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Produced by David Widger
THE CRISIS
By Winston Churchill
BOOK III
Volume 6.
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCING A CAPITALIST
A cordon of blue regiments surrounded the city at first from Carondelet
to North St. Louis, like an open fan. The crowds liked best to go to
Compton Heights, where the tents of the German citizen-soldiers were
spread out like so many slices of white cake on the green beside the
city's reservoir. Thence the eye stretched across the town, catching the
dome of the Court House and the spire of St. John's. Away to the west, on
the line of the Pacific railroad that led halfway across the state, was
another camp. Then another, and another, on the circle of the fan, until
the river was reached to the northward, far above the bend. Within was a
peace that passed understanding,--the peace of martial law.
Without the city, in the great state beyond, an irate governor had
gathered his forces from the east and from the west. Letters came and
went between Jefferson City and Jefferson Davis, their purport being that
the Governor was to work out his own salvation, for a while at least.
Young men of St. Louis, struck in a night by the fever of militarism,
arose and went to Glencoe. Prying sergeants and commissioned officers,
mostly of hated German extraction, thundered at the door of Colonel
Carvel's house, and other houses, there--for Glencoe was a border town.
They searched the place more than once from garret to cellar, muttered
guttural oaths, and smelled of beer and sauerkraut, The haughty
appearance of Miss Carvel did not awe them--they were blind to all manly
sensations. The Colonel's house, alas, was one of many in Glencoe written
down in red ink in a book at headquarters as a place toward which the
feet of the young men strayed. Good evidence was handed in time and time
again that the young men had come and gone, and red-faced commanding
officers cursed indignant subalterns, and implied that Beauty had had a
hand in it. Councils of war were held over the advisability of seizing
Mr. Carvel's house at Glencoe, but proof was lacking until one rainy
night in June a captain and ten men spurred up the drive and swung into a
big circle around the house. The Captain took off his cavalry gauntlet
and knocked at the door, more gently than usual. Miss Virginia was home
so Jackson said. The Captain was given an audience more formal than one
with the queen of Prussia could have been, Miss Carvel was infinitely
more haughty than her Majesty. Was not the Captain hired to do a
degrading service? Indeed, he thought so as he followed her about the
house and he felt like the lowest of criminals as he opened a closet door
or looked under a bed. He was a beast of the field, of the mire. How
Virginia shrank from him if he had occasion to pass her! Her gown would
have been defiled by his touch. And yet the Captain did not smell of
beer, nor of sauerkraut; nor did he swear in any language. He did his
duty apologetically, but he did it. He pulled a man (aged seventeen) out
from under a great hoop skirt in a little closet, and the man had a
pistol that refused its duty when snapped in the Captain's face. This was
little Spencer Catherwood, just home from a military academy.
Spencer was taken through the rain by the chagrined Captain to the
headquarters, where he caused a little embarrassment. No damning evidence
was discovered on his person, for the pistol had long since ceased to be
a firearm. And so after a stiff lecture from the Colonel he was finally
given back into the custody of his father. Despite the pickets, the young
men filtered through daily,--or rather nightly. Presently some of them
began to come back, gaunt and worn and tattered, among the grim cargoes
that were landed by the thousands and tens of thousands on the levee. And
they took them (oh, the pity of it!) they took them to Mr. Lynch's slave
pen, turned into a Union prison of detention, where their fathers and
grandfathers had been wont to send their disorderly and insubordinate
<DW65>s. They were packed away, as the miserable slaves had been, to
taste something of the bitterness of the <DW64>'s lot. So came Bert
Russell to welter in a low room whose walls gave out the stench of years.
How you cooked for them, and schemed for them, and cried for them, you
devoted women of the South! You spent the long hot summer in town, and
every day you went with your baskets to Gratiot Street, where the
infected old house stands, until--until one morning a lady walked out
past the guard, and down the street. She was civilly detained at the
corner, because she wore army boots. After that permits were issued. If
you were a young lady of the proper principles in those days, you climbed
a steep pair of stairs in the heat, and stood in line until it became
your turn to be catechised by an indifferent young officer in blue who
sat behind a table and smoked a horrid cigar. He had little time to be
courteous. He was not to be dazzled by a bright gown or a pretty face; he
was indifferent to a smile which would have won a savage. His duty was | 1,443.560033 |
2023-11-16 18:41:07.5835130 | 93 | 14 | LITERATURE***
E-text prepared by Andrea Ball & Marc D'Hooghe
(http://www.freeliterature.org) from page images generously made available
by Internet Archive (http://archive.org)
Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
http://archive.org/details/russiaitspeoplei00pardiala
RUSSIA
ITS PEOPLE AND ITS LITERATURE
BY
EM | 1,443.603553 |
2023-11-16 18:41:07.7344960 | 1,775 | 6 |
E-text prepared by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, 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 25954-h.htm or 25954-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/5/9/5/25954/25954-h/25954-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/5/9/5/25954/25954-h.zip)
THE OPENED SHUTTERS
A Novel
by
CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM
* * * * *
By Clara Louise Burnham
THE OPENED SHUTTERS. Illustrated, 12mo, $1.50.
JEWEL: A CHAPTER IN HER LIFE. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50.
JEWEL'S STORY BOOK. Illustrated, 12mo, $1.50.
THE RIGHT PRINCESS. 12mo, $1.50.
MISS PRITCHARD'S WEDDING TRIP. 12mo, $1.50.
YOUNG MAIDS AND OLD. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents.
DEARLY BOUGHT. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents.
NO GENTLEMEN. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents.
A SANE LUNATIC. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents.
NEXT DOOR. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents.
THE MISTRESS OF BEECH KNOLL. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents.
MISS BAGG'S SECRETARY. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents.
DR. LATIMER. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents.
SWEET CLOVER. A Romance of the White City. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents.
THE WISE WOMAN. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents.
MISS ARCHER ARCHER. 16mo, $1.25.
A GREAT LOVE. A Novel. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents.
A WEST POINT WOOING, and Other Stories. 16mo, $1.25.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
BOSTON AND NEW YORK.
* * * * *
THE OPENED SHUTTERS
A Novel
by
CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM
With Frontispiece by Harrison Fisher
[Illustration: SYLVIA
_From a drawing by Harrison Fisher_]
Boston and New York
Houghton, Mifflin and Company
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1906
Copyright 1906 by Clara Louise Burnham
All Rights Reserved
Published October 1906
TO
C. D. T.
CONTENTS
I. JUDGE TRENT 1
II. MARTHA LACEY 12
III. A RAILWAY TRIP 22
IV. HOTEL FRISBIE 29
V. JUDGE TRENT'S STUDY 43
VI. SYLVIA'S CALLER 57
VII. THE MILL FARM 69
VIII. IN HARBOR 82
IX. EDNA DERWENT 91
X. CAPITULATION 101
XI. THINKRIGHT'S LETTER 112
XII. A LOST OAR 124
XIII. UNCLE AND NIECE 135
XIV. BLIND MAN'S HOLIDAY 146
XV. A FLITTING 155
XVI. EVOLUTION 161
XVII. THE ROSY CLOUD 170
XVIII. HAWK ISLAND 180
XIX. A NOR'EASTER 189
XX. THE POOL 200
XXI. A SWIMMING LESSON 213
XXII. BLUEBERRYING 222
XXIII. A PHILTRE 228
XXIV. SYLVIA'S MYSTERY 239
XXV. THE LITTLE RIFT 248
XXVI. REVELATION 257
XXVII. MISUNDERSTANDING 265
XXVIII. THE POTION 277
XXIX. THE WHITE BAG 288
XXX. THE LIGHT BREAKS 297
XXXI. RECONCILIATION 309
XXXII. A SOFTENED BLOW 321
XXXIII. "LOVE ALONE WILL STAY " 330
THE OPENED SHUTTERS
CHAPTER I
JUDGE TRENT
Judge Trent's chair was tipped back at a comfortable angle for the
accommodation of his gaitered feet, which rested against the steam
radiator in his private office. There had been a second desk introduced
into this sanctum within the last month, and the attitude of the young
man seated at it indicated but a brief suspension of business as he
looked up to greet his employer.
The judge had just come in out of the cold and wet, and did not remove
his silk hat as he seated himself to dry his shoes. He appeared always
reluctant to remove that hat. Spotlessly clean as were always the
habiliments that clothed his attenuated form, no one could remember
having seen the judge's hat smoothly brushed; and although in the
course of thirty years it is unlikely that he never became possessed of
a new one, even the closest observer, and that was Martha Lacey, could
not be certain of the transition period, probably owing to the
lingering attachment with which the judge returned spasmodically to the
headgear which had accommodated itself to his bumps, and which he was
heroically endeavoring to discard.
This very morning Miss Lacey in passing her old friend on the street
had been annoyed by the unusually rough condition of the hat he lifted.
A few steps further on she happened to encounter the judge's
housekeeper, her market basket on her arm. Old Hannah's wrinkled
countenance did not grow less grim as Miss Lacey greeted her, but that
lady, nothing daunted, stopped to speak, her countenance alert and her
bright gaze shining through her eyeglasses.
"I just met Judge Trent, Hannah. Dear me, can't you brush that hat of
his a little? It looks for all the world like a black cat that has just
caught sight of a mastiff."
"I guess the judge knows how he wants his own hat," returned Hannah,
her mouth working disapprovingly.
"But he doesn't realize how it looks. Some one asked me the other day
if I supposed Judge Trent slept in his hat."
"And I s'pose you told 'em you didn't know," returned the old woman
sourly. "He's got a right to sleep in it if he wants to," and she moved
on while Miss Lacey looked after her for a moment, her lips set in a
tight line.
"Insolent!" she exclaimed. "All is I know he wouldn't do it if _I'd_
married him," she added mentally, resuming her walk. Martha Lacey's
sense of humor was not keen, but suddenly the mental picture of Judge
Trent's shrewd, thin countenance, as it might appear in pillowed
slumber surmounted by the high hat, overwhelmed her and she laughed
silently. Then she frowned with reddening cheeks. "Hannah's
impertinent," she murmured.
Judge Trent had read something of disapproval in Miss Lacey's glance as
she greeted him a few minutes ago, and he thought of her now as he sat
tilted back, his thumbs hooked easily in his arm holes, while he
watched the glistening dampness dry from his shoes.
"Martha probably disapproved because I didn't have on | 1,443.754536 |
2023-11-16 18:41:07.8156680 | 1,429 | 18 |
Produced by Internet Archive; University of Florida, Children, Amy
Petri and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
A GRANDMOTHER'S RECOLLECTIONS.
BY ELLA RODMAN.
1851.
A GRANDMOTHER'S RECOLLECTIONS.
CHAPTER I.
The best bed-chamber, with its hangings of crimson moreen, was opened
and aired--a performance which always caused my eight little brothers
and sisters to place themselves in convenient positions for being
stumbled over, to the great annoyance of industrious damsels, who, armed
with broom and duster, endeavored to render their reign as arbitrary as
it was short. For some time past, the nursery-maids had invariably
silenced refractory children with "Fie, Miss Matilda! Your grandmother
will make you behave yourself--_she_ won't allow such doings, I'll be
bound!" or "Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Master Clarence? What will
your grandmother say to that!" The nursery was in a state of uproar on
the day of my venerable relative's arrival; for the children almost
expected to see, in their grandmother, an ogress, both in features and
disposition.
My mother was the eldest of two children, and my grandmother, from the
period of my infancy, had resided in England with her youngest daughter;
and we were now all employed in wondering what sort of a person our
relative might be. Mamma informed us that the old lady was extremely
dignified, and exacted respect and attention from all around; she also
hinted, at the same time, that it would be well for me to lay aside a
little of my self-sufficiency, and accommodate myself to the humors of
my grandmother. This to me!--to _me_, whose temper was so inflammable
that the least inadvertent touch was sufficient to set it in a blaze--it
was too much! So, like a well-disposed young lady, I very properly
resolved that _mine_ should not be the arm to support the venerable Mrs.
Arlington in her daily walks; that should the children playfully
ornament the cushion of her easy-chair with pins, _I_ would not turn
informant; and should a conspiracy be on foot to burn the old lady's
best wig, I entertained serious thoughts of helping along myself.
In the meantime, like all selfish persons, I considered what demeanor I
should assume, in order to impress my grandmother with a conviction of
my own consequence. Of course, dignified and unbending I _would_ be; but
what if she chose to consider me a child, and treat me accordingly? The
idea was agonizing to my feelings; but then I proudly surveyed my five
feet two inches of height, and wondered how I could have thought of such
a thing! Still I had sense enough to know that such a supposition would
never have entered my head, had there not been sufficient grounds for
it; and, with no small trepidation, I prepared for my first appearance.
It went off as first appearances generally do. I _was_ to have been
seated in an attitude of great elegance, with my eyes fixed on the pages
of some wonderfully wise book, but my thoughts anywhere but in company
with my eyes; while, to give more dignity to a girlish figure, my hair
was to be turned up on the very top of my head with a huge shell comb,
borrowed for the occasion from mamma's drawer. Upon my grandmother's
entrance, I intended to rise and make her a very stiff courtesy, and
then deliver a series of womanish remarks. This, I say, _was_ to have
been my first appearance--but alas! fate ordered otherwise. I was caught
by my dignified relative indulging in a game of romps upon the balcony
with two or three little sisters in pinafores and pantalettes--myself as
much a child as any of them. My grandmother came rather suddenly upon me
as, with my long hair floating in wild confusion, I stooped to pick up
my comb; and while in this ungraceful position, one of the little
urchins playfully climbed upon my back, while the others held me down.
My three little sisters had never appeared to such disadvantage in my
eyes, as they did at the present moment; in vain I tried to shake them
off--they only clung the closer, from fright, on being told of their
grandmother's arrival.
At length, with crimsoned cheeks, and the hot tears starting to my eyes,
I rose and received, rather than returned the offered embrace, and found
myself in the capacious arms of one whom I should have taken for an old
dowager duchess. On glancing at my grandmother's portly figure and
consequential air, I experienced the uncomfortable sensation of utter
insignificance--I encountered the gaze of those full, piercing eyes, and
felt that I was conquered. Still I resolved to make some struggles for
my dignity yet, and not submit until defeat was no longer doubtful.
People in talking of "unrequited affection," speak of "the knell of
departed hopes," but no knell could sound more dreadful to the
ears of a girl in her teens--trembling for her scarcely-fledged
young-lady-hood--than did the voice of my grandmother, (and it was by no
means low), as she remarked:
"So this is Ella. Why, how the child has altered! I remember her only as
a little, screaming baby, that was forever holding its breath with
passion till it became black in the face. Many a thumping have I given
you, child, to make you come to, and sometimes I doubted if your face
ever would be straight again. Even now it can hardly be said to belong
to the meek and amiable order."
Here my grandmother drew forth her gold spectacles from a
richly-ornamented case, and deliberately scanned my indignant features,
while she observed: "Not much of the Bredforth style--quite an
Arlington." I drew myself up with all the offended dignity of sixteen,
but it was of no use; my grandmother turned me round, in much the same
manner that the giant might have been supposed to handle Tom Thumb, and
surveyed me from top to toe.
I was unable to discover the effect of her investigation, but I
immediately became convinced that my grandmother's opinion was one of
the greatest importance. She possessed that indescribable kind of manner
which places you under the conviction that you are continually doing,
saying, | 1,443.835708 |
2023-11-16 18:41:07.8470200 | 3,604 | 10 |
Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
FOXGLOVE MANOR
A Novel
By Robert W. Buchanan
In Three Volumes, Vol. I.
London
Chatto And Windos, Piccadilly
1884
FOXGLOVE MANOR.
CHAPTER XIV. BAPTISTO STAYS AT HOME.
|As Haldane sat in his study, the evening previous to the morning
fixed for his journey to London, Baptisto entered quickly and stood
before the desk at which his master was busily writing.
“Can I speak to you, senor?” Haldane looked and nodded.
“What is it, Baptisto?”
“You have arranged that I shall go with you to-morrow, but I have had
during the last few days an attack of my old vertigo. Can you possibly
dispense with my attendance, senor?” Haldane stared in surprise at the
Spaniards face, which was inscrutable as usual.
“Do you mean to say you wish to remain at home?”
“Certainly, senor.”
“Why? because you are ill? On the contrary, you look in excellent
health. No; it is impossible. I cannot get along without you.”
And Haldane returned to his papers as if the matter was ended.
Baptisto, however, did not budge, but remained in the same position,
with his dark eyes fixed upon his master.
“Do me this favour, senor. I am really indisposed, and must beg to
remain.”
Haldane laughed, for an idea suddenly occurred to him which seemed to
explain the mystery of his servant’s request.
“My good Baptisto, I think I understand the cause of your complaint,
and I am sure a little travel will do you good. It is that dark-eyed
widow of the lodge-keeper who attaches you so much to the Manor. The
warm blood of Spain still burns in your veins, and, despite your sad
experience of women, you are still impressionable. Eh? am I right?”
Baptisto quickly shook his head, with the least suspicion of a smile
upon his swarthy face.
“I am not impressionable, senor, and I do not admire your English
women; but I wish to remain all the same.”
“Nonsense!”
“Nonsense! In serious lament, senor, I beseech you to allow me to
remain.”
But Haldane was not to be persuaded at what he conceived to be a mere
whim of his servant. He still believed that Baptisto had fallen a
captive to the charms of Mrs. Feme, a little plump, dark-eyed woman,
with a large family. He had frequently of late seen the Spaniard
hanging about the lodge--on one occasion nursing and dandling the
youngest child--and he had smiled to himself, thinking that the poor
fellow’s misanthropy, or rather his misogynism, was in a fair way of
coming to an end.
Finding his master indisposed to take his request seriously, Baptisto
retired; and presently Haldane strolled into the drawing-room, where
he found his wife.
“Have you heard of the last freak of Baptisto? He actually wants to
remain at ease, instead of accompanying me in my journey.”
Ellen looked up from some embroidery, in which she was busily engaged.
“On no account!” she exclaimed. “If you don’t take him with you, I.
shall not stay in the place.”
“Dear me! said the philosopher. Surely you are not afraid of poor
Baptisto!”
“Not afraid of him exactly, but he makes me shiver. He comes and goes
like a ghost, and when you least expect him, he is at your elbow.
Then, of course, I cannot help remembering he has committed a murder!”
“Nothing of the kind,” said Haldane, laughing and throwing himself
into a chair. “My dear Ellen, you don’t believe the whole truth of
that affair. True, he surprised that Spanish wife of his with her
gallant, whom he stabbed; but I have it on excellent authority that it
was a kind of duello; the other man was armed, and so it was a fair
fight.” Ellen shuddered, and showed more nervous agitation than her
husband could quite account for.
“Take him away with you,” she cried; “take him away. If you never
bring him back, I shall rejoice. If I had been consulted, he would
never have been brought to England.”
A little later in the evening, when Haldane had returned to his
papers, which he was diligently finishing to take away with him, he
rang and summoned the Spaniard to his presence.
“Well, it is all settled. I have consulted your mistress, and she
insists in your accompanying me to-morrow.”
A sharp flash came upon Baptisto’s dark eyes. He made an angry
gesture; then controlling himself, he said in a low, emphatic voice--
“The _senora_ means it? _She_ does not wish me to remain?”
“Just so.”
“May I ask why?
“Only because she does not want you, and I do. Between ourselves, she
is not quite so certain of you as I am. She has never forgotten that
little affair in Spain.”
Again the dark eyes flashed, and again there was the same angry
gesture, instantly checked.
Haldane continued.
“You are violent sometimes, my Baptisto, and madame is a little afraid
of you. When she knows you better, as I know you, she will be aware
that you are rational; at present----”
“At present, senor,” said Baptisto, “she would rather not have me so
near. Ah, I can understand! Perhaps she has reason to be afraid.”
Something in the man’s manner, which was sinister and almost
threatening, jarred upon his master’s mind. Rising from his chair,
Haldane stood with his back to the fire, and, with a frown, regarded
the Spaniard, as, he said--
“Listen to me, Baptisto. I have noticed with great annoyance,
especially of late, that your manner to madame has been strange, not
to say sullen. You are whimsical still, and apt to take offence. If
this goes on, if you fail in respect to your mistress, and make your
presence uncomfortable in this house, we shall have to part.”
To Haldane’s astonishment, Baptisto asked an explanation, and, falling
on his knees, seized his master’s hand and kissed it eagerly,
“Senor! Senor! you don’t comprehend. You don’t think I am ungrateful,
that I do not remember? But you are wrong. I would die to save
you--yes, I would die; and I would kill with my own hand any one who
did you an injury. I am your servant, your slave--ah yes, till death.”
“Come, get up, and go and finish packing my things.”
“But, senor----”
“Get up, I say.”
The Spaniard rose, and with folded hands and bent head stood waiting.
“Get ready like a sensible fellow, and let us have no more of this
foolery. There, there, I understand. You are exciting yourself for
nothing.”
“Then, I am to go, senor?”
“Certainly.”
Early the next morning Baptisto entered the carriage with his master,
and was driven to the railway station, some seven miles away. As they
went along, Haldane noticed that the man looked very ill, and that
from time to time he put his hand to his head as if in pain. At the
railway station, while they were waiting for the train, matters looked
most serious. Suddenly the Spaniard fell forward on the platform as
if in strong convulsions, his eyes starting out of his head, his mouth
foaming. They sprinkled water on his face, chafed his hands, and with
some difficulty brought him round.
“The devil!” muttered Haldane to himself. “It looks like epilepsy!”
Baptisto was placed on a seat, and lay back ghastly pale, as if
utterly exhausted.
“Are you better now?” asked Haldane, bending over him.
“A little better, senor.”
But seeing him so utterly helpless, and likely to have other seizure,
Haldane rapidly calculated in his own mind the inexpediency of taking
him away on a long railway journey. After all, the poor fellow had not
exaggerated his condition, when he had pleaded illness as an excuse
for remaining at home.
“After all,” said Haldane, “I think you will have to remain behind.”
Baptisto opened his eyes feebly, and stretched out his hands.
“No, senor; since you wish it, I will go.”
“You shall remain,” answered Haldane, just as the whistle of the
coming train was heard in the distance. “Perhaps, if you are better
in a day or two, you can follow; but you will go away now in the
carriage, and send over to Dr. Spruce, and he will prescribe for you.”
Baptisto did not answer, but, taking his masters hand, kissed it
gratefully. The train came up. Haldane entered a carriage, and, gazing
from the window as the train began to move on, saw Baptisto still
seated on the platform, very pale, his eyes half closed, his head
recumbent. Near him stood the station master, a railway porter, and
the groom who had driven them over from the Manor, all regarding him
with languid curiosity.
But the moment the train was gone, Baptisto began to recover. Rising
to his feet, and refusing all offers of assistance from the others,
he strolled out of the station, and quietly mounted the dog-cart. The
groom got up beside him, and they drove homeward through the green
lanes.
Now, Baptisto was a gentleman, and seldom entered or tolerated
familiarity from his fellow-servants. Had it been otherwise, the groom
might have asked the explanation of his curious conduct; for no sooner
was he mounted on the dogcart, and driving along in the fresh air,
than the Spaniard seemed to forget all about his recent illness, sat
erect like a man in perfect health, and exhibited none of the curious
symptoms which had so alarmed his master.
And when the groom, who was a thirsty individual, suggested that
they should make a detour and call at the Blue Boar Inn for a little
stimulant, chiefly as a corrective to the attack from which his
companion had just suffered, the Spaniard turned his dark eyes round
about him and actually winked. This proceeding so startled the groom
that he almost dropped the reins, for never in the whole course of his
sojourn had the foreign gent condescended to such a familiarity.
They drove round to the Blue Boar, however, and the groom consumed the
brandy, while Baptisto, who was a teetotaller, had some lemonade, and
lit his cigar. Then they drove home to the Manor, Baptisto sitting
with folded arms, completely and absolutely recovered.
About noon that day, as Mrs. Haldane moved about the conservatory,
looking after her roses, a servant announced the Rev. Mr. Santley.
Ellen flushed, a little startled at the announcement, coming so soon
after her husband’s departure, and her first impulse was to deny
herself; but before she could do so the clergyman himself appeared at
the door of the conservatory.
“You are an early visitor,” she said coldly, bending her face over the
flowers.
“It is just noon,” answered the clergyman, “and I was going home from
a sick-call. Has Mr. Haldane gone?”
“Yes. Did you wish to see him?”
“Not particularly, though I had a little commission which I might have
asked him to execute had I been in time.” Surely the man’s fall had
already begun. Ellen knew perfectly well that he was lying. In
point of fact, he had seen the dog-cart drive past on the way to the
station, and he had been unable to resist the temptation of coming
over without delay.
With face half averted, Ellen led the way into the drawing-room, and
on to the terrace beyond, from which there was a pleasant view of the
Manor, the plain, and the surrounding country. Just below the gardens
were laid out in flowerbeds and gravel walks; but the dark shrubberies
were beyond, and at a little distance, well in the shadow of the
trees, the old chapel.
There was a long silence. Ellen stood silent, gazing upon the woods
and lawn, while the clergyman stood just behind her, evidently
regarding her.
At last she could bear it no longer, but, turning quickly, exclaimed--
“Why did you come? Have you anything to say to me?”
“Nothing, Ellen, if you are angry,” replied the clergyman.
“Angry! You surely know best if I have cause. After what has passed, I
think it is better that we should not meet,” she added in a low voice.
“At least, not often.”
He saw she was agitated, and he took a certain pleasure in her
agitation, for it showed him that she was not quite unsusceptible to
the influence he might bring to bear upon her. As he stood there, his
sad eyes fixed upon her, his being conscious of every movement she
made, of every breath she drew, he felt again the deep fatality of his
passion, and silently yielded to it.
There was another long pause, which he was the first to break.
“Do you know, Ellen, I sometimes tremble for you, when I think of your
husbands opinions. In time you may learn to share them, and then we
should be further apart than ever. At present, it is my sole comfort
to know you possess that living faith without which every soul is
lost.”
“Lost?” she repeated, in a bewildering way, not looking at him.
“I don’t mean in the vulgar sense; the theological ideas of damnation
have never had my sanction, far less my sympathy. But materialism
degrades the believer, and sooner or later comes a disbelief in all
that is holy, beautiful, and sanctified. It is a humble creed, the new
creed of science, and fatal to spiritual hopes.”
“Does it matter so much what one believes, if one’s life is good?”
“It matters so much that I would rather see one I loved dead before my
feet than an avowed unbeliever. But there, I have not come to preach
to you. When does Mr. Haldane return?”
“As I told you: in a fortnight, perhaps sooner.”
“And during his absence we shall meet again, I hope?”
She hesitated and looked at him. His eyes were fixed on the distant
woods, though he stood expectantly, as if awaiting her reply, which
did not come.
“Can you not trust me?” he exclaimed. “You know I am your friend?”
“I hope so; but I think it is best that you should not come here. If
you were married, it would be different.”
“I shall not marry,” he replied impatiently. “What then? I am a
priest of God, and you may trust me fully. If our Church commenced the
confessional, you might enter it without fear, and I--I would listen
to the outpourings of your heart. Should you in your grief be afraid
to utter them?”
She moved away from him, turning her back; but betrayed herself. He
saw the bright colour mount to her neck and mantle there.
“What nonsense you talk!” she said presently, with a forced laugh.
“Are you going over to Rome?”
“I might go over to the evil place itself, Ellen, if _you_ were
there.”
There was no mistaking the words, the tone, in their diabolic
gentleness, their suavity of supreme and total self-surrender. She
felt helpless in spite of herself. The man was overmastering her, and
rapidly encroaching. She felt like a person morally stifled, and with
a strong effort tried to shake the evil influence away.
“I was right,” she said. “We must not meet.”
He smiled sadly.
“As you please. I will come, or I will go, at your will. You have only
to say to me, ‘Go and destroy yourself, obliterate yourself for ever
from my life, blot yourself out from the roll of living beings,’ and I
shall obey you.”
Her spirit revolted more and more against the steadfast, self-assured
obliquity of | 1,443.86706 |
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Produced by David Edwards, Ritu Aggarwal and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from scans of public domain material
produced by Microsoft for their Live Search Books site.)
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:--
1. Passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_.
2. Printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation,
and ligature usage have been retained except the following:
Pg. 117, Ch. VII: Changed comma to period in (relation to life,)
Pg. 255, Ch. XVI: Removed ending quote in (the highest sense.")
THE DAUGHTER OF THE STORAGE
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
THE DAUGHTER
OF THE STORAGE
AND OTHER THINGS
IN PROSE AND VERSE
W. D. HOWELLS
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
Copyright, 1915, 1916, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
Published April, 1916
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. THE DAUGHTER OF THE STORAGE 3
II. A PRESENTIMENT 45
III. CAPTAIN DUNLEVY'S LAST TRIP 67
IV. THE RETURN TO FAVOR 81
V. SOMEBODY'S MOTHER 93
VI. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW 107
VII. AN EXPERIENCE 117
VIII. THE BOARDERS 127
IX. BREAKFAST IS MY BEST MEAL 141
X. THE MOTHER-BIRD 151
XI. THE AMIGO 161
XII. BLACK CROSS FARM 173
XIII. THE CRITICAL BOOKSTORE 185
XIV. A FEAST OF REASON 227
XV. CITY AND COUNTRY IN THE FALL 243
XVI. TABLE TALK 253
XVII. THE ESCAPADE OF A GRANDFATHER 269
XVIII. SELF-SACRIFICE: A FARCE-TRAGEDY 285
XIX. THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS 319
THE DAUGHTER OF THE STORAGE
I
They were getting some of their things out to send into the country,
and Forsyth had left his work to help his wife look them over and
decide which to take and which to leave. The things were mostly trunks
that they had stored the fall before; there were some tables and
Colonial bureaus inherited from his mother, and some mirrors and
decorative odds and ends, which they would not want in the furnished
house they had taken for the summer. There were some canvases which
Forsyth said he would paint out and use for other subjects, but which,
when he came to look at again, he found really not so bad. The rest,
literally, was nothing but trunks; there were, of course, two or three
boxes of books. When they had been packed closely into the five-dollar
room, with the tables and bureaus and mirrors and canvases and
decorative odds and ends put carefully on top, the Forsyths thought
the effect very neat, and laughed at themselves for being proud of it.
They spent the winter in Paris planning for the summer in America, and
now it had come May, a month which in New York is at its best, and in
the Constitutional Storage Safe-Deposit Warehouse is by no means at
its worst. The Constitutional Storage is no longer new, but when the
Forsyths were among the first to store there it was up to the latest
moment in the modern perfections of a safe-deposit warehouse. It was
strictly fire-proof; and its long, white, brick-walled, iron-doored
corridors, with their clean concrete floors, branching from a central
avenue to the tall windows north and south, offered perspectives
sculpturesquely bare, or picturesquely heaped with arriving or
departing household stuff.
When the Forsyths went to look at it a nice young fellow from the
office had gone with them; running ahead and switching on rows of
electrics down the corridors, and then, with a wire-basketed electric
lamp, which he twirled about and held aloft and alow, showing the
dustless, sweet-smelling spaciousness of a perfect five-dollar room.
He said it would more than hold their things; and it really held them.
Now, when the same young fellow unlocked the iron door and set it
wide, he said he would get them a man, and he got Mrs. Forsyth a gilt
armchair from some furniture going into an adjoining twenty-dollar
room. She sat down in it, and "Of course," she said, "the pieces I
want will be at the very back and the very bottom. Why don't you get
yourself a chair, too, Ambrose? What are you looking at?"
| 1,443.954457 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Voyage of the Aurora, by Harry Collingwood.
CHAPTER ONE.
INTRODUCES LUCY WALFORD.
Those who have ever had occasion to reside for any length of time in | 1,443.981074 |
2023-11-16 18:41:08.0180560 | 4,746 | 31 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously
made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
FOLKLORE OF SCOTTISH LOCHS AND SPRINGS.
BY
JAMES M. MACKINLAY, M.A., F.S.A.Scot.
GLASGOW: WILLIAM HODGE & Co.
1893.
PREFATORY NOTE.
No work giving a comprehensive account of Well-worship in Scotland
has yet appeared. Mr. R. C. Hope's recent volume, "Holy Wells: Their
Legends and Traditions," discusses the subject in its relation to
England. In the following pages an attempt has been made to illustrate
the more outstanding facts associated with the cult north of the
Tweed. Various holy wells are referred to by name; but the list makes
no claim to be exhaustive.
J. M. M.
4 Westbourne Gardens,
Glasgow, December, 1893.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. Worship of Water, 1
II. How Water became Holy, 24
III. Saints and Springs, 39
IV. More Saints and Springs, 56
V. Stone Blocks and Saints' Springs, 72
VI. Healing and Holy Wells, 86
VII. Water-Cures, 108
VIII. Some Wonderful Wells, 128
IX. Witness of Water, 140
X. Water-Spirits, 155
XI. More Water-Spirits, 171
XII. Offerings at Lochs and Springs, 188
XIII. Weather and Wells, 213
XIV. Trees and Springs, 230
XV. Charm-Stones in and out of Water, 241
XVI. Pilgrimages to Wells, 263
XVII. Sun-Worship and Well-Worship, 280
XVIII. Wishing-Wells, 314
XIX. Meaning of Marvels, 324
Among the works consulted are the following, the titles being given
in alphabetical order:--
A Description of the Western Islands of Scotland. By John MacCulloch,
M.D. 1819.
A Description of the Western Islands. By M. Martin. Circa 1695.
A Handbook of Weather Folklore. By the Rev. C. Swainson, M.A.
A Historical Account of the belief in Witchcraft in Scotland. By
Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe.
A Journey through the Western Counties of Scotland. By Robert
Heron. 1799.
Ancient Legends: Mystic Charms and Superstitions of Ireland. By
Lady Wilde.
An Etymological Dictionary of the Scottish Language. By John Jamieson,
D.D.
Annals of Dunfermline and Vicinity. By Ebenezer Henderson, LL.D.
Antiquities and Scenery of the North of Scotland. By Rev. Charles
Cordiner. 1780.
Archæological Sketches in Scotland: Districts of Kintyre and
Knapdale. By Captain T. P. White.
A Tour in Scotland and Voyage to the Hebrides, MDCCLXXII. By Thomas
Pennant.
A Tour in Scotland, MDCCLXIX. By Thomas Pennant.
Britannia; or, A Chorographical Description of the Flourishing Kingdoms
of England, Scotland, and Ireland, and the Islands adjacent, from the
Earliest Antiquity. By William Camden. Translated from the edition
published by the Author in MDCVII. Enlarged by the latest discoveries
by Richard Gough. The second edition in four volumes. 1806.
Celtic Heathendom. By Professor John Rhys.
Celtic Scotland: A History of Ancient Alban. By William Forbes Skene.
Churchlore Gleanings. By T. F. Thiselton Dyer.
Daemonologie in Forme of a Dialogve. Written by the High and Mightie
Prince James, by the Grace of God King of England, Scotland, France,
and Ireland; Defender of the Faith. 1603.
Descriptive Notices of some of the Ancient Parochial and Collegiate
Churches of Scotland. By T. S. Muir.
Domestic Annals of Scotland from the Reformation to the Revolution. By
Robert Chambers, LL.D.
Ecclesiological Notes on some of the Islands of Scotland. By
T. S. Muir.
English Folklore. By the Rev. T. F. Thiselton Dyer, M.A.
Essays in the Study of Folk Songs. By the Countess Evelyn
Martinengo-Cesaresco.
Ethnology in Folklore. By G. L. Gomme.
Folklore.
Folklore Journal.
Folklore of East Yorkshire. By John Nicholson.
Folklore of Shakespeare. By Rev. T. F. Thiselton Dyer, M.A. Oxon.
Folklore; or, Superstitious Beliefs in the West of Scotland within
this Century. By James Napier, F.R.S.E.
Gairloch in North-west Ross-shire: Its Records, Traditions,
Inhabitants, and Natural History. By John H. Dixon.
Historical and Statistical Account of Dunfermline. By Rev. Peter
Chalmers, A.M.
Kalendars of Scottish Saints. By the late Alexander Penrose Forbes,
Bishop of Brechin.
Letters from a Gentleman in the North of Scotland to his Friend in
London. Burt's Letters. 1754.
List of Markets and Fairs now and formerly held in Scotland. By Sir
James David Marwick, LL.D.
Memorabilia Domestica; or, Parish Life in the North of Scotland. By
the late Rev. Donald Sage, A.M., Minister of Resolis.
New Statistical Account of Scotland. Circa 1845.
Notes and Queries.
Notes on the Folklore of the North-east of Scotland. By the Rev. Walter
Gregor.
Notes on the Folklore of the Northern Counties of England and the
Borders. By William Henderson.
Observations on Popular Antiquities, including the whole of
Mr. Bourne's Antiquitates Vulgares. By John Brand, A.M.
Old Glasgow: The Place and the People. By Andrew MacGeorge.
Old Scottish Customs, Local and General. By E. J. Guthrie.
Ordnance Gazetteer of Scotland. Edited by Francis H. Groome.
Peasant Life in Sweden. By L. Lloyd.
Popular Antiquities of Great Britain. By John Brand, M.A.
Popular Romances of the West of England. By Robert Hunt, F.R.S.
Popular Tales of the West Highlands. By J. F. Campbell.
Pre-historic Annals of Scotland. By Daniel Wilson, LL.D.
Pre-historic Man. By Daniel Wilson, LL.D.
Primitive Culture. By Edward B. Tylor, D.C.L.
Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland. Old Series,
1851-1878; New Series, 1878-1891.
Rambles in the Far North. By R. Menzies Fergusson.
Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland; or, The Traditional
History of Cromarty. By Hugh Miller.
Scotland in Early Christian Times. By Joseph Anderson, LL.D.
Scotland in Pagan Times: The Bronze and Iron Ages. By Joseph Anderson,
LL.D.
Scotland in the Middle Ages. By Professor Cosmo Innes.
Social Life in Scotland. By Charles Rogers, LL.D.
Statistical Account of Scotland. By Sir John Sinclair. Circa 1798.
The Antiquary.
The Archæological Journal. Published under the direction of The Council
of the Royal Archæological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland.
The Book of Days: A Miscellany of Popular Antiquities in connection
with the Calendar. Edited by R. Chambers.
The Darker Superstitions of Scotland. By John Graham Dalyell. 1834.
The Early Scottish Church: Ecclesiastical History of Scotland from
the First to the Twelfth Centuries. By the Rev. Thomas M'Lauchlan.
The Every-Day Book. By William Hone.
The Folklore of Plants. By T. F. Thiselton Dyer.
The Gentleman's Magazine Library--Manners and Customs. Edited by
G. L. Gomme, F.S.A.
The Gentleman's Magazine Library--Popular Superstitions. Edited by
G. L. Gomme, F.S.A.
The Golden Bough: A Study in Comparative Religion. By J. G. Frazer,
M.A.
The History of St. Cuthbert. By Charles, Archbishop of Glasgow.
The History of St. Kilda. By the Rev. Kenneth Macaulay, minister of
Ardnamurchan. 1769.
The Legendary Lore of the Holy Wells of England, including Rivers,
Lakes, Fountains, and Springs. By R. C. Hope, F.S.A.
The Origin of Civilisation. By Sir J. Lubbock, Bart.
The Past in the Present. By Arthur Mitchell, M.D., LL.D.
The Popular Rhymes of Scotland. By Robert Chambers. 1826.
The Popular Superstitions and Festive Amusements of the Highlanders
of Scotland. By William Grant Stewart.
The Surnames and Placenames of the Isle of Man. By A. W. Moore, M.A.
Traditions, Superstitions, and Folklore (chiefly Lancashire and the
North of England). By Charles Hardwick.
Tree and Serpent Worship. By James Fergusson, D.C.L., F.R.S.
'Twixt Ben Nevis and Glencoe: The Natural History, Legends, and
Folklore of the West Highlands. By the Rev. Alexander Stewart, LL.D.
Unique Traditions, chiefly of the West and South of Scotland. By John
Gordon Barbour.
Wayfaring in France. By E. H. Barker.
Weather-lore: A Collection of Proverbs, Sayings, and Rules concerning
the Weather. By R. Inwards, F.R.A.S.
Witch, Warlock, and Magician. By W. H. Davenport Adams.
FOLKLORE OF SCOTTISH LOCHS AND SPRINGS.
CHAPTER I.
WORSHIP OF WATER.
Archaic Nature-worship--Deification of Water Metaphors--Divination
by Water--Persistence of Paganism--Shony--Superstitions of Sailors
and Fishermen--Sea Serpent--Mer-folk--Sea Charms--Taking Animals
into the Sea--Rescuing from Drowning--Ancient Beliefs about
Rivers--Dead and Living Ford--Clay Image--Dunskey--Lakes--Dow
Loch--St. Vigeans--St. Tredwell's Loch--Wells of Spey
and Drachaldy--Survival of Well-worship--Disappearance of
Springs--St. Margaret's Well--Anthropomorphism of Springs--Celtic
Influence--Cream of the Well.
In glancing at the superstitions connected with Scottish lochs and
springs, we are called upon to scan a chapter of our social history
not yet closed. A somewhat scanty amount of information is available
to explain the origin and growth of such superstitions, but enough can
be had to connect them with archaic nature-worship. In the dark dawn
of our annals much confusion existed among our ancestors concerning
the outer world, which so strongly appealed to their senses. They
had very vague notions regarding the difference between what we now
call the Natural and the Supernatural. Indeed all nature was to them
supernatural. They looked on sun, moon, and star, on mountain and
forest, on river, lake, and sea as the abodes of divinities, or even
as divinities themselves. These divinities, they thought, could either
help or hurt man, and ought therefore to be propitiated. Hence sprang
certain customs which have survived to our own time. Men knocked at
the gate of Nature, but were not admitted within. From the unknown
recesses there came to them only tones of mystery.
In ancient times water was deified even by such civilised nations as
the Greeks and Romans, and to-day it is revered as a god by untutored
savages. Sir John Lubbock, in his "Origin of Civilisation," shows, by
reference to the works of travellers, what a hold this cult still has
in regions where the natives have not yet risen above the polytheistic
stage of religious development. Dr. E. B. Tylor forcibly remarks, in
his "Primitive Culture," "What ethnography has to teach of that great
element of the religion of mankind, the worship of well and lake, brook
and river, is simply this--that what is poetry to us was philosophy
to early man; that to his mind water acted not by laws of force, but
by life and will; that the water-spirits of primæval mythology are
as souls which cause the water's rush and rest, its kindness and its
cruelty; that, lastly, man finds in the beings which, with such power,
can work him weal and woe, deities with a wider influence over his
life, deities to be feared and loved, to be prayed to and praised,
and propitiated with sacrificial gifts."
In speaking of inanimate objects, we often ascribe life to them;
but our words are metaphors, and nothing more. At an earlier time
such phrases expressed real beliefs, and were not simply the outcome
of a poetic imagination. Keats, in one of his Sonnets, speaks of
"The moving waters at their priest-like task
Of pure ablution round Earth's human shore."
Here he gives us the poetical and not the actual interpretation of
a natural phenomenon.
We may, if we choose, talk of the worship of water as a creed outworn,
but it is still with us, though under various disguises. Under the form
of rites of divination practised as an amusement by young persons, such
survivals often conceal their real origin. The history of superstition
teaches us with what persistence pagan beliefs hold their ground
in the midst of a Christian civilisation. Martin, who visited the
Western Islands at the close of the seventeenth century, found how
true this was in many details of daily life. A custom connected with
ancient sea-worship had been popular among the inhabitants of Lewis
till about thirty-years before his visit, but had been suppressed
by the Protestant clergy on account of its pagan character. This was
an annual sacrifice at Hallow-tide to a sea god called Shony. Martin
gives the following account of the ceremony:--"The inhabitants round
the island came to the church of St. Mulvay, having each man his
provision along with him; every family furnished a peck of malt, and
this was brewed into ale; one of their number was picked out to wade
into the sea up to the middle, and, carrying a cup of ale in his hand,
standing still in that posture, cried out with a loud voice, saying,
'Shony, I give you this cup of ale, hoping that you'll be so kind as
to send us plenty of sea-ware for enriching our ground the ensuing
year,' and so threw the cup of ale into the sea. This was performed
in the night-time."
Sailors and fishermen still cherish superstitions of their own. Majesty
is not the only feature of the changeful ocean that strikes them. They
are keenly alive to its mystery and to the possibilities of life
within its depths. Strange creatures have their home there, the mighty
sea serpent and the less formidable mermen and mermaidens. Among
the Shetland islands mer-folk were recognised denizens of the sea,
and were known by the name of Sea-trows.
These singular beings dwelt in the caves of ocean, and came up
to disport themselves on the shores of the islands. A favourite
haunt of theirs was the Ve Skerries, about seven miles north-west
of Papa-Stour. They usually rose through the water in the shape of
seals, and when they reached the beach they slipped off their skins
and appeared like ordinary mortals, the females being of exceeding
beauty. If the skins could be snatched away on these occasions, their
owners were powerless to escape into the sea again. Sometimes these
creatures were entangled in the nets of fishermen or were caught by
hooks. If they were shot when in seal form, a tempest arose as soon
as their blood was mingled with the water of the sea. A family living
within recent times was believed to be descended from a human father
and a mermaid mother, the man having captured his bride by stealing her
seal's skin. After some years spent on land this sea lady recovered
her skin, and at once returned to her native element. The members of
the family were said to have hands bearing some resemblance to the
forefeet of a seal.
"Of all the old mythological existences of Scotland," remarks Hugh
Miller, in his "Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland," "there
was none with whom the people of Cromarty were better acquainted than
with the mermaid. Thirty years have not yet gone by since she has
been seen by moonlight sitting on a stone in the sea, a little to the
east of the town; and scarcely a winter passed, forty years earlier,
in which she was not heard singing among the rocks or seen braiding
up her long yellow tresses on the shore."
The magical power ascribed to the sea is shown in an Orcadian witch
charm used in the seventeenth century. The charm had to do with the
churning of butter. Whoever wished to take advantage of it watched on
the beach till nine waves rolled in. At the reflux of the last the
charmer took three handfuls of water from the sea and carried them
home in a pail. If this water was put into the churn there would be
a plentiful supply of butter. Sea water was also used for curative
purposes, the patient being dipped after sunset. This charm was thought
to savour strongly of the black art. Allusion has been made above to
the rising of a storm in connection with the wounding of a sea-trow
in Shetland. According to an Orcadian superstition, the sea began
to swell whenever anyone with a piece of iron about him stept upon a
certain rock at the Noup Head of Westray. Not till the offending metal
was thrown into the water did the sea become calm again. Wallace,
a minister at Kirkwall towards the end of the seventeenth century,
mentions this belief in his "Description of the Isles of Orkney,"
and says that he offered a man a shilling to try the experiment,
but the offer was refused. It does not seem to have occurred to him
to make the experiment himself.
Among the ancient Romans the bull was sacred to Neptune, the sea
god, and was sacrificed in his honour. In our own country we find a
suggestion of the same rite, though in a modified form, in the custom
prevailing at one time of leading animals into the sea on certain
festivals. In the parish of Clonmany in Ireland it was formerly
customary on St. Columba's Day, the ninth of June, to drive cattle
to the beach and swim them in the sea near to where the water from
the Saint's well flowed in. In Scotland horses seem at one time to
have undergone a similar treatment at Lammas-tide. Dalyell, in his
"Darker Superstitions of Scotland," mentions that "in July, 1647,
the kirk-session of St. Cuthbert's Church, Edinburgh, resolved on
intimating publicly 'that non goe to Leith on Lambmes-day, nor tak
their horses to be washed that day in the sea.'"
A belief at one time existed that it was unlucky to rescue a drowning
man from the grasp of the sea. This superstition is referred to by
Sir Walter Scott in "The Pirate," in the scene where Bryce the pedlar
warns Mordaunt against saving a shipwrecked sailor. "Are you mad,"
said the pedlar, "you that have lived sae lang in Zetland, to risk the
saving of a drowning man? Wot ye not, if you bring him to life again,
he will be sure to do you some capital injury?" We discover the key
to this strange superstition in the idea entertained by savages that
the person falling into the water becomes the prey of the monster
or demon inhabiting that element; and, as Dr. Tylor aptly remarks,
"to save a sinking man is to snatch a victim from the very clutches
of the water-spirit--a rash defiance of deity which would hardly
pass unavenged."
Folklore thus brings us face to face with beliefs which owe their
origin to the primitive worship of the sea. It also allows us to catch
a glimpse of rivers, lakes, and springs as these were regarded by our
distant ancestors. When we remember that, according to a barbaric
notion, the current of a stream flows down along one bank and up
along the other, we need not be surprised that very crude fancies
concerning water at one time flourished in our land.
Even to us, with nineteenth-century science within reach, how
mysterious a river seems, as, in the quiet gloaming or in the grey
dawn, it glides along beneath overhanging trees, and how full of
life it is when, swollen by rain | 1,444.038096 |
2023-11-16 18:41:08.0189460 | 680 | 29 |
Produced by Annie McGuire
THE SPECTACLE MAN
Out of a song the story grew;
Just how it happened nobody knew,
But, song and story, it all came true.
BOOKS BY MARY F. LEONARD.
* * * * *
=THE SPECTACLE MAN=. A STORY OF THE MISSING BRIDGE. 266 pages. Cloth.
$1.00.
=MR. PAT'S LITTLE GIRL=. A STORY OF THE ARDEN FORESTERS. 322 pages.
Cloth. $1.50.
=THE PLEASANT STREET PARTNERSHIP=. A NEIGHBORHOOD STORY. 269 pages.
Cloth. $.75, _net_.
[Illustration: "The Spectacle Man, leaning his elbows on the
show-case"]
The Spectacle Man
_A Story of the Missing Bridge_
* * * * *
By
Mary F. Leonard
AUTHOR OF
"THE BIG FRONT DOOR"
_Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill_
W. A. WILDE COMPANY
BOSTON AND CHICAGO
_Copyright, 1901,_
BY W. A. WILDE COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_.
_TO THE ONE
Whose Love has been from Childhood
An Unfailing Inspiration
Whose Friendship has made Dark Paths Light
This Little Book is Dedicated
In Memory of "Remembered Hours"_
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER FIRST. Page
Frances meets the Spectacle Man 11
CHAPTER SECOND.
A Certain Person 22
CHAPTER THIRD.
Gladys 32
CHAPTER FOURTH.
They look at a Flat 40
CHAPTER FIFTH.
Some New Acquaintances 50
CHAPTER SIXTH.
An Informal Affair 61
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
A Portrait 77
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
The Story of the Bridge 86
CHAPTER NINTH.
Finding a Moral 106
CHAPTER TENTH.
The Portrait Again 118
CHAPTER ELEVENTH.
Mrs. Marvin is perplexed 128
CHAPTER TWELFTH.
At Christmas Time 134
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.
One Sunday Afternoon 151
CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.
Three of a Name 164
CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.
A Confidence 177
CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.
Hard Times 186
CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.
At the Loan Exhibit 198
CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.
The March Number of _The Young People's Journal_ 207
CHAPTER NINETEENTH.
Surprises 215
CHAPTER TWENTIETH.
Caroline's Story 231
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST.
Overheard by Peterkin 240
CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND.
The Little Girl in the Golden Doorway 249
CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD.
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* * * * *
Transcriber's Note: The original publication has been replicated
faithfully except as shown in the TRANSCRIBER'S AMENDMENTS near the end
of the text. To preserve the alignment of tables and headers, this etext
presumes a mono-spaced font on the user's device, such as Courier New.
Words in italics are indicated like _this_.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
[Illustration: COLUMBIA PRESENTING STANLEY TO EUROPEAN SOVEREIGNS.]
STANLEY
IN AFRICA.
THE
WONDERFUL DISCOVERIES
AND
THRILLING ADVENTURES
OF
THE GREAT AFRICAN EXPLORER
AND OTHER
TRAVELERS, PIONEERS AND MISSIONARIES.
BEAUTIFULLY AND ELABORATELY ILLUSTRATED WITH
ENGRAVINGS, PLATES AND MAPS
BY
JAMES P. BOYD, A.M.
Author of "Political History of the United States"
and "Life of Gen. U. S. Grant," etc.
ROSE PUBLISHING CO.,
TORONTO, CANADA.
Copyright, 1889
BY
JAMES P. BOYD.
INTRODUCTION.
A volume of travel, exploration and adventure is never without
instruction and fascination for old and young. There is that within us
all which ever seeks for the mysteries which are bidden behind mountains,
closeted in forests, concealed by earth or sea, in a word, which are
enwrapped by Nature. And there is equally that within us which is touched
most sensitively and stirred most deeply by the heroism which has
characterized the pioneer of all ages of the world and in every field of
adventure.
How like enchantment is the story of that revelation which the New
America furnished the Old World! What a spirit of inquiry and exploit it
opened! How unprecedented and startling, adventure of every kind became!
What thrilling volumes tell of the hardships of daring navigators or of
the perils of brave and dashing landsmen! Later on, who fails to read
with the keenest emotion of those dangers, trials and escapes which
enveloped the intrepid searchers after the icy secrets of the Poles, or
confronted those who would unfold the tale of the older civilizations and
of the ocean's island spaces.
Though the directions of pioneering enterprise change, yet more and more
man searches for the new. To follow him, is to write of the wonderful.
Again, to follow him is to read of the surprising and the thrilling. No
prior history of discovery has ever exceeded in vigorous entertainment
and startling interest that which centers in "The Dark Continent" and has
for its most distinguished hero, Henry M. Stanley. His coming and going
in the untrodden and hostile wilds of Africa, now to rescue the stranded
pioneers of other nationalities, now to explore the unknown waters of
a mighty and unique system, now to teach cannibal tribes respect for
decency and law, and now to map for the first time with any degree of
accuracy, the limits of new dynasties, make up a volume of surpassing
moment and peculiar fascination.
All the world now turns to Africa as the scene of those adventures which
possess such a weird and startling interest for readers of every class,
and which invite to heroic exertion on the part of pioneers. It is the
one dark, mysterious spot, strangely made up of massive mountains, lofty
and extended plateaus, salt and sandy deserts, immense fertile stretches,
climates of death and balm, spacious lakes, gigantic rivers, dense
forests, numerous, grotesque and savage peoples, and an animal life of
fierce mien, enormous strength and endless variety. It is the country of
the marvelous, yet none of its marvels exceed its realities.
And each exploration, each pioneering exploit, each history of adventure
into its mysterious depths, but intensifies the world's view of it and
enhances human interest in it, for it is there the civilized nations are
soon to set metes and bounds to their grandest acquisitions--perhaps in
peace, perhaps in war. It is there that white colonization shall try its
boldest problems. It is there that Christianity shall engage in one of
its hardest contests.
Victor Hugo says, that "Africa will be the continent of the twentieth
century." Already the nations are struggling to possess it. Stanley's
explorations proved the majesty and efficacy of equipment and force amid
these dusky peoples and through the awful mazes of the unknown. Empires
watched with eager eye the progress of his last daring journey. Science
and civilization stood ready to welcome its results. He comes to light
again, having escaped ambush, flood, the wild beast and disease, and
his revelations set the world aglow. He is greeted by kings, hailed by
savants, and looked to by the colonizing nations as the future pioneer of
political power and commercial enterprise in their behalf, as he has been
the most redoubtable leader of adventure in the past.
This miraculous journey of the dashing and intrepid explorer, completed
against obstacles which all believed to be insurmountable, safely ended
after opinion had given him up as dead, together with its bearings on the
| 1,444.060082 |
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Produced by Bethanne M. Simms and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
* * * * *
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as
faithfully as possible; please see detailed list of printing issues at
the end of the text.
* * * * *
ADMIRAL FARRAGUT
Great Commanders
_EDITED BY JAMES GRANT WILSON_
* * * * *
The Great Commanders Series.
EDITED BY GENERAL JAMES GRANT WILSON.
Admiral Farragut. By Captain A. T. Mahan, U. S. N.
General Taylor. By General O. O. Howard, U. S. A.
General Jackson. By James Parton.
General Greene. By Captain Francis V. Greene, U. S. A.
General J. E. Johnston. By Robert M. Hughes, of Virginia.
General Thomas. By Henry Coppee, LL. D.
General Scott. By General Marcus J. Wright.
General Washington. By General Bradley T. Johnson.
General Lee. By General Fitzhugh Lee.
General Hancock. By General Francis J. Walker.
General Sheridan. By General Henry E. Davies.
General Grant. By General James Grant Wilson.
_IN PREPARATION._
General Sherman. By General Manning F. Force.
Admiral Porter. By James R. Soley, late Assist. Sec. of Navy.
General McClellan. By General Peter S. Michie.
Commodore Paul Jones. By Admiral Richard W. Meade.
New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue.
* * * * *
[Illustration: D. G. Farragut]
D. Appleton & Co.
* * * * *
GREAT COMMANDERS
ADMIRAL FARRAGUT
BY CAPTAIN A. T. MAHAN, U. S. NAVY
PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES NAVAL WAR COLLEGE
AUTHOR OF THE GULF AND INLAND WATERS, AND OF
THE INFLUENCE OF SEA POWER UPON HISTORY, 1660-1783
_WITH PORTRAIT AND MAPS_
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1897
* * * * *
Copyright, 1892,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
Electrotyped and Printed
at the Appleton Press, U.S.A.
* * * * *
PREFACE.
In preparing this brief sketch of the most celebrated of our naval
heroes, the author has been aided by the very full and valuable
biography published in 1878 by his son, Mr. Loyall Farragut, who has
also kindly supplied for this work many additional details of interest
from the Admiral's journals and correspondence, and from other
memoranda. For the public events connected with Farragut's career,
either directly or indirectly, recourse has been had to the official
papers, as well as to the general biographical and historical literature
bearing upon the war, which each succeeding year brings forth in books
or magazines. The author has also to express his thanks to Rear-Admiral
Thornton A. Jenkins, formerly chief-of-staff to Admiral Farragut; to
Captain John Crittenden Watson, formerly his flag-lieutenant; and to his
friend General James Grant Wilson, for interesting anecdotes and
reminiscences.
A. T. M.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--Family and Early Life, 1801-1811 1
II.--Cruise of the Essex, 1811-1814 10
III.--Midshipman to Lieutenant, 1814-1825 51
IV.--Lieutenant, 1825-1841 69
V.--Commander and Captain, 1841-1860 89
VI.--The Question of Allegiance, 1860-1861 106
VII.--The New Orleans Expedition, 1862 115
VIII.--The First Advance on Vicksburg, 1862 177
IX.--The Blockade, and the Passage of Port Hudson, 1862-1863 196
X.--Mobile Bay Fight, 1864 237
XI.--Later Years and Death, 1864-1870 294
XII.--The Character of Admiral Farragut 308
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
FACING
PAGE
Portrait of Admiral Farragut _Frontispiece_
General Map of the scene of Farragut's operations 115
Passage of Mississippi Forts 127
Passage of Vicksburg Batteries 187
Passage of Port Hudson 213
Battle of Mobile Bay 247
* * * * *
ADMIRAL FARRAGUT.
CHAPTER I.
FAMILY AND EARLY LIFE.
1801-1811.
The father of Admiral Farragut, George Farragut, was of unmixed Spanish
descent, having been born on the 29th of September, 1755, in the island
of Minorca, one of the Balearic group, where the family had been
prominent for centuries. One of his ancestors, Don Pedro Ferragut,
served with great distinction under James I, King of Aragon, in the wars
against the Moors, which resulted in their expulsion from Majorca in
1229, and from the kingdom of Valencia, in the Spanish Peninsula, in
1238. As Minorca in 1755 was a possession of the British Crown, to which
it had been ceded in 1713 by the Treaty of Utrecht, George Farragut was
born under the British flag; but in the following year a French
expedition, fitted out in Toulon, succeeding in wresting from the hands
of Great Britain both the island and its excellent fortified harbor,
Port Mahon, one of the most advantageous naval stations in the
Mediterranean. It was in the course of the operations which resulted in
this conquest of Minorca by the French that the British fleet, under
the command of Admiral Byng, met with the check for which the admiral
paid the penalty of his life a few months later. At the close of the
Seven Years' War, in 1763, the island was restored to Great Britain, in
whose hands it remained until 1782, when it was again retaken by the
French and Spaniards.
George Farragut, however, had long before severed his connection with
his native country. In March, 1776, he emigrated to North America, which
was then in the early throes of the Revolutionary struggle. Having grown
to manhood a subject to Great Britain, but alien in race and feeling, he
naturally espoused the cause of the colonists, and served gallantly in
the war. At its end he found himself, like the greater part of his
adopted countrymen, called to the task of building up his own fortunes,
neglected during its continuance; and, by so doing, to help in restoring
prosperity to the new nation. A temper naturally adventurous led him to
the border lines of civilization; and it was there, in the region where
North Carolina and eastern Tennessee meet, that the years succeeding the
Revolution appear mainly to have been passed. It was there also that he
met and married his wife, Elizabeth Shine, a native of Dobbs County,
North Carolina, where she was born on the 7th of June, 1765. At the time
of their marriage the country where they lived was little more than a
wilderness, still infested by Indians; and one of the earliest
recollections of the future admiral was being sent into the loft, on the
approach of a party of these, while his mother with an axe guarded the
door, which she had barricaded. This unsettled and dangerous condition
necessitated a constant state of preparedness, with some organization
of the local militia, among whom George Farragut held the rank of a
major of cavalry, in which capacity he served actively for some time.
While resident in Tennessee, George Farragut became known to Mr. W. C.
C. Claiborne, at that time the member for Tennessee in the National
House of Representatives. Mr. Claiborne in 1801 became governor of
Mississippi Territory; and in 1803, when the United States purchased
from France the great region west of the Mississippi River, to which the
name Louisiana was then applied, he received the cession of the newly
acquired possession. This was soon after divided into two parts by a
line following the thirty-third parallel of north latitude, and
Claiborne became governor of the southern division, which was called the
Territory of Orleans. To this may probably be attributed the removal of
the Farraguts to Louisiana from eastern Tennessee. The region in which
the latter is situated, remote both from tide-water and from the great
river by which the Western States found their way to the Gulf of Mexico,
was singularly unfitted to progress under the conditions of
communication in that day; and it long remained among the most backward
and primitive portions of the United States. The admiral's father, after
his long experience there, must have seen that there was little hope of
bettering his fortunes. Whatever the cause, he moved to Louisiana in the
early years of the century, and settled his family in New Orleans. He
himself received the appointment of sailing-master in the navy, and was
ordered to command a gun-boat employed in the river and on the adjacent
sounds. A dispute had arisen between the United States and the Spanish
Government, to whom the Floridas then belonged, as to the line of
demarcation between the two territories; and George Farragut was at
times employed with his vessel in composing disturbances and forwarding
the views of his own government.
David Glasgow, the second son of George Farragut, and the future Admiral
of the United States Navy, was born before the removal to Louisiana, on
the 5th of July, 1801, at Campbell's Station, near Knoxville, in eastern
Tennessee. In 1808, while living in his father's house on the banks of
Lake Pontchartrain, an incident occurred which led directly to his
entrance into the navy, and at the same time brought into curious
coincidence two families, not before closely associated, whose names are
now among the most conspicuous of those in the annals of the navy. While
George Farragut was fishing one day on Lake Pontchartrain he fell in
with a boat, also engaged in fishing, in which was an old gentleman
prostrated by the heat of the sun. He took him to his own house, where
he was cared for and nursed until he died, never having recovered
strength sufficient to be removed. The sufferer was David Porter, the
father of the Captain David Porter who afterward commanded the frigate
Essex in her adventurous and celebrated cruise in the Pacific during the
years 1813 and 1814, and grandfather of the still more distinguished
Admiral David D. Porter, who, over half a century later, served with
David Farragut on the Mississippi in the civil war, and in the end
succeeded him as second admiral of the navy. Captain, or rather, as he
then was, Commander Porter being in charge of the naval station at New
Orleans, his father, who had served actively afloat during the
Revolution and had afterward been appointed by Washington a
sailing-master in the navy, had obtained orders to the same station, in
order to be with, though nominally under, his son. The latter deeply
felt the kindness shown to his father by the Farraguts. Mrs. Farragut
herself died of yellow fever, toward the end of Mr. Porter's illness,
the funeral of the two taking place on the same day; and Commander
Porter soon after visited the family at their home and offered to adopt
one of the children. Young David Farragut then knew little of the
element upon which his future life was to be passed; but, dazzled by the
commander's uniform and by that of his own elder brother William, who
had received a midshipman's warrant a short time before, he promptly
decided to accept an offer which held forth to him the same brilliant
prospects. The arrangement was soon concluded. Porter promised to be to
him always a friend and guardian; and the admiral wrote in after life,
"I am happy to have it in my power to say, with feelings of the warmest
gratitude, that he ever was to me all that he promised." The boy
returned to New Orleans with his new protector, in whose house he
thenceforth resided, making occasional trips across Lake Pontchartrain
to a plantation which his father had purchased on the Pascagoula River.
A few months later Commander Porter appears to have made a visit to
Washington on business connected with the New Orleans station, and to
have taken Farragut with him to be placed at school, for which there
were few advantages at that time in Louisiana. The boy then took what
proved to be a last farewell of his father. George Farragut continued to
live in Pascagoula, and there he died on the 4th of June, 1817, in his
sixty-second year.
The trip north was made by Porter and his ward in the bomb-ketch | 1,444.137125 |
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Produced by Gregory Walker
THE TAO TEH KING,
OR
THE TAO AND ITS CHARACTERISTICS
by Lao-Tse
Translated by James Legge
PART 1.
Ch. 1. 1. The Tao that can be trodden is not the enduring and
unchanging Tao. The name that can be named is not the enduring and
unchanging name.
2. (Conceived of as) having no name, it is the Originator of heaven
and earth; (conceived of as) having a name, it is the Mother of all
things.
3.
Always without desire we must be found,
If its deep mystery we would sound;
But if desire always within us be,
Its outer fringe is all that we shall see.
4. Under these two aspects, it is really the same; but as development
takes place, it receives the different names. Together we call them
the Mystery. Where the Mystery is the deepest is the gate of all that
is subtle and wonderful.
2. 1. All in the world know the beauty of the beautiful, and in doing
this they have (the idea of) what ugliness is; they all know the skill
of the skilful, and in doing this they have | 1,444.138933 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Julia Neufeld and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
The carat character (^) indicates that the following letter is
superscripted (example: SCALE 4 F^T to 1 I^N).
* * * * *
A BOOK OF THE WEST
VOL. I.
DEVON
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
LIFE OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE
THE TRAGEDY OF THE CÆSARS
THE DESERT OF SOUTHERN FRANCE
STRANGE SURVIVALS
SONGS OF THE WEST
A GARLAND OF COUNTRY SONG
OLD COUNTRY LIFE
YORKSHIRE ODDITIES
FREAKS OF FANATICISM
A BOOK OF FAIRY TALES
OLD ENGLISH FAIRY TALES
A BOOK OF NURSERY SONGS
AN OLD ENGLISH HOME
THE VICAR OF MORWENSTOW
THE CROCK OF GOLD
[Illustration: SWEET HAY-MAKERS]
A
BOOK OF THE WEST
BEING AN INTRODUCTION
TO DEVON AND CORNWALL
BY S. BARING-GOULD
VOL. I.
DEVON
WITH THIRTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.
LONDON
1899
PREFACE
In this "Book of the West" I have not sought to say all that might
be said relative to Devon and Cornwall; nor have I attempted to
make of it a guide-book. I have rather endeavoured to convey to
the visitor to our western peninsula a general idea of what is
interesting, and what ought to attract his attention. The book is
not intended to supersede guide-books, but to prepare the mind to
use these latter with discretion.
In dealing with the history of the counties and of the towns, it
would have swelled the volumes unduly to have gone systematically
through their story from the beginning to the present; it would,
moreover, have made the book heavy reading, as well as heavy to
carry. I have chosen, therefore, to pick out some incident, or some
biography connected with the several towns described, and have
limited myself thereto.
My object then must not be misunderstood, and my book harshly judged
accordingly. There are ten thousand omissions, but I venture to
think a good many things have been admitted which will not be found
in guide-books, but which it is well for the visitor to know, if he
has a quick intelligence and eyes open to observe.
In the Cornish volume I have given rather fully the stories of the
saints who have impressed their names indelibly on the land. It has
seemed to me absurd to travel in Cornwall and have these names in
the mouth, and let them remain _nuda nomina_.
They have a history, and that is intimately associated with the
beginnings of that of Cornwall. But their history has not been
studied, and in books concerning Cornwall most of the statements
about them are wholly false.
I have not entered into any critical discussion concerning moot
points. I have left that for my "Catalogue of the Cornish Saints"
that is being issued in the _Journal of the Royal Institution of
Cornwall_.
There are places that might have been described more fully, others
that have been passed over without notice. This has been due to no
disregard for them on my part, but to a dread of making the volumes
too bulky and cumbrous.
Finally, I owe a debt of gratitude to many kind friends who have
assisted me with their local knowledge, as Mrs. Troup, of Offwell
House, Honiton; the Rev. J. B. Hughes, for some time Head Master
of Blundell's School, Tiverton, and now Vicar of Staverton; Mr. R.
Burnard, of Huckaby House, Dartmoor, and Hillsborough, Plymouth, my
_alter ego_ in all that concerns Dartmoor; Mr. J. D. Enys, whose
knowledge of things Cornish is encyclopædic; Messrs. Amery, of
Druid, Ashburton; Mr. J. D. Prickman, of Okehampton; and many others.
S. BARING-GOULD
LEW TRENCHARD HOUSE, DEVON
_June, 1899_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE WESTERN FOLK 1
II. VILLAGES AND CHURCHES 30
III. HONITON 43
IV. A LANDSLIP 60
V. EXETER 68
VI. CREDITON 79
VII. TIVERTON 101
VIII. BARNSTAPLE 122
IX. BIDEFORD 134
X. DARTMOOR AND ITS ANTIQUITIES 155
XI. DARTMOOR: ITS TENANTS 176
XII. OKEHAMPTON 208
XIII. MORETON HAMPSTEAD 225
XIV. ASHBURTON 248
XV. TAVISTOCK 266
XVI. TORQUAY 289
XVII. TOTNES 310
XVIII. DARTMOUTH 323
XIX. KINGSBRIDGE 337
XX. PLYMOUTH 352
ILLUSTRATIONS
SWEET HAY-MAKERS _Frontispiece_
From a photograph by Mr. Chenhall, Tavistock.
CLOVELLY FISHERMEN _To face page_ 16
From a photograph by the Rev. F. Partridge.
SHEEPSTOR " 30
From a painting by A. B. Collier, Esq.
HOLNE PULPIT AND SCREEN " 38
From a photograph by J. Amery, Esq.
HONITON LACE " 51
From specimens kindly lent by Miss Herbert, Exeter,
and Mrs. Fowler, Honiton. Photographed by the Rev.
F. | 1,444.13903 |
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TRADE AND TRAVEL
IN THE
FAR EAST;
OR
RECOLLECTIONS OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS
PASSED IN
JAVA, SINGAPORE, AUSTRALIA,
AND CHINA.
BY G. F. DAVIDSON.
LONDON:
MADDEN AND MALCOLM,
LEADENHALL STREET.
1846.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY MADDEN AND MALCOLM,
8 LEADENHALL STREET.
PREFACE.
The following pages were written to beguile the tediousness of a long
voyage from Hong Kong to England, during the spring and summer of 1844.
When I state, that the whole was written with the paper on my knee, for
want of a desk, amid continual interruptions from three young children
lacking amusement during their long confinement on ship-board, and with
a perpetual liability to be pitched to leeward, paper and all,--I shall
have said enough to bespeak from every good-natured reader a candid
allowance for whatever defects may attach to the composition. It is
necessary, however, that I should also premise, that the sketches are
drawn entirely from memory, and that the incidents referred to in the
earlier chapters, took place some twenty years ago. That my recollection
may have proved treacherous on some minor points, is very possible; but,
whatever may be the merits or demerits of the work in other respects, it
contains, to the best of my knowledge and belief, nothing but truth in
the strictest sense of that term; and, as imbodying the result of my own
personal observations in the countries visited, it may possess an
interest on that account, not always attaching to volumes of higher
pretensions.
My wanderings have been neither few nor short, and, perhaps, verify the
old proverb, that a rolling stone gathers no moss. I have crossed the
Ocean in forty different square-rigged vessels; have trod the plains of
Hindostan, the wilds of Sumatra, and the mountains of Java; have
strolled among the beautiful hills and dales of Singapore and Penang;
have had many a gallop amid the forests and plains of Australia; have
passed through the labyrinth of reefs forming Torres' Straits; and have
visited the far-famed Celestial Empire. My first idea, in endeavouring
to retrace my journeyings and adventures, was, that the personal
narrative might serve to amuse a circle of private friends. But the
notices relating to the openings for Trade in the Far East, and to the
subject of Emigration, together with the free strictures upon the causes
of the recent depression in our Australian colonies, will, I venture to
hope, be not unacceptable to those who are interested in the extension
of British commerce, and in the well-being of the rising communities
which form an integral part of the mighty Empire now encircling the
Globe.
Some parts of the work refer to coming events as probable, which have
since become matters of fact; but I have not deemed it necessary to
suppress or to alter what I had written. I am more especially happy to
find that my suggestions respecting Borneo have, to some extent, been
anticipated; and that the important discovery of its coal-mines has been
taken advantage of by Her Majesty's Government in the very way pointed
out in observations written at sea fifteen months ago. Since my arrival
in England, I have learned also, that the feasibility of the navigation
of Torres' Straits from west to east, has struck others more competent
to form a correct judgment than myself. Captain T. Blackwood, commander
of Her Majesty's ship, Fly, at present employed in surveying the coast
of New Holland, the Straits, and parts adjacent, has expressed his
determination, after refitting at Singapore, to endeavour to enter the
Pacific Ocean, during the north-west monsoon, by sailing through Torres'
Straits from the westward. I trust that this enterprising Officer will
succeed in the attempt, and thereby put beyond question the
practicability of the passage; which would not only shorten the distance
between Australia and our Indian territories, but contribute, more than
any thing else could do, to facilitate the transit of the Overland Mail
to Sydney. The Australians, I find, are still sanguinely bent upon
discovering an overland route from the present frontiers of the Colony
to Port Essington; but, although I heartily wish them success, my
opinion, as expressed in the subsequent pages, remains unaltered.
I observe, that the Singaporeans are already complaining of the
decrease of the number of square-rigged vessels that have visited their
port during the recent season, and of the falling-off of the
Chinese-junk trade, which they correctly attribute to the opening of the
trade with China; thereby verifying my predictions. I fear that they
will have still greater cause for complaint before twelve months shall
have rolled away. But the merchants of Singapore, it gives me pleasure
to add, are taking advantage of the times, by entering upon the China
trade, and seem determined not to suffer loss, if they can help it, by
the effect of Sir Henry Pottinger's famous Treaty. This is as it should
be.
With these few remarks on the motives which have induced me to write and
give to the world the following sketches, I now commit them to their
fate; trusting that they may serve to beguile an hour, to some of my
numerous friends in the different parts of the world they refer to, and
that, to the reader unacquainted with those countries, they may prove
both useful and entertaining. Before taking leave of the reader,
however, I must apologize for an unfortunate error my printer has fallen
into, (at p. 3 note), in misprinting the name of Mr. Mercus, one of the
best men that ever ruled a Colony, whether Dutch or English. This name
has been converted into Minns; and the error was not detected, till the
sheet had passed through the press.
As for the critics.--for any kind or friendly remarks they may make, I
shall feel grateful; while any of a contrary nature will neither
surprise nor displease me.
HULL, _January 1846_.
CONTENTS.
PREFACE P. i
CHAPTER I.
JAVA.
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF BATAVIA--NARROW POLICY OF
THE GOVERNMENT--DESCRIPTION OF THE TOWN AND
NEIGHBOURHOOD--ROADS AND POSTING SYSTEM--STATE
OF SOCIETY--CLIMATE AND SEASONS--TROPICAL FRUITS 1
CHAPTER II.
JAVA.
SAM | 1,444.140126 |
2023-11-16 18:41:08.1230460 | 272 | 13 | The Project Gutenberg Etext of God's Good Man, by Marie Corelli
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* * * * *
The History Teacher’s Magazine
Volume I.
Number 5.
PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1910.
$1.00 a year
15 cents a copy
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
INTRODUCTORY COURSE IN HISTORY IN HARVARD COLLEGE,
by Prof. Charles H. Haskins 95
IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICAN HISTORY TEACHING, by Sara A. Burstall 96
“THE OLD SOUTH LEAFLETS” CLASSIFIED, by Rex W. Wells 98
MUNICIPAL CIVICS, by Dr. James J. Sheppard 99
HAS HISTORY A PRACTICAL VALUE? by Prof. J. N. Bowman 103
CALDWELL AND PERSINGER’S “A SOURCE HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES” 105
EDITORIAL 106
AMERICAN HISTORY IN THE SECONDARY SCHOOL,
by Arthur M. Wolfson, Ph.D. 107
ASHLEY’S “AMERICAN HISTORY,” reviewed by H. R. Tucker 108
ANCIENT HISTORY IN THE SECONDARY SCHOOL,
by William Fairley, Ph.D. 109
EUROPEAN HISTORY IN THE SECONDARY SCHOOL,
by D. C. Knowlton, Ph.D. 110
HISTORY IN THE GRADES, by Armand J. Gerson 112
REPORTS FROM THE HISTORICAL FIELD, by Walter H. Cushing:
The English Historical Association; California Association;
New York City Conference; Missouri Society; Bibliography of
History for Schools 113
CORRESPONDENCE:
Source Methods; School Libraries 114
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search topics, and numerous specific references to the best books for
collateral reading. The aim of the book is to be accurate in substance
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* * * * *
The History Teacher’s Magazine
Volume I.
Number 5.
PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1910.
$1.00 a year
15 cents a copy
Introductory Course in History[1] In Harvard College
BY PROFESSOR CHARLES H. HASKINS.
Perhaps the most difficult question which now confronts the college
teacher of history is the work of the first year of the college course.
The problem is comparatively new, and becomes each year more serious.
Twenty-five or thirty years ago the small amount of history taught
in American colleges came in the junior or senior year, and was not
organized into any regular curriculum. With the recent development
of historical courses, however, the teaching of history has worked
down into the sophomore and often into the freshman year, so that
the teacher of the first course in history is not only charged with
introducing students to college work in history, but must also take
his share of the task of introducing them to college work in general.
At the same time the enlargement of the curriculum and the improvement
of instruction in history in many of our secondary schools result
in sending to the colleges a body of students who have already some
familiarity with history and cannot be treated in the same way as the
great mass of freshmen. Moreover, the first college course in history
in all our larger institutions attracts a considerable number of
students, in some cases as many as four hundred, so that the management
of a large class adds another element to the problem; and matters are
further complicated by the fact that while some of these will continue
their historical studies in later years, others must get from this
course all the historical training which they will receive in college.
I take it that no one pretends to have found the solution of these
difficulties, and that what is at present likely to prove helpful is
not dogmatic discussion so much as a comparison of the experience of
different institutions.
The introductory course at Harvard, History 1, is designed to be useful
to those whose historical studies are to stop at this point, as well as
to serve as a basis for further study. A period of the world’s history
is chosen which is sufficiently large to give an idea of the growth
of institutions and the nature of historical evolution, yet not so
extensive as to render impossible an acquaintance at close range with
some of the characteristic personalities and conditions of the age; and
an effort is made to stimulate interest in history and to give some
idea of the nature and purposes of historical study. The field covered
is the history of Europe, including England, from the fourth to the
fifteenth centuries. This period has generally received little or no
attention in school, so that students come to it with a freshness which
they could not bring to ancient history or American history, and are
introduced to a new world of action and movement and color which easily
rouses their interest. The year devoted to the Middle Ages bridges the
gap between their ancient and modern studies, and not only gives a
feeling of historical continuity, but by showing the remote origin of
modern institutions and culture it deepens the sense of indebtedness to
the past and furnishes something of the background so much needed in
our American life.
Most introductory courses now give considerable attention to the Middle
Ages; the point of difference is whether the attempt should be made to
cover something of the modern period as well. Where a longer period
has been chosen, it has been quite generally found impracticable in
a single year to bring the course down to the present time, and such
courses have ordinarily stopped somewhere in the eighteenth century,
leaving to a subsequent year the study of the more recent period.
Thus the course which was given at Harvard until 1903 stopped at the
Treaty of Utrecht. Assuming that two years are necessary for the
satisfactory treatment of mediæval and modern history for the purposes
of the general student, the question then becomes one as to the point
where the break shall come, and we believe that experience is in
favor of placing this point fairly early. The pace should be slower
in the first year than in the second, so that students may not be
confused and hurried while they are learning new methods of work and
being emancipated from habits of close dependence on the text-book.
There should be time for reading and assimilation, as well as for
thorough drill, in a way that is not possible when too much ground
is gone over. Good training in the first year makes it easier to
cover a considerable period in the second. Such at least has been the
experience at Harvard, where about half of the students in History 1 go
on to the survey of modern history given in History 2 in the following
year, while most of the others go directly to modern English history or
American history. It ought to be added that while about nine-tenths of
the class of three hundred who elect History 1 are freshmen, students
who have given a good deal of attention to history in school are
permitted to go on immediately to more advanced courses; and for those
who take only American history in their later years, the introductory
course in government is accepted as sufficient preparation.
The class meets three times a week, twice in a body for lectures,
and the third hour in sections of about twenty. The lectures do not
attempt to give a narrative, but seek to bind together the students’
reading, comment upon it, clarify it, reënforce the significant
points, and discuss special aspects of the subject. The processes of
historical interpretation and criticism are illustrated by a few simple
examples, and from time to time the work is vivified by the use of
lantern slides. The reading is divided into two parts, prescribed and
collateral, and indicated on a printed “List of References” which each
member of the class is required to buy. The prescribed reading, from
seventy-five to one hundred pages a week, is made, as far as possible,
the central part of the student’s work. At first this is selected
largely from text-books and illustrative sources; later in the year
text-books drop into the background, and narrative and descriptive
works are taken up, although the student is urged to have at hand a
manual for consultation and for securing a connected view of events.
The effort is made to break away from high school methods of study
and to teach students to use intelligently larger historical books.
Stubb’s “Early Plantagenets,” Jessopp’s “Coming of the Friars,” Bryce’s
“Holy Roman Empire,” Brown’s “Venetian Republic,” Day’s “History of
Commerce,” Reinach’s “Apollo,” and Robinson and Rolfe’s “Petrarch,”
are examples of the kind of books from which the required reading
is chosen. Some sources are given in their entirety, such as the
“Germania,” the “Life of St. Columban,” and Einhard’s “Charlemagne”;
but reliance is placed mainly upon the extracts given in Ogg’s “Source
Book” and Robinson’s “Readings.” It is found that the proper use and
appreciation of sources is one of the hardest things for beginners
to learn, and careful and explicit teaching is required both at the
lectures and at the meetings of the sections. Each student is required
to provide himself with two or three texts, a source book, and an
historical atlas, and many buy a number of the other books used in
the course. The books in which the reading is assigned are kept in a
special reading-room, where the supply is sufficient to provide one
copy of each for every ten men in the course. Duplicates of the works
recommended for collateral reading are also furnished.
At the weekly section meetings the students are held responsible for
the required reading and the lectures for the week. There is always a
short written paper about twenty minutes in length, including usually
an exercise on the outline map, and the rest of the hour is spent in
explanation, review and discussion. No attempt is made at systematic
quizzing, as the work of the week is much more effectively tested by
the written paper. These sections are held by the assistants, four in
number, who are chosen from men who have had two or three years of
graduate study and generally some experience in teaching.
For the collateral reading certain topics are suggested each week,
and every month each member of the class is required to read the
references under at least one of the assigned topics. These topics
have considerable range, and students are encouraged to select those
which have special interest for them and to read freely upon them.
Thus if a student takes the Northmen as his topic, he will read the
greater part of Keary’s “Vikings,” and translated extracts from Norse
poetry or sagas; if he chooses Henry II, he will have Mrs. Green’s
biography and Stubb’s characterization in the introduction to Benedict
of Peterborough; if he reads on monasticism, he will compare different
views of the subject as found in specified chapters of Montalembert,
Lecky, Taylor’s “Classical Heritage of the Middle Ages,” and in
Harnack’s “Monasticism”; on castles and castle life he will read
portions of Miss Bateson’s “Mediæval England,” and Viollet-le-Duc’s
“Annals of a Fortress,” and examine the illustrations in Enlart’s
“Manuel” and Schultz’s “Höfisches Leben”; on St. Louis he will have
Joinville, certain pages of Langlois, and William Stearns Davis’s
novel, “Falaise of the Blessed Voices.” A certain fixed minimum of such
reading is set for each one in the course, and a higher minimum for
those who expect distinction, and ambitious students will read from
1,500 to 2,000 pages in the course of the year.
The effort is constantly made to develop individual aptitudes and
stimulate the better men. Every student has at least eight individual
conferences with the assistant during the year. The conference is
devoted mainly to a discussion of the collateral reading, but it
also serves as an opportunity for examining note books, talking over
difficulties, and in general for closer personal acquaintance between
assistant and student. Sometimes small voluntary groups of men have
been formed which meet the assistant weekly at his room for the reading
and discussion of short historical papers written by students.
Considerable attention is given to well-reasoned note-taking upon both
lectures and required reading, a matter respecting which the freshman
is at first likely to be quite helpless. Here the personal supervision
of the assistant is of the greatest value, and is often exercised
weekly.
Special emphasis is put upon historical geography, not only by constant
reference to wall maps and by special exercises involving the use of
the principal historical atlases, but also by means of the regular use
of blank outline maps. Members of the class are required to bring such
a map to all meetings of the sections, and to be able to locate upon it
important places and boundaries. The mid-year and final examinations
also include a regular test of such geographical knowledge. More time
than should be necessary is devoted to this work, but experience
has shown that college students have at the outset only the vaguest
ideas of European geography, and in this and in some other respects
it is necessary to do in college, work that ought to have been done
in the secondary or grammar school. If the ordinary freshman brought
with him an elementary knowledge of geography and the ability to read
intelligently, the task of the college teacher of history would be
greatly lightened.
No attempt is made to require theses or formal written reports,
as such work is useful rather for those who are to continue their
historical studies, and as regular training of this sort is given in
the second-year courses. Some attempts have, however, been made to
coördinate the student’s work in history and in English composition by
having the results of reading upon an historical topic embodied in a
brief essay which is read and graded both by the instructor in history
and the instructor in English. Such coöperative efforts are still in
the experimental stage, but they are regarded favorably by those who
believe that the occasion for writing good English is not confined to
courses in English composition, and that a broader policy with regard
to the student’s work is necessary if the American college is to give
an education as well as to teach particular subjects.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Some use has here been made of material contained in a paper
on “The Historical Curriculum in Colleges,” in the Minutes of the
Association of History Teachers of the Middle States and Maryland for
1904; and in the Report of the Conference on the First Year of College
Work in History, in Report of the American Historical Association for
1905, I, pp. 147-174.
Impressions of American History Teaching[2]
EXTRACTS FROM MISS BURSTALL’S RECENT WORK, “IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICAN
EDUCATION.”
