I know, Nan, but women who have seen them----"
"I know, Nettie--and their writing articles of the horror of it, but
always after they've satisfied their curiosity. The curse of our
training to-day, Nettie, is hypocrisy."
Which was just like Nan--straight from the shoulder! But we just have
to restrain those headstrong ones. "I wouldn't call it hypocrisy
altogether, Nan," I said.
"What else is it? And what else was it when every old hen in our town
went cackling from one house to another when the papers published that
story about Larry losing so much money at cards one night? And some of
these same women not able to afford a second maid and even doing their
own fine laundering in secret--some of them playing afternoon bridge,
Nettie, for a half of a cent a point, and all kinds of signalling to
win. It just makes me sick. How do we know how many of them wouldn't
gamble away ten thousand dollars in one night if they had it?"
And just then I heard "That's you, Nan!" in Larry's fervent voice, from
behind the lattice.
Nan leaped up. I could feel her heart beating when she fell against
me. "Did you hear that, Nettie?"
"I did hear something," I said--"a word from one of the cooks or maids
down-stairs it must have been. They take the air in the patio of an
evening when their work is done. Remember, voices carry far in the
tropics--especially when it is damp."
"I never knew that, Nettie," said innocent Nan--"that voices carry
farther in the tropics. And I'm sure it is clear and lovely out." And
she stood up to look through the lattice.
Now, the best defense to an attack, Ned always told me, is another
attack; so "But Larry did drink too much that time, Nan," I said.
"Why, Nettie Trench--from you!" cried Nan, and plumped back into her
chair. "When did he drink too much? Just once--when he knew so little
of wine that he had no idea how much would upset him. The trouble was
that poor Larry never knew how to hide anything he ever did. No
hypocrisy in him at any rate. And I'd a good deal rather have a man
who did what Larry did, and own to it and be sorry right out, than a
man that you never know when he is lying to you or not, or what he is
likely to be doing when he is out of sight. And he gave me his promise
in a letter that he would never touch another card or drink another
glass of wine until I said he might. Mother wouldn't let me answer the
letter. And he guessed how it was, and I don't blame him for writing
her as he did. Mamma was too harsh. She paid too much attention to
town gossip, and I told her that. And she said: 'I think, Nan, a
little travelling and discipline won't hurt you one bit'; and then
Larry went and got his appointment to the marine corps, thinking there
might be a war and some fighting for him down in this country."
Now, I always have held that women, even as men of any account, are
never so attractive as when they throw aside all affectation and stand
forth just as they are--that is, if they're wholesome and good to begin
with; and no surer way to hold the right kind of a boy to the line than
to let him know that the right girl has never lost faith in him. But
Nan was holding forth altogether too bravely--with the boy in the case
so handy. A few little reservations--a few--at this particular time, I
thought, would do no harm. And so "Sh-h, Nan!" I warned.
"I won't sh-h, Nettie Trench. It's so and you know it. I hate
superior people, Nettie. Father always did, too. And you know how he
liked Larry. Dear papa! One night, Nettie--I was never so
surprised--mamma all at once began to cry--imagine mamma crying! She
was crying for papa, who had to die, she said, before she could
appreciate the gentleness and warm heart that was in him. And papa
always said that no kind of people go further to the bad than those who
really think they're better than others. He used to say that such
beasts, for their punishment, ought to be forced to herd by themselves."
I believe in what Nan said myself, but also, thinking of the wily woman
waiting below, I decided that a little chastening of the spirit of
rebellious girlhood would now be in order. So I said: "But a long
record of the human race, Nan, proves that if we do not intend to try
to be better than the people we happen to be with, then we ought to
take care whom we are with."
"You and your sermons!" exclaimed Nan. "Nettie, dear, talk _with_ me,
not _at_ me. Oh, Nettie"--Nan threw herself on my shoulders--"I never
had a chance to tell him I'm not mad with him. And I'm afraid he'll do
something desperate. And if they get to fighting down here, as
everybody says, he will be killed! He's that kind, Nettie--he will be
killed!"
"And isn't my Ned likely to be killed at all?" I said, beginning to get
frightened too; and then, seeing her so tearful: "But it will be all
right, dear--don't you worry."
"But, Nettie, why shouldn't a woman let a man know--or give him a hint?
'What!' says mamma to me, 'would you run after him?' But why should I
be afraid to let him know that I do care for him?"
"I don't know why not, Nan. It depends on the man, perhaps."
"Did you ever let Ned know you cared for him before he asked--did you,
Nettie?"
She was so wistful I almost forgot Larry behind the lattice, but I
caught myself in time. "I hope, Nan Wedner, you don't think I proposed
to him?"--that was with such dignity as I could quickly assume.
"But, Nettie"--she switched her head on my shoulder--"do you suppose
Ned knew, Nettie?"
"I'm afraid," I sighed--I thought of Larry listening, but I had to tell
her the truth--"he would have been dull not to guess it."
"And Ned isn't dull, is he?" said Nan.
"Ned dull! I guess not!" I said.
And while I stood with Nan tearful and discouraged against my shoulder,
I could hear the patter of the fountain tinkling up from the patio, and
the voices of men and girls, and the music of some kind of a native
instrument; and the song was of home and love by a man to a girl. And
do you know?--no matter what we think of their politics and so
on--those men down that country do seem to be able to put something
terribly sad into their voices when they sing, and somebody somewhere
has said that no man who loves but is more often sad than gay. And it
made no difference--it may have been some low-built kitchen girl he was
singing to, and he one of the hotel porters loafing on his job--not a
mite of difference. The melody of it rose up and clutched me. And Nan
clinging to me--I could feel it clutching her, too. And I knew that
for Larry behind the lattice--it was hard work staying where he was;
and as for myself--I hadn't seen my Ned in almost a year, and, thinking
of Ned and his ways, I felt all at once terribly lonesome and like
crying with Nan. And then a vision of the arrogant beauty down-stairs
came suddenly to my mind. But now without my being so afraid. It
would be safe enough now, I thought, to have Larry and Nan meet in her
presence.
"Let us go down-stairs now, Nan," I said. "We can look at the dancing.
That Miss Whiffle, they say, is a wonderful dancer."
"Yes, but let me look at the children again, Nettie," said Nan. "I
love to see them asleep. Isn't it wonderful to you, Nettie, to think
of your having children of your own--nobody else's but your own?"
"And Ned's," I said.
"Of course. You wouldn't give them up for anything, would you, Nettie,
in all the world? Why, Nettie, I'd go down on my knees and scrub
floors like the old women in the office-buildings every night of my
life in thankfulness to have such lovely little babies of my own!"
"Hush, Nan!" I said, thinking of Larry in hiding.
"And Larry, Nettie--wouldn't Larry love to have children of his own!"
Before she could say any more I hurried her away to look at the
children, and also to give Larry time to make his escape. And after
Nan had cuddled them we headed for the stairs, I wondering just how I
could let Larry see us after we got there. And while descending the
stairs we heard a rifle-shot, and another, and another, and then dozens
of shots.
"Podesta! Podesta!" we heard everybody calling out then, and the
waiters dashed from under the portales to the corner of the plaza to
see what was doing. And as we hurried downstairs we heard a
voice--Larry's voice.
"This plaza is about | 1,207.506288 |
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CONNECTICUT
WIDE-AWAKE
SONGSTER | 1,207.509382 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "HE PLACED THE CHILD UPON THE CHEST, AND HELD HIM THERE
THAT HE MIGHT NOT FALL OFF." p. 38.]
DONALBLANE OF DARIEN
BY
J. MACDONALD OXLEY,
_Author of_
"_Norman's Nugget_," "_In the Swing of the Sea_,"
_etc., etc._
_ILLUSTRATED BY W. RAINEY, R.I._
TORONTO:
THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY, LIMITED.
1902
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. BY WAY OF BEGINNING
II. DONALBLANE CARRIES HIS POINT
III. OFF TO DARIEN
IV. A RESCUE AND A RETREAT
V. ACROSS THE ATLANTIC
VI. A BRUSH WITH BUCCANEERS
VII. THE FOUNDING OF THE CITY OF DARIEN
VIII. A SUCCESSFUL EMBASSY
IX. IN PERILOUS PLIGHT
X. THE CHASE OF THE MANATEE
XI. THE MIDNIGHT ATTACK
XII. NEW YORK AND HOME
ILLUSTRATIONS
"HE PLACED THE CHILD UPON THE CHEST, AND HELD HIM THERE THAT HE
MIGHT NOT FALL OFF."................ _Frontispiece_
"'YE'VE A GREAT LIKING FOR THE SEA, THEY TELL ME, LAD,' BEGAN MR.
BLANE."
"THE RAVENING SWINE WERE GAINING UPON HIM."
"GLARING DOWN UPON HIM... THE MOST APPALLING EYES HE HAD EVER BEHELD."
"PRESENTLY RAYMON ROSE IN THE BOW, HARPOON IN HAND."
"CHANCED TO OVERHEAR A CONVERSATION WHICH MADE IT CLEAR THAT THEY HAD
DESIGNS UPON MR. PATERSON'S LIFE."
DONALBLANE OF DARIEN.
CHAPTER I.
BY WAY OF BEGINNING.
It was not just an ordinary sort of name, but one of those which made
you think "thereby hangs a tale." In this case the thought goes to the
mark, and the tale in question will be told after a fashion in the
following pages.
At the outset a quick glance back to times long past is necessary in
order to a fair start, and without a fair start it were hardly worth
going ahead.
As the seventeenth century drew to its close there came into prominence
in England a remarkable Scotsman named William Paterson, among whose
notable achievements was having a large share in the founding of the
Bank of England, which subsequently grew to be the greatest monetary
institution in the world.
He was a member of the board of directors at the opening of the bank,
but appears to have sold out not long after, and with his money in hand
to have looked about him for some way of investing it that would be for
the public good.
Now, these were the days of vexatious monopolies and irritating
restrictions in commerce. The trade of Britain with the distant parts
of the globe was divided between two great grasping corporations--the
East India Company and the African Company--which, although they were
at deadly enmity with each other, heartily co-operated in crushing
every free-trader who dared to intrude within the elastic limits of
their "spheres of action."
William Paterson was an ardent free-trader, and he became inspired with
the noble mission of freeing commerce from the hurtful restraints laid
upon it by short-sighted selfishness. With a keenness of instinct that
makes it easy to understand his previous success, he surveyed the then
known world and put his finger upon the spot best suited for the
carrying out of his beneficent design.
The Isthmus of Panama, or Darien, is, beyond a doubt, one of the most
interesting, as it is certain yet to be one of the most important bits
of terra firma on this | 1,208.402418 |
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http://www.pgdp.net
WERWOLVES
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
SOME HAUNTED HOUSES OF ENGLAND AND WALES
THE HAUNTED HOUSES OF LONDON
SCOTTISH GHOST TALES
BYEWAYS OF GHOSTLAND
GHOSTLY PHENOMENA
THE REMINISCENCES OF MRS. E. M. WARD
WERWOLVES
BY
ELLIOTT O'DONNELL
METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
_First Published in 1912_
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. WHAT IS A WERWOLF? 1
II. WERWOLF METAMORPHOSIS COMPARED WITH OTHER BRANCHES OF
LYCANTHROPY 20
III. THE SPIRITS OF WERWOLVES 44
IV. HOW TO BECOME A WERWOLF 55
V. WERWOLVES AND EXORCISM 71
VI. THE WERWOLF IN THE BRITISH ISLES 92
VII. THE WERWOLF IN FRANCE 110
VIII. WERWOLVES AND VAMPIRES AND GHOULS 126
IX. WERWOLVES IN GERMANY 143
X. A LYCANTHROPOUS BROOK IN THE HARZ MOUNTAINS; OR, THE
CASE OF THE COUNTESS HILDA VON BREBER 161
XI. WERWOLVES IN AUSTRIA-HUNGARY AND THE BALKAN PENINSULA 174
XII. THE WERWOLF IN SPAIN 194
XIII. THE WERWOLF IN BELGIUM AND THE NETHERLANDS 212
XIV. THE WERWOLVES AND MARAS OF DENMARK 225
XV. WERWOLVES IN NORWAY AND SWEDEN 236
XVI. WERWOLVES IN ICELAND, LAPLAND, AND FINLAND 256
XVII. THE WERWOLF IN RUSSIA AND SIBERIA 270
WERWOLVES
CHAPTER I
WHAT IS A WERWOLF?
What is a werwolf? To this there is no one very satisfactory reply.
There are, indeed, so many diverse views held with regard to the nature
and classification of werwolves, their existence is so keenly disputed,
and the subject is capable of being regarded from so many standpoints,
that any attempt at definition in a restricted sense would be well-nigh
impossible.
The word werwolf (or werewolf) is derived from the Anglo-Saxon _wer_,
man, and _wulf_, wolf, and has its equivalents in the German _Waehrwolf_
and French _loup-garou_, whilst it is also to be found in the languages,
respectively, of Scandinavia, Russia, Austria-Hungary, the Balkan
Peninsula, and of certain of the countries of Asia and Africa; from
which it may be concluded that its range is pretty well universal.
Indeed, there is scarcely a country in the world in which belief in a
werwolf, or in some other form of lycanthropy, has not once existed,
though it may have ceased to exist now. But whereas in some countries
the werwolf is considered wholly physical, in others it is looked upon
as partly, if not entirely, superphysical. And whilst in some countries
it is restricted to the male sex, in others it is confined to the
female; and, again, in others it is to be met with in both sexes.
Hence, when asked to describe a werwolf, or what is generally
believed to be a werwolf, one can only say that a werwolf is an
anomaly--sometimes man, sometimes woman (or in the guise of man or
woman); sometimes adult, sometimes child (or in the guise of
such)--that, under certain conditions, possesses the property of
metamorphosing into a wolf, the change being either temporary or
permanent.
This, perhaps, expresses most of what is general concerning werwolves.
For more particular features, upon which I will touch later, one must
look to locality and time.
Those who are sceptical with regard to the existence of the werwolf, and
refuse to accept, as proof of such existence, the accumulated testimony
of centuries, attribute the origin of the belief in the phenomenon
merely to an insane delusion, which, by reason of its novelty, gained a
footing and attracted followers.
Humanity, they say, has ever been the same; and any fresh idea--no
matter how bizarre or monstrous, so long as it is monstrous enough--has
always met with support and won credence.
In favour of this argument it is pointed out that in many of the cases
of persons accused of werwolfery, tried in France, and elsewhere, in the
middle of the sixteenth century, when belief in this species of
lycanthropy was at its zenith, there was an extraordinary readiness
among the accused to confess, and even to give circumstantial evidence
of their own metamorphosis; and that this particular form of
self-accusation at length became so popular among the leading people in
the land, that the judicial court, having its suspicions awakened, and,
doubtless, fearful of sentencing so many important personages, acquitted
the majority of the accused, announcing them to be the victims of
delusion and hysteria.
Now, if it were admitted, argue these sceptics, that the bulk of
so-called werwolves were impostors, is it not reasonable to suppose that
all so-called werwolves were either voluntary or involuntary
impostors?--the latter, _i.e._, those who were not self-accused, being
falsely accused by persons whose motive for so doing was revenge. For
parallel cases one has only to refer to the trials for sorcery and
witchcraft in England. And with regard to false accusations of
lycanthropy--accusations founded entirely on hatred of the accused
person--how easy it was to trump up testimony and get the accused
convicted. The witnesses were rarely, if ever, subjected to a searching
examination; the court was always biased, and a confession of guilt,
when not voluntary--as in the case of the prominent citizen, when it was
invariably pronounced due to hysteria or delusion--could always be
obtained by means of torture, though a confession thus obtained,
needless to say, is completely nullified. Moreover, we have no record of
metamorphosis taking place in court, or before witnesses chosen for
their impartiality. On the contrary, the alleged transmutations always
occurred in obscure places, and in the presence of people who, one has
reason to believe, were both hysterical and imaginative, and therefore
predisposed to see wonders. So says this order of sceptic, and, to my
mind, he says a great deal more than his facts justify; for although
contemporary writers generally are agreed that a large percentage of
those people who voluntarily confessed they were werwolves were mere
dissemblers, there is no recorded conclusive testimony to show that all
such self-accused persons were shams and delusionaries. Besides, even
if such testimony were forthcoming, it would in nowise preclude the
existence of the werwolf.
Nor does the fact that all the accused persons submitted to the rack, or
other modes of torture, confessed themselves werwolves prove that all
such confessions were false.
Granted also that some of the charges of lycanthropy were groundless,
being based on malice--which, by the by, is no argument for the
non-existence of lycanthropy, since it is acknowledged that accusations
of all sorts, having been based on malice, have been equally
groundless--there is nothing in the nature of written evidence that
would justify one in assuming that all such charges were traceable to
the same cause, _i.e._, a malicious agency. Neither can one dismiss the
testimony of those who swore they were actual eye-witnesses of
metamorphoses, on the mere assumption that all such witnesses were
liable to hallucination or hysteria, or were hyper-imaginative.
Testimony to an event having taken place must be regarded as positive
evidence of such an occurrence, until it can be satisfactorily proved to
| 1,208.409649 |
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CAD METTI,
The Female Detective Strategist;
OR,
DUDIE DUNNE AGAIN IN THE FIELD.
BY OLD SLEUTH.
Author of all the Famous "Old Sleuth" Stories.
CHAPTER I.
TWO SKILLFUL YOUNG DETECTIVES OVERMATCH A BRACE OF VILLAINS AND
PROVE WHAT NERVE AND COURAGE CAN DO.
"Let's duck him and steal the girl."
A young lady and gentleman were walking on the sands at Coney Island
beach. The lady was very handsomely attired, and by her side walked a
young man, a perfect type in appearance of an effeminate dude. Three
rough-looking men had been following the lady and gentleman at a
distance, and when the latter stopped at a remote part of the beach far
from any hotel the three men held a consultation, and one of them
uttered the declaration with which we open our narrative.
As usual certain very exciting incidents led up to the scene we have
depicted. One week prior to the meeting on the beach a young detective
known as Dudie Dunne, owing to the fact that he often assumed the role
of a dude as a throw-off, was seated in a hotel smoking-room when a
shrewd-faced, athletic-looking man approached him and said:
"Hello, Dunne! I've been on the lookout for you."
"You've found me."
"I have, and I'm glad. I've got a great shadow for you."
"I am all ears, Wise."
"I want you in the government service. There is a chance for you to make
a big hit."
"I am ready to make a big hit, Wise."
"You are in a position to do it. You speak Italian, but what is better,
you have your lady pal. She is a real Italian, I am told, and one of the
bravest and brightest women that ever entered the profession."
"Some one told you that?"
"Yes."
"Whoever did so knew what they were talking about. Cad Metti is one of
the brightest women that ever entered the profession; she is a born
detective. What is the job?"
"There is a gang at work--the worst ever known. They are Italians, but
they have a contingent of American and English rogues working with them.
They are the most dangerous operators that ever organized for the
coining of base money. They are located all over the United States. They
have regular passwords. Indeed, their organization is perfect, and with
them are a number of desperate assassins, and a few beautiful women. I
can't go into all the details, but the government has appropriated a
large sum from the secret service fund. We must run down and break up
this dangerous gang."
"You have the case in hand?"
"I am directing the hunt. I have twenty of my best men on the case, and
I have trailed down to the fact that all the movements are directed from
New York. The chief men are located here, and never in the history of
criminal doings was such a dangerous lot at work."
"What points have you?"
"The only point I have is the fact that the leaders are located here in
New York."
"In what line are they working?"
"They are counterfeiting in all its branches, they are bank robbing and
burglarizing private houses. Indeed every sort of criminal appears to be
in the organization. It is not even confined to the United States. They
are sending base American money to Mexico and Cuba. The president of the
Mexican republic has sent a large sum here to aid in their capture. The
merchants of Havana have also sent on a fund."
"And you have no clues as to the identity of these people?"
"We have captured several of the gang, but that does not interrupt the
work. It's the leaders we want, and if you can get in and trail them
down it will be the biggest feather you ever wore in your cap. But let
me tell you, it's a | 1,208.69827 |
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[Illustration]
The Blue Rose Fairy Book
Maurice Baring
[Illustration: THE HOOFS OF HIS STEED LEFT BEHIND THEM A TRAIL OF
TWINKLING ANEMONES]
THE BLUE ROSE
FAIRY BOOK
BY
MAURICE BARING
[Decoration]
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1911
DEDICATED
TO
_MARY and AUBREY_
NOTE
One of these stories, "The Glass Mender," appeared first in _The
English Review_, and six of the shorter stories in _The Morning
Post_. I wish to thank the editors and proprietors concerned for
their kindness in letting me republish them. The rest of the
stories are new.
M. B.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE GLASS MENDER 1
THE BLUE ROSE 31
THE STORY OF VOX ANGELICA AND LIEBLICH GEDACHT 45
THE VAGABOND 97
THE MINSTREL 137
THE HUNCHBACK, THE POOL, AND THE MAGIC RING 151
THE SILVER MOUNTAIN 165
THE RING 179
THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER 193
THE CUNNING APPRENTICE 219
ORESTES AND THE DRAGON 233
THE WISE PRINCESS 247
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
And as he galloped through the wood, the hoofs
of his steed left behind them a trail of
twinkling anemones _Frontispiece_
One evening he was playing his one-stringed
instrument outside a dark wall _To face p._ 41
As he said this he climbed on to the manuals
and disappeared into the heart of the organ " 95
And there stood before the throng a wonderful
shining figure with wings " 133
And turning round she saw an old woman, bent
and worn, who was muttering a supplication " 139
The sun was shining on the sea and a fresh
breeze was blowing " 160
And towards the evening he emerged from the
forest and saw the hill before him shining
in the sunset " 176
Her mother, when she was walking in the
garden of the palace, found a silver horseshoe
lying on one of the paths " 181
A garment on which the month of May, and all
its flowers, was painted " 210
He changed himself into a hawk " 223
The dragon appeared, and seizing the little
Princess with its tail, flew away " 235
She went out on to the step and called out in a
loud voice, "Oh, you boisterous winds, bring
hither that same carpet on which I used to
sit in the house of my father" " 252
THE GLASS MENDER
Once upon a time there lived a King and a Queen who had one daughter
called Rainbow. When she was christened, the people of the city were
gathered together outside the cathedral, and amongst them was an old
gipsy woman. The gipsy wanted to go inside the cathedral, but the Beadle
would not let her, because he said there was no room. When the ceremony
was over, and the King and Queen walked out, followed by the Head Nurse
who carried the baby, the gipsy called out to them:
"Your daughter will be very beautiful, and as happy as the day is long,
until she sees the Spring!" And then she disappeared in the crowd.
The King and the Queen took counsel together and the King said: "That
gipsy was evidently a fairy, and what she said bodes no good."
"Yes," said the Queen, "there is only one thing to be done: Rainbow must
never see the Spring, nor even hear that there is such a thing."
So an order was issued to the whole city, that if any one should say the
word "Spring" in the presence of Princess Rainbow he would have his head
cut off. Moreover, it was settled that the Princess should never be
allowed to go outside the palace, and during the springtime she should
be kept entirely indoors.
The King and the Queen lived in a city which was on the top of a hill,
and had a wall round it, and the King's palace was in the middle of it.
In the springtime Rainbow was taken to a high tower which looked on to
the little round city, and from her window you could see the spires of
the churches, the ramparts, and the broad green plain beyond. But a
curtain made of canvas was fastened outside Rainbow's window, so that
she could see nothing, and she was not allowed to go outside her tower
until the springtime was over.
Rainbow grew up into a most beautiful Princess, with grey eyes and fair
hair, and until she was sixteen all went well, and nothing happened to
interfere with her happiness.
It was on her sixteenth birthday, which was in April, and she was
sitting alone in her room, looking at her birthday presents, when she
began to wonder for the first time why she was shut up in her tower
during three months of the year, and why a curtain was placed outside
her window, so that she could see nothing outside. Her mother and her
nurse had told her that this was done so that she might not fall ill,
and she had always believed it; but on that day, for the first time, she
began to wonder whether there might be any other reason as well. It was
a lovely Spring day, and the sun shone through the canvas curtain which
was stretched outside Rainbow's open window; a breeze came into her room
from the outside world, and Rainbow felt a great longing to tear aside
the curtain and to see what was happening out of doors.
At that very moment, a sound came into her room from the city: it was
the sound of two or three notes played on some small reed or pipe,
unlike those of any of the musical instruments she had heard in the
palace, more tuneful and more artless and more gay. As she heard the few
reedy notes of this little tune, she felt something which she had never
known before. The whole room seemed to be full of a new sunshine, and
she smelt the fragrance of the grass; she heard the blackbird whistling,
and the lark singing; she saw the apple orchards in blossom, the violets
peeping from under the leaves, the hedges covered with primroses, the
daffodils fluttering in the wind, the fern uncrumpling her new leaves,
the green <DW72>s starred with crocuses; fields of buttercups and
marigolds; forests paved with bluebells; lilac bushes; the trailing gold
of the laburnums; and the sharp green of the awakening beech-trees; and
she heard the cuckoo's note, and a thousand other unknown sounds of
meadow, wood, and stream; and before her passed the whole pageant of the
Spring, with its joyous music and its thousand and one sights.
The vision disappeared and she cried out: "Let me go into the world and
let me taste and see this wonderful new thing!"
Rainbow said nothing about her vision, either to her parents or to her
nurses, but she resolved to steal out of the palace as soon as she
could, and to see in the world what her vision had shown her; but that
very evening she fell ill, and she was obliged to go to bed. The next
day she was no better, and a week passed and she was just as ill as
ever. All the wisest physicians of the land examined her, but not one of
them could say what was the matter with her; some of them prescribed
medicines, and others strange things to eat and drink; but none of them
did her the least good. The months went by, and Rainbow was still lying
in bed, suffering from a strange malady which nobody could even find a
name for. When the Spring was past, Rainbow was borne on a couch into
the garden of the palace; but she got no better.
At last the Queen sent for a Wise Woman who lived in a wood near the
city, and asked her advice. The Wise Woman was told Rainbow's history
and what the gipsy had said, and after she had looked at Rainbow and
spoken to her, she said to the Queen:
"I understand quite well what has happened. Your daughter has seen the
Spring."
"But that's impossible," said the Queen, "for during the whole of the
Spring months she has never left her room."
"Somehow or other the Spring has reached her," said the old woman, and
then she asked Rainbow some more questions, and the end of this was that
Rainbow told her about the tune she had heard on her birthday, and the
vision she had seen.
"I knew it," said the old woman, "she heard somebody playing the
Spring's own tune, and she won't get well until she hears it again, and
even then her troubles will be far from ended." So saying the old woman
went away.
The King at once sent for the court musicians and told them to play the
Spring's Song. They fiddled, and they blew upon every kind of pipe and
flute; they beat the cymbals and struck the harp; but none of these
tunes kindled the slightest interest in Rainbow or roused her from her
listlessness. The King then issued a proclamation saying that whoever
should play the song that cured Rainbow would receive any reward he
should ask for, and even, if he wished it, his daughter's hand.
The news was spread far and wide, and people came from the four corners
of the world to play to the Princess.
First of all a lad came from the northern country, where he had slain a
huge dragon in single combat, and he said that if any one knew the Song
of Spring he did, for the birds themselves had taught it him; and when
he was shown into the Princess's room he blew a blast on his horn, so
strong that the rafters trembled, and so sweet that the palace seemed to
be full of the scent of the northern forests. But Rainbow paid no heed,
and the lad went his way.
Then an uncouth minstrel came from Greece; he had furry ears and a
pointed beard, and he played on a double pipe and he said: "I know the
Song of Spring if any one knows it, for the bees taught it me." He
breathed on his pipe and the whole room seemed to be full of the smell
of thyme, the murmur of reeds, and the drone of bees. But Rainbow paid
no heed to him, and the uncouth minstrel went his way.
Then there came a man who carried a lyre. His face was beautiful and
sad, and he said: "I know the Song of Spring if any one knows it, for I
heard it played in the happy fields." And he struck his lyre and sang a
song which was so lovely and so plaintive that the horses neighed in
their stalls, the dogs came to listen, and the trees of the garden bent
over the palace windows, and the King and the Queen and all the
courtiers wept: but Rainbow paid no heed, and the man with the lyre went
his way.
Then came a knight from over the sea, from the West Country; and he was
the most splendid knight ever seen, and he carried neither harp nor
pipe, and he said: "I know the Song of Spring if any one knows it, for
I learnt it in the forests of Tintagel:" and he sang the song that only
those who dwell in the forests of the West know, and it was a song of
love. But Rainbow paid no heed, and the knight went his way.
Then Prince Charming came from the Golden Isles and said: "I know the
Song of Spring if any one knows it, for my fairy-godmother gave me a
flute, and when I play on it the elves dance round me in a ring": and he
played a tune on his flute, and the lights and rainbows of the golden
islands seemed to twinkle in the room. But Rainbow paid no heed, so
Prince Charming went his way.
Then there came a Prince who was a changeling and who had been brought
up in Fairyland itself, and he said: "I know the Song of Spring if any
one knows it, for Proserpine, the Queen of the Fairies, herself taught
me the song she heard in the Vales of Enna, when she was picking flowers
in the Spring." And he sang of the Sicilian fields, a song of the
swallow and the corn; and the song was like a vision, and the room
seemed to be full of the sound of the southern seas; but Rainbow paid no
heed, and the changeling went his way.
Then Prince Apollo himself came from Italy with his fiddle, and he said:
"If I do not know the Song of Spring, who can know it? For my music
excels that of all mortal men."
Prince Apollo struck up a tune on his fiddle and the room was filled
with a glory; but Rainbow paid no heed, and Prince Apollo went away in a
rage, saying that the Princess had no ear.
After this people gave up the quest, for they said: "If all these great
people fail, how should we succeed?" Now it happened one day, when the
springtime came round again, that two tumblers were playing at ball in
the Princess's room to try and amuse her, and one of them in throwing,
threw the ball and broke the pane of her casement; so a glass mender was
sent for to mend the window, and there happened to be one that day just
outside the palace.
The glass mender was a youth, and his eyes were blue and his cheeks
fresh, and as he strode up the staircase to the Princess's room, he
whistled on a small glass pipe the tune that glass menders have always
whistled ever since the beginning of the world. Directly Rainbow heard
this sound, she leaped from her bed and cried out:
"That is it! I hear it, the Song of Spring!" And as the glass mender
came into the room with his basket and his tools, she said: "At last
you've come! You've cured me, and I am now quite well again."
There was no doubt about it. Rainbow from that moment was cured, and the
glass mender went to the King and claimed his reward.
At first the King was vexed that his daughter should have to wed a
humble glass mender, but he did not dare play any tricks with his
daughter's life after what had happened, for fear she should fall ill
again; and besides, Rainbow was determined to marry him, and as he was
so young, so handsome, and so well-spoken, the King told the Queen that
he was very likely a Prince in disguise.
But the glass mender made two conditions about his marriage: the first
was that he was to continue to be a wandering glass mender who earned
his living by going from city to city, and from village to village,
mending glass, and the second was that Rainbow was never to ask him
where he came from nor who were his parents, and that she should call
him Blue Eyes, nor ever ask him whether he had another name.
This convinced the King that Blue Eyes was a Prince in disguise, and the
conditions were readily agreed to, and Rainbow and Blue Eyes were
married without further delay. The King gave them each a white pony for
a wedding present and they started off on their travels.
They rode through the fields and the woods, from village to village,
sleeping now in a house and now out of doors, and for the first time in
her life Rainbow tasted and saw the Spring; and no words can tell how
happy they were: all day long Blue Eyes played a tune on his glass
pipe, and he showed Rainbow the haunts of the birds and the beasts; and
whenever they came to a village it was as though they brought the
sunshine of the morning with them, for as soon as any one looked at Blue
Eyes, they could not help being happy, and when he played on his pipe
people danced for joy. They wandered over the wide world, and they saw
every kind of country and city, and wherever they went smiling faces met
them and they made sad people happy, and happy people happier still.
When they were in the woods or meadows the birds and beasts seemed to
know Blue Eyes, and he talked with them just as if they were real
people; and the most savage beasts--wolves and bears and wild
boars--were as tame as lap-dogs when he spoke to them; and the
nightingales used to perch on Blue Eyes' shoulder in the evening, and
sing, as he rode with Rainbow through the forest; the bees and
butterflies used to fly in front of them and show them the way.
The years went by and they had a little son who was called Blue Boy,
who grew up just like his father, and talked with the birds and beasts
directly he could speak, and they were all three of them together as
happy as the day is long.
One Spring evening they arrived rather late in a wood, and after they
had made a fire and cooked their supper, Rainbow and Blue Boy went to
sleep, and Blue Eyes sat by the fire for he said he wasn't sleepy.
After Rainbow had been sleeping for a few hours she woke up with a
start. The moon had risen and the camp-fire had not yet gone out, but
the ashes were smouldering and there by the fire sat Blue Eyes. Rainbow
could see him distinctly, but he seemed to her to look different from
usual; strange, beautiful, and more like a fairy Prince than a glass
mender. Sitting with him by the fire was a lovely maiden with roses in
her hair and some ears of wheat in her hand, and a silver sickle hanging
from her girdle. They were talking together. Rainbow was so surprised
that she uttered a cry, and immediately the beautiful maiden vanished
into the wood. Blue Eyes at once went to Rainbow, but she turned over
on her side and pretended to be asleep.
The next day Blue Eyes said nothing about the strange maiden, and
Rainbow began to be jealous and sad. She tried not to think of it, but
she could not get rid of the thought that perhaps Blue Eyes loved
somebody else. The next evening they again camped out in the wood, and
Rainbow said she was tired and lay down to sleep early; but she only
pretended to go to sleep, and she was really wide awake.
As soon as Blue Eyes thought that Rainbow was asleep, he blew a note on
his glass pipe, and once more the strange maiden came out of the wood,
and she and Blue Eyes talked together in a whisper, and once more Blue
Eyes seemed to look quite different, and not at all like a glass mender,
only, as it was dark that night, Rainbow could not see him distinctly.
The next morning Blue Eyes again said nothing about the strange maiden,
and Rainbow was sadder than ever. If Blue Eyes would only explain, she
said to herself, everything would be all right. So as they were riding
through the wood, Rainbow said to him:
"I saw you in the wood last night talking to a strange maiden; and, Blue
Eyes, you looked different. I am sure now that you are not a glass
mender; and now that I have seen you talking to that strange maiden, I
shall have no peace until you tell me who you are and who she is."
"Alas, alas, alas!" said Blue Eyes. "Oh; Rainbow, why could you not
trust me? I must tell you now, whether I wish it or no, but you have
destroyed our happiness, and I shall have to leave you. My name is
Spring, and I was talking to my sister Summer; and now I shall have to
leave you, for I can only take a mortal shape as long as nobody knows
who I am."
Then Rainbow wept bitterly, and said:
"Do you mean you must leave me for ever, and that I shall never see you
again?"
"There is one hope left," said Blue Eyes. "We shall meet again if you
are able to find me. You will have to search all over the world, and you
will not find me until you recognise my look and my voice in the speech
or the look of a human being; and if you fail to recognise it, when it
is there, you will never find me at all."
"And when I recognise you either in the speech or the look of a human
being," said Rainbow, "what must I do then?"
"Then," said Blue Eyes, "you must say this:
'Blue Eyes, Blue Eyes, come back to me,
Over the hills and over the sea;
Brother of Summer, husband and friend,
Come and stay till the world shall end.'"
"But what will happen," asked Rainbow, "if I make a mistake and say the
rhyme to some one who seems to have your look and your speech, when
really they are not there?"
"If you make a mistake," said Blue Eyes, "you will never see me again."
Rainbow again began to weep bitterly. She implored Blue Eyes to forgive
her, but she no longer begged him to stay, for she knew it was useless;
and Blue Eyes kissed her and Blue Boy, and when he had said good-bye, he
leapt on to his pony and galloped off into the wood. As he galloped away
his appearance changed; his glass mender's clothes fell away from him;
instead of his blue cap, there was a crown of dew on his head, and he
was clothed with the petals of snowdrops and cowslips; he wore a rainbow
for a scarf, which fluttered in the wind; his pony changed into a white
horse with silver wings; in his hand he carried a large wand of almond
blossom, and a starling perched on his wrist. And as he galloped through
the wood, the hoofs of his steed left behind them a trail of twinkling
anemones. Thus he galloped on until he disappeared into the heart of the
forest, and | 1,208.802119 |
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Produced by David Widger
NUTS AND NUTCRACKERS
By Charles James Lever
"The world's my filbert which with my crackers I will open."
Shakespear.
"The priest calls the lawyer a cheat,
And the lawyer beknaves the | 1,208.803522 |
2023-11-16 18:37:13.3875520 | 2,235 | 8 |
E-text prepared by Adrian Mastronardi, Emmy, 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 27678-h.htm or 27678-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/7/6/7/27678/27678-h/27678-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/7/6/7/27678/27678-h.zip)
NINE LITTLE GOSLINGS.
by
SUSAN COOLIDGE,
Author of "The New Year's Bargain," "Mischief's Thanksgiving," "What
Katy Did," "What Katy Did at School."
With Illustrations.
CURLY LOCKS.
GOOSEY, GOOSEY GANDER.
LITTLE BO-PEEP.
MISTRESS MARY.
LADY BIRD.
ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE.
RIDE A COCK-HORSE.
LADY QUEEN ANNE.
UP, UP, UP, AND DOWN, DOWN, DOWN-Y.
[Illustration]
Boston:
Roberts Brothers.
1893.
Copyright, 1875.
By Roberts Brothers.
[Illustration]
University Press. John Wilson & Son,
Cambridge.
_When nursery lamps are veiled, and nurse is singing
In accents low,
Timing her music to the cradle's swinging,
Now fast, now slow,--_
_Singing of Baby Bunting, soft and furry
In rabbit cloak,
Or rock-a-byed amid the toss and flurry
Of wind-swept oak;_
_Of Boy-Blue sleeping with his horn beside him,
Of my son John,
Who went to bed (let all good boys deride him)
With stockings on;_
_Of sweet Bo-Peep following her lambkins straying;
Of Dames in shoes;
Of cows, considerate,'mid the Piper's playing,
Which tune to choose;_
_Of Gotham's wise men bowling o'er the billow,
Or him, less wise,
Who chose rough bramble-bushes for a pillow,
And scratched his eyes,--_
_It may be, while she sings, that through the portal
Soft footsteps glide,
And, all invisible to grown-up mortal,
At cradle side_
_Sits Mother Goose herself, the dear old mother,
And rocks and croons,
In tones which Baby hearkens, but no other,
Her old-new tunes!_
_I think it must be so, else why, years after,
Do we retrace
And mix with shadowy, recollected laughter
Thoughts of that face;_
_Seen, yet unseen, beaming across the ages,
Brimful of fun
And wit and wisdom, baffling all the sages
Under the sun?_
_A grown-up child has place still, which no other
May dare refuse;
I, grown up, bring this offering to our Mother,
To Mother Goose;_
_And, standing with the babies at that olden,
Immortal knee,
I seem to feel her smile, benign and golden,
Falling on me._
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
CHAP PAGE
I. CURLY LOCKS 1
II. GOOSEY, GOOSEY GANDER 40
III. LITTLE BO-PEEP 65
IV. MISTRESS MARY 101
V. LADY BIRD 137
VI. ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE 165
VII. RIDE A COCK-HORSE 197
VIII. LADY QUEEN ANNE 228
IX. UP, UP, UP, AND DOWN, DOWN, DOWN-Y 259
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CURLY LOCKS.
