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Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously
made available by Cornell University Digital Collections)
FOLK-LORE
OF
WEST AND MID-WALES
BY
JONATHAN CEREDIG DAVIES
Member of the Folk-Lore Society, Author of "Adventures in the Land
of Giants," "Western Australia," &c.
With a Preface
BY
ALICE, COUNTESS AMHERST.
"Cared doeth yr encilion."
ABERYSTWYTH:
PRINTED AT THE "WELSH GAZETTE" OFFICES, BRIDGE STREET.
1911.
This book is respectfully dedicated by the Author
to
COUNTESS OF LISBURNE, CROSSWOOD.
ALICE, COUNTESS AMHERST.
LADY ENID VAUGHAN.
LADY WEBLEY-PARRY-PRYSE, GOGERDDAN.
LADY HILLS-JOHNES OF DOLAUCOTHY.
MRS. HERBERT DAVIES-EVANS, HIGHMEAD.
MRS. WILLIAM BEAUCLERK POWELL, NANTEOS.
PREFACE
BY
ALICE, COUNTESS AMHERST.
The writer of this book lived for many years in the Welsh Colony,
Patagonia, where he was the pioneer of the Anglican Church. He
published a book dealing with that part of the world, which also
contained a great deal of interesting matter regarding the little known
Patagonian Indians, Ideas on Religion and Customs, etc. He returned
to Wales in 1891; and after spending a few years in his native land,
went out to a wild part of Western Australia, and was the pioneer
Christian worker in a district called Colliefields, where he also
built a church. (No one had ever conducted Divine Service in that
place before.)
Here again, he found time to write his experiences, and his book
contained a great deal of value to the Folklorist, regarding the
aborigines of that country, quite apart from the ordinary account of
Missionary enterprise, history and prospects of Western Australia, etc.
In 1901, Mr. Ceredig Davies came back to live in his native country,
Wales.
In Cardiganshire, and the centre of Wales, generally, there still
remains a great mass of unrecorded Celtic Folk Lore, Tradition,
and Custom.
Thus it was suggested that if Mr. Ceredig Davies wished again to
write a book--the material for a valuable one lay at his door if
he cared to undertake it. His accurate knowledge of Welsh gave him
great facility for the work. He took up the idea, and this book is
the result of his labours.
The main object has been to collect "verbatim," and render the Welsh
idiom into English as nearly as possible these old stories still told
of times gone by.
The book is in no way written to prove, or disprove, any of the
numerous theories and speculations regarding the origin of the Celtic
Race, its Religion or its Traditions. The fundamental object has been
to commit to writing what still remains of the unwritten Welsh Folk
Lore, before it is forgotten, and this is rapidly becoming the case.
The subjects are divided on the same lines as most of the books on
Highland and Irish Folk Lore, so that the student will find little
trouble in tracing the resemblance, or otherwise, of the Folk Lore
in Wales with that of the two sister countries.
ALICE AMHERST.
Plas Amherst, Harlech,
North Wales, 1911.
INTRODUCTION.
Welsh folk-lore is almost inexhaustible, and of great importance to
the historian and others. Indeed, without a knowledge of the past
traditions, customs and superstitions of the people, the history of
a country is not complete.
In this book I deal chiefly with the three counties of Cardiganshire,
Carmarthenshire, and Pembrokeshire, technically known in the present
day as "West Wales"; but as I have introduced so many things from the
counties bordering on Cardigan and Carmarthen, such as Montgomery,
Radnor, Brecon, etc., I thought proper that the work should be
entitled, "The Folk-Lore of West and Mid-Wales."
Although I have been for some years abroad, in Patagonia, and
Australia, yet I know almost every county in my native land; and there
is hardly a spot in the three counties of Carmarthen, Cardigan, and
Pembroke that I have not visited during the last nine years, gathering
materials for this book from old people and others who were interested
in such subject, spending three or four months in some districts. All
this took considerable time and trouble, not to mention of the expenses
in going about; but I generally walked much, especially in the remote
country districts, but I feel I have rescued from oblivion things
which are dying out, and many things which have died out already. I
have written very fully concerning the old Welsh Wedding and Funeral
Customs, and obtained most interesting account of them from aged
persons. The "Bidder's Song," by Daniel Ddu, which first appeared
in the "Cambrian Briton" 1822, is of special interest. Mrs. Loxdale,
of Castle Hill, showed me a fine silver cup which had been presented
to this celebrated poet. I have also a chapter on Fairies; but as I
found that Fairy Lore has almost died out in those districts which I
visited, and the traditions concerning them already recorded, I was
obliged to extract much of my information on this subject from books,
though I found a few new fairy stories in Cardiganshire. But as to
my chapters about Witches, Wizards, Death Omens, I am indebted for
almost all my information to old men and old women whom I visited in
remote country districts, and I may emphatically state that I have not
embellished the stories, or added to anything I have heard; and care
has been taken that no statement be made conveying an idea different
from what has been heard. Indeed, I have in nearly all instances given
the names, and even the addresses of those from whom I obtained my
information. If there are a few Welsh idioms in the work here and
there, the English readers must remember that the information was
given me in the Welsh language by the aged peasants, and that I have
faithfully endeavoured to give a literal rendering of the narrative.
About 350 ladies and gentlemen have been pleased to give their names
as subscribers to the book, and I have received kind and encouraging
letters from distinguished and eminent persons from all parts of the
kingdom, and I thank them all for their kind support.
I have always taken a keen interest in the History and traditions of
my native land, which I love so well; and it is very gratifying that
His Royal Highness, the young Prince of Wales, has so graciously
accepted a genealogical table, in which I traced his descent from
Cadwaladr the Blessed, the last Welsh prince who claimed the title
of King of Britain.
I undertook to write this book at the suggestion and desire of
Alice, Countess Amherst, to whom I am related, and who loves all
Celtic things, especially Welsh traditions and legends; and about
nine or ten years ago, in order to suggest the "lines of search,"
her Ladyship cleverly put together for me the following interesting
sketch or headings, which proved a good guide when I was beginning
to gather Folk-Lore:--
(1) Traditions of Fairies. (2) Tales illustrative of Fairy
Lore. (3) Tutelary Beings. (4) Mermaids and Mermen. (5) Traditions
of Water Horses out of lakes, if any? (6) Superstitions about
animals:--Sea Serpents, Magpie, Fish, Dog, Raven, Cuckoo, Cats,
etc. (7) Miscellaneous:--Rising, Clothing, Baking, Hen's first egg;
Funerals; Corpse Candles; On first coming to a house on New Year's
Day; on going into a new house; Protection against Evil Spirits;
ghosts haunting places, houses, hills and roads; Lucky times,
unlucky actions. (8) Augury:--Starting on a journey; on seeing the
New Moon. (9) Divination; Premonitions; Shoulder Blade Reading;
Palmistry; Cup Reading. (10) Dreams and Prophecies; Prophecies of
Merlin and local ones. (11) Spells and Black Art:--Spells, Black
Art, Wizards, Witches. (12) Traditions of Strata Florida, King
Edward burning the Abbey, etc. (13) Marriage Customs.--What the
Bride brings to the house; The Bridegroom. (14) Birth Customs. (15)
Death Customs. (16) Customs of the Inheritance of farms; and
Sheep Shearing Customs.
Another noble lady who was greatly interested in Welsh Antiquities,
was the late Dowager Lady Kensington; and her Ladyship, had she lived,
intended to write down for me a few Pembrokeshire local traditions
that she knew in order to record them in this book.
In an interesting long letter written to me from Bothwell Castle,
Lanarkshire, dated September 9th, 1909, her Ladyship, referring
to Welsh Traditions and Folk-Lore, says:--"I always think that
such things should be preserved and collected now, before the next
generation lets them go!... I am leaving home in October for India,
for three months." She did leave home for India in October, but sad
to say, died there in January; but her remains were brought home and
buried at St. Bride's, Pembrokeshire. On the date of her death I had
a remarkable dream, which I have recorded in this book, see page 277.
I tender my very best thanks to Evelyn, Countess of Lisburne, for so
much kindness and respect, and of whom I think very highly as a noble
lady who deserves to be specially mentioned; and also the young Earl
of Lisburne, and Lady Enid Vaughan, who have been friends to me even
from the time when they were children.
I am equally indebted to Colonel Davies-Evans, the esteemed Lord
Lieutenant of Cardiganshire, and Mrs. Davies-Evans, in particular,
whose kindness I shall never forget. I have on several occasions had
the great pleasure and honour of being their guest at Highmead.
I am also very grateful to my warm friends the Powells of Nanteos,
and also to Mrs. A. Crawley-Boevey, Birchgrove, Crosswood, sister of
Countess Lisburne.
Other friends who deserve to be mentioned are, Sir Edward and
Lady Webley-Parry-Pryse, of Gogerddan; Sir John and Lady Williams,
Plas, Llanstephan (now of Aberystwyth); General Sir James and Lady
Hills-Johnes, and Mrs. Johnes of Dolaucothy (who have been my friends
for nearly twenty years); the late Sir Lewis Morris, Penbryn; Lady
Evans, Lovesgrove; Colonel Lambton, Brownslade, Pem.; Colonel and
Mrs. Gwynne-Hughes, of Glancothy; Mrs. Wilmot Inglis-Jones; Capt. and
Mrs. Bertie Davies-Evans; Mr. and Mrs. Loxdale, Castle Hill, Llanilar;
Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd, Waunifor; Mrs. Webley-Tyler, of Glanhelig;
Archdeacon Williams, of Aberystwyth; Professor Tyrrell Green,
Lampeter; Dr. Hughes, and Dr. Rees, of Llanilar; Rev. J. F. Lloyd,
vicar of Llanilar, the energetic secretary of the Cardiganshire
Antiquarian Society; Rev. Joseph Evans, Rector of Jordanston,
Fishguard; Rev. W. J. Williams, Vicar of Llanafan; Rev. H. M. Williams,
Vicar of Lledrod; Rev. J. N. Evans, Vicar of Llangybi; Rev. T. Davies,
Vicar of Llanddewi Brefi; Rev. Rhys Morgan, C. M. Minister, Llanddewi
Brefi; Rev. J. Phillips, Vicar of Llancynfelyn; Rev. J. Morris,
Vicar, Llanybyther; Rev. W. M. Morgan-Jones (late of Washington,
U.S.A.); Rev. G. Eyre Evans, Aberystwyth; Rev. Z. M. Davies, Vicar
of Llanfihangel Geneu'r Glyn; Rev. J. Jones, Curate of Nantgaredig;
Rev. Prys Williams (Brythonydd) Baptist Minister in Carmarthenshire;
Rev. D. G. Williams, Congregational Minister, St. Clears (winner
of the prize at the National Eisteddfod, for the best essay on the
Folk-Lore of Carmarthen); Mr. William Davies, Talybont (winner of the
prize at the National Eisteddfod for the best essay on the Folk-Lore
of Merioneth); Mr. Roderick Evans, J. P., Lampeter; Rev. G. Davies,
Vicar of Blaenpenal; Mr. Stedman-Thomas (deceased), Carmarthen,
and others in all parts of the country too numerous to be mentioned
here. Many other names appear in the body of my book, more especially
aged persons from whom I obtained information.
JONATHAN CEREDIG DAVIES.
Llanilar, Cardiganshire.
March 18th, 1911.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
Dedication III.
Preface V.
Introduction VII.
I. Love Customs, etc. 1
II. Wedding Customs 16
III. Funeral Customs 39
IV. Other Customs 59
V. Fairies and Mermaids 88
VI. Ghost Stories 148
VII. Death Portents 192
VIII. Miscellaneous Beliefs, Birds, etc. 215
IX. Witches and Wizards, etc. 230
X. Folk-Healing 281
XI. Fountains, Lakes, and Caves... 298
XII. Local Traditions 315
CHAPTER I.
LOVE CUSTOMS AND OMEN SEEKING.
"Pwy sy'n caru, a phwy sy'n peidio,
A phwy sy'n troi hen gariad heibio."
Who loves, and who loves not,
And who puts off his old love?
Undoubtedly, young men and young women all over the world from the
time of Adam to the present day, always had, and still have, their
modes or ways of associating or keeping company with one another
whilst they are in love, and waiting for, and looking forward to,
the bright wedding day. In Wales, different modes of courting prevail;
but I am happy to state the old disgraceful custom of bundling, which
was once so common in some rural districts, has entirely died out,
or at least we do not hear anything about it nowadays. I believe
Wirt Sikes is right in his remarks when he says that such a custom
has had its origin in primitive times, when, out of the necessities
of existence, a whole household lay down together for greater warmth,
with their usual clothing on.
Giraldus Cambrensis, 700 years ago, writes of this custom in these
words:--
"Propinquo concubantium calore multum adjuti."
Of course, ministers of religion, both the Clergy of the Church of
England and Nonconformist ministers condemned such practice very
sternly, but about two generations ago, there were many respectable
farmers who more or less defended the custom, and it continued to a
certain extent until very recently, even without hardly any immoral
consequences, owing to the high moral standard and the religious
tendencies of the Welsh people.
One reason for the prevalence of such custom was that in times past
in Wales, both farm servants and farmers' sons and daughters were
so busy, from early dawn till a late hour in the evening that they
had hardly time or an opportunity to attend to their love affairs,
except in the night time. Within the memory of hundreds who are
still alive, it was the common practice of many of the young men in
Cardiganshire and other parts of West Wales, to go on a journey for
miles in the depth of night to see the fair maidens, and on their
way home, perhaps, about 3 o'clock in the morning they would see a
ghost or an apparition! but that did not keep them from going out at
night to see the girls they loved, or to try to make love. Sometimes,
several young men would proceed together on a courting expedition,
as it were, if we may use such a term, and after a good deal of idle
talk about the young ladies, some of them would direct their steps
towards a certain farmhouse in one direction, and others in another
direction in order to see their respective sweethearts, and this late
at night as I have already mentioned.
It was very often the case that a farmer's son and the servant
would go together to a neighbouring farm house, a few miles off,
the farmer's son to see the daughter of the house, and the servant to
see the servant maid, and when this happened it was most convenient
and suited them both. After approaching the house very quietly, they
would knock at the window of the young woman's room, very cautiously,
however, so as not to arouse the farmer and his wife.
I heard the following story when a boy:--A young farmer, who lived
somewhere between Tregaron and Lampeter, in Cardiganshire, rode one
night to a certain farm-house, some miles off, to have a talk with the
young woman of his affection, and after arriving at his destination,
he left his horse in a stable and then entered the house to see his
sweetheart. Meanwhile, a farm servant played him a trick by taking
the horse out of the stable, and putting a bull there instead. About
3 o'clock in the morning the young lover decided to go home, and went
to the stable for his horse. It was very dark, and as he entered the
stable he left the door wide open, through which an animal rushed
wildly out, which he took for his horse. He ran after the animal for
hours, but at daybreak, to his great disappointment, found that he
had been running after a bull!
Another common practice is to meet at the fairs, or on the way home
from the fairs. In most of the country towns and villages there are
special fairs for farm servants, both male and female, to resort to;
and many farmers' sons and daughters attend them as well. These fairs
give abundant opportunity for association and intimacy between young
men and women.
Indeed, it is at these fairs that hundreds of boys and girls meet
for the first time. A young man comes in contact with a young girl,
he gives her some "fairings" or offers her a glass of something to
drink, and accompanies her home in the evening. Sometimes when it
happens that there should be a prettier and more attractive maiden
than the rest present at the fair, occasionally a scuffle or perhaps
a fight takes place, between several young men in trying to secure
her society, and on such occasions, of course, the best young man in
her sight is to have the privilege of her company.
As to whether the Welsh maidens are prettier or not so pretty as
English girls, I am not able to express an opinion; but that many of
them were both handsome and attractive in the old times, at least, is
an historical fact; for we know that it was a very common thing among
the old Norman Nobles, after the Conquest, to marry Welsh ladies,
whilst they reduced the Anglo-Saxons almost to slavery. Who has
not heard the beautiful old Welsh Air, "Morwynion Glan Meirionydd"
("The Pretty Maidens of Merioneth")?
Good many men tell me that the young women of the County of
Merioneth are much more handsome than those of Cardiganshire; but
that Cardiganshire women make the best wives.
Myddfai Parish in Carmarthenshire was in former times celebrated
for its fair maidens, according to an old rhyme which records their
beauty thus:--
"Mae eira gwyn ar ben y bryn,
A'r glasgoed yn y Ferdre,
Mae bedw mân ynghanol Cwm-bran,
A merched glân yn Myddfe."
Principal Sir John Rhys translates this as follows:--
"There is white snow on the mountain's brow,
And greenwood at the Verdre,
Young birch so good in Cwm-bran wood,
And lovely girls in Myddfe."
In the time of King Arthur of old, the fairest maiden in Wales was
the beautiful Olwen, whom the young Prince Kilhwch married after
many adventures. In the Mabinogion we are informed that "more yellow
was her hair than the flowers of the broom, and her skin was whiter
than the foam of the wave, and fairer were her hands and her fingers
than the blossoms of the wood-anemone, amidst the spray of the meadow
fountain. The eye of the trained hawk, the glance of the three-mewed
falcon, was not brighter than hers. Her bosom was more snowy than
the breast of the white swan; her cheek was redder than the reddest
roses. Those who beheld her were filled with her love. Four white
trefoils sprang up wherever she trod. She was clothed in a robe of
flame- silk, and about her neck was a collar of ruddy gold,
on which were precious emeralds and rubies."
A good deal of courting is done at the present day while going home
from church or chapel as the case may be. The Welsh people are
very religious, and almost everybody attends a place of worship,
and going home from church gives young people of both sexes abundant
opportunities of becoming intimate with one another. Indeed, it is
almost a general custom now for a young man to accompany a young lady
home from church.
The Welsh people are of an affectionate disposition, and thoroughly
enjoy the pleasures of love, but they keep their love more secret,
perhaps, than the English; and Welsh bards at all times have been
celebrated for singing in praise of female beauty. Davydd Ap Gwilym,
the chief poet of Wales, sang at least one hundred love songs to his
beloved Morfudd.
This celebrated bard flourished in the fourteenth century, and he
belonged to a good family, for his father, Gwilym Gam, was a direct
descendant from Llywarch Ap Bran, chief of one of the fifteen royal
tribes of North Wales; and his mother was a descendant of the Princes
of South Wales. According to the traditions of Cardiganshire people,
Davydd was born at Bro-Gynin, near Gogerddan, in the Parish of
Llanbadarn-Fawr, and only a few miles from the spot where the town
of Aberystwyth is situated at present.
An ancient bard informs us that Taliesin of old had foretold the
honour to be conferred on Bro-Gynin, in being the birthplace of a
poet whose muse should be as the sweetness of wine:--
"Am Dafydd, gelfydd goelin--praff awdwr,
Prophwydodd Taliesin,
Y genid ym mro Gynin,
Brydydd a'i gywydd fel gwin."
The poet, Davydd Ap Gwilym, is represented as a fair young man who
loved many, or that many were the young maidens who fell in love with
him, and there is one most amusing tradition of his love adventures. It
is said that on one occasion he went to visit about twenty young ladies
about the same time, and that he appointed a meeting with each of them
under an oak-tree--all of them at the same hour. Meanwhile, the young
bard had secretly climbed up the tree and concealed himself among the
branches, so that he might see the event of this meeting. Every one of
the young girls was there punctually at the appointed time, and equally
astonished to perceive any female there besides herself. They looked
at one another in surprise, and at last one of them asked another,
"What brought you here?" "to keep an appointment with Dafydd ap Gwilym"
was the reply. "That's how I came also" said the other "and I" added
a third girl, and all of them had the same tale. They then discovered
the trick which Dafydd had played with them, and all of them agreed
together to punish him, and even to kill him, if they could get hold
of him. Dafydd, who was peeping from his hiding-place amongst the
branches of the tree, replied as follows in rhyme:--
"Y butein wen fain fwynnf--o honoch
I hono maddeuaf,
Tan frig pren a heulwen haf,
Teg anterth, t'rawed gyntaf!"
The words have been translated by someone something as follows:--
"If you can be so cruel,
Let the kind wanton jade,
Who oftenest met me in this shade,
On summer's morn, by love inclined,
Let her strike first, and I'm resigned."
Dafydd's words had the desired effect. The young women began to
question each other's purity, which led to a regular quarrel between
them, and, during the scuffle, the poet escaped safe and sound.
After this the Poet fell in love with the daughter of one Madog Lawgam,
whose name was Morfudd, and in her honour he wrote many songs, and
it seems that he ever remained true to this lady. They were secretly
married in the woodland; but Morfudd's parents disliked the Poet so
much for some reason or other, that the beautiful young lady was taken
away from him and compelled to marry an old man known as Bwa Bach, or
Little Hunchback. Dafydd was tempted to elope with Morfudd, but he was
found, fined and put in prison; but through the kindness of the men of
Glamorgan, who highly esteemed the Poet, he was released. After this,
it seems that Dafydd was love-sick as long as he lived, and at last
died of love, and he left the following directions for his funeral:--
"My spotless shroud shall be of summer flowers,
My coffin from out the woodland bowers:
The flowers of wood and wild shall be my pall,
My bier, light forest branches green and tall;
And thou shalt see the white gulls of the main
In thousands gather then to bear my train!"
One of Dafydd's chief patrons was his kinsman, the famous and noble
Ivor Hael, Lord of Macsaleg, from whose stock the present Viscount
Tredegar is a direct descendant, and, in judging the character of the
Poet we must take into consideration what was the moral condition of
the country in the fourteenth century.
But to come to more modern times, tradition has it that a young man
named Morgan Jones of Dolau Gwyrddon, in the Vale of Teivi, fell in
love with the Squire of Dyffryn Llynod's daughter. The young man and
the young woman were passionately in love with each other; but the
Squire, who was a staunch Royalist, refused to give his consent to his
daughter's marriage with Morgan Jones, as the young man's grandfather
had fought for Cromwell. The courtship between the lovers was kept on
for years in secret, and the Squire banished his daughter to France
more than once. At last the young lady fell a victim to the small
pox, and died. Just before her death, her lover came to see her,
and caught the fever from her, and he also died. His last wish was
that he should be buried in the same grave as the one he had loved
so dearly, but this was denied him.
In Merionethshire there is a tradition that many generations ago a
Squire of Gorsygedol, near Harlech, had a beautiful daughter who fell
in love with a shepherd boy. To prevent her seeing the young man, her
father locked his daughter in a garret, but a secret correspondence
was carried on between the lovers by means of a dove she had taught
to carry the letters. The young lady at last died broken-hearted,
and soon after her burial the dove was found dead upon her grave! And
the young man with a sad heart left his native land for ever.
More happy, though not less romantic, was the lot of a young man who
was shipwrecked on the coast of Pembrokeshire, and washed up more dead
than alive on the seashore, where he was found by the daughter and
heiress of Sir John de St. Bride's, who caused him to be carried to
her father's house where he was hospitably entertained. The young man,
of course, was soon head and ears in love with his fair deliverer,
and the lady being in nowise backward in response to his suit, they
married and founded a family of Laugharnes, and their descendants
for generations resided at Orlandon, near St. Bride's.
The Rev. D. G. Williams in his interesting Welsh collection of the
Folk-lore of Carmarthenshire says that in that part of the county which
borders on Pembrokeshire, there is a strange custom of presenting a
rejected lover with a yellow flower, or should it happen at the time
of year when there are no flowers, to give a yellow ribbon.
This reminds us of a curious old custom which was formerly very common
everywhere in Wales; that of presenting a rejected lover, whether
male or female, with a stick or sprig of hazel-tree. According to
the "Cambro Briton," for November, 1821, this was often done at a
"Cyfarfod Cymhorth," or a meeting held for the benefit of a poor
person, at whose house or at that of a neighbour, a number of young
women, mostly servants, used to meet by permission of their respective
employers, in order to give a day's work, either in spinning or
knitting, according as there was need of their assistance, and,
towards the close of the day, when their task was ended, dancing
and singing were usually introduced, and the evening spent with glee
and conviviality. At the early part of the day, it was customary for
the young women to receive some presents from their several suitors,
as a token of their truth or inconstancy. On this occasion the lover
could not present anything more odious to the fair one than the sprig
of a "collen," or hazel-tree, which was always a well-known sign of
a change of mind on the part of the young man, and, consequently,
that the maiden could no longer expect to be the real object of his
choice. The presents, in general, consisted of cakes, silver spoons,
etc., and agreeably to the respectability of the sweetheart, and were
highly decorated with all manner of flowers; and if it was the lover's
intention to break off his engagement with the young lady, he had only
to add a sprig of hazel. These pledges were handed to the respective
lasses by the different "Caisars," or Merry Andrews,--persons dressed
in disguise for the occasion, who, in their turn, used to take each
his young woman by the hand to an adjoining room where they would
deliver the "pwysi," or nose-gay, as it was called, and afterwards
immediately retire upon having mentioned the giver's name.
When a young woman also had made up her mind to have nothing further to
do with a young man who had been her lover, or proposed to become one,
she used to give him a "ffon wen," (white wand) from an hazel tree,
decorated with white ribbons. This was a sign to the young man that
she did not love him.
The Welsh name for hazel-tree is "collen." Now the word "coll" has a
double meaning; it means to lose anything, as well as a name for the
hazel, and it is the opinion of some that this double meaning of the
word gave the origin to the custom of making use of the hazel-tree
as a sign of the loss of a lover.
It is also worthy of notice, that, whilst the hazel indicated the
rejection of a lover, the birch tree, on the other hand, was used as an
emblem of love, or in other words that a lover was accepted. Among the
Welsh young persons of both sexes were able to make known their love to
one another without speaking, only by presenting a Birchen-Wreath. This
curious old custom | 1,770.078968 |
2023-11-16 18:46:34.3569860 | 1,301 | 10 |
Produced by Adrian Mastronardi, Ruth and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber's Note: Some printer's errors, such as missing periods,
commas printed as periods and other minor punctuation errors have
been corrected. Variations in spelling and capitalisation have been
retained as they appear in the original.
EYEBRIGHT.
_A STORY._
By SUSAN COOLIDGE,
AUTHOR OF "THE NEW YEAR'S BARGAIN," "WHAT KATY DID,"
"WHAT KATY DID AT SCHOOL," "MISCHIEF'S THANKSGIVING,"
"NINE LITTLE GOSLINGS."
With Illustrations.
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1894.
_Copyright_,
By Roberts Brothers.
1879.
UNIVERSITY PRESS:
John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. LADY JANE AND LORD GUILDFORD 1
II. AFTER SCHOOL 18
III. MR. JOYCE 43
IV. A DAY WITH THE SHAKERS 66
V. HOW THE BLACK DOG HAD HIS DAY 85
VI. CHANGES 104
VII. BETWEEN THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW 122
VIII. CAUSEY ISLAND 143
IX. SHUT UP IN THE OVEN 166
X. A LONG YEAR IN A SHORT CHAPTER 188
XI. A STORM ON THE COAST 204
XII. TRANSPLANTED 226
EYEBRIGHT.
CHAPTER I.
LADY JANE AND LORD GUILDFORD.
[Illustration: "THE FALCON'S NEST."]
It wanted but five minutes to twelve in Miss Fitch's schoolroom, and a
general restlessness showed that her scholars were aware of the fact.
Some of the girls had closed their books, and were putting their desks
to rights, with a good deal of unnecessary fuss, keeping an eye on the
clock meanwhile. The boys wore the air of dogs who see their master
coming to untie them; they jumped and quivered, making the benches
squeak and rattle, and shifted their feet about on the uncarpeted
floor, producing sounds of the kind most trying to a nervous teacher.
A general expectation prevailed. Luckily, Miss Fitch was not nervous.
She had that best of all gifts for teaching,--calmness; and she
understood her pupils and their ways, and had sympathy with them. She
knew how hard it is for feet with the dance of youth in them to keep
still for three long hours on a June morning; and there was a
pleasant, roguish look in her face as she laid her hand on the bell,
and, meeting the twenty-two pairs of expectant eyes which were fixed
on hers, rang it--dear Miss Fitch--actually a minute and a half before
the time.
At the first tinkle, like arrows dismissed from the bow-string, two
girls belonging to the older class jumped from their seats and flew,
ahead of all the rest, into the entry, where hung the hats and caps of
the school, and their dinner-baskets. One seized a pink sun-bonnet
from its nail, the other a Shaker-scoop with a deep green cape; each
possessed herself of a small tin pail, and just as the little crowd
swarmed into the passage, they hurried out on the green, in the middle
of which the schoolhouse stood. It was a very small green, shaped like
a triangle, with half a dozen trees growing upon it; but
"Little things are great to little men,"
you know, and to Miss Fitch's little men and women "the Green" had all
the importance and excitement of a park. Each one of the trees which
stood upon it possessed a name of its own. Every crotch and branch in
them was known to the boys and the most daring among the girls; each
had been the scene of games and adventures without number. "The
Castle," a low spreading oak with wide, horizontal branches, had been
the favorite tree for fights. Half the boys would garrison the boughs,
the other half, scrambling from below and clutching and tugging, would
take the part of besiegers, and it had been great fun all round. But
alas, for that "had been!" Ever since one unlucky day, when Luther
Bradley, as King Charles, had been captured five boughs up by Cromwell
and his soldiers, and his ankle badly sprained in the process, Miss
Fitch had ruled that "The Castle" should be used for fighting purposes
no longer. The boys might climb it, but they must not call themselves
a garrison, nor pull nor struggle with each other. So the poor oak was
shorn of its military glories, and forced to comfort itself by bearing
a larger crop of acorns than had been possible during the stirring and
warlike times, now for ever ended.
Then there was "The Dove-cote," an easily climbed beech, on which rows
of girls might be seen at noon-times roosting like fowls in the sun.
And there was "The Falcon's Nest," which produced every year a few
small, sour apples, and which Isabella Bright had adopted for her
tree. She knew every inch of the way to the top; to climb it was like
going up a well-known staircase, and the sensation of sitting there
aloft, high in air, on a bough which curved and swung, with another
bough exactly fitting her back to lean against, was full of delight
and fascination. It was like moving and being at rest all at once;
like flying, like escape. | 1,770.377026 |
2023-11-16 18:46:34.4531750 | 1,017 | 9 |
Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading team
PRINCE HAGEN
By Upton Sinclair
CHARACTERS (In order of appearance)
Gerald Isman: a poet.
Mimi: a Nibelung.
Alberich: King of the Nibelungs.
Prince Hagen: his grandson.
Mrs. Isman.
Hicks: a butler.
Mrs. Bagley-Willis: mistress of Society.
John Isman: a railroad magnate.
Estelle Isman: his daughter.
Plimpton: the coal baron.
Rutherford: lord of steel.
De Wiggleston Riggs: cotillon leader.
Lord Alderdyce: seeing America.
Calkins: Prince Hagen's secretary.
Nibelungs: members of Society.
ACT I
SCENE I. Gerald Isman's tent in Quebec.
SCENE 2. The Hall of State in Nibelheim.
ACT II
Library in the Isman home on Fifth Avenue: two years later.
ACT III
Conservatory of Prince Hagen's palace on Fifth Avenue. The wind-up
of the opening ball: four months later.
ACT IV
Living room in the Isman camp in Quebec: three months later.
ACT I
SCENE I
[Shows a primeval forest, with great trees, thickets in background,
and moss and ferns underfoot. A set in the foreground. To the left is a
tent, about ten feet square, with a fly. The front and sides are rolled
up, showing a rubber blanket spread, with bedding upon it; a rough
stand, with books and some canned goods, a rifle, a fishing-rod, etc.
Toward centre is a trench with the remains of a fire smoldering in it,
and a frying pan and some soiled dishes beside it. There is a log, used
as a seat, and near it are several books, a bound volume of music lying
open, and a violin case with violin. To the right is a rocky wall, with
a cleft suggesting a grotto.]
[At rise: GERALD pottering about his fire, which is burning badly,
mainly because he is giving most of his attention to a bound volume
of music which he has open. He is a young man of twenty-two, with wavy
auburn hair; wears old corduroy trousers and a grey flannel shirt,
open at the throat. He stirs the fire, then takes violin and plays the
Nibelung theme with gusto.]
GERALD. A plague on that fire! I think I'll make my supper on prunes and
crackers to-night!
[Plays again.]
MIMI. [Enters left, disguised as a pack-peddler; a little wizened up
man, with long, unkempt grey hair and beard, and a heavy bundle on his
back.] Good evening, sir!
GERALD. [Starts.] Hello!
MIMI. Good evening!
GERALD. Why... who are you?
MIMI. Can you tell me how I find the road, sir?
GERALD. Where do you want to go?
MIMI. To the railroad.
GERALD. Oh, I see! You got lost?
MIMI. Yes, sir.
GERALD. [Points.] You should have turned to the right down where the
roads cross.
MIMI. Oh. That's it!
[Puts down burden and sighs.]
GERALD. Are you expecting to get to the railroad to-night?
MIMI. Yes, sir.
GERALD. Humph! You'll find it hard going. Better rest. [Looks him over,
curiously.] What are you--a peddler?
MIMI. I sell things. Nice things, sir. You buy?
[Starts to open pack.]
GERALD. No. I don't want anything.
MIMI. [Gazing about.] You live here all alone?
GERALD. Yes... all alone.
MIMI. [Looking of left.] Who lives in the big house?
GERALD. That's my father's camp.
MIMI. Humph! Nobody in there?
GERALD. The family hasn't come up yet.
MIMI. Why don't you live there?
GERALD. I'm camping out--I prefer the tent.
MIMI. Humph! Who's your father?
GERALD. John Isman's his name.
MIMI. Rich man, hey?
GERALD. Why... yes. Fairly so.
MIMI. I see people here last year.
GERALD | 1,770.473215 |
2023-11-16 18:46:34.5555620 | 1,272 | 8 | LAMENTED QUEEN CAROLINE OF ENGLAND***
Transcribed from the early 1800's edition by David Price, email
[email protected]. Many thanks to Norfolk and Norwich Millennium Library,
UK, for kindly supplying the images from which this transcription was
made.
A POEM
TO THE
Memory of our late lamented
QUEEN CAROLINE
OF
_ENGLAND_.
[Picture: Decorative divider]
BY J. PARKERSON, JUN.
[Picture: Decorative divider]
PRICE
* * * * *
NORWICH:
_PRINTED_, _BY R. WALKER_, _NEAR THE DUKE'S PALACE_
_A POEM_
TO THE MEMORY OF OUR LATE LAMENTED
Queen Caroline.
As a Briton, this tribute I pay to my Queen,
Who late fell a martyr to malice and spleen;
To add to her sorrows in this fleeting life,
Misfortune had made her a young widow'd wife.
England saw Brunswick's daughter surrounded by foes;
And, therefore determin'd their arts to oppose.
Corruption those minions so much can increase,
As to play with our feelings and injure our peace.
The vilest of reptiles oft jewels display;
You may see them at courts and at levees each day:
Lord D--- and his lady, not many years since,
Unblushingly perjured themselves for a ---:
Their conduct was such as rous'd England's spleen,
That after her trial they dare not be seen;
May remorse and disgrace so harrass each breast,
As during existance divest them of rest;
Till despis'd and dishonour'd they yield to a fate
That justly awaits the entitled ingrate.
Scarce the delicate business had pass'd a short day,
Ere my lord and my lady took themselves away
From England's old comforts and England's lov'd shore;
For they dare not by Britons be seen any more.
The hired Italians' could tell if they please,
They liv'y by base lucre many years at their ease.
They were fed for a purpose each Briton well know;
Yet Perjury's efforts late met a death blow;
So effectual, I hope, she will ne'er try again,
To injure the just, or to give any pain.
To the innocent bosom unsconscious of blame--
A very late trial brought on Briton's shame.
I mean to such Britons who try'd to run down,
Our much injured Queen, late depriv'd of the crown;
For reasons too plain, and known very well:
I dare say, the court at St. James's can tell.
May the time soon approach that each freeman can say,
My rights as a freeman I'll not throw away;
For I find that the great ones so impoverish the nation,
It is time they are taken away from their station;
They at present so manage, to our sorrow and grief:
They feed us with hopes, yet with-hold us relief;
A reform in all matters, and not things by halves,
For England is pawn'd while she fattens her calves;
The good funded system will plain show you how
They can raise a supply, tho' it injure the plough.
To such a degree that it must remain still;
What matters to them so there's grist in the mill
'Tis just like a merchant on a dull market day,
That will purchase your corn tho' he can't for it pay;
Except he resort to a mortgaging plan,
Which is certain at all times to ruin the man;
Then a bankruptcy follows and nothing to pay,
For extravagance makes all his assets away.
Such is the case you may clear understand:
They first tax the nation and then pawn the land;
Till the farmer no longer his rental can pay,
For parsons take half of his income away:
At times like the present how much is he blest,
When Georgie steps in and he takes the rest;
For the good of the state, for the good of us all,
They have plenty of soldiers we know at their call.
To be sure they look handsome at a review:
The question to us is, wouldn't half of them do?
But what would become of commanders I say;
Were the army dismiss'd and to live on half pay.
Why the son of a lord or a country'squire,
Must then from his wine and his lasses retire;
There is many a youngster would soon be undone,
And the reputed father must keep his own son.
Let places and pensions be quick done away,
At least so diminish'd as less is to pay;
I mean to all such as the state can well spare,
'Twou'd make the expenditure less in the year:
There are bed-chamber lords and ladies so gay;
Such fine gaudy trappings waste money away:
There are ladies of honor, of honor indeed,
You must empty your purses, ere you can succeed.
Their time and their beauty they'll not throw away,
It's well known a duke spends a thousand a day
On such baubles, but sometimes it's done in the dark;
To prove my assertion, pray ask Mrs. Clarke:
Clarke's there are many, as fame loud report,
That do not wear breeches; yet live by a court.
John Bull must pay all, and dare not complain,
For if he is noisy, a goal must detain
The troublesome urchin, and will him so tease,
That, hereafter he's silent, and do as you please:
For bills are so fangled, they always can bind
The tongue of a croker | 1,770.575602 |
2023-11-16 18:46:34.5594230 | 17 | 14 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Harry Lame and the Online
| 1,770.579463 |
2023-11-16 18:46:34.6536640 | 1,470 | 49 |
Produced by Simon Gardner, Dianna Adair, Louise Davies and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by the Digital & Multimedia
Center, Michigan State University Libraries.)
Transcriber's Notes
Archaic, dialect and inconsistent spellings have been retained as they
appear in the original. With the exception of 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, accents and diacritics in the text:
[ae] = ae-ligature
[:a] = a-umlaut
['e] = e-acute
[a'], [e'] = a-grave, e-grave
[OE] and [oe] = oe-ligature (upper and lower case).
[hand] = a right pointing hand symbol.
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.
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 and are indicated in the form [Lnn] at line number nn.
* * * * *
ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH
BALLADS.
EDITED BY
FRANCIS JAMES CHILD.
VOLUME IV.
BOSTON:
LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY.
M.DCCC.LX.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857 by LITTLE,
BROWN AND COMPANY, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of
Massachusetts.
RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE:
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY
H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.
BOOK IV.
CONTINUED.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME FOURTH.
BOOK IV. (continued.)
Page
9 a. Young Beichan and Susie Pye 1
9 b. Young Bekie 10
10 a. Hynd Horn, [Motherwell] 17
10 b. Hynd Horn, [Buchan] 25
11 a. Katharine Janfarie 29
11 b. Catherine Johnstone 34
12. Bonny Baby Livingston 38
13. The Broom of Cowdenknows 45
14. Johnie Scot 50
15. Brown Adam 60
16 a. Lizie Lindsay, [Jamieson] 63
16 b. Lizzie Lindsay, [Whitelaw] 68
17. Lizae Baillie 73
18. Glasgow Peggy 76
19. Glenlogie 80
20. John O'Hazelgreen 83
21. The Fause Lover 89
22. The Gardener 92
23. The Duke of Athol 94
24. The Rantin' Laddie 97
25. The Duke of Gordon's Daughter 102
26. The Laird o'Logie 109
27. The Gypsie Laddie 114
28. Laird of Drum 118
29 a. Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament, [Ramsay] 123
29 b. Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament, [Percy] 129
30 a. Waly, waly, but Love be bonny 132
30 b. Lord Jamie Douglas 135
31. The Nutbrowne Maide 143
32. The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington 158
33. The Blind Beggar's Daughter of Bednall Green 161
34. The Famous Flower of Serving Men 174
35. The Fair Flower of Northumberland 180
36. Gentle Herdsman, Tell to me 187
37. As I came from Walsingham 191
38. King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid 195
39. The Spanish Lady's Love 201
40. Patient Grissel 207
41. The King of France's Daughter 216
42. Constance of Cleveland 225
43. Willow, Willow, Willow 234
44. Greensleeves 240
45. Robene and Makyne 245
APPENDIX.
Lord Beichan and Susie Pye 253
Sweet William 261
Young Child Dyring 265
Barbara Livingston 270
Lang Johnny Moir 272
Lizie Baillie 280
Johnnie Faa and the Countess o'Cassilis 283
Jamie Douglas 287
Laird of Blackwood 290
The Provost's Dochter 292
Blancheflour and Jellyflorice 295
Chil Ether 299
Young Bearwell 302
Lord Thomas of Winesberry and the King's Daughter 305
Lady Elspat 308
The Lovers Quarrel 311
The Merchant's Daughter of Bristow 328
GLOSSARY 339
YOUNG BEICHAN AND SUSIE PYE.
An inspection of the first hundred lines of Robert of Gloucester's
_Life and Martyrdom of Thomas Beket_, (edited for the Percy Society by
W. H. Black, vol. xix,) will leave no doubt that the hero of this
ancient and beautiful tale is veritably Gilbert Becket, father of the
renowned Saint Thomas of Canterbury. Robert of Gloucester's story
coincides in all essential particulars with the traditionary legend,
but Susie Pye is, unfortunately, spoken of in the chronicle by no
other name than the daughter of the Saracen Prince Admiraud.
| 1,770.673704 |
2023-11-16 18:46:34.6559430 | 130 | 17 |
E-text prepared by Giovanni Fini and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by
Internet Archive (https://archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 48107-h.htm or 48107-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/48107/48107-h/48107-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/48107/48107-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet | 1,770.675983 |
2023-11-16 18:46:34.8531210 | 1,462 | 7 |
Produced by Simon Gardner, Adrian Mastronardi, The
Philatelic Digital Library Project at http://www.tpdlp.net
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Notes
This is a Plain Text version. It uses the 7-bit ASCII character set.
Accented characters are represented as follows:
['a] indicates the acute accent
[e'] indicates the grave accent
[^i] indicates the circumflex accent
[:u] indicates the umlaut
The following are used to represent special characters and marks:
[~d] [~r] [~n] indicates a tilde above d, r, n
[p=] indicates a line below p
[=o] [=co] [=xon] indicate an overline above 1, 2 or 3 characters
[^p] indicates an inverted breve above p
[oe] indicates an oe ligature
[L] indicates the pound (Sterling) sign
[S] indicates the Section symbol
Italic typeface in the original is indicated with _underscores_. Bold
typeface in the original is indicated by UPPER CASE. Small capital
typeface in the original is indicated by UPPER CASE.
There are a large number of footnotes. These have been grouped together
at end of each chapter or major section in which they are referenced.
There are numerous quotations from documents in German, French and
archaic English which use many abbreviations, variant spellings and
inconsistent spellings. These are retained, except where obvious typo
corrections are listed at the end of this document.
* * * * *
STUDIES IN ECONOMICS AND POLITICAL SCIENCE.
EDITED BY THE HON. W. PEMBER REEVES, PH.D., _Director of the London
School of Economics and Political Science._
No. 50 in the Series of Monographs by writers connected with the London
School of Economics and Political Science.
THE DEVELOPMENT OF RATES OF POSTAGE
* * * * *
THE DEVELOPMENT OF
RATES OF POSTAGE
AN HISTORICAL AND
ANALYTICAL STUDY
BY
A. D. SMITH, B.Sc. (ECON.)
OF THE SECRETARY'S OFFICE,
GENERAL POST OFFICE, LONDON
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
THE RIGHT HON. HERBERT SAMUEL, M.P.
POSTMASTER-GENERAL 1910-14 AND 1915-16
LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD.
RUSKIN HOUSE 40 MUSEUM STREET, W.C. 1
[_Thesis approved for the Degree of Doctor of Science_ (Economics) _in
the University of London_]
_First published in 1917_
(_All rights reserved_)
PREFACE
This study, which was prepared primarily as a Research Studentship
Report for the University of London, is intended to be a contribution to
the history of rates of postage, and an attempt to ascertain the
principles, economic or otherwise, on which they are and have been
based.
The Postmaster-General accorded me permission to consult the official
records at the General Post Office, London, and through this courtesy I
have been enabled to include a detailed examination of the economic
aspect of the rates in the inland service in this country, and to place
in the Appendix copies of some original documents which have not before
been printed. Without this permission, which I desire here to
acknowledge, it would, indeed, scarcely have been possible to undertake
the inquiry. It must be made clear, however, that the work is of
entirely private character, and cannot be taken as in any way expressing
the views of the British Postal Administration.
In 1912, as the holder of the Mitchell Studentship in Economics at the
University of London, I visited Ottawa and Washington; in 1913 I visited
Paris and the International Bureau at Berne; and in 1914, Berlin. I am
much indebted to the various postal administrations visited, to whom, by
the courtesy of the Postmaster-General, I carried official letters of
introduction in addition to my letters from the University, for
facilities to consult official papers relating to the subject of
investigation, and for assistance from members of the staff with whom I
was brought into contact.
The work was all but completed at the outbreak of war, but publication
has been unavoidably delayed. The overpowering necessities created by
the war have caused Governments again to look to postage for increased
revenue. Penny postage itself has been in danger in the country of its
origin. Various war increases of postage have already been made, both
here and abroad, and brief particulars of the changes in the countries
dealt with have been included. Further proposals for increasing the
revenue from postage will possibly be made, and I am hopeful that these
pages, in which the course of postage is traced, may then be found of
service.
For the privilege of numerous facilities in connection with my work on
the rates in this country I am indebted to Mr. W. G. Gates,
Assistant-Secretary to the Post Office; and for assistance in my
inquiries abroad I am indebted to Dr. R. M. Coulter, C.M.G., Deputy
Postmaster-General, Ottawa, and Mr. William Smith, I.S.O., at the time
of my visit Secretary to the Canada Post Office; to Congressman the Hon.
David Lewis, of Maryland, and Mr. Joseph Stewart, Second Assistant
Postmaster-General, United States Post Office; to M. Vaill['e], of the
Secr['e]tariat Administratif, Ministry of Posts and Telegraphs, Paris; and
to M. Ruffy, Director of the International Bureau, Universal Postal
Union, Berne.
I am especially indebted to Professor Graham Wallas for valuable
suggestions and advice.
A. D. SMITH.
LONDON SCHOOL OF ECONOMICS,
1917.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE v
INTRODUCTION xi
I. THE RATE FOR LETTERS--
Letter Post in England 1
Letter Post in Canada 37
Letter Post in the United States of America 59
Letter Post in France 78
Letter Post in Germany 97
II. THE RATE FOR NEWSPAPERS--
Newspaper Post in England 111
Newspaper Post in Canada 136
Newspaper Post (Second-class Mail) in the United States of America 148
Newspaper Post in France 164
Newspaper Post in Germany 173
III. THE RATE FOR PARCELS--
Parcel Post in England 183 | 1,770.873161 |
2023-11-16 18:46:34.8534370 | 7,436 | 9 |
Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
ERCHIE
My Droll Friend
By Hugh Foulis
(Neil Munro)
(The Looker-On)
William Blackwood and Sons Edinburgh and London
MCMIV
[Illustration: 0008]
[Illustration: 0009]
PREFACE.
