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Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
Gutenberg. (This book was produced from scanned images of
public domain material from the Google Print project.)
THE KATIPUNAN
An Illustrated
Historical and Biographical Study
of the Society which Brought about the
Insurrection of 1896-98 & 1899
Taken From Spanish State Documents
By
FRANCIS ST. CLAIR
Manila
Tip. "Amigos del Pais," Palacio 258
1902
THE KATIPUNAN
Or
The Rise and Fall of the Filipino Commune
By
FRANCIS ST. CLAIR
Manila
| 232.805069 |
2023-11-16 18:20:56.7850960 | 6,922 | 300 |
Produced by Joe Longo, Emmy and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE TALE OF
FERDINAND FROG
SLEEPY-TIME TALES
(Trademark Registered)
BY
ARTHUR SCOTT BAILEY
AUTHOR OF TUCK-ME-IN TALES
(Trademark Registered)
THE TALE OF CUFFY BEAR
THE TALE OF FRISKY SQUIRREL
THE TALE OF TOMMY FOX
THE TALE OF FATTY <DW53>
THE TALE OF BILLY WOODCHUCK
THE TALE OF JIMMY RABBIT
THE TALE OF PETER MINK
THE TALE OF SANDY CHIPMUNK
THE TALE OF BROWNIE BEAVER
THE TALE OF PADDY MUSKRAT
THE TALE OF FERDINAND FROG
THE TALE OF DICKIE DEER MOUSE
[Illustration: Mr. Frog Bows to Aunt Polly Woodchuck]
SLEEPY-TIME TALES (Trademark Registered)
THE TALE OF
FERDINAND
FROG
BY
ARTHUR SCOTT BAILEY
Author of "TUCK-ME-IN TALES"
(Trademark Registered)
ILLUSTRATED BY
HARRY L. SMITH
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1918,
by GROSSET & DUNLAP
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I PRETTY AS A PICTURE 9
II THE DANGERS OF TRAVEL 14
III MR. FROG'S DOUBLE 19
IV MR. CROW LOSES SOMETHING 25
V MR. FROG'S SECRET SORROW 31
VI TIRED TIM DOES A FAVOR 36
VII THE SINGING-PARTY 42
VIII THE MISSING SUPPER 46
IX THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER 51
X CATCHING UP WITH MR. FROG 56
XI MR. FROG IS IN NO HURRY 61
XII A BAD BLUNDER 66
XIII A SIXTY-INCH MEAL 71
XIV AN UNPLEASANT MIX-UP 77
XV EVERYONE IS HAPPY 82
XVI STOP THAT! 87
XVII A LONG, SHARP BILL 92
XVIII MAKING BUTTON-HOLES 97
XIX THE SWIMMING TEACHER 103
XX DISTURBING THE NEIGHBORS 109
XXI MUD BATHS 114
XXII HOLDING HIS BREATH 119
XXIII MR. FROG RUNS AWAY 124
THE TALE OF FERDINAND FROG
I
PRETTY AS A PICTURE
There was something about Ferdinand Frog that made everybody smile. It
may have been his amazingly wide mouth and his queer, bulging eyes, or
perhaps it was his sprightly manner--for one never could tell when Mr.
Frog would leap into the air, or turn a somersault backward. Indeed,
some of his neighbors claimed that he himself didn't know what he was
going to do next--he was so _jumpy_.
Anyhow, all the wild folk in Pleasant Valley agreed that Ferdinand Frog
was an agreeable person to have around. No matter what happened, he was
always cheerful. Nobody ever heard of his losing his temper, though to
be sure he was sometimes the means of other peoples losing theirs. But
let a body be as angry as he pleased with Mr. Frog, Mr. Frog would
continue to smile and smirk.
Of course, such extreme cheerfulness often made angry folk only the more
furious, especially when the whole trouble was Ferdinand Frog's own
fault. But it made no difference to him what blunder he had made. He was
always ready to make another--and smile at the same time.
Really, he was so good-natured that nobody could feel peevish towards
him for long. In fact, he was a great favorite--especially among the
ladies. Whenever he met one of them--it might be the youngest of the
Rabbit sisters, or old Aunt Polly Woodchuck--he never failed to make the
lowest of bows, smile the broadest of smiles, and inquire after her
health.
That was Ferdinand Frog--known far and wide for his elegant manners.
Every young lady declared that he wore exquisite clothes, too; and many
of them secretly thought him quite good-looking.
But people as old as Aunt Polly Woodchuck seldom take heed of what a
person wears. As for Mr. Frog's looks, since Aunt Polly believed that
"handsome is as handsome does," she admitted that Ferdinand Frog was--as
she put it--"purty as a picter."
When Ferdinand Frog heard that, he was so delighted that he hurried
straight home and put on his best suit. And then he spent most of a
whole afternoon smiling at his reflection in the surface of the Beaver
pond, where he was living at the time.
So it is easy to see that Ferdinand Frog was a vain and silly fellow. He
was even foolish enough to repeat Aunt Polly's remark to everybody he
chanced to meet that night, and the following day as well.
There was no one who could help grinning at Ferdinand Frog's news--he
looked so comical. And old Mr. Crow, who was noted for his rudeness,
even burst out with a hoarse _haw-haw_.
"You're pretty as a picture, eh?" he chuckled. "I suppose Aunt Polly
means that you're as pretty as one of the pictures that the circus men
have pasted on Farmer Green's barn.... I believe----" he added, as
he stared at Ferdinand Frog----"I believe I know which one Aunt Polly
means."
"Is that so?" cried Mr. Frog, swelling himself up--through pride--until
it seemed that he must burst. "Oh, which picture is it?"
"It's the one in the upper left-hand corner," old Mr. Crow informed him
solemnly. "And if you haven't yet seen it, you should take a good look
at it soon."
"I will!" Ferdinand Frog declared. "I'll visit Farmer Green's place this
very night!"
And he opened his mouth and smiled so widely that old Mr. Crow couldn't
help shuddering--though he knew well enough that Ferdinand Frog could
never swallow anyone as big as he was.
II
THE DANGERS OF TRAVEL
It was a long way to Farmer Green's from the Beaver pond where Ferdinand
Frog made his home. But he felt that he simply _must_ see that picture
which Mr. Crow said looked like him. So he started out just before
sunset.
One thing, at least, about his journey pleased him: he could make the
trip by water--and he certainly did hate travelling on land.
Luckily the stream that trickled its way below the Beaver dam led
straight to Swift River. And everybody who knew anything was aware that
Swift River ran right under the bridge not far from the farmhouse.
So Mr. Frog leaped spryly into the brook and struck out downstream.
He was a famous swimmer, having been used to the water from the time he
was a tadpole. And now he swam so fast, with the help of the current,
that he reached the river by the time the moon was up.
As he looked up at the sky Ferdinand Frog was both glad and sorry that
there was a moon that night. The moon would be a good thing, provided he
reached the end of his journey, for it would give him a fine clear view
of the picture on the barn, which he so much wanted to see. On the other
hand, he would have preferred a dark night for a swim in Swift River.
There were fish there--pickerel--which would rather swallow him than
not. And he knew that they were sure to be feeding by the light of the
moon.
If Mr. Frog hadn't always looked on the bright side of life no doubt he
would have waited a week or two, until there was no moon at all. But he
remarked to himself with a grin, as he hurried along, that he had never
yet seen the pickerel that was quick enough to catch him, and
furthermore, he never expected to.
But those words were hardly out of Ferdinand Frog's mouth when he turned
and made for the bank as fast as he could go. He had caught sight of a
dark, long-nosed fish lying among some weeds. And he decided suddenly
that he would finish his journey by land.
"It would be a shame----" he told himself, as he flopped up the steep
bank----"it would be a shame for so handsome a person as I am to be
eaten by a fish."
"But you wouldn't object to a bird, would you?" said a voice right in
Ferdinand Frog's ear--or so it seemed to him.
He made no answer--not even stopping to bow, or say good evening--but
turned a somersault backward and hid himself under the overhanging bank.
It was Solomon Owl who had spoken to him. There was no mistaking the
loud, mocking laughter that followed Mr. Frog's hasty retreat.
"Solomon Owl is a great joker," Mr. Frog murmured with a smile. "He was
only teasing me.... Still, he might be a bit hungry. So I'll stay here
out of harm's way for a while, for it would be a shame for so handsome a
person as I am to be eaten by an old, rascally bird like Solomon Owl."
One can judge, just by that remark, that Ferdinand Frog was not quite so
polite as his neighbors supposed--_when there was no one to hear what he
said_.
III
MR. FROG'S DOUBLE
Mr. Frog waited until it was broad daylight before he left his hiding
place beneath the bank of the river. He knew that by that time Solomon
Owl must have gone home to his hemlock tree to get his rest. So
Ferdinand Frog felt quite safe again.
Having made up his mind that he would finish his journey to Farmer
Green's place by land, he started briskly across the cornfield,
travelling in a straight line between two rows of young corn.
He had not gone far before a hoarse voice called to him. But this time
he was not alarmed.
It was only old Mr. Crow, who seemed greatly pleased to see him.
"Hullo, young fellow!" said Mr. Crow. "If you're on your way to the barn
to look at that picture, I'll fly over there myself, because I'd like to
see it again."
"Aren't you afraid of meeting Farmer Green?" Ferdinand Frog asked him.
"Afraid?" Mr. Crow snorted. "Certainly not! We're the best of friends.
He set up this straw man here, just to keep me company.... Besides,"
he went on, "at this time o' day Farmer Green is inside the barn, milking
the cows. And we'll be outside it, looking at the circus pictures."
"We can call to him, if you want to say good morning to him," Ferdinand
Frog suggested cheerfully.
"Oh, no!" his companion said quickly. "I wouldn't want to do that--he's
so busy."
Ferdinand Frog smiled. And for some reason old Mr. Crow seemed
displeased.
"What's the joke?" he inquired in a surly tone. "Something seems to
amuse you. Why are you grinning?"
"It's just a habit I have," Ferdinand Frog explained.
"I'd try to break myself of that habit, if I were you," Mr. Crow advised
him. "Some day it will get you into trouble, for you're likely to grin
when you oughtn't to. There's a wrong time and a right time for
everything, you know."
"Just as there is for planting corn," Mr. Frog chimed in.
"Exactly!" Mr. Crow returned.
"And for eating it!" Mr. Frog added.
But old Mr. Crow only said hastily that he would be at the barn by the
time Ferdinand reached it. And without another word he flapped himself
away across the field.
"He's a queer one," said Ferdinand Frog to himself. "It seems as if a
person couldn't please him, no matter how much a person tried." Then he
untied his necktie, and tied it again, because he thought one end of the
bow was longer than the other; and that was something he couldn't
endure.
Then he resumed his jumping. And after exactly one hundred and
thirty-two jumps he reached a corner of Farmer Green's great barn, where
he found old Mr. Crow waiting for him.
"Still smiling, I see," the old gentleman observed gruffly. "Maybe
you'll laugh out of the other corner of your mouth after you've seen
the pretty picture that you look like."
"I hope so! Where is it?" Ferdinand Frog asked him eagerly. "Show me the
pretty one!"
"Come with me!" said old Mr. Crow. And he led the way around the barn,
stopping before the side that faced the road.
"There!" he cried. "It's in the upper left-hand corner, just as I told
you." And he chuckled as loud as he dared--with Farmer Green inside the
building, milking the cows.
As Ferdinand Frog gazed upward a shadow of disappointment came over his
face. And for once he did not smile.
"Do I look like that?" he faltered.
"You certainly do," old Mr. Crow assured him. "See those eyes--don't
they bulge just like yours? And look at that mouth! It's fully as wide
as yours--and maybe a trifle wider!"
"The face does look a bit like mine, I'll admit," Ferdinand Frog
muttered. "But no one could ever mistake one of us for the other....
What's the name of this creature?"
"It's called the _hippopotamus_," old Mr. Crow replied. "I heard Johnnie
Green say so. And he ought to know, if anyone does."
IV
MR. CROW LOSES SOMETHING
The picture of the hippopotamus on Farmer Green's barn did not please
Ferdinand Frog. But in a few moments he began to smile again.
"You've made a mistake," he told old Mr. Crow with a snicker. "When Aunt
Polly Woodchuck said I was as pretty as a picture she never could have
had this one in mind."
"Why not?" Mr. Crow inquired. "The eyes and the mouth----"
"Yes! Yes--I know!" Ferdinand interrupted. "But this creature has a
tail! And tails are terribly out of fashion. I haven't worn one since I
was a tadpole."
That was enough for old Mr. Crow. _He_ had a tail----or tail feathers,
at least. And he at once flew into a terrible rage.
"You've insulted me!" he shouted.
Ferdinand Frog knew then that he had blundered. So he hastened to mend
matters.
"There, there!" he said in a soothing tone. "Having a tail is not so
bad, after all; for you can always cut it off, if you want to be in
style." And he was surprised to find that his remark only made Mr. Crow
angrier than ever.
[Illustration: Old Mr. Crow Plays a Joke on Mr. Frog]
"Cut off my tail, indeed!" the old gentleman snorted. "I'd be a pretty
sight, if I did. Why, I wouldn't part with a single tail-feather, on any
account." He continued to scold Ferdinand Frog at the top of his lungs,
telling him that he was a silly fellow, and that nobody--unless it
was a few foolish young creatures--thought he was the least bit
handsome.
Now, old Mr. Crow was in such a temper that he forgot that Farmer Green
was inside the barn. And he made so much noise that Farmer Green heard
him and peeped around the corner of the barn to see what was going on.
A moment later the old shot-gun went off with a terrific roar. Ferdinand
Frog saw Mr. Crow spring up and go tearing off towards the woods. And a
long, black tail-feather floated slowly down out of the air and settled
on the ground near the place where Mr. Crow had been standing.
After shaking his fist in Mr. Crow's direction, Farmer Green
disappeared.
"That's a pity," Mr. Frog thought. "Mr. Crow has parted with one of his
tail-feathers. And I must find him as soon as I can and tell him how
sorry I am."
Then Mr. Frog turned to look at the other pictures, which covered the
whole side of the big barn. He beheld many strange creatures--some with
necks of enormous length, some with humps on their backs, and all of
them of amazing colors.
But whether they were ringed, streaked or striped, not one of them
was--in Mr. Frog's opinion--one-half as beautiful as the hippopotamus.
"Even he----" Mr. Frog decided----"even he couldn't be called half as
handsome as I am. For once old Mr. Crow certainly was mistaken."
And he began to laugh. And while he was laughing, Farmer Green came out
of the barn with a pail of milk in each hand.
Then Ferdinand Frog had a happy thought. Why not ask Farmer Green to
shoot off the tail of the hippopotamus? The loss of that ugly tail would
improve the creature's looks, and make him appear still more like Mr.
Frog himself.
At least, that was Mr. Frog's own opinion.
And he called to Farmer Green and suggested to him that he step out
behind the barn and take a shot at the tail of the hippopotamus.
"Try your luck!" Mr. Frog coaxed. "It's plain to see that you need
practice, or you'd have made Mr. Crow part with all his tail-feathers,
instead of only one." And he laughed harder than ever.
But Farmer Green paid little heed to Ferdinand Frog's wheedling,
although he did smile and say:
"I declare, I believe that bull frog's jeering at me because I missed
the old crow!"
V
MR. FROG'S SECRET SORROW
Ferdinand Frog always looked so cheerful that no one ever suspected that
he had a secret sorrow. But it is true, nevertheless, that something
troubled him, though he took great pains not to let a single one of his
neighbors know that anything grieved him.
His trouble was simply this: he had never been invited to attend the
singing-parties which the Frog family held almost every evening in Cedar
Swamp.
Now, Ferdinand Frog loved to sing at night.
Indeed, he liked nothing better than to go to the lake not far from the
Beaver dam and practice his songs among the lily pads near the shore. He
had a deep, powerful bass voice, which one could hear a mile or more
across the water on a still evening.
Often he dressed himself with the greatest care and went to the lake
alone, where he stayed half the night and sang so loudly that a good
many of the wild folk who lived in the neighborhood thought him a great
nuisance. Not caring for music, they objected to being forced to listen
to Ferdinand Frog's favorite songs.
"Why don't you go over to Cedar Swamp, if you want to make a noise?" one
of the Beaver family who was known as Tired Tim asked Mr. Frog one
evening. "You have come here for nine nights running; and your racket
has upset me so that I haven't done a stroke of work in all this time."
Mr. Frog had puffed himself up and had just opened his mouth to begin a
new song. But upon being spoken to so rudely he closed his mouth quickly
and swallowed several times. For just a second or two he was speechless,
he was so surprised. And then presently he began to giggle.
"I believe you," he said. "I believe that you haven't done a stroke of
work for ninety nights." He knew--as did everybody else--that Tired Tim
was the laziest person for miles around.
"I said nine--not ninety," Tired Tim corrected him.
"Oh! My mistake!" Mr. Frog replied.
"You haven't answered my question," Tired Tim reminded him with a wide
yawn. "I asked you why you didn't attend the singing-parties over in
Cedar Swamp. You could croak your head off there and no one would stop
you."
But Mr. Frog shook his head. And at the same time, he sighed.
"No!" he said. "I'd rather sing here on the border of the lake. The
trouble is, _I sing too well_ for those fellows over in Cedar Swamp."
"Why don't you join them and teach them how to sing, if you know so much
about it?" Tired Tim persisted.
"Oh, I've no time for that," Ferdinand Frog answered.
And then it was his companion's turn to snicker.
"You appear to have plenty of time to waste here," he observed. "It's my
opinion that there's just one reason why you don't go to the Cedar Swamp
singing parties."
"What's that?" Mr. Frog inquired with a slight trace of uneasiness.
"They haven't invited you."
"How did you guess that?" Ferdinand Frog asked him.
He wished, the next moment, that he had not put that question to Tired
Tim. For he saw at once that he had given his sad secret away.
VI
TIRED TIM DOES A FAVOR
In spite of all Ferdinand Frog's teasing, Tired Tim Beaver refused to
explain how he happened to know Mr. Frog's secret.
To tell the truth, he had _guessed_ the reason why Mr. Frog did not
attend the Cedar Swamp singing-parties. But he hoped that Ferdinand Frog
would think that some of the musical Frog family had been talking to
him. And he even hinted to Mr. Frog that maybe it would be possible to
get him an invitation to the singing-parties.
"Do you think you could do that?" Ferdinand Frog asked him with, great
eagerness.
"I _might_ be able to; but it wouldn't be an easy matter," Tired Tim
replied. "And I'd expect you to do something for me, if I went to so
much trouble on your account."
"I'll do _anything_ for you, in return for an invitation to the Cedar
Swamp singing-parties," Ferdinand Frog declared.
"Very well!" Tired Tim told him. "I'll go right over to the swamp now.
And when I tell 'em a few things, I know they'll want you to join 'em."
Ferdinand Frog felt so gay that he stood on his head and waved his feet
in the air.
"Let's meet here to-morrow night," he suggested.
But Tired Tim objected to that plan.
"You would be hanging about this place--and singing--for four-and-twenty
hours," he grumbled. "It will be a great deal better if we meet on the
edge of the swamp."
"Just as you wish!" Ferdinand Frog exclaimed. "And since you're going to
Cedar Swamp, I'll hop along with you, to keep you company."
"You forget----" said Tired Tim Beaver----"you forget that you haven't
been invited yet."
"Have you?" Mr. Frog inquired.
"Certainly!" said Tired Tim. And grinning over his shoulder, he swam
away.
Mr. Frog watched his friend from the shore.
"He can't fool me," he muttered. "Tired Tim _invited himself_. And I've
been stupid not to do likewise."
On the following night Ferdinand Frog went to the edge of Cedar Swamp,
where he waited somewhat impatiently on a log until Tired Tim Beaver
joined him.
"Well!" Mr. Frog cried. "I'm glad to see you and I hope you've brought
my invitation."
But Tired Tim wouldn't say yes or no.
"If I succeed in getting you into the Cedar Swamp singing-parties will
you promise me that you won't sing any more around the lake, or near our
pond, either?" he demanded.
Ferdinand Frog gave his solemn promise.
"Very well, then!" Tired Tim said. "Go along over to the swamp. They're
expecting you."
When he heard the good news Ferdinand Frog was so delighted that he
leaped into the air and kicked his heels together.
And then forgetting his solemn promise, he began to bellow at the top of
his voice:
"To Cedar Swamp I'll haste away;
Though first I'll sing a song.
My voice I must not waste to-day,
So I'll not keep you long.
I simply want to let you know
I'm much obliged, before I go."
"Don't mention it!" said Tired Tim.
"Don't interrupt me, please!" said Ferdinand Frog. "I haven't finished
thanking you yet. That's only the first verse."
"How many more are there?" Tired Tim inquired with a yawn.
"Ninety-nine!" Mr. Frog answered. And he was somewhat surprised--and
puzzled--when Tired Tim left him suddenly and plunged into the
underbrush.
VII
THE SINGING-PARTY
Ferdinand Frog lost no time, after Tired Tim left him. He jumped into
the swamp and made straight towards the very middle of it, whence he
could already hear the chorus of the numerous Frog family; for the
singing-party had begun.
Mr. Frog made all haste, not wishing to miss any more of the fun. Now
swimming, now leaping from one hummock to another--or sometimes to an
old stump--he quickly reached the place where the Frog family were
enjoying themselves.
"Here he is!" several of the singers exclaimed as soon as Ferdinand
Frog's head popped out of the water, in their midst.
He saw at once that they had been expecting him; and he smiled and
bowed--and waited for the company to stop singing and give him a warm
greeting with their cold, damp hands. But except for those first few
words, no one paid the slightest attention to the newcomer.
In fact, nobody even took the trouble to nod to Ferdinand Frog--much
less to shake hands with him and tell him that he was welcome.
Meanwhile one song followed another with hardly a pause between them.
And Mr. Frog found that he did not know the words of even one.
He was so impatient that at last he climbed upon an old fallen
tree-trunk, which stuck out of the greenish-black water, and began to
roar his favorite song, while he beat time for the other singers. The
name of that song was "A Frog on a Log in a Bog"; and Ferdinand Frog
thought that he couldn't have chosen another so fitting.
But the rest of the singing-party had other ideas. They turned about and
scowled at Mr. Frog as if he had done something most unpleasant.
"Stop! Stop!" several of them cried. And an important-looking fellow
near him shouted, "Don't sing that, for pity's sake!"
"Why not?" Ferdinand Frog faltered. "What's the matter with my song?
It's my special favorite, which I sing at least fifty times each night,
regularly."
"It's old stuff," the other told him with a sneer. "We haven't sung that
for a year, at least."
Ferdinand Frog did not try to argue with him. But as soon as he saw
another chance he began a different ditty.
Then a loud groan arose. And somebody stopped him again. And Mr. Frog
soon learned that they hadn't sung that one for a year and a half.
Though he tried again and again, he had no better luck. But he kept
smiling bravely. And finally he asked the company in a loud voice if he
"wasn't going to have a chance."
"Certainly!" a number of the singers assured him. "Your chance is coming
later. We shan't forget you."
And that made Ferdinand Frog feel better. He told himself that he could
wait patiently for a time--if it wasn't too long.
VIII
THE MISSING SUPPER
Ferdinand Frog had begun to feel uneasy again. He was afraid that the
singers had forgotten their promise to him. But at last they suddenly
started a rousing song which made him take heart again.
They roared out the chorus in a joyful way which left no doubt in his
mind that his chance was at hand:
"Now that the concert is ended
We'll sit at the banquet and feast.
Now that the singing's suspended
We'll dine till it's gray in the east."
Mr. Frog only hoped that the company did not expect him to sing to them
_all_ the time while they were banqueting.
"They needn't think--" he murmured under his breath--"they needn't think
I don't like good things to eat as well as they do." But he let no one
see that he was worried. That was Ferdinand Frog's way: almost always he
managed to smile, no matter how things went.
When the last echoes of the song had died away a great hubbub arose.
Everybody crowded around Mr. Frog. And there were cries of "Now! Now!"
He thought, of course, that they wanted to hear him sing. So he started
once more to sing his favorite song. But they stopped him quickly.
"We've finished the songs for to-night," they told him. "We're ready for
the supper now.... Where is it?"
"Supper?" Mr. Frog faltered, as his jaw dropped. "What supper?"
"The supper you're going to give us!" the whole company shouted. "You
know--don't you?--that we have just made a rule for new members: they're
to furnish a banquet."
Ferdinand Frog's eyes seemed to bulge further out of his head than ever.
"I--I never heard of this before!" he stammered.
"Didn't Tired Tim tell you about our new rule?" somebody inquired. "It
was his own idea."
"He never said a word to me about it!" Ferdinand Frog declared with a
loud laugh. "And I can't give you a supper, for I haven't one ready."
"Then we'll postpone it until to-morrow night," the company told him
hopefully.
"What does your rule say?" Ferdinand Frog rolled his eyes as he put the
question to them.
"It says that the banquet must take place the first night the new member
is present," a fat gentleman replied.
"Then I can't give you any food to-morrow night," Mr. Frog informed
them, "because it would be against the rule."
"Then you can't be a member!" a hundred voices croaked.
"I _am_ one now," Ferdinand Frog replied happily. "And what's more, I
don't see how you can keep me out of your singing-parties."
There was silence for a time.
"We've been sold," some one said at last. "We've no rule to prevent this
fellow from coming here. And the worst of it is, as everybody knows, his
voice is so loud it will spoil all our songs."
Oddly enough, the speaker was the very one who had | 232.805136 |
2023-11-16 18:20:56.8785010 | 60 | 19 |
Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer
THE YELLOW WALLPAPER
By Charlotte Perkins Gilman
It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure
ancestral halls for the summer.
A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house,
and reach | 232.898541 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Inglises, by Margaret Murray Robertson.
________________________________________________________________________
Margaret Robertson generally wrote about rather religion-minded people,
and this is no exception. The women in her stories tend to moan on a
good bit, and this book is also no exception to that. Having said that,
don't say I didn't warn you. However, like all novels of the second
half of the nineteenth century, they are about a bygone age, and things
were different then. For that reason it is worth reading books of that
period if you want to know more about how people lived in those days.
One very big difference was illness. Nowadays, you go to the doctor,
and very probably he or she will be able to cure you. In those days you
either died or were confined to your bed for a long time. If you died
but had been responsible for income coming into the house, in many cases
that stopped, too. The women-folk and the children would be left
without support. No wonder they moaned a lot, and turned to religion,
to comfort themselves. It is hard for us to realise what huge progress
has been made in social reforms. Reading this book, and others of that
period (this book was published in 1872) will teach a lot about how
lucky we are to live in the present age, despite all its other faults.
________________________________________________________________________
THE INGLISES, BY MARGARET MURRAY ROBERTSON.
CHAPTER ONE.
In the large and irregular township of Gourlay, there are two villages,
Gourlay Centre and Gourlay Corner. The Reverend Mr Inglis lived in the
largest and prettiest of the two, but he preached in both. He preached
also in another part of the town, called the North Gore. A good many of
the Gore people used to attend church in one or other of the two
villages; but some of them would never have heard the Gospel preached
from one year's end to the other, if the minister had not gone to them.
So, though the way was long and the roads rough at the best of seasons,
Mr Inglis went often to hold service in the little red school-house
there. It was not far on in November, but the night was as hard a night
to be out in as though it were the depth of winter, Mrs Inglis thought,
as the wind dashed the rain and sleet against the window out of which
she and her son David were trying to look. They could see nothing,
however, for the night was very dark. Even the village lights were but
dimly visible through the storm, which grew thicker every moment; with
less of rain and more of snow, and the moaning of the wind among the
trees made it impossible for them to hear any other sound.
"I ought to have gone with him, mamma," said the boy, at last.
"Perhaps so, dear. But papa thought it not best, as this is Frank's
last night here."
"It is quite time he were at home, mamma, even though the roads are
bad."
"Yes; he must have been detained. We will not wait any longer. We will
have prayers, and let the children go to bed; he will be very tired when
he gets home."
"How the wind blows! We could not hear the wagon even if he were quite
near. Shall I go to the gate and wait?"
"No, dear, better not. Only be ready with the lantern when he comes."
They stood waiting a little longer, and then David opened the door and
looked out.
"It will be awful on Hardscrabble to-night, mamma," said he, as he came
back to her side.
"Yes," said his mother, with a sigh, and then they were for a long time
silent. She was thinking how the wind would find its way through the
long-worn great coat of her husband, and how unfit he was to bear the
bitter cold. David was thinking how the rain, that had been falling so
heavily all the afternoon, must have gullied out the road down the north
side of Hardscrabble hill, and hoping that old Don would prove himself
sure-footed in the darkness.
"I wish I had gone with him," said he, again.
"Let us go to the children," said his mother.
The room in which the children were gathered was bright with
fire-light--a picture of comfort in contrast with the dark and stormy
night out upon which these two had been looking. The mother shivered a
little as she drew near the fire.
"Sit here, mamma."
"No, sit here; this is the best place." The eagerness was like to grow
to clamour.
"Hush! children," said the mother; "it is time for prayers. We will not
wait for papa, because he will be very tired and cold. No, Letty, you
need not get the books, there has been enough reading for the little
ones to-night. We will sing `Jesus, lover of my soul,' and then David
will read the chapter."
"Oh! yes, mamma, `Jesus, lover;' I like that best," said little Mary,
laying her head down on her mother's shoulder, and her little shrill
voice joined with the others all through, though she could hardly speak
the words plainly.
"That's for papa," said she, when they reached the end of the last line,
"While the tempest still is high."
The children laughed, but the mother kissed her fondly, saying softly:
"Yes, love; but let us sing on to the end."
It was very sweet singing, and very earnest. Even their cousin, Francis
Oswald, whose singing in general was of a very different kind, joined in
it, to its great improvement, and to the delight of the rest. Then
David read the chapter, and then they all knelt down and the mother
prayed.
"Not just with her lips, but with all her heart, as if she really
believed in the good of it," thought Francis Oswald to himself. "Of
course we all believe in it in a general way," he went on thinking, as
he rose from his knees and sat down, not on a chair, but on the rug
before the fire; "of course, we all believe in it, but not just as Aunt
Mary does. She seems to be seeing the hand that holds the thing she is
asking for, and she asks as if she was sure she was going to get it,
too. She hasn't a great deal of what people generally are most anxious
to have," he went on, letting his eyes wander round the fire-lighted
room, "but then she is content with what she has, and that makes all the
difference. `A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things
which he possesses,' she told me the other day, and I suppose she
believes _that_, too, and not just in the general way in which we all
believe the things that are in the Bible. Fancy Aunt Ellen and my
sister Louisa being contented in a room like this!"
It was a very pleasant room, too, the lad thought, though they might not
like it, and though there was not an article in it which was in itself
beautiful. It was a large, square room, with an alcove in which stood a
bed. Before the bed was a piece of carpet, which did not extend very
far over the grey painted floor, and in the corner was a child's cot.
The furniture was all of the plainest, not matching either in style or
in material, but looking very much as if it had been purchased piece by
piece, at different times and places, as the means of the owners had
permitted. The whole was as unlike as possible to the beautifully
furnished room in which the greater part of the boy's evenings had been
passed, but it was a great deal pleasanter in his eyes at the moment.
"I have had jolly times here, better than I shall have at home, unless
they let me read again--which I don't believe they will, though I am so
much better. I am very glad I came. I like Uncle and Aunt Inglis.
There is no `make believe' about them; and the youngsters are not a bad
lot, take them all together."
He sat upon the rug with his hands clasped behind his head, letting his
thoughts run upon many things. David had gone to the window, and was
gazing out into the stormy night again, and his brother Jem sat with his
face bent close over his book, reading by the fire-light. Not a word
was spoken for a long time. Violet laid the sleeping little Mary in her
cot, and when her mother came in, she said:
"Don't you think, mamma, that perhaps papa may stay all night at the
Gore? It is so stormy."
"No, dear; he said he would be home. Something must have detained him
longer than usual. What are you thinking about so earnestly Francis?"
"Since you went up-stairs? Oh! about lots of things. About the chapter
David was reading, for one thing."
The chapter David had read was the tenth of Numbers--one not very likely
to interest young readers, except the last few verses. It was the way
with the Inglises, at morning and evening worship, to read straight on
through the Bible, not passing over any chapter because it might not
seem very interesting or instructive. At other times they might pick
and choose the chapters they read and talked about, but at worship time
they read straight on, and in so doing fell on many a word of wonderful
beauty, which the pickers and choosers might easily overlook. The last
few verses of the chapter read that night were one of these, and quite
new to one of the listeners, at least. It was Moses' invitation to
Hobab to go with the Lord's people to the promised land.
"I wonder whether the old chap went," said Frank, after a pause. "What
are you laughing at, Jem?"
"He thinks that is not a respectful way to speak of a Bible person, I
suppose," said Violet.
"About the chapter David was reading," said Jem, mimicking his cousin's
tone and manner. "That is for mamma. You don't expect me to swallow
that. Give mamma the result of your meditations, like a good boy."
"I said I was thinking of the chapter, for one thing," said Frank, not
at all angry, though he reddened a little. "I was thinking, besides,
whether that was a proper book for you to be reading to-night, `The
Swiss Family,' is it not?"
"Sold," cried Jem, triumphantly; "it is the `Pilgrim's Progress.'"
"You have read that before," said Violet.
"Lots of times. It will bear it. But what about Hobab, Frank? Much
you care about the old chap, don't you? Davie, come here and listen to
Frank."
"If you would only give Frank a chance to speak," said his mother,
smiling.
"Did Hobab go, do you think, aunt?" asked Frank.
"He refused to go," said Jem. "Don't you remember he said, `I will not
go, but I will depart into my own land, and to my kindred?'"
"Yes; but that was before Moses said, `Thou mayest be to us instead of
eyes, forasmuch as thou knowest how we are to encamp in this
wilderness.' You see, he had a chance of some adventures; that might
tempt him. Do you think he went, aunt?"
"I cannot tell; afterwards we hear of Heber the Kenite, who was of the
children of Hobab; and his wife took the part of the Israelites, when
she slew Sisera. But whether he went with the people at that time, we
do not hear. Very likely he did. I can understand how the people's
need of him as a guide, or a guard, might have seemed to him a better
reason for casting in his lot with the people, than even the promise
that Moses gave him, `Come with us and we will do thee good.'"
"That is to say, mamma, he would rather have a chance to help others,
than the prospect of a good time for himself. That is not the way with
people generally," said Jem, shaking his head gravely.
"It is not said that it was the way with Hobab," said his mother; "but I
am inclined to think, with Francis, that perhaps it might have been so."
"He must have been a brave man and a good man, or Moses would not have
wanted him," said David.
"And if he went for the sake of a home in the promised land, he must
have been disappointed. He did not get there for forty years, if he got
there at all," said Jem.
"But if he went for the fighting he may have had a good time in the
wilderness, for there must have been many alarms, and a battle now and
then," said Frank.
"But, mamma," said Violet, earnestly, "they had the pillar of cloud, and
the pillar of fire, and the Angel of the Covenant going before. Why
should we suppose they needed the help of Hobab?"
"God helps them that help themselves, Letty, dear," said Jem.
"Gently, Jem," said his mother; "speak reverently, my boy. Yes, Letty,
they were miraculously guarded and guided; but we do not see that they
were allowed to fold their hands and do nothing. God fought for them,
and they fought for themselves. And as for Hobab, he must have been a
good and brave man, as David says, and so the chances are he went with
the people, thinking less of what he could get for himself than of what
he could do for others, as is the way with good and brave men."
"Like the people we read about in books," said Jem.
"Yes; and like some of the people we meet in real life," said his
mother, smiling. "The men who even in the eyes of the world are the
best and bravest, are the men who have forgotten themselves and their
own transitory interests to live or die for the sake of others."
"Like Moses, when he pleaded that the people might not be destroyed,
even though the Lord said He would make him the father of a great
nation," said David.
"Like Paul," said Violet, "who `counted not his life dear to him,' and
who was willing `to spend and be spent,' though the more abundantly he
loved the people, the less he was loved."
"Like Leonidas with his three hundred heroes."
"Like Curtius, who leapt into the gulf."
"Like William Tell and John Howard."
"Like a great many missionaries," said Violet. And a great many more
were mentioned.
"But, aunt," said Frank, "you said like a great many people we meet in
real life. I don't believe I know a single man like that--one who
forgets himself, and lives for others. Tell me one."
"Papa," said David, softly. His mother smiled.
"It seems to me that all true Christians ought to be like that--men who
do not live to please themselves--who desire most of all to do God's
work among their fellow-men," said she, gravely.
Frank drew a long breath.
"Then I am afraid I don't know many Christians, Aunt Inglis."
"My boy, perhaps you are not a good judge, and I daresay you have never
thought much about the matter."
"No, I have not. But now that I do think of it, I cannot call to mind
any one--scarcely any one who would answer to that description. It
seems to me that most men seem to mind their own interests pretty well.
There is Uncle Inglis, to be sure--But then he is a minister, and doing
good is his business, you know."
"Frank," said Jem, as his mother did not answer immediately, "do you
know that papa might have been a banker, and a rich man now, like your
father? His uncle offered him the chance first, but he had made up his
mind to be a minister. His uncle was very angry, wasn't he, mamma?"
But his mother had no wish that the conversation should be pursued in
that direction, so she said, "Yes, Frank, it is his business to do God's
work in the world, but no more than it is yours and mine, in one sense."
"Mine!" echoed Frank, with a whistle of astonishment, which Jem echoed.
"Yours, surely, my dear boy, and yours, Jem; and your responsibility is
not lessened by the fact that you may be conscious that you are refusing
that personal consecration which alone can fit you for God's service, or
make such service acceptable."
There was nothing answered to this, and Mrs Inglis added, "And being
consecrated to God's service, we do His work well, when we do well the
duty he has appointed us, however humble it may be."
"But to come back to Hobab, mamma," said Jem, in a little while. "After
all, do you really think it was a desire to do God's work in helping the
people that made him go with them, if he did go? Perhaps he thought of
the fighting and the possible adventures, as Frank says."
"We have no means of knowing, except that it does not seem to have been
so much with the thought of his being a protector, that Moses asked him,
as of his being a guide. `Thou mayest be to us instead of eyes,' said
he."
"Yes," said Jem, hesitatingly, "I suppose so; but it must have been
something to him to think of leading such a host."
"But he would not have led the host," said David. "Yet it must have
been a grand thing to follow such a leader as Moses."
"Aunt Mary," said Frank, "if there is something for us all to do in the
world, as you say, I, for one, would much rather think of it as a place
to fight in than to work in."
"The same here," said Jem.
"Well, so it is," said Mrs Inglis.
"`In the world's broad field of battle.' Don't you remember, Davie?"
"Yes, I remember, `Be a hero in the strife,'" said David. "And Paul
bids Timothy, `Fight the good fight of faith;' and in another place he
says, `That thou mayest war a good warfare;' which is better authority
than your poet, Violet."
"Yes, and when he was an old man--Paul, I mean--he said, `I have fought
the good fight; I have finished the course; I have kept the faith.'"
"And is there not something about armour?" asked Frank, who was not very
sure of his Bible knowledge.
"Yes. `Put ye on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand
in the evil day, and having done all to stand.' That is Paul, too."
"Yes," said Jem, slowly. "That was to be put on against the wiles of
the devil. `Ye wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against
principalities and powers; against the rulers of the darkness of this
world; against spiritual wickedness in high places.'"
Frank uttered an exclamation.
"They needed armour, I think."
"Not more than we do now, my boy. We have the same enemies," said his
aunt.
It was her way at such times to let the conversation flow on according
to the pleasure of the young people, only she put in a word now and then
as it was needed for counsel or restraint.
"It sounds awful, don't it?" said Jem, who was always amused when his
cousin received as a new thought something that the rest of them had
been familiar with all their lives. "And that isn't all. What is that
about `the law in our members warring against the law in our minds?'
What with one thing and what with another, you stand a chance to get
fighting enough."
His mother put her hand on his arm.
"But, mamma, this thought of life's being a battle-field, makes one
afraid," said Violet.
"It need not, dear, one who takes `the whole armour.'"
"But what is the armour?" said Frank. "I don't understand."
Violet opened the Bible and read that part of the sixth chapter of
Ephesians where the armour is spoken of; and the boys discussed it piece
by piece. David, who had scarcely spoken before, had most to say now,
telling the others about the weapons and the armour used by the
ancients, and about their mode of carrying on war. For David had been
reading Latin and Greek with his father for a good while, and the rest
listened with interest. They wandered away from the subject sometimes,
or rather in the interest with which they discussed the deeds of ancient
warriors, they were in danger of forgetting "the whole armour," and the
weapons which are "not carnal but spiritual," and the warfare they were
to wage by means of these, till a word from the mother brought them back
again.
"`And having done all to stand,'" said Frank, in a pause that came in a
little while. "That does not seem much to do."
"It is a great deal," said his aunt. "The army that encamps on the
battle-field after the battle, is the conquering army. To stand is
victory."
"Yes, I see," said Frank.
"It means victory to stand firm when an assault is made, but they who
would be `good soldiers of Jesus Christ' have more to do than that. His
banner must be carried to wave over all the nations. The world must be
subdued to Him. And when it is said, `Be strong,' it means be strong
for conquest as well as for defence."
And then, seeing that the boys were moved to eager listening, Mrs
Inglis put aside her anxious thoughts about her husband, and went on to
speak of the honour and glory of being permitted to fight under Him who
was promised as a "Leader and Commander to the people"--and in such a
cause--that the powers of darkness might be overthrown, the slaves of
sin set free, and His throne set up who is to "reign in righteousness."
Though the conflict might be fierce and long, how certain the victory!
how high the reward at last! Yes, and before the last. One had not to
wait till the last. How wonderful it was, she said, and how sweet to
believe, that not one in all the numberless host, who were "enduring
hardness as good soldiers of Jesus Christ," but was known to Him, and
beloved by Him; known even by name; watched over and cared for; guided
and strengthened; never forgotten, never overlooked. "Safe through
life, victorious in death, through Him that loved them, and gave Himself
for them," added the mother, and then she paused, partly because these
wonderful thoughts, and the eager eyes fastened on hers, made it not
easy to continue, and, partly, because she would fain put into as few
words as might be, her hopes and desires for the lad who was going so
soon to leave them.
"Francis," said she, softly, "would it not be something grand to be one
of such an army, fighting under such a leader?"
"Yes, Aunt Mary, if one only knew the way."
"One can always offer one's self as His soldier."
"Yes, if one is fit."
"But one can never make one's self fit. _He_ undertakes all that.
Offer yourself to be His. Give yourself to Him. He will appoint you
your place in the host, and make you strong to stand, patient to endure,
valiant to fight, and He will ensure the victory, and give you the
triumph at the end. Think of all this, Francis, dear boy! It is a
grand thing to be a soldier of the Lord."
"Yes, Aunt Mary," said Frank, gravely. Then they were all silent for a
long time. Indeed, there was not a word spoken till Mr Inglis' voice
was heard at the door. Jem ran out to hold old Don till David brought
the lantern, and both boys spent a good while in making the horse
comfortable after his long pull over the hills. Mrs Inglis went to the
other room to attend to her husband, and Violet followed her, and Frank
was left alone to think over the words that he had heard. He did think
of them seriously, then and afterwards.--He never quite forgot them,
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ATHENS: ITS RISE AND FALL
by Edward Bulwer Lytton
DEDICATION.
TO HENRY FYNES CLINTON, ESQ., etc., etc. AUTHOR OF "THE FASTI
HELLENICI."
My Dear Sir,
I am not more sensible of the distinction conferred upon me when you
allowed me to inscribe this history with your name, than pleased with
an occasion to express my gratitude for the assistance I have derived
throughout the progress of my labours from that memorable work, in
which you have upheld the celebrity of English learning, and afforded
so imperishable a contribution to our knowledge of the Ancient World.
To all who in history look for the true connexion between causes and
effects, chronology is not a dry and mechanical compilation of barren
dates, but the explanation of events and the philosophy of facts. And
the publication of the Fasti Hellenici has thrown upon those times, in
which an accurate chronological system can best repair what is
deficient, and best elucidate what is obscure in the scanty
authorities bequeathed to us, all the light of a profound and
disciplined intellect, applying the acutest comprehension to the
richest erudition, and arriving at its conclusions according to the
true spirit of inductive reasoning, which proportions the completeness
of the final discovery to the caution of the intermediate process. My
obligations to that learning and to those gifts which you have
exhibited to the world are shared by all who, in England or in Europe,
study the history or cultivate the literature of Greece. But, in the
patient kindness with which you have permitted me to consult you
during the tedious passage of these volumes through the press--in the
careful advice--in the generous encouragement--which have so often
smoothed the path and animated the progress--there are obligations
peculiar to myself; and in those obligations there is so much that
honours me, that, were I to enlarge upon them more, the world might
mistake an acknowledgment for a boast.
With the highest consideration and esteem,
Believe me, my dear sir,
Most sincerely and gratefully yours,
EDWARD LYTTON BULWER
London, March, 1837.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The work, a portion of which is now presented to the reader, has
occupied me many years--though often interrupted in its progress,
either by more active employment, or by literary undertakings of a
character more seductive. These volumes were not only written, but
actually in the hands of the publisher before the appearance, and
even, I believe, before the announcement of the first volume of Mr.
Thirlwall's History of Greece, or I might have declined going over any
portion of the ground cultivated by that distinguished scholar [1].
As it is, however, the plan I have pursued differs materially from
that of Mr. Thirlwall, and I trust that the soil is sufficiently
fertile to yield a harvest to either labourer.
Since it is the letters, yet more than the arms or the institutions of
Athens, which have rendered her illustrious, it is my object to
combine an elaborate view of her literature with a complete and
impartial account of her political transactions. The two volumes now
published bring the reader, in the one branch of my subject, to the
supreme administration of Pericles; in the other, to a critical
analysis of the tragedies of Sophocles. Two additional volumes will,
I trust, be sufficient to accomplish my task, and close the records of
Athens at that period when, with the accession of Augustus, the annals
of the world are merged into the chronicle of the Roman empire. In
these latter volumes it is my intention to complete the history of the
Athenian drama--to include a survey of the Athenian philosophy--to
describe the manners, habits, and social life of the people, and to
conclude the whole with such a review of the facts and events narrated
as | 232.907489 |
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Produced by Demian Katz and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy
of the Digital Library@Villanova University
(http://digital.library.villanova.edu/))
[Illustration: AS HERC TURNED, HE WAS CERTAIN THAT HE HAD SEEN A FACE
VANISH QUICKLY FROM THE CASEMENT.
--Page 62.
]
THE
DREADNOUGHT BOYS
ON AERO SERVICE
BY
CAPTAIN WILBUR LAWTON
AUTHOR OF "THE DREADNOUGHT BOYS ON BATTLE PRACTICE," "THE
DREADNOUGHT BOYS ABOARD A DESTROYER," "THE DREADNOUGHT
BOYS ON A SUBMARINE," ETC.
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1912,
BY
HURST & COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. SOMETHING NEW IN NAVAL LIFE 5
II. "IF HE'S A MAN, HE'LL STAND UP" 17
III. FOR THE TROPHY OF THE FLEET 30
IV. THE AERO SQUAD 39
V. UNCLE SAM'S MEN-BIRDS 50
VI. NED INVENTS SOMETHING 59
VII. A RESCUE BY AEROPLANE 73
VIII. HERC GETS A "TALKING TO" 84
IX. A CONSPIRACY IS RIPENING 93
X. A DREADNOUGHT BOY AT BAY 103
XI. IN THEIR ENEMIES' HANDS 113
XII. "STOP WHERE YOU ARE!" 123
XIII. HARMLESS AS A RATTLESNAKE 136
XIV. FLYING FOR A RECORD 148
XV. A DROP FROM SPACE 156
XVI. THE SETTING OF A TRAP 167
XVII. THE SPRINGING THEREOF 178
XVIII. ON BOARD THE SLOOP 190
XIX. "BY WIRELESS!" 200
XX. NED, CAST AWAY 213
XXI. A STRIKE FOR UNCLE SAM 223
XXII. SOME ADVENTURES BY THE WAY 233
XXIII. "YOU ARE A PRISONER OF THE GOVERNMENT!" 243
XXIV. A DASH FOR FREEDOM 255
XXV. THE MYSTERIOUS SCHOONER--CONCLUSION 267
The Dreadnought Boys on Aero Service
CHAPTER I.
SOMETHING NEW IN NAVAL LIFE.
One breezy day in early June, when a fresh wind off shore was whipping
the water into sparkling white caps, excitement and comment fairly
hummed about the crowded foredecks of the big Dreadnought _Manhattan_.
The formidable looking sea-fighter lay with half a dozen other smaller
naval vessels--battleships and cruisers--in the stretch of water known
as Hampton Roads, which, sheltered by rising ground, has, from time
immemorial, formed an anchorage for our fighting-ships, and is as rich
in historical associations as any strip of sea within the jurisdiction
of the United States.
The cause of all the turmoil, which was agitating every jackie on the
vessel, was a notice which had been posted on the ship's bulletin board
that morning.
It was tacked up in the midst of notices of band concerts, challenges
to boxing matches, lost or found articles, and the like. At first
it had not attracted much attention. But soon one jackie, and then
another, had scanned it till, by means of the thought-wireless, which
prevails on a man-of-war, the whole fore part of the ship was now
vibrant and buzzing with the intelligence.
The notice which had excited so much attention read as follows:
"Enlisted Men and Petty Officers: You are instructed to send your
volunteer applications for positions in the experimental Aero squad.
All applications to be made in writing to Lieutenant De Frees in charge
of the experiment station."
"Aero service, eh?" grunted more than one grizzled old shell-back,
"well, I've served my time in many an old sea-going hooker, but hanged
if I'd venture my precious skin on board a sky-clipper."
"Aye, aye, mate. Let the youngsters risk their lily-white necks if they
want to," formed the burden of the growled responses, "but you and me
'ull smoke Uncle Sam's baccy, and take our pay with a good deck under
our feet."
But this state of caution did not extend to the younger members of
the ship's company. Least of all to Boatswain's Mate Herc--otherwise
Hercules--Taylor and his inseparable chum, Ned Strong, the latter of
whom was now chief gunner's mate of the biggest vessel in the navy.
Neither Ned nor Herc smoked. By observation of those who did indulge in
the practice, they had discovered that the use of tobacco affected more
senses than one, and rendered a man incapable of the highest physical
proficiency. The custom of smoking not only impaired the eyesight of
many a gunner, but in the athletic sports, of which both lads were
so fond, it also showed its bad effects. Ned knew of more than one
promising young gun-pointer who had been compelled to relinquish his
laurels on account of tobacco-affected eyesight.
As a consequence, the two trim, clean-cut lads, their faces bronzed and
clear from sea air and clean living, stood apart from the group about
the "smoke-lamp."
"I'm going to send in my name," announced Ned with twinkling eyes. "The
aero section of the navy is going to be an important one in the future.
There is a good chance for a chap to advance himself in such work."
"By the great horn spoon!" muttered Herc, in his enthusiastic,
whimsical way, "I'm with you, Ned. We'll be regular sky-pilots before
the summer's out!"
He began to rub his shoulder-blades, while a humorous smile | 232.998524 |
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Produced by R. G. P. M. van Giesen
[Illustration: cover]
THE GREAT ADVENTURE SERIES
Percy F. Westerman:
THE AIRSHIP "GOLDEN HIND"
TO THE FORE WITH THE TANKS
THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE
WILMSHURST OF THE FRONTIER FORCE
Rowland Walker:
THE PHANTOM AIRMAN
DASTRAL OF THE FLYING CORPS
DEVILLE MCKEENE:
THE EXPLOITS OF THE MYSTERY AIRMAN
BLAKE OF THE MERCHANT SERVICE
BUCKLE OF SUBMARINE V 2
OSCAR DANBY, V.C.
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
4, 5 & 6, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1.
THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE
[Illustration: "Blake released his grip of the rough-and-ready dart."
--_Page_ 65.]
THE
SECRET BATTLEPLANE
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
AUTHOR OF
"THE RIVAL SUBMARINES," "A SUB. OF THE R.N.R.," ETC., ETC.
[Illustration: logo]
S. W. PARTRIDGE & Co.
4, 5 & 6, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1
MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN
_First Published 1916_
_Frequently reprinted_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. SNOWED UP
II. A MYSTERIOUS BENEFACTOR
III. THE WONDERS OF THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE
IV. A TRIAL TRIP
V. SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR
VI. THE INTERRUPTED VIGIL
VII. THE BATTLEPLANE'S OFFICIAL DEBUT
VIII. A CROSS-CHANNEL FLIGHT
IX. A FIGHT TO A FINISH
X. TRICKED
XI. THE FATE OF A SPY
XII. SERGEANT O'RAFFERTY'S LUCKY BOMB
XIII. THE FRONTIER
XIV. ATHOL TACKLES VON SECKER
XV. GAME TO THE LAST
XVI. _À BERLIN_
XVII. DISABLED
XVIII. TURNING THE TABLES
XIX. A DUEL WITH A ZEPPELIN
XX. LIBERATED
XXI. ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER
XXII. ALL GOES WELL WITH ENGLAND
CHAPTER I
SNOWED UP
"THAT rotter of a garage fellow!" exclaimed Athol Hawke explosively.
"He hasn't done a thing to the wheel; and, what is more, he rushed
me sixpence for garaging the bike, the young swindler."
"Didn't you go for him?" enquired his chum, Dick Tracey.
"He wasn't there to go for," replied Athol. "He was away on some
job, and left the explanations to a youngster. But, my word, it is
snowing! Think she'll stick it with that groggy wheel?"
The scene was the Market Square, Shrewsbury. The time, nine o'clock
on a Saturday morning, March, 1916. It was, as Athol remarked,
snowing. A week or more of intermittent blizzards had culminated in a
steady fall of large, crisp flakes, and judging by the direction of
the wind, the heavy, dull-grey clouds and an erratic barometer, the
worst was yet to come.
Athol Hawke was a lad of seventeen, although he looked several years
older. He was tall, lightly yet firmly built, of bronzed complexion,
grey eyes and with dark hair. The fact that he was wearing waterproof
overalls, leggings and fur gloves tended to conceal his build.
His companion, who was similarly attired, was Athol's junior by the
short space of three days. In height he was five feet seven--four
inches less than that of his chum; build, thick-set; complexion might
have been fair but exposure to wintry conditions had resulted in his
face being burnt to a reddish colour. His hair was light brown, with
a tendency to crispness; his eyes blue. By disposition he was
remarkably bright and cheerful, characteristics that served as a foil
to Hawke's almost invariable staidness.
The two chums were riding a motor-bicycle and side-car. They had
"been on the road" nearly a week. What possessed them to select a
time of blizzard and equinoctial gales to go tearing across England;
why they were apparently "joy-riding" in wartime; why they chose a
district that was most decidedly within the region of activity of
hostile air-craft--all this will have to be explained in due course.
At eleven o'clock on the previous day they had ridden into the quaint
and picturesque old town of Shrewsbury, having left Chester shortly
after daybreak. During the run they had made the disconcerting
discovery that several of the spokes of the side-car wheel had worked
loose, possibly owing to the drag of the snow and the atrocious
"pot-holes" and setts of Lancashire. The wheel might last out till
the end of their tour--and it might not. Dick suggested risking it,
but the ever-cautious Athol demurred. They would remain at
Shrewsbury, he declared, until the following day and get the damage
made good.
A motor mechanic had promised faithfully to carry out the job, and
had let them down badly.
"Well, what's the programme?" asked Athol. "We may be able to push
on, but I guess it's pretty thick over the hills. Already there's a
good two inches of snow--and it's still tumbling down."
Dick surveyed his surroundings in his customary optimistic manner.
The cobbled square was already hidden by a dazzling white mantle. The
roofs of the old buildings and the detached pillared market-house
were covered with fallen flakes. A weather-worn statue, poised
stolidly upon a lofty pedestal, was fast resembling the time-honoured
character of Father Christmas.
Save for a few belated lady-clerks of the Army Pay Department, who
cast curious glances at the two snow-flaked motor-cyclists as they
hastened to their daily toil, the square was deserted. At the corner
of an adjacent street two recruiting sergeants stood in meditative
silence, regarding with a set purpose the pair of strapping youths.
"More of 'em, by Jove!" exclaimed Dick, as his eyes caught those of
one of the representatives of His Majesty's Army. "Here they come,
old man. Stand by to give 'em five rounds rapid."
"Nothin' doing, sergeant," announced Athol as the foremost non-com.,
beaming affably, vouchsafed some remark about the weather as a
preliminary feeler to a more important topic. His companion had
diplomatically "frozen on" to Dick.
With a dexterity acquired by much practice each lad unbuttoned his
mackintosh coat and from the inner breast pocket of his coat produced
a formidable-looking document.
"Bless my soul!" ejaculated the first sergeant. "Who'd a' thought it?
Very good, sir; we can't touch you--at least, not yet. You never
know."
"You speak words of wisdom, sergeant," rejoined Athol, as he replaced
his paper. "Now, to get back to more immediate surroundings, what do
you think of our chances of getting to Ludlow to-day?"
"On that thing?" asked the sergeant. "Not much. It's as thick as can
be over Wenlock Edge. This is nothing to what's it's like up there.
You'd never get through."
The word "never" put Dick on his mettle.
"We'll have a jolly good shot at it, anyway," he said. "Come along,
Athol, old man. Hop in and we'll have a shot at this Excelsior
business."
Athol Hawke would like to have lodged a protest. He was anxious
concerning the groggy side-car wheel, but almost before he knew where
he was, Dick Tracey had started the engine and the motor was swishing
through the crisp, powdery snow.
Down the steep Wyle Cop and across the narrow English Bridge they
went, then turning shook the snow of Shrewsbury from the wheels,
since it was literally impossible to shake the dust from their feet.
Mile after mile they reeled off, the road rising steadily the while.
Tearing through the snow flakes was really exhilarating. The air was
keen and bracing; the scenery fairy-like in the garb of glittering
white.
"Glad we pushed on," exclaimed Dick. "We're doing it on our heads,
don't you know. The little beast of an engine is pulling splendidly."
The words were hardly out of his mouth when there was a perceptible
slowing down of the three-wheeled vehicle, although the motor
throbbed with increasing rapidity.
"Belt slipping," declared Athol laconically.
"It's the leather one," said his companion as he stopped the engine
and dismounted.
"We'll shove the rubber one on. Leather always is rotten stuff to
slip in the wet, and yet there's a proverb, 'There's nothing like
leather.'"
"Doubt whether the other one will do any better," remarked Hawke.
"See, the lowermost part of the belt rim has been ploughing through
the snow. This is the thickest we've had so far."
"It is," assented Dick. "But we'll push on. It is a pity to turn
back. We can't be so very far from Church Stretton now. From there
it's downhill almost all the rest of the way."
The change of belts was effected and the journey resumed. For the
next quarter of a mile progress was good, although great care had to
be exercised to avoid the snow-banks on either side of the road.
Presently the road dipped with considerable steepness, and bending to
the right crossed a small bridge. Beyond, it again rose and with
increased gradient, and appeared to plunge directly between two lofty
hills. The rising ground was thickly covered with pine trees, each
branch bending under the weight of virgin snow.
"Looks like a bit of Switzerland," observed Dick. "Hanged if I can
see why people want to go abroad to see scenery when there are places
like this at home. But, my word, we've a stiff bit of road to tackle!
Wonder if she'll do it?"
"She's got to," said Athol grimly. He was one of those fellows who
embark upon an undertaking with evident misgivings, but when fairly
in the thick of it warm to their task and are undaunted in spite of
difficulties and rebuffs.
But there are limitations even to the capabilities of a three and a
half horse power motor. Right nobly the engine did its work, but once
again the belt slipped with exasperating loss of power. So deep was
the snow at this point that the lower framework of the side-car was
ploughing through it, while the heated crank case coming in direct
contact with the snow was throwing off vapour like a high pressure
steam engine. To add to the difficulty an accumulation of compressed
snow had choked the front mudguard.
"All alight here!" shouted Dick. "By Jove, we'll have to jolly well
push up this hill."
With the engine still running on low gear the lads literally put
their shoulders to the wheel. It was hard work. In spite of the
lowness of the temperature they were glowing with exertion, as, under
their united efforts, they advanced at the rate of a mile an hour.
"Jolly long way to the top," panted Dick. "Hope we don't get snowed
up. I say, that looks cheerful."
He pointed to a derelict motor car, almost hidden in a drift by the
side of the road, where the bank of snow had risen to at least seven
feet in height.
"Can't be much farther to Church Stretton," said Athol encouragingly.
"Buck up, old man."
For another fifty feet they struggled manfully, until Tracey switched
off the motor and brought the bike to a standstill.
"Spell-oh!" he announced, shaking the powdered snow from his cap.
"I've had enough for a bit."
"If we stop we--like the drunken man--'goes over,'" declared Athol.
"Every minute things are getting worse."
"Can't help it," rejoined Dick breathlessly. "Like the engine, I'm
badly overheated."
For some moments the two chums stood still, taking in as much of the
scenery as the snowstorm permitted, for so thick was the air with
falling flakes that they could form no idea of the height of the
hills on either hand.
Presently a horseman appeared, his mount floundering through the
snow. So narrow was the track that in order to pass the bike and
side-car he had to plunge into the drift.
"Pretty thick," remarked Athol.
"Ay, that it is," replied the man. "An' it's worse up yonder."
"Any village about here?" asked Dick.
"Not for some miles," was the reply. "And not a house, if it comes to
that."
The man rode on. He seemed loth to waste time in conversation.
"We've struck the worst part of Wenlock Edge, it seems," said Athol
consulting his road map. "It would have paid us to have stuck to the
Severn valley, only we both wanted to see Ludlow and its castle.
Well, ready?"
Dick nodded assent, and restarted the engine. Although the belt
slipped frantically the slight friction of the pulley aided the
bodily efforts of the lads. By dint of much exertion another hundred
yards were covered; then despite their efforts they came to a dead
stop.
"How about turning back?" suggested Dick.
"No good," decided Athol. "We might get to the bottom of the
hill--might not. It's a moral cert we could not get up the rise on
the other side of the bridge."
"And we can't leave the bike here," added his companion. "It would
completely block the road."
"The road is blocked already, I fancy. The plain fact is this: we're
snowed up, and what's more the side-car wheel has gone to pot at
last."
CHAPTER II
A MYSTERIOUS BENEFACTOR
"GET the luggage out, old man," said Dick. "We'll pad the hoof and
see if we can find a cottage. We might, with luck, get a fellow with
a horse to pull the bike to the top of the hill."
"I guess the job's beyond the powers of a gee-gee," remarked Athol,
who, ankle-deep in snow, was unstrapping the luggage from the
carrier. "We'll have a shot at hiking the show into the drift. It
seems fairly firm snow on this side."
By dint of strenuous efforts the two lads succeeded in lifting the
heavy side-car to the fringe of the road, leaving a space of less
than six feet between the wheel of the car and the snow-bank on the
opposite face of the track. Then, shouldering their belongings, the
weather-bound travellers trudged stolidly up the hilly road.
"Here's a jamboree!" exclaimed Dick after a long silence. He was
regaining his breath and with it his exuberant spirits. "We'll have
something to remember. By Jove, isn't this a ripping country?"
"It's all very fine," said Athol guardedly, "but, remember, we may be
held up for a fortnight. This stuff takes a jolly lot of thawing,
you know. Hulloa! There's someone hammering."
"The child is correct," declared Dick with a laugh. "And hammering
metal work. I believe our friend the horseman was a little out in his
statements. There must be a human habitation of sorts, and, judging
by the direction of the sounds--unless the acoustic properties of a
snowstorm are erratic--the fellow is tinkering away on that hill on
our right. Yes, old man, here's a gap in the hedge. It looks
remarkably like a carriage drive."
For the last hundred yards the road was bounded by a raised bank
surmounted by a thick laurel hedge. The gap that was just beginning
to become visible resolved itself into a pathway barred by a tall
gate tipped with a row of formidable spikes.
"Wonder there isn't an array of notice-boards of the 'Trespassers
will be prosecuted' order," remarked Athol. "It seems to me that no
one has used this path since it started snowing. However, it must
lead somewhere, so let's investigate."
Lifting the rusty latch the two lads pushed hard against the gate.
They had to force the bottom bars through eighteen inches of snow
before they could open it.
The hammering noise was still maintained with hardly a break. The
workman, whoever he might be, was certainly industrious.
For fifty yards the path ran straight up a steep ascent and then bore
abruptly to the left. Here Athol and his chum were confronted by
another gate which, unlike the outer one, was secured by a stout
padlock and chain. On either side ran a laurel hedge almost as tall
as the one separating the grounds from the highway. To the right hand
gate-post was attached a socket supporting a large bell, the clapper
being worked by means of a chain.
"I say, looks a bit fishy, eh?" remarked Dick, regarding the barrier
with interest. "P'raps we've struck a private asylum."
"Don't know. Suppose if the owner wants to keep tramps and stranded
wayfarers out, he's quite at liberty to do so," replied Athol.
"However, necessity knows no law, so let's agitate the piece of
sounding brass."
He jerked the chain. The bell rang out with startling loudness, the
vibrations echoing and re-echoing between the pine clumps. The
hammering ceased abruptly.
An old man, supporting himself by means of a stick, ambled through
the snow, appearing from behind the hedge on the left of the gate. He
was apparently about eighty years of age, wizened featured and white
haired.
"What do you want?" he asked in a quavery voice. "My master sees no
one except by appointment. If you have one, well and good; if you
haven't, 'tisn't any use your stopping here."
As he spoke he made a snapping sound with his fingers and, in answer
to the signal, two enormous bull-terriers lolled sullenly to the old
man's side, and with the precision of a pair of music-hall twins,
each bared his formidable teeth and growled menacingly.
Athol stood his ground. The chilliness of his reception had "set his
back up."
"Look here, my man," he said with asperity. "You've done your duty by
warning us, now go and tell your master that he is wanted--and look
sharp about it."
Then, seeing the old fellow hesitate, he added,
"Sharp about it, I said. I'm not used to giving the same order
twice."
"And I am not used to having my servants ordered about by strangers,"
exclaimed a deep, well-modulated voice. "Since your business seems
urgent perhaps you will kindly state it."
The speaker was a tall, finely built man of about forty years of age.
His features were clear cut, his brow lofty, and his jaw massive. He
was clean shaven, revealing a pair of tightly pursed lips. His
complexion was pale, his eyes of a deep blue colour and set rather
wide apart beneath a pair of bushy, overhanging brows. Across his
forehead was a horizontal scar of old standing, showing white even in
contrast to his greyish complexion. His hair was dark brown tinged
with grey and growing high upon his temples.
"We called to ask for assistance," began Athol. "Our motor-bike----"
"Mechanical breakdown?" asked the occupier of the premises.
"No; we're snowed up, and the side-car wheel has given out,"
announced the lad.
"H'm; well, I'm glad it isn't an engine fault," remarked the
stranger. "Had it been you would have had no sympathy from me. A
fellow who cannot tackle a refractory engine ought not to be allowed
in charge of one on the road. Where's your bike?"
"About a hundred yards down the hill and in a snow-drift," replied
Athol. "We did our level best but the snow was too much for us. We
thought, perhaps, that we might find someone who has a horse----"
"Horse," repeated the man. "It will want something better than a
horse, I'm thinking. Open those gates, Harvey, and look sharp about
it. Come in, both of you. I'll be with you in a couple of minutes."
He gave the lads an approving smile as they both walked past the
bulldogs without the faintest hesitation. Then he disappeared up the
path, while the gatekeeper, having opened and unfastened the massive
portal, vanished between the laurel hedges.
"We've struck a rummy show, old man," whispered Dick. "The old chap
isn't a bad sort, though. Wonder what he is going to bring out? A
traction engine?"
Tracey's curiosity was speedily set at rest by the reappearance of
the stranger, dragging behind him a sleigh. The contrivance had no
runners; it consisted merely of a rectangular sheet of metal curled
at the foremost end. On it were thrown a couple of fir planks, about
six feet in length, and nine inches in breadth.
"It's quite easy, thanks," said the stranger, declining the lads'
offer to assist in dragging the sleigh. "It's made of aluminium. You
will have to bear a hand when we get the bike on it. Best foot
forward. I have a lot of work to finish before lunch, you know."
"Threaded?"
"Yes, we cut the threads before we left."
"Good men!" exclaimed their benefactor approvingly. "You both seem of
a mechanical turn of mind. Well, you can set to work. If there's
anything you require ring that bell. Lunch will be ready in an hour
and twenty minutes. If you haven't finished by that time there's four
hours between that and teatime. Excuse me, I must be off."
The shed was well lighted and warmed by means of hot water pipes. In
one corner was a portable forge, in front of one window an up-to-date
lathe. Engineer's tools, all in excellent condition, occupied racks
on the walls, while on the beams overhead were bundles of white metal
rods and stacks of aluminium sheeting.
"We've fallen on our feet, old man," remarked Dick. "Lunch, too, by
Jove! I'm hungry. Our scrumptious repast at Shrewsbury is but a
pleasant memory. I could do a jolly good tuck-in now."
"Nothing like work to while away the time," asserted Athol, casting
off his motor-overalls and coat and rolling up his sleeves; "Buck up,
old fellow, and rip that tyre off."
Soon the two young tourists were hard at it, and none was more
surprised than they were when the door of the shed was opened and
their host exclaimed,
"Spell-oh! Down tools, l | 232.999569 |
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Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
[Illustration: 006]
[Illustration: 007]
THE BOOK OF ROSES
By Francis Parkman
Boston
J. E. Tilton And Company.
1871.
INTRODUCTION
|IT IS needless to eulogize the Rose | 233.084696 |
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Produced by Steve Solomon
THE FREEDOM OF LIFE
BY
ANNIE PAYSON CALL
_Author of "Power Through Repose,"
"As a Matter of Course," etc._
_FREEDOM_
_LORD GOD of Israel,--
Where Thou art we are free!
Call out Thy people, Lord, we pray,
From Egypt unto Thee.
Open our eyes that we may see
Our bondage in the past,--
Oh, help us, Lord, to keep Thy law,
And make us free at last!_
_Lord God of Israel,--
Where Thou art we are free!
Freed from the rule of alien minds,
We turn our hearts to Thee.
The alien hand weighs heavily,
And heavy is our sin,--
Thy children cry to Thee, O Lord,--
Their God,--to take them in._
_Lord God of Israel,--
Where Thou 'art we are free
Cast down our idols from on high,
That we may worship Thee.
In freedom we will live Thy Love
Out from our inmost parts;
Upon our foreheads bind Thy Law,--
Engrave it on our hearts!_
_Amen._
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
THE FREEDOM OF LIFE
HOW TO SLEEP RESTFULLY
RESISTANCE
HURRY, WORRY, AND IRRITABILITY
NERVOUS FEARS
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS
THE CIRCUMSTANCES OF LIFE
OTHER PEOPLE
HUMAN SYMPATHY
PERSONAL INDEPENDENCE
SELF-CONTROL
THE RELIGION OF IT
ABOUT CHRISTMAS
TO MOTHERS
_INTRODUCTION_
INTERIOR freedom rests upon the principle of non-resistance to
all the things which seem evil or painful to our natural love of
self. But non-resistance alone can accomplish nothing good unless,
behind it, there is a strong love for righteousness and truth. By
refusing to resist the ill will of others, or the stress of
circumstances, for the sake of greater usefulness and a clearer
point of view, we deepen our conviction of righteousness as the
fundamental law of fife, and broaden our horizon so as to appreciate
varying and opposite points of view. The only non-resistance that
brings this power is the kind which yields mere personal and selfish
considerations for the sake of principles. Selfish and weak yielding
must always do harm. Unselfish yielding, on the other hand,
strengthens the will and increases strength of purpose as the petty
obstacles of mere self-love are removed. Concentration alone cannot
long remain wholesome, for it needs the light of growing
self-knowledge to prevent its becoming self-centred. Yielding alone
is of no avail, for in itself it has no constructive power. But if
we try to look at ourselves as we really are, we shall find great
strength in yielding where only our small and private interests are
concerned, and concentrating upon living the broad principles of
righteousness which must directly or indirectly affect all those
with whom we come into contact.
I
_The Freedom of Life_
I AM so tired I must give up work," said a young woman with a very
strained and tearful face; and it seemed to her a desperate state,
for she was dependent upon work for her bread and butter. If she
gave up work she gave up bread and butter, and that meant
starvation. When she was asked why she did not keep at work and
learn to do it without getting so tired, that seemed to her absurd,
and she would have laughed if laughing had been possible.
"I tell you the work has tired me so that I cannot stand it, and you
ask me to go back and get rest out of it when I am ready to die of
fatigue. Why don't you ask me to burn myself, on a piece of ice, or
freeze myself with a red-hot poker?"
"But," the answer was, "it is not the work that tires you at all, it
is the way you do it;" and, after a little soothing talk which
quieted the overexcited nerves, she began to feel a dawning
intelligence, which showed her that, after all, there might be life
in the work which she had come to look upon as nothing but slow and
painful death. She came to understand that she might do her work as
if she were working very lazily, going from one thing to another
with a feeling as near to entire indifference as she could
cultivate, and, at the same time, do it well. She was shown by
illustrations how she might walk across the room and take a book off
the table as if her life depended upon it, racing and | 233.086611 |
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Produced by deaurider, Les Galloway and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
THE
ÆSCULAPIAN LABYRINTH EXPLORED;
OR,
MEDICAL MYSTERY ILLUSTRATED.
IN A SERIES OF INSTRUCTIONS TO
YOUNG PHYSICIANS, SURGEONS, ACCOUCHERS, APOTHECARIES,
DRUGGISTS, AND PRACTITIONERS OF EVERY
DENOMINATION, IN TOWN AND COUNTRY.
INTERSPERSED WITH A VARIETY OF
RISIBLE ANECDOTES AFFECTING THE FACULTY.
INSCRIBED
TO THE COLLEGE OF WIGS,
BY
GREGORY GLYSTER,
AN OLD PRACTITIONER.
“TWENTY MORE! KILL THEM TOO.”——BOBADIL.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR G. KEARSLEY, NO. 46, FLEET-STREET.
MDCCLXXXIX.
[PRICE THREE SHILLINGS AND SIX-PENCE.]
TO THE COLLEGE OF WIGS.
“Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
“My very noble and approved good” Doctors.
The solemnity of your somniferous aspects, no less than the
professional gravity of your external ornaments, lay claim to a bow
of obedient recollection in passing through W—— k-lane to public
inspection. As one of the most _popular_ descendants from your great
progenitor, permit me to acknowledge, I revere the _vast extent_ of
your _medical abilities_; that I feel most forcibly the _enormous
weight_ of your _accumulated learning_, and _tremble_ at the very idea
of your _experimental abilities_.
Condescend, dread Sirs, to sanction this analization of _Æsculapian
imposition_ and _medical mystery_, with such proof of approbation, as
the dignity of a _diploma_, and the muscular rigidity of _physical
countenance_ will permit you to bestow; nor let it be the less entitled
to your favor, that a long list of _valetudinarians_ (to whom you are
daily pensioners) become partakers of the _banquet of mirth_; or the
small fry of _pharmacopolists_ (your humble dependents) _for once_
permitted to take a seat at the _same table_ with yourselves.
Anxiously solicitous to obtain belief, that
“I shall nothing extenuate,
“Nor set down aught in malice,”
you may in justice conclude me,
_Sage Sirs!_
Your very candid,
And obedient representative,
GREGORY GLYSTER.
THE
ÆSCULAPIAN LABYRINTH
EXPLORED.
TO THE PHYSICIAN.
Having passed the tedious years of abstruse study and intense
application, necessary to your initiation in the mysteries of physic,
and replete with a perfect remembrance of all the requisites to this
_great art_, we suppose you recently emerged from the obscurity of
_dreary walls_ and _dull professors_, a phenomænon of universal
knowledge and _family_ admiration. The various and elaborate
examinations you have passed, with scholastic approbation, having
relieved you from the constantly accumulating load of anxiety, you are
at length launched into life under a new character, and daily pant
to display the dignity of your profession, in the happy appendage of
_M. D._ to the prescriptive initials of your name.
You are no longer to be considered a student labouring in the heavy
trammels of _unintelligible_ lectures upon _philosophy_, _anatomy_,
_botany_, _chemistry_, and the _materia medica_, with all their
distinct and consequent advantages; or investigating the actual
properties of _electrical fire_ and MAGNETIC ENTHUSIASM, but stamped
(by royal authority) with the full force of physical agency, and have
derived from your _merit_ unlimited permission to _cure_, “_kill_ or
_destroy_,” to the best of your knowledge and abilities, “so help you
“God.” The professional path you now begin to tread, is so replete
with danger, and the probability of success so very uncertain, that
the fertile world have not omitted to make it proverbial, “A physician
never begins to get bread, till he has no “teeth to eat it.” The truth
of this may perhaps have been _lamentingly_ acknowledged by some of the
most _learned men_ that ever became dependant upon a _capricious_ world
for _precarious_ subsistance.
This palpable fact may concisely serve to convince you, your
embarkation (with all its alluring prospects) will not only be
encumbered with difficulties, but your ultimate gratification of
success exceedingly doubtful. Great depth of learning may afford
consolation to the equity of your own feelings (if you fortunately
possess them) but it is by no means necessary to the acquisition of
_public opinion_, however it may tend to contribute to the general good.
To avoid entering into a sentimental disquisition upon the _honesty_,
_integrity_, or _strict propriety_ of the maxims I proceed to lay
down for your future conduct to obtain professional splendour, and
_insure success_; I avail myself of the privilege I possess, to wave
every consideration of the _conscientious kind_, and once more observe
(without adverting to their consistency) they are adduced only as the
unavoidable traits of character, and modes of behaviour, by which alone
(in the present age) you can possibly hope for the least proportional
share of practice as a physician.
At your first public entré, when the college list and court calendar
have announced your qualifications and advancement to the wondering
world (that such list should annually increase) let your friends
and relatives be doubly assiduous in propagating reports (almost
incredible) of your _great humanity_, _extensive abilities_, and
_unbounded benevolence_.—This will answer the intended purpose to a
certainty; crouds of the afflicted and necessitous will surround your
habitation, and render your place of residence constantly remarkable to
all classes, who naturally enquiring the character of the proprietor,
will eagerly extol your charity in contributing your “advice to the
poor GRATIS.”
This method alone will gain you popularity with those that rank in the
line of mediocrity; with _their superiors_, success must be insured
more from the efforts of _interest_, than either _personal merit_, or
_sound policy_. Your attention to the wants of the poor, must soon
be regulated by the preponderation of more weighty considerations;
as you _affected_ to alleviate their distresses from the motive of
commiseration, prompting you to promote _their ease_, you have an
undoubted right to shake off such superfluous visits, to secure _your
own_. In this deceptive charity, some degree of discrimination must be
put in practice, for you will sometimes perceive one among the train,
whose apparel or behaviour must necessarily give you reason to suspect
he has assumed the cloak of necessity to save _his fee_, and avail
himself of your professional liberality in such case, call to your
aid a look of true _medical austerity_, and let him understand “advice
is seldom of any value or “effect unless it is paid for;” this will
frequently answer the purpose, and procure what you did not expect.
On the contrary, so soon as you observe your prescriptions have
“_worked wonders_” upon two or three of the most _credulous_ and
_superstitious_, who are extolling your _great knowledge_ and
“blessing _your honour_,” strengthen the _force_ of your judgment by
_charitably obtruding_ a pecuniary corroboration into the hand of your
afflicted patient, as a confirmation of your _unbounded skill_ in
the (_miraculous_) cure of every disease to which the human frame is
incident. By such _political_ practice, you insure the recital of your
services with extacy, and your name reverberates from one end of the
metropolis to the other.
Your person and place of residence, being by these means universally
known, and your name become in a proportional degree popular, let
your plan and mode of behaviour be instantly changed; it will be now
necessary
“You “assume a” hurry “if you have it not,”
Take care to be so exceedingly engaged with patients of the _first
class and eminence_, that “it is with difficulty you procure time
sufficient for the common purposes and gratifications of nature.” No
paupers _whatever_ can be admitted to your presence without a written
recommendation from _nobility_, or characters of the _first fortune_;
this will insure you no farther intrusion from a class originally
introduced for your _particular purpose_; that effected, they may now
be permitted to fall into the back ground of the picture; from whence
they were brought for no other motive than the promotion of your
personal interest and professional emolument.
It becomes your particular care to be always in a _hurry_; let your
chariot (if you can fortunately raise one) _upon job_, be at the door
regularly by nine in the morning; to prove how very much you are
attached to the duties of your profession, and how anxiously you have
the _salubrity_ of your patients _at heart_.—Omit no one circumstance
that can contribute to a shew of being perpetually engaged. Letters
written by _yourself_, and messengers of your _own dispatching_,
cannot be seen at your doors too frequently; the chariot should be
as repeatedly ordered—remember to leave home by _one way_, and
return by _another_, and equally _in haste_; all these stratagems are
considered peculiar privileges of the _College of Wigs_, and are well
worthy your attention and constant practice. You need hardly be told,
the superficial and unthinking part of mankind are ever caught by
appearances; what proportion they bear to other distinctions, need not
in the present instance be at all ascertained.
Having laid down rules (that should be rigidly persevered in) for the
regulation of your _public character_, I shall now advert to the strict
line of conduct it will be proper for you to adopt in your personal
transactions upon all professional emergencies.
When called to a patient upon the recommendation of the family
apothecary, you are to consider him one of your best friends, and _pay
court to him_ accordingly; on the contrary, if you are engaged upon the
spontaneous opinion of the patient, or his relatives, you have every
reason to conclude the abilities of the apothecary are held in very
slender estimation, and you may safely venture to display as much of
your _own consequence_ and superiority, as circumstances will admit.
After the awkward ceremony of your first appearance is over, and
matters a little adjusted, take great care to be upon your guard;
indulge in a variety of _significant gestures_, and _emphatical
hems!_—and _hahs!_ proving you possessed of _singularities_, that
may tend to excite ideas in the patient and surrounding friends,
that _a physician_ is a superior part of the creation.——Let _every
action_, _every word_, _every look_, be strongly marked, denoting
doubt and ambiguity; proceed to the necessary enquiries of “what
has been done in rule and regimen, previous to your being called
in?” hear the recital with patience, and give your _nod of assent_,
lest you make Mr. Emetic, the apothecary, your formidable enemy, who
will then _most conscientiously_ omit to recommend the assistance of
such _extraordinary abilities_ on any future occasion.—Take care
to _look wisdom_ in every feature; speak but little, and let it be
impossible _that little_ should be understood; let every hint, every
_shrug_ be carefully calculated to give the hearers a wonderful
opinion of your learning and experience.—In your _half-heard_ and
mysterious conversation with your _medical inferior_, do not forget
to drop a few observations upon—“the animal œconomy”—“circulation
of the blood”—“acrimony”—“the non naturals”—“stricture upon the
parts”—“acute pain”—“inflammatory heat”—“nervous irritability,” and
all those _technical traps_ that fascinate the hearers, and render the
patient yours ad libitum.
To the friends or relatives of the diseased, (as the case may be)
you seriously apprehend _great danger_; but such apprehension is
not without its portion of _hope_; and you doubt not, but a rigid
perseverance in the plan you shall prescribe, will reconcile all
difficulties in a few days, and restore the patient (whose recovery you
have exceedingly at heart) to his health and friends; that you will
embrace the earliest opportunity to see him again, most probably at
such an hour, (naming it) in the mean time you are in a great degree
happy to leave him in such good hands as _Mr. Emetic_, to whom you
shall give every necessary direction, and upon whose _integrity_ and
_punctuality_ you can implicitly rely.
You then require a private apartment for your necessary consultation
and plan of _joint depredation_ upon the pecuniary property of your
unfortunate invalid, which you are now going _seriously_ to attack with
the full force of _physic_ and _finesse_. You first learn from your
informant what has been hitherto done without effect, and determine
accordingly how to proceed; but in this, great respect must be paid to
the temper, as well as the constitution and circumstances, of your
intended _prey_; if he be of a petulant and refractory disposition,
submitting to medical dictation upon absolute compulsion, as a
professed enemy to physic and the faculty, let your harvest be _short_,
and complete as possible. On the contrary, should a _hypochondriac_ be
your subject, with the long train of melancholic doubts, fears, hopes,
and despondencies, avail yourself of the faith implicitly placed in
you, and regulate your proceedings by the force of _his imagination_;
let your prescription (by its length and variety) reward your _jackall_
for his present attention and future services.—Take care to furnish
the frame so amply with _physic_, that _food_ may be unnecessary;
let every hour (or two) have its destined appropriation—render all
possible forms of the _materia medica_ subservient to the general
good—_draughts_—_powders_—_drops_, and _pills_, may be given (at
least) every two hours; intervening _apozems_, or _decoctions_, may
have their utility; if no other advantage is to be expected, one good
will be clearly ascertained, the convenience of having the _nurse_
kept constantly awake, and if _one medicine_ is not productive of
success, _another may_. These are surely alternatives well worthy
your attention, being admirably calculated for the promotion of your
_patient’s cure_ and your _own reputation_.