WHEN a little girl is six and a little boy is six, they like pretty much
the same things and enjoy pretty much the same games. She wears an
apron, and he a jacket and trousers, but they are both equally fond of
running races, spinning tops, flying kites, going down hill on sleds,
and making a noise in the open air. But when the little girl gets to be
eleven or twelve, and to grow thin and long, so that every two months a
tuck has to be let down in her frocks, then a great difference becomes
visible. The boy goes on racing and whooping and comporting himself
generally like a young colt in a pasture; but she turns quiet and shy,
cares no longer for rough play or exercise, takes droll little
sentimental fancies into her head, and likes best the books which make
her cry. Almost all girls have a fit of this kind some time or other in
the course of their lives; and it is rather a good thing to have it
early, for little folks get over such attacks more easily than big ones.
Perhaps we may live to see the day when wise mammas, going through the
list of nursery diseases which their children have had, will wind up
triumphantly with, "Mumps, measles, chicken-pox,--and they are all over
with 'Amy Herbert,' 'The Heir of Redclyffe,' and the notion that they
are going to be miserable for the rest of their lives!"
Sometimes this odd change comes after an illness when a little girl
feels weak and out of sorts, and does not know exactly what is the
matter. This is the way it came to Johnnie Carr, a girl whom some of you
who read this are already acquainted with. She had intermittent fever
the year after her sisters Katy and Clover came from boarding-school,
and was quite ill for several weeks. Everybody in the house was sorry to
have Johnnie sick. Katy nursed, petted, and cosseted her in the
tenderest way. Clover brought flowers to the bedside and read books
aloud, and told Johnnie interesting stories. Elsie cut out paper dolls
for her by dozens, painted their cheeks pink and their eyes blue, and
made for them beautiful dresses and jackets of every color and fashion.
Papa never came in without some little present or treat in his pocket
for Johnnie. So long as she was in bed, and all these nice things were
doing for her, Johnnie liked being ill very much, but when she began to
sit up and go down to dinner, and the family spoke of her as almost well
again, _then_ a time of unhappiness set in. The Johnnie who got out of
bed after the fever was not the Johnnie of a month before. There were
two inches more of her for one thing, for she had taken the opportunity
to grow prodigiously, as sick children often do. Her head ached at
times, her back felt weak, and her legs shook when she tried to run
about. All sorts of queer and disagreeable feelings attacked her. Her
hair had fallen out during the fever so that Papa thought it best to
have it shaved close. Katy made a pretty silk-lined cap for her to wear,
but the girls at school laughed at the cap, and that troubled Johnnie
very much. Then, when the new hair grew, thick and soft as the plumy
down on a bird's wing, a fresh affliction set in, for the hair came out
in small round rings all over her head, which made her look like a
baby. Elsie called her "Curly," and gradually the others adopted the
name, till at last nobody used any other except the servants, who still
said "Miss Johnnie." It was hard to recognize the old Johnnie, square
and sturdy and full of merry life, in poor, thin, whining Curly, always
complaining of something, who lay on the sofa reading story-books, and
begging Phil and Dorry to let her alone, not to tease her, and to go off
and play by themselves. Her eyes looked twice as big as usual, because
her face was so small and pale, and though she was still a pretty child,
it was in a different way from the old prettiness. Katy and Clover were
very kind and gentle always, but Elsie sometimes lost patience entirely,
and the boys openly declared that Curly was a cross-patch, and hadn't a
bit of fun left in her.
One afternoon she was lying on the sofa with the "Wide Wide World" in
her hand. Her eyelids were very red from crying over Alice's death, but
she had galloped on, and was now reading the part where Ellen
Montgomery goes to live with her rich relatives in Scotland.
"Oh, dear," sighed Johnnie. "How splendid it was for her! Just think,
Clover, riding lessons, and a watch, and her uncle takes her to see all
sorts of places, and they call her their White Rose! Oh, dear! I wish
_we_ had relations in Scotland."
"We haven't, you know," remarked Clover, threading her needle with a
fresh bit of blue worsted.
"I know it. It's too bad. Nothing ever does happen in this stupid place.
The girls in books always do have such nice times. Ellen could leap, and
she spoke French _beau_tifully. She learned at that place, you know, the
place where the Humphreys lived."
"Litchfield Co., Connecticut," said Clover mischievously. "Katy was
there last summer, you recollect. I guess they don't _all_ speak such
good French. Katy didn't notice it."
"Ellen did," persisted Johnnie. "Her uncle and all those people were so
surprised when they heard her. Wouldn't it be grand to be an adopted
child, Clover?"
"To be adopted by people who gave you your bath like a baby when you
were thirteen years old, and tapped your lips when they didn't want you
to speak, and stole your Pilgrim's Progresses? No, thank you. I would
much rather stay as I | 1,209.407592 |
2023-11-16 18:37:13.4846520 | 4,332 | 9 |
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan, and Distributed Proofreaders
WHAT SAMI SINGS WITH THE BIRDS
BY
JOHANNA SPYRI
TRANSLATED BY HELEN B. DOLE
1917
[Illustration: "Up in the ash-trees the birds piped and sang merrily
together."]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
FIRST OLD MARY ANN
SECOND AT THE GRANDMOTHER'S
THIRD ANOTHER LIFE
FOURTH HARD TIMES
FIFTH THE BIRDS ARE STILL SINGING
SIXTH SAMI SINGS TOO
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
UP IN THE ASH-TREES THE BIRDS PIPED AND SANG MERRILY TOGETHER.
WHERE HAVE YOU COME FROM WITH ALL YOUR HOUSEHOLD GOODS?
SUCH STRAY WAIFS AS YOU ARE NOT WILLING TO DO ANYTHING.
WHAT SAMI SINGS WITH THE BIRDS
CHAPTER FIRST
OLD MARY ANN
For three days the Spring sun had been shining out of a clear sky and
casting a gleaming, golden coverlet over the blue waters of Lake Geneva.
Storm and rain had ceased. The breeze murmured softly and pleasantly up
in the ash-trees, and all around in the green fields the yellow
buttercups and snow-white daisies glistened in the bright sunshine. Under
the ash-trees, the clear brook was running with the cool mountain water
and feeding the gaily nodding primroses and pink anemones on the
hillside, as they grew and bloomed down close to the water.
On the low wall by the brook, in the shadow of the ash-trees, an old
woman was sitting. She was called "Old Mary Ann" throughout the whole
neighborhood. Her big basket, the weight of which had become a little
heavy, she had put down beside her. She was on her way back from La Tour,
the little old town, with the vine-covered church tower and the ruined
castle, the high turrets of which rose far across the blue lake. Old Mary
Ann had taken her work there. This consisted in all kinds of mending
which did not need to be done particularly well, for the woman was no
longer able to do fine work, and never could do it.
Old Mary Ann had had a very changeable life. The place where she now
found herself was not her home. The language of the country was not her
own. From the shady seat on the low wall, she now looked contentedly at
the sunny fields, then across the murmuring brook to the hillside where
the big yellow primroses nodded, while the birds piped and sang in the
green ash-trees above her, as if they had the greatest festival to
celebrate.
"Every Spring, people think it never was so beautiful before, when they
have already seen so many," she now said half aloud to herself, and as
she gazed at the fields so rich in flowers, many of the past years rose
up and passed before her, with all that she had experienced in them.
As a child she had lived far beyond the mountains. She knew so well how
it must look over there now at her father's house, which stood in a field
among white-blooming pear-trees. Over yonder the large village with its
many houses could be seen. It was called Zweisimmen. Everybody called
their house the sergeant's house, although her father quite peacefully
tilled his fields. But that came from her grandfather. When quite a young
fellow, he had gone over the mountains to Lake Geneva and then still
farther to Savoy. Under a Duke of Savoy he had taken part in all sorts of
military expeditions and had not returned home until he was an old man.
He always wore an old uniform and allowed himself to be called sergeant.
Then he married and Mary Ann's father was his only child. The old man
lived to be a hundred years old, and every child in all the region round
knew the old sergeant.
Mary Ann had three brothers, but as soon as one of them grew up he
disappeared, she knew not where. Only this much she understood, that
her mother mourned over them, but her father said quite resignedly
every time: "We can't help it, they will go over the mountains; they
take it from their grandfather." She had never heard anything more
about her brothers.
When Mary Ann grew up and married, her young husband also came into the
house among the pear-trees, for her father was old and could no longer do
his work alone. But after a few years Mary Ann buried her young husband;
a burning fever had taken him off. Then came hard times for the widow.
She had her child, little Sami, to care for, besides her old, infirm
parents to look after, and moreover there was all the work to be done in
the house and in the fields which until now her husband had attended to.
She did what she could, but it was of no use, the land had to be given up
to a cousin. The house was mortgaged, and Mary Ann hardly knew how to
keep her old parents from want. Gradually young Sami grew up and was able
to help the cousin in the fields. Then the old parents died about the
same time, and Mary Ann hoped now by hard work and her son's help little
by little to pay up her debts and once more take possession of her fields
and house. But as soon as her father and mother were buried, her son
Sami, who was now eighteen years old, came to her and said he could no
longer bear to stay at home, he must go over the mountains and so begin a
new life. This was a great shock to the mother, but when she saw that
persuasion, remonstrance and entreaty were all in vain her father's words
came to her mind and she said resignedly, "It can't be helped; he takes
it from his great-grandfather."
But she would not let the young man go away alone, and he was glad to
have his mother go with him. So she wandered with him over the mountains.
In the little village of Chailly, which lies high up on the mountain
<DW72> and looks down on the meadows rich in flowers and the blue Lake
Geneva, they found work with the jolly wine-grower Malon. This man, with
curly hair already turning grey and a kindly round face, lived alone with
his son in the only house left standing, near a crooked maple-tree.
Mary Ann received a room for herself and was to keep house for Herr
Malon, and keep everything in order for him and his son. Sami was to work
for good pay in Malon's beautiful vineyard. The widow Mary Ann passed
several years here in a more peaceful way than she had ever known before.
When the fourth Summer came to an end, Sami said to her one day:
"Mother, I must really marry young Marietta of St. Legier, for I am so
lonely away from her."
His mother knew Marietta well and besides she liked the pretty, clever
girl, for she was not only always happy but there were few girls so good
and industrious. So she rejoiced with her son, although he would have to
go away from her to live with Marietta and her aged father in St. Legier,
for she was indispensable to him. Herr Malon's son also brought a young
wife home, and so Mary Ann had no more duties there, and had to look out
for herself. She kept her room for a small rent, and was able to earn
enough to support herself. She now knew many people in the neighborhood,
and obtained enough work.
Mary Ann pondered over all these things, and when her thoughts returned
from the distant past to the present moment, and she still heard the
birds above her singing and rejoicing untiringly, she said to herself:
"They always sing the same song and we should be able to sing with them.
Only trust in the dear Lord! He always helps us, although we may often
think there is no possible way."
Then Mary Ann left the low wall, took her basket up again on her arm and
went through the fragrant meadows of Burier up towards Chailly. From time
to time she cast an anxious look in the direction of St. Legier. She knew
that young Marietta was lying sick up there and that her son Sami would
now have hard work and care, for a much smaller Sami had just come into
the world. Tomorrow Mary Ann would go over and see how things were going
with her son and if she ought to stay with him and help.
Mary Ann had scarcely stepped into her little room and put on her house
dress, to prepare her supper, when she heard some one coming along with
hurried footsteps. The door was quickly thrown open and in stepped her
son Sami with a very distressed face. Under his arm he carried a bundle
wrapped up in one of Marietta's aprons. This he laid on the table, threw
himself down and sobbed aloud, with his head in his arms:
"It is all over, mother, all over; Marietta is dead!"
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, what are you saying?" cried his mother in the
greatest horror. "Oh, Sami, is it possible?"
Then she lifted Sami gently and continued in a trembling voice:
"Come, sit down beside me and tell me all about it. Is she really dead?
Oh, when did it happen? How did it come so quickly?"
Sami willingly dropped down on a chair beside his mother. But then he
buried his face in his hands and went on sobbing again.
"Oh, I can't bear it, I must go away, mother, I can't bear it here any
longer, it is all over!"
"Oh, Sami, where would you go?" said his mother, weeping. "We have
already come over the mountains, where would you go from here?"
"I must go across the water, as far as I possibly can, I can't stay here
any longer. I cannot, mother," declared Sami. "I must go across the great
water as far as possible!"
"Oh, not that!" cried Mary Ann. "Don't be so rash! Wait a little, until
you can think more calmly; it will seem different to you."
"No, mother, no, I must go away. I am forced to it; I can't do any
different," cried Sami, almost wild.
His mother looked at him in terror, but she said nothing more. She seemed
to hear her father saying: "It can't be helped. He takes it from his
grandfather." And with a sigh she said:
"It will have to be so."
Then there sounded from the bundle a strange peeping, exactly as if a
chicken were smothering inside. "What have you put in the bundle, Sami?"
asked the mother, going towards it, to loosen the firmly tied apron.
"That's so, I had almost forgotten it, mother," replied Sami, wiping
his eyes, "I have brought the little boy to you, I don't know what to
do with it."
"Oh, how could you pack him up so! Yes, yes, you poor little thing," said
the grandmother soothingly, taking the diminutive Sami out of one
wrapping and then a second and a third.
The father Sami had wrapped the little baby first in its clothes, then in
a shawl, and then in the apron as tight as possible, so that it couldn't
slip out on the way, and fall on the ground. When little Sami was freed
from the smothering wrappings and could move his arms and legs he fought
with all his limbs in the air and screamed so pitifully that his
grandmother thought it seemed exactly as if he already knew what a great
misfortune had come to him.
But father Sami said perhaps he was hungry, for since the evening before
no one had paid any attention to the little baby. This seemed to the
sympathetic Mary Ann quite too cruel, and she realised that if she didn't
care for the poor little mite it would die. She wrapped him up again
carefully in his blanket, but not around his head, and carried him
upright on her arm, not under it, as one carries a bundle. Then she ran
all around her room to collect milk, a dish and fire together, so that
the starving little creature might have some nourishment. As she sat on
her stool, and the little one eagerly sipped the milk, while his tiny
little hand tightly clasped his grandmother's forefinger like a
life-preserver, she said, greatly touched:
"Yes, indeed, you little Sami, you poor little orphan, I will do what I
can for you and the dear Lord will not forsake us."
And to the big Sami she said:
"I will keep him, but don't take any rash steps! In the first great
sorrow many a one does what he later regrets. See, you can't run away
from sorrow, it runs with you. Stay and bear what the dear Lord sends. He
is not angry with you. Hold to him still in time of sorrow, then the sun
will shine tomorrow! It will be the same with you as it has been with so
many others." Sami had listened in silence, but like one who does not
understand what he hears.
"Good night, mother! May God reward you for what you do for the boy," he
said then, after wiping his eyes again. Then he pressed his mother's
hand, and went out of the door.
CHAPTER SECOND
AT THE GRANDMOTHER'S
Old Mary Ann had now to begin over again, where she had left off
twenty-one years before, to bring up a little Sami. But then she was
fresh and strong, she had her husband by her side, and lived at home
among friends and acquaintances. Now she was in a strange land and was a
worn-out woman, and felt that her strength would not last much longer.
But little Sami did not realise all this. He was tended and cared for as
if his grandmother wanted to make up to him every moment for what he had
lost, and she was always saying to him, pityingly:
"You poor little thing, you have nobody in the world now but an old
grandmother."
Moreover it was so. Father Sami could not be consoled. As soon as his
young wife was buried he went away, and must have landed a long time ago
in the far away country.
Little Sami grew finely, and as his grandmother talked with him a great
deal, he began very early to imitate her. His words became more and more
distinct, and when the end of his second year came, he talked very
plainly and in whole sentences. His grandmother didn't know what to do
for joy, when she realised that her little Sami spoke not a word of
French, but pure Swiss-German, as she had heard it only in her native
land. He spoke exactly like his grandmother, who was indeed the only one
he had to talk with.
Now every day her baby gave her a new surprise. First he began to say
after her the little prayer she repeated for him morning and evening;
then he said it all alone. She had to weep for joy when the little one
began to sing after her the little Summer song she had learned in her own
childhood and had always sung to him, and one day suddenly knew the whole
song from beginning to end and sang one verse after another without
hesitation.
In spite of all the grandmother's trouble and work, the years passed so
quickly to her, that one day when she began to reckon she discovered that
Sami must be fully seven years old. Then she thought it was really time
that he learned something. But suddenly to send the boy to a French
school when he didn't understand a word of French seemed dreadful to her,
for he would be as helpless as a chicken in water. She would rather try,
as well as she possibly could, to teach him herself to read. She thought
it would be very hard but it went quite easily. In a short time, the
youngster knew all his letters, and could even put words together quite
well. That something could be made out of this which he could understand
and which he did not know before was very amusing to him, and he sat over
his reading-book with great eagerness. But to go out with his grandmother
to deliver her mending and to get new work was a still greater pleasure
to him, for nothing pleased him better than roaming through the green
meadows, then stopping at the brook to listen to the birds singing up in
the ash-trees.
The changeable April days had just come to an end and the beaming May sun
shone so warm and alluring that all the flowers looked up to it with
wide-open petals. Mary Ann with Sami by the hand, her big basket on her
arm, was coming along up from La Tour. The boy opened both his eyes as
wide as he could, for the red and blue flowers in the green grass and the
golden sunshine above them delighted him very much.
"Grandmother," he said taking a deep breath, "to-day we will sit on the
low wall for twelve long hours, won't we, really?"
"Yes, indeed," assented his grandmother, "we will stay there long enough
to get well rested and enjoy ourselves; but when the sun goes down and it
grows dark, then we will go. Then all the little birds are silent in the
trees and the old night-owl begins to hoot."
This seemed right to Sami, for he didn't want to hear the old owl hoot.
Now they had reached the wall. A cool shadow was lying on it; below the
fresh brook murmured, and up in the ash-trees the birds piped and sang
merrily together and one kept singing very distinctly:
"Sing too! Sing too!"
Sami listened. Suddenly he lifted up his voice and sang as loud and
lustily as the birds above, the whole song that his grandmother had
taught him:
Last night Summer breezes blew:--
All the flowers awake anew,
Open wide their eyes to see,
Nodding, bowing in their glee.
All the merry birds we hear
Greet the sunshine bright and clear;
See them flitting thru the sky,
Singing low and singing high!
Flowers in Summer warmth delight:--
What of Winter and its blight?
Snowy fields and forests cold?
Flowers are by their faith consoled.
Songsters, all so blithe and gay,
Know ye what your carols say?
How will your sweet carols fare
When your nests the snow-storms tear?
All the birdlings everywhere
Now their loveliest songs prepare;
All the birdlings gayly sing:--
"Trust the Lord in everything!"
Then Sami listened very attentively, as if he wanted to hear whether the
birds really sang so.
"Listen, listen, grandmother!" he said after a while. "Up there in the
tree is one that doesn't sing like the others. At first he keeps singing
'Trust! Trust! Trust! Trust!' and then the rest comes after."
"Yes, yes, that is the finch, Sami," she replied. "See, he wants to
impress it upon you, so that you will think about what will always keep
you safe and happy. Just listen, now, he is calling again: Trust! trust!
trust! trust! trust! Only trust the dear Lord."
Sami listened again. It was really wonderful, how the finch always
sounded above the other birds with his emphatic "Trust! trust! trust!"
"You must never forget what the finch | 1,209.504692 |
2023-11-16 18:37:13.5826060 | 7,429 | 23 |
Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Rick Morris, MFR and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: “CHARLIE”]
BETTER THAN MEN
BY
RUSH C. HAWKINS
J. W. BOUTON
TEN WEST TWENTY-EIGHT STREET
NEW YORK
1896
Copyright, 1896, by
J. W. Bouton
TO MY BELOVED AND LOVING WIFE, EVER FAITHFUL AND TRUE, WHOSE GOODNESS
PASSETH ALL UNDERSTANDING
CONTENTS
Explanatory 1
The Excursion 13
Tim, the Dissipated 91
Carlo, the Soldier 113
Jeff, the Inquisitive 127
Toby, the Wise 139
Two Dogs 149
Two Innocents Abroad 165
About Columbus, by an old showman 171
In Relation to Mysteries 187
Mysteries 195
EXPLANATORY
The title chosen for the following sketches, written for the purpose of
presenting certain prominent characteristics of the lower animals worthy
of the attention of the human animal, stands for rather a serious
proposition which may be questioned by a majority of those readers whose
kindly interest in our mute friends has not already been seriously
awakened.
To write so that those who read may infer that a certain selected number
of so-called lower animals are better, by nature and conduct, in certain
elemental virtues, than men, is, to say the least, rather imprudent, and
to the optimistic student of human nature may appear irreverent to an
unpardonable degree. Usually, to the minds of such observers, humanity
is accepted for its traditional value, regardless of established
conditions or inherent actualities. Such investigators investigate only
one side of their subject. They start out handicapped with the old
theory that in every respect the human animal is superior to every
other, without attempting to analyze unseen interior conditions, whether
natural or developed.
In relation to natural conditions, the large majority of Christian sects
are perfectly logical. They lay down as a clearly established
fundamental fact that all human beings, owing to what they designate as
Adam’s fall, are born into this world morally corrupt and completely
depraved, but that they have within their control for ready application
an appropriate panacea for a certain cure of these natural defects. But
the optimist neither admits the disease nor the necessity for cure; he
says always, at least inferentially, that all human beings come into the
world in a state of innocence and purity, and that their few defects
represent a certain amount of degeneration.
Both of these theories may be wrong. It is possible that all children
come into the world with a certain number of well-known natural
qualities—good, bad, strong, and weak—in no two alike, and for which
they are in no way responsible; and that what they become in their
mature years depends largely, if not entirely, upon home training and
the care bestowed upon them by the government under whose laws they
exist. Strong, healthy, intellectual, and moral parents, aided by a wise
and honestly administered government, assist each other in forming
characters which make fine men and women. But without the combination of
those parental qualities ever actively engaged in instructing and
controlling, sustained by a wise political organization, there is
usually but little development of the higher and better qualities of our
nature, either moral or intellectual.
It is at this point that we may be permitted to cite the difference
between the so-called upper and lower animal. In the dog and horse,
notably, their better qualities are inherent, born with them, grow
stronger with time, and their almost perfect and complete development is
natural, and continues without aid, example, or instruction. Not more
than one dog or horse in a thousand, if kindly treated and left to
himself, would turn out vicious, and treat them as we may, no matter how
unjustly or cruelly, we can never deprive them of their perfect
integrity and splendid qualities of loyalty to master and friends.
These most valuable of all moral qualities are natural to certain
animals, and, no matter what man may do, they can never be extinguished.
Although intangible, they are as much parts of the living organism of
the horse and dog as are their eyes or the other organs needed for
physical purposes. The affection of the dog for those whom he loves is
actually boundless. It has neither taint of selfishness nor has it
limits, and it can only be extinguished with the loss of life. The
ever-willing horse will run himself to death to carry from danger, and
especially from the pursuit of enemies, those who make use of his
friendly aid. Other animals will do as much, but they never volunteer
for a dangerous service.
In India, where the elephant is used for domestic purposes and is
sometimes treated as a domestic animal, he has been known to protect
children left in his charge, and in the performance of his daily task
will yield willing obedience to orders; but he is a knowing and cautious
constructionist, and seldom goes outside of the strict line of duty. He
will always fight for his own master or friends when told, and sometimes
volunteers to encounter a danger to protect those around him who seek
the aid of his superior powers. He is however, a natural conservative,
and prefers peace to war.
Many other animals are capable of becoming affectionate pets and
interesting companions, but in no respect can they be compared with the
dog, the horse, or the elephant. In their separate and individual
combination of qualities which render them fit and useful companions for
man, they stand quite by themselves. The question of treating animals
with kindly consideration is usually disposed of by saying they are not
capable of appreciating kind treatment; that their brain capacity is so
limited in respect to quantity as to render them quite incapable of
distinguishing active kindness from passive indifference or even cruel
treatment.
This is the theory of the thoughtless.
The Newfoundland dog which, in the summer of 1866, I saw leap from a
bridge into a rapid-running deep creek and rescue a two-year-old child
from death, thought—and quickly at that. In a second he appreciated the
value of a critical moment, and estimated not only the magnitude but the
quality of the danger. No human being could have taken in the whole
situation more completely or caused the physical organization to respond
to the brain command with greater celerity. The whole incident was over
by the time the first on the spot of the would-be human rescuers had
taken off his coat.
Crowley, the remarkable chimpanzee, who had his home in the Central Park
Menagerie for about four years, proved to be a most convincing item of
testimony in favor of the intellectual development of one of the lower
animals. The gradual and certain unfolding of his intelligence betrayed
the presence of a quantity of natural brainpower almost equal to that of
an intelligent child of his own age.
Among his numerous accomplishments was a complete outfit of the table
manners of the average well-bred human being. His accurate holding of
knife, fork, and spoon, his perfect knowledge of their use, and the
delicate application to his lips of the napkin, proved the possession of
exceptional knowledge and a well-ordered memory.
The things he did and the words he tried to speak, for he made thousands
of efforts every day to utter his thoughts, would make a convincing list
of items all going to prove the presence of a capacity for thinking
quite worthy of consideration.
In elaborating the various powers which he employed in his methods of
expression he showed remarkable ingenuity. He, no doubt, reflected upon
his deficiencies, and thought the whole matter over with reference to
means of communication with those he cared to converse with, and then,
from out the store of his natural capacities, invented an extensive
combination of hand and feet signs with the variety of sounds at his
command, which finally enabled him to make himself perfectly understood
by those about him.
The intellectual development of Crowley, of which I have given only an
inadequate idea, came from kind treatment and constant contact with his
keeper and the director of the menagerie, both of whom were his devoted
friends and teachers.
These little character sketches, as they may perhaps be described, were
written for the purpose of awakening the personal interest of those who
may read them, with the hope also of enlisting their active influence in
behalf of spreading abroad a better understanding of the nature of our
four-footed friends and servants, who give so much and receive so little
in return. The better appreciation of their exceptionally fine qualities
will surely lead to closer relations between them and their masters,
and, in the end, insure better treatment for those humble and confiding
creatures which the Creator has placed so completely in the power of
man.
Fiction plays but a little part in these pages. It has long been a
source of pleasure to me to note the marks of intelligence in the
animals that we admit to our companionship, that we make a part of our
family rule and association. These sketches are nearly all based upon
personal experiences and observations of my own. They are my plea for
their greater civil rights—at least in the way of kindness and
appreciation. Incidentally I have given such local color to the stories
as they require. The first sketch, for example, has for its frame the
pleasant hills and valleys of Vermont. It recalls old days worth the
recording and a people of pure Anglo-Saxon blood worth a lasting memory.
R. C. H.
THE EXCURSION
A particular summer, back in the fifties, I spent in one of the
beautiful valley villages of the “Green Mountain State.” The
old-fashioned, unpretending country tavern was comfortable and the air
and scenery all that could be desired. The amusements, or rather
occupations, afforded to the sojourners, aside from reading the solid
literature of the period, were neither novel nor exhausting, but they
gave pleasure, were reposeful, and were innocent enough to have
satisfied the code of the most exacting moralist. The daily routine was
limited, not costly, and within easy reach.
Of course, the first rural recreation was to fish in streams where there
were no fish; to climb the highest hills as often as possible; argue
religious, political, and commercial questions with the numerous oracles
of the village, and diagnose the autumn crop question with the farmers.
These occupations were staple commodities, always in stock and on tap
ready to flow.
The good people of the town were very much astonished when they found I
had discovered an additional occupation. I had made the acquaintance of
all the town dogs, and found them a most entertaining and sociable lot
of easy-going vagabonds. The majority were much given to loafing,
barking at strangers and the passing vehicles, and not over-anxious to
earn the scant meals grudgingly doled out to them by the thrifty
housewives, who frequently addressed them in terms not of a
complimentary nature.
Those were not the days of romantic names for dogs. The New England
_répertoire_ for the canine race had been handed down, in an unbroken
line, from a remote Puritan period. If a dog was of a large size he was
sure to respond to the name of Tige, Rover, or Lion, and, if small, he
was usually adorned with the name of Skip, Fido, or Zip. In those days
there were neither kennel clubs nor dog exhibitions, and the high-flown
English names, such as attach to the canine blue-bloods of to-day, were
unknown.
Within the ranks of this lazy, good-for-nothing, good-natured tribe,
with its headquarters in my particular village, was a characteristic
specimen of a perfect nobody’s dog. He was not unpleasant to the vision,
but, on the contrary, rather attractive. He was of a light brindle
color, with a black nose, and was blessed with a pair of beautiful,
sympathetic, and expressive dark-brown eyes, that had a frank way of
looking clear into the eyes of whoever addressed him. But he was without
pedigree, industry, or hope, cared nothing for worldly possessions, was
always ready to wag a hearty response to every salutation, and was an
ever-flowing fountain of good nature and kindness, but not devoid of
character. Along with all his apparent indifference he had his strong
points, and good ones at that.
His great weakness was the woodchuck season. No sportsman was ever more
watchful for the return of the shooting period than was Rover for the
opening of the first woodchuck hole. For days before the first opening
he would range the fields very much after the manner of the truly
accomplished shopping woman of a large city in search of opportunities
on a “bargain day.” He had the keenest nose for his favorite game of any
dog in the town, and so devoted was he to his particular sport, that
frequently, while the season lasted, after a hard day’s work, he would
go to bed with an empty stomach, his chance mistress having issued an
edict to the effect that the kitchen door was to be closed at a certain
hour—Rover or no Rover. And so it came to pass that our devoted
sportsman often went to his couch in the shed a very hungry dog, not
happy for the moment, but always full of hope for the coming morning.
While his sporting season lasted he had but one occupation. As soon as
he had licked his breakfast plate clean, even to the last mite of food,
he would start off for new adventures, and, as soon as he had succeeded
in finding a new subterranean abode of his favorite game, he would give
a joyous bark, and commence a most vigorous digging, and, if the soil
happened to be of a soft nature, he would soon bury his body so as to
leave no part of his belongings in sight but the tip end of a very
quick-moving tail amid the débris of flying soil. If called from his
pursuit he would come out of his hole wagging most joyously and saying
as plainly as possible: “I wish you would turn in and help a fellow.”
He had never been known to capture a “chuck,” but he had his fun all the
same.
There is a story of a Frenchman, who, when walking in the woods, heard
the whistle of a woodcock and thereupon became possessed of an ardent
desire _pour la chasse_. He equipped himself by borrowing a gun from one
friend, a dog from another, a game-bag from a third, and the making of a
complete shooting outfit from several others. Early in the morning,
after the delusive whistle, he was up and off to the woods. Filled with
eager expectation he tramped hills and swamps the whole day through
without seeing a bird or getting a shot, and returned to the hotel much
the worse for the wear and tear of the search, but, Frenchman like, was
vivacious and cheerful. An English friend asked to see the inside of his
game-bag. “Ah,” answered the would-be huntsman, “I did not get ze
leetle—ze _bécasse_, I did hear his whistle, _mais j’ai eu ma chasse_
all ze same, and I am very happie.” And so it was with Rover. He saw
where his would-be victim was located, enjoyed the pleasure of hope, and
had a day’s digging.
The other dogs of the village were not ambitious, save at meal-time,
when they were vigorously punctual, but very unpunctual when there was
anything useful to do, such as going after the cows at milking-time,
driving enterprising pigs out of the garden, chasing the hens from the
front entrance of the house, and the like. As a rule they were content
to pass the sunny hours of the day beneath protecting shades, resting
their lazy carcasses upon the softest patch of greensward to be found,
and they were usually experts in the art of finding such spots. It was
not so, however, with Rover. He was an active dog, without a lazy bone
in his body, always on the alert for an occupation, no matter if
sometimes useful. Take them, however, for all in all, this worthless
pack of four-footed worthies were not a bad sort of a lot. All save one
were good-natured and sociable. That exception was a maltese-
abridgment of a mastiff, short-haired and old. He was the property of
one of the village doctors, who was a pestiferous Whig, with the
reputation of being the “tongueyist man in the county, if not in the
State.” He carried chips upon both shoulders, was the proprietor of a
loud voice—plenty of it—and was always ready for a war between tongues.
He “argered” for the sake of argument, but his ancient “Spot,” with a
thickened throat and wheezy voice, could only keep up a running _pro
forma_ barking accompaniment while his master “downed” his opponent. The
old dog had unconsciously contracted his master’s habit of controversy,
and felt that he must help him out. It is due to the memory of that
ancient canine to record that he attended strictly to his own affairs,
and would brook no interference from frivolous idle dogs with no
particular occupation, nor would he associate with them when off duty.
When not with his master, he kept inside his own fence, and barked and
made disagreeable faces at all would-be intruders.
As bearing upon the story that will develop, I may add that besides the
dogs there are, in Vermont, other four-footed friends and servants of
man worthy of consideration. The Vermont “Morgan horse” is one of the
acknowledged native “institutions,” and no lover of that animal has ever
made the intimate acquaintance of one of his strain without being
fascinated with his delicate, refined beauty, affectionate disposition,
intelligence, endurance, and willingness to serve.
I was brought up with them, and used to romp and race with the colts,
ride the mothers without saddle, bridle, or halter, and purloin sugar
and salt to feed them when the “old folks were not looking.” Among my
happiest hours were those of my childhood and boyhood spent in close
association with the great groups of animals that lived upon the hills
of the old farm at the “crotch in the roads.” Calves, among the most
beautiful of all the young animals, with their great soft eyes and
innocent faces, were a source of infinite joy to me, and even the silly
and unintellectual sheep always appealed to my affections and sense of
protection. These I regarded as wards to love and protect, but the dogs
and Morgan horses were my petted friends and companions. From their
habitual display of good faith, perfect integrity and affection I
learned all the lessons applicable to every-day life that have been of
value to me. From man I could have learned the arts of deceit and
cunning, selfishness and want of feeling, and the practise of vanity,
but never a single quality which came to me from the habitual
association with the honest four-footed friends of my youth.
The people of my native State, among their other fine characteristics,
have always been noted for their kindness to animals, which fact alone
stands for a very elevated plane of civilization. Ever since nearly a
century ago, when the Morgan horse first came to them, he has been an
object of their affection, and it is undoubtedly, to a great extent,
owing to that creditable fact that he has always been the same charming
animal that he is to-day.
That the equine hero of this sketch was not of that noble breed will not
detract from his special virtues or impair my passing tribute to the
Vermont horse and his master. The one selected for my riding excursions
was the only saddle-horse of repute in the county; he belonged to a
livery stable, and was of the “calico” red and white sort, tall, long of
body, sound of legs and feet, with large, liquid, expressive eyes, small
ears, and a beautiful open nostril. His pedigree was unknown, and no one
in the village could say where he came from. He had been turned out lame
from a “travelling show” the year before, and had been bought for a
song. Such only was his brief known history. To his physical beauties
were added the higher qualities of head and heart in abundance. He was
the sort of a beautiful creature that could not have done a mean act.
Nature never furnished him tools for that kind of work.
He was effusively affectionate, and his intelligence was of a high order
for a horse. We took a great fancy to each other, and both of us to
Rover, who once in a while could be coaxed from his pursuit of “chucks”
to take a run with us over the country roads.
Thus we became chosen friends, and I selected them as companions for a
recreative excursion which I had planned, and which we shall now
retrace.
An early breakfast for man, dog and horse, and off. The general plan was
to ride early and late, and rest during the hot hours of the middle
portion of the day. A village with a decent “tavern” for the night was
the objective point for each evening, and the usual daily distance, made
at an easy canter, was about twenty miles. Between each stretch of three
or four miles there was a halt for a dismount, a rest for the animals,
and a leg exercise for the rider. Rover was always glad for a loll
beneath the shady trees, but “Charlie,” my calico friend, improved his
opportunities for a nibble of the tender grass and sprouts within his
reach. During the first two or three days I had to retrace my steps to
remount, but I soon succeeded in making my companions understand the
nature and object of a call, and, before the tour was half over, they
would not permit me to walk out of their sight. Rover was on the watch,
and, as soon as he saw me disappearing in the distance, would give the
alarm, and then both would start off on a smart run to overtake me.
Upon one occasion, after climbing a sharp hill, I had left them at the
beginning of a long level piece of road, and had walked on. After going
about half a mile, I met a large drove of cattle. When I had succeeded
in passing through and beyond it, my attention was attracted by a
confused noise in the rear. Upon looking back I discovered a great cloud
of dust, and amidst it a confusion of moving horns and tails, while soon
there appeared, racing through the excited mass of bovines at the top of
his speed, Charlie, accompanied by his faithful attendant barking at the
top of his voice. The cattle were excited and frightened up to the point
of jumping and running they knew not where. Some went over fences,
others through them, while the main body kept to the road, and, for a
considerable distance, carried everything before them. I realized at
once that my zealous companions had got me into trouble.
For the information of readers not acquainted with the average
“droveyer” of forty and fifty years ago, it is necessary to record that
he was not the sort of an individual calculated to adorn refined
society, and the language used by those in charge of this particular
“drove” was more characteristic for its strength than for its elegance
or politeness. I tried to appease their wrath, apologized for the
unseemly conduct of dog and horse, alleged sudden fright, marshalled a
fine array of other excuses, and finally succeeded in neutralizing the
flow of their ire—just a little. But the chief spokesman was not
satisfied with excuses and soft words; he was a materialist, and wanted
to know, then and there, who was to put up the fence and pay for the
damage done by the trampling down of growing crops. Under the
circumstances the query did not seem to be an unreasonable one, and I
suggested that the better course to pursue would be for the authors of
the mischief to make terms with the owner of the crops, state facts, and
await his decision.