Miss Sara A. Burstall, head mistress of the Manchester (England) High
School for Girls, traveled in the United States during the year 1908,
studying and inspecting American educational systems. Miss Burstall has
written out her experiences in America in a book entitled “Impressions
of American Education in 1908.” The author was particularly interested
in the teaching of history in American schools. The following extracts
are printed in the belief that American teachers would desire “to see
themselves as others see them.” In the chapter on “Method” occur the
following statements:
“Recitation is indeed an accurate description of what one hears,
sitting in an American class-room; the pupil stands up and recites
what he has learnt, whether from the standard text-book or from other
sources. The teacher may question some statement in order to make
sure that the pupil understands what he has said, other pupils will
also question it. A girl will put up her hand and (the teacher giving
permission by looking in her direction) will say, ‘But I thought
that I read in----’ and will proceed to give some other view of the
subject. A general discussion will follow which the teacher will not
authoritatively close by giving her correct opinion; she will pass
on to another part of the subject and ask another pupil to recite
what he or she has learnt about it. If the reciter makes an error the
teacher will call upon another pupil to correct it; very rarely does
the teacher make a correction herself, and still more rarely does
she express her opinion. We were not struck by the good English or
excellence of oral composition which we heard. The American boys and
girls did not do any better in this respect than the English girls
we know. One can hardly expect fluent, elegant oral descriptions and
accounts except from practiced speakers. With a class of thirty or
forty and a lesson period of forty-five minutes obviously not all in
the class recite; quite half may take no share except as listeners.
The presumption is that they have learnt up their work, that they
are interested in listening to what others say about it; their turn
will come next day, and in any case it is to their interest to follow
carefully what goes on.
“Three criticisms must occur to even a sympathetic English teacher:
first, the possibility of what in England would be a probable waste
of time to the listeners. Americans say that these, though they often
look indifferent and inattentive, are really attending; they are
used to the method and they play the game, so to speak, by listening
attentively as well as by reciting readily when their turn comes.
Second, the whole thing is very dull and slow; each pupil speaks very
slowly, with very little grace of delivery or beauty of language, such
as might be expected from the teacher, and nothing like the same amount
of ground is covered as is the case in a lesson on the oral method.
With the recitation method in England we should not arouse sufficient
interest to get the best out of our pupils; we could not get through
the work we have to do in the time, nor would English boys and girls
be sufficiently quick and clever to understand the difficulties in
geometry, for example, or in Latin or French grammar, unless they
had clear and skilful explanations from the teacher, who presumably
understands the art of making things clear. Americans would probably
say that their students are quick enough and earnest enough to make
progress without this careful exposition and without this atmosphere of
interest and intellectual stimulus, and there is probably some truth
in the reply. Our pupils too often do not want to work, and their
minds do move more slowly. We have been obliged to find ways of making
class-work attractive, either by intellectual stimulus and interest,
or by rewards and punishments, since we have not that strong outside
belief in education which makes the task of the American teacher much
more easy. It is also true that the examination demand has forced us to
explain clearly to the duller pupils in the class difficulties which
the cleverer ones could see through for themselves. Probably here
Americans are right and we are wrong; we make the work too easy by,
as it were, peptonizing the lesson material, before giving it to the
hungry sheep who look up to us to be fed. Our aim has been to help them
to assimilate the knowledge required, not to develop in them the power
to grapple with new material. This aim the American recitation system
undoubtedly develops, and this is one of its great merits.
“Our third criticism is that the teacher appears to do too little; her
share in the lesson is at a minimum; the new ideas do not come from
her, her influence is indirect. Here, again, the American would say, so
much the better. The democratic ideal is undoubtedly one cause for the
existence and the popularity of the recitation method. The teacher and
the pupils are very much on a level. She is not teaching them; she acts
rather as chairman of the meeting, the object of which is to ascertain
whether they have studied for themselves in a text-book, and what they
think about the material they have been studying. Clearly, then, the
master is the text-book, and here we strike on a vital peculiarity of
American education. Its aim has been intellectually the mastery of
books; with us education has always been very much more, always and
everywhere, a personal relation. The children learn from the master or
mistress with or without the aid of a book.”
“The rise of the method can be explained from historical causes;
in the old ungraded rural school of America, meeting perhaps only
for a few months in the year, taught, it may be, by a woman in the
summer, and a man in the winter, there could be no classification
or organization. Each pupil worked through an authorized text-book,
much as in the old Scottish rural school, when a plowman might come
back for a couple of months to rub up his arithmetic or English in
the book if he did not finish before leaving school. The teacher went
around and helped individual pupils over difficulties, or heard them
‘recite’ the lesson they had each learnt, while the others went on with
their own tasks. Then when the schools came to be graded, a number
of pupils at about the same stage could recite together out of the
book, and so the recitation method developed, evolved by the American
genius for invention to fit the necessities of the position. Among
these conditions was the absence of a body of experienced and skilled
teachers; much of the work was done by all sorts of people, many with
very scanty qualifications, who would ‘teach school’ for a few months
to earn enough to go on with some other occupation. Such people could
not be in the true sense of the word teachers; they could ‘conduct
recitations’ and engage in the friendly questioning and discussion as
an equal, which the American method implies. When first-rate, highly
qualified, skilled teachers come to play on this instrument they bring
forth from it a wonderful result.
“The writer was fortunate enough to see some very fine work by a woman
teacher, brilliant, systematized, full of interest and fire, the pupils
really taking part and bringing their material which the teacher
skillfully percussed so that it kindled. Indeed, the recitation method
at its best and our own oral method are almost identical in effect;
and far excel as educational instruments anything that can be attained
by lectures. But how rarely is it seen at its best? At its worst, of
course, it becomes mere memoriter repetition out of the text-book with
very little intelligence anywhere; any teacher would do this who could
keep order.
“It is hoped that this imperfect sketch may at least afford some idea
of what is to be seen in the United States by a teacher of history,
and of what we can learn from them. Probably there is more to be
learnt in this subject by English students of American education than
in any other, and the study is the more interesting and profitable
since the evolution of the present condition of history teaching
there is so recent. The present writer can only say that she has
heard finer history teaching in more than one American institution
than she ever heard in England, though her experiences here have been
fortunate, and that such teaching has set for her an ideal standard of
professional skill in our difficult art. England might learn, too, from
the life and vigor of the subject in the common schools, the breadth
and thoughtfulness and the self-reliance in the history classes of
secondary schools, and the volume and power of the historical work in
the colleges and technological institutes.
“The equipment is well worth our imitation if only we could get the
money for it. Every good high school has a room or rooms for the
history lessons; cases of maps to be drawn down when required--a
product of the American skill in mechanical appliances--are universal,
and an average high school has a better supply | 1,444.143741 |
2023-11-16 18:41:08.1247150 | 4,745 | 17 |
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THE PRACTICAL BOOK OF
GARDEN ARCHITECTURE
BY PHEBE WESTCOTT HUMPHREYS
THE PRACTICAL BOOK
OF PERIOD FURNITURE
BY HAROLD DONALDSON EBERLEIN
AND ABBOT MCCLURE
THE PRACTICAL BOOK OF
OUTDOOR ROSE GROWING
BY GEORGE C. THOMAS, JR.
NEW REVISED EDITION
THE PRACTICAL BOOK OF
INTERIOR DECORATION
[Illustration: TEKKE BOKHARA RUG
Size 5'6" × 6'4"
PROPERTY OF MR. F. A. TURNER, BOSTON, MASS.
This piece is unusual in many ways. The background of old
ivory both in the borders and in the field; the old rose color of the
octagons; the difference in the number of border stripes and in the
designs of same on the sides and ends are all non-Turkoman features.
It is the only so called "white Bokhara" of which we have
any knowledge.]
THE
PRACTICAL BOOK
OF ORIENTAL RUGS
BY
DR. G. GRIFFIN LEWIS
WITH 20 ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR, 93 IN DOUBLETONE
70 DESIGNS IN LINE, CHART AND MAP
_NEW EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED_
[Illustration: logo]
PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS
PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A.
PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION
It is most gratifying to both author and publishers that the first
edition of "The Practical Book of Oriental Rugs" has been so quickly
exhausted. Its rather remarkable sale, in spite of the fact that within
the past decade, no less than seven books on the subject have been
printed in English, proves that it is the practical part of the book
that appeals to the majority.
The second edition has been prepared with the same practical idea
paramount and quite a few new features have been introduced.
The color plates have been increased from ten to twenty; a chapter on
Chinese rugs has been inserted; descriptions of three more rugs have
been added and numerous changes and additions have been made to the text
in general.
PREFACE
Oriental rugs have become as much a necessity in our beautiful,
artistic homes as are the paintings on the walls and the various other
works of art. Their admirers are rapidly increasing, and with this
increased interest there is naturally an increased demand for more
reliable information regarding them.
The aim of the present writer has been practical--no such systematized
and tabulated information regarding each variety of rug in the market
has previously been attempted. The particulars on identification by
prominent characteristics and detail of weaving, the detailed chapter
on design, illustrated throughout with text cuts, thus enabling the
reader to identify the different varieties by their patterns; and the
price per square foot at which each variety is held by retail dealers,
are features new in rug literature. Instructions are also given for
the selection, purchase, care and cleaning of rugs, as well as for the
detection of fake antiques, aniline dyes, etc.
In furtherance of this practical idea the illustrations are not of
museum pieces and priceless specimens in the possession of wealthy
collectors, but of fine and attractive examples which with knowledge
and care can be bought in the open market to-day. These illustrations
will therefore be found of the greatest practical value to modern
purchasers. In the chapter on famous rugs some few specimens
illustrative of notable pieces have been added.
In brief, the author has hoped to provide within reasonable limits and
at a reasonable price a volume from which purchasers of Oriental rugs
can learn in a short time all that is necessary for their guidance,
and from which dealers and connoisseurs can with the greatest ease of
reference refresh their knowledge and determine points which may be in
question.
For many valuable hints the author wishes to acknowledge indebtedness
to the publications referred to in the bibliography; to Miss Lillian
Cole, of Sivas, Turkey; to Major P. M. Sykes, the English Consulate
General at Meshed, Persia; to B. A. Gupte, F. Z. S., Assistant Director
of Ethnography at the Indian Museum, Calcutta, India; to Prof. du
Bois-Reymond, of Shanghai, China; to Dr. John G. Wishard, of the
American Hospital at Teheran, Persia; to Miss Alice C. Bewer, of
the American Hospital at Aintab, Turkey; to Miss Annie T. Allen, of
Brousa, Turkey; to Mr. Charles C. Tracy, president of Anatolia College,
Morsovan, Turkey; to Mr. John Tyler, of Teheran, Persia; to Mr. E. L.
Harris, United States Consulate General of Smyrna, Turkey; to Dr. J.
Arthur Frank, Hamadan, Persia; and to Miss Kate G. Ainslie, of Morash,
Turkey.
For the use of some of the plates and photographs acknowledgment is
made to Mr. A. U. Dilley, of Boston, Mass.; to H. B. Claflin & Co., of
New York City; to Mr. Charles Quill Jones, of New York City; to Miss
Lillian Cole, of Sivas, Turkey; to Maj. P. M. Sykes, of Meshed, Persia;
to Maj. L. B. Lawton, of Seneca Falls, N. Y.; to the late William E.
Curtis, of Washington, D. C.; to _The Scientific American_ and to
_Good Housekeeping_ magazines; while thanks are due Mr. A. U. Dilley,
of Boston, Mass.; to Liberty & Co., of London; to the Simplicity Co.,
of Grand Rapids, Mich.; to the Tiffany Studios and to Nahigian Bros.,
of Chicago, Ill., for some of the plates, and to Clifford &
Lawton, of New York City, for the map of the Orient.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PART I
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 17
Age of the weaving art; Biblical reference to the weaving
art; a fascinating study; the artistic worth and other
advantages of the Oriental products over the domestic;
annual importation.
I. COST AND TARIFF 25
Upon what depends the value; the various profits made;
transportation charges; export duties; import duties;
cost compared with that of domestic products; some
fabulous prices.
II. DEALERS AND AUCTIONS 31
Oriental shrewdness; when rugs are bought by the bale;
the auction a means of disposing of poor fabrics; fake
bidders.
III. ANTIQUES 35
The antique craze; why age enhances value; what constitutes
an antique; how to determine age; antiques in
the Orient; antiques in America; celebrated antiques;
American collectors; artificial aging.
IV. ADVICE TO BUYERS 43
Reliable dealers; difference between Oriental and domestic
products; how to examine rugs; making selections;
selection of rugs for certain rooms.
V. THE HYGIENE OF THE RUG 55
The hygienic condition of Oriental factories and homes;
condition of rugs when leaving the Orient; condition of
rugs when arriving in America; United States laws regarding
the disinfection of hides; the duties of retailers.
VI. THE CARE OF RUGS 63
Erroneous ideas regarding the wearing qualities of
Oriental rugs; treatment of rugs in the Orient compared
with that in America; how and when cleaned;
how and when washed; moths; how straightened; removal
of stains, etc.
VII. THE MATERIAL OF RUGS 69
Wool, goats' hair, camels' hair, cotton, silk, hemp;
preparation of the wool; spinning of the wool.
VIII. DYES AND DYERS 75
Secrets of the Eastern dye pots; vegetable dyes; aniline
dyes; Persian law against the use of aniline; the
process of dyeing; favorite colors of different rug-weaving
nations; how to distinguish between vegetable and
aniline dyes; symbolism of colors; the individual dyes
and how made.
IX. WEAVING AND WEAVERS 87
The present method compared with that of centuries
ago; Oriental method compared with the domestic;
pay of the weavers; the Eastern loom; the different
methods of weaving.
X. DESIGNS AND THEIR SYMBOLISM 97
Oriental vs. European designs; tribal patterns; the
migration of designs; characteristics of Persian designs;
characteristics of Turkish designs; characteristics of
Caucasian designs; characteristics of Turkoman designs;
dates and inscriptions; quotations from the
Koran; description and symbolism of designs alphabetically
arranged, with an illustration of each.
XI. THE IDENTIFICATION OF RUGS 147
A few characteristic features of certain rugs; table
showing the distinguishing features of all rugs; an
example.
PART II
XII. GENERAL CLASSIFICATION 161
How they receive their names; trade names; geographical
classification of all rugs.
XIII. PERSIAN CLASSIFICATION 169
Persian characteristics; the knot; the weavers; factories
in Persia; Persian rug provinces; description
of each Persian rug, as follows: Herez, Bakhshis,
Gorevan, Serapi, Kara Dagh, Kashan, Souj Bulak,
Tabriz, Bijar (Sarakhs, Lule), Kermanshah, Senna,
Feraghan (Iran), Hamadan, Ispahan (Iran), Joshaghan,
Saraband (Sarawan, Selvile), Saruk, Sultanabad
(Muskabad, Mahal, Savalan), Niris (Laristan),
Shiraz (Mecca), Herat, Khorasan, Meshed, Kirman,
Kurdistan.
XIV. TURKISH CLASSIFICATION 217
The rug-making districts of Turkey in Asia; annual
importation of Turkish rugs; Turkish weavers; the
knot; Turkish characteristics; the Kurds; description
of each Turkish rug, as follows: Kir Shehr, Oushak,
Karaman, Mujur, Konieh, Ladik, Yuruk, Ak Hissar
(Aksar), Anatolian, Bergama, Ghiordes, Kulah,
Makri, Meles (Carian), Smyrna (Aidin, Brousa),
Mosul.
XV. CAUCASIAN CLASSIFICATION 253
The country; the people; Caucasian characteristics;
description of each Caucasian rug, as follows: Daghestan,
Derbend, Kabistan (Kuban), Tchetchen
(Tzitzi, Chichi), Baku, Shemakha (Soumak, Kashmir),
Shirvan, Genghis (Turkman), Karabagh, Kazak.
XVI. TURKOMAN CLASSIFICATION 277
Turkoman territory; Turkoman characteristics; description
of each Turkoman rug, as follows: Khiva
Bokhara (Afghan), Beshir Bokhara, Tekke Bokhara,
Yomud (Yamut), Kasghar, Yarkand, Samarkand
(Malgaran).
XVII. BELUCHISTAN RUGS 295
The country; the people; Beluchistan characteristics;
description and cost of Beluchistan rugs.
XVIII. CHINESE RUGS 301
Slow to grow in public favor; exorbitant prices;
geographical classification; classification according to
designs; Chinese designs and their symbolism; the
materials; the colors.
XIX. GHILEEMS, SILKS, AND FELTS 311
How made; classification, characteristics, uses,
description of each kind.
_Silks_ 316
Classification, colors, cost, wearing qualities.
_Felts_ 318
How made; their use; cost.
XX. CLASSIFICATION ACCORDING TO THEIR INTENDED USE 321
_Prayer Rugs._ How used; the niche; designs; how classified;
prayer niche designs with key.
_Hearth Rugs, Grave Rugs, Dowry or Wedding Rugs,
Mosque Rugs, Bath Rugs, Pillow Cases, Sample Corners,
Saddle Bags, Floor Coverings, Runners, Hangings._
XXI. FAMOUS RUGS 331
Museum collections; private collections; the recent
Metropolitan Museum exhibit; age and how determined;
description and pictures of certain famous
rugs.
GLOSSARY 341
Giving all rug names and terms alphabetically arranged,
with the proper pronunciation and explanation.
BIBLIOGRAPHY 359
Giving an alphabetically arranged list of all rug literature
in the English language.
INDEX 363
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
RUGS
PLATES
PAGE
Tekke Bokhara rug _Frontispiece_
Meshed prayer rug 22
Khorasan carpet 32
Saruk rug 40
Shiraz rug 52
Anatolian mat 60
Ghiordes prayer rug 66
Ladik prayer rug 74
Daghestan rug 84
Kazak rug 94
Kazak rug 144
Shirvan rug 158
Saruk rug 166
Kulah hearth rug 216
Shirvan rug 250
Beshir Bokhara prayer rug 274
Daghestan prayer rug 292
Chinese rug 300
Chinese rug 306
Chinese cushion rug 318
DOUBLETONES
The Metropolitan animal rug 26
Bergama prayer rug 46
Symbolic Persian silk (Tabriz) rug 48
Symbolic Persian silk rug 98
Semi-Persian rug (European designs) 100
Shiraz prayer rug 104
Hamadan rug 110
Feraghan rug 114
Kermanshah rug (modern) 118
Khiva prayer rug 120
Kir Shehr prayer rug 130
Konieh prayer rug 138
Tekke Bokhara strip 150
Tekke Bokhara saddle half 162
Herez carpet 172
Gorevan carpet 176
Serapi carpet 178
Kashan silk rug 180
Tabriz rug 182
Bijar rug 186
Senna rug 188
Feraghan rug 190
Hamadan rug 192
Ispahan rug 194
Saraband rug 198
Mahal carpet 202
Niris rug 204
Shiraz rug 206
Shiraz rug 208
Kirman prayer rug 210
Kirman rug 212
Kurdistan rug (Mina Khani design) 214
Kir Shehr prayer rug 220
Kir Shehr hearth rug 222
Konieh prayer rug 224
Maden (Mujur) prayer rug 226
Ladik prayer rug 228
Yuruk rug 230
Ak Hissar prayer rug 232
Bergama rug 236
Ghiordes prayer rug 238
Kulah prayer rug 240
Meles rug 242
Meles rug 244
Makri rug 246
Mosul rug 248
Daghestan rug 254
Daghestan prayer rug 256
Kabistan rug 258
Tchetchen or Chichi rug 260
Baku rug 262
Shemakha, Sumak or Cashmere rug 264
Shirvan rug 266
Genghis rug 268
Karabagh rug 270
Kazak rug (Palace design) 272
Khiva Bokhara rug 278
Beshir Bokhara rug 280
Tekke Bokhara rug 282
Tekke Bokhara (Princess Bokhara, Khatchlie) prayer rug 284
Yomud rug 286
Samarkand rug 290
Beluchistan rug 296
Senna Ghileem rug 312
Kurdish Ghileem rug 314
Merve Ghileem rug 316
Kurdish Ghileem rug 316
Saddle cloth, saddle bags and powder bag 324
Kirman saddle bags 326
Bijar sample corner 328
Ardebil Mosque carpet 330
Berlin Dragon and Phœnix rug 332
East Indian hunting rug 334
The Altman prayer rug 336
The Baker hunting rug 338
RUG MAKING, ETC.
A Persian rug merchant 38
Expert weaver and inspector 38
Spinning the wool 72
Persian dye pots 80
A Persian village 80
A Turkish loom 88
The Senna and Ghiordes knots 90
Youthful weavers 90
A Persian loom 92
A wooden comb 92
A Kurdish guard 124
The Emir of Bokhara and his ministers 134
Turkomans at home 134
Characteristic backs of rugs 152
Inspecting rugs at Ispahan 170
Persian villages near Hamadan 170
Turkomans 276
Having a pot of tea at Bokhara 288
A street in Samarkand 288
The rug caravan 376
DESIGNS
Angular hook 101
Barber-pole stripe 102
Bat 103
Beetle 103
Butterfly border design 104
Caucasian border design 105
Chichi border design 105
Chinese fret 106
Chinese cloud band 106
Comb 108
Crab border design 108
Greek cross 109
Fish bone border design 112
Galley border design 112
Georgian border design 112
Ghiordes border design 113
Herati border design 114
Herati field design 114
Knot of destiny 116
Kulah border design 116
Lamp 117
Lattice field 117
Link 118
Lotus 118
Lotus border design 119
Greek meander 119
Pole medallion 120
Mir or Saraband border design 120
Octagon 122
Palace or sunburst 122
Pear 123
Pear border design 124
Reciprocal saw-teeth 126
Reciprocal trefoil 126
Lily or Rhodian field design 126
Lily or Rhodian border design 126
Ribbon border design 127
Rooster 127
Rosette 128
S forms 129
Scorpion border design 129
Shirvan border design 130
Shou 131
Solomon's seal 131
Star | 1,444.144755 |
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Libraries.)
THE HIGHER COURT
BY MARY STEWART DAGGETT
Author of "Mariposilla," "The Broad Aisle," "Chinese Sketches," etc.,
etc.
RICHARD G. BADGER
THE GORHAM PRESS
BOSTON
_Copyright, 1911, by Richard G. Badger_
_All Rights Reserved_
_The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A._
To Comrades Three
My Daughters
R. D.
H. D. H.
M. D.
CHAPTER I
Father Barry's late interview with his bishop had been short, devoid of
controversy. Too angry to deny the convenient charge of "modernism," he
sought the street. Personal appeal seemed futile to the young priest
cast down by the will of a superior. To escape from holy, overheated
apartments had been his one impulse. Facing a January blizzard, his
power to think consecutively returned, while for a moment he faltered,
inclined to go back. The icy air struck him full in the face as he
staggered forward. "The only way--and one practically hopeless," he
choked. Appeal to the archbishop absorbed his mind as he pressed on,
weighing uncertain odds of ecclesiastical favor. Suddenly he realized
that he had strayed from main thoroughfares, was standing on a desolate
bluff that rose significantly above colorless bottom lands and two
frozen rivers. Wind sharpened to steel, with miles of ceaseless
shifting, slashed his cheeks, cut into his full temples, his eyes. He
bowed before the gust so passionately charged with his own rebellion.
To-day he was a priest only in name. For the first time since his
assumption of orders he faced truth and a miserable pretense to Catholic
discipline. Desires half forgotten stood out, duly exaggerated by recent
disappointment. An impulse sent him close to the precipitous ledge, but
he moved backward. To give up life was not his wish. He was defeated,
yet something held him, as in a mirage of fallen hopes he saw a woman's
face and cried out. He had done no wrong. Until the bishop cast him down
he was confident, able to justify esthetic joy in ritualistic service,
which took the place of a natural human tie. Now he knew that his work,
after all, but expressed a woman's exquisite charm. For through plans
and absorbing efforts in behalf of a splendid cathedral he had been
fooled into thinking that he had conquered the disappointment of his
earlier manhood. The bishop had apparently smiled on a dazzling
achievement, and young Father Barry plunged zealously into a great
undertaking. To give his western city a noble structure for posterity
became a ruling passion, and in a few months his eloquence in the
pulpit, together with unremitting personal labor on plans and
elevations, had made the church a certainty. Thousands of dollars, then
hundreds of thousands, fattened a building fund. The bishop appeared to
be pleased; later he was astounded; finally he grew jealous and eager to
be rid of the priest who swayed with words and ruled where a venerable
superior made slight impression. Consequently the charge of "modernism"
fell like a bolt from a clear sky. Until to-day Father Barry had been
absorbed in one idea. His cathedral had taken the place of all that a
young man might naturally desire. When the woman he loved became free he
still remained steadfast to his new ambition. It seemed as if lost
opportunity had attuned his idealistic nature to symbolic love which
could express in visions and latent passion an actual renunciation. That
Isabel Doan understood and rejoiced in the mastery of his intellect gave
him unconscious incentive. In the place of impossible earthly love he
had awakened a consistent dream. Without doubt Mrs. Doan's pure profile
was a motif for classic results. When he spoke to her of architectural
plans, showing drawings for a splendid nave and superb arches, her keen
appreciation always sent him forward with his work. Then, like true
inspiration, visions came and went. Vista effects, altars bright with
golden treasures stirred him to constant endeavor. He heard heavenly
music--the best his young, rich city could procure. Day and night he
worked and begged. Now all was over. For the second time in life the man
faced hopeless disappointment. Deprived of work, removed from the large
parish that for three years had hung on his every word and wish, the
priest stood adrift in the storm. The ignominy of his downfall swept
over him with every lash of an oncoming blizzard. He seemed to feel the
end. The bishop's untethered brogue still clashed in his sensitive ears.
The city he loved, now ready for the best of everything, no longer had a
place for him. He was cast out. Below him spread bottom lands, dotted
for miles with towering grain elevators, packing plants, and wholesale
houses. Vitals of trade lay bare. By vivisection, as it were, he traced
the life of commerce, felt gigantic heart beats of the lower town
blending interests of two great states. In all directions rival
railroads made glistening lines through priceless "bottoms." Father
Barry groaned. Progress seemed to taunt his acknowledged failure. He
turned his back. But again he faced promise. Higher ledges and the upper
town retold a story of established growth. On every hand prosperity
saluted him. Leading from bluffs, the city reached eastward for miles.
As far as he could see domestic roof tops defined the course of streets.
Houses crept to the edge of a retail district, then jumped beyond. On
waiting acres of forest land splendid homes had arisen as if by magic.
Through pangs of disappointment the priest made out the commanding site
selected for his cathedral. A blasted dream evoked passionate prophecy,
and the mirage of the church ordered and built by decrepit taste rose up
before him. The bishop's unsightly work held him. Blinded by the storm,
abnormally keen to a cruel delusion, he saw the end of his own laudable
ambition. To his imagination, the odious brick box on the hillock seemed
to be true. A commonplace elevation, with detached, square towers was
real. With his brain maddened with hallucination, harsh, unmusical
chimes began to sound above the blizzard's roar. Again and again he
heard the refrain, "Too late! Too late!" The significance of a metallic
summons almost stopped his breath, yet fancy led him on to the open
church. He seemed to go within, pressing forward against the crowd.
Below a flaming altar stood the bishop's bier. In the open casket, clad
in robes of state, the old man slept the sleep of death. The brick
monument to stubborn force echoed throughout with chanted requiem and
whispered prayer. Incense clouded gorgeous vestments of officiating
priests. Candles burned on every hand. At the Virgin's shrine flowers
lent fragrance to an impressive scene. Then he seemed to forget the
great occasion,--the bishop at last without power, the kneeling, praying
throng. Longing for human love displaced all other feeling. In the image
of one woman he beheld another, and Isabel Doan assumed the Virgin's
niche.
CHAPTER II
As the suspended priest went from the bluff the mirage of a few moments
faded. The bishop still lived.
Reaction and the determination to face an archbishop impelled him
forward. Why should he submit to sentence without effort to save
himself? He drew the collar of his coat about his ears. At last he was
sensitive to physical discomfort. Air sharp as splintered glass cut
through his lungs. He bowed his head, revolving in his mind the definite
charge of "modernism." What had he really said in the pulpit? Like all
impassioned, extemporaneous speakers he could never quite recall his
words when the occasion for their utterance had passed. Progress was
undoubtedly his sinful theme; yet until lately no heretical taint had
been found in the young father's sermons. Born a dreamer, reared a
Catholic, he attempted rigid self-examination. The task proved futile.
In Italy he would have led Catholic democrats in a great uprising.
Despite the "Index" he rejoiced in the books of "Forgazzar."
"Benedetto's" appeal to the pope to heal the "four wounds of
Catholicism" clung to his mind. The great story touched him
irresistibly. Sinful as it was, he had committed Benedetto's bold
accusations to memory. "Il Santo" still drew him, and he was angry and
sore.
He knew that in a moment of emotional uplift he had forgotten the danger
of independent utterance, the bonds of a Catholic pulpit. But to-day,
while he reverted to the sermon which had suspended him from the
priesthood, he could not repeat one offensive sentence clearly.
The wind increased each moment. A blizzard of three days' duration might
bring him time to think. At the end of the storm every one would hear of
his suspension. The priest hurried on. Then he thought of his mother.
Suddenly the dear soul had prior claim to Mrs. Doan. Above bitterness
the son recalled the date; it was his thirty-second birthday. He told
himself that nothing should keep him from the one who could best
understand his predicament. This dear, sincere mother had counseled him
before; why not now? The foolishness of troubling Mrs. Doan was clear.
As he hastened on his way, he began to wonder what his mother would
really think of the bishop's action. Would she accept her son's
humiliation with serene, unqualified spirit? Would her faith in a
superior's judgment hold? The suspended priest felt the terms for the
true Catholic. He dreaded palliation of the bishop's course. But no--his
mother could never do that. In the case in question her boy must stand
injured, unjustly dealt with.
Father Barry went on with definite intention. His present wish was to
spend a fatal birthday in the home of his boyhood. Fortunately, it was
Monday. Father Corrigan had charge of weekly services. The younger
man's absence would not be construed until after the blizzard. It
flashed through his mind that on the coming Sunday he had hoped to make
the address of his life. Now this last appeal in behalf of a great
cathedral would never be uttered. On his study desk were plans and
detail drawings which must soon cumber a waste basket. Suddenly the
young priest, cast down, humiliated, turned from the tents of his
people, longed to cry out to hundreds who loved him--who believed in
him. But again his thoughts turned to his mother, who would soon hold
him in her loving arms, cry with him, beg him to be patient, worthy of
his bringing up. Then he knew that he was not a true Catholic. His
binding vows all at once seemed pitiless to his thwarted ambition and
human longing.
CHAPTER III
When Father Barry reached the parsonage he found no use for a pass key.
Pat Murphy, his faithful servant and acolyte, was watching for him just
within the door. He drew the half-frozen priest across a small entry, to
a large warmed apartment answering to-day as both study and dining-room.
"The rist of the house do be perishing," the Irishman explained. The
priest sank in front of a blazing coal fire, tossing his gloves to the
table. He held his hands before the glow without comment. They were
wonderful hands, denoting artistic temperament, but with fingers too
pliant, too delicately slender for ascetic life. Philip Barry's hands
seemed formed for luxury, and in | 1,444.237473 |
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FROM EDINBURGH
TO INDIA AND BURMAH
[Illustration: Ayah and Child]
FROM EDINBURGH TO
INDIA & BURMAH
BY
W. G. BURN MURDOCH
Author of
"From Edinburgh to the Antarctic," "A Procession of the
Kings of Scotland," etc.
_WITH TWENTY-FOUR FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR
FROM PAINTINGS BY THE AUTHOR_
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, LTD.
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.
_TO_
ST. C.
C.
Contents
CHAP. I
Introducing these Digressions.
Point of Departure.
Edinburgh Street Scenes.
Flying Impressions from the Train
to
LONDON.
Street Scenes there -- The Park and Regent Street.
The People in the Streets.
Our Royalties gone, and Loyalty -- going.
Piccadilly Circus by Night, and Mount Street. pp. 1-8
CHAP. II
London to Tilbury, and the Platform at Victoria Station.
The Embarkation on a P. & O.
A Bugle Call.
The luxury of being at sea.
The Bay, and
"Spun Yarns" on to 9-18
CHAP. III
Orpheus and the Argo and the Sirens in heavy weather.
Down the Portugese Coast.
High Art in the Engine-Room.
Our People going East.
A Blustery Day, and the Straits of Gibraltar.
Gib and Spain, and "Poor Barbara." 19-26
CHAP. IV
A Blue Day at Sea, and Castles in Spain.
A Fire Alarm, and A Dummy Dinner.
The Beautiful French Lady.
Marseilles and the Crowd on the Wharf.
_Bouillabaisses_, and Rejane, and Cyrano, etc.,
and the head of a Serang for a tail-piece. 27-34
CHAP. V
About the Crowd on Board, and the discomfort of a voyage
first class -- British types -- Reflections
on the Deck and on the Sea -- of
Sky, and People, and of things in general.
A P. & O. yarn, Old Junk, or Chestnut.
Respectability and Art.
It gets warm -- The Punkah Infliction.
Egypt in Sight, and the Nile Water.
Port Said and its Inhabitants -- Jock Furgusson and Ors.
Corsica, Sardinia, Lipari Islands, Stromboli, Crete,
and The Acts of the Apostles. 35-45
CHAP. VI
The saddest thing in Egypt -- Dancing in the Canal, and
the Search-light on the Desert -- The fizzling hot blue
Red Sea, and digressions about rose-red Italian wine, &
Ulysses, and Callum Bhouie, and Uisquebaugh. 46-53
CHAP. VII
Is still about the Red Sea -- "The Barren Rocks of Aden,"
and small talk about small events on board -- a fancy
dress dance, and sports, and so on to BOMBAY. 54-62
CHAP. VIII
Is -- without apologies -- of first impressions of India;
and about the landing and entertainments of their Royal
Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales -- Great
people and little people, and their affairs; Royal
Receptions to snake-charmers -- Illuminations,
Gun-firing, and the Bands playing God save the King --
Edward the --? 63-74
CHAP. IX
This chapter continues to deal with splendid Royal Shows,
and there is the precis of a dream of a Prince and an
A.D.C., who correct the Abuses of the Privileges of the
Royal Academies. 75-84
CHAP. X
And this is about the arrival of Lord Minto, and the
departure of Lord Curzon, and the Tomasha connected
therewith; Vice-regal Receptions, and Processions, and
more band playing, and gun-firing. 85-101
CHAP. XI
Chronicles small beer -- things about books and little
Indian beasts and natives, and there is another
digression to the subject of "English _v._ British
Union, and the Imperial Idea," and a sail over the Bay
with a piratical (looking) crew, to the caves of
Elephanta. 102-111
CHAP. XII
Is a somewhat lengthy drawn-out chapter about a train
journey from Bombay up the Western Ghats, and down south
on the Deccan (Dekkan) Tableland to Dharwar -- Rather a
"carpet-bag chapter," to quote Professor Masson. 112-122
CHAP. XIII
Dharwar.
My Brother's Bungalow.
Life in a small Station.
The Club.
Duck-shooting 123-135
CHAP. XIV
A letter on the subject of DUCK -- And a Cholera Goddess.
136-144
CHAP. XV
Last evening at Dharwar, then notes in the train south to
Bangalore. 145-149
CHAP. XVI
Is of notes and sketches about things you see in
Bangalore. 150-156
CHAP. XVII
Is of a long journey for a small shoot -- Life on the
Railway Line, and a letter about SNIPE.
Our day's shoot is cut in two by the Royal Procession, and
we go to the Embassy, then to jail, and make a picture
of the Bazaar by lamplight, and discourse on the subject
of music with the Maharajah of Mysore. 157-173
CHAP. XVIII
Is about the Maharajah's Palace at Mysore -- To
Seringapatam in Trollies -- Remarks about the Siege,
mosquitoes, and landscape -- Back to Mysore, and Dinner
on the Track. 174-185
CHAP. XIX
Channapatna Village, and a free tip to artists -- Our Camp
in a railway siding in "beechen green, and shadows
numberless" -- Thoughts of Madras and the Ocean again --
How we rule India, and _ghosts_ on the railway track --
A Bank in India, and about cooking, and the Indian
squirrel or Chip-monk -- The Maharajah -- Red
Chupprassies -- The Museum, and Ants, etc., etc. 186-196
CHAP. XX
_En route_ for Madras -- A plague inspection in the grey
of the morning -- Madras and blue southern ocean,
through Tamarisks, and the silvery Cooum and fishermen
seine-netting on the strand -- The Race-course -- The
Old Fort of the Company -- Dinner at the Fort, and the
people we saw there; and of those we remembered who once
lived there -- A Digression from Crows to ancient Naval
Architecture, and the new Order of Precedence. 197-209
CHAP. XXI
A delightful Fishing Day -- Surf Rafts. -- Making Calls --
Boating on the Adyar River -- A Sunday in Madras
Churches, and on a Surf Raft -- End of the Year. 210-220
CHAP. XXII
1st JAN. 1906. -- Call at Government House -- The Fort
again -- More about Surf Rafts -- Lord Ampthill's
Government House Reception -- Nabobs and nobodies. --
Fireworks and pretty dresses, and the band playing. 221-226
CHAP. XXIII
Out of Madras, and on the blue sea again, bound West to
Burmah -- Packed with Natives -- An unsavoury Passage
Ruskin's English and Native Essayists. 227-231
CHAP. XXIV
GOLDEN BURMAH, and the Golden Pagoda -- a gymkhana dance
-- Sketching at the Pagoda entrance -- Various races --
Bachelor's quarters -- The Shan Camp -- Princesses and
Chieftains, and their followings -- Mr Bertram Carey,
C.I.E. -- The peace of the platform of The Shwey Dagon
Pagoda. 232-244
CHAP. XXV
"The Blairin' trumpet sounded far," and the Prince comes
over the sea, and lands at Rangoon -- Receptions and
processions; pandols, shamianas; and Royal Tomasha --
Illuminations at night on the Lake, and the Royal Barges
-- Song about Our King Emperor -- We start for Mandalay
by river-boat up the IRRAWADDY. 245-250
CHAP. XXVI
The Flotilla Co. -- Bassein-Creek mosquitoes --
Searchlight fantasies fairy-like scenes on the river by
night and day -- Up stream on a perfect yacht -- Past
perfectly lovely villages and scenes -- The Nile nowhere
-- Mr Fielding Hall -- Riverside delights -- Prome --
Pagodas | 1,444.24011 |
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Produced by David Kline, David Cortesi and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's note: in this pure-ASCII edition, a small number of
non-ASCII characters have been encoded as follows: ['e] and [`e]
for accented E; [^e] and [^o] for E and O with circumflex; and
[:i] for I with an ulaut.
['E]dition d'['E]lite
Historical Tales
The Romance of Reality
By
CHARLES MORRIS
Author of "Half-Hours with the Best American Authors,"
"Tales from the Dramatists," etc.
IN FIFTEEN VOLUMES
Volume I
American
I
J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
Copyright, 1893, by J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
Copyright, 1904, by J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
Copyright, 1908, by J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
[Illustration: WASHINGTON CROSSING THE DELAWARE.]
PREFACE.
It has become a commonplace remark that fact is often
stranger than fiction. It may be said, as a variant of this,
that history is often more romantic than romance. The pages
of the record of man's doings are frequently illustrated by
entertaining and striking incidents, relief points in the
dull monotony of every-day events, stories fitted to rouse
the reader from languid weariness and stir anew in his veins
the pulse of interest in human life. There are many
such,--dramas on the stage of history, life scenes that are
pictures in action, tales pathetic, stirring, enlivening,
full of the element of the unusual, of the stuff the novel
and the romance are made of, yet with the advantage of being
actual fact. Incidents of this kind have proved as
attractive to writers as to readers. They have dwelt upon
them lovingly, embellished them with the charms of rhetoric
and occasionally with the inventions of fancy, until what
began as fact has often entered far into the domains of
legend and fiction. It may well be that some of the
narratives in the present work have gone through this
process. If so, it is simply indicative of the interest
they have awakened in generations of readers and writers.
But the bulk of them are fact, so far as history in general
can be called fact, it having been our design to cull from
the annals of the nations some of their more stirring and
romantic incidents, and present them as a gallery of
pictures that might serve to adorn the entrance to the
temple of history, of which this work is offered as in some
sense an illuminated ante-chamber. As such, it is hoped that
some pilgrims from the world of readers may find it a
pleasant halting-place on their way into the far-extending
aisles of the great temple beyond.
CONTENTS
VINELAND AND THE VIKINGS 9
FROBISHER AND THE NORTHWEST PASSAGE 26
CHAMPLAIN AND THE IROQUOIS 34
SIR WILLIAM PHIPS AND THE SILVER-S | 1,444.242034 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
HISTORIC HIGHWAYS OF AMERICA
VOLUME 6
[Illustration: CUMBERLAND GAP AND BOONE'S WILDERNESS ROAD]
HISTORIC HIGHWAYS OF AMERICA
VOLUME 6
Boone's Wilderness Road
BY
ARCHER BUTLER HULBERT
_With Maps and Illustrations_
[Illustration]
THE ARTHUR H. CLARK COMPANY
CLEVELAND, OHIO
1903
COPYRIGHT, 1903
BY
THE ARTHUR H. CLARK COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE 11
I. THE PILGRIMS OF THE WEST 19
II. THE FIRST EXPLORERS 48
III. ANNALS OF THE ROAD 78
IV. KENTUCKY IN THE REVOLUTION 145
V. AT THE END OF BOONE'S ROAD 175
ILLUSTRATIONS
I. CUMBERLAND GAP AND BOONE | 1,444.242154 |
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E-text prepared by Greg Bergquist, Chris Curnow, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from digital
material generously made available by Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries
(http://www.archive.org/details/toronto)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 30697-h.htm or 30697-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/30697/30697-h/30697-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/30697/30697-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries. See
http://www.archive.org/details/alaskadayswithjo00younuoft
ALASKA DAYS WITH JOHN MUIR
[Illustration: JOHN MUIR WITH ALASKA SPRUCE CONES]
ALASKA DAYS WITH JOHN MUIR
by
S. HALL YOUNG
Illustrated
[Illustration]
New York Chicago Toronto
Fleming H. Revell Company
London and Edinburgh
Copyright, 1915, by
Fleming H. Revell Company
New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
Chicago: 125 N. Wabash Ave.
Toronto: 25 Richmond St., W.
London: 21 Paternoster Square
Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street
CONTENTS
I THE MOUNTAIN 11
II THE RESCUE 37
III THE VOYAGE 59
IV THE DISCOVERY 95
V THE LOST GLACIER 125
VI THE DOG AND THE MAN 163
VII THE MAN IN PERSPECTIVE 201
ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
John Muir with Alaska Spruce Cones _Title_
Fort Wrangell 12
The Mountain 24
One of the Marvelous Array of Lakes 40
Glacier--Stickeen Valley 54
Chilcat Woman Weaving a Blanket 82
Muir Glacier 114
Davidson Glacier 128
Taku Glacier 150
The Front of Muir Glacier 168
Glacial Crevasses 186
John Muir in Later Life 200
Map 70
(Voyages of Muir and Young)
THE MOUNTAIN
THUNDER BAY
Deep calm from God enfolds the land;
Light on the mountain top I stand;
How peaceful all, but ah, how grand!
Low lies the bay beneath my feet;
The bergs sail out, a white-winged fleet,
To where the sky and ocean meet.
Their glacier mother sleeps between
Her granite walls. The mountains lean
Above her, trailing skirts of green.
Each ancient brow is raised to heaven:
The snow streams always, tempest-driven,
Like hoary locks, o'er chasms riven
By throes of Earth. But, still as sleep,
No storm disturbs the quiet deep
Where mirrored forms their silence keep.
A heaven of light beneath the sea!
A dream of worlds from shadow free!
A pictured, bright eternity!
The azure domes above, below
(A crystal casket), hold and show,
As precious jewels, gems of snow,
Dark emerald islets, amethyst
Of far horizon, pearls of mist
In pendant clouds, clear icebergs, kissed
By wavelets,--sparkling diamonds rare
Quick flashing through the ambient air.
A ring of mountains, graven fair
In lines of grace, encircles all,
Save where the purple splendors fall
On sky and ocean's bridal-hall.
The yellow river, broad and fleet,
Winds through its velvet meadows sweet--
A chain of gold for jewels meet.
Pours over all the sun's broad ray;
Power, beauty, peace, in one array!
My God, I thank Thee for this day.
I
THE MOUNTAIN
In the summer of 1879 I was stationed at Fort Wrangell in southeastern
Alaska, whence I had come the year before, a green young student fresh
from college and seminary--very green and very fresh--to do what I could
| 1,444.254321 |
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NADA THE LILY
By H. Rider Haggard
DEDICATION
Sompseu:
For I will call you by the name that for fifty years has been honoured
by every tribe between Zambesi and Cape Agulbas,--I greet you!
Sompseu, my father, I have written a book that tells of men and matters
of which you know the most of any who still look upon the light;
therefore, I set your name within that book and, such as it is, I offer
it to you.
If you knew not Chaka, you and he have seen the same suns shine, you
knew his brother Panda and his captains, and perhaps even that very Mopo
who tells this tale, his servant, who slew him with the Princes. You
have seen the circle of the witch-doctors and the unconquerable Zulu
impis rushing to war; you have crowned their kings and shared their
counsels, and with your son's blood you have expiated a statesman's
error and a general's fault.
Sompseu, a song has been sung in my ears of how first you mastered this
people of the Zulu. Is it not true, my father, that for long hours you
sat silent and alone, while three thousand warriors shouted for your
life? And when they grew weary, did you not stand and say, pointing
towards the ocean: "Kill me if you wish, men of Cetywayo, but I tell
you that for every drop of my blood a hundred avengers shall rise from
yonder sea!"
Then, so it was told me, the regiments turned staring towards the Black
Water, as though the day of Ulundi had already come and they saw the
white slayers creeping across the plains.
Thus, Sompseu, your name became great among the people of the Zulu, as
already it was great among many another tribe, and their nobles did you
homage, and they gave you the Bayete, the royal salute, declaring by the
mouth of their Council that in you dwelt the spirit of Chaka.
Many years have gone by since then, and now you are old, my father. It
is many years even since I was a boy, and followed you when you went up
among the Boers and took their country for the Queen.
Why did you do this, my father? I will answer, who know the truth. You
did it because, had it not been done, the Zulus would have stamped out
the Boers. Were not Cetywayo's impis gathered against the land, and was
it not because it became the Queen's land that at your word he sent them
murmuring to their kraals? (1) To save bloodshed you annexed the country
beyond the Vaal. Perhaps it had been better to leave it, since "Death
chooses for himself," and after all there was killing--of our own
people, and with the killing, shame. But in those days we did not guess
what we should live to see, and of Majuba we thought only as a little
hill!
Enemies have borne false witness against you on this matter, Sompseu,
you who never erred except through over kindness. Yet what does that
avail? When you have "gone beyond" it will be forgotten, since the sting
of ingratitude passes and lies must wither like the winter veldt. Only
your name will not be forgotten; as it was heard in life so it shall be
heard in story, and I pray that, however humbly, mine may pass down with
it. Chance has taken me by another path, and I must leave the ways
of action that I love and bury myself in books, but the old days and
friends are in my mind, nor while I have memory shall I forget them and
you.
Therefore, though it be for the last time, from far across the seas I
speak to you, and lifting my hand I | 1,444.338325 |
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Produced by Michael Pullen and David Widger
THE MARBLE FAUN
or The Romance of Monte Beni
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
In Two Volumes
This is Volume One
Contents
Volume I
I MIRIAM, HILDA, KENYON, DONATELLO
II THE FAUN
III SUBTERRANEAN REMINISCENCES
IV THE SPECTRE OF THE CATACOMB
V MIRIAM'S STUDIO
VI THE VIRGIN'S SHRINE
VII BEATRICE
VIII THE SUBURBAN VILLA
IX THE FAUN AND NYMPH
X THE SYLVAN DANCE
XI FRAGMENTARY SENTENCES
XII A STROLL ON THE PINCIAN
XIII A SCULPTOR'S STUDIO
XIV CLEOPATRA
XV AN AESTHETIC COMPANY
XVI A MOONLIGHT RAMBLE
XVII MIRIAM'S TROUBLE
XVIII ON THE EDGE OF A PRECIPICE
XIX THE FAUN'S TRANSFORMATION
XX THE BURIAL CHANT
XXI THE DEAD CAPUCHIN
XXII THE MEDICI GARDENS
XXIII MIRIAM AND HILDA
Volume II
XXIV THE TOWER AMONG THE APENNINES
XXV SUNSHINE
XXVI THE PEDIGREE OF MONTE BENI
XXVII MYTHS
XXVIII THE OWL TOWER
XXIX ON THE BATTLEMENTS
XXX DONATELLO'S BUST
XXXI THE MARBLE SALOON
XXXII SCENES BY THE WAY
XXXIII PICTURED WINDOWS
XXXIV MARKET-DAY IN PERUGIA
XXXV THE BRONZE PONTIFF'S BENEDICTION
XXXVI HILDA'S TOWER
XXXVII THE EMPTINESS OF PICTURE GALLERIES
XXXVIII ALTARS AND INCENSE
XXXIX THE WORLD'S CATHEDRAL
XL HILDA AND A FRIEND
XLI SNOWDROPS AND MAIDENLY DELIGHTS
XLII REMINISCENCES OF MIRIAM
XLIII THE EXTINCTION OF A LAMP
XLIV THE DESERTED SHRINE
XLV THE FLIGHT OF HILDA'S DOVES
XLVI A WALK ON THE CAMPAGNA
XLVII THE PEASANT AND CONTADINA
XLVIII A SCENE IN THE CORSO
XLIX A FROLIC OF THE CARNIVAL
L MIRIAM, HILDA, KENYON, DONATELLO
THE MARBLE FAUN
Volume I
CHAPTER I
MIRIAM, HILDA, KENYON, DONATELLO
Four individuals, in whose fortunes we should be glad to interest
the reader, happened to be standing in one of the saloons of the
sculpture-gallery in the Capitol at Rome. It was that room (the first,
after ascending the staircase) in the centre of which reclines the noble
and most pathetic figure of the Dying Gladiator, just sinking into his
death-swoon. Around the walls stand the Antinous, the Amazon, the Lycian
Apollo, the Juno; all famous productions of antique sculpture, and still
shining in the undiminished majesty and beauty of their ideal life,
although the marble that embodies them is yellow with time, and perhaps
corroded by the damp earth in which they lay buried for centuries. Here,
likewise, is seen a symbol (as apt at this moment as it was two thousand
years ago) of the Human Soul, with its choice of Innocence or Evil close
at hand, in the pretty figure of a child, clasping a dove to her bosom,
but assaulted by a snake.
From one of the windows of this saloon, we may see a flight of broad
stone steps, descending alongside the antique and massive foundation of
the Capitol, towards the battered triumphal arch of Septimius Severus,
right below. Farther on, the eye skirts along the edge of the desolate
Forum (where Roman washerwomen hang out their linen to the sun), passing
over a shapeless confusion of modern edifices, piled rudely up with
ancient brick and stone, and over the domes of Christian churches,
built on the old pavements of heathen temples, and supported by the very
pillars that once upheld them. At a distance beyond--yet but a little
way, considering how much history is heaped into the intervening
space--rises the great sweep of the Coliseum, with the blue sky
brightening through its upper tier of arches. Far off, the view is shut
in by the Alban Mountains, looking just the same, amid all this decay
and change, as when Romulus gazed thitherward over his half finished
wall.
We glance hastily at these things,--at this bright sky, and those
blue distant mountains, and at the ruins, Etruscan, Roman, Christian,
venerable with a threefold antiquity, and at the company of world-famous
statues in the saloon,--in the hope of putting the reader into that
state of feeling which is experienced oftenest at Rome. It is a vague
sense of ponderous remembrances; a perception of such weight and density
in a bygone life, of which this spot was the centre, that the present
moment is pressed down or crowded out, and our individual affairs and
interests are but half as real here as elsewhere. Viewed through this
medium | 1,444.395082 |
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Produced by Dianne Bean
ARMY LETTERS FROM AN OFFICER'S WIFE
By Frances M. A. Roe
PREFACE
PERHAPS it is not necessary to say that the events mentioned in the
letters are not imaginary--perhaps the letters themselves tell that!
They are truthful accounts of experiences that came into my own
life with the Army in the far West, whether they be about Indians,
desperadoes, or hunting--not one little thing has been stolen. They
are of a life that has passed--as has passed the buffalo and the
antelope--yes, and the log and adobe quarters for the Army. All flowery
descriptions have been omitted, as it seemed that a simple, concise
narration of events as they actually occurred, was more in keeping with
the life, and that which came into it. FRANCES M. A. ROE.
ARMY LETTERS FROM AN OFFICER'S WIFE
KIT CARSON, COLORADO TERRITORY, October, 1871.
IT is late, so this can be only a note--to tell you that we arrived here
safely, and will take the stage for Fort Lyon to-morrow morning at six
o'clock. I am thankful enough that our stay is short at this terrible
place, where one feels there is danger of being murdered any minute.
Not one woman have I seen here, but there are men--any number of
dreadful-looking men--each one armed with big pistols, and leather belts
full of cartridges. But the houses we saw as we came from the station
were worse even than the men. They looked, in the moonlight, like huge
cakes of clay, where spooks and creepy things might be found. The hotel
is much like the houses, and appears to have been made of dirt, and a
few drygoods boxes. Even the low roof is of dirt. The whole place is
horrible, and dismal beyond description, and just why anyone lives here
I cannot understand.
I am all upset! Faye has just been in to say that only one of my trunks
can be taken on the stage with us, and of course I had to select one
that has all sorts of things in it, and consequently leave my pretty
dresses here, to be sent for--all but the Japanese silk which happens to
be in that trunk. But imagine my mortification in having to go with
Faye to his regiment, with only two dresses. And then, to make my
shortcomings the more vexatious, Faye will be simply fine all the time,
in his brand new uniform!
Perhaps I can send a long letter soon--if I live to reach that army post
that still seems so far away.
FORT LYON, COLORADO TERRITORY, October, 1871.
AFTER months of anticipation and days of weary travel we have at last
got to our army home! As you know, Fort Lyon is fifty miles from Kit
Carson, and we came all that distance in a funny looking stage coach
called a "jerkey," and a good name for it, too, for at times it seesawed
back and forth and then sideways, in an awful breakneck way. The day was
glorious, and the atmosphere so clear, we could see miles and miles in
every direction. But there was not one object to be seen on the vast
rolling plains--not a tree nor a house, except the wretched ranch and
stockade where we got fresh horses and a perfectly uneatable dinner.
It was dark when we reached the post, so of course we could see
nothing that night. General and Mrs. Phillips gave us a most cordial
welcome--just as though they had known us always. Dinner was served soon
after we arrived, and the cheerful dining room, and the table with its
dainty china and bright silver, was such a surprise--so much nicer than
anything we had expected to find here, and all so different from the
terrible places we had seen since reaching the plains. It was apparent
at once that this was not a place for spooks! General Phillips is not a
real general--only so by brevet, for gallant service during the war. I
was so disappointed when I was told this, but Faye says that he is very
much afraid that I will have cause, sooner or later, to think that
the grade of captain is quite high enough. He thinks this way because,
having graduated at West Point this year, he is only a second lieutenant
just now, and General Phillips is his captain and company commander.
It seems that in the Army, lieutenants are called "Mister" always, but
all other officers must be addressed by their rank. At least that is
what they tell me. But in Faye's company, the captain is called general,
and the first lieutenant is called major, and as this is most confusing,
I get things mixed sometimes. Most girls would. A soldier in uniform
waited upon us at dinner, and that seemed so funny. I wanted to watch
him all the time, which distracted me, I suppose, for once I called
General Phillips "Mister!" It so happened, too, that just that instant
there was not a sound in the room, so everyone heard the blunder.
General Phillips straightened back in his chair, and his little son gave
a smothered giggle--for which he should have been sent to bed at once.
But that was not all! That soldier, who had been so dignified and stiff,
put his hand over his mouth and fairly rushed from the room so he could
laugh outright. And how I longed to run some place, too--but not to
laugh, oh, no!
These soldiers are not nearly as nice as one would suppose them to be,
when one sees them dressed up in their blue uniforms with bright brass
buttons. And they can make mistakes, too, for yesterday, when I asked
that same man a question, he answered, "Yes, sorr!" Then I smiled, of
course, but he did not seem to have enough sense to see why. When I
told Faye about it, he looked vexed and said I must never laugh at an
enlisted man--that it was not dignified in the wife of an officer to do
so. And then I told him that an officer should teach an enlisted man
not to snicker at his wife, and not to call her "Sorr," which was
disrespectful. I wanted to say more, but Faye suddenly left the room.
The post is not at all as you and I had imagined it to be. There is no
high wall around it as there is at Fort Trumbull. It reminds one of a
prim little village built around a square, in the center of which is a
high flagstaff and a big cannon. The buildings are very low and broad
and are made of adobe--a kind of clay and mud mixed together--and the
walls are very thick. At every window are heavy wooden shutters, that
can be closed during severe sand and wind storms. A little ditch--they
call it acequia--runs all around the post, and brings water to the trees
and lawns, but water for use in the houses is brought up in wagons from
the Arkansas River, and is kept in barrels.
Yesterday morning--our first here--we were awakened by the sounds of
fife and drum that became louder and louder, until finally I thought the
whole Army must be marching to the house. I stumbled over everything
in the room in my haste to get to one of the little dormer windows, but
there was nothing to be seen, as it was still quite dark. The drumming
became less loud, and then ceased altogether, when a big gun was fired
that must have wasted any amount of powder, for it shook the house and
made all the windows rattle. Then three or four bugles played a little
air, which it was impossible to hear because of the horrible howling
and crying of dogs--such howls of misery you never heard--they made
me shiver. This all suddenly ceased, and immediately there were lights
flashing some distance away, and dozens of men seemed to be talking
all at the same time, some of them shouting, "Here!" "Here!" I began
to think that perhaps Indians had come upon us, and called to Faye, who
informed me in a sleepy voice that it was only reveille roll-call, and
that each man was answering to his name. There was the same performance
this morning, and at breakfast I asked General Phillips why soldiers
required such a beating of drums, and deafening racket generally, to
awaken them in the morning. But he did not tell me--said it was an
old army custom to have the drums beaten along the officers' walk at
reveille.
Yesterday morning, directly after guard-mounting, Faye put on his
full-dress uniform--epaulets, beautiful scarlet sash, and sword--and
went over to the office of the commanding officer to report officially.
The officer in command of the post is lieutenant colonel of the
regiment, but he, also, is a general by brevet, and one can see by
his very walk that he expects this to be remembered always. So it
is apparent to me that the safest thing to do is to call everyone
general--there seem to be so many here. If I make a mistake, it will be
on the right side, at least.
Much of the furniture in this house was made by soldier carpenters here
at the post, and is not only very nice, but cost General Phillips
almost nothing, and, as we have to buy everything, I said at dinner last
evening that we must have some precisely like it, supposing, of course,
that General Phillips would feel highly gratified because his taste
was admired. But instead of the smile and gracious acquiescence I had
expected, there was another straightening back in the chair, and a
silence that was ominous and chilling. Finally, he recovered sufficient
breath to tell me that at present, there were no good carpenters in the
company. Later on, however, I learned that only captains and officers of
higher rank can have such things. The captains seem to have the best of
everything, and the lieutenants are expected to get along with smaller
houses, much less pay, and much less everything else, and at the same
time perform all of the disagreeable duties.
Faye is wonderfully amiable about it, and assures me that when he gets
to be a captain I will see that it is just and fair. But I happen
to remember that he told me not long ago that he might not get his
captaincy for twenty years. Just think of it--a whole long lifetime--and
always a Mister, too--and perhaps by that time it will be "just and
fair" for the lieutenants to have everything!
We saw our house yesterday--quarters I must learn to say--and it is
ever so much nicer than we had expected it to be. All of the officers'
quarters are new, and this set has never been occupied. It has a hall
with a pretty stairway, three rooms and a large shed downstairs, and
two rooms and a very large hall closet on the second floor. A soldier is
cleaning the windows and floors, and making things tidy generally. Many
of the men like to cook, and do things for officers of their company,
thereby adding to their pay, and these men are called strikers.
There are four companies here--three of infantry and one troop of
cavalry. You must always remember that Faye is in the infantry. With
the cavalry he has a classmate, and a friend, also, which will make
it pleasant for both of us. In my letters to you I will disregard army
etiquette, and call the lieutenants by their rank, otherwise you would
not know of whom I was writing--an officer or civilian. Lieutenant
Baldwin has been on the frontier many years, and is an experienced
hunter of buffalo and antelope. He says that I must commence riding
horseback at once, and has generously offered me the use of one of his
horses. Mrs. Phillips insists upon my using her saddle until I can get
one from the East, so I can ride as soon as our trunks come. And I am to
learn to shoot pistols and guns, and do all sorts of things.
We are to remain with General and Mrs. Phillips several days, while our
own house is being made habitable, and in the meantime our trunks and
boxes will come, also the <DW52> cook. I have not missed my dresses
very much--there has been so much else to think about. There is a little
store just outside the post that is named "Post Trader's," where many
useful things are kept, and we have just been there to purchase some
really nice furniture that an officer left to be sold when he was
retired last spring. We got only enough to make ourselves comfortable
during the winter, for it seems to be the general belief here that these
companies of infantry will be ordered to Camp Supply, Indian Territory,
in the spring. It must be a most dreadful place--with old log houses
built in the hot sand hills, and surrounded by almost every tribe of
hostile Indians.
It may not be possible for me to write again for several days, as I will
be very busy getting settled in the house. I must get things arranged
just as soon as I can, so I will be able to go out on horseback with
Faye and Lieutenant Baldwin.
FORT LYON, COLORADO TERRITORY, October, 1871.
WHEN a very small girl, I was told many wonderful tales about a grand
Indian chief called Red Jacket, by my great-grandmother, who, you will
remember, saw him a number of times when she, also, was a small girl.
And since then--almost all my life--I have wanted to see with my very
own eyes an Indian--a real noble red man--dressed in beautiful skins
embroidered with beads, and on his head long, waving feathers.
Well, I have seen an Indian--a number of Indians--but they were not Red
Jackets, neither were they noble red men. They were simply, and only,
painted, dirty, and nauseous-smelling savages! Mrs. Phillips says that
Indians are all alike--that when you have seen one you have seen all.
And she must know, for she has lived on the frontier a long time, and
has seen many Indians of many tribes.
We went to Las Animas yesterday, Mrs. Phillips, Mrs. Cole, and I, to do
a little shopping. There are several small stores in the half-Mexican
village, where curious little things from Mexico can often be found,
if one does not mind poking about underneath the trash and dirt that is
everywhere. While we were in the largest of these shops, ten or twelve
Indians dashed up to the door on their ponies, and four of them,
slipping down, came in the store and passed on quickly to the counter
farthest back, where the ammunition is kept. As they came toward us in
their imperious way, never once looking to the right or to the left,
they seemed like giants, and to increase in size and numbers with every
step.
Their coming was so sudden we did not have a chance to get out of their
way, and it so happened that Mrs. Phillips and I were in their line of
march, and when the one in the lead got to us, we were pushed aside with
such impatient force that we both fell over on the counter. The others
passed on just the same, however, and if we had fallen to the floor, I
presume they would have stepped over us, and otherwise been oblivious to
our existence. This was my introduction to an Indian--the noble red man!
As soon as they got to the counter they demanded powder, balls, and
percussion caps, and as these things were given them, they were stuffed
down their muzzle-loading rifles, and what could not be rammed down the
barrels was put in greasy skin bags and hidden under their blankets. I
saw one test the sharp edge of a long, wicked-looking knife, and then
it, also, disappeared under his blanket. All this time the other Indians
were on their ponies in front, watching every move that was being made
around them.
There was only the one small door to the little adobe shop, and into
this an Indian had ridden his piebald pony; its forefeet were up a step
on the sill and its head and shoulders were in the room, which made it
quite impossible for us three frightened women to run out in the street.
So we got back of a counter, and, as Mrs. Phillips expressed it, "midway
between the devil and the deep sea." There certainly could be no mistake
about the "devil" side of it!
It was an awful situation to be in, and one to terrify anybody. We were
actually prisoners--penned in with all those savages, who were evidently
in an ugly mood, with quantities of ammunition within their reach, and
only two white men to protect us. Even the few small windows had iron
bars across. They could have killed every one of us, and ridden far away
before anyone in the sleepy town found it out.
Well, when those inside had been given, or had helped themselves to,
whatever they wanted, out they all marched again, quickly and silently,
just as they had come in. They instantly mounted their ponies, and all
rode down the street and out of sight at race speed, some leaning so far
over on their little beasts that one could hardly see the Indian at all.
The pony that was ridden into the store door was without a bridle, and
was guided by a long strip of buffalo skin which was fastened around his
lower jaw by a slipknot. It is amazing to see how tractable the Indians
can make their ponies with only that one rein.
The storekeeper told us that those Indians were Utes, and were greatly
excited because they had just heard there was a small party of Cheyennes
down the river two or three miles. The Utes and Cheyennes are bitter
enemies. He said that the Utes were very cross--ready for the blood of
Indian or white man--therefore he had permitted them to do about as they
pleased while in the store, particularly as we were there, and he
saw that we were frightened. That young man did not know that his own
swarthy face was a greenish white all the time those Indians were in the
store! Not one penny did they pay for the things they carried off. Only
two years ago the entire Ute nation was on the warpath, killing every
white person they came across, and one must have much faith in Indians
to believe that their "change of heart" has been so complete that these
Utes have learned to love the white man in so short a time.
No! There was hatred in their eyes as they approached us in that store,
and there was restrained murder in the hand that pushed Mrs. Phillips
and me over. They were all hideous--with streaks of red or green paint
on their faces that made them look like fiends. Their hair was roped
with strips of bright- stuff, and hung down on each side of their
shoulders in front, and on the crown of each black head was a small,
tightly plaited lock, ornamented at the top with a feather, a piece of
tin, or something fantastic. These were their scalp locks. They wore
blankets over dirty old shirts, and of course had on long, trouserlike
leggings of skin and moccasins. They were not tall, but rather short and
stocky. The odor of those skins, and of the Indians themselves, in that
stuffy little shop, I expect to smell the rest of my life!
We heard this morning that those very savages rode out on the plains in
a roundabout way, so as to get in advance of the Cheyennes, and then had
hidden themselves on the top of a bluff overlooking the trail they knew
the Cheyennes to be following, and had fired upon them as they passed
below, killing two and wounding a number of others. You can see how
treacherous these Indians are, and how very far from noble is their
method of warfare! They are so disappointing, too--so wholly unlike
Cooper's red men.
We were glad enough to get in the ambulance and start on our way to the
post, but alas! our troubles were not over. The mules must have felt
the excitement in the air, for as soon as their heads were turned toward
home they proceeded to run away with us. We had the four little mules
that are the special pets of the quartermaster, and are known throughout
the garrison as the "shaved-tails," because the hair on their tails is
kept closely cut down to the very tips, where it is left in a square
brush of three or four inches. They are perfectly matched--coal-black
all over, except their little noses, and are quite small. They are full
of mischief, and full of wisdom, too, even for government mules, and
when one says, "Let's take a sprint," the others always agree--about
that there is never the slightest hesitation.
Therefore, when we first heard the scraping of the brake, and saw that
the driver was pulling and sawing at the tough mouths with all his
strength, no one was surprised, but we said that we wished they had
waited until after we had crossed the Arkansas River. But we got over
the narrow bridge without meeting more than one man, who climbed over
the railing and seemed less anxious | 1,444.440344 |
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Produced by Judith Boss
PELLUCIDAR
By
Edgar Rice Burroughs
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PROLOGUE
I LOST ON PELLUCIDAR
II TRAVELING WITH TERROR
III SHOOTING THE CHUTES--AND AFTER
IV FRIENDSHIP AND TREACHERY
V SURPRISES
VI A PENDENT WORLD
VII FROM PLIGHT TO PLIGHT
VIII CAPTIVE
IX HOOJA'S CUTTHROATS APPEAR
X THE RAID ON THE CAVE-PR | 1,444.487438 |
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Produced by Neville Allen, Chris Curnow and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR
Edited by J. A. HAMMERTON
Designed to provide in a series
of volumes, each complete in itself,
the cream of our national humour,
contributed by the masters of
comic draughtsmanship and the
leading wits of the age to "Punch,"
from its beginning in 1841 to the
present day.
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH AT THE PLAY
[Illustration]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Actor (on the stage)._ "Me mind is made up!"
_Voice from the Gallery._ "What abeaout yer fice?"]
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH AT THE PLAY
HUMOURS OF MUSIC AND THE DRAMA
_WITH 140 ILLUSTRATIONS_
[Illustration]
BY CHARLES KEENE, PHIL MAY, GEORGE DU MAURIER, BERNARD PARTRIDGE, L.
RAVEN-HILL, E. T. REED, F. H. TOWNSEND, C. E. BROCK, A. S. BOYD, TOM
BROWNE, EVERARD HOPKINS AND OTHERS
PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT WITH THE PROPRIETORS OF "PUNCH"
* * * * *
THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.
* * * * *
THE PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR
_Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo, 192 pages fully illustrated_
LIFE IN LONDON
COUNTRY LIFE
IN THE HIGHLANDS
SCOTTISH HUMOUR
IRISH HUMOUR
COCKNEY HUMOUR
IN SOCIETY
AFTER DINNER STORIES
IN BOHEMIA
AT THE PLAY
MR. PUNCH AT HOME
ON THE CONTINONG
RAILWAY BOOK
AT THE SEASIDE
MR. PUNCH AFLOAT
IN THE HUNTING FIELD
MR. PUNCH ON TOUR
WITH ROD AND GUN
MR. PUNCH AWHEEL
BOOK OF SPORTS
GOLF STORIES
IN WIG AND GOWN
ON THE WARPATH
BOOK OF LOVE
WITH THE CHILDREN
[Illustration]
* * * * *
[Illustration]
BEFORE THE CURTAIN
Most of the PUNCH artists of note have used their pencils on the
theatre; with theatricals public and private none has done more than Du
Maurier. All have made merry over the extravagances of melodrama and
"problem" plays; the vanity and the mistakes of actors, actresses and
dramatists; and the blunderings of the average playgoer.
MR. PUNCH genially satirises the aristocratic amateurs who, some few
years ago, made frantic rushes into the profession, and for a while
enjoyed more kudos as actors than they had obtained as titled members
of the upper circle, and the exaggerated social status that for the time
accrued to the professional actor as a consequence of this invasion.
The things he has written about the stage, quite apart from all
reviewing of plays, would more than fill a book of itself; and he has
slyly and laughingly satirised players, playwrights and public with an
equal impartiality.
He has got a deal of fun out of the French dramas and the affected
pleasure taken in them by audiences that did not understand the
language. He has got even more fun out of the dramatists whose "original
plays" were largely translated from the French, and to whom Paris was,
and to some extent is still, literally and figuratively "a playground."
[Illustration]
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH AT THE PLAY
SOMETHING FOR THE MONEY
(_From the Playgoers' Conversation Book. Coming Edition._)
[Illustration]
I have only paid three guineas and a half for this stall, but it is
certainly stuffed with the very best hair.
The people in the ten-and-sixpenny gallery seem fairly pleased with
their dado.
I did not know the call-boy was at Eton.
The expenses of this house must be enormous, if they always play _Box
and Cox_ with a rasher of real Canadian bacon.
How nice to know that the musicians, though out of sight under the
stage, are in evening dress on velvet cushions!
Whoever is the author of this comedy, he has not written up with spirit
to that delightful Louis the Fifteenth linen cupboard.
I cannot catch a word "Macbeth" is saying, but I can see at a glance
that his kilt would be extremely cheap at seventy pounds.
I am not surprised to hear that the "Tartar's lips" for the cauldron
alone add nightly something like fifty-five-and-sixpence to the
expenses.
Do not bother me about the situation when I am looking at the quality of
the velvet pile.
Since the introduction of the _live_ hedgehog into domestic drama
obliged the management to raise the second-tier private boxes to forty
guineas, the Duchess has gone into the slips with an order.
They had, perhaps, better take away the champagne-bottle and the
diamond-studded whistle from the prompter.
Ha! here comes the chorus of villagers, provided with real silk
pocket-handkerchiefs.
It is all this sort of thing that elevates the drama, and makes me so
contented to part with a ten-pound note for an evening's amusement.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Pantomime Child (to admiring friend)._ "Yus, and there's
another hadvantage in bein' a hactress. You get yer fortygraphs took for
noffink!"]
* * * * *
THE HEIGHT OF LITERARY NECESSITY.--"Spouting" Shakspeare.
* * * * *
WHEN are parsons bound in honour not to abuse theatres?
When they take orders.
* * * * *
WHAT VOTE THE MANAGER OF A THEATRE ALWAYS HAS.--The "casting" vote.
* * * * *
"STAND NOT ON THE ORDER OF YOUR GOING."--An amiable manager says the
orders which he issues for the pit and gallery are what in his opinion
constitute "the lower orders."
* * * * *
GREAT THEATRICAL EFFECT.--During a performance of _Macbeth_ at the
Haymarket, the thunder was so natural that it turned sour a pint of beer
in the prompter's-box.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE DRAMA.--"'Ere, I say, 'Liza, we've seen this 'ere
play before!" "No, we ain't." [_Wordy argument follows._] "Why, don't
you remember, same time as Bill took us to the 'Pig an' Whistle,' an' we
'ad stewed eels for supper?" "Oh lor! Yes, that takes me back to it!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: TRUE APPRECIATION
(_Overheard at the Theatre_)
_Mrs. Parvenu._ "I don't know that I'm exackly _gone_ on Shakspeare
Plays."
[_Mr. P. agrees._
]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Conversationalist._ "Do you play ping-pong?"
_Actor._ "No. I play _Hamlet_!"]
* * * * *
TO ACTORS WHO ARE NOT WORTH A THOUGHT.--We notice that there is a book
called "Acting and Thinking." This is to distinguish it, we imagine,
from the generality of acting, in which there is mostly no thinking?
* * * * *
A CRUSHER.--_Country Manager (to Mr. Agrippa Snap, the great London
critic, who has come down to see the production of a piece on trial)._
And what do you think, sir, of our theatre and our players?
_Agrippa Snap (loftily)._ Well, frankly, Mr. Flatson, your green-room's
better than your company.
* * * * *
[Illustration: The higher walk of the drama]
* * | 1,444.498657 |
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Produced by Brownfox and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by JSTOR www.jstor.org)
THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.
NUMBER 7. SATURDAY, AUGUST 15, 1840. VOLUME I.
[Illustration: REMAINS AT MONASTERBOICE. COUNTY LOUTH.]
To the observing and imaginative traveller, our island must present a
great number of peculiarities of aspect which will not fail to excite his
notice, and impress themselves indelibly upon his mind. The scantiness of
wood--for its natural timber has nearly all disappeared--and the abundance
of water, are two of the characteristics that will most strike him; and,
next to these, the great extent of prospect usually afforded to the eye in
consequence of the undulating character of its surface. Sparkling streams
are visible everywhere, and shining lakes and noble rivers come into view
in rapid succession; while ranges of blue mountains are rarely wanting to
bound the distant horizon. The colours with which Nature has painted the
surface of our island are equally peculiar. There is no variety of green,
whether of depth or vivid brightness, which is not to be found covering
it; they are hues which can be seen nowhere else in equal force; and even
our bogs, which are so numerous, with all their mutations of colour, now
purple, and anon red, or brown, or black, by their vigorous contrasts give
additional beauty and life to the landscape, and assist in imparting to it
a sort of national individuality. Our very clouds have to a great degree a
distinctive character--the result of the humidity of our climate; they
have a grandeur of form and size, and a force of light and shadow, that
are but rarely seen in other countries; they are _Irish clouds_--at one
moment bright and sunny, and in the next flinging their dark shadows over
the landscape, and involving it in gloomy grandeur. It is in this striking
force of contrast in almost every thing that we look at, that the
peculiarity of our scenery chiefly consists; and it appears to have
stamped the general character of our people with those contrasting lights
and shades so well exhibited in our exquisite and strongly-marked national
music, in which all varieties of sentiment are so deeply yet harmoniously
blended as to produce on the mind effects perhaps in some degree
saddening, but withal most delightfully sweet and soothing. A country
marked with such peculiarities is not the legitimate abode of the refined
sensualist of modern times, or the man of artificial pleasure and
heartless pursuits, and all such naturally remain away from it, or visit
it with reluctance; but it is the proper habitation of the poet, the
painter, and, above all, the philanthropist; for nowhere else can the
latter find so extensive a field for the exercise of the godlike feelings
of benevolence and patriotism.
Yet the natural features of scenery and climate which we have pointed out,
interesting as all must admit them to be, are not the only ones that
confer upon our country the peculiar and impressive character which it
possesses. The relics of past epochs of various classes; the monuments of
its Pagan times, as revealed to us in its religious, military, and
sepulchral remains; the ruins of its primitive Christian ages, as
exemplified in its simple and generally unadorned churches, and slender
round towers; the more splendid monastic edifices of later date, and the
gloomy castles of still more recent times--these are everywhere present to
bestow historic interest on the landscape, and bring the successive
conditions and changes of society in bygone ages forcibly before the
mind; so that an additional interest, of a deep and poetical nature, is
thus imparted to views in themselves impressive from their wild and
picturesque appearance. So perfect, indeed, is this harmony of the natural
and artificial characteristics of Irish scenery, so comprehensively do
both tell the history of our country, to which Nature has been most
bountiful, and in which, alas! man has not been happy, that if we were
desirous of giving a stranger a true idea of Ireland, and one that would
impress itself on his mind, we should conduct him to one of our green open
landscapes, where the dark and ruined castle, seated on some rocky height,
or the round tower, with its little parent church, in some sequestered
valley, would be the only features to arrest his attention; and of such a
scene we should say emphatically, This is Ireland! And such a scene is
that which is presented by the ruins represented in our prefixed
illustration.
Passing along the great northern road from Drogheda to Dundalk, and about
four miles from the former, the traveller will find himself in an open
pastoral country, finely undulating, thinly dotted with the cottages of
the peasants, and but little adorned by art. On one side, to his left, he
will see a little group of ruins, with a lofty but shattered round tower,
giving index of their age and character. These are the ruins of the long
since celebrated religious establishment of Monasterboice, one of the most
interesting groups of their kind in Ireland. They consist of two small
churches, a round tower, and three most gorgeously sculptured stone
crosses, standing in the midst of a crowd of tombs and head-stones of
various ages. Both the churches are of great antiquity, though, as their
architectural features clearly show, of widely separated ages--the larger
one exhibiting the peculiarities of the ecclesiastical structures of the
twelfth century, and the smaller those of a much earlier date. Both are
also simple oblongs, consisting of a nave and choir; and the round tower
appears to be of coeval architecture with the earlier church.
The tower, which is of excellent construction, is built of the slatey
limestone of the surrounding hills, and is divided into five stories by
belts of stone slightly projecting. The upper story has four oblong
apertures, and the lower ones are each lighted by an aperture having an
angular top. The doorway, which faces the south-east, has a semicircular
arch, and is constructed of chiselled freestone: it is of the usual height
of five feet six inches, by one foot ten inches in breadth, and is six
feet from the present surface of the ground. The circumference of the
tower is fifty-one feet, and its height is one hundred and ten; but its
original height was greater, as a considerable portion of its top has been
destroyed by lightning.
In these churches and this tower Monasterboice has nothing which may not
be found in many other early religious foundations in Ireland; but in the
magnificence of its sculptured stone crosses it may be said to stand
alone. They are the finest of their class in the country; but, as we shall
make them the subjects of distinct notices, with illustrations, in our
| 1,444.498721 |
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Produced by Pat Pflieger
THE LIFE AND PERAMBULATIONS OF A MOUSE
(1783-1784)
by Dorothy Kilner
INTRODUCTION
During a remarkably severe winter, when a prodigious fall of snow
confined everybody to their habitations, who were happy enough to have
one to shelter them from the inclemency of the season, and were hot
obliged by business to expose themselves to its rigour, I was on a visit
to Meadow Hall; where had assembled likewise a large party of young
folk, who all seemed, by their harmony and good humour, to strive who
should the most contribute to render pleasant that confinement which we
were all equally obliged to share. Nor were those further advanced
in life less anxious to contribute to the general satisfaction and
entertainment.
After the more serious employment of reading each morning was concluded,
we danced, we sung, we played at blind-man's-buff, battledore and
shuttlecock, and many other games equally diverting and innocent; and
when tired of them, drew our seats round the fire, while each one in
turn told some merry story to divert the company.
At last, after having related all that we could recollect worth
reciting, and being rather at a loss what to say next, a sprightly girl
in company proposed that every one should relate the history of their
own lives; 'and it must be strange indeed,' added she, 'if that will not
help us out of this difficulty, and furnish conversation for some days
longer; and by that time, perhaps, the frost will break, the snow will
melt, and set us all at liberty. But let it break when it will, I make a
law, that no one shall go from Meadow Hall till they have told their own
history: so take notice, ladies and gentlemen, take notice, everybody,
what you have to trust to. And because,' continued she, 'I will not be
unreasonable, and require more from you than you can perform, I will
give all you who may perhaps have forgotten what passed so many years
ago, at the beginning of your lives, two days to recollect and digest
your story; by which time if you do not produce something pretty and
entertaining, we will never again admit you to dance or play among us.'
All this she spoke with so good-humoured a smile, that every one was
delighted with her, and promised to do their best to acquit themselves
to her satisfaction; whilst some (the length of whose lives had not
rendered them forgetful of the transactions which had passed) instantly
began their memoirs, as they called them: and really some related their
narratives with such spirit and ingenuity, that it quite distressed us
older ones, lest we should disgrace ourselves when it should fall to
our turns to hold forth. However, we were all determined to produce
something, as our fair directress ordered. Accordingly, the next morning
I took up my pen, to endeavour to draw up some kind of a history, which
might satisfy my companions in confinement. I took up my pen, it is
true, and laid the paper before me; but not one word toward my appointed
task could I proceed. The various occurrences of my life were such as,
far from affording entertainment, would, I was certain, rather afflict;
or, perhaps, not interesting enough for that, only stupefy, and render
them more weary of the continuation of the frost than they were before I
began my narration. Thus circumstanced, therefore, although by myself,
I broke silence by exclaiming, 'What a task his this sweet girl
imposed upon me! One which I shall never be able to execute to my own
satisfaction or her amusement. The adventures of my life (though deeply
interesting to myself) will be insipid and unentertaining to others,
especially to my young hearers: I cannot, therefore, attempt it.'--'Then
write mine, which may be more diverting,' said a little squeaking voice,
which sounded as if close to me. I started with surprise, not knowing
any one to be near me; and looking round, could discover no object from
whom it could possibly proceed, when casting my eyes upon the ground, in
a little hole under the skirting-board, close by the fire, I discovered
the head of a mouse peeping out. I arose with a design to stop the
hole with a cork, which happened to lie on the table by me; and I was
surprised to find that it did not run away, but suffered me to advance
quite close, and then only retreated a little into the hole, saying in
the same voice as before, 'Will you write my history?' You may be sure
that I was much surprised to be so addressed by such an animal; but,
ashamed of discovering any appearance of astonishment, lest the
mouse should suppose it had frightened me, I answered with the utmost
composure, that I would write it willingly if it would dictate to
me. 'Oh, that I will do,' replied the mouse, 'if you will not hurt
me.'--'Not for the world,' returned I; 'come, therefore, and sit upon
my table, that I may hear more distinctly what you have to relate.' It
instantly accepted my invitation, and with all the nimbleness of its
species, ran up the side of my chair, and jumped upon my table; when,
getting into a box of wafers, it began as follows.
But, before I proceed to relate my new little companion's history, I
must beg leave to assure my readers that, in earnest, I never heard a
mouse speak in all my life; and only wrote the following narrative as
being far more entertaining, and not less instructive, than my own life
would have been: and as it met with the high approbation of those for
whom it was written, I have sent it to Mr. Marshall, for him to publish
it, if he pleases, for the equal amusement of his little customers.
PART I.
Like all other newborn animals, whether of the human, or any other
species, I can not pretend to remember what passed during my infant
days. The first circumstance I can recollect was my mother's addressing
me and my three brothers, who all lay in the same nest, in the following
words:-'I have, my children, with the greatest difficulty, and at the
utmost hazard of my life, provided for you all to the present moment;
but the period is arrived, when I can no longer pursue that method:
snares and traps are everywhere set for me, nor shall I, without
infinite danger, be able to procure sustenance to support my own
existence, much less can I find sufficient for you all; and, indeed,
with pleasure I behold it as no longer necessary, since you are of
age now to provide and shift for yourselves; and I doubt not but your
agility will enable you to procure a very comfortable livelihood. Only
let me give you this one caution--never (whatever the temptation may
be) appear often in the same place; if you do, however you may flatter
yourselves to the contrary, you will certainly at last be destroyed.'
So saying, she stroked us all with her fore paw as a token of her
affection, and then hurried away, to conceal from us the emotions of her
sorrow, at thus sending us into the wide world.
She was no sooner gone, than the thought of being our own directors so
charmed our little hearts, that we presently forgot our grief at parting
from our kind parent; and, impatient to use our liberty, we all set
forward in search of some food, or rather some adventure, as our mother
had left us victuals more than sufficient to supply the wants of that
day. With a great deal of difficulty, we clambered up a high wall on the
inside of a wainscot, till we reached the story above that we were
born in, where we found it much easier to run round within the
skirting-board, than to ascend any higher.
While we were there, our noses were delightfully regaled with the scent
of the most delicate food that we had ever smelt; we were anxious to
procure a taste of it likewise, and after running round and round the
room a great many times, we at last discovered a little crack, through
which we made our entrance. My brother Longtail led the way; I followed;
Softdown came next; but Brighteyes would not be prevailed upon to
venture. The apartment which we entered was spacious and elegant; at
least, differed so greatly from anything we had seen, that we imagined
it the finest place upon earth. It was covered all over with a carpet of
various colours, that not only concealed some bird-seeds which we came
to devour, but also for some time prevented our being discovered; as
we were of much the same hue with many of the flowers on the carpet.
At last a little girl, who was at work in the room, by the side of her
mamma, shrieked out as if violently hurt. Her mamma begged to know the
cause of her sudden alarm. Upon which she called out, 'A mouse! a mouse!
I saw one under the chair!' 'And if you did, my dear | 1,444.50537 |
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Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by the Library of Congress)
* * * * *
+-----------------------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For |
| a complete list, please see the end of this document. |
| |
+-----------------------------------------------------------+
* * * * *
[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 | 1,444.545005 |
2023-11-16 18:41:08.5817960 | 66 | 19 |
E-text prepared by Graeme Mackreth 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 | 1,444.601836 |
2023-11-16 18:41:08.5887790 | 3,648 | 9 |
Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Rod Crawford, Rick Morris
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
THE BOY SCOUTS
AS
COUNTY FAIR GUIDES
BY
SCOUT MASTER ROBERT SHALER
AUTHOR OF “BOY SCOUTS OF THE SIGNAL CORPS,” “BOY SCOUTS OF
PIONEER CAMP,” “BOY SCOUTS OF THE GEOLOGICAL SURVEY,” “BOY
SCOUTS OF THE LIFE SAVING CREW,” “BOY SCOUTS ON PICKET
DUTY,” “BOY SCOUTS OF THE FLYING SQUADRON,” “BOY
SCOUTS AND THE PRIZE PENNANT,” “BOY SCOUTS OF
THE NAVAL RESERVE,” “BOY SCOUTS IN THE SADDLE,”
“BOY SCOUTS FOR CITY IMPROVEMENT,” “BOY
SCOUTS IN THE GREAT FLOOD,” “BOY SCOUTS
OF THE FIELD HOSPITAL,” “BOY SCOUTS
WITH THE RED CROSS,” ETC.