The majority of the following chapters are selections from “Erchie”
articles contributed to the pages of the ‘Glasgow Evening News’ during
the past three years. A number of the sketches are now published for the
first time.
ERCHIE
I INTRODUCTORY TO AN ODD CHARACTER
|On Sundays he is the beadle of our church; at other times he Waits.
In his ecclesiastical character there is a solemn dignity about his
deportment that compels most of us to call him Mr MacPherson; in his
secular hours, when passing the fruit at a city banquet, or when at the
close of the repast he sweeps away the fragments of the dinner-rolls,
and whisperingly expresses in your left ear a fervent hope that “ye’ve
enjoyed your dinner,” he is simply Erchie.
Once I forgot, deluded a moment into a Sunday train of thought by his
reverent way of laying down a bottle of Pommery, and called him Mr
MacPherson. He reproved me with a glance of his eye.
“There’s nae Mr MacPhersons here,” said he afterwards; “at whit ye might
call the social board I’m jist Erchie, or whiles Easy-gaun Erchie wi’
them that kens me langest. There’s sae mony folks in this world don’t
like to hurt your feelings that if I was kent as Mr MacPherson on this
kind o’ job I wadna mak’ enough to pay for starchin’ my shirts.”
I suppose Mr MacPherson has been snibbing-in preachers in St Kentigern’s
Kirk pulpit and then going for twenty minutes’ sleep in the vestry since
the Disruption; and the more privileged citizens of Glasgow during
two or three generations of public dinners have experienced the kindly
ministrations of Erchie, whose proud motto is “A flet fit but a warm
hert.” I think, however, I was the first to discover his long pent-up
and precious strain of philosophy.
On Saturday nights, in his office as beadle of St Kentigern’s, he lights
the furnaces that take the chill off the Sunday devotions. I found him
stoking the kirk fires one Saturday, not very much like a beadle in
appearance, and much less like a waiter. It was what, in England, they
call the festive season.
“There’s mair nor guid preachin’ wanted to keep a kirk gaun,” said he;
“if I was puttin’ as muckle dross on my fires as the Doctor whiles
puts in his sermons, efter a Setturday at the gowf, ye wad see a bonny
difference on the plate. But it’s nae odds-a beadle gets sma’ credit,
though it’s him that keeps the kirk tosh and warm, and jist at that
nice easy-osy temperature whaur even a gey cauldrife member o’ the
congregation can tak’ his nap and no’ let his lozenge slip doon his
throat for chitterin wi’ the cauld.”
There was a remarkably small congregation at St Kentigern’s on the
following day, and when the worthy beadle had locked the door after
dismissal and joined me on the pavement, “Man,” he said, “it was a puir
turn-oot yon--hardly worth puttin’ on fires for. It’s aye the wye; when
I mak’ the kirk a wee bit fancy, and jalouse there’s shair to be twa
pound ten in the plate, on comes a blash o’ rain, and there’s hardly
whit wid pay for the starchin’ o’ the Doctor’s bands.
“Christmas! They ca’t Christmas, but I could gie anither name for’t. I
looked it up in the penny almanac, and it said, ‘Keen frost; probably
snow,’ and I declare-to if I hadna nearly to soom frae the hoose.
“The almanacs is no’ whit they used to be; the auld chaps that used to
mak’ them maun be deid.
“They used to could do’t wi’ the least wee bit touch, and tell ye in
January whit kind o’ day it wad be at Halloween, besides lettin’ ye ken
the places whaur the Fair days and the ‘ool-markets was, and when they
were to tak’ place-a’ kind o’ information that maist o’ us that bocht
the almanacs couldna sleep at nicht wantin’. I’ve seen me get up at
three on a cauld winter’s mornin’ and strikin’ a licht to turn up Orr’s
Penny Commercial and see whit day was the Fair at Dunse. I never was
at Dunse in a’ my days, and hae nae intention o’ gaun, but it’s a grand
thing knowledge, and it’s no’ ill to cairry. It’s like poetry-’The Star
o’ Rabbie Burns’ and that kind o’ thing-ye can aye be givin’ it a ca’
roond in your mind when ye hae naething better to dae.
“Oh, ay! A puir turn-oot the day for Kenti-gern’s; that’s the drawback
o’ a genteel congregation like oors-mair nor half o’ them’s sufferin’
frae Christmas turkey and puttin’ the blame on the weather.”
“The bubbly-jock is the symbol o’ Scotland’s decline and fa’; we maybe
bate the English at Bannockburn, but noo they’re haein’ their revenge
and underminin’ oor constitution wi’ the aid o’ a bird that has neither
a braw plumage nor a bonny sang, and costs mair nor the price o’ three
or four ducks. England gave us her bubbly-jock and took oor barley-bree.
“But it’s a’ richt; Ne’erday’s comin’; it’s begun this year gey early,
for I saw Duffy gaun up his close last nicht wi’ his nose peeled.
“‘Am I gaun hame, or am I comin’ frae’t, can ye tell me?’ says he, and
he was carryin’ something roond-shaped in his pocket-naipkin.
“‘Whit’s wrang wi’ ye, puir cratur?’ I says to him.
“‘I was struck wi’ a sheet o’ lichtnin’,’ says he, and by that I ken’t
he had been doon drinkin’ at the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults, and that the
season o’ peace on earth, guid-will to men was fairly started.
“‘MacPherson,’ he says, wi’ the tear at his e’e, ‘I canna help it, but
I’m a guid man.’
“‘Ye are that, Duffy,’ I says, ‘when ye’re in your bed sleepin’; at
ither times ye’re like the rest o’ us, and that’s gey middlin’. Whit
hae’ye in the naipkin?’
“He gied a dazed look at it, and says, ‘I’m no shair, but I think it’s a
curlin’-stane, and me maybe gaun to a bonspiel at Carsbreck.’
“He opened it oot, and found it was a wee, roond, red cheese.
“‘That’s me, a’ ower,’ says he--‘a Christmas for the wife,’ and I
declare there was as much drink jaupin’ in him as wad hae done for a
water-’shute.’
“Scotland’s last stand in the way o’ national customs is bein’ made at
the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults, whaur the flet half-mutchkin, wrapped up in
magenta tissue paper so that it’ll look tidy, is retreatin’ doggedly,
and fechtin’ every fit o’ the way, before the invadin’ English Christmas
caird. Ten years ago the like o’ you and me couldna’ prove to a freen’
that we liked him fine unless we took him at this time o’ the year into
five or six public-hooses, leaned him up against the coonter, and
grat on his dickie. Whit dae we dae noo? We send wee Jennie oot for a
shilling box o’ the year afore last’s patterns in Christmas cairds, and
show oor continued affection and esteem at the ha’penny postage rate.
“Instead o’, takin’ Duffy roon’ the toon on Ne’erday, and hurtin’ my
heid wi’ tryin’ to be jolly, I send him a Christmas caird, wi’ the
picture o’ a hayfield on the ootside and ‘Wishin’ you the Old, Old Wish,
Dear,’ on the inside, and stay in the hoose till the thing blaws bye.
“The shilling box o’ Christmas cairds is the great peace-maker; a gross
or twa should hae been sent oot to Russia and Japan, and it wad hae
stopped the war.’ Ye may hae thocht for a twelvemonth the MacTurks were
a disgrace to the tenement, wi’ their lassie learnin’ the mandolin’,
and them haein’ their gas cut aff at the meter for no’ payin’ the last
quarter; but let them send a comic caird to your lassie--‘Wee Wullie to
Wee Jennie,’ and they wad get the len’ o’ your wife’s best jeely-pan.
“No’ but whit there’s trouble wi’ the Christmas caird. It’s only when ye
buy a shillin’ box and sit doon wi’ the wife and weans to consider wha
ye’ll send them to that ye fin’ oot whit an awfu’ lot o’ freen’s ye hae.
A score o’ shillin’ boxes wadna gae ower half the kizzens I hae, wi’ my
grandfaither belangin’ to the Hielan’s, so Jinnet an’ me jist let’s on
to some o’ them we’re no’ sendin’ ony cairds oot this year because it’s
no’ the kin’ o’ society go ony langer. And ye have aye to keep pairt
o’ the box till Ne’erday to send to some o’ the mair parteeclar anes ye
forgot a’ thegither were freen’s o’ yours till they sent ye a caird.
“Anither fau’t I hae to the Christmas cairds is that the writin’ on
them’s generally fair rideeculous.
“‘May Christmas Day be Blythe and Gay, and bring your household Peace
and Joy,’ is on the only caird left ower to send to Mrs Maclure; and
when ye’re shearin’ aff the selvedges o’t to mak’ it fit a wee envelope,
ye canna but think that it’s a droll message for a hoose wi’ five weans
lyin’ ill wi’ the whoopin’-cough, and the man cairryin’ on the wye
Maclure does.
“‘Old friends, old favourites, Joy be with you at this Season,’ says
the caird for the MacTurks, and ye canna but mind that every third
week there’s a row wi’ Mrs MacTurk and your wife aboot the key o’ the
washin’-hoose and lettin’ the boiler rust that bad a’ the salts o’
sorrel in the Apothecaries’ll no tak’ the stains aff your shirts.
“Whit’s wanted is a kin’ o’ slidin’ scale o’ sentiment on Christmas
cairds, so that they’ll taper doon frae a herty greetin’ ye can
truthfully send to a dacent auld freen’ and the kind o’ cool ‘here’s to
ye!’ suited for an acquaintance that borrowed five shillin’s frae ye at
the Term, and hasna much chance o’ ever payin’t back again.
“If it wasna for the Christmas cairds a lot o’ us wad maybe never
jalouse there was onything parteecular merry aboot the season. Every man
that ye’re owin’ an accoont to sends it to ye then, thinkin’ your
hert’s warm and your pouches rattlin’. On Christmas Day itsel’ ye’re
aye expectin’ something; ye canna richt tell whit it is, but there’s ae
thing certain--that it never comes. Jinnet, my wife, made a breenge for
the door every time the post knocked on Thursday, and a’ she had for’t
at the end o’ the day was an ashet fu’ o’ whit she ca’s valenteens, a’
written on so that they’ll no even dae for next year.
“I used to wonder whit the banks shut for at Christmas, but I ken noo;
they’re feart that their customers, cairried awa’ wi’ their feelin’
o’ guid-will to men, wad be makin’ a rush on them to draw money for
presents, and maybe create a panic.
“Sae far as I can judge there’s been nae panic at the banks this year.”
“Every Ne’erday for the past fifty years I hae made up my mind I was
gaun to be a guid man,” he went on. “It jist wants a start, they tell me
that’s tried it, and I’m no’ that auld. Naething bates a trial.
“I’m gaun to begin at twelve o’clock on Hogmanay, and mak’ a wee note
o’t in my penny diary, and put a knot in my hankie to keep me in mind.
Maist o’ us would be as guid’s there’s ony need for if we had naething
else to think o’. It’s like a man that’s hen-taed--he could walk fine if
he hadna a train to catch, or the rent to rin wi’ at the last meenute,
or somethin’ else to bother him. I’m gey faur wrang if I dinna dae the
trick this year, though.
“Oh! ay. I’m gaun to be a guid man. No’ that awfu’ guid that auld
freen’s’ll rin up a close to hide when they see me comin’, but jist
dacent--jist guid enough to please mysel’, like Duffy’s singin’. I’m no’
makin’ a breenge at the thing and sprainin’ my leg ower’t. I’m startin’
canny till I get into the wye o’t. Efter this Erchie MacPherson’s gaun
to flype his ain socks and no’ leave his claes reel-rail aboot the hoose
at night for his wife Jinnet to lay oot richt in the mornin’. I’ve lost
money by that up till noo, for there was aye bound to be an odd sixpence
droppin’ oot and me no’ lookin’. I’m gaun to stop skliffin’ wi’ my feet;
it’s sair on the boots. I’m gaun to save preens by puttin’ my collar
stud in a bowl and a flet-iron on the top o’t to keep Erchie’s Flitting
it frae jinkin’ under the chevalier and book-case when I’m sleepin’. I’m
gaun to wear oot a’ my auld waistcoats in the hoose. I’m------”
“My dear Erchie,” I interrupted, “these seem very harmless reforms.”
“Are they?” said he. “They’ll dae to be gaun on wi’ the noo, for I’m nae
phenomena; I’m jist Nature; jist the Rale Oreeginal.”
II ERCHIE’S FLITTING
|He came down the street in the gloaming on Tuesday night with a
bird-cage in one hand and a potato-masher in the other, and I knew at
once, by these symptoms, that Erchie was flitting.
“On the long trail, the old trail, the trail that is always new,
Erchie?” said I, as he tried to push the handle of the masher as far up
his coat sleeve as possible, and so divert attention from a utensil so
ridiculously domestic and undignified.
“Oh, we’re no’ that bad!” said he. “Six times in the four-and-forty
year. We’ve been thirty years in the hoose we’re leavin’ the morn, and
I’m fair oot o’ the wye o’ flittin’. I micht as weel start the dancin’
again.”
“Thirty years! Your household gods plant a very firm foot, Erchie.”
“Man, ay! If it wisna for Jinnet and her new fandangles, I wad nae mair
think o’ flittin’ than o’ buyin’ a balloon to mysel’; but ye ken women!
They’re aye gaun to be better aff onywhaur else than whaur they are. I
ken different, but I havena time to mak’ it plain to Jinnet.”
On the following day I met Erchie taking the air in the neighbourhood of
his new domicile, and smoking a very magnificent meerschaum pipe.
“I was presented wi’ this pipe twenty years ago,” said he, “by a man
that went to California, and I lost it a week or twa efter that. It
turned up at the flittin’. That’s ane o’ the advantages o’ flittin’s; ye
find things ye havena seen for years.”
“I hope the great trek came off all right, Erchie?”
“Oh, ay! no’ that bad, considerin’ we were sae much oot o’ practice.
It’s no’ sae serious when ye’re only gaun roond the corner to the next
street. I cairried a lot o’ the mair particular wee things roond mysel’
last nicht--the birdcage and Gledstane’s picture and the room vawzes and
that sort o’ thing, but at the hinder-end Jinnet made me tak’ the maist
o’ them back again.”
“Back again, Erchie?”
“Ay. She made oot that I had cairried ower sae muckle that the flittin’
wad hae nae appearance on Duffy’s cairt, and haein’ her mind set on the
twa rakes, and a’ the fancy things lying at the close-mooth o’ the new
hoose till the plain stuff was taken in, I had just to cairry back a
guid part o’ whit I took ower last nicht. It’s a rale divert the pride
o’ women! But I’m thinkin’ she’s vex’t for’t the day, because yin o’ the
things I took back was a mirror, and it was broke in Duffy’s cairt. It’s
a gey unlucky thing to break a lookin’-gless.”
“A mere superstition, Erchie.”
“Dod! I’m no’ sae shair o’ that. I kent a lookin’-gless broke at a
flittin’ afore this, and the man took to drink a year efter’t, and has
been that wye since.”
“How came you to remove at all?”
“It wad never hae happened if I hadna gane to a sale and seen a
coal-scuttle. It’s a dangerous thing to introduce a new coal-scuttle
into the bosom o’ your faimily. This was ane o’ thae coal-scuttles wi’
a pentin’ o’ the Falls o’ Clyde and Tillitudlem Castle on the lid. I
got it for three-and-tuppence; but it cost me a guid dale mair nor I
bargained for. The wife was rale ta’en wi’t, but efter a week or twa she
made oot that it gar’d the auld room grate we had look shabby, and afore
ye could say knife she had in a new grate wi’ wally sides till’t, and
an ash-pan I couldna get spittin’ on. Then the mantelpiece wanted a bed
pawn on’t to gie the grate a dacent look, and she pit on a plush yin. Ye
wadna hinder her efter that to get plush-covered chairs instead o’
the auld hair-cloth we got when we were mairried. Her mither’s
chist-o’-drawers didna gae very weel wi’ the plush chairs, she found
oot in a while efter that, and they were swapped wi’ twa pound for a
chevalier and book-case, though the only books I hae in the hoose is
the Family Bible, Buchan’s Domestic Medicine,’ and the ‘Tales o’ the
Borders.’ It wad hae been a’ richt if things had gane nae further, but
when she went to a sale hersel’ and bought a Brussels carpet a yaird
ower larig for the room, she made oot there was naethin’ for’t but to
flit to a hoose wi’ a bigger room. And a’ that happened because a pented
coal-scuttle took ma e’e.”
“It’s an old story, Erchie; ‘c’est le premier pas que coute,’ as the
French say.”
“The French is the boys!” says Erchie, who never gives himself away.
“Weel, we’re flittin’ onywye, and a bonny trauchle it is. I’ll no’ be
able to find my razor for a week or twa.”
“It’s a costly process, and three flittin’s are worse than a fire, they
say.”
“It’s worse nor that; it’s worse nor twa Irish lodgers.
“‘It’ll cost jist next to naethin’,’ says Jinnet. ‘Duffy’ll tak’
ower the furniture in his lorry for freen’ship’s sake, an’ there’s
naethin’ ‘ll need to be done to the new hoose.’
“But if ye ever flitted yersel’, ye’ll ken the funny wyes o’ the
waxcloth that’s never cut the same wye in twa hooses; and I’ll need to
be gey thrang at my tred for the next month of twa to pay for the odds
and ends that Jinnet never thought o’.
“Duffy flitted us for naethin’, but ye couldna but gie the men a dram.
A flittin’ dram’s by-ordinar; ye daurna be scrimp wi’t, or they’ll break
your delf for spite, and ye canna be ower free wi’t either, or they’ll
break everything else oot o’ fair guid-natur. I tried to dae the thing
judeecious, but I forgot to hide the bottle, and Duffy’s heid man and
his mate found it when I wasna there, and that’s wye the lookin’
gless was broken. Thae cairters divna ken their ain strength.
“It’s a humblin’ sicht your ain flittin’ when ye see’t on the tap o’ a
coal-lorry.”
“Quite so, Erchie; chiffoniers are like a good many reputations--they
look all right so long as you don’t get seeing the back of them.”
“And cairters hae nane o’ the finer feelin’s, I think. In spite o’ a’
that Jinnet could dae, they left the pots and pans a’ efternoon on
the pavement, and hurried the plush chairs up the stair at the first
gae-aff. A thing like that’s disheartenin’ to ony weel-daein’ woman.
“‘Hoots!’ says I to her, ‘whit’s the odds? There’s naebody heedin’ you
nor your flittin’.’ “‘Are they no’?’ said Jinnet, keekin’ up at the
front o’ the new land. ‘A’ the Venetian blinds is doon, and I’ll
guarantee there’s een behind them.’
“We werena half-an-oor in the new hoose when the woman on the same
stairheid chappet at the door and tellt us it was oor week o’ washin’
oot the close. It wasna weel meant, but it did Jinnet a lot o’ guid, for
she was sitting in her braw new hoose greetin’.”
“Greetin’, Erchie? Why?”
“Ask that! Ye’ll maybe ken better nor I dae.”
“Well, you have earned your evening pipe at least, Erchie,” said I.
He knocked out its ashes on his palm with a sigh. “I hiv that! Man, it’s
a gey dauntenin’ thing a flittin’, efter a’. I’ve a flet fit, but a warm
hert; and efter thirty years o’ the auld hoose I was swear’t to leave’t.
I brocht up a family in’t, and I wish Jinnet’s carpet had been a fit or
twa shorter, or that I had never seen yon coal-scuttle wi’ the Falls o’
Clyde and Tillitudlem Castle.”
III DEGENERATE DAYS
“The tred’s done,” said Erchie.
“What! beadling?” I asked him.
“Oh! there’s naethin’ wrang wi’ beadlin’,” said he; “there’s nae ups and
doons there except to put the books on the pulpit desk, and they canna
put ye aff the job if ye’re no jist a fair wreck. I’m a’ richt for the
beadlin’ as lang’s I keep my health and hae Jinnet to button my collar,
and it’s generally allo’ed--though maybe I shouldna say’t mysel’--that
I’m the kind o’ don at it roond aboot Gleska. I michtna be, if I wasna
gey carefu’. Efter waitin’ at a Setterday nicht spree, I aye tak’ care
to gie the bell an extra fancy ca’ or twa on the Sunday mornin’ jist to
save clash and mak’ them ken Mac-Pherson’s there himsel’, and no’ some
puir pick-up that never ca’d the handle o’ a kirk bell in his life
afore.
“There’s no’ a man gangs to oor kirk wi’ better brushed boots than
mysel’, as Jinnet’ll tell ye, and if I hae ae gift mair nor anither it’s
discretioncy. A beadle that’s a waiter has to gae through life like the
puir troot they caught in the Clyde the other day--wi’ his mooth shut,
and he’s worse aff because he hasna ony gills--at least no’ the kind ye
pronounce that way.
“Beadlin’s an art, jist like pentin’ photograph pictures, or playin’ the
drum, and if it’s no’ in ye, naethin’ ‘ll put it there. I whiles see wee
skina-malink craturs dottin’ up the passages in U.F. kirks carryin’ the
books as if they were M.C.’s at a dancin’-schule ball gaun to tack
up the programme in front o’ the band; they lack thon rale releegious
glide; they havena the feet for’t.
“Waitin’ is whit I mean; it’s fair done!
“When I began the tred forty-five year syne in the auld Saracen Heid
Inn, a waiter was looked up to, and was well kent by the best folk
in the toon, wha’ aye ca’d him by his first name when they wanted the
pletform box o’ cigaurs handed doon instead o’ the Non Plus Ultras.
“Nooadays they stick a wally door-knob wi’ a number on’t in the lapelle
o’ his coat, and it’s Hey, No. 9, you wi’ the flet feet, dae ye ca’ this
ham?’
“As if ye hadna been dacently christened and brocht up an honest
faimily!
“In the auld days they didna drag a halflin callan’ in frae Stra’ven,
cut his nails wi’ a hatchet, wash his face, put a dickie and a hired
suit on him, and gie him the heave into a banquet-room, whaur he disna
ken the difference between a finger-bowl and a box o’ fuzuvian lichts.
“I was speakin’ aboot that the ither nicht to Duffy, the coalman, and
he says, ‘Whit’s the odds, MacPherson? Wha’ the bleezes couldna’ sling
roon’ blue-mange at the richt time if he had the time-table, or the
menu, or whitever ye ca’t, to keep him richt?’
“‘Wha’ couldna’ sell coal,’ said I, ‘if he had the jaw for’t? Man,
Duffy,’ says I, ‘I never see ye openin’ your mooth to roar coal up a
close but I wonder whit wye there should be sae much talk in the Gleska
Toon Cooncil aboot the want o’ vacant spaces.’
“Duffy’s failin’; there’s nae doot o’t. He has a hump on him wi’
carryin’ bags o’ chape coal and dross up thae new, genteel, tiled
stairs, and he let’s on it’s jist a knot in his gallowses, but I ken
better. I’m as straucht as a wand mysel’--faith, I micht weel be, for
a’ that I get to cairry hame frae ony o’ the dinners nooadays. I’ve seen
the day, when Blythswood Square and roond aboot it was a’ the go, that
it was coonted kind o’ scrimp to let a waiter hame withoot a heel on
him like yin o’ thae Clyde steamers gaun oot o’ Rothesay quay on a Fair
Settu’rday.
“Noo they’ll ripe your very hip pooches for fear ye may be takin’ awa’ a
daud o’ custard, or the toasted crumbs frae a dish o’ pheasant.
“They needna’ be sae awfu’ feart, some o’ them. I ken their
dinners--cauld, clear, bane juice, wi’ some strings o’ vermicelli in’t;
ling-fish hash; a spoonfu’ o’ red-currant jeely, wi’ a piece o’ mutton
the size o’ a domino in’t, if ye had time to find it, only ye’re no’
playin’ kee-hoi; a game croquette that’s jist a flaff o’ windy paste;
twa cheese straws; four green grapes, and a wee lend o’ a pair o’ silver
nut-crackers, the wife o’ the hoose got at her silver weddin’.
“Man! it’s a rale divert! I see big, strong, healthy Bylies and members
o’ the Treds’ Hoose and the Wine, Speerit, and Beer Tred risin’ frae
dinners like that, wi’ their big, braw, gold watch-chains hingin’ doon
to their knees.
“As I tell Jinnet mony a time, it’s women that hae fair ruined
dinner-parties in oor generation. They tak’ the measure o’ the
appetities o’ mankind by their ain, which hae been a’thegether spoiled
wi’ efternoon tea, and they think a man can mak’ up wi’ music in the
drawin’-room for whit he didna get at the dinner-table.
“I’m a temperate man mysel’, and hae to be, me bein’ a beadle, but I
whiles wish we had back the auld days I hae read aboot, when a laddie
was kept under the table to lowse the grauvats o’ the gentlemen that
fell under’t, in case they should choke themsel’s. Scotland was Scotland
then!
“If they choked noo, in some places I’ve been in, it wad be wi’ thirst.
“The last whisk o’ the petticoat’s no roon’ the stair-landin’ when the
man o’ the hoose puts the half o’ his cigarette bye for again, and says,
‘The ladies will be wonderin’ if we’ve forgotten them,’ and troosh a’
the puir deluded craturs afore him up the stair into the drawin’-room
where his wife Eliza’s maskin’ tea, and a lady wi’ tousy hair’s kittlin’
the piano till it’s sair.
“‘Whit’s | 1,770.873477 |
2023-11-16 18:46:35.0534040 | 3,175 | 8 |
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TALES OF NORTHUMBRIA
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
BORDERLAND STUDIES
THE MARK O' THE DEIL
THE WHITE-FACED PRIEST
TALES OF
NORTHUMBRIA
BY
HOWARD PEASE
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.
LONDON
1899
TO
EARL GREY
EVER KEENLY INTERESTED IN WHATEVER
CONCERNS HIS NATIVE COUNTY
THESE SKETCHES OF NORTHUMBRIAN CHARACTER
ARE DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR
CONTENTS
PAGE
NORTHUMBERLAND 1
'A LONG MAIN' 7
THE SQUIRE'S LAST RIDE 29
[`A] L'OUTRANCE 41
'T'OWD SQUIRE' 59
AN 'AMMYTOOR' DETECTIVE 79
'IN MEMORIOV'M' 109
'THE HECKLER' UPON WOMENFOLK 121
THE 'CALEB JAY' 133
GEORDIE ARMSTRONG 'THE JESU-YTE' 147
'GEORDIE RIDE-THE-STANG' 165
YANKEE BILL AND QUAKER JOHN 187
THE PROT['E]G['E] 209
THE SPANISH DOUBLOON 243
The tales that go to make up this small volume have already appeared
in print: the first part of the Introduction, 'A Long Main,' 'In
Memoriov'm,' in the _National Observer_; 'The Prot['e]g['e],' in the
_Queen_; 'Quaker John and Yankee Bill,' 'T'Owd Squire,' 'An Ammytoor
Detective,' in the _Newcastle Courant_; '[`A] l'Outrance,' in the
_Newcastle Weekly Chronicle_; and the remaining six in the _Newcastle
Daily Leader_. I desire to tender my thanks herewith to the various
editors concerned.
TALES OF NORTHUMBRIA
NORTHUMBERLAND
It is generally admitted that your Northumbrian pre-eminently
possesses the quality which the pious but worldly Scotchman was used
to pray for, namely, 'a guid conceit o' hissel'.'
It is the more unfortunate, therefore, that of late years a
considerable landslip should have taken place in the ground whereon
his reputation rested.
The local poet no longer hymns the 'Champions o' Tyneside,' for
Chambers and Renforth and other heroes have long since departed,
leaving 'no issue.'
Advancing civilization, again, has, it is to be feared, made havoc of
the proud insularity of the Northumbrian squirearchy. No longer are
they content, like the Osbaldistones of yore, to devote themselves to
cellar and stable, to stay at home, contemptuous of London and its
politics, of travel and of new ideas. 'Markham's Farriery' and the
'Guide to Heraldry' have lost their pristine charm, and the
Northumbrian is, as a consequence, foregoing his ancient
characteristics merely to become provincial.
'Geordie Pitman' alone makes a stand against all modern innovation.
Firm in his pele tower of ancient superiority, he is still convinced
of the superiority of all things Northumbrian.
'Champions' may have died out elsewhere, and patriotism be decayed in
the higher social ranks, but in the pit-village there still lingers an
admirable quantity of the old self-love.
In each separate village you may find some half-dozen self-styled
'champions' who will match themselves against 'any man in the world'
for [GBP]10 or [GBP]15 a side at their own particular hobby or pastime.
Defeat has little effect upon a 'champion': like Antaeus, he picks
himself up the stronger for a fall, and having advertised himself in
the papers as 'not being satisfied' with his beating, challenges
another attempt forthwith.
* * * * *
Now this self-satisfaction--though somewhat decayed of late--is
probably one of the oldest strains in the Northumbrian character,
having been developed, doubtless, in the first instance, under stress
of constant raid and foray, and but little affected thereafter--owing
to the remoteness of the county both from the universities and from
London--by the higher standards of softer and more civilized centres.
After this, the next most predominant trait is a love of sport, for
which the climate, together with the physical conformation of the
county, may be held responsible; for the open aspect of the plain, the
crown of bare western hills, the wind-swept moorland and the sea,
suggest a life of hard endurance and fatigue, the strenuous toil of
the hunter, the keen excitements of the chase.
Still, as of old, the wide and spreading grasslands try horse and
rider with a tempting challenge, as of one who cries, 'Come, who will
tire first?' The music of the hounds sweeps down the brae:
'Yoi--yoi--yoi!' quivers the cry from the streaming pack. Onward the
rider gallops, the plover perchance rising at his horse's heels, the
long note of the curlew sounding in his ears, the breath of the west
wind racing in his nostrils; he may see on this side the purple bar of
Cheviot, on the other the blue, flat line of the sea, and
therewith--if ever in his life--may taste of the primeval joy of
living--of the joy of the early hunter who lived with his horse as
with a comrade, drew from the sea the'sacred fish,' from the moorland
the 'winged fowl,' and knew not discontent.
The beauty of the southern counties is not to be met with here.
The south is the well-dowered matron, the north a bare-headed
gipsy-lass, freckled with sun and wind, who 'fends' for her living
with strategies of hand and head.
Still, in the northern blood, the heritage of the 'raid' and the
'foray' abides, and still, as of old, are the children of the
Borderland nursed by the keen wind of the moorland and the sea. 'Hard
and heather-bred' ran the ancient North-Tyne slogan; 'hard and
heather-bred--yet--yet--yet.'
'A LONG MAIN'
'So you're a county family?' I echoed, and, though it may have been
impolite, I could not forbear a smile, for never had I seen County
Family so well disguised before.
'Ay,' replied Geordie Crozier, 'I is,' and forthwith proceeded to
search in the pocket of his pit-knickerbockers for his 'cutty.' He had
just come up to 'bank' from the 'fore-shift,' and was leaning on a
waggon on the pit-heap, about to have a smoke before going home for a
'wesh,' dinner, and bed. 'The last ov us,' he continued, having lit
his pipe, 'that had Crozier Hall was grandfeythor--Jake Crozier, of
Crozier Hall, was his name an' address, an'--an'--I's his relics.'
I glanced at the'relics' afresh--six foot two if he was an inch, and
broad in proportion, a magnificent pair of arms--he was champion hewer
at the colliery--with legs to match, though slightly bowed through the
constant stooping underground. Under the mask of coal-dust his eyes
gleamed like pearls, and a thrusting lower lip, backed by a square
jaw, gave evidence of determination and the faculty of enjoyment. A
short, well-trimmed beard put the finishing touch to 'the Squire,' for
so his friends styled him, half in jest.
'Well, and how was it lost?' said I. 'Was "cellar and stable," the
good old Northumbrian motto, his epitaph? Or did your grandfather take
an even quicker road to the bailiffs?'
'Grandfeythor was like us, I b'lieve; he was a fine spender but an ill
saver, an' he had a h---- ov a time till the mortgages gave oot, for
he was a tarr'ble tasteful man--lasses, greyhounds, an' horses,
racin', drinkin', cockin', an' card-playin' were aal hobbies ov his at
one time or another, but what was warse than aal this put togither was
that he never wud be beat. Everything he had must be the best, an' the
fact that anythin' belonged to him was quite enough to prove to him it
was the best o' the sort i' the county. Well, for a while as a young
man things went well wi' him. He win the Plate[1] two years runnin',
an' many was the cock-fight an' coursin' match he pulled off wiv his
cocks an' his hounds; but there was a chap came oot o' Aadcastle who
was one too many for him at the finish. This chap had made a vast o'
brass i' the toon at ship-buildin' or such like, an' bein' wishful to
set hisself up as a big pot, had hired a big place next grandfeythor's
i' the country. Well, grandfeythor couldn't abide him, for, bein' a
red-hot Tory, he didn't believe i' one man bein' as good as another at
aal, an' when, as happened shortlies, his neighbour's son came
sweetheartin' his daughter, he says, "No Crozier lass ever yet married
a shopkeeper's son, an' they never shall as long as I'm above
ground--orffice boys mun marry wi' orffice gals," says he.
'Well, the lad's feythor was tarr'ble vext at this, an' he swears
he'll have his revenge on the Squire--an' it wasn't long before he got
his opportunity.
'He'd set hissel' up as a sportin' man, ye ken, when he come to the
country, an' wes tarr'ble keen o' shootin' wiv a gun, an' occasionally
he meets grandfeythor at a shootin' party, an' always takes the
opportunity to differ from him i' a polite sort o' way on every topic
under the sun.
'Well, after their dinners one day, grandfeythor, bein' fairly full up
wi' beer, ye ken, begins sneering at all toon's folk settin' up as
sportsmen. "It stan's to reason," says he, "if a man's forbears have
never handled a gun, nor shot nowt mevvies[2] but a hoody crow or a
seagull on a holiday, that the bairns canna shoot either, for it's
bred an' born in a man--it's part o' his birthright, like a fam'ly
jool," says he; "a heditary gift, the same as a proper knowledge o'
horseflesh, fightin' cocks, greyhounds an' aal; money won't buy it,
an' it's no use argifyin' aboot it, for it's a fact, and the will o'
Providence," says he.
'Noo, when grandfeythor got on aboot Providence, most folks, I
b'lieve, used to say nowt, but Smithson--that was the chap's name--he
gies a sort o' tee-hee at this oot loud, which would be the same as if
you or me were to say, "It's just d----d nonsense."
'Well, there was a tarr'ble tow-row at this, grandfeythor as red as a
bubbly-jock an' swearin' like a drunken fishwife, and Smithson as
polite as a counter-jumper wiv his "pardon me's" and "pray be seated,
sirs"--aal to no effect.
'At the finish, when matters were quieted doon a bit, Smithson offers
to back hissel' at a shootin' match wi' grandfeythor for [GBP]1,000 a
side, an' also at a cockin' match--"a long main" it was to be--twenty
battles at [GBP]100 the "battle" and [GBP]1,000 the "main."
'Well, aal the comp'ny thought it was just a bit swagger on the part
o' Smithson, an' that when the time came he'd just cry off an' pay
forfeit, for the match was to take place in three weeks' time, and
never a cock had Smithson in his place ava, whereas grandfeythor, he
had a rare breed, the best i' the county--mixed Rothbury an'
Felton--an' the old Felton breed was the one the King o' England win
his brass ower formerly.
'The time comes, an' the comp'ny is aal assembled i' the cock-pit at
Bridgeton, grandfeythor, full o' beans an' bounce, backin' hissel'
like a prize-fighter, takin' snuff an' handin' roon' the box to his
friends, an' sayin' noo an' again, "Where's that dam' fellow
Smithson?"
'Well, the clock on the old tower was just on the stroke of ten, when
in saunters Smithson, cool as a ha'penny ice, an' behind him, in green
and gold liv'ries, come ten flunkies | 1,771.073444 |
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Produced by David Widger
THE DIARY OF SAMUEL PEPYS M.A. F.R.S.
CLERK OF THE ACTS AND SECRETARY TO THE ADMIRALTY
TRANSCRIBED FROM THE SHORTHAND MANUSCRIPT IN THE PEPYSIAN LIBRARY
MAGDALENE COLLEGE CAMBRIDGE BY THE REV. MYNORS BRIGHT M.A. LATE FELLOW
AND PRESIDENT OF THE COLLEGE
(Unabridged)
WITH LORD BRAYBROOKE'S NOTES
1963
By Samuel Pepys
Edited With Additions By
Henry B. Wheatley F.S.A.
LONDON
GEORGE BELL & SONS YORK ST. COVENT GARDEN
CAMBRIDGE DEIGHTON BELL & CO.
1893
JANUARY 1662-1663
January 1st, Lay with my wife at my Lord's lodgings, where I have been
these two nights, till 10 o'clock with great pleasure talking, then I
rose and to White Hall, where I spent a little time walking among the
courtiers, which I perceive I shall be able to do with great confidence,
being now beginning to be pretty well known among them. Then to my wife
again, and found Mrs. Sarah with us in the chamber we lay in. Among
other discourse, Mrs. Sarah tells us how the King sups at least four or
[five] times every week with my Lady Castlemaine; and most often stays
till the morning with her, and goes home through the garden all alone
privately, and that so as the very centrys take notice of it and speak
of it. She tells me, that about a month ago she [Lady Castlemaine]
quickened at my Lord Gerard's at dinner, and cried out that she was
undone; and all the lords and men were fain to quit the room, and women
called to help her. In fine, I find that there is nothing almost
but bawdry at Court from top to bottom, as, if it were fit, I could
instance, but it is not necessary; only they say my Lord Chesterfield,
groom of the stole to the Queen, is either gone or put away from the
Court upon the score of his lady's having smitten the Duke of York, so
as that he is watched by the Duchess of York, and his lady is retired
into the country upon it. How much of this is true, God knows, but it is
common talk. After dinner I did reckon with Mrs. Sarah for what we have
eat and drank here, and gave her a crown, and so took coach, and to the
Duke's House, where we saw "The Villaine" again; and the more I see it,
the more I am offended at my first undervaluing the play, it being very
good and pleasant, and yet a true and allowable tragedy. The house was
full of citizens, and so the less pleasant, but that I was willing to
make an end of my gaddings, and to set to my business for all the year
again tomorrow. Here we saw the old Roxalana in the chief box, in a
velvet gown, as the fashion is, and very handsome, at which I was glad.
Hence by coach home, where I find all well, only Sir W. Pen they say ill
again. So to my office to set down these two or three days' journall,
and to close the last year therein, and so that being done, home to
supper, and to bed, with great pleasure talking and discoursing with my
wife of our late observations abroad.
2nd. Lay long in bed, and so up and to the office, where all the morning
alone doing something or another. So dined at home with my wife, and in
the | 1,771.275446 |
2023-11-16 18:46:35.4546330 | 6,253 | 33 |
Produced by James McCormick
THE PAN-ANGLES
{ii}
{iii}
THE PAN-ANGLES
A CONSIDERATION OF THE FEDERATION OF THE SEVEN ENGLISH-SPEAKING
NATIONS
BY
SINCLAIR KENNEDY
_WITH A MAP_
SECOND IMPRESSION
LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.
FOURTH AVENUE & 30TH STREET, NEW YORK
LONDON, BOMBAY. CALCUTTA AND MADRAS
1915
_All Rights Reserved_
{iv}
{v}
TO
THE PAN-ANGLES
{vi}
PREFATORY NOTE
THE Author is indebted to the following publishers and authors
for kind permission to make quotations from copyright matter: to
Mr. Edward Arnold for _Colonial Nationalism_, by Richard Jebb;
to Mr. B. H. Blackwell for _Imperial Architects_, by A. L. Burt;
to the Delegates of the Clarendon Press for _Federations and
Unions_, by H. E. Egerton; to Messrs. Constable & Co. for
_Alexander Hamilton_, by F. S. Oliver, and _The Nation and the
Empire_, edited by Lord Milner; to the publishers of the
_Encyclopedia Britannica_; to Messrs. Macmillan & Co. for
Seeley's _Expansion of England_, and G. L. Parkin's _Imperial
Federation_; to Admiral Mahan; to Mr. John Murray for _English
Colonization and Empire_, by A. Caldecott; to Sir Isaac Pitman &
Sons Ltd. for _The Union of South Africa_, by W. B. Worsfold; to
the Executors of the late W. T. Stead for the _Last Will and
Testament of C. J. Rhodes_; to Messrs. H. Stevens, Son, & Stiles
for _Thomas Pownall_, by C. A. W. Pownall; to Messrs. Houghton,
Mifflin Company for Thayer's _John Marshall_ and Woodrow
Wilson's _Mere Literature_; to Messrs. D. C. Heath & Co. for
Woodrow Wilson's _The State_; to Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons for
_The Works of Benjamin Franklin_, edited by John Bigelow; to the
Yale University Press for _Popular Government_, by W. H. Taft;
and also to _The Times_; _The Round Table_; _The Outlook_; and
_The Springfield Weekly Republican_.
{vii}
FOREWORD
THE English-speaking, self-governing white people of the world
in 1914 number upwards of one hundred and forty-one millions.
Since December 24, 1814, there has been unbroken peace between
the two independent groups of this race--a fact that contravenes
the usual historical experiences of peoples between whom there
has been uninterrupted communication during so long an epoch.
The last few decades have seen increasingly close understandings
between both the governments and the peoples of this
civilization.
In 1900 the British navy controlled the seas--all seas. From
1910 to 1914 the British navy has controlled the North Sea
only.[vii-1] Some doubt whether this control can long be
maintained. If it is lost, the British Empire is
finished.[vii-2] The adhesion of the dependencies to their
various governments and also the voluntary cohesion of the
self-governing units would be at an end. "The disorders which
followed the fall of Rome would be insignificant compared with
those which would {viii} ensue were the British Empire to break
in pieces."[viii-1] Such a splitting up would place each
English-speaking nation in an exposed position, and would
strengthen its rivals, Germany, Japan, Russia, and China. It
would compel America to protect with arms, or to abandon to its
enemies, not only the countries to which the Monroe Doctrine has
been considered as applicable, but those lands still more
important to the future of our race, New Zealand and Australia.
If this catastrophe is to be averted, the English-speaking
peoples must regain control of the seas.
These pages are concerned with the English-speaking people of
1914. Here will be found no jingoism, if this be defined as a
desire to flaunt power for its own sake; no altruism, if this
means placing the welfare of others before one's own; and no
sentiment except that which leads to self-preservation. No
technical discussion of military or naval power is here
attempted. The purpose of these pages is to indicate some of the
common heritages of these English-speaking peoples, their need
of land and their desire for the sole privilege of taxing
themselves for their own purposes and in their own way.
Federation is here recognized as the method by which
English-speaking people ensure the freedom of the individual. It
utilizes ideals and methods common to them all. Where it has
been applied, it fulfils its dual purpose of protecting the
group and leaving the individual unhampered.
This consideration may appear to the political {ix} economist to
be merely a few comments on one instance of the relationship of
the food supply to the excess of births over deaths; to the
international politician, as notes on the struggles of the
English-speaking race; and to the business man, as hints on
present and future markets and the maintenance of routes
thereto. Books could be written on each of these and kindred
topics. This is not any one of such treatises, but a statement
of only a few aspects of a huge question.
To Benjamin Franklin may be given the credit of initiating the
thesis of these pages, for he foresaw in 1754 the need of a
single government based on the representation of both the
American and British groups of self-governing English-speaking
people. Possibly there were others before him. Certainly there
have been many since. Some have been obscured by time. Others,
like Cecil John Rhodes, stand out brilliantly. These men
visioned the whole race without losing sight of their own local
fragment. They saw the need of blocking intra-race frictions in
order to maintain our inter-race supremacy. They spoke the
English language, and held by the ideals of English-speaking
men--proud of their race.
To such as these, wherever they are found, owing affection to
the British and American flags which they protect, and which
protect them from others, this discussion is addressed. It is a
family appeal in terms familiar to the family here called--the
Pan-Angles.
SINCLAIR KENNEDY.
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS.
_January_ 17, 1914.
[vii-1] Cf. _Round Table_, London, May 1911, p. 247.
[vii-2] _Round Table_, London, November 1910, p. 27: "Directly
the British Empire is doubtful of its supremacy by sea its full
liberty will disappear, even if there has been no war."
[viii-1] _United Empire_, London, January 1914, J. G. Lockhart,
"The Meaning of British Imperialism," p. 53.
{x}
{xi}
CONTENTS
FOREWORD vii
I. THE CIVILIZATION 1
II. THE PEOPLE 21
III. INDIVIDUALISM 47
IV. THE SEVEN NATIONS 79
V. GOVERNMENTAL PRACTICES 94
VI. DANGERS 120
VII. TENDENCIES 160
VIII. A COMMON GOVERNMENT 184
IX. WORKING FOR FEDERATION 206
X. CONCLUSION 227
INDEX 237
MAP _At the end of the volume_
{x}
{1}
THE PAN-ANGLES
I
THE CIVILIZATION
A GREAT civilization has spread over the earth. Many millions of
people believe it the best that has yet appeared. In it the
faiths and strivings of a strong race are expressed. History
teaches that it will be assailed by rival civilizations. Must it
fall and its people be led into the bondage of alien ways?
The date at which a civilization begins must always be unknown,
so slowly and steadily do the contributing forces operate. The
birth of even so definite an organization as a nation is a
matter of opinion. The United States of America, for example,
may be regarded as having come into being on July 4, 1776, or at
the adoption of the Constitution in 1789, or at the end of the
French War in 1763, or on anyone of various other dates,
according to the historical bias of the chronicler. But before
records now legible to us were made, the Pan-Angles were long
past their beginning stages.
Thousands of years ago Europe emerged from the {2} glacial ice.
Off its western coast lay islands. The largest was close to the
continent, and whatever peoples made their way into Europe had
no great difficulty in crossing the narrow water. Migration must
have followed migration, as continental tribes, more progressive
than the islanders, came with superior weapons and skill
to conquer and colonize. Bronze drove out flint and iron
overcame bronze. Settlements of invaders assimilated with the
subject natives and themselves became natives to the next
foreign exploiter. The resulting people became known to the
Romans as Britons. Rome's traders saw that the land was worth
possessing.
In the middle of the first century A.D., Imperial Rome was in a
mood for further expansion. It became necessary to intervene in
the affairs of the northern island, touched already by Roman
influence, but as yet independent of that power. In the island
there were many princes and many governments adequate to the
local demands, but no organization for concerted action against
a powerful intruder. Within fifty years the task of pacification
was largely accomplished. The southern two-thirds of the land
then enjoyed the beneficent rule of Roman administrators. They
governed Britain for its own good--as they saw it. They made it
as much as possible like Rome. Baths and temples, roads and
bridges, and a firm law brought Roman enlightenment to
uncultured Britain. The Latin tongue was the official language.
Many Romans of the military and civil services married native
women. For more than two centuries Britain was thus a dependency
of Rome, and many Britons were proud to belong to the {3} great
empire. The rest of the island, to which this boon was never
extended, was inhabited by barbarous hill tribes, who, even when
Rome was strong, could protect themselves, and who at favourable
opportunities made raids against the loyal Britons. The Romans
had come to Britain to rule it, but had remained Romans, had
taken their orders from colonial secretaries in Rome, had left
their Roman wives and children at home--presumably because of
the severity of Britain's climate,--and after an honourable term
of service had retired on half-pay, or something as good. Just
how Rome profited by holding Britain is immaterial now, whether
by tribute levied and collected directly, whether through
extended opportunities for trade, or whether in the employment
("outdoor relief," a Canadian might put it [3-11]) of a large
military and civil force, paid, if Britain were self-supporting,
by Britain's taxes. Perhaps the knowledge of having discharged a
duty, shirking not the burden of the strong, was the reward Rome
really prized.
