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E-text prepared by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
GRADED MEMORY SELECTIONS
Arranged by
S. D. WATERMAN,
Superintendent of Schools, Berkeley, Cal.
J. W. McCLYMONDS,
Superintendent of Schools, Oakland, Cal.
C. C. HUGHES,
Superintendent of Schools, Alameda, Cal.
Educational Publishing Company
Boston
New York Chicago San Francisco
Copyrighted
by Educational Publishing Company
1903.
PREFACE.
It is unfortunately true that the terms education and culture are not
synonymous. Too often we find that the children in our public schools,
while possessed of the one, are signally lacking in the other. This is
a state of things that cannot be remedied by teaching mere facts. The
Greeks, many years ago, found the true method of imparting the latter
grace and we shall probably not be able to discover a better one
to-day. Their youths learned Homer and the other great poets as a part
of their daily tasks, and by thus constantly dwelling upon and storing
in their minds the noblest and most beautifully expressed thought in
their literature, their own mental life became at once refined and
strong.
The basis of all culture lies in a pure and elevated moral nature, and
so noted an authority as President Eliot, of Harvard University, has
said that the short memory gems which he learned as a boy in school,
have done him more good in the hour of temptation than all the sermons
he ever heard preached. A fine thought or beautiful image, once stored
in the mind, even if at first it is received indifferently and with
little understanding, is bound to recur again and again, and its
companionship will have a sure, if unconscious, influence. The mind
that has been filled in youth with many such thoughts and images will
surely bear fruit in fine and gracious actions.
To the teachers who are persuaded of this truth, the present
collection of poems has much to recommend it. The selections have been
chosen both for their moral influence and for their permanent value as
literature. They have been carefully graded to suit the needs of every
class from the primary to the high school. Either the whole poem or a
sufficiently long quotation has been inserted to give the child a
complete mental picture.
The teacher will thus escape the difficulty of choosing among a too
great abundance of riches, or the still greater one of finding for
herself, with few resources, what serves her purpose. This volume has
a further advantage over other books of selections. It is so moderate
in price that it will be possible to place it in the hands of the
children themselves.
The compilers desire to thank Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Charles
Scribner's Sons, Bowen, Merrill & Co., Whittaker & Ray Co., and
Doubleday & McClure Co., for their kindness in permitting the use of
copyrighted material.
S. D. WATERMAN.
CONTENTS.
FIRST GRADE.
The Baby _George Macdonald_
The Little Plant _Anon._
Sleep, Baby, Sleep _E. Prentiss_
One, Two, Three _Margaret Johnson_
Three Little Bugs in a Basket _Alice Cary_
Whenever a Little Child is Born _Agnes L. Carter_
Sweet and Low _Alfred Tennyson_
The Ferry for Shadowtown _Anon._
My Shadow _R. L. Stevenson_
Quite Like a Stocking _Anon._
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat _Edward Lear_
Forget-me-not _Anon._
Who Stole the Bird's Nest? _Anon._
Two Little Hands _Anon._
The Dandelion _Anon._
A Million Little Diamonds _M. Butts_
Daisy Nurses _Anon._
At Little Virgil's Window _Edwin Markham_
Dandelions _Anon._
Memory Gems _Selected_
SECOND GRADE.
Seven Times One _Jean Ingelow_
Christmas Eve _Anon._
Morning Song _Alfred Tennyson_
Suppose, My Little Lady _Phoebe Cary_
The Day's Eye _Anon._
The Night Wind _Eugene Field_
The Blue-bird's Song _Anon._
Suppose _Anon._
Autumn Leaves _Anon._
If I Were a Sunbeam _Lucy Larcom_
Meadow Talk _Caroline Leslie_
The Old Love _Charles Kingsley_
Bed in Summer _R. L. Stevenson_
Three Companions _Dinah M. Craik_
The Wind _R. L. Stevenson_
The Minuet _Mary Mapes Dodge_
Wynken, Blynken and Nod _Eugene Field_
Pretty Is That Pretty Does _Alice Cary_
Lullaby _J. G. Holland_
THIRD GRADE.
Discontent _Sarah O. Jewett_
Our Flag _Anon._
Song from "Pippa Passes" _Robert Browning_
Little Brown Hands _M. H. Krout_
Winter and Summer _Anon._
The Brook _Alfred | 1,488.812209 |
2023-11-16 18:41:52.8702280 | 662 | 13 |
Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
THE BLACK LION INN
By Alfred Henry Lewis
Illustrated By Frederic Remington
New York: R. H. Russell
1903
[Illustration: 0001]
[Illustration: 0008]
[Illustration: 0009]
CHAPTER I.--HOW I CAME TO THE INN.
Years ago, I came upon an old and hoary tavern when I as a fashion of
refugee was flying from strong drink. Its name, as shown on the creaking
sign-board, was The Black Lion Inn. My coming was the fruit of no plan;
the hostelry was strange to me, and my arrival, casual and desultory,
one of those accidents which belong with the experiences of folk who,
whipped of a bad appetite and running from rum, are seeking only to be
solitary and win a vacation for their selfrespect. This latter commodity
in my own poor case had been sadly overworked, and called for rest and
an opportunity of recuperation. Wherefore, going quietly and without
word from the great city, I found this ancient inn with a purpose to
turn presently sober. Also by remaining secluded for a space I would
permit the memory of those recent dubious exploits of the cup to become
a bit dimmed in the bosom of my discouraged relatives.
It turned a most fortunate blunder, this blundering discovery of the
aged inn, for it was here I met the Jolly Doctor who, by saving me from
my fate of a drunkard, a fate to which I was hopelessly surrendered,
will dwell ever in my thoughts as a greatest benefactor.
There is that about an appetite for alcohol I can not understand. In my
personal instance there is reason to believe it was inherited. And yet
my own father never touched a drop and lived and died the uncompromising
enemy of the bowl. It was from my grandsire, doubtless, I had any
hankering after rum, for I have heard a sigh or two of how that dashing
military gentleman so devoted himself to it that he fairly perished for
very faithfulness as far away as eighty odd long years.
Once when my father and I were roaming the snow-filled woods with our
guns--I was a lad of twelve--having heard little of that ancestor, I
asked him what malady carried off my grandsire. My father did not reply
at once, but stalked silently ahead, rifle caught under arm, the snow
crunching beneath his heavy boots. Then he flung a sentence over his
shoulder.
“Poor whiskey more than anything else,” said my father.
Even at the unripe age of twelve I could tell how the subject was
unpleasant to my parent and did not press it. I saved my curiosity until
evening when my mother and I were alone. My mother, to whom I re-put the
query, informed me in whispers how she had been told--for she never met
him, he being dead and gone before her day--my grandsire threw | 1,488.890268 |
2023-11-16 18:41:53.0374800 | 1,801 | 18 | MADELEINE VERCHERES ***
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
[Illustration: "O ma ole canoe, wat's matter wit' you, an' w'y was you
be so slow?"]
[Illustration: Title page]
Phil-o-rum's
Canoe
and
Madeleine
Vercheres
Two Poems by
William
Henry
Drummond
Author of "The
Habitant," etc.
Illustrated by
Frederick
Simpson
Coburn
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1898
COPYRIGHT, 1898
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
[Illustration: headpiece]
PHIL-O-RUM'S CANOE.
"O ma ole canoe, wat's matter wit' you,
an' w'y was you be so slow?
Don't I work hard enough on de paddle, an'
still you don't seem to go--
No win' at all on de fronte side, an' current
she don't be strong,
Den w'y are you lak' lazy feller, too sleepy for
move along?
"I'member de tam, w'en you jomp de sam'
as deer wit' de wolf behin',
An' brochet on de top de water, you scare
heem mos' off hees min':
But fish don't care for you now at all, only jus'
mebbe wink de eye,
For he know it's easy git out de way, w'en
you was a-passin' by"----
I'm spikin' dis way, jus' de oder day, w'en I'm
out wit' de ole canoe
Crossin' de point w'ere I see, las' fall, wan very
beeg caribou,
Wen somebody say, "Phil-o-rum, mon vieux,
wat's matter wit' you youse'f?"
An' who do you s'pose was talkin'? W'y de
poor ole canoe shese'f.
O yass, I'm scare w'en I'm sittin' dere, an'
she's callin' ma nam' dat way.
"Phil-o-rum Juneau, w'y you spik so moche,
you're off on de head to-day:
Can't be you forget, ole feller, you an' me
we're not too young,
An' if I'm lookin' so ole lak' you, I t'ink I
will close ma tongue.
"You should feel ashame, for you're alway
blame, w'en it isn't ma fault at all,
For I'm tryin' to do bes' I can for you on
summer-tam, spring, an' fall.
How offen you drown on de reever, if I'm
not lookin' out for you
W'en you're takin' too moche on de w'isky,
some night comin' down de Soo.
"De firse tam we go on de Wessoneau, no
feller can beat us den
For you're purty strong man wit' de paddle,
but dat's long ago, ma frien',
An' win' she can blow off de mountain, an'
tonder an' rain may come,
But camp see us bote on de evening--you
know dat was true, Phil-o-rum.
"An' who's your horse, too, but your ole
canoe, an' w'en you feel cole an' wet,
Who was your house w'en I'm upside down,
an' onder de roof you get,
Wit' rain ronnin' down ma back, Bapteme! till
I'm gettin' de rheumateez,
An' I never say not'ing at all moi-meme, but
let you do jus' you please?
"You t'ink it was right, kip me out all night
on reever side down below,
An' even 'bon soir' you was never say, but
off on de camp you go,
Leffin' your poor ole canoe behin', lyin' dere
on de groun',
Watchin' de moon on de water, an' de bat
flyin' all aroun'?
"Oh, dat's lonesome t'ing hear de grey owl
sing up on de beeg pine tree!
An' many long night she kip me awake till sun
on de Eas' I see,
An' den you come down on de morning for
start on some more voyage,
An' only t'ing decen' you do all day, is carry
me on portage.
"Dat's way, Phil-o-rum, rheumateez she
come, wit' pain ronnin' troo' ma side,
Wan leetle hole here, 'noder beeg wan dere,
dat not'ing can never hide,
Don't do any good feex me up agen, no matter
how moche you try,
For w'en we come ole an' our work she's
done, bote man an' canoe mus' die."
Wall, she talk dat way mebbe mos' de day till
we're passin' some beaver dam,
An' wan de young beaver, he's mak' hees tail
come down on de water Flam!
I never see de canoe so scare, she jomp nearly
two, t'ree feet,
I t'ink she was goin' for ronne away, an' she
shut up de mout' toute suite.
It mak' me feel queer, de strange t'ing I hear,
an' I'm glad she don't spik no more,
But soon as we fin' ourse'f arrive over dere on
de 'noder shore
I tak' dat canoe lak' de lady, an' carry her off
wit' me,
For I'm sorry de way I'm treat her, an' she
know more dan me, sapree!
Yass, dat's smart canoe, an' I know it's true,
w'at she's spikin' wit' me dat day,
I'm not de young feller I use to be, w'en work
she was only play,
An' I know I was comin' closer on place w'ere
I mus' tak' care,
W'ere de mos' worse current's de las' wan too,
de current of Dead Riviere.
You can only steer, an' if rock be near, wit'
wave dashin' all aroun',
Better mak' leetle prayer, for on Dead Riviere,
some very smart man get drown;
But if you be locky an' watch youse'f, mebbe
reever won't seem so wide,
An' firse t'ing you know you 'll ronne ashore,
safe on de 'noder side.
[Illustration: tailpiece]
[Illustration: headpiece]
MADELEINE VERCHERES.
I've told you many a tale, my child, of the
old heroic days,
Of Indian wars and massacre, of villages ablaze
With savage torch, from Ville Marie to the
Mission of Trois Rivieres;
But never have I told you yet of Madeleine Vercheres.
Summer had come with its blossoms, and gaily
the robin sang,
And deep in the forest arches, the axe of the
woodman | 1,489.05752 |
2023-11-16 18:41:53.0875240 | 1,609 | 10 |
Produced by Robert J. Hall
[Page ii]
[Illustration: Captain Robert F. Scott R.N.
_J. Russell & Sons, Southsea, photographers_]
[Page iii]
THE VOYAGES OF CAPTAIN SCOTT
_Retold from 'The Voyage of the "Discovery"' and 'Scott's Last
Expedition'_
BY CHARLES TURLEY
Author of 'Godfrey Marten, Schoolboy,' 'A Band of Brothers,' etc.
With an introduction by
SIR J. M. BARRIE, BART.
Numerous illustrations in colour and black and white and a map
[Page v]
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
THE VOYAGE OF THE 'DISCOVERY'
Chapter
I. The 'Discovery'.
II. Southward Ho!
III. In Search of Winter Quarters.
IV. The Polar Winter.
V. The Start of the Southern Journey.
VI. The Return.
VII. A Second Winter.
VIII. The Western Journey.
IX. The Return from the West.
X. Release.
THE LAST EXPEDITION
Chapter
Preface to 'Scott's Last Expedition'.
Biographical Note.
British Antarctic Expedition, 1910.
[Page vi]
I. Through Stormy Seas.
II. Depot Laying to One Ton Camp.
III. Perils.
IV. A Happy Family.
V. Winter.
VI. Good-bye to Cape Evans.
VII. The Southern Journey Begins.
VIII. On the Beardmore Glacier.
IX. The South Pole.
X. On the Homeward Journey.
XI. The Last March.
Search Party Discovers the Tent.
In Memoriam.
Farewell Letters.
Message to the Public.
Index.
[Page vii]
ILLUSTRATIONS
_PHOTOGRAVURE PLATE_
Portrait of Captain Robert F. Scott
_From a photograph by J. Russell & Son, Southsea_.
_COLOURED PLATES_
_From Water-Colour Drawings by Dr. Edward A. Wilson._.
Sledding.
Mount Erebus.
Lunar Corona.
'Birdie' Bowers reading the thermometer on the ramp.
_DOUBLE PAGE PLATE_
Panorama at Cape Evans.
Berg in South Bay.
_FULL PAGE PLATES_
Robert F. Scott at the age of thirteen as a naval cadet.
The 'Discovery'.
Looking up the gateway from Pony Depot.
Pinnacled ice at mouth of Ferrar Glacier.
Pressure ridges north side of Discovery Bluff.
The 'Terra Nova' leaving the Antarctic.
Pony Camp on the barrier.
Snowed-up tent after three days' blizzard.
Pitching the double tent on the summit.
[Page viii]
Adelie Penguin on nest.
Emperor Penguins on sea-ice.
Dog party starting from Hut Point.
Dog lines.
Looking up the gateway from Pony Depot.
Looking south from Lower Glacier depot,
Man hauling camp, 87th parallel.
The party at the South Pole.
'The Last Rest'.
Facsimile of the last words of Captain Scott's Journal.
Track chart of main southern journey.
[Page 1]
INTRODUCTION
BY SIR J. M. BARRIE, BART.
On the night of my original meeting with Scott he was but lately
home from his first adventure into the Antarctic and my chief
recollection of the occasion is that having found the entrancing
man I was unable to leave him. In vain he escorted me through the
streets of London to my home, for when he had said good-night I then
escorted him to his, and so it went on I know not for how long through
the small hours. Our talk was largely a comparison of the life of
action (which he pooh-poohed) with the loathsome life of those who
sit at home (which I scorned); but I also remember that he assured
me he was of Scots extraction. As the subject never seems to have
been resumed between us, I afterwards wondered whether I had drawn
this from him with a promise that, if his reply was satisfactory, I
would let him go to bed. However, the family traditions (they are
nothing more) do bring him from across the border. According to
them his great-great-grandfather was the Scott of Brownhead whose
estates were sequestered after the '45. His dwelling was razed
to the ground and he fled with his wife, to whom after some grim
privations a son was born in a fisherman's hut on September 14,
1745. This son eventually settled in Devon, where he prospered,
[Page 2]
for it was in the beautiful house of Oatlands that he died. He
had four sons, all in the Royal Navy, of whom the eldest had as
youngest child John Edward Scott, father of the Captain Scott who
was born at Oatlands on June 6, 1868. About the same date, or perhaps
a little earlier, it was decided that the boy should go into the
Navy like so many of his for-bears.
I have been asked to write a few pages about those early days of
Scott at Oatlands, so that the boys who read this book may have
some slight acquaintance with the boy who became Captain Scott;
and they may be relieved to learn (as it holds out some chance
for themselves) that the man who did so many heroic things does
not make his first appearance as a hero. He enters history aged
six, blue-eyed, long-haired, inexpressibly slight and in velveteen,
being held out at arm's length by a servant and dripping horribly,
like a half-drowned kitten. This is the earliest recollection of
him of a sister, who was too young to join in a children's party
on that fatal day. But Con, as he was always called, had intimated
to her that from a window she would be able to see him taking a
noble lead in the festivities in the garden, and she looked; and
that is what she saw. He had been showing his guests how superbly
he could jump the leat, and had fallen into it.
Leat is a Devonshire term for a running stream, and a branch of
the leat ran through the Oatlands garden while there was another
branch, more venturesome, at the bottom of the fields. These were
the waters first ploughed by Scott, and he invented many ways of
being in them accidentally, it being forbidden
[Page 3]
to enter them of intent. Thus he taught his sisters and brother
a new version of the oldest probably of all pastimes, the game of
'Touch.' You had to touch 'across the leat,' and, with a little
good fortune, one of you went in. Once you were wet, it did not
so much matter though you got wetter.
An easy way of getting to the leat at the foot of the fields was
to walk there, but by the time he was eight Scott scorned the easy
ways. He invented parents who sternly forbade all approach to this
dangerous waterway; he turned them into enemies of his country and
of himself (he was now an admiral), and led parties of gallant tars
to the stream by ways hitherto unthought of. At foot of the avenue | 1,489.107564 |
2023-11-16 18:41:53.1113820 | 394 | 49 |
Produced by Donald Lainson
ROUNDABOUT PAPERS
By William Makepeace Thackeray
CONTENTS
ROUNDABOUT PAPERS
On a Lazy Idle Boy
On Two Children in Black
On Ribbons
On some late Great Victories
Thorns in the Cushion
On Screens in Dining-Rooms
Tunbridge Toys
De Juventute
On a Joke I once heard from the late Thomas Hood
Round about the Christmas Tree
On a Chalk-Mark on the Door
On being Found Out
On a Hundred Years Hence
Small-Beer Chronicle
Ogres
On Two Roundabout Papers which I intended to Write
A Mississippi Bubble
On Letts's Diary
Notes of a Week's Holiday
Nil Nisi Bonum
On Half a Loaf--A Letter to Messrs. Broadway, Battery and Co., of New
York, Bankers
The Notch on the Axe.--A Story a la Mode. Part I Part II Part III
De Finibus
On a Peal of Bells
On a Pear-Tree
Dessein's
On some Carp at Sans Souci
Autour de mon Chapeau
On Alexandrines--A Letter to some Country Cousins
On a Medal of George the Fourth
"Strange to say, on Club Paper"
The Last Sketch
ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.
ON A LAZY IDLE BOY.
I had occasion to pass a week in the autumn in the little old town
of Coire or Chur, in the Grisons, where lies buried that very ancient
British king, saint, and martyr, Lucius,* who founded the Church of St.
Peter, on Cornhill. Few people note the church now-a-days, and fewer
ever heard of the saint. In the cathedral at Chur, his statue appears
surrounded by other sainted persons of his family. | 1,489.131422 |
2023-11-16 18:41:53.5057070 | 2,162 | 14 |
Produced by Bill Tozier, Barbara Tozier, Matthew Wheaton
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
LIVES OF ILLUSTRIOUS SHOEMAKERS.
BY
WILLIAM EDWARD WINKS.
NEW YORK:
FUNK & WAGNALLS, PUBLISHERS,
10 AND 12 DEY STREET.
PREFACE.
Time out of mind _The Gentle Craft_ has been invested with an air of
romance. This honorable title, given to no other occupation but that of
shoemakers, is an indication of the high esteem in which the Craft is
held. It is by no means an easy thing to account for a sentiment of this
kind, or to trace such a title to its original source. Whether the
traditionary stories which have clustered round the lives of Saints
Anianus, Crispin and Crispianus, or Hugh and Winifred, gave rise to the
sentiment, or the sentiment itself is to be regarded as accounting for
the traditions, one cannot tell. Probably there is some truth in both
theories, for sentiment and tradition act and react on each other.
Certain it is, that among all our craftsmen none appear to enjoy a
popularity comparable with that of "the old Cobbler" or "Shoemaker."
Most men have a good word to say for him, a joke to crack about him, or
a story to tell of his ability and "learning," his skill in argument, or
his prominence and influence in political or religious affairs. Both in
ancient times and in modern, in the Old World and in the New, a rare
interest has been felt in Shoemakers, as a class, on account of their
remarkable intelligence and the large number of eminent men who have
risen from their ranks.
These facts, and especially the last--which has been the subject of
frequent remark--may be deemed sufficient justification for the
existence of such a work as this.
Another reason might be given for the issue of such a book as this just
now. A change has come over the craft of boot and shoe making. The use
of machinery has effected nothing short of a _revolution_ in the trade.
The old-fashioned Shoemaker, with his leathern apron and hands redolent
of wax, has almost disappeared from the workrooms and streets of such
towns as Northampton and Stafford in Old England, or Lynn in New
England. His place and function are now, for the most part, occupied by
the "cutter" and the "clicker," the "riveter" and the "machine-girl."
The old Cobbler, like the ancient spinster and handloom weaver, is
retiring into the shade of the boot and shoe factory. Whether or no he
will disappear entirely may be questionable; but there can be no doubt
that the Cobbler, sitting at his stall and working with awl and hammer
and last, will never again be the conspicuous figure in social life that
he was wont to be in times gone by. Before we bid him a final farewell,
and forget the traditions of his humble yet honorable craft, it may be
of some service to bring under one review the names and histories of
some of the more illustrious members of his order.
Long as is the list of these worthy "Sons of Crispin," it cannot be said
to be complete. Only a few examples are taken from Germany, France, and
the United States, where, in all probability, as many illustrious
Shoemakers might have been met with as in Great Britain itself. And even
the British muster-roll is not fully made up. With only a few
exceptions, _living men_ are not included in the list. Very gladly would
the writer have added to these exceptions so remarkable a man as Thomas
Edward, the shoemaker of Banff, one of the best self-taught naturalists
of our time, and, for the last sixteen years, an Associate of the
Linnaean Society. But for the Life of this eminent Scotchman the reader
must be referred to the interesting biography written by his friend Dr.
Smiles.
In writing the longer sketches, free and ample use has been made of
biographies already in existence. But this has not been done without the
kind consent of the owners of copyrights. To these the writer tenders
his grateful acknowledgments. To the widow of the Rev. T. W. Blanshard
he is indebted for permission to draw upon the pages of her late
husband's valuable biography of "The Wesleyan Demosthenes," _Samuel
Bradburn_; to Jacob Halls Drew, Esq., Bath, for his courtesy in allowing
a liberal use to be made of the facts given in his biography of his
father, _Samuel Drew_, "The Self-Taught Cornishman;" and to the
venerable _Thomas Cooper_, as well as to his publishers, Messrs. Hodder
& Stoughton, for their kind favor in regard to the lengthy and detailed
sketch of the author of "The Purgatory of Suicides." This sketch, the
longest in the book, is inserted by special permission of Messrs. Hodder
& Stoughton.
The minor sketches have been drawn from a variety of sources. One or two
of these require special mention. In preparing the notice of John
O'Neill, the Poet of Temperance, the writer has received kind help from
_Mr. Richard Gooch_ of Brighton, himself a poet of temperance. Messrs.
_J. & J. H. Rutherford_ of Kelso have also been good enough to place at
the writer's service--but, unfortunately, too late to be of much use--a
copy of their recently published autobiography of John Younger, the
Shoemaker of St. Boswells. In the all-too-brief section devoted to
American worthies, valuable aid has been given to the author by Henry
Phillips, Esq., jun., A.M., Ph.D., Corresponding Member of the
Antiquarian Society of Philadelphia, U.S.A.
In all probability the reader has never been introduced to so large a
company of illustrious Sons of Crispin before. It is sincerely hoped
that he will derive both pleasure and profit from their society.
WILLIAM EDWARD WINKS.
CARDIFF, 1882.
CONTENTS.
PREFACE
CHAPTER I.
Sir Cloudesley Shovel: The Cobbler's Boy who became an Admiral
CHAPTER II.
James Lackington: Shoemaker and Bookseller
CHAPTER III.
Samuel Bradburn: The Shoemaker who became President of the Wesleyan
Conference
CHAPTER IV.
William Gifford: From the Shoemaker's Stool to the Editor's Chair
CHAPTER V.
Robert Bloomfield: The Shoemaker who wrote "The Farmer's Boy"
CHAPTER VI.
Samuel Drew: The Metaphysical Shoemaker
CHAPTER VII.
William Carey: The Shoemaker who Translated the Bible into Bengali
and Hindostani
CHAPTER VIII.
John Pounds: The Philanthropic Shoemaker
CHAPTER IX.
Thomas Cooper: The Self-educated Shoemaker who "Reared his own
Monument"
CHAPTER X.
A Constellation of Celebrated Cobblers
ANCIENT EXAMPLES.
The Cobbler and the Artist Apelles
The Shoemaker Bishops: Annianas, Bishop of Alexandria, and
Alexander, Bishop of Comana
The Pious Cobbler of Alexandria
"Rabbi Jochanan, The Shoemaker"
EUROPEAN EXAMPLES: _France_.
SS. Crispin and Crispianus: The Patron Saints of Shoemakers
"The Learned Baudouin"
Henry Michael Buch: "Good Henry"
_Germany._
Hans Sachs: "The Nightingale of the Reformation"
Jacob Boehmen: The Mystic
_Italy._
Gabriel Cappellini: "il Caligarino"
Francesco Brizzio: The Artist
_Holland._
Ludolph de Jong: The Portrait-Painter
Sons of Shoemakers
GREAT BRITAIN.
"Ye Cocke of Westminster"
Timothy Bennett: The Hero of Hampton-Wick
_Military and Naval Heroes._
The Souters of Selkirk
Watt Tinlinn
Colonel Hewson: The "Cerdon" of Hudibras
Sir Christopher Myngs, Admiral
_Astrologers and others._
Dr. Partridge
Dr. Ebenezer Sibly, F.R.C.P. 222
Manoah Sibly, Short-hand Writer, Preacher, etc
Mackey, "the Learned Shoemaker" of Norwich, and two other Learned
Shoemakers
Anthony Purver, Bible Revisionist
_The Poets of the Cobbler's Stall._
James Woodhouse, the Friend of Shenstone
John Bennet, Parish Clerk and Poet
Richard Savage, the Friend of Pope
Thomas Olivers, Hymn-Writer
Thomas Holcroft, Dramatist, Novelist
Joseph Blacket, "The Son of Sorrow"
David Service and other Songsters of the Shoemaker's Stall
John Struthers, Poet and Editor
John O'Neill, the Poet of Temperance
John Younger, Fly-Fisher and Corn-Law Rhymer
Charles Crocker, "The Poor Cobbler of Chichester"
_Preachers and Theologians._
George Fox, Founder of the Society of Friends
Thomas Shillitoe, the Shoemaker who stood before Kings
John Thorp, Founder of the Independent Church at Masboro'
William Huntingdon, S.S.
Robert Morrison, D.D., Chinese Scholar and Missionary
Rev. John Burnet, Preacher and Philanthropist
John Kitto, D.D | 1,489.525747 |
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Produced by Internet Archive; University of Florida, Children, Grenet
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
[Illustration: _Paul and Virginia. p.29._]
PAUL AND VIRGINIA,
FROM THE FRENCH
OF
J.B.H. DE SAINT PIERRE.
1851
PREFACE.
The following translation of "Paul and Virginia," was written at Paris,
amidst the horrors of Robespierre's tyranny. During that gloomy epocha it
was difficult to find occupations which might cheat the days of calamity of
their weary length. Society had vanished; and amidst the minute vexations
of Jacobinical despotism, which, while it murdered in _mass_, persecuted in
detail, the resources of writing, and even reading, were encompassed with
danger. The researches of domiciliary visits had already compelled me to
commit to the flames a manuscript volume, where I had traced the political
scenes of which I had been a witness, with the colouring of their first
impressions on my mind, with those fresh tints that fade from recollection;
and since my pen, accustomed to follow the impulse of my feelings, could
only have drawn, at that fatal period, those images of desolation and
despair which haunted my imagination, and dwelt upon my heart, writing was
forbidden employment. Even reading had its perils; for books had sometimes
aristocratical insignia, and sometimes counter revolutionary allusions; and
when the administrators of police happened to think the writer a
conspirator, they punished the reader as his accomplice.
In this situation I gave myself the task of employing a few hours every day
in translating the charming little novel of Bernardin St. Pierre, entitled
"Paul and Virginia;" and I found the most soothing relief in wandering from
my own gloomy reflections to those enchanting scenes of the Mauritius,
which he has so admirably described. I also composed a few Sonnets adapted
to the peculiar productions of that part of the globe, which are
interspersed in the work. Some, indeed, are lost, as well as a part of the
translation, which I have since supplied, having been sent to the
Municipality of Paris, in order to be examined as English papers; where
they still remain, mingled with revolutionary placards, motions, and
harangues; and are not likely to be restored to my possession.
With respect to the translation, I can only hope to deserve the humble
merit of not having deformed the beauty of the original. I have, indeed,
taken one liberty with my author, which it is fit I should acknowledge,
that of omitting several pages of general observations, which, however
excellent in themselves, would be passed over with impatience by the
English reader, when they interrupt the pathetic narrative. In this
respect, the two nations seem to change characters; and while the serious
and reflecting Englishman requires, in novel writing, as well as on the
theatre, a rapid succession of incidents, much bustle and stage effect,
without suffering the author to appear himself, and stop the progress of
the story; the gay and restless Frenchman listens attentively to long
philosophical reflections, while the catastrophe of the drama hangs in
suspense.
My last poetical productions (the Sonnets which are interspersed in this
work) may perhaps be found even more imperfect than my earlier
compositions; since, after a long exile from England, I can scarcely
flatter myself that my ear is become more attuned to the harmony of a
language, with the sounds of which it is seldom gladdened; or that my
poetical taste is improved by living in a country where arts have given
place to arms. But the public will, perhaps, receive with indulgence a work
written under such peculiar circumstances; not composed in the calm of
literary leisure, or in pursuit of literary fame, but amidst the turbulence
of the most cruel sensations, and in order to escape awhile from
overwhelming misery.
H.M.W.
PAUL AND VIRGINIA.
On the eastern coast of the mountain which rises above Port Louis in the
Mauritius, upon a piece of land bearing the marks of former cultivation,
are seen the ruins of two small cottages. Those ruins are situated near the
centre of a valley, formed by immense rocks, and which opens only towards
the north. On the left rises the mountain, called the Height of Discovery,
from whence the eye marks the distant sail when it first touches the verge
of the horizon, and whence the signal is given when a vessel approaches the
island. At the foot of this mountain stands the town of Port Louis. On the
right is formed the road, which stretches from Port Louis to the Shaddock
Grove, where the church, bearing that name, lifts its head, surrounded by
its avenues of bamboo, in the midst of a spacious plain; and the prospect
terminates in a forest extending to the furthest bounds of the island. The
front view presents the bay, denominated the Bay of the Tomb: a little on
the right is seen the Cape of Misfortune; and beyond rolls the expanded
ocean, on the surface of which appear a few uninhabited islands, and, among
others, the Point of Endeavour, which resembles a bastion built upon the
flood.
At the entrance of the valley which presents those various objects, the
echoes of the mountain incessantly repeat the hollow murmurs of the winds
that shake the neighbouring forests, and the tumultuous dashing of the
waves which break at a distance upon the cliffs. But near the ruined
cottages all is calm and still, and the only objects which there meet the
eye are rude steep rocks, that rise like a surrounding rampart. Large
clumps of trees grow at their base, on their rifted sides, and even on
their majestic tops, where the clouds seem to repose. The showers, which
their bold points attract, often paint the vivid colours of the rainbow on
their green and brown declivities, and swell the sources of the little
river which flows at their feet, called the river of Fan-Palms.
Within this enclosure reigns the most profound silence. The waters, the
air, all the elements are at peace. Scarcely does the echo repeat the
whispers of the palm-trees spreading their broad leaves, the long points of
which are gently balanced by the winds. A soft light illuminates the bottom
of this deep valley, on which the sun only shines at noon. But even at
break of day the rays of light are thrown on the surrounding rocks; and the
sharp peaks, rising above the shadows of the mountain, appear like tints of
gold and purple gleaming upon the azure sky.
To this scene I loved to resort, where I might enjoy at once the richness
of the extensive landscape, and the charm of uninterrupted solitude. One
day, when I was seated at the foot of the cottages, and contemplating their
ruins, a man, advanced in years, passed near the spot. He was dressed in
the ancient garb of the island, his feet were bare, and he leaned upon a
staff of ebony: his hair was white, and the expression of his countenance
was dignified and interesting. I bowed to him with respect; he returned the
salutation: and, after looking at me with some earnestness, came and placed
himself upon the hillock where I was seated. Encouraged by this mark of
confidence, I thus addressed him:--
"Father, can you tell me to whom those cottages once belonged?" "My son,"
replied the old man, "those heaps of rubbish, and that unfilled land, were,
twenty years ago, the property of two families, who then found happiness in
this solitude. Their history is affecting; but what European, pursuing his
way to the Indies, will pause one moment to interest himself in the fate of
a few obscure individuals? What European can picture happiness to his
imagination amidst poverty and neglect? The curiosity of mankind is only
attracted by the history of the great; and yet from that knowledge little
use can be derived." "Father," I rejoined, "from your manners and your
observations, I perceive that you have acquired much experience of human
life. If you have leisure, relate to me, I beseech you, the history of the
ancient inhabitants of this desert; and be assured, that even the men who
are most perverted by the prejudices of the world, find a soothing pleasure
in contemplating that happiness which belongs to simplicity and virtue."
The old man, after a short silence, during which he leaned his face upon
his hands, as if he were trying to recall the images of the past, thus began
his narration:--
"Monsieur de la Tour, a young man who was a native of Normandy, after
having in vain solicited a commission in the French Army, or some support
from his own family, at length determined to seek his fortune in this
island, where he arrived in 1726. He brought hither a young woman whom he
loved tenderly, and by whom he was no less tenderly beloved. She belonged
to a rich and ancient family of the same province; but he had married her
without fortune, and in opposition to the will of her relations, who
refused their consent, because he was found guilty of being descended from
parents who had no claims to nobility. Monsieur de la Tour, leaving his
wife at Port Louis, embarked for Madagascar, in order to purchase a few
slaves to assist him in forming a plantation in this island. He landed at
that unhealthy season which commences about the middle of October: and soon
after his arrival died of the pestilential fever, which prevails in that
country six months of the year, and which will forever baffle the attempts
of the European nations to form establishments on that fatal soil. His
effects were seized upon by the rapacity of strangers; and his wife, who
was pregnant, found herself a widow in a country where she had neither
credit nor recommendation, and no earthly possession, or rather support,
save one <DW64> woman. Too delicate to solicit protection or relief from any
other man after the death of him whom alone she loved, misfortune armed her
with courage, and she resolved to cultivate with her slave a little spot of
ground, and procure for herself the means of subsistence. In an island
almost a desert, and where the ground was left to the choice of the
settler, she avoided those spots which were most fertile and most
favourable to commerce; and seeking some nook of the mountain, some secret
asylum, where she might live solitary and unknown, she bent her way from
the town towards those rocks, where she wished to shelter herself as in a
nest. All suffering creatures, from a sort of common instinct, fly for
refuge amidst their pains to haunts the most wild and desolate; as if rocks
could form a rampart against misfortune; as if the calm of nature could
hush the tumults of the soul. That Providence, which lends its support when
we ask but the supply of our necessary wants, had a blessing in reserve for
Madame de la Tour, which neither riches nor greatness can purchase; this
blessing was a friend.
"The spot to which Madame de la Tour fled had already been inhabited a year
by a young woman of a lively, good natured, and affectionate disposition.
Margaret (for that was her name) was born in Britany, of a family of
peasants, by whom she was cherished and beloved, and with whom she might
have passed life in simple rustic happiness, if, misled by the weakness of
a tender heart, she had not listened to the passion of a gentleman in the
neighbourhood, who promised her marriage. He soon abandoned her, and adding
inhumanity to seduction, refused to ensure a provision for the child of
which she was pregnant. Margaret then determined to leave for ever her
native village, and go, where her fault might be concealed, to some colony
distant from that country where she had lost the only portion of a poor
peasant girl--her reputation. With some borrowed money she purchased an old
<DW64> slave, with whom she cultivated a little spot of this canton. Here
Madame de la Tour, followed by her <DW64> woman, found Margaret suckling her
child. Soothed by the sight of a person in a situation somewhat similar to
her own, Madame de la Tour related, in a few words, her past condition and
her present wants. Margaret was deeply affected by the recital; and, more
anxious to excite confidence than esteem, she confessed, without disguise,
the errors of which she had been guilty. 'As for me,' said she, 'I deserve
my fate: but you, madam--you! at once virtuous and unhappy--' And, sobbing,
she offered Madame de la Tour both her hut and her friendship. That lady,
affected by this tender reception, pressed her in her arms, and exclaimed,
'Ah, surely Heaven will put an end to my misfortunes, since it inspires
you, to whom I am a stranger, with more goodness towards me than I have
ever experienced from my own relations!'
"I knew Margaret; and, although my habitation is a league and a half from
hence, in the woods behind that sloping mountain, I considered myself as
her neighbour. In the cities of Europe a street, sometimes even a less
distance, separates families whom nature had united; but in new colonies we
consider those persons as neighbours from whom we are divided only by woods
and mountains; and above all, at that period when this island had little
intercourse with the Indies, neighbourhood alone gave a claim to
friendship, and hospitality toward strangers seemed less a duty than a
pleasure. No sooner was I informed that Margaret had found a companion,
than I hastened thither, in hope of being useful to my neighbour and her
guest.
"Madame de la Tour possessed all those melancholy graces which give beauty
additional power, by blending sympathy with admiration. Her figure was
interesting, and her countenance expressed at once dignity and dejection.
She appeared to be in the last stage of her pregnancy. I told them that,
for the future interests of their children, and to prevent the intrusion of
any other settler, it was necessary they should divide between them the
property of this wild sequestered valley, which is nearly twenty acres in
extent. They confided that task to me, and I marked out two equal portions
of land. One includes the higher part of this enclosure, from, the peak of
that rock buried in clouds, whence springs the rapid river of Fan-Palms, to
that wide cleft which you see on the summit of the mountain, and which is
called the Cannon's Mouth, from the resemblance in its form. It is
difficult to find a path along this wild portion of enclosure, the soil of
which is encumbered with fragments of rock, or worn into channels formed by
torrents; yet it produces noble trees, and innumerable fountains and
rivulets. The other portion of land is comprised in the plain extending
along the banks of the river of Fan-Palms, to the opening where we are now
seated, from whence the river takes its course between those two hills,
until it falls into the sea. You may still trace the vestiges of some
meadow-land; and this part of the common is less rugged, but not more
valuable than the other; since in the rainy season it becomes marshy, and
in dry weather is so hard and unbending, that it will yield only to the
stroke of the hatchet. When I had thus divided the property, I persuaded my
neighbours to draw lots for their separate possessions. The higher portion
of land became the property of Madame de la Tour; the lower, of Margaret;
and each seemed satisfied with her respective share. They entreated me to
place their habitations together, that they might at all times enjoy the
soothing intercourse of friendship, and the consolation of mutual kind
offices. Margaret's cottage was situated near the centre of the valley, and
just on the boundary of her own plantation. Close to that spot I built
another cottage for the dwelling of Madame de la Tour: and thus the two
friends, while they possessed all the advantages of neighbourhood, lived on
their own property. I myself cut palisades from the mountain, and brought
leaves of Fan-Palms from the seashore, in order to construct those two
cottages, of which you can now discern neither the entrance nor the roof.
Yet, alas! there still remain but too many traces for my remembrance! Time,
which so rapidly destroys the proud monuments of empires, seems in this
desert to spare those of friendship, as if to perpetuate my regrets to the
last hour of my existence.
"Scarcely was her cottage finished, when Madame de la Tour was delivered of
a girl. I had been the godfather of Margaret's child, who was christened by
the name of Paul. Madame de la Tour desired me to perform the same office
for her child also, together with her friend, who gave her the name of
Virginia. 'She will be virtuous,' cried Margaret, 'and she will be happy. I
have only known misfortune by wandering from virtue.'
"At the time Madame de la Tour recovered, those two little territories had
already begun to yield some produce, perhaps in a small degree owing to the
care which I occasionally bestowed on their improvement, but far more to
the indefatigable labours of the two slaves. Margaret's slave, who was
called Domingo, was still healthy and robust, although advanced in years:
he possessed some knowledge, and a good natural understanding. He
cultivated indiscriminately, on both settlements, such spots of ground as
were most fertile, and sowed whatever grain he thought most congenial to
each particular soil. Where the ground was poor, he strewed maize; where it
was most fruitful, he planted wheat; and rice in such spots as were marshy.
He threw the seeds of gourds and cucumbers at the foot of the rocks, which
they loved to climb, and decorate with their luxuriant foliage. In dry
spots he cultivated the sweet potato; the cotton-tree flourished upon the
heights, and the sugar-cane grew in the clayey soil. He reared some plants
of coffee on the hills, where the grain, although small, is excellent. The
plantain-trees, which spread their grateful shade on the banks of the
river, and encircled the cottage, yielded fruit throughout the year. And,
lastly, Domingo cultivated a few plants of tobacco, to charm away his own
cares. Sometimes he was employed in cutting wood for firing from the
mountain, sometimes in hewing pieces of rock within the enclosure, in order
to level the paths. He was much attached to Margaret, and not less to
Madame de la Tour, whose <DW64>-woman, Mary, he had married at the time of
Virginia's birth; and he was passionately fond of his wife. Mary was born
at Madagascar, from whence she had brought a few arts of industry. She
could weave baskets, and a sort of stuff, with long grass that grows in the
woods. She was active, cleanly, and, above all, faithful. It was her care
to prepare their meals, to rear the poultry, and go sometimes to Port
Louis, and sell the superfluities of these little plantations, which were
not very considerable. If you add to the personages I have already
mentioned two goats, who were brought up with the children, and a great
dog, who kept watch at night, you will have a complete idea of the
household, as well as of the revenue of those two farms.
"Madame de la Tour and her friend were employed from the morning till the
evening in spinning cotton for the use of their families. Destitute of all
those things which their own industry could not supply, they walked about
their habitations with their feet bare, and shoes were a convenience
reserved for Sunday, when, at an early hour, they attended mass at the
church of the Shaddock Grove, which you see yonder. That church is far more
distant than Port Louis; yet they seldom visited the town, lest they should
be treated with contempt, because they were dressed in the coarse blue
linen of Bengal, which is usually worn by slaves. But is there in that
external deference which fortune commands a compensation for domestic
happiness? If they had something to suffer from the world, this served but
to endear their humble home. No sooner did Mary and Domingo perceive them
from this elevated spot, on the road of the Shaddock Grove, than they flew
to the foot of the mountain, in order to help them to ascend. They
discerned in the looks of their domestics that joy which their return
inspired. They found in their retreat neatness, independence, all those
blessings which are the recompense of toil, and received those services
which have their source in affection.--United by the tie of similar wants,
and the sympathy of similar misfortunes, they gave each other the tender
names of companion, friend, sister.--They had but one will, one interest,
one table. All their possessions were in common. And if sometimes a passion
more ardent than friendship awakened in their hearts the pang of unavailing
anguish, a pure religion, united with chaste manners, drew their affections
towards another life; as the trembling flame rises towards heaven, when it
no longer finds any aliment on earth.
"Madame de la Tour sometimes, leaving the household cares to Margaret,
wandered out alone; and, amidst the sublime scenery, indulged that luxury
of pensive sadness, which is so soothing to the mind after the first
emotions of turbulent sorrow have subsided. Sometimes she poured forth the
effusions of melancholy in the language of verse; and, although her
compositions have little poetical merit, they appear to me to bear the
marks of genuine sensibility. Many of her poems are lost; but some still
remain in my possession, and a few still hang on my memory. I will repeat
to you a sonnet addressed to Love.
SONNET
TO LOVE.
Ah, Love! ere yet I knew thy fatal power,
Bright glow'd the colour of my youthful days,
As, on the sultry zone, the torrid rays,
That paint the broad-leaved plantain's glossy bower;
Calm was my bosom as this silent hour,
When o'er the deep, scarce heard, the zephyr strays,
'Midst the cool tam'rinds indolently plays,
Nor from the orange shakes its od'rous flower:
But, ah! since Love has all my heart possess'd,
That desolated heart what sorrows tear!
Disturb'd and wild as ocean's troubled breast,
When the hoarse tempest of the night is there
Yet my complaining spirit asks no rest;
This bleeding bosom cherishes despair.
"The tender and sacred duties which nature imposed, became a source of
additional happiness to those affectionate mothers, whose mutual friendship
acquired new strength at the sight of their children, alike the offspring
of unhappy love. They delighted to place their infants together in the same
bath, to nurse them in the same cradle, and sometimes changed the maternal
bosom at which they received nourishment, as if to blend with the ties of
friendship that instinctive affection which this act produces.
'My friend,' cried Madame de la Tour, 'we shall each of us have two
children, and each of our children will have two mothers.' As two buds
which remain on two trees of the same kind, after the tempest has broken
all their branches, produce more delicious fruit, if each, separated from
the maternal stem, be grafted on the neighbouring tree; so those two
children, deprived of all other support, imbibed sentiments more tender
than those of son and daughter, brother and sister, when exchanged at the
breast of those who had given them birth. While they were yet in their
cradle, their mothers talked of their marriage; and this prospect of
conjugal felicity, with which they soothed their own cares, often called
forth the tears of bitter regret. The misfortunes of one mother had arisen
from having neglected marriage, those of the other from having submitted to
its laws: one had been made unhappy by attempting to raise herself above
her humble condition of life, the other by descending from her rank. But
they found consolation in reflecting that their more fortunate children,
far from the cruel prejudices of Europe, those prejudices which poison the
most precious sources of our happiness, would enjoy at once the pleasures
of love and the blessings of equality.
"Nothing could exceed that attachment which those infants already displayed
for each other. If Paul complained, his mother pointed to Virginia; and at
that sight he smiled, and was appeased. If any accident befel Virginia, the
cries of Paul gave notice of the disaster; and then Virginia would suppress
her complaints when she found that Paul was unhappy. When I came hither, I
usually found them quite naked, which is the custom of this country,
tottering in their walk, and holding each other by the hands and under the
arms, as we represent the constellation of the Twins. At night these
infants often refused to be separated, and were found lying in the same
cradle, their cheeks, their bosoms pressed close together, their hands
thrown round each other's neck, and sleeping, locked in one another's arms.
"When they began to speak, the first names they learnt to give each other
were those of brother and sister, and childhood knows no softer
appellation. Their education served to augment their early friendship, by
directing it to the supply of their reciprocal wants. In a short time, all
that regarded the household economy, the care of preparing the rural
repasts, became the task of Virginia, whose labours were always crowned
with the praises and kisses of her brother. As for Paul, always in motion,
he dug the garden with Domingo, or followed him with a little hatchet into
the woods, where, if in his rambles he espied a beautiful flower, fine
fruit, or a nest of birds, even at the top of a tree, he climbed up, and
brought it home to his sister.
"When you met with one of these children, you might be sure the other was
not distant. One day, coming down that mountain, I saw Virginia at the end
of the garden, running toward the house, with her petticoat thrown over her
head, in order to screen herself from a shower of rain. At a distance, I
thought she was alone; but as I hastened towards her, in order to help her
on, I perceived that she held Paul by the arm, who was almost entirely
enveloped in the same cavity, and both were laughing heartily at being
sheltered together under an umbrella of their own invention. Those two
charming faces, placed within the petticoat, swelled by the wind, recalled
to my mind the children of Leda, enclosed within the same shell.
"Their sole study was how to please and assist each other; for of all other
things they were ignorant, and knew neither how to read nor write. They
were never disturbed by researches into past times, nor did their curiosity
extend beyond the bounds of that mountain. They believed the world ended at
the shores of their own island, and all their ideas and affections were
confined within its limits. Their mutual tenderness, and that of their
mothers, employed all the activity of their souls. Their tears had never
been called forth by long application to useless sciences. Their minds had
never been wearied by lessons of morality, superfluous to bosoms
unconscious of ill. They had never been taught that they must not steal,
because every thing with them was in common; or be intemperate, because | 1,489.596056 |
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
A superscript is denoted by ^x or ^{xx}, for example y^r or 21^{st}.
A subscript is denoted by _{x}, for example y_{e}.
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HISTORICAL RECORDS
OF THE
BRITISH ARMY.
PREPARED FOR PUBLICATION UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE
ADJUTANT-GENERAL.
THE SECOND REGIMENT OF FOOT;
OR,
QUEEN'S ROYAL.
LONDON:
Printed by WILLIAM CLOWES and SONS,
14, Charing Cross.
GENERAL ORDERS.
_HORSE-GUARDS,_
_1st January, 1836._
His Majesty has been pleased to command, that, with a view of doing
the fullest justice to Regiments, as well as to Individuals who
have distinguished themselves by their Bravery in Action with the
Enemy, an Account of the Services of every Regiment in the British
Army shall be published under the superintendence and direction
of the Adjutant-General; and that this Account shall contain the
following particulars, _viz._,
---- The Period and Circumstances of the Original Formation of
the Regiment; The Stations at which it has been from time to time
employed; The Battles, Sieges, and other Military Operations,
in which it has been engaged, particularly specifying any
Achievement it may have performed, and the Colours, Trophies,
&c., it may have captured from the Enemy.
---- The Names of the Officers and the number of Non-Commissioned
Officers and Privates, Killed or Wounded by the Enemy, specifying
the Place and Date of the Action.
---- The Names of those Officers, who, in consideration of their
Gallant Services and Meritorious Conduct in Engagements with the
Enemy, have been distinguished with Titles, Medals, or other
Marks of His Majesty's gracious favour.
---- The Names of all such Officers, Non-Commissioned Officers
and Privates as may have specially signalized themselves in
Action.
And,
---- The Badges and Devices which the Regiment may have been
permitted to bear, and the Causes on account of which such Badges
or Devices, or any other Marks of Distinction, have been granted.
By Command of the Right Honourable
GENERAL LORD HILL,
_Commanding-in-Chief_.
JOHN MACDONALD,
_Adjutant-General_.
PREFACE.
The character and credit of the British Army must chiefly depend
upon the zeal and ardour, by which all who enter into its service
are animated, and consequently it is of the highest importance that
any measure calculated to excite the spirit of emulation, by which
alone great and gallant actions are achieved, should be adopted.
Nothing can more fully tend to the accomplishment of this desirable
object, than a full display of the noble deeds with which the
Military History of our country abounds. To hold forth these bright
examples to the imitation of the youthful soldier, and thus to
incite him to emulate the meritorious conduct of those who have
preceded him in their honourable career, are among the motives that
have given rise to the present publication.
The operations of the British Troops are, indeed, announced in the
'London Gazette,' from whence they are transferred into the public
prints: the achievements of our armies are thus made known at the
time of their occurrence, and receive the tribute of praise and
admiration to which they are entitled. On extraordinary occasions,
the Houses of Parliament have been in the habit of conferring on
the Commanders, and the Officers and Troops acting under their
orders, expressions of approbation and of thanks for their skill
and bravery, and these testimonials, confirmed by the high honour
of their Sovereign's Approbation, constitute the reward which the
soldier most highly prizes.
It has not, however, until late years, been the practice (which
appears to have long prevailed in some of the Continental armies)
for British Regiments to keep regular records of their services
and achievements. Hence some difficulty has been experienced in
obtaining, particularly from the old Regiments, an authentic
account of their origin and subsequent services.
This defect will now be remedied, in consequence of His Majesty
having been pleased to command, that every Regiment shall in future
keep a full and ample record of its services at home and abroad.
From the materials thus collected, the country will henceforth
derive information as to the difficulties and privations which
chequer the career of those who embrace the military profession. In
Great Britain, where so large a number of persons are devoted to
the active concerns of agriculture, manufactures, and commerce, and
where these pursuits have, for so long a period, been undisturbed
by the _presence of war_, which few other countries have escaped,
comparatively little is known of the vicissitudes of active
service, and of the casualties of climate, to which, even during
peace, the British Troops are exposed in every part of the globe,
with little or no interval of repose.
In their tranquil enjoyment of the blessings which the country
derives from the industry and the enterprise of the agriculturist
and the trader, its happy inhabitants may be supposed not often to
reflect on the perilous duties of the soldier and the sailor,--on
their sufferings,--and on the sacrifice of valuable life, by which
so many national benefits are obtained and preserved.
The conduct of the British Troops, their valour, and endurance,
have shone conspicuously under great and trying difficulties; and
their character has been established in Continental warfare by the
irresistible spirit with which they have effected debarkations in
spite of the most formidable opposition, and by the gallantry and
steadiness with which they have maintained their advantages against
superior numbers.
In the official Reports made by the respective Commanders, ample
justice has generally been done to the gallant exertions of the
Corps employed; but the details of their services, and of acts of
individual bravery, can only be fully given in the Annals of the
various Regiments.
These Records are now preparing for publication, under His
Majesty's special authority, by Mr. RICHARD CANNON,
Principal Clerk of the Adjutant-General's Office; and while
the perusal of them cannot fail to be useful and interesting
to military men of every rank, it is considered that they will
also afford entertainment and information to the general reader,
particularly to those who may have served in the Army, or who have
relatives in the Service.
There exists in the breasts of most of those who have served, or
are serving, in the Army, an _Esprit du Corps_--an attachment
to every thing belonging to their Regiment; to such persons a
narrative of the services of their own Corps cannot fail to prove
interesting. Authentic accounts of the actions of the great,--the
valiant,--the loyal, have always been of paramount interest with
a brave and civilized people. Great Britain has produced a race
of heroes who, in moments of danger and terror, have stood, "firm
as the rocks of their native shore;" and when half the World has
been arrayed against them, they have fought the battles of their
Country with unshaken fortitude. It is presumed that a record of
achievements in war,--victories so complete and surprising, gained
by our countrymen,--our brothers--our fellow-citizens in arms,--a
record which revives the memory of the brave, and brings their
gallant deeds before us, will certainly prove acceptable to the
public.
Biographical memoirs of the Colonels and other distinguished
Officers, will be introduced in the Records of their respective
Regiments, and the Honorary Distinctions which have, from time to
time, been conferred upon each Regiment, as testifying the value
and importance of its services, will be faithfully set forth.
As a convenient mode of Publication, the Record of each Regiment
will be printed in a distinct number, so that when the whole shall
be completed, the Parts may be bound up in numerical succession.
HISTORICAL RECORD
OF THE
SECOND,
OR
QUEEN'S ROYAL REGIMENT
OF FOOT;
CONTAINING
AN ACCOUNT OF THE FORMATION OF THE REGIMENT
IN THE YEAR 1661, AND OF ITS SUBSEQUENT
SERVICES TO 1837.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY CLOWES AND SONS, 14, CHARING CROSS.
MDCCCXXXVIII.
[Illustration: SECOND (THE QUEEN'S ROYAL) REGIMENT OF FOOT.]
THE SECOND,
OR
QUEEN'S ROYAL REGIMENT OF FOOT,
BEARS IN THE CENTRE OF
EACH COLOUR
THE QUEEN'S CYPHER
ON A
RED GROUND WITHIN THE GARTER, AND CROWN OVER IT;
ALSO THE FOLLOWING DISTINCTIONS,
_Egypt, with the Sphynx_--_Vimiera_--_Corunna_--_Salamanca_--
_Vittoria_--_Pyrenees_--_Nivelle_--_Toulouse_--and _Peninsula_.
IN THE DEXTER CANTON OF THE SECOND COLOUR
THE UNION:
IN THE THREE OTHER CORNERS
THE PASCHAL LAMB;
WITH THE MOTTOES
_Pristinæ Virtutis Memor_, and _Vel Exuviæ Triumphant_,
AND THE DISTINCTIONS ABOVE SPECIFIED.
HISTORICAL RECORD
OF
THE SECOND,
OR
QUEEN'S ROYAL REGIMENT OF FOOT.
[Sidenote: 1661]
The Second Regiment of Foot was raised in 1661, for the purpose
of providing a garrison for _Tangier_, a fortress on the northern
coast of Africa, which was ceded to England as part of the marriage
portion of Donna Catherina, Infanta of Portugal, who, in the
following year, was married to King Charles II[1].
The command of this regiment was conferred by King Charles II. on
Henry (second) Earl of Peterborough, whose commission as Colonel
bears date the 30th of September, 1661.
King Charles II. having, soon after his restoration, disbanded the
army of the Commonwealth, the ranks of Lord Peterborough's regiment
were speedily completed with disciplined soldiers: it is reported
to have assembled on Putney heath on the 14th of October, 1661, and
to have numbered one thousand men.
The destination of Lord Peterborough's regiment to garrison so
valuable a portion of Her Majesty's dower was, no doubt, the
cause of its early advancement to royal favour: it was designated
'the _Queen's_,' and the _Paschal Lamb_, the distinguishing badge
of Portugal, was placed on its colours, and has ever since been
continued to be borne by the regiment[2].
[Sidenote: 1662]
In a few months after its formation, the _Earl of Peterborough_
embarked with his regiment and a troop of horse[3], and arrived at
_Tangier_ on the 29th of January, 1662, where he found a British
fleet, under the command of the _Earl of Sandwich_, lying in the
roads, and _Sir Richard Steyner_, with a detachment of officers
and seamen, occupying the town: a duty from which the _Queen's_
Regiment, relieved them on the following day[4].
The fortress was already surrounded by walls upwards of a mile and
a quarter in extent, but the English began constructing, at immense
cost both of money and labour, a series of external fortifications.
It was also determined to form a secure harbour by building a pier,
or mole, several hundred yards in length. A spirit of enterprise,
which has since become so conspicuous in British subjects, was, at
this early period, strongly evinced in these improvements, carried
on amidst barbarian tribes on the unpromising shores of Africa.
Tangier was announced after its occupation 'a place of such
concernment that all the world will envy the English the attainment
of it;' but this opinion was founded more on an expectation that
the new colony would open a mart for trade, and bring to our
influence, if not to our power, the adjoining states. It was,
however, an acquisition of consequence to a nation aiming at
commercial rivalry at a time when the voyage to India by the Cape
of Good Hope was of rare occurrence. Tangier was situated so as
to be a convenient resting-place for the Mediterranean trader,
similar to what Gibraltar affords at the present time. These
speculations gave the command a great importance, made evident by
the warrant from King Charles II. on the appointment of the _Earl
of Peterborough_ to his government. It designates him '_Captain
General, Chief Governor, and Vice-Admiral of our City of Tangier,
and of the ports and coasts adjacent, and any of our dominions
and territories, castles and forts, in or near the kingdom of
Tangier, Fez, and Morocco, in Africa, which are or shall be in our
possession, or reduced to our obedience, &c._'
On the arrival of Lord Peterborough at _Tangier_, he found Gaylan,
the sovereign chief of Fez, with a body of 10,000 men, encamped
within a league of the fortress. A treaty of peace was concluded
between these commanders, and limits were fixed, beyond which the
English were not to forage or cultivate. No great reliance was
placed by the British on their new ally, and accounts from the new
colony state, 'how the Moors will observe these articles we know
not; however, we are, and we still shall be, upon our guard.'
[Sidenote: 1663]
Three other battalions of infantry also proceeded to Tangier from
Dunkirk[5]. The friendly understanding which was established
with the natives was for some time interrupted only by trifling
skirmishes, in which the Moors satisfied themselves by beating
back, with sticks, those of the garrison who passed the stipulated
bounds. A jealousy was, however, very soon evinced; and upon
opposition being made to the English in prosecuting the works and
fortifications already alluded to, war burst out, in which the
number and ferocity of the Moors were defeated and overcome by
great discipline and courage on the part of the garrison. The use
of cannon by the Europeans at length diminished the courage of the
barbarians, but not before the garrison suffered severely. They had
already lost 250 men, and the Moors about 500, amongst whom was a
brother of Gaylan, when a peace was at length concluded in 1663,
and Lord Peterborough returned in the same year to England[6].
_The Earl of Peterborough_ was succeeded, both in the government
of Tangier and in the Colonelcy of the Queen's Regiment, by
Lieutenant-General ANDREW RUTHERFORD, _Earl of Teviot_
(late Governor of Dunkirk), whose commission was dated the 9th
of April, 1663. This second governor of Tangier consolidated all
the infantry in garrison, and added them to the Queen's Tangier
Regiment; he also so beautified and strengthened the town, that he
obtained the title of its 'Restorer.'
Gaylan, hearing of the progress of the works, assembled an army
of 4000 horse and 20,000 foot[7]; and at mid-day, on Sunday the
14th of June, 1663, when all the officers were at dinner, the
Moors surprised and carried the advance-posts and attacked the
great redoubt, where Major Ridgert of the Queen's Regiment, with
forty men, made a most gallant defence, until the garrison, led
by Colonel Norwood, sallied out, and charging the Moors with
signal bravery, retook all the posts which had been captured.
The garrison lost fourteen men killed and twenty wounded in this
encounter; and the enemy upwards of one hundred. In an account of
this action published at the time, it is stated, 'The Moors are men
of resolution, and have most excellent fire-arms. When the horse
charged us, he that did command them was clothed in crimson velvet,
who being killed, they all went off immediately; it is presumed,
therefore, that he was one of their chief men.'
A second attack was subsequently made with 10,000 men, 'but the
most vigilant governor had so warily supplied the defects of the
place, by planting great guns to annoy the assailants, that though
the assault was very sharp, the enemy was beaten off with the loss
of 900 men[8].'
In August a peace was concluded for six months, and a free trade
was opened with the Moors, 'they daily bringing their camels laden
with commodities, and in return they get money and other things.'
Further additions were also made to the works, which again gave
rise to acts of hostility, and in one encounter the garrison
captured a splendid scarlet standard. A correspondence was opened
with Gaylan--the Earl of Teviot insisted on making additional
works--Gaylan objected, when his Lordship replied, 'he must have
peace on those terms, or war without them.' The latter was the
result, and led to numerous losses, particularly of the natives, in
attempts to assault the fortress.
[Sidenote: 1664]
The chief losses sustained by the garrison of Tangier were in
the sallies they made into the adjacent country to obtain fresh
provisions. The Moors had a custom of driving two or three hundred
head of cattle within sight of the walls, and planting a body of
men in ambuscade, ready to fall on the detachment, which military
ardour, to say nothing of a natural wish for fresh beef, was
sure to bring beyond the cover of the fortress. These skirmishes
frequently brought on more serious engagements, and in a sally made
by the garrison on the 4th of May, 1664, the _Earl of Teviot_[9]
met his death.
The Earl of Teviot was succeeded in the command of the Queen's
Regiment by Colonel, afterwards Lieutenant-General _Henry Norwood_,
whose commission is dated the 10th of June, 1664. The government
of Tangier at this time was bestowed by His Majesty on _John
Lord Bellasyse_, a younger son of the _Earl of Fauconberg_, who
arrived at his government in April 1665, on board the Smyrna fleet,
consisting of'seven lusty, brave ships.'
[Sidenote: 1665]
[Sidenote: 1666]
_Lord Bellasyse_ found the judicious arrangements of the late
Commander-in-Chief had rendered Tangier impregnable to its
enemies, who by this time were much disheartened, and inclined to
terminate hostilities. A peace was concluded in the following year,
and Lord Bellasyse was himself the bearer of it to England, where
he arrived in May, 1666. The London Gazette states his favourable
reception by His Majesty, and great expectations of future
prosperity to Tangier were raised from his report.
_General Norwood_, who has been mentioned as succeeding, on
the death of the Earl of Teviot, to the command of the Queen's
Regiment, was now appointed to succeed Lord Bellasyse in his
government. His administration was that of a judicious and vigilant
officer; he acquired the confidence of the Moors, and conciliated
Gaylan the sovereign chief of Fez. General Norwood's proceedings
among the natives were considered so honourable, and his character,
altogether, stood so high, that the Emperor _Muley Xeriff_ admitted
him to traffic at Tetuan free of imposts | 1,490.038932 |
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Produced by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer
THE ANGLO-SAXON CENTURY
AND
THE UNIFICATION OF THE ENGLISH-SPEAKING PEOPLES
BY
JOHN R. DOS PASSOS
OF THE NEW YORK BAR
Author of "Stock Brokers and Stock Exchanges," "The Interstate
Commerce Act," "Commercial Trusts," etc.
SECOND EDITION
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
Knickerbocker Press
1903
{ii}
COPYRIGHT, 1903
BY
JOHN R. DOS PASSOS
Published, June, 1903
Reprinted, August, 1903
Knickerbocker Press, New York
{iii}
ANALYSIS
CHAPTER PAGE
Introduction..............................................vii
I. Two events which mark the close of the nineteenth century.1
I. By the Spanish War, the relations of the United States to
Europe and the East were suddenly transformed..............3
II. The effect of the war in Africa upon the relations and
power of England...........................................5
III. The present diplomatic and political map of the world.8
IV. Russia, China, France--their relations to each other and
to the world..............................................10
V. The Spanish and Portuguese people......................31
II. The origin and form of the suggested alliance between
England and the United States...48
I. How the suggestion arose...............................48
II. The indefiniteness of the form of the proposed
Alliance..................................................55
Definition of co-operation, alliance, union, or compact...61
III. The historical facts traced which have been gradually
leading to interfusion between the English-speaking
people....................................................69
{iv}
I. The different epochs which led to the development and
expansion of the English-speaking race..................71
_a_. The introduction of Christianity into England......71
_b_. The consolidation of the different kingdoms of
England into one......................................74
_c_. The influence of the Roman Law upon England's
Progress..............................................77
_d_. The Great Charters--the Petition of Right--the
Habeas Corpus Act, passed under Charles--the Bill of
Rights in 1688--and the Act of Settlement.............79
_e_. The union with Scotland............................80
_f_. Discovery of America...............................81
_g_. The independence of the colonies...................83
II. Resume of the foregoing...............................96
IV. The inherent natural reasons or sympathetic causes
which sustain a union, and which support the historical
growth and tendency to the same end examined..............99
I. Union natural as to time and people.................100
II. Of the same national family.........................101
III. The same language...................................108
IV. The same literature.................................116
V. The same political institutions.....................124
VI. The same laws, legal customs, and general modes of
judicial procedure.....................................133
VII. The same tendency and methods of religious thought
and worship............................................137
VIII. Intermarriages.....................................138
{v}
IX. Other similarities between the two nations,
exhibiting the natural features of the alliance, such
as the drama, sports, pastimes, habits of living.......139
X. Resume..............................................140
V. The selfish causes which provoke and support an alliance
Examined.................................................142
I. The common interests of both countries demand
co-operation--identity of international action......142
Commercial relations.................................144
Financial relations..................................144
II. Self-preservation--protection--necessity............145
III. Duty................................................146
VI. The means by which a closer union may be created and
maintained...............................................152
Preliminary..............................................153
The three methods examined by which a union may be
established............................................154
By absorption of all into one nation.................154
By establishing a federation.........................154
By a treaty--regulating their conduct and intercourse
with each other....................................155
The reasons existing against the first two, and in
favor of the last method...........................156
VII. The subjects to be covered by a Treaty................159
I. The Dominion of Canada to become a part of the United
States of America....................................159
II. Common Citizenship...................................179
III. The establishment of freedom of commercial
intercourse and relations between the countries
involved, to the same extent as that which exists
between the different States constituting the United
States of America......................................202
{vi}
IV. Great Britain and the United States (I) to coin gold,
silver, nickel and copper money, not displaying the
same devices or mottoes, but possessing an equal money
value, and interchangeable everywhere within the limits
covered by the Treaty, and (2) to establish a uniform
standard of weights and measures.......................205
I. The same gold, silver, nickel and copper money...205
II. To establish a uniform standard of weights and
measures.......................................207
V. In case of any dispute hereafter occurring between | 1,490.073956 |
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Produced by This etext was produced by Greg Weeks, Charles
Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
Tom Swift and His Great Searchlight
or
On the Border for Uncle Sam
by Victor Appleton
AUTHOR OF "TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR-CYCLE," "TOM SWIFT AND HIS
SUBMARINE BOAT," "TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIRELESS MESSAGE," "TOM SWIFT IN
CAPTIVITY," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
CONTENTS
I A SCRAP OF PAPER
II A SPY IN TOWN
III QUEER REPAIRS
IV SEARCHING FOR SMUGGLERS
V THE RAID
VI THE APPEAL TO TOM
VII A SEARCHLIGHT IS NEEDED
VIII TOM'S NEWEST INVENTION
IX "BEWARE OF THE COMET!"
X OFF FOR THE BORDER
XI ANDY'S NEW AIRSHIP
XII WARNED AWAY
XIII KOKU SAVES THE LIGHT
XIV A FALSE CLEW
XV THE RESCUE ON THE LAKE
XVI KOKU'S PRISONER
XVII WHAT THE INDIAN SAW
XVIII THE PURSUIT
XIX IN DIRE PERIL
XX SUSPICIOUS ACTIONS
XXI MR. PERIOD ARRIVES
XXII HOVERING O'ER THE BORDER
XXIII NED IS MISSING
XXIV THE NIGHT RACE
XXV THE CAPTURE--CONCLUSION
TOM SWIFT AND HIS GREAT SEARCHLIGHT
CHAPTER I
A SCRAP OF PAPER
"Tom, did you know Andy Foger was back in town?"
"Great Scott, no, I didn't Ned! Not to stay, I hope."
"I guess not. The old Foger homestead is closed up, though I did see
a man working around it to-day as I came past. But he was a
carpenter, making some repairs I think. No, I don't believe Andy is
here to stay."
"But if some one is fixing up the house, it looks as if the family
would come back," remarked Tom, as he thought of the lad who had so
long been his enemy, and who had done him many mean turns before
leaving Shopton, where our hero lived.
"I don't think so," was the opinion of Ned Newton, who was Tom
Swift's particular chum. "You know when Mr. Foger lost all his
money, the house was supposed to be sold. But I heard later that
there was some flaw in the title, and the sale fell through. It is
because he couldn't sell the place that Mr. Foger couldn't get money
to pay some of his debts. He has some claim on the house, I believe,
but I don't believe he'd come back to live in it."
"Why not?"
"Because it's too expensive a place for a poor man to keep up, and
Mr. Foger is now poor."
"Yes, he didn't get any of the gold, as we did when we went to the
underground city," remarked Tom. "Well, I don't wish anybody bad
luck but I certainly hope the Fogers keep poor enough to stay away
from Shopton. They bothered me enough. But where did you see Andy?"
"Oh, he was with his crony, Sam Snedecker. You know Sam said, some
time ago, that Andy was to pay him a visit, but Andy didn't come
then, for some reason or other. I suppose this call makes up for it.
I met them down near Parker's drug store."
"You didn't hear Andy say anything about coming back here?" and the
young inventor's voice was a trifle anxious.
"No," replied Ned. "What makes you so nervous about it?"
"Well, Ned, you know what Andy is--always trying to make trouble for
me, even sneaking in my shop sometimes, trying to get the secret of
some of my airships and machinery. And I admit I think it looks
suspicious when they have a carpenter working on the old homestead.
Andy may come back, and--"
"Nonsence, Tom! If he does you and I can handle him. But I think
perhaps the house may be rented, and they may be fixing it up for a
tenant. It's been vacant a long time you know, and I heard the other
day that it was haunted."
"Haunted, Ned! Get out! Say, you don't believe in that sort of bosh,
do you?"
| 1,490.153695 |
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Produced by Clytie Siddall and Distributed Proofreaders
THE LITERARY REMAINS
OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
VOLUME THE THIRD
COLLECTED AND EDITED BY
HENRY NELSON COLERIDGE.
1838
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE THE THIRD AND FOURTH VOLUMES
OF COLERIDGE'S REMAINS ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.
CONTENTS
Preface
Formula Fidei de SS. Trinitate
Nightly Prayer
Notes on 'The Book of Common Prayer'
Notes on Hooker
Notes on Field
Notes on Donne
Notes on Henry More
Notes on Heinrichs
Notes on Hacket
Notes on Jeremy Taylor
Notes on 'The Pilgrim's Progress'
Notes on John Smith
Letter to a Godchild
PREFACE
For a statement of the circumstances under which the collection of Mr.
Coleridge's Literary Remains was undertaken, the Reader is referred to
the Preface to the two preceding Volumes published in 1836. But the
graver character of the general contents of this Volume and of that
which will immediately follow it, seems to justify the Editor in
soliciting particular attention to a few additional remarks.
Although the Author in his will contemplated the publication of some at
least of the numerous notes left by him on the margins and blank spaces
of books and pamphlets, he most certainly wrote the notes themselves
without any purpose beyond that of delivering his mind of the thoughts
and aspirations suggested by the text under perusal. His books, that is,
any person's books--even those from a circulating library--were to him,
whilst reading them, as dear friends; he conversed with them as with
their authors, praising, or censuring, or qualifying, as the open page
seemed to give him cause; little solicitous in so doing to draw
summaries or to strike balances of literary merit, but seeking rather to
detect and appreciate the moving principle or moral life, ever one and
single, of the work in reference to absolute truth. Thus employed he had
few reserves, but in general poured forth, as in a confessional, all his
mind upon every subject,--not keeping back any doubt or conjecture which
at the time and for the purpose seemed worthy of consideration. In
probing another's heart he laid his hand upon his own. He thought pious
frauds the worst of all frauds, and the system of economizing truth too
near akin to the corruption of it to be generally compatible with the
Job-like integrity of a true Christian's conscience. Further, he
distinguished so strongly between that internal faith which lies at the
base of, and supports, the whole moral and religious being of man, and
the belief, as historically true, of several incidents and relations
found or supposed to be found in the text of the Scriptures, that he
habitually exercised a liberty of criticism with respect to the latter,
which will probably seem objectionable to many of his readers in this
country. [1]
His friends have always known this to be the fact; and he vindicated
this so openly that it would be folly to attempt to conceal it: nay, he
pleaded for it so earnestly--as the only middle path of safety and peace
between a godless disregard of the unique and transcendant character of
the Bible taken generally, and that scheme of interpretation, scarcely
less adverse to the pure spirit of Christian wisdom, which wildly arrays
our faith in opposition to our reason, and inculcates the sacrifice of
the latter to the former,--that to suppress this important part of his
solemn convictions would be to misrepresent and betray him. For he threw
up his hands in dismay at the language of some of our modern divinity on
this point;--as if a faith not founded on insight were aught else than a
specious name for wilful positiveness;--as if the Father of Lights could
require, or would accept, from the only one of his creatures whom he had
endowed with reason the sacrifice of fools! Did Coleridge, therefore,
mean that the doctrines revealed in the Scriptures were to be judged
according to their supposed harmony or discrepancy with the evidence of
the senses, or the deductions of the mere understanding from that
evidence? Exactly the reverse: he disdained to argue even against
Transubstantiation on such a ground, well knowing and loudly proclaiming
its utter weakness and instability. But it was a leading principle in
all his moral and intellectual views to assert the existence in all men
equally of a power or faculty superior to, and independent of, the
external senses: in this power or faculty he recognized that image of
God in which man was made; and he could as little understand how faith,
the indivisibly joint act or efflux of our reason and our will, should
be at variance with one of its factors or elements, as how the Author
and Upholder of all truth should be in contradiction to himself. He
trembled at the dreadful dogma which rests God's right to man's
obedience on the fact of his almighty power,--a position falsely
inferred from a misconceived illustration of St. Paul's, and which is
less humbling to the creature than blasphemous of the Creator; and of
the awless doctrine that God might, if he had so pleased, have given to
man a religion which to human intelligence should not be rational, and
exacted his faith in it--Coleridge's whole middle and later life was one
deep and solemn denial. He believed in no God in the very idea of whose
existence absolute truth, perfect goodness, and infinite wisdom, were
not elements essentially necessary and everlastingly copresent.
Thus minded, he sought to justify the ways of God to man in the only way
in which they can be justified to any one who deals honestly with his
conscience, namely, by showing, where possible, their consequence from,
and in all cases their consistency with, the ideas or truths of the pure
reason which is the same in all men. With what success he laboured for
thirty years in this mighty cause of Christian philosophy, the readers
of his other works, especially the Aids to Reflection, will judge: if
measured by the number of resolved points of detail his progress may
seem small; but if tested by the weight and grasp of the principles
which he has established, it may be confidently said that since
Christianity had a name few men have gone so far. If ever we are to find
firm footing in Biblical criticism between the extremes (how often
meeting!) of Socinianism and Popery;--if the indisputable facts of
physical science are not for ever to be left in a sort of admitted
antagonism to the supposed assertions of Scripture;--if ever the
Christian duty of faith in God through Christ is to be reconciled with
the religious service of a being gifted by the same God with reason and
a will, and subjected to a conscience,--it must be effected by the aid,
and in the light, of those truths of deepest philosophy which in all Mr.
Coleridge's works, published or unpublished, present themselves to the
reader with an almost affecting reiteration. But to do justice to those
works and adequately to appreciate the Author's total mind upon any
given point, a cursory perusal is insufficient; study and comprehension
are requisite to an accurate estimate of the relative value of any
particular denial or assertion; and the apparently desultory and
discontinuous form of the observations now presented to the Reader more
especially calls for the exercise of his patience and thoughtful
circumspection.
With this view the Reader is requested to observe the dates which, in
some instances, the Editor has been able to affix to the notes with
certainty. Most of those on Jeremy Taylor belong to the year 1810, and
were especially designed for the perusal of Charles Lamb. Those on Field
were written about 1814; on Racket in 1818; on Donne in 1812 and 1829;
on The Pilgrim's Progress in 1833; and on Hooker and the Book of Common
Prayer between 1820 and 1830. Coleridge's mind was a growing and
accumulating mind to the last, his whole life one of inquiry and
progressive insight, and the dates of his opinions are therefore in some
cases important, and in all interesting.
The Editor is deeply sensible of his responsibility in publishing this
Volume; as to which he can only say, in addition to a reference to the
general authority given by the Author, that to the best of his knowledge
and judgment he has not permitted any thing to appear before the public
which Mr. Coleridge saw reason to retract; and further express his hope
and belief that, with such allowance for defects inherent in the nature
of the work as may rightfully be expected from every really liberal
mind, nothing contained in the following pages can fairly be a ground of
offence to any one.
It only remains to be added that the materials used in the compilation
of this Volume were for the greatest part communicated by Mr. Gillman;
and that the rest were furnished by Mr. Wordsworth, the Rev. Derwent
Coleridge, the Rev. Edward Coleridge, and the Editor.
Lincoln's Inn, March 26, 1838
[Footnote 1: See 'Table Talk', p. 178, 2nd edit.]
FORMULA FIDEI DE SANCTISSIMA TRINITATE.
1830.
THE IDENTITY.
The absolute subjectivity, whose only attribute is the Good; whose only
definition is--that which is essentially causative of all possible true
being; the ground; the absolute will; the adorable [Greek: pr_opr_oton],
which, whatever is assumed as the first, must be presumed as its
antecedent; [Greek: theos], without an article, and yet not as an
adjective. See John i. 18. [Greek: theon oudeis he_orake p_opote] as
differenced from ib. 1, [Greek: kai theos aen o logos]
But that which is essentially causative of all being must be causative
of its own,--'causa sui', [Greek: autopat_or]. Thence
THE IPSEITY.
The eternally self-affirmant self-affirmed; the "I Am in that I Am," or
the "I shall be that I will to be;" the Father; the relatively
subjective, whose attribute is, the Holy One; whose definition is, the
essential finific in the form of the infinite; 'dat sibi fines'.
But the absolute will, the absolute good, in the eternal act of
self-affirmation, the Good as the Holy One, co-eternally begets
THE ALTERITY.
The supreme being; [Greek: ho ont'os 'on]; the supreme reason; the
Jehovah; the Son; the Word; whose attribute is the True (the truth, the
light, the 'fiat'); and whose definition is, the 'pleroma' of being,
whose essential poles are unity and distinctity; or the essential
infinite in the form of the finite;--lastly, the relatively objective,
'deitas objectiva' in relation to the I Am as the 'deitas subjectiva';
the divine objectivity.
N.B. The distinctities in the 'pleroma' are the eternal ideas, the
subsistential truths; each considered in itself, an infinite in the form
of the finite; but all considered as one with the unity, the eternal
Son, they are the energies of the finific; [Greek: panta di' autou
egeneto--kai ek tou plaer'omatos autou haemeis pantes elabomen.] John
i. 3 and 16.
But with the relatively subjective and the relatively objective, the
great idea needs only for its completion a co-eternal which is both,
that is, relatively objective to the subjective, relatively subjective
to the objective. Hence
THE COMMUNITY.
The eternal life, which is love; the Spirit; relatively to the Father,
the | 1,490.180823 |
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Produced by John Hamm
THE OCTOPUS
A Story of California
by Frank Norris
BOOK 1
CHAPTER I
Just after passing Caraher's saloon, on the County Road that ran south
from Bonneville, and that divided the Broderson ranch from that of Los
Muertos, Presley was suddenly aware of the faint and prolonged blowing
of a steam whistle that he knew must come from the railroad shops near
the depot at Bonneville. In starting out from the ranch house that
morning, he had forgotten his watch, and was now perplexed to know
whether the whistle was blowing for twelve or for one o'clock. He hoped
the former. Early that morning he had decided to make a long excursion
through the neighbouring country, partly on foot and partly on his
bicycle, and now noon was come already, and as yet he had hardly
started. As he was leaving the house after breakfast, Mrs. Derrick had
asked him to go for the mail at Bonneville, and he had not been able to
refuse.
He took a firmer hold of the cork grips of his handlebars--the road
being in a wretched condition after the recent hauling of the crop--and
quickened his pace. He told himself that, no matter what the time was,
he would not stop for luncheon at the ranch house, but would push on
to Guadalajara and have a Spanish dinner at Solotari's, as he had
originally planned.
There had not been much of a crop to haul that year. Half of the wheat
on the Broderson ranch had failed entirely, and Derrick himself had
hardly raised more than enough to supply seed for the winter's sowing.
But such little hauling as there had been had reduced the roads
thereabouts to a lamentable condition, and, during the dry season of the
past few months, the layer of dust had deepened and thickened to such
an extent that more than once Presley was obliged to dismount and trudge
along on foot, pushing his bicycle in front of him.
It was the last half of September, the very end of the dry season, and
all Tulare County, all the vast reaches of the San Joaquin Valley--in
fact all South Central California, was bone dry, parched, and baked
and crisped after four months of cloudless weather, when the day seemed
always at noon, and the sun blazed white hot over the valley from the
Coast Range in the west to the foothills of the Sierras in the east.
As Presley drew near to the point where what was known as the Lower Road
struck off through the Rancho de Los Muertos, leading on to Guadalajara,
he came upon one of the county watering-tanks, a great, iron-hooped
tower of wood, straddling clumsily on its four uprights by the roadside.
Since the day of its completion, the storekeepers and retailers of
Bonneville had painted their advertisements upon it. It was a landmark.
In that reach of level fields, the white letters upon it could be read
for miles. A watering-trough stood near by, and, as he was very thirsty,
Presley resolved to stop for a moment to get a drink.
He drew abreast of the tank and halted there, leaning his bicycle
against the fence. A couple of men in white overalls were repainting
the surface of the tank, seated on swinging platforms that hung by hooks
from the roof. They were painting a sign--an advertisement. It was all
but finished and read, "S. Behrman, Real Estate, Mortgages, Main Street,
Bonneville, Opposite the Post Office." On the horse-trough that stood
in the shadow of the tank was another freshly painted inscription: "S.
Behrman Has Something To Say To You."
As Presley straightened up after drinking from the faucet at one end of
the horse-trough, the watering-cart itself laboured into view around
the turn of the Lower Road. Two mules and two horses, white with dust,
strained leisurely in the traces, moving at a snail's pace, their limp
ears marking the time; while perched high upon the seat, under a yellow
cotton wagon umbrella, Presley recognised Hooven, one of Derrick's
tenants, a German, whom every one called "Bismarck," an excitable little
man with a perpetual grievance and an endless flow of broken English.
"Hello, Bismarck," said Presley, as Hooven brought his team to a
standstill by the tank, preparatory to refilling.
"Yoost der men I look for, Mist'r Praicely," cried the other, twisting
the reins around the brake. "Yoost one minute, you wait, hey? I wanta
talk mit you."
Presley was impatient to be on his way again. A little more time wasted,
and the day would be lost. He had nothing to do with the management
of the ranch, and if Hooven wanted any advice from him, it was so much
breath wasted. These uncouth brutes of farmhands and petty ranchers,
grimed with the soil they worked upon, were odious to him beyond words.
Never could he feel in sympathy with them, nor with their lives, their
ways, their marriages, deaths, bickerings, and all the monotonous round
of their sordid existence.
"Well, you must be quick about it, Bismarck," he answered sharply. "I'm
late for dinner, as it is."
"Soh, now. Two minuten, und I be mit you." He drew down the overhanging
spout of the tank to the vent in the circumference of the cart and
pulled the chain that let out the water. Then he climbed down from the
seat, jumping from the tire of the wheel, and taking Presley by the arm
led him a few steps down the road.
"Say," he began. "Say, I want to hef some converzations mit you. Yoost
der men I want to see. Say, Caraher, he tole me dis morgen--say, he tole
me Mist'r Derrick gowun to farm der whole demn rench hisseluf der next
yahr. No more tenants. Say, Caraher, he tole me all der tenants get der
sach; Mist'r Derrick gowun to work der whole demn rench hisseluf, hey?
ME, I get der sach alzoh, hey? You hef hear about dose ting? Say, me, I
hef on der ranch been sieben yahr--seven yahr. Do I alzoh----"
"You'll have to see Derrick himself or Harran about that, Bismarck,"
interrupted Presley, trying to draw away. "That's something outside of
me entirely."
But Hooven was not to be put off. No doubt he had been meditating his
speech all the morning, formulating his words, preparing his phrases.
"Say, no, no," he continued. "Me, I wanta stay bei der place; seven yahr
I hef stay. Mist'r Derrick, he doand want dot I should be ge-sacked.
Who, den, will der ditch ge-tend? Say, you tell 'um Bismarck hef gotta
sure stay bei der place. Say, you hef der pull mit der Governor. You
speak der gut word for me."
"Harran is the man that has the pull with his father, Bismarck,"
answered Presley. "You get Harran to speak for you, and you're all
right."
"Sieben yahr I hef stay," protested Hooven, "and who will der ditch
ge-tend, und alle dem cettles drive?"
"Well, Harran's your man," answered Presley, preparing to mount his
bicycle.
"Say, you hef hear about dose ting?"
"I don't hear about anything, Bismarck. I don't know the first thing
about how the ranch is run."
"UND DER PIPE-LINE GE-MEND," Hooven burst out, suddenly remembering a
forgotten argument. He waved an arm. "Ach, der pipe-line bei der Mission
Greek, und der waater-hole for dose cettles. Say, he doand doo ut
HIMSELLUF, berhaps, I doand tink."
"Well, talk to Harran about it."
"Say, he doand farm der whole demn rench bei hisseluf. Me, I gotta
stay."
But on a sudden the water in the cart gushed over the sides from the
vent in the top with a smart sound of splashing. Hooven was forced to
turn his attention to it. Presley got his wheel under way.
"I hef some converzations mit Herran," Hooven called after him. "He
doand doo ut bei hisseluf, den, Mist'r Derrick; ach, no. I stay bei der
rench to drive dose cettles."
He climbed back to his seat under the wagon umbrella, and, as he
started his team again with great cracks of his long whip, turned to the
painters still at work upon the sign and declared with some defiance:
"Sieben yahr; yais, sir, seiben yahr I hef been on dis rench. Git oop,
you mule you, hoop!"
Meanwhile Presley had turned into the Lower Road. He was now on
Derrick's land, division No. I, or, as it was called, the Home ranch,
of the great Los Muertos Rancho. The road was better here, the dust laid
after the passage of Hooven's watering-cart, and, in a few minutes, he
had come to the ranch house itself, with its white picket fence, its few
flower beds, and grove of eucalyptus trees. On the lawn at the side
of the house, he saw Harran | 1,490.299287 |
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Produced by Internet Archive; University of Florida, Children, Grenet
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
[Illustration: _Paul and Virginia. p.29._]
PAUL AND VIRGINIA,
FROM THE FRENCH
OF
J.B.H. DE SAINT PIERRE.
1851
PREFACE.
The following translation of "Paul and Virginia," was written at Paris,
amidst the horrors of Robespierre's tyranny. During that gloomy epocha it
was difficult to find occupations which might cheat the days of calamity of
their | 1,490.364849 |
2023-11-16 18:41:54.7851600 | 4,794 | 153 |
Produced by sp1nd and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
MASTERPIECES IN COLOUR
EDITED BY--T. LEMAN HARE
WHISTLER
1834-1903
IN THE SAME SERIES
ARTIST. AUTHOR.
VELAZQUEZ. S. L. BENSUSAN.
REYNOLDS. S. L. BENSUSAN.
TURNER. C. LEWIS HIND.
ROMNEY. C. LEWIS HIND.
GREUZE. ALYS EYRE MACKLIN.
BOTTICELLI. HENRY B. BINNS.
ROSSETTI. LUCIEN PISSARRO.
BELLINI. GEORGE HAY.
FRA ANGELICO. JAMES MASON.
REMBRANDT. JOSEF ISRAELS.
LEIGHTON. A. LYS BALDRY.
RAPHAEL. PAUL G. KONODY.
HOLMAN HUNT. MARY E. COLERIDGE.
TITIAN S. L. BENSUSAN.
MILLAIS. A. LYS BALDRY.
CARLO DOLCI. GEORGE HAY.
GAINSBOROUGH. MAX ROTHSCHILD.
TINTORETTO. S. L. BENSUSAN.
LUINI. JAMES MASON.
FRANZ HALS. EDGCUMBE STALEY.
VAN DYCK. PERCY M. TURNER.
LEONARDO DA VINCI. M. W. BROCKWELL.
RUBENS. S. L. BENSUSAN.
WHISTLER. T. MARTIN WOOD.
HOLBEIN. S. L. BENSUSAN.
BURNE-JONES. A. LYS BALDRY.
VIGEE LE BRUN. C. HALDANE MACFALL.
CHARDIN. PAUL G. KONODY.
FRAGONARD. C. HALDANE MACFALL.
MEMLINC. W. H. J. & J. C. WEALE.
CONSTABLE. C. LEWIS HIND.
RAEBURN. JAMES L. CAW.
JOHN S. SARGENT T. MARTIN WOOD.
_Others in Preparation._
[Illustration: PLATE I.--OLD BATTERSEA BRIDGE. Frontispiece
(In the National Gallery)
This nocturne was bought by the National Collections Fund from
the Whistler Memorial Exhibition. It was one of the canvases
brought forward during the cross-examination of the artist in the
Whistler v. Ruskin trial.]
Whistler
BY T. MARTIN WOOD
ILLUSTRATED WITH EIGHT REPRODUCTIONS IN COLOUR
[Illustration]
LONDON: T. C. & E. C. JACK
NEW YORK: FREDERICK A. STOKES CO.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Plate
I. Old Battersea Bridge Frontispiece
In the National Gallery
Page
II. Nocturne, St. Mark's, Venice 14
In the possession of John J. Cowan, Esq.
III. The Artist's Studio 24
In the possession of Douglas Freshfield, Esq.
IV. Portrait of my Mother 34
In the Luxembourg Galleries, Paris
V. Lillie in Our Alley 40
In the possession of John J. Cowan, Esq.
VI. Nocturne, Blue and Silver 50
In the possession of the Hon. Percy Wyndham
VII. Portrait of Thomas Carlyle 60
In the Corporation Art Galleries, Glasgow
VIII. In the Channel 70
In the possession of Mrs. L. Knowles
[Illustration]
I
At the time when Rossetti and his circle were foregathering chiefly at
Rossetti's house, quiet Chelsea scarcely knew how daily were
associations added which will always cluster round her name. Whistler's
share in those associations is very large, and he has left in his
paintings the memory of many a night, as he returned beside the river.
Before Whistler painted it, night was more opaque than it is now. It had
been viewed only through the window of tradition. It was left for a man
of the world coming out of an artificial London room to paint its
stillness, and also to show us that we ourselves had made night more
beautiful, with ghostly silver and gold; and to tell us that the dark
bridges that sweep into it do not interrupt--that we cannot interrupt,
the music of nature.
The figure of Whistler emerges: with his extreme concern as to his
appearance, his careful choice of clothes, his hair so carefully
arranged. He had quite made up his mind as to the part he intended to
play and the light in which he wished to be regarded. He had a dual
personality. Himself as he really was and the personality which he put
forward as himself. In a sense he never went anywhere unaccompanied; he
was followed and watched by another self that would perhaps have been
happier at home. Tiring of this he would disappear from society for a
time. Other men's ringlets fall into their places accidentally--so it
might be with the young Disraeli. Other men's clothes have seemed
characteristic without any of this elaborate pose. He chose his clothes
with a view to their being characteristic, which is rather different and
less interesting than the fact of their becoming so because he,
Whistler, wore them. Other men are dandies, with little conception of
the grace of their part; with Whistler a supreme artist stepped into the
question. He designed himself. Nor had he the illusions of vanity, but a
groundwork of philosophy upon which every detail of his personal life
was part of an elaborate and delicately designed structure, his art the
turret of it all, from which he saw over the heads of others. There is
no contradiction between the dandy and his splendid art. He lived as
exquisitely and carefully as he painted. Literary culture, merely, in
his case was not great perhaps, yet he could be called one of the most
cultured figures of his time. In every direction he marked the path of
his mind with fastidious borders. And it is interesting that he should
have painted the greatest portrait of Carlyle, who, we will say,
represented in English literature Goethe's philosophy of culture, which
if it has an echo in the plastic arts, has it in the work of Whistler.
In his "Heretics" Mr. G. K. Chesterton condemned Whistler for going in
for the art of living--I think he says the miserable art of living--I
have not seen the book for a long time, but surely the fact that
Whistler was more than a private workman, that his temperament had
energy enough to turn from the ardours of his work to live this other
part of life--indicates extraordinary vitality rather than any weakness.
Whistler was never weak: he came very early to an understanding of his
limitations, and well within those limitations took his stand. Because
of this his art was perfect. In it he declined to dissipate his energy
in any but its natural way. In that way he is as supreme as any master.
Attacked from another point his whole art seems but a cobweb of
beautiful ingenuity--sustained by evasions. Whistler, one thinks, would
have been equally happy and meteorically successful in any profession;
one can imagine what an enlivening personality his would have been in a
Parliamentary debate, and how fascinating. Any public would have
suited him. Art was just an accident coming on the top of many other
gifts. It took possession of him as his chief gift, but without it he
was singularly well equipped to play a prominent part in the world. As
things happened all his other energy went to forward, indirectly and
directly, the claims of art. Perhaps his methods of self-advancement
were not so beautiful as his art, and his wit was of a more robust
character. For this we should be very glad; the world would have been
too ready to overlook his delicate work--except that it had to feed his
inordinate ambition. At first it recognised his wit and then it
recognised his art, or did its level best to, in answer to his repeated
challenges.
[Illustration: PLATE II.--NOCTURNE, ST. MARK'S, VENICE
(In the possession of John J. Cowan, Esq.)
This picture was first exhibited in the winter of 1886 at the Royal
Society of British Artists. The painter's election as President of the
Society taking place just after the hanging of the exhibition. A
newspaper criticism at the time was to the effect that the only
note-worthy fact about the painting was the price, L630, "just about
twenty shillings to the square inch." The figure of an investment, we
may add, which was to improve beyond the wildest calculations.]
It is easier to explain Whistler's personality than his work. In his
lifetime most people had recognised all the force of his personality,
but it was not so with his art. In this he is as a player of violin
music, or a composer after the fashion of the masters of music--his
relationship to the subject which suggests the motif, of course, could
not be quite so slight as theirs--but it was their standpoint that he
adopted and so approached his art from another direction than the
ordinary one. To a great extent he established the unity of the arts.
Without being a musical man, through painting he divined the mission of
music and passed from the one art almost into the other. And the effort
above everything else for self-expression was in its essence a musical
one too, as also the fact that he never allowed a line or brushmark to
survive that was not as sensitively inspired--played we might almost
say--as the touch of a player, playing with great expression, upon the
keyboard of his piano. This quality of touch--how much it counts for in
the art of Whistler--as it counts in music. It is one of the essential
things which we have to understand about his work, to appreciate and
enjoy it.
Both painting and music are so different from writing in this, that the
thoughts of a painter and musician have to issue through their fingers,
they have to clothe with their own hands the offsprings of their fancy.
They cannot put this work out, as the writer does, by dictation to a
type-writer. It is not in the style he lays the ink that the poet finds
the expression, its thickness or its thinness bears no resemblance to
his soul, but the intimacies of a painter's genius are expressed in the
actual substance of his paint and in the touch with which he lays it. So
in painting the mysterious virtue arises which among painters is called
"quality," a certain beauty of surface resultant from the perfection of
method. And it is "quality," which Whistler's work has superlatively, in
this it approaches the work of the old masters, his method was more
similar to the old traditions than to the systems current in the modern
schools. And part of the remote beauty, the flavour of distinction which
belongs to old canvases is simulated by Whistler almost unconsciously.
Mr. Mortimer Mempes has put on record the painful care with which
Whistler printed his etchings. The Count de Montesquieu, whom Whistler
painted, tells of the "sixteen agonising sittings," whilst "by some
fifty strokes a sitting the portrait advanced. The finished work
consisted of some hundred accents, of which none was corrected or
painted out." From such glimpses of his working days we are enabled to
appreciate that desire for perfection which was a ruling factor both in
his life and work. In art he deliberately limited himself for the sake
of attaining in some one or two phases absolute perfection; he strained
away from his pictures everything but the quintessence of the vision and
the mood. He worked by gradually refining and refining upon an eager
start, or else by starting with great deliberation and proceeding very
slowly with the brush balanced before every touch while he waited for it
to receive its next inspiration. So he was always working at the top of
his powers. Those pleasant mornings in the studio in which the
Academy-picture painter works with pipe in mouth contentedly, but more
than half-mechanically, upon some corner of his picture were not for
him. Full inspiration came to him as he took up his brushes, and the
moment it flagged he laid them aside. So that in his art there is not a
brush mark or a line without feeling. His inspiration, however, was not
of the yeasty foaming order of which mad poets speak, but spontaneity.
Spontaneous action is inspired. And this is why his work looks always as
if it was done with grace and ease, and why it seemed so careless to
Ruskin. However, such winged moments will not follow each other all day
long, and though they take flight very quickly, work at this high
pressure--with every touch as fresh as the first one--cannot be
indefinitely prolonged. Whistler's friends regretted that he should
suddenly leave his work for the sake of a garden party. It is more
likely that he turned to go to the garden party just when the right
moment came for him to leave off working and so conserve the result, for
it is the tendency of the artist in inspired moments to waste his
inspiration by allowing the work of one moment to undo what was done in
the one before it.
II
The wit of Whistler was not like the wit, let us say, of Sheridan, but
it was the result of intense personal convictions as to the lines along
which art and life move together. About one or two things in this world
Whistler was overflowing with wisdom, and upon those things his
conversation was always salt, his sayings falling with a pretty and a
startling sound. He talked about things which were much in advance of
his day. His was not the wisdom of the past which always sounds
impressive, but the greater wisdom of the future, of instincts not yet
established upon the printed page. By these he formed his convictions as
he went, referring all his experiences, chiefly artistic ones, back to
his intelligence, which as we know was an extraordinarily acute one.
Other people's ideas, old-fashioned ones, coming into collision with the
intensity of his own, produced sparks on every occasion, and this
without over anxiety to be brilliant on Whistler's part. It is so with
original minds.
There is a difference between artistic work and other sorts of work.
Outside the arts, in other professions, what a man's personality is,
whilst it affects the way his work is accomplished, does not alter the
nature of that work. Immediately, however, the work becomes of such a
nature that the word art can be inserted, then the personal equation is
before everything to be considered. "Temperament" meets us at every
turn, in the touch of brush to paper, in the arrangement of the design,
in the subject chosen, in the way of viewing that subject, in the shape
that subject takes. Also we can be sure that a picture suffers by every
quality, either of mere craftsmanship or surface finish, that tends to
obscure individuality of touch and feeling. Outside the arts every job
must be finished, if not by one man then by another. A half-built
motor-car means nothing to any one, it cannot be regarded as a mode of
personal expression, but in art it is otherwise, no one can finish a
work for some one else, and as Whistler pointed out, "A work of art is
finished from the beginning." In such a saying Whistler showed the
depths from which his wit spilt over. His intuitiveness in certain
directions was almost uncanny, taking the place of a profound
scholarship, and this saying is a case in point. For however fragmentary
a work of art is, if it contains only a first impulse, so far as the
work there is sufficient to explain and communicate that impulse, it is
finished--finish can do no more. And of course this is not to say that
art should never pass such an early stage. All this depends on what the
artist has to say: sometimes we have to value above everything the
completeness, the perfection of surface with which a picture has been
brought to an end. Whistler's paradox sums up the fact that finish
should be inextricably bound up with the method of working and the
personal touch never be so "played out" that resort is made to that
appearance of finish which can always be obtained by labour descending
to a mechanical character. This may sound rather technical, but it is
not so really.
[Illustration: PLATE III.--THE ARTIST'S STUDIO
(In the possession of Douglas Freshfield, Esq.)
In this Whistler stands in profile before his easel. The picture belongs
to Mr. Douglas Freshfield. There is another version, in a lower key and
less finished, in the Lane gift at the City of Dublin Gallery, from
which this was perhaps painted.]
Here we may remark on all that is due to Whistler, as to Manet, for
disturbing the dust in the Academies, at one time so thick that the
great difference between art and mere craft seemed almost totally
obscured.
III
Whistler's life is at present a skeleton of dates on which this incident
occurred or that, and at which the most notable of his pictures
appeared. And this must remain so until an authoritative biography of
the painter has appeared. With whom the authority rests was made the
subject of a recent Law Case. Till such a work appears we can only deal
with his art and with the Whistler legend, the impressions, recorded and
otherwise, he left upon those who were brought into contact with him.[1]
These are strangely at variance--some having only met him cloaked from
head to foot in the species of misunderstanding in which, as he
explained, in surroundings of antagonism he had wrapped himself for
protection; others remembering him for his kindliness and his
old-fashioned courtesy.
[1] Since going to press, "The Life of Whistler," by E. R. and
J. Pennell has appeared.
Permitting himself sufficient popularity with a few to be called
"Jimmy," Whistler's full name was James Abbot McNeill Whistler, and the
initials gradually twisted themselves into that strange arabesque with a
wavy tail which he called a butterfly and with which he signed his
pictures and his letters. Born on 11th July 1834 at Lowell,
Massachusetts, he was the descendant of an Irish branch of an old
English family, and in his seventeenth year he entered the West Point
Military Academy, where after making his first etchings on the margins
of the map which he should have been engraving, he decided to devote his
life to art. He was twenty when he left America and he never returned to
it, so that as far as America is concerned infancy can be pleaded.
America has since bought more than her share of the fruits of his
genius, finding in this open-handed way charming expression for her
envy. He went to Paris to study art, where he was gay, and attracted
attention to himself by the enjoyable way in which he spent his time. It
was not until he was twenty-five that he arrived in London, and a
little later moving to Chelsea commenced work in earnest.
A charming picture suggests itself of the painter escorting his aged
mother every Sunday morning to the door of Chelsea old church, as was
his habit, bowing to her as she enters and hastening back to the studio
to be witty with his Sunday friends.
Whistler's first important picture, "At the Piano," issued from Chelsea.
It was hung in the Academy in 1860 and was bought by a member of the
Academy. He followed the next year with "La Mere Gerard," which belongs
to Mr. Swinburne. He sent a picture called "The White Girl," to the
Salon of 1863. It was, however, rejected. It was then hung at the
collection called the "Salon des Refuses," an exhibition held as a
protest against the Academic prejudices which still marked the Salon.