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Sterling Boy Scout Books
BY
Scout Master Robert Shaler
_Bound in cloth_ _Fifteen titles_
1 Boy Scouts of the Signal Corps.
2 Boy Scouts of Pioneer Camp.
3 Boy Scouts of the Geological Survey.
4 Boy Scouts of the Life Saving Crew.
5 Boy Scouts on Picket Duty.
6 Boy Scouts of the Flying Squadron.
7 Boy Scouts and the Prize Pennant.
8 Boy Scouts of the Naval Reserve.
9 Boy Scouts in the Saddle.
10 Boy Scouts for City Improvement.
11 Boy Scouts in the Great Flood.
12 Boy Scouts of the Field Hospital.
13 Boy Scouts with the Red Cross.
14 Boy Scouts as County Fair Guides.
15 Boy Scouts as Forest Fire Fighters.
_You can purchase any of the above books at the price you paid for this
one, or the publishers will send any book, postpaid, upon receipt of
25c._
HURST & CO., Publishers
432 Fourth Avenue, New York
Copyright, 1915, by Hurst & Company
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Back From the Fishing Hole 5
II. The Great Undertaking 16
III. On Duty at the Fair 28
IV. The Fakir and His Dupe 40
V. A Credit to the Uniform 52
VI. “Strike While the Iron Is Hot!” 63
VII. Sowing the Seed 74
VIII. A Scout in Trouble 85
IX. The Rift in the Cloud 96
X. One Boy’s Influence 108
XI. Backed by the Scouts 120
XII. At the Station 131
XIII. How It Turned Out 142
XIV. Stopped on the Road—Conclusion 148
The Boy Scouts as County Fair Guides.
CHAPTER I.
BACK FROM THE FISHING HOLE.
“You know, boys, a whole lot depends on what kind of weather we have
during Fair week!”
“How about that, Arthur? You’re the weather-wise scout of Oakvale
Troop.”
“Yes, give us your forecast, Arthur; has the rain let up for keeps?”
“So far as that goes, Alec, I notice in the morning paper it’s turned
clear all the way from the Rockies east, and that ought to mean a good
spell of several days for us.”
“Unless one of those howlers comes twisting up the Atlantic coast from
the West Indies; you want to remember that the hurricane season isn’t
quite over yet.”
“Nothing of the kind in sight, and I always look up every scrap of
weather news in the papers.”
“You make me happy when you say that, Arthur, old weather sharp. We get
our afternoons off from school while the County Fair is on, because it’s
such a big thing for Oakvale and vicinity. I’m trying to figure out what
I can do to have a cracking good time of it.”
“So are we all, Tom, but there’s no use trying to hike off somewhere
with the whole troop. You can’t do much on an afternoon. Why couldn’t
they have fixed it so we would get free the last half of the week,
including Saturday?”
“Tell that to the school directors, Alec. Perhaps they’ll take pity on
you and change the programme. I doubt it, though. I reckon they want the
boys to be around while the Fair is going on.”
“I’ve figured out that my scheme is to hang around the Exhibition and
see the aëroplane man do his stunts every afternoon; but I’d rather be
in camp any day.”
The three boys whose chatter opens this chapter had been tramping along
the main road leading into the town of Oakvale, where they all lived. It
was on a Saturday afternoon in early fall. That the lads had been
spending part of their holiday in fishing was in plain evidence, for
besides carrying either bamboo poles or jointed rods, they dangled
strings of yellow perch, some of the catch being of extraordinary size.
On their way home the boys had stopped to scan a highly- poster
on a billboard at the side of the road, where people in the passing
trains nearby could also have the benefit of the information thus
blazoned forth.
About this time every year the big County Fair was held on the extensive
grounds near the thriving town of Oakvale. If wonderful promises meant
anything at all the coming exhibition of live stock, farm products, and
the like would far surpass anything heretofore attempted.
Besides, there would be racing on the track, amazing feats undertaken by
an aëroplane aviator of national renown, balloon ascensions accompanied
by parachute drops, “and other attractions too numerous to mention.”
Having looked over the poster and commented on its most prominent
features, the trio of weary lads again turned their faces toward home,
now not half a mile away.
It might be noticed that all of them wore rather faded suits of khaki,
showing that they belonged to the local troop of Boy Scouts. In addition
to the ordinary badges they also proudly displayed certain merit badges
to prove that they had qualified along certain particular lines of
scoutcraft.
Another thing that might have been noticed was that Alec, Tom and Arthur
all displayed bronze medals, which would tell anyone acquainted with
scout customs and laws that these lads had saved human life at some time
in their past.
While, after rather an exhausting day, they are trudging slowly toward
home with heavy feet, it may be a good time for us to take a glimpse
into the past, in order to understand just who the three boys are, and
also mention a few important things in connection with the troop to
which they belong.
The town of Oakvale lay in the East, and not a great many miles away
from the Atlantic Ocean. Those who have read previous volumes in the
series know just why scout affairs were booming in the town. The scout
master, Lieutenant Denmead, a retired army officer, took the greatest
delight in fostering a spirit of manliness among the boys in his charge.
His assistant, Hugh Hardin, who was also the leader of the Wolf Patrol,
chanced to be a wide-awake chap, and just the kind to push any
enterprise along to success.
The troop now consisted of five patrols, and as a rule they were filled
to their utmost capacity of eight members each. The Wolf had been first
in the field, but as the interest grew and new members joined, there had
arisen the Hawk, Otter, Fox and Owl Patrols.
Alec Sands was leader of the Otter, and had at one time been a keen
rival of Hugh Hardin; but all hard feelings were eventually buried, and
they were warm friends. Arthur Cameron proudly carried the patrol colors
of the Wolf; and while interested in wireless telegraphy, weather
predictions, and even photography, perhaps his strongest point lay in
his surprising skill in amateur surgery and first aid to the injured.
Tom Sherwood was also an Otter, and a husky fellow, fond of water
sports, and with a hobby along the lines of surveying work.
It can be readily seen from a casual glance at some of the titles of
previous books in the series that the boys of Oakvale Troop had passed
through considerable experience well worth while.
Since the opportunity to investigate for themselves is open to all
readers who would like to learn more about these interesting phases of
their past, there is no necessity for our taking up much space here in
mentioning details.
Still, it might not be amiss to say that in the preceding spring, during
the time of the heavy rains, Hugh and several others of the troop proved
themselves to be of exceedingly great value to the citizens of a town in
another part of the State. This was when a disastrous flood threatened
the community with destruction, and human lives were placed in deadly
peril by the quickly rising water.
On that occasion Hugh had actually saved a boy of the town who would
otherwise have been carried down with the bridge. His act had been
witnessed by hundreds of people, and is talked about to the present day
as a fine example of presence of mind and prompt action.
On account of having thus saved a human life at great risk to himself,
Hugh Hardin had received from Headquarters a gold medal, the highest
honor that any scout can ever hope to gain. Being a very modest fellow,
however, Hugh did not often wear this token of appreciation, though he
was proud of it all the same.
It may interest the new reader to know just how Alec, Tom and Arthur
came by the bronze medals they wore. During the preceding summer the
main part of the troop had gone camping, and it happened that at the
time there was a strike of laborers in a large cement works not far
distant. When the company imported strike-breakers, and employed guards
to protect the property, the foreign strikers grew furious.
So it came about that there was a serious riot during which many of the
ignorant strikers were shot. It might have been called a one-sided
battle, for a dozen men, and some women as well, were more or less
seriously injured.
In this terrible crisis Hugh Hardin and some of his scouts came on the
scene. With the usual promptness that characterized his actions, Hugh
had started a temporary field hospital. Having learned the first
principles of caring for gunshot wounds he and Arthur, assisted by
others of the troop, managed to stop the flow of blood in such a way
that when the Red Cross surgeon and nurses reached the scene later on,
they declared that the work of the scouts merited the highest praise.
Indeed, they went even further, and said that were it not for the prompt
aid afforded by the young surgeons one or more lives might have been
lost.
And since those wise gentlemen at the head of the great movement for the
uplift of boys are always quick to recognize real merit, a bronze medal
had soon come to every member of Oakvale Troop who had been instrumental
in the work of that field hospital.
Since that time things had gone as usual. Some of the boys had gone on
summer vacations. Those who remained at home fished, went swimming,
played baseball, tennis, and even camped for a week.
Then school had brought back the absent ones, and once more scout
affairs began to pick up. Thanksgiving would be the next little
breathing spell. At present, the School Board had decided that during
the time of the County Fair there was to be only a morning session for
all the scholars. Of course, this was intended as a means for letting
them attend the Exhibition, and acquiring more or less knowledge along
many lines; for Oakvale was proud of having been chosen as the regular
site for this yearly Fair.
“I want to tell you that I’m not sorry to be so near home,” Tom Sherwood
observed, after they had arrived at the border of the town, where the
break-up of the little fishing party would take place.
“But we haven’t been wasting our day, understand,” added Alec, as he
held up his fine string of perch and noticed that one of them still
showed signs of life, in spite of the fact that they had tried to knock
each captive on the head when taken so as to avoid needless suffering,
as every true scout should do.
“Who’s that hurrying this way, and waving his hat?” demanded Arthur.
“Looks like Billy Worth—yes, there isn’t another fellow in the troop
with his width.”
“And his capacity for making away with the grub when in camp, you want
to add,” laughed Tom. “But he certainly looks excited, fellows. Listen
to him giving the Wolf call, will you? I wonder if anything can have
happened here in town since we started fishing this morning?”
The very idea quickened their footsteps, and in another minute they were
joined by the stout lad with the jolly face, who was one of the original
members of Oakvale Troop, as well as a staunch supporter and admirer of
his patrol leader, Hugh Hardin.
“Billy the Wolf,” as Billy Worth was sometimes called, seemed to have
been running, for he was a little short of breath.
“What’s all this mean, Billy?” asked Alec, with something of his old
imperiousness, for once upon a time Alec had been of a domineering
nature. “Tell us why you’re stopping us on the highway like this? Has
there been a fire? Is the school burned to the ground? Anybody sick, a
runaway happened, a child lost in the woods and the scouts needed to
find it? Speak up, can’t you? and relieve this fierce strain.”
“Why, it’s this way, fellows,” said Billy, between gulps, “the Fair
management has asked the Oakvale Scouts to pitch a tent on the grounds,
show people how they live in camp, act as guides to strangers in town,
meet trains at the station, set up an emergency cot in another tent
where first aid to the injured can be found, and—and, pretty much run
the whole business this year! What d’ye think of that now for a big
honor to Oakvale Troop?”
CHAPTER II.
THE GREAT UNDERTAKING.
There was a brief interval after Billy had blurted out this astonishing
news. The other three scouts stared at one another as though they could
hardly grasp the full significance of the information.
Then, as if a signal had been given, every one of them dropped his
fishpole and string of finny trophies, snatched off his hat, and, waving
it above his head, let out a series of cheers.
A mule that had been feeding in a lot near by kicked up his heels and
started galloping wildly about his enclosure, doubtless under the
impression that war had been declared, and the initial battle begun. A
stray cur, in the act of skulking past, sped furiously down the road,
evidently believing that it could almost hear the clatter of a tin can
tied to its tail, though of course, scouts are never guilty of such a
cruel proceeding.
“That’s great news you’ve given us, Billy!” declared Alec. “I can see
that the good people of our home town pin a lot of faith in Oakvale
Troop of Boy Scouts.”
“Well, they ought to,” said Billy promptly. “We’ve certainly been a
credit to the community,—excuse my blushes, boys. But our record speaks
for itself, you know.”
“Yes,” added Tom Sherwood, “and only for the scouts, Oakvale to-day
would be the same dirty little old town it used to be, with waste paper
blowing all around, and nobody taking any pride in keeping things <DW74>
and span. The women all said they had tried to clean up and failed; but
when our troop offered to lend a helping hand the improvement was
effected.”
“It’s too near supper time to do much talking about the wonderful news
you’ve brought us, Billy,” said Arthur. “I suppose it’ll be the main
line of topic of discussion at the regular weekly meeting to-night.”
“Yes,” said Billy, “and Hugh means to ’phone every member he can reach,
so there’ll be a heavy attendance. The Fair begins on Wednesday, you
remember, and we ought to know just what we expect to do along a dozen
lines.”
“It strikes me as an elegant thing,” asserted Alec.
“Finest that ever came down the | 1,444.608819 |
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Produced by Al Haines
MEANS AND ENDS
OF EDUCATION
BY
J. L. SPALDING
Bishop | 1,444.638639 |
2023-11-16 18:41:08.6210360 | 4,995 | 13 |
Produced by RichardW, Greg Bergquist and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
TRANSCRIBER NOTE:
Original spelling and grammar has been mostly retained, with some
exceptions. The use of hyphenation and quotation marks marks in the
book is a bit haphazard. Some corrections have been made.
More details about corrections and changes are provided in the
TRANSCRIBER ENDNOTE.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _R. Pitcher Woodward at his journey's end._]
* * * * *
ON A DONKEY'S HURRICANE DECK
A Tempestuous Voyage of Four
Thousand and Ninety-Six Miles
Across the American Continent on
a Burro, in 340 Days and 2 Hours
STARTING WITHOUT A DOLLAR AND
EARNING MY WAY
BY
R. PITCHER WOODWARD
(PYTHAGORAS POD)
AUTHOR OF
"TRAINS THAT MET IN THE BLIZZARD"
Containing Thirty-nine Pictures from
Photographs Taken "en Voyage".
1902
I. H. BLANCHARD CO., PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1902,
BY
R. PITCHER WOODWARD
[Illustration]
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
PART I.
I. Madison Square to Yonkers 11
II. Donkey's many ailments 19
III. Polishing shoes at Vassar 27
IV. An even trade no robbery 35
V. The donkey on skates 42
VI. Mac held for ransom 51
VII. I mop the hotel floor 60
VIII. Footpads fire upon us 68
IX. In a haymow below zero 74
X. An asinine snowball 83
XI. One bore is enough 90
XII. At a country dance 98
XIII. A peculiar, cold day 105
XIV. I bargain for eggs 111
XV. Gypsy girl tells fortune 116
XVI. All the devils are here 123
XVII. Darkest hour before dawn 132
XVIII. Champagne avenue, Chicago 142
PART II.
BY PYE POD AND MAC A'RONY.
XIX. Donk causes a sensation 153
XX. A donkey for Alderman 158
XXI. A donkey without a father 169
XXII. Rat trap and donkey's tail 173
XXIII. Mac crosses the Mississippi 178
XXIV. Pod hires a valet 183
XXV. Done by a horsetrader 190
XXVI. Pod under arrest 197
XXVII. Adventure in a sleeping bag 208
XXVIII. Mayor rides Mac A'Rony 213
XXIX. Across the Missouri in wheelbarrow 219
XXX. Pod in insane asylum 224
XXXI. Narrow escape in quicksand 237
XXXII. At Buffalo Bill's ranch 243
XXXIII. Fourth of July in the desert 250
XXXIV. Bitten by a rattler 253
XXXV. Havoc in a cyclone 260
XXXVI. Two pretty dairy maids 265
XXXVII. Donks climb Pike's Peak 273
XXXVIII. Sights in <DW36> Creek 280
XXXIX. Baby girl named for Pod 287
XL. Treed by a silvertip bear 293
XLI. Nearly drowned in the Rockies 304
XLII. Donkey shoots the chutes 309
XLIII. Paint sign with donk's tail 319
XLIV. Swim two rivers in Utah 326
XLV. Initiated to Mormon faith 339
XLVI. Typewriting on a donkey 343
XLVII. Pod kissed by sweet sixteen 348
XLVIII. Last drop in the canteen 352
XLIX. How donkey pulls a tooth 364
L. Encounter with two desperadoes 369
LI. Donk, boy and dried apples 380
LII. Lost in Nevada desert 385
LIII. A frightful ghost dance 393
LIV. Across Sierras in deep snow 400
LV. All down a toboggan slide 409
LVI. 'Frisco at last, we win! 415
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
(Portrait) The traveler at the journey's end.
"I bade my friends farewell."
"We consumed a half hour in the gigantic task."
"I found the captive drinking with other jackasses."
"We tramped tired and footsore into the village."
"Mac could draw my luggage instead of carrying it."
"Mac's little legs would get stuck."
"Mac supervised the work."
"The only time I got ahead of him."
"I scrutinized his hat inquisitively."
"He accused me of attempting suicide."
"We made slow headway to the Mississippi.
"In this way I crossed that bridge of size."
"And I saw the streak of daylight."
"Mac was so slow that his shadow beat him to town."
"Over the Platte bridge, after blindfolding them."
"I killed my first rattlesnake."
"That was the town of Korty."
"Climbing Pike's Peak."
"He had caught a nice mess of trout."
"Trail through the timber."
"Independence Pass; one of the loftiest of the Continental
Divide."
"Trail to Florisant."
"Two days of hard climbing to cross Western Pass."
"Through thickets, tangled roots and fallen trees."
"To swim and float on Salt Lake."
"Skull Valley desert, we stopped to feed and rest."
"The last and only drop."
"Just finished lunch when the posse arrived."
"Coonskin and I took shelter behind our donkeys."
"Through Devil's Gate, their panniers scraped the walls
of the rocky gateway."
"Fired their revolvers in the air."
"Some Piute Indians who had camped close by."
"Playing Solitaire on Damfino's broad back."
"Began to plow snow toward Placerville.
"The cattle passed us, after we donks had broken the
trail."
"Across on the exclusive Solano."
"I pointed toward the goal."
"The ferry approach in 'Frisco was choked with a
rabble."
* * * * *
PROLOGUE.
This is as true a story of my "voyage" as I am capable of writing.
Besides the newspaper accounts, two magazine articles, illustrated
on this subject have been published, the only ones contributed by
me, and they hardly outlined the trip. I have left out a hundred
interesting incidents and culled and edited until I am tired, in
order to condense this volume to convenient size. On the other
hand, notable adventures only recalled by my photographs have been
cheated of a mention, because the donkey ate my notes--he ate
everything in sight, and did not discriminate between a comic
circus poster and a tragic diary.
Ever since completing the trip, I have promised this book "next
month," but owing to the checkered career of the MS. with
ninety-seven publishers (all of whom declared that the book should be
brought out at once, but they lacked the nerve to publish it), I
am only now able to fulfil my promises. This is no romance. When I
did not walk with the donkey or carry him, he carried me the whole
four thousand and ninety-six miles, which includes the distance
traveled when he balked and backed.
With my two cameras I secured six hundred pictures descriptive of
the journey across eleven states, through the four seasons, during
that long, long year; only by them and my diary am I brought to
realize it is not a wild, weird dream. Now it is over, I sometimes
smile over things recalled which, when they happened, found
me as serious as the donk--grave in the superlative degree--and
thought-less people and those who never even crossed the plains by train
may style my experience a mere outing or "picnic." General Fremont
and other distinguished pioneers emphasize in their writings the
pleasures of their overland trips. They, as did the emigrants of
the '40s and '50s, set out in spring time from the Missouri or the
Mississippi in companies, with money, wagons, cattle and supplies,
and with one-third of the continent already behind them. The
Indians and big game of the prairies provided excitement that
lent a charm to the undertaking; it is dull monotony that kills.
I started four days before winter, practically without money, to
support, from earnings only, myself and dumb partner from New York
city to San Francisco.
It required twelve weeks to traverse the Empire State, through a
severe season when and where I suffered the most. The delightful
part of the journey was while crossing the Rockies. Instead of
taking the shortest cut, I had to consider the towns where I might
best make expenses, to look for the best roads and desert trails
by springs. Three times when lost I traveled far out of my course,
once twenty miles into a mountain forest.
It is only five days across by rail. Have you traveled it--in
summer? How monotonous grew those seas of alkali, sand (rock
waste), cacti and sage as the hours lengthened into days! Yet with
comfortable beds, shade, meals served, cool drinks, and books to
read, at times feeling yourself speeding through the air a
mile to,the minute, you wearied of the "voyage." Five days!
Multiply them into weeks, then into months, double and add five
weeks--forty-nine weeks! Fancy yourself for such a period on a slow
burro which walks half your natural pace, and so small that if you wear
roller skates while in the saddle you may ease the animal; ride one mile
astride; when you feel about to split, ride the second mile
side-ways; when your back feels ready to break, ride the third
mile Turkish fashion; by this time your legs are benumbed and your
feet asleep, so walk a mile and carry the jackass; you will
thereby quiet your nerves, rest your bones, and make better time.
If ever you are tempted to ride a donkey overland, REFRAIN. Rather
creep across backwards on your hands and knees, or circumnavigate
the globe in a washtub. If you still persist, why, ride a donkey
twenty miles in a pouring rain, then follow your own judgment. If
you wish my donkey's advice, I will introduce him. His head is
longer than his ears, which was not the case when he set out with
me.
R. P. W.
[Illustration: "_I bade my friends farewell._"]
* * * * *
PART 1.
* * * * *
On a Donkey's Hurricane Deck
CHAPTER I.
By this hand, thou think'st me as far
in the devil's book as thou and Falstaff,
for obduracy and persistency. Let the
end try the man.
--_Shakespeare._
A noisy, curious, gaping multitude was crowded about the Bartholdi
Hotel, New York. It was just after the noon hour on Friday,
November 27, 1896, the day on which I was to start on my long and
memorable journey across the continent on a donkey. The corridors
were filled with interested guests, the reception room held about
a hundred of my friends who had come to bid me God-speed, and less
than a hundred thousand people choked Madison Square and the
streets leading into it.
I had agreed with a friend to forfeit to him five thousand
dollars, in case I should fail to make a donkey trip from New York
to San Francisco in three hundred and forty-one days, under the
following conditions:
Start from New York City, without a dollar in pocket and without
begging, borrowing, or stealing, procure a donkey, and, riding or
leading the beast, earn my way across the continent to San
Francisco, and register at its leading hotel within the schedule
time. I must cover the whole distance with a donkey by road or
trail only; announce in a prominent newspaper of New York my
start, at least twenty-four hours in advance, and mention the
hour, day, and starting point. Seated on a donkey, I must parade
on portions of Broadway, Fourteenth and Twenty-third Streets,
Fifth, Madison, and West End Avenues; both the donkey and I must
wear spectacles, and I a frock-coat and "plug" hat, but, the
latter to be discarded at pleasure when once across the
Mississippi River, the coat to be worn to San Francisco.
I slyly suggested the two most absurd conditions, believing it
would be easier to earn my way in the role of a comedian than in
the garb of a serious-thinking, imposed-upon mortal. I reasoned
that I should have to live on sensation and notoriety, and,
perhaps, keep from starving by employing my wits. These
reflections I kept to myself. My "friend" chuckled amusedly,
doubtless picturing in his mind the circus I was about to provide.
Without delay I began the preparations for the asinine journey.
After much troublesome searching, I managed with the help of
Hennessy, a stable-keeper, and Dr. Moore, a veterinary surgeon, to
secure an option on a small donkey at James Flanagan's sale
stables. Macaroni was the animal's name, and the price to be paid
was $25. Then I got our coachman to go among his friends to see if
he could get hold of a coat--a Prince Albert--and stove-pipe hat.
He succeeded admirably, and when I had ordered spectacles for
myself and the donkey, I was ready for the trip. I reached the
hotel on the appointed day at one o'clock, borrowed the donkey for
my official start, sent him back to the stables, then went to the
Reception Room. Among my friends awaiting were my "friend," the
landlord of the hotel, a photographer who had taken a picture of
me seated on the donkey a few days before, and had come to deliver
the photos; and my attorney, for the Chief of Police had refused
me a permit to parade on the streets, and threatened my arrest if
I proved to be a public nuisance. I borrowed a pen and bottle of
ink, and, after bowing a greeting to my friends assembled, set to
work putting my autograph on the pictures, which I offered for
sale at twenty-five cents.
Bless my suspenders, and how they went! I made up my mind that we
"two donkeys" would many times have greater difficulty in
obtaining quarters before I reached my destination. For an hour
the fist of Pye Pod swung a powerful quill and inscribed on each
photograph a name that would go into his-story. Silver jingled on
the table; the anxious hands of the crowding patrons got mixed in
the shuffle, and some got two pictures and others got none; the
ink flew about recklessly, and there were no blotters at hand; my
heart thumped, and I was so excited that I kissed by mistake an
indignant girl friend in place of my sister; and finally stole my
sister's lace handkerchief, instead of that of a sweetheart, but
which, however, I failed to discover till six months afterward;
and still I lacked the requisite sum.
I now had twenty-four dollars, but I needed at least forty-one.
Although I had made a five-dollar payment to Flanagan, that money
came from my private purse and must be redeemed and returned;
besides, I must pay $12 to the photographer for the 200 photos
delivered to me, and $4 more to the blacksmith's representative
for shoeing the donkey.
"I will lend you all the money you want," said the president of
one of my clubs; and my "friend's" ears and eyes were directed
upon me.
"I cannot beg, borrow, or accept gratuities," I exclaimed, firmly;
"I propose to fulfill the terms of my wager to the letter, and
when I accomplish it, be able to make a sworn statement to that
effect."
Just then I heard a newsboy calling, "EXTRA--ALL ABOUT THE GREAT
DONKEY RIDE."
At once I dispatched a friend with money to purchase the papers,
while I followed him to the hotel exit, where I stationed myself
in full view of the crowd and drew from my pocket a blue lead
pencil, ready for a new task. The papers secured and brought to
me, I scribbled my name on them and offered them for a dime
apiece.
"I have no time to make change, so give me the amount you wish to
pay," I said to the eager purchasers. In fifteen minutes I had
enough dimes and quarters and fifty-cent pieces to enable me to
square my accounts and send for my donkey.
In the course of a half hour, Macaroni was induced by sundry
persuasions to invade the noisy precinct of Madison Square and
come up to the hotel door; and, with a small surplus of cash in
pocket, I bade my friends farewell and got into the saddle.
Amid a deafening "tiger" from the multitude, the "lion" of the
hour majestically proceeded down Broadway to Fourteenth Street;
and the most sensational parade New York had ever witnessed had
begun.
My lazy steed barely crawled; he stopped every rod or two, and
generally in front of a car or other vehicle. It was an event for
the street gamins, and, had they not trailed close behind us
through the city and given Mac occasional goads and twists of the
tail, I doubt if I could have reached Harlem by midnight. It was a
terrible ride, and I often have wondered since how I escaped with
my neck.
Passing down Fourteenth Street, we turned up Fifth Avenue, crossed
Madison Square, paraded Madison Avenue to Thirty-third Street, turned to
the left over to Fifth Avenue and passed the Waldorf-Astoria,
followed Forty-second Street to the Boulevard, and up the avenue to
Seventy-second Street, and then up West End Avenue, past my "friend's"
residence. There I was stopped by a member of the mounted police, and,
to my surprise, was tendered a Loving-cup Reception by my "friend's"
pretty daughter, who, with a number of our mutual friends, welcomed me
while her father was at his office expecting a telegram that Pye Pod had
given up his trip.
All drank to the pilgrim's progress. Wines, flowers and ice cream,
tears, and best wishes, all contributed to the happy function,
while out of doors, an incident happened that caused me to rush to
my donkey's side. It seems that, in looking through his green
glasses, he mistook the iron picket screen that guarded a young
and hopeful shade tree for some kind of verdant fodder, and
destroyed a couple of teeth. The incident threw a damper on the
reception, so I made my adieux, and resumed my fated journey with
a heart still hopeful, yet heavier than it ever felt before.
It was 7 P. M. when Mac and I stopped at the Minot Hotel, Harlem,
and registered for the night. Among my several callers that
evening was a Professor of a Riding Academy who claimed to have
ridden horseback from ocean to ocean a few years previous and
within several feet of his death after losing several horses; and
he described to me the perils of my prospective trip, the
boundless, waterless deserts and snow-covered mountains, the
tornadoes and tarantulas, and the untamed Indians, and ferocious
prairie dogs, and begged me to give up the journey. Dear old
Professor, how often on that voyage on the hurricane deck of my
donkey, did I indulge in grievous meditation on the wisdom of your
advice!
I simply thanked the gentleman for his tender concern about my
welfare, and sold him a chromo for a quarter.
After a bath, I enjoyed a delicate sleep, and next day set out in
a dripping rain for Yonkers, over twenty miles away, with less
than a dollar in pocket. I had only sold enough pictures on the
way to Harlem to defray my hotel bill, as a stringent city
ordinance prohibited it without a license, and I had difficulty in
avoiding the vigilant police.
But, although fortune and the weather frowned on me, I ground my
teeth and headed for the Golden Gate.
Trailing up Seventh Avenue, I gradually left the busy metropolis
to my rear and entered a more open country. Some urchins of the
suburbs tagged behind us meddlesomely, and finally a Dutch vixen
hit Macaroni with a potato, almost causing me to leave the saddle.
That paradox of asininity chased the potato, and ate it. He,
doubtlessly, feared lest the missile might strike him again, and
decided it best to put it out of the way.
At 2 P. M. I had crossed McComb's Dam Bridge, and at five I
crossed another of the same description. It was low and narrow,
and Mac was so afraid of the water that I had to blindfold him to
get him across. Shortly after occurred our first disaster.
On nearing a little hamlet that had reached the horse-car stage of
progress a counterfeit breeze sprang up which soon developed into
a howling hurricane, as a huge beer wagon filled with dragons, or
flagons of vile spirits wheeled down upon us. They wanted to scare
the jackass, and they did. The wagon wheels got into the car
tracks, and when the wagon turned out for us the wheels slid, and
hit my partner in the vicinity of his tail | 1,444.641076 |
2023-11-16 18:41:08.6384540 | 4,278 | 57 |
E-text prepared by Peter Vachuska, Chuck Greif, Josephine Paolucci, and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
THE RAVENS AND THE ANGELS:
With Other Stories and Parables.
by
MRS. RUNDLE CHARLES
Author of
"The Schoenberg-Cotta Family," &c. &c.
London:
T. Nelson and Sons, Paternoster Row.
Edinburgh; and New York.
1894
All Rights Reserved.
Contents.
THE RAVENS AND THE ANGELS, 7
ECCE <DW25>, 33
THE COTTAGE BY THE CATHEDRAL, 59
THE UNKNOWN ARCHITECT OF THE MINSTER, 69
ONLY THE CRYPT, 74
THE SEPULCHRE AND THE SHRINE, 80
THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES, 91
THE RUINED TEMPLE, 98
THE CLOCK-BELL AND THE ALARM-BELL, 106
THE BLACK SHIP, 109
THE ISLAND AND THE MAIN LAND, 125
THE JEWEL OF THE ORDER OF THE KING'S OWN, 137
THE ACORN, 148
PASSAGES FROM THE LIFE OF A FERN, 153
THORNS AND SPINES, 158
PARABLES IN HOUSEHOLD THINGS, 161
"THINGS USING US," 166
SUNSHINE, DAYLIGHT, AND THE ROCK, 170
WANDERERS AND PILGRIMS, 172
THE ARK AND THE FORTRESS, 175
THE THREE DREAMS, 178
THOU AND I, 183
WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL, 187
THE SONG WITHOUT WORDS, 192
_The Ravens and the Angels._
A STORY OF THE MIDDLE AGES.
I.
In those old days, in that old city, they called the Cathedral--and they
thought it--the house of God. The Cathedral was the Father's house for
all, and therefore it was loved and honoured, and enriched with lavish
treasures of wealth and work, beyond any other father's house.
The Cathedral was the Father's house, and therefore close to its gates
might nestle the poor dwellings of the poor,--too poor to find a shelter
anywhere besides; because the central life and joy of the house of God
was the suffering, self-sacrificing Son of Man; and dearer to Him, now
and for ever, as when He was on earth, was the feeblest and most fallen
human creature He had redeemed than the most glorious heavenly
constellation of the universe He had made.
And so it happened that when Berthold, the stone-carver, died, Magdalis,
his young wife, and her two children, then scarcely more than babes,
Gottlieb and little Lenichen, were suffered to make their home in the
little wooden shed which had once sheltered a hermit, and which nestled
into the recess close to the great western gate of the Minster.
Thus, while, inside, from the lofty aisles pealed forth, night and day,
the anthems of the choir, close outside, night and day, rose also, even
more surely, to God, the sighs of a sorrowful woman and the cries of
little children whom all her toil could hardly supply with bread.
Because, He hears the feeblest wail of want, though it comes not from a
dove or even from a harmless sparrow, but a young raven. And He does
_not_ heed the sweetest anthem of the fullest choir, if it is a mere
pomp of sound. Because, while the best love of His meanest creatures is
precious to Him, the second-best of His loftiest creatures is
intolerable to Him. He heeds the shining of the drops of dew and the
rustling of the blades of grass. But from creatures who can love He
cannot accept the mere outside offering of creatures which can only make
a pleasant sound.
All this, or such as this, the young mother Magdalis taught her babes as
they could bear it.
For they needed such lessons.
The troubles of the world pressed on them very early, in the shape
little children can understand--little hands and feet nipped with frost,
hunger and darkness and cold.
Not that the citizens of that city were hypocrites, singing the praises
of God, whilst they let His dear Lazaruses vainly crave at their gates
for their crumbs. But Magdalis was very tender and timid, and a little
proud; proud not for herself, but for her husband and his babes. And she
was also feeble in health. She was an orphan herself, and she had
married, against the will of her kindred in a far-off city, the young
stone-carver, whose genius they did not appreciate, whose labour and
skill had made life so rich and bright to his family while he lived, and
whose early death had left them all so desolate.
For his dear sake, she would not complain. For herself it had been
easier to die, and for his sake she would not bring the shame of beggary
on his babes. Better for them to enter into this life maimed of
strength, she thought, by meagre food, than tainted with the taint of
beggary.
Rather, she thought, would their father himself have seen them go hungry
to bed than deserve that the fingers of other children should be pointed
scornfully at them as "the little beggars by the church door," the door
of the church in which she gloried to think there were stones of his
carving.
So she toiled on, carving for sale little devotional symbols--crosses,
and reliquaries, and lilies, and lambs--with the skill she had learnt
from him, and teaching the little ones, as best she could, to love and
work and suffer. Only teaching them, perhaps, not quite enough to
_hope_. For the lamp of hope burnt low in her own heart, and therefore
her patience, not being enough the patience of hope, lacked something of
sweetness. It never broke downward into murmurs, but it too seldom
soared upward into praise.
So it happened that one frosty night, about Christmas-tide, little
Gottlieb lay awake, very hungry, on the ledge of the wall, covered with
straw, which served him for a bed.
It had once been the hermit's bed. And very narrow Gottlieb thought it
must have been for the hermit, for more than once he had been in peril
of falling over the side, in his restless tossings. He supposed the
hermit was too good to be restless, or perhaps too good for the dear
angels to think it good for him to be hungry, as they evidently did
think it good for Gottlieb and Lenichen, or they would be not good
angels at all, to let them hunger so often, not even as kind as the
ravens which took the bread to Elijah when they were told. For the dear
Heavenly Father had certainly told the angels always to take care of
little children.
The more Gottlieb lay awake and tossed and thought, the further off the
angels seemed.
For, all the time, under the pillow lay one precious crust of bread, the
last in the house until his mother should buy the loaf to-morrow.
He had saved it from his supper in an impulse of generous pity for his
little sister, who so often awoke, crying with hunger, and woke his poor
mother, and would not let her go to sleep again.
He had thought how sweet it would be, when Lenichen awoke the next
morning, to appear suddenly, as the angels do, at the side of the bed
where she lay beside her mother, and say,--
"Dear Lenichen! see, God has sent you this bit of bread as a Christmas
gift."
For the next day was Christmas Eve.
This little plan made Gottlieb so happy that at first it felt as good to
him as eating the bread.
But the happy thought, unhappily, did not long content the hungry animal
part of him, which craved, in spite of him, to be filled; and, as the
night went on, he was sorely tempted to eat the precious crust--his very
own crust--himself.
"Perhaps it was ambitious of me, after all," he said to himself, "to
want to seem like a blessed angel, a messenger of God, to Lenichen.
Perhaps, too, it would not be true. Because, after all, it would not be
exactly God who sent the crust, but only me."
And with the suggestion, the little hands which had often involuntarily
felt for the crust, brought it to the hungry little mouth.
But at that moment it opportunely happened that his mother made a little
moan in her sleep, which half awakened Lenichen, who murmured, sleepily,
"Little mother, mother, bread!"
Whereupon, Gottlieb blushed at his own ungenerous intention, and
resolutely pushed back the crust under the pillow. And then he thought
it must certainly have been the devil who had tempted him to eat, and he
tried to pray.
He prayed the "Our Father" quite through, kneeling up softly in bed, and
lingering fondly, but not very hopefully, on the "Give us our daily
bread."
And then again he fell into rather melancholy reflections how very
often he had prayed that same prayer and had been hungry, and into
distracting speculations how the daily bread could come, until at last
he ventured to add this bit of his own to his prayers,--
"Dear, holy Lord Jesus, you were once a little child, and know what it
feels like. If Lenichen and I are not good enough for you to send us
bread by the blessed angels, do send us some by the poor ravens. We
would not mind at all, if they came from you, and were _your_ ravens,
and brought us real bread. And if it is wrong to ask, please not to be
displeased, because I am such a little child, and I don't know better,
and I want to go to sleep!"
Then Gottlieb lay down again, and turned his face to the wall, where he
knew the picture of the Infant Jesus was, and forgot his troubles and
fell asleep.
The next morning he was awaked, as so often, by Lenichen's little bleat;
and he rose triumphantly, and took his crust to her bedside.
Lenichen greeted him with a wistful little smile, and put up her face
for a kiss; but her reception of the crust was somewhat disappointing.
She wailed a little because it was "hard and dry;" and when Gottlieb
moistened it with a few drops of water, she took it too much, he felt,
as a mere common meal, a thing of course, and her natural right.
He had expected that, in some way, the hungry hours it had cost him
would have been kneaded into it, and would have made it a kind of
heavenly manna for her.
To him it had meant hunger, and heroism, and sleepless hours of
endurance. It seemed strange that to Lenichen it should seem nothing
more than a hard, dry, common crust.
But to the mother it was much more.
She understood all; and, because she understood so much, she said
little.
She only smiled, and said he looked more than ever like his father; and
as he sat musing rather sadly while she was dressing, and Lenichen had
fallen asleep again, she pointed to the little peaceful sleeping face,
the flaxen hair curling over the dimpled arm, and she said,--
"That is thy thanks--just that the little one is happy. The dear
Heavenly Father cares more, I think, for such thanks than for any other;
just to see the flowers grow, just to hear the birds sing to their
nestlings, just to see His creatures good and happy, because of His
gifts. Those are about the best thanks for Him, and for us."
But Gottlieb looked up inquiringly.
"Yet He likes us to say 'Thank you,' too? Did you not say all the Church
services, all the beautiful cathedral itself, is just the people's
'Thank you' to God? Are we not going to church just to say 'Thank you,'
to-day?"
"Yes, darling," she said. "But the 'Thank you' we _mean_ to say is worth
little unless it is just the blossom and fragrance of the love and
content always in the heart. God cares infinitely for our loving Him,
and loves us to thank Him if we do. He does not care at all for the
thanks without the love, or without the content."
And as she spoke these words, Mother Magdalis was preaching a little
sermon to herself also, which made her eyes moisten and shine.
So she took courage, and contrived to persuade the children and herself
that the bread-and-water breakfast that Christmas-Eve morning had
something quite festive about it.
And when they had finished with a grace which Gottlieb sang, and
Lenichen lisped after him, she told him to take the little sister on his
knee and sing through his songs and hymns, while she arrayed herself in
the few remnants of holiday dress left her.
And as she cleaned and arranged the tiny room, her heart was lighter
than it had been for a long time.
"I ought to be happy," she said to herself, "with music enough in my
little nest to fill a church."
When Gottlieb had finished his songs, and was beginning them over again,
there was a knock at the door, and the face of old Hans the dwarf
appeared at the door, as he half opened it.
"A good Christmas to thee and thy babes, Mother Magdalis! Thy son is
born indeed with a golden spoon in his mouth," croaked old Hans in his
hoarse, guttural voice.
The words grated on Magdalis. Crooked Hans's jokes were apt to be
as crooked as his temper and his poor limbs, and to give much
dissatisfaction, hitting on just the sore points no one wanted to be
touched.
She felt tempted to answer sharply, but the sweet Christmas music had
got into her heart, and she only said, with tears starting to her
eyes,--
"If he was, neighbour, all the gold was lost and buried long ago."
"Not a bit of it!" rejoined Hans. "Didn't I hear the gold ring this very
instant? The lad has gold in his mouth, I say! Give him to me, and you
shall see it before night."
She looked up reproachfully, the tears fairly falling at what she
thought such a cruel mockery from Hans, who knew her poverty, and had
never had from her or hers the rough words he was too much used to from
every one.
"The golden days are over for me," was all she said.
"Nay! They have yet to begin," he replied. "Your Berthold left more
debtors than you know, Frau Magdalis. And old Hans is one of them. And
Hans never forgets a debt, black or white. Let the lad come with me, I
say. I know the choir-master at the Cathedral. And I know he wants a
fine high treble just such as thy Gottlieb's, and will give anything for
it. For if he does not find one, the Cistercians at the new convent will
draw away all the people, and we shall have no money for the new organ.
They have a young Italian, who sings like an angel, there; and the
young archduchess is an Italian, and is wild about music, and lavishes
her gifts wherever she finds it good."
Magdalis looked perplexed and troubled.
"To sell the child's voice seems like selling part of himself,
neighbour," she said at length; "and to sell God's praises seems like
selling one's own soul."
"Well, well! Those are thy proud burgher notions," said Hans, a little
nettled. "If the Heavenly Father pleases to give thee and the little
ones a few crumbs for singing His matins and evensong, it is no more
than He does for the robins, or, for that matter, for the very ravens,
such as me, that croak to Him with the best voice they have."
At these words, Gottlieb, who had been listening very attentively,
gently set little Lenichen down, and, drawing close to Hans, put his
little hand confidingly in his.
"I will go with neighbour Hans, mother!" he said, decisively. "The dear
Lord Himself has sent him."
"Thou speakest like a prophet," said the mother, smiling tenderly at his
oracular manner, "a prophet and a king in one. Hast thou had a vision?
Is thy will indeed the law of the land?"
"Yes, mother," he said, colouring, "the dear Lord Jesus has made it
quite plain. I asked Him, if we were not good enough for Him to send us
an angel, to send us one of His ravens, and He has sent us Hans!"
Hans laughed, but not the grim, hoarse laugh which was habitual to him,
and which people compared to the croaking of a raven; it was a hearty,
open laugh, like a child's, and he said,--
"Let God's raven lead thee, then, my lad, and the mother shall see if we
don't bring back the bread and meat."
"I did not ask for meat," said Gottlieb, gravely, "only for bread."
"The good God is wont to give more than we either desire or deserve,"
croaked Hans, "when He sets about giving at all."
II.
There was no time to be lost.
The services of the day would soon begin, and Hans had set his heart on
Gottlieb's singing that very day in the Cathedral.
The choir-master's eyes sparkled as he listened to the boy; but he was
an austere man, and would not utter a word to make the child think
himself of value.
"Not bad raw material," he said, "but very raw. I suppose thou hast
never before sung a note to any one who understood music?"
"Only for the mother and the little sister," the child replied in a low,
humble tone, beginning to fear the raven would bring no bread after all,
"and sometimes in the Litanies and the processions."
"Sing no more for babes and nurses, and still less among the beggars in
the street-processions," pronounced the master, severely. "It strains
and vulgarizes the tone. And, with training, I don't know but that,
after all, we might make something of thee--in time, in time."
Gottlieb's anxiety mastered his timidity, and he ventured to say,--
"Gracious lord! if it is a long time, how can we all wait? I thought it
would be to-day! The mother wants the bread to-day."
Something in the child's earnest face touched the master, and he said,
more gently,--
"I did not say you might not _begin_ to-day. You must begin this hour,
this moment. Too much time has been lost already."
And at once he set about the first lesson, scolding and grow | 1,444.658494 |
2023-11-16 18:41:08.6834140 | 1,771 | 31 |
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PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR
Edited by J. A. HAMMERTON
Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself,
the cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic
draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to “Punch,” from its
beginning in 1841 to the present day.
MR. PUNCH IN SOCIETY
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _He._ “By the bye, talking of old times, do you remember
that occasion when I made such an awful ass of myself?”
_She._ “_Which?_”]
MR. PUNCH IN SOCIETY
BEING THE HUMOURS OF SOCIAL LIFE
_WITH 133 ILLUSTRATIONS_
BY
GEORGE DU MAURIER, CHARLES KEENE, PHIL MAY, L. RAVEN-HILL, C.
E. BROCK, J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE, A. S. BOYD, REGINALD CLEAVER,
LEWIS BAUMER, F. H. TOWNSEND AND OTHERS
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH
THE PROPRIETORS OF “PUNCH”
THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD
THE PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR
_Twenty-five Volumes, crown 8vo, 192 pages fully illustrated_
LIFE IN LONDON
COUNTRY LIFE
IN THE HIGHLANDS
SCOTTISH HUMOUR
IRISH HUMOUR
COCKNEY HUMOUR
IN SOCIETY
AFTER DINNER STORIES
IN BOHEMIA
AT THE PLAY
MR. PUNCH AT HOME
ON THE CONTINONG
RAILWAY BOOK
AT THE SEASIDE
MR. PUNCH AFLOAT
IN THE HUNTING FIELD
MR. PUNCH ON TOUR
WITH ROD AND GUN
MR. PUNCH AWHEEL
BOOK OF SPORTS
GOLF STORIES
IN WIG AND GOWN
ON THE WARPATH
BOOK OF LOVE
WITH THE CHILDREN
[Illustration]
INTRODUCTION
[Illustration]
It would be difficult to think of _Mr. Punch’s_ prototype of the
immortal drama as “in Society”; but, however much our national jester
may resemble in facial detail the somewhat rude and impulsive character
from whom he took his name, he is in all his instincts a gentleman. In
other words, it is just here that PUNCH has differed from most comic
journals, being, if not absolutely from the first number, certainly
from its early days, distinguished for refinement of taste and good
manners, not less than for its wit and humour. “MR. PUNCH in Society”
is indeed MR. PUNCH in his most congenial surroundings, as he has been
above all else the untiring, irrepressible satirist of the social world.
If an analysis were made of all the drawings which have appeared in
PUNCH from 1841 to the present day, we venture to think that those
devoted to Society’s ways, its foibles, its follies, would greatly
outnumber the illustrations of any other phase of life. And was not
the entire career of one of MR. PUNCH’S most celebrated artists
devoted exclusively to social satire? The name of George du Maurier
is pre-eminent in the history of modern humorous art. To an unerring
instinct for character, shrewd but never unkindly satire, he united a
profound sense of beauty which made his work unique and individual. It
was thus that to a vast public, of which only a very small proportion
could be expected to possess any art culture, Du Maurier’s work
appealed with irresistible force, his charming lightness of touch,
his gaiety, which came no doubt from his Gallic origins, rendering
everything from his pencil a source of delight to the general public,
no less than to the students of draughtsmanship.
Du Maurier’s connection with PUNCH began in 1860 and his earliest work
displayed very little of that wonderful grace to which it attained
before many years had passed, but Mr. Henry James, discussing his
art so long ago as 1883, said that “since 1868, PUNCH has been,
artistically speaking, George du Maurier,” an opinion which would
certainly be accepted in America, where for a generation the cultured
classes looked to Du Maurier, as Mr. Spielman reminds us, “almost
exclusively, not only for English fashions in male and female attire,
the _dernière mode_ in social etiquette, but for the truest reflection
of English life and character.”
When we consider that almost exclusively in the pages of MR. PUNCH
is the artistic life-work of Du Maurier contained, we shall see
how inexhaustible a treasury is there to be drawn upon for such a
collection as the present. We have thought it wise, however, not to
limit “MR. PUNCH in Society” to the work of any one humorist, but have
sought to present a collection of Du Maurier’s best social satires in
company with those of many other artists who, in their individual ways,
have also depicted the humours of social life.
[Illustration]
MR. PUNCH IN SOCIETY
* * * * *
A SEASONABLE LETTER
[Illustration]
_Huntingthorpe Hall._
MY DEAR JACK,--I want you to come down on Monday and stay a couple of
days with me. My wife will be delighted, as you can help her with a
children’s party, and also play Pantaloon in a little thing being got
up by the young people. I will mount you on the Tuesday with our Stag
hounds, as I know you are fond of a day’s hunting. No, don’t thank me,
my dear chap--I shall be only too glad if you will go, as the horse I
am intending to put you on is a rank brute, and when he doesn’t refuse
his fences--which is a rare occurrence--he invariably falls into them.
However, you won’t mind _that_, will you?
You will have to put up with real bachelor accommodation, I am afraid,
as the house is crammed. The best I can do for you is a half share of
one of the attics. Our cook has left us, all unexpectedly, so this
places her room at our disposal for two of you. The kitchen-maid is
doing her best to keep us from starving; but, though she means well, I
can hardly class her as a _cordon bleu_.
Louise Dearlove, that pretty little girl you were so sweet upon last
season, is unable to come; but her brother--the red-headed youth who
was always trying to pick a quarrel with you--will be here.
I am so short of horses that I fear I must ask you to cab the four
miles up from the station; but I am sure you won’t mind taking the
rough with the smooth.
Yours ever,
JOHN JOSTLER.
As the recipient of the above invitation, I ask which is “the smooth”?
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHAT THE DANCING MAN HAS COME TO
“Not dancing any more to-night, Fred?”
“No; and, what’s more, I’ll never put my foot in this house again! Why,
I’ve been _introduced three times_!”]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE TERRORS OF SOCIAL LIFE
_Stout Lady (at a charity ball)._ “Excuse me, Lady Godolphin, but I
_should_ so like to make some notes of your charming costume--may I?”
| 1,444.703454 |
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POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU
VOLUME III
THE
POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU
POET OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION
EDITED FOR
THE PRINCETON HISTORICAL ASSOCIATION
BY
FRED LEWIS PATTEE
OF THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE COLLEGE, AUTHOR OF
"A HISTORY OF AMERICAN LITERATURE,"
"THE FOUNDATIONS OF AMERICAN LITERATURE," ETC.
VOLUME III
PRINCETON, N. J.
THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
1907
Copyright, 1907, by
THE PRINCETON UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
PRESS OF
THE NEW ERA PRINTING COMPANY
LANCASTER, PA.
CONTENTS
VOLUME III
PAGE
PART IV
_The Period of Editorship. 1790-1797_
NEVERSINK 3
THE RISING EMPIRE 5
LOG-TOWN TAVERN 19
THE WANDERER 22
ON THE DEMOLITION OF FORT GEORGE 24
CONGRESS HALL, N. Y. 26
EPISTLE TO PETER PINDAR, ESQ. 28
THE NEW ENGLAND SABBATH-DAY CHACE 29
ON THE SLEEP OF PLANTS 31
ON THE DEMOLITION OF AN OLD COLLEGE 33
ON THE DEATH OF DR. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 36
EPISTLE FROM DR. FRANKLIN TO HIS POETICAL PANEGYRISTS 36
CONSTANTIA 38
STANZAS OCCASIONED BY LORD BELLAMONT'S, LADY HAY'S AND
OTHER SKELETONS BEING DUG UP 40
THE ORATOR OF THE WOODS 41
NANNY 42
NABBY 44
THE BERGEN PLANTER 45
TOBACCO 46
THE BANISHED MAN 47
THE DEPARTURE 49
THE AMERICAN SOLDIER 51
OCCASIONED BY A LEGISLATION BILL 52
LINES OCCASIONED BY A LAW PASSED FOR CUTTING DOWN THE TREES 53
TO THE PUBLIC 56
LINES BY H. SALEM 57
MODERN DEVOTION 59
THE COUNTRY PRINTER 60
SEVENTEEN HUNDRED AND NINETY ONE 65
LINES WRITTEN ON A PUNCHEON OF JAMAICA SPIRITS 66
THE PARTING GLASS 68
A WARNING TO AMERICA 70
THE DISH OF TEA 71
ON THE FOURTEENTH OF JULY 72
TO CRISPIN O'CONNOR 74
CRISPIN'S ANSWER 75
TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN 76
TO MY BOOK 78
STANZAS TO ROBERT SEVIER AND WILLIAM SEVIER 79
TO A PERSECUTED PHILOSOPHER 80
TO AN ANGRY ZEALOT 81
THE PYRAMID OF THE FIFTEEN AMERICAN STATES 82
ON THE DEMOLITION OF THE FRENCH MONARCHY 84
ON THE FRENCH REPUBLICANS 88
ON THE PORTRAITS OF LOUIS AND ANTOINETTE 89
TO A REPUBLICAN 90
ODE TO LIBERTY 92
ODE 99
ON THE DEATH OF A REPUBLICAN PRINTER 101
ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE STORMING OF THE BASTILLE 102
THOUGHTS ON THE EUROPEAN WAR SYSTEM 103
A MATRIMONIAL DIALOGUE 104
ON THE MEMORABLE NAVAL ENGAGEMENT BETWEEN THE AMBUSCADE
AND THE BOSTON 106
TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN 109
PESTILENCE 110
ON DR. SANGRADO'S FLIGHT 111
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A BLACKSMITH 112
TO SYLVIUS 113
THE BLESSINGS OF THE POPPY 114
QUINTILIAN TO LYCIDAS 115
THE BAY ISLET 116
JEFFERY, OR THE SOLDIER'S PROGRESS 117
TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN 119
TO A WINTER OF PANEGYRIC 119
THE FOREST BEAU 120
EPISTLE TO A STUDENT OF DEAD LANGUAGES 121
TO A NOISY POLITICIAN 122
THE SEXTON'S SERMON 122
ON A LEGISLATIVE ACT PROHIBITING THE USE OF SPIRITUOUS LIQUORS 126
ADDRESSED TO A POLITICAL SHRIMP 127
HERMIT'S VALLEY 128
TO MY BOOK 129
THE REPUBLICAN GENIUS OF EUROPE 129
THE RIVAL SUITORS FOR AMERICA 130
MR. JAY'S TREATY 132
PARODY 133
ON THE INVASION OF ROME IN 1796 135
ON THE DEATH OF CATHARINE II. 136
PREFATORY LINES TO A PERIODICAL PUBLICATION 137
ON THE WAR PROJECTED WITH THE REPUBLIC OF FRANCE 139
TO MYRTALIS 141
TO MR. BLANCHARD 142
ON HEARING A POLITICAL ORATION 144
MEGARA AND ALTAVOLA 146
THE REPUBLICAN FESTIVAL 151
ODE FOR JULY THE FOURTH, 1799 [1797] 152
ADDRESS TO THE REPUBLICANS OF AMERICA 154
TO PETER PORCUPINE 156
ON THE ATTEMPTED LAUNCH OF A FRIGATE 157
ON THE LAUNCHING OF THE FRIGATE CONSTITUTION 158
ON THE FREE USE OF THE LANCET 159
THE BOOK OF ODES
ODE I. 161
ODE II. TO THE FRIGATE CONSTITUTION 162
ODE III. TO DUNCAN DOOLITTLE 164
ODE IV. TO PEST-ELI-HALI 166
ODE V. TO PETER PORCUPINE 167
ODE VI. ADDRESS TO A LEARNED PIG 169
ODE VII. ON THE FEDERAL CITY 171
ODE VIII. ON THE CITY ENCROACHMENTS ON THE RIVER HUDSON 173
ODE IX. ON THE FRIGATE CONSTITUTION 174
ODE X. TO SANTONE SAMUEL 176
ODE XI. TO THE PHILADELPHIA DOCTORS 178
ODE XII. THE CROWS AND THE CARRION 179
ODE XIII. ON DEBORAH GANNET 182
ON THE FEDERAL CITY 184
THE ROYAL COCKNEYS IN AMERICA 185
TO THE SCRIBE OF SCRIBES | 1,444.705372 |
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[Illustration: FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK]
THE
FUTURE IN AMERICA
A SEARCH AFTER REALITIES
BY
H.G. WELLS
AUTHOR OF
"ANTICIPATIONS" "THE WAR OF THE WORLDS"
"THIRTY STRANGE STORIES" ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration]
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
1906
Copyright, 1906, by Harper & Brothers.
_All rights reserved._
Published November, 1906.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. The Prophetic Habit of Mind 1
II. Material Progress 21
III. New York 35
IV. Growth Invincible 49
V. The Economic Process 68
VI. Some Aspects of American Wealth 88
VII. Certain Workers 104
VIII. Corruption 116
IX. The Immigrant 133
X. State-Blindness 152
XI. Two Studies in Disappointment 167
XII. The Tragedy of Color 185
XIII. The Mind of a Modern State 203
XIV. Culture 223
XV. At Washington 236
The Envoy 254
ILLUSTRATIONS
FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK _Frontispiece_
ENTRANCE TO BROOKLYN BRIDGE _Facing p._ 38
STATE STREET, CHICAGO " 62
WESTERN FARMERS STILL OWN THEIR FARMS " 82
PLUMP AND PRETTY PUPILS OF EXTRAVAGANCE " 90
NEW YORK'S CROWDED, LITTERED EAST SIDE " 106
BREAKER BOYS AT A PENNSYLVANIA COLLIERY " 112
INTERIOR OF A NEW YORK OFFICE BUILDING " 124
WHERE IMMIGRANT CHILDREN ARE AMERICANIZED " 148
HARVARD HALL AND THE JOHNSON GATE, CAMBRIDGE " 214
A BIT OF PRINCETON UNIVERSITY " 216
IN THE CONGRESSIONAL LIBRARY " 238
THE FUTURE IN AMERICA
THE FUTURE IN AMERICA
CHAPTER I
THE PROPHETIC HABIT OF MIND
(_At a writing-desk in Sandgate_)
I
The Question
"Are you a Polygamist?"
"Are you an Anarchist?"
The questions seem impertinent. They are part of a long paper of
interrogations I must answer satisfactorily if I am to be regarded as
a desirable alien to enter the United States of America. I want very
much to pass that great statue of Liberty illuminating the World (from
a central position in New York Harbor), in order to see things in its
light, to talk to certain people, to appreciate certain atmospheres,
and so I resist the provocation to answer impertinently. I do not
even volunteer that I do not smoke and am a total abstainer; on which
points it would seem the States as a whole still keep an open mind.
I am full of curiosity about America, I am possessed by a problem I
feel I cannot adequately discuss even with myself except over there,
and I must go even at the price of coming to a decision upon the
theoretically open questions these two inquiries raise.
My problem I know will seem ridiculous and monstrous when I give it in
all its stark disproportions--attacked by me with my equipment it will
call up an image of an elephant assailed by an ant who has not even
mastered Jiu-jitsu--but at any rate I've come to it in a natural sort
of way and it is one I must, for my own peace of mind, make some kind
of attempt upon, even if at last it means no more than the ant crawling
in an exploratory way hither and thither over that vast unconscious
carcass and finally getting down and going away. That may be rather
good for the ant, and the experience may be of interest to other ants,
however infinitesimal from the point of view of the elephant, the final
value of his investigation may be. And this tremendous problem in my
case and now in this--simply; What is going to happen to the United
States of America in the next thirty years or so?
I do not know if the reader has ever happened upon any books or
writings of mine before, but if, what is highly probable, he has not,
he may be curious to know how it is that any human being should be
running about in so colossally an interrogative state of mind. (For
even the present inquiry is by no means my maximum limit). And the
explanation is to be found a little in a mental idiosyncrasy perhaps,
but much more in the development of a special way of thinking, of a
habit of mind.
That habit of mind may be indicated by a proposition that, with a fine
air of discovery, I threw out some years ago, in a happy ignorance that
I had been anticipated by no less a person than Heraclitus. "There is
no Being but Becoming," that was what appeared to my unscholarly mind
to be almost triumphantly new. I have since then informed myself more
fully about Heraclitus, there are moments now when I more than half
suspect that all the thinking I shall ever do will simply serve to
illuminate my understanding of him, but at any rate that apothegm of
his does exactly convey the intellectual attitude into which I fall. I
am curiously not interested in things, and curiously interested in the
consequences of things. I wouldn't for the world go to see the United
States for what they are--if I had sound reason for supposing that the
entire western hemisphere was to be destroyed next Christmas, I should
not, I think, be among the multitude that would rush for one last look
at that great spectacle,--from which it follows naturally that I don't
propose to see Niagara. I should much more probably turn an inquiring
visage eastward, with the west so certainly provided for. I have come
to be, I am afraid, even a little insensitive to fine immediate things
through this anticipatory habit.
This habit of mind confronts and perplexes my sense of things that
simply _are_, with my brooding preoccupation with how they will
shape presently, what they will lead to, what seed they will sow
and how they will wear. At times, I can assure the reader, this
quality approaches otherworldliness, in its constant reference to an
all-important here-after. There are times indeed when it makes life
seem so transparent and flimsy, seem so dissolving, so passing on
to an equally transitory series of consequences, that the enhanced
sense of instability becomes restlessness and distress; but on the
other hand nothing that exists, nothing whatever, remains altogether
vulgar or dull and dead or hopeless in its light. But the interest
is shifted. The pomp and splendor of established order, the braying
triumphs, ceremonies, consummations, one sees these glittering shows
for what they are--through their threadbare grandeur shine the little
significant things that will make the future....
And now that I am associating myself with great names, let me discover
that I find this characteristic turn of mind of mine, not only in
Heraclitus, the most fragmentary of philosophers, but for one fine
passage at any rate, in Mr. Henry James, the least fragmentary
of novelists. In his recent impressions of America I find him
apostrophizing the great mansions of Fifth Avenue, in words quite after
my heart;--
"It's all very well," he writes, "for you to look as if, since you've
had no past, you're going in, as the next best thing, for a magnificent
compensatory future. What are you going to make your future _of_, for
all your airs, we want to know? What elements of a future, as futures
have gone in the great world, are at all assured to you?"
I had already when I read that, figured myself as addressing if not
these particular last triumphs of the fine Transatlantic art of
architecture, then at least America in general in some such words. It
is not unpleasant to be anticipated by the chief Master of one's craft,
it is indeed, when one reflects upon his peculiar intimacy with this
problem, enormously reassuring, and so I have very gladly annexed his
phrasing and put it here to honor and adorn and in a manner to explain
my own enterprise. I have already studied some of these fine buildings
through the mediation of an illustrated magazine--they appear solid,
they appear wonderful and well done to the highest pitch--and before
many days now I shall, I hope, reconstruct that particular moment,
stand--the latest admirer from England--regarding these portentous
magnificences, from the same sidewalk--will they call it?--as my
illustrious predecessor, and with his question ringing in my mind
all the louder for their proximity, and the universally acknowledged
invigoration of the American atmosphere. "What are you going to make
your future _of_, for all your airs?"
And then I suppose I shall return to crane my neck at the Flat-Iron
Building or the _Times_ sky-scraper, and ask all that too, an identical
question.
II
Philosophical
Certain phases in the development of these prophetic exercises one may
perhaps be permitted to trace.
To begin with, I remember that to me in my boyhood speculation about
the Future was a monstrous joke. Like most people of my generation I
was launched into life with millennial assumptions. This present sort
of thing, I believed, was going on for a time, interesting personally
perhaps but as a whole inconsecutive, and then--it might be in my
lifetime or a little after it--there would be trumpets and shoutings
and celestial phenomena, a battle of Armageddon and the Judgment.
As I saw it, it was to be a strictly protestant and individualistic
judgment, each soul upon its personal merits. To talk about the Man of
the Year Million was of course in the face of this great conviction, a
whimsical play of fancy. The Year Million was just as impossible, just
as gayly nonsensical as fairy-land....
I was a student of biology before I realized that this, my finite and
conclusive End, at least in the material and chronological form, had
somehow vanished from the scheme of things. In the place of it had come
a blackness and a vagueness about the endless vista of years ahead,
that was tremendous--that terrified. That is a phase in which lots of
educated people remain to this day. "All this scheme of things, life,
force, destiny which began not six thousand years, mark you, but an
infinity ago, that has developed out of such strange weird shapes and
incredible first intentions, out of gaseous nebulæ, carboniferous
swamps, saurian giantry and arboreal apes, is by the same tokens to
continue, developing--into what?" That was the overwhelming riddle that
came to me, with that realization of an End averted, that has come now
to most of our world.
The phase that followed the first helpless stare of the mind was a wild
effort to express one's sudden apprehension of unlimited possibility.
One made fantastic exaggerations, fantastic inversions of all
recognized things. Anything of this sort might come, anything of any
sort. The books about the future that followed the first stimulus of
the world's realization of the implications of Darwinian science, have
all something of the monstrous experimental imaginings of children. I
myself, in my microcosmic way, duplicated the times. Almost the first
thing I ever wrote--it survives in an altered form as one of a bookful
of essays,--was of this type; "The Man of the Year Million," was
presented as a sort of pantomime head and a shrivelled body, and years
after that, the _Time Machine_, my first published book, ran in the
same vein. At that point, at a brief astonished stare down the vistas
of time-to-come, at something between wonder and amazed, incredulous,
defeated laughter, most people, I think, stop. But those who are doomed
to the prophetic habit of mind go on.
The next phase, the third phase, is to shorten the range of the
outlook, to attempt something a little more proximate than the final
destiny of man. One becomes more systematic, one sets to work to trace
the great changes of the last century or so, and one produces these
in a straight line and according to the rule of three. If the maximum
velocity of land travel in 1800 was twelve miles an hour and in 1900
(let us say) sixty miles an hour, then one concludes that in 2000 A.D.
it will be three hundred miles an hour. If the population of America in
1800--but I refrain from this second instance. In that fashion one got
out a sort of gigantesque caricature of the existing world, everything
swollen to vast proportions and massive beyond measure. In my case that
phase produced a book, _When the Sleeper Wakes_, in which, I am told,
by competent New-Yorkers, that I, starting with London, an unbiassed
mind, this rule-of-three method and my otherwise unaided imagination,
produced something more like Chicago than any other place wherein
righteous men are likely to be found. That I shall verify in due
course, but my present point is merely that to write such a book is to
discover how thoroughly wrong this all too obvious method of enlarging
the present is.
One goes on therefore--if one is to succumb altogether to the
prophetic habit--to a really "scientific" attack upon the future.
The "scientific" phase is not final, but it is far more abundantly
fruitful than its predecessors. One attempts a rude wide analysis
of contemporary history, one seeks to clear and detach operating
causes and to work them out, and so, combining this necessary set of
consequences with that, to achieve a synthetic forecast in terms just
as broad and general and vague as the causes considered are few. I
made, it happens, an experiment in this scientific sort of prophecy
in a book called _Anticipations_, and I gave an altogether excessive
exposition and defence of it, I went altogether too far in this
direction, in a lecture to the Royal Institution, "The Discovery of
the Future," that survives in odd corners as a pamphlet, and is to be
found, like a scrap of old newspaper in the roof gutter of a museum, in
_Nature_ (vol. LXV., p. 326) and in the Smithsonian Report (for 1902).
Within certain limits, however, I still believe this scientific method
is sound. It gives sound results in many cases, results at any rate as
sound as those one gets from the "laws" of political economy; one can
claim it really does effect a sort of prophecy on the material side of
life.
For example, it was quite obvious about 1899 that invention and
enterprise were very busy with the means of locomotion, and one could
deduce from that certain practically inevitable consequences in the
distribution of urban populations. With easier, quicker means of
getting about there were endless reasons, hygienic, social, economic,
why people should move from the town centres towards their peripheries,
and very few why they should not. The towns one inferred therefore,
would get slacker, more diffused, the countryside more urban. From
that, from the spatial widening of personal interests that ensued,
one could infer certain changes in the spirits of local politics,
and so one went on to a number of fairly valid adumbrations. Then
again starting from the practical supersession in the long run of
all unskilled labor by machinery one can work out with a pretty fair
certainty many coming social developments, and the broad trend of
one group of influences at least from the moral attitude of the mass
of common people. In industry, in domestic life again, one foresees
a steady development of complex appliances, demanding, and indeed
in an epoch of frequently changing methods _forcing_, a flexible
understanding, versatility of effort, a universal rising standard of
education. So too a study of military methods and apparatus convinces
one of the necessary transfer of power in the coming century from
the ignorant and enthusiastic masses who made the revolutions of
the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and won Napoleon his wars,
to any more deliberate, more intelligent and more disciplined class
that may possess an organized purpose. But where will one find that
class? There comes a question that goes outside science, that takes
one at once into a field beyond the range of the "scientific" method
altogether.
So long as one adopts the assumptions of the old political economist
and assumes men without idiosyncrasy, without prejudices, without, as
people say, wills of their own, so long as one imagines a perfectly
acquiescent humanity that will always in the long run under pressure
liquefy and stream along the line of least resistance to its own
material advantage, the business of prophecy is easy. But from the
first I felt distrust for that facility in prophesying, I perceived
that always there lurked something, an incalculable opposition to these
mechanically conceived forces, in law, in usage and prejudice, in the
poiëtic power of exceptional individual men. I discovered for myself
over again, the inseparable nature of the two functions of the prophet.
In my _Anticipations_, for example, I had intended simply to work out
and foretell, and before I had finished I was in a fine full blast of
exhortation....
That by an easy transition brought me to the last stage in the life
history of the prophetic mind, as it is at present known to me. One
comes out on the other side of the "scientific" method, into the large
temperance, the valiant inconclusiveness, the released creativeness of
philosophy. Much may be foretold as certain, much more as possible,
but the last decisions and the greatest decisions, lie in the hearts
and wills of unique incalculable men. With them we have to deal as
our ultimate reality in all these matters, and our methods have to
be not "scientific" at all for all the greater issues, the humanly
important issues, but critical, literary, even if you will--artistic.
Here insight is of more account than induction and the perception of
fine tones than the counting of heads. Science deals with necessity and
necessity is here but the firm ground on which our freedom goes. One
passes from affairs of predestination to affairs of free will.
This discovery spread at once beyond the field of prophesying. The
end, the aim, the test of science, as a model man understands the
word, is foretelling by means of "laws," and my error in attempting a
complete "scientific" forecast of human affairs arose in too careless
an assent to the ideas about me, and from accepting uncritically such
claims as that history should be "scientific," and that economics and
sociology (for example) are "sciences." Directly one gauges the fuller
implications of that uniqueness of individuals Darwin's work has so
permanently illuminated, one passes beyond that. The ripened prophet
realizes Schopenhauer--as indeed I find Professor Münsterberg saying.
"The deepest sense of human affairs is reached," he writes, "when we
consider them not as appearances but as decisions." There one has the
same thing coming to meet one from the psychological side....
But my present business isn't to go into this shadowy, metaphysical
foundation world on which our thinking rests, but to the brightly lit
overworld of America. This philosophical excursion is set here just to
prepare the reader quite frankly for speculations and to disabuse his
mind of the idea that in writing of the Future in America I'm going to
write of houses a hundred stories high and flying-machines in warfare
and things like that. I am not going to America to work a pretentious
horoscope, to discover a Destiny, but to find out what I can of what
must needs make that Destiny,--a great nation's Will.
III
The Will of America
The material factors in a nation's future are subordinate factors,
they present advantages, such as the easy access of the English to
coal and the sea, or disadvantages, such as the ice-bound seaboard of
the Russians, but these are the circumstances and not necessarily the
rulers of its fate. The essential factor in the destiny of a nation,
as of a man and of mankind, lies in the form of its will and in the
quality and quantity of its will. The drama of a nation's future, as
of a man's, lies in this conflict of its will with what would else be
"scientifically" predictable, materially inevitable. If the man, if the
nation was an automaton fitted with good average motives, so and so,
one could say exactly, would be done. It's just where the thing isn't
automatic that our present interest comes in.
I might perhaps reverse the order of the three aspects of will I have
named, for manifestly where the quantity of will is small, it matters
nothing what the form or quality. The man or the people that wills
feebly is the sport of every circumstance, and there if anywhere the
scientific method holds truest or even altogether true. Do geographical
positions or mineral resources make for riches? Then such a people will
grow insecurely and disastrously rich. Is an abundant prolific life at
a low level indicated? They will pullulate and suffer. If circumstances
make for a choice between comfort and reproduction, your feeble people
will dwindle and pass; if war, if conquest tempt them then they will
turn from all preoccupations and follow the drums. Little things
provoke their unstable equilibrium, to hostility, to forgiveness....
And be it noted that the quantity of will in a nation is not
necessarily determined by adding up the wills of all its people. I am
told, and I am disposed to believe it, that the Americans of the United
States are a people of great individual force of will, the clear strong
faces of many young Americans, something almost Roman in the faces of
their statesmen and politicians, a distinctive quality I detect in such
Americans as I have met, a quality of sharply cut determination even
though it be only about details and secondary things, that one must
rouse one's self to meet, inclines me to give a provisional credit
to that, but how far does all this possible will-force aggregate to
a great national purpose?--what algebraically does it add up to when
this and that have cancelled each other? That may be a different thing
altogether.
And next to this net quantity of will a nation or people may possess,
come the questions of its quality, its flexibility, its consciousness
and intellectuality. A nation may be full of will and yet inflexibly
and disastrously stupid in the expression of that will. There was
probably more will-power, mere haughty and determined self-assertion
in the young bull that charged the railway engine than in several
regiments of men, but it was after all a low quality of will with no
method but a violent and injudicious directness, and in the end it
was suicidal and futile. There again is the substance for ramifying
Enquiries. How subtle, how collected and patient, how far capable of a
long plan, is this American nation? Suppose it has a will so powerful
and with such resources that whatever simple end may be attained by
rushing upon it is America's for the asking, there still remains the
far more important question of the ends that are not obvious, that are
intricate and complex and not to be won by booms and cataclysms of
effort.
An Englishman comes to think that most of the permanent and precious
things for which a nation's effort goes are like that, and here too I
have an open mind and unsatisfied curiosities.
And lastly there is the form of the nation's purpose. I have been
reading what I can find about that in books for some time, and now
I want to cross over the Atlantic, more particularly for that, to
question more or less openly certain Americans, not only men and women,
but the mute expressive presences of house and appliance, of statue,
flag and public building, and the large collective visages of crowds,
what it is all up to, what it thinks it is all after, how far it means
to escape or improve upon its purely material destinies? I want over
there to find whatever consciousness or vague consciousness of a common
purpose there may be, what is their Vision, their American Utopia,
how much will there is shaping to attain it, how much capacity goes
with the will--what, in short, there is in America, over and above the
mere mechanical consequences of scattering multitudes of energetic
Europeans athwart a vast healthy, productive and practically empty
continent in the temperate zone. There you have the terms of reference
of an enquiry, that is I admit (as Mr. Morgan Richards the eminent
advertisement agent would say), "mammoth in character."
The American reader may very reasonably inquire at this point why an
Englishman does not begin with the future of his own country. The
answer is that this particular one has done so, and that in many ways
he has found his intimacy and proximity a disadvantage. One knows too
much of the things that seem to matter and that ultimately don't, one
is full of misleading individual instances intensely seen, one can't
see the wood for the trees. One comes to America at last, not only with
the idea of seeing America, but with something more than an incidental
hope of getting one's own England there in the distance and as a whole,
for the first time in one's life. And the problem of America, from
this side anyhow, has an air of being simpler. For all the Philippine
adventure her future still seems to lie on the whole compactly in one
continent, and not as ours is, dispersed round and about the habitable
globe, strangely entangled with India, with Japan, with Africa and with
the great antagonism the Germans force upon us at our doors. Moreover
one cannot look ten years ahead in England, without glancing across the
Atlantic. "There they are," we say to one another, "those Americans!
They speak our language, read our books, give us books, share our mind.
What we think still goes into their heads in a measure, and their
thoughts run through our brains. What will they be up to?"
Our future is extraordinarily bound up in America's and in a sense
dependent upon it. It is not that we dream very much of political
reunions of Anglo Saxondom and the like. So long as we British retain
our wide and accidental sprawl of empire about the earth we cannot
expect or desire the Americans to share our stresses and entanglements.
Our Empire has its own adventurous and perilous outlook. But our
civilization is a different thing from our Empire, a thing that
reaches out further into the future, that will be going on changed
beyond recognition. Because of our common language, of our common
traditions, Americans are a part of our community, are becoming indeed
the larger part of our community of thought and feeling and outlook--in
a sense far more intimate than any link we have with Hindoo or Copt or
Cingalese. A common Englishman has an almost pathetic pride and sense
of proprietorship in the States; he is fatally ready to fall in with
the idea that two nations that share their past, that still, a little
restively, share one language, may even contrive to share an infinitely
more interesting future. Even if he does not chance to be an American
now, his grandson may be. America is his inheritance, his reserved
accumulating investment. In that sense indeed America belongs to the
whole western world; all Europe owns her promise, but to the Englishman
the sense of participation is intense. "_We_ did it," he will tell of
the most American of achievements, of the settlement of the middle west
for example, and this is so far justifiable that numberless men, myself
included, are Englishmen, Australian, New-Zealanders, Canadians,
instead of being Americans, by the merest accidents of life. My father
still possesses the stout oak box he had had made to emigrate withal,
everything was arranged that would have got me and my brothers born
across the ocean, and only the coincidence of a business opportunity
and an illness of | 1,444.705461 |
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THE EMPTY SLEEVE:
OR THE
LIFE AND HARDSHIPS
OF
HENRY H. MEACHAM,
IN THE
UNION ARMY.
_BY HIMSELF._
SPRINGFIELD, MASS.:
SOLD FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE AUTHOR.
PRICE, 25 CENTS.
PREFACE.
READERS, in writing this book, I do not intend to bring before you a
work of ability; but simply to describe a few of the many scenes that I
passed through while in the Army of the Potomac and in the hospital. It
is true, that I did not suffer as some of our soldiers did; but having
lost my right arm, which excludes me from most kinds of work, I have
taken this method of gaining a living. I have myself and wife to care
for, and my wife's health being poor, makes it still harder for me to
get along; and thus, by writing this book, I hope to place myself and
wife in comfortable circumstances. With these few remarks, I throw
myself upon the generosity of the public, thanking them for the kindness
I have already received, and assuring them that I shall always be
grateful for their aid in the support of myself and wife.
HENRY H. MEACHAM.
THE EMPTY SLEEVE.
AT the breaking out of the Great Rebellion, I was engaged at
carriage-making in the town of Russell, in Massachusetts, but thought it
my duty to enter the service in defence of my country, and do what
little I could to keep traitors from trampling the good old flag under
their feet. I went and was examined, but was rejected. I came back with
downcast feelings, but was determined to try again. As time rolled on,
and my health improved, I tried again for a soldier's life, but without
success. I little knew the hardships and perils, of active service, and
thought it very pretty sport. But it was not the novelty of the scene
that inspired me to go, but the love of my country. Finally, at my third
examination, I was accepted; and my heart beat with joy.
I left Springfield, the twelfth day of September, perhaps never to
return; and went to Long Island, in Boston Harbor. There I remained one
week; then the Transport came to take us far from our homes. Many were
the wistful glances that were cast back towards our home, where were
the ones we loved most dear; and how we longed for one more farewell
salute before we left our native State; but that could not be. The wind
was blowing hard (it makes my brain dizzy to think of it now); but we
had to go. We little knew but we should find a watery grave before
reaching the scene of action; but the weather calmed, and we had a very
pleasant voyage, and arrived at the front, where I was placed in Company
E, Thirty-second Regiment, Massachusetts Volunteers, who were lying at
Culpepper, Virginia (which is about sixty miles from Washington, and in
the direction of Richmond). Here I first commenced my life in the army.
We were not destined to remain here long; for in less than two weeks,
Lee, with his host of rebels, came marching on to Washington. Then
commenced Meade's retreat for Centreville. That was the first marching I
had done, and I then hoped it would be the last, for my feet were badly
blistered. My readers can judge for themselves how they would like to
march twenty-three hours out of twenty-four, with their feet in that
condition; but, thank God, we were two hours ahead of Lee and his army,
and it saved one of the most bloody battles of the war; for, had Lee got
the heights of Centreville, we should have been cut off from all
supplies and captured, or obliged to cut our way through the enemy's
lines.
When we arrived at Centreville, we gave three cheers, which rang through
the lines for miles, thinking that we were once ahead of Lee's time.
But many of the men that were taken sick or fell into the enemy's hands,
died, without any one to care for them, there alone, away from
friends,--wife and children, father and mother, brother and sister,
never to know what became of their husband, father, child, or brother.
Such were the scenes that occurred on this march, but they were trivial
compared to experiences that followed.
Soon after this, came the battle of the Rappahannock Station. Though
short, it left many a man lying cold in death; but we succeeded in
driving the enemy back behind their entrenchments at Mines Run. This was
near Thanksgiving time; the weather was cold and rainy, and we had to
wait some time before we could follow them. But the time came, and on we
went, not knowing where we were going,--perhaps to our long homes. Oh,
that long and lonely night after we arrived there! But in the morning,
we marched to the right, to Robinson's Tavern, a distance of two miles.
It was raining hard at the time, but about noon, it cleared away and was
very cold. We remained there until the next morning, when we again
commenced our advance. We had not far to go before we came near the
enemy's works. Here we halted and formed our lines; and after waiting a
few hours, received orders to be in readiness to make an assault on the
enemy's works at four o'clock.
Here we remained without food, for our rations were all gone, and we
knew not when we should get more. We did not move until one o'clock the
next morning, when we turned out in the cold, and marched about a mile
to the right. We arrived there long before daylight; and there we had to
stay, for we could not stir around to keep warm, as the enemy were in
sight, and we should be likely to get their shells. We were to make the
attack at nine o'clock; but nine o'clock came, and yet we did not go
forward. Some of our men crossed Mines Run stream, which was dammed up
to make the water deeper; but nearly every man froze to death, and on
this account, we did not receive the orders, as we expected. That was a
long day to us, being in the cold, with thin clothes and no food. We
remained here until the shades of night hid us from the foe. Our hearts
beat with joy when we were ordered to fall in, for we knew that we were
going back, and should not make an assault; but when we got to our old
position, we were hungry, tired, and cold. Oh, that long night, with but
just enough covering to keep us from freezing! We were all glad when we
could turn out in the morning, and have some exercise and fires.
Another day wore slowly away, and at night, we took up our line of march
for the rear. As we turned our heads back in the direction of the enemy,
we could not help thinking that many more of us were on that march than
would have been, if we had made the assault. It was three o'clock in
the morning when we crossed the Rapidan. We marched half a mile further,
and encamped.
Morning dawned bright and beautiful, and it was late before we took up
our line of march again. We felt weak and faint, having been two days
without any food, and no signs of getting any that day; but we marched
with good spirits, thinking our work done until the next spring.
RATIONS, AFTER THREE DAYS' FASTING.
As the sun was setting in the west, we arrived at Bealton Station, and
were gladdened by the sight of teams with our rations. Here we halted,
and got ten pieces of hard bread and a small piece of pork. Many poor
men ate the whole at once; but in these cases it made them sick, as they
did not stop to pick out the worms, for the bread was very wormy; but we
must eat it, or have none. After getting our rations, we marched two
miles, to Liberty; here we went into camp, and the next morning formed
our line of picket-guard, but not knowing how long we should remain
here, did not build our winter-quarters for a few days.
WINTER LIFE IN CAMP.
Finally, we concluded to run the risk, and put up cabins. We then
commenced, and in two days had what we called a good home. The cabins
were constructed of pine-logs, piled together like a log-house, and for
the roofs we used our shelter-tents; thus forming our winter homes,
which were very comfortable. We had a fireplace and chimney, made of
small sticks and mud. In Virginia, the mud makes good mortar, being
mostly red clay. The guard-duty was every third day; we had to stand two
hours, and off four, rain or shine. Thus you may judge what it is to be
broken of your rest every third night, and perhaps be drenched with
rain; then to stand all night on guard, with your clothes frozen stiff.
This was the condition that we were in on picket-duty; but we have often
since looked back to those days, and thought what easy times we had.
They were easy to what we had after General Grant took command of the
armies of the United States. For our fires, we had to carry our wood
about half a mile, while the teams were lying idle. The officers had a
good time at this place, as they seldom went on duty; but the private
soldiers had the work to do.
An incident occurred here, that may be worth relating. The major of our
regiment thought he would go out and see a young lady by the name of
Whitehouse. So, one day, he and his orderly started, and passed our
picket-guard (as he had command of the lines, we could not stop him), to
see his sweetheart (a lady he had got acquainted with some time before,
I know not how). But he went, as many young men do; and, as he rode up
to her gate, found, to his surprise, her brother there with a strong
guard. They came out with drawn pistols, and he, with his orderly, were
taken prisoners and sent to Richmond. We started in search of them, but
with no success. The second day, we heard from them by way of the lady,
for she came and told the colonel that they were captured. He went to
Libby Prison, and there remained about four months; when he and others
made their escape. Some being retaken, were treated worse than before;
but the major returned home. Prison-life was his punishment for
disobedience of orders. He remained at home a short time, and then
returned to his regiment, which was lying near the James River.
But to return to the scenes of camp-life. The weather was cold, and the
snow often fell to the depth of one foot, but did not last but one or
two days, making the ground very splashy. We had to be out, let the
storm be ever so hard. When in camp, we had nothing but our log-huts
with cloth roofs to keep us warm. Our camp was laid out in streets, one
company forming one street.
In a short time, there was a call for soldiers whose time was nearly
expired, to re-enlist, and get a heavy bounty and thirty days' furlough.
The men thought more of the furlough than they did of the money. The
Thirty-second most all re-enlisted, and came home as a regiment,
bringing their arms with them, which but few regiments had the privilege
of doing. But we could not all come home. There were one hundred and
fifty of us that had to remain behind. The service was harder than
before, as we had to do fatigue-duty; besides, we built a fort at
Warrenton Junction. But time wore slowly away until the regiment came
back. We were all glad to see them.
One of my comrades was taken sick a few days after returning, and I took
care of him, besides doing my duty on the picket-line, which made my
work very hard,--harder than my constitution would endure. After he had
got better, I was taken sick with a fever while on the line; I had hard
work to get to my cabin. When I arrived there, I could not sit up. The
doctor was called, and he did what he could for me, but to no use, I had
to go through with the fever. Our beds were constructed by driving a
crotched stick down at each corner, and then placing a pole from one to
the other. After this, we laid small straight sticks across them, then
spreading our rubber blankets over the whole, we thus formed our beds;
we used our knapsacks for pillows. How long those days seemed, my flesh
burning with fever, and the bed being so hard! But I had as good care as
could be expected, in such a place as that. There I remained four weeks,
before I was able to sit up; those were the longest weeks I ever saw. I
little thought, as I lay there, that I should ever return home to my
family, for I was married two years previous. But God saw fit to spare
my life, perhaps to aid in conquering the foe.
It was not long after I got well before I started on the campaign of
1864, under the generalship of U. S. Grant. He was appointed to that
position March 9, and on the twelfth of that month, he took command of
the whole United-States' armies. Then we knew that we were to do some
fighting. But that was what we went for; and we thought the quicker we
commenced, the sooner we should be through and return home (what there
was left of us).