A change of rulers was, however, in store for them all--Briton
and Roman alike. By 350 A.D. a huge amorphous rival had begun to
overflow its Northern forest, a race of strong, eager men
seeking more land. That their first attacks were toward Rome
itself showed the empire's weakness. Rome's intentions toward
outlying dependencies may have been of the best, but it was
powerless to fulfil them. The navy, such as it was, was forced
to concentrate in home waters; and the army, called to protect
the heart of the empire, left empty the barracks of Britain.
{4}
Then, on the disorganized Britain, borne by the north-east wind,
fell the invaders. With them came many of our most cherished
virtues and a new epoch of governmental theory. The Jutes,
Angles, Saxons, Danes, and Norsemen came, not to superimpose
themselves as rulers, but to colonize. They brought their
families along. The climate suited them nicely. They wanted to
live there and make the country their country. The fact that it
was already inhabited formed only a temporary obstacle. As has
happened repeatedly in history, those who came were strong;
those they found were weak. The right of prior occupation was
matched against the right to take by force. In time the natives
had disappeared and the newcomers were settling and improving
the land. There was no looking back to a mother country for
orders or protection. Their fathers across the North Sea had
evolved certain governmental ideas. These the migrating
generations had carried with them and planted in the new soil.
They proved adequate; and if any tie bound the lusty offspring
to the ancestral home it could have been sentiment
only--unencouraged by written and electric communication. The
sentiment was short-lived.
Of these separate colonies there were as many as there were
tribes, and as many tribes as there were shiploads. They all
came from the great Teutonic stock that covered so much of
north-western Europe. Five hundred years they spent trying
conclusions among themselves, deciding what should be the
language, the law, the name, they were to hand down to us. The
people long remained without any name common to all; but in time
{5} their country became known as England. Here were established
the characteristics that have marked us ever since. The
framework of the language was set; the greed for land was
indulged; and the instinct for self-government, unable to evolve
for its own security any system of central control, proved
finally the undoing of all the jealous little autonomies. When a
single-minded force threatened their cherished liberties, they
were capable of no single-minded resistance. A neighbour across
the channel thought he could make good use of England, proved
his point one day when the wind blew favourably towards
Hastings, and became England's master.
Then began a new governmental era, one having no parallel in our
history since. The Saxon had been in most recent supremacy.
Wealth and power passed from Saxon to Norman hands. Had the
Duchy of Normandy been large enough to form the centre of its
ruler's activities, England, like the Britain of the past, would
have become a dependency of a foreign power. Two factors
prevented: England, because of its size and of its separation
from the continent was the more valued possession of the two;
and William and his followers, although considering themselves
greatly superior in culture and breeding, were really of the
same race as the men they conquered, and hence easily
assimilated with them. Had this been an invasion of people, that
is, of men with their wives and children--it must have meant
extermination of the Angles, Saxons, and Danes, either in war or
in economic strife. But no such colonizing force was at work.
The lords of England were reduced {6} to peasantry, and the
peasants of whatever origin kept on about their affairs. In time
the new nobility was no longer foreign. Neither a dependency,
nor a colony, England gradually absorbed the Normans and all the
importance of Normandy.
From this assimilation England rose independent and a unit. The
Normans, it has been said, crushed the Angles, Danes, and Saxons
into one people.[6-1] Just as inexorably were the Normans
themselves fused into the common mass--
"Thus from a mixture of all kinds began,
That heterogeneous thing, an Englishman:...
The silent nations undistinguish'd fall,
An Englishman's the common name for all.
Fate jumbled them together, God knows how;
Whate'er they were, they're true-born English now."[6-2]
Out of the vigour and strength that resulted have risen the
Pan-Angles; and no foreign power since then has conquered or
ruled them in England or elsewhere. With several governmental
units co-ordinated to no central authority, England had been
devastated and had been unable to repel invasions. These local
powers were now combined under a strong unitary government. So
efficient did it prove for many generations, that Pan-Angles as
a whole are only now realising its limitations. For five
centuries no change in circumstances warranted the consideration
of any other.
Suddenly, in a few years, everything changed except the minds of
men. The world began to {7} grow, and Europe was staggered by
the knowledge of areas immeasurable as compared to the lands
previously known. England then began to take its place as a
great nation. In 1497 a ship, financed by Bristol merchants,
discovered Newfoundland,[7-1] and the sea-divided control of the
Pan-Angles was foreshadowed. From this date, perhaps, Pan-Angle
history may most conveniently be reckoned. If so, four hundred
and seventeen years lie behind us. Of these the first hundred
are negligible. That was an age of fable, when the children of
Europe went out on lonely quests and staked their lives in
adventure for prizes whose value they could never know. Men left
England and circled the globe; they fished in distant
waters;[7-2] they bartered with strange peoples; but in the main
they returned again to England. No colonial policy was required
to meet their needs.
After 1600, however, they less often returned. They settled the
new lands, and grew great in wealth and population. They
organized governments and huge instruments of trade. Slowly the
fabric grew that was to dwarf England in size and resources, and
England, failing to understand that it was no loser thereby, but
richer as a part of a {8} strengthening Pan-Angle civilization,
found little light on the problems arising. In 1607 Virginia and
in 1620 Massachusetts were permanently settled.[8-1] During the
same years Englishmen were acquiring titles and trading rights
in India. Here, at the outset, we have all the elements that
long made for obscurity and discord.
In Virginia and Massachusetts the land was suitable for the
occupations and for the breeding of white men. These settlements
were typical of many in North America, South Africa, and
Australasia. The settler changed his latitude and longitude, but
little else. He pushed back the natives, from the land he
desired to use, gave the place an English name, and proceeded
about his affairs with his fundamental ideals, habits, and
institutions unaltered. He brought from England, besides
furniture and bricks for his house, his language, his religion,
and his notions of government. These he preserved and handed
down to his children, who in turn thought and behaved as though
Englanders, and in two localities, a hemisphere apart, named
their land New England. Self-government was one of their
inherited ideas; they believed that he who supports the
government with taxes should be represented therein. Settlements
such as these are here distinguished as colonies. The first
sprang from England, and in some cases have themselves been the
prolific parents of new colonies. But of whatever origin, all
are a product of the individualism of the Pan-Angle
civilization. In them self-government {9} has been a question of
time only. "Assemblies were not formally instituted, but grew of
themselves because it was the nature of Englishmen to assemble.
Thus the old historian of the colonies Hutchinson, writes under
the year 1619, 'This year a House of Burgesses broke out in
Virginia.'"[9-1] However strongly such colonies may be attached
by sentimental and political ties to some other governmental
group, they belong to themselves alone. On terms of equality
they are part of the Pan-Angle power that controls the world.
In India, and in the many other instances of the same sort, the
land was not suited for the occupations and for the breeding of
white men. It was filled with native inhabitants who neither
gave way before the European, nor assimilated with him. The
English language, law, and governmental forms might be
superimposed to some degree, but the great bulk of the people
continued to think, talk, and act in ways that were not our
ways. Their civilization, however high, was not our
civilization. Such lands, and only such lands, may be called
"possessions" of any Pan-Angle nation. Ceylon belongs to the
British Isles; the Cook Islands belong to New Zealand; Papua
belongs to Australia; and the Philippines belong to the United
States. Because they "belong to" another than themselves, these
lands are called dependencies.
The men who ruled England in 1600 could not anticipate this
distinction so as to make their phraseology, their thoughts and
their efforts at {10} government correspond. Nor, as years
passed, did they come to understand it. Often they knew little
about these settlements, except that all were distant very many
days sailing. In general, the tendency was to act as though all
were possessions belonging to England and subject to its will.
To the statesman in London it might seem at most a theoretical
difference; not so to the man on the spot. If he were a colonist
he felt his land a part of the Mother Country, or its equal in a
larger group of which both were parts. His land did not and
could not belong to England in any sense that gave him less
liberty than Englanders enjoyed.
Here, on the one side, was a stubborn fact; on the other, an
inability to recognize that fact. Friction resulted. In 1707
England united with Scotland to form Great Britain. But Great
Britain, like England, thought colonies possessions. It so
regarded the American colonies. Friction increased.
The colonists understood what it was to desire to be "part of"
and to find they were considered as "belonging to." In Taunton,
Massachusetts, they raised a liberty pole, October 21, 1774.
From it flew the flag of Great Britain bearing the words
"Liberty and Union." To the pole was affixed the following
lines:
CRESCIT AMOR PATRIAE LIBERTATIS
QUE CUPIDO
"Be it known to the present,
And to all future generations,
That the Sons of Liberty in Taunton
Fired with a zeal for the preservation of {11}
Their rights as men, and as
American Englishmen,
And prompted by a just resentment of
The wrongs and injuries offered to the
English colonies in general, and to
This Province in particular,..."[11-1]
Not enough of the Pan-Angle statesmen of those days had the
insight to read rightly that inscription. It was only by
severing the Pan-Angles that the American colonies demonstrated
that their citizens were the peers of the citizens of Great
Britain.
Yet there were men on both sides of the Atlantic who even in
those days appreciated that one group of English-speaking white
men cannot be controlled by another. They understood the
equality of citizenship in all Pan-Angles. Of these men it is
enough to mention five: Burke of Ireland, whose words "ring out
the authentic voice of the best political thought of the English
race,"[11-2] and who gave us the "Conciliation with America";
Otis of Massachusetts, whose speech against the Writs of
Assistance was only the beginning of his work; Galloway of
Pennsylvania, the Loyalist who refused re-election to the 1775
Continental Congress when he had to choose {12} between America
and Great Britain; Pownall of England, Governor of Massachusetts
1757-1760, and later Member of the British Parliament 1768-1780;
and Franklin of Pennsylvania, who with Pownall worked for
Pan-Angle unity on both sides of the Atlantic till he, like
Galloway, had to decide, and ended by choosing not Great Britain
but his own nation. The first was never in America; the second
was never in England; the third saw England in his exile only
after American nationhood was established; and the fourth and
fifth knew both England and America.
These men did not discover to Pan-Angles the doctrine of no
taxation without representation. That, like many other alleged
Americanisms, was a Pan-Angle tenet already old. "The
Principality of Wales, said Galloway, the Bishopric of Durham,
and the Palatinate of Chester, laboured, just as America, under
the grievance of being bound by the authority of Parliament
without sharing the direction of that authority. They petitioned
for a share, and their claim was recognized. When Henry VIII.,
he continued, conquered Calais, and settled it with English
merchants, it was so incompatible with English liberty to be
otherwise, that Calais representatives were incorporated in the
English Parliament."[12-1] But these five men may {13} be said
to be among those who rediscovered this tenet. As such they
shared in the formation of the nationhood not only of America,
but also of the five new nations of the Britannic world.
In 1801 Great Britain and Ireland were formed into one political
unit under the official title of the United Kingdom of Great
Britain and Ireland, in these pages referred to as the British
Isles. And still the distinctions between "part of" and
"belonging to" were not understood in the British Isles.
Colonies and dependencies grew in importance and size, many of
the former having colonies and dependencies of their own; and
still their radical differences were not clearly recognized.
Repeatedly such colonies as Canada, New Zealand, or South Africa
have reasserted the Pan-Angle principle that one group of
self-governing white men cannot be the possession of another. So
strong has been the effect of this reiteration that now there is
some tendency in the British Isles to err on the other side, and
to consider India, the Malay States, and other dependencies as
though they hold, or should hold, the same status as colonies.
Failure to distinguish between areas that are self-governing and
those that are not leads to a loose application of terms which
contributes to further obscurity of thought. One recent instance
is striking in its subtle suggestiveness. Most of the Malay
Peninsula has been taken under the surveillance of the British
Isles. Gradually one native ruler after another has been induced
to desire the friendship of the men who came from the British
Isles.
Some of the areas so acquired are dubbed {14} "States."[14-1]
The collective government of this group of "States" has been
given the grandiloquent title "Federated Malay States," The
Pan-Angle student, familiar with federation in the
English-speaking nations which have already succeeded in their
autonomous efforts, cannot but be confused by hearing the word
"federated" applied to regions where self-government is not even
spoken of, and where the inhabitants take their political orders
from such officials as are appointed by their white conquerors.
The confusion is increased when a battleship guaranteed with
funds of the Federated Malay States is presented to the
government of the British Isles, and is made the occasion of
fulsome speeches about the "loyalty" of the "King's subjects" in
the Federated Malay States. The uninformed persons of the
British Isles and elsewhere may not realize that this gift of
the battleship _Malaya_ means simply the imposition of
additional taxes on the conquered subjects that "belong to" the
conquering race. This is equally true whether or not has been
obtained the approval of the figureheads that are known to the
outside world as the "native rulers."[14-2] Such an instance
{15} fogs our perception of the problems pressing for solution
by the Britannic self-governing peoples.
This confused thinking and failure to appreciate the difference
between "part of" and "belonging to" has delayed Pan-Angle
progress. It led to the disrupting American Revolution, to the
| 1,771.474673 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Barbara Kosker, Lindy Walsh and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
WITH HAIG ON THE SOMME
WITH HAIG ON THE SOMME
BY
D. H. PARRY
_Author of "Gilbert the Outlaw"; "The Scarlet Scouts"; "The V.C.: Its
Heroes and their Valour," etc. etc._
WITH FOUR COLOUR PLATES BY
ARCHIBALD WEBB
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
First Published 1917 [Illustration: "The Commandant threw up his arms
and pitched backward; Dennis dropped his weapon and caught him as he
fell"]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
1. AN UNCENSORED LETTER READ ALOUD 1
2. OFF TO THE FRONT 14
3. "AT TEN O'CLOCK SHARP!" 22
4. HIS FIRST TIME UNDER FIRE | 1,771.474729 |
2023-11-16 18:46:35.6533320 | 1,471 | 11 |
Produced by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer and Jose Menendez
THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
by
SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
I. A Scandal in Bohemia
II. The Red-headed League
III. A Case of Identity
IV. The Boscombe Valley Mystery
V. The Five Orange Pips
VI. The Man with the Twisted Lip
VII. The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
VIII. The Adventure of the Speckled Band
IX. The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb
X. The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
XI. The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
XII. The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
ADVENTURE I. A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA
I.
To Sherlock Holmes she is always THE woman. I have seldom heard
him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses
and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt
any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that
one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but
admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect
reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a
lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never
spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They
were admirable things for the observer--excellent for drawing the
veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner
to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely
adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which
might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a
sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power
lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a
nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and
that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable
memory.
I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us
away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the
home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first
finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to
absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of
society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in
Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from
week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the
drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still,
as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his
immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in
following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which
had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time
to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons
to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up
of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee,
and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so
delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland.
Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely
shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of
my former friend and companion.
One night--it was on the twentieth of March, 1888--I was
returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to
civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I
passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated
in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the
Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes
again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers.
His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw
his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against
the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head
sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who
knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their
own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his
drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new
problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which
had formerly been in part my own.
His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I
think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly
eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars,
and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he
stood before the fire and looked me over in his singular
introspective fashion.
"Wedlock suits you," he remarked. "I think, Watson, that you have
put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you."
"Seven!" I answered.
"Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more,
I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not
tell me that you intended to go into harness."
"Then, how do you know?"
"I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting
yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and
careless servant girl?"
"My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much. You would certainly
have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true
that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful
mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can't imagine how you
deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has
given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see how you work it
out."
He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands
together.
"It is simplicity itself," said he; "my eyes tell me that on the
inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it,
the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they
have been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round
the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it.
Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile
weather, and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting
specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a
gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black
mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge
on the right side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted
his steth | 1,771.673372 |
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Transcribed form the 1911 W. Foulsham & Co. Ltd. edition by David Price,
email [email protected]
THE LAIR OF THE WHITE WORM
To my friend Bertha Nicoll with affectionate esteem.
CHAPTER I--ADAM SALTON ARRIVES
Adam Salton sauntered into the Empire Club, Sydney, and found awaiting
him a letter from his grand-uncle. He had first heard from the old
gentleman less than a year before, when Richard Salton had claimed
kinship, stating that he had been unable to write earlier, as he had
found it very difficult to trace his grand-nephew's address. Adam was
delighted and replied cordially; he had often heard his father speak of
the older branch of the family with whom his people had long lost touch.
Some interesting correspondence had ensued. Adam eagerly opened the
letter which had only just arrived, and conveyed a cordial invitation to
stop with his grand-uncle at Lesser Hill, for as long a time as he could
spare.
"Indeed," Richard Salton went on, "I am in hopes that you will make your
permanent home here. You see, my dear boy, you and I are all that remain
of our race, and it is but fitting that you should succeed me when the
time comes. In this year of grace, 1860, I am close on eighty years of
age, and though we have been a long-lived race, the span of life cannot
be prolonged beyond reasonable bounds. I am prepared to like you, and to
make your home with me as happy as you could wish. So do come at once on
receipt of this, and find the welcome I am waiting to give you. I send,
in case such may make matters easy for you, a banker's draft for 200
pounds. Come soon, so that we may both of us enjoy many happy days
together. If you are able to give me the pleasure of seeing you, send me
as soon as you can a letter telling me when to expect you. Then when you
arrive at Plymouth or Southampton or whatever port you are bound for,
wait on board, and I will meet you at the earliest hour possible."
* * * * *
Old Mr. Salton was delighted when Adam's reply arrived and sent a groom
hot-foot to his crony, Sir Nathaniel de Salis, to inform him that his
grand-nephew was due at Southampton on the twelfth of June.
Mr. Salton gave instructions to have ready a carriage early on the
important day, to start for Stafford, where he would catch the 11.40 a.m.
train. He would stay that night with his grand-nephew, either on the
ship, which would be a new experience for him, or, if his guest should
prefer it, at a hotel. In either case they would start in the early
morning for home. He had given instructions to his bailiff to send the
postillion carriage on to Southampton, to be ready for their journey
home, and to arrange for relays of his own horses to be sent on at once.
He intended that his grand-nephew, who had been all his life in
Australia, should see something of rural England on the drive. He had
plenty of young horses of his own breeding and breaking, and could depend
on a journey memorable to the young man. The luggage would be sent on by
rail to Stafford, where one of his carts would meet it. Mr. Salton,
during the journey to Southampton, often wondered if his grand-nephew was
as much excited as he was at the idea of meeting so near a relation for
the first time; and it was with an effort that he controlled himself. The
endless railway lines and switches round the Southampton Docks fired his
anxiety afresh.
As the train drew up on the dockside, he was getting his hand traps
together, when the carriage door was wrenched open and a young man jumped
in.
"How are you, uncle? I recognised you from the photo you sent me! I
wanted to meet you as soon as I could, but everything is so strange to me
that I didn't quite know what to do. However, here I am. I am glad to
see you, sir. I have been dreaming of this happiness for thousands of
miles; now I find that the reality beats all the dreaming!" As he spoke
the old man and the young one were heartily wringing each other's hands.
The meeting so auspiciously begun proceeded well. Adam, seeing that the
old man was interested in the novelty of the ship, suggested that he
should stay the night on board, and that he would himself be ready to
start at any hour and go anywhere that the other suggested. This
affectionate willingness to fall in with his own plans quite won the old
man's heart. He warmly accepted the invitation, and at once they became
not only on terms of affectionate relationship, but almost like old
friends. The heart of the old man, which had been empty for so long,
found a new delight. The young man found, on landing in the old country,
a welcome and a surrounding in full harmony with all his dreams
throughout his wanderings and solitude, and the promise of a fresh and
adventurous life. It was not long before the old man accepted him to
full relationship by calling him by his Christian name. After a long
talk on affairs of interest, they retired to the cabin, which the elder
was to share. Richard Salton put his hands affectionately on the boy's
shoulders--though Adam was in his twenty-seventh year, he was a boy, and
always would be, to his grand-uncle.
"I am so glad to find you as you are, my dear boy--just such a young man
as I had always hoped for as a son, in the days when I still had such
hopes. However, that is all past. But thank God there is a new life to
begin for both of us. To you must be the larger part--but there is still
time for some of it to be shared in common. I have waited till we should
have seen each other to enter upon the subject; for I thought it better
not to tie up your young life to my old one till we should have
sufficient personal knowledge to justify such a venture. Now I can, so
far as I am concerned, enter into it freely, since from the moment my
eyes rested on you I saw my son--as he shall be, God willing--if he
chooses such a course himself."
"Indeed I do, sir--with all my heart!"
"Thank you, Adam, for that." The old, man's eyes filled and his voice
trembled. Then, after a long silence between them, he went on: "When I
heard you were coming I made my will. It was well that your interests
should be protected from that moment on. Here is the deed--keep it,
Adam. All I have shall belong to you; and if love and good wishes, or
the memory of them, can make life sweeter, yours shall be a happy one.
Now, my dear boy, let us turn in. We start early in the morning and have
a long drive before us. I hope you don't mind driving? I was going to
have the old travelling carriage in which my grandfather, your
great-grand-uncle, went to Court when William IV. was king. It is all
right--they built well in those days--and it has been kept in perfect
order. But I think I have done better: I have sent the carriage in which
I travel myself. The horses are of my own breeding, and relays of them
shall take us all the way. I hope you like horses? They have long been
one of my greatest interests in life."
"I love them, sir, and I am happy to say I have many of my own. My
father gave me a horse farm for myself when I was eighteen. I devoted
myself to it, and it has gone on. Before I came away, my steward gave me
a memorandum that we have in my own place more than a thousand, nearly
all good."
"I am glad, my boy. Another link between us."
"Just fancy what a delight it will be, sir, to see so much of England--and
with you!"
"Thank you again, my boy. I will tell you all about your future home and
its surroundings as we go. We shall travel in old-fashioned state, I
tell you. My grandfather always drove four-in-hand; and so shall we."
"Oh, thanks, sir, thanks. May I take the ribbons sometimes?"
"Whenever you choose, Adam. The team is your own. Every horse we use to-
day is to be your own."
"You are too generous, uncle!"
"Not at all. Only an old man's selfish pleasure. It is not every day
that an heir to the old home comes back. And--oh, by the way... No,
we had better turn in now--I shall tell you the rest in the morning."
CHAPTER II--THE CASWALLS OF CASTRA REGIS
Mr. Salton had all his life been an early riser, and necessarily an early
waker. But early as he woke on the next morning--and although there was
an excuse for not prolonging sleep in the constant whirr and rattle of
the "donkey" engine winches of the great ship--he met the eyes of Adam
fixed on him from his berth. His grand-nephew had given him the sofa,
occupying the lower berth himself. The old man, despite his great
strength and normal activity, was somewhat tired by his long journey of
the day before, and the prolonged and exciting interview which followed
it. So he was glad to lie still and rest his body, whilst his mind was
actively exercised in taking in all he could of his strange surroundings.
Adam, too, after the pastoral habit to which he had been bred, woke with
the dawn, and was ready to enter on the experiences of the new day
whenever it might suit his elder companion. It was little wonder, then,
that, so soon as each realised the other's readiness, they simultaneously
jumped up and began to dress. The steward had by previous instructions
early breakfast prepared, and it was not long before they went down | 1,771.674218 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Carla Foust, 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
Printer errors have been changed and are listed at the end. All other
inconsistencies are as in the original.
CONTINUOUS VAUDEVILLE
[Illustration: CONTINUOUS
VAUDEVILLE
BY
WILL M. CRESSY]
CONTINUOUS
VAUDEVILLE
BY
WILL M. CRESSY
_With Illustrations by_
_HAL MERRITT_
[Illustration]
BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER
TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED
Copyright, 1914, by Richard G. Badger
All Rights Reserved
THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A.
INTRODUCTION
When you go into a Continuous Vaudeville Theater you expect to see and
hear a little of everything. You see a lot of poor acts, a few good ones
and two or three _real_ good ones. In seeking a suitable title for this
book it struck us that that description would fit it exactly; so we will
christen it--
CONTINUOUS VAUDEVILLE.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE OLD STAGE DOOR TENDER 13
IT'S HARD TO MAKE THE OLD FOLKS BELIEVE IT 22
UNION LABOR 28
MARTIN LEHMAN GOES TO NEW YORK 30
SOME HOTEL WHYS 43
IT ISN'T THE COAT THAT MAKES THE MAN 45
ONE-NIGHT-STAND ORCHESTRAS 48
"HEART INTEREST" 57
TOMMIE RYAN'S HORSE 60
VAUDEVILLE VS. THE LEGITIMATE 70
A SOCIAL SESSION 75
BIGALOW AND THE BIG SIX 81
NEVER AGAIN 90
THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT 93
HOW MIKE DONLIN SHRUNK 104
A NIGHT IN BOHEMIA 109
BREAKS 120
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN NEW YORK AND CANANDAIGUA 123
LET US HOPE 127
THE OLD SHIP OF ZION 130
FIREMAN, SAVE MY CHILD 137
PLAYING THE ENGLISH MUSIC HALLS 140
"WOODIE" 151
A CORK MAN 153
THE TROUBLES OF THE LAUGH GETTERS 159
ASLEEP WITH HER SWITCH 165
I JOIN THE SUFFRAGETTES 168
THE PERILS OF A GREAT CITY 174
DO YOU BELIEVE IN SIGNS? 177
CLOSING NUMBER 180
ILLUSTRATIONS
_Mag Haggerty's Horse_ 60
_"Shun Licker"_ 64
_The Widow's Mite_ 66
_Far from Home and Kindred_ 69
_"Why?"_ 74
_"Time All Open. Indefinite"_ 78
_"Good Morning"_ 90
_It Isn't the Coat that Makes the Man_ 107
_"Vengeance is Mine"_ 117
_One Sure (?) Fire Revolver_ 118
_"Give 'Em the Gravy"_ 121
_The Band of Hope_ 127
_The Cressys in Ireland_ 153
_Playing Hoboken_ 161
_Carrying "The Old Man" with Her_ 162
_"Bring Her Hither"_ 172
_The Perils of a Great City_ 174
CONTINUOUS VAUDEVILLE
THE OLD STAGE DOOR TENDER
Naturally if you are going back on the stage to get acquainted with its
people, the first chap you are going to meet is the old Stage Door
Tender. You will find him at every stage door, sitting there in his old
arm chair, calm, quiet, doing nothing; he is a man of few words; he has
heard actors talk so much that he has got discouraged. He sees the same
thing every week; he sees them come in on Monday and go out on Saturday;
the same questions, the same complaints, the same kicks. So he just sits
there watching, waiting and observing.
He seldom speaks, but when he does, he generally says something.
* * * * *
At the Orpheum Theater in Des Moines there was an old fellow who looked
so much like the character I portray in "Town Hall To-night" that
everybody used to call him "Cressy." Finally we came there to play and
he heard everybody call me "Cressy." He pondered over this for a day or
two, then he came over to me one afternoon and said,
"What do you suppose they call you and I 'Cressy' for?"
He expressed his opinion of actors in general about as concisely as I
ever heard any one do; I asked him what he really thought of actors; and
with a contemptuous sniff he replied,
"I don't."
* * * * *
Nobody in the world could ever convince "Old George" on the stage door
of the San Francisco Orpheum that that house would survive a year
without his guiding hand and brain. Old George was hired by John
Morrisey, the house manager, while Mr. Myerfelt, the president of the
Orpheum Company, was abroad. George's instructions were to admit no one
back on the stage without a written order from Mr. Morrisey. A month or
so afterwards Mr. Myerfelt returned and started to go back on the
stage.
"Here, here," said Old George; "where are you going?"
"I am going up on the stage," said Mr. M.
"You are not," said George, barring the way, "without a pass from Mr.
Morrisey."
"What are you talking about?" demanded Mr. M. "I am Mr. Myerfelt, the
President of the Orpheum Company."
"Yis, and I am King George, The Prisidint of this Door; and me orders is
that no one goes through here without a pass from Mr. Morrisey. And
there is nobody goes through."
So deadly earnest is Old George in this matter that, should it be
absolutely necessary for him to leave the door for a moment, he has
bought himself a little child's-size slate upon which he writes out a
detailed account of where he has gone, and why, and how soon he will be
back.
"Gone to get a drink of water. Be back in a minute. George."
"Gone out in front to ask Mr. Morrisey a question. Be back in three
minutes. George."
"Helping fill Miss Kellerman's tank; don't know how long. George."
"Inside watching Banner of Light Act. George."
This "Banner of Light" act was Louie Fuller's "Ballet of Light,"
consisting of eight bare-legged girls dancing on big sheets of glass set
into the floor of the stage. George would go in under the stage and
watch the act up through these sheets of glass.
He said it was the best act that was ever in the house--for him.
* * * * *
Old "Con" Murphy was on the stage door of the Boston Theater for
eighteen years; his hours were from 9 A. M. to 11 P. M., with an hour
off for dinner and an hour for supper.
The theater faces on Washington Street and the stage door is on Mason
Street. For eighteen years Con sat in that Mason Street door and only
saw Washington Street once in all that time.
One day Eugene Tompkins, the owner of the theater, came along, stopped,
thought a minute, then said,
"Con, how long have you been here?"
"Sixteen years, come August," said Con.
"Ever had a vacation?"
"No, sor."
Tompkins looked at his watch; it was ten minutes of twelve. "Well, Con,"
he said, "when you go out to dinner, you stay out; don't come back
until to-morrow morning. Then come and tell me what you did."
Con put on his coat and went out; out to the first vacation he had had
in sixteen years; the first opportunity to see what this city he lived
in looked like. The first chance he had had in sixteen years | 1,771.67436 |
2023-11-16 18:46:35.9532020 | 7,437 | 15 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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Transcriber's Note
The punctuation and spelling from the original text have been faithfully
preserved. Only obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
DEDICATION.
TO THE
SURVIVING SUFFERERS
OF THE
APPALLING CALAMITY AT JOHNSTOWN
AND
NEIGHBORING VILLAGES
THIS WORK
WHICH RELATES THE THRILLING STORY
OF THE GREAT DISASTER
IS DEDICATED.
THE
JOHNSTOWN HORROR!!!
OR
VALLEY OF DEATH,
BEING
A COMPLETE AND THRILLING ACCOUNT OF THE AWFUL
FLOODS AND THEIR APPALLING RUIN,
CONTAINING
Graphic Descriptions of the Terrible Rush of Waters; the
great Destruction of Houses, Factories, Churches, Towns,
and Thousands of Human Lives; Heartrending Scenes
of Agony, Separation of Loved Ones, Panic-stricken
Multitudes and their Frantic
Efforts to Escape a Horrible Fate.
COMPRISING
THRILLING TALES OF HEROIC DEEDS; NARROW ESCAPES
FROM THE JAWS OF DEATH; FRIGHTFUL HAVOC BY
FIRE; DREADFUL SUFFERINGS OF SURVIVORS;
PLUNDERING BODIES OF VICTIMS, ETC.
TOGETHER WITH
Magnificent Exhibitions of Popular Sympathy; Quick
Aid from every City and State; Millions of Dollars
Sent for the Relief of the Stricken Sufferers.
By JAMES HERBERT WALKER,
THE WELL KNOWN AUTHOR.
FULLY ILLUSTRATED WITH SCENES OF THE GREAT CALAMITY.
H.J. SMITH & CO.,
249 South Sixth St., Philadelphia
CHICAGO, ILL.:
NOS. 341-351 DEARBORN ST.
KANSAS CITY, MO.:
NO. 614 EAST SIXTH ST.
OAKLAND, CAL.
NO. 1605 TELEGRAPH AVE.
COPYRIGHTED, 1889.
PREFACE
The whole country has been profoundly startled at the Terrible Calamity
which has swept thousands of human beings to instant death at Johnstown
and neighboring villages. The news came with the suddenness of a
lightning bolt falling from the sky. A romantic valley, filled with busy
factories, flourishing places of business, multitudes of happy homes and
families, has been suddenly transformed into a scene of awful
desolation. Frightful ravages of Flood and Fire have produced in one
short hour a destruction which surpasses the records of all modern
disasters. No calamity in recent times has so appalled the civilized
world. What was a peaceful, prosperous valley a little time ago is
to-day a huge sepulchre, filled with the shattered ruins of houses,
factories, banks, churches, and the ghastly corpses of the dead.
This book contains a thrilling description of this awful catastrophe,
which has shocked both hemispheres. It depicts with graphic power the
terrible scenes of the great disaster, and relates the fearful story
with masterly effect.
The work treats of the great storm which devastated the country,
deluging large sections, sweeping away bridges, swelling rivulets to
rivers, prostrating forests, and producing incalculable damage to life
and property; of the sudden rise in the Conemaugh River and tributary
streams, weakening the dam thrown across the fated valley, and
endangering the lives of 50,000 people; of the heroic efforts of a
little band of men to stay the flood and avert the direful calamity; of
the swift ride down the valley to warn the inhabitants of their
impending fate, and save them from instant death; of the breaking away
of the imprisoned waters after all efforts had failed to hold them back;
of the rush and roar of the mighty torrent, plunging down the valley
with sounds like advancing thunder, reverberating like the booming of
cannon among the hills; of the frightful havoc attending the mad flood
descending with incredible velocity, and a force which nothing could
resist; of the rapid rise of the waters, flooding buildings, driving the
terrified inhabitants to the upper stories and roofs in the desperate
effort to escape their doom; of hundreds of houses crashing down the
surging river, carrying men, women and children beyond the hope of
rescue; of a night of horrors, multitudes dying amid the awful terrors
of flood and fire, plunged under the wild torrent, buried in mire, or
consumed in devouring flames; of helpless creatures rending the air with
pitiful screams crying aloud in their agony, imploring help with
outstretched hands, and finally sinking with no one to save them.
Whole families were lost and obliterated, perishing together in a watery
tomb, or ground to atoms by floating timbers and wreck; households were
suddenly bereft--some of fathers, others of mothers, others of children,
neighbors and friends; frantic efforts were made to rescue the victims
of the flood, render aid to those who were struggling against death, and
mitigate the terrors of the horrible disaster. There were noble acts of
heroism, strong men and frail women and children putting their own lives
in peril to save those of their loved ones.
The terrible scene at Johnstown bridge, where thousands were consumed
was the greatest funeral pyre known in the history of the world. It was
ghastly work--that of recovering the bodies of the dead; dragging them
from the mire in which they were imbedded, from the ruins in which they
were crushed, or from the burning wreck which was consuming them.
Hundreds of bodies were mutilated and disfigured beyond the possibility
of identifying them, all traces of individual form and features utterly
destroyed. There were multitudes of corpses awaiting coffins for their
burial, putrefying under the sun, and filling the air with the sickening
stench of death. There were ghouls who robbed the bodies of the victims,
stripping off their jewels--even cutting off fingers to obtain rings,
and plundering pockets of their money.
Summary vengeance was inflicted upon prowling thieves; some of whom were
driven into the merciless waters to perish, while others were shot or
hanged by the neck until they were dead. The burial of hundreds of the
known and unknown, without minister or obsequies, without friend or
mourner, without surviving relatives to take a last look or shed a tear,
was one of the appalling spectacles. There was the breathless suspense
and anxiety of those who feared the worst, who waited in vain for news
of the safety of their friends, and at last were compelled to believe
that their loved ones had perished.
The terrible shock attending the horrible accounts of the great
calamity, was followed by the sudden outburst and exhibition of
universal grief and sympathy. Despatches from the President, Governors
of States, and Mayors of Cities, announced that speedy aid would be
furnished. The magnificent charity that came to the rescue with millions
of dollars, immense contributions of food and clothing, personal
services and heroic efforts, is one impressive part of this graphic
story. Rich and poor alike gave freely, many persons dividing their last
dollar to aid those who had lost their all.
These thrilling scenes are depicted, and these wonderful facts are
related, in THE JOHNSTOWN HORROR, by eye-witnesses who saw the fatal
flood and its direful effects. No book so intensely exciting has ever
been issued. The graphic story has an awful fascination, and will be
read throughout the land.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
The Appalling News, 17
CHAPTER II.
Death and Desolation, 50
CHAPTER III.
The Horrors Increase, 74
CHAPTER IV.
Multiplication of Terrors, 104
CHAPTER V.
The Awful Work of Death, 116
CHAPTER VI.
Shadows of Despair, 129
CHAPTER VII.
Burial of the Victims, 146
CHAPTER VIII.
Johnstown and its Industries, 154
CHAPTER IX.
A View of the Wreck, 164
CHAPTER X.
Thrilling Experiences, 182
CHAPTER XI.
New Tales of Horror, 208
CHAPTER XII.
Pathetic Scenes, 246
CHAPTER XIII.
Digging for the Dead, 270
CHAPTER XIV.
Hairbreadth Escapes, 288
CHAPTER XV.
Terrible Pictures of Woe, 334
CHAPTER XVI.
Stories of the Flood, 380
CHAPTER XVII.
One Week after the Great Disaster, 432
CHAPTER XVIII.
A Walk Through the Valley of Death, 455
CHAPTER XIX.
A Day of Work and Worship, 479
CHAPTER XX.
Millions of Money for Johnstown, 489
[Illustration: RECOVERING THE BODIES OF VICTIMS.]
[Illustration: THE BREAK IN THE SOUTH FORKS DAM.]
[Illustration: IN THE PACK-SADDLE, ON THE CONEMAUGH, PENNSYLVANIA
RAILROAD.]
[Illustration: RUINS IN MAIN STREET, JOHNSTOWN.]
[Illustration: A GRAVEL-TRAIN RUNS AWAY FROM THE ADVANCING FLOOD.]
[Illustration: IMMENSE GAP IN THE BROKEN DAM, AS SEEN FROM THE INSIDE.]
[Illustration: FRIGHTFUL STRUGGLES FOR LIFE.]
[Illustration: THE FLOOD STRIKES THE CAMBRIA IRON WORKS.]
[Illustration: HOUSES AND HUMAN BEINGS LOST IN THE FLOOD.]
[Illustration: TEARING DOWN HOUSES IN JOHNSTOWN.]
[Illustration: SOLDIERS GUARDING A HUNGARIAN THIEF.]
[Illustration: DISTRIBUTING RELIEF AT THE PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD
STATION.]
[Illustration: IDENTIFYING THE DEAD.]
[Illustration: RELIEF CORPS CROSSING THE ROPE BRIDGE.]
[Illustration: SEARCHING FOR LOST RELATIVES.]
[Illustration: MAIN STREET, JOHNSTOWN, IN FRONT OF MERCHANT'S HOTEL.]
THE JOHNSTOWN HORROR
or
Valley of Death.
CHAPTER I.
The Appalling News.
On the advent of Summer, June 1st, the country was horror-stricken by
the announcement that a terrible calamity had overtaken the inhabitants
of Johnstown, and the neighboring villages. Instantly the whole land was
stirred by the startling news of this great disaster. Its appalling
magnitude, its dreadful suddenness, its scenes of terror and agony, the
fate of thousands swept to instant death by a flood as frightful as that
of the cataract of Niagara, awakened the profoundest horror. No calamity
in the history of modern times has so appalled the civilized world.
The following graphic pen-picture will give the reader an accurate idea
of the picturesque scene of the disaster:
Away up in the misty crags of the Alleghanies some tiny rills trickle
and gurgle from a cleft in the mossy rocks. The drippling waters, timid
perhaps in the bleak and lonely fastness of the heights, hug and coddle
one another until they flash into a limpid pool. A score of rivulets
from all the mountain side babble hither over rocky beds to join their
companions. Thence in rippling current they purl and tinkle down the
gentle <DW72>s, through bosky nooks sweet with the odors of fir tree and
pine, over meads dappled with the scarlet snap-dragon and purple heath
buds, now pausing for a moment to idle with a wood encircled lake, now
tumbling in opalescent cascade over a mossy lurch, and then on again in
cheerful, hurried course down the Appalachian valley.
None stays their way. Here and there perhaps some thrifty Pennsylvania
Dutchman coaxes the saucy stream to turn his mill-wheel and every league
or so it fumes and frets a bit against some rustic bridge. From these
trifling tourneys though, it emerges only the more eager and impetuous
in its path toward the towns below.
The Fatal River.
Coming nearer, step by step, to the busy haunts of men, the dashing
brook takes on a more ambitious air. Little by little it edges its
narrow banks aside, drinks in the waters of tributaries, swells with the
copious rainfall of the lower valley. From its ladder in the Alleghanies
it catches a glimpse of the steeples of Johnstown, red with the glow of
the setting sun. Again it spurts and spreads as if conscious of its new
importance, and the once tiny rill expands into the dignity of a river,
a veritable river, with a name of its own. Big with this sounding symbol
of prowess it rushes on as if to sweep by the teeming town in a flood of
majesty. To its vast surprise the way is barred. The hand of man has
dared to check the will of one that up to now has known no curb save
those the forest gods imposed. For an instant the waters, taken aback by
this strange audacity, hold themselves in leash. Then, like erl-king in
the German legends, they broaden out to engulf their opponent. In vain
they surge with crescent surface against the barrier of stone. By day,
by night, they beat and breast in angry impotence against the ponderous
wall of masonry that man has reared, for pleasure and profit, to stem
the mountain stream.
The Awful Rush of Waters.
Suddenly, maddened by the stubborn hindrance, the river grows black and
turgid. It rumbles and threatens as if confident of an access of
strength that laughs at resistance. From far up the hillside comes a
sound, at first soft and soothing as the fountains of Lindaraxa, then
rolling onward it takes the voluminous quaver of a distant waterfall.
Louder and louder, deeper and deeper, nearer and nearer comes an awful
crashing and roaring, till its echoes rebound from the crags of the
Alleghanies like peals of thunder and boom of cannon.
On, on, down the steep valley trumpets the torrent into the river at
Jamestown. Joined to the waters from the cloud kissed summits of its
source, the exultant Conemaugh, with a deafening din, dashes its way
through the barricade of stone and starts like a demon on its path of
destruction.
Into its maw it sucks a town. A town with all its hundreds of men and
women and children, with its marts of business, its homes, its factories
and houses of worship. Then, insatiate still, with a blast like the
chaos of worlds dissolved, it rushes out to new desolation, until Nature
herself, awe stricken at the sight of such ineffable woe, blinds her
eyes to the uncanny scene of death, and drops the pall of night upon the
earth.
Destruction Descended as a Bolt of Jove.
A fair town in a western valley of Pennsylvania, happy in the arts of
peace and prospering by its busy manufactures, suddenly swept out of
existence by a gigantic flood and thousands of lives extinguished as by
one fell stroke--such has been the fate of Johnstown.
Never before in this country has there happened a disaster of such
appalling proportions. It is necessary to refer to those which have
occurred in the valleys of the great European rivers, where there is a
densely crowded population, to find a parallel.
The Horrors Unestimated.
At first the horror was not all known. It could only be imperfectly
surmised. Until a late hour on the following night there was no
communication with the hapless city. All that was positively known of
its fate was seen from afar. It was said that out of all the
habitations, which had sheltered about twelve thousand people before
this awful doom had befallen, only two were visible above the water. All
the rest, if this be true, had been swallowed up or else shattered into
pieces and hurled downward into the flood-vexed valley below.
What has become of those twelve thousand inhabitants? Who can tell until
after the waters have wholly subsided?
Of course it is possible that many of them escaped. Much hope is to be
built upon the natural exaggeration of first reports from the sorely
distressed surrounding region and the lack of actual knowledge, in the
absence of direct communication. But what suspense must there be between
now and the moment when direct communication shall be opened!
Heedless of Fate.
The valley of the Conemaugh in which Johnstown stood lies between the
steep walls of lofty hills. The gathering of the rain into torrents in
that region is quick and precipitate. The river on one side roared out
its warning, but the people would not take heed of the danger impending
over them on the other side--the great South Fork dam, two and a half
miles up the valley and looming one hundred feet in height from base to
top. Behind it were piled the waters, a great, ponderous mass, like the
treasured wrath of fate. Their surface was about three hundred feet
above the deserted town.
If Noah's neighbors thought it would be only a little shower the people
of Johnstown were yet more foolish. The railroad officials had
repeatedly told them that the dam threatened destruction. They still
perversely lulled themselves into a false security. The blow came, when
it did, like a flash. It was as if the heavens had fallen in liquid fury
upon the earth. It was as if ocean itself had been precipitated into an
abyss. The slow but inexorable march of the mightiest glacier of the
Alps, though comparable, was not equal to this in force. The whole of a
Pyramid, shot from a colossal catapult, would not have been the petty
charge of a pea shooter to it. Imagine Niagara, or a greater even than
Niagara, falling upon an ordinary collection of brick and wooden houses.
An Inconceivable Force.
The South Fork Reservoir was the largest in the United States, and it
contained millions of tons of water. When its fetters were loosened,
crumbling before it like sand, a building or even a rock that stood in
its path presented as much resistance as a card house. The dread
execution was little more than the work of an instant.
The flood passed over the town as it would over a pile of shingles,
covering over or carrying with it everything that stood in its way. It
bounded down the valley, wreaking destruction and death on each hand and
in its fore. Torrents that poured down out of the wilds of the mountains
swelled its volume.
All along from the point of its release it bore debris and corpses as
its hideous trophies. In a very brief time it displayed some of both, as
if in hellish glee, to the horrified eyes of Pittsburg, seventy-eight
miles west of the town of Johnstown that had been, having danced them
along on its exultant billows or rolled them over and over in the depths
of its dark current all the way through the Conemaugh, the Kiskiminitas
and the Allegheny river.
It was like a fearful monster, gnashing its dripping jaws in the scared
face of the multitude, in the flesh of its victims.
One eye-witness of the effects of the deluge declares that he saw five
hundred dead bodies. Hundreds were counted by others. It will take many
a day to make up the death roll. It will take many a day to make up the
reckoning of the material loss.
If any pen could describe the scenes of terror, anguish and destruction
which have taken place in Conemaugh Valley it could write an epic
greater than the "Iliad." The accounts that come tell of hairbreadth
escapes, heartrending tragedies and deeds of heroism almost without
number.
A Climax of Horror.
As if to add a lurid touch of horror to the picture that might surpass
all the rest a conflagration came to mock those who were in fear of
drowning with a death yet more terrible. Where the ruins of Johnstown,
composed mainly of timber, had been piled up forty feet high against a
railroad bridge below the town a fire was started and raged with eager
fury. It is said that scores of persons were burned alive, their
piercing cries appealing for aid to hundreds of spectators who stood on
the banks of the river, but could do nothing.
Western Pennsylvania is in mourning. Business in the cities is virtually
suspended and all minds are bent upon this great horror, all hearts
convulsed with the common sorrow.
Heartrending Scenes and Heroic Struggles for Life.
Another eye-witness describes the calamity as follows: A flood of death
swept down the Alleghany Mountains yesterday afternoon and last night.
Almost the entire city of Johnstown is swimming about in the rushing,
angry tide. Dead bodies are floating about in every direction, and
almost every piece of movable timber is carrying from the doomed city a
corpse of humanity, drifting with the raging waters. The disaster
overtook Johnstown about six o'clock last evening.
As the train bearing the writer sped eastward, the reports at each stop
grew more appalling. At Derry a group of railway officials were gathered
who had come from Bolivar, the end of the passable portion of the road
westward. They had seen but a small portion of the awful flood, but
enough to allow them to imagine the rest. Down through the Packsaddle
came the rushing waters. The wooded heights of the Alleghanies looked
down in wonder at the scene of the most terrible destruction that ever
struck the romantic valley of the Conemaugh.