There it met with an enthusiastic reception which set Whistler off on
his career of defiance. In 1865 the painter went to Valparaiso for a
visit, from which resulted the beautiful Valparaiso nocturnes. Back
again in Chelsea, he devoted himself to the river there. He was then
living in a house in Lindsay Row. At this time he was greatly affected
by Japanese art, and one or two pictures show curious attempts to adapt
scenes of the life of the West to the Eastern conventions. This phase of
his art was beautiful, but he passed it on the way to work of greater
sincerity, and more clearly the outcome of his own vision. In 1874 the
first exhibition of Whistler's work was held at a Gallery in Pall Mall,
containing among other things "The Painter's Mother," "Thomas Carlyle,"
and "Miss Alexander." It is interesting that the Piano Picture, painted
just | 1,490.8052 |
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EIGHT HARVARD POETS
E. ESTLIN CUMMINGS
S. FOSTER DAMON
J. R. DOS PASSOS
ROBERT HILLYER
R. S. MITCHELL
WILLIAM A. NORRIS
DUDLEY POORE
CUTHBERT WRIGHT
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
LAURENCE J. GOMME
1917
Copyright, 1917, by
LAURENCE J. GOMME
VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY
BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK
CONTENTS
PAGE
E. ESTLIN CUMMINGS
Thou in Whose Sword-Great Story Shine the Deeds 3
A Chorus Girl 4
This is the Garden 5
It May not Always be so 6
Crepuscule 7
Finis 8
The Lover Speaks 9
Epitaph 10
S. FOSTER DAMON
Incessu Patuit Deus 13
You Thought I had Forgotten 15
Venice 16
The New Macaber 18
To War 20
Calm Day, with Rollers 21
Phonograph--Tango 22
Decoration 24
Threnody 25
J. R. DOS PASSOS
The Bridge 29
Salvation Army 30
Incarnation 32
Memory 34
Saturnalia 37
"Whan that Aprille" 39
Night Piece 40
ROBERT HILLYER
Four Sonnets from a Sonnet-Sequence 45
A Sea Gull 49
Domesday 50
To a Passepied by Scarlatti 52
Elegy for Antinous 53
Song 54
"My Peace I Leave with You" 55
The Recompense 56
R. S. MITCHELL
Poppy Song 59
Love Dream 62
The Island of Death 64
From the Arabian Nights 66
Threnody 68
Helen 70
Largo 72
Lazarus 73
A Crucifix 74
Neith 75
A Farewell 77
WILLIAM A. NORRIS
Of Too Much Song 81
Wherever My Dreams Go 82
Out of the Littleness 83
Nahant 84
Qui Sub Luna Errant 85
Across the Taut Strings 86
Escape 87
On a Street Corner 88
Sea-burial 89
DUDLEY POORE
A Renaissance Picture 93
The Philosopher's Garden 95
The Tree of Stars 96
After Rain 97
Cor Cordium 99
The Withered Leaf, the Faded Flower be Mine 105
CUTHBERT WRIGHT
The End of It 109
The New Platonist 110
The Room Over the River 112
The Fiddler 114
Falstaff's Page 116
A Dull Sunday 117
* * * * *
E. ESTLIN CUMMINGS
[THOU IN WHOSE SWORD-GREAT STORY SHINE THE DEEDS]
Thou in whose sword-great story shine the deeds
Of history her heroes, sounds the tread
Of those vast armies of the marching dead,
With standards and the neighing of great steeds
Moving to war across the smiling meads;
Thou by whose page we break the precious bread
Of dear communion with the past, and wed
To valor, battle with heroic breeds;
Thou, Froissart, for that thou didst love the pen
While others wrote in steel, accept all praise
Of after ages, and of hungering days
For whom the old glories move, the old trumpets cry;
Who gav'st as one of those immortal men
His life that his fair city might not die.
A CHORUS GIRL
When thou hast taken thy last applause, and when
The final curtain strikes the world away,
Leaving to shadowy silence and dismay
That stage which shall not know thy smile again,
Lingering a little while I see thee then
Ponder the tinsel part they let thee play;
I see the red mouth tarnished, the face grey,
And smileless silent eyes of Magdalen.
The lights have laughed their last; without, the street
Darkling, awaiteth her whose feet have trod
The silly souls of men to golden dust.
She pauses, on the lintel of defeat,
Her heart breaks in a smile--and she is Lust...
Mine also, little painted poem of God.
This is the garden: colors come and go,
Frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing,
Strong silent greens serenely lingering,
Absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
This is the garden: pursed lips do blow
Upon cool flutes within wide glooms, and sing,
Of harps celestial to the quivering string,
Invisible faces hauntingly and slow.
This is the garden. Time shall surely reap,
And on Death's blade lie many a flower curled,
In other lands where other songs be sung;
Yet stand They here enraptured, as among
The slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
Some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.
It may not always be so; and I say
That if your lips, which I have loved, should touch
Another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch
His heart, as mine in time not far away;
If on another's face your sweet hair lay
In such a silence as I know, or such
Great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,
Stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;
If this should be, I say if this should be--
You of my heart, send me a little word;
That I may go unto him, and take his hands,
Saying, Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall I turn my face, and hear one bird
Sing terribly afar in the lost lands.
CREPUSCULE
I will wade out
till my thighs are steeped in burn-
ing flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
in the sleeping curves of my
body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
Will I complete the mystery
of | 1,490.811133 |
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_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
A MODERN SYMPOSIUM.
THE MEANING OF GOOD.
JUSTICE & LIBERTY, A POLITICAL DIALOGUE.
_PROBLEMS OF THE DAY SERIES_
RELIGION & IMMORTALITY.
LETTERS FROM JOHN CHINAMAN.
RELIGION: A FORECAST.
APPEARANCES
APPEARANCES
BEING
NOTES OF TRAVEL
BY
G. LOWES DICKINSON
AUTHOR OF "A MODERN SYMPOSIUM,"
"JUSTICE AND LIBERTY," ETC.
[Illustration]
MCMXIV
LONDON & TORONTO
J. M. DENT & SONS LIMITED
NEW YORK: DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO.
All rights reserved
PREFACE
The articles included in this book have already appeared, those from the
East in the _Manchester Guardian_, those from America in the _English
Review_. In reprinting them, I have chosen a title which may serve also
as an apology. What I offer is not Reality; but appearances to me. From
such appearances perhaps, in time, Reality may be constructed. I claim
only to make my contribution. I do so because the new contact between
East and West is perhaps the most important fact of our age; and the
problems of action and thought which it creates can only be solved as
each civilisation tries to understand the others, and, by so doing,
better to understand itself. These articles represent at any rate a good
will to understand; and they may, I hope, for that reason throw one
gleam of light on the darkness.
For the opportunity of travelling in the East I am indebted to the
munificence of Mr. Albert Kahn of Paris, who has founded what are known
in this country as the Albert Kahn Travelling Fellowships.[1] The
existence of this endowment is perhaps not as widely known as it should
be. And if this volume should be the occasion of leading others to take
advantage of the founder's generosity it will not have been written in
vain.
I have hesitated long before deciding to republish the letters on
America. They were written in 1909, before the election of President
Wilson, and all that led up to and is implied in that event. It was not,
however, the fact that, so far, they are out of date, that caused me to
hesitate. For they deal only incidentally with current politics, and
whatever value they may have is as a commentary on phases of American
civilisation which are of more than transitory significance. Much has
happened in the United States during the last few years which is of
great interest and importance. The conflict between democracy and
plutocracy has become more conscious and more acute; there have been
important developments in the labour movement; and capital has been so
"harassed" by legislation that it may, for the moment, seem odd to
capitalists to find America called "the paradise of Plutocracy." No
doubt the American public has awakened to its situation since 1909. But
such awakenings take a long time to transform the character of a
civilisation and all that has occurred serves only to confirm the
contention in the text that in the new world the same situation is
arising that confronts the old one.
What made me hesitate was something more important than the date at
which the letters were written. There is in them a note of exasperation
which I would have wished to remove if I could. But I could not, without
a complete rewriting, by which, even if it were possible to me, more
would have been lost than gained. It is this note of exasperation which
has induced me hitherto to keep the letters back, in spite of requests
to the contrary from American friends and publishers. But the
opportunity of adding them as a pendant to letters from the East, where
they fall naturally into their place as a complement and a contrast, has
finally overcome my scruples; the more so, as much that is said of
America is as typical of all the West, as it is foreign to all the East.
That this Western civilisation, against which I have so much to say, is
nevertheless the civilisation in which I would choose to live, in which
I believe, and about which all my hopes centre, I have endeavoured to
make clear in the concluding essay. And my readers, I hope, if any of
them persevere to the end, will feel that they have been listening,
after all, to the voice of a friend, even if the friend be of that
disagreeable kind called "candid."
Footnotes:
[Footnote 1: These Fellowships, each of the value of L660, were
established to enable the persons appointed to them to travel
round the world. The Trust is administered at the University of
London, and full information regarding it can be obtained from
the Principal, Sir Henry Miers, F.R.S., who is Honorary
Secretary to the Trustees.]
CONTENTS
PART I
INDIA
PAGE
I. IN THE RED SEA. 3
II. AJANTA. 7
III. ULSTER IN INDIA 12
IV. ANGLO-INDIA. 16
V. A MYSTERY PLAY. 20
VI. AN INDIAN SAINT. 24
VII. A VILLAGE IN BENGAL 28
VIII. SRI RAMAKRISHNA. 32
IX. THE MONSTROUS REGIMEN OF WOMEN 38
X. THE BUDDHA AT BURUPUDUR 42
XI. A MALAY THEATRE 47
PART II
CHINA
I. FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF CHINA 55
II. NANKING 60
III. IN THE YANGTSE GORGES 65
IV. PEKIN 72
V. THE ENGLISHMAN ABROAD 79
VI. CHINA IN TRANSITION 87
VII. A SACRED MOUNTAIN 95
PART III
JAPAN
I. FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF JAPAN 105
II. A "NO" DANCE 111
III. NIKKO 116
IV. DIVINE RIGHT IN JAPAN 122
V. FUJI 129
VI. JAPAN AND AMERICA 136
VII. HOME 142
PART IV
AMERICA
I. THE "DIVINE AVERAGE" 149
II. A CONTINENT OF PIONEERS 153
III. NIAGARA 160
IV. "THE MODERN PULPIT" 164
V. IN THE ROCKIES 171
VI. IN THE ADIRONDACKS 178
VII. THE RELIGION OF BUSINESS 184
VIII. RED-BLOODS AND "MOLLYCODDLES" 192
IX. ADVERTISEMENT 199
X. CULTURE 205
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BORDER RAIDS AND REIVERS.
BORDER RAIDS
AND
REIVERS
BY
ROBERT BORLAND
_MINISTER OF YARROW_
DALBEATTIE: THOMAS FRASER.
MDCCCXCVIII.
PRINTED AT THE COURIER AND HERALD OFFICES,
DUMFRIES,
FOR
THOMAS FRASER, DALBEATTIE.
CONTENTS.
PREFACE xv.
I.
THE AULD ENEMY.
PAGE.
Extent of Border reiving--Plunder and reprisal--All classes
implicated--Double dose of original sin--Victims of an evil
fate--Invasions--Threatened annexation of Scotland--Edward's
twofold policy--Sacking of Berwick--Feeling of
hostility produced--Edward visits Scone and carries off
Scottish Sceptre and Crown--Douglas and Edward Bruce--
Borderers animated by a spirit of revenge 1-14
II.
PERCY'S PENNON.
Battle of Otterburn--Chief combatants--How the encounter was
brought about--Destruction of the Abbeys--Meeting of the
Scots at Aberdeen--Scottish army assembles at Yetholm--
Method of attack determined upon--Earl Douglas marches
through Northumberland--Ravages Durham--Returns to
Newcastle--Hotspur and Douglas--Otterburn--Preparations for
battle--The English assault--The Douglas slain--Hotspur
taken prisoner--Humanity of Borderers 15-32
III.
POOR AND LAWLESS.
Condition of Scotland--Ancient monasteries--Description of
country by AEneas Sylvius--Ignorance of the people--Laws
cannot be enforced--The Barons supreme--Law against
harbouring thieves--Every man's hand against his neighbour--
Pledges demanded--Banished north of the Forth--Scottish
Borderers forbidden to marry daughters of "broken men"
in England--No respect paid to the law--Execrable murders
committed--Without religion--Hand-fasting 33-54
IV.
RAIDS AND FORAYS.
Invasions constantly occurring--Many lives sacrificed--How
the reivers conducted their expeditions--Leslie's account--
Tracked by bloodhounds--Froissart's description of
Borderers--Invasion by Earl of Hertford--Raid by Sir Ralph
Eure--Battle of Ancrum Moor--Lord Dacre's devastations--
Borderers retaliate--Horrid cruelties practised--Raid of
the Reidswire--Indignation of English Queen--Morton's
concessions 55-80
V.
WARDENS OF THE MARCHES.
Generally officers of high rank--Scottish King limited in
his choice--Wardens invested with arbitrary powers--Bonds
of alliance--Of little or no value--Ignored when
convenient--Wardens well remunerated--Duties pertaining to
the office 81-96
VI.
THE DAY OF TRUCE.
Arrangements for dealing with offenders--Of a primitive
character--Prisoners could not be detained in custody--Often
took "leg-bail"--Day of Truce every month--Date and place
made known by proclamation--The meeting of the Wardens--
Regulations for conduct of business--Administering the
oath--Three ways of trying cases--Bogus bills--Value of
goods--Bills "fouled" or "cleared"--The hot-trod--
Baughling--Lord Russell shot--Foster's explanations 97-115
VII.
THE DEADLY FEUD.
Origin of the expression--Feuds of everyday occurrence--
Occasioned by trifling circumstances--Inherited--Made the
administration of the law difficult--Feud betwixt the Kers
and Scotts--How occasioned--The Maxwells and Johnstones--A
disastrous feud--Battle of Dryfe Sands--Murder of Johnstone--
Lord Maxwell imprisoned--Returns to the Borders--Betrayed by
Earl of Caithness--Beheaded in Edinburgh--Ker of Cessford
slain--Pursuit of his murderers--How feuds staunched--Bonds
of Assurance--Marriage--Pilgrimage--Assythment 116-135
VIII.
THE THIEVES DAUNTONED.
The "Family Tree"--Man's first right--The King connives at
Border reiving--The Wardens often indifferent--The King's
visit to Dumfries--Tytler's account of what transpired--The
Turnbulls of Rule Water punished--The Earl of Mar in
Hawick--Lack of trees and halters--Queen Mary at Jedburgh--
The Earl of Bothwell--John Elliot of Park--The Queen visits
Hermitage--Struck down with fever--The suppression of
Liddesdale--Buccleuch and Ferniherst--Mangerton destroyed--
The whole district given to the flames--Geordie Bourne--
Found guilty of March treason--Executed--Milder measures--
The Tower of Netherby--Cary's success 136-154
IX.
LIDDESDALE LIMMERS.
Border keeps and peels--Description of them--Hermitage--
Lord Soulis--Nine-stane-rig--Black Knight of Liddesdale--
Ramsay of Dalhousie starved to death--Armstrongs and
Elliots--Maitland's "Complaynt"--Took everything that
came to hand--The clan system--Names of Border clans--
To-names--Debateable land--The Scotch <DW18>--Cary's raid--
Driven to bay 155-180
X.
AFTER THE HUNTING.
James V.--Border barons put in ward--Sets out for the
Borders--Hunts in Meggat--Eighteen score of deer slain--
Cockburn of Henderland--Border Widow's Lament--Adam Scott,
"King of Thieves"--Johnie Armstrong--The loving letter--
Basely betrayed--Pitscottie's account--Maxwell's
complicity--Ballad--_Blackmeal_--Increase of Border
lawlessness 181-200
XI.
THE CORBIE'S NEST.
General characteristics of Border reivers--Kinmount
Willie--Descendant of laird of Gilnockie--Encouraged
to commit depredations on English border--Present at
March meeting at Dayholm--Captured by Salkeld on his way
home--Imprisoned in Carlisle--Violation of Border law--The
bold Buccleuch determines to effect his rescue--
Arrangements made at a horse race at Langholm--Meeting at
Tower of Morton--Marches on Carlisle--Breaks into the
Castle--Carries off the prisoner--Relieves him of his
irons--Names of principal assistants--Scrope indignant--
Addresses the Privy Council--Buccleuch on his defence--
Elizabeth demands his surrender--James complies 201-219
XII.
FLAGELLUM DEI.
International complications--The Queen difficult to
pacify--Her letter to James--Scrope invades Liddesdale--
His conduct defended--Buccleuch retaliates--Invades
Tynedale--Account of his depredations--_Flagellum Dei_--
Supported by King and Council--Elizabeth peremptorily
demands his surrender--Places himself as a prisoner in
the hands of Sir William Bowes--The Governor of Berwick
afraid to undertake his safe custody--Surrender of Sir
Robert Ker--Lives with Sir Robert Cary on terms of
intimacy and friendship--Buccleuch returns to Liddesdale--
Adopts a new policy--Incurs the displeasure of the
reivers--Inaugurates a new era in Border history--Appears
before the Queen 220-236
XIII.
MINIONS OF THE MOON.
The kindly feeling with which the more famous reivers
regarded--Auld Wat of Harden | 1,491.024697 |
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[Illustration]
[Illustration: KITE-TIME]
BOY LIFE
STORIES AND READINGS SELECTED FROM THE WORKS OF
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
AND ARRANGED FOR SUPPLEMENTARY
READING IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOLS BY
PERCIVAL CHUBB
DIRECTOR OF ENGLISH IN THE
ETHICAL CULTURE SCHOOL, NEW YORK
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration]
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
MCMIX
HARPER'S MODERN SERIES
OF SUPPLEMENTARY READERS FOR THE ELEMENTARY SCHOOLS
_Each, Illustrated, 16mo, 50 Cents School._
BOY LIFE
Stories and Readings Selected from the Works of WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS,
and Arranged by PERCIVAL CHUBB, Director of English in the Ethical
Culture School, New York.
"The literary culture which we are trying to give our boys and
girls is not sufficiently contemporaneous, and it is not
sufficiently national and American....
"Among the living writers there is no one whose work has a more
distinctively American savor than that of William Dean
Howells.... The juvenile books of Mr. Howells' contain some of
the very best pages ever written for the enjoyment of young
people."--PERCIVAL CHUBB.
(_Others in Preparation._)
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
Copyright, 1909, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
Published September, 1909.
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION ix
I. ADVENTURES IN A BOY'S TOWN
HOW PONY BAKER CAME PRETTY NEAR RUNNING OFF WITH A CIRCUS 3
THE CIRCUS MAGICIAN 13
JIM LEONARD'S HAIR-BREADTH ESCAPE 23
II. LIFE IN A BOY'S TOWN
THE TOWN 41
EARLIEST MEMORIES 45
HOME LIFE 47
THE RIVER 51
SWIMMING 55
SKATING 61
MANNERS AND CUSTOMS 64
GIRLS 68
MOTHERS 69
A BROTHER 73
A FRIEND 79
III. GAMES AND PASTIMES
MARBLES 89
RACES 91
A MEAN TRICK 93
TOPS 96
KITES 98
THE BUTLER GUARDS 103
PETS 108
INDIANS 124
GUNS 129
NUTTING 138
THE FIRE-ENGINES 145
IV. GLIMPSES OF THE LARGER WORLD
THE TRAVELLING CIRCUS 151
PASSING SHOWS 163
THE THEATRE COMES TO TOWN 168
THE WORLD OPENED BY BOOKS 171
V. THE LAST OF A BOY'S TOWN 183
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
KITE-TIME _Frontispiece_
HE BEGAN BEING COLD AND STIFF WITH HER THE
VERY NEXT MORNING 5
THE FIRST LOCK 43
THE BUTLER GUARDS 105
ALL AT ONCE THERE THE INDIANS WERE 127
NUTTING 141
INTRODUCTION
There are two conspicuous faults in the literary culture which we are
trying to give to our boys and girls in our elementary and secondary
schools: it is not sufficiently contemporaneous, and it is not
sufficiently national and American. Hence it lacks vitality and
actuality. So little of it is carried over into life because so little
of it is interpretative of the life that is. It is associated too
exclusively in the child's mind with things dead and gone--with the
Puritan world of Miles Standish, the Revolutionary days of Paul Revere,
the Dutch epoch of Rip Van Winkle; or with not even this comparatively
recent national interest, it takes the child back to the strange folk of
the days of King Arthur and King Robert of Sicily, of Ivanhoe and the
Ancient Mariner. Thus when the child leaves school his literary studies
do not connect helpfully with those forms of literature with which--if
he reads at all--he is most likely to be concerned: the short story, the
sketch, and the popular essay of the magazines and newspapers; the new
novel, or the plays which he may see at the theatre. He has not been
interested in the writers of his own time, and has never been put in the
way of the best contemporary fiction. Hence the ineffectualness and
wastefulness of much of our school work: it does not lead forward into
the life of to-day, nor help the young to judge intelligently of the
popular books which later on will compete for their favor.
To be sure, not a little of the material used in our elementary schools
is drawn from Longfellow, Whittier, and Holmes, from Irving and
Hawthorne; but because it is often studied in a so-called thorough and,
therefore, very deadly way--slowly and laboriously for drill, rather
than briskly for pleasure--there is comparatively little of it read, and
almost no sense gained of its being part of a national literature. In
the high school, owing to the unfortunate domination of the college
entrance requirements, the situation is not much better. Our students
leave with a scant and hurried glimpse--if any glimpse at all--of
Emerson, Thoreau, and Whitman, or of Lowell, Lanier, and Poe; with no
intimate view of Hawthorne, our great classic; none at all of Parkman
and Fiske, our historians; or of writers like Howells, James, and Cable,
or Wilkins, Jewett, and Deland, and a worthy company of story-tellers.
We may well be on our guard against a vaunting nationalism. It <DW44>s
our culture. There should be no confusion of the second-rate values of
most of our American products with the supreme values of the greatest
British classics. We may work, of course, toward an ultimate
appreciation of these greatest things. We fail, however, in securing
such appreciation because we have failed to enlist those forms of
interest which vitalize and stimulate literary studies--above all, the
patriotic or national interest. Concord and Cambridge should be dearer,
as they are nearer, to the young American than even Stratford and
Abbotsford; Hawthorne should be as familiar as Goldsmith; and Emerson,
as Addison or Burke. Ordinarily it is not so; and we suffer the
consequences in the failure of our youth to grasp the spiritual ideals
and the distinctively American democratic spirit which find expression
in the greatest work of our literary masters, Emerson and Whitman,
Lowell and Lanier. Our culture and our nationalism both suffer thereby.
Our literature suffers also, because we have not an instructed and
interested public to encourage excellence.
Among the living writers there is no one whose work has a more
distinctively American savor than that of William Dean Howells; and it
is to make his delightful writings more widely known and more easily
accessible that this volume of selections from his books for the young
has been prepared as a reading-book for the elementary school. These
juvenile books of Mr. Howells contain some of the very best pages ever
written for the enjoyment of young people. His two books for boys--_A
Boy's Town_ and _The Flight of Pony Baker_--rank with such favorites as
_Tom Sawyer_ and _The Story of a Bad Boy_.
These should be introductory to the best of Mr. Howells' novels and
essays in the high school; for Mr. Howells, it need scarcely be said, is
one of our few masters of style: his style is as individual and
distinguished as it is felicitous and delicate. More important still,
from the educational point of view, he is one of our most modern
writers: the spiritual issues and social problems of our age, which our
older high-school pupils are anxious to deal with, are alive in his
books. Our young people should know his _Rise of Silas Lapham_ and _A
Hazard of New Fortunes_, as well as his social and literary criticism.
As stimulating and alluring a volume of selections may be made for
high-school students as this volume will be, we venture to predict, for
the younger boys and girls of the elementary school.
In this little book of readings we have made, we believe, an entirely
legitimate and desirable use of the books named above. _A Boy's Town_
is a series of detachable pictures and episodes into which the boy--or
the healthy girl who loves boys' books--may dip, as the selections here
given will, we believe, tempt him to do. The same is true of _The Flight
of Pony Baker_. The volume is for class-room enjoyment; for happy hours
of profitable reading--profitable, because happy. Much of it should be
read aloud rather than silently, and dramatic justice be done to the
scenes and conversations which have dramatic quality.
PERCIVAL CHUBB.
I
ADVENTURES IN A BOY'S TOWN
HOW PONY BAKER CAME PRETTY NEAR RUNNING OFF WITH A CIRCUS
Just before the circus came, about the end of July, something happened
that made Pony mean to run off more than anything that ever was. His
father and mother were coming home from a walk, in the evening; it was
so hot nobody could stay in the house, and just as they were coming to
the front steps Pony stole up behind them and tossed a snowball which he
had got out of the garden at his mother, just for fun. The flower struck
her very softly on her hair, for she had no bonnet on, and she gave a
jump and a hollo that made Pony laugh; and then she caught him by the
arm and boxed his ears.
"Oh, my goodness! It was you, was it, you good-for-nothing boy? I
thought it was a bat!" she said, and she broke out crying and ran into
the house, and would not mind his father, who was calling after her,
"Lucy, Lucy, my dear child!"
Pony was crying, too, for he did not intend to frighten his mother, and
when she took his fun as if he had done something wicked he did not know
what to think. He stole off to bed, and he lay there crying in the dark
and expecting that she would come to him, as she always did, to have him
say that he was sorry when he had been wicked, or to tell him that she
was sorry when she thought she had not been quite fair with him. But she
did not come, and after a good while his father came and said: "Are you
awake, Pony? I am sorry your mother misunderstood your fun. But you
mustn't mind it, dear boy. She's not well, and she's very nervous."
"I don't care!" Pony sobbed out. "She won't have a chance to touch me
again!" For he had made up his mind to run off with the circus which was
coming the next Tuesday.
He turned his face away, sobbing, and his father, after standing by his
bed a moment, went away without saying anything but "Don't forget your
prayers, Pony. You'll feel differently in the morning, I hope."
Pony fell asleep thinking how he would come back to the Boy's Town with
the circus when he was grown up, and when he came out in the ring riding
three horses bareback he would see his father and mother and sisters in
one of the lower seats. They would not know him, but he would know them,
and he would send for them to come to the dressing-room, and would be
very good to them, all but his mother; he would be very cold and stiff
with her, though he would know that she was prouder of him than all the
rest put together, and she would go away almost crying.
[Illustration: HE BEGAN BEING COLD AND STIFF WITH HER THE VERY NEXT
MORNING]
He began being cold and stiff with her the very next morning, although
she was better than ever to him, and gave him waffles for breakfast with
unsalted butter, and tried to pet him up. That whole day she kept trying
to do things for him, but he would scarcely speak to her; and at night
she came to him and said, "What makes you act so strangely, Pony? Are
you offended with your mother?"
"Yes, I am!" said Pony, haughtily, and he twitched away from where she
was sitting on the side of his bed, leaning over him.
"On account of last night, Pony?" she asked, softly.
"I reckon you know well enough," said Pony, and he tried to be disgusted
with her for being such a hypocrite, but he had to set his teeth hard,
hard, or he would have broken down crying.
"If it's for that, you mustn't, Pony dear. You don't know how you
frightened me. When your snowball hit me, I felt sure it was a bat, and
I'm so afraid of bats, you know. I didn't mean to hurt my poor boy's
feelings so, and you mustn't mind it any more, Pony."
She stooped down and kissed him on the forehead, but he did not move or
say anything; only, after that he felt more forgiving toward his mother.
He made up his mind to be good to her along with the rest when he came
back with the circus. But still he meant to run off with the circus. He
did not see how he could do anything else, for he had told all the boys
that day that he was going to do it; and when they just laughed, and
said, "Oh yes. Think you can fool your grandmother! It'll be like
running off with the Indians," Pony wagged his head, and said they would
see whether it would or not, and offered to bet them what they dared.
The morning of the circus day all the fellows went out to the
corporation line to meet the circus procession. There were ladies and
knights, the first thing, riding on spotted horses; and then a
band-chariot, all made up of swans and dragons. There were about twenty
baggage-wagons; but before you got to them there was the greatest thing
of all. It was a chariot drawn by twelve Shetland ponies, and it was
shaped like a big shell, and around in the bottom of the shell there
were little circus actors, boys and girls, dressed in their circus
clothes, and they all looked exactly like fairies. They scarce seemed
to see the fellows, as they ran alongside of their chariot, but Hen
Billard and Archy Hawkins, who were always cutting up, got close enough
to throw some peanuts to the circus boys, and some of the little circus
girls laughed, and the driver looked around and cracked his whip at the
fellows, and they all had to get out of the way then.
Jim Leonard said that the circus boys and girls were all stolen, and
nobody was allowed to come close to them for fear they would try to send
word to their friends. Some of the fellows did not believe it, and
wanted to know how he knew it; and he said he read it in a paper; after
that nobody could deny it. But he said that if you went with the circus
men of your own free will they would treat you first-rate; only they
would give you burnt brandy to keep you little; nothing else but burnt
brandy would do it, but that would do it, sure.
Pony was scared at first when he heard that most of the circus fellows
were stolen, but he thought if he went of his own accord he would be all
right. Still, he did not feel so much like running off with the circus
as he did before the circus came. He asked Jim Leonard whether the
circus men made all the children drink burnt brandy; and Archy Hawkins
and Hen Billard heard him ask, and began to mock him. They took him up
between them, one by his arms and the other by the legs, and ran along
with him, and kept saying, "Does it want to be a great big circus actor?
Then it shall, so it shall," and, "We'll tell the circus men to be very
careful of you, Pony dear!" till Pony wriggled himself loose and began
to stone them.
After that they had to let him alone, for when a fellow began to stone
you in the Boy's Town you had to let him alone, unless you were going to
whip him, and the fellows only wanted to have a little fun with Pony.
But what they did made him all the more resolved to run away with the
circus, just to show them.
He helped to carry water for the circus men's horses, along with the
boys who earned their admission that way. He had no need to do it,
because his father was going to take him in, anyway; but Jim Leonard
said it was the only way to get acquainted with the circus men. Still,
Pony was afraid to speak to them, and he would not have said a word to
any of them if it had not been for one of them speaking to him first,
when he saw him come lugging a great pail of water, and bending far over
on the right to balance it.
"That's right," the circus man said to Pony. "If you ever fell into that
bucket you'd drown, sure."
He was a big fellow, with funny eyes, and he had a white bulldog at his
heels; and all the fellows said he was the one who guarded the outside
of the tent when the circus began, and kept the boys from hooking in
under the curtain.
Even then Pony would not have had the courage to say anything, but Jim
Leonard was just behind him with another bucket of water, and he spoke
up for him. "He wants to go with the circus."
They both set down their buckets, and Pony felt himself turning pale
when the circus man came toward them. "Wants to go with the circus,
heigh? Let's have a look at you." He took Pony by the shoulders and
turned him slowly round, and looked at his nice clothes, and took him by
the chin. "Orphan?" he asked.
Pony did not know what to say, but Jim Leonard nodded; perhaps he did
not know what to say, either; but Pony felt as if they had both told a
lie.
"Parents living?" The circus man looked at Pony, and Pony had to say
that they were.
He gasped out, "Yes," so that you could scarcely hear him, and the
circus man said:
"Well, that's right. When we take an orphan, we want to have his parents
living, so that we can go and ask them what sort of a boy he is."
He looked at Pony in such a friendly, smiling way that Pony took courage
to ask him whether they would want him to drink burnt brandy.
"What for?"
"To keep me little."
"Oh, I see." The circus man took off his hat and rubbed his forehead
with a silk handkerchief, which he threw into the top of his hat before
he put it on again. "No, I don't know as we will. We're rather short of
giants just now. How would you like to drink a glass of elephant milk
every morning and grow into an eight-footer?"
Pony said he didn't know whether he would like to be quite so big; and
then the circus man said perhaps he would rather go for an India-rubber
man; that was what they called the contortionists in those days.
"Let's feel of you again." The circus man took hold of Pony and felt his
joints. "You're put together pretty tight; but I reckon we could make
you do if you'd let us take you apart with a screw-driver and limber up
the pieces with rattlesnake oil. Wouldn't like it, heigh? Well, let me
see!" The circus man thought a moment, and then he said: "How would
double-somersaults on four horses bareback do?"
Pony said that would do, and then the circus man said: "Well, then,
we've just hit it, because our double-somersault, four-horse bareback
is just going to leave us, and we want | 1,491.073892 |
2023-11-16 18:41:55.1531100 | 2,310 | 22 |
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HAND-LOOM WEAVING
A Manual
[Illustration: WEAVING ON A HAND LOOM
_Showing the necessary positions. The rug the little girl is weaving is
made of heavy carpet wool. The body of the rug is golden brown, with
stripes of deep blue and green, separated by narrow stripes of white_]
HAND-LOOM WEAVING
A Manual for School and Home
by
MATTIE PHIPPS TODD
Of the Motley School, Minneapolis, Minn.
With an Introduction by Alice W. Cooley
Formerly Supervisor of Primary Schools, Minneapolis, Minn.
With Fifty-seven Illustrations
[Illustration]
Rand, McNally & Company
Educational Publishers
Chicago New York London
Copyright, 1902,
By Mattie Phipps Todd
THE TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
An Introduction. By _Alice W. Cooley_ 7
_Chapter One._ The Primitive Loom 13
_Chapter Two._ A Chat on Weaving 22
_Chapter Three._ First Steps in Weaving 30
_Chapter Four._ Methods of Stringing Warp 42
_Chapter Five._ Materials 51
_Chapter Six._ Directions for Dyeing 58
_Chapter Seven._ Methods of Splicing Materials for Weaving 83
_Chapter Eight._ Wool and Silkoline Rugs or Mats 86
_Chapter Nine._ Hammocks 93
_Chapter Ten._ Face and Dish Cloths and Bath Rugs 99
_Chapter Eleven._ Raffia Mats 101
_Chapter Twelve._ Oriental Rugs 122
_Chapter Thirteen._ Navajo Blankets 135
_Chapter Fourteen._ Songs, Games, and Stories 143
_Chapter Fifteen._ A List of Helpful Books and Magazine Articles 153
The Index 159
The highest
aim of art is
to make some
useful thing
beautiful.
Kenyon Cox.
AN INTRODUCTION
For many years we, the teachers of the United States assembled in
village, city, State, and national conventions, have recited our creed
and chanted it in all keys.
[Sidenote: _Our creed_]
We believe that man is a trinity, three in one--head, heart, and hand,
one soul made manifest; we believe that this union is vital and
indissoluble, since "what God hath joined together" may not be rent
asunder; we believe that this three-fold man, being "put to school" on
earth to grow, may devise and bring to successful issue no scheme of
education that is out of harmony with the plan of the Creator.
Congratulating ourselves upon our ready and distinct utterance of this
lofty thought, we have calmly returned to our man-devised book-schools
for the acquisition of knowledge, in order to forward some plan for the
accumulation of more knowledge.
[Sidenote: _Deeds, not words, are now necessary_]
But "wisdom lingered"! Here and there voices were raised that would not
be silenced: "You sang your beautiful song; what are you going to _do_
about it?" In the words of John Stuart Mill, "It is now time to assert
in deeds, since the power of words is well-nigh exhausted."
Investigators, studying this union of head and hand from the
physiological side, hurled truths at us that startled us from our
lethargy.
[Sidenote: _Physiological truths_]
Every stimulus poured into nerve cells through the avenues of the senses
tends to pass out in motor action, which causes muscular movement. In
every idea are vitally united the impression and the tendency to
expression in action. The nervous system consists of the fibres which
carry currents inward, the organs of central redirection, and the fibres
which carry them outward--sensation, direction, action. Since control
means mental direction of this involuntary discharge of energy (directed
muscular movement), control of the muscles means development of will as
well as of skill. To prevent or cut off the natural outflow of nervous
energy results in fatigue and diseased nerves. Unrestrained and
uncontrolled expenditure of nervous energy results in lawlessness and
weakened will.
Men of science said: "These are facts about man. What account have you
made of them in your elaborate system for educating him?"
Students of sociological and economic problems called out to us as the
teachers of men:
[Sidenote: _Labor must be respected_]
These great problems concerning the relation of labor and capital (the
brotherhood of man) will never be solved until there is greater respect
for labor; greater appreciation of the value of the products of labor;
until there is more joy to the worker in his labor, which should be the
expression through his hand, of the thought of his head, and the feeling
of his heart; until labor is seen in its true light, as service; until
the man with money as well as the man without learns through experience
to respect and appreciate labor and its products. "We _absorb_ only so
much as we can interpret in terms of our own active experience."
What contributions are our schools making to the bettering of social and
industrial conditions?
Philosopher and poet--thinker and seer--send their message:
"That life is wisest spent
Where the strong, working hand
Makes strong the working brain."
To create, to make something, is the instinct of divinity in humanity,
the power that crowns man as divine.
"It is his impulse to create
Should gladden thee."
[Sidenote: _The will to do_]
The practical business man thunders his protest at us against the
inefficiency of the man with only the knowledge-stored brain. He says:
We must have men that can _will to do_, and then _do_ something, not
merely men that can think of things "'twere good to do." Our public
schools must train men and women to go out and take their place with the
workers of the world, to do something well and effectively.
[Sidenote: _Systematic hand-training the work of to-day_]
At last we are awake, and throughout the country we are trying to heed
these calls, and to revive our own weakened thought by action, singing
our creed in deeds. Upon the foundations laid by Friedrich Froebel and
his students in the kindergarten, we are trying to build up a course in
systematic hand-training, through the primary, to intermediate and
grammar grades, and thence to manual training in the high schools.
_What_ to do and _how_ to do it has now become the practical problem of
the day. Everywhere the wide-awake primary teacher is sharing her
thought and experience with her co-workers.
For little children, the _what_ must utilize material suitable for
little fingers, and tools must be large. The finished product should
belong to the maker, or be made by him as a service rendered to others;
the result should also be worthy of keeping or giving, from the
view-points of both beauty and utility.
Another important factor is the adaptation to present public-schoolroom
conditions, and to present public-school treasury conditions.
[Sidenote: _Weaving the best hand work for primary schools_]
More thoughtful study has led to the abandonment of the old-time sewing
and fine handwork in kindergarten and primary school. In its place we
find the weaving of useful and beautiful articles, out of various
available materials, and with simple, primitive tools--allowing always
for much and varied use of the great tools, the fingers.
It is interesting to note that teachers in all parts of the country,
working independently of each other, have come to practically the same
conclusions, viz., that under present conditions, _weaving_ seems the
best basis for a systematic course in industrial work that shall train
head and heart as well as hand. It is also of great interest to remember
that the signboards along the pathway of race development, by means of
work, exchange of labor and its products, all point to this idea as the
entering gateway. Weaving is the first industry of all primitive
peoples.
[Sidenote: _This manual the result of study and experience_]
Being practically agreed as to _what_ shall be the first industrial work
in the primary school, the next great question is the _how_. With large
numbers of little children in her own schoolroom, the author of this
manual has long sought a satisfactory answer. Believing that the results
of her study and experience will be helpful to others in suggesting
possibilities, and in stimulating thought, as well as in practical
teaching and time-saving, she sends forth this little book with the
earnest hope that it may in these ways be of real service.
ALICE W. COOLEY,
_Critic Teacher and Instructor,
University of North Dakota._
_August 1st, 1902._
HAND-LOOM WEAVING
Chapter One
THE PRIMITIVE LOOM
[Sidenote: _History of weaving_]
Weaving, the oldest of the industrial arts, dates back so far that no
one can say when or where it had its beginning. We read in Genesis iii,
21, that when Adam was driven from the Garden of Eden he wore a coat of
skin; but, not long after, according to Professor Hurwitz, the
descendants of Adam wore an upper garment called the simla, which
consisted of a piece of cloth about six yards long and two or three
wide, greatly resembling a blanket (_Ashenhurst_). This might have been
woven from vegetable fibres, perhaps from wool, but in what manner we do
not know. The warp and woof of linen | 1,491.17315 |
2023-11-16 18:41:55.2888180 | 3,686 | 29 |
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Jane Robins and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
_THE WORKS_
OF
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
[Illustration]
THE WORKS
OF
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
EDITED BY
WILLIAM GEORGE CLARK, M.A.
FELLOW AND TUTOR OF TRINITY COLLEGE, AND PUBLIC ORATOR IN THE
UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE;
AND WILLIAM ALDIS WRIGHT, M.A.
LIBRARIAN OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
_VOLUME III._
Cambridge and London:
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1863.
CAMBRIDGE:
PRINTED BY C. J. CLAY, M.A.
AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
The Preface vii
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 3
Notes to The Taming of The Shrew 101
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 109
Notes to All's Well That Ends Well 215
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL 223
Notes to Twelfth Night; or, What You Will 311
THE WINTER'S TALE 317
Notes to The Winter's Tale 429
PREFACE.
The four plays printed in this volume appeared for the first time in the
Folio of 1623, and in the same order in which they are here given.
Of _The Taming of the Shrew_ alone is there any Quarto edition. The
title-page of this, as it appears in Capell's copy, is as follows:
A wittie | and pleasant | Comedie | Called | _The Taming of the
Shrew_. | As it was acted by his Maiesties | _Seruants at the_
Blacke Friers | _and the_ Globe. | Written by Will. Shakespeare. |
LONDON, | Printed by W. S. for _John Smethwicke_, and are to be |
sold at his Shop in Saint _Dunstones_ Church- | yard vnder the
Diall: | 1631. |
From a minute comparison of this Quarto edition with the First Folio,
extending to points which are necessarily left unrecorded in our notes,
we have come to the conclusion that the Quarto was printed from the
Folio. It is necessary to mention this, because Mr Collier, in the
second edition of his Shakespeare, maintains that the Quarto was printed
long before 1623, perhaps as early as 1607 or 1609; that its publication
"had been in some way'stayed' by the intervention of the author, on
behalf of himself and the company to which he belonged; and that, having
in consequence been laid aside for a number of years, some copies of it,
remaining in the hands of Smithwicke the stationer, were issued in 1631,
as if it had been then first published." Mr Collier also conjectures
that the title-page was'struck off long subsequent to the printing of
the body of the comedy to which it is attached.' That this could not
have been the case appears from an examination of Capell's copy, the
only one known to us which has the title-page perfect. In this the title
forms part of the first quire, and has not been inserted. The paper on
which it is printed is the same as that used for the rest of the play,
the wire-marks corresponding throughout. The passages from the Quarto
and Folio which Mr Collier quotes in support of his theory seem to us to
make strongly against it.
We have not reprinted the old play called _The Taming of a Shrew_, on
which Shakespeare founded his comedy, because it is manifestly by
another hand. It is referred to in the notes as (Q).
The 'Long MS.,' to which we have referred, is a copy of the Second Folio
in the Library of Pembroke College, Cambridge, which was formerly in the
possession of Dr Roger Long, Master of the College from 1733 to 1770. It
contains marginal emendations, some from Theobald and Warburton, marked
'T.' and 'W.' respectively; some to which the initial 'L.' is affixed,
and some without any initial letter at all. Such of these as could not
be traced to any earlier source we have quoted as 'Long conj. MS.' or
'Long MS.' For permission to use this volume we are indebted to the
kindness of the Rev. C. H. Parez.
Mr Keightley has, with great liberality, sent for our use the MS. of his
forthcoming work 'The Shakespeare Expositor.' We beg to return him our
best thanks.
To the number of those whom we have to thank for kind assistance we add
with pleasure the names of the Rev. G. B. Bubier, the Rev. N. M.
Ferrers, and Dr Meredith of Quebec.
W. G. C.
W. A. W.
ADDENDA AND CORRIGENDA.
_The Taming of the Shrew._
II. 1. 108. _To_] _Unto_ S. Walker conj.
IV. 1. 36, 37. _and... thou wilt_] _is... will thaw_ Badham
conj. In note on line 37 dele _will thaw_ Anon. conj.
IV. 5. 22. Add to note, _so it shall be, so_ Mitford conj.
IV. 5. 77. _Have to_] _Have at_ Jervis conj.
_All's Well that Ends Well._
I. 1. 97. In the note, for _Williams_ read _Badham_.
II. 1. 170. _maiden's_] _maid's_ S. Walker conj.
III. 2. 108. Add to note, _move the still-reeking_ Jervis conj.
IV. 2. 38. Add to note, _make ropes... snare or wake hopes...
scare_ Bubier conj.
IV. 3. 94. Add to note, _he has_ Steevens.
IV. 3. 96. For _he has_ read _has_, and in the note read _has_]
_ha's_ Ff. _he has_ Steevens.
_The Winter's Tale._
I. 2. 147, 148. Add to note, Her. _How my lord?_ Pol. _What...
brother?_
II. 1. 40. Add to note, _drink deep_ Long MS. Mr Staunton's
conjecture should be _drink deep o't_.
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ[1].
A Lord. }
Christopher Sly, a tinker. } Persons in the
Hostess, Page, Players, Huntsmen, and Servants.} Induction
BAPTISTA, a rich gentleman of Padua.
_Vincentio_, an old gentleman of Pisa.
_Lucentio_, son to Vincentio, in love with Bianca.
_Petruchio_[2], a gentleman of Verona, a suitor to Katharina.
GREMIO, }
HORTENSIO,} suitors to Bianca.
TRANIO, }
BIONDELLO,} servants to Lucentio.
GRUMIO[3],}
CURTIS[4],} servants to Petruchio.
A Pedant.
KATHARINA, the shrew,}
BIANCA, } daughters to Baptista.
Widow.
Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio.
SCENE: _Padua_, _and Petruchio's country house_.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] DRAMATIS PERSONÆ] First given by Rowe.
[2] PETRUCHIO] PETRUCIO Knight. PETRUCCIO Ritson conj.
[3] GRUMIO] GRUNNIO S. Walker conj.
[4] CURTIS] Capell.
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.
INDUCTION.
SCENE I. _Before an alehouse on a heath_.
_Enter_ HOSTESS _and_ SLY.
_Sly._ I'll pheeze you, in faith.
_Host._ A pair of stocks, you rogue!
_Sly._ Y'are a baggage: the Slys are no rogues; look in
the chronicles; we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore
paucas pallabris; let the world slide: sessa! 5
_Host._ You will not pay for the glasses you have burst?
_Sly._ No, not a denier. Go by, Jeronimy: go to thy
cold bed, and warm thee.
_Host._ I know my remedy; I must go fetch the thirdborough.
[_Exit._ 10
_Sly._ Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I'll answer him
by law: I'll not budge an inch, boy: let him come, and
kindly. [_Falls asleep._
_Horns winded_. _Enter a_ Lord _from hunting_, _with his train_.
_Lord._ Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds:
Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss'd; 15
And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd brach.
Saw'st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good
At the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault?
I would not lose the dog for twenty pound.
_First Hun._ Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord; 20
He cried upon it at the merest loss
And twice to-day pick'd out the dullest scent:
Trust me, I take him for the better dog.
_Lord._ Thou art a fool: if Echo were as fleet,
I would esteem him worth a dozen such. 25
But sup them well and look unto them all:
To-morrow I intend to hunt again.
_First Hun._ I will, my lord.
_Lord._ What's here? one dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe?
_Sec. Hun._ He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm'd with ale, 30
This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly.
_Lord._ O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies!
Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image!
Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man.
What think you, if he were convey'd to bed, 35
Wrapp'd in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers,
A most delicious banquet by his bed,
And brave attendants near him when he wakes,
Would not the beggar then forget himself?
_First Hun._ Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose. 40
_Sec. Hun._ It would seem strange unto him when he waked.
_Lord._ Even as a flattering dream or worthless fancy.
Then take him up and manage well the jest:
Carry him gently to my fairest chamber
And hang it round with all my wanton pictures: 45
Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters
And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet:
Procure me music ready when he wakes,
To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound;
And if he chance to speak, be ready straight 50
And with a low submissive reverence
Say 'What is it your honour will command?'
Let one attend him with a silver basin
Full of rose-water and bestrew'd with flowers;
Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper, 55
And say 'Will't please your lordship cool your hands?'
Some one be ready with a costly suit
And ask him what apparel he will wear;
Another tell him of his hounds and horse,
And that his lady mourns at his disease: 60
Persuade him that he hath been lunatic;
And when he says he is, say that he dreams,
For he is nothing but a mighty lord.
This do and do it kindly, gentle sirs:
It will be pastime passing excellent, 65
If it be husbanded with modesty.
_First Hun._ My lord, I warrant you we will play our part,
As he shall think by our true diligence
He is no less than what we say he is.
_Lord._ Take him up gently and to bed with him; 70
And each one to his office when he wakes.
[_Some bear out Sly. A trumpet sounds._
Sirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis that sounds:
[_Exit Servingman._
Belike, some noble gentleman that means,
Travelling some journey, to repose him here.
_Re-enter_ Servingman.
How now! who is it?
_Serv._ An't please your honour, players 75
That offer service to your lordship.
_Lord._ Bid them come near.
_Enter_ Players.
Now, fellows, you are welcome.
_Players._ We thank your honour.
_Lord._ Do you intend to stay with me to-night?
_A Player._ So please your lordship to accept our duty. 80
_Lord._ With all my heart. This fellow I remember,
Since once he play'd a farmer's eldest son:
'Twas where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well:
I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part
Was aptly fitted and naturally perform'd. 85
_A Player._ I think 'twas Soto that your honour means.
_Lord._ Tis very true: thou didst it excellent.
Well, you are come to me in happy time;
The rather for I have some sport in hand
Wherein your cunning can assist me much. 90
There is a lord will hear you play to-night:
But I am doubtful of your modesties;
Lest over-eyeing of his odd behaviour,--
For yet his honour never heard a play,--
You break into some merry passion 95
And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs,
If you should smile he grows impatient.
_A Player._ Fear not, my lord: we can contain ourselves,
Were he the veriest antic in the world.
_Lord._ Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, 100
And give them friendly welcome every one:
Let them want nothing that my house affords.
[_Exit one with the Players._
Sirrah, go you to Barthol'mew my page,
And see him dress'd in all suits like a lady:
That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber; 105
And call him'madam,' do him obeisance.
Tell him from me, as he will win my love,
He bear himself with honourable action,
Such as he hath observed in noble ladies
Unto their lords, by them accomplished: 110
Such duty to the drunkard let him do
With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy,
And say, 'What is't your honour will command,
Wherein your lady and your humble wife
May show her duty and make known her love?' 115
And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses,
And with declining head into his bosom,
Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy'd
To see her noble lord restored to health,
Who for this seven years hath esteemed him 120
No better than a poor and loathsome beggar:
And if the boy have not a woman's gift
To rain a shower of commanded tears,
An onion will do well for such a shift,
Which in a napkin being close convey'd 125
Shall in despite enforce a watery eye.
See this dispatch'd with all the haste thou canst:
Anon I'll give thee more instructions. [_Exit a Servingman._
I know the boy will well usurp the grace,
Voice, gait and action of a gentlewoman: 130
I long to hear him call the drunkard husband,
| 1,491.308858 |
2023-11-16 18:41:55.6541920 | 2,232 | 6 |
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.bookcove.net
[Illustration: “Full speed ahead!” roared Clay. “Our only hope is to
keep her dead with the current and fight her through.”]
The River Motor Boat Boys on the Columbia
OR
The Confession of a Photograph
By HARRY GORDON
Author of
“The River Motor Boat Boys on the St. Lawrence,”
“The River Motor Boat Boys on the Colorado,”
“The River Motor Boat Boys on the Mississippi,”
“The River Motor Boat Boys on the Amazon,’
“The River Motor Boat Boys on the Ohio.”
A. L. Burt Company
New York
Copyright, 1913
By A. L. Burt Company
THE SIX RIVER MOTOR BOYS ON THE COLUMBIA
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I. CROSSING THE MOUNTAINS IN A MOTOR BOAT
II. CAPTAIN JOE FOLLOWS A TRAIL
III. ALEX FINDS USE FOR HIS KODAK
IV. A NEW FACE ON THE RAMBLER
V. WHAT TOOK PLACE ON THE TRAIN
VI. MOURNING AN EMPTY KODAK
VII. PIE THAT LIVED IN A GLASS HOUSE
VIII. A WRECK AND A BABY BEAR
IX. THE MAKING OF A CEDAR CANOE
X. A RABBIT AND A SECRET MEETING
XI. ALEX BECOMES A DETECTIVE
XII. A BEAR, A FISH, AND A TREE
XIII. A MYSTERY AND A FISH SUPPER
XIV. A SWIFT AND PERILOUS RIDE
XV. THE RAMBLER TAKES TO WHEELS
XVI. TEDDY RECEIVES A CALLER
XVII. CAPTAIN JOE TO THE RESCUE
XVIII. CASE MAKES A HIT WITH DOUGH
XIX. WHY THERE WAS NO VENISON
XX. CAPTAIN JOE MAKES A DISCOVERY
XXI. A CAMPFIRE HIGH ON THE HILLS
XXII. THE SURGEON TURNS DETECTIVE
XXIII. THE POLICEMAN MAKES A MISTAKE
XXIV. MORE SURPRISES THAN ONE
CHAPTER I.—CROSSING THE MOUNTAINS IN A MOTOR BOAT.
The motor boat _Rambler_ lay at the very summit of the Rocky Mountains.
She was not in a lake, either, although there were lakes of ice not far
away. She was not in motion, and there was a great silence all around
her.
She lay, propped upright, on a platform car, and the car, with two
broken wheels, stood on a make-shift spur of track on the right-of-way
of the Canadian Pacific railroad. An unusual place to find a motor boat.
But listen.
The _Rambler_ was _en route_ from the South Branch, Chicago, to the
headwaters of the Columbia river. She had passed without serious
accident down Lake Michigan, through the Straits of Mackinaw, through
the Sault Ste. Marie river and canal, and over the crystal waters of old
Superior to Port Arthur, where she had been coaxed to the deck of the
platform car upon which she now stood.
Almost exactly on the boundary line between Alberta and British
Columbia, the flat car had come to grief, and the trainmen had bunted it
to the spur and gone on about their business, promising to order a
wrecker at the nearest telegraph office. The disabled car tilted
frightfully to the rear as it stood on the shaky track, giving the
platform a twenty-five per cent. pitch, and causing the _Rambler_ to
take on a rakish air, like a swaggering person with his hat set on the
back of his head.
A few miles to the east was Laggan, sometimes called Lake Louise, which
is 2,368 miles from Montreal and 5,032 feet above the level of the
Pacific ocean, 500 miles away. About the same distance to the west was
Field, sometimes called Emerald Lake, 2,387 miles from Montreal and over
4,000 feet above tidewater. The highest altitude on the boundary at that
point is 5,200 feet above the ocean, and the motor boat was just about
there.
It was close to sunset of an April day, and the mountain pass was cold
and desolate. There was snow on the peaks, and a cold wind blew
whistling through the narrow cut in the gray rock. There was no living
figure in sight from the sidling platform of the car, or from the
foot-square windows of the _Rambler’s_ tiny cabin. The silence was
broken only by the uneasy wind.
Decidedly it was anything but cheerful outside. Inside, there was a
glowing fire in a small coal stove, and a shaded electric light brought
out the cozy furnishings of the place. The electric generators were not
working, the motors being silent, but there was in the accumulators
sufficient current for the light and the little electric stove upon
which a supper was cooking.
Those who have followed the fortunes of the _Rambler_ to the headwaters
of the Amazon will understand without further detail exactly what kind
of a craft she was. After returning from the South American expedition,
the lads had planned a trip to the Columbia river, and they were now on
their way to Donald, where the motor boat was to be launched into the
waters of that interesting stream.
The boys had worked hard in Chicago all through the winter, and when
April came they were ready for the journey, although their supply of
money was not as large as they had hoped to make it. Of the five who had
visited Cloud island and secured the store of gold hidden in that
semi-volcanic heap of rocks, however, only three were in shape to set
out on the proposed voyage.
Frank Porter, who owned the gold taken from Cloud island, had insisted
on financing the trip, but this the self-reliant boys would not listen
to, preferring to depend upon their own exertions. Julian Shafer, in the
interest of whose health the Amazon trip had originally been planned,
had acquired a little property through the exertions of Dr. Holcomb, the
physician who was treating him for tuberculosis, and had decided to
spend the winter and summer at Los Angeles.
So, of the five, there remained only Clayton Emmett, Cornelius Witters,
and Alexander Smithwick to carry out the exploration of the Columbia the
following spring. It was hoped, however, that both Frank and Julian
would be able to join their friends at some point lower down. The story
of the boys’ adventures on the Amazon may be found in the first volume
of this series.
On this night, then, “Clay,” “Case,” and “Alex,” as they were familiarly
called, were gathered around the coal heater in the cabin of the
_Rambler_, high up in a rocky pass on a mountain range, the range
forming the backbone of the continent of North America. There was plenty
of coal on the platform car, and so they had no fear of passing a chill
as well as a desolate night on the great divide. Also, the boys had
plenty of provisions, as there were numerous boxes on the car which were
to be emptied of their eatables and carried on board the motor boat
whenever the great river was reached.
The leasing of the car had eaten into the finances of the boys quite
seriously, but they anticipated living mostly on game and fish during
the run down the Columbia to the Pacific ocean. They had made no
calculations for the return ride to Chicago, believing that they would
be able to find employment at Portland.
Boy-like, they had figured on the future only so far as the end of the
river journey was concerned. A motor boat trip down the Columbia was too
fascinating, they declared, to be mixed up with any prosaic monetary
calculations!
“If we go broke,” Case had said, when the closing details were under
discussion, “we can walk back! I’d rather swim around Cape Horn and walk
back to little old Chicago than miss the days and nights we are going to
have on the Columbia!”
“You’re light headed!” Alex had responded.
“That will be an aid in swimming!” Case had replied. “Anyway, it is the
Columbia first. The future may take care of itself!”
This night in the mountain pass should have been spent on the Columbia
at or near Donald, but the boys were by no means discouraged. Case was
inclined to express annoyance and disgust at unfavorable conditions, but
really he was as courageous in the face of difficulties as either of his
companions. They had been left on the spur early that morning, and had
anticipated relief in the shape of a wrecking outfit before noon.
While the supper of bacon, beans, pancakes and coffee sputtered and
steamed on the electric stove and the heater sent out generous waves of
warmth, Clay arose and opened the cabin door, which faced to the west.
The wind immediately chased itself into the room, played tag with
everything movable, and went whistling cheerily out again.
At a shout of remonstrance from Alex, Clay drew the door shut and
stepped out on the deck of the _Rambler_. He stood for a second with the
wind from the Pacific keen on his face, the ruddy light of the setting
sun bright in his eyes, and then beckoned through the glass panel of the
door to the boys inside. Case was too busy over the pancakes to notice
the signal, but Alex increased Case’s anger by opening the door again
and forcing his body out against the wind.
The sun dropping lower, the pencils of light which touched the crags
were slipping away, leaving them indistinct in the gathering night, as
if the sunlight had brought them into existence with a touch and
condemned them to obliteration by withdrawing itself from their angular
sides. The boys stood for a second in silence, Clay listening.
“Huh!” Alex grinned, catching Clay by the arm and pointing to the wild | 1,491.674232 |
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Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Cori Samuel and the PG Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.
THE SUPPRESSED POEMS
OF
ALFRED LORD TENNYSON
1830-1868
Edited By J.C. Thomson
Contents
EDITOR'S NOTE
TIMBUCTOO
POEMS CHIEFLY LYRICAL
i. The How and the Why
ii. The Burial of Love
iii. To ----
iv. Song _'I' the gloaming light'_
v. Song _'Every day hath its night'_
| 1,491.676218 |
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Produced by David A. Schwan
THE CASE OF SUMMERFIELD
By William Henry Rhodes
With an Introduction by Geraldine Bonner
THE INTRODUCTION
The greatest master of the short story our country has known found his
inspiration and produced his best work in California. It is now nearly
forty years since "The Luck of Roaring Camp" appeared, and a line of
successors, more or less worthy, have been following along the
trail blazed by Bret Harte. They have given us matter of many kinds,
realistic, romantic, tragic, humorous, weird. In this mass of material
much that was good has been lost. The columns of newspapers swallowed
some; weeklies, that lived for a brief day, carried others to the grave
with them. Now and then chance or design interposed, and some fragment
of value was not allowed to perish. It is matter for congratulation that
the story in this volume was one of those saved from oblivion.
In 1871 a San Francisco paper published a tale entitled The Case of
Summerfield. The author concealed himself under the name of "Caxton," a
pseudonym unknown at the time. The story made an immediate impression,
and the remote little world by the Golden Gate was shaken into startled
and enquiring astonishment. Wherever people met, The Case of Summerfield
was on men's tongues. | 1,499.311638 |
2023-11-16 18:42:03.5796420 | 4,063 | 6 |
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Martin Pettit and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
THE LAST STROKE
_A DETECTIVE STORY_
BY LAWRENCE L. LYNCH
(E. MURDOCH VAN DEVENTER)
_Author of_ "_No Proof_," "_Moina_," _&c., &c._
LONDON:
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED,
WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C.
NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
SOMETHING WRONG 1
CHAPTER II.
FOUND 12
CHAPTER III.
NEMESIS 28
CHAPTER IV.
FERRARS 39
CHAPTER V.
IN CONSULTATION 52
CHAPTER VI.
"WHICH?" 64
CHAPTER VII.
RENUNCIATION 75
CHAPTER VIII.
TRICKERY 90
CHAPTER IX.
A LETTER 101
CHAPTER X.
THIS HELPS ME 117
CHAPTER XI.
DETAILS 127
CHAPTER XII.
"FERRISS-GRANT" 135
CHAPTER XIII.
THE "LAKE COUNTY HERALD" 148
CHAPTER XIV.
A GHOST 157
CHAPTER XV.
REBELLION 175
CHAPTER XVI.
"OUT OF REACH" 185
CHAPTER XVII.
RUTH GLIDDEN 196
CHAPTER XVIII.
SUDDEN FLITTINGS 208
CHAPTER XIX.
THROUGH THE MAIL 221
CHAPTER XX.
A WOMAN'S HEART 237
CHAPTER XXI.
"QUARRELSOME HARRY" 250
CHAPTER XXII.
IN NUMBER NINE 269
CHAPTER XXIII.
TWO INTERVIEWS 279
CHAPTER XXIV.
MRS. GASTON LATHAM 292
CHAPTER XXV.
THE LAST STROKE 301
THE LAST STROKE.
CHAPTER I.
SOMETHING WRONG.
It was a May morning in Glenville. Pretty, picturesque Glenville, low
lying by the lake shore, with the waters of the lake surging to meet it,
or coyly receding from it, on the one side, and the green-clad hills
rising gradually and gently on the other, ending in a belt of trees at
the very horizon's edge.
There is little movement in the quiet streets of the town at half-past
eight o'clock in the morning, save for the youngsters who, walking,
running, leaping, sauntering or waiting idly, one for another, are, or
should be, on their way to the school-house which stands upon the very
southernmost outskirts of the town, and a little way up the hilly
<DW72>, at a reasonably safe remove from the willow-fringed lake shore.
The Glenville school-house was one of the earliest public buildings
erected in the village, and it had been "located" in what was
confidently expected to be the centre of the place. But the new and
late-coming impetus, which had changed the hamlet of half a hundred
dwellings to one of twenty times that number, and made of it a quiet and
not too fashionable little summer resort, had carried the business of
the place northward, and its residences still farther north, thus
leaving this seat of learning aloof from, and quite above the newer
town, in isolated and lofty dignity, surrounded by trees; in the
outskirts, in fact, of a second belt of wood, which girdled the lake
shore, even as the further and loftier fringe of timber outlined the
hilltops at the edge of the eastern horizon and far away.
"Les call 'er the 'cademy?" suggested Elias Robbins, one of the builders
of the school-house, and an early settler of Glenville. "What's to
hinder?"
"Nothin'," declared John Rote, the village oracle. "'Twill sound
first-rate."
They were standing outside the building, just completed and resplendent
in two coats of yellow paint, and they were just from the labour of
putting in, "hangin'" the new bell.
All of masculine Glenville was present, and the other sex was not
without representation.
"Suits me down ter the ground!" commented a third citizen; and no doubt
it would have suited the majority, but when Parson Ryder was consulted,
he smiled genially and shook his head.
"It won't do, I'm afraid, Elias," he said. "We're only a village as yet,
you see, and we can't even dub it the High School, except from a
geographical point of view. However, we are bound to grow, and our
titles will come with the growth."
The growth, after a time, began; but it was only a summer growth; and
the school-house was still a village school-house with its master and
one under, or primary, teacher; and to-day there was a frisking group of
the smaller youngsters rushing about the school-yard, while the first
bell rang out, and half a dozen of the older pupils clustered about the
girlish under-teacher full of questions and wonder; for Johnny Robbins,
whose turn it was to ring the bell this week, after watching the clock,
and the path up the hill, alternately, until the time for the first bell
had come, and was actually twenty seconds past, had reluctantly but
firmly seized the rope and began to pull.
"'Taint no use, Miss Grant; I'll have to do it. He told me not to wait
for nothin', never, when 'twas half-past eight, and so"--cling, clang,
cling--"I'm bound"--cling--"ter do it!" Clang. "You see"--cling--"even
if he aint here----" Clang, clang, clang.
The boy pulled lustily at the rope for about half as long as usual, and
then he stopped.
"You don't s'pose that clock c'ud be wrong, do yo', Miss Grant? Mr.
Brierly's never been later'n quarter past before."
Miss Grant turned her wistful and somewhat anxious eyes toward the
eastern horizon, and rested a hand upon the shoulder of a tall girl at
her side.
"He may be ill, Johnny," she said, reluctantly, "or his watch may be
wrong. He's sure to come in time for morning song service. Come, Meta,
let us go in and look at those fractions."
Five--ten--fifteen minutes passed and the two heads bent still over book
and slate. Twenty minutes, and Johnny's head appeared at the door, half
a dozen others behind it.
"Has he come, Johnny?"
"No'm; sha'n't I go an' see----"
But Miss Grant arose, stopping him with a gesture. "He would laugh at
us, Johnny." Then, with another look at the anxious faces, "wait until
nine o'clock, at least."
Johnny and his followers went sullenly back to the porch, and Meta's lip
began to quiver.
"Somethin's happened to him, Miss Grant," she whimpered; "I know
somethin' has happened!"
"Nonsense," said Miss Grant. But she went to the window and called to a
little girl at play upon the green.
"Nellie Fry! Come here, dear."
Nellie Fry, an a, b, c student, came running in, her yellow locks flying
straight out behind her.
"What is it, Miss Grant?"
"Nellie, did you see Mr. Brierly at breakfast?"
"Yes'm!"
"And--quite well?"
"Why--I guess so. He talked just like he does always, and asked the
blessin'. He--he ate a lot, too--for him. I'member ma speakin' of it."
"You remember, Nellie."
Miss Grant kissed the child and walked to her desk, bending over her
roll call, and seeming busy over it until the clock upon the opposite
wall struck the hour of nine, and Johnny's face appeared at the door,
simultaneously with the last stroke.
"Sh'll I ring, Miss Grant?"
"Yes." The girl spoke with sudden decision. "Ring the bell, and then go
at once to Mrs. Fry's house, and ask if anything has happened to detain
Mr. Brierly. Don't loiter, Johnny."
There was an unwonted flush now upon the girl's usually pale cheeks,
and sudden energy in her step and voice.
The school building contained but two rooms, beside the large hall, and
the cloak rooms upon either side; and as the scholars trooped in, taking
their respective places with more than their usual readiness, but with
unusual bustle and exchange of whispers and inquiring looks, the slender
girl went once more to the entrance and looked up and down the path from
the village.
There was no one in sight, and she turned and put her hand upon the
swaying bell-rope.
"Stop it, Johnny! There's surely something wrong! Go, now, and ask after
Mr. Brierly. He must be ill!"
"He'd 'a sent word, sure," said the boy, with conviction, as he snatched
his hat from its nail. But Miss Grant only waved him away and entered
the south room, where the elder pupils were now, for the most part,
assembled.
"Girls and boys," she said, the colour still burning in her cheeks,
"something has delayed Mr. Brierly. I hope it will be for a short time
only. In the meantime, until we know--know what to expect, you will, of
course, keep your places and take up your studies. I am sure I can trust
you to be as quiet and studious as if your teacher was here; and while
we wait, and I begin my lessons, I shall set no monitor over you. I am
sure you will not need one."
The pupils of Charles Brierly were ruled by gentleness and love, and
they were loyal to so mild a ruler. With low whispers and words of
acquiescence, they took up their books, and Miss Grant went back to her
more restless small people, leaving the connecting door between the
north and south rooms open.
Mrs. Fry's cottage was in the heart of the village, and upon the
hillside, but Johnny stayed for nothing, running hither, hat in hand,
and returning panting, and with a troubled face.
"Miss Grant," he panted, bursting into her presence with scant ceremony,
"he aint there! Mrs. Fry says he came to school before eight o'clock. He
went out while she was combin' Nellie's hair, an' she aint seen him
since!"
Hilda Grant walked slowly down from her little platform, and advanced,
with a waving movement, until she stood in the doorway between the two
rooms. The colour had all faded from her face, and she put a hand
against the door-pane as if to steady herself, and seemed to control or
compose herself with an effort.
"Boys--children--have any of you seen Mr. Brierly this morning?"
For a moment there was an utter silence in the school-room. Then,
slowly, and with a sheepish shuffling movement, a stolid-faced boy made
his way out from one of the side seats in Miss Grant's room, and came
toward her without speaking. He was meanly dressed in garments
ill-matched and worse fitting; his arms were abnormally long, his
shoulders rounded and stooping, and his eyes were at once dull and
furtive. He was the largest pupil, and the dullest, in Miss Grant's
charge, and as he came toward her, still silent, but with his mouth half
open, some of the little ones tittered audibly.
"Silence!" said the teacher, sternly. "Peter, come here." Her tone grew
suddenly gentle. "Have you seen Mr. Brierly this morning?"
"Uh hum!" The boy stopped short and hung his head.
"That's good news, Peter. Tell me where you saw him."
"Down there," nodding toward the lake.
"At the--lake?"
"Yep!"
"How long ago, Peter?"
"'Fore school--hour, maybe."
"How far away, Peter?"
"Big ways. Most by Injun Hill."
"Ah! and what was he doing?"
"Set on ground--lookin'."
"Miss Grant!" broke in the boy Johnny. "He was goin' to shoot at a
mark; I guess he's got a new target down there, an' him an' some of the
boys shoots there, you know. Gracious!" his eyes suddenly widening,
"Dy'u s'pose he's got hurt, anyway?"
Miss Grant turned quickly toward the simpleton.
"Peter, you are sure it was this morning that you saw Mr. Brierly?"
"Uh hum."
"And, was he alone?"
"Uh hum."
"Who else did you see down there, Peter?"
The boy lifted his arm, shielding his eyes with it as if expecting a
blow.
"I bet some one's tried ter hit him!" commented Johnny.
"Hush, Johnny! Peter, what is it? Did some one frighten you?"
The boy wagged his head.
"Who was it?"
"N--Nothin'--" Peter began to whimper.
"You must answer me, Peter; was any one else by the lake? Whom else did
you see?"
"A--a--ghost!" blubbered the boy, and this was all she could gain from
him.
And now the children began to whisper, and some of the elder to suggest
possibilities.
"Maybe he's met a tramp."
"P'r'aps he's sprained his ankle!"
"P'r'aps he's falled into the lake, teacher," piped a six-year-old.
"Poh!" retorted a small boy. "He kin swim like--anything."
"Children, be silent!" A look of annoyance had suddenly relaxed the
strained, set look of the under teacher's white face as she recalled, at
the moment, how she had heard Mr. Samuel Doran--president of the board
of school directors--ask Mr. Brierly to drop in at his office that
morning to look at some specimen school books. That was the evening
before, and, doubtless, he was there now.
Miss Grant bit her lip, vexed at her folly and fright. But after a
moment's reflection she turned again to Johnny Robbins, saying:
"Johnny, will you go back as far as Mr. Doran's house? Go to the office
door, and if Mr. Brierly is there, as I think he will be, ask him if he
would like me to hear his classes until he is at liberty."
Again the ready messenger caught up his flapping straw hat, while a
little flutter of relief ran through the school, and Miss Grant went
back to her desk, the look of vexation still upon her face.
Five minutes' brisk trotting brought the boy to Mr. Doran's door, which
was much nearer than the Fry homestead, and less than five minutes found
him again at the school-house door.
"Miss Grant," he cried, excitedly, "he wa'n't there, nor haint been; an'
Mr. Doran's startin' right out, with two or three other men, to hunt
him. He says there's somethin' wrong about it."
CHAPTER II.
FOUND.
"I suppose it's all right," said Samuel Doran, as he walked toward the
school-house, followed by three or four of the villagers, "called"
because of their nearness, rather than "chosen"; "but Brierly's
certainly the last man to let any ordinary matter keep him from his
post. We'll hear what Miss Grant has to say."
Miss Grant met the group at the gate, and when she had told them all she
had to tell, ending with the testimony of the boy Peter, and the
suggestion concerning the target-shooting.
"Sho!" broke in one of the men, as she was about to express her personal
opinion and her fears, "that's the top an' bottom of the hull business!
Brierly's regularly took with ashootin' at a mark. I've been out with
him two or three evenin's of late. He's just got int'rusted, and forgot
ter look at his watch. We'll find him safe enough som'e'res along the
bank; let's cut across the woods."
"He must have heard the bell," objected Mr. Doran, "but, of course, if
Peter Kramer saw him down there, that's our way. Don't be anxious, Miss
Grant; probably Hopkins is right."
The road which they followed for some distance ran a somewhat devious
course through the wood, which one entered very soon after leaving the
school-house. It ran along the hillside, near its base, but still
somewhat above the stretch of ground, fully a hundred yards in width,
between it and the lake shore.
Above the road, to eastward, the wooded growth climbed the gentle upward
<DW72>, growing, as it seemed, more and more dense and shadowy as it
mounted. But between the road and the river the trees grew less densely,
with numerous sunny openings, but with much undergrowth, here and there,
of hazel and sumach, wild vines, and along the border of the lake the
low overhanging scrub willow.
For more than a fourth of a mile the four men followed the road, walking
in couples, and not far apart, and contenting themselves with an
occasional "hallo, Brierly," and with peering into the openings through
which they could see the lake shore as they passed along.
A little further on, however, a bit of rising ground cut off all sight
of the lake for a short distance. It was an oblong mound, so shapely, so
evenly proportioned that it had became known as the Indian Mound, and
was believed to have been the work of the aborigines, a prehistoric
fortification, or burial place.
As they came opposite this mound, the man Hopkins stopped, saying:
"Hadn't a couple of us fellers better go round the mound on t'other
side? Course, if he's on the bank, an' all right, he'd ort to hear
us--but----"
"Yes," broke in the leader, who had been silent and very grave for some
moments. "Go that way, Hopkins, and we'll keep to the road and meet you
at the further end of the mound."
They separated | 1,499.599682 |
2023-11-16 18:42:03.6218200 | 7,385 | 17 |
Produced by Gary Sandino, from a scanned UC library book
kindly provided by the Internet Archive (www.archive.org.)
If this is borrowed by a friend
Right welcome shall he be
To read, to study, not to lend
But to return to me.
Not that imparted knowledge doth
Diminish learning's store
But books I find if often lent
Return to me no more.
The
Erie Train Boy
HORATIO ALGER,
JR.
Copyright, 1891,
UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY
(All Rights Reserved)
The Erie Train Boy
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. On the Erie Road 5
II. A Fair Exchange 11
III. Fred's Rich Relation 14
IV. Zebulon Mack 20
V. An Adventure on the Train 24
VI. Mr. Bascomb's Peril 30
VII. Ferdinand Morris 85
VIII. Mr. Bascomb's sad Plight 41
IX. A Long Trip 46
X. What Took Place in No. 21 51
XI. Fred Falls under a Terrible Suspicion 56
XII. Fred is a Prisoner 62
XIII. The Hotel Clerk's Mistake 67
XIV. The Missing Valise 73
XV. Mr. Palmer Walks into a Trap 78
XVI. Palmer's Malice 83
XVII. Two Young Lady Passengers at Odds 88
XVIII. Unsatisfactory Relations 94
XIX. Ruth Patton Calls on Mr. Ferguson 99
XX. A Friend in Need 104
XXI. Luella's Painful Discovery 109
XXII. Miss Ferguson Writes a Note 115
XXIII. Another Railroad Adventure 126
XXIV. Fred's Good Luck 125
XXV. Rose Wainwright's Party 131
XXVI. Fred Becomes a Newspaper Hero 136
XXVII. A Confidential Mission 141
XXVIII. St. Victor 146
XXIX. Fred Takes the First Step 154
XXX. A Hunting Excursion 157
XXXI. Fred has an Understanding with Sinclair 163
XXXII. Finding a Clue 168
XXXIII. Success 173
XXXIV. Bowman's Panic 179
XXXV. Fred's Reward 185
XXXVI. A Letter from Tom Sloan 190
XXXVII. Cousin Ferguson 193
XXXVIII. Conclusion 197
THE ERIE TRAIN BOY
CHAPTER I.
ON THE ERIE ROAD.
"Papers, magazines, all the popular novels! Can't I sell you something
this morning?"
Joshua Bascom turned as the train boy addressed him, and revealed an
honest, sunburned face, lighted up with pleasurable excitement, for he
was a farmer's son and was making his first visit to the city of New
York.
"I ain't much on story readin'," he said, "I tried to read a story book
once, but I couldn't seem to get interested in it."
"What was the name of it?" asked Fred, the train boy, smiling.
"It was the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' or some such name. It had pictures
into it. Aunt Nancy give it to dad for a birthday present once."
"I have heard of it."
"It was a mighty queer book. I couldn't make head nor tail on't."
"All books are not like that."
"I don't feel like readin'. It's a nuff sight more interestin' lookin'
out of the winder at the sights.
"I'm going to York to spend a week," added Joshua, with an air of
importance.
"That's where I live," said the train boy.
"Do you? Then you might tell me where to put up. I've got ten dollars.
I reckon that ought to keep me a week."
Fred smiled.
"That is more than enough to keep me," he said, "but it costs a
stranger considerable to go around. But I shall have to go my rounds."
It was a train on the Erie road, and the car had just passed
Middletown. Joshua was sitting by the window, and the seat beside him
was vacant. The train boy had scarcely left the car when a stylishly
dressed young man, who had been sitting behind, came forward and
accosted Joshua.
"Is this seat engaged?" he asked.
"Not as I know of," answered the young farmer.
"Then with your permission I will take it," said the stranger.
"Why of course; I hain't no objection. He's dreadful polite!" thought
Joshua.
"You are from the country, I presume?" said the newcomer as he sank
into the seat.
"Yes, I be. I live up Elmira way--town of Barton. Was you ever in
Barton?"
"I have passed through it. I suppose you are engaged in agricultural
pursuits?"
"Hey?"
"You are a farmer, I take it."
"Yes; I work on dad's farm. He owns a hundred and seventy-five acres,
and me and a hired man help him to carry it on. I tell you we have to
work."
"Just so! And now you are taking a vacation?"
"Yes. I've come to see the sights of York."
"I think you will enjoy your visit. Ahem! the mayor of New York is my
uncle."
"You don't say?" ejaculated Joshua, awestruck.
"Yes! My name is Ferdinand Morris."
"Glad to know you, Mr. Morris. My name is Joshua Bascom."
"Indeed! An aunt of mine married a Bascom. Perhaps we are related."
Joshua was quite elated at the thought that he might in some way be
related to the mayor of New York without knowing it, and he resolved to
expatiate on that subject when he went back to Barton. He decided that
his new acquaintance must be rich, for he was dressed in showy style
and had a violet in his buttonhole.
"Be you in business, Mr Morris?" he asked.
"Well, ahem! I am afraid that I am rather an idler. My father left me a
quarter of a million, and so I don't feel the need of working."
"Quarter of a million!" ejaculated Joshua. "Why, that's two hundred and
fifty thousand dollars."
"Just so," said Morris, smiling.
"That's an awful pile of money! Why, dad's been workin' all his life,
and he isn't wuth more'n three thousand dollars at the outside."
"I am afraid three thousand dollars wouldn't last me a very long time,"
said Morris, with an amused smile.
"Gosh! Where can anybody get such a pile of money? That's what beats
me!"
"Business, my young friend, business! Why I've made that amount of
money in one day."
"You don't say!"
"Yes, by speculating in Wall Street."
"You must be smart!"
"My teachers didn't seem to think so. But life in the city is very
different from life in the country."
"I wish I could make some money."
"A man must have money to make money. If now you had a little money----"
"I've got ten dollars to pay my expenses."
"Is that all?"
"No; I've got fifteen dollars to buy a shawl and dress for marm, and
some shirts for dad. He thought he'd like some boughten shirts. The
last marm made for him didn't fit very well."
"You must take good care of your money, Mr. Bascom. I regret to say
that we have a great many pickpockets in New York."
"So I've heerd. That's what Jim Duffy told me. He went to York last
spring. But I guess Jim was keerless or he wouldn't have been robbed.
It would take a smart pickpocket to rob me."
"Then you keep your money in a safe place?"
"Yes, I keep my wallet in my breeches pocket;" and Joshua slapped the
right leg of his trousers in a well satisfied way.
"You are right! I see you are a man of the world. You are a sharp one."
Joshua laughed gleefully. He felt pleased at the compliment.
"Yes," he chuckled, "I ain't easy taken in, I tell you, ef I was born
in the woods."
"It is easy to see that. You can take care of yourself."
"So I can."
"That comes of being a Bascom. I am glad to know that we are related.
You must call on me in New York."
"Where do you live?"
"At the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Just ask for Ferdinand Morris. They all
know me there."
"Is that a good place to stop?"
"Yes, if you've got money enough. I pay five dollars a day for my
board, and some extras carry it up to fifty dollars a week."
"Gosh all hemlock!" ejaculated Joshua, "I don't want to pay no more'n
five dollars a week."
"You can perhaps find a cheap boarding-house for that sum--with plain
board, of course."
"That's what I'm used to. I'm willin' to get along without pie."
"You like pie, then?"
"We ginerally have it on the table at every meal, but I can wait till I
get home."
"I will see what I can do for you. In fact, all you've got to do is to
buy a morning paper, and pick out a boarding-house where the price will
suit you. You must come and dine with me some day at the Fifth Avenue
Hotel."
"Thank you! You're awful kind, but I'm afraid I ain't dressed up enough
for such a stylish place."
"Well, perhaps not, but I might lend you a suit to go to the table in.
We are about the same build."
"If you've got an extra suit----"
"An extra suit? Mr. Bascom, I have at least twenty extra suits."
"Gee-whillikens! What do you want with so many clothes?"
"I never wear the same suit two days in succession. But I must bid you
good morning, Mr. Bascom. I have a friend in the next car."
Morris rose, and Joshua, feeling much flattered with his polite
attentions, resumed his glances out of the window.
"Apples, oranges, bananas!" called the train boy, entering the car with
a basket of fruit.
"How much do you charge?" asked Joshua. "I feel kind of hungry, and I
haven't ate an orange for an age. Last time I bought one was at the
grocery up to hum."
"The large oranges are five cents apiece," said Fred. "I can give you
two small ones for the same price."
"I'll take two small ones. It seems a great deal of money, but I'm
traveling and that makes a difference."
"Here are two good ones!" said Fred, picking out a couple.
"All right! I'll take 'em!"
Joshua Bascom thrust his hand into his pocket, and then a wild spasm
contracted his features. He explored it with growing excitement, and a
sickly pallor overspread his face.
"What's the matter?" asked Fred.
"I've been robbed. My wallet's gone!" groaned Joshua in a husky voice.
CHAPTER II.
A FAIR EXCHANGE.
"Who can have robbed you?" asked the train boy, sympathetically.
"I dunno," answered Joshua sadly.
"How much have you lost?"
"Twenty-five dollars. No," continued Mr. Bascom with a shade of relief.
"I put dad's fifteen dollars in my inside vest pocket."
"That is lucky. So you've only lost ten."
"It was all I had to spend in York. I guess I'll have to turn round and
go back."
"But who could have taken it? Who has been with you?"
"Only Mr. Morris, a rich young man. He is nephew to the mayor of New
York."
"Who said so?"
"He told me so himself."
"How was he dressed?" asked Fred, whose suspicions were aroused. "Did
he wear a white hat?"
"Yes."
"And looked like a swell?"
"Yes."
"He got off at the last station. It is he that robbed you."
"But it can't be," said Joshua earnestly. "He told me he was worth
quarter of a million dollars, and boarded at the Fifth Avenue Hotel."
"And was nephew of the mayor?"
"Yes."
Fred laughed.
"He is no more the mayor's nephew than I am," he said. "He is a
confidence man."
"How do you know?' asked Joshua, perplexed.
"That is the way they all act. He saw you were a countryman, and made
up his mind to rob you. Did you tell him where you kept your money?"
"Yes, I did. He told me there was lots of pickpockets in New York, and
said I ought to be keerful."
"He ought to know."
"Can't I get my money back?" asked Mr. Bascom anxiously.
"I don't think there's much chance. Even if you should see him some
time, you couldn't prove that he robbed you."
"I'd like to see him--for five minutes," said the young farmer, with a
vengeful light in his eyes.
"What would you do?"
"I'd give him an all-fired shakin' up, that's what I'd do."
Looking at Mr. Bascom's broad shoulders and muscular arms, Fred felt
that he would be likely to keep his word in a most effectual manner.
"I don't know what to do," groaned Joshua, relapsing into gloom.
As he spoke he slid his hand into his pocket once more, and quickly
drew it out with an expression of surprise. He held between two fingers
a handsome gold ring set with a neat stone.
"Where did that come from?" he asked.
"Didn't you ever see it before?" inquired the train boy.
"Never set eyes on it in my life."
"That's a joke!" exclaimed Fred with a laugh.
"What's a joke?
"Why, the thief in drawing your wallet from your pocket dropped his
ring. You've made an exchange, that is all."
"What is it worth?" asked Joshua, eagerly. "Permit me, my friend," said
a gentleman sitting just behind, as he extended his hand for the ring.
"I am a jeweler and can probably give you an idea of the value of the
ring."
Joshua handed it over readily.
The jeweler eyed it carefully, and after a pause, handed it back.
"My friend," he said, "that ring is worth fifty dollars!"
"Fifty dollars!" ejaculated Joshua, his eyes distended with surprise.
"I can't understand it. Cousin Sue has got a gold ring as big as this
that only cost three dollars and a half."
"Very likely, but the stone of this is valuable. You've made money out
of your pickpocket, if he only took ten dollars from you."
"But he'll come back for it."
The jeweler laughed.
"If he does, tell him where you found it, and ask how it came in your
pocket. He won't dare to call for it."
"I'd rather have the ten dollars than the ring."
"I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll advance you twenty-five dollars on
the ring, and agree to give it back to you any time within a year on
payment of that sum, and suitable interest."
"You can have it, mister," said Joshua promptly.
As he pocketed the roll of bills given him in exchange, his face glowed
with returning sunshine.
"By gosh!" he said, "I've made fifteen dollars."
"That' isn't a bad day's work!" said Fred.
"It's more'n I ever earned in a month before," said the young farmer.
"I declare it's paid me to come to the city."
"You are lucky! Look out for pickpockets, as they don't always give
anything in exchange. Now you can afford to buy some oranges."
"Give me two five-cent oranges and a banana," said Mr. Bascom with
reckless extravagance. "I guess I can afford it, now I've made fifteen
dollars."
"I wish that pickpocket would rob me," said Fred smiling. "Fifteen
dollars would come in handy just now," and his smile was succeeded by a
grave look, for money was scarce with the little household of which he
was a member.
It is time to speak more particularly of Fred, who is the hero of this
story. He was a pleasant-looking, but resolute and manly boy of
seventeen, who had now been for some months employed on the Erie road.
He had lost a place which he formerly occupied in a store, on account
of the failure of the man whom he served, and after some weeks of
enforced leisure had obtained his present position. Train boys are
required to deposit with the company ten dollars to protect their
employer from possible loss, this sum to be returned at the end of
their term of service. They are, besides, obliged to buy an official
cap, such as those of my readers who have traveled on any line of
railroad are familiar with. Fred had been prevented for some weeks from
taking the place because he had not the money required as a deposit. At
length a gentleman who had confidence in him went with him to the
superintendent and supplied the sum, and this removing the last
obstacle, Fred Fenton began his daily runs. He was paid by a twenty per
cent, commission on sales. It was necessary, therefore, for him to take
in five dollars in order to make one for himself. He had thus far
managed to average about a dollar a day, and this, though small, was an
essential help to his widowed mother with whom he lived.
Just before reaching Jersey City, Joshua Bascom appealed to Fred.
"Could you tell me where to stop in York?" he asked. "Some nice cheap
place?"
"I know a plain boarding-house kept by a policeman's wife, who lives
near us," said Fred. "She would probably board you for five dollars a
week."
"By hokey, that's just the place." said Joshua. "If you do it, I'll
make it right with you."
"Never mind about that!" said Fred. "All you've got to do is to come
with me. It will be no trouble."
CHAPTER III.
FRED'S RICH RELATION.
It was seven o'clock when Fred reached home. He and his mother occupied
three rooms in a tenement house, at a rental of ten dollars a month. It
was a small sum for the city, but as Fred was the chief contributor to
the family funds, rent day was always one of anxiety. It so happened
that this very day rent was due, and Fred felt anxious, for his mother,
when he left home, had but seven dollars towards it.
He opened the door of their humble home, and received a welcoming smile
from Mrs. Fenton, a pleasant-looking woman of middle age.
"I am glad to see you back, Fred," she said. "The days seem long
without you."
"Have you brought me a picture book, Fred?" asked his little brother.
"No, Bertie, I can't bring you picture books every day. I wish I
could."
"Albert has been drawing from his last book," said Mrs. Fenton. "He
really has quite a taste for it."
"We must send him to the Cooper Institute Drawing School when he gets
older. Did the landlord come, mother?"
"Yes," answered Mrs. Fenton, a shade passing over her face.
"What did he say? Did he make any fuss?"
"He was rough and unpleasant. He said he mast have his money promptly
or we must vacate the rooms."
"Did he take the seven dollars?"
"Yes, he took it and gave me a receipt on account. He said he must have
the balance to-morrow."
"I don't see how we can pay it. The company owes me more, but I shan't
get paid till Saturday night."
"Don't they advance it to you?"
"It is against the rule. Besides I couldn't get it in time."
"There is a lady in Lexington Avenue owing me four dollars for sewing,
but when I went there today I heard that she was out of town."
"It is very provoking to be kept out of your money when you need it so
much. If we only had a little money ahead, we could get along well.
Something must be done, but I don't know what."
"You might go round to Cousin Ferguson."
"I hate to ask a favor of that man, mother."
"You remember that your poor father owned a small tract of land in
Colorado. When Robert Ferguson went out three months since I asked him
to look after it, and ascertain whether it was of any value. As I have
heard nothing from him, I am afraid it is worthless."
"I will go and ask him, mother. That is a matter of business, and I
don't mind speaking to him on that subject. I will go at once."
"Perhaps he may be willing to advance a few dollars on it."
"At any rate I will go."
Robert Ferguson lived in a plain brick house on East Thirty-Ninth
Street. He was a down-town merchant, and in possession of a snug
competence. Mrs. Fenton was his own cousin, but he had never offered to
help her in any way, though he was quite aware of the fact that she was
struggling hard to support her little family. He had a son Raymond who
was by no means as plain in his tastes as his father, but had developed
a tendency to extravagance which augured ill for his future. He had
never cared to cultivate the acquaintance of his poor cousins, and
whenever he met Fred treated him with ill-concealed contempt.
It so happened that he was just leaving the house as Fred ascended the
steps.
"Good morning, Raymond," said Fred politely.
"Oh, it's you, is it?"
"Yes," answered Fred briefly, for he did not like the style in which
his cousin addressed him.
"What do you want round here?"
"I want to see your father."
"I guess he's busy."
"I want to see him on business," said Fred, pulling the bell.
"If you want to borrow any money it's no use. I struck him for ten
dollars just now, and he only gave me two."
"Did I say I wanted to borrow any money?"
"No, you didn't say so, but I couldn't think of any other business you
could have."
Fred did not have occasion to answer, for here the door opened, and the
servant stood on the threshold.
"Is Mr. Ferguson at home?" he asked.
"Yes; will you come in?"
Fred followed the girl into the back parlor where Robert Ferguson sat
reading the evening paper.
He looked up as Fred entered.
"Good evening, Mr. Ferguson," he said.
"Good evening, Frederick," said his relative coldly.
"My mother asked me to call and inquire whether you heard anything of
father's land in Colorado."
"Ahem!" coughed Mr. Ferguson. "I hope she built no day dreams on its
possible value."
"No sir; but she hoped it might be worth something--even a small sum
would be of value to us."
"The fact is, these Western lands are worth little or nothing."
"Father used to say that some time or other the land would be worth a
good sum."
"Then I don't think much of your father's judgment. Why, I don't
believe you could give it away. Let me see, how much was there?"
"A hundred and twenty-five acres."
"How did you father get possession of it?"
"There was a man he took care of in his sickness, who gave it to him
out of gratitude."
Robert Ferguson shrugged his shoulders.
"It would have been better if he had given him the same number of
dollars," he said.
"Then you don't think it worth as much as that?"
"No, I don't."
Fred looked disappointed. In their darkest days, he and his mother had
always thought of this land as likely some time to bring them
handsomely out of their troubles, and make a modest provision for their
comfort. Now there seemed to be an end to this hope.
"I would have sent your mother word before," said Robert Ferguson, "but
as the news was bad I thought it would keep. I don't see what possessed
your father to go out to Colorado."
"He was doing poorly here, and some one recommended him to try his
chances at the West."
"Well, he did a foolish thing. If a man improves his opportunities here
he needn't wander away from home to earn a living. That's my view."
"Then," said Fred slowly, "you don't think the land of any value?"
"No, I don't. Of course I am sorry for your disappointment, and I am
going to show it. Let your mother make over to me all claim to this
land, and I will give her twenty-five dollars."
"That isn't much," said Fred soberly.
"No, it isn't much, but it's better than nothing, and I shall lose by
my bargain."
Fred sat in silence thinking over this proposal. The land was the only
property his poor father had left, and to sell it for twenty-five
dollars seemed like parting with a birthright for a mess of pottage.
On the other hand twenty-five dollars would be of great service to them
under present circumstances.
"I don't know what to say," he answered slowly.
"Oh, well, it is your lookout. I only made the offer as a personal
favor."
Mr. Ferguson resumed the perusal of his paper, and thus implied that
the interview was over.
"Cousin Ferguson," said Fred, with an effort, "our rent is due to-day,
and we are a little short of the money to meet it. Could you lend me
three dollars till Saturday night?"
"No," answered Robert Ferguson coldly. "I don't approve of borrowing
money. As a matter of principle I decline to lend. But if your mother
agrees to sell the land she shall have twenty-five dollars at once."
Fred rose with a heavy heart.
"I will tell mother what you propose," he said. "Good evening!"
"Good evening!" rejoined Mr. Ferguson without raising his eyes from the
paper.
"Twenty-five dollars would be very acceptable just now," said Mrs.
Fenton thoughtfully, when Fred reported the offer of his rich relative.
"But it wouldn't last long, mother."
"It would do us good while it lasted."
"You are right there, mother, but I have no doubt the land is worth a
good deal more."
"What makes you think so? Cousin Ferguson----"
"Wouldn't have made the offer he did if he hadn't thought so, too."
"He might have done it to help us."
"He isn't that kind of a man. No, mother, it is for our interest to
hold on to the land till we know more about it."
"How shall we manage about the rent?"
Fred looked troubled.
"Something may turn up to-morrow. When the landlord comes, ask him to
come again at eight o'clock, when I shall be home."
"Very well, Fred."
Mrs. Fenton was so much in the habit of trusting to her son that she
dismissed the matter with less anxiety than Fred felt. He knew very
well that trusting for something to turn up is a precarious dependence,
but there seemed nothing better to do.
CHAPTER IV.
ZEBULON MACK.
At twelve that day the landlord, Zebulon Mack, presented himself
promptly at the door of Mrs. Fenton's room.
He was a small, thin, wrinkled man, whose suit would have been refused
as a gift by the average tramp, yet he had an income of four thousand
dollars a year from rents. He was now sixty years of age. At twenty-one
he was working for eight dollars a week, and saving three-fifths of
that. By slow degrees he had made himself rich, but in so doing he had
denied himself all but the barest necessaries. What he expected to do
with his money, as he was a bachelor with no near relatives, was a
mystery, and he had probably formed no definite ideas himself. But it
was his great enjoyment to see his hoards annually increasing, and he
had no mercy for needy or unfortunate tenants who found themselves
unable to pay their rent promptly.
Mrs. Fenton opened the door with a troubled look.
"I've come for that other three dollars, ma'am," said Zebulon Mack,
standing on the threshold.
"I'm very sorry, sir----" began the widow.
"What! haven't you got the money?" snarled Mack, screwing up his
features into a frown that made him look even more unprepossessing.
"My son Fred will be paid on Saturday night, and then----"
"Saturday night won't do. Didn't you promise it to-day?"
"Yes; and Fred tried to get an advance, but could not."
"Where is he working?"
"On the Erie road."
"Most likely he spends all his money for beer and cigarettes. I know
him. He looks like it."
"You are very much mistaken, sir," said Mrs. Fenton, indignantly.
"Oh, you think so, of course," sneered the landlord. "Mothers don't
know much about their boys, nor fathers either. I am glad I haven't a
son."
"I wouldn't be your son for a million dollars," said little Albert, who
resented the allusion to his big brother.
"Hey?" snarled Mack, opening his mouth and showing his tobacco-stained
tusks. "What business has a whipper-snapper like you to put in your
oar?"
"I ain't a whipper-snapper!" retorted Albert, who did not know the
meaning of the word, but concluded that it was not complimentary.
"Well, ma'am, what are you going to do? I can't stay here all day."
"Fred thought he would have the money by to-night. He asked if you
would call round after he got home."
"When is that?"
"He generally gets home at seven o'clock."
"Then I'll be here at seven, but if you haven't the money, then out you
go! Do you hear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then mind you remember it. With so many swindling tenants a landlord
has a hard time."
He shambled off, and Mrs. Fenton breathed a sigh of temporary relief.
All the afternoon she felt troubled and anxious, and her anxiety
increased as the hours wore away.
"If Fred should be late as he sometimes is," she said to Bertie about
six o'clock, "I am afraid Mr. Mack will carry out his threat and turn
us out on the street."
"I won't let him," said Albert manfully.
"We can't help it," said Mrs. Fenton. "Do you think you could find your
way to the depot to meet Fred and hurry him home?"
"Oh, yes," answered the little boy. "I went there with Fred last week."
"You are sure you won't get lost?"
"What do you take me for, mother? I'd be ashamed to get lost anywhere
round the city."
"Then go, and tell Fred to hurry up. Mr. Mack is so strict and severe
that I am sure he won't wait a minute."
At seven o'clock precisely Mr. Mack returned and, looking at his watch,
said, "Time's up, ma'am."
"Wait just a few minutes!" pleaded Mrs. Fenton. "I expect Fred home
every minute."
"My time's valuable, ma'am. It is not likely the boy will have the
money any way.
"Won't you wait, then?
"Do you take me for a fool, ma'am? Here, Finnegan."
He had brought with him a man in his employ who for starvation wages
helped him move out tenants, and made himself useful in a general way.
"Here I am, Mr. Mack," said Finnegan.
"Just give me a hand with this bureau. We'll take that first."
"Oh, sir," pleaded Mrs. Fenton, "how can you be so merciless? In a few
minutes Fred will be here."
"I'm not a fool, ma'am. I told you I'd move you at seven o'clock, and
I'm a man of my word."
"Wait a minute and I'll see if I can borrow the money of Mrs. Sheehan."
"You ought to have thought of that before. I'll give you two minutes."
Mrs. Fenton sped down lo the rooms of Mrs. Sheehan on the next lower
floor.
"Can you lend me three dollars, Mrs. Sheehan?" asked Mrs. Fenton,
breathless. "Mr. Mack threatens to turn us out on the sidewalk."
"I wish I could, Mrs. Fenton," said Mrs. Sheehan heartily, "but I
bought my John a suit yesterday, and it's taken all my money except
seventy-five cents. I'd be glad to oblige you, indeed I would."
"I've no doubt of it," sighed the widow, for it was her last hope.
"Well, have you got the money?" asked Zebulon Mack, as she reappeared.
"No, sir."
"Just what I thought. Go ahead, Finnegan."
They took up the bureau and slowly moved to the door, and down the
staircase with it.
"It's a shame!" said Mrs. Sheehan, standing at her door.
"You'd better look out, ma'am! It may be your turn next," said the
landlord with a scowl. "If it is I won't wait for you a minute."
"It's a hard man, you are, Mr. Mack."
"I need to be," said Zebulon Mack grimly. "If I wasn't it's precious
little rent I'd get in."
The outlook for the Fentons was dark indeed.
CHAPTER V.
AN ADVENTURE ON THE TRAIN.
Fred was on board his regular train that same morning at the usual
hour, and started on his round of duty. He sold four morning papers,
but trade seemed rather | 1,499.64186 |
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Produced by John Bechard ([email protected])
HISTORY
OF
THE MISSIONS
OF THE
AMERICAN BOARD OF COMMISSIONERS FOR FOREIGN MISSIONS
TO THE
ORIENTAL CHURCHES.
BY RUFUS ANDERSON, D.D., LL.D.,
LATE FOREIGN SECRETARY OF THE BOARD.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
BOSTON:
CONGREGATIONAL PUBLISHING SOCIETY.
1872.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by
THE AMERICAN BOARD OF COMMISSIONERS FOR FOREIGN MISSIONS,
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE:
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY
H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE ARMENIANS.--1846-1855.
Agency of Sir Stratford Canning.--Of Lord Cowley.--Lord Palmerston's
Instructions.--Action of the Porte.--The Chevalier Bunsen.--A
Vizerial Letter.--Further Concessions.--The Firman.--Good Counsel
from Sir Stratford to the Protestants.--Dilatoriness of the Turkish
Government.--Still another Concession by the Sultan.--Agency of the
American Minister.--Greatness of the Changes.--The Divine Agency
recognized.--The Danger.--Why Persecution was continued.--New
Missionaries.--Pera again ravaged by Fire.--The Aintab
Station.--Native Zeal for the Spread of the Gospel.--Activity of the
Mission.--The Patriarch deposed.--Native Pastors.--Death of Mrs.
Hamlin.--Death and Character of Dr. Azariah Smith.--Mr. Dunmore
joins the Mission.--Removal into Old Constantinople.--The
First Ecclesiastical Council.--The Gospel introduced into
Marsovan.--Visited by Mr. E. E. Bliss.--A Persecution that was
needed.--Unexpected Relief.--Changes in the Mission.--Missions by
Native Pastors.--Death of Mrs. Everett.--Death of Mr. Benjamin.
CHAPTER XXV. THE ARMENIANS.--1855-1860.
The Crimean War subservient to the Gospel.--Its Origin.
--Providential Interposition.--Probable Consequences of Russian
Success.--Effect of the Fall of Sebastopol.--The Mission in
1855.--Schools.--Church Organization.--Church Building.--The
Printing.--Editions of the Scriptures.--The Book Depository.--Aid
from Abroad.--Greek Students in Theology.--Licentiates.--Accession
of Missionaries.--Death of Mr. Everett.--Miscellaneous
Notices.--Renewed Agitation about the Death Penalty.--The Hatti
Humaioun.--How regarded by the English Ambassador.--Includes the
Death Penalty.--Is recognized in the Treaty of Paris.--How estimated
by the Missionaries.--Indications of Progress.--Aintab.--Death of
Mrs. Schneider.--Girls' School at Constantinople.--Seminary at
Bebek.--Division of the Mission.--Turkish Missions Aid
Society.--Visit of Dr. Dwight to England.--A Remarkable
Convert.--Death of the second Mrs. Hamlin.--Arabkir.--Sivas and
Tocat.--Harpoot.--Geghi.--Revivals of Religion.--Girls' School at
Nicomedia.--Fire at Tocat.--Mr. Dunmore's Explorations.--Church at
Cesarea.--A former Persecutor made Catholicos.--Death of Mrs.