Having written your long prescription, and learnt from Mr. Emetic
every necessary information, you return to the room of your patient,
to prove your attention, and renew your admonitions of punctuality and
submission;—then receiving your _fee_ with a consequential _air of
indifference_, you take your leave; not omitting to drop an additional
assurance, that “you shall not be _remiss_ in your attendance.” These,
Sir, are the instructions you must steadily pursue, if you possess
an ardent desire to become _eminent_ in your _profession_—_opulent_
in your _circumstances_—_formidable_ to your _competitors_, or a
_valuable practitioner_ to the _Company_ of _Apothecaries_, from
whom you are to expect the foundation of support. A multiplicity of
additional hints might be added for your minute observance; but such
a variety will present themselves in the course of practice, that a
retrospective view of diurnal occurrences will sufficiently furnish you
with every possible information for your future progress; regulating
your behaviour, by the rank of your patients, from the _most_ pompous
_personal ostentation_, to the meanest and _most contemptible
servility_.
TO THE SURGEON.
I congratulate you upon your recent emancipation from incessant study,
intense application, and strict _hospital_ attendance, where I shall
willingly suppose, you was a _dresser_ of the most promising abilities;
that you excelled your cotemporaries in every _chirurgical_ opinion,
became an expert _dissecting_ pupil to one of the _court of examiners_,
and are now burst through the cloud of your original obscurity, a
perfect prodigy of _anatomical_ disquisition.
I naturally conclude you capable of animadverting upon all the
distinct branches of your art to admiration, that you are critically
excellent in the use of an _instrument_ from the humble act of simple
_phlebotomy_, to the more important operation for a _fistula in
ano_.—You have, beyond every shadow of doubt, paid proper attention to
the fashionable precepts of the late Lord Chesterfield, and rendered
yourself (with assistance from the graces) a perfect adept in polite
address, displaying a variety of the most engaging attitudes, even in
the adjustment of a _ten tailed bandage_. The professional information
you have industriously collected, is such as will certainly afford you
the most equitable claims upon _public opinion_, being in possession of
every necessary acquisition from a _simple gonorrhœa_ to a _confirmed
lues_.
Previous to your solicitation of favour from your friends, you have
necessarily passed the awful ceremony of examination at the _Old
Bailey_, under your former tutor (and his brethren of the court)
who would not pay his _own abilities_ so improper a compliment as
to ask you questions in _anatomy_ or _osteology_, that he knew your
qualifications inadequate to the task of technically explaining.
After passing this _fiery ordeal_, you deposit the usual _pecuniary
gratuity_, and receiving the _badge_ of your newly acquired _honor_, we
now hail you “_a Member of the Corporation of Surgeons_,” and conclude
an ornamental plate upon the door of your habitation denotes you so
accordingly.
We suppose you embarking in a sea of spirited opposition, with your
competitors, for professional celebrity, and decorating your place
of residence in the most applicable stile to attract attention. To
effect this, let your exterior apartments be ornamented with the
_busts_ of _ancients_ you _never read_, and _portraits_ of _moderns_
that you _never knew_. These form an excellent combination to
excite the admiration and report of those who have occasion to court
the assistance of your extensive abilities.—To gradually heighten
which surprize, your interior (or _audit room_) must be a perfect
_Golgotha_.—A proficiency in the science of _osteology_, must be
powerfully impressed upon the senses of the trembling visitors, by
a _profusion_ of _skeletons_ in different states; let the awfulness
of the scene be rendered still more striking, by a variety of
subjects suspended in spirits, interspersed with singular _anatomical
and injected preparations_, both wet and dry; giving to the whole
additional force by the introduction of a “_few ill shaped fishes_,”
as the finishing stroke to a well formed plan of _chirurgical
ostentation_. Remember to let the _certificates_ of your professional
qualifications, from your different _lecturing tutors_, be so placed
(in elegant frames) as to meet the eye in a conspicuous direction;
lest that part of your patients, who condescend to visit you in this
gloomy recess, should have reason to conclude you a _consummate dunce_
and most _illiterate booby_, if these learned professors had not done
your friends the favour to “_certify_” to the contrary: and this they
always _chearfully_ do, rather than have it imagined they have eased
you of a part of your property, without doing you any _real service_.
The domestic arrangement being thus formed, the reflections to which
you must now turn your mind, are the necessary modes of practice and
behaviour, that may render you not only eminent in your profession, but
respectable in your property; as great events, that contribute largely
to the gratification of such wish, do not frequently occur, inferior
cases of every kind must be rendered subservient to the purpose. In
this list, _venereals_ are entitled to pre-eminence, as the most
lucrative; the patient never hesitating to pay full as liberally for
the preservation of the _secret_ as the cure of _disease_.—But you
may be perfectly assured, this secret never rewards so well, as when
_fate_ or _fortune_ assists its introduction to _married families_; a
most striking corroboration of this fact, occurred not long since in
the neighbourhood of a _royal residence_, and afforded matter of mirth
to the first circles in its environs.—This constant friend to the
faculty was communicated to a married lady, by a _young_ and celebrated
personage of some national eminence, and immediately conveyed from her
to her _enamoured cornuto_ in the moments of true _connubial felicity_;
he, in the love of variety, unluckily conferred the favour upon the
_house maid_; and she, in the extensive liberality of her disposition,
kindly bestowed a portion upon the _footman_. The _electrical shock_
of this _French fire_ was so rapidly communicated, that the four
sufferers, within the space of ten days, made their separate _private_
confessions to the medical superintendant of the family, each assigning
a different cause for its introduction, and equally strangers to the
_mode_ of its being brought into so _sober a family_. Although this is
a well authenticated _fact_, it is a harvest that can be very seldom
expected to happen in so great a degree; yet you will find it a matter
often _intruding_ between husband and wife, and considered no indelible
proof of _modern inconstancy_.—To this secret, you will be frequently
admitted by one party—the other, or both; and have an undoubted
privilege to accumulate all possible pecuniary advantage from the
confidence so implicitly placed in you.
Whatever cases are submitted to your opinion, be always prepared to
represent them _worse_ than they really _are_; making by your technical
terms, and political doubts, _bad worse_ upon every possible occasion.
Let all your proceedings have a peculiar and commanding dignity
annexed to the execution; by assuming a want of feeling, even to
_ferocity_, you will be termed a practitioner of _spirit_, and become
properly distinguished for your professional _fortitude_. No tender
sensations must be permitted to influence your feelings during any
operation, however tedious, or painful to the patient; they are an
ornament to human nature, and beneath your consideration _as one of
the faculty_.—Custom has rendered you ineligible to a place in the
_jury box_, as an evident proof of your professional _brutality_; by
therefore turning “their pains to laughter and contempt,” you only
justify the character you are already in possession of.
In the most trifling operations (even phlebotomy) descend to the very
minutiæ of medical consequence, not only making the ceremony _long_,
but _serious_, that you may be the better entitled to personal respect
and pecuniary compensation. In all those dreadful accidents that alarm
friends and distress families, take care to throw out (during your
apparent care and attention) a variety of observations that convey
_large sounds_ with _little meaning_; by such ambiguous expressions you
render the cure more extraordinary, whenever it happens, and is no bad
preparative for the procrastination of it to your own emolument. In all
cases requiring the interposition of instruments, take great care that
you produce them with mysterious solemnity, impressing the spectators
and assistants, with equal _awe_ and _fear_ of your abilities; if
_incisions_, or _separation_ of the _soft parts_, become necessary, be
sure, like “old Renault,” to “shed blood enough;” it will be attended
with a double advantage; first in the appearance of business, and the
more _pleasing consideration_, that the _larger_ and _deeper_ the
wound, the longer time will be necessary for _ | 233.099895 |
2023-11-16 18:20:57.0815440 | 15 | 188 |
This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@ce | 233.101584 |
2023-11-16 18:20:57.0863880 | 6,490 | 7 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Marvin A. Hodges, Charles
Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
MR. DOOLEY'S PHILOSOPHY
By Finley Peter Dunne
_Illustrated by_ F. OPPER.
{Illustration: POOR PEOPLE 'LL HAVE SIMPLE MEALS.}
_To the Hennessys of the world who suffer and are silent_
PREFACE
The reporter of these monologues would apologize for the frequent
reappearances of Mr. Dooley, if he felt the old gentleman would
appreciate an apology in his behalf. But Mr. Dooley has none of the
modesty that has been described as "an invention for protection against
envy," because unlike that one of his distinguished predecessors who
discovered this theory to excuse his own imperfect but boastful egotism,
he recognizes no such human failing as envy. Most of the papers in the
present collection of the sayings of this great and learned man have
appeared in the press of America and England. This will account for the
fact that they deal with subjects that have pressed hard upon the minds
of newspaper readers, statesmen, and tax-payers during the year.
To these utterances have been added a number of obiter dicta by the
philosopher, which, perhaps, will be found to have the reminiscent
flavor that appertains to the observations of all learned judges when
they are off the bench.
In some cases the sketches have been remodeled and care has been taken
to correct typographical blunders, except where they seemed to improve
the text. In this connection the writer must offer his profound
gratitude to the industrious typographer, who often makes two jokes grow
where only one grew before, and has added generously to the distress of
amateur elocutionists.
F. P. D.
CONTENTS
A BOOK REVIEW AMERICANS ABROAD SERVANT GIRL PROBLEM THE TRANSVAAL
WAR AND WAR MAKERS UNDERESTIMATING THE ENEMY THE WAR EXPERT MODERN
EXPLOSIVES THE BOER MISSION THE CHINESE SITUATION MINISTER WU THE FUTURE
OF CHINA PLATFORM MAKING THE YACHT RACES POLYGAMY PUBLIC FICKLENESS
KENTUCKY POLITICS YOUNG ORATORY PUBLIC GRATITUDE MARRIAGE AND POLITICS
ALCOHOL AS FOOD HIGH FINANCE THE PARIS EXPOSITION CHRISTIAN JOURNALISM
THE ADMIRAL'S CANDIDACY CUSTOMS OF KENTUCKY A SOCIETY SCANDAL DOINGS OF
ANARCHISTS ANGLO-AMERICAN SPORTS VOICES FROM THE TOMB THE <DW64> PROBLEM
THE AMERICAN STAGE TROUBLES OF A CANDIDATE A BACHELOR'S LIFE THE
EDUCATION OF THE YOUNG "L'AIGLON" CASUAL OBSERVATIONS
A BOOK REVIEW
"Well sir," said Mr. Dooley, "I jus' got hold iv a book, Hinnissy, that
suits me up to th' handle, a gran' book, th' grandest iver seen. Ye know
I'm not much throubled be lithrachoor, havin' manny worries iv me own,
but I'm not prejudiced again' books. I am not. Whin a rale good book
comes along I'm as quick as anny wan to say it isn't so bad, an' this
here book is fine. I tell ye 'tis fine."
"What is it?" Mr. Hennessy asked languidly.
"'Tis 'Th' Biography iv a Hero be Wan who Knows.' 'Tis 'Th' Darin'
Exploits iv a Brave Man be an Actual Eye Witness.' 'Tis 'Th' Account iv
th' Desthruction iv Spanish Power in th' Ant Hills,' as it fell fr'm th'
lips iv Tiddy Rosenfelt an' was took down be his own hands. Ye see 'twas
this way, Hinnissy, as I r-read th' book. Whin Tiddy was blowed up
in th' harbor iv Havana he instantly con-cluded they must be war.
He debated th' question long an' earnestly an' fin'lly passed a jint
resolution declarin' war. So far so good. But there was no wan to carry
it on. What shud he do? I will lave th' janial author tell th' story in
his own wurruds.
"'Th' sicrety iv war had offered me,' he says, 'th' command of a
rig'mint,' he says, 'but I cud not consint to remain in Tampa while
perhaps less audacious heroes was at th' front,' he says. 'Besides,'
he says, 'I felt I was incompetent f'r to command a rig'mint raised be
another,' he says. 'I detarmined to raise wan iv me own,' he says. 'I
selected fr'm me acquaintances in th' West,' he says,'men that had
thravelled with me acrost th' desert an' th' storm-wreathed mountain,'
he says,'sharin' me burdens an' at times confrontin' perils almost as
gr-reat as anny that beset me path,' he says. 'Together we had faced th'
turrors iv th' large but vilent West,' he says, 'an' these brave men
had seen me with me trusty rifle shootin' down th' buffalo, th' elk, th'
moose, th' grizzly bear, th' mountain goat,' he says, 'th' silver man,
an' other ferocious beasts iv thim parts,' he says. 'An' they niver
flinched,' he says. 'In a few days I had thim perfectly tamed,' he says,
'an' ready to go annywhere I led,' he says. 'On th' thransport goi'n to
Cubia,' he says, 'I wud stand beside wan iv these r-rough men threatin'
him as a akel, which he was in ivrything but birth, education, rank
an' courage, an' together we wud look up at th' admirable stars iv that
tolerable southern sky an' quote th' bible fr'm Walt Whitman,' he says.
'Honest, loyal, thrue-hearted la-ads, how kind I was to thim,' he says."
{Illustration: Read the articles by Roosevelt and Davis in the Car Fare
Magazine}
"'We had no sooner landed in Cubia than it become nicessry f'r me to
take command iv th' ar-rmy which I did at wanst. A number of days was
spint be me in reconnoitring, attinded on'y be me brave an' fluent body
guard, Richard Harding Davis. I discovered that th' inimy was heavily
inthrenched on th' top iv San Juon hill immejiately in front iv me. At
this time it become apparent that I was handicapped be th' prisence iv
th' ar-rmy,' he says. 'Wan day whin I was about to charge a block house
sturdily definded be an ar-rmy corps undher Gin'ral Tamale, th' brave
Castile that I aftherwards killed with a small ink-eraser that I always
carry, I r-ran into th' entire military force iv th' United States lying
on its stomach. 'If ye won't fight,' says I, 'let me go through, 'I
says. 'Who ar-re ye?' says they. 'Colonel Rosenfelt,' says I. 'Oh,
excuse me,' says the gin'ral in command (if me mimry serves me thrue it
was Miles) r-risin' to his knees an' salutin'. This showed me 'twud be
impossible f'r to carry th' war to a successful con-clusion unless I
was free, so I sint th' ar-rmy home an' attackted San Juon hill. Ar-rmed
on'y with a small thirty-two which I used in th' West to shoot th' fleet
prairie dog, I climbed that precipitous ascent in th' face iv th' most
gallin' fire I iver knew or heerd iv. But I had a few r-rounds iv gall
mesilf an' what cared I? I dashed madly on cheerin' as I wint. Th'
Spanish throops was dhrawn up in a long line in th' formation known
among military men as a long line. I fired at th' man nearest to me an'
I knew be th' expression iv his face that th' trusty bullet wint home.
It passed through his frame, he fell, an' wan little home in far-off
Catalonia was made happy be th' thought that their riprisintative had
been kilt be th' future governor iv New York. Th' bullet sped on its mad
flight an' passed through th' intire line fin'lly imbeddin' itself in
th' abdomen iv th' Ar-rch-bishop iv Santiago eight miles away. This
ended th' war.'
"'They has been some discussion as to who was th' first man to r-reach
th' summit iv San Juon hill. I will not attempt to dispute th' merits iv
th' manny gallant sojers, statesmen, corryspondints an' kinetoscope men
who claim th' distinction. They ar-re all brave men an' if they wish to
wear my laurels they may. I have so manny annyhow that it keeps me
broke havin' thim blocked an' irned. But I will say f'r th' binifit iv
Posterity that I was th' on'y man I see. An I had a tillyscope.'"
"I have thried, Hinnissy," Mr. Dooley continued, "to give you a fair
idee iv th' contints iv this remarkable book, but what I've tol' ye is
on'y what Hogan calls an outline iv th' principal pints. Ye'll have to
r-read th' book ye'ersilf to get a thrue conciption. I haven't time f'r
to tell ye th' wurruk Tiddy did in ar-rmin' an' equippin' himself, how
he fed himsilf, how he steadied himsilf in battle an' encouraged himsilf
with a few well-chosen wurruds whin th' sky was darkest. Ye'll have to
take a squint into th' book ye'ersilf to l'arn thim things."
"I won't do it," said Mr. Hennessy. "I think Tiddy Rosenfelt is all
r-right an' if he wants to blow his hor-rn lave him do it."
"Thrue f'r ye," said Mr. Dooley, "an' if his valliant deeds didn't get
into this book 'twud be a long time befure they appeared in Shafter's
histhry iv th' war. No man that bears a gredge again' himsilf 'll iver
be governor iv a state. An' if Tiddy done it all he ought to say so
an' relieve th' suspinse. But if I was him I'd call th' book 'Alone in
Cubia.'"
AMERICANS ABROAD
"I wondher," said Mr. Dooley, "what me Dutch frind Oom Paul'll think
whin he hears that Willum Waldorf Asthor has given four thousan' pounds
or twinty thousan' iv our money as a conthribution to th' British
governmint?"
"Who's Willum Waldorf Asthor?" Mr. Hennessy asked. "I niver heerd iv
him."
"Ye wudden't," said Mr. Dooley. "He don't thravel in ye'er set. Willum
Waldorf Asthor is a gintleman that wanst committed th' sin iv bein'
bor-rn in this counthry. Ye know what orig-inal sin is, Hinnissy. Ye was
bor-rn with wan an' I was bor-rn with wan an' ivrybody was bor-rn with
wan. 'Twas took out iv me be Father Tuomy with holy wather first an'
be me father aftherward with a sthrap. But I niver cud find out what it
was. Th' sins I've committed since, I'm sure iv. They're painted red an'
carry a bell an' whin I'm awake in bed they stan' out on th' wall like
th' ilicthric signs they have down be State sthreet in front iv th'
clothin' stores. But I'll go to th' grave without knowin' exactly what
th' black orig-inal sin was I committed. All I know is I done wrong.
But with Willum Waldorf Asthor 'tis dif'rent. I say 'tis diff'rent with
Willum Waldorf Asthor. His orig-inal sin was bein' bor-rn in New York.
He cudden't do anything about it. Nawthin' in this counthry wud wipe
it out. He built a hotel intinded f'r jooks who had no sins but thim
iv their own makin', but even th' sight iv their haughty bills cud not
efface th' stain. He thried to live down his crime without success an'
he thried to live down to it be runnin' f'r congress, but it was no go.
No matther where he wint among his counthrymen in England some wan wud
find out he was bor-rn in New York an' th' man that ownded th' house
where he was spindin' th' night wud ast him if he was a cannibal an' had
he anny Indyan blood in his veins. 'Twas like seein' a fine lookin'
man with an intel-lecjal forehead an' handsome, dar-rk brown eyes an'
admirin' him, an' thin larnin' his name is Mudd J. Higgins. His accint
was proper an' his clothes didn't fit him right, but he was not bor-rn
in th' home iv his dayscindants, an' whin he walked th' sthreets iv
London he knew ivry polisman was sayin': 'There goes a man that pretinds
to be happy, but a dark sorrow is gnawin' at his bosom. He looks as if
he was at home, but he was bor-rn in New York, Gawd help him."
{Illustration}
"So this poor way-worn sowl, afther thryin' ivry other rimidy fr'm
dhrivin' a coach to failin' to vote, at las' sought out th' rile high
clark iv th' coort an' says he: 'Behold,' he says, 'an onhappy man,' he
says. 'With millyons in me pocket, two hotels an' onlimited credit, 'he
says,'me hear-rt is gray,' he says. 'Poor sowl,' says th' clark iv th'
coort, 'What's ailin' ye'?' he says. 'Have ye committed some gr-reat
crime?' he says. 'Partly,' says Willum Waldorf Asthor. 'It was partly
me an' partly me folks,' he says. 'I was,' he says, in a voice broken be
tears, 'I was,' he says, 'bor-rn in New York,' he says. Th' clark made
th' sign iv th' cross an' says he: 'Ye shudden't have come here,' he
says. 'Poor afflicted wretch,' he says, 'ye need a clargyman,' he
says. 'Why did ye seek me out?' he says. 'Because,' says Willum Waldorf
Asthor, 'I wish,' he says, 'f'r to renounce me sinful life,' he says. 'I
wish to be bor-rn anew,' he says. An' th' clark bein' a kind man helps
him out. An' Willum Waldorf Asthor renounced fealty to all foreign
sovereigns, princes an' potentates an' especially Mack th' Wanst, or
Twict, iv th' United States an' Sulu an' all his wur-ruks an' he come
out iv th' coort with his hat cocked over his eye, with a step jaunty
and high, afther years iv servile freedom a bondman at last!
"So he's a citizen iv Gr-reat Britain now an' a lile subject iv th'
Queen like you was Hinnissy befure ye was r-run out."
"I niver was," said Mr. Hennessy. "Sure th' Queen iv England was
renounced f'r me long befure I did it f'r mesilf--to vote."
"Well, niver mind," Mr. Dooley continued, "he's a citizen iv England an'
he has a castle that's as big as a hotel, on'y nobody goes there excipt
thim that's ast, an' not all of those, an' he owns a newspaper an' th'
editor iv it's the Prince iv Wales an' th' rayporthers is all jooks an'
th' Archbishop iv Canterbury r-runs th' ilivator, an' slug wan in th'
printin' office is th' Impror iv Germany in disgeese. 'Tis a pa-per I'd
like to see. I'd like to know how th' Jook iv Marlbro'd do th' McGovern
fight. An' some day Willum Waldorf Asthor'll be able to wurruk f'r
his own pa-aper, f'r he's goin' to be a earl or a markess or a jook
or somethin' gran'. Ye can't be anny iv these things without money,
Hinnissy, an' he has slathers iv it."
"Where does he get it?" demanded Mr. Hennessy.
"F'rm this counthry," said Mr. Dooley.
"I shud think," Mr. Hennessy protested stoutly, "if he's ashamed iv this
counthry he wudden't want to take money f'rm it."
"That's where ye're wrong," Mr. Dooley replied. "Take money annywhere
ye find it. I'd take money f'rm England, much as I despise that formerly
haughty but now dejected land, if I cud get anny from there. An' whin ye
come down to it, I dinnaw as I blame Willum Waldorf Asthor f'r shiftin'
his allegiance. Ivry wan to his taste as th' man said whin he dhrank out
iv th' fire extinguisher. It depinds on how ye feel. If ye ar-re a tired
la-ad an' wan without much fight in ye, livin' in this counthry is
like thryin' to read th' Lives iv the Saints at a meetin' iv th'
Clan-na-Gael. They'se no quiet f'r annybody. They's a fight on ivry
minyit iv th' time. Ye may say to ye'ersilf: 'I'll lave these la-ads
roll each other as much as they plaze, but I'll set here in th' shade
an' dhrink me milk punch, but ye can't do it. Some wan 'll say, 'Look at
that gazabo settin' out there alone. He's too proud f'r to jine in our
simple dimmycratic festivities. Lave us go over an' bate him on th'
eye.' An' they do it. Now if ye have fightin' blood in ye'er veins ye
hastily gulp down yeer dhrink an' hand ye'er assailant wan that does him
no kind iv good, an' th' first thing ye know ye're in th thick iv it an'
its scrap, scrap, scrap till th' undhertaker calls f'r to measure ye.
An' 'tis tin to wan they'se somethin' doin' at th' fun'ral that ye're
sorry ye missed. That's life in America. Tis a gloryous big fight, a
rough an' tumble fight, a Donnybrook fair three thousan' miles wide an'
a ruction in ivry block. Head an' ban's an' feet an' th' pitchers on th'
wall. No holds barred. Fight fair but don't f'rget th' other la-ad may
not know where th' belt line is. No polisman in sight. A man's down with
twinty on top iv him wan minyit. Th' next he's settin' on th' pile usin'
a base-ball bat on th' neighbor next below him. 'Come on, boys, f'r
'tis growin' late, an' no wan's been kilt yet. Glory be, but this is th'
life!'
"Now, if I'm tired I don't want to fight. A man bats me in th' eye an'
I call f'r th' polis. They isn't a polisman in sight. I say to th'
man that poked me: 'Sir, I fain wud sleep.' 'Get up,' he says, 'an' be
doin',' he says. 'Life is rale, life is earnest,' he says, 'an' man was
made to fight,' he says, fetchin' me a kick. An' if I'm tired I say,
'What's th' use? I've got plenty iv money in me inside pocket. I'll go
to a place where they don't know how to fight. I'll go where I can get
something but an argymint f'r me money an' where I won't have to rassle
with th' man that bates me carpets, ayether,' I says, 'f'r fifty cints
overcharge or good govermint,' I says. An' I pike off to what Hogan
calls th' effete monarchies iv Europe an' no wan walks on me toes, an'
ivry man I give a dollar to becomes an acrobat an' I live comfortably
an' die a markess! Th' divvle I do!
"That's what I was goin' to say," Mr. Hennessy remarked. "Ye wudden't
live annywhere but here."
"No," said Mr. Dooley, "I wudden't. I'd rather be Dooley iv Chicago than
th' Earl iv Peltvule. It must be that I'm iv th' fightin' kind."
SERVANT GIRL PROBLEM
Whin Congress gets through expellin' mimbers that believes so much in
mathrimony that they carry it into ivry relation iv life an' opens th'
dure iv Chiny so that an American can go in there as free as a Chinnyman
can come into this refuge iv th' opprissed iv th' wurruld, I hope'twill
turn its attintion to th' gr-reat question now confrontin' th'
nation--th' question iv what we shall do with our hired help. What shall
we do with thim?
"We haven't anny," said Mr. Hennessy.
"No," said Mr. Dooley. "Ar-rchey r-road has no servant girl problem. Th'
rule is ivry woman her own cook an' ivry man his own futman, an' be th'
same token we have no poly-gamy problem an' no open dure problem an'
no Ph'lippeen problem. Th' on'y problem in Ar-rchey r-road is how manny
times does round steak go into twelve at wan dollar-an-a-half a day. But
east iv th' r-red bridge, Hinnissy, wan iv th' most cryin' issues iv
th' hour is: What shall we do with our hired help? An' if Congress don't
take hold iv it we ar-re a rooned people."
"'Tis an ol' problem an' I've seen it arise an' shake its gory head
ivry few years whiniver th' Swede popylation got wurruk an' begun bein'
marrid, thus rayjoocin' th' visible supply iv help. But it seems 'tis
deeper thin that. I see be letters in th' pa-apers that servants is
insolent, an' that they won't go to wurruk onless they like th' looks iv
their employers, an' that they rayfuse to live in th' counthry. Why anny
servant shud rayfuse to live in th' counthry is more thin I can see.
Ye'd think that this disreputable class'd give annything to lave
th' crowded tinimints iv a large city where they have frinds be th'
hundherds an' know th' polisman on th' bate an' can go out to hateful
dances an' moonlight picnics--ye'd think these unforchnate slaves'd be
delighted to live in Mulligan's subdivision, amid th' threes an' flowers
an' bur-rds. Gettin' up at four o'clock in th' mornin' th' singin'
iv th' full-throated alarm clock is answered be an invisible choir iv
songsters, as Shakespere says, an' ye see th' sun rise over th' hills as
ye go out to carry in a ton iv coal. All day long ye meet no wan as
ye thrip over th' coal-scuttle, happy in ye'er tile an' ye'er heart is
enlivened be th' thought that th' childher in th' front iv th' house
ar-re growin' sthrong on th' fr-resh counthry air. Besides they'se
always cookin' to do. At night ye can set be th' fire an' improve ye'er
mind be r-readin' half th' love story in th' part iv th' pa-aper that
th' cheese come home in, an' whin ye're through with that, all ye have
to do is to climb a ladder to th' roof an' fall through th' skylight an'
ye're in bed."
{Illustration}
"But wud ye believe it, Hinnissy, manny iv these misguided women rayfuse
f'r to take a job that aint in a city. They prefer th' bustle an'
roar iv th' busy marts iv thrade, th' sthreet car, th' saloon on three
corners an' th' church on wan, th' pa-apers ivry mornin' with pitchers
iv th' s'ciety fav'rite that's just thrown up a good job at Armours to
elope with th' well-known club man who used to be yard-masther iv th'
three B's, G, L, & N., th' shy peek into th' dhry-goods store, an' other
base luxuries, to a free an' healthy life in th' counthry between iliven
P.M. an' four A.M. Wensdahs an' Sundahs. 'Tis worse thin that, Hinnissy,
f'r whin they ar-re in th' city they seem to dislike their wurruk an'
manny iv thim ar-re givin' up splindid jobs with good large families
where they have no chanst to spind their salaries, if they dhraw thim,
an' takin' places in shops, an' gettin' marrid an' adoptin' other
devices that will give thim th' chanst f'r to wear out their good
clothes. 'Tis a horrible situation. Riley th' conthractor dhropped in
here th' other day in his horse an' buggy on his way to the dhrainage
canal an' he was all wurruked up over th' question. 'Why,' he says,
''tis scand'lous th' way servants act,' he says. 'Mrs. Riley has
hystrics,' he says. 'An' ivry two or three nights whin I come home,' he
says, 'I have to win a fight again' a cook with a stove lid befure I
can move me family off th' fr-ront stoop,' he says. 'We threat thim well
too,' he says. 'I gave th' las' wan we had fifty cints an' a cook book
at Chris'mas an' th' next day she left befure breakfast,' he says. 'What
naytionalties do ye hire?' says I. 'I've thried thim all,' he says,
'an',' he says, 'I'll say this in shame,' he says, 'that th' Irish ar-re
th' worst,' he says. 'Well,' says I, 'ye need have no shame,' I says,
'f'r'tis on'y th' people that ar-re good servants that'll niver be
masthers,' I says. 'Th' Irish ar-re no good as servants because they
ar-re too good,' I says. 'Th' Dutch ar-re no good because they aint good
enough. No matther how they start they get th' noodle habit. I | 233.106428 |
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Produced by Rosanna Yuen and PG Distributed Proofreaders
ROLLO AT PLAY;
OR,
SAFE AMUSEMENTS.
[Illustration: "Now he is standing perfectly still. O, Jonas, come and
see him."]
ROLLO AT PLAY.
THE ROLLO SERIES
IS COMPOSED OF FOURTEEN VOLUMES. VIZ.
Rollo Learning to Talk.
Rollo Learning to Read.
Rollo at Work.
Rollo at Play.
Rollo at School.
Rollo's Vacation.
Rollo's Experiments.
Rollo's Museum.
Rollo's Travels.
Rollo's Correspondence.
Rollo's Philosophy--Water.
Rollo's Philosophy--Air.
Rollo's Philosophy--Fire.
Rollo's Philosophy--Sky.
A NEW EDITION, REVISED BY THE AUTHOR.
NOTICE TO PARENTS.
Although this little book, and its fellow, "ROLLO AT WORK," are intended
principally as a means of entertainment for their little readers, it is
hoped by the writer that they may aid in accomplishing some of the
following useful purposes:--
1. In cultivating _the thinking powers_; as frequent occasions occur, in
which the incidents of the narrative, and the conversations arising from
them, are intended to awaken and engage the reasoning and reflective
faculties of the little readers.
2. In | 233.108603 |
2023-11-16 18:20:57.0885700 | 876 | 59 |
Produced by Gary Rees, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)
THE LETTERS OF A POST-IMPRESSIONIST
[Illustration]
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN
BY
ANTHONY M. LUDOVICI
[Illustration: VINCENT VAN GOGH
BY HIMSELF]
THE LETTERS OF A
POST-IMPRESSIONIST
BEING
THE FAMILIAR CORRESPONDENCE
OF VINCENT VAN GOGH
[Illustration: colophon]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
1913
CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.
TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
INTRODUCTORY ESSAY ON VAN GOGH AND HIS ART.
Though the collection of letters contained in Cassirer's publication,
"Vincent Van Gogh. Briefe," is not a complete one, from my knowledge of
a very large number of the letters which are not included in this
volume, I feel able to say that the present selection is in any case
very representative and contains all that is essential in respect to Van
Gogh's art-credo and general attitude of mind.
For reasons into which it is unnecessary for me to enter here, it was
found convenient to adopt the form of Cassirer's publication arranged by
Margarete Mauthner, and my translation has therefore been made from the
German (Fourth Edition, 1911). Still, with the view of avoiding the
errors which were bound to creep into a double translation of this sort,
I took care, when my version was complete, to compare it with as many of
the original French letters as I was able to find, and I am glad to say
that by this means I succeeded in satisfying myself as to the accuracy
of every line from page 39 to the end.
The letters printed up to page 38, some of which I fancy must have been
written in Dutch--a language which in any case I could not have
read--have not been compared with the originals. But, seeing that the
general quality of the German translation of the letters after page 39
was so good that I was able to discover only the small handful of
inaccuracies referred to in the appendix, I think the reader may rest
assured that the matter covering pages 1 to 38 is sufficiently
trustworthy for all ordinary purposes.
I say that "I fancy" some of the letters which occur between pages 1 and
38 were written in Dutch; for I am not by any means certain of this. In
any case I can vouch for the fact that the originals of all the letters
after page 38 were in French, as I have seen them. But in this respect
Paul Gauguin's remark about his friend Van Gogh is not without interest:
"Il oubliait meme," wrote the famous painter of negresses, "d'ecrire le
hollandais, et comme on a pu voir par la publication de ses lettres a
son frere, il n'ecrivait jamais qu'en francais, et cela admirablement,
avec des 'Tant qu'a, Quant a,' a n'en plus finir."[1]
Rather than disfigure my pages with a quantity of notes, I preferred to
put my remarks relative to the divergencies between the original French
and the German in the form of an appendix (to which the Numbers 1 to 35
in the text refer), and have thus kept only those notes in the text
which were indispensable for the proper understanding of the book. Be
this as it may, the inaccuracies and doubts discussed in the appendix
are, on the whole, of such slight import, that those readers who do not
wish to be interrupted by pedantic quibbles will be well advised if they
simply read straight on, without heeding the figures in the text. To
protect myself against fault-f | 233.10861 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: THEY TACKLES ANYTHING I LEADS 'EM UP TO]
Side-stepping
with Shorty
_By_
Sewell Ford
_Illustrated by_
_Francis Vaux Wilson_
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1908, by Mitchell Kennerley_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. SHORTY AND THE PLUTE
II. ROUNDING UP MAGGIE
III. UP AGAINST BENTLEY
IV. THE TORTONIS' STAR ACT
V. PUTTING PINCKNEY ON THE JOB
VI. THE SOARING OF THE SAGAWAS
VII. RINKEY AND THE PHONY LAMP
VIII. PINCKNEY AND THE TWINS
IX. A LINE ON PEACOCK ALLEY
X. SHORTY AND THE STRAY
XI. WHEN ROSSITER CUT LOOSE
XII. TWO ROUNDS WITH SYLVIE
XIII. GIVING BOMBAZOULA THE HOOK
XIV. A HUNCH FOR LANGDON
XV. SHORTY'S GO WITH ART
XVI. WHY WILBUR DUCKED
XVII. WHEN SWIFTY WAS GOING SOME
XVIII. PLAYING WILBUR TO SHOW
XIX. AT HOME WITH THE DILLONS
XX. THE CASE OF RUSTY QUINN
ILLUSTRATIONS
THEY TACKLES ANYTHING I LEADS 'EM TO...... _Frontispiece_
THE TWINS ORGANIZE A GAME OF TAG
"WE--E--E--OUGH! GLORY BE!" YELLS HANK, LETTIN' OUT AN EARSPLITTER
HE HAS THE PO'TRY TAP TURNED ON FULL BLAST
I
SHORTY AND THE PLUTE
Notice any gold dust on my back? No? Well it's a wonder there ain't,
for I've been up against the money bags so close I expect you can find
eagle prints all over me.
That's what it is to build up a rep. Looks like all the fat wads in
New York was gettin' to know about Shorty McCabe, and how I'm a sure
cure for everything that ails 'em. You see, I no sooner take hold of
one down and outer, sweat the high livin' out of him, and fix him up
like new with a private course of rough house exercises, than he passes
the word along to another; and so it goes.
This last was the limit, though. One day I'm called to the 'phone by
some mealy mouth that wants to know if this is the Physical Culture
Studio.
"Sure as ever," says I.
"Well," says he, "I'm secretary to Mr. Fletcher Dawes."
"That's nice," says I. "How's Fletch?"
"Mr. Dawes," says he, "will see the professah at fawh o'clock this
awfternoon."
"Is that a guess," says I, "or has he been havin' his fortune told?"
"Who is this?" says the gent at the other end of the wire, real sharp
and sassy.
"Only me," says I.
"Well, who are you?" says he.
"I'm the witness for the defence," says I. "I'm Professor McCabe, P.
C. D., and a lot more that I don't use on week days."
"Oh!" says he, simmerin' down a bit. "This is Professor McCabe
himself, is it? Well, Mr. Fletcher Dawes requiahs youah services. You
are to repawt at his apartments at fawh o'clock this awfternoon--fawh
o'clock, understand?"
"Oh, yes," says I. "That's as plain as a dropped egg on a plate of
hash. But say, Buddy; you tell Mr. Dawes that next time he wants me
just to pull the string. If that don't work, he can whistle; and when
he gets tired of whistlin', and I ain't there, he'll know I ain't
comin'. Got them directions? Well, think hard, and maybe you'll
figure it out later. Ta, ta, Mister Secretary." With that I hangs up
the receiver and winks at Swifty Joe.
"Swifty," says I, "they'll be usin' us for rubber stamps if we don't
look out."
"Who was the guy?" says he.
"Some pinhead up to Fletcher Dawes's," says I.
"Hully chee!" says Swifty.
Funny, ain't it, how most everyone'll prick up their ears at that name?
And it don't mean so much money as John D.'s or Morgan's does, either.
But what them two and Harriman don't own is divided up among Fletcher
Dawes and a few others. Maybe it's because Dawes is such a free
spender that he's better advertised. Anyway, when you say Fletcher
Dawes you think of a red-faced gent with a fistful of thousand-dollar
bills offerin' to buy the White House for a stable.
But say, he might have twice as much, and I wouldn't hop any quicker.
I'm only livin' once, and it may be long or short, but while it lasts I
don't intend to do the lackey act for anyone.
Course, I thinks the jolt I gave that secretary chap closes the
incident. But around three o'clock that same day, though, I looks down
from the front window and sees a heavy party in a fur lined overcoat
bein' helped out of a shiny benzine wagon by a pie faced valet, and
before I'd done guessin' where they was headed for they shows up in the
office door.
"My name is Dawes. Fletcher Dawes," says the gent in the overcoat.
"I could have guessed that," says I. "You look somethin' like the
pictures they print of you in the Sunday papers."
"I'm sorry to hear it," says he.
But say, he's less of a prize hog than you'd think, come to get
near--forty-eight around the waist, I should say, and about a number
sixteen collar. You wouldn't pick him out by his face as the kind of a
man that you'd like to have holdin' a mortgage on the old homestead,
though, nor one you'd like to sit opposite to in a poker game--eyes
about a quarter of an inch apart, lima bean ears buttoned down close,
and a mouth like a crack in the pavement.
He goes right at tellin' what he wants and when he wants it, sayin'
he's a little out of condition and thinks a few weeks of my trainin'
was just what he needed. Also he throws out that I might come up to
the Brasstonia and begin next day.
"Yes?" says I. "I heard somethin' like that over the 'phone."
"From Corson, eh?" says he. "He's an ass! Never mind him. You'll be
up to-morrow?"
"Say," says I, "where'd you get the idea I went out by the day?"
"Why," says he, "it seems to me I heard something about----"
"Maybe they was personal friends of mine," says I. "That's different.
Anybody else comes here to see me."
"Ah!" says he, suckin' in his breath through his teeth and levelin'
them blued steel eyes of his at me. "I suppose you have your price?"
"No," says I; "but I'll make one, just special for you. It'll be ten
dollars a minute."
Say, what's the use? We saves up till we gets a little wad of twenties
about as thick as a roll of absorbent cotton, and with what we got in
the bank and some that's lent out, we feel as rich as platter gravy.
Then we bumps up against a really truly plute, and gets a squint at his
dinner check, and we feels like panhandlers workin' a side street.
Honest, with my little ten dollars a minute gallery play, I thought I
was goin' to have him stunned.
"That's satisfactory," says he. "To-morrow, at four."
That's all. I'm still standin' there with my mouth open when he's
bein' tucked in among the tiger skins. And I'm bought up by the hour,
like a bloomin' he massage artist! Feel? I felt like I'd fit loose in
a gas pipe.
But Swifty, who's had his ear stretched out and his eyes bugged all the
time, begins to do the walk around and look me over as if I was a new
wax figger in a museum.
"Ten plunks a minute!" says he. "Hully chee!"
"Ah, forget it!" says I. "D'ye suppose I want to be reminded that I've
broke into the bath rubber class? G'wan! Next time you see me prob'ly
I'll be wearin' a leather collar and a tag. Get the mitts on, you
South Brooklyn bridge rusher, and let me show you how I can hit before
I lose my nerve altogether!"
Swifty says he ain't been used so rough since the time he took the
count from Cans; but it was a relief to my feelin's; and when he come
to reckon up that I'd handed him two hundred dollars' worth of punches
without chargin' him a red, he says he'd be proud to have me do it
every day.
If it hadn't been that I'd chucked the bluff myself, I'd scratched the
Dawes proposition. But I ain't no hand to welch; so up I goes next
afternoon, with my gym. suit in a bag, and gets my first inside view of
the Brasstonia, where the plute hangs out. And say, if you think these
down town twenty-five-a-day joints is swell, you ought to get some
Pittsburg friend to smuggle you into one of these up town apartment
hotels that's run exclusively for trust presidents. Why, they don't
have any front doors at all. You're expected to come and go in your
bubble, but the rules lets you use a cab between certain hours.
I tries to walk in, and was held up by a three hundred pound special
cop in grey and gold, and made to prove that I didn't belong in the
baggage elevator or the ash hoist. Then I'm shown in over the Turkish
rugs to a solid gold passenger lift, set in a velvet arm chair, and
shot up to the umpteenth floor.
I was lookin' to find Mr. Dawes located in three or four rooms and
bath, but from what I could judge of the size of his ranch he must pay
by acreage instead of the square foot, for he has a whole wing to
himself. And as for hired help, they was standin' around in clusters,
all got up in baby blue and silver, with mugs as intelligent as so many
frozen codfish. Say, it would give me chillblains on the soul to have
to live with that gang lookin' on!
I'm shunted from one to the other, until I gets to Dawes, and he leads
the way into a big room with rubber mats, punchin' bags, and all the
fixin's you could think of.
"Will this do?" says he.
"It'll pass," says I. "And if you'll chase out that bunch of
employment bureau left-overs, we'll get down to business."
"But," says he, "I thought you might need some of my men to----"
"I don't," says I, "and while you're mixin' it with me you won't,
either."
At that he shoos 'em all out and shuts the door. I opens the window
so's to get in some air that ain't been strained and currycombed and
scented with violets, and then we starts to throw the shot bag around.
I find Fletcher is short winded and soft. He's got a bad liver and a
worse heart, for five or six years' trainin' on wealthy water and pate
de foie gras hasn't done him any good. Inside of ten minutes he knows
just how punky he is himself, and he's ready to follow any directions I
lay down.
As I'm leavin', a nice, slick haired young feller calls me over and
hands me an old rose tinted check. It was for five hundred and twenty.
"Fifty-two minutes, professor," says he.
"Oh, let that pyramid," says I, tossin' it back.
Honest, I never shied so at money before, but somehow takin' that went
against the grain. Maybe it was the way it was shoved at me.
I'd kind of got interested in the job of puttin' Dawes on his feet,
though, and Thursday I goes up for another session. Just as I steps
off the elevator at his floor I hears a scuffle, and out comes a couple
of the baby blue bunch, shoving along an old party with her bonnet
tilted over one ear. I gets a view of her face, though, and I sees
she's a nice, decent lookin' old girl, that don't seem to be either
tanked or batty, but just kind of scared. A Willie boy in a frock coat
was followin' along behind, and as they gets to me he steps up, grabs
her by the arm, and snaps out:
"Now you leave quietly, or I'll hand you over to the police!
Understand?"
That scares her worse than ever, and she rolls her eyes up to me in
that pleadin' way a dog has when he's been hurt.
"Hear that?" says one of the baby blues, shakin' her up.
My fingers went into bunches as sudden as if I'd touched a live wire,
but I keeps my arms down. "Ah, say!" says I. "I don't see any call
for the station-house drag out just yet. Loosen up there a bit, will
you?"
"Mind your business!" says one of 'em, givin' me the glary eye.
"Thanks," says I. "I was waitin' for an invite," and I reaches out and
gets a shut-off grip on their necks. It didn't take 'em long to loosen
up after that.
"Here, here!" says the Willie that I'd spotted for Corson. "Oh, it's
you is it, professor?"
"Yes, it's me," says I, still holdin' the pair at arms' length.
"What's the row?"
"Why," says Corson, "this old woman----"
"Lady," says I.
"Aw--er--yes," says he. "She insists on fawcing her way in to see Mr.
Dawes."
"Well," says I, "she ain't got no bag of dynamite, or anything like
that, has she?"
"I just wanted a word with Fletcher," says she, buttin' in--"just a
word or two."
"Friend of yours?" says I.
"Why-- Well, we have known each other for forty years," says she.
"That ought to pass you in," says I,
"But she refuses to give her name," says Corson.
"I am Mrs. Maria Dawes," says she, holdin' her chin up and lookin' him
straight between the eyes.
"You're not on the list," says Corson.
"List be blowed!" says I. "Say, you peanut head, can't you see this is
some relation? You ought to have sense enough to get a report from the
boss, before you carry out this quick bounce business. Perhaps you're
puttin' your foot in it, son."
Then Corson weakens, and the old lady throws me a look that was as good
as a vote of thanks. And say, when she'd straightened her lid and
pulled herself together, she was as ladylike an old party as you'd want
to meet. There wa'n't much style about her, but she was dressed
expensive enough--furs, and silks, and sparks in her ears. Looked like
one of the sort that had been up against a long run of hard luck and
had come through without gettin' sour.
While we was arguin', in drifts Mr. Dawes himself. I gets a glimpse of
his face when he first spots the old girl, and if ever I see a mouth
shut like a safe door, and a jaw stiffen as if it had turned to
concrete, his did.
"What does this mean, Maria?" he says between his teeth.
"I couldn't help it, Fletcher," says she. "I wanted to see you about
little Bertie."
"Huh!" grunts Fletcher. "Well, step in this way. McCabe, you can come
along too."
I wa'n't stuck on the way it was said, and didn't hanker for mixin' up
with any such reunions; but it didn't look like Maria had any too many
friends handy, so I trots along. When we're shut in, with the
draperies pulled, Mr. Dawes plants his feet solid, shoves his hands
down into his pockets, | 233.183969 |
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[Illustration: The naval battle between the Serapis and the Poor
Richard.]
[Illustration:
GRADED LITERATURE READERS
EDITED BY
HARRY PRATT JUDSON, LL.D.,
PRESIDENT OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO
AND
IDA C. <DW12>
SUPERVISOR OF PRIMARY GRADES IN THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS OF BUFFALO, NEW
YORK
FOURTH BOOK
CHARLES E. MERRILL CO., PUBLISHERS]
COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY
MAYNARD, MERRILL, & CO.
[24]
PREFACE
It is believed that the Graded Literature Readers will commend
themselves to thoughtful teachers by their careful grading, their sound
methods, and the variety and literary character of their subject-matter.
They have been made not only in recognition of the growing discontent
with the selections in the older readers, but also with an appreciation
of the value of the educational features which many of those readers
contained. Their chief points of divergence from other new books,
therefore, are their choice of subject-matter and their conservatism in
method.
A great consideration governing the choice of all the selections has
been that they shall interest children. The difficulty of learning to
read is minimized when the interest is aroused.
School readers, which supply almost the only reading of many children,
should stimulate a taste for good literature and awaken interest in a
wide range of subjects.
In the Graded Literature Readers good literature has been presented as
early as possible, and the classic tales and fables, to which constant
allusion is made in literature and daily life, are largely used.
Nature study has received due attention. The lessons on scientific
subjects, though necessarily simple at first, preserve always a strict
accuracy.
The careful drawings of plants and animals, and the illustrations in
color--many of them photographs from nature--will be attractive to the
pupil and helpful in connection with nature study.
No expense has been spared to maintain a high standard in the
illustrations, and excellent engravings of masterpieces are given
throughout the series with a view to quickening appreciation of the
best in art.
These books have been prepared with the hearty sympathy and very
practical assistance of many distinguished educators in different parts
of the country, including some of the most successful teachers of
reading in primary, intermediate, and advanced grades.
Thanks are due to Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons and to President
Roosevelt for their courtesy in permitting the use of the selection
from "Hunting Trips of a Ranchman."
INTRODUCTION
In the Fourth and Fifth Readers the selections are longer, the language
more advanced, and the literature of a more mature and less imaginative
character than in the earlier books.
The teacher should now place increased emphasis on the literary
side of the reading, pointing out beauties of language and thought,
and endeavoring to create an interest in the books from which the
selections are taken. Pupils will be glad to know something about the
lives of the authors whose works they are reading, and will welcome the
biographical notes given at the head of the selections, and the longer
biographical sketches throughout the book. These can be made the basis
of further biographical study at the discretion of the teacher.
Exercises and word lists at the end of the selections contain all
necessary explanations of the text, and also furnish suggestive
material for language work. For convenience, the more difficult words,
with definitions and complete diacritical markings, are grouped
together in the vocabulary at the end of the book.
A basal series of readers can do little more than broadly outline a
course in reading, relying on the teacher to carry it forward. If a
public library is within reach, the children should be encouraged to
use it; if not, the school should exert every effort to accumulate a
library of standard works to which the pupils may have ready access.
The primary purpose of a reading book is to give pupils the mastery of
the printed page, but through oral reading it also becomes a source of
valuable training of the vocal organs. Almost every one finds pleasure
in listening to good reading. Many feel that the power to give this
pleasure comes only as a natural gift, but an analysis of the art shows
that with practice any normal child may acquire it. The qualities
which are essential to good oral reading may be considered in three
groups:
First--An agreeable voice and clear articulation, which, although
possessed by many children naturally, may also be cultivated.
Second--Correct inflection and emphasis, with that due regard for
rhetorical pauses which will appear whenever a child fully understands
what he is reading and is sufficiently interested in it to lose his
self-consciousness.
Third--Proper pronunciation, which can be acquired only by association
or by direct teaching.
Clear articulation implies accurate utterance of each syllable and a
distinct termination of one syllable before another is begun.
Frequent drill on pronunciation and articulation before or after
the reading lesson will be found profitable in teaching the proper
pron | 233.183993 |
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Transcriber’s Note
In this plain text version of Royal Winchester:
words in italics are marked with _underscores_
words printed in a bold Gothic font are marked with =equals signs=
words in small capitals are shown in UPPER CASE.
Illustrations have been moved near to the text they illustrate. The
page numbers in the List of Illustrations refer to the original
positions.
Footnotes have been moved to the end of chapters.
Sidenotes were originally page headings, they have been moved to the
start of paragraphs. These were all printed in italics.
Inconsistent hyphenation and variant spelling are retained. Quotations
and transcriptions have been left as printed. Minor changes have been
made to punctuation, the other changes that have been made are listed
at the end of the book.
[Illustration: The Cathedral: West Front.
WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL.]
ROYAL
WINCHESTER
WANDERINGS IN AND ABOUT
THE ANCIENT CAPITAL OF ENGLAND
BY THE
REV. A. G. L’ESTRANGE, M.A.
AUTHOR OF
“THE VILLAGE OF PALACES,”
“THE FRIENDSHIPS OF M. R. MITFORD,” ETC., ETC.
WITH NUMEROUS TEXT AND FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS FROM
ORIGINAL SKETCHES BY C. G. HARPER
_SECOND EDITION._
LONDON:
SPENCER BLACKETT
35, ST. BRIDE STREET, LUDGATE CIRCUS, E.C.
(_All rights reserved._)
Among those who have kindly afforded me information during the progress
of this work are the Very Rev. Dr. Kitchin, Dean of Winchester, the
Rev. Dr. Sewell, Warden of New College, Oxford, the Rev. J. G. Young,
Mr. F. Baigent, Mr. J. H. Round, Mr. T. Stopher, and Mr. C. G. Harper.
I have consulted, among recent works, those of the Misses Bramston and
Leroy, the Rev. H. C. Adams, and Mr. Woodward.
THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS.
FIRST DAY.
PAGE
Introduction--The High Street--The Castle--King Arthur
--Historical Reminiscences--Executions--The Civil
War--Charles II.’s Palace--The Westgate--Wyke--
Littleton--Crawley--Lainston--Sparsholt 1
SECOND DAY.
“God Begot” House--The High Street--Old Guildhall--
Butter Cross--King Alfred--The Penthouse--St.
Maurice’s Church--The Bell and Crown--New Guildhall
--Museum--Archives--St. Mary’s Nunnery--St.
John’s Hospital--Soke Prison--St. Giles’ Hill--The
Fair 49
THIRD DAY.
The City Walls--Danemead--Eastgate--Northgate--
Westgate--Southgate--Kingsgate--The College--
Wykeham--Wolvesey--Raleigh 85
FOURTH DAY.
Jewry Street and the Jews--Hyde Abbey--St. Grimbald
--Destruction of Tombs--Headbourne Worthy--
King’s Worthy--The Nuns’ Walk 123
FIFTH DAY.
The Cathedral--Early History--Dagon--St. Swithun
--Æthelwold--The Vocal Cross--Ordeal of Fire--
Walkelin--Renovation of the Cathedral--Civil War
--Architecture--Nave--Isaak Walton--Relics and
Monuments--De la Roche--Frescoes--Ethelmar--
Crypt 148
SIXTH DAY.
The Grenadier--Cathedral Library and Museum--The
Deanery--Pilgrim’s Hall--Precincts--Cheyney Court
--Regulations of the Monastery--North side of the
Cathedral--Early decay of the City--St. Peter’s Street
--Middle Brooks--Old Houses 209
SEVENTH DAY.
Southgate Street--St. Cross--Dr. Lewis--Regulations--
St. Catherine’s Hill 243
EIGHTH AND FOLLOWING DAYS.
Ancient Britons--St. John’s Church--Magdalen Hospital
--Punchbowl--Chilcombe--St. Peter’s Cheesehill--
Twyford--Monoliths--Brambridge Avenue--Otterbourne
--Compton--“Oliver’s Battery”--Hursley--Tomb
of Keble--Merdon Castle--Farley Mount--The Hampage
Oak--Tichborne 262
INDEX 297
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
THE CATHEDRAL: WEST FRONT, WINCHESTER _Frontispiece_
WESTGATE 7
CASTLE HALL 29
THE EPITAPH OF DR HARPESFELDE 40
SPARSHOLT CHURCH 45
THE BUTTER CROSS AND PENTHOUSE 49
ROYAL OAK PASSAGE 51
THE OLD GUILDHALL 55
THE GUILDHALL 67
SOKE BRIDGE 77
TOWERS AND SPIRES OF WINCHESTER 79
KINGSGATE 90
THE PORTER’S LODGE AND CHEYNEY COURT 92
CHAMBER COURT 99
THE CLOISTERS 103
THE COLLEGE CHAPEL 111
CORNER OF A COLLEGE STUDY 115
THE TOWER OF THE COLLEGE CHAPEL FROM THE ITCHEN 121
CNUT AND EMMA (ÆLFGYFU) PLACING THE CROSS AT HYDE 133
WYKEHAM’S TOMB 167
A FRAGMENT OF THE CHAPTER HOUSE 169
IN THE NORTH TRANSEPT 177
KING JAMES 181
THE CHOIR FROM THE NAVE 187
THE DEANERY 219
THE PENTHOUSE 233
MIDDLE BROOK 237
THE CHURCH OF SAINT CROSS FROM THE WATER MEADOWS 245
BEAUFORT TOWER, ST. CROSS 249
ST. CATHERINE’S HILL FROM ST. CROSS 259
ST. JOHN’S FROM A COTTAGE GARDEN 265
CHILCOMBE CHURCH 270
A CHILCOMBE TOMBSTONE 271
ST. PETER’S CHEESEHILL FROM ABOVE THE STATION 273
TWYFORD 278
HURSLEY 285
FARLEY MOUNT 288
ROYAL WINCHESTER
_WANDERINGS IN AND ABOUT THE ANCIENT CAPITAL OF ENGLAND._
FIRST DAY.
Introduction--The High Street--The Castle--King Arthur--Historical
Reminiscences--Executions--The Civil War--Charles II.’s Palace--The
Westgate--Wyke--Littleton--Crawley--Lainston--Sparsholt.
“Would that the George Hotel had an old gable, or even an Elizabethan
window,” I said to myself as I unshouldered my knapsack; “but perhaps
the ordinary visitor thinks more of creature comforts than of artistic
effects.”
“Is there anything of antiquity about the house?” I inquired, turning
to the waiter.
“Not that I know of,” was the reply; “but it is a very ancient
establishment. There is a fresco two hundred years old in one of the
rooms,” he added, with a little pride.
I took out my notebook and pencil, and was shown into a ground-floor
room in the western and earlier part of the hotel to see this
curiosity. Alas! it proved to be nothing but an old paperhanging.
“Not very remarkable,” I said, carelessly.
“Indeed, sir!”
“I am expecting some friends by the next train,” I continued. “We shall
require dinner for three. What can we have?”
The waiter was pretty well acquainted with the productions of the
culinary department, which had not much charm of novelty, and after
settling that important business, I sallied forth to purchase a
guide-book. This was not the first time I had been at Winchester, and
much of the information it contained was not new to me; but I wished to
refresh my memory on some points, as the friends I was expecting looked
to me to be their _cicerone_ during the few days we were to spend here
together.
Reading some and skipping more, and glancing at the well-known
illustrations, I thought myself fairly acquainted with the subject,
especially as I had rummaged up something from old books and
manuscripts in London. I wished to stand well with the old gentleman
and his daughter for certain reasons which I shall not mention--because
I may be unsuccessful. Well--we shall see.
[Sidenote: Arrival.]
Here they are!--warm greetings--the luggage is lifted down, and by
degrees the small articles which accompany a lady’s travels were
brought in, counted, and arranged. Do the number and variety of them
cause me to hesitate or to reflect that in single blessedness--
“When a man’s hat is on his head
His house is thatched and furnishèd”?
No, not for one moment.
Conversation soon becomes more connected, and, in due course, allusion
is made to the object of our visit.
“Now, mind you tell us _everything_ about Winchester,” said Miss
Hertford, with a smiling emphasis, which showed that she intended to be
obeyed.
“Everything, and some other things,” I replied, submissively; “but
perhaps you under-estimate the extent of the mine which is here beneath
our feet. You are an enchantress, and if you wish to become the idol of
antiquaries, turn Winchester upside down for a few hours.”
The present “George” is not inspiring architecturally, but still
possesses a fragrance beyond that of mere soups and joints. Here
successive generations have been accommodated and regaled,
“Have found the warmest welcome at an inn,”
ever since the days of Edward IV. Had a Visitors Book been kept, what a
rare collection of autographs would it have contained! In the twentieth
year of Henry VIII. we read of the “In of the George” being leased by
the Mayor to one Stephen Boddam, on condition that he pays the rent
fixed and forty shillings towards the new making of the chimney.[1]
The name of the house was taken from the patron saint of England,
pork-dealer, bishop, and dragon-slayer; to whom we find a chapel in
Winchester dedicated in Henry IV.’s time.[2]
[Sidenote: Sufferings of a Royalist.]
The stable at the back is the oldest part. It has a dingy aspect, and
an unpleasant association. When Waller was here making demands upon
the citizens in 1643, one Master Say, a son of a Prebendary of the
Cathedral, directed his servant to conceal his horses. Betrayed and
brought before Waller, he was questioned, and his answers being deemed
unsatisfactory, was handed over to the Provost Marshal to extract a
confession. He was forthwith taken into the “eighteen-stall stable,” a
halter was placed round his neck, and, as he still refused information,
he was pulled up and down to the rack until nearly strangled. All the
spectators retired in disgust--they could not stand the sight.
“How dreadful!” exclaimed Miss Hertford. “Did the poor man die?”
“It very nearly finished him,” I returned; “but people were pretty
strong in those days. However, he had, as a result, a dangerous
illness.”
There is no better starting-point than the “George,” in the centre of
the High Street, for exploring Winchester. This was the chief street
in Roman times, and perhaps terminated in such a round arch as we see
at Lincoln. In the palmy days of the city good houses probably adorned
the street. There seems to have been a fashionable tailor here in the
days of John and Henry III. His cut was evidently appreciated, for
he was not only employed by the King, but given wood to repair his
house, Limafelda, the rent of which was a grey pelise for the King.
We may conclude there was also a grand harness maker: for John ordered
the Mayor to give the constable of Corfe Castle a handsome (pulchra)
saddle, with a scarlet saddle-cloth and gilt bridle.[3]
The scene had greatly changed by Henry VIII.’s time. The houses, mostly
wooden and thatched, had gardens in front of them, of a somewhat Irish
character, for the walls were dilapidated,[4] and they contained
few flowers, but many sweet--pigs. A civic order was now made that
householders should no longer keep “hog-sties” within the boundaries
of the “hie” street. Those were times of darkness--there were no
town-lights, and some apprehension was felt that even the supply of
candles might run short. And so, in the fifteenth year of Henry VIII.,
it was ordered by the Winchester “assemble” that the chandlers “should
make” good and well-burning candles, and “should see there was no lack
of them.”[5] In Charles II.’s time the citizens were bidden to hang out
lights while the King was in residence.
[Sidenote: Westgate.]
Now let us come to a nearer date, and imagine this street a
hundred years ago. An open drain ran down it, and lines of gables
and overhanging storeys nodded across at each other in grotesque
infirmity. A pretty picture they made, and there was one night in the
year on which they seemed to me to be sadly missing--the fifth of
November--when tar barrels were lit at the Westgate and kicked down the
street by an exulting mob. A grand scene it was of riot and wildfire,
and only wanted the quaint, irregular buildings to complete the effect.
“When Keats was here in 1819,” said Mr. Hertford, “he found the
place much modernized and ‘improved.’ He says the side streets were
excessively maiden-lady-like; the door | 233.185016 |
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book was produced from images made available by the
HathiTrust Digital Library.)
NEW SERIES Nos. 47 and 48
PUBLISHED ANNUALLY
BY THE
PENNSYLVANIA PRISON SOCIETY
INSTITUTED MAY 8, 1787
THE JOURNAL
OF
PRISON DISCIPLINE
AND
PHILANTHROPY
JANUARY, 1909
OFFICE: STATE HOUSE ROW
S. W. CORNER FIFTH AND CHESTNUT STREETS
PHILADELPHIA, PA.
OFFICIAL VISITORS.
No person who is not an official visitor of the prison, or who has not a
written permission, according to such rules as the Inspectors may adopt
as aforesaid, shall be allowed to visit the same; the official visitors
are: the Governor, the Speaker and members of the Senate; the Speaker
and members of the House of Representatives; the Secretary of the
Commonwealth; the Judges of the Supreme Court; the Attorney-General and
his Deputies; the President and Associate Judges of all the courts in
the State; the Mayor and Recorders of the cities of Philadelphia,
Lancaster, and Pittsburg; Commissioners and Sheriffs of the several
Counties; and the “Acting Committee of the Philadelphia Society for
Alleviating the Miseries of Public Prisons.” (Note: Now named “The
Pennsylvania Prison Society.”)--_Section 7, Act of April 23, 1829._
The above was supplemented by the following Act, approved March 20,
1903:
AN ACT.
To make active or visiting committees of societies incorporated
for the purpose of visiting and instructing prisoners official
visitors of penal and reformatory institutions.
SECTION 1. Be it enacted, etc., That the active or visiting committee of
any society heretofore incorporated and now existing in the Commonwealth
for the purpose of visiting and instructing prisoners, or persons
confined in any penal or reformatory institution, and alleviating their
miseries, shall be and are hereby made official visitors of any jail,
penitentiary, or other penal or reformatory institution in this
Commonwealth, maintained at the public expense, with the same powers,
privileges, and functions as are vested in the official visitors of
prisons and penitentiaries, as now prescribed by law: Provided, That no
active or visiting committee of any such society shall be entitled to
visit such jails or penal institutions, under this act, unless notice of
the names of the members of such committee, and the terms of their
appointment, is given by such society, in writing, under its corporate
seal, to the warden, superintendent or other officer in charge of such
jail, or other officer in charge of any such jail or other penal
institution.
Approved--The 20th day of March, A. D. 1903.
SAML. W. PENNYPACKER.
The foregoing is a true and correct copy of the Act of the General
Assembly No. 48.
FRANK M. FULLER,
_Secretary of the Commonwealth_.
[Illustration: RIGHT REV. WILLIAM WHITE, D. D., LL. D.
First President of The Pennsylvania Prison Society, from 1787 to 1836.]
NEW SERIES NOS. 47 AND 48.
THE JOURNAL
OF
PRISON DISCIPLINE
AND
PHILANTHROPY
PUBLISHED ANNUALLY
UNDER THE DIRECTION OF “THE PENNSYLVANIA PRISON SOCIETY”
INSTITUTED MAY 8TH, 1787
JANUARY, 1909
OFFICE: STATE HOUSE ROW
S. W. CORNER FIFTH AND CHESTNUT STREETS
PHILADELPHIA, PA.
THE
PENNSYLVANIA PRISON SOCIETY
(FORMERLY CALLED THE PHILADELPHIA SOCIETY FOR ALLEVIATING THE MISERIES
OF PUBLIC PRISONS.)
Place of Meeting, S. W. Cor. Fifth and Chestnut Sts., Philadelphia.
The 122d Annual Meeting of “THE PENNSYLVANIA PRISON SOCIETY” was held
First month (January) 28th, 1909.
The meeting was called to order by the President, JOSHUA L. BAILY, at
whose request the Vice-President, the REV. H. L. DUHRING, D. D., took
the chair.
The Secretary, JOHN J. LYTLE, being absent on account of illness, ALBERT
H. VOTAW was appointed Secretary _pro tem_.
The Minutes of the 121st Annual Meeting were read and approved.
The Treasurer presented a report which was satisfactory. (See page 15.)
The officers and the members of the Acting Committee for 1909 were
elected. (See pages 3 and 4.)
GEORGE S. WETHERELL, on behalf of the Acting Committee, presented a
draft of proposed amendments to the Constitution of the Society. This
report was referred to the Acting Committee for further consideration.
The Nominating Committee presented the following resolution:
“In recognition of the long, faithful and unselfish services of JOHN J.
LYTLE as Secretary of ‘THE PENNSYLVANIA PRISON SOCIETY,’ the Nominating
Committee recommend that he be elected Honorary Secretary....”
The resolution was adopted unanimously by a rising vote.
ALBERT H. VOTAW, _Secretary_.
SPECIAL NOTICES.
All correspondence with reference to the work of the Society, or
to the JOURNAL OF PRISON DISCIPLINE AND PHILANTHROPY, should be
addressed to THE PENNSYLVANIA PRISON SOCIETY, 500 Chestnut St.,
Philadelphia, Pa.
The National Prison Congress of the United States for the past ten
years has designated the fourth Sunday in October, annually, as
Prison Sunday. To aid the movement for reformation, some speakers
may be supplied from this Society. Apply to chairman of the
Committee on Prison Sunday.
FREDERICK J. POOLEY is the General Agent of the Society at the
Eastern Penitentiary and at the Philadelphia County Prison. His
address is 500 Chestnut St., Philadelphia.
Contributions for the work of the Society may be sent to JOHN WAY,
Treasurer, 409 Chestnut St., Philadelphia.
OFFICERS OF THE SOCIETY FOR 1909.
PRESIDENT
JOSHUA L. BAILY, 30 S. Fifteenth Street, Philadelphia.
VICE-PRESIDENTS
REV. HERMAN L. DUHRING, D. D., 225 S. Third Street, Philadelphia.
REV. F. H. SENFT, 360 N. Twentieth Street, Philadelphia.
TREASURER
JOHN WAY, 409 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.
SECRETARIES
ALBERT H. VOTAW, 300 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.
FRED. J. POOLEY, 300 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.
COUNSELORS
HON. WM. N. ASHMAN, Forty-fourth and Spruce Streets, Philadelphia.
HENRY S. CATTELL, 1218 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.
THE ACTING COMMITTEE
John J. Lytle Moorestown, N. J.
John H. Dillingham 140 N. Sixteenth Street, Philadelphia.
P. H. Spellissy 120 S. Eighteenth Street, Philadelphia.
Dr. Emily J. Ingram Telford, Pa.
William Scattergood West Chester, Pa.
Mrs. P. W. Lawrence 1338 N. Thirteenth Street, Philadelphia.
Mary S. Whelen 1520 Walnut Street, Philadelphia.
William Koelle 1209 Girard Avenue, Philadelphia.
Rev. R. Heber Barnes 600 N. Thirty-second Street, Philadelphia.
Dr. William C. Stokes 2003 Arch Street, Philadelphia.
William T. W. Jester 412 Spruce Street, Philadelphia.
Deborah C. Leeds West Chester, Pa.
Mrs. Horace Fassett 220 S. Twentieth Street, Philadelphia.
George R. Meloney 4809 Springfield Avenue, Philadelphia.
Joseph C. Noblit 1521 N. Broad Street, Philadelphia.
Miss C. V. Hodges 2102 Master Street, Philadelphia.
Rebecca P. Latimer 4131 Westminster Avenue, Philadelphia.
Rev. Floyd W. Tomkins, D. D. 1904 Walnut Street, Philadelphia.
Rev. J. F. Ohl 826 S. St.Bernard Street, Philadelphia.
Harry Kennedy Eaglesville, Pa.
Layyah Barakat 236 S. Forty-fourth Street, Philadelphia.
William E. Tatum 843 N. Forty-first Street, Philadelphia.
Mary S. Wetherell 2036 Race Street, Philadelphia.
George S. Wetherell 2036 Race Street. Philadelphia.
Henry C. Cassel 2316 Germantown Avenue, Philadelphia.
Albert Oetinger Warminster, Pa.
Rev. Philip Lamerdin Olney, Philadelphia.
David Sulzberger 316 Race Street, Philadelphia.
Mrs. E. W. Gormly Pittsburg, Pa.
A. Jackson Wright 2141 N. Camac Street, Philadelphia.
Frank H. Longshore 2359 E. Cumberland Street, Philadelphia.
Charles H. LeFevre 827 Race Street. Philadelphia.
Mrs. E. M. Stillwell 1248 S. Broad Street, Philadelphia.
Solomon G. Engle 648 N. Thirty-ninth Street, Philadelphia.
Charles P. Hastings 2304 N. Twenty-second Street, Philadelphia.
Isaac P. Miller 409 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.
Elias H. White West End Trust Building, Philadelphia.
John Smallzell Haddonfield, N. J.
John D. Hampton Twenty-ninth and Ridge Avenue, Philadelphia.
John A Duncan 257 S. Fifty-first Street, Philadelphia.
Jonas G. Clemmer 2209 N. Franklin Street, Philadelphia.
Charles McDole 812 Race Street, Philadelphia.
Samuel B. Garrigues 1719 N. Twenty-eighth Street, Philadelphia.
Harrison Walton 1706 Columbia Avenue, Philadelphia.
Rev. C. Theodore Benze Erie, Pa.
Rev. A. J. D. Haupt, D. D. Pittsburg, Pa.
Arthur Buckler 2209 Tulip Avenue, Philadelphia.
Mrs. Mary S. Grigg 1235 N. Thirteenth Street, Philadelphia.
C. Wilfred Conard Lansdowne, Pa.
Henry W. Comfort Fallsington, Pa.
COMMITTEES.
_Visiting Committee for the Eastern State Penitentiary_:
John J. Lytle, Rev. Philip Lamerdin, Charles P. Hastings,
P. H. Spellissy, Harry Kennedy, Solomon G. Engle,
John H. Dillingham, Layyah Barakat, Isaac P. Miller,
William Koelle, Rev. J. F. Ohl, Elias H. White,
Rev. R. Heber Barnes, William E. Tatum, John Smallzell,
Dr. William C. Stokes, Mary S. Wetherell, John D. Hampton,
William T. W. Jester, George S. Wetherell, Jonas G. Clemmer,
Deborah C, Leeds, Henry C. Cassel, Charles McDole,
Mrs. Horace Fassett, Albert Oetinger, Samuel B. Garrigues,
George R. Meloney, David Sulzberger, Harrison Walton,
Joseph C. Noblit, Frank H. Longshore, Arthur Buckler,
Rebecca P. Latimer, A. J. Wright, Mrs. Mary S. Grigg,
Rev. Floyd W. Tomkins, Charles H. LeFevre, Albert H. Votaw.
_Visiting Committee for the Philadelphia County Prison_:
Fred. J. Pooley, William T. W. Jester, Mary S. Wetherell,
Dr. Emily J. Ingram, Deborah C. Leeds, David Sulzberger,
Mrs. P. W. Lawrence, Mrs. Horace Fassett, Mrs. E. M. Stillwell,
Mary S. Whelen, Miss C. V. Hodges, John A. Duncan.
_For the Holmesburg Prison_:
Fred. J. Pooley, David Sulzberger.
_For the Chester County Prison_:
William Scattergood, Deborah C. Leeds.
_For the Delaware County Prison_:
Deborah C. Leeds, C. Wilfred Conard.
_For the Western Penitentiary and Allegheny County Prison_:
Rev. A. J. D. Haupt, D. D., Mrs. E. W. Gormly.
_For the Bucks County Prison_:
Henry W. Comfort.
_For the Erie County Prison_:
Rev. C. Theodore Benze.
_For the Counties of the State at Large_:
Fred. J. Pooley, Deborah C. Leeds, Mrs. E. W. Gormly.
Layyah Barakat, Albert H. Votaw,
_For the House of Correction_:
Fred. J. Pooley, David Sulzberger, Layyah Barakat,
Deborah C. Leeds.
_Auditors of Acting Committee_:
Charles P. Hastings, Dr. Wm. C. Stokes, John Smallzell.
_Editorial Committee_:
Rev. J. F. Ohl, Rev. R. Heber Barnes, Dr. Wm. C. Stokes.
John Way, Albert H. Votaw,
_On Membership in the Acting Committee_:
Dr. Wm. C. Stokes, Albert Oetinger, Charles P. Hastings.
George S. Wetherell, Elias H. White,
_On Finance_:
George S. Wetherell, David Sulzberger, A. Jackson Wright.
Joseph C. Noblit, C. Wilfred Conard,
_On Discharged Prisoners_:
Joseph C. Noblit, George S. Wetherell, Dr. Wm. C. Stokes.
Mrs. Horace Fassett, Mrs. P. W. Lawrence,
_Auditors of the Society_:
A. Jackson Wright, Elias H. White.
_On Police Matrons in Station Houses_:
Mrs. P. W. Lawrence, Dr. Emily J. Ingram, Mary S. Wetherell.
_On Prison Sunday_:
Rev. H. L. Duhring, D. D., Rev. R. Heber Barnes, Rev. J. F. Ohl.
Rev. F. H. Senft,
_On Legislation_:
Rev. J. F. Ohl, Joseph C. Noblit, Rev. R. Heber Barnes.
David Sulzberger, Elias H. White,
JOURNAL OF PRISON DISCIPLINE AND PHILANTHROPY
ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SECOND YEAR.
1787. OF 1909.
THE PENNSYLVANIA PRISON SOCIETY
ANNUAL REPORT OF JOHN J. LYTLE, GENERAL SECRETARY.
In submitting this, my Eighteenth Report, covering the last two years, I
realize that I have much cause for gratitude. For a large part of this
time, I have been blessed with health and strength to continue my labors
among the prisoners of the Eastern Penitentiary.
I have been an Official Visitor at this institution for fifty-six years,
and for more than a score of years I have given my entire service to
this work for which I have felt that I had a special call.
While providing prisoners at the time of their discharge with a
respectable outfit, it has also been my earnest desire to point them to
the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world. I have also
continued my visits to the cells of the prisoners, and I have felt that
a blessing has attended my efforts. While I can never know the result of
these labors, I have worked in faith endeavoring to minister to both
their temporal and spiritual needs. Many have confessed to me that their
imprisonment had been to them a blessing. Arrested in their career of
crime, they had resolved to lead better lives in the future. I have not
doubted their sincerity, and have encouraged such to | 233.186001 |
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available by The Internet Archive)
_Everybody's_
BOOK
OF
LUCK
[Illustration]
WHITMAN PUBLISHING COMPANY
RACINE, WIS. POUGHKEEPSIE, N. Y.
PRINTED IN U.S.A.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE.
I. THINGS THAT BRING YOU GOOD LUCK AND BAD LUCK 3
II. HAVE YOU A TALISMAN? 6
III. HINTS ON FORTUNETELLING 12
IV. PALMISTRY--WHAT MAY BE LEARNED FROM HANDS 13
V. YOUR HANDWRITING REVEALS YOUR CHARACTER 32
VI. YOUR FACE IS YOUR FORTUNE 40
VII. WHAT DO YOUR BUMPS MEAN? 46
VIII. HOW ASTROLOGY DECIDES YOUR DESTINY 49
IX. YOUR CHILD'S OCCUPATION DECIDED BY THE STARS 55
X. WHAT ARE YOUR HOBBIES? 59
XI. WHAT IS YOUR LUCKY NUMBER? 60
XII. YOUR LUCKY COLOR 65
XIII. WHICH IS YOUR LUCKY STONE? 67
XIV. DREAMS--WHAT THEY MEAN 72
XV. TEACUP FORTUNETELLING 83
XVI. LUCKY AND UNLUCKY DAYS 91
XVII. THE LUCK OF FLOWERS 99
XVIII. SUPERSTITIONS REGARDING ANIMALS 104
XIX. CRYSTAL GAZING 107
XX. THE MOON AND THE LUCK IT BRINGS 111
XXI. FORTUNETELLING BY MEANS OF PLAYING CARDS 113
XXII. FORTUNETELLING GAMES 137
XXIII. THE LUCK OF WEDDINGS AND MARRIAGES 151
XXIV. FOLKLORE AND SUPERSTITIONS OF THE MONTHS 159
XXV. A CALENDAR FOR LOVERS 173
XXVI. MAKING USEFUL MASCOTS 191
THINGS THAT BRING YOU GOOD LUCK AND BAD LUCK
Ask a dozen people whether they have any superstitions, and the
majority will tell you, without hesitation, that they have not the
slightest belief in such things. If the truth is told there are very
few of us who do not cherish some little weaknesses in this direction.
One person may believe in a number of superstitions; another has,
perhaps, only a few that are observed; but he or she that has none at
all is a remarkably rare individual.
As a matter of fact, most superstitions are based on reason and sound
common sense, and the man or woman who pays heed to them is acting
intelligently, whether he or she knows it or not. Take, for instance,
the belief that it is unlucky to walk under a ladder. True, the old
assertion is that it is unlucky to do so because Jesus Christ was taken
down from the Cross by means of a ladder. But the more practical reason
is that painters and other men on ladders are very likely to drop
things and, if you happen to be passing at the time, the paintpot or
the tools will fall on you.
Of course, the reasons for all superstitions are not so evident as this
one about walking under a ladder: nevertheless, there is a germ of
reason in them all, whether or not we know the reason. Thus, the man or
woman who observes the common superstitions of everyday life is acting
wisely. Not only will he or she avoid a good deal of trouble, but his
actions will provide him with a sense of well-being, and the effect it
will have on his mind, the psychological effect as it is called, is all
to the good.
It is not proposed to explain why this or that superstition is worthy
of being observed; in many cases, the reason is obscure; but here we
will give some of the beliefs which are current at the present time.
First of all, you should never pass anybody on the stairs of a
private house, and, while talking of stairs, it may be said that many
people believe that, for someone to fall up a step, is a sign of an
approaching wedding.
Never light three cigarettes with the same match unless you are
prepared for a spell of ill-fortune. This superstition gained currency
during the War, probably because a match held long enough to light
three cigarettes would give the enemy a clue to your position,
especially at night-time.
If the cord of a picture frame snaps and the picture falls to the
ground, it is an omen that somebody is going to die. If the picture
is a portrait of a living person, then that person's life is the one
likely to be terminated. This omen may be considered a remarkably silly
one, with not a shred of sense to recommend it. Yet how many people can
point to instances when the prophecy has come true!
Of salt, there are several omens. The chief one tells you not to
help anybody to salt; in other words, it is unwise to put some on a
person's plate. Helping them to salt is helping them to sorrow. Another
superstition says that if you spill salt you will be unlucky unless
you throw a pinch of it over your left shoulder.
To break a mirror is known by all as a serious matter. The reason
why it is unlucky, we are told, doubtless finds its origin in a mere
association of ideas. The mirror being broken, the image of the person
looking into it is destroyed: therefore, bad luck in some form must be
the fate of the careless one. What exactly is the penalty one must pay
for breaking a mirror is not definite. Some people speak of seven years
of misfortune, while others claim that it means seven years of celibacy.
To take certain things into the house is the height of folly, if you
believe in superstitions. May or hawthorn blossom is one, though the
berries of this flower seem to have no ill-potency. Peacock's feathers
are another. Somewhat similar is the contention that it is very unlucky
to open an umbrella indoors.
While sitting at the meal-table, there are several things that must
not be done. Helping a friend to salt has been already mentioned, but
you must not allow the knives or forks to become crossed. Quarrels
with your friends will result if you do. Of course, you must not sit
down, thirteen of you, around the table. As is well known, this belief
has its origin in the Last Supper, when our Lord sat at meat with his
twelve apostles. On the other hand, should you taste a fruit for the
first time in that season, you have only to frame a wish and it will be
granted. Much the same applies to mince-pies. You will be awarded with
a whole happy month for each pie that you eat at Christmas-time which
is made in a different house. Of course, it is highly unwise for two
people to pour tea out of the same pot at the same meal.
To give a friend an edged tool is sure to cut the friendship, whether
it be a knife, a pair of scissors, a razor or a chisel. When such a
gift is to be made, the usual plan is to sell it to your friend for a
penny.
You should never put a shoe on a table, and, to see a pin lying on the
floor and leave it there, is an omen that you will want before you die.
As the jingle runs:
See a pin and let it lie, you're sure to want before you die.
See a pin and pick it up, then you're sure to have good luck.
Elsewhere, a good deal is said about dreams. Here it will be sufficient
to mention one or two items of interest. It is decidedly unlucky to
dream of a baby, yet to dream of a funeral is lucky. The following is
worth bearing in mind:
Friday dream and Saturday told;
Sure to come true, if ever so old.
And here it will be appropriate to recall the fact that it is an unwise
thing to get out of bed on the wrong side. The devil will be with you
all the day, if you do.
You should avoid looking at the new moon through glass; but if you have
a wish that you want fulfilled, you have only to count seven stars on
seven nights in succession. Let it be said, however, that to count
seven stars for this space of time is not as simple as it appears.
It is unlucky to treasure locks of people's hair, and, should you drop
a glove, it is to your advantage if someone else picks it up for you.
If the fire refuses to light properly in the morning, anticipate a
whole day with the devil.
Everybody knows that one of the luckiest things that can be done is to
pick up a horse-shoe. But it is not generally known that the more nails
left in it, the better. Nor is it sufficiently well recognized that
a shoe, hung up, should have the tips pointing upwards. If they are
turned down, the luck will run out of them.
Naturally, you will never start anything fresh on a Friday, and you
will not cut your fingernails on a Sunday. Regarding fingernails, a
poet, of sorts, has said:
Cut them on Monday, you cut them for news.
Cut them on Tuesday, a new pair of shoes.
Cut them on Wednesday, you cut them for health.
Cut them on Thursday, you cut them for wealth.
Cut them on Friday, a sweetheart you'll know.
Cut them on Saturday, a journey you'll go.
Cut them on Sunday, you cut them for evil:
For all the next week, you'll be ruled by the devil.
Of course, bad luck has not a monopoly on your superstitions, for good
luck has something to say also. To see a piebald horse is fortunate;
to find white heather, four-leaved clover or four-leaved shamrock is
even more fortunate. To open a pea-pod and find ten peas in it is
particularly lucky. For a black cat to come into your house is worth
much. To come across a nickel with a hole in it is not without its
merits, but the best thing of all is to put on some article of clothing
inside out, and to wear it all day long, without being aware of it
until bed-time.
HAVE YOU A TALISMAN?
"A person who finds a four-leaved clover, and believes it is a
harbinger of something good, has adopted the right attitude, for he
keeps a keen look-out for that particular good and holds out both hands
for it. Seldom is he disappointed, for he has unconsciously set going
the mental machinery which brings his wishes within reach. Had he not
found the clover and had gone along life's highway unexpectant of
anything good, he would never have discovered this pleasant happening.
And therein lies the true psychology of luck, which seems too simple
to be true, but then its simplicity is really the sign-manual of its
verity."