The water was rising when the men left at six o'clock at the rate of
five feet an hour. Clinging to improvised rafts, constructed in the
death battle from floating boards and timbers, were agonized men, women
and children, their heartrending shrieks for help striking horror to the
breasts of the onlookers. Their cries were of no avail. Carried along at
railway speed on the breast of this rushing torrent, no human ingenuity
could devise a means of rescue.
With pallid face and hair clinging wet and damp to her cheek, a mother
was seen grasping a floating timber, while on her other arm she held her
babe, already drowned. With a death-grip on a plank a strong man just
giving up hope cast an imploring look to those on the bank, and an
instant later he had sunk into the waves. Prayers to God and cries to
those in safety rang above the roaring waves.
The special train pulled into Bolivar at half-past eleven last night,
and the trainmen were there notified that further progress was
impossible. The greatest excitement prevailed at this place, and parties
of citizens are out all the time endeavoring to save the poor
unfortunates that are being hurled to eternity on the rushing torrent.
Attempts at Rescue.
The tidal wave struck Bolivar just after dark, and in five minutes the
Conemaugh rose from six to forty feet and the waters spread out over the
whole country. Soon houses began floating down, and clinging to the
debris were men, women and children shrieking for aid. A large number
of citizens at once gathered on the county bridge, and they were
reinforced by a number from Garfield, a town on the opposite side of the
river.
They brought a number of ropes and these were thrown over into the
boiling waters as persons drifted by in efforts to save some poor
beings. For half an hour all efforts were fruitless, until at last, when
the rescuers were about giving up all hope, a little boy, astride a
shingle roof, managed to catch hold of one of the ropes. He caught it
under his left arm and was thrown violently against an abutment, but
managed to keep hold, and was successfully pulled on to the bridge amid
the cheers of the onlookers. His name was Hessler and his rescuer was a
trainman named Carney. The lad was at once taken to the town of Garfield
and was cared for. The boy was aged about sixteen. His story of the
frightful calamity is as follows:
The Alarm.
"With my father I was spending the day at my grandfather's house in
Cambria City. In the house at the time were Theodore, Edward and John
Kintz, and John Kintz, Jr.; Miss Mary Kintz, Mrs. Mary Kintz, wife of
John Kintz, Jr.; Miss Treacy Kintz, Mrs. Rica Smith, John Hirsch and
four children, my father and myself. Shortly after five o'clock there
was a noise of roaring waters and screams of people. We looked out the
door and saw persons running. My father told us to never mind, as the
waters would not rise further.
"But soon we saw houses being swept away, and then we ran up to the
floor above. The house was three stories, and we were at last forced to
the top one. In my fright I jumped on the bed. It was an old fashioned
one, with heavy posts. The water kept rising and my bed was soon afloat.
Gradually it was lifted up. The air in the room grew close and the house
was moving. Still the bed kept rising and pressed the ceiling. At last
the posts pushed against the plaster. It yielded and a section of the
roof gave way. Then suddenly I found myself on the roof, and was being
carried down stream.
Saved.
"After a little this roof began to part, and I was afraid I was going to
be drowned, but just then another house with a shingle roof floated by,
and I managed to crawl on it, and floated down until nearly dead with
cold, when I was saved. After I was freed from the house I did not see
my father. My grandfather was on a tree, but he must have been drowned,
as the waters were rising fast. John Kintz, Jr., was also on a tree.
Miss Mary Kintz and Mrs. Mary Kintz I saw drown. Miss Smith was also
drowned. John Hirsch was in a tree, but the four children were drowned.
The scenes were terrible. Live bodies and corpses were floating down
with me and away from me. I would see persons, hear them shriek, and
then they would disappear. All along the line were people who were
trying to save us, but they could do nothing, and only a few were
caught."
This boy's story is but one incident, and shows what happened to one
family. No one knows what has happened to the hundreds who were in the
path of the rushing water. It is impossible to get anything in the way
of news save meagre details.
An eye-witness at Bolivar Block Station tells a story of unparalleled
heroism that occurred at the lower bridge which crosses the Conemaugh at
this point. A. Young, with two women was seen coming down the river on a
part of the floor. At the upper bridge a rope was thrown down to them.
This they all failed to catch. Between the two bridges he was noticed to
point towards the elder woman, who, it is supposed, was his mother. He
was then seen to instruct the women how to catch the rope that was
lowered from the other bridge. Down came the raft with a rush. The brave
man stood with his arms around the two women.
Unavailing Courage.
As they swept under the bridge he seized the rope. He was jerked
violently away from the two women, who failed to get a hold on the rope.
Seeing that they would not be rescued, he dropped the rope and fell back
on the raft, which floated on down the river. The current washed their
frail craft in toward the bank. The young man was enabled to seize hold
of a branch of a tree. He aided the two women to get up into the tree.
He held on with his hands and rested his feet on a pile of driftwood. A
piece of floating debris struck the drift, sweeping it away. The man
hung with his body immersed in the water. A pile of drift soon
collected and he was enabled to get another insecure footing. Up the
river there was a sudden crash, and a section of the bridge was swept
away and floated down the stream, striking the tree and washing it away.
All three were thrown into the water and were drowned before the eyes of
the horrified spectators just opposite the town of Bolivar.
Early in the evening a woman with her two children was seen to pass
under the bridge at Bolivar clinging to the roof of a coal house. A rope
was lowered to her, but she shook her head and refused to desert the
children. It was rumored that all three were saved at Cokeville, a few
miles below Bolivar. A later report from Lockport says that the
residents succeeded in rescuing five people from the flood, two women
and three men. One man succeeded in getting out of the water unaided.
They were taken care of by the people of the town.
A Child's Faith.
A little girl passed under the bridge just before dark. She was kneeling
on a part of a floor and had her hands clasped as if in prayer. Every
effort was made to save her, but they all proved futile. A railroader
who was standing by remarked that the piteous appearance of the little
waif brought tears to his eyes. All night long the crowd stood about the
ruins of the bridge which had been swept away at Bolivar. The water
rushed past with a roar, carrying with it parts of houses, furniture and
trees. The flood had evidently spent its force up the valley. No more
living persons were being carried past. Watchers with lanterns remained
along the banks until daybreak, when the first view of the awful
devastation of the flood was witnessed.
Along the bank lay remnants of what had once been dwelling houses and
stores; here and there was an uprooted tree. Piles of drift lay about,
in some of which bodies of the victims of the flood will be found.
Rescuing parties are being formed in all towns along the railroad.
Houses have been thrown open to refugees, and every possible means is
being used to protect the homeless.
Wrecking Trains to the Rescue.
The wrecking trains of the Pennsylvania Railroad are slowly making their
way east to the unfortunate city. No effort was being made to repair the
wrecks, and the crews of the trains were organized into rescuing
parties, and an effort will be made to send out a mail train this
morning. The chances are that they will go no further east than
Florence. There is absolutely no news from Johnstown. The little city is
entirely cut off from communication with the outside world. The damage
done is inestimable. No one can tell its extent.
The little telegraph stations along the road are filled with anxious
groups of men who have friends and relatives in Johnstown. The smallest
item of news is eagerly seized upon and circulated. If favorable they
have a moment of relief, if not their faces become more gloomy. Harry
Fisher, a young telegraph operator who was at Bolivar when the first
rush began, says:--"We knew nothing of the disaster until we noticed the
river slowly rising and then more rapidly. News then reached us from
Johnstown that the dam at South Fork had burst. Within three hours the
water in the river rose at least twenty feet. Shortly before six o'clock
ruins of houses, beds, household utensils, barrels and kegs came
floating past the bridges. At eight o'clock the water was within six
feet of the road-bed of the bridge. The wreckage floated past without
stopping for at least two hours. Then it began to lessen, and night
coming suddenly upon us we could see no more. The wreckage was floating
by for a long time before the first living persons passed. Fifteen
people that I saw were carried down by the river. One of these, a boy,
was saved, and three of them were drowned just directly below the town.
It was an awful sight and one that I will not soon forget."
Hundreds of animals lost their lives. The bodies of horses, dogs and
chickens floated past. The little boy who was rescued at Bolivar had two
dogs as companions during his fearful ride. The dogs were drowned just
before reaching the bridge. One old mule swam past. Its shoulders were
torn, but it was alive when swept past the town.
Saved from a Watery Grave to Perish by Flames.
After a long, weary ride of eight or nine miles over the worst of
country roads New Florence, fourteen miles from Johnstown, was reached.
The road bed between this place and Bolivar was washed out in many
places. The trackmen and the wreck crews were all night in the most
dangerous portions of the road.
The last man from Johnstown brought the information that scarcely a
house remained in the city. The upper portion above the railroad bridge
had been completely submerged. The water dammed up against the viaduct,
the wreckage and debris finishing the work that the torrent had failed
to accomplish. The bridge at Johnstown proved too stanch for the fury of
the water. It is a heavy piece of masonry, and was used as a viaduct by
the old Pennsylvania Canal. Some of the top stones were displaced.
The story reached here a short time ago that a family consisting of
father and mother and nine children were washed away in a creek at
Lockport. The mother managed to reach the shore, but the husband and
children were carried out into the Conemaugh to drown. The woman is
crazed over the terrible event.
A Night of Horror.
After night settled down upon the mountains the horror of the scenes was
enhanced. Above the roar of the water | 1,771.973242 |
2023-11-16 18:46:35.9545270 | 3,094 | 19 |
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.
The carat character (^) indicates that the following letter or number
is superscripted (example: 15^b-18^a).
[=e] represents "e" with a macon over it.
HOME UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
OF MODERN KNOWLEDGE
THE LITERATURE OF THE
OLD TESTAMENT
BY
GEORGE FOOT MOORE, M.A., D.D., LL.D.
LONDON
WILLIAMS & NORGATE
HENRY HOLT & Co., NEW YORK
CANADA: WM. BRIGGS, TORONTO
INDIA: R. & T. WASHBOURNE, LTD.
[Illustration:
HOME
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY
OF
MODERN KNOWLEDGE
_Editors_:
HERBERT FISHER, M.A., F.B.A., LL.D.
PROF. GILBERT MURRAY, D.LITT., LL.D., F.B.A.
PROF. J. ARTHUR THOMSON, M.A., LL.D.
PROF. WILLIAM T. BREWSTER, M.A.
(COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY, U.S.A.)
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY]
[Illustration:
THE
LITERATURE
OF THE
OLD TESTAMENT
BY
GEORGE FOOT MOORE
M.A., D.D., LL.D.
Professor in Harvard University; Editor of the
Harvard Theological Review; Author
of "Commentary on Judges," etc.
LONDON
WILLIAMS AND NORGATE]
The following volumes of kindred interest have already been published
in the Home University Library:--
VOL. 56.--THE MAKING OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. By PROF. B. W.
BACON, LL.D., D.D.Vol.
VOL. 68.--COMPARATIVE RELIGION. By PRINCIPAL J. ESTLIN
CARPENTER, D.Litt.
VOL. 15.--MOHAMMEDANISM. By PROF. D. S. MARGOLIOUTH, M.A.,
D.Litt.
VOL. 47.--BUDDHISM. By MRS. RHYS DAVIDS, M.A.
VOL. 54.--ETHICS. By G. E. MOORE, M.A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE CANON OF THE OLD TESTAMENT 7
II THE OLD TESTAMENT AS A NATIONAL
LITERATURE 25
III THE PENTATEUCH 29
IV CHARACTER OF THE SOURCES. GENESIS 33
V EXODUS, LEVITICUS, NUMBERS 47
VI DEUTERONOMY 58
VII AGE OF THE SOURCES. COMPOSITION OF THE
PENTATEUCH 65
VIII JOSHUA 73
IX JUDGES 81
X SAMUEL 91
XI KINGS 100
XII CHRONICLES 118
XIII EZRA AND NEHEMIAH 128
XIV STORY BOOKS: ESTHER, RUTH, JONAH 134
XV THE PROPHETS 144
XVI ISAIAH 147
XVII JEREMIAH 164
XVIII EZEKIEL 174
XIX DANIEL 180
XX MINOR PROPHETS 190
XXI PSALMS. LAMENTATIONS 218
XXII PROVERBS 231
XXIII JOB 235
XXIV ECCLESIASTES. SONG OF SONGS 243
BIBLIOGRAPHY 251
INDEX 253
THE LITERATURE
OF
THE OLD TESTAMENT
CHAPTER I
THE CANON OF THE OLD TESTAMENT
The early Christians received the Sacred Books of the Jews as inspired
Scripture containing a divine revelation and clothed with divine
authority, and till well on in the first century of the Christian era
the name Scriptures was applied exclusively to these books. In time,
as they came to attach the same authority to the Epistles and Gospels,
and to call them, too, Scriptures (2 Pet. iii. 16), they distinguished
the Christian writings as the Scriptures of the new dispensation, or,
as they called it, the "new covenant," from the Scriptures of the "old
covenant" (2 Cor. iii. 6, 14), the Bible of the Jews. The Greek word
for covenant (_diatheke_) was rendered in the early Latin translation
by _testamentum_, and the two bodies of Scripture themselves were
called the Old Testament and the New Testament respectively.
The Scriptures of the Jews were written in Hebrew, the older language
of the people; but a few chapters in Ezra and Daniel are in Aramaic,
which gradually replaced Hebrew as the vernacular of Palestine from
the fifth century B.C. The Sacred Books comprise the Law, that is, the
Five Books of Moses; the Prophets, under which name are included the
older historical books (Joshua, Judges, Samuel, Kings) as well as what
we call the Prophets (Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and the Twelve, i.e.
Minor Prophets); a third group, of less homogeneous character, had no
more distinctive name than the "Scriptures"; it included Ruth, Psalms,
Job, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Song of Songs, Lamentations, Daniel,
Esther, Ezra-Nehemiah, and Chronicles. The Minor Prophets counted as
one book; and the division of Samuel, Kings, Ezra-Nehemiah, and
Chronicles each into two books was made later, and perhaps only in
Christian copies of the Bible. There are, consequently, according to
the Jewish enumeration twenty-four books in the Bible, while in the
English Old Testament, by subdivision, we count the same books as
thirty-nine.
The order of the books in the Pentateuch and "Former Prophets"
(Joshua-Kings) is fixed by the historical sequence, and therefore
constant; among the "Latter Prophets" Jeremiah was sometimes put
first, immediately following the end of Kings, with which it was so
closely connected. In the third group there was no such obvious
principle of arrangement, and consequently there were different
opinions about the proper order; that which is given above follows the
oldest deliverance on the subject, and puts them in what the rabbis
doubtless supposed to be a chronological series. So long as the books
were written on separate rolls of papyrus, the question of order was
theoretical rather than practical; and even when manuscripts were
written in codex form (on folded leaves stitched together like our
books), no uniformity was attained.
At the beginning of the Christian era, lessons from the Law were
regularly read in the synagogues on the sabbath (the Pentateuch being
so divided that it was read through consecutively once in three
years), and a second lesson was chosen from the Prophets. The title of
these books to be regarded as Sacred Scripture was thus established by
long-standing liturgical use, and was, indeed, beyond question. Nor
was there any question about the inspiration of most of the books in
the third group, the "Scriptures." There was a controversy, however,
over Ecclesiastes and the Song of Songs; some teachers of the
strictest school denied that either of them was inspired, while others
accepted only one of them. The question was voted on in a council of
rabbis held at Jamnia about the beginning of the second century of our
era, and the majority decided for the inspiration of both books. There
were also, even down to the third century, Jewish scholars who did
not acknowledge Esther as Sacred Scripture. On the other hand, some
were inclined to include among the Sacred Books the Proverbs of Ben
Sira, which stand in the English Bible among the Apocrypha under the
title Ecclesiasticus.
It is thus evident that, while there was agreement in general, there
was, down to the second century A.D., no authoritative list of the
"Scriptures," and that about some of the books there were conflicting
opinions among the learned of the most orthodox stamp. An interesting
confirmation of this is the fact that in the first half of that
century it was thought necessary to make a formal deliverance that the
"Gospel and other writings of the heretics" are not Sacred Scripture.
There are other indications that in that generation Jewish
Christianity had a dangerous attraction for some even in rabbinical
circles, and there was evidently ground for apprehension that the
inspiration which the Christians claimed for the Scriptures of the New
Covenant might impose upon well-meaning but uninstructed Jews. In the
same connection it was decided, further, that Ben Sira (Ecclesiasticus)
was not Holy Scripture, and that no books written from his time on (about
200 B.C.) were inspired, in accordance with the theory, found also in
Josephus, that inspiration ceased in the age of Ezra and Nehemiah.
By such decisions, recognizing the inspiration of books that had been
challenged and excluding others for which inspiration had been
claimed, the canon of the Scriptures, that is, the authoritative list
of Sacred Books, was defined. The oldest catalogue we have, containing
the titles of all the books, dates probably from the latter part of
the second century, and is not concerned with the point of
canonicity--which it takes for granted--but with the proper order of
the Prophets and the Scriptures.
The Jews had for centuries been widely distributed through the lands
that had been included in the kingdoms of Alexander's successors.
There were large numbers in Babylonia and the neighbouring provinces
of the Parthian empire, and still more in the countries around the
eastern end of the Mediterranean, in Syria and Asia Minor, in Egypt
and Cyrene. In Alexandria the Jews had a whole quarter of the city to
themselves, and Philo estimates their numbers in Egypt in his time
(ca. A.D. 40) at a million.
In cities like Alexandria, where Greek was the common speech of a
population recruited from many races, the Jews soon exchanged their
mother tongue for the cosmopolitan language. The ancient Hebrew of
their Sacred Books was unintelligible, not only to the masses, but
even to most of the educated, who had learned in the schools of Greek
rhetoricians and philosophers rather than at the feet of the rabbis.
If the knowledge of the holy Law by which the distinctive Jewish life
was regulated was not to be lost altogether, the Scriptures must be
translated into Greek. The Pentateuch was doubtless translated
first--legend attributes the initiative to King Ptolemy Philadelphus
(285-246 B.C.); then other books, by different hands and at different
times and places. To some of the books, as to Daniel and Esther,
additions were made in the translation which were not accepted by the
Palestinian Jews.
Besides the books which were finally included in the Jewish canon,
there were various others, written in Hebrew or Aramaic after the
pattern of the several forms of Biblical literature. History, for
example, is represented by 1 Maccabees, relating the struggle of the
Jews in Palestine for religious liberty and national independence in
the second century B.C.; the Proverbs of Solomon have a counterpart in
the Proverbs of Ben Sira, already mentioned; the Psalter, in the
so-called Psalms of Solomon; the story of Judith may be compared with
Esther; the visions of Daniel have their parallel in popular
apocalypses bearing the names of Enoch, Noah, Ezra, Baruch, and other
ancient worthies. These writings were sooner or later translated into
Greek, and some of them attained a wide circulation. The
Greek-speaking Jews, also, produced a religious literature, in part
imitating the familiar Biblical forms, as in the Wisdom of Solomon
and 2 Maccabees, in part cast in Greek moulds, as when prophecy
disguised itself in Sibylline Oracles, or the supremacy of reason over
the emotions was made the subject of a discourse after the pattern of
a Stoic diatribe (4 Maccabees).
The influence of Greek culture on many of these writers was not
confined to language and literary form; they lived in an atmosphere of
Greek thought--the popular philosophy, in which Platonic and Stoic
elements were fused or confused--and a few had a more academic
acquaintance with the Greek thinkers. But, under all this, they were
Jews to the core, devoted to the religion of their fathers, of the
superiority of which they were the more convinced by the spectacle of
heathenism about them: Judaism was the only true religion, its
Scriptures the one divine revelation. The Law and the Prophets had the
same precedence as in the Palestinian synagogue. Of the other
Scriptures there was no authoritative and exclusive list, and among
books read solely for private edification it is not likely that a very
sharp line was drawn; but, on the whole, the practice of the
Greek-speaking Jews does not seem to have been materially different
from that of their countrymen in Palestine.
Outside of Palestine, Christianity was spread by Greek-speaking Jews
who had embraced the new Messianic faith, and their converts in the
fields of their missionary labours, both Jews and Gentiles, spoke
Greek, either as their mother tongue or as the language of common
intercourse. The church, therefore, took over the Jewish Scriptures in
the existing translations: the Christian Old Testament was from the
beginning the Greek Bible, not the Hebrew. They received also from the
| 1,771.974567 |
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Produced by K Nordquist, Ron Stephens and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from images made available by the
HathiTrust Digital Library.)
[Illustration: "LIKE HIS FATHER BEFORE HIM, HE WAS ANSWERING THE CALL OF
THE GOLD."]
CONNIE MORGAN IN
ALASKA
BY
JAMES B. HENDRYX
AUTHOR OF
"THE PROMISE," "THE LAW OF THE WOODS," ETC.
[Illustration]
_ILLUSTRATED_
G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
COPYRIGHT, 1916
BY
J.B. HENDRYX
[Illustration]
Made in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--SAM MORGAN'S BOY 1
II.--THE TEN BOW STAMPEDE 16
III.--THE NEW CAMP 30
IV.--PARTNERS 41
V.--ON THE TRAIL OF WASECHE 54
VI.--THE MEN OF EAGLE 70
VII.--IN THE LILLIMUIT 91
VIII.--WASECHE BILL TO THE RESCUE 105
IX.--THE WHITE DEATH 120
X.--THE _IGLOO_ IN THE SNOW 141
XI.--ON THE DEAD MAN'S LONELY TRAIL 156
XII.--IN THE HEART OF THE SILENT LAND 169
XIII.--O'BRIEN 185
XIV.--THE ESCAPE FROM THE WHITE INDIANS 203
XV.--O'BRIEN'S CANS OF GOLD 219
XVI.--FIGHTING THE NORTH 234
XVII.--THE SNOW TRAIL 251
XVIII.--ALASKA! 269
XIX.--ON THE KANDIK 283
XX.--THE DESERTER 296
XXI.--MISTER SQUIGG 312
XXII.--THE MAN WHO DIDN'T FIT 325
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"Like his father before him, he was answering
the call of the gold" _Frontispiece_
"Making sure that the boy slept, he began
silently to assemble his trail pack" 42
"McDougall's prize _malamutes_ shot out on the
trail" 52
"When Connie opened his eyes, daylight had
vanished" 67
"What could one small boy do in the face of
the ultimatum of these men of the North?" 81
"My dad would have got out, and, you bet,
so will I!" 103
"Now, what d' yo' think of that! I'd sho' hate
fo' this heah rope to break!" 116
Connie Morgan "stared spellbound at the
terrible splendour of the changing lights" 136
"Waseche Bill attacked the hard-packed snow
with his axe" 149
"We'ah lost, kid. It's a cinch we cain't find
the divide" 154
"The boy's lips moved in prayer, the only one
he had ever learned" 166
"The two partners stared open-mouthed at the
apparition. _The face was white!_" 183
"With a palsied arm he motioned to O'Brien,
who stepped before him" 195
"The boy's fifteen-foot lash sang through the
thin air" 216
"As they passed between the pillared rocks
the Indians broke cover, hurling their
copper-tipped harpoons as they ran" 232
"You make me tired!" cried Connie. "Anybody'd
think you needed a city, with the streets all
numbered, to find your way around" 237
"Without waiting for a reply, Connie slipped
softly over the edge" 262
"Recklessly O'Brien rushed out upon the
glittering span of snow while Connie and
Waseche watched breathlessly" 272
"My dad followed British Kronk eight hundred
miles through the snow before he caught
him--and then--you just wait." 299
"Mechanically he drew the knife from its sheath
and dragged himself to the body of the
moose." 310
"Between them walked a little, rat-faced man.
The man was Mr. Squigg." 331
"Squigg slunk into the star-lit night." 337
Connie Morgan in Alaska
CHAPTER I
SAM MORGAN'S BOY
Connie Morgan, or as he is affectionately called by the big, bearded men
of the Yukon, Sam Morgan's boy, now owns one of the crack dog teams of
Alaska. For Connie has set his heart upon winning the great Alaska
Sweepstakes--the grandest and most exciting race in all the world, a
race that crowds both driver and dogs to the very last measure of
endurance, sagacity, and skill.
But that is another story. For Connie also owns what is probably the
most ludicrous and ill-assorted three-dog team ever assembled; and he is
never so happy as when jogging slowly over the trail behind old Boris,
Mutt, and Slasher.
No sourdough in his right senses would give fifty dollars for the three,
but Sam Morgan's boy would gladly sacrifice his whole team of
thousand-dollar dogs to save any one of them. For it was the fine
courage and loyalty of this misfit team that enabled him to beat out the
Ten Bow stampede and file on "One Below Discovery," next to Waseche
Bill, the big sourdough who is his partner--and who loves him as Sam
Morgan loved him before he crossed the Big Divide.
Sam Morgan was among those who went to Alaska in the first days of the
great gold rush. Like Peg's father in the play, Sam Morgan could do
anything but make money. So when the news came of gold--bright, yellow
gold lying loose on the floors of creeks up among the snows of the
Arctic--Sam Morgan bid his wife and boy good-bye at the door of the
little cottage in a ten-car | 1,772.075294 |
2023-11-16 18:46:36.0571720 | 2,611 | 13 |
_VIZETELLY'S RUSSIAN NOVELS._
Uncle's Dream;
AND
The Permanent Husband.
CELEBRATED RUSSIAN NOVELS
By FEDOR DOSTOIEFFSKY.
_Translated from the original Russian by Fred. Whishaw._
"There are three Russian novelists who, though, with one
exception, little known out of their own country, stand head and
shoulders above most of their contemporaries. In the opinion of
some not indifferent critics, they are superior to all other
novelists of this generation. Two of them, Dostoieffsky and
Turgenieff, died not long ago; the third, Lyof Tolstoi, still
lives. The one with the most marked individuality of character,
probably the most highly gifted, was unquestionably
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_In crown 8vo. containing nearly 500 pages, price 6s._
THE IDIOT.
"Is unquestionably a work of great power and originality. M.
Dostoieffsky crowds his canvas with living organisms, depicted
with extreme vividness."--_Scotsman._
_In crown 8vo, price 5s._
THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY; AND THE GAMBLER.
"Dostoieffsky is one of the keenest observers of humanity amongst
modern novelists. Both stories are very valuable as pictures of a
society and a people with whom we are imperfectly acquainted, but
who deserve the closest scrutiny."--_Public Opinion._
_Third edition. In crown 8vo, with Portrait and Memoir, price 5s._
INJURY AND INSULT.
"That 'Injury and Insult' is a powerful novel few will deny. Vania
is a marvellous character. Once read, the book can never be
forgotten."--_St. Stephen's Review._
"A masterpiece of fiction. The author has treated with consummate
tact the difficult character of Natasha, 'the incarnation of the
slave of passion.' She lives and breathes in these vivid pages,
and the reader is drawn into the vortex of her anguish, and
rejoices when she breaks free from her chain."--_Morning Post._
_Third edition. In crown 8vo, 450 pages, price 6s._
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT.
"Dostoieffsky is one of the most remarkable of modern writers, and
his book, 'CRIME AND PUNISHMENT' is one of the most moving of
modern novels. It is the story of a murder and of the punishment
which dogs the murderer; and its effect is unique in fiction. It
is realism, but such realism as M. Zola and his followers do not
dream of. The reader knows the personages--strange grotesque,
terrible personages they are--more intimately than if he had been
years with them in the flesh. He is constrained to live their
lives, to suffer their tortures, to scheme and resist with them,
exult with them, weep and laugh and despair with them; he breathes
the very breath of their nostrils, and with the madness that comes
upon them he is afflicted even as they. This sounds extravagant
praise, no doubt; but only to those who have not read the volume.
To those who have, we are sure that it will appear rather under
the mark than otherwise."--_The Athenaeum._
_VIZETELLY'S RUSSIAN NOVELS._
Uncle's Dream;
AND
The Permanent Husband.
By FEDOR DOSTOIEFFSKY,
AUTHOR OF "CRIME AND PUNISHMENT," "INJURY AND INSULT," "THE IDIOT," "THE
FRIEND OF THE FAMILY; AND THE GAMBLER."
TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY FREDERICK WHISHAW.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
_VIZETELLY & CO., 16, HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN._
1888.
CONTENTS
UNCLE'S DREAM.
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.
Footnotes
THE PERMANENT HUSBAND
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.
UNCLE'S DREAM.
CHAPTER I.
Maria Alexandrovna Moskaleva was the principal lady of Mordasoff--there was
no doubt whatever on that point! She always bore herself as though _she_
did not care a fig for anyone, but as though no one else could do without
_her_. True, there were uncommonly few who loved her--in fact I may say
that very many detested her; still, everyone was afraid of her, and that
was what she liked!
Now, why did Maria Alexandrovna, who dearly loves scandal, and cannot
sleep at night unless she has heard something new and piquant the day
before,--why, or how did she know how to bear herself so that it would
never strike anyone, looking at her, to suppose that the dignified lady
was the most inveterate scandal-monger in the world--or at all events in
Mordasoff? On the contrary, anyone would have said at once, that scandals
and such-like pettiness must vanish in her presence; and that
scandal-mongers, caught red-handed by Maria Alexandrovna, would blush and
tremble, like schoolboys at the entrance of the master; and that the talk
would immediately be diverted into channels of the loftiest and most
sublime subjects so soon as she entered the room. Maria Alexandrovna knew
many deadly and scandalous secrets of certain other Mordasoff inhabitants,
which, if she liked to reveal them at any convenient opportunity, would
produce results little less terrible than the earthquake of Lisbon. Still,
she was very quiet about the secrets she knew, and never let them out
except in cases of absolute need, and then only to her nearest and dearest
friends. She liked to hint that she knew certain things, and frighten
people out of their wits; preferring to keep them in a state of perpetual
terror, rather than crush them altogether.
This was real talent--the talent of tactics.
We all considered Maria Alexandrovna as our type and model of
irreproachable _comme-il-faut_! She had no rival in this respect in
Mordasoff! She could kill and annihilate and pulverize any rival with a
single word. We have seen her do it; and all the while she would look as
though she had not even observed that she had let the fatal word fall.
Everyone knows that this trait is a speciality of the highest circles.
Her circle of friends was large. Many visitors to Mordasoff left the town
again in an ecstasy over her reception of them, and carried on a
correspondence with her afterwards! Somebody even addressed some poetry to
her, which she showed about the place with great pride. The novelist who
came to the town used to read his novel to her of an evening, and ended by
dedicating it to her; which produced a very agreeable effect. A certain
German professor, who came from Carlsbad to inquire into the question of a
little worm with horns which abounds in our part of the world, and who
wrote and published four large quarto volumes about this same little
insect, was so delighted and ravished with her amiability and kindness
that to this very day he carries on a most improving correspondence upon
moral subjects from far Carlsbad!
Some people have compared Maria Alexandrovna, in certain respects, with
Napoleon. Of course it may have been her enemies who did so, in order to
bring Maria Alexandrovna to scorn; but all I can say is, How is it that
Napoleon, when he rose to his highest, that _too_ high estate of his,
became giddy and fell? Historians of the old school have ascribed this to
the fact that he was not only not of royal blood, but was not even a
gentleman! and therefore when he rose too high, he thought of his proper
place, the ground, became giddy and fell! But why did not Maria
Alexandrovna's head whirl? And how was it that she could always keep her
place as the first lady of Mordasoff?
People have often said this sort of thing of Maria Alexandrovna; for
instance: "Oh--yes, but how would she act under such and such difficult
circumstances?" Yet, when the circumstances arose, Maria Alexandrovna
invariably rose also to the emergency! For instance, when her
husband--Afanassy Matveyevitch--was obliged to throw up his appointment, out
of pure incapacity and feebleness of intellect, just before the government
inspector came down to look into matters, all Mordasoff danced with
delight to think that she would be down on her knees to this inspector,
begging and beseeching and weeping and praying--in fact, that she would
drop her wings and fall; but, bless you, nothing of the sort happened!
Maria Alexandrovna quite understood that her husband was beyond praying
for: he must retire. So she only rearranged her affairs a little, in such
a manner that she lost not a scrap of her influence in the place, and her
house still remained the acknowledged head of all Mordasoff Society!
The procurer's wife, Anna Nicolaevna Antipova, the sworn foe of Maria
Alexandrovna, though a friend so far as could be judged outside, had
already blown the trumpet of victory over her rival! But when Society
found that Maria Alexandrovna was extremely difficult to put down, they
were obliged to conclude that the latter had struck her roots far deeper
than they had thought for.
As I have mentioned Afanassy Matveyevitch, Maria Alexandrovna's husband, I
may as well add a few words about him in this place.
Firstly, then, he was a most presentable man, so far as exterior goes, and
a very high-principled person besides; but in critical moments he used to
lose his head and stand looking like a sheep which has come across a new
gate. He looked very majestic and dignified in his dress-coat and white
tie at dinner parties, and so on; but his dignity only lasted until he
opened his mouth to speak; for then--well, you'd better have shut your
ears, ladies and gentlemen, when he began to talk--that's all! Everyone
agreed that he was quite unworthy to be Maria Alexandrovna's husband. He
only sat in his place by virtue of his wife's genius. In my humble opinion
he ought long ago to have been derogated to the office of frightening
sparrows in the kitchen garden. There, and only there, would he have been
in his proper sphere, and doing some good to his fellow countrymen.
Therefore, I think Maria Alexandrovna did a very wise thing when she sent
him away to her village, about a couple of miles from town, where she
possessed a property of some hundred and twenty souls--which, to tell the
truth, was all she had to keep up the respectability and grandeur of her
noble house upon!
Everybody knew that Afanassy was only kept because he had earned a salary
and perquisites; so that when he ceased to earn the said salary and
perquisites, | 1,772.077212 |
2023-11-16 18:46:36.2531600 | 7,435 | 10 |
Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
Transcriber's Note:
Page scan source:
http://books.google.com/books?id=sF8qAAAAYAAJ&dq
* * * * *
BOOKS BY HERMANN SUDERMANN
Published By CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
The Joy of Living (_Es Lebe das Leben_). A Play in Five Acts.
Translated from the German by Edith Wharton. _net_ $1.25
Roses. Four One-Act Plays. Translated from the German by Grace Frank.
_net_ $1.25
Morituri. Three One-Act Plays. Translated from the German by Archibald
Alexander. _net_ $1.25
* * * * *
ROSES
ROSES
FOUR ONE-ACT PLAYS
STREAKS OF LIGHT--THE LAST VISIT
--MARGOT--THE FAR-AWAY PRINCESS
BY
HERMANN SUDERMANN
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN
BY
GRACE FRANK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
NEW YORK:::::::::::::::::::::::: 1909
Copyright, 1909, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published September, 1909
CONTENTS
Streaks Of Light
Margot
The Last Visit
The Far-away Princess
I
STREAKS OF LIGHT
A PLAY IN ONE ACT
CHARACTERS
Julia.
Pierre.
Wittich.
The Present Day
_The action takes place at a small pavilion situated in the park
belonging to an old castle_.
STREAKS OF LIGHT
_An octagonal pavilion of the Rococo period, the three front walls of
which are cut off by the proscenium. Ceiling and walls are cracked and
spotted by rain, and bear the marks of long disuse. At the back, in the
centre, a large doorway. The glass door is thrown wide open; the
shutters behind are closed. On the right and left, in the oblique walls
of the room, are windows, the shutters of which are also closed.
Through the blinds at the door and the right window, sunbeams in
streaks of light penetrate the semi-darkness of the room._
_On the left, in the foreground, a Louis Sixteenth sofa with table and
gilded chairs to match. On the wall above, an old mirror. Near the
sofa, a tapestried doorway. A chandelier wrapped in a dusty gauze
covering is suspended from the ceiling. A four-post bed with hangings
of light net takes up the right side of the stage. In the foreground,
in front of the bed, a table with plates, glasses, wine-decanters, and
provisions on it. A coffee percolator stands under the table. In the
middle of the stage, a little to the right, a chaise-longue. At the
head of it, a small table. Between the large door and the windows,
dusty marble busts on dilapidated pedestals. Above them, on the walls,
a collection of various sorts of weapons. The Oriental rugs which are
thrown about the floor and over the chaise-longue contrast strangely
with the faded splendour of the past._
_The whole room is decorated with roses. On the table at the left is a
bronze vessel of antique design overflowing with roses. Garlands of
roses hang from the chandelier and encircle the bedposts. On the small
table near the chaise-longue, a large, flat dish, also filled with
roses. In fact wherever there is any place for these flowers, they have
been used in profusion._
_Part of the table which stands in front of the sofa is covered by a
napkin, upon which are seen a bottle of wine and the remains of a
luncheon for one. It is a sultry afternoon in midsummer._
Julia _lies on the chaise-longue, asleep. She is a beautiful woman,
about twenty-five years of age, intractable and passionate, with traces
of a bourgeois desire to be "romantic." She is dressed in white,
flowing draperies, fantastically arranged._
_A tower clock strikes four. Then the bells of the castle are heard
ringing. Both seem to be at a distance of about two hundred paces._
Pierre _enters cautiously through the tapestried doorway at the left.
He is a fashionably dressed, aristocratic young fellow who has been
petted and spoiled. He is effeminate, cowardly, arrogant, and is trying
to play the passionate man, although inwardly cold and nervous._
Julia.
(_Laughs in her sleep. Her laughter dies out in groans._) Pierre!
Pierre! Help! Pierre!
Pierre (_bending over her_).
Yes, yes. What is it?
Julia.
Nothing-- (_Laughs and goes on sleeping_).
Pierre (_straightening up_).
Whew How hot it is! (_He stares at_ Julia, _his face distorted by fear
and anger, and beats his forehead. Then indicating the outstretched
form of the woman._) Beautiful!--You beautiful animal--you! (_Kneels_.
Julia _holds out her arms to him, but he evades her embrace._) Stop!
Wake up!
Julia (_tearfully_).
Please let me sleep.
Pierre.
No! Wake up! I've only come for a moment. It's tea-time, and I have to
go back to the house.
Julia.
Please stay!
Pierre.
No, mamma will be asking for me. I have to be there for tea.
Julia (_pettishly_).
I have a headache. I want some black coffee!
Pierre.
Then make it yourself. The gardener is cleaning the orchid rooms in the
hot-house, and he has no time for you now.
Julia.
He never has time for me!--And the meals that his wife cooks are simply
abominable!--And the wine is always warm!--Do, for mercy's sake, steal
the key to the icehouse!
Pierre.
But you know that I can't!--I always bring you all the ice that I can
manage to take from the table. If I insist upon having the key, the
housekeeper will tell mamma.
Julia.
But I won't drink warm wine--so there! That's what gives me these
headaches.
Pierre.
Your headaches, I want to tell you, come from the roses. Ugh!--this
nasty smell from the withered ones--sour--like stale tobacco
smoke--why, it burns the brains out of one's head!
Julia.
See here, dearie, you let the roses alone! That was our agreement, you
know--basketsful, every morning! I wish the gardener would bring even
more! That's what he's bribed for.--More! More! Always more!
Pierre.
See here, if you were only reasonable----
Julia.
But I'm not reasonable! O you--you-- (_She holds out her arms to him.
He comes to her. They kiss._) More!--More!--No end!--Ah, to die!----
Pierre (_freeing himself_).
Oh!
Julia.
To die!
Pierre (_with hidden scorn_).
Yes--to die. (_Yawning nervously._) Pardon me!--It's as hot as an oven
in here.
Julia.
And the shutters are always closed! For eight long days I've seen
nothing of the sun except these streaks of light. Do open the
shutters--just once!
Pierre.
For Heaven's sake!
Julia.
Just for a second!
Pierre.
But don't you realize that the pavilion is locked and that not a soul
ever crosses the threshold?
Julia.
Oh, yes, I know--because your lovely, reckless great-grandmother lost
her life here a hundred years ago! That's one of those old-wives' tales
that everyone knows.--Who can tell? Perhaps my fate will be the same as
hers.--But do open the shutters!
Pierre.
Do be reasonable! You know that in order to come in here by the side
door without being seen I have to crawl through the woods for a hundred
yards. The same performance twice a day--for a week! Now, if I should
open the shutters and one of the gardener's men should see it, why,
he'd come, and then----
Julia.
Let him come! I'll smile at him--and he's no man if he doesn't keep
quiet after that! Why, your old gardener would cut his hand off
for me any day of his life--just for a bit of wheedling!--It can't be
helped--they all love me!
Pierre (_aside_).
Beast!
Julia.
What were you muttering then? (Pierre _throws himself down before her
and weeps._) Pierre! Crying?--Oh!--Please don't--or I'll cry too. And
my head aches so!
Pierre (_softly but nervously and with hatred_).
Do you know what I'd like to do? Strangle you!
Julia.
Ha! Ha! Ha!--(_pityingly_) Dear me! Those soft fingers--so weak!--My
little boy has read in a naughty book that people strangle their
loves--and so he wants to do some strangling too!
Pierre (_rising_).
Well, what's to become of you? How much longer is the game to last in
this pavilion?
Julia.
As long as the roses bloom--that was agreed, you know.
Pierre.
And then?
Julia.
Bah! Then!--Why think of it? I'm here now, here under the protection of
your lovely, ghostly great-grandmother. No one suspects--no one dreams!
My husband is searching for me the whole world over!--That was a clever
notion of mine--writing him from Brussels--Nora, last act, last
scene--and then coming straight back again! I'll wager he's in Paris
now, sitting at the Cafe des Anglais, and looking up and down the
street--now toward the Place de l'Opera, now toward the Madeleine. Will
you wager? I'll go you anything you say. Well, go on, wager!
Pierre.
On anything else you wish--but not on that!
Julia.
Why not?
Pierre.
Because your husband was at the castle this morning.
Julia (_rising hastily_).
My husband--was--at the castle----?
Pierre.
What's so surprising about that? He always used to come, you know--our
nearest neighbour--and all that sort of thing.
Julia.
Did he have a reason for coming?
Pierre.
A special reason?--No.
Julia.
Pierre--you're concealing something from me!
Pierre (_hesitating_).
Nothing that I know of. No.
Julia.
Why didn't you come at once? And now--why have you waited to tell me?
Pierre (_sullenly_).
You're hearing it soon enough.
Julia.
Pierre, what happened? Tell me, exactly!
Pierre.
Well, he came in the little runabout--without a groom--and asked for
mamma. I naturally pretended to be going out. But you know how she
always insists on my staying with her.
Julia.
And how was he was he--just the same as ever?
Pierre.
Oh, no, I wouldn't say that.
Julia.
How did he look? Tell me, tell me!
Pierre.
In the first place, he wore black gloves--like a gravedigger.
Julia.
Ha! Ha! And what else?
Pierre.
In the second place, he was everlastingly twitching his legs.
Julia.
And what else? What else?
Pierre.
Oh, he explained that you were at a Hungarian watering-place, that you
were improving, and that you were expected home soon. (Julia _bursts
out laughing._) Yes, (_gloomily_) it's screamingly funny, isn't it.
Julia.
So I'm at a Hungarian watering-place! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Pierre.
But he looked at me so questioningly, so--so mournfully--why, it was
really most annoying the way he looked at me.
Julia.
At a Hungarian watering-place!
Pierre.
And then, later, mamma said to him, "It's a dreadful pity your dear
wife isn't here just now. She does so love the roses."
Julia.
And what did he say?
Pierre.
"Our roses are not thriving very well this year," said he.
Julia.
But his turnips!--They always thrive!--And then----?
Pierre.
Then a strange thing occurred that I can't help worrying about.
Suddenly mamma said to him, "Something very peculiar is happening on
our estate this year. Now I can see from where I sit that the whole
place is one mass of roses. And yet, if at any time I ask for a few
more than usual, there are none to be had!"
Julia.
Why, you must have been shaking in your boots! Did you do anything to
betray us?
Pierre.
Oh, I think I know how to take care of myself!--But suddenly he grew
absolutely rigid--as if--as if he had been reflecting. He acted like a
man who sleeps with his eyes open. Mamma asked him a question three
times, and he never answered a word!
Julia.
I say, did you come here to frighten me?
Pierre (_bursting out_).
What is your fear compared to what I had to stand! Compared to my
biting, nauseous shame as I sat there opposite him?--I scorned the man
inwardly, and yet I felt as if I ought to lick the dust on his boots.
When mamma said to him, "You don't look very well, Herr Wittich--are
you ill?"--her words were like the box on the ear that she gave me
when, as a lad of fifteen, I got into mischief with the steward's
daughter.--Why did you drag me into this loathsome business? I don't
like it!--I won't stand it!--I like to feel straight! I want my hands
clean!--I want to look down on the people that I meet!--I owe that to
myself.
Julia.
Reproaches?--I'd like to know who has the guilty conscience in this
case, you or I?
Pierre.
How long have you been concerned about your conscience?
Julia.
Pierre, you know I had never belonged to any other man--except him.
Pierre.
But you've showered sweet glances right and left. You've flirted with
every man who would look at you--even the stable-boy wasn't beneath
your notice!
Julia.
And he was better than you!--For he wanted nothing more than to follow
me with his eyes. But you, Pierre, you were not so easily satisfied.
No, the young Count was more exacting. Corrupt to the core--in spite of
his twenty years----
Pierre (_proudly_).
I am not a bit corrupt. I am a dreamer. My twenty years excuse that!
Julia.
But your dreams are poisonous. You want a woman to be your mistress and
yet be chaste--to keep the blush of maidenhood and yet be as passionate
as yourself.--And what have you learned from your experience in the
world? Nothing, except how to scent and track out the sins that lie
hidden in one's inmost soul, the secret sins that one dares not admit
to oneself.--And when the prey is in reach, then you fire away with
your "rights of the modern woman," your "sovereignty of the freed
individuality"--and whatever the rest of the phrases may be.--Ah! You
knew better than I that we all have the Scarlet Woman's blood in our
veins!--Blow away the halo--and the saint is gone!
Pierre.
It seems to me you found a great deal of pleasure in your sin!
Julia.
Yes--at least that's what one tells oneself--perhaps one feels it,
too.--It depends--more in the evening than the morning--more in March
than October.--But the dread, the horror of it, is always there.--The
weight of such love is like the weight of one's own coffin-lid.--And
you soon discovered that, Pierre.--Then you began softly, gently, to
bind me to you with glances and caresses that were like chains of
roses!--Yes, and that I become maddened by roses as cats by valerian,
that, too, you soon found out.--Then--then you began to speak to me of
the lover's pavilion--all covered with roses--where your ancestors
spent happy, pastoral hours in wooing their loves--the pavilion that
had been waiting so long for a new mistress. You spoke of adorning it
with beautiful hangings--of filling it full of roses. Oh you, you
Pierre, how well you understood!--Do have some black coffee made for
me! If the gardener can't do it, make it yourself! Please, please!
Pierre.
But, I tell you, I have to go back to mamma.
Julia.
Nowadays, you always "have to go back to mamma." Shall I tell you
something--a big secret? You are tired of me! You want to get rid
of me--only you don't know how!
Pierre.
Your notions are offensive, my dear.
Julia.
Pierre, I know my fate. I know I am doomed to the gutter. But not
yet! Don't leave me yet! Care for me a little while longer--so the
fall won't be too sudden.--Let me stay here as long as the roses
bloom--here, where _he_ can't find me! Oh, if I leave this place I
shall die of fear!--Nowhere else am I safe from those two great fists
of his!--Pierre, Pierre, you don't know his fists--they're like two
iron bolts!--You, too--beware of him!
Pierre (_half to himself_).
Why do you say that to me?
Julia.
He was always jealous of you. When you sent the hothouse roses in
April, he became suspicious. Ever since then, he has continually had
the notion of an admirer in his head. That was the danger-signal!