Beebee.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE ARMENIANS.--1860-1861.
A Result of the Crimean War.--Religious Opinion in Constantinople.
--Change at Rodosto.--Outbreak at the Metropolis.--A Remarkable
Native Helper.--Great Change in Marsovan.--Changes elsewhere.
--Telegraphic Communication.--The Mission further divided.--First
Native Pastor at Harpoot.--Rise of the Station.--Dr. Dwight's Second
Tour in the East.--Changes since the First Tour.--Triumph of the
Gospel at Marash.--Tribute to the Wives of Missionaries.--Change at
Diarbekir.--Decline of Turkish Population.--Death and Character of
Mr. Dunmore.--The Missionary Force.--Training School at
Mardin.--Other Portions of the Field.--Scripture Translations.
--Publications.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE ASSYRIA MISSION.--1849-1860.
Origin of the Mission.--Mosul reoccupied.--Why it had been
relinquished.--Proposed American Episcopal Mission.--The Mission of
the Board reinforced.--Dr. Bacon's Experience in the Koordish
Mountains.--Punishment of the Robbers.--How the Gospel came to
Diarbekir.--Church organized.--Arrival of Mr. Dunmore.--Tomas.
--Persecutions.--Mr. Marsh's Visit to Mardin.--Dr. Lobdell's
Experience at Aintab and Oorfa.--Outrage at Diarbekir.--Descent of
the Tigris.--Diarbekir a Year later.--Congregational Singing at
Mosul.--Dr. Lobdell as a Medical Missionary.--The Yazidees.--Dr.
Lobdell's Visit to Oroomiah.--His Views of the Ecclesiastical Policy
of the Mission.--Return to Mosul.--The Church at Diarbekir
reorganized.--Strength out of Weakness.--Native Preacher at
Haine.--The Gospel at Cutterbul.--Relief at Mosul.--A Special Danger
growing out of the Crimean War.--Excessive Heat.--Death of Mrs.
Williams.--Dr. Lobdell visits Bagdad.--His Sickness, Death, and
Character.--Religious Services at Diarbekir.--The Gospels in
Koordish.--New Station at Mardin.--Remarkable Case of Conversion.
--New Station at Bitlis.--Death of Mrs. Marsh.--Return of Mrs.
Lobdell with Mr. Marsh.--Difficulties in the way of occupying
Mosul.--Great Prosperity at Diarbekir.--Close of the Assyria
Mission.
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE NESTORIANS.--1851-1857.
Mr. Stoddard's Reception on his Return.--Death of Judith Perkins.
--Progress in the Mountains.--Progress on the Plain.--The
Seminaries.--A suggestive Case of Native Piety.--Scenes on a
Tour.--Nazee, a Christian Girl, at her Mountain Home.--Elevations of
Places.--A Russian Friend.--Mr. Stocking's Return Home.--A Robbery.
--Another Revival.--Seminary Graduates.--Extraordinary Enthusiasm.
--Books.--Death of Mr. Crane.--Audacity of Papal Missionaries.
--English and Russian Protection.--Mr. Cochran at Kosrova.--Matter
of Church Organization.--Death of Deacon Guwergis.--Hostility of the
Persian Government.--A new Revival.--Gawar vacated for a time.
--Discomfiture of the Enemy.--The Lord a Protector.--The Monthly
Concert.--Mountain Tours.--Search for a Western Station.--An
Interesting Event.--Violence of Government Agents.--How these Agents
were removed out of the Way.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE NESTORIANS.--1857-1863.
Death of Mr. Stoddard.--His Character.--Death of his Daughter.
--Retrospective View.--Death of Mrs. Rhea.--Decisive Indication of
Progress.--A Winter in Western Koordistan.--Mosul and its Vicinity.
--The Mountain Field.--An Appeal.--Failing Health.--New
Missionaries.--Death of Mr. Thompson.--Failure of the Plan for a
Western Station.--Failure of Mr. Cobb's Health.--The Nestorian
Helpers.--Tenth Revival in the Seminary.--Literary Treasures of the
Nestorians.--Marriage of Mar Yohanan.--Advance towards Church
Organization.--Death of the Patriarch.--Extraordinary Outburst of
Liberality.--Dr. Dwight's Visit to Oroomiah.--His Opinion of the
Church Policy of the Mission.--Improvements.--Appearance of the
Native Preachers.--Death of Mr. Breath.--Apprehended Aggressions
from Russian Ecclesiastics.--More Revivals.--Death of Mar
Elias.--His Character.--Armenians on the Plain of Oroomiah.--Manual
for the Reformed Church.--Retrospect of the Mission.--Miss Rice in
sole Charge of the Female Seminary.--Care of the English Government
for the Nestorians.
CHAPTER XXX. THIRTY YEARS AMONG THE JEWS.--1826-1856.
The First Missionaries.--Arrival of Mr. Schauffler at
Constantinople.--Jews in that City.--Baptism of a German
Jew.--Religious Excitements.--Visit to Odessa.--The Psalms in
Hebrew-Spanish.--Printing of the Old Testament at Vienna.--Whole
Bible in Hebrew-Spanish.--Unsuccessful Opposition.--Generous Aid
from Scotland.--Demand for the Scriptures.--The Grand Difficulty.
--Present Duty of Christian Churches.--The German Jews.--Interest of
Protestant Armenians in the Mission.--The Italian Jews.--Service for
the Germans.--Why so much Preparatory Work.--New Editions of the
Scriptures.--Important Testimony.--Change of Relations to
Constantinople Jews.--Attention turned to the Jews in Salonica.--The
Jewish Population there.--Missionaries to Salonica.--The Zoharites.
--Relations of the Jews to Christ's Kingdom.--The Practical
Inference.--Death of Mr. Maynard.--New Missionary.--The People
without Education.--Their Capacity for Self-righteousness.--Literary
Labors of Mr. Schauffler.--A New Missionary.--Insalubrity of the
Climate.--Dangerous Sickness.--Death of Mrs. Morgan.--Removal to
Constantinople.--Salonica partially reoccupied.--Labors among the
Smyrna Jews.--Labors of Mr. Schauffler.--Why the Mission was
relinquished.--Mr. Schauffler turns to the Moslems.
CHAPTER XXXI. THE BULGARIANS OF EUROPEAN TURKEY.--1857-1862.
The Geographical Position.--Moslem Population.--The Bulgarians.
--Their Origin and Early History.--Their Conversion to
Christianity.--Their Ecclesiastical Relations.--Their Aversion
to the Greek Hierarchy.--Danger from the Papacy.--Seasonable
Intervention of Protestantism.--Their Struggle with the Greek
Patriarch.--First Exploration of Roumelia, and Dr. Hamlin's
Report.--The Result.--Division of the Bulgarian Field between
Methodist Missionaries and those of the American Board.--Friendly
Cooeperation.--Report of a Tour by Mr. Bliss.--Commencement of the
Bulgarian Mission.--Papal Opposition.--The Mission enlarged.--The
Accessible Population.--Desire for Education.--Readiness to receive
the New Testament.--Church formed at Adrianople.--Labors of Mr.
Meriam.
CHAPTER XXXII. | 1,499.809564 |
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THE HALO
[Illustration: BRIGIT]
The
HALO
BY
BETTINA von HUTTEN
_Author of "PAM," "PAM DECIDES," ETC._
_WITH FRONTISPIECE_
By B. MARTIN JUSTICE
NEW YORK, DODD, MEAD
AND COMPANY, MCMVII
Copyright, 1907 By Bettina von Hutten
Published October, 1907
TO THE MEMORY OF
A DEAR LOST FRIEND
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
Bettina von Hutten
Thun, Switzerland, _September 5, 1907_
PROLOGUE
A straight stretch of dusty Norman road dappled with grotesque shadows
of the ancient apple-trees that, bent as if in patient endurance of the
weight of their thick-set scarlet fruit, edged it on both sides.
Under one of the trees, his back against its gnarled trunk, sat an old
man playing a cracked fiddle.
He played horribly, wrenching discords from the poor instrument,
grinning with a kind of vacant malice as it shrieked aloud in agony, and
rolling in their scarred sockets his long-blind eyes.
Beside him, his tongue hanging out, his head bent, sat a yellow dog with
a lead to his collar. Far and wide there was to be seen no other living
thing, and in the apple-scented heat the screeching of the violin was
like the resentful cries of some invisible creature being tortured.
"Papillon, _mon ami_," said the old man, ceasing playing for a moment,
"we are wasting time; the shadows are coming. See the baby shadow
apple-trees creeping across the road."
The yellow dog cocked an ear and said nothing.
"Time should never be lost, _petit chien jaune_--never be lost."
Then with a shrill laugh he ground his bow deep into the roughened
strings, and the painful music began again.
The yellow dog closed his eyes....
Suddenly far down the road appeared a low cloud of white dust, advancing
rapidly, and until it was nearly abreast of the fiddler, noiselessly,
and then, with the cessation of a quick padding sound of bare feet,
appeared a small, black-smocked boy, his sabots under his arm, his face
white with anger.
"Stop it!" he cried, "stop it!"
The old man turned. "Stop what, little seigneur," he asked with surly
amusement. "Does the high road belong to you?"
"You must stop it, I say, I cannot bear it."
The fiddler rose and danced about scraping more hideously than before.
"Ho, ho," he laughed, "ho, ho, ho, ho!"
The child threw his arms over his head in a gesture of unconscious
melodrama. "I cannot bear it--you are hurting it--I--I will kill you if
you do not stop." And he flew at his enemy, using his close-cropped
bullet-head as a battering ram.
For some seconds the absurd battle continued, and then, as unexpectedly
as he had begun it, the boy gave it up, and as the fiddler laughed
harshly, and the fiddle screeched, threw himself on the warm, dusty
grass and cried aloud.
There was a pause, after which, in silence, the old man groped his way
to the boy and knelt by him. "Hush, _mon petit_," he beseeched, "old
Luc-Ange is a monster to tease you. Do not cry, do not cry."
A curious apple, leaning over to listen, fell from its bough and dropped
with a thud into the grass.
The little Norman sat up. "I am not crying," he declared, turning a
brown, pugnacious face towards his late foe, "see, there are no tears."
The man touched his cheeks and eyelids delicately with his dirty
fingers. "True--no tears. But--why, why did you----"
"I was screaming because that noise was so horrible."
"And--that noise gave you pain?"
Bullet-Head frowned. Like all Normans, he resented his mental privacy
being intruded on by questions.
"Not pain; it gives me a horrible, hollow feeling in my inside," he
admitted grudgingly, "just under the belt."
After a moment he added, his dark eyes fixed angrily on the violin, "I
hate violins; they are dreadful things. M. Chalumeau had one. I broke
it."
The blind man laughed gratingly. "Because it made such a horrible
noise?"
"Yes."
Another pause, and then the man's expression of vacant malice turned to
one pitiful to see, one of indistinct yearning. "Give it to me," he
muttered, "they say I am half mad, and perhaps I am, but--I think I
could play once----" The yellow dog snapped at a fly, and his master
turned towards him, adding, "Before your time, Papillon, long before."
The bow touched the strings once or twice gently and ineffectively, and
then, his lips twitching, his eyelids as much closed as the scars on
their lids allowed them to be, he began to play.
It was the playing of one who had forgotten nearly everything of his
art, but it was sweet and true and strangely touching. To the boy it was
a miracle. He listened with the muscles of his face drawn tight in an
effort at self-control unusual in such a child, his square, brown hands
digging convulsively into the dry earth under the grass beside him. And
as the shadows of the trees crept over the road, and the oppressive heat
began to relent a little, the plaintive music went on and on, and scant,
painful tears stood on the player's face.
At last he stopped, and frowning in a puzzled way, said hoarsely, "What
is the matter, Papillon, where have we got to?"
The dog's tail stirred in answer, and at the same moment the other
listener burst into loud, emotional sobs, and the old man remembered.
"That's it, that's it. It's the boy who made me remember--'_Te rappelles
tu, te rappelles--tu, ma Toinon?_' Why do you cry, little boy? Why do
you cry?"
The boy dried his eyes on his smock sleeve.
"It--I am ten, too big to cry," he returned, with the evasion born in
him of his race, adding with the frankness peculiar to his own
personality, "but I did cry. It was | 1,499.998 |
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produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
A VIRGINIA GIRL IN THE
CIVIL WAR
A VIRGINIA GIRL
IN THE CIVIL WAR
1861-1865
BEING A RECORD OF THE ACTUAL EXPERIENCES
OF THE WIFE OF A CONFEDERATE OFFICER
_COLLECTED AND EDITED BY_
MYRTA LOCKETT AVARY
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1903
COPYRIGHT, 1903
BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
_Published February, 1903_
INTRODUCTION
This history was told over the tea-cups. One winter, in the South, I
had for my neighbor a gentle, little brown-haired lady, who spent many
evenings at my fireside, as I at hers, where with bits of needlework
in our hands we gossiped away as women will. I discovered in her
an unconscious heroine, and her Civil War experiences made ever an
interesting topic. Wishing to share with others the reminiscences she
gave me, I seek to present them here in her own words. Just as they
stand, they are, I believe, unique, possessing at once the charm of
romance and the veracity of history. They supply a graphic, if artless,
picture of the social life of one of the most interesting and dramatic
periods of our national existence. The stories were not related in
strict chronological sequence, but I have endeavored to arrange them
in that way. Otherwise, I have made as few changes as possible. Out of
deference to the wishes of living persons, her own and her husband’s
real names have been suppressed and others substituted; in the case of
a few of their close personal friends, and of some whose names would
not be of special historical value, the same plan has been followed.
Those who read this book are admitted to the sacred councils of close
friends, and I am sure they will turn with reverent fingers these pages
of a sweet and pure woman’s life--a life on which, since those fireside
talks of ours, the Death-Angel has set his seal.
Memoirs and journals written not because of their historical or
political significance, but because they are to the writer the natural
expression of what life has meant to him in the moment of living, have
a value entirely apart from literary quality. They bring us close to
the human soul--the human soul in undress. We find ourselves without
preface or apology in personal, intimate relation with whatever makes
the yesterday, to-day, to-morrow of the writer. When this current
of events and conditions is impelled and directed by a vital and
formative period in the history of a nation, we have only to follow
its course to see what history can never show us, and what fiction can
unfold to us only in part--how the people thought, felt, and lived who
were not making history, or did not know that they were.
This is the essential value of A Virginia Girl in the Civil War: it
shows us simply, sincerely, and unconsciously what life meant to an
American woman during the vital and formative period of American
history. That this American woman was also a Virginian with all a
Virginian’s love for Virginia and loyalty to the South, gives to her
record of those days that are still “the very fiber of us” a fidelity
rarely found in studies of local color. Meanwhile, her grateful
affection for the Union soldiers, officers and men, who served and
shielded her, should lift this story to a place beyond the pale of
sectional prejudice.
MYRTA LOCKETT AVARY.
NEW YORK, _November 1, 1902_.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--HOME LIFE IN A SOUTHERN HARBOR 1
II.--HOW I MET DAN GREY 12
III.--THE FIRST DAYS OF THE CONFEDERACY 22
IV.--THE REALITIES OF WAR 38
V.--I MEET BELLE BOYD AND SEE DICK IN A NEW LIGHT 51
VI.--A FAITHFUL SLAVE AND A HOSPITAL WARD 59
VII.--TRAVELING THROUGH DIXIE IN WAR TIMES 69
VIII.--BY FLAG OF TRUCE 83
IX.--I MAKE UP MY MIND TO RUN THE BLOCKADE 91
X.--I CROSS THE COUNTRY IN AN AMBULANCE AND THE
PAMUNKEY ON A LIGHTER 101
XI.--THE OLD ORDER 113
XII.--A DANGEROUS MASQUERADE 124
XIII.--A LAST FAREWELL 139
XIV.--THE LITTLE JEW BOY AND THE PROVOST’S DEPUTY 144
XV.--I FALL INTO THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY 150
XVI.--THE FLOWER OF CHIVALRY 172
XVII.--PRISONERS OF THE UNITED STATES 188
XVIII.--WITHIN OUR LINES 211
XIX.--MY COMRADE GENERAL JEB STUART 230
XX.--“WHOSE BUSINESS ’TIS TO DIE” 244
XXI.--RESCUED BY THE FOE 263
XXII.--WITH DAN AT CHARLOTTESVILLE 285
XXIII.--“INTO THE JAWS OF DEATH” 297
XXIV.--BY THE SKIN OF OUR TEETH 315
XXV.--THE BEGINNING OF THE END 330
XXVI.--HOW WE LIVED IN THE LAST DAYS OF THE
CONFEDERACY 349
XXVII.--UNDER THE STARS AND STRIPES 365
A VIRGINIA GIRL IN THE CIVIL WAR
CHAPTER I
HOME LIFE IN A SOUTHERN HARBOR
Many years ago I heard a prominent lawyer of Baltimore, who had just
returned from a visit to Charleston, say that the Charlestonians were
so in the habit of antedating everything with the Civil War that when
he commented to one of them upon the beauty of the moonlight on the
Battery, his answer was, | 1,500.098276 |
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file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
[Illustration]
The Conquest
_The Story of a <DW64> Pioneer_
BY THE PION | 1,500.1184 |
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E-text prepared by sp1nd, cm, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net) 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/memoryhowtodevel00atki
MEMORY
* * * * *
THE NEW PSYCHOLOGY BOOKS
By William Walker Atkinson
In the past few years a widespread mental and spiritual awakening has
taken place among the people of this country. And this new awakening has
been very aptly called THE NEW PSYCHOLOGY MOVEMENT, because it has to do
with the development and expression of the mind, or soul, of both the
individual and the nation.
YOUR MIND AND HOW TO USE IT.
THE MASTERY OF BEING.
MEMORY: HOW TO DEVELOP, TRAIN AND USE IT.
THE PSYCHOLOGY OF SALESMANSHIP.
Although each book stands alone as an authority on the subject treated,
yet one idea runs through the series binding them together to make a
complete whole.
Uniform Postpaid Price of Each Volume is $1.60.
NEW THOUGHT: ITS HISTORY AND PRINCIPLES
This is Mr. Atkinson's complete statement of the history and principles
of the great New Thought movement of which the new psychology is a
phase. This volume is bound in artistic paper cover, 36 pages, price
28c. postpaid.
HUMAN EFFICIENCY BOOKS
By Elizabeth Towne
THE LIFE POWER AND HOW TO USE IT Price $1.60.
FIFTEEN LESSONS IN NEW THOUGHT, (formerly Lessons in Living). Price
$1.60.
PRACTICAL METHODS FOR SELF-DEVELOPMENT: SPIRITUAL, MENTAL, PHYSICAL.
Price $1.60.
EXPERIENCES IN SELF-HEALING. Price, 55c.
JUST HOW TO WAKE THE SOLAR PLEXUS. Price 28c.
HOW TO TRAIN CHILDREN AND PARENTS. Price 28c.
These are among the most popular of Mrs. Towne's books. Any or all sent
postpaid on receipt of price.
The Elizabeth Towne Company, Holyoke, Mass.
* * * * *
MEMORY
How to Develop, Train and Use It
by
WILLIAM WALKER ATKINSON
L. N. Fowler & Company
7, Imperial Arcade, Ludgate Circus
London, E.C., England
1919
The Elizabeth Towne Co.
Holyoke, Mass.
Copyright 1912
By
Elizabeth Towne
CONTENTS
I. Memory: Its Importance 7
II. Cultivation of the Memory 17
III. Celebrated Cases of Memory 27
IV. Memory Systems 37
V. The Subconscious Record-File 48
VI. Attention 58
VII. Association 70
VIII. Phases of Memory 81
IX. Training the Eye 90
X. Training the Ear 101
XI. How to Remember Names 111
XII. How to Remember Faces 121
XIII. How to Remember Places 130
XIV. How to Remember Numbers 140
XV. How to Remember Music 152
XVI. How to Remember Occurrences 160
XVII. How to Remember Facts 168
XVIII. How to Remember Words, etc. 178
XIX. How to Remember Books, Plays,
Tales, etc. 186
XX. General Instructions 197
CHAPTER I.
MEMORY: ITS IMPORTANCE.
It needs very little argument to convince the average thinking person of
the great importance of memory, although even then very few begin to
realize just how important is the function of the mind that has to do
with the retention of mental impressions. The first thought of the
average person when he is asked to consider the importance of memory, is
its use in the affairs of every-day life, along developed and cultivated
lines, as contrasted with the lesser degrees of its development. In
short, one generally thinks of memory in its phase of "a good memory" as
contrasted with the opposite phase of "a poor memory." But there is a
much broader and fuller meaning of the term than that of even this
important phase.
It is true that the success of the individual in his every-day business,
profession, trade or other occupation depends very materially upon the
possession of a good memory. His value in any walk in life depends to a
great extent upon the degree of memory he may have developed. His memory
of faces, names, facts, events, circumstances and other things
concerning his every-day work is the measure of his ability to
accomplish his task. And in the social intercourse of men and women, the
possession of a retentive memory, well stocked with available facts,
renders its possessor a desirable member of society. And in the higher
activities of thought, the memory comes as an invaluable aid to the
individual in marshalling the bits and sections of knowledge he may have
acquired, and passing them in review before his cognitive
faculties--thus does the soul review its mental possessions. As
Alexander Smith has said: "A man's real possession is his memory; in
nothing else is he rich; in nothing else is he poor." Richter has said:
"Memory is the only paradise from which we cannot be driven away. Grant
but memory to us, and we can lose nothing by death." Lactantius says:
"Memory tempers prosperity, mitigates adversity, controls youth, and
delights old age."
But even the above phases of memory represent but a small segment of its
complete circle. Memory is more than "a good memory"--it is the means
whereby we perform the largest share of our mental work. As Bacon has
said: "All knowledge is but remembrance." And Emerson: "Memory is a
primary and fundamental faculty, without which none other can work: the
cement, the bitumen, the matrix in which the other faculties are
embedded. Without it all life and thought were an unrelated succession."
And Burke: "There is no faculty of the mind which can bring its energy
into effect unless the memory be stored with ideas for it to look upon."
And Basile: "Memory is the cabinet of imagination, the treasury of
reason, the registry of conscience, and the council chamber of thought."
Kant pronounced memory to be "the most wonderful of the faculties." Kay,
one of the best authorities on the subject has said, regarding it:
"Unless the mind possessed the power of treasuring up and recalling its
past experiences, no knowledge of any kind could be acquired. If every
sensation, thought, or emotion passed entirely from the mind the moment
it ceased to be present, then it would be as if it had not been; and it
could not be recognized or named should it happen to return. Such an one
would not only be without knowledge,--without experience gathered from
the past,--but without purpose, aim, or plan regarding the future, for
these imply knowledge and require memory. Even voluntary motion, or
motion for a purpose, could have no existence without memory, for memory
is involved in every purpose. Not only the learning of the scholar, but
the inspiration of the poet, the genius of the painter, the heroism of
the warrior, all depend upon memory. Nay, even consciousness itself
could have no existence without memory for every act of consciousness
involves a change from a past state to a present, and did the past state
vanish the moment it was past, there could be no consciousness of
change. Memory, therefore, may be said to be involved in all conscious
existence--a property of every conscious being!"
In the building of character and individuality, the memory plays an
important part, for upon the strength of the impressions received, and
the firmness with which they are retained, depends the fibre of
character and individuality. Our experiences are indeed the stepping
stones to greater attainments, and at the same time our guides and
protectors from danger. If the memory serves us well in this respect we
are saved the pain of repeating the mistakes of the past, and may also
profit by remembering and thus avoiding the mistakes of others. As
Beattie says: "When memory is preternaturally defective, experience and
knowledge will be deficient in proportion, and imprudent conduct and
absurd opinion are the necessary consequence." Bain says: "A character
retaining a feeble hold of bitter experience, or genuine delight, and
unable to revive afterwards the impression of the time is in reality the
victim of an intellectual weakness under the guise of a moral weakness.
To have constantly before us an estimate of the things that affect us,
true to the reality, is one precious condition for having our will
always stimulated with an accurate reference to our happiness. The
thoroughly educated man, in this respect, is he that can carry with him
at all times the exact estimate of what he has enjoyed or suffered from
every object that has ever affected him, and in case of encounter can
present to the enemy as strong a front as if he were under the genuine
impression. A full and accurate memory, for pleasure or for pain, is the
intellectual basis both of prudence as regards self, and sympathy as
regards others."
So, we see that the cultivation of the memory is far more than the
cultivation and development of a single mental faculty--it is the
cultivation and development of our entire mental being--the development
of our _selves_.
To many persons the words memory, recollection, and remembrance, have
the same meaning, but there is a great difference in the exact shade of
meaning of each term. The student of this book should make the
distinction between the terms, for by so doing he will be better able to
grasp the various points of advice and instruction herein given. Let us
examine these terms.
Locke in his celebrated work, the "Essay Concerning Human
Understanding" has clearly stated the difference between the meaning of
these several terms. He says: "Memory is the power to revive again in
our minds those ideas which after imprinting, have disappeared, or have
been laid aside out of sight--when an idea again recurs without the
operation of the like object on the external sensory, it is
_remembrance_; if it be sought after by the mind, and with pain and
endeavor found, and brought again into view, it is _recollection_."
Fuller says, commenting on this: "Memory is the power of reproducing in
the mind former impressions, or percepts. Remembrance and Recollection
are the exercise of that power, the former being involuntary or
spontaneous, the latter volitional. We remember because we cannot help
it but we recollect only through positive effort. The act of
remembering, taken by itself, is involuntary. In other words, when the
mind remembers without having tried to remember, it acts spontaneously.
Thus it may be said, in the narrow, contrasted senses of the two terms,
that we remember by chance, but recollect by intention, and if the
endeavor be successful that which is reproduced becomes, by the very
effort to bring it forth, more firmly intrenched in the mind than ever."
But the New Psychology makes a little different distinction from that of
Locke, as given above. It uses the word memory not only in his sense of
"The power to revive, etc.," but also in the sense of the activities of
the mind which tend to receive and store away the various impressions of
the senses, and the ideas conceived by the mind, to the end that they
may be reproduced voluntarily, or involuntarily, thereafter. The
distinction between remembrance and recollection, as made by Locke, is
adopted as correct by The New Psychology.
It has long been recognized that the memory, in all of its phases, is
capable of development, culture, training and guidance through
intelligent exercise. Like any other faculty of mind, or physical part,
muscle or limb, it may be improved and strengthened. But until recent
years, the entire efforts of these memory-developers were directed to
the strengthening of that phase of the memory known as "recollection,"
which, you will remember, Locke defined as an idea or impression "sought
after by the mind, and with pain and endeavor found, and brought again
into view." The New Psychology goes much further than this. While
pointing out the most improved and scientific methods for
"re-collecting" the impressions and ideas of the memory, it also
instructs the student in the use of the proper methods whereby the
memory may be stored with clear and distinct impressions which will,
thereafter, flow naturally and involuntarily into the field of
consciousness when the mind is thinking upon the associated subject or
line of thought; and which may also be "re-collected" by a voluntary
effort with far less expenditure of energy than under the old methods
and systems.
You will see this idea carried out in detail, as we progress with the
various stages of the subject, in this work. You will see that the first
thing to do is _to find something to remember_; then to impress that
thing clearly and distinctly upon the receptive tablets of the memory;
then to exercise the remembrance in the direction of bringing out the
stored-away facts of the memory; then to acquire the scientific methods
of recollecting special items of memory that may be necessary at some
special time. This is the natural method in memory cultivation, as
opposed to the artificial systems that you will find mentioned in
another chapter. It is not | 1,500.298417 |
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Produced by Mark C. Orton and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
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[Illustration: A. W. Elson & Co., Boston: ANDREW JOHNSON]
Statesman Edition VOL. XIV
Charles Sumner
HIS COMPLETE WORKS
With Introduction
BY
HON. GEORGE FRISBIE HOAR
[Illustration]
BOSTON
LEE AND SHEPARD
MCM
COPYRIGHT, 1874 AND 1875,
BY
FRANCIS V. BALCH, EXECUTOR.
COPYRIGHT, 1900,
BY
LEE AND SHEPARD.
Statesman Edition.
LIMITED TO ONE THOUSAND COPIES.
OF WHICH THIS IS
No. 565
Norwood Press:
NORWOOD, MASS., U.S.A.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME XIV.
PAGE
MAJORITY OR PLURALITY IN THE ELECTION OF SENATORS. Speech in
the Senate, on the Contested Election of Hon. John P. Stockton,
of New Jersey, March 23, 1866 1
A SENATOR CANNOT VOTE FOR HIMSELF. Speech in the Senate, on the
Vote of Hon. John P. Stockton affirming his Seat in the Senate,
March 26, 1866 15
REMODELLING OF THE SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES. Remarks
in the Senate, on the Bill to reorgan | 1,500.405759 |
2023-11-16 18:42:04.3858190 | 1,414 | 11 | CHINA***
This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler.
[Picture: Tartar and Chinese customes]
[Picture: Title page]
TRAVELS
IN
TARTARY, THIBET, AND CHINA,
DURING THE YEARS 1844-5-6.
BY M. HUC.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY W. HAZLITT.
VOL. I.
* * * * *
ILLUSTRATED WITH FIFTY ENGRAVINGS ON WOOD.
* * * * *
* * * * *
LONDON:
OFFICE OF THE NATIONAL ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY,
227 STRAND.
[Picture: Decorative graphic]
LONDON:
VIZETELLY AND COMPANY, PRINTERS AND ENGRAVERS,
PETERBOROUGH COURT, FLEET STREET.
PREFACE.
The Pope having, about the year 1844, been pleased to establish an
Apostolic Vicariat of Mongolia, it was considered expedient, with a view
to further operations, to ascertain the nature and extent of the diocese
thus created, and MM. Gabet and Huc, two Lazarists attached to the petty
mission of Si-Wang, were accordingly deputed to collect the necessary
information. They made their way through difficulties which nothing but
religious enthusiasm in combination with French elasticity could have
overcome, to Lha-Ssa, the capital of Thibet, and in this seat of Lamanism
were becoming comfortably settled, with lively hopes and expectations of
converting the Tale-Lama into a branch-Pope, when the Chinese Minister,
the noted Ke-Shen, interposed on political grounds, and had them deported
to China. M. Gabet was directed by his superiors to proceed to France,
and lay a complaint before his Government, of the arbitrary treatment
which he and his fellow Missionary had experienced. In the steamer which
conveyed him from Hong Kong to Ceylon, he found Mr. Alexander Johnstone,
secretary to Her Majesty's Plenipotentiary in China; and this gentleman
perceived so much, not merely of entertainment, but of important
information in the conversations he had with M. Gabet, that he committed
to paper the leading features of the Reverend Missionary's statements,
and on his return to his official post, gave his manuscripts to Sir John
Davis, who, in his turn, considered their contents so interesting, that
he embodied a copy of them in a dispatch to Lord Palmerston.
Subsequently the two volumes, here translated, were prepared by M. Huc,
and published in Paris. Thus it is, that to Papal aggression in the
East, the Western World is indebted for a work exhibiting, for the first
time, a complete representation of countries previously almost unknown to
Europeans, and indeed considered practically inaccessible; and of a
religion which, followed by no fewer than 170,000,000 persons, presents
the most singular analogies in its leading features with the Catholicism
of Rome.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME I.
PAGE
PREFACE
CONTENTS iii
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS vii
CHAPTER I.
French Mission of Peking--Glance at the Kingdom of 9
Ouniot--Preparations for Departure--Tartar-Chinese
Inn--Change of Costume--Portrait and Character of
Samdadchiemba--Sain-Oula (the Good Mountain)--The Frosts
on Sain-Oula, and its Robbers--First Encampment in the
Desert--Great Imperial Forest--Buddhist Monuments on the
summit of the Mountains--Topography of the Kingdom of
Gechekten--Character of its Inhabitants--Tragical working
of a Mine--Two Mongols desire to have their horoscope
taken--Adventure of Samdadchiemba--Environs of the town of
Tolon-Noor
CHAPTER II.
Inn at Tolon-Noor--Aspect of the City--Great Foundries of 33
Bells and Idols--Conversation with the Lamas of
Tolon-Noor--Encampment--Tea Bricks--Meeting with Queen
Mourguevan--Taste of the Mongols for Pilgrimages--Violent
Storm--Account from a Mongol Chief of the War of the
English against China--Topography of the Eight Banners of
the Tchakar--The Imperial Herds--Form and Interior of the
Tents--Tartar Manners and Customs--Encampment at the Three
Lakes--Nocturnal Apparitions--Samdadchiemba relates the
Adventures of his Youth--Grey Squirrels of
Tartary--Arrival at Chaborte
CHAPTER III.
Festival of the Loaves of the Moon--Entertainment in a 61
Mongol Tent--Toolholos, or Rhapsodists of
Tartary--Invocation to Timour--Tartar Education--Industry
of the Women--Mongols in quest of missing Animals--Remains
of an abandoned City--Road from Peking to
Kiaktha--Commerce between China and Russia--Russian
Convent at Peking--A Tartar solicits us to cure his Mother
from a dangerous Illness--Tartar Physicians--The
Intermittent Fever Devil--Various forms of Sepulture in
use among the Mongols--Lamasery of the Five
Towers--Obsequies of the Tartar Kings--Origin of the
kingdom of Efe--Gymnastic Exercises of the
Tartars--Encounter with three Wolves--Mongol Carts
CHAPTER IV.
Young Lama converted to Christianity--Lamasery of 85
Tchortchi--Alms for the Construction of Religious
Houses--Aspect of the Buddhist Temples--Recitation of Lama
Prayers--Decorations, Paintings, and Sculptures of the
Buddhist Temples--Topography of the Great Kouren in the
country of the Khalkhas--Journey of the Guison-Tamba to
Peking--The Kouren of the Thousand Lamas--Suit between the
Lama-King and his Ministers--Purchase of a Kid--Eagles of
Tartary--Western Toumet--Agricultural Tartars--Arrival at
the Blue Town--Glance at the Mantchou Nation--Mantchou
Literature--State of Christianity in
Mantchouria | 1,500.405859 |
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Produced by David A. Schwan
THE CASE OF SUMMERFIELD
By William Henry Rhodes
With an Introduction by Geraldine Bonner
THE INTRODUCTION
The greatest master of the short story our country has known found his
inspiration and produced his best work in California. It is now nearly
forty years since "The Luck of Roaring Camp" appeared, and a line of
successors, more or less worthy, have been following along the
trail blazed by Bret Harte. They have given us matter of many kinds,
realistic, romantic, tragic, humorous, weird. In this mass of material
much that was good has been lost. The columns of newspapers swallowed
some; weeklies, that lived for a brief day, carried others to the grave
with them. Now and then chance or design interposed, and some fragment
of value was not allowed to perish. It is matter for congratulation that
the story in this volume was one of those saved from oblivion.
In 1871 a San Francisco paper published a tale entitled The Case of
Summerfield. The author concealed himself under the name of "Caxton," a
pseudonym unknown at the time. The story made an immediate impression,
and the remote little world by the Golden Gate was shaken into startled
and enquiring astonishment. Wherever people met, The Case of Summerfield
was on men's tongues. Was Caxton's contention possible? Was it true
that, by the use of potassium, water could be set on fire, and that
any one possessing this baneful secret could destroy the world? The
plausibility with which the idea was presented, the bare directness
of the style, added to its convincing power. It sounded too real to be
invention, was told with too frank a simplicity to be all imagination.
People could not decide where truth and fiction blended, and the name of
Caxton leaped into local fame.
The author of the tale was a lawyer, W. H. Rhodes, a man of standing and
ability, interested in scientific research. He had written little; what
time he had been able to spare from his work, had been given to studies
in chemistry whence he had drawn the inspiration for such stories as The
Case of Summerfield. With him the writing of fiction was a pastime, not
a profession. He wrote because he wanted to, from the urgence of an idea
pressing for utterance, not from the more imperious necessity of keeping
the pot boiling and of there being a roof against the rain. Literary
creation was to him a rest, a matter of holiday in the daily round of a
man's labor to provide for his own.
His output was small. One slender volume contains all he wrote: a few
poems, half a dozen stories. In all of these we can feel the spell
exercised over him by the uncanny, the terrible, the weirdly grotesque.
His imagination played round those subjects of fantastic horror which
had so potent an attraction for Fitz James O'Brien, the writer whom he
most resembles. There was something of Poe's cold pleasure in
dissecting the abnormally horrible in "The Story of John Pollexfen,"
the photographer, who, in order to discover a certain kind of lens,
experimented with living eyes. His cat and dog each lost an eye, and
finally a young girl was found willing to sell one of hers that she
might have money to help her lover. But none of the other stories shows
the originality and impressively realistic tone which distinguish The
Case of Summerfield. In this he achieved the successful combination of
audacity of theme with a fitting incisiveness of style. It alone rises
above the level of the merely ingenious and clever; it alone of his work
was worth preserving.
Scattered through the ranks of writers, part of whose profession is a
continuous, unflagging output, are these "one story men," who, in some
propitious moment, when the powers of brain and heart are intensified by
a rare and happy alchemy, produce a single masterpiece. The vision
and the dream have once been theirs, and, though they may never again
return, the product of the glowing moment is ours to rejoice in and
wonder at. Unfortunately the value of these accidental triumphs is not
always seen. They go their way and are submerged in the flood of fiction
that the presses pour upon a defenseless country. Now and then one
unexpectedly hears of them, their unfamiliar titles rise to the surface
when writers gather round the table. An investigator in the forgotten
files of magazinedom has found one, and tells of his treasure trove as
the diver of his newly discovered pearl. Then comes a publisher, who,
diligent and patient, draws them from their hiding-places, shakes off
the dust, and gives them to a public which once applauded and has since
forgotten.
Such has been the fate of The Case of Summerfield. Thirty-five years
ago, in the town that clustered along the edge of San Francisco Bay, it
had its brief award of attention. But the San Francisco of that day
was very distant--a gleam on the horizon against the blue line of the
Pacific. It took a mighty impetus to carry its decisions and opinions
across the wall of the Sierra and over the desert to the East. Fame and
reputation, unless the greatest, had not vitality for so long a flight.
So the strange and fantastic story should come as a discovery, the one
remarkable achievement of an unknown author, who, unfortunately, is no
longer here to enjoy an Indian summer of popularity.
Geraldine Bonner.
THE CASE OF SUMMERFIELD
The following manuscript was found among the effects of the late
Leonidas Parker, in relation to one Gregory Summerfield, or, as he was
called at the time those singular events first attracted public notice,
"The Man with a Secret." Parker was an eminent lawyer, a man of firm
will, fond of dabbling in the occult sciences, but never allowing this
tendency to interfere with the earnest practice of his profession. This
astounding narrative is prefaced by the annexed clipping from the Auburn
Messenger of November 1, 1870:
A few days since, we called public attention to the singular conduct of
James G. Wilkins, justice of the peace for the "Cape Horn" district, in
this county, in discharging without trial a man named Parker, who was,
as we still think, seriously implicated in the mysterious death of an
old man named Summerfield, who, our readers will probably remember, met
so tragical an end on the line of the Central Pacific Railroad, in the
month of October last. We have now to record another bold outrage on
public justice, in connection with the same affair. The grand jury of
Placer County has just adjourned, without finding any bill against the
person named above. Not only did they refuse to find a true bill, or
to make any presentment, but they went one step further toward the
exoneration of the offender; they specially ignored the indictment which
our district attorney deemed it his duty to present. The main facts in
relation to the arrest and subsequent discharge of Parker may be summed
up in few words:
It appears that, about the last of October, one Gregory Summerfield,
an old man nearly seventy years of age, in company with Parker, took
passage for Chicago, via the Pacific Railroad, and about the middle of
the afternoon reached the neighborhood of Cape Horn, in this county.
Nothing of any special importance seems to have attracted the attention
of any of the passengers toward these persons until a few moments before
passing the dangerous curve in the track, overlooking the North Fork of
the American River, at the place called Cape Horn. As our readers
are aware, the road at this point skirts a precipice, with rocky
perpendicular sides, extending to the bed of the stream, nearly
seventeen hundred feet below. Before passing the curve, Parker was heard
to comment upon the sublimity of the scenery they were approaching, and
finally requested the old man to leave the car and stand upon the open
platform, in order to obtain a better view of the tremendous chasm
and the mountains just beyond. The two men left the car, and a moment
afterward a cry of horror was heard by all the passengers, and the
old man was observed to fall at least one thousand feet upon the crags
below. The train was stopped for a few moments, but, fearful of a
collision if any considerable length of time should be lost in an
unavailing search for the mangled remains, it soon moved on again,
and proceeded as swiftly as possible to the next station. There the
miscreant Parker was arrested, and conveyed to the office of the nearest
justice of the peace for examination. We understand that he refused to
give any detailed account of the transaction, only that "the deceased
either fell or was thrown from the moving train."
The examination was postponed until the arrival of Parker's counsel,
O'Connell & Kilpatrick, of Grass Valley, and after they reached Cape
Horn not a single word could be extracted from the prisoner. It is said
that the inquisition was a mere farce; there being no witnesses present
except one lady passenger, who, with commendable spirit, volunteered to
lay over one day, to give in her testimony. We also learn that, after
the trial, the justice, together with the prisoner and his counsel, were
closeted in secret session for more than two hours; at the expiration of
which time the judge resumed his seat upon the bench, and discharged the
prisoner!
Now, we have no desire to do injustice toward any of the parties to
this singular transaction, much less to arm public sentiment against
an innocent man. But we do affirm that there is, there must be, some
profound mystery at the bottom of this affair, and we shall do our
utmost to fathom the secret.
Yes, there is a secret and mystery connected with the disappearance of
Summerfield, and the sole object of this communication is to clear it
up, and place myself right in the public estimation. But, in order to
do so, it becomes essentially necessary to relate all the circumstances
connected with my first and subsequent acquaintance with Summerfield. To
do this intelligibly, I shall have to go back twenty-two years.
It is well known amongst my intimate friends that I resided in the late
Republic of Texas for many years antecedent to my immigration to this
State. During the year 1847, whilst but a boy, and residing on the
sea-beach some three or four miles from the city of Galveston, Judge
Wheeler, at that time Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Texas, paid
us a visit, and brought with him a gentleman, whom he had known several
years previously on the Sabine River, in the eastern part of that State.
This gentleman was introduced to us by the name of Summerfield. At
that time he was past the prime of life, slightly gray, and inclined to
corpulency. He was of medium height, and walked proudly erect, as though
conscious of superior mental attainments. His face was one of those
which, once seen, can never be forgotten. The forehead was broad, high,
and protuberant. It was, besides, deeply graven with wrinkles, and
altogether was the most intellectual that I had ever seen. It bore some
resemblance to that of Sir Isaac Newton, but still more to Humboldt or
Webster. The eyes were large, deep-set, and lustrous with a light that
seemed kindled in their own depths. In color they were gray, and whilst
in conversation absolutely blazed with intellect. His mouth was large,
but cut with all the precision of a sculptor's chiseling. He was rather
pale, but, when excited, his complexion | 1,500.900791 |
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provided by the Million Book Project.
CRUSADERS OF NEW FRANCE
THE CHRONICLES OF AMERICA SERIES
ALLEN JOHNSON EDITOR
GERHARD R. LOMER
CHARLES W. JEFFERYS
ASSISTANT EDITORS
CRUSADERS OF NEW FRANCE
A CHRONICLE OF THE FLEUR-DE-LIS IN THE WILDERNESS
BY WILLIAM BENNETT MUNRO
1918
To my good friend
FATHER HENRI BEAUDE
(_Henri d'Arles_)
this tribute to the men
of his race and faith is
affectionately inscribed.
CONTENTS
I. FRANCE OF THE BOURBONS
II. A VOYAGEUR OF BRITTANY
III. THE FOUNDING OF NEW FRANCE
IV. THE AGE OF LOUIS QUATORZE
V. THE IRON GOVERNOR
VI. LA SALLE AND THE VOYAGEURS
VII. THE CHURCH IN NEW FRANCE
VIII. SEIGNEURS OF OLD CANADA
IX. THE COUREURS-DE-BOIS
X. AGRICULTURE, INDUSTRY, AND TRADE
XI. HOW THE PEOPLE LIVED
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
INDEX
CRUSADERS OF NEW FRANCE
CHAPTER I
FRANCE OF THE BOURBONS
France, when she undertook the creation of a Bourbon empire beyond the
seas, was the first nation of Europe. Her population was larger than
that of Spain, and three times that of England. Her army in the days
of Louis Quatorze, numbering nearly a half-million in all ranks, was
larger than that of Rome at the height of the imperial power. No
nation since the fall of Roman supremacy had possessed such resources
for conquering and colonizing new lands. By the middle of the
seventeenth century Spain had ceased to be a dangerous rival; Germany
and Italy were at the time little more than geographical expressions,
while England was in the throes of the Puritan Revolution.
Nor was it only in the arts of war that the hegemony of the Bourbon
kingdom stood unquestioned. In art and education, in manners and
fashions, France also dominated the ideas of the old continent, the
dictator of social tastes as well as the grim warrior among the
nations. In the second half of the seventeenth century France might
justly claim to be both the heart and the head of Europe. Small wonder
it was that the leaders of such a nation should demand to see the
"clause in Adam's will" which bequeathed the New World to Spain and
Portugal. Small wonder, indeed, that the first nation of Europe should
insist upon a place in the sun to which her people might go to trade,
to make land yield its increase, and to widen the Bourbon sway. If
ever there was a land able and ready to take up the white man's
burden, it was the France of Louis XIV.
The power and prestige of France at this time may be traced, in the
main, to three sources. First there were the physical features, the
compactness of the kingdom, a fertile soil, a propitious climate, and
a frontage upon two great seas. In an age when so much of a nation's
wealth came from agriculture these were factors of great importance.
Only in commerce did the French people at this time find themselves
outstripped by their neighbors. Although both the Atlantic and the
Mediterranean bathed the shores of France, her people were being
outdistanced on the seas by the English and the Dutch, whose
commercial companies were exploiting the wealth of the new continents
both east and west. Yet in France there was food enough for all and to
spare; it was only because the means of distributing it were so poor
that some got more and others less than they required. France was
supporting at this time a population half as large as that of today.
Then there were qualities of race which helped to make the nation
great. At all periods in their history the French have shown an almost
inexhaustible stamina, an ability to bear disasters, and to rise from
them quickly, a courage and persistence that no obstacles seem able to
thwart. How often in the course of the centuries has France been torn
apart by internecine strife or thrown prostrate by her enemies only to
astonish the world by a superb display of recuperative powers! It was
France that first among the kingdoms of Europe rose from feudal chaos
to orderly nationalism; it was France that first among continental
countries after the Middle Ages established the reign of law
throughout a powerful realm. Though wars and turmoils almost without
end were a heavy drain upon Gallic vitality for many generations,
France achieved steady progress to primacy in the arts of peace.
None but a marvellous people could have made such efforts without
exhaustion, yet even now in the twentieth century the astounding vigor
of this race has not ceased to compel the admiration of mankind.
In the seventeenth century, moreover, France owed much of her national
power to a highly-centralized and closely-knit scheme of government.
Under Richelieu the strength of the monarchy had been enhanced and the
power of the nobility broken. When he began his personal rule, Louis
XIV continued his work of consolidation and in the years of his long
reign managed to centralize in the throne every vestige of political
power. The famous saying attributed to him, "The State! I am the
State!" embodied no idle boast. Nowhere was there a trace of
representative government, nowhere a constitutional check on the
royal power. There were councils of different sorts and with varied
jurisdictions, but men sat in them at the King's behest and were
removable at his will. There were _parlements_, too, but to mention
them without explanation would be only to let the term mislead, for
they were not representative bodies or parliaments in the ordinary
sense: their powers were chiefly judicial and they were no barrier in
the way of the steady march to absolutism. The political structure of
the Bourbon realm in the age of Louis XIV and afterwards was simple:
all the lines of control ran upwards and to a common center. And all
this made for unity and autocratic efficiency in finance, in war, and
in foreign affairs.
Another feature which fitted the nation for an imperial destiny was
the possession of a united and militant church. With heresy the
Gallican branch of the Catholic Church had fought a fierce struggle,
but, before the seventeenth century was far advanced, the battle had
been won. There were heretics in France even after Richelieu's time,
but they were no longer a source of serious discord. The Church,
now victorious over its foes, became militant, ready to carry its
missionary efforts to other lands--ready, in fact, for a new crusade.
These four factors, rare geographical advantages, racial qualities
of a high order, a strongly centralized scheme of government, and a
militant church, contributed largely to the prestige which France
possessed among European nations in the seventeenth, century. With all
these advantages she should have been the first and not the last to
get a firm footing in the new continents. Historians have recorded
their reasons why France did not seriously enter the field of American
colonization as early as England, but these reasons do not impress one
as being good. Foreign wars and internal religious strife are commonly
given and accepted as the true cause of French tardiness in following
up the pioneer work of Jacques Cartier and others. Yet not all the
energy of nearly twenty million people was being absorbed in these
troubles. There were men and money to spare, had the importance of the
work overseas only been adequately realized.
The main reason why France was last in the field is to be found in the
failure of her kings and ministers to realize until late in the day
how vast the possibilities of the new continent really were. In a
highly centralized and not over-populated state the authorities must
lead the way in colonial enterprises; the people will not of their
own initiative seek out and follow opportunities to colonize distant
lands. And in France the authorities were not ready to lead. Sully,
who stood supreme among the royal advisers in the closing years of
the sixteenth century, was opposed to colonial ventures under all
circumstances. "Far-off possessions," he declared, "are not suited to
the temperament or to the genius of Frenchmen, who to my great regret
have neither the perseverance nor the foresight needed for such
enterprises, but who ordinarily apply their vigor, minds, and courage
to things which are immediately at hand and constantly before their
eyes." Colonies beyond the seas, he believed, "would never be anything
but a great expense." That, indeed, was the orthodox notion in circles
surrounding the seat of royal power, and it was a difficult notion to
dislodge.
Never until the time of Richelieu was any intimation of the great
colonial opportunity, now quickly slipping by, allowed to reach
the throne, and then it was only an inkling, making but a slight
impression and soon virtually forgotten. Richelieu's great Company of
1627 made a brave start, but it did not hold the Cardinal's interest
very long. Mazarin, who succeeded Richelieu, took no interest in the
New World; the tortuous problems of European diplomacy appealed far
more strongly to his Italian imagination than did the vision of a New
France beyond the seas. It was not until Colbert took the reins
that official France really displayed an interest in the work of
colonization at all proportionate to the nation's power and resources.
Colbert was admirably fitted to become the herald of a greater France.
Coming from the ranks of the _bourgeoisie_, he was a man of affairs,
not a cleric or a courtier as his predecessors in office had been. He
had a clear conception of what he wanted and unwearied industry in
moving towards the desired end. His devotion to the King was beyond
question; he had native ability, patience, sound ideas, and a firm
will. Given a fair opportunity, he would have accomplished far more
for the glory of the fleur-de-lis in the region of the St. Lawrence
and the Great Lakes of America. But a thousand problems of home
administration were crowded upon him, problems of finance, of
industry, of ecclesiastical adjustment, and of social reconstruction.
In the first few years of his term as minister he could still find a
little time and thought for Canada, and during this short period he
personally conducted the correspondence with the colonial officials;
but after 1669 all this was turned over to the Minister of Marine, and
Colbert himself figured directly in the affairs of the colony no more.
The great minister of Louis XIV is remembered far more for his work at
home than for his services to New France.
As for the French monarchs of the seventeenth century, Louis XIV was
the first and only one to take an active and enduring interest in the
great crusade to the northern wilderness. He began his personal reign
about 1660 with a genuine display of zeal for the establishment of a
colony | 1,501.098641 |
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harmonized. Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
Obvious typos have been corrected. Please see the end of this book
for further notes.
THE STORY OF THE HILLS.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: NORHAM CASTLE. AFTER TURNER.]
THE
STORY OF THE HILLS.
A BOOK ABOUT MOUNTAINS
FOR GENERAL READERS.
BY
REV. H. N. HUTCHINSON, B.A., F.G.S.
AUTHOR OF "THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE EARTH."
With Sixteen Full-page Illustrations.
They are as a great and noble architecture, first giving shelter,
comfort, and rest; and covered also with mighty sculpture and painted
legend.--RUSKIN.
New York:
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND LONDON.
1892.
_Copyright, 1891_,
BY MACMILLAN AND CO.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
TO
ALL WHO LOVE MOUNTAINS AND HILLS
This little Book is Dedicated,
IN THE HOPE THAT EVEN A SLIGHT KNOWLEDGE OF THEIR PLACE IN
NATURE, AND PREVIOUS HISTORY, MAY ADD TO THE WONDER AND DELIGHT
WITH WHICH WE LOOK UPON THESE NOBLE FEATURES OF THE SURFACE OF
THE EARTH.
PREFACE.
Now that travelling is no longer a luxury for the rich, and thousands
of people go every summer to spend their holidays among the
mountains of Europe, and ladies climb Mont Blanc or ramble among the
Carpathians, there must be many who would like to know something of
the secret of the hills, their origin, their architecture, and the
forces that made them what they are.
For such this book is chiefly written. Those will best understand it
who take it with them on their travels, and endeavour by its use to
interpret what they see among the mountains; and they will find that
a little observation goes a long way to help them to read mountain
history.
It is hoped, however, that all, both young and old, who take an
intelligent interest in the world around, though they may never have
seen a mountain, may find these pages worth reading.
If readers do not find here answers to all their questions, they
may be reminded that it is not possible within the present limits
to give more than a brief sketch of the subject, leaving the gaps
to be filled in by a study of the larger and more important works
on geology. The author, assuming that the reader knows nothing of
this fascinating science, has endeavoured to interpret into ordinary
language the story of the hills as it is written in the rocks of
which they are made.
It can scarcely be denied that a little knowledge of natural objects
greatly adds to our appreciation of them, besides affording a deep
source of pleasure, in revealing the harmony, law, and order by which
all things in this wonderful world are governed. Mountains, when
once we begin to observe them, seem to become more than ever our
companions,--to take us into their counsels, and to teach us many a
lesson about the great part they play in the order of things. And
surely our admiration of their beauty is not lessened, but rather
increased, when we learn how much we and all living things owe to
the life-giving streams that flow continually from them. The writer
has, somewhat reluctantly, omitted certain parts of the subject
which, though very interesting to the geologist, can hardly be made
attractive to general readers.
Thus, the cause of earth movements, by which mountains are pushed up
far above the plains that lie at their feet, is at present a matter
of speculation; and it is difficult to express in ordinary language
the ideas that have been put forward on this subject. Again, the
curious internal changes, which we find to have taken place in the
rocks of which mountains are composed, are very interesting to those
who know something of the minerals of which rocks are made up, and
their chemical composition; but it was found impossible to render
these matters sufficiently simple.
So again with regard to the geological structure of mountain-chains.
This had to be very briefly treated, in order to avoid introducing
details which would be too complicated for a book of this kind.
The author desires to acknowledge his obligations to the writings
of Sir A. Geikie; Professor Bonney, Professor Green, and Professor
Shaler, of Harvard University; the volumes of the "Alpine Journal;"
"The Earth," by Reclus; the "Encyclopaedia Britannica." Canon Isaac
Taylor's "Words and Places," have also been made use of; and if in
every case the reference is not given, the writer hopes the omission
will be pardoned. A few passages from Mr. Ruskin's "Modern Painters"
have been quoted, in the hope that others may be led to read that
wonderful book, and to learn more about mountains and clouds, and
many other things, at the feet of one of the greatest teachers of the
century.
Some of our engravings are taken from the justly celebrated
photographs of the High Alps,[1] by the late Mr. W. Donkin, whose
premature death among the Caucasus Mountains was deeply deplored
by all. Those reproduced were kindly lent by his brother, Mr. A. E.
Donkin, of Rugby. To Messrs. Valentine & Son of Dundee, Mr. Wilson
of Aberdeen, and to Messrs. Frith we are indebted for permission to
reproduce some of their admirable photographs; also to Messrs. James
How & Sons of Farringdon Street, for three excellent photographs of
rock-sections taken with the microscope.
[1] Published by Messrs. Spooner, of the Strand.
CONTENTS.
Part I.
THE MOUNTAINS AS THEY ARE.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. MOUNTAINS AND MEN 3
II. THE USES OF MOUNTAINS 33
III. SUNSHINE AND STORM ON THE MOUNTAINS 70
IV. MOUNTAIN PLANTS AND ANIMALS 103
Part II.
CHAPTER PAGE
HOW THE MOUNTAINS WERE MADE.
V. HOW THE MATERIALS WERE BROUGHT TOGETHER 139
VI. HOW THE MOUNTAINS WERE UPHEAVED 174
VII. HOW THE MOUNTAINS WERE CARVED OUT 205
VIII. VOLCANIC MOUNTAINS 242
IX. MOUNTAIN ARCHITECTURE 282
X. THE AGES OF MOUNTAINS AND OTHER QUESTIONS 318
ILLUSTRATIONS.
NORHAM CASTLE. After Turner _Frontispiece_
BEN LOMOND. From a Photograph by J. Valentine 16
CLOUDS ON BEN NEVIS 38
SNOW ON THE HIGH ALPS. From a Photograph by
Mr. Donkin 64
A STORM ON THE LAKE OF THUN. After Turner 86
THE MATTERHORN. From a Photograph by Mr. Donkin 98
ON A GLACIER. 116
RED DEER. After Ansdell 133
CHALK ROCKS, FLAMBOROUGH HEAD. From a Photograph by
G. W. Wilson 152
MICROPHOTOGRAPHS ILLUSTRATING ROCK FORMATION 172
THE SKAEGGEDALSFORS, NORWAY. From a Photograph by
J. Valentine 192
THE MER DE GLACE AND MONT BUET. From a Photograph
by Mr. Donkin 229
THE ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS IN 1872. From an
Instantaneous Photograph 250
COLUMNAR BASALT AT CLAMSHELL CAVE, STAFFA. From
a Photograph by J. Valentine 280
MONT BLANC, SNOWFIELDS, GLACIERS, AND STREAMS. 312
MOUNTAIN IN THE YOSEMITE VALLEY. 336
ILLUSTRATIONS II.
Fig. 1. SECTION ACROSS THE WEALD OF KENT AND SURREY. 237
Fig. 2. THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND ON A TRUE
SCALE (after Geikie.) 237
Fig. 1. THE RANGES OF THE GREAT BASIN, WESTERN
STATES OF NORTH AMERICA, SHOWING A SERIES OF
GREAT FRACTURES AND TILTED MASSES OF ROCK. 272
Fig. 2. SECTION THROUGH SNOWDON. 272
SECTIONS OF MOUNTAIN-RANGES, SHOWING THEIR
STRUCTURE AND THE AMOUNT OF ROCK WORN AWAY 306
PART I.
THE MOUNTAINS AS THEY ARE.
THE STORY OF THE HILLS.
Part I.
THE MOUNTAINS AS THEY ARE.
CHAPTER I.
MOUNTAINS AND MEN.
"Happy, I said, whose home is here;
Fair fortunes to the Mountaineer."
In old times people looked with awe upon the mountains, and
regarded them with feelings akin to horror or dread. A very slight
acquaintance with the classical writers of antiquity will suffice
to convince any one that Greeks and Romans did so regard them. They
were not so familiar with mountains as we are; for there were no
roads through them, as now through the Alps, or the Highlands of
Scotland,--to say nothing of the all-pervading railway. It would,
however, be a great mistake to suppose that the ancients did not
observe and enjoy the beauties of Nature. The fair and fertile
plain, the vine-clad <DW72>s of the lower hill-ranges, and the
"many-twinkling smile of ocean" were seen and loved by all who had
a mind to appreciate the beautiful. The poems of Homer and Virgil
would alone be sufficient to prove this. But the higher ranges,
untrodden by the foot of man, were gazed at, not with admiration,
but with religious awe; for men looked upon mountains as the abode
of the gods. They dwelt in the rich plain, which they cultivated,
and beside the sweet waters of some river; for food and drink are
the first necessities of life. But they left the high hills alone,
and in fancy peopled them with the "Immortals" who ruled their
destiny,--controlling also the winds and the lightning, the rain and
the clouds, which seem to have their home among the mountains. A
childlike fear of the unknown, coupled with religious awe, made them
avoid the lofty and barren hills, from which little was to be got
but wild honey and a scanty supply of game. There were also dangers
to be encountered from the fury of the storm and the avalanche; but
the safer ground of the plains below would reward their toil with an
ample supply of corn and other necessaries of life.
In classical times, and also in the Middle Ages, the mountains,
as well as glens and rivers, were supposed to be peopled with
fairies, nymphs, elves, and all sorts of strange beings; and even
now travellers among the mountains of Switzerland, Norway, Wales,
or Scotland find that it is not long since the simple folk of these
regions believed in the existence of such beings, and attributed to
their agency many things which they could not otherwise explain.
Of all the nations of antiquity the Jews seem to have shown the
greatest appreciation of mountain scenery; and in no ancient writings
do we find so many or so eloquent allusions to the hills as in the
Old Testament. But here again one cannot fail to trace the same
feelings of religious awe. The Law was given to their forefathers
in the desert amidst the thunders of Sinai. To them the earth was
literally Jehovah's footstool, and the clouds were His tabernacle.
"If He do but touch the hills, they shall smoke."
But this awe was not unmixed with other and more comforting thoughts.
They felt that those cloud-capped towers were symbols of strength and
the abode of Him who would help them in their need. For so we find
the psalmists regarding them; and with our very different conceptions
of the earth's natural features, we can but dimly perceive and
realise the | 1,501.123632 |
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Transcriber's Notes
Any corrections made are catalogued in a note at the end of this text.
Italics are rendered using the '_' character as _italics_. Text printed
in a bold font is rendered using the '=' character as =bold=. All
small capital letters are printed as uppercase.
The abbreviations "A.M." and "P.M." appear in normal uppercase as well
as in small capitals. They are also variably printed with intervening
spaces (e.g., "A. M."). They are rendered here as uppercase with the
spacing as found in the text.
The text contained illustrations, which could not be included in this
version. They are indicated using [Illustration: <caption>]. Their
position in the text may have changed in order to re-join paragraphs
and/or to avoid interrupting the text. The page numbers in the list
of illustrations are, therefore, approximate. Please use the html
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[Illustration: MAP OF THE DELUGED CONEMAUGH DISTRICT.]
HISTORY
OF
THE JOHNSTOWN FLOOD.
INCLUDING
ALL THE FEARFUL RECORD; THE BREAKING OF THE SOUTH FORK DAM;
THE SWEEPING OUT OF THE CONEMAUGH VALLEY; THE OVER-THROW
OF JOHNSTOWN; THE MASSING OF THE WRECK AT
THE RAILROAD BRIDGE; ESCAPES, RESCUES, SEARCHES
FOR SURVIVORS AND THE DEAD; RELIEF
ORGANIZATIONS, STUPENDOUS CHARITIES,
ETC., ETC.
WITH FULL ACCOUNTS ALSO OF THE
DESTRUCTION ON THE SUSQUEHANNA AND JUNIATA RIVERS, AND THE
BALD EAGLE CREEK.
BY
WILLIS FLETCHER JOHNSON.
_ILLUSTRATED._
EDGEWOOD PUBLISHING CO.,
1889.
Copyright, 1889, by
WILLIS FLETCHER JOHNSON.
PREFACE.
The summer of 1889 will ever be memorable for its appalling disasters by
flood and flame. In that period fell the heaviest blow of the nineteenth
century--a blow scarcely paralleled in the histories of civilized lands.
Central Pennsylvania, a centre of industry, thrift and comfort, was
desolated by floods unprecedented in the records of the great waters. On
both sides of the Alleghenies these ravages were felt in terrific power,
but on the western <DW72> their terrors were infinitely multiplied by the
bursting of the South Fork Reservoir, letting out millions of tons of
water, which, rushing madly down the rapid descent of the Conemaugh
Valley, washed out all its busy villages and hurled itself in a deadly
torrent on the happy borough of Johnstown. The frightful aggravations
which followed the coming of this torrent have waked the deepest
sympathies of this nation and of the world, and the history is demanded
in permanent form, for those of the present day, and for the generation
to come.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
The Conemaugh Valley in Springtime--Johnstown and its
Suburbs--Founded a Hundred Years ago--The Cambria Iron
Works--History of a Famous Industry--American Manufacturing
Enterprise Exemplified--Making Bessemer Steel--Social and
Educational Features--The Busiest City of its Size in the
State, 15
CHAPTER II.
Conemaugh Lake--Remains of an Old-time Canal System--Used for
the Pleasure of Sportsmen--The Hunting and Fishing
Club--Popular Distrust Growing into Indifference--The Old
Cry of "Wolf!"--Building a Dam of Straw and Mud--Neglect
Ripening into Fitness for a Catastrophe, 31
CHAPTER III.
Dawning of the Fatal Day--Darkness and Rain--Rumors of
Evil--The Warning Voice Unheeded--A Whirlwind of Watery
Death--Fate of a Faithful Telegrapher--What an Eye-Witness
Saw--A Solid Wall of Water Rushing Down the Valley, 42
CHAPTER IV.
The Pathway of the Torrent--Human Beings Swept away like
Chaff--The Twilight of Terror--The Wreck of East
Conemaugh--Annihilation of Woodvale--Locomotives Tossed
about like Cockle-shells by the mighty Maelstrom, 51
CHAPTER V.
"Johnstown is Annihilated"--Appearance of the Wreck--An Awful
Sabbath Spectacle--A Sea of Mud and Corpses--The City in a
Gigantic Whirlpool--Strange Tokens of the Fury of the
Flood--Scene from the Bridge--Sixty Acres of Debris--A
Carnival of Slaughter, 66
CHAPTER VI.
Pictures of the Flood Drawn by Eye-witnesses--A Score of
Locomotives Swallowed up--Railroad Cars Swept
away--Engineers who would not Abandon their Posts--Awful
Scenes from a Car Window--A Race for Life--Victims of the
Flood, 81
CHAPTER VII.
Some Heroes of the Flood--The Ride of Collins Graves at
Williamsburg Recalled--John G. Parke's Heroic
Warning--Gallant Self-Sacrifice of Daniel Peyton--Mrs. Ogle,
the Intrepid Telegraph Operator--Wholesale Life Saving by
Miss Nina Speck, 97
CHAPTER VIII.
Stories of Suffering--A Family Swept away at a Stroke--Beside
a Sister's Corpse--A Bride Driven Mad--The Unidentified
Dead--Courage in the Face of Death--Thanking God his Child
had not Suffered--One Saved out of a Household of
Thirteen--Five Saved out of Fifty-Five, 108
CHAPTER IX.
Stories of Railroad Men and Travelers who were in the Midst of
the Catastrophe--A Train's Race with the Wave--Houses
Crushed like Eggshells--Relics of the Dead in the Tree
tops--A Night of Horrors--Fire and Flood Commingled--Lives
Lost for the Sake of a Pair of Shoes, 119
CHAPTER X.
Scenes in a House of Refuge--Stealing from the Dead--A
Thousand Bodies seen Passing over the Bridge--"Kill us or
Rescue us!"--Thrilling Escapes and Agonizing
Losses--Children Born amid the Flood--A Night in Alma
Hall--Saved through Fear, 137
CHAPTER XI.
The Flight to the Mountains--Saving a Mother and her Babe--The
Hillsides Black with Refugees--An Engineer's Story--How the
Dam gave away--Great Trees Snapped off like Pipe-stems by
the Torrent, 147
CHAPTER XII.
A Desperate Voyage--Scenes like those after a Great
Battle--Mother and Babe Dead together--Praying as they
Drifted to Destruction--Children Telling the Story of
Death--Significant Greetings between Friends--Prepared for
any News, 154
CHAPTER XIII.
Salutations in the City of the Dead--Crowds at the
Morgues--Endless Trains of Wagons with Ghastly
Freight--Registering the Survivors--Minds Unsettled by the
Tragedy--Horrible Fragments of Humanity Scattered through
Piles of Rubbish, 161
CHAPTER XIV.
Recognizing the Dead--Food and Clothing for Destitute
Survivors--Looking for the Lost--The Bereaved Burying their
Dead--Drowned Close by a Place of Safety--A Heroic
Editor--One who would not be Comforted, 171
CHAPTER XV.
A Bird'seye View of the Ruined City--Conspicuous Features of
the Disaster--The Railroad Lines--Stones and Iron Tossed
about like Driftwood--An Army Officer's Valuable Services in
Restoring and Maintaining Order, 179
CHAPTER XVI.
Clearing a Road up the Creek--Fantastic Forms of Ruin--An
Abandoned Locomotive with no Rail to Run on--Iron Beams Bent
like Willow Twigs--Night in the Valley--Scenes and Sounds of
an Inferno, 188
CHAPTER XVII.
Sights that Greeted Visitors--Wreckage Along the Valley--Ruins
of the Cambria Iron Works--A Carnival of Drink--Violence and
Robbery--Camping on the Hillsides--Rich and Poor alike
Benefit, 198
CHAPTER XVIII.
The First Train Load of Anxious Seekers--Hoping against
Hope--Many Instances of Heroism--Victims Seen Drifting down
beyond the Reach of Help--Unavailing Efforts to Rescue the
Prey of the Flood, 207
CHAPTER XIX.
Newspaper Correspondents Making their Way in--The Railroads
Helpless--Hiring a Special Train--Making Desperate
Speed--First faces of the Flood--Through to Johnstown at
Last, 216
CHAPTER XX.
The Work of the Reporters--Strange Chronicles of Heroism and
of Woe--Deadly Work of the Telegraph Wires--A Baby's Strange
Voyage--Prayer wonderfully Answered--Steam against Torrent,
228
CHAPTER XXI.
Human Ghouls and Vampires on the Scene--A Short Shrift for
Marauders--Vigilance Committees Enforcing Order--Plunderers
of the Dead Relentlessly Dispatched--Outbursts of Righteous
Indignation, 238
CHAPTER XXII
The Cry for Help and the Nation's Answer--President Harrison's
Eloquent and Effective Appeal--Governor Beaver's Message--A
Proclamation by the Governor of New York--Action of the
Commissioner of Pensions--Help from over the Sea, 249
CHAPTER XXIII.
The American Heart and Purse Opened Wide--A Flood of Gold
against the Flood of Water--Contributions from every Part
of the Country, in Sums Large and Small, 265
CHAPTER XXIV.
Benefactions of Philadelphia--Organization of Charity--Train
loads of Food and Clothing--Generous spirit of Convicts in
the Penitentiary--Contributions from over the Sea--Queen
Victoria's sympathy--Letter from Florence Nightingale, 281
CHAPTER XXV.
Raising a Great Relief Fund in New York--Where the Money
came from--Churches, Theatres and Prisons join in the good
work--More than One Hundred Thousand Dollars a Day--A few
Names from the Great Roll of Honor, 292
CHAPTER XXVI.
Breaking up the Ruins and Burying the Dead--Innumerable
Funerals--The Use of Dynamite--The Holocaust at the
Bridge--The Cambria Iron Works--Pulling out Trees with
Locomotives, 299
CHAPTER XXVII.
Caring for the Sufferers--Noble Work of Miss Clara Barton
and the Red Cross Society--A Peep into a Hospital--Finding
Homes for the Orphans--Johnstown Generous in its Woe--A
Benevolent Eating House, 309
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Recovering from the Blow--The Voice of the Locomotive Heard
again--Scenes Day by Day amid the Ruins and at the
Morgue--Strange Salvage from the Flood--A Family of
Little Children, 319
CHAPTER XXIX.
The City Filled with Life Again--Work and Bustle on Every
Hand--Railroad Trains Coming In--Pathetic Meetings of
Friends--Persistent Use of Dynamite to Break Up the
Masses of Wreckage--The Daily Record of Work Amid the
Dead, 341
CHAPTER XXX.
Scenes at the Relief Stations--The Grand Army of the
Republic in Command--Imposing Scenes at the Railroad
Station--Cars Loaded with Goods for the Relief of the
Destitute, 353
CHAPTER XXXI.
General Hastings' Headquarters--Duties of the Military
Staff--A Flood of Telegrams of Inquiry Pouring In--Getting
the Post-office to Work Again--Wholesale Embalming--The
Morgue in the Presbyterian Church--The Record of the
Unknown Dead--A Commemorative Newspaper Club, 358
CHAPTER XXXII.
A Cross between a Military and a Mining Camp--Work of the
Army Engineers--Equipping Constables--Pressure on the
Telegraph Lines--Photographers not Encouraged--Sight-seers
Turned Away--Strange Uses for Coffins, 370
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Sunday Amid the Ruins--Services in One Church and in the
Open Air--The Miracle at the Church of the Immaculate
Conception--Few Women and Children Seen--Disastrous
Work of Dynamite--A Happy Family in the Wreck, 378
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Plans for the Future of Johnstown--The City to be Rebuilt
on a Finer Scale than Ever Before--A Real Estate Boom
Looked For--Enlarging the Conemaugh--Views of
Capitalists, 387
CHAPTER XXXV.
Well-known People who Narrow | 1,501.199979 |
2023-11-16 18:42:05.2782450 | 2,544 | 7 |
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No. 1252. 25 Cents.
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A TRI-WEEKLY
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CURRENT & STANDARD
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Annual Subscription, $30. Entered at the Post Office, New York, as second
class matter, Oct. 16, 1838.
COUNTESS
VERA
BY
MRS. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER,
AUTHOR OF "A DREADFUL TEMPTATION," "QUEENIE'S TERRIBLE
SECRET," ETC., ETC.
_NEW YORK
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That feeling of bearing down, causing pain, weight and backache, is
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Lydia E. Pinkham's Vegetable Compound is prepared at Lynn, Mass. Price,
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in the form of Lozenges, on receipt of price, $1.00 per box, for
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Address as above.
COPYRIGHTED 1883.
COUNTESS VERA;
OR,
_The Oath of Vengeance_.
By MRS. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER.
CONTENTS
COUNTESS VERA.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
CHAPTER XL.
CHAPTER XLI.
CHAPTER XLII.
CHAPTER XLIII.
CHAPTER XLIV.
CHAPTER XLV.
CHAPTER XLVI.
CHAPTER XLVII.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
CHAPTER XLIX.
THE MYSTERIOUS BEAUTY.
CHAPTER I.
"Dead!"
Leslie Noble reels backward, stunned by the shuddering horror of that
one word--"_Dead_!" The stiff, girlish characters of the open letter
in his hand waver up and down before his dazed vision, so that he can
scarcely read the pathetic words, _so_ pathetic now when the little
hand that penned them lies cold in death.
"Dear Leslie," it says, "when you come to bid me good-bye in the
morning I shall be dead. That is best. You see, I did not know till
to-night my sad story, and that you did not love me. Poor mamma was
wrong to bind you so. I am very sorry, Leslie. There is nothing I can
do but _die_."
There is no signature to the sad little letter--none--but they have
taken it from the hand of his girl-wife, found dead in her bed this
morning--his bride of two days agone.
With a shudder of unutterable horror, his glance falls on the lovely,
girlish face, lying still and cold with the marble mask of death on
its beauty. A faint tinge of the rose lingers still on the delicate
lips, the long, curling fringe of the lashes lies darkly against the
white cheeks, the rippling, waving, golden hair falls in billows of
brightness over the pillow. This was his unloved bride, and she has
died the awful and tragic death of the _suicide_.
* * * * *
Let us go back a little in the story of this mournful tragedy, my
reader, go back to the upper chamber of that stately mansion, where, on
a wild night in October, a woman lay dying--dying of that subtle malady
beyond all healing--a broken heart.
"Vera, my darling," says the weak, faint voice, "come to me, dear."
A little figure that has been kneeling with its face in the
bed-clothes, rises and comes forward. The small, white face is drenched
with tears, the dark eyes are dim and heavy.
"Mamma," the soft voice says, hopefully, "you are better?"
The wasted features of the invalid contract with pain.
"No, my little daughter," she sighs, "I shall never be any better in
this world. I am dying."
A stifled cry of pain, and the girl's soft cheek is pressed to hers in
despairing love.
"No, mamma, no," she wails. "You must not die and leave me alone."
"Alone?" the mother re-echoes. "Beautiful, poor and alone in the great,
cruel world--oh, my God!"
"You cannot be dying, mamma," the girl says, hopefully. "They--Mrs.
Cleveland and Miss Ivy--could not go on to their balls and operas if
you were as bad as _that_!"
Something of bitter scorn touches the faded beauty of the woman's face
a moment.
"Much they would care," she says, in a tone of scorn. "At this moment
my sister and her proud daughter are dancing and feasting at the
Riverton's ball, utterly careless and indifferent to the fact that the
poor dependent is lying here all alone, but for her poor, friendless
child."
"You were no dependent, mamma," the girl says, with a gleam of pride in
her dark eyes. "You worked hard for all we have had. But, mamma, if--if
you _leave_ me, I will not be Ivy Cleveland's slave any longer. I shall
go away."
"Where, dear?" the mother asks, anxiously.
"Somewhere," vaguely; "anywhere, away from these wicked Clevelands. I
hate them, mamma!" she says, with sudden passion in her voice and face.
"You do not hate Leslie Noble?" Mrs. Campbell asks, anxiously.
"No, mamma, for though he is akin to them he is unlike them. Mr. Noble
is always kind to me," Vera answers, musingly.
"Listen to me, Vera, child. Mr. Noble l--likes you. He wishes to marry
you," the mother exclaims, with a flush of excitement in her eyes.
"Marry me?" Vera repeats, a little blankly.
"Yes, dear. Are you willing?"
"I--I am too young, am I not, mamma?"
"Seventeen, dear. As old as I was when I married your father," Mrs.
Campbell answers with a look of heart pain flitting over the pallid
face.
"I have never thought of marrying," Vera goes on musingly. "He will not
be angry if I refuse, will he, mamma?"
"But, Vera, you must not refuse," the invalid cries out, in a sudden
spasm of feverish anxiety. "Your future will be settled if you marry
Mr. Noble. I can die in peace, leaving you in the care of a good
husband. Oh, my darling, you do not know what a cruel world this is.
I dare not leave you alone, my pure, white lamb, amid its terrible
dangers."
Exhausted by her eager speech she breaks into a terrible fit of
coughing. Vera bends over, penitent and loving.
"Cheer up, mamma," she whispers; "I am not going to refuse him. Since
he wants me, I will marry him for your sake, dear."
"But you like him, Vera?" the mother asks, with piteous pleading.
"Oh, yes," calmly. "He is very nice, isn't he? But, do you know, I
think, mamma, that Ivy intended to marry him herself. I heard her say
so."
"Yes, I know, but you see he preferred you, my darling," the mother
answers, with whitening lips.
"Then I will marry him. How angry my cousin will be," Vera answers,
with all the calmness of a heart untouched by the _grande passion_.
"Yes, she will be very angry, but you need not care, dear," Mrs.
Campbell answers faintly. "Leslie will take you away from here. You
will never have to slave for the Clevelands any more."
The door opens suddenly and softly. A tall, handsome man comes into the
room, followed by a clerical-looking individual.
"Oh, Leslie, you are come back again," Mrs. Campbell breathes,
joyfully. "I am glad, for I cannot last but a few minutes longer."
"Not so bad as that, I hope," he says, gently, advancing to the
bedside; then his hand touches lightly the golden head bowed on the
pillow. "Is my little bride ready yet?" he asks.
The girl starts up with a pale, bewildered face.
"Is it to be now?" she asks, blankly. "I thought--I thought----"
But Mrs. Campbell, drawing her quickly down, checks the half protest
with a feverish kiss.
"Yes, dear, it is to be now," she whispers | 1,501.298285 |
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IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD?
FROM MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY
MARK TWAIN
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
M C M I X
CHAPTER I
Scattered here and there through the stacks of unpublished manuscript
which constitute this formidable Autobiography and Diary of mine, certain
chapters will in some distant future be found which deal with
"Claimants"--claimants historically notorious: Satan, Claimant; the
Golden Calf, Claimant; the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, Claimant; Louis
XVII., Claimant; William Shakespeare, Claimant; Arthur Orton, Claimant;
Mary Baker G. Eddy, Claimant--and the rest of them. Eminent Claimants,
successful Claimants, defeated Claimants, royal Claimants, pleb
Claimants, showy Claimants, shabby Claimants, revered Claimants, despised
Claimants, twinkle starlike here and there and yonder through the mists
of history and legend and tradition--and oh, all the darling tribe are
clothed in mystery and romance, and we read about them with deep interest
and discuss them with loving sympathy or with rancorous resentment,
according to which side we hitch ourselves to. It has always been so
with the human race. There was never a Claimant that couldn't get a
hearing, nor one that couldn't accumulate a rapturous following, no
matter how flimsy and apparently unauthentic his claim might be. Arthur
Orton's claim that he was the lost Tichborne baronet come to life again
was as flimsy as Mrs. Eddy's that she wrote _Science and Health_ from the
direct dictation of the Deity; yet in England near forty years ago Orton
had a huge army of devotees and incorrigible adherents, many of whom
remained stubbornly unconvinced after their fat god had been proven an
impostor and jailed as a perjurer, and to-day Mrs. Eddy's following is
not only immense, but is daily augmenting in numbers and enthusiasm.
Orton had many fine and educated minds among his adherents, Mrs. Eddy has
had the like among hers from the beginning. Her church is as well
equipped in those particulars as is any other church. Claimants can
always count upon a following, it doesn't matter who they are, nor what
they claim, nor whether they come with documents or without. It was
always so. Down out of the long-vanished past, across the abyss of the
ages, if you listen you can still hear the believing multitudes shouting
for Perkin Warbeck and Lambert Simnel.
A friend has sent me a new book, from England--_The Shakespeare Problem
Restated_--well restated and closely reasoned; and my fifty years'
interest in that matter--asleep for the last three years--is excited once
more. It is an interest which was born of Delia Bacon's book--away back
in that ancient day--1857, or maybe 1856. About a year later my
pilot-master, Bixby, transferred me from his own steamboat to the
_Pennsylvania_, and placed me under the orders and instructions of George
Ealer--dead now, these many, many years. I steered for him a good many
months--as was the humble duty of the pilot-apprentice: stood a daylight
watch and spun the wheel under the severe superintendence and correction
of the master. He was a prime chess player and an idolater of
Shakespeare. He would play chess with anybody; even with me, and it cost
his official dignity something to do that. Also--quite uninvited--he
would read Shakespeare to me; not just casually, but by the hour, when it
was his watch, and I was steering. He read well, but not profitably for
me, because he constantly injected commands into the text. That broke it
all up, mixed it all up, tangled it all up--to that degree, in fact, that
if we were in a risky and difficult piece of river an ignorant person
couldn't have told, sometimes, which observations were Shakespeare's and
which were Ealer's. For instance:
What man dare, _I_ dare!
Approach thou _what_ are you laying in the leads for? what a hell of
an idea! like the rugged ease her off a little, ease her off! rugged
Russian bear, the armed rhinoceros or the _there_ she goes! meet her,
meet her! didn't you _know_ she'd smell the reef if you crowded it
like that? Hyrcan tiger; take any shape but that and my firm nerves
she'll be in the _woods_ the first you know! stop the starboard! come
ahead strong on the larboard! back the starboard!... _Now_ then,
you're all right; come ahead on the starboard; straighten up and go
'long, never tremble: or be alive again, and dare me to the desert
damnation can't you keep away from that greasy water? pull her down!
snatch her! snatch her baldheaded! with thy sword; if trembling I
inhabit then, lay in the leads!--no, only the starboard one, leave
the other alone, protest me the baby of a girl. Hence horrible
shadow! eight bells--that watchman's asleep again, I reckon, go down
and call Brown yourself, unreal mockery, hence!
He certainly was a good reader, and splendidly thrilling and stormy and
tragic, but it was a damage to me, because I have never since been able
to read Shakespeare in a calm and sane way. I cannot rid it of his
explosive interlardings, they break in everywhere with their irrelevant
"What in hell are you up to _now_! pull her down! more! _more_!--there
now, steady as you go," and the other disorganizing interruptions that
were always leaping from his mouth. When I read Shakespeare now, I can
hear them as plainly as I did in that long-departed time--fifty-one years
ago. I never regarded Ealer's readings as educational. Indeed they were
a detriment to me.
His contributions to the text seldom improved it, but barring that detail
he was a good reader, I can say that much for him. He did not use the
book, and did not need to; he knew his Shakespeare as well as Euclid ever
knew his multiplication table.
Did he have something to say--this Shakespeare-adoring Mississippi
pilot--anent Delia Bacon's book? Yes. And he said it; said it all the
time, for months--in the morning watch, the middle watch, the dog watch;
and probably kept it going in his sleep. He bought the literature of the
dispute as fast as it appeared, and we discussed it all through thirteen
hundred miles of river four times traversed in every thirty-five
days--the time required by that swift boat to achieve two round trips.
We discussed, and discussed, and discussed, and disputed and disputed and
disputed; at any rate he did, and I got in a word now and then when he
slipped a cog and there was a vacancy. He did his arguing with heat,
with energy, with violence; and I did mine with the reserve and
moderation of a subordinate who does not like to be flung out of a
pilot-house that is perched forty feet above the water. He was fiercely
loyal to Shakespeare and cordially scornful of Bacon and of all the
pretensions of the Baconians. So was I--at first. And at first he was
glad that that was my attitude. There were even indications that he
admired it; indications dimmed, it is true, by the distance that lay
between the lofty boss-pilotical altitude and my lowly one, yet
perceptible to me; perceptible, and translatable into a
compliment--compliment coming down from above the snow-line and not well
thawed in the transit, and not likely to set anything afire, not even a
cub-pilot's self-conceit; still a detectable compliment, and precious.
Naturally it flattered me into being more loyal to Shakespeare--if
possible--than I was before, and more prejudiced against Bacon--if
possible than I was before. And so we discussed and discussed, both on
the same side, and were happy. For a while. Only for a while. Only for
a very little while, a very, very, very little while. Then the
atmosphere began to change; began to cool off.
A brighter person would have seen what the trouble was, earlier than I
did, perhaps, but I saw it early enough for all practical purposes. You
see, he was of an argumentative disposition. Therefore it took him but a
little time to get tired of arguing with a person who agreed with
everything he said and consequently never furnished him a provocative to
flare up and show what he could do when it came to clear, cold, hard,
rose-cut, hundred-faceted, diamond-flashing reasoning. That was his name
for it. It has been applied since, with complacency, as many as several
times, in the Bacon-Shakespeare scuffle. On the Shakespeare side.
Then the thing happened which has happened to more persons than to me
when principle and personal interest found themselves in opposition to
each other and a choice had to be made: I let principle go, and went over
to the other side. Not the entire way, but far enough to answer the
requirements of the case. That is to say, I took this attitude, to wit:
I only _believed_ Bacon wrote Shakespeare, whereas I _knew_ Shakespeare
didn't. Ealer was satisfied with that, and the war broke loose. Study,
practice, experience in handling my end of the matter presently enabled
me to take my new position almost seriously; a little bit later, utterly
seriously; a little later still, lovingly, gratefully, devotedly;
finally: fiercely, rabidly, uncompromisingly. After that, I was welded
to my faith, I was theoretically ready to die for it, and I looked down
with compassion not unmixed with scorn, upon everybody else's faith that
didn't tally with mine. That faith, imposed upon me by self-interest in
that ancient day, remains my faith to-day, and in it I find comfort,
solace, peace, and never-failing joy. You see how curiously theological
it is. The "rice Christian" of the Orient goes through the very same
steps, when he is after rice and the missionary is after _him_; he goes
for rice, and remains to worship.
Ealer did a lot of our "reasoning"--not to say substantially all of it.
The slaves of his cult have a passion for calling it by that large name.
We others do not call our inductions and deductions and reductions by any
name at all. They show for themselves, what they are, and we can with
tranquil confidence leave the world to ennoble them with a title of its
own choosing.
Now and then when Ealer had to stop to cough, I pulled my
induction-talents together and hove the controversial lead myself: always
getting eight feet, eight-and-a-half, often nine, sometimes even
quarter-less-twain--as _I_ believed; but always "no bottom," as _he_
said.
I got the best of him only once. I prepared myself. I wrote out a
passage from Shakespeare--it may have been the very one I quoted a while
ago, I don't remember--and riddled it with his wild steamboatful
interlardings. When an unrisky opportunity offered, one lovely summer
day, when we had sounded and buoyed a tangled patch of crossings known as
Hell's Half Acre, and were aboard again and he had sneaked the
Pennsylvania triumphantly | 1,501.409596 |
2023-11-16 18:42:05.6790180 | 4,326 | 22 |
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Transcriber’s notes:
In this e-text, paired underscores denote _italicised text_, and a
^ (caret) indicates superscripted text. Footnotes have been positioned
below the relevant paragraphs. A small number of spelling and
typographic errors have been corrected silently.
_Some Eccentrics
& a Woman_
_First Published in 1911_
[Illustration: A VIEW from the PUMP ROOM, BATH.]
_Some Eccentrics
& a Woman_
_By Lewis Melville_
_London_
_Martin Secker_
_Number Five John Street_
_Adelphi_
NOTE
Of the eight papers printed here, “Some Eighteenth-Century Men About
Town,” “A Forgotten Satirist: ‘Peter Pindar’,” “Sterne’s Eliza,”
and “William Beckford, of Fonthill Abbey,” have appeared in the
_Fortnightly Review_; “Charles James Fox” appeared in the _Monthly
Review_, “Exquisites of the Regency” in _Chambers’s Journal_, and
“The Demoniacs” in the American _Bookman_. To the editors of these
periodicals I am indebted either for permission to reprint, or
for their courtesy in having permitted me to reserve the right of
publication in book form. “Philip, Duke of Wharton” is now printed for
the first time.
LEWIS MELVILLE
_Contents_
PAGE
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY MEN ABOUT TOWN 13
SOME EXQUISITES OF THE REGENCY 47
A FORGOTTEN SATIRIST: “PETER PINDAR” 103
STERNE’S ELIZA 129
THE DEMONIACS 161
WILLIAM BECKFORD OF FONTHILL ABBEY 189
CHARLES JAMES FOX 219
PHILIP, DUKE OF WHARTON 253
INDEX 283
_List of Illustrations_
“A VIEW FROM THE PUMP ROOM, BATH” _Frontispiece_
_A Facsimile Reproduction of a Drawing by Richard Deighton_
SIR JOHN LADE _To face page_ 16
_From the Painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds_
THE PRINCE OF WALES " " 48
_From the Miniature by Cosway_
LUMLEY SKEFFINGTON " " 80
_From a Contemporary Miniature_
PETER PINDAR " " 112
_From the Painting by John Opie_
LAURENCE STERNE " " 144
_From the Painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds_
WILLIAM BECKFORD " " 192
_From the Painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds_
CHARLES JAMES FOX " " 224
_From the Painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds_
PHILIP, DUKE OF WHARTON " " 256
_From a Contemporary Painting_
Some Eighteenth-Century Men about Town
When his Royal Highness George, Prince of Wales, afterwards George
IV., freed himself from parental control, and, an ill-disciplined lad,
launched himself upon the town, it is well known that he was intimate
with Charles James Fox, whom probably he admired more because the King
hated the statesman than for any other reason. Doubtless the Prince
drank with Fox, and diced with him, and played cards with him, but
from his later career it is obvious he can never have touched Fox
on that great man’s intellectual side; and, after a time, the royal
scapegrace, who would rather have reigned in hell than have served in
heaven, sought companions to whom he need not in any way feel inferior.
With this, possibly sub-conscious, desire, he gathered around him a
number of men about town, notorious for their eccentricities and for
the irregularity of their lives. With these George felt at home; but,
though he was nominally their leader, there can be little doubt that
he was greatly influenced by them at the most critical time of a young
man’s life, to his father’s disgust and to the despair of the nation.
Of these men the most remarkable were Sir John Lade, George Hanger
(afterwards fourth Lord Coleraine of the second creation), and Sir
Lumley Skeffington; and, by some chance, it happens that little has
been written about them, perhaps because what has been recorded is for
the most part hidden in old magazines and newspapers and the neglected
memoirs of forgotten worthies. Yet, as showing the temper of the times,
it may not be uninteresting to reconstruct their lives, and, as far as
the material serves, show them in their habit as they lived.
Sir John Lade, the son of John Inskipp, who assumed the name of Lade,
and in whose person the baronetcy that had been in the family was
revived, was born in 1759, and at an early age plunged into the fast
society of the metropolis with such vigour that he had earned a most
unenviable reputation by the time he came of age, on which auspicious
occasion, Dr Johnson, who knew him as the ward of Mr Thrale, greeted
him savagely in the satirical verses which conclude:
“Wealth, my lad, was made to wander:
Let it wander at its will;
Call the jockey, call the pander,
Bid them come and take their fill.
When the bonnie blade carouses,
Pockets full and spirits high--
What are acres? what are houses?
Only dirt, or wet and dry.
Should the guardian friend or mother
Tell the woes of wilful waste,
Scorn their counsels, scorn their pother,
You can hang, or drown, at last.”
Sir John became one of the Prince of Wales’s cronies, and for a while
had the management of his Royal Highness’s racing stable; but while it
has been hinted of him, as of George Hanger, that during his tenure
of that office he had some share in the transactions that resulted in
Sam Chifney, the Prince’s jockey, being warned off the turf, it is but
fair to state that there is no evidence in existence to justify the
suspicion. Indeed, he seems to have been honest, except in incurring
tradesmen’s debts that he could never hope to discharge; but this
was a common practice in fashionable circles towards the end of the
eighteenth century, and was held to throw no discredit on the man who
did so--for was it not a practice sanctioned by the example of “The
First Gentleman of Europe” himself?
Sir John’s ambition, apparently, was to imitate a groom in dress and
language. It was his pleasure to take the coachman’s place, and drive
the Prince’s “German Waggon,”[1] and six bay horses from the Pavilion
at Brighton to the Lewes racecourse; and, in keeping with his _pose_,
he was overheard on Egham racecourse to invite a friend to return to
dinner in these terms:--“I can give you a trout spotted all over like
a coach dog, a fillet of veal as white as alabaster, a ‘pantaloon’
cutlet, and plenty of pancakes as big as coach-wheels--so help me.”
[1] Barouches were so described on their first introduction into
England.
Dr Johnson naturally took an interest in Sir John, and, when Lady Lade
consulted him about the training of her son, “Endeavour, madam,” said
he, “to procure him knowledge, for really ignorance to a rich man is
like fat to a sick sheep, it only serves to call the rooks round him.”
It is easier, however, to advocate the acquisition of knowledge than
to inculcate it, and knowledge, except of horses, Sir John Lade never
obtained in any degree. Indeed, his folly was placed on record by
“Anthony Pasquin” in
AN EPIGRAMMATIC COLLOQUY,
Occasioned by Sir John Lade’s Ingenious Method of
Managing his Estates.
Said Hope to Wit, with eager looks,
And sorrow streaming eyes:
“In pity, Jester, tell me when,
Will Johnny Lade be--wise?”
“Thy sighs forego,” said Wit to Hope,
“And be no longer sad;
Tho’ other foplings grow to men,
He’ll always be--a _Lad_.”
[Illustration: _Sir John Lade_]
When Sir John was little more than a boy, Johnson, half in earnest,
proposed him as a fitting mate for the author of “Evelina,” so Mrs
Thrale states; and, indeed, Miss Burney herself records a conversation
in 1778 between that lady and the doctor. The inadvisability of the
union, however, soon became apparent, and when Sir John, a little
later, asked Johnson if he would advise him to marry, “I would advise
no man to marry, sir,” replied the great man, “who is not likely to
propagate understanding”; but the baronet, who doubtless thought this
was an excellent joke, and as such intended, crowned his follies by
espousing a woman of more than doubtful character. When Sir John met
his future wife, she was a servant at a house of ill-fame in Broad
Street, St Giles, and, rightly or wrongly, was credited with having
been the mistress of Jack Rann, the highwayman, better known as
“Sixteen-string Jack,” who deservedly ended his career on the gallows
in 1774. Marriage did not apparently mend her manners or her morals,
for, according to Huish--who, it must, however, be admitted, was an
arrant scandalmonger--she was for some time the mistress of the Duke of
York, and also acted as procuress for the Prince of Wales; while her
command of bad language was so remarkable that the Prince used to say
of any foul-mouthed man: “He speaks like Letty Lade.”
Like her husband, Lady Lade was a fine whip, and many stories are told
of her prowess as a driver of a four-in-hand.
“More than one steed Letitia’s empire feels,
Who sits triumphant o’er the flying wheels;
And, as she guides them through th’ admiring throng,
With what an air she smacks the silken thong.
Graceful as John, she moderates the reins;
And whistles sweet her diuretic strains;
_Sesostris_-like, such charioteers as these
May drive six harness’d princes, if they please.”
Lady Lade offered to drive a coach against another tooled by a
sister-whip eight miles over Newmarket Heath for five hundred guineas a
side, but, when it came to the point, no one had sufficient confidence
to take up the wager. There is, however, an account of another race
in which she participated: “Lady Lade and Mrs Hodges are to have a
curricle race at Newmarket, at the next Spring Meeting, and the horses
are now in training. It is to be a five-mile course, and great sport
is expected. The construction of the traces is to be on a plan similar
to that of which Lord March, now Marquis of Queensberry, won his
famous match against time. The odds, at present, are in favour of Lady
Lade. She runs a grey mare, which is said to be the best horse in the
Baronet’s stalls.”
Like the rest of his set, Sir John spent his patrimony and fell upon
evil days, which ended, in 1814, in imprisonment for debt in the King’s
Bench, being, as Creevey happily puts it, “reduced to beggary by having
kept such good company.” Some arrangement was made with his creditors,
and Sir John was released; whereupon Lord Anglesea went to the Prince
of Wales, and insisted upon his giving Lade five hundred a year out
of his Privy Purse--no easy task, one may imagine, for “Prinney” was
not given to providing for his old friends. William IV. continued the
annuity, but reduced it to three hundred pounds, and it was feared that
at his death it would be discontinued. However, when the matter was put
before Queen Victoria, she, hearing that Sir John was in his eightieth
year, generously expressed the intention to pay the pension, which she
put as a charge on her Privy Purse, for the rest of his life. Sir John
was thus freed from anxiety, but he did not long enjoy her Majesty’s
bounty, for he died on 10th February 1838, having outlived his wife by
thirteen years.
A more interesting and a more intelligent man was George Hanger, who
born in 1751, and, after attending a preparatory school, was sent to
Eton and Göttingen, and was gazetted in January 1771, an ensign in the
first regiment of Foot Guards. In the army he distinguished himself
chiefly by his harum-scarum mode of living, and by his adventures,
most of which were of too delicate a nature to bear repetition, though
his quaint “Memoirs” throw a light upon the company he kept. He met a
beautiful gipsy girl, styled by him “the lovely Ægyptea of Norwood,”
who, according to his account, had an enchanting voice, a pretty taste
for music, and played charmingly on the dulcimer. She won his heart
with a song, the refrain of which ran:
“Tom Tinker’s my true love,
And I am his dear;
And all the world over,
His budget I’ll bear.”
He married her according to the rites of the tribe, introduced her to
his brother officers, and bragged to them of her love and fidelity;
but, alas! the song which enchanted him was based, not upon fiction,
but upon fact, and after Hanger had lived in the tents with his
inamorata for a couple of weeks, he awoke one morning to learn she had
run off with a bandy-legged tinker.
For some years he remained in the Foot Guards, where he was very
popular with his brother officers; but in 1776 he threw up his
commission in anger at someone being promoted over his head, unjustly,
as he thought. His early love of soldiering, however, was not yet
abated, and he sought and obtained a captaincy in the Hessian Jäger
corps, which had been hired by the British Government to go to America.
He was delighted with his new uniform--a short, blue coat with gold
frogs, and a very broad sword-belt--and, thus attired, swaggered
about the town in great spirits, to the accompaniment of his friends’
laughter. During the siege of Charlestown he was aide-de-camp to Sir
Henry Clinton; he was wounded in an action at Charlottetown in 1780,
and two years later was appointed Major in Tarleton’s Light Dragoons,
which regiment, however, was disbanded in 1783, when Hanger was given
the brevet rank of Colonel, and placed on half pay.
At the close of the war Hanger left America for England, but his
affairs were in such an unsettled state that he thought it advisable
to go direct to Calais, where he remained until his friend, Richard
Tattersall, could arrange his affairs. Hanger attributed his insolvency
at this time to the fact that the lawyer to whom he had given a power
of attorney having died, his estate was sold for the benefit of
the mortgagee at half its value. This is probably true, but it is
certainly only a half-truth, for his embarrassment was mainly caused
by his extravagance when he was in the Foot Guards. He did not often
play cards, but he was passionately fond of the turf, kept a stable at
Newmarket, and bet heavily on all occasions, though it is said that
on the whole he was a considerable winner, and it is recorded that he
won no less than seven thousand pounds on the race between Shark and
Leviathan. His pay in the Foot Guards of four shillings a day did not,
of course, suffice even for his mess-bills, and he wasted much money on
dissipation, and more on his clothes. “I was extremely extravagant in
my dress,” he admitted. “For one winter’s dress-clothes only it cost me
nine hundred pounds. I was always handsomely dressed at every birthday;
but for one in particular I put myself to a very great expense, having
two suits for that day. My morning vestments cost me near eighty
pounds, and those for the ball above one hundred and eighty. It was a
satin coat _brodé en plain et sur les coutures_, and the first satin
coat that had ever made its appearance in this country. Shortly after,
satin dress-clothes became common among well-dressed men.”[2]
[2] “Life, Adventures, and Opinions of Colonel George Hanger.”
On his return to England, Hanger stayed with Tattersall for a year,
and then was engaged in the recruiting service of the Honourable East
India Company at a salary which, with commission, never amounted to
less than six hundred pounds a year; and he was also appointed, with a
further three hundred pounds a year, an equerry to the Prince of Wales,
with whom he was on very intimate terms.
The next few years were the happiest of his life, but misfortune soon
overcame him. His employment under the East India Company came to an
abrupt end owing to a dispute between the Board of Control and the
Company, relative to the building of a barrack in this country to
receive the East India recruits prior to embarkation, which ended in a
change of the whole system of recruiting, when Hanger’s services were
no longer required. This was bad enough, but worse was to come, for
when he had served as equerry for four years, the Prince of Wales’s
embarrassed affairs were arranged by Parliament, which, making the
essential economies, dismissed Hanger.
When this happened, having no means whatever with which to meet some
comparatively trifling debts, he surrendered to the Court of King’s
Bench, and was imprisoned within the Rules from June 1798 until April
in the following year, when the successful issue of a lawsuit enabled
him to compound with his creditors. “Twice have I begun the world
anew; I trust the present century will be more favourable to me than
the past,” he wrote in his “Memoirs”; and it is much to his credit
that instead of whining and sponging on his friends, having only a
capital of forty pounds, he started in the business--he called it the
profession--of coal-merchant.
According to Cyrus Redding, who used to meet him at the house of Dr
Wolcot (“Peter Pindar”), Hanger had fallen out of favour with the
Prince by administering a severe reproof to that personage and to
the Duke of York for their use of abominable language, and was no
longer invited to Carlton House | 1,501.699058 |
2023-11-16 18:42:05.8791040 | 2,382 | 9 |
Produced by Louise Hope, PM for Bureau of American
Ethnology, The Internet Archive: American Libraries and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by the Bibliothèque nationale
de France (BnF/Gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr)
[This text is intended for users whose text readers cannot use the
"real" (Unicode/UTF-8) version, or even the simplified Latin-1 version.
Major changes include:
all fractions have been unpacked to 1/2, 1/3 and so on
accents on French words are missing
"ae" is shown as two letters
the degree sign is written as "deg"]
ANCIENT ART
of the
PROVINCE OF CHIRIQUI, COLOMBIA.
by
WILLIAM H. HOLMES.
CONTENTS.
Page.