The season happened to be between planting and harvest, and “the
men-folks,” we were told, “are up on yender hill mending fence, and
won’t be down till dinner.” The head “droveyer,” impatient to keep with
his “drove,” would not wait, and informed me, in a rather emphatic sort
of way, that I would have to wait and “settle up.” There was no appeal
in sight from his decision. So he went and I waited.
The hot part of the day had arrived, and it was within about two hours
“till dinner.” After “hitchin’” the horse in the barn, away from the
flies, I suggested the loan of an axe. This excited surprise, and the
question came from the head of the interior of that particular domestic
establishment: “What are _you_ going to do with an axe?” I answered:
“I’m going to mend the fence where those cattle broke through.” This
feather came very near breaking the back of the housewife, and her sense
of the ridiculous was excited up to the point of explosion, but she was
too well bred to give the laugh direct, full in the face, and contented
herself by making an acute mental survey of my physical points. She
measured with her eye the hands and girth of chest, and made a close
calculation as to the amount of biceps assigned to each arm, and after
some reflection, said: “You’ll find an old axe in the woodshed; you can
take it and try and patch up the places, and, when you hear the horn,
you can come in and eat with the rest of the folks.” I started off,
filled with the pride born of knowledge, and confident of a coming
success, but the even flow of my happiness was soon disturbed by a sound
from the upper register of a very loud, shrill voice, saying, “Don’t
split your feet open with that are axe.” This was like a small streak of
ice water down the spinal column, but I was on my mettle and not to be
discouraged. The vacant spaces in the broken fence were encountered and
yielded to superior force, and a fairish amount of success was
accomplished about the time the welcome tones of the sonorous horn
announced the hour for feeding.
I was introduced to the “men-folks” as the stranger whose dog and horse
had “scart the cattle inter the oats.” At first it was easy to see that
I was not regarded with favor, but, as the dinner proceeded, and as
anecdotes succeeded each other about men, things and far-off countries I
had seen, the Green Mountain ice began to melt, and, by the time the
“Injun puddin’” was emptied out of its bag, cordial relations were
established. The two bright-faced boys had become communicative, and the
older members of the family had forgotten for the time the damage to the
oats.
The dinner ended, I requested a board of survey and an estimate. The
first relevant observation in relation to the case before the court came
from the grandfather: “Well, I declare, I couldn’t done it better
myself. I didn’t know you city folk could work so. Where did you l’arn
to mend fences?” This first witness for the defence produced a marked
effect upon the jury. The next point of observation was the field of
damaged oats. The eldest son, a Sunday-school-sort of boy, exclaimed:
“By pepper, they are pretty well trampled down, ain’t they? No cradle
can git under ’em; guess’ll have ter go at ’em with the sickle, but we
can save the heft of ’em by bending our backs a little.”
During the investigation not a word was uttered about compensation, and,
after leaving the field, the conversation ran into generalities; but
before we reached the house the grandfather’s curiosity got the better
of his timidity, and he asked: “Where did you l’arn to mend fences?”
When I told him that my name was ——, that I was a grandson of ——, was
born at the “Old H. Place at the crotch of the roads in the town of
P——,” learned to mend fences there, etc., etc., he had great difficulty
in suppressing the dimensions of the proud satisfaction my information
had produced. In his mind I was a degenerate Vermonter, living in the
great City of New York, but had not forgotten the lessons learned at the
old farm. I knew how to mend a fence, and that, for him, was my
certificate of character.
From the moment of my disclosures, I was admitted to the inner family
circle, and there was no more farm-work for the rest of the day, while
the afternoon hours were devoted to reminiscences of the olden times:
“Ah,” said the old grandfather, “when I first laid eyes on ye, I thought
I’d seen somebody like ye afore, and I remember it was your grandfather
on yer father’s side. He was a soldier of the Revolutionary War in one
of the Rhode Island ridgiments, and my father belonged to one from
Massachusetts; both served till the end of the war, and then emigrated
to Vermont, together. My father settled on this farm, where I was born
in 1790; your grandfather took up some land in P——, and till the end of
his days was the best schoolmaster and surveyor anywhere round these
parts. He was a master-hand at poetry, and used to write sarcastical
varses agin the lop-sided cusses he hated. There’s allus some mean
critters in these country towns, who take advantage of poor folks that
ain’t very smart and cheat ’em outer their property. They used to feel
mighty mean, I tell ye, when they read your grandfather’s varses about
’em. I heerd old Si Simmons, up to town meeting only last year, telling
about a mean old critter down in P—— by the name of Podges and how your
grandfather writ a varse for his gravestun, and I remember it was about
like this:
“‘Here lies the body of Podges Seth,
The biggest knave that e’er drew breath;
He lived like a hog and died like a brute,
And has gone to the d——l beyond dispute.’”
I was able to respond in kind, for I happened to remember about another
local poet, who hated a surviving son of this rural vampire, who quite
worthily perpetuated the detestable qualities of his defunct parent,
and, when he died, as he did not many years after his father, the other
local poet, not to be outdone by my grandfather, composed the following
verse as a fitting epitaph:
“Here lies the body of Podges Ed,
We all rejoice to know he’s dead;
Too bad for Heaven, too mean for Hell,
And where he’s gone no one can tell.”
In the “Old Times” there were strong, honest, rugged characters among
the Vermont hills. The majority of them were men of plain speech and
unyielding contempt for meanness in any form. A goodly number of the
early settlers in the eastern counties were soldiers of the Revolution
who had emigrated to the new State soon after its close, and they
brought with them the simple, manly habits and ways of thinking which
are characteristic of service in the field. Many were the anecdotes told
of them that day—the day of the accident to the oats—very much to the
edification of the juniors, who were all eyes and ears, at least for
that occasion.
The old house at the “crotch of the roads,” when I was a boy, was the
Saturday and Sunday halting-place for the old soldiers of my own and
several of the neighboring towns. The larder was always well-supplied,
and the barrels of cider that lined a capacious cellar were ready to
respond to every call. Under the influence of an abundant supply of that
exhilarating beverage, the fighting over of old battles was always
vigorous and sometimes vividly realistic.
The most famous of the local veterans, of my time, was known among his
neighbors as “Uncle Daniel V——.” He was a Lexington-Bunker Hill man, who
had served till the end of the war. As I remember him, he was a most
interesting character, humorous, with a good memory, a famous drinker of
hard cider, and a notable singer of the patriotic soldier songs of the
“Seventy-six” period. I can recall, in his showing “how the Yankee boys
flaxed the Britishers,” how he would shoulder one of his canes—he was a
rheumatic and walked with two—and march up and down the broad kitchen of
the old house, going through the motions of loading, aiming and firing
at an imaginary enemy, greatly to my childish delight, for those were
the first fierce war’s alarms I had ever witnessed, and I can never
forget how my imagination was fired; nor how ardently I wished I had
been at Lexington and Bunker Hill, where “we gave it to the Red Coats.”
Uncle Daniel was far too good a patriot to say anything about the return
compliments, “How the Red Coats gave it to us,” upon one of those
historic fields. Since his day I have learned that one of his
glorification songs, which professed to give a correct account | 1,209.602646 |
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[Illustration: cover--THE CHILDREN'S STORY OF THE WAR
By Sir Edward Parrott, M.A., LL.D.]
[Illustration: British Soldiers crossing the Aisne. (_See page 244._)]
THE CHILDREN'S STORY OF THE WAR
by
SIR EDWARD PARROTT, M.A., LL.D.
AUTHOR OF "BRITAIN OVERSEAS," "THE PAGEANT OF ENGLISH LITERATURE," ETC.
From the Battle of Mons to the Fall of Antwerp.
THOMAS NELSON AND SONS
LONDON, EDINBURGH, DUBLIN, AND NEW YORK
_Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!_
_To all the sensual world proclaim,_
_One crowded hour of glorious life_
_Is worth an age without a name._
Sir Walter Scott
CONTENTS.
I. The French Army 1
II. The First Clash of Arms 11
III. The Fall of Namur 17
IV. The Battle of Mons 26
V. Soldiers' Stories of the Battle of Mons 33
VI. The Russian People 44
VII. The Russian Army 49
VIII. The Eastern Theatre of War 54
IX. Victory and Defeat 65
X. Stories of Russian Soldiers 77
XI. The Fighting Retreat 81
XII. A Glorious Stand 91
XIII. "The Most Critical Day of All" 97
XIV. Stories of the Retreat from Mons to St. Quentin 106
XV. Valorous Deeds and Victoria Crosses 113
XVI. Arras and Amiens 125
XVII. The French Retreat 129
XVIII. "Those Terrible Grey Horses" 138
XIX. The Story of Battery L of the R.H.A. 145
XX. More Stories of the Retreat 152
XXI. The Beginning of the War at Sea 161
XXII. The Battle of Heligoland Bight 177
XXIII. The Turn of the Tide 193
XXIV. The Crossing of the Marne 205
XXV. The Battle of the Marne 209
XXVI. Stories of the Battle of the Marne 220
XXVII. More Stories of the Battle of the Marne 225
XXVIII. The Aisne Valley 236
XXIX. The Crossing of the Aisne 241
XXX. The Battle of the Aisne 250
XXXI. Soldiers' Stories of the Battle of the Aisne 257
XXXII. Verdun and Rheims 273
XXXIII. The Race to the Sea 289
XXXIV. The First Russian Advance to Cracow 297
XXXV. Antwerp as it was 305
XXXVI. The Siege and Fall of Antwerp 310
[Illustration: THE
CHILDREN'S
STORY OF
THE WAR
VOLUME II.]
CHAPTER I.
THE FRENCH ARMY.
In Chapter XXIII. of Volume I. I told you that the French began their
raid upon Alsace on August 7, 1914. At this time some of the Liége forts
were still holding out, and the great German advance through Belgium had
not yet begun. As the French were able to push into the enemy's country
thus early in the war, you may imagine that they were quite ready for
action before Belgium was overrun. Not, however, until August 22 were
their preparations so far advanced that they could begin the business of
war in real earnest.
Before I tell you the story of the first real battle of the war, let us
learn something of the French army. In Chapters IV. and V. of Volume I.
you read an account of the little man, with the pale face and cold blue
eyes, who made France the greatest fighting nation of the world. He
became, you will remember, master of continental Europe, and his legions
marched in triumph through Berlin, Vienna, Naples, Madrid, Lisbon, and
Moscow. He taught the art of war to all Europe, and France under his
rule rose to the highest pinnacle of military glory.
When Napoleon fell, Frenchmen turned in loathing from the work of war.
They remembered the awful waste of life and the terrible misery which
had resulted from his campaigns, and they longed for peace, during which
they might build up the nation anew. The French army, therefore, became
a mere shadow of what it had been formerly. Under Napoleon III.,
however, there was a revival of military spirit. His army, as you know,
fought well in the Crimea[1] and in Italy,[2] but it suffered hopeless
defeat in the war of 1870-1 against the Germans.[1] The French took to
heart the fearful lessons of this war, and began almost at once to put
their military house in order.
In 1872 they passed a law which was supposed to compel every young man
to serve as a soldier for twenty years--five years with the colours, and
then four years in the Reserve; five years in the Territorial Army, and
six years in the Territorial Reserve. But this law was not fully
enforced. The men called up each year were divided by lot into two
groups, and one of these groups, in time of peace, was let off with only
one year's service in the Regular Army. Whole classes of persons, such
as breadwinners and teachers, were free from service altogether, and any
man could escape with one year's training by paying a certain sum of
money. This plan proved very unsatisfactory, and in 1889 a new law was
passed by which every young man was forced to serve twenty-five
years--three years with the colours, seven years in the Reserve, six
years in the Territorial Army, and nine years in the Territorial
Reserve. By this means France hoped to raise her total number of trained
men to 3,000,000.
Up to the year 1893 France and Germany had about the same number of
soldiers on a peace footing; but very soon Germany began to forge ahead,
chiefly because her population grew so rapidly. Soon it was clear that
France could not hope to raise so large an army as Germany; so in 1897
she made an alliance with Russia, by which each Power agreed to take
part in the other's quarrel if either of them should be attacked. In
1905 France again altered her army law by reducing the time of service
with the colours to two years, and by increasing the period of service
with the Reserve to eleven years. But even this arrangement did not give
her all the soldiers which she needed; so in 1913 she decreed that every
Frenchman found fit for service must join the colours at the age of
twenty, spend three years in the Regular Army, eleven years in the
Regular Reserve, seven years in the Territorial Army, and seven in the
Territorial Reserve. Thus every strong and able-bodied Frenchman became
liable for military service from his twentieth to his forty-eighth year.
Roughly speaking, this new law enabled France to put into the field, a
month or so after the beginning of war, about 4,000,000 trained men.
This gave her a first line army of about 1,500,000, a second line of
about 500,000, and a reserve of about 2,000,000. Germany feared that
this new law would so strengthen France that she and Russia combined
would be more than a match for her; and one of the reasons why she
declared war on August 1, 1914, was to crush the French before the new
arrangement could come into full working order.
[Illustration: Recruits in the Streets of Paris.
_Photo, Sport and General._]
Every year in the month of February a Council sits in Paris and in the
provinces, and before it all youths of twenty must appear to pass the
doctor. If they are found "bon pour le service," they are told what
regiment they must join and the place where they are to undergo their
training, and in the following October they join their depots.
Frequently the young men so chosen pin big paper favours on their coats
and hats, and, thus decorated, march about the streets. Outside the
hall in which the Council is sitting there are almost sure to be a
number of stalls loaded with these blue, white, and red decorations.
When the young soldier arrives at the barracks he is given three suits
of clothes, one of which is his drill dress, another his walking-out
dress, and the third his war dress. These clothes he keeps on a shelf
above his bed, and he so arranges his garments that the French colours,
blue, white, and red, are clearly seen. In summer he rises at 4 a.m.,
and in winter at 6 a.m., and he goes to bed at 9 p.m. all the year
round, except when he is on sentry-go, or has permission to stay out
late. Every day the barrack-room is inspected, to see that the beds are
properly made, that the men's clothes are in good order, and that the
room is clean and tidy. The "little breakfast," which consists of coffee
and a roll, is served at 5 a.m.; lunch is eaten at ten o'clock, and
dinner at five. The meals usually consist of soup, meat | 1,209.609253 |
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by The Internet Library of Early Journals.)
[Transcriber's note: Characters with macrons have been marked in
brackets with an equal sign, as [=e] for a letter e with a macron on
top. Underscores have been used to indicate _italic_ fonts; equal signs
indicate =bold= fonts. Original spelling variations have not been
standardized. A list of volumes and pages in "Notes and Queries" has
been added at the end.]
NOTES and QUERIES:
A MEDIUM OF INTER-COMMUNICATION
FOR
LITERARY MEN, ARTISTS, ANTIQUARIES, GENEALOGISTS, ETC.
"When found, make a note of."--CAPTAIN CUTTLE.
VOL. IV.--No. 109. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 29. 1851.
Price Threepence. Stamped Edition 4_d._
CONTENTS.
Page
NOTES:--
Thomas More and John Fisher 417
Notes on Newspapers, by H. M. Bealby 418
Treatise of Equivocation 419
Notes on Virgil, by Dr. Henry 420
Minor Notes:--Verses presented, to General
Monck--Justice to Pope Pius V. 421
QUERIES:--
Crosses and Crucifixes 422
Master of the Buckhounds, by John Branfill Harrison 422
Minor Queries:--"No Cross no Crown"--Dido and
AEneas--Pegs and Thongs for Rowing: Torture among the
Athenians--French Refugees--Isabel, Queen of the Isle
of Man--Grand-daughter of John Hampden--Cicada or
Tettigonia Septemdecim--The British Sidanen--Jenings or
Jennings--Caleva Atrebatum, Site of--Abigail--Etymology
of Durden--Connecticut Halfpenny 423
MINOR QUERIES ANSWERED:--Arms displayed on Spread
Eagle--St. Beuno--Lists of Knights Bachelor--Walker--See
of Durham 424
REPLIES:--
Convocation of York 425
The Old Countess of Desmond 426
Coins of Vabalathus 427
Marriage of Ecclesiastics 427
Replies to Minor Queries:--"Crowns have their
Compass"--The Rev. Richard Farmer--Earwig 428
MISCELLANEOUS:--
Notes on Books, Sales, Catalogues, &c. 429
Books and Odd Volumes wanted 429
Notices to Correspondents 430
Advertisements 430
Notes.
THOMAS MORE AND JOHN FISHER.
Although I am afraid "NOTES AND QUERIES" may not be considered as open
to contributions purely bibliographical, and admitting I am uncertain
whether the following copy of the treatise of John Fisher, Bishop of
Rochester, has been before noted, I am induced to send this extract from
Techener's _Bulletin du Bibliophile_ for May 1851. The book is in the
library at Douai.
"This Treatise concernynge the fruytful Saynges of David the King
and prophete in the seven penytencyall psalmes, devyded in _ten_
sermons, was made and compyled by the ryght reverente fader in god
Johan Fyssher, doctour of dyvinyte and bysshop of Rochester, at
the exortacion and sterynge of the most excellent pryncesse
Margarete, Countesse of Richemount and Derby, and moder to out
souverayne Lorde Kynge H[=e]ry the VII."
It is described as a small 4to., printed upon vellum, in Gothic letters,
at London, 1508, by Wynkyn de Worde, and contains 146 leaves. On the
first leaf it has a portcullis, crowned with the motto "Dieu et mon
Droit." On the recto of the last leaf there is--
"Here endeth the exposycyon of the 7 psalmes. Enprynted at London
in the fletestrete, at the sygne of ye Sonne, by Wynkyn de Worde.
In the yere of oure lorde M.CCCCC.VIII. ye 16 day of ye moneth of
Juyn. The XXIII. yere of ye reygne of our souverayne Lorde Kynge
H[=e]ry the Seventh."
At the back, there is the sun, the monogram of Wynkyn de Worde--the
letters W. C. displayed as usual--and beneath, "Wynkyn de Worde."
At the beginning of the book, "sur une garde en velin" (a fly-leaf of
vellum?), there is written in a very neat hand the following ten verses,
the profession of faith of Thomas Morus and of his friend John Fisher,
Bishop of Rochester:
"The surest meanes for to attaine
The perfect waye to endlesse blisse
Are happie lief and to remaine
W'thin ye church where virtue is;
And if thy conscience be sae sounde
To thinse thy faith is truth indeede
Beware in thee noe schisme be founde
That unitie may have her meede;
If unitie thow doe embrace
In heaven (_en_?)joy possesse thy place."
Beneath--
"Qui non recte vivit in unitate ecclesiae
Catholicae, salvus esse non potest."
And lower on the same page--
"Thomas Morus d[=n]s cancellarius Angliae
Joh. Fisher Epus Roffensis."
It is traditionally reported, upon the testimony of some Anglican
Benedictines (an order now extinct), that the lines which contain the
profession of faith, and those which follow, are in the handwriting of
Bishop Fisher, and that the work was presented by him to the
chancellor, during their imprisonment, when by order of Henry VIII. the
chancellor was denied the consolation of his books.
In the same library there is a fine Psalter, which belonged to Queen
Elizabeth. The _Livre d'Heures_ of Mary Queen of Scots was here also to
be found: "Maria, glorious martyr and Queen of Scotland." It is
conjectured these books were brought to Douai by the fugitive English
Roman Catholic priests. In 1790 their collections were confiscated and
given to the public library of Douai. It would be of interest to
ascertain, if possible, the authenticity of the _Heures a l'Usage_,
stated to have belonged to Mary Queen of Scots. Upon this point one may
be permitted to be sceptical. I have myself seen two. One of these, it
was said, had been used by Mary on the scaffold, and contained a note in
the handwriting, as I think, of James II. attesting the fact. It was
understood to have been obtained from a monastery in France. The other,
a small Prayer Book MS. in vellum, of good execution, had the signature
"M." with a line I think over it of "O Lord, deliver me from my
enemies!" in French. I am, however, now writing from memory, and, in the
first case, of very many years.
Whether the line, "Maria, glorious martyr and Queen of Scotland," be
written in the Psalter, or has been added by the mental excitement of M.
Duthilloeul, the librarian at Douai, I cannot decide. The grand
culmination of "and Queen of Scotland" forms doubtless a very striking
anti-thesis: but neither the possessor of the book nor a priest would
have so sunk the martyr, although a woman and a queen were alike
concerned, as this line does. Lowndes states there is a copy of the
bishop's treatise on vellum at Cambridge. A copy is in the British
Museum; but the title, according, to Lowndes, has _seven_ sermons. It
will be observed the title now given has _ten_.
S. H.
NOTES ON NEWSPAPERS.
The social elements of society in the seventeenth century were more
simple in their character and development than at the present period.
The population was comparatively small, and therefore the strivings for
success in any pursuit did not involve that severe conflict which is so
frequently the case in the present day. Society then was more of a
community than it is now. It had not public bodies to aid it. It was
left more to its own inherent resources for reciprocal good, and for
mutual help. The temptations to evade and dissemble, in matters of
business, or private and public negotiations, were not so strong as they
now are. Its transactions were more transparent and defined, because
they were fewer and less complicated than many of our own. We readily
grant that society now, in its social, religious, and commercial
aspects, enjoys advantages immeasurably superior to those of any former
period; still there are some few advantages which it had then, that it
cannot possess now. The following advertisements, from the newspapers of
the time, will illustrate the truth of the foregoing remarks:
From a _Collection for Improvement of Husbandry and Trade_.
Friday, January 26, 1693/4.
"One that is fit to keep a Warehouse, be a Steward, or do any
Business that can be supposed an intelligent Man that has been a
Shopkeeper is fit for, and can give any Security that can be
desired, as far as Ten Thousand Pound goes, and has some Estate of
his own, desires an Employment of One hundred Pounds a year, or
upwards. I can give an account of him."
That a man having 10,000_l._ to give as security, and in possession of
an estate, should require a situation of 100_l._ per annum, sounds oddly
enough in our ears. "I can give an account of him," denotes that the
editor was a man well known and duly appreciated. He appears to have
been a scribe useful in many ways. He was known, and knowing.
Friday, February 2, 1693/4.
"A very eminent Brewer, and one I know to be a very honest
Gentleman, wants an Apprentice. I can give an account of him."
In what sense the word "honest" must here be taken it is difficult to
define. As an eminent brewer, we should naturally conclude he must have
been an honest man. He is here very eminent and very honest.
Friday March 16, 1693/4.
"Many Masters want Apprentices, and many Youths want Masters. If
they apply themselves to me, I'll strive to help them. Also for
variety of valuable services."
Here is the editor of a paper offering his help to masters and
apprentices for their mutual good. Let us suppose an advertisement of
this kind appearing in _The Times_ of our own day. Printing-house Square
would not contain a tithe of the individuals who would present
themselves for the reception of this accommodating aid. In such a case
the editors (as it regards their particular duties) would be cyphers,
for a continuous absorption of their time would necessarily occur in the
carrying out of this benevolent offer. This advertisement may be
considered as _multum in parvo_, giving the wants of the many in an
announcement of three or four lines, connecting them with a variety of
services which in those days were thought to be valuable. How greatly
are we assisted by these little incidents in forming correct views of
the state of society at that period.
The next advertisement shows the value set upon the services of one who
was to perform the duties of a clerk, and to play well on the violin.
"If any young Man that plays well on a Violin, and writes a good
Hand, desires a Clerkship, I can help him to Twenty Pounds a
year."
Of course twenty pounds was of more value then than it is now: still it
seems a small sum for the performance of such duties, for twelve months.
Here is musical talent required for the amusement of others, in
combination with the daily duties of a particular profession. An
efficient musician, and a good writer, and all for 20_l._ per annum! We
learn by the editor's "I can help him," his readiness to assist all who
would advertise in his journal, to obtain those employments which their
advertisements specified.
Friday, April 6, 1694.
"A Grocer of good business desires an Apprentice of good growth."
The "good growth" must have been intended to convey the idea of height
and strength.
My next article shall be devoted to advertisements of another class,
further illustrating the state of society and the peculiarities of the
people at the end of the seventeenth century.
H. M. BEALBY.
North Brixton.
TREATISE OF EQUIVOCATION.
As having originated the inquiry in "NOTES AND QUERIES"[1] respecting
this Treatise, under the signature of J. M., I feel great obligation
both to the editor of that journal, and the editor of the Treatise
itself, for having brought it to light by publication, and added it to
the stock of accurate and very important historical information. Indeed,
a real vacancy was left for it; and it is a subject of high
self-gratulation, that a boon previously, and for a length of time,
hidden and unproductive, is now accessible and operative without limit.
I have no doubt that all your readers, and the whole reading public,
join with me in rejoicing that the editorship of the work has fallen
into hands so competent and so successful.
[Footnote 1: Vol. i., pp. 263. 357.; Vol. ii., pp. 136. 168. 446.
490.]
I was, not for ten, but twenty years or more, in quest of the MS. now so
happily made public property, and should have fallen upon it much
earlier, but for the misleading title under which it appears, where it
_is_ really; for it has been found. In the _Catalogus Lib. MSS._: Ox.
1697, among the Laudian MSS. appears, p. 62., "968.95. _A Treatise_
against _Equivocation, or fraudulent Dissimulation_." _Against!_ when no
such word is in the original, and the real matter and meaning is _for_!
I had, at some early time, marked the very entry; but presuming that the
work had been actually _printed_ (which I believe it was in a very few
copies, which have disappeared), naturally enough I did not pursue the
search in that direction. Others, I am happy, have, and I am gratified.
The work is very important; for there is not a work more evidently
genuine and authentic than this is proved to be by plain historic
evidence, both as to the document itself and the facts which it attests.
The witness, or witnesses, appearing in it, give their testimony
respecting themselves with the most unsuspectable simplicity. They meant
not, and have not, misrepresented themselves: they have proclaimed their
own doctrine for themselves respecting Equivocation and Mental
Reservation--the last of which is really of most importance; and it was
most needful to the Roman body at the time, and under their
circumstances. Their object, for mere safety, was concealment as to
their resorts or residences. They could not exist, as they did, without
the assistance and knowledge of many individuals, some of inferior
class. Against the incessant inquiries to which they were exposed they
had no defence, except the power of disappointing or misleading by
ambiguity or deception, which was completely secured by reserved
termination in the mind to any uttered declaration. Now, there is in
this very Treatise _plain admission_ that all the co-religionists of the
endangered party, particularly a lady who is distinctly noticed, were
not convinced of the moral rectitude of such a procedure; and it was
necessary, or expedient, that their hesitation should be removed. And
this seems to be the main object of the present work. How far it has
succeeded must depend upon the evidence which is adduced.
We have generally had the doctrine of the Roman body on the subject of
the Treatise presented by opponents; here we have it as deliberately
stated by themselves. There is a passage rather observable in p. 103.,
beginning at the bottom and extending to the words "he hath no such
meaning to tell them," of which we are not acquainted with a duplicate.
But the whole has something of the freshness and interest of novelty.
_Macbeth_, it is agreed, I believe, was written in 1607, consequently
after the Powder Plot, when the doctrine before us was brought forward
pointedly against the traitors. Might there not be some reference to the
fact in the Second Act, where the porter of the castle, roused by
repeated knockings, on the murder, after other exclamations in the
manner of the poet, proceeds:
"Here's an Equivocator, that could swear in both the scales,
against either scale: who committed treason enough for God's sake,
yet could not equivocate to heaven. Oh, come in, Equivocator"?
Mr. Jardine will thank your correspondent for pointing out an error or
two which should be corrected in another edition. At p. 44., for
"[Greek: chtho]," in the margin, should be printed "_sub verbo_." The
word in the MS. is a contraction to that effect: the capital "V" has a
curved stroke across the first line of the "V," followed by "_bo_."
Generally the _Dubium_, in alphabetic works of the kind referred to,
ranks under some alphabetic word, one or more, as it may happen; but in
Em. Sa's work the word _Dubium_ comes under the letter D., and this is
meant to be expressed. At p. 49. the footnote should be omitted, as the
Vulgate, which is followed, calls the 1st of _Samuel_ the 1st of
_Kings_. The first line of p. 56. should have "_autem_" instead of
"_antea_." I have inspected the MS. carefully, and therefore speak with
confidence.
EUPATOR.
NOTES ON VIRGIL.
(_Continued from_ p. 308.)
IV. "Illum expirantem transfixo pectore flammas
Turbine corripuit scopuloque infixit acuto."
Virg. _AEn._ I. 48.
"TURBINE; volubilitate ventorum. SCOPULO; saxo
eminenti."--_Servius._
"Hub sie im Wirbel empor, und spiesst' an ein scharfes Gestein
ihn."--_Voss._
"Ipsum vero Pallas fulmine percussum procellae vi scopulo etiam
allisit."--_Heyne._
"Impegit rupi acutae."--_Ruaeus._
"Infixit. _Inflixit_, lectionem quorundam MSS. facile praetulissem,
et quod statim praecesserit _transfixo_, unde evadit inconcinna
cognatae dictionis repetitio, et quod etiam AEn. x. 303.:
"'Namque inflicta vadis, dorso dum pendet iniquo,'
"si Sidon. Apoll. v. 197. haud tueretur vulgatam scripturam:
"'Fixusque Capharei
Cautibus, inter aquas flammam ructabat Oileus.'"--_Wakefield._
To which criticism of Wakefields's, Forbiger adds: "Praeterea etiam acuto
scopulo _infigendi_ voc. accommodatius videtur quam _infligendi_." And
Wagner: "acuto scopulo _infigi_ melius."
This interpretation and these criticisms are founded altogether on a
false conception of the meaning of the word _infigere_, which is never
to fix _on_, but always either to fix _in_, or to fix _with_, i.e.
pierce _with_. _Scopulo infixit acuto_, _fixed or pinned_ down or to the
ground _with_ a sharp rock; _i.e._ hurled a sharp-pointed rock on him,
so as to nail him to the ground. So (_AEn._ XII. 721.) "Cornua obnixi
infigunt," fix their horns, not _on_, but _in_; infix their horns; stick
their horns into each other; stick each other with their horns: _q.d._
Cornibus se mutuo infigunt: and, exactly parallel to our text:
"Saturnius me sic _infixit_ Jupiter,
Jovisque numen Mulcibri adscivit manus.
Hos ille _cuneos_ fabrica crudeli _inserens_,
Perrupit artus; qua miser sollertia
Transverberatus, castrum hoc Furiarum incolo."
Cicero (translating from AEschylus), _Tuscul. Quaest._ II. 10.
In confirmation of this view of the passage, I may observe: 1st, that it
is easier to imagine a man staked to the ground by a sharp-pointed rock,
than flung on a sharp-pointed rock, so as to remain permanently impaled
on it; and 2dly, that the account given of the transaction, both by
Quintus Calaber and Seneca, agree as perfectly with this view as they
disagree with the opposite:
[Greek: Kai ny ken exelyxe kakon moron, ei me ar' auto,
rhexas aian enerthen, epiproeeke kolonen;
eute paros megaloio kat' Enkeladoio daiphron
Pallas aeiramene Sikelen epikabbale neson;
e rh' eti kaietai aien hyp' akamatoio Gigantos,
aithaloen pneiontos eso chthonos; hos ara Lokron
amphekalypsen anakta dysammoron oureos akre,
hypsothen exeripousa, baryne de karteron andra;
amphi de min thanatoio melas ekichesat' olethros,
gaie <DW25>s dmethenta, kai akamato eni ponto.]
Quintus Calab. XIV. 579.
And so Seneca; who, having presented us with Ajax clinging to the rock
to which he had swum for safety, after his ship had been sunk, and
himself struck with lightning, and there uttering violent imprecations
against the Deity, adds:
"Plura cum auderet furens,
Tridente rupem subruit pulsam pater
Neptunus, imis exerens undis caput,
Solvitque montem; quem cadens secum tulit:
Terraque et igne victus et pelago jacet."
_Agam._ 552.
And, so also, beyond doubt, we are to understand Sidonius
Apollinaris's--
"Fixusque Capharei
Cautibus, inter aquas flammam ructabat Oileus."
Not, with Wakefield and the other commentators, _fixed on_ the rocks of
Caphareus, but, _pierced with_ the rocks of Caphareus, and lying under
them. Compare (_AEn._ IX. 701.) "fixo pulmone," the pierced lung; "fixo
cerebro" (_AEn._ XII. 537.); "verubus trementia figunt" (_AEn._ I. 216.),
not, fix _on_ the spits, but, stick or pierce _with_ the spits; and
especially (Ovid. _Ibis._ 341.),
"Viscera sic aliquis scopulus tua figat, ut olim
Fixa sub Euboico Graia fuere sinu,"
pierced and pinned down with a rock, at the bottom of the Euboean gulf.
TURBINE. SCOPULO.--Not two instruments, _a whirlwind and a rock_, but
one single instrument, _a whirling rock_; scopulo turbineo; in modo
turbinis se circumagente; as if Virgil had said, Solo affixit illum
correptum et transverberatum scopulo acuto in eum maxima vi rotato: or,
more briefly, Turbine scopuli acuti corripuit et infixit. Compare:
"Praecipitem scopulo atque ingentis turbine saxi
Excutit effunditque solo."--_AEn._ XII. 531.
"Stupet obvia leto
Turba super stantem, atque emissi turbine montis
Obruitur."--Stat. _Theb._ II. 564.
"Idem altas turres saxis et turbine crebro
Laxat."--Stat. _Theb._ X. 742.
So understood, 1st, the passage is according to Virgil's usual manner,
the latter part of the line explaining and defining the general
statement contained in the former; and, 2ndly, Pallas kills her enemy,
not by the somewhat roundabout and unusual method of first striking him
with thunder, and then snatching him up in a whirlwind, and then either
dashing him against a sharp rock, and leaving him impaled there, or, as
I have shown is undoubtedly the meaning, impaling him with a sharp rock,
but by the more compendious and less out-of-the-way method of first
striking him with thunder, and then whirling a sharp-pointed rock on top
of him, so as to impale him.
From Milton's imitation of this passage, in his _Paradise Lost_ (ii.
180.), it appears that even he fell into the general and double error:
"Caught in a fiery tempest shall be hurled,
Each on his rock transfixed."
Caro's translation shows that he had no definite idea whatever of the
meaning:
"A tale un turbo
In preda il die; che per acuti scogli
Miserabil ne fe' rapina, e scempio."
* * * * *
V. "Ast ego, quae Divum incedo regina, Jovisque
Et soror et conjux, una cum gente tot annos
Bella gero."--_AEn._ I. 50.
"'INCEDERE' wird besonders von der feierlichen, wuerdevollen
Haltung im Gange gebraucht: vers 500, von der Dido, 'Regina
incessit.' (Ruhnk. zu _Terent. And._ I. i. 100. _Eun._ v. 3. 9.)
Deshalb der majestaetischen Juno eigenthuemlich, [Greek: Heraion
badizein]. Also nicht fuer _sum_, sondern ganz
eigentlich."--_Thiel._
"But I who walk in awful state above."
_Dryden._
"_Incedere_ est _ingredi_, sed proprie cum quadam pompa et
fastu."--_Gesner._
"Incessus dearum, imprimis Junonis, gravitate sua
notus."--_Heyne._
And so also Holdsworth and Ruaeus.
I think, on the contrary, that _incedo_, both here and elsewhere,
expresses only the stepping or walking motion generally, and that the
character of the step or walk, if inferable at all, is to be inferred
only from the context. Accordingly, "Magnifice incedit" (Liv. II. 6.);
"Turpe incedere" (Catull | 1,210.408738 |
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WASPS
SOCIAL AND SOLITARY
[Illustration:
Page 266
PELOPÆUS ON NEST, GROUP OF FINISHED CELLS, AND TUBE OPENED TO SHOW
SPIDERS]
WASPS
SOCIAL AND SOLITARY
BY
GEORGE W. PECKHAM
AND
ELIZABETH G. PECKHAM
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
JOHN BURROUGHS
_ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES H. EMERTON_
“Bold | 1,210.408819 |
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Distributed Proofreaders
THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.
VOL. 10, No. 264.] SATURDAY, JULY 14, 1827. [PRICE 2d.
* * * * *
ARCHITECTURAL ILLUSTRATIONS.
NEW CHURCH, REGENT'S PARK.
[Illustration]
The architectural splendour which has lately developed itself in and
about the precincts of the parish of St. Mary-le-Bonne, exhibits a most
surprising and curious contrast with the former state of this part of
London; and more particularly when compared with accounts extracted from
newspapers of an early date.
Mary-le-Bonne parish is estimated to contain more than ten thousand
houses, and one hundred thousand inhabitants. In the plans of London, in
1707, it was a small village one mile distant from the Metropolis,
separated by fields--the scenes of robbery and murder. The following
from a newspaper of 1716:--"On Wednesday last, four gentlemen were
robbed and stripped in the fields between Mary-le-Bonne and London." The
"Weekly Medley," of 1718, says, "Round about the New Square which is
building near Tyburn road, there are so many other edifices, that a
whole magnificent city seems to be risen out of the ground in a way
which makes one wonder how it should find a new set of inhabitants. It
is said it is to be called by the name of _Hanover Square!_ On the other
side is to be built another square, called Oxford Square." From the same
article I have also extracted the dates of many of the different
erections, which may prove of benefit to your architectural readers, as
tending to show the progressive improvement made in the private
buildings of London, and showing also the style of building adopted at
later periods. Indeed, I would wish that some of your correspondents--
_F.R.Y._, or _P.T.W._, for instance, would favour us with a _list of
dates_ answering this purpose. Rathbone-place and John-street (from
Captain Rathbone) began 1729. Oxford market opened 1732. Newman-street
and Berners-street, named from the builders, between 1723 and 1775.
Portland-place and street, 1770. Portman-square, 1764. Portman-place,
1770. Stratford-place | 1,210.497863 |
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IT MAY BE TRUE.
A NOVEL.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
BY
MRS. WOOD.
VOL. I.
London:
T. CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE,
1865.
[THE RIGHT OF TRANSLATION IS RESERVED.]
IT MAY BE TRUE.
CHAPTER I.
ASHLEIGH.
Had'st thou lived in days of old,
O, what wonders had been told
Of thy lively countenance,
And thy humid eyes that dance
In the midst of their own brightness,
In the very fane of lightness;
Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,
Picture out each lovely meaning;
In a dainty bend they lie
Like the streaks across the sky,
Or the feathers from a crow,
Fallen on a bed of snow.
KEATS.