Pierre, if he surmised--then you would be the first--and I would come
afterward! Pierre, if you drive me to desperation, I'll give you up to
him!----
Pierre.
Are you mad?
Julia.
I'll write him a letter something like this: "If you want to find the
traces of my flight, search the rubbish heap behind the lover's
pavilion. Search for the faded petals of the roses upon which, night
after night, Pierre and I celebrated our union. Search the highway for
the bloody prints of my bare feet after he turned me out. Then search
the dregs of the brothels where I found a refuge. And then--then avenge
me!"
Pierre.
You'll do nothing of the kind, you-- (_Seizes her by the wrists._)
Julia (_laughing_).
Nonsense! You have no strength! (_Disengages herself without
difficulty._)
Pierre.
You've taken it out of me, you beast!
Julia.
Beast?--You've been muttering that word now for a couple of days. This
is the first time that you have flung it in my face.--What have I done
that was bestial except to throw my young life at your feet?--And so
this is the end of our rose-fete?----
Pierre (_in a low voice, breathing with difficulty_).
No, not yet--the end is still to come!
Julia.
I dare say.
Pierre.
In fact--you must--leave here.
Julia.
I dare say.
Pierre.
Do you understand?--You must leave this place--at once!
Julia.
H'm--just so.
Pierre.
For--you must know--you are no longer safe here.
Julia (_turning pale_).
Not here either?--Not even here?----
Pierre.
I didn't tell you everything, before.
Julia.
Are you up to some new trick now?
Pierre.
After I had accompanied him down the steps, he asked--very suddenly--to
see the park.
Julia.
The park----?
Pierre.
Yes. And he seemed to be searching every rose-bush as if to count
the number of blossoms that had been cut from it. Then--in the linden
lane--I kept pushing to the left--he kept pushing to the right,
straight for the pavilion. And as it stood before us----
Julia (_terrified_).
The pavilion?
Pierre.
Certainly.
Julia (_shuddering_).
So near!
Pierre.
He said he'd like to see the old thing once, from the inside.
Julia.
Good heavens! But he knows that's impossible--he knows your family
history!
Pierre.
And you may be sure that's how I put it to him.
Julia.
And what did he----?
Pierre.
He was silent--and went back.
Julia.
Went back! But he'll return!----
Pierre.
You've dumped me into a pretty mess, you have!
Julia.
Do, for goodness' sake, stop pitying yourself, and tell me what's to be
done.
Pierre.
Haven't I told you?
Julia.
I'll not go away! I will not go away! He can't come in here! I will not
leave this place!
Pierre.
Listen! I'll have a carriage here--at one o'clock in the night--behind
the park wall. Take it as far as the station.--Listen, I tell you!
Julia.
No, no, no! As soon as I step into the street, I'm lost. And you, too!
You don't know him! Gentle and tractable as he seems, when once he's
angry, his blood boils over!--If I hadn't taken the cartridges out of
his revolver in those days, he-- Why, I've seen him pick up two
unmanageable boys on our place and swing them over his shoulder into
the mill stream! And they would have been ground to pieces, too, if he
hadn't braced himself against the shaft. Pierre, Pierre, never get into
his way again. He's merciless!
Pierre (_feigning indifference_).
Oh, nonsense! I can hit the ace of hearts at twenty paces! I'll show
him!
Julia.
Yes, you'll "show him"! Do you suppose that he's going to wait until
you take a shot at him?--Devilish much he cares about your duels! He'd
make a clod of earth out of you before you'd have time to take off your
hat!--I tell you, bolt the gate, lock every room in the house, hide
behind your mother's chair,--and even there you won't be safe from him!
Pierre.
(_Struggling against his growing apprehension._) If that's the case,
then--h'm, then the best thing for me to do is to disappear for a time.
Julia (_trying to cling to him_).
Yes, let's go away together!
Pierre (_moving aside_).
That might suit you.
Julia.
But, after all, it would do no good. We could hide among crowds of
people--in Piccadilly or in Batignolles--we could go to India or to
Texas--and yet, if he took it into his head, he would find us none the
less. Even if we should evade him--some day, sooner or later, you would
have to return--and then--you would have to pay the penalty!
Pierre (_stammering_).
I--would--have to----
Julia (_wildly_).
So stay--stay here! Go and shoot him down!--at night--from behind!--It
doesn't matter! Only--let--me--breathe--again.
Pierre.
Do you want to drive me mad? Don't you see that I'm trembling all over?
Julia.
Because you're a cad and a coward--because----
Pierre.
Yes, yes--anything, for all I care! But go! Leave my property! Insult
me, spit on me,--but go!
Julia.
And what then? What then?
Pierre.
Can't you write to him? Tell him that you have come back from your
little journey--that you have reconsidered--that you can't live without
him. Tell him to forget--and all shall be as it was before.--Now,
wouldn't that be splendid?
Julia.
Now when he suspects?--When he can follow me, step by step, here to
this pavilion and back again? (_Contemptuously._) Splendid!
Pierre.
Then try something else!--Oh, now I have it! Now I have it!
Julia.
Speak, Pierre, for God's sake, speak! I'll love you as--! Speak! Speak!
Pierre.
You know him. His heart is soft?
Julia.
Yes, except when he's in a rage, then----
Pierre.
And you are sure that he loves you deeply?
Julia.
If he didn't love me so much, what need we fear?
Pierre.
Good! Well then, take a carriage at the station and drive home; throw
yourself at his feet and tell him everything. Tell him, for all I care,
that you hate me--that you loathe me--I don't mind--grovel before him
until he raises you. And then all will be well!
Julia.
Ah, if it were possible!--It would be deliverance--it would be heaven!
I should be safe once more--a human being!--I should see the sun again,
instead of these streaks of light!--I should breathe the fresh air,
instead of this musty odour of dead roses!--I shouldn't have to sink
down, down into the filth!--I shouldn't have to be a bad woman--even if
I am one!--There would be a respectable divorce--or perhaps merely a
separation. For, I no longer dare hope to live with him as his wife,
even if I were satisfied to be no better than his dog for the rest of
my days!--Ah, but it cannot be! It cannot be! You don't know him. You
don't know what he's like when the veins stand out on his forehead!--He
would kill me!--Rather than that--kill me yourself!--Here--now--this
moment!--Get your duelling pistols. Oh no! There--there--there are
plenty of weapons! (_She pulls at the weapons on the wall, several of
which fall clattering upon the floor._) Swords--daggers--here! (_Throws
an armful on the chaise-longue._) They are rusty--but that doesn't
matter.--Take one! Stab me first--then--do as you please!--Live if you
can--do!--live as happily as you can! Your life is in your hands.
Pierre.
Yes--I dare say. Live!--But how? Where? (_Sobs chokingly._)
Julia.
Come, then--we'll die together--together! (_They sink into each other's
arms and remain motionless in mute despair. After a time_, Julia
_raises her head cautiously and looks about her._) Pierre!
Pierre (_troubled_).
Well?
Julia.
Has it occurred to you? Perhaps it isn't so, after all!
Pierre.
What do you mean?
Julia.
Perhaps we've just been talking ourselves into this notion, little by
little--think so?
Pierre.
You mean that he really wanted to do nothing but--look at the pavilion?
Julia.
Well, it's possible, you know.
Pierre.
Yes--at least nothing very unusual occurred.
Julia.
But your naughty, naughty conscience came and asserted itself. Ha! Ha!
What a silly little boy it is! A downright stupid little boy!
Pierre.
My imagination was always rather easily aroused. I----
Julia (_laughing without restraint_).
Such a stupid boy!--Pierre, let's make some coffee--for a change, eh?
Pierre.
But you know--I have to----
Julia.
Dear me, mamma has had her tea long ago. Tell her you sat down in the
shade--and fell asleep--anything! It's growing a bit shady here now.
See there! The streaks of light have gone. (_Indicates a corner of the
room in which the streaks of light have just grown dim._) Ah! but how
hot it is! (_Tears her dress open at the throat, breathing heavily._)
Will you bring me the coffee-pot, like a good boy?
Pierre (_listlessly_).
Oh, well--all right. (_Carries the coffee-pot to the table._)
Julia.
Pierre, you--you couldn't open the small door just a tiny bit? No one
would look into the shrubbery.
Pierre.
Well, out there in the shrubbery, it's even hotter than in here.
Julia.
Oh, just try it--won't you?
Pierre.
Well, you'll see! (_Opens the door at the left._)
Julia.
Whew! It's like a blast from a furnace! And that disgusting odour--a
mixture of perspiration and bad perfume--ugh!
Pierre.
That's from the roses of our by-gone days--they lie out there in great
heaps.
Julia.
Close the door! Hurry--close it!
Pierre (_does so_).
I told you how it would be!
Julia.
Well, perhaps you could adjust the shutters at the large door so that
we'd get more fresh air in here.
Pierre.
Even that would be dangerous. If some one happened to be looking this
way and saw the movement----
Julia (_going to the door_).
One has to do it slowly, ve-ry slow-ly-- (_She starts, uttering a low
cry of fear, and retreats to the foreground, her arms outstretched as
if she were warding off a ghost._)
Pierre.
What's the matter?
Julia.
Sh! Sh! (_Approaches him cautiously, then softly._) There's a man--out
there.
Pierre.
Where?
Julia.
Hush! Come here you can see it against the light. (_They cautiously
change places_. Pierre _utters a low shriek, then_ Julia, _softly,
despairingly_) Pierre!
Pierre.
It must be the gardener.
Julia.
It's not--the--gardener.
Pierre.
Who is it then?
Julia.
Creep around--and lock--the glass door.
Pierre (_weak from fright_).
I can't.
Julia.
Then I will. (_She has taken but a few steps toward the door when the
streaks of light again become visible._) He's gone now!
Pierre.
How--gone?
Julia.
There--there--nothing----
Pierre.
Seize the opportunity--and go.
Julia.
Where?
Pierre.
To the gardener's house--quick--before he comes back.
Julia.
In broad daylight--half dressed as I am?
Pierre.
Throw on a wrap--anything--hurry! (_Knocking at the door on the left.
They both stand rooted to the spot. The knocking is repeated. Then_
Pierre, _in a choking voice_) Come in.
(Wittich _enters. He is a large, burly man of about forty, whose whole
appearance betrays neglect; his sandy-coloured hair is pushed back from
his forehead in damp strands; his beard is straggling and unkempt; his
face is haggard and perspiring, his eyes lustreless. He staggers
heavily in walking. He speaks in a stammering, hesitating voice; he
gives the impression, in sum, of a man who is deathly ill, but is
making an intense effort to hold himself together._)
Wittich.
I beg your pardon if I am disturbing you. (_Both stare at him without
venturing to move._)
Pierre (_taking heart_).
Oh--p-p-please----
Wittich.
I see you were about to make coffee. Really--I don't want to----
Pierre (_stammering_).
P-p-please--th-there's no--hurry----
Wittich.
Well, then we may as well--settle--our affair--first. (Julia, _who has
been standing quite still, panting, utters a low groan. At the sound of
her voice_, Wittich _catches his breath as if suffocating, then sinks
into one of the chairs at the left and stares vacantly at the floor._)
Pierre (_edging up to_ Julia _then softly_).
Can you understand this?
Julia (_glancing back--aside to_ Pierre).
Keep near the weapons!
Pierre (_as_ Wittich _moves_).
Hush!
Wittich.
You must forgive me--I only wanted to--look after--my--wife. (_Breaks
down again._)
Pierre (_aside to_ Julia).
Why, he's quite out of his mind!
Julia.
Keep near the weapons!
Wittich.
I don't care--to settle--this matter--by means of a--so-called--affair
of honour. I'm a plain man. I only know about such things from hearsay.
And any way--I don't see that they help--m-matters much. (_Breaks into
tearless sobs._)
Pierre (_aside_).
He won't hurt us.
Julia (_st | 1,772.2732 |
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Produced by This etext was produced by P. K.Pehtla <[email protected]>
The Hound of the Baskervilles
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
CONTENTS
Chapter 1--Mr. Sherlock Holmes
Chapter 2--The Curse of the Baskervilles
Chapter 3--The Problem
Chapter 4--Sir Henry Baskerville
Chapter 5--Three Broken Threads
Chapter 6--Baskerville Hall
Chapter 7--The Stapletons of Merripit House
Chapter 8--First Report of Dr. Watson
Chapter 9--The Light Upon The Moor
Chapter 10--Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson
Chapter 11--The Man on the Tor
Chapter 12--Death on the Moor
Chapter 13--Fixing the Nets
Chapter 14--The Hound of the Baskervilles
Chapter 15--A Retrospection
Chapter 1
Mr. Sherlock Holmes
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings,
save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all
night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the
hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left
behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood,
bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as a "Penang lawyer."
Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch
across. "To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the
C.C.H.," was engraved upon it, with the date "1884." It was just
such a stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to
carry--dignified, solid, and reassuring.
"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"
Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no
sign of my occupation.
"How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in
the back of your head."
"I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in
front of me," said he. "But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of
our visitor's stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss
him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir
becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an
examination of it."
"I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods of my
companion, "that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical
man, well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of
their appreciation."
"Good!" said Holmes. "Excellent!"
"I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a
country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on
foot."
"Why so?"
"Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has
been so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town
practitioner carrying it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so
it is evident that he has done a great amount of walking with
it."
"Perfectly sound!" said Holmes.
"And then again, there is the 'friends of the C.C.H.' I should
guess that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose
members he has possibly given some surgical assistance, and which
has made him a small presentation in return."
"Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing back
his chair and lighting a cigarette. "I am bound to say that in
all the accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own
small achievements you have habitually underrated your own
abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you
are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius
have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I confess, my dear
fellow, that I am very much in your debt."
He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words
gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his
indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had
made to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think
that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way
which earned his approval. He now took the stick from my hands
and examined it for a few minutes with his naked eyes. Then with
an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, and
carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with a
convex lens.
"Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to his
favourite | 1,772.374186 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Lesley Halamek, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration]
SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN
A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF PRACTICAL INFORMATION, ART, SCIENCE, MECHANICS,
CHEMISTRY, AND MANUFACTURES.
NEW YORK, JULY 3, 1880 | 1,773.484799 |
2023-11-16 18:46:37.5532110 | 1,152 | 11 |
Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://www.archive.org/details/truantsnovel00maso
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
THE TRUANTS
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE FOUR FEATHERS.
CLEMENTINA.
MIRANDA OF THE BALCONY.
THE WATCHERS.
THE COURTSHIP OF MORRICE BUCKLER.
THE PHILANDERERS.
LAWRENCE CLAVERING.
ENSIGN KNIGHTLEY, AND OTHER STORIES.
THE TRUANTS
BY
A. E. W. MASON
AUTHOR OF
"THE FOUR FEATHERS," "MIRANDA OF THE BALCONY,"
ETC., ETC.
LONDON
SMITH, ELDER & CO., 15, WATERLOO PLACE
1904
(_All rights reserved_)
PRINTED BY
WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. Pamela Mardale learns a very little History.
II. Pamela looks on.
III. The Truants.
IV. Tony Stretton makes a Proposal.
V. Pamela makes a Promise.
VI. News of Tony.
VII. The Lady on the Stairs.
VIII. Gideon's Fleece.
IX. The New Road.
X. Mr. Chase.
XI. On the Dogger Bank.
XII. Tony's Inspiration.
XIII. Tony Stretton returns to Stepney.
XIV. Tony Stretton pays a Visit to Berkeley Square.
XV. Mr. Mudge comes to the Rescue.
XVI. The Foreign Legion.
XVII. Callon leaves England.
XVIII. South of Ouargla.
XIX. The Turnpike Gate.
XX. Mr. Chase does not answer.
XXI. Callon redivivus.
XXII. Mr. Mudge's Confession.
XXIII. Roquebrune Revisited.
XXIV. The End of the Experiment.
XXV. Tony Stretton bids Farewell to the Legion.
XXVI. Bad News for Pamela.
XXVII. "Balak!"
XXVIII. Homewards.
XXIX. Pamela meets a Stranger.
XXX. M. Giraud again.
XXXI. At the Reserve.
XXXII. Husband and Wife.
XXXIII. Millie's Story.
XXXIV. The Next Morning.
XXXV. The Little House in Deanery Street.
XXXVI. The End.
THE TRUANTS
CHAPTER I
PAMELA MARDALE LEARNS A VERY LITTLE HISTORY
There were only two amongst all Pamela Mardale's friends who guessed
that anything was wrong with her; and those two included neither her
father nor her mother. Her mother, indeed, might have guessed, had she
been a different woman. But she was a woman of schemes and little
plots, who watched with concentration their immediate developments,
but had no eyes for any lasting consequence. And it was no doubt as
well for her peace of mind that she never guessed. But of the others
it was unlikely that any one would suspect the truth. For Pamela made
no outward sign. She hunted through the winter from her home under the
Croft Hill in Leicestershire; she went everywhere, as the saying is,
during the season in London; she held her own in her own world,
lacking neither good spirits nor the look of health. There were,
perhaps, two small peculiarities which marked her off from her
companions. She was interested in things rather than in persons, and
she preferred to talk to old men rather than to youths. But such
points, taken by themselves, were not of an importance to attract
attention.
Yet there were two amongst her friends who suspected: Alan Warrisden
and the schoolmaster of Roquebrune, the little village carved out of
the hillside to the east of Monte Carlo. The schoolmaster was the
nearer to the truth, for he not only knew that something was amiss, he
suspected what the something was. But then he had a certain advantage,
since he had known Pamela Mardale when she was a child. Their
acquaintance came about in the following way--
He was leaning one evening of December over the parapet of the tiny
square beside the schoolhouse, when a servant from the Villa
Pontignard approached him.
"Could M. Giraud make it convenient to call at the villa at noon
to-morrow?" the servant asked. "Madame Mardale was anxious to speak to
him."
M. Giraud turned about with a glow of pleasure upon his face.
"Certainly," he replied. "But nothing could be more simple. I will be
at the Villa Pontignard as the clock strikes."
The servant bowed, and without another word paced away across the
square and up the narrow winding street of Roquebrune, leaving the
schoolmaster a little abashed at his display of eagerness. M. Giraud
recognised that in one man's | 1,773.573251 |
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Produced by Camille Bernard and Marc D'Hooghe at
http://www.freeliterature.org (Scans generously made
available by the Bodleian Library at Oxford)
THE PRAIRIE FLOWER
A TALE OF THE INDIAN BORDER
BY
GUSTAVE AIMARD,
AUTHOR OF
"THE INDIAN SCOUT," "TRAPPERS OF ARKANSAS," "TRAIL HUNTER,"
"GOLD SEEKERS," "BEE HUNTERS,"
ETC., ETC.
LONDON:
CHARLES HENRY CLARKE, 13 PATERNOSTER ROW,
1874
CONTENTS
I. A HUNTING ENCAMPMENT
II. A TRAIL DISCOVERED
III. THE EMIGRANTS
IV. THE GRIZZLY BEAR
V. THE STRANGE WOMAN
VI. THE DEFENCE OF THE CAMP
VII. THE INDIAN CHIEF
VIII. THE EXILE
IX. THE MASSACRE
X. THE GREAT COUNCIL
XI. AMERICAN HOSPITALITY
XII. THE SHE-WOLF OF THE PRAIRIE
XIII. THE INDIAN VILLAGE
XIV. THE RECEPTION
XV. THE WHITE BUFFALO
XVI. THE SPY
XVII. FORT MACKENZIE
XVIII. A MOTHER'S CONFESSION
XIX. THE CHASE
XX. INDIAN DIPLOMACY
XXI. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
XXII. IVON
XXIII. THE PLAN OF THIS CAMPAIGN
XXIV. THE CAMP OF THE BLACKFEET
XXV. BEFORE THE ATTACK
XXVI. RED WOLF
XXVII. THE ATTACK
XXVIII. CONCLUSION
CHAPTER I.
A HUNTING ENCAMPMENT.
America is the land of prodigies! Everything there assumes gigantic
proportions, which startle the imagination and confound the reason.
Mountains, rivers, lakes and streams, all are carved on a sublime
pattern.
There is a river of North America--not like the Danube, Rhine, or
Rhone, whose banks are covered with towns, plantations, and time-worn
castles: whose sources and tributaries are magnificent streams, the
waters of which, confined in a narrow bed, rush onwards as if impatient
to lose themselves in the ocean--but deep and silent, wide as an arm
of the sea, calm and severe in its grandeur, it pours majestically
onwards, its waters augmented by innumerable streams, and lazily bathes
the banks of a thousand isles, which it has formed of its own sediment.
These isles, covered with tall thickets, exhale a sharp or delicious
perfume which the breeze bears far away. Nothing disturbs their
solitude, save the gentle and plaintive appeal of the dove, or the
hoarse and strident voice of the tiger, as it sports beneath the shade.
At certain spots, trees that have fallen through old age, or have
been uprooted by the hurricane, collect on its waters; then, attached
by creepers and concealed by mud, these fragments of forests become
floating islands. Young shrubs take root upon them: the petunia and
nenuphar expand here and there their yellow roses; serpents, birds, and
caimans come to sport and rest on these verdurous rafts, and are with
them swallowed up in the ocean.
This river has no name! Others in the same zone are called Nebraska,
Platte, Missouri; but this is simply the _Mecha-Chebe_ the old father
of waters, _the_ river before all! the Mississippi in a word!
Vast and incomprehensible as is infinity, full of secret terrors, like
the Ganges and Irrawaddy, it is the type of fecundity, immensity, and
eternity to the numerous Indian nations that inhabit its banks.
* * * * *
Three men were seated on the bank of the river, a little below its
confluence with the Missouri, and were breakfasting on a slice of roast
elk, while gaily chatting together.
The spot where they were seated | 1,773.576303 |
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Transcribed from the 1887 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY
by Henry James
Florence, _April 5th_, 1874.--They told me I should find Italy greatly
changed; and in seven-and-twenty years there is room for changes. But to
me everything is so perfectly the same that I seem to be living my youth
over again; all the forgotten impressions of that enchanting time come
back to me. At the moment they were powerful enough; but they afterwards
faded away. What in the world became of them? Whatever becomes of such
things, in the long intervals of consciousness? Where do they hide
themselves away? in what unvisited cupboards and crannies of our being do
they preserve themselves? They are like the lines of a letter written in
sympathetic ink; hold the letter to the fire for a while and the grateful
warmth brings out the invisible words. It is the warmth of this yellow
sun of Florence that has been restoring the text of my own young romance;
the thing has been lying before me today as a clear, fresh page. There
have been moments during the last ten years when I have fell so
portentously old, so fagged and finished, that I should have taken as a
very bad joke any intimation that this present sense of juvenility was
still in store for me. It won't last, at any rate; so I had better make
the best of it. But I confess it surprises me. I have led too serious a
life; but that perhaps, after all, preserves one's youth. At all events,
I have travelled too far, I have worked too hard, I have lived in brutal
climates and associated with tiresome people. When a man has reached his
fifty-second year without being, materially, the worse for wear--when he
has fair health, a fair fortune, a tidy conscience and a complete
exemption from embarrassing relatives--I suppose he is bound, in
delicacy, to write himself happy. But I confess I shirk this obligation.
I have not been miserable; I won't go so far as to say that--or at least
as to write it. But happiness--positive happiness--would have been
something different. I don't know that it would have been better, by all
measurements--that it would have left me better off at the present time.
But it certainly would have made this difference--that I should not have
been reduced, in pursuit of pleasant images, to disinter a buried episode
of more than a quarter of a century ago. I should have found
entertainment more--what shall I call it?--more contemporaneous. I
should have had a wife and children, and I should not be in the way of
making, as the French say, infidelities to the present. Of course it's a
great gain to have had an escape, not to have committed an act of
thumping folly; and I suppose that, whatever serious step one might have
taken at twenty-five, after a struggle, and with a violent effort, and
however one's conduct might appear to be justified by events, there would
always remain a certain element of regret; a certain sense of loss
lurking in the sense of gain; a tendency to wonder, rather wishfully,
what _might_ have been. What might have been, in this case, would,
without doubt, have been very sad, and what has been has been very
cheerful and comfortable; but there are nevertheless two or three
questions I might ask myself. Why, for instance, have I never
married--why have I never been able to care for any woman as I cared for
that one? Ah, why are the mountains blue and why is the sunshine warm?
Happiness mitigated by impertinent conjectures--that's about my ticket.
6th.--I knew it wouldn't last; it's already passing away. But I have
spent a delightful day; I have been strolling all over the place.
Everything reminds me of something else, and yet of itself at the same
time; my imagination makes a great circuit and comes back to the starting-
point. There is that well-remembered odour of spring in the air, and the
flowers, as they used to be, are gathered into great sheaves and stacks,
all along the rugged base of the Strozzi Palace. I wandered for an hour
in the Boboli Gardens; we went there several times together. I remember
all those days individually; they seem to me as yesterday. I found the
corner where she always chose to sit--the bench of sun-warmed marble, in
front of the screen of ilex, with that exuberant statue of Pomona just
beside it. The place is exactly the same, except that poor Pomona has
lost one of her tapering fingers. I sat there for half an hour, and it
was strange how near to me she seemed. The place was perfectly
empty--that is, it was filled with _her_. I closed my eyes and listened;
I could almost hear the rustle of her dress on the gravel. Why do we
make such an ado about death? What is it, after all, but a sort of
refinement of life? She died ten years ago, and yet, as I sat there in
the sunny stillness, she was a palpable, audible presence. I went
afterwards into the gallery of the palace, and wandered for an hour from
room to room. The same great pictures hung in the same places, and the
same dark frescoes arched above them. Twice, of old, I went there with
her; she had a great understanding of art. She understood all sorts of
things. Before the Madonna of the Chair I stood a long time. The face
is not a particle like hers, and yet it reminded me of her. But
everything does that. We stood and looked at it together once for half
an hour; I remember perfectly what she said.
8th.--Yesterday I felt blue--blue and bored; and when I got up this
morning I had half a mind to leave Florence. But I went out into the
street, beside the Arno, and looked up and down--looked at the yellow
river and the violet hills, and then decided to remain--or rather, I
decided nothing. I simply stood gazing at the beauty of Florence, and
before I had gazed my fill I was in good-humour again, and it was too
late to start for Rome. I strolled along the quay, where something
presently happened that rewarded me for staying. I stopped in front of a
little jeweller's shop, where a great many objects in mosaic were exposed
in the window; I stood there for some minutes--I don't know why, for I
have no taste for mosaic. In a moment a little girl came and stood
beside me--a little girl with a frowsy Italian head, carrying a basket. I
turned away, but, as I turned, my eyes happened to fall on her basket. It
was covered with a napkin, and on the napkin was pinned a piece of paper,
inscribed with an address. This address caught my glance--there was a
name on it I knew. It was very legibly written--evidently by a scribe
who had made up in zeal what was lacking in skill. _Contessa
Salvi-Scarabelli, Via Ghibellina_--so ran the superscription; I looked at
it for some moments; it caused me a sudden emotion. Presently the little
girl, becoming aware of my attention, glanced up at me, wondering, with a
pair of timid brown eyes.
"Are you carrying your basket to the Countess Salvi?" I asked.
The child stared at me. "To the Countess Scarabelli."
"Do you know the Countess?"
"Know her?" murmured the child, with an air of small dismay.
"I mean, have you seen her?"
"Yes, I have seen her." And then, in a moment, with a sudden soft
smile--"_E bella_!" said the little girl. She was beautiful herself as
she said it.
"Precisely; and is she fair or dark?"
The child kept gazing at me. "_Bionda--bionda_," she answered, looking
about into the golden sunshine for a comparison.
"And is she young?"
"She is not young--like me. But she is not old like--like--"
"Like me, eh? And is she married?"
The little girl began to look wise. "I have never seen the Signor
Conte."
"And she lives in Via Ghibellina?"
"_Sicuro_. In a beautiful palace."
I had one more question to ask, and I pointed it with certain copper
coins. "Tell me a little--is she good?"
The child inspected a moment the contents of her little brown fist. "It's
you who are good," she answered.
"Ah, but the Countess?" I repeated.
My informant lowered her big brown eyes, with an air of conscientious
meditation that was inexpressibly quaint. "To me she appears so," she
said at last, looking up.
"Ah, then, she must be so," I said, "because, for your age, you are very
intelligent." And having delivered myself of this compliment I walked
away and left the little girl counting her _soldi_.
I walked back to the hotel, wondering how I could learn something about
the Contessa Salvi-Scarabelli. In the doorway I found the innkeeper, and
near him stood a young man whom I immediately perceived to be a
compatriot, and with whom, apparently, he had been in conversation.
"I wonder whether you can give me a piece of information," I said to the
landlord. "Do you know anything about the Count Salvi-Scarabelli?"
The landlord looked down at his boots, then slowly raised his shoulders,
with a melancholy smile. "I have many regrets, dear sir--"
"You don't know the name?"
"I know the name, assuredly. But I don't know the gentleman."
I saw that my question had attracted the attention of the young
Englishman, who looked at me with a good deal of earnestness. He was
apparently satisfied with what he saw, for he presently decided to speak.
"The Count Scarabelli is dead," he said, very gravely.
I looked at him a moment; he was a pleasing young fellow. "And his widow
lives," I observed, "in Via Ghibellina?"
"I daresay that is the name of the street." He was a handsome young
Englishman, but he was also an awkward one; he wondered who I was and
what I wanted, and he did me the honour to perceive that, as regards
these points, my appearance was reassuring. But he hesitated, very
properly, to talk with a perfect stranger about a lady whom he knew, and
he had not the art to conceal his hesitation. I instantly felt it to be
singular that though he regarded me as a perfect stranger, I had not the
same feeling about him. Whether it was that I had seen him before, or
simply that I was struck with his agreeable young face--at any rate, I
felt myself, as they say here, in sympathy with him. If I have seen him
before I don't remember the occasion, and neither, apparently, does he; I
suppose it's only a part of the feeling I have had the last three days
about everything. It was this feeling that made me suddenly act as if I
had known him a long time.
"Do you know the Countess Salvi?" I asked.
He looked at me a little, and then, without resenting the freedom of my
question--"The Countess Scarabelli, you mean," he said.
"Yes," I answered; "she's the daughter."
"The daughter is a little girl."
"She must be grown up now. She must be--let me see--close upon thirty."
My young Englishman began to smile. "Of whom are you speaking?"
"I was speaking of the daughter," I said, understanding his smile. "But
I was thinking of the mother."
"Of the mother?"
"Of a person I knew twenty-seven years ago--the most charming woman I
have ever known. She was the Countess Salvi--she lived in a wonderful
old house in Via Ghibellina."
"A wonderful old house!" my young Englishman repeated.
"She had a little girl," I went on; "and the little girl was very fair,
like her mother; and the mother and daughter had the same name--Bianca."
I stopped and looked at my companion, and he blushed a little. "And
Bianca Salvi," I continued, "was the most charming woman in the world."
He blushed a little more, and I laid my hand on his shoulder. "Do you
know why I tell you this? Because you remind me of what I was when I
knew her--when I loved her." My poor young Englishman gazed at me with a
sort of embarrassed and fascinated stare, and still I went on. "I say
that's the reason I told you this--but you'll think it a strange reason.
You remind me of my younger self. You needn't resent that--I was a
charming young fellow. The Countess Salvi thought so. Her daughter
thinks the same of you."
Instantly, instinctively, he raised his hand to my arm. "Truly?"
"Ah, you are wonderfully like me!" I said, laughing. "That was just my
state of mind. I wanted tremendously to please her." He dropped his
hand and looked away, smiling, but with an air of ingenuous confusion
which | 1,773.577194 |
2023-11-16 18:46:37.5571700 | 1,463 | 11 |
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/))
No. 1252. 25 Cents.
[Illustration: Lovell's
Library.
A TRI-WEEKLY
PUBLICATION OF THE BEST
CURRENT & STANDARD
LITERATURE]
Annual Subscription, $30. Entered at the Post Office, New York, as second
class matter, Oct. 16, 1838.
COUNTESS
VERA
BY
MRS. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER,
AUTHOR OF "A DREADFUL TEMPTATION," "QUEENIE'S TERRIBLE
SECRET," ETC., ETC.
_NEW YORK
JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY
14 & 16 VESEY STREET_
[Illustration: PEARLINE.]
Is better than any soap; handier, finer, more effective, more of it,
more for the money, and in the form of a powder, for your convenience.
Takes, as it were, the fabric in one hand, the dirt in the other, and
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As it saves the worst of the work, so it saves the worst of the wear.
It isn't the use of clothes that makes them old before their time; it
is rubbing and straining, getting the dirt out by main strength.
For scrubbing, house-cleaning, washing dishes, windows and glassware,
Pearline has no equal.
Beware of imitations, prize packages and peddlers.
JAMES PYLE, New York.
LYDIA E. PINKHAM'S
VEGETABLE COMPOUND
IS A POSITIVE CURE
_For all those painful Complaints and Weaknesses so common to our best
female population._
[Illustration]
It will cure entirely the worst form of Female Complaints, all Ovarian
troubles, Inflammation, Ulceration, Falling and Displacements of the
Womb and the consequent Spinal Weakness, and is particularly adapted to
the Change of Life.
It will dissolve and expel Tumors from the uterus in an early stage
of development. The tendency to cancerous humors there is checked
very speedily by its use. It removes faintness, flatulency, destroys
all craving for stimulants, and relieves weakness of the stomach. It
cures Bloating, Headaches, Nervous Prostration, General Debility,
Sleeplessness, Depression, and Indigestion.
That feeling of bearing down, causing pain, weight and backache, is
always permanently cured by its use.
It will at all times and under all circumstances act in harmony
with the laws that govern the female system. For the cure of Kidney
Complaints of either sex, this Compound is unsurpassed.
Lydia E. Pinkham's Vegetable Compound is prepared at Lynn, Mass. Price,
$1.00. Six bottles for $5.00. Sent by mail in the form of Pills, also
in the form of Lozenges, on receipt of price, $1.00 per box, for
either. Send for pamphlet. All letters of inquiry promptly answered.
Address as above.
COPYRIGHTED 1883.
COUNTESS VERA;
OR,
_The Oath of Vengeance_.
By MRS. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER.
CONTENTS
COUNTESS VERA.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
CHAPTER XL.
CHAPTER XLI.
CHAPTER XLII.
CHAPTER XLIII.
CHAPTER XLIV.
CHAPTER XLV.
CHAPTER XLVI.
CHAPTER XLVII.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
CHAPTER XLIX.
THE MYSTERIOUS BEAUTY.
CHAPTER I.
"Dead!"
Leslie Noble reels backward, stunned by the shuddering horror of that
one word--"_Dead_!" The stiff, girlish characters of the open letter
in his hand waver up and down before his dazed vision, so that he can
scarcely read the pathetic words, _so_ pathetic now when the little
hand that penned them lies cold in death.
"Dear Leslie," it says, "when you come to bid me good-bye in the
morning I shall be dead. That is best. You see, I did not know till
to-night my sad story, and that you did not love me. Poor mamma was
wrong to bind you so. I am very sorry, Leslie. There is nothing I can
do but _die_."
There is no signature to the sad little letter--none--but they have
taken it from the hand of his girl-wife, found dead in her bed this
morning--his bride of two days agone.
With a shudder of unutterable horror, his glance falls on the lovely,
girlish face, lying still and cold with the marble mask of death on
its beauty. A faint tinge of the rose lingers still on the delicate
lips, the long, curling fringe of the lashes lies darkly against the
white cheeks, the rippling, waving, golden hair falls in billows of
brightness over the pillow. This was his unloved bride, and she has
died the awful and tragic death of the _suicide_.
* * * * *
Let us go back a little in the story of this mournful tragedy, my
reader, go back to the upper chamber of that stately mansion, where, on
a wild night in October, a woman lay dying--dying of that subtle malady
beyond all healing--a broken heart.
"Vera, my darling," says the weak, faint voice, "come to me, dear."
A little figure that has been kneeling with its face in the
bed-clothes, | 1,773.57721 |
2023-11-16 18:46:37.7566590 | 2,615 | 23 |
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Anuradha Valsa Raj, Tonya Allen
and PG Distributed Proofreaders
[Illustration: "You can be worth a million... within a year"]
THE FORTUNE HUNTER
By
Louis Joseph Vance
Author Of "The Brass Bowl,"
"The Bronze Bell," Etc.
_With illustrations by_
Arthur William Brown
1910
To
George Spellvin, Esq.,
_This book is cheerfully dedicated_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. FROM HIM THAT HATH NOT
II. TO HIM THAT HATH
III. INSPIRATION
IV. TRIUMPH OF MR. HOMER LITTLE JOHN
V. MARGARET'S DAUGHTER
VI. INTRODUCTION TO MISS CARPENTER
VII. A WINDOW IN RADVILLE
VIII. THE MAN OF BUSINESS IN EMBRYO
IX. SMALL BEGINNINGS
X. ROLAND BARNETTE'S FRIEND
XI. BLINKY LOCKWOOD
XII. DUNCAN'S GRUBSTAKE
XIII. THE BUSINESS MAN AND MR. BURNHAM
XIV. MOSTLY ABOUT BETTY
XV. MANOEUVRES OF JOSIE
XVI. WHERE RADVILLE FEARED TO TREAD
XVII. TRACEY'S TROUBLES
XVIII. A BARGAIN IS A BARGAIN
XIX. PROVING THE PERSIPICUITY OF MR. KELLOGG
XX. ROLAND SHOWS HIS HAND
XXI. AS OTHERS SAW HIM
XXII. ROLAND'S TRIUMPH
XXIII. THE RAINBOW'S END
ILLUSTRATIONS
"You can be worth a million... within a year"
"You mean you're going to work here?"
"Four hundred dollars, Mr. Sheriff"
"Betty!"
"You're a thief with a reward out for you"
"Forever and ever and a day"
I
FROM HIM THAT HATH NOT
Receiver at ear, Spaulding, of Messrs. Atwater & Spaulding, importers
of motoring garments and accessories, listened to the switchboard
operator's announcement with grave attention, acknowledging it with a
toneless: "All right. Send him in." Then hooking up the desk telephone
he swung round in his chair to face the door of his private office, and
in a brief ensuing interval painstakingly ironed out of his face and
attitude every indication of the frame of mind in which he awaited his
caller. It was, as a matter of fact, anything but a pleasant one: he
had a distasteful duty to perform; but that was the last thing he
designed to become evident. Like most good business men he nursed a pet
superstition or two, and of the number of these the first was that he
must in all his dealings present an inscrutable front, like a
poker-player's: captains of industry were uniformly like that,
Spaulding understood; if they entertained emotions it was strictly in
private. Accordingly he armoured himself with a magnificent
imperturbability which at times almost deceived its wearer.
Occasionally it deceived others: notably now it bewildered Duncan as he
entered on the echo of Spaulding's "Come!" He had apprehended the
visage of a thunderstorm, with a rattle of brusque complaints: he
encountered Spaulding as he had always seemed: a little, urbane figure
with a blank face, the blanker for glasses whose lenses seemed always
to catch the light and, glaring, mask the eyes behind them; a
prosperous man of affairs, well groomed both as to body and as to mind;
a machine for the transaction of business, with all a machine's
vivacity and temperamental responsiveness. It was just that quality in
him that Duncan envied, who was vaguely impressed that, if he himself
could only imitate, however minutely, the phlegm of a machine, he might
learn to ape something of its efficiency and so, ultimately, prove
himself of some worth to the world--and, incidentally, to Nathaniel
Duncan. Thus far his spasmodic attempts to adapt to the requirements
and limitations of the world of business his own equipment of misfit
inclinations and ill-assorted abilities, had unanimously turned out
signal failures. So he envied Spaulding without particularly admiring
him.
Now the sight of his employer, professionally bland and capable, and
with no animus to be discerned in his attitude, provided Duncan with
one brief, evanescent flash of hope, one last expiring instant of
dignity (tempered by his unquenchable humour) in which to face his
fate. Something of the hang-dog vanished from his habit and for a
little time he carried himself again with all his one-time grace and
confidence.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Spaulding," he said, replying to a nod as he
dropped into the chair that nod had indicated. A faint smile lightened
his expression and made it quite engaging.
"G'dafternoon." Spaulding surveyed him swiftly, then laced his fat
little fingers and contemplated them with detached intentness. "Just
get in, Duncan?"
"On the three-thirty from Chicago...."
There was a pause, during which Spaulding reviewed his fingernails with
impartial interest; in that pause Duncan's poor little hope died a
natural death. "I got your wire," he resumed; "I mean, it got
me--overtook me at Minneapolis.... So here I am."
"You haven't wasted time."
"I fancied the matter might be urgent, sir."
Spaulding lifted his brows ever so slightly. "Why?"
"Well, I gathered from the fact that you wired
me to come home that you wanted my advice."
A second time Spaulding gestured with his eyebrows, for once fairly
surprised out of his pose. "_Your_ advice!..."
"Yes," said Duncan evenly: "as to whether you ought to give up your
customers on my route or send them a man who could sell goods."
"Well...." Spaulding admitted.
"Oh, don't think I'm boasting of my acuteness: anybody could have
guessed as much from the great number of heavy orders I have not been
sending you."
"You've had bad luck...."
"You mean you have, Mr. Spaulding. It was good luck for me to be
drawing down my weekly cheques, bad luck to you not to have a man who
could earn them."
His desperate honesty touched Spaulding a trifle; at the risk of not
seeming a business man to himself he inclined dubiously to relent, to
give Duncan another chance. The fellow was likeable enough, his
employer considered; he had good humour and even in dejection,
distinction; whatever he was not, he was a man of birth and breeding.
His face might be rusty with a day-old stubble, as it was; his
shirt-cuffs frayed, his shoes down at the heel, his baggy clothing
weirdly ready-made, as they were: there remained his air. You'd think
he might amount to something, to somewhat more than a mere something,
given half a chance in the right direction. Then what?... Spaulding
sought from Duncan elucidation of this riddle.
"Duncan," he said, "what's the trouble?"
"I thought you knew that; I thought that was
why you called me in with my route half-covered."
"You mean--?"
"I mean I can't sell your line."
"Why?"
"God only knows. I want to, badly enough. It's just general
incompetence, I presume."
"What makes you think that?"
Duncan smiled bitterly. "Experience," he said.
"You've tried--what else?"
"A little of everything--all the jobs open to a man with a knowledge of
Latin and Greek and the higher mathematics: shipping clerk,
time-keeper, cashier--all of 'em."
"And yet Kellogg believes in you."
Duncan nodded dolefully. "Harry's a good friend. We roomed together at
college. That's why he stands for me."
"He says you only need the right opening--."
"And nobody knows where that is, except my unfortunate employers: it's
the back door going out, for mine every time.... Oh, Harry's been a
prince to me. He's found me four or five jobs with friends of his--like
yourself. But I don't seem to last. You see I was brought up to be
ornamental and irregular rather than useful; to blow about in motor
cars and keep a valet busy sixteen hours a day--and all that sort of
thing. My father's failure--you know about that?"
Spaulding nodded. Duncan went on gloomily, talking a great deal more
freely than he would at any other time--suffering, in fact, from that
species of auto hypnosis induced by the sound of his own voice
recounting his misfortunes, which seems especially to affect a man down
on his luck.
"That smash came when I was five years out of college--I'd never
thought of turning my hand to anything in all that time. I'd always had
more coin than I could spend--never had to consider the worth of money
or how hard it is to earn: my father saw to all that. He seemed not to
want me to work: not that I hold that against him; he'd an idea I'd
turn out a genius of some sort or other, I believe.... Well, he failed
and died all in a week, and I found myself left with an extensive
wardrobe, expensive tastes, an impractical education--and not so much
of that that you'd notice it--and not a cent.... I was too proud to
look to my friends for help in those days--and perhaps that was as
well; I sought jobs on my own.... Did you ever keep books in a
fish-market?"
"No." Spaulding's eyes twinkled behind his large, shiny glasses.
"But what's the use of my boring you?" Duncan made as if to rise,
suddenly remembering himself.
"You're not. Go on."
"I didn't mean to; mostly, I presume, I've been blundering round an
explanation of Kellogg's kindness to me, in my usual ineffectual
way--felt somehow an explanation was due you, as the latest to suffer
through his misplaced interest in me."
"Perhaps," said Spaulding, "I am beginning to understand. Go on: I'm
interested. About the fish-market?"
"Oh, I just happened to think of it as a sample experience--and the
last of that particular brand. I got nine dollars a week and earned
every cent of it inhaling the atmosphere. My board cost me six and the
other three afforded me a chance to demonstrate myself a captain of
finance--paying laundry bills and clothing myself, besides buying
lunches and such-like small matters. I did the whole thing, you
know--one schooner of beer a day and made my own cigarettes: never
could make up my mind which was the worst. The hours were easy, too:
didn't have to get to work until five in the morning.... I lasted five
weeks at that job, before I was taken sick: shows what a great
constitution I've got."
He laughed uncertainly and paused, thoughtful, his eyes vacant, fixed
upon the retrospect that was a grim prospect of the imminent future.
"And then--?"
"Oh--?" Duncan roused. "Why, then I fell in with Kellogg again; he
found me trying the open-air cure on a bench in Washington Square.
Since then he's been finding me one berth after another. He's a
sure-enough optimist."
Spaulding shifted uneasily in his chair, stirred by an impulse whose
unwisdom he could not doubt. Duncan had assuredly done his case no good
by painting his shortcomings in colours so vivid; yet, | 1,773.776699 |
2023-11-16 18:46:37.7598690 | 934 | 20 | THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND***
Transcribed from the 1826 J. Chilcott edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
[Picture: Pamphlet cover]
No. XXXI.
* * * * *
Church of England Tract Society,
Instituted in BRISTOL, 1811.
* * * * *
SHORT REASONS
FOR COMMUNION
_With the Church of England_;
OR,
THE CHURCHMAN’S ANSWER TO THE QUESTION,
“WHY ARE YOU A MEMBER OF THE
ESTABLISHED CHURCH?”
* * * * *
“Endeavouring to keep the unity of the Spirit in the bond of
peace.”—_Ephes._ iv. 3.
“Beseeching Thee to inspire continually the universal Church with the
spirit of truth, unity, and concord; and grant that all they that do
confess Thy holy name, may agree in the truth of Thy holy word, and
live in unity and godly love.”
_Com. Service_.
* * * * *
Sold at the DEPOSITORY, 6, Clare Street, BRISTOL;
And by SEELEY and SON, 169, Fleet Street, LONDON.
_Price_ 1¼_d._ _each_, _or_ 6_s._ 8_d._ _per Hundred_.
[Picture: Hand with finger pointing right] An Allowance to Subscribers
and Booksellers.
* * * * *
J. Chilcott, Printer, 30, Wine Street, Bristol.
1826.
* * * * *
“_O ALMIGHTY God_, _who hast built Thy Church upon the foundation of
the Apostles and Prophets_, _Jesus Christ Himself being the head
corner-stone_; _grant us so to be joined together in unity of spirit
by their doctrine_, _that we may be made a holy temple acceptable
unto Thee_, _through Jesus Christ our Lord_. _Amen_.”
COLLECT
For St. Simon and St. Jude’s Day.
* * * * *
SHORT REASONS FOR COMMUNION WITH THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND, &c.
REASON I.
_I maintain communion with the Church of England_, _not_ MERELY _because
my parents and forefathers were members of her community_.
THE connexion which my parents and forefathers held with the Church of
England I consider to be a sufficient reason why I should continue in
communion with her, if there be nothing contrary to the law of God in
such a connexion. For the fifth commandment peremptorily requires me to
“honour my father and mother;” and, assuredly, this duty implies
reverence to their example, if that example be not inconsistent with the
rule of God’s holy word.