Introduction 13
Geography 13
Literature 14
Peoples 15
The cemeteries 16
The graves 17
Human remains 20
Placing of relics 21
Objects of art 21
Stone 21
Pictured rocks 21
Columns 22
Images 23
Mealing stones 25
Stools 27
Celts &c. 29
Spearheads 34
Arrowpoints 34
Ornaments 34
Metal 35
Gold and copper 35
Bronze 49
Clay: Pottery 53
Preliminary 53
How found 55
Material 55
Manufacture 56
Color 57
Use 57
Forms of vessels 58
Decoration 62
Unpainted ware 66
Terra cotta group 67
Black incised group 80
Painted ware 84
Scarified group 87
Handled group 90
Tripod group 97
Maroon group 107
Red line group 109
White line group 111
Lost color group 113
Alligator group 130
Polychrome group 140
Unclassified 147
Clay: Miscellaneous objects 149
Spindle whorls 149
Needlecases 150
Figurines 151
Stools 154
Musical instruments 156
Rattles 156
Drums 157
Wind instruments 160
Life forms in vase painting 171
Resume 186
[Index]
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Page.
PLATE I. Map of Chiriqui 13
Fig. 1. Section of oval grave 17
2. Section of a quadrangular grave 18
3. Grave with pillars 18
4. Compound cist 19
5. Southwest face of the pictured stone 22
6. A goddess of the ancient Chiriquians 23
7. A god of the ancient Chiriquians 24
8. Fragmentary human figure in gray basaltic rock 25
9. Mealing stone with large tablet ornamented with
animal heads 26
10. Puma shaped metate 27
11. Stool shaped object 28
12. Stool with columnar base 28
13. Stool with perforated base 29
14. Large partially polished celt 30
15. Celt of hexagonal section 31
16. Small wide bladed celt 31
17. Celt with heavy shaft 31
18. Celt or ax with constriction near the top 31
19. Flaked and partially polished celt 32
20. Well polished celt 32
21. Narrow pointed celt 32
22. Narrow pointed celt 32
23. Cylindrical celt with narrow point 33
24. Leaf shaped objects suggesting spearpoints 34
25. Arrowpoints 34
26. Human figure, formed of copper-gold alloy 41
27. Grotesque human figure in gold 42
28. Rudely shaped human figure in gold 42
29. Grotesque human figure in nearly pure copper 43
30. Grotesque human figure in nearly pure gold 43
31. Rudely executed image of a bird in gold 44
32. Image of a bird in gold 45
33. Puma shaped figure in gold 45
34. Puma shaped figure in base metal 45
35. Quadruped with grotesque face in base metal 46
36. Figure of a fish in gold 46
37. Large figure of a frog, in base metal plated
with gold 47
38. Small figure of a frog, in base metal plated
with gold 47
39. Figure of an alligator in gold 48
40. Animal figure, in base metal plated with gold 48
41. Bronze bells plated or washed with gold 50
42. Bronze bell with human features 50
43. Triple bell or rattle found on the Rio Grande 51
44. Ancient Mexican bell 51
45. Fundamental forms of vases--convex outlines 58
46. Fundamental forms of vases--angular outlines 59
47. Vases of complex outlines--exceptional forms 59
48. Vases of compound forms 59
49. Square lipped vessel 59
50. Variations in the forms of necks and rims 60
51. Arrangement of handles 60
52. Types of annular bases or feet 61
53. Forms of legs 61
54. Grotesque figure forming the handle of
a small vase 63
55. Grotesque figure forming the handle of
a small vase 63
56. Grotesque figure forming the handle of
a small vase 63
57. Monstrous figure with serpent shaped extremities 63
58. Monstrous figure with serpent shaped extremities 63
59. Grotesque figure 64
60. Grotesque figure 64
61. Grotesque figure 64
62. Figure of a monkey 64
63. Figure of a monkey 64
64. Figure of a monkey 64
65. Animal forms exhibiting long proboscis 65
66. Vase illustrating ornamental use of animal figures 65
67. Vase illustrating ornamental use of animal figures 65
68. Vase illustrating ornamental use of animal figures 66
69. Vase illustrating ornamental use of animal figures 66
70. Series of bowls and cups of unpainted ware 67
71. Vase of graceful form 68
72. Vase of graceful form 68
73. Vase of fine form, ornamented with grotesque heads 68
74. Vase of fine form, ornamented with grotesque heads 69
75. Vase with ornament of applied nodes and fillets 69
76. Vase with mantle covered with incised figures 70
77. Vase with frieze of grotesque heads 70
78. Vases with flaring rims and varied ornament 71
79. Vases with complex outlines and varied ornament 71
80. Large vase with two mouths and neatly
decorated necks 72
81. Large vase with high handles 72
82. Top view of high handled vase 73
83. Handled vase 73
84. Handled vase 73
85. Handled vase 73
86. Small cup with single handle, ornamented with
grotesque figure 74
87. Small cup with single handle, ornamented with
grotesque figure 74
88. Vase of eccentric form 74
89. Vessel illustrating forms of legs 75
90. Vessel illustrating forms of legs 75
91. Vessel with large legs, decorated with stellar
punctures 75
92. Vases of varied form with plain and animal
shaped legs 75
93. Large vase of striking shape 76
94. Cup with legs imitating animal forms 76
95. Cup with legs imitating a grotesque animal form 77
96. Cup with legs imitating the armadillo 77
97. Cup with legs imitating the armadillo 77
98. Cup with frog shaped legs 77
99. Cup with legs imitating an animal and its young 77
100. Cups supported by grotesque heads 77
101. Large cup supported by two grotesque figures 78
102. Cup with two animal heads attached to the sides 78
103. Cup with two animal heads attached to the sides 78
104. Vase shaped to imitate an animal form 79
105. Vase shaped to imitate an animal form 79
106. Vase shaped to imitate an animal form 79
107. Fish shaped vessel 79
108. Top view of a fish shaped vessel 80
109. Cup with grotesque head attached to the rim 80
110. Black cup with incised reptilian figures 81
111. Black cup with incised reptilian figures 81
112. Black vase with conventional | 1,501.899144 |
2023-11-16 18:42:06.1781730 | 2,704 | 7 |
Produced by Ari J Joki and PG Distributed Proofreaders
Caroline M. Morse, editor
JANE CUNNINGHAM CROLY
"JENNY JUNE"
1904
[Illustration: Portrait]
[Illustration: Facsimile of signature
"With sincere affection
yours-ever
J.C. Croly"]
Memories of
Jane Cunningham Croly
"Jenny June"
TO THE
GENERAL FEDERATION OF WOMEN'S CLUBS
IN AMERICA
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
BY
THE WOMAN'S PRESS CLUB
OF
NEW YORK CITY
Foreword
On January 6, 1902, a Memorial Meeting was called by Sorosis jointly
with the Woman's Press Club of New York City, and a month later the
Press Club formally authorized the preparation of a Memorial Book to
its Founder and continuous President to the day of her death, Jane
Cunningham Croly.
In addition to a biographical sketch to be prepared by her brother,
the Rev. John Cunningham, this book, so it was planned, should contain
such letters, or excerpts from letters, as would illustrate her
lovable personality and her life philosophy.
A Committee of Publication was appointed, consisting of Mrs. Caroline
M. Morse, Chairman, Mrs. Mary Coffin Johnson, Mrs. Haryot Holt Dey,
Mrs. Miriam Mason Greeley, Miss Anna Warren Story and Mrs. Margaret W.
Ravenhill. These began their work by sending a printed slip to club
members and to Mrs. Croly's known intimates, asking for her letters.
But the response came almost without variation: "My letters from Mrs.
Croly are of too personal a nature for publication." A few, however,
were freely offered, and these it was decided should be used,
depending for the bulk of the Memorial upon copious extracts from
Mrs. Croly's "History of the Woman's Club Movement in America," from
her editorial work on _The Cycle_, and from her miscellaneous
writings. To this characteristic material her long cherished friends,
Mr. and Mrs. Thaddeus B. Wakeman, added an account of the "Positivist
Episode," that objective point in her career, with which her husband
was closely identified.
With these are: Mrs. Croly's Club Life, a sketch by Mrs. Haryot Holt
Dey; the Sorosis-Press Club Memorial Meeting; the Resolutions of the
Woman's Press Club of New York City, the General Federation of Clubs,
and the Society of American Women in London; tributes from London
clubwomen; Essays and Addresses; Letters and Stray Leaves and Notes,
written by Mrs. Croly; tributes from many of her friends, and my own
recollections.
CAROLINE M. MORSE,
Chairman.
Contents
"JENNY JUNE."--Ethel Morse
A BROTHER'S MEMORIES.--John Cunningham, D.D.
SOROSIS-PRESS CLUB MEMORIAL MEETING ADDRESSES:
Dimies T.S. Denison
Charlotte B. Wilbour
Phebe A. Hanaford
Orlena A. Zabriskie
Carrie Louise Griffin
Cynthia Westover Alden
May Riley Smith
Fanny Hallock Carpenter
RESOLUTIONS AND TRIBUTES FROM CLUBS:
Resolutions of the New York State Federation
From the Croly Memorial Fund of the Pioneer Club of London
THE POSITIVIST EPISODE.--Thaddeus B. Wakeman
MRS. CROLY'S CLUB LIFE.--Haryot Holt Dey
ESSAYS AND ADDRESSES BY JANE CUNNINGHAM CROLY:
Beginnings of Organization
The Moral Awakening
The Advantages of a General Federation of Women's Clubs
The Clubwoman
The New Life
The Days That Are
A People's Church
NOTES, LETTERS, AND STRAY LEAVES.--Jane Cunningham Croly
THE TRIBUTES OF FRIENDS:
Miriam Mason Greeley
Marie Etienne Burns
Izora Chandler
Janie C.P. Jones
Catherine Weed Barnes Ward
Sara J. Lippincott--"Grace Greenwood"
Jennie de la M. Lozier
Genie H. Rosenfeld
S.A. Lattimore
Ellen M. Staples
Margaret W. Ravenhill
T.C. Evans
St. Clair McKelway
Laura Sedgwick Collins
Mary Coffin Johnson
Caroline M. Morse
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Illustrations
JANE CUNNINGHAM CROLY (JENNY JUNE) AT THE AGE OF 61
MRS. CROLY AT THE AGE OF 40 (ABOUT THE TIME
SOROSIS WAS INAUGURATED)
FACSIMILE OF RESOLUTIONS ADOPTED BY THE
WOMAN'S PRESS CLUB OF NEW YORK, JANUARY
11, 1902
FACSIMILE OF RESOLUTIONS ADOPTED BY THE
SOCIETY OF AMERICAN WOMEN IN LONDON,
MARCH 24, 1902
DAVID GOODMAN CROLY
FACSIMILE OF A PORTION OF A LETTER WRITTEN
BY MRS. CROLY, OCTOBER, 1900
MRS. CROLY AT THE AGE OF 18
Jenny June
The South Wind blows across the harrowed fields,
And lo! the young grain springs to happy birth;
His warm breath lingers where the granite shields
Intruding flowers, and the responsive Earth
Impartially her varied harvest yields.
Through long ensuing months with tender mirth
The South Wind laughs, rejoicing in the worth
Of the impellent energies he wields.
Within our minds the memory of a Name
Will move, and fires of inspiration that burned low
Among dead embers break in quickening flame;
Flowers of the soul, grain of the heart shall grow,
And burgeoned promises shall bravely blow
Beneath the sunny influence of Her fame.
ETHEL MORSE.
A Brother's Memories
_By John Cunningham, D.D._
The most interesting and potent fact within the range of human
knowledge is personality, and in the person of Jane Cunningham Croly
(Jenny June) a potency was apparent which has affected the social life
of more women, perhaps, than any other single controlling factor of
the same period.
Jane Cunningham was born in Market Harborough, Leicestershire,
England, December 19, 1829. She was the fourth child of Joseph H. and
Jane Cunningham, and though small in stature and delicate in organism,
was full of vivacity, and abounding in natural intelligence. Her rich
brown hair, blue eyes and clear complexion proclaimed her of
Anglo-Saxon origin. She was the idol of her parents and the admiration
of her school teachers. Her comradeship with her father began early in
life and was continued to the time of his death. The family came to
the United States in 1841, making their home at first in Poughkeepsie,
and afterwards in or near Wappinger's Falls, where the father bought a
large building-lot and erected a neat and commodious house, which
remained in the possession of the family until sold by Mrs.
Cunningham after the death of her husband. The lot was soon converted
into a garden by its owner who tilled it with the spade and allowed no
plough to be used in his little Eden. It was characteristic of his
generous spirit, too, that none of the surplus product was ever sold,
but was freely given to less favored neighbors. Happy years were spent
by Mr. Cunningham in his shop, in his garden, with his books, and in
visiting his daughter Jennie in New York after her marriage when she
became established there. It was as nearly an ideal life as a modest
man could desire. He lived respected by the best people in the
community, and died in peace, with his children around him.
As I remember my sister in early life, the sunniness of her nature
is the first and prevailing characteristic that I call to mind;
occasional moods of reverie bordering on melancholy only made brighter
the habitual radiance and buoyancy of a nature that diffused happiness
all around her. She was a perfectly healthy girl in mind and body. A
sound mind in a sound body was her noble heritage. She was always
extremely temperate in food and drink, fastidious in all her tastes
and personal habits, indulgent never beyond the dictates of perfect
simplicity and sobriety. Proficient in all branches of housekeeping,
her apparel was mostly of her own making. Good literature was a
passion with her, and while never an omnivorous reader, she had a
natural instinct for the best in language. A spirit of indomitable
independence, courage and persistence in purpose characterized her
from childhood. She must think her own thoughts, and mark out and
follow her own path. Suffering from a degree of physical timidity that
at times caused her much pain, she possessed a spirit that sometimes
seemed to border on audacity in the assertion and maintenance of her
own convictions. From childhood she developed a personality which
charmed all with whom she came in contact. Persons of both sexes,
young and old, the sober and the gay, alike fell under the influence
of her magnetic power. Living for a time in the family of her brother,
to whom she proffered her services as housekeeper when he was pastor
of a Union church in Worcester County, Mass., she drew to her all
sorts of people by the brightness and charm of her personality.
Self-forgetful and genuine, interested in all about her, she lived
only to serve others, valuing lightly all that she did. Here it was
that her remarkable capacity for journalism first developed itself.
One of the means by which she interested the community was the public
reading of a semi-monthly paper, every line of which was written by
herself and a fellow worker. The reading of that paper every
fortnight, to an audience that crowded the church, was an event in her
history.
Jennie was no dreamer. She was no speculative theorist spinning
impossible things out of the cobwebs of her brain. She was no Hypatia
striving to restore the gods of the past, revelling in a brilliant
cloudland of symbolisms and affinities. If she was caught in the mist
at any time, she soon came out of it and found her footing in the
practical realities of daily life. Never over-reverential, she never
called in question the deeper realities of soul-life. She was no
ascetic: she would have made a poor nun. But she was a born preacher
if by preaching is meant the annunciation of a gospel to those who
need it. Jennie was always an ardent devotee of her sex, and whatever
else she believed in, she certainly believed in women, their instincts
and capacities.
In the year 1856, on February 14th, St. Valentine's Day, my sister
Jennie was married to David G. Croly, a reporter for the New York
_Herald,_ and they began life in the city on his meagre salary of
fourteen dollars a week. The gifted young wife, however, soon found
work for herself on the _World_, the _Tribune_, the _Times_, _Noah's
Sunday Times_ and the _Messenger_. The first money she received for
writing was in return for an article published in the New York
_Tribune_. Their joint career in metropolitan journalism was
interrupted however by a short term of residence in Rockford,
Illinois, where Mr. Croly was invited to become editor of the Rockford
_Register_, then owned by William Gore King, the husband of our
sister Mary A. Cunningham. Mr. Croly was aided in the editorial
management by his wife, and while the work was agreeable and
successful, it was due to Mrs. Croly's ardent desire for a larger
field, that at the end of a year they decided to return to New York.
The results for both abundantly justified the change. As managing
editor of the daily _World_ for a number of years | 1,502.198213 |
2023-11-16 18:42:06.1853000 | 7,431 | 19 |
Produced by Charlene Taylor, Melissa McDaniel and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal
signs=.
Page 51: "_Aa_leck not El-eck" might have a diacritical mark over
the a.
Page 63: "I've 'earn tell" possibly should be "I've 'eard tell".
Page 261: The frontispiece cited was not included in this printing.
Page 318: "caller" possibly should be "calmer".
Page 326: "Frith" possibly should be "Firth".
AN
AMERICAN FOUR-IN-HAND
IN BRITAIN
BY
ANDREW CARNEGIE
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1899.
COPYRIGHT, 1883, 1886, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.
Press of J. J. Little & Co.
Astor Place, New York
I DEDICATE THESE PAGES
TO
MY FAVORITE HEROINE,
My Mother.
_PREFACE._
_The publication of this book renders necessary a few words of
explanation. It was originally printed for private circulation among a
few dear friends--those who were not as well as those who were of the
coaching party--to be treasured as a souvenir of happy days. The house
which has undertaken the responsibility of giving it a wider circulation
believed that its publication might give pleasure to some who would not
otherwise see it. It is not difficult to persuade one that his work
which has met with the approval of his immediate circle may be worthy of
a larger audience; and the author was the more easily induced to consent
to its reprint because, the first edition being exhausted, he was no
longer able to fill many requests for copies._
_The original intent of the book must be the excuse for the highly
personal nature of the narrative, which could scarcely be changed
without an entire remodelling, a task for which the writer had neither
time nor inclination; so, with the exception of a few suppressions and
some additions which seemed necessary under its new conditions, its
character has not been materially altered. Trusting that his readers may
derive from a perusal of its pages a tithe of the pleasure which the Gay
Charioteers experienced in performing the journey, and wishing that all
may live to see their "ships come home" and then enjoy a similar
excursion for themselves, he subscribes himself,_
_Very Sincerely,_
_THE AUTHOR_
_New York, May 1, 1883._
AN AMERICAN FOUR-IN-HAND
IN BRITAIN.
Long enough ago to permit us to sing, "For we are boys, merry, merry
boys, Merry, merry boys together," and the world lay all before us where
to choose, Dod, Vandy, Harry, and I walked through Southern England with
knapsacks on our backs. What pranks we played! Those were the happy days
when we heard the chimes at midnight and laughed Sir Prudence out of
countenance. "Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be
no more cakes and ale?" Nay, verily, Sir Gray Beard, and ginger shall be
hot i' the mouth too! Then indeed
"The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colors and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from the eye."
It was during this pedestrian excursion that I announced that some day,
when my "ships came home," I should drive a party of my dearest friends
from Brighton to Inverness. Black's "Adventures of a Phaeton" came not
long after this to prove that another Scot had divined how idyllic the
journey could be made. It was something of an air-castle--of a
dream--those far-off days, but see how it has come to pass!
[Sidenote: _Air-Castles._]
The world, in my opinion, is all wrong on the subject of air-castles.
People are forever complaining that their chateaux en Espagne are never
realized. But the trouble is with them--they fail to recognize them when
they come. "To-day," says Carlyle, "is a king in disguise," and most
people are in possession of their air-castles, but lack the trick to
see 't.
Look around you! see Vandy, for instance. When we were thus doing Merrie
England on foot, he with a very modest letter of credit stowed away in a
belt round his sacred person--for Vandy it was who always carried the
bag (and a faithful treasurer and a careful one too--good boy, Vandy!);
he was a poor student then, and you should have heard him philosophize
and lord it over us two, who had been somewhat fortunate in rolling
mills, and were devoted to business. "Great Caesar! boys, if I ever get
fifteen hundred dollars a year income!" (This was the fortune I was
vaguely figured up to be worth under ordinary conditions.) "Great Caesar!
boys"--and here the fist would come down on the hard deal table,
spilling a few drops of beer--"fifteen hundred dollars a year! Catch me
working any more like a slave, as you and Harry do!" Well, well, Vandy's
air-castle was fifteen hundred dollars a year; yet see him now when
thousands roll in upon him every month. Hard at it still--and see the
goddess laughing in her sleeve at the good joke on Vandy. He has his
air-castle, but doesn't recognize the structure.
There is Miss Fashion. How fascinating she was when she descanted on her
air-castle--then a pretty cottage with white and red roses clustering
beside the door and twining over it in a true-lover's knot, symbolizing
the lover's ideal of mutual help and dependence--the white upon the red.
No large establishment for her, nor many servants! One horse (I admit it
was always to be a big one), and an elegant little vehicle; plenty of
garden and enough of pin money. On this point there was never to be the
slightest doubt, so that she could really get the best magazines and one
new book every month--any one she chose. A young hard-working husband,
without too much income, so that she might experience the pleasure of
planning to make their little go far. Behold her now! her husband a
millionaire, a brown-stone front, half a dozen horses, a country place,
and a box at the opera! But, bless your heart! she is as unconscious of
the arrival of her castle as she is that years creep upon her apace.
The Goddess Fortune, my friends, rarely fails to give to mortals all
they pray for and more; but how she must stand amazed at the blindness
of her idolators, who continue to offer up their prayers at her shrine,
wholly unconscious that their first requests have been granted! It takes
Fortune a little time to prepare the gifts for so many supplicants--the
toys each one specially wants; and lo and behold! before they can be
delivered (though she works with speed betimes) the unreasonable mortals
have lost conceit of their prizes, and their coming is a mockery; they
are crying for something else. If the Fates be malignant, as old
religions teach, how they must enjoy the folly of man!
Imagine a good spirit taking Fortune to task for the misery and
discontent of mortals, as she gazes with piteous eyes upon our
disappointments, our troubles, and, saddest of all, our regrets,
charging her with producing such unhappiness. "Why have you done this?"
would be the inquiry. Listen to the sardonic chuckle of the Fate: "Hush!
I've only given them what they asked (chuckle--chuckle--chuckle)! Not my
fault! See that unhappy wretch, sleeplessly and feverishly tossing on
his pillow, and in his waking hours absorbing all his lofty faculties in
gambling at the Stock Exchange--wife, children, home, music, art,
culture, all forgotten. He was once a bright, promising, ingenuous
youth. He was born among trees and green fields, spent the morn of life
in the country, sensitive and responsive to all nature's whisperings;
lay in cool, leafy shades, wandered in forest glades, and paddled in
the 'complaining brooks which make the meadow green.' Nay, not many
years ago he returned at intervals to these scenes, and found their
charm had still power over him--felt the truth of the poet's words, that
"'To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware.'
"He asked for enough to live honorably upon among his fellows,"
continues the Fate, "and to keep his parents comfortable in their old
age--a matter of a few hundreds a year--and I gave him this and
thousands more. Ha, ha, ha! Silence! Look at him; he doesn't see the
joke. Oh yes, you may try to tell it to him, if you like. He has no time
to listen, nor ears to hear, nor eyes to see; no, nor soul to understand
your language. He's'short' on New Jersey Central or 'long' on Reading,
and, bless you! he must strain every fibre if he would save himself from
ruin.
"He could commune with you in your youth, you say; he had your language
then. No doubt! no doubt! so did he then know his Latin and whisper his
prayers at his mother's knee. The Latin has gone; his praying
continues--nay has increased, for his fears and selfish wants have
multiplied since he was an innocent, ignorant child, and he has much
more to ask from God for his own ends, now that he is a wise man and is
supposed to know much (chuckle--chuckle--chuckle).
"There is another mortal," we hear the Fate saying to the Good Fairy.
"Look at her, decked out in all the vagaries of changeable Fashion; note
her fixed-up look, her conventional air, her nervous, unmeaning,
simpering smile--the same to-day, yesterday, and forever--something to
all men, much to none. See her at home in her chamber! Why mopes she,
looking so haggard, with features expressionless and inane? What worm
gnaws at her heart and makes her life so petty? She, too, came into the
world a bright and happy thing, and grew up fond of music and of birds,
and with a passion for flowers and all of Nature's sweets; so careful,
too, of mother and of father, the very embodiment of love to all around
her. You should have seen her in her teens, a glorious ray from
heaven--'making a sunshine in a shady place'--so natural, so hearty,
with a carolling laugh like the falling of waters. In her most secret
prayers she asked only for a kind lover with a fair competence, that
they might live modestly, without ostentation. She was a good girl and I
granted her wish and more," says Fate. "Her air-castle was small, but I
sent her a magnificent one. She is courted, flattered, has every gift in
my power to bestow; yet she pines in the midst of them. The fruits of
her rare gardens have no flavor for her--Dead Sea fruits indeed, which
fall to ashes on her lips. She has entered for the race of Fashion, and
her soul is absorbed in its jealousies and disappointments. You may
speak to her as of old; tell her there is something noble in that domain
of human life where duties grow--something not only beyond but different
from Fashion, higher than dress or show. She understands you not.
"Hand her a bunch of violets. Does she learn their lesson with their
odor (which her dog scents as well as she)? Comes there to her the inner
meaning, the scent of the new-mown hay that speaks of past hours of
purity, of the fresh breeze that fanned her cheek in childhood's halcyon
days, the love of all things of the green earth and the sense of the
goodness of God which his flowers ever hold within their petals for
those who know their language? 'They will decorate me to-night for the
ball!' That is the be-all and the end-all of her ladyship's love for
flowers.
"Show her a picture with more of heaven than earth in it, and glimpses
of the light that never shone on sea or shore. If the artist be in
fashion she will call it 'pretty,' when it is grand. Give her music. Is
it the opera? Oh yes, she will attend. It is the fashion. But place
within her reach the soul-moving oratorio (with more religion in it than
in twenty sermons) or the suggestive symphony. No, a previous
engagement prevents. Why, just think of it--_one can't talk there!_ Yet
this woman could once play with feeling and sing with expression,
delighting her young companions. Of her one could truly say,
"'Oh! to see or hear her singing! scarce I know which is
divinest--
For her looks sing too--she modulates her gestures on the tune;
And her mouth stirs with the song, like song; and when the notes
are finest,
'Tis the eyes that shoot out vocal light, and seem to swell them
on.'
And now she has fallen to this!"
"Has she children?" inquires the Good Spirit.
"No," says Fate, "we are not altogether relentless. How could we give
such a woman children and look you in the face? It is sometimes thought
necessary even to go as far as this, but in such cases we commend the
poor infants to the special care of the great Father, for mother they
have none. But look! there is a man now who did so pray for a son and
heir that we gave him one, and yonder goes the result. God in heaven!
why are men so rash in their blindness as to pray for anything! Surely
'Thy will be done' were best."
I am as bad as Sterne in his "Sentimental Journey," and will never get
on at this rate. I started to argue that the Fates were too kind instead
of not kind enough; at least, my air-castles have ever been mere toys
compared with the realities, for never did I dream, in my wildest days,
that the intended drive through Britain would assume the princely
proportions of a four-in-hand, crowded with a dozen of my dearest
friends. A modest phaeton or wagonette with a pair of horses was the
extent of my dream, but the Fairy sent me four, you see, and two friends
for every one I had pleased myself with imagining as sure to take the
journey with me.
[Sidenote: _Embarkation._]
But now to a sober beginning of the story of the coach. It was in the
leafy month of June--the very first day thereof, however--in the year of
our Lord 1881, that the good ship Bothnia (Cunard Line, of course),
Captain McMicken (a true Scot and bold British sailor), steamed from the
future Metropolis of the World for the shores of Merrie England. She had
many passengers, but among them were eleven who outranked all others, if
their respective opinions of each other were to be accepted as the true
standard of judgment. I had received for many months before the sweetest
pleasure imaginable in startling first one and then another with
requests to report at headquarters, Windsor Hotel, New York, May 31st,
prepared to embark. It was on St. Valentine's Day that the Prima Donna
received a missive which caused her young heart to flutter. What a
pretty reply came! Here is a short extract:
"Three months to dream of it; three months to live in it;
and my whole lifetime afterward to think it over. I am the
happiest girl alive, only sometimes I can't believe it's
all going to happen."
To Davenport, Iowa, went another invitation. In due time came a return
missive from the proud City of the River:
"Will I go to Paradise for three months on a coach? Agent
of Providence, I will!"
Isn't it glorious to make one's friends so happy?
* * * * *
HARBOR OF NEW YORK, June 1, 1881.}
On board Steamer Bothnia. }
Call the roll.
Queen Dowager, Head of the Clan (no Salic Law in our family); Miss J. J.
(Prima Donna); Miss A. F. (Stewardess); Mr. and Mrs. McC. (Dainty
Davie); Mr. and Mrs. K. (Paisley Troubadours); Mr. B. F. V. (Vandy); Mr.
H. P., Jr. (Our Pard); Mr. G. F. McC. (General Manager); ten in all,
making, together with the scribe, the All-coaching Eleven.
Ting-a-ling-a-ling! The tears are shed, the kisses ta'en. The helpless
hulk breathes the breath of life. The pulsations of its mighty heart are
felt, the last rope that binds us to land cast off; and now see the
hundreds of handkerchiefs waving from the pier fading and fading away.
But note among the wavers one slight graceful figure; Miss C. of our
party, present in spirit if bodily absent on duty, much to the regret of
us all. The wavings from deck to shore tell our friends
"how slow our souls sailed on,
How fast our ship."
[Sidenote: _On the Bothnia._]
The Bothnia turned her face to the east, and out upon old ocean's gray
and melancholy waste sailed the Gay Charioteers. As we steamed down the
bay three steamers crowded with the most enterprising of Europe's people
passed us, emigrants coming to find in the bounteous bosom of the Great
Republic the blessings of equality, the just reward of honest labor. Ah,
favored land! the best of the Old World seek your shores to swell to
still grander proportions your assured greatness. That all come only for
the material benefits you confer, I do not believe. Crowning these
material considerations, I insist that the more intelligent of these
people feel the spirit of true manhood stirring within them, and glory
in the thought that they are to become part of a powerful people, of a
government founded upon the born equality of man, free from military
despotism and class distinctions. There is a trace of the serf in the
man who lives contentedly in a land with ranks above him. One hundred
and seventeen thousand came last month, and the cry is still they come!
O ye self-constituted rulers of men in Europe, know you not that the
knell of dynasties and of rank is sounding? Are you so deaf that you do
not hear the thunders, so blind that you do not see the lightnings which
now and then give warning of the storm that is to precede the reign of
the people?
There is everything in the way one takes things. "Whatever is, is
right," is a good maxim for travellers to adopt, but the Charioteers
improved on that. The first resolution they passed was, "Whatever is, is
lovely; all that does happen and all that doesn't shall be altogether
lovely." We shall quarrel with nothing, admire everything and everybody.
A surly beggar shall afford us sport, if any one can be surly under our
smiles; and stale bread and poor fare shall only serve to remind us that
we have banqueted at the Windsor. Even no dinner at all shall pass for a
good joke. Rain shall be hailed as good for the growing corn; a cold day
pass as invigorating, a warm one welcomed as suggestive of summer at
home, and even a Scotch mist serve to remind us of the mysterious ways
of Providence. In this mood the start was made. Could any one suggest a
better for our purpose?
Now comes a splendid place to skip--the ocean voyage. Everybody writes
that up upon the first trip, and every family knows all about it from
the long descriptive letters of the absent one doing Europe.
When one has crossed the Atlantic twenty odd times there seems just
about as much sense in boring one's readers with an account of the trip
as if the journey were by rail from New York to Chicago. We had a fine,
smooth run, and though some of us were a trifle distrait, most of us
were supremely happy. A sea voyage compared with land travel is a good
deal like matrimony compared with single blessedness, I take it: either
decidedly better or decidedly worse. To him who finds himself
comfortable at sea, the ocean is the grandest of treats. He never fails
to feel himself a boy again while on the waves. There is an exultation
about it. "He walks the monarch of the peopled deck," glories in the
storm, rises with and revels in it. Heroic song comes to him. The ship
becomes a live thing, and if the monster rears and plunges it is akin to
bounding on his thoroughbred who knows its rider. Many men feel thus,
and I am happily of them, but the ladies who are at their best at sea
are few.
The travellers, however, bore the journey well, though one or two proved
indifferent sailors. One morning I had to make several calls upon
members below and administer my favorite remedy; but pale and dejected
as the patients were, not one failed to smile a ghastly smile, and
repeat after a fashion the cabalistic words--"Altogether lovely."
[Sidenote: _The Atlantic._]
He who has never ridden out a hurricane on the Atlantic is to be pitied.
It seems almost ridiculous to talk of storms when on such a monster as
the Servia. Neptune now may "his dread trident shake" and only give us
pleasure, for in these days we laugh at his pretensions. Even he is fast
going the way of all kings, his wildest roar being about on a par with
the last Bull of the Pope, to which we listen with wonder but without
fear.
In no branch of human progress has greater advance been made within the
past twenty years than in ocean navigation by steam; not so much in the
matter of speed as in cost of transport. The Persia, once the best ship
of the Cunard Line, required an expenditure of thirty-five dollars as
against her successors' one dollar. The Servia will carry thirty-five
tons across the ocean for what one ton cost in the Persia. A revolution
indeed! and one which brings the products of American soil close to the
British shores. Quite recently flour has been carried from Chicago to
Liverpool for forty-eight cents (2_s._) per barrel. The farmer of
Illinois is as near the principal markets of Britain as the farmer in
England who grows his crops one hundred miles from his market and
transports by rail; and, in return for this, the pig-iron manufacturer
of Britain is as near the New York market as is his competitor on the
Hudson.
Some of the good people of Britain who are interested in land believe
that the competition of America has reached its height. Deluded souls,
it has only begun!
One cannot be a day at sea without meeting the American who regrets that
the Stars and Stripes have been commercially driven from the ocean. This
always reminds me of a fable of the lion and the turtle. The lion was
proudly walking along the shore, the real king of his domain, the land.
The turtle mocked him, saying, Oh, that's nothing, any one can walk on
land. Let's see you try it in the water. The lion tried. Result: the
turtle fed upon him for many days. America can only render herself
ridiculous by entering the water. That is England's domain.
"Her home is on the mountain wave,
Her march is o'er the deep."
[Sidenote: _The American Navy._]
We are talking just now about building some ships for a proposed
American Navy, which is equivalent to saying that we are going to
furnish ships to the enemy, if we are ever foolish enough to have
one--for it takes two fools to wage war. Unless America resolves to
change her whole policy as a republic, teaching mankind the victories of
peace, far more renowned than those of war, and goes back to the ideas
of monarchical governments, she should build no ships of war; but if she
will leave her unique position among the nations, and step down to the
level of quarrellers, let her beat the navies of Britain and France, for
the ships of a weak naval power are the certain prey of the stronger in
time of war. In peace they are useless.
In thinking of the real glories of America, my mind goes first to
this--that she has no army worthy of the name, and scarcely a war ship
of whose complete inefficiency in case of active service we are not
permitted to indulge the most sanguine anticipations.
What has America to do following in the wake of brutal, pugilistic
nations still under the influence of feudal institutions, who exhaust
their revenues training men how best to butcher their fellows, and in
building up huge ships for purposes of destruction! No, no, let
monarchies play this game as long as the people tolerate it, but for the
Republic "all her paths are peace," or the bright hopes which the masses
of Europe repose in her are destined to a sad eclipse.
Travellers know the character and abilities of the men in charge of a
Cunard ship, but have they ever considered for what pittances such men
are obtained? Captain, $3,250 per annum; first officer, $1,000; second,
third, and fourth officers, $600. For what sum, think you, can be had a
man capable of controlling the ponderous machinery of the Servia? Chief
engineer, $1,250. You have seen the firemen at work down below, perhaps.
Do you know any work so hard as this? Price $30 per month. The first
cost of a steel ship--and it is scarcely worth while in these days to
think of any other kind--is about one-half on the Clyde what it is on
the Delaware. Steel can be made, and is made, in Britain for about one
half its cost here. Not in our day will it be wise for America to leave
the land. It is a very fair division, as matters stand--the land for
America, the sea for England.
* * * * *
FRIDAY, June 10, 1881.
[Sidenote: _Ireland._]
Land ahoy! There it was, the long dark low-lying cloud, which was no
cloud, but the outline of one of the most unfortunate of lands--unhappy
Ireland, cursed by the well-meaning attempt of England to grow
Englishmen there. England's experience north of the Tweed should have
taught her better.
Conquerors cannot rule as conquerors a people who have parliamentary
institutions and publish newspapers; and neither of these can ever be
taken away from Ireland. They always come to stay. You may succeed in
keeping down slaves for a while, but then you must govern them as
slaves, and the Irish people have advanced beyond this. Just in
proportion as they do grow less like serfs and more like men, the
impossibility of England's governing Ireland must grow likewise. I hear
some Americans reproaching the Irish people for rioting and fighting so
much; the real trouble is they don't fight half enough. Take my own
heroic Scotland; let even Mr. Gladstone, one of ourselves and our best
beloved, send an Englishman as Lord Advocate to Scotland, and let him
dare pass a measure for Scotland in Parliament against the wishes of the
Scotch members, and all the uprisings in Ireland would seem like farces
to the thorough work Scotland would make of English interference. She
would not stand it a minute. Neither should Ireland. If she has the
elements of a great people within her borders, she will never submit. In
less than a generation Ireland can be made as loyal a member of the
British confederacy as Scotland is; and all that is necessary to produce
this is that she should be dealt with as England has to deal with
Scotland. Let the Emerald Isle, then, fight against the attempted
dominion of England, as Scotland fought against it, and may the result
be the same--that Ireland shall govern herself, as Scotland does, through
her own representatives duly elected by the people. "To this complexion
must it come at last," and the sooner the better for all parties
concerned.
We reached Liverpool Saturday morning. How pleasant it is to step on
shore in a strange land and be greeted by kind friends on the quay!
Their welcome to England counted for so much.
Mr. and Mrs. P. had been fellow passengers. A special car was waiting to
take them to London, but they decided not to go, and Mr. P. very kindly
placed it at the disposal of Mr. J. and family (who were, fortunately
for us, also fellow-passengers) and our party, so that we began our
travelling upon the other side under unexpectedly favorable conditions.
To such of the party as were getting their first glimpse of the
beautiful isle, the journey to London seemed an awakening from happy
dreams. They had dreamed that England looked thus and thus, and now
their dreams had come true. The scenery of the Midland route is very
fine, much more attractive than that of the other line.
The party spent from Saturday until Thursday at the Westminster Hotel,
in monster London, every one being free to do what most interested him
or her. Groups of three or four were formed for this purpose by the law
of natural selection, but the roll was called for breakfasts and
dinners, so that we all met daily and were fully advised of each other's
movements.
[Sidenote: _House of Commons._]
The House of Commons claimed the first place with our party, all being
anxious to see the Mother of Parliaments. It is not so easy a matter to
do this as to see our Congress in session; but thanks to our friend Mr.
R. C. and to others, we were fortunate in being able to do so
frequently. Our ladies had the pleasure of being taken into the Ladies'
Gallery by one of the rising statesmen of England, Sir Charles Dilke, a
Cabinet Minister, and one who has had the boldness, and as I think the
rare sagacity, to say that he prefers the republican to the monarchical
system of government. The world is to hear of Sir Charles Dilke, if he
live and health be granted him, and above all, if he remain steadfast to
his honest opinions. So many public men in England "stoop to conquer,"
forgetting that whatever else they may conquer thereafter they never can
conquer that _stoop_; that "drags down their life"!
We really heard John Bright speak--the one of all men living whom our
party wished most to see and to hear. I had not forgotten hearing him
speak in Dunfermline, when I was seven years of age, and well do I
remember that when I got home I told mother he made one mistake; for
when speaking of Mr. Smith (the Liberal candidate) he called him a
_men_, instead of a _maan_. When introduced to Mr. Bright I was
delighted to find that he had not forgotten Dunfermline, nor the
acquaintances he had made there.
[Sidenote: _Temperance._]
A grand character, that of the sturdy Quaker; once the best hated man in
Britain, but one to whom both continents are now glad to confess their
gratitude. He has been wiser than his generation, but has lived to see
it grow up to him. Certainly no American can look down from the gallery
upon that white head without beseeching heaven to shower its choicest
blessings upon it. He spoke calmly upon the Permissive Liquor Bill, and
gave the ministerial statement in regard to it. All he said was good
common sense; we could do something by regulating the traffic and
confining it to reasonable hours, but after all the great cure must come
from the better education of the masses, who must be brought to feel
that it is unworthy of their manhood to brutalize themselves | 1,502.20534 |
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file was produced from images generously made available
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Transcriber’s Note: Italics are indicated by _underscores_; superscripts
are indicated by ^carets. | 1,502.268475 |
2023-11-16 18:42:06.3000930 | 6,079 | 55 |
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provided by the Internet Archive
AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA
By William J. Locke
London
William Heinemann
1895
TO ONE WHOSE WORK IT IS AS MUCH AS MINE
I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK.
AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA.
CHAPTER I.
It was a severe room, scrupulously neat. Along one side ran a bookcase,
with beaded glass doors, containing, as one might see by peering through
the spaces, the collected, unread literature of two stern generations.
A few old prints, placed in bad lights, hung on the walls. In the centre
of the room was a leather-covered library table, with writing materials
arranged in painful precision. A couch was lined along one wall, in the
draught of the door. On either side of the fireplace were ranged two
stiff leather armchairs.
In one of these chairs sat an old man, in the other a faded woman just
verging upon middle age. The old man was looking at a picture which he
supported on his knees-a narrow, oblong strip of canvas nailed on to
a rough wooden frame. The woman eyed him with some interest, as if
awaiting a decision.
They were father and daughter, and bore a strange family resemblance
to each other. Both faces were pale, their foreheads high and narrow,
marked by faint horizontal lines, their eyes gray and cold, their upper
lips long and thin, setting tightly, without mobility, upon the lower.
The only essential point of difference was that the father's chin was
weakly pointed, the daughter's squarer and harder. Both faces gave one
the impression of negativeness, joylessness, seeming to lack the power
of strong emotive expression. One can see such, minus the refinement
of gentle birth and social amenities, in the pews of obscure dissenting
chapels, testifying that they have been led thither not by strong
convictions, but by the force of mild circumstance.
Indeed, as is the case with hundreds of our upper middle-class families,
the Davenants had descended from a fierce old Puritan stock, and though
the reality of their Puritanism had gradually lost itself in the current
of more respectable orthodoxy, its shadow hung over them still. The
vigorous enthusiasm that spurred the Puritan on to lofty action
was gone; the vague dread of sin that kept him in moral and mental
inactivity alone remained. Perhaps it is this survival amongst us of
the negative element of Puritanism that produces in England the curious
anomaly of education without enlightenment. It has dulled our perception
of life as an art, whose “great incidents,” as Fielding finely says,
“are no more to be considered as mere accidents than the several
members of a fine statue or a noble poem.” It has caused us to live in
a perpetual twilight in which the possibilities of existence loom
fantastic and indistinct. The Davenants were gentlefolk, holding a good
position in the small country town of Durdleham; they visited among
the county families, and, on ordinary, conventional grounds, considered
themselves to belong to the cultured classes. They were the curious yet
familiar product of the old-fashioned, high-church Toryism impregnated
with the Puritan taint.
The light was fading through the French window behind the old man's
chair. He laid down the canvas on his lap and looked in a puzzled way at
the fire. Then he raised it nearer to his eyes for further examination.
“This is really very dreadful,” he said at last, looking at his
daughter.
“Something will have to be done soon,” replied the latter.
“It is so horribly vulgar, Grace,” said the old man; “look at that boy's
nose--and that drunken man--his face is a nightmare of evil. I really
must begin to talk seriously to Clytie.”
Mrs. Blather smiled somewhat pityingly. Since the earliest days of her
long widowhood she had undertaken the charge of her father's house and
the care of her two younger sisters, Janet and Clytie. Her familiarity,
therefore, with the seamy side of Clytie's nature had been of long
duration.
“You might as well talk to that fender, papa,” she said. “Clytie has
got it into her head that she is going to be an artist, and no amount of
talking will get it out.”
“It's all through her visiting those friends of hers, the Farquharsons.
They are not nice people for her to know. I shall not let her go there
again.”
“If she goes on like this there is no knowing what will happen.”
“Where did the child get these repulsive and ungirlish notions from?”
the old man asked querulously.
The conception of the picture was not that of a young girl, and though
the execution was crude and untrained, there was a bold cruelty of touch
that saved it from being amateurish. The canvas was divided into two
panels. On the one was painted a tiny bully of a boy with his arm
rounded across his throat, about to strike a weakly, poverty-stricken
little girl. They were children of the poorest classes, the boy
realistically, offensively dirty--the _petit morveux_ in its absolute
sense. Behind them was the open doorway of a red-brick, jerry-built
cottage, showing a strip of torn and dirty matting along the passage
that lost itself in the gloom beyond. On the other panel was the corner
of a public house in a low slum, the window lights and a gas-lamp
throwing a lurid glare upon wet pavement and the figures of a woman
and a drunken man. The faces were those of the children in the first
picture, and the eternal tragedy was repeating itself. The man's face
was loathsome in its sodden ferocity; the woman, with a child in her
arms, was reeling from the blow. The evident haste in which the panels
had been painted, the glaring, unsoftened colouring, heightened as if by
impressionist design the coarse realism of the effect. Above was written
the legend, “_La joie de vivre_” and in the left-hand bottom corner,
“_Clytie Davenant pinxit_.”
“She has certainly grown much worse of late,” sighed Mrs. Blather,
holding out her thin, short hand to shield her face from the fire.
There was a pause of some moments. Mr. Davenant ceased nursing the
picture and stood it on the floor.
“Have you quite made up your mind, papa,” said Mrs. Blather at length,
“not to let Clytie go to the Slade School in London?”
“It is out of the question,” replied the old man.
“I don't think so, papa. It would perhaps do her good. A year or so's
hard work would take all these silly ideas out of her.”
“I question it,” said Mr. Davenant. “They are not silly ideas. They are
debased, degraded ideas.”
“My dear papa, they are only fads. All young girls have them. Look how
crazy Janet was to join the cookery classes. We let her join, and now
she hates the sight of a pie-dish. With Clytie it is quite the same,
only she wants to daub.”
“Well, let her daub in a decent way at home,” replied the old man
testily.
Mrs. Blather shrugged her lean shoulders.
“We have tried that and it hasn't succeeded, apparently,” she said
drily. “You seldom come in her way; you don't know how unpleasant things
are for Janet and myself. What do you think she had the impertinence
to tell me this morning? She said that we were not real people. We
were machines or abstractions based, I think she said, on a formula,
or something of that sort. She was pining to live amongst living human
beings. And then she is so rude to visitors. What do you think she said
to the vicar, who came, at Janet's request, to talk to her about her
shameful neglect of her religious duties? She said, if he was a pillar
of the Church, she saw no reason why she should be a seat-cushion.”
“Tut, tut,” said the old man angrily. He was vicar's churchwarden, and a
power in the parish.
“And then,” continued Mrs. Blather, “when I scolded her for her
rudeness, she said that if she had been a man she would have sworn at
him for his impertinence. Really people will soon be afraid of coming to
the house.”
“They will indeed,” said Mr. Davenant.
Like a wise woman, Mrs. Blather did not press her point. She knew she
had thoroughly alarmed her father and had shown him but one way out of
the difficulty. His taking it, if left to himself, was only a question
of time. She rang the bell for the servant to come and light Mr.
Davenant's gas, and then she left him to his reflections.
Mr. Davenant possessed some landed property, which he had occupied his
life in mismanaging. Fortunately for him, his wife had brought him a
small fortune which sufficed to keep up a position, modest when compared
with that of the Davenants of former days, but still high enough to
satisfy the social aspirations of his family. He had lived a colourless
life, severe and respectable. Even his university days had passed in
a dull uniformity, leaving no glamour behind them. He had walked
honourably and blindly in the paths his parents had indicated, and, now
that he was nearing the end of the journey, thanked God for having given
him the grace not to err from them. He had married when still fairly
young, and he had loved his wife in a gentlemanly, passionless way. She,
poor thing, had filled up so small a space in life that she had faded
out of it almost unnoticed--even by himself. He had no storms of joy or
sorrow to look back upon. His thoughts, as he brooded over the fireside,
generally wandered back to trifling incidents: ancient municipal
interests, the mortgages on his estate, the boundary quarrels with the
old earl, his neighbour.
But lately he had been thinking anxiously over his daughter Clytie.
She had suddenly developed out of a naughty, rebellious child into a
problem. He assumed as a matter of course that he bore her the ordinary
well-regulated parental affection, but in his heart of hearts he never
really loved her. Until lately it had not occurred to him to think
of her as anything but a child of his with a singularly unfortunate
disposition which time would modify. But time, on the contrary, was
accentuating it, and he realised at last that Clytie had a distinct
individuality. His philosophy had left many things in heaven and earth
undreamed of. He was mystified, puzzled. How could he and his delicate
wife have brought this bright-haired, full-blooded, impulsive creature
into existence? Her sisters were gentle, quiet women, possessing the
virtues inculcated in his conception of life. Clytie seemed to possess
none of them. The peasant woman in the legend could not have wondered
more over her changeling. How could a daughter of his and a sister
of Janet's scoff at sacred things, defy social rules, and have an
imagination that ran riot in scenes of drunkenness and outcast life?
Physiology might grant a solution to the old man's problem in the law
of the alternation of heredity. His father's youngest brother had been a
family black sheep, and being the only one of the generation who had led
an eventful career, was naturally never mentioned by his relations, and
the record of his life perished with him. But it is possible that the
positive enthusiastic principle of Clytie's Puritan descent, reasserting
itself once in every other generation, to the horror of the negative
principle that otherwise ran through the race continuously, came out in
her with all its strength and vigour. It brought her eager, panting up
to the brink of our surging nineteenth century life, imperiously bidding
her plunge in and take her part in the tumult.
She was now nineteen, an age when girls try to realise themselves.
She discovered that she was a greater problem to herself than to her
sisters. They simply looked upon her as odd, eccentric, unpleasant
to live with, and if she had not been their sister would have almost
gathered up their skirts around them as they passed her by. But she was
conscious of a craving within her that did not proceed from mere wilful
caprice. In her earlier girlhood she had thought long and humbly over
her shortcomings. Why could she not be as contented and dutiful as
Janet? Why could not the interests that satisfied her sisters' life
satisfy hers? Often and often an impulse of scorn and ridicule at the
littleness of Durdleham would overmaster her, and then would follow a
passionate fit of remorse and repentance, received with coldness
and ruffled dignity on her sisters' part, that would send her back
humiliated and rebellious to her room. From what springs of desire did
all this proceed? Whither were these impulses tending?
Ever since she could hold a pencil she had been able to draw. She had
received lessons in painting later on, and had covered canvas after
canvas with the graceful futilities the Durdleham art teacher suggested.
He was a landscape painter, and Clytie had little or no feeling for
landscape. Bright colour, vivid contrast, sharp tone, attracted her, but
the quiet grays and faint blues of our English scenery came out dull and
mechanical when she tried to paint them. At last she gave up her lessons
in despair, much to the wonderment of Janet, who improved greatly under
instruction, and turned out neat, complacent little water-colours which
she sold at bazaars or distributed among her friends. For months Clytie
never touched a brush. Art of this sort revolted her. It was soulless,
futile. But by degrees, as the breach between herself and her
sisters widened, her power of painting became a source of ineffable
consolation--a means of self-commune. She could give external expression
to the voices that haunted her. She read books with the eagerness
only exhibited by the young girl craving for self-development; and
the pictures they vividly impressed on her young imaginative brain she
transferred to paper or canvas--not lovingly, tenderly, with the pure
artistic delight of gradual creation, but hurriedly, feverishly, longing
to see the thing done, the impression realised in a way in which she
could understand it. When finished, or rather as soon as it had reached
an impressionist stage of artistic completeness, she would feast her
heart upon it for a day or two, and then throw it away, or let it lie
about in a corner disregarded and forgotten.
Until she was nearly eighteen Mrs. Blather had scrupulously supervised
her reading, and Clytie, chafing with irritation, had been compelled
either to submit or to smuggle condemned books into the house and read
them surreptitiously. But at last her angry impatience at the impeccable
literature that satisfied her sisters' needs burst its restraints,
and resisted vehemently and finally all censorship on the part of Mrs.
Blather.
It was not wholesome, this solitary, emotional, imaginative life.
Her health showed signs of giving way. They called in a doctor, who
prescribed rest and a change of air. One of her aunts, who lived in
London, happened to want a companion for a tour on the Continent, and
with many misgivings undertook to take Clytie with her. To the girl the
trip was an endless succession of delight. Impressions followed each
other too fast for her to realise them. The superficial features of
continental life, familiar and commonplace enough to the ordinary
traveller, were new to her. Groups at street corners, strangely attired
soldiers, odd un-English-looking shops, the very waiters hurrying along
through the intricacies of café tables with their fantastically laden
trays, all excited her, filled her with the exhilaration of life and
movement. Her aunt, who had hitherto shared the family opinion of
Clytie, wondered greatly at the transformation. It never occurred to
her that this was the natural Clytie filling her heart at last with the
emotions it had hungered for.
It was during this time, at a pension in Dresden, that she formed the
acquaintance of the Farquharsons. Miss Davenant discovered that they and
herself had common acquaintances in London, and that she had heard of
Mr. Farquharson as an archæologist of some repute.
The acquaintance thus formed developed quickly into a pleasant intimacy
of travel. Mrs. Farquharson, a bright, clever woman of forty, was
attracted toward Clytie, who, for her part, found in her new friend
a natural sympathy that touched her heart. So far did their sudden
friendship go, that before they parted Clytie had conditionally accepted
an invitation to visit the archæologist and his wife in Harley Street.
When Mr. Davenant's permission was asked he at first demurred. He
had the country-bred man's distrust of strangers; but when his sister
vouched for the social position of the Farquharsons he reluctantly
consented. Clytie paid her promised visit the following winter. This
was one of the turning points of her life. For the first time she
found herself in an intellectual, artistic society. It was a glimpse
of another world. At Durdleham young men seldom came to the house. When
they did, they avoided her and talked platitudes to her sisters. At
dinner parties the men remained in the dining-room long after the
ladies had left. They seemed to regard them as somewhat picturesque but
wearisome household adjuncts, whose absence their masculine intellects
unreservedly welcomed; conversation with their partner was a dinner
incident to be got through, like shaving or putting on their white ties
beforehand. And the Durdleham ladies seemed to take this as a matter of
course, and were equally happy to get by themselves and gossip mildly.
But in Harley Street Clytie found a different order of things. Men and
women seemed to have interests in common and to discuss them on a basis
of perfect equality. She found, too, women speaking authoritatively on
certain subjects and listened to with deference by men. All, young
and old, talked to her as if she were as much absorbed in life as
themselves. No one made her rage with humiliation by tolerating her with
an air of languid or pompous condescension. Even the frivolities and
platitudes of everyday conversation were treated in a way new to her
experience. The talk was keen, incisive, exaggerated. Everyone could
say what he wished without fear of springing some mine of prejudice or
prudery. The atmosphere of the house breathed freedom of thought and
action. She beheld others putting into form her own vague aspirations.
She saw people who wrote, painted, acted, living fully and intensely
every day. Even the professed idlers whom she met seemed to hold their
fingers on the throb of life around them.
In the streets--she had been but little in London before--she saw things
strange and fascinating--things she had read about, dreamed of, painted,
and yet not understood. She was appalled by her ignorance, the narrow
gauge of her sympathies. What did all this restless life in the great
city mean, its wild cries and passions that struck upon her tightly
strung nerves with a deep, mysterious resonance?
She filled a sketch-book with the vivid impressions each day brought
her, seeking, as her way was, to realise them by tearing them out of
herself, and giving them objectivity. A royal academician picked up
the book from the corner of a table in the drawing-room, where Clytie,
falling easily into the careless ways of the household, had thrown it.
He was turning over the pages when Clytie perceived him, and rushed
impulsively to him across the room.
“Oh! you mustn't look at that, Mr. Redgrave. Please don't!”
He looked up at her amusedly.
“Why not? It is rather interesting. Why don't you learn to draw?”
“What would be the good?” she said. “This suits my purpose.”
The other shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly.
“That all depends upon what your purpose is,” he replied. “If you want
to become an artist you must train properly for it.”
Become an artist! The words haunted her all that night. They opened up
before her infinite vistas of possibilities, life in the midst of the
world, the knowledge of its greatnesses and its mysteries.
In the morning she wrote to him. He invited her to come to his studio
and talk over the matter. She asked Mrs. Farquharson to accompany
her, but her hostess was engaged at the hour in question. Clytie looked
disappointed. The home traditions asserted themselves and prevented her
from thinking it possible to go unchaperoned. Mrs. Farquharson divined
this and laughed in her bright way.
“Goodness gracious, my dear,” she said, “the man isn't going to eat
you!”
So Clytie went alone to the studio to learn her destiny.
“You have great talent,” said the artist, “but it needs cultivation.
After two or three years' severe training you may do something.”
Then Clytie asked him the question that had been burning her heart for
two days.
“Do you think I shall ever be able to earn my own living?”
“You might do that now, if you chose, and had patience,” he replied.
“How?”
“By book illustrating.”
“But I want to become a great artist.”
“Doubtless. Most of us do. You may if you try hard, and love art for
art's sake. But,” he added, looking at her keenly--“there always is a
'but,' Miss Davenant.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked quickly.
“_Parce que_, as the French say--begging your pardon.”
And that was practically the end of the conversation.
All this had happened to Clytie three months before Mrs. Blather had
discovered the offending picture in Clytie's attic studio and had
carried it to her father. After this foretaste of life the girl wearied
more than ever of Durdleham with its soullessness, its stagnation, its
prim formulas. A dangerous reaction of spirit set in, leading her
to long spells of hopeless melancholy, alternating with outbursts of
passionate rebellion. She would stand for hours in the recess of her
window gazing over the flat stretch of country, and dreaming strange
dreams of the world that lay beyond the dreary horizon--dreams in which
sharp reminiscence mingled with fancy in vague, weird shapes. But still
she was beginning to realise herself, her needs, her vague cravings. Her
passionate desires now flowed into some definite channel--to escape at
all costs from Durdleham, and consequently to enter that free world of
art the glimpse of which had enchanted her.
The scenes between her sisters and herself were of daily occurrence. The
narrower, gentler women were shocked at her wilfulnesses, her unladylike
behaviour; she was revolted to her soul at the pettiness and sordidness
of the disputes. Existence at Durdleham had become impossible.
“For God's sake, Gracie, let me go away from here,” she cried one day,
“or I shall hate you--and I want to love you if I can. Let me go to
London. Auntie will take me in. Oh, my God! I shall go mad in this place
among you.”
And Mrs. Blather, for the sake of her own tranquillity and the
reputation of the family, made up her mind that Clytie should have her
desire and that Durdleham should know her no more. And in the end Mrs.
Blather gained her father's consent to the arrangement; but the old man
looked upon Clytie almost as a lost soul.
CHAPTER II.
When the eager young soul starts out unaided to solve the riddle of
life, it meets with many paradoxes that admit of no solution, and many
sordid simplicities that only unfamiliarity made it regard as enigmas.
Despair in the one instance and disgust in the other not unfrequently
drive it into a hopeless pessimism, in which inaction seems to be the
least pain. Or else the soul bruises itself in vain against the mocking
bars, shrinks in loathing from the disveiled corruption, and flies back
to the unavailing aids that it spurned aforetime. It is cast in the
valley of the shadow of death which only the stout-hearted can pass
through unshaken.
The multitude stands by the formulas that profess to solve the eternal
problem. It follows them blindly, like the schoolboy who cares not
whether they are right or wrong, or whether the answer is conclusive. So
long as there is an answer of some sort its mind is easy. But there are
earnester inquirers whom these formulas do not satisfy--who see that
they are followed for their own sake, that they never can lead to any
conclusions. The soul, now of a people, now of an individual, rebels;
it rejects the formulas; it starts from the first principles of being,
asserting fiercely its individuality, its inalienable right to seek
after truth according to its own methods. These are prejudiced. All
great action must be. Because a system is rotten and incomplete the
perfervid spirit judges that every factor must be false. It misses the
fact that every great human system contains elemental truths of vital
importance, without which it must fall in its struggle. And at last,
when the forces of endeavour are well nigh spent, it finds the key
of the great enigma inwrapped in a greater one still, in the eternal
tragedy of things.
It was with this burning protest against formulas that Clytie entered
into the world. They had been presented to her in their smug complacency
as solving all mysteries human and divine. She had seen them worshipped
as fetiches, and her soul revolted against the futile idolatry. She was
too young to examine them carefully, to see that the sacrosanctity of
some was miserably justified by human experience. She spurned them all,
and she plunged into the waters of Life, a rudderless bark in search of
the unknown.
She spent two years in study at the Slade School in University College,
living under the protection of her aunt, who had a house in Russell
Square. The training was severe and at times irksome. But she learned
strict academical rules of drawing, in spite of her repugnance to the
stern coldness of the antique. After her term of hard training was
over she went for a year into a painter's studio and learned colour and
painting from the live model.
They were years of probation, as Clytie well knew, and they brought her
lessons in self-restraint, both in art and in the conduct of life. Her
aunt, Miss Davenant, was shrewder and broader-minded than her brother,
having lived more in the whirl of humanity, but the formulas of
Durdleham were ranged as household gods upon her hearthstone, and
Clytie, out of pure self-interest, was bound to show them outward
respect. To compensate, | 1,502.320133 |
2023-11-16 18:42:06.4775470 | 4,063 | 22 | OF SINGING***
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CARUSO AND TETRAZZINI ON THE ART OF SINGING
by
ENRICO CARUSO and LUISA TETRAZZINI
Metropolitan Company, Publishers, New York, 1909.
PREFACE
In offering this work to the public the publishers wish to lay before
those who sing or who are about to study singing, the simple,
fundamental rules of the art based on common sense. The two greatest
living exponents of the art of singing--Luisa Tetrazzini and Enrico
Caruso--have been chosen as examples, and their talks on singing have
additional weight from the fact that what they have to say has been
printed exactly as it was uttered, the truths they expound are driven
home forcefully, and what they relate so simply is backed by years of
experience and emphasized by the results they have achieved as the two
greatest artists in the world.
Much has been said about the Italian Method of Singing. It is a question
whether anyone really knows what the phrase means. After all, if there
be a right way to sing, then all other ways must be wrong. Books have
been written on breathing, tone production and what singers should eat
and wear, etc., etc., all tending to make the singer self-conscious and
to sing with the brain rather than with the heart. To quote Mme.
Tetrazzini: "You can train the voice, you can take a raw material and
make it a finished production; not so with the heart."
The country is overrun with inferior teachers of singing; men and women
who have failed to get before the public, turn to teaching without any
practical experience, and, armed only with a few methods, teach these
alike to all pupils, ruining many good voices. Should these pupils
change teachers, even for the better, then begins the weary undoing of
the false method, often with no better result.
To these unfortunate pupils this book is of inestimable value. He or she
could not consistently choose such teachers after reading its pages.
Again the simple rules laid down and tersely and interestingly set forth
not only carry conviction with them, but tear away the veil of mystery
that so often is thrown about the divine art.
Luisa Tetrazzini and Enrico Caruso show what not to do, as well as what
to do, and bring the pupil back to first principles--the art of singing
naturally.
THE ART OF SINGING
By Luisa Tetrazzini
[Illustration: LUISA TETRAZZINI]
LUISA TETRAZZINI
INTRODUCTORY SKETCH OF THE CAREER OF THE WORLD-FAMOUS PRIMA DONNA
Luisa Tetrazzini, the most famous Italian coloratura soprano of the
day, declares that she began to sing before she learned to talk. Her
parents were not musical, but her elder sister, now the wife of the
eminent conductor Cleofante Campanini, was a public singer of
established reputation, and her success roused her young sister's
ambition to become a great artist. Her parents were well to do, her
father having a large army furnishing store in Florence, and they did
not encourage her in her determination to become a prima donna. One
prima donna, said her father, was enough for any family.
Luisa did not agree with him. If one prima donna is good, she argued,
why would not two be better? So she never desisted from her importunity
until she was permitted to become a pupil of Professor Coccherani, vocal
instructor at the Lycee. At this time she had committed to memory more
than a dozen grand opera roles, and at the end of six months the
professor confessed that he could do nothing more for her voice; that
she was ready for a career.
She made her bow to the Florentine opera going public, one of the most
critical in Italy, as Inez, in Meyerbeer's "L'Africaine," and her
success was so pronounced that she was engaged at a salary of $100 a
month, a phenomenal beginning for a young singer. Queen Margherita was
present on the occasion and complimented her highly and prophesied for
her a great career. She asked the trembling debutante how old she was,
and in the embarrassment of the moment Luisa made herself six years
older than she really was. This is one noteworthy instance in which a
public singer failed to discount her age.
Fame came speedily, but for a long time it was confined to Europe and
Latin America. She sang seven seasons in St. Petersburg, three in
Mexico, two in Madrid, four in Buenos Aires, and even on the Pacific
coast of America before she appeared in New York. She had sung Lucia
more than 200 times before her first appearance at Covent Garden, and
the twenty curtain calls she received on that occasion came as the
greatest surprise of her career. She had begun to believe that she could
never be appreciated by English-speaking audiences and the ovation
almost overcame her.
It was by the merest chance that Mme. Tetrazzini ever came to the
Manhattan Opera House in New York. The diva's own account of her
engagement is as follows:
"I was in London, and for a wonder I had a week, a wet week, on my
hands. You know people will do anything in a wet week in London.
"There were contracts from all over the Continent and South America
pending. There was much discussion naturally in regard to settlements
and arrangements of one kind and another.
"Suddenly, just like that"--she makes a butterfly gesture--"M.
Hammerstein came, and just like that"--a duplicate gesture--"I made up
my mind that I would come here. If his offer to me had been seven days
later I should not have signed, and if I had not I should undoubtedly
never have come, for a contract that I might have signed to go elsewhere
would probably have been for a number of years."
Voice experts confess that they are not able to solve the mystery of
Mme. Tetrazzini's wonderful management of her breathing.
"It is perfectly natural," she says. "I breathe low down in the
diaphragm, not, as some do, high up in the upper part of the chest. I
always hold some breath in reserve for the crescendos, employing only
what is absolutely necessary, and I renew the breath wherever it is
easiest.
"In breathing I find, as in other matters pertaining to singing, that as
one goes on and practices, no matter how long one may have been singing,
there are constantly new surprises awaiting one. You may have been
accustomed for years to take a note in a certain way, and after a long
while you discover that, while it is a very good way, there is a
better."
Breath Control The Foundation of Singing
There is only one way to sing correctly, and that is to sing naturally,
easily, comfortably.
The height of vocal art is to have no apparent method, but to be able to
sing with perfect facility from one end of the voice to the other,
emitting all the notes clearly and yet with power and having each note
of the scale sound the same in quality and tonal beauty as the ones
before and after.
There are many methods which lead to the goal of natural singing--that
is to say, the production of the voice with ease, beauty and with
perfect control.
Some of the greatest teachers in the world reach this point apparently
by diverging roads.
Around the art of singing there has been formed a cult which includes an
entire jargon of words meaning one thing to the singer and another thing
to the rest of the world and which very often doesn't mean the same
thing to two singers of different schools.
In these talks with you I am going to try to use the simplest words, and
the few idioms which I will have to take from my own language I will
translate to you as clearly as I can, so that there can be no
misunderstanding.
Certainly the highest art and a lifetime of work and study are
necessary to acquire an easy emission of tone.
There are quantities of wonderful natural voices, particularly among the
young people of Switzerland and Italy, and the American voice is
especially noted for its purity and the beauty of its tone in the high
registers. But these naturally untrained voices soon break or fail if
they are used much unless the singer supplements the natural, God-given
vocal gifts with a conscious understanding of how the vocal apparatus
should be used.
The singer must have some knowledge of his or her anatomical structure,
particularly the structure of the throat, mouth and face, with its
resonant cavities, which are so necessary for the right production of
the voice.
Besides that, the lungs and diaphragm and the whole breathing apparatus
must be understood, because the foundation of singing is breathing and
breath control.
A singer must be able to rely on his breath, just as he relies upon the
solidity of the ground beneath his feet.
A shaky, uncontrolled breath is like a rickety foundation on which
nothing can be built, and until that foundation has been developed and
strengthened the would-be singer need expect no satisfactory results.
From the girls to whom I am talking especially I must now ask a
sacrifice--the singer cannot wear tight corsets and should not wear
corsets of any kind which come up higher than the lowest rib.
In other words, the corset must be nothing but a belt, but with as much
hip length as the wearer finds convenient and necessary.
In order to insure proper breathing capacity it is understood that the
clothing must be absolutely loose around the chest and also across the
lower part of the back, for one should breathe with the back of the
lungs as well as with the front.
In my years of study and work I have developed my own breathing capacity
until I am somewhat the despair of the fashionable modiste, but I have a
diaphragm and a breath on which I can rely at all times.
In learning to breathe it is well to think of the lungs as empty sacks,
into which the air is dropping like a weight, so that you think first of
filling the bottom of your lungs, then the middle part, and so on until
no more air can be inhaled.
Inhale short breaths through the nose. This, of course, is only an
exercise for breath development.
Now begin to inhale from the bottom of the lungs first.
Exhale slowly and feel as if you were pushing the air against your
chest. If you can get this sensation later when singing it will help you
very greatly to get control of the breath and to avoid sending too much
breath through the vocal chords.
The breath must be sent out in an even, steady flow.
You will notice when you begin to sing, if you watch yourself very
carefully, that, first, you will try to inhale too much air; secondly,
you will either force it all out at once, making a breathy note, or in
trying to control the flow of air by the diaphragm you will suddenly
cease to send it forth at all and will be making the sound by pressure
from the throat.
There must never be any pressure from the throat. The sound must be made
from the continued flow of air.
You must learn to control this flow of air, so that no muscular action
of the throat can shut it off.
Open the throat wide and start your note by the pressure breath. The
physical sensation should be first an effort on the part of the
diaphragm to press the air up against the chest box, then the sensation
of a perfectly open throat, and, lastly, the sensation that the air is
passing freely into the cavities of the head.
The quantity of sound is controlled by the breath.
In diminishing the tone the opening of the throat remains the same.
Only the quantity of breath given forth is diminished. That is done by
the diaphragm muscles.
"Filare la voce," to spin the voice from a tiny little thread into a
breadth of sound and then diminish again, is one of the most beautiful
effects in singing.
It is accomplished by the control of the breath, and its perfect
accomplishment means the complete mastery of the greatest difficulty in
learning to sing.
I think one of the best exercises for learning to control the voice by
first getting control of the breath is to stand erect in a
well-ventilated room or out of doors and slowly snuff in air through the
nostrils, inhaling in little puffs, as if you were smelling something.
Take just a little bit of air at a time and feel as if you were filling
the very bottom of your lungs and also the back of your lungs.
When you have the sensation of being full up to the neck retain the air
for a few seconds and then very slowly send it out in little puffs
again.
This is a splendid exercise, but I want to warn you not to practice any
breathing exercise to such an extent that you make your heart beat fast
or feel like strangling.
Overexercising the lungs is as bad as not exercising them enough and
the results are often harmful.
Like everything else in singing, you want to learn this gradually. Never
neglect it, because it is the very foundation of your art. But don't try
to develop a diaphragm expansion of five inches in two weeks.
Indeed, it is not the expansion that you are working for.
I have noticed this one peculiarity about young singers--if they have an
enormous development of the diaphragm they think they should be able to
sing, no matter what happens. A girl came to see me once whose figure
was really entirely out of proportion, the lower part of the lungs
having been pressed out quite beyond even artistic lines.
"You see, madam," she exclaimed, "I have studied breathing. Why, I have
such a strong diaphragm I can move the piano with it!" And she did go
right up to my piano and, pushing on this strong diaphragm of hers,
moved the piano a fraction of an inch from its place.
I was quite aghast. I had never met such an athletic singer. When I
asked her to let me hear her voice, however, a tiny stream of contralto
sound issued from those powerful lungs.
She had developed her breathing capacity, but when she sang she held
her breath back.
I have noticed that a great many people do this, and it is one of the
things that must be overcome in the very beginning of the study of
singing.
Certain young singers take in an enormous breath, stiffening every
muscle in order to hold the air, thus depriving their muscles of all
elasticity.
They will then shut off the throat and let only the smallest fraction of
air escape, just enough to make a sound. Too much inbreathing and too
violent an effort at inhaling will not help the singer at all.
People have said that they cannot see when I breathe. Well, they
certainly cannot say that I am ever short of breath even if I do try to
breathe invisibly. When I breathe I scarcely draw my diaphragm in at
all, but I feel the air fill my lungs and I feel my upper ribs expand.
In singing I always feel as if I were forcing my breath against my
chest, and, just as in the exercises according to Delsarte you will find
the chest leads in all physical movements, so in singing you should feel
this firm support of the chest of the highest as well as the lowest
notes.
I have seen pupils, trying to master the art of breathing, holding
themselves as rigidly as drum majors.
Now this rigidity of the spinal column will in no way help you in the
emission of tone, nor will it increase the breath control. In fact, I
don't think it would even help you to stand up straight, although it
would certainly give one a stiff appearance and one far removed from
grace.
A singer should stand freely and easily and should feel as if the chest
were leading, but should not feel constrained or stiff in any part of
the ribs or lungs.
From the minute the singer starts to emit a tone the supply of breath
must be emitted steadily from the chamber of air in the lungs. It must
never be held back once.
The immediate pressure of the air should be felt more against the chest.
I know of a great many singers who, when they come to very difficult
passages, put their hands on their chests, focusing their attention on
this one part of the mechanism of singing.
The audience, of course, thinks the prima donna's hand is raised to her
heart, when, as a matter of fact, the prima donna, with a difficult bit
of singing before her, is thinking of her technique and the foundation
of that technique--breath control.
This feeling of singing against the chest with the weight of air
pressing up against it is known as "breath support," and in Italian we
have even a better word, "apoggio," which is breath prop. The diaphragm
in English may be called the bellows of the lungs, but the apoggio is
the deep breath regulated by the diaphragm.
The attack of the sound must come from the apoggio, or breath prop. In
attacking the very highest notes it is essential, and no singer can
really get the high notes or vocal flexibility or strength of tone
without the attack coming from this seat of respiration.
In practicing the trill or staccato tones the pressure of the breath
must be felt even before the sound is heard. The beautiful, clear,
bell-like tones that die away into a soft piano are tones struck on the
apoggio and controlled by the steady soft pressure of the breath emitted
through a perfectly open throat, over a low tongue and resounding in the
cavities of the mouth or head.
Never for a moment sing without this apoggio, this breath prop. Its
development and its constant use mean the restoration of sick or
fatigued voices and the prolonging of all one's vocal powers into what
is wrongly called old age.
The Mastery of the Tongue
The tongue | 1,502.497587 |
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Transcriber's notes
For this txt-version text in italics was surrounded with
_underscores_, and text in small caps was changed to all caps.
A few punctuation errors have been corrected, and on page 142 "is" was
changed to "as" (make it as hard as you can). Otherwise the original has
been preserved, including inconsistent hyphenation.
[Illustration: Presented to... By...]
THE BROWNIES AND PRINCE FLORIMEL
THE BROWNIES
AND PRINCE FLORIMEL
OR
Brownieland, Fairyland, and Demonland
BY
PALMER COX
Author of The Brownies: Their Book; Another Brownie Book;
The Brownies Around the World; The Brownies at Home;
The Brownies Through the Union; The Brownies
Abroad; The Brownies in the Philippines;
The Brownies' Latest Adventures; The
Brownies' Many More Nights; The
Brownie Clown in Brownie
Town; The Brownie Primer,
etc., etc., etc.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
Copyright, 1918, by
THE CENTURY CO.
_Published, September, 1918_
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
[Illustration]
THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE FLORIMEL 3
[Illustration]
TITANIA COMES TO REIGN OVER THE FAIRIES 14
[Illustration]
FLORIMEL REACHES THE ENCHANTED COUNTRY 25
[Illustration]
THE HUMAN OCTOPUS STARTS ON A MISSION 37
[Illustration]
FLORIMEL MEETS THE BROWNIES 49
[Illustration]
THE HUMAN OCTOPUS SNOOPS AROUND 58
[Illustration]
FLORIMEL IS ADOPTED BY KING STANISLAUS 68
[Illustration]
QUEEN TITANIA'S GREAT PERIL 80
[Illustration]
THE COMPACT WITH VULCAN 92
[Illustration]
THE STRANGE WEDDING-GUESTS 103
[Illustration]
THE BROWNIES BUILD A RAFT 119
[Illustration]
WHAT HAPPENED IN THE THRONE-ROOM 133
[Illustration]
NEPTUNE STILLS THE WAVES 145
[Illustration]
WHAT THE POLICEMAN DISCOVERED 157
[Illustration]
THE GERMAN BAND 166
[Illustration]
THE EARTHQUAKE AND VOLCANO 177
[Illustration]
THE BROWNIES FIGHT THE FLAMES 189
[Illustration]
THE FLIGHT TO THE MINES 201
[Illustration]
THE MISSION OF THE DOVE 212
[Illustration]
DISASTER TO DRAGONFEL 223
[Illustration]
AND THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER 233
BOOKS BY PALMER COX:
PUBLISHED BY THE CENTURY CO.
[Illustration]
THE BROWNIES: THEIR BOOK
Quarto, 150 pages. Price, in boards, $1.50
[Illustration]
ANOTHER BROWNIE BOOK
Quarto, 150 pages. Price, in boards, $1.50
[Illustration]
THE BROWNIES AT HOME
Quarto, 150 pages. Price, in boards, $1.50
[Illustration]
THE BROWNIES AROUND THE WORLD
Quarto, 150 pages. Price, in boards, $1.50
[Illustration]
THE BROWNIES THROUGH THE UNION
Quarto, 150 pages. Price, in boards, $1.50
[Illustration]
THE BROWNIES ABROAD
Quarto, 150 pages. Price, in boards, $1.50
[Illustration]
THE BROWNIES IN THE PHILIPPINES
Quarto, 150 pages. Price, in boards, $1.50
[Illustration]
THE BROWNIES LATEST ADVENTURES
Quarto, 150 pages. Price, in boards, $1.50
[Illustration]
THE BROWNIES MANY MORE NIGHTS
Quarto, 150 pages. Price, in boards, $1.50
[Illustration]
THE BROWNIE CLOWN OF BROWNIETOWN
Oblong, 103 pages. Price, in boards, $1.00
[Illustration]
THE BROWNIE PRIMER
12 mo, 108 pages. Price, in cloth, $.40 net.
THE BROWNIES AND PRINCE FLORIMEL
CHAPTER I
THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE FLORIMEL
[Illustration]
All that is here set down happened in a wonderful country where
wonderful things are always happening.
In a certain kingdom there was a young prince named Florimel.
His father, the king, had lately passed away, but, though Florimel was
his only son, and of age, he had not succeeded to the throne that by
right of birth was his.
The reason was that his father had a brother, a very cruel, crafty duke,
high in the councils of the state, who had designs upon the throne
himself. In a covetous frame of mind he had once taken a photograph of
the crown and ermine robe, and the intelligent palace parrot had made a
remark thereat:
"'Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,'" croaked the bird.
It was a wise quotation, and yet it was not wise to make it, for right
after that something happened to the unlucky parrot.
The duke with his evil influence swayed the opinions of the royal
cabinet which made the laws. In his wicked old heart he wished Florimel
out of the way.
[Illustration]
If Florimel had been like other princes one reads about his people no
doubt would have insisted upon his occupying the throne. But the throne
was of ordinary size, so that he never could have occupied it. Like
other princes he was all that was fair and handsome, but he was very
small indeed. He was no larger than the average-sized boy of twelve, and
the people who should have proved his loyal subjects were well-grown men
and women. In their talks among themselves they showed a shame that
anyone so small should rule them.
[Illustration]
"Why, he's no bigger than a Brownie!" was a remark they very often made.
"It would look foolish to have such a mite for a king." For they were
well informed about the Brownies, and knew how they perched on fences,
or hid adroitly whenever danger threatened.
But they were guided by appearances, as too often people wrongly are,
and they failed to realize that sometimes the best goods are done up in
the smallest packages, and that even a mite may be mighty.
The fact that Florimel was so small had been a great grief to his late
parents who had never been able to understand it. He had been a fine,
healthy baby who had won the hearty approval of his doctors and nurses.
His mother always had an uneasy fear that the godmother who assisted at
his christening might have been concerned in his diminutive size, but
the king invariably poo-poohed at her suspicions. This godmother was an
ex-fairy, but advancing age had interfered with her work of magic. Her
joints had become stiff and cramped, and she had contracted rheumatism
from sleeping in damp, dewy flowers. She did not get around in the
lively fashion she used to.
"Nonsense!" said the king. "Would she have bestowed on him the gift of
second sight and at the same time taken away his size? Depend upon it,
my dear, her intentions were perfectly straightforward and honorable."
"But it may have been this second sight has interfered with his growth,"
said the queen. "His vision is simply wonderful."
This was indeed so. Prince Florimel could see things no one else could.
Furthermore he could see them at night. Some wise old soothsayer
declared that he was gifted with supernatural powers.
One other gift had his ex-fairy godmother presented to him, a bow and
quiver of arrows which she averred were priceless.
"I charge you," she said most impressively to the king, "never to let
your dear son have the bow and arrows unless there comes to him some
moment of great danger. Then let him place one of these arrows to the
bow, and shoot it where he will. The result will be miraculous."
[Illustration]
After she had gone back to the old-ex-fairy-ladies' home the king was
strongly tempted to shoot one of the arrows from the bow just to see
what would happen. With great difficulty he repressed his curiosity, and
placed the bow and arrows in the family safe whose combinations was
known only to himself.
So time passed happily, and one year added its joys to those of others,
until there came the sad day when Florimel lost his dear mother. There
was much sorrow throughout the entire kingdom, for the queen was a
gentle, gracious one whose kind words and good deeds had endeared her
to the hearts of all. So great was her loss to the king that he did not
survive her long. Ere he joined her he called his brother, the duke, to
his bed, and said to him:
"You are my only kin outside of Florimel, so to your keeping I entrust
him. He is such a little chap you must be very careful of him. After
I am gone he will be king, and I am sure he will rule well and wisely.
He is a true king at heart if not of stature. Promise me to be his
councilor and guide, and to incline him ever to the side of mercy,
charity, and goodness."
The false duke promised with great earnestness, but all the while he was
thinking of many wicked things.
With Florimel removed he would ascend to the throne himself. Yet so well
did he hide his guilty feelings that his brother had no suspicion of any
perfidy or wrong-doing, and passed away in the peace befitting the
righteous king he was.
After the king's death the duke through one pretext or another delayed
the coronation of the new. He incited his nephew to feats and deeds of
great danger and daring with the evil hope that some terrible accident
would befall him. But in all the risks and hazards that he took, and
none was too great, it almost seemed that Prince Florimel bore a charmed
life.
Like other young people he had his dreams, and saw much that was unreal,
but with all these there had come lasting impressions.
When the duke failed to accomplish his evil designs, he determined upon
even more desperate methods in his game.
The people were beginning to chafe at the delay in the coronation, and
were clamoring for a new ruler. So the cabinet met to decide this most
important matter, and the duke presided over the council.
[Illustration]
"This is a most embarrassing situation," he said. "Ordinarily we would
place the only son of our late king on the throne without question
and amid great rejoicing. But we are confronted by a most perplexing
question. Prince Florimel is what might be termed a freak. The point is,
could he represent his kingdom with the proper dignity?"
"Prince Florimel may be a freak as you say," remarked a member of the
cabinet, "but at the same time I have never seen a handsomer, manlier
young fellow. His symmetry is perfect, and he is all that is chivalrous
and brave. He is the stuff true kings are made of. The only thing
against him is his size."
"That I fear is an objection which cannot be overcome," said the wily
duke. "Can we, a race of big men and women, be governed by a pygmy
king--a hop-o'-my-thumb? We would be the laughing stock of other
kingdoms. Think, when the rulers of all these met, and ours came
among them, of the mortification we would feel that we did not have
a full-grown man to represent us. His insignificance would make this
country insignificant to others. Those who did not know us, and judged
us by him, would look upon us as a country of dwarfs."
"But Florimel is the late king's son, and heir to the throne," said
another member of the cabinet. "Who else could reign in his stead?"
"I am the next of kin," said the duke.
"Yes, if it were not for Florimel you would be the logical king."
"Let us postpone our deliberations until tomorrow, by which time I think
I can find a way out of the difficulty," said the duke, with deadly
meaning.
The members of the cabinet looked at each other, and the meeting
silently adjourned. It had been conducted with the utmost secrecy,
and no one else was present but an old factotum named Gando who was
there to lock the doors. And Gando, who was passionately attached to
Florimel, heard the duke's word, and was very uneasy in his mind.
"So that is why," the old man said to himself, "the duke was sharpening
his knife on the grind-stone!"
When the duke had retired to his apartment Gando tiptoed noiselessly
after him, and placed his feeble, dim eye close to the key-hole of the
door.
What he saw froze the blood in his veins, and caused the few white
hairs on his head to stand stiffly up with his great fright.
The duke was seated at his window, and the moonlight played and
glittered on a long, slender knife that he held in his hand.
Old Gando's knees knocked together, and he fled the spot. Of one thing
he was very sure. Florimel without loss of time should place himself far
beyond the reach of his wicked uncle. Each added moment increased the
prince's danger. Soon escape might be too late. Before he went to warn
the sleeping prince he secured the bow and quiver of arrows that had
been intrusted to his care by the late king. He hastily provided himself
with a smock, loose cap, and long trousers of coarse cloth such as
children of poor peasants wear.
[Illustration]
With these in his trembling arms, breathless from his exertions and
the great excitement under which he labored, he entered Florimel's
bedchamber, and closed the door noiselessly behind him. With his fair
head resting on his curved arm, Florimel slept. Gando gave a great sigh
of relief when he heard his gentle breathing. He flew to the bedside,
and straightway roused the slumbering prince from his dreams.
[Illustration]
"Oh, master, my dear young master!" he cried with his voice broken by
sobs. "Rouse yourself, I beg of you, and go hence! Do not delay, or you
may be too late. Your cruel uncle this very moment is plotting your
death!"
Florimel sprang up in bed, and tried to rub the sleep from his eyes.
"But where shall I go, good Gando?" he asked.
"That I know not," said the old man. "The further you go the better. You
must leave behind you the boundaries of the kingdom. See, I have brought
these peasant's clothes for you to wear."
"Nay, I still have my prince's attire," said Florimel.
"That will not serve," said Gando. "If you donned it you would be
quickly recognized, and your uncle would gain knowledge of you to your
swift undoing."
He assisted the bewildered Florimel to dress, swung across his back the
quiver of arrows, and handed him the bow.
"This was your godmother's gift," he said, "and it might aid you."
But, though Gando urged Florimel not to take the time, the latter
printed something on a card which he tacked upon the outside of the door
before they left the place.
As they fled toward a secret exit they heard down the corridor the
stealthy tread of feet.
The duke snarled like a wild beast as he read the lines:
"FAREWELL, DEAR UNCLE! KEEP YOUR EDGED TOOL FOR FATTED SWINE!"
"Fly!" old Gando cried, as he thrust Florimel out into the lonely,
starlit night. "Oh, my dear young master, fly for your life!"
It was a sad and sudden change indeed for the youth, from the pleasant
dreams of guardian Brownies surrounding his bed, to the uncertainty
of an unknown way before, and the certainty of a cruel enemy behind.
Snow-capped mountain peaks in the distance had a forbidding look and, as
though in league with his old uncle, seemed to extend to him but a cool
welcome. The wakeful and observing beasts of the wood and wild saw in
him a new character never before met in the open country, and were
shaken with wonder and agitation while they watched the hastening little
traveller striding along the lonely road, his only burden the bow and
supply of arrows.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II
TITANIA COMES TO REIGN OVER THE FAIRIES
[Illustration]
Now in another part of the same country there was a race of fairies who
never grew old and always remained beautiful.
Their loveliness of face and form was beyond all description.
Just try to think of the prettiest young girl you ever saw. Well, even
the plainest of these fairies were ever so much prettier. That is to
say, all were very beautiful with one exception. In her case the fairy
charm was an utter failure.
She was little and old, with a queer, wrinkled face like a dried-up
crab-apple. But, because no one else looked like her, she was firmly
convinced she was the most beautiful of them all. They wore clinging
gowns made of the texture of roses, lilies, and other flowers. She who
wore fragrant rose-petals called herself Rose, she who called herself
Lily one of lilies, and so on. There were Violet, Daffodil, Bluebell,
Daisy, Jassamine, Hyacinth, and ever so many others. You could find the
names of all the rest in a seed-catalogue--that is, all but the little
old wrinkled one who was known as Dame Drusilda. The fairies had
a republic. Because they were all so very much alike, and equally
beautiful, gifted, | 1,502.512639 |
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[Transcriber’s Note:
Italicized text delimited by underscores.
This project uses utf-8 encoded characters. If some characters are | 1,502.700539 |
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file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Library of Early Journals.)
[Transcriber's note: Original spelling varieties have not been
standardized. Underscores have been used to indicate _italic_ fonts. A
list of volumes and pages in "Notes and Queries" has been added at the
end.]
NOTES and QUERIES:
A MEDIUM OF INTER-COMMUNICATION
FOR
LITERARY MEN, ARTISTS, ANTIQUARIES, GENEALOGISTS, ETC.
"When found, make a note of."--CAPTAIN CUTTLE.
VOL. IV.--No. 103. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 18. 1851.
Price Threepence. Stamped Edition, 4_d._
CONTENTS.
Page
NOTES:--
The Caxton Memorial, by Beriah Botfield 289
Lord Strafford and Archbishop Ussher 290
Poetical Coincidences, by T. C. Smith 291
Folk Lore:--Medical Use of Pigeons--Michaelmas
Goose; St. Martin's Cock--Surrey Folk Lore 291
The Caxton Coffer, by Bolton Corney 292
Minor Notes:--"They that touch pitch"--Pasquinade--Two
Attempts to show the Sound of "ough" final 292
QUERIES:--
Can Bishops vacate their Sees? 293
Sanderson and Taylor 293
Minor Queries:--"Vox vere Anglorum"--"Sacro
Sancta Regum Majestas"--Translator of Horrebow's
"Iceland"--"Kings have their Conquests"--Dryden;
Illustrations by T. Holt White--Pauper's
Badge, Meaning of--The Landing of William Prince
of Orange in Torbay, painted by J. Northcote, R.A.--The
Lowy of Tunbridge--Bones of Birds--"Malvina,
a Tragedy"--Rinuccini Gallery 293
MINOR QUERIES ANSWERED:--Meaning of Aneroid--Fox's
Cunning 295
REPLIES:--
Archbishop of Spalatro, by Rev. J. Sansom, &c. 295
Anagrams 297
Discovering the Bodies of the Drowned, by Rev. A. Gatty,
&c. 297
Marriage of Ecclesiastics 298
Replies to Minor Queries:--Robert Douglas--The Leman
Baronetcy--Cachecope Bell--"Dieu et mon Droit"--Defoe's
House at Stoke Newington--Study of Geometry in
Lancashire--Coke, how pronounced--Quistourne--Seneca's
Medea--The Editor of Jewel's Works in
Folio--Poetaster--Post Pascha--Linteamina and
Surplices--Climate--Ancient Language of Egypt--Welwood's
Memoirs 299
MISCELLANEOUS:--
Notes on Books, Sales, Catalogues, &c. 302
Books and Odd Volumes wanted 303
Notices to Correspondents 303
Advertisements 303
Notes.
THE CAXTON MEMORIAL.
Few persons having a common object in view, and equally desirous of its
attainment, fail in carrying it into effect. The object of "The Caxton
Memorial" is obviously to do honour to the first English printer; and if
a man's best monument be his own works, it will be necessary to
ascertain of what they consist. It is well known that most of the works
printed by Caxton were translated from the French, many doubtless by
himself. The Prefaces were evidently his own, and the continuation of
the _Polychronicon_ was confessedly written by himself. The most
valuable contribution to "The Caxton Coffer" would be a list of the
works which it is proposed to publish as those of Caxton, with some
calculation of their probable extent and cost of production. The
originals being in many cases of extreme rarity, it would be necessary
to transcribe fairly each work, and to collate it with the original in
its progress through the press. The following enumeration of the
Translations alone will give some idea of the work to be undertaken:
_The Recuyell of the Historyes of Troye._ (1471.)
_The Game and playe of the Chesse._ 1474.
_Thymage, or Myrrour of the World._ (1481.)
_The Historye of Reynart the foxe._ 1481.
_The laste siege and conqueste of Jherusalem._ 1481.
_The Golden Legende._ 1483.
_The Book called Cathon._ 1483.
_The Book of the techynge of the Knyght of the Toure._ (1484.)
_The Fables of Esope, Avian, Alfonce, and Poge._ 1484.
_The Booke of the ordre of Chyvalry or knyghthode._ (1484.)
_The Lyf of Prince Charles the Grete._ 1485.
_The Ryal Book, or Book for a kyng._ 1485.
_Thystorye of the noble knyght Parys_. (1485.)
_The Doctrinal of Sapience._ 1489.
_The Book of fayttee of armes and of Chyvalrye._ 1489.
_A lityl treatise of the arte to knowe well to dye._ 1490.
_The Boke of Eneydos compyled by Vyrgyle._ 1490.
_The Curial of Maystre Alain Charretier._ n. d.
_The Lyf of the holy Vyrgyn Saynt Wenefryde._ n. d.; and, lastly,
_The Vitas Patrum_, which was translated by Caxton in 1486, but printed
by Wynkyn de Worde in 1495.
Such are some of the materials for the "Memorial" suggested by MR.
BOLTON CORNEY; and if the original subscribers to a Monument should
consent to such an appropriation of their funds, it will be necessary to
apportion the number of copies to be distributed to each subscriber,
according to the amount of the original contribution. It is to be
presumed that the work will be strictly limited to subscribers, and
that no copies will be printed for sale, the object being, to do honour
to Caxton, and produce a lasting Memorial of that industrious printer.
The form of the work is of importance, with reference to the cost of its
production: and if a new life of the first English printer should
perchance be found necessary, "The Caxton Coffer" will require to be
considerably replenished before the literary undertaking can be carried
into effect.
BERIAH BOTFIELD.
LORD STRAFFORD AND ARCHBISHOP USSHER.
In Lord Campbell's account of the conduct of Archbishop Williams, and
the advice which that prelate gave to Charles I. with respect to the
attainder of Lord Strafford, is a sentence which seems to require a
"Note." Having observed that "Williams's conduct with respect to
Strafford cannot be defended," and having referred particularly to his
speech in parliament, he proceeds in these words:--
"The Bill of Attainder being passed, although he professed to
disapprove of it, he agreed to go with three other prelates to try
to induce the king to assent to it, and thus he stated the
question:--'Since his Majesty refers his own judgment to his
judges, and they are to answer it, if an innocent person
suffers,--why may he not satisfy his conscience in the present
matter, since competent judges in the law have awarded that they
find the Earl guilty of treason, by suffering the judgment to
stand, though in his own mind he is satisfied that the party
convicted was not criminous?' The other three bishops, trusting to
his learning and experience, joined with him in sanctioning this
distinction, in laying all the blame on the judges, and in saying
that the king, with a good conscience, might agree to Strafford's
death. Clarendon mainly imputes Strafford's death to Williams's
conduct on this occasion, saying that 'he acted his part with
prodigious boldness and impiety.' It is stated as matter of
palliation by others, that Ussher, the celebrated Archbishop of
Armagh, was one of this deputation, and that Strafford, although
aware of the advice he had given, was attended by him on the
scaffold, and received from him the last consolations of
religion."--_Lives of the Chancellors_, vol. ii. p. 494., second
edition.
The account which Lord Campbell has here given is the same in substance
as that given by Bishop Hackett in his _Life of Williams_ (Part II. p.
161.), and in several particulars is calculated to mislead the reader.
The whole story has been very carefully examined by the late Dr.
Elrington in his _Life of Archbishop Ussher_. Hackett's account is very
incorrect. There were five prelates consulted by the king, Ussher,
Williams, Juxon, Morton (Durham) and Potter (Carlisle). The bishops had
two interviews with the king, one in the morning, and the other in the
evening of the same day. At the morning meeting Ussher was not present.
It was Sunday, and he was engaged at the time preaching at Covent
Garden. In the evening, he was in attendance, but so far from giving the
advice suggested by Williams, much less approving his pernicious
distinction between a public and private conscience, Ussher plainly
advised the king, that if he was not satisfied of Strafford being guilty
of treason, he "ought not in conscience to assent to his condemnation."
Such is the account given by Dr. Parr, Ussher's chaplain, who declares,
that, when the primate was supposed to be dying, he asked his Grace--
"Whether he had advised the king to pass the bill against the Earl
of Strafford? To which the Primate answered: 'I know there is such
a thing most wrongfully laid to my charge; for I neither gave nor
approved of any such advice as that the king should assent to the
bill against the Earl; but, on the contrary, told his Majesty,
that if he was satisfied by what he heard at his trial, that the
Earl was not guilty of treason, his Majesty ought not in
conscience to consent to his condemnation. And this the king knows
well enough, and can clear me if he pleases.' The hope of the
Primate was fulfilled, for, when a report reached Oxford that the
Primate was dead, the king expressed in very strong terms, to
Colonel William Legg and Mr. Kirk, who were then in waiting, his
regret at the event, speaking in high terms of his piety and
learning. Some one present said, 'he believed he might | 1,502.839925 |
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[Illustration: W^m Pepperrell]
_Decisive Events in American History_
THE
TAKING OF LOUISBURG
1745
BY
SAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE
AUTHOR OF “BURGOYNE’S INVASION OF 1777” ETC.
BOSTON MDCCCXCI
LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS
10 MILK STREET NEXT “THE OLD SOUTH MEETING HOUSE”
NEW YORK CHAS. T. DILLINGHAM
718 AND 720 BROADWAY
Copyright, 1890,
By Lee and Shepard.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Colonial Seacoast Defences 9
II. Louisburg Revisited 13
III. Louisburg to Solve Important Political and Military Problems 24
IV. Résumé of Events to the Declaration of War 33
V. “Louisburg must be taken” 46
VI. The Army and its General 59
VII. The Army at Canso 73
VIII. The Siege 80
IX. The Siege Continued 101
X. Afterthoughts 126
[Illustration: ISLAND BATTERY, WITH LOUISBURG IN THE DISTANCE.]
THE TAKING OF LOUISBURG
1745
I
COLONIAL SEACOAST DEFENCES
The creation of great maritime fortresses, primarily designed to hold
with iron hand important highways of commerce, like Gibraltar, or simply
to guard great naval arsenals, like Kronstadt, or, again, placed where
some great river has cleft a broad path into the heart of a country,
thus laying it open to invasion, has long formed part of the military
policy of all maritime nations.
In the New World the Spaniards were the first to emphasize their
adhesion to these essential principles by the erection of strongholds at
Havana, Carthagena, Porto Bello, and Vera Cruz, not more to guarantee
the integrity of their colonial possessions, than to protect themselves
against the rapacity of the titled freebooters of Europe, to whom the
treasure fleets of Mexico and the East offered a most alluring prey.
When Spain carried the purse, all the crowned heads of Europe seem to
have turned highwaymen.
With this single exception the seaboard defences of the Atlantic coast,
even as late as the middle of the eighteenth century, were of the most
trivial character, nor was it owing to any provision for defence that
the chief ports of the English colonies enjoyed the long immunity they
did. England left her colonies to stand or fall upon their own
resources. Fortunate beyond expectation, they simply throve by neglect.
France, with a widely different colonial policy, did a little better,
but with a niggardly hand, while her system was squeezing the life-blood
out of her colonists, drop by drop. Had there been a Drake or a Hawkins
in the Spanish service, Spain might easily have revenged all past
affronts by laying desolate every creek and harbor of the unprotected
North Atlantic coast. She had the armed ports, as we have just shown.
She had the ships and sailors. What, then, was to have prevented her
from destroying the undefended villages of Charleston, Philadelphia, New
York, and Boston?
Though she set about it so tardily, France was at length compelled to
adopt a system of defence for Canada, or see Canada wrested from her
control. In a most sweeping sense the St. Lawrence was the open gateway
of Canada. There was absolutely no other means of access to all its vast
territory except through the long, little known, and scarce-travelled
course of the Mississippi—a route which, for many reasons besides its
isolation, removed it from consideration as an avenue of attack.
Quebec was as truly the heart of Canada as the St. Lawrence was its
great invigorating, life-giving artery. It is true that Quebec began to
assume at a very early day something of its later character as half
city, half fortress, but the views of its founders were unquestionably
controlled as much by the fact of remoteness from the sea, as by
Quebec’s remarkable natural capabilities for blocking the path to an
enemy.
Yet even before the memorable and decisive battle on the Plains of
Abraham, by which Canada was lost to France forever, the St. Lawrence
had been thrice ascended by hostile fleets, and Quebec itself once taken
by them. Mere remoteness was thus demonstrated to be no secure safeguard
against an enterprising enemy. But what if that enemy should seize and
fortify the mouth of the St. Lawrence itself? He would have put a
tourniquet upon the great artery, to be tightened at his pleasure, and
the heart of the colony, despite its invulnerable shield, would beat
only at his dictation.
We will now pass on to the gradual development of this idea in the minds
of those who held the destiny of Canada in their keeping.
II
LOUISBURG REVISITED
The annals of a celebrated fortress are sure to present some very
curious and instructive phases of national policy and character. Of none
of the fortresses of colonial America can this be said with greater
truth than of Louisburg, once the key and stronghold of French power in
Canada.
No historic survey can be called complete which does not include the
scene itself. Nowhere does the reality of history come home to us with
such force, or leave such deep, abiding impressions, as when we stand
upon ground where some great action has been performed, or reach a spot
hallowed by the golden memories of the past. It gives tone, color,
consistency to the story as nothing else can, and, for the time being,
we almost persuade ourselves that we, too, are actors in the great drama
itself.
The Cape Breton Coast.
It is doubtless quite true that the first impressions one gets when
coming into Louisburg from sea must be altogether disappointing. Indeed,
speaking for myself, I had formed a vague notion, I know not how, that I
was going to see another Quebec, or, at least, something quite like that
antique stronghold, looming large in the distance, just as the history
of the fortress itself looms up out of its epoch. On the contrary, we
saw a low, tame coast, without either prominent landmark or seamark to
denote the harbor, except to those who know every rock and tree upon it,
lifting nowhere the castellated ruins that one’s eyes are strained to
seek, and chiefly formidable now on account of the outlying shoals,
sunken reefs, and intricate passages that render the navigation both
difficult and dangerous to seamen.
Lighthouse Point.
On drawing in toward the harbor, we pass between a cluster of three
small, rocky islets at the left hand, one of which is joined to that
shore by a sunken reef; and a rocky point, of very moderate elevation,
at the right, on which the harbor lighthouse stands, the ship channel
being thus compressed to a width of half a mile between the innermost
island and point.
The harbor is so spacious as to seem deserted, and so still as to seem
oppressive.
Island Battery.
The island just indicated was, in the days of the Anglo-French struggles
here, the key to this harbor, but the opposite point proved the
master-key. Neither of the great war fleets that took part in the two
sieges of Louisburg ventured to pass the formidable batteries of that
island, commanding as they did the entrance at short range, and masking
the city behind them, until their fire had first been silenced from the
lighthouse point yonder. When that was done, Louisburg fell like the
ripe pear in autumn.
Old Louisburg.
The old French city and fortress, the approach to which this Island
Battery thus securely covered, rose at the southwest point of the
harbor, or on the opposite to the present town of Louisburg, which is a
fishing and coaling station for six months in the year, and for the
other six counts for little or nothing. In summer it is land-locked; in
winter, ice-locked. Pack ice frequently blockades the shores of the
whole island until May, and snow sometimes lies in the woods until June.
Yet in Cape Breton they call Louisburg an open harbor, and its choice as
the site for a fortress finally turned upon the belief that it was
accessible at all seasons of the year. As to that, we shall see later.
Face of the Country.
As for the country lying between Sydney and Louisburg, all travellers
agree in pronouncing it wholly without interesting features. And the few
inhabitants are scarcely more interesting than the country. In a word,
it is roughly heaved about in a series of shaggy ridges, sometimes
rising to a considerable height, through which the Mira, an arm of the
sea, forces its way at flood-tide. There is a settlement or two upon
this stream, as there was far back in the time of the French occupation,
but everything about the country wears a forlorn and unprosperous look;
the farms being few and far between, the houses poor, the land thin and
cold, and the people—I mean them no disparagement—much like the land,
from which they get just enough to live upon, and no more. Fortunately
their wants are few, and their habits simple.