This quotation from the writings of a well-known author goes direct to
the point about talismans. If you adopt a talisman and put your faith
in it, you immediately prepare your mind for receiving an abundance
of good fortune. Reject all talismans and argue that there is no such
thing as luck, and you straightway set going the mental machinery which
looks on the dark side of things and which misses every slice of luck
that comes along. Therefore, we say, with emphasis, take to yourself a
talisman, a mascot, a charm--call it what you will--and you will never
regret it.
[Illustration]
Of talismans, there are countless varieties; some are known the world
over, others are the particular choice of individuals. They range from
the amulets and scarabs of the ancients to the <DW57>s and crudities
of the ultra-moderns. Your choice may roam between these two extremes,
but whatever your choice, it must be set with the seal of your faith.
In order to assist you in picking out a talisman for yourself, we
append the following accounts of those examples which are favored
most:--
_THE HORSE-SHOE._--No symbol is a greater favorite than the horse-shoe.
There are many legends regarding its origin, but the most commonly
accepted concerns the well-known visit of his Satanic Majesty to the
shoe-smith. As a consequence, the Devil evinced a wholesome dread of
horseshoes, and would not go near a house or person possessing one.
It is more likely, however, that the horse-shoe was accepted as a
symbol of luck because it was a commonplace object very nearly the same
shape as the metal crescents worn by the Romans when they wanted to be
fortunate. These crescents were always carried with the horns turned
up, and, if a horse-shoe is to bring good luck, it, too, must be placed
with the prongs uppermost. The reason for the prongs being so turned
depends on a belief that misfortune always travels in circles, but when
it reaches the tips of a horse-shoe, it is baffled, unless all the luck
has already run out of the tips through them being turned downwards.
Of course, an old, worn shoe is more lucky than a new one, and it is a
recognized fact that the more nails found in it the luckier will be the
finder.
_THE SCARAB._--This device is accounted very lucky or very unlucky,
according to the disposition of the wearer. The symbol represents
the scarab beetle with its wings outspread or with them closed. Such
charms are made to-day in large numbers for sale in Egypt, but those
who trade in them usually claim that each particular specimen has been
in the family since Biblical times. As a rule, the device is made in a
rough kind of bluish porcelain and is carved, in intaglio, with divine
figures. The Egyptians used to make up the scarab as a neck pendant
or as a little ornament for placing in the coffins of the dead. Its
mission was to scare away the evil one.
[Illustration: No. 2.--An Egyptian Scarab, such as were used as
talismen. Two forms are shown, one with the pectoral wings outspread;
the other, with wings closed.]
_THE TET._--This symbol was shaped somewhat like a mallet, and was
always worn with the head uppermost and the handle hanging down. It
was made in porcelain or stone, and was often gaudily. The
Egyptians were the first to find efficacy in this charm, and they wore
it suspended around the neck to ward off attacks from | 233.200241 |
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[Transcriber's Note:
This e-text is intended for users whose text readers cannot display
the Unicode (utf-8) version of the file. Greek words have been
transliterated and enclosed in equals signs, e.g. =ho logos=.
_Italic_ and *bold* words have been similarly enclosed in
underscores and asterisks respectively.
A few minor typographical errors and incorrect verse numbers have been
silently corrected.
The Table of Contents and Index refer to page numbers in the original
text.
All advertising material has been placed at the end of the text.]
THE EXPOSITOR'S BIBLE
EDITED BY THE REV.
W. ROBERTSON NICOLL, M.A., LL.D.
_Editor of "The Expositor," etc._
THE EPISTLE TO THE HEBREWS
BY
THOMAS CHARLES EDWARDS, D.D.
London
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
27, PATERNOSTER ROW
MCMIV
THE
EPISTLE TO THE HEBREWS
BY
THOMAS CHARLES EDWARDS, D.D.
PRINCIPAL OF THE UNIVERSITY COLLEGE OF WALES, ABERYSTWYTH
_NINTH EDITION_
London
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
27, PATERNOSTER ROW
MCMIV
_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._
PREFACE.
In this volume the sole aim of the writer has been to trace the unity of
thought in one of the greatest and most difficult books of the New
Testament. He has endeavoured to picture his reader as a member of what
is known in the Sunday-schools of Wales as "the teachers' class," a
thoughtful Christian layman, who has no Greek, and desires only to be
assisted in his efforts to come at the real bearing and force of words
and to understand the connection of the sacred author's ideas. It may
not be unnecessary to add that this design by no means implies less
labour or thought on the part of the writer. But it does imply that the
labour is veiled. Criticism is rigidly excluded.
The writer has purposely refrained from discussing the question of the
authorship of the Epistle, simply because he has no new light to throw
on this standing enigma of the Church. He is convinced that St. Paul is
neither the actual author nor the originator of the treatise.
In case theological students may wish to consult the volume when they
study the Epistle to the Hebrews, they will find the Greek given at the
foot of the page, to serve as a catch-word, whenever any point of
criticism or of interpretation seems to the writer to deserve their
attention.
T. C. E.
ABERYSTWYTH, _April 12th, 1888_.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
THE REVELATION IN A SON 3
CHAPTER II.
THE SON AND THE ANGELS 21
CHAPTER III.
FUNDAMENTAL ONENESS OF THE DISPENSATIONS 51
CHAPTER IV.
THE GREAT HIGH-PRIEST 69
CHAPTER V.
THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF RENEWAL 83
CHAPTER VI.
THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF FAILURE 99
CHAPTER VII.
THE ALLEGORY OF MELCHIZEDEK 113
CHAPTER VIII.
THE NEW COVENANT 133
CHAPTER IX.
AN ADVANCE IN THE EXHORTATION 183
CHAPTER X.
FAITH AN ASSURANCE AND A PROOF 199
CHAPTER XI.
THE FAITH OF ABRAHAM 213
CHAPTER XII.
THE FAITH OF MOSES 233
CHAPTER XIII.
A CLOUD OF WITNESSES 259
CHAPTER XIV.
CONFLICT 273
CHAPTER XV.
MOUNT ZION 293
CHAPTER XVI.
SUNDRY EXHORTATIONS 315
INDEX 331
SUMMARY.
I. THE REVELATION IN A SON: i. 1-3.
1. The previous revelation was in portions; this is a Son, Who is the
Heir and the Creator.
2. The previous revelation was in divers manners; this in a Son, Who is
(1) the effulgence of God's glory; (2) the image of His substance; (3)
the Sustainer of all things; (4) the eternal Priest-King.
II. THE SON AND THE ANGELS: i. 4-ii. 18.
1. The Revealer of God Son of God: i. 4-ii. 4.
2. The Son the Representative of man: ii. 5-18. (1) He is crowned with
glory as Son, that His propitiation may prove effectual, and His
humiliation involves a propitiatory death. (2) His glory consists in
being Leader of His people, and His humiliation fitted Him for
leadership. (3) His glory consists in power to consecrate men to God,
and His humiliation endowed Him with this power. (4) His glory consists
in the destruction of Satan, and Satan is destroyed through the Son's
humiliation.
III. FUNDAMENTAL ONENESS OF THE DISPENSATIONS: iii. i-iv. 13.
1. Moses and Christ are equally God's stewards.
2. The threatenings of God under the Old Testament are in force in
reference to apostasy from Christ.
3. The promises of God are still in force.
IV. THE GREAT HIGH-PRIEST: iv. 4-v. 10.
1. His sympathy.
2. His authority.
V. (A DIGRESSION) THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF RENEWAL IN THE CASE OF SCOFFERS:
v. 11-vi. 8.
Their renewal is impossible (1) because the doctrine of Christianity is
practical, and (2) because God's punishment of cynicism is the
destruction of the spiritual faculty.
VI. (CONTINUATION OF THE DIGRESSION.) THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF FAILURE: vi.
9-20.
VII. THE ALLEGORY OF MELCHIZEDEK: vii. 1-28.
1. Melchizedek foreshadows the kingship of Christ.
2. Melchizedek foreshadows the personal greatness of Christ.
3. The allegory teaches the existence of a priesthood other than that of
Aaron, viz., the priesthood founded on an oath.
4. The allegory sets forth the eternal duration of Christ's priesthood.
VIII. THE NEW COVENANT: viii. 1.
1. A new covenant promised through Jeremiah: viii. 1-13. The new
covenant would excel (1) in respect of the moral law; (2) in respect of
knowledge of God; (3) in respect of forgiveness of sins.
2. A new covenant symbolized in the tabernacle: ix. 1-14.
3. A new covenant ratified in the death of Christ: ix. 15-x. 18.
IX. AN ADVANCE IN THE EXHORTATION: x. 19-39.
X. FAITH AN ASSURANCE AND A PROOF: xi. 1-3.
XI. THE FAITH OF ABRAHAM: xi. 8-19.
1. His faith compared with the faith of Noah.
2. His faith compared with the faith of Enoch.
3. His faith compared with the faith of Abel.
XII. THE FAITH OF MOSES: xi. 23-28.
1. Faith groping for the work of life.
2. Faith chooses the work of life.
3. Faith a discipline for the work of life.
4. Faith renders the man's life and work sacramental.
XIII. A CLOUD OF WITNESSES: xi. 20-xii. 1.
XIV. CONFLICT: xii. 2-17. Faith as a hope of the future endures the
present conflict against men.
1. The preparatory training for the conflict consists in putting away
(1) our own grossness; (2) the sin that besets us.
2. The contest is successfully maintained if we look unto Jesus (1) as
Leader and Perfecter of our faith; (2) as an example of faith.
3. The contest is necessary as a discipline in dealing with (1) the
weaker brethren, (2) the enemy at the gate, and (3) the secular spirit.
XV. MOUNT ZION: xii. 18-29. The revelation on Sinai preceded the
sacrifices of the tabernacle; the revelation on Zion follows the
sacrifice of the Cross. Hence--
1. Sinai revealed the terrible side of God's character, Zion the
peaceful tenderness of His love.
2. The revelation on Sinai was earthly; that on Zion is spiritual.
XVI. SUNDRY EXHORTATIONS: xiii. 1-25.
CHAPTER I.
_THE REVELATION IN A SON._
"God, having of old time spoken unto the fathers in the prophets by
divers portions and in divers manners, hath at the end of these days
spoken unto us in His Son, Whom He appointed Heir of all things,
through Whom also He made the worlds; Who being the effulgence of
His glory, and the very image of His substance, and upholding all
things by the word of His power, when He had made purification of
sins, sat down on the right hand of the Majesty on high."--HEB. i.
1-3 (R.V.).
"God hath spoken." The eternal silence has been broken. We have a
revelation. That God has spoken unto men is the ground of all religion.
Theologians often distinguish between natural religion and revealed. We
may fairly question if all worship is not based on some revelation of
God. Prayer is the echo in man's spirit of God's own voice. Men learn to
speak to the Father Who is in heaven as children come to utter words: by
hearing their parent speak. It is the deaf who are also dumb. God speaks
first, and prayer answers as well as asks. Men reveal themselves to the
God Who has revealed Himself to them.
The Apostle is, however, silent about the revelations of God in nature
and in conscience. He passes them by because we, sinful men, have lost
the key to the language of creation and of our own moral nature. We know
that He speaks through them, but we do not know what He says. If we were
holy, it would be otherwise. All nature would be vocal, "like some
sweet beguiling melody." But to us the universe is a hieroglyphic which
we cannot decipher, until we discover in another revelation the key that
will make all plain.
More strange than this is the Apostle's omission to speak of the Mosaic
dispensation as a revelation of God. We should have expected the verse
to run on this wise: "God, having spoken unto the fathers in the
sacrifices and in the prophets, institutions, and inspired words," etc.
But the author says nothing about rites, institutions, dispensations,
and laws. The reason apparently is that he wishes to compare with the
revelation in Christ the highest, purest, and fullest revelation given
before; and the most complete revelation vouchsafed to men, before the
Son came to declare the Father, is to be found, not in sacrifices, but
in the words of promise, not in the institutions, but in holy men, who
were sent, time after time, to quicken the institutions into new life or
to preach new truths. The prophets were seers and poets. Nature's
highest gift is imagination, whether it "makes" a world that transcends
nature or "sees" what in nature is hidden from the eyes of ordinary men.
This faculty of the true poet, elevated, purified, taken possession of
by God's Holy Spirit, became the best instrument of revelation, until
the word of prophecy was made more sure through the still better gift of
the Son.
But it would appear from the Apostle's language that even the lamp of
prophecy, shining in a dark place, was in two respects defective. "God
spake in the prophets by divers portions and in divers manners." He
spake in divers portions; that is, the revelation was broken, as the
light was scattered before it was gathered into one source. Again, He
spake in divers manners. Not only the revelation was fragmentary, but
the separate portions were not of the same kind. The two defects were
that the revelation lacked unity and was not homogeneous.
In contrast to the fragmentary character of the revelation, the Apostle
speaks of the Son, in the second verse, as the centre of unity. He is
the Heir and the Creator of all things. With the heterogeneous
revelation in the prophets he contrasts, in the third verse, the
revelation that takes its form from the peculiar nature of Christ's
Sonship. He is the effulgence of God's glory, the very image of His
substance; He upholds all things by the word of His power; and, having
made purification of sins, He took His seat on the right hand of the
Majesty on high.
Let us examine a little more closely the double comparison made by the
Apostle between the revelation given to the fathers and that which we
have received.
_First_, the previous revelation was in portions. The Old Testament has
no centre, from which all its wonderful and varied lights radiate, till
we find its unity in the New Testament and read Jesus Christ into it.
God scattered the revelations over many centuries, line upon line,
precept after precept, here a little and there a little. He spread the
knowledge of Himself over the ages of a nation's history, and made the
development of one people the medium whereby to communicate truth. This
of itself, if nothing more had been told us, is a magnificent
conception. A nation's early struggles, bitter failures, ultimate
triumph, the appearance within it of warriors, prophets, poets, saints,
used by the Spirit of God to reveal the invisible! Sometimes revelation
would make but one advance in an age. We might almost imagine that God's
truth from the lips of His prophets was found at times too overpowering.
It was crushing frail humanity. The Revealer must withdraw into silence
behind the thick veil, to give human nature time to breathe and recover
self-possession. The occasional message of prophecy resembles the
suddenness of Elijah's appearances and departures, and forms a strange
contrast to the ceaseless stream of preaching in the Christian Church.
Still more strikingly does it contrast with the New Testament, the
greater book, yea the greatest of all books. Only two classes of men
deny its supremacy. They are those who do not know what real greatness
is, and those who disparage it as a literature that they may be the
better able to seduce foolish and shallow youths to reject it as a
revelation. But honest and profound thinkers, even when they do not
admit that it is the word of God, acknowledge it to be the greatest
among the books of men.
Yet the New Testament was all produced--if we are forbidden to say
"given"--in one age, not fifteen centuries. Neither was this one of the
great ages of history, when genius seems to be almost contagious. Even
Greece had at this time no original thinkers. Its two centuries of
intellectual supremacy had passed away. It was the age of literary
imitations and counterfeits. Yet it is in this age that the book which
has most profoundly influenced the thought of all subsequent times made
its appearance. How shall we account for the fact? The explanation is
not that its writers were great men. However insignificant the writers,
the mysterious greatness of the book pervades it all, and their lips are
touched as with a live coal from the altar. Nothing will account for the
New Testament but the other fact that Jesus of Nazareth had appeared
among men, and that He was so great, so universal, so human, so Divine,
that He contained in His own person all the truth that will ever be
discovered in the book. Deny the incarnation of the Son of God, and you
make the New Testament an insoluble enigma. Admit that Jesus is the
Word, and that the Word is God, and the book becomes nothing more,
nothing less, than the natural and befitting outcome of what He said and
did and suffered. The mystery of the book is lost in the greater mystery
of His person.
Here the second verse comes in, to tell us of this great Person, and how
He unites in Himself the whole of God's revelation. He is appointed Heir
of all things, and through Him God made the ages. He is the Alpha and
the Omega, the first and the last, He which is, and which was, and which
is to come,--the spring from which all the streams of time have risen
and the sea into which they flow. But these are the two sides of all
real knowledge; and revelation is nothing else than knowledge given by
God. All the infinite variety of questions with which men interrogate
nature may be reduced to two: Whence? and whither? As to the latter
question, the investigation has not been in vain. We do know that,
whatever the end will be, the whole universe rises from lower to higher
forms. If one life perishes, it reappears in a higher life. It is the
ultimate purpose of all which still remains unknown. But the Apostles
declare that this interrogation is answered in Jesus Christ. Only that
they speak, not of "ultimate purpose," but of "the appointed Heir." He
is more than the goal of a development. He is the Son of the living God,
and therefore the Heir of all the works and purposes of His Father. He
holds His position by right of sonship, and has it confirmed to Him as
the reward of filial service.
The word "Heir" is an allusion to the promise made to Abraham. The
reference, therefore, is not to the eternal relation between the Son and
God, not to any lordship which the Son acquires apart from His
assumption of humanity and atoning death. The idea conveyed by the word
"Heir" will come again to the surface, more than once, in the Epistle.
But everywhere the reference is to the Son's final glory as Redeemer. At
the same time, the act of appointing Him Heir may have taken place
before the world was. We must, accordingly, understand the revelation
here spoken of to mean more especially the manifestation of God in the
work of redemption. Of this work also Christ is the ultimate purpose. He
is the Heir, to Whom the promised inheritance originally and ultimately
belongs. It is this that befits Him to become the full and complete
Revealer of God. He is the answer to the question, Whither? in reference
to the entire range of redemptive thought and action.
Again, He, too, is the Creator. Many seek to discover the origin of all
things by analysis. They trace the more complex to the less complex, the
compound to its elements, and the higher developments of life to lower
types. But to the theologian the real difficulty does not lie here.
What matter _whence_, if we are still the same? We know what we are. We
_are_ men. We are capable of thinking, of sinning, of hating or loving
God. The problem is to account for these facts of our spirit. What is
the evolution of holiness? Whence came prayer, repentance, and faith?
But even these questions Christianity professes to answer. It answers
them by solving still harder problems than these. Do we ask who created
the human spirit? The Gospel tells us who can sanctify man's inmost
being. Do we seek to know who made conscience? The New Testament
proclaims One Who can purify conscience and forgive the sin. To create
is but a small matter to Him Who can save. Jesus Christ is that Saviour.
He, therefore, is that Creator. In being these things, He is the
complete and final revelation of God.
_Second_, previous revelations were given in divers manners. God used
many different means to reveal Himself, as if He found them one after
another inadequate. And how can a visible, material creation
sufficiently reveal the spiritual? How can institutions and systems
reveal the personal, living God? How can human language even express
spiritual ideas? Sometimes the means adopted appear utterly incongruous.
Will the great Spirit, the holy and good God, speak to a prophet in the
dreams of night? Shall we say that the man of God sees real visions
when he dreams an unreal dream? Or will an apparition of the day more
befittingly reveal God? Has every substance been possessed by the spirit
of falsehood, so that the Being of beings can only reveal His presence
in unsubstantial phantoms? Has the waking life of intellect become so
entirely false to its glorious mission of discovering truth that the God
of truth cannot reveal Himself to man, except in dreams and spectres?
Yet there was a time when it might be well for us to recall our dreams,
and wise to believe in spiritualism. For a dream might bring a real
message from God, and ecstasy might be the birth-throes of a new
revelation. Some of the good words of Scripture were at first a dream.
In the midst of the confused fancies of the brain, when reason is for a
time dethroned, a truth descends from heaven upon the prophet's spirit.
This has been, but will never again take place. The oracles are dumb,
and we shall not regret them. We consult no interpreter of dreams. We
seek not the seances of necromancers. Let the peaceful spirits of the
dead rest in God! They had their trials and sorrows on earth. Rest,
hallowed souls! We do not ask you to break the deep silence of heaven.
For God has spoken unto us in a Son, Who has been made higher than the
heavens, and is as great as God. Even the Son need not, must not, come
to earth a second time to reveal the Father in mighty deeds and a
mightier self-sacrifice. The revelation given is enough. "We will not
say in our hearts, Who shall ascend into heaven? (that is, to bring
Christ down:) or, Who shall descend into the abyss? (that is, to bring
Christ up from the dead.) The word is nigh us, in our mouth, and in our
heart: that is, the word of faith, which we preach."[1]
The final form of God's revelation of Himself is, therefore, perfectly
homogeneous. The third verse explains that it is a revelation, not only
in a Son, but in His Sonship. We learn what kind of Sonship is His, and
how its glorious attributes qualify Him to be the perfect Revealer of
God. Nevermore will a message be sent to men except in Jesus Christ.
God, Who spake unto the fathers in divers manners, speaks to us in Him,
Whose Sonship constitutes Him the effulgence of God's glory, the image
of His substance, the Upholder of the universe, and, lastly, the eternal
Redeemer and King.
1. He | 233.202628 |
2023-11-16 18:20:57.1837620 | 4,057 | 12 | ***
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: "PERCIVALE SAW A SHIP COMING TOWARD THE LAND."]
THE KNIGHTS OF
THE ROUND TABLE
_STORIES OF KING ARTHUR
AND THE HOLY GRAIL_
BY
WILLIAM HENRY FROST
ILLUSTRATED BY SYDNEY RICHMOND BURLEIGH
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1897
COPYRIGHT, 1897, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
TROW DIRECTORY
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
NEW YORK
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Each 1 vol., 12mo, Illustrated by SIDNEY
R. BURLEIGH. Price, $1.50
THE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE
THE COURT OF KING ARTHUR
THE WAGNER STORY BOOK
To
MY FATHER
John Dudley Frost
*CONTENTS*
*CHAPTER I*
On Glastonbury Tor
*CHAPTER II*
How We Discovered Camelot
*CHAPTER III*
The Boy from the Forest
*CHAPTER IV*
The Queen's Robing-Room
*CHAPTER V*
"Camelot, that is in English Winchester"
*CHAPTER VI*
The Boat on the River
*CHAPTER VII*
The Giants' Dance
*CHAPTER VIII*
On the Edge of Lyonnesse
*CHAPTER IX*
The Siege Perilous
*CHAPTER X*
Gawain
*CHAPTER XI*
Lancelot
*CHAPTER XII*
Bors
*CHAPTER XIII*
Percivale
*CHAPTER XIV*
Galahad
*CHAPTER XV*
The City of Sarras
*CHAPTER XVI*
Stories of Strange Stones
*CHAPTER XVII*
"And on the Mere the Wailing Died Away"
*CHAPTER XVIII*
The Abbess and the Monk
*CHAPTER XIX*
"Rexque Futurus"
*LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS*
"Percivale saw a ship coming toward the land."... _Frontispiece_
Glastonbury Tor
"As he played a storm began to rise"
The abbot's kitchen
"The city and the fortress of the rabbits"
"Kay's horse galloped back alone" (missing from book)
The Tower of London
The Round Table at Winchester
Winchester Cathedral
Stonehenge
St. Michael's Mount
The Land's End
"The bright spot on the road grew smaller and smaller" (missing from
book)
"A pasture where a hundred and fifty bulls were feeding"
"Through woods where there were scarcely any paths to follow"
"He saw the water before him and a ship"
"'Knight,' she said, 'what are you doing here?'"
"'It was King Evelake's shield'"
"'I cut off my hair and wove it into a girdle'"
The Dove with the golden censer
The Cheesewring
St. Joseph's Chapel, Glastonbury Abbey
"The two great waves broke upon each other"
The Choir, Glastonbury Abbey
"On toward the gold and the purple in the west"
*SOME OLDER STORY-TELLERS*
There is really no need, perhaps, for me to tell you that all these
stories have been told before. But, though you know it already, I like
to say it again, because I can never say often enough how grateful I am
to those who told the world first of Arthur, of Guinevere, of Lancelot,
and of Gawain; of Galahad, of Percivale, and of Percivale's sister; of
the Siege Perilous and of the Holy Grail. If you do not now count Sir
Thomas Malory a dear friend, as I do, learn to do it, and you will be
the better for it. I do not know who made those wonderful tales the
Mabinogion, but I know who gave them to us in our own language--Lady
Charlotte Guest. I wish that I knew whom to thank for "The Romance of
Merlin" and for the story of "Gawain and the Green Knight." And there
were many other noble story-tellers of the old time who passed away and
left us no knowledge of themselves and not even their names to call them
by. But they left us their stories, and if anything from us can reach
them where they are, surely gratitude can, and that they must have from
every one of us who loves a story. And the great poet of our own days,
Lord Tennyson, must have it too, for teaching us how to read their
stories.
Some time you may read these tales and others as they wrote them, and
you cannot read them without thinking what a great and marvellous thing
it was that they, who lived no longer than other men, could give delight
to the people of so many centuries. But some of these stories are not
easy to find, and some are not easy to read, when you have found them. I
have tried to tell a few of them again in my own way, hoping that thus
some might have the stories and know them, for whom the older books
might be hard to get or hard to understand.
[Illustration: Glastonbury Tor]
*THE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE*
*CHAPTER I*
*ON GLASTONBURY TOR*
It was when we were making a journey in the South of England one summer
that we found ourselves in the midst of the old tales of King Arthur and
of the Holy Grail. "We" means Helen, Helen's mother, and me. We
wandered about the country, here and there and wherever our fancy led
us, and everywhere the stories of King Arthur fell in our way. In this
place he was born, in that place he was crowned; here he fought a
battle, there he held a tournament. Everything could remind us, when we
knew how to be reminded, of the stories of the King and the Queen and
the knights of the Round Table.
It was I who told the stories and it was Helen who listened to them.
Sometimes Helen's mother listened to them too, and sometimes she had
other things to do that she cared about more.
One day we had been riding for many hours on the crooked railways of the
Southwest, where you change cars so often that after a little while you
cannot remember at all how many trains you have taken. And late in the
afternoon, or perhaps early in the evening, we saw from the window of
the carriage a big hill, lifting itself high up against the sky, with a
lonely tower on the top of it. And that was Glastonbury Tor.
There was no time to try to see anything of Glastonbury that night after
dinner, and we were too tired. But that big hill looked so inviting
that we decided that we would see it the next day and climb up to the
top of it, before we did anything else. I was a little disappointed
with Glastonbury, as we walked through the streets on our way to the
Tor. The place looked much too prosperous to please me, and not at all
too neat.
I cheered up a little when we came to the Abbot's Kitchen. It stands in
the middle of a big field, with a fence around it, and we had to borrow
a key from a woman who kept it to lend so that we could go in and see
it. We even spared a little time from the Tor to see it in. The Abbot's
Kitchen belonged to the old abbey of Glastonbury. It is a small, square
building, with a fireplace in each corner. It is still in such good
repair that it is hardly fair to call it a ruin, but it is a part of old
Glastonbury, and we carried back the key feeling glad that we had
borrowed it.
It was a good, stiff climb up the side of the Tor, and we stopped more
than once to look back at the town behind us and below us. It looked
prettier from here. Down there in the streets there was the noise of a
busy modern town. The ways were muddy and there were rather frowsy
women and children about some of the doors. But up here we were out of
sight and hearing of all that. From here the town looked quiet and
peaceful and beautiful--just its roofs and chimneys and towers showing
through the wide, green masses of the trees, and the sound of a church
chime, that rang every quarter of an hour, came to us softened and
mellow.
"Down there," I said, "we saw nothing but Glastonbury--to-day's
Glastonbury--but here we can see Avalon. That is Avalon down there
below us, the Island of Apples, the happy country, the place where there
was no sorrow, the place where fairies lived, the place where Joseph
brought the Holy Grail and where he built his church. A wonderful old
place it was, and it was a wonderful abbey that grew up where Joseph
first made his little chapel. Our old friend St. Dunstan, who pinched
the devil's nose, was the abbot there once. So was St. Patrick. When
he came to Glastonbury he climbed up to the top of this hill where we
are now and found, where this old tower is, the ruins of a church of St.
Michael. They used to have a way of building churches to St. Michael on
the tops of high hills. St. Patrick rebuilt this one and afterwards it
was thrown down by an earthquake. I don't know whether St. Patrick
built this tower that is here now or not.
"Did I say that fairies used to live here? Another abbot of Glastonbury
found that out. He was St. Collen, and he must have lived when there was
no church of St. Michael here on the top of the Tor. St. Collen was one
of those men who think that they cannot serve God and live in comfort at
the same time. When he had been abbot of Glastonbury for a time he
thought that he was leading too easy a life, so he gave up his post and
went about preaching. But even that did not please him, so he came back
here and made a cell in the rock on the side of Glastonbury Tor, and
lived in it as a hermit.
"One day he heard two men outside his cell talking about Gwyn, the son
of Nudd. And one of them said: 'Gwyn, the son of Nudd, is the King of
the Fairies.'
"Then Collen put his head out of the door of his cell and said to the
two men: 'Do not talk of such wicked things. There are no fairies, or
if there are they are devils. And there is no Gwyn, the son of Nudd.
Hold your tongues about him.'
"'Hold your own tongue about him,' one of the men answered, 'or you will
hear from him in some unpleasant way.'
"The men went away, and by and by Collen heard a knock at his door, and
a voice asked if he were in his cell. 'I am here,' he answered; 'who is
it that asks?'
"'I am a messenger from Gwyn, the son of Nudd, the King of the Fairies,'
the voice said, 'and he has sent me to command you to come and speak
with him on the top of the hill at noon.'
"Collen did not think that he ought to mind what the King of the Fairies
said to him, if there really were any King of the Fairies, so he stayed
in his cell all day. The next day the messenger came again and said
just what he had said before, and again St. Collen stayed in his cell
all day. But the third day the messenger came again and said to Collen
that he must come and speak with Gwyn, the son of Nudd, the King of the
Fairies, on the top of the hill, at noon, or it would be the worse for
him.
"Then Collen took a flask and filled it with holy water and fastened it
at his waist, and at noon he went up the hill. For a long time Collen
had been abbot of Glastonbury and for a long time he had been a hermit
and lived in his cell on the side of this very hill, but never before
had he seen the great castle that stood that day on the top of
Glastonbury Tor. It did not look heavy, as if it were built for war,
but it was wonderfully high and graceful and beautiful. It had tall
towers, with banners of every color hung from the tops of them and lower
down, and there were battlements where ladies and squires in rich
dresses stood and looked down at other ladies and squires below. And
those below were dancing and jousting and playing games, and all around
there were soldiers, handsomely dressed too, guarding the place.
"When Collen came near, a dozen of the people met him and said to him:
'You must come with us to our King, Gwyn, the son of Nudd--he is waiting
for you.'
"And they led him into the castle and into the great hall. In the
middle of the hall was a table, spread with more delicious things to eat
than poor St. Collen, who thought that it was wicked to eat good things,
had ever dreamed of. And at the head of the table, on a gold chair, sat
a man who wore a crown. 'Collen,' he said, 'I am the King of the
Fairies, Gwyn, the son of Nudd. Do you believe in me now? Sit down and
eat with me, and let us talk together. You are a learned man, but you
did not believe in me. Perhaps I can tell you of other things that so
wise a man as you ought to know.'
"But St. Collen only took the flask of holy water from his side and
threw some of it upon Gwyn, the son of Nudd, and sprinkled some of it
around, and in an instant there was no king there and there was no
table. The hall was gone, and the castle. The dances and the games
were done, and the squires and the ladies and the soldiers all had
vanished. The whole of the fairy palace was gone, and Collen was left
standing alone on the top of Glastonbury Tor.
"But Glastonbury has forgotten St. Collen, I suppose. The old town is
prouder now of Joseph of Arimathaea than of anybody else--prouder than
it is of King Arthur, I think, though King Arthur--but I won't tell you
about that now. You know how Joseph of Arimathaea buried the Christ in
his tomb after He was taken down from the cross. After He had risen
again the Jews put Joseph in prison, because they said that he had
stolen the body. But Joseph had with him the Holy Grail, the cup in
which he had caught the blood of the Saviour, when He was on the cross.
It was the same cup, too, from which the Saviour had drunk at the Last
Supper. It was a wonderful thing, that cup, and there are whole volumes
of stories about it. The blood that Joseph had caught in it always
stayed in it afterwards, and the cup and the blood seemed to have a
strange sort of life and knowledge and the power of choosing. One of
the wonderful things about the Holy Grail was that it could always give
food to any one whom it chose, and those who were fed by the Holy Grail
wanted no other food than what it gave them. And so Joseph wanted
nothing while he was in prison.
"At last the Emperor had Joseph let out of his prison. And some one
asked him how long it had been since he was put there, and he answered:
'I have been here in this prison for nearly three days.'
"Then they all stared at one another and whispered and looked at Joseph,
and then they whispered together again. 'Why do you look at one another
and at me so,' said Joseph, 'is it not three days, almost, since they
put me here?'
"'It is wonderful,' said one of them; 'Joseph, you have been in this
prison for forty-two years.'
"'Can it be?' said Joseph; 'it seems to me like only three days, and
barely that, and I have never been so happy in my life as I have been
for these three days--or these--can it be--forty-two years?'
"And this was because he had had the Holy Grail in the prison with him.
Afterwards he came to England. He brought the Holy Grail here to
Avalon, and the King of that time gave him some ground to build his
church on. They say it was really the island of Avalon then, for it was
all surrounded by marsh and water, and there was an opening, a waterway,
out to the Bristol Channel. And since it ceased to be an island the sea
has twice at least broken through and made it one again for a little
while. But the last time was almost two hundred years ago.
"Well, when Joseph and those who were with him first came here, they
rested on the hillside and Joseph stuck the staff that he carried into
the ground. It was not this hill where we are, but another, Wearyall
Hill. And Joseph's staff, where he had set it in the ground, began to
bud, and then leaves and branches grew on it. It struck roots into the
ground and became a tree. It was a thorn-tree, the Holy Thorn they
called it, and always after that it blossomed twice a year, once in the
time of other thorn-trees and again at Christmas. The tree was gone, of
course, long ago, but other trees had grown from slips of it, and they
say that descendants of it are still growing in Glastonbury gardens and
that they still bloom at Christmas. I am sorry that | 233.203802 |
2023-11-16 18:20:57.3637140 | 1,264 | 9 | THE SECOND ADVENT***
Transcribed from the 1876 H. Colbran edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
ROME AND TURKEY
IN CONNEXION WITH
The Second Advent.
* * * * *
SERMONS.
BY REV. E. HOARE,
VICAR OF TRINITY, TUNBRIDGE WELLS, AND
HON. CANON OF CANTERBURY.
* * * * *
LONDON:
HATCHARDS, PICCADILLY.
H. COLBRAN, CALVERLEY ROAD, TUNBRIDGE WELLS.
1876.
PREFACE.
THE three lectures on Turkey are published at the request of several of
my parishioners; I have added two others respecting Rome, which were
written in 1873, because I consider that they strengthen the conclusion
derived from the present position of the Ottoman Empire. I regard Rome
and Turkey as two great political witnesses to the near approach of the
glorious end. If this be the case, it is clearly right that their two
testimonies should appear together and confirm each other.
E. H.
_Tunbridge Wells_,
_Jan._ 1876.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
ROME:—
THE OUTLINE 1
THE CONSUMPTION 21
TURKEY:—
THE EUPHRATES 42
THE FROGS 63
THE ADVENT 81
ROME.
I.
THE OUTLINE.
IT is impossible to imagine anything more delightful than the prospect of
the promised return of our most blessed Saviour. How do the father and
the mother feel when they welcome their long-absent son from India? How
will many an English wife feel when she welcomes her husband from the
Arctic Expedition? And how must the Church of God feel when, after her
long night of toil and difficulty, she stands face to face before Him
whom her soul loveth, and enters into the full enjoyment of the promise,
‘So shall we ever be with the Lord.’ There will be no tears then, for
there will be no sorrow; no death then, for there will be no more curse;
no sin then, for we shall see Him as He is, and shall be like Him. Then
will be the time of resurrection, when all the firstborn of God shall
awake to a life without decay and without corruption; and then the time
of reunion, when the whole company of God’s elect shall stand together
before the Lord, never again to shed a tear over each other’s grave; and
then will be the time when those who have loved and longed after Him, as
they have journeyed on alone in their pilgrimage, will find themselves on
the right hand of His throne, and hear His delightful words, ‘Come, ye
blessed children of my Father: inherit the kingdom prepared for you from
the foundation of the world!’
No wonder then that the people of God are waiting with anxious hearts for
the advent; and no wonder that many are ready to say, ‘Lord, how long?’
and to ask, What hope is there of His quick return? Have we, or have we
not, any reason to look out for it soon? To this inquiry I would
endeavour to draw your attention this morning; and in doing so, I do not
intend to examine into what are usually called ‘the signs of the times,’
but to study the great prophetic sketch of the world’s history as given
to us by the prophet Daniel. This may be termed the backbone of
prophecy, and almost all the great prophecies of Holy Scripture fit into
it at some point or other; so that, if we wish to understand them, we
must begin by studying it. I fear I may not interest those who aim
simply to have their hearts warmed by the ministry. But they must
remember that the real study of God’s Word requires work, and that work,
though it lays the best possible foundation for feeling, does not at the
time excite it. To-day, then, we are to work, and I hope the Lord may so
bless His Word, that through work we may be led to feel.
Our business, then, is to endeavour to discover whether the great
prophetic sketch of history, given through the prophet Daniel, encourages
the blessed hope that the coming of the Lord may be near. Daniel gives a
prophecy of the history of political power from his own day till the time
when ‘the Ancient of Days shall sit,’ and describes a succession of
events which must take place in the interval. It is clear that our
business is to ascertain how many of these events have taken place, or,
in other words, how far we have advanced in the series.
In the study of our subject we have the advantage of looking at two sides
of the picture, for it has pleased God to give us the same series as seen
in two different aspects. In the second and seventh chapters you will
find predictions of the same events under different figures. In the
second chapter the prophecy is given as a vision to a proud, idolatrous
monarch. So the different kingdoms about to arise appear to him as the
several parts of a mighty image, with himself as the head of gold. It
was given in just such a shape as should coincide with his idolatry and
his pride. Whereas, in the seventh chapter, the vision is given to one
of God’s people, and he sees in all this glory nothing better than a
series of wild beasts coming up one after another to devour. How
different is the estimate of the world from that of God! The world
regards Babylon as the head | 233.383754 |
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Produced by the Freethought Archives (www.ftarchives.net)
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[Transcriber's note: archaic spellings such as "desart" for "desert"
have been retained, as have inconsistent spellings such as
"Galilee"--"Gallilee", etc.]
ECCE <DW25>!
OR,
A CRITICAL INQUIRY INTO
THE HISTORY OF JESUS OF NAZARETH:
BEING A RATIONAL ANALYSIS OF THE GOSPELS
by BARON d'HOLBACH
(Paul Henri Thiry Holbach)
The Cross was the banner, under which madmen assembled to glut the earth
with blood.--_Vide Chap._ 18.
GORDON PRESS
NEW YORK
1977
GORDON PRESS-Publishers
P.O. Box 459
Bowling Green Station
New York, N.Y. 10004
=Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data=
[Holbach, Paul Henri Thiry, baron d'] 1723-1789.
Ecce <DW25>!
Translation of Histoire critique de Jesus Christ.
Reprint of the 1st American ed., rev. and corr., of
1827, printed for the proprietors of the Philosophical
library, New York, which was issued as no. 1 of the
Philosophical library.
1. Jesus Christ--Biography--Early works to 1800.
I. Title. II. Series: The Philosophical library;
no. 1.
BT30O.H74 1976 232.9'01 73-8281
ISBN 0-87968-077-6
Printed in the United States of America
INTRODUCTION.
Although the writings of the New Testament are in the hands of every
one, nothing is more uncommon than to find the professors of
Christianity acquainted with the history or the founder of their
religion; and even among those who have perused that history, it is
still more rare to find any who have ventured seriously to examine it.
It must, indeed, be acknowledged, that the ignorance of the one, and the
want of reflection in the other, on a subject which they, nevertheless,
regard as of infinite importance, may arise from the dislike naturally
occasioned by the perusal of the New Testament. In that work there is a
confusion, an obscurity and a barbarity of stile, well adapted to
confound the ignorant, and to disgust enlightened minds. Scarcely is
there a history, ancient or modern, which does not possess more method
and clearness than that of Jesus; neither do we perceive that the Holy
Spirit, its reputed author, has surpassed, or even equalled many profane
historians, whose writings are not so important to mankind. The clergy
confess, that the apostles were illiterate men, and of rough manners;
and it does not appear that the Spirit which inspired them, troubled
itself with correcting their defects. On the contrary, it seems to have
adopted them; to have accommodated itself to the weak understandings of
its instruments; and to have inspired them with works in which we do not
find the judgment, order, or precision, that prevail in many human
compositions. Hence, the gospels exhibit a confused assemblage of
prodigies, anachronisms, and contradictions, in which criticism loses
itself, and which would make any other book be rejected with contempt.
It is by _mysteries_ the mind is prepared to respect religion and its
teachers. We are therefore warranted to suspect, that an obscurity was
designedly given to these writings. In matters of religion it is prudent
never to speak very distinctly. Truths simple and easily understood, do
not strike the imagination in so lively a manner as ambiguous oracles,
and impenetrable mysteries. Jesus, although come on purpose to enlighten
the world, was to be a _stumbling block_ to many nations. The small
number of the elect, the difficulty of salvation, and the danger of
exercising reason, are repeatedly announced in the gospels. Every thing
seems indeed to demonstrate, that God sent his Son to the nations, on
purpose to ensnare them, and that they should not comprehend any part of
the religion which he meant to promulgate. In this the Eternal appears
to have intended to throw mortals into darkness, perplexity, a
diffidence of themselves, and a continual embarrassment, obliging them
to have recourse to those infallible luminaries, their priests, and to
remain forever under the tutelage of the church. Her ministers, | 233.38393 |
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Produced by David Edwards, David E. Brown and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Books project.)
[Illustration: SAFE AT HOME]
THOSE SMITH BOYS
ON THE DIAMOND
OR
NIP AND TUCK FOR VICTORY
BY
HOWARD R. GARIS
_Author of
Uncle Wiggily and Alice in Wonderland, Uncle Wiggily
Longears, Uncle Wiggily and Mother Goose,
Uncle Wiggily’s | 233.400018 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "Cats for the cats' home!" said Sir Maurice Falconer.]
THE TERRIBLE TWINS
By
EDGAR JEPSON
Author of
The Admirable Tinker, Pollyooly, etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
HANSON BOOTH
INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1913
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
[Updater's note: In the originally posted version of this book (August
14, 2006), four pages (3, 4, 53, 54) were missing. In early February
2008, the missing pages were found, scanned and submitted by a reader
of the original etext and incorporated into this updated version.]
CONTENTS
Chapter
I AND CAPTAIN BASTER
II GUARDIAN ANGELS
III AND THE CATS' HOME
IV AND THE VISIT OF INSPECTION
V AND THE SACRED BIRD
VI AND THE LANDED PROPRIETOR
VII AND PRINGLE'S POND
VIII AND THE MUTTLE DEEPING PEACHES
IX AND THE CAUSE OF FREEDOM
X AND THE ENTERTAINMENT OF ROYALTY
XI AND THE UNREST CURE
XII AND THE MUTTLE DEEPING FISHING
XIII AND AN APOLOGY
XIV AND THE SOUND OF WEDDING BELLS
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Cats for the cats' home!" said
Sir Maurice Falconer...... _Frontispiece_
"This is different," she said.
We are avenged.
She was almost sorry when they came at last to the foot of the knoll.
The Archduke bellowed, "Zerbst! Zerbst! Zerbst!"
Sir James turned and found himself looking into the deep brown eyes of
a very pretty woman.
THE TERRIBLE TWINS
CHAPTER I
AND CAPTAIN BASTER
For all that their voices rang high and hot, the Twins were really
discussing the question who had hit Stubb's bull-terrier with the
greatest number of stones, in the most amicable spirit. It was indeed
a nice question and hard to decide since both of them could throw
stones quicker, straighter and harder than any one of their size and
weight for miles and miles round; and they had thrown some fifty at the
bull-terrier before they had convinced that dense, but irritated,
quadruped that his master's interests did not really demand his
presence in the orchard; and of these some thirty had hit him. Violet
Anastasia Dangerfield, who always took the most favorable view of her
experience, claimed twenty hits out of a possible thirty; Hyacinth
Wolfram Dangerfield, in a very proper spirit, had at once claimed the
same number; and both of them were defending their claims with loud
vehemence, because if you were not loudly vehement, your claim lapsed.
Suddenly Hyacinth Wolfram, as usual, closed the discussion; he said
firmly, "I tell you what: we both hit that dog the same number of
times."
So saying, he swung round the rude calico bag, bulging with booty,
which hung from his shoulders, and took from it two Ribston pippins.
"Perhaps we did," said Anastasia amiably. They went swiftly down the
road, munching in a peaceful silence.
It had been an odd whim of nature to make the Twins so utterly unlike.
No stranger ever took Violet Anastasia Dangerfield, so dark-eyed,
dark-haired, dark-skinned, of so rich a coloring, so changeful and
piquant a face, for the cousin, much less for the twin-sister, of
Hyacinth Wolfram Dangerfield, so fair-skinned, fair-haired, blue-eyed,
on whose firmly chiseled features rested so perpetual, so contrasting a
serenity. But it was a whim of man, of their wicked uncle Sir Maurice
Falconer, that had robbed them of their pretty names. He had named
Violet "Erebus" because, he said,
She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry spheres:
and he had forthwith named Hyacinth the "Terror" because, he said, the
ill-fated Sir John Franklin had made the Terror the eternal companion
of Erebus.
Erebus and the Terror they became. Even their mother never called them
by their proper pretty names save in moments of the severest
displeasure.
"They're good apples," said the Terror presently, as he threw away the
core of his third and took two more from the bag.
"They are," said Erebus in a grateful tone--"worth all the trouble we
had with that dog."
"We'd have cleared him out of the orchard in half the time, if we'd had
our catapults and bullets. It was hard luck being made to promise
never to use catapults again," said the Terror sadly.
"All that fuss about a little lead from the silly old belfry gutter!"
said Erebus bitterly.
"As if belfries wanted lead gutters. They could easily have put slates
in the place of the sheet of lead we took," said the Terror with equal
bitterness.
"Why can't they leave us alone? It quite spoils the country not to
have catapults," said Erebus, gazing with mournful eyes on the rich
autumn scene through which they moved.
The Twins had several grievances against their elders; but the loss of
their catapults was the bitterest. They had used those weapons to
enrich the simple diet which was all their mother's slender means
allowed them; on fortunate days they had enriched it in defiance of the
game laws. Keepers and farmers had made no secret of their suspicions
that this was the case: but the careful Twins never afforded them the
pleasure of adducing evidence in support of those suspicions. Then a
heavy thunderstorm revealed the fact that they had removed a sheet of
lead, which they had regarded as otiose, from the belfry gutter, to
cast it into bullets for their catapults; a consensus of the public
opinion of Little Deeping had demanded that they should be deprived of
them; and their mother, yielding to the demand, had forbidden them to
use them any longer.
The Twins always obeyed their mother; but they resented bitterly the
action of Little Deeping. It was, indeed, an ungrateful place, since
their exploits afforded its old ladies much of the carping conversation
they loved. In a bitter and vindictive spirit the Twins set themselves
to become the finest stone-throwers who ever graced a countryside; and
since they had every natural aptitude in the way of muscle and keenness
of eye, they were well on their way to realize their ambition. There
may, indeed, have been northern boys of thirteen who could outthrow the
Terror, but not a girl in England could throw a stone straighter or
harder than Erebus.
They came to a gate opening on to Little Deeping common; Erebus vaulted
it gracefully; the Terror, hampered by the bag of booty, climbed over
it (for the Twins it was always simpler to vault or climb over a gate
than to unlatch it and walk through) and took their way along a narrow
path through the gorse and bracken. They had gone some fifty yards,
when from among the bracken on their right a voice cried: "Bang-g-g!
Bang-g-g!"
The Twins fell to the earth and lay still; and Wiggins came out of the
gorse, his wooden rifle on his shoulder, a smile of proud triumph on
his richly freckled face. He stood over the fallen Twins; and his
smile of triumph changed to a scowl of fiendish ferocity.
"Ha! Ha! Shot through the heads!" he cried. "Their bones will bleach
in the pathless forest while their scalps hang in the wigwam of Red
Bear the terror of the Cherokees!"
Then he scalped the Twins with a formidable but wooden knife. Then he
took from his knickerbockers pocket a tattered and dirty note-book, an
inconceivable note-book (it was the only thing to curb the exuberant
imagination of Erebus) made an entry in it, and said in a tone of
lively satisfaction: "You're only one game ahead."
"I thought we were three," said Erebus, rising.
"They're down in the book," said Wiggins; firmly; and his bright blue
eyes were very stern.
"Well, we shall have to spend a whole afternoon getting well ahead of
you again," said Erebus, shaking out her dark curls.
Wiggins waged a deadly war with the Twins. He ambushed and scalped
them; they ambushed and scalped him. Seeing that they had already
passed their thirteenth birthday, it was a great condescension on their
part to play with a boy of ten; and they felt it. But Wiggins was a
favored friend; and the game filled intervals between sterner deeds.
The Terror handed Wiggins an apple; and the three of them moved swiftly
on across the common. Wiggins was one of those who spurn the earth.
Now and again, for obscure but profound reasons, he would suddenly
spring into the air and proceed by leaps and bounds.
Once when he slowed down to let them overtake him, he said, "The game
isn't really fair; you're two to one."
"You keep very level," said the Terror politely.
"Yes; it's my superior astuteness," said Wiggins sedately.
"Goodness! What words you use!" said Erebus in a somewhat jealous tone.
"It's being so much with my father; you see, he has a European
reputation," Wiggins explained.
"Yes, everybody says that. But what is a European reputation?" said
Erebus in a captious tone.
"Everybody in Europe knows him," said Wiggins; and he spurned the earth.
They called him Wiggins because his name was Rupert. It seemed to them
a name both affected and ostentatious. Besides, crop it as you might,
his hair _would_ assume the appearance of a mop.
They came out of the narrow path into a broader rutted cart-track to
see two figures coming toward them, eighty yards away.
"It's Mum," said Erebus.
Quick as thought the Terror dropped behind her, slipped off the bag of
booty, and thrust it into a gorse-bush.
"And--and--it's the Cruncher with her!" cried Erebus in a tone in which
disgust outrang surprise.
"Of all the sickening things! The Cruncher!" cried the Terror, echoing
her disgust. "What's he come down again for?"
They paused; then went on their way with gloomy faces to meet the
approaching pair.
The gentleman whom they called the "Cruncher," and who from their tones
of disgust had so plainly failed to win their young hearts was Captain
Baster of the Twenty-fourth Hussars; and they called him the Cruncher
on account of the vigor with which he plied his large, white, prominent
teeth.
They had not gone five yards when Wiggins said in a tone of
superiority: "_I_ know why he's come down."
"Why?" said the Terror quickly.
"He's come down to marry your mother," said Wiggins.
"What?" cried the Twins with one voice, one look of blank
consternation; and they stopped short.
"How dare you say a silly thing like that?" cried Erebus fiercely.
"_I_ didn't say it," protested Wiggins. "Mrs. Blenkinsop said it."
"That silly old gossip!" cried Erebus.
"And Mrs. Morton said it, too," said Wiggins. "They came to tea
yesterday and talked about it. I was there: there was a plum cake--one
of those rich ones from Springer's at Rowington. And they said it
would be such a good thing for both of you because he's so awfully
rich: the Terror would go to Eton; and you'd go to a good school and
get a proper bringing-up and grow up a lady, after all--"
"I wouldn't go! I should hate it!" cried Erebus.
"Yes; they said you wouldn't like wholesome discipline," said the
faithful reporter. "And they didn't seem to think your mother would
like it either--marrying the Cruncher."
"Like it? She wouldn't dream of it--a bounder like that!" said the
Terror.
"I don't know--I don't know--if she thought it would be good for
us--she'd do anything for us--you know she would!" cried Erebus,
wringing her hands in anxious fear.
The Terror thrust his hands into his pockets; his square chin stuck out
in dogged resolution; a deep frown furrowed his brow; and his face was
flushed.
"This must be stopped," he said through his set teeth.
"But how?" said Erebus.
"We'll find a way. It's war!" said the Terror darkly.
Wiggins spurned the earth joyfully: "I'm on your side," he said. "I'm
a trusty ally. He called me Freckles."
"Come on," said the Terror. "We'd better face him."
They walked firmly to meet the detested enemy. As they drew near, the
Terror's face recovered its flawless serenity; but Erebus was scowling
still.
From twenty yards away Captain Baster greeted them in a rich hearty
voice: "How's Terebus and the Error; and how's Freckles?" he cried, and
laughed heartily at his own delightful humor.
The Twins greeted him with a cold, almost murderous politeness; Wiggins
shook hands with Mrs. Dangerfield very warmly and left out Captain
Baster.
"I'm always pleased to see you with the Twins, Wiggins," said Mrs.
Dangerfield with her delightful smile. "I know you keep them out of
mischief."
"It's generally all over before I come," said Wiggins somewhat glumly;
and of a sudden it occurred to him to spurn the earth.
"I've not had that kiss yet, Terebus. I'm going to have it this time
I'm here," said Captain Baster playfully; and he laughed his rich laugh.
"Are you?" said Erebus through her clenched teeth; and she gazed at him
with the eyes of hate.
They turned; and Mrs. Dangerfield said, "You'll come to tea with us,
Wiggins?"
"Thank you very much," said Wiggins; and he spurned the earth. As he
alighted on it once more, he added. "Tea at other people's houses is
so much nicer than at home. Don't you think so, Terror?"
"I always eat more--somehow," said the Terror with a grave smile.
They walked slowly across the common, a protecting twin on either side
of Mrs. Dangerfield; and Captain Baster, in the strong facetious vein,
enlivened the walk with his delightful humor. The gallant officer was
the very climax of the florid, a stout, high-colored, black-eyed,
glossy-haired young man of twenty-eight, with a large tip-tilted nose,
neatly rounded off in a little knob forever shiny. The son of the
famous pickle millionaire, he had enjoyed every advantage which great
wealth can bestow, and was now enjoying heartily a brave career in a
crack regiment. The crack regiment, cold, phlegmatic, unappreciative,
was not enjoying it. To his brother officers he was known as
Pallybaster, a name he had won for himself by his frequent remark, "I'm
a very pally man." It was very true: it was difficult, indeed, for any
one whom he thought might be useful to him, to avoid his friendship,
for, in addition to all the advantages which great wealth bestows, he
enjoyed an uncommonly thick skin, an armor-plate impenetrable to snubs.
All the way to Colet House, he maintained a gay facetious flow of
personal talk that made Erebus grind her teeth, now and again suffused
the face of Wiggins with a flush of mortification that dimmed his
freckles, and wrinkled Mrs. Dangerfield's white brow in a distressful
frown. The Terror, serene, impassive, showed no sign of hearing him;
his mind was hard at work on this very serious problem with which he
had been so suddenly confronted. More than once Erebus countered a
witticism with a sharp retort, but with none sharp enough to pierce the
rhinocerine hide of the gallant officer. Once this unbidden but
humorous guest was under their roof, the laws of hospitality denied her
even this relief. She could only treat him with a steely civility.
The steeliness did not check the easy flow of his wit.
He looked oddly out of his place in the drawing-room of Colet House; he
was too new for it. The old, worn, faded, carefully polished
furniture, for the most part of the late eighteenth or early nineteenth
century, seemed abashed in the presence of his floridness. It seemed
to demand the setting of spacious, ornately glittering hotels. Mrs.
Dangerfield liked him less in her own drawing-room than anywhere. When
her eyes rested on him in it, she was troubled by a curious feeling
that only by some marvelous intervention of providence had he escaped
calling in a bright plaid satin tie.
The fact that he was not in his proper frame, though he was not
unconscious of it, did not trouble Captain Baster. Indeed, he took
some credit to himself for being so little contemptuous of the shabby
furniture. In a high good humor he went on shining and shining all
through tea; and though at the end of it his luster was for a while
dimmed by the discovery that he had left his cigarette-case at the inn
and there were no cigarettes in the house | 233.400098 |
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[Illustration: THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER
VOL. XX.--NO. 986.] NOVEMBER 19, 1898. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]
ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.
BY JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of "Sisters
Three," etc.
[Illustration: SWEET SYMPATHY.]
_All rights reserved._]
CHAPTER VII.
Peggy looked very sad and wan after her mother's departure, but her
companions soon discovered that anything like out-spoken sympathy was
unwelcome. The redder her eyes, the more erect and dignified was her
demeanour; if her lips trembled when she spoke, the more grandiose and
formidable became her conversation, for Peggy's love of long words and
high-sounding expressions was fully recognised by this time, and caused
much amusement in the family.
A few days after Mrs. Saville sailed, a welcome diversion arrived in
the shape of the promised camera. The Parcels Delivery van drove up to
the door, and two large cases were delivered, one of which was found
to contain the camera itself, the tripod and a portable dark room,
while the other held such a collection of plates, printing-frames and
chemicals as delighted the eyes of the beholders. It was the gift of
one who possessed not only a deep purse, but a most true and thoughtful
kindness, for when young people are concerned, two-thirds of the
enjoyment of any present is derived from the possibility of being able
to put it to immediate use. As it was a holiday afternoon, it was
unanimously agreed to take two groups and develop them straightway.
"Professional photographers are so dilatory," said Peggy severely; "and
indeed, I have noticed that amateurs are even worse. I have twice been
photographed by friends, and they have solemnly promised to send me
a copy within a few days. I have waited, consumed by curiosity, and,
my dears, it has been months before it has arrived. Now we will make
a rule to finish off our groups at once, and not keep people waiting
until all the interest has died away. There's no excuse for such
dilatory behaviour!"
"There is some work to do, remember, Peggy. You can't get a photograph
by simply taking off and putting on the cap; you must have a certain
amount of time and fine weather. I haven't had much experience, but I
remember thinking that photographs were jolly cheap considering all the
trouble they cost, and wondered how the fellows could do them at the
price. There's the developing, and washing, and printing, and toning,
half-a-dozen processes before you are finished."
Peggy smiled in a patient, forbearing manner.
"They don't get any less, do they, by putting them off? Procrastination
will never lighten labour. Come, put the camera up for us, like a good
boy, and we'll show you how to do it." She waved her hand towards
the brown canvas bag, and the six young people immediately seized
different portions of the tripod and camera, and set to work to put
them together. The girls tugged and pulled at the sliding legs, which
were too new and stiff to work with ease; Maxwell turned the screws
which moved the bellows, and tried in vain to understand their working;
Robert peered through the lenses, and Oswald alternately raved, chided,
and jeered at their efforts. With so many cooks at work, it took an
unconscionable time to get ready, and even when the camera was perched
securely on its spidery legs, it still remained to choose the site of
the picture, and to pose the victims. After much wandering about the
garden, it was finally decided that the schoolroom window would be
an appropriate background for a first effort, but a long and heated
argument followed before the second question could be decided.
"I vote that we stand in couples, arm-on-arm, like this," said
Mellicent, sidling up to her beloved brother, and gazing into his face
in a sentimental manner, which had the effect of making him stride away
as fast as he could walk, muttering indignant protests beneath his
breath.
Then Esther came forward with her suggestion.
"I'll hold a book as if I were reading aloud, and you can all sit round
in easy, natural positions, and look as if you were listening. I think
that would make a charming picture."
"Idiotic, I call it! 'Scene from the Goodchild family; mamma reading
aloud to the little ones.' Couldn't possibly look easy and natural
under the circumstances; should feel too miserable. Try again, my dear.
You must think of something better than that."
It was impossible to please those three fastidious boys. One suggestion
after another was made, only to be waved aside with lordly contempt,
until at last the girls gave up any say in the matter, and left Oswald
to arrange the group in a manner highly satisfactory to himself and his
two friends, however displeasing to the more artistic members of the
party. Three girls in front, two boys behind, all standing stiff and
straight as pokers; with solemn faces and hair much tangled by constant
peepings beneath the black cloth. Peggy in the middle, with her
eyebrows more peaked than ever, and an expression of resigned martyrdom
on her small, pale face; Mellicent, large and placid, on the left;
Esther on the right, scowling at nothing, and, over their shoulders,
the two boys' heads, handsome Max, and frowning Robert.
"There," cried Oswald, "that's what I call a sensible arrangement!
If you take a photograph, _take_ a photograph, and don't try to do a
pastoral play at the same time. Keep still a moment now, and I will
see if it is focused all right. I can see you pulling faces, Peggy;
it's not at all becoming. Now then, I'll put in the plate--that's the
way!--one--two--three--and I shall take you. Stea--dy!"
Instantly Mellicent burst into giggles of laughter, and threw up her
hands to her face, to be roughly seized from behind and shaken into
order.
"Be quiet, you silly thing! Didn't you hear him say steady? What are
you trying to do?"
"She has spoiled this plate, anyhow," said Oswald icily. "I'll try the
other, and if she can't keep still this time, she had better run away
and laugh by herself at the other end of the garden. Baby!"
"Not a ba----" began Mellicent indignantly; but she was immediately
punched into order, and stood with her mouth wide open, waiting to
finish her protest so soon as the ordeal was over.
Peggy forestalled her, however, with an eager plea to be allowed to
take the third picture herself.
"I want to have one of Oswald to send to mother, for we are not
complete without him, and I know it would please her to think I had
taken it myself," she urged; and permission was readily granted, as
everyone felt that she had a special claim in the matter. Oswald
therefore put in new plates, gave instructions as to how the shutters
were to be worked, and retired to take up an elegant position in the
centre of the group.
"Are you read--ee?" cried Peggy, in professional sing-song; then she
put her head on one side and stared at them with twinkling eyes.
"Hee, hee! How silly you look! Everyone has a new expression for the
occasion! Your own mothers would not recognise you! That's better. Keep
that smile going for another moment, and--how long must I keep off the
cap, did you say?"
Oswald hesitated.
"Well, it varies. You have to use your own judgment. It depends
upon--lots of things! You might try one second for the first, and two
for the next, then one of them is bound to be right."
"And one a failure! If I were going to depend on my judgment, I'd have
a better one than that!" cried Peggy scornfully. "Ready. A little
more cheerful, if you please--Christmas is coming! That's one. Be so
good as to remain in your positions, ladies and gentlemen, and I'll
try another." The second shutter was pulled out, the cap removed, and
the group broke up with sighs of relief, exhausted with the strain of
cultivating company smiles for a whole two minutes on end. Max stayed
to help the girls to fold up the camera, while Oswald darted into the
house to prepare the dark room for the development of the plates.
When he came out, ten minutes later on, it was a pleasant surprise to
discover Miss Mellicent holding a plate in her hand and taking sly
peeps inside the shutter, just "to see how it looked." He stormed and
raved; Mellicent looked like a martyr, wished to know how a teeny
little light like that could possibly hurt anything, and seemed
incapable of understanding that if one flash of sunlight could make
a picture, it could also destroy it with equal swiftness. Oswald was
forced to comfort himself with the reflection that there were still
three plates left; and, when all was ready, the six operators squeezed
themselves in the dark room, to watch the process of development,
indulging the while in the most flowery expectations.
"If it is very good, let me send it to an illustrated paper. Oh, do!"
said Mellicent, with a gush. "I have often seen groups of people in
them. 'The thing-a-me-bob touring company,' and stupid old cricketers,
and things like that. We should be far more interesting."
"It will make a nice present for mother, enlarged and mounted," said
Peggy thoughtfully. "I shall keep an album of my own, and mount every
single picture we take. If there are any failures, I shall put them in
too, for they will make it all the more amusing. Photograph albums are
horribly uninteresting as a rule, but mine will be quite different.
There shall be nothing stiff and prim about it; the photographs will be
dotted about in all sorts of positions, and underneath each I shall put
in--ah--conversational annotations." Her tongue lingered over the words
with triumphant enjoyment. "Conversational annotations, describing the
circumstances under which it was taken, and anything about it which is
worth remembering.... What are you going to do with those bottles?"
Oswald ruffled his hair in embarrassment. To pose as an instructor in
an art, when one is in doubt about its very rudiments, is a position
which has its drawbacks.
"I don't--quite--know. The stupid fellow has written instructions on
all the other labels, and none on these except simply 'Developer No.
1' and 'Developer No. 2;' I think the only difference is that one is
rather stronger than the other. I'll put some of the No. 2 in a dish
and see what happens; I believe that's the right way--in fact, I'm sure
it is. You pour it over the plate and jog it about, and in two or three
minutes the picture ought to begin to appear. Like this."
Five eager faces peered over his shoulders, rosy red in the light of
the lamp; five pairs of lips uttered a simultaneous "oh!" of surprise;
five cries of dismay followed in instant echo. It was the tragedy of
a second. Even as Oswald poured the fluid over the plate, a picture
flashed before their eyes, each one saw and recognised some fleeting
feature; and, in the very moment of triumph, lo, darkness, as of night,
a sheet of useless, blackened glass!
"What about the conversational annotations?" asked Robert slyly; but he
was interrupted by a storm of indignant queries, levied at the head of
the poor operator, who tried in vain to carry off his mistake with a
jaunty air. Now that he came to think of it, he believed you _did_ mix
the two developers together! Just at the moment he had forgotten the
proportions, but he would go outside and look it up in the book; and
he beat a hasty retreat, glad to escape from the scene of his failure.
It was rather a disconcerting beginning, but hope revived once more
when Oswald returned, primed with information from the _Photographic
Manual_, and Peggy's plates were taken from their case and put into the
bath. This time the result was slow in coming. Five minutes went by,
and no signs of a picture, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour.
"It's a good thing to develop slowly; you get the details better," said
Oswald, in so professional a matter that he was instantly reinstated
in public confidence; but when twenty minutes had passed, he looked
perturbed, and thought he would use a little more of the hastener.
The bath was strengthened and strengthened, but still no signs of a
picture. The plate was put away in disgust, and the second one tried
with a like result. So far as it was possible to judge, there was
nothing to be developed on the plate.
"A nice photographer you are, I must say! What are you playing at now?"
asked Max, in scornful impatience, and Oswald turned severely to Peggy--
"Which shutter did you draw out? The one nearest to yourself?"
"Yes, I did--of course I did!"
"You drew out the nearest to you, and the farthest away from the lens?"
"Precisely--I told you so!" and Peggy bridled with an air of virtue.
"Then no wonder nothing has come out! You have drawn out the wrong
shutter each time, and the plates have never been exposed. They are
wasted! That's fivepence simply _thrown_ away, to say nothing of the
chemicals!"
His air of aggrieved virtue; Peggy's little face staring at him, aghast
with horror; the thought of four plates being used and leaving not a
vestige of a result were all too funny to be resisted. Mellicent went
off into irrepressible giggles; Max gave a loud "Ha, ha!" and once
again a mischievous whisper sounded in Peggy's ear--
"Good for you, Mariquita! What about the conversational annotations?"
(_To be continued._)
SOME PRACTICAL HINTS ON COSMETIC MEDICINE.
BY "THE NEW DOCTOR."
PART IV.
THE HANDS.
The appearance of the hands is secondary only to that of the face, and
many women pride themselves upon their beautiful white hands. But it
is not everybody who can have white hands. Manual labour will always
make the hands red and rough, and no amount of applications will whiten
them. General servants and laundry women cannot expect their hands to
remain white. It is interesting to see why house labour should injure
the appearance of the hands in this way. In the first place the hands
must get a good deal knocked about by the rough work necessary in a
household. Laying fires, cleaning grates, blacking boots, etc., make
the hands rough from inflicting numerous small injuries upon them. You
all know that if you cut your finger the place remains hard and horny
for some time afterwards, and so hands that are exposed to rough usage
will also get horny and coarse. Then, again, rough red hands, being
less delicate, are better fitted to do hard work, and so Nature, who
cares more for usefulness than for idle beauty, will tend to make the
hands of those who do manual labour hard and coarse. Another reason why
servants so often have red hands is the constant use of soda and water,
which is necessary for cleaning the house. Soda is very bad for the
hands, and this, together with the impossibility of keeping the hands
dry, is another cause of red hands.
With a little care, nearly everybody can have white hands. Even in
those who have to work hard a little care will often do wonders to
keep the hands from becoming very red--not from becoming red slightly,
for nothing will prevent this. When you wash your hands, always dry
them afterwards on a fairly rough towel. In winter you should be very
careful about thoroughly drying your hands, as it takes very little to
produce chaps.
If you are desirous of having white hands, always wear gloves when you
go out. This, indeed, will do more than anything else to keep the hands
white.
In the winter most persons suffer from chaps. These are a more
pronounced and more acute form of "red hands." But they are often very
painful, and if not properly treated are apt to be very persistent and
unsightly.
Prevention is better than cure, and we can do a considerable amount
to prevent our hands from becoming chapped. It is the cold wind
that produces chaps, and so, if you would be freed from this evil,
you should always wear thick gloves when you go out in a strong
north-easter. I have already mentioned that you should dry your hands
very carefully after washing. If you are very liable to chaps, you
should not wash your hands in cold water, but only use warm water, not
hot (for this is worse than cold water for producing chaps), but just
slightly warm. You must also be careful about the soap you use, as
coarse alkaline soaps are very bad, and make chapped hands smart.
If the chaps are not very bad, a little glycerine and rose-water may be
applied after washing. This is very efficacious in a mild case, but it
is insufficient in more severe grades of the affection. The following
preparation I have found invaluable for severe chaps--sulphate of zinc,
two grains; compound tincture of lavender, one dram; glycerine, three
drams; rose-water to the ounce.
A very much worse affair than chaps is a chilblain. Indeed, a bad
broken chilblain is a very serious and unpleasant matter. Chilblains
may occur in anyone, but they are most common in persons in whom the
circulation is feeble. I have seen a terribly bad chilblain in an
anæmic girl. Moreover, when the circulation is below par, chilblains do
not heal properly, and give great trouble often for months together.
Warm gloves, warm stockings, loose-fitting boots, and flannel next the
skin all over the body, are the best safeguards against this complaint.
As chilblains are a kind of minor frostbite, keeping warm will
necessarily prevent them, but it is very difficult for a person with
feeble circulation to keep warm.
If you have a chilblain coming do not scratch it, for this makes it far
worse. Bathe the part gently in warm spirit and water, and wrap the
finger or toe, whichever it is, in a thick layer of cotton wool. If you
do this you will probably prevent the chilblains from bursting.
There are a large number of messy preparations made of lard, dripping,
tallow, cream, and other "pantry drugs," which are advised for
chilblains. They are none of them any good. A broken chilblain is a
septic wound, that is, it is a wound that contains germs. It should
therefore be treated as a septic wound. Wash the place gently in
diluted carbolic acid lotion (1 in 80), or warm solution of boracic
acid. Then cover the broken surface thickly with powdered boracic acid,
and put on a bandage. If you do this, and attend to your general health
at the same time, you get rid of your chilblains more rapidly than by
any other method.
Warts are more common on the hands than anywhere else. Of their cause
we know but little. Irritation sometimes causes them, and they are to
a certain extent infectious from place to place. We used to be taught
that lady-birds produced or cured them, according to which version of
the story we heard. There is about an equal amount of truth in each
doctrine.
The best way to treat warts is to first soak the hand in hot water,
and clean it thoroughly with soap. Then paint the skin surrounding the
wart with vaseline, and drop on to the wart itself one drop of glacial
acetic acid. Wait one minute, and then well rub the wart over with a
stick of lunar caustic (silver nitrate). This treatment may require to
be repeated, but I have never known it to fail.
(_To be continued._)
GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM.
BY ELSA D'ESTERRE-KEELING, Author of "Old Maids and Young."
PART II.
THE WITTY GIRL.
"She is pretty to walk with,
And witty to talk with,
And pleasant, too, to think on."
First let us understand each other.
By the witty girl is not here meant the girl--if such a girl
exists--whose conversation has the high brilliancy which characterises
the conversation of certain men and women.
No. The thing here meant is nothing more than the common domestic
wit-snapper, generally, say her enemies, more of a snapper than a wit,
concerning which statement it is perhaps not unpermissible to say that
he who makes it shows himself to be less a wit than a snapper.
While all but invariably of a character that loses much by the process
of retailing, the wit of the girl here in view will sometimes bear
being brought to book. The samples of it given in this paper are all
authentic and heretofore unpublished. They do not, perhaps, reach a
high standard of excellence, but they who know girls will concede that
they are good girl-wit of the middle order.
Take a case like this: "My name is May. I feel I am reaching the age
when I should be called Hawthorn."
Or take this: "Your mother will miss you when you marry."
"No--then she'll 'Mrs.' me."
Such jests are the _bric-à-brac_ of home conversation, and make it
pretty.
He who listens to the talk between girls and their brothers will
sometimes hear a thing worth noting, in compensation for the many
things not worth noting which--if the truth is to be told--he will also
hear.
The following does not show young Ethel at her best, but it also does
not show her at her worst.
"D'you know, Jim," she said, "that two | 233.500359 |
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Produced by Julia Miller and the Online Distributed
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Transcriber's Note
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. A list of corrections
is found at the end of the text. Oe ligatures have been expanded.
[Illustration: Frontispiece Page 123.]
RIDING RECOLLECTIONS.
BY
G. J. WHYTE-MELVILLE.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDGAR GIBERNE._
FIFTH EDITION.
LONDON:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.
1878.
[_All Rights Reserved._]
LONDON:
R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS,
BREAD STREET HILL.
Dedicated,
ON BEHALF OF "THE BRIDLED AND SADDLED,"
TO THE
"BOOTED AND SPURRED."
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE
KINDNESS 3
CHAPTER II.
COERCION 13
CHAPTER III.
THE USE OF THE BRIDLE 34
CHAPTER IV.
THE ABUSE OF THE SPUR 59
CHAPTER V.
HAND 72
CHAPTER VI.
SEAT 94
CHAPTER VII.
VALOUR 109
CHAPTER VIII.
DISCRETION 126
CHAPTER IX.
IRISH HUNTERS 144
CHAPTER X.
THOROUGH-BRED HORSES 163
CHAPTER XI.
RIDING TO FOX-HOUNDS 180
CHAPTER XII.
RIDING _at_ STAG-HOUNDS 203
CHAPTER XIII.
THE PROVINCES 220
CHAPTER XIV.
THE SHIRES 235
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
The Dorsetshire farmer's plan of teaching horses to jump timber 8
"If he should drop his hind legs, _shoot_ yourself off over his
shoulders in an instant, with a fast hold of the bridle, at which
tug hard, even though you may not have regained your legs" 32
"Lastly, when it gets upon Bachelor, or Benedict, or Othello, or
any other high-flyer with a suggestive name, it sails away close,
often too close, to the hounds leaving brothers, husbands, even
admirers, hopelessly in the rear" (_Frontispiece_) 123
"Perhaps we find an easy place under a tree, with an overhanging
branch, and sidle daintily up to it, bending the body and
lowering the head as we creep through, to the admiration of an
indiscreet friend on a rash horse who spoils a good hat and
utters an evil execration, while trying to follow our example" 138
"When we canter anxiously up to a sign-post where four roads meet,
with a fresh and eager horse indeed, but not the wildest notion
towards which point of the compass we should direct his energies,
we can but stop to listen, take counsel of a countryman, &c." 193
At bay 208
"'Come up horse!' and having admonished that faithful servant with
a dig in the ribs from his horn, blows half-a-dozen shrill blasts
in quick succession, sticks the instrument, I shudder to confess
it, in his boot, and proceeds to hustle his old white nag at the
best pace he can command in the wake of his favourites" 225
"The King of the Golden Mines" 242
RIDING RECOLLECTIONS.
RIDING RECOLLECTIONS.
As in the choice of a horse and a wife a man must please himself,
ignoring the opinion and advice of friends, so in the governing of each
it is unwise to follow out any fixed system of discipline. Much depends
on temper, education, mutual understanding and surrounding
circumstances. Courage must not be heated to recklessness, caution
should be implied rather than exhibited, and confidence is simply a
question of time and place. It is as difficult to explain by precept or
demonstrate by example how force, balance, and persuasion ought to be
combined in horsemanship, as to teach the art of floating in the water
or swimming on the back. Practice in either case alone makes perfect,
and he is the most apt pupil who brings to his lesson a good opinion of
his own powers and implicit | 233.688127 |
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Produced by Albert László, Martin Pettit and the Online | 233.698761 |
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Produced by Marius Masi, Jonathan Ingram and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's note:
The following typographical errors have been corrected:
In page 58 "He was was an alien, he was supported by the guns of alien
warships,..." 'was was' corrected to 'was'.
In page 226 "I liked the end of that yarn no better than the
begining." 'begining' amended to 'beginning'.
THE WORKS OF
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
SWANSTON EDITION
VOLUME XVII
_Of this SWANSTON EDITION in Twenty-five
Volumes of the Works of ROBERT LOUIS
STEVENSON Two Thousand and Sixty Copies
have been printed, of which only Two Thousand
Copies are for sale._
_This is No._..........
[Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF THE BEACH OF FALESA AND NEIGHBOURING
COUNTRY]
THE WORKS OF
ROBERT LOUIS
STEVENSON
VOLUME SEVENTEEN
LONDON: PUBLISHED BY CHATTO AND
WINDUS: IN ASSOCIATION WITH CASSELL
AND COMPANY LIMITED: WILLIAM
HEINEMANN: AND LONGMANS GREEN
AND COMPANY MDCCCCXII
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
A FOOTNOTE TO HISTORY
EIGHT YEARS OF TROUBLE IN SAMOA
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE ELEMENTS OF DISCORD: NATIVE 5
II. THE ELEMENTS OF DISCORD: FOREIGN 15
III. THE SORROWS OF LAUPEPA (1883 _to September_ 1887) 27
IV. BRANDEIS (_September_ 1887 _to August_ 1888) 53
V. THE BATTLE OF MATAUTU (_September_ 1888) 70
VI. LAST EXPLOITS OF BECKER (_September--November_ 1888) 83
VII. THE SAMOAN CAMPS (_November_ 1888) 103
VIII. AFFAIRS OF LAULII AND FANGALII (_November--December_
1888) 112
IX. "FUROR CONSULARIS" (_December_ 1888 _to March_ 1889) 128
X. THE HURRICANE (_March_ 1889) 142
XI. LAUPEPA AND MATAAFA (1889-1892) 156
ISLAND NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS
The Beach of Falesa:
I. A SOUTH SEA BRIDAL 193
II. THE BAN 206
III. THE MISSIONARY 228
IV. DEVIL-WORK 240
V. NIGHT IN THE BUSH 258
THE BOTTLE IMP 275
THE ISLE OF VOICES 311
A FOOTNOTE TO HISTORY
EIGHT YEARS OF TROUBLE IN SAMOA
PREFACE
An affair which might be deemed worthy of a note of a few lines in any
general history has been here expanded to the size of a volume or large
pamphlet. The smallness of the scale, and the singularity of the manners
and events and many of the characters, considered, it is hoped that, in
spite of its outlandish subject, the sketch may find readers. It has
been a task of difficulty. Speed was essential, or it might come too
late to be of any service to a distracted country. Truth, in the midst
of conflicting rumours and in the dearth of printed material, was often
hard to ascertain, and since most of those engaged were of my personal
acquaintance, it was often more than delicate to express. I must
certainly have erred often and much; it is not for want of trouble taken
nor of an impartial temper. And if my plain speaking shall cost me any
of the friends that I still count, I shall be sorry, but I need not be
ashamed.
In one particular the spelling of Samoan words has been altered; and the
characteristic nasal _n_ of the language written throughout _ng_ instead
of _g_. Thus I put Pango-Pango, instead of Pago-Pago; the sound being
that of soft _ng_ in English, as in _singer_, not as in _finger_.
R.L.S.
VAILIMA,
UPOLU,
SAMOA.
EIGHT YEARS OF TROUBLE IN SAMOA
CHAPTER I
THE ELEMENTS OF DISCORD: NATIVE
The story I have to tell is still going on as I write; the characters
are alive and active; it is a piece of contemporary history in the most
exact sense. And yet, for all its actuality and the part played in it by
mails and telegraphs and iron war-ships, the ideas and the manners of the
native actors date back before the Roman Empire. They are Christians,
church-goers, singers of hymns at family worship, hardy cricketers;
their books are printed in London by Spottiswoode, Truebner, or the Tract
Society; but in most other points they are the contemporaries of our
tattooed ancestors who drove their chariots on the wrong side of the
Roman wall. We have passed the feudal system; they are not yet clear of
the patriarchal. We are in the thick of the age of finance; they are in
a period of communism. And this makes them hard to understand.
To us, with our feudal ideas, Samoa has the first appearance of a land
of despotism. An elaborate courtliness marks the race alone among
Polynesians; terms of ceremony fly thick as oaths on board a ship;
commoners my-lord each other when they meet--and urchins as they play
marbles. And for the real noble a whole private dialect is set apart.
The common names for an axe, for blood, for bamboo, a bamboo knife, a
pig, food, entrails, and an oven are taboo in his presence, as the
common names for a bug and for many offices and members of the body are
taboo in the drawing-rooms of English ladies. Special words are set
apart for his leg, his face, his hair, his belly, his eyelids, his son,
his daughter, his wife, his wife's pregnancy, his wife's adultery,
adultery with his wife, his dwelling, his spear, his comb, his sleep,
his dreams, his anger, the mutual anger of several chiefs, his food, his
pleasure in eating, the food and eating of his pigeons, his ulcers, his
cough, his sickness, his recovery, his death, his being carried on a
bier, the exhumation of his bones, and his skull after death. To address
these demigods is quite a branch of knowledge, and he who goes to visit
a high chief does well to make sure of the competence of his
interpreter. To complete the picture, the same word signifies the
watching of a virgin and the warding of a chief; and the same word means
to cherish a chief and to fondle a favourite child.
Men like us, full of memories of feudalism, hear of a man so addressed,
so flattered, and we leap at once to the conclusion that he is
hereditary and absolute. Hereditary he is; born of a great family, he
must always be a man of mark; but yet his office is elective and (in a
weak sense) is held on good behaviour. Compare the case of a Highland
chief: born one of the great ones of his clan, he was sometimes
appointed its chief officer and conventional father; was loved, and
respected, and served, and fed, and died for implicitly, if he gave
loyalty a chance; and yet if he sufficiently outraged clan sentiment,
was liable to deposition. As to authority, the parallel is not so close.
Doubtless the Samoan chief, if he be popular, wields a great influence;
but it is limited. Important matters are debated in a fono, or native
parliament, with its feasting and parade, its endless speeches and
polite genealogical allusions. Debated, I say--not decided; for even a
small minority will often strike a clan or a province impotent. In the
midst of these ineffective councils the chief sits usually silent: a
kind of a gagged audience for village orators. And the deliverance of
the fono seems (for the moment) to be final. The absolute chiefs of
Tahiti and Hawaii were addressed as plain John and Thomas; the chiefs of
Samoa are surfeited with lip-honour, but the seat and extent of their
actual authority is hard to find.
It is so in the members of the state, and worse in the belly. The idea
of a sovereign pervades the air; the name we have; the thing we are not
so sure of. And the process of election to the chief power is a mystery.
Certain provinces have in their gift certain high titles, or _names_, as
they are called. These can only be attributed to the descendants of
particular lines. Once granted, each _name_ conveys at once the
principality (whatever that be worth) of the province which bestows it,
and counts as one suffrage towards the general sovereignty of Samoa. To
be indubitable king, they say, or some of them say,--I find few in
perfect harmony,--a man should resume five of these names in his own
person. But the case is purely hypothetical; local jealousy forbids its
occurrence. There are rival provinces, far more concerned in the
prosecution of their rivalry than in the choice of a right man for king.
If one of these shall have bestowed its name on competitor A, it will be
the signal and the sufficient reason for the other to bestow its name on
competitor B or C. The majority of Savaii and that of Aana are thus in
perennial opposition. Nor is this all. In 1881, Laupepa, the present
king, held the three names of Malietoa, Natoaitele, and Tamasoalii;
Tamasese held that of Tuiaana; and Mataafa that of Tuiatua. Laupepa had
thus a majority of suffrages; he held perhaps as high a proportion as
can be hoped in these distracted islands; and he counted among the
number the preponderant name of Malietoa. Here, if ever, was an
election. Here, if a king were at all possible, was the king. And yet
the natives were not satisfied. Laupepa was crowned, March 19th; and
next month, the provinces of Aana and Atua met in joint parliament, and
elected their own two princes, Tamasese and Mataafa, to an alternate
monarchy, Tamasese taking the first trick of two years. War was
imminent, when the consuls interfered, and any war were preferable to
the terms of the peace which they procured. By the Lackawanna treaty,
Laupepa was confirmed king, and Tamasese set by his side in the
nondescript office of vice-king. The compromise was not, I am told,
without precedent; but it lacked all appearance of success. To the
constitution of Samoa, which was already all wheels and no horses, the
consuls had added a fifth wheel. In addition to the old conundrum, "Who
is the king?" they had supplied a new one, "What is the vice-king?"