But as a man’s parents and forefathers may have been members of a
communion, a continuance in which would be manifestly contrary to the
word of God (as, for instance, if a man were born of Popish or Socinian
parents;) I therefore say, that “I maintain communion with the Church of
England, not MERELY because my parents and forefathers were members of
her community.”
REASON II.
_I maintain communion with the Church of England_, _not_ MERELY_ because
she is ancient and venerable_.
HER antiquity is a sufficient reason to justify my continuance in her
communion, if it can be shown that nothing materially differing from the
primitive and apostolic Church, in doctrine or discipline, has, in the
long course of her existence, been introduced into her constitution. For
the more ancient any Church can prove to be, the nearer is the approach
to the source of Divine authority and sanction. Now the Church of
England existed long before her corruption by popery; and the labours and
sufferings of her Martyrs in the sixteenth century were employed, not in
planting a new Church, but in correcting gross abuses in one which had
been long established. They are therefore called _Reformers_. The
Church of England, as is highly probable, | 1,773.779909 |
2023-11-16 18:46:37.9581140 | 1,709 | 31 |
Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Rod Crawford, Rick Morris
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
THE BOY SCOUTS
IN THE SADDLE
BY
ROBERT SHALER
AUTHOR OF “BOY SCOUTS OF THE SIGNAL CORPS,” “BOY SCOUTS
OF PIONEER CAMP,” “BOY SCOUTS OF THE GEOLOGICAL SURVEY,”
“BOY SCOUTS OF THE LIFE SAVING CREW,” “BOY SCOUTS
ON PICKET DUTY,” “BOY SCOUTS OF THE FLYING
SQUADRON,” “BOY SCOUTS AND THE PRIZE
PENNANT,” “BOY SCOUTS OF THE NAVAL
RESERVE,” “BOY SCOUTS FOR CITY
IMPROVEMENT.”
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Sterling
Boy Scout Books
_Bound in cloth_ _Ten titles_
1 Boy Scouts of the Signal Corps.
2 Boy Scouts of Pioneer Camp.
3 Boy Scouts of the Geological Survey.
4 Boy Scouts of the Life Saving Crew.
5 Boy Scouts on Picket Duty.
6 Boy Scouts of the Flying Squadron.
7 Boy Scouts and the Prize Pennant.
8 Boy Scouts of the Naval Reserve.
9 Boy Scouts in the Saddle.
10 Boy Scouts for City Improvement.
_You can purchase any of the above books at the price you paid for this
one, or the publishers will send any book, postpaid, upon receipt of
25c._
HURST & CO., Publishers
432 Fourth Avenue, New York
Copyright, 1914, by Hurst & Company.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Superior Boy 5
II. Left on the Ledge 17
III. Surrounded by Perils 30
IV. Scouts to the Rescue 43
V. Seeing Things in a New Light 56
VI. Tracking from the Saddle 69
VII. The Sunken Road 82
VIII. At Raccoon Island Camp 95
IX. Over the Ridge 108
X. Lying in Ambush 121
XI. When the Rat Scratched 137
XII. What the Scouts Did 148
The Boy Scouts in the Saddle.
CHAPTER I.
THE SUPERIOR BOY.
“Hello! there, landlord, just put five gallons of gasoline in my tank,
and charge it to dad, will you? I forgot to fill up before leaving our
garage in town. I reckon there’d be a lot of trouble in the big granite
quarry we own if Gusty Merrivale failed to show up to-day.”
The speaker was a young fellow nattily attired, of about eighteen years
of age. As he nimbly jumped out of the dusty runabout car, it could be
seen that he was inclined to be rather arrogant in his manner. Indeed,
one glance at his dark, handsome face betrayed the fact that he was more
or less proud, and domineering.
Gustavus Merrivale was comparatively a newcomer in the pleasant town
around which many of the adventures contained in this Scout Series
happened. Somehow Gusty had not seemed to care to mix with the general
run of boys, picking up only a few choice companions from among the
“upper crust.” His father was said to be a very wealthy man, and among
other properties, he owned a logging camp far up among the hills
together with a valuable granite quarry where fully five score of
toilers were employed throughout the entire summer.
The landlord of the village tavern apparently knew his customer. Several
times before young Merrivale had motored through the village, and always
just two weeks apart. By putting two and two together, the tavern keeper
could easily surmise the nature of the errand that took Gus Merrivale up
into that wild country so often. Had he been in doubt before, these last
words of the boy must have enlightened him fully.
“Pay day in the quarry, hey?” he went on to say, as he unlocked the
reservoir that doubtless contained the supply of gasoline which he sold
to passing tourists and others. “Your pa’s got quite a plenty of men
employed up there, I understand, Mr. Merrivale; and just as you say,
they’d kick up high jinks if their pay didn’t show up on Monday twice a
month.”
“Why, hello! Where did that bunch of motorcycles come from, Mr. Tubbs?”
demanded the rich man’s son, pointing, as he spoke, to three up-to-date
twin-cylinder machines standing in a cluster in a safe corner of the inn
yard.
“Three young chaps from your town are sitting yonder on the porch
awatchin’ of us right now,” returned the landlord, softly. “Mebbe you
happen to know them, seeing as how they’re Boy Scouts, and that Hugh
Hardin has made somethin’ of a name around this section, I’m told.”
“Hugh Hardin, eh?” exclaimed young Merrivale with a swift glance toward
the side piazza of the tavern, where he now discovered several sprawling
figures occupying as many chairs, and evidently resting up while waiting
for dinner to be announced. “Yes, and his shadow, that Worth fellow, is
along with him, and also the chap they call Monkey Stallings, who came
to town just a month after I did. He fell in with that common herd right
away, and joined the troop, but none of that silly scout business for
me! I can see myself taking orders from a patrol leader, nit. What are
they doing away up here; and where did they get those expensive
machines, I’d like to know?”
“It happens that I’m able to supply the information, Mr. Merrivale,”
remarked the landlord quickly. Like most of his class, he enjoyed a
chance to gossip and disseminate news which he had picked up.
“Then I wish you’d be so kind and condescending as to inform me right
away, sir. I was just speaking about getting a motorcycle myself; and
even now I’m expecting a bunch of catalogues from which to select a
machine. Those things cost all of two hundred apiece, and I fancy few
boys have got as indulgent a father as I happen to own. So please go on
and give me the facts, Mr. Tubbs.”
“Why, you see, the Stallings boy has money of his own, and the others
have been laying aside dollars right along, most of them earned by
finding wild ginseng and golden rod roots in the woods. Besides, they
say that Hardin boy did something not long ago that brought him in quite
a fat reward, which he insisted on sharing with the chums who happened
to be with him at the time. I kinder guess that Worth boy was along, and
that helped _him_ out. Anyhow, they’re taking their first long run, and
have come something like seventy miles since breakfast at home. I’m
getting a dinner for them, you know. Perhaps you’d like to stay over a
bit and see what kind of a cook my wife is?”
“What, me take pot luck with that crowd?” exclaimed Gus Merrivale with a
curl of his upper lip. “Well, I hardly know them enough to speak to at
home, and it isn’t likely that I’ll put myself out to improve the slight
acquaintance. This scout business makes me sick. I don’t understand what
the fellows see in it to strut around in their old khaki suits, and
salute | 1,773.978154 |
2023-11-16 18:46:38.0569080 | 3,095 | 6 |
Produced by D. Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Makers of History
Richard II.
BY JACOB ABBOTT
WITH ENGRAVINGS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1901
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight
hundred and fifty-eight, by
HARPER & BROTHERS,
in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the Southern District
of New York.
Copyright, 1886, by BENJAMIN VAUGHAN ABBOTT, AUSTIN ABBOTT, LYMAN
ABBOTT, and EDWARD ABBOTT.
[Illustration: PARLEY WITH THE INSURGENTS.]
PREFACE.
King Richard the Second lived in the days when the chivalry of feudal
times was in all its glory. His father, the Black Prince; his uncles,
the sons of Edward the Third, and his ancestors in a long line,
extending back to the days of Richard the First, were among the most
illustrious knights of Europe in those days, and their history abounds
in the wonderful exploits, the narrow escapes, and the romantic
adventures, for which the knights errant of the Middle Ages were so
renowned. This volume takes up the story of English history at the
death of Richard the First, and continues it to the time of the
deposition and death of Richard the Second, with a view of presenting
as complete a picture as is possible, within such limits, of the ideas
and principles, the manners and customs, and the extraordinary
military undertakings and exploits of that wonderful age.
CONTENTS.
Chapter Page
I. RICHARD'S PREDECESSORS 13
II. QUARRELS 37
III. THE BLACK PRINCE 81
IV. THE BATTLE OF POICTIERS 103
V. CHILDHOOD OF RICHARD 140
VI. ACCESSION TO THE THRONE 166
VII. THE CORONATION 185
VIII. CHIVALRY 197
IX. WAT TYLER'S INSURRECTION 225
X. THE END OF THE INSURRECTION 255
XI. GOOD QUEEN ANNE 273
XII. INCIDENTS OF THE REIGN 290
XIII. THE LITTLE QUEEN 310
XIV. RICHARD'S DEPOSITION AND DEATH 324
ENGRAVINGS.
Page
PARLEY WITH THE INSURGENTS _Frontispiece._
RUINS OF AN ANCIENT CASTLE 15
MAP--SITUATION OF NORMANDY 23
KING JOHN 29
CAERNARVON CASTLE 51
PORTRAIT OF EDWARD THE SECOND 55
WARWICK CASTLE 61
KENILWORTH CASTLE 66
A MONK OF THOSE DAYS 69
BERKELEY CASTLE 71
CAVES IN THE HILL-SIDE AT NOTTINGHAM CASTLE 75
MORTIMER'S HOLE 79
MAP--CAMPAIGN OF CRECY 85
VIEW OF ROUEN 87
GENOESE ARCHER 94
OLD ENGLISH SHIPS 105
MAP--CAMPAIGN OF POICTIERS 110
STORMING OF THE CASTLE OF ROMORANTIN 116
RICHARD RECEIVING THE VISIT OF HIS UNCLE JOHN 152
PORTRAIT OF RICHARD'S GRANDFATHER 165
EDWARD, THE BLACK PRINCE 169
THE BULL 177
STORMING OF A TOWN 205
KNIGHTS CHARGING UPON EACH OTHER 220
VIEW OF THE TOWER OF LONDON 235
THE SAVOY 248
RUINS OF THE SAVOY 252
COSTUMES 282
FASHIONABLE HEAD-DRESSES 283
SEAL OF RICHARD II 300
HENRY OF BOLINGBROKE--KING HENRY IV 340
PONTEFRACT CASTLE 342
KING RICHARD II.
CHAPTER I.
RICHARD'S PREDECESSORS.
Three Richards.--Richard the Crusader.--King John.--Character of the
kings and nobles of those days.--Origin and nature of their
power.--Natural rights of man in respect to the fruits of the
earth.--Beneficial results of royal rule.--The power of kings and
nobles was restricted.--Disputes about the right of succession.--Case
of young Arthur.--The King of France becomes his ally.--Map showing
the situation of Normandy.--Arthur is defeated and made prisoner.--John
attempts to induce Arthur to abdicate.--Account of the assassination of
Arthur.--Various accounts of the mode of Arthur's death.--Uncertainty
in respect to these stories.--League formed against him by his
barons.--Portrait of King John.--Magna Charta.--Runny Mead.--The
agreement afterward repudiated.--New wars.--New ratifications of Magna
Charta.--Cruelties and oppressions practiced upon the Jews.--Extract
from the old chronicles.--Absurd accusations.--The story of the
crucified child.--John Lexinton.--Confessions extorted by
torture.--Injustice and cruelty of the practice.--Anecdotes of the
nobles and the king.
There have been three monarchs of the name of Richard upon the English
throne.
Richard I. is known and celebrated in history as Richard the Crusader.
He was the sovereign ruler not only of England, but of all the Norman
part of France, and from both of his dominions he raised a vast army,
and went with it to the Holy Land, where he fought many years against
the Saracens with a view of rescuing Jerusalem and the other holy
places there from the dominion of unbelievers. He met with a great
many remarkable adventures in going to the Holy Land, and with still
more remarkable ones on his return home, all of which are fully
related in the volume of this series entitled King Richard I.
Richard II. did not succeed Richard I. immediately. Several reigns
intervened. The monarch who immediately succeeded Richard I. was
John. John was Richard's brother, and had been left in command, in
England, as regent, during the king's absence in the Holy Land.
After John came Henry III. and the three Edwards; and when the third
Edward died, his son Richard II. was heir to the throne. He was,
however, too young at that time to reign, for he was only ten years
old.
The kings in these days were wild and turbulent men, always engaged in
wars with each other and with their nobles, while all the industrial
classes were greatly depressed. The nobles lived in strong castles in
various places about the country, and owned, or claimed to own, very
large estates, which the laboring men were compelled to cultivate for
them. Some of these castles still remain in a habitable state, but
most of them are now in ruins--and very curious objects the ruins are
to see.
[Illustration: RUINS OF AN ANCIENT CASTLE.]
The kings held their kingdoms very much as the nobles did their
estates--they considered them theirs by right. And the people generally
thought so too. The king had a _right_, as they imagined, to live in
luxury and splendor, and to lord it over the country, and compel the
mass of the people to pay him nearly all their earnings in rent and
taxes, and to raise armies, whenever he commanded them, to go and fight
for him in his quarrels with his neighbors, because his father had
done these things before him. And what right had his father to do these
things? Why, because _his_ father had done them before him. Very well;
but to go back to the beginning. What right had the first man to assume
this power, and how did he get possession of it? This was a question
that nobody could answer, for nobody knew then, and nobody knows now,
who were the original founders of these noble families, or by what
means they first came into power. People did not know how to read and
write in the days when kings first began to reign, and so no records
ere made, and no accounts kept of public transactions; and when at
length the countries of Europe in the Middle Ages began to emerge
somewhat into the light of civilization, these royal and noble families
were found every where established. The whole territory of Europe was
divided into a great number of kingdoms, principalities, dukedoms, and
other such sovereignties, over each of which some ancient family was
established in supreme and almost despotic power. Nobody knew how they
originally came by their power.
The people generally submitted to this power very willingly. In the
first place, they had a sort of blind veneration for it on account of
its ancient and established character. Then they were always taught
from infancy that kings had a right to reign, and nobles a right to
their estates, and that to toil all their lives, and allow their kings
and nobles to take, in rent and taxes, and in other such ways, every
thing that they, the people, earned, except what was barely sufficient
for their subsistence, was an obligation which the God of nature had
imposed upon them, and that it would be a sin in them not to submit to
it; whereas nothing can be more plain than that the God of nature
intends the _earth_ for _man_, and that consequently society ought to
be so organized that in each generation every man can enjoy something
at least like his fair share of the products of it, in proportion to
the degree of industry or skill which he brings to bear upon the work
of developing these products.
There was another consideration which made the common people more
inclined to submit to these hereditary kings and nobles than we should
have supposed they would have been, and that is, the government which
they exercised was really, in many respects, of great benefit to the
community. They preserved order as far as they could, and punished
crimes. If bands of robbers were formed, the nobles or the king sent
out a troop to put them down. If a thief broke into a house and stole
what he found there, the government sent officers to pursue and arrest
him, and then shut him up in jail. If a murder was committed, they
would seize the murderer and hang him. It was their interest to do
this, for if they allowed the people to be robbed and plundered, or to
live all the time in fear of violence, then it is plain that the
cultivation of the earth could not go on, and the rents and the taxes
could not be paid. So these governments established courts, and made
laws, and appointed officers to execute them, in order to protect the
lives and property of their subjects from all common thieves and
murderers, and the people were taught to believe that there was no
other way by which their protection could be secured except by the
power of the kings. We must be contented as we are, they said to
themselves, and be willing to go and fight the king's battles, and to
pay to him and to the nobles nearly every thing that we can earn, or
else society will be thrown into confusion, and the whole land will be
full of thieves and murderers.
In the present age of the world, means have been devised by which, in
any country sufficiently enlightened for this purpose, the people
themselves can organize a government to restrain and punish robbers
and murderers, and to make and execute all other necessary laws for
the promotion of the general welfare; but in those ancient times this
was seldom or never done. The art of government was not then
understood. It is very imperfectly understood at the present day, but
in those days it was not understood at all; and, accordingly, there
was nothing better for the people to do than to submit to, and not
only to submit to, but to maintain with all their power the government
of these hereditary kings and nobles.
It must not be supposed, however, that the power of these hereditary
nobles was absolute. It was very far from being absolute. It was
restricted and curtailed by the ancient customs and laws of the realm,
which customs and laws the kings and nobles could not transgress
without producing insurrections and rebellions. Their own right to the
power which they wielded rested solely on ancient customs, and, of
course, the restrictions on these rights, which had come down by
custom from ancient times, were as valid as the rights themselves.
Notwithstanding this, the kings were continually overstepping the
limits of their power, and insurrections and civil wars were all the
time breaking out, in consequence of which the realms over which they
reigned were kept in a perpetual state of turmoil. These wars arose
sometimes from the contests of different claimants to the crown. If a
king died, leaving only a son too young to rule, one of his brothers,
perhaps--an uncle of the young prince--would attempt to seize the
throne, under one pretext or another, and then the nobles and the
courtiers would take sides, some in favor of the nephew and some in
favor of the uncle, and a long civil war would perhaps ensue. This was
the case immediately after the death of Richard I. When he died he
designated as his successor a nephew of his, who was at that time only
twelve years old. The name of this young prince was Arthur. He was the
son of Geoffrey, a brother of Richard's, older than John, and he was
accordingly the rightful heir; but John, having been once installed in
power by | 1,774.076948 |
2023-11-16 18:46:38.3613500 | 5,933 | 23 |
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KITTY'S CONQUEST.
BY CHARLES KING, U.S.A.,
AUTHOR OF "THE COLONEL'S DAUGHTER."
PHILADELPHIA:
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
1890.
Copyright. 1884, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
PREFACE.
The incidents of this little story occurred some twelve years ago, and
it was then that the story was mainly written.
If it meet with half the kindness bestowed upon his later work it will
more than fulfil the hopes of
THE AUTHOR.
February, 1884.
KITTY'S CONQUEST.
CHAPTER I.
It was just after Christmas, and discontentedly enough I had left my
cosy surroundings in New Orleans, to take a business-trip through the
counties on the border-line between Tennessee and northern Mississippi
and Alabama. One sunny afternoon I found myself on the "freight and
passenger" of what was termed "The Great Southern Mail Route." We had
been trundling slowly, sleepily along ever since the conductor's "all
aboard!" after dinner; had met the Mobile Express at Corinth when the
shadows were already lengthening upon the ruddy, barren-looking
landscape, and now, with Iuka just before us, and the warning whistle of
the engine shrieking in our ears with a discordant pertinacity attained
only on our Southern railroads, I took a last glance at the sun just
disappearing behind the distant forest in our wake, drew the last
breath of life, from my cigar, and then, taking advantage of the halt at
the station, strolled back from the dinginess of the smoking-car to more
comfortable quarters in the rear.
There were only three passenger-cars on the train, and, judging from the
scarcity of occupants, one would have been enough. Elbowing my way
through the gaping, lazy swarms of unsavory black humanity on the
platform, and the equally repulsive-looking knots of "poor white trash,"
the invariable features of every country stopping-place south of Mason
and Dixon, I reached the last car, and entering, chose one of a dozen
empty seats, and took a listless look at my fellow-passengers,--six in
all,--and of them, two only worth a second glance.
One, a young, perhaps very young, lady, so girlish, _petite_, and pretty
she looked even after the long day's ride in a sooty car. Her seat was
some little distance from the one into which I had dropped, but that was
because the other party to be depicted was installed within two of her,
and, with that indefinable sense of repulsion which induces all
travellers, strangers to one another, to get as far apart as possible on
entering a car, I had put four seats 'twixt him and me,--and afterwards
wished I hadn't.
It _was_ rude to turn and stare at a young girl,--travelling alone, too,
as she appeared to be. I did it involuntarily the first time, and found
myself repeating the performance again and again, simply because I
couldn't help it,--she looked prettier and prettier every time.
A fair, oval, tiny face; a somewhat supercilious nose, and
not-the-least-so mouth; a mouth, on the contrary, that even though its
pretty lips were closed, gave one the intangible yet positive assurance
of white and regular teeth; eyes whose color I could not see because
their drooping lids were fringed with heavy curving lashes, but which
subsequently turned out to be a soft, dark gray; and hair!--hair that
made one instinctively gasp with admiration, and exclaim (mentally), "If
it's _only_ real!"--hair that rose in heavy golden masses above and
around the diminutive ears, almost hiding them from view, and fell in
braids (not braids either, because it _wasn't_ braided) and rolls--only
that sounds breakfasty--and masses again,--it must do for both,--heavy
golden masses and rolls and waves and straggling offshoots and
disorderly delightfulness all down the little lady's neck, and, landing
in a lump on the back of the seat, seemed to come surging up to the top
again, ready for another tumble.
It looked as though it hadn't been "fixed" since the day before, and yet
as though it would be a shame to touch it; and was surmounted, "sat
upon," one might say, by the jauntiest of little travelling hats of some
dark material (don't expect a bachelor, and an elderly one at that, to
be explicit on such a point), this in turn being topped by the pertest
little mite of a feather sticking bolt upright from a labyrinth of
beads, bows, and buckles at the side.
More of this divinity was not to be viewed from my post of observation,
as all below the fragile white throat with its dainty collar and the
handsome fur "boa," thrown loosely back on account of the warmth of the
car, was undergoing complete occultation by the seats in front; yet
enough was visible to impress one with a longing to become acquainted
with the diminutive entirety, and to convey an idea of cultivation and
refinement somewhat unexpected on that particular train, and in that
utterly unlovely section of the country.
Naturally I wondered who she was; where she was going; how it happened
that she, so young, so innocent, so be-petted and be-spoilt in
appearance, should be journeying alone through the thinly settled
counties of upper Mississippi. Had she been a "through" passenger, she
would have taken the express, not this grimy, stop-at-every-shanty,
slow-going old train on which we were creeping eastward.
In fact, the more I peeped, the more I marvelled; and I found myself
almost unconsciously inaugurating a detective movement with a view to
ascertaining her identity.
All this time mademoiselle was apparently serenely unconscious of my
scrutiny and deeply absorbed in some object--a book, probably--in her
lap. A stylish Russia-leather satchel was hanging among the hooks above
her head,--evidently her property,--and those probably, too, were her
initials in monogram, stamped in gilt upon the flap, too far off for my
fading eyes to distinguish, yet tantalizingly near.
Now I'm a lawyer, and as such claim an indisputable right to exercise
the otherwise feminine prerogative of yielding to curiosity. It's our
business to be curious; not with the sordid views and mercenary intents
of Templeton Jitt; but rather as Dickens's "Bar" was curious,--affably,
apologetically, professionally curious. In fact, as "Bar" himself said,
"we lawyers _are_ curious," and take the same lively interest in the
affairs of our fellow-men (and women) as maiden aunts are popularly
believed to exercise in the case of a pretty niece with a dozen beaux,
or a mother-in-law in the daily occupations of the happy husband of her
eldest daughter. Why need I apologize further? I left my seat;
zig-zagged down the aisle; took a drink of water which I didn't want,
and, returning, the long look at the monogram which I _did_.
There they were, two gracefully intertwining letters; a "C" and a "K."
Now was it C. K. or K. C.? If C. K., what did it stand for?
I thought of all manner of names as I regained my seat; some pretty,
some tragic, some commonplace, none satisfactory. Then I concluded to
begin over; put the cart before the horse, and try K. C.
Now, it's ridiculous enough to confess to it, but Ku-Klux was the first
thing I thought of; K. C. didn't stand for it at all, but Ku-Klux
_would_ force itself upon my imagination. Well, everything _was_ Ku-Klux
just then. Congress was full of them; so was the South;--Ku-Klux had
brought me up there; in fact I had spent most of the afternoon in
planning an elaborate line of defence for a poor devil whom I knew to be
innocent, however blood-guilty might have been his associates. Ku-Klux
had brought that lounging young cavalryman (the other victim reserved
for description), who--confound him--had been the cause of my taking a
metaphorical back seat and an actual front one on entering the car; but
Ku-Klux couldn't have brought _her_ there; and after all, what business
had I bothering my tired brains over this young beauty? I was nothing to
her, why should she be such a torment to me?
In twenty minutes we would be due at Sandbrook, and there I was to leave
the train and jog across the country to the plantation of Judge Summers,
an old friend of my father's and of mine, who had written me to visit
him on my trip, that we might consult together over some intricate
cases that of late had been occupying his attention in that vicinity. In
fact, I was too elderly to devote so much thought and speculation to a
damsel still in her teens, so I resolutely turned eyes and tried to turn
thoughts to something else.
The lamps were being lighted, and the glare from the one overhead fell
full upon my other victim, the cavalryman. I knew him to be such from
the crossed sabres in gold upon his jaunty forage cap, and the heavy
army cloak which was muffled cavalier-like over his shoulders,
displaying to vivid advantage its gorgeous lining of canary color, yet
completely concealing any interior garments his knightship might be
pleased to wear.
Something in my contemplation of this young warrior amused me to that
extent that I wondered he had escaped more than a casual glance before.
Lolling back in his seat, with a huge pair of top boots spread out upon
the cushion in front, he had the air, as the French say, of thorough
self-appreciation and superiority; he was gazing dreamily up at the lamp
overhead and whistling softly to himself, with what struck me forcibly
as an affectation of utter nonchalance; what struck me still more
forcibly was that he did not once look at the young beauty so close
behind him; on the contrary, there was an evident attempt on his part
to appear sublimely indifferent to her presence.
Now that's very unusual in a young man under the circumstances, isn't
it? I had an idea that these Charles O'Malleys were heart-smashers; but
this conduct hardly tallied with any of my preconceived notions on the
subject of heart-smashing, and greatly did I marvel and conjecture as to
the cause of this extraordinary divergence from the manners and customs
of young men,--soldiers in particular, when, of a sudden, Mars arose,
threw off his outer vestment, emerged as it were from a golden glory of
yellow shelter-tent; discovered a form tall, slender, graceful, and
erect, the whole clad in a natty shell-jacket and riding-breeches;
stalked up to the stove in the front of the car; produced, filled, and
lighted a smoke-begrimed little meerschaum; opened the door with a snap;
let himself out with a bang; and disappeared into outer darkness.
Looking quickly around, I saw that the fair face of C. K. or K. C. was
uplifted; furthermore, that there was an evident upward tendency on the
part of the aforementioned supercilious nose, entirely out of proportion
with the harmonious and combined movement of the other features;
furthermore, that the general effect was that of maidenly displeasure;
and, lastly, that the evident object of such divine wrath was, beyond
all peradventure, the vanished knight of the sabre.
"Now, my lad," thought I, "what have you done to put your foot in it?"
Just then the door reopened, and in came, not Mars, but the conductor;
and that functionary, proceeding direct to where she sat, thus addressed
the pretty object of my late cogitations (I didn't listen, but I heard):
"It'll be all right, miss. I telegraphed the judge from Iuka, and reckon
he'll be over with the carriage to meet you; but if he nor none of the
folks ain't there, I'll see that you're looked after all right. Old Jake
Biggs'll be there, most like, and then you're sure of getting over to
the judge's to-night anyhow."
Here I pricked up my ears. Beauty smilingly expressed her gratitude,
and, in smiling, corroborated my theory about the teeth to the most
satisfactory extent.
"The colonel," continued the conductor, who would evidently have been
glad of any excuse to talk with her for hours, "the colonel, him and Mr.
Peyton, went over to Holly Springs three days ago; but the smash-up on
the Mississippi Central must have been the cause of their not getting to
the junction in time to meet you. That's why I brought you along on this
train; 'twasn't no use to wait for them there."
"Halloo!" thought I at this juncture, "here's my chance; he means Judge
Summers by 'the judge's,' and 'the colonel' is Harrod Summers, of
course, and Ned Peyton, that young reprobate who has been playing fast
and loose among the marshals and sheriffs, is the Mr. Peyton he speaks
of; and this must be some friend or relative of Miss Pauline's going to
visit her. The gentlemen have been sent to meet her, and have been
delayed by that accident. I'm in luck;" so up I jumped, elbowed the
obliging conductor to one side; raised my hat, and introduced
myself,--"Mr. Brandon, of New Orleans, an old friend of Judge Summers,
on my way to visit him; delighted to be of any service; pray accept my
escort," etc., etc.--all somewhat incoherent, but apparently
satisfactory. Mademoiselle graciously acknowledged my offer; smilingly
accepted my services; gave me a seat by her side; and we were soon
busied in a pleasant chat about "Pauline," her cousin, and "Harrod," her
other cousin and great admiration. Soon I learned that it was K. C.,
that K. C. was Kitty Carrington; that Kitty Carrington was Judge
Summers's niece, and that Judge Summers's niece was going to visit Judge
Summers's niece's uncle; that they had all spent the months of September
and October together in the north when she first returned from abroad;
that she had been visiting "Aunt Mary" in Louisville ever since, and
that "Aunt Mary" had been with her abroad for ever so long, and was just
as good and sweet as she could be. In fact, I was fast learning all my
charming little companion's family history, and beginning to feel
tolerably well acquainted with and immensely proud of her, when the door
opened with a snap, closed with a bang, and, issuing from outer
darkness, re-entered Mars.
Now, when Mars re-entered, he did so pretty much as I have seen his
brother button-wearers march into their company quarters on inspection
morning, with an air of determined ferocity and unsparing criticism; but
when Mars caught sight of me, snugly ensconced beside the only belle on
the train, the air suddenly gave place to an expression of astonishment.
He dropped a gauntlet; picked it up; turned red; and then, with sudden
resumption of lordly indifference, plumped himself down into his seat in
as successful an attempt at expressing "Who cares?" without saying it,
as I ever beheld.
Chancing to look at Miss Kitty, I immediately discovered that a little
cloud had settled upon her fair brow, and detected the nose on another
rise, so said I,--
"What's the matter? Our martial friend seems to have fallen under the
ban of your displeasure," and then was compelled to smile at the
vindictiveness of the reply:
"_He!_ he has indeed! Why, he had the impertinence to speak to me before
you came in; asked me if I was not the Miss Carrington expected at
Judge Summers's; actually offered to escort me there, as the colonel had
failed to meet me!"
"Indeed! Then I suppose I, too, am horribly at fault," said I, laughing,
"for I've done pretty much the same thing?"
"Nonsense!" said Miss Kit. "Can't you understand? He's a Yankee,--a
Yankee officer! You don't suppose I'd allow myself, a Southern girl
whose home was burnt by Yankees and whose only brother fought all
through the war against them,--you don't suppose I'd allow myself to
accept any civility from a Yankee, do you?" and the bright eyes shot a
vengeful glance at the dawdling form in front, and a terrific pout
straightway settled upon her lips.
Amused, yet unwilling to offend, I merely smiled and said that it had
not occurred to me; but immediately asked her how long before my
entrance this had happened.
"Oh, about half an hour; he never made more than one attempt."
"What answer did you give him?"
"Answer!--why! I couldn't say much of anything, you know, but merely
told him I wouldn't trouble him, and said it in such a way that he knew
well enough what was meant. He took the hint quickly enough, and turned
red as fire, and said very solemnly, 'I ask your pardon,' put on his cap
and marched back to his seat." Here came a pretty little imitation of
Mars raising his chin and squaring his shoulders as he walked off.
I smiled again, and then began to think it all over. Mars was a total
stranger to me. I had never seen him before in my life, and, so long as
we remained on an equal footing as strangers to the fair K. C., I had
been disposed to indulge in a little of the usual jealousy of "military
interference," and, from my exalted stand-point as a man of the world
and at least ten years his senior in age, to look upon him as a boy with
no other attractions than his buttons and a good figure; but Beauty's
answer set me to thinking. I was a Yankee, too, only she didn't know it;
if she had, perhaps Mars would have stood the better chance of the two.
I, too, had borne arms against the Sunny South (as a valiant militia-man
when the first call came in '61), and had only escaped wearing the
uniform she detested from the fact that our regimental rig was gray, and
my talents had never conspired to raise me above the rank of
lance-corporal. I, too, had participated in the desecration of the
"sacred soil" (digging in the hot sun at the first earthworks we threw
up across the Long Bridge); in fact, if she only knew it, there was
probably more reason, more real cause, for resentment against me, than
against the handsome, huffy stripling two seats in front.
He was a "Yank," of course; but judging from the smooth, ruddy cheek,
and the downiest of downy moustaches fringing his upper lip, had but
just cut loose from the apron-strings of his maternal West Point. Why!
he must have been at school when we of the old Seventh tramped down
Broadway that April afternoon to the music of "Sky-rockets," half
drowned in stentorian cheers. In fact, I began, in the few seconds it
took me to consider this, to look upon Mars as rather an ill-used
individual. Very probably he was stationed somewhere in the vicinity,
for loud appeals had been made for regular cavalry ever since the year
previous, when the Ku-Klux began their devilment in the neighborhood.
Very probably he knew Judge Summers; visited at his plantation; had
heard of Miss Kitty's coming, and was disposed to show her attention.
Meeting her on the train alone and unescorted, he had done nothing more
than was right in offering his services. He had simply acted as a
gentleman, and been rebuffed. Ah, Miss Kitty, you must, indeed, be very
young, thought I, and so asked,--
"Have you been long in the South since the war, Miss Carrington?"
"I? Oh, no! We lived in Kentucky before the war, and when it broke out
mother took me abroad. I was a little bit of a girl then, and was put at
school in Paris, but mother died very soon afterwards, and then auntie
took charge of me. Why, I only left school last June!"
Poor little Kit! her father had died when she was a mere baby; her
mother before the child had reached her tenth year; their beautiful old
home in Kentucky had been sacked and burned during the war; and George,
her only brother, after fighting for his "Lost Cause" until the last
shot was fired at Appomattox, had gone abroad, married, and settled
there. Much of the large fortune of their father still remained; and
little Kit, now entering upon her eighteenth year, was the ward of Judge
Summers, her mother's brother, and quite an heiress.
All this I learned, partly at the time, principally afterwards from the
judge himself; but meantime there was the rebellious little fairy at my
side with all the hatred and prejudice of ten years ago, little dreaming
how matters had changed since the surrender of her beloved Lee, or
imagining the quantity of oil that had been poured forth upon the
troubled waters.
CHAPTER II.
The "Twenty minutes to Sandbrook" had become involved in difficulty.
Interested in my chat with Kitty, I had failed to notice that we were
stopping even longer than usual at some mysterious locality where there
was even less of any apparent reason for stopping at all. All without
was darkness. I pushed open the window, poked out my head, and took a
survey. All was silence save the hissing of the engine way ahead, and
one or two voices in excited conversation somewhere near the baggage-car
and by the fence at the roadside. Two lights, lanterns apparently, were
flitting rapidly about. I wondered at the delay, but could assign no
cause in reply to the natural question Miss Kit asked as I drew in my
head.
Mars opened his window as I closed mine, looked out a moment, then got
up, gave himself a stretch, and stalked out; this time without slamming
the door; a bang would have been too demonstrative in that oppressive
silence. In one minute he came back with a quick, nervous step, picked
up a belt and holster he had left at his seat, and, without a glance at
us, turned sharply back to the door again. As he disappeared, I saw his
hand working at the butt of the revolver swung at his hip. Something was
wrong. I knew that the Ku-Klux had been up to mischief in that vicinity,
and the thought flashed upon me that they were again at work. Looking
around, I saw that three of our four fellow-passengers had disappeared.
They were ill-favored specimens, for I remembered noticing them just
before we stopped, and remarked that they were talking earnestly and in
low tones together at the rear end of the car. The other passenger was
an old lady, spectacled and rheumatic. Without communicating my
suspicions to my little charge, I excused myself; stepped quietly out;
swung off the car, and stumbled up the track toward the lights.
A group of six or eight men was gathered at the baggage-car. About the
same number were searching along the fence, all talking excitedly. I
hailed a brakeman and asked what was the matter.
"Ku-Klux, sir! Tried to rob the express! There was two of them in mask
jumped in with their pistols and belted the agent over the head and laid
him out; but afore they could get into the safe, the baggage-master, Jim
Dalton, came in, and he yelled and went for 'em. We was running slow up
grade, and they jumped off; Jim and the conductor after them; that's
why we stopped and backed down."
"Which way did they go?" I asked.
"Took right into the bush, I reckon. That lieutenant and another feller
has gone in through here, and Bill here says he seen three other fellers
light out from the back car,--the one you was in, sir. That's enough to
catch them if they're on the trail."
"Catch them!" I exclaimed. "Those three men in our car were of the same
gang, if anything, and that makes five to our four."
"Yes, by G--d!" said another of the party, a sturdy-looking planter;
"and what's more, I believe they've got a ranch in hereabouts and belong
to Hank Smith's gang. There ain't a meaner set of cut-throats in all
Dixie."
"Then, for heaven's sake, let's go in and hunt up our party!" said I,
really apprehensive as to their safety. Three or four volunteered at
once. Over the fence we went, and on into the pitchy darkness beyond.
Stumbling over logs and cracking sticks and leaves, squashing through
mud-holes and marshy ground, we plunged ahead, until a minute or two
brought us panting into a comparatively open space, and there we paused
to listen. Up to this time I had heard not a sound from the pursuit, and
hardly knew which way to turn. Each man held his breath and strained his
ears.
Another minute and it came,--well on to the front,--a yell, a shot,
another shot, and then,--"This way!" "This way!" "Here they are!" The
rest was drowned by our own rush, as we once more plunged into the
thicket and on towards the shouts. All of us were armed in one way or
another,--it is rare enough that any man goes otherwise in that section
of the country,--and to me there was a terrible excitement about the
whole affair, and my heart came bounding up to my throat with every
stride.
One or two more shots were heard, and on we kept until, just as every
man was almost breathless and used up, we were brought to a sudden stop
on the steep bank of a bayou that stretched far | 1,774.38139 |
2023-11-16 18:46:38.4563850 | 7,436 | 18 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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BLUE-STOCKING HALL.
J. D. NICHOLS, 25, PARLIAMENT STREET.
BLUE-STOCKING HALL.
“From woman’s eyes this doctrine I derive:
They sparkle still the right Promethean fire;
They are the books, the arts, the academes,
That show, contain, and nourish all the world.”
LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1827.
BLUE-STOCKING HALL.
LETTER XXVII.
FREDERICK TO EMILY DOUGLAS.
This, my dearest Emily, is the last letter which you will receive from
Frederick in London; and though time speeds on rapid wing in this focus
of attraction, I reckon the days with impatience till the heath-clad
tops of our dear mountains break upon my view. To travel, and see new
men and manners, would be too delightful, if mother and sisters were
with me, but, unfashionable as the confession may be, I own to the
_weakness_ of loving mine enough to make me wish to be always near
them. In a few days we are to set out, and Arthur starts for France,
when we turn our faces towards Glenalta. I fear that my uncle is not
gaining ground; there is a consultation every day, but it seems to me
as if many of these great doctors make up in _mannerism_ of one sort
or other what they want in penetration. One assumes a rough tone, and
thinks it for his advantage to act the brute, in order to assure his
patients that he is an honest man. Another looks as smooth as satin,
and prescribes such numerous and expensive remedies, that none but
a nabob could afford to be cured. A third experiments upon all the
vegetables and minerals in the modern Pharmacopœia, and “thrice slays
the slain,” before he stumbles by accident on the disease. If I am to
be killed by Esculapian skill, I would rather receive my _quietus_ from
a sober practitioner in the country, who had never heard of _arsenic_,
_digitalis_, or the _prussic acid_, than be torn piece-meal by a triad
of London physicians, who, ten to one, know as little of the case as of
the constitution submitted to them, and ceremoniously agree to put one
out of the world with the profoundest adherence to etiquette. I cannot
help thinking the business altogether a solemn farce, which I long to
see brought to a conclusion, and as I am growing every day more and
more attached to this near and dear relation, I look anxiously for his
removal, from what appears to me, a pick-pocket confederacy. The dread
with which my uncle’s manner at first inspired me, is gradually wearing
away. With Phil. and me he is charming, full of information, classical
taste, and literary criticism. He has a fund of humour also, which gives
variety to his powers of pleasing; and when bodily pain does not weigh
upon his spirits, he is a delightful companion, whose society will add
considerably to the pleasures of our winter fire-side. But his frown is
as awful as his smile is beaming, and would have petrified me long ago,
if I had ever encountered his brow in the act of concentrating its forces
upon me, as it does when aunt Howard and Louisa appear in his presence.
The whole horizon of his forehead is then hung thickly in clouds, a
morose expression marks his countenance, and a sullen silence indicates
displeasure, as far as the rules of common civility will permit. With
Arthur he is less unconstrained than with me; but I hope that ere we quit
London, there will be no difference in his feelings towards us. The kind
partiality with which he treats your Frederick is easily accounted for,
and arises _not_ from any comparison between the individuals in question,
or _I_ could not be his favourite. I should write with more satisfaction
than I feel at present, if I were not so soon to see you; but the
slowness of my pen makes me impatient, when I reflect on the _glibness_
of tongue with which I hope in less than a fortnight to pour out all my
news _vivâ voce_, for your amusement. Besides, when once the novelty
of the thing is over, there is a tiresome monotony in the routine of a
London life.
I have met with very few who deserve to be recorded for any
qualifications that distinguish individuals from each other. A certain
number of airs, and affectations, mixed with accomplishments and French
flounces, in proportions a little varying, but producing generally the
same result, may serve as a recipe by which to compound the modern belle;
and for the beau, a mixture somewhat different, without being in the
least more solid, will suffice as universally as the former; but Arthur
procured me an invitation the other day to a dinner party, which being
unlike its predecessors, I must particularize, reserving the names of the
_dramatis personæ_, till we meet, lest my letter should _miss stays_, and
its writer be prosecuted for a libel.
This dinner was given by a literary amateur, to several authors and
authoresses, who furnish our _running account_ of novels, essays,
disquisitions reviews, articles, fugitive poems, squibs, and _bon mots_.
And in the evening we had a numerous accession of both sexes, who were
brought together as professedly _bookish_ people, and therefore fit
audience for the writers who, I suppose, were expected to be speakers
also. I know, that I for _one_, went fully possessed with the idea, that
at least I should hear a great _quantity_ of discourse, however I might
chance to think of its _quality_; and, moreover, I was rejoicing for
two entire days at the prospect that lay before me: but disappointment
was the portion of every novice, who, like myself, looked for “a feast
of reason and a flow of soul.” Of all the dull uninteresting meetings
of which I ever happened to be a member, I willingly vote the palm of
pre-eminence to that at Sir Marmaduke Liston’s. However, as knowledge
is always valuable, I stand indebted to that assembly for one piece of
information, which, till now, I have taken upon hearsay evidence.
It was in Lady Liston’s drawing room that I first saw that gorgon, yclept
“_Blue-stocking_,” which we used to think was like other spectres, the
offspring of a distempered imagination. I can assure you that such
things are, and, if I was heartily disgusted with the authors at dinner,
I was no less heartily nauseated by the _Blues_ at tea. The former
only reminded me of rival tradesmen, who forgot a part of their craft,
namely, adulation of their patron, in the absorbing energy of their
hatred towards each other. As to _conversation_, we had none, for every
man seemed afraid to utter a sentence, lest his neighbour should slip
it into _a book_, and thus defraud the real owner. A few nods, shrugs,
and _hahs_, which might be interpreted _ad libitum_, occupied the place
of language, and constituted nearly the whole intercourse of _mind_
which was not directed to the _matter_ of fish, flesh, and fowls. On
_these_, indeed, and their individual merits, our _wittenagemot_ were
eloquent “with all alliteration’s artful aid;” and they also proved
themselves nothing loath to exercise whatever critical _acumen_ any of
them possessed on Sir Marmaduke’s wines which were discussed from humble
port to imperial tokay, with glistening eyes, glazed noses, and expanding
vests. Yet you may tell Mr. Oliphant that we had not even _allusion_
to a feast of the ancients, not a word of old Falernian, nor a single
glimmering of classic lore, though in the fields of Horace one would
imagine that the company might have expatiated on neutral ground without
danger of petty larceny on any side. One prodigious person, who seemed
like “Behemoth, biggest born,” and who quaffed accordingly, particularly
diverted me: he sat next to a tall thin phantom who looked of Pharoah’s
lean kine, and wore a little black cap on his skull, which appeared
as if “moulded on a porringer,” This shadowy form was, I was told, a
metaphysician, and certainly he gave me the idea of having come into the
world for the express purpose of illustrating the extension of tenuity.
He drank nothing but toast and water, and consequently had the advantage
of preserving such store of faculties as he brought to the entertainment,
in all their clearness, when his neighbours were “veiled in mist;” but
either the measure was so small, or the nature of his _wares_ prevented
them from being pilfered. Whatever the reason, so it was, that he seemed
to enjoy all the ease of a sinecure in guarding his mental property from
depredation. He, and his ample companion, threw glances at each other of
mutual contempt every now and then, and from time to time, as opportunity
presented itself, kept up at intervals a meagre snarl, altogether
divested of wit or point, till the big man, who, of a class that it might
be presumed
“Had but seldom known the use
Of the grape’s surprising juice,”
became so top heavy, that I saw his head gently let down, as if by a
pully and tackle, on the shoulder of the metaphysician, who not inclined
to enact the prop to a fallen foe, disengaged himself so abruptly from
this mountain of the muses (for Behemoth is a poet), that the chair on
which he sat, having glided away, the latter came down on the floor
plump, like a full sack that had broken from the crane. My gravity was
not proof against this downfall of Parnassus, and I made my way up stairs
as quickly as I could, only lagging behind a sufficient length of time
for the water-drinking philosopher to be lodged before me. Oh ye gods,
what an exhibition did I open upon! the only similitude which I can find
at hand for the drawing-room that presented itself, was a glass of some
highly bottled liquid, in which a froth of white muslin occupied the
upper, and a sediment of black cloth its lower extremity. Not a sound
was to be heard as I entered the room; but I soon perceived that the _et
ceteras_ of coffee, tea, cakes, and bread and butter, were not at all
more indifferent in the superior, than soups, meats, and wine had been in
the inferior regions of this intellectual _festum_. It quite astonished
me to see the quantity of all these appurtenances of the _soireé_, that
almost immediately vanished, “leaving not a wreck behind.” During the
consumption of these mere _creatures_ of the entertainment, certain
solemn sentences were fired at intervals, after the manner of minute
guns, each succeeded by a deadly pause.
The gentlemen below stairs sat a long time, but I was resolved to see
_out_ the evening, ere I passed judgment on a party of the literati. At
length the authors ascended, and, had I been a young lady, I should have
felt most unwilling
----“to meet the rudeness and swilled insolence
Of such late wassailers;”
but the habits of the _trade_ triumphed over the occasional excess which
Sir Marmaduke’s hospitality had caused his guests to commit, and so
profoundly discreet was this book-making assembly, that while, on the one
hand, not a syllable that betrayed either taste or genius escaped, and
laid them open to plagiarism, I must do justice to the equal taciturnity
which they observed upon every subject less immediately connected with
the direct views of their calling; insomuch, that, for the greater
number, they withstood the most pedantic efforts, on the side of the
_blues_, to draw them out, and--with the exception of some tedious
verbiage pronounced, _ex cathedrâ_, by the man in the black cap, who,
perceiving the advantage which his abstemiousness gave him over the rest,
grew loquacious and collected a circle of ladies around him--One might
have imagined that rumination was the object of the meeting, and that the
members of this tiresome confraternity had come together principally for
the purpose of feeding first, and then chewing the cud on the subjects of
their next lucubrations. I never was so weary of the “human face divine,”
as on the memorable occasion which I have mentioned, and gladly banished
all recollection of a party, over which the goddess of dulness had
especially presided--in the most leaden slumber that I have experienced
since my arrival in the British capital.