The village of Ashleigh is situated in one of the most lovely and
romantic of the English counties; where mountains, valleys, woods and
forest trees appear to vie with each other in stately magnificence. The
village is literally embosomed amongst the trees. Lofty elms, majestic
oaks, and wide-spreading beech trees grow in and around it. On one side,
as far as the eye can reach, are mountains covered with verdure, with
all their varied and lovely tints of green. On the other side the view
is partially obstructed by a mass of forest trees growing in clumps, or
forming an arch overhead, through which nevertheless may be gained a
peep of the distant sea, with its blue waves, and sometimes the white
sails of a ship; or, on a clear day, even the small fishermen's boats
can be distinguished dotted here and there like small pearls.
Ashleigh has its country inn and ivy-mantled church, with the small
house dignified as the Parsonage, close by. Other houses are sprinkled
here and there down the green lanes, or along the road, shaded by its
lofty elms, at the end of which, on a small eminence, stands the Manor
or "Big House," as the villagers call it.
It is a large, brick building, but with nothing grand or imposing about
it; in fact, but for the lovely grounds and plantations on a small scale
around, the clematis, jasmine and other beautiful creepers, too numerous
to mention, trained up its walls, and hanging in luxuriant festoons
about the porch, and the dark ivy which almost covers the roof, the
whole of one side, and part of the front itself, it would be an ugly,
unwieldy-looking edifice; as it was, everything appeared bright and
gladsome.
Before you reach the village, a bridge crosses a small stream which
flows from the hill-side, and after winding gracefully and silently
through the midst, passes by the mill and being just seen like a long
thin thread of silver in the distance, is lost in the rich meadows
beyond.
It was the beautiful spring time of the year:--
"The delicate-footed May,
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers."
The sun was just setting in all its regal splendour beneath the deep
rich crimson sky, throwing long dim shadows from the stately trees which
over-arched the road along which a young girl was slowly wending her
way. Her figure was slight, yet her step--although she appeared very
young--had none of the buoyancy or elasticity of youth. It was slow;
almost mournful. But either the graceful figure or step itself had a
certain dignified pride, neither stately, haughty, nor commanding;
perhaps it combined all three. Her face was very lovely. Fair golden
masses of hair waved under the broad straw hat she wore, while her eyes
were shaded by long, dark silken lashes. She had a clear, | 1,210.497994 |
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by Al Haines.
ALONG THE SHORE
BY ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP
To
G. P. L.
We see the sky,--we love it day by day;
We feel the wind of Spring, from blossoms winging;
We meet with souls tender as tints in May:
For these large ecstasies what are we bringing?
There is no price, best friend, for greatest meed.
Laid on the altar of our true affection,
Wild flowers of love for me must intercede:
And lo! I win your unexcelled protection.
CONTENTS
Inlet And Shore
Impersonality
A Protean Glimpse
Power Against Power
Life's Priestess
Love Now
One And One
The Violin
Gertrude
Unity In Space
The Shell And The Word
The Clock-Tower Bell
Ours To Endure
Broken Waves
Why Sad To-Day?
The Ghosts Of Revellers
Life's Burying-Ground
Beyond Utterance
The Suicide
For Others
Zest
The Unperfected
God-Made
A Song Before Grief
Pride: Fate
Francie
Lost Reality
Closing Chords
Grace
Endless Resource
The Baby
A Waltz
First Bloom Of Love
A Wooing Song
Dorothy
Morning Song
Looking Backward
Unloved
The Clock's Song
Broken-Hearted
The Cynic's Fealty
The Girls We Might Have Wed
"Neither!"
Used Up
A Youth's Suicide
Twenty Bold Mariners
In The Artillery
The Lost Battle
The Outgoing Race
Hidden History
A Ballad Of The Mist
The Dreaming Wheel
The Roads That Meet
A PASSING VOICE
ALONG THE SHORE.
* * * * *
INLET AND SHORE.
Here is a world of changing glow,
Where moods roll swiftly far and wide;
Waves sadder than a funeral's pride,
Or bluer than the harebell's blow!
The sunlight makes the black hulls cast
A firefly radiance down the deep;
The inlet gleams, the long clouds sweep,
The sails flit up, the sails drop past.
The far sea-line is hushed and still;
The nearer sea has life and voice;
Each soul may take his fondest choice,--
The silence, or the restless thrill.
O little children of the deep,--
The single sails, the bright, full sails,
Gold in the sun, dark when it fails,
Now you are smiling, then you weep!
O blue of heaven, and bluer sea,
And green of wave, and gold of sky,
And white of sand that stretches by,
Toward east and west, away from me!
O shell-strewn shore, that silent hears
The legend of the mighty main,
And tells to none the lore again,--
We catch one utterance only: "Years!"
IMPERSONALITY
I dreamed within a dream the sun was gold;
And as I walked beneath this golden sun,
The world was like a mighty play-room old,
Made for our pleasure since it was begun.
But when I waked I found the sun was air,
The world was air, and all things only seemed,
Except the thoughts we grow by; for in prayer
We change to spirits such as God has dreamed.
A PROTEAN GLIMPSE.
Time and I pass to and fro,
Hardly greeting as we go,--
Go askant, like crossing wings
Of sea-gulls where the brave sea sings.
Time, the messenger of Fate!
Cunning master of debate,
Cunning soother of all sorrow,
Ruthless robber of to-morrow;
Tyrant to our dallying feet,
Though patron of a life complete;
Like Puck upon a rosy cloud,
He rides to distance while we woo him,--
Like pale Remorse wrapped in a shroud,
He brings the world in sackcloth to him!
O dimly seen, and often met
As shadowings of a wild regret!
O king of us, yet feebly served;
Dispenser of the dooms reserved;
So silent at the folly done,
So deadly when our respite's gone!--
As sea-gulls, slanting, cross at sea,
So cross our rapid flights with thee.
POWER AGAINST POWER.
[Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1864.]
Where spells were wrought he sat alone,
The wizard touching minds of men
Through far-swung avenues of power,
And proudly held the magic pen.
By the dark wall a white Shape gleams,
By morning's light a Shadow falls!
Is it a servant of his brain,
Or Power that to his power calls?
By morning's light the Shadow looms,
And watches with relentless eyes;
In night-gloom holds the glimmering lamp,
While the pen ever slower flies.
By the dark wall it beckons still,
By evening light it darkly stays;
The wizard looks, and his great life
Thrills with the sense of finished days.
A Shape so ghost-like by the sun,
With smiles that chill as dusks descend!
The glancing wizard, stern and pale,
Admits the presence of the End.
Health has forsaken, death is near,
The hand moves slower, eyes grow dim;
The End approaches, and the man
Dreams of no spell for quelling Him.
LIFE'S PRIESTESS.
All to herself a woman never sings
A happy song. Oh no! but it is so
As when the thrush has closed down his wings
Within the wood, and hears his hidden woe
From his own bill fill aisles of leaves, and go
About the wood and come to him again.
LOVE NOW.
The sanctity that is about the dead
To make us love them more than late, when here,
Is not it well to find the living dear
With sanctity like this, ere they have fled?
The tender thoughts we nurture for a loss
Of mother, friend, or child, oh! it were wise
To spend this glory on the earnest eyes,
The longing heart, that feel life's present cross.
Give also mercy to the living here
Whose keen-strung souls will quiver at your touch;
The utmost reverence is not too much
For eyes that weep, although the lips may sneer.
ONE AND ONE.
The thanking heart can only silence keep;
The breaking heart can only die alone:
Our happy love above abysses deep
Of unguessed power hovers, and is gone!
Come, take my hand, O friend I take for life!
You cannot reach my soul through touch or gaze;
Be our full lips with infinite meanings rife:
The longed-for words, which of us ever says?
THE VIOLIN.
Touch gently, friend, and slow, the violin, So sweet and low,
That my dreaming senses may be beckoned so
Into a rest as deep as the long past "years ago!"
So softly, then, begin;
And ever gently touch the violin,
Until an impulse grows of a sudden, like wind
On the brow of the earth,
And the voice of your violin shows its wide-swung girth
With a crash of the strings and a medley of rage and mirth;
And my rested senses spring
Like juice from a broken rind,
And the joys that your melodies bring
I know worth a life-time to win,
As you waken to love and this hour your violin!
GERTRUDE.
[In Memory: 1877.]
What shall I say, my friend, my own heart healing,
When for my love you cannot answer me?
This earth would quake, alas! might I but see
You smile, death's rigorous law repealing!
Pale lips, your mystery so well concealing,
May not the eloquent, varied minstrelsy
Of my inspired ardor potent be
To touch your chords to music's uttered feeling?
Friend, here you cherished | 1,210.50222 |
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HOUSE OF TORMENT
A Tale of the Remarkable Adventures of Mr. John Commendone
Gentleman to King Philip II of Spain at the English Court
by
C. RANGER-GULL
Author of "The Serf," etc.
New York
Dodd, Mead and Company
1911
Published September, 1911
The Quinn & Boden Co. Press
Rahway, N. J.
DEDICATION TO DAVID WHITELAW
SOUVENIR OF A LONG FRIENDSHIP
_My dear David,_
_Since I first met you, considerably more than a decade ago, in
a little studio high up in a great London building, we have
both seen much water flow under the bridges of our lives._
_We have all sorts of memories, have we not?_
_Late midnights and famishing morrows, in the gay hard days
when we were endeavouring to climb the ladder of our Art; a
succession of faces, a welter of experiences. Some of us fell
in the struggle; others failed and still haunt the reprobate
purlieus of Fleet Street and the Strand! There was one who
achieved a high and delicate glory before he died--"Tant va la
cruche a l'eau qu'a la fin elle se casse."_
_There is another who is slowly and surely finding his way to a
certainty of fame._
_And the rest of us have done something, if not--as yet--all we
hoped to do. At any rate, the <DW72>s of the first hills lie
beneath us. We are in good courage and resolute for the
mountains._
_The mist eddies and is spiralled below in the valleys from
which we have come, but already we are among the deep sweet
billows of the mountain winds, and I think it is because we
have both found our "Princess Galvas" that we have got this far
upon the way._
_We may never stand upon the summit and find that tempest of
fire we call the Sun full upon us. But the pleasure of going on
is ours still--there will always be that._
_Ever your friend,
C. RANGER-GULL._
CONTENTS
I IN THE QUEEN'S CLOSET; THE FOUR FACES
II THE HOUSE OF SHAME; THE LADDER OF GLORY
III THE MEETING WITH JOHN HULL AT CHELMSFORD
IV PART TAKEN IN AFFAIRS BY THE HALF TESTOON
V THE FINDING OF ELIZABETH
VI A KING AND A VICTIM. TWO GRIM MEN
VII HEY HO! AND A RUMBELOW!
VIII "WHY, WHO BUT YOU, JOHNNIE!"
IX "MISERICORDIA ET JUSTITIA"
X THE SILENT MEN IN BLACK
XI IN THE BOX
XII "TENDIMUS IN LATIUM"
CHAPTER I
IN THE QUEEN'S CLOSET; THE FOUR FACES
Sir Henry Commendone sat upon an oak box clamped with bands of iron and
watched his son completing his morning toilette.
"And how like you this life of the Court, John?" he said.
The young man smoothed out the feather of his tall cone-shaped hat.
"Truly, father," he answered, "in respect of itself it seems a very good
life, but in respect that it is far from the fields and home it is
naught. But I like it very well. And I think I am likely to rise high. I
am now attached to the King Consort, by the Queen's pleasure. His
Highness has spoken frequently with me, and I have my commission duly
written out as _caballerizo_."
"I never could learn Spanish," the elder man replied, wagging his head.
"Father Chilches tried to teach me often of an afternoon when you were
hawking. What does the word mean in essence?"
"Groom of the body, father--equerry. It is doubtless because I speak
Spanish that it hath been given me."
"Very like, Johnnie. But since the Queen, God bless her, has come to the
throne, and England is reconciled to Holy Church, thou wert bound to
get a post at Court. They could not ignore our name. I wrote to the
Bishop of London myself, he placed my request before the Queen's Grace,
and hence thou art here and in high favour."
The young man smiled. "Which I shall endeavour to keep," he answered.
"And now I must soon go to the Queen's lodging. I am in attendance on
King Philip."
"And I to horse with my men at noon and so home to Kent. I am glad to
have seen thee, Johnnie, in thy new life, though I do not love London
and the Court. But tell me of the Queen's husband. The neighbours will
all want news of him. It's little enough they like the Spanish match in
Kent. Give me a picture of him."
"I have been at Court a month," John Commendone answered, "and I have
learned more than one good lesson. There is a Spanish saying that runs
this way, '_Palabras y plumas viento las Heva_' (Words and feathers are
carried far by the wind). I will tell you, father, but repeat nothing
again. Kent is not far away, and I have ambition."
Sir Henry chuckled. "Prudent lad," he said; "thou art born to be about a
palace. I'll say nothing."
"Well then, here is your man, a pedant and a fool, a stickler for little
trifles, a very child for detail. Her Grace the Queen and all the nobles
speak many languages. Every man is learned now. His Highness speaks but
Spanish, though he has a little French. Never did I see a man with so
small a mind, and yet he thinks he can see deep down into men's hearts
and motives, and knows all private and public affairs."
Sir John whistled. He plucked at one of the roses of burnt silver
embroidered upon the doublet of green tissue he was wearing--the gala
dress which he had put on for his visit to Court, a garment which was a
good many years behind the fashion, but thought most elegant by his
brother squires in Kent.
"So!" he said, "then this match will prove as bad for the country as all
the neighbours are saying. Still, he is a good Catholic, and that is
something."
John nodded carelessly. "More so," he replied, "than is thought becoming
to his rank and age by many good Catholics about the Court. He is as
regular at mass, sermons, and vespers as a monk--hath a leash of friars
to preach for his instruction, and disputes in theology with others half
the night till Her Grace hath to send one of her gentlemen to bid him
come to bed."
"Early days for that," said the Kentish gentleman, "though, in faith,
the Queen is thirty-eight and----"
John started. "Whist!" he said. "I'm setting you an evil example, sir.
Long ears abound in the Tower. I'll say no more."
"I'm mum, Johnnie," Sir Henry replied. "I'll break in upon thee no more.
Get on with thy tale."
"'Tis a bargain then, sir, and repeat nothing I tell you. I was saying
about His Highness's religion. He consults Don Diego Deza, a Dominican
who is his confessor, most minutely as to all the actions of life,
inquiring most anxiously if this or that were likely to burden his
conscience. And yet--though Her Grace suspects nothing--he is of a very
gross and licentious temper. He hath issued forth at night into the
city, disguised, and indulged himself in the common haunts of vice. I
much fear me that he will command me to go with him on some such
expedition, for he begins to notice me more than any others of the
English gentlemen in his company, and to talk with me in the Spanish
tongue...."
The elder man laughed tolerantly.
"Every man to his taste," he said; "and look you, Johnnie, a prince is
wedded for state reasons, and not for love. The ox hath his bow, the
faulcon his bells, and as pigeon's bill man hath his desire and would be
nibbling!"
John Commendone drew himself up to his full slim height and made a
motion of disgust.
"'Tis not my way," he said. "Bachelor, I hunt no fardingales, nor would
I do so wedded."
"God 'ild you, Johnnie. Hast ever taken a clean and commendable view of
life, and I love thee for it. But have charity, get you charity as you
grow older. His Highness is narrow, you tell me; be not so yourself.
Thou art not a little pot and soon hot, but I think thou wilt find a
fire that will thaw thee at Court. A young man must get experience. I
would not have thee get through the streets with a bragging look nor
frequent the stews of town. But young blood must have its May-day.
Whilst can, have thy May-day, Johnnie. Have thy door shadowed with green
birches, long fennel, St. John's wort, orphine, and white lilies. Wilt
not be always young. But I babble; tell me more of King Philip."
The tall youth had stood silent while his father spoke, his grave, oval
face set in courteous attention. It was a coarse age. Henry the Eighth
was not long dead, and the scandals of his court and life influenced all
private conduct. That Queen Mary was rigid in her morals went for very
little. The Lady Elizabeth, still a young girl, was already committing
herself to a course of life which--despite the historians of the popular
textbooks--made her court in after years as licentious as ever her
father's had been. Old Sir Henry spoke after his kind, and few young men
in 1555 were so fastidious as John Commendone.
He welcomed the change in conversation. To hear his father--whom he
dearly loved--speak thus, was most distasteful to him.
"His Highness is a glutton for work," the young man went on. "I see him
daily, and he is ever busy with his pen. He hateth to converse upon
affairs of state, but will write a letter eighteen pages long when his
correspondent is in the next room, howbeit the subject is one which a
man of sense would settle in six words of the tongue. Indeed, sir, he is
truly of opinion that the world is to move upon protocols and
apostilles. Events must not be born without a preparatory course of his
obstetrical pedantry! Never will he learn that the world will not rest
on its axis while he writeth directions of the way it is to turn."
Sir Henry shook himself like a dog.
"And the Queen mad for such a husband as this!" he said.
"Aye, worships him as it were a saint in a niche. A skilled lutanist
with a touch on the strings remarkable for its science, speaking many
languages with fluency and grace, Latin in especial, Her Grace yet
thinks His Highness a great statesman and of a polished easy wit."
"How blind is love, Johnnie! blinder still when it cometh late. A cap
out of fashion and ill-worn. 'Tis like one of your French withered
pears. It looks ill and eats dryly."
"I was in the Queen's closet two days gone, in waiting on His Highness.
A letter had come from Paris, narrating how a member of the Spanish
envoy's suit to that court had been assassinated. The letter ran that
the manner in which he had been killed was that a Jacobin monk had given
him a pistol-shot in the head--'_la facon que l'on dit qu'il a ette tue,
sa ette par un Jacobin qui luy a donne d'un cou de pistolle dans la
tayte_.' His Highness took up his pen and scrawled with it upon the
margin. He drew a line under one word '_pistolle_'; 'this is perhaps
some kind of knife,' quoth he; 'and as for "_tayte_," it can be nothing
else but head, which is not _tayte_, but _tete_ or _teyte_, as you very
well know.' And, father, the Queen was all smiles and much pleased with
this wonderful commentary!"
Sir Henry rose.
"I will hear no more," he said. "It is time I went. You have given me
much food for thought. Fare thee well, Johnnie. Write me letters with
thy doings when thou canst. God bless thee."
The two men stood side by side, looking at each other in silence, one
hale and hearty still, but with his life drawing to its close, the other
in the first flush of early manhood, entering upon a career which
promised a most brilliant future, with every natural and material
advantage, either his already, or at hand.
They were like and yet unlike.
The father was big, burly, iron-grey of head and beard, with hooked nose
and firm though simple eyes under thick, shaggy brows.
John was of his father's height, close on six feet. He was slim, but
with the leanness of perfect training and condition. Supple as an eel,
with a marked grace of carriage and bearing, he nevertheless suggested
enormous physical strength. The face was a pure oval with an olive tinge
in the skin, the nose hooked like his sire's, the lips curved into a
bow, but with a singular graveness and strength overlying and informing
their delicacy. The eyes, of a dark brown, were inscrutable. Steadfast
in regard, with a hint of cynicism and mockery in them, they were at the
same time instinct with alertness and a certain watchfulness. He seemed,
as he stood in his little room in the old palace of the Tower, a
singularly handsome, clever, and capable young man, but a man with
reservations, with secrets of character which no one could plumb or
divine.
He was the only son of Sir Henry Commendone and a Spanish lady of high
birth who had come to England in 1512 to take a position in the suite of
Catherine of Arragon, three years after her marriage to Henry VIII.
During the early part of Henry's reign Sir Henry Commendone was much at
Windsor and a personal friend of the King. Those were days of great
brilliancy. The King was young, courteous, and affable. His person was
handsome, he was continually engaged in martial exercises and all forms
of field sports. Sir Henry was one of the band of gay youths who tilted
and hawked or hunted in the Great Park. He fell in love with the
beautiful young Juanita de Senabria, married her with the consent and
approbation of the King and Queen, and immediately retired to his manors
in Kent. From that time forward he took absolutely no part in politics
or court affairs. He lived the life of a country squire of his day in
serene health and happiness. His wife died when John--the only issue of
the marriage--was six years old, and the boy was educated by Father
Chilches, a placid and easy-going Spanish priest, who acted as domestic
chaplain at Commendone. This man, loving ease and quiet, was
nevertheless a scholar and a gentleman. He had been at the court of
Charles V, and was an ideal tutor for Johnnie. His religion, though
sincere, sat easily upon him. The Divorce from Rome did not draw him
from his calm retreat, the oath enforcing the King's supremacy had no
terrors for him, and he died at a good old age in 1548, during the
protectorate of Somerset.
From this man Johnnie had learnt to speak Spanish, Italian, and French.
Naturally quick and intelligent, he had added something of his mother's
foreign grace and self-possession to the teachings and worldly-wisdom of
Don Chilches, while his father had delighted to train him in all manly
exercises, than whom none was more fitted to do.
Sir Henry became rich as the years went on, but lived always as a simple
squire. Most of his land was pasturage, then far more profitable than
the growing of corn. Tillage, with | 1,210.502389 |
2023-11-16 18:37:14.4847800 | 6,077 | 6 |
Produced by J. Boulton
MEDITATIONS
By Marcus Aurelius
CONTENTS
NOTES
INTRODUCTION
FIRST BOOK
SECOND BOOK
THIRD BOOK
FOURTH BOOK
FIFTH BOOK
SIXTH BOOK
SEVENTH BOOK
EIGHTH BOOK
NINTH BOOK
TENTH BOOK
ELEVENTH BOOK
TWELFTH BOOK
APPENDIX
GLOSSARY
Original Transcriber's Notes:
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version with the various symbols mentioned above.
INTRODUCTION
MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS was born on April 26, A.D. 121. His real name
was M. Annius Verus, and he was sprung of a noble family which claimed
descent from Numa, second King of Rome. Thus the most religious of
emperors came of the blood of the most pious of early kings. His father,
Annius Verus, had held high office in Rome, and his grandfather, of
the same name, had been thrice Consul. Both his parents died young, but
Marcus held them in loving remembrance. On his father's death Marcus
was adopted by his grandfather, the consular Annius Verus, and there was
deep love between these two. On the very first page of his book Marcus
gratefully declares how of his grandfather he had learned to be gentle
and meek, and to refrain from all anger and passion. The Emperor Hadrian
divined the fine character of the lad, whom he used to call not Verus
but Verissimus, more Truthful than his own name. He advanced Marcus to
equestrian rank when six years of age, and at the age of eight made him
a member of the ancient Salian priesthood. The boy's aunt, Annia Galeria
Faustina, was married to Antoninus Pius, afterwards emperor. Hence it
came about that Antoninus, having no son, adopted Marcus, changing his
name to that which he is known by, and betrothed him to his daughter
Faustina. His education was conducted with all care. The ablest teachers
were engaged for him, and he was trained in the strict doctrine of the
Stoic philosophy, which was his great delight. He was taught to dress
plainly and to live simply, to avoid all softness and luxury. His body
was trained to hardihood by wrestling, hunting, and outdoor games; and
though his constitution was weak, he showed great personal courage to
encounter the fiercest boars. At the same time he was kept from the
extravagancies of his day. The great excitement in Rome was the strife
of the Factions, as they were called, in the circus. The racing drivers
used to adopt one of four colours--red, blue, white, or green--and their
partisans showed an eagerness in supporting them which nothing could
surpass. Riot and corruption went in the train of the racing chariots;
and from all these things Marcus held severely aloof.
In 140 Marcus was raised to the consulship, and in 145 his betrothal
was consummated by marriage. Two years later Faustina brought him a
daughter; and soon after the tribunate and other imperial honours were
conferred upon him.
Antoninus Pius died in 161, and Marcus assumed the imperial state. He
at once associated with himself L. Ceionius Commodus, whom Antoninus had
adopted as a younger son at the same time with Marcus, giving him the
name of Lucius Aurelius Verus. Henceforth the two are colleagues in the
empire, the junior being trained as it were to succeed. No sooner was
Marcus settled upon the throne than wars broke out on all sides. In
the east, Vologeses III. of Parthia began a long-meditated revolt by
destroying a whole Roman Legion and invading Syria (162). Verus was sent
off in hot haste to quell this rising; and he fulfilled his trust by
plunging into drunkenness and debauchery, while the war was left to his
officers. Soon after Marcus had to face a more serious danger at home in
the coalition of several powerful tribes on the northern frontier. Chief
among those were the Marcomanni or Marchmen, the Quadi (mentioned in
this book), the Sarmatians, the Catti, the Jazyges. In Rome itself there
was pestilence and starvation, the one brought from the east by Verus's
legions, the other caused by floods which had destroyed vast quantities
of grain. After all had been done possible to allay famine and to supply
pressing needs--Marcus being forced even to sell the imperial jewels to
find money--both emperors set forth to a struggle which was to continue
more or less during the rest of Marcus's reign. During these wars, in
169, Verus died. We have no means of following the campaigns in detail;
but thus much is certain, that in the end the Romans succeeded in
crushing the barbarian tribes, and effecting a settlement which made the
empire more secure. Marcus was himself commander-in-chief, and victory
was due no less to his own ability than to his wisdom in choice of
lieutenants, shown conspicuously in the case of Pertinax. There were
several important battles fought in these campaigns; and one of them has
become celebrated for the legend of the Thundering Legion. In a battle
against the Quadi in 174, the day seemed to be going in favour of
the foe, when on a sudden arose a great storm of thunder and rain the
lightning struck the barbarians with terror, and they turned to rout.
In later days this storm was said to have been sent in answer to the
prayers of a legion which contained many Christians, and the name
Thundering Legion should be given to it on this account. The title of
Thundering Legion is known at an earlier date, so this part of the story
at least cannot be true; but the aid of the storm is acknowledged by one
of the scenes carved on Antonine's Column at Rome, which commemorates
these wars.
The settlement made after these troubles might have been more
satisfactory but for an unexpected rising in the east. Avidius Cassius,
an able captain who had won renown in the Parthian wars, was at this
time chief governor of the eastern provinces. By whatever means induced,
he had conceived the project of proclaiming himself emperor as soon as
Marcus, who was then in feeble health, should die; and a report having
been conveyed to him that Marcus was dead, Cassius did as he had
planned. Marcus, on hearing the news, immediately patched up a peace and
returned home to meet this new peril. The emperors great grief was that
he must needs engage in the horrors of civil strife. He praised the
qualities of Cassius, and expressed a heartfelt wish that Cassius might
not be driven to do himself a hurt before he should have the opportunity
to grant a free pardon. But before he could come to the east news had
come to Cassius that the emperor still lived; his followers fell away
from him, and he was assassinated. Marcus now went to the east, and
while there the murderers brought the head of Cassius to him; but the
emperor indignantly refused their gift, nor would he admit the men to
his presence.
On this journey his wife, Faustina, died. At his return the emperor
celebrated a triumph (176). Immediately afterwards he repaired to
Germany, and took up once more the burden of war. His operations were
followed by complete success; but the troubles of late years had been
too much for his constitution, at no time robust, and on March 17, 180,
he died in Pannonia.
The good emperor was not spared domestic troubles. Faustina had borne
him several children, of whom he was passionately fond. Their innocent
faces may still be seen in many a sculpture gallery, recalling with odd
effect the dreamy countenance of their father. But they died one by
one, and when Marcus came to his own end only one of his sons still
lived--the weak and worthless Commodus. On his father's death Commodus,
who succeeded him, undid the work of many campaigns by a hasty and
unwise peace; and his reign of twelve years proved him to be a ferocious
and bloodthirsty tyrant. Scandal has made free with the name of Faustina
herself, who is accused not only of unfaithfulness, but of intriguing
with Cassius and egging him on to his fatal rebellion, it must be
admitted that these charges rest on no sure evidence; and the emperor,
at all events, loved her dearly, nor ever felt the slightest qualm of
suspicion.
As a soldier we have seen that Marcus was both capable and successful;
as an administrator he was prudent and conscientious. Although steeped
in the teachings of philosophy, he did not attempt to remodel the world
on any preconceived plan. He trod the path beaten by his predecessors,
seeking only to do his duty as well as he could, and to keep out
corruption. He did some unwise things, it is true. To create a compeer
in empire, as he did with Verus, was a dangerous innovation which could
only succeed if one of the two effaced himself; and under Diocletian
this very precedent caused the Roman Empire to split into halves. He
erred in his civil administration by too much centralising. But the
strong point of his reign was the administration of justice. Marcus
sought by-laws to protect the weak, to make the lot of the slaves
less hard, to stand in place of father to the fatherless. Charitable
foundations were endowed for rearing and educating poor children. The
provinces were protected against oppression, and public help was given
to cities or districts which might be visited by calamity. The great
blot on his name, and one hard indeed to explain, is his treatment
of the Christians. In his reign Justin at Rome became a martyr to
his faith, and Polycarp at Smyrna, and we know of many outbreaks of
fanaticism in the provinces which caused the death of the faithful. It
is no excuse to plead that he knew nothing about the atrocities done in
his name: it was his duty to know, and if he did not he would have been
the first to confess that he had failed in his duty. But from his own
tone in speaking of the Christians it is clear he knew them only from
calumny; and we hear of no measures taken even to secure that they
should have a fair hearing. In this respect Trajan was better than he.
To a thoughtful mind such a religion as that of Rome would give small
satisfaction. Its legends were often childish or impossible; its
teaching had little to do with morality. The Roman religion was in fact
of the nature of a bargain: men paid certain sacrifices and rites, and
the gods granted their favour, irrespective of right or wrong. In this
case all devout souls were thrown back upon philosophy, as they had
been, though to a less extent, in Greece. There were under the early
empire two rival schools which practically divided the field between
them, Stoicism and Epicureanism. The ideal set before each was nominally
much the same. The Stoics aspired to the repression of all emotion, and
the Epicureans to freedom from all disturbance; yet in the upshot the
one has become a synonym of stubborn endurance, the other for unbridled
licence. With Epicureanism we have nothing to do now; but it will be
worth while to sketch the history and tenets of the Stoic sect. Zeno,
the founder of Stoicism, was born in Cyprus at some date unknown, but
his life may be said roughly to be between the years 350 and 250 B.C.
Cyprus has been from time immemorial a meeting-place of the East and
West, and although we cannot grant any importance to a possible strain
of Phoenician blood in him (for the Phoenicians were no philosophers),
yet it is quite likely that through Asia Minor he may have come in touch
with the Far East. He studied under the cynic Crates, but he did not
neglect other philosophical systems. After many years' study he opened
his own school in a colonnade in Athens called the Painted Porch, or
Stoa, which gave the Stoics their name. Next to Zeno, the School of the
Porch owes most to Chrysippus (280--207 b.c.), who organised Stoicism
into a system. Of him it was said, 'But for Chrysippus, there had been
no Porch.'
The Stoics regarded speculation as a means to an end and that end was,
as Zeno put it, to live consistently omologonuenws zhn or as it was
later explained, to live in conformity with nature. This conforming of
the life to nature oralogoumenwz th fusei zhn. was the Stoic idea of
Virtue.
This dictum might easily be taken to mean that virtue consists in
yielding to each natural impulse; but that was very far from the Stoic
meaning. In order to live in accord with nature, it is necessary to know
what nature is; and to this end a threefold division of philosophy is
made--into Physics, dealing with the universe and its laws, the problems
of divine government and teleology; Logic, which trains the mind to
discern true from false; and Ethics, which applies the knowledge thus
gained and tested to practical life. The Stoic system of physics was
materialism with an infusion of pantheism. In contradiction to Plato's
view that the Ideas, or Prototypes, of phenomena alone really exist,
the Stoics held that material objects alone existed; but immanent in
the material universe was a spiritual force which acted through them,
manifesting itself under many forms, as fire, aether, spirit, soul,
reason, the ruling principle.
The universe, then, is God, of whom the popular gods are manifestations;
while legends and myths are allegorical. The soul of man is thus an
emanation from the godhead, into whom it will eventually be re-absorbed.
The divine ruling principle makes all things work together for good,
but for the good of the whole. The highest good of man is consciously
to work with God for the common good, and this is the sense in which
the Stoic tried to live in accord with nature. In the individual it
is virtue alone which enables him to do this; as Providence rules the
universe, so virtue in the soul must rule man.
In Logic, the Stoic system is noteworthy for their theory as to the test
of truth, the Criterion. They compared the new-born soul to a sheet of
paper ready for writing. Upon this the senses write their impressions,
fantasias and by experience of a number of these the soul unconsciously
conceives general notions koinai eunoiai or anticipations. prolhyeis
When the impression was such as to be irresistible it was called
(katalnptikh fantasia) one that holds fast, or as they explained it,
one proceeding from truth. Ideas and inferences artificially produced by
deduction or the like were tested by this 'holding perception.' Of the
Ethical application I have already spoken. The highest good was the
virtuous life. Virtue alone is happiness, and vice is unhappiness.
Carrying this theory to its extreme, the Stoic said that there could
be no gradations between virtue and vice, though of course each has
its special manifestations. Moreover, nothing is good but virtue, and
nothing but vice is bad. Those outside things which are commonly called
good or bad, such as health and sickness, wealth and poverty, pleasure
and pain, are to him indifferent adiofora. All these things are merely
the sphere in which virtue may act. The ideal Wise Man is sufficient
unto himself in all things, autarkhs and knowing these truths, he will
be happy even when stretched upon the rack. It is probable that no Stoic
claimed for himself that he was this Wise Man, but that each strove
after it as an ideal much as the Christian strives after a likeness to
Christ. The exaggeration in this statement was, however, so obvious,
that the later Stoics were driven to make a further subdivision of
things indifferent into what is preferable (prohgmena) and what is
undesirable. They also held that for him who had not attained to the
perfect wisdom, certain actions were proper. (kaqhkonta) These were
neither virtuous nor vicious, but, like the indifferent things, held a
middle place. Two points in the Stoic system deserve special mention.
One is a careful distinction between things which are in our power and
things which are not. Desire and dislike, opinion and affection, are
within the power of the will; whereas health, wealth, honour, and other
such are generally not so. The Stoic was called upon to control his
desires and affections, and to guide his opinion; to bring his whole
being under the sway of the will or leading principle, just as the
universe is guided and governed by divine Providence. This is a special
application of the favourite Greek virtue of moderation, (swfrosuum) and
has also its parallel in Christian ethics. The second point is a strong
insistence on the unity of the universe, and on man's duty as part of a
great whole. Public spirit was the most splendid political virtue of the
ancient world, and it is here made cosmopolitan. It is again instructive
to note that Christian sages insisted on the same thing. Christians
are taught that they are members of a worldwide brotherhood, where is
neither Greek nor Hebrew, bond nor free and that they live their lives
as fellow-workers with God.
Such is the system which underlies the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.
Some knowledge of it is necessary to the right understanding of the
book, but for us the chief interest lies elsewhere. We do not come to
Marcus Aurelius for a treatise on Stoicism. He is no head of a school to
lay down a body of doctrine for students; he does not even contemplate
that others should read what he writes. His philosophy is not an eager
intellectual inquiry, but more what we should call religious feeling.
The uncompromising stiffness of Zeno or Chrysippus is softened and
transformed by passing through a nature reverent and tolerant, gentle
and free from guile; the grim resignation which made life possible to
the Stoic sage becomes in him almost a mood of aspiration. His book
records the innermost thoughts of his heart, set down to ease it, with
such moral maxims and reflections as may help him to bear the burden of
duty and the countless annoyances of a busy life.
It is instructive to compare the Meditations with another famous book,
the Imitation of Christ. There is the same ideal of self-control in
both. It should be a man's task, says the Imitation, 'to overcome
himself, and every day to be stronger than himself.' 'In withstanding of
the passions standeth very peace of heart.' 'Let us set the axe to the
root, that we being purged of our passions may have a peaceable mind.'
To this end there must be continual self-examination. 'If thou may not
continually gather thyself together, namely sometimes do it, at least
once a day, the morning or the evening. In the morning purpose, in the
evening discuss the manner, what thou hast been this day, in word, work,
and thought.' But while the Roman's temper is a modest self-reliance,
the Christian aims at a more passive mood, humbleness and meekness,
and reliance on the presence and personal friendship of God. The Roman
scrutinises his faults with severity, but without the self-contempt
which makes the Christian 'vile in his own sight.' The Christian, like
the Roman, bids'study to withdraw thine heart from the love of things
visible'; but it is not the busy life of duty he has in mind so much as
the contempt of all worldly things, and the 'cutting away of all
lower delectations.' Both rate men's praise or blame at their real
worthlessness; 'Let not thy peace,' says the Christian, 'be in the
mouths of men.' But it is to God's censure the Christian appeals, the
Roman to his own soul. The petty annoyances of injustice or unkindness
are looked on by each with the same magnanimity. 'Why doth a little
thing said or done against thee make thee sorry? It is no new thing; it
is not the first, nor shall it be the last, if thou live long. At best
suffer patiently, if thou canst not suffer joyously.' The Christian
should sorrow more for other men's malice than for our own wrongs; but
the Roman is inclined to wash his hands of the offender. 'Study to be
patient in suffering and bearing other men's defaults and all manner
infirmities,' says the Christian; but the Roman would never have thought
to add, 'If all men were perfect, what had we then to suffer of other
men for God?' The virtue of suffering in itself is an idea which does
not meet us in the Meditations. Both alike realise that man is one of a
great community. 'No man is sufficient to himself,' says the Christian;
'we must bear together, help together, comfort together.' But while
he sees a chief importance in zeal, in exalted emotion that is, and
avoidance of lukewarmness, the Roman thought mainly of the duty to be
done as well as might be, and less of the feeling which should go with
the doing of it. To the saint as to the emperor, the world is a poor
thing at best. 'Verily it is a misery to live upon the earth,' says the
Christian; few and evil are the days of man's life, which passeth away
suddenly as a shadow.
But there is one great difference between the two books we are
considering. The Imitation is addressed to others, the Meditations
by the writer to himself. We learn nothing from the Imitation of
the author's own life, except in so far as he may be assumed to have
practised his own preachings; the Meditations reflect mood by mood the
mind of him who wrote them. In their intimacy and frankness lies their
great charm. These notes are not sermons; they are not even confessions.
There is always an air of self-consciousness in confessions; in such
revelations there is always a danger of unctuousness or of vulgarity for
the best of men. St. Augus-tine is not always clear of offence, and John
Bunyan himself exaggerates venial peccadilloes into heinous sins. But
Marcus Aurelius is neither vulgar nor unctuous; he extenuates nothing,
but nothing sets down in malice. He never poses before an audience; he
may not be profound, he is always sincere. And it is a lofty and serene
soul which is here disclosed before us. Vulgar vices seem to have no
temptation for him; this is not one tied and bound with chains which
he strives to break. The faults he detects in himself are often such as
most men would have no eyes to see. To serve the divine spirit which
is implanted within him, a man must 'keep himself pure from all violent
passion and evil affection, from all rashness and vanity, and from all
manner of discontent, either in regard of the gods or men': or, as he
says elsewhere, 'unspotted by pleasure, undaunted by pain.' Unwavering
courtesy and consideration are his aims. 'Whatsoever any man either
doth or saith, thou must be good;' 'doth any man offend? It is against
himself that he doth offend: why should it trouble thee?' The offender
needs pity, not wrath; those who must needs be corrected, should be
treated with tact and gentleness; and one must be always ready to learn
better. 'The best kind of revenge is, not to become like unto them.'