Two royal lines; some cloudy idea of alternation between the two; an
electorate in which the vote of each province is immediately effectual,
as regards itself, so that every candidate who attains one _name_
becomes a perpetual and dangerous competitor for the other four: such
are a few of the more | 233.703911 |
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Patty At Home
BY CAROLYN WELLS
AUTHOR OF TWO LITTLE WOMEN SERIES, THE MARJORIE SERIES, ETC.
1904
_To My very good friend, Ruth Pilling_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE DEBATE
II. THE DECISION
III. THE TEA CLUB
IV. BOXLEY HALL
V. SHOPPING
VI. SERVANTS
VII. DIFFERING TASTES
VIII. AN UNATTAINED AMBITION
IX. A CALLER
X. A PLEASANT EVENING
XI. PREPARATIONS
XII. A TEA CLUB TEA
XIII. A NEW FRIEND
XIV. THE NEIGHBOUR AGAIN
XV. BILLS
XVI. A SUCCESSFUL PLAY
XVII. ENTERTAINING RELATIVES
XVIII. A SAILING PARTY
XIX. MORE COUSINS
XX. A FAIR EXCHANGE
XXI. A GOOD SUGGESTION
XXII. AT THE SEASHORE
XXIII. AMBITIONS
XXIV. AN AFTERNOON DRIVE
CHAPTER I
THE DEBATE
In Mrs. Elliott's library at Vernondale a great discussion was going on.
It was an evening in early December, and the room was bright with
firelight and electric light, and merry with the laughter and talk of
people who were trying to decide a great and momentous question.
For the benefit of those who are not acquainted with Patty Fairfield and
her relatives, it may be well to say that Mrs. Elliott was Patty's Aunt
Alice, at whose home Patty and her father were now visiting. Of the other
members of the Elliott family, Uncle Charley, grandma, Marian, and Frank
were present, and these with Mr. Fairfield and Patty were debating a no
less important subject than the location of Patty's future home.
"You know, papa," said Patty, "you said that if I wanted to live in
Vernondale you'd buy a house here, and I do want to live here,--at least,
I am almost sure I do."
"Oh, Patty," said Marian, "why aren't you quite sure? You're president of
the club, and the girls are all so fond of you, and you're getting along
so well in school. I don't see where else you could want to live."
"I know," said Frank. "Patty wants to live in New York. Her soul yearns
for the gay and giddy throng, and the halls of dazzling lights. 'Ah,
Patricia, beware! the rapids are below you!' as it says in that thrilling
tale in the Third Reader."
"I think papa would rather live in New York," said Patty, looking very
undecided.
"I'll tell you what we'll do," exclaimed Frank, "let's debate the
question. A regular, honest debate, I mean, and we'll have all the
arguments for and against clearly stated and ably discussed. Uncle Fred
shall be the judge, and his decision must be final."
"No," said Mr. Fairfield, "we'll have the debate, but Patty must be the
judge. She is the one most interested, and I am ready to give her a home
wherever she wants it; in Greenland's icy mountains, or India's coral
strand, if she chooses."
"You certainly are a disinterested member," said Uncle Charley, laughing,
"but that won't do in debate. Here, I'll organise this thing, and for the
present we won't consider either Greenland or India. The question, as I
understand it, is between Vernondale and New York. Now, to bring this
mighty matter properly before the house, I will put it in the form of a
resolution, thus:
"RESOLVED, That Miss Patty Fairfield shall take up her permanent abode in
New York City."
Patty gave a little cry of dismay, and Marian exclaimed, "Oh, father,
that isn't fair!"
"Of course it's fair," said Mr. Elliott, with a twinkle in his eye. "It
doesn't really mean she's going, but it's the only way to find out what
she is going to do. Now, Fred shall be captain on the affirmative side,
and I will take the negative. We will each choose our colleagues. Fred,
you may begin."
"All right," said Mr. Fairfield "As a matter of social etiquette, I think
it right to compliment my hostess, so I choose Mrs. Elliott on my side."
"Oh, you choose me, father," cried Marian, "do choose me."
"Owing to certain insidious wire-pulling I'm forced to choose Miss Marian
Elliott," said Uncle Charley, pinching his daughter's ear.
"If one Mrs. Elliott is a good thing," said Mr. Fairfield, "I am sure two
would be better, and so I choose Grandma Elliott to add to my collection
of great minds."
"Frank, my son," said Uncle Charley, "don't think for a moment that I am
choosing you merely because you are the Last of the Mohicans. Far from
it. I have wanted you from the beginning, and I'm proud to impress your
noble intellect in my cause."
"Thank you, sir," said Frank, "and if our side can't induce Patty to stay
in Vernondale, it won't be for lack of good strong arguments forcibly
presented."
"Modest boy!" said his mother, "You seem quite to forget your wise and
clever opponents."
In great glee the debaters took their places on either side of the
library table, while Patty, being judge, was escorted with much ceremony
to a seat at the head. An old parlour-croquet mallet was found for her,
with which she rapped on the table after the manner of a grave and
dignified chairman.
"The meeting will please come to order," she said, "and the secretary
will please read the minutes of the last meeting."
"The secretary regrets to report," said Frank, rising, "that the minutes
of the last meeting fell down the well. Although rescued, they were
afterward chewed up by the puppy, and are at present somewhat illegible.
If the honourable judge will excuse the reading of the minutes, the
secretary will be greatly obliged."
"The minutes are excused," said Patty, "and we will proceed at once to
more important business. Mr. Frederick Fairfield, we shall be glad to
hear from you."
Mr. Fairfield rose and said, "Your honour, ladies, and gentlemen: I would
be glad to speak definitely on this burning question, but the truth is, I
don't know myself which way I want it to be decided. For, you see, my
only desire in the matter is that the wise and honourable judge, whom we
see before us, should have a home of such a character and in such a place
as best pleases her; but, before she makes her decision, I hope she will
allow herself to be thoroughly convinced as to what will please her. And
as, by force of circumstance, I am obliged to uphold the New York side of
this argument, I will now set forth some of its advantages, feeling sure
that my worthy opponents are quite able to uphold the Vernondale side."
"Hear, hear!" exclaimed Frank, but Patty rapped with her mallet and
commanded silence.
Then Mr. Fairfield went on:
"For one thing, Patty has always lived in a city, and, like myself, is
accustomed to city life. It is more congenial to both of us, and I
sometimes fear we should miss certain city privileges which may not be
found in a suburban town."
"But we have other things that you can't get in the city," broke
in Marian.
"And I am very sure that they will be enthusiastically enumerated when it
is your turn to speak," said Mr. Fairfield, smiling.
"The gentleman has the floor," remarked Patty, "the others will please
keep their seats. Proceed, Mr. Fairfield."
So Mr. Fairfield proceeded:
"Other advantages, perhaps, will be found in the superior schools which
the city is said to contain. I am making no allusion to the school that
our honourable judge is at present attending, but I am speaking merely on
general principles. And not only schools, but masters of the various
arts. I have been led to believe by the assertions of some people, who,
however, may be prejudiced, that Miss Fairfield has a voice which
requires only training and practise to rival the voice of Adelina Patti,
when that lady was Miss Fairfield's age."
"Quite true," said the judge, nodding gravely at the speaker.
"This phenomenal voice, then, might--mind; I say might--be cultivated to
better purpose by metropolitan teachers."
"We have a fine singing-master here," exclaimed Frank, but Patty rapped
him to silence.
"What's one singing-master among a voice like Miss Fairfield's?" demanded
the speaker, "and another thing," he continued, "that ought to affect you
Vernondale people very strongly, is the fact that you would have a
delightful place to visit in New York City. Now, don't deny it. You know
you'd be glad to come and visit Patty and me in our brown-stone mansion,
and we would take you around to see all the sights, from Grant's tomb to
the Aquarium."
"We've seen those," murmured Frank.
"They're still there," said Mr. Fairfield, "and there will probably be
some other and newer entertainments that you haven't yet seen."
"It does sound nice," said Frank.
"And finally," went on Mr. Fairfield, "though I do not wish this
argument to have undue weight, it certainly would be more convenient
for me to live in the city. I am about to start in business there, and
though I could go in and out every day, as the honourable gentleman on
the other side of the table does, yet he is accustomed to it, and, as I
am not, it seems to me an uninteresting performance. However, I dare say
I could get used to a commutation ticket, and I am certainly willing to
try. All of which is respectfully submitted," and with a bow the speaker
resumed his seat.
"That was a very nice speech," said the judge approvingly, "and now we
would be pleased to hear from the captain gentleman on the other side."
Uncle Charley rose.
"Without wishing to be discourteous," he said, "I must say that I think
the arguments just set forth are exceedingly flimsy. There can be no
question but that Vernondale would be a far better and more appropriate
home for the young lady in question than any other spot on the globe.
Here we have wide streets, green lawns, fresh air, and bright sunshine;
all conducive to that blooming state of health which our honourable
judge now, apparently, enjoys. City life would doubtless soon reduce her
to a thin, pale, peaked specimen of humanity, unrecognisable by her
friends. The rose-colour in her cheeks would turn to ashen grey; her
starry eyes would become dim and lustreless. Her robust flesh would
dwindle to skin and bone, and probably her hair would all fall out, and
she'd have to wear a wig."
Even Patty's mallet was not able to check the burst of laughter caused by
the horrible picture which Uncle Charley drew, but after it had subsided,
he continued: "As to the wonderful masters and teachers in the city, far
be it from me to deny their greatness and power. But the beautiful
village of Vernondale is less than an hour from New York; no mosquitoes,
no malaria; boating, bathing, and fishing. Miss Fairfield could,
therefore, go to New York for her instructions in the various arts and
sciences, and return again to her Vernondale home on a local train. Add
to this the fact that here she has relatives, friends, and acquaintances,
who already know and love her, while, in New York, she would have to
| 233.902437 |
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[Illustration: CAPTAIN COLES’S NEW IRON TURRET-SHIP-OF-WAR.]
KNOWLEDGE
FOR THE TIME:
A Manual
OF
READING, REFERENCE, AND CONVERSATION ON SUBJECTS OF LIVING
INTEREST, USEFUL CURIOSITY, AND AMUSING RESEARCH:
HISTORICO-POLITICAL INFORMATION.
PROGRESS OF CIVILIZATION.
DIGNITIES AND DISTINCTIONS.
CHANGES IN LAWS.
MEASURE AND VALUE.
PROGRESS OF SCIENCE.
LIFE AND HEALTH.
RELIGIOUS THOUGHT.
Illustrated from the best and latest Authorities.
BY JOHN TIMBS, F.S.A.
AUTHOR OF CURIOSITIES OF LONDON, THINGS NOT GENERALLY KNOWN,
ETC.
_LONDON_:
Lockwood and Co., 7 Stationers’-hall Court.
MDCCCLXIV.
TO THE READER.
The great value of contemporary History--that is, history written
by actual witnesses of the events which they narrate,--is now
beginning to be appreciated by general readers. The improved
character of the journalism of the present day is the best evidence
of this advancement, which has been a work of no ordinary labour.
Truth is not of such easy acquisition as is generally supposed;
and the chances of obtaining unprejudiced accounts of events are
rarely improved by distance from the time at which they happen.
In proportion as freedom of thought is enlarged, and liberty of
conscience, and liberty of will, are increased, will be the amount
of trustworthiness in the written records of contemporaries. It is
the rarity of these high privileges in chroniclers of past events
which has led to so many obscurities in the world’s history, and
warpings in the judgment of its writers; to trust some of whom has
been compared to reading with “ spectacles.” And, one of
the features of our times is to be ever taking stock of the amount
of truth in past history; to set readers on the tenters of doubt,
and to make them suspicious of perversions; and to encourage a
whit | 233.999136 |
2023-11-16 18:20:57.9831530 | 7,434 | 12 |
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Archive
FROM JUNGLE TO JAVA
THE TRIVIAL IMPRESSIONS OF A
SHORT EXCURSION TO NETHERLANDS INDIA.
BY ARTHUR KEYSER,
AUTHOR OF
"OUR CRUISE IN NEW GUINEA," "CUT BY THE MESS,"
"AN EXILE'S ROMANCE," ETC., ETC.
[Publisher's Logo]
THE
ROXBURGHE PRESS,
LIMITED,
FIFTEEN, VICTORIA STREET,
WESTMINSTER.
CONTENTS
I. A SELECT COMMUNITY 1
II. THE START 7
III. SINGAPORE 14
IV. ON THE WAY TO JAVA 19
V. BATAVIA 23
VI. AN OFFICIAL CALL 34
VII. A CONCERT AT THE CONCORDIA CLUB 39
VIII. CONCERNING THE LOMBOH WAR 44
IX. BUITENZORG 49
X. CUSTOMS AND COSTUMES 56
XI. AN UNTIMELY CALL 62
XII. A MODEL ESTATE 66
XIII. AMONG THE ROSES 76
XIV. GARVET 84
XV. BATHS AND VOLCANOES 89
XVI. THE QUEST FOR A MOTHER 94
XVII. THE QUEST CONTINUED. TJILATJAP 99
XVIII. THE QUEST SUCCESSFUL. THE
WODENA'S HOUSE 109
XIX. A VILLAGE HOME IN JAVA 115
XX. BACK TO THE JUNGLE 120
FROM JUNGLE TO JAVA
CHAPTER I.
A SELECT COMMUNITY.
Mr. X., whose impressions and mild adventures I have undertaken the task
of editing, has asked me to narrow his personal introduction to such
limits as is consistent with the courtesy due to my readers, if haply I
find any. He prefers, as his pseudonym implies, to remain an unknown
quantity. I need only explain that he is an officer employed in one of
the small States of the Malay Peninsula, which are (very much) under the
protection of the Colonial Government of the Straits Settlements. The
latter, with careful forethought for their ease-loving rulers, appoints
officers to relieve them of all the cares and duties of administration,
and absolves them from the responsibility of a Government somewhat more
progressive in its policy than might commend itself to Oriental ideas,
if left without such outside assistance.
As the title intimates, Mr. X.'s duties compel him to make his home in
the jungle. The word has many significations in the East, where it is
often used to express a region remote from civilization, although
perhaps consisting of barren mountains or treeless plains. Mr. X.'s
jungle, however, is one realizing what it represents to the untravelled
Englishman. It is a land of hill and dale covered with thickly growing
forest trees, with here and there by the side of the rivers, which are
Nature's thoroughfares, or the main roads made by man, small oases of
cultivation. It is a beautiful country, with a climate which those who
live in it--and they are the best witnesses--declare to be healthy and
agreeable. And the members of the small community who form the European
population take a personal pride in the amenities of their beautiful
retreat, with its perennial verdure, and glory in their "splendid
isolation." Criticisms are resented, and suggestions of indisposition
due to climatic influence held to be little short of traitorous. So, as
may be imagined, it was a matter of no ordinary interest when X. not
only complained of being unwell, but also developed signs of a chronic
discontent. For X.--no Mr. was necessary in that little round-table
club--certainly was unwell. Of this there could be no doubt, and such a
condition of body was little short of an abuse of the privileges of the
place. But since he could give no real explanation of his feelings, and
only sighed vaguely when engaged in the daily preprandial game of
billiards at the club, it was thought best to ignore his new departure,
and to leave the subject severely alone.
However, the effect of this wise treatment was entirely ruined by the
arrival of the doctor, who bore the sounding official designation of the
Residency surgeon. This gentleman was wont to be sceptical in the matter
of ailments, limiting his recognition only to honest, downright illness
worthy of the attention of a medico whose name stood in front of a
formidable array of honourable letters, too numerous for him to mention.
But even really great people are not always strictly consistent, and
occasionally make small lapses from the straight path of precedent--and
so this man of science deigned to cast an eye of interest upon the
ailment of X. That it should be worthy of notice at all was enough for
the companions of the now much-appreciated invalid, but when the great
man added to his notice by bestowing a classical name, expressions of
sympathy knew no bounds, and the unwonted solicitude was almost more
than the sufferer could bear with the dignified attitude of conscious
merit fitting to the occasion. Something rather _distingue_ had happened
to the place, something quite new. A vulgar complaint was a subject for
reprobation and not sympathy, as casting discredit on this salubrious
retreat, but a malady composed of two words out of the Greek Lexicon
conferred a distinction perhaps unknown to, and to be envied by, the
larger communities beyond the pass. The matter was most seriously
discussed, and the decision arrived at that X. wanted a change. Not
exactly that a change would do him good, but because, when he came back,
the change, from the place he went to, to his happy home in Pura Pura,
would work wonders for his health. As the doctor endorsed the former
part of the verdict, rather modifying it by suggesting, that there were
few conditions of health when a change would not be beneficial to a
hard-worked official, there remained nothing but to select the spot to
which X.--his leave once granted--must go. It would never, of course, do
that he should go to Penang, or even to Hong Kong or Japan, such an
expedition would be too ordinary and commonplace. It was felt that X.
should do something worthy of the occasion, and show his appreciation of
the place he lived in by going to one as similar in respect of people
and scenery as could be found, and so, when the person chiefly
concerned, knowing what was expected of him, suggested Java, the idea
was accepted, and Java it was settled to be. And that night at the Club
there was a long sitting, and Manop, the patient barman, had to record
the disappearance of many extra "stengahs,"[1] as the matter was
discussed in all its bearings. Those of the community who had been to
Java recalled their experiences and recollections of that country,
rather to the annoyance of those others whose travels, though perhaps
more extended, had not led them in the same direction, and thus had to
accept the unwelcome role of silent listeners. However, goaded by long
endurance, one of the party, the scene of whose stories mostly lay in
the Antipodes, remarked that certainly when X. returned from Java he
must write a book about it, because if he had only half as much to
communicate as the present speakers, the book would be full of
information. This little sarcasm was entirely spoilt by being taken
literally, as it was at once decided that X. must write a book. Vainly
he protested that it would be impossible to write a book after only a
brief visit to a place, as he could only put into it what was already
known to others; his objections were over-ruled, and he was reminded
that only the other day, when H. E., the Governor, progressed (which is
the official rendering of travelled) through a neighbouring State (known
to those present only too painfully well, through many weary days spent
in the jungles while exploring and actually constructing the path over
which this "progress" was subsequently made), one of the party wrote a
book which announced the discovery of a newly found place, and even
went so far as to sniff severely at the presumption of those who had
undergone these early days of toil, because certain grateful pioneers
had named various landmarks after friends who had assisted them in the
first months of settlement. "If that State, which we know so well, was
discovered so recently," urged one of the speakers, "why not discover
Java?" "And as for a fortnight being too brief a time," suggested
another--"did the Progress take longer?" And thus, it being an unwritten
law in Pura Pura that the wishes of the community should be respected,
X. having now returned from leave, has commissioned a chronicler to
write about what he saw in Java, though it would be an easier task were
the latter allowed to write about the community. But that must not
be--at any rate now. Java is the theme--that, and no other.
[Footnote 1: Local name for "peg."]
CHAPTER II.
THE START.
In the few days which elapsed before the due arrival of official
permission for X. to leave the jungle, it might have been observed that
he was changed. The hitherto sedate individual became fussy and worried,
and members of The Community agreed that he was "journey-proud"--a happy
expression used by one of the neighbouring Malay potentates when wishing
to describe _his_ feelings at a time of emerging from the security of
his own retreat. But there was much to do--clothes not looked at since
the distant days when they left those cities on the other side of the
pass, had to be inspected and all their lapses laid bare--moths had
eaten holes in most conspicuous places, and in others rats had,
literally, made their nests. The shirts were whitened shams, as they
lay, no more than so many "dickeys," in a row, for when unfolded it was
found that they had lost their tails, long since the prey of cockroaches
or bedding for the young of mice; collars, when severed from their
fray, were sadly diminished in height, and the overhauling of the boot
department revealed the fact that there was nothing that would bear a
more critical eye than that of "The Community." However, the best had to
be made of a bad job, and one Bo Ping, a stitcher in leather, certainly
did _his_ best in the matter.
Then an equal preparation was required for the wardrobes of Usoof and
Abu, the two followers selected to accompany X. upon his travels. This
entailed many visits from the local tailors, who spent long hours in the
back premises, accompanied by all their friends and relations--for in
Pura Pura, as amongst many other Eastern peoples, for one person at work
there are always ten looking on. Thus the interest in these proceedings
was not centred upon X.--to some he played quite a secondary part in the
matter, being merely an incident connected with the departure of Usoof,
who was going to Java, which was his birthplace--as all the world
knew--but which he had left years ago, when little more than a baby in
arms. Usoof was going home to find his relations and tell them all about
himself, and "Tuan"[2] X. happened to be going too. This being a fact
widely reported and discussed nightly far into the small hours of the
morning, while friends ate light refreshments of bread and sugar with
pink- syrups to wash them down, it is not to be wondered at
that X. began at last to feel that it was settled he was going
principally to search for Usoof's mother, who was possibly living in a
village somewhere in Java, her name unknown; indeed, her still being in
the land of the living was a matter of conjecture. This quest, however,
which obtained additional interest from the little that was knowable of
its object, is alluded to here, so that when it is subsequently related
how it led X. from the beaten track of tourists, there may be no
surprise, since it can be understood that it would have been impossible
for him to return to Pura Pura without some attempt to perform that
which was expected of him.
[Footnote 2: Malay equivalent for Mister = Sahib.]
In due time arrived the document permitting X. to leave Pura Pura, and
the day of departure was fixed. Usoof and Abu had already gone on ahead
in a bullock cart with the luggage, and X. was to leave next morning.
Several of "The Community" kindly came to see the start and sat calm and
superior over their long "stengahs," while the intending traveller
endeavoured to compress into a quarter of an hour the final instructions
for the regulation of affairs in his absence. However, after writing
various little memos and giving many injunctions to the syces and
tenants generally, concerning the care of the horses, sheep, geese,
dogs, bears, tame storks, porcupines, and other live stock which
belonged to the household, the traveller mounted into his sulky, with
that sinking in the region of his heart which comes to all those
temporarily about to leave Pura Pura's secluded calm. And thus he drove
forth into the great populous world beyond. The first glimpse of it was
distant twenty-four miles, and reached after a drive through some of the
most beautiful jungle scenery imaginable. This oasis of civilization was
the capital of the State at whose port it was necessary to embark. Here
X. remained for the night, accepting hospitality from the kind doctor
who had looked upon his complaint and so scientifically localised and
named it. To one fresh from the jungle, this evening appeared full of
novelty and life, from the fact of there being strange faces present.
One of the party was a French Roman Catholic priest, known to all in the
various States as a man of practical good works and a congenial
companion. And there was also a gentleman of title--a visitor fresh from
England--who should have been called a globe-trotter had he not, in the
course of the meal, thanked Providence that he had come across none of
that genus in those localities. This gentleman, who rejoiced at the
absence of globe-trotters, was bound for such a variety of places in
such a short space of time that X. could only regard him with
bewilderment and envy. For while he had only undertaken his journey
after the mature consideration of a month, during which time the
correspondence concerning leave and medical certificates had assumed
proportions of official magnitude, this traveller carried with him all
the documents connected with his plans in the form of a piece of paper
on which was written exactly where he must sleep, lunch, and dine during
the ensuing fortnight. It would be interesting to know if this visitor
actually accomplished his task and saw all that he proposed in the time
allowed. Perhaps, when he gets home, _his_ community--the other titled
people--will put pressure on him to write a book, and satisfy our
legitimate curiosity.
On the following morning X. boarded the train on the railroad which
connects the capital with the sea. He found himself an object of
interest to the dwellers in those distant parts, not only as the fleshly
embodiment of the personality hitherto known as initials at the bottom
of official minutes, but as the champion who had not long since
descended from his mountain for the purpose of engaging the railway in
litigation, in consequence of his garments having suffered from sparks
on the occasion of his last venture in the train.
This case had excited considerable interest, and X. had made a
triumphant exit, as he drove away from the court with portions of
charred wardrobe packed in behind. During the present journey there were
no sparks, and the coast was reached without any incident which might
promise litigation. The party consisting of X., Usoof and Abu, embarked
on the s.s. _Malacca_, a fairly comfortable steamship with a kindly
captain. The sniff of the sea was delightful to the jungle-wallah, and,
freed from official chains, he reclined in a long chair feeling that all
his plans and preparations had at least a present good result. The only
incident of the voyage that remains in his memory is the fact that a
Chinese passenger sitting opposite at dinner drank a bottle of whisky
and a bottle of claret mixed, and appeared to suffer no subsequent
inconvenience. In the evening the ship lay off Malacca. There are few
more suggestive views than this one of twinkling lights, here and there
disclosing momentary peeps of that picturesque old town, peeps that
conjure forth visions of half forgotten stories of that place of many
memories, told, in the jungle by the flicker of the camp fire, by
Malays, adepts at relating tales handed down by their fathers.
Then the cool evening of a tropical climate, the sea glinting in silver
moonlit streaks around the ship, which throwing a huge shadow on the
water lies silently swinging to her anchor before the peering little red
stars of that solitary old-world city. Scenes such as these are some
compensation to many a home-sick exile.
Ah, well,--we must not get sentimental and out of tune, though the
snores of the whisky-claret Chinaman are particularly discordant.
However he passed--as happily passengers do--and so did the night and
the early dawn as the s.s. _Malacca_ approached the beautiful island of
Singapore (does everyone know it is an island?) Ask you another! Well,
can my readers say straight off what constitutes the Straits
Settlements, and which are islands? but never mind--skip this and hurry
on over the bracket, if an answer were really wanted the bracket would
not be there.
CHAPTER III.
SINGAPORE.
I see that X. has it in his notes that the first view of this city is
the most beautiful in the East--does he mean the approach, the view, or
the city. It perhaps does not greatly matter, but it is certain that he
recorded the fact that to a poor jungle-wallah like himself it seemed
very vast and full of life, as he dressed himself and prepared to
re-enter the world from which he had so long been absent. A gharry--a
close carriage on four wheels with a dirty-looking driver and a tiny
pony--now conveyed, or rather set forth to convey, the traveller to the
hospitable house of a certain distinguished general who resides in
Singapore.
Singapore is a city in which it is notoriously difficult to find one's
way about, as all the roads seem alike--they are all excellent--and so
do the houses. Had I not undertaken to tell you how X. went to Java, I
should like to stop and relate how once on this account the writer
dined at the wrong house--and dined well--while his host, whose name he
never knew, preserved an exquisite _sang-froid_ and never showed
surprise; but such egotistic digressions might possibly annoy X. who has
a right to claim the first place in this little history.
The driver apparently knew where no one as an individual lived, and
entirely relied on strange local descriptions known only to the native
inhabitants, therefore it was vain for X. to try and explain where he
wanted to go. It transpired from interrogations of passers by that no
gharry driver or Malay policeman had heard of the General or even that
such a personage existed--X. never told the General that--and thus the
gharry containing X., and the two which followed with the suite and
luggage, drove backwards and forwards puzzling people as they went, for
such twistings and turnings argued ignorance of locality, and ignorance
of locality meant a globe-trotter, and yet no mail steamer was in, and,
again, no globe trotter would be followed by two Malays. And presently
he again endeavoured to explain where he wanted to go in forcible
Malay--this made the problem more difficult--till the passers by, mostly
cooks going to market, gave it up as one too deep, or perhaps too
trivial, for solution. The morning drive thus lasted till Europeans
early for office appeared in their smart buggies and fast trotting
horses, and one of these magnates of commerce coming to the rescue, it
was explained to the gharry syce that the Commander of all the Forces
occupied a house where Mr. So-and-so used to live, after the celebrated
Mr. So-and-so had sold off his racing stud and given up the
house--"didn't the driver remember?" "Yes, was not Omad the chief syce"
to the gentleman alluded to? At this the driver exclaimed, "of course,"
and whipping up his pony, with a withering look at his face, which
implied "if only he had had the sense to tell me that before," he drove
direct to one of the largest and most imposing mansions of the town.
Saved from the hotels of Singapore, where bewildered travellers grumble
and strange-looking jungle-wallahs come down to drink, X. felt all the
half-dormant memories of civilization return to him, as, passing the
sentry, he entered the spacious hall and received a kindly welcome from
his host.
Having, as the books say, removed the traces of his journey, no very
palpable ones in this case, since washing is practicable and customary
on board s.s. _Malacca_, X. joined his host at breakfast and was
informed of the programme of the day--consisting of an afternoon drive,
dining out in the evening, and thence to hear the regimental band play
by moonlight in the gardens. What a gay place Singapore seemed to X.,
who nightly dined alone, and to whom the sound of a band was a memory of
bygone days--and a band by moonlight too. Yes, that also had memories
all its own. On moonlight nights he is wont to sit on the verandah and
listen to the drowsy monotonous singing of the Malays who dwell in the
villages below his hill. Very agreeable is that chanting sound as it
ascends, telling of companionship and content, although for that very
reason making the solitary European feel more solitary still. Native
servants have given him his dinner and left him to seek their own
amusement. He is a duty only, something finished with and put away for
the night, left solitary upon the broad verandah, half envying the
natives who can enjoy the moonlight in the society of their friends.
Here in Singapore X. need envy no one, for was he not to go out after
dinner and hear a band in the moonlight, and a band played by Europeans?
The reality equalled expectation, for moonlight in the beautiful gardens
of Singapore, with the _elite_ of society sitting in their carriages or
strolling along the grass by the lake would have been a pleasant evening
even to people more _blase_ than X., nor did that person enjoy it any
the less from catching sight of Usoof and Abu standing as lonely amongst
this mass of strangers as ever he was wont to feel when brooding in his
solitude at home, while they sang songs in the moonlight to their
friends.
The evening ended up with the glorious dissipation of supper at the
regimental mess. The immediate result of this outing was pleasure, the
subsequent one--probably the addition of another syllable to the
compound Greek word with which X.'s ailments had been identified.
CHAPTER IV.
ON THE WAY TO JAVA.
On the following day, remembering what was expected of him, X. hired a
gharry and proceeded to discharge all such obligations as etiquette
demanded from one in his peculiar official position. The first and
foremost of these was to inscribe his name in a book in the ante-room
of the office of the Colonial Secretary. The names in this book would
make interesting reading, and, thought X., probably become a source of
wealth could one take it into the smoking-room of a London club and lay
ten to one that no three people present could locate the places named
upon a map. Perak[3]--or as they would call it in the smoking-room,
Pea rack--Selangor, Pahang--called at home Pahhang--Jelebu, Sungei
Ujong--also Londonized into Sonjeyajang--and many others of
unaccustomed sound.
[Footnote 3: Pronounced Perah.]
Official routine over (this should be semi-official routine, suggests
X., who fears that he may be held responsible for any error of the
writer, which may lead it to be supposed that he is arrogating to
himself any real Colonial Office rank)--however, it is difficult to be
so observant of nice distinctions--X. next paid a visit to Messrs. John
Little and Co. Every one who has been to Singapore has been to John
Little's, for it is better known to the dwellers in that city than even
Whitely to Londoners. Whitely has rivals, John Little has none. From
this famous provider of necessaries and superfluities to the hospitable
club is but a step, and there the traveller lunched. This club is the
meeting-place of all the prominent merchants in Singapore. The building
is a fine one, with a verandah overlooking the sea, and the members
always cordially welcome strangers and neighbours from the adjoining
peninsula. Having said this much I feel compelled to risk incurring the
displeasure of X., who will be credited with having told me, and add
that the company is better than the cooking. The quality of the fluids
and the quantity are without reproach, but the food!--that is one of the
things they manage better in the jungle.
In the afternoon the General was again as good as his word, and took his
guest for a drive, showing to his wondering eyes all the beauties of the
new water-works. The China mail had that morning come in, and this
favourite resort was dotted over with evident passengers, some of them
globe-trotters. What would the titled traveller have said had his
hurried steps taken him that way? In the evening His Excellency gave a
dinner party to twenty guests culled from the most select circles in
Singapore. To sit at table with so many Europeans would at any time have
been a new sensation to X., but to suddenly find himself one of such a
distinguished company was almost alarming in its novelty. However, being
happily situated by the side of Beauty, the situation expanded
generally, and had any member of The Community been watching, he might
have thought that X. was proving false to the creed that there was no
place like Pura Pura for a man to dwell in.
That which to the other diners was a matter of every day, to him was
both a present pleasure and a glimpse of the past.
It was, of course, quite hopeless to attempt to explain to anyone whence
he came, or where he lived, for the very name of Pura Pura was unknown
to them, and so it was necessary to pose as a passenger passing through
_en route_ to Java.
Some amongst the company had been to Java (including the host), and all
spoke in high terms of the civility to be found there.
In the morning the traveller took leave of his kind host, who left first
at 5.30 a.m. for some early little game of war, a description of which
would probably have been as vague to a civilian as would the
geographical position of Pura Pura, or the exact official status of X.,
to members of the company of the previous evening. The great soldier
having driven off in full uniform through a throng of salaaming menials
of various nationalities, X. entered his humble gharry, and, followed by
Usoof and Abu, drove to the Messagerie wharf. The steamer for Batavia
was the s.s. _Godavery_, which was in connection with the mails for
home. The cost of the passage is, perhaps, for the actual distance
travelled, the most expensive in the world. The time taken by the voyage
is thirty-six hours.
CHAPTER V.
BATAVIA.
The voyage on board the _Godavery_ resembled similar ones, with the
notable difference that the excellent cuisine made X. wish that the time
to be spent in transit were longer. The only people who were not
contented were Usoof and Abu, for each of whom their employer was paying
the sum of three dollars a night. These particular Mahomedans refused to
touch the food shovelled out to them, and to crowds of natives of all
colour and class--by the rough and ready Chinese servants, and towards
the end of the second day, having eaten nothing, they presented a very
woebegone and miserable appearance. However, a few more judiciously
placed dollars produced them a square meal of bread and tea, after which
they smiled.
There is perhaps no sensation so agreeable as the arrival in a strange
port. Thoughts and conjectures as to the possibilities that lie beyond
the landing place are innumerable, and fancy and anticipation are
equally strong. When the _Godavery_ steamed into Batavia it was still
dark and the rain was coming down in torrents. It all looked miserable
enough, but, once alongside the wharf, daylight began to appear and the
passengers trooped ashore. The station was more than a quarter of a mile
from the place of landing, and this distance the poor people had to
hurry along in the rain.
The unfortunate natives--carrying bundles containing their
belongings--were drenched to the skin. Also the European
passengers--less objects of pity, as only the portion of their wardrobe
actually worn was exposed to the rain--came in for a considerable share
of the moisture of that wet arrival. It is true there was a magnificent
covered way, but this was hopelessly blocked up with trucks and other
railway gear, which were, presumably, more susceptible to cold than the
passengers. The luggage was quickly and courteously passed by the Custom
House officials, and the travellers entered a luxuriously fitted
train--apparently a show train, as X. never met another like it in Java.
Arrival in Batavia town created a good first impression, as there were
no pestering crowds, as there are in Singapore, and there were many
carriages waiting for hire, all two-horsed and good.
The drive to the hotel was a long one, through the business portions of
the town, till the residential side was reached. Here detached houses
are situated alongside the principal road, on the other side of which
flows a canal, giving to the place an appropriate Dutch appearance.
The hotel was a most imposing building outside, with apparently
countless rooms, but the thing which immediately struck X. as something
uncommon was the fact that the floors of the apartments were level with
the ground and not raised as is the case in Singapore and the Peninsula,
and he felt feverish as he noticed it. The traveller was allotted a fair
sized room opening on to a court yard, with other rooms and other
openings to the right and to the left, and in fact all round him, and in
front of these rooms sat people in every stage of deshabille. There
seemed to be no privacy and what, perhaps, under the circumstances was
fortunate,--no shyness. X. however had not yet reached that point of his
observations, and, entering his room, he shut the door and ordered his
first meal in Java. This turned out to be a terrible repast, consisting
of a plate of cold clammy selections from the interior of some edible
beast, two cold hard-boiled eggs, three small cold fish roasted in
cocoanut oil, and something intended to resemble ham and eggs. This
first meal is mentioned in detail as it was but a foretaste of an
equally trying series. X. thought of Dagonet and that power of
description which, when relating dyspeptic woes, will compel the
sympathy of the hardiest feeder.
It did not take long to skim hastily over the surface of these
uninviting viands, and now X. turned his attention to the notices which
stared at him from every wall. These in many languages threatened all
travellers with penalties if, immediately after their arrival, they
neglected to obtain permission to reside in Netherlands India. After
reading this, X. lost no time in sending for a conveyance to drive to
the British Consulate. The gentleman who received him there was
extremely civil and gave him all the information in his power. It
appeared that if the traveller was anxious for facts about Java, the
officials of that country were equally so in requiring the same from
him, and he was obliged to fill in a printed form stating his age,
birthplace, residence and occupation, etc., and, when this was done, pay
one guilder and a half for his trouble. The next step was to go to the
Bank, and nothing could exceed the kindness with which he was received
at this place, and the thoughtful manager assisted the stranger to
decide | 234.003193 |
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available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
* Italics are denoted by underscores as in _italics_, and small caps
are represented in upper case as in SMALL CAPS.
* Obvious printer errors have been silently corrected.
* Original spelling was kept, but variant spellings were made
consistent when a predominant usage was found.
* Notwithstanding, original Spanish text in the Appendices has been
kept without any alteration, as found in the printed book.
* Footnotes have been renumbered into a single series and placed at
the end of the paragraph that includes each anchor.
HISTORY
OF
SPANISH LITERATURE.
VOL. III.
HISTORY
OF
SPANISH LITERATURE.
BY
GEORGE TICKNOR.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOLUME III.
NEW YORK:
HARPER AND BROTHERS, 82 CLIFF STREET.
M DCCC XLIX.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1849, by
GEORGE TICKNOR,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
CONTENTS
OF
VOLUME THIRD.
SECOND PERIOD.
(CONTINUED.)
CHAPTER XXXI.
SATIRICAL POETRY, EPISTOLARY, ELEGIAC, PASTORAL, EPIGRAMMATIC,
DIDACTIC, AND DESCRIPTIVE.
Satirical Poetry 3
Mendoza, Boscan 3
Castillejo, Montemayor 4
Padilla, Cantorál 4
Murillo, Artieda 4
Barahona de Soto 4
Juan de Jauregui 4
The Argensolas 5
Quevedo, Góngora 5
Cervantes, Espinel 6
Arguijo, Rioja 6
Salcedo, Ulloa, Melo 6
Rebolledo, Solís 6
Satire discouraged 7
Elegiac Poetry 8
Garcilasso 8
Figueroa, Silvestre 9
Cantorál, the Argensolas 9
Borja, Herrera 9
Rioja, Quevedo 9
Villegas 9
Elegy does not succeed 9
Pastoral Poetry 10
Garcilasso, Boscan, Mendoza 10
Figueroa, Cantorál 10
Montemayor 10
Saa de Miranda 10
Polo, Balbuena 12
Barahona de Soto 12
Padilla, Silvestre 12
Pedro de Enzinas 12
Morales, Tapia 13
Balvas, Villegas 13
Carrillo, Esquilache 13
Quevedo, Espinosa 13
Soto de Roxas, Zarate 13
Ulloa, Los Reyes 13
Barrios, Inez de la Cruz 13
Pastorals successful 14
Epigrams, amatory 14
Maldonado, Silvestre 15
Villegas, Góngora 15
Camoens, Argensolas 15
Villegas, Quevedo 15
Esquilache 15
Francisco de la Torre 15
Rebolledo 16
Didactic Poetry 17
Earliest 17
In the Cancioneros 17
Boscan, Silvestre, Mendoza 17
Guzman, Aldana, Rufo 19
Virues, Cantorál 19
Morillo, Salas 19
Argensola, Artieda 19
Mesa, Espinel 19
Juan de la Cueva 20
Pablo de Céspedes 20
Lope de Vega 22
Rebolledo, Trapeza 22
Emblems 22
Daza, Covarrubias 22
Descriptive Poetry 23
Dicastillo 23
Didactic Poetry fails 23
CHAPTER XXXII.
BALLAD POETRY.
Effect of the Romanceros 25
Lorenzo de Sepúlveda 26
Alonso de Fuentes 27
Juan de Timoneda 29
Pedro de Padilla 30
Juan de la Cueva 31
Ginés Perez de Hita 31
Hidalgo, Valdivielso 31
Lope de Vega 32
Arellano 32
Roca y Serna, Esquilache 33
Mendoza, Quevedo 33
Silva de Romances 33
Los Doce Pares 34
Romancero del Cid 34
Primavera de Perez 34
Esquilache 35
Silvestre, Montemayor 35
Espinel, Castillejo 35
Lopez de Maldonado 35
Góngora, Arteaga 35
Villamediana, Coronel 35
Cervantes, Lope de Vega 36
Fereira, Alarcon 36
Diego de la Chica 36
Universal Love of Ballads 37
CHAPTER XXXIII.
ROMANTIC FICTION.--PROSE PASTORALS.
Romances of Chivalry 38
Changed Taste 39
Seen in Pastoral Fictions 39
Shepherd’s Life in Spain 39
Sannazaro in Italy 40
Montemayor 41 | 234.008376 |
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BOOK-COLLECTOR
A General Survey of the Pursuit and of those who
have engaged in it at Home and Abroad from
the Earliest Period to the Present Time
WITH AN ACCOUNT OF PUBLIC AND PRIVATE LIBRARIES
AND ANECDOTES OF THEIR FOUNDERS OR OWNERS
AND REMARKS ON BOOKBINDING AND ON
SPECIAL COPIES OF BOOKS
BY
W. CAREW HAZLITT
JOHN GRANT
LONDON
1904
[Illustration: Key to the Characters in the 'Field-day at Sotheby's.']
1 Mr. G. S. Snowden 11 Lord Brabourne 21 Mr. <DW18>s Campbell
2 Mr. E. Daniell 12 Mr. W. Ward 22 Palmer's boy
3 Mr. Railton 13 Mr. Leighton 23 Dr. Neligan
4 Mr. J. Rimell 14 Mr. E. W. Stibbs 24 Mr. C. Hindley
5 Mr. E. G. Hodge 15 Mr. H. Sotheran 25 Earl of Warwick
6 Mr. J. Toovey 16 Mr. Westell 26 Mr. Molini
7 Mr. B. Quaritch 17 Mr. Walford 27 Mr. H. Stevens
8 Mr. G. J. Ellis 18 Henry 28 Mr. F. Locker-Sampson
9 Mr. J. Roche 19 Mr. Dobell 29 Mr. E. Walford
10 Mr. Reeves 20 Mr. Robson
[Illustration: BOOK SALE AT SOTHEBY'S AUCTION ROOMS.
FROM THE ORIGINAL WASH DRAWING BY H.M. PAGET IN
POSSESSION OF MESS^RS SOTHEBY, WILKINSON & HODGE, LONDON.
CARL HENTSCHEL PH. SC.]
PREFACE
SEVERAL monographs by contemporary scholars on the inexhaustible theme
of Book-Collecting have made their appearance during the last twenty
years. All such undertakings have more or less their independent value
and merit from the fact that each is apt to reflect and preserve the
special experiences and predilections of the immediate author; and so
it happens in the present case. A succession of Essays on the same
subject is bound to traverse the same ground, yet no two of them,
perhaps, work from the same seeing point, and there may be beyond the
topic substantially little in common between them and the rest of the
literature, which has steadily accumulated round this attractive and
fruitful subject for bookman and artist.
During a very long course of years I have had occasion to study books
in all their branches, in almost all tongues, of almost all periods,
personally and closely. No early English volumes, while I have been on
the track, have, if I could help it, escaped my scrutiny; and I have
not let them pass from my hands without noting every particular which
seemed to me important and interesting in a historical, literary,
biographical, and bibliographical respect. The result of these
protracted and laborious investigations is partly manifest in my
_Bibliographical Collections_, 1867-1903, extending to eight octavo
volumes; but a good deal of matter remained, which could not be
utilised in that series or in my other miscellaneous contributions to
_belles lettres_.
So it happened that I found myself the possessor of a considerable
body of information, covering the entire field of Book-Collecting in
Great Britain and Ireland and on the European continent, and
incidentally illustrating such cognate features as Printing Materials,
Binding, and Inscriptions or Autographs, some enhancing the interest
of an already interesting item, others conferring on an otherwise
valueless one a peculiar claim to notice.
My collections insensibly assumed the proportions of the volume now
submitted to the public; and in the process of seeing the sheets
through the press certain supplementary Notes suggested themselves,
and form an Appendix. It has been my endeavour to render the Index as
complete a clue as possible to the whole of the matter within the
covers.
As my thoughts carry me back to the time--it is fifty years--when I
commenced my inquiries into literary antiquities, I see that I have
lived to witness a new Hegira: New Ideas, New Tastes, New Authors. The
American Market and the Shakespear movement[1] have turned everything
and everybody upside down. But Time will prove the friend of some of
us.
In the following pages I have avoided the repetition of particulars to
be found in my _Four Generations of a Literary Family_, 1897, and in
my _Confessions of a Collector_, 1897, so far as they concern the
immediate subject-matter.
W. C. H.
BARNES COMMON, SURREY,
_October 1904_.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See the writer's _Shakespear, Himself and his Work: A Study from
New Points of View_, second edition, revised, with important
additions, and several facsimiles, 8vo, 1903.
HISTORY OF BOOK-COLLECTING
CHAPTER I
The plan--The writer's practical career--Deficiency of a general
knowledge of the subject--The Printed Book and the Manuscript
independent branches of study--The rich and the poor
collector--Their relative systems and advantages--Great results
achieved by persons of moderate fortune--The Rev. Thomas
Corser--Lamb and Coleridge--Human interest resident | 234.083435 |
2023-11-16 18:20:58.0785120 | 2,654 | 7 |
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, David Cortesi, and the Project
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 28152-h.htm or 28152-h.zip:
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Transcriber's note:
Several minor typographical errors have been corrected in
transcribing this work: contineu, secresy, bubling,
reconnoissance, cotemporary, delived (should be delivered),
eat (ate), Alleghany, amendmet, lage (large). Otherwise the
text is original and retains some inconsistent or outdated
spellings.
The original contains two lengthy addenda supplied by the
publisher which were not named in the Table of Contents.
Entries for these have been added to the Contents for
the convenience of the reader.
Despite the many testimonials in this book, as of 2008, the
source of the Mississippi is considered to be Lake Itasca.
Following a five-month investigation in 1891 it was decided
that the stream from Elk Lake (the body that Glazier would
have called Lake Glazier) into Itasca is too insignificant
to be deemed the river's source. Both lakes can be seen,
looking much as they do in the maps in this book, by directing
any online mapping service to 47 deg.11'N, 95 deg.14'W.
SWORD AND PEN
* * * * *
POPULAR WORKS OF
Captain Willard Glazier.
THE SOLDIER-AUTHOR.
I. Soldiers of the Saddle.
II. Capture, Prison-Pen, and Escape.
III. Battles for the Union.
IV. Heroes of Three Wars.
V. Peculiarities of American Cities.
VI. Down the Great River.
Captain Glazier's works are growing more and more popular
every day. Their delineations of military life, constantly
varying scenes, and deeply interesting stories, combine to
place their writer in the front rank of American authors.
SOLD ONLY BY SUBSCRIPTION.
PERSONS DESIRING AGENCIES FOR ANY OF CAPTAIN GLAZIER'S
BOOKS SHOULD ADDRESS
THE PUBLISHERS
* * * * *
[Illustration: (signed) Willard Glazier]
SWORD AND PEN;
or,
Ventures and Adventures
of
WILLARD GLAZIER,
(The Soldier-Author,)
In
War and Literature:
Comprising
Incidents and Reminiscences of His Childhood; His
Chequered Life As a Student and Teacher; and His
Remarkable Career As a Soldier and Author;
Embracing Also the Story of His Unprecedented
Journey from Ocean to Ocean
on Horseback; and an Account of
His Discovery of the True Source
of the Mississippi River, and
Canoe Voyage Thence to
the Gulf of Mexico.
by
JOHN ALGERNON OWENS.
Illustrated.
Philadelphia:
P. W. Ziegler &. Company, Publishers,
720 Chestnut Street.
1890.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by
John Algernon Owens,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C.
PREFACE.
No apology will be required from the author for presenting to the public
some episodes in the useful career of a self-made man; and while the
spirit of patriotism continues to animate the sturdy sons of America,
the story of one of them who has exemplified this national trait in a
conspicuous measure, will be deemed not unworthy of record. The lessons
it teaches, more especially to the young, are those of uncompromising
_duty_ in every relation of life--self-denial, perseverance and "pluck;"
while the successive stages of a course which led ultimately to a
brilliant success, may be studied with some advantage by those just
entering upon the business of life. As a soldier, Willard Glazier was
"without fear and without reproach." As an author, it is sufficient to
say, he is appreciated by his _contemporaries_--than which, on a
literary man, no higher encomium can be passed. The sale of nearly half
a million copies of one of his productions is no slight testimony to its
value.
Biography, to be interesting, must be a transcript of an eventful, as
well as a remarkable career; and to be instructive, its subject should
be exemplary in his aims, and in his mode of attaining them. The hero of
this story comes fully up to the standard thus indicated. His career has
been a romance. Born of parents of small means but of excellent
character and repute; and bred and nurtured in the midst of some of the
wildest and grandest scenery in the rugged county of St. Lawrence,
close by the "Thousand Isles," where New York best proves her right to
be called the Empire State through the stamp of royalty on her hills and
streams--under the shadow of such surroundings as these, my subject
attained maturity, with no opportunities for culture except those he
made for himself. Yet he became possessed of an education eminently
useful, essentially practical and calculated to establish just such
habits of self-reliance and decision as afterwards proved chiefly
instrumental in his success. Glazier had a fixed ambition to rise. He
felt that the task would be difficult of accomplishment--that he must be
not only the architect, but the builder of his own fortunes; and, as the
statue grows beneath the sculptor's hand to perfect contour from the
unshapely block of marble, so prosperity came to Captain Glazier only
after he had cut and chiseled away at the hard surface of inexorable
circumstance, and moulded therefrom the statue of his destiny.
J. A. O.
Philadelphia, _June 14th_, 1880.
* * * * *
TO
THE MEMORY OF
ULYSSES SIMPSON GRANT,
WHOSE SWORD,
AND TO THAT OF
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW,
WHOSE PEN,
Have so Nobly Illustrated the Valor and Genius of their Country:
THE AUTHOR,
In a Spirit of Profound Admiration for
THE RENOWNED SOLDIER,
And of Measureless Gratitude to
THE IMMORTAL WRITER,
Dedicates This Book.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
ORIGIN OF THE GLAZIER FAMILY.
Lineage of Willard Glazier.--A good stock.--Oliver Glazier at the
Battle of Bunker Hill.--The home of honest industry.--The Coronet of
Pembroke.--The "Homestead Farm."--Mehitable Bolton.--Her New England
home.--Her marriage to Ward Glazier.--The wild "North Woods."--The
mother of the soldier-author 21
CHAPTER II.
BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD OF WILLARD GLAZIER.
The infant stranger.--A mother's prayers.--"Be just before you are
generous."--Careful training.--Willard Glazier's first battle.--A
narrow escape.--Facing the foe.--The "happy days of childhood."--
"The boy is father to the man" 27
CHAPTER III.
EARLY LIFE AND HABITS.
Scotch-Irish Presbyterianism of twenty-five years ago.--The "little
deacon."--First days at school.--Choosing a wife.--A youthful
gallant.--A close scholar but a wild lad.--A mother's influence.--
Ward Glazier a Grahamite.--Young Willard's practical jokes.--
Anecdote of Crystal Spring.--"That is something like water" 34
CHAPTER IV.
WILLARD GLAZIER AT SCHOOL.
School-days continued.--Boys will be boys.--Cornelius Carter, the
teacher.--Young Willard's rebellion against injustice.--
Gum-chewing.--Laughable race through the snow.--The tumble into a
snow-bank, and what came of it.--The runaway caught.--Explanation
and reconciliation.--The new master, James Nichols.--"Spare the rod
and spoil the child."--The age of chivalry not gone.--Magnanimity
of a school-boy.--Friendship between Willard and Henry
Abbott.--Good-bye to the "little deacon" 42
CHAPTER V.
ECCENTRICITIES OF HENRY GLAZIER.
Henry Glazier.--A singular character.--"Kaw-shaw-gan-ce" and
"Quaw-taw-pee-ab."--Tom Lolar and Henry Glazier.--Attractive
show-bills.--Billy Muldoon and his trombone.--Behind the
scenes.--"Sound your G!"--The mysterious musician.--What happened to
Billy.--"May the divil fly away wid ye!" 50
CHAPTER VI.
VISIONS OF THE FUTURE.
The big uncle and the little nephew.--Exchange of ideas between the
eccentric Henry Glazier and young Willard.--Inseparable
companions.---Willard's early reading.--Favorite authors.--
Hero-worship of the first Napoleon and Charles XII. of Sweden.--
The genius of good and of evil.--Allen Wight.--A born teacher.--
Reverses of fortune.--The shadow on the home.--Willard's resolve
to seek his fortune and what came of it.--The sleep under the
trees.--The prodigal's return.--"All's well that ends well" 58
CHAPTER VII.
WILLARD GLAZIER AT HOME.
Out of boyhood.--Days of adolescence.--True family pride.--Schemes
for the future.--Willard as a temperance advocate.--Watering his
grandfather's whiskey.--The pump behind the hill.--The sleigh-ride
by night.--The "shakedown" at Edward's.--Intoxicated by tobacco
fumes.--The return ride.--Landed in a snow-bank.--Good-bye horses
and sleigh!--Plodding through the snow 68
CHAPTER VIII.
ADVENTURES--EQUINE AND BOVINE.
Ward Glazier moves to the Davis Place.--"Far in the lane a lonely
house he found."--Who was Davis?--Description of the place.--A wild
spot for a home.--Willard at work.--Adventure with an ox-team.--The
road, the bridge and the stream.--"As an ox thirsteth for the
water."--Dashed from a precipice!--Willard as a horse-tamer.--
"Chestnut Bess," the blooded mare.--The start for home.--"Bess" on
the rampage.--A lightning dash.--The stooping arch.--Bruised and
unconscious 75
CHAPTER IX.
THE YOUNG TRAPPER OF THE OSWEGATCHIE.
A plan of life.--Determination to procure an education.--A
substitute at the plow.--His father acquiesces in his determination
to become a trapper.--Life in the wild woods along the
Oswegatchie.--The six "dead falls."--First success.--A fallacious
calculation.--The goal attained.--Seventy-five dollars in hard
cash!--Four terms of academic life.--The youthful rivals.--Lessons
in elocution.--A fight with hair-brushes and chairs!--"The walking
ghost of a kitchen fire."--Renewed friendship.--Teaching to obtain
means for an education 87
CHAPTER X.
THE SOLDIER SCHOOL-MASTER.
From boy to man.--The Lyceum debate.--Will | 234.098552 |
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[Illustration: SAFE AT HOME]
THOSE SMITH BOYS
ON THE DIAMOND
OR
NIP AND TUCK FOR VICTORY
BY
HOWARD R. GARIS
_Author of
Uncle Wiggily and Alice in Wonderland, Uncle Wiggily
Longears, Uncle Wiggily and Mother Goose,
Uncle Wiggily’s Arabian Nights_
[Illustration]
MADE IN U. S. A.
M·A·DONOHUE·&·COMPANY
CHICAGO NEW YORK
Made in U. S. A.
COPYRIGHT, 1912 BY
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
_Those Smith Boys on the Diamond_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A CLOSE GAME 9
II A FIRE DEPARTMENT RUN 19
III A LEAKY BOAT 30
IV A GREAT HOME RUN 39
V OFF FOR WESTFIELD 50
VI A LIVELY HAZING 58
VII MOVING THE SENIOR STONE 69
VIII ORGANIZING THE NINE 77
IX BILL IS HIT 84
X THE DOCTOR’S VERDICT 91
XI MEETING AN OLD FRIEND 96
XII PROFESSOR CLATTER’S PLAN 105
XIII BILL IS HIMSELF AGAIN 113
XIV THE TRY-OUT 125
XV THE CONSPIRATORS 131
XVI | 234.20347 |
2023-11-16 18:20:58.2884860 | 17 | 43 |
Produced by Curtis A. Weyant, Charles Franks, and | 234.308526 |
2023-11-16 18:20:58.4585610 | 5,806 | 43 |
Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org
(Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.)
SUCH IS LIFE
A Play in Five Acts
By
FRANK WEDEKIND
Author of
"The Awakening of Spring," etc.
English Version by
FRANCIS J. ZIEGLER
PHILADELPHIA
BROWN BROTHERS
MCMXII
CHARACTERS
Nicola, King of Umbria.
Princess Alma, his daughter.
Pietro Folchi, Master Butcher. }
Filipo Folchi, his soil. }
Andrea Valori } Citizens of Perugia.
Benedetto Nardi }
Pandolfo, Master Tailor. }
A Soldier.
A Farmer.
A Vagabond.
Michele }
Battista } Journeymen Tailors.
Noe }
The Presiding Judge.
The King's Attorney General.
The Advocate.
The Clerk of the Court,
The Jailer.
A Circus Rider.
An Actor.
A Procuress.
First Theatre Manager.
Second Theatre Manager.
A Page.
First Servant.
Second Servant.
Artisans, judges, townspeople, strollers, theatre audience,
theatre servants, soldiers and halberdiers.
ACT I
SUCH IS LIFE
Scene One--The Throne Room.
FIRST SERVANT.
(_Leaning out of the window._) They are coming! It will overtake us
like the day of judgment!
SECOND SERVANT.
(Rushing in through the opposite door.) Do you know that the King is
taken?
FIRST SERVANT.
Our King a captive?
SECOND SERVANT.
Since early yesterday! The dogs have thrown him into prison!
FIRST SERVANT.
Then we had better scamper away, or they will treat us as if we were
the beds upon which he has debauched their children!
(_The servants rush out. The room becomes filled with armed workmen of
various trades, heated and blood-splashed from combat._)
PIETRO FOLCHI.
(_Steps from their midst_.) Fellow-citizens!--The byways of Perugia are
strewn with the corpses of our children and our brothers. Many of you
have a pious wish to give your beloved dead a fitting resting
place.--Fellow-citizens! First we must fulfill a higher duty. Let us do
our part as quickly as possible, so that the dead shall have perished,
not solely for their bravery, but for the lasting welfare of their
native-land! Let us seize the moment! Let us give our state a
constitution which, in future, will protect her children from the
assassin's weapons and insure her citizens the just reward of their
labors!
THE CITIZENS.
Long live Pietro Folchi!
ANDREA VALORI.
Fellow-citizens! Unless we decide at once upon our future form of
government, we shall only be holding this dearly captured place for our
enemies until we lose it again. We are holding the former King in
custody in prison; the patricians, who supported themselves in idleness
by the sweat of our brows, are in flight toward neighboring states.
Now, I ask you, fellow-citizens, shall we proclaim our state the
Umbrian Republic, as has been done in Florence, in Parma, and in Siena?
THE CITIZENS.
Long live Freedom! Long live Perugia! Long live the Umbrian Republic!
PIETRO FOLCHI.
Let us proceed without delay to elect a podesta! Here are tables and
styles in plenty. Let each one write the name of the man whom he
considers best fitted to guide the destiny of the state and to defend
the power we have gained from our enemies.
THE CITIZENS.
Long live our podesta, Pietro Folchi! Long live the Republic of Perugia!
ANDREA VALORI.
Fellow-citizens! Let there be no precipitate haste at this hour! It is
necessary to strengthen so the power we have won that they cannot
prevail against us as long as we live. Would we succeed if we made
Umbria a republic? Under the shelter of republican liberty, the sons of
the banished nobles would use the vanity of our daughters to bind us
again in chains while we slept unsuspectingly at night! Look at
Florence! Look at Siena! Is not liberty in those states only the cloak
of the most dissolute despotism, which is turning their citizens to
beggars? Perugia grew in power and prosperity under her kings, until
the sceptre passed into the hands of a fool and a wastrel. Let us raise
the worthiest of us up to his throne. Then we who stand here exhausted
from the conflict, will become the future aristocracy and the lords of
the land; only then can we enjoy in lasting peace our hard won
prerogatives.
THE CITIZENS.
Long live the king! Long live Pietro Folchi!
A FEW VOICES.
Long live Freedom!
THE CITIZENS.
(Louder.) Long live our king, Pietro Folchi! Long live King Pietro!
A FEW CITIZENS.
(_Leaving the room angrily._) We did not shed our blood for this. Down
with slavery! Long live Freedom!
THE CITIZENS.
Hurrah for King Pietro!
PIETRO FOLCHI.
(_Mounting the throne._) Called to it by your choice, I mount this
throne and name myself King of Umbria! The dissatisfied who have
separated from our midst with the cry of "freedom" are no less our
enemies than the idle nobles who have turned their backs to our walls.
I shall keep a watchful eye on them, as they fought on our side only in
the hope of plundering in the ruins of our beloved city. Where is my
son Filipo?
FILIPO FOLCHI.
(_Stepping from out the press._) What is your will, my father?
KING PIETRO.
From the wounds above your eyes, I see that you did not shun death
yesterday or today! I name you commander of our war forces. Post our
loyal soldiers at the ten gates of the city, and order the drum to beat
in the market place for recruits. Perugia must be armed for an
expedition to its frontiers in the shortest possible time. You will be
answerable to me for the life of every citizen and responsible for the
inviolate safety of all property. Now bring the former king of Umbria
forth from his prison. It is proper that none save I announce to him
his sentence.
FILIPO.
Your commands shall be observed punctually. Long live King Pietro!
(_Exit._)
KING PIETRO.
Where is my son-in-law, Andrea Valori?
ANDREA VALORI.
(_Stepping forward._) Here, my king, at your command!
KING PIETRO.
I name you treasurer of the Kingdom of Umbria. You and my cousin,
Giullio Diaceto, together with our celebrated jurist, Bernardo
Ruccellai, whose persuasive words abroad have more than once preserved
our city from bloodshed; you three shall be my advisors in the
discharge of affairs of state. (_After the three summoned have come
forward._) Seat yourselves beside me. (_They do so._) I can only
fulfill the high duty of ruling others if the most able men in the
state will enlist their lives in my service. And now, let the others go
to bury the victims of this two days' conflict. To show that they did
not die in vain for the welfare of their brothers and children, let
this be a day of mourning and earnest vigilance.
(_All leave the room save King Pietro, the Councillors and several
guards. Then the captive King is led in by Filipo Folchi and several
armed men._)
THE KING.
Who is bold enough to dare bring us here at the bidding of these
disloyal knaves?!
KING PIETRO.
According to the provision of our laws, the royal power in Umbria fell
to you as eldest son of King Giovanni. You have used your power to
degrade the name of a king with roisterers and courtesans. You chose
banquets, masquerades and hunting parties, by which you have dissipated
the treasures of the state and made the country poor and defenseless,
in preference to every princely duty. You have robbed us of our
daughters, and your deeds have been the most corrupting example to our
sons. You have lived as little for the state's welfare as for your own.
You accomplished only the downfall of your own and our native land.
THE KING.
To whom is the butcher speaking?
FILIPO FOLCHI.
Silence!
THE KING.
Give me back my sword!
ANDREA VALORI.
Put him in chains! He is raving!
THE KING.
Let the butcher speak further.
KING PIETRO.
Your life is forfeited and lies in my hands. But I will suspend
sentence of death if in legal document you will relinquish in my favor,
and in favor of my heirs, your claim and that of your kin to the
throne, and acknowledge me as your lord, your rightful successor and as
the ruler of Umbria.
THE KING.
(_Laughs boisterously._) Ha, ha, ha! Ask of a carp lying in the pan to
cease to be a fish! That this worm has our life in his power proves
indeed that princes are not gods, because, like other men, they are
mortal. The lightning, too, can kill; but he who is born a king does
not die like an ordinary mortal! Let one of these artisans lay hands
upon us, if his blood does not first chill in his veins. Then he shall
see how a king dies!
KING PIETRO.
You are a greater enemy to yourself than your deadliest foes can
possibly be. Although you will not abdicate, we will be mild, in
thankful remembrance of the blessed rule of King Giovanni, whose own
son you are, and banish you now and forever from the confines of the
Umbrian States, under penalty of death.
THE KING.
Banish! Ha, ha, ha! Who in the world will banish the King! Shall fear
of death keep him from the land of which Heaven appointed him the
ruler? Only an artisan could hold life so dear and a crown so
cheap!----Ha, ha, ha! These pitiable fools seem to imagine that when a
crown is placed upon a butcher he becomes a king! See how the
paunch-belly grows pale and shivers up there, like a cheese flung
against the wall! Ha, ha, ha! How they stare at us, the stupid
blockheads, with their moist dogs' eyes, as if the sun had fallen at
their feet!
PRINCESS ALMA.
(_Rushes in, breaking through the guards at the door. She is fifteen
years old, is clad in rich but torn garments and her hair is
disheveled._) Let me pass! Let me go to my father! Where is my father?
(_Sinking down before the King and embracing his knees._) Father! Have
I you again, my dearly beloved father?
THE KING.
(_Raising her._) So I hold you unharmed in my arms once more, my
dearest treasure! Why must you come to me with your heartrending grief
just at this moment when I had almost stamped these bloodthirsty hounds
beneath my feet again!
ALMA.
Then let me die with you! To share death with you would be the greatest
happiness, after what I have lived through in the streets of Perugia
these last two days! They would not let me come to you in prison, but
now you are mine again! Remember, my father, I have no one else in the
world but you!
THE KING.
My child, my dear child, why do you compel me to confess before my
murderers how weak I am! Go! I have brought my fate upon myself, let me
bear it alone. These men will confirm it that you may expect more
compassion and better fortune from my bitterest enemies than if you
cling now to your father, broken by fate.
ALMA.
(_With greatest intensity._) No, do not say that! I beseech you do not
speak so again! (_Caressingly._) Only remember that it is not yet
decided that they murder us. And if we had rather die together than be
parted who in the world can harm us then!
KING PIETRO.
(_Who during this scene has quietly come to an agreement with his
councillors, turning to the King._) The city of Perugia will give your
daughter the most careful education until her majority; and then bestow
upon her a princely dower; if she will promise to give her hand in
marriage to my son, Filipo Folchi, who will be my successor upon this
throne.
THE KING.
You have heard, my child? The throne of your father is open to you!
ALMA.
O my God, how can you so scoff at your poor child!
KING PIETRO.
(_To the King._) As for you, armed men under the command of my son
shall conduct you, within this hour, to the confines of this country.
Have a care that you do not take so much as a step within our land
hereafter, or your head shall fall by the hand of the executioner in
the market place of Perugia!
(_Filipo Folchi has the King and the Princess, clinging close to her
father, led off by men-at-arms. He is about to follow them, when his
arm is seized by Benedetto Nardi, who rushes in breathless with rage._)
BENEDETTO NARDI.
Have I caught you, scoundrel! (_To King Pietro._) This son of yours,
Pietro Folchi, in company with his drunken comrades, chased my helpless
child through the streets of the city yesterday evening, and was about
to lay hands on her when two of my journeymen, attracted by her cries,
put the scoundrels to flight with their clubs. The wretch still carries
the bloody mark above his eyes!
KING PIETRO.
(_In anger._) Defend yourself, my son!
FILIPO FOLCHI.
He speaks the truth.
KING PIETRO.
Back to the shop with you! Must I see my rule disgraced on its first
day by my own son in most impious fashion! The law shall work its
greatest hardship upon you! Afterward you shall stay in the butcher
shop until the citizens of Perugia kneel before me and beg me to have
pity on you! Put him in chains!
(_The mercenaries who led out the King return with Alma. Their leader
throws himself on his knees before the throne._)
THE MERCENARY.
O Sire, do not punish your servants for this frightful misfortune! As
we were leading the King just here before the portal across the bridge
of San Margherita, a company of our comrades marched past and pressed
us against the coping. The prisoner seized that opportunity to leap
into the flood swollen by the rain. We needed all our strength to
prevent this maiden from doing likewise, and when I was about to leap
after the prisoner, the raging waves had long engulfed him.
KING PIETRO.
His life is not the most regrettable sacrifice of these bloody days!
Hundreds of better men have fallen for him. (_To the Councillors._) Let
the child be taken to the Urseline nuns and kept under most careful
guard. (_Rising._) The sitting of the counsel is closed.
ALL PRESENT.
Long live King Pietro!
SECOND SCENE
_A highway along the edge of a forest._
(_The King and Princess Alma, both clad as beggars._)
THE KING.
How long have I been dragging you from place to place while you begged
for me?
ALMA.
Rest yourself, Father; you will be in better spirits afterward.
THE KING.
(_Sits down by the wayside._) Why did not the raging waves swallow me
that evening! Then everything would have been over long ago!
ALMA.
Did you leap over the side of the bridge to put an end to your life? I
thought what strength resided in your arms and that the rushing waters
would help you to liberty. Without this faith how should I have had the
courage to escape from the convent and from the city?
THE KING.
Below us here lies the rich hunting grounds where I have often ridden
hawking with my court. You were too young to accompany us.
ALMA.
Why will you not leave this little land of Umbria, my father! The world
is so large! In Siena, in Modena, your friends dwell. They would
welcome you with joy, and at last your dear head would be safe.
THE KING.
You offer me much, my child! Still, I beg of you not to keep repeating
this question. Just in this lies my fate: If I were able to leave this
land, I should not have lost my crown. But my soul is ruled by desires
which I cannot relinquish, even to save my life. As king, I believed
myself safe enough from the world to live my dreams without danger. I
forgot that the king, the peasant and every other man, must live only
to preserve his station and to defend his estate, unless he would lose
both.
ALMA.
Now you are scoffing at yourself, my father!
THE KING.
That is the way of the world!----You think I am scoffing at
myself?----That, at least, might be something for which men would
contribute to our support. As I offer myself to them now I am of no
use. Either I offend them by my arrogance and pride, which are in
ridiculous contrast to my beggar's rags, or my courteous demeanor makes
them mistrustful, as none of them succeeds by simple modesty. How my
spirit has debased itself during these six months, in order to fit
itself to their ways and methods! But everything I learned as
hereditary prince of Umbria is valueless in their world, and everything
which is of worth in their world I did not learn as a prince. But if I
succeed in jesting at my past, my child, who knows but what we may find
again a place at a richly decked table! When the pork butcher is raised
to the throne there remains no calling for the king save that of court
fool.
ALMA.
Do not enrage yourself so in your fatigue, my father. See, you must
take a little nap! I will look for fresh water to quench your thirst
and cool your fevered brow.
THE KING.
(_Laying down his head._) Thank you, my child.
ALMA.
(_Kissing him._) My dear father! (_Exit._)
THE KING.
(_Rises._) How I have grown to love this beautiful land since I have
slunk about it at the risk of my life! ----Even the worst disaster
always brings good with it. Had I not cared so little for my brave
people of Perugia and Umbria, had I not shown myself to them only at
carnivals and in fancy dress, God knows, but I might have been
recognized long ago! Here comes one of them now!
(_A landed proprietor comes up the road._)
THE KING.
God greet you, sir! Can you not give me work on your estate?
THE LANDED PROPRIETOR.
You might find much to recompense your work on my estate, but, thank
God, my house is guarded by fierce wolf hounds. And here, you see, I
carry a hunting knife, which I can use so well that I should not advise
you to come a step nearer me!
THE KING.
Sir, you have no guarantee from Heaven that you may not be compelled at
some time to beg for work in order not to go hungry.
THE LANDED PROPRIETOR.
Ha, ha, ha! He who works in order not to go hungry, he is the right
kind of worker for me! First comes work and then the hunger. Let him
who can live without work starve rather today than tomorrow!
THE KING.
Sir, you must have had wiser teachers than I!
THE LANDED PROPRIETOR.
I should hope so! What have you learned?
THE KING.
The trade of war.
THE LANDED PROPRIETOR.
Thank God, under the rule of King Pietro, whom Heaven long preserve to
us, there is little use for that in Umbria any longer. City and country
enjoy peace, and at last we live in concord with neighboring states.
THE KING.
Sir, you will find me of use for any work on your estate.
THE LANDED PROPRIETOR.
I will think over the matter. You appear a harmless fellow. I am on my
way to my nephew, who has a large house and family at Todi. I am coming
back this afternoon. Wait for me here at this spot. Possibly I will
take you with me then. (_Exit._)
THE KING.
"Let him who can live without work starve." What old saws this vermin
cherished to endure his miserable existence! And I?----I cannot even
feed my child! A lordship was given me by Heaven such as only one in a
million can have! And I cannot even give my child food!----My kind
father made every hour of the day a festival for me by means of joyous
companions, by the wisest, teachers, by a host of devoted servants, and
my child must shiver with cold and sleep under the hedges by the
highway! Have pity on her, O God, and blot her love for miserable me
out of her heart! Let happen to me then whatever will, I will bear it
lightly!
ALMA.
(_Rushes out of the bushes with her hair tumbling down._) Father! Jesu
Maria! My father! Help!
THE KING.
(_Clasping her in his arms._) What is it, child?
A VAGABOND.
(_Who has followed the maiden, comes forward and stops._) Ah!--How
could I know another had her!
THE KING.
(_Rushes upon him with uplifted stick._) Hence, you dirty dog!
THE VAGABOND.
I a dirty dog! What are you, then?
THE KING.
(_Striking him._) That am I!--And that!--And that!
(_The vagabond seeks refuge in flight._)
ALMA.
(_Trembling in her father's arms._) O Father, I was leaning over the
spring when that man sprang at me!
THE KING.
(_Breathing hard._) Calm yourself, my child
ALMA.
My poor father! That I, instead of being able to help you, must still
need your help!
THE KING.
Today I shall take you back to Perugia. Will throw you at King Pietro's
feet----
ALMA.
Oh, do not let me hear of that again! Can I leave you when death
threatens you daily?
THE KING.
It would be better for you to wear man's clothes, instead of a woman's
dress, in the future. It is marvel enough that Providence has protected
you until today from the horrors that threaten you in our wanderings!
You will be safer in man's clothes. A countryman just passed this way.
When he comes back he will take me with him and give me work on his
place.
ALMA.
Will you really seek again to put yourself in the service of those so
abyssmally beneath you?
THE KING.
What are you saying, my child! Why are they below me?----Besides, it is
not quite certain that he will find me worthy of his work. If he asks
me to go with him, then follow us, so that I can turn my place under
his roof over to you at night.
ALMA.
No, no! You must not suffer hardship on my account. Have I deserved
that of you?
THE KING.
Do you know, my child, that if I had not had you with me, my treasure,
as guardian angel, I should very probably be hanging today on a high
gallows for highway robbery?----(_He sits down again by the
road-side._) And now, let us tarry here in patient expectation of the
all-powerful man whose return will decide whether our desire to live in
communion with mankind is to be fulfilled.
ACT II
SCENE ONE.
THE WORKSHOP OF A LADIES' TAILOR.
(_The King, in journeyman's clothes, sits cross-legged on a table,
working on a woman's gown of rich material. Master Pandolfo bustles
into the room._)
MASTER PANDOLFO.
Early to work, Gigi! Early to work! Bravo, Gigi!
THE KING.
The cock has crowed, Master!
MASTER PANDOLFO.
Now shake me the other fellows awake. One can work better in company
than alone, Gigi! (_Takes the dress out of his hands._) See here, Gigi!
(_He tears the dress._) Rip! What's the use of early to bed and early
to rise if the stitches don't hold? And the button-holes, Gigi! Did the
rats help you with them? I worked for Her Majesty Queen Amelia when her
husband was still making mortadella and salmi. Am I to lose her custom
now because of your botching? Hey, Gigi?
THE KING.
If my work shames you, turn me out!
MASTER PANDOLFO.
How rude, Gigi! Do you think you are still tending pigs at Baschi?
Forty years on your back and nothing learned! Go packing out of my
house and see where you will find your food, then, you vagabond!
THE KING.
(_Rises and collects the scraps._) I'll take you at your word, Master!
MASTER PANDOLFO.
What the devil, madcap; can't you take a joke? Can I show more love
toward my 'prentice than I do when I give him the work which usually
the master does? Since you have been with me haven't I allowed you to
cut all the garments? The devil take me that I cannot catch the knack
of your cutting! But the ladies of Perugia say, "Master Pandolfo, since
the old apprentice has | 234.478601 |
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Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 11. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, January 13, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: JEANIE AND THE UMBRELLA.]
JEANIE LOWRIE, THE YOUNG IMMIGRANT.
BY MISS F. E. FRYATT.
It was early winter evening at Castle Garden, the scores of gas jets
that light the vast rotunda dimly showing the great hall deserted by all
the bustling throngs of the morning, save the few women and children
clustered around the glowing stove, and closely watched by the keen-eyed
officials who smoked and chatted within the railings near them.
Sitting apart from these, taking no notice of the gambols of the
children, was a wee lassie of perhaps eight summers, her round, childish
face drawn with trouble, and her great blue eyes brimful of tears. She
was evidently expecting somebody, for her gaze was fixed on the door
beyond, which seemed never to open.
It was little Jeanie Lowrie waiting for her grandfather's return. Old
Sandy Lowrie, thinking to take advantage of their stay overnight in New
York to visit his foster-son, who had left Scotland for America when a
lad, had gone out in the afternoon into the great city, bidding Jeanie
carefully guard their small luggage--a few treasures tied up in a silken
kerchief, and Granny's precious umbrella, which was a sort of heirloom
in the family.
While the great crowd surged to and fro, and the winter sunlight flooded
the room, Jeanie had been content to watch and wait, half pleased and
half frightened at the shouts and noises that fill the place on steamer
day; but when the men, women, and children all went away, by twos and
threes, save a few, and silence came with the increasing darkness, and
the dim gas jets were lighted overhead, her heart, oppressed by a
thousand fears, sunk within her, and she fell to sobbing bitterly.
Now there were not wanting kind hearts in the little groups around the
stove; for there was Mary Dennett, with her five laddies, going to join
her husband at the mines in Maryland; and Janet Brown, her neighbor,
with her three rosy lassies; and Jessie Lawson, with her wee Davie; and
not one of these three would see a child suffering without offering
consolation. Kind Janet soon had her folded in motherly arms in spite of
the bundle and the great umbrella, which the lassie stoutly refused to
part with for a moment; and Mary Dennett, crossing over to the counter
on the far side of the room, bought her cakes and apples; while the
children, not to be outdone, made shy endeavors to beguile her into
their innocent play.
But to each and all of these Jeanie turned a deaf ear, moaning
constantly: "I want my ain, ain gran'daddie; he hae gaun awa', an' left
me alane. Oh, gran'daddie, cam back to your Jeanie!"
The evening wore on into night, and still no Sandy came to comfort
Jeanie; but there came that great consoler, sleep. Soon she slumbered in
Janet's arms, and the kind soul, fearing to waken her, held her there
till the beds for the little company were spread on the floor; then she
laid Jeanie tenderly down, with her treasures still clasped in her arms,
and covering her, stooped to print a warm kiss on the round tear-stained
cheek, not forgetting to breathe a prayer for the missing Sandy's safe
return.
The snow glistened on the walks and grass-plats of the park without; the
wind roared down the streets and whistled among the bare branches of the
trees, and rushing along, heaped up the waters in huge billows, dashing
them against the great stone pier; men passed to and fro, but Sandy came
not, for far off in the great city he had lost his way.
In vain he had asked every one to tell him where his foster-son Alec
Deans lived. Meeting only laughter or rebuffs, he tried in the growing
darkness to find his way back to Castle Garden, but could not. No one
seemed to understand him, or cared to; so at last, worn out in mind and
body, he sunk down on the stone steps of a house, unable to proceed a
step further.
Bright and early the next morning at Castle Garden the women were roused
from their sleep, for the beds must be rolled up, and the place cleared
for the business of the day, and all must be ready for the early train.
In the confusion of preparing the children for breakfast and the
journey, the women had forgotten Jeanie for the time, till suddenly
Janet, spying her, with her bundle and her umbrella, standing and
casting troubled, wistful glances at the door, ran over and brought her
to where the women and children were drinking coffee from great cups,
and eating rolls of brown-bread and butter. Seating her in the midst of
them, she said, "Eat a bit o' the bannock, dearie. Gran'daddie will cam
back wi' a braw new bonnet for Jeanie, and then we'll a' gang awa' i'
the train togither."
"I dinna want a bonnet," cried Jeanie; "I on'y want gran'daddie."
"Dinna greet, bairnie; he'll no leave ye lang noo."
But the old man, contrary to their hopes, failed to appear, so there
rose a troubled consultation among the women regarding Jeanie. They had
all lived neighbors to the Lowries, a mile or so beyond the dike which
is a stone's-throw from the duke's palace, near Hamilton; the "gudemen"
of their families, hearing great reports of the mines in America, and
the times being hard for miners at home, had gone out to verify them,
Angus Lowrie among the rest. All four had prospered, and now sent for
their wives and bairnies. Young Lowrie, however, was doomed to the
bitter sorrow of never more seeing the bonny wife he had left behind
him, for a fever had carried her off in her prime; so that Jeanie, her
bairn, was left to the sole care of her grandfather, who loved her
tenderly, as the old are wont to love the young.
While the women were in the midst of their dilemma, half resolved to
carry off the "lane bairnie" privately, lest the officers should
interfere, the superintendent, seeing some trouble was afoot, came over
and soon settled the matter, for there was a law on the subject that he
was bound to obey.
But we are quite forgetting old Sandy all this time. Seeing that he was
lost, and there was no help for it, that he should sit down in the
particular spot he did was a peculiar stroke of good fortune, for it was
the very house he had been seeking, and what was most wonderful, just at
that moment the door above opened, and down came Alec Deans in time to
hear Sandy's faint cry, "God help my puir Jeanie!"
Alec Deans had not heard the dear Scottish accent in many a year, so
straightway that sound went to his very heart-strings, making them
thrill and tingle with a joy that was as suddenly turned to pain, when,
stooping down, he found the old man fallen back as one dead.
With little ado--for Sandy was small and thin--he lifted him bodily,
carried him up the steps, and rang a peal which soon brought his wife to
the door. Placing the old man on a sofa in the warm sitting-room where
the light fell on his poor, pale face, Alec Deans in a moment recognized
his foster-father, and set to work to restore him. The long stormy
passage, and the trials incident to emigrant life on shipboard, added to
the fatigue and fright of his night's wanderings, had so told on the old
man's feeble frame, that after much effort on the part of Alec Deans to
revive him, he could do no more than move restlessly, murmuring, "Puir
Jeanie! Puir wee bairnie Jeanie!"
Before he could well tell his story, the most of it became known to his
foster-son, for the Commissioners, finding he did not return to Castle
Garden, sending Jeanie weeping away to the Refuge on Ward's Island, and
notifying the police, advertised the missing man in the papers.
It was on the second day after Sandy's falling into such good hands that
Alec, reading the morning paper at his breakfast table, saw the
advertisement describing Sandy to the very Glengarry cap he wore on his
head when missing.
In short order he made his way to the Rotunda at Castle Garden, told the
old man's adventure, and obtained a permit to bring Jeanie away from the
Refuge.
There was an hour to spare before the little steamboat _Fidelity_ would
start for Ward's Island, so Alec, being a thoughtful man, employed it in
purchasing a pretty fur hat and tippet and some warm mittens, lest
Jeanie should suffer from cold, for it was a bitter day to sail down the
East River.
When Alec, arriving at his destination, was taken into the long
school-room, and saw the sad pale-faced little creatures bending wearily
over their lessons, stopping only to lift timid glances to his friendly
face, as if they would gladly pour out their little hearts to him, he
was filled with a great pity and a sharp regret that he could not take
the wee things away with him, and give them each the shelter of as happy
a home as that in which his own Phemie bloomed and flourished.
"Jeanie Lowrie, step this way; you are wanted," exclaimed a teacher.
Poor Jeanie, as she came reluctantly forward with downcast eyes, looked
as if she feared some new disaster. Pale and dejected, could this be the
blooming lassie who so short a time since parted with her grandfather?
"Jeanie," said Alec, softly, "I've come to take you to your gran'daddie.
Here's some warm things; put them on, and get ready."
"Oh, sir, may I gang awa' frae here to see my ain, ain gran'daddie once
mair?" cried the lassie, the glow of a great joy dawning on her pale
face and lighting her eyes.
"Yes, Jeanie," said Alec, brokenly, "home with my Phemie: he's there.
There, do not cry; the trouble is all over," said Alec, soothingly,
carrying her away in his arms, and trying to stay the sobs that
convulsed her small body.
Arrived at Castle Garden, a new surprise awaited him and Jeanie, for who
should be there, pacing up and down in his strong impatience to see the
bairnie, but Angus Lowrie. He had left his Southern cottage, which was
prepared for their arrival, and hastened on to know the fate of Sandy
and Jeanie. And now he had his darling in his strong arms, and so great
was his joy that he could do little but press her to his breast, then
hold her off and look into her eyes again and again, seeing mirrored
there the eyes of his girl-wife Elsie, whom he had loved with a love he
would bear to his grave.