Spring came, and the season was beautiful. Cherry and pear trees were in
blossom, then apple-trees took their turn. We longed to remain there,
but as the ground became settled, we heard of the forces beginning to
concentrate around Brandy Station and Culpepper. As we were left at our
old place, we began to entertain hopes that we should remain. But we
were not kept in suspense long; for, on the morning of April 30, 1864,
the bugle sounded for us to pack our knapsacks and be ready for the
march. About noon, we bade farewell to the spot where had been our homes
for the past few months, and moved on, bidding good-by to some of our
southern friends we were to leave behind. Some of them were very
friendly and kind to us. When I had nothing else to do, I used to make
axe-handles, and helped one of our neighbors mend his wagon. I also
repaired clocks, and for my pay would get milk and tobacco. So I had the
privilege of sending my money all home to my family, thinking, that if I
lived to return, it would be of use to me. But I was destined to
disappointment, for the money was all gone before I returned home.
THE CAMPAIGN OF 1864.
On the thirtieth of April, 1864, we marched to Rappahannock Station, and
there camped for the night. In the morning, we again set out; but had
only a short march before we arrived at Brandy Station, where we again
halted and remained two nights, the first and second days of May. While
I was there, I called on my cousin, who was a member of the
Thirty-seventh Regiment. While I was gone, the bugle sounded the
advance, and I was obliged to run to overtake them, but did not until
they halted again. At eleven o'clock, the orders for advance were given,
and the whole of the great Army of the Potomac was again in motion. We
knew not where we were going, but at the dawn of day we were at the
Germania Ford. After crossing, we halted to rest. We improved the time
in making coffee and getting our breakfast; then we were ordered forward
again. We took the plank-road leading to Fredericksburg, and marched to
the pike-road running by the Wilderness Tavern; turning, and marching on
that about half a mile, we halted, placed our guard, and remained until
morning. When we crossed the Rapidan River, we turned and cast a wistful
glance back, for we thought it was the last time we should ever cross
it; and so it proved.
In the morning, the guard was called in to resume their march. We did
not know that the enemy were near, when a squad of cavalry came riding
up to headquarters, and the pickets were ordered back with a new
detachment. The rest of the troops formed in line, and commenced
building breastworks. But we had to work expeditiously to get them
completed. We knew the time of action was near at hand. How we longed to
see the loved ones at home, ere we entered the deathly strife.
We had not long to wait before the crash came, and the battle was raging
with fearful effect. What feelings of anguish were excited, of which
none can know anything except those who have been there. The sound of
battle is not pleasant, even if a person is not in danger. We remained a
short time behind the works that we had built, and then moved off to the
right, and across the pike | 1,444.740186 |
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Produced by David Edwards, David E. Brown and the Online
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_American Dramatists Series_
SIX
ONE-ACT PLAYS
_The Hand of the Prophet_--_Children
of Granada_--_The Turtle Dove_--_This
Youth-Gentlemen_--_The Striker_--_Murdering
Selina_
MARGARET SCOTT OLIVER
BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER
TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED
Copyright, 1916, by Margaret Scott Oliver
All Rights Reserved
These plays in their printed form are intended for the reading public
only. All dramatic rights are fully protected by copyright, and any
performance--professional or otherwise--may be given only with the
written permission of the author.
MADE IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A.
To
L. S. O.
CONTENTS
PAGE
The Hand of the Prophet 11
Children of Granada 27
The Turtle Dove 53
This Youth-Gentlemen! 73
The Striker 81
Murdering Selina 103
Notes pertaining to the plays 127
Music used in plays 128
THE HAND OF THE PROPHET
AN ARABIAN EPISODE
CAST
KODAMA, _A Merchant of Riad_.
HALIMA, _His Bride_.
SINDIBAD, _A Young Sheykh, Cousin to Kodama_.
SLAVE, _To Kodama_.
SLAVE, _To Sindibad_.
A SINGER.
A DANCING GIRL.
WEDDING GUESTS, SLAVES AND DESERT MEN.
_Scene--A room in the home of Halima._
The Hand of the Prophet
_From between the parted curtains two desert men in white costumes, with
red sashes and turbans appear. They wear scimiters in their sashes, and
are smoking very long cigarettes. They bow to one another, and walk to
the two sides of the stage, where they remain until first curtain, then
go behind. This is repeated before and after each part of the play._
_Scene--A room in the home of Halima. Music and laughter are heard, and
as the curtain is drawn, a slave girl is seen finishing a wild dance. As
she sinks exhausted to the floor there are applause and sounds of
approval, in which the merchant Kodama leads. He is seated beside his
bride, Halima, on a dais. In the room are slaves, attendants and members
of the two families. The wedding celebration is in progress, and all are
in festal mood and dress. Rose petals are strewn on the floor, platters
heaped with fruits are at the front and side of the stage, and incense
is burning in two braziers._
KODAMA--Thy slave dances with the grace of a startled gazelle. Command
her again before night comes. I am pleased with her!
HALIMA--I am glad she is fair in thine eyes, my husband. She knows many
magic dances that will delight thee.... But the wedding feast has
continued four days, my lord, and thy kinsman from the desert not
appeared.
KODAMA--Four days more shall the feasting last. There is yet time.
HALIMA--I am eager for the jewels, and cloths of gold he was to bring.
Thou didst promise my father--
KODAMA--Enough, enough! Art thou a child that patience is not in thee?
Before the feast has ended he will come. I weary of these murmurings.
HALIMA--(_Claps hands._) Music for my lord.
(_Slave sings. As the song ends a slave appears before Kodama._)
SLAVE TO KODAMA--The young Sheykh Sindibad is here.
(_Sindibad appears L. with some men from his caravan, and a young slave,
who is carrying three bundles tied in silken cloths. He walks airily to
the dais._)
KODAMA--Sindibad!
(_Sindibad and Kodama embrace. Halima, with a coquettish gesture, puts
her veil before her face._)
SINDIBAD--Let forgiveness for my tardiness be granted, cousin, when thou
seest what I have brought. Many treasures have I found thy lady, before
whom I prostrate myself.
(_Sindibad kneels and kisses Halima's hand and then his own. His slave
boy quickly opens the bundles, and the contents are eagerly examined._)
KODAMA--I had thought to see thee sooner; the wedding is four days old.
SINDIBAD--I had thought to come sooner, but there was a maiden.... Never
have I seen such stars as were her eyes, and her lips, the blood of
pomegranate.
KODAMA--Thou wast ever led easily by starry eyes.
HALIMA--(_Holding out scarf._) See, it is a wondrous cloth, with threads
of gold and silver.
SINDIBAD--Thy loveliness will enhance its beauties a thousand times.
HALIMA--My loveliness did not tempt thee to hasten.
SINDIBAD--I have never seen thy face, and there was a maiden....
KODAMA--There was a maiden. Have done with thy raving! (_To Halima._)
Let thy slave dance!
HALIMA--Dance!
(_As the slave dances, all watch eagerly save Sindibad, who gazes at
Halima._)
SINDIBAD--Thy voice is soothing as the sound of water in the heart of
the desert. Let me see thy face.
HALIMA--Look at these fabrics rather.
SINDIBAD--Nay, but an instant, while they watch the dancer, unveil, and
let me see thy face.
HALIMA--I may not.
SINDIBAD--It is not forbidden. I am thy husband's kinsman. Let me see
thy face!
(_Halima drops veil. Sindibad prostrates himself._)
SINDIBAD--I am thy slave forever, oh fairer than the day at dawn.
HALIMA--Arise! they will see thee!
SINDIBAD--And thou hast married the merchant Kodama! Awah! Awah!
HALIMA--Arise! Arise!
KODAMA--Why cryest thou awah? This is not a time for wailing. Dost
lament for the maiden of the desert?
SINDIBAD--Her image has changed... as sand upon the desert's face.
(_CURTAIN_)
_Scene--The same. Kodama and Halima are seated on the dais as before.
Two slave girls are in the room. Kodama's slave enters C. and stands
before Kodama._
SLAVE TO KODAMA--The merchant from Baghdad awaits. Shall I bring him to
have audience here?
KODAMA--I will speak with him in the myrtle court. Keep watch over my
wife and the women. (_Exit C._)
(_Sindibad enters L. as a slave comes from R. The slave is carrying
coffee, and reaches Halima as Sindibad approaches._)
SINDIBAD--I drink to thine amber eyes.
HALIMA--Thou must not.
SINDIBAD--Send thy women away.
HALIMA--I dare not.
SINDIBAD--Send thy women away! I have words they must not hear.
HALIMA--(_To attendants._) Go!
(_Kodama's slave stands motionless._)
SINDIBAD--(_To Slave._) I am cousin to thy master. Go with the women.
(_Slave goes slowly C. from the room. Halima has risen from the dais,
and seated herself on a rug in the centre of the room. She is humming
coquettishly and is admiring herself in a mirror. Sindibad watches her
eagerly for an instant._)
SINDIBAD--My blood has changed to leaping flame.
HALIMA--If thou comest nearer I shall call my women back.
SINDIBAD--Unbind thy wondrous hair. It is a fountain of living gold.
HALIMA--Thou must not sit so close.
SINDIBAD--I love thee, and shall stay until thou sayest, "I love thee."
HALIMA--(_Stopping her song._) I am thy kinsman's wife.
SINDIBAD--By Allah! Thou art no man's wife but mine!
HALIMA--I am but a dream. Awake, lest the Prophet smite thee!
SINDIBAD--Oh, beautiful dream, I am mad for thee. To-night thou shalt
fly with me into the desert.
(_Kodama enters C. unnoticed, and listens._)
HALIMA--I am thy kinsman's wife. My father gave me to him.
SINDIBAD--The fire of youth has gone from his blood. He is old. Thou
canst not love him.
KODAMA--Allah!
HALIMA--(_Slowly._) I am his wife. (_Exit R._)
(_Sindibad starts to follow her, but is arrested by the sound of
Kodama's entrance._)
KODAMA--Alone?
SINDIBAD--With a dream.
KODAMA--The beautiful maiden who delayed thy progress hither?
SINDIBAD--I tell thee I have forgotten her.
KODAMA--Thy heart is fickle surely.
SINDIBAD--I have seen one more beautiful.
KODAMA--The dancing slave?
SINDIBAD--Yea... even the dancing slave.
KODAMA--Thou shalt have her. She is like the little moon when it first
peeps above the date palms. Thou shalt have her.
SINDIBAD--Thy wife is young.... I will not have the dancing slave.
KODAMA--How now!
SINDIBAD--Thy wife is young. Her skin is of pearl, her eyes twin amber
pools where men may--oh fool, oh blind, thy wife is young and beautiful.
Canst thou not see?
KODAMA--It is written: The blind man avoids the ditch into which the
clear-sighted falls.
SINDIBAD--Thy heart is a dried grape. Thy wife is--
KODAMA--My wife! Art thou an honest Arab that she should so dwell in thy
thoughts? Take the dancing slave, and begone.
SINDIBAD--Thy words are crystal dewdrops quivering on a leaf.
KODAMA--Thou art young--tempt me not too far.
(_Slave enters immediately C. with a tray on which is wine._)
SINDIBAD--By the beard of the Prophet, wine! The Koran forbids it.
KODAMA--It shall turn to milk in the throat of the true believer.
SINDIBAD--Thou hast said it.
(_Kodama and Sindibad drink, and look at one another searchingly._)
KODAMA--Thy black angel is ever at thy left side in the city. It will
persuade thee into mighty wrong. Young cousin, it is wise that thou
shouldst return to thy people. Go quickly, lest evil come. I will give
thee rich presents for thy father. As for thee, choose one of the slave
girls--
SINDIBAD--I will take with me nothing--but a dream. (_Exit L._)
KODAMA--Allah send him swift away.... There shall be no returning.
(_CURTAIN_)
_Scene--The same. A slave is singing. Kodama is seated on the dais,
while Halima comes in slowly and gazes anxiously at him. It is the next
day._
HALIMA--Thy brows are still lowered. In what have I offended thee, my
husband?
KODAMA--Amber pools where men may--what do men find in thine eyes?
HALIMA--I know not, unless thou sayest.
KODAMA--And thy skin is | 1,444.742426 |
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Produced by Roy Brown, Wiltshire, England
THE LIGHTHOUSE
By R.M.BALLANTYNE
Author of "The Coral Island | 1,444.74484 |
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Produced by Mark C. Orton, Les Galloway and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
FLETCHERISM: WHAT IT IS
HORACE FLETCHER'S WORKS
THE A.B.-Z. OF OUR OWN NUTRITION. Thirty-fourth thousand. 462 pp.
THE NEW MENTICULTURE; OR, THE A-B-C OF TRUE LIVING. Fifty-third
thousand. 310 pp.
THE NEW GLUTTON OR EPICURE; OR, ECONOMIC NUTRITION. Eighteenth
thousand. 344 pp.
HAPPINESS AS FOUND IN FORETHOUGHT MINUS FEARTHOUGHT. Fifteenth
thousand. 251 pp.
THAT LAST WAIF; OR, SOCIAL QUARANTINE. Sixth thousand. 270 pp.
FLETCHERISM: WHAT IT IS; OR, HOW I BECAME YOUNG AT SIXTY. 240 pp.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR]
FLETCHERISM
WHAT IT IS
OR
HOW I BECAME YOUNG
AT SIXTY
BY
HORACE FLETCHER, A.M.
_Fellow American Association for the Advancement of Science_
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
_September, 1913_
THE.PLIMPTON.PRESS
NORWOOD.MASS.U.S.A
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTION ix
PREFACE xi
I HOW I BECAME A FLETCHERITE 1
II SCIENTIFIC TESTS 15
III WHAT I AM ASKED ABOUT
FLETCHERISM 32
IV RULES OF FLETCHERISM 51
V WHAT IS PROPER MASTICATION? 64
VI WHAT IS HEAD DIGESTION? 73
VII CHITTENDEN ON CAREFUL
CHEWING 84
VIII THE THREE INCHES OF PERSONAL
RESPONSIBILITY 91
IX QUESTION PRESCRIPTION AND
PROSCRIPTION 104
X WHAT CONSTITUTES A FLETCHERITE 116
XI ALL DECENT EATERS ARE
FLETCHERITES 126
XII FLETCHERIZING AS A TEMPERANCE
EXPEDIENT 138
XIII THE MENACE OF MODERN MIXED
MENUS 158
XIV THE CRUX OF FLETCHERISM 170
XV FLETCHERISM AND VEGETARIANISM 180
APPENDIX 197
INDEX 221
ILLUSTRATIONS
The Author _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
The Author Testing His Endurance by Means
of the Kellog Mercurial Dynamometer 16
The Author Undergoing a Test at Yale When
He Made a World's Record on the Irving
Fisher Endurance Testing Machine 28
The Author Feeling Himself to Be the Most
Fortunate Person Alive 70
Horace Fletcher in His Master of Arts Robes 98
The Author, on his Sixtieth Birthday, Performing
Feats of Agility and Strength which
Would Be Remarkable Even in a Young
Athlete 100
INTRODUCTION
Fletcherism has become a fact.
A dozen years ago it was laughed at as the "chew-chew" cult; to-day
the most famous men of Science endorse it and teach its principles.
Scientific leaders at the world's foremost Universities--Cambridge,
England; Turin, Italy; Berne, Switzerland; La Sorbonne, France; Berlin,
Prussia; Brussels, Belgium; St. Petersburg, Russia; as well as Harvard,
Yale and Johns Hopkins in America--have shown themselves in complete
accord with Mr. Fletcher's teachings.
The intention of the present volume is that it shall stand as a compact
statement of the Gospel of Fletcherism, whereas his other volumes treat
the subject more at length and are devoted to different phases of Mr.
Fletcher's philosophy. The author here relates briefly the story of
his regeneration, of how he rescued himself from the prospect of an
early grave, and brought himself to his present splendid physical and
mental condition. He tells of the discovery of his principles, which
have helped millions of people to live better, happier, and healthier
lives.
Mr. Fletcher writes with all his well-known literary charm and
vivacity, which have won for his works such a wide-spread popular
demand.
It is safe to say that no intelligent reader will peruse this work
without becoming convinced that Mr. Fletcher's principles as to
eating and living are the sanest that have ever been propounded; that
Fletcherism demands no heroic sacrifices of the enjoyments that go to
make life worth living, but, to the contrary, that the path to Dietetic
Righteousness, which Mr. Fletcher would have us tread, must be the
pleasantest of all life's pleasant ways.
THE PUBLISHERS
PREFACE
"_What is good for the richest man in the world, must be also good for
the poorest, and all in between._" _Daily Express, London, May 15th,
1913._
This quotation was apropos of an announcement in the _Evening Mail_, of
New York, telling that the Twentieth Century Croesus and financial
philosopher, John D. Rockefeller, had uttered a Confession of his Faith
in the fundamental principles of Dietetic Righteousness and General
Efficiency as follows:
"Don't gobble your food. Fletcherize, or chew very slowly while you
eat. Talk on pleasant topics. Don't be in a hurry. Take time to
masticate and cultivate a cheerful appetite while you eat. So will
the demon indigestion be encompassed round about and his slaughter
complete."
* * * * *
At the time this compendium of physiological and psychological wisdom
concerning the source of health, comfort, and happiness came to my
notice I was engaged in furnishing my publishers with a "compact
statement of the Gospel of Fletcherism," as they call it, and hence the
able assistance of Mr. Rockefeller was welcomed most cordially. Here it
was in a nutshell, crystallized, compact, refined, monopolized as to
brevity of description, masterly, and practically leaving little more
to be said.
The Grand Old Man of Democracy in England, William Ewart Gladstone, had
had his say on the same subject some years before, and will be known
to the future of physiological fitness more permanently on account
of his glorification of Head Digestion of food than for his Liberal
Statesmanship.
In like manner, Mr. Rockefeller will deserve more gratitude from
posterity for having prescribed the secret of highest mental and
physical efficiency in thirty-three words, than for the multiple
millions he is dedicating to Science and Sociological Betterment.
It will be interesting, however, to seekers after supermanish health
and strength to know how the author took the "straight tip" of Mr.
Gladstone, and "worked it for all it was worth" until Mr. Rockefeller
referred to the process of common-sense involved as "Fletcherizing."
I assure you it is an interesting story. It has taken nearly fifteen
years to bring the development to the point where Mr. Rockefeller,
who is carefulness personified when it comes to committing himself
for publication, is willing to express his opinion on the subject. It
has cost the author unremitting, completely-absorbing, and prayerful
concentration of attention, and nearly twenty thousand pounds sterling
($100,000), spent in fostering investigations and securing publicity of
the results of the inquiries, with some of the best people in Science,
Medicine, and Business helping him with generous assistance, to
accomplish this triumph of natural sanity.
In addition to other co-operation, and the most effective, perhaps, it
is appropriate to say that there is scarcely a periodical published in
all the world, either technical, news-bearing, or otherwise, on the
staff of which there has not been some member who has not received
some personal benefit from the suggestions carried by the economic
system now embodied in the latest dictionaries of many nations as
"Fletcherism."
The first rule of "Fletcherism" is to feel gratitude and to express
appreciation for and of all the blessings which Nature, intelligence,
civilization, and imagination bring to mankind; and this utterance
will be endorsed, I am sure, by the millions of persons who have
found economy, health, and general happiness through attention to the
requirements of dietetic righteousness. It will be especially approved
by those who, like Mr. Rockefeller, gained new leases of life after
having burned the candle of prudence at both ends and in the middle, to
the point of nearly going out, in the struggle for money.
Yet the secret of preserving natural efficiency is even more valuable
than cure or repair of damages due to carelessness and over-strain.
In this respect the simple rules of Fletcherizing, embodying the
requirements of Nature in co-operative nutrition, are made effective by
formulating exercises whereby habit-of-conformity is formed, and takes
command of the situation so efficiently, that no more thought need be
given to the matter than is necessary in regard to breathing, quenching
thirst, or observing "the rule of the road" in avoiding collisions in
crowded public thoroughfares.
Mr. Rockefeller's thirty-three words not only comprise the practical
gist of Fletcherism, but also state the most important fact, that by
these means the real dietetic devil, the devil of devils, is kept at a
safe distance.
The mechanical act of mastication is easy to manage; but this is
not all there is to head digestion. Bad habits of inattention and
indifference have to be conquered before good habits of deliberation
and appreciation are formed. These requirements of healthy nutrition
have been studied extensively and analyzed thoroughly, to the end that
we know that they may be acquired with ease if sought with serious
interest and respect.
I began the preface by quoting the statement that "What is good for the
_richest man in the world_ must be also good for the poorest, and all
in between." I will close by asserting that
"_Doing the right thing in securing right nutrition is easier than not
if you only know how._"
FLETCHERISM:
WHAT IT IS
CHAPTER I
HOW I BECAME A FLETCHERITE
My Turning Point--How I had Ignored My Responsibility--What Happens
during Mastication--The Four Principles of Fletcherism
Over twenty years ago, at the age of forty years, my hair was white; I
weighed two hundred and seventeen pounds (about fifty pounds more than
I should for my height of five feet six inches); every six months or so
I had a bad attack of "influenza"; I was harrowed by indigestion; I was
afflicted with "that tired feeling." I was an old man at forty, on the
way to a rapid decline.
It was at about this time that I applied for a life-insurance policy,
and was "turned down" by the examiners as a "poor risk." This was
the final straw. I was not afraid to die; I had long ago learned to
look upon death with equanimity. At the same time I had a keen desire
to live, and then and there made a determination that I would find
out what was the matter, and, if I could do so, save myself from my
threatened demise.
I realised that the first thing to do was, if possible, to close up my
business arrangements so that I could devote myself to the study of how
to keep on the face of the earth for a few more years. This I found it
possible to do, and I retired from active money-making.
The desire of my life was to live in Japan, where I had resided for
several years, and to which country I was passionately devoted. My
tastes were in the direction of the fine arts. Japan had been for years
my Mecca--my household goods were already there, waiting until I
should take up my permanent residence; and it required no small amount
of will-power to turn away from the cherished hope of a lifetime, to
continue travelling over the world, and concentrate upon finding a way
to keep alive.
I turned my back on Japan, and began my quest for health. For a time, I
tried some of the most famous "cures" in the world. Here and there were
moments of hope, but in the end I was met with disappointment.
THE TURNING POINT
It was partly accidental and partly otherwise that I finally found a
clue to the solution of my health disabilities. A faint suggestion
of possibilities of arrest of decline had dawned upon me in the city
of Galveston, Texas, some years before, and had been strengthened by
a visit to an Epicurean philosopher who had a snipe estate among the
marshlands of Southern Louisiana and a truffle preserve near Pau,
in France. He was a disciple of Gladstone, and faithfully followed
the rules relative to thorough chewing of food which the Grand Old
Man of England had formulated for the guidance of his children. My
friend in Louisiana attributed his robustness of health as much to
this protection against overeating as to the exercise incident to his
favourite sports. But these impressions had not been strong enough to
have a lasting effect.
One day, however, I was called to Chicago to attend to some unfinished
business affairs. They were difficult of settlement, and I was
compelled to "mark time" in the Western city with nothing especially
to do. It was at this time, in 1898, that I began to think seriously
of eating and its effect upon health. I read a great many books, only
to find that no two authors agreed; and I argued from this fact that
no one had found the truth, or else there would be some consensus of
agreement. So I stopped reading, and determined to consult Mother
Nature herself for direction.
HOW I HAD IGNORED MY RESPONSIBILITY
I began by trying to find out why Nature required us to eat, and how
and when. The key to my search was a firm belief in the good intentions
of Nature in the interest of our health and happiness, and a belief
also that anything less than good health and high efficiency was due to
transgressions against certain good and beneficent laws. Hence, it was
merely a question of search to find out the nature of the transgression.
The fault was one of nutrition, evidently.
I argued that if Nature had given us personal responsibility it was not
hidden away in the dark folds and coils of the alimentary canal where
we could not control it. The fault or faults must be committed before
the food was swallowed. I felt instinctively that here was the key to
the whole situation. The point, then, was to study the cavity of the
mouth; and the first thought was: "What happens there?" and "What is
present there?" The answer was: Taste, Smell (closely akin to taste
and hardly to be distinguished from it), Feeling, Saliva, Mastication,
Appetite, Tongue, Teeth, etc.
I first took up the careful study of Taste, necessitating keeping food
in the mouth as long as possible, to learn its course and development;
and, as I tried it myself, wonders of new and pleasant sensations were
revealed. New delights of taste were discovered. Appetite assumed new
leanings. Then came the vital discovery, which is this: I found that
each of us has what I call a food-filter: a discriminating muscular
gate located at the back of the mouth where the throat is shut off from
the mouth during the process of mastication. Just where the tongue
drops over backward toward its so-called roots there are usually five
(sometimes seven, we are told) little teat-like projections placed
in the shape of a horseshoe, each of them having a trough around it,
and in these troughs, or depressions, terminate a great number of
taste-buds, or ends of gustatory nerves. Just at this point the roof of
the mouth, or the "hard palate," ends; and the "soft palate," with the
uvula at the end of it, drops down behind the heavy part of the tongue.
During the natural act of chewing the lips are closed, and there | 1,444.804287 |
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Produced by David Widger
THE REVOLT
A PLAY IN ONE ACT
BY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER
Author of "Pigs Is Pigs" etc.
Copyright, 1912, by Samuel French
CHARACTERS
GRANDMA GREGG--Founder of the Flushing Academy of Household Science for
Young Ladies.
PAULINE--Working out her tuition.
SUSAN JANE JONES--An Emissary of the American Ladies' Association for
the Promotion of Female Supremacy.
KATE--A student.
GRACE--A student.
EDITH--A student.
IDA--A student.
MAY--A student.
OTHER YOUNG LADY STUDENTS.
THE IDEAL HUSBAND--by himself.
SCENE.--The class room of Grandma Gregg's Academy of Household Science
for Young Ladies, at Flushing.
TIME.--Now or soon.
THE REVOLT
SCENE.--_The Class-room. A table. Chairs arranged in semi-circle; an
easy chair for Grandma Gregg. Screen in one corner. Chairs or couch upon
which to lay wraps and hats. Otherwise an ordinary room. Tea things on
the table._
(PAULINE, _center of stage, with pail, broom, dusting rag, scrubbing
brushes and mop, is discovered on hands and knees scrubbing. As curtain
rises she rises to her knees, throws scrubbing brush and soap into the
pail, gets up with difficulty and mops the floor. She is singing._)
PAULINE. (singing) "All alone, all alone, nobody here but me. All alone,
all alone, nobody here but me, All alone, all--" (_she stops mopping and
leans on the mop handle_) Here it is now two weeks I've been workin' out
my tuition in this Academy of Household Science for Young Ladies, and
'tis nothin' but scrub, scrub, mop, mop, sweep, sweep, from mornin' 'til
night! I see plenty of work, but none of that tuition has come my way
yet "Wanted," says the advertisement, "a young lady to work out her
tuition in an academy." It says that, "Grandma Gregg's Flushing Academy
of Household Science," it says, "fits the young ladies for to occupy
properly their positions at the heads of their homes," it says, "It
will be a fine thing for you, PAULINE," I says, "to be tuitioned in an
Academy," so I come, (_mops_) "We'll begin your lessons right away,"
says Grandma Gregg, "take th' scrub brush an' a pail of water an' some
soap an' scrub th' cellar." I've been scrubbin' ever since. I don't care
much for the higher education when there is so much scrub in it.
(_mops_)
(GRANDMA GREGG _enters_. PAULINE, _not seeing her, goes to table and
examines tea things, books, etc._)
GRANDMA GREGG. PAULINE!
PAULINE. (_beginning to mop hastily_) Yes'm!
GRANDMA. Don't forget your curtsey, PAULINE.
PAULINE. (_making a curtsey_) Good mornin', Grandma Gregg. I hope I see
you well to-day. (_changing her tone_) If it ain't askin' too much, mam,
when does my tuitioning begin? I've been scrubbin' for two weeks now,
from mornin' 'til night--
GRANDMA. Have you scrubbed the cellar, Pauline?
PAULINE. Yes'm.
GRANDMA. Don't forget your curtsey, PAULINE.
PAULINE. (_curtseying_) No'm. (_curtsey_) Yes'm. (_curtsey_)
GRANDMA. You have scrubbed the cellar?
PAULINE (_curtseying_) Yes'm.
GRANDMA. And the garret? And the first floor? And the second floor?
PAULINE, (_curtseying_) Yes'm.
GRANDMA. Very good, very good, Pauline. Then, when you have finished
scrubbing this class room, you may scrub the front porch and the stable.
Then it will be time to scrub the cellar again. You are doing very
nicely.
PAULINE. Yes'm, thank you, mam. (_curtsey_) But I was thinkin', mam,
maybe I could have a little more tuition, and a little less work. "Work
and tuition" was what the advertisement said, mam, an' I've seen nothin'
but the work yet.
GRANDMA. My dear child! My dear, sweet child! I don't understand you.
You have done no work yet.
PAULINE. (_looking at her dress and at pail and mop_) I've done no work?
I wonder, now, what I have been doin'!
GRANDMA. (_placidly_) You have been receiving your tuition. In this
academy the study of Household Science begins with the rudiments.
Scrubbing is one of the rudiments. As a new scholar you begin with the
rudiments, of course. And I must say you are doing very well. You are
making excellent progress. Apply yourself earnestly to your lessons and
in a short time you will be promoted to another class. (PAULINE _stands
with her mouth open as_ GRANDMA _talks. She seems to be stunned_) Let me
see you scrub, Pauline.
PAULINE. (_dropping on her knees and taking brush from pail_) Yes'm.
GRANDMA. Don't forget your curtsey, Pauline.
PAULINE. (_curtseying on her knees_) No'm (curtsey. She scrubs)
GRANDMA. Very good indeed! Very good indeed! You are progressing,
Pauline! You are progressing. Apply yourself faithfully to your lessons.
You may study awhile on the front porch now. And don't be afraid to use
your muscle.
PAULINE. (_gathers up her pail and mop, etc. At door she turns_) Good
morning, Grandma Gregg. (_curtseys_) (_aside_) Rudiment, is it? If I
haven't done any work yet, I wonder now what the work will be like.
GRANDMA. (_has dropped into her chair and taken up her knitting_)
Pauline.
PAULINE. Yes'm.
GRANDMA. Did you curtsey, Pauline?
PAULINE. No'm. (curtseys) But I will, (_curtseys_)
GRANDMA. Pauline, have the new Professors come yet? I have hired two new
Professors. A Professor of Husbandology, and a Professor of Rudiments.
They are very highly recommended.
PAULINE. Beg pardon mam | 1,444.804529 |
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Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE LITTLE REGIMENT
AND OTHER EPISODES OF THE
AMERICAN CIVIL WAR
By
STEPHEN CRANE
CONTENTS
THE LITTLE REGIMENT
THREE MIRACULOUS SOLDIERS
A MYSTERY OF HEROISM
AN INDIANA CAMPAIGN
A GREY SLEEVE
THE VETERAN
THE LITTLE REGIMENT
I
The fog made the clothes of the men of the column in the roadway seem
of a luminous quality. It imparted to the heavy infantry overcoats a
new colour, a kind of blue which was so pale that a regiment might have
been merely a long, low shadow in the mist. However, a muttering, one
part grumble, three parts joke, hovered in the air above the thick
ranks, and blended in an undertoned roar, which was the voice of the
column.
The town on the southern shore of the little river loomed spectrally, a
faint etching upon the grey cloud-masses which were shifting with oily
languor. A long row of guns upon the northern bank had been pitiless in
their hatred, but a little battered belfry could be dimly seen still
pointing with invincible resolution toward the heavens.
The enclouded air vibrated with noises made by hidden colossal things.
The infantry tramplings, the heavy rumbling of the artillery, made the
earth speak of gigantic preparation. Guns on distant heights thundered
from time to time with sudden, nervous roar, as if unable to endure in
silence a knowledge of hostile troops massing, other guns going to
position. These sounds, near and remote, defined an immense
battle-ground, described the tremendous width of the stage of the
prospective drama. The voices of the guns, slightly casual, unexcited
in their challenges and warnings, could not destroy the unutterable
eloquence of the word in the air, a meaning of impending struggle which
made the breath halt at the lips.
The column in the roadway was ankle-deep in mud. The men swore piously
at the rain which drizzled upon them, compelling them to stand always
very erect in fear of the drops that would sweep in under their
coat-collars. The fog was as cold as wet cloths. The men stuffed their
hands deep in their pockets, and huddled their muskets in their arms.
The machinery of orders had rooted these soldiers deeply into the mud,
precisely as almighty nature roots mullein stalks.
They listened and speculated when a tumult of fighting came from the
dim town across the river. When the noise lulled for a time they
resumed their descriptions of the mud and graphically exaggerated the
number of hours they had been kept waiting. The general commanding
their division rode along the ranks, and they cheered admiringly,
affectionately, crying out to him gleeful prophecies of the coming
battle. Each man scanned him with a peculiarly keen personal interest,
and afterward spoke of him with unquestioning devotion and confidence,
narrating anecdotes which were mainly untrue.
When the jokers lifted the shrill voices which invariably belonged to
them, flinging witticisms at their comrades, a loud laugh would sweep
from rank to rank, and soldiers who had not heard would lean forward
and demand repetition. When were borne past them some wounded men with
grey and blood-smeared faces, and eyes that rolled in that helpless
beseeching for assistance from the sky which comes with supreme pain,
the soldiers in the mud watched intently, and from time to time asked
of the bearers an account of the affair. Frequently they bragged of
their corps, their division, their brigade, their regiment. Anon they
referred to the mud and the cold drizzle. Upon this threshold of a wild
scene of death they, in short, defied the proportion of events with
that splendour of heedlessness which belongs only to veterans.
"Like a lot of wooden soldiers," swore Billie Dempster, moving his feet
in the thick mass, and casting a vindictive glance indefinitely:
"standing in the mud for a hundred years."
"Oh, shut up!" murmured his brother Dan. The manner of his words
implied that this fraternal voice near him was an indescribable bore.
"Why should I shut up?" demanded Billie.
"Because you're a fool," cried Dan, taking no time to debate it; "the
biggest fool in the regiment."
There was but one man between them, and he was habituated. These
insults from brother to brother had swept across his chest, flown past
his face, many times during two long campaigns. Upon this occasion he
simply grinned first at one, then at the other.
The way of these brothers was not an unknown topic in regimental
gossip. They had enlisted simultaneously, with each sneering loudly at
the other for doing it. They left their little town, and went forward
with the flag, exchanging protestations of undying suspicion. In the
camp life they so openly despised each other that, when entertaining
quarrels were lacking, their companions often contrived situations
calculated to bring forth display of this fraternal dislike.
Both were large-limbed, strong young men, and often fought with friends
in camp unless one was near to interfere with the other. This latter
happened rather frequently, because Dan, preposterously willing for any
manner of combat, had a very great horror of seeing Billie in a fight;
and Billie, almost odiously ready himself, simply refused to see Dan
stripped to his shirt and with his fists aloft. This sat queerly upon
them, and made them the objects of plots.
When Dan jumped through a ring of eager soldiers and dragged forth his
raving brother by the arm, a thing often predicted would almost come to
pass. When Billie performed the same office for Dan, the prediction
would again miss fulfilment by an inch. But indeed they never fought
together, although they were perpetually upon the verge.
They expressed longing for such conflict. As a matter of truth, they
had at one time made full arrangement for it, but even with the
encouragement and interest of half of the regiment they somehow failed
to achieve collision.
If Dan became a victim of police duty, no jeering was so destructive to
the feelings as Billie's comment. If Billie got a call to appear at the
headquarters, none would so genially prophesy his complete undoing as
Dan. Small misfortunes to one were, in truth, invariably greeted with
hilarity by the other, who seemed to see in them great re-enforcement
of his opinion.
As soldiers, they expressed each for each a scorn intense and blasting.
After a certain battle, Billie was promoted to corporal. When Dan was
told of it, he seemed smitten dumb with astonishment and patriotic
indignation. He stared in silence, while the dark blood rushed to
Billie's forehead, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Dan at
last found his tongue, and said: "Well, I'm durned!" If he had heard
that an army mule had been appointed to the post of corps commander,
his tone could not have had more derision in it. Afterward, he adopted
a fervid insubordination, an almost religious reluctance to obey the
new corporal's orders, which came near to developing the desired strife.
It is here finally to be recorded also that Dan, most ferociously
profane in speech, very rarely swore in the presence of his brother;
and that Billie, whose oaths came from his lips with the grace of
falling pebbles, was seldom known to express himself in this manner
when near his brother Dan.
At last the afternoon contained a suggestion of evening. Metallic cries
rang suddenly from end to end of the column. They inspired at once a
quick, business-like adjustment. The long thing stirred in the mud. The
men had hushed, and were looking across the river. A moment later the
shadowy mass of pale blue figures was moving steadily toward the
stream. There could be heard from the town a clash of swift fighting
and cheering. The noise of the shooting coming through the heavy air
had its sharpness taken from it, and sounded in thuds.
There was a halt upon the bank above the pontoons. When the column went
winding down the incline, and streamed out upon the bridge, the fog had
faded to a great degree, and in the clearer dusk the guns on a distant
ridge were enabled to perceive the crossing. The long whirling outcries
of the shells came into the air above the men. An occasional solid shot
struck the surface of the river, and dashed into view a sudden vertical
jet. The distance was subtly illuminated by the lightning from the
deep-booming guns. One by one the batteries on the northern shore
aroused, the innumerable guns bellowing in angry oration at the distant
ridge. The rolling thunder crashed and reverberated as a wild surf
sounds on a still night, and to this music the column marched across
the pontoons.
The waters of the grim river curled away in a smile from the ends of
the great boats, and slid swiftly beneath the planking. The dark,
riddled walls of the town upreared before the troops, and from a region
hidden by these hammered and tumbled houses came incessantly the yells
and firings of a prolonged and close skirmish.
When Dan had called his brother a fool, his voice had been so decisive,
so brightly assured, that many men had laughed, considering it to be
great humour under the circumstances. The incident happened to rankle
deep in Billie. It was not any strange thing that his brother had
called him a fool. In fact, he often called him a fool with exactly the
same amount of cheerful and prompt conviction, and before large
audiences, too. Billie wondered in his own mind why he took such
profound offence in this case; but, at any rate, as he slid down the
bank and on to the bridge with his regiment, he was searching his
knowledge for something that would pierce Dan's blithesome spirit. But
he could contrive nothing at this time, and his impotency made the
glance which he was once able to give his brother still more malignant.
The guns far and near were roaring a fearful and grand introduction for
this column which was marching upon the stage of death. Billie felt it,
but only in a numb way. His heart was cased in that curious dissonant
metal which covers a man's emotions at such times. The terrible voices
from the hills told him that in this wide conflict his life was an
insignificant fact, and that his death would be an insignificant fact.
They portended the whirlwind to which he would be as necessary as a
butterfly's waved wing. The solemnity, the sadness of it came near
enough to make him wonder why he was neither solemn nor sad. When his
mind vaguely adjusted events according to their importance to him, it
appeared that the uppermost thing was the fact that upon the eve of
battle, and before many comrades, his brother had called him a fool.
Dan was in a particularly happy mood. "Hurray! Look at 'em shoot," he
said, when the long witches' croon of the shells came into the air. It
enraged Billie when he felt the little thorn in him, and saw at the
same time that his brother had completely forgotten it.
The column went from the bridge into more mud. At this southern end
there was a chaos of hoarse directions and commands. Darkness was
coming upon the earth, and regiments were being hurried up the slippery
bank. As Billie floundered in the black mud, amid the swearing, sliding
crowd, he suddenly resolved that, in the absence of other means of
hurting Dan, he would avoid looking at him, refrain from speaking to
him, pay absolutely no heed to his existence; and this done skilfully
would, he imagined, soon reduce his brother to a poignant sensitiveness.
At the top of the bank the column again halted and rearranged itself,
as a man after a climb rearranges his clothing. Presently the great
steel-backed brigade, an infinitely graceful thing in the rhythm and
ease of its veteran movement, swung up a little narrow, slanting street.
Evening had come so swiftly that the fighting on the remote borders of
the town was indicated by thin flashes of flame. Some building was on
fire, and its reflection upon the clouds was an oval of delicate pink.
II
All demeanour of rural serenity had been wrenched violently from the
little town by the guns and by the waves of men which had surged
through it. The hand of war laid upon this village had in an instant
changed it to a thing of remnants. It resembled the place of a
monstrous shaking of the earth itself. The windows, now mere unsightly
holes, made the tumbled and blackened dwellings seem skeletons. Doors
lay splintered to fragments. Chimneys had flung their bricks
everywhere. The artillery fire had not neglected the rows of gentle
shade-trees which had lined the streets. Branches and heavy trunks
cluttered the mud in driftwood tangles, while a few shattered forms had
contrived to remain dejectedly, mournfully upright. They expressed an
innocence, a helplessness, which perforce created a pity for their
happening into this caldron of battle. Furthermore, there was under
foot a vast collection of odd things reminiscent of the charge, the
fight, the retreat. There were boxes and barrels filled with earth,
behind which riflemen had lain snugly, and in these little trenches
were the dead in blue with the dead in grey, the poses eloquent of the
struggles for possession of the town, until the history of the whole
conflict was written plainly in the streets.
And yet the spirit of this little city, its quaint individuality,
poised in the air above the ruins, defying the guns, the sweeping
volleys; holding in contempt those avaricious blazes which had attacked
many dwellings. The hard earthen sidewalks proclaimed the games that
had been played there during long lazy days, in the careful, shadows of
the trees. "General Merchandise," in faint letters upon a long board,
had to be read with a slanted glance, for the sign dangled by one end;
but the porch of the old store was a palpable legend of wide-hatted
men, smoking.
This subtle essence, this soul of the life that had been, brushed like
invisible wings the thoughts of the men in the swift columns that came
up from the river.
In the darkness a loud and endless humming arose from the great blue
crowds bivouacked in the streets. From time to time a sharp spatter of
firing from far picket lines entered this bass chorus. The smell from
the smouldering ruins floated on the cold night breeze.
Dan, seated ruefully upon the doorstep of a shot-pierced house, was
proclaiming the campaign badly managed. Orders had been issued
forbidding camp-fires.
Suddenly he ceased his oration, and scanning the group of his comrades,
said: "Where's Billie? Do you know?"
"Gone on picket."
"Get out! Has he?" said Dan. "No business to go on picket. Why don't
some of them other corporals take their turn?"
A bearded private was smoking his pipe of confiscated tobacco, seated
comfortably upon a horse-hair trunk which he had dragged from the
house. He observed: "Was his turn."
"No such thing," cried Dan. He and the man on the horse-hair trunk held
discussion in which Dan stoutly maintained that if his brother had been
sent on picket it was an injustice. He ceased his argument when another
soldier, upon whose arms could faintly be seen the two stripes of a
corporal, entered the circle. "Humph," said Dan, "where you been?"
The corporal made no answer. Presently Dan said: "Billie, where you
been?"
His brother did not seem to hear these inquiries. He glanced at the
house which towered above them, and remarked casually to the man on the
horse-hair trunk: "Funny, ain't it? After the pelting this town got,
you'd think there wouldn't be one brick left on another."
"Oh," said Dan, glowering at his brother's back. "Getting mighty smart,
ain't you?"
The absence of camp-fires allowed the evening to make apparent its
quality of faint silver light in which the blue clothes of the throng
became black, and the faces became white expanses, void of expression.
There was considerable excitement a short distance from the group
around the doorstep. A soldier had chanced upon a hoop-skirt, and
arrayed in it he was performing a dance amid the applause of his
companions. Billie and a greater part of the men immediately poured
over there to witness the exhibition.
"What's the matter with Billie?" demanded Dan of the man upon the
horse-hair trunk.
"How do I know?" rejoined the other in mild resentment. He arose and
walked away. When he returned he said briefly, in a weather-wise tone,
that it would rain during the night.
Dan took a seat upon one end of the horse-hair trunk. He was facing the
crowd around the dancer, which in its hilarity swung this way and that
way. At times he imagined that he could recognise his brother's face.
He and the man on the other end of the trunk thoughtfully talked of the
army's position. To their minds, infantry and artillery were in a most
precarious jumble in the streets of the town; but they did not grow
nervous over it, for they were used to having the army appear in a
precarious jumble to their minds. They had learned to accept such
puzzling situations as a consequence of their position in the ranks,
and were now usually in possession of a simple but perfectly immovable
faith that somebody understood the jumble. Even if they had been
convinced that the army was a headless monster, they would merely have
nodded with the veteran's singular cynicism. It was none of their
business as soldiers. Their duty was to grab sleep and food when
occasion permitted, and cheerfully fight wherever their feet were
planted until more orders came. This was a task sufficiently absorbing.
They spoke of other corps, and this talk being confidential, their
voices dropped to tones of awe. "The Ninth"--"The First"--"The
Fifth"--"The Sixth"--"The Third"--the simple numerals rang with
eloquence, each having a meaning which was to float through many years
as no intangible arithmetical mist, but as pregnant with individuality
as the names of cities.
Of their own corps they spoke with a deep veneration, an idolatry, a
supreme confidence which apparently would not blanch to see it match
against everything.
It was as if their respect for other corps was due partly to a wonder
that organisations not blessed with their own famous numeral could take
such an interest in war. They could prove that their division was the
best in the corps, and that their brigade was the best in the division.
And their regiment--it was plain that no fortune of life was equal to
the chance which caused a man to be born, so to speak, into this
command, the keystone of the defending arch.
At times Dan covered with insults the character of a vague, unnamed
general to whose petulance and busy-body spirit he ascribed the order
which made hot coffee impossible.
Dan said that victory was certain in the coming battle. The other man
seemed rather dubious. He remarked upon the fortified line of hills,
which had impressed him even from the other side of the river.
"Shucks," said Dan. "Why, we----" He pictured a splendid overflowing of
these hills by the sea of men in blue. During the period of this
conversation Dan's glance searched the merry throng about the dancer.
Above the babble of voices in the street a far-away thunder could
sometimes be heard--evidently from the very edge of the horizon--the
boom-boom of restless guns.
III
Ultimately the night deepened to the tone of black velvet. The outlines
of the fireless camp were like the faint drawings upon ancient
tapestry. The glint of a rifle, the shine of a button, might have been
of threads of silver and gold sewn upon the fabric of the night. There
was little presented to the vision, but to a sense more subtle there
was discernible in the atmosphere something like a pulse; a mystic
beating which would have told a stranger of the presence of a giant
thing--the slumbering mass of regiments and batteries.
With tires forbidden, the floor of a dry old kitchen was thought to be
a good exchange for the cold earth of December, even if a shell had
exploded in it, and knocked it so out of shape that when a man lay
curled in his blanket his last waking thought was likely to be of the
wall that bellied out above him, as if strongly anxious to topple upon
the score of soldiers.
Billie looked at the bricks ever about to descend in a shower upon his
face, listened to the industrious pickets plying their rifles on the
border of the town, imagined some measure of the din of the coming
battle, thought of Dan and Dan's chagrin, and rolling over in his
blanket went to sleep with satisfaction.
At an unknown hour he was aroused by the creaking of boards. Lifting
himself upon his | 1,444.84158 |
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Produced by Delphine Lettau and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net
[Illustration: ALFIER | 1,444.842603 |
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Produced by John Hamm
THE COUNT'S MILLIONS
By Emile Gaboriau
Translated from the French
A novel in two parts. Part Two of this novel is found in the volume:
Baron Trigault's Vengeance
PASCAL AND MARGUERITE.
I.
It was a Thursday evening, the fifteenth of October; and although only
half-past six o'clock, it had been dark for some time already. The
weather was cold, and the sky was as black as ink, while the wind blew
tempestuously, and the rain fell in torrents.
The servants at the Hotel de Chalusse, one of the most magnificent
mansions in the Rue de Courcelles in Paris, were assembled in the
porter's lodge, a little building comprising a couple of rooms standing
on the right hand side of the great gateway. Here, as in all large
mansions, the "concierge" or porter, M. Bourigeau, was a person of
immense importance, always able and disposed to make any one who was
inclined to doubt his authority, feel it in cruel fashion. As could be
easily seen, he held all the other servants in his power. He could
let them absent themselves without leave, if he chose, and conceal all
returns late at night after the closing of public balls and wine-shops.
Thus, it is needless to say that M. Bourigeau and his wife were treated
by their fellow-servants with the most servile adulation.
The owner of the house was not at home that evening, so that M. Casimir,
the count's head valet, was serving coffee for the benefit of all the
retainers. And while the company sipped the fragrant beverage which had
been generously tinctured with cognac, provided by the butler, they all
united in abusing their common enemy, the master of the house. For the
time being, a pert little waiting-maid, with an odious turn-up nose, had
the floor. She was addressing her remarks to a big, burly, and rather
insolent-looking fellow, who had been added only the evening before to
the corps of footmen. "The place is really intolerable," she was saying.
"The wages are high, the food of the very best, the livery just such
as would show off a good-looking man to the best advantage, and Madame
Leon, the housekeeper, who has entire charge of everything, is not too
lynx-eyed."
"And the work?"
"A mere nothing. Think, there are eighteen of us to serve only two
persons, the count and Mademoiselle Marguerite. But then there is never
any pleasure, never any amusement here."
"What! is one bored then?"
"Bored to death. This grand house is worse than a tomb. No receptions,
no dinners--nothing. Would you believe it, I have never seen the
reception-rooms! They are always closed; and the furniture is dropping
to pieces under its coverings. There are not three visitors in the
course of a month."
She was evidently incensed, and the new footman seemed to share her
indignation. "Why, how is it?" he exclaimed. "Is the count an owl? A
man who's not yet fifty years old, and who's said to be worth several
millions."
"Yes, millions; you may safely say it--and perhaps ten, perhaps twenty
millions too."
"Then all the more reason why there should be something going on here.
What does he do with himself alone, all the blessed day?"
"Nothing. He reads in the library, or wanders about the garden.
Sometimes, in the evening, he drives with Mademoiselle Marguerite to the
Bois de Boulogne in a closed carriage; but that seldom happens. Besides,
there is no such thing as teasing the poor man. I've been in the house
for six months, and I've never heard him say anything but: 'yes'; 'no';
'do this';'very well';'retire.' You would think these are the only
words he knows. Ask M. Casimir if I'm not right."
"Our guv'nor isn't very gay, that's a fact," responded the valet.
The footman was listening with a serious air, as if greatly interested
in the character of the people whom he was to serve. "And mademoiselle,"
he asked, "what does she say to such an existence?"
"Bless me! during the six months she has been here, she has never once
complained."
"If she is bored," added M. Casimir, "she conceals it bravely."
"Naturally enough," sneered the waiting-maid, with an ironical gesture;
"each month that mademoiselle remains here, brings her too much money
for her to complain."
By the laugh that greeted this reply, and by the looks the older
servants exchanged, the new-comer must have realized that he had
discovered the secret skeleton hidden in every house. "What! what!" he
exclaimed, on fire with curiosity; "is there really anything in that? To
tell the truth, I was inclined to doubt it."
His companions were evidently about to tell him all they knew, or rather
all they thought they knew, when the front-door bell rang vigorously.
"There he comes!" exclaimed the concierge; "but he's in too much of a
hurry; hell have to wait awhile."
He sullenly pulled the cord, however; the heavy door swayed on its
hinges, and a cab-driver, breathless and hatless, burst into the room,
crying, "Help! help!"
The servants sprang to their feet.
"Make haste!" continued the driver. "I was bringing a gentleman
here--you must know him. He's outside, in my vehicle----"
Without pausing to listen any longer, the servants rushed out, and the
driver's incoherent explanation at once became intelligible. At the
bottom of the cab, a roomy four-wheeler, a man was lying all of a heap,
speechless and motionless. He must have fallen forward, face downward,
and owing to the jolting of the vehicle his head had slipped under the
front seat.
"Poor devil!" muttered M. Casimir, "he must have had a stroke of
apoplexy." The valet was peering into the vehicle as he spoke, and his
comrades were approaching, when suddenly he drew back, uttering a cry of
horror. "Ah, my God! it is the count!"
Whenever there is an accident in Paris, a throng of inquisitive
spectators seems to spring up from the very pavement, and indeed more
than fifty persons had already congregated round about the vehicle. This
circumstance restored M. Casimir's composure; or, at least, some portion
of it. "You must drive into the courtyard," he said, addressing the
cabman. "M. Bourigeau, open the gate, if you please." And then, turning
to another servant, he added:
"And you must make haste and fetch a physician--no matter who. Run to
the nearest doctor, and don't return until you bring one with you."
The concierge had opened the gate, but the driver had disappeared; they
called him, and on receiving no | 1,444.907361 |
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Produced by Brian Coe and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
created from images of public domain material made available
by the University of Toronto Libraries
(http://link.library.utoronto.ca/booksonline/).)
Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected
without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have
been retained as printed. Words printed in italics are noted with
underscores: _italics_.
The Daily Telegraph
WAR BOOKS
BRITISH REGIMENTS AT THE FRONT
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HOW THE WAR BEGAN
By W. L. COURTNEY. LLD., and J. M. KENNEDY
THE FLEETS AT WAR
By ARCHIBALD HURD
THE CAMPAIGN OF SEDAN
By GEORGE HOOPER
THE CAMPAIGN ROUND LIEGE
By J. M. KENNEDY
IN THE FIRING LINE
By A. ST. JOHN ADCOCK
GREAT BATTLES OF THE WORLD
By STEPHEN CRANE
Author of "The Red Badge of Courage."
BRITISH REGIMENTS AT THE FRONT
The story of their Battle Honour.
THE RED CROSS IN WAR
By Miss MARY FRANCES BILLINGTON
FORTY YEARS AFTER
The Story of the Franco-German War. By H. C. BAILEY.
With an Introduction by W. L. COURTNEY. LL.D.
A SCRAP OF PAPER
The Inner History of German Diplomacy.
By E. J. DILLON
HOW THE NATIONS WAGED WAR
A companion volume to "How the War Began," telling how the
world faced.
Armageddon and how the British Army answered the call to arms.
By J. M. KENNEDY
AIR-CRAFT IN WAR
By S. ERIC BRUCE
FAMOUS FIGHTS OF INDIAN NATIVE REGIMENTS
THE TRIUMPHANT RETREAT TO PARIS
THE RUSSIAN ADVANCE
_OTHER VOLUMES IN PREPARATION_
PUBLISHED FOR THE DAILY TELEGRAPH
BY HODDER & STOUGHTON, WARWICK SQUARE,
LONDON, E.C.
BRITISH REGIMENTS AT THE FRONT
THE STORY OF THEIR BATTLE HONOURS
BY
REGINALD HODDER
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO
MCMXIV
The Author wishes to express his indebtedness to MR. J. NORVILL for his
valuable assistance and suggestions.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER--NICKNAMES OF THE REGIMENTS AND HOW THEY
WERE WON 9
I. 5TH DRAGOON GUARDS 41
II. THE CARABINIERS 43
III. THE SCOTS GREYS 49
IV. 15TH HUSSARS 57
V. 18TH HUSSARS 61
VI. THE GRENADIER GUARDS 63
VII. THE COLDSTREAM GUARDS 71
VIII. THE ROYAL SCOTS 76
IX. THE "FIGHTING FIFTH" 84
X. THE LIVERPOOL REGIMENT 89
XI. THE NORFOLKS 92
XII. THE BLACK WATCH 100
XIII. THE MANCHESTER REGIMENT 113
XIV. THE GORDON HIGHLANDERS 118
XV. THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS 139
XVI. THE ARGYLL AND SUTHERLAND HIGHLANDERS 142
XVII. THE DUBLIN FUSILIERS 146
XVIII. FUENTES D'ONORO AND ALBUERA 156
XIX. BALACLAVA AND INKERMAN 178
NICKNAMES OF THE REGIMENTS AND HOW THEY WERE WON
"The Rusty Buckles."
The 2nd Dragoon Guards (Queen's Bays) got their name of "The Bays" in
1767 when they were mounted on bay horses--a thing which distinguished
them from other regiments, which, with the exception of the Scots
Greys, had black horses. Their nickname, "The Rusty Buckles," though
lending itself to a ready explanation, is doubtful as to its origin;
but one thing is certain that the rust remained on the buckles only
because the fighting was so strenuous and prolonged that there was no
time to clean it off.
"The Royal Irish."
The 4th Dragoon Guards received this title in 1788, in recognition of
its long service in Ireland since 1698. The regiment also has the name
of the "Blue Horse" from the blue facings of the uniform.
"The Green Horse."
The 5th Dragoon Guards were given this name in 1717 when their facings
were changed from buff to green. Some time later, after Salamanca, they
were also called the "Green Dragoon Guards."
"Tichborne's Own."
The 6th Dragoon Guards, or Carabiniers, have been known as "Tichborne's
Own" ever since the trial of Arthur Orton, as Sir Roger Tichborne had
served for some time in the regiment. The name of "Carabiniers" has
distinguished them ever since 1692, when they were armed with long
pistols or "carabins." With these weapons they did signal work in
Ireland in 1690-1.
"Scots Greys."
This regiment, the 2nd Dragoons, has been known by many names: "Second
to None," "The Old Greys," "Royal Regiment of Scots Dragoons," (in
1681, when they were commanded by the famous Claverhouse); "The Grey
Dragoons" in 1700, the "Scots Regiment of White Horses," the "Royal
Regiment of North British Dragoons" in 1707, the "2nd Dragoons" in
1713, and the "2nd Royal North British Dragoons" in 1866.
Associated with them and all their different names is the memorable cry
of "Scotland for ever"--that wild shout they raised as they charged the
French infantry at Waterloo. At Ramillies they captured the colours of
the French Regiment du Roi and by this gained the right to wear
grenadier caps instead of helmets. "Bubbly Jocks" is a nickname
frequently used among themselves--a name derived from the fact that
their dress in its general effect is not unlike that of the "Bubbly
Jock" or turkey cock.
"Lord Adam Gordon's Life Guards."
The 3rd Hussars received this nickname from the fact that when Lord
Adam Gordon commanded the regiment in Scotland he kept it there for
such a long time--"for _life_" so to speak. When it was raised, in
1685, the regiment was called "The Queen Consort's Regiment of
Dragoons." In 1691 it was known as "Leveson's Dragoons." In the time of
the George's it was called variously "King's Own Dragoons" and "Bland's
Horse." In 1818 it was made a "Light Dragoon" regiment, and it was not
until 1861 that it became Hussars.
"Paget's Irregular Horse."
The 4th Hussars received this title on its return from foreign service,
when it was remarked that its drill was less regular than that of the
other regiments. In 1685 it was called the "Princess Ann of Denmark's
Regiment of Dragoons." Like the 3rd it was formed into a regiment of
Hussars in 1861.
"The Red Breasts."
The 5th Lancers, or Royal Irish, are called "Red Breasts" because of
their scarlet facings. In 1689 they were known as the "Royal Irish
Dragoons," having been raised to assist at the siege of Londonderry in
1688. They became the "5th Royal Irish Lancers" in 1858. This regiment
has also been called the "Daily Advertisers," but the derivation of
this name is somewhat obscure.
"The Delhi Spearmen."
The 9th Lancers received this name from the rebels of the Indian
Mutiny, against whom they used their long lances with such deadly
effect. In 1830 they were known as the "Queen's Royal Lancers," and
"Wynne's Dragoons."
"The Cherry Pickers."
The 11th Hussars were dubbed "Cherry Pickers" because some of their men
during the Peninsular War were taken prisoners in a fruit garden while
supposed to be on outpost duty. They are known also as "Prince Albert's
Own" from the fact that they formed part of the Prince's escort from
Dover to Canterbury when he arrived in England in 1840 as the late
Queen's chosen Consort. One hears them sometimes referred to as the
"Cherubims," from their crimson overalls, busby bag, and crimson and
white plume.
"The Supple 12th."
It was at Salamanca that the 12th Lancers received this honoured name,
because of their dash and rapid movements.
"The Fighting 15th."
It was at Emsdorf that the 15th Hussars won this name, and their feat
of arms on that field gained them the privilege to wear on their
helmets the following inscription: "Five battalions of French defeated
and taken by this Regiment with their colours and nine pieces of cannon
at Emsdorf, 16th July, 1760." In 1794, at Villiers-en-Couche, they
charged with the Austrian Leopold Hussars against vastly superior
numbers to protect the person of the Austrian Emperor. In recognition
of this the then Kaiser presented each of the eight surviving officers
with a medal. In 1799 they received the Royal honour of decking their
helmets with scarlet feathers. The "Fighting 15th" are also known in
history as "Elliot's Light Horse."
"The Dumpies."
The 20th Hussars, together with the 19th and 21st, received the name of
"Dumpies" from the fact that the regiment when formed of volunteers
from the disbanded Bengal European Cavalry of the East India Company
were short and dumpy. Though nowadays there is many a giant among the
20th, the name of "Dumpies" still survives.
"The Mudlarks."
The Royal Engineers received this name from the nature of their
ordinary business in war. In 1722 they were called the "Soldier
Artificers Corps"; and, in 1813, "The Royal Sappers and Miners."
"The Gunners."
The Royal Artillery have held this name from their regular formation in
1793. Formerly, after the rebellion in Scotland, they were known as the
"Royal Regiment of Artillery," and, though not in any way formed into a
regiment, they date still further back, one might say even to the early
days when guns were made of wood and leather. That was before 1543,
when the first gun was cast in England. In 1660 the master gunner was
called the "Chief Fire Master". The Honourable Artillery Company was
founded in 1537 and is the oldest Volunteer Corps in Great Britain.
"The Sandbags."
The Grenadier Guards gained this peculiar name from their special
privilege of working in plain clothes for wages at coal or gravel
heaving, and for this same reason they were often called "Coalheavers."
They seem to have got this name in Flanders, where they excelled at
trench work. Another of their nicknames is "Old Eyes." In 1657 they
were known as the "Royal Regiment of Guards," and in 1660 as the
"King's Regiment of Guards."
"The Coldstreamers."
The Coldstream Guards received their name in 1666 when Monk marched
them from Coldstream to assist Charles II to regain his throne. They
have been called the "_Nulli Secundus Club_," in memory of the
fact that Charles, before he hit on the name "Coldstream Guards,"
wished to call them the "2nd Foot Guards," a thing to which they
strongly objected, saying that they were "second to none."
"The Jocks."
The origin of this name for the Scots Guards is obvious. History is a
little uncertain about their record, as their papers were burnt by
accident in 1841; but this is certain, that they were raised as Scots
Guards in 1639 and were called later the "Scots Fusilier Guards" and
the "3rd Foot Guards," after which, in 1877, they resumed the name of
"Scots Guards."
"Pontius Pilate's Bodyguard."
This strange nickname of the Royal Scots Regiment is based on an
equally strange story. As long ago as 1637, when most other regiments
were as yet unborn, a dispute arose between the Royal Scots and the
Picardy Regiment on the point of priority in age. The Picardy Regiment
claimed to have been on duty the night after the Crucifixion. But the
Royal Scots met this with a withering volley. "Had we been on duty
then," they said, "we should not have slept at our post." This incident
caused some wag to dub the Royal Scots "Pontius Pilate's Bodyguard,"
and the name has stuck to them ever since. There is another tradition
that this regiment represents the body of Scottish Archers, who for
many centuries formed the guard of the French Kings. It fought in the
seven years' war under Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden, and was
incorporated in the British Army in 1633. Since then, whenever war has
been declared, every man of "Pontius Pilate's Bodyguard" has been among
the last to stay at home.
"The Lions."
The Royal Lancaster Regiment bears upon its colour the Lions of
England, disposed, as in Trafalgar Square, one at each quarter. This
distinction was given them by the Prince of Orange, as they were the
first regiment to join him in 1688 when he landed at Torbay. They have
also been called "Barrell's Blues" from their Commander and their blue
facings. They received the title of "King's Own" from George I., in
1715, and our late King Edward became their Colonel-in-Chief in 1903.
Our present King is now the Colonel-in-Chief.
"Kirke's Lambs."
The Royal West Surrey Regiment (The Queen's) derived this name from
Kirke and from the Paschal Lamb in each of the four corners of its
colour. The name has also an ironical derivation from the fact that
they were employed to enforce the cruelties of "Bloody Judge Jeffreys."
Another nickname of theirs is the "First Tangerines," because they were
raised in 1661 as the "Tangiers Regiment of Foot," for the purpose of
garrisoning Tangiers, at that time a British possession. John
Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, began his career in this Regiment.
Another nickname, "Sleepy Queen's" is derived from a slight omission of
theirs at Almeida, when, through some oversight, they allowed General
Brennier to escape. But they have so far lived this down that now,
_ut lucus a non lucendo_, they are called "sleepy" because they are
always very wide awake.
"The Shiners."
The Northumberland Fusiliers deserve that name because they are always
so <DW74>-and-span. They also deserve the name of "Fighting Fifth"
because they have many a time proved their right to it. At the battle
of Kirch Denkern (1761) they captured a whole regiment of French
infantry, and, in the following year, at Wilhelmsthal, they took twice
their own number prisoners. They have also the name of "Lord
Wellington's Body Guard" because, in 1811, they were attached to
Headquarters. Another name is "The Old and Bold." On St. George's day
the "Fighting Fifth" wear roses in their caps, but the origin of this
is not clear, unless it may be that one of their badges is "St. George
and the Dragon," and another "The Rose and Crown." They also wear the
white feathers of the French Grenadiers on the anniversary of the
battle of La Vigie, when Comte de Grasse attempted to relieve the
Island of St. Lucia in the West Indies. On that occasion the "Old and
Bold" took the white plumes from the caps of their defeated opponents,
the French Grenadiers. To-day, the white in the red and white hackle
now worn by them refers back to that terrible death-struggle. The 5th
is the only foot regiment which has the distinction of a red and white
pompon. It is worth recording here that they formed part of a force
which repulsed overwhelming numbers of the enemy on the heights of El
Bodon (1811) during the investment of Ciudad Rodrigo. The Iron Duke
spoke of this achievement as "a memorable example of what can be done
by steadiness, discipline and confidence."
"The Elegant Extracts."
The word sounds like a fashionable chemical compound, but its real
meaning is derived from the fact that the officers of the Royal
Fusiliers--except 2nd Lieutenants and Ensigns, of which at the time
they had none--were "extracted" from other corps. In the eighteenth
century they were known as the "Hanoverian White Horse." Those who have
lived to remember the Crimean War will remember also that brave song,
"Fighting with the 7th Royal Fusiliers"--a song which became so popular
that the regiment could have been recruited four times over had it been
necessary.
"The Leather Hats."
The King's (Liverpool) Regiment gained their name from their head-gear.
They were raised by James II. in 1685. In the American War an officer
and 40 men of the "Leather Hats" captured a fort held by 400 of the
enemy. It is interesting to know that this regiment has an allied
regiment of the Australian Commonwealth--the 8th Australian Infantry
Regiment.
"The Holy Boys."
The Norfolk Regiment has had this name ever since the Peninsular War.
In that campaign the Spaniards, seeing the figure of Britannia on the
cross-belts of the 9th, thought that it was a representation of the
Virgin Mary. There is another story to the effect that they derive
their name from their reputed practice of selling their Bibles to buy
drink during the Peninsular War. But this I do not believe. Another
name for them is the "Fighting Ninth"--a title which no one can refuse
to believe. Their bravery at the siege of St. Sebastian might alone
justify it.
"The Springers."
The Lincolnshire Regiment received this nickname during the American
War because they were remarkable in their readiness to spring into
action when called upon. It was the first infantry regiment to enter
Boer territory during the late South African War. Their other name of
"Lincolnshire Poachers" has no satisfactory derivation.
"The Bloody Eleventh."
There are two stories to account for this nickname of the Devonshire
Regiment. One is that at Salamanca they were in a very sanguinary
condition after the battle. The other is that when they were in Dublin
in 1690 the regiment's contractor supplied bad meat, on which they
swore that if he did so again they would hang the butcher. There was no
improvement in the meat, so they hanged the delinquent in front of his
own shop on one of his own meat-hooks. It is no doubt the first story
that is the true one. Another name for the Devonshires is "One and
All." It was a man in this regiment who wounded Napoleon at Toulon in
1793.
"The Old Dozen."
The Suffolk Regiment won glory for itself at the siege of Gibraltar. It
also behaved with the greatest gallantry at Minden, and that is why on
the 1st of August (Minden Day) the "Old Dozen" parade with a rose in
the head-dress of each man. In connection with this they are also
called the "Minden Boys."
"The Peacemakers."
The Bedfordshire Regiment were first known as the "Peacemakers" because
at that time there were no battles on its colours. For the same reason
no doubt they were also called "Bloodless Lambs." Another nickname of
theirs is "The Old Bucks"--a title justified by their hard fighting in
the Netherlands under William III. and also under Marlborough.
"The Bengal Tigers."
The Leicestershire Regiment gets its name from the Royal Green Tiger on
its badge. This distinction was given it for a brilliant achievement in
the Nepal War of 1814, when they captured a Standard bearing a tiger.
They are also called "Lily Whites," from their white facings.
"The Green Howards."
The Yorkshire Regiment was commanded by Colonel Howard, and has green
facings. They are also called "Howard's Garbage," and must not be
confused with the 24th Foot, also once commanded by a Colonel Howard,
and styled "Howard's Greens."
"The Earl of Mar's Grey Breeks."
The Royal Scots Fusiliers received this name from the colour of their
breeches at the time the regiment was raised in 1678. "The Grey Breeks"
wear a white plume in their head-dress--an honour bestowed in
recognition of their services during the Boer War.
"The Lightning Conductors."
There is some doubt as to how the Cheshire Regiment acquired this name.
But it may be connected in some way with the fact that at Dettingen,
when George II. was attacked by the French Cavalry, they formed round
him under an oak tree and drove the enemy off. In remembrance of this
occasion the oak leaf is worn by them at all inspections and reviews in
obedience to the wish of George II. when he plucked a leaf from the
tree and handed it to the Commander. They are also known as the "Two
Twos" from their number, the 22nd. Another of their names is "The Red
Knights," because, when recruiting at Chelmsford in 1795, red jackets,
breeches and waistcoats were served out to them instead of the proper
uniform. This regiment, under the name of the "Soulsburg Grenadiers,"
was under Wolfe when he was mortally wounded at Quebec.
"The Nanny Goats."
The Royal Welsh Fusiliers are known as "Nanny Goats" or "Royal Goats"
because they always have a goat, with shields and garlands on its
horns, marching bravely at the head of the drum. This has been their
custom for over a hundred years. A glance at the back of their tunics
reveals a small piece of silk known as a "flash." It has been there
ever since the days when its office was to keep the powdered pigtail
from soiling the tunic. The King is Colonel-in-Chief of the "Nanny
Goats."
"Howard's Greens."
The South Wales Borderers were at one time commanded by a Colonel
Howard. It was a company of this regiment which achieved immortal glory
at Rorke's Drift, which they defended against 3,000 Zulus. In Africa
they gained no less than eight V.C.'s. On the Queen's colour of each
battalion may be seen a silver wreath. This was bestowed by Queen
Victoria in memory of Lieutenants Melville and Coghill, who died to
save the colours at Isandlhwana.
"The Botherers."
The King's Own Scottish Borderers--the only regiment that was allowed
to beat up for recruits in Edinburgh without asking the Lord Provost's
permission--were called "Botherers," partly on this account and partly
by corruption from "Borderers." They bear also the name of "Leven's
Regiment," from the remarkable fact that in 1689 they were raised by
the Earl of Leven in Edinburgh, in the space of four hours. They are
also known as the "K.O.B.s."
"The Cameronians."
The 1st Battalion of the Scottish Rifles are the descendants of the
Glasgow Cameronian Guard which was raised during the Revolution of 1688
from the Cameronians, a strict set of Presbyterians founded by
Archibald Cameron, the martyr. The 2nd Battalion is known as "Sir
Thomas Graham's Perthshire Grey Breeks." It received this name from the
fact that when Lord Moira ordered the regiment to be equipped and
trained as a Light Infantry Corps, their uniforms consisted of a red
jacket faced with buff, over a red waistcoat, with buff tights and
Hessians for the officers, and light grey pantaloons for the men. Both
battalions now wear dark green doublets and tartan "trews."
"The Slashers."
The Gloucestershire Regiment derives its name of "Slashers" from its
achievements in the battle of the White Plains in 1777. There is
another story, however, that the name arose from a report that, on one
occasion, a magistrate having refused shelter to the women of the
regiment during a severe winter, some of the officers disguised
themselves as Indians and slashed off both his ears. In Torres Straits
there is a reef which is marked on the charts as the "Slashers' Reef"
because, after the Khyber Pass disaster of 1842, the "Slashers" were on
the way from Australia to India when the transport conveying them
grounded on this reef. Their other name of the "Old Braggs" is derived
from their Commander, General Braggs, of 1734. In regard to this there
is the tradition of an order given by a wag of a Colonel when the "Old
Braggs" were brigaded with other regiments with Royal Titles. The order
runs:
"Neither Kings nor Queens nor Royal Marines,
But 28th Old Braggs;
Brass before and brass behind;
Ne'er feared a foe of any kind | 1,444.908326 |
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THE WORKS OF ANATOLE FRANCE
IN AN ENGLISH TRANSLATION
EDITED BY FREDERIC CHAPMAN
THE WHITE STONE
THE WHITE STONE
BY ANATOLE FRANCE
A TRANSLATION BY
CHARLES E. ROCHE
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY: MCMX
Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO, LIMITED
Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, London
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. 9
II. GALLIO 29
III. 107
IV. 147
V. THROUGH THE HORN
OR THE IVORY GATE 183
VI. 237
Καὶ ἔμοιγε δοκεῖτε ἐπὶ λευκάδα πέτρην καὶ δῆμον ὀνείρων
καταδαρθέντες τοσαῦτα ὀνειροπολεῖν ἐν ἀκαρεῖ τῆς νυκτὸς
οὔσης.
(Philopatris, xxi.)
And to me it seems that you have fallen asleep
upon a white rock, and in a parish of dreams, and
have dreamt all this in a moment while it was
night.
THE WHITE STONE
I
A few Frenchmen, united in friendship, who were spending the spring in
Rome, were wont to meet amid the ruins of the disinterred Forum. They
were Joséphin Leclerc, an Embassy Attaché on leave; M. Goubin, licencié
ès lettres, an annotator; Nicole Langelier, of the old Parisian family
of the Langeliers, printers and classical scholars; Jean Boilly, a
civil engineer, and Hippolyte Dufresne, a man of leisure, and a lover
of the fine arts.
Towards five o’clock of the afternoon of the first day of May, they
wended their way, as was their custom, through the northern door,
closed to the public, where Commendatore Boni, who superintended the
excavations, welcomed them with quiet amenity, and led them to the
threshold of his house of wood nestling in the shadow of laurel bushes,
privet hedges and cytisus, and rising above the vast trench, dug down
to the depth of the ancient Forum, in the cattle market of pontifical
Rome.
Here, they pause awhile, and look about them.
Facing them rise the truncated shafts of the Columnæ Honorariæ, and
where stood the Basilica of Julia, the eye rested on what bore the
semblance of a huge draughts-board and its draughts. Further south, the
three columns of the Temple of the Dioscuri cleave the azure of the
skies with their blue-tinted volutes. On their right, surmounting the
dilapidated Arch of Septimus Severus, the tall columns of the Temple
of Saturn, the dwellings of Christian Rome, and the Women’s Hospital
display in tiers, their facings yellower and muddier than the waters of
the Tiber. To their left stands the Palatine flanked by huge red arches
and crowned with evergreen oaks. At their feet, from hill to hill,
among the flagstones of the Via Sacra, narrow as a village street,
spring from the earth an agglomeration of brick walls and marble
foundations, the remains of buildings which dotted the Forum in the
days of Rome’s strength. Trefoil, oats, and the grasses of the field
which the wind has sown on their lowered tops, have covered them with
a rustic roof illumined by the crimson poppies. A mass of _débris_,
of crumbling entablatures, a multitude of pillars and altars, an
entanglement of steps and enclosing walls: all this indeed not stunted
but of a serried vastness and within limits.
Nicole Langelier was doubtless reviewing in his mind the host of
monuments confined in this famed space:
“These edifices of wise proportions and moderate dimensions,” he
remarked, “were separated from one another by narrow streets full of
shade. Here ran the _vicoli_ beloved in countries where the sun shines,
while the generous descendants of Remus, on their return from hearing
public speakers, found, along the walls of the temples, cool yet
foul-smelling corners, whence the rinds of water-melons and castaway
shells were never swept away, and where they could eat and enjoy their
siesta. The shops skirting the square must certainly have emitted the
pungent odour of onions, wine, fried meats, and cheese. The butchers’
stalls were laden with meats, to the delectation of the hardy citizens,
and it was from one of those butchers that Virginius snatched the knife
with which he killed his daughter. There also were doubtless jewellers
and vendors of little domestic tutelary deities, protectors of the
hearth, the ox-stall, and the garden. The citizens’ necessaries of life
were all centred in this spot. The market and the shops, the basilicas,
_i.e._, the commercial Exchanges and the civil tribunals; the Curia,
that municipal council which became the administrative power of the
universe; the prisons, whose vaults emitted their much dreaded and
fetid effluvia, and the temples, the altars, of the highest necessity
to the Italians who have ever some thing to beg of the celestial powers.
“Here it was, lastly, that during a long roll of centuries were
accomplished the vulgar or strange deeds, almost ever flat and dull,
oftentimes odious and ridiculous, at times generous, the agglomeration
of which constitutes the august life of a people.”
“What is it that one sees, in the centre of the square, fronting the
commemorative pedestals?” inquired M. Goubin, who, primed with an
eye-glass, had noticed a new feature in the ancient Forum, and was
thirsting for information concerning it.
Joséphin Leclerc obligingly answered him that they were the foundations
of the recently unearthed colossal statue of Domitian.
Thereupon he pointed out, one after the other, the monuments laid bare
by Giacomo Boni in the course of his five years’ fruitful excavations:
the fountain and the well of Juturna, under the Palatine Hill; the
altar erected on the site of Cæsar’s funeral pile, the base of which
spread itself at their feet, opposite the Rostra; the archaic stele and
the legendary tomb of Romulus over which lies the black marble slab of
the Comitium; and again, the Lacus Curtius.
The sun, which had set behind the Capitol, was striking with its
last shafts the triumphal arch of Titus on the towering Velia. The
heavens, where to the West the pearl-white moon floated, remained as
blue as at midday. An even, peaceful, and clear shadow spread itself
over the silent Forum. The bronzed navvies were delving this field of
stones, while, pursuing the work of the ancient Kings, their comrades
turned the crank of a well, for the purpose of drawing the water which
still forms the bed where slumbered, in the days of pious Numa, the
reed-fringed Velabrum.
They were performing their task methodically and with vigilance.
Hippolyte Dufresne, who had for several months been a witness of their
assiduous labour, of their intelligence and of their prompt obedience
to orders, inquired of the director of the excavations how it was that
he obtained such yeoman’s work from | 1,444.909376 |
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SCIENTIFIC CULTURE,
_AND OTHER ESSAYS_.
BY
JOSIAH PARSONS COOKE, LL. D.,
PROFESSOR OF CHEMISTRY AND MINERALOGY, IN HARVARD COLLEGE.
_SECOND EDITION; WITH ADDITIONS._
NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
1, 3, AND 5 BOND STREET.
1885.
COPYRIGHT, 1881, 1885,
BY JOSIAH PARSONS COOKE.
TO
MY ASSOCIATES
IN
THE CHEMICAL LABORATORY
OF
HARVARD COLLEGE
THIS VOLUME
IS
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
PREFACE.
The essays collected in this volume, although written for special
occasions without reference to each other, have all a bearing on the
subject selected as the title of the volume, and are an outcome of a
somewhat large experience in teaching physical science to college
students. Thirty years ago, when the writer began his work at Cambridge,
instruction in the experimental sciences was given in our American
colleges solely by means of lectures and recitations. Chemistry and
Physics were allowed a limited space in the college curriculum as
branches of useful knowledge, but were regarded as wholly subordinate to
the classics and mathematics as a means of education; and as physical
science was then taught, there can be no question that the accepted
opinion was correct. Experimental science can never be made of value as
a means of education unless taught by its own methods, with the one
great aim in view to train the faculties of the mind so as to enable the
educated man to read the Book of Nature for himself.
Since the period just referred to, the example early set at Cambridge of
making the student's own observations in the laboratory or cabinet the
basis of all teaching, either in experimental or natural history
| 1,444.94073 |
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Note: Images of the original | 1,445.000128 |
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HERO TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE SERBIANS
By
WOISLAV M. PETROVITCH
Late attache to the Serbian Royal Legation to the Court of St. James
With a preface by
CHEDO MIYATOVICH
Formerly Serbian Minister to the Court of St. James
And thirty-two illustrations
In colour by
WILLIAM SEWELL & GILBERT JAMES
To that most Eminent Serbian
Patriot and Statesman
His Excellency
Nicholas P. Pashitch
This book is
respectfully inscribed
by the author
PREFACE
Serbians attach the utmost value and importance to the sympathies of
such a highly cultured, great, and therefore legitimately influential
people as is the British nation. Since the beginning of the twentieth
century there have been two critical occasions [1]--the annexation of
Bosnia and Herzegovina by Austria and the war against the Turks--when
we have had opportunities to note how British sympathies, even when
apparently only platonic, can be of great practical importance for
our nation. It is quite natural that we should desire to retain and
if possible deepen and increase those sympathies. We are proud of our
army, but we flatter ourselves that our nation may win sympathy and
respect by other than military features of its national character. We
wish that our British friends should know our nation such as it is. We
wish them to be acquainted with our national psychology. And nothing
could give a better insight into the very soul of the Serbian nation
than this book.
The Serbians belong ethnologically to the great family of the
Slavonic nations. They are first cousins to the Russians, Poles,
Czechs, Slovaks, and Bulgars, and they are brothers to the Croats
and Slovenes. Since the Church has ceased to be the discordant and
disuniting element in the life of the nations, the Orthodox Serbians
and the Roman Catholic Croats are practically one and the same
people. But of all Slavonic nations the Serbians can legitimately
claim to be the most poetical one. Their language is the richest and
the most musical among all the Slavonic languages. The late Professor
Morfill, a man who was something of a Panslavist, repeatedly said to
me: "I wish you Serbians, as well as all other Slavonic nations, to
join Russia in a political union, but I do not wish you to surrender
your beautiful and well-developed language to be exchanged for the
Russian!" On one occasion he went even so far as to suggest that the
future United States of the Slavs should adopt as their literary and
official language the Serbian, as by far the finest and most musical
of all the Slavonic tongues.
When our ancestors occupied the western part of the Balkan
Peninsula, they found there numerous Latin colonies and Greek towns
and settlements. In the course of twelve centuries we have through
intermarriage absorbed much Greek and Latin blood. That influence, and
the influence of the commercial and political intercourse with Italy,
has softened our language and our manners and intensified our original
Slavonic love of what is beautiful, poetical, and noble. We are a
special Slavonic type, modified by Latin and Greek influences. The
Bulgars are a Slavonic nation of a quite different type, created by
the circulation of Tartar blood in Slavonian veins. This simple fact
throws much light on the conflicts between the Serbians and Bulgarians
during the Middle Ages, and even in our own days.
Now what are the Serbian national songs? They are not songs made by
cultured or highly educated poets--songs which, becoming popular,
are sung by common people. They are songs made by the common | 1,445.003356 |
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SHORT STORIES
OLD AND NEW
SELECTED AND EDITED
BY
C. ALPHONSO SMITH
EDGAR ALLAN POE PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN THE
UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, AUTHOR OF
"THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY," ETC.
1916
INTRODUCTION
Every short story has three parts, which may be called Setting or
Background, Plot or Plan, and Characters or Character. If you are going
to write a short story, as I hope you are, you will find it necessary to
think through these three parts so as to relate them interestingly and
naturally one to the other; and if you want to assimilate the best that
is in the following stories, you will do well to approach them by the
same three routes.
The Setting or Background gives us the time and the place of the story
with such details of custom, scenery, and dialect as time and place
imply. It answers the questions _When? Where?_ The Plot tells us what
happened. It gives us the incidents and events, the haps or mishaps,
that are interwoven to make up the warp and woof of the story. Sometimes
there is hardly any interweaving; just a plain plan or simple outline is
followed, as in "The Christmas Carol" or "The Great Stone Face." We may
still call the core of these two stories the Plot, if we want to, but
Plan would be the more accurate. This part of the story answers the
question _What_? Under the heading Characters or Character we study the
personalities of the men and women who move through the story and give
it unity and coherence. Sometimes, as in "The Christmas Carol" or
"Markheim," one character so dominates the others that they are mere
spokes in his hub or incidents in his career. But in "The Gift of the
Magi," though more space is given to Della, she and Jim act from the
same motive and contribute equally to the development of the story. In
one of our stories the main character is a dog, but he is so human that
we may still say that the chief question to be answered under this
heading is _Who?_
Many books have been written about these three parts of a short story,
but the great lesson to be learned is that the excellence of a story,
long or short, consists not in the separate excellence of the Setting or
of the Plot or of the Characters but in the perfect blending of the
three to produce a single effect or to impress a single truth. If the
Setting does not fit the Plot, if the Plot does not rise gracefully from
the Setting, if the Characters do not move naturally and
self-revealingly through both, the story is a failure. Emerson might
well have had our three parts of the short story in mind when he wrote,
All are needed by each one;
Nothing is fair or good alone.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
I. ESTHER, From the Old Testament
II. THE HISTORY OF ALI BABA AND THE FORTY ROBBERS, From "The
Arabian Nights"
III. RIP VAN WINKLE, By Washington Irving
IV. THE GOLD-BUG, By Edgar Allan Poe
V. A CHRISTMAS CAROL, By Charles Dickens
VI. THE GREAT STONE FACE, By Nathaniel Hawthorne
VII. RAB AND HIS FRIENDS, By Dr. John Brown
VIII. THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT, By Bret Harte
IX. MARKHEIM, By Robert Louis Stevenson
X. THE NECKLACE, By Guy de Maupassant
XI. THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING, By Rudyard Kipling
XII. THE GIFT OF THE MAGI, By O. Henry
SHORT STORIES
I. ESTHER[*]
[* From the Old Testament, Authorized Version.]
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
[_Setting_. The events take place in Susa, the capital of Persia, in the
reign of Ahasuerus, or Xerxes (485-465 B.C.). This foreign locale
intensifies the splendid Jewish patriotism that breathes through the
story from beginning to end. If the setting had been in Jerusalem,
Esther could not have preached the noble doctrine, "When in Rome, don't
do as Rome does, but be true to the old ideals of home and race."
_Plot_. "Esther" seems to me the best-told story in the Bible. Observe
how the note of empty Persian bigness versus simple Jewish faith is
struck at the very beginning and is echoed to the end. Thus, Ahasuerus
ruled over one hundred and twenty-seven provinces, the opening banquet
lasted one hundred and eighty-seven days, the king's bulletins were as
unalterable as the tides, the gallows erected was eighty-three feet
high, the beds were of gold and silver upon a pavement of red and blue
and white and black marble, the money wrested from the Jews was to be
eighteen million dollars, etc. The word "banquet" occurs twenty times in
this short story and only twenty times in all the remaining thirty-eight
books of the Old Testament. In other words, Ahasuerus and his
trencher-mates ate and drank as much in five days as had been eaten and
drunk by all the other Old Testament characters from "Genesis" to
"Malachi."