Remains of the Fortress.
Louisburg is certainly well worth going nine hundred miles to see, but
when, at last, one stands on the grass-grown ramparts, and gets his
first serious idea of their amazing strength and extent, curiosity is
lost in wonder, wonder gives way to reflection, and reflection leads
straight to the question, “What do all these miles of earthworks mean?”
And I venture to make the assertion that no one who has ever been to
Louisburg will rest satisfied till he has found his answer. The story is
long, but one rises from its perusal with a clearer conception of the
nature of the struggle for the mastery of a continent.
Perhaps the one striking thought about this place is its utter futility.
Man having no further use for it, nature quietly reclaims it for her own
again. Sheep now walk the ramparts instead of sentinels.
Dominating Hills.
Upon looking about him, one sees the marked feature of all this region
in the chain of low hills rising behind Louisburg. But a little back
from the coast the hills rise higher, are drawn more compactly together,
and assume the semi-mountainous character common to the whole island.
Green Hill.
As this chain of hills undulates along the coast here, sometimes bending
a | 1,502.850025 |
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THE ART OF ILLUSTRATION.
[Illustration: "THE TRUMPETER." (SIR JOHN GILBERT, R.A.)
(_Drawn in pen and ink, from his picture in the Royal Academy, 1883._)
[Size of drawing, 5-1/2 by 4-3/4 in. Photo-zinc process.]]
The Art of Illustration.
BY
HENRY BLACKBURN,
_Editor of "Academy Notes," Cantor Lect | 1,503.10017 |
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Transcriber's Note: Do NOT attempt these formulas.
CANDY MEDICATION
BY
BERNARD FANTUS, M. D.
Professor of Pharmacology and Therapeutics, College of
Medicine, University of Illinois, Chicago.
[Illustration]
ST. LOUIS
C. V. MOSBY COMPANY
1915
COPYRIGHT 1915, BY C. V. MOSBY COMPANY
_Press of
C. V. Mosby Company
St. Louis_
PREFACE.
CANDY MEDICATION has given such delightful results in practice among
children that the author believes it should be more widely known
and used. A formulary to serve as the common meeting ground for the
prescribing physician and the dispensing pharmacist seems absolutely
necessary to make this form of medication more generally available; and
it is mainly to supply this formulary that this little book has been
published.
Researches conducted by the author in the Pharmacologic Laboratory of
the University of Illinois during the past five years, as well as the
experience gained by the use of this form of medication in private
practice, form the basis of this publication.
To give the best results, the sweet tablets described in this formulary
should be freshly prepared on physician's order; thereby securing
efficiency and palatability to the highest degree, and enabling
the physician to prescribe the dose and combination needed for the
particular case in hand. To bring these tablets into the category of
extemporaneous preparations, the author has elaborated the process of
"fat covering" which makes the preparation of these tablets no more
difficult than the making of pills or of suppositories.
In the pages that precede the formulary, an attempt has been made to
present the principles that have been used in the elaboration of the
formulae, so that formulae for other medicaments suitable to this form
of administration may be developed.
Concise directions on the care and use of the tablet machine have been
included, to enable any pharmacist equipped with an inexpensive tablet
machine to prepare these tablets without difficulty.
The author is keenly aware of the fact that there are probably still
some imperfections in the formulae given herein; though he has
spared neither time nor labor in making them as perfect as possible.
Therefore, comments and criticisms, as well as suggestions, are most
welcome, and will receive careful consideration.
It is the author's hope that this booklet may be instrumental in
robbing childhood of one of its terrors, namely, nasty medicine; that
it may lessen the difficulties experienced by nurse and mother in
giving medicament to the sick child; and help to make the doctor more
popular with the little ones.
BERNARD FANTUS, M.D.
_Chicago, March, 1915._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Historical Introduction 11
II. Tabellae Dulces 14
III. The Uses of Sweet Tablets 16
IV. The Making of Sweet Tablets 23
V. The Tablet Machine 27
VI. The Construction of Formulae for Sweet Tablets 31
Choice of Flavor 31
Subduing of Tastes 31
Choice of Color 34
VII. Formulae for the Preparation of Sweet Tablets 35
VIII. Formulae for Stock Preparations 72
References 75
Index 77
CANDY MEDICATION
CHAPTER I.
HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION.
THE IDEA of presenting medicine in candy form is really very old.
The term confection, which originally meant a medicinal compound
being derived from the Latin word "_conficere_," to put together, has
been applied since the days of classical antiquity to mixtures of
medicinal substances with saccharine matter. The only official relics
of this once very extensive class of preparations are the confection
of rose and the confection of senna; both of which, however, are
also practically obsolete. The reason for this is not difficult to
find. Neither of them come up to our modern ideas of a confection.
We may officially call them a confection, but a youngster would be
disrespectful enough to disagree with the pharmacopoeia.
More closely akin to candy are lozenges, and yet they are not real
candy. The only one among them that is pleasant is the santonin
lozenge; and it is the only one that is popular. An especially good
imitation of candy form are the deservedly popular so-called German
worm lozenges. It was acquaintance with these that led the writer to
seek for other real candy medicaments. He could find only two such upon
the market: viz., Calomel Tablets under the name of "Aromatic Calomel,"
and Phenolphthalein Tablets under various fanciful trade-names, such
as "Purgen," "Phenolax," etc., unless "Candy Cathartic Cascarets,"
and the French candy laxative known as "Tamar Indien" were also to be
included.
* * * * *
Convinced that administration in candy form would be ideal for
children, the author took a number of years ago a course of instruction
with a candy-maker, in the hope of finding in the confectioner's art
some new form of pleasant administration for medicine. He made sulphur
taffy and cod-liver oil chocolate creams;[1] but these and a large
number of other attempts were unsuccessful. It may be of interest,
in this connection, to note that, in 1911, Sir James Sawyer[2]
published in "The Lancet" a process for the production of what he
calls "cremulae" or medicated chocolate creams. They were prepared by
evaporating a mixture of sugar and of milk to the consistency of paste,
in which various medicaments might be incorporated, and which is then
covered with chocolate, as in the popular chocolate drop. This is, as
will be seen, a troublesome process. The author's studies in the candy
shop seemed to point to "fondant" as the most suitable candy form for
purposes of medication. "Fondant", however, has the disadvantage of
becoming hard with age. Free from this objection and closely similar
to the "fondant" is a rather lightly compressed tablet made of finely
powdered cane sugar. And so finally the tablet form was chosen as
the best and most convenient for candy medication--a form which was
already in successful use, as has been stated, for the administration
of calomel and of phenolphthalein. For such tablets the term _tabellae
dulces_,[3] or sweet tablets, might be proposed.
CHAPTER II.
TABELLAE DULCES.
TO BE SUCCESSFUL, sweet tablets must meet the following requirements:
1. They must be perfectly delicious sweets, attractive in form, color,
and odor; and free from the slightest suspicion of disagreeable or
medicinal taste.
2. They must disintegrate rapidly in the mouth; for a sick child will
usually not suck candy as a healthy youngster would.
3. To constitute a real advance in therapeutics, it must be possible
for the average pharmacist to prepare them extemporaneously, so that
the physician may be able to fit the medicament to suit the case,
and that the pharmacist may not be forced to carry in stock a large
assortment of these more or less perishable goods.
In view of these exacting requirements, it may seem remarkable
that over fifty different medicaments are at present available for
administration in the form of sweet tablets. This has been accomplished
by taking advantage of the fact that some medicines are practically
tasteless; that modern synthetic chemistry has enriched our resources
in this direction by the production of a large number of tasteless,
or almost tasteless, and yet active substances; and that many of the
isolated active principles of drugs are easily disguised. In some
cases a chemical trick is successful, e. g., using a little alkali
or a little acid to render the substance less soluble in the mouth.
Some of the bitterest alkaloids, e.g., strychnine, have been rendered
available for candy medication by the use of finely powdered fuller's
earth, or of Lloyd's Reagent, to be described later. Quite a number of
almost insoluble substances of slight but lingering taste can be made
perfectly pleasant by saccharinization.
CHAPTER III.
THE USES OF SWEET TABLETS.
IT MAY seem strange that modern pharmacy which boasts of so many
elegant and palatable preparations suitable for adults, has thus far
done so little to render medicine more acceptable to children; and yet
attractiveness and palatability are even more important for the little
ones than for the grown-ups. Syrups have hitherto been our chief aids
in making medicines more pleasant for children. Unfortunately, however,
many a child has had its palate offended by liquid medicines to such
a degree that it abhors spoon-medicine of any kind, and will struggle
even against the most palatable. When one witnesses the struggling
of the average child against the average medicine, one cannot but
wonder whether at times the struggle does not do more harm than the
medicine can do good, and wish that we had other means of administering
medicines to the little ones. As all children love candy, this would
seem the form most desirable for them. For one who has not used candy
medication there is a revelation in store in the positive enjoyment
and eagerness with which children take these sweet tablets. And many
a petted child that has grown up into a sensitive woman, who believes
she cannot swallow a pill, also cannot and will not take medicine. It
so happens that just these are often excessively fond of candy and
will take candy medicine. Another use for candy medication is in the
treatment of the insane, who frequently will not take medicine, but may
take it in candy form.
It may be of interest to see how many indications may be met, confining
oneself entirely to the list of candy medicaments:
1. For effect upon the alimentary tract:
_Absorbent:_
Charcoal.
_Antacid:_
Chalk.
Magnesia.
Sodium Bicarbonate.
_Emetics:_
Apomorphine.
Tartar Emetic.
Emetine.
_Antiemetics:_
Cocaine.
Anaesthesine.
Morphine.
Bismuth Subnitrate or subcarbonate.
Chalk.
Cerium Oxalate.
_Antidiarrheal:_
Bismuth Subnitrate or Subcarbonate.
Tannalbin.
Morphine.
Chalk.
_Cathartics:_
Calomel.
Mercury with Chalk.
Phenolphthalein.
Elaterin.
Resin of Podophyllum.
Resin of Jalap.
Senna.
Sulphur.
_Antispasmodic:_
Atropine.
_Intestinal Antiseptic:_
Magnesium salicylate.
Mercurials.
Lactic acid ferment.
_Anthelmintic:_
Santonin.
2. For effect upon the respiratory system:
_Expectorants:_
Apomorphine.
Emetine.
Terpin hydrate.
Sajodin.
_Antitussic:_
Heroine.
Morphine.
Sabromin.
_Antispasmodic:_
Atropine.
3. For effect upon the circulatory system:
_Circulatory Stimulants:_
Digitalis.
Strophanthin.
Atropine.
Strychnine.
Caffeine.
_Circulatory Depressant:_
Aconitine.
_Vaso-Dilator:_
Nitroglycerin.
4. For effect upon genito-urinary system:
_Diuretic:_
Diuretin.
Caffeine.
_Urinary Antiseptic:_
Hexamethylenamine.
5. For effect upon skin:
_Diaphoretic:_
Pilocarpine.
Dover's Powder.
_Anhydrotic:_
Atropine.
6. For effect upon nervous system:
_Depressants:_
Morphine.
Hyoscine.
Sabromin.
Sulphonmethane.
Adalin.
_Stimulants:_
Atropine.
Cocaine.
Strychnine.
Caffeine.
7. Antipyretics | 1,503.334264 |
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Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Google Books
http://books.google.com/books?id=GyAGAAAAQAAJ
(Oxford University)
THE LAST CALL.
THE LAST CALL.
A Romance.
BY
RICHARD DOWLING,
AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF KILLARD," "THE WEIRD SISTERS,"
"SWEET INISFAIL," ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES_.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1884.
[_All rights reserved_.]
CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS
CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.
THE LAST CALL.
* * * * *
Part I.
THE LAST CALL.
CHAPTER I.
The sun was low behind a bank of leaden cloud which stood like a wall
upon the western horizon. In front of a horse-shoe cove lay a placid
bay, and to the westward, but invisible from the cove, the plains of
the Atlantic.
It was low water, and summer. The air of the cove was soft with
exhalations from the weed-clad rocks stretching in green and brown
furrows from the ridge of blue shingle in the cove to the violet
levels of the sea.
On the ridge of shingle lay a young man, whose eyes rested on the sea.
He was of the middle height and figure. Twenty-seven or twenty-eight
seemed to be his age. He had a neat, compact forehead, dark gray eyes,
ruddy, full cheeks, a prominent nose, full lips, and a square chin.
The face looked honest, good-humoured, manly. The moustaches were
brown; the brown hair curled under the hat. The young man wore a gray
tweed suit and a straw hat.
He lay resting on his elbow. In the line of his sight far out in the
bay a small dot moved almost imperceptibly. The lounger knew this dot
was a boat: distance prevented his seeing it contained a man and a
woman.
Dominique Lavirotte, the man in the boat, was of the middle height and
figure, twenty-four years of age, looking like a Greek, but French by
descent and birth. The eyes and skin were dark, the beard and
moustaches black. The men of Rathclare, a town ten miles off, declared
he was the handsomest man they had ever seen, and yet felt their
candour ill-requited when their sweethearts and wives concurred.
With Dominique Lavirotte in the boat was Ellen Creagh. She was not a
native of Rathclare, but of Glengowra, the small seaside and fishing
town situate on Glengowra Bay, over which the boat was now lazily
gliding in the cool blue light of the afternoon.
Ellen Creagh was tall and slender, above the average height of women,
and very fair. She had light golden-brown hair, bright lustrous blue
eyes, and lips of delicate red. The upper lip was short. Even in
repose her face always suggested a smile. One of the great charms of
the head was the fluent ease with which it moved. The greatest charm
of the face was the sweet susceptibility it had to smile. It seemed,
when unmoved, to wait in placid faith, the advent of pleasant things.
During its moments of quiet there was no suggestion of doubt or
anxiety in it. To it the world was fair and pleasant--and the face was
pleasant and wonderfully fair. Pleasant people are less degraded by
affectation than solemn people. Your solemn man is generally a
swindler of some kind, and nearly always selfish and insincere. Ellen
Creagh looked the embodiment of good-humoured candour, and the ideal
of health and beauty. She was as blithe and wholesome as the end of
May; she was a northern Hebe, a goddess of youth and joy.
The name of the young man lying on the shingles was Eugene O'Donnell.
He lived in the important seaport of Rathclare, where his father was
the richest and most respected merchant and shipowner. There had James
O'Donnell been established in business for many years, and they now
said he was not worth less than a quarter of a million sterling. Mrs.
O'Donnell was a hale, brisk, bright-minded woman of fifty-seven, being
three years her husband's junior. The pair had but one child, Eugene,
and to him in due time all the old man's money was to go. The
O'Donnells were wealthy and popular. The father had a slow, methodical
way, which did not win upon strangers, but among those who knew him no
one was more highly respected. Without any trace of extravagance,
James O'Donnell was liberal with his money. He was a good husband, a
good father, and a good employer.
He had only one source of permanent uneasiness--his son Eugene was not
married, and showed no inclination towards marriage. The old man held
that every young man who could support a wife should take one. He
himself had married young, had prospered amazingly, and never for a
moment regretted his marriage. He was prepared to give his son a share
in his business, and a thousand a year out of the interest of his
savings, if the young man would only settle. But although Eugene
O'Donnell was as good-humoured and good-hearted a young fellow as the
town of Rathclare, or the next town to it, could show, and although
there was not in the whole town one girl who would be likely to refuse
him, and although there were plenty of handsome girls in Rathclare,
Eugene O'Donnell remained obdurate. It was lamentable, but what could
anyone do? The young man would not make love, the father would not
insist upon his marrying whether he loved or no, and there being at
Rathclare little faith in leap-year, no widow or maiden of the town
was bold enough to ask him to wed her.
While the young man lying on the shingle was idly watching the boat,
the young man in the boat was by no means idle. The sculls he was
pulling occupied none of his attention. He swung himself mechanically
backward and forward. His whole mind was fixed on the face and form of
the girl sitting in the stern.
"And so, you really must go back to Dublin?" he said ruefully.
"Yes," she answered with a smile. "I must really go back to Dublin
within a fortnight."
"And leave all here behind," he said tenderly.
"All!" she exclaimed, looking around sadly. "There is not much to
leave besides the sea, which I always loved, and my mother, whom I
always loved also."
"There is nothing else in the place, I suppose, Miss Creagh, you love,
but the sea and your mother?"
"No," she answered, "nothing. I have no relative living but my mother,
and she and the sea are my oldest friends."
"But have you no new friend or friends?"
She shook her head, and leaning over the side of the boat, drew her
fingers slowly through the water.
"The Vernons," she said, "are good to me, and I like the girls very
much. But I am only their servant--a mere governess."
"A mere queen!" he said. "I have known you but a short time. That has
been the happiest time of my life. _I_ at least can never forget it.
May you?"
Suddenly a slight change came over her. She lost a little of her
gaiety, and gathered herself together with a shadow of reserve.
"I do not think, Mr.. Lavirotte, I shall soon forget the many pleasant
hours we have spent together and the great kindness you have shown to
me."
"And you do not think you will forget _me?_"
"How can I remember your kindness and forget you?" she asked gravely.
"Yes | 1,503.398477 |
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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 by what name beside
I shall it call: if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied
She did inherit.
* * * * *
She was trained in Nature's school,
Nature had blest her.
A waking eye, a prying mind,
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
Ye could not Hester."
CHARLES LAMB.
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. II
London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1883
The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved
LONDON
R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR,
BREAD STREET HILL.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. THE YOUNG AND THE OLD.
CHAPTER II. A FAMILY PARTY.
CHAPTER III. CONFIDENCES.
CHAPTER IV. ROLAND.
CHAPTER V. WARNING.
CHAPTER VI. DANCING TEAS.
CHAPTER VII. THE FIRST OF THEM.
CHAPTER VIII. A NEW COMPETITOR.
CHAPTER IX. A DOUBLE MIND.
CHAPTER X. STRAIGHTFORWARD.
CHAPTER XI. A CENTRE OF LIFE.
CHAPTER XII. WAS IT LOVE?
CHAPTER XIII. CHRISTMAS.
CHAPTER XIV. THE PARTY AT THE GRANGE.
HESTER.
HESTER.
CHAPTER I.
THE YOUNG AND THE OLD.
"I like your Roland," said Miss Vernon. She had come to pay one of her
usual visits to her old relations. The grandson whom Hester had made
acquaintance with without seeing his face, had now been nearly a week at
the Vernonry and was known to everybody about. The captain's precautions
had, of course, come to nothing. He had gone, as in duty bound, to pay
his respects to the great lady who was his relation too, though in a
far-off degree, and he had pleased her. Catherine thought of nothing
less than of giving a great pleasure to her old friends by her praise.
"He is full of news and information, which is a godsend to us country
folks, and he is very good-looking, _qui ne gâte rien_."
Mrs. Morgan looked up from her place by the fireside with a smile of
pleasure. She sat folding her peaceful old hands with an air of
beatitude, which, notwithstanding her content, had not been upon her
countenance before the young man's arrival.
"That is a great pleasure to me, Catherine--to know that you like him,"
said the old lady. "He seems to me all that, and kind besides."
"What I should have expected your grandson to be," said Catherine. "I
want him to see the people here, and make a few acquaintances. I don't
suppose that our little people at Redborough can be of much importance
to a young man in town; still it is a pity to neglect an opportunity. He
is coming to dine with me to-morrow--as I suppose he told you?"
The old lady nodded her head several times with the same soft smile of
happiness.
"You are always good," she said; "you have done everything, Catherine,
for me and my old man. But if you want to go straight to my heart you
know the way lies through the children--my poor Katie's boys."
"I am glad that the direct route is so easy," Miss Vernon said in her
fine, large, beneficent way; "at least in this case. The others I don't
know."
Captain Morgan came and stood between his wife and the visitor. To be
sure it was to the fire he went, by which he posted himself with his
back to it, as is the right of every Englishman. His countenance wore a
troubled look, very different from the happiness of his wife's. He stood
like a barrier between them, a non-conductor intercepting the passage of
genial sentiment.
"My dear Catherine," he said, with a little formality, "I don't wish to
be unkind, nor to check your kindness; but you must recollect that
though he is poor Katie's boy, she, poor soul, had nothing to do with
the up-bringing of him, and that, in short, we know nothing about him.
It has been my principle, as you know, of late years, to insist upon
living my own life."
"All that, my kind old uncle, is understood," said Catherine. "There are
a great many people, I believe, who are better than their principles,
and you are one of them--that is all. I understand that you know nothing
about him. You are only a man, which is a great drawback, but it is not
to be helped: _we_ know, though we have seen no more of him than you
have. Isn't it so?"
She leaned forward a little, and looked across at the old lady, who
smiled and nodded in return. Old Mrs. Morgan was not disturbed by her
husband's disagreement. It did not even make her angry. She took it with
perfect composure, beaming over her own discovery of her grandson, and
the additional happiness it had brought.
"My old man," she said, "Catherine, has his own ways of thinking, we all
know that; and sometimes he will act upon them, but most commonly not.
One thing I know, he will never shut his doors on his own flesh and
blood, nor deny his old wife what is her greatest pleasure--the thing
that has been wanting to me all the time--all the time! I scarcely knew
what it was. And if the boy had been distant or strange, or showed that
he knew nothing about us, still I should have been content. I would have
said, 'Let him go; you were right, Rowley, and not I.' But it is not
so," the old lady went on after a pause, "there's love in him. I
remember when the girls were married there was something I always seemed
to want, I found out what it was when the first grandchild was born. It
was to feel a baby in my arms again--that was what I wanted. I don't
know, Catherine," she added with humility, "if you will think that
foolish?"
"If I will understand--that is what you are doubtful of--for I am an old
maid, and never had, so to speak, a baby in my arms; but I do
understand," said Catherine, with a little moisture in her eyes. "Well,
and this great handsome fellow, a man of the world, is he your baby that
you wanted so much?"
"Pooh!" said the old captain. "The great advantage of being an old maid,
as you say, is that you are above the prejudices of parentage. It is
possible to get you to hear reason. Why should my life be overshadowed
permanently by the action of another? That is what I ask. Why should I
be responsible for one who is not me, nor | 1,503.500441 |
2023-11-16 18:42:07.6801940 | 2,546 | 10 |
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CITIZEN BIRD
Scenes from Bird-Life in Plain English for Beginners
BY
MABEL OSGOOD WRIGHT AND ELLIOTT COUES
With One Hundred and Eleven Illustrations by Louis Agassiz Fuertes
1897
[Illustration: Long-eared owl.]
TO ALL BOYS AND GIRLS
WHO LOVE BIRDS
AND WISH TO PROTECT THEM
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
BY THE AUTHORS
_SCENE_:
THE ORCHARD FARM.
_TIME_:
FROM SPRING TO AUTUMN.
_CHARACTERS_:
DR. ROY HUNTER, a naturalist.
OLIVE, the Doctor's daughter.
NAT and DODO, the Doctor's nephew and niece.
RAP, a country boy.
MAMMY BUN, an old nurse.
OLAF, a fisherman.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
OVERTURE BY THE BIRDS
CHAPTER II
THE DOCTOR'S WONDER ROOM
CHAPTER III
A SPARROW SETTLES THE QUESTION
CHAPTER IV
THE BUILDING OF A BIRD
CHAPTER V
CITIZEN BIRD
CHAPTER VI
THE BIRD AS A TRAVELLER
CHAPTER VII
THE BIRD'S NEST
CHAPTER VIII
BEGINNING OF THE BIRD STORIES
CHAPTER IX
A SILVER-TONGUED FAMILY
Bluebird--Robin--Wood Thrush--Wilson's Thrush--Hermit
Thrush--Olive-backed Thrush.
CHAPTER X
PEEPERS AND CREEPERS
Golden-crowned Kinglet--White-breasted
Nuthatch--Chickadee--Brown Creeper.
CHAPTER XI
MOCKERS AND SCOLDERS
Sage Thrasher--Mockingbird--Catbird--Brown
Thrasher--Rock Wren--House Wren--Long-billed Marsh Wren.
CHAPTER XII
WOODLAND WARBLERS
Black-and-white Warbler--Yellow Warbler--Yellow-rumped
Warbler--Ovenbird--Maryland Yellow-throat--Yellow-breasted
Chat--American Redstart.
CHAPTER XIII
AROUND THE OLD BARN
Red-eyed Vireo--Great Northern Shrike--Cedar Waxwing.
CHAPTER XIV
THE SWALLOWS
Purple Martin--Barn Swallow--Tree Swallow--Bank
Swallow.
CHAPTER XV
A BRILLIANT PAIR
Scarlet Tanager--Louisiana Tanager.
CHAPTER XVI
A TRIBE OF WEED WARRIORS
Pine Grosbeak--American Crossbill--American
Goldfinch--Snowflake--Vesper Sparrow--White-throated
Sparrow--Chipping Sparrow--Slate- Junco--Song
Sparrow--Towhee--Cardinal--Rose-breasted Grosbeak--Indigo
Bird.
CHAPTER XVII
A MIDSUMMER EXCURSION
Bobolink--Orchard Oriole--Baltimore
Oriole--Cowbird--Red-winged Blackbird--Purple
Grackle--Meadowlark.
CHAPTER XVIII
CROWS AND THEIR COUSINS
American Crow--Blue Jay.
CHAPTER XIX
A FEATHERED FISHERMAN
The Osprey.
CHAPTER XX
SOME SKY SWEEPERS
Kingbird--Phoebe--Wood Pewee.
CHAPTER XXI
HUMMERS AND CHIMNEY SWEEPS
Ruby-throated Hummingbird--Chimney Swift.
CHAPTER XXII
TWO WINGED MYSTERIES
Nighthawk--Whip-poor-will.
CHAPTER XXIII
A LAUGHING FAMILY
Downy Woodpecker--Red-headed
Woodpecker--Flicker--Yellow-bellied Sapsucker.
CHAPTER XXIV
TWO ODD FELLOWS
Kingfisher--Yellow-billed Cuckoo.
CHAPTER XXV
CANNIBALS IN COURT
Bald Eagle--Golden Eagle--Screech Owl--Long-eared
Owl--Snowy Owl--Great Horned Owl--Marsh Hawk--Sharp-shinned
Hawk--Red-shouldered Hawk--Sparrow Hawk.
CHAPTER XXVI
A COOING PAIR
Passenger Pigeon--Mourning Dove.
CHAPTER XXVII
THREE FAMOUS GAME BIRDS
Bob White--Ruffled Grouse--Woodcock.
CHAPTER XXVIII
ON THE SHORE
A Long-necked Family: Black-crowned Night Heron--American
Bittern--A Bonnet Martyr and a Blue Giant--Snowy
Egret--Great Blue Heron.
CHAPTER XXIX
UP THE RIVER
Turnstone--Golden Plover--Wilson's Snipe--Spotted
Sandpiper--Least Sandpiper--Virginia Rail.
CHAPTER XXX
DUCKS AND DRAKES
Wood Duck--Black Duck--Mallard--Pintail--Green-winged
Teal--Blue-winged Teal--Redhead--Old Squaw--Hooded Merganser.
CHAPTER XXXI
GULLS AND TERNS AT HOME
Canada Goose--American Herring Gull--Common
Tern--Loon--Pied-billed Grebe.
CHAPTER XXXII
CHORUS BY THE BIRDS
CHAPTER XXXIII
PROCESSION OF BIRD FAMILIES
INDEX
CHAPTER I
OVERTURE BY THE BIRDS
"We would have you to wit, that on eggs though we sit,
And are spiked on the spit, and are baked in a pan;
Birds are older by far than your ancestors are,
And made love and made war, ere the making of man!"
(_Andrew Lang_.)
A party of Swallows perched on the telegraph wires beside the highway
where it passed Orchard Farm. They were resting after a breakfast of
insects, which they had caught on the wing, after the custom of their
family. As it was only the first of May they had plenty of time before
nest-building, and so were having a little neighborly chat.
If you had glanced at these birds carelessly, you might have thought
they were all of one kind; but they were not. The smallest was the Bank
Swallow, a sober-hued little fellow, with a short, sharp-pointed tail,
his back feathers looking like a dusty brown cloak, fastened in front by
a neck-band between his light throat and breast.
Next to him perched the Barn Swallow, a bit larger, with a tail like an
open pair of glistening scissors and his face and throat a beautiful
ruddy buff. There were so many glints of color on his steel-blue back
and wings, as he spread them in the sun, that it seemed as if in some of
his nights he must have collided with a great soap-bubble, which left
its shifting hues upon him as it burst.
This Barn Swallow was very much worried about something, and talked so
fast to his friend the Tree Swallow, that his words sounded like
twitters and giggles; but you would know they were words, if you could
only understand them.
The Tree Swallow wore a greenish-black cloak and a spotless white vest.
He was trying to be polite and listen to the Barn Swallow as well as to
the Purple Martin (the biggest Swallow of all), who was a little further
along on the wire; but as they both spoke at once, he found it a
difficult matter.
"We shall all be turned out, I know," complained the Barn Swallow, "and
after we have as good as owned Orchard Farm these three years, it is too
bad. Those meddlesome House People have put two new pieces of glass in
the hayloft window, and how shall I ever get in to build my nest?"
"They may leave the window open," said the Bank Swallow soothingly, for
he had a cheerful disposition; "I have noticed that hayloft windows are
usually left open in warm weather."
"Yes, they may leave it open, and then shut it some day after I have
gone in," snapped Barney, darting off the perch to catch a fly, and
grasping the wire so violently on his return, that the other birds
fluttered and almost lost their footing. "What is all this trouble
about?" asked the Martin in his soft rich voice. "I live ten miles
further up country, and only pass here twice a year, so that I do not
know the latest news. Why must you leave the farm? It seems to be a
charming place for Bird People. I see a little box under the barn eaves
that would make me a fine house."
"It _is_ a delightful place for us," replied the Barn Swallow; "but now
the House People who own the farm are coming back to live here
themselves, and everything is turned topsy-turvy. They should have asked
us if we were willing for them to come. Bird People are of a _much_
older race than House People anyway; it says so in their books, for I
heard Rap, the lame boy down by the mill, reading about it one day when
he was sitting by the river."
All the other birds laughed merrily at this, and the Martin said, "Don't
be greedy, Brother Barney; those people are quite welcome to their barns
and houses, if they will only let us build in their trees. Bird People
own the whole sky and some of our race dive in the sea and swim in the
rivers where no House People can follow us."
"You may say what you please," chattered poor unhappy Barney,
"everything is awry. The Wrens always built behind the window-blinds,
and now these blinds are flung wide open. The Song Sparrow nested in the
long grass under the lilac bushes, but now it is all cut short; and they
have trimmed away the nice mossy branches in the orchard where hundreds
of the brothers built. Besides this, the Bluebird made his nest in a
hole in the top of the old gate post, and what have those people done
but put up a new post with _no hole in it_!"
"Dear! dear! Think of it, _think_ of it!" sang the Bluebird softly,
taking his place on the wire with the others.
"What if these people should bring children with them," continued
Barney, who had not finished airing his grievances--"little BOYS and
CATS! Children who might climb up to our nests and steal our eggs, boys
with _guns_ perhaps, and striped cats which no one can see, with feet
that make no sound, and _such_ claws and teeth--it makes me shiver to
think of it." And all the birds shook so that the wire quivered and the
Bank Swallow fell off, or would have fallen, if he had | 1,503.700234 |
2023-11-16 18:42:07.9781140 | 2,382 | 20 | COLERIDGE, VOL. I (OF 2)***
E-text prepared by the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
The original text contains letters with diacritical marks
that are not represented in this text-file version.
The original text includes Greek characters that have been
replaced with transliterations in this text-file version.
LETTERS OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
[Illustration]
LETTERS OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
Edited by
ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE
In Two Volumes
VOL. I
London
William Heinemann
1895
[All rights reserved.]
The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A.
Printed by H. O. Houghton and Company.
INTRODUCTION
Hitherto no attempt has been made to publish a collection of Coleridge's
Letters. A few specimens were published in his lifetime, both in his own
works and in magazines, and, shortly after his death in 1834, a large
number appeared in print. Allsop's "Letters, Conversations, and
Recollections of S. T. Coleridge," which was issued in 1836, contains
forty-five letters or parts of letters; Cottle in his "Early
Recollections" (1837) prints, for the most part incorrectly, and in
piecemeal, some sixty in all, and Gillman, in his "Life of Coleridge"
(1838), contributes, among others, some letters addressed to himself, and
one, of the greatest interest, to Charles Lamb. In 1847, a series of early
letters to Thomas Poole appeared for the first time in the Biographical
Supplement to the "Biographia Literaria," and in 1848, when Cottle
reprinted his "Early Recollections," under the title of "Reminiscences of
Coleridge and Southey," he included sixteen letters to Thomas and Josiah
Wedgwood. In Southey's posthumous "Life of Dr. Bell," five letters of
Coleridge lie imbedded, and in "Southey's Life and Correspondence"
(1849-50), four of his letters find an appropriate place. An interesting
series was published in 1858 in the "Fragmentary Remains of Sir H. Davy,"
edited by his brother, Dr. Davy; and in the "Diary of H. C. Robinson,"
published in 1869, a few letters from Coleridge are interspersed. In 1870,
the late Mr. W. Mark W. Call printed in the "Westminster Review" eleven
letters from Coleridge to Dr. Brabant of Devizes, dated 1815 and 1816;
and a series of early letters to Godwin, 1800-1811 (some of which had
appeared in "Macmillan's Magazine" in 1864), was included by Mr. Kegan
Paul in his "William Godwin" (1876). In 1874, a correspondence between
Coleridge (1816-1818) and his publishers, Gale & Curtis, was contributed
to "Lippincott's Magazine," and in 1878, a few letters to Matilda Betham
were published in "Fraser's Magazine." During the last six years the vast
store which still remained unpublished has been drawn upon for various
memoirs and biographies. The following works containing new letters are
given in order of publication: Herr Brandl's "Samuel T. Coleridge and the
English Romantic School," 1887; "Memorials of Coleorton," edited by
Professor Knight, 1887; "Thomas Poole and his Friends," by Mrs. H.
Sandford, 1888; "Life of Wordsworth," by Professor Knight, 1889; "Memoirs
of John Murray," by Samuel Smiles, LL. D., 1891; "De Quincey Memorials,"
by Alex. Japp, LL. D., 1891; "Life of Washington Allston," 1893.
Notwithstanding these heavy draughts, more than half of the letters which
have come under my notice remain unpublished. Of more than forty which
Coleridge wrote to his wife, only one has been published. Of ninety
letters to Southey which are extant, barely a tenth have seen the light.
Of nineteen addressed to W. Sotheby, poet and patron of poets, fourteen to
Lamb's friend John Rickman, and four to Coleridge's old college friend,
Archdeacon Wrangham, none have been published. Of more than forty letters
addressed to the Morgan family, which belong for the most part to the
least known period of Coleridge's life,--the years which intervened
between his residence in Grasmere and his final settlement at
Highgate,--only two or three, preserved in the MSS. Department of the
British Museum, have been published. Of numerous letters written in later
life to his friend and amanuensis, Joseph Henry Green; to Charles
Augustus Tulk, M. P. for Sudbury; to his friends and hosts, the Gillmans;
to Cary, the translator of Dante, only a few have found their way into
print. Of more than forty to his brother, the Rev. George Coleridge, which
were accidentally discovered in 1876, only five have been printed. Of some
fourscore letters addressed to his nephews, William Hart Coleridge, John
Taylor Coleridge, Henry Nelson Coleridge, Edward Coleridge, and to his son
Derwent, all but two, or at most three, remain in manuscript. Of the
youthful letters to the Evans family, one letter has recently appeared in
the "Illustrated London News," and of the many addressed to John Thelwall,
but one was printed in the same series.
The letters to Poole, of which more than a hundred have been preserved,
those addressed to his Bristol friend, Josiah Wade, and the letters to
Wordsworth, which, though few in number, are of great length, have been
largely used for biographical purposes, but much, of the highest interest,
remains unpublished. Of smaller groups of letters, published and
unpublished, I make no detailed mention, but in the latter category are
two to Charles Lamb, one to John Sterling, five to George Cattermole, one
to John Kenyon, and many others to more obscure correspondents. Some
important letters to Lord Jeffrey, to John Murray, to De Quincey, to Hugh
James Rose, and to J. H. B. Williams, have, in the last few years, been
placed in my hands for transcription.
A series of letters written between the years 1796 and 1814 to the Rev.
John Prior Estlin, minister of the Unitarian Chapel at Lewin's Mead,
Bristol, was printed some years ago for the Philobiblon Society, with an
introduction by Mr. Henry A. Bright. One other series of letters has also
been printed for private circulation. In 1889, the late Miss Stuart placed
in my hands transcriptions of eighty-seven letters addressed by Coleridge
to her father, Daniel Stuart, editor of "The Morning Post" and "Courier,"
and these, together with letters from Wordsworth and Southey, were printed
in a single volume bearing the title, "Letters from the Lake Poets." Miss
Stuart contributed a short account of her father's life, and also a
reminiscence of Coleridge, headed "A Farewell."
Coleridge's biographers, both of the past and present generations, have
met with a generous response to their appeal for letters to be placed in
their hands for reference and for publication, but it is probable that
many are in existence which have been withheld, sometimes no doubt
intentionally, but more often from inadvertence. From his boyhood the poet
was a voluminous if an irregular correspondent, and many letters which he
is known to have addressed to his earliest friends--to Middleton, to
Robert Allen, to Valentine and Sam Le Grice, to Charles Lloyd, to his
Stowey neighbour, John Cruikshank, to Dr. Beddoes, and others--may yet be
forthcoming. It is certain that he corresponded with Mrs. Clarkson, but if
any letters have been preserved they have not come under my notice. It is
strange, too, that among the letters of the Highgate period, which were
sent to Henry Nelson Coleridge for transcription, none to John Hookham
Frere, to Blanco White, or to Edward Irving appear to have been
forthcoming.
The foregoing summary of published and unpublished letters, though
necessarily imperfect, will enable the reader to form some idea of the
mass of material from which the present selection has been made. A
complete edition of Coleridge's Letters must await the "coming of the
milder day," a renewed long-suffering on the part of his old enemy, the
"literary public." In the meanwhile, a selection from some of the more
important is here offered in the belief that many, if not all, will find a
place in permanent literature. The letters are arranged in chronological
order, and are intended rather to illustrate the story of the writer's
life than to embody his critical opinions, or to record the development of
his philosophical and theological speculations. But letters of a purely
literary character have not been excluded, and in selecting or rejecting a
letter, the sole criterion has been, Is it interesting? is it readable?
In letter-writing perfection of style is its own recommendation, and long
after the substance of a letter has lost its savour, the form retains its
original or, it may be, an added charm. Or if the author be the founder of
a sect or a school, his writings, in whatever form, are received by the
initiated with unquestioning and insatiable delight. But Coleridge's
letters lack style. The fastidious critic who touched and retouched his
exquisite lyrics, and always for the better, was at no pains to polish his
letters. He writes | 1,503.998154 |
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Buffalo Bill's Spy Trailer
OR,
THE STRANGER IN CAMP
By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham
Author of the celebrated "Buffalo Bill" stories published in the BORDER
STORIES. For other titles see catalogue.
[Illustration]
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York
Copyright, 1908
By STREET & SMITH
Buffalo Bill's Spy Trailer
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.
IN APPRECIATION OF WILLIAM F. CODY
(BUFFALO BILL).
It is now some generations since Josh Billings, Ned Buntline, and
Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, intimate friends of Colonel William F. Cody,
used to forgather in the office of Francis S. Smith, then proprietor of
the _New York Weekly_. It was a dingy little office on Rose Street, New
York, but the breath of the great outdoors stirred there when these
old-timers got together. As a result of these conversations, Colonel
Ingraham and Ned Buntline began to write of the adventures of Buffalo
Bill for Street & Smith.
Colonel Cody was born in Scott County, Iowa, February 26, 1846. Before
he had reached his teens, his father, Isaac Cody, with his mother and
two sisters, migrated to Kansas, which at that time was little more than
a wilderness.
When the elder Cody was killed shortly afterward in the Kansas "Border
War," young Bill assumed the difficult role of family breadwinner.
During 1860, and until the outbreak of the Civil War, Cody lived the
arduous life of a pony-express rider. Cody volunteered his services as
government scout and guide and served throughout the Civil War with
Generals McNeil and A. J. Smith. He was a distinguished member of the
Seventh Kansas Cavalry.
During the Civil War, while riding through the streets of St. Louis,
Cody rescued a frightened schoolgirl from a band of annoyers. In true
romantic style, Cody and Louisa Federci, the girl, were married March 6,
1866.
In 1867 Cody was employed to furnish a specified amount of buffalo meat
to the construction men at work on the Kansas Pacific Railroad. It was
in this period that he received the sobriquet "Buffalo Bill."
In 1868 and for four years thereafter Colonel Cody served as scout and
guide in campaigns against the Sioux and Cheyenne Indians. It was
General Sheridan who conferred on Cody the honor of chief of scouts of
the command.
After completing a period of service in the Nebraska legislature, Cody
joined the Fifth Cavalry in 1876, and was again appointed chief of
scouts.
Colonel Cody's fame had reached the East long before, and a great many
New Yorkers went out to see him and join in his buffalo hunts, including
such men as August Belmont, James Gordon Bennett, Anson Stager, and
J. G. Heckscher. In entertaining these visitors at Fort McPherson, Cody
was accustomed to arrange wild-West exhibitions. In return his friends
invited him to visit New York. It was upon seeing his first play in the
metropolis that Cody conceived the idea of going into the show business.
Assisted by Ned Buntline, novelist, and Colonel Ingraham, he started his
"Wild West" show, which later developed and expanded into "A Congress of
the Rough-riders of the World," first presented at Omaha, Nebraska. In
time it became a familiar yearly entertainment in the great cities of
this country and Europe. Many famous personages attended the
performances, and became his warm friends, including Mr. Gladstone, the
Marquis of Lorne, King Edward, Queen Victoria, and the Prince of Wales,
now King of England.
At the outbreak of the Sioux, in 1890 and 1891, Colonel Cody served at
the head of the Nebraska National Guard. In 1895 Cody took up the
development of Wyoming Valley by introducing irrigation. Not long
afterward he became judge advocate general of the Wyoming National
Guard.
Colonel Cody (Buffalo Bill) died in Denver, Colorado, on January 10,
1917. His legacy to a grateful world was a large share in the
development of the West, and a multitude of achievements in
horsemanship, marksmanship, and endurance that will live for ages. His
life will continue to be a leading example of the manliness, courage,
and devotion to duty that belonged to a picturesque phase of American
life now passed, like the great patriot whose career it typified, into
the Great Beyond.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I. THE HERMIT OF THE GRAND CANYON 5
II. THE MINER'S SECRET 14
III. THE GRAVE AT THE DESERTED CAMP 20
IV. A VOW OF VENGEANCE 28
V. MASKED AND MERCILESS 33
VI. THE DUMB MESSENGER 41
VII. DEATH AND MADNESS 50
VIII. A STRANGE BURIAL 62
IX. THE COURIER 67
X. DOCTOR DICK'S DRIVE 76
XI. RUNNING THE GANTLET 84
XII. A MAN'S NERVE 92
XIII. A VOLUNTEER 97
XIV. THE WAY IT WAS DONE 105
XV. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE 114
XVI. TAKING CHANCES 122
XVII. A SECRET KEPT 130
XVIII. A MYSTERIOUS SOUND 138
XIX. A FAIR PASSENGER 143
XX. MASKED FOES 151
XXI. THE SACRIFICE 159
XXII. THE RANSOM 168
XXIII. THE OUTLAWS' CAPTIVE 181
XXIV. THE TWO FUGITIVES 186
XXV. THE OUTLAW LOVER 195
XXVI. THE SECRET OUT 200
XXVII. THE DEPARTURE 210
XXVIII. THE LONE TRAIL 219
XXIX. TO WELCOME THE FAIR GUEST 223
XXX. AT THE RENDEZVOUS 231
XXXI. DOCTOR DICK TELLS THE NEWS 239
XXXII. THE MINERS' WELCOME 248
XXXIII. THE COUNCIL 252
XXXIV. A METAMORPHOSIS 259
XXXV. THE DRIVER'S LETTER 268
XXXVI. THE SCOUT ON THE WATCH 272
XXXVII. THE MINER'S MISSION 280
XXXVIII. A LEAF FROM THE PAST 288
XXXIX. THE OUTLAW'S CONFESSION 298
XL. TEARING OFF THE MASK 303
BUFFALO BILL'S SPY TRAILER.
CHAPTER I.
THE HERMIT OF THE GRAND CANYON.
A horseman drew rein one morning, upon the brink of the Grand Canyon of
the Colorado, a mighty abyss, too vast for the eye to take in its grand
immensity; a mighty mountain rent asunder and forming a chasm which is a
valley of grandeur and beauty, through which flows the Colorado Grande.
Ranges of mountains tower to cloudland on all sides with cliffs of
scarlet, blue, violet, yes, all hues of the rainbow; crystal streams
flowing merrily along; verdant meadows, vales and hills, with massive
forests everywhere--such was the sight that met the admiring gaze of the
horseman as he sat there in his saddle, his horse looking down into the
canyon.
It was a spot avoided by Indians as the abiding-place of evil spirits; a
scene shunned by white men, a mighty retreat where a fugitive, it would
seem, would be forever safe, no matter what the crime that had driven
him to seek a refuge there.
Adown from where the horseman had halted, was the bare trace of a trail,
winding around the edge of an overhanging rock by a shelf that was not a
yard in width and which only a man could tread whose head was cool and
heart fearless.
Wrapt in admiration of the scene, the mist-clouds floating lazily upward
from the canyon, the silver ribbon far away that revealed the winding
river, and the songs of birds coming from a hundred leafy retreats on
the hillsides, the horseman gave a deep sigh, as though memories most
sad were awakened in his breast by the scene, and then dismounting began
to unwrap a lariat from his saddle-horn.
He was dressed as a miner, wore a slouch-hat, was of commanding
presence, and his darkly bronzed face, heavily bearded, was full of
determination, intelligence, and expression.
Two led horses, carrying heavy packs, were behind the animal he rode,
and attaching the lariats to their bits he took one end and led the way
down the most perilous and picturesque trail along the shelf running
around the jutting point of rocks.
When he drew near the narrowest point, he took off the saddle and packs,
and one at a time led the horses downward and around the hazardous
rocks.
A false step, a movement of fright in one of the animals, would send him
downward to the depths more than a mile below.
But the trembling animals seemed to have perfect confidence in their
master, and after a long while he got them by the point of greatest
peril.
Going back and forward he carried the packs and saddles, and replacing
them upon the animals began once more the descent of the only trail
leading down into the Grand Canyon, from that side.
The way was rugged, most dangerous in places, and several times his
horses barely escaped a fall over the precipice, the coolness and strong
arm of the man alone saving them from death, and his stores from
destruction.
It was nearly sunset when he at last reached the bottom of the
stupendous rift, and only the tops of the cliffs were tinged with the
golden light, the valley being in densest shadow.
Going on along the canyon at a brisk pace, as though anxious to reach
some camping-place before nightfall, after a ride of several miles he
came in sight of a wooded canyon, entering the one he was then in, and
with heights towering toward heaven so far that all below seemed as
black as night.
But a stream wound out of the canyon, to mingle its clear waters with the
grand Colorado River a mile away, and massive trees grew near at hand,
sheltering a cabin that stood upon the sloping hill at the base of a
cliff that arose thousands of feet above it.
When within a few hundred yards of the lone cabin, suddenly there was a
crashing, grinding sound, a terrific roar, a rumbling, and the earth
seemed shaken violently as the whole face of the mighty cliff came
crushing down into the valley, sending up showers of splintered rocks
and clouds of dust that were blinding and appalling!
Back from the scene of danger fled the frightened horses, the rider
showing no desire to check their flight until a spot of safety was
reached.
Then, half a mile from the fallen cliff, he paused, his face white, his
whole form quivering, while his horses stood trembling with terror.
"My God! the cliff has fallen upon my home, and my unfortunate comrade
lies buried beneath a mountain of rocks. We mined too far beneath the
cliff, thus causing a cave-in.
"A few minutes more and I would also have shared poor Langley's fate;
but a strange destiny it is that protects me from death--a strange one
indeed! He is gone, and I alone am now the Hermit of the Grand Canyon, a
Croesus in wealth of gold, yet a fugitive from my fellow men. What a
fate is mine, and how will it all end, I wonder?"
Thus musing the hermit-miner sat upon his own horse listening to the
echoes rumbling through the Grand Canyon, growing fainter and fainter,
like a retreating army fighting off its pursuing foes.
An hour passed before the unnerved man felt able to seek a camp for the
night, so great had been the shock of the falling cliff, and the fate he
had felt had overtaken his comrade.
At last he rode on | 1,504.198239 |
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LATELY PUBLISHED,
_Royal 18mo, with 38 Designs by W. B. SCOTT, Director of the
School of Design, Newcastle-on-Tyne, bound in illuminated
cloth, 4s. 6d._
THE NURSERY RHYMES OF ENGLAND, COLLECTED CHIEFLY FROM ORAL TRADITION.
BY JAMES ORCHARD HALLIWELL, ESQ. FOURTH EDITION.
POPULAR RHYMES
AND
NURSERY TALES:
A SEQUEL TO THE
Nursery Rhymes of England.
BY JAMES ORCHARD HALLIWELL, ESQ.
LONDON:
JOHN RUSSELL SMITH,
4, OLD COMPTON STREET, SOHO SQUARE.
MDCCCXLIX.
C. AND J. ADLARD, PRINTERS, BARTHOLOMEW CLOSE.
Tales of my Nursery! shall that still loved spot,
That window corner, ever be forgot,
Where through the woodbine when with upward ray
Gleam'd the last shadow of departing day,
Still did I sit, and with unwearied eye,
Read while I wept, and scarcely paused to sigh!
In that gay drawer, with fairy fictions stored,
When some new tale was added to my hoard,
While o'er each page my eager glance was flung,
'Twas but to learn what female fate was sung;
If no sad maid the castle shut from light,
I heeded not the giant and the knight.
Sweet Cinderella, even before the ball,
How did I love thee--ashes, rags, and all!
What bliss I deem'd it to have stood beside,
On every virgin when thy shoe was tried!
How long'd to see thy shape the slipper suit!
But, dearer than the slipper, loved the foot.
ANON.
PREFACE.
It were greatly to be desired that the instructors of our children could
be persuaded how much is lost by rejecting the venerable relics of
nursery traditional literature, and substituting in their place the
present cold, unimaginative,--I had almost said, unnatural,--prosaic
good-boy stories. "In the latter case," observes Sir Walter Scott,
"their minds are, as it were, put into the stocks, like their feet at
the dancing-school, and the moral always consists in good conduct being
crowned with success. Truth is, I would not give one tear shed over
Little Red Riding Hood for all the benefit to be derived from a hundred
histories of Jemmy Goodchild. I think the selfish tendencies will be
soon enough acquired in this arithmetical age; and that, to make the
higher class of character, our own wild fictions--like our own simple
music--will have more effect in awakening the fancy and elevating the
disposition, than the colder and more elaborate compositions of modern
authors and composers."
Deeply impressed with this truth, and firmly convinced of the
"imagination-nourishing" power of the wild and fanciful lore of the old
nursery, I have spared no labour in collecting the fragments which have
been traditionally preserved in our provinces. The object is not so much
to present to the reader a few literary trifles, though even their
curiosity and value in several important discussions must not be
despised, as to rescue in order to restore; a solemn recompense due from
literature for having driven them away; and to recall the memory to
early associations, in the hope that they who love such recollections
will not suffer the objects of them to disappear with the present
generation.
In arranging the materials gathered for this little volume, I have
followed, in some respects, the plan adopted by Mr. Robert Chambers, in
his elegant work, the Popular Rhymes of Scotland; but our vernacular
anthology will be found to contain so much which does not occur in any
shape in that of the sister country, that the two collections have not
as much similarity as might have been expected. Together, they will
eventually contain nearly all that is worth preserving of what may be
called the natural literature of Great Britain. Mr. Chambers, indeed,
may be said to have already exhausted the subject for his own land in
the last edition of his interesting publication, but no systematic
attempt has yet been made in the same direction for this country; and
although the curiosity and extent of the relics I have been enabled to
collect have far exceeded my expectations, I am fully aware how much
more can yet be accomplished. An additional number of foreign synonymes
could also no doubt be collected; though perhaps more easily by
foreigners, for Continental works which contain notices of traditional
literature are procured with difficulty in England. The following pages,
however, contain sufficient of these to exhibit the striking
similarities between rhymes prevalent over England, and others which
exist in the North of Europe.
The collection of Nursery Tales is not as extensive as could have been
wished, but the difficulty of procuring the brief traditional stories
which were current some century since, now for the most part only
recollected in obscure districts, is so great, that no apology is
necessary for the apparent deficiency of that section. The few which
have been obtained are of considerable curiosity and interest; and I
would venture to suggest to all readers of these pages the great
obligation they would confer by the communication of any additions.
Stories of this kind are undoubtedly to be obtained from oral tradition,
and perhaps some of literary importance may yet be recovered.
The compiler's best thanks are due to Captain Henry Smith for the very
interesting communication of rhymes current in the Isle of Wight; to
Mr. George Stephens for several curious fragments, and valuable
references to Swedish songs; and to many kind correspondents who have
furnished me with rhymes current in the various districts in which they
reside. It is only by a large provincial correspondence that a
collection of this kind can be rendered complete, and the minutest
information on any of our popular tales or rhymes, forwarded to the
address given below, would be most thankfully and carefully
acknowledged.
BRIXTON HILL, SURREY;
_April, 1849._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
NURSERY ANTIQUITIES 1
FIRES | 1,504.517398 |
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THE ROYCROFT DICTIONARY
CONCOCTED
_by
Ali Baba and the Bunch
on_
RAINY DAYS
DONE INTO A
PRINTED BOOK BY THE
ROYCROFTERS AT THEIR SHOP FOR
THE DIVERTISEMENT OF
THE GLOOMSTERS
MCMXIV
COPYRIGHT 1914
BY ELBERT HUBBARD
ADVERTISING: The education of the public as to who you are, where you
are, and what you have to offer in way of skill, talent or commodity.
The only man who should not advertise is the man who has nothing to
offer the world in way of commodity or service.
ABEL: The first squealer.
ABHORRENCE: 1. A pronounced feeling of dislike in the presence of what
is superior or unattainable. 2. To discover one's real self and to
slander somebody or something else in revenge. 3. A form of hate that
suffers from _mal de mer_.
ASBESTOS: 1. The white-hope of the damned. 2. A specially prepared paper
upon which _The Philistine_ is printed.
ARSON: To be careless in the use of fire. (General Sherman was at times
more or less careless in the use of fire on his March to the Sea.--_Hon.
Henry W. Grady._)
AERONAUT: A person who goes up in order to come down. Hence, a meta
physician.
ABNORMAL: To have intelligence, character or genius; to be less stupid
than one's neighbor; to be better than the worst; to be one's self. _E.
g._, the writer of these lines.
ABODE: 1. A place where one cleans one's teeth and occasionally sleeps.
2. A long counter with a gutter and a rail at the bottom over which one
is served with any liquid in a glass. 3. Dwelling, fireside (obsolete in
this sense). 4. A grave.
ABNEGATION: A plan for securing the thing in the easiest and surest way.
ACADEMIC: 1. Of, or pertaining to, fossils; vegetative; parasitic; the
opposite of change, viable, evolution. 2. Relating to a society that
promotes the love of the static and the immobile. 3. Apish, parrot-like,
phonographic.
ADIEU: A prayer of thanksgiving uttered at parting.
ACQUAINTANCE: Any one we bow to politely at the opera or shake hands
with warmly in a barroom, but whom we would kick out of our homes.
Hence, any one who has refused us a loan.
ACT: 1. Thought in motion. 2. An actor who says he gets three thousand a
week.
ABYSS: 1. The measureless gulf between literature and the American
magazine. 2. The distance between a thinker and an editorial writer.
ARMY: A body of humanitarians that seeks to impress on another body of
men the beauty of non-resistance, by exterminating them.
ABORIGINE: 1. A natural, unaffected person; one who has no conscience,
who is honest, upright, and always at war. 2. A Deist, a Pantheist, who
sees God in everything and feels His presence everywhere, even in his
cannibalistic rites; hence, the first thinker in any country. 3. One who
hates civilization and the _Ladies' Hum Journal_. 4. Any one who is
mulcted, robbed, murdered, butchered, betrayed, in the name of
progress.
ANARCHIST: 1. A Christian dilettante; one who casts a shadow on tomorrow
while waiting for the Greek Kalends. 2. A mouther of sublime inanities.
3. One who maps and surveys the air and constructs dainty Utopias with
the building-blocks quarried from his unbelievable credulity. 4. In the
insane asylum of idealists, a man who imagines himself to be God. 5. A
militant bourgeois who has deserted both Rome and Reason because he can
not stand competition.
AMERICAN PLAN: A scheme for shortening human life through overeating.
ANANIAS: 1. The first ad-writer. 2. Any person who adapts the truth to
his needs. 3. An ancient Saint George who slew the dragon Truth--hence,
any popular hero or revealer who displays his grinders.
AGRICULTURIST: One who makes his money in town and blows it in the
country.
ANGER: 1. A violent blushing and scampering up and down of the blood
upon hearing the truth about ourselves; an epileptic condition produced
by the presentation of a bill that is not yet due, just due, or overdue.
A sudden tumescence of the ego and a furious exaltation of verbal powers
upon losing a collar-button. 2. Before election, the righteous wrath of
a candidate in the presence of evils that he has invented; after
election-day, his wail in the presence of the grave he did not dig. _E.
g._, The devil (taking final leave of the Lord): "I am in anger with
thee, Sire." The Lord: "For thee, son, 't will be a long time between
heavens. So go to Hell and take thine Anger with thee."
ADMISSION: 1. To lie frankly and truthfully about something that can not
possibly incriminate you. 2. To go into a place where one is not wanted;
as, "A burglar gained admission to my house."
ADMIRATION: 1. The smile of Spite. 2. To secretly wish evil to one who
has given us pleasure. 3. A form of shamefaced flattery. 4. To murder
and go scot-free. _E. g._, "I admire him very much." "Ah, so that is the
reason he has become thoughtful!" From Bean's _Meditations of a
Vegetarian_.
AFTERWARD: A space of time in which something happens after something
else has happened, as, life, death; love, disillusion; riches, gout;
wine, headache; unselfishness, regret.
ASSEMBLY: The Pantheon of the mediocre.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY: 1. Auto-intoxication. 2. Things which no one else will
say about you, and which therefore you have to say of yourself.
APOSTLE: 1. A machine for recording a lie. 2. A person who has grown
round-shouldered from following the spoor of another. 3. A lickspittle
needed by philosophers in their business.
ALBANY: 1. A place beyond which Henry Hudson could not go. 2. The lobby
of the White House. 3. Famous in history by the biennial meetings of the
Blackmailers' Club. 4. Any place wherein a capitol is burned at a
pre-established psychological moment. (There is a famous proverb which
says, "Those who are in Albany escaped Sing Sing, and those who are in
Sing Sing were on their way to Albany.")
ATHENS: See Pericles and Aspasia.
ART: 1. The vengeance of the Ideal on the Real. 2. Anything done by a
man or a woman on paper, canvas, marble or a musical keyboard that
people pretend to understand, and sometimes buy. 3. The antithesis of
whatever becomes popular in the cultured world. 4. To cast out the
dragons of virtue and hypocrisy by committing some imaginary sin and
telling the world about it. 5. The beautiful way of doing things. 6. The
expression of a man's joy in his work. 7. A matter of hair-cut and
neckties. 8. The uplifting of the beautiful so that all may see and
enjoy. 9. The utilization of love's exhaust. 10. Love's by-product.
ART-COLLECTOR: A man who operates a morgue for things rich, rare and
precious.
ATHEIST: Any man who does not believe in himself.
ATHLETE MEX: Any man who throws the bull.
ATONEMENT: 1. Embolism of the will. 2. To raise a sin from a vice to a
virtue. 3. A borax that kills the vermin of remorse, but that can not be
relied upon to kibosh their breeding-place. 4. An immunity-bath in
preparation for transgressions to come. (Among certain religious sects,
the Day of Atonement is the day on which all gonofs line up for a fresh
start.)
ATTENTION: Concentration of the mind on whatever will ultimately put
something in the pocket; hence, in law and politics, the frame-up.
BACK: 1. That part of the body to which your friend directs his remarks
when he tells you the truth. 2. A smooth surface composed of skin and
bones which stretches between Land's End and John O'Groat's.
BAL-MASQUE: The coronation of Mephisto.
BALIVORAX: A Battle Creek Bellifiller, made from selected fidoes,
fuddies, fresh freddies, chibots and chitterlings. Ladies love it,
babies cry for it, and men who eat it are loved by the ladies who love
it who have babies who cry for it. This is the filler fidgeted for by
Juno before she weaned Hercules--who was no bottle-baby--and fed to him
afterward. Ask your Bagpiper and take no other.
BEATITUDE: A rare and evanescent mental state caused by the reception of
money that one has not earned. Synonyms: Windfall, remittance.
BEGGAR: A robber who has lost his nerve--a bandit with a streak of
yellow in his ego.
BIDDLE: The act of introducing a prizefight in a Sunday School.
BILLYSUNDAY: 1. A theological jumping-jack, jerked by financial strings.
2. Any one with a pious emotional jag. 3. Hypnosis at so much per. 4. A
person intent on saving his soul by religious rigmarole at the expense
of reason. 5. To paddle away to Paradise in an orthodox canoe, and feel
happy in the thought that most of the folks on the Big Ship are going to
Hell.
BLOOMINGDALE: A condition of mind.
BASTARD: Any man who doubts his own immaculate conception.
BEAN: A dynamic spheroid, combustible under certain conditions.
BLABERINO: Any person who tells a person something a person says about
him, which puts fishbones in the throat and brickbats in the Ostermoor
of the person told.
BOOTY: 1. Whatever belongs to somebody that really belongs to somebody
else, or whatever belongs to somebody else that really belongs to you or
ought to belong to you if it did not belong to a third party--hence,
anything at all. 2. Property in a transitional stage.
BAPTISM: Hydrocephalic abracadabra.
BARD: Anciently a poet; now a Poet-Laureate.
BOREDOM: 1. The essential nature of monogamy. 2. A period or rest
between I Did and | 1,504.700884 |
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Produced by Brian Foley, Diane Monico, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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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
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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.
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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
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_BALL, John, F.R.S._--Notes of a Naturalist in South America. With Map.
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_BALLIN, Ada S. and F. L._--A Hebrew Grammar. With Exercises selected
from the Bible. Crown 8vo, 7_s._ 6_d._
_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
Students of the Indian Universities. Crown 8vo, 6_s._
_BAUR, Ferdinand, Dr. Ph._--A Philological Introduction to Greek and
Latin for Students. Translated and adapted from the German, by C. KEGAN
PAUL, M.A., and E. D. STONE, M.A. Third Edition. Crown 8vo, 6_s._
_BAYLY, Capt. George._--Sea Life Sixty Years Ago. A Record of
Adventures which led up to the Discovery of the Relics of the
long-missing Expedition commanded by the Comte de la Perouse. Crown
8vo, 3_s._ 6_d._
_BENSON, A. C._--William Laud, sometime Archbishop of Canterbury. A
Study. With Portrait. Crown 8vo, 6_s._
_BIRD, Charles, F.G.S._--Higher Education in Germany and England. Small
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Birth and Growth of Religion. A Book for Workers. Crown 8vo, cloth,
2_s._; paper covers, 1_s._
_BLACKBURN, Mrs. Hugh._--Bible Beasts and Birds. 22 Illustrations of
Scripture photographed from the Original. 4to, 42_s._
_BLECKLY, Henry._--Socrates and the Athenians: An Apology. Crown 8vo,
2_s._ 6_d._
_BLOOMFIELD, The Lady._--Reminiscences of Court and Diplomatic Life.
New and Cheaper Edition. With Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, 6_s._
_BLUNT, The Ven. Archdeacon._--The Divine Patriot, and other Sermons.
Preached in Scarborough and in Cannes. New and Cheaper Edition. Crown
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_BLUNT, Wilfrid S._--The Future of Islam. Crown 8vo, 6_s._
Ideas about India. Crown 8vo. Cloth, 6_s._
_BODDY, Alexander A._--To Kairwan the Holy. Scenes in Muhammedan
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_BOSANQUET, Bernard._--Knowledge and Reality. A Criticism of Mr. F. H.
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_BOUVERIE-PUSEY, S. E. B._--Permanence and Evolution. An Inquiry into
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Simple English Poems. English Literature for Junior Classes.
In four parts. Parts I., II., and III., 6_d._ each. Part
IV., 1_s._ Complete, 3_s._
_BRADLEY, F. H._--The Principles of Logic. Demy 8vo, 16_s._
_BRIDGETT, Rev. T. E._--History of the Holy Eucharist in Great Britain.
2 vols. Demy 8vo, 18_s._
_BROOKE, Rep. Stopford A._--The Fight of Faith. Sermons preached on
various occasions. Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo, 7_s._ 6_d._
The Spirit of the Christian Life. Third Edition. Crown 8vo,
5_s._
Theology in the English Poets.--Cowper, Coleridge,
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Christ in Modern Life. Sixteenth Edition. Crown 8vo, 5_s._
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_BROWN, Horatio F._--Life on the Lagoons. With 2 Illustrations and Map.
Crown 8vo, 6_s._
Venetian Studies. Crown 8vo, 7_s._ 6_d._
_BROWN, Rev. J. Baldwin._--The Higher Life. Its Reality, Experience,
and Destiny. Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo, 5_s._
Doctrine of Annihilation in the Light of the Gospel of Love.
Five Discourses. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._
The Christian Policy of Life. A Book for Young Men of
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_BURDETT, Henry C._--Help in Sickness--Where to Go and What to Do.
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Helps to Health. The Habitation--The Nursery--The Schoolroom
and--The Person. With a Chapter on Pleasure and Health
Resorts. Crown 8vo, 1_s._ 6_d._
_BURKE, Oliver J._--South Isles of Aran (County Galway). Crown 8vo,
2_s._ 6_d._
_BURKE, The Late Very Rev. T. N._--His Life. By W. J. FITZPATRICK. 2
vols. With Portrait. Demy 8vo, 30_s._
_BURTON, Lady._--The Inner Life of Syria, Palestine, and the Holy Land.
Post 8vo, 6_s._
_CANDLER, C._--The Prevention of Consumption. A Mode of Prevention
founded on a New Theory of the Nature of the Tubercle-Bacillus. Demy
8vo, 10_s._ 6_d._
_CAPES, J. M._--The Church of the Apostles: an Historical Inquiry. Demy
8vo, 9_s._
Carlyle and the Open Secret of His Life. By HENRY LARKIN. Demy 8vo,
14_s._
_CARPENTER, W. B., LL.D., M.D., F.R.S., etc._--The Principles of Mental
Physiology. With their Applications to the Training and Discipline of
the Mind, and the Study of its Morbid Conditions. Illustrated. Sixth
Edition. 8vo, 12_s._
Catholic Dictionary. Containing some Account of the Doctrine,
Discipline, Rites, Ceremonies, Councils, and Religious Orders of the
Catholic Church. By WILLIAM E. ADDIS and THOMAS ARNOLD, M.A. Third
Edition. Demy 8vo, 21_s._
Century Guild Hobby Horse. Vol. I. Half parchment, 12_s._ 6_d._
_CHARLES, Rev. R. H._--Forgiveness, and other Sermons. Crown 8vo, 4_s._
6_d._
_CHEYNE, Canon._--The Prophecies of Isaiah. Translated with Critical
Notes and Dissertations. 2 vols. Fourth Edition. Demy 8vo, 25_s._
Job and Solomon; or, the Wisdom of the Old Testament. Demy
8vo, 12_s._ 6_d._
The Psalter; or, The Book of the Praises of Israel.
Translated with Commentary. Demy 8vo.
_CLAIRAUT._--Elements of Geometry. Translated by Dr. KAINES. With 145
Figures. Crown 8vo, 4_s._ 6_d._
_CLAPPERTON, Jane Hume._--Scientific Meliorism and the Evolution of
Happiness. | 1,504.800489 |
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[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and
italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.]
Our Little Russian Cousin
THE
Little Cousin Series
(TRADE MARK)
Each volume illustrated with six or more full page plates in
tint. Cloth, 12mo, with decorative cover
per volume, 60 cents
LIST OF TITLES
BY MARY HAZELTON WADE, MARY F.
NIXON-ROULET, BLANCHE MCMANUS,
CLARA Y. WINLOW, FLORENCE E.
MENDEL AND OTHERS
Our Little African Cousin
Our Little Alaskan Cousin
Our Little Arabian Cousin
Our Little Argentine Cousin
Our Little Armenian Cousin
Our Little Australian Cousin
Our Little Austrian Cousin
Our Little Belgian Cousin
Our Little Bohemian Cousin
Our Little Boer Cousin
Our Little Brazilian Cousin
Our Little Bulgarian Cousin
Our Little Canadian Cousin
Our Little Chinese Cousin
Our Little Cuban Cousin
Our Little Danish Cousin
Our Little Dutch Cousin
Our Little Egyptian Cousin
Our Little English Cousin
Our Little Eskimo Cousin
Our Little French Cousin
Our Little German Cousin
Our Little Grecian Cousin
Our Little Hawaiian Cousin
Our Little Hindu Cousin
Our Little Hungarian Cousin
Our Little Indian Cousin
Our Little Irish Cousin
Our Little Italian Cousin
Our Little Japanese Cousin
Our Little Jewish Cousin
Our Little Korean Cousin
Our Little Malayan (Brown) Cousin
Our Little Mexican Cousin
Our Little Norwegian Cousin
Our Little Panama Cousin
Our Little Persian Cousin
Our Little Philippine Cousin
Our Little Polish Cousin
Our Little Porto Rican Cousin
Our Little Portuguese Cousin
Our Little Russian Cousin
Our Little Scotch Cousin
Our Little Servian Cousin
Our Little Siamese Cousin
Our Little Spanish Cousin
Our Little Swedish Cousin
Our Little Swiss Cousin
Our Little Turkish Cousin
THE PAGE COMPANY
53 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass.
[Illustration: PETROVNA.]
Our Little
Russian Cousin
By
Mary Hazelton Wade
_Illustrated by_
L. J. Bridgman
[Illustration]
Boston
The Page Company
Publishers
_Copyright, 1901_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
_All rights reserved_
Twelfth Impression, April, 1909
Thirteenth Impression, August, 1910
Fourteenth Impression, April, 1913
Fifteenth Impression, July, 1915
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.
Preface
A LARGE country, called Russia, lies in the eastern part of Europe. It
stretches from the icy shores of the Arctic Ocean, on the north, to the
warm waters of the Black Sea, on the south.
Many of the children of this great country have fair skins and blue
eyes. They belong to the same race as their English and American
cousins, although they speak a different language.
Some of them live in palaces, and have everything that heart could
desire; but a vast number of them are very poor, and their parents are
obliged to work hard to keep the grim wolf, hunger, away from the door.
Russia, as a nation, is very young, as compared with many others. She
is still in her childhood. Perhaps it is because of this that her
people do not enjoy as much freedom as ourselves.
A few years ago the Emperor of Russia spoke some words to which the
people of the western world listened with surprise and delight. He
said, "I wish there were peace between all countries, and that we could
settle our differences with each other without fighting." These wise
words did a great deal of good. The emperor, without doubt, meant what
he said. He did wish heartily that wars should be at an end. He has not
felt able, however, to carry out his ideas of peace, for at this very
moment he is at war with the people of Japan.
Let us hope that this war will soon be over, and that the nation to
which our Russian Cousin belongs will become as truly free and wise as
she is now large and powerful.
MALDEN, MASS., _May 1904_.
List of Illustrations
PAGE
PETROVNA _Frontispiece_
BABY BROTHER AND HIS NURSE 17
A VERY GRAND BUILDING 32
IN THE PEASANT VILLAGE 44
MARFA AND FROST 59
THE GREAT FAIR OF NIJNI-NOVGOROD 74
Our Little Russian Cousin
PETROVNA is a dainty little floweret of the cold lands far away. She
is your little Russian cousin. Her home is in the largest country of
this great round ball, the Earth. How fair are her cheeks, how blue her
eyes, and what long, beautiful, yellow hair she has! Her hands are so
white and soft and plump, I know you would like to squeeze them.
She is very gentle and ladylike. Her mamma has taught her that is the
right way to behave. Yet she is full of fun, and laughs at every joke
that her brother Ivan makes. They have great sport together, these two
children. Petrovna is ten, and Ivan eight years old.
Sometimes they play they are grown up, just as you do. Then Petrovna
puts on her mother's gown with a long train, and Ivan dresses himself
up like a soldier. Petrovna "makes believe" that she is a princess at
the court of the Emperor. She powders her hair, and puffs it on the top
of her head, and places feathers in it. Ivan cuts shining ornaments out
of a sheet of tin and fastens them on his coat. He pretends that these
were given him for bravery in battle.
These little children live in a fine city near the sea. Its name is St.
Petersburg. The streets look very much like those of Chicago and New
York. There are many grand palaces, however, and the churches are quite
different from ours.
Perhaps you would like to know why St. Petersburg was built. A long
time ago Peter the Great was the ruler of Russia. There was no large
city in the country near the sea at that time. Peter said, "If my
country is to be powerful, I must have a city that is near the coast
and that looks toward the rest of Europe."
Peter went to the shores of the river Neva, near the Baltic Sea. The
land was low and marshy. That did not matter to him. He sent out an
order for workmen. Great numbers of men came to the spot he had chosen,
to prepare it for streets and houses. Thousands of piles must first be
driven into the marshy soil. Millions of stones must be brought to fill
it up before streets could be laid. It was such unhealthful work that,
before the city was finished, hundreds of the poor workmen died of
fever. But the work was done, and Peter the Great went to live there.
He brought all his court with him. He made the place his capital. It is
now the most important city of Russia, and one of the largest in the
world. It is often called the "Czar's Window," because he is said to
look out over Europe from this place. (I forgot to tell you that the
Emperor of Russia is called the Czar.)
Let us come back to Petrovna and Ivan, who are just going out on the
river to skate. Their home is almost a palace, it is so big and grand.
Their father is a merchant. He buys tea from the East and sells it to
the people of his own country. He has grown so rich that he owns a
fine house in the city, in which the family live during the long, cold
winter. They go to another home on an island of the river Neva in the
summer-time.
Let us look into the big drawing-room, where papa and mamma entertain
their friends in the evening. How high the walls are! At one side of
the room is an immense porcelain stove. It looks somewhat like a tomb.
It is big enough for a play-house for Petrovna and Ivan. A big wood
fire is built in the stove on cold winter mornings. When it has burnt
down to glowing coals, the chimney is closed up, and port-holes from
the stove are opened. Then the heat rushes out into the room. How
close the air becomes! You do not wonder at it when you look around
and notice that there are three sets of windows at each casing. There
is only one pane in the whole room which can be opened to let in the
outside air. The Russians are afraid of having the cold enter their
houses. They have enough of it out-of-doors during at least six months
of the year.
What is that strange-looking vessel on the side table? It is of shining
copper. The maid polishes it very often, as it is used every evening
by papa and mamma. They call it a "samovar," and no Russian home is
complete without one. You probably can't guess the reason, so I will
have to tell you.
You must understand that the people of this far-away land are great
tea-drinkers. Tea in the morning, tea at noon, tea at night, and tea
between-whiles. They like it fresh, too. Tea always tastes best and is
least harmful when drunk as soon as it is made. So these good Russians
must have something near them on which to heat the water. In the middle
of the samovar is a cylinder in which hot coals are placed, and the
water is heated around this cylinder.
The boiling water is taken out whenever it is wanted and poured on the
tea in papa's tumbler or mamma's cup. No milk, if you please, to suit
their taste, and no sugar _in_ the tea. They prefer to take a lump of
the very hardest sugar in their fingers and nibble it as they swallow
the beverage they like so much.
A slice of lemon is often put in the tumbler with the tea. People in
our own country have begun to copy this custom, and drink what we call | 1,504.8006 |
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Produced by Mark C. Orton, Barbara Kosker, Linda McKeown
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
TWO ARROWS
HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE'S SERIES
NEW LARGE-TYPE EDITION
TOBY TYLER James Otis
MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER James Otis
TIM AND TIP James Otis
RAISING THE "PEARL" James Otis
ADVENTURES OF BUFFALO BILL W. F. Cody
DIDDIE, DUMPS AND TOT Mrs. L. C. Pyrnelle
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS Lucy C. Lillie
THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB W. L. Alden
THE CRUISE OF THE "GHOST" W. L. Alden
MORAL PIRATES W. L. Alden
A NEW ROBINSON CRUSOE W. L. Alden
PRINCE LAZYBONES Mrs. W. J. Hays
THE FLAMINGO FEATHER Kirk Munroe
DERRICK STERLING Kirk Munroe
CHRYSTAL, JACK & CO. Kirk Munroe
WAKULLA Kirk Munroe
THE ICE QUEEN Ernest Ingersoll
THE RED MUSTANG W. O. Stoddard
THE TALKING LEAVES W. O. Stoddard
TWO ARROWS W. O. Stoddard
HARPER & BROTHERS
PUBLISHERS
[Illustration: TWO ARROWS EXPLORES THE RUINS]
TWO ARROWS
A STORY OF RED AND WHITE
BY
WILLIAM O. STODDARD
Author of "THE TALKING LEAVES"
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1886, BY HARPER & BROTHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD
F.-Y.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE HUNGRY CAMP 1
II. A YOUNG HERO 9
III. A BRAVE NAME 17
IV. THE MINING EXPEDITION 24
V. A VERY OLD TRAIL 32
VI. A THIRSTY MARCH 40
VII. THE GREAT CANON 48
VIII. WATER! WATER! 56
IX. INTO A NEW WORLD 64
X. SILE'S POCKET 71
XI. A TRAPPED BOY 80
XII. THE ERRAND OF ONE-EYE 88
XIII. GREAT SCOUTING 96
XIV. A WRESTLING MATCH 103
XV. A GREAT CAPTAIN 111
XVI. VISITING 117
XVII. MORE FUN 126
XVIII. TWO WAR-PARTIES 136
XIX. WONDERFUL FISHING 146
XX. A FULL CORRAL 157
XXI. THE GOLD MINE 166
XXII. A NEW | 1,587.552759 |
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Produced by Espen Ore, Steve Henshaw, and Andrew Sly
MOON-FACE AND OTHER STORIES
By Jack London
CONTENTS
MOON-FACE
THE LEOPARD MAN'S STORY
LOCAL COLOR
AMATEUR NIGHT
THE MINIONS OF MIDAS
THE SHADOW AND THE FLASH
ALL GOLD CANYON
PLANCHETTE
MOON-FACE
John Claverhouse was a moon-faced man. You know the kind, cheek-bones
wide apart, chin and forehead melting into the cheeks to complete the
perfect round, and the nose, broad and pudgy, equidistant from the
circumference, flattened against the very centre of the face like a
dough-ball upon the ceiling. Perhaps that is why I hated him, for truly
he had become an offense to my eyes, and I believed the earth to
be cumbered with his presence. Perhaps my mother may have been
superstitious of the moon and looked upon it over the wrong shoulder at
the wrong time.
Be that as it may, I hated John Claverhouse. Not that he had done me
what society would consider a wrong or an ill turn. Far from it. The
evil was of a deeper, subtler sort; so elusive, so intangible, as to
defy clear, definite analysis in words. We all experience such things
at some period in our lives. For the first time we see a certain
individual, one who the very instant before we did not dream existed;
and yet, at the first moment of meeting, we say: "I do not like that
man." Why do we not like him? Ah, we do not know why; we know only that
we do not. We have taken a dislike, that is all. And so I with John
Claverhouse.
What right had such a man to be happy? Yet he was an optimist. He was
always gleeful and laughing. All things were always all right, curse
him! Ah I how it grated on my soul that he should be so happy! Other
men could laugh, and it did not bother me. I even used to laugh
myself--before I met John Claverhouse.
But his laugh! It irritated me, maddened me, as nothing else under the
sun could irritate or madden me. It haunted me, gripped hold of me, and
would not let me go. It was a huge, Gargantuan laugh. Waking or sleeping
it was always with me, whirring and jarring across my heart-strings like
an enormous rasp. At break of day it came whooping across the fields to
spoil my pleasant morning revery. Under the aching noonday glare, when
the green things drooped and the birds withdrew to the depths of the
forest, and all nature drowsed, his great "Ha! ha!" and "Ho! ho!" rose
up to the sky and challenged the sun. And at black midnight, from the
lonely cross-roads where he turned from town into his own place, came
his plaguey cachinnations to rouse me from my sleep and make me writhe
and clench my nails into my palms.
I went forth privily in the night-time, and turned his cattle into his
fields, and in the morning heard his whooping laugh as he drove them out
again. "It is nothing," he said; "the poor, dumb beasties are not to be
blamed for straying into fatter pastures."
He had a dog he called "Mars," a big, splendid brute, part deer-hound
and part blood-hound, and resembling both. Mars was a great delight to
him, and they were always together. But I bided my time, and one day,
when opportunity was ripe, lured the animal away and settled for him
with strychnine and beefsteak. It made positively no impression on John
Claverhouse. His laugh was as hearty and frequent as ever, and his face
as much like the full moon as it always had been.
Then I set fire to his haystacks and his barn. But the next morning,
being Sunday, he went forth blithe and cheerful.
"Where are you going?" I asked him, as he went by the cross-roads.
"Trout," he said, and his face beamed like a full moon. "I just dote on
trout."
Was there ever such an impossible man! His whole harvest had gone up in
his haystacks and barn. It was uninsured, I knew. And yet, in the face
of famine and the rigorous winter, he went out gayly in quest of a mess
of trout, forsooth, because he "doted" on them! Had gloom but rested,
no matter how lightly, on his brow, or had his bovine countenance grown
long and serious and less like the moon, or had he removed that smile
but once from off his face, I am sure I could have forgiven him for
existing. But no, he grew only more cheerful under misfortune.
I insulted him. He looked at me in slow and smiling surprise.
"I fight you? Why?" he asked slowly. And then he laughed. "You are so
funny! Ho! ho! You'll be the death of me! He! he! he! Oh! Ho! ho! ho!"
What would you? It was past endurance. By the blood of Judas, how I
hated him! Then there was that name--Claverhouse! What a name! Wasn't it
absurd? Claverhouse! Merciful heaven, WHY Claverhouse? Again and again I
asked myself that question. I should not have minded Smith, or Brown,
or Jones--but CLAVERHOUSE! I leave it to you. Repeat it to
yourself--Claverhouse. Just listen to the ridiculous sound of
it--Claverhouse! Should a man live with such a name? I ask of you. "No,"
you say. And "No" said I.
But I bethought me of his mortgage. What of his crops and barn
destroyed, I knew he would be unable to meet it. So I got a shrewd,
close-mouthed, tight-fisted money-lender to get the mortgage
transferred to him. I did not appear but through this agent I forced
the foreclosure, and but few days (no more, believe me, than the law
allowed) were given John Claverhouse to remove his goods and chattels
from the premises. Then I strolled down to see how he took it, for
he had lived there upward of twenty years. But he met me with his
saucer-eyes twinkling, and the light glowing and spreading in his face
till it was as a full-risen moon.
"Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed. "The funniest tike, that youngster of mine!
Did you ever hear the like? Let me tell you. He was down playing by the
edge of the river when a piece of the bank caved in and splashed him. 'O
papa!' he cried; 'a great big puddle flewed up and hit me.'"
He stopped and waited for me to join him in his infernal glee.
"I don't see any laugh in it," I said shortly, and I know my face went
sour.
He regarded me with wonderment, and then came the damnable light,
glowing and spreading, as I have described it, till his face shone soft
and warm, like the summer moon, and then the laugh--"Ha! ha! That's
funny! You don't see it, eh? He! he! Ho! ho! ho! He doesn't see it! Why,
look here. You know a puddle--"
But I turned on my heel and left him. That was the last. I could stand
it no longer. The thing must end right there, I thought, curse him! The
earth should be quit of him. And as I went over the hill, I could hear
his monstrous laugh reverberating against the sky.
Now, I pride myself on doing things neatly, and when I resolved to kill
John Claverhouse I had it in mind to do so in such fashion that I should
not look back upon it and feel ashamed. I hate bungling, and I hate
brutality. To me there is something repugnant in merely striking a man
with one's naked fist--faugh! it is sickening! So, to shoot, or stab,
or club John Claverhouse (oh, that name!) did not appeal to me. And not
only was I impelled to do it neatly and artistically, but also in such
manner that not the slightest possible suspicion could be directed
against me.
To this end I bent my intellect, and, after a week of profound
incubation, I hatched the scheme. Then I set to work. I bought a water
spaniel bitch, five months old, and devoted my whole attention to her
training. Had any one spied upon me, they would have remarked that this
training consisted entirely of one thing--RETRIEVING. I taught the dog,
which I called "Bellona," to fetch sticks I threw into the water, and
not only to fetch, but to fetch at once, without mouthing or playing
with them. The point was that she was to stop for nothing, but to
deliver the stick in all haste. I made a practice of running away and
leaving her to chase me, with the stick in her mouth, till she caught
me. She was a bright animal, and took to the game with such eagerness
that I was soon content.
After that, at the first casual opportunity, I presented Bellona to
John Claverhouse. I knew what I was about, for I was aware of a little
weakness of his, and of a little private sinning of which he was
regularly and inveterately guilty.
"No," he said, when I placed the end of the rope in his hand. "No, you
don't mean it." And his mouth opened wide and he grinned all over his
damnable moon-face.
"I--I kind of thought, somehow, you didn't like me," he explained.
"Wasn't it funny for me to make such a mistake?" And at the thought he
held his sides with laughter.
"What is her name?" he managed to ask between paroxysms.
"Bellona," I said.
"He! he!" he tittered. "What a funny name."
I gritted my teeth, for his mirth put them on edge, and snapped out
between them, "She was the wife of Mars, you know."
Then the light of the full moon began to suffuse his face, until he
exploded with: "That was my other dog. Well, I guess she's a widow now.
Oh! Ho! ho! E! he! he! Ho!" he whooped after me, and I turned and fled
swiftly over the hill.
The week passed by, and on Saturday evening I said to him, "You go away
Monday, don't you?"
He nodded his head and grinned.
"Then you won't have another chance to get a mess of those trout you
just 'dote' on."
But he did not notice the sneer. "Oh, I don't know," he chuckled. "I'm
going up to-morrow to try pretty hard."
Thus was assurance made doubly sure, and I went back to my house hugging
myself with rapture.
Early next morning I saw him go by with a dip-net and gunnysack, and
Bellona trotting at his heels. I knew where he was bound, and cut out
by the back pasture and climbed through the underbrush to the top of the
mountain. Keeping carefully out of sight, I followed the crest along
for a couple of miles to a natural amphitheatre in the hills, where the
little river raced down out of a gorge and stopped for breath in a large
and placid rock-bound pool. That was the spot! I sat down on the croup
of the mountain, where I could see all that occurred, and lighted my
pipe.
Ere many minutes had passed, John Claverhouse came plodding up the bed
of the stream. Bellona was ambling about him, and they were in high
feather, her short, snappy barks mingling with his deeper chest-notes.
Arrived at the pool, he threw down the dip-net and sack, and drew from
his hip-pocket what looked like a large, fat candle. But I knew it to
be a stick of "giant"; for such was his method of catching trout. He
dynamited them. He attached the fuse by wrapping the "giant" tightly
in a piece of cotton. Then he ignited the fuse and tossed the explosive
into the pool.
Like a flash, Bellona was into the pool after it. I could have shrieked
aloud for joy. Claverhouse yelled at her, but without avail. He pelted
her with clods and rocks, but she swam steadily on till she got the
stick of "giant" in her mouth, when she whirled about and headed for
shore. Then, for the first time, he realized his danger, and started to
run. As foreseen and planned by me, she made the bank and took out after
him. Oh, I tell you, it was great! As I have said, the pool lay in a
sort of amphitheatre. Above and below, the stream could be crossed
on stepping-stones. And around and around, up and down and across the
stones, raced Claverhouse and Bellona. I could never have believed
that such an ungainly man could run so fast. But run he did, Bellona
hot-footed after him, and gaining. And then, just as she caught up,
he in full stride, and she leaping with nose at his knee, there was a
sudden flash, a burst of smoke, a terrific detonation, and where man and
dog had been the instant before there was naught to be seen but a big
hole in the ground.
"Death from accident while engaged in illegal fishing." That was the
verdict of the coroner's jury; and that is why I pride myself on the
neat and artistic way in which I finished off John Claverhouse. There
was no bungling, no brutality; nothing of which to be ashamed in
the whole transaction, as I am sure you will agree. No more does his
infernal laugh go echoing among the hills, and no more does his fat
moon-face rise up to vex me. My days are peaceful now, and my night's
sleep deep.
THE LEOPARD MAN'S STORY
He had a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes, and his sad, insistent
voice, gentle-spoken as a maid's, seemed the placid embodiment of some
deep-seated melancholy. He was the Leopard Man, but he did not look
it. His business in life, whereby he lived, was to appear in a cage of
performing leopards before vast audiences, and to thrill those audiences
by certain exhibitions of nerve for which his employers rewarded him on
a scale commensurate with the thrills he produced.
As I say, he did not look it. He was narrow-hipped, narrow-shouldered,
and anaemic, while he seemed not so much oppressed by gloom as by a
sweet and gentle sadness, the weight of which was as sweetly and gently
borne. For an hour I had been trying to get a story out of him, but
he appeared to lack imagination. To him there was no romance in his
gorgeous career, no deeds of daring, no thrills--nothing but a gray
sameness and infinite boredom.
Lions? Oh, yes! he had fought with them. It was nothing. All you had to
do was to stay sober. Anybody could whip a lion to a standstill with an
ordinary stick. He had fought one for half an hour once. Just hit him
on the nose every time he rushed, and when he got artful and rushed with
his head down, why, the thing to do was to stick out your leg. When he
grabbed at the leg you drew it back and hit hint on the nose again. That
was all.
With the far-away look in his eyes and his soft flow of words he showed
me his scars. There were many of them, and one recent one where a
tigress had reached for his shoulder and gone down to the bone. I could
see the neatly mended rents in the coat he had on. His right arm,
from the elbow down, looked as though it had gone through a threshing
machine, what of the ravage wrought by claws and fangs. But it was
nothing, he said, only the old wounds bothered him somewhat when rainy
weather came on.
Suddenly his face brightened with a recollection, for he was really as
anxious to give me a story as I was to get it.
"I suppose you've heard of the lion-tamer who was hated by another man?"
he asked.
He paused and looked pensively at a sick lion in the cage opposite.
"Got the toothache," he explained. "Well, the lion-tamer's big play to
the audience was putting his head in a lion's mouth. The man who hated
him attended every performance in the hope sometime of seeing that lion
crunch down. He followed the show about all over the country. The years
went by and he grew old, and the lion-tamer grew old, and the lion grew
old. And at last one day, sitting in a front seat, he saw what he had
waited for. The lion crunched down, and there wasn't any need to call a
doctor."
The Leopard Man glanced casually over his finger nails in a manner which
would have been critical had it not been so sad.
"Now, that's what I call patience," he continued, "and it's my style.
But it was not the style of a fellow I knew. He was a little, thin,
sawed-off, sword-swallowing and juggling Frenchman. De Ville, he called
himself, and he had a nice wife. She did trapeze work and used to dive
from under the roof into a net, turning over once on the way as nice as
you please.
"De Ville had a quick temper, as quick as his hand, and his hand was as
quick as the paw of a tiger. One day, because the ring-master called him
a frog-eater, or something like that and maybe a little worse, he shoved
him against the soft pine background he used in his knife-throwing act,
so quick the ring-master didn't have time to think, and there, before
the audience, De Ville kept the air on fire with his knives, sinking
them into the wood all around the ring-master so close that they passed
through his clothes and most of them bit into his skin.
"The clowns had to pull the knives out to get him loose, for he was
pinned fast. So the word went around to watch out for De Ville, and no
one dared be more than barely civil to his wife. And she was a sly bit
of baggage, too, only all hands were afraid of De Ville.
"But there was one man, Wallace, who was afraid of nothing. He was the
lion-tamer, and he had the self-same trick of putting his head into
the lion's mouth. He'd put it into the mouths of any of them, though
he preferred Augustus, a big, good-natured beast who could always be
depended upon.
"As I was saying, Wallace--'King' Wallace we called him--was afraid
of nothing alive or dead. He was a king and no mistake. I've seen him
drunk, and on a wager go into the cage of a lion that'd turned nasty,
and without a stick beat him to a finish. Just did it with his fist on
the nose.
"Madame de Ville--"
At an uproar behind us the Leopard Man turned quietly around. It was
a divided cage, and a monkey, poking through the bars and around the
partition, had had its paw seized by a big gray wolf who was trying to
pull it off by main strength. The arm seemed stretching out longer end
longer like a thick elastic, and the unfortunate monkey's mates were
raising a terrible din. No keeper was at hand, so the Leopard Man
stepped over a couple of paces, dealt the wolf a sharp blow on the nose
with the light cane he carried, and returned with a sadly apologetic
smile to take up his unfinished sentence as though there had been no
interruption.
"--looked at King Wallace and King Wallace looked at her, while De Ville
looked black. We warned Wallace, but it was no use. He laughed at us,
as he laughed at De Ville one day when he shoved De Ville's head into a
bucket of paste because he wanted to fight.
"De Ville was in a pretty mess--I helped to scrape him off; but he was
cool as a cucumber and made no threats at all. But I saw a glitter in
his eyes which I had seen often in the eyes of wild beasts, and I went
out of my way to give Wallace a final warning. He laughed, but he did
not look so much in Madame de Ville's direction after that.
"Several months passed by. Nothing had happened and I was beginning to
think it all a scare over nothing. We were West by that time, showing in
'Frisco. It was during the afternoon performance, and the big tent was
filled with women and children, when I went looking for Red Denny, the
head canvas-man, who had walked off with my pocket-knife.
"Passing by one of the dressing tents I glanced in through a hole in the
canvas to see if I could locate him. He wasn't there, but directly in
front of me was King Wallace, in tights, waiting for his turn to go on
with his cage of performing lions. He was watching with much amusement a
quarrel between a couple of trapeze artists. All the rest of the people
in the dressing tent were watching the same thing, with the exception
of De Ville whom I noticed staring at Wallace with undisguised hatred.
Wallace and the rest were all too busy following the quarrel to notice
this or what followed.
"But I saw it through the hole in the canvas. De Ville drew his
handkerchief from his pocket, made as though to mop the sweat from
his face with it (it was a hot day), and at the same time walked past
Wallace's back. The look troubled me at the time, for not only did I see
hatred in it, but I saw triumph as well.
"'De Ville will bear watching,' I said to myself, and I really breathed
easier when I saw him go out the entrance to the circus grounds and
board an electric car for down town. A few minutes later I was in the
big tent, where I had overhauled Red Denny. King Wallace was doing
his turn and holding the audience spellbound. He was in a particularly
vicious mood, and he kept the lions stirred up till they were all
snarling, that is, all of them except old Augustus, and he was just too
fat and lazy and old to get stirred up over anything.
"Finally Wallace cracked the old lion's knees with his whip and got him
into position. Old Augustus, blinking good-naturedly, opened his mouth
and in popped Wallace's head. Then the jaws came together, CRUNCH, just
like that."
The Leopard Man smiled in a sweetly wistful fashion, and the far-away
look came into his eyes.
"And that was the end of King Wallace," he went on in his sad, low
voice. "After the excitement cooled down I watched my chance and bent
over and smelled Wallace's head. Then I sneezed."
"It... it was...?" I queried with halting eagerness.
"Snuff--that De Ville dropped on his hair in the dressing tent. Old
Augustus never meant to do it. He only sneezed."
LOCAL COLOR
"I do not see why you should not turn this immense amount of unusual
information to account," I told him. "Unlike most men equipped with
similar knowledge, YOU have expression. Your style is--"
"Is sufficiently--er--journalese?" he interrupted suavely.
"Precisely! You could turn a pretty penny."
But he interlocked his fingers meditatively, shrugged his shoulders, and
dismissed the subject.
"I have tried it. It does not pay."
"It was paid for and published," he added, after a pause. "And I was
also honored with sixty days in the Hobo."
"The Hobo?" I ventured.
"The Hobo--" He fixed his eyes on my Spencer and ran along the titles
while he cast his definition. "The Hobo, my dear fellow, is the name for
that particular place of detention in city and county jails wherein are
assembled tramps, drunks, beggars, and the riff-raff of petty offenders.
The word itself is a pretty one, and it has a history. Hautbois--there's
the French of it. Haut, meaning high, and bois, wood. In English
it becomes hautboy, a wooden musical instrument of two-foot tone, I
believe, played with a double reed, an oboe, in fact. You remember in
'Henry IV'--
"'The case of a treble hautboy
Was a mansion for him, a court.'
"From this to ho-boy is but a step, and for that matter the English
used the terms interchangeably. But--and mark you, the leap paralyzes
one--crossing the Western Ocean, in New York City, hautboy, or ho-boy,
becomes the name by which the night-scavenger is known. In a way one
understands its being born of the contempt for wandering players and
musical fellows. But see the beauty of it! the burn and the brand!
The night-scavenger, the pariah, the miserable, the despised, the man
without caste! And in its next incarnation, consistently and logically,
it attaches itself to the American outcast, namely, the tramp. Then,
as others have mutilated its sense, the tramp mutilates its form, and
ho-boy becomes exultantly hobo. Wherefore, the large stone and brick
cells, lined with double and triple-tiered bunks, in which the Law is
wont to incarcerate him, he calls the Hobo. Interesting, isn't it?"
And I sat back and marvelled secretly at this encyclopaedic-minded man,
this Leith Clay-Randolph, this common tramp who made himself at home in
my den, charmed such friends as gathered at my small table, outshone me
with his brilliance and his manners, spent my spending money, smoked my
best cigars, and selected from my ties and studs with a cultivated and
discriminating eye.
He absently walked over to the shelves and looked into Loria's "Economic
Foundation of Society."
"I like to talk with you," he remarked. "You are not indifferently
schooled. You've read the books, and your economic interpretation of
history, as you choose to call it" (this with a sneer), "eminently fits
you for an intellectual outlook on life. But your sociologic judgments
are vitiated by your lack of practical knowledge. Now I, who know the
books, pardon me, somewhat better than you, know life, too. I have lived
it, naked, taken it up in both my hands and looked at it, and tasted it,
the flesh and the blood of it, and, being purely an intellectual, I have
been biased by neither passion nor prejudice. All of which is necessary
for clear concepts, and all of which you lack. Ah! a really clever
passage. Listen!"
And he read aloud to me in his remarkable style, paralleling the text
with a running criticism and commentary, lucidly wording involved and
lumbering periods, casting side and cross lights upon the subject,
introducing points the author had blundered past and objections he had
ignored, catching up lost ends, flinging a contrast into a paradox
and reducing it to a coherent and succinctly stated truth--in short,
flashing his luminous genius in a blaze of fire over pages erstwhile
dull and heavy and lifeless.
It is long since that Leith Clay-Randolph (note the hyphenated surname)
knocked at the back door of Idlewild and melted the heart of Gunda. Now
Gunda was cold as her Norway hills, though in her least frigid moods she
was capable of permitting especially nice-looking tramps to sit on the
back stoop and devour lone crusts and forlorn and forsaken chops. But
that a tatterdemalion out of the night should invade the sanctity of her
kitchen-kingdom and delay dinner while she set a place for him in the
warmest corner, was a matter of such moment that the Sunflower went
to see. Ah, the Sunflower, of the soft heart and swift sympathy! Leith
Clay-Randolph threw his glamour over her for fifteen long minutes,
whilst I brooded with my cigar, and then she fluttered back with vague
words and the suggestion of a cast-off suit I would never miss.
"Surely I shall never miss it," I said, and I had in mind the dark gray
suit with the pockets draggled from the freightage of many books--books
that had spoiled more than one day's fishing sport.
"I should advise you, however," I added, "to mend the pockets first."
But the Sunflower's face clouded. "N--o," she said, "the black one."
"The black one!" This explosively, incredulously. "I wear it quite
often. I--I intended wearing it to-night."
"You have two better ones, and you know I never liked it, dear," the
Sunflower hurried on. "Besides, it's shiny--"
"Shiny!"
"It--it soon will be, which is just the same, and the man is really
estimable. He is nice and refined, and I am sure he--"
"Has seen better days."
"Yes, and the weather is raw and beastly, and his clothes are
threadbare. And you have many suits--"
"Five," I corrected, "counting in the dark gray fishing outfit with the
draggled pockets."
"And he has none, no home, nothing--"
"Not even a Sunflower,"--putting my arm around her,--"wherefore he is
deserving of all things. Give him the black suit, dear--nay, the best
one, the very best one. Under high heaven for such lack there must be
compensation!"
"You ARE a dear!" And the Sunflower moved to the door and looked back
alluringly. "You are a PERFECT dear."
And this after seven years, I marvelled, till she was back again, timid
and apologetic.
"I--I gave him one of your white shirts. He wore a cheap horrid cotton
thing, and I knew it would look ridiculous. And then his shoes were so
slipshod, I let him have a pair of yours, the old ones with the narrow
caps--"
"Old ones!"
"Well, they pinched horribly, and you know they did."
It was ever thus the Sunflower vindicated things.
And so Leith Clay-Randolph came to Idlewild to stay, how long I did
not dream. Nor did I dream how often he was to come, for he was like an
erratic comet. Fresh he would arrive, and cleanly clad, from grand folk
who were his friends as I was his friend, and again, weary and worn,
he would creep up the brier-rose path from the Montanas or Mexico. And
without a word, when his wanderlust gripped him, he was off and away
into that great mysterious underworld he called "The Road."
"I could not bring myself to leave until I had thanked you, you of the
open hand and heart," he said, on the night he donned my good black
suit.
And I confess I was startled when I glanced over the top of my paper and
saw a lofty-browed and eminently respectable-looking gentleman, boldly
and carelessly at ease. The Sunflower was right. He must have known
better days for the black suit and white shirt to have effected such a
transformation. Involuntarily I rose to my feet, prompted to meet him on
equal ground. And then it was that the Clay-Randolph glamour descended
upon me. He slept at Idlewild that night, and the next night, and for
many nights. And he was a man to love. The Son of Anak, otherwise Rufus
the Blue-Eyed, and also plebeianly known as Tots, rioted with him from
brier-rose path to farthest orchard, scalped him in the haymow with
barbaric yells, and once, with pharisaic zeal, was near to crucifying
him under the attic roof beams. The Sunflower would have loved him
for the Son of Anak's sake, had she not loved him for his own. As for
myself, let the Sunflower tell, in the times he elected to be gone,
of how often I wondered when Leith would come back again, Leith the
Lovable. Yet he was a man of whom we knew nothing. Beyond the fact that
he was Kentucky-born, his past was a blank. He never spoke of it. And
he was a man who prided himself upon his utter divorce of reason from
emotion. To him the world spelled itself out in problems. I charged him
once with being guilty of emotion when roaring round the den with
the Son of Anak pickaback. Not so, he held. Could he not cuddle a
sense-delight for the problem's sake?
He | 1,587.554962 |
2023-11-16 18:43:31.5389370 | 3,224 | 9 |
Produced by Ben Courtney and PG Distributed Proofreaders
SQUINTY
THE COMICAL PIG
HIS MANY ADVENTURES
BY
RICHARD BARNUM
Author of "Slicko, the Jumping Squirrel,"
"Mappo, the Merry Monkey,"
"Tum Tum, the Jolly Elephant,"
"Don, a Runaway Dog," etc.