And now they must hasten to the dear old father who had braved the
perils of the wintry deep that he might bring Elsie's one and only
treasure to her husband, little recking that, far away from kith and
kin, he should lay his old bones in a foreign land. If sorrow had had
power to steal the roses from Jeanie's cheek, joy planted new and fairer
ones there; and never did a brighter light dance in the blue eyes than
when, a little later, with a soft sound of rapture, she flung her arms
around Sandy's neck, crying, "My ain, ain gran'daddie, ye s'all never,
never leave me ony mair!" Jeanie's presence did more to set old Sandy on
his feet again than all the physic in the world; so in a few days the
happy trio were whirling off to the mining village in Maryland, where
they are living and prospering to-day.
LADY PRIMROSE.
BY FLETCHER READE.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
"As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May."
It was a long, long time ago that it happened--so long, in fact, that
most people have forgotten all about it--but once upon a time, as the
old, old stories tell, there lived in the village of Hollowbush an old
woman and a little girl.
And other people lived there too; but that does not concern us. The old
woman, plain and brown and wrinkled though she was, was the wisest and
kindest old lady anywhere to be found, which is reason enough for her
being in the story; and as for the little girl, you have already guessed
that she is Lady Primrose; but how she came to be Lady Primrose is what
makes the story.
The village of Hollowbush was as pretty a place as you would care to
see--a quiet, quaint little town, where the grass ran up and down the
streets in a wild, free way it had, to which no one thought of
objecting; but as year after year went by, and the little girl who lived
there grew older without, unfortunately, growing wiser, she became so
tired of Hollowbush and its grass-grown streets that she was almost
ready to run away.
"If I were only rich," she was constantly saying to herself, "then I
might go where I chose."
Now it came to pass that one day in the merry spring-time, when the
world is so sweet and fragrant that you can hardly put your nose
out-of-doors without feeling as if you had tumbled head-foremost into a
huge bouquet, this little girl sat by the open window, wishing and
wishing with all her might that she were rich.
"For then," she said to herself, "I could have a diamond necklace; and
perhaps," she added, aloud, "I might have a jewelled coronet, like a
queen."
Just then the wise old woman of Hollowbush, who had the amiable
peculiarity of appearing just when people most needed her, stopped
before the window, and said, as she looked up at her young friend, "You
were wishing for a diamond necklace, my child. What would you do if I
should tell you of a country where diamonds are as plenty as flowers are
here?"
"What would I do?"--and the child laughed at the idea of there being but
one thing she could do.
"I would go to it at once, and fill my hands with the shining, beautiful
things. But you don't mean that there really is such a place," she
added, after a pause.
The old lady smiled, and said, "If you really love gems better than
anything else in the world, I can tell you where to find all and more
than all you want."
"That would be impossible," answered the child. "I could never have more
than enough. But what a beautiful country it must be! Do tell me where
to find it."
Still smiling, this wonderful old lady, who knew all manner of strange
secrets, called the child to her, and having whispered in her ear,
pointed in the direction of the woods just beyond the village.
The girl's face looked serious, as if she were perhaps a little
frightened at what the old lady had told her; but if she could get all
the jewels she wanted, it was worth more than one fright, she thought;
so off she started without a word.
The shy little blossoms that hide their faces from the sunlight grew
here and there in the woods.
White star-flowers and purple hepaticas nodded on their slender stems,
while the crimson and white wood-sorrel fairly ran wild, creeping in and
out through bush and brier, like a host of fairies in striped
petticoats.
"A nice place enough," said the child, tossing her head, "for those who
know of nothing better; but I can't stop to admire such simple things.
Gems and jewels are the only flowers I care for."
The shadows were growing longer and deeper all around her, for the sun
was almost down, and as she looked up through the trees she could see
the pale face of the young moon peeping down at her through the
branches.
"Oh, if the wise old woman had only come with me!" said the child, in a
whisper. The shadows took on strange, ghostly shapes, and the tall
pine-trees, so high that their topmost branches seemed to rest against
the sky, sang softly and slowly and all together,
"Take care--take care--oh--oh--ough."
She had never realized before how full of sounds the stillness of the
deep woods may be, and it seemed to her as if the rustling of the leaves
and the singing of the wind were strange unearthly voices calling out to
her and warning her to go back. But in spite of the rustling leaves and
the mournful sighing of the pines the little girl hurried on. Perhaps,
just because of them, she hurried all the faster, for she felt quite
sure that she was nearing the place to which she had been directed. And
in a few moments she saw just before her the gray moss-grown rocks piled
one above another which the wise old woman of Hollowbush had described,
and heard far below the rushing and tumbling of a brook.
Surely I must have been deceived! she thought.
Here was no strange country sown with jewels, but simply a rocky ravine,
where ferns waved in the wind, clinging to the rocks, and catching the
spray from the water as it bubbled and hissed and fell in a snowy pool
below.
"This can't be the place," said the child, as she looked around; "but
while I am here I may as well see what it is."
So she clambered over the loose stones and decaying logs till she
reached the level of the stream, and there, strangely enough, scattered
among broken bits of granite, were small bright stones of a deep
wine-color. "These are not diamonds," she said to herself, "but they are
too pretty to lie neglected here, whatever they may be."
She gathered them one by one, tying her handkerchief into four knots at
the corners for a basket; and so absorbed was she that she had quite
forgotten the weird shadows and the strange noises in the wood, until
she was startled by a voice close beside her.
Her heart gave a sudden bound, as if it were going to jump away from her
without so much as saying by your leave, and turning quickly, she saw,
not the old woman--although the voice had sounded curiously like
hers--but a quaint pale-faced little man, with small faded-looking blue
eyes that blinked in the moonlight as if the brightest of June-day suns
had been shining upon him.
[Illustration: "SO YOU ARE FOND OF GEMS, MY LITTLE MAIDEN?"]
"So you are fond of gems, my little maiden?" said the small man, in a
small thin voice, winking and blinking good-naturedly as he spoke.
The child stood staring at her companion, too much astonished to answer
him a word, for she, nor you, nor I, I believe, had ever seen such a
curious being before. He was so small that she could have tucked him
under her arm and run away with him, but his pale blue eyes had a
strange light in them, like nothing seen above the ground, and she might
have gone on staring at him from that day to this if her handkerchief
had not slipped from her fingers, letting her stones roll here and there
over the ground, whereupon she uttered a low cry of disappointment.
"Oh, never mind those," said the little man, smiling; "they are nothing
but garnets. Just come with me, and I will show you stones a thousand
times more beautiful."
"So you live in the country where gems grow instead of flowers?" said
the child, recovering her voice and her self-possession at the same
time.
"Yes," he answered; "I am the keeper of the gate, and if you will come
with me, I will show you more beautiful things than any you ever dreamed
of."
This invitation was just what the child wanted, and she followed the
gate-keeper without another word.
What a strange place it was, this country of his into which he was
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Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
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AUGUSTE CŒURET
_Attaché à la Préfecture de la Seine, Officier d'Académie_
LA BASTILLE
1370--1789
HISTOIRE--DESCRIPTION--ATTAQUE ET PRISE
OUVRAGE
ORNT. DE 37 PORTRAITS ET VIGNETTES
[Illustration]
PARIS
J. ROTHSCHILD, EDITEUR
13, RUE DES SAINTS-PÈRES, 13
1890
TABLE DES PORTRAITS, PLANS ET VIGNETTES
Meurtre d'Étienne Marcel à la Bastille Sainet-Anthoine 1
Plan de Paris sous Philippe-Auguste 4-5
La Bastille et la porte Saint-Antoine vues du Faubourg avant 1789 6
Lettre d'avis de l'envoi d'un prisonnier à la Bastille 8
Lettre de cachot 9
Lettre de levé d'écrou 10
Le jeune Seldon dans sa prison 12
Seconde évasion du chevalier de Latude 16
Portrait du chevalier de Latude, par Vestier (1791) 17
Statue de Voltaire 21
Le quartier Saint-Paul, les Tournelles et la Bastille vers 1540. 29
Jean Cardel dans son cachot 33
La Bastille et la porte Saint-Antoine vers 1380 37
La porte Saint-Antoine avant sa démolition (1788) 38
Horloge de la Bastille 55
Vue à vol d'oiseau du quartier Saint-Antoine en 1789 52
Plan de la Bastille en 1789 60
Place de la Bastille en 1889 62
Portrait de Necker 65
Portraits de Bailly et de Lafayette 67
Portrait de Siéyès 68
Portrait de Mirabeau 69
Portrait de Camille Desmoulins 72
Portrait du duc d'Orléans 73
Charge du Royal-Allemand sur le peuple de Paris le 12 juillet 1789 75
Portrait du général Marceau 88
Portrait du grenadier Arné 89
Les vainqueurs de la Bastille escortant les prisonniers 92
TABLE DES MATIÈRES
LA BASTILLE À TRAVERS LES AGES
LA PORTE SAINT-ANTOINE
DESCRIPTION DE LA BASTILLE EN 1789
PRISE DE LA BASTILLE
I. Evénements
II. Journée du 14 juillet 1789
LA BASTILLE À TRAVERS LES SIÈCLES
(1370-1789)
LA Bastille fut, à l'origine, une des portes fortifiées de l'enceinte de
Paris, dite de Charles V.
Ce nom de _Bastille_ s'appliquait alors à toute porte de ville flanquée
de tours: la bastille Saint-Denis et la bastille Saint-Antoine étaient
les deux plus importantes de l'enceinte que le prévôt des marchands,
Étienne Marcel, avait entrepris de renforcer en 1357 [1]. À sa mort
(1er juillet 1358), le prévôt de Paris, Hugues Aubriot, fut chargé de
compléter ces travaux de défense. Aubriot, pour protéger le quartier
Saint-Antoine et surtout l'hôtel royal de Saint-Paul contre les attaques
possibles du côté de Vincennes, décida de remplacer la porte ou bastille
Saint-Antoine par une forteresse dont il posa la première pierre, le 22
avril 1370[2].
[Note 1: Etienne Marcel, chef du tiers état et défenseur des droits
du peuple aux États généraux de 1356, pendant la captivité du roi Jean,
fut le premier qui tenta la révolution démocratique et réclama
énergiquement la garantie des libertés féodales et des franchises
communales accordées par Philippe le Bel.]
[Note 2: Quelques historiens, entre autres Piganiol de la Force,
donnent à tort: 22 avril 1371.]
Sous le règne du roi Jean, on éleva, à droite et à gauche de l'arcade de
la porte _Sainct Anthoine_ deux grosses tours rondes de 73 pieds de haut
(24 mètres), séparées de la route de Vincennes par un fossé très
profond, de 78 pieds de large (28 mètres).
Plus tard, Aubriot fit édifier deux autres tours semblables, à 72 pieds
en arrière des premières et, comme elles, protégées par un fossé large
et profond du côté du quartier Saint-Antoine. Ces deux tours _qui
commandaient bien plus le quartier Saint-Antoine que les glacis
extérieurs ne semblent pas avoir été construites pour la défense
spéciale de la ville_. Cette fortification formait donc un ensemble de
deux fortes bastilles parallèles dont la sûreté parut cependant être
compromise par les portes de ville qui les traversaient.
C'est alors que l'on boucha ces deux portes, dont les baies restèrent
apparentes sur les massifs reliant les tours et que la porte
Saint-Antoine fut construite assez loin sur la gauche de cet ensemble,
en venant de Paris.
Au-dessus de la voûte qui faisait face à la route de Vincennes, on
voyait encore en 1789 les statues de Charles VI et d'Isabeau de Bavière,
de deux de leurs fils et de saint Antoine.
Après l'achèvement de la porte Saint-Antoine, le nombre des tours fut
porté de quatre à six (1383). Les deux dernières furent, édifiées dans
l'espace compris entre la nouvelle porte et les deux tours nord du
premier ensemble; dans leur courtine[3], sur la rue Saint-Antoine, on
ouvrit l'entrée de la Bastille.
[Note 3: Mur de fortification reliant deux tours ou deux bastions.]
[Illustration: Fig. 2. Plan de Paris sous Philippe-Auguste]
Enfin, l'ensemble de la forteresse fut complété par la construction des
septième et huitième tours, sur le côté sud, c'est-à-dire du côté de
l'arsenal. Ce fut entre ces deux dernières que l'on reporta
définitivement l'entrée de là forteresse (1553).
Son fondateur en fut le premier prisonnier.
Enfermé d'abord à la Bastille, Hugues Aubriot fut ensuite transféré dans
les cachots du For-l'Évêque, d'où les maillotins le tirèrent pour le
mettre à leur tête.
En effet, cette forteresse qui avait été édifiée pour protéger la ville
fut presque immédiatement transformée en prison d'État (1417).
Thomas de Beaumont allia le premier ses fonctions de gouverneur
militaire de la Bastille à celles de geôlier.
Elle eut cependant un rôle militaire très important; d'abord ses
machines de guerre et plus tard son artillerie arrêtèrent souvent la
marche de l'envahisseur. On la considéra même, sous Louis XI, comme la
clef de la capitale.
Comme Paris, elle passa au pouvoir de plusieurs partis, voire même aux
mains des Anglais qui, en 1420, en confièrent la garde et le
commandement au duc d'Exeter.
Plus tard, quand le faubourg Saint-Antoine fut construit et que la
Bastille se trouva entourée de maisons, elle perdit tout à fait son
importance militaire et cette prison fortifiée et armée sembla n'avoir
plus que la ville pour objectif. Dès lors, le peuple la prit en haine;
elle devint pour lui _comme une menace permanente de ses libertés
municipales_. Aussi, après la fameuse journée des barricades du 26 août
1648, en fait-il donner le commandement au conseiller Broussel qui,
nommé prévôt des marchands, en investit son fils Louvière.
[Illustration: Fig. 4--La Bastille et la porte Saint-Antoine vues du
faubourg avant 1789.]
C'est surtout pendant le XVIIe et le XVIIIe siècles que la
Bastille fut totalement convertie en prison. On y enfermait, outre les
nobles et criminels de lèse-majesté, les bourgeois, les marchands, les
roturiers, les assassins et voleurs, les magiciens, les jansénistes,
les libraires, les colporteurs, les gens de lettres, etc. On avait à
cette époque un moyen bien simple de supprimer, pour quelque temps
seulement ou pour toujours, ceux dont on voulait se débarrasser: _les
lettres de cachet_. C'étaient, sous l'ancienne législation, des lettres
écrites par ordre du roi, contresignées par un secrétaire d'État,
cachetées du sceau royal et au moyen desquelles on exilait ou on
emprisonnait _sans jugement_. Sous le règne de Louis XIV on en
_distribua_, plus de 80,000.
Parmi les prisonniers les plus célèbres de la Bastille, il faut citer:
Antoine de Chabanne, le duc de Nemours, le maréchal de Biron, Fouquet,
Pélisson, Rohan, Lally-Tollendal, le maréchal duc de Richelieu, l'abbé
de Bucquoy, Latude et le fameux prisonnier au Masque de fer.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Constantin de Renneville[4] qui resta fort longtemps à la Bastille nous
apprend dans ses mémoires, qu'à force de changer les prisonniers de
cachots, ce qui était un système, leur individualité se perdait
facilement; _ils n'étaient bientôt plus qu'un numéro logé dans tel
cachot ou à tel étage de telle tour_. Parfois aussi, on se contentait
simplement de les écrouer sous un nom d'emprunt. C'est ainsi, par
exemple, que l'on disait: «_la troisième Bazinière_» pour le prisonnier
du troisième étage de la tour de la Bazinière.
[Note 4: On sait que sa longue et dure captivité a poussé ce
prisonnier à certaines exagérations dans ses mémoires, aussi ne
citons-nous de lui qu'un passage.]
À ce sujet, Renneville raconte «qu'il entrevit en 1705, dans une des
salles de la Bastille, un homme dont il ne put jamais savoir le nom. Il
apprit seulement par le porte-clefs chef Rû que ce prisonnier anonyme
était un ancien élève des Jésuites, _enfermé depuis l'âge de seize ans,
pour avoir composé deux vers satiriques contre ses maîtres!_--D'abord
embastillé, il fut bientôt envoyé aux îles Sainte-Marguerite, sous la
garde du bourreau de Louvois, le sieur de Saint-Mars qui, nommé
gouverneur de la Bastille, l'y ramena ainsi que l'homme au Masque de
fer». Ce malheureux jeune homme, coupable d'une gaminerie, n'était autre
que François Seldon, descendant d'une riche famille irlandaise qui
l'avait envoyé à Paris, chez les Jésuites, étudier et apprendre tout ce
qui fait un parfait gentilhomme. Pendant les _trente années_ qu'il resta
dans les fers, sa famille, qui n'avait jamais pu obtenir de ses
nouvelles, s'éteignit complètement _et ce furent ses geôliers qui furent
ses libérateurs_.
[Illustration: Fig. 8.--Le jeune Seldon dans sa prison, d'après le
dessin d'une des chambres de la Bastille (Tour de la Comté) conservé au
Musée Carnavalet.]
En effet, pour ne pas laisser en déshérence l'immense fortune de Seldon,
le père Riquelet lui promit la liberté s'il signait l'engagement de
laisser la gestion et l'administration de ses biens à la compagnie de
Jésus. Seldon signa, mais en ajoutant à l'acte rédigé par l'_habile
révérend père_: «QUAND JE SERAI SORTI DE LA BASTILLE», phrase omise,
_peut-être_ à dessein, car seule elle pouvait obliger la compagnie à
tenir ses engagements. _L'élève des Jésuites avait battu ses maîtres_.
Aussi facilement qu'ils avaient obtenu la lettre de cachet, _les bons
pères_ obtinrent du roi l'ordre de mise en liberté. Seldon, n'ayant plus
de fortune lui appartenant, ne put se marier; mais, en revanche, il fit
attendre longtemps le capital de son bien à ses délicats libérateurs.
Les étrangers n'étaient pas, on le voit, à l'abri de la Bastille. Très
souvent même les rois de France rendirent aux souverains voisins _le
service_ d'embastiller leurs sujets qui avaient espéré trouver aide et
protection sur le sol français. C'est ainsi que Claude-Louis C | 234.483941 |
2023-11-16 18:20:58.4639740 | 5,803 | 87 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Jacqueline Jeremy and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: FROM AUNT TREMAYNE AND RALPH]
SIX GIRLS
_A HOME STORY_
BY
FANNIE BELLE IRVING
ILLUSTRATED BY F. T. MERRILL
BOSTON
DANA ESTES AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1882_,
By Estes and Lauriat.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. UNDER THE TREES 7
II. AROUND THE FIRE 18
III. A FOUNDATION THAT BROUGHT KAT TO GRIEF 38
IV. IN CONFIDENCE 51
V. ONE DAY 65
VI. A STRANGER 80
VII. MR. CONGREVE SURPRISES HIMSELF AND EVERYBODY
ELSE 97
VIII. ODDS AND ENDS 113
IX. WHAT OLIVE HEARD 128
X. THE LITTLE BLACK TRUNK 148
XI. WHERE IS ERNESTINE? 168
XII. THE STORY 188
XIII. A YEAR LATER 202
XIV. STUDY OR PLAY? 221
XV. CONGREVE HALL 240
XVI. UNDER THE SHADY GREEN-WOOD TREE 257
XVII. SEVERAL THINGS 284
XVIII. AT THE OPERA 306
XIX. COMING HOME 336
XX. A SAD STORY 355
XXI. MY LADY 368
XXII. TO REAR, TO LOVE, AND THEN TO LOSE 380
XXIII. WHEN GOD DREW NEAR, AMONG HIS OWN TO CHOOSE 406
XXIV. TWO SECRETS 420
XXV. MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A
GOOD-NIGHT--FIVE YEARS LATER 437
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
FROM AUNT TREMAYNE AND RALPH _Frontispiece_
"O ERNESTINE, HOW LOVELY!" 17
KAT AND KIT 49
THE OLD GENTLEMAN LIFTED JEAN UP ON THE POST 92
"NOW LET'S SEE WHAT'S IN THIS WONDERFUL TRUNK" 167
"WHY, HOW DO YOU DO, MY DEAR CHILD?" 244
"WHAT IS THE MATTER? WHAT HAS HAPPENED?" 267
MR. CONGREVE WOULD COME INTO THE GALLERY 314
SIX GIRLS.
CHAPTER I.
UNDER THE TREES.
There were ripples of sunshine all tangled in the glowing scarlet of the
geranium bed and dancing blithely over the grass. A world of melody in
quivering bursts of happy song came from the spreading canopy of leaves
overhead, and as an accompaniment, the wind laughed and whispered and
kept the air in one continual smile with a kiss on its lips, born of
supreme contentment in the summer loveliness.
In the cool, deep shade, cast by the grandest of old beech trees, a girl
sat, her white dress in freshest relief against the green surroundings,
a piece of sewing in her nimble fingers, and the wind tossing her
loosened hair all about her face and shoulders. She was quite alone, and
seemed just the setting for the quiet, lovely surroundings, so much so,
that, had an artist chanced to catch the sight, he would have lost no
time in transferring it to canvas,--the wide stretch of grass,
alternately steeped in cool shadows and mellow sunshine, the branching,
rustling canopy of leaves, the white-robed figure with smiling lips and
busy fingers, and just visible in the back-ground an old house wrapped
in vines and lying in the shade.
Somebody came from among the trees just at this moment and crossed the
grass with a peculiarly graceful and swaying step, as though she had
just drifted down with the sunshine and was being idly blown along by
the wind, another girl in the palest of pink dresses, with ripples of
snowy lace all over it, and a wide-brimmed hat shading her eyes. And
speaking distance being gained, she said, with a breezy little laugh:
"Sewing? Why, it's too warm to breathe."
"That's the reason I sew," returned the other, with a nod of energy. "I
should suffocate if I just sat still and thought how warm it is. Where
have you been?"
"Down to the pond, skipping stones, and wishing that I could go in,"
answered the new-comer, sitting down on the grass with a careful and
gracefully effective arrangement of her flounces and lace. "I don't see
why papa won't let us take the boat; it did look too tempting. Suppose
we go and do it, anyhow, Bea, and just let him see that we can manage it
without being taught. The pond is all in the shade now, and a row would
be delicious."
"Why, Ernestine!" Bea said, with a glance of surprise; "You wouldn't, I
know. Papa will teach us right away, and then we will have delightful
times; but when he has been so good as to get us the boat and promise to
have us learn to manage it, I'm sure I wouldn't disobey and try alone."
Ernestine laughed again her pretty saucy laugh and threw her head back
so that it caught a dancing sunbeam and held it prisoner in the bright
hair.
"I would," she said flippantly. "I'd like to, just for the sake of doing
something. Do you know, Bea,"--knitting the arched brows with a petulant
air,--"Sometimes I think I'll do something dreadful; perfectly dreadful,
you know, so as to have things different for a little bit. It's horrible
to live right along, just so, without anything ever happening."
"Well I'm sure," said Bea, laying down her sewing and surveying her
sister slowly, "you have just about as good and easy a time as ever I
heard of a girl's having. What are you all dressed up so for?"
"Just for something to do. I've tried on all my dresses and hats, and
wasted the blessed afternoon parading before the glass," laughed
Ernestine, swinging her pretty hat with its shirrings of delicate pink,
around on her white hand. "I do think this dress is lovely, so I made
believe I was being dressed by my maid and coming out to walk in my park
like an English lady, you know."
"English fiddlesticks!" said Bea, with energy. "You are a goosey.
Suppose you had to work and couldn't have pretty things and waste your
time trying them on?"
"What misery," cried Ernestine, jumping up and whirling around on her
heel with an airy grace that the other girls might have practiced for in
vain. "I wouldn't want to live; it would be dreadful, Bea," falling into
an attitude with the sunshine over her, "wouldn't I do well on the
stage? I know I was born for it; now look here, and see if I don't do as
Miss Neilson did. Just suppose this ring of sunshine is a balcony and
I'm in white, with such lovely jewels in my hair and all that:
"Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?"--
and away went Ernestine with a tragically pathetic energy that made Bea
watch and listen, in spite of the disapproving laugh on her lips.
"Don't I do it well?" Ernestine asked complacently, after she had gone
through the entire balcony scene, with great success in the management
of two characters.
"Yes, you do; how can you?" asked Bea, won from disapproval by wondering
admiration.
"Easiest in the world. I've been through it ever so many times since
papa took us to the city to see her. Oh, Bea! how happy she must be! I'd
give worlds and worlds to be in her place," cried Ernestine, with
longing energy, and pacing restlessly up and down the grass. "I wonder
if I ever can."
"Indeed!" said Bea with decision. "The idea! what would papa and mama
say; you, Ernestine Dering, parading out on a stage before crowds of
people, and flying around like she did. Mercy on us!"
"I'd do it in a minute, and if I can't now, I will sometime anyhow,"
Ernestine exclaimed with emphasis. "I wasn't born to be smuggled up in
this little musty town all my life and I won't, either. Some day I'll do
something desperate; you see if I don't."
"Well, I do declare!" said Bea slowly, having never witnessed quite such
an energetic ending to Ernestine's spells of restless dissatisfaction.
"What talk! I think you'd better sit down and cool off now. Where are
Olive and Jean?"
"Olive is sketching out on the roof, and crosser than thirteen sticks.
Jean is asleep on the porch, and mama is out showing Huldah how to make
cream puffings."
"Dear me," said Bea, by way of answer and looking up with a slight
pucker to her smooth forehead, "Just look at those girls; I never saw
the like."
Ernestine looked up, to catch a glimpse of two flying figures just
clearing the fence, and come dashing across the grass like unruly
arrows, to throw themselves under the shade of the beech, with a supreme
disregard for flesh and bones.
"Goodness gracious!" gasped Kittie.
"Gracious goodness!" panted Kat.
"I beat."
"No sir, I did."
"You didn't! I was on this side of the fence before you jumped."
"Just listen! why I was pretty near to the tree before you got to the
fence."
"Why Kat Dering! You know better."
"I don't."
"You do."
"Well I'd fight about it," said Ernestine, as the two sat up and faced
each other with belligerent countenances. "You are a pretty looking
couple anyhow. I'd be ashamed."
"Don't care if you would. I beat anyhow," said Kat with decision.
"Indeed you didn't; I did myself," said Kittie with equal certainty, but
smiling more amicably as she fanned energetically with her hat. "Oh
girls such fun! I must,----"
"Now Kittie," cried Kat with a warning jump and scowl.
"Bless us, I'm going to tell; indeed I am. You're a trump, Kat, and they
shall hear all about it; don't you want to girls?"
"To be sure, go on," said Bea with interest and creasing down a hem with
much satisfaction in the thought that her hands looked very pretty and
white, almost as pretty as Ernestine's.
"Well you see," began Kitty, as Kat retired under her hat in a spasm of
unusual modesty, "when we came in from recess this afternoon, Kat wanted
to sit in my side of the seat, and told me to act as if I was she, so I
thought it was to be a lark of some kind and did, but dear me----"
"Well go on," said Ernestine with languid curiosity, as Kittie paused to
laugh at some recollection.
"Just as soon as we got in Miss Howard told us to put books away; then
she gave us the breeziest lecture and was as solemn as an owl. I
couldn't imagine what was up. Susie Darrow was crying with her
handkerchief to her nose, Kat looked as if she was sitting on pins and
needles, and I really thought that Sadie Brooks and May Moor would eat
us up, the way they actually glared at us. Well, the first thing I knew,
Miss Howard was saying something about a needle in Susie Barrow's pen,
that she had stuck her nose with, and she wanted whoever had put it
there to come to her desk. That's the way she always does, you know;
never calls a name unless she finds she has to, and bless you! who
should I see walking off but Kat, and what does Miss Howard do but take
her ruler and give her fifteen slaps on the hand. Kat, I'm meaner'n
dirt, and you're a jewel; you did beat, I'll own up."
"No such thing, you beat yourself," came in a sepulchral growl from
under the hat.
"Well I'm sure I don't see the point," said Ernestine with impatience.
"It was very rude and unlady-like to put a needle in Susie's pen and you
deserved your fifteen slaps."
"Just wait 'till I finish, will you," cried Kittie, as the hat
maintained perfect silence, "Kat didn't do it, but she heard that I did,
and that I was going to be whipped, so she took my seat and jumped up
the minute Miss Howard spoke, and the only way I found out was when Miss
Howard said, 'Now Kittie you must beg Susie's pardon before the school.'
Then I knew something was up, and just popped right out of my seat and
said that that was Kat, not me, and didn't it make a hub-bub, and didn't
Miss Howard look funny!"
"It was lively," broke in Kat, and coming out from under the hat as if
inspired with the recollection, "Miss Howard looked as blank as you
please, and like to have never gotten at the straight of it; but after
awhile lame Jack told how he had seen Sadie and May fix it themselves,
and plan to tell it was Kittie, and oh didn't they look cheap, and
didn't they creep off to-night and take every book along?"
"But wasn't Kat just too dear and good to take a whipping to save me,"
cried Kittie, throwing both arms around her twin in a hug full of
devotion. "I'll never forget it, Kat Dering, never!"
"Well you'd better," said Kat, on whom praise and glory rested
uneasily, though she looked pleased and returned the hug with interest.
"You'd have done it for me, I know, and I would again for you any day.
Let's go out on the roof; it's much cooler than here."
"You'd better not," laughed Ernestine. "Olive's out there sketching, and
she'll take your head off with her usual sweetness, if you bother any."
"Who cares? I'm going. Come on Kittie."
"No let's not; it's cool here," returned Kittie lazily. "Where have you
been Ernestine, all rigged in your best?"
"Been at home pining for some place to go," said Ernestine drawing the
sewing from Bea's hand, and leaning over into that sister's lap with a
caressive gesture. "Say Bea, dear, Miss Neilson is going to be in New
York next week, and I want you to ask pa if he won't take us again;
won't you?"
"Not fair," cried Kat; "this is our turn."
"You, indeed; nothing but children! Will you, Bea? He will listen more
if you ask because you're not so frivolous as I am."
"Yes, I'll ask. I'd love to go again," said Bea with girlish delight in
anticipating such a bliss as the repetition of going to the city and to
the theatre. "What play would you like to see?"
"Romeo and Juliet again," cried Ernestine eagerly. "Oh Bea, beg him to,
for there are some other parts that I want to see how to do."
"Do!" echoed Kittie, "Whatever do you mean?"
"Just what I say. I'll show you how they do; shall I, Bea?" exclaimed
Ernestine, springing gayly into the sunshine and striking an attitude.
"Yes, go on; you do it beautifully," said Bea; so Ernestine plunged
blithely into the play, thoroughly entrancing her three listeners with
the ease and grace with which she spoke and acted, and receiving showers
of applause as she paused.
"How delightful," cried Kittie, in a longing rapture.
"Nonsense," exclaimed Kat, who had listened intently with her nose
steadily on the ascent, "It looks all very pretty and nice here, but I
should think anybody would feel like a fool to get out on a stage and go
ranting about like that."
"Oh! it's too delightful," cried Ernestine, as Bea passed no comment
except a little sigh. "I shall run away some day sure as the world and
become a great actress; then I'll be rich and famous and you'll all
forgive me."
"I thought you always wanted to sing," said Kittie, chewing grass
thoughtfully, as she meditated on this new and startling talent and
wondered what would next develop.
"So I do, but I shall sing and act both. Now then pretend that I am
Marguerite, in Faust, you know, and see if you don't think I can do
both, as well as one." So they all looked and listened, while she sang
and sang, 'till the very birds hushed their music in envious listening,
and the rustling leaves seemed to grow still in very amaze. The sunshine
danced over her bright hair, and the lovely face flashed with a radiant
excitement that showed how deep an enjoyment even the pretense was to
her.
[Illustration: "O ERNESTINE, HOW LOVELY!"]
Rapturous applause followed, and a new voice cried out, "Oh! Ernestine,
how lovely; do it over," and turning, they beheld an additional three to
the audience. Jean leaning on her little crutch, wild with delight;
Olive, tall and still with a curl on her lip to match the scowl on her
forehead; and mother,--but what was the matter with mother, Bea
wondered. She was very pale, and though she smiled, it did not hide the
tremble that hung to her colorless lips.
CHAPTER II.
AROUND THE FIRE.
A September twilight was coming on slowly, and in the grass the crickets
chirped back and forth to each other. The house was all open, and
through the windows came a merry chatter, a few rattling notes of the
piano, and something that sounded very much like a warm argument, for a
game of chess was going on by one window. Out on the broad porch that
ran all along the front of the house, and was shrouded with vines, stood
a girl, leaning idly against the post and watching the shadows gather
across the long walk. She was not a pretty girl, nor one that you would
care to look at twice, because of any pleasure it gave you; though had
you really studied her face there might have been something found in it
after all. There was a drawn, discontented look about her mouth, that
made the lips look thin and snappish; it even spoiled the shape of her
really pretty nose, which was straight and finely cut. The brows,
straight and black, held a heavy frown between them, and the eyes
beneath had an unsatisfied, sour look, not at all attractive. Her
forehead was altogether too high for beauty of any kind; and as though
there was a relief in making herself look just as ugly as possible, all
her hair was drawn back painfully smooth, and tucked into a net.
Everything about her, from the crooked look of her necktie to the toe of
her slipper, with its rosette gone, plainly indicated that she was
dissatisfied with herself and aided nature by her own carelessness and
indifference, to make herself just as unattractive as possible. Some one
came up behind her as she stood there indulging in thoughts anything but
pleasing and laid a gentle touch on her arm.
"Olive?"
"Well?"
"What makes you like to stay by yourself so much, and where it isn't so
nice? The yard is getting so dark, and it's real chilly. Don't you ever
get afraid?"
"Afraid here on the steps? That's silly, Jean."
"Perhaps 'tis, but I'm such a big coward; I suppose it's because I
couldn't run if anything ever was to happen;" and Jean gave a little
sigh, as she smoothed the padded top of her crutch.
Olive gave a little start, half impatient, and turned around to ask,
almost wistfully, "Jean, do you never get tired or impatient, or think
sometimes that you'd rather be dead than always walk on a crutch and
have your back grow crooked?"
"Why, Olive!" Jean lifted her beautiful eyes to look at her sister's
restless face, "I couldn't be so wicked as that, could you?"
In the twilight Olive flushed at the question and at the clear eyes
searching her face. How many, many times had she wished she was dead,
and for nothing except that she was ugly and awkward, and bound to see
everything with the darkest side up.
"I'm not as good as you," she answered evasively.
"Oh I'm not good," said Jean, with a little laugh, half a sigh, "I do
get real tired sometimes, Olive, and I do want to be straight and well
so much; but Miss Willis told me something in Sunday-school last Sunday,
that has made me feel so good; she said, 'Jeanie, don't get impatient or
discouraged, for God has a reason why he wants you to be lame; it is to
be for the best some way, and perhaps sometime you will see it;' and she
said that when I tried to be happy and bear my lame back, it made God
very happy; and when I was cross and fussy, it made him sad."
Olive gave her eyes a swift brush with the back of her hand, and asked
with a little choke, "Do you believe all that, Jean."
"Why, Olive, yes! Don't you?"
"I don't know,--who is that?" was Olive's rather disjointed answer, as
the click of the gate sounded through the still evening air.
"It's Ernestine, I know, 'cause she went up town;--yes, there she is;"
answered Jean, as a figure appeared under the foliage and came toward
the steps.
How different she looked from Olive and Jean. Such a slim, graceful
figure, with a proud little head and sunny shining hair, in loose puffs
and curls and a jaunty hat. A face like a fresh lily, and beautiful
brown eyes, the sweetest voice, and the vainest little heart ever known
to a girl of fifteen, had Ernestine Dering; and yet she was a favorite,
with all her little vanities, and home, without Ernestine's face, would
have been blank to all the girls. She came running up the steps and
stopped.
"Oh, Olive, such laces!" she cried, with a longing sigh. "They are
selling out at cost, and the ribbons and laces are just going for almost
nothing; if I had just had a little spending money I would have been in
clover. One clerk just insisted upon my taking an exquisite lace scarf;
oh it was so becoming! but I told him I didn't know they were selling
out, and that I would have to come again."
"Pretty way of talking!" snapped Olive ungraciously. "You know you won't
have any more money another day than you have this; why couldn't you say
no?"
"Say that I couldn't afford it?" cried Ernestine gayly. "Not I. Besides,
I reasoned that if one of you would loan me some, I'd have more another
day."
"Suppose one of us won't," said Olive, looking darkly over her sister's
pretty hat.
"I didn't suppose _you_ would," laughed Ernestine "But fortunately for
me, I have some obliging sisters," and with that shot, Ernestine went
in, singing like a mocking bird, and Jean followed slowly, looking back
once or twice to Olive's motionless figure.
Oh how it cut! Olive grew flushed and white, then her brows came
together darkly and her lips shut tight. "Ernestine is too frivolous to
live," she said grimly; then looked straight off into the evening sky
and was silent. But down to her proud, sensitive heart she was hurt, and
in it was the longing wonder, "Why don't she come to me and ask as she
does of Bea and the others. I would loan it to her;" but this feeling
she fiercely refused to countenance, and shut her heart grimly, as she
did her lips.
The broad old hall that ran clear through the house was growing quite
dark with shadows; the game of chess had ended, and the players left the
window, and presently Olive turned slowly and went into the house.
Through the sitting-room came a lively chatter, and as she passed the
door some one shouted, "Halloo!"
"Well I'm not deaf. Do you want me?"
"Pining to have you; come sit on my lap."
Olive passed in, but disregarded the hospitably inclined young lady who
lounged in a big chair, and passed on to a dusky corner, where she
curled up on the lounge.
"Olive," volunteered Kittie, who was in the window-sill, "mama has a
plan; she's going to tell us after supper, and we've all been trying to
guess what it is; what do you think?"
"I don't think anything."
"What a glorious lack of curiosity," laughed Kat.
"I suppose I'm just as contented as any of you with your guessing,"
returned Olive.
"Well I wish," said Ernestine with an energy that brought instant
attention, "I wish papa was going to increase our allowances. Two
dollars a month is a shameful little."
"But it amounts to ten dollars when paid to five girls," added Beatrice
quickly, "besides Jean's twenty-five cents."
"A girl isn't supposed to spend two dollars every month for
foolishness," said Olive severely | 234.484014 |
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Transcriber's Notes
Archaic, dialect and inconsistent spellings have been retained as in the
original. Other than minor changes to format or punctuation, any changes
to the text have been listed at the end of the book.
In this Plain Text version of the e-book, symbols from the ASCII
character set only are used. The following substitutions are made for
other symbols, accent and diacritics in the text:
[ae] and [AE] = ae-ligature (upper and lower case).
[^a] = a-circumflex
[:a] = a-umlaut
[oa] = a-ring
[c,] = c-cedilla
['e] = e-acute
[e'] = e-grave
[~n] = n-tilde
[:o] = o-umlaut
[OE] and [oe] = oe-ligature (upper and lower case).
[S] = section symbol
[:u] = u-umlaut
Other conventions used to represent the original text are as follows:
Italic typeface is indicated by _underscores_.
Small caps typeface is represented by UPPER CASE.
Superscript characters are indicated by ^{xx}.
A pointing hand symbol is represented as [hand].
Footnotes are numbered in sequence throughout the book and presented at
the end of the section or ballad in which the footnote anchor appears.
Notes with reference to ballad line numbers are presented at the end of
each ballad.
* * * * *
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STANHOPE PRIZE ESSAY--1859.
THE
CAUSES OF THE SUCCESSES
OF THE
OTTOMAN TURKS.
BY
JAMES SURTEES PHILLPOTTS,
SCHOLAR OF NEW COLLEGE.
[Illustration]
OXFORD:
T. and G. SHRIMPTON.
M DCCC LIX.
THE CAUSES OF THE SUCCESSES OF THE OTTOMAN TURKS.
By the fall of the | 234.507209 |
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LIBRARY OF THE
WORLD'S BEST LITERATURE
ANCIENT AND MODERN
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
EDITOR
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE LUCIA GILBERT RUNKLE
GEORGE HENRY WARNER
ASSOCIATE EDITORS
Connoisseur Edition
VOL. XVI.
NEW YORK
THE INTERNATIONAL SOCIETY
Connoisseur Edition
LIMITED TO FIVE HUNDRED COPIES IN HALF RUSSIA
_No_. ..........
Copyright, 1896, by
R. S. PEALE AND J. A. HILL
_All rights reserved_
THE ADVISORY COUNCIL
CRAWFORD H. TOY, A. M., LL. D.,
Professor of Hebrew, HARVARD UNIVERSITY, Cambridge, Mass.
THOMAS R. LOUNSBURY, LL. D., L. H. D.,
Professor of English in the Sheffield Scientific School of
YALE UNIVERSITY, New Haven, Conn.
WILLIAM M. SLOANE, PH. D., L. H. D.,
Professor of History and Political Science,
PRINCETON UNIVERSITY, Princeton, N. J.
BRANDER MATTHEWS, A. M., LL. B.,
Professor of Literature, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY, New York City.
JAMES B. ANGELL, LL. D.,
President of the UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN, Ann Arbor, Mich.
WILLARD FISKE, A. M., PH. D.,
Late Professor of the Germanic and Scandinavian Languages
and Literatures, CORNELL UNIVERSITY, Ithaca, N. Y.
EDWARD S. HOLDEN, A. M., LL. D.,
Director of the Lick Observatory, and Astronomer,
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, Berkeley, Cal.
ALCEE FORTIER, LIT. D.,
Professor of the Romance Languages,
TULANE UNIVERSITY, New Orleans, La.
WILLIAM P. TRENT, M. A.,
Dean of the Department of Arts and Sciences, and Professor of
English and History, UNIVERSITY OF THE SOUTH, Sewanee, Tenn.
PAUL SHOREY, PH. D.,
Professor of Greek and Latin Literature,
UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO, Chicago, Ill.
WILLIAM T. HARRIS, LL. D.,
United States Commissioner of Education,
BUREAU OF EDUCATION, Washington, D. C.
MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN, A. M., LL. D.,
Professor of Literature in the
CATHOLIC UNIVERSITY OF AMERICA, Washington, D. C.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
VOL. XVI
LIVED PAGE
AULUS GELLIUS Second Century A.D. 6253
From 'Attic Nights': Origin, and Plan of the Book;
The Vestal Virgins; The Secrets of the Senate;
Plutarch and his Slave; Discussion on One of
Solon's Laws; The Nature of Sight; Earliest
Libraries; Realistic Acting; The Athlete's End
GESTA ROMANORUM 6261
Theodosius the Emperoure
Moralite
Ancelmus the Emperour
Moralite
How an Anchoress was Tempted by the Devil
EDWARD GIBBON 1737-1794 6271
BY W. E. H. LECKY
Zenobia
Foundation of Constantinople
Character of Constantine
Death of Julian
Fall of Rome
Silk
Mahomet's Death and Character
The Alexandrian Library
Final Ruin of Rome
All from the 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire'
WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT 1836- 6333
Captain Reece
The Yarn of the Nancy Bell
The Bishop of Rum-ti-foo
Gentle Alice Brown
The Captain and the Mermaids
All from the 'Bab Ballads'
RICHARD WATSON GILDER 1844- 6347
Two Songs from 'The New Day'
"Rose-Dark the Solemn Sunset"
The Celestial Passion
Non Sine Dolore
On the Life Mask of Abraham Lincoln
From 'The Great Remembrance'
GIUSEPPE GIUSTI 1809-1850 6355
Lullaby ('Gingillino')
The Steam Guillotine
WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE 1809- 6359
Macaulay ('Gleanings of Past Years')
EDWIN LAWRENCE GODKIN 1831- 6373
The Duty of Criticism in a Democracy ('Problems of
Modern Democracy')
GOETHE 1749-1832 6385
BY EDWARD DOWDEN
From 'Faust,' Shelley's Translation
Scenes from 'Faust', Bayard Taylor's Translation
Mignon's Love and Longing ('Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship')
Wilhelm Meister's Introduction to Shakespeare (same)
Wilhelm Meister's Analysis of Hamlet (same)
The Indenture (same)
The Harper's Songs (same)
Mignon's Song (same)
Philina's Song (same)
Prometheus
Wanderer's Night Songs
The Elfin-King
From 'The Wanderer's Storm Song'
The Godlike
Solitude
Ergo Bibamus!
Alexis and Dora
Maxims and Reflections
Nature
NIKOLAI VASILIEVITCH GOGOL 1809-1852 6455
BY ISABEL F. HAPGOOD
From 'The Inspector'
Old-Fashioned Gentry ('Mirgorod')
CARLO GOLDONI 1707-1793 6475
BY WILLIAM CRANSTON LAWTON
First Love and Parting ('Memoirs of Carlo Goldoni')
The Origin of Masks in the Italian Comedy (same)
Purists and Pedantry (same)
A Poet's Old Age (same)
The Cafe
MEIR AARON GOLDSCHMIDT 1819-1887 6493
Assar and Mirjam ('Love Stories from Many Countries')
OLIVER GOLDSMITH 1728-1774 6501
BY CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY
The Vicar's Family Become Ambitious ('The Vicar of Wakefield')
New Misfortunes: But Offenses are Easily Pardoned Where
There is Love at Bottom (same)
Pictures from 'The Deserted Village'
Contrasted National Types ('The Traveller')
IVAN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHAROF 1812- 6533
BY NATHAN HASKELL DOLE
Oblomof
THE BROTHERS DE GONCOURT 6549
Edmond 1822-1896
Jules 1830-1870
Two Famous Men ('Journal of the De Goncourts')
The Suicide ('Sister Philomene')
The Awakening ('Renee Mauperin')
EDMUND GOSSE 1849- 6565
February in Rome
Desiderium
Lying in the Grass
RUDOLF VON GOTTSCHALL 1823- 6571
Heinrich Heine ('Portraits and Studies')
JOHN GOWER 1325?-1408 6579
Petronella ('Confessio Amantis')
ULYSSES S. GRANT 1822-1885 6593
BY HAMLIN GARLAND
Early Life ('Personal Memoirs of U. S. Grant')
Grant's Courtship (same)
A Texan Experience (same)
The Surrender of General Lee (same)
HENRY GRATTAN 1746-1820 6615
On the Character of Chatham
Of the Injustice of Disqualification of Catholics
(Speech in Parliament)
On the Downfall of Bonaparte (Speech in Parliament)
THOMAS GRAY 1716-1771 6623
BY GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP
Elegy Written in a Country Church-yard
Ode on the Spring
On a Distant Prospect of Eton College
The Bard
THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY 6637
BY TALCOTT WILLIAMS
On the Athenian Dead at Plataea (Simonides); On the
Lacedaemonian Dead at Plataea (Simonides); On a
Sleeping Satyr (Plato); A Poet's Epitaph (Simmias
of Thebes); Worship in Spring (Theaetetus); Spring
on the Coast (Leonidas of Tarentum); A Young Hero's
Epitaph (Dioscorides); Love (Posidippus); Sorrow's
Barren Grave (Heracleitus); To a Coy Maiden
(Asclepiades); The Emptied Quiver (Mnesalcus);
The Tale of Troy (Alpheus); Heaven Hath its Stars
(Marcus Argentarius); Pan of the Sea-Cliff
(Archias); Anacreon's Grave (Antipater of Sidon);
Rest at Noon (Meleager); "In the Spring a Young
Man's Fancy" (Meleager); Meleager's Own Epitaph
(Meleager); Epilogue (Philodemus); Doctor and
Divinity (Nicarchus); Love's Immortality (Strato);
As the Flowers of the Field (Strato); Summer
Sailing (Antiphilus); The Great Mysteries
(Crinagoras); To Priapus of the Shore (Maecius); The
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EVE'S DIARY
By Mark Twain
Illustrated by Lester Ralph
Translated from the Original
SATURDAY.--I am almost a whole day old, now. I arrived yesterday.
That is as it seems to me. And it must be so, for if there was a
day-before-yesterday I was not there when it happened, or I should
remember it. It could be, of course, that it did happen, and that I
was not noticing. Very well; I will be very watchful now, and if any
day-before-yesterdays happen I will make a note of it. It will be best
to start right and not let the record get confused, for some instinct
tells me that these details are going to be important to the historian
some day. For I feel like an experiment, I feel exactly like an
experiment; it would be impossible for a person to feel more like an
experiment than I do, and so I am coming to feel convinced that that
is what I AM--an experiment; just an experiment, and nothing more.
Then if I am an experiment, am I the whole of it? No, I think not; I
think the rest of it is part of it. I am the main part of it, but I
think the rest of it has its share in the matter. Is my position
assured, or do I have to watch it and take care of it? The latter,
perhaps. Some instinct tells me that eternal vigilance is the price
of supremacy. [That is a good phrase, I think, for one so young.]
Everything looks better today than it did yesterday. In the rush of
finishing up yesterday, the mountains were left in a ragged condition,
and some of the plains were so cluttered with rubbish and remnants that
the aspects were quite distressing. Noble and beautiful works of art
should not be subjected to haste; and this majestic new world is indeed
a most noble and beautiful work. And certainly marvelously near to
being perfect, notwithstanding the shortness of the time. There are too
many stars in some places and not enough in others, but that can be
remedied presently, no doubt. The moon got loose last night, and slid
down and fell out of the scheme--a very great loss; it breaks my heart
to think of it. There isn't another thing among the ornaments and
decorations that is comparable to it for beauty and finish. It should
have been fastened better. If we can only get it back again--
But of course there is no telling where it went to. And besides,
whoever gets it will hide it; I know it because I would do it myself.
I believe I can be honest in all other matters, but I already begin to
realize that the core and center of my nature is love of the beautiful,
a passion for the beautiful, and that it would not be safe to trust me
with a moon that belonged to another person and that person didn't know
I had it. I could give up a moon that I found in the daytime, because I
should be afraid some one was looking; but if I found it in the dark, I
am sure I should find some kind of an excuse for not saying anything
about it. For I do love moons, they are so pretty and so romantic. I
wish we had five or six; I would never go to bed; I should never get
tired lying on the moss-bank and looking up at them.
Stars are good, too. I wish I could get some to put in my hair. But I
suppose I never can. You would be surprised to find how far off they
are, for they do not look it. When they first showed, last night, I
tried to knock some down with a pole, but it didn't reach, which
astonished me; then I tried clods till I was all tired out, but I never
got one. It was because I am left-handed and cannot throw good. Even
when I aimed at the one I wasn't after I couldn't hit the other one,
though I did make some close shots, for I saw the black blot of the clod
sail right into the midst of the golden clusters forty or fifty times,
just barely missing them, and if I could have held out a little longer
maybe I could have got one.
So I cried a little, which was natural, I suppose, for one of my age,
and after I was rested I got a basket and started for a place on the
extreme rim of the circle, where the stars were close to the ground and
I could get them with my hands, which would be better, anyway, because I
could gather them tenderly then, and not break them. But it was farther
than I thought, and at last I had to give it up; I was so tired I
couldn't drag my feet another step; and besides, they were sore and hurt
me very much.
I couldn't get back home; it was too far and turning cold; but I found
some tigers and nestled in among them and was most adorably comfortable,
and their breath was sweet and pleasant, because they live on
strawberries. I had never seen a tiger before, but I knew them in a
minute by the stripes. If I could have one of those skins, it would
make a lovely gown.
Today I am getting better ideas about distances. I was so eager to get
hold of every pretty thing that I giddily grabbed for it, sometimes when
it was too far off, and sometimes when it was but six inches away but
seemed a foot--alas, with thorns between! I learned a lesson; also I
made an axiom, all out of my own head--my very first one; THE SCRATCHED
EXPERIMENT SHUNS THE THORN. I think it is a very good one for one so
young.
I followed the other Experiment around, yesterday afternoon, at a
distance, to see what it might be for, if I could. But I was not able
to make [it] out. I think it is a man. I had never seen a man, but it
looked like one, and I feel sure that that is what it is. I realize that
I feel more curiosity about it than about any of the other reptiles. If
it is a reptile, and I suppose it is; for it has frowzy hair and blue
eyes, and looks like a reptile. It has no hips; it tapers like a carrot;
when it stands, it spreads itself apart like a derrick; so I think it is
a reptile, though it may be architecture.
| 234.580627 |
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transcribed by Brian Foley using LilyPond.
_By Lady Gregory_
Irish Folk-History Plays
First Series: The Tragedies
Grania. Kincora. Dervorgilla
Second Series: The Tragic Comedies
The Canavans. The White Cockade. The Deliverer
New Comedies
The Bogie Men. The Full Moon. Coats. Damer's
Gold. McDonough's Wife
Our Irish Theatre
A Chapter of Autobiography
Seven Short Plays
Spreading the News. Hyacinth Halvey. The Rising
of the Moon. The Jackdaw. The Workhouse Ward.
The Travelling Man. The Gaol Gate
The Golden Apple
A Kiltartan Play for Children
Seven Short Plays
By
Lady Gregory
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1916
COPYRIGHT, 1903, by LADY AUGUSTA GREGORY
COPYRIGHT, 1904, by LADY GREGORY
COPYRIGHT, 1905, by LADY GREGORY
COPYRIGHT, 1906, by LADY GREGORY
COPYRIGHT, 1909, by LADY GREGORY
These plays have been copyrighted and published simultaneously in the
United States and Great Britain.
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages.
All acting rights, both professional and amateur, are reserved in the
United States, Great Britain, and all countries of the Copyright
Union, by the author. Performances forbidden and right of presentation
reserved.
Application for the right of performing these plays or reading them in
public should be made to Samuel French, 28 West 38th St., New York
City, or 26 South Hampton St., Strand, London.
Second Impression
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
DEDICATION
_To you, W. B. YEATS, good praiser, wholesome dispraiser, heavy-handed
judge, open-handed helper of us all, I offer a play of my plays for
every night of the week, because you like them, and because you have
taught me my trade._
AUGUSTA GREGORY
_Abbey Theatre,
May 1, 1909._
CONTENTS
PAGE
SPREADING THE NEWS 1
HYACINTH HALVEY 29
THE RISING OF THE MOON 75
THE JACKDAW 93
THE WORKHOUSE WARD 137
THE TRAVELLING MAN 155
THE GAOL GATE 173
MUSIC FOR THE SONGS IN THE PLAYS 189
NOTES, &C. 196
SPREADING THE NEWS
PERSONS
_Bartley Fallon._
_Mrs. Fallon._
_Jack Smith._
_Shawn Early._
_Tim Casey._
_James Ryan._
_Mrs. Tarpey._
_Mrs. Tully._
_A Policeman_ (JO MULDOON).
_A Removable Magistrate._
SPREADING THE NEWS
_Scene: The outskirts of a Fair. An Apple Stall, Mrs. Tarpey
sitting at it. Magistrate and Policeman enter._
_Magistrate_: So that is the Fair Green. Cattle and sheep and mud. No
system. What a repulsive sight!
_Policeman_: That is so, indeed.
_Magistrate_: I suppose there is a good deal of disorder in this
place?
_Policeman_: There is.
_Magistrate_: Common assault?
_Policeman_: It's common enough.
_Magistrate_: Agrarian crime, no doubt?
_Policeman_: That is so.
_Magistrate_: Boycotting? Maiming of cattle? Firing into houses?
_Policeman_: There was one time, and there might be again.
_Magistrate_: That is bad. Does it go any farther than that?
_Policeman_: Far enough, indeed.
_Magistrate:_ Homicide, then! This district has been shamefully
neglected! I will change all that. When I was in the Andaman Islands,
my system never failed. Yes, yes, I will change all that. What has
that woman on her stall?
_Policeman:_ Apples mostly--and sweets.
_Magistrate:_ Just see if there are any unlicensed goods
underneath--spirits or the like. We had evasions of the salt tax in the
Andaman Islands.
_Policeman:_ (_Sniffing cautiously and upsetting a heap of apples._) I
see no spirits | 234.681408 |
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_WORKS BY WALTER CRANE_
THE BASES OF DESIGN. With 200 Illustrations, many drawn by the
author. _Third Edition._ Crown 8vo, 6s. net.
LINE AND FORM. A Series of Lectures delivered at the Municipal
School of Art, Manchester. With 157 Illustrations. _Third
Edition._ Crown 8vo, 6s. net.
THE DECORATIVE ILLUSTRATION OF BOOKS, OLD AND NEW. With 165
Illustrations. _Fourth Edition._ Crown 8vo, 6s. net.
LONDON: GEORGE BELL AND SONS
IDEALS IN ART
IDEALS·IN·ART:
PAPERS·THEORETICAL·PRACTICAL·CRITICAL·
BY·WALTER·CRANE·Author·of·“Line&Form”.Et
[Illustration]
LONDON:GEORGE·BELL·&·SONS:1905
CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.
TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
PREFACE
The collected papers which form this book have been written at
different times, and in the intervals of other work. Most of them
were specially addressed to, and read before the Art Workers’ Guild,
as contributions to the discussion of the various subjects they deal
with; so that they may be described as the papers of a worker in design
addressed mainly to art workers. They are not, however, wholly or
narrowly technical, and the point of view frequently bears upon the
general relation of art to life | 234.685451 |
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& the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at
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Archive/American Libraries.)
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XLI. | 234.687772 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Vast Abyss, by George Manville Fenn.
________________________________________________________________________
This is one of the very best books by GM Fenn. It has a good steady
pace, yet one is constantly wondering how some dreadful situation is to
be got out of. The hero is young Tom, whose father had been a doctor
who had died in some recent epidemic, which had also carried off his
mother. Tom has been taken into the house and law business of an
uncle, but he does not seem to be getting on well there. Another uncle
visits, and takes Tom back with him, giving him a much pleasanter and
more interesting life. Together they convert an old windmill into an
astronomical observatory, which means grinding the glass lenses and
mirrors, as well as bringing the structure of the building up to the
required standard. In this they are encouraged by the daily visits of
the vicar, while the housekeeper, Mrs Fidler, and the old gardener, make
various remarks on the sidelines. However, there is a boy in the
village whose behaviour is not good at all, and many of the episodes in
the story are concerned with him, his dog, and their deeds.
Not wishing to spoil the story for you, we will simply say that there
is another issue involving the legal uncle, and his rather nasty son.
________________________________________________________________________
THE VAST ABYSS, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.
CHAPTER ONE.
"I wish I wasn't such a fool!"
Tom Blount said this to himself as he balanced that self upon a high
stool at a desk in his uncle's office in Gray's Inn. There was a big
book lying open, one which he had to study, but it did not interest him;
and though he tried very hard to keep his attention fixed upon its
learned words, invaluable to one who would some day bloom into a family
solicitor, that book would keep on forming pictures that were not
illustrations of legal practice in the courts of law. For there one
moment was the big black pond on Elleston Common, where the water lay so
still and deep under the huge elms, and the fat tench and eels every now
and then sent up bubbles of air, dislodged as they disturbed the bottom.
At another time it would be the cricket-field in summer, or the football
on the common in winter, or the ringing ice on the winding river, with
the skates flashing as they sent the white powder flying before the
wind.
Or again, as he stumbled through the opinions of the judge in
"Coopendale _versus_ Drabb's Exors.," the old house and garden would
stand out from the page like a miniature seen on the ground-glass of a
camera; and Tom Blount sighed and his eyes grew dim as he thought of the
old happy days in the pleasant home. For father and mother both had
passed away to their rest; the house was occupied by another tenant; and
he, Tom Blount, told himself that he ought to be very grateful to Uncle
James for taking him into his office, to make a man of him by promising
to have him articled if, during his year of probation, he proved himself
worthy.
"I wouldn't mind its being so dull," he thought, "or my aunt not liking
me, or Sam being so disagreeable, if I could get on--but I can't.
Uncle's right, I suppose, in what he says. He ought to know. I'm only
a fool; and it doesn't seem to matter how I try, I can't get on."
Just then a door opened, letting in a broad band of sunshine full of
dancing motes, and at the same time Samuel Brandon, a lad of about the
same age as Tom, but rather slighter of build, but all the same more
manly of aspect. He was better dressed too, and wore a white flower in
his button-hole, and a very glossy hat. One glove was off, displaying a
signet-ring, and he brought with him into the dingy office a strong
odour of scent, whose source was probably the white pocket-handkerchief
prominently displayed outside his breast-pocket.
"Hullo, bumpkin!" he cried. "How's Tidd getting on?"
"Very slowly," said Tom. "I wish you'd try and explain what this bit
means."
"Likely! Think I'm going to find you in brains. Hurry on and peg away.
Shovel it in, and think you are going to be Lord Chancellor some day.
Guv'nor in his room?"
"No; he has gone on down to the Court. Going out?"
"Yes; up the river--Maidenhead. You heard at the breakfast, didn't
you?"
Tom shook his head.
"I didn't hear," he said sadly.
"You never hear anything or see anything. I never met such a dull,
chuckle-headed chap as you are. Why don't you wake up?"
"I don't know; I do try," said Tom sadly.
"You don't know!--you don't know anything. I don't wonder at the
governor grumbling at you. You'll have to pull up your boots if you
expect to be articled here, and so I tell you. There, I'm off. I've
got to meet the mater at Paddington at twelve. I say, got any money?"
"No," said Tom sadly.
"Tchah! you never have. There, pitch into Tidd. You've got your work
cut out, young fellow. No letters for me?"
"No. Yes, there is--one."
"No!--yes! Well, you are a pretty sort of a fellow. Where is it?"
"I laid it in uncle's room."
"What! Didn't I tell you my letters were not to go into his room? Of
all the--"
Tom sighed, though he did not hear the last words, for his cousin
hurried into the room on their right, came back with a letter, hurried
out, and the door swung to again.
"It's all through being such a fool, I suppose," muttered the boy. "Why
am I not as clever and quick as Sam is? He's as sharp as uncle; but
uncle doesn't seem a bit like poor mother was."
Just then Tom Blount made an effort to drive away all thoughts of the
past by planting his elbows on the desk, doubling his fists, and resting
his puckered-up brow upon them, as he plunged once more into the study
of the legal work.
But the thoughts would come flitting by, full of sunshiny memories of
the father who died a hero's death, fighting as a doctor the fell
disease which devastated the country town; and of the mother who soon
after followed her husband, after requesting her brother to do what he
could to help and protect her son.
Then the thought of his mother's last prayer came to him as it often
did--that he should try his best to prove himself worthy of his uncle's
kindness by studying hard.
"And I do--I do--I do," he burst out aloud, passionately, "only it is so
hard; and, as uncle says, I am such a fool."
"You call me, Blount?" said a voice, and a young old-looking man came in
from the next office.
"I!--call? No, Pringle," said Tom, colouring up.
"You said something out loud, sir, and I thought you called."
"I--I--"
"Oh, I see, sir; you was speaking a bit out of your book. Not a bad way
to get it into your head. You see you think it and hear it too."
"It's rather hard to me, I'm afraid," said Tom, with the puzzled look
intensifying in his frank, pleasant face.
"Hard, sir!" said the man, smiling, and wiping the pen he held on the
tail of his coat, though it did not require it, and then he kept on
holding it up to his eye as if there were a hair or bit of grit between
the nibs. "Yes, I should just think it is hard. Nutshells is nothing
to it. Just like bits of granite stones as they mend the roads with.
They won't fit nowhere till you wear 'em and roll 'em down. The law is
a hard road and no mistake."
"And--and I don't think I'm very clever at it, Pringle."
"Clever! You'd be a rum one, sir, if you was. Nobody ever masters it
all. They pretend to, but it would take a thousand men boiled down and
double distilled to get one as could regularly tackle it. It's an
impossibility, sir."
"What!" said Tom, with plenty of animation now. "Why, look at all the
great lawyers!"
"So I do, sir, and the judges too, and what do I see? Don't they all
think different ways about things, and upset one another? Don't you get
thinking you're not clever because you don't get on fast. As I said
before, you'd be a rum one if you did."
"But my cousin does," said Tom.
"Him? Ck!" cried the clerk, with a derisive laugh. "Why, it's my
belief that you know more law already than Mr Sam does, and what I say
to you is--Look out! the guv'nor!"
The warning came too late, for Mr James Brandon entered the outer
office suddenly, and stopped short, to look sharply from one to the
other--a keen-eyed, well-dressed man of five-and-forty; and as his brows
contracted he said sharply--
"Then you've finished the deed, Pringle?" just as the clerk was in the
act of passing through the door leading to the room where he should have
been at work.
"The deed, sir?--no, not quite, sir. Shan't be long, sir."
"You shall be long--out of work, Mr Pringle, if you indulge in the bad
habit of idling and gossiping as soon as my back's turned."
Pringle shot back to his desk, the door swung to, and Mr James Brandon
turned to his nephew, with his face looking double of aspect--that is to
say, the frown was still upon his brow, while a peculiarly tight-looking
smile appeared upon his lips, which seemed to grow thinner and longer,
and as if a parenthesis mark appeared at each end to shut off the smile
as something illegal.
"I am glad you are mastering your work so well, Tom," he said softly.
"Mastering it, uncle!" said Tom, with an uneasy feeling of doubt raised
by his relative's look. "I--I'm afraid I am getting on very slowly."
"But you can find time to idle and hinder my clerk."
"He had only just come in, uncle, and--"
"That will do, sir," said the lawyer, with the smile now gone. "I've
told you more than once, sir, that you were a fool, and now I repeat it.
You'll never make a lawyer. Your thick, dense brain has only one
thought in it, and that is how you can idle and shirk the duty that I
for your mother's sake have placed in your way. What do you expect,
sir?--that I am going to let you loaf about my office, infecting those
about you, and trying to teach your cousin your lazy ways? I don't know
what I could have been thinking about to take charge of such a great
idle, careless fellow."
"Not careless, uncle," pleaded the lad. "I do try, but it is so hard."
"Silence, sir! Try!--not you. I meant to do my duty by you, and in due
time to impoverish myself by paying for your articles--nearly a hundred
pounds, sir. But don't expect it. I'm not going to waste my
hard-earned savings upon a worthless, idle fellow. Lawyer! Pish!
You're about fit for a shoeblack, sir, or a carter. You'll grow into as
great an idiot as your father was before you. What my poor sister could
have seen in him I don't--"
_Bang_!
CHAPTER TWO.
The loudly-closed door of the private office cut short Mr James
Brandon's speech, and he had passed out without looking round, or he
would have seen that his nephew looked anything but a fool as he sat
there with his fists clenched and his eyes flashing.
"How dare he call my dear dead father an idiot!" he said in a low fierce
voice through his compressed teeth. "Oh, I can't bear it--I won't bear
it. If I were not such a miserable coward I should go off and be a
soldier, or a sailor, or anything so that I could be free, and not
dependent on him. I'll go. I must go. I cannot bear it," he muttered;
and then with a feeling of misery and despair rapidly increasing, he
bent down over his book again, for a something within him seemed to
whisper--"It would be far more cowardly to give up and go."
Then came again the memory of his mother's words, and he drew his breath
through his teeth as if he were in bodily as well as mental pain; and
forcing himself to read | 234.707102 |
2023-11-16 18:20:58.7650490 | 7,433 | 12 |
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Online
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THE GENIUS OF SCOTLAND;
Or
Sketches of Scottish Scenery, Literature and Religion.
by
REV. ROBERT TURNBULL
FOURTH EDITION.
New York:
Robert Carter, 58 Canal Street
1848.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847,
by Robert Carter,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the Southern District of New York.
Stereotyped by Thomas B. Smith,
216 William Street, New York
PREFACE.
Having been born and educated in Scotland, and possessing a tolerable
acquaintance with its History and Literature, the Author of the
following Work felt that he had some facilities for giving to the people
of this country a just idea of his native Land. The plan of his work is
somewhat new, combining in a larger degree, than he has hitherto seen
attempted, descriptions of Scenery, with Literary and Biographical
Sketches, portraitures of character social and religious, incidents of
travel, and reflections on matters of local or general interest. Hence
he has omitted many things which a mere tourist would not fail to
notice, and supplied their place with sketches of more enduring
interest. He would particularly invite attention to the sketches of
Knox, Burns, Wilson, Chalmers, Bruce, 'The Ettrick Shepherd,' and Sir
Walter Scott. His rambles through fair or classic scenes are thus
enlivened with useful information. In a word, it has been his endeavor,
in an easy natural way, to give his readers an adequate conception of
the Scenery, Literature, and Religion of Scotland.
HARTFORD, CONN.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Preface 1
CHAPTER I.
Beauty an Element of the Mind--Our Native Land--Auld Lang Syne--General
Description of Scotland--Extent of Population--Spirit of the People--The
Highlands--The Lowlands--Burns's 'Genius of Scotland'--Natural and Moral
Aspects of the Country--'The Cotter's Saturday Night'--Sources of
Prosperity 11
CHAPTER II.
The city of Edinburgh--Views from Arthur's Seat--The Poems of
Richard Gall--'Farewell to Ayrshire'--'Arthur's Seat, a
Poem'--Extracts--Craigmillar Castle--The Forth, Roslin Castle
and the Pentland Hills--Liberty 32
CHAPTER III.
Walk to the Castle--The Old Wynds and their Occupants--Regalia of
Scotland--Storming of the Castle--Views from its Summit--Heriot's
Hospital--Other Hospitals--St. Giles's Cathedral--Changes--The
Spirit of Protestantism 42
CHAPTER IV.
John Knox's House--History of the Reformer--His Character--Carlyle's
View--Testimony of John Milton 53
CHAPTER V.
Edinburgh University--Professor Wilson--His Life and Writings, Genius
and Character 62
CHAPTER VI.
The Calton Hill--Burns's Monument--Character and Writings of 'the
Peasant Poet'--His Religious Views--Monument of Professor Dugald
Stewart--Scottish Metaphysics--Thomas Carlyle 77
CHAPTER VII.
Preaching in Edinburgh--The Free Church--Dr. Chalmers--A Specimen
of his Preaching--The Secret of his Eloquence 99
CHAPTER VIII.
Biographical Sketch of Dr. Chalmers 113
CHAPTER IX.
Dr. John Brown of Edinburgh--Rev. John Brown of Whiteburn--Professor
John Brown of Haddington--Rev. Dr. Candlish--Specimen of his
Preaching 126
CHAPTER X.
Ride into the Country--The Skylark--Poems on the Skylark by
Shelley and the 'Ettrick Shepherd'--Newhall--'The Gentle
Shepherd'--Localities and Outlines of the Story--Its Popularity
in Scotland 138
CHAPTER XI.
Biographical Sketch of Allan Ramsay--Lasswade--Ramble along the
banks of the North Esk--Glenesk--A Character--Anecdote of Sir
Walter Scott--Hawthornden--Drummond, the Poet--His Character
and Genius--Sonnets--Chapel and Castle of Roslin--Barons of
Roslin--Ballad of Rosabella--Hunting Match between Robert Bruce
and Sir William St. Clair 157
CHAPTER XII.
Ramble through the Fields--Parish Schools--Recollections of Dominie
Meuross--The South Esk--Borthwick and Crichtoun Castles--New Battle
Abbey--Dalkeith--Residence of the Duke of Buccleugh--'Scotland's
Skaith,' by Hector Macneil--His Character and Writings--Extracts
from the 'History of Will and Jean' 183
CHAPTER XIII.
City of Glasgow--Spirit of the Place--Trade and Manufactures--The
Broomielaw--Steam--George's Square--Monuments to Sir Walter Scott,
Sir John Moore, and James Watt--Sketch of the Life of Watt--Glasgow
University--Reminiscences--Brougham--Sir D. K. Sandford--Professor
Nichol and others--High Kirk, or Glasgow Cathedral--Martyrdom
of Jerome Russel and John Kennedy 197
CHAPTER XIV.
The Necropolis--Jewish Burial Place--Monument to John Knox--Monuments
of William Macgavin and Dr. Dick--Reminiscences--Character and
Writings of Dr. Dick--Pollok and 'the Course of Time'--Grave of
Motherwell--Sketch of his Life--His Genius and Poetry--'Jeanie
Morrison'--'My Heid is like to rend, Willie'--'A Summer Sabbath
Noon' 209
CHAPTER XV.
Dumbarton Castle--Lochlomond--Luss--Ascent of Benlomond--Magnificent
Views--Ride to Loch-Katrine--Rob Roy Macgregor--'Gathering of Clan
Gregor'--Loch-Katrine and the Trosachs--The City of Perth--Martyrdom
of Helen Stark and her husband 231
CHAPTER XVI.
Sabbath Morning--'The Sabbath,' by James Grahame--Sketch of his
Life--Extracts from his Poetry--The Cameronians--'Dream of the
Martyrs,' by James Hislop--Sabbath Morning Walk--Country Church--The
Old Preacher--The Interval of Worship--Conversation in the
Church-yard--Going Home from Church--Sabbath Evening 244
CHAPTER XVII.
Lochleven--Escape of Queen Mary from Lochleven Castle--Michael
Bruce--Sketch of his Life--Boyhood--College
Life--Poetry--'Lochleven'--Sickness--'Ode to Spring'--Death--'Ode
to the Cuckoo' 260
CHAPTER XVIII.
Dunfermline--Ruins of the Abbey--Grave of Robert Bruce--Malcolm
Canmore's Palace--William Henryson, the poet--William Dunbar--Stirling
Castle--Views from its Summit--City of Stirling--George Buchanan
and Dr. Arthur Johnston--Falkirk--Linlithgow--Story of the Capture
of Linlithgow Castle--Spirit of War--Arrival in Edinburgh 284
CHAPTER XIX.
Journey to Peebles--Characters--Conversation on Politics--Scottish
Peasantry--Peebles--'Christ's Kirk on the Green'--A Legend--An old
Church--The Banks of the Tweed--Its ancient Castles--The Alarm
Fire--Excursion to the Vales of Ettrick and Yarrow--Stream of
Yarrow--St. Mary's Lake and Dryhope Tower--'The Dowie Dens of
Yarrow'--Growth of Poetry--Ballads and Poems on Yarrow by Hamilton,
Logan and Wordsworth 295
CHAPTER XX.
Hamlet and Church-yard of Ettrick--Monument to Thomas
Boston--Birth-place of the Ettrick Shepherd--Altrieve
Cottage--Biographical Sketch of the Ettrick Shepherd--The Town of
Selkirk--Monument to Sir Walter Scott--Battle-field of Philiphangh 319
CHAPTER XXI.
Return to the Banks of the Tweed--Abbotsford--The Study--Biographical
Sketch of Sir Walter Scott--His Early Life--Residence in the
Country--Spirit of Romance--Education--First Efforts as an
Author--Success of 'Marmion'--Character of his Poetry--Literary
Change--His Novels--Pecuniary Difficulties--Astonishing
Efforts--Last Sickness--Death and Funeral 334
CHAPTER XXII.
Melrose Abbey--The Eildon Hills--Thomas the Rhymer--Dryburgh--Monuments
to the Author of 'The Seasons' and Sir William Wallace--Kelso--Beautiful
Scenery--A Pleasant Evening--Biographical Sketch of Leyden, Poet,
Antiquary, Scholar and Traveller--The Duncan Family--Journey
Resumed--Twisel Bridge--Battle of Flodden--Norham Castle--Berwick
upon Tweed--Biographical Sketch of Thomas Mackay Wilson, author of 'The
Border Tales'--Conclusion--'Auld Lang Syne' 351
GENIUS OF SCOTLAND.
CHAPTER I.
Beauty an Element of the Mind--Our Native Land--Auld Lang
Syne--General Description of Scotland--Extent of Population--Spirit
of the People--The Highlands--The Lowlands--Burns's 'Genius of
Scotland'--Natural and Moral Aspects of the Country--'The Cotter's
Saturday Night'--Sources of Prosperity.
The theory has become prevalent among philosophers, and even among
literary men, that beauty is more an element of the mind than of
external objects. Things, say they, are not what they seem. Their
aspects are ever varying with the minds which gaze upon them. They
change even under the eyes of the same individuals. A striking
illustration of this may be found in the opening stanza of Wordsworth's
Ode to Immortality.
There was a time when meadow, grove and stream,
The earth and every common sight
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
It is the mind then, which transfers its own ethereal colors to the
forms of matter, and invests scenes and places with new and peculiar
attractions. Like the light of the moon streaming through a leafy grove
and transforming its darkness into its own radiant beauty, the spirit of
man diffuses its own inspiration through the universe,
"Making all nature
Beauty to the eye and music to the ear."
Now if this theory be true, it follows that no country will appear to us
so beautiful as the one which happens to be endeared to our hearts by
early recollections and pleasant associations. No matter how rude and
wild,--that spot of all others on earth, will appear to us the sweetest
and most attractive! 'New England,' says a native of Massachusetts or of
Vermont, 'is the glory of all lands. No hills and vales are more
picturesque than hers, no rivers more clear and beautiful.' 'Visit
Naples, and die!' exclaims the Neapolitan, proud of his classic home.
'Green Erin, my darling,' is the fond language of the Hibernian, 'first
gem of the ocean, first flower of the sea.' 'Here's a health,' shouts
the native of Caledonia, 'bonny Scotland to thee!' Others may speak
disparagingly of the sour climate and barren soil of Scotland; but to a
native of that country, the land of his fathers is invested with all the
charms of poetry and romance. Every spot of its varied surface is
hallowed ground. He sees its rugged rocks and desolate moors mantled
with the hoary memories of by-gone days, the thrilling associations of
childhood and youth. Therefore, with a meaning and emphasis, which all
who love their native land will appreciate, he appropriates the words of
the poet:--
Land of the forest and the rock,
Of dark blue lake and mighty river,
Of mountains reared aloft to mock,
The storm's career, the lightning's shock,
My own green land forever!
Land of the beautiful and brave!
The freeman's home, the martyr's grave!
The nursery of giant men,
Whose deeds have linked with every glen,
The magic of a warrior's name!
Does not Scotland, however inferior, in some respects it may be deemed
to other lands, possess a peculiar charm to all cultivated minds?[1]
What visions of ancient glory cluster around the time-honored name!
What associations of 'wild native grandeur,'--of wizard beauty, and
rough magnificence. What gleams of 'poetic sunlight,'--what
recollections of martial daring by flood and field,--what hallowed faith
and burning zeal,--what martyr toils and martyr graves, monuments of
freedom's struggles and freedom's triumphs in moor or glen,--what
'lights and shadows' of love and passion,--what ancient songs, echoing
among the hills,--what blessed sabbath calm,--what lofty inspiration of
the Bible and covenant,--in a word, what dear and hallowed memories of
that 'Auld lang syne,' indigenous only to Scotland, though known
throughout the world! Should this be deemed enthusiastic, let it, and
all else of a similar character which may be found in this volume, be
ascribed to a natural and not unpardonable feeling on the part of the
writer. The remembrance of 'Auld lang syne' can never be extinguished.
Except the hope of heaven, it is our best and holiest heritage.
[Footnote 1: The following eloquent passage from an address by the
Honorable Edward Everett, before the "Scots' Charitable Society,"
Boston, well illustrates the fact referred to.
"Not to speak of the worthies of ages long passed; of the Knoxes, the
Buchanans, and the early minstrelsy of the border; the land of your
fathers, sir, since it ceased to be a separate kingdom, has, through the
intellect of her gifted sons, acquired a supremacy over the minds of men
more extensive and more enduring, than that of Alexander or Augustus. It
would be impossible to enumerate them all,--the Blairs of the last
generation, the Chalmerses of this; the Robertsons, and Humes; the
Smiths, the Reids, the Stuarts, the Browns; the Homes, the Mackenzies;
the Mackintoshes, the Broughams, the Jeffreys, with their distinguished
compeers, both on physical and moral science. The Marys and the
Elizabeths, the Jameses and the Charleses will be forgotten, before
these names will perish from the memory of men. And when I add to them
those other illustrious names--Burns, Campbell, Byron, and Scott, may I
not truly say, sir, that the throne and the sceptre of England will
crumble into dust like those of Scotland: and Windsor Castle and
Westminster Abbey will lie in ruins as poor and desolate as those of
Scone and Iona, before the lords of Scottish song shall cease to reign
in the hearts of men.
For myself, sir, I confess that I love Scotland. I have reason to do so.
I have trod the soil of the
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
I have looked up to the cloud-capt summit of Ben Lomond; have glided
among the fairy islets of Loch Katrine; and from the battlements of
Stirling Castle, have beheld the links of Forth sparkling in the morning
sun. I have done more, sir; I have tasted that generous hospitality of
Scotland, which her Majesty's Consul has so justly commemorated; I have
held converse with her most eminent sons; I have made my pilgrimage to
Melrose Abbey, in company with that modern magician, who, mightier than
the magician of old that sleeps beneath the marble floor of its chancel,
has hung the garlands of immortal poesy upon its shattered arches, and
made its moss-clad ruins a shrine, to be visited by the votary of the
muse from the remotest corners of the earth, to the end of time. Yes,
sir, musing as I did, in my youth, over the sepulchre of the wizard,
once pointed out by the bloody stain of the cross and the image of the
archangel:--standing within that consecrated enclosure, under the
friendly guidance of him whose genius has made it holy ground; while
every nerve within me thrilled with excitement, my fancy kindled with
the inspiration of the spot. I seemed to behold, not the vision so
magnificently described by the minstrel,--the light, which, as the tomb
was opened,
broke forth so gloriously,
Streamed upward to the chancel roof,
And through the galleries far aloof:
But I could fancy that I beheld, with sensible perception, the brighter
light, which had broken forth from the master mind; which had streamed
from his illumined page all-gloriously upward, above the pinnacles of
worldly grandeur, till it mingled its equal beams, with that of the
brightest constellations, in the intellectual firmament of England."]
As 'Auld Lang Syne' brings Scotland one and all,
Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills and clear streams,
The Dee, the Don, Balgownies brig's black wall,
All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams
Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall,
Like Banquo's offspring; floating past me seems
My childhood, in this childishness of mind;
I care not;--'tis a glimpse of 'Auld Lang Syne.'
BYRON.
Beautiful is New England, resembling as she does, in many of her
features, 'Auld Scotia's hills and dales,' and moreover being much akin
to her, in religious sentiment and the love of freedom; so that a native
of either might well be forgiven for clinging with peculiar fondness to
the land of his birth, and, in certain moods of mind, prefering it to
all the world beside. Though far away, and even loving the place of his
estrangement, he cannot, if he would, altogether renounce those ties
which bind him to his early home. A 'viewless chain,' which crosses
ocean and continent, conveys from the one to the other that subtle, yet
gracious influence, which is quicker and stronger than the lightning's
gleam. Let no one then be surprised if a Scotsman in New England, the
cherished land of his adoption, should solace his mind with the
recollection of early days, and endeavor to set before others the
characteristic beauties and excellences of his native country.
O Caledonia, stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! What mortal hand,
Can e'er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand!
"Scotland," as one of her own sons has expressed it, "is a wee bit
country," but possessed of "muckle pith and spirit." Its surface is
rough and mountainous, with beautiful patches of rich arable land along
the courses of its streams, and extensive level meadows, called Carses,
as the Carse of Falkirk, and the Carse of Gowrie. It is of unequal
breadth, being much indented with bays and creeks, and stretches some
two hundred and eighty miles in length, reckoning from its most
southerly point, the Mull of Galloway, to Dunnet's Head, its most
northern extremity. This probably would be a little farther than from
"Maiden Kirk to Johnny Groat's," the "from Dan to Beersheba" of
Scotland. Clustering around its western and northern sides are the
Hebrides, the Shetland and the Orkney islands; wild and rocky isles,
with rude and primitive inhabitants, constituting the Ultima Thule of
Great Britain. In Scotland, a considerable portion of the land is
uncultivated, consisting of heathy hills, mountains and moors; and the
most of that which is cultivated has been rendered productive by the
hand of art and industry. Like Switzerland, it is comparatively a poor
country, but has been made rich by the generative powers of mind. Her
wealth consists in the brawny arms and vigorous intellects of her sons.
The climate is cold and variable, though milder in winter than that of
New England, and in summer cooler, and upon the whole, more agreeable,
except when dense fogs and long-continued rains prevail.
The population is over two millions and a half, and is gradually
increasing, though the people, like those of New England, are greatly
given to migration, and may be found in every part of the world. Its
commerce and manufactures are, for its size, very extensive. They have
increased, since 1814, from twenty-five to thirty per cent. Agriculture
and the mechanic arts have been carried to a high degree of perfection.
While the people are characteristically cautious and slow, "looking
before they leap," to quote one of their favorite proverbs, they are
bold and enterprising, and thus leap long and successfully. Few nations
have accomplished so much in literature or trade, in science or the arts
of industry. Their highest distinction, however, consists in their
spirit of love and fealty, their leal-heartedness, their contempt of
sham, their passionate love of freedom, their zeal for God and the
truth! Obstinate and wrong-headed at times, characteristically dogmatic,
and perhaps a little intolerant, their very faults lean to virtue's
side, and go to the support of goodness. Their punctiliousness and
pride, their dogged adherence to what they conceive to be right, and
their vehement mode of defending it, constitute the rough and prickly
bark which defends the precious tree. One thing is certain, they are
transparent as daylight, and honest as their own heathy hills.