Note also the contrast between the two queens, the two prime ministers,
the two edicts, and the two later banquets. The most masterly part of
the plot is the handling of events between these banquets. Read again
from chapter v, beginning at verse 9, through chapter vi, and note how
skillfully the pen is held. In motivation as well as in symmetry and
naturalness the story is without a peer. There is humor, too, in the
solemn deliberations over Vashti's "No" (chapter i, verses 12-22) and in
the strange procession led by pedestrian Haman (chapter vi, verses
6-11).
The purpose of the story was to encourage the feast of Purim (chapter
ix, verses 20-32) and to promote national solidarity. It may be compared
to "A Christmas Carol," which was written to restore the waning
celebration of Christmas, and to our Declaration of Independence, which
is re-read on every Fourth of July to quicken our sense of national
fellowship. But "Esther" is more than an institution. It is the old
story of two conflicting civilizations, one representing bigness, the
other greatness; one standing for materialism, the other for idealism;
one enthroning the body, the other the spirit.
_Characters_. These are finely individualized, though each seems to me a
type. Ahasuerus is a tank that runs blood or wine according to the hand
that turns the spigot. He was used for good but deserves and receives no
credit for it. No man ever missed a greater opportunity. He was brought
face to face with the two greatest world-civilizations of history; but,
understanding neither, he remains only a muddy place in the road along
which Greek and Hebrew passed to world-conquest. Haman, a blend of
vanity and cruelty and cowardice but not without some power of
initiative, was a fit minister for his king. He lives in history as one
who, better than in Hamlet's illustration, was "hoist with his own
petard," the petard in his case being a gallows. He typifies also the
just fate of the man who, spurred by the hate of one, includes in his
scheme of extermination a whole people. Collective vengeance never
received a better illustration nor a more exemplary punishment. Mordecai
is altogether admirable in refusing to kowtow to Haman and in his
unselfish devotion to his fair cousin, Esther. The noblest sentiment in
the book--"Who knoweth whether thou art come to the kingdom for such a
time as this?"--comes from Mordecai.
But the leading character is Esther, not because she was "fair and
beautiful" but because she was hospitable to the great thought suggested
by Mordecai. None but a Jew could have asked, "Who knoweth whether thou
art come to the kingdom for such a time as this?" and none but a Jew
could have answered as Esther answered. The question implied a sense of
personal responsibility and of divine guidance far beyond the reach of
Persian or Mede or Greek of that time. It calls up many a quiet hour
when Esther and Mordecai talked together of their strange lot in this
heathen land and wondered if the time would ever come when they could
interpret their trials in terms of national service rather than of
meaningless fate. Imagine the blank and bovine expression that Ahasuerus
or Haman would have turned upon you if you had put such a question to
either of them. But in the case of Esther, Mordecai's appeal unlocked an
unused reservoir of power that has made her one of the world's heroines.
She had her faults, or rather her limitations, but since her time men
have gone to the stake, have built up and torn down principalities and
powers, on the dynamic conviction that they had been sent to the kingdom
"for such a time as this."]
CHAPTER I
THE STORY OF VASHTI
1. Now it came to pass in the days of Ahasuerus, (this is Ahasuerus
which reigned from India even unto Ethiopia, over a hundred and seven
and twenty provinces,)
2. That in those days, when the king Ahasuerus sat on the throne of his
kingdom, which was in Shushan the palace,
3. In the third year of his reign, he made a feast unto all his princes
and his servants; the power of Persia and Media, the nobles and princes
of the provinces, being before him:
4. When he shewed the riches of his glorious kingdom and the honour of
his excellent majesty many days, even a hundred and fourscore days.
5. And when these days were expired, the king made a feast unto all the
people that were present in Shushan the palace, both unto great and
small, seven days, in the court of the garden of the king's palace.
6. Where were white, green, and blue hangings, fastened with cords of
fine linen and purple to silver rings and pillars of marble: the beds
were of gold and silver, upon a pavement of red, and blue, and white,
and black marble.
7. And they gave them drink in vessels of gold, (the vessels being
diverse one from another,) and royal wine in abundance, according to the
state of the king.
8. And the drinking was according to the law; none did compel: for so
the king had appointed to all the officers of his house, that they
should do according to every man's pleasure.
9. Also Vashti the queen made a feast for the women in the royal house
which belonged to king Ahasuerus.
10. On the seventh day, when the heart of the king was merry with wine,
he commanded Mehuman, Biztha, Harbona, Bigtha, and Abagtha, Zethar, and
Carcas, the seven chamberlains that served in the presence of Ahasuerus
the king,
11. To bring Vashti the queen before the king with the crown royal, to
shew the people and the princes her beauty: for she was fair to look on.
12. But the queen Vashti refused to come at the king's commandment by
his chamberlains: therefore was the king very wroth, and his anger
burned in him.
13. Then the king said to the wise men, which knew the times, (for so
was the king's manner toward all that knew law and judgment:
14. And the next unto him was Carshena, Shethar, Admatha, Tarshish,
Meres, Marsena, and Memucan, the seven princes of Persia and Media,
which saw the king's face, and which sat the first in the kingdom,)
15. What shall we do unto the queen Vashti according to law, because she
hath not performed the commandment of the king Ahasuerus by the
chamberlains?
16. And Memucan answered before the king and the princes, Vashti the
queen hath not done wrong to the king only, but also to all the princes,
and to all the people that are in all the provinces of the king
Ahasuerus.
17. For this deed of the queen shall come abroad unto all women, so that
they shall despise their husbands in their eyes, when it shall be
reported, The king Ahasuerus commanded Vashti the queen to be brought in
before him, but she came not.
18. Likewise shall the ladies of Persia and Media say this day unto all
the king's princes, which have heard of the deed of the queen. Thus
shall there arise too much contempt and wrath.
19. If it please the king, let there go a royal commandment from him,
and let it be written among the laws of the Persians and the Medes, that
it be not altered, That Vashti come no more before king Ahasuerus; and
let the king give her royal estate unto another that is better than she.
20. And when the king's decree, which he shall make, shall be published
throughout all his empire, (for it is great,) all the wives shall give
to their husbands honour, both to great and small.
21. And the saying pleased the king and the princes; and the king did
according to the word of Memucan:
22. For he sent letters into all the king's provinces, into every
province according to the writing thereof, and to every people after
their language, that every man should bear rule in his own house, and
that it should be published according to the language of every people.
CHAPTER II
ESTHER MADE QUEEN
1. After these things, when the wrath of king Ahasuerus was appeased, he
remembered Vashti, and what she had done, and what was decreed against
her.
2. Then said the king's servants that ministered unto him, Let there be
fair young virgins sought for the king:
3. And let the king appoint officers in all the provinces of his
kingdom, that they may gather together all the fair young virgins unto
Shushan the palace, to the house of the women, unto the custody of Hegai
the king's chamberlain, keeper of the women; and let their things for
purification be given them:
4. And let the maiden which pleaseth the king be queen instead of
Vashti. And the thing pleased the king; and he did so.
5. Now in Shushan the palace there was a certain Jew, whose name was
Mordecai, the son of Jair, the son of Shimei, the son of Kish, a
Benjamite;
6. Who had been carried away from Jerusalem with the captivity which had
been carried away with Jeconiah king of Judah, whom Nebuchadnezzar the
king of Babylon had carried away.
7. And he brought up Hadassah, that is, Esther, his uncle's daughter:
for she had neither father nor mother, and the maid was fair and
beautiful; whom Mordecai, when her father and mother were dead, took for
his own daughter.
8. So it came to pass, when the king's commandment and his decree was
heard, and when many maidens were gathered together unto Shushan the
palace, to the custody of Hegai, that Esther was brought also unto the
king's house, to the custody of Hegai, keeper of the women.
9. And the maiden pleased him, and she obtained kindness of him; and he
speedily gave her her things for purification, with such things as
belonged to her, and seven maidens, which were meet to be given her, out
of the king's house: and he preferred her and her maids unto the best
place of the house of the women.
10. Esther had not shewed her people nor her kindred: for Mordecai had
charged her that she should not shew it.
11. And Mordecai walked every day before the court of the women's house,
to know how Esther did, and what should become of her.
12. Now when every maid's turn was come to go in to king Ahasuerus,
after that she had been twelve months, according to the manner of the
women, (for so were the days of their purifications accomplished, to
wit, six months with oil of myrrh, and six months with sweet odours, and
with other things for the purifying of the women,)
13. Then thus came every maiden unto the king; whatsoever she desired
was given her to go with her out of the house of the women unto the
king's house.
14. In the evening she went, and on the morrow she returned into the
second house of the women, to the custody of Shaashgaz, the king's
chamberlain, which kept the concubines: she came in unto the king no
more, except the king delighted in her, and that she were called by
name.
15. Now when the turn of Esther, the daughter of Abihail the uncle of
Mordecai, who had taken her for his daughter, was come to go in unto the
king, she required nothing but what Hegai the king's chamberlain, the
keeper of the women, appointed. And Esther obtained favour in the sight
of all them that looked upon | 1,445.037019 |
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Produced by Irma Spehar 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.)
WALT WHITMAN
_Yesterday & Today_
BY
HENRY EDUARD LEGLER
CHICAGO
BROTHERS OF THE BOOK
1916
COPYRIGHT 1916
BY THE
BROTHERS OF THE BOOK
The edition of this book consists of six hundred copies on this
Fabriano hand-made paper, and the type distributed.
This copy is Number 2
TO DR. MAX HENIUS
CONSISTENT HATER OF SHAMS
ARDENT LOVER OF ALL OUTDOORS
AND GENEROUS GIVER OF SELF
IN GENUINE FELLOWSHIP
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
_Walt Whitman: Yesterday & Today_
I
On a day about mid-year in 1855, the conventional literary world was
startled into indecorous behavior by the unannounced appearance of a
thin quarto sheaf of poems, in form and in tone unlike anything of
precedent issue. It was called Leaves of Grass, and there were but
twelve poems in the volume. No author's name appeared upon the title
page, the separate poems bore no captions, there was no imprint of
publisher. A steel engraving of a man presumably between thirty and
forty years of age, coatless, shirt flaringly open at the neck, and a
copyright notice identifying Walter Whitman with the publication,
furnished the only clues. Uncouth in size, atrociously printed, and
shockingly frank in the language employed, the volume evoked such a
tirade of rancorous condemnation as perhaps bears no parallel in the
history of letters. From contemporary criticisms might be compiled an
Anthology of Anathema comparable to Wagner's Schimpf-Lexicon, or the
Dictionary of Abuse suggested by William Archer for Henrik Ibsen. Some
of the striking adjectives and phrases employed in print would include
the following, as applied either to the verses or their author:
The slop-bucket of Walt Whitman.
A belief in the preciousness of filth.
Entirely bestial.
Nastiness and animal insensibility to shame.
Noxious weeds.
Impious and obscene.
Disgusting burlesque.
Broken out of Bedlam.
Libidinousness and swell of self-applause.
Defilement.
Crazy outbreak of conceit and vulgarity.
Ithyphallic audacity.
Gross indecency.
Sunken sensualist.
Rotten garbage of licentious thoughts.
Roots like a pig.
Rowdy Knight Errant.
A poet whose indecencies stink in the nostrils.
Its liberty is the wildest license; its love the essence of
the lowest lust!
Priapus--worshipping obscenity.
Rant and rubbish.
Linguistic silliness.
Inhumanly insolent.
Apotheosis of Sweat.
Mouthings of a mountebank.
Venomously malignant.
Pretentious twaddle.
Degraded helot of literature.
His work, like a maniac's robe, bedizened with fluttering
tags of a thousand colors.
Roaming, like a drunken satyr, with inflamed blood, through
every field of lascivious thought.
Muck of abomination.
A few quotations from the press of this period will serve to indicate
the general tenor of comment:
"The book might pass for merely hectoring and ludicrous, if it were
not something a great deal more offensive," observed the Christian
Examiner (Boston, 1856). "It openly deifies the bodily organs, senses,
and appetites in terms that admit of no double sense. The author is
'one of the roughs, a Kosmos, disorderly, fleshly, sensual, divine
inside and out. The scent of these armpits an aroma finer than
prayer.' He leaves 'washes and razors for foofoos,' thinks the talk
about virtue and vice only 'blurt,' he being above and indifferent to
both of them. These quotations are made with cautious delicacy. We
pick our way as cleanly as we can between other passages which are
more detestable."
In columns of bantering comment, after parodying his style of
all-inclusiveness, the United States Review (1855) characterizes Walt
Whitman thus: "No skulker or tea-drinking poet is Walt Whitman. He
will bring poems to fill the days and nights--fit for men and women
with the attributes of throbbing blood and flesh. The body, he
teaches, is beautiful. Sex is also beautiful. Are you to be put down,
he seems to ask, to that shallow level of literature and conversation
that stops a man's recognizing the delicious pleasure of his sex, or a
woman hers? Nature he proclaims inherently clean. Sex will not be put
aside; it is the great ordination of the universe. He works the muscle
of the male and the teeming fibre of the female throughout his
writings, as wholesome realities, impure only by deliberate intention
and effort. To men and women, he says, you can have healthy and
powerful breeds of children on no less terms than these of mine.
Follow me, and there shall be taller and richer crops of humanity on
the earth."
From Studies among the Leaves, printed in the Crayon (New York, 1856),
this extract may be taken: "With a wonderful vigor of thought and
intensity of perception, a power, indeed, not often found, Leaves of
Grass has no identity, no concentration, no purpose--it is barbarous,
undisciplined, like the poetry of a half-civilized people, and as a
whole useless, save to those miners of thought who prefer the metal in
its unworked state."
The New York Daily Times (1856) asks: "What Centaur have we here, half
man, half beast, neighing defiance to all the world? What conglomerate
of thought is this before us, with insolence, philosophy, tenderness,
blasphemy, beauty, and gross indecency tumbling in drunken confusion
through the pages? Who is this arrogant young man who proclaims
himself the Poet of the time, and who roots like a pig among a rotten
garbage of licentious thoughts?"
"Other poets," notes a writer in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1856),
"other poets celebrate great events, personages, romances, wars,
loves, passions, the victories and power of their country, or some
real or imagined incident--and polish their work, and come to
conclusions, and satisfy the reader. This poet celebrates natural
propensities in himself; and that is the way he celebrates all. He
comes to no conclusions, and does not satisfy the reader. He certainly
leaves him what the serpent left the woman and the man, the taste of
the Paradise tree of the knowledge of good and evil, never to be
erased again."
"He stalks among the dapper gentlemen of this generation like a
drunken Hercules amid the dainty dancers," suggested the Christian
Spiritualist (1856). "The book abounds in passages that cannot be
quoted in drawing rooms, and expressions that fall upon ears polite
with a terrible dissonance."
Nor was savage criticism in the years 1855 and 1856 limited to this
side of the Atlantic. The London Critic, in a caustic review, found
this the mildest comment that Whitman's verse warranted: "Walt
Whitman gives us slang in the place of melody, and rowdyism in the
place of regularity. * * * Walt Whitman libels the highest type of
humanity, and calls his free speech the true utterance of a man; we
who may have been misdirected by civilization, call it the expression
of a beast."
Noisy as was this babel of discordant voices, one friendly greeting
rang clear. Leaves of Grass had but just come from the press, when
Ralph Waldo Emerson, from his home in Concord, under date of July 21,
1855, wrote to the author in genuine fellowship:
"I give you joy of your free and brave thought. I have great joy in
it. I find incomparable things said incomparably well, as they must
be. I find the courage of treatment which so delights us, and which
large perception only can inspire.
"I greet you at the beginning of a great career, which yet must have
had a long foreground somewhere, for such a start. I rubbed my eyes a
little to see if this sunbeam were no illusion; but the solid sense of
the book is a sober certainty. It has the best merits, namely, of
fortifying and encouraging."
Tracing the popular estimates of Walt Whitman through the next five
years, expressions of unmeasured disapproval similar to those quoted
may be found in periodicals and in the daily press, with here and
there grudging admission that despite unseemly tendencies, there is
evident originality and even genius in the pages of this unusual book.
In a comparatively temperate review, August 4, 1860, the Cosmopolite,
of Boston, while deploring that nature is treated here without
fig-leaves, declares the style wonderfully idiomatic and graphic,
adding: "In his frenzy, in the fire of his inspiration, are fused and
poured out together elements hitherto considered antagonistic in
poetry--passion, arrogance, animality, philosophy, brag, humility,
rowdyism, spirituality, laughter, tears, together with the most ardent
and tender love, the most comprehensive human sympathy which ever
radiated its divine glow through the pages of poems."
A contemporary of this date, the Boston Post, found nothing to
commend. "Grass," said the writer, making the title of the book his
text, "grass is the gift of God for the healthy sustenance of his
creatures, and its name ought not to be desecrated by being so
improperly bestowed upon these foul and rank leaves of the
poison-plants of egotism, irreverance, and of lust, run rampant and
holding high revel in its shame."
And the London Lancet, July 7, 1860, comments in this wise: "Of all
the writers we have ever perused, Walt Whitman is the most silly, the
most blasphemous, and the most disgusting. If we can think of any
stronger epithets, we will print them in a second edition."
II
What were these poems which excited such vitriolic epithets? Taking
both the editions of 1855 and of the year following, and indeed
including all of the four hundred poems bearing Whitman's authorship
in the three-quarters of a half-century during which his final volume
was in the making, scarcely half a dozen poems can be found which
could give offense to the most prudish persons. Nearly all of these
have been grouped, with some others, under the general sub-title
Children of Adam. There are poems which excite the risibles of some
readers, there are poems which read like the lists of a mail-order
house, and others which appear in spots to have been copied bodily
from a gazetteer. These, however, are more likely to provoke
good-natured banter than violent denunciatory passion. Even Ralph
Waldo Emerson, whose generous greeting and meed of praise in the
birth-year of Leaves of Grass will be recalled, in sending a copy of
it to Carlyle in 1860, and commending it to his interest, added: "And
after you have looked into it, if you think, as you may, that it is
only an auctioneer's inventory of a warehouse, you can light your pipe
with it."
Had Whitman omitted the few poems whose titles are given here,
doubtless a few readers would have found his formless verses either
curious or ludicrous, or merely stupid, and others would have passed
them by as unmeriting even casual attention. The poems which are
chiefly responsible for a controversy which raged for half a century,
are these:
I sing the body electric.
A woman waits for me.
To a common prostitute.
The dalliance of the eagles.
Wholly dissociated from the picturesque personality from which the
book emanated, Leaves of Grass bears a unique story margined on its
pages. The sprawling types whose muddy imprint on the ill-proportioned
pages made up the uncouth first edition of the book, were put together
by the author's hands, and the sorry press work was his handiwork as
well. The unusual preface and the twelve poems that followed he wrote
in the open, while lounging on the wharves, while crossing on
ferry-boats, while loitering in the fields, while sitting on the tops
of omnibuses. His physical materials were the stubs of pencils, the
backs of used envelopes, scraps of paper that easily came to hand. The
same open-air workshops and like crude tools of writing he utilized
for nearly forty years. During the thirty-seven years that intervened
between the first printing of his Leaves and his death in 1892, he
followed as his chief purpose in life the task he had set himself at
the beginning of his serious authorship--the cumulative expression of
personality in the larger sense which is manifest in the successive
and expanding editions of his Leaves of Grass. That book becomes
therefore, a life history. Incompletely as he may have | 1,445.044516 |
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Produced by Al Haines
A MARRIAGE AT SEA
BY
W. CLARK RUSSELL
METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.
LONDON
_First Issued in this Cheap Form in 1919_
This Book was First Published (Two Vols.) ... February 1891
Second Edition (One Vol.) ........... February 1892
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE RUE DE MAQUETRA
II. THE ELOPEMENT
III. AT SEA
IV. SWEETHEARTS IN A DANDY
V. DIRTY WEATHER
VI. SWEETHEARTS IN A STORM
VII. THE CARTHUSIAN
VIII. OUTWARD BOUND
IX. WE ARE MUCH OBSERVED
X. A SINGULAR PROPOSAL
XI. GRACE CONSENTS
XII. A MARRIAGE AT SEA
XIII. THE MERMAID
XIV. HOMEWARD BOUND
XV. THE END
POSTSCRIPT
A MARRIAGE AT SEA
CHAPTER I
THE RUE DE MAQUETRA
My dandy-rigged yacht, the _Spitfire_, of twenty-six tons, lay in
Boulogne harbour, hidden in the deep shadow of the wall against which
she floated. It was a breathless night, dark despite the wide spread
of cloudless sky that was brilliant with stars. It was hard upon the
hour of midnight, and low down where we lay we heard but dimly such
sounds of life as was still abroad in the Boulogne streets. Ahead of
us loomed the shadow of a double-funnelled steamer--an inky dye of
scarcely determinable proportions upon the black and silent waters of
the harbour. The Capecure pier made a faint, phantom-like line of
gloom as it ran seawards on our left, with here and there a lump of
shadow denoting some collier fast to the skeleton timbers.
The stillness was impressive; from the sands came a dull and distant
moan of surf; the dim strains of a concertina threaded the hush which
seemed to dwell like something material upon the black, vague shape of
a large brig almost directly abreast of us. We were waiting for the
hour of midnight to strike and our ears were strained.
"What noise is that?" I exclaimed.
"The dip of sweeps, sir," answered my captain, Aaron Caudel; "some
smack a-coming along--ay, there she is," and he shadowily pointed to a
dark, square heap betwixt the piers, softly approaching to the impulse
of her long oars, the rhythmic grind of which in the thole-pins made a
strange, wild ocean music of the far-off roar of the surf, and the sob
of water alongside, and the delicate wash of the tide in the green
piles and timbers of the two long, narrow, quaint old piers.
"How is your pluck now, Caudel?" said I in a low voice, sending a
glance up at the dark edge of the harbour-wall above us, where stood
the motionless figure of a _douanier_, with a button or two of his
uniform faintly glimmering to the gleam of a lamp near him.
"Right for the job, sir--right as your honour could desire it. There's
but one consideration which ain't like a feeling of sartinty--and that
I must say consarns the dawg."
"Smother the dog! But you are right, Caudel. We must leave our boots
in the ditch."
"Ain't there plenty of grass, sir?" said he.
"I hope so; but a fathom of gravel will so crunch under those hoofs of
yours that the very dead buried beneath might turn in their
coffins--let alone a live dog wide awake from the end of his beastly
cold snout to the tip of his | 1,445.061931 |
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STILL JIM
* * * * *
[Illustration: "AND THE FLAG FLUTTERED LIGHTLY BEHIND THEM AND THE
DESERT WHISPERED ABOVE THEIR HEADS."--_Page 369_]
* * * * *
STILL JIM
By HONORE WILLSIE
AUTHOR OF
"The Heart of the Desert," Etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS. NEW YORK
PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
Copyright, 1915, by
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
Copyright, 1914, 1915, by
THE RIDGWAY COMPANY
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages
Printed in the United States of America
* * * * *
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. QUARRY 1
II. THE OLD SWIMMING HOLE 14
III. THE BROWNSTONE FRONT 27
| 1,445.100558 |
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Produced by Marius Masi, Don Kretz and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's notes:
(1) Numbers following letters (without space) like C2 were originally
printed in subscript. Letter subscripts are preceded by an
underscore, like C_n.
(2) Characters following a carat (^) were printed in superscript.
(3) Side-notes were relocated to function as titles of their respective
paragraphs.
(4) Macrons and breves above letters and dots below letters were not
inserted.
(5) [root] stands for the root symbol; [alpha], [beta], etc. for greek
letters.
(6) The following typographical errors have been corrected:
ARTICLE GABEL, KRISTOFFER: "See Carl Frederik Bricka, Dansk.
Biograf. Lex. art "Gabel" (Copenhagen, 1887, &c.); Danmarks Riges
Historie (Copenhagen, 1897-1905), vol. v." '1905' amended from
'1005'.
ARTICLE GALLS: "The same authority (loc. cit. p. 550) mentions a
willow-gall which provides no less than sixteen insects with food
and protection; these are preyed upon by about eight others, so
that altogether some twenty-four insects,..." 'altogether' amended
from 'alltogether'.
ARTICLE GANNET: "... and orderly takes its place in the rear of the
string, to repeat its headlong plunge so soon as it again finds
itself above its prey." 'its' amended from 'is'.
ARTICLE GARDNER, PERCY: "... an account of excavations in Greece
and Asia Minor; Manual of Greek Antiquities (with F.B. Jevons, 2nd
ed. 1898);..." 'Asia' amended from 'Aisa'.
ARTICLE GARNET, HENRY: "... by the Jesuit L'Heureux, under the
pseudonym Eudaemon-Joannes, and Dr Robert Abbot's reply, Antilogia
versus Apologiam Eudaemon-Joannes,..." 'Eudaemon' amended from
'Endaemon'.
ARTICLE GARTH, SIR SAMUEL: "He wrote little besides his best-known
work The Dispensary and Claremont, a moral epistle in verse."
'epistle' amended from 'espistle'.
ARTICLE GAS ENGINE: "The Westinghouse Co. of Pittsburgh have also
built large engines, several of which are in operation at the
various works of the Carnegie Steel Co." 'Pittsburgh' amended from
'Pittsburg'.
ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNICA
A DICTIONARY OF ARTS, SCIENCES, LITERATURE
AND GENERAL INFORMATION
ELEVENTH EDITION
VOLUME XI, SLICE IV
G to Gaskell, Elizabeth
ARTICLES IN THIS SLICE:
G GALLUPPI, PASQUALE
GABBRO GALLUS, CORNELIUS
GABEL, KRISTOFFER GALLUS, GAIUS AELIUS
GABELENTZ, HANS CONON VON DER GALLUS, GAIUS CESTIUS
GABELLE GALLUS, GAIUS SULPICIUS
GABERDINE GALOIS, EVARISTE
GABES GALSTON
GABII GALT, SIR ALEXANDER TILLOCH
GABINIUS, AULUS GALT, JOHN
GABION GALT
GABLE GALTON, SIR FRANCIS
GABLER, GEORG ANDREAS GALUPPI, BALDASSARE
GABLER, JOHANN PHILIPP GALVANI, LUIGI
GABLETS GALVANIZED IRON
GABLONZ GALVANOMETER
GABORIAU, EMILE GALVESTON
GABRIEL GALWAY (county of Ireland)
GABRIEL HOUNDS GALWAY (town of Ireland)
GABRIELI, GIOVANNI GAMA, VASCO DA
GABUN GAMALIEL
GACE BRULE GAMBETTA, LEON
GACHARD, LOUIS PROSPER GAMBIA (river of West Africa)
GAD GAMBIA (country of West Africa)
GADAG GAMBIER, JAMES GAMBIER,
GADARA GAMBIER
GADDI GAMBOGE
GADE, NIELS WILHELM GAMBRINUS
GADOLINIUM GAME
GADSDEN, CHRISTOPHER GAME LAWS
GADSDEN, JAMES GAMES, CLASSICAL
GADWALL GAMING AND WAGERING
GAEKWAR GAMUT
GAETA GANDAK
GAETANI GANDAMAK
GAETULIA GANDERSHEIM
GAGE, LYMAN JUDSON GANDHARVA
GAGE, THOMAS GANDIA
GAGE GANDO
GAGERN, HANS CHRISTOPH ERNST GANESA
GAHANBAR GANGES
GAIGNIERES, FRANCOIS ROGER DE GANGOTRI
GAIL, JEAN BAPTISTE GANGPUR
GAILLAC GANGRENE
GAILLARD, GABRIEL HENRI GANILH, CHARLES
GAINESVILLE (Florida, U.S.A.) GANJAM
GAINESVILLE (Texas, U.S.A.) GANNAL, JEAN NICOLAS
GAINSBOROUGH, THOMAS GANNET
GAINSBOROUGH GANODONTA
GAIRDNER, JAMES GANS, EDUARD
GAIRLOCH GANSBACHER, JOHANN BAPTIST
GAISERIC GANTE
GAISFORD, THOMAS GANYMEDE
GAIUS GAO
GAIUS CAESAR GAOL
GALAGO GAON
GALANGAL GAP
GALAPAGOS ISLANDS GAPAN
GALASHIELS GARARISH
GALATIA GARASHANIN, ILIYA
GALATIANS, EPISTLE TO THE GARAT, DOMINIQUE JOSEPH
GALATINA GARAT, PIERRE-JEAN
GALATZ GARAY, JANOS
GALAXY GARBLE
GALBA, SULPICIUS (Roman general) GARCAO, PEDRO ANTONIO JOAQUIM CORREA
GALBA, SULPICIUS (Roman emperor) GARCIA (DEL POPOLO VICENTO), MANOEL
GALBANUM GARCIA DE LA HUERTA, VICENTE ANTONIO
GALCHAS GARCIA DE PAREDES, DIEGO
GALE, THEOPHILUS GARCIA GUTIERREZ, ANTONIO
GALE, THOMAS GARD
GALE GARDA, LAKE OF
GALEN, CHRISTOPH BERNHARD GARDANE, CLAUDE MATTHIEU
GALEN, CLAUDIUS GARDELEGEN
GALENA (Illinois, U.S.A.) GARDEN
GALENA (Kansas, U.S.A.) GARDENIA
GALENA (ore of lead) GARDINER, JAMES
GALEOPITHECUS GARDINER, SAMUEL RAWSON
GALERIUS GARDINER, STEPHEN
GALESBURG GARDINER
GALGACUS GARDNER, PERCY
GALIANI, FERDINANDO GARDNER
GALICIA (crownland of Austria) GARE-FOWL
GALICIA (province of Spain) GARFIELD, JAMES ABRAM
GALIGNANI, GIOVANNI ANTONIO GAR-FISH
GALILEE (province of Palestine) GARGANEY
GALILEE (architectural term) GARGANO, MONTE
GALILEE, SEA OF GARGOYLE
GALILEO GALILEI GARHWAL
GALION GARIBALDI, GIUSEPPE
GALL, FRANZ JOSEPH GARIN LE LOHERAIN
GALL GARLAND, JOHN
GALLABAT GARLIC
GALLAIT, LOUIS GARNET, HENRY
GALLAND, ANTOINE GARNET
GALLARATE GARNETT, RICHARD
GALLARS, NICOLAS DES GARNIER, CLEMENT JOSEPH
GALLAS, MATTHIAS GARNIER, GERMAIN
GALLAS GARNIER, JEAN LOUIS CHARLES
GALLATIN, ALBERT GARNIER, MARIE JOSEPH FRANCOIS
GALLAUDET, THOMAS HOPKINS GARNIER, ROBERT
GALLE GARNIER-PAGES, ETIENNE JOSEPH LOUIS
GALLENGA, ANTONIO CARLO NAPOLEONE GARNISH
GALLERY GARO HILLS
GALLEY GARONNE
GALLIA CISALPINA GARRET
GALLIC ACID GARRETT, JOAO BAPTISTA DE ALMEIDA
GALLICANISM GARRETTING
GALLIENI, JOSEPH SIMON GARRICK, DAVID
GALLIENUS, PUBLIUS EGNATIUS GARRISON, WILLIAM LLOYD
GALLIFFET, GASTON AUGUSTE GARRISON
GALLIO, JUNIUS ANNAEUS GARROTE
GALLIPOLI (Italy) GARRUCHA
GALLIPOLI (Turkey) GARSTON
GALLIPOLIS GARTH, SIR SAMUEL
GALLITZIN, DEMETRIUS AUGUSTINE GARTOK
GALLIUM GARY
GALLON GAS
GALLOWAY, JOSEPH GASCOIGNE, GEORGE
GALLOWAY, THOMAS GASCOIGNE, SIR WILLIAM
GALLOWAY GASCONY
GALLOWS GAS ENGINE
GALLS GASKELL, ELIZABETH CLEGHORN
G The form of this letter which is familiar to us is an invention of
the Romans, who had previously converted the third symbol of the
alphabet into a representative of a _k_-sound (see C). Throughout the
whole of Roman history C remained as the symbol for G in the
abbreviations C and Cn. for the proper names Gaius and Gnaeus. According
to Plutarch (_Roman Questions_, 54, 59) the symbol for G was invented by
Spurius Carvilius Ruga about 293 B.C. This probably means that he was
the first person to spell his cognomen RVGA instead of RVCA. G came to
occupy the seventh place in the Roman alphabet which had earlier been
taken by Z, because between 450 B.C. and 350 B.C. the z-sounds of Latin
passed into r, names like _Papisius_ and _Fusius_ in that period
becoming Papirius and Furius (see Z), so that the letter z had become
superfluous. According to the late writer Martianus Capella z was
removed from the alphabet by the censor Appius Claudius Caecus in 312
B.C. To Claudius the insertion of G into the alphabet is also sometimes
ascribed.
In the earliest form the difference from C is very slight, the lower lip
of the crescent merely rising up in a straight line [symbol], but
[symbol] and [symbol] are found also in republican times. In the
earliest Roman inscription which was found in the Forum in 1899 the form
is [symbol] written from right to left, but the hollow at the bottom lip
of the crescent is an accidental pit in the stone and not a diacritical
mark. The unvoiced sound in this inscription is represented by K. The
use of the new form was not firmly established till after the middle of
the 3rd century B.C.
In the Latin alphabet the sound was always the voiced stop (as in _gig_)
in classical times. Later, before _e_, _g_ passed into a sound like the
English _y_, so that words begin indifferently with _g_ or _j_; hence
from the Lat. _generum_ (accusative) and _Ianuarium_ we have in Ital.
_genero_ and _Gennajo_, Fr. _gendre_ and _janvier_. In the ancient
Umbrian dialect _g_ had made this change between vowels before the
Christian era, the inhabitant of _Iguvium_ (the modern Gubbio) being in
the later form of his native speech _Iuvins_, Lat. _Iguvinus_. In most
cases in Mid. Eng. also _g_ passed into a _y_ sound; hence the old
prefix _ge_ of the past participle appears only as _y_ in _yclept_ and
the like. But _ng_ and _gg_ took a different course, the _g_ becoming an
affricate d_z_ (_dzh_), as in _singe_, _ridge_, _sedge_, which in
English before 1500 were _senge_, _rigge_, _segge_, and in Scotch are
still pronounced _sing_, _rig_, _seg_. The affricate in words like
_gaol_ is of French origin (_geole_), from a Late Lat. _gabiola_, out of
_caveola_, a diminutive of the Lat. _cavea_.
The composite origin of English makes it impossible to lay down rules
for the pronunciation of English _g_; thus there are in the language
five words _Gill_, three of which have the _g_ hard, while two have it
soft: viz. (1) _gill_ of a fish, (2) _gill_, a ravine, both of which are
Norse, and (3) _Gill_, the surname, which is mostly Gaelic = White; and
(4) _gill_ a liquid measure, from O. Fr. _gelle_, Late Lat. _gella_ in
the same sense, and (5) _Gill_, a girl's name, shortened from _Gillian_,
_Juliana_ (see Skeat's _Etymological Dictionary_). No one of these words
is of native origin; otherwise the initial _g_ would have changed to
_y_, as in Eng. _yell_ from the O. Eng. _gellan_, _giellan_.
(P. Gi.)
GABBRO, in petrology, a group of plutonic basic rocks, holocrystalline
and usually rather coarse-grained, consisting essentially of a basic
plagioclase felspar and one or more ferromagnesian minerals (such as
augite, hornblende, hypersthene and olivine). The name was given
originally in north Italy to certain coarsely crystalline dark green
rocks, some of which are true gabbros, while others are serpentines. The
gabbros are the plutonic or deep-seated representatives of the
dolerites, basalts and diabases (also of some varieties of andesite)
with which they agree closely in mineral composition, but not in minute
structure. Of their minerals felspar Is usually the | 1,445.101996 |
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Transcriber’s note: The Table of Contents was added by the Transcriber
and placed into the Public Domain.
Contents
Fiction
Makers of Modern American Fiction
Booth Tarkington
Robert W. Chambers
Richard Harding Davis
Jack London
Rex Beach
Stewart Edward White
Makers of Modern American Fiction
Norris’ Realism and McCutcheon’s Romanticism
John Fox and Harold McGrath
A Group of Popular Story-Tellers
Dreiser and Dixon
Harrison and Bacheller
Fiction Notes in Varied Keys
Fiction of Adventure
Each Holds a Place of His Own
Supplementary Reading
The Open Letter
The Couriers of the Postal Service
The Mentor in the Desert
Transcriber’s Notes
[Illustration:
LEARN ONE THING
EVERY DAY
SEPTEMBER 1 1918 SERIAL NO. 162
THE
MENTOR
MAKERS OF MODERN
AMERICAN FICTION
(MEN)
By
ARTHUR B. MAURICE
DEPARTMENT OF
LITERATURE
VOLUME 6
NUMBER 14
TWENTY CENTS A COPY
]
FICTION
There is a popular notion that anyone can write a story. A good novel
is easy reading, and it seems, on that account, to be easy writing.
Many a reader, in the comfortable enjoyment of good fiction, misses the
genius of it altogether. He is like the skeptical young man who could
see nothing difficult in the art of sculpture. “All you need to do,”
he said, “is to get a block of marble, then take a hammer and chisel,
and knock off the parts you don’t want.” So stated, sculpture does seem
very simple. But, after all, there is some importance in knowing what
parts of the marble to knock off.
* * * * *
Many of us feel, at times, an inward stir that prompts us to express
ourselves in the written word. We are quite sure that we could write
a novel or a play. That we don’t do so is simply because we are so
busy--or something else. “I could write plays as well as Shakespeare
if I’d a mind to,” said someone years ago to Charles Lamb. “Yes,”
answered the gentle humorist, “anyone could write plays as well as
Shakespeare--if he had the mind to.”
* * * * *
Some take their pen in hand to prove to themselves how easy it all is.
When they have tried out several of the productions that they have
dashed off so readily, they sometimes discover that what was easy
writing for them was hard reading for others, and the wise ones then
come to realize that the good fiction that makes such easy reading is
often the finished and refined product of double and re-doubled labor.
* * * * *
For those that are determined to win their way in fiction, the means
for study and observation are ample. There are many books on the art
of writing to inform and guide the aspiring author, and there is a
wealth of fiction literature ever at hand to supply him with examples
of good story writing. In a helpful, informing book on the technique
of fiction, Professor Charles F. Horne makes clear the essential
elements of the novel--which he finds to be six in number: (1) Plot,
(2) Motive or Verisimilitude, truth to life, (3) Character Portrayal,
(4) Emotional Quality--Sentiment, Passion, (5) Background, (6) Style.
“A novel,” Professor Horne writes, “cannot consist simply of a fixed
picture, a description of a man in repose. It must show him acting
and acted upon. In other words, it deals with man in his relation
to his environment. Hence it must have two essentials: the man and
his movements; that is, the characters and the story. The causes and
effects of these two essentials give us two more. The man can only move
as he is swayed internally by his emotions; and the movement can only
be seen externally in its effect on his surroundings, his background.
These four form the positive elements or content of the novel, and they
must be presented under the limitations set by man’s experience of life
or verisimilitude, and by his modes of conveying ideas, his style of
speech.”
W. D. M.
* * * * *
THE MENTOR ASSOCIATION
ESTABLISHED FOR THE DEVELOPMENT OF A POPULAR INTEREST IN ART,
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, HISTORY, NATURE, AND TRAVEL
THE MENTOR IS PUBLISHED TWICE A MONTH
BY THE MENTOR ASSOCIATION. INC., AT 114-116 EAST 16TH STREET, NEW YORK,
N Y. SUBSCRIPTION, FOUR DOLLARS A YEAR. FOREIGN POSTAGE 76 CENTS EXTRA.
CANADIAN POSTAGE 50 CENTS EXTRA. SINGLE COPIES TWENTY CENTS. PRESIDENT,
THOMAS H. BECK; VICE-PRESIDENT, WALTER P. TEN EYCK; SECRETARY, W. D.
MOFFAT; TREASURER, J. S. CAMPBELL; ASSISTANT TREASURER AND ASSISTANT
SECRETARY, H. A. CROWE.
SEPTEMBER 1, 1918 VOLUME 6 NUMBER 14
Entered as second-class matter, March 10, 1913, at the postoffice
at New York, N. Y., under the act of March 3, 1879. Copyright,
1918, by The Mentor Association, Inc.
_MAKERS OF MODERN AMERICAN FICTION_
[Illustration: BOOTH TARKINGTON]
_Booth Tarkington_
ONE
Towards the close of the last century Booth Tarkington wrote “The
Gentleman from Indiana.” It is _as_ the Gentleman from Indiana that Mr.
Tarkington has been widely known ever since. There was a time, some
fifteen or twenty years ago, when every native Hoosier was supposed to
have the manuscript of a “Best-Selling” novel concealed somewhere about
his person. Some of the authors died, and some of them went into other
occupations, and the state has managed to live the belief down. But Mr.
Tarkington remains the most conspicuous living figure linking Indiana
with letters.
Born in Indianapolis on July 29, 1869, he studied at Phillips-Exeter,
and later at Princeton. In both places he was recognized as one likely
to go far. Princeton he entered as a junior, but “made” the editorial
boards of both college publications, the _Tiger_ and the _Lit_--his
sketches for the former being rather better than his literary
contributions to the latter. He wrote the play for the Triangle
Club, and, at graduation, was voted the most popular and promising
man in the Class of 1893. There followed, | 1,445.103831 |
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(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
MOTH AND RUST
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
RED POTTAGE.
DIANA TEMPEST.
SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
A DEVOTEE.
THE DANVERS' JEWELS.
MOTH AND RUST
TOGETHER WITH GEOFFREY'S
WIFE AND THE PITFALL
BY MARY CHOLMONDELEY,
AUTHOR OF "RED POTTAGE."
"Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array."
--CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET
1902
TO
ESSEX.
Not chance of birth or place has made us friends.
PREFACE
My best thanks are due to the Editor of
_The Graphic_ for his kind permission to
republish "Geoffrey's Wife," which appeared
originally in _The Graphic_.
MARY CHOLMONDELEY.
CONTENTS
PAGE
MOTH AND RUST 1
GEOFFREY'S WIFE 241
THE PITFALL 267
* * * * *
MOTH AND RUST
CHAPTER I
"Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and
rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal."
The Vicar gave out the text, and proceeded to expound it. The little
congregation settled down peacefully to listen. Except four of their
number, the "quality" in the carved Easthope pew, none of them had much
treasure on earth. Their treasure for the greater part consisted of a
pig, that was certainly being "laid up" to meet the rent at Christmas.
But there would hardly be time for moth and rust to get into it before
its secluded life should migrate into flitches and pork pies. Not that
the poorest of Mr Long's parishioners had any fear of such an event, for
they never associated his sermons with anything to do with themselves,
except on one occasion when the good man had preached earnestly against
drunkenness, and a respectable widow had ceased to attend divine service
in consequence, because, as she observed, she was not going to be spoken
against like that by any one, be they who they may, after all the years
she had been "on the teetotal."
Perhaps the two farmers who had driven over resplendent wives in
dog-carts had treasure on earth. They certainly had money in the bank at
Mudbury, for they were to be seen striding in in gaiters on market-day
to draw it out. But then it was well known that thieves did not break
through into banks and steal. Banks sometimes broke of themselves, but
not often.
On the whole, the congregation was at its ease. It felt that the text
was well chosen, and that it applied exclusively to the four occupants
of "the Squire's" pew.
The hard-worked Vicar certainly had no treasure on earth, if you
excepted his principal possessions, namely, his pale wife and little
flock of rosy children, and these, of course, were only encumbrances.
Had they not proved to be so? For his cousin had promised him the family
living, and would certainly have kept that promise when it became
vacant, if the wife he had married in the interval had not held such
strong views as to a celibate clergy.
The Vicar was a conscientious man, and the conscientious are seldom
concise.
"He held with all his tedious might,
The mirror to the mind of God."
There was no doubt he was tedious, and it was to be hoped that the
portion of the Divine mind not reflected in the clerical mirror would
compensate somewhat for His more gloomy attributes as shown therein.
Mrs Trefusis, "Squire's" mother, an old woman with a thin, knotted face
like worn-out elastic, sat erect throughout the service. She had the
tight-lipped, bitter look of one who has coldly appropriated as her due
all the good things of life, who has fiercely rebelled against every
untoward event, and who now in old age offers a passive, impotent
resistance to anything that suggests a change. She had had an easy,
comfortable existence, but her life had gone hard with her, and her face
showed it.
Near her were the two guests who were staying at Easthope. The villagers
looked at the two girls with deep interest. They had made up their minds
that "the old lady had got 'em in to see if Squire could fancy one of
'em."
Lady Anne Varney, who sat next to Mrs Trefusis, was a graceful,
small-headed woman of seven-and-twenty, delicately featured, pale,
exquisitely dressed, with the indefinable air of a finished woman of the
world, and with the reserved, disciplined manner of a woman accustomed
to conceal her feelings from a world in which she has lived too much, in
which she has been knocked about too much, and which has not gone too
well with her. If Anne attended to the sermon--and she appeared to do
so--she was the only person in the Easthope pew who did.
No; the other girl, Janet Black, was listening too now and then,
catching disjointed sentences with no sense in them, as one hears a few
shouted words in a high wind.
Ah me! Janet was beautiful. Even Mrs Trefusis was obliged to own it,
though she did so grudgingly, and added bitterly that the girl had no
breeding. It was true. Janet had none. But beauty rested upon her as it
rests on a dove's neck, varying with every movement, every turn of the
head. She was quite motionless now, her rather large, ill-gloved hands
in her lap. Janet was a still woman. She had no nervous movements. She
did not twine her muff-chain round her fingers as Anne did. Anne looked
at her now and then, and wondered whether she--Anne--would have been
more successful in life if she had entered the arena armed with such
beauty as Janet's.
There was a portrait of Janet in the Academy several years later, which
has made her beauty known to the world. We have all seen that celebrated
picture of the calm Madonna face, with the mark of suffering so plainly
stamped upon the white brow and in the unfathomable eyes. But the young
girl sitting in the Easthope pew hardly resembled, except in feature,
the portrait that, later on, took the artistic world by storm. Janet was
perhaps even more beautiful in this her first youth than her picture
proved her afterwards to be; but the beauty was expressionless, opaque.
The soul had not yet illumined the fair face. She looked what she was--a
little dull, without a grain of imagination. Was it the dulness of want
of ability, or only the dulness of an uneducated mind, of powers unused,
still dormant?
Without her transcendent beauty she would have appeared uninteresting
and commonplace.
"Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth."
The Vicar had a habit of repeating his text several times in the course
of his sermon. Janet heard it the third time, and it forced the entrance
of her mind.
Her treasure was certainly on earth. It consisted of the heavy,
sleek-haired young man with the sunburnt complexion and the reddish
moustache at the end of the pew--in short, "the Squire."
After a short and ardent courtship she had accepted him, and then she
herself had been accepted, not without groans, by his family. The groans
had not been audible, but she was vaguely aware that she was not
received with enthusiasm by the family of her hero, her wonderful fairy
prince who had ridden into her life on a golden chestnut. George
Trefusis was heavily built, but in Janet's eyes he was slender. His
taciturn dulness was in her eyes a most dignified and becoming reserve.
His inveterate unsociability proved to her--not that it needed
proving--his mental superiority. She could not be surprised at the
coldness of her reception as his betrothed, for she acutely felt her own
great unworthiness of being the consort of this resplendent personage,
who could have married any one. Why had he honoured her among all
women?
The answer was sufficiently obvious to every one except herself. The
fairy prince had fallen heavily in love with her beauty; so heavily
that, after a secret but stubborn resistance, he had been vanquished by
it. Marry her he must and would, whatever his mother might say. And she
had said a good deal. She had not kept silence.
And now Janet was staying for the first time at Easthope, which was one
day to be her home--the old Tudor house standing among its terraced
gardens, which had belonged to a Trefusis since a Trefusis built it in
Henry the Seventh's time.
CHAPTER II
"On peut choisir ses amities, mais on subit l'amour."
--PRINCESS KARADJA.
After luncheon George offered to take Janet round the gardens. Janet
looked timidly at Mrs Trefusis. She did not know whether she ought to
accept or not. There might be etiquettes connected with afternoon walks
of which she was not aware. For even since her arrival at Easthope
yesterday it had been borne in upon her that there were many things of
which she was not aware.
"Pray let my son show you the gardens," said Mrs Trefusis, with
impatient formality. "The roses are in great beauty just now."
Janet went to put on her hat, and Mrs Trefusis lay down on the sofa in
the drawing-room with a little groan. Anne sat down by her. The eyes of
both women followed Janet's tall, magnificent figure as she joined
George on the terrace.
"She dresses like a shop-girl," said Mrs Trefusis. "And what a hat!
Exactly what one sees on the top of omnibuses."
Anne did not defend the hat. It was beyond defence. She supposed, with a
tinge of compassion, what was indeed the case, that Janet had made a
special pilgrimage to Mudbury to acquire it, in order the better to meet
the eyes of her future mother-in-law.
All Anne said was, "Very respectable people go on the top of omnibuses
nowadays."
"I am not saying anything against her respectability," said poor Mrs
Trefusis. "Heaven knows if there had been anything against it I should
have said so before now. It would have been my duty."
Anne smiled faintly. "A painful duty."
"I'm not so sure," said Mrs Trefusis grimly. She never posed before
Anne, nor, for that matter, did any one else. "But from all I can make
out this girl is a model of middle-class respectability. Yet she comes
of a bad stock. One can't tell how she will turn out. What is bred in
the bone will come out in the flesh."
"There are worse things than middle-class respectability. George might
have presented you with an actress with a past. Lord Lossiemouth married
his daughter's maid last week."
"I don't know what I've done," said Mrs Trefusis, "that my only son
should marry a pretty horse-breaker."
"I thought it was her brother who was a horse-breaker."
"So he is, and so is she. It was riding to hounds that my poor boy first
met her."
"She rides magnificently. I saw her out cub-hunting last autumn, and
asked who she was."
"Her brother is disreputable. He was mixed up with that case of drugging
some horse or other. I forget about it, but I know it was disgraceful.
He is quite an impossible person, but I suppose we shall have to know
him now. The place will be overrun with her relations, whom I have
avoided for years. Things like that always happen to me."
This was a favourite expression of Mrs Trefusis'. She invariably spoke
as if a curse had hung over her since her birth.
"What does it matter who one knows?" said Anne.
Mrs Trefusis did not answer. The knots in her face moved a little. She
knew what country life and country society were better than Anne. She
had all her life lived in the upper of the two sets which may be found
in every country neighbourhood. She did what she considered to be her
duty by the secondary set, but she belonged by birth and by inclination
to the upper class. It was at first with bewildered surprise, and later
on with cold anger, that she observed that her only son, bone of her
bone, very son of herself and her kind dead husband, showed a natural
tendency to gravitate towards the second-rate among their neighbours.
Why did he do it? Why did he bring strange, loud-voiced, vulgar men to
Easthope, the kind of men whom Mr Trefusis would not have tolerated? She
might have known that her husband would die of pneumonia just when her
son needed him most. She had not expected it, but she ought to have
expected it. Did not everything in her lot go crooked, while the lives
of all those around her went straight? What was the matter with her son,
that he was more at ease with these undesirable companions than with the
sons of his father's old friends? Why would he never accompany her on
her annual pilgrimage to London?
George was one of those lethargic, vain men who say they hate London.
Catch them going to London! Perhaps if efforts were made to catch them
there, they might repair thither. But in London they are nobodies;
consequently to London they do not go. And the same man who eschews
London will generally be found to gravitate in the country to a society
in which he is the chief personage. It had been so with George. Fred
Black, the disreputable horse-breaker, and his companions, had
sedulously paid court to him. George, who had a deep-rooted love of
horse-flesh, was often at Fred's training stables. There he met Janet,
and fell in love with her, as did most of Fred's associates. But unlike
them, George had withdrawn. He knew he should "do" for himself with "the
county" if he married Janet. And he could not face his mother. So he
sulked like a fish under the bank, half suspicious that he is being
angled for. So ignorant of his fellow-creatures was George that there
actually had been a moment when he suspected Janet of trying to "land
him," and he did not think any the worse of her.
Then, after months of sullen indecision, he suddenly rushed upon his
fate. That was a week ago.
Anne left her chair as Mrs Trefusis did not answer, and knelt down by
the old woman.
"Dear Mrs Trefusis," she said, "the girl is a nice girl, innocent and
good, and without a vestige of conceit."
"She has nothing to be conceited about that I can see."
"Oh! yes. She might be conceited about marrying George. It is an amazing
match for her. And she might be conceited about her beauty. I should be
if I had that face."
"My dear, you are twenty times as good-looking, because you look what
you are--a lady. She looks what she is--a----" Something in Anne's
steady eyes disconcerted Mrs Trefusis, and she did not finish the
sentence. She twitched her hands restlessly, and then went on: "And she
can't come into a room. She sticks in the door. And she always calls you
'Lady Varney.' She hasn't called a girl a 'gurl' yet, but I know she
will. I had thought my son's wife might make up to me a little for all
I've gone through--might be a comfort to me--and then I am asked to put
up with a vulgarian."
Anne went on in a level voice: "Janet is not in the least vulgar,
because she is unpretentious. Middle-class she may be, and is: so was my
grandmother; but vulgar she is not. And she is absolutely | 1,445.104163 |
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by The Internet Archive)
IMPRESSIONS
OF
AMERICA.
BY
OSCAR WILDE.
EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION,
BY STUART MASON.
Keystone Press, Sunderland.
1906.
This Edition consists of 500 Copies.
50 Copies have been printed on hand-made paper.
TO
WALTER LEDGER:
PIGNUS
AMICITIAE.
IMPRESSIONS.
I.
LE JARDIN.
The lily's withered chalice falls
Around its rod of dusty gold,
And from the beech trees on the wold
The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.
The gaudy leonine sunflower
Hangs black and barren on its stalk,
And down the windy garden walk
The dead leaves scatter,--hour by hour.
Pale privet-petals white as milk
Are blown into a snowy mass;
The roses lie upon the grass,
Like little shreds of crimson silk.
II.
LA MER.
A white mist drifts across the shrouds,
A wild moon in this wintry sky
Gleams like an angry lion's eye
Out of a mane of tawny clouds.
The muffled steersman at the wheel
Is but a shadow in the gloom;--
And in the throbbing engine room
Leap the long rods of polished steel.
The shattered storm has left its trace
Upon this huge and heaving dome,
For the thin threads of yellow foam
Float on the waves like ravelled lace.
Oscar Wilde.
PREFACE.
Oscar Wilde visited America in the year 1882. Interest in the AEsthetic
School, of which he was already the acknowledged master, had sometime
previously spread to the United States, and it is said that the
production of the Gilbert and Sullivan opera, "Patience,"[1] in which he
and his disciples were held up to ridicule, determined him to pay a
visit to the States to give some lectures explaining what he meant by
AEstheticism, hoping thereby to interest, and possibly to instruct and
elevate our transatlantic cousins.
He set sail on board the "Arizona" on Saturday, December 24th, 1881,
arriving in New York early in the following year. On landing he was
bombarded by journalists eager to interview the distinguished stranger.
"Punch," in its issue of January 14th, in a happy vein, parodied these
interviewers, the most amusing passage in which referred to "His
Glorious Past," wherein Wilde was made to say, "Precisely--I took the
Newdigate. Oh! no doubt, every year some man gets the Newdigate; but not
every year does Newdigate get an Oscar."
At Omaha, where, under the auspices of the Social Art Club, Wilde
delivered a lecture on "Decorative Art," he described his impressions
of many American houses as being "illy designed, decorated shabbily, and
in bad taste, filled with furniture that was not honestly made, and was
out of character." This statement gave rise to the following verses:--
What a shame and what a pity,
In the streets of London City
Mr. Wilde is seen no more.
Far from Piccadilly banished,
He to Omaha has vanished.
Horrid place, which swells ignore.
On his back a coat he beareth,
Such as Sir John Bennet weareth,
Made of velvet--strange array!
Legs Apollo might have sighed for,
Or great Hercules have died for,
His knee breeches now display.
Waving sunflower and lily,
He calls all the houses "illy
Decorated and designed."
For of taste they've not a tittle;
They may chew and they may whittle;
But they're all born colour-blind!
His lectures dealt almost exclusively with the subjects of Art and Dress
Reform. In the course of one lecture he remarked that the most
impressive room he had yet entered in America was the one in Camden Town
where he met Walt Whitman. It contained plenty of fresh air and
sunlight. On the table was a simple cruse of water. This led to a
parody, in the style of Whitman, describing an imaginary interview
between the two poets, which appeared in "The Century" a few months
later. Wilde is called Narcissus and Whitman Paumanokides.
Paumanokides:--
Who may this be?
This young man clad unusually with loose locks, languorous,
glidingly toward me advancing,
Toward the ceiling of my chamber his orbic and expressive eyeballs
uprolling,
and so on, to which Narcissus replies,
O clarion, from whose brazen throat,
Strange sounds across the seas are blown,
Where England, girt as with a moat,
A strong sea-lion sits alone!
Of the lectures which he delivered in America only one has been
preserved, namely that on the English Renaissance. This was his first
lecture, and it was delivered in New York on January 9th, 1882.
According to a contemporary account in the "New York Herald" a
distinguished and crowded audience assembled in Chickering Hall that
evening to listen to one who "was well worth seeing, his short breeches
and silk stockings showing to even better advantage upon the stage than
in the gilded drawing-rooms, where the young Apostle has heretofore been
seen in New York."[2]
On leaving the States in the "fall" of the year Wilde proceeded to
Canada and thence to Nova Scotia, arriving in Halifax in the second week
of October. Of his visit there we have no record except an amusing
interview described in a local paper a few days later. He was dressed in
a velvet jacket with an ordinary linen collar and neck tie and he wore
trousers. "Mr. Wilde," the interviewer states, "was communicative and
genial; he said he found Canada pleasant, but in answer to a question as
to whether European or American women were the more beautiful, he
dexterously evaded his querist."
As regards poetry he expressed his opinion that Poe was the greatest
American poet, and that Walt Whitman, if not a poet, was a man who
sounded a strong note, perhaps neither prose nor poetry, but something
of his own that was "grand, original and unique."
During his tour in America Wilde "happened to find" himself (as he has
himself described it), in Louisville, Kentucky. The subject he had
selected to speak on was the Mission of Art in the Nineteenth Century.
In the course of his lecture he had occasion to quote Keats' Sonnet on
Blue "as an example of the poet's delicate sense of colour-harmonies."
After the lecture there came round to see him "a lady of middle age,
with a sweet gentle manner and most musical voice," who introduced
herself as Mrs. Speed, the daughter of George Keats, and she invited the
lecturer to come and examine the Keats manuscripts in her possession.
Some months afterwards when lecturing in California he received a letter
from this lady asking him to accept the original manuscript of the
sonnet which he had quoted.
Mention must be made of Wilde's first play, a drama in blank verse
entitled "Vera, or the Nihilists." It had been arranged that, before his
departure for America, this play should be performed at the Adelphi
Theatre, London, with Mrs. Bernard Beere as the heroine, on Saturday,
December 17th, 1881, but a few weeks before the date fixed for the first
performance, the author decided to postpone the production "owing to the
state of political feeling in England."
On his return to England in 1883 Wilde started on a lecturing tour, the
first being to the Art Students of the Royal Academy at their Club in
Golden Square on June 30th. Ten days later he spoke at Prince's Hall on
his "Personal Impressions of America," and on subsequent occasions at
Margate, Ramsgate and Southampton. On Monday, July 30th he lectured at
Southport and on the following Thursday he went to Liverpool to welcome
Mrs. Langtry on her return from America, and the same afternoon he left
on his second visit to the States in order to superintend the rehearsals
of "Vera," which it had been arranged to produce at the Union Square
Theatre, New York, on August 20th following. The piece was not a
success--it was, indeed, the only failure Wilde had. However, his next
play, which he called his "Opus Secundum," also a blank verse tragedy,
had a successful run in America in 1891. This was "The Duchess of
Padua," played by Lawrence Barrett, under the title of "Guido Ferranti."
This has not been seen in England, nor is it even possible for Wilde's
admirers to read this early offspring of his pen, for only twenty copies
were printed for acting purposes in America and of these but one is
known to be in existence, in this country at least.
An authorised German translation was made by Max Meyerfeld and the first
performance took place at the German Theatre in Hamburg about a year
ago. An English version is advertised from a piratical publisher in
Paris but it is only a translation from the German back into English.
Towards the end of September 1883 Oscar Wilde returned to England and
immediately began "an all round lecturing tour," his first visit being
to Wandsworth Town Hall on Monday, September 24th, when he delivered to
an enthusiastic audience a lecture on his "Impressions of America,"
which is contained in the following pages. He was dressed, a London
paper of the time states, "in ordinary evening costume, and carried an
orange-coloured silk handkerchief in his breast. He spoke with great
fluency, in a voice now and then singularly musical, and only once or
twice made a scarcely perceptible reference to notes." The lecture was
under the auspices of a local Literary Society, and the principle
residents of the district turned out "en masse." The Chairman, the Rev.
John Park, in introducing the lecturer, said there were two reasons why
he was glad to welcome him, and he thought his own feelings would be
shared by the audience. They must all plead guilty to a feeling of
curiosity, he hoped a laudable one, to see and hear Mr. Wilde for his
own sake, and they were also glad to hear about America--a country which
many might regard as a kind of Elysium.
On March 5th in the following year Wilde lectured at the Crystal Palace
on his American experiences, and on April 26th he "preached his Gospel
in the East-end," when it is recorded that his audience was not only
delighted with his humour, but was "surprised at the excellent good
sense he talked." His subject was a plea in favour of "art for schools,"
and many of his remarks about the English system of elementary
education--with its insistence on "the population of places that no one
ever wants to go to," and its "familiarity with the lives of persons who
probably never existed"--were said to be quite worthy of Ruskin. A
contemporary account adds that Wilde "showed himself a pupil of Mr.
Ruskin's, too, in insisting on the importance of every child being
taught some handicraft, and in looking forward to the time when a boy
would rather look at a bird or even draw it than throw "his customary
stone!"
The British "gamin" has not made much progress in this respect during
the last twenty years!
His lectures on "Dress," with the newspaper correspondence which they
evoked, including some of Oscar Wilde's replies in his most
characteristic vein, must be reserved for a future volume.
STUART MASON.
Oxford, January 1906.
FOOTNOTES.
[1] First produced at the Opera Comique, April 23rd, 1881. Wilde was
burlesqued as Reginald Bunthorne, a Fleshly Poet.
[2] Wilde repeated this lecture throughout the States during his tour.
At Rochester, on February 7th, he met with a most disorderly reception
on the part of the College Students. Two days later Mr. Joaquin Miller,
of St. Louis, wrote to Wilde saying that he had "read with shame about
the behaviour of those ruffians." To this Wilde replied, "I thank you
for your chivalrous and courteous letter," and in the course of his
letter makes a more special attack on that critic whom he terms "the
itinerant libeller of New England."
IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA.
I fear I cannot picture America as altogether an Elysium--perhaps, from
the ordinary standpoint I know but little about the country. I cannot
give its latitude or longitude; I cannot compute the value of its dry
goods, and I have no very close acquaintance with its politics. These
are matters which may not interest you, and they certainly are not
interesting to me.
The first thing that struck me on landing in America was that if the
Americans are not the most well-dressed people in the world, they are
the most comfortably dressed. Men are seen there with the dreadful
chimney-pot hat, but there are very few hatless men; men wear the
shocking swallow-tail coat, but few are to be seen with no coat at all.
There is an air of comfort in the appearance of the people which is a
marked contrast to that seen in this country, where, too often, people
are seen in close contact with rags.
The next thing particularly noticeable is that everybody seems in a
hurry to catch a train. This is a state of things which is not
favourable to poetry or romance. Had Romeo or Juliet been in a constant
state of anxiety about trains, or had their minds been agitated by the
question of return-tickets, Shakespeare could not have given us those
lovely balcony scenes which are so full of poetry and pathos.
America is the noisiest country that ever existed. One is waked up in
the morning, not by the singing of the nightingale, but by the steam
whistle. It is surprising that the sound practical sense of the
Americans does not reduce this intolerable noise. All Art depends upon
exquisite and delicate sensibility, and such continual turmoil must
ultimately be destructive of the musical faculty.
There is not so much beauty to be found in American cities as in Oxford,
Cambridge, Salisbury or Winchester, where are lovely relics of a
beautiful age; but still there is a good deal of beauty to be seen in
them now and then, but only where the American has not attempted to
create it. Where the Americans have attempted to produce beauty they
have signally failed. A remarkable characteristic of the Americans is
the manner in which they have applied science to modern life.
This is apparent in the most cursory stroll through New York. In England
an inventor is regarded almost as a crazy man, and in too many instances
invention ends in disappointment and poverty. In America an inventor is
honoured, help is forthcoming, and the exercise of ingenuity, the
application of science to the work of man, is there the shortest road to
wealth. There is no country in the world where machinery is so lovely as
in America.
I have always wished to believe that the line of strength and the line
of beauty are one. That wish was realised when I contemplated American
machinery. It was not until I had seen the water-works at Chicago that I
realised the wonders of machinery; the rise and fall of the steel rods,
the symmetrical motion of the great wheels is the most beautifully
rhythmic thing I have ever seen.[3] One is impressed in America, but not
favourably impressed, by the inordinate size of everything. The country
seems to try to bully one into a belief in its power by its impressive
bigness.
I was disappointed with Niagara--most people must be disappointed with
Niagara. Every American bride is taken there, and the sight of the
stupendous waterfall must be one of the earliest, if not the keenest,
disappointments in American married life. One sees it under bad
conditions, very far away, the point of view not showing the splendour
of the water. To appreciate it really one has to see it from underneath
the fall, and to do that it is necessary to be dressed in a yellow
oil-skin, which is as ugly as a mackintosh--and I hope none of you ever
wears one. It is a consolation to know, however, that such an artist as
Madame Bernhardt has not only worn that yellow, ugly dress, but has been
photographed in it.
Perhaps the most beautiful part of America is the West, to reach which,
however, involves a journey by rail of six days, racing along tied to an
ugly tin-kettle of a steam engine. I found but poor consolation for this
journey in the fact that the boys who infest the cars and sell
everything that one can eat--or should not eat--were selling editions of
my poems vilely printed on a kind of grey blotting paper, for the low
price of ten cents.[4] Calling these boys on one side I told them that
though poets like to be popular they desire to be paid, and selling
editions of my poems without giving me a profit is dealing a blow at
literature which must have a disastrous effect on poetical aspirants.
The invariable reply that they made was that they themselves made a
profit out of the transaction and that was all they cared about.
It is a popular superstition that in America a visitor is invariably
addressed as "Stranger." I was never once addressed as "Stranger." When
I went to Texas I was called "Captain"; when I got to the centre of the
country I was addressed as "Colonel," and, on arriving at the borders of
Mexico, as "General." On the whole, however, "Sir," the old English
method of addressing people is the most common.
It is, perhaps, worth while to note that what many people call
Americanisms are really old English expressions which have lingered in
our colonies while they have been lost in our own country. Many people
imagine that the term "I guess," which is so common in America, is
purely an American expression, but it was used by John Locke in his work
on "The Understanding," just as we now use "I think."[5]
It is in the colonies, and not in the mother country, that the old life
of the country really exists. If one wants to realise what English
Puritanism is--not at its worst (when it is very bad), but at its best,
and then it is not very good--I do not think one can find much of it in
England, but much can be found about Boston and Massachusetts. We have
got rid of it. America still preserves it, to be, I hope, a short-lived
curiosity.
San Francisco is a really beautiful city. China Town, peopled by Chinese
labourers, is the most artistic town I have ever come across. The
people--strange, melancholy Orientals, whom many people would call
common, and they are certainly very poor--have determined that they will
have nothing about them that is not beautiful. In the Chinese
restaurant, where these navvies meet to have supper in the evening, I
found them drinking tea out of china cups as delicate as the petals of a
rose-leaf, whereas at the gaudy hotels I was supplied with a delf cup an
inch and a half thick. When the Chinese bill was presented it was made
out on rice paper, the account being done in Indian ink as fantastically
as if an artist had been etching little birds on a fan.
Salt Lake City contains only two buildings of note, the chief being the
Tabernacle, which is in the shape of a soup-kettle. It is decorated by
the only native artist, and he has treated religious subjects in the
naive spirit of the early Florentine painters, representing people of
our own day in the dress of the period side by side with people of
Biblical history who are clothed in some romantic costume.
The building next in importance is called the Amelia Palace, in honour
of one of Brigham Young's wives. When he died the present president of
the Mormons stood up in the Tabernacle and said that it had been
revealed to him that he was to have the Amelia Palace, and that on this
subject there were to be no more revelations of any kind!
From Salt Lake City one travels over the great plains of Colorado and up
the Rocky Mountains, on the top of which is Leadville, the richest city
in the world. It has also got the reputation of being the roughest, and
every man carries a revolver. I was told that if I went there they
would be sure to shoot me or my travelling manager. I wrote and told
them that nothing that they could do to my travelling manager would
intimidate me. They are miners--men working in metals, so I lectured to
them on the Ethics of Art. I read them passages from the autobiography
of Benvenuto Cellini and they seemed much delighted. I was reproved by
my hearers for not having brought him with me. I explained that he had
been dead for some little time which elicited the enquiry | 1,445.141042 |
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THE BLIND BROTHER.
SUNSHINE LIBRARY.
=Aunt Hannah and Seth.= By James Otis.
=Blind Brother (The).= By Homer Greene.
=Captain's Dog (The).= By Louis Enault.
=Cat and the Candle (The).= By Mary F. Leonard.
=Christmas at Deacon Hackett's.= By James Otis.
=Christmas-Tree Scholar.= By Frances Bent Dillingham.
=Dear Little Marchioness.= The Story of a Child's Faith and Love.
=Dick in the Desert.= By James Otis.
=Divided Skates.= By Evelyn Raymond.
=Gold Thread (The).= By Norman MacLeod, D.D.
=Half a Dozen Thinking Caps.= By Mary Leonard.
=How Tommy Saved the Barn.= By James Otis.
=Ingleside.= By Barbara Yechton.
=J. Cole.= By Emma Gellibrand.
=Jessica's First Prayer.= By Hesba Stretton.
=Laddie.= By the author of "Miss Toosey's Mission."
=Little Crusaders.= By Eva Madden.
=Little Sunshine's Holiday.= By Miss Mulock.
=Little Peter.= By Lucas Malet.
=Master Sunshine.= By Mrs. C. F. Fraser.
=Miss Toosey's Mission.= By the author of "Laddie."
=Musical Journey of Dorothy and Delia.= By Bradley Gilman.
=Our Uncle, the Major.= A Story of 1765. By James Otis.
=Pair of Them (A).= By Evelyn Raymond.
=Playground Toni.= By Anna Chapin Ray.
=Play Lady (The).= By Ella Farman Pratt.
=Prince Prigio.= By Andrew Lang.
=Short Cruise (A).= By James Otis.
=Smoky Days.= By Edward W. Thomson.
=Strawberry Hill.= By Mrs. C. F. Fraser.
=Sunbeams and Moonbeams.= By Louise R. Baker.
=Two and One.= By Charlotte M. Vaile.
=Wreck of the Circus (The).= By James Otis.
=Young Boss (The).= By Edward W. Thomson.
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY,
NEW YORK.
[Illustration]
THE
BLIND BROTHER:
A Story of
THE PENNSYLVANIA COAL MINES
BY
HOMER GREENE
_The author received for this story the First Prize, Fifteen Hundred
Dollars, offered by the_ YOUTH'S COMPANION _in 1886,
for the Best Serial Story_
FOURTEENTH THOUSAND
NEW YORK
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1887,
By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.
TO
MY MOTHER,
WHOSE TENDER CARE AND UNSELFISH DEVOTION
MADE HAPPY THE DAYS OF MY
OWN BOYHOOD,
This Book for Boys
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,
BY THE AUTHOR.
Honesdale, Penn., April 6, 1887.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. LOST IN THE MINE 11
II. THE BURNED BREAKER 30
III. THE UNQUIET CONSCIENCE 50
IV. THE TRIAL 69
V. THE VERDICT 89
VI. THE FALL 109
VII. THE SHADOW OF DEATH 128
VIII. OUT OF DARKNESS 148
THE BLIND BROTHER.
CHAPTER I.
LOST IN THE MINE.
The Dryden Mine, in the Susquehanna coal-fields of Pennsylvania, was
worked out and abandoned long ago. To-day its headings and airways and
chambers echo only to the occasional fall of loosened slate, or to the
drip of water from the roof. Its pillars, robbed by retreating workmen,
are crumbling and rusty, and those of its props which are still
standing have become mouldy and rotten. The rats that once scampered
through its galleries deserted it along with human kind, and its very
name, from long disuse, has acquired an unaccustomed sound.
But twenty years ago there was no busier mine than the Dryden from
Carbondale to Nanticoke. Two hundred and thirty men and boys went by
the <DW72> into it every morning, and came out from it every night. They
were simple and unlearned, these men and boys, rugged and rude, rough
and reckless at times, but manly, heroic, and kindhearted.
Up in the Lackawanna region a strike had been in progress for nearly
two weeks. Efforts had been made by the strikers to persuade the miners
down the valley to join them, but at first without success.
Then a committee of one hundred came down to appeal and to intimidate.
In squads of ten or more they visited the mines in the region, and, in
the course of their journeyings, had come to the Dryden <DW72>. They
had induced the miners to go out at all the workings they had thus far
entered, and were no less successful here. It required persuasion,
sometimes threats, sometimes, indeed, even blows, for the miners in
Dryden <DW72> had no cause of complaint against their employers; they
earned good wages, and were content.
But, twenty years ago, miners who kept at work against the wishes of
their fellows while a strike was in progress, were called "black-legs,"
were treated with contempt, waylaid and beaten, and sometimes killed.
So the men in the Dryden Mine yielded; and soon, down the chambers and
along the headings, toward the foot of the <DW72>, came little groups,
with dinner-pails and tools, discussing earnestly, often bitterly, the
situation and the prospect.
The members of a party of fifteen or twenty, that came down the airway
from the tier of chambers on the new north heading, were holding an
especially animated conversation. Fully one-half of the men were
visiting strikers. They were all walking, in single file, along the
route by which the mine-cars went.
For some distance from the new chambers the car-track was laid in the
airway; then it turned down through an entrance into the heading, and
from that point followed the heading to the foot of the <DW72>. Where
the route crossed from the airway to the heading, the space between
| 1,445.143751 |
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Produced by Linda M. Everhart, Blairstown, Missouri
MINK TRAPPING.
[Illustration: A LARGE MINK.]
MINK TRAPPING
A BOOK OF INSTRUCTION GIVING MANY
METHODS OF TRAPPING--A VALUABLE
BOOK FOR TRAPPERS.
EDITED BY
A. R. HARDING.
PUBLISHED BY
A. R. HARDING PUBLISHING CO.
COLUMBUS, OHIO.
COPYRIGHT 1906
BY A. R. HARDING.
CONTENTS.
I. General Information
II. Mink and Their Habits
III. Size and Care of Skins
IV. Good and Lasting Baits
V. Bait and Scent
VI. Places to Set
VII. Indian Methods
VIII. Mink Trapping on the Prairie
IX. Southern Methods
X. Northern Methods
XI. Unusual Ways
XII. Illinois Trapper's Method
XIII. Experienced Trapper's Ways
XIV. Many Good Methods
XV. Salt Set
XVI. Log and Other Sets
XVII. Points for the Young Trapper
XVIII. Proper Size Traps
XIX. Deadfalls
XX. Steel Traps
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
A Large Mink
A Mink Trapper
Looking for Food
Good Signs
Nicely Handled Wisconsin Skins
Some Prime N. E. Skins
Large Iowa Mink
Caught in Midwinter
Northwestern Skins
Trapper's "Shack"
A Good Mink Stream
Where Signs are Plenty
Indian Trapper
Camping Out
Moses Bone
A Young Trapper
Large Southern Mink
Caught in Minnesota
A Few Good Ones
Broke the Fastening
Trapping Down Stream
Eastern Trapper and Traps
Barricade Set
Northwest Trapper and Mink
Northern Mink Trapper's Shanty
A Few Days' Catch
Three Log Set
Some New York State Skins
Pole Deadfall
Stone Deadfalls
Board or Log Trap
A Good Fastening
Mink and Other Steel Traps
[Illustration: A. R. HARDING.]
INTRODUCTORY.
While there are some excellent mink trappers, no one man has studied
out all the methods, for the conditions under which the trapper in
the South makes his largest catches would probably be of little value
to the trapper of the Far North, where snow covers the ground the
greater part of the year.
Conditions along the Atlantic are different than the Pacific, and as
well the methods used by thousands of trappers along the Mississippi
and its tributaries differ from the Eastern or Western Coast trapper,
for the mink's food is not the same along the fresh inland waters as
the coast or salt water.
The methods published are from all parts of the country, and many
experienced trappers tell of their best methods, so that it makes no
difference in what part of America you live, something will be found
of how to trap in your section. Most of the articles are taken from
those published in the H-T-T with slight correction.
A. R. HARDING.
MINK TRAPPING
CHAPTER I.
GENERAL INFORMATION.
Mink are found in nearly all parts of America living along creeks,
rivers, lakes and ponds. While strictly speaking they are not a water
animal, yet their traveling for food and otherwise is mainly near the
water, so that the trapper finds this the best place to set his
traps.
The mink is fond of fish, rabbit, squirrel, birds, mice, etc. In some
sections they eat muskrat, but we believe they prefer other animals,
only eating muskrat when very hungry and other game is scarce.
At certain seasons scent seems to attract them while at other times
the flesh of the rabbit, bird or fish will attract them. The trapper
who makes mink trapping a business should have various kinds of traps
and sets for them, such as steel traps, both bait and blind sets, as
well as deadfalls.
Mink, while small, are quite strong for their size and very active.
While a No. 0 Newhouse will hold them, the No. 1 is usually
considered the proper trap.
As already mentioned, mink travel a great deal near water, so that
the place to catch them is close to the water or in the water. If you
notice mink tracks near the water, in some narrow place where the
bank comes nearly to the water or a rock or log projects nearly to
the water, carefully dig a hole the size of your trap and an inch or
more deep, covering with a large leaf or a piece of paper first. Then
place a thin layer of earth removed over leaf or paper, making the
set look as natural as before. The dirt from the hole for trap as
taken out should be thrown in the water or to one side. One of the
great secrets in mink trapping, especially blind sets, is to leave
things as near as possible as they were before the set was made.
There are various shades of mink--some quite dark, others brown,
pale, and some cotton. The greater number, however, are brown. In the
Northeast, Maine, etc., mink are not large, but the color is rather
dark. In the same latitude some ten or twelve hundred miles west in
Minnesota and Manitoba, Canada mink are larger but not so dark. Still
further west on the coast of Washington mink are again smaller, being
somewhat similar in size to the Maine mink but much lighter in color.
Throughout the central section such as Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa,
etc., they are larger than the Maine mink but smaller than Minnesota.
In color not near so dark as the Eastern or Maine mink.
The cotton mink is found principally in the prairie and level
sections. In general appearance it is much the same as a pale or
light brown mink, but on blowing into the fur the under portion is
white, hence cotton. Such skins are worth much less than the brown
and dark ones. In fact, for years cotton mink sold for 10 to 50
cents.
During the past years the value of mink skins has varied a great
deal. The number exported annually varies from a couple of hundred
thousand to a half million skins or more. This gives but a faint idea
of the annual catch, for large numbers are used each year by American
manufacturers.
There has been a great deal said about mink climbing trees, many
being under the impression that they could not or did not unless
leaning trees. This is a mistake however, as trappers have tracked
them in | 1,445.23873 |
2023-11-16 18:41:09.2198160 | 85 | 9 |
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Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 31316-h.htm or 31316-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31316/31316-h/31316-h.htm)
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Asad Razzaki, The Internet Archive
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Transcriber's note:
Some typographical and punctuation errors have been
corrected. A complete list follows the text.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been
retained as in the original.
Words italicized in the original are surrounded by
_underscores_.
Words with bold emphasis in the original are surrounded
by =equals signs=.
A READING BOOK
IN
IRISH HISTORY
BY
P. W. JOYCE, LL.D.
_One of the Commissioners for the Publication of
the Ancient Laws of Ireland_
Author of
"A SHORT HISTORY OF IRELAND" "A CHILD'S HISTORY OF IRELAND"
"IRISH NAMES OF PLACES," "OLD CELTIC ROMANCES"
"ANCIENT IRISH MUSIC"
AND OTHER WORKS RELATING TO IRELAND
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BOMBAY
DUBLIN: M. H. GILL AND SON
1900
[_All rights reserved_]
PREFACE.
As this little book is intended chiefly for children, the language is
very simple. But to make matters still easier, all words and allusions
presenting the smallest difficulty are explained either in footnotes or
in the "Notes and Explanations" at the end.
Advantage has been taken of the descriptions under the several
Illustrations to give a good deal of information on the customs and
usages of the ancient Irish people.
Although the book has been written for children, it will be found, I
hope, sufficiently interesting and instructive for the perusal of older
persons.
The book, as will be seen, contains a mixture of Irish History,
Biography, and Romance; and most of the pieces appear in their present
form now for the first time. A knowledge of the History of the country
is conveyed, partly in special Historical Sketches, partly in the Notes
under the Illustrations, and partly through the Biography of important
personages, who flourished at various periods from St. Brigit down to
the Great Earl of Kildare. And besides this, the Stories, like those of
all other ancient nations, teach History of another kind, very important
in its own way.
Ancient Irish Manuscript books contain great numbers of Historical and
Romantic Tales; and the specimens given here in translation will, I am
confident, give the reader a very favourable impression of old Irish
writings of this class.
* * * * *
I make the following acknowledgments of assistance, with pleasure and
thanks:--
To the Council of the Royal Irish Academy I am indebted for the use of
the blocks of many Illustrations in Wilde's "Catalogue of Irish
Antiquities."
I owe to the Council of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland
several Illustrations from their Journal.
Colonel Wood-Martin has given me the use of the blocks of several of the
Illustrations in his "Pagan Ireland."
Lord Walter FitzGerald has given me permission to reproduce the drawing
of the old Chapter House door in St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, from
the "Journal of the Kildare ArchA|ological Society."
And lastly, Messrs. Macmillan & Co. have permitted me to print portions
of Lord Tennyson's poem, "The Voyage of Maildune."
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. Legends and Early History, 1
II. The Song of Inisfail, 7
III. Religion of the Pagan Irish, 8
IV. Customs and Modes of Life, 14
=The Fate of the Children of Lir.=
V. The Children of Lir turned to
Swans, 22
VI. The Swans on Lake Darvra, 27
VII. The Swans on the Sea of Moyle, 32
VIII. Death of the Children of Lir, 39
IX. Religion and Learning in
Ancient Ireland, 45
X. The Red Branch Knights, 50
=The Fate of the Sons of Usna.=
XI. The Flight to Alban, 55
XII. Concobar's guileful Message, 60
XIII. The Return to Emain, 66
XIV. Trouble Looming, 72
XV. The Attack on the Sons of
Usna, 75
XVI. Death of the Sons of Usna, 80
XVII. Avenging and Bright, 84
XVIII. The Wrath of Fergus, 85
XIX. Ancient Irish Physicians: I. 87
XX. Ancient Irish Physicians: II. 89
XXI. The Fena of Erin, 92
XXII. The Chase of Slieve Cullin, 98
XXIII. Saint Brigit: I., 103
XXIV. Saint Brigit: II., 107
XXV. Saint Brigit: III., 111
XXVI. Irish Scribes and Books, 114
XXVII. The Gilla Dacker and his
Horse, 120
XXVIII. The Fena carried off by the
Horse, 123
XXIX. Dermot O'Dyna at the Well, 129
XXX. Dermot and the
Wizard-Champion, 132
XXXI. Saint Columkille: I., 139
XXXII. Saint Columkille: II., 145
XXXIII. Prince Alfred in Ireland, 150
=The Voyage of Maildune.=
XXXIV. The Voyage of Maildune, 155
The First Island, 157
XXXV. An Extraordinary Monster, 160
The Silver Pillar of the Sea 160
XXXVI. Maildune forgives his enemy, 162
XXXVII. Tennyson's "Voyage of
Maildune," 164
XXXVIII. Saint Donatus: I., 167
XXXIX. Saint Donatus: II., 170
XL. Danish and Anglo-Norman
Invasions, 173
XLI. The Watchfire of Barnalee, 179
XLII. Cahal O'Conor of the Red Hand, 181
XLIII. Cahal-More of the Wine-red
hand, 186
XLIV. Sir John de Courcy, | 1,445.295262 |
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Produced by Stephen Hutcheson and Charles Coulston
HYMNS FROM THE MORNINGLAND
HYMNS
FROM THE MORNINGLAND
BEING
TRANSLATIONS, CENTOS
AND SUGGESTIONS
FROM THE SERVICE BOOKS OF
THE HOLY EASTERN CHURCH
WITH INTRODUCTION
BY
JOHN BROWNLIE, D.D.
_Author of_
"_Hymns and Hymn Writers of the Church Hymnary_"
"_Hymns of the Greek Church_," "_Hymns from the Greek Office Books_"
"_Hymns of the Holy Eastern Church_"
_&c., &c._
_(SIXTH SERIES)_
PAISLEY: ALEXANDER GARDNER
_Publisher by Appointment to the late Queen Victoria | 1,445.344575 |
2023-11-16 18:41:09.4184260 | 2,661 | 12 |
Produced by Amy E. Zelmer
CORAL AND CORAL REEFS
by Thomas H. Huxley
[1]
THE subject upon which I wish to address you to-night is the structure
and origin of Coral and Coral Reefs. Under the head of "coral" there are
included two very different things; one of them is that substance which
I imagine a great number of us have champed when we were very much
younger than we are now,--the common red coral, which is used so much,
as you know, for the edification and the delectation of children of
tender years, and is also employed for the purposes of ornament for
those who are much older, and as some think might know better. The other
kind of coral is a very different substance; it may for distinction's
sake be called the white coral; it is a material which most assuredly
not the hardest-hearted of baby farmers would give to a baby to chew,
and it is a substance which is to be seen only in the cabinets of
curious persons, or in museums, or, may be, over the mantelpieces of
sea-faring men. But although the red coral, as I have mentioned to you,
has access to the very best society; and although the white coral is
comparatively a despised product, yet in this, as in many other cases,
the humbler thing is in reality the greater; the amount of work which is
done in the world by the white coral being absolutely infinite compared
with that effected by its delicate and pampered namesake. Each of these
substances, the white coral and the red, however, has a relationship to
the other. They are, in a zoological sense, cousins, each of them being
formed by the same kind of animals in what is substantially the same
way. Each of these bodies is, in fact, the hard skeleton of a very
curious and a very simple animal, more comparable to the bones of such
animals as ourselves than to the shells of oysters or creatures of that
kind; for it is the hardening of the internal tissue of the creature, of
its internal substance, by the deposit in the body of a material which
is exceedingly common, not only in fresh but in sea water, and which
is specially abundant in those waters which we know as "hard,"
those waters, for example, which leave a "fur" upon the bottom of a
tea-kettle. This "fur" is carbonate of lime, the same sort of substance
as limestone and chalk. That material is contained in solution in sea
water, and it is out of the sea water in which these coral creatures
live that they get the lime which is needed for the forming of their
hard skeleton.