There are so many hints of offence forgiven, that we may believe the
notes followed sharp on the facts. Perhaps he has fallen short of his
aim, and thus seeks to call his principles to mind, and to strengthen
himself for the future. That these sayings are not mere talk is plain
from the story of Avidius Cassius, who would have usurped his imperial
throne. Thus the emperor faithfully carries out his own principle, that
evil must be overcome with good. For each fault in others, Nature (says
he) has given us a counteracting virtue; 'as, for example, against the
unthankful, it hath given goodness and meekness, as an antidote.'
One so gentle towards a foe was sure to be a good friend; and indeed his
pages are full of generous gratitude to those who had served him. In his
First Book he sets down to account all the debts due to his kinsfolk
and teachers. To his grandfather he owed his own gentle spirit, to
his father shamefastness and courage; he learnt of his mother to be
religious and bountiful and single-minded. Rusticus did not work in
vain, if he showed his pupil that his life needed amending. Apollonius
taught him simplicity, reasonableness, gratitude, a love of true
liberty. So the list runs on; every one he had dealings with seems
to have given him something good, a sure proof of the goodness of his
nature, which thought no evil.
If his was that honest and true heart which is the Christian ideal, this
is the more wonderful in that he lacked the faith which makes Christians
strong. He could say, it is true, 'either there is a God, and then all
is well; or if all things go by chance and fortune, yet mayest thou use
thine own providence in those things that concern thee properly; and
then art thou well.' Or again, 'We must needs grant that there is a
nature that doth govern the universe.' But his own part in the scheme
of things is so small, that he does not hope for any personal happiness
beyond what a serene soul may win in this mortal life. 'O my soul, the
time I trust will be, when thou shalt be good, simple, more open and
visible, than that body by which it is enclosed;' but this is said of
the calm contentment with human lot which he hopes to attain, not of a
time when the trammels of the body shall be cast off. For the rest, the
world and its fame and wealth, 'all is vanity.' The gods may perhaps
have a particular care for him, but their especial care is for the
universe at large: thus much should suffice. His gods are better than
the Stoic gods, who sit aloof from all human things, untroubled and
uncaring, but his personal hope is hardly stronger. On this point he
says little, though there are many allusions | 1,210.50482 |
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Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by Google Books
HAPPY ISLAND
A New “Uncle William” Story
By Jennette Lee
New York The Century Co.
1911
TO
GERALD STANLEY LEE
“To make the young world move—He has eyes,
And ears, and he can read the sun....
In tune with all the children who laugh best
And longest through the sunshine, though far off
Their laughter, and unheard.”
CONTENTS
HAPPY ISLAND
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
HAPPY ISLAND
I
THE sunlight got in Uncle William’s eyes. He looked up from the map
spread on the table before him. Then he got up slowly and crossed to the
window and drew down the turkey-red curtain—a deep glow filled the room.
Juno, on the lounge, stirred a little and stretched her daws, and drew
them in and tucked her head behind them and went on sleeping.
Uncle William returned to his map. His big finger found a dotted line
and followed it slowly up the table with little mumbles of words.... The
room was very still—only the faintest whisper of a breeze came across
the harbor—and Uncle William’s head bent over the map and traveled with
his finger.... “They ’d run in here, like enough, and...”
A shadow crossed the curtain and he looked up.
Andy was in the doorway, grinning—a bunch of lobsters dangling from
his hand, stretching frantic green legs into space. Andy looked down at
them.
Uncle William shook his head. “You ’ll get into trouble, Andy, carryin’
’em that way, right in broad daylight—you can put ’em out there under
the bucket—so ’s ’t the sun won’t hit ’em.”
Andy departed and the scraping of the bucket on the hard rock came
cautiously in the window.... Juno lifted her ear and flicked it and went
on dreaming. Uncle William returned to the map.
“What you huntin’ up?” asked Andy. He was looking in the window.
“‘D you put a stone on top the bucket?”
“Yep—What you lookin’ for?” | 1,210.504858 |
2023-11-16 18:37:14.5779050 | 1,690 | 28 |
Produced by Delphine Lettau, Pat McCoy and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
WOMEN NOVELISTS
_Of_
QUEEN VICTORIA'S REIGN
Women Novelists
_Of_
Queen Victoria's Reign
_A Book of Appreciations_
By
Mrs. Oliphant, Mrs. Lynn Linton
Mrs. Alexander, Mrs. Macquoid, Mrs. Parr
Mrs. Marshall, Charlotte M. Yonge
Adeline Sergeant & Edna Lyall
London
Hurst & Blackett, Limited
13 Great Marlborough Street
1897
_ALL RIGHTS RESERVED_
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
At the Ballantyne Press
CONTENTS
THE SISTERS BRONTE
_By_ MRS. OLIPHANT _Page_ 1
GEORGE ELIOT
_By_ MRS. LYNN LINTON _Page_ 61
MRS. GASKELL
_By_ EDNA LYALL _Page_ 117
MRS. CROWE
MRS. ARCHER CLIVE
MRS. HENRY WOOD
_By_ ADELINE SERGEANT _Page_ 149
LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON
MRS. STRETTON
ANNE MANNING
_By_ CHARLOTTE M. YONGE _Page_ 193
DINAH MULOCK (MRS. CRAIK)
_By_ MRS. PARR _Page_ 217
JULIA KAVANAGH
AMELIA BLANDFORD EDWARDS
_By_ MRS. MACQUOID _Page_ 249
MRS. NORTON
_By_ MRS. ALEXANDER _Page_ 275
"A. L. O. E." (MISS TUCKER)
MRS. EWING
_By_ MRS. MARSHALL _Page_ 291
PUBLISHERS' NOTE
_Having been concerned for many years in the publication of works of
fiction by feminine writers, it has occurred to us to offer, as our
contribution to the celebration of "the longest Reign," a volume having
for its subject leading Women Novelists of the Victorian Era._
_In the case of living lady fictionists, it is too early to assess the
merit or forecast the future of their works. The present book,
therefore, is restricted to Women Novelists deceased._
_It was further necessary to confine the volume within reasonable
limits, and it was decided, consequently, that it should deal only with
Women who did all their work in Fiction after the accession of the
Queen. This decision excludes not only such writers as Lady Morgan, Mrs.
Opie, Miss Ferrier, Miss Mitford, Mrs. Shelley, and Miss Jane Porter,
who, although they died after 1837, published all their most notable
stories early in the century; but also such writers as Mrs. Gore, Mrs.
Bray, Mrs. S. C. Hall, Mrs. Trollope, Lady Blessington, and Mrs. Marsh,
who made their debuts as novelists between 1823 and 1834._
_As regards some of the last-named, it might be urged that the works
they produced have now no interest other than historical, and can be
said to live only so far as they embody more or less accurate
descriptions of Society early in the Reign. The "Deerbrook" and "The
Hour and the Man" of Miss Martineau are still remembered, and, perhaps,
still read; but it is as a political economist and miscellaneous writer,
rather than as a Novelist, that their author ranks in literature; while
of the tales by Miss Pardoe, Miss Geraldine Jewsbury, and others once
equally popular, scarcely the titles are now recollected._
_On the other hand, the eminence and permanence of the Brontes, George
Eliot, and Mrs. Gaskell are universally recognised; the popularity of
Mrs. Craik and Mrs. Henry Wood is still admittedly great; the
personality of Mrs. Norton will always send students to her works; Mrs.
Crowe and Mrs. Clive were pioneers in domestic and "sensational"
fiction; Lady Georgiana Fullerton produced a typical religious novel;
Miss Manning made pleasing and acceptable the autobiographico-historical
narrative; the authors of "The Valley of a Hundred Fires" of "Barbara's
History," and of "Adele" have even now their readers and admirers; while
"A. L. O. E." and Mrs. Ewing were among the most successful caterers for
the young._
_It has seemed to us that value as well as interest would attach to
critical estimates of and biographical notes upon, these representative
Novelists, supplied by living mistresses of the craft; and we are glad
to have been able to secure for the purpose, the services of the
contributors to this volume, all of whom may claim to discourse with
some authority upon the art they cultivate. It is perhaps scarcely
necessary to say that each contributor is responsible only for the essay
to which her name is appended._
THE SISTERS BRONTE
_By_ MRS. OLIPHANT
THE SISTERS BRONTE
The effect produced upon the general mind by the appearance of Charlotte
Bronte in literature, and afterwards by the record of her life when that
was over, is one which it is nowadays somewhat difficult to understand.
Had the age been deficient in the art of fiction, or had it followed any
long level of mediocrity in that art, we could have comprehended this
more easily. But Charlotte Bronte appeared in the full flush of a period
more richly endowed than any other we know of in that special branch of
literature, so richly endowed, indeed, that the novel had taken quite
fictitious importance, and the names of Dickens and Thackeray ranked
almost higher than those of any living writers except perhaps Tennyson,
then young and on his promotion too. Anthony Trollope and Charles Reade
who, though in their day extremely popular, have never had justice from
a public which now seems almost to have forgotten them, formed a
powerful second rank to these two great names. It is a great addition to
the value of the distinction gained by the new comer that it was
acquired in an age so rich in the qualities of the imagination.
But this only increases the wonder of a triumph which had no artificial
means to heighten it, nothing but genius on the part of a writer
possessing little experience or knowledge of the world, and no sort of
social training or adventitious aid. The genius was indeed unmistakable,
and possessed in a very high degree the power of expressing itself in
the most vivid and actual pictures of life. But the life of which it had
command was seldom attractive, often narrow, local, and of a kind which
meant keen personal satire more than any broader view of human
existence. A group of commonplace clergymen, intense against their
little parochial background as only the most real art of portraiture,
intensified by individual scorn and dislike, could have made them: the
circle of limited interests, small emulations, keen little spites and
rancours, filling the atmosphere of a great boarding school, the
Brussels _Pensionnat des filles_--these were the two spheres chiefly
portrayed: but portrayed with an absolute untempered force which knew
neither charity, softness, nor even impartiality, | 1,210.597945 |
2023-11-16 18:37:14.5812730 | 7,427 | 20 |
Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MARCH 17, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 855. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
A BOY OF 1775.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
Can you not see the boy of 1775 now--his sturdy legs encased in stout
black stockings, german-silver buckles to his knee-breeches, his hair
plaited and tied with a smart black ribbon, and all this magnificence
topped by three real silver buttons with which his hat is rakishly
cocked? But the boy himself is better worth looking at than all his
finery--so thought Captain Moore, of his Majesty's ship _Margaretta_,
lying at anchor in the harbor of Machias. Jack Leverett was the boy's
name--a handsome stripling of sixteen, with a quiet manner but a
fearless eye.
The two were sitting opposite each other at the cabin table, and through
the open port they could see the village and the harbor, bathed in the
bright white light of a day in May. The Captain was conscious that this
young guest was decidedly in a hurry to leave. A whole hour had they sat
at the dinner table, Captain Moore, with the utmost art, trying to find
out Jack's errand to Machias--for those were the stirring days when
every American had to take his stand for or against King George--and
Captain Moore particularly desired to know how Squire Leverett, Jack's
father, stood toward the King. But Jack, with native mother-wit, had
managed to baffle the Captain. He had readily admitted that he was the
bearer of a letter from his father to Jerry O'Brien, master of Squire
Leverett's sloop _Priscilla_, in regard to heaving down the sloop. But
the Captain, with a seaman's eye, had noted that the _Priscilla_ was in
perfect order and did not need to be hove down, and he more than
suspected that Jack was the bearer of other and more important news.
Through the cabin windows they could see the sloop, a beautiful craft,
being warped into her dock, while across the blue water was wafted
sweetly the voices of the men, led by the shanty man,[1] singing the old
shanty song:
"Haul the bowline, our jolly ship's a-rolling,
Haul the bowline, the bowline _haul_!
Haul the bowline, our jolly mate's a-growling,
Haul the bowline, the bowline _haul_!"
[1] "Shanty man"--from "Chantez"--a man who could lead the singing while
the men worked. A good shanty man was considered to be a valuable
acquisition to a vessel.
As soon as Jack decently could, he started to rise from the table.
Captain Moore had observed that the glass of wine at Jack's plate
remained untasted, and it suggested a means of finding out whether the
Leveretts meant to go with the King or not.
"Do not go," he said, "until you have joined me in drinking the health
of his Majesty King George."
Jack had no notion whatever of drinking the King's health, but he was at
his wits' end how to avoid it. Just then, though, the Captain turned to
speak to his orderly, and Jack took the opportunity of gulping down his
wine with more haste than elegance. Captain Moore, seeing it, was
surprised and disgusted at the boy's apparent greediness for wine, but
raising his glass, said, "To the King."
"Excuse me, sir," answered Jack, coolly, "but my father never allows me
to drink but one glass of wine, and that I have already had."
"Then I will drink the toast alone," said Captain Moore, with a stern
look at the boy. "Here is to his Majesty King George. Health and long
life to him! God save the King!"
As Captain Moore uttered this sentiment Jack rose and promptly put on
his hat. The Captain was quite sure that the boy's action, like his
gulping down the wine, meant a distaste for the King, and not a want of
breeding. But he thought it best not to notice the incident, and said,
civilly, to his young guest:
"Present my compliments to your honored father, and tell him that his
Majesty's officers have the kindest feelings toward these misguided
people; and while if attacked we will certainly defend ourselves, we
have strict orders to avoid a conflict if possible, and not to fire
until fired upon."
"I will remember your message, sir," was Jack's answer; and the Captain,
having no further excuse for detaining his young guest, allowed him to
depart.
He was soon alongside of the _Priscilla_, and there, standing at the
gangway, was the sloop's master, Jerry O'Brien. Jerry, by an accident of
fate, had inherited an Irish name, but he was as arrant a Yankee as ever
stepped. He was a handsome fellow withal, and in his natty blue suit
much more resembled the Captain of an armed cruiser than the master of a
smart merchant vessel. The _Priscilla_, too, was a wonderful contrast to
the slovenly merchantmen around her. She was as clean as hands could
make her, and her beautiful lines were brought out by the shining coat
of black paint upon her hull. Her men were smart and seamanlike. Jerry
O'Brien was the most exacting ship-master on that coast, but he never
had any trouble in shipping men, for, while making them do their work
with the quickness and steadiness of man-o'-war's men, he used neither
blows nor curses. A natural leader of men, he made himself respected
first, and after that it is always easy to command obedience.
As soon as Jack Leverett came over the side Jerry took him to the cabin.
Jack produced a letter, and by the heat from a ship's lantern some
writing in lemon juice was deciphered. It contained a full account of
the affairs at Lexington and Concord, of which only vague rumors had
reached Machias. At every sentence descriptive of American valor Jerry
would give a half-suppressed whoop, and at the end he could not forbear
letting out a huzza that made the little cabin ring.
"Suppose," said Jack, who had hard work to keep from hurrahing wildly,
"instead of making a noise, we should invent a scheme to capture the
_Margaretta_. If the farmers around Boston could, with hay-forks and
blunderbusses, beat off the British regulars, the sailors and fishermen
about here ought to be able to get alongside the _Margaretta_ and take
her."
Jerry's mouth was large, and it came open like a rat-trap at this bold
proposition. After a pause he spoke. "Boy," said he, "the enterprise
shall be tried; and if we succeed, you shall be prize-master of the
_Margaretta_."
Jack's heart leaped at these words. He was an admirable sailor, like
most of the hardy youngsters on the coast, and had more than once taken
the _Priscilla_ on short trips. But his mother and the Squire meant him
to be something else than a merchant Captain, and kept him under a tutor
when he would much rather have been sailing blue water. For hours Jack
and Jerry sat in the cabin talking over their scheme. Jerry knew that
the people of Machias were heart and soul with the cause of freedom, and
could be depended upon in any desperate adventure. The _Margaretta_
carried four brass guns and a number of swivels; but, as Jerry shrewdly
said, if once the _Priscilla_ could grapple with her, it would be a
battle of men and musketry, not of guns. At nightfall Jack and Jerry
went ashore. A great vivid moon hung in the sky, and they could see the
_Margaretta_ almost as well as in daylight. She was a handsome vessel,
schooner rigged, and in a state of preparation that showed Captain Moore
did not mean to be caught napping. All her boats were hoisted in, her
anchors had springs on them, and her sails were merely clewed up,
instead of being furled.
"There you are, my beauty," said Jerry. "It's a shame, so it is, that
King George's ensign should fly from your peak. You deserve an American
flag, and we'll try and give it you."
All that night they spent going from house to house of the men who had
the patriotism to enlist with them, and by daylight they had the promise
of twenty-five resolute men who, at a signal of three cheers given from
the _Priscilla_, would at once board her and put themselves under Jerry
O'Brien's command.
All this commotion on shore had not escaped Captain Moore's lookouts
during the night, and although the Captain would much have preferred
staying and fighting it out, his orders compelled him to cut and run if
signs of an outbreak were visible. The British government then earnestly
wished to conciliate the colonists, and by no means to come to blows.
The next morning was Sunday, and as beautifully clear and bright as the
day before. In order to avoid the appearance of fear, Captain Moore
determined, with his officers, to go to church as usual. As the
Captain's gig landed the officers, Jerry O'Brien and Jack Leverett, with
the six men who composed the _Priscilla_'s crew, were all on deck,
keeping a sharp eye on the _Margaretta_ and her boat.
"What say you, men," suddenly asked Jerry, "to bagging those officers in
church?"
"We say yes," answered every man at once. In a few minutes, with Jerry
and Jack in the lead, and all well armed, they took the road toward the
church. As they neared it they heard the faint sweet echo of a hymn that
floated out on the spring air--the only sound that broke the heavenly
stillness.
Jerry silently posted his men at the entrance, and then opening the door
softly, raised his horse-pistol and levelled it straight at Captain
Moore, who sat in the last pew.
The British Captain happened to turn his head at that instant. The
congregation was too absorbed in the singing to notice what was going
on. Jerry nodded at the Captain, as much as to say, "You are my
prisoner." The Captain coolly shook his head, as if to answer, "Not
quite, my fine fellow," and the next moment he made a sudden dash for
the open window, followed by all of his officers, and before Jerry could
realize that the birds had flown, they had run half-way to the shore. In
vain Jerry and Jack and their followers pursued. The officers had too
long a lead, and by the time the Americans reached the shore the
Captain's gig was being pulled rapidly to the ship. As soon as the boat
reached it the anchors were picked up, every sail that would draw was
shaken out, and the cruiser made for the offing. As soon as she was well
under way she sent a shot of defiance screaming over the town, and was
answered by three thundering American cheers from the _Priscilla_. As if
by magic the sloop's deck was alive with armed men, and with a quickness
equal to the cruiser's, her mainsail was up, and she was winging her way
in pursuit of her enemy.
Well had the _Priscilla_ been called the fastest sloop in all that
region. The wind was dead ahead, and both vessels had to get out of the
river on "a long leg and a short one." The _Margaretta_ was handled in a
seamanlike manner, but on every tack the _Priscilla_ gained, and showed
that she was a better sailer both on and off the wind. In an hour they
were within hailing distance, and the men on the _Margaretta_ were
called to quarters by the tap of the drum. Her guns were run out, their
tompions withdrawn, and the cruiser showed herself to be an ugly
customer to tackle. But this did not intimidate the Americans, who were
closing on her fast.
A hail came from the _Margaretta_, "What are you following us for?"
"To learn how to tack ship!" responded Jerry O'Brien, who had taken the
wheel himself. This reply caused a roar of laughter from the Americans,
as the _Priscilla_ could come about in half the time of the
_Margaretta_.
"Keep off or I'll fire!" was the next hail.
"Fire away, gentlemen," bawled Jerry, "and light your matches with your
orders not to fire first!"
At this the gallant British tars groaned loudly, and Captain Moore,
drawing his sword and shaking it at the rapidly advancing sloop,
shouted:
"Orders or no orders, I will fire one round if I lose my commission for
it. Blow your matches, boys!"
The guns were already manned, and at the word there was a flash of
light, a puff of smoke, and a round shot came hissing and shrieking
across the water and struck the _Priscilla_'s mainmast fairly in the
middle, splintering it. The sloop staggered under the blow, and in a
minute or two the mast went by the board with a crash.
A great cheer broke from the _Margaretta_'s men at that.
"Never mind," cried Jerry. "This is not the first mast that was ever
carried away, and we have spare spars and carpenters too. Wait for us in
Holmes Bay, and we will fight it out yard-arm to yard-arm before
sundown."
The _Margaretta_, with her men cheering and jeering, sailed away toward
the open sea. The _Priscilla_ being the best-found sloop in New England,
in a little while the stump of the mast was cleared away, a lighter
spar, but still good enough, was fitted, and she made sail on it.
As she neared the ocean the wind freshened every moment, and although
the sun shone brilliantly, a heavy sea was kicked up. Soon they sighted
the _Margaretta_, with her topsail backed, and gallantly waiting for her
enemy.
In all this time Jack Leverett showed a steadiness and coolness beyond
his years. Once Jerry O'Brien said to him,
"Youngster, if you flinch, depend upon it, your father shall know it."
"All right," answered Jack; "and if I don't flinch I want my mother to
know it."
The two vessels now neared each other on opposite tacks. Captain Moore
manoeuvred to get into a raking position before delivering his fire,
but the _Priscilla_, by skilful yawing and by the roughness of the sea,
proved to be as difficult to hit as if she had been a cork bobbing up
and down. In vain they played their two starboard guns and all their
swivels on her; their shot rarely struck, and when it struck, did small
damage.
Not so with the Americans. Without a single cannon, they poured forth a
musketry fire at close quarters that did fearful work and made hot the
_Margaretta_'s decks. The brave British sailors stood manfully to their
guns, but the Americans were gradually edging up, and their fire grew
more deadly every moment. The _Margaretta_ tried to sheer off, but the
_Priscilla_, closing up, got her jibboom entangled in her adversary's
main rigging, and a dozen Americans sprang forward to make the two ships
fast.
As the vessels came grinding together Jerry O'Brien, leaping on the
taffrail, shouted, "I will be the first man to board--and follow me!"
But Jerry was mistaken. He was suddenly seized by the coat tails, jerked
backwards, and fell sprawling upon the deck, and the next instant Jack
Leverett sprang over him, and was first upon the _Margaretta_'s deck.
"Drat the boy!" was Jerry's involuntary exclamation as he scrambled to
his feet.
The Americans poured over the side, and met with a warm reception.
Captain Moore, surrounded by his officers, retreated to the fo'c's'le,
fighting every step of the way. At last Jerry O'Brien came face to face
with him. The Captain defended himself with his sword, but it was
knocked out of his hand by Jerry with a pistol butt. They clinched and
fell to the deck fighting. The struggle was sharp but short, and in
fifteen minutes from the time the Americans had lashed the ships
together the Captain was overpowered, nearly every officer had been cut
down, and the cruiser was in the hands of the Americans. There had been
much cheering on the _Priscilla_ that day, but when the British ensign
was hauled down, and Jerry, in default of a national flag, hoisted his
own jacket at the mast-head, there were three cheers given that could
almost be heard at Machias.
The prisoners were quickly transferred to the _Priscilla_, and as Jerry
O'Brien required all of his best men on board, he could only spare a few
landsmen for a prize crew on the _Margaretta_.
"But I will give her a prize master who, although not very old, can sail
a schooner or any other craft--John Leverett, there," said Jerry. "And
he will take her in, you may be sure."
Oh, how Jack's heart beat with delight at these words!
Soon they were heading up the river, and when, under a fair wind, they
made a quick run to Machias, the May moon made the heavens glorious.
Jack Leverett thought the happiest moment of his life had come when they
cast anchor amid the thunder of cheers from the people assembled along
the shores.
But there was a happier moment yet in store for him. A week afterward
Jack and Jerry O'Brien entered Squire Leverett's study, where sat the
Squire and Madam Leverett. The mother uttered a cry of joy and clasped
her boy in her arms. Then Jerry O'Brien, taking him by the hand, led him
to the Squire.
"Sir," he said, "here is your brave boy. You have reason to be proud of
him. I have been promised two things when the navy of the Colonies is
formed. One is a Captain's commission for myself, and the other is a
midshipman's commission for this lad. He is born for the sea, and to
make a landsman of him would be like putting a mackerel in a barnyard to
scratch for his living."
The Squire, too moved to speak, silently took one of Jack's hands in
both of his, and Madam Leverett, falling on her boy's neck, cried, "How
happy am I to have such a boy to give to my country!"
* * * * *
GRANT'S TROUBLESOME SOLDIER.
General Grant used to tell a story of a soldier in a certain regiment
during the war who was continually bothering him by asking favors. Grant
one day said to him, "Look here; I believe you are the most troublesome
man in the Union army."
The man quickly replied, "Why, that's funny, sir!"
"Funny; how do you make it out funny?"
"Because it is just what the enemy says about you."
[Illustration: From Chum to Chum.]
BY GASTON V. DRAKE.
VII.--FROM BOB TO JACK.
LONDON.
[Illustration]
DEAR JACK,--When I left off my letter to you last night it was nearly
ten o'clock, but almost broad daylight. What do you think of that? It's
the queerest thing you ever saw. The clock and the sun don't seem to gee
over here at all. You can read after nine o'clock without any gas-light
at all. Pop says it's a special British arrangement, because London is
such an interesting place and so many people can only stay a few days
that they like to keep it lit up as long as they can. I'd heard before
that the sun never sat on the British Empire but I never knew it was so
long about setting in England. The hall-porter on our floor says it
makes up for it in winter though by rising about midday and setting ten
minutes later. If that's so how it must whiz across the sky. I'd rather
like to see it then. He says too that last winter they had a fog so
thick that people had to dig their way through it with spades, and he
told another boy that it was a regular business in winter for boys and
men who couldn't get other work to do to go about the city and shovel
the fog off the front door steps and walks just as snow-shovellers do in
New York. It must be fun living here then.
[Illustration]
We didn't get into London until about seven o'clock Wednesday night, but
it was fine travelling coming up from Southampton. You'd have thought
the cars had rubber bicycle tyres on their wheels--see that word
tyres?--that's English for tires--I saw it on a sign. They rode along
just as smoothly as a bicycle would on a tar pavement, and go--Jerusalem
how they did go! That little toy engine I told you about once she got
started just leaped over the ground. You'd almost think you were
travelling on a streak of lightning and _in a packing box_. That's all
the cars are, just little packing boxes petitioned off into stalls
running from side to side. You get into one of these stalls and the
guard--they call brakemen guards over here--the guard locks you in and
off you go. It isn't a bit like travelling in America, and I don't know
as I like it quite as much as the American cars with Isles down the
middle of 'em because the broken mixed candy and banana boys can't walk
through and sell you things! haven't seen a broken mixed candy and
banana boy over here and it's all because their cars haven't any Isles.
There aren't any comic paper boys either but I guess that's a good
thing. Pop bought a copy of one of the English comic papers and he
nearly ruined his eyes trying to see the jokes, their points were so
awful fine.
[Illustration]
It took us about four hours to get here and two to find our baggage
after we got here because the porters had put some of it with the B
baggage and Aunt Sarah's trunk had wandered off among the C's. The
station was crowded with hacks and omnibuses and people and almost every
hack was engaged. Finally Pop managed to get a cab they called a
four-wheeler. It looked scarcely big enough for two but as we got into
it it sort of stretched and by the time the driver had us packed in we
had seven people in it, Pop, Mamma, Aunt Sarah, the two children, the
nurse and me. How we ever managed it I don't know, but we did, and then
instead of sending the baggage to the hotel by an express-wagon the
cabman put it all on top of the cab, two Saratoga trunks, three steamer
trunks, a bath-tub, four bundles of rugs, two hat-boxes, three
dress-suit cases and the hamper--and all for one horse! I didn't believe
the horse could move us, but the minute the driver chirruped to him off
he started like a regular race-horse and I tell you it was exciting.
There we seven people were, cooped up inside with all those trunks piled
up on the little bit of a roof right over our heads being galloped
around corners as if we were playing snap-the-whip, darting in and out
between policemen, lamp-posts and omnibuses. Mamma and Aunt Sarah were
scared to death. They weren't afraid we'd tip over but they had half a
notion that the roof might cave in and let all that baggage down on us;
and I think Pop felt uneasy too because he tried several times to tell
the driver to go slow, but he couldn't because he was wedged in so
tight.
[Illustration]
It wasn't possible to see much, we went so fast, but we did catch a
glimpse of a fearfully dirty river as we crossed it and Pop said he
guessed it was the Thames and it turned out to be so later on, and the
bridge we were on led right up to the houses of Pollyment, I think
they're called and I tell you they're beautiful. They look good enough
to put on a mantel piece. Two minutes later we got here and Pop managed
to pull us out of the carriage and get the baggage taken into a hotel by
a man who was dressed up as gorgissly as a drum major, and all that cab
cost was three dollars! Pop says he couldn't have got off for less than
ten in New York and the driver cheated him into the bargain!
When he paid the cabby Pop told him he'd driven too fast and the man
said he hadn't at all. "Aren't you afraid you'll run into somebody?"
asked Pop. "No," said the man, "I'm afraid somebody'll run into me."
Which is why he tore so to keep out of the way of the cabs behind him.
I can't say I think much of the hotels here. They're very handsome to
look at, but its hard work getting anything at 'em. The people here
behaved so that Pop thought we'd been landed at Buckingham Palace by
mistake, and asked if he might see the Queen and apologize for
intruding, but the man never laughed a bit; just turned away tired. We
got our rooms finally though and there isn't a bed in one of 'em without
a canopy over it and all the wash-stands have bottles of patent
tooth-powders on 'em with signs saying if you open this bottle it'll
cost you a shilling. I opened two of 'em before I saw the sign and Pop
says I'm out fifty cents for my curiosity, but I don't mind. It'll go on
the bill and he'll pay it.
We're off now to see the Tower of London. The next time I write I'll
tell you all about it. I wish Sandboys was here. It would do these
English hall-boys good to see how Sandboys does his work. It would take
one of them English boys a year to carry up as much ice-water as
Sandboys does in a night, but then they've got as much work as they can
do looking after their buttons. I should think it would be a day's work
buttoning up a hall-boy's coat over here. Ours has sixty between his
chin and his waist.
Yours ever
BOB.
THE VOYAGE OF HIRAM AND DAVE.
BY A. J. ENSIGN.
George Whittingham was staring at a Billingsgate fish-woman. She was
glaring at George, and treating him to some of that wonderfully abusive
language known to all Englishmen as "Billingsgate." George was just
about to repeat the expedient of a noted English wit, and call her a
"miserable isosceles triangle, a beastly rectangular parallelopipedon,"
when some one pulled his coat sleeve and said,
"Mr. George, let 'er alone; she can beat you at that every time."
George whirled around at the sound of a familiar voice, and exclaimed:
"Hiram Wardell! Well, what on earth are you doing in London?"
"Tryin' to find out how to get home, Mr. George. Me and Dave Hulick here
ain't in London on a tour, I can tell you, and we don't want to stay
here either."
"Then it's lucky for you that my father is in the consular service here.
I guess he can help you two boys. But, say, this is a funny case, isn't
it? Only a year ago you fellows were taking me out fishing off Joppa,
and now--How did you get here, anyhow?"
"Well, Mr. George, this ain't a very good place for story-telling. Can't
we go where it's quiet?"
"You two boys come to my father's office with me," said George, "and
then you can tell him and me the story at the same time. I think that
will be the best way to manage it."
So the well-dressed young gentleman, accompanied by the two rude-looking
New Jersey "beach-combers," set off through the jostling, bustling
London crowds toward Mr. Whittingham's office in Cheapside. George's
father was at his desk, and expressed his readiness to listen to the
story of the two boys, whom he was surprised to see in London. Hiram
Wardell, when bidden to go on with his narrative, hung his head and
twisted his cap nervously in his long red fingers.
"Go on, Hi," said his companion; "ye got to tell it, an' ye might as
well start an' git through."
Hiram straightened himself up with a jerk, ran the red fingers through
his shock of dust-brown hair, and began: "Well, sir, I s'pose we two
boys is a pair o' fools, an' that's the truth. But we'll know better
nex' time. You see, it ain't very much of a country down there on the
Jersey coast, except in the summer, when the city people is there, an'
then what is it? Only drivin' a hack, or takin' a gentleman out fishin',
or somethin' o' that sort. So Dave an' I this spring got mighty tired o'
the whole business, an' we made up our minds that we'd got to git out.
So one day we was a-settin' on the beach talkin' about it, an' Dave he
says to me to look at a schooner wot was goin' down to the south'ard.
An' he says to me, wot was the matter with goin' to New York an'
shippin' on one o' them schooners an' goin' to the West Injies, or
Savannah, or Halifax, or some sich place? Right off it seemed to me that
was about the finest scheme I'd ever heard of. But we didn't have much
money betwixt--only sixty-four cents--an' the question were how to git
to New York. First off, Dave thought it would be the best way for him to
take the money an' go to York, an' when he'd earned enough to send for
me. But I was mistrustful o' bein' left behind an' seein' Dave wave his
hat at me some day from the deck o' one o' them schooners goin' South."
Mr. Whittingham lay back in his chair and shook with laughter, while
Dave Hulick looked at Hiram with a countenance full of solemn reproach.
"Well, you know you'd 'a' done it, Dave," said Hiram, as he continued
with his story. "After talkin' the thing over for a good while, I
proposed that we pervision Dave's father's smallest fishin' skiff with
them sixty-four cents an' sail for York. Dave he said it weren't fair
for him to furnish twenty-eight cents an' the boat, an' me only
thirty-six cents. But I told him the boat didn't cost him nothin', an'
he had to allow that I was tellin' the truth; so he agreed to my plan. I
ain't a-goin' to stop to tell you all the botheration we had a-gettin'
them pervisions an' gettin' 'em stored ready for shippin'. Land sakes!
Folks was so mighty curious that I'most lost my wits inventin' answers
for all their questions."
"All about sixty-four cents' worth of provisions?" inquired Mr.
Whittingham, who could not conceal his amusement.
"Jest that, sir, an' nothin' else," replied Hiram, gravely. "Well, at
last everything was all ready, an' bright an' 'arly one fine mornin' we
slipped out an' down to the beach. Of course it wasn't no great shakes
of a matter for us two boys to launch the boat an' get out through the
surf. Mr. George he knows that, 'cause he's often gone out with us.
Well, when we got out there wasn't enough wind to sail, the ocean bein'
as smooth as one o' the plate-glass winders in Bill Smock's drug-store.
So we had to get to work an' row. There was other boats goin' out, an'
my sakes alive! what a lot of questions we had to answer! Seems to me
there wasn't any reason for 'em, either, 'cause we boys often went out
fishin'. But anyhow we pulled along till we got well to the north'ard o'
Joppa an' out o' reach o | 1,210.601313 |
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THE
DIPLOMATIC CORRESPONDENCE
OF THE
AMERICAN REVOLUTION.
VOL. IV.
THE
DIPLOMATIC CORRESPONDENCE
OF THE
AMERICAN REVOLUTION;
BEING
THE LETTERS OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, SILAS DEANE, JOHN
ADAMS, JOHN JAY, ARTHUR LEE, WILLIAM LEE, RALPH
IZARD, FRANCIS DANA, WILLIAM CARMICHAEL, HENRY
LAURENS, JOHN LAURENS, M. DE LAFAYETTE, M.
DUMAS, AND OTHERS, CONCERNING THE FOREIGN
RELATIONS OF THE UNITED STATES DURING
THE WHOLE REVOLUTION;
TOGETHER WITH
THE LETTERS IN REPLY FROM THE SECRET COMMITTEE OF
CONGRESS, AND THE SECRETARY OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS.
ALSO,
THE ENTIRE CORRESPONDENCE OF THE FRENCH MINISTERS,
GERARD AND LUZERNE, WITH CONGRESS.
Published under the Direction of the President of the United States, from
the original Manuscripts in the Department of State, conformably
to a Resolution of Congress, of March 27th, 1818.
EDITED
BY JARED SPARKS.
VOL. IV.
BOSTON:
NATHAN HALE AND GRAY & BOWEN;
G. & | 1,210.60951 |
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LILITH
THE LEGEND OF THE FIRST WOMAN
BY
ADA LANGWORTHY COLLIER
BOSTON
D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY
FRANKLIN AND HAWLEY STREETS
COPYRIGHT, 1885.
D. LOTHROP & COMPANY.
PREFACE.
That Eve was Adam's second wife was a common Rabbinic
speculation. Certain commentators on Genesis adopted this view,
to account for the double account of the creation of woman, in
the sacred text, first in Genesis i. 27, and second in Genesis
xi. 18. And they say that Adam's first wife was named Lilith,
but she was expelled from Eden, and after her expulsion Eve was
created. Abraham Ecchelensis gives the following account of
Lilith and her doings: "There are some who do not regard
spectres as simple devils, but suppose them to be of a mixed
nature--part demoniacal, part human, and to have had their
origin from Lilith, Adam's first wife, by Eblis, prince of the
devils. This fable has been transmitted to the Arabs, from
Jewish sources, by some converts of Mohamet from Cabbalism and
Rabbinism, who have transferred all the Jewish fooleries to the
Arabs. They gave to Adam a wife formed of clay, along with Adam,
and called her Lilith, resting on the Scripture: 'Male and
female created He them.'"--_Legends of the Patriarchs and
Prophets.--Baring Gould._
Lilith or Lilis.--In the popular belief of the Hebrews, a female
spectre in the shape of a finely dressed woman, who lies in wait
for, and kills children. The old Rabbins turned Lilith into a
wife of Adam, on whom he begat demons and who still has power to
lie with men and kill children who are not protected by amulets
with which the Jews of a yet later period supply themselves as a
protection against her. Burton in his _Anatomy of Melancholy_
tells us: "The Talmudists say that Adam had a wife called Lilis,
before he married Eve, and of her he begat nothing but devils."