I shall part from Arthur with such sorrow as a brother’s love might feel.
He must positively be a changeling in his mother’s house, so entirely
does he differ from his family. Yet in Louisa there are, as our country
taylor would say, “_the makings_” of something good, had she received
a decent education. But empty heads and flinty hearts are quite _the
thing_; and if nature throw away her labours, and, forgetting the class
on which she is operating, lavish fine faculties and gentle affections on
one of your _exquisites_, whether male or female, these, like troublesome
excrescences, must be amputated; and a better hand at performing such a
species of excision cannot exist than that of my aunt. Her influence is
enough to eradicate the deepest sensibilities, and cut to the quick the
most promising intellect. She cannot bear me, because my uncle takes kind
notice of me, and it is time that we should part; for a day in Grosvenor
Square seems to me as if passed in purgatory; though Arthur is there.
With true loves, adieu, and believe me
Your affectionate
FREDERICK.
LETTER XXVIII.
ARTHUR HOWARD TO FREDERICK DOUGLAS.
_Paris._
My dear Fred.
Your letter, announcing safe return to the “happy valley,” found me
on the very eve of my departure to Dover. Need I say how welcome it
was?--Yes, you did indeed describe your feelings to one who could
participate in every sensation, and feel every beat of your heart, as the
well known land marks, the _termini_ that bound your glen of enchantment,
rose smiling in the western beam, above the misty fleece which had rolled
over their summits from the sea. I saw the first <DW19> blaze on the peak
of Lisfarne; I heard the first joyous announcement of Tom Collins, the
eager bark of Gelert, Eva, and Bran, the din of voices, the pattering
of bare feet across every path-way in the bog; in short, what incident,
however trifling, was a stranger to my breast that prepared for the final
folding in your mother’s arms?
How different my journey and my arrival at its termination! I could
have joined several gay parties, proceeding in the same route which
I was about to tread; but I was not in a humour for such company as
they offered, and so I preferred commencing my travels _solus_, Lewis
being only an appendage who permits me to be more alone than I should
be without him, by taking all the minor cares that belong to _chemin
faisant_ off my shoulders.
My mother and Louisa were to leave town on the day after I set out, and
are by this time at Selby--would that I could say enjoying the quiet of
that beautiful place; but the former, poor soul, is not happy any where,
and my sister, alas, though she feels little pleasure in the scenes
which she has left behind, cannot be expected to derive much from those
which in providing food, and giving time for meditation, bring no peace
to a bosom at war within itself. Louisa, I predict, will be an altered
character, but the work will be slow, and experience many interruptions.
I see, however, some very promising circumstances on which to build my
hopes. Adelaide’s marriage is already acting as a salutary beacon; and I
have extorted a faithful promise from Louisa that she will no longer give
encouragement to Lord G. Villiers, whose attentions, if they ended in a
serious address, would be directed by the same base motives which brought
Crayton and Adelaide together. Thus one great point is gained, but every
step which I achieve with Louisa, throws me farther back in my mother’s
regard; so the task is like that of Sisyphus, and very disheartening.
On reaching this place, I received letters from Falkland, and one from
my brother-in-law, entreating my interference with my uncle for a loan.
This I must peremptorily refuse, and cordially do I wish that the latter
had returned home a poor man, that such of his family, as are inclined
to love him, might indulge the feeling without suspicion of its purity;
and that such as would prey upon his very vitals, without regard to any
thing but the most sordid self-interest, should be kept from persecuting
and injuring his fine mind, by increasing the measure of its distrust.
He is not fond of me, but I love him because he has good taste enough to
distinguish you. Say every thing kind and respectful to him for me, which
you do not think him likely to reject, and with tender loves to the rest
of the dear group, I am, dearest Frederick, in haste,
Your affectionate,
A. HOWARD.
LETTER XXIX.
MRS. DOUGLAS TO MRS. E. SANDFORD.
You would have reason, my Elizabeth, to complain of my silence, were your
heart less alive than it is to the interesting occupations which have
devolved upon your friends of the valley; and though I am blessed with
such coadjutors as few can boast, there is employment for us _all_ in our
several departments.
My dear brother’s health declines so slowly, that the progress of disease
is scarcely perceptible, and deceives all the young group, as well as
the sanguine Oliphant; but I feel that Edward Otway and I are prophets
but too true when we agree in prognosticating a termination to all his
sufferings, whether of mind or body, that belong to this world, and
that too at no great distance of time. He has been so wearied out by
medicines, that he now resolves on trying the effects of a system in
which nature and affection shall be chief instruments. I submit to his
views in the full belief that a winter’s repose is necessary to his
existence, and as my solicitude is increased by the responsibility which
we encounter in permitting this dear invalid to remain so far removed
from what is called “the best advice,” you may suppose how continually my
thoughts are employed about him.
I had been prepared by Edward Otway’s letters, while he remained in
London, for finding my brother’s character deeply interesting; but I had
no notion in what degree, and my heart still lingers with him in the
moments of our necessary separation. He is a theme so engrossing, that I
could dilate much more upon it than the limits which I have prescribed to
myself will allow; but all that I have not time to write, you shall one
day hear, for I lay up every word that he utters, not only because of the
intrinsic value which I attach to his sentiments and opinions, but they
derive a sacredness from his present situation (hovering as the bright
spirit now is upon the confines of eternity), which keeps me almost
breathless in his company, lest I should lose a syllable that falls from
his lips. You already know what a _mine_ we have discovered, of the
richest treasure, under that scaly armour, in which he had fortified
himself against the anticipated assaults of such sordid principles as he
was accustomed to see govern the conduct of those men with whom early
habit had associated him. Imagine then the happiness of seeing all this
rough coating drop off, and present the sweetest, most confiding nature
to our view.
You and I have often watched the unfolding of that beautiful zoophyte,
the sea anemone, when, after having been left exposed, by the retreat of
the waves from its rocky asylum, to the chilling influence of a northern
blast, it expanded its delicate fibres to the soft returning tide; and
from a shrunk and shapeless thing, opened into a star of glowing and
transparent brilliancy. Just in such manner has the noble mind of our
precious invalid been blighted by the pitiless storms which rage along
the coasts of avarice and self-interest. In such manner also has he
unlocked his soul in this little sheltered bay, to the gentle flow of
affection. How thankful do I feel for the blessing of being permitted to
see this hour, and bear a part in the scene which Glenalta now exhibits!
The process of change too has been as quick as it is gratifying; a
cautious and alternating advance and recession would have been the
history of an ordinary mind, but the impulses of a generous character are
instinctive and uncalculating. They yielded at once in my brother to the
force of truth; and that reserve which is still occasionally observable
in his manner, expresses nothing like the coldness of doubt, but seems
only to say, “alas! why has this native element of kindness, this
congenial sympathy, been so long withheld, and why am I only learning,
for the first time, to bask in the warm sunshine, when the orb of day is
descending from his meridian, and hastening to hide his radiant beams in
the deep?” So powerfully do I feel impressed with a belief that this is
the secret language of his heart, that my eyes too often betray me, and
I am obliged to hurry from his presence, that I may avoid discovering my
emotion.
One little incident alone proclaimed the slightest vacillation in his
mind since he came here, and as it ended happily, and bore evidence to
the delicacy of my dear Frederick’s feeling, I have pleasure in recording
it.
A letter from Arthur, in which he expressed a wish that his uncle had
returned poor, in order to enjoy the luxury of being loved, with freedom
from the base insinuations that restrain the manifestation of affection,
and also speaking the pleasure which he experienced in the certainty
that his cousin is more highly considered than himself, was received,
and shewn to me some time ago, by my dear boy. Some allusion being made
to news from Arthur, my brother asked one or two questions about him,
which Frederick’s first unguarded movement led him to answer, by putting
his friend’s letter into his uncle’s hands; but instantly recollecting
the passage which I have mentioned, he altered his purpose, and blushed
so violently while he made an awkward reply, that a brow for the first
time overcast by clouds of suspicion, met my poor fellow’s eye, and
occasioned an unspeakable agony in his mind, which he saw no means of
relieving; for the same nice feeling that had stayed his first impulse,
forbade him to explain the subsequent embarrassment; yet he saw that an
unfavourable surmise, perhaps detracting from Arthur’s honorable motives,
was the alternative. Mr. Otway was in the room when this incident
occurred, and mentioned it to me in private. I immediately unravelled
the mystery, produced the letter for this dear friend, who shewed it
without Frederick’s knowledge, or mine, to his uncle; and the result has
been the most perfect understanding on all sides, and the completest
re-establishment of confidence on the part of my amiable guest.
My brother speaks with joy of never parting from me, and as every
consideration must give place to the hope of protracting his existence,
I shall not oppose his wishes, though I augur a removal from my cell,
which I never before contemplated, in fulfilling them. My poor invalid
talks of the Continent for next spring, and has heard so much of Turin,
that thither he has set his heart on going in quest of that which he will
never find. What is so far distant, may never come to pass; but I must
prepare for it, and _you_ know how painful to me is change of place;
yet the bitterest potion is mercifully diluted for us, if we attempt to
perform a _duty_ with cheerfulness; and He who “tempers the wind to the
shorn lamb,” will sustain me through whatever trials may be in prospect.
Winter has been for many years a heavy season with me. Long nights of
watchfulness, and sad musing, impede the progress of our daily task;
and the summer has been my comforter--its warm sunshine tempts abroad;
its bowery shades invite to rest; its long days furnish occupation, and
its short nights are often sweetly passed in gazing on the starry host,
and pondering on those mansions of eternal blessedness that lie beyond
the firmament. But this is mere indulgence, selfish indulgence, and my
present cares have taught me a lesson, which I ought to have learned
before. Engaged now from morning till night in trying to assuage the
sufferings of another, I have not time to dwell on sorrow of my own; and
winter glides away unperceived, except by the rapidity of its flight.
It will rejoice you to learn that our _great_ concern prospers; and the
earnest desire to infuse “that peace which passeth all understanding”
into the sinking spirit, has been blessed with success beyond our hopes.
No formal siege, no angry attack, no querulous disputation has been
opened here upon error and scepticism. We read, we converse, but we
patiently wait for the troubling of the waters ere assistance is offered.
The _forcing_ system surely deters many from entering the lists of
proselytism from the evil of their ways. You have often heard me say that
there is nothing like Butler’s Analogy for minds of a certain calibre,
which must have strong food. _Here_ is a new instance in proof of its
excellence. Our invalid is charmed with this masterly work, and pores
over it incessantly. We have got Tremaine too, of which so many various
opinions are in circulation: but as we have not yet finished it, I do not
say more at present.
Adieu, dearest friend,
All, to all, with true affection,
ever yours is
C. DOUGLAS.
LETTER XXX.
FREDERICK DOUGLAS TO ARTHUR HOWARD.
_Glenalta._
Dearest Arthur,
Our letters to and fro, seem all to have reached their several
destinations in safety, and yours have truly been a rich resource this
winter in our retirement. Little did I imagine when we parted, that you
and I were likely to meet in a foreign territory before we shook hands
once more at Glenalta; but this letter is actually to be your manifesto
of full power to treat in my uncle’s name for all such accommodations
as may suit his circumstances and the number of our party at Turin,
whither you are directing your steps, you say, and where you may expect
to see us all, Mr. Oliphant excepted, in two months, should no unforeseen
interventions mar the present plan of proceeding.
How extraordinarily the most unlooked for events come round, and
sometimes turn up the very thing that we most desire, and which seemed
the least within our own power to accomplish!
My college course just finished, my degree taken, and the mind
experiencing the _pains_ of liberty, not its _pleasures_, how delightful
is this new direction of its activity! I cannot describe the feelings
with which I paid my last accounts to Alma Mater, and took leave _for
ever_ of a heap of books which now that I am not obliged to read, I dare
say I shall never be likely to open again.
Well, man is surely a perfect enigma! _Venteroli_, _La Place_, _La
Croix_, all those volumes with the red, blue, and yellow, covers, which
when lying on my table you used to call my _parterre of tulips_, and at
which I have often worked till my mind was reduced to a state of complete
inanition, became objects of affection when the task was finished,--_not_
that I had any inclination to continue the toil, when the necessity for
it had ceased; but I regretted the absence of that necessity, and sat
mournfully gazing on those books which I had longed so often to lay upon
the shelf. I felt exactly, I dare say, as a piece of clock-work would
tell us that it does, were it able to speak, when the main spring, after
being wound up to the utmost extremity of tension, is suddenly let go,
and flies back with proportionate and painful velocity. In short, I
know not how to express the collapsed, unstrung, nerveless condition of
my mind, which I suppose was somewhat over wrought by study, and the
repose for which I had so often sighed, had so little rest for me when it
arrived, that I should gladly have preferred the labour of a coal porter
to the relaxation which I had been anticipating with such impatience.
Doctor Evelyn is certainly right, when he says that every gratification
to be truly felt, must be _earned_; and when I ceased to _earn_, I ceased
to enjoy. All this egotism would be unpardonable if it were not necessary
to your right understanding of my present gratitude for the delightful
excitement in prospect.
Emily, Charlotte, Fanny, and I, have something new and stimulating to
talk of, and our preparations for quitting home already occupy hands as
well as heads. We build castles, lay plans, read books with reference to
our _travels_, and, by-the-bye, Em. and I are so completely bitten by
the idea of visiting the vallies of Piémont, that I prepare you now for
being pressed into the service. We are longing, too, to be acquainted
with your friend Falkland: and dear Phil. who has promised my poor uncle
to accompany the party, writes to Stanhope to meet us at Turin with Mr.
Oliphant, junior. So really it is quite an _embarras de richesses_, and
I should be too happy were it not for a few counteracting circumstances
which put a wholesome log about my neck, and restrain my buoyancy from
breaking into any indecorous exuberance.
The first in magnitude of these, is my uncle’s state of health, which
hangs a cloud over our spirits. He is so much beloved by us all, that to
witness his decline, gentle and almost imperceptible as it is, gives the
truest pain to every heart at Glenalta. For a long time after he arrived
here, I resisted conviction, and could not believe that my dearest mother
was not influenced by morbid melancholy in her forebodings; but she was
too well skilled in every symptom of the disease to doubt its progress;
and I grieve to say that every day adds testimony to the correctness of
her predictions. Nothing immediate is to be dreaded, however, while so
much bodily strength remains: but how sad it is to watch the increasing
emaciation, and witness the gradual decay of one who is dear to your
affections! You never saw a character so changed, or rather so developed
under a new aspect, as that of our uncle. All appearance of harshness has
subsided, every semblance of suspicion has given place to the kindest
expression of trust and affection. The effects are painful as they are
pleasing, as in learning to love we are taught to fear; and dread to lose
what we have so lately known how to estimate in all its excellence.
In considering him, he suggests the analogy of a fine instrument of music
that had been consigned to the cobwebs of neglect by the rude hands of
some ferocious banditti, who, in their barbarous attempts to draw forth
harmony, which refused to flow for them, crushed the sound-board and
tore the strings, then flung the sweet cremona to the crowd, who knew
nothing of its worth. Falling at length into the possession of one whose
delicate ear recognizes its full perfections, the structure is repaired,
the strings are tuned anew; and now the liquid tones are poured with
generous freedom, to repay that skilful touch, that refined taste, which
alone has power to unlock all its stores of melody. Such a musician is
my mother, and the attachment with which she has inspired my uncle, is
reflected on us all. Of you also dear Arthur he speaks as he ought to do;
and I have pleasure in thinking, that when we meet, you will be loved by
him, as you deserve to be by all who know you | 1,774.476425 |
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC, Complete
The Story of a Lost Napoleon
By Gilbert Parker
INTRODUCTION
In one sense this book stands by itself. It is like nothing else I have
written, and if one should seek to give it the name of a class, it might
be called an historical fantasy.
It followed The Trail of the Sword and preceded The Seats of the Mighty,
and appeared in the summer of 1895. The critics gave it a reception
which was extremely gratifying, because, as it seemed to me, they
realised what I was trying to do; and that is a great deal. One great
journal said it read as though it had been written at a sitting; another
called it a tour de force, and the grave Athenaeum lauded it in a key
which was likely to make me nervous, since it seemed to set a standard
which I should find it hard to preserve in the future. But in truth
the newspaper was right which said that the book read as though it was
written at a sitting, and that it was a tour de force. The facts are
that the book was written, printed, revised, and ready for press in five
weeks.
The manuscript of the book was complete within four weeks. It possessed
me. I wrote night and day. There were times when I went to bed and,
unable to sleep, I would get up at two o'clock or three o'clock in the
morning and write till breakfast time. A couple of hours' walk after
breakfast, and I would write again until nearly two o'clock. Then
luncheon; afterwards a couple of hours in the open air, and I would
again write till eight o'clock in the evening. The world was shut out. I
moved in a dream. The book was begun at Hot Springs, in Virginia, in
the annex to the old Hot Springs Hotel. I could not write in the hotel
itself, so I went to the annex, and in the big building--in the early
spring-time--I worked night and day. There was no one else in the place
except the old <DW64> caretaker and his wife. Four-fifths of the book was
written in three weeks there. Then I went to New York, and at the Lotus
Club, where I had a room, I finished it--but not quite. There were a
few pages of the book to do when I went for my walk in Fifth Avenue one
afternoon. I could not shake the thing off, the last pages demanded to
be written. The sermon which the old Cure was preaching on Valmond's
death was running in my head. I could not continue my walk. Then and
there I stepped into the Windsor Hotel, which I was passing, and asked
if there was a stenographer at liberty. There was. In the stenographer's
office of the Windsor Hotel, with the life of a caravanserai buzzing
around me, I dictated the last few pages of When Valmond Came to
Pontiac. It was practically my only experience of dictation of fiction.
I had never been able to do it, and have not been able to do it since,
and I am glad that it is so, for I should have a fear of being led into
mere rhetoric. It did not, however, seem to matter with this book. It
wrote itself anywhere. The proofs of the first quarter of the book were
in my hands before I had finished writing the last quarter.
It took me a long time to recover from the great effort of that five
weeks, but I never regretted those consuming fires which burned up sleep
and energy and ravaged the vitality of my imagination. The story was
founded on the incident described in the first pages of the book, which
was practically as I experienced it when I was a little child. The
picture there drawn of Valmond was the memory of just such a man as
stood at the four corners in front of the little hotel and scattered his
hot pennies to the children of the village. Also, my father used to tell
me as a child a story of Napoleon, whose history he knew as well as
any man living, and something of that story may be found in the fifth
chapter of the book where Valmond promotes Sergeant Lagroin from
non-commissioned rank, first to be captain, then to be colonel, and then
to be general, all in a moment, as it were.
I cannot tell the original story as my father told it to me here, but
it was the tale of how a sergeant in the Old Guard, having shared
his bivouac supper of roasted potatoes with the Emperor, was told by
Napoleon that he should sup with his Emperor when they returned to
Versailles. The old sergeant appeared at Versailles in course of time
and demanded admittance to the Emperor, saying that he had been asked
to supper. When Napoleon was informed, he had the veteran shown in and,
recognising his comrade of the baked potatoes, said at once that the
sergeant should sup with him. The sergeant's reply was: "Sire, how can
a non-commissioned officer dine with a general?" It was then, Napoleon,
delighted with the humour and the boldness of his grenadier, summoned
the Old Guard, and had the sergeant promoted to the rank of captain on
the spot.
It was these apparently incongruous things, together with legends that
I had heard and read of Napoleon, which gave me the idea of Valmond.
First, a sketch of about five thousand words was written, and it looked
as though I were going to publish it as a short story; but one day,
sitting in a drawing-room in front of a grand piano, on the back of
which were a series of miniatures of the noted women who had played
their part in Napoleon's life, the incident of the Countess of Carnstadt
(I do not use the real name) at St. Helena associated itself with
the picture in my memory of the philanthropist of the street corner.
Thereupon the whole story of a son of Napoleon, ignorant of his own
birth, but knowing that a son had been born to Napoleon at St. Helena,
flitted through my imagination; and the story spread out before me all
in an hour, like an army with banners.
The next night--for this happened in New York--I went down to Hot
Springs, Virginia, and began a piece of work which enthralled me as I
had never before been enthralled, and as I have never been enthralled in
the same way since; for it was perilous to health and mental peace.
Fantasy as it is, the book has pictures of French-Canadian life which
are as true as though the story itself was all true. Characters are
in it like Medallion, the little chemist, the avocat, Lajeunesse the
blacksmith, and Madeleinette, his daughter, which were in some of the
first sketches I ever wrote of French Canada, and subsequently appearing
in the novelette entitled The Lane That Had No Turning. Indeed, 'When
Valmond Came to Pontiac', historical fantasy as it is, has elements both
of romance and realism.
Of all the books which I have written, perhaps because it cost me so
much, because it demanded so much of me at the time of its writing, I
care for it the most. It was as good work as I could do. This much may
at least be said: that no one has done anything quite in the same way
or used the same subject, or given it the same treatment. Also it may be
said, as the Saturday Review remarked, that it contained one whole, new
idea, and that was the pathetic--unutterably pathetic--incident of a man
driven by the truth in his blood to impersonate himself.
"Oh, withered is the garland of the war,
The Soldier's pole is fallen."
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
CHAPTER I
On one corner stood the house of Monsieur Garon the avocat; on another,
the shop of the Little Chemist; on another, the office of Medallion
the auctioneer; and on the last, the Hotel Louis Quinze. The chief
characteristics of Monsieur Garon's house were its brass door-knobs, and
the verdant vines that climbed its sides; of the Little Chemist's shop,
the perfect whiteness of the building, the rolls of sober wall-paper,
and the bottles of water in the shop windows; of Medallion's,
the stoop that surrounded three sides of the building, and the notices
of sales tacked up, pasted up, on the front; of the Hotel Louis Quinze,
the deep dormer windows, the solid timbers, and the veranda that gave
its front distinction--for this veranda had been the pride of several
generations of landlords, and its heavy carving and bulky grace were
worth even more admiration than Pontiac gave to it.
The square which the two roads and the four corners made was, on
week-days, the rendezvous of Pontiac, and the whole parish; on Sunday
mornings the rendezvous was shifted to the large church on the hill,
beside which was the house of the Cure, Monsieur Fabre. Travelling
towards the south, out of the silken haze of a mid-summer day, you would
come in time to the hills of Maine; north, to the city of Quebec and the
river St. Lawrence; east, to the ocean; and west, to the Great Lakes and
the land of the English. Over this bright province Britain raised her
flag, but only Medallion and a few others loved it for its own sake, or
saluted it in the English tongue.
In the drab velvety dust of these four corners, were gathered, one night
of July a generation ago, the children of the village and many of their
elders. All the events of that epoch were dated from the evening of this
particular day. Another day of note the parish cherished, but it was
merely a grave fulfilment of the first.
Upon the veranda-stoop of the Louis Quinze stood a man of apparently
about twenty-eight years of age. When you came to study him closely,
some sense of time and experience in his look told you that he might
be thirty-eight, though his few grey hairs seemed but to emphasise a
certain youthfulness in him. His eye was full, singularly clear, almost
benign, and yet at one moment it gave the impression of resolution,
at another it suggested the wayward abstraction of the dreamer. He
was well-figured, with a hand of peculiar whiteness, suggesting in
its breadth more the man of action than of meditation. But it was a
contradiction; for, as you saw it rise and fall, you were struck by its
dramatic delicacy; as it rested on the railing of the veranda, by its
latent power. You faced incongruity everywhere. His dress was bizarre,
his face almost classical, the brow clear and strong, the profile good
to the mouth, where there showed a combination of sensuousness and
adventure. Yet in the face there was an illusive sadness, strangely out
of keeping with the long linen coat, frilled shirt, flowered waistcoat,
lavender trousers, boots of enamelled leather, and straw hat with white
linen streamers. It was a whimsical picture.
At the moment that the Cure and Medallion the auctioneer came down the
street together towards the Louis Quinze, talking amiably, this singular
gentleman was throwing out hot pennies, with a large spoon, from a tray
in his hand, calling on the children to gather them, in French which was
not the French of Pontiac--or Quebec; and this refined accent the Cure
was quick to detect, as Monsieur Garon the avocat, standing on the
outskirts of the crowd, had done, some moments before. The stranger
seemed only conscious of his act of liberality and the children before
him. There was a naturalness in his enjoyment which was almost boylike;
a naive sort of exultation possessed him.
He laughed softly to see the children toss the pennies from hand to
hand, blowing to cool them; the riotous yet half-timorous scramble for
them, and burnt fingers thrust into hot, blithe mouths. And when he
saw a fat little lad of five crowded out of the way by his elders, he
stepped down with a quick word of sympathy, put a half-dozen pennies in
the child's pocket, snatched him up and kissed him, and then returned to
the stoop, where were gathered the landlord, the miller, and Monsieur
De la Riviere, the young Seigneur. But the most intent spectator of the
scene was Parpon the dwarf, who was grotesquely crouched upon the wide
ledge of a window.
Tray after tray of pennies was brought out and emptied, till at last the
stranger paused, handed the spoon to the landlord, drew out a fine white
handkerchief and dusted his fingers, standing silent for a moment and
smiling upon the crowd.
It was at this point that some young villager called, in profuse
compliment: "Three cheers for the Prince!" The stranger threw an accent
of pose into his manner, his eye lighted, his chin came up, he dropped
one hand negligently on his hip, and waved the other in acknowledgment.
Presently he beckoned, and from the hotel were brought out four great
pitchers of wine and a dozen tin cups, and, sending the garcon around
with one, the landlord with another, he motioned Parpon the dwarf to
bear a hand. Parpon shot out a quick, half-resentful look at him, but
meeting a warm, friendly eye, he took the pitcher and went round among
the elders, while the stranger himself courteously drank with the young
men of the village, who, like many wiser folk, thus yielded to the charm
of mystery. To every one he said a hearty thing, and sometimes touched
his greeting off with a bit of poetry or a rhetorical phrase. These
dramatic extravagances served him well, for he was among a race of
story-tellers and crude poets.
Parpon, uncouth and furtive, moved through the crowd, dispensing as much
irony as wine:
"Three bucks we come to a pretty inn,
'Hostess,' say we, 'have you red wine?'
Brave! Brave!
| 1,775.174521 |
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Produced by Giovanni Fini, Melissa McDaniel and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
[Illustration: BIANCA CAPPELLO.]
_From an Original Painting by Cristofero Allori in the Uffizi at
Florence._
A DECADE
OF
ITALIAN WOMEN.
BY
T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE,
AUTHOR OF "THE GIRLHOOD OF CATHERINE DE' MEDICI."
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.
1859.
[_The right of Translation is reserved._]
LONDON
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
CONTENTS.
TULLIA D'ARAGONA.
Born, about 1510. Died, about 1570.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
My Lord Cardinal's daughter 1
CHAPTER II.
Aspasia rediviva 10
CHAPTER III.
"All's well, that ends well" 21
OLYMPIA MORATA.
Born, 1526. Died, 1555.
CHAPTER I.
Good old times in Ferrara.—How a Pope's daughter became a
Duchess; bygones were bygones; and Love was still the lord of
all 30
CHAPTER II.
Troublous new times in Ferrara.—How a French King's daughter
became a Duchess; bygones were aught but bygones; and Mitre
and Cowl were lords of all 54
CHAPTER III.
How shall a Pope be saved? with the answer thereto.—How shall
our Olympia be saved? To be taken into consideration in a
subsequent chapter 77
CHAPTER IV.
"The whirligig of time brings in his revenges."—Still
Undine.—The "salvation" question stands over 92
CHAPTER V.
Dark days.—The great question begins to be answered 108
CHAPTER VI.
The question fully answered at last.—Farewell,
Ferrara!—Welcome inhospitable Caucasus.—Omne solum forti
patria est 122
CHAPTER VII.
At Augsburg; and at Würzburg 143
CHAPTER VIII.
The home at Schweinfurth 154
CHAPTER IX.
The makers of history.—The flight from Schweinfurth 168
CHAPTER X.
A new home in Heidelberg; and a last home beneath it.—What is
Olympia Morata to us? 182
ISABELLA ANDREINI.
Born, 1562. Died, 1604.
Italian love for the Theatre.—Italian Dramatic
Literature.—Tragedy.—Comedy.—Tiraboschi's notion of
it.—Macchiavelli's Mandragola.—Isabella's high standing among
her contemporaries.—Her husband.—Her high character.—Death,
and Epitaph.—Her writings.—Nature and value of histrionic art
205
BIANCA CAPPELLO.
Born, 1548. Died, 1587.
CHAPTER I.
The pretty version of the story; and the true version
of the same.—St. Mark's Square at Florence.—Bianca's
beauty.—The Medici _en famille_.—The Casino of St. Mark.—The
proprieties.—"Cosa di Francesco" 220
CHAPTER II.
A favourite's husband.—The natural course of things.—Italian
respectability.—The three brothers, Francesco, Ferdinand,
and Pietro.—The ladies of the court.—Francesco's temper—his
avarice—and wealth.—Frolicsome days at Florence.—The Cardinal
recommends respectability.—The Duke ensures it.—A court
dialogue 234
CHAPTER III.
Bianca balances her accounts.—Dangers in her path.—A bold
step—and its consequences.—Facilis descensus.—A proud
father.—Bianca's witchcraft.—The Cardinal is checkmated, for
this game 257
CHAPTER IV.
The Duchess Giovanna and her sorrows.—An heir is born.—Bianca
in the shade.—The "Orti Oricellari."—Bianca entertains the
Court there.—A summer night's amusement in 1577.—The death of
Giovanna 271
CHAPTER V.
What is Francesco to do now?—The Cardinal and Bianca try
another fall.—Cardinal down again.—Francesco's vengeance.—What
does the Church say?—Bianca at Bologna.—The marriage privately
performed.—The Cardinal learns the secret.—The daughtership of
St. Mark.—Venetian doings _versus_ Venetian sayings.—Embassy
to Florence.—Suppose we could have her crowned!—The marriage
publicly solemnised 284
CHAPTER VI.
Bianca's new policy.—New phase of the battle between the
woman and the priest.—Serene, or not serene! that is the
question.—Bianca protests against sisters.—Death of the
child Filippo.—Bianca's troubles and struggles.—The villa of
Pratolino.—Francesco's extraordinary mode of life there 303
CHAPTER VII.
The family feeling in Italy.—Who shall be the heir?—Bianca
at Cerreto.—Camilla di Martelli.—Don Pietro on the watch.—
Bianca at her tricks again.—The Cardinal comes to look
after matters.—Was Francesco dupe or accomplice?—Bianca's
comedy becomes a very broad farce.—A "Villeggiatura" at
Poggio–a–Cajano.—The Cardinal wins the game 317
CHAPTER VIII.
Three hypotheses respecting the deaths of Francesco and
Bianca.—The official version of the story.—The Novelist's
version of the story.—A third possibility.—Circumstances that
followed the two deaths.—Bianca's grave; and epitaphs for it
by the Florentines.—Ferdinand's final success 333
OLYMPIA PAMFILI.
Born, 1594. Died, 1656.
Pope Joan rediviva.—Olympia's outlook on life.—Her mode of
"opening the oyster."—She succeeds in opening it.—Olympia's
son.—Olympia at home in the Vatican.—Her trade.—A Cardinal's
escape from the purple.—Olympia under a cloud. Is once
more at the head of the field; and in at the death.—A
Conclave.—Olympia's star wanes.—Pœna pede claudo 346
ELISABETTA SIRANI.
Born, 1638. Died, 1665.
CHAPTER I.
Her life 366
CHAPTER II.
Her death 379
LA CORILLA.
Born, 1740. Died, 1800.
CHAPTER I.
The apprenticeship to the laurel 393
CHAPTER II.
The coronation 403
APPENDIX 417
NOTES 429
INDEX 437
A DECADE OF ITALIAN WOMEN.
TULLIA D'ARAGONA.
(About 1510—about 1570.)
CHAPTER I.
MY LORD CARDINAL'S DAUGHTER.
One remarkable circumstance among those which specially characterised
the great intellectual movement in Italy in the sixteenth century, was
the large part taken in it by women. The writers of literary history,—a
class especially abundant to the south of the Alps,—enumerate a
surprisingly long catalogue of ladies more or less celebrated for their
works. The list of poetesses registered by Tiraboschi as flourishing
during the first half of the sixteenth century, consists of some forty
names. And he intimates, that it might have been made much longer,
had he thought it worth while to record every name mentioned by the
chroniclers of such matters, who preceded him. A great many more are
noticed as having been "learned" or "skilled in polite literature."
Such facts constitute a very noteworthy feature of the social aspect
of the period in question; and doubtless influenced largely the
tone of society and manners, as well as the position and well–being
of the sex. But it is very questionable, whether certain theories
respecting the comparative value of modern female education, to which
all this sixteenth century galaxy has given rise, be not founded on
misconception partly of the value of the learning possessed by these
ladies, and more still of the circumstances and appearance, under which
it presented itself to them.
Intellectual culture in that day meant especially, almost exclusively,
what has been since more technically called "learning." The movement,
which was then once again stirring up the mind of the educated classes
arose mainly, as every body knows, from the discovery and resuscitation
of the literature of ancient Greece and Rome. To be, if not a good
Grecian, at least a competent Latin scholar, was the first step
absolutely necessary in the liberal education of either male or female.
Nay, it constituted very frequently not only the first step, but the
entire course. In Italy this was in an especial degree the case. Not
only the fashion of literature, but the general tone of the educated
mind became classical,—and pagan. And the rapidity with which the new
modes of thought and fashion of taste spread, and,—speaking of course
with reference only to the educated classes,—popularised themselves, is
very striking. But they did so, because they were eminently suited to
the proclivity of the minds to which they were presented.
[Sidenote: THE NEW LEARNING.]
For this new learning came to them as an emancipation and a licence.
Such learning as had been before in existence was dry, severe,
repulsive, associated only with ideas of discipline, sacrifice, and
renunciation of the world and its pleasures—the proper business of
ascetic priests and hermits. The new studies were the reverse of
all this. Elegant, facile, materialistic in all their tendencies
and associations, adapting themselves readily to the amusements and
passions of the young and gay, they must be compared, if we would
parallel them with aught of modern culture, with the lighter of
those accomplishments, which are now called ornamental. The total
unchristianising of Italian society, which the rage for classical
literature very rapidly produced, was such as strikingly to justify the
modern[1] crusade against classical culture preached by those who are
anxious to preserve such Christianity as that, which then went down
before the irruption of literary paganism. The exquisitely organised
æsthetic faculties of the southern mind eagerly imbibed and readily
assimilated the habits of thought, generated by a religion, whose only
real object of worship was material beauty. The extremely relaxed
morality of the time was subjected to a refining influence, but by no
means checked by a literature rich in poetical drapery for every form
of vice. And the lightest, gayest, freest portion of society, beginning
now to be awakened to a relish for the elegances of life by increasing
wealth and luxury, found exactly what suited them in the revived
literature of the forefathers of their race; a literature which was the
product of generations uninfluenced by the wholly irreconcilable ideas
of a philosophy and religion imposed on their descendants with very
partial success by men of differently constituted races from the east
and from the north.
Englishmen are wont to estimate the study of the literature of Greece
and Rome in a manner very much at variance with the ideas expressed
in the above sentences; and judging it, as of course we do, from its
results among ourselves, most justly so. It would take us much too far
afield to examine satisfactorily why these results should have been so
different in the two cases. The most important portion of the causes of
difference would probably be found to consist in the dissimilarity of
our northern idiosyncrasies to those of the ancient writers. In Italy,
the old tree bore its own natural fruit. With us, it was engrafted on
another stock. The southern mind became all classical. The northern
mind was modified only by contact with the ancient literature. Perhaps
also, some weight may be allowed to the greater difficulty of the study
in our case; whence it has arisen, that the thorough and analytical
study of the dead languages, has been deemed eminently profitable as
intellectual discipline, and as the best foundation of general mental
culture.
And these views of classic learning lead us to attribute almost
instinctively, as it were, a high degree of solidity, grave scholastic
laboriousness, and respectability to the acquirements of those who
possess it. A lady well read in Greek and Latin, appears to us to
have necessarily reached an intellectual elevation which places her
above the shallowness, superficiality, and frivolousness with which
modern female education is ordinarily reproached. And we sigh over the
supposed inferiority in this respect, of England in the nineteenth
century, to the brilliant Italy of the sixteenth. It is true, that in
the case of Vittoria Colonna, we have seen a product of the classical
training of that day, which—_mutatis mutandis_—we might be content to
reproduce. But the instance is wholly exceptional; and the qualities,
moreover, which we admire in Vittoria are to be traced, probably, as
far as they are independent on constitutional idiosyncrasy, to those
associations with some very remarkable men, which taught her to use her
ancient learning as a tool, and not a final object.
[Sidenote: COUNCIL OF TRENT.]
The subject of these pages is a less exceptional product of Italian
sixteenth century classical studies; but by no means a less curious and
suggestive exponent of one phase of the social life and manners of that
epoch.
Among the grave and reverend seniors industriously busy at Trent, in
the year 1552, at their great work of constructing a dam to stop the
course of a perennial river, may be observed one Peter Tagliavia,
Archbishop of Palermo, a silver–haired and right reverend old man, very
prudent, wise, and sagacious, we are told, in the management of affairs
of all[2] sorts. There he is sagaciously dragging forward his bit of
stick to contribute to the formation of the great dam, undismayed by
the swift running of the stream the while. He is much puzzled by the
consideration of the manner and style in which it will be proper for
the assembled Fathers of the Church to communicate with heretics.
For it is quite clear, on the one hand, that _being_ heretics and
excommunicate, and damned already accordingly, all propriety and Church
etiquette would require that they should be treated and addressed as
such. But, on the other hand, there is reason to believe that their
arrogance will reach the height of expecting to be treated like
Christians, and that failing such treatment, no reply will be got from
them at all, and so all proceedings be stopped _in limine_.[3] Very
perplexing!
The sagacious Archbishop insisted much on this point, dragging up his
bit of drift wood to the dam with pertinacious industry. He was made a
cardinal in the following year for this and other merits; partly also,
because he had royal blood in his veins,—writing himself "Tagliavia
d'Aragona." He died five years later, in 1558, still busy in damming
that terrible river, which was already changing the face of things
around him. Even Rome itself was very unlike what he had remembered it
in the good old times, some fifty years ago or thereabouts. Ah! Rome
was worth living in and living for in those days! Happy days! when, as
His Eminence of Bibbiena used to say, we wanted nothing but a court
with ladies. Court, with ladies, quotha!
And with that our Archbishop's musings on the brave old days, when the
second Julius was Pope, and no heretical turbulence had yet disturbed
the sacerdotal empyrean, could hardly fail to recall a tolerably
brilliant galaxy of such ladies, as were especially attracted from all
parts of Italy, to a court whose numerous and wealthy courtiers were
all professionally and permanently bachelors.
"Poor Giulia!" sighed the Archbishop, "sometimes I wonder what became
of her?"
We will not ask for a reference to the accurate historian, who
overheard, and has chronicled these words. Roccho Pirro, in his learned
and voluminous history of the Sicilian prelates, it is true, omits
to mention them. Yet, I think, that if his Eminence, Pietro Tagliavia
d'Aragona, had been satisfactorily Boswellised, they must have been
recorded. For "poor Giulia" had been the mother[4] of the rising young
churchman's daughter some fifty years or so before the time at which we
find his Eminence working in his vocation at the great dam. And this
daughter was the celebrated Tullia (more or less) d'Aragona.
[Sidenote: GIULIA OF FERRARA.]
What _did_ become of poor Giulia? Giulia of Ferrara, the most
celebrated beauty of her day, in all Italy: the noted toast of
Rome,—the be–rhymed of ecclesiastical sonnetteers—the sighed–for
by purple–stockinged swains: Giulia, the Aspasia of many a frocked
Pericles, and the mother of a royal–blooded churchman's child! How
should respectable Mnemosyne know what becomes of such? Mnemosyne
mentions, with a blush, having just seen her once in the pride of her
beauty, flashing with cortège of horses and attendants, and glitter
through the streets of Rome.[5] And that is all. Mnemosyne begs to
be asked nothing more about her; and proceeds to relate with much
complacency the fortunes and preferments of the excellent Cardinal
Archbishop, the rules that he made for his clergy, and the privileges
and property he acquired for his Church.
Yet despite all this propriety on the part of respectable Mnemosyne,
despite her decent reticences, and official records of Palermo
chapterhouse doings, and Trent diplomacy, despite learned Roccho
Pirro's folios and immortality in the columns of Ciacconius,[6] the
fact is, that if the name of Archbishop Peter Tagliavia d'Aragona
is ever now spoken by the lips of living nineteenth–century men, it
is owing, incredible as the circumstance would have seemed to his
Eminence, solely to his relationship to little _nullius filia_ Tullia.
Not that the blood–royal young churchman, candidate as he was there at
Rome, under the immediate eye of infallibility for the Church's highest
honours—scarlet stockings, palliums, red hats, and what not—seems to
have felt any scruples and embarrassment about the matter. At all
events he provided abundantly for his "furtively received daughter,"
as Zilioli phrases it; and took care that she should receive an
education, calculated to make the most of the brilliant talents of all
sorts, manifested by her from her earliest childhood. "To the utter
astonishment of learned men," says Zilioli, "she was heard to carry on
a disputation in Latin while yet a child. She wrote also both in Latin
and in Italian compositions worthy of any literary man. So that, when
grown up, joining as she did, to her knowledge and worth, an exquisite
elegance of manner, she acquired the reputation of being the most
perfectly accomplished woman of her time. She appeared in public with
so much grace, with such beauty, and such affability of manner, that
when to all that was added the magnificence and adornment of dress,
calculated to set off all the charms of her person[7] to the utmost,
it is impossible to imagine anything more charming and exquisitely
finished than she was. Her musical touch was so exquisite, and she
managed her voice in singing so sweetly, that the first professors
were astonished at her performance. She spoke with grace and with rare
eloquence, so that whether in light conversation or serious discussion,
she delighted and captivated her hearers, like a second Cleopatra;
and at the same time, her lovely and ever cheerful features were not
wanting in those more potent charms, which admirers of female beauty
are wont to look for in a beautiful face."
[Sidenote: HER ACCOMPLISHMENTS.]
So richly had nature endowed, and so successfully had art cultivated
the child of the rising churchman! Father and daughter were both,
during those early years of the sixteenth century, perfecting
themselves for their subsequent destinies in the strangely jumbled
social world of that wonderful old Rome; he duly progressing towards
scarlet stockings and hats; and she to the somewhat similarly
promotion, in the enjoyment of which, painfully blushing Mnemosyne next
authentically falls in with her.
CHAPTER II.
ASPASIA REDIVIVA.
It is fancied, with small reason probably, that to grow old is
necessarily more disagreeable to women than to men. And dates are
therefore popularly held to be especially detestable facts to the fair
sex. If this be so, the world in this matter, as in most others, showed
itself excessively complaisant to our fascinating sixteenth century,
Aspasia. For her contemporaries have been most strangely silent on
the subject as regards her. The year of her birth, and more strangely
still, that of her death, are alike unknown and undiscoverable. Must
we therefore conclude, that the departure of the superannuated beauty,
was as little interesting to the world as the arrival of the "furtively
received" infant?
The literary historians content themselves with vaguely stating, that
Tullia "flourished" in 1550.[8] It is true, that a difference of
opinion may be supposed to exist as to the portion of her career best
deserving to be so characterised. But it is to be feared, that poor
Tullia herself must have considered her "flourishing" to be over and
gone for ever, by the time she reached that period. For in the total
silence and negligence of every regular clerk in Mnemosyne's office,
some not–to–be–baffled, Dryasdust, whom our brilliant Tullia would
doubtless have hated with instinctive aversion, has succeeded in poking
out a certain letter that blabs much. Ah! those old letters in dusty
yellow bundles, with the unimpeachable evidences of their signatures,
addresses, and dates, hoarded by some correspondent's preserving
instincts, in many cases little counted on by the writer, how much of
all we know about our predecessors on earth's surface is due to their
unforeseen tale–telling!
[Sidenote: FILIPPO STROZZI.]
In the year 1531, Rome was settling down into her usual way of life,
after the dreadful catastrophes of 1527. Pope Clement the Seventh had
got over the most perilous and immediate of his troubles, but was,
as Popes are wont to be, very much in need of assistance from his
banker. Now, this necessary and important person was no other than
the celebrated Filippo Strozzi, who was then in Rome, busied in the
political as well as the monetary affairs of the papacy. But Strozzi
was one of those marvellous men, whose abounding vital energies
enable them to unite in their own persons, characters, pursuits, and
occupations, which might seem to belong to half a dozen most dissimilar
individuals. His political speculations and intrigues did not interfere
with his much–loved literary pursuits. His free–thinking philosophy did
not prevent his close intimacy with the Pope. And his vast commercial
and banking operations were somehow made compatible with the career of
a very notorious man of pleasure.
How nearly two of the manifestations of this multiform character
would occasionally chance to jostle each other, is indicated by
the conclusion of a long and important letter[9] on matters of high
political moment to Francesco Vettori. "Write to me in reply," he
says, "and be sure, that your letter shall be seen by no one but His
Holiness, as I desire may be the case with this of mine, written in
much haste, and with Tullia at my side." Dated, Rome, 28th January,
1531.
Was the bewitching Tullia close enough to his side to look over his
shoulder, as the plotting politician wrote matters to be shown only
to the Pope? Did she interest herself in schemes for the keeping
a Florentine oligarchy in check? Or did she sit patiently at the
writer's elbow, while he penned a letter of sixty–four lines of small
print, waiting till he was at leisure to bestow some attention on his
companion? In either case the degree of intimacy indicated is much
closer than an ordinary one. Yet the next letter,[10] written little
more than a month later to the same correspondent, seems in its sadly
Don–Juan–like tone, to afford very clear evidence that the writer,
if not already tired of his gifted Sappho, certainly considered his
_liaison_ with her in the nature of a "terminable contract."
After a few lines on political matters, this Don Juan of a middle–aged
banker[11] writes as follows:
"As for my own private affairs, I should be sorry, that you should
have believed certain silly stories of challenges and quarrels, about
matters which in truth passed amicably among friends here. For though
I do not pretend to take rank among your very prudent people, still
I don't want to be set down as a perfect fool, as truly I should
deserve to be, had I got into any such scrape for Tullia, or any other
woman. She is not, as you say, beautiful; but she is, if I am not
mistaken, highly gifted with talent and wit; and on that account, as
it is impossible to me to live without the society of women, I have
preferred hers to that of others.[12] And I have assisted her in some
of her necessities, to prevent her from going to the wall by unjust
oppression, during the period of my connection with her, which would
have been painful and discreditable to me."
[Sidenote: DATE OF HER BIRTH.]
The date of this letter is March the 2nd, 1531.
And as this date, with that of the preceding letter, are among the very
few of any kind discoverable with reference to Tullia's biography,
we must make the most of them. It is to be presumed, then, from the
above passages, that she must have been at least twenty, and probably
older, in 1531. But as her father died in 1558, and appears to have
been engaged in active business up to the time of his death, and as no
intimation is found of his age, as would probably have been the case,
if he had lived to be remarkably old, we can hardly be very far wrong,
in supposing him to have been about seventy at the time of his death,
and accordingly two–and–twenty in 1510. It would seem, therefore, that
Tullia could not have been born much before, and certainly not much
after that date.