But now what manner of creatures are these which form these hard
skeletons? I dare say that in these days of keeping aquaria, of
locomotion to the sea-side, most of those whom I am addressing may have
seen one of those creatures which used to be known as the "sea anemone,"
receiving that name on account of its general resemblance, in a rough
sort of way, to the flower which is known as the "anemone"; but being
a thing which lives in the sea, it was qualified as the "sea anemone."
Well, then, you must suppose a body shaped like a short cylinder, the
top cut off, and in the top a hole rather oval than round. All round
this aperture, which is the mouth, imagine that there are placed a
number of feelers forming a circle. The cavity of the mouth leads into
a sort of stomach, which is very unlike those of the higher animals,
in the circumstance that it opens at the lower end into a cavity of the
body, and all the digested matter, converted into nourishment, is thus
distributed through the rest of the body. That is the general structure
of one of these sea anemones. If you touch it it contracts immediately
into a heap. It looks at first quite like a flower in the sea, but if
you touch it you find that it exhibits all the peculiarities of a living
animal; and if anything which can serve as its prey comes near its
tentacles, it closes them round it and sucks the material into its
stomach and there digests it and turns it to the account of its own
body.
These creatures are very voracious, and not at all particular what they
seize; and sometimes it may be that they lay hold of a shellfish which
is far too big to be packed into that interior cavity, and, of course,
in any ordinary animal a proceeding of this kind would give rise to a
very severe fit of indigestion. But this is by no means the case in the
sea anemone, because when digestive difficulties of this kind arise he
gets out of them by splitting himself in two; and then each half builds
itself up into a fresh creature, and you have two polypes where there
was previously one, and the bone which stuck in the way lying between
them! Not only can these creatures multiply in this fashion, but they
can multiply by buds. A bud will grow out of the side of the body (I am
not speaking of the common sea anemone, but of allied creatures) just
like the bud of a plant, and that will fashion itself into a creature
just like the parent. There are some of them in which these buds remain
connected together, and you will soon see what would be the result of
that. If I make a bud grow out here, and another on the opposite side,
and each fashions itself into a new polype, the practical effect will be
that before long you will see a single polype converted into a sort of
tree or bush of polypes. And these will all remain associated together,
like a kind of co-operative store, which is a thing I believe you
understand very well here,--each mouth will help to feed the body and
each part of the body help to support the multifarious mouths. I think
that is as good an example of a zoological co-operative store as you can
well have. Such are these wonderful creatures. But they are capable not
only of multiplying in this way, but in other ways, by having a more
ordinary and regular kind of offspring. Little eggs are hatched and the
young are passed out by the way of the mouth, and they go swimming
about as little oval bodies covered with a very curious kind of hairlike
processes. Each of these processes is capable of striking water like an
oar; and the consequence is that the young creature is propelled through
the water. So that you have the young polype floating about in this
fashion, covered by its 'vibratile cilia', as these long filaments,
which are capable of vibration are termed. And thus, although the polype
itself may be a fixed creature unable to move about, it is able to
spread its offspring over great areas. For these creatures not only
propel themselves, but while swimming about in the sea for many hours,
or perhaps days, it will be obvious that they must be carried hither and
thither by the currents of the sea, which not unfrequently move at the
rate of one or two miles an hour. Thus, in the course of a few days,
the offspring of this stationary creature may be carried to a very great
distance from its parent; and having been so carried it loses these
organs by which it is propelled, and settles down upon the bottom of the
sea and grows up again into the form and condition of its parents. So
that if you suppose a single polype of this kind settled upon the bottom
of the sea, it may by these various methods--that is to say, by cutting
itself in two, which we call "fission," or by budding; or by sending out
these swimming embryos,--multiply itself to an enormous extent, and
give rise to thousands, or millions, of progeny in a comparatively short
time; and these thousands, or millions, of progeny may cover a very
large surface of the sea bottom; in fact, you will readily perceive
that, give them time, and there is no limit to the surface which they
may cover.
Having understood thus far the general nature of these polypes, which
are the fabricators both of the red and white coral, let us consider a
little more particularly how the skeletons of the red coral and of
the white coral are formed. The red coral polype perches upon the sea
bottom, it then grows up into a sort of stem, and out of that stem there
grow branches, each of which has its own polypes; and thus you have a
kind of tree formed, every branch of the tree terminated by its polype.
It is a tree, but at the end of the branches there are open mouths of
polypes instead of flowers. Thus there is a common soft body connecting
the whole, and as it grows up the soft body deposits in its interior a
quantity of carbonate of lime, which acquires a beautiful red or flesh
colour, and forms a kind of stem running through the whole, and it is
that stem which is the red coral. The red coral grows principally at
the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea, at very great depths, and the coral
fishers, who are very adventurous seamen, take their drag nets, of a
peculiar kind, roughly made, but efficient for their purpose, and drag
them along the bottom of the sea to catch the branches of the red coral,
which become entangled and are thus brought up to the surface. They are
then allowed to putrefy, in order to get rid of the animal matter, and
the red coral is the skeleton that is left.
In the case of the white coral, the skeleton is more complete. In the
red coral, the skeleton belongs to the whole; in the white coral there
is a special skeleton for every one of these polypes in addition to that
for the whole body. There is a skeleton formed in the body of each of
them, like a cup divided by a number of radiating partitions towards the
outside; and that cup is formed of carbonate of lime, only not stained
red, as in the case of the red coral. And all these cups are joined
together into a common branch, the result of which is the formation of
a beautiful coral tree. This is a great mass of madrepore, and in the
living state every one of the ends of these branches was terminated by
a beautiful little polype, like a sea anemone, and all the skeleton
was covered by a soft body which united the polypes together. You must
understand that all this skeleton has been formed in the interior of the
body, to suit the branched body of the polype mass, and that it is as
much its skeleton as our own bones are our skeleton. In this next coral
the creature which has formed the skeleton has divided itself as it
grew, and consequently has formed a great expansion; but scattered
all over this surface there were polype bodies like those I previously
described. Again, when this great cup was alive, the whole surface was
covered with a beautiful body upon which were set innumerable small
polype flowers, if we may so call them, often brilliantly coloured;
and the whole cup was built up in the same fashion by the deposit of
carbonate of lime in the interior of the combined polype body, formed
by budding and by fission in the way I described. You will perceive that
there is no necessary limit to this process. There is no reason why we
should not have coral three or four times as big; and there are certain
creatures of this kind that do fabricate very large masses, or half
spheres several feet in diameter. Thus the activity of these animals
in separating carbonate of lime from the sea and building it up into
definite shapes is very considerable indeed.
Now I think I have said sufficient--as much as I can without taking you
into technical details, of the general nature of these creatures which
form coral. The animals which form coral are scattered over the seas of
all countries in the world. The red coral is comparatively limited, but
the polypes which form the white coral are widely scattered. There
are some of them which remain single, or which give rise to only small
accumulations | 1,445.438466 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
ELSKET, AND OTHER STORIES
BY THOMAS NELSON PAGE.
ELSKET AND OTHER STORIES. 12mo, $1.00
NEWFOUND RIVER. 12mo, 1.00
IN OLE VIRGINIA. 12mo, 1.25
THE SAME. Cameo Edition. With an etching
by W. L. Sheppard. 16mo, 1.25
AMONG THE CAMPS. Young People's
Stories of the War. Illustrated. Sq. 8vo, 1.50
TWO LITTLE CONFEDERATES. Illustrated.
Square 8vo, 1.50
"BEFO' DE WAR." Echoes of <DW64> Dialect.
By A. C. Gordon and Thomas
Nelson Page. 12mo, 1.00
ELSKET
_AND OTHER STORIES_
BY
THOMAS NELSON PAGE
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1893
COPYRIGHT, 1891, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.
TO HER MEMORY
CONTENTS.
PAGE
ELSKET 1
"GEORGE WASHINGTON'S" LAST DUEL 52
P'LASKI'S TUNAMENT 118
"RUN TO SEED" 147
"A SOLDIER OF THE EMPIRE" 180
ELSKET.
"The knife hangs loose in the sheath."
--OLD NORSK PROVERB.
I spent a month of the summer of 188- in Norway--"Old Norway"--and a
friend of mine, Dr. John Robson, who is as great a fisherman as he is
a physician, and knows that I love a stream where the trout and I can
meet each other alone, and have it out face to face, uninterrupted
by any interlopers, did me a favor to which I was indebted for the
experience related below. He had been to Norway two years before, and
he let me into the secret of an unexplored region between the Nord
Fiord and the Romsdal. I cannot give the name of the place, because
even now it has not been fully explored, and he bound me by a solemn
promise that I would not divulge it to a single soul, actually going to
the length of insisting on my adding a formal oath to my affirmation.
This I consented to because I knew that my friend was a humorous man,
and also because otherwise he positively refused to inform me where
the streams were about which he had been telling such fabulous fish
stories. "No," he said, "some of those ---- cattle who think they
own the earth and have a right to fool women at will and know how to
fish, will be poking in there, worrying Olaf and Elsket, and ruining
the fishing, and I'll be ---- if I tell you unless you make oath." My
friend is a swearing man, though he says he swears for emphasis, not
blasphemy, and on this occasion he swore with extreme solemnity. I saw
that he was in earnest, so made affidavit and was rewarded.
"Now," he said, after inquiring about my climbing capacity in a way
which piqued me, and giving me the routes with a particularity which
somewhat mystified me, "Now I will write a letter to Olaf of the
Mountain and to Elsket. I once was enabled to do them a slight service,
and they will receive you. It will take him two or three weeks to get
it, so you may have to wait a little. You must wait at L---- until Olaf
comes down to take you over the mountain. You may be there when he
gets the letter, or you may have to wait for a couple of weeks, as he
does not come over the mountain often. However, you can amuse yourself
around L----; only you must always be on hand every night in case Olaf
comes."
Although this appeared natural enough to the doctor, it sounded rather
curious to me, and it seemed yet more so when he added, "By the way,
one piece of advice: don't talk about England to Elsket, and don't ask
any questions."
"Who is Elsket?" I asked.
"A daughter of the Vikings, poor thing," he said.
My curiosity was aroused, but I could get nothing further out of him,
and set it down to his unreasonable dislike of travelling Englishmen,
against whom, for some reason, he had a violent antipathy, declaring
that they did not know how to treat women nor how to fish. My friend
has a custom of speaking very strongly, and I used to wonder at
the violence of his language, which contrasted strangely with his
character; for he was the kindest-hearted man I ever knew, being a true
follower of his patron saint, old Isaac giving his sympathy to all the
unfortunate, and even handling his frogs as if he loved them.
Thus it was that on the afternoon of the seventh day of July, 188-,
having, for purposes of identification, a letter in my pocket to
"Olaf of the Mountain from his friend Dr. Robson," I stood, in the
rain in the so-called "street" of L----, on the ---- Fiord, looking
over the bronzed faces of the stolid but kindly peasants who lounged
silently around, trying to see if I could detect in one a resemblance
to the picture I had formed in my mind of "Olaf of the Mountain," or
could discern in any eye a gleam of special interest to show that its
possessor was on the watch for an expected guest.
There was none in whom I could discover any indication that he was
not a resident of the straggling little settlement. They all stood
quietly about gazing at me and talking in low tones among themselves,
chewing tobacco or smoking their pipes, as naturally as if they were in
Virginia or Kentucky, only, if possible, in a somewhat more ruminant
manner. It gave me the single bit of home feeling I could muster, for
it was, I must confess, rather desolate standing alone in a strange
land, under those beetling crags, with the clouds almost resting on our
heads, and the rain coming down in a steady, wet, monotonous fashion.
The half-dozen little dark log or frame-houses, with their double
windows and turf roofs, standing about at all sorts of angles to the
road, as if they had rolled down the mountain like the great bowlders
beyond them, looked dark and cheerless. I was weak enough to wish for
a second that I had waited a few days for the rainy spell to be over,
but two little bare-headed children, coming down the road laughing and
chattering, recalled me to myself. They had no wrapping whatever, and
nothing on their heads but their soft flaxen hair, yet they minded
the rain no more than if they had been ducklings. I saw that these
people were used to rain. It was the inheritance of a thousand years.
Something, however, had to be done, and I recognized the fact that I
was out of the beaten track of tourists, and that if I had to stay here
a week, on the prudence of my first step depended the consideration
I should receive. It would not do to be hasty. I had a friend with
me which had stood me in good stead before, and I applied to it now.
Walking slowly up to the largest, and one of the oldest men in the
group, I drew out my pipe and a bag of old Virginia tobacco, free from
any flavor than its own, and filling the pipe, I asked him for a light
in the best phrase-book Norsk I could command. He gave it, and I placed
the bag in his hand and motioned him to fill his pipe. When that was
done I handed the pouch to another, and motioned him to fill and pass
the tobacco around. One by one they took it, and I saw that I had
friends. No man can fill his pipe from another's bag and not wish him
well.
"Does any of you know Olaf of the Mountain?" I asked. I saw at once
that I had made an impression. The mention of that name was evidently a
claim to consideration. There was a general murmur of surprise, and the
group gathered around me. A half-dozen spoke at once.
"He was at L---- last week," they said, as if that fact was an item of
extensive interest.
"I want to go there," I said, and then was, somehow, immediately
conscious that I had made a mistake. Looks were exchanged and some
words were spoken among my friends, as if they were oblivious of my
presence.
"You cannot go there. None goes there but at night," said one,
suggestively.
"Who goes over the mountain comes no more," said another, as if he
quoted a proverb, at which there was a faint intimation of laughter on
the part of several.
My first adviser undertook a long explanation, but though he labored
faithfully I could make out no more than that it was something about
"Elsket" and "the Devil's Ledge," and men who had disappeared. This
was a new revelation. What object had my friend? He had never said a
word of this. Indeed, he had, I now remembered, said very little at
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A LIST OF
_KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO.'S
PUBLICATIONS_.
_1, Paternoster Square, London_.
A LIST OF
KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
GENERAL LITERATURE 2
PARCHMENT LIBRARY 18
PULPIT COMMENTARY 21
INTERNATIONAL SCIENTIFIC SERIES 30
MILITARY WORKS 33
POETRY 35
NOVELS AND TALES 41
BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG 43
GENERAL LITERATURE.
_A. K. H. B._--From a Quiet Place. A Volume of Sermons. Crown 8vo,
5_s._
_ALEXANDER, William, D.D., Bishop of Derry._--The Great Question, and
other Sermons. Crown 8vo, 6_s._
_ALLIES, T. W., M.A._--Per Crucem ad Lucem. The Result of a Life. 2
vols. Demy 8vo, 25_s._
A Life's Decision. Crown 8vo, 7_s._ 6_d._
_AMHERST, Rev. W. J._--The History of Catholic Emancipation and the
Progress of the Catholic Church in the British Isles (chiefly in
England) from 1771-1820. 2 vols. Demy 8vo, 24_s._
_AMOS, Professor Sheldon._--The History and Principles of the Civil Law
of Rome. An aid to the Study of Scientific and Comparative
Jurisprudence. Demy 8vo, 16_s._
Ancient and Modern Britons. A Retrospect. 2 vols. Demy 8vo, 24_s._
_ARISTOTLE._--The Nicomachean Ethics of Aristotle. Translated by F. H.
Peters, M.A. Third Edition. Crown 8vo, 6_s._
_AUBERTIN, J. J._--A Flight to Mexico. With 7 full-page Illustrations
and a Railway Map of Mexico. Crown 8vo, 7_s._ 6_d._
Six Months in Cape Colony and Natal. With Illustrations and
Map. Crown 8vo, 6_s._
Aucassin and Nicolette. Edited in Old French and rendered in Modern
English by F. W. BOURDILLON. Fcap 8vo, 7_s._ 6_d._
_AUCHMUTY, A. C._--Dives and Pauper, and other Sermons. Crown 8vo,
3_s._ 6_d._
_AZARIUS, Brother._--Aristotle and the Christian Church. Small crown
8vo, 3_s._ 6_d._
_BADGER, George Percy, D.C.L._--An English-Arabic Lexicon. In which the
equivalent for English Words and Idiomatic Sentences are rendered into
literary and colloquial Arabic. Royal 4to, 80_s._
_BAGEHOT, Walter._--The English Constitution. Fourth Edition. Crown
8vo, 7_s._ 6_d._
Lombard Street. A Description of the Money Market. Eighth
Edition. Crown 8vo, 7_s._ 6_d._
Essays on Parliamentary Reform. Crown 8vo, 5_s._
Some Articles on the Depreciation of Silver, and Topics
connected with it. Demy 8vo, 5_s._
_BAGOT, Alan, C.E._--Accidents in Mines: their Causes and Prevention.
Crown 8vo, 6_s._
The Principles of Colliery Ventilation. Second Edition,
greatly enlarged. Crown 8vo, 5_s._
The Principles of Civil Engineering as applied to
Agriculture and Estate Management. Crown 8vo, 7_s._ 6_d._
_BAIRD, Henry M._--The Huguenots and Henry of Navarre. 2 vols. With
Maps. 8vo, 24_s._
_BALDWIN, Capt. J. H._--The Large and Small Game of Bengal and the
North-Western Provinces of India. With 20 Illustrations. New and
Cheaper Edition. Small 4to, 10_s._ 6_d._
_BALL, John, F.R.S._--Notes of a Naturalist in South America. With Map.
Crown 8vo, 8_s._ 6_d._
_BALLIN, Ada S. and F. L._--A Hebrew Grammar. With Exercises selected
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_BARCLAY, Edgar._--Mountain Life in Algeria. With numerous
Illustrations by Photogravure. Crown 4to, 16_s._
_BASU, K. P., M.A._--Students' Mathematical Companion. Containing
problems in Arithmetic, Algebra, Geometry, and Mensuration, for
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_WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
JULES SANDEAU. LA ROCHE AUX MOUETTES (Extracts). [_Nutt’s Short
French Readers, 6d._]
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER. VOYAGE EN ITALIE. [_Cambridge University
Press, 3s._]
ÉMILE SOUVESTRE. LE PHILOSOPHE SOUS LES TOITS (Extracts).
[_Blackie’s Little French Classics, 4d._]
PIERRE CŒUR. L’ÂME DE BEETHOVEN. [_Siepmann’s French Series.
Macmillan, 2s._]
FRENCH IDIOMS AND PROVERBS
“_Omne epigramma sit instar apis; sit aculeus illi,
Sint sua mella, sit et corporis exigui._”
MARTIAL.
[Thus Englished by Archbishop Trench:
“_Three things must epigrams, like bees, have all;
Its sting, its honey, and its body small._”]
[And thus by my friend, Mr. F. Storr:
“_An epigram’s a bee: ’tis small, has wings
Of wit, a heavy bag of humour, and it stings._”]
“_Celebre dictum, scita quapiam novitate insigne._”
ERASMUS.
“_The genius, wit, and spirit of a nation are discovered in its
proverbs._”--BACON.
“_The people’s voice the voice of God we call;
And what are proverbs but the people’s voice?_”
JAMES HOWELL.
“_What oft was thought, but ne’er so well expressed._”
POPE, _Essay on Criticism_.
“_The wit of one man, the wisdom of many._”--Lord JOHN RUSSELL
(_Quarterly Review_, Sept. 1850).
FRENCH IDIOMS AND PROVERBS
A COMPANION TO DESHUMBERT’S
“DICTIONARY OF DIFFICULTIES”
BY
DE V. PAYEN-PAYNE
PRINCIPAL OF KENSINGTON COACHING COLLEGE
ASSISTANT EXAMINER TO THE UNIVERSITY OF LONDON
_FOURTH REVISED AND ENLARGED EDITION_
[Fifth Thousand]
LONDON
DAVID NUTT, 57-59 LONG ACRE
1905
“_Tant ayme on chien qu’on le nourrist,
Tant court chanson qu’elle est aprise,
Tant garde on fruit qu’il se pourrist,
Tant bat on place qu’elle est prise.
Tant tarde on que faut entreprise,
Tant se haste on que mal advient,
Tant embrasse on que chet la prise,
Tant crie l’on Noel qu’il vient._”
VILLON, _Ballade des Proverbes_.
PREFACE
In this edition I have endeavoured to keep down additions as much
as possible, so as not to overload the book; but I have not been
sparing in adding cross-references (especially in the Index) and
quotations from standard authors. These quotations seldom give
the first occasion on which a proverb has been used, as in most
cases it is impossible to find it.
I have placed an asterisk before all recognised proverbs; these
will serve as a first course for those students who do not wish
to read through the whole book at once. In a few cases I have
added explanations of English proverbs; during the eleven years
I have been using the book I have frequently found that pupils
were, for instance, as ignorant of “to bell the cat” as they were
of “attacher le grelot.”
I must add a warning to students who use the book when
translating into French. They must not use expressions marked
“familiar” or “popular” except when writing in a familiar or
low-class style. I have included these forms, because they are
often heard in conversation, but they are seldom met with in
serious French literature. A few blank pages have been added at
the end for additions. Accents have been placed on capitals to
aid the student; they are usually omitted in French printing.
In conclusion, I have to thank Mr. W. G. Lipscomb, M.A.,
Headmaster of Bolton Grammar School, Mr. E. Latham, and
especially M. Georges Jamin of the École Lavoisier, Paris, for
valuable suggestions; while M. Marius Deshumbert, and Professor
Walter Rippmann, in reading through the proof sheets, have made
many corrections and additions of the greatest value, for which I
owe them my sincere gratitude.
DE V. PAYEN-PAYNE.
AUTHORITIES CONSULTED
BELCHER, H., and DUPUIS, A., “Manuel aux examens.” London, 1885.
BELCOUR, G., “English Proverbs.” London, 1888.
BOHN, H. G., “Handbook of Proverbs.” London, 1855.
CATS, JACOB, and FAIRLIE, R., “Moral Emblems.” London, 1860.
DUPLESSIS, M. GRATET, “La fleur des Proverbes français.” Paris,
1851.
FURETIÈRE, A., “Dictionnaire universel.” La Haye, 1727.
GÉNIN, F., “Récréations philologiques.” Paris, 1856.
HOWELL, JAMES, “Lexicon Tetraglotton.” London, 1660.
KARCHER, T., “Questionnaire français.” Seventh Edition. London,
1886.
LACURNE DE STE. PALAYE, “Dictionnaire historique de l’ancien
langage françois.” Paris, 1875-82.
LARCHEY, LORÉDAN, “Nos vieux Proverbes.” Paris, 1886.
LAROUSSE, P., “Grand Dictionnaire universel du xix^e siècle.”
1865-76.
LE ROUX DE LINCY, A. J., “Livre des Proverbes français.” 2^e
édition. Paris, 1859.
LITTRÉ, E., “Dictionnaire de la langue française.” Paris,
1863-72.
LOUBENS, D., “Proverbes de la langue française.” Paris, 1889.
MARTIN, ÉMAN, “Le Courrier de Vaugelas.” Paris, 1868.
QUITARD, P. M., “Dictionnaire étymologique des Proverbes.” Paris,
1842.
QUITARD, P. M., “Études sur les Proverbes français.” Paris, 1860.
RIGAUD, LUCIEN, “Argot moderne.” Paris, 1881.
TARVER, J. C., “Phraseological Dictionary.” London, 1854.
TRENCH, R. C., “Proverbs and their Lessons.” Sixth Edition.
London, 1869.
_Quarterly Review._ July 1868.
_Notes and Queries._ _Passim._
FRENCH IDIOMS AND PROVERBS
_Expressions to which an Asterisk is prefixed are Proverbs._
A.
A
_Il ne sait ni A ni B_ = He does not know B from a bull’s foot;
He cannot read; He is a perfect ignoramus.
_Être marqué à l’A_ = To stand high in the estimation of others.
[This expression is supposed to have originated in the custom of
stamping French coin with different letters of the alphabet. The
mark of the Paris Mint was an “A,” and its coins were supposed
to be of a better quality than those stamped at provincial
towns. But as this custom only began in 1418 by command of the
Dauphin, son of Charles VI., and as the saying was known long
previous, it is more probable that its origin is to be sought in
the pre-eminence that A has always held in all Aryan languages,
and that the French have borrowed it from the Romans. Compare
MARTIAL, ii. 57, and our A i, at Lloyd’s.]
Abandon
_Tout est à l’abandon_ = Everything is at sixes and sevens, in
utter neglect, in confusion.
[Also: _Tout va à la dérive._]
Abattre
*_Petite pluie abat grand vent_ = A little rain lays much dust;
Often quite a trifle calms a torrent of wrath.
[Compare: “Hi motus animorum atque haec certamina tanta Pulveris
exigui jactu compressa quiescunt.”
VERGIL, _Georgics_, iv. 86-7.]
_Abattre de l’ouvrage_ = To get through a great deal of work.
Aboi
_Être aux abois_ = To be reduced to the last extremity; To be at
bay.
[Compare BOILEAU: “Dès que j’y veux rêver, ma veine est aux
abois.”]
Abondance
*_Abondance de biens ne nuit pas_ = Store is no sore; One cannot
have too much of a good thing.
_Parler avec abondance_ = To speak fluently.
_Parler d’abondance_ = To speak extempore.
Abonder
_Il abonde dans mon sens_ = He is entirely of the same opinion as
I am; He has come round to my opinion.
Abord
_Il a l’abord rude, mais il s’adoucit bientôt_ = He receives you
roughly at first, but that soon passes off.
_A_ (or, _De_) _prime abord_ = At first sight; At the first blush.
Aboutir
_Les pourparlers n’ont pas abouti_ = The preliminary negotiations
led to nothing.
Absent
*“_Les absents ont toujours tort_” = When absent, one is never in
the right.
“When a man’s away,
Abuse him you may.”
[NÉRICAULT-DESTOUCHES, _L’obstacle imprévu_, i. 6.]
Absurde
_L’homme absurde est celui qui ne change jamais_ = The wise man
changes his opinion--the fool never.
[BARTHÉLEMY, _Palinode_. 1832.]
Accommodement
_Il est avec le ciel des accommodements_ = One can arrange things
with heaven.
[Compare MOLIÈRE, _Tartufe_, iv. 5:
“Le ciel défend, de vrai, certains contentements,
Mais on trouve avec lui des accommodements.”
The scene in which Orgon, hidden beneath the table, learns
Tartufe’s hypocrisy.]
_Un méchant accommodement est mieux que le meilleur procès_ = A
bad arrangement is better than the best lawsuit.
Accommoder
_Je l’accommoderai comme il faut_ = I will give him a good hiding.
_Il s’accommode de tout_ = He is satisfied with everything; He is
easy to please.
Accord
_D’accord_ = Granted.
Accorder
_Accordez mieux vos flûtes, si vous voulez réussir_ = You must
agree better among yourselves if you wish to succeed.
[Generally in bad sense. “Mettez, pour me jouer, vos flûtes mieux
d’accord.”--MOLIÈRE, _L’Etourdi_, i. 4.]
_S’accorder comme chien et chat_ = To live a cat and dog life.
Accoutumer
_Chose accoutumée n’est pas fort prisée_ = Familiarity breeds
contempt.
[The Latin version of a sentence in PLUTARCH’S _Morals_ runs:
“Nimia familiaritas contemptum parit.”
Fais feste au chien, il te gastera ton habit.
“Jamais trop compagnon à nul ne te feras
Car bien que moins de joye moins d’ennuy tu auras.”]
Accrocher
_Un homme qui se noie s’accroche à tout_ = A drowning man catches
at a straw.
_Il a accroché sa montre_ (pop.) = He has “popped” his watch.
[Other popular synonyms are the following:--
_Il a mis sa montre au clou_ (pop.) = His watch is up the spout.
_J’ai porté ma montre chez ma tante_ (pop.) = My watch is at my
uncle’s.]
Acheter
_Acheter à vil prix_ = To buy dirt cheap, for a mere song.
_Acheter chat en poche_ = To buy a pig in a poke.
_Acheter par francs et vendre par écus_ = To buy in the cheapest
market and sell in the dearest; To sell at a high profit.
Achever
_C’est un voleur achevé_ = He is an arrant thief.
Achoppement
_La pierre d’achoppement_ = The stumbling-block.
Acquérir
*_Le bien mal acquis ne profite jamais_ = Ill-gotten gains
benefit no one; Cheats never prosper; Ill got, ill spent.
Acquit
_Faire quelque chose par manière d’acquit_ = To do something for
form’s sake, perfunctorily.
[This is a shortened form of _faire quelque chose pour l’acquit
de sa conscience_ = to do something to satisfy one’s conscience.]
_Donner l’acquit_ = To break (at billiards).
_Pour acquit_ = Received (on bills).
Acte
_Faire acte de présence_ = To put in an appearance.
Adieu
_Sans adieu_ = I shall not say good-bye; I shall see you again
soon.
[“Adieu” is shortened from “Je vous recommande à la grâce de
Dieu.” Comp. “Sans adieu, chevalier, je crois que nous nous
reverrons bientôt.”--LESAGE.]
Adresse
_Le trait est arrivé à son adresse_ = The shaft (_or_, arrow) hit
the mark; He took the hint.
Adresser
_Vous vous adressez mal_; _Vous vous adressez bien_ (ironic.) =
You have come to the wrong person; You have mistaken your man.
Advenir
*_Advienne que pourra_ = Happen what may.
Affaire
_Cela fera parfaitement l’affaire_ = That will do capitally; That
will suit down to the ground.
_C’est son affaire_ = That is his business, his look-out.
_Ça, c’est mon affaire_ = That is my business; It is no business
of yours.
_Il est sûr de son affaire_ = He will pay for it; He will catch
it.
_Je ne dis pas mes affaires aux autres_ = I do not tell others my
plans (_or_ business); I keep my concerns to myself.
_J’entends votre affaire_ = I see what is to be done for you.
_Ils parlent affaires_ = They are talking business.
_Ils parlent boutique_ = They are talking shop.
_C’est une triste affaire_ = It is a sad business.
_S’attirer une mauvaise affaire_ = To get into a mess, scrape.
_Quand on a de l’esprit, on se tire d’affaire_ = When one has
brains, one gets out of any difficulty.
[Distinguish between _se tirer_ and _s’attirer_.]
_Si quelque affaire t’importe, ne la fais pas par procureur_ = If
you want a thing done, do it yourself.
_L’affaire a été chaude_ = It was warm work (referring to a
fight).
_Une affaire d’honneur_ = A duel.
_Où sont mes affaires?_ = Where are my things?
_Les affaires ne vont pas (ne marchent pas)_ = Trade is dull,
slack.
_Je suis dans les affaires_ = I am in business.
[“Les affaires? C’est bien simple, c’est l’argent des
autres.”--ALEX. DUMAS fils, _La Question d’Argent_, ii. 7.]
_Mêlez-vous de vos affaires_ = Mind your own business.
_Avoir affaire_ = To be occupied.
_Avoir affaire à quelqu’un_ = To have to speak to (to deal with)
a person.
[Sometimes as a threat: _Il aura affaire à moi_ = He will have to
deal with me.]
_Avoir affaire de quelqu’un_ = To need a person.
[“J’ai affaire de vous, ne vous éloignez pas.”]
_Avoir son affaire_ = To have what suits one. _J’ai mon affaire_
= I have found what I want. _J’ai votre affaire_ = I have got the
very thing for you. _Il aura son affaire_ (ironic.) = He will
catch it.
_C’est toute une affaire_ = It is a serious matter; It means a
lot of bother (_or_, trouble).
_C’est une affaire faite_ = It is as good as done.
_Son affaire est faite_ = He is a dead man (of one dying); He is
done for; He is a ruined man.
_Faire son affaire_ = (of oneself) To succeed. _Il fait tout
doucement son affaire_ = He is getting on slowly but surely. (Of
others) To punish. _S’il le rencontre, il lui fera son affaire_ =
If he meets him he will give it to him, will “do” for him.
_Il a fait ses affaires dans les vins_ = He made his money in the
wine trade.
_J’en fais mon affaire_ = I will take the responsibility of the
matter; I will see to it; I will take it in hand.
_Vous avez fait là une belle affaire_ (ironic.) = You have made a
pretty mess of it.
_Une affaire de rien_ = A mere nothing, a trifle.
_Il est hors d’affaire_ = He is out of danger.
_Être au dessous de ses affaires, être au dessus de ses affaires_
(ironic.) = To be unable to meet one’s liabilities, to be
unsuccessful.
_Quelle affaire! En voilà une affaire!_ (ironic.) = What a to-do!
What a row about nothing!
_La belle affaire!_ = Is that all? (_i.e._ it is not so difficult
or important as you seem to think).
_Il n’y a point de petites affaires_ = Every trifle is of
importance.
_Ceux qui n’ont point d’affaires s’en font_ = Those who have no
troubles invent them; Idle people make business for themselves.
_Les affaires sont les affaires_ = Business is business; One must
be serious at work.
_Ce scandale sera l’affaire de huit jours_ = That scandal will be
a nine days’ wonder.
_Dieu nous garde d’un homme qui n’a qu’une affaire_ = God save us
from the man of one idea.
[Because he is always talking of it, and tires every one. Compare
“Beware of the man of one book.”]
_Chacun sait ses affaires_ = Every one knows his own business
best.
*_A demain les affaires sérieuses_ = I will not be bothered with
business to-day; Time enough for business to-morrow.
[The saying of Archias, governor of Thebes, on receiving a letter
from Athens warning him of the conspiracy of Pelopidas; he would
not even open the letter. Soon after, the conspirators rushed in
and murdered him and his friends as they were feasting.]
_Il vaut mieux avoir affaire à Dieu qu’à ses saints_ = It is
better to deal with superiors than subordinates.
[Two quotations from La Fontaine are proverbial:--
“On ne s’attendait guère
A voir Ulysse en cette affaire.”
_La Tortue et les deux Canards._
“Le moindre grain de mil
Serait bien mieux mon affaire.”
_Le Coq et la Perle._]
Affamer
*_Ventre affamé n’a point d’oreilles_ = A hungry man will not
listen to reason.
[LA FONTAINE, _Fables_, ix. 18.]
Afficher
_Défense d’afficher_ = Stick no bills.
_C’est un homme qui s’affiche_ = He is a man who tries to get
talked about (generally in a disparaging sense).
[_Être affiché_ is also said of a man who has been “posted” at
his club.]
Affront
_Faire affront à quelqu’un_ = To shame some one in public.
_Le fils fait affront à sa famille_ = The son is a disgrace to
his family.
_Boire_ (_essuyer_ or _avaler_) _un affront_ = To pocket an
insult.
Affût
_Être à l’affût_ = To be watching for a favourable opportunity;
To be on the look-out. (See _Aguets_.)
Âge
_Il est entre deux âges_ = He is middle-aged.
_Il est président d’âge_ = He is chairman by seniority.
_Le bas âge_ = Infancy.
_Le bel âge_ = Childhood; youth.
[Some idea is generally understood after _le bel âge_. Thus
“childhood” is not always the right translation. For an author
_le bel âge_ would be after thirty, for a politician later still,
and so on. Chicaneau, in Racine’s _Plaideurs_, calls sixty _le
bel âge pour plaider_ (i. 7).]
_La fleur de l’âge_ = The prime of life.
_Le moyen âge_ = The Middle Ages.
Agir
_Il s’agit de_... = The question is...; The point is...
_Il s’agit de votre vie_ = Your life is at stake.
_Il ne s’agit pas de cela_ = That is not the point.
_Il s’agit bien de cela_ (ironic.) = That is quite a secondary
consideration.
Agiter
_Qui s’agite s’enrichit_ = If you wish to get rich, you must work
(hustle); No pains, no gains.
Agonie
_Même à travers l’agonie la passion dominante se fait voir_ = The
ruling passion is strong in death.
[“Elle a porté ses sentiments jusqu’à l’agonie.”--BOSSUET.
“And you, brave Cobham! to the latest breath
Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death.”
POPE, _Moral Essays_, i. 262.]
Aguets
_Il est aux aguets_ = He is on the watch; He is in ambush. (See
_Affût_.)
Aide
*_Un peu d’aide fait grand bien_ = Many hands make light work.
Aider
_Bon droit a besoin d’aide_ = Even a good cause needs support.
*_Aide-toi, le ciel t’aidera_ = God helps those who help
themselves.
[LA FONTAINE, _Fables_, vi. 18, _Le Chartier embourbé_, copying
RÉGNIER, Sat. xiii.:
“Aydez vous seulement et Dieu vous aydera.”
Lat.: Dii facientes adjuvant.
ÆSCHYLUS, _Persae_, 742: Σπεύδοντι σαυτῷ χῶ θεὸς ξυνάψεται.
SOPHOCLES, _Camicii_, frag. 633, in Dindorf’s edition: Οὐκ ἐστι
τοῖς μή δρῶσι σύμμαχος Τύχη.
Another Greek saying was: Σύν, Αθηνᾷ καὶ χείρα κίνει = With
Minerva on your side, yet use your own hand.
Cromwell is reported to have said at the battle of Dunbar: “Trust
in God, but keep your powder dry.”
The Basques say: “Quoique Dieu soit bon ouvrier, il veut qu’on
l’aide.”]
Aiguille
_De fil en aiguille_ = Bit by bit; One thing leading to another.
[“De propos en propos et de fil en eguille.”--RÉGNIER, Sat. xiii.]
_Raconter de fil en aiguille_ = To tell the whole | 1,445.497603 |
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THE COMFORTS OF HOME
OTHER ATLANTIC BOOKS
ATLANTIC CLASSICS, _First Series_ $1.25
ATLANTIC CLASSICS, _Second Series_ $1.25
HEADQUARTERS NIGHTS.
By _Vernon Kellogg_ $1.00
THE WAR AND THE SPIRIT OF YOUTH.
By _Maurice Barres_ and Others $1.00
SHOCK AT THE FRONT.
By _William Townsend Porter_ $1.25
PAN-GERMANY: THE DISEASE AND CURE
AND A PLAN FOR THE ALLIES.
By _Andre Cheradame_ $.35
ESSAYS AND ESSAY WRITING.
Edited by _William M. Tanner_ $1.00
ATLANTIC NARRATIVES.
Edited by _Charles Swain Thomas_ $1.00
THE PROFESSION OF JOURNALISM.
Edited by _Willard G. Bleyer_ $1.00
THE ASSAULT ON HUMANISM.
By _Paul Shorey_ $.60
THE AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING.
By _A. E. Newton_ (in preparation)
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS
BOSTON
_The_
COMFORTS _of_ HOME
BY
RALPH BERGENGREN
[Illustration: colophon]
The Atlantic Monthly Press
Boston
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS, INC.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
Thoughts While Getting Settled 1
Praise of Open Fires 16
Furnace and I 29
No Stairs--No Attic 41
Concerning Kitchens 56
The Plumber Appreciated 68
The Home of the Porcelain Tub 81
At Home in the Guest Chamber 95
THOUGHTS WHILE GETTING SETTLED
PROPERLY speaking, the new house was old. A hundred years and more had
gone over its chimney,--down which, as we were to discover later, a
hundred flies and more would come when the open fires had warmed
it,--and within doors it would have charmed any amateur of the Colonial
by the antiquity of its furnishings. Temporarily it belonged to me, my
executors, administrators, and assigns. But there were limits to our
possession. None of us might 'permit any hole to be drilled or made in
the stone or brick-work of said building'; no'sign or placard' might we
place upon it; we might not 'over-load, damage, or deface' it; nor might
we 'carry on any unlawful, improper, noisy, or offensive trade' in it.
We had admitted that the glass was whole and in good order, and bound
ourselves to keep it good, unless broken by fire, with glass of the same
kind and quality. In case I became bankrupt I had agreed that the owner,
the owner's executors, the owner's administrators, and the owner's
assigns should treat me with every form of ignominy that the law has yet
invented to make bankruptcy more distressing. Nor could I hold them
responsible if our guests fell down the cellar stairs; although there I
think they would be morally responsible, for a steeper flight of cellar
stairs I simply cannot imagine.
Of all documents there is hardly another so common as a lease, or more
suspicious. Observe the lessor--a benevolent, dignified, but cautious
person! Observe the lessee--a worm with criminal tendencies! Perhaps he
is a decent sort of worm, but the lessor had better look out for him.
Very likely he will commit murders in the dining-room, read the _Contes
Drolatiques_ in the library, play bass-drum solos in the parlor, and
start a piggery in the cellar. One suspects that possibly the great army
of hoboes is partly recruited from among supersensitive men who read
their leases before signing them and preferred vagabondage to insult.
But some of us control our sensitiveness. I, for example, read my lease;
and when, having agreed mentally to post no placard myself, I discovered
a clause allowing the lessor to decorate my residence with the
information that it was
FOR SALE
_I crossed that clause out!_
Observe the worm turning!
It was the dining-room that had won us, formerly the kitchen and still
complete--with the brick oven; the crane; the fat, three-legged pots and
spider; a thing that, after much debate, we think must have been a
bread-toaster; and a kind of overgrown curry-comb with which, so we
imagine, the original dwellers were wont to rake the hot ashes from the
brick oven. Also a warming-pan. And although these objects charm me, and
I delight to live with them, I cannot but wonder whether a hundred years
from now there may not be persons to furnish their dining-rooms with
just such a stove as stands at present in my real kitchen; and perhaps
to suspend beside it one of those quaint contraptions with which the
jolly old chaps in the early twentieth century used to kill flies. I
hear in imagination the host of that period explaining the implement to
his wondering guests,--being expert in such matters, he will produce | 1,445.600124 |
2023-11-16 18:41:09.5802890 | 88 | 15 |
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THE
Defence of Stonington
(CONNECTICUT)
AGAINST A BRITISH SQUADRON,
AUGUST 9TH TO 12TH, 1814.
"Vixere | 1,445.600329 |
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THE
CHIEF MATE'S YARNS
_TWELVE TALES OF THE SEA_
BY
CAPT. MAYN CLEW GARNETT
[Illustration]
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1911, 1912, BY
STREET & SMITH
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
_The White Ghost of Disaster_
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE WHITE GHOST OF DISASTER 5
THE LIGHT AHEAD 42
THE WRECK OF THE "RATHBONE" 76
THE AFTER BULKHEAD 105
CAPTAIN JUNARD 123
IN THE WAKE OF THE ENGINE 148
IN THE HULL OF THE "HERALDINE" 172
A TWO-STRANDED YARN--PART I 198
A TWO-STRANDED YARN--PART II 234
AT THE END OF THE DRAG-ROPE 263
PIRATES TWAIN 279
THE JUDGMENT OF MEN 310
ON GOING TO SEA 333
THE WHITE GHOST OF DISASTER
We had been sitting in at the game for more than an hour, and no life
had entered it. The thoughts of all composing that little group of five
in the most secluded corner of the ship's smoking room were certainly
not on the game, and three aces lay down to fours up.
The morose and listless ship's officer out of a berth, although he
spoke little--if at all--seemed to put a spell of uneasiness and unrest
on the party. The others did not know him or his history; but his looks
spelled disaster and misfortune.
At last Charlie Spangler, the noted journalist, keen for a story or
two, threw down his cards, exclaiming: "Let's quit. None of us is less
uneasy than the rest of the ship's passengers."
"Yes," chimed in Arthur Linch, the noted stock-broker. "We have
endeavored to banish the all-pervading thought, 'will the ship arrive
safely without being wrecked,' and have failed miserably. Cards will
not do it." This seemed to express the sentiments of everybody except
the morose mariner, whose thoughts nobody could read or fathom. He sat
there, deep in his chair, gazing at a scene or scenes none of us could
see or appreciate.
"Well! Since we cannot take our thoughts off'shipwreck,' we may as
well discuss the subject and ease our minds," added the journalist
again, still hot on the scent of the possible story which he felt that
the ship's officer hoarded.
The mariner, however, did not respond to this, and continued with his
memories, apparently oblivious of our presence.
Under the leadership of the journalist the discussion waxed warm for
some time, until the stock-broker, ever solicitous for the welfare of
the stock-market and conforming his opinions thereto, exclaimed loudly:
"The officers and the crew were not responsible for the collision with
the berg. It was an 'act of God!' and as such we are daily taking
chances with it. What will be, will be. We cannot escape Destiny!"
"Destiny be damned!" came like a thunderbolt from the heretofore
silent mariner, and we all looked to see the face now full of rage and
passion. "What do you know of the sea, you land pirate? What do you
know of sea dangers and responsibility for the safety of human lives?
Man! you're crazy. There is no such thing as Destiny at sea. A seaman
knows what to expect when he takes chances. If you call that an 'act of
God,' you deserve to have been there and submitted to it."
The face of Charlie Spangler was glowing. His heart beat so fast when
he heard this sea clam open up, that he was afraid it might overwork
and stop. "Our friend is right!" he exclaimed. "I infer that he speaks
from knowledge and experience. We are hardly qualified to discuss such
matters properly.
"You have something on your mind, friend. Unburden it to us. We are
sympathetic, you know. Our position here makes us so," saying which,
Spangler filled the mariner's half-empty glass and looked at him with
sympathy streaming out of his trained eyes. We all nodded our assent.
Having fortified himself with the contents of the glass before him, the
mariner spoke: "Yes, gentlemen, I am going to speak from knowledge and
experience. It was my luck to be aboard of the vessel which had the
shortest of lives, but which will live in the memory of man for many a
year.
"It is my misfortune to be one of its surviving officers. I am going
to give you the facts as they happened this last time, and a few other
times besides. It is the experiences through which I have passed that
make me wish I had gone down with the last one. I must now live on with
memories, indelibly stamped on my brain, which I would gladly forget.
Your attention, gentlemen--"
* * * * *
Captain Brownson came upon the bridge. It was early morning, and the
liner was tearing through a smooth sea in about forty-three north
latitude. The sun had not yet risen, but the gray of the coming
daylight showed a heaving swell that rolled with the steadiness that
told of a long stretch of calm water behind it. The men of the
morning watch showed their pale faces white with that peculiar pallor
which comes from the loss of the healthful sleep between midnight and
morning. It was the second mate's watch, and that officer greeted the
commander as he came to the bridge rail where the mate stood staring
into the gray ahead.
"See anything?" asked the master curtly.
"No, sir--but I smell it--feel it," said the mate, without turning his
head.
"What?" asked Brownson.
"Don't you feel it?--the chill, the--well, it's ice, sir--ice, if I
know anything."
"Ice?" snarled the captain. "You're crazy! What's the matter with you?"
"Oh, very well--you asked me--I told you--that's all."
The captain snorted. He disliked the second officer exceedingly. Mr.
Smith had been sent him by the company at the request of the manager of
the London office. He had always picked his own men, and he resented
the office picking them for him. Besides, he had a nephew, a passenger
aboard, who was an officer out of a berth.
"What the devil do they know of a man, anyhow! I'm the one responsible
for him. I'm the one, then, to choose him. They won't let me shift
blame if anything happens, and yet they sent me a man I know nothing of
except that he is young and strong. I'll wake him up some if he stays
here." So he had commented to Mr. Wylie, the chief mate. Mr. Wylie had
listened, thought over the matter, and nodded his head sagely.
"Sure," he vouchsafed; "sure thing." That was as much as any one
ever got out of Wylie. He was not a talkative mate. Yet when he knew
Smith better, he retailed the master's conversation to him during a
spell of generosity engendered by the donation of a few highballs by
Macdowell, the chief engineer. Smith thanked him--and went his way
as before, trying to do the best he could. He did not shirk duty on
that account. Wylie insisted that the captain was right. A master was
responsible, and it was always customary for him to pick his men as far
as possible. Besides, as Wylie had learned from Macdowell, Brownson had
a nephew in view that would have filled the berth about right--so Wylie
thought--and Smith was a nuisance. Smith had taken it all in good part,
and smiled. He liked Wylie.
Brownson sniffed the air hungrily as he stood there at the bridge rail.
The air was chilly, but it was always chilly in that latitude even in
summer.
"How does she head?" he asked savagely of the man at the steam-steering
gear. The man spoke through the pilot-house window in a monotone:
"West--three degrees south, sir."
"That's west--one south by standard?" snapped Brownson.
"Yes, sir," said Smith.
"Let her go west--two south by binnacle--and mark the time accurately,"
ordered Brownson.
He would shift her a bit. The cool air seemed to come from the
northward. It was as if a door in an ice box were suddenly opened and
the cold air within let out in a cold, damp mass. A thin haze covered
the sea. The side wash rolled away noisily, and disappeared into the
mist a few fathoms from the ship's side. It seemed to thicken as the
minutes passed.
Brownson was nervous. He went inside the pilot house and spoke to the
engineer through the tube leading to the engine room.
"How is she going?"
"Two hundred and ten, sir; never less than two and five the watch."
"Well, she's going too almighty fast--shut her down to one hundred,"
snapped Brownson. "She's been doing twenty-two knots--it's too
fast--too fast, anyhow, in this weather. Ten knots will do until the
sun scoffs off this mist. Shut her down."
The slowing engines eased their vibrations, and the side wash rolled
less noisily. There was a strange stillness over the sea. The silence
grew as the headway subsided.
The captain listened intently. He felt something.
There is always that strange something that a seaman feels in the
presence of great danger when awake. It has never been explained. But
all good--really good--masters have felt it; can tell you of it if they
will. It is uncanny, but it is as true as gospel. The second officer
had felt it in the air, felt it in his nerves. He felt--_ice_. It was
danger.
Smith stood there watching the haze that seemed to deepen rather than
disperse as the morning grew. The men turned out and the hose was
started, the decks were sluiced down, and the gang with the squeegees
followed. Two bells struck--five o'clock. Smith strained his gaze
straight into the haze ahead. He fixed and refixed his glasses--a pair
of powerful lenses of fifteen lines. He had bought them for fifty
dollars, and always kept them near him while on watch.
A man came up the bridge steps.
"Shall I send up your coffee, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, send it up," said Smith, in a whisper. He was listening.
Something sounded out there in the haze. It was a strange, vibrating
sound, a sort of whispering murmur, soft and low, like the far-away
notes of a harp. Then it ceased. Smith looked at the captain who stood
within the pilot-house window gazing down at the men at work on the
deck below. The noise of the rushing water from the hose and their low
tones seemed to annoy him. They wore rubber boots, and their footsteps
were silent; but he gruffly ordered the bos'n to make them "shut up."
"Better slow her down, sir--there's ice somewhere about here," said the
second mate anxiously. He was thinking of the thousand and more souls
below and the millions in cargo values.
"Who's running this ship--me or you?" snarled Brownson savagely.
It was an unnecessary remark, wholly uncalled for. Smith flushed
under his tan and pallor. He had seldom been spoken to like that. He
would have to stand it; but he would hunt a new ship as soon as he
came ashore again. It was bad enough to be treated like a boy; but to
be talked to that way before the men made it impossible, absolutely
impossible. It meant the end of discipline at once. A man would retail
it, more would repeat it, and--then--Smith turned away from the bridge
rail in utter disgust. He was furious.
"Blast the ship!" he muttered, as he turned away and gazed aft. His
interest was over, entirely over. He would not have heard a gun fired
at that moment, so furious was the passion at the unmerited insolence
from his commander.
And then, as if to give insult to injury, Brownson called down the tube:
"Full speed ahead--give her all she'll do--I'm tired of loafing around
here all the morning." Then he rang up the telegraph, and the sudden
vibrations told of a giant let loose below.
The _Admiral_ started ahead slowly. She was a giant liner, a ship of
eight hundred feet in length. It took some moments to get headway upon
that vast hull. But she started, and in a few minutes the snoring of
the bow wave told of a tearing speed. She was doing twenty-two and a
half knots an hour, or more than twenty-five miles, the speed of a
train of cars.
The under steward came up the bridge steps with the coffee. Smith took
his cup and drank it greedily, almost savagely. He was much hurt. His
feelings had been roughly handled. Yet he had not even answered the
captain back. He took his place at the bridge rail and gazed straight
ahead into the gray mist. He saw nothing, felt nothing, but the pain
of his insult.
"Let him run the ship to hell and back," he said to himself.
There was a puff of colder air than usual. A chill as of death itself
came floating over the silent ocean. A man on lookout stood staring
straight into the mist ahead, and then sang out:
"Something right ahead, sir," he yelled in a voice that carried like
the roar of a gun.
Brownson just seized the lever shutting the compartments, swung it,
jammed it hard over, and screamed:
"Stop her--stop her--hard over your wheel--hard over----"
His voice ended in a vibrating screech that sounded wild, weird,
uncanny in that awful silence. A hundred men stopped in their stride,
or work, paralyzed at the tones coming from the bridge.
And then came the impact.
With a grinding, smashing roar as of thousands of tons coming together,
the huge liner plunged headlong into the iceberg that rose grim and
silent right ahead, towering over her in spite of her great height. The
shock was terrific, and the grinding, thundering crash of falling tons
of ice, coupled with the rending of steel plates and solid planks, made
chaos of all sound.
The _Admiral_ bit in, dug, plowed, kept on going, going, and the
whole forward part of her almost disappeared into the wall of white.
A thousand tons of huge flakes slammed and slid down her decks,
burying her to the fore hatch in the smother. A thousand tons more
crashed, slid, and plunged down the <DW72>s of the icy mountain and
hurled themselves into the sea with giant splashes, sending torrents
of water as high as the bridge rail. The men who had been forward were
swept away by the avalanche. Many were never seen again. And then, with
reversed engines, she finally came to a dead stop, with her bows jammed
a hundred feet deep in the ice wall of the berg.
After that it was panic. All discipline seemed to end in the shock
and struggle. Brownson howled and stormed from the bridge, and Smith
shouted orders and sprang down to enforce them. The chief mate came
on deck in his underclothes and passed the word to man the boats. A
thousand passengers jammed the companionway and strove with panic and
inhuman fury to reach the deck.
One man clad in a night robe gained the outside of the press, and,
running swiftly along the deck, flitted like a ghost over the rail, and
disappeared into the sea. He had gone crazy, violently insane in the
panic.
Brownson tied down the siren cord, and the roar shook the atmosphere.
The tremendous tones rose above the din of screaming men and cursing
seamen; and then the master called down to the heart of the ship, the
engine room.
"Is she going?" he asked.
"Water coming in like through a tunnel," came the response. "Nearly up
to the grates now----"
That was all. The man left the tube to rush on deck, and the captain
knew the forward bulkheads had gone; had either jammed or burst under
that terrific impact. The ship was going down.
Brownson stood upon the bridge and gazed down at the human tide below
him. Men fought furiously for places in the small boats. The fireroom
crew came on deck and mingled with the passengers. The coal dust showed
upon their white faces, making them seem strange beings from an inferno
that was soon to be abolished. They strove for places in the lifeboats
and hurled the weaker passengers about recklessly. Some, on the other
hand, helped the women. One man dragged two women with him into a boat,
kicking, twisting, and roaring like a lion. He was a big fellow with a
red beard, and Brownson watched him. The mate struck him over the head
with a hand spike for refusing to get out of the boat, and his interest
in things ended at once and forever.
The crew, on the whole, behaved well. Officers and men tried to keep
some sort of discipline. Finally six boats went down alongside into
the sea, and were promptly swarmed by the crowds above, who either
slid down the falls or jumped overboard and climbed in from the sides.
The sea was as still as a lake; only the slight swell heaved it. Great
fields of floating particles of ice from the berg floated about, and
those who were drenched in the spray shivered with the cold.
The _Admiral_, running at twenty-two knots an hour, had struck straight
into the wall of an iceberg that reached as far as the eye could see in
the haze. It towered at least three hundred feet in the air, showing
that its depth was colossal, probably at least half a mile. It was a
giant ice mountain that had broken adrift from its northern home, and,
drifting southward, had survived the heat of summer and the breaking of
the sea upon its base.
Smith had felt its dread presence, felt its proximity long before he
had come to close quarters. The chill in the air, the peculiar feeling
of danger, the icy breath of death--all had told him of a danger that
was near. And yet Brownson had scoffed at him, railed at his intuition
and sense. Upon the captain the whole blame of the disaster must fall
if Smith told.
The second officer almost smiled as he struggled with his boat.
"The pig-headed fool!" he muttered between his set teeth. "The
murdering monster--he's done it now! He's killed himself, and a
thousand people along with him----"
Smith fought savagely for the discipline of his boat. His men had
rushed to their stations at the first call. The deck was beginning
to slant dangerously as the falls were slacked off and the lifeboat
lowered into the sea. Smith stood in the press about him and grew
strangely calm. The action was good for him, good for the burning fury
that had warped him, scorched him like a hot blast while he had stood
silently upon the bridge and taken the insults of his commander. Women
pleaded with him for places in the boat. Men begged and took hold of
him. One lady, half clothed, dropped upon her knees and, holding his
hand, which hung at his side, prayed to him as if he were a deity, a
being to whom all should defer. He flung her off savagely.
Bareheaded now, coatless, and with his shirt ripped, he stood there,
and saw his men pass down sixteen women into his craft; pass them down
without comment or favor, age or condition. Thirty souls went into his
boat before he sprang into the falls and slid down himself. A dozen men
tried to follow him, but he shoved off, and they went into the sea. His
men got their oars out and rowed off a short distance.
Muttering, praying, and crying, the passengers in his boat huddled
themselves in her bottom. He spoke savagely to them, ordered them under
pain of death to sit down. One man, who shivered as he spoke, insisted
upon crawling about and shifting his position. Smith struck him over
the head, knocking him senseless. Another, a woman, must stand upon the
thwarts, to get as far away as possible from the dread and icy element
about her. He swung his fist upon her jaw, and she went whimpering down
into the boat's bottom, lying there and sobbing softly.
Furiously swearing at the herd of helpless passengers who endangered
his boat at every movement, he swung the craft's head about and
stood gazing at his ship. After a little while the crowd became more
manageable, and he saw he could keep them aboard without the certainty
of upsetting the craft He had just been debating which of them he
would throw overboard to save the rest; save them from their own
struggling and fighting for their own selfish ends. He was as cold
as steel, hard, inflexible. His men knew him for a ship's officer
who would maintain his place under all hazards, and they watched him
furtively, and were ready to obey him to the end without question.
"Oh, the monster, the murdering monster!" he muttered again and again.
His eyes were fixed upon the bridge. High up there stood Brownson--the
captain who had sent his liner to her death, with hundreds of
passengers.
Brownson stood calmly watching the press gain and lose places in the
boats. Two boats actually overloaded rolled over under the immense
load of human freight. The others did not stop to pick them up. They
had enough to do to save themselves. The ship was sinking. That was
certain. She must have struck so hard that even the'midship bulkheads
gave way, or were so twisted out of place that the doors failed. The
chief engineer came below him and glanced up.
As he did so, a tremendous, roaring blast of steam blew the
superstructure upward. The boilers had gone. Macdowell just gave
Brownson a look. That was all. Then he rushed for a boat.
Brownson grinned; actually smiled at him.
The man at the wheel asked permission to go.
"I'm a married man, sir--it's no use of me staying here any longer," he
ventured.
"Go--go to the devil!" said Brownson, without interest. The man fled.
Brownson stopped giving any more orders. In silence he gazed down
at the press of human beings, watching, debating within himself the
chances they had of getting away from that scene of death and horror.
The decks grew more and more steep. The liner was settling by the
head and to starboard. She was even now twisting, rolling over; and
the motion brought down thousands of blocks of ice from the berg. The
engines had long since stopped. She still held her head against the ice
wall; but it would give her no support. She was slipping away--down to
her grave below.
Brownson gazed back over the decks. He watched the crowd impersonally,
and it seemed strange to him that so much valuable fabric should go to
the bottom so quickly. The paint was so clean and bright, the brass
was so shiny. The whole structure was so thoroughly clean, neat, and
in proper order. It was absurd. There he was standing upon that bridge
where he had stood so often, and here below him were hundreds of dying
people--people like rats in a trap.
"Good Heaven--is it real?"
He was sure he was not awake. It must be a dream. Then the terrible
knowledge came back upon him like a stroke; a blow that stopped his
heart. It was the death of his ship he was watching--the death of his
ship and of many of his passengers. Suddenly Brownson saw the boat of
the second mate, and that officer standing looking up at him.
The master thought he saw the officer's lips move. He wondered what the
man thought, what he would say. He had insulted the officer, made him a
clown before the men. He knew the second mate would not spare him. He
knew the second mate would testify that he had given warning of ice ten
minutes before they struck. He also knew that the man at the wheel had
heard him, as had the steward who brought up the coffee, and one or two
others who were near.
No, there must be no investigation of his, Brownson's, blame in the
matter. The master dared not face that. He looked vacantly at Smith.
The officer stood gazing straight at him.
The liner suddenly shifted, leaned to starboard, heeled far over,
and her bows slipped from the berg, sinking down clear to her decks,
clear down until the seas washed to the foot of her superstructure
just below Brownson. Masses of ice fell from her into the sea. The
grinding, splashing noise awoke the panic again among the remaining
passengers and crew. They strove with maniac fury to get the rafts and
other stuff that might float over the side. Two boats drew away full
to the gunwales with people. The air below began to make that peculiar
whistling sound that tells of pressure--pressure upon the vitals of the
ship. She was going down.
Brownson still stood gazing at his second mate.
Smith met the master's eye with a steady look. Then he suddenly forgot
himself and raised his hand.
"Oh, you murdering rat, you cowardly scoundrel, you devil!" he roared
out.
Brownson saw the movement of the hand, saw that it was vind | 1,445.600424 |
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E-text prepared by Al Haines
Transcriber's note:
The name "Lena" appears several times in this book.
In the original book, the "e" in "Lena" was e-macron.
THE PATH TO HONOUR
by
SYDNEY C. GRIER
Author of
'The Power of the Keys,' 'A Young Man Married,'
Etc., Etc.
William Blackwood and Sons
Edinburgh and London
1909
* * * * * *
NOVELS by SYDNEY C. GRIER
Modern East Series.
The Advanced Guard
His Excellency's English Governess
Peace with Honour
The Warden of the Marches
Balkan Series.
An Uncrowned King
A Crowned Queen
The Kings of the East
The Prince of Captivity
Indian Historical Series.
In Furthest Ind
Like Another Helen
The Great Proconsul
Balkan Series. II.
The Heir
The Heritage
The Power of the Keys
A Young Man Married
Edited by Sydney C. Grier
The Letters of Warren Hastings to his Wife.
* * * * * *
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. "IF IT BE A SIN TO COVET HONOUR----"
II. HER SIDE OF THE CASE
III. THE OLD ORDER AND THE NEW
IV. "A-HUNTING WE WILL GO"
V. GERRARD FINDS FAVOUR
VI. THE CROWNING PROOF
VII. ON GUARD
VIII. THE SUPERFLUOUS CHARTERIS
IX. IN SLIPPERY PLACES
X. THE DOOR IS SHUT
XI. MURDER MOST FOUL
XII. THE ONE WHO WAS TAKEN
XIII. THE ONE WHO WAS LEFT
XIV. THE IDEAL AND THE REAL
XV. MUTTERINGS OF THE STORM
XVI. THE MILD CONCERNS OF ORDINARY LIFE
XVII. THE ISSUES OF AN AWFUL MOMENT
XVIII. THE CAMPAIGN OF VENGEANCE
XIX. AS OTHERS SEE US
XX. A DAY OF VICTORY
XXI. FAINT HEART AND FAIR LADY
XXII. THE TRIUMPH OF THE DEAD
XXIII. RUN TO EARTH
XXIV. HONOUR AND HONOURS
THE PATH TO HONOUR.
CHAPTER I.
"IF IT BE A SIN TO COVET HONOUR----"
The time was towards the close of the 'forties of the nineteenth
century, and the place the city of Ranjitgarh, capital of the great
native state of Granthistan, which was not yet a British possession,
but well on the way to becoming one. This ultimate destiny was
entirely undesired by the powers that were, who had just appointed
Colonel Edmund Antony--a fanatical upholder of native rights, according
to his enemies--as British Resident and protector of the infant prince
occupying the uneasy throne. The task of regenerating Granthi society
from the top, much against its will, and welding its discordant
elements into a peaceful, prosperous, and contented buffer state (the
thing was known, though not as yet the name) against encroaching
Ethiopia on the north, promised to be no easy one, but Colonel Antony
was undertaking it confidently, with the support of two or three of his
brothers and a picked band of assistants drawn from the army and Civil
Service. That moral suasion might be duly backed up by physical force,
ten thousand British and Indian troops, under the command of a
Peninsular veteran, General Sir Arthur Cinnamond, were garrisoning the
citadel of Ranjitgarh and holding the lines of Tej Singh in the
suburbs. The city thus overawed Colonel Antony was wont to call the
wickedest place in Asia, in blissful ignorance of the sins not only of
distant Gamara, but of towns much nearer home. Its streets were filled
with a swaggering disbanded soldiery that had faced the might of
England and the Company in four pitched battles during the last decade,
shameless women peered from its every lattice, and its defence of
religion took the form of frequent bloodthirsty "cow rows," but he saw
in its wickedness no insuperable bar to the success of his policy. In
twelve years or so the British would retire, leaving a reformed nation
to govern itself. Meanwhile, in order to emphasise the transient
nature of the occupation, a Mohammedan tomb served as the English
church, and a single house of moderate size was made to accommodate the
Resident and all his assistants, becoming the scene of as much hard
work and high endeavour as might have sufficed to redeem an empire.
On an inner courtyard of the Residency there looked out a number of
small rooms, each of which was shared by two young men, who had much
ado to bestow themselves and their possessions in the limited space and
the section of verandah that appertained to it. One room was much like
another, with its camp-beds and table, and its miscellaneous assortment
of camel-trunks and tin cases piled up at the back or serving as seats;
and each verandah was graced by two long chairs, usually to be found in
sociable proximity, with a view to the better enjoyment of the
occupants' brief periods of leisure. On one particular verandah,
however, the chairs were placed as far apart as space would permit, and
turned away from each other, so that Lieutenant Robert Charteris and
Lieutenant Henry Gerrard, of the Bengal Fusiliers and the Company's
Engineers respectively, might each delude himself into the thought that
he was alone in his glory. This arrangement was of the newest, but it
was already causing keen delight in the circles which had known the two
young men as inseparable friends. Born no farther apart than the
Rectory and Hall of a country village, they had learnt together under
Gerrard's father, the Rector, entered Addiscombe together, and passed
out at the same time, Gerrard with an array of medals which secured him
one of the coveted commissions in the Engineers, and Charteris,
undistinguished save by proficiency in games and universal popularity,
slipping contentedly into the Infantry. Appointed to the same station,
they had seen a certain amount of active service in company, and
continuing to gain the good opinion of those in high places, Gerrard as
a promising scientific soldier and Charteris as a born leader of men,
had both enjoyed the distinction of being selected by Colonel Antony as
his assistants at Ranjitgarh. But here discord stepped between them in
the fair form of Miss Honour Cinnamond, the youngest daughter of the
General commanding the Division, and after edifying the station for
some time by their ardent rivalry, Charteris and Gerrard were no longer
on speaking terms. The station regarded it as an excellent joke, but
to Colonel Antony, who took life seriously, it was a scandal and a sin,
to be ended at once and peremptorily. Knowing his man, he had on this
particular day announced his ultimatum to Gerrard.
"When is this foolishness going to end?" he asked impatiently, after
the two young men had passed each other in his presence without a sign
of recognition--"this breach between you and Charteris, I mean?"
"I don't know, sir. Perhaps when we get to our districts----"
"I would advise you not to reckon upon that. I am thinking strongly of
sending Charteris back to his regiment."
"But the disgrace, sir!" Gerrard was thunder-struck. "You said
yourself that he was so well fitted for this work. It suits him too,
and no mistake."
Colonel Antony frowned at the slang. "Is it possible that you perceive
any good in him?" he asked coldly.
"Why, sir,"--Gerrard was too much perturbed in mind to attempt to
answer the question,--"he could never go back contentedly to ordinary
subaltern's work after this. He will do something desperate--perhaps
even get transferred to the Bombay side, and volunteer for Khemistan."
He spoke with bated breath, for to the Antony brothers and all their
circle the neighbouring province of Khemistan was a region of outer
darkness, ruled by two fallen angels bearing the names of General Sir
Henry Lennox and Major St George Keeling. It was a point of honour to
assist their labours by harrying them with a constant dropping fire of
minutes and remonstrances, with an occasional round-shot in the shape
of interference on the part of the Supreme Government, deftly
engineered from Ranjitgarh. And the pity of it was that the men thus
thwarted with the purest possible motives were carrying on a similar
work, and in the same spirit, as their opponents, but--and here came
the line of cleavage--on different methods. Colonel Antony's grave
dark face was immovable.
"It is for you to save him if you choose, Gerrard. What! do you think
that I will allow the work here--the regeneration of the Granthi
state--to be endangered by petty, miserable squabbles between my
assistants? I have seen too much of support withheld at critical
moments because one man had a grudge against another. Here we are all
brothers. If Charteris intends to keep up this enmity, he must go."
"But if he is to blame, sir, so am I," confessed Gerrard reluctantly.
"I am glad to hear you say so. There can be no difficulty, then, in
your admitting as much to him. I own I had thought that since you were
more likely to be soon in a position to marry, he was probably the
trespasser on your ground. The young lady favours him, then?"
"No, sir, neither of us." Gerrard spoke bitterly, but Colonel Antony
brought his fist down upon the table with a resounding thud.
"What! you stand on the same footing, neither has cause for jealousy of
the other, and yet this miserable alienation continues? You are indeed
to blame, Gerrard. Go and ask your comrade's pardon, appeal to the
memories of your youth and his, engage with him to bear this common
disappointment as gentlemen, as Christians! No man living has more
cause to be grateful for the blessing of a good wife than I, but I
trust I should have been granted sufficient resolution to live solitary
for ever had I perceived that my happiness was likely to mean a
brother's misery, and imperil the hopes of a nation. You are not
called even to make such a renunciation, since the matter is taken out
of your hands--merely to acquiesce in a decision not your own."
"But if I am to blame, sir, so must Charteris be," protested Gerrard,
feeling, as the Resident's associates not infrequently did, that
Colonel Antony's standard was too high for this wicked world.
"That is quite possible. He believes that you have injured him?"
"I suppose so, sir."
"And he is conscious that he has injured you?"
| 1,445.607362 |
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Produced by Charles Keller and David Widger
JOE THE HOTEL BOY
OR
WINNING OUT BY PLUCK
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
CONTENTS.
I. OUT IN A STORM
II. A MYSTERIOUS CONVERSATION
III. A HOME IN RUINS
IV. THE SEARCH FOR THE BLUE BOX
V. A NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES
VI. AN ACCIDENT ON THE LAKE
VII. BLOWS AND KIND DEEDS
VIII. THE TIMID MR. GUSSING
IX. AN UNFORTUNATE OUTING
X. DAVID BALL FROM MONTANA
XI. A FRUITLESS CHASE
XII. THE PARTICULARS OF A SWINDLE
XIII. OFF FOR THE CITY
XIV. A SCENE ON THE TRAIN
XV. WHAT HAPPENED TO JOSIAH BEAN
XVI. A MATTER OF SIX HUNDRED DOLLARS
XVII. JOE'S NEW POSITION
XVIII. JOE SHOWS HIS MUSCLE
XIX. ONE KIND OF A DUEL
XX. ATTACKED IN THE DARK
XXI. DAYS AT THE HOTEL
XXII. ABOUT SOME MINING SHARES
XXIII. THE FIRE AT THE HOTEL
XXIV. THE BLUE BOX AT LAST
XXV. JOE VISITS CHICAGO
XXVI. HOW A SATCHEL DISAPPEARED
XXVII. JOE MAKES A DISCOVERY
XXVIII. FROM OUT OF A TREE
XXIX. THE FATE OF TWO EVILDOERS
XXX. CONCLUSION
PREFACE.
A number of years ago the author of this story set out to depict life
among the boys of a great city, and especially among those who had to
make their own way in the world. Among those already described are
the ways of newsboys, match boys, peddlers, street musicians, and many
others.
In the present tale are related the adventures of a country lad who,
after living for some time with a strange hermit, goes forth into the
world and finds work, first in a summer hotel and then in a large hotel
in the city. Joe finds his road no easy one to travel, and he has to
face not a few hardships, but in the end all turns out well.
It may be added here that many of the happenings told of in this story,
odd as they may seem, are taken from life. Truth is indeed stranger than
fiction, and life itself is full of romance from start to finish.
If there is a moral to be drawn from this story, it is a twofold one,
namely, that honesty is always the best policy, and that if one wishes
to succeed in life he must stick at his work steadily and watch every
opportunity for advancement.
JOE THE HOTEL BOY.
CHAPTER I.
OUT IN A STORM.
"What do you think of this storm, Joe?"
"I think it is going to be a heavy one, Ned. I wish we were back home,"
replied Joe Bodley, as he looked at the heavy clouds which overhung Lake
Tandy.
"Do you think we'll catch much rain before we get back?" And Ned, who
was the son of a rich man and well dressed, looked at the new suit of
clothes that he wore.
"I'm afraid we shall, Ned. Those black clouds back of Mount Sam mean
something." "If this new suit gets soaked it will be ruined," grumbled
Ned, and gave a sigh.
"I am sorry for the suit, Ned; but I didn't think it was going to rain
when we started."
"Oh, I am not blaming you, Joe. It looked clear enough this morning.
Can't we get to some sort of shelter before the rain reaches us?"
"We can try."
"Which is the nearest shelter?"
Joe Bodley mused for a moment.
"The nearest that I know of is over at yonder point, Ned. It's an old
hunting lodge that used to belong to the Cameron family. It has been
deserted for several years."
"Then let us row for that place, and be quick about it," said Ned
Talmadge. "I am not going to get wet if I can help it."
As he spoke he took up a pair of oars lying in the big rowboat he and
Joe Bodley occupied. Joe was already rowing and the rich boy joined in,
and the craft was headed for the spot Joe had pointed out.
The lake was one located in the central part of the State of
Pennsylvania. It was perhaps a mile wide and more than that long, and
surrounded by mountains and long ranges of hills. At the lower end of
the lake was a small settlement of scant importance and at the
upper end, where there was a stream of no mean size, was the town of
Riverside. At Riverside were situated several summer hotels and boarding
houses, and also the elegant mansion in which Ned Talmadge resided, with
his parents and his four sisters.
Joe Bodley was as poor as Ned Talmadge was rich, | 1,445.673082 |
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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 | 1,445.734211 |
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Produced by Jonathan Ingram, David Cortesi, and the Online
Distributed Proofreaders Team at http://www.pgdp.net
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
This etext contains only characters from the Latin-1 set. The original
work contained a few phrases of Greek text. These are represented here
as Beta-code transliterations in brackets, e.g. [Greek: Liakyra].
The original text used a few other characters not found in the Latin-1
set. These have been represented using bracket notation: [=a], [=i] [=e]
represent those letters with a macron. A few instances of superscript
letters are indicated by carets, as in "Concluded, Canto 2^d, Smyrna,
March 28^th^."
An important feature of this edition is its copious notes, which are of
three types. Notes indexed with a number and a letter, for example
[4.B.], are end-notes provided by Byron or, following Canto IV, by J. C.
Hobhouse. These notes follow each Canto.
Poems and end-notes have footnotes. Footnotes indexed with lowercase
letters (e.g. [c], [bf]) show variant forms of Byron's text from
manuscripts and other sources. Footnotes indexed with arabic numbers
(e.g. [17], [221]) are informational. In the original, footnotes are
printed at the foot of the page on which they are referenced, and their
indices start over on each page. In this etext, footnotes have been
collected at the end of each section, and have been numbered
consecutively throughout the book. Within each block of footnotes are
numbers in braces, e.g. {321}. These represent the page number on which
the following notes originally appeared. To find a note that was
originally printed on page 27, search for {27}.
Text in footnotes and end-notes in square brackets is the work of Editor
E. H. Coleridge. Note text not in brackets is by Byron or Hobhouse. In
certain notes on variant text, the editor showed deleted text struck
through with lines. The struck-through words are noted here with braces
and dashes, as in {-deleted words-}.
The Works
OF
LORD BYRON.
A NEW, REVISED AND ENLARGED EDITION,
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.
Poetry. Vol. II.
EDITED BY
ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE, M.A.
LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET.
NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.
1899.
PREFACE TO THE SECOND VOLUME.
The text of the present edition of _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_ is based
upon a collation of volume i. of the Library Edition, 1855, with the
following MSS.: (i.) the original MS. of the First and Second Cantos, in
Byron's handwriting [MS. M.]; (ii.) a transcript of the First and Second
Cantos, in the handwriting of R. C. Dallas [D.]; (iii.) a transcript of
the Third Canto, in the handwriting of Clara Jane Clairmont [C.]; (iv.)
a collection of "scraps," forming a first draft of the Third Canto, in
Byron's handwriting [MS.]; (v.) a fair copy of the first draft of the
Fourth Canto, together with the MS. of the additional stanzas, in
Byron's handwriting. [MS. M.]; (vi.) a second fair copy of the Fourth
Canto, as completed, in Byron's handwriting [D.].
The text of the First and Second Cantos has also been collated with the
text of the First Edition of the First and Second Cantos (quarto,
1812); the text of the Third and of the Fourth Cantos with the texts of
the First Editions of 1816 and 1818 respectively; and the text of the
entire poem with that issued in the collected editions of 1831 and 1832.
Considerations of space have determined the position and arrangement of
the notes.
Byron's notes to the First, Second, and Third Cantos, and Hobhouse's
notes to the Fourth Canto are printed, according to precedent, at the
end of each canto.
Editorial notes are placed in square brackets. Notes illustrative of the
text are printed immediately below the variants. Notes illustrative of
Byron's notes or footnotes are appended to the originals or printed as
footnotes. Byron's own notes to the Fourth Canto are printed as
footnotes to the text.
Hobhouse's "Historical Notes" are reprinted without addition or comment;
but the numerous and intricate references to classical, historical, and
archaeological authorities have been carefully verified, and in many
instances rewritten.
In compiling the Introductions, the additional notes, and footnotes, I
have endeavoured to supply the reader with a compendious manual of
reference. With the subject-matter of large portions of the three
distinct poems which make up the five hundred stanzas of _Childe
Harold's Pilgrimage_ every one is more or less familiar, but details
and particulars are out of the immediate reach of even the most
cultivated readers.
The poem may be dealt with in two ways. It may be regarded as a
repertory or treasury of brilliant passages for selection and quotation;
or it may be read continuously, and with some attention to the style and
message of the author. It is in the belief that _Childe Harold_ should
be read continuously, and that it gains by the closest study, reassuming
its original freshness and splendour, that the text as well as Byron's
own notes have been somewhat minutely annotated.
In the selection and composition of the notes I have, in addition to
other authorities, consulted and made use of the following editions of
_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage:_--
i. _Edition Classique_, par James Darmesteter, Docteur-es-lettres.
Paris, 1882.
ii. Byron's _Childe Harold_, edited, with Introduction and Notes, by H.
F. Tozer, M.A. Oxford, 1885 (Clarendon Press Series).
iii. _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, edited by the Rev. E.C. Everard Owen,
M.A. London, 1897 (Arnold's British Classics).
Particular acknowledgments of my indebtedness to these admirable works
will be found throughout the volume.
I have consulted and derived assistance from Professor Eugen Koelbing's
exhaustive collation of the text of the two first cantos with the Dallas
Transcript in the British Museum (_Zur Textueberlieferung von Byron's
Childe Harold, Cantos I., II. Leipsic_, 1896); and I am indebted to the
same high authority for information with regard to the Seventh Edition
(1814) of the First and Second Cantos. (See _Bemerkungen zu Byron's
Childe Harold, Engl. Stud._, 1896, xxi. 176-186.)
I have again to record my grateful acknowledgments to Dr. Richard
Garnett, C.B., Dr. A. S. Murray, F.R.S., Mr. R. E. Graves, Mr. E. D.
Butler, F.R.G.S., and other officials of the British Museum, for
constant help and encouragement in the preparation of the notes to
_Childe Harold._
I desire to express my thanks to Dr. H. R. Mill, Librarian of the Royal
Geographical Society; Mr. J. C. Baker, F.R.S., Keeper of the Herbarium
and Library of the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew; Mr. Horatio F. Brown
(author of _Venice, an Historical Sketch_, etc.); Mr. P. A. Daniel, Mr.
Richard Edgcumbe, and others, for valuable information on various points
of doubt and difficulty.
On behalf of the Publisher, I beg to acknowledge the kindness of his
Grace the Duke of Richmond, in permitting Cosway's miniature of
Charlotte Duchess of Richmond to be reproduced for this volume.
I have also to thank Mr. Horatio F. Brown for the right to reproduce the
interesting portrait of "Byron at Venice," which is now in his
possession.
ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE.
_April_, 1899.
INTRODUCTION TO THE FIRST AND SECOND CANTOS OF _CHILDE HAROLD_.
The First Canto of _Childe Harold_ was begun at Janina, in Albania,
October 31, 1809, and the Second Canto was finished at Smyrna, March 28,
1810. The dates were duly recorded on the MS.; but in none of the
letters which Byron wrote to his mother and his friends from the East
does he mention or allude to the composition or existence of such a
work. In one letter, however, to his mother (January 14, 1811,
_Letters_, 1898, i. 308), he informs her that he has MSS. in his
possession which may serve to prolong his memory, if his heirs and
executors "think proper to publish them;" but for himself, he has "done
with authorship." Three months later the achievement of _Hints from
Horace_ and _The Curse of Minerva_ persuaded him to give "authorship"
another trial; and, in a letter written on board the _Volage_ frigate
(June 28, _Letters_, 1898, i. 313), he announces to his literary Mentor,
R. C. Dallas, who had superintended the publication of _English Bards,
and Scotch Reviewers_, that he has "an imitation of the _Ars Poetica_ of
Horace ready for Cawthorne." Byron landed in England on July 2, and on
the 15th Dallas "had the pleasure of shaking hands with him at Reddish's
Hotel, St. James's Street" (_Recollections of the Life of Lord Byron_,
1824, p. 103). There was a crowd of visitors, says Dallas, and no time
for conversation; but the _Imitation_ was placed in his hands. He took
it home, read it, and was disappointed. Disparagement was out of the
question; but the next morning at breakfast Dallas ventured to express
some surprise that he had written nothing else. An admission or
confession followed that "he had occasionally written short poems,
besides a great many stanzas in Spenser's measure, relative to the
countries he had visited." "They are not," he added, "worth troubling
you with, but you shall have them all with you if you like." "So," says
Dallas, "came I by _Childe Harold_. He took it from a small trunk, with
a number of verses."
Dallas was "delighted," and on the evening of the same day (July
16)--before, let us hope, and not after, he had consulted his "Ionian
friend," Walter Rodwell Wright (see _Recollections_, p. 151, and _Diary_
of H.C. Robinson, 1872, i. 17)--he despatched a letter of enthusiastic
approval, which gratified Byron, but did not convince him of the
extraordinary merit of his work, or of its certainty of success. It was,
however, agreed that the MS. should be left with Dallas, that he should
arrange for its publication and hold the copyright. Dallas would have
entrusted the poem to Cawthorne, who had published _English Bards, and
Scotch Reviewers,_ and with whom, as Byron's intermediary, he was in
communication; but Byron objected on the ground that the firm did not
"stand high enough in the trade," and Longmans, who had been offered but
had declined the _English Bards_, were in no case to be approached. An
application to Miller, of Albemarle Street, came to nothing, because
Miller was Lord Elgin's bookseller and publisher (he had just brought
out the _Memorandum on Lord Elgin's Pursuits in Greece_), and _Childe
Harold_ denounced and reviled Lord Elgin. But Murray, of Fleet Street,
who had already expressed a wish to publish for Lord Byron, was willing
to take the matter into consideration. On the first of August Byron lost
his mother, on the third his friend Matthews was drowned in the Cam, and
for some weeks he could devote neither time nor thought to the fortunes
of his poem; but Dallas had bestirred himself, and on the eighteenth was
able to report that he had "seen Murray again," and that Murray was
anxious that Byron's name should appear on the title-page.
To this request Byron somewhat reluctantly acceded (August 21); and a
few days later (August 25) he informs Dallas that he has sent him
"exordiums, annotations, etc., for the forthcoming quarto," and has
written to Murray, urging him on no account to show the MS. to Juvenal,
that is, Gifford. But Gifford, as a matter of course, had been already
consulted, had read the First Canto, and had advised Murray to publish
the poem. Byron was, or pretended to be, furious; but the solid fact
that Gifford had commended his work acted like a charm, and his fury
subsided. On the fifth of September (_Letters_, 1898, ii. 24, note) he
received from Murray the first proof, and by December 14 "the Pilgrimage
was concluded," and all but the preface had been printed and seen
through the press.
The original draft of the poem, which Byron took out of "the little
trunk" and gave to Dallas, had undergone considerable alterations and
modifications before this date. Both Dallas and Murray took exception to
certain stanzas which, on personal, or patriotic, or religious
considerations, were provocative and objectionable. They were
apprehensive, not only for the sale of the book, but for the reputation
of its author. Byron fought his ground inch by inch, but finally
assented to a compromise. He was willing to cut out three stanzas on the
Convention of Cintra, which had ceased to be a burning question, and
four more stanzas at the end of the First Canto, which reflected on the
Duke of Wellington, Lord Holland, and other persons of less note. A
stanza on Beckford in the First Canto, and two stanzas in the second on
Lord Elgin, Thomas Hope, and the "Dilettanti crew," were also omitted.
Stanza ix. of the Second Canto, on the immortality of the soul, was
recast, and "sure and certain" hopelessness exchanged for a pious, if
hypothetical, aspiration. But with regard to the general tenor of his
politics and metaphysics, Byron stood firm, and awaited the issue.
There were additions as well as omissions. The first stanza of the First
Canto, stanzas xliii. and xc., which celebrate the battles of Albuera
and Talavera; the stanzas to the memory of Charles Skinner Matthews,
nos. xci., xcii.; and stanzas ix., xcv., xcvi. of the Second Canto, which
record Byron's grief for the death of an unknown lover or friend,
apparently (letter to Dallas, October 31, 1811) the mysterious Thyrza,
and others (_vide post_, note on the MSS. of the First and Second
Cantos of _Childe Harold_), were composed at Newstead, in the autumn of
1811. _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, quarto, was published on Tuesday,
March 10, 1812--Moore (_Life_, p. 157) implies that the date of issue
was Saturday, February 29; and Dallas (_Recollections_, p. 220) says
that he obtained a copy on Tuesday, March 3 (but see advertisements in
the _Times_ and _Morning Chronicle_ of Thursday, March 5, announcing
future publication, and in the _Courier_ and _Morning Chronicle_ of
Tuesday, March 10, announcing first appearance)--and in three days an
edition of five hundred copies was sold. A second edition, octavo, with
six additional poems (fourteen poems were included in the First
Edition), was issued on April 17; a third on June 27; a fourth, with the
"Addition to the Preface," on September 14; and a fifth on December 5,
1812,--the day on which Murray "acquainted his friends" (see
advertisement in the _Morning Chronicle_) that he had removed from Fleet
Street to No. 50, Albemarle Street. A sixth edition, identical with the
fifth and fourth editions, was issued August 11, 1813; and, on February
1, 1814 (see letter to Murray, February 4, 1814), _Childe Harold_ made a
"seventh appearance." The seventh edition was a new departure
altogether. Not only were nine poems added to the twenty already
published, but a dedication to Lady Charlotte Harley ("Ianthe"), written
in the autumn of 1812, was prefixed to the First Canto, and ten
additional stanzas were inserted towards the end of the Second Canto.