A commentator on Skinner, quoted in the _Encyclopaedia
Metropolitana_, says that the English word _Lullaby_ is derived
from Lilla, abi (begone, Lilith)! In the demonology of the
Middle Ages, Lilis was a famous witch, and is introduced as such
in the Walpurgis night scene in Goethe's "Faust."--_Webster's
Dictionary._
Our word _Lullaby_ is derived from two Arabic words which mean
"Beware of Lilith!"--_Anon._
Lilith, the supposed wife of Adam, after she married Eblis, is
said to have ruled over the city of Damascus.--_Legends of the
Patriarchs and Prophets.--Baring Gould._
From these few and meagre details of a fabled existence, which are all
that the author has been able to collect from any source whatever, has
sprung the following poem. The poet feels quite justified in dissenting
from the statements made in the preceding extracts, and has not drawn
Lilith as there represented--the bloodthirsty sovereign who ruled
Damascus, the betrayer of men, the murderer of children. The Lilith of
the poem is transferred to the more beautiful shadow-world. To that
country which is the abode of poets themselves. And about her is wrapt
the humanizing element still, and everywhere embodied in the sweetest
word the human tongue can utter--_lullaby_. Some critics declare that
true literary art inculcates a lofty lesson--has a high moral purpose.
If poets and their work must fall under this rigorous rule, then alas
"Lilith" will knock at the door of public opinion with a trembling hand
indeed. If the poem have either moral aim or lesson of any kind (which
observe, gentle critic, it is by no means asserted that it has), it is
simply to show that the strongest intellectual powers contain no
elements adverse to the highest and purest exercise of the affectional
nature. That, in its true condition, the noblest, the most cultured
intellect, and the loveliest, sublimest moral and emotional qualities,
together weave the web that clothes the world's great soul with
imperishable beauty. The possessor of highest intellectual capacity will
be also capable of highest developments in the latter qualities. The
woman of true intellect is the woman of truest affection. For the rest
let Lilith speak, whose life dropped unrecorded from the earliest world.
It is the poet's hope that the chords of the mother-heart universal will
respond to the song of the childless one. That in the survival of that
one word _lullaby_, may be revivified the pathetic figure of one whose
home, whose hope, whose Eden passed to another. Whose name living in the
terrors of superstitious peoples, now lingers in Earth's sweetest
utterance. That Pagan Lilith, re-baptized in the pure waters of maternal
love, shall breathe to heathen and Christian motherhood alike, that most
sacred love of Earth still throbbing through its tender lullaby.
A. L. C.
TO VALERIA.
Broideries and ancient stuffs that some queen
Wore; nor gems that warriors' hilts encrusted;
Nor fresh from heroes' brows the laurels green;
Nor bright sheaves by bards of eld entrusted
To earth's great granaries--I bring not these.
Only thin, scattered blades from harvests gleaned
Erewhile I plucked, may happen thee to please.
So poor indeed, those others had demeaned
Themselves to cull; or from their strong, firm hands
Down dropped about their feet with careless laugh,
Too broken for home gathering, these strands,
Or else more useless than the idle chaff.
But I have garnered them. Yet, lest they seem
Unworthy, and so shame Love's offering,
Amid the loose-bound sheaf stray flowers gleam.
And fairer seeming make the gift I bring,
Lilies blood-red, that lit the waving field,
And now are knotted through the golden grain.
Thou wilt not scorn the tribute I now yield,
Nor even deem the foolish flowers vain.
So take it, and if still too slight, too small
It seem, think 'tis a bloom that grew anear,
In other Springtime, the old garden wall.
(That pale blue flower you will remember, dear.
The heedless world, unseeing, passed it by,
And left it to the bee and you.) Then say,
"Because the hands that tended it are nigh
No more, and little feet are gone away
That round it trampled down the beaded grass,
Sweeter to me it is than musky spray
Of Southland; and dearer than days that pass
In other summer-tides." This simple song
Read so, dear heart; Nay, rather white-souled one,
Think 'tis an olden echo, wandered long
From a low bed where 'neath the westering sun
You sang. And if your lone heart ever said
"Lo, she is gone, and cannot more be mine,"
Say now, "She is not changed--she is not wed,--
She never left her cradle bed. Still shine
The pillows with the print of her wee head."
So, mother-heart, this song, where through still rings
The strain you sang above my baby bed,
I bring. An idle gift mayhap, that clings
About old days forgotten long, and dead.
This loitering tale, Valeria, take.
Perchance 'tis sad, and hath not any mirth,
Yet love thou it, for the weak singer's sake,
And hold it dear, though yet is little worth,
This tale of Elder-world: of earth's first prime,
Of years that in their grave so long have lain,
To-day's dull ear, through poets' tuneful rhyme
No echo hears, nor mocking friar's strain.
_July_ 17, 1884.
LILITH.
BOOK I.
Pure as an angel's dream shone Paradise.
Blue mountains hemmed it round; and airy sighs
Of rippling waters haunted it. Dim glades,
And wayward paths o'erflecked with shimmering shades,
And tangled dells, and wilding pleasances,
Hung moist with odors strange from scented trees.
Sweet sounds o'erbrimmed the place; and rare perfumes,
Faint as far sunshine, fell '<DW41> verdant glooms.
In that fair land, all hues, all leafage green
Wrapt flawless days in endless summer-sheen.
Bright eyes, the violet waking, lifted up
Where bent the lily her deep, fragrant cup;
And folded buds, 'gainst many a leafy spray--
The wild-woods' voiceless nuns--knelt down to pray.
There roses, deep in greenest mosses swathed,
Kept happy tryst with tropic blooms, sun-bathed.
No sounds of sadness surged through listening trees:
The waters babbled low; the errant bees
Made answer, murmurous; nor paled the hue
The jonquils wore; nor chill the wild breath grew
Of daisies clustered white in dewy croft;
Nor fell the tasseled plumes as satin soft
Upon the broad-leaved corn. Sweet all the day
O'erflowed with music every woodland way;
And sweet the jargonings of nested bird,
When light the listless wind the forest stirred.
Straight as the shaft that 'gainst the morning sun
The slender palm uprears, the Fairest one--
The first of womankind--sweet Lilith--stood,
A gracious shape that glorified the wood.
About her rounded shoulders warm and bare,
Like netted sunshine fell her lustrous hair;
The rosy flush of young pomegranate bells
Dawned on her cheeks; and blue as in lone dells
Sleep the Forget-me-nots, her eyes. With bent
Brows, sullen-creased, swart Adam gazed intent
Upon a leopard, crouched low in its place
Beneath his feet. Not once in Lilith's face
He looked, nor sought her wistful, downcast eyes
With shifting shadows dusk, and strange surprise.
"O, Love," she said, " | 1,210.698069 |
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Produced by Bryan Ness, Ritu Aggarwal and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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The earth is moving, the universe is working, all the laws of creation
are working toward justice, toward a better humanity, toward a higher
ideal, toward a time when men will be brothers the world over.
Industrial Conspiracies
By CLARENCE S. DARROW
Noted Lawyer, Philosopher, Author and Humanitarian
=Price 10c=
The earth is moving, the universe is working, all the laws of creation
are working toward justice, toward a better humanity, toward a higher
ideal, toward a time when men will be brothers the world over.
Industrial Conspiracies
BY CLARENCE S. DARROW
Noted Lawyer, Philosopher, Author and Humanitarian
Lecture delivered in Heilig Theatre, Portland, Oregon, September 10,
1912.
Stenographically reported and published by permission of the author.
Published by Turner, Newman and Knispel,
Address Box 701 Portland, Ore.
Single copies of this lecture may be had by sending 10 cents to
publishers, 100 copies $6.00, $50.00 per thousand.
Orders must be accompanied by cash or money order. Postage will be
prepaid.
Make checks payable to Otto Newman, Publisher.
Box 701, Portland, Oregon.
=ALL RIGHTS RESERVED=
Publisher's Note.--This address was delivered shortly after Mr.
Darrow's triumphant acquittal on a charge growing out of his defense
of the McNamaras at Los Angeles, California. The man, the subject
and the occasion makes it one of the greatest speeches of our time.
It is the hope of the publishers that this message of Mr. Darrow's
may reach the millions of men, women and youth of our country, that
they may see the labor problem plainer and that they may receive hope
and inspiration in their efforts to make a better and juster world.
PAUL TURNER,
OTTO NEWMAN,
JULIUS KNISPEL.
Copyright, October 3, 1912, by Turner, Newman & Knispel.
Industrial Conspiracies
By CLARENCE S. DARROW
Mr. Darrow said:
I feel very grateful to you for the warmth and earnestness of your
reception. It makes me feel sure that I am amongst friends. If I had
to be tried again, I would not mind taking a change of venue to
Portland (applause); although I think I can get along where I am
without much difficulty.
The subject for tonight's talk was not chosen by me but was chosen for
me. I don't know who chose it, nor just what they expected me to say,
but there is not much in a name, and I suppose what I say tonight
would be just about the same under any title that anybody saw fit to
give.
I am told that I am going to talk about "Industrial Conspiracies." I
ought to know something about them. And I won't tell you all I know
tonight | 1,210.702467 |
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Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by
Google Books (Oxford University)
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Google Books
http://books.google.com/books?id=GyAGAAAAQAAJ
(Oxford University)
THE LAST CALL.
THE LAST CALL.
A Romance.
BY
RICHARD DOWLING,
AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF KILLARD," "THE WEIRD SISTERS,"
"SWEET INISFAIL," ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES_.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1884.
[_All rights reserved_.]
CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS
CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.
THE LAST CALL.
* * * * *
Part I.
THE LAST CALL.
CHAPTER I.
The sun was low behind a bank of leaden cloud which stood like a wall
upon the western horizon. In front of a horse-shoe cove lay a placid
bay, and to the westward, but invisible from the cove, the plains of
the Atlantic.
It was low water, and summer. The air of the cove was soft with
exhalations from the weed-clad rocks stretching in green and brown
furrows from the ridge of blue shingle in the cove to the violet
levels of the sea.
On the ridge of shingle lay a young man, whose eyes rested on the sea.
He was of the middle height and figure. Twenty-seven or twenty-eight
seemed to be his age. He had a neat, compact forehead, dark gray eyes,
ruddy, full cheeks, a prominent nose, full lips, and a square chin.
The face looked honest, good-humoured, manly. The moustaches were
brown; the brown hair curled under the hat. The young man wore a gray
tweed suit and a straw hat.
He lay resting on his elbow. In the line of his sight far out in the
bay a small dot moved almost imperceptibly. The lounger knew this dot
was a boat: distance prevented his seeing it contained a man and a
woman.
Dominique Lavirotte, the man in the boat, was of the middle height and
figure, twenty-four years of age, looking like a Greek, but French by
descent and birth. The eyes and skin were dark, the beard and
moustaches black. The men of Rathclare, a town ten miles off, declared
he was the handsomest man they had ever seen, and yet felt their
candour ill-requited when their sweethearts and wives concurred.
With Dominique Lavirotte in the boat was Ellen Creagh. She was not a
native of Rathclare, but of Glengowra, the small seaside and fishing
town situate on Glengowra Bay, over which the boat was now lazily
gliding in the cool blue light of the afternoon.
Ellen Creagh was tall and slender, above the average height of women,
and very fair. She had light golden-brown hair, bright lustrous blue
eyes, and lips of delicate red. The upper lip was short. Even in
repose her face always suggested a smile. One of the great charms of
the head was the fluent ease with which it moved. The greatest charm
of the face was the sweet susceptibility it had to smile. It seemed,
when unmoved, to wait in placid faith, the advent of pleasant things.
During its moments of quiet there was no suggestion of doubt or
anxiety in it. To it the world was fair and pleasant--and the face was
pleasant and wonderfully fair. Pleasant people are less degraded by
affectation than solemn people. Your solemn man is generally a
swindler of some kind, and nearly always selfish and insincere. Ellen
Creagh looked the embodiment of good-humoured candour, and the ideal
of health and beauty. She was as blithe and wholesome as the end of
May; she was a northern Hebe, a goddess of youth and joy.
The name of the young man lying on the shingles was Eugene O'Donnell.
He lived in the important seaport of Rathclare, where his father was
the richest and most respected merchant and shipowner. There had James
O'Donnell been established in business for many years, and they now
said he was not worth less than a quarter of a million sterling. Mrs.
O'Donnell was a hale, brisk, bright-minded woman of fifty-seven, being
three years her husband's junior. The pair had but one child, Eugene,
and to him in due time all the old man's money was to go. The
O'Donnells were wealthy and popular. The father had a slow, methodical
way, which did not win upon strangers, but among those who knew him no
one was more highly respected. Without any trace of extravagance,
James O'Donnell was liberal with his money. He was a good husband, a
good father, and a good employer.
He had only one source of permanent uneasiness--his son Eugene was not
married, and showed no inclination towards marriage. The old man held
that every young man who could support a wife should take one. He
himself had married young, had prospered amazingly, and never for a
moment regretted his marriage. He was prepared to give his son a share
in his business, and a thousand a year out of the interest of his
savings, if the young man would only settle. But although Eugene
O'Donnell was as good-humoured and good-hearted a young fellow as the
town of Rathclare, or the next town to it, could show, and although
there was not in the whole town one girl who would be likely to refuse
him, and although there were plenty of handsome girls in Rathclare,
Eugene O'Donnell remained obdurate. It was lamentable, but what could
anyone do? The young man would not make love, the father would not
insist upon his marrying whether he loved or no, and there being at
Rathclare little faith in leap-year, no widow or maiden of the town
was bold enough to ask him to wed her.
While the young man lying on the shingle was idly watching the boat,
the young man in the boat was by no means idle. The sculls he was
pulling occupied none of his attention. He swung himself mechanically
backward and forward. His whole mind was fixed on the face and form of
the girl sitting in the stern.
"And so, you really must go back to Dublin?" he said ruefully.
"Yes," she answered with a smile. "I must really go back to Dublin
within a fortnight."
"And leave all here behind," he said tenderly.
"All!" she exclaimed, looking around sadly. "There is not much to
leave besides the sea, which I always loved, and my mother, whom I
always loved also."
"There is nothing else in the place, I suppose, Miss Creagh, you love,
but the sea and your mother?"
"No," she answered, "nothing. I have no relative living but my mother,
and she and the sea are my oldest friends."
"But have you no new friend or friends?"
She shook her head, and leaning over the side of the boat, drew her
fingers slowly through the water.
"The Vernons," she said, "are good to me, and I like the girls very
much. But I am only their servant--a mere governess."
"A mere queen!" he said. "I have known you but a short time. That has
been the happiest time of my life. _I_ at least can never forget it.
May you?"
Suddenly a slight change came over her. She lost a little of her
gaiety, and gathered herself together with a shadow of reserve.
"I do not think, Mr.. Lavirotte, I shall soon forget the many pleasant
hours we have spent together and the great kindness you have shown to
me."
"And you do not think you will forget _me?_"
"How can I remember your kindness and forget you?" she asked gravely.
"Yes, yes," he said eagerly, "but you know what I mean, and are
avoiding my meaning. Perhaps I have been too hasty. Shall I sing you | 1,210.703593 |
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Credit
Transcribed from the 1888 Cassell & Company edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
CASSELL'S NATIONAL LIBRARY.
ESSAYS AND TALES
BY
JOSEPH ADDISON.
CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED:
_LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_.
1888.
Contents:
Introduction
Public Credit
Household Superstitions
Opera Lions
Women and Wives
The Italian Opera
Lampoons
True and False Humour
Sa Ga Yean Qua Rash Tow's Impressions of London
The Vision of Marraton
Six Papers on Wit
Friendship
Chevy-Chase (Two Papers)
A Dream of the Painters
Spare Time (Two Papers)
Censure
The English Language
The Vision of Mirza
Genius
Theodosius and Constantia
Good Nature
A Grinning Match
Trust in God
INTRODUCTION.
The sixty-fourth volume of this Library contains those papers from the
_Tatler_ which were especially associated with the imagined character of
ISAAC BICKERSTAFF, who was the central figure in that series; and in the
twenty-ninth volume there is a similar collection of papers relating to
the Spectator Club and SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY, who was the central figure
in Steele and Addison's _Spectator_. Those volumes contained, no doubt,
some of the best Essays of Addison and Steele. But in the _Tatler_ and
_Spectator_ are full armouries of the wit and wisdom of these two
writers, who summoned into life the army of the Essayists, and led it on
to kindly war against the forces of Ill-temper and Ignorance. Envy,
Hatred, Malice, and all their first cousins of the family of
Uncharitableness, are captains under those two commanders-in-chief, and
we can little afford to dismiss from the field two of the stoutest
combatants against them. In this volume it is only Addison who speaks;
and in another volume, presently to follow, there will be the voice of
Steele.
The two friends differed in temperament and in many of the outward signs
of character; but these two little books will very distinctly show how
wholly they agreed as to essentials. For Addison, Literature had a charm
of its own; he delighted in distinguishing the finer graces of good
style, and he drew from the truths of life the principles of taste in
writing. For Steele, Literature was the life itself; he loved a true
book for the soul he found in it. So he agreed with Addison in judgment.
But the six papers on "Wit," the two papers on "Chevy Chase," contained
in this volume; the eleven papers on "Imagination," and the papers on
"Paradise Lost," which may be given in some future volume; were in a form
of study for which Addison was far more apt than Steele. Thus as fellow-
workers they gave a breadth to the character of _Tatler_ and _Spectator_
that could have been produced by neither of them, singly.
The reader of this volume will never suppose that the artist's pleasure
in good art and in analysis of its constituents removes him from direct
enjoyment of the life about him; that he misses a real contact with all
the world gives that is worth his touch. Good art is but nature, studied
with love trained to the most delicate perception; and the good criticism
in which the spirit of an artist speaks is, like Addison's, calm, simple,
and benign. Pope yearned to attack John Dennis, a rough critic of the
day, who had attacked his "Essay on Criticism." Addison had discouraged
a very small assault of words. When Dennis attacked Addison's "Cato,"
Pope thought himself free to strike; but Addison took occasion to
express, through Steele, a serious regret that he had done so. True
criticism may be affected, as Addison's was, by some bias in the canons
of taste prevalent in the writer's time, but, as Addison's did in the
Chevy-Chase papers, it will dissent from prevalent misapplications of
them, and it can never associate perception of the purest truth and
beauty with petty arrogance, nor will it so speak as to give pain. When
Wordsworth was remembering with love his mother's guidance of his | 1,210.7037 |
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[Illustration: [Russian font: B. N. Nemirovitch-Dantchenko.]]
PEASANT TALES OF RUSSIA
BY
V. I. NEMIROVITCH-DANTCHENKO
TRANSLATED BY
CLAUD FIELD, M.A.
Editor of "Jewish Legends of the Middle Ages."
[Illustration: [_Frontispiece._
"Holding his torch high, Ivan skirted the precipice."]
[Illustration]
PEASANT TALES
OF RUSSIA
[Illustration]
LONDON: ROBERT SCOTT
ROXBURGHE HOUSE
PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
_All rights reserved_
MCMXVII
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE DESERTED MINE 3
MAHMOUD'S FAMILY 61
A MISUNDERSTANDING 91
THE LUCK OF IVAN THE FORGETFUL 129
_LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS_
PAGE
"Holding his torch high, Ivan skirted the
precipice" _Frontispiece_
"Your prediction is fulfilled. The Turk has
escaped" 60
"From all directions nuns came gliding
towards the lighted portal" 90
"A strange sight brought her to a standstill" 128
"At the edge of the wood lay a dead woman,
with a little living creature sobbing over
her" 145
_THE DESERTED MINE_
[Illustration]
_THE DESERTED MINE_
I
At the entrance of the Voskressensky mine stood a group of miners. All
were quite silent.
It was still dark, for the autumn days begin late. Heavy grey clouds
glided slowly over the sky, in which the first streaks of dawn were
hardly visible. These clouds glided so low that they seemed to wish to
lie on the earth in order to hide this black hole, this well-like
orifice which was about to swallow up the miners one by one. The air was
saturated with a cloud of damp dust, particles of which fell on the
men's hair and faces. The miners wore leather jerkins, and small lamps,
whose light flickered fitfully, hung at their belts. An imaginative
person might have thought that they trembled with fear at having to
descend into the heavy dense darkness of the mine.
"Listen, old man! You can never go down alone," said the young overseer
to an old miner who was of tall stature, thin and withered. His long
grey beard fell in disarray over his hollow chest, and his breath came
and went with a thin whistling sound, as though the damp air of this
dark morning found as much difficulty in entering as in leaving it. The
features of the old miner's face were strongly marked, and his two black
eyes burned in the depths of their sockets with a brilliant, almost
fantastic light. This death's-head seemed almost buried from sight
between two very high shoulders. When he walked, his back was arched,
and his whole long body leaned forward, so that he seemed to be looking
for something he had lost, or to be picking his steps very carefully.
His feeble arms hung languidly by his side, and his legs tottered and
gave way every moment under the weight of his body, slight as it was.
"You will never be able to descend the ladders! We will put you into the
basket! Hullo! you fellows over there, come and help to start old
Ivan!" the overseer called to the rest.
"Here we are, Father Ivan!" they cried, saying to each other jocosely,
"Fancy his wishing to go down the ladders with us!"
The old miner turned towards them. It was a long time ago since he had
been born in a mine about five versts distant which had been
subsequently closed. His mother, who had lost her husband by the
falling-in of one of the mine-galleries, continued to work in the same
gallery after it had been repaired. Ivan had been born in the eternal
darkness. His first cry had been drowned by the noise of blasting rocks,
his first glance met nothing but the gloom of the subterranean gallery.
He was hoisted to the surface of the ground in a large bucket full of
ore. All the first impressions of his sad childhood were intimately
connected with the mine where his mother, who was obliged to earn her
living, always worked. As she had no one to whom to entrust the child,
she took him with her, and he remained lying beside her, fixing his
wide-open eyes on his mother's flickering lamp, while he sucked at his
milk-bottle. It was this black hole which echoed to his laughter and his
crying, especially to the latter. His mother, who was naturally
taciturn, had scarcely time to caress her child, for she would have had
to quit her work; when she heard the little one's sobs, she redoubled
the blows of her pickaxe against the dark mass of coal, as though she
wished by the noise they made to drown the feeble wailing of the infant.
It was in this mine that he grew and made his first experiments in
walking; later on he began to explore, first the narrow passage where
his mother worked at her daily task, then venturing into the other
galleries of this subterranean kingdom. As his mind developed, a whole
world of phantoms created by his imagination rose around him. All these
masses of black earth with their blocks of metal, which had slumbered
for centuries in the depths, seemed to him living beings, and all the
mysterious muffled sounds which came one knew not whence, sounded in his
ears like the groans of victims imprisoned by evil genii in gloomy
caves. For him the water which filtered through the walls of the mine
was a shower of tears, and that which trickled, yellow of tint, across
the ore resembled flowing blood. The darkness was constantly traversed
by vague and ever new apparitions, vanishing as soon as they appeared,
which nevertheless left a trace of their passage on the child's
impressionable mind.
When a miner's song reached him, deadened by distance, it seemed to him
to issue from the depths of the rocks. By dint of practice, his sense of
hearing had acquired a fine subtlety, and sometimes putting his ear to
the rugged walls, he listened with so much attention that he could catch
the faintest unknown and inexplicable sounds. It was perhaps only the
wrathful murmur of some imprisoned spring, but for Ivan it was the groan
of a human being struggling in his dungeon. All the objects round
him--the ore, the rocks, the water--were animated with a life visible
and comprehensible to him alone. These things were not for him, simple
parts of inanimate nature, but creatures with souls, full of life,
similar to himself, watching and listening to him as he watched and
listened to them.
Later on he made friends with an old man. He was a miner of a somewhat
sombre disposition, but his eyes always grew moist when the child ran
towards him. He would lay his wrinkled hand, hard as iron, tenderly on
the head of the little one, and, as he rested, tell him how one day our
Lord Jesus Christ had descended to the depths of this subterranean
kingdom, and since then remained there with the miners. "Jesus is in the
midst of us, I tell you," the old man would say dreamily, peering
intently into the darkness, as though his half-blind eyes could really
distinguish the divine Saviour there. As long as he was a child, Ivan
saw Him also, and seeing Him feared Him, because he knew that Jesus does
not love evil deeds and dark thoughts. Jesus is everywhere at once; He
has thousands of eyes at His disposal; He sees and knows the slightest
movements of men's hearts.
One day when the child was sitting on the old miner's knees, they heard
far off in the direction where Ivan's mother was working a dull shock--a
noise like a sigh escaping from the breast of Mother Earth herself. The
shock re-echoed in all the mine-shafts and smallest recesses of all the
galleries. The earth fell in in several places.
"Save us, Lord!" cried the old man, rising quickly. "Pray to God, little
one. A child's prayer avails much with Him."
Little Ivan knelt down, and prayed without knowing why or for what. All
his prayer consisted in repeating, "Kind Jesus!... Good Jesus!... Dear
old Jesus!" Since for him goodness was personified in the old miner, and
as on the other hand Jesus was the very incarnation of goodness, it
followed that Jesus must be old, very old. It was thus that the child
imagined Him, and under this aspect that he sometimes saw Him standing
in the darkness of the mine.
The subterranean shocks re-echoed to a great distance and did not cease
till they passed beyond the boundaries of the mine. Then only a vague
vibration remained in the air like the presentiment of a great calamity.
The old miner turned in the direction where Ivan's mother had been
working. He walked with uncertain steps and then returned hesitatingly
towards the child. When they reached the gallery they found it narrower
and contracted above where the earth had sunk. Presently they came to a
point where it shrank to a narrow hole. The old man and the child
crawled through it with difficulty. Soon, fortunately, they could stand
upright. A few steps more and the old man abruptly fell on his knees.
The place where Ivan's mother had been working no longer existed. The
child and the old man were confronted by a huge mass of damp earth. Its
dampness was constantly increasing, for it was traversed by a thread of
water from a spring which had suddenly been liberated, one knew not how,
from its long imprisonment. From underneath this damp mass projected the
feet of Ivan's mother. The child rushed forward, seized the coarse boots
which she wore and tugged at them, but in vain; the earth which lay on
his mother guarded its prey well.
"Maria! Maria!" cried the old miner in a despairing voice.
There was no reply. The feet in their coarse boots, feebly lighted by
the little lamp, remained motionless.
When Ivan grew up and became a miner in his turn his surroundings
changed their aspect in his eyes and became inanimate. The springs and
the metals, these bondslaves of the earth, no longer possessed a soul
for him. The dark rocks, when his pickaxe laid their sides open, were as
inanimate as the damp masses of ore. Jesus also, Whom he saw so clearly
in his childhood, had disappeared from the time that they had abandoned
the old mine for another one. But the impressions made on him in
childhood remained hidden and shut up in the profoundest depth of Ivan's
heart, resembling in this the hidden springs in the heart of the rock.
Later on, under the inexorable pressure of time when Ivan had become
old, these impressions rose again to the surface, and he found himself
once more surrounded by vague apparitions and mysterious murmurs. Only
Jesus remained absent, though the fixed gaze of the old Ivan searched
for Him perseveringly in the darkness of the subterranean kingdom.
II
"Well, old man, get in!" said the miners. The moving windlass brought to
the mouth of the shaft the bucket in which the ore was brought up. The
rusty iron chain unrolled slowly with a harsh grating sound. Below the
darkness was so dense that one could not even perceive the reflection of
water which is always visible at the bottom of the deepest wells. Ivan
squatted down in the bucket.
"Now, in the name of God! you will turn round a bit, old man."
"It won't hurt him to swing a little," said others jokingly.
"Look, you fellows, we will get him down in the twinkling of an eye."
The windlass creaked, the rusty chain groaned plaintively, and the
bucket began to descend by jerks, knocking against the wooden lining of
the shaft with a metallic echo. Ivan raised his eyes; above him the
pit-mouth looked like a greyish patch, round him was impenetrable
darkness. The bucket turned with the chain and descended slowly. The
little lamp fastened to his waist cast trembling gleams on the damp
walls, and its light flickered timidly, hardly making visible the drops
of water which trickled across the wooden lining of the shaft; in fact
it seemed on the point of going out. Any one unused to such a descent
would at once have become giddy, but to old Ivan it seemed a mere
trifle. How often already he had thus descended and come up!
The walls of the shaft became more and more damp. Above, the grey patch
shrank and shrank. It seemed as though the day staring fixedly into the
darkness of the pit gradually closed its grey eye, baffled at its depth.
"Yes, this shaft is very old," thought the miner to himself; "I remember
the day it was sunk, and it must be quite sixty years ago, if I
recollect right. It is quite time to repair the lining; the wood has
decayed till it is black. I wonder how it can still hold together. Jesus
must certainly be watching over us. I am getting old too; they say I am
eighty-four. It is a lucky thing that they don't dismiss me, and only
give me easy work; otherwise I should starve, or at any rate be obliged
to beg."
Thoughts of all kinds passed through the old man's head. He was
accustomed to think much but never spoke. It was a long time since any
one had heard the sound of his voice, and it was thought that he had
forgotten how to speak because he had always lived surrounded by the
silence of the mine. The fact was that, hearing nothing but the sound
of his pickaxe, the noise of the ore being crushed, etc., he had lost
the habit of replying to questions. When any one spoke to him, he
quickly removed his leather cap, and answered by a bow so low that one
could see the top of his head adorned only by two locks of yellow hair.
People finished by leaving him in peace.
No one went so far as to ridicule him. He was, so to speak, one of the
curiosities of the mine, for it was known that he had been present at
its opening. The proprietors of the mine knew that in former days he was
always the first to go down, and that it was he who had loosened the
first yellow block from which the first piece of copper had been
extracted. All his contemporaries who were not dead had grown old around
him, and he himself, decrepit and bent, was still alive and even worked,
as far as his strength permitted.
"Old Ivan is a true miner; he was born in a gallery of the old mine,"
the workmen often said to one another. They had forgotten for a long
time past where the old worked-out mine which had been abandoned sixty
years ago was situated. His disuse of speech only augmented the respect
they felt for him. Some even thought that his silence was in consequence
of a vow. "He is Ivan the Silent," they would say. "Disbelieve it if
you like, but it is quite ten years since he has been silent."
Meanwhile the bucket suspended from the chain which rattled
remorselessly continued to descend. The greyish patch of the orifice was
no more visible at all, and its last vague glimmer had been swallowed up
in the damp cold darkness of the pit. The wooden lining had come to an
end, and the walls were formed of strata of different metals. On one
hand the sides and sharp edges of a great black stone projected, on the
other was damp mud encrusted with fragments of rock. Then the pale light
of the little lamp glided windingly over the rounded outlines of flint
fossils. It then zigzagged over a layer of brilliant white mineral,
which was soon succeeded by another of mud.
Through all--the earth, the flints, the edges of rent rocks--there
trickled innumerable water-drops. Was it the blood of the earth
escaping from a deep wound? Or was it shedding tears over the hard lot
of hundreds of men shut up in the eternal darkness of its mysterious
kingdom?
The tears fell thickly, one by one, forming threads of water, which in
their turn formed rivulets. Now the old man heard something else beside
the creaking of the rusted chain, every link of which seemed to be
complaining of extreme weariness, the result of long service. His ear,
accustomed to silence, caught the murmur of rivulets, and the noise of
water-drops, falling one by one, resembling the sound of grains of lead
falling on stone. Here is a spring which has escaped from its narrow
prison in the heart of the mountain and which forms a wide stream, but
which, finding on its escape from its long bondage only darkness as deep
as that of its prison, seems to moan as it glides over the damp stones.
The bucket continued its descent. He could no longer see above or below
him and the journey appeared interminable. The light of the little lamp,
which had nearly gone out, grew suddenly brighter. Around him
innumerable springs were trickling, running and descending on all sides.
Here and there uniting in large streams, they came down in cascades,
splashing Ivan's clothes. The darkness was full of the babbling, rushing
and noise of this water.
The old man knew that for sixty years it had been ceaselessly
undermining this shaft. Long ago, when he first went down it, only a few
drops of water used to filter through its sides. Later on these became
more numerous, and collecting together, finished by channelling for
themselves convenient passages and by flowing in streams. By this time
the work of destruction had become more and more threatening and the
earth was everywhere like a sponge. It seemed as though the springs
imprisoned in the mountain had found out the existence of this shaft and
had united to flow into it.
"They will certainly end by flooding the shaft," thought the old man.
"What is to be done? One can only hope in God. As long as He wills, the
shaft will exist, but as soon as He does not will it, it will be
destroyed from top to bottom."
Formerly the shaft was supported by the rocks, but the water had
succeeded in undermining them, sometimes by infiltration underneath
them, sometimes by dislodging them from their places and making them
lose their equilibrium; some of them projected through the walls of the
shaft and their sides were black with moisture. Presently these
undermined rocks would collapse, dragging down in their fall all the
surrounding earth. What a disaster it would be. The miners would be
buried alive like earth-worms. Only their feet would be visible, thought
the old man, as had been the case with his mother. "Entombed by the will
of God." It would be no use digging and trying to reach them; they would
be too far down; the shaft was three hundred fathoms deep and the whole
mine was dangerous. The walls of its galleries were as thin as those of
a bee-hive. So much ore had been extracted from it that entire caves had
been formed in the spongy earth. Whenever the shaft should collapse, the
walls of the galleries would not hold out any more, the whole mine would
fall in, and nothing would be left but an enormous cavity to show the
curious sightseer.
The old man regarded the prospect of such a collapse calmly, for to die
in a mine seemed to him quite natural as he had been born there. He
would have found it strange if his sad existence had ended on the
surface of the ground; on the other hand a death down here seemed quite
simple and natural. Here he felt at home. He remembered how when seized
with illness on one occasion, before he had become old, he had not even
ascended to the surface, but remained in the gallery where he worked all
the time, his comrades bringing him food. He had often passed the night
in his gallery stretched on comparatively soft ground. In old times he
had been often seized with a desire to ascend, to see again the sun and
the starry nights, but all that was now far away. Now he felt at home
here in this darkness where it was so warm and so comfortable, that,
but for the dampness, one would like to remain there always!
The water kept on coming down in resonant cascades. But in spite of
this, the old man distinctly heard not far off the blows of the miners'
innumerable pickaxes, the dull echoes of explosions in distant
galleries, and vague human noises. Here and there in the walls of the
shaft one saw black holes, once the entrances to ancient galleries which
had long ago been exhausted of their ore and abandoned.
The miners were now working in another stratum. But the old Ivan had not
forgotten these ancient galleries, for he had left in each of them a
little of his strength, and each of them had been moistened by his
perspiration. He rose and looked downwards; the flickerings of little
lamps like his own were visible, and vague sounds came up to him. The
gleam of water was also to be seen, for the bottom of the shaft was
entirely flooded. Pumps were no longer of any use to expel the water,
for pump as one might, the water kept pouring in. However, they had to
keep on pumping, for if they stopped, even for an hour, the whole mine
would have been flooded and the water would have rapidly penetrated all
the galleries, drowning the miners who were working in them.
"Earth and water--both are in the hands of God," said the miner to
himself.
The rusty chain ceased to unwind and the bucket stopped its descent
half-submerged in the water which covered the bottom of the shaft. The
miners ran up from all sides, holding their little lamps. "See who
comes!" they said with a laugh. "Good day, father!" They laid a plank
for him and helped him to get out. Then, as he always did, he removed
his cap and made a low bow to the miners, showing his bald head.
Numerous galleries diverged from this point in all directions, and their
darkness was pierced by little lights which ran hither and thither.
Sounds of voices were heard clearly as well as the noise of subterranean
explosions, but all other sounds were dominated by the roar of the
waters.
The old man re-lighted his little lamp, which had gone out, and stooping
forward, as though he were examining some mysterious footprints, he went
towards his gallery with unsteady steps.
III
The gallery in which the old man worked was fairly high. Here and there
beams sustaining the roof were visible, but their decrepit condition
testified to their age. Above these worm-eaten beams, the earth formed
protuberances bristling with pointed rocks. The ground was strewn with
fragments of rock which had fallen from the roof.
Old Ivan remembered having seen one day one of these fragments kill as
it fell a little boy who had been a great pet of his. This little boy
generally accompanied his father, and his gay bursts of careless
laughter animated a little the sepulchral silence of the mine. It seemed
but yesterday that the old man had seen the child running merrily along
the gallery. All at once a misshapen block protruded from the roof. The
child stopped, out of curiosity, raised his clear eyes to see what it
was, and the huge stone suddenly dropped, burying and crushing him
entirely. His father was in utter despair and the other miners could not
restrain their tears; as for Ivan, he persisted in prowling for a long
time round the great black stone, as though he were expecting to hear
from under the enormous block the well-known laugh of the little one.
But nothing came to awaken the melancholy silence of the gallery.
The old man now halted near this murderous rock and held his lamp near
it, lighting up the indistinct outlines of a cross rudely engraved in
the stone. After looking round, as though he were afraid of being seen,
he rapidly made the sign of the cross above the "tomb." If the miners
had been able to watch him just then, they would have been astonished to
his perpetually closed lips moving. But no one could have said whether
he only wished to speak or actually spoke, for none but himself heard
the vague murmur which issued from his lips.
On his left hand there was an extremely narrow passage; the old man
entered it, crawled through it, and stood upright again, for he had
reached the place where he worked, which was fairly roomy. However,
although one could stand upright in it, the place had a sepulchral
aspect.
The old man raised his lamp, whose tiny gleam lit up for a moment the
black walls discoloured by stains of yellowish rust. Here it was almost
dry and the light of the lamp revealed no moisture. Little irregular
heaps of ore dotted the ground. However, there was one damp corner, and
in it grew thickly together a little group of mushrooms with little flat
hoods of a sickly white colour on stalks which were also white and very
slender. The old man took care of them and avoided covering them with
any of the earth which he dug out. One day he had even brought to this
corner a piece of turf in the midst of which were some field-flowers.
But neither the buttercups nor the daisies consented to live without
the sun; they gradually died, fading away by stages like consumptives
who are deprived of the sun and of its warmth. Only one little flower
had a tougher life than the rest and held out a long time, although it
completely lost its colour in the eternal darkness of this tomb. Ivan
watched it with curiosity until it also hung its head over its
desiccated stalk. Then he had nothing left but the mushrooms and a kind
of greyish lichen which spotted the rock at intervals.
To-day old Ivan was very tired; he sat down on a heap of ore, placed his
little lamp in a niche of the rock, which was already blackened with
smoke, and buried his head in his hands. Not a single echo reached this
spot. A melancholy silence reigned in this vault, but the old man was
accustomed to it. He for whom the darkness was peopled by mysterious
apparitions vanishing as soon as they appeared, heard also strange
voices down here. Sometimes it was like the fragment of an incomplete
song or a distant call which pierced the silence. At other times, when
his pickaxe penetrated deeply the heart of the rock, he fancied he heard
a stifled sigh as if the tool had pierced the breast of a living
creature. All these vague sounds seemed to him full of significance.
Having nothing in common with the world of reality, he lived in fancies
and dreams.