They are preeminently a religious people, protestant to the backbone,
occasionally rough and impetuous in the expression of their opinions,
but never formal, never indecorous. A profound enthusiasm, bordering on
fanaticism, a passionate, though not boisterous or canting devotion, a
fine sense of the grand and beautiful, intermingled with a keen
conscientiousness, an ardent love of freedom, with a boundless trust in
God, form the great elements of their religious life. Their theology is
chiefly Calvinistic, apparently philosophical and dogmatic, but rather
less so than popular and practical. Of cathedrals, old and dim, of
masses, chants and processions, the pomp and circumstance of a
magnificent ritual, they have none.[2] But of old and glorious memories,
solemn temples among the woods and hills, hallowed grave-yards, blessed
sacraments, and national enthusiasm, they have abundance. Their religion
is a part of the soil. It is indigenous to the country. It grew up among
the mountains, was nursed by 'wizard streams,' and 'led forth' with the
voice of psalms, among 'the green pastures of the wilderness.' Somewhat
forbidding at first, like the rough aspect of the country, it appears
equally picturesque and beautiful, when really known and loved. It is
the religion not of form but of substance, of deep inward emotion, not
of outward pretension and show. Neither is it a sickly sentimentalism
which lives on poetic musings, and matures only in cloistered shades and
moonlight groves; but it is a healthy, robust principle which goes forth
to do and to suffer the will of Heaven. Its head and heart are sound,
and its works praise it in the gate. Beautiful as the visions of fancy,
it is yet strong as the everlasting hills among which it was reared. In
a word, it is the religion of faith and love, the religion of the old
puritans, of the martyrs and confessors of primitive times. Welling out
forever from the unstained fountains of the Word of God, it has marked
its course over the fair face of Scotland, with the greenest verdure,
the sweetest flowers.
[Footnote 2: This is spoken, of course, of the great body of the
people.]
Scotland is naturally divided into Highlands and Lowlands. The former
includes, besides the various groups of islands on the north and
north-west coast, the counties of Argyle, Inverness, Nairn, Ross,
Cromarty, Sutherland and Caithness, with portions of Dumbarton,
Stirling, Perth, Forfar, "Aberdeen awa," Banff and Elgin, or the more
northerly regions of the country, protected and beautified by the mighty
range of the Grampians, commencing at the southern extremity of Loch
Etive, and terminating at the mouth of the Dee on the eastern coast. The
Highlands again are divided into two unequal portions by the beautiful
chain of lochs, or lakes running through the Glenmore-Nan-Albin, or
Great Glen of Caledonia, forming some of the wildest and richest scenery
in the world. To the north are the giant mountains of Macdui, Cairngorm,
Ben-Aven and Ben-More, while nearer the Lowlands, rise the lofty
Ben-Lomond, and the hoary Ben-Awe. Under their shadows gleam the storied
lochs, the wild tarns and trosachs, whose picturesque and romantic
beauties have been immortalized by the pens of Burns, Scott, and Wilson.
To the south and east of the Grampian range, and running parallel to
them, you discover a chain of lower and more verdant hills, bearing the
well known and poetical names of the Sidlaw, Campsie and Ochil hills.
These are divided by the fertile valleys of the Tay and Forth. Between
them and the Grampians lies the low and charming valley of Strathmore.
The "silver Tay," one of the finest rivers in Scotland, rises in
Breadalbane, expands into lake Dochart, flows in an easterly direction
through the vale of Glendochart, expands again into the long and
beautiful Loch Tay, which runs like a belt of silver among the hills,
whence issuing, it receives various accessions from other streams,
passes on in a southerly direction to Dunkeld, famous for its ancient
Abbey and lovely scenery, skirts the ancient and delightful city of
Perth, below which it is joined by its great tributary the Earn, which
flows, in serpentine windings, through the rich vale of Strath-Earn,
touches the populous and thriving town of Dundee, and gradually widens
into the Firth of Tay, whose clear waters mirror the white skiff or
magnificent steamer, and imperceptibly mingle with the waves of the
Northern Sea. Further north, the rapid Spey, springing from the 'braes
of Badenoch' near Lochaber, passes tumultuously through a rough and
mountainous country, lingering occasionally, as if to rest itself in
some deep glen, crosses the ancient province of Moray, famous for its
floods, so admirably described by Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, passes
Kinrara, "whence, for a few miles, it is attended by a series of
landscapes, alike various, singular and magnificent," after which, it
moves, with a monotonous aspect, and a steady pace, to the sea. Portions
of the country through which this river passes are exceedingly sterile
and wild. Covered with the birch, the alder and the pine, varied by
rugged rocks and desolate moors, it admirably corresponds to our
notions of Caledonia, in her ancient and primitive integrity.
In the more remote and northern regions of the Highlands, and in most of
the Scottish isles, the Gaelic, or Erse, a primitive and energetic
tongue, somewhat akin to the Welsh or Irish, is spoken by a majority of
the inhabitants. In other parts of Scotland, the English, with a
Scottish idiom, is the prevalent speech. The literature of the Gaelic is
exceedingly limited, confined chiefly to old ballads, songs and
traditionary stories. The poems of Ossian are doubtless the production
of Macpherson, their professed translator, while they probably contain a
few translated fragments, and some traditionary facts and conceptions
afloat among the Highlanders, ingeniously interwoven with the main
fabric of the work.
The Highlanders are a simple-hearted, primitive race, mostly poor, and
imperfectly educated. Those of them that are wealthy and well educated,
are said to be remarkably acute, courteous, and agreeable.
The Lowlands of Scotland comprehend the south and southeastern portions
of the country, and though not the grandest and most romantic, are by
far the best cultivated, and in some respects the most beautiful.
Including the level ground on the eastern coast to the south of the
Moray Firth, they stretch along the coast through portions of
Perthshire, and the old kingdom of Fife, towards the regions bounded on
either side, by the river and the Firth of Forth, and thence to
Kircudbright and the English border, including the principal cities,
the most fertile tracts of arable land, the rivers Forth, Clyde and
Tweed, and the range of the Cheviot hills, which extend from the north
of England towards the north-west, join the Louther hills in the region
of Ettrick and Yarrow, with their'silver streams,' pass through the
southern part of Ayrshire and terminate at Loch Ryan, in the Irish
Channel. The Clyde is the most important commercial river in Scotland.
Taking its origin among the mountains of the south, not far from the
early home of its beautiful and more classic sisters, the Tweed and the
Annan, it runs in many capricious windings, in a northwesterly
direction, leaps in foaming cascades first at Bonnington, and then at
Cora Linn, rushes on through the fine country of Lanarkshire, till,
joined by many tributary streams, it passes through the large and
flourishing city of Glasgow, bearing upon its bosom the vast commerce
and population of the neighboring regions, flows around the walls of old
Dumbarton Castle, with its time-worn battlements and glorious memories,
in sight, too, of the lofty Ben Lomond, and the beautiful lake which it
protects, touches the ancient city of Greenock, expands into the Firth
of Clyde, and gradually loses itself amid the picturesque islands which
adorn the western coast of Scotland.
Were it possible, by placing ourselves upon some lofty elevation, to
take in at one glance, the whole of this varied landscape of lake,
river, and mountain; of tarn, trosach and moor, with verdant vales, and
woody <DW72>s between, we should confess that it was one of as rare
beauty and wild magnificence as ever greeted the vision of man. And were
our minds steeped in ancient and poetic lore, we should be prepared to
appreciate the faithfulness and splendor of Burns's allegorical
description of the "Genius of Scotland."
"Green, slender, leaf-clad holly boughs,
Were twisted gracefu' round her brows,
I took her for some Scottish Muse,
By that same token,
And come to stop those reckless vows
Would soon be broken.
A hair-brained sentimental trace,
Was strongly marked in her face;
A wildly witty-rustic grace,
Shone full upon her,
Her eye e'en turned on empty space,
Beamed keen with honor.
Her mantle large, of greenish hue,
My gazing wonder chiefly drew,
Deep _lights and shadows_ mingling threw
A lustre grand;
And seemed, to my astonished view
A _well known land_!
Here rivers in the sea were lost;
There mountains in the skies were tost;
Here tumbling billows marked the coast,
With surging foam;
There, distant shone, Art's lofty boast,
The lordly dome.
Here Doon poured down his far-fetched floods;
There well fed Irwine stately thuds:
Auld hermit Ayr staw through his woods,
On to the shore;
And many a lesser torrent scuds
With seeming roar.
Low in a sandy valley spread,
An ancient _borough_ reared her head
Still as in Scottish story read,
She boasts a race,
To every nobler virtue bred,
And polished grace.
By stately tower or palace fair
Or ruins pendent in the air
Bold stems of heroes here and there,
I could discern;
Some seemed to muse, some seemed to dare
With feature stern."
Now, imagine | 234.785089 |
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ADVENTURES AND LETTERS
OF
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS
EDITED BY
CHARLES BELMONT DAVIS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE EARLY DAYS
II. COLLEGE DAYS
III. FIRST NEWSPAPER EXPERIENCES
IV. NEW YORK
V. FIRST TRAVEL ARTICLES
VI. THE MEDITERRANEAN AND PARIS
VII. FIRST PLAYS
VIII. CENTRAL AND SOUTH AMERICA
IX. MOSCOW, BUDAPEST, LONDON
X. CAMPAIGNING IN CUBA, AND GREECE
XI. THE SPANISH-AMERICAN WAR
XII. THE BOER WAR
XIII. THE SPANISH AND ENGLISH CORONATIONS
XIV. THE JAPANESE-RUSSIAN WAR
XV. MOUNT KISCO
XVI. THE CONGO
XVII. A LONDON WINTER
XVIII. MILITARY MANOEUVRES
XIX. VERA CRUZ AND THE GREAT WAR
XX. THE LAST DAYS
CHAPTER I
THE EARLY DAYS
Richard Harding Davis was born in Philadelphia on April 18, 1864, but,
so far as memory serves me, his life and mine began together several
years later in the three-story brick house on South Twenty-first
Street, to which we had just moved. For more than forty years this was
our home in all that the word implies, and I do not believe that there
was ever a moment when it was not the predominating influence in
Richard's life and in his work. As I learned in later years, the house
had come into the possession of my father and mother after a period on
their part of hard endeavor and unusual sacrifice. It was their
ambition to add to this home not only the comforts and the beautiful
inanimate things of life, but to create an atmosphere which would prove
a constant help to those who lived under its roof--an inspiration to
their children that should endure so long as they lived. At the time
of my brother's death the fact was frequently commented upon that,
unlike most literary folk, he had never known what it was to be poor
and to suffer the pangs of hunger and failure. That he never suffered
from the lack of a home was certainly as true as that in his work he
knew but little of failure, for the first stories he wrote for the
magazines brought him into a prominence and popularity that lasted
until the end. But if Richard gained his success early in life and was
blessed with a very lovely home to which he could always return, he was
not brought up in a manner which in any way could be called lavish.
Lavish he may have been in later years, but if he was it was with the
money for which those who knew him best knew how very hard he had
worked.
In a general way, I cannot remember that our life as boys differed in
any essential from that of other boys. My brother went to the
Episcopal Academy and his weekly report never failed to fill the whole
house with an impenetrable gloom and ever-increasing fears as to the
possibilities of his future. At school and at college Richard was, to
say the least, an indifferent student. And what made this undeniable
fact so annoying, particularly to his teachers, was that morally he
stood so very high. To "crib," to lie, or in any way to cheat or to do
any unworthy act was, I believe, quite beyond his understanding.
Therefore, while his constant lack of interest in his studies goaded
his teachers to despair, when it came to a question of stamping out
wrongdoing on the part of the student body he was invariably found
aligned on the side of the faculty. Not that Richard in any way
resembled a prig or was even, so far as I know, ever so considered by
the most reprehensible of his fellow students. He was altogether too
red-blooded for that, and I believe the students whom he antagonized
rather admired his chivalric point of honor even if they failed to
imitate it. As a schoolboy he was aggressive, radical, outspoken,
fearless, usually of the opposition and, indeed, often the sole member
of his own party. Among the students at the several schools he
attended he had but few intimate friends; but of the various little
groups of which he happened to be a member his aggressiveness and his
imagination usually made him the leader. As far back as I can
remember, Richard was always starting something--usually a new club or
a violent reform movement. And in school or college, as in all the
other walks of life, the reformer must, of necessity, lead a somewhat
tempestuous, if happy, existence. The following letter, written to his
father when Richard was a student at Swarthmore, and about fifteen,
will give an idea of his conception of the ethics in the case:
SWARTHMORE--1880.
DEAR PAPA:
I am quite on the Potomac. I with all the boys at our table were
called up, there is seven of us, before Prex. for stealing sugar-bowls
and things off the table. All the youths said, "O President, I didn't
do it." When it came my turn I merely smiled gravely, and he passed on
to the last. Then he said, "The only boy that doesn't deny it is
Davis. Davis, you are excused. I wish to talk to the rest of them."
That all goes to show he can be a gentleman if he would only try. I am
a natural born philosopher so I thought this idea is too idiotic for me
to converse about so I recommend silence and I also argued that to deny
you must necessarily be accused and to be accused of stealing would of
course cause me to bid Prex. good-by, so the only way was, taking these
two considerations with each other, to deny nothing but let the
good-natured old duffer see how silly it was by retaining a placid
silence and so crushing his base but thoughtless behavior and
machinations.
DICK.
In the early days at home--that is, when the sun shone--we played
cricket and baseball and football in our very spacious back yard, and
the programme of our sports was always subject to Richard's change
without notice. When it rained we adjourned to the third-story front,
where we played melodrama of simple plot but many thrills, and it was
always Richard who wrote the plays, produced them, and played the
principal part. As I recall these dramas of my early youth, | 234.78513 |
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Produced by Heather Clark, John Campbell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Bold text is denoted by =equal signs=.
Superscript letters are denoted by ^, for example y^e and Serv^t.
A number following the ^ indicates the generation of the family, for
example Joseph,^3 is in the third generation of the (Parsons) family.
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.
More detail can be found at the end of the book.
=VOL. I. JULY, 1847. NO. 3.=
THE
NEW ENGLAND
=HISTORICAL & GENEALOGICAL REGISTER:=
PUBLISHED QUARTERLY,
UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE
NEW ENGLAND HISTORIC, GENEALOGICAL SOCIETY.
REV. WILLIAM COGSWELL, D. D., EDITOR.
[Illustration]
BOSTON:
SAMUEL G. DRAKE, PUBLISHER,
NO. 56 CORNHILL.
1847.
COOLIDGE & WILEY, Printers, 12 Water Street.
CONTENTS.
Page
Memoir of Governor Endecott, 201
Original Covenant of the First Church in Massachusetts Colony, 224
Heraldry, 225
Heraldic Plate, 231
Ratification of the Federal Constitution by Massachusetts, 232
Letter of Chief-Justice Sargent, 237
Complete List of the Ministers of Boston, 240
Congregational Ministers and Churches in Rockingham County, N. H., 244
Genealogy of the Wolcott Family, 251
Genealogy of the Minot Family, 256
Genealogy of the Parsons Family, 263
Ancient Bible in the Bradford Family, 275
Biographical Notices of Physicians in Rochester, N. H., 276
Sketches of Alumni at the different Colleges in New England, 278
Advice of a Dying Father to his Son, 284
Relationship, 285
Decease of the Fathers of New England, 286
New England, 288
Arrival of Early New England Ministers, 289
Genealogies and their Moral, 290
First Settlers of Rhode Island, 291
Marriages and Deaths, 292
Notices of New Publications, 293
[Illustration: (Portrait of John Endecott, Governor.)]
NEW ENGLAND
HISTORICAL AND GENEALOGICAL REGISTER.
VOL. I. JULY, 1847. NO. 3.
MEMOIR OF GOVERNOR ENDECOTT.[1]
It is now upwards of two centuries and a quarter since the despotic
sway of the English Sovereigns over the consciences of their
subjects, induced all who entertained different sentiments from those
of the established church, to turn their eyes towards the wilderness
of America, as an asylum from the unnatural persecutions of the
Mother Country.
With this in view, some of the principal men among those who had
already sought a refuge in Holland, commenced treating with the
Virginia Company, and at the same time took measures to ascertain
whether the King would grant them liberty of conscience should they
remove thither. They ultimately effected a satisfactory arrangement
with the Company, but from James they could obtain no public
recognition of religious liberty, but merely a promise, that if
they behaved peaceably he would not molest them on account of their
religious opinions.
On the 6th of September, 1620, a detachment from the Church at
Leyden set sail from Plymouth for the Virginia territory, but owing
to the treachery of the master,[2] they were landed at Cape Cod,
and ultimately at Plymouth, on the 11th day of December following.
Finding themselves without the jurisdiction of the Virginia Company,
they established a distinct government for themselves.
In the year 1624, the success of this plantation was so favorably
represented in the West of England, that the Rev. John White, a
distinguished minister in Dorchester, prevailed upon some merchants
and others to undertake another settlement in New England. Having
provided a common stock, they sent over several persons to begin a
plantation at Cape Ann, where they were joined by some disaffected
individuals from the Plymouth settlement. This project was soon
abandoned as unprofitable, and a portion of the settlers removed
westward within the territory of Naumkeag, which then included
what is now Manchester. By the intercession and great exertions
of Mr. White, the project of a settlement in that quarter was not
altogether relinquished, but a new company was soon afterwards
formed. One of this company, and the principal one to carry its
objects into immediate effect, was the subject of this Memoir. He
was in the _strictest_ sense of the word a _Puritan_,--one of a
sect composed, as an able foreign writer has said, of the "most
remarkable body of men which perhaps the world has ever produced.
They were men whose minds had derived a peculiar character from the
daily contemplation of superior beings and eternal interests. Not
content with acknowledging in general terms an overruling Providence,
they habitually ascribed every event to the will of the Great Being
for whose power nothing was too vast, for whose inspection nothing
was too minute. To know him, to serve him, to enjoy him, was with
them the great end of existence. They rejected with contempt the
ceremonious homage which other sects substituted for the homage of
the soul. On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they
looked down with contempt; for they esteemed themselves rich in a
more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime language;
nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and priests by the
imposition of a mightier hand."
* * * * *
JOHN ENDECOTT, whose name is so intimately associated with the first
settlement of this country, and with whose early history his own is
so closely interwoven, that, in the language of the late Rev. Dr.
Bentley,[3] "above all others he deserved the name of _the_ FATHER OF
NEW ENGLAND," was born in Dorchester, Dorsetshire, England, in the
year 1588. He was a man of good intellectual endowments and mental
culture, and of a fearless and independent spirit, which well fitted
him for the various and trying duties he was destined to perform. Of
his early life, and private and domestic character, little is known;
neither are we much better informed as to his parentage, except
that his family was of respectable standing and moderate fortunes.
He belonged to that class in England called esquires, or gentlemen,
composed mostly at that period of the independent landholders of the
realm. With the exception, therefore, of a few leading incidents,
we are reluctantly obliged to pass over nearly the whole period of
Mr. Endecott's life, previous to his engaging in the enterprise for
the settlement of New England. History is almost silent upon the
subject, and the tradition of the family has been but imperfectly
transmitted and preserved. His letters, the only written productions
which are left us, furnish internal evidence that he was a man of
liberal education and cultivated mind. There are proofs of his
having been, at some period of his life, a surgeon;[4] yet, as he
is always alluded to, in the earliest records of the Massachusetts
Company, by the title of Captain, there can be no doubt whatever
that at some time previous to his emigration to this country, he had
held a commission in the army; and his subsequently passing through
the several military grades to that of Sergeant Major-General of
Massachusetts, justifies this conclusion, while the causes which led
to this change in his profession cannot now be ascertained.
While a resident in London, he married a lady of an influential
family, by the name of Anna Gouer, by whom, it is understood, he
had no children. She was cousin to Matthew Cradock, the Governor
of the Massachusetts Company in England. If tradition be correct,
the circumstances which brought about this connection were similar
to those which are related of John Alden and Miles Standish. Some
needle-work, wrought by this lady, is still preserved in the Museum
of the Salem East India Marine Society.[5] Mr. Endecott was also a
brother-in-law of Roger Ludlow, Assistant and Deputy Governor of
Massachusetts Colony, in the year 1634, and afterwards famous for the
distinguished part he took in the government of Connecticut.
But Mr. Endecott's highest claim to distinction rests upon the fact
that he was an intrepid and successful leader of the Pilgrims, and
the earliest pioneer of the Massachusetts settlement under the
Patent. His name is found enrolled among the very foremost of that
noble band, the fathers and founders of New England--those pious and
devout men, who, firm in the faith of the gospel, and trusting in
God, went fearlessly forward in the daring enterprise, and hewed
their homes and their altars out of the wild forest, where they
could worship "the God of their fathers agreeably to the dictates
of their own consciences." Such was the persecution to which the
Non-conformists in England were at this period subjected, that the
works of nature were the only safe witnesses of their devotions.
Deriving no honor, so far as we know, from illustrious ancestry, Mr.
Endecott was the architect of his own fame, and won the laurels which
encircle his name amid sacrifices, sufferings, and trials, better
suited to adorn an historical romance, than to accompany a plain tale
of real life.
Under the guidance and influence of the Rev. Mr. Skelton, he embraced
the principles of the Puritans; and in the beginning of the year
1628, associated himself with Sir Henry Roswell, Sir John Young,
Simon Whetcomb, John Humphrey, and Thomas Southcoat, in the purchase
of a grant, "by a considerable sum of money," for the settlement
of the Massachusetts Bay, from the Plymouth Council in England.
This grant was subsequently confirmed by Patent from Charles I. Mr.
Endecott was one of the original patentees, and among the first of
that company who emigrated to this country.
Whatever may have been the objects of the first settlers generally
in colonizing New England, there can be no doubt that _his_ was the
establishment and enjoyment of the gospel and its ordinances, as he
supposed, in primitive purity, unmolested. With him it was wholly a
religious enterprise.
He sailed from Weymouth, in the ship Abigail, Henry Gauden, master,
on the 20th of June, 1628, and arrived in safety at Naumkeag, the
place of his destination, on the 6th of September following. The
company consisted of about one hundred planters.
The following extract from "Johnson's Wonder-Working Providence"
will illustrate the estimation in which he was held at this period.
"The much honored John Indicat came over with them, to governe; a
fit instrument to begin this Wildernesse-worke; of courage bold,
undaunted, yet sociable, and of a cheerfull spirit, loving and
austere, applying himselfe to either as occasion served. And now let
no man be offended at the Author's rude Verse, penned of purpose to
keepe in memory the Names of such worthies as Christ made strong for
himselfe, in this unwonted worke of his.
"_John Endicat, twice Governur of the English, inhabiting the
Mattachusets Bay in N. England._
"Strong valiant John, wilt thou march on, and take up station first,
Christ cal'd hath thee, his Souldier be, and faile not of thy trust;
Wilderness wants Christs grace supplants, then plant his Churches pure,
With Tongues gifted, and graces led, help thou to his procure;
Undaunted thou wilt not allow, Malignant men to wast:
Christs Vineyard heere, whose grace should cheer his well-beloved's tast.
Then honored be, thy Christ hath thee their General promoted:
To shew their love in place above, his people have thee voted.
Yet must thou fall, to grave with all the Nobles of the Earth.
Thou rotting worme to dust must turn, and worse but for new birth."
To this company, under Endecott, belongs the honor of having
formed the first permanent and legally recognized settlement of
the Massachusetts Colony. We do not say that they were the _first_
white men who ever trod the soil; for we know when Endecott landed
on these shores, he found here a few fishermen and others, the
remnant of a planting, trading, and fishing establishment, previously
commenced at Cape Ann, under the auspices of some gentlemen belonging
to Dorchester, his native place, but soon abandoned for want of
success. Their leader, the Rev. John Lyford, had already emigrated
to Virginia, and those of that company who removed their effects
to Salem, consisted at that time of some five or six persons, most
of whom were seceders from the settlement at Plymouth. They were,
however, only sojourners, disaffected with the place, and requiring
all the interest and entreaties of the Rev. John White, a noted
minister in Dorchester, to prevent them from forsaking it altogether,
and following Mr. Lyford to Virginia.[6] But higher motives and
deeper purposes fired the souls and stimulated the hearts of Mr.
Endecott and his friends to commence a settlement, and to form
new homes for themselves and their posterity in this wilderness,
before which the mere considerations of traffic and gain sink into
comparative insignificance. It was the love of religion implanted
deep in the heart, that gave impulse and permanency to the settlement
at Naumkeag, and the Massachusetts Colony generally; and the
commencement of this era was the arrival of Endecott with the first
detachment of those holy and devout men who valued earthly pursuits
only so far as they were consistent with religion. It was also at
this period that a sort of definite reality was imparted to this
region. Previously to this it had been viewed as a sort of _terra
incognita_, situated somewhere in the wilderness of America. But
the arrival of the Pilgrims at this time dispelled the uncertainty
in which it had before been wrapped, and at the same time threw
around it the warmest sympathies and most | 234.786916 |
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THE LAY OF THE LAND
by
DALLAS LORE SHARP
Author of “Wild Life Near Home” and
“Roof and Meadow”
With Drawings by Elizabeth Myers Snagg
[Illustration: LOGO]
Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1908
Copyright 1908 by Dallas Lore Sharp
All Rights Reserved
Published September 1908
To the Memory of my Friend
William Frank Morrison, M. D.
Contents
I. The Muskrats are Building 1
II. Christmas in the Woods 19
III. A Cure for Winter 35
IV. The Nature-Student 56
V. Chickadee 74
VI. The Missing Tooth 89
VII. The Sign of the Shad-bush 105
VIII. The Nature Movement 114
IX. June 127
X. A Broken Feather 137
XI. High Noon 148
XII. The Palace in the Pig-pen 161
XIII. An Account with Nature 175
XIV. The Buzzard of the Bear Swamp 189
XV. The Lay of the Land 200
[Illustration]
I
The Muskrats are Building
WE have had a series of long, heavy rains, and water is standing over
the swampy meadow. It is a dreary stretch, this wet, sedgy land in
the cold twilight, drearier than any part of the woods or the upland
pastures. They are empty, but the meadow is flat and wet, naked and all
unsheltered. And a November night is falling.
The darkness deepens. A raw wind is rising. At nine o’clock the moon
swings round and full to the crest of the ridge, and pours softly over.
I button the heavy ulster close, and in my rubber boots go down to the
river and follow it out to the middle of the meadow, where it meets the
main ditch at the sharp turn toward the swamp. Here at the bend, behind
a clump of black alders, I sit quietly down and wait.
I am not mad, nor melancholy; I am not after copy. Nothing is the
matter with me. I have come out to the bend to watch the muskrats
building, for that small mound up the ditch is not an old haycock, but
a half-finished muskrat house.
The moon climbs higher. The water on the meadow shivers in the light.
The wind bites through my heavy coat and sends me back, but not until
I have seen one, two, three little figures scaling the walls of the
house with loads of mud-and-reed mortar. I am driven back by the cold,
but not until I know that here in the desolate meadow is being rounded
off a lodge, thick-walled and warm, and proof against the longest,
bitterest of winters.
This is near the end of November. My wood is in the cellar; I am about
ready to put on the double windows and storm doors; and the muskrats’
house is all but finished. Winter is at hand: but we are prepared, the
muskrats even better prepared than I, for theirs is an adequate house,
planned perfectly.
Throughout the summer they had no house, only their tunnels into the
sides of the ditch, their roadways out into the grass, and their beds
under the tussocks or among the roots of the old stumps. All these
months the water had been low in the ditch, and the beds among the
tussocks had been safe and dry enough.
Now the autumnal rains have filled river and ditch, flooded the
tunnels, and crept up into the beds under the tussocks. Even a muskrat
will creep out of his bed when cold, wet water creeps in. What shall he
do for a house? He does not want to leave his meadow. The only thing
to do is to build,—move from under the tussock, out upon the top, and
here, in the deep, wiry grass, make a new bed, high and dry above the
rising water, and close the new bed in with walls that circle and dome
and defy the winter.
Such a house will require a great deal of work to build. Why not
combine, make it big enough to hold half a dozen, save labor and
warmth, and, withal, live sociably together? So they left, each one
his bed, and joining efforts, started, about the middle of October, to
build this winter house.
Slowly, night after night, the domed walls have been rising, although
for several nights at a time there would be no apparent progress with
the work. The builders were in no hurry, it seems; the cold was
far off; but it is coming, and to-night it feels near and keen. And
to-night there is no loafing about the lodge.
When this house is done, then the rains may descend, and the floods
come, but it will not fall. It is built upon a tussock; and a tussock,
you will know, who have ever grubbed at one, has hold on the bottom of
creation. The winter may descend, and the boys, and foxes, come,—and
they will come, but not before the walls are frozen,—yet the house
stands. It is boy-proof, almost; it is entirely rain-, cold-, and
fox-proof. Many a time I have hacked at its walls with my axe when
fishing through the ice, but I never got in. I have often seen, too,
where the fox has gone round and round the house in the snow, and
where, at places, he has attempted to dig into the frozen mortar; but
it was a foot thick, as hard as flint, and utterly impossible for his
pick and shovel.
Yet strangely enough the house sometimes fails of the very | 234.788283 |
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MILDRED ARKELL.
A Novel.
by
MRS. HENRY WOOD,
Author of
"East Lynne," "Lord Oakburn's Daughters," "Trevlyn Hold,"
etc. etc.
In Three Volumes.
VOL. II.
London:
Tinsley Brothers, | 234.79747 |
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Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND | 234.997592 |
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E-text prepared by Delphine Lettau and Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.
Transcriber's note:
In 1834, at age 19, Anthony Trollope became a junior clerk
in the British postal service. He did not get on well with
his superiors, and his career looked like a dead end. In
1841 he accepted an assignment in Ireland as an inspector,
remaining there for ten years. It was there that his civil
service career began to flourish. It was there, also, that
he began writing novels.
Several of Trollope's early novels were set in Ireland,
including _The Macdermots of Ballycloran_, his first
published novel, and _Castle Richmond_. Readers of those
early Irish novels can easily perceive Trollope's great
affection for and sympathy with the Irish people,
especially the poor.
In 1882 Ireland was in the midst of great troubles,
including boycotts and the near breakdown of law and
order. In May of that year Lord Frederick Cavendish, the
newly-appointed Chief Secretary for Ireland, and Thomas
Burke, a prominent civil servant, were assassinated in
Dublin. The news stirred Trollope, despite his poor
health, to travel to Ireland to see for himself the state
of things. Upon his return to England he began writing
_The Landleaguers_. He made a second journey to Ireland
in August, 1882, to seek more material for his book. He
returned to England exhausted, but he continued writing.
He had almost completed the book when he suffered a stroke
on November 3, 1882. He never recovered, and he died on
December 6.
Trollope's second son, Henry, arranged for publication of
the almost finished novel. The reader should note Henry
Trollope's preface to Volume I and Postscript at the end
of the book.
Readers familiar with Trollope's early Irish novels
will be struck, as they read _The Landleaguers_, by his
bitterness at what was happening in Ireland in 1881 and
1882.
THE LANDLEAGUERS
by
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
In Three Volumes--VOL. I.
London
Chatto & Windus, Piccadilly
1883
[All rights reserved]
Charles Dickens and Evans,
Crystal Palace Press.
CONTENTS
Chapter
I. MR. JONES OF CASTLE MORONY.
II. THE MAN IN THE MASK.
III. FATHER BROSNAN.
IV. MR. BLAKE OF CARNLOUGH.
V. MR. O'MAHONY AND HIS DAUGHTER.
VI. RACHEL AND HER LOVERS.
VII. BROWN'S.
VIII. CHRISTMAS-DAY, 1880.
IX. BLACK DALY.
X. BALLYTOWNGAL.
XI. MOYTUBBER.
XII. "DON'T HATE HIM, ADA."
XIII. EDITH'S ELOQUENCE.
XIV. RACHEL'S CORRESPONDENCE.
XV. CAPTAIN YORKE CLAYTON.
XVI. CAPTAIN CLAYTON COMES TO THE CASTLE.
NOTE.
This novel was to have contained sixty chapters. My father had
written as much as is now published before his last illness. It will
be seen that he had not finished the forty-ninth chapter; and the
fragmentary portion of that chapter stands now just as he left it.
He left no materials from which the tale could be completed, and no
attempt at completion will be made. At the end of the third volume I
have stated what were his intentions with regard to certain people in
the story; but beyond what is there said I know nothing.
HENRY M. TROLLOPE.
THE LANDLEAGUERS.
CHAPTER I.
MR. JONES OF CASTLE MORONY.
In the year 1850 the two estates of Ballintubber and Morony were sold
to Mr. Philip Jones, under the Estates Court, which had then been
established. They had been the property of two different owners, but
lay conveniently so as to make one possession for one proprietor.
They were in the County Galway, and lay to the right and left of
the road which runs down from the little town of Headford to Lough
Corrib. At the time when the purchase was made there was no quieter
spot in all Ireland, or one in which the lawful requirements of
a landlord were more readily performed by a poor and obedient
tenantry. The people were all Roman Catholics, were for the most part
uneducated, and it may be said of them that not only were their souls
not their own, but that they were not ambitious even of possessing
their own bodies. Circumstances have changed much with them since
that date. Not only have they in part repudiated the power of the
priest as to their souls, but, in compliance with teaching which has
come to them from America, they claim to be masters also of their
bodies. Never were a people less fitted to exercise such dominion
without control. Generous, kindly, impulsive, and docile, they have
been willing to follow any recognised leader. When Philip Jones
bought the property that had belonged to the widow O'Dwyer--for
Ballintubber had for the last hundred years been the property of the
O'Dwyers--and Morony, which, had been an outlying town-land belonging
to the Hacketts for the last two centuries, he had at first been
looked down upon as a new comer. But all that had passed by, and Mr.
Jones was as much respected as though he had been an O'Jones from the
time of Queen Elizabeth. But now the American teaching had come up,
and things were different.
Mr. Jones had expended over L30,000 in purchasing the property, and
was congratulated by all men on having done well with his money.
There were some among his friends in England--and his friends were
all English--who had told him that he was incurring a great risk in
going into so distant and wild a country. But it was acknowledged
that he could not in England have obtained so good a return in
the way of rent. And it was soon found that the opportunities for
improving the property were many and close at hand. At the end of
ten years all men who knew Mr. Jones personally, or had seen the
increasing comforts of Morony Castle, declared that, as he liked the
kind of life, he had done uncommonly well for himself.
Nor had he done badly for his three married sisters, each of whom had
left L4,000 in his hands. All the circumstances of the Miss Jones's
as they had been, it will be here unnecessary to explain. Since
Philip had become owner of Morony Castle, each of them had married,
and the three brothers-in-law were equally well satisfied with the
investment of their money. It will, however, thus be understood that
the property did not belong entirely to Mr. Jones, and that the
brothers-in-law and their wives were part owners. Mr. Jones, however,
had been in possession of some other means, and had been able to use
capital in improving the estate. But he was an aspiring man, and
in addition to his money had borrowed something beyond. The sum
borrowed, however, had been so small and so well expended, as to have
created no sense of embarrassment in his mind.
When our story commences he was the father of four children. The
elder and the younger were boys, and two girls came between them.
In 1880, Frank, the elder, was two-and-twenty. The two girls who
followed close after were twenty and nineteen, and the youngest boy,
who was born after an interval of nearly ten years, was but ten years
old. Some years after the mother had died, and Mr. Jones had since
lived as a widower. It may be as well to state here that in 1880 he
was fifty-five years old.
When his wife had died, the nature of the man had apparently been
changed. Of all men he had been the most cheerful, the most eager,
and the most easily pleased. He had worked hard at his property, and
had loved his work. He knew every man and woman about the place, and
always had a word to say to them. He had had a sailing boat on the
lake, in which he had spent much of his time, but his wife had always
been with him. Since her death he had hardly put his foot within the
boat. He had lately become quick and short-tempered, but always with
a visible attempt to be kind to those around him. But people said
of him that since his wife had died he had shown an indifference to
the affairs of the world. He was anxious--so it was said--to leave
matters as much as possible to his son; but, as has been already
stated, his son was only twenty-two. He had formerly taken a great
pleasure in attending the assizes at Galway. He had been named as a
grand juror for the county, which he had indeed regarded as a great
compliment; but since his wife's death he had not once attended.
People said of him that he had become indifferent to the work of
his life, but in this they hardly spoke the truth. He had become
indifferent rather to what had been its pleasures. To that which his
conscience told him was its work, he applied himself with assiduity
enough. There were two cares which sat near his heart: first, that no
one should rob him; and secondly, that he should rob no one. It will
often be the case that the first will look after itself, whereas the
second will require careful watching. It was certainly the case with
Philip Jones that he was most anxious to rob no one. He was, perhaps,
a little too anxious that no one should rob him.
A few words must be said of his children. Frank, the eldest, was
a good-looking, clever boy, who had been educated at the Queen's
College, at Galway, and would have been better trained to meet the
world had circumstances enabled him to be sent to a public school
in England. As it was he thought himself, as heir to Morony Castle,
to be a little god upon earth; and he thought also that it behoved
his sisters and his brother, and the various dependents about the
place, to treat him as though he were a god. To his father he was
respectful, and fairly obedient in all matters, save one. As to that
one matter, from which arose some trouble, much will have to be said
as the story goes on.
The two girls were named Ada and Edith, and were, in form and figure,
very unlike each other. Ada, the eldest, was tall, fair-haired, and
very lovely. It was admitted in County Galway that among the Galway
lasses no girl exceeded Ada Jones in brightness of beauty. She was
sweet-tempered also, and gracious as she was lovely. But Edith did
not share the gifts, which the fairy had bestowed upon her sister, in
equal parts. She was, however, clever, and kind, and affectionate. In
all matters, within the house, she was ready to accept a situation
below her sister's; but this was not by her sister's doing. The
demigod of the family seemed to assume this position, but on Ada's
part there was no assumption. Edith, however, felt her infirmity.
Among girls this is made to depend more on physical beauty than on
other gifts, and there was no doubt that in this respect Edith was
the inferior. She was dark, and small of stature, not ungraceful in
her movements, or awkward in her person. She was black-haired, as had
been her mother's, and almost swarthy in her complexion, and there
was a squareness about her chin which robbed her face of much of its
feminine softness. But her eyes were very bright, and when she would
laugh, or say something intended to make another laugh, her face
would be brightened up with fun, good-humour, or wit, in a manner
which enabled no one to call her plain.
Of the younger boy, Florian, much will be said as the story goes
on; but what can be said of a boy who is only ten which shall be
descriptive and also interesting? He was small of his age, but clever
and sharp, and, since his mother's death, had been his father's
darling. He was beautiful to look at, as were all the children,
except poor Edith, but the neighbours declared that his education
had been much neglected. His father intended to send him to college
at Galway. A bright vision had for a short time flitted before the
father's eyes, and he had thought that he would have the boy prepared
for Winchester; but lately things had not gone quite so well at
Morony Castle, and that idea had passed by. So that it was now
understood that Florian Jones would follow his brother to Galway
College. Those who used to watch his ways would declare that the
professors of Galway College would have some trouble with him.
While the mother had lived no family had been more easily ruled than
that of the Jones's, but since her death some irregularities had gone
on. The father had made a favourite of the younger boy, and thereby
had done mischief. The eldest son, too, had become proud of his
position, and an attempt had been made to check him with a hard hand;
and yet much in the absolute working of the farm had been left to
him. Then troubles had come, in which Mr. Jones would be sometimes
too severe, and sometimes too lenient. Of the girls it must be
acknowledged that they were to be blamed for no fault after the first
blow had come. Everyone at Morony had felt that the great blow had
been the death of the mistress. But it must be confessed that other
things had happened shortly afterwards which had tended to create
disturbance. One of the family had declared that he intended to
become a Roman Catholic. The Jones's had been Protestants, the father
and mother having both come from England as Protestants. They were
not, therefore, Ultra-Protestants, as those will know who best
know Ireland. There had been no horror of a Catholic. According to
Mrs. Jones the way to heaven had been open to both Catholic and
Protestant, only it had suited her to say her prayers after the
Protestant fashion. The girls had been filled with no pious fury;
and as to Mr. Jones himself, some of the Protestant devotees in the
neighbourhood of Tuam had declared that he was only half-hearted in
the matter. An old | 235.00021 |
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Boissonnas, The Internet Archive for some images and the
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BIRDS AND ALL NATURE.
ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.
VOL. VI. NOVEMBER, 1899. NO. 4
CONTENTS
Page
A RARE HUMMING BIRD. 145
THE LADY'S SLIPPER. 146
JIM AND I. 149
WHY AND WHEREFORE OF THE COLORS OF BIRDS' EGGS. 152
TEA. 155
THE TOWHEE; CHEWINK. 158
WEE BABIES. 161
WISH-TON-WISH. 162
THE BEE AND THE FLOWER. 164
THE CANARY. 167
THE PAROQUET. 169
THE CAROLINA PAROQUET. 170
WHAT THE WOOD FIRE SAID TO A LITTLE BOY. 173
THE MISSISSIPPI. 174
INDIAN SUMMER. 176
THE CHIPMUNK. 179
TED'S WEATHER PROPHET. 180
THREATENED EXTERMINATION OF THE FUR SEAL. 181
THE PEACH. 182
THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE VICEROY. 185
BIRD LORE OF THE ANCIENT FINNS. 186
BIRD NOTES. 187
STORY OF A NEST. 188
COMMON MINERALS AND VALUABLE ORES. 191
WHEN ANIMALS ARE SEASICK. 192
A RARE HUMMING BIRD.
HOW ONE OF THESE LITTLE FAIRY CREATURES WAS TAMED.
P. W. H.
Instances are very rare where birds are familiar with human beings,
and the humming birds especially are considered unapproachable, yet a
naturalist tells how he succeeded in catching one in his hand. Several
cases are on record of attempts to tame humming birds, but when placed
in a cage they do not thrive, and soon die. The orange groves of
southern California abound in these attractive creatures, and several
can often be seen about the flowering bushes, seeking food or chasing
each other in play. "Once, when living on the <DW72>s of the Sierra
Madre mountains, where they were very plentiful, I accomplished the
feat of taking one in my hand," says the naturalist.
"I first noticed it in the garden, resting on a mustard stalk, and,
thinking to see how near I could approach, I gradually moved toward it
by pretending to be otherwise engaged, until I was within five feet of
it. The bird looked at me calmly and I moved slowly nearer, whistling
gently to attract its attention, as I began to think something was the
matter with it. It bent its head upon one side, eyed me sharply, then
flew to another stalk a few feet away, contemplating me as before.
Again I approached, taking care not to alarm it, and this time I was
almost within reaching distance before it flew away. The bird seemed to
have a growing confidence in me, and I became more and more deliberate
in my movements until I finally stood beside it, the little creature
gazing at me with its head tipped upon one side as if questioning what
I was about. I then withdrew and approached again, repeating this
several times before I stretched out my hand to take it, at which it
flew to another bush. But the next time it allowed me to grasp it, and
I had caught a wild bird open-handed without even the use of salt!"
One of the curious features of humming birds is that they are never
found in Europe, being exclusively American, ranging in this country
from the extreme north to the tropics, adding to the beauty of field
and grove, being veritable living gems. Nothing can approach the
humming bird in its gorgeousness of decoration. It is especially rich
in the metallic tints, seemingly splashed with red, blue, green, and
other bronzes. Some appear to be decked in a coat of mail, others
blazing in the sunlight with head-dresses and breast-plates that are
dazzling to behold and defy description. The smallest of birds, they
are one of the most beautiful of the many ornaments of our fields and
gardens.
In some islands of the south Pacific birds have been found that had
never seen a man before, and allowed themselves to be picked up, and
even had to be pushed out of peoples' way, it is said, yet they must
have been very unlike the birds that are generally known, or they would
have been more timid, even if they had not learned the fear of man.
THE LADY'S SLIPPER.
WILLIAM KERR HIGLEY,
Secretary of The Chicago Academy of Sciences.
This interesting plant belongs to that remarkable family of orchids
(_Orchidaceæ_) which includes over four hundred genera and five
thousand species. They are especially noted for the great variety of
shapes and colors of their flowers, many of them resembling beetles
and other insects, monkey, snake, and lizard heads, as well as helmets
and slippers, the latter giving rise to the name of the plant in our
illustration. The variety, singular beauty, and delicate odor, as well
as the peculiar arrangement of the parts of the flower, make many of
the species of great financial value. This is also enhanced by the
extreme care required in their cultivation, which must be accomplished
in hothouses, for the majority of the more valuable forms are native
only in the tropical forests. Many, too, are rarely found except as
single individuals widely separated.
There are many parasitic species, and in the tropics a larger number
attach themselves by their long roots to trees, but do not obtain their
nourishment from them, while those belonging to temperate regions
usually grow on the ground.
In the last sixty years the cultivation of orchids has become a passion
in Europe and, to a great extent, in America.
It is said that "Linnæus, in the middle of the last century, knew but a
dozen exotic orchids." To-day over three thousand are known to English
and American horticulturists.
Though admired by all, the orchids are especially interesting to
the scientist, for in their peculiar flowers is found an unusual
arrangement to bring about cross-fertilization, so necessary to the
best development of plant life. It is evident also, as shown by Dr.
Charles Darwin, that this was not so in the earlier life of the family,
but has been a gradual change, through centuries, by which the species
have been better prepared to survive.
No other family of plants presents as much evidence of the provision
in nature for the protection of species and their continuance by
propagation.
Few of the orchids are of economic value to man. The most important
ones, outside of a few used in medicine, are the vanillas, natives of
tropical America and Africa.
The lady's slipper belongs to the genus _Cypripedium_ (from two Greek
words meaning _Venus_ and _a buskin_, that is, Venus' slipper).
There are about forty species found in both temperate and tropical
countries. The one used for our illustration is the "showy lady's
slipper" (_Cypripedium reginæ_ or _spectabile_) and is a native of
eastern North America from Canada nearly to the Gulf of Mexico. It
grows to a height of from one to three feet, and is leafy to the top.
It grows in swamps and wet woods, and in many localities where it
is extensively gathered for ornamental purposes it is being rapidly
exterminated.
Those living before the era of modern investigation knew little of
the functions of the various parts of flowers. We find an excellent
illustration of this ignorance in the following peculiar account of a
South American lady's slipper, written by Dr. Erasmus Darwin, father of
Dr. Charles Darwin, in the latter part of the last century.
In his notes on his poem, "The Economy of Vegetation," he says: "It has
a large globular nectary * * * of a fleshy color, and an incision or
depression much resembling the body of the large American spider * * *
attached to divergent slender petals not unlike the legs of the same
spider." He says that Linnæus claims this spider catches small birds as
well as insects, and adds: "The similitude of this flower to this great
spider seems to be a vegetable contrivance to prevent the humming-bird
from plundering its honey."
[Illustration: A. W. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER, CHICAGO.
LADY'S SLIPPER.
COPYRIGHT 1899, BY
NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO.]
JIM AND I.
BY ELANORA KINSLEY MARBLE.
Wouldn't the little readers of BIRDS AND ALL NATURE enjoy a talk with a
mother-bird? The father-bird, it seems to me, has done all the talking
hitherto. Because he is handsome and can sing is no reason why Jim, my
mate, should write up the history of his family. It would have been a
sorry attempt had he tried, I promise you, for though he is a Hartz
Mountain Canary--pure yellow and white like the lower bird in the
picture--he is not at all clever. My mistress says I have more sense in
one of my little toes than Jim has in his whole body.
"You cute little thing," she exclaims when I kiss her, or take a hemp
seed from off her finger, "you are the dearest and wisest little bird
in the world."
Jim sometimes taunts me because I wear such sober colors--black
and brown with green and yellow mixed--like the upper bird in the
picture--but I retort that I am a Hartz Mountain bird, also, and have
just as good German blood in my veins as he has. Neither of us ever saw
the Hartz Mountains, of course, for we were born in Chicago, but our
great grandmothers did, I am sure.
A good husband? No, I can't say that Jim is. He is too quarrelsome. My
mistress says he is a bully, whatever that may mean. He has a fashion
of standing by the seed cup and daring me to come and pick up a seed;
the same with the drinking-water and the bathing-dish. Then again he
is very gracious, and calls me pet names, and sings at the top of his
voice every love song he knows. Sometimes I try to imitate him, when
he flies into a rage and sharply bids me "shut up." I am too meek to
return the compliment, even when I have grown weary of his music, but
my mistress shakes her finger at him and calls him a "naughty, naughty
bird."
She can't tame Jim, all she may do. Few canary birds will resist a
hemp seed when offered on a finger. My mistress used to crack them
between her teeth and coax and coax him to take one, but he never
would. That's the reason she calls him stupid, for we love hemp seed
just as you little folks love peanuts, you know. That's the way she
tamed me, and that's the way you can tame your canary if you have one.
I have had a rather eventful history for a bird. In the first
place--but let me begin at the beginning and tell you the circumstance
just as it happened.
It was about four years ago, so far as I can recollect, that I caught
my first glimpse of the world and tasted the sweets of freedom. One
balmy morning in June, I escaped from my cage, and the window being
open, out I joyously flew into the bright sunshine. I was a little
dazzled at first and frightened. How immense the world seemed! How far
away the tender blue sky over which the fleecy clouds sailed, that
sky which I had thought a mere patch when seen from my cage in the
window! How many houses there were, and how inviting the green trees
and grass-plots! I fairly danced with joy, and chirped, "I'm free, I'm
free," as I flew from place to place, my wings, never tiring, bearing
me from tree to housetop and from housetop to tree.
Ah, that was a day never to be forgotten. How I escaped the dangers
which lurk about the steps of the unwary and innocent has always been
a marvel to me. The hostile sparrows, for instance, the green-eyed,
sharp-clawed cat, the sling-shot of the cruel boy, the--but why linger
over horrors which might, but did not happen?
In this way the morning passed joyfully, the pangs of hunger, as noon
approached, however, advising me sharply it was near dinner time. From
housetop to housetop I flew, from tree to tree, but nowhere could I
find a little china cup filled with rape, hemp, and canary seed, or a
tiny glass vessel filled with water that I might slake my thirst.
What should I do? A bird brought up as I had been, I reflected, could
never descend to work for a living, as the sparrows did, and other wild
birds which I had met among the trees. Some of them ate insects--fact,
I assure you--and one red-headed bird, wearing a coat of many gay
colors, simply tapped and tapped on a tree with his hard bill whenever
he wanted his dinner.
"Come in," said the bug, innocently, who was making his home between
the bark and the tree, "come in."
Nobody appearing, the bug ventured out to see who his caller might be.
"Good morning," grinned the woodpecker, and then politely gobbled the
poor bug up.
But I was not brought up that way. I could not eat bugs, neither could
I rummage in the garbage boxes as the sparrows did. Oh, how unwise of
me, and how ungrateful to run away from a home where my every need was
faithfully served by a kind mistress. Like the prodigal I would return.
Surely I would know the house, the very window from which I had fled.
Yes, I would start at once, and off I flew in the direction which I
thought I had come.
But, alas! how alike all the houses in that neighborhood seemed. Vainly
did I fly down on many a window-sill and peer in. No mistress' face
greeted me, no empty cage swung idly between the curtains. At length,
faint from hunger and fatigue, I flew down and perched upon the railing
of a porch where two ladies were sitting.
"You dear little thing," said one of the ladies--I want to say here
that I am much smaller than the dark Hartz Mountain bird who sat for
her picture--"I never saw a sparrow so tiny, or marked like you before."
"It's a canary, not a sparrow," said the other lady, "doubtless,
somebody's lost pet," and she held out her hand, and chirped and talked
to me very much like my lost mistress had done.
"Poor little wanderer," she at length said, as I looked at her, but
made no effort to fly away, "I have an idea you came to us for food,"
and then she went into the house and shortly returned with a cage in
the bottom of which she scattered seed, placing it upon the ground very
close to me.
"Rape, hemp and canary," I chirped, "the seed I am used to," and down
I at once flew, hopped into the cage, and, the next moment, was made
prisoner.
Sorry?
Well, really I don't know. My period of freedom had been so brief, and
attended with such anxiety and fear, that I hardly knew whether to
laugh or cry. The next day, however, I knew that my lines had indeed
fallen in pleasant places. My first mistress had been kind, but oh, how
much more tender and thoughtful the new one proved to be!
"I was a helpless little creature," she said, "and upon her depended my
entire comfort and happiness." Never for one day did she neglect me.
Though my regular bill-of-fare was bird-seed, yet she varied it as she
did her own. Cracker, lettuce, apples, grapes, cherries, sugar, and
always in the summer, pepper-grass. If you little folks have a canary
never fail, I beseech you, to give them of the latter all they want to
eat. It costs nothing and may be gathered in any vacant lot fresh every
day.
What pleasure so kind a mistress could find in keeping me in a little
gilt cage, I could not see, for there were screens in the window, and
even if there had not been I don't believe I should have cared to fly
away. Something in my appearance one day suggested the thought to her,
I am sure, for looking at me earnestly, she said:
"You are not happy, my birdie, I fear. Neither would I be, cooped up
in a cage like that," and so she opened wide the door and out I flew,
never to be a prisoner again--till, well, I will not speak of that just
here, but keep it for the close.
What famous times we did have after that, to be sure. Whenever I felt
lonesome down I'd fly upon the desk where my mistress sat writing. She
would pretend not to see me till I had hopped upon the very sheet over
which her pen was gliding.
"Why birdie!" she would then cry, as though very much astonished, and
off I'd fly, as she made a dash for me, to the window where I would
hide behind the ruffle of the sash curtain.
"_Cheep, cheep_," I'd cry, just as you little folks cry "whoop," when
all is ready, "_cheep, cheep_."
"Where can my birdie be?" she would say after awhile, dropping her
pen. "Where can she be?" and then she would look here and there, till
presently approaching my hiding-place, out I'd fly, with a gurgle, into
an adjoining room, where I'd again crouch behind the curtain. Between
you and me I believe she knew all the time where I was hiding and only
pretended to search for me here and there. Anyway it was capital fun,
and I never tired of it, though mistress did.
"I can't play with you any more," she would say, "you quite tire me
out," and then she would go to writing again and so our game of "hide
and seek" would end for that day.
"Everything needs companionship," she said one morning to my master,
"birds, children and men," and so that day he brought home a large
wooden cage in which was as handsome a canary bird as you would want
to see. That was Jim, and oh, how happy I was, when, a few days after,
he asked me to be his mate. I said "yes," almost before he had got the
song out of his mouth--I didn't know what a tyrant and bully he was
till afterward, you know--and so we went pretty soon to housekeeping in
the wooden cage.
My mistress understood what I wanted when she saw me picking up threads
and pulling her chenille table cover to pieces, and so in one corner of
the cage she put a nest made of wire and covered with a bit of muslin.
Near by were little heaps of cotton-batting, wrapping-cord, and hair.
Dear, dear, how busy I was for days! Jim, as I have said before, did
nothing much but sing--and criticise. More than once I dragged all
the furniture out of our wire home, because he thought I should have
put the hair in first, and the cotton and strings in afterward. For
a newly wedded couple, on their honeymoon so to speak, we did a vast
amount of quarreling. The nest, however, was at last made cozy enough
to suit us, and so one day I climbed in it and sat for quite a while.
Then I called to Jim and I must say he seemed to be just as proud as
I was of the little blue speckled egg which lay there so snug in the
cotton. The next day but one I laid another, and then one every day
till I had laid five. My, how I felt when I gathered them up close
under me and sat down to brood. If all went well, after thirteen or
fourteen days, we would have five dear birdlings. For fear the eggs
might get chilled I left them only a few minutes at a time, hurriedly
eating a few seeds, then back on the nest again. Jim could have helped
me very much by brooding the eggs while I took exercise and my meals,
but he was too selfish for that. All he did was to fly about and sing,
bidding me to keep my spirits up. If it hadn't been for my mistress I
should have fared badly, you may believe. She fed me crackers soaked in
milk, cracked hemp seeds and placed them around the edge of the nest,
besides other delicacies in the vegetable line too numerous to mention.
When the birdlings were born Jim appeared to be very proud indeed. He
couldn't sing long or loud enough, leaving me to feed the five gaping,
pleading red mouths every day. Ah, no one knows better than a mother
how much trouble and worry there is in bringing up a family. I'm sure
I have had experience enough, for since that time I have had so many
birdlings I can't count them. One season I had eighteen, three nests,
and six in the nest each time. They were considered such fine birds
that my mistress had no difficulty in selling them as soon as they
learned to sing.
Now I am coming to a period the thought of which fills my heart with
sorrow. For some reason that I am not able to tell you, my mistress
concluded to part with me and Jim. She shed tears over it, I know, but
nevertheless we felt ourselves being borne away one night, and in the
morning, lo! we found ourselves in a large, bare room, on the floor of
which was painted an immense ring or circle. I was sitting on six blue,
speckled eggs at the time, and didn't mind it so much, but Jim was
very cross and restless, for the cage door was fastened and he bitterly
resented imprisonment. Alas! from that time forth we never were to know
freedom again; from that time forth we had to accustom ourselves to
many, many changes.
About nine o'clock the door of the room opened and in came a little
girl, followed by a little boy. Then more little girls and boys, till
I counted, as well as I could, seventeen. All one family? Oh, no, I'm
not talking about bird families now. As many as could crowded about the
cage and stared at me with wide-open eyes. The cage was on a low table
so they could peep into the nest. Oh, how frightened I was. One little
chap thrust his finger through the bars, and down I flew, leaving my
precious eggs exposed. That was what they wanted, and oh how they did
exclaim! I went back pretty soon, however, for I began to understand
that they did not mean to harm me or the eggs either. However, it was
many days ere I got over the feeling of fright when stared at by so
many eyes, but by the time the birdlings were hatched out I had grown
quite used to it. Indeed I felt somewhat proud of the interest those
wee tots took in my babies, my manner of feeding them never failing to
call forth cries of wonder and praise.
"She just chews up the seeds and swallows 'em," said a little chap one
day, "then when the baby birds cry for something to eat she brings it
up and stuffs it down their long throats with her bill. My! it's ever
so much better than a spoon."
The teacher laughed and patted the little fellow on the head.
"That is your first lesson in nature-study, Victor," said she, and then
a lady at the piano struck up a march and off they all trooped two by
two.
"Where do you suppose we are?" crossly said Jim, hopping excitedly from
one perch to another, "it looks like a lunatic asylum to me."
Jim, as I have stated before, is a very stupid bird. The words "lesson"
and "nature-study" held no meaning for him.
"It seems to me," I said, watching the little tots marching with an
observing eye, "that we are in a kindergarten."
"A kindergarten," echoed Jim, "what's that?"
"Why," I explained, "a school where young children are taught to love
everything and everybody. Surely we have nothing to fear."
And so it turned out to be, a kindergarten, in which, I am proud to
say, for purposes of nature-study, I have raised many and many a brood.
WHY AND WHEREFORE OF THE COLORS OF BIRDS' EGGS.
The why and wherefore of the colors of birds' eggs, says Ernest
Ingersoll, has been a favorite theme for speculation, from the quaint
surmisings of Sir Thomas Browne to the solemn guess-work of Shufeldt,
in his ten "biological laws explanatory of the variation in color of
the shells of the eggs in class Aves."* Hewitson piously concludes that
the beauty of these elegant and often exquisitely attractive objects is
intended for the delight of human eyes; hence, as he says, eggs simply
white are put out of sight in holes! He also sees in the larger number
of eggs laid by game-birds a provision by a benevolent Providence for
the joy of the sportsman and the delectation of the epicure. Next
comes a man who assures us that the colors of eggs are due to the
influence of their respective surroundings on the imagination of the
hen birds--the old story of Jacob's little trick on Laban in the matter
of young cattle. This school instances as an example the red blotches
prevalent on the eggs of falcons, regarded by it as a record of the
bloody experiences of the parents; but it does not explain why the
equally rapacious owls produce pure white eggs, or the blood-thirsty
skuas and shrikes lay greenish ones. Other equally fallacious
theorizings might be noted.
[Illustration: FROM KOEHLER'S MEDICINAL-PFLANZEN.
TEA.
CHICAGO:
A. W. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER.]
Explanation of plate: _A_, flowering branch, nearly natural size;
1, flower in section; 2, stamen; 3, ovary in transverse section; 4,
pistil; 5 and 6, fruit, with seed; 7, seed; 8, seed in sections.
TEA.
_Camellia Thea Link_.
DR. ALBERT SCHNEIDER,
Northwestern University School of Pharmacy.
The gentle fair on nervous tea relies,
Whilst gay good nature sparkles in her eyes.
--_Crabbe_: "Inebriety."
The highly esteemed drink referred to in the above lines is made
from the leaves and very young terminal branches of a shrub known as
_Camellia Thea_. The shrub is spreading, usually two or three meters
high, though it may attain a height of nine or ten meters. It has
smooth, dark-green, alternate, irregularly serrate-dentate, lanceolate
to obovate, blunt-pointed, simple leaves. The young leaves and branches
are woolly owing to the presence of numerous hair-cells. The flowers
are perfect, solitary or in twos and threes in the axils of the
leaves. They are white and rather showy. Some authors state that they
are fragrant, while others state that they are practically odorless.
Stamens are numerous. The ovary is three-celled, with one seed in each
cell, which is about the size of a cherry seed.
The tea-plant is no doubt a native of India, upper Assam, from whence
it was early introduced into China, where it is now cultivated on an
immense scale. It is, however, also extensively cultivated in various
parts of India, in Japan, Java, Australia, Sicily, Corea, and other
tropical and subtropical countries and islands. It is also cultivated
to some extent in the southern United States, as in Carolina, Georgia,
Mississippi, and California, but apparently without any great success.
The plant is extensively grown in green-houses and conservatories on
account of its beauty.
According to a Japanese myth the tea plant originated as follows: A
very pious follower of Buddha, Darma, vowed that he would pray without
ceasing. He had prayed for some years when finally the Evil One
over-powered him and he fell asleep. When he awoke he felt so chagrined
and humiliated that he cut off both his eyelids and threw them from
him. From the spot where they fell grew two plants endowed with the
property of dispelling sleep. Chinese writers maintain that priests of
Buddha introduced the plant from India. Some authorities are inclined
to believe that the plant is a native of China; others, that it was
brought from Corea to China about the ninth century.
Tea-drinking was supposed to have been discovered by a servant
of Emperor Buttei, 150 B. C., but concerning this there is much
uncertainty. It is said to have been in use in Japan as early as 729
of our era. The first definite information about tea-consumption in
China dates from the year 1550, when a Persian merchant brought tea
from that country to Venice. At a little later period we find tea
mentioned in various letters and documents of travelers and merchants,
yet it is evident that it was a costly and rare article as late as
1660. In 1664 the East India Company presented the queen of England
with two pounds of tea. In fact, it was not until the beginning of the
eighteenth century and later that tea began to be used in different
parts of Europe. During the latter part of the seventeenth century and
the beginning of the eighteenth century tea-houses were established
in various cities of Europe, especially in England. At the present
time tea-houses, like coffee-houses, have become practically extinct
in civilized countries, but that does not imply that tea-drinking
and coffee-drinking are on the wane. Among the English and Slavs
tea-parties are all the rage. The favorite Gesellschaft _Kaffee_,
coffee-party, of German housewives indicates that they give coffee the
preference. The biggest tea-party on record was doubtless the so-called
Boston Tea Party, at which tea valued at £18,000 sterling was destroyed.
In spite of the tropical origin of the plant the largest quantities of
tea are consumed in northern countries, notably in Russia and Asiatic
Russia. Large quantities are consumed in England and the United States.
Most authorities are agreed that the different kinds of tea on the
market are derived from the same species of plant. Some admit a variety
_C. Thea var. viridis_. The following are the principal teas of the
market and the manner of their preparation:
1. _Green Tea._ After collecting the leaves are allowed to lie for
about two hours in warmed pans and stirred and then rolled upon small
bamboo tables, whereupon they are further dried upon hurdles and again
in heated pans for about one hour, accompanied by stirring. The leaves
now assume a bluish-green color, which is frequently enhanced by adding
Prussian blue or indigo. Of these green teas the most important are
Gunpowder, Twankay, Hyson, Young Hyson, Hyson skin, Songla, Soulang,
and Imperial.
2. _Black Tea._ The leaves are allowed to lie in heaps for a day, when
they are thoroughly shaken and mixed. After another period of rest, two
to three days, they are dried and rolled much as green tea. In the
storing process the leaves undergo a fermentation which develops the
aroma and the dark color. The following are the principal varieties:
Campoe, Congou, Linki-sam, Padre Souchon (caravan tea), Pecoe,
Souchong, and Bohe.
In some countries the teas are scented with jasmine flowers or
orange flowers. This is, however, no longer extensively practiced.
The essentially Chinese custom of coloring teas with Prussian blue,
gypsum, and indigo is dying out, at least so far as the export trade
is concerned, because intelligent civilized consumers are beginning to
prefer the uncolored teas. Competent authorities maintain that there is
not enough of the coloring substances added to be harmful. The workmen
preparing the better qualities of tea are not permitted to eat fish,
as the very enduring and penetrating fish-flavor would be transmitted
to the tea in the thorough handling. It seems, however, that a more or
less distinct fishy flavor is perceptible in many teas, even the better
qualities.
Tea-dust consists of remnants from tea-chests, dust from the working
tables upon which the leaves are rolled--in fact, tea-refuse of all
kinds. It is certainly not a desirable article. Besides true tea there
are | 235.079241 |
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Produced by Polly Stratton
THE MORALS OF MARCUS ORDEYNE
by William J. Locke
PART I
CHAPTER I
For reasons which will be given later, I sit down here, in Verona, to
write the history of my extravagant adventure. I shall formulate and
expand the rough notes in my diary which lies open before me, and I
shall begin with a happy afternoon in May, six months ago.
May 20th.
_London_:--To-day is the seventh anniversary of my release from
captivity. I will note it every year in my diary with a sigh of
unutterable thanksgiving. For seven long blessed years have I been
free from the degrading influences of Jones Minor and the First Book of
Euclid. Some men find the modern English boy stimulating, and the old
Egyptian humorous. Such are the born schoolmasters, and schoolmasters,
like poets, _nascuntur non | 235.080458 |
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Produced by MWS, Wayne Hammond 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.)
NOTHING OF IMPORTANCE
[Illustration: J B P Adams]
NOTHING
OF IMPORTANCE
A RECORD OF EIGHT MONTHS AT THE
FRONT WITH A WELSH BATTALION
OCTOBER, 1915, TO JUNE, 1916
BY
BERNARD ADAMS
WITH A PORTRAIT AND THREE MAPS
METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
_First Published in 1917_
TO
T. R. G.
WHO TAUGHT ME HOW TO THINK
_IN MEMORIAM_
BERNARD ADAMS
John Bernard Pye Adams was born on November 15th, 1890, at Beckenham,
Kent. From his first school at Clare House, Beckenham, he obtained an
entrance scholarship to Malvern, where he gained many Classical and
English prizes and became House Prefect. In December, 1908, he won
an open Classical scholarship at St John’s College, Cambridge, where
he went into residence in October, 1909. He was awarded in 1911 Sir
William Browne’s gold medals (open to the University) for a Greek
epigram and a Latin ode, and in 1912 he won the medal for the Greek
epigram again, and graduated with a First Class in the Classical
Tripos. In his fourth year he read Economics.
On leaving Cambridge he was appointed by the India Office to be Warden
and Assistant Educational Adviser at the Hostel for Indian Students
at Cromwell Road, South Kensington. “He threw himself,” writes Dr. T.
W. Arnold, C.I.E., Secretary of Indian Students, “with the enthusiasm
of his ardent nature into the various activities connected with 21
Cromwell Road, and endeared himself both to the Indian students and to
his colleagues.” Adams was always a quiet man, but his high abilities,
despite his unobtrusiveness, could not be altogether hidden; and in
London, as in Cambridge, his intellect and his gift for friendship had
their natural outcome. Mr. E. W. Mallet, of the India Office, bears
testimony to “the very high value which we all set on his work. He had
great gifts of sympathy and character, strength as well as kindliness,
influence as well as understanding; and these qualities won him--in the
rather difficult work in which he helped so loyally and well--a rare
and noticeable measure of esteem.” On his side, he felt that the choice
had been a right one; he liked his work, and he learned a great deal
from it.
His ultimate purpose was missionary work in India, and the London
experience brought him into close touch with Indians from every part of
India and of every religion.
In November, 1914, he joined up as lieutenant in the Welsh regiment
with which these pages deal, and he obtained a temporary captaincy in
the following spring. When he went out to the front in October, 1915,
he resumed his lieutenancy, but was very shortly given charge of a
company, a position which he retained until he was wounded in June,
1916, when he returned to England. He only went out to the front again
on January 31st of this year. In the afternoon of February 26th he was
wounded while leading his men in an attack and died the following day
in the field hospital.
* * * * *
These few sentences record the bare landmarks of a career which, in the
judgment of his friends, would have been noteworthy had it not been
so prematurely cut short. For instance, here is what his friend, T.
R. Glover, of St John’s, wrote in _The Eagle_ (the St John’s College
magazine) and elsewhere:
“Bernard Adams was my pupil during his Classical days at St John’s, and
we were brought into very close relations. He remains in my mind as
one of the very best men I have ever had to teach--best every way, in
mind and soul and all his nature. He had a natural gift for writing--a
natural habit of style; he wrote without artifice, and achieved the
expression of what he thought and what he felt in language that was
simple and direct and pleasing. (A College Prize Essay of his of those
days was printed in _The Eagle_ (vol. xxvii, 47-60)--on Wordsworth’s
_Prelude_.) He was a man of the quiet and reserved kind, who did not
talk much, for whom, perhaps, writing was a more obvious form of
utterance than speech.
It was clear to those who knew him that he put conscience into his
thinking--he was serious, above all about religion, and he was honest
with himself. Other people will take religion at secondhand; he was
of another type. He thought things out quietly and clearly, and then
decided. His choice of Economics as a second subject at Cambridge was
dictated by the feeling that it would prepare him for his life’s work
in the Christian ministry. There was little hope in it of much academic
distinction--but that was not his object. A man who had thought more
of himself would have gone on with Classics, in the hope (a very
reasonable one) of a Fellowship. Adams was not working for his own
advancement. The quiet simple way in which, without referring to it, he
dismissed academic distinction, gives the measure of the man--clear,
definite, unselfish, and devoted. His ideal was service, and he
prepared for it--at Cambridge, and with his Indian students in London.
When the war came he had difficulties of decision as to the course he
should pursue. Like others who had no gust for war, and no animosity
against the enemy, he took a commission, not so much to fight _against_
as to fight _for_; the principles at stake appealed to him, and with an
inner reluctance against the whole business he went into it--once again
the quiet, thought-out sacrifice.”
* * * * *
In this phase of his career his characteristic conscientiousness was
shown by the thoroughness and success with which he performed his
military duties “He is a real loss to the regiment,” wrote a senior
officer; “everybody who knew him had a very high opinion of his
military efficiency.”
As is so often the case, a quiet and reserved manner hid a brave heart.
When it came to personal danger he impressed men as being unconscious
of it. “I never met a man who displayed coolly more utter disregard for
danger.” And in this spirit he | 235.084654 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: Sample page]
[Transcriber's note: the above sample page is for right-hand
(odd-numbered) pages. For left-hand (even-numbered) pages, use a mirror
image of the sample page.]
[Illustration: Frontispiece]
_*The Queen Who Flew*_
*A Fairy Tale*
By
*FORD HUEFFER*
AUTHOR OF "THE BROWN OWL"
"SHIFTING OF THE FIRE," ETC.
_With a Frontispiece by_
SIR E. BURNE JONES
AND
_Border Design by_
C. R. B. BARRETT
LONDON
BLISS, SANDS & FOSTER
CRAVEN STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1894
TO
A PRINCESS OF THE OLD TIME
BEFORE US
THIS TALE
IS DUE AND DEDICATED.
_Over the leas the Princess came,_
_On the sward of the cliffs that breast the sea,_
_With her cheeks aglow and her hair aflame,_
_That snared the eyes and blinded them,_
_And now is but a memory._
_Over the leas, the wind-tossed dream,_
_Over the leas above the sea,_
_Passed and went to reign supreme._
_--No need of a crown or diadem_
_In the kingdom of misty Memory._
*THE QUEEN WHO FLEW.*
Once upon a time a Queen sat in her garden. She was quite a young, young
Queen; but that was a long while ago, so she would be older now. But,
for all she was Queen over a great and powerful country, she led a very
quiet life, and sat a great deal alone in her garden watching the roses
grow, and talking to a bat that hung, head downwards, with its wings
folded, for all the world like an umbrella, beneath the shade of a rose
tree overhanging her favourite marble seat. She did not know much about
the bat, not even that it could fly, for her servants and nurses would
never allow her to be out at dusk, and the bat was a great deal too
weak-eyed to fly about in the broad daylight.
But, one summer day, it happened that there was a revolution in the
land, and the Queen's servants, not knowing who was likely to get the
upper hand, left the Queen all alone, and went to look at the fight that
was raging.
But you must understand that in those days a revolution was a thing very
different from what it would be to-day.
Instead of trying to get rid of the Queen altogether, the great nobles
of the kingdom merely fought violently with each other for possession of
the Queen's person. Then they would proclaim themselves Regents of the
kingdom and would issue bills of attainder against all their rivals,
saying they were traitors against the Queen's Government.
In fact, a revolution in those days was like what is called a change of
Ministry now, save for the fact that they were rather fond of indulging
themselves by decapitating their rivals when they had the chance, which
of course one would never think of doing nowadays.
The Queen and the bat had been talking a good deal that afternoon--about
the weather and about the revolution and the colour of cats and the
like.
"The raven will have a good time of it for a day or two," the bat said.
But the Queen shuddered. "Don't be horrid," she said.
"I wonder who'll get the upper hand?" the bat said.
"I'm sure I don't care a bit," the Queen retorted. "It doesn't make any
difference to me. They all give me things to sign, and they all say I'm
very beautiful."
"That's because they want to marry you," the bat said.
And the Queen answered, "I suppose it is; but I shan't marry them. And
I wish _all_ my attendants weren't deaf and dumb; it makes it so awfully
dull for me."
"That's so that they shan't abuse the Regent behind his back," the bat
said. "Well, I shall take a fly." The truth was, he felt insulted that
the Queen should say she was dull when she had him to talk to.
But the Queen was quite frightened when he whizzed past her head and out
into the dusky evening, where she could see him flitting about jerkily,
and squeaking shrilly to paralyze the flies with fright.
After a while he got over his fit of sulks, and came back again to hang
in his accustomed bough.
"Why--you can fly!" the Queen said breathlessly. It gave her a new idea
of the importance of the bat.
The bat said, "I can." He was flattered by her admiration.
"I wish _I_ could fly," the Queen said. "It would be so much more
exciting than being boxed up here."
The bat said, "Why don't you?"
"Because I haven't got wings, I suppose," the Queen said.
"You shouldn't suppose," the bat said sharply. "Half the evils in the
world come from people supposing."
"What are the 'evils in the world'?" the Queen said.
And the bat answered, "What! don't you even know that, you ignorant
little thing? The evils in the world are ever so many--strong winds so
that one can't fly straight, and cold weather so that the flies die, and
rheumatic pains in one's wing-joints, and cats and swallows."
"I like cats," the Queen said; "and swallows are very pretty."
"That's what _you_ think," the bat said angrily. "But you're nobody.
Now, I hate cats because they always want to eat me; and I hate swallows
because they always eat what I want to eat--flies. They are the real
evils of the world."
The Queen saw that he was angry, and she held her peace for a while.
"I'm not nobody, all the same," she thought to herself, "I'm the Queen
of the'most prosperous and contented nation in the world,' though I
don't quite understand what it means. But it will never do to offend the
bat, it is so dreadfully dull when he won't talk;" so she said, "Would
it be possible for me to fly?" for a great longing had come into her
heart to be able to fly away out of the garden with the roses and the
marble bench.
"Well | 235.086505 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
[Illustration: "HERE HE IS! TAK' HIM AND FINISH HIM" Page 44]
The Starling
A Scottish Story
BY
NORMAN MACLEOD
Author of
"Reminiscences of a Highland Parish" "Character Sketches"
"The Old Lieutenant and his Son" &c. &c.
BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
LONDON AND GLASGOW
BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
50 Old Bailey, London
17 Stanhope Street, Glasgow
BLACKIE & SON (INDIA) LIMITED
Warwick House, Fort Street, Bombay
BLACKIE & SON (CANADA) LIMITED
1118 Bay Street, Toronto
Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
Norman Mac | 235.08752 |
2023-11-16 18:20:59.0795950 | 5,538 | 13 |
Produced by Jo Churcher. HTML version by Al Haines.
GREENMANTLE
by
JOHN BUCHAN
To
Caroline Grosvenor
During the past year, in the intervals of an active life, I have amused
myself with constructing this tale. It has been scribbled in every
kind of odd place and moment--in England and abroad, during long
journeys, in half-hours between graver tasks; and it bears, I fear, the
mark of its gipsy begetting. But it has amused me to write, and I
shall be well repaid if it amuses you--and a few others--to read.
Let no man or woman call its events improbable. The war has driven
that word from our vocabulary, and melodrama has become the prosiest
realism. Things unimagined before happen daily to our friends by sea
and land. The one chance in a thousand is habitually taken, and as
often as not succeeds. Coincidence, like some new Briareus, stretches
a hundred long arms hourly across the earth. Some day, when the full
history is written--sober history with ample documents--the poor
romancer will give up business and fall to reading Miss Austen in a
hermitage.
The characters of the tale, if you think hard, you will recall. Sandy
you know well. That great spirit was last heard of at Basra, where he
occupies the post that once was Harry Bullivant's. Richard Hannay is
where he longed to be, commanding his battalion on the ugliest bit of
front in the West. Mr John S. Blenkiron, full of honour and wholly
cured of dyspepsia, has returned to the States, after vainly
endeavouring to take Peter with him. As for Peter, he has attained the
height of his ambition. He has shaved his beard and joined the Flying
Corps.
CONTENTS
1. A Mission is Proposed
2. The Gathering of the Missionaries
3. Peter Pienaar
4. Adventures of Two Dutchmen on the Loose
5. Further Adventures of the Same
6. The Indiscretions of the Same
7. Christmas Eve
8. The Essen Barges
9. The Return of the Straggler
10. The Garden-House of Suliman the Red
11. The Companions of the Rosy Hours
12. Four Missionaries See Light in Their Mission
13. I Move in Good Society
14. The Lady of the Mantilla
15. An Embarrassed Toilet
16. The Battered Caravanserai
17. Trouble By the Waters of Babylon
18. Sparrows on the Housetops
19. Greenmantle
20. Peter Pienaar Goes to the Wars
21. The Little Hill
22. The Guns of the North
CHAPTER ONE
A Mission is Proposed
I had just finished breakfast and was filling my pipe when I got
Bullivant's telegram. It was at Furling, the big country house in
Hampshire where I had come to convalesce after Loos, and Sandy, who was
in the same case, was hunting for the marmalade. I flung him the
flimsy with the blue strip pasted down on it, and he whistled.
'Hullo, Dick, you've got the battalion. Or maybe it's a staff billet.
You'll be a blighted brass-hat, coming it heavy over the hard-working
regimental officer. And to think of the language you've wasted on
brass-hats in your time!'
I sat and thought for a bit, for the name 'Bullivant' carried me back
eighteen months to the hot summer before the war. I had not seen the
man since, though I had read about him in the papers. For more than a
year I had been a busy battalion officer, with no other thought than to
hammer a lot of raw stuff into good soldiers. I had succeeded pretty
well, and there was no prouder man on earth than Richard Hannay when he
took his Lennox Highlanders over the parapets on that glorious and
bloody 25th day of September. Loos was no picnic, and we had had some
ugly bits of scrapping before that, but the worst bit of the campaign I
had seen was a tea-party to the show I had been in with Bullivant
before the war started. [Major Hannay's narrative of this affair has
been published under the title of _The Thirty-nine Steps_.]
The sight of his name on a telegram form seemed to change all my
outlook on life. I had been hoping for the command of the battalion,
and looking forward to being in at the finish with Brother Boche. But
this message jerked my thoughts on to a new road. There might be other
things in the war than straightforward fighting. Why on earth should
the Foreign Office want to see an obscure Major of the New Army, and
want to see him in double-quick time?
'I'm going up to town by the ten train,' I announced; 'I'll be back in
time for dinner.'
'Try my tailor,' said Sandy. 'He's got a very nice taste in red tabs.
You can use my name.'
An idea struck me. 'You're pretty well all right now. If I wire for
you, will you pack your own kit and mine and join me?'
'Right-o! I'll accept a job on your staff if they give you a corps. If
so be as you come down tonight, be a good chap and bring a barrel of
oysters from Sweeting's.'
I travelled up to London in a regular November drizzle, which cleared
up about Wimbledon to watery sunshine. I never could stand London
during the war. It seemed to have lost its bearings and broken out
into all manner of badges and uniforms which did not fit in with my
notion of it. One felt the war more in its streets than in the field,
or rather one felt the confusion of war without feeling the purpose. I
dare say it was all right; but since August 1914 I never spent a day in
town without coming home depressed to my boots.
I took a taxi and drove straight to the Foreign Office. Sir Walter did
not keep me waiting long. But when his secretary took me to his room I
would not have recognized the man I had known eighteen months before.
His big frame seemed to have dropped flesh and there was a stoop in the
square shoulders. His face had lost its rosiness and was red in
patches, like that of a man who gets too little fresh air. His hair
was much greyer and very thin about the temples, and there were lines
of overwork below the eyes. But the eyes were the same as before, keen
and kindly and shrewd, and there was no change in the firm set of the
jaw.
'We must on no account be disturbed for the next hour,' he told his
secretary. When the young man had gone he went across to both doors
and turned the keys in them.
'Well, Major Hannay,' he said, flinging himself into a chair beside the
fire. 'How do you like soldiering?'
'Right enough,' I said, 'though this isn't just the kind of war I would
have picked myself. It's a comfortless, bloody business. But we've
got the measure of the old Boche now, and it's dogged as does it. I
count on getting back to the front in a week or two.'
'Will you get the battalion?' he asked. He seemed to have followed my
doings pretty closely.
'I believe I've a good chance. I'm not in this show for honour and
glory, though. I want to do the best I can, but I wish to heaven it
was over. All I think of is coming out of it with a whole skin.'
He laughed. 'You do yourself an injustice. What about the forward
observation post at the Lone Tree? You forgot about the whole skin
then.'
I felt myself getting red. 'That was all rot,' I said, 'and I can't
think who told you about it. I hated the job, but I had to do it to
prevent my subalterns going to glory. They were a lot of fire-eating
young lunatics. If I had sent one of them he'd have gone on his knees
to Providence and asked for trouble.'
Sir Walter was still grinning.
'I'm not questioning your caution. You have the rudiments of it, or
our friends of the Black Stone would have gathered you in at our last
merry meeting. I would question it as little as your courage. What
exercises my mind is whether it is best employed in the trenches.'
'Is the War Office dissatisfied with me?' I asked sharply.
'They are profoundly satisfied. They propose to give you command of
your battalion. Presently, if you escape a stray bullet, you will no
doubt be a Brigadier. It is a wonderful war for youth and brains. But
... I take it you are in this business to serve your country, Hannay?'
'I reckon I am,' I said. 'I am certainly not in it for my health.'
He looked at my leg, where the doctors had dug out the shrapnel
fragments, and smiled quizzically.
'Pretty fit again?' he asked.
'Tough as a sjambok. I thrive on the racket and eat and sleep like a
schoolboy.'
He got up and stood with his back to the fire, his eyes staring
abstractedly out of the window at the wintry park.
'It is a great game, and you are the man for it, no doubt. But there
are others who can play it, for soldiering today asks for the average
rather than the exception in human nature. It is like a big machine
where the parts are standardized. You are fighting, not because you
are short of a job, but because you want to help England. How if you
could help her better than by commanding a battalion--or a brigade--or,
if it comes to that, a division? How if there is a thing which you
alone can do? Not some _embusque_ business in an office, but a thing
compared to which your fight at Loos was a Sunday-school picnic. You
are not afraid of danger? Well, in this job you would not be fighting
with an army around you, but alone. You are fond of tackling
difficulties? Well, I can give you a task which will try all your
powers. Have you anything to say?'
My heart was beginning to thump uncomfortably. Sir Walter was not the
man to pitch a case too high.
'I am a soldier,' I said, 'and under orders.'
'True; but what I am about to propose does not come by any conceivable
stretch within the scope of a soldier's duties. I shall perfectly
understand if you decline. You will be acting as I should act
myself--as any sane man would. I would not press you for worlds. If
you wish it, I will not even make the proposal, but let you go here and
now, and wish you good luck with your battalion. I do not wish to
perplex a good soldier with impossible decisions.'
This piqued me and put me on my mettle.
'I am not going to run away before the guns fire. Let me hear what you
propose.'
Sir Walter crossed to a cabinet, unlocked it with a key from his chain,
and took a piece of paper from a drawer. It looked like an ordinary
half-sheet of note-paper.
'I take it,' he said, 'that your travels have not extended to the East.'
'No,' I said, 'barring a shooting trip in East Africa.'
'Have you by any chance been following the present campaign there?'
'I've read the newspapers pretty regularly since I went to hospital.