_Childe Harold_, as we have it, differs to that extent from the _Childe
Harold_ which, in a day and a night, made Byron "famous." The dedication
to Ianthe was the outcome of a visit to Eywood, and his devotion to
Ianthe's mother, Lady Oxford; but the new stanzas were probably written
in 1810. In a letter to Dallas, September 7, 1811 (_Letters_, 1898, ii.
28), he writes, "I had projected an additional canto when I was in the
Troad and Constantinople, and if I saw them again, it would go on." This
seems to imply that a beginning had been made. In a poem, a hitherto
unpublished fragment entitled _Il Diavolo Inamorato_ (_vide post_, vol.
iii.), which is dated August 31, 1812, five stanzas and a half, viz.
stanzas lxxiii. lines 5-9, lxxix., lxxx., lxxxi., lxxxii., xxvii. of the
Second Canto of _Childe Harold_ are imbedded; and these form part of
the ten additional stanzas which were first published in the seventh
edition. There is, too, the fragment entitled _The Monk of Athos_, which
was first published (_Life of Lord Byron_, by the Hon. Roden Noel) in
1890, which may have formed part of this projected Third Canto.
No further alterations were made in the text of the poem; but an
eleventh edition of _Childe Harold_, Cantos I., II., was published in
1819.
The demerits of _Childe Harold_ lie on the surface; but it is difficult
for the modern reader, familiar with the sight, if not the texture, of
"the purple patches," and unattracted, perhaps demagnetized, by a
personality once fascinating and always "puissant," to appreciate the
actual worth and magnitude of the poem. We are "o'er informed;" and as
with Nature, so with Art, the eye must be couched, and the film of
association removed, before we can see clearly. But there is one
characteristic feature of _Childe Harold_ which association and
familiarity have been powerless to veil or confuse--originality of
design. "By what accident," asks the Quarterly Reviewer (George Agar
Ellis), "has it happened that no other English poet before Lord Byron
has thought fit to employ his talents on a subject so well suited to
their display?" The question can only be answered by the assertion that
it was the accident of genius which inspired the poet with a "new song."
_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_ had no progenitors, and, with the exception
of some feeble and forgotten imitations, it has had no descendants. The
materials of the poem; the Spenserian stanza, suggested, perhaps, by
Campbell's _Gertrude of Wyoming_, as well as by older models; the
language, the metaphors, often appropriated and sometimes stolen from
the Bible, from Shakespeare, from the classics; the sentiments and
reflections coeval with reflection and sentiment, wear a familiar hue;
but the poem itself, a pilgrimage to scenes and cities of renown, a song
of travel, a rhythmical diorama, was Byron's own handiwork--not an
inheritance, but a creation.
But what of the eponymous hero, the sated and melancholy "Childe," with
his attendant page and yeoman, his backward glances on "heartless
parasites," on "laughing dames," on goblets and other properties of "the
monastic dome"? Is Childe Harold Byron masquerading in disguise, or is
he intended to be a fictitious personage, who, half unconsciously,
reveals the author's personality? Byron deals with the question in a
letter to Dallas (October 31): "I by no means intend to identify myself
with _Harold_, but to _deny_ all connection with him. If in parts I may
be thought to have drawn from myself, believe me it is but in parts, and
I | 1,445.74147 |
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M | 1,445.742452 |
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[Illustration]
[Illustration]
OLD
FASHIONED
FLOWERS
AND OTHER
OUT-OF-DOOR
STUDIES
BY
MAURICE
MAETERLINCK
TRANSLATED BY
ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA
DE MATTOS
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD & CO.
1905
COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY THE OUTLOOK COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY THE CENTURY CO.
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
PUBLISHED OCTOBER, 1905
COMPOSITION AND ELECTROTYPE PLATES BY
D. B. UPDIKE, THE MERRYMOUNT PRESS, BOSTON
CONTENTS
OLD-FASHIONED FLOWERS 3
NEWS OF SPRING 43
FIELD FLOWERS 65
CHRYSANTHEMUMS 85
ILLUSTRATIONS
“I HAVE SEEN THEM... IN THE GARDEN OF AN OLD SAGE” _Frontispiece_
“THE HOLLYHOCK... FLAUNTS HER COCKADES” _Facing page_ 20
“A CLUSTER OF CYPRESSES, WITH ITS PURE OUTLINE” 50
“THAT SORT OF CRY AND CREST OF LIGHT AND JOY” 70
“HERE IS THE SAD COLUMBINE” 74
THE CHRYSANTHEMUMS 92
OLD-FASHIONED FLOWERS [Illustration] _OLD-FASHIONED FLOWERS_
This morning, when I went to look at my flowers, surrounded by their
white fence, which protects them against the good cattle grazing in the
field beyond, I saw again in my mind all that blossoms in the woods, the
fields, the gardens, the orangeries and the green-houses, and I thought
of all that we owe to the world of marvels which the bees visit.
Can we conceive what humanity would be if it did not know the flowers?
If these did not exist, if they had all been hidden from our gaze, as
are probably a thousand no less fairy sights that are all around us, but
invisible to our eyes, would our character, our faculties, our sense of
the beautiful, our aptitude for happiness, be quite the same? We should,
it is true, in nature have other splendid manifestations of luxury,
exuberance and grace; other dazzling efforts of the superfluous forces:
the sun, the stars, the varied lights of the moon, the azure and the
ocean, the dawns and twilights, the mountain, the plain, the forest and
the rivers, the light and the trees, and lastly, nearer to us, birds,
precious stones and woman. These are the ornaments of our planet. Yet
but for the last three, which belong to the same smile of nature, how
grave, austere, almost sad, would be the education of our eye without
the softness which the flowers give! Suppose for a moment | 1,445.742701 |
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THE ENGLISH STAGE
_WORKS BY THE AUTHOR._
PROFILS ANGLAIS.
MERIMEE ET SES AMIS.
VIOLETTE MERIAN.
AMOURS ANGLAIS.
LES CONTES DU CENTENAIRE.
ETC. ETC.
THE ENGLISH STAGE
_Being an Account of the Victorian Drama by Augustin Filon_
Translated from the French by Frederic Whyte with
an Introduction by Henry Arthur Jones
JOHN MILNE
12 NORFOLK STREET, STRAND, LONDON
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD, & COMPANY
MDCCCXCVII
_All Rights Reserved_
CONTENTS
PAGE
Introduction by Mr. Henry Arthur Jones 9
Author's Preface 31
CHAPTER I
A Glance back--From 1820 to 1830--Kean and Macready--The
Strolling Player--The Critics--Sheridan Knowles and
_Virginius_--Douglas Jerrold--His Comedies--_The Rent
Day_--_ | 1,445.745179 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Wild Man of the West, by R.M. Ballantyne.
________________________________________________________________________
The | 1,445.937582 |
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HUNTED DOWN:
OR
FIVE DAYS IN THE FOG.
A Thrilling Narrative
OF THE
ESCAPE OF YOUNG GRANICE
FROM A
DRUNKEN, INFURIATED MOB.
_Written by himself while in jail, and respectfully
dedicated to Mr. Nicholas Breen._
SAN FRANCISCO:
WOMAN'S PUBLISHING CO., 605 WASHINGTON ST.
1875.
* * * * *
PREFACE.
I write this narrative while confined in the Modesto jail awaiting my
trial for the shooting of the defamer of my mother's name on the 7th
of December, 1874. It will be seen by reading the following statement,
that I gave myself up to the sheriff to be held to await the decision
of the law. I will here explain why it was necessary for me to be
taken to the Modesto jail. There was no safe jail at Merced, and it
had been the custom for several months to take Merced prisoners to
Modesto, a town in the adjoining county, and a distance of about forty
miles. The cars passed through Merced about noon on the day of the
shooting, five hours after the affair happened, and direct to Modesto.
Why did not the sheriff improve this opportunity of taking me to a
place of safety? Failing in that, a good span of horses could have
conveyed us to Modesto during the afternoon. He knew the jail was not
safe, and instead of doing what every sensible man would conceive to
be a sheriff's duty, he chose rather to send me out handcuffed, with
two men, on a public highway, to a lone wayside inn, seven miles from
Merced, and ten from Snellings. It seems from my brother's and several
other gentlemen's statement, that every horse was engaged at the
livery stable in Merced before eight o'clock on that night.
There is another question which will naturally arise in the thinking
mind: Where did the sheriff go, and what was he doing that night while
the mob was getting ready? The mystery may be solved some day.
I wish to show in this simple statement that I did not flee
coward-like from justice, but that I was making my escape from a
drunken infuriated mob, after being duly liberated by the deputy
sheriff. I understand that the mob, or a portion of | 1,445.942154 |
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_THE DAILY CHRONICLE WAR LIBRARY_
THE WAR
STORIES
OF PRIVATE
THOMAS ATKINS
A SELECTION OF THE BEST
THINGS IN HIS PERSONAL
LETTERS FROM THE FRONT &
SO A STIRRING TALE OF GREAT
DEEDS DONE FOR A GREAT
CAUSE IN A SPIRIT OF SIMPLE
DUTY AND GALLANT GAIETY
PUBLISHED FOR THE DAILY CHRONICLE
BY GEORGE NEWNES LIMITED OF
SOUTHAMPTON ST., STRAND, LONDON, AT
ONE SHILLING NET
_No one with a sense of Humour
should miss reading_
“SMITHY”
Not to Mention
NOBBY CLARK
AND
SPUD MURPHY
By EDGAR WALLACE
The most entertaining Stories ever written
of “Tommy Atkins” and his little ways
_NOW ON SALE_
_at all Booksellers and Railway Bookstalls, 1/-
or Post free 1/2, from the Publishers,_ Net
GEORGE NEWNES LTD.
8-11 Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C.
THE WAR
STORIES
OF PRIVATE
THOMAS ATKINS
“_Are we downhearted?_” “_No-o-o!_”
THE WAR CRY OF PRIVATE ATKINS.
_It’s a long way to Tipperary
It’s a long way to go,
It’s a long way to Tipperary,
To the sweetest girl I know!
Good-bye, Piccadilly!
Farewell, Leicester Square!
It’s a long, long way to Tipperary,
But my heart’s right there._
THE MARCHING SONG OF PRIVATE ATKINS.
PUBLISHED FOR THE DAILY CHRONICLE
BY GEORGE NEWNES LIMITED OF
SOUTHAMPTON ST., STRAND, LONDON
PRINTED AT
THE BALLANTYNE PRESS
LONDON
CONTENTS
Page
“BLOW! BUGLES, BLOW!” 5
I MARCHING TO WAR 9
II THINGS BY THE WAY 14
III THE FRIENDLY FRENCH 20
IV THE ENEMY GERMAN 26
V CAMPAIGNING IN GENERAL 32
VI BATTLES IN BEING 41
VII WHAT THE SOLDIER SEES 56
VIII HOW IT FEELS UNDER FIRE 67
IX CORNERS IN THE FIGHT 78
X HIT AND MISSED 92
XI ADVANCE AND RETREAT 103
XII IN THE TRENCHES 115
XIII GALLANT DEEDS 125
XIV TALES OF TRAGEDY 134
XV ANECDOTES OF HUMOUR 142
XVI STORIES OF SACRIFICE 150
XVII THE MAN AMID WAR 159
XVIII THE COMMON TASK 169
XIX MATTERS IN GENERAL 179
XX SUMMING IT UP 186
_Now all the youth of England are on fire,
And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies;
Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought
Reigns solely in the breast of every man._
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
“BLOW! BUGLES, BLOW!”
_Boot, saddle, to horse, away!
Rescue my castle before the hot day
Brightens to blue from its silvery grey.
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!_
ROBERT BROWNING.
You like song, dear Private Atkins, its lilt and its sentiment, and you
have been singing your way through battle, on the hills of France and
the plains of Belgium. You are really a poet, as well as a first-rate
fighting man, though the very idea will make your camp-fire rock with
laughter. Well, in your letters from the war to the old folk and the
young folk at home, you have written things worthy to be bound in cloth
of gold.
You have, in particular, being a natural fellow, written yourself to
them, and you are just splendid, singly and collectively. You look out
from your epistles with a smile on your lips, humour in one eye and a
touch of the devil in the other, and you cry, “Are we downhearted?”
“No!” gladly answer we, who have been listening to the news of battle
ringing down the street, and for a moment, perhaps, forgetting you and
your writing on the wall with the bayonet point.
You do get the red, living phrases, don’t you, Private Atkins? “The
hottest thing in South Africa was frost-bitten compared with what’s
going on here.” “The Boer War was a mothers’ meeting beside this
affair.” “Another shell dropped at me and I went like Tod Sloan.” “Did
you see that German man’s face when I told him about our victories?
Poor devil! He opened his mouth like a letter-box.” No, Thomas, you may
not be a scribe, but you “get there,” especially when the order comes,
“All rifles loaded and handy by your side!”
“It’s hard, but it’s good,” is how you sum up your campaigning,
and there goes a bottom truth. “You can’t,” as you say, “expect a
six-course dinner on active service,” but you would break your heart to
be out of it all. “When I am in the thick of the fire a strange feeling
comes over me. I feel and see no danger--I think it is the fighting
blood of my forefathers.” Yes, and when you receive a rifle bullet
| 1,446.404474 |
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POEMS
by
"Josiah Allen's Wife,"
(Marietta Holley)
DEDICATION.
When I wrote many of these verses I was much younger than I am now,
and the "sweetest eyes in the world" would brighten over them,
through the reader's love for me. I dedicate them to her memory
--the memory of
MY MOTHER.
Contents
WHAT MAKES THE SUMMER?
THE BROTHERS
A RICH MAN'S REVERIE
GLORIA THE TRUE
THE DEACON'S DAUGHTER
SONGS OF THE SWALLOW
THE COQUETTE
LITTLE NELL
THE FISHER'S WIFE
THE LAND OF LONG AGO
LEMOINE
SLEEP
THE LADY MAUD
THE HAUNTED CASTLE
THE STORY OF GLADYS
FAREWELL
THE | 1,446.607419 |
2023-11-16 18:41:10.6784080 | 1,772 | 38 | MARRIAGES***
E-text prepared by Chris Curnow, Brian Wilsden, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 50730-h.htm or 50730-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/50730/50730-h/50730-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/50730/50730-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/fleetitsriverpri00asht
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: w^{ch}).
A letter with a macron accent (straight line over the
letter) is enclosed by square brackets and preceded by
an equal sign; for example, a "d" with a macron is
signified by [=d].
A letter with a tilde character above it is enclosed by
square brackets and preceded by a tilde; for example, an
"m" with a tilde is signified by [~m].
The OE-ligature is represented by [OE].
The letters "u" and "v" are mostly interchanged; as, e.g.,
"in haruest time" and "vnder a bridge".
Some of the spelling is very old, and often phonetic (they
wrote as they heard it spoken, dialects and all).
THE FLEET.
[Illustration]
THE FLEET
Its River, Prison, and Marriages
by
JOHN ASHTON
(Author of "Social Life in the Reign of Queen Anne," "Dawn of the
Nineteenth Century," &c., &c., &c.)
Illustrated by Pictures from Original Drawings and Engravings
[Illustration]
New York
Scribner and Welford
1888
[Illustration: VIEW OF MOUTH OF THE FLEET _circa_ 1765. (_Guildhall Art
Collection._)]
_Frontispiece._
[Illustration]
PREFACE.
This book requires none, except a mere statement of its scheme. Time
has wrought such changes in this land of ours, and especially in
its vast Metropolis, "The Modern Babylon," that the old land-marks
are gradually being effaced--and in a few generations would almost
be forgotten, were it not that some one noted them, and left their
traces for future perusal. All have some little tale to tell; even
this little River Fleet, which with its Prison, and its Marriages--are
things utterly of the past, entirely swept away, and impossible to
resuscitate, except by such a record as this book.
I have endeavoured, by searching all available sources of information,
to write a trustworthy history of my subject--and, at the same time,
make it a pleasant book for the general reader. If I have succeeded
in my aim, thanks are due, and must be given, to W. H. Overall, Esq.,
F.S.A., and Charles Welch, Esq., Librarians to the Corporation of the
City of London, whose friendship, and kindness, have enabled me to
complete my pleasant task. It was at their suggestion that I came upon
a veritable _trouvaille_, in the shape of a box containing Mr. Anthony
Crosby's Collection for a History of the Fleet, which was of most
material service to me, especially in the illustrations, most of which
were by his own hand.
I must also express my gratitude to J. E. Gardner, Esq., F.S.A., for
his kindness in putting his magnificent and unrivalled Collection of
Topographical Prints at my disposal, and also to J. G. Waller, Esq.,
F.S.A., for his permission to use his map of the Fleet River (the best
of any I have seen), for the benefit of my readers.
JOHN ASHTON.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
The River.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
Course of the Fleet--Derivation of its Name--The River of
Wells--The Fleet choked up--Cleansing the Fleet--The
Fleet Navigable--Wells--Ponds and Pools 1
CHAPTER II.
Water Supply of London--The Fleet to be Cleansed--Smell
of the River--Prehistoric London--Antiquarian
Discoveries--Cleansing the Fleet--Fouling the River--Rivers
rising at Hampstead--The Tye-bourne--The West-bourne--Course
of the West-bourne 13
CHAPTER III.
Course of the Fleet--The Hampstead Ponds--Rural Fleet--Gospel
Oak--Parliament Hill--Kentish Town--Brown's
Dairy--Castle Inn--St. Pancras Wells--Burials at St.
Pancras--the Brill 25
CHAPTER IV.
Battle Bridge--King's Cross--The Dust-heaps--St. Chad's
Well--St. Chad's Well-water 39
CHAPTER V.
Medicinal Waters--Spas--The White Conduit--White Conduit
House--White Conduit Gardens 53
CHAPTER VI.
Sadler's Discovery--Miles's Musick House--A Man Eats a
Live Cock, &c.--Forcer, the Proprietor--Macklin on
Sadler's Wells--Actors at Sadler's Wells--The Pindar of
Wakefield 67
CHAPTER VII.
"Black Mary's Hole"--Its Disappearance--Bagnigge Wells--Nell
Gwyn's Houses--Bagnigge House 77
CHAPTER VIII.
Bagnigge Wells--The Organist--Different Proprietors--"Punch"
on Bagnigge Wells--Decadence of the Wells 87
CHAPTER IX.
Cold Bath Fields Prison 99
CHAPTER X.
The "Cold Bath"--Cold Baths--Sir John Oldcastle--Archery--Tea
Gardens--Small Pox Hospital--The Pantheon--Lady
Huntingdon's Chapel--Lady Huntingdon 111
CHAPTER XI.
The Spencean System--Orator Hunt--Riot in the City--Riots--End
of the Riots 127
CHAPTER XII.
Fighting--Hockley-in-the-Hole--Bear Baiting--Bear Gardens--Bull
Baiting--Sword Play 137
CHAPTER XIII.
Mount Pleasant--Saffron Hill--Old House in West
Street--Fagin--Field Lane--Thieves 153
CHAPTER XIV.
Bleeding Hart Yard--Ely Place--John of Gaunt--Ely
Chapel--Turnmill Brook--The Fleet--Holborn Bridge 163
CHAPTER XV.
Lamb's Conduit--Clerkenwell--Fleet Market--Rye-House
Plot--Fleet Bridge 179
CHAPTER XVI.
Alderman Waithman--John Wilkes--Ludgate Prison--Sir
Stephen Foster 193
CHAPTER XVII.
Bridewell--Montfichet Castle--Fuller on Bridewell--Ward
on Bridewell--Howard on Bridewell--Bridewell Prison--
The City and Apprentices--Mother Cresswell--Bridewell
Court Room 205
CHAPTER XVIII.
Alsatia--Whitefriars-- | 1,446.698448 |
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Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 28. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, May 11, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: HUNTING IN ARCTIC REGIONS.--[SEE NEXT PAGE.]]
WHY?
"Why must I learn to sing?
Why learn to fly?"
Said a young bird to its mother--
"Why, oh, why?"
"All birdies learn to sing;
All learn to fly,"
To the young bird said its mother;
"And that's 'why.'"
HUNTING IN ARCTIC REGIONS.
Although in the remote and dreary ice regions of the extreme North a
variety of game, including bear, whale, walrus, seal, reindeer, foxes,
wolves, ptarmigan, ducks, and geese, is found and pursued by the hardy
Esquimau, or Innuit, it is upon the capture of the seal that he expends
the most time and labor. The seal is everything to him, and without it
life could hardly be sustained. In the words of Captain Hall: "To the
Innuit the seal is all that flocks and herds, grain fields, forests,
coal mines, and petroleum wells are to dwellers in more favored lands.
It furnishes him with food, fuel, and clothing."
"Nutchook" (the seal) is one of the most wary and suspicious of animals,
and to capture him when he is on his guard requires an almost incredible
amount of skill and perseverance. The Innuits say that "Ninoo" (the
bear) taught them to capture the seal, and that if they could talk to
Nutchook as cleverly as Ninoo does, they would capture him much oftener
than they do. When Ninoo sees, at a distance upon the ice, a black spot
that he knows to be Nutchook taking a nap beside his air-hole, he makes
up his mind that he will dine that day off seal.
Nutchook's nap is a series of "cat-naps," each lasting about ten
seconds, and after each he lifts his head and looks around. Ninoo
crouches low upon the ice, and creeps along when the seal is napping.
The moment his head is raised, the bear stops short and begins to talk
to Nutchook. The sound that he utters while thus talking is quite
different from his ordinary voice, and seems to charm the seal, who lays
his head down for another nap, during which Ninoo again advances. At
last the bear is within springing distance, and in a moment all is over
with poor Nutchook.
Although seals are caught at all seasons of the year, the great hunts
take place in the spring and early summer months. At this time the fur
is in the best possible condition, and as they play in the open water
lanes near the coast, or bask in great numbers on the ice, their capture
is comparatively easy. During the summer the glare of the sun so affects
the eyes of the seal that he becomes almost blind, and is easily
approached.
Hundreds of vessels, many of them steamers, are engaged in the seal
fishery, and on the first page of this number is a picture of the boats
belonging to one of these "sealers" drifting cautiously down upon a
number of seals that have been basking and frolicking on the ice,
heedless of the approach of danger. Hundreds of thousands of seals are
thus killed every year for the sake of their skins, which are shipped to
every part of the world, and from which are made the beautiful sacques,
muffs, tippets, and gloves with which most of our readers are so
familiar. Only last month a disaster occurred that vividly illustrates
the danger of sealing. A huge ice-field a hundred miles long, and
bringing with it thousands of seals, drifted down from the North, and
stranded on the coast of Newfoundland near St. Johns. For several days
the people living along the coast ventured far out on the ice, and
captured great numbers of the seals.
Suddenly, on the 4th of April, the northeast wind that had been blowing
steadily for two weeks, and keeping the ice packed, changed to a warm
southerly breeze. The ice-pack broke, became intersected in every
direction by lanes of water, and began to drift out to sea, carrying
with it more than two hundred of the hardy hunters. Many of these were
rescued by steamers, but others were borne away into the fog, beyond the
hope of rescue, far out to sea, where they have perished from
starvation, freezing, or drowning. For weeks past dead bodies have been
cast upon the rugged coast by the sea, but the fate of many of the lost
will never be known.
Mr. Ninoo, who hunts the seal so successfully, is hunted in turn for the
sake of his thick soft fur, and often falls a victim both to white men
and Esquimaux. The latter sometimes kill him by rolling a thick piece of
whalebone, about two feet long and four inches wide, into a small coil,
and wrapping it in a piece of seal blubber so that it forms a ball.
Placed outside the hut, it soon freezes hard. Provided with this frozen
bait, the natives search for Ninoo. When they find him, they run away,
and he chases them; but they drop the ball of blubber, and he, meeting
with it, greedily swallows it whole. In a few minutes the heat of his
body thaws the blubber and releases the whalebone. It uncoils with
terrible force, and so tears his stomach that the great bear falls down
in helpless agony, to which an end is quickly put by the hunter, who now
hurries to the spot.
[Begun in Harper's YOUNG PEOPLE No. 24, April 13.]
THE STORY OF GEORGE WASHINGTON.
BY EDWARD CARY.
CHAPTER V.
So now the war was as good as finished. There was no more fighting. The
British government was nearly ready to give up to the United States, and
own that they "were, and of right ought to be, free and independent," as
the great Declaration had said more than five years before. But such
things take a long time to settle, and General Washington thought that
the Americans could make a great deal better terms of peace if they kept
ready for war. How tired he was of the war! How he longed to get back to
Mount Vernon, and to his peaceful farmer's life! His letters written
about this time are full of these desires. He was a great General; and
the whole country honored and loved him as a man whose courage and skill
had made his countrymen free, but he often said that he would give all
the glory he had won if he could go back to his crops and his trees, his
horses and his hounds, and his beloved family, and rest. Yet he stood by
his post to the very last. He begged his countrymen to keep up the army,
and not to lay down their arms till everything was sure. He begged his
officers and soldiers to be patient and stay with him, though they had
much reason to complain. They had been poorly paid, or not paid at all.
Many of them were actually ruined for their country, and, when they left
the army, did not know where or how they should get a living. At this
moment some of them thought they would be happier and better off under a
King, if that King were Washington. They said to themselves: "It is all
very well to be free, but here is a free nation which turns its old
soldiers out to starve, which does not pay its debts, which hardly
deserves freedom. We should have greater justice, and more peace and
safety, with this wise, strong man as King." One of Washington's
officers hinted as much to him. The General was filled with sorrow and
anger and shame at the very thought. What had he done, that men should
think he would consent to such treason? He wrote to the man who had
suggested the plan, "If you have any regard for your country, or respect
for me, banish these thoughts from your mind."
At last, in the spring of 1783, word came that a treaty of peace had
been signed, and that the independence of the United States was no
longer disputed. This joyful news was read to the American army on the
19th of April, just eight years after the first gallant fight at
Concord in 1775. Washington wrote a farewell address to the army which
he had led so long. It was like the wise and loving speech of a good
father. He thanked them warmly for the noble spirit with which they had
upheld him during the tedious and cruel years of war; he reminded them
of the end for which they had fought, that the United States might be a
free nation, with the right to govern itself as it thought best; and he
prayed them to do all that they could to make their country just and
wise in peace, as it had been brave and fortunate in war. It was winter
before Washington had the affairs of his command settled so that he
could leave the army and return to his home. On the 4th of December he
met the principal officers of the army at New York to bid them farewell.
They were gathered for that purpose at Fraunce's Tavern when he entered.
Filling a glass, he turned to them, and said: "With a heart full of love
and gratitude, I now take leave of you. I most devoutly wish that your
latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been
glorious and honorable." Then one by one, as the officers came to him,
he clasped hands with each, and embraced him in silence. These brave
men, who had faced death together, and had cheerfully borne untold
privation, were not ashamed to weep at parting with their beloved friend
and chief. When he had saluted them | 1,446.698472 |
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produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON
BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.
Each, 12mo, Cloth, Illustrated.
Weatherby's Inning.
Illustrated in Colors. $1.25 net; postage, 12 cents additional.
Behind the Line.
A Story of School and Football. $1.20 net; postage, 12 cents additional.
Captain of the Crew.
$1.20 net; postage, 12 cents additional.
For the Honor of the School.
A Story of School Life and Interscholastic Sport. $1.50.
The Half-Back.
A Story of School, Football, and Golf. $1.50.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
[Illustration: The captain was holding his head.]
THE
ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON
And Other Stories
for Boys about Boys
BY
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
AUTHOR OF BEHIND THE LINE, WEATHERBY'S INNING,
ON YOUR MARK! ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED_
[Illustration]
New York
D. Appleton and Company
1904
Copyright, 1904, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
_Published, September, 1904_
TO
H. D. R.
IN MEMORY OF THE
WINTER OF '98-'99
The following stories first appeared in St. Nicholas, The Youth's
Companion, Pearson's Magazine, and The Brown Book. To the editors
of these periodicals the author's thanks are due for permission to
republish the tales.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON 1
BARCLAY'S BONFIRE 30
MARTY BROWN--MASCOT 42
PARMELEE'S "SPREAD" 75
"NO HOLDING" 96
CLASS SPIRIT 117
THE FATHER OF A HERO 136
THE HAZING OF SATTERLEE 2D 161
A PAIR OF POACHERS 185
BREWSTER'S DEBUT 209
"MITTENS" 234
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
The captain was holding his head. _Frontispiece_
Jimpson felt like an outcast, and looked like an Indian. 9
There was one kind of ball that Marty knew all about. 71
"Duty!" frothed Morris. 130
Tom moved the net toward the prey. 198
Ned trotted over the plate into the arms of "Big Jim" Milford. 232
THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON
Copyright, 1898, by THE CENTURY CO. All rights reserved.
I
THE DEPARTURE
The rain fell in a steady, remorseless drizzle upon the rain-coats
and umbrellas of the throng that blocked the sidewalks and overflowed
on to the car-tracks; but the fires of patriotism were unquenchable,
and a thousand voices arose to the leaden sky in a fierce clamor of
intense enthusiasm. It had rained all night. The streets ran water,
and the spouts emptied their tides between the feet of the cheerers.
The lumbering cars, their crimson sides glistening, clanged their way
carefully through the crowds, and lent a dash of color to the scene.
The back of Grays loomed cheerless and bleak through the drizzle, and
beyond, the college yard lay deserted. In store windows the placards
were hidden behind the blurred and misty panes, and farther up the
avenue, the tattered red flag above Foster's hung limp and dripping.
Under the leafless elm, the barge, filled to overflowing with departing
heroes, stood ready for its start to Boston. On the steps, bareheaded
and umbrellaless, stood Benham, '95, who, with outstretched and waving
arms, was tempting the throng into ever greater vocal excesses.
"Now, then, fellows! Three times three for Meredith."
"'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'rah, 'rah, 'rah! Meredith!" A
thousand throats raised the cry; umbrellas clashed wildly in mid-air;
the crowd surged to and fro; horses curveted nervously; and the rain
poured down impartially upon the reverend senior and the clamorous
freshman.
"Fellows, you're not _half_ cheering!" cried the relentless Benham.
"Now, three long Harvards, three times three and three long Harvards
for the team."
"Har-vard, Har-vard, Har-vard! 'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'rah, 'rah, 'rah!
'rah, 'rah, 'rah! Har-vard, Har-vard, Har-vard! Team!"
Inside the coach there was a babel of voices. Members of the eleven
leaned out and conversed jerkily with friends on the sidewalk. Valises
and suit-cases were piled high in the aisle and held in the owners'
laps. The manager was checking off his list.
"Cowper?"
"Here."
"Turner?"
"All right."
"Truesdale?"
"Hey? Oh, yes; I'm here." The manager folded the list. Then a penciled
line on the margin caught his eye.
"Who's Jameson? Jameson here?"
"Should be Jimpson," corrected the man next to him; and a low voice
called from the far end of the barge:
"Here, sir." It sounded so much like the response of a schoolboy
to the teacher that the hearers laughed with the mirth begot of
tight-stretched nerves. A youth wearing a faded brown ulster, who
was between Gates, the big center, and the corner of the coach, grew
painfully red in the face, and went into retirement behind the big
man's shoulder.
"Who is this fellow Jimpson?" queried a man in a yellow mackintosh.
"Jimpson? He's a freshie. Trying for right half-back all fall. I
suppose Brattle took him along, now that Ward's given up, to substitute
Sills. They say he's an A 1 runner, and plucky. He's played some on the
second eleven. Taunton told me, the other day, that he played great
ball at Exeter, last year."
The strident strains of the Washington Post burst out on the air,
urging the cheerers to even greater efforts. They were cheering
indiscriminately now. Trainer, rubbers, and coaches had received their
shares of the ovation. But Benham, '95, with his coat soaked through,
was still unsatisfied, and sought for further tests. Two professors,
half hidden under umbrellas, had emerged from the yard, and were
standing at a little distance, watching the scene.
"Three times three for Professor Dablee!" The cheers that followed were
mixed with laughter, and the two professors moved off, but not until
the identity of the second had been revealed, and the air had filled
with the refrain of "'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! Pollock!"
"They look as though they ought to win; don't you think so?" asked one
of them.
The other professor frowned.
"Yes, they look like that; every eleven does. You'd think, to see them
before a game, that nothing short of a pile-driver or dynamite could
drive them an inch. And a few days later they return, heartbroken and
defeated."
Across the square floated a husky bellow:
"Now, then, fellows! Once more! All together! Three times three for
Harvard!"
The band played wildly, frenziedly, out of time and tune; the crowd
strained its tired throats for one last farewell slogan; the men in the
barge waved their hands; the horses jumped forward; a belated riser in
Holyoke threw open a front window, and drowsily yelled, "_Shut up_";
and the Harvard eleven sped on its way up the avenue, and soon became a
blur in the gray vista.
"Say, Bob, you forgot to cheer Jimpson."
The wearied youth faced his accuser, struck an attitude indicative of
intense despair, and then joyfully seized the opportunity.
"Fellows! Fellows! Hold on! Three times three for Jim--Jim--who'd you
say?"
"Jimpson," prompted the friend.
"Three times three for Jimpson! Now, then, all together!"
"Say--who _is_ Jimpson?" shouted a dozen voices at once.
"Don't know. Don't care. Three times three for Jimpson!"
And so that youth, had he but known it, received a cheer, after all.
But he didn't know it--at least, not until long afterward, when cheers
meant so much less to him.
II
A LETTER
NEW HAVEN, CONN., November 19.
DEAR MOTHER: I can imagine your surprise upon receiving a
letter from this place, when your dutiful son is supposed to be
"grinding" in No. 30 College House, Cambridge. And the truth is
that the dutiful son is surprised himself. Here am I, with some
thirty-five other chaps, making ready for the big football game
with Yale to-morrow. Here is how it happened:
Yesterday morning, Brattle--he's our captain--came to my room,
routed me out of bed, and told me to report to the coaches for
morning practise. You know, I've been trying for substitute
right half-back. Ward, the regular, sprained his knee in the
Dartmouth game, and a few days ago it went lame again. So now
Sills has Ward's place, and I'm to substitute Sills. And if he
gets laid out--and maybe I ought to hope he won't--I go in and
play. What do you think of that? Of course Sills may last the
entire game; but they say he has a weak back, only he won't own
up to it, and may have to give up after the first half. Gates
told me this on the train. Gates is the big center, and weighs
196. He is very kind, and we chummed all the way from Boston.
I didn't know any of the fellows, except a few by sight--just
enough to nod to, you know.
We left Cambridge in a driving rain, and a big crowd stood out
in it all, and cheered the eleven, and the captain, and the
college, and everything they could think of. Every fellow on
the first and second elevens, and every "sub" was cheered--all
except Mr. Jimpson. They didn't know of his existence! But
I didn't feel bad--not very, anyhow. I hope the rest of the
fellows didn't notice the omission, however. But I made up my
mind that if I get half a show, I'll make 'em cheer Jimpson,
too. Just let me get on the field. I feel to-night as though
I could go through the whole Yale team. Perhaps if I get out
there, facing a big Yale man, I'll not feel so strong.
You know, you've always thought I was big. Well, to-day I
overheard a fellow asking one of the men, "Who is that little
chap with the red cheeks?" I'm a <DW40> beside most of the
other fellows. If I play to-morrow, I'll be the lightest man on
the team, with the exception of Turner, our quarter-back, who
weighs 158. I beat him by three pounds.
Such a hubbub as there is in this town to-night! Everybody
seems crazy with excitement. Of course I haven't the slightest
idea who is going to win, but to look at our fellows, you'd
think they would have things their own way. I haven't seen
any of the Yale players. We practised on their field for an
hour or so this afternoon, but they didn't show up. There
was a big crowd of Yale students looking on. Of course every
fellow of us did his very worst; but the spectators didn't say
anything--just looked wise.
Most of the fellows are terribly nervous to-night. They go
around as though they were looking for something, and would cry
if they didn't find it soon. And the trainer is the worst of
all. Brattle, the captain, is fine, though. He isn't any more
nervous than an alligator, and has been sitting _still all the
evening_, talking with a lot of the old graduates about the
game. Once he came in the writing-room, where I'm sitting, and
asked what I was doing. When I told him, he smiled, and said to
tell you that if anything happened he'd look after my _remains_
himself! Maybe he thought I was nervous. But if I am, I'm not
the only one. Gates is writing to his mother, too, at the other
table.
Give my love to Will and Bess. Tell Will to send my old skates
to me. I shall want them. There is fine skating on Fresh Pond,
which, by the way, is a lake.
We're ordered off to bed. I guess some of us won't sleep very
well. I'm rather excited myself, but I guess I'm tired enough
to sleep. I'll write again when I get back to college. With
bushels of love to all,
Yours affectionately,
TOM.
III
THE "ARRIVAL"
Jimpson sat on the ground, and watched with breathless interest two
charging, tattered, writhing lines of men. Jimpson felt a good deal
like an outcast, and looked like a North American Indian. Only legs
and face were visible; the rest of Jimpson was enveloped in a big gray
blanket with barbaric red borders. Some two dozen counterparts of
Jimpson sat or lay near by, stretching along the side-line in front
of the Harvard section of the grand stand. Behind them a thousand
enthusiastic mortals were shouting paeans to the goddess of victory,
and, unless that lady was deaf, she must have heard the paeans, however
little she approved of them. The most popular one was sung to a
well-known tune:
[Illustration: Jimpson felt like an outcast, and looked like an Indian.]
"As we're strolling through Fifth Avenue
With an independent air,
The ladies turn and stare,
The chappies shout, 'Ah, there!'
And the population cries aloud,
'Now, aren't they just the swellest crowd,
The men that broke Old Eli at New Haven!'"
And a mighty response swept across the field from where a bank of blue
rose from the green of the field to the lighter blue of the sky. It was
a martial air, with a prophecy of victory:
"Shout aloud the battle-cry
Of Yale, Yale, Yale!
Wave her standard far and high
For Yale, Yale, Yale!
See the foe retreat before us,
Sons of Eli, shout the chorus,
Yale, Yale, Yale, Yale, Yale!"
Harvard and Yale were doing battle once more, and twenty thousand
people were looking on. The score-board announced: Harvard, 4; Yale, 0.
Yale's ball. 15 minutes to play.
The story of twenty minutes of the first half is soon told. It had been
Yale's kick-off. Haag had sent the ball down the field to Harvard's
20-yard line, and Van Brandt had gathered it in his long arms, and,
with Meredith ahead, had landed it back in the middle of the field. But
the fourth down gave it to their opponents after a loss of two yards,
and the pigskin went down again to Harvard's territory, coming to a
stop at the white line that marked thirty-five yards. Here Harvard's
new half-back kick had been tried, and the ball went high in air, and
the field went after it; and when the Yale full-back got his hands on
it, he was content with a bare five yards, and it was Yale's ball on
her 40-yard line. Then happened a piece of ill luck for the wearers of
the blue. On the second down, Kurtz fumbled the pass, the ball rolled
toward Yale's goal, and Brattle broke through the opposing left tackle
and fell on it.
And while a thunderous roar of joy floated across the field from the
followers of the Crimson, the teams lined up on Yale's thirty yards.
Twice Meredith tried to go through between center and left guard, and a
bare yard was the reward. Then Van Brandt had run back as for a kick;
the ball was snapped, passed to Sills, Harvard's right half-back, and,
with it safely under his arm, he had skirted the Yale left, and fallen
and wriggled and squirmed across the goal-line for the first touch-down.
Then ensued five minutes of bedlam, and after the victorious seats had
settled into excited complacency, Van Brandt had tried for goal. But
success was too much to hope for, and the two teams trotted back to
the middle of the field, with the score 4 to 0. Then had the sons of
Eli shown of what they were made, and in the next ten minutes the ball
had progressed with fatal steadiness from the center of the field to
the region of the Crimson's twenty yards. And now it was Yale's ball
on the second down, and the silence was so intense that the signal was
heard as plainly by the watchers at the far end of the field as by the
twenty-two stern-faced warriors who faced each other almost under the
shadow of the goal-posts.
"_Twelve, six, twelve, fifty-two!_"
And the backs, led by the guards, hurled their weight against Harvard's
right tackle; and when the ball was found, Baker held it within a few
inches of the 10-yard line.
The cheers of Yale had now grown continuous; section after section
passed the slogan along. The stand across the field looked to Jimpson
like a field of waving blue gentians. On the Harvard seats the uproar
was less intense, and seemed a trifle forced; and the men near by were
breathing heavily, and restively creeping down the line.
Again the lines were formed. Jimpson could see the tall form of the
gallant Gates settle down into a hunchback, toad-like position to
receive the coming onslaught. Billings, the right tackle, was evidently
expecting another experience like the last. He looked nervous, and
Gates turned his head and spoke to him under cover of the first numbers
of the signal.
The guards were back of the line again, and their elbows almost brushed
as they stood between the half-backs. Silence reigned. The referee
skipped nimbly out of the way.
"_Seven, seventeen, eighty-one, thirty!_"
Again the weakening tackle was thrust aside, and although the Crimson
line held better, the ball was three yards nearer home when the
whistle blew, and Billings, somewhat dazed, had to call for a short
delay.
"First down again," muttered a brawny sub at Jimpson's elbow. "Why
doesn't he take Billings out?"
Again the signal came. Again a jumbled mass of arms and legs for a
moment hid the result. Then the men on the stand overlooking the
goal-line arose _en masse_, and a mighty cheer traveled up the field,
growing in volume until Jimpson could not hear his own groans nor the
loud groans of a big sub. Back of the line, and almost equidistant of
the posts, lay the Yale full-back; and the ball was held tightly to
earth between outstretched hands. The prostrate players were slowly
gaining their feet; but Billings and Sills lay where they had fallen.
Then Brattle stepped toward the side line, holding up his hand. With a
leap Jimpson was on his feet. But the big chap beside him had already
pulled off his sweater, and now, tossing it into Jimpson's face, he
sped gleefully toward the captain.
Jimpson sat down again in deep disappointment; and a moment later,
Billings, supported on either side, limped from the gridiron, amid the
cheers of the Harvard supporters. Sills was on his feet again, and the
trainer was talking to him. Jimpson could see the plucky fellow shaking
his head. Then, after a moment of indecision, the trainer left him, the
whistle sounded, the Crimson team lined up back of the line, and Kurtz
was poising the ball for a try at goal. The result was scarcely in
doubt, and the ball sailed cleanly between the posts, a good two feet
above the cross-bar; and the score-board said, "Harvard, 4; Yale, 6";
and there were three minutes more of the half.
Back went the ball to the 55-yard line, and loud arose the cheers of
the triumphant friends of Yale. Gates kicked off, and Warner sent the
ball back again, with a gain of ten yards. Sills caught it and ran, but
was downed well inside Harvard territory, and the half ended with the
ball in Yale's hands. Jimpson seized his blanket, and trotted after the
eleven to the quarters. He found Gates stripping for a rub-down.
"Well, my lad," panted the latter, "could you discern from where you
were just what kind of a cyclone struck us?" But Jimpson was too much
interested for such levity.
"Do you think I'll get in this half, Gates?"
"Can't say. Take a look at Sills, and judge for yourself."
That gentleman was having his lame back rubbed by a trainer, but he
appeared to Jimpson good for at least another quarter of an hour.
It seemed but a moment after they had reached the rooms that the word
of "Time's up, fellows," was passed, and renewed cheering from without
indorsed the fact. But a moment or two still remained, and that moment
belonged to Brattle. He stood on a bench and addressed the hearers very
quietly:
"We're going to kick, this half, fellows. I want every man to get down
the field on the instant, without stopping to hold. I don't think they
can keep us from scoring at least once more; but every man has got to
_work_. When the time comes to put the ball over the line, I expect it
to go over with a rush. Let every man play the best game he knows, but
_play together_. Remember that lack of teamwork has often defeated us.
And now, fellows, three times three for Harvard!"
And what a yell that was! Jimpson went purple in the face, and the head
coach cheered his spectacles off. And then out they all went on a trot,
big Gates doing a coltish handspring in mid-field, to the great delight
of the Crimson's wearers. The college band played; thirty thousand
people said something all together; and then the great quadrangle was
silent, the whistle piped merrily, and the ball soared into air again.
Jimpson took up his position on the side-line once more, and watched
with envious heart the lucky players. For the great, overwhelming
desire of Jimpson's soul was to be out there on the torn turf, doing
great deeds, and being trampled under foot. He watched the redoubtable
Sills as a cat watches a mouse. Every falter of that player brought
fresh hope to Jimpson. He would have liked to rise and make an
impassioned speech in the interests of humanity, protesting against
allowing a man in Sills's condition to remain in the game. Jimpson's
heart revolted at the cruelty of it.
Some such idea as this he had expressed to Gates, that morning; and the
big center had giggled in deep amusement; in fact, he had refused to
recognize the disinterested character of Jimpson's protest.
"Don't you think," Jimpson had pleaded, "that I might ask Brattle to
give me a show in the second half?"
"No, I don't," Gates had answered bluntly. "You're an unknown quantity,
my boy; as the Frenchies say, you haven't 'arrived.' For a player who
hasn't 'arrived' to try to give the captain points would be shocking
bad taste. That's how it is. Sills is a good player. As long as he can
hold his head up, he'll be allowed to play. When he's laid out, Brattle
will give you a show. He can't help himself; you're the only chap that
he can trust in the position. And look here; when that time comes, just
you remember the signals, and _keep your eyes on the ball_. That's all
you'll have to do. Don't take your eyes off the leather, even if the
sky falls!"
Jimpson remembered the conversation, and thought ruefully that it was
easy enough for a fellow who has everything that heart can desire
to spout good advice to chaps on the side-lines. Perhaps if Gates
were in his (Jimpson's) place he'd not be any too patient himself.
The score-board said fifteen minutes to play. Sills still held up his
stubborn head, and Jimpson's chances grew dimmer and dimmer as moments
sped.
Harvard's kicking tactics had netted her long gains time and again, and
twice had she reached Yale's 10-yard line, only to be grimly held and
hurled back. Yale, on the other hand, had only once reached scoring
distance of their opponent's goal, and had been successfully held for
downs. Veterans of the game declared enthusiastically, between bets,
that it | 1,447.405036 |
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FAMOUS EUROPEAN ARTISTS
BY SARAH K. BOLTON
AUTHOR OF "POOR BOYS WHO BECAME FAMOUS," "GIRLS WHO BECAME
FAMOUS," "STORIES FROM LIFE," "FAMOUS AMERICAN AUTHORS,"
"FAMOUS AMERICAN STATESMEN," "SOCIAL STUDIES IN
ENGLAND," "FROM HEART AND NATURE,"
"FAMOUS MEN OF SCIENCE," ETC.
"Do not act as if you had ten thousand years to throw away.
Death stands at your elbow. Be good for something while you live,
and it is in your power."--MARCUS AURELIUS.
NEW YORK
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.
46 EAST FOURTEENTH STREET
COPYRIGHT, 1890, BY
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.
C. J. PETERS & SON,
TYPOGRAPHERS AND ELECTROTYPERS,
146 HIGH STREET, BOSTON.
TO MISS ELIZABETH C. BULLARD
WITH THE APPRECIATION AND ESTEEM
OF THE AUTHOR.
[Illustration: MICHAEL ANGELO.]
PREFACE.
Hermann Grimm says, "Reverence for what is great is a universal
feeling.... When we look at great men, it is as if we saw a victorious
army, the flower of a people, marching along.... They all speak one
common language, know nothing of castes, of noble or pariah; and he who
now or in times to come thinks or acts like them rises up to them, and
is admitted into their circle."
Possibly, by reading of these great men some may be led to "think and
act like them," and thus "be admitted into their circle." All of these
possessed untiring industry and a resolute purpose to succeed. Most were
poor in early life.
S. K. B.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
MICHAEL ANGELO 7
LEONARDO DA VINCI 66
RAPHAEL OF URBINO 105
TITIAN 155
MURILLO 203
RUBENS 246
REMBRANDT 286
SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS 318
SIR EDWIN LANDSEER 367
TURNER 396
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Who has ever stood in Florence, and been warmed by her sunlight,
refreshed by her fragrant flowers, and ennobled by her divine art,
without saying with the poet Rogers,--
"Of all the fairest cities of the earth,
None is so fair as Florence. 'Tis a gem
Of purest ray; and what a light broke forth
When it emerged from darkness! Search within,
Without, all is enchantment! 'Tis the Past
Contending with the Present; and in turn
Each has the mastery."
Pitiful in her struggles for freedom, the very centre of art and
learning in the fifteenth century, she has to-day a charm peculiarly her
own.
"Other though not many cities have histories as noble, treasures as
vast; but no other city has them living, and ever present in her midst,
familiar as household words, and touched by every baby's hand and
peasant's step, as Florence has.
"Every line, every road, every gable, every tower, has some story of the
past present in it. Every tocsin that sounds is a chronicle; every
bridge that unites the two banks of the river, unites also the crowds
of the living with the heroism of the dead.
"The beauty of the past goes with you at every step in Florence. Buy
eggs in the market, and you buy them where Donatello bought those which
fell down in a broken heap before the wonder of the crucifix. Pause in a
narrow by-street in a crowd, and it shall be that Borgo Allegri, which
the people so baptized for love of the old painter and the new-born art.
Stray into a great dark church at evening time, where peasants tell
their beads in the vast marble silence, and you are where the whole city
flocked, weeping, at midnight, to look their last upon the dead face of
their Michael Angelo. Buy a knot of March anemones or April arum lilies,
and you may bear them with you through the same city ward in which the
child Ghirlandaio once played amidst the gold and silver garlands that
his father fashioned for the young heads of the Renaissance. Ask for a
shoemaker, and you shall find the cobbler sitting with his board in the
same old twisting, shadowy street-way where the old man Toscanelli drew
his charts that served a fair-haired sailor of Genoa, called Columbus."
Florence, Shelley's "Smokeless City," was the ardently loved home of
Michael Angelo. He was born March 6, 1475, or, according to some
authorities, 1474, the Florentines reckoning time from the incarnation
of Christ, instead of his birth.
Lodovico Buonarotti, the father of Michael Angelo, had been appointed
governor of Caprese and Chiusi, and had moved from Florence to the
Castle of Caprese, where this boy, his second child, was born. The
mother, Francesca, was, like her husband, of noble family, and but
little more than half his age, being nineteen and he thirty-one.
After two years they returned to Florence, leaving the child at
Settignano, three miles from the city, on an estate of the Buonarottis'.
He was intrusted to the care of a stone-mason's wife, as nurse. Living
among the quarrymen and sculptors of this picturesque region, he began
to draw as soon as he could use his hands. He took delight in the work
of the masons, and they in turn loved the bright, active child. On the
walls of the stone-mason's house he made charcoal sketches, which were
doubtless praised by the foster-parents.
Lodovico, who was quite too proud for manual labor, designed that his
son should become a dealer in silks and woollens, as probably he would
thus amass wealth. With such a project in mind, he was certainly unwise
to place the child in the exhilarating air of the mountains, where
nature would be almost sure to win him away from the counting-room.
When the boy was old enough he was sent by his father to | 1,447.506356 |
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by The Internet Archive)
IOLAeUS
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
A SON OF CAIN: POEMS. Cr. 8vo. 3/6 net.
IN THE WAKE OF THE PH[OE]NIX: POEMS. F'cap. 8vo. 3/6 net.
IOLAeUS:
THE MAN THAT WAS A GHOST
BY
JAMES A. MACKERETH
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
NEW YORK, BOMBAY AND CALCUTTA
1913
TO THE MEMORY OF
MY FRIEND
ARTHUR RANSOM
HAIL AND FAREWELL
To A.R.
We range the ringing <DW72>s of life; but you
Scale the last summit, high in lonelier air,
Whose dizzy pinnacle each soul must dare
For valedictions born and ventures new.
From dust to spirit climb, O brave and true!
Strong in the wisdom that is more than prayer;
High o'er the mists of pain and of despair,
Mount to the vision, and the far adieu.
Merged in the vastness, with a calm surmise
Mount, lonely climber, brightened from afar;
Whose soul is secret as the evening-star;
Whose steps are toward the ultimate surprise:
No dubious morrow dims those daring eyes--
Divinely lit whence truth's horizons are.
_The sonnets in this volume have previously appeared in the columns of
"The Academy," "The Eye-Witness," and "The Yorkshire Observer." My
thanks are due to the Editors of these publications for their kind
permission to republish._
J.A.M.
_Stocka House,
Cottingley,
Bingley._
CONTENTS
Title Poem: Page
Iolaeus 13
Sonnets:
The Return 67
The Soul and the Sea 69
Nations Estranged 71
The Passing-Bell 73
Condemned 75
To America. I. 77
" II. 79
To Italy. I. 81
" II. 83
IOLAeUS:
THE MAN THAT WAS A GHOST
Gold light across the golden coomb;
The sun went west with horns of fire;
Athwart the sweet, sea-breathing room
The swallows swooped; the village spire
Glowed red against a gleam of broom;
While earth its scented secrets told,
There, silent, sunset-aureoled,
Sat Iolaeus, mild and old.
In distance large the moving ships
Sailed on into the evening skies.
He gazed, and saw not. In eclipse
He tensely sat, like one who grips
Some semblance that his dream descries,
With such a look of far surprise
That half-uncanny seemed the man,
So warped with age, so weirdly wan:
He had such ghostly eyes.
Then half to self, and half to me,
Aloof in passion and lone despair,
He spoke like one whose secrets flee
From silence unaware:
Now plaintively from a grief gone blind,
Heavy with cumbering care,
Now, thrilling thought like a white sea-wind,
His words, the echoes of his mind,
Haunted the air:
... 'Tis gone like the roses of long ago:
Yet a dawn's impassioned thrill
Makes blush the blossom's virgin snow
Far on in a faery hill.
Two faces there in the glamour glow
In a place that is strangely still.
On the rim of the world is a ruined tower
Sky-poised above wide sea-foam,
Where a beautiful spirit waits hour by hour,
Far-eyed 'gainst a dawn like a phantom flower,
Till a ghostly lover comes home....
To leeward spread the freshening deep
Purple beneath a rosy gleam.
From a high, mist-engirdled steep
Thin anthems to the orient beam
Came faint as languid waves of sleep
That lap the lonely strands of dream.
We sank our anchor solemnly
Into that lustrous, splendid sea;
For we, that chased the summer's smile
Across the world a wondering while,
Hailed at the heart the Happy Isle,
The haunted shores of Faery!
Beyond a gently-heaving brine
We broke with oars a trembling bay.
The swerving water, like rare wine,
Slid iridescent from our way.
A lovely hand was laid on mine
Pensively as to say:
"Life is divine!"
The drifting, witching wonder grew.
From out the burgeoning bounds of space
It seemed some morn unearthly drew
To that grave glamourous place,
Where, fearful of some far adieu,
I talked with one who never knew
The peril of her face.
The joy that lives is mightier far
Than foretaste of all grief unborn.
The earth to youth is a silver star
That glitters on the edge of morn,
A star! a star! a dancing star.
The fair, the mystic, happy morn!
Dawn glimmered on the gladdening sea;
Each zephyr blew an elfin horn
To echoes in felicity.
All sounds to silver rhythm ran:
Came flutings as from piping Pan
In purpled hills of Arcady!
Seaward we heard the breakers roar;
And the belated nightingales
Sang all their moonlight raptures o'er,
Enchanted still in echoing vales.
We lingered by the brightening shore;
We leapt upon the roseate strand:
The joy that in our hearts we bore
We loved, nor longed to understand.
Soft siren voices evermore
Chanted to chimes in Faeryland.
O, life was like a bird that sings
At morning on a vernal bough!
The springtide at the heart of things
Sang as the spring knows how.
And fair was she, and both were young;
We knew not what made time so good;
Nature with glamour-tutored tongue
Spread glory in the blood.
We climbed the dim and dreaming streets:
We reached a plateau crowned with pine:
The leaning roses breathed their sweets
'Mid many a subtle-scented vine.
We wreathed our brows with ivy-twine.
In mouldering majesty sublime,
Misty with eld, the mute of time,
A castle, dawn-enchanted, there
Above th' abyss sheer, shimmering fair,
Hung like a perilous dream in air.
Poised on a dizzy turret high,
Enfolded with the gorgeous sky,
We listened, she and I,
In wonder,'mazed. Without a word
A soul had spoken, soul had heard.
All suddenly came, charged with tears,
The sweetness of the human years.
We saw deep forests far away
Kindle to meet the kiss of day;
And mists with morn's delight uprise
Like love thoughts in a maiden's eyes.
We shared the dream that never dies.
Our hearts were hushed with vague desire;
We breathed in kingdoms wildly new,
Enthralled by Memnon's mystic lyre
In regions whence the Ph[oe]nix flew;
Dumb splendour round us blown, and higher
On heaven's deep dome--the peacock's hue,
Bright flakes of crimsoning fire!
Dew-fresh was all the wavering air.
We heard the reef's far rollers croon
About the ocean's margent, where
Loitered the waning moon...
So fond the hour; the scene so fair;
And fate came home so soon...
Some sorrow wept,--I knew not where.
Some sudden presence made the air
Chill as the breathless moon.
Silent, upon a lonelier steep,
I gazed across a deeper deep,
Where the pale mists pass from the isles of sleep.--
Lost voices called in other years:
Old sweetness like a breaking grief
Rose in the heart and stung to tears:
In that clear moment brief
Life's dearest, dead so long before,
Returned to bless and die once more.
The faintly crooning sabbath bells
At evening in the golden fells
I heard; the tinkle of the rills
In haunts where childish fancy fed;
I saw the orchard daffodils
About the calm homestead;
Ah, saddest thought that ever fills
An errant heart that memory thrills,
The heath-smell of his homeland hills
To one whose loves are dead...
What yearnings burn the human breast;
What wild desires like prisoned birds
Impel the heart from east to west;
What urgings baffling words
Beat up from nature unexpressed
Till soul distinct stands manifest,
On guard for heaven, or, wanton, hurled
Toward judgment through the world.
Long following beauty's floating flame
Beneath the sky from sea to sea
No isle of rest, no haven could claim
The lonely, homeless heart in me.
Sick loneliness no more should be
Companion to my soul, for She
To fill the questing vision came,
Came down the breadths of blossoming foam
To give to loveliness a name,
To happiness a home!
Yet thought toward passion moved with dread,
Like one who, hurrying to be wed,
Steps, darkling, on the dead.
Far down we saw mute wavelets leap
Feebly as though remembering sleep;
The wheeling sea-birds proudly sway
In glory o'er the opal bay;--
But at the heart the world grew grey;
Some joy had perished from the day;
Some love was grieving far away.
No voice stirred through the haunted hill
Touched with the morn's inviolate gleam.
All fearfully wild heart and will
Drank rapture in the face of ill!
Our spirits thrilled to answer thrill,
And trembled in their dream.
Truth comes, and tears, and glamour goes.
There's speech within the blood
More eloquent than language knows,
And woes make signal unto woes
While pity breathes and passion blows:
We looked:----we understood.
On summer's heart fell winter's snows...
The death that dissipates the rose
Was busy in the bud...
The spectre beckoned: none could save...
The sundering grave... The sundering grave!...
Our lonely love in time could be
But whisper of a broken wave
Lost in a boundless sea...
She spoke, so fair, so pale, so brave,----
Across infinity!
Ah meekness mute with tragedy!...
My body stirred as in a grave,
And looked forth wonderingly...
The everlasting sea serene
'Neath everlasting sky
Shone, and across the morning sheen
The deathless winds went by.
And a face was there that I never had seen;
And a shadow stood where a glory had been;
The beauty hung at my heart like pain;
And love was lovely, but life was bane,
For all should die,--but the wonder remain,
And the earth, and the sea, and the sky...
The hills have winds, the fields have flowers;
Not all alone is the wintry tree;
The stars that gleam in cloudy bowers
Have stars for company;
The waste hath peace of the drifting hours;
And night brings joy to the hoary sea:
But the heart of man is a lonely thing;
And lone the soul of the secret vows,
With its wasted love and its wounded wing,
In a withered world that hath no spring,
No burgeoning boughs:
The soul of man is the loneliest thing
In life's eternal wandering
That God allows...
O, isle of dreams, and orient shore!
Ah miracle in sea and sky!
Ah youth that fleeting love made soar
To heaven! The glory upon high
To dusk hath waned, yet comes once more
A wonder and a cry!...
The ship's bell tolled off that fair land;
The sails bulged buoyantly:
The sun rose mute, and large, and bland;
The favouring wind swung free.
We stood from that enchanted strand
Into the morning sea.
We rode down swinging winds away,
Far o'er the moving waters wan,
Seen low at pale meridan,
The land was grey.
The dusk came down; and like a ghost
Rose the sad moon; the waves 'gan moan:
There on the deep no kindly coast,--
The dark alone.
And in two faces stared, and stared
The being without blood or breath,
The stilly spectre, horror-haired,
That haunteth all he murdereth;
At noon, at midnight stared, and stared
When sunrise flashed, when sunset flared,
The grizzly phantom horror-haired:--
Stalking frail beauty to her grave
I saw him moving evermore
A stealthy wanderer on the wave,
A shrouded shadow on the shore,
The worm his bondsman, and the brave
His victims evermore...
The Power that drives all mortal things,
Upbuoys all being's wanderings,
Moved in the void his urgent wings...
On down the weltering world we sped;
Across the lonely, drifting noon;
Along the wreathed tides we fled
Beneath the memoried moon.
Sad love pursued where sorrow led;
And beauty, waiting to be dead,
Kissed under the dead moon.
Love, speechless, yearned in hopeless eyes;
And hearts that hungered craved in vain.
Dumb pity heard sad pity's sighs;
And grief soothed grief again.
Fond smile to smile sent faint replies,
And faded back to pain.
Entangled in the toils of fate,
Two stood at Eden's open gate--
Banned, in a world found desolate...
And love made league with hate...
All time's long woe since man's wet eyes
Peered toward a promised paradise
Pressed home,--the weight of smothered cries,
Dead dreams, and hopeless pain
Of souls in silence slain.
We saw the loathsome waste of death;
Sad soul at war with sense;
And suffering doomed to lingering breath;
And slandered innocence;
And beauty ravished at the bloom;
Saw strength flung prostrate; fall
The brave, life-worsted from the womb;
White truth made criminal:
Impotent, passionate, counting all,
We kissed----across a tomb...
The lustrous clouds trailed proudly by:
And through a rift of dazzling sky
I cursed God with a dreary cry...
The silence of the starry night;
The silver of the moonlit sea;
And loud in secret, stern, and trite,
The pulse of destiny.
Ah sadness scourged with doomed delight!
Ah wondrous misery!
Pale topsails in the offing shone,
And faded into foam:
And down the noontide, one by one,
The pale, proud ships would roam;
Each sailor to his love went on;
Each wanderer to his home.
And, ceasing not, death's nearing knell
Tolled in a heart that dreamed no more.
Our lips shook, sad as lips in hell;
But, fearful of the rending shore,
To fill all time with sad farewell
We would have sailed for evermore!
For pleasantly a song she'd croon,
And feign the world a kindly place;
And tender was the haunting tune
To match her haunting grace;
And tenderly the witching moon
Toyed with her feeling face...
Our love was like the scent of flowers
To her who watches by the bed
Of one that dies in the dark hours,
The one her youth had wed:
At dawn she scares her tears away,
And through the cloud-enamelled day
Jests bravely for their bread.
She shared with all the brighter part;
The witching sallies lightly flew;
Her thoughts seemed, spilt by subtle art,
Half tear-drops and half dew.
They loved her for her gracious heart,
And the glad winds blew.
The sunbeam of her fleeting life
Gladdened the unsuspecting days;
And all the dusky imps of strife
Paled in her wisdom's lambent rays.
Her laugh to _one_ was as a knife:
But she had pleasure's praise.
And I who loved that conquering smile,
And felt the tears in secret shed,
Who watched her life with kindly guile
Veiling its darlings dead,
Held in a choking hush the while
A heart that feigned--and bled...
Onward with blind rebellious breast
I ranged, with love, with bale opprest,
Piteous, passionate, all unblest,
The dispossessed,--God-possest...
More lonely grew the leaden wave
That broke against the leaning sky;
The melancholy winds 'gan rave
Among the whimpering shrouds on high:
Most lonely up the leaden wave
Two climbed toward yet a lonelier grave--
Where only one should lie.
We neared a grey and grievous land
That thundered by a wintry sea;
I touched the sorrow of her hand,
But nothing sad said she:
She turned from love at death's command
To death eternally.
We passed the numbly moaning bar;
We heard the harbour bell,
Its dull fog-muffled clang from far
Came like a lorn death-knell.
The quay-lights pushed a livid flare
Through shrouding mist; and all things there
Moved like grim shades in hell.
The hammer's clamp on resonant steel;
The siren's shriek; the scream and whirr
Reverberant from forge and wheel;
The fury and the clangorous stir
And plunge of traffic; Vulcan's heel
Crashing on iron,--and the reel
Of sense at loss of _her_.--
None guessed when, playfully, she said,
With smile that brightened toward her dead,
"To-day across the world I ride
To meet a bridegroom, I the bride."
They thought her mischief lied.
Around us was the deafening roar,
A void, a wild and drear eclipse.
A sadder sweetness than before
Shook her pale, smiling lips;
She waved adieu through vapours hoar,
And vanished in the shadows frore
Among the heedless ships...
In that dread lapse of all farewell
The spirit, listening, plain could tell
That devils laughed in drifting hell
With guile upon their lips...
The world seemed all a hollow ghost
That would dissolve away;
And life itself a random boast
Of elements at play;
And time a swift elusive gleam,
And man the mockery of a dream,
A foam-bell to a moment's beam
Flung from the spray.
I had worshipped her with sacred sighs,
Loved with the love that wondereth;
My life had found her maiden-wise,
And sweeter than the rose's breath;
Lit by a soul in paradise
The lights within her holy eyes,
The lady loved of death...
Bereft, forlorn, by passion driven,
And blanched with loss, by suffering riven,
With impious heart I fled from Heaven...
Thought like a frost gripped all the brain:
With frozen tears opprest,
The conscious blood with sullen pain
Lunged at the callous breast,
Where hope and love, a pallid twain,
Sat with a ghoul for guest.
Over the watery wastes I fled
Where'er dim desolation led
Beneath sad sun and moon!
For faith was dead, and joy was dead,
And love was where the phantoms tread,
And bitterness was passion's bread:
"Grant, jester Death," I, laughing, said,
"Thy haggard fool a boon!"...
And unforgiving, unforgiven,
A derelict, by tempest driven,
I drave beneath the breadth of heaven...
Grim sorrow fell on all things fair;
To dust was turned the lover's breath.
Ah longing, like a pariah bare,
And passion, led by lewd despair
To kiss the smelling jowl of death!
As in a sunless cavern cold,
Like one who flies a crime,
Fearful, and old as God is old,
The spirit shrank from time;
For a stifled scream was the angry gold
Of the weird sunset, and the noonday bold
Was the stare on the face of a crime.
I saw as brain-blurred drunkards see;
I felt, yet could not feel;
I seemed in moving time to be
In nerveless immobility
As dust upon a wheel.
Some world material moved around,
Mazed breadths of spume and brine;
Strange voices spake as from a bound
Far off, I answered with a sound,
Nor knew the answer mine;
And sometimes like a weary hound
I heard the darkness whine.
In throbbing night 'twixt sleep and sleep
My tortured spirit heard
A wail that wandered down the deep,
A sorrow on the windy deep
Wail like a wounded bird;
And I wept as a haunted man doth weep
Who dare not speak a word.
Sometimes I sensed heaven's bellied gloom,
Storm like dumb and pregnant doom
Scowl on the waters wild;
Or tempest 'neath a plunging sky
Down crashing waves with haunting cry
Scream like a tortured child;
A blind thing staggering in the night
Strained, groaning, 'gainst a pervious power
That flashed and eddied, wild and white,
That wheeled and wailed from hour to hour;
And, somewhere, strangely burned to sight
Dawn like a doom a-flower...
On ever onward, darkly driven,
A soul, unsheltered, and unshriven,
With lodestar gone, with raiment riven,
Drove in the gale of the wrath of Heaven...
The monsoon blew; the changing stars
Rode by in deeper skies.
At times between the raking spars
I felt the blank moon rise;
Or heard the chanties of the tars
With a sad, sick surprise.
And once a heaven, the sapphire's hue,
Flashed o'er the freshening wave;
They hurt the heart as laughers do
When love stands by a grave.
And now a level ocean grey
Would lie along a level day,
Unwhipt of wing or wind;
Or sunset make a carmine stain
That sucked like sadness at the brain,
And sank into the mind,
And touched me with some wandering pain,
Some sentience of mankind again.
... And where was _she_?... Could sorrow fail
In aching time... Ah voice in vain
That called for ever... fading sail
On seas forlorn; sad wind and rain
Whispering... all-wandering pain...
And in the heart the wail--
Never again on earth--never again.
So dimly to a beauteous ghost
My being bowed a subject knee,
And lived, with love's sad sunset lost,
Alone'mid all the sea.
A leper to a lonely coast,
I fled from all I cherished most;
And wildly, with a bleeding boast,
I clasped my agony...
Sad nature strained the leash in vain,
And flying, fled not; ever the chain
Of the Fear that followed; ever again
Relentless pity; guardian pain...
Like torturing dreams the days went by,
With all save self denied;
And Godward went man's desolate cry,
That Christ Himself had cried:
Alone each soul upon its tree
Cried to its kin,--but over me
The darkness that crushed Calvary
When God was crucified.
The present lost, I found, aghast,
A dying heart, a deathless past;
And, ever nigh, and mocking me,
A madness, or a mystery...
And hour by hour, in peril, passed
A soul toward judgment through the vast...
Life, a vague tumult in the blood,
Beat on 'gainst flesh and bone;
And in its echoing solitude
The heart tapped like a stone;
Till like some child at dark I stood
That stands fear-frozen in a wood,--
Alone--yet not _alone_.--
For mine was ghostly company:
Chilled, in the eerie air
I felt _myself_ bend over me,
And point as with despair;
And, horror-thrilled, I turned to see
My body selfless there,
And separate,--a house of clay
That mourned its tenant gone;
Its vacant eyes would fain delay,
Its piteous hands implored to stay
The soul that in it shone.
Where one had been, in mute dismay
Two, merged in mystery, went away--
I and that other One...
With vision blurred, and bearings lost,
Streamed on amid a phantom host
The man that was a ghost...
Apart from human years I stood
A naked | 1,447.506503 |
2023-11-16 18:41:11.4866430 | 7,434 | 11 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Lesley Halamek, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration]
SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN
A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF PRACTICAL INFORMATION, ART, SCIENCE, MECHANICS,
CHEMISTRY, AND MANUFACTURES.
NEW YORK, DECEMBER 14, 1878.
Vol. XXXIX.--No. 24. [NEW SERIES.]
[$3.20 per Annum [POSTAGE PREPAID.]]
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
(Illustrated articles are marked with an asterisk.)
Alum in baking powders
Alum in bread 376
Argonaut, or Paper Nautilus* 375
Astronomical notes 377
Babbitt metal, to make [5] 378
Belts, rubber, slipping [6] 378
Bench, saw, Casson's* 374
Boot polish liquid [8] 378
Butter, to color [16] 378
Canal, ship, Belgian* 367
Economy, machine shop 371
Eggs, preservation of 375
Electric light, Werdermann* 373
Engineers, warning to 367
Engine, steam, valve yoke [48] 379
Exterminator, roach [57] 379
Filter for rain water [19] 378
Foot power, new* 370
Glass, iridescent 368
Glass, to make a hole in 375
Hair, to prevent falling out [42]379
Inks, sympathetic 377
Invention, reward of 371
Inventions, new, 370
Inventions, new agricultural 377
Inventions, new mechanical 374
Inventors, bait for 374
Iron and steel, preservation of 367
Iron, malleable, to make [43] 379
Leaves, culinary uses for 370
Line, straight, to draw* [36] 379
Mechanics, amateur* 371
Mexico, progress of science in 376
Microphone as a thief catcher 375
Naphtha and benzine 377
Nitrate of silver, reduction of 377
Notes and queries 378
Oil notes 372
Petroleum and gold 377
Petroleum, progress of 368
Poultices 374
Quinine, effects of on hearing 374
Railroad, first in U. S. [2] 378
Rails and railway accidents 368
Railway notes 373
Sanitary Science in the U. S. 369
Screw heads, blue color for [4] 378
Sheep husbandry, American 375
Shutter fastener, new* 370
Silver mill in the clouds 374
Spider, trap-door* 375
Sprinkler, garden, improved* 370
Telescope, sunshade for [3] 378
Tools, steel, to temper [55] 379
Tree, tallest in the world 375
Tree trunks elongation of 376
Trees, felling by electricity 370
Tubing, to satin finish [51] 379
Vise, an improved* 370
White lead, to test [14] 378
Wire clothing for cylinders* 377
Work, the limit of 368
* * * * *
THE BELGIAN SHIP CANAL.
The ship canal from Ghent to Terneuzen was originally laid out with
many bends, rendering navigation difficult; it had a depth of 14 feet
4 inches and a width of 98 feet 6 inches at the water level. The works
which are at present in course of execution have especially for their
object the deepening of the canal to 21 feet 3 inches, with a width
of 55 feet 9 inches at the bottom and 103 feet 9 inches on the water
line. The <DW72>s have a uniform inclination of 1 to 3, and the towing
paths on each side are placed 6 feet 6 inches above the water level,
and are 32 feet 8 inches wide. In many instances also the course of
the canal has been altered and straightened for the improvement of
navigation; several important diversions have been made for this
purpose. The excavation has been effected by hand, by dredging, and by
the Couvreux excavator, figured as below in _Engineering_.
The earth excavated was carried to spoil, and in many cases was
employed to form dikes inclosing large areas, which served as
receptacles for the semi-liquid material excavated by the dredging
machines with the long conductors; the Couvreux excavator used will be
readily understood from the engraving. It had already done service on
the Danube regulation works. The material with which it had to deal,
however, was of a more difficult nature, being a fine sand charged
with water and very adherent. The length of track laid for the
excavator was about 3 miles along the side of the old canal, which had
been previously lowered to the level of the water.
* * * * *
PRESERVATION OF IRON AND STEEL FROM OXIDATION.
We are indebted to J. Pechar, Railway Director in Teplitz, Bohemia,
for the first official report in English from the Paris International
Exhibition which has come to hand. This volume contains the report
on the coal and iron products in all countries of the world, and is
valuable for its statistical and other information, giving, as it
does, the places where the coal and minerals are found, and the
quantities of each kind produced, for what it is used, and to what
other countries it is exported. The able compiler of these statistics
in the introduction of his report gives the following account of
the means recommended by Professor Barff, of London, for preventing
oxidation, which is being considerably used abroad. The writer says:
It is well known that the efficient preservation of iron against
rusting is at present only provided for in cases where human life
would be endangered by failure, as in the case of railway bridges
and steamers. Thus, for example, at Mr. Cramer-Klett's ironworks at
Nuremberg every piece of iron used for his bowstring bridges is dipped
in oil heated to eight hundred degrees. The very great care which
is at present taken in this matter may be judged from the current
practice of most bridge and roofing manufacturers. Every piece of
iron before being riveted in its place is cleaned from rust by being
immersed in a solution of hydrochloric acid. The last traces of free
acid having been cleared away, at first by quicklime and afterward by
a copious ablution with hot water, the piece is immediately immersed
in hot linseed oil, which protects every part of the surface from the
action of the atmosphere. Afterward it is riveted and painted.
Notwithstanding all this, the painting requires continual and
careful renewal. On the Britannia Bridge, near Bangor, the painter is
permanently at work; yet, in spite of all this care and expense, rust
cannot be entirely avoided. The age of iron railway bridges is still
too short to enable us to draw conclusions as to the probabilities of
accidents. Now, Professor Barff has discovered a process by which
iron may be kept from rusting by being entirely coated with its own
sesquioxide. A piece of iron exposed to the action of superheated
steam, in a close chamber and under a certain pressure, becomes
gradually covered by a skin of this black oxide, of a thickness
depending upon the temperature of the steam and the duration of
the experiment. For instance, exposure during five hours to steam
superheated to five hundred degrees will produce a hermetical coating
capable of resisting for a considerable time the application of emery
paper and of preserving the iron from rust even in a humid atmosphere,
if under shelter from the weather. If the temperature is raised to
1,200 degrees, and the time of exposure to six or seven hours, the
skin of sesquioxide will resist every mechanical action, and the
influence of any kind of weather. The sesquioxide being harder than
the iron itself, and adhering to its surface even more firmly than the
atoms of iron do to each other, there is an increased resistance not
only to chemical but also to mechanical action. The surface is not
altered by the process in any other respect, a plain forging retaining
its roughness, a polished piece its smooth surface. If the skin is
broken away oxidation takes place, but only just on the spot from
which the oxide has been removed. If Professor Barff's experiments
are borne out by practice, this invention may become of very great
importance. It is within the bounds of probability that it may enable
iron, by increasing its facility in competing with wood, to recover,
at least for a considerable time, even more than the ground it has
lost by the extraordinary extension of the use of steel. Iron is
already being used for building purposes to a large extent; but
oxidation once thoroughly prevented it will be able to take the place
of wood and stone to a still greater degree. Iron roofing may be
made quite as light as that of wood, and of greater strength, by a
judicious arrangement and use of T iron.
* * * * *
WARNING TO LOCOMOTIVE ENGINEERS.
Drs. Charles M. Cresson and Robert E. Rogers, of this city, says
the Philadelphia _Ledger_, well known as experts in chemistry and
dynamics, were appointed by the Reading Railroad Company to inquire
into and report upon the causes of the recent explosion of the boiler
of the express locomotive "Gem," at Mahanoy City, by which five lives
were lost. Their report, which is designed to cover the whole scope
of a most careful investigation, is not yet made public, but they have
arrived at the following specific conclusion, which we give in their
own language: "We are, therefore, of the opinion that the explosion of
the boiler of the locomotive 'Gem,' was produced by the projection of
foam upon the heated crown bars of the furnace, caused by suddenly
and widely opening the safety valve, at a time when the water had been
permitted to get so low as to overheat the crown of the furnace." This
is an important matter that should be carefully noted by locomotive
and other engineers.
* * * * *
SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN
ESTABLISHED 1845
MUNN & CO., Editors and Proprietors.
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* * * * *
VOL. XXXIX., No. 24. [NEW SERIES.] Thirty-third Year. NEW YORK,
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1878.
* * * * *
TABLE OF CONTENTS OF
THE SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN SUPPLEMENT
No. 154,
For the Week ending December 14, 1878.
Price 10 cents. For sale by all newsdealers.
I. ENGINEERING AND MECHANICS.--Portable Steam Pumping Engine, 1
engraving.--New Bone Crushing Mill, 2 engravings.--Picard's Boiler.
Extraction of Salt from Salt Water.--Compressed Air Machines.
Hydraulic vs. air pressure. Causes of the losses of power.
Estimates of useful effects obtainable.--The St. Gothard Tunnel.
By GEO. J. SPECHT, C.E.--Apparatus for Lifting Sunken Vessels,
with 8 figures.--Russia Sheet Iron.--Manufacture of Artificial
Stone.--Compressed Fuel.--The New Magnesi Process for Boiler Feed
Water.
II. FRENCH INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION OF 1878.--Wine Presses.
Description of sixteen new and peculiar wine presses at the
Exhibition, with 31 figures and 9 engravings. The Press Primat;
Press Mabille; Press David; Samain Press; Marchand, Maupre,
Boyries, Chapellier, Marmonier, Nogues, Mailhe, Moreau, Piquet,
Delperoux, Terrel des Chenes, and Cassan fils Presses.
The Algerian Exhibit. The street of Algiers, with 1
illustration.--Woolen Fabrics.
III. ELECTRICITY, LIGHT, HEAT, ETC.--Electric Lighting. Estimate
of the comparative heating effect in gas and electric lighting,
and the consequent loss of power.--The Electric Light. Remarks on
its economy.--The Present Bugbear of French Savants.
New Planets.
The Dutch Arctic Expedition. The Peak of Beerenburg, Spitzbergen,
with 1 illustration.
IV. CHEMISTRY AND METALLURGY.--New Process for Separating Iodine
and Bromine from Kelp.--Inoffensive Colors for Toys.--New Coloring
Matters.--Tungsten.
Ozone and the Atmosphere. By ALBERT R. LEEDS, Ph.D. Table of
percentage of ozone contained in the atmosphere at various
localities in the United States. Register of ozone observations
for one month at Upper Saranac Lake, N. Y., giving thermometric
and barometric observations, and full record of weather.
Examination of methods in ozonometry. Preparation of ozone by
electrolysis of water containing sulphuric acid, with 1 engraving.
Preparation by electricity, with 1 engraving. Does the electric
spark decompose potassium iodide? Collection and preservation of
ozone. Preparation by chemical methods. Critical examination of
ozonoscopes. Potassium iodide; starch; paper classification of
ozonoscopes. Examination of ozonoscopes under certain conditions.
Limits of the Combustibility of Gases.--The Diffusion of
Salicylate of Soda.--Singular use of Fluorescein.--New Metal.
Philippium By M. MARC DELAFONTAINE.--Better Pharmaceutical
Education. By RICHARD V. MATTISON, Ph. G.--An El Dorado for
Apothecaries.
V. MEDICINE AND HYGIENE.--The Science of Easy Chairs. The muscular
conditions of fatigue, and how to obtain the greatest rest. How
easy chairs should be made.
Prof. Huxley on the Hand. Abstract of his inaugural lecture before
the South London Workingmen's College.
Paint from a Sanitary Point of View. The required abolition of
absorbent surfaces in dwellings. Lead poisoning from paint not
thoroughly dry. Cases described in which white lead paint in
dwellings never dries, but gives off poisonous particles, which
are inhaled by the inmates, causing depression, weakness headache,
and loss of appetite. Zinc recommended in paint to avoid lead
poisoning, and the new oxy-sulphide of Zinc described, with
covering qualities equal to white lead.
The Purification of Sewage. By HENRY ROBINSON, F.R.S. Paper
read before the Sanitary Institute of Great Britain. Progress
in purifying sewage by precipitation. The use of chemicals for
precipitating, deodorizing, and disinfecting. Practical data on
a large scale, with cost. Average number of gallons per head of
population, etc., of the successful system now in operation at
Coventry and Hertford. How the water is removed from the sludge by
filter presses. Drying and removal of the sludge. Theoretical and
actual values of the sludge for fertilizing.
VI. AGRICULTURE, HORTICULTURE, ETC.--The Broadside Steam Digger,
with 1 engraving.--Shall I Plow the Lawn?--Bee Culture.
* * * * *
PROGRESS OF PETROLEUM.
The efforts of the great majority of the Western Pennsylvania
petroleum producers to obtain relief from what they deem the
oppressive acts of the Standard Oil Company and the unjust
discriminations of the United Pipe Lines, and the various railroads
traversing the oil regions, have attracted more than usual attention
to the present condition of this industry and its possible future.
We would here explain that the Standard Oil Company originated in
Cleveland, Ohio, about twelve years ago, and was incorporated under
the laws of Ohio, with a nominal capital now, we are informed, of
$3,000,000, which, however, very inadequately represents the financial
strength of its members. It is now a combination of the most
prominent refiners in the country, and has before been credited with
manipulating the transportation lines to its own special advantage.
We can recall no instance of such serious hostility between parties
whose interests are at the same time of such magnitude and so nearly
identical; nor can we see what substantial, enduring benefit would
accrue to the producers in the event of their victory in the struggle.
They charge that the Standard Oil Company has become the controlling
power to fix prices and to determine the avenues by which the oil
shall be transported eastward for home consumption and for foreign
exportation; that the railway companies have given this company lower
rates than other parties for transporting the oil; and that through
the rates given to it by the railways the value of their property is
destroyed.
The reply, in effect, is, Granting all this to be true, what does
it amount to? Neither more nor less than that the managers of the
Standard Oil Company, by combination of capital, by intelligence and
shrewdness in the management of their operations, have built up a
successful business, and that they have so extended it by the use of
all practicable appliances, and by the purchase of the property of
competitors, that they do practically control the prices of oil, both
crude and refined, and that the uncombined capital of the other oil
producers, lacking the power, the intelligence, and the business skill
which combined capital can secure, cannot compete with the Standard
Oil Company. Now, is there any great wrong or injustice in this?
When brains can command capital it is always more successful in
business matters than any amount of brains without capital or capital
without brains. This result is the natural working out of the same
principle that is everywhere to be seen--some men are successful and
others are not.
It is the essence of communism to drag down those who succeed to the
level of the unsuccessful.
If men cannot compete with others in any business they must accept the
fact, and try some other employment.
If, through superior intelligence and capital, the Standard Oil
Company can control the oil business of Pennsylvania, then, according
to the principles of common sense, it must be permitted to do so.
What right, then, has the oil producer to complain? Why, if all that
is alleged is true, will they persist in sinking more wells, when,
as they say, they are controlled by the Standard Oil Company? No one
forces them to lose money by continuing in the business. Let them find
other employment. They do not show that the Standard Oil Company
does anything that combined capital on their part and equal business
ability could not effect.
The cry of monopoly in this case is altogether unfounded, those
opposed to the Standard Oil Company having just as much right to do
all that that company does, and, therefore, there can be no monopoly,
because they have no exclusive powers.
As to the railway companies, they can afford and have a right to
transport the tonnage offered them by the Standard Oil Company at less
cost, because it costs them less to do a regular and large business
than an irregular and smaller one. They would simply be acting in
accordance with business principles the world over.
These are the arguments, the statement of the position of a successful
combination confident in its resources and of victory in the coming
struggle. The justness, the correctness of the doctrines enunciated,
and the wisdom of so doing at this crisis, we do not propose to
criticise; but it is very safe to say that if the prosperity of the
complainants depends upon relief in this direction they may as well
cease producing.
There are too many of them for harmonious and concerted action against
the powerful corporations they complain of; and if they should succeed
in securing equal transportation facilities the prices would still be
regulated by the monopolists, who carry more than four-fifths of the
accumulated stock of the oil regions.
The proposed appeal to Congress to pass some law whereby each producer
can compel railroad companies to carry his produce at regular rates,
amounts to a confession of the desperate straits of the producers
and of their weakness as well; and even if successful, which is most
improbable, would not remedy the deplorable existing state of things.
Still lower rates would fail to give relief, with all the present
avenues of trade filled to repletion and with an increasing output
at the wells. Relief and permanent relief can be found only in the
direction we have before indicated: in the general application of
petroleum and its products to the manufacture of gas for illuminating
and heating purposes, and its substitution for coal in the metallurgic
and other prominent industries of the world.
* * * * *
THE LIMIT OF WORK.
In distributing the prizes to workmen at the Paris Exhibition, Louis
Blanc, the leader of the French Republican Socialist party, quoted
approvingly these words of Simonde de Sismondi:
"If the workman were his own master, when he had done in two hours
with the aid of machinery what would have taken him twelve hours to do
without it, he would stop at the end of the two."
M. Blanc had been discussing very eloquently, but also very
fallaciously, the relations of machinery to labor. If men were
properly united in the bonds of association, he said, if the
solidarity of interests were realized, "the happy result of the
application of mechanical power to industry would be equal production,
with less of effort, for all. The discovery of an economic method
would never have the lamentable consequence of robbing men of the work
by which they live. Unfortunately, we are far from this ideal. Under
the empire of that universal antagonism which is the very essence of
the economic constitution of modern societies, and which too often
only profits one man by ruining another, machinery has been employed
to make the rule of the strong weigh more heavily on the weak. There
is not a single mechanical invention which has not been a subject of
anguish and a cause of distress to thousands of fathers of families
from the moment it began to work."