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STUDIES
IN
ZECHARIAH.
BY
A. C. GAEBELEIN.
_EIGHTH EDITION._
PRINTING BY
FRANCIS E. FITCH, INC,
47 BROAD ST., NEW YORK.
Copyright 1911, by A. C. Gaebelein.
FOREWORD TO THE EIGHTH EDITION.
This little exposition of the Prophecies of Zechariah was written
almost 15 years ago. We are thankful to God that it has been a help
to so many. The sixth edition has been sold and a seventh has become
necessary.
We were somewhat reluctant to print another edition. When this book
was written the writer did not at all have a clear vision in the
prophetic Word concerning the great predicted end events of the times
of the Gentiles. Like so many others he did not distinguish between
the personal Antichrist and the King of the North. He then held the
view, which is still taught by many, that the first beast in
Revelation xiii is the personal Antichrist. This belief led into
incorrect views about that part of Revelation.
Since writing the book it has pleased the Lord to give the writer
better light on these great prophetic unfoldings and for this reason
some of the interpretations given, especially on pages 135, 136 and
137, are no longer looked upon by the author as being scripturally
correct. In our later books "The Harmony of the Prophetic Word"
"Joel," and especially "Exposition of Daniel," the truth as revealed
in Prophecy concerning the two beasts and the King of the North, is
given. We therefore request the reader to consider this when studying
this volume.
We are sure the Lord will continue to bless the simple unfolding of
the greatest Post exile Prophet. So little is written on this great
book that we feel that we should not withhold this imperfect
exposition from the students of the Word of Prophecy. May the Lord
continue to bless it.
A. C. GAEBELEIN.
Sept. 30, 1911.
INTRODUCTION.
Zechariah, the name of the prophet whose visions and prophecies we
desire to study, is not an uncommon name in divine history. Its
meaning is _Jehovah remembers_. He is called the son of Berachiah,
_Jehovah blesses_, the son of Iddo, _the appointed time_. There is
here, as in many other instances in the Bible, a great significance
in the Hebrew names. The name of the grandfather of Zechariah (who
probably brought him up, as his father must have died early), his
father's name and his own read in English translation, _the appointed
time_, _Jehovah blesses_, _Jehovah remembers_. The Holy Spirit has
inspired these very names; they are in themselves a commentary to the
prophecies and visions God gave to Zechariah, for they speak of an
appointed time of God's blessings for Jerusalem and of His loving
remembrance.
Zechariah was born in Babylon in the captivity, for when he returned
to the land of his fathers he was but a child. Like some other
prophets he was a priest as well as a prophet. His work as a prophet
was commenced by him when he was a young man, for thus he is called
in one of the visions. The time of his opening address to the people
is two months after Haggai had opened his lips in Jehovah's name.
Haggai received the word of the Lord in the sixth month in the second
year of Darius, and Zechariah in the eighth month of the same year of
the reign of that King, about 520 before Christ.
Both prophets had the same thought given, namely, to encourage the
Jewish remnant in the blessed work of rebuilding the house of the
Lord. This work had suffered an interruption; the Samaritans were the
cause of it. They had applied to join in the work, but as the remnant
considered them idolators and as not belonging to God's people, the
application was rejected. These Samaritans tried after that in
various ways to hinder the rebuilding, which had so blessedly begun.
At last they succeeded in obtaining a decree which forbade the
building of the Temple. All work had to be stopped and ceased for
about fourteen years. But when the King who had forbidden the
prosecution of the work had died and Darius became King, the building
of the Temple was once more made possible. The leaders of the people
in the enterprise were Serubbabel and the High Priest Joshua. But
again they were hindered from the outside, while on the other hand
the people themselves had lost much interest and possessed no longer
that love and zeal for God's house, which was so prominent after
their return. Thus Haggai said: _This people say, It is not the time
for us to come, the time for the Lord's house to be built... It is
a time for you to dwell in your ceiled houses, while this house lieth
waste_. Haggai, chapter 1.
In that critical moment these two prophets made their appearance, and
God gave them visions of comfort and glad tidings to encourage the
disheartened, selfish and unbelieving people.
The visions and prophecies of Zechariah, however, do not only give an
assurance that there could be no failure in the work the remnant had
taken up anew, but more than that in them the glorious future of
Jerusalem and Zion is unfolded. They lead up to the grand finale of
the history of God's ancient people, the time when Israel, redeemed
and restored forever, will sing the grand and glorious Hallelujah.
It is, of course, true that Zechariah did a blessed work for the
people who lived in his day; he had a special mission to perform and
succeeded in it, but the Spirit of God in the message of comfort for
that time gives the history of events then in a distant future. The
Babylonian captivity of Israel foreshadows their greater dispersion
in which they are to-day wanderers all over the earth, and the
restoration which took place in the time of Zechariah is highly
typical of that coming restoration for which we hope and pray.
Zechariah may therefore be fitly called the Prophet of the
Restoration. Surely it is a deplorable blindness in some teachers of
the Word, who see in the book of Zechariah nothing but past history,
and who claim that all has been fulfilled in the return of the small
Jewish remnant from the captivity, and whatever promises of mercy
given to Jerusalem and the land of Judah find now their spiritual
fulfilment in the church.
It will be our aim in a series of studies in Zechariah to consider
mostly the relation of these visions to the end of this age, and the
beginning of the next, the millennial glory. We shall find that
instead of the book of Zechariah being all fulfilled prophecy, as
some would have it, it is indeed mostly unfulfilled, and even some of
the prophetic promises which on the surface seem to have been seen a
fulfilment, were only in part realized. And how important at this
time to study the book of Zechariah! We are living in the time when
that greater restoration with all its events forerunning and
connected with it are about to come to pass. It is needless to say
that we firmly believe that Zechariah wrote all of the book which
bears his name.
Several of the Jewish commentators confess an inability to explain
the book. The well-known Jewish commentator Solomon Ben Jarchi
(generally known by the name Rashi), says: "The prophecy | 1,210.798141 |
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[Illustration: "IN HIS LOOMING ABOUT THE ROOM HE HAD STOPPED DEAD
BEFORE WATTS'S PICTURE 'HOPE' OVER THE MANTELPIECE"
From the painting by G. F. Watts, R.A.
(_See p. 336_)]
POPPY
THE STORY OF A
SOUTH AFRICAN GIRL
BY
CYNTHIA STOCKLEY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1910
Published, March, 1910
Reprinted, March, 1910; May, 1910
July, 1910 (twice); August, 1910
September, 1910; October, 1910
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
To
Em
PART I
"... and some do say of poppies that they be the tears of the moon
shed in a land beyond the seas: and that they do bring forgetfulness
and freedom from pain."
(_From an old Irish Legend_.)
POPPY
Nothing more unlike a gladsome poppy of the field was ever seen than
Poppy Destin, aged nine, washing a pile of dirty plates at the kitchen
table.
Pale as a witch, the only red about her was where she dug her teeth into
her lips. Her light lilac- eyes were fierce with anger and
disgust. Her hair hung in long black streaks over her shoulders, and her
dark hands, thin and bony as bird's claws, were each decorated with a
bracelet of greeny-yellowy grease.
There had been curry for dinner. Horrible yellow rings floated on the
top of the water in the _skottel_ and Poppy hated to put her hands into
it.
She was hating her work more than usual that day because she was hungry
as well as angry. She had slapped her little cousin Georgie for throwing
a heavy hammer at her which had cut a gash in her leg; and her
punishment for this crime had been two stinging boxes on the ear and
sentence to go without food all day. Fortunately the incident had
occurred after breakfast.
Once or twice she looked longingly at the scraps on the plates, but she
did not touch them, because her | 1,210.807226 |
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Archive/American Libraries.)
MRS. LESLIE'S BOOKS FOR LITTLE CHILDREN.
THE LITTLE FRANKIE SERIES.
BOOKS WRITTEN OR EDITED
By A. R. BAKER,
AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.
QUESTION BOOKS on the Topics of Christ's Sermon on the Mount.
VOL. I. FOR CHILDREN.
VOL. II. FOR YOUTH.
VOL. III. FOR ADULTS.
LECTURES ON THESE TOPICS, _in press_.
MRS. LESLIE'S SABBATH SCHOOL BOOKS.
TIM, THE SCISSORS GRINDER.
SEQUEL TO "TIM, THE SCISSORS GRINDER."
PRAIRIE FLOWER.
THE BOUND BOY.
THE BOUND GIRL.
VIRGINIA.
THE TWO HOMES; OR, EARNING AND SPENDING.
THE ORGAN-GRINDER, _in press_.
QUESTION BOOKS. The Catechism tested by the Bible.
VOL. I. FOR CHILDREN.
VOL. II. FOR ADULTS.
THE DERMOTT FAMILY; or, Stories Illustrating the Catechism.
VOL. I. DOCTRINES RESPECTING GOD AND MANKIND.
" II. DOCTRINES OF GRACE.
" III. COMMANDMENTS OF THE FIRST TABLE.
" IV. COMMANDMENTS OF THE SECOND TABLE.
" V. CONDITIONS OF ETERNAL LIFE.
MRS. LESLIE'S HOME LIFE.
VOL. I. CORA AND THE DOCTOR.
" II. COURTESIES OF WEDDED LIFE.
" III. THE HOUSEHOLD ANGEL.
MRS. LESLIE'S JUVENILE SERIES.
VOL. I. THE MOTHERLESS CHILDREN.
" II. PLAY AND STUDY.
" III. HOWARD AND HIS TEACHER.
" IV. TRYING TO BE USEFUL.
" V. JACK, THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER.
" VI. THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER.
" VII. LITTLE AGNES.
THE ROBIN REDBREAST SERIES.
THE ROBINS' NEST.
LITTLE ROBINS IN THE NEST.
LITTLE ROBINS LEARNING TO FLY.
LITTLE ROBINS IN TROUBLE.
LITTLE ROBINS' FRIENDS.
LITTLE ROBINS' LOVE ONE TO ANOTHER.
THE LITTLE FRANKIE SERIES.
LITTLE FRANKIE AND HIS MOTHER.
LITTLE FRANKIE AT HIS PLAYS.
LITTLE FRANKIE AND HIS COUSIN.
LITTLE FRANKIE AND HIS FATHER.
LITTLE FRANKIE ON A JOURNEY.
LITTLE FRANKIE AT SCHOOL.
[Illustration: FRANKIE IN HIS JUMPER.]
LITTLE FRANKIE AND HIS MOTHER.
BY
MRS. MADELINE LESLIE,
AUTHOR OF "THE HOME LIFE SERIES;" "MRS. LESLIE'S
JUVENILE SERIES," ETC.
BOSTON:
CROSBY AND NICHOLS.
117 WASHINGTON STREET.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by
A. R. BAKER,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District
of Massachusetts.
ELECTROTYPED AT THE
BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY.
LITTLE FRANKIE AND HIS MOTHER.
CHAPTER I.
FRANKIE'S SILVER CUP.
DO you wish to know who little Frankie was, and where he lived? Come and
sit down in your pretty chair by my side, and I will tell you. Frankie
was not the real name of this little boy. When he was a tiny baby, not
much larger than black Dinah, his father came home one night from his
store, and asked, "Have you named the baby yet, mamma?"
"No," she answered, "I have not; but I have been thinking that if you
are pleased, I should like to call him Frank."
"Frank, Frank, Frankie," said his father, repeating it over and over
again, to hear how it would sound. "Yes, I like the name; and then my
friend, Mr. Wallace, is called Frank. Yes, Frank it shall be."
"While he is a baby, we will call him Frankie," said his mamma. So that
was the way he obtained so pretty a name.
About a week after this, there came one day a man on horseback riding up
to the front door. He jumped briskly down upon the wide stone step, and
rang the bell with a loud, quick jerk, which seemed to say, I am in a
hurry. Margie, the errand girl, ran to the door, when the man gave her a
box wrapped nicely in a piece of yellow paper, and tied with a small red
cord. Then he sprang upon the saddle, and galloped away down the avenue
into the road.
Margie carried the box into the parlor, and gave it to her mistress.
Mamma looked at the name on the paper, and her bright, loving eyes grew
still brighter. She took her scissors and cut the cord which held the
paper around the box, then pulled off the cover, and what do you think
was there? Why, a large piece of pink cotton nicely folded about a
beautiful silver cup, on one side of which was marked the name _Little
Frankie_.
Mamma laughed as she read it, and felt sure the pretty present came from
Mr. Wallace. She ran gayly up stairs into the nursery, where the baby
was sitting in the lap of his nurse, shaking his coral bells. "Here, my
darling," she said; "see what a nice cup has come for you; look! it is
so bright I can peep at your rosy face in it."
Baby crowed and stretched out his tiny hands, but he could not quite
reach it; and if he could he would have tried to crowd it into his
mouth. So mamma took him in her arms, and squeezed him very tight, and
kissed him ever so many times, until the little fellow was quite
astonished. Then she held him off a little to look at him; and her eyes
were so brimful of love that Frankie was never tired of gazing into
them.
By and by, mamma carried the baby and the new cup down to the parlor;
for papa had just come in, and was already calling for them.
Papa admired the present very much, and said that his friend, Mr.
Wallace, was a noble fellow, and he should be glad if their little
Frankie made as good a man. Then papa danced around the room, "to give
his boy a little exercise," he said, "and make him grow." But mamma
scre | 1,210.808073 |
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ARE WE RUINED BY THE
GERMANS?
BY
HAROLD COX,
FORMERLY SCHOLAR OF JESUS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
_Republished from the "Daily Graphic" for the Cobden Club._
[Illustration]
CASSELL and COMPANY, LIMITED:
_LONDON, PARIS & MELBOURNE._
PREFACE.
The greater part of the contents of this little volume appeared
originally in the _Daily Graphic_, in the form of a series of six
articles written in criticism of Mr. Ernest Williams's "Made in
Germany." To these articles Mr. Williams replied in two letters, and to
that reply I made a final rejoinder. In the present reproduction this
sequence has been abandoned. For the convenience of readers, and for the
economy of space, I have anticipated in the text all of Mr. Williams's
objections which appeared to me to have any substance, and, in addition,
I have modified or omitted phrases, in themselves trivial, upon which he
had fastened to build elaborate but unsubstantial retorts. By doing this
I have been able to preserve the continuity of my argument and at the
same time to cut down a somewhat lengthy rejoinder into a brief
concluding chapter. Incidentally a few new points and some further
figures have been added to the articles. This arrangement,
unfortunately, deprives Mr. Williams's reply of most of its original
piquancy; but, in order that my readers may have an opportunity of
seeing what the author of "Made in Germany" was able to say for himself,
his letters are reprinted _verbatim_ in an Appendix. I am indebted to
the proprietors of the _Daily Graphic_ for their courteous permission to
republish the articles, and to the Committee of the Cobden Club for
undertaking the republication. I have only to add that the opinions
expressed throughout are my own, and that the Cobden Club does not
necessarily endorse every one of them.
H. C.
GRAY'S INN,
_December, 1896._
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I.--OUR EXPANDING TRADE 1
II.--GERMANY: ONE OF OUR BEST CUSTOMERS 8
III.--PICTURESQUE EXAGGERATIONS 14
IV.--MORE MISREPRESENTATIONS 21
V.--OUR GROWING PROSPERITY 33
VI.--LET WELL ALONE 43
VII.--CONCLUSION 54
APPENDIX 57
ARE WE RUINED BY THE GERMANS?
CHAPTER I.
OUR EXPANDING TRADE.
In a little book recently published, an attempt is made to show that
British trade is being knocked to pieces by German competition, that
already the sun has set on England's commercial supremacy, and that if
we are not careful the few crumbs of trade still left to us will be
snapped up by Germany. This depressing publication, aptly entitled "Made
in Germany," has received the quasi-religious benediction of an
enterprising and esoteric journalist, and the puff direct from a
sportive ex-Prime Minister. Thus sent off it is sure to be widely
circulated, and, being beyond dispute well written, to be also widely
read. Unfortunately--such is the nature of the book--it cannot be so
widely criticised. It consists largely of quoted statistics and
deductions therefrom, and few readers will have the means at hand for
verifying the many figures quoted, while fewer still will have the
patience to compare them with other figures which the author omits to
mention. As a necessary consequence, a large number of persons will
believe that Mr. Williams has proved his case, and some of them will
jump to the conclusion, which is evidently the conclusion to which Mr.
Williams himself leans, that the only way to prevent the commercial
downfall of our country is to reverse the Free Trade policy which we
deliberately adopted fifty years ago.
THE ART OF EXAGGERATION.
That may or may not be a wise thing to do, but at least let us be
certain before taking action, or before taking thought which is
preliminary to action, that we know our facts, and all our facts. The
second point is as important as the first. On hastily reading Mr.
Williams's book for the first time, my impression was that he had only
erred by overlooking facts which told on the other side. On general
grounds, considering the signs of prosperity on every side, it seemed to
me impossible that the condition of our foreign trade could be so bad as
the author of "Made in Germany" paints it. A cursory glance at a few
staple figures convinced me that my general impression was a sound one,
that our trade was not going to the dogs, and that Mr. Williams had only
succeeded in producing so gloomy a picture by fixing his gaze on the
shadows and shutting his eyes to the sunlight. On this supposition I
began a more critical examination of his book, not with a view to
refuting his positive statements, but with a view to showing that in
spite of the ugly facts which he had, on the whole usefully, brought to
light, there were counterbalancing considerations from which we might
draw, at any rate, partial consolation. This I propose to do, but in
addition I shall be able to show that many of Mr. Williams's alleged
ugly facts are not in reality so ugly as he makes them look, and that
what he has done, in his eagerness to prove his case, is to so choose
his figures and so phrase his sentences as to convey in particular
instances an entirely false impression. How this is done will be shown
in detail later on. For the present it is sufficient to state that it is
done, and that some of the most alarmist statements in "Made in Germany"
will not bear critical examination. In a word, the author, in his
polemical zeal, has sinned both sins--he has suggested the false and he
has omitted the true; he has misrepresented, in particular instances,
the facts to which he refers, and he has not referred at all to facts
which refute his general argument.
THE WHOLE TRUTH.
It is with these that I propose first to deal, with the facts which show
that our trade is in a very healthy condition, and that though Germany
is also doing well and hitting us hard in some trades, there is no
reason to believe that her prosperity is, on the whole, injuring us. And
to guard myself, at the outset, against a temptation to which Mr.
Williams has frequently succumbed--the temptation of picking out years
peculiarly favourable to my argument--I propose to take the last ten or
the last fifteen years, for which statistics are available, and to give
wherever possible the figures for each year in the whole period. The
figures that will be here quoted are all taken from official records,
except when otherwise stated.
OUR TOTAL TRADE FOR TEN YEARS.
The first point to attack is the question of the total import and export
trade of the United Kingdom. The figures are contained in the following
table:--
TEN YEARS' TRADE OF THE UNITED KINGDOM
(Exclusive of Bullion and Specie).
In Millions Sterling.
--------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----
|1886|1887|1888|1889|1890|1891|1892|1893|1894|1895
--------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----
Total Imports | 350| 362| 388| 428| 421| 435| 423| 405| 408| 417
Total Exports | 269| 281| 299| 316| 328| 309| 292| 277| 274| 286
+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----
Excess of | | | | | | | | | |
Imports | | | | | | | | | |
over Exports | 81| 81| 89| 112| 93| 126| 132| 128| 134| 131
--------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----
These figures may be illustrated as follows:--
[Illustration]
These figures hardly bear out the statement that "commercial dry rot,"
to use one of Mr. Williams's favourite phrases, has already laid hold of
us. In spite of the fall in prices, the money value of our trade, both
import and export, has fully maintained its level. It is true that the
year 1886, with which the diagram starts, was a year of depression, but
the point which I wish to bring out by the diagram is not that 1895 was
a better year than 1886, but that the general course for the whole
period of ten years shows no downward tendency. Later on I shall give a
diagram, covering a period of fifteen years, which brings out the same
point even more clearly. It is important, however, at once to point out
that the mere comparison of the money totals of our trade in different
years is necessarily inconclusive, because no account is taken of
prices. To get a true comparison between any two years, say 1895 and
1890, we ought to calculate what the value of our trade in 1895 would
have been if each separate commodity had been sold at the prices of
1890. Were this done, it would probably be found that 1895, instead of
showing a decline, would show an immense advance. A similar comparison
has been privately worked out in one of the Government offices for the
years 1873 and 1886 with startling results, which I am permitted to
quote. It must be premised that only certain articles are entered in our
returns by quantity as well as by value, and it is therefore only
between these that such a comparison as I have indicated can be made. In
1873, the total declared value of our exports of these articles was 172
millions sterling; in 1886, it was 131 millions, showing an apparent
fall of 41 millions. But if these exports of 1886 had been declared at
the prices of 1873 the total value would have been 215 millions. In this
sense, then, our aggregate trade in these commodities in 1886, instead
of being 41 millions worse than 1873, was 43 millions better. This is
undoubtedly an extreme illustration, for the prices of 1873 were
exceptionally high, and those of 1886 exceptionally low. Nevertheless,
the illustration is most instructive as showing how extremely misleading
it may be to compare values only, without taking account of quantities.
Unfortunately, when we are dealing with the total trade of a country, a
comparison of values is the only comparison possible, for there is no
other common denominator by means of which varied articles--say, steam
ploughs, cotton piece-goods, and patent medicines--can be brought into
our table.
OUR IMPORTS OF GOLD AND SILVER.
To return to our diagram--it may be asked, "How does it happen that
there is such a large and growing excess of imports over exports? Surely
that is a bad sign." On the face of it, why should it be? It only means
that we are, apparently, getting more than we give, and most people do
not in their private relations regard that as a hardship. There are,
however, people to be found who, seeing that we every year buy more
goods than we sell, will jump to the conclusion that we must pay for the
difference in cash. Where we are to get the cash from they do not pause
to think. Hitherto the Welsh hills have resolutely refused to give up
their gold in paying quantities, and as for the silver which we separate
from Cornish lead, it is worth something less than L50,000 a year. The
notion then that we pay for our foreign purchases with our own gold and
silver may be dismissed at once, although a hundred years ago this same
delusion had not a little influence in shaping our commercial policy. As
a matter of fact, instead of sending gold and silver out of the country
to pay for our excess of imports, we almost every year import
considerably more bullion and specie than we export. The actual figures
are given in the following table:--
THE MOVEMENTS OF BULLION AND SPECIE.
In Millions Sterling.
----------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----
|1886|1887|1888|1889|1890|1891|1892|1893|1894|1895
----------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----
Imports Gold |12.9|10.0|15.8|17.9|23.6|30.3|21.6|24.8|27.6|36.0
" Silver | 7.5| 7.8| 6.2| 9.2|10.4| 9.3|10.7|11.9|11.0|10.7
Exports Gold |13.8| 9.3|14.9|14.5|14.3|24.2|14.8|19.5|15.6|21.4
" Silver | 7.2| 7.8| 7.6|10.7|10.9|13.1|14.1|13.6|12.2|10.4
+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----
Total excess or | | | | | | | | | |
deficiency of imports | - | + | - | + | + | + | + | + | + | +
over exports of gold | | | | | | | | | |
and silver together | .6| .6| .5| 2.0| 8.8| 2.3| 2.4| 3.6|10.8|15.0
----------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----
EXCESS OF IMPORTS OVER EXPORTS.
The movements of gold and silver then, instead of helping to explain the
excess of imports over exports, only increase the need for explanation.
Happily, the explanation that can be given, though it cannot be
statistical, is fully sufficient. It is fourfold. In the first place the
Custom House returns do not include in the tables of exports the large
export which we every year make of ships built to order for foreign
buyers, so that our exports appear smaller than they really are by at
least five millions a year. Secondly, an allowance must be made for the
profit on our foreign trade. If, in return for every pound's worth of
British goods sent out from our ports, only a pound's worth of foreign
goods came back, our merchants would make a better living by selling
penny toys along the Strand. What the average profit is on our foreign
trade there is no means of knowing, but putting it as low as 10 per
cent. on the double transaction, we at once account for some L30,000,000
sterling in the difference between our exports and imports. The third
item in the explanation is the sum earned by British shipowners for
carrying the greater part of the sea-commerce of the world. This sum has
been estimated at L70,000,000 a year, but that is only a guess, and it
is certainly a high one. Lastly, we have the enormous sum annually due
to this country for interest on the money we have lent abroad. The
amount of this annual payment can again only be guessed at, but it
probably exceeds L100,000,000 a year. Adding then these four items
together, and making every allowance for over-estimates, we not only
account for the whole excess of imports over exports, but have a balance
over, which means that we are still exporting capital to foreign
countries. The capital we export goes out in the form of mining
machinery to South Africa, steel rails to India, coal to South America;
the interest due to us comes home in the form of American wheat,
Argentine beef, Australian wool, Indian tea, South African diamonds.
THE WORLD'S TRIBUTE.
Of what do the Protectionists complain? Would they have us forego the
interest we are owed? Apparently Mr. Williams would, for he says (page
19) that we ought not to spend all our income from foreign investments
"in foreign shops." How else, in the name of the Prophet, are we to
receive all or any part of what is due to us from foreigners, whether it
be due for interest on investments, or for goods carried, or for ships
sold? Does Mr. Williams mean that we are to compel foreign nations to
pay us a couple of hundred millions a year in actual gold and silver,
and then dig a hole in the ground and sit on our hoard like an Indian
cook who has saved money out of the perquisites of his profession? Gold
and silver are useless to us beyond a very few millions every year; if
more bullion were sent the market would reject it. If we are to be paid
at all we must be paid in foreign commodities, and the mechanism of
commerce enables us to select just those commodities which we most want.
This is the whole story of our excess of imports over exports.
Furthermore, that excess would be even greater than it is did we not
every year send fresh millions abroad on loan to our Colonies and
foreign countries, to produce in due course (it is to be hoped)
additional hundreds of thousands in the way of interest.
OUR _ENTREPOT_ TRADE.
There is one other important point to be dealt with in considering the
movement of our trade as a whole. It is this--that part of the enormous
quantity of goods we import is not consumed by ourselves, but is
re-exported to foreign countries or to our Colonies. For many reasons it
is interesting to distinguish these re-exports from the exports of goods
produced within the United Kingdom. The separate figures for the last
fifteen years are given in the following table:--
OUR _ENTREPOT_ TRADE AND OUR HOME TRADE.
In Millions Sterling.
--------------+----+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---
|1881|'82|'83|'84|'85|'86|'87|'88|'89|'90|'91|'92|'93|'94|'95
--------------+----+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---
Re-exports of | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
Imported Goods| 63| 65| 66| 63| 58| 56| 59| 64| 67| 65| 62| 65| 59| 58| 60
Exports of | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
Home Produce | 234|242|240|233|213|213|222|235|249|264|247|227|218|216|226
--------------+----+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---
Total Exports | 297|307|306|296|271|269|281|299|316|329|309|292|277|274|286
--------------+----+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---
There is not much to grumble at in these figures. Our _entrepot_ trade,
which was supposed to be slipping away, seems somewhat to halt in the
process, in spite of the notorious and not entirely unpleasing fact that
our Colonies are now doing a larger direct trade with foreign countries
than ever before. At the same time the figures for the exports of our
own goods are most satisfactory if we take into account the lower range
of prices at which our manufacturers are now working. Altogether there
is nothing in the general figures of our trade to justify the wild
statements that "dry rot" has set in, and that "the industrial glory of
England is departing."
CHAPTER II.
GERMANY: ONE OF OUR BEST CUSTOMERS.
In the previous chapter it was shown that the general figures of our
import and export trade gave no indication of the ruin of our commerce
either by Germans or by anybody else. In the present chapter it is
proposed to show that though Germany is among the keenest of our trade
competitors, she is also one of our best customers. For a sufficient
indication of the truth of this proposition we have only to turn to the
annual statement of the trade of the United Kingdom. It is true that the
figures there published are not entirely satisfactory, because much of
the trade of Germany is shipped from Dutch or Belgian ports, and
credited to Holland and Belgium respectively. But this is probably also
true, and to about the same extent, of British goods destined for
Germany, and travelling _via_ Belgium or Holland, so that in comparing
imports and exports this factor may be neglected. The same cause of
error will probably be also present to the same extent in successive
years, so that we can ignore it when comparing one year with another.
Purely for comparative purposes then the annexed table, and the diagram
illustrating it, are sufficiently accurate, although the actual figures
for any one year by itself have, for the reasons given, little positive
value.
OUR TOTAL TRADE WITH GERMAN PORTS.
In Millions Sterling.
----------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----
|1886|1887|1888|1889|1890|1891|1892|1893|1894|1895
----------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----
Imports from Germany |21.4|24.6|26.7|27.1|26.1|27.0|25.7|26.4|26.9|27.0
Exports to Germany |26.4|27.2|27.4|31.3|30.5|29.9|29.6|28.0|29.2|32.7
----------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----
These figures may be illustrated diagrammatically as follows:--
[Illustration]
A VERY SATISFACTORY TRADE.
These figures furnish a striking answer to the alarmists who can see in
Germany nothing but a vigorous and not too scrupulous rival. In every
year during the last ten years she has apparently bought more from us
than she has sold to us. It is quite true that all the things she has
bought from us were not produced or manufactured by us. A portion of her
purchases consists of foreign or colonial goods sent to London, or
Liverpool, or Hull, and there purchased for re-sale in Germany. But in
the same way some of the goods we buy from Germany certainly had their
origin in other countries, and have only passed through Germany on their
way to us; so that the fairest way of making a comparison is to take the
whole trade in each case. Moreover, this _entrepot_ trade of ours is not
in itself a thing to be sneezed at; it contributes a goodly fraction of
the wealth of the city of London. In order, however, to complete the
picture of our trade with Germany, the following table is appended,
distinguishing in each of the ten years under review the home produce
exported from the foreign and colonial goods re-exported. This table
shows that in purely British goods we are doing a very satisfactory
trade with Germany. Taking averages, we see that during the ten years
our export of our own manufactures and produce to German ports was at
the rate of L17,800,000 a year, against a total import from German ports
of L25,900,000, this figure including both German goods and other
countries' goods passing through Germany. If we recollect that on the
whole our imports from the outside world must be very much larger than
our exports, for the reasons detailed in the preceding chapter, it will
be seen that these two figures, even by themselves, are not
unsatisfactory.
ANALYSIS OF OUR TRADE WITH GERMAN PORTS.
In Millions Sterling.
----------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----
|1886|1887|1888|1889|1890|1891|1892|1893|1894|1895
----------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----
British Goods exported|15.7|15.7|15.8|18.5|19.3|18.8|17.6|17.7|17.8|20.6
to German ports | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | |
Foreign and Colonial |10.6|11.5|11.6|12.8|11.2|11.1|12.1|10.3|11.4|12.2
Goods exported from | | | | | | | | | |
British ports to | | | | | | | | | |
German ports | | | | | | | | | |
----------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----
OUR PRINCIPAL CUSTOMERS.
Let us now go a step further and compare our trade with Germany and our
trade with other principal customers. The comparison is worked out in
the following table, which shows the total imports into the United
Kingdom from the respective countries, and the total exports from the
United Kingdom to the same countries:--
TRADE OF THE UNITED KINGDOM WITH THE FOLLOWING COUNTRIES.
Ten Years' Average, in Millions Sterling, according to _British_
Returns.
----------------------------------+-----------+-----------
| Imports | Exports
| into U.K. | from U.K.
----------------------------------+-----------+-----------
From and to Germany | 25.9 | 29.2
" " France | 42.6 | 21.7
" " United States | 91.8 | 40.2
" " British India | 30.5 | 31.3
" " Australasia | 28.3 | 23.1
" " British North America | 12.2 | 8.4
----------------------------------+-----------+-----------
These figures are taken from the British Custom House returns, and are
subject to the objection to which allusion has already been made, that
the Custom House authorities have no means of ascertaining the real
origin of goods entering this country, nor the real destination of goods
leaving it. Thus, for example, everyone knows that there is a
considerable trade between Great Britain and Switzerland, yet
Switzerland has no place at all in the Custom House returns, because,
having no seaboard, all her goods must pass through foreign territory,
and each package is credited by our Customs House to the port--French,
or Belgian, or Dutch--through which the package passes to England. In
order, therefore, to provide some check on the above figures, I have
averaged in the same way the figures collected by the different foreign
countries in their Customs Houses. These foreign and colonial figures
have no more title to be considered absolutely accurate than ours, nor
do they cover quite the same ground. Their value lies in the rough
confirmation they give of the very rough conclusion which we are able to
draw from our own figures:--
TRADE OF THE FOLLOWING COUNTRIES WITH THE UNITED KINGDOM.
Ten Years' Average, in Millions Sterling, according to _Foreign
and Colonial_ returns.
-------------------------+-----------------+-------------------
| Exports to U.K. | Imports from U.K.
-------------------------+-----------------+-------------------
Germany | 29.1 | 26.6
France | 38.2 | 22.0
United States | 84.6 | 34.2
British India[1] | (Rx) 36.4 | (Rx) 60.4
Australasia[1] | 28.5 | 27.2
British North America[1] | 10.5 | 9.1
-------------------------+-----------------+-------------------
[Footnote 1: These figures include treasure as well as
merchandise.]
On the whole, these figures tally more closely with those derived from
British returns than might have been expected, and if we make allowance
for the fact that the Colonial figures include treasure, it will be seen
that both tables show that Germany is our best customer after the United
States and India.
THE ALARMIST'S ARTS.
In order to obscure this important fact, while alarming the British
public with the notion that English manufacturers are being ruined by
German competition, Mr. Williams picks out half a dozen or so items of
our imports from Germany, and then exclaims in horror at the amount of
"the moneys which _in one year_ have come out of John Bull's pocket for
the purchase of his German-made household goods." He prefaces his list
with the unfortunate remark that the figures are taken from the Custom
House returns, "where, at any rate, fancy and exaggeration have no
play." That is so; the fancy and exaggeration are supplied by Mr.
Williams. In 1895, he says, Germany sent us linen manufactures to the
value of L91,257. He omits, however, to mention that according to the
same authority--the Custom House returns--the value of the linen
manufactures which we sold to Germany was L273,795. Again, he mentions
that we bought from Germany cotton manufactures to the value of
L536,000, but he is silent on the fact that our sales to Germany
amounted to L1,305,000. He does not even hesitate to pick out such a
trumpery item as L11,309 for German embroidery and needlework, but he
forgets to tell his readers that the silk manufactures which in the same
year we sold to Germany were worth L92,000. In the same way, were it
worth doing, one could go through the whole of Mr. Williams's list,
pitting one article against another. It would be labour wasted. The
simple fact is that, according to the authority upon which Mr. Williams
relies for all the figures just quoted, our total exports to Germany
exceed our total imports from Germany, and no trickery with particular
items can destroy, though it may obscure, that broad fact.
A SELF-DESTRUCTIVE POLICY.
But, for the reasons already explained, in replying to Mr. Williams I do
not rely wholly on British figures. It is from the double testimony of
British and foreign figures that I deduce the fact that of all our
customers Germany is one of the best. The practical moral of this fact
is sufficiently obvious. In private business a tradesman does not go out
of his way to offend a good customer, even though that customer is also
a keen trade competitor. He bestirs himself instead to keep ahead, if
possible, of his rival without doing anything to destroy the mutually
profitable trade relationship between them. Such palpable considerations
of expediency are ignored by our latter-day Protectionists, among whom
Mr. Williams deservedly ranks as a leading prophet. Their ambition is to
induce the Colonies to discriminate in their tariffs between goods from
the Mother Country and goods from foreign countries, admitting the
former on favourable terms and penalising the latter. It is avowedly
against German competition that this policy is directed, and we are
light-heartedly told to risk our trade with one of our best customers on
the chance of encouraging trade with Colonies which so far have shown
much more eagerness to sell their goods to us than to buy ours. Even
supposing that this policy succeeded in destroying the whole of the
German export trade to our Colonies and Possessions, the possible gain
to us would be very small.
Here are the figures of the trade of our three principal Colonies with
the United Kingdom and with Germany, derived in each case from the
Colonial returns:--
TRADE OF THE FOLLOWING BRITISH POSSESSIONS WITH THE UNITED KINGDOM AND
WITH GERMANY.
Ten Years' Average, in Millions Sterling or Millions Rx.
-----------------+---------------------------+----------------------------
| | 1,210.809109 |
2023-11-16 18:37:14.8810730 | 68 | 14 |
Produced by Judy Boss
STEP BY STEP
OR
TIDY'S WAY TO FREEDOM.
"Woe to all who grind
Their brethren of a common Father down!
To all who plunder from the immortal mind
Its bright and glorious crown!"
--WHITTIER.
[colophon omitted | 1,210.901113 |
2023-11-16 18:37:14.8811120 | 1,542 | 16 |
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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=).
A LIFE OF WALT WHITMAN
BY THE SAME WRITER
MOODS AND OUTDOOR VERSES
("RICHARD ASKHAM")
FOR THE FELLOWSHIP
[Illustration: _Walt Whitman at thirty-five_]
A LIFE OF WALT WHITMAN
by
HENRY BRYAN BINNS
With Thirty-three Illustrations
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
First Published in 1905
TO
MY MOTHER
AND
HER MOTHER
THE REPUBLIC
PREFACE
To the reader, and especially to the critical reader, it would seem
but courteous to give at the beginning of my book some indication
of its purpose. It makes no attempt to fill the place either of a
critical study or a definitive biography. Though Whitman died thirteen
years ago, the time has not yet come for a final and complete life
to be written; and when the hour shall arrive we must, I think, look
to some American interpreter for the volume. For Whitman's life is
of a strongly American flavour. Instead of such a book I offer a
biographical study from the point of view of an Englishman, yet of
an Englishman who loves the Republic. I have not attempted, except
parenthetically here and there, to make literary decisions on the value
of Whitman's work, partly because he still remains an innovator upon
whose case the jury of the years must decide--a jury which is not yet
complete; and partly because I am not myself a literary critic. It is
as a man that I see and have sought to describe Whitman. But as a man
of special and exceptional character, a new type of mystic or seer.
And the conviction that he belongs to the order of initiates has
dragged me on to confessedly difficult ground.
Again, while seeking to avoid excursions into literary criticism, it
has seemed to me to be impossible to draw a real portrait of the man
without attempting some interpretation of his books and the quotation
from them of characteristic passages, for they are the record of his
personal attitude towards the problems most intimately affecting his
life. I trust that this part of my work may at any rate offer some
suggestions to the serious student of Whitman. Since he touched life at
many points, it has been full of pitfalls; and if among them I should
prove but a blind leader, I can only hope that those who follow will
keep open eyes.