I've got some pals in the Mesopotamia show, and of course I'm keen to
know what is going to happen at Gallipoli and Salonika. I gather that
Egypt is pretty safe.'
'If you will give me your attention for ten minutes I will supplement
your newspaper reading.'
Sir Walter lay back in an arm-chair and spoke to the ceiling. It was
the best story, the clearest and the fullest, I had ever got of any bit
of the war. He told me just how and why and when Turkey had left the
rails. I heard about her grievances over our seizure of her ironclads,
of the mischief the coming of the _Goeben_ had wrought, of Enver and
his precious Committee and the way they had got a cinch on the old
Turk. When he had spoken for a bit, he began to question me.
'You are an intelligent fellow, and you will ask how a Polish
adventurer, meaning Enver, and a collection of Jews and gipsies should
have got control of a proud race. The ordinary man will tell you that
it was German organization backed up with German money and German arms.
You will inquire again how, since Turkey is primarily a religious
power, Islam has played so small a part in it all. The Sheikh-ul-Islam
is neglected, and though the Kaiser proclaims a Holy War and calls
himself Hadji Mohammed Guilliamo, and says the Hohenzollerns are
descended from the Prophet, that seems to have fallen pretty flat. The
ordinary man again will answer that Islam in Turkey is becoming a back
number, and that Krupp guns are the new gods. Yet--I don't know. I do
not quite believe in Islam becoming a back number.'
'Look at it in another way,' he went on. 'If it were Enver and Germany
alone dragging Turkey into a European war for purposes that no Turk
cared a rush about, we might expect to find the regular army obedient,
and Constantinople. But in the provinces, where Islam is strong, there
would be trouble. Many of us counted on that. But we have been
disappointed. The Syrian army is as fanatical as the hordes of the
Mahdi. The Senussi have taken a hand in the game. The Persian Moslems
are threatening trouble. There is a dry wind blowing through the East,
and the parched grasses wait the spark. And that wind is blowing
towards the Indian border. Whence comes that wind, think you?'
Sir Walter had lowered his voice and was speaking very slow and
distinct. I could hear the rain dripping from the eaves of the window,
and far off the hoot of taxis in Whitehall.
'Have you an explanation, Hannay?' he asked again.
'It looks as if Islam had a bigger hand in the thing than we thought,'
I said. 'I fancy religion is the only thing to knit up such a
scattered empire.'
'You are right,' he said. 'You must be right. We have laughed at the
Holy War, the jehad that old Von der Goltz prophesied. But I believe
that stupid old man with the big spectacles was right. There is a
jehad preparing. The question is, How?'
'I'm hanged if I know,' I said; 'but I'll bet it won't be done by a
pack of stout German officers in _pickelhaubes_. I fancy you can't
manufacture Holy Wars out of Krupp guns alone and a few staff officers
and a battle cruiser with her boilers burst.'
'Agreed. They are not fools, however much we try to persuade ourselves
of the contrary. But supposing they had got some tremendous sacred
sanction--some holy thing, some book or gospel or some new prophet from
the desert, something which would cast over the whole ugly mechanism of
German war the glamour of the old torrential raids which crumpled the
Byzantine Empire and shook the walls of Vienna? Islam is a fighting
creed, and the mullah still stands in the pulpit with the Koran in one
hand and a drawn sword in the other. Supposing there is some Ark of
the Covenant which will madden the remotest Moslem peasant with dreams
of Paradise? What then, my friend?'
'Then there will be hell let loose in those parts pretty soon.'
'Hell which may spread. Beyond Persia, remember, lies India.'
'You keep to suppositions. How much do you know?' I asked.
'Very little, except the fact. But the fact is beyond dispute. I have
reports from agents everywhere--pedlars in South Russia, Afghan
horse-dealers, Turcoman merchants, pilgrims on the road to Mecca,
sheikhs in North Africa, sailors on the Black Sea coasters,
sheep-skinned Mongols, Hindu fakirs, Greek traders in the Gulf, as well
as respectable Consuls who use cyphers. They tell the same story. The
East is waiting for a revelation. It has been promised one. Some
star--man, prophecy, or trinket--is coming out of the West. The Germans
know, and that is the card with which they are going to astonish the
world.'
'And the mission you spoke of for me is to go and find out?'
He nodded gravely. 'That is the crazy and impossible mission.'
'Tell me one thing, Sir Walter,' I said. 'I know it is the fashion in
this country if a man has a special knowledge to set him to some job
exactly the opposite. I know all about Damaraland, but instead of
being put on Botha's staff, as I applied to be, I was kept in Hampshire
mud till the campaign in German South West Africa was over. I know a
man who could pass as an Arab, but do you think they would send him to
the East? They left him in my battalion--a lucky thing for me, for he
saved my life at Loos. I know the fashion, but isn't this just
carrying it a bit too far? There must be thousands of men who have
spent years in the East and talk any language. They're the fellows for
this job. I never saw a Turk in my life except a chap who did
wrestling turns in a show at Kimberley. You've picked about the most
useless man on earth.'
'You've been a mining engineer, Hannay,' Sir Walter said. 'If you
wanted a man to prospect for gold in Barotseland you would of course
like to get one who knew the country and the people and the language.
But the first thing you would require in him would be that he had a
nose for finding gold and knew his business. That is the position now.
I believe that you have a nose for finding out what our enemies try to
hide. I know that you are brave and cool and resourceful. That is why
I tell you the story. Besides...'
He unrolled a big map of Europe on the wall.
'I can't tell you where you'll get on the track of the secret, but I
can put a limit to the quest. You won't find it east of the
Bosporus--not yet. It is still in Europe. It may be in
Constantinople, or in Thrace. It may be farther west. But it is
moving eastwards. If you are in time you may cut into its march to
Constantinople. That much I can tell you. The secret is known in
Germany, too, to those whom it concerns. It is in Europe that the
seeker must search--at present.'
'Tell me more,' I said. 'You can give me no details and no
instructions. Obviously you can give me no help if I come to grief.'
He nodded. 'You would be beyond the pale.'
'You give me a free hand.'
'Absolutely. You can have what money you like, and you can get what
help you like. You can follow any plan you fancy, and go anywhere you
think fruitful. We can give no directions.'
'One last question. You say it is important. Tell me just how
important.'
'It is life and death,' he said solemnly. 'I can put it no higher and
no lower. Once we know what is the menace we can meet it. As long as
we are in the dark it works unchecked and we may be too late. The war
must be won or lost in Europe. Yes; but if the East blazes up, our
effort will be distracted from Europe and the great _coup_ may fail.
The stakes are no less than victory and defeat, Hannay.'
I got out of my chair and walked to the window. It was a difficult
moment in my life. I was happy in my soldiering; above all, happy in
the company of my brother officers. I was asked to go off into the
enemy's lands on a quest for which I believed I was manifestly
unfitted--a business of lonely days and nights, of nerve-racking
strain, of deadly peril shrouding me like a garment. Looking out on
the bleak weather I shivered. It was too grim a business, too inhuman
for flesh and blood. But Sir Walter had called it a matter of life and
death, and I had told him that I was out to serve my country. He could
not give me orders, but was I not under orders--higher orders than my
Brigadier's? I thought myself incompetent, but cleverer men than me
thought me competent, or at least competent enough for a sporting
chance. I knew in my soul that if I declined I should never be quite
at peace in the world again. And yet Sir Walter had called the scheme
madness, and said that he himself would never have accepted.
How does one make a great decision? I swear that when I turned round
to speak I meant to refuse. But my answer was Yes, and I had crossed
the Rubicon. My voice sounded cracked and far away.
Sir Walter shook hands with me and his eyes blinked a little.
'I may be sending you to your death, Hannay--Good God, what a damned
task-mistress duty is!--If so, I shall be haunted with regrets, but you
will never repent. Have no fear of that. You have chosen the roughest
road, but it goes straight to the hill-tops.'
He handed me the half-sheet of note-paper. On it were written three
words--'_Kasredin_', '_cancer_', and '_v. I._'
'That is the only clue we possess,' he said. 'I cannot construe it,
but I can tell you the story. We have had our agents working in Persia
and Mesopotamia for years--mostly young officers of the Indian Army.
They carry their lives in their hands, and now and then one disappears,
and the sewers of Baghdad might tell a tale. But they find out many
things, and they count the game worth the candle. They have told us of
the star rising in the West, but they could give us no details. All
but one--the best of them. He had been working between Mosul and the
Persian frontier as a muleteer, and had been south into the Bakhtiari
hills. He found out something, but his enemies knew that he knew and
he was pursued. Three months ago, just before Kut, he staggered into
Delamain's camp with ten bullet holes in him and a knife slash on his
forehead. He mumbled his name, but beyond that and the fact that there
was a Something coming from the West he told them nothing. He died in
ten minutes. They found this paper on him, and since he cried out the
word "Kasredin" in his last moments, it must have had something to do
with his quest. It is for you to find out if it has any meaning.'
I folded it up and placed it in my pocket-book.
'What a great fellow! What was his name?' I asked.
Sir Walter did not answer at once. He was looking out of the window.
'His name,' he said at last, 'was Harry Bullivant. He was my son. God
rest his brave soul!'
CHAPTER TWO
The Gathering of the Missionaries
I wrote out a wire to Sandy, asking him to come up by the two-fifteen
train and meet me at my flat.
'I have chosen my colleague,' I said.
'Billy Arbuthnot's boy? His father was at Harrow with me. I know the
fellow--Harry used to bring him down to fish--tallish | 235.099635 |
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Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
PECCAVI
BY E. W. HORNUNG
AUTHOR OF "THE AMATEUR CRACKSMAN," "MY LORD
DUKE," "YOUNG BLOOD," ETC.
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
NEW YORK 1901
COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
All rights reserved
THE CAXTON PRESS
NEW YORK.
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
I. Dust to Dust 1
II. The Chief Mourner 11
III. A Confession 18
IV. Midsummer Night 29
V. The Man Alone 45
VI. Fire 51
VII. The Sinner's Prayer 66
VIII. The Lord of the Manor 77
IX. A Duel Begins 89
X. The Letter of the Law 100
XI. Labour of Hercules 115
XII. A Fresh Discovery 125
XIII. Devices of a Castaway 131
XIV. The Last Resort 137
XV. His Own Lawyer 150
XVI. End of the Duel 162
XVII. Three Weeks and a Night 186
XVIII. The Night's Work 193
XIX. The First Winter 209
XX. The Way of Peace 230
XXI. At the Flint House 249
XXII. A Little Child 262
XXIII. Design and Accident 275
XXIV. Glamour and Rue 291
XXV. Signs of Change 306
XXVI. A Very Few Words 316
XXVII. An Escape 323
XXVIII. The Turning Tide 335
XXIX. A Haven of Hearts 348
XXX. The Woman's Hour 362
XXXI. Advent Eve 378
XXXII. The Second Time 390
XXXIII. Sanctuary 397
PECCAVI
I
DUST TO DUST
Long Stow church lay hidden for the summer amid a million leaves. It had
neither tower nor steeple to show above the trees; nor was the
scaffolding between nave and chancel an earnest of one or the other to
come. It was a simple little church, of no antiquity and few exterior
pretensions, and the alterations it was undergoing were of a very
practical character. A sandstone upstart in a countryside of flint, it
stood aloof from the road, on a green knoll now yellow with buttercups,
and shaded all day long by horse-chestnuts and elms. The church formed
the eastern extremity of the village of Long Stow.
It was Midsummer Day, and a Saturday, and the middle of the Saturday
afternoon. So all the village was there, though from the road one saw
only the idle group about the gate, and on the old flint wall a row of
children commanded by the schoolmaster to "keep outside." Pinafores
pressed against the coping, stockinged legs dangling, fidgety hob-nails
kicking stray sparks from the flint; anticipation at the gate,
fascination on the wall, law and order on the path in the
schoolmaster's person; and in the cool green shade hard by, a couple of
planks, a crumbling hillock, an open grave.
Near his handiwork hovered the sexton, a wizened being, twisted with
rheumatism, leaning on his spade, and grinning as usual over the
stupendous hallucination of his latter years. He had swallowed a
rudimentary frog with some impure water. This frog had reached maturity
in the sexton's body. Many believed it. The man himself could hear it
croaking in his breast, where it commanded the pass to his stomach, and
intercepted every morsel that he swallowed. Certainly the sexton was
very lean, if not starving to death quite as fast as he declared; for he
had become a tiresome egotist on the point, who, even now, must hobble
to the schoolmaster with the last report of his unique ailment.
"That croap wuss than ever. Would 'ee like to listen, Mr. Jones?"
And the bent man almost straightened for the nonce, protruding his chest
with a toothless grin of huge enjoyment.
"Thank you," said the schoolmaster. "I've something else to do."
"Croap, croap, croap!" chuckled the sexton. "That take every mortal
thing I eat. An' doctor can't do nothun for me--not he!"
"I should think he couldn't."
"Why, I do declare he be croapun now! That fare to bring me to my own
grave afore long. Do you listen, Mr. Jones; that croap like billy-oh
this very minute!"
It took a rough word to get rid of him.
"You be off, Busby. Can't you see I'm trying to listen to something
else?"
In the church the rector was reciting the first of the appointed psalms.
Every syllable could be heard upon the path. His reading was Mr.
Carlton's least disputed gift, thanks to a fine voice, an unerring sense
of the values of words, and a delivery without let or blemish. Yet there
was no evidence that the reader felt a word of what he read, for one and
all were pitched in the deliberate monotone rarely to be heard outside a
church. And just where some voices would have failed, that of the Rector
of Long Stow rang clearest and most precise:
_"When thou with rebukes dost chasten man for sin, thou makest his
beauty to consume away, like as it were a moth fretting a garment: every
man therefore is but vanity._
_"Hear my prayer, O Lord, and with thine ears consider my calling: hold
not thy peace at my tears._
_"For I am a stranger with thee: and a sojourner, as all my fathers
were._
_"O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength: before I go
hence, and be no more seen..."_
The sexton was regaling the children on the wall with the ever-popular
details of his notorious malady. The schoolmaster still strutted on the
path, now peeping in at the porch, now reporting particulars to the
curious at the gate: a quaint incarnation of conscious melancholy and
unconscious enjoyment.
"Hardly a dry eye in the church!" he announced after the psalm. "Mr.
Carlton and Musk himself are about the only two that fare to hide what
they feel."
"And what does Mr. Carlton feel?" asked a lout with a rose in his coat.
"About as much as my little finger!"
"Ay," said another, "he cares for nothing but his Roman candles, and his
transcripts and gargles."[1]
[Footnote 1: Transepts and gargoyles.]
"Come," said the schoolmaster, "you wouldn't have the parson break down
in church, would you? I'm sorry I mentioned him. I was thinking of
Jasper Musk. He just stands as though Mr. Carlton had carved him out of
stone."
"The wonder is that he can stand there at all," retorted the fellow with
the flower, "to hear what he don't believe read by a man he don't
believe in. A funeral, is it? It's as well we know--he'd take a weddun
in the same voice."
The schoolmaster turned away with an ambiguous shrug. It was not his
business to defend Mr. Carlton against the disaffected and the undevout.
He considered his duty done when he informed the rector who his enemies
were, and (if permitted to proceed) what they were saying behind his
back. The schoolmaster made a mental mark against the name of one
Cubitt, ex-choirman, and, forthwith transferring his attention to the
audience on the wall, put a stop to their untimely entertainment before
returning softly to the porch | 235.178808 |
2023-11-16 18:20:59.2599690 | 76 | 17 |
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
GROWING UP
A Story of the Girlhood of
JUDITH MACKENZIE
By JENNIE M. DRINKWATER
"Each year grows more sacred
with wondering expectation."
--Phill | 235.280009 |
2023-11-16 18:20:59.2610310 | 4,688 | 52 |
Produced by Martin Ward
Weymouth New Testament in Modern Speech, Ephesians
Third Edition 1913
R. F. Weymouth
Book 49 Ephesians
001:001 Paul, an Apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God: To God's
people who are in Ephesus--believers in Christ Jesus.
001:002 May grace and peace be granted to you from God our Father
and the Lord Jesus Christ.
001:003 Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,
who has crowned us with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly
realms in Christ;
001:004 even as, in His love, He chose us as His own in Christ before
the creation of the world, that we might be holy and without
blemish in His presence.
001:005 For He pre-destined us to be adopted by Himself as sons through
Jesus Christ--such being His gracious will and pleasure--
001:006 to the praise of the splendour of His grace with which He has
enriched us in the beloved One.
001:007 It is in Him, and through the shedding of His blood, that we
have our deliverance--the forgiveness of our offences--
so abundant was God's grace,
001:008 the grace which He, the possessor of all wisdom and understanding,
lavished upon us,
001:009 when He made known to us the secret of His will.
And this is in harmony with God's merciful purpose
001:010 for the government of the world when the times are ripe for it--
the purpose which He has cherished in His own mind of restoring
the whole creation to find its one Head in Christ; yes, things in
Heaven and things on earth, to find their one Head in Him.
001:011 In Him we Jews have been made heirs, having been chosen
beforehand in accordance with the intention of Him whose
might carries out in everything the design of His own will,
001:012 so that we should be devoted to the extolling of His
glorious attributes--we who were the first to fix our
hopes on Christ.
001:013 And in Him you Gentiles also, after listening to the Message
of the truth, the Good News of your salvation--having believed
in Him--were sealed with the promised Holy Spirit;
001:014 that Spirit being a pledge and foretaste of our inheritance,
in anticipation of its full redemption--the inheritance
which He has purchased to be specially His for the extolling
of His glory.
001:015 For this reason I too, having heard of the faith in the Lord Jesus
which prevails among you, and of your love for all God's people,
001:016 offer never ceasing thanks on your behalf while I make mention
of you in my prayers.
001:017 For I always beseech the God of our Lord Jesus Christ--
the Father most glorious--to give you a spirit of wisdom
and penetration through an intimate knowledge of Him,
001:018 the eyes of your understanding being enlightened so that you
may know what is the hope which His call to you inspires,
what the wealth of the glory of His inheritance in God's people,
001:019 and what the transcendent greatness of His power in us believers
as seen in the working of His infinite might
001:020 when He displayed it in Christ by raising Him from the dead
and seating Him at His own right hand in the heavenly realms,
001:021 high above all other government and authority and power
and dominion, and every title of sovereignty used either
in this Age or in the Age to come.
001:022 God has put all things under His feet, and has appointed Him
universal and supreme Head of the Church, which is His Body,
001:023 the completeness of Him who everywhere fills the universe
with Himself.
002:001 To you Gentiles also, who were dead through your offences and sins,
002:002 which were once habitual to you while you walked in the ways
of this world and obeyed the Prince of the powers of the air,
the spirits that are now at work in the hearts of the sons
of disobedience--to you God has given Life.
002:003 Among them all of us also formerly passed our lives, governed by
the inclinations of our lower natures, indulging the cravings
of those natures and of our own thoughts, and were in our
original state deserving of anger like all others.
002:004 But God, being rich in mercy, because of the intense love
which He bestowed on us,
002:005 caused us, dead though we were through our offences, to live
with Christ--it is by grace that you have been saved--
002:006 raised us with Him from the dead, and enthroned us with Him
in the heavenly realms as being in Christ Jesus,
002:007 in order that, by His goodness to us in Christ Jesus, He might
display in the Ages to come the transcendent riches of His grace.
002:008 For it is by grace that you have been saved through faith;
and that not of yourselves. It is God's gift, and is not on
the ground of merit--
002:009 so that it may be impossible for any one to boast.
002:010 For we are God's own handiwork, created in Christ Jesus
for good works which He has pre-destined us to practise.
002:011 Therefore, do not forget that formerly you were Gentiles as to
your bodily condition. You were called the Uncircumcision
by those who style themselves the Circumcised--their circumcision
being one which the knife has effected.
002:012 At that time you were living apart from Christ, estranged from
the Commonwealth of Israel, with no share by birth in the Covenants
which are based on the Promises, and you had no hope and no God,
in all the world.
002:013 But now in Christ Jesus you who once were so far away have been
brought near through the death of Christ.
002:014 For He is our peace--He who has made Jews and Gentiles one, and in
His own human nature has broken down the hostile dividing wall,
002:015 by setting aside the Law with its commandments, expressed,
as they were, in definite decrees. His design was to unite
the two sections of humanity in Himself so as to form
one new man,
002:016 thus effecting peace, and to reconcile Jews and Gentiles
in one body to God, by means of His cross--slaying by it
their mutual enmity.
002:017 So He came and proclaimed good news of peace to you who were
so far away, and peace to those who were near;
002:018 because it is through Him that Jews and Gentiles alike have
access through one Spirit to the Father.
002:019 You are therefore no longer mere foreigners or persons excluded
from civil rights. On the contrary you share citizenship
with God's people and are members of His family.
002:020 You are a building which has been reared on the foundation
of the Apostles and Prophets, the cornerstone being
Christ Jesus Himself,
002:021 in union with whom the whole fabric, fitted and closely
joined together, is growing so as to form a holy sanctuary
in the Lord;
002:022 in whom you also are being built up together to become a fixed
abode for God through the Spirit.
003:001 For this reason I Paul, the prisoner of Christ Jesus on behalf
of you Gentiles--
003:002 if, that is, you have heard of the work which God has graciously
entrusted to me for your benefit,
003:003 and that by a revelation the truth hitherto kept secret was made
known to me as I have already briefly explained it to you.
003:004 By means of that explanation, as you read it, you can judge
of my insight into the truth of Christ
003:005 which in earlier ages was not made known to the human race,
as it has now been revealed to His holy Apostles and Prophets
through the Spirit--
003:006 I mean the truth that the Gentiles are joint heirs with us Jews,
and that they form one body with us, and have the same
interest as we have in the promise which has been made good
in Christ Jesus through the Good News,
003:007 in which I have been appointed to serve, in virtue of
the work which God, in the exercise of His power within me,
has graciously entrusted to me.
003:008 To me who am less than the least of all God's people has this
work been graciously entrusted--to proclaim to the Gentiles
the Good News of the exhaustless wealth of Christ,
003:009 and to show all men in a clear light what my stewardship is.
It is the stewardship of the truth which from all the Ages
lay concealed in the mind of God, the Creator of all things--
003:010 concealed in order that the Church might now be used to
display to the powers and authorities in the heavenly realms
the innumerable aspects of God's wisdom.
003:011 Such was the eternal purpose which He had formed in
Christ Jesus our Lord,
003:012 in whom we have this bold and confident access through our
faith in Him.
003:013 Therefore I entreat you not to lose heart in the midst of my
sufferings on your behalf, for they bring you honour.
003:014 For this reason, on bended knee I beseech the Father,
003:015 from whom the whole family in Heaven and on earth derives its name,
003:016 to grant you--in accordance with the wealth of His
glorious perfections--to be strengthened by His Spirit
with power penetrating to your inmost being.
003:017 I pray that Christ may make His home in your hearts through
your faith; so that having your roots deep and your foundations
strong, in love, you may become mighty to grasp the idea,
003:018 as it is grasped by all God's people, of the breadth and length,
the height and depth--
003:019 yes, to attain to a knowledge of the knowledge-surpassing love
of Christ, so that you may be made complete in accordance
with God's own standard of completeness.
003:020 Now to Him who, in exercise of His power that is at work
within us, is able to do infinitely beyond all our highest
prayers or thoughts--
003:021 to Him be the glory in the Church and in Christ Jesus to
all generations, world without end! Amen.
004:001 I, then, the prisoner for the Master's sake, entreat you
to live and act as becomes those who have received the call
that you have received--
004:002 with all lowliness of mind and unselfishness, and with patience,
bearing with one another lovingly, and earnestly
striving to maintain,
004:003 in the uniting bond of peace, the unity given by the Spirit.
004:004 There is but one body and but one Spirit, as also when you
were called you had one and the same hope held out to you.
004:005 There is but one Lord, one faith, one baptism,
004:006 and one God and Father of all, who rules over all, acts through all,
and dwells in all.
004:007 Yet to each of us individually grace was given, measured out
with the munificence of Christ.
004:008 For this reason Scripture says: "He re-ascended on high,
He led captive a host of captives, and gave gifts to men."
004:009 (Now this "re-ascended"--what does it mean but that He had
first descended into the lower regions of the earth?
004:010 He who descended is the same as He who ascended again far
above all the Heavens in order to fill the universe.)
004:011 And He Himself appointed some to be Apostles, some to be Prophets,
some to be evangelists, some to be pastors and teachers,
004:012 in order fully to equip His people for the work of serving--
for the building up of Christ's body--
004:013 till we all of us arrive at oneness in faith and in the knowledge
of the Son of God, and at mature manhood and the stature
of full-grown men in Christ.
004:014 So we shall no longer be babes nor shall we resemble mariners
tossed on the waves and carried about with every changing wind
of doctrine according to men's cleverness and unscrupulous cunning,
making use of every shifting device to mislead.
004:015 But we shall lovingly hold to the truth, and shall in all respects
grow up into union with Him who is our Head, even Christ.
004:016 Dependent on Him, the whole body--its various parts closely
fitting and firmly adhering to one another--grows by the aid
of every contributory link, with power proportioned to
the need of each individual part, so as to build itself up
in a spirit of love.
004:017 Therefore I warn you, and I implore you in the name of the Master,
no longer to live as the Gentiles in their perverseness live,
004:018 with darkened understandings, having by reason of the ignorance
which is deep-seated in them and the insensibility of their
moral nature, no share in the Life which God gives.
004:019 Such men being past feeling have abandoned themselves to impurity,
greedily indulging in every kind of profligacy.
004:020 But these are not the lessons which you have learned from Christ;
004:021 if at least you have heard His voice and in Him have been taught--
and this is true Christian teaching--
004:022 to put away, in regard to your former mode of life,
your original evil nature which is doomed to perish as befits
its misleading impulses,
004:023 and to get yourselves renewed in the temper of your minds
and clothe yourselves
004:024 with that new and better self which has been created to resemble
God in the righteousness and holiness which come from the truth.
004:025 For this reason, laying aside falsehood, every one of you should
speak the truth to his fellow man; for we are, as it were,
parts of one another.
004:026 If angry, beware of sinning. Let not your irritation last until
the sun goes down;
004:027 and do not leave room for the Devil.
004:028 He who has been a thief must steal no more, but, instead of that,
should work with his own hands in honest industry, so that
he may have something of which he can give the needy a share.
004:029 Let no unwholesome words ever pass your lips, but let all your
words be good for benefiting others according to the need
of the moment, so that they may be a means of blessing
to the hearers.
004:030 And beware of grieving the Holy Spirit of God, in whom you
have been sealed in preparation for the day of Redemption.
004:031 Let all bitterness and all passionate feeling, all anger
and loud insulting language, be unknown among you--
and also every kind of malice.
004:032 On the contrary learn to be kind to one another, tender-hearted,
forgiving one another, just as God in Christ has also forgiven you.
005:001 Therefore be imitators of God, as His dear children.
005:002 And live and act lovingly, as Christ also loved you and gave
Himself up to death on our behalf as an offering and sacrifice
to God, yielding a fragrant odor.
005:003 But fornication and every kind of impurity, or covetousness,
let them not even be mentioned among you, for they ought
not to be named among God's people.
005:004 Avoid shameful and foolish talk and low jesting--they are all
alike discreditable--and in place of these give thanks.
005:005 For be well assured that no fornicator or immoral person
and no money-grubber--or in other words idol-worshipper--
has any share awaiting him in the Kingdom of Christ and of God.
005:006 Let no one deceive you with empty words, for it is on account
of these very sins that God's anger is coming upon the disobedient.
005:007 Therefore do not become sharers with them.
005:008 There was a time when you were nothing but darkness.
Now, as Christians, you are Light itself.
005:009 Live and act as sons of Light--for the effect of the Light
is seen in every kind of goodness, uprightness and truth--
005:010 and learn in your own experiences what is fully pleasing
to the Lord.
005:011 Have nothing to do with the barren unprofitable deeds
of darkness, but, instead of that, set your faces against them;
005:012 for the things which are done by these people in secret it
is disgraceful even to speak of.
005:013 But everything can be tested by the light and thus be shown
in its true colors; for whatever shines of itself is light.
005:014 For this reason it is said, "Rise, sleeper; rise from among
the dead, and Christ will shed light upon you."
005:015 Therefore be very careful how you live and act.
Let it not be as unwise men, but as wise.
005:016 Buy up your opportunities, for these are evil times.
005:017 On this account do not prove yourselves wanting in sense,
but try to understand what the Lord's will is.
005:018 Do not over-indulge in wine--a thing in which excess is so easy--
005:019 but drink deeply of God's Spirit. Speak to one another with
psalms and hymns and spiritual songs. Sing and offer praise
in your hearts to the Lord.
005:020 Always and for everything let your thanks to God the Father
be presented in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ;
005:021 and submit to one another out of reverence for Christ.
005:022 Married women, submit to your own husbands as if to the Lord;
005:023 because a husband is the Head of his wife as Christ also is the Head
of the Church, being indeed the Saviour of this His Body.
005:024 And just as the Church submits to Christ, so also married
women should be entirely submissive to their husbands.
005:025 Married men, love your wives, as Christ also loved the Church
and gave Himself up to death for her;
005:026 in order to make her holy, cleansing her with the baptismal
water by the word,
005:027 that He might present the Church to Himself a glorious bride,
without spot or wrinkle or any other defect, but to be
holy and unblemished.
005:028 So too married men ought to love their wives as much as they
love themselves. He who loves his wife loves himself.
005:029 For never yet has a man hated his own body. On the contrary
he feeds and cherishes it, just as Christ feeds and
cherishes the Church;
005:030 because we are, as it were, parts of His Body.
005:031 "For this reason a man is to leave his father and his mother
and be united to his wife, and the two shall be as one."
005:032 That is a great truth hitherto kept secret: I mean the truth
concerning Christ and the Church.
005:033 Yet I insist that among you also, each man is to love his own
wife as much as he loves himself, and let a married woman
see to it that she treats her husband with respect.
006:001 Children, be obedient to your parents as a Christian duty,
for it is a duty.
006:002 "Honour your father and your mother"--this is the first
Commandment which has a promise added to it--
006:003 "so that it may be well with you, and that you may live long
on the earth."
006:004 And you, fathers, do not irritate your children, but bring
them up tenderly with true Christian training and advice.
006:005 Slaves, be obedient to your earthly masters, with respect
and eager anxiety to please and with simplicity of motive
as if you were obeying Christ.
006:006 Let it not be in acts of eye-service as if you had but to
please men, but as Christ's bondservants who are doing God's
will from the heart.
006:007 With right good will, be faithful to your duty as service
rendered to the Lord and not to man.
006:008 You well know that whatever right thing any one does, he will
receive a requital for it from the Lord, whether he is a slave
or a free man.
006:009 And you masters, act towards your slaves on the same principles,
and refrain from threats. For you know that in Heaven there
is One who is your Master as well as theirs, and that merely
earthly distinctions there are none with Him.
006:010 In conclusion, strengthen yourselves in the Lord and in the power
which His supreme might imparts.
006:011 Put on the complete armour of God, | 235.281071 |
2023-11-16 18:20:59.2675560 | 1,037 | 9 |
Produced by Neville Allen, David Edwards and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
COUNTRY LIFE
PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR
Edited by J. A. HAMMERTON
* * * * *
[Illustration]
Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself, the
cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic
draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to "Punch," from its
beginning in 1841 to the present day
[Illustration]
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH'S COUNTRY LIFE
[Illustration]
* * * * *
[Illustration: BROWN'S COUNTRY HOUSE.--_Brown (who takes a friend home
to see his new purchase, and strikes a light to show it)._ "Confound it,
the beastly thing's stopped!"]
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH'S COUNTRY LIFE
HUMOURS OF OUR RUSTICS
AS PICTURED BY
PHIL MAY, L. RAVEN-HILL,
CHARLES KEENE, GEORGE
DU MAURIER, BERNARD
PARTRIDGE, GUNNING
KING, LINLEY SAMBOURNE,
G. D. ARMOUR,
C. E. BROCK, TOM BROWNE,
LEWIS BAUMER, WILL
OWEN, F. H. TOWNSEND,
G. H. JALLAND, G. E.
STAMPA, AND OTHERS
_WITH 180 ILLUSTRATIONS_
PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH
THE PROPRIETORS OF "PUNCH"
* * * * *
THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.
* * * * *
THE PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR
_Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo, 192 pages fully illustrated_
LIFE IN LONDON
COUNTRY LIFE
IN THE HIGHLANDS
SCOTTISH HUMOUR
IRISH HUMOUR
COCKNEY HUMOUR
IN SOCIETY
AFTER DINNER STORIES
IN BOHEMIA
AT THE PLAY
MR. PUNCH AT HOME
ON THE CONTINONG
RAILWAY BOOK
AT THE SEASIDE
MR. PUNCH AFLOAT
IN THE HUNTING FIELD
MR. PUNCH ON TOUR
WITH ROD AND GUN
MR. PUNCH AWHEEL
BOOK OF SPORTS
GOLF STORIES
IN WIG AND GOWN
ON THE WARPATH
BOOK OF LOVE
WITH THE CHILDREN
[Illustration]
* * * * *
[Illustration]
ON RUSTIC HUMOUR
Than the compilation of such a series of books as that which includes
the present volume there could surely be no more engaging occupation for
one who delights to look on the humorous side of life. The editor feels
that if his readers derive as much enjoyment from the result of his
labours as these labours have afforded him he may reasonably
congratulate them! He has found himself many times over, as a book has
taken shape from his gatherings in the treasure house of Mr. Punch,
saying "This is the best of the lot"--and usually he has been right.
There is none but is "the best!" There _may_ be one that is not quite so
good as the other twenty-four; but wild horses would not drag the name
of that one from the editor. He feels, however, that in illustrating the
humours of country life Mr. Punch has risen to the very summit of his
genius. There is, of course, good reason for this, as it is notorious
that the richest humour is to be found in the lowly walks of life, and
flourishes chiefly in rustic places where folks are simple and character
has been allowed to grow with something of that individuality we find in
the untouched products of Nature. Your true humorist has always been in
quick sympathy with the humblest of his fellow men. In the village
worthy, in poor blundering Hodge, in the rough but kindly country
doctor, the picturesque tramp, the droning country parson, the inept
curate, the village glee singers, and such like familiar figures of
rural England, the humorist has never failed to find that "source of
innocent merriment | 235.287596 |
2023-11-16 18:20:59.2683420 | 1,498 | 8 |
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Young Castellan, by George Manville Fenn.
________________________________________________________________________
A Castellan is a person in charge of a castle, and that is what young
Roy Royland has become, while his father, Sir Granby, is away defending
his king. For the time is about 1640, and there is a move afoot in the
country of England to do away with the monarchy. In the castle most of
its old defences have not been used for many years, perhaps centuries,
and old Ben Martlet sets about restoring them, cleaning up the armour,
teaching young Roy the arts of self-defence, by putting him through a
course of fencing, by restoring the portcullis and draw-bridge, and by
training the men from the neighbouring farms to be soldiers.
But eventually, through treachery, the Roundheads, as those who oppose
the monarchy, are called, manage to take the castle, and to make Roy and
his mother, along with old Ben Martlet and the other defenders,
prisoner. This can't do the management of the tenant farms much good.
Eventually Sir Granby, Roy's father, appears on the scene, and the
Roundheads are chased away. As we know from our history books, the
Monarchy was restored, and peace spreads again through the land of
England.
________________________________________________________________________
THE YOUNG CASTELLAN, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.
CHAPTER ONE.
IN THE OLD ARMOURY.
"See these here spots o' red rust, Master Roy?"
"I should be blind as poor old Jenkin if I couldn't, Ben."
"Ay, that you would, sir. Poor old Jenk, close upon ninety he be; and
that's another thing."
"What do you mean?" said the boy addressed.
"What do I mean, sir? Why, I mean as that's another thing as shows as
old England's wore out, and rustin' and moulderin' away."
"Is this Dutch or English, Ben?" said the manly-looking boy, who had
just arrived at the age when dark lads get teased about not having
properly washed the sides of their faces and their upper lips, which
begin to show traces of something "coming up." "I don't understand."
"English, sir," said the weather-beaten speaker, a decidedly ugly man of
about sixty, grizzly of hair and beard, deeply-lined of countenance, and
with a peculiar cicatrice extending from the upper part of his left
cheek-bone diagonally down to the right corner of his lips, and making
in its passage a deep notch across his nose. "English, sir; good old
honest English."
"You're always grumbling, Ben, and you won't get the rust off that
morion with that."
"That I shan't, sir; and if I uses elber grease and sand, it'll only
come again. But it's all a sign of poor old England rustin' and
moulderin' away. The idea! And at a place like this. Old Jenk, as
watch at the gate tower, and not got eyes enough to see across the moat,
and even that's getting full o' mud!"
"Well, you wouldn't have father turn the poor old man away because he's
blind and worn-out."
"Not I, sir," said the man, moistening a piece of flannel with oil,
dipping it into some fine white sand, and then proceeding to scrub away
at the rust spots upon the old helmet, which he now held between his
knees; while several figures in armour, ranged down one side of the low,
dark room in which the work was being carried on, seemed to be looking
on and waiting to have their rust removed in turn.
"Then what do you mean?" said the boy.
"I mean, Master Roy, as it's a pity to see the old towers going down
hill as they are."
"But they're not," cried the boy.
"Not, sir? Well, if you'll excuse me for saying as you're wrong, I'll
say it. Where's your garrison? where's your horses? and where's your
guns, and powder, and shot, and stores?"
"Fudge, then! We don't want any garrison nowadays, and as for horses,
why, it was a sin to keep 'em in those old underground stables that used
to be their lodging. Any one would think you expected to have some one
come and lay siege to the place."
"More unlikely things than that, Master Roy. We live in strange times,
and the king may get the worst of it any day."
"Oh, you old croaker!" cried Roy. "I believe you'd like to have a lot
more men in the place, and mount guard, and go on drilling and
practising with the big guns."
"Ay, sir, I should; and with a place like this, it's what ought to be
done."
"Well, it wouldn't be bad fun, Ben," said the boy, thoughtfully.
"Fun, sir? Don't you get calling serious work like that fun.--But look
ye there. Soon chevy these spots off, don't I?"
"Yes, it's getting nice and bright," said Roy, gazing down at the steel
headpiece.
"And it's going to get brighter and better before I've done. I'm going
to let Sir Granby see when he comes back that I haven't neglected
nothing. I'm a-going to polish up all on 'em in turn, beginning with
old Sir Murray Royland. Let me see: he was your greatest grandfather,
wasn't he?"
"Yes, he lived in 1480," said the boy, as the old man rose, set down the
morion, and followed him to where the farthest suit of mail stood
against the wall. "I say, Ben, this must have been very heavy to wear."
"Ay, sir, tidy; but, my word, it was fine for a gentleman in those days
to mount his horse, shining in the sun, and looking as noble as a man
could look. He's a bit spotty, though, it's been so damp. But I'll
begin with Sir Murray and go right down 'em all, doing the steeliest
ones first, and getting by degrees to the last on 'em as is only steel
half-way down, and the rest being boots. Ah! it's a dolesome change
from Sir Murray to Sir Brian yonder at the end, and worse still, to your
father, as wouldn't put nothing on but a breast-piece and back-piece and
a steel cap."
"Why, it's best," said the boy; "steel armour isn't wanted so much now
they've got cannon and guns."
"Ay, that's a sad come-down too, sir. Why, even when | 235.288382 |
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_June 1866._
[Illustration]
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THE WISHING MOON
by
LOUISE DUTTON
Author of "The Goddess Girl"
[Illustration: "'_Oh, Judith, won't you | 235.398522 |
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MYTHS AND DREAMS
MYTHS AND DREAMS
BY EDWARD CLODD
AUTHOR OF
'THE CHILDHOOD OF THE WORLD,'
'THE STORY OF CREATION,' ETC.
_SECOND EDITION, REVISED_
London
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1891
TO RICHARD A. PROCTOR, B.A.,
AUTHOR OF 'THE SUN,' 'OTHER WORLDS,' ETC., EDITOR OF 'KNOWLEDGE.'
MY DEAR PROCTOR--The best gifts of life are its friendships, and to you,
with whom friendship has ripened into fellowship, and under whose
editorial wing some of the chapters of this book had temporary shelter, I
inscribe them in their enlarged and independent form.
Yours sincerely,
EDWARD CLODD.
PREFACE.
The object of this book is to present in compendious form the evidence
which myths and dreams supply as to primitive man's interpretation of his
own nature and of the external world, and more especially to indicate how
such evidence carries within itself the history of the origin and growth
of beliefs in the supernatural.
The examples are selected chiefly from barbaric races, as furnishing the
nearest correspondences to the working of the mind in what may be called
its "eocene" stage, but examples are also cited from civilised races, as
witnessing to that continuity of ideas which is obscured by familiarity or
ignored by prejudice.
Had more illustrations been drawn from sources alike prolific, the
evidence would have been swollen to undue dimensions without increasing
its significance; as it is, repetition has been found needful here and
there, under the difficulty of entirely detaching the arguments advanced
in the two parts of this work.
Man's development, physical and psychical, has been fully treated by Mr.
Herbert Spencer, Dr. Tylor, and other authorities, to whom students of the
subject are permanent debtors, but that subject is so many-sided, so
far-reaching, whether in retrospect or prospect, that its subdivision is
of advantage so long as we do not permit our sense of inter-relation to be
dulled thereby.
My own line of argument will be found to run for the most part parallel
with that of the above-named writers; there are divergences along the
route, but we reach a common terminus.
The footnotes indicate the principal works which have been consulted in
preparing this book, but I desire to express my special thanks to Mr.
Andrew Lang for his kindness in reading the proofs, and for suggestions
which, in the main, I have been glad to adopt.
E. C.
ROSEMONT, TUFNELL PARK,
LONDON, _March 1885_.
CONTENTS.
PART I.
MYTH: ITS BIRTH AND GROWTH.
SECTION PAGE
I. ITS PRIMITIVE MEANING 3
II. CONFUSION OF EARLY THOUGHT BETWEEN THE LIVING AND THE
NOT LIVING 12
III. PERSONIFICATION OF THE POWERS OF NATURE 19
(_a._) The Sun and Moon 19
(_b._) The Stars 29
(_c._) The Earth and Sky 34
(_d._) Storm and Lightning, etc. 41
(_e._) Light and Darkness 48
(_f._) The Devil 53
IV. THE SOLAR THEORY OF MYTH 61
V. BELIEF IN METAMORPHOSIS INTO ANIMALS 81
VI. TOTEMISM: BELIEF IN DESCENT FROM ANIMAL OR PLANT 99
VII. SURVIVAL OF MYTH IN HISTORY 114
VIII. MYTH AMONG THE HEBREWS 131
IX. CONCLUSION 137
PART II.
DREAMS: THEIR PLACE IN THE GROWTH OF BELIEFS IN THE SUPERNATURAL.
SECTION PAGE
I. DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SAVAGE AND CIVILISED MAN 143
II. LIMITATIONS OF BARBARIC LANGUAGE 148
III. BARBARIC CONFUSION BETWEEN NAMES AND THINGS 154
IV. BARBARIC BELIEF IN VIRTUE IN INANIMATE THINGS 160
V. BARBARIC BELIEF IN THE REALITY OF DREAMS 168
VI. BARBARIC THEORY OF DISEASE 174
VII. BARBARIC THEORY OF A SECOND SELF OR SOUL 182
VIII. BARBARIC PHILOSOPHY IN "PUNCHKIN" AND ALLIED STORIES 188
IX. BARBARIC AND CIVILISED NOTIONS OF THE SOUL'S NATURE 198
X. BARBARIC BELIEF IN SOULS IN BRUTES AND PLANTS AND
LIFELESS THINGS 207
XI. BARBARIC AND CIVILISED NOTIONS ABOUT THE SOUL'S DWELLING
PLACE 215
XII. CONCLUSIONS FROM THE FOREGOING 222
XIII. DREAMS AS OMENS AND MEDIA OF COMMUNICATION BETWEEN GODS
AND MEN 236
INDEX 245
I.
MYTH: ITS BIRTH AND GROWTH.
"Unchecked by external truth, the mind of man has a fatal facility for
ensnaring, entrapping, and entangling itself. But, happily, happily for
the human race, some fragment of physical speculation has been built into
every false system. Here is the weak point. Its inevitable destruction
leaves a breach in the whole fabric, and through that breach the armies of
truth march in."
Sir H. S. MAINE.
MYTH: ITS BIRTH AND GROWTH.
Sec. I.
ITS PRIMITIVE MEANING.
It is barely thirty years ago since the world was startled by the
publication of Buckle's _History of Civilisation_, with its theory that
human actions are the effect of causes as fixed and regular as those which
operate in the universe; climate, soil, food, and scenery being the chief
conditions determining progress.
That book was a _tour de force_, not a lasting contribution to the
question of man's mental development. The publication of Darwin's
epoch-making _Origin of Species_[1] showed wherein it fell short; how the
importance of the above-named causes was exaggerated and the existence of
equally potent causes overlooked. Buckle probably had not read Herbert
Spencer's _Social Statics_, and he knew nothing of the profound revolution
in silent preparation in the quiet of Darwin's home; otherwise, his book
must have been rewritten. This would have averted the oblivion from which
not even its charm of style can rescue it. Its brilliant but defective
theories are obscured in the fuller light of that doctrine of descent with
modifications by which we learn that external circumstances do not alone
account for the widely divergent types of men, so that a superior race, in
supplanting an inferior one, will change the face and destiny of a
country, "making the solitary place to be glad, and the desert to rejoice
and blossom as the rose." Darwin has given us the clue to those subtle and
still obscure causes which bring about, stage by stage, the unseen
adaptations to requirements varying a type and securing its survival, and
which have resulted in the evolution of the manifold species of living
things. The notion of a constant relation between man and his surroundings
is therefore untenable.
But incomplete as is Buckle's theory, and all-embracing as is Darwin's, so
far as organic life is concerned, the larger issue is raised by both, and
for most men whose judgment is worth anything it is settled. Either man is
a part of nature or he is not. If he is not, there is an end of the
matter, since the materials lie beyond human grasp, and cannot be examined
and placed in order for comparative study. Let Christian, Brahman,
Bushman, and South Sea Islander each hold fast his "form of sound words"
about man's origin. One is as good as another where all are irrational and
beyond proof. But if he is, then the inquiry concerning him may not stop
at the anatomy of his body and the assignment of his place in the
succession of life on the globe. His relation, materially, to the
simplest, shapeless specks of living matter; structurally, to the highest
and more complex organisms, is demonstrated; the natural history of him is
clear. This, however, is physical, and for us the larger question is
psychical. The theory of evolution must embrace the genesis and
development of mind, and therefore of ideas, beliefs, and speculations
about things seen and unseen.
In the correction of our old definitions a wider meaning must be given to
the word _myth_ than that commonly found in the dictionaries. Opening any
of these at random we find myth explained as fable, as something
designedly fictitious, whether for amusement only, or to point a moral.
The larger meaning which it holds to-day includes much more than this--to
wit, the whole area of intellectual products which lie beyond the historic
horizon and overlap it, effacing on nearer view the lines of separation.
For the myth, as fable only, has no place for the crude fancies and
grotesque imaginings of barbarous races of the present day, and of races
at low levels of culture in the remote past. And so long as it was looked
upon as the vagrant of fancy, with no serious meaning at the heart of it,
and as corresponding to no yearning of man after the truth of things,
sober treatment of it was impossible. But now that myth, with its prolific
offspring, legend and tradition, is seen to be a necessary travailing
through which the mind of man passed in its slow progress towards
certitude, the study and comparison of its manifold, yet, at the centre,
allied forms, and of the conditions out of which they arose, takes rank
among the serious inquiries of our time.
Not that the inquiry is a new one. The limits of this book forbid detailed
references to the successive stages of that inquiry--in other words, to
the pre-Christian, patristic, and pseudo-scientific theories of myth which
remained unchallenged, or varied only in non-essential features, till the
rise of comparative mythology. But apology for such omission here is the
less needful, since the list of ancient and modern vagaries would have the
monotony of a catalogue. However unlike on the surface, they are
fundamentally the same, being the products of non-critical ages, and one
and all vitiated by assumptions concerning gods and men which are to us as
"old wives' fables."
In short, between these empirical theories and the scientific method of
inquiry into the meaning of myth there can be no relation. Because, for
the assigning of its due place in the order of man's mental and spiritual
development to myth, there is needed that knowledge concerning his origin,
concerning the conditions out of which he has emerged, and concerning the
mythologies of lower races and their survival in unsuspected forms in the
higher races, which was not only beyond reach, but also beyond conception,
until this century.
Except, therefore, as curiosities of literature, we may dismiss the
Lempriere of our school-days, and with him "Causabon"-Bryant and his
symbolism of the ark and traces of the Flood in everything. Their keys,
Arkite and Ophite, fit no lock, and with them we must, in all respect be
it added, dismiss Mr. Gladstone, with his visions of the Messiah in
Apollo, and of the Logos in Athene.
The main design of this book is to show that in what is for convenience
called _myth_ lie the germs of philosophy, theology, and science, the
beginnings of all knowledge that man has attained or ever will attain, and
therefore that in myth we have his serious endeavour to interpret the
meaning of his surroundings and of his own actions and feelings. In its
unbroken sequence we have the explanation of his most cherished and now,
for the most part, discredited beliefs, the persistence of which makes it
essential and instructive not to deal with the primitive myth apart from
its later and more complex phases. Myth was the product of man's emotion
and imagination, acted upon by his surroundings, and it carries the traces
of its origin in its more developed forms, as the ancestral history of the
higher organisms is embodied in their embryos. Man wondered before he
reasoned. Awe and fear are quick to express themselves in rudimentary
worship; hence the myth was at the outset a theology, and the gradations
from personifying to deifying are too faint to be traced. Thus blended,
the one as inevitable outcome of the other, they cannot well be treated
separately, as if the myth were earth-born and the theology heaven-sent.
And to treat them as one is to invade no province of religion, which is
quite other than speculation about gods. The awe and reverence which the
fathomless mystery of the universe awakens, which steal within us unbidden
as the morning light, and unbroken on the prism of analysis; the
conviction, deepening as we peer, that there is a Power beyond humanity,
and upon which humanity depends; the feeling that life is in harmony with
the Divine order when it moves in disinterested service of our kind--these
theology can neither create nor destroy, neither verify nor disprove. They
can be bound within no formula that man or church has invented, but
undefined
"Are yet the fountain life of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing."
At what epoch in man's history we are to place the development of the
myth-making faculty must remain undetermined. It is of course coincident
with the dawn of thought. We cannot credit the nameless savage of the
Ancient Stone Age with it. If he had brains and leisure enough to make
guesses about things, he has left us no witness of the fact. His relics,
and those of his successors to a period which is but as yesterday in the
history of our kind, are material only; and not until we possess the
symbols of his thought, whether in language or rude picture, do we get an
inkling of the meaning which the universe had for him, in the details of
his pitiless daily life, in the shapes and motions of surrounding
objects, and in the majesty of the heavens above him. Even then the
thought is more or less crystallised, and if we would watch it in the
fluent form we must have a keen eye for the like process going on among
savages yet untouched by the Time-spirit, although higher in the scale
than the Papuans and hill tribes of the Vindhya. Although we cannot so far
lull our faculty of thought as to realise the mental vacuity of the
savage, we may, from survivals nowadays, lead up to reasonable guesses of
savage ways of looking at things in bygone ages, and the more so when we
can detect relics of these among the ignorant and superstitious of modern
times.
What meaning, then, had man's surroundings to him, when eye and ear could
be diverted from prior claims of the body, and he could repose from
watching for his prey, and from listening to the approach of wild beast or
enemy? He had the advantage, from greater demand for their exercise, in
keener senses of sight, hearing, smell, and touch, than we enjoy; nor did
he fail to take in facts in plenty. But there was this vital defect and
difference, that in his brains every fact was pigeon-holed, charged with
its own narrow meaning only, as in small minds among ourselves we find
place given to inane peddling details, and no advance made to general and
wide conception of things. In sharpest contrast to the poet's utterance:
"Nothing in this world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle,"
every fact is unrelated to every other fact, and therefore interpreted
wrongly.
Man, in his first outlook upon nature, was altogether ignorant of the
character of the forces by which he was environed; ignorant of that
unvarying relation between effect and cause which it needed the experience
of ages and the generalisations therefrom to apprehend, and to express as
"laws of nature." He had not even the intellectual resource of later times
in inventing miracle to explain where the necessary relation between
events seemed broken or absent.
His first attitude was that of wonder, mingled with fear--fear as
instinctive as the dread of the brute for him. The sole measure of things
was himself, consequently everything that moved or that had power of
movement did so because it was alive. A personal life and will was
attributed to sun, moon, clouds, river, waterfall, ocean, and tree, and
the varying phenomena of the sky at dawn or noonday, at gray eve or
black-clouded night, were the manifestation of the controlling life that
dwelt in all. In a thousand different forms this conception was expressed.
The thunder was the roar of a mighty beast; the lightning a serpent
darting at its prey, an angry eye flashing, the storm demon's outshot
forked tongue; the rainbow a thirsty monster; the waterspout a long-tailed
dragon. This was not a pretty or powerful conceit, not imagery, but an
explanation. The men who thus spoke of these phenomena meant precisely
what they said. What does the savage know about heat, light, sound,
electricity, and the other modes of motion through which the
Proteus-force beyond our ken is manifest? How many persons who have
enjoyed a "liberal" education can give correct answers, if asked off-hand,
explaining how glaciers are born of the sunshine, and why two sounds,
travelling in opposite directions at equal velocities, interfere and cause
silence? The percentage of young men, hailing from schools of renown, who
give the most ludicrous replies when asked the cause of day and night, and
the distance of the earth from the sun, is by no means small.
Whilst the primary causes determining the production of myths are uniform,
the secondary causes, due in the main to different physical surroundings,
vary, bringing about unlikeness in subject and detail. Nevertheless, in
grouping the several classes of myths, those are obviously to be placed
prominently which embrace explanations of the origin of things, from sun
and star to man and insect, involving ideas about the powers to whom all
things are attributed. But in this book no exhaustive treatment is
possible, only some indication of the general lines along which the
myth-making faculty has advanced, and for this purpose a few illustrations
of barbaric mental confusion between the living and the not living are
chosen at the outset. They will, moreover, prepare us for the large
element of the irrational present in barbaric myth, and supply a key to
the survival of this in the mythologies of civilised races.
Sec. II.
CONFUSION OF EARLY THOUGHT BETWEEN THE LIVING AND THE NOT LIVING.
In selecting from the literature of savage mythology the material
overburdens us by its richness. Much of it is old, and, like refuse-heaps
in our mining districts once cast aside as rubbish but now made to yield
products of value, has, after long neglect, been found to contain elements
of worth, which patience and insight have extracted from its travellers'
tales and quaint speculations. That for which it was most prized in the
days of our fathers is now of small account; that within it which they
passed by we secure as of lasting worth. Much of that literature is,
however, new, for the impetus which has in our time been given to the
rescue and preservation of archaic forms has reached this, and a host of
accomplished collectors have secured rich specimens of relics which, in
the lands of their discovery, have still the authority of the past,
unimpaired by the critical exposure of the present.
The subject itself is, moreover, so wide reaching, bringing the ancient
and the modern into hitherto unsuspected relation, showing how in customs
and beliefs, to us unmeaning and irrational, there lurk the degraded
representations of old philosophies, and in what seems to us burlesque,
the survivals of man's most serious thought.
One feels this difficulty of choice and this temptation to digress in
treating of the confusion inherent in the savage mind between things
living and not living, arising from superficial analogies and its
attribution of life and power to lifeless things. The North American
Indians prefer a hook that has caught a big fish to the handful of hooks
that have never been tried, and they never lay two nets together lest they
should be jealous of each other. The Bushmen thought that the traveller
Chapman's big waggon was the mother of his smaller ones; and the natives
of Tahiti sowed in the ground some iron nails given them by Captain Cook,
expecting to obtain young ones. When that ill-fated discoverer's ship was
sighted by the New Zealanders they thought it was a whale with wings. The
king of the Coussa Kaffirs having broken off a piece of the anchor of a
stranded ship soon afterwards died, upon which all the Kaffirs made a
point of saluting the anchor very respectfully whenever they went near it,
regarding it as a vindictive being. But perhaps one of the most striking
and amusing illustrations is that quoted by Sir John Lubbock from the
_Smithsonian Reports_ concerning an Indian who had been sent by a
missionary to a colleague with four loaves of bread, accompanied by a
letter stating their number. The Indian ate some of the bread, and his
theft was, of course, found out. He was sent on a second errand with a
similar batch of bread and a letter, and repeated the theft, but took the
precaution to hide the letter under a stone while he was eating the
loaves, so that it might not see him! As the individual is a type of the
race, so in the child's nature we find analogy of the mental attitude of
the savage ready to hand. To the child everything is alive. With what
timidity and wonder he first touches a watch, with its moving hands and
clicking works; with what genuine anger he beats the door against which he
has knocked his head, whips the rocking-horse that has thrown him, then
kisses and strokes it the next moment in token of forgiveness and
affection.
"As children of weak age
Lend life to the dumb stones
Whereon to vent their rage,
And bend their little fists, and rate
the senseless ground."[2]
Even among civilised adults, as Mr. Grote remarks, "the force of momentary
passion will often suffice to supersede the acquired habit, and an
intelligent man may be impelled in a moment of agonising pain to kick or
beat the lifeless object from which he has suffered." The mental condition
which causes the wild native of Brazil to bite the stone he stumbled over
may, as Dr. Tylor has pointed out in his invaluable _Primitive Culture_,
be traced along the course of history not merely in impulsive habit, but
in formally enacted law. If among barbarous peoples we find, for example,
the relatives of a man killed by a fall from a tree taking their revenge
by cutting the tree down and scattering it in chips, we find a continuity
of idea in the action of the court of justice held at the Prytaneum in
Athens to try any inanimate object, such as an axe, or a piece of wood or
stone, which has caused the death of any one without proved human agency,
and which, if condemned, was cast in solemn form beyond the border. "The
spirit of this remarkable procedure reappears in the old English law,
repealed only in the present reign, whereby not only a beast that kills a
man, but a cart-wheel that runs over him, or a tree that falls on him and
kills him, is deodand or given to God, _i.e._ forfeited and sold for the
poor." Among ancient legal proceedings at Laon we read of animals
condemned to the gallows for the crime of murder, and of swarms of
caterpillars which infected certain districts being admonished by the
Courts of Troyes in 1516 to take themselves off within a given number of
days, on pain of being declared accursed and excommunicated.[3]
Barbaric confusion in the existence of transferable qualities in things,
as when the New Zealander swallows his dead enemy's eye that he may see
farther, or gives his child pebbles to make it stony and pitiless of
heart; and as when the Abipone eats tiger's flesh to increase his courage,
has its survival in the old wives' notion that the eye-bright flower,
which resembles the eye, is good for diseases of that organ, in the
mediaeval remedy for curing a sword wound by nursing the weapon that caused
it, and in the old adage, "Take a hair of the dog that bit you." As
illustrating this, Dr. Dennys[4] tells a story of a missionary in China
whose big dog would now and again slightly bite children as he passed
through the villages. In such a case the mother would run after him and
beg for a hair from the dog's tail, which would be put to the part bitten,
or when the missionary would say jocosely, "Oh! take a hair from the dog
yourself," the woman would decline, and ask him to spit in her hand, which
itself witnesses to the widespread belief in the mystical properties of
saliva.[5] Among ourselves this survives, degraded enough, in the cabmen's
and boatmen's habit of spitting on the fare paid them. _Treacle_ (Greek
_theriake_, from _therion_, a name given to the viper) witnesses to the
old-world superstition that viper's flesh is an antidote to the viper's
bite. Philips, in his _World of Words_, defines treacle as a "physical
compound made of vipers and other | 235.482882 |
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by The University of Florida, The Internet
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[Illustration: THE EAGLE.]
MAMMA'S
STORIES ABOUT BIRDS.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "CHICKSEED WITHOUT CHICKWEED."
[Illustration]
LONDON:
DARTON AND CO., HOLBORN HILL.
LONDON:
WILLIAM STEVENS, PRINTER, 37, BELL YARD,
TEMPLE BAR.
CONTENTS.
THE EAGLE 7
THE DUCK 17
THE QUAIL 27
THE ROBIN REDBREAST 35
THE BULLFINCH 43
THE ALBATROSS 48
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THEIR SILVER WEDDING JOURNEY.
By William Dean Howells
Part I.
[NOTE: Several chapter heading numerals are out of order or missing in
this 1899 edition, however the text is all present in the three volumes.
D.W.]
I.
"You need the rest," said the Business End; "and your wife wants you to
go, as well as your doctor. Besides, it's your Sabbatical year, and you,
could send back a lot of stuff for the magazine."
"Is that your notion of a Sabbatical year?" asked the editor.
"No; I throw that out as a bait to your conscience. You needn't write a
line while you're gone. I wish you wouldn't for your own sake; although
every number that hasn't got you in it is a back number for me."
"That's very nice of you, Fulkerson," said the editor. "I suppose you
realize that it's nine years since we took 'Every Other Week' from
Dryfoos?"
"Well, that makes it all the more Sabbatical," said Fulkerson. "The two
extra years that you've put in here, over and above the old style
Sabbatical seven, are just so much more to your credit. It was your right
to go, two years ago, and now it's your duty. Couldn't you look at it in
that light?"
"I dare say Mrs. March could," the editor assented. "I don't believe she
could be brought to regard it as a pleasure on any other terms."
"Of course not," said Fulkerson. "If you won't take a year, take three
months, and call it a Sabbatical summer; but go, anyway. You can make up
half a dozen numbers ahead, and Tom, here, knows your ways so well that
you needn't think about 'Every Other Week' from the time you start till
the time you try to bribe the customs inspector when you get back. I can
take a hack at the editing myself, if Tom's inspiration gives out, and
put a little of my advertising fire into the thing." He laid his hand on
the shoulder of the young fellow who stood smiling by, and pushed and
shook him in the liking there was between them. "Now you go, March! Mrs.
Fulkerson feels just as I do about it; we had our outing last year, and
we want Mrs. March and you to have yours. You let me go down and engage
your passage, and--"
"No, no!" the editor rebelled. "I'll think about it;" but as he turned to
the work he was so fond of and so weary of, he tried not to think of the
question again, till he closed his desk in the afternoon, and started to
walk home; the doctor had said he ought to walk, and he did so, though he
longed to ride, and looked wistfully at the passing cars.
He knew he was in a rut, as his wife often said; but if it was a rut, it
was a support too; it kept him from wobbling: She always talked as if the
flowery fields of youth lay on either side of the dusty road he had been
going so long, and he had but to step aside from it, to be among the
butterflies and buttercups again; he sometimes indulged this illusion,
himself, in a certain ironical spirit which caressed while it mocked the
notion. They had a tacit agreement that their youth, if they were ever to
find it again, was to be looked for in Europe, where they met when they
were young, and they had never been quite without the hope of going back
there, some day, for a long sojourn. They had not seen the time when they
could do so; they were dreamers, but, as they recognized, even dreaming
is not free from care; and in his dream March had been obliged to work
pretty steadily, if not too intensely. He had been forced to forego the
distinctly literary ambition with which he had started in life because he
had their common living to make, and he could not make it by writing
graceful verse, or even graceful prose. He had been many years in a
sufficiently distasteful business, and he had lost any thought of leaving
it when it left him, perhaps because his hold on it had always been
rather lax, and he had not been able to conceal that he disliked it. At
any rate, he was supplanted in his insurance agency at Boston by a
subordinate in his office, and though he was at the same time offered a
place of nominal credit in the employ of the company, he was able to
decline it in grace of a chance which united the charm of congenial work
with the solid advantage of a better salary than he had been getting for
work he hated. It was an incredible chance, but it was rendered
appreciably real by the necessity it involved that they should leave
Boston, where they had lived all their married life, where Mrs. March as
well as their children was born, and where all their tender and familiar
ties were, and come to New York, where the literary enterprise which
formed his chance was to be founded.
It was then a magazine of a new sort, which his business partner had
imagined in such leisure as the management of a newspaper syndicate
afforded him, and had always thought of getting March to edit. The
magazine which is also a book has since been realized elsewhere on more
or less prosperous terms, but not for any long period, and 'Every Other
Week' was apparently--the only periodical of the kind conditioned for
survival. It was at first backed by unlimited capital, and it had the
instant favor of a popular mood, which has since changed, but which did
not change so soon that the magazine had not time to establish itself in
a wide acceptance. It was now no longer a novelty, it was no longer in
the maiden blush of its first success, but it had entered upon its second
youth with the reasonable hope of many years of prosperity before it. In
fact it was a very comfortable living for all concerned, and the Marches
had the conditions, almost dismayingly perfect, in which they had often
promised themselves to go and be young again in Europe, when they
rebelled at finding themselves elderly in America. Their daughter was
married, and so very much to her mother's mind that she did not worry
about her, even though she lived so far away as Chicago, still a wild
frontier town to her Boston imagination; and their son, as soon as he
left college, had taken hold on 'Every Other Week', under his father's
instruction, with a zeal and intelligence which won him Fulkerson's
praise as a chip of the old block. These two liked each other, and worked
into each other's hands as cordially and aptly as Fulkerson and March had
ever done. It amused the father to see his son offering Fulkerson the
same deference which the Business End paid to seniority in March himself;
but in fact, Fulkerson's forehead was getting, as he said, more
intellectual every day; and the years were pushing them all along
together.
Still, March had kept on in the old rut, and one day he fell down in it.
He had a long sickness, and when he was well of it, he was so slow in
getting his grip of work again that he was sometimes deeply discouraged.
His wife shared his depression, whether he showed or whether he hid it,
and when the doctor advised his going abroad, she abetted the doctor with
all the strength of a woman's hygienic intuitions. March himself
willingly consented, at first; but as soon as he got strength for his
work, he began to temporize and to demur. He said that he believed it
would do him just as much good to go to Saratoga, where they always had
such a good time, as to go to Carlsbad; and Mrs. March had been obliged
several times to leave him to his own undoing; she always took him more
vigorously in hand afterwards.
II.
When he got home from the 'Every Other Week' office, the afternoon of
that talk with the Business End, he wanted to laugh with his wife at
Fulkerson's notion of a Sabbatical year. She did not think it was so very
droll; she even urged it seriously against him, as if she had now the
authority of Holy Writ for forcing him abroad; she found no relish of
absurdity in the idea that it was his duty to take this rest which had
been his right before.
He abandoned himself to a fancy which had been working to the surface of
his thought. "We could call it our Silver Wedding Journey, and go round
to all the old places, and see them in the reflected light of the past."
"Oh, we could!" she responded, passionately; and he had now the delicate
responsibility of persuading her that he was joking.
He could think of nothing better than a return to Fulkerson's absurdity.
"It would be our Silver Wedding Journey just as it would be my Sabbatical
year--a good deal after date. But I suppose that would make it all the
more silvery."
She faltered in her elation. "Didn't you say a Sabbatical year yourself?"
she demanded.
"Fulkerson said it; but it was a figurative expression."
"And I suppose the Silver Wedding Journey was a figurative expression
too!"
"It was a notion that tempted me; I thought you would enjoy it. Don't you
suppose I should be glad too, if we could go over, and find ourselves
just as we were when we first met there?"
"No; I don't believe now that you care anything about it."
"Well, it couldn't be done, anyway; so that doesn't matter."
"It could be done, if you were a mind to think so. And it would be the
greatest inspiration to you. You are always longing for some chance to do
original work, to get away from your editing, but you've let the time
slip by without really trying to do anything; I don't call those little
studies of yours in the magazine anything; and now you won't take the
chance that's almost forcing itself upon you. You could write an original
book of the nicest kind; mix up travel and fiction; get some love in."
"Oh, that's the stalest kind of thing!"
"Well, but you could see it from a perfectly new point of view. You could
look at it as a sort of dispassionate witness, and treat it
humorously--of course it is ridiculous--and do something entirely fresh."
"It wouldn't work. It would be carrying water on both shoulders. The
fiction would kill the travel, the travel would kill the fiction; the
love and the humor wouldn't mingle any more than oil and vinegar."
"Well, and what is better than a salad?"
"But this would be all salad-dressing, and nothing to put it on." She was
silent, and he yielded to another fancy. "We might imagine coming upon
our former selves over there, and travelling round with them--a wedding
journey 'en partie carree'."
"Something like that. I call it a very poetical idea," she said with a
sort of provisionality, as if distrusting another ambush.
"It isn't so bad," he admitted. "How young we were, in those days!"
"Too young to know what a good time we were having," she said, relaxing
her doubt for the retrospect. "I don't feel as if I really saw Europe,
then; I was too inexperienced, too ignorant, too simple. I would like to
go, just to make sure that I had been." He was smiling again in the way
he had when anything occurred to him that amused him, and she demanded,
"What is it?"
"Nothing. I was wishing we could go in the consciousness of people who
actually hadn't been before--carry them all through Europe, and let them
see it in the old, simple-hearted American way."
She shook her head. "You couldn't! They've all been!"
"All but about sixty or seventy millions," said March.
"Well, those are just the millions you don't know, and couldn't imagine."
"I'm not so sure of that."
"And even if you could imagine them, you couldn't make them interesting.
All the interesting ones have been, anyway."
"Some of the uninteresting ones too. I used, to meet some of that sort
over there. I believe I would rather chance it for my pleasure with those
that hadn't been."
"Then why not do it? I know you could get something out of it."
"It might be a good thing," he mused, "to take a couple who had passed
their whole life here in New York, too poor and too busy ever to go; and
had a perfect famine for Europe all the time. I could have them spend
their Sunday afternoons going aboard the different boats, and looking up
their accommodations. I could have them sail, in imagination, and
discover an imaginary Europe, and give their grotesque misconceptions of
it from travels and novels against a background of purely American
experience. We needn't go abroad to manage that. I think it would be
rather nice."
"I don't think it would be nice in the least," said Mrs. March, "and if
you don't want to talk seriously, I would rather not talk at all."
"Well, then, let's talk about our Silver Wedding Journey."
"I see. You merely want to tease and I am not in the humor for it."
She said this in a great many different ways, and then she was really
silent. He perceived that she was hurt; and he tried to win her back to
good-humor. He asked her if she would not like to go over to Hoboken and
look at one of the Hanseatic League steamers, some day; and she refused.
When he sent the next day and got a permit to see the boat; she consented
to go.
III.
He was one of those men who live from the inside outward; he often took a
hint for his actions from his fancies; and now because he had fancied
some people going to look at steamers on Sundays, he chose the next
Sunday himself for their visit to the Hanseatic boat at Hoboken. To be
sure it was a leisure day with him, but he might have taken the afternoon
of any other day, for that matter, and it was really that invisible
thread of association which drew him.
The Colmannia had been in long enough to have made her toilet for the
outward voyage, and was looking her best. She was tipped and edged with
shining brass, without and within, and was red-carpeted and white-painted
as only a ship knows how to be. A little uniformed steward ran before the
visitors, and showed them through the dim white corridors into typical
state-rooms on the different decks; and then let them verify their first
impression of the grandeur of the dining-saloon, and the luxury of the
ladies' parlor and music-room. March made his wife observe that the
tables and sofas and easy-chairs, which seemed so carelessly scattered
about, were all suggestively screwed fast to the floor against rough
weather; and he amused himself with the heavy German browns and greens
and coppers in the decorations, which he said must have been studied in
color from sausage, beer, and spinach, to the effect of those large
march-panes in the roof. She laughed with him at the tastelessness of the
race which they were destined to marvel at more and more; but she made
him own that the stewardesses whom they saw were charmingly like
serving-maids in the 'Fliegende Blatter'; when they went ashore she
challenged his silence for some assent to her own conclusion that the
Colmannia was perfect.
"She has only one fault," he assented. "She's a ship."
"Yes," said his wife, "and I shall want to look at the Norumbia before I
decide."
Then he saw that it was only a question which steamer they should take,
and not whether they should take any. He explained, at first gently and
afterwards savagely, that their visit to the Colmannia was quite enough
for him, and that the vessel was not built that he would be willing to
cross the Atlantic in.
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MARRIAGE, AS IT WAS, AS IT IS, AND AS IT SHOULD BE
A PLEA FOR REFORM
By Annie Besant
Second Edition
London: Freethought Publishing Company
1882.
MARRIAGE: AS IT WAS, AS IT IS, AND AS IT SHOULD BE.
"_Either all human beings have equal rights, or none have any_."
--Condorcet.
I. MARRIAGE
|The recognition of human rights may be said to be of modern growth, and
even yet they are but very imperfectly understood. Liberty used to
be regarded as a privilege bestowed, instead of as an inherent right;
rights of classes have often been claimed: right to rule, right to tax,
right to punish, all these have been argued for and maintained by force;
but these are not rights, they are only wrongs veiled as legal rights.
Jean Jacques Rousseau struck a new note when he cried: "Men are
born free;" free by birthright was a new thought, when declared as a
universal inheritance, and this "gospel of Jean Jacques Rousseau"
dawned on the world as the sun-rising of a glorious day--a day of human
liberty, unrestrained by class. In 1789 the doctrine of the "Rights of
Man" received its first European sanction by law; in the August of that
year the National Assembly of France proclaimed: "Men are born, and
remain, free and equal in rights.... The aim of political association is
the conservation of the natural and imprescriptible rights of man;
these rights are--liberty, property, safety, and resistance of tyranny."
During savage and semi-civilised ages these "imprescriptible rights"
are never dreamed of as existing; brute force is king; might is the only
right, and the strong arm is the only argument whose logic meets with
general recognition. In warlike tribes fair equality is found, and the
chief is only _primus inter pares_; but when the nomadic tribe settles
down into an agricultural community, when the habit of bearing arms
ceases to be universal, when wealth begins to accumulate, and the
village or town offers attractions for pillage, then strength becomes
at once a terror and a possible defence. The weak obey some powerful
neighbour partly because they cannot resist, and partly because they
desire, by their submission, to gain a strong protection against their
enemies. They submit to the exactions of one that they may be shielded
from the tyranny of many, and yield up their natural liberty to some
extent to preserve themselves from being entirely enslaved. Very slowly
do they learn that the union of many individually feeble is stronger
than a few powerful, isolated tyrants, and gradually law takes the
place of despotic will; gradually the feeling of self-respect, of
independence, of love of liberty, grows, until at last man claims
freedom as of right, and denies the authority of any to rule him without
his own consent.
Thus the Rights of Man have become an accepted doctrine, but,
unfortunately, they are only rights of _man,_ in the exclusive sense of
the word. They are sexual, and not human rights, and until they
become human rights, society will never rest on a sure, because just,
foundation. Women, as well as men, "are born and remain free and equal
in rights;" women, as well as men, have "natural and imprescriptible
rights;" for women, as well as for men, "these rights are--liberty,
property, safety, and resistance of tyranny." Of these rights only crime
should deprive them, just as by crime men also are deprived of them;
to deny these rights to women, is either to deny them to humanity _qua_
humanity, or to deny that women form a part of humanity; if women's
rights are denied, men's rights have no logical basis, no claim to
respect; then tyranny ceases to be a crime, slavery is no longer a
scandal; "either all human beings have equal rights, or none have any."
Naturally, in the savage state, women shared the fate of the physically
weak, not only because, as a rule, they are smaller-framed and less
muscular than their male comrades, but also because the bearing and
suckling of children is a drain on their physical resources from
which men are exempt. Hence she has suffered from "the right of the
strongest," even more than has man, and her exclusion from all political
life has prevented the redressal which man has wrought out for himself;
while claiming freedom for himself he has not loosened her chains, and
while striking down his own tyrants, he has maintained his personal
tyranny in the home. Nor has this generally been done by deliberate
intention: it is rather the survival of the old system, which has only
been abolished so slowly as regards men. Mrs. Mill writes: "That those
who were physically weaker should have been made legally inferior, is
quite conformable to the mode in which the world has been governed.
Until very lately, the rule of physical strength was the general law of
human affairs. Throughout history, the nations, races, classes, which
found themselves strongest, either in muscles, in riches, or in military
discipline, have conquered and held in subjection the rest. If, even
in the most improved nations, the law of the sword is at last
discountenanced as unworthy, it is only since the calumniated eighteenth
century. Wars of conquest have only ceased since democratic revolutions
began. The world is very young, and has only just begun to cast off
injustice. It is only now getting rid of <DW64> slavery. It is only now
getting rid of monarchical despotism. It is only now getting rid of
hereditary feudal nobility. It is only now getting rid of disabilities
on the ground of religion. It is only beginning to treat any _men_ as
citizens, except the rich and a favoured portion of the middle
class. Can we wonder that it has not yet done as much for women?"
("Enfranchisement of Women," Mrs. Mill. In J. S. Mill's "Discussions
and Dissertations," Vol. II., page 421.) The difference between men and
women in all civil rights is, however, with few, although important,
exceptions, confined to married women; i.e., women in relation with men.
Unmarried women of all ages suffer under comparatively few disabilities;
it is marriage which brings with it the weight of injustice and of legal
degradation.
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TALES AND NOVELS
VOLUME IX (of X)
HARRINGTON; THOUGHTS ON BORES; ORMOND
By Maria Edgeworth
With Engravings On Steel (Engravings are not included in this edition)
CONTENTS
TO THE READER.
HARRINGTON.
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.
THOUGHTS ON BORES.
ORMOND
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.
TO THE READER.
In my seventy-fourth year, I have the satisfaction of seeing another
work of my daughter brought before the public. This was more than I
could have expected from my advanced age and declining health.
I have been reprehended by some of the public critics for the _notices_
which I have annexed to my daughter’s works. As I do not know their
reasons for this reprehension, I cannot submit even to their respectable
authority. I trust, however, the British public will sympathize with
what a father feels for a daughter’s literary success, particularly as
this father and daughter have written various works in partnership.
The natural and happy confidence reposed in me by my daughter puts it in
my power to assure the public that she does not write negligently. I can
assert that twice as many pages were written for these volumes as are
now printed.
The first of these tales, HARRINGTON, was occasioned by an extremely
well-written letter, which Miss Edgeworth received from America, from
a Jewish lady, complaining of the illiberality with which the Jewish
nation had been treated in some of Miss Edgeworth’s works.
The second tale, ORMOND, is the story of a young gentleman, who is in
some respects the reverse of Vivian. The moral of this tale does not
immediately appear, for the author has taken peculiar care that it
should not obtrude itself upon the reader.
Public critics have found several faults with Miss Edgeworth’s former
works--she takes this opportunity of returning them sincere thanks for
the candid and lenient manner in which her errors have been pointed out.
In the present Tales she has probably fallen into many other faults,
but she has endeavoured to avoid those for which she has been justly
reproved.
And now, indulgent reader, I beg you to pardon this intrusion, and, with
the most grateful acknowledgments, I bid you farewell for ever.
RICHARD LOVELL EDGEWORTH.
_Edgeworthstown, May_ 31,1817.
_Note_--Mr. Edgeworth died a few days after he wrote this Preface--the
13th June, 1817.
HARRINGTON.
CHAPTER I.
When I was a little boy of about six years old, I was standing with a
maid-servant in the balcony of one of the upper rooms of my father’s
house in London--it was the evening of the first day that I had ever
been in London, and my senses had been excited, and almost exhausted, by
the vast variety of objects that were new to me. It was dusk, and I was
growing sleepy, but my attention was awakened by a fresh wonder. As I
stood peeping between the bars of the balcony, I saw star after star of
light appear in quick succession, at a certain height and distance, and
in a regular line, approaching nearer and nearer. I twitched the skirt
of my maid’s gown repeatedly, but she was talking to some acquaintance
at the window of a neighbouring house, and she did not attend to me. I
pressed my forehead more closely against the bars of the balcony,
and strained my eyes more eagerly towards the object of my curiosity.
Presently the figure of the lamp-lighter with his blazing torch in one
hand, and his ladder in the other, became visible; and, with as much
delight as philosopher ever enjoyed in discovering the cause of a new
and grand phenomenon, I watched his operations. I saw him fix and mount
his ladder with his little black pot swinging from his arm, and his red
smoking torch waving with astonishing velocity, as he ran up and down
the ladder. Just when he reached the ground, being then within a few
yards of our house, his torch flared on the face and figure of an old
man with a long white beard and a dark visage, who, holding a great bag
slung over one shoulder, walked slowly on, repeating in a low, abrupt,
mysterious tone, the cry of “Old clothes! Old clothes! Old clothes!”
I could not understand the words he said, but as he looked up at
our balcony he saw me--smiled--and I remember thinking that he had a
good-natured countenance. The maid nodded to him; he stood still, and at
the same instant she seized upon me, exclaiming, “Time for you to come
off to bed, Master Harrington.”
I resisted, and, clinging to the rails, began kicking and roaring.
“If you don’t come quietly this minute, Master Harrington,” said she,
“I’ll call to Simon the Jew there,” pointing to him, “and he shall come
up and carry you away in his great bag.”
The old man’s eyes were upon me; and to my fancy the look of his
eyes and his whole face had changed in an instant. I was struck with
terror--my hands let go their grasp--and I suffered myself to be carried
off as quietly as my maid could desire. She hurried and huddled me into
bed, bid me go to sleep, and ran down stairs. To sleep I could not go,
but full of fear and curiosity I lay, pondering on the thoughts of Simon
the Jew and his bag, who had come to carry me away in the height of
my joys. His face with the light of the torch upon it appeared and
vanished, and flitted before my eyes. The next morning, when daylight
and courage returned, I asked my maid whether Simon the Jew was a good
or a bad man? Observing the impression that had been made upon my mind,
and foreseeing that the expedient, which she had thus found successful,
might be advantageously repeated, she answered with oracular duplic | 235.58413 |
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[Illustration: "IN HIS LOOMING ABOUT THE ROOM HE HAD STOPPED DEAD
BEFORE WATTS'S PICTURE 'HOPE' OVER THE MANTELPIECE"
From the painting by G. F. Watts, | 235.585177 |
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file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
CONSTABLE’S MISCELLANY,
VOLS. LIII. LIV.
Will appear on the 3d and 17th April, containing,
THE LIFE
OF
SIR WILLIAM WALLACE,
OF
ELDERSLIE.
BY JOHN D. CARRICK.
THE BUGLE NE’ER SUNG TO A BRAVER KNIGHT
THAN WILLIAM OF ELDERSLIE.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
EDINBURGH:
CONSTABLE AND CO., 19, WATERLOO PLACE;
AND HURST, CHANCE, AND CO., LONDON.
BOURRIENNE.
Preparing for immediate Publication
IN
CONSTABLE’S MISCELLANY,
MEMOIRS
OF
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE,
FROM THE FRENCH
OF
M. DE BOURRIENNE,
PRIVATE SECRETARY TO THE EMPEROR.
BY JAMES S. MEMES, LL.D.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
CONSTABLE’S MISCELLANY,
OF
ORIGINAL AND SELECTED PUBLICATIONS
“A real and existing Library of Useful and Entertaining knowledge.”
LITERARY GAZETTE.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The unlimited desire of knowledge which now pervades every class
of Society, suggested the design, of not only reprinting, without
abridgment or curtailment, in a cheap form, several interesting and
valuable Publications, hitherto placed beyond the reach of a great
proportion of readers, but also of issuing, in that form, many Original
Treatises, by some of the most Distinguished Authors of the age. Such
is the object of the present Work, which is publishing in a series of
Volumes, under the general title of “CONSTABLE’S MISCELLANY OF ORIGINAL
AND SELECTED PUBLICATIONS, IN THE VARIOUS DEPARTMENTS OF LITERATURE,
SCIENCE, AND THE ARTS.”
Immediately after its commencement, in January 1827, this Miscellany
met with extensive encouragement, which has enabled the Publishers
to bring forward a series of works of the very highest interest, and
at unparalleled low prices. Fifty-two volumes are already before
the Public, forming thirty-four distinct works, any of which may be
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and numerous other illustrations, such as Maps, Portraits, &c. are
occasionally given.
Being intended for all ages as well as ranks, Constable’s Miscellany is
printed in a style and form which combine at once the means of giving
much matter in a small space, with the requisites of great clearness
and facility.
A Volume, containing at least 324 pages, appears every three weeks,
price 3s. 6d., a limited number being printed on fine paper, with early
impressions of the Vignettes, price 5s.
EDINBURGH:
PUBLISHED BY CONSTABLE AND CO.; AND HURST, CHANCE, AND CO., LONDON.
ORIGINAL WORKS
PREPARING FOR
CONSTABLE’S MISCELLANY.
I. LIFE of K. JAMES the FIRST. By R. CHAMBERS, Author of “The
Rebellions in Scotland,” &c. 2 vols.
II. The ACHIEVEMENTS of the KNIGHTS of MALTA, from the
Institution of the Hospitallers of St John, in 1099, till the
Political Extinction of the Order, by Napoleon, in 1800. By ALEX.
SUTHERLAND, Esq. 2 vols.