ILLUSTRATED BY
HARRIET H. TOOKER
KNEETIME ANIMAL STORIES
By Richard Barnum
SQUINTY, THE COMICAL PIG
SLICKO, THE JUMPING SQUIRREL
MAPPO, THE MERRY MONKEY
TUM TUM, THE JOLLY ELEPHANT
DON, A RUNAWAY DOG
Large 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume
40 cents, postpaid
1915
_Squinty, the Comical Pig_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I SQUINTY AND THE DOG
II SQUINTY RUNS AWAY
III SQUINTY IS LOST
IV SQUINTY GETS HOME
V SQUINTY AND THE BOY
VI SQUINTY ON A JOURNEY
VII SQUINTY LEARNS A TRICK
VIII SQUINTY IN THE WOODS
IX SQUINTY'S BALLOON RIDE
X SQUINTY AND THE SQUIRREL
XI SQUINTY AND THE MERRY MONKEY
XII SQUINTY GETS HOME AGAIN
ILLUSTRATIONS
Squinty looked at the beautiful wagons, and at the strange animals
Squinty saw rushing toward him, Don, the big black and white dog
"Hop on," he said to the toad. "I won't bother you."
"Oh, Father!" exclaimed the boy, "do let me have just one little pig"
Squinty gave a little spring, and over the rope he went
The next moment Squinty felt himself lifted off the ground
"Why, I am Mappo, the merry monkey," was the answer
SQUINTY, THE COMICAL PIG
CHAPTER I
SQUINTY AND THE DOG
Squinty was a little pig. You could tell he was a pig just as soon as
you looked at him, because he had the cutest little curly tail, as
though it wanted to tie itself into a bow, but was not quite sure
whether that was the right thing to do. And Squinty had a skin that was
as pink, under his white, hairy bristles, as a baby's toes.
Also Squinty had the oddest nose! It was just like a rubber ball,
flattened out, and when Squinty moved his nose up and down, or sideways,
as he did when he smelled the nice sour milk the farmer was bringing for
the pigs' dinner, why, when Squinty did that with his nose, it just made
you want to laugh right out loud.
But the funniest part of Squinty was his eyes, or, rather, one eye. And
that eye squinted just as well as any eye ever squinted. Somehow or
other, I don't just know why exactly, or I would tell you, the lid of
one of Squinty's eyes was heavier than the other. That eye opened only
half way, and when Squinty looked up at you from the pen, where he lived
with his mother and father and little brothers and sisters, why there
was such a comical look on Squinty's face that you wanted to laugh right
out loud again.
In fact, lots of boys and girls, when they came to look at Squinty in
his pen, could not help laughing when he peered up at them, with one eye
widely open, and the other half shut.
"Oh, what a comical pig!" the boys and girls would cry. "What is his
name?"
"Oh, I guess we'll call him Squinty," the farmer said; and so Squinty
was named.
Perhaps if his mother had had her way about it she would have given
Squinty another name, as she did his brothers and sisters. In fact she
did name all of them except Squinty.
One of the little pigs was named Wuff-Wuff, another Curly Tail, another
Squealer, another Wee-Wee, and another Puff-Ball. There were seven pigs
in all, and Squinty was the last one, so you see he came from quite a
large family. When his mother had named six of her little pigs she came
to Squinty.
"Let me see," grunted Mrs. Pig in her own way, for you know animals have
a language of their own which no one else can understand. "Let me see,"
said Mrs. Pig, "what shall I call you?"
She was thinking of naming him Floppy, because the lid of one of his
eyes sort of flopped down. But just then a lot of boys and girls came
running out to the pig pen.
The boys and girls had come on a visit to the farmer who owned the pigs,
and when they looked in, and saw big Mr. and Mrs. Pig, and the little
ones, one boy called out:
"Oh, what a queer little pig, with one eye partly open! And how funny he
looks at you! What is his name?"
"Well, I guess we'll call him Squinty," the farmer had said. And so,
just as I have told you, Squinty got his name.
"Humph! Squinty!" exclaimed Mrs. Pig, as she heard what the farmer said.
"I don't know as I like that."
"Oh, it will do very well," answered Mr. Pig. "It will save you thinking
up a name for him. And, after all, you know, he _does_ squint. Not that
it amounts to anything, in fact it is rather stylish, I think. Let him
be called Squinty."
"All right," answered Mrs. Pig. So Squinty it was.
"Hello, Squinty!" called the boys and girls, giving the little pig his
new name. "Hello, Squinty!"
"Wuff! Wuff!" grunted Squinty.
That meant, in his language, "Hello!" you see. For though Squinty, and
his mother and father, and brothers and sisters, could understand man
talk, and boy and girl talk, they could not speak that language
themselves, but had to talk in their own way.
Nearly all animals understand our talk, even though they can not speak
to us. Just look at a dog, for instance. When you call to him: "Come
here!" doesn't he come? Of course he does. And when you say: "Lie down,
sir!" doesn't he lie down? that is if he is a good dog, and minds? He
understands, anyhow.
And see how horses understand how to go when the driver says "Gid-dap!"
and how they stop when he says "Whoa!" So you need not think it strange
that a little pig could understand our kind of talk, though he could not
speak it himself.
Well, Squinty, the comical pig, lived with his mother and father and
brothers and sisters in the farmer's pen for some time. As the days went
on Squinty grew fatter and fatter, until his pink skin, under his white
bristles, was swelled out like a balloon.
"Hum!" exclaimed the farmer one day, as he leaned over the top of the
pen, to look down on the pigs, after he had poured their dinner into the
trough. "Hum! That little pig, with the squinty eye, is getting pretty
big. I thought he was going to be a little runt, but he seems to be
growing as fast as the others."
Squinty was glad when he heard that, for he wanted to grow up to be a
fine, large pig.
The farmer took a corn cob, from which all the yellow kernels of corn
had been shelled, and with it he scratched the back of Squinty. Pigs
like to have their backs scratched, just as cats like to have you rub
their smooth fur, or tickle them under the ears.
"Ugh! Ugh!" grunted Squinty, looking up at the farmer with his comical
eyes, one half shut and the other wide open. "Ugh! Ugh!" And with his
odd eyes, and one ear cocked forward, and the other flopping over
backward, Squinty looked so funny that the farmer had to laugh out loud.
"What's the matter, Rufus?" asked the farmer's wife, who was gathering
the eggs.
"Oh, it's this pig," laughed the farmer. "He has such a queer look on
his face!"
"Let me see!" exclaimed the farmer's wife.
She, too, looked down into the pen.
"Oh, isn't he comical!" she cried.
Then, being a very kind lady, and liking all the farm animals, the
farmer's wife went out in the potato patch and pulled up some pig weed.
This is a green weed that grows in the garden, but it does no good
there. Instead it does harm, and farmers like to pull it up to get rid
of it. But, if pig weed is no good for the garden, it is good for pigs,
and they like to chew the green leaves.
"Here, Squinty!" called the farmer's wife, tossing some of the juicy,
green weed to the little pig. "Eat this!"
"Ugh! Ugh!" grunted Squinty, and he began to chew the green leaves. I
suppose that was his way of saying: "Thank you!"
As soon as Squinty's brothers and sisters saw the green pig weed the
farmer's wife had tossed into the pen, up they rushed to the trough,
grunting and squealing, to get some too.
They pushed and scrambled, and even stepped into the trough, so eager
were they to get something to eat; even though they had been fed only a
little while before.
That is one strange thing about pigs. They seem to be always hungry. And
Squinty's brothers and sisters were no different from other pigs.
But wait just a moment. They were a bit different, for they were much
cleaner than many pigs I have seen. The farmer who owned them knew that
pigs do not like to live in mud and dirt any more than do cows and
horses, so this farmer had for his pigs a nice pen, with a dry board
floor, and plenty of corn husks for their bed. They had clean water to
drink, and a shady place in which to lie down and sleep.
Of course there was a mud bath in the pig pen, for, no matter how clean
pigs are, once in a while they like to roll in the mud. And I'll tell
you the reason for that.
You see flies and mosquitoes and other pests like to bite pigs. The pigs
know this, and they also know that if they roll in the mud, and get
covered with it, the mud will make a coating over them to keep the
biting flies away.
So that is why pigs like to roll in the mud once in awhile, just as you
sometimes see a circus elephant scatter dust over his back, to drive
away the flies. And even such a thick-skinned animal as a rhinoceros
likes to plaster himself with mud to keep away the insects.
But after Squinty and his brothers and sisters had rolled in the mud,
they were always glad when the farmer came with the garden hose and
washed them clean again, so their pink skins showed beneath their white,
hairy bristles.
Squinty and the other pigs grew until they were a nice size. They had
nothing to do but eat and sleep, and of course that will make anyone
grow.
Now Squinty, though he was not the largest of the family of pig
children, was by far the smartest. He learned more quickly than did his
brothers and sisters, how to run to the trough to eat, when his mother
called him, and he learned how to stand up against one side of the pen
and rub himself back and forth to scratch his side when a mosquito had
bitten him in a place he could not reach with his foot.
In fact Squinty was a little too smart. He wanted to do many things his
brothers and sisters never thought of. One day when Squinty and the
others had eaten their dinner, Squinty told his brother Wuff-Wuff that
he thought it would be a nice thing to have some fun.
Wuff-Wuff said he thought so, too, but he didn't just know what to do.
In fact there was not much one could do in a pig pen.
"If we could only get out of here!" grunted Squinty, as he looked out
through a crack in the boards and saw the green garden, where pig weed
was growing thickly.
"Yes, but we can't," said Wuff-Wuff.
Squinty was not so sure about this. In fact he was a very inquisitive
little pig--that is, he always wanted to find out about things, and why
this and that was so, and what made the wheels go around, and all like
that.
"I think I can get out through that place," said Squinty to himself, a
little later. He had found another crack between two boards of the
pen--a large crack, and one edge of the board was loose. Squinty began
to push with his rubbery nose.
A pig's nose is pretty strong, you know, for it is made for digging, or
rooting in the earth, to turn up acorns, and other good things to eat.
Squinty pushed and pushed on the board until he had made it very loose.
The crack was getting wider.
"Oh, I can surely get out!" he thought. He looked around; his mother and
father and all the little pigs were asleep in the shady part of the pen.
"I'm going!" said Squinty to himself.
He gave one extra hard push, and there he was through the big crack, and
outside the pen. It was the first time he had ever been out in his life.
At first he was a little frightened, but when he looked over into the
potato patch, and saw pig weed growing there he was happy.
"Oh, what a good meal I shall have!" grunted Squinty.
He ran toward a large bunch of the juicy, green pig weed, but before he
reached it he heard a dreadful | 1,587.558977 |
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Special thanks to the Internet Archive, American Libraries
A FLEET IN BEING
NOTES OF TWO TRIPS WITH THE CHANNEL SQUADRON
BY
RUDYARD KIPLING
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON
1914
_COPYRIGHT_.
_First Edition, December_ 1898.
_Reprinted, December_ 1898; _January, February, May,
and October_ 1899, 1910, 1914.
A FLEET IN BEING
CHAPTER I
'.... _the sailor men_
_That sail upon the seas_,
_To fight the Wars and keep the Laws_,
_And live on yellow_ peas'
'A Gunroom Ditty-Box.' G. S. BOWLES.
Some thirty of her Majesty's men-of-war were involved in this matter;
say a dozen battleships of the most recent, and seventeen or eighteen
cruisers; but my concern was limited to one of a new type commanded by
an old friend. I had some dim knowledge of the interior of a warship,
but none of the new world into which I stepped from a Portsmouth wherry
one wonderful summer evening in '97.
With the exception of the Captain, the Chief Engineer, and maybe a
few petty officers, nobody was more than twenty-eight years old. They
ranged in the ward-room from this resourceful age to twenty-six or seven
clear-cut, clean-shaved young faces with all manner of varied experience
behind them. When one comes to think, it is only just that a light
20-knot cruiser should be handled, under guidance of an older head,
by affable young gentlemen prepared, even sinfully delighted, to take
chances not set down in books. She was new, they were new, the Admiral
was new, and we were all off to the Manoeuvres together--thirty keels
next day threading their way in and out between a hundred and twenty
moored vessels not so fortunate. We opened the ball, for the benefit of
some foreign warships, with a piece of rather pretty steering. A consort
was coming up a waterlane, between two lines of shipping, just behind us;
and we nipped in immediately ahead of her, precisely as a hansom turning
out of Bond Street nips in in front of a City 'bus. Distance on water
is deceptive, and when I vowed that at one crisis I could have spat on
the wicked ram of our next astern, pointed straight at our naked turning
side, the ward-room laughed.
'Oh, that's nothing,' said a gentleman of twenty-two. 'Wait till
we have to keep station to-night. It's my middle watch.'
'Close water-tight doors, then,' said a Sub-Lieutenant. 'I say'
(this to the passenger) 'if you find a second-class cruiser's ram in
the small of your back at midnight don't be alarmed.'
FASCINATING GAME OF GENERAL POST
We were then strung out in a six-mile line, thirty ships, all heading
Westwards. As soon as we found room the Flagship began to signal, and
there followed a most fascinating game of general post. When I came to
know our signalmen on the human side I appreciated it even more. The
Admiral wreathed himself with flags, strings of them; the signalman
on our high little, narrow little bridge, telescope jammed to his eye,
read out the letters of that order; the Quartermaster spun the infantine
wheel; the Officer of the Bridge rumbled requests down the speaking-tube
to the engine-room, and away we fled to take up station at such and
such a distance from our neighbours, ahead and astern, at such and such
an angle on the Admiral, his bow or beam. The end of it was a miracle
to lay eyes. The long line became four parallel lines of strength and
beauty, a mile and a quarter from flank to flank, and thus we abode till
evening. Two hundred yards or so behind us the ram of our next astern
planed through the still water; an equal distance in front of us lay the
oily water from the screw of our next ahead. So it was ordered, and so we
did, as though glued into position. But our Captain took up the parable
and bade me observe how slack we were, by reason of recent festivities,
compared to what we should be in a few days. 'Now we're all over the
shop. The ships haven't worked together, and station-keeping isn't
as easy as it looks.' Later on I found this was perfectly true.
A VARYING STRAIN
One thing more than all the rest impresses the passenger on a Queen's
ship. She is seldom for three whole hours at the same speed. The liner
clear of her dock strikes her pace and holds it to her journey's end,
but the man-of-war must always have two or three knots up her sleeve in
case the Admiral demands a spurt; she must also be ready to drop three or
four knots at the wave of a flag; and on occasion she must lie still and
meditate. This means a varying strain on all the mechanism, and constant
strain on the people who control it.
I counted seven speeds in one watch, ranging from eight knots to
seventeen, which, with eleven, was our point of maximum vibration. At
eight knots you heard the vicious little twin-screws jigitting like
restive horses; at seventeen they pegged away into the sea like a pair
of short-gaited trotting ponies on a hard road. But one felt, even in
dreams, that she was being held back. Those who talk of a liner's
freedom from breakdown should take a 7,000 horsepower boat and hit her
and hold her for a fortnight all across the salt seas.
IN CLUB AND COTERIES
After a while I went to the galley to get light on these and other
matters. Once forward of the deck torpedo-tubes you enter another and
a fascinating world of seamen-gunners, artificers, cooks, Marines (we
had twenty and a sergeant), ship's boys, signalmen, and the general
democracy. Here the men smoke at the permitted times, and in clubs
and coteries gossip and say what they please of each other and their
superiors. Their speech is soft (if everyone spoke aloud you could
not hear yourself think on a cruiser), their gestures are few (if a
man swung his arms about he would interfere with his neighbour), their
steps are noiseless as they pop in and out of the forward flats; they
are at all times immensely interesting, and, as a rule, delightfully
amusing. Their slang borrows from the engine-room, the working parts of
guns, the drill-book, and the last music-hall song. It is delivered in
a tight-lipped undertone; the more excruciatingly funny parts without a
shade of expression. The first thing that strikes a casual observer is
their superb health; next, their quiet adequateness; and thirdly, a grave
courtesy. But under the shell of the new Navy beats the heart of the old.
All Marryat's immortals are there, better fed, better tended, better
educated, but at heart unchanged. I heard Swinburne laying down the law
to his juniors by the ash-shoot; Chucks was there, too, inquiring in the
politest manner in the world what a friend meant by spreading his limbs
about the landscape; and a lineal descendant of Dispart fussed over a
4in. gun that some one had been rude to. They were men of the world, at
once curiously simple and curiously wily (this makes the charm of the
Naval man of all ranks), coming and going about their businesses like
shadows.
NOT FROM THE ADMIRALTY STANDPOINT
They were all keenly interested in the Manoeuvres--not from the Admiralty
standpoint, but the personal. Many of them had served under one or other
of the Admirals, and they enlightened their fellows, as you shall later
hear.
Then night fell, and Our Fleet blazed 'like a lot of chemists'
shops adrift,' as one truthfully put it--six lights to each ship;
bewildering the tramps. There was a cove of refuge, by one of the forward
4-in. guns, within touch of the traffic to the bridge, the break of
the foc'sle, the crowded populations below, and the light banter near
the galley. My vigil here was cheered by the society of a Marine, who
delivered a lecture on the thickness of the skulls of the inhabitants of
South America, as tested by his own hands. It ended thus: 'An' so I
got ten days in one o' their stinkin' prisons. Fed me on grapes they
did, along with one o' their own murderers. Funny people them South
Americans. Oh, 'adn't killed any one. We only skirmished through
their bloomin' Suburbs lookin' for fun like.'
'Fun! _We've_ got all the fun we want!' growled a voice in the
shadow. A stoker had risen silently as a seal for a breath of air, and
stood, chest to the breeze, scanning the Fleet lights.
''Ullo! Wot's the matter with _your_ condenser?' said the Marine.
'You'd better take your mucky 'ands off them hammick-cloths or
you'll be spoke to.'
'Our bunkers,' said the figure, addressing his grievance to the
sea-line, 'are stuck all about like a lot o' women's pockets.
They're stuck about like a lot o' bunion-plasters. That's what our
bunkers are.' He slipped back into the darkness. Presently a signalman
pattered by to relieve his mate on the bridge.
'You'll be 'ung,' said the Marine, who was a wit, and by the same
token something of a prophet.
'Not if you're anywhere in the crowd I won't,' was the retort,
always in a cautious, 'don't-wake-him' undertone. 'Wot are you
doin' 'ere?'
'Never you mind. You go on up to the 'igh an' lofty bridge an'
persecute your vocation. My Gawd! I wouldn't be a signalman, not for
ever so.'
When I met my friend next morning 'persecuting his vocation' as
sentry over the lifebuoy aft neither he nor I recognised each other; but
I owe him some very nice tales.
WHEELING, CIRCLING, AND RETURNING
Next day both Fleets were exercised at steam tactics, which is a noble
game; but I was too interested in the life of my own cruiser, unfolding
hour by hour, to be intelligently interested in evolutions. All I remember
is that we were eternally taking up positions at fifteen knots an hour
amid a crowd of other cruisers, all precisely alike, all still as death,
each with a wedge of white foam under her nose; wheeling, circling, and
returning. The battleships danced stately quadrilles by themselves in
another part of the deep. We of the light horse did barn-dances about
the windy floors; and precisely as couples in the ball-room fling a word
over their shoulders, so we and our friends, whirling past to take up
fresh stations, snapped out an unofficial sentence or two by means of
our bridge-semaphores. Cruisers are wondrous human. In the afternoon the
battleships overtook us, their white upperworks showing like icebergs as
they topped the sea-line. Then we sobered our faces, and the engineers
had rest, and at a wave of the Admiral's flag off Land's End our
Fleet was split in twain. One half would go outside Ireland, toying with
the weight of the Atlantic _en route_, to Blacksod Bay, while we turned
up the Irish Channel to Lough Swilly. There we would coal, and wait for
War. After that it would be blind man's bluff within a three hundred
and fifty mile ring of the Atlantic. We of Lough Swilly would try to
catch the Blacksod Fleet, which was supposed to have a rendezvous of its
own somewhere out at sea, before it could return to the shelter of the
Bay.
THE EXPERTS OF THE LOWER DECK
There was, however, one small flaw in the rules, and as soon as they were
in possession of the plan of campaign the experts of the lower deck put
their horny thumbs on it--thus:
'Look 'ere. Their Admiral 'as to go out from Blacksod to some
rendezvous known only to 'isself. Ain't that so?'
'We've 'eard all that.' This from an impertinent, new to War.
'Leavin' a cruiser be'ind 'im--_Blake_ most likely, or
_Blenheim_--to bring 'im word of the outbreak of 'ostilities.
Ain't that so?'
'Get _on_. What are you drivin' at?'
'You'll see. When that cruiser overtakes 'im 'e 'as to navigate
back to Blacksod from 'is precious rendezvous to get 'ome again
before we intercepts the beggar.'
'Well?'
'Now I put it to you. What's to prevent 'im rendezvousin' out
_slow_ in order to be overtook by that cruiser; an' rendezvousin'
back quick to Black-sod, before we intercepts 'im? I don't see that
_'is_ steamin' rate is anywhere laid down. You mark my word, 'e'll
take precious good care to be overtook by that cruiser of 'is. We
won't catch 'im. There's an 'ole in the rules an' 'e'll
slip through. _I_ know 'im if you don't!'
The voice went on to describe ''im,' the Admiral of our enemy--as
a wily person, who would make the Admiralty sit up.
And truly, it came out in the end that the other Admiral had done almost
exactly what his foc'sle friends expected. He went to his rendezvous
slow | 1,587.651812 |
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#38 in our series The French Immortals Crowned by the French Academy
#5 in our series by Octave Feu | 1,587.749443 |
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_THE WORKS_
OF
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
[Illustration]
THE WORKS
OF
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
EDITED BY
WILLIAM GEORGE CLARK, M.A.
FELLOW AND TUTOR OF TRINITY COLLEGE, AND PUBLIC ORATOR IN THE
UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE;
AND WILLIAM ALDIS WRIGHT, M.A.
LIBRARIAN OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
_VOLUME III._
Cambridge and London:
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1863.
CAMBRIDGE:
PRINTED BY C. J. CLAY, M.A.
AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
The Preface vii
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 3
Notes to The Taming of The Shrew 101
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 109
Notes to All's Well That Ends Well 215
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL 223
Notes to Twelfth Night; or, What You Will 311
THE WINTER'S TALE 317
Notes to The Winter's Tale 429
PREFACE.
The four plays printed in this volume appeared for the first time in the
Folio of 1623, and in the same order in which they are here given.
Of _The Taming of the Shrew_ alone is there any Quarto edition. The
title-page of this, as it appears in Capell's copy, is as follows:
A wittie | and pleasant | Comedie | Called | _The Taming of the
Shrew_. | As it was acted by his Maiesties | _Seruants at the_
Blacke Friers | _and the_ Globe. | Written by Will. Shakespeare. |
LONDON, | Printed by W. S. for _John Smethwicke_, and are to be |
sold at his Shop in Saint _Dunstones_ Church- | yard vnder the
Diall: | 1631. |
From a minute comparison of this Quarto edition with the First Folio,
extending to points which are necessarily left unrecorded in our notes,
we have come to the conclusion that the Quarto was printed from the
Folio. It is necessary to mention this, because Mr Collier, in the
second edition of his Shakespeare, maintains that the Quarto was printed
long before 1623, perhaps as early as 1607 or 1609; that its publication
"had been in some way'stayed' by the intervention of the author, on
behalf of himself and the company to which he belonged; and that, having
in consequence been laid aside for a number of years, some copies of it,
remaining in the hands of Smithwicke the stationer, were issued in 1631,
as if it had been then first published." Mr Collier also conjectures
that the title-page was'struck off long subsequent to the printing of
the body of the comedy to which it is attached.' That this could not
have been the case appears from an examination of Capell's copy, the
only one known to us which has the title-page perfect. In this the title
forms part of the first quire, and has not been inserted. The paper on
which it is printed is the same as that used for the rest of the play,
the wire-marks corresponding throughout. The passages from the Quarto
and Folio which Mr Collier quotes in support of his theory seem to us to
make strongly against it.
We have not reprinted the old play called _The Taming of a Shrew_, on
which Shakespeare founded his comedy, because it is manifestly by
another hand. It is referred to in the notes as (Q).
The 'Long MS.,' to which we have referred, is a copy of the Second Folio
in the Library of Pembroke College, Cambridge, which was formerly in the
possession of Dr Roger Long, Master of the College from 1733 to 1770. It
contains marginal emendations, some from Theobald and Warburton, marked
'T.' and 'W.' respectively; some to which the initial 'L.' is affixed,
and some without any initial letter at all. Such of these as could not
be traced to any earlier source we have quoted as 'Long conj. MS.' or
'Long MS.' For permission to use this volume we are indebted to the
kindness of the Rev. C. H. Parez.
Mr Keightley has, with great liberality, sent for our use the MS. of his
forthcoming work 'The Shakespeare Expositor.' We beg to return him our
best thanks.
To the number of those whom we have to thank for kind assistance we add
with pleasure the names of the Rev. G. B. Bubier, the Rev. N. M.
Ferrers, and Dr Meredith of Quebec.
W. G. C.
W. A. W.
ADDENDA AND CORRIGENDA.
_The Taming of the Shrew._
II. 1. 108. _To_] _Unto_ S. Walker conj.
IV. 1. 36, 37. _and... thou wilt_] _is... will thaw_ Badham
conj. In note on line 37 dele _will thaw_ Anon. conj.
IV. 5. 22. Add to note, _so it shall be, so_ Mitford conj.
IV. 5. 77. _Have to_] _Have at_ Jervis conj.
_All's Well that Ends Well._
I. 1. 97. In the note, for _Williams_ read _Badham_.
II. 1. 170. _maiden's_] _maid's_ S. Walker conj.
III. 2. 108. Add to note, _move the still-reeking_ Jervis conj.
IV. 2. 38. Add to note, _make ropes... snare or wake hopes...
scare_ Bubier conj.
IV. 3. 94. Add to note, _he has_ Steevens.
IV. 3. 96. For _he has_ read _has_, and in the note read _has_]
_ha's_ Ff. _he has_ Steevens.
_The Winter's Tale._
I. 2. 147, 148. Add to note, Her. _How my lord?_ Pol. _What...
brother?_
II. 1. 40. Add to note, _drink deep_ Long MS. Mr Staunton's
conjecture should be _drink deep o't_.
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ[1].
A Lord. }
Christopher Sly, a tinker. } Persons in the
Hostess, Page, Players, Huntsmen, and Servants.} Induction
BAPTISTA, a rich gentleman of Padua.
_Vincentio_, an old gentleman of Pisa.
_Lucentio_, son to Vincentio, in love with Bianca.
_Petruchio_[2], a gentleman of Verona, a suitor to Katharina.
GREMIO, }
HORTENSIO,} suitors to Bianca.
TRANIO, }
BIONDELLO,} servants to Lucentio.
GRUMIO[3],}
CURTIS[4],} servants to Petruchio.
A Pedant.
KATHARINA, the shrew,}
BIANCA, } daughters to Baptista.
Widow.
Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio.
SCENE: _Padua_, _and Petruchio's country house_.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] DRAMATIS PERSONÆ] First given by Rowe.
[2] PETRUCHIO] PETRUCIO Knight. PETRUCCIO Ritson conj.
[3] GRUMIO] GRUNNIO S. Walker conj.
[4] CURTIS] Capell.
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.
INDUCTION.
SCENE I. _Before an alehouse on a heath_.
_Enter_ HOSTESS _and_ SLY.
_Sly._ I'll pheeze you, in faith.
_Host._ A pair of stocks, you rogue!
_Sly._ Y'are a baggage: the Slys are no rogues; look in
the chronicles; we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore
paucas pallabris; let the world slide: sessa! 5
_Host._ You will not pay for the glasses you have burst?
_Sly._ No, not a denier. Go by, Jeronimy: go to thy
cold bed, and warm thee.
_Host._ I know my remedy; I must go fetch the thirdborough.
[_Exit._ 10
_Sly._ Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I'll answer him
by law: I'll not budge an inch, boy: let him come, and
kindly. [_Falls asleep._
_Horns winded_. _Enter a_ Lord _from hunting_, _with his train_.
_Lord._ Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds:
Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss'd; 15
And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd brach.
Saw'st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good
At the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault?
I would not lose the dog for twenty pound.
_First Hun._ Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord; 20
He cried upon it at the merest loss
And twice to-day pick'd out the dullest scent:
Trust me, I take him for the better dog.
_Lord._ Thou art a fool: if Echo were as fleet,
I would esteem him worth a dozen such. 25
But sup them well and look unto them all:
To-morrow I intend to hunt again.
_First Hun._ I will, my lord.
_Lord._ What's here? one dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe?
_Sec. Hun._ He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm'd with ale, 30
This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly.
_Lord._ O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies!
Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image!
Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man.
What think you, if he were convey'd to bed, 35
Wrapp'd in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers,
A most delicious banquet by his bed,
And brave attendants near him when he wakes,
Would not the beggar then forget himself?
_First Hun._ Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose. 40
_Sec. Hun._ It would seem strange unto him when he waked.
_Lord._ Even as a flattering dream or worthless fancy.
Then take him up and manage well the jest:
Carry him gently to my fairest chamber
And hang it round with all my wanton pictures: 45
Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters
And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet:
Procure me music ready when he wakes,
To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound;
And if he chance to speak, be ready straight 50
And with a low submissive reverence
Say 'What is it your honour will command?'
Let one attend him with a silver basin
Full of rose-water and bestrew'd with flowers;
Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper, 55
And say 'Will't please your lordship cool your hands?'
Some one be ready with a costly suit
And ask him what apparel he will wear;
Another tell him of his hounds and horse,
And that his lady mourns at his disease: 60
Persuade him that he hath been lunatic;
And when he says he is, say that he dreams,
For he is nothing but a mighty lord.
This do and do it kindly, gentle sirs:
It will be pastime passing excellent, 65
If it be husbanded with modesty.
_First Hun._ My lord, I warrant you we will play our part,
As he shall think by our true diligence
He is no less than what we say he is.
_Lord._ Take him up gently and to bed with him; 70
And each one to his office when he wakes.
[_Some bear out Sly. A trumpet sounds._
Sirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis that sounds:
[_Exit Servingman._
Belike, some noble gentleman that means,
Travelling some journey, to repose him here.
_Re-enter_ Servingman.
How now! who is it?
_Serv._ An't please your honour, players 75
That offer service to your lordship.
_Lord._ Bid them come near.
_Enter_ Players.
Now, fellows, you are welcome.
_Players._ We thank your honour.
_Lord._ Do you intend to stay with me to-night?
_A Player._ So please your lordship to accept our duty. 80
_Lord._ With all my heart. This fellow I remember,
Since once he play'd a farmer's eldest son:
'Twas where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well:
I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part
Was aptly fitted and naturally perform'd. 85
_A Player._ I think 'twas Soto that your honour means.
_Lord._ Tis very true: thou didst it excellent.
Well, you are come to me in happy time;
The rather for I have some sport in hand
Wherein your cunning can assist me much. 90
There is a lord will hear you play to-night:
But I am doubtful of your modesties;
Lest over-eyeing of his odd behaviour,--
For yet his honour never heard a play,--
You break into some merry passion 95
And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs,
If you should smile he grows impatient.
_A Player._ Fear not, my lord: we can contain ourselves,
Were he the veriest antic in the world.
_Lord._ Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, 100
And give them friendly welcome every one:
Let them want nothing that my house affords.
[_Exit one with the Players._
Sirrah, go you to Barthol'mew my page,
And see him dress'd in all suits like a lady:
That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber; 105
And call him'madam,' do him obeisance.
Tell him from me, as he will win my love,
He bear himself with honourable action,
Such as he hath observed in noble ladies
Unto their lords, by them accomplished: 110
Such duty to the drunkard let him do
With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy,
And say, 'What is't your honour will command,
Wherein your lady and your humble wife
May show her duty and make known her love?' 115
And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses,
And with declining head into his bosom,
Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy'd
To see her noble lord restored to health,
Who for this seven years hath esteemed him 120
No better than a poor and loathsome beggar:
And if the boy have not a woman's gift
To rain a shower of commanded tears,
An onion will do well for such a shift,
Which in a napkin being close convey'd 125
Shall in despite enforce a watery eye.
See this dispatch'd with all the haste thou canst:
Anon I'll give thee more instructions. [_Exit a Servingman._
I know the boy will well usurp the grace,
Voice, gait and action of a gentlewoman: 130
I long to hear him call the drunkard husband,
And how my men will stay themselves from laughter
When they do homage to this simple peasant.
I'll in to counsel them; haply my presence
May well abate the over-merry spleen 135
Which otherwise would grow into extremes. [_Exeunt._
LINENOTES:
[INDUCTION.] Pope. om. Ff Q. See note (I).
[SCENE I. Before...] Theobald. A Hedge Ale-house. Capell.
[Enter...] Enter Begger and Hostes, Christophero Sly. Ff Q.
[1] _pheeze_] _fese_ (Q).
[2] _stocks_] F3 F4. _stockes_ F1 Q.] _stokes_ F2.
[4] _came in_] _came_ Rowe (ed. 1).
[5] _paucas_] _paucus_ F4.
[7] _Go by, Jeronimy_] _goe by Ieronimie_ Q. _go by S. Ieronimie_ Ff
(_Ieronimy_ F2. _Jeronimy_ F3 F4). _go by, Jeronimo_ Theobald. '_go
by_,' _says Jeronimy_ Steevens (Capell conj.). _go--by S. Jeronimy_
Knight. See note (II).
[9] _thirdborough_] Theobald. _head-borough_ Ff Q.
[10] [Exit.] Rowe. om. Ff Q.
[13] [Falls asleep.] Ff Q. Falls from off his bench, and sleeps.
Capell. Lies down on the ground, and falls asleep. Malone.
[14] SCENE II. Pope.
Horns winded.] Winde hornes. Ff Q.
[15] _Brach_] _Leech_ Hanmer. _Bathe_ Johnson conj. _Breathe_ Mitford
conj. _Brace_ Becket conj. _Trash_ Singer.
_Brach... emboss'd_;] (_Brach_ _Merriman_, _the poor cur, is
emboss'd_,) Grant White. _Brach_, _Merriman_, _the... emboss'd_
Johnson. (_Back_ _Merriman_!--_the... emboss'd_) Anon. conj.
[23] _better_] om. Q.
[30, 31] Printed as prose in Ff Q, as verse first by Rowe (ed. 2).
[37] _bed_] _side_ Anon. conj.
[41, 42] _waked_. Lord. _Even_... _fancy_. _Then_] _waked_, _Even_
... _fancy_. Lord. _Then_ Anon. conj.
[46] _Balm_... _head_] _Bath_... _hide_ Capell conj.
_in_] _with_ Rowe (ed. 2).
[55] _the third_] _a third_ Rowe.
[62] _And_... _he is_,] Ff Q. _And when_ _he says he is poor_, Rowe
(ed. 1). _And_... _he's poor_, Rowe (ed. 2). _And_... _he
is_,--Theobald. _And_... _he's Sly_, Johnson conj. _And when he says
what he is_, Long conj. MS. _When he says what_ _he is_, Collier MS.
_And what he says_ _he is_, Jackson conj. _And when he_ _says who he
is_, Anon. ap. Halliwell conj. See note (III).
[67] _we will_] _we'll_ Rowe (ed. 2).
[71] [Some bear out Sly.] Theobald. om. Ff Q.
A trumpet sounds.] Sound trumpets. Ff Q.
[72] [Exit S.] Ex. Servant. Theobald. om. Ff Q.
[75] SCENE III. Pope.
Re-enter...] Enter... Ff Q.
[75, 76] _An't... players That_] Ff Q.
_Please your honour, players That_ Pope.
_An it... Players that_ Malone.
[76] _That offer_] _That come to offer_ Capell. _That offer humble_
Collier MS.
[77] Enter P.] Ff Q, after line 76.
[80] A Player.] Edd. 2. Player. Ff Q.
[85] _fitted_] _fit_ S. Walker conj.
[86] A Player.] Sincklo. F1 Q. Sin. F2. Sim. F3 F4. 1. P. Capell. See
note (IV).
[98] A Player.] Plai. F1 F2. Play. Q. Pla. F3 F4. 1. P. Capell.
[99] See note (v).
[101] _And... one_] omitted by Rowe.
[103] _Barthol'mew_] _Bartholmew_ Ff Q. _Bartholomew_ Rowe.
[108] _bear_] F3 F4. _beare_ F1 F2. _bare_ Q.
[ Linenote 112] _soft low_] _soft slow_ Malone conj.
[113] _will_] _doth_ Q.
[120] _this seven_] _these seven_ Rowe (ed. 2). _twice seven_
Theobald.
_him_] _himself_ Rowe.
[125] _being... convey'd_] (_being... convei'd_) Ff Q.
[133] _peasant._] Johnson. _peasant_, Ff Q. _peasant_; Rowe.
[135] _the_] _their_ Collier (Collier MS.).
Scene II. _A bedchamber in the_ Lord's _house._
_Enter aloft_ SLY, _with_ Attendants; _some with apparel_, _others with_
_basin and ewer and other appurtenances_, _and_ Lord.
_Sly_. For God's sake, a pot of small ale.
_First Serv_. Will't please your lordship drink a cup of
sack?
_Sec. Serv_. Will't please your honour taste of these
conserves?
_Third Serv._ What raiment will your honour wear to-day?
_Sly._ I am Christophero Sly; call not me 'honour' nor 5
'lordship:' I ne'er drank sack in my life; and if you give me
any conserves, give me conserves of beef: ne'er ask me
what raiment I'll wear; for I have no | 1,587.754024 |
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########################################################################
Transcriber’s Notes
Hyphenation and punctuation have been corrected and standardised.
Cromwell’s letters, however, have been fully retained according to the
original text; no changes in spelling have been applied here.
Numbered ranges have been expanded in full, i.e. 1595-6 is now
1595-1596. Dittoes in the Table of Contents have been eliminated by
insertion of appropriate text. Internal references have been adapted
to match the numbering scheme used in this electronic version.
The following passages have been changed:
p. 28: 'England and Francis' → 'England and France'
Footnote 240: 'Harl. MSS 6, 148' → 'Harl. MSS 6,148'
Underscores have been used to highlight _italic_ text. The caret symbol
(^) represents superscript characters; multiple characters have been
grouped using a pair of curly brackets (^{text}).
########################################################################
[Illustration: THOMAS CROMWELL
FROM A PICTURE IN THE BODLEIAN LIBRARY]
LIFE AND LETTERS OF
THOMAS CROMWELL
BY
ROGER BIGELOW MERRIMAN
A.M. HARV., B.LITT. OXON.
WITH A PORTRAIT AND FACSIMILE
VOL. I
LIFE, LETTERS TO 1535
OXFORD
AT THE CLARENDON PRESS
1902
HENRY FROWDE, M.A.
_PUBLISHER TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD_
LONDON, EDINBURGH
NEW YORK
PREFACE
This book is an attempt to present the life of Thomas Cromwell as a
statesman, and to estimate his work without religious bias. Though it
would certainly be difficult to overrate his importance in the history
of the Church of England, I maintain that the motives that inspired his
actions were invariably political, and that the many ecclesiastical
changes carried through under his guidance were but incidents of his
administration, not ends in themselves. Consequently any attempt to
judge him from a distinctively religious standpoint, whether Catholic or
Protestant, can hardly fail, it seems to me, to mislead the student and
obscure the truth. I cannot agree, on the other hand, with those who
have represented Cromwell as a purely selfish political adventurer, the
subservient instrument of a wicked master, bent only on his own gain. It
seems to me as idle to disparage his patriotism and statesmanship, as it
is to try to make him out a hero of the Reformation. He merits a place
far higher than that of most men of his type, a type essentially
characteristic of the sixteenth century, a type of which the Earl of
Warwick in England and Maurice of Saxony on the Continent are striking
examples, a type that profoundly influenced the destinies of
Protestantism, but to which theological issues were either a mere
nothing, or else totally subordinate to political considerations.
It has been justly said that Cromwell’s correspondence is our chief
source of information for the period immediately following the breach
with Rome. To transcribe _in extenso_ the letters he received would be
almost the task of a lifetime; for they form the bulk of the enormous
mass of material with which the editors of the Calendars of State Papers
for the years 1533-1540 have had to deal. But the number of extant
letters he wrote is, comparatively speaking, extremely small; it has
therefore been possible to make full copies of them in every case, and I
trust that the many advantages--linguistic as well as historical--that
can only be secured by complete, and as far as possible accurate
transcriptions of the originals, will be accepted as sufficient reason
for editing this collection of documents, twenty-one of which have
neither been printed nor calendared before. The rules that have been
observed in transcription will be found in the Prefatory Note (vol. i.
p. 311). The Calendar references to the more important letters received
by Cromwell, where they bear directly on those he wrote, are given in
the notes at the end of the second volume.
My warmest thanks are due to Mr. F. York Powell, Regius Professor of
Modern History in the University of Oxford, who has guided me throughout
in matter, form, and style; and to my friend and master Mr. A. L. Smith,
Fellow of Balliol College, whose advice and encouragement have been an
inspiration from first to last. It is not easy for me to express how
much I have depended on their suggestions and criticism. I am indebted
to Mr. Owen Edwards, Fellow of Lincoln College, for indispensable help
in the early stages of my work. The main plan of this book is in many
respects similar to that of his Lothian Essay for the year 1887, which I
regret that he has never published. My grateful acknowledgements are
also due to Mr. James Gairdner of the Public Record Office for
information about Cromwell’s early life; to Professor Dr. Max Lenz, of
the University of Berlin, for helpful suggestions in connexion with the
Anglo-German negotiations in the years 1537-1540; and to Mr. G. T.
Lapsley, of the University of California, for similar services in regard
to the Pilgrimage of Grace, and the reorganization of the North after
the suppression of the rebellion.
I beg to express my appreciation of the kindness of the Duke of Rutland,
the Marquess of Salisbury, Earl Spencer, Lord Calthorpe, William
Berington, Esq., and Alfred Henry Huth, Esq., in giving me access to the
manuscripts in their private collections.
In conclusion, I wish to thank the officials of the Public Record
Office, British Museum, Heralds’ College of Arms, and Bodleian Library,
for facilitating my work in every way; more especially Messrs. Hubert
Hall, R. H. Brodie, E. Salisbury, and F. B. Bickley, who have repeatedly
aided me in my search for uncalendared letters and continental
documents, and in deciphering the most difficult manuscripts I have had
to consult.
R. B. M.
BALLIOL COLLEGE, OXFORD.
_February, 1902._
CONTENTS
VOLUME I
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE ANCESTRY AND EARLY LIFE OF THOMAS
CROMWELL 1
APPENDIX. PASSAGES FROM CHAPUYS, POLE,
BANDELLO, AND FOXE 17
II. THE PARLIAMENT OF 1523 27
III. WOLSEY’S SERVANT 47
APPENDIX. THE WILL OF THOMAS CROMWELL 56
IV. THE FALL OF THE CARDINAL 64
V. THE CHARACTER AND OPPORTUNITY OF
THOMAS CROMWELL 77
VI. IN THE KING’S SERVICE 89
APPENDIX. THE SUPPLICATION OF THE
COMMONS AGAINST THE ORDINARIES 104
VII. INTERNAL POLICY 112
VIII. IRELAND, WALES, SCOTLAND, CALAIS 147
IX. THE MONASTERIES 165
X. THE PILGRIMAGE OF GRACE, 1536 180
XI. CARDINAL POLE 202
XII. THE FOREIGN POLICY 213
XIII. THE CATHOLIC REACTION AND THE ALLIANCE
WITH CLEVES 242
APPENDIX. REPORTS OF THE LUTHERAN
AMBASSADORS TO ENGLAND IN 1539 AND
1540 272
XIV. THE FALL OF THOMAS CROMWELL 281
APPENDIX. PASSAGES FROM FOXE: CROMWELL’S
SPEECH AND PRAYER ON THE
SCAFFOLD 303
XV. THE WORK OF THOMAS CROMWELL 305
PREFATORY NOTE TO CROMWELL’S LETTERS 311
CROMWELL’S LETTERS: 1523-1530 313
CROMWELL’S LETTERS: 1531 335
CROMWELL’S LETTERS: 1532 343
CROMWELL’S LETTERS: 1533 352
CROMWELL’S LETTERS: 1534 372
CROMWELL’S LETTERS: 1535 396
VOLUME II
CROMWELL’S LETTERS: 1536 1
CROMWELL’S LETTERS: 1537 50
CROMWELL’S LETTERS: 1538 111
CROMWELL’S LETTERS: 1539 166
CROMWELL’S LETTERS: 1540 244
AN ITINERARY OF THOMAS CROMWELL, 1523-1540 279
A LIST OF THE MINOR PREFERMENTS OF THOMAS
CROMWELL, AND A DESCRIPTION OF HIS ARMS
AND CREST 283
NOTES TO LETTERS 285
LIST OF AUTHORITIES 313
INDEX 319
ILLUSTRATIONS
PORTRAIT OF THOMAS CROMWELL _Frontispiece to_ vol. i
FACSIMILE OF A LETTER FROM THOMAS CROMWELL
TO LORD LISLE, AUG. 30, 1538 _Frontispiece to_ vol. ii
LIFE OF THOMAS CROMWELL
CHAPTER I
THE ANCESTRY AND EAR | 1,587.754066 |
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Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer
HISTORY OF THE WARFARE OF SCIENCE WITH THEOLOGY IN CHRISTENDOM
By Andrew Dickson White
Two Volumes Combined
To the Memory of
EZRA CORNELL
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK.
Thoughts that great hearts once broke for, we
Breathe cheaply in the common air.--LOWELL
Dicipulus est prioris posterior dies.--PUBLIUS SYRUS
Truth is the daughter of Time.--BACON
The Truth shall make you free.--ST. JOHN, viii, 32.
INTRODUCTION
My book is ready for the printer, and as I begin this preface my eye
lights upon the crowd of Russian peasants at work on the Neva under my
windows. With pick and shovel they are letting the rays of the April sun
into the great ice barrier which binds together the modern quays and the
old granite fortress where lie the bones of the Romanoff Czars.
This barrier is already weakened; it is widely decayed, in many places
thin, and everywhere treacherous; but it is, as a whole, so broad, so
crystallized about old boulders, so imbedded in shallows, so wedged into
crannies on either shore, that it is a great danger. The waters from
thousands of swollen streamlets above are pressing behind it; wreckage
and refuse are piling up against it; every one knows that it must yield.
But there is danger that it may resist the pressure too long and break
suddenly, wrenching even the granite quays from their foundations,
bringing desolation to a vast population, and leaving, after the
subsidence of the flood, a widespread residue of slime, a fertile
breeding-bed for the germs of disease.
But the patient mujiks are doing the right thing. The barrier, exposed
more and more to the warmth of spring by the scores of channels they are
making, will break away gradually, and the river will flow on beneficent
and beautiful.
My work in this book is like that of the Russian mujik on the Neva. I
simply try to aid in letting the light of historical truth into that
decaying mass of outworn thought which attaches the modern world to
mediaeval conceptions of Christianity, and which still lingers among
us--a most serious barrier to religion and morals, and a menace to the
whole normal evolution of society.
For behind this barrier also the flood is rapidly rising--the flood
of increased knowledge and new thought; and this barrier also, though
honeycombed and in many places thin, creates a danger--danger of a
sudden breaking away, distressing and calamitous, sweeping before it not
only out worn creeds and noxious dogmas, but cherished principles
and ideals, and even wrenching out most precious religious and moral
foundations of the whole social and political fabric.
My hope is to aid--even if it be but a little--in the gradual and
healthful dissolving away of this mass of unreason, that the stream of
"religion pure and undefiled" may flow on broad and clear, a blessing to
humanity.
And now a few words regarding the evolution of this book.
It is something over a quarter of a century since I labored with Ezra
Cornell in founding the university which bears his honored name.
Our purpose was to establish in the State of New York an institution for
advanced instruction and research, in which science, pure and applied,
should have an equal place with literature; in which the study of
literature, ancient and modern, should be emancipated as much as
possible from pedantry; and which should be free from various useless
trammels and vicious methods which at that period hampered many, if not
most, of the American universities and colleges.
We had especially determined that the institution should be under the
control of no political party and of no single religious sect, and with
Mr. Cornell's approval I embodied stringent provisions to this effect in
the charter.
It had certainly never entered into the mind of either of us that in all
this we were doing anything irreligious or unchristian. Mr. Cornell
was reared a member of the Society of Friends; he had from his fortune
liberally aided every form of Christian effort which he found going on
about him, and among the permanent trustees of the public library
which he had already founded, he had named all the clergymen of
the town--Catholic and Protestant. As for myself, I had been bred a
churchman, had recently been elected a trustee of one church college,
and a professor in another; those nearest and dearest to me were
devoutly religious; and, if I may be allowed to speak of a matter so
personal to my self, my most cherished friendships were among deeply
religious men and women, and my greatest sources of enjoyment were
ecclesiastical architecture, religious music, and the more devout forms
of poetry. So, far from wishing to injure Christianity, we both hoped to
promote it; but we did not confound religion with sectarianism, and we
saw in the sectarian character of American colleges and universities as
a | 1,587.854691 |
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Transcriber's Note.
Bold text is indicated with =equals signs=. Italic text is indicated
with _underscores_.
Further transcriber's notes may be found at the end of the book.
QUEENS OF THE
RENAISSANCE
BY
M. BERESFORD RYLEY
WITH TWENTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
_First Published in 1907_
[Illustration: BEATRICE AND LUDOVICO KNEELING
ALTAR-PIECE BY ZENALE]
To B----
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE ix
CATHERINE OF SIENA 1
BEATRICE D'ESTE 53
ANNE OF BRITTANY 104
LUCREZIA BORGIA 150
MARGARET D'ANGOULÊME 202
RENÉE, DUCHESS OF FERRARA 251
PREFACE
There are no two people who see with the same kind of vision. It is
for this reason that, though twenty lives of the six women chosen for
this book had been written previously, there would still, it seems to
me, be room for a twenty-first. For though the facts might remain
identical, there is no possible reiteration of another mind's exact
outlook. Hence I have not scrupled to add these six character studies
to the many volumes similar in scope and subject.
The book is called "Queens of the Renaissance," but Catherine of Siena
lived before the Renaissance surged into being, and Anne of Brittany,
though her two husbands brought its spirit into France, had not
herself a hint of its lovely, penetrating eagerness. They are included
because they help, nevertheless, to create continuity and coherence of
impression, and the six leading, as they do naturally, one to the
other, convey, in the mass, some co-ordinated notion of the
Renaissance spirit.
The main object, perhaps, in writing at all lies in the intrinsic
interest of any real life lived before us. For every existence is a
_parti pris_ towards existence; every character is a personal opinion
upon the value of character, feeling, virtue, many things. No
personality repeats another, no human drama renews just the same
intricate complications of other dramas. In every life and in every
person there is some element of uniqueness, some touch of speciality.
Because of this even the dullest individuality becomes quickening in
biography. It has, if no more, the pathos of its dulness, the didactic
warnings of its refusals, the surprise of its individualizing
blunders.
All the following lives convey inevitably and unconsciously some
statement concerning the opportunity offered by existence. To one, it
seemed a place for an ecstasy of joy, success, gratification; to
another, a great educational establishment for the soul; to a third,
an admirable groundwork for practical domestic arrangements and
routine; to Renée of Ferrara, a bewildering, weary accumulation of
difficulties and distress; to her more charming relative, an enigma
shadowed always by the still greater and grimmer enigma of mortality.
And lastly, for the strange, elusive Lucrezia, it is difficult to
conceive what it must have meant at all, unless a sequence of
circumstances never, under any conditions, to be dwelt upon in their
annihilating entirety, but just to be taken piecemeal day by day,
reduced and simplified by the littleness of separate hours and
moments.
In a book of this kind, where the intention is mainly concerned with
character, and for which the reading was inevitably full of bypaths
and excursions, a complete bibliography would merely fill many pages,
while seeming to a great extent to touch but remotely upon the ladies
referred to, but among recent authors a deep debt of gratitude for
information received is due to the following: Jacob Burckhardt, Julia
Cartwright, Augusta Drane, Ferdinand Gregorovius, R. Luzio, E. Renier,
E. Rodoconarchi, and J. Addington Symonds.
Finally, in reference to the portraits included in the life of
Beatrice D'Este, a brief statement is necessary. For not only that of
Bianca, wife of Giangaleazzo, but also those of Il Moro's two
mistresses, Cecilia Gallerani and Lucrezia Crivelli, are regrettably
dubious. The picture of Bianca, however, by Ambrogio da Predis, is
more than likely genuinely that of Bianca, though some writers still
regard it as a likeness of Beatrice herself. It is to be wished that
it were; her prettiness then would have been incontestable and
delicious. But in reality there is no hope. One has but to look at the
other known portraits of Beatrice to see that her face was podgy, or
nearly so, and that her charm came entirely and illusively from
personal intelligence. It evaporated the moment one came to fix her
appearance in sculpture or on canvas. Nature had not really done much
for her. There was no outline, no striking feature, no ravishing
freshness of colouring. On a stupid woman Beatrice's face would have
been absolutely ugly. But she, through sheer "aliveness," sheer
buoyant trickery of expression, conveyed in actuality the equivalent
of prettiness. But it was all unconscious conjuring,--in reality
Beatrice was a plain woman, with sufficient delightfulness to seem a
pretty one, while the portrait of Bianca is unmistakably and lovingly
good-looking.
As regards the portraits, again, of Il Moro's two mistresses, Cecilia
Gallerani and Lucrezia Crivelli, there is no absolute certainty. The
portrait facing page 6 in the life of Beatrice has been recently
discovered in the collection of the Right Hon. the Earl of Roden, and
in an article published by the _Burlington Magazine_ it has been
tentatively looked upon as that of Lucrezia Crivelli. This does not,
however, appear probable, because Lucrezia, at the time of Il Moro's
infatuation, was a young girl, and the picture by Ambrogio da Predis
is certainly that of a woman, and a woman, moreover, whose experiences
have brought her perilously near the verge of cynicism.
At the same time, the portrait is not only beyond doubt that of a
woman loved by Il Moro, but was presumably painted while his affection
for her still continued, as not only are the little heart-shaped
ornaments holding together the webs of her net thought to represent Il
Moro's badge of a mulberry-leaf, but painted exquisitely in a space of
⅜ by ⅝ inch upon the plaque at the waistbelt is a Moor's head,
another of Ludovico's badges, while the letters L. O. are placed on
either side of it, and the two Sforza S. S. at the back. A discarded
mistress, if Ambrogio--one of Il Moro's court painters--had painted
her at all, would have had the discretion not to wear symbols
obviously intended only for one beloved at that moment.
There seems--speculatively--every reason to suppose that the picture
represents Cecilia Gallerani, who was already beyond the charm of
youth before Ludovico reluctantly discarded her, and whom he not only
cared for very greatly, but for quite a number of years. Cecilia
Gallerani, besides, to strengthen the supposition, was an
exceptionally intellectual woman, and the portrait in the possession
of the Earl of Roden expresses above everything to an almost
disheartened intelligence. To think deeply while in the position of
_any_ man's mistress must leave embittering traces, and Cecilia became
famous less even for physical attractions than because her mind was so
intensely rich and receptive.
The other two--the pictures of "La Belle Ferronière" and the "Woman
with the Weasel,"--by Leonardo da Vinci, have both a contested
identity. But since the first is now almost universally looked upon as
being the portrait of Lucrezia Crivelli, the second must surely
represent her also. For in both there is the same beautiful oval, the
same youth, the same unfathomable eyes and gentle deceit of
expression. Both, besides, represent to perfection the kind of
beautiful girl likely to have drawn Ludovico into passionate
admiration. He was no longer young when he cared for Lucrezia, and if
Leonardo's paintings are really portraits of her, she was like some
emblematical figure of perfect youthfulness,--unique and unrepeatable.
M. B. R.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
TO FACE PAGE
BEATRICE AND LUDOVICO KNEELING. ALTAR PIECE BY
ZENALE AT BRERA _Frontispiece_
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Anderson_
STATUE IN WOOD OF ST. CATHERINE, BY NEROCCIO LANDI 2
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Lombardi_
ST. CATHERINE'S HOUSE AT SIENA 16
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Lombardi_
CATHERINE PRAYING AT AN EXECUTION. FRESCO BY SODOMA 18
THE BRIDGE AT PAVIA 61
BEATRICE D'ESTE. BUST IN THE LOUVRE 64
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Levy_
PORTRAIT, PROBABLY OF CECILIA GALLERANI, SAID TO BE BY
AMBROGIO DA PREDIS 90
_From the Collection of the Earl of Roden_
LUCREZIA CRIVELLI, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI 96
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Mansell_
PROBABLE PORTRAIT OF BIANCA SFORZA, WIFE OF GALEAZZO
SANSEVERINO 98
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Mansell_
CHURCH OF ST. MARIA DELLE GRAZIE AT MILAN 100
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Brogi_
EFFIGY OF BEATRICE D'ESTE AT SOUTH KENSINGTON MUSEUM 102
FROM THE CALENDRIER, IN ANNE'S BOOK OF HOURS IN THE
BIBLIOTHÈQUE NATIONALE, PARIS 120
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Berthaud_
ANNE KNEELING. FROM THE BOOK OF HOURS IN THE BIBLIOTHÈQUE
NATIONALE 128
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Berthaud_
ST. URSULA. FROM ANNE'S BOOK OF HOURS IN THE BIBLIOTHÈQUE
NATIONALE 140
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Berthaud_
PROBABLE PORTRAIT OF LUCREZIA IN "ST. CATHERINE AND THE
ELDERS," BY PINTORRICCHIO 152
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Brogi_
VIRGIN AND CHILD, BY PINTORRICCHIO, IN THE HALL OF ARTS
AT THE VATICAN 159
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Anderson_
THE ANNUNCIATION. FROM THE SERIES OF FRESCOES PAINTED
BY PINTORRICCHIO AT THE VATICAN 171
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Anderson_
SUSANNAH AND THE ELDERS. FROM THE SERIES OF FRESCOES
PAINTED BY PINTORRICCHIO AT THE VATICAN 188
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Anderson_
HEAD OF GASTON DE FOIX 206
_From the Monument at Milan_
CHARLES V. 226
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Giraudon_
MARGARET D'ANGOULÊME. FROM A DRAWING AFTER CORNEILLE
DE LYON 248
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Giraudon_
RENÉE OF FERRARA, AGED FIFTEEN, BY CORNEILLE DE LYON 254
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Giraudon_
THE CASTELLO AT FERRARA 260
RENÉE, DUCHESS OF FERRARA. FROM A DRAWING AT THE
BIBLIOTHÈQUE NATIONALE 294
_From a Photograph by Messrs. Giraudon_
QUEENS OF THE RENAISSANCE
CATHERINE OF SIENA
1347-1380
Catherine of Siena does not actually belong to the Renaissance. At the
same time she played an indirect part in furthering it, and she
represented a strain of feeling which continued to the extreme limits
of its duration. During the best period of the desire for culture, a
successor--and imitator--of Catherine's, Sister Lucia, became a craze
in certain | 1,587.954423 |
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The Golden Bough
A Study in Magic and Religion
By
James George Frazer, D.C.L., LL.D., Litt.D.
Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge
Professor of Social Anthropology in the University of Liverpool
Vol. XI. of XII.
Part VII: Balder the Beautiful.
The Fire-Festivals of Europe and the Doctrine of the External Soul.
Vol. 2 of 2.
New York and London
MacMillan and Co.
1913
CONTENTS
Chapter VI. Fire-Festivals in Other Lands.
§ 1. The Fire-walk.
§ 2. The Meaning of the Fire-walk.
Chapter VII. The Burning of Human Beings in the Fires.
§ 1. The Burning of Effigies in the Fires.
§ 2. The Burning of Men and Animals in the Fires.
Chapter VIII. The Magic Flowers of Midsummer Eve.
Chapter IX. Balder and the Mistletoe.
Chapter X. The Eternal Soul in Folk-Tales.
Chapter XI. The External Soul in Folk-Custom.
§ 1. The External Soul in Inanimate Things.
§ 2. The External Soul in Plants.
§ 3. The External Soul in Animals.
§ 4. A Suggested Theory of Totemism.
§ 5. The Ritual of Death and Resurrection.
Chapter XII. The Golden Bough.
Chapter XIII. Farewell to Nemi.
Notes.
I. Snake Stones.
II. The Transformation of Witches Into Cats.
III. African Balders.
IV. The Mistletoe and the Golden Bough.
Index.
Footnotes
[Cover | 1,588.049971 |
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[Illustration: "I give you back the wedding ring."--_Page 400._]
THE BONDWOMAN
BY
MARAH ELLIS RYAN,
AUTHOR OF
"Told in the Hills," "A Pagan of the Alleghanies," etc.
CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:
RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS.
MDCCCXCIX.
Copyright, 1899, by Rand, McNally & Co.
All rights reserved.
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London.
THE BONDWOMAN
CHAPTER I.
Near Moret, in France, where the Seine is formed and flows northward,
there lives an old lady named Madame Blanc, who can tell much of the
history written here--though it be a history belonging more to
American lives than French. She was of the Caron establishment when
Judithe first came into the family, and has charge of a home for aged
ladies of education and refinement whose means will not allow of them
providing for themselves. It is a memorial founded by her adopted
daughter and is known as the Levigne Pension. The property on which it
is established is the little Levigne estate--the one forming the only
dowery of Judithe Levigne when she married Philip Alain--Marquis de
Caron.
There is also a bright-eyed, still handsome woman of mature years,
who lives in our South and has charge of another memorial--or had
until recently--a private industrial school for girls of her own
selection. She calls herself a creole of San Domingo, and she also
calls herself Madame Trouvelot--she has been married twice since
she was first known by that name, for she was never the woman to live
alone--not she; but while the men in themselves suited her, their
names were uncompromisingly plain--did not attract her at all. She
married them, proved a very good wife, but while one was named
Johnson, and another Tuttle, the good wife persisted in being
called Madame Trouvelot, either through sentiment or a bit of irony
towards the owner of that name. But, despite her vanities, her
coquetries, and certain erratic phases of her life, she was
absolutely faithful to the trust reposed in her by the Marquise; and
who so capable as herself of finding the poor girls who stood most
in need of training and the shelter of charity? She, also, could
add to this history of the woman belonging both to the old world
and the new. There are also official records in evidence of much
that is told here--deeds of land, bills of sale, with dates of
marriages and deaths interwoven, changed as to names and places but--
There are social friends--gay, pleasure-loving people on both sides of
the water--who could speak, and some men who will never forget her.
One of them, Kenneth McVeigh, he was only Lieutenant McVeigh
then!--saw her first in Paris--heard of her first at a musicale in the
salon of Madame Choudey. Madame Choudey was the dear friend of the
Countess Helene Biron, who still lives and delights in recitals of
gossip belonging to the days of the Second Empire. The Countess Helene
and Mrs. McVeigh had been school friends in Paris. Mrs. McVeigh | 1,588.050657 |
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CARRY ON!
By VIRNA SHEARD
PUBLISHED UNDER THE DISTINGUISHED
PATRONAGE OF THE IMPERIAL ORDER
OF THE DAUGHTERS OF THE
EMPIRE IN AID OF THE
RED CROSS
TORONTO:
WARWICK BROS. & RUTTER, LIMITED
1917
COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1917
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We acknowledge with thanks the kindness of _The Globe_, Toronto, for
permission to use Carry On, The Young Knights, The Watcher, October
Goes, Dreams, The Cry, A War Chant, To One Who Sleeps, The Requiem and
The Lament, to _Saturday Night_, Toronto, for permission to use Before
the Dawn, and to _The Canadian Magazine_ for permission to use When
Jonquils Blow. The other poems have not hitherto been published.
CONTENTS
Carry On
The Young Knights
The Shells
The Watcher
October Goes
Dreams
Before the Dawn
Crosses
The Cry
A War Chant
When Jonquils Blow
To One Who Sleeps
The Sea
Comrades
Requiem
Lament
CARRY ON!
That all freedom may abide
Carry on!
For the brave who fought and died,
Carry on!
England's flag so long adored
Is the banner of the Lord--
His the cannon--His the sword--
Carry on, and on! Carry on!
Through the night of death and tears,
Carry on!
Through the hour that scars and sears,
Carry on!
Legions in the flame-torn sky,--
Armies that go reeling by,--
Only once can each man die;
Carry on!
For the things you count the best,
Carry on!
Take love with you,--leave the rest--
Carry on!
Though the fight be short or long,
Men of ours--O dear and strong--
Yours will be the Victor's song,
Carry on--and on! Carry on!
THE YOUNG KNIGHTS
Now they remain to us forever young
Who with such splendor gave their youth away;
Perpetual Spring is their inheritance,
Though they have lived in Flanders and in France
A round of years, in one remembered day.
They drained life's goblet as a joyous draught
And left within the cup no bitter lees.
Sweetly they answered to the King's behest,
And gallantly fared forth upon a quest,
Beset by foes on land and on the seas.
So in the ancient world hath bloomed again
The rose of old romance--red as of yore;
The flower of high emprise hath whitely blown
Above the graves of those we call our own,
And we will know its fragrance evermore.
Now if their deeds were written with the stars,
In golden letters on the midnight sky
They would not care. They were so young, and dear,
They loved the best the things that were most near,
And gave no thought to glory far and high.
They need no shafts of marble pure and cold--
No painted windows radiantly bright;
Across our hearts their names are carven deep--
In waking dreams, and in the dreams of sleep,
| 1,588.345502 |
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TWO EXPEDITIONS INTO THE INTERIOR OF SOUTHERN AUSTRALIA,
VOLUME II
by
Charles Sturt
TWO EXPEDITIONS INTO THE INTERIOR OF SOUTHERN AUSTRALIA DURING THE
YEARS 1828, 1829, 1830, 1831 WITH OBSERVATIONS ON THE SOIL, CLIMATE AND
GENERAL RESOURCES OF THE COLONY OF NEW SOUTH WALES.
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOLUME II.
"For though most men are contented only to see a river as it runs by
them, and talk of the changes in it as they happen; when it is
troubled, or when clear; when it drowns the country in a flood, or
forsakes it in a drought: yet he that would know the nature of the
water, and the causes of those accidents (so as to guess at their
continuance or return), must find out its source, and observe with what
strength it rises, what length it runs, and how many small streams fall
in, and feed it to such a height, as make it either delightful or
terrible to the eye, and useful or dangerous to the country about
it."...SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE'S NETHERLANDS.
CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME
EXPEDITION DOWN THE MORUMBIDGEE AND MURRAY RIVERS, IN 1829, 1830 AND
1831.
CHAPTER I.
Introductory--Remarks on the results of the former Expedition--The
fitting out of another determined on--Its objects--Provisions,
accoutrements, and retinue--Paper furnished by Mr. Kent--Causes that
have prevented the earlier appearance of the present work.
CHAPTER II.
Commencement of the expedition in November, 1829.--Joined by Mr. George
M'Leay--Appearance of the party--Breadalbane Plains--Hospitality of Mr.
O'Brien--Yass Plains--Hill of Pouni--Path of a hurricane--Character of
the country between Underaliga and the Morumbidgee--Appearance of that
river--Junction of the Dumot with it--Crossing and recrossing--Geological
character and general aspect of the country--Plain of Pondebadgery--Few
natives seen.
CHAPTER III.
Character of the Morumbidgee where it issues from the hilly
country--Appearance of approach to swamps--Hamilton Plains--Intercourse
with the natives--Their appearance, customs, &c.--Change in the
character of the river--Mirage--Dreariness of the country--Ride towards
the Lachlan river--Two boats built and launched on the Morumbidgee; and
the drays, with part of the men sent back to Goulburn Plains.
CHAPTER IV.
Embarkation of the party in the boats, and voyage down the
Morumbidgee--The skiff swamped by striking on a sunken tree--Recovery
of boat and its loading--Region of reeds--Dangers of the
navigation--Contraction of the channel--Reach the junction of a large
river--Intercourse with the natives on its banks--Character of the
country below the junction of the rivers--Descent of a dangerous
rapid--Warlike demonstrations of a tribe of natives--Unexpected
deliverance from a conflict with them--Junction of another river--Give
the name of the "Murray" to the principal stream.
CHAPTER V.
Character of the country--Damage of provisions--Adroitness of the
natives in catching fish--The skiff broken up--Stream from the
North-East supposed to be the Darling--Change of country in descending
the river--Intercourse with the natives--Prevalence of loathsome
diseases among them--Apparent populousness of the country--Junction of
several small streams--The Rufus, the Lindesay, &c.--Rainy and
tempestuous weather--Curious appearance of the banks--Troublesomeness
of the natives--Inhospitable and desolate aspect of the
country--Condition of the men--Change in the geological character of
the country--The river passes through a valley among hills.
CHAPTER VI.
Improvement in the aspect of the country--Increase of the river--Strong
westerly gales--Chronometer broken--A healthier tribe of
natives--Termination of the Murray in a large lake--Its extent and
environs--Passage across it--Hostile appearance of the natives--Beautiful
scenery--Channel from the lake to the sea at Encounter Bay--Reach the
beach--Large flocks of water fowl--Curious refraction--State of
provisions--Embarrassing situation--Inspection of | 1,588.368504 |
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MECHANICAL DRAWING SELF-TAUGHT:
COMPRISING
INSTRUCTIONS IN THE SELECTION AND
PREPARATION OF DRAWING
INSTRUMENTS,
_ELEMENTARY INSTRUCTION IN PRACTICAL
MECHANICAL DRAWING_;
TOGETHER WITH
EXAMPLES IN SIMPLE GEOMETRY AND ELEMENTARY MECHANISM,
INCLUDING SCREW THREADS, GEAR WHEELS,
MECHANICAL MOTIONS, ENGINES AND BOILERS.
BY JOSHUA ROSE, M.E.,
AUTHOR OF "THE COMPLETE PRACTICAL MACHINIST,"
"THE PATTERN MAKER'S ASSISTANT,"
"THE SLIDE VALVE"
ILLUSTRATED BY THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY ENGRAVINGS.
PHILADELPHIA:
HENRY CAREY BAIRD & CO.,
INDUSTRIAL PUBLISHERS, BOOKSELLERS AND IMPORTERS,
810 WALNUT STREET.
LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE & RIVINGTON,
CROWN BUILDINGS, 188 FLEET STREET.
1887.
Copyright by
JOSHUA ROSE.
1883.
PHILADELPHIA.
COLLINS, PRINTER
PREFACE.
The object of this book is to enable the beginner to learn to make
simple mechanical drawings without the aid of an instructor, and to
create an interest in the subject by giving examples such as the
machinist meets with in his every-day workshop practice. The plan of
representing in many examples the pencil lines, and numbering the order
in which they are marked, the author believes to possess great
advantages for the learner, since it is the producing of the pencil
lines that really proves the study, the inking in being merely a
curtailed repetition of the pencilling. Similarly when the drawing of a
piece, such, for example, as a fully developed screw thread, is shown
fully developed from end to end, even though the pencil lines were all
shown, yet the process of construction will be less clear than if the
process of development be shown gradually along the drawing. Thus
beginning at an end of the example the first pencil lines only may be
shown, and as the pencilling progresses to the right-hand, the
development may progress so that at the other or left-hand end, the
finished inked in and shaded thread may be shown, and between these two
ends will be found a part showing each stage of development of the
thread, all the lines being numbered in the order in which they were
marked. This prevents a confusion of lines, and makes it more easy to
follow or to copy the drawing.
It is the numerous inquiries from working machinists for a book of this
kind that have led the author to its production, which he hopes and
believes will meet the want thus indicated, giving to the learner a
sufficiently practical knowledge of mechanical drawing to enable him to
proceed further by copying such drawings as he may be able to obtain, or
by the aid of some of the more expensive and elaborate books already
published on the subject.
He believes that in learning mechanical drawing without the aid of an
instructor the chief difficulty is overcome when the learner has become
sufficiently familiar with the instruments to be enabled to use them
without hesitation or difficulty, and it is to attain this end that the
chapter on plotting mechanical motions and the succeeding examples have
been introduced; these forming studies that are easily followed by the
beginner; while sufficiently interesting to afford to the student
pleasure as well as profit.
NEW YORK, _February, 1883_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
THE DRAWING BOARD.
The T square 18
The triangles 19
Curves 21
Selecting and testing drawing instruments 22
Lead pencils 23
Mixing India ink 25
The drawing paper 26
Tracing paper 29
The ink 30
Testing and selecting India ink 30
Draftsmen's measuring rules 33
CHAPTER II.
THE PREPARATION AND USE OF THE INSTRUMENTS.
Preparing the lining pen for use 34
The shapes of the lining pen points 35
Oil stoning pen points 36
Preparing the circle pen for use 38
The shape for circle pen points 38
Shaping circle pens for very small circles 39
A form of pen point recently introduced; forming the pen point 39
The method of oil-stoning circle pen points 40
The needle point and pen point 42
How to use the circle pen 43
German instrument to avoid slipping of a needle point 44
How to use the lining pen 45
Applying the ink to the bow-pen 46
Using a straight line or lining pen with a T square 47
CHAPTER III.
LINES AND CURVES.
Explanation of simple geometrical terms; radius; explanation of
conventional dotted lines 48
A line at a right angle to another; a point; parallel lines 49
A line produced; a line bisected; a line bounding a circle; an arc of a
circle; segments of a circle; the chord of an arc; a quadrant of a
circle 50
A sector of a circle; a line tangent to a circle; a semicircle; centre of
a circle; axis of a cylinder; to draw a circle that shall pass through
three given points 51
To find the centre from which an arc of a circle has been struck; the
degrees of a circle 52
The protractor 53
To find the angle of one line to another 54
To find the angles of three lines one to the other 55
Acute angles and obtuse angles 57
Triangles; right angle triangle; obtuse angle triangle; equilateral
triangle; isosceles triangle 58
Scalene triangle; a quadrangle; quadrilateral or tetragon 59
Rhomboid; trapezoid; trapezium 60
The construction of polygons 61
The names of regular polygons 62
The angles of regular polygons; the ellipse 63
Form of a true ellipse 69
The use of a trammel for drawing an ellipse 72
To draw a parabola mechanically 73
To draw a parabola by lines 74
To draw a heart cam 75
CHAPTER IV.
SHADOW LINES AND LINE-SHADING.
Section lining or cross-hatching 77
To represent cylindrical pieces one within the other; to represent a
number of pieces one within the other 78
To represent pieces put together and having slots or keyways through
them. 79
Effects of shading or cross-hatching 80
Lines in sectional shading or cross-hatching made to denote the material
of which the piece is composed--lead, wood, steel, brass, wrought
iron, cast iron 81
Line-shading 82
The shade line to indicate the shape of piece; representation of a
washer 83
A key drawn with a shade line; shade line applied to a nut; a German
pen regulated to draw lines of various breadths 84
Example of line-shading in perspective drawing, shown in a pipe threading
stock and die 85
A cylindrical pin line-shaded; two cylindrical pieces that join each
other; a lathe centre; a piece having a curved outline 86
Line-shading applied to a ball or sphere; applied to a pin in a socket
shown in section 87
A piece of tube, where the thickness of the tube is shown; where the
hollow or hole is seen, the piece shown in section; where the body is
bell-mouthed and the hollow curve shown by shading 88
Example of line-shading to denote the relative distances of various
surfaces from the eye 89
Line-shading to denote that the piece represented is of wood; shade-lines
being regular or irregular 90
CHAPTER V.
MARKING DIMENSIONS.
Examples in marking dimensions 91
CHAPTER VI.
THE ARRANGEMENT OF DIFFERENT VIEWS.
The different views of a mechanical drawing; elevation; plan; general
view; a figure to represent a solid cylinder 94
To represent the different sides of a cube; the use of a cross to denote a
square 95
A triangular piece requires two or three views 96
To represent a ring having hexagon cross section; examples; a rectangular
piece in two views 98
The position of the piece when in its place determines the name of the
view in the drawing 103
View of a lever 105
Best method of projecting one view from another; the two systems of
different views of a piece 106
CHAPTER VII.
EXAMPLES IN BOLTS, NUTS AND POLYGONS.
To represent the thread of a small screw 112
A bolt with a hexagon head 113
United States standard sizes for forged or unfinished bolts and nuts 116
The basis of the Franklin Institute or United States standard for bolts
and nuts; hexagonal or hexagon heads of bolts 118
Comparison of hexagon and square heads of bolts; chamfers 120
Without chamfer; best plan for view of both square and hexagon heads 123
Drawing different views of hexagon heads 125
To draw a square-headed bolt; to draw the end view of a hexagon head 125
Use of the triangle to divide circles 129
Scales giving the length of the sides of polygons 135
To find what a square body which measures one inch on each side measures
across the corners; to find what diameter a cylindrical piece of
wood must be turned to which is to be squared, and each side of which
square must measure an inch 136
To find a radius across corners of a hexagon or a six sided figure, the
length of a side being an inch 138
To draw a stud 142
To pencil in a cap nut; pencilling for a link having the hubs on one side
only 145
Link with hubs on both sides; pencil lines for a double eye or a knuckle
joint 146
Double eye or knuckle joint with an offset; a connecting rod end 147
A rod end with a round stem 148
A bolt with a square under the head 149
Example in which the corner where the round stem meets the square
under the head is sharp; a centre punch giving an example in
which the flat sides gradually run out upon a circle, the edges
forming curves 150
CHAPTER VIII.
SCREW THREADS AND SPIRALS.
Screw threads for small bolts with the angles of the thread drawn in, and
the method of doing this 152
A double thread; a round top and bottom thread such as the Whitworth
thread; a left hand thread; to draw screw threads of a large
diameter 156
Drawing the curves for screw threads 157
To draw the United States standard thread 160
To draw a square thread 162
Form of template for drawing the curves of threads 165
To show the thread depth in a top or end view of a nut; to draw a spiral
spring 166
To obtain an accurate division of the lines that divide the pitch 167
CHAPTER IX.
EXAMPLES FOR PRACTICE.
A locomotive spring; a stuffing box and gland; working drawings of a
coupling rod; dimensions and directions marked; a connecting rod
drawn and put together as it would be for the lathe, vise, or erecting
shop 169
Drawings for the blacksmith 172
A locomotive frame 174
Reducing scales 175
Making a drawing to scale 177
CHAPTER X.
PROJECTIONS.
A spiral wound around a cylinder whose end is cut off at an angle 178
A cylindrical body joining another at a right-angle; a Tee for
example 180
Other examples of Tees 181
Example of a cylinder intersecting a cone 186
A cylindrical body whose top face if viewed from one point would appear as
a straight line, or from another a circle 188
CHAPTER XI.
DRAWING GEAR WHEELS.
Names of the curves and lines of gear teeth 193
How to draw spur wheel teeth 194
Professor Willis' scale of tooth proportions 195
The application of the scale 197
How to find the curve for the tooth face 198
To trace hypocycloides for the flanks of teeth 200
Sectional view of a section of a wheel for showing the dimensions through
the arms and hub 202
To draw an edge view of a wheel; rules for drawing the teeth of wheels;
bevel gear wheels 203
The construction to find the curves 204
To draw the arcs for the teeth 205
To draw the pitch circle of the inner and small end of the pinion
teeth 206
One-half of a bevel gear and an edge view projected from the same 207
A pair of bevel wheels shown in section; drawing of a part of an Ames
lathe feed motion; small bevel gears 208
Example in which part of the gear is shown with teeth in, and the
remainder illustrated by circles; drawings of part of the feed
motion of a Niles horizontal tool work boring mill 209
Three bevel gears, one of which is line-shaded; the construction of oval
gearing; Professor Rankine's process for rectifying and subdividing
circular arcs 210
Various examples of laying out gear wheels 214
CHAPTER XII.
PLOTTING MECHANICAL MOTIONS.
To find how much motion an eccentric will give to its rod 223
To find how much a given amount of motion of a long arm will move the
short arm of a lever 224
Example of the end of a lever acting directly on a shoe; a short arm
having a roller acting upon a larger roller 225
A link introduced in the place of the roller to find the amount of motion
of the rod; a lever actuating a plunger in a vertical line, to find
how much a given amount of motion of the long arm will actuate the
plunger 226
Two levers upon their axles or shafts, the arms connected by a link and
one arm connected to a rod 227
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PATTY'S SUCCESS
by
CAROLYN WELLS
Author Of
Two Little Women Series,
The Marjorie Series, Etc.
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers New York
Copyright, 1910
by Dodd, Mead and Company
Printed in U.S.A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I Welcome Home 9
II An Advance Christmas Gift 23
III The Day Before Christmas 36
IV A Splendid Tree 50
V Skating and Dancing 65
VI A Fair Proposition 80
VII Department G 93
VIII Embroidered Blossoms 109
IX Slips and Sleeves 124
X The Clever Goldfish 139
XI A Busy Morning 154
XII Three Hats 169
XIII The Thursday Club 181
XIV Mrs. Van Reypen 197
XV Persistent Philip 211
XVI An Invitation Declined 227
XVII The Road to Success 243
XVIII Home Again 257
XIX Christine Comes 271
XX A Satisfactory Conclusion 284
PATTY'S SUCCESS
CHAPTER I
WELCOME HOME
"I do think waiting for a steamer is the horridest, pokiest performance
in the world! You never know when they're coming, no matter how much they
sight them and signal them and wireless them!"
Mrs. Allen was not pettish, and she spoke half laughingly, but she was
wearied with her long wait for the _Mauretania_, in which she expected
her daughter, Nan, and, incidentally, Mr. Fairfield and Patty.
"There, there, my dear," said her husband, soothingly, "I think it will
soon arrive now."
"I think so, too," declared Kenneth Harper, who was looking down the
river through field-glasses. "I'm just sure I see that whale of a boat in
the dim distance, and I think I see Patty's yellow head sticking over the
bow."
"Do you?" cried Mrs. Allen eagerly; "do you see Nan?"
"I'm not positive that I do, but we soon shall know, for that's surely
the _Mauretania_."
It surely was, and though the last quarter hour of waiting seemed longer
than all the rest, at last the big ship was in front of them, and
swinging around in midstream. They could see the Fairfields clearly now,
but not being within hearing distance, they could only express their
welcome by frantic wavings of hands, handkerchiefs, and flags. But at
last the gangplank was put in place, and at last the Fairfields crossed
it, and then an enthusiastic and somewhat incoherent scene of reunion
followed.
Beside Mr. and Mrs. Allen and Kenneth Harper, Roger and Elise Farrington
were there to meet the home-comers, and the young people seized on Patty
as if they would never let her go again.
"My! but you've grown!" said Kenneth, looking at her admiringly; "I mean
you're grown-up looking, older, you know."
"I'm only a year older," returned Patty, laughing, "and you're that,
yourself!"
"Why, so I am. But you've changed somehow,--I don't know just how."
Honest Kenneth looked so puzzled that Elise laughed at him and said:
"Nonsense, Ken, it's her clothes. She has a foreign effect, but it will
soon wear off in New York. I _am_ glad to see you again, Patty; we didn't
think it would be so long when we parted in Paris last Spring."
"No, indeed; and I'm glad to be home again, though I have had a terribly
good time. Now, I suppose we must see about our luggage."
"Yes," said Roger, "you'll be sorry you brought so many fine clothes when
you have to pay duty on them."
"Well, duty first, and pleasure afterward," said Kenneth. "Come on,
Patty, I'll help you."
"Oh, dear," said Mrs. Allen, "must we wait for all this custom-house
botheration? I'm so tired of waiting."
"No, you needn't," said Mr. Fairfield, kindly. "You and Nan and Mr. Allen
jump in a taxicab and go home. I'll keep Patty with me, and any other of
the young people who care to stay, and we'll settle matters here in short
order."
The young people all cared to stay, and though they had to wait some
time, when at last they did get a customs inspector he proved to be both
courteous and expeditious.
"Oh, don't spoil my best hat!" cried Patty, in dismay, as he laid
thoughtless hands on a befeathered creation.
"That I won't, ma'am," was the hearty response, and the hat was laid back
in its box as carefully as an infant in its cradle. "I have ladies in my
own family, ma'am, and I know just how you feel about it."
"I'm perfectly willing to declare all my dutiable goods," went on Patty,
"but I do hate to have my nice things all tumbled up."
"Quite right, ma'am, quite right," amiably agreed the inspector, who had
fallen a victim to Patty's pretty face and bright smiles.
"Well, you did get through easily, Patty," said Elise, after it was over
and the trunks despatched by express. "When we came home, mother was half
a day fussing over customs."
"It's Patty's winning ways as does it," said Kenneth. "She hypnotised
that fat inspector with a mere glance of her eye."
"Nonsense!" said Patty, laughing; "it's an easy trick. They're always
nice and kind if you jolly them a little bit."
"Jolly me," said Kenneth, "and see how nice and kind I'll be."
"You're kind enough as you are," returned Patty. "If you were any kinder,
I'd be overwhelmed with obligations. But how are we all going to get into
this taxicab? Five into one won't go."
"That's | 1,588.846801 |
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The Badminton Library
OF
SPORTS AND PASTIMES
EDITED BY
HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BEAUFORT, K.G.
ASSISTED BY ALFRED E. T. WATSON
_BIG GAME SHOOTING_
II.
[Illustration: HAND TO HAND WORK]
BIG GAME SHOOTING
BY
CLIVE PHILLIPPS-WOLLEY
WITH CONTRIBUTIONS BY
LIEUT.-COLONEL R. HEBER PERCY, ARNOLD PIKE,
MAJOR ALGERNON C. HEBER PERCY, W. A. BAILLIE-GROHMAN,
SIR HENRY POTTINGER, BART., EARL OF KILMOREY, ABEL CHAPMAN,
WALTER J. BUCK, AND ST. GEORGE LITTLEDALE
[Illustration]
VOL. II.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHARLES WHYMPER
AND FROM PHOTOGRAPHS_
LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
1894
CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME
CHAPTER PAGE
I. ARCTIC HUNTING
_By Arnold Pike._ 1
II. THE CAUCASUS
_By Clive Phillipps-Wolley._ 22
III. MOUNTAIN GAME OF THE CAUCASUS
_By Clive Phillipps-Wolley._ 48
IV. CAUCASIAN AUROCHS
_By St. G. Littledale._ 65
V. OVIS ARGALI OF MONGOLIA
_By St. G. Littledale._ 73
VI. THE CHAMOIS
_By W. A. Baillie-Grohman._ 77
VII. THE STAG OF THE ALPS
_By W. A. Baillie-Grohman._ 112
VIII. THE SCANDINAVIAN ELK
_By Sir Henry Potlinger, Bart._ 123
IX. EUROPEAN BIG GAME
_By Major Algernon Heber Percy, and the Earl of Kilmorey._ 154
X. THE LARGE GAME OF SPAIN AND PORTUGAL
_By Abel Chapman and W. J. Buck._ 174
XI. INDIAN SHOOTING
_By Lieut.-Col. Reginald Heber Percy._ 182
XII. THE OVIS POLI OF THE PAMIR
_By St. G. Littledale._ 363
XIII. CAMPS, TRANSPORT, ETC.
_By Clive Phillipps-Wolley._ 377
XIV. A FEW NOTES ON RIFLES AND AMMUNITION
_By H. W. H._ 394
XV. HINTS ON TAXIDERMY, ETC.
_By Clive Phillipps-Wolley._ 413
A SHORT BIBLIOGRAPHY 421
INDEX 425
ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE SECOND VOLUME
(_Reproduced by Messrs. Walker & Boutall_)
FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
ARTIST
HAND TO HAND WORK _C. Whymper_ _Frontispiece_
DEATH OF A POLAR BEAR ” _to face p._ 16
THE CORPSE ROCKS _C. Whymper_ ” 20
MR. ST. G. LITTLEDALE’S CAUCASIAN } _From a photograph_ ” 36
BAG FOR THE SEASON OF 1887 }
‘STANDING LIKE STATUES’ _C. Whymper_ ” 48
IBEX (_Hircus ægagrus_) ” ” 52
THE SPECTRE ” ” 62
CHAMOIS {_From an instantaneous_} ” 80
{_photograph_ }
SPANISH IBEX {_C. W., after a sketch_} ” 180
{ _by A. Chapman_ }
THE FIRST STALK OF THE SEASON ” ” 184
A FAIR CHANCE AT BLACK BEARS _C. Whymper_ ” 186
‘THE FRONT RANK AND PART OF THE } ” ” 208
SECOND ALONE STOOD FIRM’ }
A CHARGING GAUR ” 242
A SNAP-SHOT IN THE FOREST _Major H. Jones_ ” 278
‘WITH CARTRIDGES HANDY AND STEADY } ” 322
SHOOTING’ }
MR. ST. GEORGE LITTLEDALE’S BAG OF } _From a photograph_ ” 374
OVIS POLI, 1888 }
THE CAMP _C. Whymper_ ” 378
WOODCUTS IN TEXT.
ARTIST
AMONG THE ICE _C. Whymper_ 1
A WALRUS’ HEAD { _From a photograph_ } 5
{ _after Mr. Lamont_ }
WHERE TO SHOOT A WALRUS 7
WAITING FOR THE DAWN _C. Whymper_ 27
THE BOAR’S CHARGE 33
A GUTTUROSA 45
DEAD AUROCHS {_After a photograph_} 65
{_from Nature_ }
THE SPY CHAMOIS 79
EMPEROR MAXIMILIAN I. CHAMOIS } _After Theuerdank_ 110
HUNTING, A.D. 1500 }
ANTLERS OF STAGS KILLED AT RADAUC, }
IN THE PILIS MOUNTAINS AND THE } 115
JOLSVA ESTATES }
SPECIMEN HEADS OF SCANDINAVIAN ELKS _From a photograph_ 129
STALKING ELK _C. Whymper_ 152
‘THIS TIME HIS SIDE WAS TOWARDS ME’ ” 158
GROUP OF AUROCHS ” 168
AUROCHS’ HEADS {_C. W., from a_} 171
{_photograph_ }
THE LYNX (_Felis pardina_) _C. Whymper_ 174
SNOW-BEARS _Major H. Jones_ 187
A GLORIFIED COMET {_C. W., after sketches_} 189
{_by Capt. Rawlinson_ }
HOWDAH SHOOTING 196
LANDING A GHAYAL 239
‘HE GAVE HIM A TREMENDOUS PUNISHING’ 255
HOGDEER SHOOTING 262
RUCERVUS DUVAUCELLI _From a photograph_ 266
RUCERVUS SCHOMBURGKII 267
PANOLIA ELDII 269
A STALK IN THE OPEN {_C.W., after Major_} 281
{_H. Jones_ }
SPECIMEN HEADS OF OVIS POLI AND } _From photographs_ 292
OVIS KARELINI }
SPECIMEN HEADS OF OVIS AMMON AND } 293
OVIS NIVICOLA }
THE ASTOR MARKHOR {_C. W., after sketch_} 310
{_by Capt. Rawlinson_ }
VARIETIES OF MARKHOR _From photograph_ 312
IN HIS SUMMER COAT _C. Whymper_ 318
SPECIMEN HEADS OF CAPRA SIBIRICA, } _From photograph_ 322
CAPRA ÆGAGRUS, AND CAPRA SINAITICA}
A DREAM OF THER SHOOTING {_C. W., after sketch_} 326
{_by Capt. Rawlinson_ }
THE SEROW GALLOPS DOWN HILL _C. Whymper_ 333
BUDORCAS TAXICOLOR _From photograph_ 335
SAIGA TARTARICA 345
TAME DECOYS _C. Whymper_ 351
OVIS POLI ” 363
OUR CAMP 367
DEAD OVIS POLI 376
CINCH HIM UP 381
KNIFE FASTENING 388
‘GOOD-BYE TO THE GROCERIES’ 391
SPECIMENS OF 340, 360, 440, AND } _From a photograph._ 395
460 GRAIN EXPRESS BULLETS }
SPECIMENS OF.500 AND.577 BORE EXPRESS BULLETS 396
SPECIMENS OF.450 AND.577 BORE EXPRESS BULLETS 397
SPECIMENS OF SOFT.577 B | 1,588.957738 |
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THE
BAYEUX
TAPESTRY
ELUCIDATED
JOHN COLLINGWOOD BRUCE,
LL.D., F.S.A.
LONDON, J. RUSSELL SMITH.
[Illustration: PLATE XVII.]
THE
BAYEUX TAPESTRY
ELUCIDATED.
BY
REV. JOHN COLLINGWOOD BRUCE, LL.D., F.S.A.,
CORRESPONDING MEMBER OF THE SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES OF SCOTLAND,
OF THE IMPERIAL SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES OF FRANCE, AND OF THE
SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES OF NORMANDY; ONE OF THE COUNCIL OF
THE SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES OF NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE; AN
HONORARY MEMBER OF THE SURREY ARCHÆOLOGICAL SOCIETY;
AND ONE OF THE COMMITTEE OF THE LITERARY AND
PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY OF NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.
“...They burning both with fervent fire
Their countrey’s auncestry to understond.”
_Spenser._
LONDON:
JOHN RUSSELL SMITH, 36, SOHO SQUARE.
M.DCCC.LVI.
NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE:
PRINTED BY J. G. FORSTER AND CO., CLAYTON STREET.
[Illustration: The Most Noble ELEANOR DUCHESS of NORTHUMBERLAND lineally
descended from a distinguished Companion of William of Normandy in the
Conquest of England This Work illustrative of the Title and Triumphs of
the Conqueror is with her Grace’s kind permission most dutifully &
gratefully inscribed.]
PREFACE.
England has performed, and is probably destined yet to perform, an
important part in the history of nations. The era treated of in this
work was doubtless the crisis of her fate. Happily, she survived the
shock of the Conquest, and was benefited by its rough discipline. All
true-hearted Englishmen must read with peculiar feeling this portion of
our country’s annals. Surrounding nations, too, have their share of
interest in it. When the Society of Antiquaries published the beautiful
copy of the Bayeux Tapestry, made, at their request, by Mr. Charles
Stothard, they testified the importance which they attached to the
document. As yet they have published no explanation of it. The world
still expects it at their hands. To supply, meanwhile, some little
assistance to the student of history, this work is published. It was
suggested by a holiday ramble in Normandy, amidst the scenes rendered
famous by the career of William the Conqueror. The plates have been
carefully reduced from those published by the Society of Antiquaries, by
Mr. Mossman, and printed in colours by the Messrs. Lambert, of
Newcastle-upon-Tyne. These gentlemen, and the Printers, have spared no
pains to render the volume creditable to the local press. In addition to
the authorities cited in the course of the work, _La Tapisserie de
Bayeux, édition variorum, par M. Achille Jubinal_, has been continually
before the eye of the writer.
_Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 13th of October, 1855,
(Eve of the Anniversary of the Battle of Hastings.)_
THE BAYEUX TAPESTRY.
I. THE ROLL.
“_There she weaves, by night and day,_
_A magic web with colours gay._”
_Tennyson._
Master Wace, to whom we are indebted for “the most minute, graphic, and
animated account of the transactions”[1] of the Norman Conquest, thus
exalts the art of the chronicler--“All things hasten to decay; all fall;
all perish; all come to an end. Man dieth, iron consumeth, wood
decayeth; towers crumble, strong walls fall down, the rose withereth
away; the war-horse waxeth feeble, gay trappings grow old; all the works
of men perish. Thus we are taught that all die, both clerk and lay; and
short would be the fame of any after death if their history did not
endure by being written in the book of the clerk.”[2]
The pen of the writer of romance is not the only implement which confers
immortality upon man. The chisel of the sculptor, the pencil of the
painter, and the needle of the high-born dame, can confer a lasting
renown upon those whose deeds are worthy of being remembered. The work
which we are about to consider was effected by the simplest of these
implements--the needle.
One of the earliest modes of transmitting the history of important
transactions to posterity was by recording them in long lines of
pictorial representation. In the temples of Nimroud, in the sepulchres
of Egypt, in the sculptures which entwine the columns of Trajan and
Antonine at Rome, we have familiar examples of the practice. The Bayeux
record is a large roll of historic drawings rather than a piece of
tapestry; and it is remarkable as being the last example of this species
of representation which antiquity has handed down to us.
In the days of the Conqueror, and of some of his Saxon predecessors, the
ladies of Engle-land were famous for their taste and skill in
embroidery; and this species of lady-like manufacture was known
throughout Europe as English work.[3]
One effect of the Conquest was to bring the people of England and
Normandy into closer alliance than before. On the first occasion on
which William returned to Normandy, after the battle of Hastings, he
took with him, “in honourable attendance,” a considerable number of the
Saxon nobles,[4] who were doubtless accompanied by their wives and
daughters. Assisted by English ladies, as well as by those of her own
court, Matilda, the wife of the Conqueror, probably at this time
constructed the Tapestry which for many ages was preserved in the
Cathedral of Bayeux.
Never, perhaps, was so important a document written in worsted. It is a
full and a faithful chronicle of an event on which the modern history of
the world has turned. It is referred to as an historical authority by
nearly every writer who discusses the period. The way in which the
subject is treated, the spirit shown in its design, and the harmony of
its colouring, warrant us in pronouncing it to be a monument worthy of
its reputed author, and of the event which it is designed to
commemorate.
It is, however, a double memorial; it is a record of the love and duty
of William’s consort, as well as of the skill and valour of the great
hero himself. A loving wife sympathizes with her husband in all his
tastes. She takes an enthusiastic interest in his favourite pursuits;
and she had “lever far,” to use an expression of Lady Payson’s, that
success attended his efforts--that another leaf were added to his laurel
crown--“than that she should have a new gown, though it were of
scarlet.” Matilda could not bestride the war-horse, and do battle in the
field by her husband’s side; but she could commit his exploits to the
Tapestry. Surrounded by her ladies, all adroitly using their
many- threads, she--
Fought all his battles o’er again;
And thrice [she] routed all his foes, and thrice [she] slew the slain.
Matilda was, during the greater part of her life, a loving wife.
William, too, was a devoted and faithful husband; though in one case he
cannot be recommended as a model to enamoured swains. It is said that
for seven long years he courted Matilda of Flanders, but in vain. Her
affections were set upon a Saxon nobleman, but were not reciprocated.
At length the Duke resolved to bring matters to a crisis. He repaired to
Bruges, and met the high-bred damsel as she returned from church through
the streets of her father’s gay capital. Having reproached her for her
long-continued scorn and cruelty, he seized her, and coolly rolled her
in the mud, to the no small injury of her trim and costly attire. Then,
after a few more striking proofs of his regard, which she must have
sensibly felt from such a hand, the lover rode away at full speed,
leaving her to account for this novel mode of courtship as best she
could. Strangely enough, she put a charitable construction upon his
actions; she regarded his blows as so many proofs of the violence of his
affection; she felt sorry for him; and then--all was over--in a very
brief space the nuptial ceremonies were solemnized with a splendour
becoming the greatness of the occasion.[5]
Thus did William win the hand of a lady who was to give to England a
race of monarchs more renowned than those of any other dynasty. She
herself, let it be observed, had the blood of Alfred in her veins.
Before proceeding further, it may be well to give a brief reply to the
question which will naturally arise in the minds of most--Has the Bayeux
Tapestry descended to us from a period so remote as that of the
Conquest? A minute examination of the work supplies the best answer to
this question. Montfaucon, whose knowledge of antiquities no one will
dispute, and who was the first to describe the Tapestry as a whole, was
quite satisfied that popular tradition was correct in ascribing it to
the wife of the Conqueror; and Thierry, the last and ablest writer upon
the Norman Conquest, though he hesitates to ascribe the work to Matilda,
has no doubt that it is contemporaneous with the Conquest, and
constantly refers to it as a document of unquestionable authenticity.[6]
Not, however, to settle the question by authorities, it may be
observed:--1st. That the fulness and correctness of its historical
details prove that it is a contemporaneous chronicle. Wace, as has
already been observed, treats more largely of the Norman invasion than
any of the writers of the Norman period; and, such is the general
agreement between the verses of the one and the delineations of the
other, that the Tapestry may be pronounced to be what in these latter
days would be called the “illustrations,” and the narrative of the
chronicler the “letter-press,” of an elaborate history of the Norman
Conquest.[7] And yet the one does not follow the other slavishly. Whilst
they agree in all the general facts, they differ in many minute details,
as all independent narratives will.
2. Again, the architecture | 1,589.07213 |
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THE GOLDEN FLOOD
By Edwin Lefevre
Illustrated By W. R. Leigh
New York
McClure, Phillips & Co.
1905
TO
DANIEL GRAY REID
PART ONE: THE FLOOD
The president looked up from the underwriters’ plan of the latest
“Industrial” consolidation capital stock, $100,000,000; assets, for
publication, $100,000,000 which the syndicate’s lawyers had pronounced
perfectly legal. Judiciously advertised, the stock probably would be
oversubscribed. The profits ought to be enormous. He was one of the
underwriters.
“What is it?” he asked. He did not frown, but his voice was as though
hung with icicles. The assistant cashier, an imaginative man in the
wrong place, shivered.
“This gentleman,” he said, giving a card to the president, “wishes to
make a deposit of one hundred thousand dollars.”
The president looked at the card. He read on it:
_MR. GEORGE KITCHELL GRINELL_
“Who sent him to us?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir. He said he had a letter of introduction to you,”
answered the assistant cashier, disclaiming all responsibility in the
matter.
The president read the card a second time. The name was unfamiliar.
“Grinnell?” he muttered. “Grinnell? Never heard of him.” Perhaps he felt
it was poor policy to show ignorance on any matter whatever. When he
spoke again, it was in a voice overflowing with a dignity that was a
subtle rebuke to all assistant cashiers:
| 1,589.073418 |
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The World's Great Explorers and Explorations.
Edited by J. SCOTT KELTIE, Librarian, Royal Geographical Society;
H. J. MACKINDER, M.A., Reader in Geography at the University of
Oxford; and E. G. RAVENSTEIN, F.R.G.S.
PALESTINE.
[Illustration: A PICTORIAL MAP OF JERUSALEM AND THE HOLY LAND, FOR THE
USE OF PILGRIMS.
(_From a MS. of the 13th Century in the Burgundian Library at
Brussels._)
_Frontispiece._]
PALESTINE.
BY
MAJOR C. R. CONDER, D.C.L., R.E.
LEADER OF THE PALESTINE EXPLORING
EXPEDITION.
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
PREFACE.
The Editors of the present series having done me the honour to ask me
briefly to relate the story of Palestine Exploration, and especially of
the expeditions which I commanded; and having stipulated that the book
should contain not only an account of the more interesting results of
that work, but also something of the personal adventures of those
employed, I have endeavoured to record what seems of most interest in
both respects.
Many things here said will be found at greater length in previous works
which I have written, scattered through several volumes amid more
special subjects. I hope, however, that the reader will discover also a
good deal that is not noticed in those volumes; for the sources of
information concerning ancient Palestine are constantly increasing; and,
among others, I may mention, that the series of Palestine Pilgrim Texts,
edited by Sir Charles Wilson, has added greatly to our knowledge, and
has enabled me to understand many things which were previously doubtful.
The full story of the dangers and difficulties through which the work
was brought to a successful conclusion cannot be given in these pages,
and no one recognises more than I do the imperfections which--as in all
human work--have caused it here and there to fall short of the ideal
which we set before us. What can, however, be claimed for Palestine
exploration is, that the ideal was always as high as modern scientific
demands require. The explorations were conducted without reference to
preconceived theory, or to any consideration other than the discovery of
facts. The conclusions which different minds may draw from the facts
must inevitably differ, but the facts will always remain as a scientific
basis on which the study of Palestine in all ages must be henceforth
founded.
I fear that even now, after so much has been written, the facts are not
always well known--certainly they have often been misrepresented. It is
my desire, as far as possible, in these pages to summarise those facts
which seem most important, while giving a sketch of the mode of research
whereby they were brought to light.
C. R. C.
_Note._--The maps illustrating this volume have been revised by
Major Conder, who is more especially responsible for those of the
Kingdom of Jerusalem and of Modern Palestine. The geological
sketch-map embodies Major Conder's researches, as also the
important explorations of Dr. K. Diener in the Lebanon.--ED.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER 1
I. EXPLORATIONS IN JUDEA 22
II. THE SURVEY OF SAMARIA 59
III. RESEARCHES IN GALILEE 83
IV. THE SURVEY OF MOAB 134
V. EXPLORATIONS IN GILEAD 171
VI. NORTHERN SYRIA 190
VII. THE RESULTS OF EXPLORATION 214
APPENDICES:--
NOTE ON JERUSALEM EXCAVATION 247
INDEX OF OLD TESTAMENT SITES IDENTIFIED IN
PALESTINE 252
INDEX OF NEW TESTAMENT SITES IDENTIFIED IN
PALESTINE 262
INDEX 267
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAPS.
_FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS._
1. A Pictorial Map of Jerusalem and the Holy Land
for the use of Pilgrims (_from a MS. of the 13th
Century in the Burgundian Library at Brussels_) _Frontispiece_
2. The Plain of Jericho, as seen from Ai _to face page_ 35
3. The Dead Sea (view S.E. of Taiyibeh) " 43
4. Alphabets of Western Asia " 173
5. Jebel Sannin (Lebanon) " 192
_ILLUSTRATIONS IN TEXT._
Portrait of Dr. Robinson (_from a photograph_) _page_ 16
Portrait of Sir C. Wilson (_from a photograph by Maull & Fox_) " 17
Portrait of Sir C. Warren (_from a photograph_) " 18
Desert of Beersheba " 53
Kurn Sartaba " 68
The Jordan Valley ('Esh el Ghurab) " 73
A Camp in the Jordan Valley " 80
Mount Tabor " 86
Carmel " 88
Nain " 93
The Sea of Galilee " 99
Krak des Chevaliers (Kala't el Hosn) " 108
Moab Mountains from the Plain of Shittim " 142
A Dolmen west of Heshbon " 144
View of Dead Sea from Mount Nebo " 158
Hittites from Abu Simbel " 198
Hamath Stone, No. 1 " 200
_MAPS (Printed in Colours)._
I. General Map of Palestine _facing page_ 1
II. Physical Map of Palestine _at end_
III. Geological Map of Palestine "
IV. Palestine as divided among the Twelve Tribes "
V. Palestine "
VI. The Kingdom of Jerusalem, showing the Fiefs, about 1187 A.D. "
VII. Modern Palestine, showing the Turkish Provinces "
_MAPS IN TEXT._
Palestine and Syria according to Ptolemy, _c._ 100 A.D. _page_ 2
A Section of Peutinger's Table " 4
Marin Sanuto's Map of the Holy Land, 1321 " 12
The Holy Land, from the Atlas of Ortelius, _c._ 1591 " 14
[Illustration: PALESTINE]
PALESTINE.
_INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER._
The long narrow strip of country on the east shore of the Mediterranean,
which in a manner was the centre of the ancient world, has in all ages
been a land of pilgrimage. For five hundred miles it stretches from the
deserts of Sinai to the rugged Taurus, and its width, shut in between
the Syrian deserts and the sea, is rarely more than fifty miles. It can
never be quite the same to us as other lands, bound up as it is with our
earliest memories, with the Bible and the story of the faith; and it is
to the credit of our native land that we have been the first to gather
that complete account of the country, of its ancient remains, and of its
present inhabitants, which (if we except India) does not exist in equal
exactness for any other Eastern land.
The oldest explorer of Palestine--if we do not reckon Abraham--was the
brave King Thothmes III., who marched his armies throughout its whole
length on his way towards Euphrates. Many are the pilgrims and
conquerors who have followed the same great highways along which he
went. When, in the early Christian ages, the land became sacred to
Europe, the patient pilgrims of Italy, and even of Gaul, journeyed along
the shores of Asia Minor, and sometimes were able to reach the Holy
City, and to bring back to their homes some account of the country;
while in later ages the pilgrims came not singly, but in hosts
continually increasing, and finally as crusaders, colonists, and
traders.
[Illustration: PALESTINE AND PART OF SYRIA ACCORDING TO PTOLEMY, _c._
100 A.D.]
The literature of Palestine exploration begins, therefore, with the
establishment of Christianity. Before that date we have very little
outside the Bible except in the works of Josephus, whose descriptions,
though at times unreliable as regards measurement, are invaluable as the
accounts of an eye-witness of the state of the country before the
destruction of Jerusalem by Titus. We have scattered notes in the
Talmud, in Pliny, in Ptolemy,[1] in Strabo, and in other classic works,
which have been collected by the care of Reland and of later writers;
but it was only when the Holy Land became a land of pilgrimage for
Christians that itineraries and detailed accounts of its towns and holy
places began to be penned.
The Bordeaux pilgrim[2] actually visited Jerusalem while Constantine's
basilica was being built over the supposed site of the Holy Sepulchre,
and in Palestine his brief record of stations and distances is expanded
into notes on the places which he found most revered by Syrian
Christians. In the same reign, Eusebius, the historian of the Church,
constructed an Onomasticon, which answered roughly to the modern
geographical gazetteer. His aim--and that of Jerome, who rather later
rendered this work from Greek into Latin, adding notes of his own--was
to identify as far as possible the places mentioned in the Old and New
Testaments with places existing in the country as known to themselves.
This work is both scholarly and honest in intention, but the traditions
on which Eusebius and Jerome relied have not in all cases proved to be
reconcilable with the Biblical requirements as studied by modern
science. The Onomasticon is, however, of great importance as regards the
topography of Palestine in the fourth century, and has often led to the
recovery of yet more ancient sites, which might otherwise have been
lost. Jerome had an intimate personal knowledge, not only of the country
round Jerusalem and Bethlehem, where he lived so long, but also of the
whole of Western Palestine. Places east of Jordan are noticed in the
Onomasticon, but that region was less perfectly known to the Christian
co-authors of this work. In the fourth century the Roman roads were
marked by milestones, and thus the distances given by Eusebius and
Jerome are actual, and not computed distances. Measurement on the Survey
map, which shows these milestones whereever they remain by the roadside,
proves that for the most part the Onomasticon distances are very
correct, and the sites of places so described can, as a rule, be
recovered with little difficulty.
[Illustration: A SECTION OF PEUTINGER'S TABLE.]
The Peutinger Tables, representing the Roman map of Palestine about 393
A.D., give us also the distances along these roads; but the knowledge of
the map-maker as to the region east of Jordan was most imperfect, and
the map, which presents no latitudes or longitudes, is much distorted.
To the same century belongs Jerome's elegant letter on the travels of
his pious friend Paula, which is, however, but a slight sketch, more
remarkable for its eloquence and fanciful illustration of Scripture
than for topographical description.[3]
A short tract--very valuable, however, to the student of Jerusalem
topography--was penned by Eucherius in the fifth century; and in the
sixth we have the account by Theodorus (or Theodosius) of the Holy Land
in the days of Justinian.[4] The eulogistic record by Procopius of the
buildings of Justinian also gives accounts and references to the names
of his monasteries and churches in Palestine, which are of considerable
use.[5] In the same reign also (about 530 A.D.) Antoninus Martyr[6] set
forth from Piacenza, and journeyed to Constantinople, Cyprus, Syria, and
Palestine. He even crossed the Jordan and went through the Sinaitic
desert to Egypt. Like the Bordeaux pilgrim, Antoninus was a firm
believer in the apocryphal Gospels, which already began to be held in
high estimation. The former pilgrim repeats stories from the Gospel of
the Hebrews; the latter, in addition, refers to the Gospel of the
Infancy; but, in spite of the superstitious tone of the narrative of
Antoninus, his itinerary is valuable, because it covers the whole region
west of Jordan, and contains notes of contemporary custom and belief
which are of great antiquarian interest.
The conquest of Palestine by Omar did not by any means lead to the
closing of the country to Christians. One of the best known and most
detailed accounts of the Holy Land written up to that time was taken
down from the lips of the French Bishop Arculphus[7] by Adamnan, Bishop
of Iona, about 680 A.D., in the monastery of Hy. It appears that Arculph
was in Palestine during the reign of Mu'awiyeh, the first independent
Khalif of Syria ruling in Damascus, and the same policy of toleration
and peace which was inaugurated by this ruler enabled St. Willibald in
722 A.D.[8] to journey through the whole length of the land. These
writers are concerned chiefly in description of the holy places, which
increased in number and in celebrity from century to century. Arculphus
constantly interrupts his narrative with pious legends, much resembling
those of the modern Roman Catholic guide-books to Palestine, though some
of the sites which were correctly identified by these early Christian
pilgrims were transferred by the Latin priests of the twelfth century to
impossible localities, where they are still in some cases shown to
Latins, while the older tradition survives among the Greek Christians.
We often encounter an interesting note in these pilgrim diaries, such as
Arculphus' description of the pine-wood north of Hebron, now represented
by but a few scattered trees. St. Willibald seems to have been regarded
as a harmless hermit, who, when once the object of his journey was
understood, was allowed by the "Commander of the Faithful" to travel in
peace throughout the land.
In the reign of Charlemagne good political relations existed between
that monarch and the Khalif of Baghdad, Harun er Rashid. The keys of
Jerusalem were presented to the Western monarch, who founded a hospice
for the Latins in that city. About half a century later, at the time
when Baghdad was at the height of its glory as a centre of literature
and civilisation, Bernard, called the Wise,[9] with two other monks, one
Italian, the other Spanish, visited the Holy Land from Egypt, and they
were able to obtain permits which were respected by the local governors.
The rise of the Fatemites in Egypt altered materially the status of the
Christians in Syria. We have no known Christian account of Palestine
between the ninth and twelfth centuries. Hakem, the mad Khalif of Egypt,
destroyed the Christian churches in Jerusalem in 1010 A.D., and the
country seems to have been then closed to pilgrims.
During this period, however, we have at least two important works,
namely, that of El Mukaddasi (about 985 A.D.), and the journey of Nasir
i Khusrau in 1047 A.D.[10] El Mukaddasi ("the man of Jerusalem") was so
named from his native town, his real name being Shems ed Din. He
describes the whole of Syria, its towns and holy places (or Moslem
sanctuaries), its climate, religion, commerce, manners and customs, and
local marvellous sights. The legends are no less wonderful than those of
his monkish predecessors, but his notes are often of great historical
interest, and he is the earliest writer as yet known who plainly
ascribes the building of the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem to its real
author, the Khalif 'Abd el Melek. It is remarkable that he speaks of
the Syrian Moslems as living in constant terror of the Greek pirates,
who descended on the coasts and made slaves of the inhabitants, whom
they carried off to Constantinople. The Christians were still, he says,
numerous in Jerusalem, and "unmannerly in public places." The power of
the Khalifs was indeed at this time greatly shaken by the schisms of
Islam, and the Greek galleys invaded the ports, which had to be closed
by iron chains. The Samaritans appear to have flourished at this time as
well as the Jews, and the Samaritan Chronicle, which commences in the
twelfth century, speaks of this sect as very widely spread even earlier,
in the sixth and seventh centuries A.D.
Abu Muin Nasir, son of Khusrau, was born near Balkh, and journeyed
through Media and Armenia by Palestine to Cairo, thence to Mecca and
Basrah, and back through Persia to Merv and Balkh, the whole time spent
being seven years. He gives good general accounts of Jerusalem, Hebron,
and other places, though his description does not materially add to our
information.
The rise of the Seljuks boded little good to Syria. Melek Shah in 1073
A.D. conquered Damascus, and by the end of the century Jerusalem groaned
under the Turkish tyranny. It was at this time--just before the conquest
of the Holy City, which had been wrested from the Turks by the
Egyptians--that Foucher of Chartres began his chronicle of the first
Crusade, which contains useful topographical notes. The great history of
the Latin Kingdom by William of Tyre is full of interesting information
as to the condition of the country under its Norman rulers (1182-85
A.D.), and to this we must add the Chronicles of Raymond d'Agiles and
Albert of Aix, which belong to the time of the first Crusade.[11]
Two other early works of the Crusading period are of special value.
Saewulf[12] visited the Holy Land in 1102 A.D., before the building of
most of the Norman castles and cathedrals; and the Russian Abbot Daniel,
whose account has only recently been translated into English,[13] is
believed to have arrived as early as 1106 A.D. From Ephesus he went to
Patmos and Cyprus, and thence to Jerusalem and all over Western
Palestine. His account is one of the fullest that we possess for the
earliest Crusading period. In the middle of the twelfth century we have
the topographical account by Fetellus,[14] which refers to places not
generally described; and rather later we have the valuable descriptions
by Theodoricus and John of Wirzburg,[15] while only two years before
Saladin's conquest of Jerusalem, John Phocas[16] wrote a shorter account
in Greek upon silk, which is interesting as the work of a Greek
ecclesiastic at a time when the Latins were the dominant sect. The names
of monasteries in the Jordan Valley, otherwise unnoticed, are
recoverable in his account.
Much interesting topographical information of this period is to be found
in the Cartulary of the Holy Sepulchre,[17] which gives striking
evidence of the rapidly increasing possessions of the Latin Church, due
to the gifts and legacies of kings and barons. The cartularies of the
great orders and the laws contained in the Assizes of Jerusalem are
equally important to an understanding of Palestine under the rule of its
feudal monarchs. It is possible to reconstruct the map of the country at
this period in a very complete manner from such material.[18]
The Jews were not encouraged in Syria by the Normans. Benjamin of
Tudela, however, made his famous journey from Saragossa in 1160, and
returned in 1173 after visiting Palestine, Persia, Sinai, and Egypt; he
was interested in the "lost tribes," whom the mediaeval Jews recognised
in the Jewish kingdom of the Khozars in the Caucasus, and his account of
Palestine is a valuable set-off to those of the Christian visitors.[19]
We have pilgrimages by Rabbis in later centuries, viz., Rabbi Bar Simson
in 1210 A.D., Rabbi Isaac Chelo of Aragon in 1334, and others of the
fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries.[20] These refer chiefly
to the holy cities of the Jews, especially to Tiberias and Safed in
Galilee, and record visits to the tombs of celebrated Rabbis, many of
which are still preserved, and some yet visited by the Jews of
Palestine. Several important points regarding early Christian and
Talmudic topography are cleared up by these works.
One of the favourite accounts of the Holy City and of Palestine at the
time of its conquest by Saladin was written by an unknown author, and
was reproduced in the thirteenth century in the Chronicle of Ernoul.[21]
There are many manuscripts of this, as of earlier works, which were
preserved in the monasteries of Europe, and recopied by students who
seem to have had little idea of the importance of preserving the
original purity of their text. Some of the versions are mere abstracts,
some are supplemented by paraphrases from Scripture. The original work
known as the _Citez de Jherusalem_ was evidently penned by one who had
long lived in the Holy City, and knew every street, church, and
monastery. He gives us the Frankish names for the streets, and the
topography is easily traced in the modern city. There are perhaps few
towns which are better known than Jerusalem in the latter part of the
twelfth century A.D., and the varying manuscripts throw an interesting
light on the way in which errors and variations crept into a popular
work before the invention of printing.
The vivid and spirited chronicle of the campaigns of Richard Lion-Heart
by Geoffrey de Vinsauf (1189-1192 A.D.) informs us of the condition of
the maritime region, and describes a part of Palestine which few have
visited, between Haifa and Jaffa, as well as the region east of Ascalon
and as far south as the border of Egypt. The topography of this
chronicle I studied on the ground with great care in 1873-75. The
charming pages of Joinville, though of great interest as describing the
unfortunate Crusade of St. Louis in 1256 A.D., contain much less of
geographical value than the preceding.[22]
[Illustration: MAP OF MARIN SANUTO.]
In the fourteenth century men's minds were often occupied with schemes
for the recovery of the Holy Places. Marino Sanuto, a Venetian noble,
who is said to have travelled in the East, wrote an elaborate work on
the subject, which he presented to Pope John in 1321. The greater part
is taken up with his views as to the military steps necessary for an
expedition against the Saracens, but a very full gazetteer of Palestine,
with a map, is also introduced into the work. Some have doubted whether
Marino Sanuto ever visited Palestine. His information is, however, very
correct on the whole, and his account of roads, springs, and other
features appears to be founded on reliable observation.
During the transition period of the struggle between Christendom and
Islam, Palestine had narrowly escaped the horrors of a Mongol invasion.
Mangu Khan, to whom St. Louis had sent the mild and pious William de
Rubruquis at his distant capital of Karakorum (in Mongolia) in 1253, was
defeated by the Egyptian Sultan Kelaun, successor of the terrible
Bibars, in 1280, and had already been defeated in 1276 by Bibars himself
near La Chamelle (now Homs) in Northern Syria. A very interesting letter
has lately been published by Mr. Basevi Sanders from Sir Joseph de Cancy
in Palestine to Edward the First in England,[23] written in 1281, and
describing the later defeat near Le Lagon (the Lake of Homs), which
saved the country from the cruelty from which other lands were then
suffering. The Mameluk Sultans ruled in Palestine down to 1516 A.D.,
when the Turkish Selim overthrew their power at Aleppo, since which time
Palestine has been a Turkish province. During the three centuries of
Mameluk rule there are many descriptions, Christian and Moslem, of the
country, and the well-known Travels of Sir John Mandeville are among the
earliest. He was a contemporary of Marino Sanuto, and although those
portions of the work (with which he consoled his rheumatic old age) that
refer to more distant lands are made up from various sources, going back
to the fables of Pliny and Solinus, still the account of Palestine
itself appears to be original, and contains passages (such as that which
relates to the fair held near Banias) which show special knowledge of
the country. In 1432 Sir Bertrandon de la Brocquiere, with other
knights, made an adventurous journey through the whole length of the
country, and through Northern Syria and Asia Minor to
Constantinople.[24] To the same period belongs John Poloner's
description, which shows us how tenaciously the Latin monks held to
their possessions in the Holy Land.[25]
[Illustration: THE HOLY LAND, FROM THE ATLAS OF ORTELIUS, _c._ 1591.]
In the fifteenth century we have Moslem accounts by Kemal ed Din and
Mejr ed Din, which are of value in tracing the architectural history of
Jerusalem. Mejr ed Din was Kady of the city, and his topographical
account, though brief, is minutely detailed.[26] Among other Christian
travellers of this century, Felix Fabri (1483-84), a Dominican monk, has
left one of the best accounts. But how little these later Christian
pilgrims contributed to enlarging our exact knowledge of Palestine may
be judged of from such a map as that contributed by Christian Schrot to
the Atlas of Ortelius, a map very decidedly inferior to that supplied
more than two centuries earlier by Marino Sanuto.
Of travellers who visited Palestine during the early Turkish period, the
first in importance is the shrewd and moderate Maundrell (1697
A.D.).[27] He was chaplain of the English factory at Aleppo, which dated
back to the time of Elizabeth, and the account of his travels shows that
it was more difficult to traverse Palestine in his days than to
penetrate into Eastern Mongolia in the days of Rubruquis and Marco Polo.
Among the tyrannical chiefs of various small districts who robbed and
annoyed him was Sheikh Shibleh near Jenin, whose tomb is now a sacred
shrine on the hill above Kefr Kud. Of this holy man he records that "he
eased us in a very courteous manner of some of our coats, which now (the
heat both of the climate and season increasing upon us) began to grow
not only superfluous but burdensome."
In these early days travelling was perilous, and, as a rule, only
possible in disguise. In 1803 the journey of Seetzen was specially
valuable, and the travels of the celebrated Burckhardt followed soon
after in 1809-16. Both these explorers died in the East before their
self-allotted tasks were complete. In 1816 Buckingham (still remembered
by the elder generation as a gallant explorer) visited Palestine, and in
1817 Irby and Mangles made an adventurous journey in the country east
of the Jordan. Their account is still valuable for this region. From
that time forward the accounts of personal visits to the country become
too numerous to be here recorded. The names of Bartlett, Wilson, Tobler,
Thomson, Lynch, De Saulcy, Van de Velde, Williams, and Porter are among
the better known of those who preceded or were contemporary with the
celebrated Robinson.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF DR. EDWARD ROBINSON (_Born 1794, Died
1863_).]
But it was only in 1838 that really scientific exploration of Palestine
began with the journey of the famous American (Dr. Robinson), whose
works long continued to be the standard authority on Palestine
geography, and whose bold and original researches have been so fully
confirmed by the excavations and explorations of the last twenty years.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF SIR CHARLES WILSON. _From a Photograph by
Maull & Fox, Piccadilly._]
To this same period, preceding actual surveys, belongs the work of De
Vogue, whose monographs on the Temple, the Dome of the Rock, the
churches of Palestine, and his splendid volume of plates for Northern
Syrian architecture, together with his collection and decipherment of
various early inscriptions in the country, give him the highest rank as
an Orientalist. With his name must be coupled that of Waddington, who
first attempted to form a corpus of Greek texts from inscriptions found
in Palestine, while the standard authority on Phoenician and Hebrew
texts is the recently published corpus of Semitic inscriptions by Renan.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF SIR C. WARREN.]
Sir C. W. Wilson's survey of Jerusalem and travels in Palestine in
1864-66, and his subsequent exploration of the Sinaitic desert in 1867,
roused public attention to the neglected state of Palestine geography,
leading to the execution for the Palestine Exploration Fund of the
wonderful excavations by Sir C. Warren at Jerusalem. These excavations
round the walls of the old Temple area, carried out in the teeth of
fanatic and political obstruction, have enabled us to replace the weary
controversies of half a century ago by the actual results of measurement
and scientific exploration. Sir Charles Wilson's already published
survey of the Holy City, his reconnaissances throughout the length of
the Palestine watershed, preceding his Sinai Expedition, his survey of
the Sea of Galilee, and his exact determination of the level of the Dead
Sea, 1292 feet below the Mediterranean, were the first efforts of modern
science to supply really valuable statistics concerning Palestine
itself. The shafts and tunnels of Sir Charles Warren were the first
serious attempts of the engineer to place our knowledge of Jerusalem on
an equal footing with that which had been in like manner attained at
Nineveh and Babylon some twenty years before.
It was by the advice of these experienced explorers that the survey of
Palestine from Dan to Beersheba, and from the Jordan to the Great Sea,
was undertaken, a work which commenced in 1872, was completed in the
field in 1877, but not fully published till 1882. It is with this work
that the present volume is chiefly concerned, since it was my good
fortune to conduct the parties almost from the first, and to carry out
the publication of the maps and memoirs. It had first been intended that
Captain Stewart, R.E., should have commanded the party, but that officer
was unfortunate in falling ill almost at once on reaching the field of
work; and it was through the kindness of the late Major Anderson, R.E.,
the comrade of Sir Charles Wilson in Palestine, that my name was brought
forward as one who had been deeply interested in the work of previous
explorers, and who desired to act as Captain Stewart's assistant. By the
sudden illness of that officer, the non-commissioned officers were left
in Palestine without a military superior; and as my military education
at Chatham had just been completed, I was fortunate in being selected,
at the age of not quite twenty-four years, to the command of the Survey
Expedition.
Since the completion of the survey of Western Palestine, the survey of
Moab, Gilead, and Bashan has been commenced. In 1881 I set out in charge
of a small party, hoping to finish this new enterprise in about three
years' time. But alas! I found much change in Syria during the interval
of my absence. The suspicions of the Sultan were aroused; the Turkish
Government refused to believe in the genuineness of our desire to obtain
antiquarian knowledge. Political intrigues were rife, and after
struggling against these difficulties for fifteen months, after
surveying secretly about five hundred square miles of the most
interesting country east of the Dead Sea, and after vainly attempting to
obtain the consent of the Sultan to further work, it became necessary to
recall the party in the same year in which the researches of Mr. Rassam
in Chaldea were suspended and a general veto placed on all systematic
exploration.
Since that year, however, a little work has been done from time to time
by residents in communication with the Home Society. Herr Schumacher, a
young German colonist, has made some excellent maps of parts of Bashan,
and Dr. Hull has explored the geology of the district south of the Dead
Sea, while further discoveries | 1,589.169762 |
2023-11-16 18:43:33.2261980 | 2,286 | 9 | ROCKIES***
E-text prepared by Stephen Hutcheson, Chris Curnow, and the Online
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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See 45630-h.htm or 45630-h.zip:
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
[Illustration: PREPARING BREAKFAST (Two adult Chipping Sparrows breaking
worm into pieces to feed young.)]
BIRD GUIDE
LAND BIRDS EAST OF THE ROCKIES
From Parrots to Bluebirds
by
CHESTER A. REED
Author of
North American Birds' Eggs, and, with Frank M. Chapman, of Color Key to
North American Birds. Curator in Ornithology, Worcester Natural History
Society.
Garden City New York
Doubleday, Page & Company
1919
Copyrighted, 1906, 1909 by Chas. K. Reed.
PREFACE
[Illustration: Chickadee]
The native birds are one of our nation's most valuable assets. Destroy
them, and in a comparatively few years the insects will have multiplied
to such an extent that trees will be denuded of their foliage, plants
will cease to thrive and crops cannot be raised. This is not fancy but
plain facts. Look at the little Chickadee on the side of this page. She
was photographed while entering a bird box, with about twenty-five plant
lice to feed her seven young; about two hundred times a day, either she
or her mate, made trips with similar loads to feed the growing
youngsters.
It has been found, by observation and dissection, that a Cuckoo consumes
daily from 50 to 400 caterpillars or their equivalent, while a Chickadee
will eat from 200 to 500 insects or up to 4,000 insect or worm eggs. 100
insects a day is a conservative estimate of the quantity consumed by each
individual insectivorous bird. By carefully estimating the birds in
several areas, I find that, in Massachusetts, there are not less than
five insect-eating birds per acre. Thus this state with its 8,000 square
miles has a useful bird population of not less than 25,600,000, which,
for each day's fare, requires the enormous total of 2,560,000,000
insects. That such figures can be expressed in terms better understood,
it has been computed that about 120,000 average insects fill a bushel
measure. This means that the daily consumption, of chiefly obnoxious
insects, in Massachusetts is 21,000 bushels. This estimate is good for
about five months in the year, May to September, inclusive; during the
remainder of the year, the insects, eggs and larvae destroyed by our
Winter, late Fall and early Spring migrants will be equivalent to nearly
half this quantity.
It is the duty, and should be the pleasure, of every citizen to do all in
his or her power to protect these valuable creatures, and to encourage
them to remain about our homes. The author believes that the best means
of protection is the disseminating of knowledge concerning them, and the
creating of an interest in their habits and modes of life. With that
object in view, this little book is prepared. May it serve its purpose
and help those already interested in the subject, and may it be the
medium for starting many others on the road to knowledge of our wild,
feathered friends.
CHESTER A. REED.
Worcester, Mass.,
October 1 1905.
INTRODUCTION
It is an undisputed fact that a great many of our birds are becoming more
scarce each year, while a few are, even now, on the verge of extinction.
The decrease in numbers of a few species may be attributed chiefly to the
elements, such as a long-continued period of cold weather or ice storms
in the winter, and rainy weather during the nesting season; however, in
one way or another, and often unwittingly, man is chiefly responsible for
the diminution in numbers. If I were to name the forces that work against
the increase of bird life, in order of their importance, I should give
them as: Man; the elements; accidents; cats; other animals; birds of
prey; and snakes. I do not take into consideration the death of birds
from natural causes, such as old age and disease, for these should be
counterbalanced by the natural increase.
There are parts that each one of us can play in lessening the unnatural
dangers that lurk along a bird's path in life. Individually, our efforts
may amount to but little, perhaps the saving of the lives of two or
three, or more, birds during the year, but collectively, our efforts will
soon be felt in the bird-world.
How Can We Protect the Birds?--Nearly all states have fairly good game
laws, which, if they could be enforced, would properly protect our birds
from man, but they cannot be; if our boys and girls are educated to
realize the economic value of the birds, and are encouraged to study
their habits, the desire to shoot them or to rob them of their eggs will
be very materially lessened. It is a common practice for some farmers to
burn their land over in the Spring, usually about nesting time. Three
years ago, and as far back of that as I can remember, a small ravine or
valley was teeming with bird life; it was the most favored spot that I
know of, for the variety and numbers of its bird tenants. Last year,
toward the end of May, this place was deliberately burned over by the
owner. Twenty-seven nests that I know of, some with young, others with
eggs, and still others in the process of construction, were destroyed,
besides hundreds of others that I had never seen. This year the same
thing was done earlier in the season, and not a bird nested here, and,
late in Summer, only a few clumps of ferns have found courage to appear
above the blackened ground. Farmers also cut off a great many patches of
underbrush that might just as well have been left, thus, for lack of
suitable places for their homes, driving away some of their most valuable
assistants. The cutting off of woods and forests is an important factor
in the decrease of bird life, as well as upon the climate of the country.
Our winter birds have their hardships when snow covers the weed tops, and
a coating of ice covers the trees, so that they can neither get seeds nor
grubs. During the nesting season, we often have long-continued rains
which sometimes cause an enormous loss of life to insect-eating birds and
their young. In 1903, after a few weeks' steady rain and damp weather,
not a Purple Martin could be found in Worcester County, nor, as far as I
know, in New England; they were wholly unable to get food for either
themselves or their young, and the majority of them left this region. The
Martin houses, when cleaned out, were found to contain young, eggs, and
some adults that had starved rather than desert their family. The Martins
did not return in 1904 or 1905.
Birds are subject to a great many accidents, chiefly by flying into
objects at night. Telephone and telegraph wires maim or kill thousands,
while lighthouses and steeples often cause the ground to be strewn with
bodies during migrations. Other accidents are caused by storms, fatigue
while crossing large bodies of water, nests falling from trees because of
an insecure support, and ground nests being trod upon by man, horses, and
cattle.
In the vicinity of cities, towns, villages, or farms, one of the most
fertile sources of danger to bird life is from cats. Even the most gentle
household pet, if allowed its liberty out of doors, will get its full
quota of birds during the year, while homeless cats, and many that are
not, will average several hundred birds apiece during the season. After
years of careful observation, Mr. E. H. Forbush, Mass., state
ornithologist, has estimated that the average number of birds killed, per
cat population, is about fifty. If a dog kills sheep or deer, he is shot
and the owner has to pay damages; if a man is caught killing a bird, he
pays a fine; but cats are allowed to roam about without restriction,
leaving death and destruction in their wake. All homeless cats should be
summarily dealt with, and all pets should be housed, at least from May
until August, when the young birds are able to fly.
Of wild animals, Red Squirrels are far the most destructive to young
birds and eggs; Chipmunks and Grays are also destructive but not nearly
as active or impudent as the Reds. Skunks, Foxes, and Weasels are smaller
factors in the decrease of bird life.
Birds of prey have but little to do with the question of bird protection
for, with a few exceptions, they rarely feed upon other birds, and nearly
all of them are of considerable economic value themselves. Jays, Crows,
and Grackles, by devouring the eggs and young of our smaller birds, are a
far greater menace than are the birds of prey, but even these have their
work and should be left in the place that Nature intended for them; they
should, however, be taught to keep away from the neighborhood of houses.
How Can We Attract Birds About Our Homes?--Many birds prefer to live in
the vicinity of houses, and they soon learn where they are welcome. Keep
your premises as free as possible from cats, dogs, and especially English
Sparrows, and other birds will come. Robins, Orioles, Kingbirds, Waxwings
and a few others will nest in orchard trees, while in dead limbs or bird
boxes will be found Bluebirds, Wrens, Swallows, Woodpeckers, Chickadees,
etc.
A house for Purple Martins may contain many apartments; it should be
erected in an open space, on a ten or twelve foot pole. Boxes for other
birds should have but one compartment, and should be about six by six by | 1,589.246238 |
2023-11-16 18:43:33.4005390 | 1,549 | 6 |
Produced by Charlene Taylor, Jonathan Ingram, Keith Edkins
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Library of Early
Journals.)
Transcriber's note: on page 399, "Yule College" in the original is
corrected to "Yale College".
* * * * *
{381}
NOTES AND QUERIES:
A MEDIUM OF INTER-COMMUNICATION FOR LITERARY MEN, ARTISTS, ANTIQUARIES,
GENEALOGISTS, ETC.
"When found, make a note of."--CAPTAIN CUTTLE.
* * * * *
No. 208.]
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 22. 1853.
[Price Fourpence. Stamped Edition 5d.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
NOTES:-- Page
A Prophet 381
FOLK LORE:--Folk Lore in Cambridgeshire--New
Brunswick Folk Lore--North Lincolnshire Folk
Lore--Portuguese Folk Lore 382
Pope and Cowper, By J. Yeowell 383
Shakspeare Correspondence, by Patrick Muirson, &c. 383
MINOR NOTES:--Judicial Families--Derivation of
"Topsy Turvy"--Dictionaries and Encyclopaedias--
"Mary, weep no more for me"--Epitaph at Wood
Ditton--Pictorial Pun 384
QUERIES:--
Sir Thomas Button's Voyage, 1612, by John Petheram 385
MINOR QUERIES:--The Words "Cash" and "Mob"
--"History of Jesus Christ"--Quantity of the Latin
Termination -anus--Webb and Walker Families--
Cawdrey's "Treasure of Similes"--Point of Etiquette
--Napoleon's Spelling--Trench on Proverbs--Rings
formerly worn by Ecclesiastics--Butler's "Lives of
the Saints"--Marriage of Cousins--Castle Thorpe,
Bucks--Where was Edward II. killed?--Encore--
Amcotts' Pedigree--Blue Bell: Blue Anchor--
"We've parted for the longest time"--Matthew
Lewis--Paradise Lost--Colonel Hyde Seymour--
Vault at Richmond, Yorkshire--Poems published at
Manchester--Handel's Dettingen Te Deum--
Edmund Spenser and Sir Hans Sloane, Bart. 386
MINOR QUERIES WITH ANSWERS:--The Ligurian Sage
--Gresebrok in Yorkshire--Stillingfleet's Library--
The whole System of Law--Saint Malachy on the
Popes--Work on the Human Figure 389
REPLIES:--
"Namby Pamby," and other Words of the same Form 390
Earl of Oxford 392
Picts' Houses 392
Pronunciation of "Humble" 393
School Libraries 395
PHOTOGRAPHIC CORRESPONDENCE:--Albumenized Paper
--Cement for Glass Baths--New Process for Positive
Proofs 395
REPLIES TO MINOR QUERIES:--The Groaning Elmplank
in Dublin--Passage in Whiston--"When
Orpheus went down"--Foreign Medical Education
--"Short red, good red"--Collar of SS.--Who first
thought of Table-turning--Passage of Thucydides on
the Greek Factions--Origin of "Clipper" as applied
to Vessels--Passage in Tennyson--Huet's Navigations
of Solomon--Sincere--The Saltpetre Man--
Major Andre--Longevity--Passage in Virgil--Love
Charm from a Foal's Forehead--Wardhouse, where
was?--Divining Rod--Waugh, Bishop of Carlisle--
Pagoda 397
MISCELLANEOUS:--
Books and Odd Volumes wanted 401
Notices to Correspondents 401
Advertisements 402
* * * * *
Notes.
A PROPHET.
What a curious book would be "Our Prophets and Enthusiasts!" The literary
and biographical records of the vaticinators, and the heated spirits who,
after working upon the fears of the timid, and exciting the imaginations of
the weak, have flitted into oblivion! As a specimen of the odd characters
such a work would embrace, allow me to introduce to your readers Thomas
Newans, a Shropshire farmer, who unhappily took it into his head that his
visit to the lower sphere was on a special mission.
Mr. Newans is the author of a book entitled _A Key to the Prophecies of the
Old and New Testament_; showing (among other impending events) "The
approaching Invasion of England;" "The Extirpation of Popery and
Mahometisme;" "The Restoration of the Jews," and "The Millennium." London:
printed for the Author (who attests the genuineness of my copy by his
signature), 1747.
In this misfitted key he relates how, in a vision, he was invested with the
prophetic mantle:
"In the year 1723, in the night," says Mr. Newans, "I fell into a
dream, and seemed to be riding on the road into the county of Cheshire.
When I was got about eight miles from home, my horse made a stop on the
road; and it seemed a dark night, and on a sudden there shone a light
before me on the ground, which was as bright as when the sun shines at
noon-day. In the middle of that bright circle stood a child in white.
It spoke, and told me that I must go into Cheshire, and I should find a
man with uncommon marks upon his feet, which should be a warning to me
to believe; and that the year after I should have a cow that would
calve a calf with his heart growing out of his body in a wonderful
manner, as a token of what should come to pass; and that a terrible war
would break out in Europe, and in fourteen years after the token it
would extend to England."
In compliance with his supernatural communication, our farmer proceeded to
Cheshire, where he found the man indicated; and, a year after, his own farm
stock was increased by the birth of a calf with his heart growing out. And
after taking his family, of seven, to witness to the truth of {382} what he
describes, he adds with great simplicity: "So then I rode to London to
acquaint the ministers of state of the approaching danger!"
This story of the calf with the heart growing out | 1,589.420579 |
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Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Jonathan Ingram, Charles M.
Bidwell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE POETICAL WORKS OF
GEORGE MACDONALD
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. 2
CONTENTS.
PARABLES--
The Man of Songs
The Hills
The Journey
The Tree's Prayer
Were I a Skilful Painter
Far and Near
My Room
Death and Birth
Love's Ordeal
The Lost Soul
The Three Horses
The Golden Key
Somnium Mystici
The Sangreal
The Failing Track
Tell Me
Brother Artist
After an Old Legend
A Meditation of St Eligius
The Early Bird
Sir Lark and King Sun
The Owl and the Bell
A Mammon-Marriage
A Song in the Night
Love's History
The Lark and the Wind
A Dead House
Bell upon Organ
Master and Boy
The Clock of the Universe
The Thorn in the Flesh
Lycabas
BALLADS--
The Unseen Model
The Homeless Ghost
Abu Midjan
The Thankless Lady
Legend of the Corrievrechan
The Dead Hand
MINOR DITTIES--
In the Night
The Giver
False Prophets
Life-Weary
Approaches
Travellers' Song
Love is Strength
Coming
A Song of the Waiting Dead
Obedience
A Song in the Night
De Profundis
Blind Sorrow
MOTES IN THE SUN--
Angels
The Father's Worshippers
A Birthday-Wish
To Any One
Waiting
Lost but Safe
Much and More
Hope and Patience
A Better Thing
A Prisoner
To My Lord and Master
To One Unsatisfied
To My God
Triolet
The Word of God
Eine Kleine Predigt
To the Life Eternal
Hope Deferred
Forgiveness
Dejection
Appeal
POEMS FOR CHILDREN--
Lessons for a Child
What makes Summer?
Mother Nature
The Mistletoe
Professor Noctutus
Bird-Songs
Riddles
Baby
Up and Down
Up in the Tree
A Baby-Sermon
Little Bo-Peep
Little Boy Blue
Willie's Question
King Cole
Said and Did
Dr. Doddridge's Dog
The Girl that Lost Things
A Make-Believe
The Christmas Child
A Christmas Prayer
No End of No-Story
A THREEFOLD CORD--
Dedication
The Haunted House
In the Winter
Christmas Day, 1878
The New Year
Two Rondels
Rondel
Song
Smoke
To a Certain Critic
Song
A Cry
From Home
To My Mother Earth
Thy Heart
0 Lord, how Happy
No Sign
November, 1851
Of One who Died in Spring
An Autumn Song
Triolet
I See Thee Not
A Broken Prayer
Come Down
A Mood
The Carpenter
The Old Garden
A Noonday Melody
Who Lights the Fire?
Who would have Thought?
On a December Day
Christmas Day, 1850
To a February Primrose
In February
The True
The Dwellers Therein
Autumn's Gold
Punishment
Shew us the Father
The Pinafore
The Prism
Sleep
Sharing
In Bonds
Hunger
New Year's Eve: A Waking Dream
From North Wales: To the Mother
Come to Me
A Fear
The Lost House
The Talk of the Echoes
The Goal
The Healer
Oh that a Wind
A Vision of St. Eligius
Of the Son of Man
A Song-Sermon
Words in the Night
Consider the Ravens
The Wind of the World
Sabbath Bells
Fighting
After the Fashion of an Old Emblem
A Prayer in Sickness
Quiet Dead
Let your Light so Shine
Triolet
The Souls' Rising
Awake
To an Autograph-Hunter
With a Copy of "In Memoriam"
They are Blind
When the Storm was Proudest
The Diver
To the Clouds
Second Sight
Not Understood
Hom II. v. 403
The Dawn
Galileo
Subsidy
The Prophet
The Watcher
The Beloved Disciple
The Lily of the Valley
Evil Influence
Spoken of several Philosophers
Nature a Moral Power
To June
Summer
On a Midge
Steadfast
Provision
First Sight of the Sea
On the Source of the Arve
Confidence
Fate
Unrest
One with Nature
My Two Geniuses
Sudden Calm
Thou Also
The Aurora Borealis
The Human
Written on a Stormy Night
Reverence waking Hope
Born of Water
To a Thunder-Cloud
Sun and Moon
Doubt heralding Vision
Life or Death?
Lost and Found
The Moon
Truth, not Form
God in Growth
In a Churchyard
Power
Death
That Holy Thing
From Novalis
What Man is there of You?
O Wind of God
Shall the Dead praise Thee?
A Year-Song
Song
For where your Treasure is, there will your Heart be also
The Asthmatic Man to the Satan that binds him
Song-Sermon
Shadows
A Winter Prayer
Song of a Poor Pilgrim
An Evening Prayer
Song-Sermon
A Dream-Song
Christmas, 1880
Rondel
The Sparrow
December 23, 1879
Song-Prayer
December 27, 1879
Sunday, December 28, 1879
Song-Sermon
The Donkey in the Cart to the Horse in the Carriage
Room to Roam
Cottage Songs--
1. By the Cradle
2. Sweeping the Floor
3. Washing the Clothes
4. Drawing Water
5. Cleaning the Windows
The Wind and the Moon
The Foolish Harebell
Song
An Improvisation
Equity
Contrition
The Consoler
To ------.
To a Sister
The Shortest and Sweetest of Songs
SCOTS SONGS AND BALLADS--
Annie she's Dowie
O Lassie ayont the Hill!
The bonny, bonny Dell
Nannie Braw
Ower the Hedge
Gaein and Comin
A Sang o' Zion
Time and Tide
The Waesome Carl
The Mermaid
The Yerl o' Waterydeck
The Twa Gordons
The Last Wooin
Halloween
The Laverock
Godly Ballants--
1. This Side an' That
2. The Twa Baubees
3. Wha's my Neibour?
4. Him wi' the Bag
5. The Coorse Cratur
The Deil's Forhooit his Ain
The Auld Fisher
The Herd and the Mavis
A Lown Nicht
The Home of Death
Triolet
Win' that Blaws
A Song of Hope
The Burnie
Hame
The Sang o' the Auld Fowk
The Auld Man's Prayer
Granny Canty
Time
What the Auld Fowk are Thinkin
Greitna, Father
I Ken Something
Mirls
PARABLES
_THE MAN OF SONGS._
"Thou wanderest in the land of dreams,
O man of many songs!
To thee what is, but looks and seems;
No realm to thee belongs!"
"Seest thou those mountains, faint and far,
O spirit caged and tame?"
"Blue clouds like distant hills they are,
And like is not the same."
"Nay, nay; I know each mountain well,
Each cliff, and peak, and dome!
In that cloudland, in one high dell,
Nesteth my little home."
_THE HILLS._
Behind my father's cottage lies
A gentle grassy height
Up which I often ran--to gaze
Back with a wondering sight,
For then the chimneys I thought high
Were down below me quite!
All round, where'er I turned mine eyes,
Huge hills closed up the view;
The town'mid their converging roots
Was clasped by rivers two;
From, one range to another sprang
The sky's great vault of blue.
It was a joy to climb their sides,
And in the heather lie!
A joy to look at vantage down
On the castle grim and high!
Blue streams below, white clouds above,
In silent earth and sky!
And now, where'er my feet may roam,
At sight of stranger hill
A new sense of the old delight
Springs in my bosom still,
And longings for the high unknown
Their ancient channels fill.
For I am always climbing hills,
From the known to the unknown--
Surely, at last, on some high peak,
To find my Father's throne,
Though hitherto I have only found
His footsteps in the stone!
And in my wanderings I did meet
Another searching too:
The dawning hope, the shared quest
Our thoughts together drew;
Fearless she laid her band in mine
Because her heart was true.
She was not born among the hills,
Yet on each mountain face
A something known her inward eye
By inborn light can trace;
For up the hills must homeward be,
Though no one knows the place.
Clasp my hand close, my child, in thine--
A long way we have come!
Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,
Farther we yet must roam--
Climbing and climbing till we reach
Our heavenly father's home.
_THE JOURNEY._
I.
Hark, the rain is on my roof!
Every murmur, through the dark,
Stings me with a dull reproof
Like a half-extinguished spark.
Me! ah me! how came I here,
Wide awake and wide alone!
Caught within a net of fear,
All my dreams undreamed and gone!
I will rise; I will go forth.
Better dare the hideous night,
Better face the freezing north
Than be still, where is no light!
Black wind rushing round me now,
Sown with arrowy points of rain!
Gone are there and then and now--
I am here, and so is pain!
Dead in dreams the gloomy street!
I will out on open roads.
Eager grow my aimless feet--
Onward, onward something goads!
I will take the mountain path,
Beard the storm within its den;
Know the worst of this dim wrath
Harassing the souls of men.
Chasm 'neath chasm! rock piled on rock!
Roots, and crumbling earth, and stones!
Hark, the torrent's thundering shock!
Hark, the swaying pine tree's groans!
Ah! I faint, I fall, I die,
Sink to nothingness away!--
Lo, a streak upon the sky!
Lo, the opening eye of day!
II.
Mountain summits lift their snows
O'er a valley green and low;
And a winding pathway goes
Guided by the river's flow;
And a music rises ever,
As of peace and low content,
From the pebble-paven river
Like an odour upward sent.
And the sound of ancient harms
Moans behind, the hills among,
Like the humming of the swarms
That unseen the forest throng.
Now I meet the shining rain
From a cloud with sunny weft;
Now against the wind I strain,
Sudden burst from mountain cleft.
Now a sky that hath a moon
Staining all the cloudy white
With a faded rainbow--soon
Lost in deeps of heavenly night!
Now a morning clear and soft,
Amber on the purple hills;
Warm blue day of summer, oft
Cooled by wandering windy rills!
Joy to travel thus along
With the universe around!
Every creature of the throng,
Every sight and scent and sound
Homeward speeding, beauty-laden,
Beelike, to its hive, my soul!
Mine the eye the stars are made in!
Mine the heart of Nature's whole!
III.
Hills retreating on each hand
Slowly sink into the plain;
Solemn through the outspread land
Rolls the river to the main.
In the glooming of the night
Something through the dusky air
Doubtful glimmers, faintly white,
But I know not what or where.
Is it but a chalky ridge
Bared of sod, like tree of bark?
Or a river-spanning bridge
Miles away into the dark?
Or the foremost leaping waves
Of the everlasting sea,
Where the Undivided laves
Time with its eternity?
Is it but an eye-made sight,
In my brain a fancied gleam?
Or a faint aurora-light
From the sun's tired smoking team?
In the darkness it is gone,
Yet with every step draws nigh;
Known shall be the thing unknown
When the morning climbs the sky!
Onward, onward through the night
Matters it I cannot see?
I am moving in a might
Dwelling in the dark and me!
End or way I cannot lose--
Grudge to rest, or fear to roam;
All is well with wanderer whose
Heart is travelling hourly home.
IV.
Joy! O joy! the dawning sea
Answers to the dawning sky,
Foretaste of the coming | 1,589.485986 |
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Produced by Judy Boss. HTML version by Al Haines.
Transcriber's Note: I have closed contractions in the text, e.g., "did
n't" becoming "didn't" for example; I have also added the missing
period after "caress" in line 11 of page 61, and have changed "ever" to
"over" in line 16 of page 121.
OLDPORT DAYS.
BY
THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON.
BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.
1888.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873,
BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.,
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
CONTENTS.
OLDPORT IN WINTER
OLDPORT WHARVES
THE HAUNTED WINDOW
A DRIFT-WOOD FIRE
AN ARTIST'S CREATION
IN A WHERRY
MADAM DELIA'S EXPECTATIONS
SUNSHINE AND PETRARCH
A SHADOW
FOOTPATHS
OLDPORT DAYS.
OLDPORT IN WINTER.
Our August life rushes by, in Oldport, as if we were all shot from the
mouth of a cannon, and were endeavoring to exchange visiting-cards on
the way. But in September, when the great hotels are closed, and the
bronze dogs that guarded the portals of the Ocean House are collected
sadly in the music pavilion, nose to nose; when the last four-in-hand
has departed, and a man may drive a solitary horse on the avenue
without a pang,--then we know that "the season" is over. Winter is yet
several months away,--months of the most delicious autumn weather that
the American climate holds. But to the human bird of passage all that
is not summer is winter; and those who seek Oldport most eagerly for
two months are often those who regard it as uninhabitable for the other
ten.
The Persian poet Saadi says that in a certain region of Armenia, where
he travelled, people never died the natural death. But once a year they
met on a certain plain, and occupied themselves with recreation, in the
midst of which individuals of every rank and age would suddenly stop,
make a reverence to the west, and, setting out at full speed toward
that part of the desert, be seen no more. It is quite in this fashion
that guests disappear from Oldport when the season ends. They also are
apt to go toward the west, but by steamboat. It is pathetic, on
occasion of each annual bereavement, to observe the wonted looks and
language of despair among those who linger behind; and it needs some
fortitude to think of spending the winter near such a Wharf of Sighs.
But we console ourselves. Each season brings its own attractions. In
summer one may relish what is new in Oldport, as the liveries, the
incomes, the manners. There is often a delicious freshness about these
exhibitions; it is a pleasure to see some opulent citizen in his first
kid gloves. His new-born splendor stands in such brilliant relief
against the confirmed respectability of the "Old Stone Mill," the only
thing on the Atlantic shore which has had time to forget its birthday!
But in winter the Old Mill gives the tone to the society around it; we
then bethink ourselves of the crown upon our Trinity Church steeple,
and resolve that the courtesies of a bygone age shall yet linger here.
Is there any other place in America where gentlemen still take off
their hats to one another on the public promenade? The hat is here what
it still is in Southern Europe,--the lineal successor of the sword as
the mark of a gentleman. It is noticed that, in going from Oldport to
New York or Boston, one is liable to be betrayed by an over-flourish of
the hat, as is an Arkansas man by a display of the bowie-knife.
Winter also imparts to these spacious estates a dignity that is
sometimes wanting in summer. I like to stroll over them during this
epoch of desertion, just as once, when I happened to hold the keys of a
church, it seemed pleasant to sit, on a week-day, among its empty pews.
The silent walls appeared to hold the pure essence of the prayers of a
generation, while the routine and the ennui had vanished all away. One
may here do the same with fashion as there with devotion, extracting
its finer flavors, if such there be, unalloyed by vulgarity or sin. In
the winter I can fancy these fine houses tenanted by a true nobility;
all the sons are brave, and all the daughters virtuous. These balconies
have heard the sighs of passion without selfishness; those cedarn
alleys have admitted only vows that were never broken. If the occupant
of the house be unknown, even by name, so much the better. And from
homes more familiar, what lovely childish faces seem still to gaze from
the doorways, what graceful Absences (to borrow a certain poet's
phrase) are haunting those windows!
There is a sense of winter quiet that makes a stranger soon feel at
home in Oldport, while the prospective stir of next summer precludes
all feeling of stagnation. Commonly, in quiet places, one suffers from
the knowledge that everybody would prefer to be unquiet; but nobody has
any such longing here. Doubtless there are aged persons who deplore the
good old times when the Oldport mail-bags were larger than those
arriving at New York. But if it were so now, what memories would there
be to talk about? If you wish for "Syrian peace, immortal leisure,"--a
place where no grown person ever walks rapidly along the street, and
where few care enough for rain to open an umbrella or walk
faster,--come here.
My abode is on a broad, sunny street, with a few great elms overhead,
and with large old houses and grass-banks opposite. There is so little
snow that the outlook in the depth of winter is often merely that of a
paler and leafless summer, and a soft, springlike sky almost always
spreads above. Past the window streams an endless sunny panorama (for
the house fronts the chief thoroughfare between country and
town),--relics of summer equipages in faded grandeur; great, fragrant
hay-carts; vast moving mounds of golden straw; loads of crimson onions;
heaps of pale green cabbages; piles of gray tree-prunings, looking as
if the patrician trees were sending their superfluous wealth of
branches to enrich the impoverished orchards of the Poor Farm; wagons
of sea-weed just from the beach, with bright, moist hues, and dripping
with sea-water and sea-memories, each weed an argosy, bearing its own
wild histories. At this season, the very houses move, and roll slowly
by, looking round for more lucrative quarters next season. Never have I
seen real estate made so transportable as in Oldport. The purchaser,
after finishing and furnishing to his fancy, puts his name on the door,
and on the fence a large white placard inscribed "For sale". Then his
household arrangements are complete, and he can sit down to enjoy
himself.
By a side-glance from our window, one may look down an ancient street,
which in some early epoch of the world's freshness received the name of
Spring Street. A certain lively lady, addicted to daring Scriptural
interpretations, thinks that there is some mistake in the current
versions of Genesis, and that it was Spring Street which was created in
the beginning, and the heavens and earth at some subsequent period.
There are houses in Spring Street, and there is a confectioner's shop;
but it is not often that a sound comes across its rugged pavements,
save perchance (in summer) the drone of an ancient hand-organ, such as
might have been devised by Adam to console his Eve when Paradise was
lost. Yet of late the desecrating hammer and the ear-piercing saw have
entered that haunt of ancient peace. May it be long ere any such
invasion reaches those strange little wharves in the lower town, full
of small, black, gambrel-roofed houses, with projecting eaves that
might almost serve for piazzas. It is possible for an unpainted wooden
building to assume, in this climate, a more time-worn aspect than that
of any stone; and on these wharves everything is so old, and yet so
stunted, you might fancy that the houses had been sent down there to
play during their childhood, and that nobody had ever remembered to
fetch them back.
The ancient aspect of things around us, joined with the softening
influences of the Gulf Stream, imparts an air of chronic languor to the
special types of society which here prevail in winter,--as, for
instance, people of leisure, trades-people living on their summer's
gains, and, finally, fishermen. Those who pursue this last laborious
calling are always lazy to the eye, for they are on shore only in lazy
moments. They work by night or at early dawn, and by day they perhaps
lie about on the rocks, or sit upon one heel beside a fish-house door.
I knew a missionary who resigned his post at the Isles of Shoals
because it was impossible to keep the Sunday worshippers from lying at
full length on the seats. Our boatmen have the same habit, and there is
a certain dreaminess about them, in whatever posture. Indeed, they
remind one quite closely of the German boatman in Uhland, who carried
his reveries so far as to accept three fees from one passenger.
But the truth is, that in Oldport we all incline to the attitude of
repose. Now and then a man comes here, from farther east, with the New
England fever in his blood, and with a pestilent desire to do
something. You hear of him, presently, proposing that the Town Hall
should be repainted. Opposition would require too much effort, and the
thing is done. But the Gulf Stream soon takes its revenge on the
intruder, and gradually repaints him also, with its own soft and mellow
tints. In a few years he would no more bestir himself to fight for a
change than to fight against it.
It makes us smile a little, therefore, to observe that universal
delusion among the summer visitors, that we spend all winter in active
preparations for next season. Not so; we all devote it solely to
meditations on the season past. I observe that nobody in Oldport ever
believes in any coming summer. Perhaps the tide is turned, we think,
and people will go somewhere else. You do not find us altering our
houses in December, or building out new piazzas even in March. We wait
till the people have actually come to occupy them. The preparation for
visitors is made after the visitors have arrived. This may not be the
way in which things are done in what are called "smart business
places." But it is our way in Oldport.
It is another delusion to suppose that we are bored by this long epoch
of inactivity. Not at all; we enjoy it. If you enter a shop in winter,
you will find everybody rejoiced to see you--as a friend; but if it
turns out that you have come as a customer, people will look a little
disappointed. It is rather inconsiderate of you to make such demands
out of season. Winter is not exactly the time for that sort of thing.
It seems rather to violate the conditions of the truce. Could you not
postpone the affair till next July? Every country has its customs; I
observe that in some places, New York for instance, the shopkeepers
seem rather to enjoy a "field-day" when the sun and the customers are
out. In Oldport, on the contrary, men's spirits droop at such times,
and they go through their business sadly. They force themselves to it
during the summer, perhaps,--for one must make some sacrifices,--but in
winter it is inappropriate as strawberries and cream.
The same spirit of repose pervades the streets. Nobody ever looks in a
hurry, or as if an hour's delay would affect the thing in hand. The
nearest approach to a mob is when some stranger, thinking himself late
for the train (as if the thing were possible), is tempted to run a few
steps along the sidewalk. On such an occasion I have seen doors open,
and heads thrust out. But ordinarily even the physicians drive slowly,
as if they wished to disguise their profession, or to soothe the nerves
of some patient who may be gazing from a window.
Yet they are not to be censured, since Death, their antagonist, here
drives slowly too. The number of the aged among us is surprising, and
explains some phenomena otherwise strange. You will notice, for
instance, that there are no posts before the houses in Oldport to which
horses may be tied. Fashionable visitors might infer that every horse
is supposed to be attended by a groom. Yet the tradition is, that there
were once as many posts here as elsewhere, but that they were removed
to get rid of the multitude of old men who leaned all day against them.
It obstructed the passing. And these aged citizens, while permitted to
linger at their posts, were gossiping about men still older, in earthly
or heavenly habitations, and the sensation of longevity went on
accumulating indefinitely in their talk. Their very disputes had a
flavor of antiquity, and involved the reputation of female relatives to
the third or fourth generation. An old fisherman testified in our
Police Court, the other day, in narrating the progress of a street
quarrel; "Then I called him 'Polly Garter,'--that's his grandmother;
and he called me 'Susy Reynolds,'--that's my aunt that's dead and gone."
In towns like this, from which the young men mostly migrate, the work
of life devolves upon the venerable and the very young. When I first
came to Oldport, it appeared to me that every institution was conducted
by a boy and his grandfather. This seemed the case, for instance, with
the bank that consented to assume the slender responsibility of my
deposits. It was further to be observed, that, if the elder official
was absent for a day, the boy carried on the proceedings unaided; while
if the boy also wished to amuse himself elsewhere, a worthy neighbor
from across the way came in to fill the places of both. Seeing this, I
retained my small hold upon the concern with fresh tenacity; for who
knew but some day, when the directors also had gone on a picnic, the
senior depositor might take his turn at the helm? It may savor of
self-confidence, but it has always seemed to me, that, with one day's
control of a bank, even in these degenerate times, something might be
done which would quite astonish the stockholders.
Longer acquaintance has, however, revealed the fact, that these Oldport
institutions stand out as models of strict discipline beside their
suburban compeers. A friend of mine declares that he went lately into a
country bank, nearby, and found no one on duty. Being of opinion that
there should always be someone behind the counter of a bank, he went
there himself. Wishing to be informed as to the resources of his
establishment, he explored desks and vaults, found a good deal of paper
of different kinds, and some rich veins of copper, but no cashier.
Going to the door again in some anxiety, he encountered a casual
school-boy, who kindly told him that he did not know where the
financial officer might be at the precise moment of inquiry, but that
half an hour before he was on the wharf, fishing.
Death comes to the aged at last, however, even in Oldport. We have
lately lost, for instance, that patient old postman, serenest among our
human antiquities, whose deliberate tread might have imparted a tone of
repose to Broadway, could any imagination have transferred him thither.
Through him the correspondence of other days came softened of all
immediate solicitude. Ere it reached you, friends had died or
recovered, debtors had repented, creditors grown kind, or your children
had paid your debts. Perils had passed, hopes were chastened, and the
most eager expectant took calmly the missive from that tranquillizing
hand. Meeting his friends and clients with a step so slow that it did
not even stop rapidly, he, like Tennyson's Mariana, slowly
"From his bosom drew
Old letters."
But a summons came at last, not to be postponed even by him. One day he
delivered his mail as usual, with no undue precipitation; on the next,
the blameless soul was himself taken and forwarded on some celestial
route.
Irreparable would have seemed his loss, did there not still linger
among us certain types of human antiquity that might seem to disprove
the fabled youth of America. One veteran I daily meet, of uncertain
age, perhaps, but with at least that air of brevet antiquity which long
years of unruffled indolence can give. He looks as if he had spent at
least half a lifetime on the sunny <DW72> of some beach, and the other
half in leaning upon his elbows at the window of some sailor
boarding-house. He is hale and broad, with a head sunk between two
strong shoulders; his beard falls like snow upon his breast, longer and
longer each year, while his slumberous thoughts seem to move slowly
enough to watch it as it grows. I always fancy that these meditations
have drifted far astern of the times, but are following after, in
patient hopelessness, as a dog swims behind a boat. What knows he of
the President's Message? He has just overtaken some remarkable catch of
mackerel in the year thirty-eight. His hands lie buried fathom-deep in
his pockets, as if part of his brain lay there to be rummaged; and he
sucks at his old pipe as if his head, like other venerable hulks, must
be smoked out at intervals. His walk is that of a sloth, one foot
dragging heavily behind the other. I meet him as I go to the
post-office, and on returning, twenty minutes later, I pass him again,
a little farther advanced. All the children accost him, and I have seen
him stop--no great retardation indeed--to fondle in his arms a puppy or
a kitten. Yet he is liable to excitement, in his way; for once, in some
high debate, wherein he assisted as listener, when one old man on a
wharf was doubting the assertion of another old man about a certain
equinoctial gale, I saw my friend draw his right hand slowly and
painfully from his pocket, and let it fall by his side. It was really
one of the most emphatic gesticulations I ever saw, and tended
obviously to quell the rising discord. It was as if the herald at a
tournament had dropped his truncheon, and the fray must end.
Women's faces are apt to take from old age a finer touch than those of
men, and poverty does not interfere with this, where there is no actual
exposure to the elements. From the windows of these old houses there
often look forth delicate, faded countenances, to which belongs an air
of unmistakable refinement. Nowhere in America, I fancy, does one see
such counterparts of the reduced gentlewoman of England,--as described,
for instance, in "Cranford,"--quiet maiden ladies of seventy, with
perhaps a tradition of beauty and bellehood, and still wearing always a
bit of blue ribbon on their once golden curls,--this headdress being
still carefully arranged, each day, by some handmaiden of sixty, so
long a house-mate as to seem a sister, though some faint suggestion of
wages and subordination may be still preserved. Among these ladies, as
in "Cranford," there is a dignified reticence in respect to
money-matters, and a courteous blindness to the small economies
practised by each other. It is not held good breeding, when they meet
in a shop of a morning, for one to seem to notice what another buys.
These ancient ladies have coats of arms upon their walls, hereditary
damasks among their scanty wardrobes, store of domestic traditions in
their brains, and a whole Court Guide of high-sounding names at their
fingers' ends. They can tell you of the supposed sister of an English
queen, who married an American officer and dwelt in Oldport; of the
Scotch Lady Janet, who eloped with her tutor, and here lived in
poverty, paying her washerwoman with costly lace from her trunks; of
the Oldport dame who escaped from France at the opening of the
Revolution, was captured by pirates on her voyage to America, then
retaken by a privateer and carried into Boston, where she took refuge
in John Hancock's house. They can describe to you the Malbone Gardens,
and, as the night wanes and the embers fade, can give the tale of the
Phantom of Rough Point. Gliding farther and farther into the past, they
revert to the brilliant historic period of Oldport, the successive
English and French occupations during our Revolution, and show you
gallant inscriptions in honor of their grandmothers, written on the
window-panes by the diamond rings of the foreign officers.
The newer strata of Oldport society are formed chiefly by importation,
and have the one advantage of a variety of origin which puts
provincialism out of the question. The mild winter climate and the
supposed cheapness of living draw scattered families from the various
Atlantic cities; and, coming from such different sources, these
visitors leave some exclusiveness behind. The boast of heraldry, the
pomp of power, are doubtless good things to have in one's house, but
are cumbrous to travel with. Meeting here on central ground, partial
aristocracies tend to neutralize each other. A Boston family comes,
bristling with genealogies, and making the most of its little all of
two centuries. Another arrives from Philadelphia, equally fortified in
local heraldries unknown in Boston.
A third from New York brings a briefer pedigree, but more gilded. Their
claims are incompatible; but there is no common standard, and so
neither can have precedence. Since no human memory can retain the
great-grandmothers of three cities, we are practically as well off as
if we had no great-grandmothers at all.
But in Oldport, as elsewhere, the spice of conversation is apt to be in
inverse ratio to family tree and income-tax, and one can hear better
repartees among the boat-builders' shops on Long Wharf than among those
who have made the grand tour. All the world over, one is occasionally
reminded of the French officer's verdict on the garrison town where he
was quartered, that the good society was no better than the good
society anywhere else, but the bad society was capital. I like, for
instance, to watch the shoals of fishermen that throng our streets in
the early spring, inappropriate as porpoises on land, or as Scott's
pirates in peaceful Kirkwall,--unwieldy, bearded creatures in oil-skin
suits,--men who have never before seen a basket-wagon or a liveried
groom and, whose first comments on the daintinesses of fashion are far
more racy than anything which fashion can say for itself.
The life of our own fishermen and pilots remains active, in its way,
all winter; and coasting vessels come and go in the open harbor every
day. The only schooner that is not so employed is, to my eye, more
attractive than any of them; it is our sole winter guest, this year, of
all the graceful flotilla of yachts that helped to make our summer
moonlights so charming. While Europe seems in such ecstasy over the
ocean yacht-race, there lies at anchor, stripped and dismantled, a
vessel which was excluded from the match, it is said, simply because
neither of the three competitors would have had a chance against her. I
like to look across the harbor at the graceful proportions of this
uncrowned victor in the race she never ran; and to my eye her laurels
are the most attractive. She seems a fit emblem of the genius that
waits, while talent merely wins. "Let me know," said that fine, but
unappreciated thinker, Brownlee Brown,--"let me know what chances a man
has passed in contempt; not what he has made, but what he has refused
to make, reserving himself for higher ends."
All out-door work in winter has a cheerful look, from the triumph of
caloric it implies; but I know none in which man seems to revert more
to the lower modes of being than in searching for seaclams. One may
sometimes observe a dozen men employed in this way, on one of our
beaches, while the cold wind blows keenly off shore, and the spray
drifts back like snow over the green and sluggish surge. The men pace
in and out with the wave, going steadily to and fro like a pendulum,
ankle-deep in the chilly brine, their steps quickened by hope or
slackening with despair. Where the maidens and children sport and shout
in summer, there in winter these heavy figures succeed. To them the
lovely crest of the emerald billow is but a chariot for clams, and is
valueless if it comes in empty. Really, the position of the clam is the
more dignified, since he moves only with the wave, and the immortal
being in fish-boots wades for him.
The harbor and the beach are thus occupied in winter; but one may walk
for many a mile along the cliffs, and see nothing human but a few
gardeners, spreading green and white sea-weed as manure upon the lawns.
The mercury rarely drops to zero here, and there is little snow; but a
new-fallen drift has just the same virgin beauty as farther inland, and
when one suddenly comes in view of the sea beyond it, there is a
sensation of summer softness. The water is not then deep blue, but
pale, with opaline reflections. Vessels in the far horizon have the
same delicate tint, as if woven of the same liquid material. A single
wave lifts itself languidly above a reef,--a white-breasted loon floats
near the shore,--the sea breaks in long, indolent curves,--the distant
islands swim in a vague mirage. Along the cliffs hang great organ-pipes
of ice, distilling showers of drops that glitter in the noonday sun,
while the barer rocks send up a perpetual steam, giving to the eye a
sense of warmth, and suggesting the comforts of fire. Beneath, the low
tide reveals long stretches of golden-brown sea-weed, caressed by the
lapping wave.
High winds bring a different scene. Sometimes I fancy that in winter,
with less visible life upon the surface of the water, and less of
unseen animal life below it, there is yet more that seems like vital
force in the individual particles of waves. Each separate drop appears
more charged with desperate and determined life. The lines of surf run
into each other more brokenly, and with less steady roll. The low sun,
too, lends a weird and jagged shadow to gallop in before the crest of
each advancing wave, and sometimes there is a second crest on the
shoulders of the first, as if there were more than could be contained
in a single curve. Greens and purples are called forth to replace the
prevailing blue. Far out at sea, great separate mounds of water rear
themselves, as if to overlook the tossing plain. Sometimes these move
onward and subside with their green hue still unbroken, and again they
curve into detached hillocks of foam, white, multitudinous, side by
side, not ridged, but moving on like a mob of white horses, neck
overarching neck, breast crowded against breast.
Across those tumultuous waves I like to watch, after sunset, the
revolving light; there is something about it so delicate and human. It
seems to bud or bubble out of the low, dark horizon; a moment, and it
is not, and then another moment, and it is. With one throb the
tremulous light is born; with another throb it has reached its full
size, and looks at you, coy and defiant; and almost in that instant it
is utterly gone. You cannot conceive yourself to be watching something
which merely turns on an axis; but it seems suddenly to expand, a
flower of light, or to close, as if soft petals of darkness clasped it
in. During its moments of absence, the eye cannot quite keep the memory
of its precise position, and it often appears a hair-breadth to the
right or left of the expected spot. This enhances the elfish and
fantastic look, and so the pretty game goes on, with flickering
surprises, every night and all night long. But the illusion of the
seasons is just as coquettish; and when next summer comes to us, with
its blossoms and its joys, it will dawn as softly out of the darkness
and as softly give place to winter once more.
OLDPORT WHARVES.
Everyone who comes to a wharf feels an impulse to follow it down, and
look from the end. There is a fascination about it. It is the point of
contact between land and sea. A bridge evades the water, and unites
land with land, as if there were no obstacle. But a wharf seeks the
water, and grasps it with a solid hand | 1,589.647562 |
2023-11-16 18:43:33.7268260 | 1,107 | 23 |
Produced by Dianne Bean. HTML version by Al Haines.
THE MOUNTAINS
BY
STEWART EDWARD WHITE
AUTHOR OF
"THE BLAZED TRAIL," "SILENT PLACES," "THE FOREST," ETC.
PREFACE
The author has followed a true sequence of events practically in all
particulars save in respect to the character of the Tenderfoot. He is
in one sense fictitious; in another sense real. He is real in that he
is the apotheosis of many tenderfeet, and that everything he does in
this narrative he has done at one time or another in the author's
experience. He is fictitious in the sense that he is in no way to be
identified with the third member of our party in the actual trip.
CONTENTS
I. THE RIDGE TRAIL
II. ON EQUIPMENT
III. ON HORSES
IV. HOW TO GO ABOUT IT
V. THE COAST RANGES
VI. THE INFERNO
VII. THE FOOT-HILLS
VIII. THE PINES
IX. THE TRAIL
X. ON SEEING DEER
XI. ON TENDERFEET
XII. THE CANON
XIII. TROUT, BUCKSKIN, AND PROSPECTORS
XIV. ON CAMP COOKERY
XV. ON THE WIND AT NIGHT
XVI. THE VALLEY
XVII. THE MAIN CREST
XVIII. THE GIANT FOREST
XIX. ON COWBOYS
XX. THE GOLDEN TROUT
XXI. ON GOING OUT
XXII. THE LURE OF THE TRAIL
THE MOUNTAINS
I
THE RIDGE TRAIL
Six trails lead to the main ridge. They are all good trails, so that
even the casual tourist in the little Spanish-American town on the
seacoast need have nothing to fear from the ascent. In some spots they
contract to an arm's length of space, outside of which limit they drop
sheer away; elsewhere they stand up on end, zigzag in lacets each more
hair-raising than the last, or fill to demoralization with loose
boulders and shale. A fall on the part of your horse would mean a more
than serious accident; but Western horses do not fall. The major
premise stands: even the casual tourist has no real reason for fear,
however scared he may become.
Our favorite route to the main ridge was by a way called the Cold
Spring Trail. We used to enjoy taking visitors up it, mainly because
you come on the top suddenly, without warning. Then we collected
remarks. Everybody, even the most stolid, said something.
You rode three miles on the flat, two in the leafy and gradually
ascending creek-bed of a canon, a half hour of laboring steepness in
the overarching mountain lilac and laurel. There you came to a great
rock gateway which seemed the top of the world. At the gateway was a
Bad Place where the ponies planted warily their little hoofs, and the
visitor played "eyes front," and besought that his mount should not
stumble.
Beyond the gateway a lush level canon into which you plunged as into a
bath; then again the laboring trail, up and always up toward the blue
California sky, out of the lilacs, and laurels, and redwood chaparral
into the manzanita, the Spanish bayonet, the creamy yucca, and the fine
angular shale of the upper regions. Beyond the apparent summit you
found always other summits yet to be climbed. And all at once, like
thrusting your shoulders out of a hatchway, you looked over the top.
Then came the remarks. Some swore softly; some uttered appreciative
ejaculation; some shouted aloud; some gasped; one man uttered three
times the word "Oh,"--once breathlessly, Oh! once in awakening
appreciation, OH! once in wild enthusiasm, OH! Then invariably they
fell silent and looked.
For the ridge, ascending from seaward in a gradual coquetry of
foot-hills, broad low ranges, cross-systems, canons, little flats, and
gentle ravines, inland dropped off almost sheer to the river below.
And from under your very feet rose, range after range, tier after tier,
rank after rank, in increasing crescendo of wonderful tinted mountains
to the main crest of the Coast Ranges, the blue distance, the
mightiness of California's western systems. The eye followed them up
and up, and farther and farther, with the accumulating emotion of a
wild rush on a toboggan. There came a point where the fact grew to be
almost too big for the appreciation, just as beyond a certain point
speed seems to become unbearable. It left you breathless,
wonder-stricken, awed. | 1,589.746866 |
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Produced by Mark C. Orton, Keith Edkins 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: A few obvious typographical errors have been corrected:
they are listed at the end of the text.
In this edition line numbers are displayed on every tenth line--in the
printed work they were synchronised to the pagination, with sometimes only
one number per page. Lines marked = were printed AND COUNTED as two lines.
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Thorn and eth
characters (in cited passages) are expanded to th and dh respectively. In
the main text of The Vision, the numbers of the original pages are enclosed
in curly brackets to facilitate the use of the glossary.
Project Gutenberg has the other volume of this work.
Volume II: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43661
* * * * *
Library of Old Authors.
[Illustration: Spede the plough & send us korne enough]
THE VISION AND CREED
OF
PIERS PLOUGHMAN.
EDITED,
FROM A CONTEMPORARY MANUSCRIPT,
WITH A HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION,
NOTES, AND A GLOSSARY,
BY THOMAS WRIGHT, M.A. F.S.A. &c.
Corresponding Member of the Imperial Institute of France,
Academie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
_SECOND AND REVISED EDITION._
LONDON:
REEVES AND TURNER, 196 STRAND.
1887.
_PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION._
It is now thirteen years since the first edition of the following text of
this important poem was published by the late Mr. Pickering, during which
time the study of our old literature and history has undergone considerable
development, and it is believed that a reprint at a more moderate price
would be acceptable to the public. Holding still the same opinion which he
has always held with regard to the superior character of the manuscript
from which this text was taken, the editor has done no more than carefully
reprint it, but, in order to make it as useful as he could, he has revised
and made additions to both the Notes and the Glossary.
The remarkable poem of The Vision of Piers Ploughman is not only so
interesting a monument of the English language and literature, but it is
also so important an illustration of the political history of our country
during the fourteenth century, that it deserves to be read far more
generally than it has been, and the editor will rejoice sincerely if he
should have contributed by this new edition to render it more popular, and
place it within the reach of a greater number of readers. Independent of
its historical and literary importance, it contains many beauties which
will fully repay the slight labour required to master its partially
obsolete language, and, as one of the purest works in the English tongue as
it existed during the century in which it was composed, it is to be hoped
that, when the time shall at length arrive when English antiquities and
English philology and literary history are at length to be made a part of
the studies in our universities and in the higher classes of our schools,
the work of the Monk of Malvern, as a link between the poetry and language
of the Anglo-Saxon and those of modern England, will be made a prominent
text-book.
THOMAS WRIGHT.
14, SYDNEY STREET, BROMPTON,
_Nov. 1855_.
_INTRODUCTION._
The History of the Middle Ages in England, as in other countries,
represents to us a series of great consecutive political movements,
coexistent with a similar series of intellectual revolutions in the mass of
the people. The vast mental development caused by the universities in the
twelfth century led the way for the struggle to obtain religious and
political liberty in the thirteenth. The numerous political songs of that
period which have escaped the hand of time, and above all the mass of
satirical ballads against the Church of Rome, which commonly go under the
name of Walter Mapes, are remarkable monuments of the intellectual history
of our forefathers. Those ballads are written in Latin; for it was the most
learned class of the community which made the first great stand against the
encroachments and corruptions of the papacy and the increasing influence of
the monks. We know that the struggle alluded to was historically
unsuccessful. The baronial wars ended in the entire destruction of the
popular leaders; but their cause did not expire at Evesham; they had laid
foundations which no storm could overthrow, not placed hastily on the
uncertain surface of popular favour, but fixed deeply in the public mind.
The barons, who had fought so often and so staunchly for the great charter,
had lost their power; even the learning of the universities had faded under
the withering grasp of monachism; but the remembrance of the old contest
remained, and what was more, its literature was left, the songs which had
spread abroad the principles for which, or against which, Englishmen had
fought, carried them down (a precious legacy) to their posterity. Society
itself had undergone an important change; it was no longer a feudal
aristocracy which held the destinies of the country in its iron hand. The
plant which had been cut off took root again in another (a healthier) soil;
and the intelligence which had lost its force in the higher ranks of
society began to spread itself among the commons. Even in the thirteenth
century, before the close of the baronial wars, the complaints so
vigorously expressed in the Latin songs, had begun, both in England and
France, to appear in the language of the people. Many of the satirical
poems of Rutebeuf and other contemporary writers against the monks, are
little more than translations of the Latin poems which go under the name of
Walter Mapes.
During the successive reigns of the first three Edwards, the public mind in
England was in a state of constant fermentation. On the one hand, the
monks, supported by the popish church, had become an incubus upon the
country. Their corruptness and immorality were notorious: the description
of their vices given in the satirical writings of the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries exceeds even the bitterest calumnies of the age of
Rabelais or the reports of the commissioners of Henry the Eighth.[1] The
populace, held in awe by the imposing appearance of the popish church, and
by the religious belief which had been instilled into them from their
infancy, were opposed to the monks and clergy by a multitude of personal
griefs and jealousies: these frequently led to open hostility, and in the
chronicles of those days we read of the slaughter of monks, and the burning
of abbeys, by the insurgent towns-people or peasantry. At the same time,
while the monks in revenge treated the commons with contempt, there were
numerous people who, under the name of Lollards and other such
appellations,--led sometimes by the love of mischief and disorder, but more
frequently by religious enthusiasm,--whose doctrines were simple and
reasonable (although the church would fain have branded them all with the
title of heretics),--went abroad among the people preaching not only
against the corruptions of the monks, but against the most vital doctrines
of the church of Rome, and, as might be expected, they found abundance of
listeners. On the other hand, a new political system, and the
embarrassments of a continued series of foreign wars, were adding to the
general ferment. Instead of merely calling together the great feudal barons
to lead their retainers to battle, the king was now obliged to appeal more
directly to the people; and at the same time the latter began to feel the
weight of taxation, and consequently they began to talk of the defects and
the corruptions of the government, and to raise the cries, which have since
so often been heard, against the king's "evil advisers." These cries were
justified by many real and great oppressions under which the commons, and
more particularly the peasantry, suffered; and (as the king and aristocracy
were too much interested in the continuance of the abuses complained of to
be easily induced to agree to an effective remedy), the commons began to
feel that their own interests were equally opposed to those of the church,
of the aristocracy, and of the crown, and amidst the other popular
doctrines none were more loudly or more violently espoused than those of
levellers and democrats. These, though comparatively few, aggravated the
evil, by affording a pretence for persecution. The history of England
during the fourteenth century is a stirring picture; its dark side is the
increasing corruption of the popish church; its bright side, the general
spread of popular intelligence, and the firm stand made by the commons in
the defence of their liberties, and in the determination to obtain a
redress of grievances.
Under these circumstances appeared PIERS PLOUGHMAN. It is not to be
supposed that all the other classes of society were hostile to the commons.
The people, with the characteristic attachment of the Anglo-Saxons to the
family of their princes, wished to believe that their king was always their
friend, when not actuated by the counsels of his "evil advisers;"[2]
several of the most powerful barons stood forward as the champions of
popular liberty; and many of the monks quitted their monasteries to
advocate the cause of the reformation. It appears to be generally agreed
that a monk was the author of the poem of Piers Ploughman; but the
question, one perhaps but of secondary importance, as to its true writer,
is involved in much obscurity.[3] Several local allusions and other
circumstances seem to prove that it was composed on the borders of Wales,
where had originated most of the great political struggles, and we can
hardly doubt that its author resided in the neighbourhood of "Malverne
hilles." We have less difficulty in ascertaining its date. At ll.
1735-1782, we have, without doubt, an allusion to the treaty of Bretigny,
in 1360, and to the events which preceded it: in the earlier part of this
passage there is an allusion to the sufferings of the English army in the
previous winter campaign, to the retreat which followed, and the want of
provisions which accompanied it, and to the tempest which they encountered
near Chartres (the "dym cloude" of the poem). The "pestilences" mentioned
at l. 2497 were the great plague which happened in 1348-9 (and which had
previously been alluded to in the opening of the poem, l. 168), and that of
1361-2,--the first two of the three great pestilences which devastated our
island in the fourteenth century. The south-western wind, mentioned in l.
2500, occurred on the fifteenth day of January 1362. It is probable that
the poem of Piers Ploughman was composed in the latter part of this year,
when the effects of the great wind were fresh in people's memory, and when
the treaty of Bretigny had become a subject of popular discontent.[4]
The poem was given to the world under a name which could not fail to draw
the attention of the people. Amid the oppressive injustice of the great and
the vices of their idle retainers, the corruptions of the clergy, and the
dishonesty which too frequently characterised the dealings of merchants and
traders, the simple unsophisticated heart of the ploughman is held forth as
the dwelling of virtue and truth. It was the ploughman, and not the pope
with his proud hierarchy, who represented on earth the Saviour who had
descended into this world as the son of the carpenter, who had lived a life
of humility, who had wandered on foot or ridden on an ass. "While God
wandered on earth," says one of the political songs of the beginning of the
fourteenth century,[5] "what was the reason that he would not ride?" The
answer expresses the whole force of the popular sentiment of the age:
"because he would not have a retinue of greedy attendants by his side, in
the shape of grooms and servants, to insult and oppress the peasantry."
At the period when this poem was first published, England, in common with
the rest of Europe, had been struck with a succession of calamities. Little
more than twelve years had passed since a terrible pestilence had swept
away perhaps not less than one-half of the population.[6] The lower
classes, ill fed and neglected, perished by thousands, while the higher
ranks--the proud and pampered nobility--escaped; "he who was ill nourished
with unsubstantial food," says a contemporary writer, "fell before the
slightest breath of the destroyer; to the poor, death was welcome, for life
is to them more cruel than death. But death respected princes, nobles,
knights, judges, gentlemen; of these few die, because their life is one of
enjoyment."[7] It was the general belief that this fearful visitation had
been sent by God as a punishment for the sins which had more particularly
characterised the higher orders of society; yet instead of profiting by the
warning, they became, during the years which followed, prouder, more cruel
and oppressive, and more licentious, than before. Another pestilence came,
which visited the classes that had before escaped, and at the same time a
tempest such as had seldom been witnessed seemed to announce the vengeance
of heaven. The streets and roads were filled with zealots who preached and
prophesied of other misfortunes, to people who had scarcely recovered from
the terror of those which were past. At this moment the satirist stepped
forth, and laid open with unsparing knife the sins and corruptions which
provoked them.
From what has been said, it will be seen that the Latin poems attributed to
Walter Mapes, and the Collection of Political Songs, form an introduction
to the Vision of Piers Ploughman. It seems clear that the writer was well
acquainted with the former, and that he not unfrequently imitates them. The
Poem on the Evil Times of Edward II. already alluded to (in the Political
Songs) contains within a small compass all his chief points of accusation
against the different orders of society. But a new mode of composition had
been brought into fashion since the appearance of the famous "Roman de la
Rose," and the author makes his attacks less directly, under an allegorical
clothing. The condition of society is revealed to the writer in a dream, as
in the singular poem just mentioned, and as in the still older satire, the
_Apocalypsis Goliae_; but in Piers Ploughman the allegory follows no
systematic plot, it is rather a succession of pictures in which the
allegorical painting sometimes disappears altogether, than a whole like the
Roman de la Rose, and it is on that account less tedious to the modern
reader, while the vigorous descriptions, the picturesque ideas, and
numerous other beauties of different kinds, cause us to lose sight of the
general defects of this class of writings.
Piers Ploughman is, in fact, rather a succession of dreams, than one simple
vision. The dreamer, weary of the world, falls asleep beside a stream amid
the beautiful scenery of Malvern Hills. In his vision, the people of the
world are represented to him by a vast multitude assembled in a fair
meadow; on one side stands the tower of Truth, elevated on a mountain, the
right aim of man's pilgrimage, while on the other side is the dungeon of
Care, the dwelling place of Wrong. In the first sections (_passus_) of the
poem are pictured the origin of society, the foundation and dignity of
kingly power, and the separation into different classes and orders. In the
midst of his astonishment at what he sees, a fair lady, the personification
of "holy church," approaches, to instruct the dreamer. She explains to him
the meaning of the different objects which had presented themselves to his
view, and shows by exhortations and examples the merit of content and
moderation, the danger of disobedience (exemplified in the story of
Lucifer's fall), and the efficacy of love and charity. In the midst of his
conversation with his instructor, a lady makes her appearance on the scene.
This is lady Mede, the personification of that mistaken object at which so
large a portion of mankind direct their aim--the origin of most of the
corruptions and evil deeds in the world--not the just remuneration of our
actions which we look forward to in a future life, but the reward which is
sought by those who set all their hopes on the present. Holy Church now
quits the dreamer, who is left to observe what is taking place amid the
crowd in the field. (_Passus II._) They all pay their court to lady Mede,
who, by the intermediation of Cyvyle, or the law, is betrothed in marriage
to Falsehood. The marriage is forbidden by Theology, and Cyvyle agrees to
carry the cause to London for judgment, contrary to the desire of Simony.
Falsehood and Flattery bribe the lawyers to aid the former in his suit, but
their designs are baffled by Conscience, at whose suggestion the king takes
the lady into his own custody, and drives away Falsehood and his greedy
followers. Mede soon finds favour at court (_Passus III._), and especially
with the friars, who are ready to absolve her of all her sins for a proper
consideration. The king proposes to marry her to Conscience; who, however,
declines the match, and as a reason for his refusal gives a very
unfavourable picture of the lady's previous life and private character.
Mede defends herself, and accuses Conscience of thwarting and opposing the
will and designs of kings and great people. The dispute becoming hot, the
king interferes and orders Mede and Conscience to be reconciled and kiss
each other. (_Passus IV._) This Conscience refuses to do, unless by the
advice of Reason; on whose arrival, Peace comes into the parliament to make
his complaint against the cruel oppressions of Wrong. Wrong is condemned,
but Mede and the lawyers attempt to get him off with the payment of a sum
of money. The king, however, allows himself to be guided by Reason and
Conscience, expresses his dissatisfaction that law is influenced by Mede,
and his determination to govern his realm by the counsel of Reason.
In a second vision (_Passus V._), the dreamer is again carried to the
"field full of folk," where Reason has taken upon himself the character of
a preacher, and, fortified with the king's authority, induces the various
classes of sinners to confess and repent. The personification of the
different sins forms perhaps the most remarkable part of the whole poem.
The multitude being thus converted from their evil courses, are persuaded
by Repentance and Hope to set out on a pilgrimage in search of Truth. In
their ignorance of the path which they must follow in this search, they
apply to a palmer who had wandered over a large portion of the world in
search of different saints; but they find him as little acquainted with the
way as themselves. They are helped out of this dilemma by Piers the
Ploughman, who, seeing them terrified by the difficulties of the road,
offers to be their guide, if they will wait till he has sown his half acre.
(_Passus VI._) In the mean time all the pilgrims who have strength and
skill, are employed on some useful works, except the knight, who
undertakes, in return for the support which he is to derive from the
ploughman's labours, to watch and protect him against plunderers and
foreign enemies. The peace of the labourers is first disturbed by Waster,
who refuses to perform the conditions by which the others are bound: the
aid of the knight being found inefficient against this turbulent gentleman,
the Ploughman is obliged to send for Hunger, who effectually humbles him.
This section of the poem is a continued allusion to the effects of the
famine and pestilence, and a satire upon the luxurious and extravagant life
of our forefathers in the fourteenth century. (_Passus VII._) Truth,
hearing of the intentions of Piers the Ploughman to leave his labours in
order to serve as a guide to the pilgrims in their journey, sends him a
messenger, exhorting him to remain at home and continue his labours, and
giving him a "pardon" which was to embrace all those who aided him
honestly, by their works, and who should carry on their various avocations
in purity of heart. The writer here takes occasion to sneer at the
"pardons" of the pope, then so much in vogue; a priest questions the
legitimacy of Piers' bull of pardon, and the altercation between them
becomes so loud that the dreamer awakes. The pardon of Piers Ploughman is
granted to those who do good works: the dreamer is lost in the speculation
on the question as to what the good works are, and he becomes engaged in a
new pilgrimage, in search of a person who has not appeared
before,--Do-well.
(_Passus VIII._) All his inquiries after Do-well are fruitless: even the
friars, to whom he addresses himself, give but a confused account; and,
weary with wandering about, the dreamer is again overtaken by slumber.
Thought now appears to him, and recommends him to Wit, who describes to him
the residence of Do-well, Do-better, and Do-best, and enumerates their
companions and attendants. (_Passus IX._) The Castle of Do-well is an
allegorical representation of man (the individual), in which lady Anima
(the soul) is placed for safety, and guarded by a keeper named Kynde
(nature). With Do-well, the representative of those who live according to
truth in honest wedlock, are contrasted the people who live in lust and
wickedness, the descendants of the murderer Cain, who was begotten by Adam
in an evil hour. (_Passus X._) Wit has a wife named lady Study, who is
angry that her spouse should lay open his high truths to those who are
uninitiated--it is no better than "throwing pearls to swine, which would
rather have hawes." Wit is daunted by his wife's long lecture, and leaves
the dreamer to pursue his own suit. This he does with so much meekness and
humility, that the wrath of dame Study is appeased, and she sends him to
Clergy, with a token of recommendation from herself. Clergy receives the
pilgrim, and entertains him with a long declamation on the character of
Do-well, Do-better, and Do-best, and on the corruptions of the church and
the monkish orders, in the course of which is uttered the remarkable
prophecy of the king who was to "confess and beat" the monks, and give them
an "incurable knock," which was after less than two centuries so exactly
fulfilled in the dissolution of the monasteries. The wanderer confesses
himself "little the wiser" for Clergy's lecture, and by his pertness of
reply merits a reproof from Scripture. (_Passus XI._ | 1,591.745908 |
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Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
SEVENOAKS
A Story of Today
by
J.G. HOLLAND
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Published by Arrangement with Charles Scribner's Sons
1875
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Which tells about Sevenoaks, and how Miss Butterworth passed one of
her evenings
CHAPTER II.
Mr. Belcher carries his point at the town-meeting, and the poor are
knocked down to Thomas Buffum
CHAPTER III.
In which Jim Fenton is introduced to the reader and introduces himself to
Miss Butterworth
CHAPTER IV.
In which Jim Fenton applies for lodgings at Tom Buffum's boarding-house,
and finds his old friend
CHAPTER V.
In which Jim enlarges his accommodations and adopts a violent method
of securing boarders
CHAPTER VI.
In which Sevenoaks experiences a great commotion, and comes to the
conclusion that Benedict has met with foul play
CHAPTER VII.
In which Jim and Mike Conlin pass through a great trial and come out
victorious
CHAPTER VIII.
In which Mr. Belcher visits New York, and becomes the Proprietor of
"Palgrave's Folly."
CHAPTER IX.
Mrs. Talbot gives her little dinner party, and Mr. Belcher makes an
exceedingly pleasant acquaintance
CHAPTER X.
Which tells how a lawyer spent his vacation in camp, and took home a
specimen of game that he had never before found in the woods
CHAPTER XI.
Which records Mr. Belcher's connection with a great speculation and
brings to a close his residence in Sevenoaks
CHAPTER XII.
In which Jim enlarges his plans for a house, and completes his plans for
a house-keeper
CHAPTER XIII.
Which introduces several residents of Sevenoaks to the Metropolis and
a new character to the reader
CHAPTER XIV.
Which tells of a great public meeting in Sevenoaks, the burning in effigy
of Mr. Belcher, and that gentleman's interview with a reporter
CHAPTER XV.
Which tells about Mrs. Dillingham's Christmas and the New Year's
Reception at the Palgrave Mansion
CHAPTER XVI.
Which gives an account of a voluntary and an involuntary visit of Sam
Yates to Number Nine
CHAPTER XVII.
In which Jim constructs two happy-Davids, raises his hotel, and dismisses
Sam Yates
CHAPTER XVIII.
In which Mrs. Dillingham makes some important discoveries, but fails to
reveal them to the reader
CHAPTER XIX.
In which Mr. Belcher becomes President of the Crooked Valley Railroad,
with large "Terminal facilities," and makes an adventure into a
long-meditated crime
CHAPTER XX.
In which "the little woman" announces her engagement to Jim Fenton
and receives the congratulations of her friends
CHAPTER XXI.
In which Jim gets the furniture into his house, and Mike Conlin gets
another installment of advice into Jim
CHAPTER XXII.
In which Jim gets married, the new hotel receives its mistress, and
Benedict confers a power of attorney
CHAPTER XXIII.
In which Mr. Belcher expresses his determination to become a "founder,"
but drops his noun in fear of a little verb of the same name
CHAPTER XXIV.
Wherein the General leaps the bounds of law, finds himself in a new
world, and becomes the victim of his friends without knowing it
CHAPTER XXV.
In which the General goes through a great many trials, and meets at last
the one he has so long anticipated
CHAPTER XXVI.
In which the case of "Benedict _vs._ Belcher" finds itself in court, an
interesting question of identity is settled, and a mysterious
disappearance takes place
CHAPTER XXVII.
In which Phipps is not to be found, and the General is called upon to do
his own lying
CHAPTER XXVIII.
In which a heavenly witness appears who cannot be cross-examined, and
before which the defense utterly breaks down
CHAPTER XXIX.
Wherein Mr. Belcher, having exhibited his dirty record, shows a clean
pair of heels
CHAPTER XXX.
Which gives the history of an anniversary, presents a tableau, and drops
the curtain
CHAPTER I.
WHICH TELLS ABOUT SEVENOAKS, AND HOW MISS BUTTERWORTH PASSED ONE OF HER
EVENINGS.
Everybody has seen Sevenoaks, or a hundred towns so much like it, in
most particulars, that a description of any one of them would present it
to the imagination--a town strung upon a stream, like beads upon a
thread, or charms upon a chain. Sevenoaks was richer in chain than
charms, for its abundant water-power was only partially used. It
plunged, and roared, and played, and sparkled, because it had not half
enough to do. It leaped down three or four cataracts in passing through
the village; and, as it started from living springs far northward among
the woods and mountains, it never failed in its supplies.
Few of the people of Sevenoaks--thoughtless workers, mainly--either knew
or cared whence it came, or whither it went. They knew it as "The
Branch;" but Sevenoaks was so far from the trunk, down to which it sent
its sap, and from which it received no direct return, that no
significance was attached to its name. But it roared all day, and roared
all night, summer and winter alike, and the sound became a part of the
atmosphere. Resonance was one of the qualities of the oxygen which the
people breathed, so that if, at any midnight moment, the roar had been
suddenly hushed, they would have waked with a start and a sense of
suffocation, and leaped from their beds.
Among the charms that dangled from this liquid chain--depending from the
vest of a landscape which ended in a ruffle of woods toward the north,
overtopped by the head of a mountain--was a huge factory that had been
added to from time to time, as necessity demanded, until it had become
an imposing and not uncomely pile. Below this were two or three
dilapidated saw-mills, a grist-mill in daily use, and a fulling-mill--a
remnant of the old times when homespun went its pilgrimage to town--to
be fulled, colored, and dressed--from all the sparsely settled country
around.
On a little plateau by the side of The Branch was a row of stores and
dram-shops and butchers' establishments. Each had a sort of square,
false front, pierced by two staring windows and a door, that reminded
one of a lion _couchant_--very large in the face and very thin in the
flank. Then there were crowded in, near the mill, little rows of
one-story houses, occupied entirely by operatives, and owned by the
owner of the mill. All the inhabitants, not directly connected with the
mill, were as far away from it as they could go. Their houses were set
back upon either acclivity which rose from the gorge that the stream had
worn, dotting the hill-sides in every direction. There was a clumsy
town-hall, there were three or four churches, there was a high school
and a low tavern. It was, on the whole, a village of importance, but the
great mill was somehow its soul and center. A fair farming and grazing
country stretched back from it eastward and westward, | 1,591.746156 |
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A SELECTION
FROM THE
DISCOURSES OF EPICTETUS
WITH
THE ENCHEIRIDION
TRANSLATED BY
GEORGE LONG
CONTENTS.
EPICTETUS (BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE)
A SELECTION FROM THE DISCOURSES OF EPICTETUS
THE ENCHEIRIDION, OR MANUAL
EPICTETUS.
Very little is known of the life of Epictetus. It is said that he was a
native of Hierapolis in Phrygia, a town between the Maeander and a
branch of the Maeander named the Lycus. Hierapolis is mentioned in the
epistle of Paul to the people of Colossae (Coloss. iv., 13); from which
it has been concluded that there was a Christian church in Hierapolis in
the time of the apostle. The date of the birth of Epictetus is unknown.
The only recorded fact of his early life is that he was a slave in Rome,
and his master was Epaphroditus, a profligate freedman of the Emperor
Nero. There is a story that the master broke his slave's leg by
torturing him; but it is better to trust to the evidence of Simplicius,
the commentator on the Encheiridion, or Manual, who says that Epictetus
was weak in body and lame from an early age. It is not said how he
became a slave; but it has been asserted in modern times that the
parents sold the child. I have not, however, found any authority for
this statement.
It may be supposed that the young slave showed intelligence, for his
master sent or permitted him to attend the lectures of C. Musonius
Rufus, an eminent Stoic philosopher. It may seem strange that such a
master should have wished to have his slave made into a philosopher; but
Garnier, the author of a "Memoire sur les Ouvrages d'Epictete," explains
this matter very well in a communication to Schweighaeuser. Garnier
says: "Epictetus, born at Hierapolis of Phrygia of poor parents, was
indebted apparently for the advantages of a good education to the whim,
which was common at the end of the Republic and under the first
emperors, among the great of Rome to reckon among their numerous slaves
grammarians, poets, rhetoricians, and philosophers, in the same way as
rich financiers in these later ages have been led to form at a great
cost rich and numerous libraries. This supposition is the only one which
can explain to us how a wretched child, born as poor as Irus, had
received a good education, and how a rigid Stoic was the slave of
Epaphroditus, one of the officers of the imperial guard. For we cannot
suspect that it was through predilection for the Stoic doctrine, and for
his own use, that the confidant and the minister of the debaucheries of
Nero would have desired to possess such a slave."
Some writers assume that Epictetus was manumitted by his master, but I
can find no evidence for this statement. Epaphroditus accompanied Nero
when he fled from Rome before his enemies, and he aided the miserable
tyrant in killing himself. Domitian (Sueton., Domit. 14), afterwards put
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WITH ETHAN ALLEN AT TICONDEROGA
by
W. BERT FOSTER
Author of
"With Washington at Valley Forge" etc
Illustrated by F. A. Carter
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
MCMIV
Copyright 1903 by The Penn Publishing Company
With Ethan Allen at Ticonderoga
[Illustration: "FORWARD!" HE SHOUTED]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A Boy of the Wilderness 5
II Enoch Harding Feels Himself a Man 19
III The Ambush 31
IV 'Siah Bolderwood's Stratagem 45
V The Pioneer Home 60
VI The Stump Burning 76
VII A Night Attack 94
VIII The Traitor's Way 107
IX The Otter Creek Raid 127
X The Warning 139
XI An Unequal Battle 160
XII Backwoods Justice 174
XIII The Wolf Pack 191
XIV The Testimony of Crow Wing 208
XV The Storm Cloud Gathers 220
XVI The Westminster Massacre 236
XVII The Cloven Hoof 251
XVIII "The Cross of Fire" 270
XIX The Rising of the Clans 284
XX The Rival Commanders 298
XXI The Escape of the Spy 313
XXII The End of Simon Halpen 330
XXIII The Dawn of the Tenth of May 343
XXIV The Guns of Old Ti Speak 355
WITH ETHAN ALLEN AT TICONDEROGA
CHAPTER I
A BOY OF THE WILDERNESS
The forest was still. A calm lay upon its vast extent, from the
green-capped hills in the east to the noble river which, fed by the
streams so quietly meandering through the pleasantly wooded country,
found its way to the sea where the greatest city of the New World was
destined to stand. The clear, bell-like note of a waking bird startled
the morning hush. A doe and her fawn that had couched in a thicket
seemed roused to activity by this early matin and suddenly showered the
short turf with a dewy rain from the bushes which they disturbed as they
leaped away toward the "lick." The gentle creatures first slaked their
thirst at the margin of the creek hard by and then stood a moment with
outstretched nostrils, snuffing the wind before tasting the salt
impregnated earth trampled as hard as adamant by a thousand hoofs. The
fawn dropped its muzzle quickly; but the mother, not so well assured,
snuffed again and yet again.
In the wilderness, before the white man came, there were to be found
paths made by the wild folk going to and from their watering places and
feeding grounds, and paths made by the red hunter and warrior. Although
hundreds of deer traveled to this lick yearly, they had not originally
made the trail. It was an ancient Indian runaway, for the creek was
fordable near this point. The tribesmen had used it for generations
until it was worn almost knee-deep in the forest mould, but wide enough
only to be traveled in single file. Along this ancient trail, and
approaching the lick with infinite caution, came a boy of thirteen,
bearing a heavy rifle.
Although so young, Enoch Harding was well built, and the play of his
hardened muscles was easily observed under his tight-fitting, homespun
garments. The circumstances of border life in the eighteenth century
molded hardy men and sturdy boys. His face was as brown as a berry and
his eyes clear and frankly open. The brown hair curled tightly above his
perspiring brow, from which his old otter-skin cap was thrust back. His
coming to the bank of the wide stream was attended with all the care and
silent observation of an Indian on the trail. He set his feet so firmly
and with such precision that not even the rustle of a leaf or the
crackling of a twig would have warned the sharpest ear of his approach.
The wind was in his favor, too, blowing from the creek toward him. The
doe, which he could not yet see but the patter of whose light hoofs he
had heard as she trotted with her fawn to the drinking place, could not
possibly have discovered his presence; yet she continued to raise her
muzzle at intervals and snuff the wind suspiciously.
The dark aisles of the forest, as yet unillumined by the sun whose
crimson banners would soon be flung above the mountain-tops, seemed
deserted. In the distance the birds were beginning their morning song;
but here the shadow of the mountains lay heavy upon wood and stream and
the feathered choristers awoke more slowly. The two deer at the lick and
the boy who now, from behind the massive bole of a tree, surveyed them,
seemed the only living objects within view.
Enoch raised his heavy rifle, resting the barrel against the tree trunk,
and drew bead at the doe's side. He was chancing a long shot, rather
than taking the risk of approaching any nearer to the animals. He had
seen that the doe was suspicious and she might be off in a flash into
the thicker forest beyond unless he fired at once. Had he been more
experienced he would have wondered what had made the creature
suspicious, his own approach to the lick being quite evidently
undiscovered. But he thought only of getting a perfect sight and that
the larder at home was empty. And this last fact was sufficient to make
the boy's aim certain, his principal care being to waste no powder and
to bring down his game with as little loss of time as might be.
The next moment the heavy muzzle-loading gun roared and the buckshot
sped on its mission. The mother deer gave a convulsive spring forward,
thus warning the poor fawn, which disappeared in the brush like a flash
of brown light. The doe dropped in a heap upon the sward and Enoch,
flushed with success, ran forward to view his prize. In so doing,
however, the boy forgot the first rule of the border ranger and hunter.
He did not reload his weapon.
Stumbling over the widely spread roots of the great tree behind which he
had hidden, he reached the opening in the forest where the tragedy had
been enacted, and would have been on his knees beside the dead deer in
another instant had not an appalling sound stayed him. A scream, the
like of which once heard is never to be forgotten, thrilled him to the
marrow. He started back, casting his glance upward. There was a rustling
in the thick branches of the tree beneath which the doe had fallen.
Again the maddened scream rang out and a tawny body flashed from
concealment in the foliage.