If all this, and much else that M. Blanc alleges, were true, then the
condition of all workingmen to-day should be in every way worse than
that of their fathers, in anti-machinery days. But such is not the
case. There never was a time when the laborer toiled less or enjoyed
more than in these days of machinery; and the laborer's condition is
best where the machinery is best and most used.
A hundred years ago the laborer toiled long, produced little, and
enjoyed less. To-day, thanks to the victories of invention, machinery
does the heaviest of the work; the workman's hours of labor are fewer
than formerly; his wages are greater; and his earnings will buy vastly
more, dollar for dollar, than in any previous age in the world's
history.
What laborer of to-day would be satisfied with the remuneration, the
food, the shelter, the clothing of the laboring classes of one hundred
years ago? The wants of men, as well as their thoughts, are widened by
the process of the suns. And in no section of society have the daily
wants been more markedly increased, or the facilities for gratifying
them either, than among those that live by labor.
"If the workman were his own master, when he had done in two hours
with the aid of machinery what it would have taken him twelve hours to
do without it, he would stop at the end of the two."
So says the theoretical socialist. The practical workman never has,
nor, we believe, ever will, act so foolishly; certainly not until the
limit of man's capacity to enjoy has been reached. When the united
products of manual and mechanical effort fully satisfy the desires of
all men, and leave no margin of want unfilled, then and then only
will men be satisfied with the reduction of effort demanded by the
socialists. Until then the larger part of every increase in production
by mechanical improvements will go to swell the volume of good things
for human use and enjoyment. Our machinery enables our thousands of
busy workers to accomplish what millions could not have done years
ago, and a very large part of the aggregate increase of product
comes back to them in conveniences and luxuries surpassing those
the wealthiest could enjoy were machinery not employed, or were it
employed, as the socialist advocates, without increasing the aggregate
of production. The laziness of the savage and the advantages of
civilization are incompatible. The chief merit of machinery lies in
its enabling us to multiply constantly the scope and variety of our
enjoyments without a corresponding increase of toil.
* * * * *
IRIDESCENT GLASS.
Ornamental glassware in many styles, tinted with the glowing colors
of the rainbow, is now making its appearance in the shop windows
of Broadway and Fifth Avenue. This is one of those brilliant little
achievements of science that delights the eye and pleases the
imagination. To produce the colors, the glass, while in a heated
state, is subjected to the vapor of chloride of tin. Shades of more or
less depth or intensity are imparted by adding to the tin chloride a
little nitrate of strontium or barium.
* * * * *
RAILS AND RAILWAY ACCIDENTS--NEW YORK ACADEMY OF SCIENCES.
A meeting of the Section of Physics, New York Academy of Sciences,
was held November 25, 1878. President J. S. Newberry in the chair.
Numerous publications of learned societies were received and
acknowledged. Professor Newberry read a letter from Professor Agassiz
stating that sea lilies, which had hitherto been very rare--a single
specimen bringing as much as fifty dollars--have been found in some
numbers by dredging in the Gulf of Mexico. Their colors are white,
pink, and yellow. Professor Newberry also exhibited specimens of
garnet from California, lamellar quartz from North Carolina, sharks'
teeth belonging to the eocene and miocene tertiary ages from the
phosphate beds of South Carolina, and a number of shells.
Professor Thomas Egleston then addressed the Academy on the subject of
"The Structure of Rails as Affecting Railway Accidents."
The destruction of rails is due to three causes. 1. Defects in the
manufacture; 2. Improper mechanical or chemical composition; and 3.
Physical changes.
A very large number of rails are annually made which should never be
put in any track. Their defects are often imperceptible to the naked
eye, but they very soon begin to break. Statistics show that the
breakage from defects in making increase until they have been used
18 months; then it decreases to zero, and after that rails break from
different causes. In France, breakage usually begins in December,
reaches its maximum in January, and becomes normal in April. As a more
intense cold would be necessary to explain such breakage than that
which is felt in that climate, the cause must be sought in the
stiffness and inelasticity of the frozen road bed. The impact of
the locomotive is then apt to break the rail, very much on the same
principle that is taken advantage of in breaking them up for the
manufacture of smaller objects. A nick is made somewhere, and the
workman then strikes a blow with a hammer at a point between the nick
and the place where the rail is supported. This will sever the rail at
the nicked place. Sometimes more than a second intervenes between the
blow and the fracture. Now, whenever holes are punched in rails for
the fish plates, flaws are apt to radiate from them; and if these
flaws are not planed or filed out, they may cause the rail to break,
just as the nicks above mentioned. Such rails have been known to last
no longer than 18 months, and some have actually broken on the way
from the manufacturer to their destination. There are establishments
in this country and in Europe where they "doctor" such rails by
filling up the flaws with a mixture of iron filings, sal ammoniac, and
some adhesive substance. Beware of them; a poor cheap rail is dear
at any price. The French government stipulates in its contracts for
rails, that flaws shall be planed, drilled, or filed out; that the
rails shall not be allowed to drop on the ground, but shall be carried
by men and slid down. The Lyons railroad does not pay for its rails
until 15,000 trains have passed over them.
By imperfect mechanical composition is meant imperfect union of the
parts of rails. Steel heads are welded to the rest of the rail in a
variety of ways, and this welding is necessarily imperfect. A number
of sections of rails etched with acid plainly showed this want of
homogeneity, as did likewise prints taken from the etched surfaces.
Before such rails have lost weight appreciably, they are used up by
the constant rolling they undergo. The advantage of a steel rail is
its homogeneity, but a good iron rail, such as those made under the
direction of the speaker, for the Reading Railroad Company, is likely
to prove better than one of poor steel. The life of a steel rail
is chiefly affected by the temperature at which it is rolled and
annealed. It ought not to wear off more than 1 mm. for 20,000,000
tons of traffic, and is usually calculated to wear 10 mm. before it is
taken up. In other words, it would last about 20 years on roads doing
as much business as the New York Central. It is, however, unlikely
that our steel rails will stand more than half this amount of traffic.
The effects of chemical composition are but little understood. Some
of the purest irons have turned out utterly worthless. Apparently the
absolute quantities of carbon, silicon, aluminum, phosphorus, etc.,
present are not of so much importance as their relative proportion.
One specimen containing carbon 0.16, silicon 0.08, and phosphorus
0.012, could be bent double when cold, while another, containing
carbon 0.58, silicon 0.56, and phosphorus 0.011 broke at once.
The physical tests for tensile and torsional strength, usually made on
a portion cut out of the head of the rail, are not sufficient, because
the flaws before spoken of exist mostly in the flange of the rail, and
fracture usually begins there.
The effect of | 1,447.506683 |
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Produced by David Widger
THE LITTLE MANX NATION
By Hall Caine
Published by William Heinemann - 1891
To the REVEREND T. S. BROWN, M.A.
You see what I send you--my lectures at the Royal Institution in the
Spring. In making a little book of them I have thought it best to
leave them as they were delivered, with all the colloquialisms that are
natural to spoken words frankly exposed to cold print. This does not
help them to any particular distinction as literature, but perhaps it
lends them an ease and familiarity which may partly atone to you and to
all good souls for their plentiful lack of dignity. I have said so often
that I am not an historian, that I ought to add that whatever history
lies hidden here belongs to Train, our only accredited chronicler,
and, even at the risk of bowing too low, I must needs protest, in our
north-country homespun, that he shall have the pudding if he will
also take the pudding-bag. You know what I mean. At some points our
history--especially our early history--is still so vague, so dubious,
so full of mystery. It is all the fault of little Mannanan, our ancient
Manx magician, who enshrouded our island in mist. Or should I say it
is to his credit, for has he not left us through all time some shadowy
figures to fight about, like "rael, thrue, reg'lar" Manxmen. As for the
stories, the "yarns" that lie like flies--like blue-bottles, like bees,
I trust not like wasps--in the amber of the history, you will see that
they are mainly my own. On second thought it occurs to me that maybe
they are mainly yours. Let us say that they are both yours and mine,
or perhaps, if the world finds anything good in them, any humour, any
pathos, any racy touches of our rugged people, you will permit me to
determine their ownership in the way of this paraphrase of Coleridge's
doggerel version of the two Latin hexameters--
"They're mine and they are likewise yours, But an if that will not do,
Let them be mine, good friend! for I Am the poorer of the two."
Hawthorns, Keswick, June 1891.
CONTENTS
THE STORY OF THE MANX KINGS
Islanders--Our Island--The Name of our Island--Our History--King
Orry--The Tynwald--The Lost Saga--The Manx Macbeth--The Manx
Glo'ster--Scotch and English Dominion--The Stanley Dynasty--Iliam
Dhoan--The Athol Dynasty--Smuggling and Wrecking--The Revestment--Home
Rule--Orry's Sons
THE STORY OF THE MANX BISHOPS
The Druids--Conversion to Christianity--The Early Bishops of
Man--Bishops of the Welsh Dynasty--Bishops of the Norse Dynasty--Sodor
and Man--The Early Bishops of the House of Stanley--Tithes in
Kind--The Gambling Bishop--The Deemsters--The Bishopric Vacant--Bishop
Wilson--Bishop Wilson's Censures--The Great Corn Famine--The Bishop at
Court--Stories of Bishop Wilson--Quarrels of Church and State--Some
Old Ordeals--The Herring Fishery--The Fishermen's Service--Some Old
Laws--Katherine Kinrade--Bishop Wilson's last Days--The Athol Bishops.
THE STORY OF THE MANX PEOPLE
The Manx Language--Manx Names--Manx imagination--Manx Proverbs--Manx
Ballads--Manx Carols--Decay of the Manx Language--Manx
Superstitions--Manx Stories--Manx "Characters"--Manx
Characteristics--Manx Types--Literary Associations--Manx
Progress--Conclusion
THE LITTLE MANX NATION
THE STORY OF THE MANX KINGS
There are just two ideas which are associated in the popular imagination
with the first thought of the Isle of Man. The one is that Manxmen have
three legs, and the other that Manx cats have no tails. But whatever
the popular conception, or misconception, of Man and its people, I shall
assume that what you ask from me is that simple knowledge of simple
things which has come to me by the accident of my parentage. I must
confess to you at the outset that I am not much of a hand at grave
history. Facts and figures I cannot expound with authority. But I know
the history of the Isle of Man, can see it clear, can see it whole, and
perhaps it will content you if I can show you the soul of it and make
it to live before you. In attempting to traverse the history I feel like
one who carries a dark lantern through ten dark centuries. I turn the
bull's eye on this incident and that, take a peep here and there, a
white light now, and then a blank darkness. Those ten centuries are
full of lusty fights, victories, vanquishments, quarrels, peacemaking,
shindies big and little, rumpus solemn and ridiculous, clouds of dust,
regal dust, political dust, and religious dust--you know the way of it.
But beneath it all and behind it all lies the real, true, living human
heart of Manxland. I want to show it to you, if you will allow me to
spare the needful time from facts and figures. It will get you close to
Man and its people, and it is not to be found in the history books.
ISLANDERS
And now, first, we Manxmen are islanders. It is not everybody who lives
on an island that is an islander. You know what I mean. I mean by an
islander one whose daily life is affected by the constant presence of
the sea. This is possible in a big island if it is far enough away from
the rest of the world, Iceland, for example, but it is inevitable in a
little one. The sea is always present with Manxmen. Everything they do,
everything they say, gets the colour and shimmer of the sea. The sea
goes into their bones, it comes out at their skin. Their talk is full of
it. They buy by it, they sell by it, they quarrel by it, they fight by
it, they swear by it, they pray by it. Of course they are not conscious
of this. Only their degenerate son, myself to wit, a chiel among them
takin' notes, knows how the sea exudes from the Manxmen. Say you ask if
the Governor is at home. If he is not, what is the answer? "He's not on
the island, sir." You inquire for the best hotel. "So-and-so is the
best hotel on the island, sir." You go to a Manx fair and hear a farmer
selling a cow. "Aw," says he, "she's a ter'ble gran' craythuer for
milkin', sir, and for butter maybe there isn' the lek of her on the
island, sir." Coming out of church you listen to the talk of two old
Manxwomen discussing the preacher. "Well, well, ma'am, well, well! Aw,
the voice at him! and the prayers! and the beautiful texes! There isn'
the lek of him on the island at all, at all!" Always the island, the
island, the island, or else the boats, and going out to the herrings.
The sea is always present. You feel it, you hear it, you see it, you can
never forget it. It dominates you. Manxmen are all sea-folk.
You will think this implies that Manxmen stick close to their island.
They do more than that. I will tell you a story. Five years ago I went
up into the mountains to seek an old Manx bard, last of a race of whom I
shall have something to tell you in their turn. All his life he had been
a poet. I did not gather that he had read any poetry except his own. Up
to seventy he had been a bachelor. Then this good Boaz had lit on his
Ruth and married, and had many children. I found him in a lonely glen,
peopled only in story, and then by fairies. A bare hill side, not a bush
in sight, a dead stretch of sea in front, rarely brightened by a sail. I
had come through a blinding hail-storm. The old man was sitting in the
chimney nook, a little red shawl round his head and knotted under his
chin. Within this aureole his face was as strong as Savonarola's, long
and gaunt, and with skin stretched over it like parchment. He was no
hermit, but a farmer, and had lived on that land, man and boy, nearly
ninety years. He had never been off the island, and had strange notions
of the rest of the world. Talked of England, London, theatres, palaces,
king's entertainments, evening parties. He saw them all through the
mists of rumour, and by the light of his Bible. He had strange notions,
some of them bad shots for the truth, some of them startlingly true. I
dare not tell you what they were. A Royal Institution audience would
be aghast. They had, as a whole, a strong smell of sulphur. But the old
bard was not merely an islander, he belonged to his land more than his
land belonged to him. The fishing town nearest to his farm was Peel, the
great fishing centre on the west coast. It was only five miles away.
I asked how long it was since he had been there? "Fifteen years," he
answered. The next nearest town was the old capital, on the east coast,
Castletown, the home of the Governor, of the last of the Manx lords, the
place of the Castle, the Court, the prison, the garrison, the College.
It was just six miles away. How long was it since he had been there?
"Twenty years." The new capital, Douglas, the heart of the island, its
point of touch with the world, was nine miles away. How long since he
had been in Douglas? "Sixty years," said the old bard. God bless him,
the sweet, dear old soul! Untaught, narrow, self-centred, bred on his
byre like his bullocks, but keeping his soul alive for all that, caring
not a ha'porth for the things of the world, he was a true Manxman, and
I'm proud of him. One thing I have to thank him for. But for him, and
the like of him, we should not be here to-day. It is not the cultured
Manxman, the Manxman that goes to the ends of the earth, that makes the
Manx nation valuable to study. Our race is what it is by virtue of
the Manxman who has had no life outside Man, and so has kept alive our
language, our customs, our laws and our patriarchal Constitution.
OUR ISLAND
It lies in the middle of the Irish Sea, at about equal distances from
England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. Seen from the sea it is a lovely
thing to look upon. It never fails to bring me a thrill of the heart as
it comes out of the distance. It lies like a bird on the waters. You
see it from end to end, and from water's edge to topmost peak, often
enshrouded in mists, a dim ghost on a grey sea; sometimes purple against
the setting sun. Then as you sail up to it, a rugged rocky coast, grand
in its beetling heights on the south and west, and broken into the
sweetest bays everywhere. The water clear as crystal and blue as the sky
in summer. You can see the shingle and the moss through many fathoms.
Then mountains within, not in peaks, but round foreheads. The colour of
the island is green and gold; its flavour is that of a nut. Both colour
and flavour come of the gorse. This covers the mountains and moorlands,
for, except on the north, the island has next to no trees. But O, the
beauty and delight of it in the Spring! Long, broad stretches glittering
under the sun with the gold of the gorse, and all the air full of the
nutty perfume. There is nothing like it in the world. Then the glens,
such fairy spots, deep, solemn, musical with the slumberous waters, clad
in dark mosses, brightened by the red fuchsia. The fuchsia is everywhere
where the gorse is not. At the cottage doors, by the waysides, in the
gardens. If the gorse should fail the fuchsia might even take its place
on the mountains. Such is Man, but I am partly conscious that it is Man
as seen by a Manxman. You want a drop of Manx blood in you to see it
aright. Then you may go the earth over and see grander things a thousand
times, things more sublime and beautiful, but you will come back to
Manxland and tramp the Mull Hills in May, long hour in, and long hour
out, and look at the flowering gorse and sniff its flavour, or lie by
the chasms and listen to the screams of the sea-birds, as they whirl and
dip and dart and skim over the Sugar-loaf Rock, and you'll say after
all that God has smiled on our little island, and that it is the fairest
spot in His beautiful world, and, above all, that it is _ours_.
THE NAME OF OUR ISLAND
This is a matter in dispute among philologists, and I am no authority.
Some say that Caesar meant the Isle of Man when he spoke of Mona; others
say he meant Anglesea. The present name is modern. So is Elian Vannin,
its Manx equivalent. In the Icelandic Sagas the island is called Mon.
Elsewhere it is called Eubonia. One historian thinks the island derives
its name from Mannin--in being an old Celtic word for island, therefore
Meadhon-in (pronounced Mannin) would signify: The middle island. That
definition requires that the Manxman had no hand in naming Man. He would
never think of describing its geographical situation on the sea.
Manxmen say the island got its name from a mythical personage called
Mannanan-Beg-Mac-y-Learr, Little Mannanan, son of Learr. This man was
a sort of Prospero, a magician, and the island's first ruler. The story
goes that if he dreaded an enemy he would enshroud the island in mist,
"and that by art magic." Happy island, where such faith could ever
exist! Modern science knows that mist, and where it comes from.
OUR HISTORY
It falls into three periods, first, a period of Celtic rule, second of
Norse rule, third of English dominion. Manx history is the history of
surrounding nations. We have no Sagas of our own heroes. The Sagas are
all of our conquerors. Save for our first three hundred recorded years
we have never been masters in our own house. The first chapter of our
history has yet to be written. We know we were Celts to begin with, but
how we came we have never learnt, whether we walked dry-shod from Wales
or sailed in boats from Ireland. To find out the facts of our early
history would be like digging up the island of Prospero. Perhaps we had
better leave it alone. Ten to one we were a gang of political exiles.
Perhaps we left our country for our country's good. Be it so. It was the
first and last time that it could be said of us.
KING ORRY
Early in the sixth century Man became subject to the kings and princes
of Wales, who ruled from Anglesea. There were twelve of them in
succession, and the last of them fell in the tenth century. We know next
to nothing about them but their names. Then came the Vikings. The young
bloods of Scandinavia had newly established their Norse kingdom in
Iceland, and were huckstering and sea roving about the Baltic and among
the British Isles. They had been to the Orkneys and Shetlands, and
Faroes, perhaps to Ireland, certainly to the coast of Cumberland, making
Scandinavian settlements everywhere. So they came to Moen early in | 1,447.599339 |
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THEO.
_A SPRIGHTLY LOVE STORY._
BY MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
AUTHOR OF "KATHLEEN," "PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON," "LINDSAY'S LUCK," "IN
CONNECTION WITH THE DE WILLOUGHBY CLAIM," "THE MAKING OF A MARCHIONESS,"
"THE METHODS OF LADY WALDERHURST," ETC.
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1877
By T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS.
MRS. BURNETT'S NOVELETTES.
_Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett is one of the most charming among American
writers. | 1,447.603019 |
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Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
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produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
The Missioner
BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
Author of "Anna, the Adventuress," "A Prince of
Sinners," "The Master Mummer," etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BY FRED PEGRAM
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1907,_
BY THE PEARSON PUBLISHING COMPANY.
_Copyright, 1907,_
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
Published January, 1909.
Fourth Printing
[ Illustration: "DO YOU MIND EXPLAINING YOURSELF?" SHE ASKED.
[Page 23.] FRONTISPIECE.]
CONTENTS
BOOK I
CHAPTER PAGE
I MISTRESS AND AGENT 1
II THE HUNTER AND HIS QUARRY 13
III FIRST BLOOD 22
IV BEATING HER WINGS 32
V EVICTED 41
VI CRICKET AND PHILOSOPHY 52
VII AN UNDERNOTE OF MUSIC 61
VIII ROSES 70
IX SUMMER LIGHTNING 78
X THE STILL FIGURE IN THE CHAIR 85
XI THE BAYING OF THE HOUNDS 93
XII RETREAT 100
XIII A CREATURE OF IMPULSE 105
XIV SEARCHING THE PAPERS 114
XV ON THE SPREE 121
XVI THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 129
XVII THE VICTIMS OF SOCIETY 138
XVIII LETTY'S DILEMMA 147
XIX A REPORT FROM PARIS 155
XX LIKE A TRAPPED ANIMAL 162
BOOK II
CHAPTER PAGE
I RATHER A GHASTLY PART 172
II PLAYING WITH FIRE 180
III MONSIEUR S'AMUSE 188
IV AT THE "DEAD RAT" 196
V THE AWAKENING 204
VI THE ECHO OF A CRIME 210
VII A COUNTRY WALK 218
VIII THE MISSING LETTY 227
IX FOILED! 235
X MYSTERIES IN MAYFAIR 244
XI THE WAY OF SALVATION 253
XII JEAN LE ROI 262
XIII THE KING OF THE APACHES 271
XIV BEHIND THE PALM TREES 281
XV THE ONLY WAY 289
XVI MAN TO MAN 296
XVII LORD AND LADY BOUNTIFUL 304
THE MISSIONER
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
MISTRESS AND AGENT
The lady of Thorpe was bored. These details as to leases and repairs
were wearisome. The phrases and verbiage confused her. She felt obliged
to take them in some measure for granted; to accept without question the
calmly offered advice of the man who stood so respectfully at the right
hand of her chair.
"This agreement with Philip Crooks," he remarked, "is a somewhat
important document. With your permission, madam, I will read it to you."
She signified her assent, and leaned wearily back in her chair. The
agent began to read. His mistress watched him through half closed eyes.
His voice, notwithstanding its strong country dialect, had a sort of
sing-song intonation. He read earnestly and without removing his eyes
from the document. His listener made no attempt to arrive at the sense
of the string of words which flowed so monotonously from his lips. She
was occupied in making a study of the man. Sturdy and weather-beaten,
neatly dressed in country clothes, with a somewhat old-fashioned stock,
with trim grey side-whiskers, and a mouth which reminded her somehow of
a well-bred foxhound's, he represented to her, in his clearly cut
personality, the changeless side of life, the side of life which she
associated with the mighty oaks in her park, and the prehistoric rocks
which had become engrafted with the soil of the hills beyond. As she saw
him now, so had he seemed to her fifteen years ago. Only what a
difference! A volume to her--a paragraph to him! She had gone out into
the world--rich, intellectually inquisitive, possessing most of the
subtler gifts with which her sex is endowed; and wherever the passionate
current of life had flown the swiftest, she had been there, a leader
always, seeking ever to satisfy the unquenchable thirst for new
experiences and new joys. She had passed from girlhood to womanhood with
every nerve of her body strained to catch the emotion of the moment.
Always her fingers had been tearing at the cells of life--and one by one
they had fallen away. This morning, in the bright sunshine which flooded
the great room, she felt somehow tired--tired and withered. Her maid was
a fool! The two hours spent at her toilette had been wasted! She felt
that her eyes were hollow, her cheeks pale! Fifteen years, and the man
had not changed a jot. She doubted whether he had ever passed the
confines of her estate. She doubted whether he had even had the desire.
Wind and sun had tanned his cheeks, his eyes were clear, his slight
stoop was the stoop of the horseman rather than of age. He had the air
of a man satisfied with life and his place in it--an attitude which
puzzled her. No one of her world was like that! Was it some inborn gift,
she wondered, which he possessed, some antidote to the world's
restlessness which he carried with him, or was it merely lack of
intelligence?
He finished reading and folded up the pages, to find her regarding him
still with that air of careful attention with which she had listened to
his monotonous flow of words. He found her interest surprising. It did
not occur to him to invest it with any personal element.
"The agreement upon the whole," he remarked, "is, I believe, a fair one.
You are perhaps thinking that those clauses----"
"If the agreement is satisfactory to you," she interrupted, "I will
confirm it."
He bowed slightly and glanced through the pile of papers upon the table.
"I do not think that there is anything else with which I need trouble
you, madam," he remarked.
She nodded imperiously.
"Sit down for a moment, Mr. Hurd," | 1,447.605554 |
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.
—Underlined text has been rendered as *underlined text*.
The Cambridge Manuals of Science and Literature
THE FLEA
CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS
London: FETTER LANE, E.C.
C. F. CLAY, MANAGER
[Illustration: LOGO]
Edinburgh: 100, PRINCES STREET
London: H. K. LEWIS, 136, GOWER STREET, W.C.
WILLIAM WESLEY & SON, 28, ESSEX STREET, STRAND
Berlin: A. ASHER AND CO.
Leipzig: F. A. BROCKHAUS
New York: G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Bombay and Calcutta: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.
_All rights reserved_
[Illustration:
_After a drawing by Dr Jordan_
Oriental rat-flea (_Xenopsylla cheopis_ Rothsch.). Male.]
[Illustration; DECORATED FRONT PAGE:
THE FLEA
BY
HAROLD RUSSELL,
B.A., F.Z.S., M.B.O.U.
With nine illustrations
Cambridge:
at the University Press
1913]
Cambridge
PRINTED BY JOHN CLAY, M.A.
AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS
_With the exception of the coat of arms at the foot, the design on
the title page is a reproduction of one used by the earliest known
Cambridge printer, John Siberch, 1521_
PREFACE
THE aim of this book is to give in plain language some account of a
small, but noteworthy, group of insects. I have avoided, whenever I
could, using the technical terms of zoology. To avoid doing so entirely
is impossible in a book which describes insects in some detail. No
technical term has, I hope, been used without an explanation.
Over thirty years have elapsed since Taschenberg’s German book, _Die
Flöhe_, appeared. Our knowledge has made enormous strides since then.
More species of flea are now known from the British Islands alone
than were then known from the whole world. | 1,447.702604 |
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[Transcriber's note:
It is noted that on page 92 "From December 1, 1894, to September 12,
1892, 329 francs 75 centimes was collected;" that the dates are not
sequential. The word _sabotage_ has been consistently placed in italics.
Individual correction of printers' errors are listed at the end.]
STUDIES IN HISTORY, ECONOMICS AND PUBLIC LAW
EDITED BY THE FACULTY OF POLITICAL SCIENCE
OF COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
Volume XLVI] [Number 3
Whole Number 116
SYNDICALISM IN FRANCE
BY
LOUIS LEVINE
WITH AN INTRODUCTION
BY
PROFESSOR FRANKLIN H. GIDDINGS
SECOND REVISED EDITION
OF
"The Labor Movement in France"
AMS PRESS
NEW YORK
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
STUDIES IN THE
SOCIAL SCIENCES
116
COPYRIGHT 1912
BY
LOUIS LEVINE
The series was formerly known as _Studies in History,
Economics and Public Law_.
Reprinted with the permission of Columbia University Press
From the edition of 1914, New York
First AMS EDITION published 1970
Manufactured in the United States of America
Library of Congress Catalog Number: 76-127443
International Standard Book Number:
Complete Set... 0-404-51000-0
Number 116... 0-404-51116-3
AMS PRESS, INC.
New York, N.Y. 10003
The term syndicalism sounds strange to an English reader. Its equivalent
in English would be Unionism. A syndicat is a union of workingmen, on a
trade or on an industrial basis, for the defense of economic interests.
Revolutionary Syndicalism, however, has a broader connotation than the
etymology of the term would suggest. A critical analysis of existing
institutions, a socialist ideal, and a peculiar conception of
revolutionary methods to be used for the realization of the ideal--are
all contained in it. Revolutionary Syndicalism appears, therefore, as a
phase of the general movement towards a reorganization of society on
socialist principles.[1]
[1] The term "socialist" is here used in a wide sense to include all
varieties, even communistic anarchism.
Revolutionary Syndicalism cannot be treated, however, exclusively as a
phase of the evolution of Socialism. As the term suggests, it is also a
development of the French Labor Movement. The organization which
represents Revolutionary Syndicalism in France is the General
Confederation of Labor (_La Confederation Generale du Travail_,
generally referred to as the C. G. T.)--the central organization of the
labor unions or syndicats in France. The history of Revolutionary
Syndicalism coincides almost entirely with the history of the General
Confederation, and it may be said that its future is entirely bound up
with the destinies of this organization.
In fact, Revolutionary Syndicalism is an attempt to fuse revolutionary
socialism and trade unionism into one coherent movement. Peculiar
conditions of French social history have thrown the socialists and
anarchists into the syndicats and have secured their leadership there.
In this respect, Revolutionary Syndicalism is a unique and interesting
chapter in the history of both Socialism and Trades unionism and of
their mutual relations.
Revolutionary Syndicalism has attracted much attention outside of
France. Its more or less rapid development, the turmoil into which it
has thrown France several times, the extreme ideas which it expresses,
the violent methods it advocates, and its attempts of proselytism
outside of France have awakened an interest in it. A number of studies
on the movement have appeared in German, Italian, Russian and other
European periodicals and books. In English, however, the subject has not
received the consideration it would seem to deserve from the theoretical
as well as from the practical point of view.
Revolutionary Syndicalism is an aggressive movement. Its aim is to do
away with existing institutions and to reconstruct society along new
lines. It must, therefore, necessarily call forth a definite attitude on
the part of those who become acquainted with it. Those who speak about
it are either its friends or its enemies, and even those who want to be
impartial towards it are generally unable to resist the flood of
sentiment which such a movement sets loose in them.
Impartiality, however, has been the main effort of the writer of this
study. It has appeared to him more important to describe the facts as
they are and to understand the conditions back of the facts, than to
pass sentence whether of approval or of condemnation. He has made the
effort, therefore, to suppress his personality entirely in all that part
of his work which is purely descriptive. The method adopted has been to
describe ideas and facts sympathetically--whether syndicalist or
anti-syndicalist, whether promoting or hindering the development of
Revolutionary Syndicalism.
The idea that has guided the writer is as follows: Let us imagine that
social phenomena could be registered automatically. All social facts
would then be recorded with all the sympathies and antipathies with
which they are mixed in real life, because the latter are part of the
facts. When social descriptions go wrong it is not because they are
tinged with feeling, but because they are by those feelings
which they arouse in the writer and not by those which accompany them in
reality. The main task of the writer, therefore, is to try to enter into
the feelings which go along with the facts which he is describing.
This means that the writer must alternately feel and think as a
different person. However difficult this may be, it is still possible by
an effort of imagination prompted by a desire to get at the truth.
This method seems more correct than an attempt to remain entirely
indifferent and not to be swayed by any feeling. Indifference does not
secure impartiality; it results mostly in colorlessness. For instance,
were the writer to remain indifferent or critical while describing the
syndicalist ideas, the latter could not be | 1,447.804153 |
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THE DAISY CHAIN, OR ASPIRATIONS
By Charlotte Yonge
PREFACE.
No one can be more sensible than is the Author that the present is an
overgrown book of a nondescript class, neither the "tale" for the young,
nor the novel for their elders, but a mixture of both.
Begun as a series of conversational sketches, the story outran both
the original intention and the limits of the periodical in which it was
commenced; and, such as it has become, it is here presented to those who
have already made acquaintance with the May family, and may be willing
to see more of them. It would beg to be considered merely as what it
calls itself, a Family Chronicle--a domestic record of home events,
large and small, during those years of early life when the character
is chiefly formed, and as an endeavour to trace the effects of those
aspirations which are a part of every youthful nature. That the young
should take one hint, to think whether their hopes and upward-breathings
are truly upwards, and founded in lowliness, may be called the moral of
the tale.
For those who may deem the story too long, and the characters too
numerous, the Author can only beg their pardon for any tedium that they
may have undergone before giving it up. Feb. 22nd, 1856.
THE DAISY CHAIN
PART 1.
CHAPTER I.
Si douce est la Marguerite.--CHAUCER.
"Miss Winter, are you busy? Do you want this afternoon? Can you take a
good long walk?"
"Ethel, my dear, how often have I told you of your impetuosity--you have
forgotten."
"Very well"--with an impatient twist--"I beg your pardon. Good-morning,
Miss Winter," said a thin, lank, angular, sallow girl, just fifteen,
trembling from head to foot with restrained eagerness, as she tried to
curb her tone into the requisite civility.
"Good-morning, Ethel, good-morning, Flora," said the prim, middle-aged
daily governess, taking off her bonnet, and arranging the stiff little
rolls of curl at the long, narrow looking-glass, the border of which
distorted the countenance.
"Good-morning," properly responded Flora, a pretty, fair girl, nearly
two years older than her sister.
"Will you--" began to burst from Etheldred's lips again, but was stifled
by Miss Winter's inquiry, "Is your mamma pretty well to-day?"
"Oh! very well," said both at once; "she is coming to the reading." And
Flora added, "Papa is going to drive her out to-day."
"I am very glad. And the baby?"
"I do believe she does it on purpose!" whispered Ethel to herself,
wriggling fearfully on the wide window-seat on which she had
precipitated herself, and kicking at the bar of the table, by which
manifestation she of course succeeded in deferring her hopes, by a
reproof which caused her to draw herself into a rigid, melancholy
attitude, a sort of penance of decorum, but a rapid motion of the
eyelids, a tendency to crack the joints of the fingers, and an
unquietness at the ends of her shoes, betraying the restlessness of the
digits therein contained.
It was such a room as is often to be found in old country town houses,
the two large windows looking out on a broad old-fashioned street,
through heavy framework, and panes of glass scratched with various names
and initials. The walls were painted blue, the skirting almost a third
of the height, and so wide at the top as to form a narrow shelf. The
fireplace, constructed in the days when fires were made to give as
little heat as possible, was ornamented with blue and white Dutch
tiles bearing marvellous representations of Scripture history, and was
protected by a very tall green guard; the chairs were much of the same
date, solid and heavy, the seats in faded carpet-work, but there was a
sprinkling of lesser ones and of stools; a piano; a globe; a large table
in the middle of the room, with three desks on it; a small one, and a
light cane chair by each window; and loaded book-cases. Flora began, "If
you don't want this afternoon to yourself--"
Ethel was on her feet, and open-mouthed. "Oh, Miss Winter, if you would
be so kind as to walk to Cocksmoor with us!"
"To Cocksmoor, my dear!" exclaimed the governess in dismay.
"Yes, yes, but hear," cried Ethel. "It is not for nothing. Yesterday--"
"No, the day before," interposed Flora.
"There was a poor man brought into the hospital. He had been terribly
hurt in the quarry, and papa says he'll die. He was in great distress,
for his wife has just got twins, and there were lots of children before.
They want everything--food and clothes--and we want to walk and take
it."
"We had a collection of clothes ready, luckily," said Flora; "and we
have a blanket, and some tea and some arrowroot, and a bit of bacon, and
mamma says she does not think it too far for us to walk, if you will be
so kind as to go with us."
Miss Winter looked perplexed. "How could you carry the blanket, my
dear?"
"Oh, we have settled that," said Ethel, "we mean to make the donkey a
sumpter-mule, so, if you are tired, you may ride home on her."
"But, my dear, has your mamma considered? They are such a set of wild
people at Cocksmoor; I don't think we could walk there alone."
"It is Saturday," said Ethel, "we can get the boys."
"If you would reflect a little! They would be no protection. Harry would
be getting into scrapes, and you and Mary running wild."
"I wish Richard was at home!" said Flora.
"I know!" cried Ethel. "Mr. Ernescliffe will come. I am sure he can walk
so far now. I'll ask him."
Ethel had clapped after her the heavy door with its shining brass lock,
before Miss Winter well knew what she was about, and the governess
seemed annoyed. "Ethel does not consider," said she. "I don't think your
mamma will be pleased."
"Why not?" said Flora.
"My dear--a gentleman walking with you, especially if Margaret is
going!"
"I don't think he is strong enough," said Flora; "but I can't think
why there should be any harm. Papa took us all out walking with him
yesterday--little Aubrey and all, and Mr. Ernescliffe went."
"But, my dear--"
She was interrupted by the entrance of a fine tall blooming girl
of eighteen, holding in her hand a pretty little maid of five.
"Good-morning. Miss Winter. I suppose Flora has told you the request we
have to make to you?"
"Yes, my dear Margaret, but did your mamma consider what a lawless place
Cocksmoor is?"
"That was the doubt," said Margaret, "but papa said he would answer for
it nothing would happen to us, and mamma said if you would be so kind."
"It is unlucky," began the governess, but stopped at the incursion of
some new-comers, nearly tumbling over each other, Ethel at the head
of them. "Oh, Harry!" as the gathers of her frock gave way in the
rude grasp of a twelve-year-old boy. "Miss Winter, 'tis all right--Mr.
Ernescliffe says he is quite up to the walk, and will like it very much,
and he will undertake to defend you from the quarrymen."
"Is Miss Winter afraid of the quarrymen?" hallooed Harry. "Shall I take
a club?"
"I'll take my gun and shoot them," valiantly exclaimed Tom; and while
threats were passing among the boys, Margaret asked, in a low voice,
"Did you ask him to come with us?"
"Yes, he said he should like it of all things. Papa was there, and said
it was not too far for him--besides, there's the donkey. Papa says it,
so we must go, Miss Winter."
Miss Winter glanced unutterable things at Margaret, and Ethel began to
perceive she had done something wrong. Flora was going to speak, when
Margaret, trying to appear unconscious of a certain deepening colour in
her own cheeks, pressed a hand on her shoulder, and whispering, "I'll
see about it. Don't say any more, please," glided out of the room.
"What's in the wind?" said Harry. "Are many of your reefs out there,
Ethel?"
"Harry can talk nothing but sailors' language," said Flora, "and I am
sure he did not learn that of Mr. Ernescliffe. You never hear slang from
him."
"But aren't we going to Cocksmoor?" asked Mary, a blunt downright girl
of ten.
"We shall know soon," said Ethel. "I suppose I had better wait till
after the reading to mend that horrid frock?"
"I think so, since we are so nearly collected," said Miss Winter; and
Ethel, seating herself on the corner of the window-seat, with one leg
doubled under her, took up a Shakespeare, holding it close to her
eyes, and her brother Norman, who, in age, came between her and Flora,
kneeling on one knee on the window-seat, and supporting himself with one
arm against the shutter, leaned over her, reading it too, disregarding a
tumultuous skirmish going on in that division of the family collectively
termed "the boys," namely, Harry, Mary, and Tom, until Tom was suddenly
pushed down, and tumbled over into Ethel's lap, thereby upsetting
her and Norman together, and there was a general downfall, and a loud
scream, "The sphynx!"
"You've crushed it," cried Harry, dealing out thumps indiscriminately.
"No, here 'tis," said Mary, rushing among them, and bringing out a green
sphynx caterpillar on her finger--"'tis not hurt."
"Pax! Pax!" cried Norman, over all, with the voice of an authority,
as he leaped up lightly and set Tom on his legs again. "Harry! you had
better do that again," he added warningly. "Be off, out of this window,
and let Ethel and me read in peace."
"Here's the place," said Ethel--"Crispin, Crispian's day. How I do like
Henry V."
"It is no use to try to keep those boys in order!" sighed Miss Winter.
"Saturnalia, as papa calls Saturday," replied Flora.
"Is not your eldest brother coming home to-day?" said Miss Winter in a
low voice to Flora, who shook her head, and said confidentially, "He
is not coming till he has passed that examination. He thinks it better
not."
Here entered, with a baby in her arms, a lady with a beautiful
countenance of calm sweetness, looking almost too young to be the mother
of the tall Margaret, who followed her. There was a general hush as she
greeted Miss Winter, the girls crowding round to look at their little
sister, not quite six weeks old.
"Now, Margaret, will you take her up to the nursery?" said the
mother, while the impatient speech was repeated, "Mamma, can we go to
Cocksmoor?"
"You don't think it will be too far for you?" said the mother to Miss
Winter as Margaret departed.
"Oh, no, not at all, thank you, that was not--But Margaret has
explained."
"Yes, poor Margaret," said Mrs. May, smiling. "She has settled it by
choosing to stay at home with me. It is no matter for the others, and he
is going on Monday, so that it will not happen again."
"Margaret has behaved very well," said Miss Winter.
"She has indeed," said her mother, smiling. "Well, Harry, how is the
caterpillar?"
| 1,447.808216 |
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Produced by Delphine Lettau, Dianne Nolan, and the team
at Distributed Proofreaders Canada
HESTER
A STORY OF CONTEMPORARY LIFE
BY
MRS. OLIPHANT
"A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate
That flush'd her spirit:
I know not | 1,447.80898 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: LISBETH LONGFROCK]
LISBETH LONGFROCK
TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN OF HANS AANRUD
BY
LAURA E. POULSSON
ILLUSTRATED BY
OTHAR HOLMBOE
GINN AND COMPANY
BOSTON. NEW YORK. CHICAGO. LONDON
ATLANTA. DALLAS. COLUMBUS. SAN FRANCISCO
COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY
LAURA E. POULSSON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
The Athenaeum Press
GINN AND COMPANY. PROPRIETORS.
BOSTON. U.S.A.
PREFACE
Hans Aanrud's short stories are considered by his own countrymen as
belonging to the most original and artistically finished life pictures
that have been produced by the younger _literati_ of Norway. They
are generally concerned with peasant character, and present in true
balance the coarse and fine in peasant nature. The style of speech is
occasionally over-concrete for sophisticated ears, but it is not
unwholesome. Of weak or cloying sweetness--so abhorrent to Norwegian
taste--there is never a trace.
_Sidsel Sidsaerk_ was dedicated to the author's daughter on her eighth
birthday, and is doubtless largely reminiscent of Aanrud's own
childhood. If I have been able to give a rendering at all worthy of the
original, readers of _Lisbeth Longfrock_ will find that the whole story
breathes a spirit of unaffected poetry not inconsistent with the common
life which it depicts. This fine blending of the poetic and commonplace
is another characteristic of Aanrud's writings.
While translating the book I was living in the region where the scenes
of the story are laid, and had the benefit of local knowledge
concerning terms used, customs referred to, etc. No pains were spared
in verifying particulars, especially through elderly people on the
farms, who could best explain the old-fashioned terms and who had a
clear remembrance of obsolescent details of saeter life. For this
welcome help and for elucidations through other friends I wish here to
offer my hearty thanks.
Being desirous of having the conditions of Norwegian farm life made as
clear as possible to young English and American readers, I felt that
several illustrations were necessary and that it would be well for
these to be the work of a Norwegian. To understand how the sun can be
already high in the heavens when it rises, and how, when it sets, the
shadow of the western mountain can creep as quickly as it does from the
bottom of the valley up the opposite <DW72>, one must have some
conception of the narrowness of Norwegian valleys, with steep mountain
ridges on either side. I felt also that readers would be interested in
pictures showing how the dooryard of a well-to-do Norwegian farm looks,
how the open fireplace of the roomy kitchen differs from our
fireplaces, how tall and slender a Norwegian stove is, built with
alternating spaces and heat boxes, several stories high, and how
Crookhorn and the billy goat appeared when about to begin their grand
tussle up at Hoel Saeter.
_Sidsel Sidsaerk_ has given much pleasure to old and young. I hope that
_Lisbeth Longfrock_ may have the same good fortune.
LAURA E. POULSSON
HOPKINTON, MASSACHUSETTS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. LISBETH LONGFROCK GOES TO HOEL FARM 1
II. LISBETH LONGFROCK AS SPINNING WOMAN 12
III. LEAVING PEEROUT CASTLE 22
IV. SPRING: LETTING THE ANIMALS OUT TO PASTURE 33
V. SUMMER: TAKING THE ANIMALS UP TO THE SAETER 52
VI. THE TAMING OF CROOKHORN 68
VII. HOME FROM THE SAETER 84
VIII. ON GLORY PEAK 98
IX. THE VISIT TO PEEROUT CASTLE 113
X. SUNDAY AT THE SAETER 129
XI. LISBETH APPOINTED HEAD MILKMAID 139
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
LISBETH LONGFROCK _Frontispiece_
PAGE
HOEL FARM 4
THE BIG KITCHEN AT HOEL FARM 12
LISBETH'S ROOM UNDER THE STAIRS 34
THE VALLEY AND THE FARMS 52
UP AT THE SAETER 68
LISBETH LONGFROCK
CHAPTER I
LISBETH LONGFROCK GOES TO HOEL FARM
Bearhunter, the big, shaggy old dog at Hoel Farm, sat on the stone step
in front of the house, looking soberly around the spacious dooryard.
It was a clear, cold winter's day toward the beginning of spring, and
the sun shone brightly over the glittering snow. In spite of the bright
sunshine, however, Bearhunter would have liked to be indoors much
better than out, if his sense of responsibility had permitted; for his
paws ached with the cold, and he had to keep holding them up one after
another from the stone slab to keep from getting the "claw ache."
Bearhunter did not wish to risk that, because "claw ache" is very
painful, as every northern dog knows.
But to leave his post as watchman was not to be thought of just now,
for the pigs and the goats were out to-day. At this moment they were
busy with their separate affairs and behaving very well,--the pigs over
on the sunny side of the dooryard scratching themselves against the
corner of the cow house, and the goats gnawing bark from the big heap
of pine branches that had been laid near the sheep barn for their
special use. They looked as if they thought of nothing but their
scratching and gnawing; but Bearhunter knew well, from previous
experience, that no sooner would he go into the house than both pigs
and goats would come rushing over to the doorway and do all the
mischief they could. That big goat, Crookhorn,--the new one who had
come to the farm last autumn and whom Bearhunter had not yet brought
under discipline,--had already strayed in a roundabout way to the very
corner of the farmhouse, and was looking at Bearhunter in a
self-important manner, as if she did not fear him in the least. She was
really an intolerable creature, that goat Crookhorn! But just let her
dare--!
Bearhunter felt that he must sit on the cold doorstep for some time
longer, at any rate. He glanced up the road occasionally as if to see
whether any one was coming, so that the pigs and goats might not think
they had the whole of his attention.
He had just turned his head leisurely toward the narrow road that came
down crosswise over the <DW72> from the Upper Farms, when--what in the
world was that!
Something _was_ coming,--a funny little roly-poly something. What a
pity, thought Bearhunter, that his sight was growing so poor! At any
rate, he had better give the people in the house warning.
So he gave several deep, echoing barks. The goats sprang together in a
clump and raised their ears; the pigs stopped in the very midst of
their scratching to listen. That Bearhunter was held in great respect
could easily be seen.
He still remained sitting on the doorstep, staring up the road. Never
in his life had he seen such a thing as that now approaching. Perhaps,
after all, it was nothing worth giving warning about. He would take a
turn up the road and look at it a little nearer. So, arching his bushy
tail into a handsome curve and putting on his most good-humored
expression, he sauntered off.
Yes, it must be a human being, although you would not think so. It
began to look very much like "Katrine the Finn," as they called her,
who came to the farm every winter; but it could not be Katrine--it was
altogether too little. It wore a long, wide skirt, and from under the
skirt protruded the tips of two big shoes covered with gray woolen
stocking feet from which the legs had been cut off. Above the skirt
there was a round bundle of clothes with a knitted shawl tied around
it, and from this protruded two stumps with red mittens on. Perched on
the top of all was a smaller shape, muffled up in a smaller knitted
shawl,--that, of course, must be the head. Carried at the back was a
huge bundle tied up in a dark cloth, and in front hung a pretty wooden
pail, painted red.
Really, Bearhunter had to stand still and gaze. The strange figure, in
the meantime, had become aware of him, and it also came to a
standstill, as if in a dilemma. At that, Bearhunter walked over to the
farther side of the road and took his station there, trying to look
indifferent, for he did not wish to cause any fright. The strange
figure then made its way carefully forward again, drawing gradually
closer and closer to its own side of the road. As it came nearer to
Bearhunter the figure turned itself around by degrees, until, when
directly opposite to him, it walked along quite sidewise.
Then it was that Bearhunter got a peep through a little opening in the
upper shawl; and there he saw the tip of a tiny, turned-up red nose,
then a red mouth that was drawn down a little at the corners as if
ready for crying, and then a pair of big blue eyes that were fastened
upon him with a look of terror.
[Illustration: HOEL FARM]
Pooh! it was nothing, after all, but a little girl, well bundled up
against the cold. Bearhunter did not know her--but wait a bit! he
thought he had seen that pail before. At any rate it would be absurd to
try to frighten this queer little creature.
His tail began to wag involuntarily as he walked across the road to
take a sniff at the pail.
The little girl did not understand his action at once. Stepping back in
alarm, she caught her heels in her long frock and down she tumbled by
the side of the road. Bearhunter darted off instantly; but after
running a short distance toward the house he stopped and looked at her
again, making his eyes as gentle as he could and wagging his tail
energetically. With Bearhunter that wagging of the tail meant hearty,
good-natured laughter.
Then the little girl understood. She got up, smiled, and jogged slowly
after him. Bearhunter trotted leisurely ahead, looking back at her from
time to time. He knew now that she had an errand at Hoel Farm, and that
he was therefore in duty bound to help her.
Thus it was that Lisbeth Longfrock of Peerout Castle made her entrance
into Hoel Farm.
* * * * *
Peerout Castle was perched high above the Upper Farms, on a crag that
jutted out from a barren ridge just under a mountain peak called "The
Big Hammer." The real name of the little farm was New Ridge,[1] and
"Peerout Castle" was only a nickname given to it by a joker because
there was so fine an outlook from it and because it bore no resemblance
whatever to a castle. The royal lands belonging to this castle
consisted of a little plot of cultivated soil, a bit of meadow land
here and there, and some heather patches where tiny blueberry bushes
and small mountain-cranberry plants grew luxuriantly. The castle's
outbuildings were a shabby cow house and a pigsty. The cow house was
built against the steep hillside, with three walls of loosely built
stone, and its two stalls were dug half their length into the hill. The
tiny pigsty was built in the same fashion.
[1] It is customary in Norway for each farm, however small, to
have a name.
As for the castle itself, that was a very, very small, turf-roofed
cabin lying out on the jutting crag in the middle of the rocky ridge.
It had only one small window, with tiny panes of glass, that looked out
over the valley. And yet, in whatever part of the surrounding country
one might be, by looking in that direction--and looking high
enough--one could always see that little castle, with its single window
peering out like a watchful eye over the landscape.
Since the castle from which Lisbeth Longfrock came was no more
magnificent than this, it may easily be understood that she was no
disguised princess, but only a poor little girl. Coming to Hoel Farm
for the first time was for her like visiting an estate that was, in
very truth, royal; and besides, she had come on an important "grown-up"
errand. She was taking her mother's place and visiting Hoel as a
spinning woman.
Lisbeth's mother, whose name was Randi,[2] had worked hard for the last
four years to get food for herself and her children up at Peerout
Castle. Before that the family had been in very comfortable
circumstances; but the father had died, leaving the mother with the
castle, one cow, and the care of the two children. The children were
Jacob, at that time about six years old, and Lisbeth, a couple of years
younger. Life was often a hard struggle for the mother; but they had,
at any rate, a house over their heads, and they could get wood without
having to go very far for it, since the forest lay almost within a
stone's throw.
[2] (In the original, Roennaug.) This was the mother's first
name. Her full name would be Randi Newridge, or Randi Peerout.
In the summer Randi managed to dig up her tiny plots of ground after a
fashion, so that she could harvest a few potatoes and a little grain.
By cutting grass and stripping off birch leaves she had thus far
managed each year to give Bliros, their cow, enough to eat. And where
there is a cow there is always food.
In the winter she spun linen and wool for the women on the farms far
and near, but as she had lived at Hoel Farm as a servant before she was
married, it was natural that most of her spinning should be for
Kjersti[3] Hoel.
[3] Kyare'-stee.
In such ways had Randi been able to care for her family. Meanwhile
Jacob, now ten years old, had grown big enough to earn his own living.
In the spring before the last a message had come from Nordrum Farm that
a boy was needed to look after the flocks, and Jacob had at once
applied and been accepted. He and Lisbeth had often knelt on the long
wooden bench under the little window at Peerout Castle, and gazed upon
the different farms, choosing which they would work on when they were
big enough. Jacob had always chosen Nordrum Farm,--probably because he
had heard Farmer Nordrum spoken of as the big man of the community;
while Lisbeth had always thought that it would be pleasanter at Hoel
Farm because it was owned by a woman.
When autumn came Farmer Nordrum had concluded that he would have use
for such a boy as Jacob during the winter also, and so Jacob had stayed
on. This last Christmas, however, he had gone home for the whole day
and had taken with him a Christmas present for his sister from a little
girl at Nordrum. The present was a gray woolen frock,--a very nice one.
Jacob had grown extremely pleasant and full of fun while at Nordrum,
Lisbeth thought. When she tried the frock on and it reached way down to
the ground before and behind, he called her "Lisbeth Longfrock" and
Lisbeth Longfrock she had remained from that day.
After Christmas, times had been somewhat harder at Peerout Castle.
Bliros, who generally gave milk the whole year round, had become dry,
and would not give milk for several months. She was to have a calf in
the early summer. During the last few weeks there had not been milk
enough even for Randi's and Lisbeth's coffee.
To go to Svehaugen,[4] the nearest farm, for milk was no short trip;
and milk was scarce there too, as Randi well knew. Besides, she could
not spare the time to go. She had to finish spinning Kjersti Hoel's
wool. When she once got that off her hands, they could have plenty of
milk for their coffee, and other good things besides. What a relief it
would be when that time came!
[4] Sva-howg-en.
So Randi worked steadily at her spinning, Lisbeth being now big enough
to help in carding the wool. For a week she spun almost without
ceasing, scarcely taking time for meals, but drinking a good deal of
strong black coffee. Not until very late one evening was Kjersti Hoel's
wool all spun and ready. By that time Randi was far from well. Whether
or not her illness was caused, as she thought, by drinking so much
black coffee, certain it is that when Kjersti Hoel's wool was all spun
Randi felt a tightness in her chest, and when she got up the next
morning and tried to get ready to go to Hoel with the spinning, she was
seized with such a sudden dizziness that she had to go back to bed
again. She was too weak for anything else.
Now it was the custom in Norway for the spinning woman to take back to
the different farms the wool she had spun, and for the farmers' wives
to praise her work, treat her to something good to eat and drink, pay
her, and then give her directions about the way the next spinning was
to be done. All this Randi would have to give up for the present--there
was no help for it; but she wondered how it would do to send Lisbeth to
Hoel Farm in her stead. The little girl would find her way safely,
Randi was sure, although Randi had never as yet taken her to that farm
because it was so far off. The payment for the spinning was to be in
eatables as well as money, and Lisbeth could bring home part of what
was due. Then, though they still might lack many things, their drop of
coffee could have cream in it, as coffee ought to have. The remainder
of the payment and the directions for the next spinning Randi herself
could get when she was better.
If she could only be sure that Lisbeth would behave properly and not
act like a changeling, a troll child!
Lisbeth eagerly promised that if her mother would allow her to go she
would behave exactly as a spinning woman should,--she would, really!
And she remembered perfectly well just how everything was done that
time she had gone with her mother to one of the nearer farms.
So Lisbeth put on her long frock, which was used only for very best,
and her mother wrapped her up snugly in the two shawls. Then the bundle
of yarn was slung over her back, the pail was hung in front, many
directions were given to her about the road, and off she started.
And that is the way Lisbeth Longfrock happened to come toddling after
Bearhunter to Hoel Farm on that clear, cold winter's day toward the
beginning of spring.
CHAPTER II
LISBETH LONGFROCK AS SPINNING WOMAN
When Lisbeth found herself in the farm dooryard, with the different
buildings all about her, she really had to stand still and gaze around.
Oh, how large everything was!--quite on another scale from things at
home. Why, the barn door was so broad and high that Peerout Castle
could easily go right through it, and each windowpane in the big house
was as large as their own whole window. And such a goat!--for just then
she caught sight of Crookhorn, who had come warily up to the doorway,
and who only saw fit to draw back as Bearhunter approached. Not that
Crookhorn was afraid of Bearhunter,--no, indeed!
The goat was larger than most goats,--about as large as a good-sized
calf. If the cows belonging to Hoel Farm were as much larger than
ordinary cows, thought Lisbeth, they would be able to eat grass from
the roof of Peerout Castle while standing, just as usual, on the
ground.[5] She glanced searchingly at the cow-house door. No, it was
not larger than such doors usually were, so the cows were evidently no
bigger than other cows.
[5] Norwegian children in country districts are accustomed to see
goats walking about on the roofs of turf-covered huts, nibbling
the herbage; but the idea of a creature so large as to be able to
eat from the roof while standing on the ground was very
astonishing to Lisbeth.
Bearhunter had followed after Crookhorn until the latter was well out
of the way; then he had come back again, and now stood wagging his tail
and turning toward the house door as if coaxing Lisbeth to go in. Yes,
she must attend to her errand and not stay out there staring at
everything.
So she followed after Bearhunter and went into the hall way. She lifted
the latch of the inner door, turned herself around carefully as she
went in so as to make room for her bundle, fastened the door behind
her--and there she stood inside the big kitchen at Hoel!
[Illustration: THE BIG KITCHEN AT HOEL FARM]
There were only two people in the kitchen,--one a young servant maid in
the middle of the room spinning, and the other the mistress herself,
Kjersti Hoel, over by the white wall of the big open fireplace,
grinding coffee.
Both looked up when they heard the door open.
Lisbeth Longfrock stood still for a moment, then made a deep courtesy
under her long frock and said in a grown-up way, just as she had heard
her mother say, "Good day, and God bless your work."
Kjersti Hoel had to smile when she saw the little roly-poly bundle over
by the door, talking in such a grown-up fashion. But she answered as
soberly as if she also were talking to a grown-up person: "Good day. Is
this a young stranger out for a walk?"
"Yes."
"And what is the stranger's name, and where is she from? I see that I
do not know her."
"No, you could not be expected to. My mother and Jacob call me Lisbeth
Longfrock, and I am from Peerout Castle. Mother sent me here with the
woolen yarn she has spun for you. She told me to say that she could not
come with it before, for she did not get the last spool wound until
late last night."
"Indeed! Can it be a spinning woman we have here? And to think that I
wholly forgot to ask you to sit down after your long walk! You really
must take off your things and stay awhile."
What a pleasant woman Kjersti Hoel was! She got up from her own chair
and set one forward for Lisbeth.
"Thank you; I shall be glad to sit down," said Lisbeth.
She took off the pail and the bundle of wool and put them down by the
door, and then began to walk across the floor over to the chair. It
seemed as if she would never get there, so far was it across the big
kitchen,--nearly as far as from their own door to the cow-house door at
Peerout Castle. At last, however, she reached the chair; but it was
higher than the seats she was accustomed to and she could barely
scramble up on one corner of it.
Kjersti Hoel came toward her.
"I really think I must open this roly-poly bundle and see what is in
it," said she; and she began to take off Lisbeth's red mittens and to
undo the knitted shawls. Soon Lisbeth sat there stripped of all her
outer toggery, but nevertheless looking almost as plump and roly-poly
as ever; for not only did her long frock barely clear the ground at the
bottom, but its band reached almost up under her arms.
Kjersti stood and looked at her a moment.
"That is just what I thought,--that I should find a nice little girl
inside all those clothes. You look like your mother."
At this Lisbeth grew so shy that she forgot all about being a spinning
woman. She cast down her eyes and could not say a word.
"But what is the matter with Randi, your mother?" continued Kjersti.
"Why could she not come herself?"
"She was a little poorly to-day."
"Indeed! Randi not well? And her health is generally so good. What ails
her?"
"Oh, she thought that very likely drinking strong coffee without milk
had not been good for her."
"So you have no milk at your house. Perhaps that is why you have
brought a pail with you."
"Yes; what do you think! Bliros has stopped giving us milk this
winter."
"Has she, indeed! That is rather inconvenient, isn't it? How long
before she can be milked again?"
"Not until the beginning of summer, after she has had her calf."
"H'm," said Kjersti thoughtfully. By and by, as if to herself, she
said: "I have often thought of going to see Randi, but have never done
so. Before this spring is over, I must surely pay her a visit."
* * * * *
Lisbeth Longfrock stayed a long time at Hoel that day. Although she had
come in the important character of spinning woman, she had never
imagined that a great person like Kjersti Hoel would be so pleasant and
kind to her. Kjersti treated her to coffee and cakes and milk and other
good things, just as if she had been an invited guest, and chatted with
her in such a way that Lisbeth forgot all about being shy. And oh, how
many curious things Kjersti showed her!
The cow house was the finest of them all. There were so many cows that
Lisbeth could scarcely count them. And then the pigs and sheep and
goats! and hens, too, inside a big latticework inclosure,--nearly as
many of them as there were crows in autumn up at Peerout!
And Kjersti wanted to know about _everything_,--whether Lisbeth could
read and write (she could do both, for Jacob had taught her), and how
they managed about food up at Peerout Castle, and how it went with the
farming.
Lisbeth could tell her that in the autumn they had gathered three
barrels of potatoes, and one barrel and three pecks of mixed grain; and
that they had stripped off so many birch leaves that they had fodder
enough to carry Bliros through the winter,--in fact, much more than
enough.
When Kjersti had shown Lisbeth the sheep and the goats, she declared
that she should certainly need a little girl to look after her flocks
when spring came; and then Lisbeth, before she knew what she was
saying, told Kjersti how she and Jacob used to look at the farms from
the window at home, and how she had always chosen Hoel as the place
where she should like to work when she was big enough.
"Should you really like to go out to work?" Kjersti inquired.
"Yes, indeed," Lisbeth said, "if it were not for leaving mother."
"Well, we will not think about that any more at present," said Kjersti,
"but I will go up and talk with your mother about it some time in the
spring. We certainly ought to go into the house now, so that you can
have time to take a little food before leaving. It is drawing toward
evening and you will have to start for home soon."
So they went into the house again, and Lisbeth had another feast of
good things. While she was eating she noticed that Kjersti brought from
the cellar some butter and cheese and other things and packed them in
the dark cloth in which the wool had been tied. The milk pail she did
not touch at all; but Lisbeth saw that she said something about it
softly to the servant maid, after which the maid left the room.
When Lisbeth had eaten and had said "Thanks and praise for both food
and drink," Kjersti remarked: "Now you must lift the bundle over there
and see if you can carry it."
The bundle _was_ rather heavy. Still, Lisbeth thought she could manage
it. But the pail! Not a word did Kjersti say, even now, about the pail!
She only added, kindly, "Come, and I will help you put on your things."
She drew on Lisbeth's mittens, wrapped her up snugly in the two little
shawls, and, in a trice, there stood Lisbeth Longfrock looking exactly
as she did when she had come to Hoel that morning.
Slowly and reluctantly Lisbeth went toward the door, where the pail
still stood. How strange that Kjersti had not even yet said a single
word about it! Lisbeth stood for a moment in doubt. After receiving so
much, it would never do to remind Kjersti about the pail; but she would
much rather have gone without the good things she herself had been
treated to than to go home without any milk for her mother's coffee.
She took up the bundle, drew her face with its turned-up nose tip back
into its little shawl as far as she could so that Kjersti should not
see the tears in her eyes, and then bent down and lifted the pail.
At that Kjersti said: "Oh, yes! the pail! I quite forgot it. Are you
willing to exchange pails with me if I give you one that will never get
empty?"
Lisbeth dropped her pail plump on the floor. She had seen and heard
many curious things on this eventful day,--things she had never seen or
thought of before; but that Kjersti, besides everything else, had a
pail that would never get empty! She stood and stared, open-mouthed.
"Yes, you must come and see it," said Kjersti. "It stands just outside
the door."
Lisbeth was not slow in making her way out. Kjersti followed her. There
stood the servant maid, holding the big goat, Crookhorn, by a rope.
"The goat is used to being led," said Kjersti, "so you will have no
trouble in taking it home. Give my greetings to your mother, and ask
her if she is satisfied with the exchange of pails."
Kjersti was not a bit displeased because Lisbeth Longfrock forgot to
express her thanks as she started off with Crookhorn. Bearhunter
followed the little girl and the goat a long distance up the road. He
did not understand matters at all!
* * * * *
It is not to be wondered at that Randi, too, was greatly surprised when
she saw Crookhorn following after Lisbeth as the little girl approached
the castle.
There was not time for Lisbeth to tell about everything at the very
first, for her mother and she had to clear up the stall next to the one
Bliros occupied, and put Crookhorn into it. When this was done they
felt exactly as if they had two cows. The goat took her place in the
stall with a self-important, superior air, quite as if she were a real
cow and had never done anything else but stand in a cow stall. Bliros
became offended at this remarkable newcomer, who was putting on such
airs in the cow house that had always belonged to herself alone, and so
she made a lunge with her head and tried to hook the goat with her
horns; but Crookhorn merely turned her own horns against those of
Bliros in the most indifferent manner, as if quite accustomed to being
hooked by cows.
Bliros gazed at her in astonishment. Such a silly goat! She had never
seen such a silly goat. And with that she turned her head to the wall
again and did not give Crookhorn another look.
That evening Lisbeth Longfrock had so many things to tell her mother
that she talked herself fast asleep!
CHAPTER III
LEAVING PEEROUT CASTLE
The next time Lisbeth Longfrock came to Hoel Farm, she did not come
alone; and she came--to stay!
All that had happened between that first visit and her second coming
had been far, far different from anything Lisbeth had ever imagined. It
seemed as if there had been no time for her to think about the strange
events while they were taking place. She did not realize what their
result would be until after she had lived through them and gone out of
the gate of Peerout Castle when everything was over. So much had been
going on in | 1,447.809164 |
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Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer
DREAM DAYS
by Kenneth Grahame
Contents:
THE TWENTY-FIRST OF OCTOBER
DIES IRAE
MUTABILE SEMPER
THE MAGIC RING
ITS WALLS WERE AS OF JASPER
A SAGA OF THE SEAS
THE RELUCTANT DRAGON
A DEPARTURE
THE TWENTY-FIRST OF OCTOBER
In the matter of general culture and attainments, we youngsters stood on
pretty level ground. True, it was always happening that one of us would
be singled out at any moment, freakishly, and without regard to his own
preferences, to wrestle with the inflections of some idiotic language
long rightly dead; while another, from some fancied artistic tendency
which always failed to justify itself, might be told off without warning
to hammer out scales and exercises, and to bedew the senseless keys with
tears of weariness or of revolt. But in subjects common to either sex,
and held to be necessary even for him whose ambition soared no higher
than to crack a whip in a circus-ring--in geography, for instance,
arithmetic, or the weary doings of kings and queens--each would have
scorned to excel. And, indeed, whatever our individual gifts, a general
dogged determination to shirk and to evade kept us all at much the same
dead level,--a level of Ignorance tempered by insubordination.
Fortunately there existed a wide range of subjects, of healthier tone
than those already enumerated, in which we were free to choose for
ourselves, and which we would have scorned to consider education; and in
these we freely followed each his own particular line, often attaining
an amount of special knowledge which struck our ignorant elders as
simply uncanny. For Edward, the uniforms, accoutrements, colours,
and mottoes of the regiments composing the British Army had a special
glamour. In the matter of facings he was simply faultless; among
chevrons, badges, medals, and stars, he moved familiarly; he even knew
the names of most of the colonels in command; and he would squander
sunny hours prone on the lawn, heedless of challenge from bird or beast,
poring over a tattered Army List. My own accomplishment was of another
character--took, as it seemed to me, a wider and a more untrammelled
range. Dragoons might have swaggered in Lincoln green, riflemen might
have donned sporrans over tartan trews, without exciting notice or
comment from me. But did you seek precise information as to the fauna of
the American continent, then you had come to the right shop. Where and
why the bison "wallowed"; how beaver were to be trapped and wild turkeys
stalked; the grizzly and how to handle him, and the pretty pressing
ways of the constrictor,--in fine, the haunts and the habits of all that
burrowed, strutted, roared, or wriggled between the Atlantic and the
Pacific,--all this knowledge I took for my province. By the others my
equipment was fully recognized. Supposing a book with a bear-hunt in
it made its way into the house, and the atmosphere was electric with
excitement; still, it was necessary that I should first decide whether
the slot had been properly described and properly followed up, ere the
work could be stamped with full approval. A writer might have won
fame throughout the civilized globe for his trappers and his realistic
backwoods, and all went for nothing. If his pemmican were not properly
compounded I damned his achievement, and it was heard no more of.
Harold was hardly old enough to possess a special subject of his own. He
had his instincts, indeed, and at bird's-nesting they almost amounted to
prophecy. Where we others only suspected eggs, surmised possible eggs,
hinted doubtfully at eggs in the neighbourhood, Harold went straight for
the right bush, bough, or hole as if he carried a divining-rod. But this
faculty belonged to the class of mere gifts, and was not to be ranked
with Edward's lore regarding facings, and mine as to the habits of
prairie-dogs, both gained by painful study and extensive travel in those
"realms of gold," the Army List and Ballantyne.
Selina's subject, quite unaccountably, happened to be naval history.
There is no laying down rules as to subjects; you just possess them--or
rather, they possess you--and their genesis or protoplasm is rarely to
be tracked down. Selina had never so much as seen the sea; but for
that matter neither had I ever set foot on the American continent,
the by-ways of which I knew so intimately. And just as I, if set down
without warning in the middle of the Rocky Mountains, would have been
perfectly at home, so Selina, if a genie had dropped her suddenly on
Portsmouth Hard, could have given points to most of its frequenters.
From the days of Blake down to the death of Nelson (she never
condescended further) Selina had taken spiritual part in every notable
engagement of the British Navy; and even in the dark days when she had
to pick up skirts and flee, chased by an ungallant De Ruyter or Van
Tromp, she was yet cheerful in the consciousness that ere long she would
be gleefully hammering the fleets of the world, in the glorious times
to follow. When that golden period arrived, Selina was busy indeed; and,
while loving best to stand where the splinters were flying the thickest,
she was also a careful and critical student of seamanship and of
maneuver. She knew the order in which the great line-of-battle ships
moved into action, the vessels they respectively engaged, the moment
when each let go its anchor, and which of them had a spring on its cable
(while not understanding the phrase, she carefully noted the fact);
and she habitually went into an engagement on the quarter-deck of the
gallant ship that reserved its fire the longest.
At the time of Selina's weird seizure I was unfortunately away from
home, on a loathsome visit to an aunt; and my account is therefore
feebly compounded from hearsay. It was an absence I never ceased to
regret--scoring it up, with a sense of injury, against the aunt. There
was a splendid uselessness about the whole performance that specially
appealed to my artistic sense. That it should have been Selina, too,
who should break out this way--Selina, who had just become a regular
subscriber to the "Young Ladies' Journal," and who allowed herself to
be taken out to strange teas with an air of resignation palpably
assumed--this was a special joy, and served to remind me that much of
this dreaded convention that was creeping over us might be, after
all, only veneer. Edward also was absent, getting licked into shape at
school; but to him the loss was nothing. With his stern practical bent
he wouldn't have seen any sense in it--to recall one of his favourite
expressions. To Harold, however, for whom the gods had always cherished
a special tenderness, it was granted, not only to witness, but also,
priestlike, to feed the sacred fire itself. And if at the time he paid
the penalty exacted by the sordid unimaginative ones who temporarily
rule the roast, he must ever after, one feels sure, have carried inside
him some of the white gladness of the acolyte who, greatly privileged,
has been permitted to swing a censer at the sacring of the very Mass.
October was mellowing fast, and with it the year itself; full of tender
hints, in woodland and hedgerow, of a course well-nigh completed. From
all sides that still afternoon you caught the quick breathing and sob
of the runner nearing the goal. Preoccupied and possessed, Selina had
strayed down the garden and out into the pasture beyond, where, on a
bit of rising ground that dominated the garden on one side and the downs
with the old coach-road on the other, she had cast herself down to chew
the cud of fancy. There she was presently joined by Harold, breathless
and very full of his latest grievance.
"I asked him not to," he burst out. "I said if he'd only please wait a
bit and Edward would be back soon, and it couldn't matter to him, and
the pig wouldn't mind, and Edward'd be pleased and everybody'd be happy.
But he just said he was very sorry, but bacon didn't wait for nobody.
So I told him he was a regular beast, and then I came away. And--and I
b'lieve they're doing it now!"
"Yes, he's a beast," agreed Selina, absently. She had forgotten all
about the pig-killing. Harold kicked away a freshly thrown-up mole-hill,
and prodded down the hole with a stick. From the direction of Farmer
Larkin's demesne came a long-drawn note of sorrow, a thin cry and
appeals telling that the stout soul of a black Berkshire pig was already
faring down the stony track to Hades.
"D' you know what day it is?" said Selina presently, in a low voice,
looking far away before her.
Harold did not appear to know, nor yet to care. He had laid open his
mole-run for a yard or so, and was still grubbing at it absorbedly.
"It's Trafalgar Day," went on Selina, trancedly; "Trafalgar Day--and
nobody cares!"
Something in her tone told Harold that he was not behaving quite
becomingly. He didn't exactly know in what manner; still, he abandoned
his mole-hunt for a more courteous attitude of attention.
"Over there," resumed Selina--she was gazing out in the direction of the
old highroad--"over there the coaches used to go by. Uncle Thomas was
telling me about it the other day. And the people used to watch for 'em
coming, to tell the time by, and p'r'aps to get their parcels. And one
morning--they wouldn't be expecting anything different--one morning,
first there would be a cloud of dust, as usual, and then the coach would
come racing by, and then they | 1,447.898048 |
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Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Carol David and PG Distributed Proofreaders
[Illustration]
POEMS,
BY HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
MDCCLXXXVI.
TO HER MAJESTY.
MADAM,
I am too sensible of the distinguished honour conferred upon me, in your
Majesty's gracious protection of these Poems, to abuse it by adopting
the common strain of dedication.
That praise corresponds best to your Majesty's generous feelings, which
is poured without restraint from the heart, and is repeated where you
cannot hear.
I suppress therefore, in delicacy to those feelings, the warmth of my
own, and subscribe myself,
MADAM,
With profound respect,
Your MAJESTY'S
Devoted servant,
HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.
PREFACE.
The apprehension which it becomes me to feel, in submitting these Poems
to the | 1,448.001759 |
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Produced by Michael Dyck, Charles Franks, Steve Schulze,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading team, using
page images supplied by the Universal Library Project
at Carnegie Mellon University.
<pb id='001.png' n='1959_h1/A/0715' />
RENEWAL REGISTRATIONS
A list of books, pamphlets, serials, and contributions to periodicals for which
renewal registrations were made during the period covered by this issue.
Arrangement is alphabetical under the name of the author or issuing body or,
in the case of serials and certain other works, by title. Information relating
to both the original and the renewal registration is included in each entry.
References from the names of renewal claimants, joint authors, editors, etc.
and from variant forms of names are interfiled.
A.M.O.R.C. SEE Ancient & Mystical
Order Rosae Crucis.
ABBOTT, JANE.
Silver fountain. © 11May32;
A54209. Jane Abbott (A); 14May59;
R236686.
ABBOTT, MATHER A., ed. SEE
The Chapel hymnal.
ABBOTT NEW YORK DIGEST. Consolidated
ed. 1931 cumulative annual pocket
parts for v.1-40. © 26Feb32;
A50111. West Pub. Co. & Lawyers
Co-operative Pub. Co. (PWH);
3Apr59; R234100.
ABBOTT NEW YORK DIGEST. October 1931
cumulative quarterly pamphlet.
Consolidated ed. © 29Oct31;
A43985. West Pub. Co. & Lawyers
Co-operative Pub. Co. (PWH);
7Jan59; R228344.
ABDRUSCHIN, pseud. SEE Bernhardt,
Oscar Ernst.
ABDULLAH, ACHMED.
The veiled woman. © 24Feb31;
A34608. Achmed Abdullah (A);
15Jan59; R229076.
ABINGDON, ALEXANDER, pseud., comp.
More boners. Illustrated by
Dr. Seuss. © 13Apr31; A36631.
Viking Press, Inc. (PWH); 2Mar59;
R232488.
Still more boners. Illustrated by
Virginia Huget. (Boners: 3d
series) © 24Aug31; A41641.
Viking Press, Inc. (PWH); 20May59;
R236913.
ABRAHAM, PIERRE, pseud. SEE
Bloch, Abraham.
ACHELIS, ELISABETH.
Il calendario mondiale. Translated
by Maria Ranieri. © 31Mar31;
A38797. Elisabeth Achelis (PWH);
8Jan59; R229390.
El calendario mundial. Translated
by Antonio Gonzales. © 31Mar31;
A38798. Elisabeth Achelis (PWH);
8Jan59; R229391.
Le calendrier mondial. Translated
by J. Wavrinek. © 31Mar31,
A40077. Elisabeth Achelis (PWH);
8Jan59; R229393.
Der Weltkalender. © 31Mar31,
A38799. Elisabeth Achelis (PWH);
8Jan59; R229392.
ADAM, KARL.
Christ our brother; translated by
Justin McCann. © 26Feb31,
AI-14899; 21Apr31, A36676.
Philip Justin McCann (A); 19Jan59;
R229138.
<pb id='002.png' />
ADAMIC, LOUIS.
Laughing in the jungle; the
autobiography of an immigrant in
America. © 23Mar32; A50346.
Stella Adamic (W); 27Mar59;
R234412.
ADAMIC, STELLA.
Laughing in the jungle. SEE
Adamic, Louis.
ADAMS, A. DANA.
Young Christian's questions and
answers on the Old and New
Testaments, Including Epistles &
Revelation. © 14Sep31; A41653.
A. J. Holman Co. (PWH); 11Jun59;
R237933.
ADAMS, CARRIE LEIGHTON.
Think a bit. Illustrated by Joy B.
Efteland. © 17Nov31; A45176.
Laurel Leighton Adams (C);
5Mar59; R232189.
ADAMS, EUSTACE L.
Across the top of the world.
© 2Sep31; A41418. Eustace L.
Adams (A); 19Jun59; R238232.
ADAMS, HARRIET S.
For works written in collaboration
with Edna C. Squier SEE
Barton, May Hollis, pseud.
Duncan, Julia K., pseud.
Emerson, Alice B., pseud.
Locke, Clinton W., pseud.
Martin, Eugene, pseud.
Moore, Fenworth, pseud.
ADAMS, HERBERT.
The woman In black. © 17Mar32;
A49602. Paul Adams (C);
9Apr59; R235756.
ADAMS, HESTER H.
Week-end girl. SEE Adams, Samuel
Hopkins.
ADAMS, JAMES TRUSLOW.
The epic of America. © 30Sep31;
A43033. Mrs. James Truslow
Adams (W); 5Jan59; R228628.
ADAMS, MRS. JAMES TRUSLOW.
The epic of America. SEE Adams,
James Truslow.
ADAMS, JOHN, pseud. SEE Danielson,
Fannie Hurst.
ADAMS, JOSEPH QUINCY, ed.
Macbeth. SEE Shakespeare, William.
ADAMS, JULIA DAVIS. SEE
Healy, Julia Davis Adams.
ADAMS, LAUREL LEIGHTON.
Think a bit. SEE Adams, Carrie
Leighton.
<pb id='003.png' />
ADAMS, PAUL.
The woman In black. SEE Adams,
Herbert.
ADAMS, SAMUEL HOPKINS.
Week-end girl. Pt.4. (In Illustrated
love magazine, Feb. 1932)
© 23Dec31; B140064. Hester H.
Adams and Katherine A. Adell (C);
29Dec58; R228062.
Week-end girl. Pt.5. (In Illustrated
love magazine, Mar. 1932)
© 28Jan32; B143438. Hester H.
Adams & Katherine A. Adell (C);
29Jan59; R230084.
Week-end girl. Pt.6. (In Illustrated
love Magazine. Apr.
1932) © 25Feb32; B147044.
Hester H. Adams & Kathrine A.
Adell (C); 26Feb59; R232268.
ADDAMS, GEORGE S.
A treatise on the practice and
procedure in the Probate Courts of
Ohio, by George S. Addams and
Grover C. Hosford. © 5Jan32;
A46786. W. H. Anderson Co. (PWH);
4Feb59; R229882.
ADELL, JAMES C., joint author.
A test to accompany A general science
workbook. SEE Lake, Charles H.
ADELL, KATHERINE A.
Week-end girl. SEE Adams, Samuel
Hopkins.
ADLER, ALFRED.
What life should mean to you.
© 11Sep31, A42453. Raissa Adler
(W); 24Feb59, R231693.
ADLER, RAISSA.
What life should mean to you. SEE
Adler, Alfred.
AIGLER, RALPH W.
Cases on the law of titles to real
property acquired originally and
by transfer inter vivos. 2d ed.
(American casebook series)
© 6Jan32; A48426. West Pub. Co.
(PWH); 3Apr59; R234059.
AIKEN, CONRAD.
And if this heart go back again to
earth. (In Yale review, summer
1931) © 12Jun31, B117897.
Conrad Aiken (A); 24Mar59;
R234286.
Bow down, Isaac! (In Harper's
magazine, July 1931) © 18Jun31;
B118245. Conrad Aiken (A);
24Mar59; R234288.
Keep in the heart the journal
nature keeps. (In The Nation,
Apr. 22, 1931) © 15Apr31;
B112153. Conrad Aiken (A);
24Mar59; R234284.
<pb id='004.png' n='1959_h1/A/0716' />
Mysticism, but let us have no words.
(In New Yorker, Apr. 30, 1932)
© 29Apr32; B153032. Conrad
Aiken (A); 8Jun59; R237762.
Poor fool, deluded toy, brief
anthropomorph. (In Virginia
quarterly, July 1931)
© 15Jun31; B117827. Conrad
Aiken (A); 24Mar59; R234285.
Stood at the closed door, and remembered;
Nothing to say, you say?
Then we'll say nothing; Rimbaud &
Verlaine, precious pair of poets;
The dead man spoke to me and
turned a page. (In Hound & horn,
Apr.-June 1931) © 13Apr31;
B111435. Conrad Aiken (A);
24Mar59; R234283.
Then came I to the shoreless shore
of silence. (In The Bookman,
June 1931) © 13May31; B117806.
Conrad Aiken (A); 24Mar59;
R234287.
This biped botanist, this man of
eyes. (In North American review,
May 1931) © 11Apr31; B111322.
Conrad Aiken (A); 24Mar59;
R234282.
We need a theme? then let that be
our theme. (In New Yorker,
Mar. 26, 1932) © 25Mar32;
B148810. Conrad Aiken (A);
8Jun59; R237761.
Woman, woman, let us say these
things to each other. (In
New Yorker, Feb. 6, 1932)
© 5Feb32; B142935. Conrad
Aiken (A); 8Jun59; R237760.
AINSWORTH, WALDEN L.
Leading a dog's life. SEE Walden,
Arthur Treadwell.
ALABAMA.
Report of cases argued and determined
in the Supreme Court of
Alabama. SEE Alabama. Supreme
Court.
ALABAMA. SUPREME COURT.
Report of cases argued and determined
in the Supreme Court of
Alabama, during the October term
1930-1931, 1931-1932. Vol.223.
By Noble H. Seay. © 21Mar32;
A50869. State of Alabama (PWH);
3Apr59; R234099.
ALABAMA AND SOUTHERN REPORTER DIGEST.
Cumulative pamphlet, Oct. 1931.
© 14Oct31; A43990. West Pub. Co.
(PWH); 7Jan59; R228347.
ALABAMA AND SOUTHERN REPORTER DIGEST.
1931 cumulative annual pocket part
for v.30. © 27Jan32; A48413.
West Pub. Co. (PWH); 3Apr59; R234083.
ALAIN, pseud. SEE Chartier, Emile.
ALBION, JENNIE B. POPE.
Time chart in early European
history, to 1714, by Jennie B.
Pope and Robert G. Albion.
© 21May31; A37643. Jennie Pope
Albion & Robert G. Albion (A);
23Mar59; R234399.
Time chart in English history, by
Jennie B. Pope and Robert G.
Albion. © 23Jul31; AA77191.
Jennie Pope Albion & Robert G.
Albion (A); 23Mar59; R234408.
Time chart in world history, by
Jennie B. Pope and Robert G.
Albion. © 4Jun31; AA72606.
Jennie Pope Albion & Robert G.
Albion (A); 23Mar59; R234409.
ALBION, ROBERT G., joint author.
Time chart in early European history,
to 1714. SEE Albion, Jennie B.
Pope.
Time chart in English history. SEE
Albion, Jennie B. Pope.
Time chart in world history. SEE
Albion, Jennie B. Pope.
<pb id='005.png' />
ALBRIGHT, WILLIAM FOXWELL.
The archaeology of Palestine and the
Bible. The Richards lectures
delivered at the University of
Virginia. © 30Jan32; A47359.
William Foxwell Albright (A);
9Apr59; R234496.
ALCHIN, CAROLYN A.
Applied harmony. Pt.2. Rev., and
with additional chapters by
Vincent Jones. © on new chapters,
exercises, introd., & text;
24Feb31; A34585. Vincent Jones
(A); 12Feb59; R230439.
ALCOTT, LOUISA MAY.
Eight cousins. Illus. by Clara M.
Burd. © on illus.; 29Jul31;
A6-40746. John C. Winston Co.
(PWH); 15Jan59; R228883.
ALDINGTON, RICHARD.
Soft answers. © 14Apr32, AI-16292;
21Apr32, A49893. Richard Aldington
(A); 23Apr59; R235560.
Stepping heavenward. © 29Jul31,
AI-15502; 23Jan32, A47633.
Richard Aldington (A); 29Jan59;
R230155.
ALDRICH, RHODA TRUAX.
Hospital. © 16Feb32; A47733.
Rhoda Truax Aldrich (A); 27May59;
R237244.
ALEXANDER, JOHN F.
Madame Sand. SEE Moeller, Philip.
ALICE MARIE, SISTER.
The music hour. 1st book. By
Sister Alice Marie, Gregory
Huegle and Joseph Schrembs.
Illustrated by Shirley Kite.
Catholic ed. © on new matter;
15Sep31; A41963. Sister Alice
Marie (A); 24Feb59; R232633.
The music hour. 2d book. By
Sister Alice Marie, Gregory
Huegle and Joseph Schrembs.
Catholic ed. © on new matter;
3Oct31; A43101. Sister Alice
Marie (A); 24Feb59; R232634.
The music hour. 3d book. By
Sister Alice Marie, Gregory
Huegle and Joseph Schrembs.
Catholic ed. © on new matter;
10Dec31; A45414. Sister Alice
Marie (A); 24Feb59; R232635.
The music hour. 4th book. By
Sister Alice Marie, Gregory
Huegle and Joseph Schrembs.
Catholic ed. © on new matter;
29Sep31; AA79994. Sister Alice
Marie (A); 24Feb59; R232636.
ALLEN, AGNES ROGERS.
Only yesterday; an informal history
of the nineteen-twenties. SEE
Allen, Frederick Lewis.
The only yesterday game. SEE
Allen, Frederick Lewis.
ALLEN, C. FRANK.
Field | 1,448.700385 |
2023-11-16 18:41:12.6804950 | 94 | 73 |
Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen
[Illustration: cover art]
HOW A FARTHING MADE A FORTUNE
[Illustration: "DICK HAD TO BE BUSY." _p_. 55.]
HOW A FARTHING MADE A FORTUNE
OR
"HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY."
BY MRS. C. E. BOWEN
_Autho | 1,448.700535 |
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