III. LIFE of FRANCIS PIZZARO, and an ACCOUNT of the CONQUEST of
PERU, &c. By the Author of the “Life of Hernan Cortes.” 1 vol.
IV. HISTORY of MODERN GREECE, and the Ionian Islands; including
a detailed Account of the late Revolutionary War. By THOMAS
KEIGHTLEY, Esq., Author of “Fairy Mythology,” &c. 2 vols.
V. A TOUR in SICILY, &c. By J. S. MEMES, Esq. LL.D., Author of
the “History of Sculpture, Painting, and Architecture,” &c. 1 vol.
VI. MEMOIRS of the IRISH REBELLIONS; By J. MCCAUL, Esq. M. A. of
Trin. Coll., Dublin. 2 vols.
| 235.681512 |
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LOVE AT PADDINGTON
by
W. PETT RIDGE
[Frontispiece]
Thomas Nelson and Sons
London, Edinburgh, Dublin
Leeds, Melbourne, and New York
Leipzig: 35-37 Koenigstrasse. Paris: 189, rue Saint-Jacques
NOVELS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
Mord Em'ly.
Secretary to Bayne, M.P.
A Son of the State.
Lost Property.
'Erb.
A Breaker of Laws.
Mrs. Galer's Business.
The Wickhamses.
Name of Garland.
Sixty-nine Birnam Road.
Splendid Brother.
Thanks to Sanderson.
First Published in 1912
LOVE AT PADDINGTON.
CHAPTER I.
Children had been sent off to Sunday school, and the more conscientious
reached that destination; going in, after delivering awful threats and
warnings to those who preferred freedom of thought and a stroll down
Edgware Road in the direction of the Park. As a consequence, in the
streets off the main thoroughfare leading to Paddington Station peace
and silence existed, broken only by folk who, after the principal meal
of the week, talked in their sleep. Praed Street was different. Praed
Street plumed itself on the fact that it was always lively, ever on the
move, occasionally acquainted with royalty. Even on a Sunday
afternoon, and certainly at all hours of a week-day, one could look
from windows at good racing, generally done by folk impeded by hand
luggage who, as they ran, glanced suspiciously at every clock, and
gasped, in a despairing way, "We shall never do it!" or,
optimistically, "We shall only just do it!" or, with resignation,
"Well, if we lose this one we shall have to wait for the next."
Few establishments were open in Praed Street, shutters were up at the
numerous second-hand shops, and at the hour of three o'clock p.m. the
thirst for journals at E. G. Mills's (Established 1875) was satisfied;
the appetite for cigars, cigarettes, and tobacco had scarcely begun.
Now and again a couple of boys, who had been reading stories of wild
adventure in the Rocky Mountains, dashed across the road, upset one of
Mrs. Mills's placard boards, and flew in opposite directions, feeling
that although they might not have equalled the daring exploits of their
heroes in fiction, they had gone as far as was possible in a country
hampered by civilization.
"Young rascals!" said Mrs. Mills, coming back after repairing one of
these outrages. The shop had a soft, pleasing scent of tobacco from
the brown jars, marked in gilded letters "Bird's Eye" and "Shag" and
"Cavendish," together with the acrid perfume of printer's ink. "Still,
I suppose we were all young once. Gertie," raising her voice, "isn't
it about time you popped upstairs to make yourself good-looking?
There's no cake in the house, and that always means some one looks in
unexpectedly to tea."
No answer.
"Gertie! Don't you hear me when I'm speaking to you?"
"Beg pardon, aunt. I was thinking of something else."
"You think too much of something else, my dear," said Mrs. Mills
persuasively. "I was saying to a customer, only yesterday, that you
don't seem able lately to throw off your work when you've | 235.686707 |
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Produced by Jonathan Ingram, David King, and the Online Distributed
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WHAT GERMANY THINKS
OR THE WAR AS GERMANS SEE IT
By Thomas F.A. Smith, Ph.D.
Late English Lecturer in the University of Erlangen
Author of "The Soul of Germany: A Twelve Years' Study of the People from
Within, 1902-1914"
1915
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I--THE CAUSES OF THE WAR
II--ON THE LEASH
III--THE DOGS LET LOOSE
IV--MOBILIZATION
V--WARS AND RUMOURS OF WARS
VI--THE DEBACLE OF THE SOCIAL DEMOCRATS
VII--"NECESSITY KNOWS NO LAW"
VIII--ATROCITIES
IX--THE NEUTRALITY OF BELGIUM AND
GERMANY'S ANNEXATION PROPAGANDA
X--SAIGNER A BLANC
XI--THE INTELLECTUALS AND THE WAR
XII--THE LITERATURE OF HATE
XIII--"MAN TO MAN AND STEEL TO STEEL"
INDEX
WHAT GERMANY THINKS
CHAPTER I
THE CAUSES OF THE WAR
In many quarters of the world, especially in certain sections of the
British public, people believed that the German nation was led blindly
into the World War by an unscrupulous military clique. Now, however,
there is ample evidence to prove that the entire nation was thoroughly
well informed of the course which events were taking, and also warned as
to the catastrophe to which the national course was certainly leading.
Even to-day, after more than twelve months of devastating warfare, there
is no unity of opinion in Germany as to who caused the war. Some writers
accuse France, others England, while many lay the guilt at Russia's
door. They are only unanimous in charging one or other, or all the
powers, of the Triple Entente. We shall see that every power now at war,
with the exception of Germany and Italy, has been held responsible for
Armageddon, but apparently it has not yet occurred to Germans that the
bearer of guilt for this year's bloodshed--is Germany alone!
It is true that the conflict between Austria and Serbia forms the
starting point. Whether or not Serbia was seriously in the wrong is a
matter of opinion, but it is generally held that Austria dealt with her
neighbour with too much heat and too little discretion. Austria kindled
the flames of war, but it was Germany's mission to seize a blazing torch
and set Europe alight.
When the text of Austria's ultimatum became known, a very serious mood
came over Germany. There was not a man who did not realize that a great
European War loomed on the horizon. A well-organized, healthy public
opinion could at that period have brought the governments of the
Germanic Powers to recognize their responsibility. Had the German Press
been unanimous, it might have stopped the avalanche. But there were two
currents of opinion, the one approving, the other condemning Austria for
having thrown down the gauntlet to Serbia and above all to Russia.
One paper exulted over the statement that every sentence in Austria's
ultimatum "was a whip-lash across Serbia's face;" a phrase expressing so
aptly the great mass of popular opinion. This expression met with
unstinted approval, for it corresponded with German ideals and standards
in dealing with an opponent. Yet there was no lack of warnings, and very
grave ones too. A glance at German newspapers will suffice to prove this
statement.
On July 24th, 1914, Krupp's organ, the _Rheinisch-Westfaelische Zeitung_,
contained the following: "The Austro-Hungarian ultimatum is nothing but
a pretext for war, but this time a dangerous one. It seems that we are
standing on the verge of an Austro-Serbian war. It is possible, very
possible, that we shall have to extinguish East-European conflagrations
with our arms, either because of our treaties or from the compulsion of
events. But it is a scandal if the Imperial Government (Berlin) has not
required that such a final offer should be submitted to it for approval
before its presentation to Serbia. To-day nothing remains for us but to
declare: 'We are not bound by any alliance to support wars let loose by
the Hapsburg policy of conquest.'"
The _Post_ wrote on the same date: "Is that a note? No! it is an
ultimatum of the sharpest kind. Within twenty-four hours Austria demands
an answer. A reply? No! but an absolute submission, the utter and
complete humiliation of Serbia. On former occasions we have (and with
justice) made fun of Austria's lack of energy. Now | 235.686719 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
PORCELAIN
[Illustration: _PLATE I._ JAPANESE IMARI WARE]
PORCELAIN
BY
EDWARD DILLON, M.A.
[Illustration: The
Connoisseur’s
Library]
METHUEN AND CO.
36 ESSEX STREET
LONDON
_First published in 1904._
PREFACE
How extensive is the literature that has grown up of late years round
the subject of porcelain may be judged from the length of our ‘selected’
list of books dealing with this material. Apart from the not
inconsiderable number of general works on the potter’s art in French,
German, and English, there is scarcely to be found a kiln where pottery
of one kind or another has been manufactured which has not been made the
subject of a separate study. And yet, as far as I know, the very
definite subdivision of ceramics, which includes the porcelain of the
Far East and of Europe, has never been made the basis of an independent
work in England.
It has been the aim of the writer to dwell more especially on the nature
of the paste, on the glaze, and on the decoration of the various wares,
and above all to accentuate any points that throw light upon the
relations with one another--especially the historical relations--of the
different centres where porcelain has been made. Less attention has been
given to the question of marks. In the author’s opinion, the exaggerated
importance that has been given to these marks, both by collectors and by
the writers that have catered to them, has more than anything else
tended to degrade the study of the subject, and to turn off the
attention from more essential points. This has been above all the case
in England, where the technical side has been strangely neglected. In
fact, we must turn to French works for any thorough information on this
head.
In the bibliographical list it has been impossible to distinguish the
relative value of the books included. I think that _something_ of value
may be found in nearly every one of these works, but in many, whatever
there is of original information might be summed up in a few pages. In
fact, the books really essential to the student are few in number. For
Oriental china we have the Franks catalogue, M. Vogt’s little book, _La
Porcelaine_, and above all the great work of Dr. Bushell, which is
unfortunately not very accessible. For Continental porcelain there is no
‘up-to-date’ work in English, but the brief notes in the catalogue
prepared shortly before his death by Sir A. W. Franks have the advantage
of being absolutely trustworthy. The best account of German porcelain is
perhaps to be found in Dr. Brinckmann’s bulky description of the Hamburg
Museum, which deals, however, with many subjects besides porcelain,
while for Sèvres we have the works of Garnier and Vogt. For English
porcelain the literature is enormous, but there is little of importance
that will not be found in Professor Church’s little handbook, or in the
lately published works of Mr. Burton and Mr. Solon. The last edition of
the guide to the collection lately at Jermyn Street has been well edited
by Mr. Rudler, and contains much information on the technical side of
the subject. On many historical points the notes in the last edition of
Marryat are still invaluable: the quotations, however, require checking,
and the original passages are often very difficult to unearth.
In the course of this book I have touched upon several interesting
problems which it would be impossible to thoroughly discuss in a general
work of this kind. I take, however, the occasion of bringing one or two
of these points to the notice of future investigators.
Much light remains to be thrown upon the relations of the Chinese with
the people of Western Asia during the Middle Ages. We want to know at
what time and under what influences the Chinese began to decorate their
porcelain, first with blue under the glaze, and afterwards by means of
glazes of three or more colours, painted on the biscuit. The relation of
this latter method of decoration to the true enamel-painting which
succeeded it is still obscure. So again, to come to a later time, there
is much difference of opinion as to the date of the first introduction
of the _rouge d’or_, a very important point in the history and
classification of Chinese porcelain.
We are much in the dark as to the source of the porcelain exported both
from China and Japan in the seventeenth century, especially of the
roughly painted ‘blue and white,’ of which such vast quantities went to
India and Persia. So of the Japanese ‘Kakiyemon,’ which had so much
influence on our European wares, what was the origin of the curious
design, and what was the relation of this ware to the now better known
‘Old Japan’?
When we come nearer home, to the European porcelain of the eighteenth
century, many obscure points still remain to be cleared up. The
currently accepted accounts of Böttger’s great discovery present many
difficulties. At Sèvres, why was the use of the newly discovered _rose
Pompadour_ so soon abandoned? And finally, in England, what were we
doing during the long years between the time of the early experiments of
Dr. Dwight and the great outburst of energy in the middle of the
eighteenth century?
The illustrations have been chosen for the most part from specimens in
our national collections. I take this opportunity of thanking the
officials in charge of these collections for the facilities they have
given to me in the selection of the examples, and to the photographer in
the reproduction of the pieces selected. To Mr. C. H. Read of the
British Museum, and to Mr. Skinner of the Victoria and Albert Museum, my
thanks are above all due. To the latter gentleman I am much indebted for
the trouble he has taken, amid arduous official duties, in making
arrangements for photographing not only examples belonging to the
Museum, scattered as these are through various wide-lying departments,
but also several other pieces of porcelain at present deposited there by
private collectors. To these gentlemen, finally, my thanks are due for
permission to reproduce examples of their porcelain--to Mr. Pierpont
Morgan, to Mr. Fitzhenry, to Mr. David Currie, and above all to my
friend Mr. George Salting, who has interested himself in the selection
of the objects from his unrivalled collection.
The small collection of marks at the end of the book has no claim to
originality. The examples have been selected from the catalogues of the
Schreiber collection at South Kensington, and from those of the Franks
collections of Oriental and Continental china. For permission to use the
blocks my thanks are due, as far as the first two books are concerned,
to H. M.’s Stationery Office and to the Education Department; in the
case of the last work, to Mr. C. H. Read, who, I understand, himself
drew the original marks for Sir A. W. Franks’s catalogue.
In a general work of this kind much important matter has had to be
omitted. That is inevitable. I only hope that specialists in certain
definite parts of the wide field covered will not find that I have
committed myself to rash or ungrounded generalisations. Let them
remember that the carefully guarded statements and the reservations
suitable to a scientific paper would be out of place in a work intended
in the main for the general public.
E. D.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE, v
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS, xii
SELECTED LIST OF WORKS ON PORCELAIN, xxvi
KEY TO THE BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST, xxxiii
LIST OF WORKS ON OTHER SUBJECTS REFERRED
TO IN THE TEXT, xxxv
CHAPTER I. Introductory and Scientific, 1
CHAPTER II. The Materials: Mixing, Fashioning,
and Firing, 14
CHAPTER III. Glazes, 30
CHAPTER IV. Decoration by means of Colour, 38
CHAPTER V. The Porcelain of China. Introductory--Classification--The
Sung Dynasty--The Mongol or Yuan Dynasty, 49
CHAPTER VI. The Porcelain of China (_continued_).
The Ming Dynasty, 78
CHAPTER VII. The Porcelain of China (_continued_).
The Manchu or Tsing Dynasty, 96
CHAPTER VIII. The Porcelain of China (_continued_).
Marks, 117
CHAPTER IX. The Porcelain of China (_continued_).
King-te-chen and the Père D’Entrecolles, 123
CHAPTER X. The Porcelain of China (_continued_).
Forms and uses--Descriptions of the various
Wares, 137
CHAPTER XI. The Porcelain of Korea and of
the Indo-Chinese Peninsula, 168
CHAPTER XII. The Porcelain of Japan, 177
CHAPTER XIII. From East to West, 208
CHAPTER XIV. The First Attempts at Imitation
in Europe, 233
CHAPTER XV. The Hard-Paste Porcelain of
Germany. Böttger and the Porcelain of
Meissen, 244
CHAPTER XVI. The Hard-Paste Porcelain of
Germany (_continued_).
Vienna--Berlin--Höchst--Fürstenberg--Ludwigsburg--Nymphenburg
--Frankenthal--Fulda--Strassburg. The Hard and Soft Pastes of
Switzerland, Hungary, Holland, Sweden,
Denmark, and Russia, 259
CHAPTER XVII. The Soft-Paste Porcelain of
France. Saint-Cloud--Lille--Chantilly--
Mennecy--Paris--Vincennes--Sèvres, 277
CHAPTER XVIII. The Hard-Paste Porcelain of
Sèvres and Paris, 305
CHAPTER XIX. The Soft and Hybrid Porcelains
of Italy and Spain, 316
CHAPTER XX. English Porcelain. Introduction.
The Soft-Paste Porcelain of Chelsea
and Bow, 326
CHAPTER XXI. English Porcelain (_continued_).
The Soft Paste of Derby, Worcester,
Caughley, Coalport, Swansea, Nantgarw,
Lowestoft, Liverpool, Pinxton, Rockingham,
Church Gresley, Spode, and Belleek, 350
CHAPTER XXII. English Porcelain (_continued_).
The Hard Paste of Plymouth and Bristol, 375
CHAPTER XXIII. Contemporary European Porcelain, 387
EXPLANATION OF THE MARKS ON THE PLATES, 395
MARKS ON PORCELAIN, 400
INDEX, 405
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
I. JAPANESE, Imari porcelain (‘Old Japan’). (H. c. 19 in.)
Vase, slaty-blue under glaze, iron-red of various shades
and gold over glaze. Early eighteenth century. Salting
collection......(_Frontispiece._)
II. CHINESE, Ming porcelain. (H. c. 15 in.) Jar with blue-black ground
and thin, skin-like glaze. Decoration in relief slightly counter-sunk,
pale yellow and greenish to turquoise blue. Probably fifteenth
century. Salting collection......(_To face p. 44._)
III. (1) CHINESE. (H. c. 9 in.) Figure of the Teaching Buddha. Celadon
glaze, the hair black. Uncertain date. British Museum.
(2) CHINESE, probably Ming dynasty. (H. 11¼ in.) Vase with open-work
body, enclosing plain inner vessel. Thick celadon glaze. Victoria and
Albert Museum......(_To face p. 64._)
IV. CHINESE, Sung porcelain. (H. c. 12 in.) Small jar with thick
pale-blue glaze, and some patches of copper-red; faintly crackled.
_Circa_ 1200. British Museum......(_To face p. 71._)
V. CHINESE, Ming porcelain. Three small bowls with apple-green glaze.
Fifteenth or sixteenth century. British Museum.
(1) Floral design in gold on green ground. (Diam. 4¾ in.) On base a
coin-like mark, inscribed _Chang ming fu kwei_--‘long life, riches,
and honour.’
(2) Similar decoration and identical inscription to above (diam. 4¾
in.), set in a German silver-gilt mounting of sixteenth century.
(3) Shallow bowl (diam. 5¼ in.). Inside, apple-green band with gold
pattern similar to above; in centre, cranes among clouds--blue under
glaze......(_To face p. 81._)
VI. CHINESE. Ming porcelain. (H. 7¾ ins.) Spherical vase, floral
decoration of Persian type in blue under glaze; the neck has probably
been removed for conversion into base of hookah. Probably sixteenth
century. Bought in Persia. Victoria and Albert Museum......(_To face
p. 84._)
VII. (1) CHINESE. Ming porcelain. (H. c. 18 in.) Baluster-shaped vase;
greyish crackle ground, painted over the glaze with turquoise blue
flowers (with touches of cobalt), green leaves and manganese purple
scrolls; a little yellow in places, and around neck cobalt blue band
_under glaze_. On base, mark of Cheng-hua, possibly of as early a date
(1464-87). British Museum.
(2) CHINESE. Ming porcelain. (H. c. 19 in.) Vase of square section
with four mask handles, imitating old bronze form. Enamelled with
dragons and phœnixes; copper-green and iron-red over glaze with a few
touches of yellow, combined with cobalt blue under glaze. Inscription,
under upper edge, ‘Dai Ming Wan-li nien shi.’ _Circa_ 1600. British
Museum......(_To face p. 90._)
VIII. CHINESE. Ming porcelain. Covered inkslab (L. 9¾ in.), pen-rest
(L. 9 in.), and spherical vessel (H. 8 in.). Decorated with
scroll-work in cobalt blue under the glaze. Persian inscriptions in
cartels, relating to literary pursuits. Mark of Cheng-te (1505-21).
Obtained in Pekin. British Museum......(_To face p. 94._)
IX. CHINESE, turquoise ware. Probably early eighteenth century.
Salting collection.
(1) Pear-shaped vase (H. 8½ in.), decorated with phœnix in low relief.
Six-letter mark of Cheng-hua.
(2) Plate with pierced margin (diam. 11 in.). Filfot in centre
encircled by cloud pattern, in low relief.
(3) Small spherical incense-burner (H. 5 in.). Floral design in low
relief......(_To face p. 98._)
X. CHINESE, _famille verte_. (H. 18 in.) Vase of square section,
decorated with flowers of the four seasons. Green, purple, and yellow
enamels and white, as reserve, on a black ground. Mark of Cheng-hua.
_Circa_ 1700. Salting collection......(_To face p. 100._)
XI. CHINESE, _famille verte_. (H. 26 in.) Baluster-shaped vase,
decorated with dragons with four claws and snake-like bodies amid
clouds. Poor yellow, passing into white, green of two shades, and
manganese purple upon a black ground. A very thin skin of glaze, with
dullish surface. Probably before 1700. Salting collection. (_To face
p. 102._)
XII. _Chinese_, egg-shell porcelain. _Famille rose._
(1) Plate (diam. 8¼ in.). On border, vine with grapes, in gold. In
centre, lady on horseback, accompanied by old man and boy carrying
scrolls. 1730-50. British Museum.
(2) Plate (diam. 8½ in.) In centre the arms of the Okeover family with
elaborate mantling. Initials of Luke Okeover and his wife on margin.
Early _famille rose_, the _rouge d’or_ only sparingly applied. _Circa_
1725. British Museum......(_To face p. 108._)
XIII. (1) CHINESE, _famille verte_. Long-necked, globular vase (H. 17
in.), enamelled with figures of Taoist sages, etc.: green, iron-red,
yellow, purple, and opaque blue, all over the glaze. Early eighteenth
century. Salting collection.
(2) CHINESE. Tall cylindrical vase (H. 18 in.). Red fish among eddies
of gold on blue ground. Early eighteenth century. Salting collection.
(3) CHINESE. Spindle-shaped vase (H. 18 in.). Pure white, chalky
ground; three fabulous animals seated. 1720-40. Salting collection.
.....(_To face p. 110._)
XIV. JAPANESE. Imari porcelain. Large dish (diam. 20 in.). Painted
under the glaze with cobalt blue in various shades, relieved with
gold. In centre, landscape with Baptism of Christ. Below, in panel on
margin--Mat. 3 16. Seventeenth century. Victoria and Albert Museum.
.....(_To face p. 133._)
XV. (1) CHINESE. Open-work cylinder (H. 5¼ in.) formed of nine
interlacing dragons; the top pierced with nine holes. Plain white
ware, with greyish white glaze. Probably Ting ware of Ming period.
Victoria and Albert Museum.
(2) CHINESE. Ming porcelain. Water-vessel for base of hookah (H. 4¾
in.). Cobalt blue under glaze. Chinese sixteenth century; made for the
Persian market. Victoria and Albert Museum......(_To face p. 142._)
XVI. CHINESE. Two vases for flowers (H. 11¼ and 10½ in.). Floral
design in white slip upon a _fond laque_ or ‘dead leaf’ ground.
Seventeenth century. Bought in Persia. Victoria and Albert
Museum......(_To face p. 146._)
XVII. CHINESE. Three vases, examples of _flambé_ or ‘transmutation’
glazes. First half eighteenth century. Salting collection.
(1) Vase with monster handles (H. 9 in.); glaze irregularly crackled.
(2) Cylindrical vase, made in a mould (H. 10 in.).
(3) Small pear-shaped vase (H. 7½ in.), mottled red and blue......(_To
face p. 150._)
XVIII. (1) CHINESE ‘blue and white.’ Small vase (H. 7½ in.). The paste
pierced before glazing to form an open-work pattern filled up by
glaze. Eighteenth century. British Museum.
(2) CHINESE ‘blue and white.’ Mortar-shaped vase (H. 10 in.).
Scattered figures of Taoist sages in pale blue. Chinese, probably
sixteenth century. British Museum......(_To face p. 154._)
XIX. CHINESE, Ming porcelain. Vase (H. 9½ in.), shaped into vertical,
convex panels. The top has been ground down. Very thick paste, showing
marks of juncture of moulds. Decoration of kilins and pine-trees in
exceptionally brilliant cobalt blue under glaze. Probably fifteenth
century. Victoria and Albert Museum......(_To face p. 157._)
XX. CHINESE. Globular vase with long neck (H. 17¾ in.). Design built
up of lines of iron-red and gold. _Circa_ 1720. Bought in Persia.
Victoria and Albert Museum......(_To face p. 162._)
XXI. CHINESE armorial porcelain. Octagonal plate (diam. 16 in.).
Talbot arms in centre surrounded by design of books, scrolls,
etc.--all in blue under glaze. Early eighteenth century. British
Museum......(_To face p. 164._)
XXII. CHINESE porcelain from Siam. Three covered bowls, probably
enamelled in Canton for the Siamese market. Early nineteenth century.
Victoria and Albert Museum.
(1) Floral design in iron-red, green and yellow over glaze. (H. 6½ in.)
(2) Buddhist divinities in panels amid flame-like ground. Opaque
enamels--iron-red, pink, yellow and black. (H. 9 in.)
(3) Floral design in cobalt blue under glaze. (H. 6¼ in.) Brass rim
and foot. Said to be a cinerary urn. (_Tho-khôt._).....(_To face p.
174 | 235.779632 |
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http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made
available by the Internet Archive.)
RED AS A ROSE IS SHE.
A Novel.
BY
RHODA | 235.797804 |
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Produced by Daniel Fromont
[Transcriber's note: Susan Warner (1819-1885) & Anna Warner
(1824-1915), _Say and seal_(1860), Tauchnitz edition 1860 volume 1]
COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS
VOL. CCCXCVIII.
SAY AND SEAL.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
"If any man make religion as twelve, and the world as thirteen, such a
one hath not the spirit of a true New England man."
HIGGINSON.
PREFACE.
It is a melancholy fact, that this book is somewhat larger than the
mould into which most of the fluid fiction material is poured in this
degenerate age. You perceive, good reader, that it has run over--in the
latest volume.
Doubtless the Procrustean critic would say, "Cut it off,"--which point
we waive.
The book is really of very moderate limits--considering that two women
had to have their say in it.
It is pleasant to wear a glove when one shakes hands with the Public;
therefore we still use our ancestors' names instead of our own,--but it
is fair to state, that in this case there are a pair of gloves!--Which
is the right glove, and which the left, the Public will never know.
A word to that "dear delightful" class of readers who believe
everything that is written, and do not look at the number of the last
page till they come to it--nor perhaps even then. Well they and the
author know, that if the heroine cries--or laughs--too much, it is
nobody's fault but her own! Gently they quarrel with him for not
permitting them to see every Jenny happily married and every Tom with
settled good habits. Most lenient readers!--when you turn publishers,
then will such books doubt less be written! Meantime, hear this.
In a shady, sunshiny town, lying within certain bounds--geographical or
imaginary,--these events (really or in imagination) occurred. Precisely
when, the chroniclers do not say. Scene opens with the breezes which
June, and the coming of a new school teacher, naturally create. After
the fashion of the place, his lodgings are arranged for him beforehand,
by the School Committee. But where, or in what circumstances, the scene
may close,--having told at the end of the book, we do not incline to
tell at the beginning.
ELIZABETH WETHERELL.
AMY LOTHROP.
NEW YORK, _Feb. 1, 1860_.
SAY AND SEAL.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF "WIDE WIDE WORLD,"
AND
THE AUTHOR OF "DOLLARS AND CENTS."
_COPYRIGHT EDITION_.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1860.
SAY AND SEAL.
VOL. I.
CHAPTER I.
The street was broad, with sidewalks, and wide grass-grown borders, and
a spacious track of wheels and horses' feet in the centre. Great elms,
which the early settlers planted, waved their pendant branches over the
peaceful highway, and gave shelter and nest-room to numerous orioles,
killdeer, and robins; putting off their yellow leaves in the autumn,
and bearing their winter weight of snow, in seeming quiet assurance
that spring would make amends for all. So slept the early settlers in
the churchyard!
Along the street, at pleasant neighbourly intervals--not near enough to
be crowded, nor far enough to be lonely--stood the
houses,--comfortable, spacious, compact,--"with no nonsense about
them." The <DW41> lay like a mere blue thread in the distance, its course
often pointed out by the gaff of some little sloop that followed the
bends of the river up toward Suckiaug. The low rolling shore was
spotted with towns and spires: over all was spread the fairest blue sky
and floating specks of white.
Not many sounds were astir,--the robins whistled, thief-like, over the
cherry-trees; the killdeer, from some high twig, sent forth his sweet
clear note; and now and then a pair of wheels rolled softly along the
smooth road: the rush of the wind filled up the pauses. Anybody who was
down by the <DW41> might have heard the soft roll of his blue
waters,--any one by the light-house might have heard the harsher dash
of the salt waves.
I might go on, and say that if anybody had been looking out of Mrs.
Derrick's window he or she might have seen--what Mrs. Derrick really
saw! For she was looking out of the window (or rather through the
blind) at the critical moment that afternoon. It would be too much to
say that she placed herself there on purpose,--let the reader suppose
what he likes.
At the time, then, that the village clock was striking four, when
meditative cows were examining the length of their shadows, and all the
geese were setting forth for their afternoon swim, a stranger opened
Mrs. Derrick's little gate and walked in. Stretching out one hand to
the dog in token of good fellowship, (a classical mind might have
fancied him breaking the cake by whose help Quickear got past the
lions,) he went up the walk, neither fast nor slow, ascended the steps,
and gave what Mrs. Derrick called "considerable of a rap" at the door.
That done, he faced about and looked at the far off blue <DW41>.
Not more intently did he eye and read that fair river; not more swiftly
did his thoughts pass from the <DW41> to things beyond human ken; than
Mrs. Derrick eyed and read--his back, and suffered her ideas to roam
into the far off regions of speculation. The light summer coat, the
straw hat, were nothing uncommon; but the silk umbrella was too good
for the coat--the gloves and boots altogether extravagant!
"He ain't a bit like the Pattaquasset folks, Faith," she said, in a
whisper thrown over her shoulder to her daughter.
"Mother--"
Mrs. Derrick replied by an inarticulate sound of interrogation.
"I wish you wouldn't stand just there. Do come away!"
"La, child," said Mrs. Derrick, moving back about half an inch, "he's
looking off into space."
"But he'll be in.--"
"Not till somebody goes to the door," said Mrs. Derrick, "and there's
not a living soul in the house but us two."
"Why didn't you say so before? Must I go, mother?"
"He didn't seem in a hurry," said her mother,--"and I wasn't. Yes, you
can go if | 235.882215 |
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Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is | 235.884471 |
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A
HUNTING ALPHABET
by
Grace Clarke Newton
+------------------------------+
| |
| WORKS BY |
| GRACE CLARKE NEWTON |
| |
| A SMALL GIRL'S STORIES |
| |
| A BOOK OF RHYME |
| |
| POEMS IN PASSING |
| First Series |
| |
| POEMS IN PASSING |
| A Second Gleaning |
| (In preparation) |
| |
| A HUNTING ALPHABET |
| Illustrated |
| |
+------------------------------+
THE
A B C
of
DRAG HUNTING
by
GRACE CLARKE NEWTON
E P DUTTON & COMPANY.
681 FIFTH AVENUE
NEW YORK.
ESTABLISHED 1852
Copyright, 1917
E. P. Dutton & Company
Redfield-Kendrick-Odell Co., Inc.
New York
The illustrations are from some paintings by
Richard Newton, Jr.
[Illustration: Mrs. E. T. Cockcroft--and "Danger"]
A
A is Ambition which leads you to buy
A qualified hunter, the picture of pride,
Of whom it is said, "He takes off in his stride."
This means he jumps you off with hounds in full cry.
B
B is the Beauty who's learning to "go,"
Who comes to the Club on the morn of the Meet,
And says to the Master, "Now if you'll be sweet
And let me ride near you, I'll finish I know!"
[Illustration: Benjamin Nicoll, Esq.--Essex Hunt (on Cocktail)]
C
C is the Casualty frequently met
When a Ditch next a creeper-clad fence lies concealed;
Also the Comments of most of the field,
"For the man | 235.897715 |
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Produced by Al Haines
TEN DEGREES
BACKWARD
BY
ELLEN THORNEYCROFT FOWLER
AUTHOR OF "HER LADYSHIP'S CONSCIENCE,"
"CONCERNING ISABEL CARNABY," ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
Copyright, 1915,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
CONTENTS
I. I, Reginald Kingsnorth
II. Restham Manor
III. Frank
IV. Fay
V. The First Miracle
VI. St. Luke's Summer
VII. The Gift
VIII. Love Among the Ruins
IX. Things Great and Small
X. A Birthday Present
XI. In June
XII. Shakspere and the Musical Glasses
XIII. The Garden of Dreams
XIV. Annabel's Warning
XV. Darkening Skies
XVI. A Sorrowful Springtime
XVII. Desolation
XVIII. The New Dean
XIX. A Surprise
XX. Isabel, Née Carnaby
XXI. The Great War
XXII. The Last of the Wildacres
XXIII. The Peace of God
XXIV. Conclusion
TEN DEGREES BACKWARD
CHAPTER I
I, REGINALD KINGSNORTH
"Reggie, do you remember Wildacre?"
It was with this apparently simple question that Arthur Blathwayte rang
up the curtain on the drama of my life.
That the performance was late in beginning I cannot but admit. I was
fully forty-two; an age at which the drama of most men's lives are
over--or, at any rate, well on in the third act. But in my uneventful
existence there had been no drama at all; not even an ineffective
love-affair that could be dignified by the name of a "curtain-raiser."
Of course I had perceived that some women were better looking than
others, and more attractive and easier to get on with. But I had only
perceived this in a scientific, impersonal kind of way: the perception
had in nowise penetrated my inner consciousness or influenced my
existence. I was the type of person who is described by the populace
as "not a marrying sort," and consequently I had reached the age of
forty-two without either marrying or wishing to marry.
I admit that I had not been thrown into circumstances conducive to the
cultivation of the tender passion; my sister Annabel had seen to that;
but no sister--be she even as powerful as Annabel herself--can prevent
a man from falling in love if he be so minded, nor from seeking out for
himself a woman to fall in love with if none are thrown in his way.
But I had not been so minded; therefore Annabel's precautions had
triumphed.
Annabel was one of that by no means inconsiderable number of women who
constantly say they desire and think they desire one thing, while they
are actually wishing and working for the exact opposite. For instance,
she was always remarking how much she wished that I would marry--and
what a mistake it was for a man like myself to remain single--and what
a pity it was for the baronetcy to die out. And she said this in all
sincerity: there was never any conscious humbug about Annabel. Yet if
by any chance a marriageable maiden came my way, Annabel hustled her
off as she hustled off the peacocks when they came into the
flower-garden. My marriage was in theory one of Annabel's fondest
hopes: in practice a catastrophe to be averted at all costs.
My sister was five years my senior, and had mothered me ever since my
mother's death when I was a boy. There were only the two of us, and
surely no man ever had a better sister than I had. In my childhood she
stood between me and danger; in my | 235.898835 |
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A STUDY IN SHADOWS
By William J. Locke
London: John Lane
MCMVIII
CHAPTER I.--THE LONE WOMEN.
|Felicia Graves was puzzled. The six weeks she had spent at the Pension
Boccard had confused many of her conceptions and brought things before
her judgment for which her standards were inadequate. Not that a girl
who had passed the few years of her young womanhood in the bubbling life
of a garrison town could be as unsophisticated as village innocence in
the play; but her fresh, virginal experience had been limited to what
was seemly, orthodox, and comfortable. She was shrewd enough in the
appreciation of superficial vanities, rightly esteeming their value as
permanent elements; but the baser follies of human nature had not been
reached by her | 235.98429 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 24070-h.htm or 24070-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/4/0/7/24070/24070-h/24070-h.htm)
or
(http://www | 235.998289 |
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* * * * *
[Illustration: THE VALENTINE.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by W. E. Tucker.]
* * * * *
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
VOL. XXXVI. February, 1850. No. 2.
Table of Contents
Fiction, Literature and Articles
February
Patrick O’Brien
The Young Artist
Love’s Influence
The Two Portraits
Myrrah | 236.000059 |
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MONICA.
MONICA
A Novel.
BY
EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN.
Author of
“Torwood’s Trust,” “The Last of the Dacres,”
“Ruthven of Ruthven,” Etc.
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOL. II.
LONDON:
WARD AND DOWNEY,
12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.
1889.
PRINTED BY
KELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS,
AND KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.
PAGE
Mrs. Bellamy 1
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.
Randolph’s Story 23
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.
Storm and Calm 40
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH.
A Summons to Trevlyn 61
CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH.
Changes 77
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH.
United 101
CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH.
A Shadow 125
CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH.
In Scotland 143
CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH.
A Visit to Arthur 160
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST.
Back at Trevlyn 180
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND.
An Enigma 199
MONICA
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.
MRS. BELLAMY.
Randolph was gone; and Monica, left alone in her luxurious London
house, felt strangely lost and desolate. Her husband had expressed a
wish that she should go out as much as possible, and not shut herself
up in solitude during his brief absence, and to do his will was now her
great desire. She would have preferred to remain quietly at home. She
liked best to sit by her fire upstairs, and make Wilberforce tell her
of Randolph’s childhood and boyish days; his devotion to his widowed
mother, his kindness to herself, all the deeds of youthful prowess,
which an old nurse treasures up respecting her youthful charges
and delights to repeat in after years. Wilberforce would talk of
Randolph by the hour together if she were not checked, and Monica felt
singularly little disposition to check her.
However she obeyed her husband in everything, and took her morning’s
ride as usual next day, and was met by Cecilia Bellamy, who rode beside
her, with her train of cavaliers in attendance, and pitied the poor
darling child who had been deserted by her husband.
“I am just in the same sad predicament myself, Monica,” she said,
plaintively. “My husband has had to go to Paris, all of a sudden, and I
am left alone too. We must console ourselves together. You must drive
with me to-day and come to tea, and I will come to you to-morrow.”
Monica tried in vain to beg off; Cecilia only laughed at her. Monica
had not _savoir faire_ enough to parry skilful thrusts, nor insincerity
enough to plead engagements that did not exist. So she was monopolised
by Mrs. Bellamy in her morning’s ride, was driven out in her carriage
that same afternoon, and taken to several houses where her friend had
“just a few words” to say to the hostess. She was taken back to tea,
and had to meet Conrad, who received her with great warmth, and had the
bad taste to address her by her Christian name before a whole roomful
of company, and who ended by insisting on walking home with her. Yet
his manner was so quiet and courteous, and he seemed so utterly
unconscious of her disfavour, that she was half ashamed of it, despite
her very real annoyance.
And the worst of it was that there seemed no end to the attentions
pressed upon her by the indefatigable Cecilia. Monica did not know
how to escape from the manifold invitations and visits that were
showered upon her. She seemed fated to be for ever in the society of
Mrs. Bellamy and her friends. Beatrice Wentworth and her brother were
themselves out of town; Randolph was detained longer than he had at
first anticipated, and Monica found herself drawn in an imperceptible
way—against which she rebelled in vain—into quite a new set of people
and places.
Monica was a mere baby in Cecilia’s hands. She had not the faintest
idea of any malice on the part of her friend. She felt her attentions
oppressive; she disliked the constant encounters with Conrad; but she
tried in vain to free herself from the hospitable tyranny of the gay
little woman. She was caught in some inexplicable way, and without
downright rudeness she could not escape.
As a rule, Conrad was very guarded and discreet, especially when alone
with her. He often annoyed her by his assumption of familiarity in
presence of others, but he was humble enough for the most part, and
took no umbrage at her rather pointed avoidance of him. She did not
know what he was trying to do: how he was planning a subtle revenge
upon his enemy her husband—the husband she was beginning unconsciously
yet | 261.147749 |
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AN ESSAY
ON
DEMONOLOGY, GHOSTS AND APPARITIONS,
AND
POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS,
ALSO,
AN ACCOUNT
OF THE
WITCHCRAFT DELUSION AT SALEM,
IN 1682.
By JAMES THACHER, M. D., A. A. S.
'With spells and charms I break the viper's jaw,
Cleave solid rocks, oaks from their fissures draw,
Whole woods remove, the airy mountains shake,
Earth forced to groan, and ghosts from graves awake.'
Ovid's Metamor.
There are mysteries even in nature, which we cannot
investigate, paradoxes which we can never resolve.
BOSTON:
CARTER AND HENDEE.
M DCCC XXXI.
ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the
year 1831, by CARTER & HENDEE, in the Clerk's
Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.
BOSTON CLASSIC PRESS.
I. R. BUTTS.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The following pages were in substance composed to be read before the
Plymouth Lyceum, in 1829. When it was understood that Rev. CHARLES W.
UPHAM was about to favor the public with a work on the same subject,
it was determined that this little performance should be suppressed.
The Rev. Author observed in a letter, 'that although we may traverse
the same field, it is highly probable that we pursue different tracks.
The subject is so various, ample and abundant in instruction, that
good rather than evil would result from the application of more than
one mind to its discussion.' Since therefore, in the deeply
interesting work referred to, the learned author has not particularly
discussed the subjects of Ghosts, Apparitions, Mental Illusions, &c,
there may be no impropriety in submitting the following imperfect
production to the public, with the hope that it will not be considered
as altogether superfluous.
J. T.
Plymouth, Nov. 1831.
CONTENTS.
Page.
Ghosts and Apparitions, 1
Power of Imagination, 21
Illusions, 26
Imagination and Fear, 47
Superstition, 63
Witchcraft and Sorcery, 74
Salem Witchcraft, 113
Omens and Auguries, 204
Medical Quackery, 225
ESSAY.
GHOSTS AND APPARITIONS.
Such is the constitution of the human mind, that it never attains to
perfection; it is constantly susceptible of erroneous impressions and
perverse propensities. The faculties of the soul are bound in thraldom
by superstition, and the intellect, under its influence, is scarcely
capable of reflecting on its divine origin, its nobleness and dignity.
The mind that is imbued with a superstitious temperament, is liable to
incessant torment, and is prepared to inflict the most atrocious evils
on mankind; even murder, suicide, and merciless persecution, have
proceeded from, and been sanctioned by a superstitious spirit. It is
this, in its most appalling aspect, which impels the heathen to a life
of mutilation and perpetual pain and torment of body, which degrades
the understanding below that of a brute. The superstitions practised
by the devotees to the Roman Catholic Church, if less horrible, are
equally preposterous and pernicious. The popular belief in
supernatural visitations in the form of apparitions and spectres, is
fostered and encouraged by the baneful influence of superstition and
prejudice. So universal has been the prevalence of the belief that
those conversant with history can resort to the era when every village
had its ghost or witch, as, in more ancient times, every family had
its household gods. Superstition, is a word of very extensive
signification, but for the purpose of this work, the word applies to
those who believe in witchcraft, magic, and apparitions, or that the
divine will is decided by omens or auguries; that the fortune of
individuals can be affected by things indifferent, by things deemed
lucky or unlucky, or that disease can be cured by words, charms, and
incantations. It means, in short, the belief of what is false and
contrary to reason. Superstition arises from, and is sustained by
ignorance and credulity in the understanding. The subject of
supernatural agency and the reality of witchcraft, has been the
occasion of unbounded speculation, and of much philosophical
disquisition, in almost all nations and ages. While some of the wisest
of men have assented to their actual existence and visible appearance,
others equally eminent have maintained the opinion that the supposed
apparitions are to be accounted for on the principle of feverish
dreams and disturbed imaginations. That our Creator has power to
employ celestial spirits as instruments and messengers, and to create
supernatural visions on the human mind, it would be impious to deny.
But we can conceive of no necessity, at the present day, for the
employment of disembodied spirits in our world; we can hold no
intercourse with them, nor realize the slightest advantage by their
agency. To believe in apparitions is to believe that God suspends the
law of nature for the most trivial purposes, and that he would
communicate the power of doing mischief, and of controling his laws to
beings, merely to gratify their own passions, which is inconsistent
with the goodness of God. We are sufficiently aware that the sacred
spirits of our fathers have ascended to regions prepared for
their reception, and there may they remain undisturbed till the mighty
secrets now concealed shall be revealed for our good. The soul or
spirit of man is immaterial, of course intangible and invisible. If it
is not recognisable by our senses, how can the dead appear to the
living? That disembodied spirits should communicate with surviving
objects on earth, that the ghosts of the murdered should appear to
disclose the murderer, or that the spirit of the wise and good should
return to proffer instructions to the vile and ignorant, must be
deemed unphilosophical.
It will now be attempted to demonstrate, that the generality of the
supposed apparitions, in modern times, will admit of explanation from
causes purely natural. For this purpose, it will be requisite first,
to describe the system of nerves, and their functions, which
constitute a part of our complicated frames. Nerves are to be
considered as a tissue of strings or cords, which have their origin in
the brain and spinal marrow, and are distributed in branches to all
parts of the body. They are the immediate organs of sensation and of
muscular action. Upon the integrity of the nerves, all the senses,
both external and internal, entirely depend. The nerves are the medium
of illusions; their influence pervades the whole body, and their
various impressions are transmitted to the brain. When the entire
brain is affected, delirium is the consequence; if the optic nerve
only, visions disturb the imagination; if the acoustic nerves receive
the impression, unreal sounds or voices are heard. If the optic nerves
are cut or rendered paralytic, the sense of vision is irrecoverably
destroyed. The nervous system is liable to be diseased and deranged
from various causes, from which, it is obvious, derangement of both
body and mind must ensue. The following is extracted from a lecture on
Moral Philosophy, by the learned and Reverend Samuel Stanhope Smith,
D. D., late President of the College of New Jersey.
'The nerves are easily excited into movement by an infinite variety of
external impulses, or internal agitations. By whatever impulse any
motion, vibration, or affection, in the nervous system is produced, a
correspondent sensation, or train of sensations, or ideas in the mind,
will naturally follow. When the body is in regular health, and the
operations of the mind are in a natural and healthful train, the
action of the nervous system, being affected only by the regular and
successive impressions made upon it by the objects of nature, as they
successively occur, will present to the mind just and true images of
the scenes that surround it. But by various species of infirmity and
disorder in the body, the nerves, sometimes in their entire system,
and sometimes only in those divisions of them which are attached to
particular organs of sense, may be subjected to very irregular motions
or vibrations. Hence unreal images may be raised in the mind. The
state of the nervous affections may be vitiated by intemperate
indulgence, or by infirmity resulting from sedentary and melancholy
habits. Superstitions, fancies, or enthusiastic emotions, do often
greatly disturb the regular action of the nervous system. Such elastic
and vibratory strings may be subject to an infinite variety of
irregular movements, sometimes in consequence of a disordered state of
health, and sometimes arising from peculiarity of constitutional
structure, which may present false and often fantastic images to the
mind. No cause, perhaps, produces a more anomalous oscitancy, or
vibration of the nervous system, or of some particular portions of it,
than habits of intemperate indulgence. And I have not unfrequently
become acquainted with men who had been addicted to such excesses, who
were troubled with apprehensions of supernatural apparitions. A
peculiar imbecility of constitution, however, created by study,
retirement, or other causes, may be productive of similar effects, and
sometimes these nervous anomalies are formed in men who are otherwise
of active and athletic constitutions. But where they possess
enlightened minds and vigorous understandings, such visionary
tendencies may be counteracted by their intellectual energies. Yet
have we sometimes known the strongest understandings overcome by the
vivacity of nervous impression, which frequently is scarcely inferior
to the most lively ideas of sense. This may, especially, be the case
in two opposite conditions; either when the body has fallen into a
gloomy temperament, and the mind is weakened by fears, in which case
it is oppressed by distressing apprehensions; or, on the other hand,
when the nerves, the primary organs, of sensation, are strained into
an unnatural tension, and the whole system is exalted by an
enthusiastic fervor to the pitch of delirious intoxication. When a man
is exalted to such a degree of nervous excitement and mental feeling,
his visions are commonly pleasing, often rapturous, and sometimes
fantastic; but generally rise above the control or correction of the
judgment. Lord Lyttleton, in the vision which he believed he saw of
his deceased mother's form, shortly before his own death, may be an
example of the former; and the Baron Von Swedenborg, in his supposed
visions, sometimes of angels and sometimes of reptiles, may be an
instance of the latter. Persons, whose fancies have been much
disturbed in early life, by the tales of nurses, and other follies of
an injudicious education, creating a timid and superstitious mind, are
more especially liable to have their fears alarmed and their
imagination excited by every object in the dark. Whence sounds will be
augmented to | 261.263431 |
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Produced by David Widger
HISTORY OF THE UNITED NETHERLANDS
Volume II.
From the Death of William the Silent to the Twelve Year's Truce--1609
By John Lothrop Motley
CHAPTER IX. 1586
Military Plans in the Netherlands--The Elector and Electorate of
Cologne--Martin Schenk--His Career before serving the States--
Franeker University founded--Parma attempts Grave--Battle on the
Meuse--Success and Vainglory of Leicester--St. George's Day
triumphantly kept at Utrecht--Parma not so much appalled as it was
thought--He besieges and reduces Grave--And is Master of the Meuse--
Leicester's Rage at the Surrender of Grave--His Revenge--Parma on
the Rhine--He besieges aid assaults Neusz--Horrible Fate of the
Garrison and City--Which Leicester was unable to relieve--Asel
surprised by Maurice and Sidney--The Zeeland Regiment given to
Sidney--Condition of the Irish and English Troops--Leicester takes
the Field--He reduces Doesburg--He lays siege to Zutphen--Which
Parma prepares to relieve--The English intercept the Convoy--Battle
of Warnsfeld--Sir Philip Sidney wounded--Results of the Encounter--
Death of Sidney at Arnheim--Gallantry of Edward Stanley.
Five great rivers hold the Netherland territory in their coils. Three are
but slightly separated--the Yssel, Waal, and ancient Rhine, while the
Scheldt and, Meuse are spread more widely asunder. Along each of these
streams were various fortified cities, the possession of which, in those
days, when modern fortification was in its infancy, implied the control
of the surrounding country. The lower part of all the rivers, where they
mingled with the sea and became wide estuaries, belonged to the Republic,
for the coasts and the ocean were in the hands of the Hollanders and
English. Above, the various strong places were alternately in the hands
of the Spaniards and of the patriots. Thus Antwerp, with the other
Scheldt cities, had fallen into Parma's power, but Flushing, which
controlled them all, was held by Philip Sidney for the Queen and States.
On the Meuse, Maastricht and Roermond were Spanish, but Yenloo, Grave,
Meghem, and other towns, held for the commonwealth. On the Waal, the town
of Nymegen had, through the dexterity of Martin Schenk, been recently
transferred to the royalists, while the rest of that river's course was
true to the republic. The Rhine, strictly so called, from its entrance
into Netherland, belonged to the rebels. Upon its elder branch, the
Yssel, Zutphen was in Parma's hands, while, a little below, Deventer had
been recently and adroitly saved by Leicester and Count Meurs from
falling into the same dangerous grasp.
Thus the triple Rhine, after it had crossed the German frontier, belonged
mainly, although not exclusively, to the States. But on the edge of the
Batavian territory, the ancient river, just before dividing itself into
its three branches, flowed through a debatable country which was even
more desolate and forlorn, if possible, than the land of the obedient
Provinces.
This unfortunate district was the archi-episcopal electorate of Cologne.
The city of Cologne itself, Neusz, and Rheinberg, on the river, Werll and
other places in Westphalia and the whole country around, were endangered,
invaded, ravaged, and the inhabitants plundered, murdered, and subjected
to every imaginable outrage, by rival bands of highwaymen, enlisted in
the support of the two rival bishops--beggars, outcasts, but high-born
and learned churchmen both--who disputed the electorate.
At the commencement of the year a portion of the bishopric was still in
the control of the deposed Protestant elector Gebhard Truchsess, assisted
of course by the English and the States. The city of Cologne was held by
the Catholic elector, Ernest of Bavaria, bishop of Liege; but Neusz and
Rheinberg were in the hands of the Dutch republic.
The military operations of the year were, accordingly, along the Meuse,
where the main object of Parma was to wrest Grave From the Netherlands;
along the Waal, where, on the other hand, the patriots wished to recover
Nymegen; on the Yssel, where they desired to obtain the possession of
Zutphen; and in the Cologne electorate, where the Spaniards meant, if
possible, to transfer Neusz and Rheinberg from Truchsess to Elector
Ernest. To clear the course of these streams, and especially to set free
that debatable portion of the river-territory which hemmed him in from
neutral Germany, and cut off the supplies from his starving troops, was
the immediate design of Alexander Farnese.
Nothing could be more desolate than the condition of the electorate. Ever
since Gebhard Truchsess had renounced the communion of the Catholic
Church for the love of Agnes Mansfeld, and so gained a wife and lost his
principality, he had been a dependant upon the impoverished Nassaus, or a
supplicant for alms to the thrifty Elizabeth. The Queen was frequently
implored by Leicester, without much effect, to send the ex-elector a few
hundred pounds to keep him from starving, as "he had not one groat to
live upon," and, a little later, he was employed as a go-between, and
almost a spy, by the Earl, in his quarrels with the patrician party
rapidly forming against him in the States.
At Godesberg--the romantic ruins of which stronghold the traveller still
regards with interest, placed as it is in the midst of that enchanting
region where Drachenfels looks down on the crumbling tower of Roland and
the convent of Nonnenwerth--the unfortunate Gebhard had sustained a
conclusive defeat. A small, melancholy man, accomplished, religious,
learned, "very poor but very wise," comely, but of mean stature,
altogether an unlucky and forlorn individual, he was not, after all, in
very much inferior plight to that in which his rival, the Bavarian
bishop, had found himself. Prince Ernest, archbishop of Liege and
Cologne, a hangeron of his brother, who sought to shake him off, and a
stipendiary of Philip, who was a worse paymaster than Elizabeth, had a
sorry life of it, notwithstanding his nominal possession of the see. He
was forced to go, disguised and in secret, to the Prince of Parma at
Brussels, to ask for assistance, and to mention, with lacrymose
vehemence, that both his brother and himself had determined to renounce
the episcopate, unless the forces of the Spanish King could be employed
to recover the cities on the Rhine. If Neusz and Rheinberg were not
wrested from the rebels; Cologne itself would soon be gone. Ernest
represented most eloquently to Alexander, that if the protestant
archbishop were reinstated in the ancient see, it would be a most
perilous result for the ancient church throughout all northern Europe.
Parma kept the wandering prelate for a few days in his palace in
Brussels, and then dismissed him, disguised and on foot, in the dusk of
the evening, through the park-gate. He encouraged him with hopes of
assistance, he represented to his sovereign the importance of preserving
the Rhenish territory to Bishop Ernest and to Catholicism, but hinted
that the declared intention of the Bavarian to resign the dignity, was
probably a trick, because the archi-episcopate was no such very bad thing
after all.
The archi-episcopate might be no very bad thing, but it was a most
uncomfortable place of residence, at the moment, for prince or peasant.
Overrun by hordes of brigands, and crushed almost out of existence by
that most deadly of all systems of taxations, the 'brandschatzung,' it
was fast becoming a mere den of thieves. The 'brandschatzung' had no name
in English, but it was the well-known impost, levied by roving
commanders, and even by respectable generals of all nations. A hamlet,
cluster of farm-houses, country district, or wealthy city, in order to
escape being burned and ravaged, as the penalty of having fallen into a
conqueror's hands, paid a heavy sum of ready money on the nail at command
of the conqueror. The free companions of the sixteenth century drove a
lucrative business in this particular branch of industry; and when to
this was added the more direct profits derived from actual plunder, sack,
and ransoming, it was natural that a large fortune was often the result
to the thrifty and persevering commander of free lances.
Of all the professors of this comprehensive art, the terrible Martin
Schenk was preeminent; and he was now ravaging the Cologne territory,
having recently passed again to the service of the States. Immediately
connected with the chief military events of the period which now occupies
us, he was also the very archetype of the marauders whose existence was
characteristic of the epoch. Born in 1549 of an ancient and noble family
of Gelderland, Martin Schenk had inherited no property but a sword.
Serving for a brief term as page to the Seigneur of Ysselstein, he
joined, while yet a youth, the banner of William of Orange, at the | 261.368159 |
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Produced by James Rusk
BASIL
By Wilkie Collins
LETTER OF DEDICATION.
TO CHARLES JAMES WARD, ESQ.
IT has long been one of my pleasantest anticipations to look forward to
the time when I might offer to you, my old and dear friend, some such
acknowledgment of the value I place on your affection for me, and of my
grateful sense of the many acts of kindness by which that affection
has been proved, as I now gladly offer in this place. In dedicating the
present work to you, I fulfil therefore a purpose which, for some time
past, I have sincerely desired to achieve; and, more than that, I gain
for myself the satisfaction of knowing that there is one page, at least,
of my book, on which I shall always look with unalloyed pleasure--the
page that bears your name.
I have founded the main event out of which this story springs, on a
fact within my own knowledge. In afterwards shaping the course of the
narrative thus suggested, I have guided it, as often as I could, where
I knew by my own experience, or by experience related to me by others,
that it would touch on something real and true in its progress. My idea
was, that the more of the Actual I could garner up as a text to speak
from, the more certain I might feel of the genuineness and value of the
Ideal which was sure to spring out of it. Fancy and Imagination, Grace
and Beauty, all those qualities which are to the work of Art what scent
and colour are to the flower, can only grow towards heaven by taking
root in earth. Is not the noblest poetry of prose fiction the poetry of
every-day truth?
Directing my characters and my story, then, towards the light of Reality
wherever I could find it, I have not hesitated to violate some of
the conventionalities of sentimental fiction. For instance, the first
love-meeting of two of the personages in this book, occurs (where the
real love-meeting from which it is drawn, occurred) in the very last
place and under the very last circumstances which the artifices of
sentimental writing would sanction. Will my lovers excite ridicule
instead of interest, because I have truly represented them as seeing
each other where hundreds of other lovers have first seen each other,
as hundreds of people will readily admit when they read the passage to
which I refer? I am sanguine enough to think not.
So again, in certain parts of this book where I have attempted to excite
the suspense or pity of the reader, I have admitted as perfectly fit
accessories to the scene the most ordinary street-sounds that could be
heard, and the most ordinary street-events that could occur, at the time
and in the place represented--believing that by adding to truth, they
were adding to tragedy--adding by all the force of fair contrast--adding
as no artifices of mere writing possibly could add, let them be ever so
cunningly introduced by ever so crafty a hand.
Allow me to dwell a moment longer on the story which these pages
contain.
Believing that the Novel and the Play are twin-sisters in the family
of Fiction; that the one is a drama narrated, as the other is a drama
acted; and that all the strong and deep emotions which the Play-writer
is privileged to excite, the Novel-writer is privileged to excite also,
I have not thought it either politic or necessary, while adhering to
realities, to adhere to every-day realities only. In other words, I have
not stooped so low as to assure myself of the reader's belief in the
probability of my story, by never once calling on him for the exercise
of his faith. Those extraordinary accidents and events which happen to
few men, seemed to me to be as legitimate materials for fiction to
work with--when there was a good object in using them--as the ordinary
accidents and events which may, and do, happen to us all. By appealing
to genuine sources of interest _within_ the reader's own experience, I
could certainly gain his attention to begin with; but it would be only
by appealing to other sources (as genuine in their way) _beyond_ his
own experience, that I could hope to fix his interest and excite his
suspense, to occupy his deeper feelings, or to stir his nobler thoughts.
In writing thus--briefly and very generally--(for I must not delay
you too long from the story), I can but repeat, though I hope almost
unnecessarily, that I am now only speaking of what I have tried to do.
Between the purpose hinted at here, and the execution of that purpose
contained in the succeeding pages, lies the broad line of separation
which distinguishes between the will and the deed. How far I may fall
short of another man's standard, remains to be discovered. How far I
have fallen short of my own, I know painfully well.
One word more on the manner in which the purpose of the following pages
is worked out--and I have done.
Nobody who admits that the business of fiction is to exhibit human life,
can deny that scenes of misery and crime must of necessity, while human
nature remains what it is, form part of that exhibition. Nobody can
assert that such scenes are unproductive of useful results, when they
are turned to a plainly and purely moral purpose. If I am asked why I
have written certain scenes in this book, my answer is to be found in
the universally-accepted truth | 261.369018 |
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Produced by John Campbell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Some minor changes are noted at the end of the book.
PORT ARTHUR
[Illustration: _From a painting by Massanovich_
_From Everybody’s Magazine, by permission_
GOING INTO ACTION
Out from the maize, on a dog trot, springs a battalion, pushing
across the winnowed terraces, over the stubble. Scientific
fanatics, they, pressing on up to the griddle of death.]
PORT ARTHUR
A MONSTER
HEROISM
BY
RICHARD BARRY
_Illustrations from Photographs
taken on the field by the Author_
NEW YORK
MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY
1905
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY
MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY
_Published April, 1905_
TO
FREMONT OLDER
Grateful acknowledgment of permission to reprint some of the
articles and photographs which enter, with additional new
material, into the redaction of this volume is made to the
Century Magazine, Everybody’s Magazine, Collier’s Weekly,
the Saturday Evening Post, the Scientific American, the
London Fortnightly Review and Westminster Gazette, the Paris
L’Illustration and Le Monde Illustre, and the London Illustrated
News, Black and White, Sphere and Graphic, in which journals they
in part originally appeared. The reproduction of the frontispiece
in oils by Mazzanovich, redrawn from Mr. Barry’s snapshot on the
field, is here made by courtesy of Everybody’s Magazine.
CONTENTS
PREFACE
PAGE
THE SIEGE AT A GLANCE 15
INTRODUCTORY
THE INVESTMENT, SIEGE, AND CAPTURE OF PORT ARTHUR 17
CHAPTER I
THE CITY OF SILENCE 33
CHAPTER II
THE INVISIBLE ARMY 40
CHAPTER III
TWO PICTURES OF WAR--A GLANCE BACK 67
CHAPTER IV
THE JAPANESE KITCHENER 81
CHAPTER V
CAMP 108
CHAPTER VI
203-METER HILL 118
CHAPTER VII
A SON OF THE SOIL 142
CHAPTER VIII
THE BLOODY ANGLE 152
CHAPTER IX
A BATTLE IN THE STORM 164
CHAPTER X
THE CREMATION OF A GENERAL 183
CHAPTER XI
THE GENERAL’S PET 191
CHAPTER XII
COURTING DEATH UNDER THE FORTS 198
CHAPTER XIII
FROM KITTEN TO TIGER 211
CHAPTER XIV
SCIENTIFIC FANATICS 234
CHAPTER XV
JAPAN’S GRAND OLD MAN 253
CHAPTER XVI
THE COST OF TAKING PORT ARTHUR 276
CHAPTER XVII
A CONTEMPORARY EPIC 289
CHAPTER XVIII
THE NEW SIEGE WARFARE 316
EPILOGUE
THE DOWNFALL 339
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
OPPOSITE
PAGE
Going into Action. From a Painting by Massanovich.
Out from the maize, on a dog trot, springs a
battalion, across the terraces, over the stubble,
these Scientific Fanatics press on, up the Griddle of
Death Frontispiece
Richard Barry and Frederick Villiers. They were mess-mates
during the siege. Mr. Villiers, the veteran
war artist of seventeen campaigns, was dean of the
War Correspondents at Port Arthur. The photograph
shows them before their Dalny home 34
Starting for Port Arthur. Reserve regiment leaving
Dalny for the firing line, eighteen miles away 46
General Baron Nogi, Commander of the Third Imperial
Japanese Army, studying the Defenses of Port
Arthur in his Manchurian Garden in the Willow
Tree Village 62
General Baron Kodama, Chief of the Japanese Staff,
standing on his door step 84
Bo-o-om! Discharge of the Japanese 11-inch mortar
during the Grand Bombardment of October 29th.
This gun stood a mile and a half from Port Arthur
and is shown firing into the Two Dragon Redoubt.
The vibration made a clear photograph impossible 112
The Hyposcope. Lieutenant Oda looking from 203-Meter
Hill through the hyposcope at the Russian
fleet in the new harbor at Port Arthur 120
Orphans. Driven from home by shells which killed
their father and mother, these brothers tramped
from camp to camp selling eggs 148
Human Barnacles. Clinging to the bases of the
forts, like barnacles to a ship, these sturdy Japanese
existed in wretched quarters throughout the summer,
autumn and half the winter 160
Ammunition for the Front 180
How They Got in. Eighteen miles of these terminal
trenches were dug through the plain before the
Russian forts 202
The Last Word. The officer is giving last instructions
to his men before the Grand Assault of September
21st. This photograph was taken in the front
Parallel, 300 yards from the Cock’s Comb Fort 222
Preparing for Death. A superstition holds that the
Japanese soldier who dies dirty finds no place among
the Shinto shades; so, before going into action, every
soldier changes his linen, as this one is doing 241
A map of Port Arthur. Showing the defenses and
the direction of the Japanese attack 281
Home. The shack, 800 yards from the firing line,
occupied for three months by the fighting General
Oshima, Commander of the Ninth Division 290
Plunder. Showing Adjutant Hori, Secretary to General
Oshima, standing near plunder taken from the
captured Turban Fort 290
In action. Loading a 4.7 gun of the ordinary field
artillery during the assault of September 20th 312
The Osacca Babe. Loading the 11-inch coast defense
mortar during the general bombardment of October
29th, two miles from Port Arthur 332
Cloud girt among her mountains,
Nippon, in wrath as of old,
Unleashes her young warrior;
Lo, the world’s champion behold!
He comes abysmal as chaos,
A boy with the smile of a girl,
Tumbles his man with a handshake,
And spits him up with a twirl.
Nourished on rice and a dewdrop,
He fans him to sleep with a star,
Believing the fathers of Nippon
Created things as they are.
So up and across the short ocean
He sails to the land of can’t,
To keep up the name of his fathers
And smash down the things that shan’t.
Ah! What a freshet of glory
When into the noisy fray
Against a shaggy old giant
Comes this youth asmile and gay!
PREFACE
THE SIEGE AT A GLANCE
The sea attack on Port Arthur began on February 9th, 1904, at noon.
The land isolation occurred on May 26th, when the Second Army,
under General Oku, took Nanshan Hill. Four grand series of Russian
defenses from Nanshan down the peninsula were then taken by the
Japanese. The capture of Taikushan on August 9th, of Shokushan
two days later, and of Takasakiyama the following day, drove the
Russians into their permanent works. The real siege of Port Arthur
began, thus, on August 12th, and continued for four months and
nineteen days.
The failure of the first grand assault, continuing seven days
from August 19th, forced Nogi and his army to go slowly about the
terrific job of digging a way into the fortress. In the following
four months there occurred six more grand assaults, the periods
between them being occupied in mining, sapping, and engineering.
What was known as the second assault was made from September 19th
to 25th; the third from October 29th to November 1st; the fourth
from November 28th to 30th; the fifth from December 4th to 9th; the
sixth from December 18th to 20th; the final assault from December
28th to 31st. The morning of January 1st, 1905, General Stoessel,
the Russian commander, asked for terms of capitulation, and the
following day these terms were submitted and ratified.
The grand strategy of the Japanese operations was simple. It
comprehended one brief design: to demonstrate on the west, where
203-Meter Hill is, while the infantry and the heavy ordnance
smashed the Russian right center, where are located the principal
Russian forts, Keekwan (Cock’s Comb), Ehrlung (Two Dragons), and
Panlung (Eternal Dragon). Four and a half months of sapping,
mining, bombarding, and hand-to-hand fighting, than which history
holds no record of more desperate contest, won the forts of the
Cock’s Comb and the Two Dragons for the Japanese. The fall of the
Two Dragons on December 31st brought Stoessel to his knees.
INTRODUCTORY
THE INVESTMENT, SIEGE, AND CAPTURE OF PORT ARTHUR
In all the long history of military exploits, there is not one
that can compare, in point of difficulties surmounted, with the
reduction of Port Arthur. That this fortress should have been taken
by assault entitles the Japanese operations to rank with the finest
work done by any army in any age; that it should have been taken in
five months from the day on which the investment was completed (the
day on which the Russians were driven into their permanent works)
is an exploit which has never been approached. For Port Arthur’s
defenses had been laid out on the most modern plan. Nature,
moreover, has cast the topographical features of the place on lines
that are admirably suited to defense. The harbor is surrounded by
two approximately concentric ranges of hills, the crests of which
are broken by a series of successive conical elevations. The
engineers took the suggestion thus offered, and ran two concentric
lines of fortification around the city, building massive masonry
forts on the highest summits, and connecting them by continuous
defensive works. The inner line of the forts lay at an average
distance of one mile from the city, and constituted the main line
of permanent defense; the outer line, at an average distance of
a mile and a half from Port Arthur. Beyond these again were the
semi-permanent defenses. The positions of the various forts were
chosen in such a relation to each other that they were mutually
supporting--that is to say, if any one were captured by the enemy,
it could not be held because it was dominated by the fire from the
neighboring forts; and, indeed, it often happened that the Japanese
seized positions from which they were driven in this way.
In the majority of cases the <DW72> of the hills was very steep, and
what was even worse for the Japanese, smooth and free from cover;
so that if an attempt were made to rush the works, a charge would
have to be made over a broad glacis, swept by the shrapnel, machine
gun, and rifle fire of the defenders. Once across the danger zone,
the attack was confronted by the massive masonry parapets of the
fort, over which the survivors, cut down to a mere handful, would
be powerless to force an entrance.
The defense of Port Arthur, however, did not stop at the outer
line of fortifications, but extended no less than eighteen miles
to the northward, to a point where the peninsula on which Port
Arthur is situated narrows to a width of three miles. Here a range
of conical hills, not unlike some of those at Port Arthur, reaches
from sea to sea; and these had been ringed with intrenchments for
troops and masked (or hidden) emplacements for artillery. Between
Nanshan and Port Arthur the Russians had built four more lines
of intrenchments, reaching from sea to sea, all very strong and
admirably suited for defense. Now it must be borne in mind that all
this wonderful net-work of fortifications, strong by nature of the
ground, strong by virtue of the great skill and care with which it
had been built, was distinguished from all other previous defensive
works by the fact that in this fortress, for the first time, were
utilized all those terrible agencies of war which the rapid
advance of science in the past quarter of a century has rendered
available. Among these we may mention rapid-fire guns, machine
guns, smokeless powder, artillery of high velocity and great
range, high explosive shells, the magazine rifle, the telescopic
sight giving marvelous accuracy of fire, the range-finder giving
instantaneously the exact distance of the enemy, the searchlight,
the telegraph and the telephone, starlight bombs, barbed-wire
entanglements, and a dozen other inventions, all of which were
deemed sufficient, when applied to such stupendous fortifications
as those of Port Arthur, to render them absolutely impregnable.
The Russians believed them to be so--certainly the indomitable
Stoessel did. And well he might; for there was no record in history
of any race of fighters, at least in modern times, that could face
such death-dealing weapons, and not melt away so swiftly before
their fury as to be swept away in defeat.
But a new type of fighter has arisen, as the sequel was to tell.
On February 8, 1904, the first blow fell upon Port Arthur in that
famous night attack by the torpedo boats. On February 9th occurred
the engagement between the remnant of the Russian fleet and the
Japanese fleet under Admiral Togo which ended in the Russian
retreat into the harbor and the closing of Port Arthur by sea.
On May 26th the Japanese Second Army, which had been landed at
Petsewo Bay, attacked the first line of defense at Nanshan,
eighteen miles north of Port Arthur, and gave an inkling of the
mettle of the Japanese troops by capturing the position in a
frontal attack. The Japanese pushed on to Port Arthur and there
followed, in quick succession, a series of bloody struggles at the
successive lines of defense in which the Japanese would not be
denied. The fiercest fight took place at the capture of a double
height, Kenshan and Weuteughshan, which Stoessel re-attacked
vainly for three days, losing three times as many men as were lost
originally in the attempt to hold the position.
On May 29th Dalny was occupied, and became the base of the
besieging army. A railway runs from Dalny for three miles to a
junction with the main line from the north to Port Arthur.
On August 9th to 11th the outlying semi-permanent works Taikushan
and Shokushan, lying about three and one-half miles from Port
Arthur, were taken, and the Russians driven in to their permanent
positions.
The army detailed for the capture of Port Arthur was 60,000 strong;
Stoessel at the date of the battle of Nanshan probably had 35,000
men.
Encouraged by their uninterrupted success in capturing Russian
intrenchments by dashing frontal attack, the Japanese, particularly
after their brilliant success of August 9th to 11th, believed that
they could storm the main defenses in like manner. They hurled
themselves against the Russian right center in a furious attack
upon the line of forts stretching from the railway around the
easterly side of the town to the sea. For seven days they battled
furiously. But the wave of conquest that had flowed over four lines
of defense, broke utterly against the fifth; and after a continuous
struggle, carried on day and night, beneath sunlight, moon, and
searchlight, they retired completely baffled, with an awful
casualty list of 25,000 men.
On September 1st the Japanese, finding that they could not take
Port Arthur by assault, settled down to reduce it by an engineering
siege. This latter was carried on by means of “sapping and mining,” | 261.370279 |
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Produced by Mary Starr
WYOMING
A STORY OF THE OUTDOOR WEST
By William MacLeod Raine
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1. A DESERT MEETING
2. THE KING OF THE BIG HORN COUNTRY
3. AN INVITATION GIVEN AND ACCEPTED
4. AT THE LAZY D RANCH
5. THE DANCE AT FRASER'S
6. A PARTY CALL
7. THE MAN FROM THE SHOSHONE FASTNESSES
8. IN THE LAZY D HOSPITAL
9. A RESCUE
12. MISTRESS AND MAID
13. THE TWO COUSINS
14. FOR THE WORLD'S CHAMPIONSHIP
15. JUDD MORGAN PASSES
16. HUNTING BIG GAME
17. RUN TO EARTH
18. PLAYING FOR TIME
19. WEST POINT TO THE RESCUE
20. TWO CASES OF DISCIPLINE
21. THE SIGNAL LIGHTS
22. EXIT THE KING
23. JOURNEYS END IN LOVERS' MEETING.
CHAPTER 1. A DESERT MEETING
An automobile shot out from a gash in the hills and slipped swiftly down
to the butte. Here it came to a halt on the white, dusty road, while
its occupant gazed with eager, unsated eyes on the great panorama that
stretched before her. The earth rolled in waves like a mighty sea to
the distant horizon line. From a wonderful blue sky poured down upon
the land a bath of sunbeat. The air was like wine, pure and strong, and
above the desert swam the rare, untempered light of Wyoming. Surely here
was a peace primeval, a silence unbroken since the birth of creation.
It was all new to her, and wonderfully exhilarating. The infinite roll
of plain, the distant shining mountains, the multitudinous voices of the
desert drowned in a sunlit sea of space--they were all details of the
situation that ministered to a large serenity.
And while she breathed deeply the satisfaction of it, an exploding rifle
echo shattered the stillness. With excited sputtering came the prompt
answer of a fusillade. She was new to the West; but some instinct
stronger than reason told the girl that here was no playful puncher
shooting up the scenery to ventilate his exuberance. Her imagination
conceived something more deadly; a sinister picture of men pumping lead
in a grim, close-lipped silence; a lusty plainsman, with murder in
his heart, crumpling into a lifeless heap, while the thin smoke-spiral
curled from his hot rifle.
So the girl imagined the scene as she ran swiftly forward through the
pines to the edge of the butte bluff whence she might look down upon the
coulee that nestled against it. Nor had she greatly erred, for her first
sweeping glance showed her the thing she had dreaded.
In a semicircle, well back from the foot of the butte, half a dozen
men crouched in the cover of the sage-brush and a scattered group of
cottonwoods. They were perhaps fifty yards apart, and the attention
of all of them was focused on a spot directly beneath her. Even as she
looked, in that first swift moment of apprehension, a spurt of smoke
came from one of the rifles and was flung back from the forked pine
at the bottom of the mesa. She saw him then, kneeling behind his
insufficient shelter, a trapped man making his last stand.
From where she stood the girl distinguished him very clearly, and under
the field-glasses that she turned on him the details leaped to life.
Tall, strong, slender, with the lean, clean build of a greyhound, he
seemed as wary and alert as a panther. The broad, soft hat, the scarlet
handkerchief loosely knotted about his throat, the gray shirt, spurs
and overalls, proclaimed him a stockman, just as his dead horse at the
entrance to the coulee told of an accidental meeting in the desert and a
hurried run for cover.
That he had no chance was quite plain, but no plainer than the cool
vigilance with which he proposed to make them pay. Even in the matter
of defense he was worse off than they were, but he knew how to make
the most of what he had; knew how to avail himself of every inch of
sagebrush that helped to render him indistinct to their eyes.
One of the attackers, eager for a clearer shot, exposed himself a trifle
too far in taking aim. Without any loss of time in sighting, swift as a
lightning-flash, the rifle behind the forked pine spoke. That the bullet
reached its mark she saw with a gasp of dismay. For the man suddenly
huddled down and rolled over on his side.
His comrades appeared to take warning by this example. The men at both
ends of the crescent fell back, and for a minute the girl's heart leaped
with the hope that they were about to abandon the siege. Apparently the
man in the scarlet kerchief had no such expectation. He deserted his
position behind the pine and ran back, crouching low in the brush, to
another little clump of trees closer to the bluff. The reason for this
was at first not apparent to her, but she understood presently when the
men who had fallen back behind the rolling hillocks appeared again well
in to the edge of the bluff. Only by his timely retreat had the man
saved himself from being outflanked.
It was very plain that the attackers meant to take their time to finish
him in perfect safety. He was surrounded on every side by a cordon of
rifles, except where the bare face of the butte hung down behind him.
To attempt to scale it would have been to expose himself as a mark for
every gun to certain death.
It was now that she heard the man who seemed to be directing the attack
call out to another on his right. She was too far to make out the words,
but their effect was clear to her. He pointed to the brow of the butte
above, and a puncher in white woolen chaps dropped back out of range
and swung to the saddle upon one of the ponies bunched in the rear. He
cantered round in a wide circle and made for the butte. His purpose was
obviously to catch their victim in the unprotected rear, and fire down
upon him from above.
The young woman shouted a warning, but her voice failed to carry. For a
moment she stood with her hands pressed together in despair, then
turned and swiftly scudded to her machine. She sprang in, swept forward,
reached the rim of the mesa, and plunged down. Never before had she
attempted so precarious a descent in such wild haste. The car fairly
leaped into space, and after it struck swayed dizzily as it shot down.
The girl hung on, her face white and set, the pulse in her temple
beating wildly. She could do nothing, as the machine rocked down, but
hope against many chances that instant destruction might be averted.
Utterly beyond her control, the motor-car thundered down, reached the
foot of the butte, and swept over a little hill in its wild flight. She
rushed by a mounted horseman in the thousandth part of a second. She was
still speeding at a tremendous velocity, but a second hill reduced this
somewhat. She had not yet recovered control of the machine, but, though
her eyes instinctively followed the white road that flashed past, she
again had photographed on her brain the scene of the turbid tragedy in
which she was intervening.
At the foot of the butte the road circled and dipped into the coulee.
She braced herself for the shock, but, though the wheels skidded till
her heart was in her throat, the automobile, hanging on the balance of
disaster, swept round in safety.
Her horn screamed an instant warning to the trapped man. She could not
see him, and for an instant her heart sank with the fear that they
had killed him. But she saw then that they were still firing, and she
continued her honking invitation as the car leaped forward into the zone
of spitting bullets.
By this time she was recovering control of the motor, and she dared
not let her attention wander, but out of the corner of her eye she
appreciated the situation. Temporarily, out of sheer amaze at this
apparition from the blue, the guns ceased their sniping. She became
aware that a light curly head, crouched low in the sage-brush, was
moving rapidly to meet her at right angles, and in doing so was
approaching directly the line of fire. She could see him dodging to and
fro as he moved forward, for the rifles were again barking.
She was within two hundred yards of him, still going rapidly, but not
with the same headlong rush as before, when the curly head disappeared
in the sage-brush. It was up again presently, but she could see that the
man came limping, and so uncertainly that twice he pitched forward to
the ground. Incautiously one of his assailants ran forward with a shout
the second time his head went down. Crack! The unerring rifle rang out,
and the impetuous one dropped in his tracks.
As she approached, the young woman slowed without stopping, and as the
car swept past Curly Head flung himself in headlong. He picked himself
up from her feet, crept past her to the seat beyond, and almost
instantly whipped his rifle to his shoulder in prompt defiance of the
fire that was now converged on them.
Yet in a few moments the sound died away, for a voice midway in the
crescent had shouted an amazed discovery:
"By God, it's a woman!"
The car skimmed forward over the uneven ground toward the end of the
semicircle, and passed within fifty yards of the second man from the
end, the one she had picked out as the leader of the party. He was a
black, swarthy fellow in plain leather chaps and blue shirt. As they
passed he took a long, steady aim.
"Duck!" shouted the man beside her, and dragged her down on the seat so
that his body covered hers.
A puff of wind fanned the girl's cheek.
"Near thing," her companion said coolly. He looked back at the swarthy
man and laughed softly. "Some day you'll mebbe wish you had sent your
pills straighter, Mr. Judd Morgan."
Yet a few wheel-turns and they had dipped forward out of range among
the great land waves that seemed to stretch before them forever. The
unexpected had happened, and she had achieved a rescue in the face of
the impossible.
"Hurt badly?" the girl inquired briefly, her dark-blue eyes meeting his
as frankly as those of a boy.
"No need for an undertaker. I reckon I'll survive, ma'am."
"Where are you hit?"
"I just got a telegram from my ankle saying there was a cargo of lead
arrived there unexpected," he drawled easily.
"Hurts a good deal, doesn't it?"
"No more than is needful to keep my memory jogged up. It's a sort of a
forget-me-not souvenir. For a good boy; compliments of Mr. Jim Henson,"
he explained.
Her dark glance swept him searchingly. She disapproved the assurance
of his manner even while the youth in her applauded his reckless
sufficiency. His gay courage held her unconsenting admiration even while
she resented it. He was a trifle too much at his ease for one who had
just been snatched from dire peril. Yet even in his insouciance there
was something engaging; something almost of distinction.
"What was the trouble?"
Mirth bubbled in his gray eyes. "I gathered, ma'am, that they wanted to
collect my scalp."
"Do what?" she frowned.
"Bump me off--send me across the divide."
"Oh, I know that. But why?"
He seemed to reproach himself. "Now how could I be so neglectful? I
clean forgot to ask."
"That's ridiculous," was her sharp verdict.
"Yes, ma'am, plumb ridiculous. My only excuse is that they began
scattering lead so sudden I didn't have time to ask many 'Whyfors.' I
reckon we'll just have to call it a Wyoming difference of opinion," he
concluded pleasantly.
"Which means, I suppose, that you are not going to tell me."
"I got so much else to tell y'u that's a heap more important," he
laughed. "Y'u see, I'm enjoyin' my first automobile ride. It was
certainly thoughtful of y'u to ask me to go riding with y'u, Miss
Messiter."
"So you know my name. May I ask how?" was her astonished question.
He gave the low laugh that always seemed to suggest a private source of
amusement of his own. "I suspicioned that might be your name when I say
y'u come a-sailin' down from heaven to gather me up like Enoch."
"Why?"
"Well, ma'am, I happened to drift in to Gimlet Butte two or three days
ago, and while I was up at the depot looking for some freight a train
sashaid in and side tracked a flat car. There was an automobile on that
car addressed to Miss Helen Messiter. Now, automobiles are awful seldom
in this country. I don't seem to remember having seen one before."
"I see. You're quite a Sherlock Holmes. Do you know anything more about
me?"
"I know y'u have just fallen heir to the Lazy D. They say y'u are a
schoolmarm, but I don't believe it."
"Well, I am." Then, "Why don't you believe it?" she added.
He surveyed her with his smile audacious, let his amused eyes wander
down from the mobile face with the wild-rose bloom to the slim young
figure so long and supple, then serenely met her frown.
"Y'u don't look it."
"No? Are you the owner of a composite photograph of the teachers of the
country?"
He enjoyed again his private mirth. "I should like right well to have
the pictures of some of them."
She glanced at him sharply, but he was gazing so innocently at the
purple Shoshones in the distance that she could not give him the snub
she thought he needed.
"You are right. My name is Helen Messiter," she said, by way of
stimulating a counter fund of information. For, though she was a young
woman not much given to curiosity, she was aware of an interest in this
spare, broad-shouldered youth who was such an incarnation of bronzed
vigor.
"Glad to meet y'u, Miss Messiter," he responded, and offered his firm
brown hand in Western fashion.
But she observed resentfully that he did not mention his own name. It
was impossible to suppose that he knew no better, and she was driven
to conclude that he was silent of set purpose. Very well! If he did not
want to introduce himself she was not going to urge it upon him. In a
businesslike manner she gave her attention to eating up the dusty miles.
"Yes, ma'am. I reckon I never was more glad to death to meet a lady than
I was to meet up with y'u," he continued, cheerily. "Y'u sure looked
good to me as y'u come a-foggin' down the road. I fair had been yearnin'
for company but was some discouraged for fear the invitation had
miscarried." He broke off his sardonic raillery and let his level gaze
possess her for a long moment. "Miss Messiter, I'm certainly under
an obligation to y'u I can't repay. Y'u saved my life," he finished
gravely.
"Nonsense."
"Fact."
"It isn't a personal matter at all," she assured him, with a touch of
impatient hauteur.
"It's a heap personal to me."
In spite of her healthy young resentment she laughed at the way in which
he drawled this out, and with a swift sweep her boyish eyes took in
again his compelling devil-may-care charm. She was a tenderfoot, but
intuition as well as experience taught her that he was unusual enough to
be one of ten thousand. No young Greek god's head could have | 261.635999 |
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