Whitman has made his biography the more difficult to write by demanding
that he should be studied in relation to his time; to fulfil this
requirement was beyond my scope, but I have here and there suggested
the more notable outlines, within which the reader will supply
details from his own memory. As I have written especially for my own
countrymen, I have ventured to remind the reader of some of those
elementary facts of American history of which we English are too easily
forgetful.
The most important chapters of Whitman's life have been written by
himself, and will be found scattered over his complete works. To
these the following pages are intended as a modest supplement and
commentary. Already the Whitman literature has become extensive, but,
save in brief sketches, no picture of his whole life in which one may
trace with any detail the process of its development seems as yet to
exist. In this country the only competent studies which have appeared
are that of the late Mr. Symonds, which devotes some twenty pages to
biographical matters, and the admirable and suggestive little manual of
the late Mr. William Clarke. Both books are some twelve years old, and
in those years not a little new material has become available, notably
that which is collected in the ten-volume edition of Whitman's works,
and in the book known as _In re Walt Whitman_. On these and on essays
printed in the _Conservator_ and in the _Whitman Fellowship Papers_ I
have freely drawn for the following pages.
Of American studies the late Dr. Bucke's still, after twenty years,
easily holds the first place. Beside it stand those of Mr. John
Burroughs, and Mr. W. S. Kennedy. To these, and to the kind offices of
the authors of the two last named, my book owes much of any value it
may possess. I have also been assisted by the published reminiscences
of Mr. J. T. Trowbridge, Mr. Moncure Conway, and Mr. Thomas Donaldson,
and by the recently published _Diary in Canada_ (edited by Mr.
Kennedy), and Dr. I. H. Platt's Beacon Biography of the poet.
Since I never met Walt Whitman I am especially indebted to his friends
for the personal details with which they have so generously furnished
me: beside those already named, to Mr. and Mrs. J. H. Johnston, Mr.
J. Hubley Ashton, Mrs. W. S. Kennedy, Mrs. E. M. Calder, Mr. and Mrs.
(Stafford) Browning of Haddonfield (Glendale), Mr. John Fleet of
Huntington, Captain Lindell of the Camden Ferry, and to Mr. Peter G.
Doyle; but especially to Whitman's surviving executors and my kind
friends, Mr. T. B. Harned and Mr. Horace Traubel. To these last, and
to Mr. Laurens Maynard, of the firm of Messrs. Small, Maynard & Co.,
the publishers of the final edition of Whitman's works, I am indebted
for generous permission to use and reproduce photographs in their
possession. I also beg to make my acknowledgments to Mr. David McKay
and Mr. Gutekunst, both of Philadelphia.
Helpful suggestions and information have been most kindly given by my
American friends, Mr. Edwin Markham, Professor E. H. Griggs, Mr. Ernest
Crosby, Dr. George Herron, Professor Rufus M. Jones of Haverford,
Mr. C. F. Jenkins of Germantown, and Mr. and Mrs. David Thompson
of Washington. Mr. Benjamin D. Hicks of Long Island has repeatedly
replied to my various and troublesome inquiries as | 1,210.901152 |
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made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.
THE QUAKERS
PAST AND PRESENT
THE QUAKERS
PAST AND PRESENT
BY
DOROTHY M. RICHARDSON
"The Quaker religion... is something which
it is impossible to overpraise."
WILLIAM JAMES:
_The Varieties of Religious
Experience_
NEW YORK
DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY
214-220 EAST 23RD STREET
FOREWORD
The following chapters are primarily an attempt at showing the position
of the Quakers in the family to which they belong--the family of the
mystics.
In the second place comes a consideration of the method of worship and
of corporate living laid down by the founder of Quakerism, as best
calculated to foster mystical gifts and to strengthen in the community
as a whole that sense of the Divine, indwelling and accessible, to which
some few of his followers had already attained, and of which all those
he had gathered round him had a dawning apprehension.
The famous "peculiarities" of the Quakers fall into place as following
inevitably from their central belief.
The ebb and flow of that belief, as it is found embodied in the history
of the Society of Friends, has been dealt with as fully as space has
allowed.
My thanks are due to Mr. Norman Penney, F.S.A., F.R.Hist.S., Librarian
of the Friends' Reference Library, for a helpful revision of my
manuscript.
D. M. R.
LONDON,
1914.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE BIRTH OF QUAKERISM 1
II. THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS 16
III. THE QUAKER CHURCH 33
IV. THE RETREAT OF QUAKERISM 52
V. QUAKERISM IN AMERICA 61
VI. QUAKERISM AND WOMEN 71
VII. THE PRESENT POSITION 81
CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE 94
BIBLIOGRAPHY 94
NOTE 96
THE QUAKERS PAST AND PRESENT
CHAPTER I
THE BIRTH OF QUAKERISM
The Quakers appeared about a hundred years after the decentralization of
authority in theological science. The Reformers' dream of a remade
church had ended in a Europe where, over against an alienated parent,
four young Protestant communions disputed together as to the doctrinal
interpretation of the scriptures. Within these communions the goal
towards which the breaking away from the Roman centre had been an
unconscious step was already well in view. It was obvious that the
separated churches were helpless against the demands arising in their
midst for the right of individual interpretation where they themselves
drew such widely differing conclusions. The Bible, abroad amongst the
people for the first time, helped on the loosening of the hold of
stereotyped beliefs. Independent groups appeared in every direction.
In England, the first movement towards the goal of "religious liberty"
was made by a body of believers who declared that a national church was
against the will of God. Catholic in ideal, democratic in form, they set
their hope upon a world-wide Christendom of self-governing
congregations. They increased with great rapidity, suffered persecution,
martyrdom, and temporary dispersal.[1]
Following on this first challenge came the earliest stirring of a more
conservative catholicism. Fed by such minds as that of Nicholas Farrer,
grieving in scholarly seclusion over the ravages of the Protestantisms,
it found expression in Laud's effort to restore the broken continuity of
tradition in the English church, to reintroduce beauty into her
services, and, while preserving her identity as a developing national
body, to keep open a rearward window to the light of accumulated
experience and teaching. But hardly-won freedom saw popery in his every
act, and his final absolutism, his demand for executive power
independent of Parliament, wrecked the effort and cost him his life.
[Footnote 1: The Brownists; now represented in the Congregational
Union.]
These characteristic neo-Protestantisms were obscured at the moment of
the appearance of the Quakers by the opening in this country of the full
blossom of the Genevan theology. The fate of the Presbyterian system,
which covered England like a network, and had threatened during the
shifting policies of Charles's long struggle for absolute monarchy to
become the established church of England, was sealed, it is true, when
Cromwell's Independent army checked the proceedings of a Presbyterian
House of Commons; but the Calvinian reading of the scriptures had
prevailed over the popular imagination, and in the Protectorate Church
where Baptists, Independents, and Presbyterians held livings side by
side with the clergy of the Protestant Establishment, where the use of
the Prayer-Book was forbidden and the scriptures were at last supreme,
the predominant type of religious culture was what we have since learned
to call Puritanism. In 1648 Puritanism had reached its great moment. Its
poet[2] was growing to manhood, tortured by the uncertainty of election,
half-maddened by his vision of the doom hanging over a sin-stained
world.
But far away beneath the institutional confusions and doctrinal dilemmas
of this post-Reformation century fresh life was welling up. The
unsatisfied religious energy of the maturing Germanic peoples, groping
its own way home, had produced Boehme and his followers, and filled the
by-ways of Europe with mystical sects. Outwards from free Holland--whose
republic on a basis of religious toleration had been founded in
1579--spread the Anabaptists, Mennonites, and others. Coming to England,
they reinforced the native groups--the Baptists, Familists, and
Seekers--who were preaching personal religion up and down the country
under the protection of Cromwell's indulgence for "tender" consciences,
and found their characteristically English epitome and spokesman in
George Fox.
[Footnote 2: Bunyan was born in 1628, four years later than Fox.]
Born in an English village[3] of homely pious parents,[4] who were both
in sympathy with their thoughtful boy, his genius developed harmoniously
and early.
Until his twentieth year he worked with a shoemaker, who was also a
dealer in cattle and wool, and proved his capacity for business life.
Then a crisis came, brought about by an incident meeting him as he went
about his master's affairs. He had been sent on business to a fair, and
had come upon two friends, one of them a relative, who tried to draw him
into a bout of health-drinking. George, who had had his one glass, laid
down a groat and went home in a state of great disturbance, for he knew
both these men to be professors of religion. He grappled with the
difficulty at once. He spent the hours of that night in pacing up and
down his room, in prayer and crying out, in sitting still and
reflecting. In the light of the afternoon's incidents he saw and felt
for the first time the average daily life of the world about him, "how
young people go together into vanity, and old people into the earth,"
all that gave meaning to life for him had no existence in their lives,
even in the lives of professing Christians. He was thrown in on himself.
If God was not with those who professed him, where was He?
[Footnote 3: In 1624, at Drayton-in-the-Clay, in Leicestershire.]
[Footnote 4: His father, a weaver by trade, and known as "Righteous
Christer," is described by Fox as a man "with a seed of God in him"; his
mother, Mary Lago, as being "of the stock of the martyrs."]
The labours and gropings of the night simplified before the dawn came to
the single conviction that he must "forsake all, both young and old, and
keep out of all, and be a stranger unto all." There was no hesitating.
He went forth at once and wandered for four years up and down the
Midland counties seeking for light, for truth, for firm ground in the
quicksands of disintegrating faiths, for a common principle where men
seemed to pull every way at once. He sought all the "professors" of
every shade and listened to all, but would associate with none, shunning
those who sought him out: "I was afraid of them, for I was sensible they
did not possess what they professed." He went to hear the great
preachers of the day in London and elsewhere, but found no light in
them. Now and again amongst obscure groups to which hope drew him one
and another were struck by his sayings, and responded to him, but he
shrank from their approval. The clergy of different denominations in the
neighbourhood of his home, where he returned for a while in response to
the disquietude of his parents, could not understand his difficulties.
How should they? He was perfectly sound in every detail of the Calvinian
doctrine. They could make nothing of a distress so unlike that of other
pious young Puritans. Orthodox as he was, there is no sign in his
outpourings of any concern for his soul, not a word of fear, nor any
sense of sin, though he heartily acknowledges temptations, a divided
nature, "two thirsts." He begs the priests to tell him the meaning of
his troubled state--not as one doubting, but rather with the restiveness
of one under a bondage, keeping him from that which he knows to be
accessible.
One minister advised tobacco and psalm-singing, another physic and
bleeding. His family urged him to marry.
His distress grew, amounting sometimes to acute agony of mind: "As I
cannot declare the great misery I was in, it was so great and heavy upon
me, so neither | 1,210.904189 |
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[Illustration: MADISON CAWEIN]
Under the Stars and Stripes.
High on the world did our fathers of old,
Under the stars and stripes,
Blazon the name that we now must uphold,
Under the stars and stripes.
Vast in the past they have builded an arch
Over which Freedom has lighted her torch.
Follow it! Follow it! Come, let us march
Under the stars and stripes!
We in whose bodies the blood of them runs,
Under the stars and stripes,
We will acquit us as sons of their sons,
Under the stars and stripes.
Ever for justice, our heel upon wrong,
We in the light of our vengeance thrice strong!
Rally together! Come tramping along
Under the stars and stripes!
Out of our strength and a nation's great need,
Under the stars and stripes,
Heroes again as of old we shall breed,
Under the stars and stripes.
Broad to the winds be our banner unfurled!
Straight in Spain's face let defiance be hurled!
God on our side, we will battle the world
Under the stars and stripes!
MADISON CAWEIN.
From "_Poems of American Patriotism_,"
selected by _R. L. Paget_.
* * * * *
SHAPES
and
SHADOWS
POEMS by _Madison Cawein_
NEW YORK: _R. H. Russell_
MDCCCXCVIII
_Copyright, 1898, by R. H. Russell_
* * * * *
To
HARRISON S. MORRIS
* * * * *
A Table of Contents
_The Evanescent Beautiful_ 1
_August_ 2
_The Higher Brotherhood_ 4
_Gramarye_ 5
_Dreams_ 7
_The Old House_ 8
_The Rock_ 10
_Rain_ 12
_Standing-Stone Creek_ 13
_The Moonmen_ 15
_The Old Man Dreams_ 19
_Since Then_ 20
_Comrades_ 21
_Waiting_ 23
_Contrasts_ 24
_In June_ 25
_After long Grief and Pain_ 26
_Can I forget?_ 27
_The House of Fear_ 28
_At Dawn_ 29
_Storm_ 30
_Memories_ 31
_Which_ 32
_Sunset in Autumn_ 34
_The Legend of the Stone_ 36
_Time and Death and Love_ 40
_Passion_ 41
_When the Wine-Cup at the Lip_ 42
_Art_ 43
_A Song for Old Age_ 45
_Tristram and Isolt_ 46
_The Better Lot_ 47
_Dusk in the Woods_ 48
_At the Ferry_ 50
_Her Violin_ 52
_Her Vesper Song_ 54
_At Parting_ 55
_Carissima Mea_ 56
_Margery_ 59
_Constance_ 61
_Gertrude_ 63
_Lydia_ 64
_A Southern Girl_ 65
_A Daughter of the States_ 66
_An Autumn Night_ 67
_Lines_ 68
_The Blind God_ 69
_A Valentine_ 70
_A Catch_ 71
_The New Year_ 73
_Then and Now_ 75
_Epilogue_ 76
* * * * *
The Dedication
_Ah, not for us the Heavens that hold_
GOD'S _message of Promethean fire!
The Flame that fell on bards of old
To hallow and inspire._
_Yet let the Soul dream on and dare
No less_ SONG'S _height that these possess:
We can but fail; and may prepare
The way to some success._
* * * * *
Shapes & Shadows
_By Madison Cawein_
THE EVANESCENT BEAUTIFUL.
Day after Day, young with eternal beauty,
Pays flowery duty to the month and clime;
Night after night erects a vasty portal
Of stars immortal for the march of Time.
But where are now the Glory and the Rapture,
That once did capture me in cloud and stream?
Where now the Joy that was both speech and silence?
Where the beguilance that was fact and dream?
I know that Earth and Heaven are as golden
As they of olden made me feel and see;
Not in themselves is lacking aught of power
Through star and flower--something's lost in me.
_Return! Return!_ I cry, _O Visions vanished,
O Voices banished, to my Soul again!_--
The near Earth blossoms and the far Skies glisten,
I look and listen, but, alas! in vain.
_August._
I
Clad on with glowing beauty and the peace,
Benign, of calm maturity, she stands
Among her | 1,210.904914 |
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Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/egregiousenglish00mcnerich
THE EGREGIOUS ENGLISH
by
ANGUS McNEILL
[Illustration]
New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons
London: Grant Richards
1903
Copyright, 1902, by
Angus McNeill
Published, January, 1903
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--Apollo 1
II.--The Sportsman 13
III.--The Man of Business 20
IV.--The Journalist 28
V.--The Employed Person 37
VI.--Chiffon 47
VII.--The Soldier 59
VIII.--The Navy 71
IX.--The Churches 79
X.--The Politician 90
XI.--Poets 103
XII.--Fiction 113
XIII.--Suburbanism 124
XIV.--The Man-about-Town 137
XV.--Drink 144
XVI.--Food 153
XVII.--Law and Order 163
XVIII.--Education 171
XIX.--Recreation 183
XX.--Stock Exchange 192
XXI.--The Beloved 199
The Egregious English
CHAPTER I
APOLLO
It has become the Englishman's habit, one might almost say the
Englishman's instinct, to take himself for the head and front of the
universe. The order of creation began, we are told, in protoplasm.
It has achieved at length the Englishman. Herein are the culmination
and ultimate glory of evolutionary processes. Nature, like the
seventh-standard boy in a board school, "can get no higher." She
has made the Englishman, and her work therefore is done. For the
continued progress of the world and all that in it is, the Englishman
will make due provision. He knows exactly what is wanted, and by
himself it shall be supplied. There is little that can be considered
distinguishingly English which does not reflect this point of view. As
an easy-going, | 1,210.905148 |
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Transcriber's Note:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible. Some changes of spelling have been made. They are listed
at the end of the text.
OE ligatures have been expanded.
Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
CHILDREN IN PRISON
AND
OTHER CRUELTIES
OF
PRISON LIFE.
MURDOCH & CO.,
26, PATERNOSTER SQUARE,
LONDON.
PUBLISHERS' NOTE.
The circumstance which called forth this letter is a woeful one for
Christian England. Martin, the Reading warder, is found guilty of
feeding the hungry, nursing the sick, of being kindly and humane. These
are his offences in plain unofficial language.
This pamphlet is tendered to earnest persons as evidence that the prison
system is opposed to all that is kind and helpful. Herein is shown a
process that is dehumanizing, not only to the prisoners, but to every
one connected with it.
Martin was dismissed. It happened in May last year. He is still out of
employment and in poor circumstances. Can anyone help him?
_February, 1898._
SOME CRUELTIES OF PRISON LIFE.
THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY CHRONICLE.
SIR,--I learn with great regret, through an extract from the columns of
your paper, that the warder Martin, of Reading Prison, has been
dismissed by the Prison Commissioners for having given some sweet
biscuits to a little hungry child. I saw the three children myself on
the Monday preceding my release. They had just been convicted, and were
standing in a row in the central hall in their prison dress, carrying
their sheets under the arms previous to their being sent to the cells
allotted to them. I happened to be passing along one of the galleries on
my way to the reception room, where I was to have an interview with a
friend. They were quite small children, the youngest--the one to whom
the warder gave the biscuits--being a tiny little chap, for whom they
had evidently been unable to find clothes small enough to fit. I had, of
course, seen many children in prison during the two years during which I
was myself confined. Wandsworth Prison, especially, contained always a
large number of children. But the little child I saw on the afternoon of
Monday, the 17th, at Reading, was tinier than any one of them. I need
not say how utterly distressed I was to see these children at Reading,
for I knew the treatment in store for them. The cruelty that is
practised by day and night on children in English prisons is incredible,
except to those who have witnessed it and are aware of the brutality of
the system.
People nowadays do not understand what cruelty is. They regard it as a
sort of terrible mediaeval passion, and connect it with the race of men
like Eccelin da | 1,211.003583 |
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CAPTAIN BAYLEY'S HEIR
A TALE OF THE GOLD FIELDS OF CALIFORNIA.
BY G. A. HENTY
CAPTAIN BAYLEY'S HEIR.
[Illustration: CAPTAIN BAYLEY HEARS STARTLING NEWS.]
CAPTAIN BAYLEY'S HEIR:
A TALE OF THE GOLD FIELDS OF CALIFORNIA.
BY
G. A. HENTY,
Author of "With Clive in India;" "Facing Death;" "For Name and Fame;"
"True to the Old Flag;" "A Final Beckoning;" &c.
_WITH TWELVE FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
BY H. M. PAGET._
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
SCRIBNER AND WELFORD
743 & 745 BROADWAY.
CONTENTS.
Chap. Page
I. WESTMINSTER! WESTMINSTER! 9
II. A COLD SWIM, 25
III. A <DW36> BOY, 42
IV. AN ADOPTED CHILD, 58
V. A TERRIBLE ACCUSATION, 75
VI. AT NEW ORLEANS, 92
VII. ON THE MISSISSIPPI, 107
VIII. STARTING FOR THE WEST, 127
IX. ON THE PLAINS, 154
X. A BUFFALO STORY, 173
XI. HOW DICK LOST HIS SCALP, 186
XII. THE ATTACK ON THE CARAVAN, 206
XIII. AT THE GOLD-FIELDS, 223
XIV. CAPTAIN BAYLEY, 238
XV. THE MISSING HEIR, 253
XVI. JOHN HOLL, DUST CONTRACTOR, 268
XVII. THE LONELY DIGGERS, 285
XVIII. A DREAM VERIFIED, 306
XIX. STRIKING IT RICH, 324
XX. A MESSAGE FROM ABROAD, 341
XXI. HAPPY MEETINGS, 360
XXII. CLEARED AT LAST, 374
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Page
CAPTAIN BAYLEY HEARS STARTLING NEWS, _Frontis._ 262
THE RESCUE FROM THE SERPENTINE, 32
THE BREAK-UP OF THE CHARTIST MEETING, 72
FRANK'S VISIT TO MR. HIRAM LITTLE'S OFFICE, 101
A FLOOD ON THE MISSISSIPPI, 125
A DEER-HUNT ON THE PRAIRIE, 162
THE ESCAPE OF THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER, 195
DICK AND FRANK ELUDE THE INDIANS, 227
THE SICK FRIEND IN THE MINING CAMP, 296
GOLD-WASHING--A GOOD DAY'S WORK, 329
THE ATTACK ON THE GOLD ESCORT, 338
MEETING OF CAPTAIN BAYLEY AND MR. ADAMS, 352
[Illustration]
CAPTAIN BAYLEY'S HEIR.
CHAPTER I.
WESTMINSTER! WESTMINSTER!
A <DW36> boy was sitting in a box on four low wheels, in a little room
in a small street in Westminster; his age was some fifteen or sixteen
years; his face was clear-cut and intelligent, and was altogether free
from the expression either of discontent or of shrinking sadness so
often seen in the face of those afflicted. Had he been sitting on a
chair at a table, indeed, he would have been remarked as a handsome and
well-grown young fellow; his shoulders were broad, his arms powerful,
and his head erect. He had not been born a <DW36>, but had been
disabled for life, when a tiny child, by a cart passing over his legs
above the knees. He was talking to a lad a year or so younger than
himself, while a strong, hearty-looking woman, somewhat past middle age,
stood at a wash-tub.
"What is all that noise about?" the <DW36> exclaimed, as an uproar was
heard in the street at some little distance from the house.
"Drink, as usual, I suppose," the woman said.
The younger lad ran to the door.
"No, mother; it's them scholars a-coming back from cricket. Ain't there
a fight jist!"
The <DW36> wheeled his box to the door, and then taking a pair of
crutches which rested in hooks at its side when not wanted, swung
himself from the box, and propped himself in the doorway so as to
command a view down the street.
It was indeed a serious fight. A party of Westminster boys, on their way
back from their cricket-ground in St. Vincent's Square, had been
attacked by the "skies." The quarrel was an old standing one, but had
broken out afresh from a thrashing which one of the older lads had
administered on the previous day to a young chimney-sweep about his own
age, who had taken possession of the cricket-ball when it had been
knocked into the roadway, and had, with much strong language, refused to
throw it back when requested.
The friends of the sweep determined to retaliate upon the following day,
and gathered so threateningly round the gate that, instead of the boys
coming home in twos and threes, as was their wont, when playtime
expired, they returned in a body. They were some forty in number, and
varied in age from the little fags of the Under School, ten or twelve
years old, to brawny muscular young fellows of seventeen or eighteen,
senior Queen's Scholars, or Sixth Form town boys. The Queen's Scholars
were in their caps and gowns, the town boys were in ordinary attire, a
few only having flannel cricketing trousers.
On first leaving the field they were assailed only by volleys of abuse;
but as they made their way down the street their assailants grew bolder,
and from words proceeded to blows, and soon a desperate fight was
raging. In point of numbers the "skies" were vastly superior, and many
of them were grown men; but the knowledge of boxing which almost every
Westminster boy in those days possessed, and the activity and quickness
of hitting of the boys, went far to equalise the odds.
Pride in their school, too, would have rendered it impossible for any to
show the white feather on such an occasion as this, and with the younger
boys as far as possible in their centre, the seniors faced their
opponents manfully. Even the lads of but thirteen and fourteen years old
were not idle. Taking from the fags the bats which several of the latter
were carrying, they joined in the conflict, not striking at their
opponents' heads, but occasionally aiding their seniors, when attacked
by three or four at once, by swinging blows on their assailant's shins.
Man after man among the crowd had gone down before the blows straight
from the shoulder of the boys, and many had retired from the contest
with faces which would for many days bear marks of the fight; but their
places were speedily filled up, and the numbers of the assailants grew
stronger every minute.
"How well they fight!" the <DW36> exclaimed. "Splendid! isn't it,
mother? But there are too many against them. Run, Evan, quick, down to
Dean's Yard; you are sure to find some of them playing at racquets in
the Little Yard, tell them that the boys coming home from cricket have
been attacked, and that unless help comes they will be terribly knocked
about."
Evan dashed off at full speed. Dean's Yard was but a few minutes' run
distant. He dashed through the little archway into the yard, down the
side, and then in at another archway into Little Dean's Yard, where some
elder boys were playing at racquets. A fag was picking up the balls, and
two or three others were standing at the top of the steps of the two
boarding-houses.
"If you please, sir," Evan said, running up to one of the
racquet-players, "there is just a row going on; they are all pitching
into the scholars on their way back from Vincent Square, and if you
don't send help they will get it nicely, though they are all fighting
like bricks."
"Here, all of you," the lad he addressed shouted to the others; "our
fellows are attacked by the'skies' on their way back from fields. Run
up College, James; the fellows from the water have come back." Then he
turned to the boys on the steps, "Bring all the fellows out quick; the
'skies' are attacking us on the way back from the fields. Don't let them
wait a moment."
It was lucky that the boys who had been on the water in the two eights,
the six, and the fours, had returned, or at that hour there would have
been few in the boarding-houses or up College. Ere a minute had elapsed
these, with a few others who had been kept off field and water from
indisposition, or other causes, came pouring out at the summons--a body
some thirty strong, of whom fully half were big boys. They dashed out of
the gate in a body, and made their way to the scene of the conflict.
They were but just in time; the compact group of the boys had been
broken up, and every one now was fighting for himself.
They had made but little progress towards the school since Evan had
started, and the fight was now raging opposite his house. The <DW36>
was almost crying with excitement and at his own inability to join in
the fight going on. His sympathies were wholly with "the boys," towards
whose side he was attached by the disparity of their numbers compared to
those of their opponents, and by the coolness and resolution with which
they fought.
"Just look at those two, mother--those two fighting back to back. Isn't
it grand! There! there is another one down; that is the fifth I have
counted. Don't they fight cool and steady? and they almost look smiling,
though the odds against them are ten to one. O mother, if I could but go
to help them!"
Mrs. Holl herself was not without sharing his excitement. Several times
she made sorties from her doorstep, and seized more than one hulking
fellow in the act of pummelling a youngster half his size, and shook him
with a vigour which showed that constant exercise at the wash-tub had
strengthened her arms.
"Yer ought to be ashamed of yerselves, yer ought; a whole crowd of yer
pitching into a handful o' boys."
But her remonstrances were unheeded in the din,--which, however, was
raised entirely by the assailants, the boys fighting silently, save when
an occasional shout of "Hurrah, Westminster!" was raised. Presently Evan
dashed through the crowd up to the door.
"Are they coming, Evan?" the <DW36> asked eagerly.
"Yes, 'Arry; they will be 'ere in a jiffy."
A half-minute later, and with shouts of "Westminster! Westminster!" the
reinforcement came tearing up the street.
Their arrival in an instant changed the face of things. The "skies" for
a moment or two resisted; but the muscles of the eight--hardened by the
training which had lately given them victory over Eton in their annual
race--stood them in good stead, and the hard hitting of the "water" soon
beat back the lately triumphant assailants of "cricket." The united band
took the offensive, and in two or three minutes the "skies" were in full
flight.
"We were just in time, Norris," one of the new-comers said to the tall
lad in cricketing flannels whose straight hitting had particularly
attracted the admiration of Harry Holl.
"Only just," the other said, smiling; "it was a hot thing, and a pretty
sight we shall look up School to-morrow. I shall have two thundering
black eyes, and my mouth won't look pretty for a fortnight; and, by the
look of them, most of the others have fared worse. It's the biggest
fight we have had for years. But I don't think the'skies' will
interfere with us again for some time, for every mark we've got they've
got ten. Won't there be a row in School to-morrow when Litter sees that
half the Sixth can't see out of their eyes."
Not for many years had the lessons at Westminster been so badly prepared
as they were upon the following morning--indeed, with the exception of
the half and home-boarders, few of whom had shared in the fight, not a
single boy, from the Under School to the Sixth, had done an exercise or
prepared a lesson. Study indeed had been out of the question, for all
were too excited and too busy talking over the details of the battle to
be able to give the slightest attention to their work.
Many were the tales of feats of individual prowess; but all who had
taken part agreed that none had so distinguished themselves as Frank
Norris, a Sixth Form town boy, and captain of the eight--who, for a
wonder had for once been up at fields--and Fred Barkley, a senior in
the Sixth. But, grievous and general as was the breakdown in lessons
next day, no impositions were set; the boarding-house masters, Richards
and Sargent, had of course heard all about it at tea-time, as had Johns,
who did not himself keep a boarding-house, but resided at Carr's, the
boarding-house down by the great gate.
These, therefore, were prepared for the state of things, and contented
themselves by ordering the forms under their charge to set to work with
their dictionaries and write out the lessons they should have prepared.
The Sixth did not get off so easily. Dr. Litter, in his lofty solitude
as head-master, had heard nothing of what had passed; nor was it until
the Sixth took their places in the library and began to construe that
his attention was called to the fact that something unusual had
happened. But the sudden hesitation and blundering of the first "put
on," and the inability of those next to him to correct him, were too
marked to be passed over, and he raised his gold-rimmed eye-glasses to
his eyes and looked round.
Dr. Litter was a man standing some six feet two in height, stately in
manner, somewhat sarcastic in speech,--a very prodigy in classical
learning, and joint author of the great treatise _On the Uses of the
Greek Particle_. Searchingly he looked from face to face round the
library.
"I cannot," he said, with a curl of his upper lip, and the cold and
somewhat nasal tone which set every nerve in a boy's body twitching when
he heard it raised in reproof, "I really cannot congratulate you on your
appearance. I thought that the Sixth Form of Westminster was composed of
gentlemen, but it seems to me now as if it consisted of a number of
singularly disreputable-looking prize-fighters. What does all this
mean, Williams?" he asked, addressing the captain; "your face appears to
have met with better usage than some of the others."
"It means, sir," Williams said, "that as the party from fields were
coming back yesterday evening, they were attacked by the'skies,'--I
mean by the roughs--and got terribly knocked about. When the news came
to us I was up College, and the fellows had just come back from the
water, so of course we all sallied out to rescue them."
"Did it not occur to you, Williams, that there is a body called the
police, whose duty it is to interfere in disgraceful uproars of this
sort?"
"If we had waited for the police, sir," Williams said, "half the School
would not have been fit to take their places in form again before the
end of the term."
"It does not appear to me," Dr. Litter said, "that a great many of them
are fit to take their places at present. I can scarcely see Norris's
eyes; and I suppose that boy is Barkley, as he sits in the place that he
usually occupies, otherwise, I should not have recognised him; and
Smart, Robertson, and Barker and Barret are nearly as bad. I suppose you
feel satisfied with yourselves, boys, and consider that this sort of
thing is creditable to you; to my mind it is simply disgraceful. There!
I don't want to hear any more at present; I suppose the whole School is
in the same state. Those of you who can see had better go back to School
and prepare your Demosthenes; those who cannot had best go back to their
boarding-houses, or up College, and let the doctor be sent for to see if
anything can be done for you."
The doctor had indeed already been sent for, for some seven or eight of
the younger boys had been so seriously knocked about and kicked that
they were unable to leave their beds. For the rest a doctor could do
nothing. Fights were not uncommon at Westminster in those days, but the
number of orders for beef-steaks which the nearest butcher had received
on the previous evening had fairly astonished him. Indeed, had it not
been for the prompt application of these to their faces, very few of the
party from the fields would have been able to find their way up School
unless they had been led by their comrades.
At Westminster there was an hour's school before breakfast, and when
nine o'clock struck, and the boys poured out, Dr. Litter and his
under-masters held council together.
"This is a disgraceful business!" Dr. Litter said, looking, as was his
wont, at some distant object far over the heads of the others.
There was a general murmur of assent.
"The boys do not seem to have been much to blame," Mr. Richards
suggested in the cheerful tone habitual to him. "From what I can hear it
seems to have been a planned thing; the people gathered round the gates
before they left the fields and attacked them without any provocation."
"There must have been some provocation somewhere, Mr. Richards, if not
yesterday, then the day before, or the day before that," Dr. Litter
said, twirling his eye-glass by the ribbon. "A whole host of people do
not gather to assault forty or fifty boys without provocation. This sort
of thing must not occur again. I do not see that I can punish one boy
without punishing the whole School; but, at any rate, for the next week
fields must be stopped. I shall write to the Commissioner of Police,
asking that when they again go to Vincent Square some policemen may be
put on duty, not of course to accompany them, but to interfere at once
if they see any signs of a repetition of this business. I shall request
that, should there be any fighting, those not belonging to the School
who commit an assault may be taken before a magistrate; my own boys I
can punish myself. Are any of the boys seriously injured, do you think?"
"I hope not, sir," Mr. Richards said; "there are three or four in my
house, and there are ten at Mr. Sargent's, and two at Carr's, who have
gone on the sick list. I sent for the doctor, and he may have seen them
by this time; they all seemed to have been knocked down and kicked."
"There are four of the juniors at College in the infirmary," Mr. Wire,
who was in special charge of the Queen's Scholars, put in. "I had not
heard about it last night, and was in ignorance of what had taken place
until the list of those who had gone into the infirmary was put into my
hands, and then I heard from Williams what had taken place."
"It is very unpleasant," Dr. Litter said, in a weary tone of voice--as
if boys were a problem far more difficult to be mastered than any that
the Greek authors afforded him--"that one cannot trust boys to keep out
of mischief for an hour. Of course with small boys this sort of thing is
to be expected; but that young fellows like Williams and the other
seniors, and the Sixth town boys, who are on the eve of going up to the
Universities, should so far forget themselves is very surprising."
"But even at the University, Doctor Litter," Mr. Richards said, with a
passing thought of his own experience, "town and gown rows take place."
"All the worse," Dr. Litter replied, "all the worse. Of course there are
wild young men at the Universities." Dr. Litter himself, it is scarcely
necessary to say, had never been wild, the study of the Greek particles
had absorbed all his thoughts. "Why," he continued, "young men should
condescend to take part in disgraceful affrays of this kind passes my
understanding. Mr. Wire, you will inform Williams that for the rest of
the week no boy is to go to fields."
So saying, he strode off in the direction of his own door, next to the
archway, for the conversation had taken place at the foot of the steps
leading into School from Little Dean's Yard. There was some grumbling
when the head-master's decision was known; but it was, nevertheless,
felt that it was a wise one, and that it was better to allow the
feelings to calm down before again going through Westminster between
Dean's Yard and the field, for not even the most daring would have cared
for a repetition of the struggle.
Several inquiries were made as to the lad who had brought the news of
the fight, and so enabled the reinforcements to arrive in time; and had
he been discovered a handsome subscription would have been got up to
reward his timely service, but no one knew anything about him.
The following week, when cricket was resumed, no molestation was
offered. The better part of the working-classes who inhabited the
neighbourhood were indeed strongly in favour of the "boys," and liked to
see their bright young faces as they passed home from their cricket;
the pluck too with which they had fought was highly appreciated, and so
strong a feeling was expressed against the attack made upon them, that
the rough element deemed it better to abstain from further interruption,
especially as there were three or four extra police put upon the beat at
the hours when the "boys" went to and from Vincent Square.
It was, however, some time before the "great fight" ceased to be a
subject of conversation among the boys. At five minutes to ten on the
morning when Dr. Litter had put a stop to fields, two of the younger
boys--who were as usual, just before school-time, standing in the
archway leading into Little Dean's Yard to warn the School of the
issuing out of the head-master--were talking of the fight of the evening
before; both had been present, having been fagging out at cricket for
their masters.
"I wonder which would lick, Norris or Barkley. What a splendid fight it
would be!"
"You will never see that, Fairlie, for they are cousins and great
friends. It would be a big fight, and I expect it would be a draw. I
know who I should shout for."
"Oh, of course, we should all be for Norris, he is such a jolly fellow;
there is no one in the School I would so readily fag for. Instead of
saying, 'Here, you fellow, come and pick up balls,' or, 'Take my bat up
to fields,' he says, 'I say, young Fairlie, I wish you would come and
pick up balls for a bit, and in a quarter of an hour you can call some
other Under School boy to take your place,' just as if it were a favour,
instead of his having the right to put one on if he pleased. I should
like to be his fag: and he never allows any bullying up at Richards'. I
wish we had him at Sargent's."
"Yes, and Barkley is quite a different sort of fellow. I don't know that
he is a bully, but somehow he seems to have a disagreeable way with him,
a cold, nasty, hard sort of way; he walks along as if he never noticed
the existence of an Under School boy, while Norris always has a pleasant
nod for a fellow."
"Here's Litter."
At this moment a door in the wall under the archway opened, and the
head-master appeared. As he came out the five or six small boys standing
round raised a tremendous shout of "Litter's coming." A shout so loud
that it was heard not only in College and the boarding-houses in Little
Dean's Yard, but at Carr's across by the archway, and even at
Sutcliffe's shop outside the Yard, where some of the boys were
purchasing sweets for consumption in school. A fag at the door of each
of the boarding-houses took up the cry, and the boys at once came
pouring out.
The Doctor, as if unconscious of the din raised round him, walked slowly
along half-way to the door of the School; here he was joined by the
other masters, and they stood chatting in a group for about two minutes,
giving ample time for the boys to go up School, though those from
Carr's, having much further to go, had to run for it, and not
unfrequently had to rush past the masters as the latter mounted the wide
stone steps leading up to the School.
The School was a great hall, which gave one the idea that it was almost
coeval with the abbey to which it was attached, although it was not
built until some hundreds of years later. The walls were massive, and of
great height, and were covered from top to bottom with the painted names
of old boys, some of which had been there, as was shown by the dates
under them, close upon a hundred years. The roof was supported on great
beams, and both in its proportions and style the School was a copy in
small of the great hall of Westminster.
At the furthermost end from the door was a semicircular alcove, known as
the "Shell," which gave its name to the form sitting there. On both
sides ran rows of benches and narrow desks, three deep, raised one above
the other. On the left hand on entering was the Under School, and,
standing on the floor in front of it, was the arm-chair of Mr. Wire.
Next came the monitor's desk, at which the captain and two monitors sat.
In an open drawer in front of the table were laid the rods, which were
not unfrequently called into requisition. Extending up to the end were
the seats of the Sixth. The "Upper Shell" occupied the alcove; the
"Under Shell" were next to them, on the further benches on the
right-hand side. Mr. Richards presided over the "Shell." Mr. Sargent
took the Upper and Under Fifth, who came next to them, and "Johnny," as
Mr. Johns was called, looked after the two Fourths, who occupied benches
on the right hand | 1,211.004503 |
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