"A catamount!" Enoch shouted, and seeing the creature fairly over his
head in its flight through the air, he leaped away toward the creek, his
feet winged with fear. Of all the wild creatures of the Northern
wilderness this huge cat was most to be avoided. It would not hesitate
to attack man when hungry, and maddened and disappointed as this one
was, its charge could not be stayed. At the instant when the beast was
prepared to leap upon either the doe or her fawn, Enoch's shot had laid
the one low and frightened the other away. His appearance upon the scene
attracted the attention of the cat and had given it a new object of
attack. Possibly the creature did not even notice the fall of the deer,
being now bent upon vengeance for the loss of its prey, for which it had
doubtless searched unsuccessfully all the night through.
The young hunter was in a desperate situation. His gun was empty and the
prospect of an encounter with the catamount would have quenched the
courage of the bravest. And to run from it was still more foolish, yet
this was the first thought which inspired him. The creek was beyond and
although the ford was some rods above the deer-lick, he thought to cast
himself into the stream and thus escape his enemy. The beast, possessing
that well-known trait of the feline tribe which causes it to shrink from
water, might not follow him into the creek.
A long log, the end of which had caught upon the bank, swung its length
into the stream, forming a boom against which light drift-stuff had
gathered; the swift current foamed about the timber as though vexed at
this delay to its progress. Upon the tree Enoch leaped and ran to the
further extremity. His feet, shod in home-made moccasins of deer-hide,
did not slip on this insecure footing; but his weight on the stranded
log set it in motion. The timber began to swing off from the shore and
one terrified glance about him assured the boy that he was at a most
deep and dangerous part of the stream.
Although so shallow above at the ford, the bed of the creek directly
below was of rock instead of gravel, and ragged boulders thrust
themselves up from the depths, causing many whirlpools which dimpled the
surface of the water. About the boulders the current tore, the brown
froth from the angry jaws of rock dancing lightly away upon the waves.
Although even with his clothing on he might have swum in a quiet pool,
to do so here would be almost impossible. The boy was between two
perils!
He turned about in horror to escape the flood, and was in time to see
the huge cat gain the end of the log in a single bound as it was torn
from the shore by the current. There the beast crouched, less than
twenty feet away, lashing its tail and snarling menace at the victim of
its wrath. The situation was paralyzing. As for loading his rifle now,
the boy had not the strength to do it. The fascination of the beast's
blazing eyes held him motionless, like a bird charmed by the unwinking
gaze of a black snake.
And Enoch Harding knew, if he knew anything, that the beast would not
give him time to reload the clumsy gun. At his first movement it would
spring. And if he leaped into the water, it might follow him,
considering its present savage mood. He beheld its muscles, which
slipped so easily under the tawny skin, knotting themselves for a
spring. The forelegs were drawn up under the breast the curved,
sabre-sharp claws scratching the bark on the floating timber. In another
instant the fatal leap would be made.
Never had the boy been in such danger. He did not utterly lose his
presence of mind; but he was helpless. What chance had he with an empty
gun before the savage brute? He seized the barrel in both hands and
raised the weapon above his head. It was too heavy for him to swing with
any ease, and being so would fall but lightly on the creature, did he
succeed in reaching it at all. He could not hope to stun the cat at a
single blow. And beside, the tree, rocking now like a water-logged
canoe, made his footing more and more insecure. In a moment it would be
among the boulders and at the first collision be overturned.
But he could not drag his eyes from those of the catamount. With a
fierce snarl which ended in a thrilling scream, the brute cast itself
into the air! At the moment it rose, exposing its lighter <DW52> breast
to view, a gun-shot shattered the silence of river and forest. The
spring of the cat was not stayed, but its yell again changed--this time
to a note of agony.
"Jump, lad, jump!" shouted a voice and Enoch, as though awaking from a
dream, obeyed the command. He leaped sideways, and landed upon a
slippery rock, falling | 1,591.846517 |
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Produced by Chuck Greif, MFR and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
LOVE’S OLD SWEET SONG
A SHEAF OF LATTER-DAY LOVE-POEMS
GARNERED FROM MANY SOURCES
Books by the Same Author
THE GARDEN’S STORY, OR PLEASURES AND TRIALS OF AN AMATEUR GARDENER
THE STORY OF MY HOUSE
IN GOLD AND SILVER
THE ROSE. By H. B. Ellwanger. Revised edition, with an Introduction
by George H. Ellwanger.
IDYLLISTS OF THE COUNTRY-SIDE
LOVE’S DEMESNE
MEDITATIONS ON GOUT
THE PLEASURES OF THE TABLE
[Illustration:
LOVE’S
OLD SWEET SONG
A SHEAF OF
LATTER-DAY LOVE-POEMS
_Gathered from Many Sources_
BY
GEORGE H. ELLWANGER
_New York_
_Dodd-Mead
and
Company_
1903]
_Copyright, 1903_,
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
_Copyright, 1896_,
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY,
AS “LOVE’S DEMESNE.”
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
TO
THE MEMORY OF
GLEESON WHITE, ESQ.
In Friendliest Regard
_ENVOY._
_Resound, ye strains, attuned by master-fingers,
That breathe so fondly Love’s consuming fire;
Some sweet and subtle as a chord that lingers,
Some grave and plaintive as the heart’s desire._
_Like June’s gay laughter thro’ the woodlands ringing,
These hymn the Present’s gladsome roundelay;
As Autumn grieves when choirs have ceased their singing,
Those voice their haunting burden, “Well-a-day!”_
_Yet, past or present, who the power would banish
That charms or blights, that blesses or that mars:
To happy lovers, how may Love e’er vanish,--
To hearts forlorn, how hallowed are his scars!_
PUBLISHERS’ NOTE.
In this Anthology is included in more convenient form the greater
portion of the poems contained in the two volumes entitled “Love’s
Demesne,” now out of print. The present collection has been carefully
revised by the Compiler, and like its predecessor occupies an entirely
distinct field, most of the selections being otherwise only accessible
in the volumes where they originally appeared, and the major part being
by living lyrists.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT.
The sincere thanks of the Editor are due, not only to those American
authors who have graciously allowed the reproduction of their poems, but
equally to the numerous British living poets whose graceful verses
appear in the following pages. In but one instance on the part of a
native author, and in but one instance on the part of a publisher, was
permission to include poems refused. With these exceptions the Compiler
has received the most cordial assistance from holders of copyrights. It
becomes a personal pleasure, therefore, to thank the following in
particular for their uniform courtesy, without which many a flowing
measure contained in “Love’s Old Sweet Song” must necessarily have been
omitted: Messrs. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., ROBERTS BROS., CHARLES
SCRIBNER’S SONS, MACMILLAN & CO., G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, STONE & KIMBALL,
J. G. CUPPLES, BELFORD, CLARKE & CO., D. LOTHROP & CO., COPELAND & DAY,
HENRY HOLT & CO., R. WORTHINGTON & CO., WAY & WILLIAMS, LONGMANS, GREEN
& CO. To these and other publishers, to the sonorous choir of the poets
quoted from, and, finally, to Mr. GLEESON WHITE and Mr. _Edmund Clarence
Stedman_, the Compiler tenders his most grateful acknowledgments.
A PASSING WORD.
Bearing in mind the assertion of Monsieur de Milcourt, that prefaces for
the most part seem only made in order to “impose” upon the reader, a
brief foreword will suffice to explain the scope of the following pages.
As will be apparent at a glance, the selections are all from modern, and
largely from living poets; the dominant chord is lyrical; and in the
general unisance the minor prevails over the major key. No excuse seems
called for in presenting a new anthology; for, given the same theme,
each compiler must of necessity present a different score, subject to
individual taste and preferences. “To apologize for a new anthology is
but one degree less sensible than to prepare it,” pertinently remarks
the editor of _Ballades and Rondeaus_. Such were but another case of
_qui s’excuse, s’accuse_. It may be observed, nevertheless, that the
path of the compiler is far from being strewn with flowers. Indeed, it
has been truly said that Æsop’s old man and boy with the donkey had not
a harder task than the maker of selections and collections of verses.
Of recent years a number of excellent anthologies have been published on
a similar theme. But these deal mainly with the rhythmic fancies of the
elder bards, or in fewer instances, combine the older and the younger
schools. In the present instance the editor has been guided solely by
his own taste or predilections, having had no recourse to other
collections, beyond that of avoiding _excerpta_ too oft repeated; the
aim being so far as possible to include such examples of merit as are
not generally familiar to the average lover of poetry. Whether these be
by well-known authors, or by those who are little known, has not entered
into consideration, the prime object being to present as intrinsically
meritorious a collection, by both British and American modern lyrists,
as is possible within the limits of the space at command.
The writer is not aware of a similar compilation having been previously
attempted, there being few who would care to brave the “omissions” that
must naturally be thrust at one’s door, more especially in the case of
an abstract from the works of living writers. Yet while fault may be
found, perchance, on the score of selection both by those who may be
excluded, as well as by those who are included, the editor of an
anthology should at least be thanked for placing many selections before
the reader that in the ordinary course of things he would miss,--either
through lack of time, or the inability to possess or consult the
multitudinous volumes he would be called upon to peruse.
“The purchasing public for poetry,” says Mr. Lang, “must now consist
chiefly of poets, and they are usually poor.” The anthologist is the
bee, therefore, to extract the honey from the fragrant garland of song,
at the least fatigue to the reader. For every poet has not a hive of
sweets to draw from; and though the blooms be many in the parterre of
poesy, still these require to be plucked with reference not only to
individual beauty, but to general harmony as well. A single line may
sadly mar an otherwise flawless verse, as a single sonnet rendered
immortal the name of Félix Arvers. Many no doubt will miss some
favourites. Of such it may be observed that not a few lovely apostrophes
have been omitted on account of too great length, or, as previously
stated, owing to their being familiar to the great majority of readers.
Some poems, moreover, beautiful in themselves, have not been included,
despite their intrinsic merits, because they seemed to be out of accord
with the prevailing key, as in the case of numerous lyrics approaching
the form of so-termed _Vers de Société_. Still others, and many of these
extremely beautiful amatory poems, somewhat free in _motif_ or
treatment, have been excluded as not fulfilling the precise requirements
of the present collection; these were more appropriate grouped in a
volume by themselves.
A few translations only have been admitted; the satisfactory translation
of verse being an art by itself, demanding special qualifications
possessed only by the few. But though it is not often that a rendition
does not suffer when compared with its original, it is equally true that
in some hands a transcription may equal if not surpass its prototype.
Witness, for example, Mr. Andrew Lang’s graceful stanzas entitled “An
Old Tune,” adapted from Gérard de Nerval’s dreamy _Fantaisie_, and which
although very closely rendered fully equal the original in colour and
fragrance, while surpassing it in melodiousness and rhythm. Nearly as
much might be said of Mr. Edmund Gosse’s version of Théophile de Viau’s
lovely sonnet, _Au moins ay-ie songé que ie vous ay baisée_, as also of
the late Thomas Ashe’s phrasing of _Ma vie a son secret, mon âme a son
mystère_, which has been so variously rendered by various translators.
With Waller’s “Go, lovely rose,” Herrick’s “Gather ye roses,” Ford’s
“There is a lady sweet and kind,” and many another harmonious measure of
Lily, Lodge, Lovelace, Campion, Carew, and the rest of them ringing in
our ears, what comparison shall be made with the modern laureates of
love? Whether the latter indeed chant as sweetly as the Elizabethan
meistersingers and their successors under the Restoration, is a question
it were perhaps wiser to pass, from lack of space to dwell upon, leaving
the reader to form his own opinion. There are those who hold to the
contrary; there are others who in the best of existent love-poetry find
conceits as colourful, rhythm as resonant, and inspiration as melodious
as is still echoed from the sweetest strains of the Elizabethan lyre.
Rather, to each let that merit be accorded which is its due. The old
songs, like all truly beautiful things of eld, possess the puissant
stamp of endurance and the approval of the centuries, added to that
indefinable charm which age alone may impart; the new must yet be
mellowed and adjudged by Time.
It must be remembered, too, that it is the _best_ of the ancient songs
we know and love so well; that if the entire verse of almost any olden
bard be closely scanned, it will be found, in very numerous instances,
of a widely uneven quality, with many a limping line, strained conceit,
or halting measure to offend. Song did not mount to the strain of merle
or mavis, or sing itself in the past with greater ease than is the case
at present. Greater freedom it possessed; and in the method more than in
the matter the chief distinction lies. This distinction between the
past-masters and the bards of the present is deftly set forth by Edmund
Gosse in his poem, “Impression,”--
* * * * *
“If we could dare to write as ill
As some whose voices haunt us still,
Even we, perchance, might call our own
Their deep enchanting undertone.
We are too diffident and nice,
Too learnèd and too overwise,
Too much afraid of faults to be
The flutes of bold sincerity.
For, as this sweet life passes by,
We blink and nod with critic eye;
We’ve no words rude enough to give
Its charm so frank and fugitive.”
* * * * *
The term “ill” which is applied to the ancient versifiers in the above
lines were perhaps better rendered by the qualification “bold.” It is in
this boldness, vigour, and fire that the distinguishing difference
largely consists. And in the striving for new effects, when the present
aims to reproduce the past, these qualities are usually lacking in their
pristine fervour; while the latter-day impressionist and symbolist is
frequently so vague as to be well-nigh unintelligible.
The sentiment underlying the expression of the lyrist of to-day does not
differ materially, after all, from that of his remote predecessor. The
pitch and _timbre_ of modern poetry are somewhat altered, to be sure.
There is less personality, less freedom,--shall I say a certain naïve
grace and spontaneous virility are wanting in existent verse as compared
with Elizabethan song? though in general the latter-day lyrist is the
superior craftsman in rhyme. The most marked variation between the two
periods is that the so-called Elizabethan poets for the most part wrote
their songs to be sung,--“music married to immortal verse.” The lilt and
blitheness of these are individual; and these qualities we are apt to
miss, in their primal grace, in many a love-song of the present.
So far as the prevailing spirit of love itself is concerned, this has
undergone no change, unless that evolved by the natural refining
processes of time. Human nature must be human nature still; and passion
in the human heart exists unaltered in its essence. We may not have
another Herrick, nor may we summon another Tennyson; the breeze of
summer blows not twice alike in its passage through the woodland keys.
But there must always remain new chords to be sounded while the most
potent of verbs remains to be conjugated. The poets pass away, yet Love
is ever new; and so long as the seasons endure and new days dawn, the
tuneful choir will chant in infinite variation,--
“Methinks no leaf would ever bud in spring,
But for the lovers’ lips that kiss, the poets’ lips that sing.”
The darts of Eros’ quiver are just as numerous and deftly feathered as
of yore. Only there are more hearts to hit, with proportionally more
registrars to chronicle the passage of his shafts. Still, as of old, the
exhortation, _Carpe Diem!_ reverberates through the poet’s page; the
rose likewise hath not lost her fragrance, or the violet her perfume;
and still, despite stings and thorns, kisses and favours remain sweet
things.
Writing love-lyrics is less a momentous occupation now than in the times
of doublet and hose. It is fair to assume, notwithstanding, that many a
charming fantasy in verse, many an ethereal flight winged from modern
lover to modern mistress, never sees the light of the printed page, as
was far less the case in ancient days; but remains inviolate with the
person by whom it was inspired. Could we obtain access to many
passionate apostrophes that exist but in manuscript alone, cherished or
known only by the sender and recipient, what a fragrant garland were
ours!
Recurring to the comparison already touched upon, Cupid and Campaspe
have not ceased to play their game of cards; while the admonition to
Lesbia to “live and love” will continue to be current coin amid the
“golden cadences” of all time. For,
“What to him is snow or rime,
Who calls his love his own?”
It were difficult, in truth, to wrest from Waller his “girdle” of
immortal fame, or for any twentieth-century laureate to excel Jonson’s
spirited pledge, “To Celia,” or to vie with the sublime strain of
Herrick’s “Bid me to live.” And who shall surpass the delicate lacelike
grace of Lodge’s “Love in my bosom like a bee,” “My bonny lass! thine
eye,” and his still more impassioned rendition of the charms of
“Rosalind”?
Who, too, shall outsoar the plumèd flight of Heywood’s “Pack clouds
away,” or transcend the birdlike carol of Davenant, “The lark now leaves
his wat’ry nest”? And where shall we look for a rival to Marvell’s “Had
we but world enough and time,” or the music and dainty conceit of
Carew’s “Ask me no more where Jove bestows”? These, and how many, many
more, pulsate with the sweetness and plaintiveness of a zither touched
by master fingers. Reading them as they attune and chant themselves
despite the lapse of centuries, they recall the picture Glapthorne so
vividly depicts of a _Gentleman playing on the Lute_:--
“Whose numerous fingers whiter farre
Than Venus swans or ermines are
Wag’d | 1,591.847487 |
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Produced by David Schaal and PG Distributed Proofreaders
[Transcriber's note: The inconsistent orthography of the original is
retained in this etext.]
THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES of NILS
by
SELMA LAGERLOeF
TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH
BY VELMA SWANSTON HOWARD
CONTENTS
The Boy
Akka from Kebnekaise
The Wonderful Journey of Nils
Glimminge Castle
The Great Crane Dance on Kullaberg
In Rainy Weather
The Stairway with the Three Steps
By Ronneby River
Karlskrona
The Trip to Oeland
Oeland's Southern Point
The Big Butterfly
Little Karl's Island
Two Cities
The Legend of Smaland
The Crows
The Old Peasant Woman
From Taberg to Huskvarna
The Big Bird Lake
Ulvasa-Lady
The Homespun Cloth
The Story of Karr and Grayskin
The Wind Witch
The Breaking Up of the Ice
Thumbietot and the Bears
The Flood
Dunfin
Stockholm
Gorgo the Eagle
On Over Gaestrikland
A Day in Haelsingland
In Medelpad
A Morning in Angermanland
Westbottom and Lapland
Osa, the Goose Girl, and Little Mats
With the Laplanders
Homeward Bound
Legends from Haerjedalen
Vermland and Dalsland
The Treasure on the Island
The Journey to Vemminghoeg
Home at Last
The Parting with the Wild Geese
_Some of the purely geographical matter in the Swedish original of the
"Further Adventures of Nils" has been eliminated from the English
version.
The author has rendered valuable assistance in cutting certain chapters
and abridging others. Also, with the author's approval, cuts have been
made where the descriptive matter was merely of local interest.
But the story itself is intact.
V.S.H_.
THE BOY
THE ELF
_Sunday, March twentieth_.
Once there was a boy. He was--let us say--something like fourteen years
old; long and loose-jointed and towheaded. He wasn't good for much, that
boy. His chief delight was to eat and sleep; and after that--he liked
best to make mischief.
It was a Sunday morning and the boy's parents were getting ready to go
to church. The boy sat on the edge of the table, in his shirt sleeves,
and thought how lucky it was that both father and mother were going
away, and the coast would be clear for a couple of hours. "Good! Now I
can take down pop's gun and fire off a shot, without anybody's meddling
interference," he said to himself.
But it was almost as if father should have guessed the boy's thoughts,
for just as he was on the threshold--ready to start--he stopped short,
and turned toward the boy. "Since you won't come to church with mother
and me," he said, "the least you can do, is to read the service at home.
Will you promise to do so?" "Yes," said the boy, "that I can do easy
enough." And he thought, of course, that he wouldn't read any more than
he felt like reading.
The boy thought that never had he seen his mother so persistent. In a
second she was over by the shelf near the fireplace, and took down
Luther's Commentary and laid it on the table, in front of the
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BARTLEBY, THE SCRIVENER.
A STORY OF WALL-STREET.
I am a rather elderly man. The nature of my avocations for the last
thirty years has brought me into more than ordinary contact with what
would seem an interesting and somewhat singular set of men, of whom as
yet nothing that I know of has ever been written:--I mean the
law-copyists or scriveners. I have known very many of them,
professionally and privately, and if I pleased, could relate divers
histories, at which good-natured gentlemen might smile, and sentimental
souls might weep. But I waive the biographies of all other scriveners
for a few passages in the life of Bartleby, who was a scrivener of the
strangest I ever saw or heard of. While of other law-copyists I might
write the complete life, of Bartleby nothing of that sort can be done.
I believe that no materials exist for a full and satisfactory biography
of this man. It is an irreparable loss to literature. Bartleby was one
of those beings of whom nothing is ascertainable, except from the
original sources, and in his case those are very small. What my own
astonished eyes saw of Bartleby, _that_ is all I know of him, except,
indeed, one vague report which will appear in the sequel.
Ere introducing the scrivener, as he first appeared to me, it is fit I
make some mention of myself, my _employees_, my business, my chambers,
and general surroundings; because some such description is indispensable
to an adequate understanding of the chief character about to be
presented.
Imprimis: I am a man who, from his youth upwards, has been filled with
a profound conviction that the easiest way of life is the best. Hence,
though I belong to a profession proverbially energetic and nervous, even
to turbulence, at times, yet nothing of that sort have I ever suffered
to invade my peace. I am one of those unambitious lawyers who never
addresses a jury, or in any way draws down public applause; but in the
cool tranquility of a snug retreat, do a snug business among rich men's
bonds and mortgages and title-deeds. All who know me, consider me an
eminently _safe_ man. The late John Jacob Astor, a personage little
given to poetic enthusiasm, had no hesitation in pronouncing my first
grand point to be prudence; my next, method. I do not speak it in
vanity, but simply record the fact, that I was not unemployed in my
profession by the late John Jacob Astor; a name which, I admit, I love
to repeat, for it hath a rounded and orbicular sound to it, and rings
like unto bullion. I will freely add, that I was not insensible to the
late John Jacob Astor's good opinion.
Some time prior to the period at which this little history begins, my
avocations had been largely increased. The good old office, now extinct
in the State of New York, of a Master in Chancery, had been conferred
upon me. It was not a very arduous office, but very pleasantly
remunerative. I seldom lose my temper; much more seldom indulge in
dangerous indignation at wrongs and outrages; but I must be permitted to
be rash here and declare, that I consider the sudden and violent
abrogation of the office of Master in Chancery, by the new Constitution,
as a--premature act; inasmuch as I had counted upon a life-lease of the
profits, whereas I only received those of a few short years. But this
is by the way.
My chambers were up stairs at No.--Wall-street. At one end they looked
upon the white wall of the interior of a spacious sky-light shaft,
penetrating the building from top to bottom. This view might have been
considered rather tame than otherwise, deficient in what landscape
painters call "life." But if so, the view from the other end of my
chambers offered, at least, a contrast, if nothing more. In that
direction my windows commanded an unobstructed view of a lofty brick
wall, black by age and everlasting shade; which wall required no
spy-glass to bring out its lurking beauties, but for the benefit of all
near-sighted spectators, was pushed up to within ten feet of my window
panes. Owing to the great height of the surrounding buildings, and my
chambers being on the second floor, the interval between this wall and
mine not a little resembled a huge square cistern.
At the period just preceding the advent of Bartleby, I had two persons
as copyists in my employment, and a promising lad as an office-boy.
First, Turkey; second, Nippers; third, Ginger Nut. These may seem
names, the like of which are not usually found in the Directory. In
truth they were nicknames, mutually conferred upon each other by my
three clerks, and were deemed expressive of their respective persons or
characters. Turkey was a short, pursy Englishman of about my own age,
that is, somewhere not far from sixty. In the morning, one might say,
his face was of a fine florid hue, but after twelve o'clock,
meridian--his dinner hour--it blazed like a grate full of Christmas
coals; and continued blazing--but, as it were, with a gradual wane--till
6 o'clock, P.M. or thereabouts, after which I saw no more of the
proprietor of the face, which gaining its meridian with the sun, seemed
to set with it, to rise, culminate, and decline the following day, with
the like regularity and undiminished glory. There are many singular
coincidences I have known in the course of my life, not the least among
which was the fact, that exactly when Turkey displayed his fullest beams
from his red and radiant countenance, just then, too, at that critical
moment, began the daily period when I considered his business capacities
as seriously disturbed for the remainder of the twenty-four hours. Not
that he was absolutely idle, or averse to business then; far from it.
The difficulty was, he was apt to be altogether too energetic. There
was a strange, inflamed, flurried, flighty recklessness of activity
about him. He would be incautious in dipping his pen into his inkstand.
All his blots upon my documents, were dropped there after twelve
o'clock, meridian. Indeed, not only would he be reckless and sadly
given to making blots in the afternoon, but some days he went further,
and was rather noisy. At such times, too, his face flamed with
augmented blazonry, as if cannel coal had been heaped on anthracite. He
made an unpleasant racket with his chair; spilled his sand-box; in
mending his pens, impatiently split them all to pieces, and threw them
on the floor in a sudden passion; stood up and leaned over his table,
boxing his papers about in a most indecorous manner, very sad to behold
in an elderly man like him. Nevertheless, as he was in many ways a most
valuable person to me, and all the time before twelve o'clock, meridian,
was the quickest, steadiest creature too, accomplishing a great deal of
work in a style not easy to be matched--for these reasons, I was willing
to overlook his eccentricities, though indeed, occasionally, I
remonstrated with him. I did this very gently, however, because, though
the civilest, nay, the blandest and most reverential of men in the
morning, yet in the afternoon he was disposed, upon provocation, to be
slightly rash with his tongue, in fact, insolent. Now, valuing his
morning services as I did, and resolved not to lose them; yet, at the
same time made uncomfortable by his inflamed ways after twelve o'clock;
and being a man of peace, unwilling by my admonitions to call forth
unseemly retorts from him; I took upon me, one Saturday noon (he was
always worse on Saturdays), to hint to him, very kindly, that perhaps
now that he was growing old, it might be well to abridge his labors; in
short, he need not come to my chambers after twelve o'clock, but, dinner
over, had best go home to his lodgings and rest himself till teatime.
But no; he insisted upon his afternoon devotions. His countenance
became intolerably fervid, as he oratorically assured me--gesticulating
with a long ruler at the other end of the room--that if his services in
the morning were useful, how indispensable, then, in the afternoon?
"With submission, sir," said Turkey on this occasion, "I consider myself
your right-hand man. In the morning I but marshal and deploy my
columns; but in the afternoon I put myself at their head, and gallantly
charge the foe, thus!"--and he made a violent thrust with the ruler.
"But the blots, Turkey," intimated I.
"True,--but, with submission, sir, behold these hairs! I am getting
old. Surely, sir, a blot or two of a warm afternoon is not to be
severely urged against gray hairs. Old age--even if it blot the
page--is honorable. With submission, sir, we _both_ are getting old."
This appeal to my fellow-feeling was hardly to be resisted. At all
events, I saw that go he would not. So I made up my mind to let him
stay, resolving, nevertheless, to see to it, that during the afternoon
he had to do with my less important papers.
Nippers, the second on my list, was a whiskered, sallow, and, upon the
whole, rather piratical-looking young man of about five and twenty. I
always deemed him the victim of two evil powers--ambition and
indigestion. The ambition was evinced by a certain impatience of the
duties of a mere copyist, an unwarrantable usurpation of strictly
professional affairs, such as the original drawing up of legal
documents. The indigestion seemed betokened in an occasional nervous
testiness and grinning irritability, causing the teeth to audibly grind
together over mistakes committed in copying; unnecessary maledictions,
hissed, rather than spoken, in the heat of business; and especially by a
continual discontent with the height of the table where he worked.
Though of a very ingenious mechanical turn, Nippers could never get this
table to suit him. He put chips under it, blocks of various sorts, bits
of pasteboard, and at last went so far as to attempt an exquisite
adjustment by final pieces of folded blotting paper. But no invention
would answer. If, for the sake of easing his back, he brought the table
lid at a sharp angle well up towards his chin, and wrote there like a
man using the steep roof of a Dutch house for his desk:--then he
declared that it stopped the circulation in his arms. If now he lowered
the table to his waistbands, and stooped over it in writing, then there
was a sore aching in his back. In short, the truth of the matter was,
Nippers knew not what he wanted. Or, if he wanted any thing, it was to
be rid of a scrivener's table altogether. Among the manifestations of
his diseased ambition was a fondness he had for receiving visits from
certain ambiguous-looking fellows in seedy coats, whom he called his
clients. Indeed I was aware that not only was he, at times,
considerable of a ward-politician, but he occasionally did a little
business at the Justices' courts, and was not unknown on the steps of
the Tombs. I have good reason to believe, however, that one individual
who called upon him at my chambers, and who, with a grand air, he
insisted was his client, was no other than a dun, and the alleged
title-deed, a bill. But with all his failings, and the annoyances he
caused me, Nippers, like his compatriot Turkey, was a very useful man to
me; wrote a neat, swift hand; and, when he chose, was not deficient in a
gentlemanly sort of deportment. Added to this, he always dressed in a
gentlemanly sort of way; and so, incidentally, reflected credit upon my
chambers. Whereas with respect to Turkey, I had much ado to keep him
from being a reproach to me. His clothes were apt to look oily and
smell of eating-houses. He wore his pantaloons very loose and baggy in
summer. His coats were execrable; his hat not to be handled. But while
the hat was a thing of indifference to me, inasmuch as his natural
civility and deference, as a dependent Englishman, always led him to
doff it the moment he entered the room, yet his coat was another matter.
Concerning his coats, I reasoned with him; but with no effect. The
truth was, I suppose, that a man of so small an income, could not afford
to sport such a lustrous face and a lustrous coat at one and the same
time. As Nippers once observed, Turkey's money went chiefly for red
ink. One winter day I presented Turkey with a highly-respectable
looking coat of my own, a padded gray coat, of a most comfortable
warmth, and which buttoned straight up from the knee to the neck. I
thought Turkey would appreciate the favor, and abate his rashness and
obstreperousness of afternoons. But no. I verily believe that
buttoning himself up in so downy and blanket-like a coat had a
pernicious effect upon him; upon the same principle that too much oats
are bad for horses. In fact, precisely as a rash, restive horse is said
to feel his oats, so Turkey felt his coat. It made him insolent. He
was a man whom prosperity harmed.
Though concerning the self-indulgent habits of Turkey I had my own
private surmises, yet touching Nippers I was well persuaded | 1,592.746122 |
2023-11-16 18:43:36.7293500 | 4,554 | 16 |
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[Illustration]
A Sketch
=.. of how..=
“The Diamond Anthem”
=was sung around the world=
=through the Colonies of the Empire=
=on the 20th June, 1897=
THE 60TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE ACCESSION DAY
OF HER MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA
Being an extract from the Annual Report of
The Supreme Grand President of the Sons of England,
given at St. Catharines, Canada, 8th March, 1898.
TORONTO
THE ROBINSON-ARBUTHNOT PRESS
1898
TIME TABLE FOR SERVICES AROUND THE WORLD.
An interval will be arranged in the regular afternoon service to
allow of the National Anthem being commenced at 4 p.m., or in
Australia and Canada at the exact Standard Time stated; this
being the equivalent of the moment the sun is passing the place
at 4 p.m. Sun Time.
─────────────────────────┬────────────┬──────────────────
DAY COMMENCES AT LONG. │ Standard │Time at the Heart
180. │ Time. │ of the
│ │ Empire—Windsor
│ │ Castle
─────────────────────────┼────────────┼──────────────────
│ P.M. │ A.M.
│ 20th. │ 20th.
FIJI ISLANDS │ 4.00 │ 4.05
│ │
NEW ZEALAND: │ │
Napier │ 4.00 │ 4.20
Auckland │ 4.00 │ 4.21
│ │
AUSTRALIA: │ │
Sydney │ 3.55 │ 5.55
Hobart │ 4.11 │ 6.11
Melbourne │ 4.20 │ 6.20
Adelaide │ 3.46 │ 6.46
Perth │ 4.16 │ 8.16
│ │
MAURITIUS: │ │ P.M.
St. Louis │ 4.00 │ 12.10
│ │
SOUTH AFRICA: │ │
Durban (Port Natal) │ " │ 1.56
Addington │ .... │ 1.57
East London │ " │ 2.08
King William’s Town │ " │ 2.11
Graham’s Town │ " │ 2.14
Port Elizabeth │ " │ 2.18
Uitenage │ " │ 2.19
Cape Town │ " │ 2.46
│ │
WEST AFRICA: │ │
St. Helena │ " │ 4.23
Sierra Leone │ " │ 4.53
Ascension │ " │ 4.58
│ │
MID-ATLANTIC: │ │
British Ships at sea │ .... │ ....
│ │
NEWFOUNDLAND: │ │
St. John │ " │ 7.31
│ │
CANADA: │ │
CAPE BRETON— │ │
Sydney │ 4.01 │ 8.01
PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND— │ │
Charlottetown │ 4.12 │ 8.12
NOVA SCOTIA— │ │
New Glasgow │ 4.10 │ 8.10
Truro │ 4.13 │ 8.13
Halifax │ 4.14 │ 8.14
Springhill │ 4.17 │ 8.17
Windsor │ 4.17 │ 8.17
Digby │ 4.23 │ 8.23
Yarmouth │ 4.24 │ 8.24
NEW BRUNSWICK— │ │
Moncton │ 3.20 │ 8.20
St. John │ 3.24 │ 8.24
Fredericton │ 3.27 │ 8.27
Stanley │ .... │ ....
Woodstock │ 3.30 │ 8.30
QUEBEC— │ │
Sherbrooke │ 3.48 │ 8.48
Lennoxville │ 3.48 │ 8.48
Richmond │ 3.49 │ 8.49
Quebec │ 3.50 │ 8.50
Montreal │ 3.54 │ 8.54
ONTARIO— │ │
Cornwall │ 3.59 │ 8.59
Ottawa │ 4.03 │ 9.03
Brockville │ 4.03 │ 9.03
Carleton Place │ 4.04 │ 9.04
Smith’s Falls │ 4.04 │ 9.04
Almonte │ 4.05 │ 9.05
Arnprior │ 4.05 │ 9.05
Gananoque │ 4.06 │ 9.06
Kingston │ 4.07 │ 9.07
Renfrew │ 4.07 │ 9.07
Pembroke │ 4.08 │ 9.08
Deseronto │ 4.09 │ 9.09
Belleville │ 4.10 │ 9.10
Peterborough │ 4.13 │ 9.13
Port Hope │ 4.13 │ 9.13
Bowmanville │ 4.14 │ 9.14
Burke’s Falls │ 4.15 │ 9.15
Lindsay │ 4.15 │ 9.15
Oshawa │ 4.15 │ 9.15
Whitby │ 4.16 │ 9.16
Huntsville │ 4.17 │ 9.17
Bracebridge │ 4.17 │ 9.17
Orillia │ 4.18 │ 9.18
Toronto │ 4.18 │ 9.18
St. Catharines │ 4.18 │ 9.18
Barrie and Allandale │ 4.19 │ 9.19
Rosseau │ 4.19 │ 9.19
Grimsby │ 4.19 │ 9.19
Hamilton │ 4.20 │ 9.20
Orangeville │ 4.20 │ 9.20
Collingwood │ 4.21 │ 9.21
Guelph │ 4.21 │ 9.21
Brantford │ 4.21 │ 9.21
Simcoe │ 4.21 │ 9.21
Paris │ 4.22 │ 9.22
Woodstock │ 4.23 │ 9.23
Sudbury │ 4.24 │ 9.24
Aylmer │ 4.24 │ 9.24
Stratford │ 4.24 │ 9.24
Owen Sound │ 4.24 │ 9.24
St. Thomas │ 4.25 │ 9.25
London │ 4.26 │ 9.26
Goderich │ 4.27 │ 9.27
Petrolea │ 4.28 │ 9.28
Chatham │ 4.29 │ 9.29
Sarnia │ 4.30 │ 9.30
Windsor │ 4.32 │ 9.32
Port Arthur │ 3.57 │ 9.57
Fort William │ 3.57 │ 9.57
Rat Portage │ 4.18 │ 10.18
MANITOBA AND NORTHWEST │ │
TERRITORIES— │ │
Winnipeg │ 4.28 │ 10.28
Carman │ 4.32 │ 10.32
Brandon │ 3.40 │ 10.40
Virden │ 3.43 │ 10.43
Russell │ 3.45 │ 10.45
Moosomin │ 3.46 │ 10.46
Regina │ 3.58 │ 10.58
Moose Jaw │ 4.02 │ 11.02
Medicine Hat │ 4.22 │ 11.22
Calgary │ 4.26 │ 11.36
Banff │ 4.49 │ 11.49
BRITISH COLUMBIA— │ │
Donald │ 3.49 │ 11.49
Revelstoke │ 3.53 │ 11.53
Vernon │ 3.57 │ 11.57
│ │ A.M.,
│ │ 21st.
New Westminster │ 4.12 │ 12.12
Vancouver │ 4.12 │ 12.12
Victoria │ 4.13 │ 12.13
│ │
PACIFIC OCEAN: │ │
British Ships at sea │ .... │ ....
│ │
─────────────────────────┴────────────┴──────────────────
=THE SONS OF ENGLAND=
=Diamond Jubilee Services Around=
=the World,=
=Sunday, 20th June, 1897.=
Being an extract from the Annual Report of the Supreme Grand President
of the Sons of England, given at St. Catharines,
Canada, 8th March, 1898.
18. It has been my happy lot to be the President of the Sons of England
during the record year of Her Majesty’s reign, an epoch year in the
history of our British Empire, and it has given me the intensest
pleasure to devote whatever power lay within me toward sustaining the
loyal sentiments which have been evoked in so remarkable a degree.
The Foreign nations were amazed at the wondrous attachment with which
the subjects of Queen Victoria, at home and all over the world, joined
in rejoicing over her welfare, and in attesting their loyalty to her
person and her Crown, but the Jubilee home-coming was a revelation also
to the people of the Home Land, who found thus vividly brought before
their eyes the marvellous area over which our fathers and we who had
emigrated from her shores, have spread her power, and at last have
seemed to “understand” how real is the blood union existing between the
Sons who have gone out into the world, and the Brothers who have
remained at home.
Summoned by the magic call of the Empress Queen, “Greater Britain” has
suddenly stepped forward on the field as an actual and integral part of
her Realm and Empire.
In accordance with the instructions of the Supreme Grand Lodge at
Brantford, an address, most beautifully and appropriately illuminated,
was forwarded to Her Majesty conveying our devotion, and stating the
belief “that the personality of the Crown is the strongest and most
stable bond of union between the millions of people who spread in a
world-embracing circle around the old Home-Kingdom, delight in proving
faithful allegiance, and doing loyal service.”
Our Society also joined heartily with all other societies in testifying
together with them our united affection and loyalty upon the 22nd of
June, the officially appointed Jubilee day.
It seemed to me, however, that the Sons of England owed it to their
Queen, and earnestly desired to do something more, and I therefore
organized the “_Jubilee Service of a continuous anthem around the
world_,” to take place on Sunday, the 20th of June, the actual
anniversary day of Her Majesty’s accession.
The idea when first mooted met with immediate acceptance as a happy
conception, but many doubts were expressed as to the possibility of its
being actually accomplished, for it seemed to the faint-hearted almost
an impossibility to arrange for a connecting line of services, which
should take place in succession around the whole circle of the earth for
the space of twenty-four hours. Yet I have much pleasure in informing
Supreme Grand Lodge that the “_continuous Anthem and Prayer offered_,”
as stated in the Official Circular issued by me on the 8th April, “_as
the loyal and affectionate tribute of the Sons of England to their
Gracious Queen upon the Diamond Jubilee of her accession to the
Throne_,” has been carried out in actual fact, and in completest detail.
It is not possible within the limits of this report to give more than a
sketch, but some record is due of a “service” which was so universally
and ardently adopted, which is absolutely unique in history, and which,
moreover, is one capable of being carried out only by our nation, upon
whose Sovereign’s dominions the sun never sets.
The intention was that commencing from the hour of 4.05 in the morning
at Windsor Castle on the 20th of June, the Sons in the Colonies should
join in a world-wide carol, and encircle their Queen with the continuous
singing of the National Anthem all through the hours of that great day
of her life, and on through the night until daylight the next morning.
On the opposite side of the world from the Heart of the Empire at
Windsor Castle are the _Fiji Islands_, the colony situate nearest to
longitude 180, where it is 4 o’clock in the afternoon at the same moment
at which it is 4 o’clock in the morning of the same day in England at
Greenwich.
The problem was therefore to have the National Anthem commenced in Fiji
at the beginning of Her Majesty’s day, and sung thereafter precisely at
4 p.m., as the sun arrived at that moment in succession over each place
in the Colonies, and passed onwards around the world.
A form of service was devised suitable for any Sunday afternoon service,
to commence at 3.30, in which the National Anthem should be sung at the
appointed moment of 4 o’clock.
Full descriptive circulars, forms of service, and a time-table of
longitudes, prepared by the Meteorological Department of Canada, and
showing the meridian or sun time at each place, were sent in multitude
to friends and correspondents in every Colony and Dependency owning
allegiance to the Union Jack.
With the co-operation of the Right Rev. The Bishop of Toronto, who is a
member of our Order, communications were opened up with all the Colonial
bishops and clergy, and their services were enlisted. Patriotic
societies and the secretaries of the Royal Colonial Institute were asked
by me to assist. Letters were sent to the captains of every British
passenger ship which would be at sea on the 20th of June, asking them to
sing the Anthem, fire a gun, and note the position of their ship at 4
p.m. on that day.
Our own brethren in Newfoundland and Canada and patriots in the United
States took the service up with energy and enthusiasm. The Sons of
England in South Africa answered with alacrity, Australia and New
Zealand joined in heartily, and thus, by prompt and efficient action,
the organization was completed and ready for the eventful day. Copies of
the time-table were sent to Her Majesty, by reference to which it could
be seen at any hour how far the Anthem had proceeded on its way and in
what colony it was at any moment being sung.
In acknowledging receipt the Colonial Secretary, The Right Hon. Joseph
Chamberlain, says to His Excellency Lord Aberdeen: “I have the honour to
acknowledge the receipt of your dispatch of the 24th April with its
enclosures on the subject of the Continuous Service around the World
which is being arranged by the Sons of England in commemoration of the
60th Anniversary of the Queen’s Accession to the Throne. I have to
inform you that, in accordance with your request, the matter has been
brought before the notice of the Queen, and that Her Majesty was
graciously pleased to express her sincere appreciation of the loyal
feelings that have prompted this interesting method of Commemoration.”
The 20th of June came and the Anthem passed around the world.
Reports and letters kept coming in month after month in reply to my
request and giving an account of the proceedings held in each place. A
few extracts only can be give here as samples of many hundreds of
similar character which have been received from the continuous line now
recorded around the world.
The service commenced on Sunday afternoon 20th June in Levuka, Fiji
Islands. Dr. Garner Jones, headmaster of the Levuka Public Schools,
writes: “Owing to geographical position—viz., 178.51 E. long.—the
inhabitants of Levuka, Fiji Islands, enjoyed the unique honor of
initiating “The Wave of Song” that hailed the Jubilee (Diamond) of Her
Majesty’s Ascension, a wave which travelled from colony to colony in
order of longitude, encircling the entire globe.”
“The service was an open air one, being held in the Government school
grounds, Rev. W. Floyd, vicar of the Episcopal English Church
officiating. The attendance was large and included representatives of
various races who claim Her Majesty as their Sovereign. English, Scotch,
Irish, Australian and New Zealand Colonials, Chinese, Germans, Swedes,
among whom the characteristic bushy hair of the Fijian and other South
Sea Islanders was prominent, there found themselves shoulder to shoulder
in the antipodes of the British Empire earnestly rolling forth our grand
old National Anthem, thus giving the keynote of thanksgiving to the
entire world. The Masons and Odd Fellows appeared in regalia and the
Levuka brass band was in attendance. Surrounding the main body of the
assembly were the Levuka school boys, drawn up with their wooden rifles
at the “Order.”
“Punctually at five minutes to 4 o’clock the procession of choristers
left their temporary vestry and slowly approached their stand. At 4
o’clock precisely, meridian time, the British Ensign was hoisted, which
was the pre-arranged signal, the band immediately struck up and every
throat commenced ‘God Save the Queen | 1,592.74939 |
2023-11-16 18:43:36.7348210 | 2,889 | 7 |
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Helena's Path
_By_
ANTHONY HOPE
AUTHOR OF DOUBLE HARNESS
TRISTRAM OF BLENT
ETC.
[Illustration]
GARDEN CITY NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1912
_Copyright, 1907, by Anthony Hope Hawkins_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I AMBROSE, LORD LYNBOROUGH 3
II LARGELY TOPOGRAPHICAL 15
III OF LAW AND NATURAL RIGHTS 33
IV THE MESSAGE OF A PADLOCK 52
V THE BEGINNING OF WAR 70
VI EXERCISE BEFORE BREAKFAST 90
VII ANOTHER WEDGE! 110
VIII THE MARCHESA MOVES 127
IX LYNBOROUGH DROPS A CATCH 148
X IN THE LAST RESORT 171
XI AN ARMISTICE 186
XII AN EMBASSAGE 206
XIII THE FEAST OF ST. JOHN BAPTIST 223
HELENA'S PATH
_Chapter One_
AMBROSE, LORD LYNBOROUGH
Common opinion said that Lord Lynborough ought never to have had a
peerage and forty thousand a year; he ought to have had a pound a week
and a back bedroom in Bloomsbury. Then he would have become an eminent
man; as it was, he turned out only a singularly erratic individual.
So much for common opinion. Let no more be heard of its dull utilitarian
judgements! There are plenty of eminent men--at the moment, it is
believed, no less than seventy Cabinet and ex-Cabinet Ministers (or
thereabouts)--to say nothing of Bishops, Judges, and the British
Academy,--and all this in a nook of the world! (And the world too is a
point!) Lynborough was something much more uncommon; it is not, however,
quite easy to say what. Let the question be postponed; perhaps the story
itself will answer it.
He started life--or was started in it--in a series of surroundings of
unimpeachable orthodoxy--Eton, Christ Church, the Grenadier Guards. He
left each of these schools of mental culture and bodily discipline, not
under a cloud--that metaphor would be ludicrously inept--but in an
explosion. That, having been thus shot out of the first, he managed to
enter the second--that, having been shot out of the second, he walked
placidly into the third--that, having been shot out of the third, he
suffered no apparent damage from his repeated propulsions--these are
matters explicable only by a secret knowledge of British institutions.
His father was strong, his mother came of stock even stronger; he
himself--Ambrose Caverly as he then was--was very popular, and
extraordinarily handsome in his unusual outlandish style.
His father being still alive--and, though devoted to him, by now
apprehensive of his doings--his means were for the next few years
limited. Yet he contrived to employ himself. He took a soup-kitchen and
ran it; he took a yacht and sank it; he took a public-house, ruined it,
and got himself severely fined for watering the beer in the Temperance
interest. This injustice rankled in him deeply, and seems to have
permanently influenced his development. For a time he forsook
the world and joined a sect of persons who called themselves
"Theo-philanthropists"--and surely no man could call himself much more
than that? Returning to mundane affairs, he refused to pay his rates,
stood for Parliament in the Socialist interest, and, being defeated,
declared himself a practical follower of Count Tolstoi. His father
advising a short holiday, he went off and narrowly escaped being shot
somewhere in the Balkans, owing to his having taken too keen an interest
in local politics. (He ought to have been shot; he was clear--and even
vehement--on that point in a letter which he wrote to _The Times_.) Then
he sent for Leonard Stabb, disappeared in company with that gentleman,
and was no more seen for some years.
He could always send for Stabb, so faithful was that learned student's
affection for him. A few years Ambrose Caverly's senior, Stabb had
emerged late and painfully from a humble origin and a local grammar
school, had gone up to Oxford as a non-collegiate man, had gained a
first-class and a fellowship, and had settled down to a life of
research. Early in his career he became known by the sobriquet of
"Cromlech Stabb"--even his unlearned friends would call him "Cromlech"
oftener than by any other name. His elaborate monograph on cromlechs had
earned him the title; subsequently he extended his researches to other
relics of ancient religions--or ancient forms of religion, as he always
preferred to put it; "there being," he would add, with the simplicity of
erudition beaming through his spectacles on any auditor, orthodox or
other, "of course, only one religion." He was a very large stout man;
his spectacles were large too. He was very strong, but by no means
mobile. Ambrose's father regarded Stabb's companionship as a certain
safeguard to his heir. The validity of this idea is doubtful. Students
have so much curiosity--and so many diverse scenes and various types of
humanity can minister to that appetite of the mind.
Occasional rumors about Ambrose Caverly reached his native shores; he
was heard of in Morocco, located in Spain, familiar in North and in
South America. Once he was not heard of for a year; his father and
friends concluded that he must be dead--or in prison. Happily the latter
explanation proved correct. Once more he and the law had come to
loggerheads; when he emerged from confinement he swore never to employ
on his own account an instrument so hateful.
"A gentleman should fight his own battles, Cromlech," he cried to his
friend. "I did no more than put a bullet in his arm--in a fair
encounter--and he let me go to prison!"
"Monstrous!" Stabb agreed with a smile. He had passed the year in a
dirty little inn by the prison gate--among scoundrels, but fortunately
in the vicinity of some mounds distinctly prehistoric.
Old Lord Lynborough's death occurred suddenly and unexpectedly, at a
moment when Ambrose and his companion could not be found. They were
somewhere in Peru--Stabb among the Incas, Ambrose probably in less
ancient company. It was six months before the news reached them.
"I must go home and take up my responsibilities, Cromlech," said the new
Lord Lynborough.
"You really think you'd better?" queried Stabb doubtfully.
"It was my father's wish."
"Oh, well--! But you'll be thought odd over there, Ambrose."
"Odd? I odd? What the deuce is there odd about me, Cromlech?"
"Everything." The investigator stuck his cheroot back in his mouth.
Lynborough considered dispassionately--as he fain would hope. "I don't
see it."
That was the difficulty. Stabb was well aware of it. A man who is odd,
and knows it, may be proud, but he will be careful; he may swagger, but
he will take precautions. Lynborough had no idea that he was odd; he
followed his nature--in all its impulses and in all its whims--with
equal fidelity and simplicity. This is not to say that he was never
amused at himself; every intelligent observer is amused at himself
pretty often; but he did not doubt merely because he was amused. He took
his entertainment over his own doings as a bonus life offered. A great
sincerity of action and of feeling was his predominant characteristic.
"Besides, if I'm odd," he went on with a laugh, "it won't be noticed.
I'm going to bury myself at Scarsmoor for a couple of years at least.
I'm thinking of writing an autobiography. You'll come with me,
Cromlech?"
"I must be totally undisturbed," Stabb stipulated. "I've a great deal of
material to get into shape."
"There'll be nobody there but myself--and a secretary, I daresay."
"A secretary? What's that for?"
"To write the book, of course."
"Oh, I see," said Stabb, smiling in a slow fat fashion. "You won't write
your autobiography yourself?"
"Not unless I find it very engrossing."
"Well, I'll come," said Stabb.
So home they came--an unusual-looking pair--Stabb with his towering
bulky frame, his big goggles, his huge head with its scanty black locks
encircling a face like a harvest moon--Lynborough, tall, too, but lean
as a lath, with tiny feet and hands, a rare elegance of carriage, a
crown of chestnut hair, a long straight nose, a waving mustache, a chin
pointed like a needle and scarcely thickened to the eye by the
close-cropped, short, pointed beard he wore. His bright hazel eyes
gleamed out from his face with an attractive restlessness that caught
away a stranger's first attention even from the rare beauty of the lines
of his head and face; it was regularity over-refined, sharpened almost
to an outline of itself. But his appearance tempted him to no excesses
of costume; he had always despised that facile path to a barren
eccentricity. On every occasion he wore what all men of breeding were
wearing, yet invested the prescribed costume with the individuality of
his character: this, it seems, is as near as the secret of dressing well
can be tracked.
His manner was not always deemed so free from affectation; it was,
perhaps, a little more self-conscious; it was touched with a foreign
courtliness, and he employed, on occasions of any ceremony or in
intercourse with ladies, a certain formality of speech; it was said of
him by an observant woman that he seemed to be thinking in a language
more ornate and picturesque than his tongue employed. He was content to
say the apt thing, not striving after wit; he was more prone to hide a
joke than to tell it; he would ignore a victory and laugh at a defeat;
yet he followed up the one and never sat down under the other, unless it
were inflicted by one he loved. He liked to puzzle, but took no
conscious pains to amuse.
Thus he returned to his "responsibilities." Cromlech Stabb was wondering
what that dignified word would prove to describe.
_Chapter Two_
LARGELY TOPOGRAPHICAL
Miss Gilletson had been studying the local paper, which appeared every
Saturday and reached Nab Grange on the following morning. She uttered an
exclamation, looked up from her small breakfast-table, and called over
to the Marchesa's small breakfast-table.
"Helena, I see that Lord Lynborough arrived at the Castle on Friday!"
"Did he, Jennie?" returned the Marchesa, with no show of interest. "Have
an egg, Colonel?" The latter words were addressed to her companion at
table, Colonel Wenman, a handsome but bald-headed man of about forty.
"'Lord Lynborough, accompanied by his friend Mr. Leonard Stabb, the
well-known authority on prehistoric remains, and Mr. Roger Wilbraham,
his private secretary. His lordship's household had preceded him to the
Castle.'"
Lady Norah Mountliffey--who sat with Miss Gilletson--was in the habit of
saying what she thought. What she said now was: "Thank goodness!" and
she said it rather loudly.
"You gentlemen haven't been amusing Norah," observed the Marchesa to the
Colonel.
"I hoped that I, at least, was engaged on another task--though, alas, a
harder one!" he answered in a low tone and with a glance of respectful
homage.
"If you refer to me, you've been admirably successful," the Marchesa
assured him graciously--only with the graciousness there mingled that
touch of mockery which always made the Colonel rather ill at ease.
"Amuse" is, moreover, a word rich in shades of meaning.
Miss Gilletson was frowning thoughtfully. "Helena can't call on him--and
I don't suppose he'll call on her," she said to Norah.
"He'll get to know her if he wants to."
"I might call on him," suggested the Colonel. "He was in the service,
you know, and that--er--makes a bond. Queer fellow he was, by Jove!"
Captain Irons and Mr. Stillford came in from riding, late for breakfast.
They completed the party at table, for Violet Dufaure always took the
first meal of the day in bed. Irons | 1,592.754861 |
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RULES
AND
REGULATIONS
OF THE
INSANE ASYLUM OF CALIFORNIA.
PRESCRIBED BY THE RESIDENT PHYSICIAN,
AUGUST 1, 1861.
STOCKTON:
ARMOR & CLAYES, PRINTERS.
1861.
RESIDENT PHYSICIAN.
The Resident Physician, who shall also be the Superintendent, shall be
the chief executive officer of the Asylum; he shall have the general
superintendence of the buildings, grounds, and property, subject to the
laws and regulations of the Trustees; he shall have the sole control and
management of the patients; he shall ascertain their condition, daily
prescribe their treatment, and adopt such sanitary measures as he may
think best; he shall appoint, with the approval of the Trustees, so many
attendants and assistants as he may think proper and necessary for the
economical and efficient performance of the business of the Asylum,
prescribe their several duties and places;--he shall, also, from time to
time, give such orders and instructions as he may judge best calculated
to insure good conduct, fidelity and economy in every department of
labor and expense; and he is authorized and enjoined to maintain
salutary discipline among all who are employed by the Institution, and
uniform obedience to all the rules and regulations of the
Asylum.--[_State Law of 1858._
ASSISTANT PHYSICIAN.
FIRST.
"The Assistant Physician shall perform" the "duties, and be subject to
the responsibility of the Superintendent, in his sickness or absence,
and" he "may call to his aid, for the time being, such medical
assistance, as he may deem necessary"--"and perform such other duties as
may be directed by the Superintendent and prescribed by the
By-Laws."--[_State Law of 1858._
SECOND.
He shall prepare and superintend the administration of medicines, visit
the wards frequently, and carefully note the condition and progress of
individual cases; see that the directions of the Superintendent are
faithfully executed, and promptly report any case of neglect or abuse
that may come under his observation, or of which he may be informed.
THIRD.
He shall assist in devising employment and recreation for the patients,
and endeavor in every way to promote their comfort and recovery; keep
such records of cases as the Superintendent may direct, assist in
preparing statistics, and conducting correspondence, and he shall
perform such other duties of his office as properly belong thereto.
GENERAL RULES.
1. Persons employed in the service of the Asylum will learn that
character, proper deportment, and faithfulness to duty, will alone keep
them in the situations in which they are placed; and they should
consider well, before entering upon service, whether they are prepared
to devote all their time, talents, and efforts, in the discharge of the
duties assigned to them. The Institution will deal in strict good faith
with its employees, and it will expect, in return, prompt, faithful, and
self-denying service.
2. No one can justly take offense when respectfully informed by the
Superintendent, that his or her temperament is better adapted to some
other employment; and those receiving such information should regard it
as kindly given, that they may have opportunity to avoid the
unpleasantness of being discharged.
3. Those employed at the Asylum be expected to hold themselves in
readiness for duty when directed by its officers; and the neglect of any
labor, or duty, on the ground that laboring hours are over, or to
hesitate, after proper direction, on such pretexts, will be regarded as
evidence against the fitness of the employee for the place he or she may
hold.
4. It must be remembered by all the employees, that their duties are
peculiar and confidential, and that there is an obvious impropriety in
disclosing the names, peculiarities, or acts of the inmates. It should
never be forgotten that the most cruel wounds may, by imprudent
disclosures, be inflicted on those whose conduct and language, during
their misfortune, should be covered with the veil of deepest secrecy.
Conversations, in relation to the Asylum and its inmates, sought by the
idle and mischievous, should be studiously avoided.
5. All persons employed in the Asylum are required to cultivate a calm
and deliberate method of performing their daily duties--carelessness and
precipitation being never more out of place than in an insane asylum.
Loud talking, hurrying up and down stairs, rude forms of address to one
another, and unsightly styles of dress, are wholly misplaced where
everything should be strictly decorous and orderly.
6. In the management of patients, unvarying kindness must be strictly
observed by all. When spoken to, mild, pleasant and persuasive language
must never give place to authoritative expressions of any kind. All
threats, taunts, or other kinds of abuse in language, are expressly
forbidden. A blow, kick, or any other kind of physical abuse, inflicted
on a patient, will be immediately followed by the dismissal of the
person so offending.
7. Employees having charge of patients outside of the wards, whether for
labor or exercise, will be held responsible for their safe return,
unless, by the direction of an officer they shall be transferred to the
charge of some other person; and when patients employed out of doors
become excited, they must be immediately returned to the wards whence
they were taken, and the fact reported at the office.
8. It will be expected of all employed in or about the Asylum, to check,
as far as possible, all conversations or allusions, on the part of
patients, to subjects of an obscene or improper nature, and remove, when
in their power, false impressions on their minds, respecting their
confinement or management; and any person who shall discover a patient
devising plans for escape, suicide, or violence to others, is enjoined
to report it to an officer without delay.
9. The place of duty of those having charge of patients is in the wards,
or in the yards, or in the garden with the patients. During the day and
while the patients are out of their sleeping apartments, they have no
business in their rooms, except for a momentary errand to adjust their
own clothing; and any employee who shall enter his or her room, and
engage in reading, writing, entertaining visitors, or be otherwise off
duty, will be acting in violation of rule.
10. The employees are not permitted to correspond with the friends of
patients; and all letters or packages to, or from, patients, must pass
through the hands of the Superintendent or Assistant Physician. All
making of dresses, working of embroidery, or any mechanism, for the use
of employees, is prohibited, unless by the special permission of the
Superintendent; and no employee of the Institution shall ever make any
bargain with any patient, or his or her friends, or accept of any fee,
reward or gratuity from any patient, or his or her friends, without the
Superintendent's consent.
11. Employees will not be permitted to leave the Asylum without the
consent of the Superintendent or Assistant Physician, and, when allowed
to leave, they will be expected to return by 9 o'clock P. M.--unless
expressly permitted to remain out longer. Before leaving they must hang
up their keys in the place, in the office, provided for that purpose.
Non-residents will not be permitted to remain in the Institution at
night without the knowledge and consent of the Superintendent or
Assistant Physician.
12. No person will be employed in or about the Asylum who is intemperate
in habits, or who engages in gambling or any other immoral or
disreputable practice; and as the patients are not allowed the use of
tobacco, within the Asylum, the employees are expected not to use it, in
any form, in their presence.
13. While employees are not prohibited from _occasionally_ visiting each
other in their wards, it should never become a habit, and the indulgence
is only allowed in view of the spirit of emulation, which may thus be
encouraged by sometimes inspecting each other's sphere of duty. When it
is discovered that the permission is abused, or that visits are being
spent in idle conversation, it will be held as a violation of rule.
14. The two departments of the Institution--male and female--must always
be separate to its employees, and no person, whose post of duty is
exclusively in the one, shall ever be permitted to enter the other,
unless some express or proper occasion shall demand it; and any one who
shall discover, and not disclose, or who shall in any way encourage, an
acquaintance between two patients, of opposite sex, will be held highly
culpable for such misdemeanor, and will be forthwith dismissed from
service.
15. No employee will be permitted to appropriate to his or her use any
article belonging to the Asylum, or purchased for the use of the
patients, however small or comparatively valueless it may be. From the
salary of the person so offending, the cost of the article will be
deducted, and he or she dismissed from service.
STEWARD.
1. The Steward shall have a general oversight of the business of the
farm, garden, grounds, fences and buildings; he shall assist in
maintaining the police regulations of the Asylum, observe the deportment
of those employed in subordinate positions, see that they do their duty,
and report to the Superintendent any instance of neglect or misconduct,
that he may observe, or of which he may be informed; he shall see to the
opening and closing of the house; that the employees rise and commence
their duties at the ringing of the bell, and return at proper season at
night; that the bell is rung promptly at such hours as may be
designated, from time to time, by the Superintendent. He shall have a
general care of the male patients, see that they are kindly treated,
that their clothes are taken care of, that their food is properly
cooked, served and distributed, that the rooms, passages and other
apartments are kept clean and properly warmed and ventilated, and that
every thing pertaining to the Asylum property is kept in order and in
good repair.
2. The Steward shall receive and store all provisions, fuel, clothing,
etc. provided by contracts, and, also, all supplies purchased under the
direction of the Superintendent, and he will be held responsible for the
safe-keeping and economical distribution of the same.
3. He shall keep just, accurate and methodical accounts of all articles
received, and all articles purchased by him, together with all
distributions of supplies to the several departments of the
Institution--each and every day's accounts exhibiting, in detail, the
number, quantity weight or measurement, as the nature of the case may
be, of each and every article received, and from whom, and distributed,
and to whom.
4. On the receipt of supplies, whether obtained under contract, or
purchased by order of the Superintendent, the Steward shall require a
bill or invoice of the same, and if, upon a careful examination of the
quality, quantity, weight or measurement of the article or articles,
they shall be found to correspond with the item or items of the bill, he
shall enter the aggregate amount, with the date and number of the
invoice, in a book provided for that purpose, after which he shall
endorse the bill _correct_, and file it, together with an abstract of
his daily disbursements, in the office of the Superintendent.
5. The Steward will be expected to devote his whole time to the
interests of the Institution, assist, in every way in his power, to
preserve order in the house, and faithfulness among the employees, and
see that all the rules and regulations of the Asylum are fully observed.
MATRON.
1. The Matron shall have charge of the female department of the Asylum.
It will be expected of her to be with the female patients, in all the
wards, as much as possible; see that they are kindly treated; that their
food is properly cooked, served and distributed; that their apartments
are kept clean and in good order, and properly warmed and ventilated;
that the female employees attend to their duties in all respects, and
report to the Superintendent any departure, on their part, from the
rules and regulations of the Institution.
2. The bedding, table linen, napkins, and drapery furniture, carpets,
table covers, and all similar property of the female department, as well
as the clothing of the female patients, shall be under her general care
and supervision. She shall direct the employment and amusements of all
the inmates of the female wards; in short, it will be expected of her to
look frequently and carefully | 1,592.846201 |
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A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN
BY
ROBERT
LOUIS
STEVENSON
ILLUSTRATED
BY
A. S. BOYD
[Illustration]
A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN
[Illustration: THE PRAYER p. 16]
A LOWDEN
SABBATH MORN
BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
ILLUSTRATED BY A. S. BOYD
& PUBLISHED AT LONDON BY
CHATTO & WINDUS MCMIX
First Illustrated Edition published 1898, and a Second Impression in
the same year.
New Edition in 1907; and with Coloured Frontispiece in 1909.
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh
TO
THE MEMORY OF
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
BY
THE ILLUSTRATOR
A Lowden Sabbath Morn
I
The clinkum-clank o' Sabbath bells
Noo to the hoastin' rookery swells,
Noo faintin' laigh in shady dells,
Sounds far an' near,
An' through the simmer kintry tells
Its tale o' cheer.
II
An' noo, to that melodious play,
A' deidly awn the quiet sway--
A' ken their solemn holiday,
Bestial an' human,
The singin' lintie on the brae,
The restin' plou'man.
III
He, mair than a' the lave o' men,
His week completit joys to ken;
Half-dressed, he daunders out an' in,
Perplext wi' leisure;
An' his raxt limbs he'll rax again
Wi' painfue' pleesure.
IV
The steerin' mither strang afit
Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit;
Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shueit
To scart upon them,
Or sweeties in their pouch to pit,
Wi' blessin's on them.
V
The lasses, clean frae tap to taes,
Are busked in crunklin' underclaes;
The gartened hose, the weel-filled stays,
The nakit shift,
A' bleached on bonny greens for days
An' white's the drift.
VI
An' noo to face the kirkward mile:
The guidman's hat o' dacent style,
The blackit shoon, we noo maun fyle
As white's the miller:
A waefue' peety tae, to spile
The warth o' siller.
VII
Our Marg'et, aye sae keen to crack,
Douce-stappin' in the stoury track,
Her emeralt goun a' kiltit back
Frae snawy coats,
White-ankled, leads the kirkward pack
Wi' Dauvit Groats.
VIII
A thocht ahint, in runkled breeks,
A' spiled wi' lyin' by for weeks,
The guidman follows closs, an' cleiks
The sonsie missis;
His sarious face at aince bespeaks
The day that this is.
IX
And aye an' while we nearer draw
To whaur the kirkton lies alaw,
Mair neebours, comin' saft an' slaw
Frae here an' there,
The thicker thrang the gate, an' caw
The stour in air.
X
But hark! the bells frae nearer clang;
To rowst the slaw, their sides they bang;
An' see! black coats a'ready thrang
The green kirkyaird;
And at the yett, the chestnuts spang
That brocht the laird.
XI
The solemn elders at the plate
Stand drinkin' deep the pride o' state:
The practised hands as gash an' great
As Lords o' Session;
The later named, a wee thing blate
In their expression.
XII
The prentit stanes that mark the deid,
Wi' lengthened lip, the sarious read;
Syne wag a moraleesin' heid,
An' then an' there
Their hirplin' practice an' their creed
Try hard to square.
XIII
It's here our Merren lang has lain,
A wee bewast the table-stane;
An' yon's the grave o' Sandy Blane;
An' further ower,
The mither's brithers, dacent men!
Lie a' the fower.
XIV
Here the guidman sall bide awee
To dwall amang the deid; to see
Auld faces clear in fancy's e'e;
Belike to hear
Auld voices fa'in saft an' slee
On fancy's ear.
XV
Thus, on the day o' solemn things,
The bell that in the steeple swings
To fauld a scaittered faim'ly rings
Its walcome screed;
An' just a wee thing nearer brings
The quick an' deid.
XVI
But noo the bell is ringin' in;
To tak their places, folk begin;
The minister himsel' will shuene
Be up the gate,
Filled fu' wi' clavers about sin
An' man's estate.
XVII
The tuenes are up--_French_, to be shuere,
The faithfue' _French_, an' twa-three mair;
The auld prezentor, hoastin' sair,
Wales out the portions,
An' yirks the tuene into the air
Wi' queer contortions.
XVIII
Follows the prayer, the readin' next,
An' than the fisslin' for the text--
The twa-three last to find it, vext
But kind o' proud;
An' than the peppermints are raxed,
An' southernwood.
XIX
For noo's the time whan pows are seen
Nid-noddin' like a mandareen;
When tenty mithers stap a preen
In sleepin' weans;
An' nearly half the parochine
Forget their pains.
XX
There's just a waukrif' twa or three:
Thrawn commentautors sweer to 'gree,
Weans glowrin' at the bumlin' bee
On windie-glasses,
Or lads that tak a keek a-glee
At sonsie lasses.
XXI
| 1,592.846434 |
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ALADDIN O'BRIEN
BY GOUVERNEUR MORRIS
BOOK I
"It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee.
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child"--
ALADDIN O'BRIEN
I
It was on the way home from Sunday-school that Aladdin had enticed
Margaret to the forbidden river. She was not sure that he knew how to
row, for he was prone to exaggerate his prowess at this and that,
and she went because of the fine defiance of it, and because Aladdin
exercised an irresistible fascination. He it was who could whistle the
most engagingly through his front teeth; and he it was, when sad dogs of
boys of the world were met behind the barn, who could blow the smoke of
the fragrant grapevine through his nose, and swallow the same without
alarm to himself or to his admirers. To be with him was in itself a
soulful wickedness, a delicious and elevating lesson in corruption. But
to be with him when he had done wrong, and was sorry for it (as always
when found out), that was enough to give one visions of freckled angels,
and the sweetness of Paradise in May.
Aladdin brought the skiff into the float, stern first, with a bump.
Pride sat high upon his freckled brow, and he whistled piercing notes.
"I can do it," he said. "Now get in."
Margaret embarked very gingerly and smoothed her dress carefully, before
and after sitting down. It was a white and starchy dress of price, with
little blue ribbons at the throat and wrists--such a dress as the little
girl of a very poor papa will find laid out on the gilt and brocade
chair beside her bed if she goes to sleep and wakes up in heaven.
"Only a little way, 'Laddin, please."
The boy made half a dozen circular, jabbing strokes, and the skiff
zigzagged out from the float. It was a fine blue day, cool as a
cucumber, and across the river from the deserted shipyards, where, upon
lofty beamings, stood all sorts of ships in all stages of composition,
the frequent beeches and maples showed pink and red and yellow against
the evergreen pines.
"It's easy 'nough," said Aladdin. And Margaret agreed in her mind, for
it is the splash of deeds rather than the skill or power which impresses
a lady. The little lady sat primly in the stern, her mitted paws folded;
her eyes, innocent and immense, fastened admiringly upon the rowing boy.
"Only 'bout's far's the cat-boat, 'Laddin, please," she said. "I
oughtn't to of come 't all."
Somehow the cat-boat, anchored fifty yards out and straining back from
her moorings, would not allow herself to be approached. For although
Aladdin maintained a proper direction (at times), the ocean tide,
setting rigidly in and overbearing the current of the river, was
beginning to carry the skiff to some haven where she would not be.
Aladdin saw this and tried to go back, catching many crabs in the
earnestness of his endeavor. Then the little girl, without being told,
perceived that matters were not entirely in the hands of man, and began
to look wistfully from Aladdin to the shore. After a while he stopped
grinning, and then rowing.
"Can't you get back, 'Laddin?" said the little girl.
"No," said the boy, "I can't." He was all angel now, for he was being
visited for wrong.
The little girl's lips trembled and got white.
"I'm awful sorry, Margaret."
"What'll we do, 'Laddin?"
"Just sit still, 'n' whatever happens I'll take care of you, Margaret."
They were passing the shipyards with a steady sweep, but the offices
were closed, the men at home, and no one saw the distressed expedition.
The last yard of all was conspicuous by a three-master, finished,
painted, sparred, ready for the fragrant bottle to be cracked on her
nose, and the long shivering slide into the river. Then came a fine
square, chimneyed house with sherry-glass-shaped elm-trees about it. The
boy shouted to a man contorted under a load of wood. The man looked up
and grinned vacantly, for he was not even half-witted. And they were
swept on. Presently woods drew between them and the last traces of
habitation,--gorgeous woods with intense splashes of color, standing
upon clean rocks that emphatically divided the water from the land,--and
they scurried into a region as untroubled by man as was Eden on the
first morning. The little boy was not afraid, but so | 1,593.24857 |
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Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by Google Books
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source--Google Books
https://books.google.com/books?id=5cgBAAAAQAAJ
(Oxford University)
KISSING THE ROD.
A Novel.
BY EDMUND YATES,
AUTHOR OF "BROKEN TO HARNESS," "RUNNING THE GAUNTLET,"
"LAND AT LAST," ETC.
"The heart knoweth its own bitterness."
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18 CATHERINE ST. STRAND.
1866.
[_All rights of translation and reproduction reserved_.]
LONDON:
ROBSON AND SON, GREAT NORTHERN PRINTING WORKS,
PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.
CONTENTS OF VOL. III.
CHAP.
I. "IN BATTALLIONS."
II. DELIBERATION.
III. WINGED IN FLIGHT.
IV. HUSBAND AND WIFE.
V. FAILURE.
VI. HESTER IN POSSESSION.
VII. A SPLIT IN THE CAMP.
VIII. THE PLEDGE REDEEMED.
IX. SUCCESS.
X. COMING HOME.
KISSING THE ROD.
CHAPTER I.
"IN BATTALIONS."
It was perhaps fortunate for Robert Streightley that the pressure of
an immediate necessity for exertion was put upon him at the same time
that he received his wife's letter. The blow was so frightful that it
might have completely crushed him, had he not been forced to rouse
himself from its first effect, to put the meaning of the terrible
communication aside for a time, while he attended to the stern duties
which were his, as the only representative of the dead man. The
subdued bustle, the ceaseless coming and going, the people to be seen,
the letters to be written, the innumerable demands upon his attention
in reference to his deceased father-in-law, to say nothing of the
exigencies of his own affairs, from which he had not an hour's
respite, controlled him in spite of himself, and by suspending
softened the intensity of the knowledge of the punishment that had
overtaken him.
The suspense and perplexity into which Katharine's unexplained absence
from home had thrown the household on the preceding day had prepared
them to expect that some important intelligence was contained in the
letter which had reached their master that morning; and the unhappy
man comprehended the necessity of making some communication on the
subject. He briefly informed Katharine's maid that she had left town
for the present; and on being asked whether the woman was to join her
mistress at Middlemeads, he said Mrs. Streightley was not there; that
she had better wait for orders, and in the mean time ask no more
questions. An injudicious answer; but Robert neither knew nor cared
what would have been the judicious course to pursue. He knew only that
his sin had found him out; that the chastisement had come; and that
the woman whom he had so loved and so wronged had left him for
ever--left him hating and despising him.
The hours of that dreadful day wore through somehow. Robert had been
engaged during many of them in making arrangements consequent upon Mr.
Guyon's death; he had been at Queen Anne Street, and at his office in
the City, transacting business of different but invariably unpleasant
kinds. He had seen several persons, but not any by whom the domestic
calamity which had fallen upon him was suspected. He had written to
his mother, informing her of Mr. Guyon's death, and requesting that
Ellen would not come to Portland Place for the present; but giving no
explanation of this request. All the day he had carried about with him
the dreadful knowledge of what had befallen him--had been oppressed by
its weight, darkened by its shadow; but he had not examined his
burden--he had gone his appointed way, and done his relentless task,
and the day had been got through somehow. Now he was going to look the
truth in the face; he was going to force his mind to understand it, to
take it in fully, and to suffer the torture at his leisure.
He shut himself up in his "study," and gave orders that no one was to
be admitted. Then, with the door locked and sure of solitude, he read
Katharine's letter again,--not that he needed to do so; every one of
its few remorseless words seemed to have burned themselves into his
brain,--and then he read the letter which hers had enclosed--the
letter endorsed "Shown to R. S." He had not looked at it in the
morning; it had sufficed him to know that the letter which Mr. Guyon
had shown him on the day which had witnessed their disgraceful
compact--the letter which they had tacitly agreed to suppress, still
existed, for his conviction, for his condemnation, and had reached the
hands to which it had been addressed at last: he had put it away with
a shudder. But now he read it--steadily, and with utter amazement.
There it was; and on the blank side of the sheet, in Mr. Guyon's hand,
were the words, "Shown to R.S." But this letter was sill in Mr.
Guyon's hand, and Robert had never seen it--had never heard of it;
this was not the letter from Gordon Frere to Katharine which her
father had shown to him; there was a dreadful mistake somewhere. As
Robert read the heartless words in which Mr. Guyon rejected Gordon
Frere on his daughter's behalf, he understood for the first time how
the conspiracy which had resulted in so sad a success had been carried
out. This, then, was the method Mr. Guyon had adopted, and into which
Robert had never inquired. He saw it all--he understood it all now;
and he honestly recoiled at the baseness by which his triumph had been
secured. He even thought he would not have consented, had he known how
the thing was to be done; but his conscience was not so deadened as to
accept that sophistry, and another moment's thought taught him that he
was as guilty as ever.
But how came the letter to be endorsed with words, intended by their
writer only as a private memorandum, which were not true? This puzzled
Robert, until he guessed, what really was the case, that Mr. Guyon
had put Frere's letter and his reply away together, and had mistaken
the one for the other. Why had he kept them at all? thought Robert;
why had he put such dangerous and useless documents aside, thus
running the risk of detection now realised? "He never could have
intended to use them as a weapon against me," thought Robert, who had
arrived at a tolerably correct appreciation of the character of his
deceased father-in-law. "They convict him directly; me, though
conclusively _to her_, only indirectly to others. Why on earth did he
keep them?"
Ah, why? Why is half the mischief that is done in the world done by
the instrumentality of letters, which ought to have been read and
destroyed, being treasured up instead by foolish women, or read and
left about by men whom experience has not availed to teach? If Robert
Streightley had quite understood Mr. Guyon's character, he would have
known, in the first place, that that gentleman had never been in the
habit of contemplating the contingency of his own death, or of making
any preparation, temporal or spiritual, for that event; in the second,
that his vanity was of so ominous a kind that he liked to indulge in
the recollection of successful enterprises, no matter what their
nature, and treasured up the trophies of his fortunate _coups_, as
other people might keep love-tokens or relics of departed friends,--a
ghastly perversion, it is true, but a characteristic trait of Mr.
Guyon, as Robert came to learn, when he had to examine all the dead
man's papers and personal effects.
After all, it did not matter very much that this mistake had been
made. Any one of the papers concerning this transaction, so endorsed,
would have equally convicted her husband in Katharine's eyes. For a
moment, when Robert perceived the error and recognised how it had
occurred, a faint hope had sprung up in his heart that all might be
explained, in explaining that he had never seen the draft of Mr.
Guyon's letter to Gordon Frere; but it lasted only for a moment, and
then left Robert more shame-stricken, more despairing than before.
The bitter remembrance of his resolutions of the day before came to
torment him now. How futile they were! made all too late, and useless;
how ridiculous they seemed, too! Would he ever have had the courage to
tell the woman he had wronged the truth concerning himself and her?
Cowering as he was now under the blast of her scorn and anger, he
could not believe that he would; he heaped upon himself all the
reprobation which the sternest judge could have measured out to him.
His sin had found him out indeed, and nothing could save him now from
the fullest retribution. It had come in its worst form, complicated
with the death of his accomplice, as a double horror. Robert
Streightley was not a man who could coldly contemplate such an event
as Mr. Guyon's death. He had indeed retained but little personal
regard for him; but that fact, the growing knowledge of the man which
rendered such regard impossible, invested his death with additional
horror to Robert. That such should have been the manner of the
detection and the punishment, impressed him with awe. Standing, as he
had done that day, by the dead man's bed, he had bowed his head
submissively to the tremendous lesson which the scene conveyed. Where
was their fine scheme now? Where was the wealth for which the father
had sold the daughter? Gone--almost all gone; and if it had remained a
million times told, what could it avail to the form of clay which lay
there waiting for the coffin and the grave? Where was the beautiful
wife whom the father's accomplice had purchased at the price of his
honour? Who was to tell that to the wretched husband, who knew nothing
but that she had detected them both, and fled from them both,--from
the living and the dead?
As he thought these thoughts, and a thousand others which could find
no utterance in words, no expression by the pen, the long hours of the
night were wearing by. Up and down the room, long after the fire had
died out, unnoticed, Robert Streightley walked, buried in his
tormenting thoughts, full of horror, remorse, shame, the sense of
righteous retribution and torturing grief. She was gone,--his darling,
the one treasure of his life, the beautiful idol of his worship: the
desolation of that knowledge had not come to him yet; he had had no
time to think of the meaning of life without her; the fear, the
excitement, the strangeness of the fact were all that he had | 1,593.248787 |
2023-11-16 18:43:37.2340080 | 6,278 | 34 |
Produced by Dianna Adair, Stephen Hutcheson, Rod Crawford,
Dave Morgan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net
The Iron Boys on the
Ore Boats
OR
Roughing It on the Great Lakes
By
JAMES R. MEARS
Author of The Iron Boys in the Mines, The Iron Boys as Foremen,
The Iron Boys in the Steel Mills, etc.
Illustrated
PHILADELPHIA
HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY
HOWARD E. ALTEMUS
Illustration: Both Boys Were Hurled Forward
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. TO THE INLAND SEAS 7
II. THE IRON BOYS AS CARGO 20
III. A SURPRISED SKIPPER 31
IV. THE BOYS STAND THE TEST 42
V. TROUBLE IN THE STOKE HOLE 54
VI. THE FIRST STEP UPWARD 63
VII. THE IRON BOYS ON DECK 70
VIII. THE CRASH IN THE FOG 82
IX. A TRAGEDY OF THE LAKES 93
X. TOSSED UP BY THE WAVES 104
XI. BY PLUCK ALONE 113
XII. ON THE ROAD TO CONNEAUT 122
XIII. IN THE GRIP OF A GIANT SHELL 129
XIV. STEVE SAVES THE CAPTAIN 135
XV. AT THE WHEEL 151
XVI. THROUGH THE ROCKY CUT 163
XVII. THE BLOW IN THE DARK 172
XVIII. VISITORS ON THE "RICHMOND" 181
XIX. IN THE GRIP OF THE WAVES 190
XX. AN EXCITING RESCUE 202
XXI. A NEW HAND AT THE WHEEL 210
XXII. LEADING A LIVELY CHASE 219
XXIII. THE WIRELESS MESSAGE 223
XXIV. CONCLUSION 245
The Iron Boys on the Ore Boats
CHAPTER I
TO THE INLAND SEAS
"WHAT are we to do?"
"The first duty of an inspector is to inspect, I should say," answered
Steve Rush, with a soft laugh, in answer to his companion's question.
Bob Jarvis made a wry face.
"You think you are very smart this morning, seeing that you have been
complimented by the president of the mining company," grumbled Jarvis.
"I don't know whether I like this new job or not. We were making pretty
good money in the mines and we were bosses at that. Are we going to do
any bossing when we get on the lakes?"
"I think not. We shall be ordinary seamen. Somebody else will do the
bossing in this instance and we shall be the victims. Mr. Carrhart will
tell us all about it in a minute. He is arranging for our work now. It
will be a great change, and while we shall be working pretty hard we
shall be adding to our store of knowledge, Bob. We are lucky to possess
so fully the confidence of our superiors. Let's try to show that we are
worthy of their confidence in our new places."
"When do we start?"
"I don't know. Mr. Carrhart is looking that matter up now."
The lads were sitting in the private office of the president of the
mining company, whither they had been summoned from their work at the
mines. Mr. Carrhart, the president, stepped briskly into the office at
that juncture.
"Well, lads, I have arranged for your transportation."
"May I ask on what ship we are to sail, sir?" questioned Steve.
"The 'Wanderer.' She is not one of our newest ships, but she is a
staunch old vessel with about as many conveniences as are to be found on
the newer and more modern boats. I sometimes think we are getting
further away from what a ship should be--but then, I am not a sailor. I
am not supposed to know anything about ships," laughed the president.
"When do we sail?"
"Some time to-night. The 'Wanderer' is not yet in. She passed the Soo
nearly forty hours ago and should dock some time this afternoon. She is
coming up light this time, for a change."
"How long does it take to load the ship with ore?" asked Steve, his
active mind already in search of knowledge along the line of their new
calling.
"Eight hours or so."
"That is quick time," nodded Jarvis.
"It strikes me as being a long time," remarked Rush.
"That is the point exactly," agreed Mr. Carrhart. "If you boys can find
a way to shorten the loading time you will have served your purpose
well. That is exactly why we are sending you out on this inspecting
tour--that is, it is one of the reasons. We want to know where we can
save money and time in the shipment of ores to the furnaces."
"But, sir, we know nothing about this branch of the business," protested
Steve. "Are there not others better qualified than ourselves?"
"They think they are," answered the president reflectively. "We have
tried them out. Most of them are wedded to old methods. What we want is
new methods as well as new blood. Besides, you lads have expressed
yourselves as being anxious to learn everything about the mining and
steel business. I am taking you at your word. You are thoroughly posted
on the mining end. I do not believe you could be much more so were you
to spend three years more underground. The shipment of the ore is the
next step. You have followed the ore down from the mines to the shipping
point, here in Duluth. Now I am going to have you spend a few months on
the Great Lakes."
"That will be a fine experience, sir."
"I think so."
"Is the purpose of our going to sea on the lakes known, or is it not to
be known to any one outside of ourselves?"
"Certainly not. The mission might fail of its purposes were such to be
the case. To all intents and appearances, you two boys will be plain,
everyday sailors. You will find many hardships in the life of a Great
Lakes sailor, but then, if I know you, I do not believe you will mind
these very much," added Mr. Carrhart, with an indulgent smile.
"We certainly shall not," answered Rush, with emphasis. "The harder the
work the better it seems to agree with me."
"But not with me," retorted Jarvis.
The president laughed.
"That doesn't agree with what the reports show. For industry and
attention to duty you are a close second to your friend Rush. I
presume, Rush, that we shall be losing you one of these days?"
"What do you mean, sir?"
"You will wish to go on to the mills, eh?"
Steve thought briefly.
"Yes, sir; that is our ambition."
"I thought so. You may depend upon me to use my influence to further
your ambition, though I shall very much dislike to lose you."
"You are very kind, sir."
"What I hoped you would do was to remain with the mining end of our
business, where one of these days you would rise to the grade of general
superintendent. Perhaps after you have had your experiences at the other
end of the line, you will decide to come back. If I am still president
of the mining company you will be well taken care of, should you
return."
"Thank you, sir; perhaps we shall be back sooner than you think."
"And now for the subject at issue. Here is a letter to the master of the
'Wanderer,' Captain Simms, stating that you are to be taken on board his
ship as seamen. He does not know that it is your first cruise, but I
have an idea that he will learn the truth soon enough."
There was a grim smile on the face of the president.
"You will find Captain Simms a gruff old seadog. He is one of our
oldest and most trustworthy masters, and after you come to know him I am
sure you will like him very much. You have a fairly clear idea of what
is expected of you by the company. You boys are both keen and
resourceful and I expect a great deal from you. I know that you will see
all there is to be seen, and no doubt will see some things that have
been overlooked by older heads than yours."
"Have you any further directions to give before we leave you, sir?"
inquired Steve.
"None whatever. I wish you success, which I am sure you will have. You
need not go to the ore docks until this evening, unless you wish to, as
you probably will have some things to do in town."
After bidding the president good-bye, the boys took their leave. It
seemed only a few weeks since Steve Rush had first entered the office of
the president of the mining company looking for a job. The same office
boy with whom he had had trouble at the start of his career was on guard
at the door, but Steve had grown away from him. Steve, who with his
companion, Bob Jarvis, will be recognized at once as one of the Iron
Boys, was tall for his age and muscular. His manner of life had done
much for his physical well-being, and he was not the same boy who had
fought his way into the president's office, the account of which is set
forth in "THE IRON BOYS IN THE MINES."
It was there that Steve Rush and Bob Jarvis first became friends, after
they had met and fought a battle in a lonely drift in the Cousin Jack
Iron Mine; it was there that both lads proved their heroism by saving
the president and several other officials of the company, when the
entire company was threatened with death from a burning bag of dynamite.
It was in the Cousin Jack Mine that Steve and his newly found friend saw
the need of and invented a new tram railroad system, by which the mining
company was saved many thousands of dollars a year.
Again in "THE IRON BOYS AS FOREMEN," was told how the lads proved
themselves by saving the powder magazine from blowing up while the mine
was burning and the flames were creeping toward the deadly explosives.
It will be recalled that it was mainly through the heroic efforts of the
Iron Boys that the Red Rock Mine was saved from almost total
destruction, and that through their further efforts many lives were
undoubtedly saved. From then on they continued to distinguish
themselves, playing a conspicuous part in the great strike, in the end
exposing and unmasking a wicked and unscrupulous man who was leading
the miners on to commit deeds of violence.
They were the same boys who were now starting out on a new career for
the same company. In this instance the lads were to become sailors on
the inland seas, known as the Great Lakes. The lads were taking up this
new calling for the twofold purpose of learning still another branch of
the great corporation's business and they fondly hoped their work would
prove of importance to their employers.
The office of the president was located in Duluth, many miles from the
Iron Range where the boys had been working for the last two years.
Their first act after leaving the offices was to make their way down to
the water front to the ship canal, leading from the harbor out to Lake
Superior. Steve pointed out the aeerial bridge to his companion. This was
a car carried through the air suspended from a giant truss over the
river, by which passengers were transferred across to Superior on the
other side. Bob had never seen this wonder before and was deeply
interested in it. To Steve Rush it was of particular interest, for he
had acquired no slight knowledge of engineering during his experience in
the mines up on the range.
Boats were moving in and out, huge lake freighters, ore boats and
passenger ships, for the lake traffic was in full cry now. After
strolling about for a time, Steve took his companion home with him, and
the rest of the afternoon was spent with Steve's mother. Supper
finished, the lads decided that they would get down to the ore docks, as
the ship would likely be in by that time.
Darkness had set in when they reached the docks. These docks, as those
who have had the misfortune to have to make their way over them are
aware, consist of tiers upon tiers of trestle. Over the tops, high in
the air, ore trains rumble in by day and by night, discharging their
cargoes of red ore into huge hoppers, from which the ore is loaded into
the boats, or Great Lakes ore carriers, as they are called.
Neither boy had ever been out on one of these trestles before, and the
task looked to be rather formidable.
"How are we going to do it?" demanded Bob, surveying the great structure
apprehensively.
"I guess the only way will be to keep going until we get somewhere or
fall off. I don't see the ship, but we shall see it when we get to the
top of the trestle."
Both boys narrowly missed being run down by an ore train as it was
shunted out on the trestle. The lads were in a dangerous place, but
they did not feel at all disturbed about it. Men were flitting about in
the dim light of half a dozen electric globes distributed along the top
of the trestle that loomed all of seventy-five feet above the water.
"There's a ship down there," cried Steve.
"Yes, and there's one on the other side," answered Bob. "Why, there are
ships at all of the docks along here. Are you sure we have hit the right
dock?"
"I am not sure of anything, except that we are likely to break our necks
if we don't look sharp," answered Rush, with a laugh. "We will ask the
first man we meet where the 'Wanderer' is. There comes some one now."
Rush hailed the man, a foreigner. The latter neither answered nor paid
the slightest attention to the question put to him.
"Thank you," murmured Rush.
"Mighty sociable lot of men up here," jeered Bob. "But then I suppose
they have to keep their minds on their work or fall off the trestle. I
prefer to work underground. In the mines, there's no danger of falling
down."
Ore was being shot down through the chutes into boats on each side of
the great trestle. There was the roar as of a great cataract as the red
dirt went hurtling down into the hold of the ships many feet below.
"Let's get down on one of the other levels, Steve. Then we'll drift over
to the heading at the other end."
"Anybody'd think you were down in a mine. These aren't levels; they are
tiers. You remind me of one of our miners who came down here to Duluth.
He went to a hotel, and in telling some of the boys about it, he said:
'We got in a swell cage with looking glasses all around the inside. The
cage tender jerked us up to the sixteenth level. We went along this till
we came to a crosscut; then they led us into a swell drift an' we struck
the heading and sat down.' What do you think of that?"
"That sounds like a lumber-jack more than it does a miner. He must have
had a sky parlor. I wonder what hotel he got into."
Suddenly a great shouting was set up far below where the boys were
standing, and further on toward the end of the trestle.
"Now what's the matter?" wondered Steve. Two long blasts of a
steamship's whistle sounded.
"There goes a ship. They're pulling out. I'll bet that's the
'Wanderer,'" shouted Bob.
"If if is, she will pull out without us. No, it can't be the 'Wanderer,'
for she did not come in until after sundown and it is not possible that
the ship could be loaded by this time. We'll simply have to find our
way down through the trestle somewhere and locate our ship. If we knew
which side the boat lay it would be easier for us. Can you see which
boat is leaving, Bob?"
"I think it is a boat from one of the other piers. I don't see anything
going away near us."
"Suppose we move out toward the end. Then we shall be able to see where
we are and what we are doing."
"And fall off?"
"Certainly not. We will walk along by the side of the track. There is a
railing here. No danger at all of falling."
The boys had their suit cases in their hands. They carried little
baggage, having been informed that there was no room on board for trunks
or luggage. Besides, the lads needed few clothes outside of several
suits of underwear.
As they stepped along, walking side by side, Steve pointed up at a
bright star.
"I wonder if we had better lay our course by that one----Grab me,
Bob--I'm falling!" suddenly cried Steve Rush.
Jarvis stretched out a quick hand, fastening upon Steve's collar. But
the movement threw Jarvis off his balance. He, too, toppled forward.
Rush had stepped into an open chute through which the red ore was
roaring down into the hold of the ship seventy-five feet below them.
Steve struggled valiantly to prevent himself from going in, and Bob
tried his best to keep from going in after.
"Let go, Bob; you'll go in, too!"
The warning came too late. Steve shot out of sight, leaving a fragment
of his coat collar in the hand of his companion. Then Bob went in, head
first.
Neither lad uttered a cry. They were not of the crying kind, and even
had they uttered a shout their voices would have been drowned in the
roar of the ore thundering into the hold of the big ship awaiting it
down in the slip.
CHAPTER II
THE IRON BOYS AS CARGO
THROUGH some fortunate twist of his body, Jarvis righted himself while
going through the big hopper into which the ore was shooting. He landed
feet first at the bottom of the hopper.
In the meantime Steve Rush, with a few seconds' start of his companion,
had gone on down through the hopper. He hit the long wooden ore chutes
that led down into the ship; he struck the chute with a heavy bump and
then went on at a speed that took his breath away. Steve was in a
sitting posture. Jarvis followed him at the same rate of speed, lying
flat on his back.
There was ore on all sides of them; in fact, they were riding on the
swift-moving ore; all about them was darkness, and even had there been
lights it is doubtful if the Iron Boys would have seen them, because of
the speed at which they were traveling.
Steve's mind was working with its usual rapidity. Had he known exactly
what awaited them below he might have been able to plan with more
certainty. He did reason, however, that they would probably have to pass
through a small opening when they reached the bottom of the chute. In
this he was wrong, though right across the chute where it entered the
ship was a heavy iron brace dividing the chute in half, which was placed
there to give the ship more rigidity.
"Lie flat!" shouted Rush, with quick instinct, himself dropping on his
back. He did not know whether Bob were following him or not. Jarvis was,
but he was in no need of the admonition to lie flat. He was as flat as
it was possible for him to be and he could not have straightened up had
it been to save his life.
Jarvis was close enough, however, to hear the warning cry. He opened his
mouth to answer, getting it full of red ore as a result. The ore got
down in his throat, sending him into a paroxysm of choking, sneezing and
growling that was lost in the noise about him.
Suddenly Steve felt himself shooting through space. He realized, in that
instant, that he had left the chute. A few seconds more and he struck
heavily on his feet, bounded into the air, then plunged forward head
first.
The lad landed on his stomach, slipped down a conical pile of ore to the
bottom, his head striking the side of the ship, doubling him up and
leaving him stunned and unconscious.
Jarvis, who was not far behind him, went through very much the same
experience, save that he turned a somersault when he left the chute,
landing flat on his back on the pile of ore. His feet drove against the
side of the ship with the force of a battering-ram, backed by the full
weight of the lad's body. The effect was nearly the same as it had been
in the case of Rush. Bob was stunned. He, too, lay still, after curling
up against the vessel's side.
"Hey, what's that?" a voice had shouted as the boys disappeared through
the hatches.
"What's what?"
"I thought I saw something besides ore go through the chute in number
seven hatch."
"You're seeing things!"
"Maybe I am."
"Close number seven hatch!" shouted the second mate, and the two deck
hands, after the chute had been hoisted a little above the deck, slid
the heavy hatch cover into place. All the ore that was needed had gone
in through that hatch. The ship was nearly loaded. All that was now
required was a few car-loads at the ends to trim the ship properly,
after which she would be ready to sail.
Within the next ten minutes the rest of the ore had been shipped. With
loud crashings, interspersed with hoarse shouts, harshly-uttered
commands and an occasional toot of warning from the ship's whistle, the
hatch-covers were put in place and the ship made ready for her journey
down the Great Lakes.
There followed a moment of inactivity; then came a blast of the whistle
fully a minute in duration. It was the signal that the ship was about to
back out of her slip, warning all other craft to keep clear.
The propeller began to churn the waters of the harbor and the ore
carrier, with its cargo of ten thousand tons of iron ore, backed slowly
out into the stream.
Bob Jarvis rolled over until he was practically standing on his head and
shoulders. He toppled over on his back with a jolt that woke him up. The
lad gave a kick and some one grunted.
"Hey, there, take your foot out of my stomach, whoever you are. Is that
you, Bob?"
"I--I don't know. Hello, Steve, that you?"
"I guess it's both of us. Ugh! My mouth is so full of ore that I can
hard--hardly talk."
"I've got a dark red taste in my own mouth. I've swallowed enough ore to
make a steel rail. Do you know where we are?"
"We have fallen into the hold of a ship, and we are lucky that we are
not dead."
"Maybe we are and don't know it," jeered Jarvis, pulling himself up. He
tried to get to his feet, but the ore slipped from under him, leaving
him at the bottom against the side of the vessel again.
"Quit it!" shouted Steve. "Are you trying to bury me?"
The latter was on his feet too, brushing the dirt from mouth, eyes, nose
and ears. Bob had sent a quantity of it sliding down the chute.
"I can't help it. What's the matter with you? What do you think about
this business?"
"I don't think, I know. We are in a nice fix."
"Think so?"
"I told you I didn't think," retorted Steve in a tone of slight
irritation.
"Glad you admit it."
"We have been dumped into the hold of an ore vessel. I don't know
whether or not there is any way to get out, and it is sure that the
hatches will not be opened again until the vessel reaches her
destination."
"How long will that be?"
"That depends upon where they are going. If they are bound for any of
the Lake Erie ports I should imagine it would take a week or more."
Bob groaned.
"I'm going to yell."
"Yell, if you can. I've too much ore in my mouth to make much of a
noise."
Jarvis raised his voice in a shout. It did not seem to attract any
attention. The lad shouted again and again. By this time the ship was
trembling from stem to stern under the jar of the propeller that was
beating the water at many hundred revolutions a minute.
"Nobody on this ship, I guess," muttered Bob. "Come, suggest something.
You've always got something to say," urged Jarvis.
"I was about to say that you might as well save your breath. No one can
hear us through the thick decks; in fact, I presume every one has turned
in except those on watch forward, and the engine room crews at the rear
end of the ship."
"Then I am going to lie down and go to sleep," declared Jarvis.
"Don't do anything of the sort. The ore is likely to slide down and bury
you. The less disturbance we make here the better it will be for us."
"Why didn't you think of that before we fell in? I suppose we are pretty
deep down in the ship, aren't we?"
"About as close to the bottom as we can get without drowning. We will
keep as quiet as possible until we can plan some way of helping
ourselves out of this predicament."
Bob grunted unintelligibly. For some time after this the Iron Boys
leaned against the side of the ship, Steve trying to plan some way out
of the difficulty, Bob growling inwardly over the hard luck that had
befallen them.
All at once the ship gave a quick, sudden lurch. Jarvis lost his
balance, falling over on his face. The ore came down in a deluge,
covering him from head to feet before he had sufficient time to scramble
out of the way. Steve, bracing himself against the side of the ship,
stooped over and helped his companion to his feet.
"The old tub's going to tip over," gasped Jarvis. "What's the matter
with her?"
"Nothing is wrong. We have gotten out of the ship canal and into the
open water of Lake Superior. There must be considerable sea. Don't you
hear the waves smashing against the sides of the ship?"
"It isn't what I hear, but what I feel," answered Bob faintly. "I feel
queer. My head's spinning like a top. Is yours?"
"No; I can't say that it is. Are you getting seasick?"
"How do I know? I have never been seasick. How does it feel to be that
way?"
"I have heard that when people are seasick they don't care very much
whether they live or die."
"Then--then--I wish I could die right here, if it would make me forget
that awful goneness under my belt. Ugh!"
Bob settled down against the side of the ship, moaning.
"Don't be a baby. Get up and be a man."
"I--I don't want to be a man. I--I'd rather be a wooden image, then I
wouldn't care what happened. In case the ship went down I could float
and----"
Bob's words were lost in an anguished moan. Steve felt far from
comfortable, but he set his teeth and made a resolve not to give up.
"The sea is coming up, Bob," announced Rush after a long period of
silence.
"The--the sea----? It's my opinion that something else will be coming up
soon if things don't stop moving around the way--the way they are doing
now."
Steve laughed.
"Remember, Bob, that we are not likely to get anything in our stomachs
for some days. Be careful."
Bob groaned.
"If I ever get anything solid under my feet I'll take it out of you for
that! That's a mean trick to play on a fellow when he's in the shape I'm
in at this minute. How long do you suppose the noise outside will keep
up?"
"I don't know. Probably all the way down Superior."
"And how far is that?"
"Let me see. I think Mr. Carrhart said the trip to the--the Soo took
thirty-six hours."
"Help!" muttered Jarvis faintly.
"Now, I want you to brace up. Come on, get up. If you don't I'll | 1,593.254048 |
2023-11-16 18:43:37.3315840 | 761 | 35 |
Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
SICILY IN SHADOW AND IN SUN
Books on Italy and Spain
_By_ MAUD HOWE
ROMA BEATA. Letters from the Eternal City. With illustrations from
drawings by JOHN ELLIOTT and from photographs. 8vo. In box. $2.50
_net_. _Popular Illustrated Edition._ Crown 8vo. In box. $1.50
_net_.
TWO IN ITALY. _Popular Illustrated Edition._ With six full-page
drawings by JOHN ELLIOTT. Crown 8vo. In box. $1.50 _net_.
SUN AND SHADOW IN SPAIN. With four plates in color and other
illustrations. 8vo. In box. $3.00 _net_.
SICILY IN SHADOW AND IN SUN. With twelve pictures from original
drawings and numerous illustrations from photographs taken by JOHN
ELLIOTT. 8vo. In box. $3.00 _net_.
LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., Publishers
34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON
[Illustration: THE TELL TALE TOWER. _Frontispiece._
The clock stopped at the hour of the earthquake.]
SICILY IN SHADOW
AND IN SUN
THE EARTHQUAKE AND THE
AMERICAN RELIEF WORK
BY
MAUD HOWE
AUTHOR OF “ROMA BEATA,” “SUN AND SHADOW
IN SPAIN,” “TWO IN ITALY,” ETC.
_With numerous illustrations_
_Including pictures from photographs taken
in Sicily and original drawings by_
JOHN ELLIOTT
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1910
_Copyright, 1910_,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_
Published, November, 1910.
_LOUIS E. CROSSCUP_
_Printer_
_Boston, Mass., U. S. A._
TO
MRS. LLOYD C. GRISCOM
FOREWORD
Sicily, the “Four Corners” of that little ancient world that was bounded
on the west by the Pillars of Hercules, is to southern Europe what
Britain is to northern Europe, Chief of Isles, universal Cross-roads.
Sicily lies nearer both to Africa and to Europe than any other
Mediterranean island, and is the true connecting link between East and
West. Battle-ground of contending races and creeds, it has been soaked
over and over again in the blood of the strong men who fought each other
for its possession. There has never been a Sicilian nation. Perhaps that
is the reason the story of the island is so hard to follow, it’s all
snarled up with the history of first one, then another nation. The most
obvious way of learning something about Sicily is to read what
historians have to say about it; a pleasanter way is to listen to what
the poets from Homer to Goethe have sung of it, paying special heed to
Theocritus--he knew Sicily better than anybody else before his time or
since! Then there’s the geologist | 1,593.351624 |
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