In one respect, however, poor Tullia was assuredly wronged by the
wealthy and libertine Florence banker. He says that she was not
beautiful. Now, the testimony of a dozen enamoured poets might be
adduced in favour of her rare and fascinating beauty. And if it should
be thought that evidence of this kind, however abundant and concurrent,
needs confirmation, it has been supplied by the sister art. There is
an admirable portrait of her by Bonvicini, a contemporary of Raphael,
more generally known as Il Moretto da Brescia, which was engraved
very tolerably at Milan, in 1823, by Caterina Piotti. It represents a
very lovely face of the genuine regal type of Roman beauty. The brow
is noble; and the magnificently cut, but rather large and statuesque
features might perhaps seem somewhat hard in the firmness of their rich
contour, were not the expression softened by an eye eloquent of all the
tenderer emotions. Laurel branches fill the whole background of the
picture, in token of the lady's rank as a poetess.
How long after the date of the above–mentioned letters Tullia continued
her residence in Rome, there remain no means of ascertaining. Zilioli
says that she left it "after the death of her husband." And this one
phrase is the only intimation of any sort we meet with, that such
a person as Tullia's husband ever existed. It is true that such an
appendage is not of a nature likely to be dwelt much on in love verses
addressed to a lady. And to this category belong the greatest number of
the notices of her, which have come down to us. Yet it seems strange
that a wife should be celebrated from one end of Italy to the other,
and recorded, or at least mentioned, in the pages of every literary
historian of her country, and that she should have a husband whose name
even was never, as it should seem, alluded to by his cotemporaries,
and who has not left the slightest trace of his existence. It must
be supposed that, if ever spoken of at all, he was only known as "La
Tullia's" husband, a member of society discharging functions somewhat
analogous to those of a Ballerina's mama. It is, at all events, certain
that the lady was never known either among her contemporaries, or
subsequently, by any other name than that of Tullia d'Aragona, and
more commonly simply "La Tullia." And the strangeness of the view
of sixteenth century society offered to us by an examination of the
position "La Tullia" occupied in it, is not a little increased by the
fact of her having had a sort of behind–the–scenes husband, who appears
to have exercised about as much influence on her social standing as her
waiting–maid.
[Sidenote: HER HUSBAND.]
There is reason to suppose that her residence in Rome must have
continued till 1540 or 1541. For among the "Strozziane"[13] MSS.
preserved in the Magliabecchian library at Florence, there is a volume
containing the rules, members' names, transactions, &c. of the Academy
of the "Humidi," in which are entered three or four sonnets sent from
Rome to the Society by Tullia. They are not dated; but the Academy was
founded in 1540, and the volume bears at the end the date of 1541.
Nothing can be conceived more insipid and dry, than the lucubrations
of these "Humid" Academicians; and in truth the effusions despatched
to them by Tullia, and honoured by the Academy with insertion in
their solemn Archives, are quite worthy of their place in the Humid
annals. One is a sonnet in praise of Cosmo I. It begins "Almo pastor,"
and attributes to that lowminded debauchee and cruel tyrant all the
virtues that can possibly be packed into fourteen lines.
And this was written a couple of years after Filippo Strozzi (the
very particular friend and protector, by whose side it was a pleasure
to sit, while he wrote long business letters in 1531) put himself to
death in despair, in preference to remaining in the power of Cosmo, his
mortal and vindictive enemy. One might suspect that the fair Tullia
had had an opportunity of looking over his shoulder also when he was
writing that second letter, in which he had dared to say that she was
not beautiful!
Another of the sonnets sent by Tullia, and preserved by the "Humidi,"
is inscribed to Maria Salviati, and begins—
"Soul pure and bright, as when thou cam'st from God!"
Whence it may be inferred that there was in those days no such yawning
abyss between the "monde" and "demi–monde," as to prevent a lady highly
placed in the former from being addressed acceptably by one who,
according to nineteenth century notions, must be deemed a denizen of
the latter.
It must be understood, however, that any such phrase applied to
Tullia's social position in her own sixteenth century, would give a
very erroneous idea of what that in reality was. The classic Hetaira
seems more akin to this Apollo–chartered libertine of an age bent on
being equally classical.
Accordingly we find that the house of La Tullia—_her_ house! no mention
or hint of that Junius–like individual (Il Tullio, shall we call him?),
who must nevertheless be supposed to have been at home there under
hatches somewhere, or acting perhaps as groom–porter, and shouting the
names and titles of the Monsignori and Eminences, as they arrived;—the
house of La Tullia was frequented by the "best society" in Rome.
Ludovico Domenichi of Piacenza, himself a poet and a curious specimen
of a sixteenth century professional literary man, | 1,775.199984 |
2023-11-16 18:46:39.4041060 | 1,963 | 22 | Project Gutenberg's The Complete Works of Artemus Ward, Part 5
#5 of this seven part series by Charles Farrar Browne
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BECKET AND OTHER PLAYS
BY
ALFRED LORD TENNYSON, POET LAUREATE
CONTENTS
BECKET
THE CUP
THE FALCON
THE PROMISE OF MAY
BECKET
TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR, THE RIGHT HONOURABLE EARL OF SELBORNE.
MY DEAR SELBORNE,
_To you, the honoured Chancellor of our own day, I dedicate this
dramatic memorial of your great predecessor;--which, altho' not
intended in its present form to meet the exigencies of our modern
theatre, has nevertheless--for so you have assured me--won your
approbation.
Ever yours_,
TENNYSON.
_DRAMATIS PERSONAE_.
HENRY II. (_son of the Earl of Anjou_).
THOMAS BECKET, _Chancellor of England, afterwards Archbishop of
Canterbury_.
GILBERT FOLIOT, _Bishop of London_.
ROGER, _Archbishop of York_.
_Bishop of Hereford_.
HILARY, _Bishop of Chichester_.
JOCELYN, _Bishop of Salisbury_.
JOHN OF SALISBURY |
HERBERT OF BOSHAM | _friends of Becket_.
WALTER MAP, _reputed author of 'Golias,' Latin poems against
the priesthood_.
KING LOUIS OF FRANCE.
GEOFFREY, _son of Rosamund and Henry_.
GRIM, _a monk of Cambridge_.
SIR REGINALD FITZURSE |
SIR RICHARD DE BRITO | _the four knights of the King's_
SIR WILLIAM DE TRACY | _household, enemies of Becket_.
SIR HUGH DE MORVILLE |
DE BROC OF SALTWOOD CASTLE.
LORD LEICESTER.
PHILIP DE ELEEMOSYNA.
TWO KNIGHT TEMPLARS.
JOHN OF OXFORD (_called the Swearer_).
ELEANOR OF AQUITAINE, _Queen of England (divorced from Louis of France)_.
ROSAMUND DE CLIFFORD.
MARGERY.
_Knights, Monks, Beggars, etc_.
PROLOGUE.
_A Castle in Normandy. Interior of the Hall. Roofs of a City seen
thro' Windows_.
HENRY _and_ BECKET _at chess_.
HENRY.
So then our good Archbishop Theobald
Lies dying.
BECKET.
I am grieved to know as much.
HENRY.
But we must have a mightier man than he
For his successor.
BECKET.
Have you thought of one?
HENRY.
A cleric lately poison'd his own mother,
And being brought before the courts of the Church,
They but degraded him. I hope they whipt him.
I would have hang'd him.
BECKET.
It is your move.
HENRY.
Well--there. [_Moves_.
The Church in the pell-mell of Stephen's time
Hath climb'd the throne and almost clutch'd the crown;
But by the royal customs of our realm
The Church should hold her baronies of me,
Like other lords amenable to law.
I'll have them written down and made the law.
BECKET.
My liege, I move my bishop.
HENRY.
And if I live,
No man without my leave shall excommunicate
My tenants or my household.
BECKET.
Look to your king.
HENRY.
No man without my leave shall cross the seas
To set the Pope against me--I pray your pardon.
BECKET.
Well--will you move?
HENRY.
There. [_Moves_.
BECKET.
Check--you move so wildly.
HENRY.
There then! [_Moves_.
BECKET.
Why--there then, for you see my bishop
Hath brought your king to a standstill. You are beaten.
HENRY (_kicks over the board_).
Why, there then--down go bishop and king together.
I loathe being beaten; had I fixt my fancy
Upon the game I should have beaten thee,
But that was vagabond.
BECKET.
Where, my liege? With Phryne,
Or Lais, or thy Rosamund, or another?
HENRY.
My Rosamund is no Lais, Thomas Becket;
And yet she plagues me too--no fault in her--
But that I fear the Queen would have her life.
BECKET.
Put her away, put her away, my liege!
Put her away into a nunnery!
Safe enough there from her to whom thou art bound
By Holy Church. And wherefore should she seek
The life of Rosamund de Clifford more
Than that of other paramours of thine?
HENRY.
How dost thou know I am not wedded to her?
BECKET.
How should I know?
HENRY.
That is my secret, Thomas.
BECKET.
State secrets should be patent to the statesman
Who serves and loves his king, and whom the king
Loves not as statesman, but true lover and friend.
HENRY.
Come, come, thou art but deacon, not yet bishop,
No, nor archbishop, nor my confessor yet.
I would to God thou wert, for I should find
An easy father confessor in thee.
BECKET.
St. Denis, that thou shouldst not. I should beat
Thy kingship as my bishop hath beaten it.
HENRY.
Hell take thy bishop then, and my kingship too!
Come, come, I love thee and I know thee, I know thee,
A doter on white pheasant-flesh at feasts,
A sauce-deviser for thy days of fish,
A dish-designer, and most amorous
Of good old red sound liberal Gascon wine:
Will not thy body rebel, man, if thou flatter it?
BECKET.
That palate is insane which cannot tell
A good dish from a bad, new wine from old.
HENRY.
Well, who loves wine loves woman.
BECKET.
So I do.
Men are God's trees, and women are God's flowers;
And when the Gascon wine mounts to my head,
The trees are all the statelier, and the flowers
Are all the fairer.
HENRY.
And thy thoughts, thy fancies?
BECKET.
Good dogs, my liege, well train'd, and easily call'd
Off from the game.
HENRY.
Save for some once or twice,
When they ran down the game and worried it.
BECKET.
No, my liege, no!--not once--in God's name, no!
HENRY.
Nay, then, I take thee at thy word--believe thee
The veriest Galahad of old Arthur's hall.
And so this Rosamund, my true heart-wife,
Not Eleanor--she whom I love indeed
As a woman should be loved--Why dost thou smile
So dolorously?
BECKET.
My good liege, if a man
Wastes himself among women, how should he love
A woman, as a woman should be loved?
HENRY.
How shouldst thou know that never hast loved one?
Come, I would give her to thy care in England
When I am out in Normandy or Anjou.
BECKET.
My lord, I am your subject, not your--
HENRY.
Pander.
God's eyes! I know all that--not my purveyor
Of pleasures, but to save a life--her life;
Ay, and the soul of Eleanor from hell-fire.
I have built a secret bower in England, Thomas,
A nest in a bush.
BECKET.
And where, my liege?
HENRY (_whispers_).
Thine ear.
BECKET.
That's lone enough.
HENRY (_laying paper on table_).
This chart here mark'd '_Her Bower_,'
Take, keep it, friend. See, first, a circling wood,
A hundred pathways running everyway,
And then a brook, a bridge; and after that
This labyrinthine brickwork maze in maze,
And then another wood, and in the midst
A garden and my Rosamund. Look, this line--
The rest you see is colour'd green--but this
Draws thro' the chart to her.
BECKET.
This blood-red line?
HENRY.
Ay! blood, perchance, except thou see to her.
BECKET.
And where is she? There in her English nest?
HENRY.
Would God she were--no, here within the city.
We take her from her secret bower in Anjou
And pass her to her secret bower in England.
She is ignorant of all but that I love her.
BECKET.
My liege, I pray thee let me hence: a widow
And orphan child, whom one of thy wild barons--
HENRY.
Ay, ay, but swear to see to her in England.
BECKET.
Well, well, I swear, but not to please myself.
HENRY.
Whatever come between us?
BECKET.
What should come
Between us, Henry?
HENRY.
Nay--I know not, Thomas.
BECKET.
What need then? Well--whatever come between us. [_Going_.
HENRY.
A moment! thou didst help me to my throne
In Theobald's time, and after by thy wisdom
Hast kept it firm from shaking; but now I,
For my realm's sake, myself must be the wizard
To raise that tempest which will set it trembling
Only to base it deeper. I, true son
Of Holy Church--no croucher to the Gregories
That tread the kings their children underheel--
Must curb her; and the Holy Father, while
This Barbarossa butts him from his chair,
Will need my help--be facile to my hands.
Now is my time. Yet--lest there should be flashes
And fulminations from the side of Rome,
An interdict on England--I will have
My young son Henry crown'd the King of England,
That so the Papal bolt may pass by England,
As seeming his, not mine, and fall abroad.
I'll have it done--and now.
BECKET.
Surely too young
Even for this shadow of a crown; and tho'
I love him heartily, I can spy already
A strain of hard and headstrong in him. Say,
The Queen should play his kingship against thine!
HENRY.
I will not think so, Thomas. Who shall crown him?
Canterbury is dying.
BECKET.
The next Canterbury.
HENRY.
And who shall he be, my friend Thomas? Who?
BECKET.
Name him; the Holy Father will confirm him.
HENRY (_lays his hand on_ BECKET'S _shoulder_).
Here!
BECKET.
Mock me not. I am not even a monk.
Thy jest--no more. Why--look--is this a sleeve
For an archbishop?
HENRY.
But the arm within
Is Becket's, who hath beaten down my foes.
BECKET.
A soldier's, not a spiritual arm.
HENRY.
I lack a spiritual soldier, Thomas--
A man of this world and the next to boot.
BECKET.
There's Gilbert Foliot.
HENRY.
He! too thin, too thin.
Thou art the man to fill out the Church robe;
Your Foliot fasts and fawns too much for me.
BECKET.
Roger of York.
HENRY.
Roger is Roger of York.
King, Church, and State to him but foils wherein
To set that precious jewel, Roger of York.
No.
BECKET.
Henry of Winchester?
HENRY.
Him who crown'd Stephen--
King Stephen's brother! No; too royal for me.
And I'll have no more Anselms.
BECKET.
Sire, the business
Of thy whole kingdom waits me: let me go.
HENRY.
Answer me first.
BECKET.
Then for thy barren jest
Take thou mine answer in bare commonplace--
_Nolo episcopari_.
HENRY.
Ay, but _Nolo
Archiepiscopari_, my good friend,
Is quite another matter.
BECKET.
A more awful one.
Make _me_ archbishop! Why, my liege, I know
Some three or four poor priests a thousand times
Fitter for this grand function. _Me_ archbishop!
God's favour and king's favour might so clash
That thou and I----That were a jest indeed!
HENRY.
Thou angerest me, man: I do not jest.
_Enter_ ELEANOR _and_ SIR REGINALD FITZURSE.
ELEANOR (_singing_).
Over! the sweet summer closes,
The reign of the roses is done--
HENRY (_to_ BECKET, _who is going_).
Thou shalt not go. I have not ended with thee.
ELEANOR (_seeing chart on table_).
This chart with the red line! her bower! whose bower?
HENRY.
The chart is not mine, but Becket's: take it, Thomas.
ELEANOR.
Becket! O--ay--and these chessmen on the floor--the king's crown
broken! Becket hath beaten thee again--and thou hast kicked down the
board. I know thee of old.
HENRY.
True enough, my mind was set upon other matters.
ELEANOR.
What matters? State matters? love matters?
HENRY.
My love for thee, and thine for me.
ELEANOR.
Over! the sweet summer closes,
The reign of the roses is done;
Over and gone with the roses,
And over and gone with the sun.
Here; but our sun in Aquitaine lasts longer. I would I were in
Aquitaine again--your north chills me.
Over! the sweet summer closes,
And never a flower at the close;
Over and gone with the roses,
And winter again and the snows.
That was not the way I ended it first--but unsymmetrically,
preposterously, illogically, out of passion, without art--like a song
of the people. Will you have it? The last Parthian shaft of a forlorn
Cupid at the King's left breast, and all left-handedness and
under-handedness.
And never a flower at the close,
Over and gone with the roses,
Not over and gone with the rose.
True, one rose will outblossom the rest, one rose in a bower. I speak
after my fancies, for I am a Troubadour, you know, and won the violet
at Toulouse; but my voice is harsh here, not in tune, a nightingale
out of season; for marriage, rose or no rose, has killed the golden
violet.
BECKET.
Madam, you do ill to scorn wedded love.
ELEANOR.
So I do. Louis of France loved me, and I dreamed that I loved Louis
of France: and I loved Henry of England, and Henry of England dreamed
that he loved me; but the marriage-garland withers even with the
putting on, the bright link rusts with the breath of the first
after-marriage kiss, the harvest moon is the ripening of the harvest,
and the honeymoon is the gall of love; he dies of his honeymoon. I
could pity this poor world myself that it is no better ordered.
HENRY.
Dead is he, my Queen? What, altogether? Let me swear nay to that by
this cross on thy neck. God's eyes! what a lovely cross! what jewels!
ELEANOR.
Doth it please you? Take it and wear it on that hard heart of yours--
there.
[_Gives it to him_.
HENRY (_puts it on_).
On this left breast before so hard a heart,
To hide the scar left by thy Parthian dart.
ELEANOR.
Has my simple song set you jingling? Nay, if I took and translated
that hard heart into our Provencal facilities, I could so play about
it with the rhyme--
HENRY.
That the heart were lost in the rhyme and the matter in the metre. May
we not pray you, Madam, to spare us the hardness of your facility?
ELEANOR.
The wells of Castaly are not wasted upon the desert. We did but jest.
HENRY.
There's no jest on the brows of Herbert there. What is it, Herbert?
_Enter_ HERBERT OF BOSHAM.
HERBERT.
My liege, the good Archbishop is no more.
HENRY.
Peace to his soul!
HERBERT.
I left him with peace on his face--that sweet other-world smile, which
will be reflected in the spiritual body among the angels. But he
longed much to see your Grace and the Chancellor ere he past, and his
last words were a commendation of Thomas Becket to your Grace as his
successor in the archbishoprick.
HENRY.
Ha, Becket! thou rememberest our talk!
BECKET.
My heart is full of tears--I have no answer.
HENRY.
Well, well, old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would
only breed the past again. Come to me to-morrow. Thou hast but to hold
out thy hand. Meanwhile the revenues are mine. A-hawking, a-hawking!
If I sit, I grow fat.
[_Leaps over the table, and exit_.
BECKET.
He did prefer me to the chancellorship,
Believing I should ever aid the Church--
But have I done it? He commends me now
From out his grave to this archbishoprick.
HERBERT.
A dead man's dying wish should be of weight.
BECKET.
_His_ should. Come with me. Let me learn at full
The manner of his death, and all he said.
[_Exeunt_ HERBERT _and_ BECKET.
ELEANOR.
Fitzurse, that chart with the red line--thou sawest it--her bower.
FITZURSE.
Rosamund's?
ELEANOR.
Ay--there lies the secret of her whereabouts, and the King gave it to
his Chancellor.
FlTZURSE.
To this son of a London merchant--how your Grace must hate him.
ELEANOR.
Hate him? as brave a Soldier as Henry and a goodlier man: but thou--
dost thou love this Chancellor, that thou hast sworn a voluntary
allegiance to him?
FlTZURSE.
Not for my love toward him, but because he had the love of the King.
How should a baron love a beggar on horseback, with the retinue of
three kings behind him, outroyalling royalty? Besides, he holp the
King to break down our castles, for the which I hate him.
ELEANOR.
For the which I honour him. Statesman not Churchman he. A great and
sound policy that: I could embrace him for it: you could not see the
King for the kinglings.
FlTZURSE.
Ay, but he speaks to a noble as tho' he were a churl, and to a churl
as if he were a noble.
ELEANOR.
Pride of the plebeian!
FlTZURSE.
And this plebeian like to be Archbishop!
ELEANOR.
True, and I have an inherited loathing of these black sheep of the
Papacy. Archbishop? I can see further into a man than our hot-headed
Henry, and if there ever come feud between Church and Crown, and I do
not then charm this secret out of our loyal Thomas, I am not Eleanor.
FlTZURSE.
Last night I followed a woman in the city here. Her face was veiled,
but the back methought was Rosamund--his paramour, thy rival. I can
feel for thee.
ELEANOR.
Thou feel for me!--paramour--rival! King Louis had no paramours, and I
loved him none the more. Henry had many, and I loved him none the
less--now neither more nor less--not at all; the cup's empty. I would
she were but his paramour, for men tire of their fancies; but I fear
this one fancy hath taken root, and borne blossom too, and she, whom
the King loves indeed, is a power in the State. Rival!--ay, and when
the King passes, there may come a crash and embroilment as in
Stephen's time; and her children--canst thou not--that secret matter
which would heat the King against thee (_whispers him and he starts_).
Nay, that is safe with me as with thyself: but canst thou not--thou
art drowned in debt--thou shalt have our love, our silence, and our
gold--canst thou not--if thou light upon her--free me from her?
FITZURSE.
Well, Madam, I have loved her in my time.
ELEANOR.
No, my bear, thou hast not. My Courts of Love would have held thee
guiltless of love--the fine attractions and repulses, the delicacies,
the subtleties.
FITZURSE.
Madam, I loved according to the main purpose and intent of nature.
ELEANOR.
I warrant thee! thou wouldst hug thy Cupid till his ribs cracked--
enough of this. Follow me this Rosamund day and night, whithersoever
she goes; track her, if thou canst, even into the King's lodging, that
I may (_clenches her fist_)--may at least have my cry against him and
her,--and thou in thy way shouldst be
jealous of the King, for thou in thy way didst once,
what shall I call it, affect her thine own self.
FITZURSE.
Ay, but the young colt winced and whinnied and
flung up her heels; and then the King came honeying
about her, and this Becket, her father's friend, like
enough staved us from her.
ELEANOR.
Us!
FITZURSE.
Yea, by the Blessed Virgin! There were more than
I buzzing round the blossom--De Tracy--even that
flint De Brito.
ELEANOR.
Carry her off among you; run in upon her and
devour her, one and all of you; make her as hateful
to herself and to the King, as she is to me.
FITZURSE.
I and all would be glad to wreak our spite on the
rose-faced minion of the King, and bring her to the
level of the dust, so that the King--
ELEANOR.
Let her eat it like the serpent, and be driven out
of her paradise.
ACT ONE.
SCENE I.--BECKET'S _House in London. Chamber barely furnished_. BECKET
_unrobing_. HERBERT OF BOSHAM _and_ SERVANT.
SERVANT.
Shall I not help your lordship to your rest?
BECKET.
Friend, am I so much better than thyself
That thou shouldst help me? Thou art wearied out
With this day's work, get thee to thine own bed.
Leave me with Herbert, friend. [_Exit_ SERVANT.
Help me off, Herbert, with this--and this.
HERBERT.
Was not the people's blessing as we past
Heart-comfort and a balsam to thy blood?
BECKET.
The people know their Church a tower of strength,
A bulwark against Throne and Baronage.
Too heavy for me, this; off with it, Herbert!
HERBERT.
Is it so much heavier than thy Chancellor's robe?
BECKET.
No; but the Chancellor's and the Archbishop's
Together more than mortal man can bear.
HERBERT.
Not heavier than thine armour at Thoulouse?
BECKET.
O Herbert, Herbert, in my chancellorship
I more than once have gone against the Church.
HERBERT.
To please the King?
BECKET.
Ay, and the King of kings,
Or justice; for it seem'd to me but just
The Church should pay her scutage like the lords.
But hast thou heard this cry of Gilbert Foliot
That I am not the man to be your Primate,
For Henry could not work a miracle--
Make an Archbishop of a soldier?
HERBERT.
Ay,
For Gilbert Foliot held himself the man.
BECKET.
Am I the man? My mother, ere she bore me,
Dream'd that twelve stars fell glittering out of heaven
Into her bosom.
HERBERT.
Ay, the fire, the light,
The spirit of the twelve Apostles enter'd
Into thy making.
BECKET.
And when I was a child,
The Virgin, in a vision of my sleep,
Gave me the golden keys of Paradise. Dream,
Or prophecy, that?
HERBERT.
Well, dream and prophecy both.
BECKET.
And when I was of Theobald's household, once--
The good old man would sometimes have his jest--
He took his mitre off, and set it on me,
And said, 'My young Archbishop--thou wouldst make
A stately Archbishop!' Jest or prophecy there?
HERBERT.
Both, Thomas, both.
BECKET.
Am I the man? That rang
Within my head last night, and when I slept
Methought I stood in Canterbury Minster,
And spake to the Lord God, and said, 'O Lord,
I have been a lover of wines, and delicate meats,
And secular splendours, and a favourer
Of players, and a courtier, and a feeder
Of dogs and hawks, and apes, and lions, and lynxes.
Am _I_ the man?' And the Lord answer'd me,
'Thou art the man, and all the more the man.'
And then I asked again, 'O Lord my God,
Henry the King hath been my friend, my brother,
And mine uplifter in this world, and chosen me
For this thy great archbishoprick, believing
That I should go against the Church with him.
And I shall go against him with the Church,
And I have said no word of this to him:
'Am _I_ the man?' And the Lord answer'd me,
'Thou art the man, and all the more the man.'
And thereupon, methought, He drew toward me,
And smote me down upon the Minster floor.
I fell.
HERBERT.
God make not thee, but thy foes, fall.
BECKET.
I fell. Why fall? Why did He smite me? What?
Shall I fall off--to please the King once more?
Not fight--tho' somehow traitor to the King--
My truest and mine utmost for the Church?
HERBERT.
Thou canst not fall that way. Let traitor be;
For how have fought thine utmost for the Church,
Save from the throne of thine archbishoprick?
And how been made Archbishop hadst thou told him,
'I mean to fight mine utmost for the Church,
Against the King?'
BECKET.
But dost thou think the King
Forced mine election?
HERBERT.
I do think the King
Was potent in the election, and why not?
Why should not Heaven have so inspired the King?
Be comforted. Thou art the man--be thou
A mightier Anselm.
BECKET.
I do believe thee, then. I am the man.
And yet I seem appall'd--on such a sudden
At such an eagle-height I stand and see
The rift that runs between me and the King.
I served our Theobald well when I was with him;
I served King Henry well as Chancellor;
I am his no more, and I must serve the Church.
This Canterbury is only less than Rome,
And all my doubts I fling from me like dust,
Winnow and scatter all scruples to the wind,
And all the puissance of the warrior,
And all the wisdom of the Chancellor,
And all the heap'd experiences of life,
I cast upon the side of Canterbury--
Our holy mother Canterbury, who sits
With tatter'd robes. Laics and barons, thro'
The random gifts of careless kings, have graspt
Her livings, her advowsons, granges, farms,
And goodly acres--we will make her whole;
Not one rood lost. And for these Royal customs,
These ancient Royal customs--they _are_ Royal,
Not of the Church--and let them be anathema,
And all that speak for them anathema.
HERBERT.
Thomas, thou art moved too much.
BECKET.
O Herbert, here
I gash myself asunder from the King,
Tho' leaving each, a wound; mine own, a grief
To show the scar for ever--his, a hate
Not ever to be heal'd.
_Enter_ ROSAMUND DE CLIFFORD, _flying from_ SIR REGINALD
FITZURSE. _Drops her veil_.
BECKET.
Rosamund de Clifford!
ROSAMUND.
Save me, father, hide me--they follow me--
and I must not be known.
BECKET.
Pass in with Herbert there.
[_Exeunt_ ROSAMUND _and_ HERBERT _by side door_.
_Enter_ FITZURSE.
FITZURSE.
The Archbishop!
BECKET.
Ay! what wouldst thou, Reginald?
FITZURSE.
Why--why, my lord, I follow'd--follow'd one--
BECKET.
And then what follows? Let me follow thee.
FITZURSE.
It much imports me I should know her name.
BECKET.
What her?
FITZURSE.
The woman that I follow'd hither.
BECKET.
Perhaps it may import her all as much
Not to be known.
FITZURSE.
And what care I for that?
Come, come, my lord Archbishop; I saw that door
Close even now upon the woman.
BECKET.
Well?
FITZURSE (_making for the door_).
Nay, let me pass, my lord, for I must know.
BECKET.
Back, man!
FITZURSE.
Then tell me who and what she is.
BECKET.
Art thou so sure thou followedst anything?
Go home, and sleep thy wine off, for thine eyes
Glare stupid--wild with wine.
FITZURSE (_making to the door_).
I must and will.
I care not for thy new archbishoprick.
BECKET.
Back, man, I tell thee! What!
Shall I forget my new archbishoprick
And smite thee with my crozier on the skull?
'Fore God, I am a mightier man than thou.
FlTZURSE.
It well befits thy new archbishoprick
To take the vagabond woman of the street
Into thine arms!
BECKET.
O drunken ribaldry!
Out, beast! out, bear!
FlTZURSE.
I shall remember this.
BECKET.
Do, and begone! [_Exit_ FITZURSE.
[_Going to the door, sees_ DE TRACY.]
Tracy, what dost thou here?
DE TRACY.
My lord, I follow'd Reginald Fitzurse.
BECKET.
Follow him out!
DE TRACY.
I shall remember this
Discourtesy.
[_Exit_.
BECKET.
Do. These be those baron-brutes
That havock'd all the land in Stephen's day.
Rosamund de Clifford.
_Re-enter_ ROSAMUND _and_ HERBERT.
ROSAMUND.
Here am I.
BECKET.
Why here?
We gave thee to the charge of John of Salisbury.
To pass thee to thy secret bower to-morrow.
Wast thou not told to keep thyself from sight?
ROSAMUND.
Poor bird of passage! so I was; but, father,
They say that you are wise in winged things,
And know the ways of Nature. Bar the bird
From following the fled summer--a chink--he's out,
Gone! And there stole into the city a breath
Full of the meadows, and it minded me
Of the sweet woods of Clifford, and the walks
Where I could move at pleasure, and I thought
Lo! I must out or die.
BECKET.
Or out _and_ die.
And what hast thou to do with this Fitzurse?
ROSAMUND.
Nothing. He sued my hand. I shook at him.
He found me once alone. Nay--nay--I cannot
Tell you: my father drove him and his friends,
De Tracy and De Brito, from our castle.
I was but fourteen and an April then.
I heard him swear revenge.
BECKET.
Why will you court it
By self-exposure? flutter out at night?
Make it so hard to save a moth from the fire?
ROSAMUND.
I have saved many of 'em. You catch 'em, so,
Softly, and fling them out to the free air.
They burn themselves _within_-door.
BECKET.
Our good John
Must speed you to your bower at once. The child
Is there already.
ROSAMUND.
Yes--the child--the child--
O rare, a whole long day of open field.
BECKET.
Ay, but you go disguised.
ROSAMUND.
O rare again!
We'll baffle them, I warrant. What shall it be?
I'll go as a nun.
BECKET.
No.
ROSAMUND.
What, not good enough
Even to play at nun?
BECKET.
Dan John with a nun,
That Map, and these new railers at the Church
May plaister his clean name with scurrilous rhymes!
No!
Go like a monk, cowling and clouding up
That fatal star, thy Beauty, from the squint
Of lust and glare of malice. Good night! good night!
ROSAMUND.
Father, I am so tender to all hardness!
Nay, father, first thy blessing.
BECKET.
Wedded?
ROSAMUND.
Father!
BECKET.
Well, well! I ask no more. Heaven bless thee! hence!
ROSAMUND.
O, holy father, when thou se | 1,775.677717 |
2023-11-16 18:46:39.6786800 | 5,978 | 445 |
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from the Google Print project.)
[Illustration: Miss Fanny and others.]
[Illustration: RIVERDALE STORY BOOKS
DOLLY & I
Boston, Lee & Shepard.]
The Riverdale Books.
DOLLY AND I.
A STORY FOR LITTLE FOLKS.
BY
OLIVER OPTIC,
AUTHOR OF "THE BOAT CLUB," "ALL ABOARD," "NOW OR NEVER," "TRY
AGAIN," "POOR AND PROUD," "LITTLE BY LITTLE," &c.
BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD,
(SUCCESSORS TO PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO.)
1864
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by
WILLIAM T. ADAMS,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
ELECTROTYPED AT THE
BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY.
DOLLY AND I.
I.
Do you know what _envy_ means? I hope you have never felt it, for it is
a very wicked feeling. It is being sorry when another has any good
thing. Perhaps you will know better what the word means when you have
read my story; and I hope it will help you to keep the feeling away from
your own heart.
Not far from Mr. Lee's house, in Riverdale, lived a man by the name of
Green. He was the agent of one of the factories in the village. Mr.
Green had two little girls and three sons. The boys have nothing to do
with my story, and for that reason I shall not say a great deal about
them.
Katy, Mr. Green's older daughter, was ten years old. She was a pretty
good girl, but she did not like to have others get good things, when she
did not have any herself. If any person gave one of her brothers an
apple, or an orange, she seemed to think she ought to have it.
When she was a baby, she used to cry for every thing she saw, and would
give her parents no peace till they gave it to her. I am sorry to say
they were sometimes very weak on this point, and gave her things which
she ought not to have had, just to quiet her.
Her father and mother hoped, when she grew older, she would not want
every thing that belonged to her brothers. If Charles had a plaything,
Katy wanted it, and would cry till she got it. Very often, just to make
her stop crying, her mother made poor Charley give up the thing.
But as Katy grew older, she seemed to want every thing that others had
just as much as ever. She was now ten years old, and still she did not
like to see others have any thing which she could not have. It is true
she did not always say so, but she felt it just as much, and was very
apt to be cross and sullen towards those whom she envied.
Nellie Green was not at all like her sister. She was only eight years
old, but there was not a bit of envy in her. She would give a part, and
often the whole, of her apples, oranges, candy, and playthings to her
sister, and to her brothers. She liked to see them happy, and when
Charley ate an apple, it tasted just as good to her as though she were
eating it herself.
She was not selfish. She would always divide her good things with her
friends. Did you ever see a little boy or a little girl eating an apple
or some candy, and another little boy or girl standing by, and looking
just as if he wanted some?
Nellie always gave her friends a part, and then she not only enjoyed
what she ate herself, but she enjoyed what they ate. This is the way to
make apples, oranges, and candy taste good.
One New Year's Day, Katy's aunt, after whom she was named, sent her a
beautiful wax doll. It was a very pretty doll, and the little girl was
the happiest child in Riverdale when the welcome present reached her.
There was another little girl in Riverdale who was almost if not quite
as happy; and that was Nellie, her sister. It is true, the doll was not
for her; she did not own any of it, and Katy would hardly let her touch
it; but for all this, Nellie was pleased to see her sister so happy.
The dolly's name was Lady Jane; for Katy thought, as she was a very
fine doll, she ought to have a very fine name. So, when she spoke to the
doll,--and she talked a great deal with her,--she always called her Lady
Jane.
The two little girls had five or six other dolls, but none of them were
any thing near such fine ladies as Lady Jane. Their heads were made of
porcelain, or rubber, or composition, and they had grown so old that
they were really ugly.
Miss Lucy, who had a rubber head, looked as though she "had been through
the wars." Her nose was worn out, so that she had a great hole in the
end of it. I suppose, if she had wanted to sneeze, this hole would have
been very handy; but Miss Lucy was a very proper young lady, and never
sneezed in company. If she ever sneezed when alone, of course there was
no one present to know any thing about it.
There was another hole right in the top of her head, so that if she had
had any brains, they would certainly have leaked out; but as Miss Lucy
was not a strong-minded woman, I suppose she had no use for brains.
One of the family of dolls was a little black girl, whose name was
Dinah. She had seen hard service in her day, and did not look as though
is she would last much longer.
Miss Fanny had once been a fine lady, but times had gone hard with her,
and her fine clothes were both ragged and dirty. But hard times were not
so very bad, for she wore the same smile as when her clothes had been
new and nice.
Miss Mary was a poor <DW36>. By a sad accident she had broken one of
her legs. Katy placed her on a table one day, and either because the
height from the floor made her dizzy, or because she was laid too near
the edge, she had tumbled off, and one leg was so badly broken that
neither a wooden nor a cork one could be fastened in its place.
Therefore Miss Mary could not walk about the room, and never went any
where, except when she was carried. But she was not half so badly off as
Miss Susie, who had broken her neck, and lost off her head. The head was
tied on with a string, but it kept falling off while the family were at
play; but Miss Susie did not seem to mind it at all.
She got along a great deal better without her head than you and I could
without ours. Indeed, she wore the same smile upon her face whether the
head was on or off--which teaches us that we ought always to be cheerful
in misfortune.
Besides these fine young ladies there were two or three rag babies; but
as you could not tell by the looks of them what they were thinking
about, I will not say any thing about them. They had no virtues worth
telling; they never ate soup with a fork, or gave money to the poor.
Some of my readers may not think much of this family of dollies, but I
am sure Katy and Nellie had fine times with them. They used to spend
hours together with them, and the dollies used to do every thing that
any body could do.
Miss Fanny used to visit a great deal, in spite of her dirty, ragged
clothes; so did Miss Lucy, with two holes in her head, and Miss Mary,
with her broken leg, and Miss Susie, with her broken neck. All of them
used to go a-visiting, except Miss Dinah, and she, being a black girl,
had to do the sweeping and tend the door.
These ladies were all of them so bashful that they would not speak in
company, and Katy and Nellie had to do all the talking for them.
But they used to "make believe" the dollies talked, and this did just as
well. They used to say just such things as the ladies did who called on
Mrs. Green, and never left without being urged to stay longer, and also
to call again; which they always promised to do.
On the whole, they were very wonderful dollies; at least they were until
Lady Jane came, and she was such a fine lady, with her white silk dress
and her _real_ hair, that none of them could shine after that.
[Illustration: "Lend us your Dolly."]
II.
One day Flora Lee came to see Nellie Green, and to spend the afternoon
with her. It was in the month of November, and the weather was too cold
to permit them to play in the garden; so they said they would have a
good time in the house.
Katy Green had to go away, and could not play with them. Nellie was
very sorry for this, for she not only liked to have her sister with her,
but she also wanted the company of Lady Jane.
She told Flora how sorry she was, and they agreed that it was too bad
Katy had to go away, for she was older than they, and could help them a
great deal in their plays. Besides, they wanted one fine lady among the
dollies, for they had a certain play which required just such a person.
"I wish I had brought Miss Dolly with me. I guess she is fine enough,"
said Flora.
"I wish you had," replied Nellie; "but as you have not, we can't help it
now. I dare say Miss Fanny will do."
"I'll tell you what you can do, Nellie."
"What?"
"You can just ask Katy to lend you her dolly. We won't hurt her a mite,
you know. We will use her just as if she were made of glass."
Nellie did not know what to say. She did not like to ask Katy to let her
play with Lady Jane, for she knew how careful her sister was of her fine
lady. And she did not like to tell Flora her thoughts, lest she should
think her sister was selfish. She did not like to have any one think
hard of her sister.
"We must have Lady Jane. I don't see how we can get along without her,"
added Flora, a little puzzled by the silence of Nellie.
"I don't like to ask Katy," said Nellie, at last.
"Why not? She will let you have her. Of _course_ she will let you have
her," added Flora, warmly.
"I don't think she will. You know we might break her neck, or lose off
her legs or arms; or we might dirty her white silk dress."
"But we will be very careful. Let us go and ask her. It won't do any
harm to ask her, you know. She can't do any more than refuse."
Nellie did not like to be refused, and she tried to prevent Flora from
going any farther in the matter. She was sorry to have it appear that
her sister was selfish, and she thought more of this than she did of
being refused.
Flora said so much that at last she thought Katy might let her have the
doll, and they ran down stairs to the sitting room, to have the matter
settled.
"Will you lend us your dolly, Katy?" asked Nellie, and the tones of her
voice showed how doubtful she was of the result of the question.
"What dolly do you mean?" asked Katy.
"Your wax dolly--Lady Jane."
"I am very sure I shall not," replied Katy.
"We will be very careful of her," added Flora. "We won't let her be
hurt a bit--you may depend on that."
"I'm not going to let you have my dolly to break and spoil--I'm sure I
shall not," said Katy; who even seemed to be angry because she was
asked.
"But don't I say we won't hurt it a bit?" continued Flora. "And when you
come over to my house, you shall have my dolly just as long as you want
her; and her house too, and all the chairs and tables and things."
"I don't want them."
"Do please to let us have Lady Jane," teased Nellie. "We want her ever
so much; and I know she won't get broken or dirty. Please to lend her to
us, Katy."
"I shan't do any such thing; so it's no use to tease me. Why don't you
play with your own dollies? I won't lend Lady Jane--that's flat."
Nellie felt so bad she could not help crying,--not because she could not
have the doll, but because her sister was so harsh and unkind. She would
not have cared so much if Flora had not been there, for she did not like
to have her see her sister behave in this manner.
Poor Flora wanted to cry, too, when she saw how badly Nellie felt; but
she tried to be brave, and placed her arm round her friend's neck, as if
to let her know that she would be kind to her.
"Come, Nellie, let's go up stairs again. We won't say any thing more
about it," said Flora; and she led her out of the room.
"Now you won't like Katy, after this," replied Nellie.
"O, yes, I will."
"Katy would have lent us the dolly, only aunt Jane gave it to her, and
she is afraid it will be broken. If it hadn't been for this, she would
have lent us Lady Jane--I know she would," added Nellie, wiping away her
tears.
"I dare say she would; but we won't think any thing more about it. And
when I come over again, some time, I will bring her something, just to
show her that I don't feel hard towards her."
"What a dear, good girl you are, Flora! I was afraid you would hate her
after what she said."
"O, dear, no, I should hope not. My mother tells me I must love those
who don't do what I want them to; and I try to do so; but it is very
hard sometimes. I wish you had a wax doll, Nellie. You ought to have
one, you are such a good girl, and love your sister so much, even when
she is not kind to you."
"I wish I had one; it would be so nice to have one like Lady Jane. I
should be so happy; but then if only one of us can have one, I would
rather Katy had it than have it myself."
"You are not a bit selfish, Nellie. Do you know what _selfish_ means? I
do."
"I guess I do. It means when you have an apple or any candy to refuse to
give a part to your sister."
"Yes, or to any body that happens to be with you. Candy is good, but
don't you like to see others eat it almost as well as you do to eat it
yourself?"
"Well, yes, I think I do."
"Then you know just what I mean, and I guess we'll play 'visiting' now."
"So we will; and Miss Fanny shall be the great lady, and Dinah shall be
her servant."
"Yes, and this shall be her house," said Nellie, as she placed Miss
Fanny in a large arm chair which they were to "make believe" was her
elegant mansion.
"You shall stay here, and I will bring Miss Mary to visit Miss Fanny."
Flora bounded over to the other side of the room, which was supposed to
be the home of the other dolls, and Miss Mary, in spite of her broken
leg, was soon on her way to visit the fine lady.
"Ting, a ling, a ling!" said Flora, which meant that the caller had rung
the bell, and Dinah appeared at the door.
"Is Miss Fanny at home?" asked Flora, speaking for the lady with the
broken leg.
"No, marm, she is not," replied Nellie, who had to speak for Dinah,
because, though her mouth was very large, she could not speak for
herself.
"What an awful fib!" cried Flora. "There she is; don't I see her through
the door?"
"But that's just the way some of the fine folks do," replied Nellie,
laughing at Flora's earnestness.
"It is an awful story, and I wouldn't say it even in fun."
Nellie said she would not say it again, only she wanted to have Miss
Fanny do just as the big folks did. And so they played all the
afternoon, though Lady Jane did not honor them with her company. All the
dollies paid lots of visits; and Flora went home.
[Illustration: The Christmas Present.]
III.
When Flora reached home, she told her mother what a nice time she had,
and what splendid visits Miss Lucy and Miss Mary and Miss Susie had made
to Miss Fanny.
She could not help telling her mother what a good girl Nellie was, and
how she loved her sister, even when she was unkind and spoke pettishly
to her.
Then she told her how much she wished Nellie had a wax doll, with real
hair, and a white silk dress. Mrs. Lee thought such a good girl ought to
have one, and the very next time she went to the city, she bought the
prettiest wax doll she could find for her.
Flora was full of joy when she saw the doll, and learned whom it was
for. She was a great deal happier than if the doll had been bought for
herself; and she wanted to run right over to Mr. Green's with the
beautiful present. She longed to see the eyes of Nellie sparkle as she
saw the doll, and to hear what she would say when told it was for her.
But Mrs. Lee thought they had better keep the doll till Christmas, and
let her find it with her stocking in the morning.
"But then I shan't see her when she first gets the dolly," said Flora.
"That is true; but you must write a little note, which shall be pinned
on the doll's dress."
"That will be splendid, mother! And I will go right away and write the
note now."
Flora got a pencil and a piece of paper, and seated herself in the
corner. She worked away for half an hour as busy as a bee, and then she
carried the note to her mother. She was not much of a writer, having
been to school only a year. She could only print the note.
Flora was very fond of writing notes, and long before she could make a
single letter, she would fill up a piece of paper with pothooks and
spiders' legs, and send them to her mother and Frank.
She did not spell all the words right, but her mother told her how to
correct them, and then she printed the note over again, on a nice sheet
of gilt-edged paper. Thinking my little friends might want to see this
note, I place a copy of it in the book, just exactly as she wrote it.
[Illustration: Dear Nellie
This Dolly Is From Me. I Love You Very Much And I Wish You A Merry
Christmas.
Flora Lee.]
When Christmas morning came, Nellie found the doll in a chair, close by
her stocking. I can't tell you how pleased she was, but you can all
guess. Then she took the note from the dress, and read it. She was more
pleased than ever to find it was from Flora.
She almost cried with joy as she puzzled out the note, and thought how
kind Flora and her mother were to remember her.
"What a dear you are, Miss Dolly!" said she, as she took up the doll and
kissed her, just as though she had been a real live baby. "You and I
shall be first-rate friends, just as long as we live. I will take such
good care of you! Dear me! Why, mother! Only think!"
"What is the matter, Nellie?" asked Mrs. Green, who was almost as much
pleased as her daughter.
"Did you see that?"
"What, child? What do you mean?"
"Did you see those eyes?"
"Yes, I see them."
"Why, just as true as I am alive, she moved them!"
"I think not, my child. She is a very handsome doll, but I don't think
she could move her eyes, if she tried ever so hard."
"But she did; I know she did;" and Nellie took hold of her head to
examine it more closely. As she did so, she bent the body a little.
"There! as true as I live, she moved them again!"
Mrs. Green took the doll, and found that the eyes did really move. It
was funny, but it was true. Mrs. Lee and Flora knew all about it. The
eyes were made of glass, and there was something inside of the doll
which moved them when the body was bent.
"Let me see," said Katy, who had been looking on in silence all this
time. Nellie gave her the doll at once; and she bent the body and saw
the eyes move twenty times. The happy owner of Miss Dolly waited with
patience till her sister had done with her.
"Why didn't aunt Jane get me one like that, I wonder," said Katy, when
she gave the doll to Nellie.
"I suppose she could not afford to buy one like this, for she is not so
rich as Mrs. Lee."
"But you shall have her to play with just when you want her," said
Nellie.
"Pooh! I don't want your old dolly," snarled Katy. "She isn't half so
good as mine. I would rather have Lady Jane than have her, any day."
"Why, then, did you wish your aunt Jane had given you one like this?"
asked her mother.
"I don't care for her old dolly! She may keep it for all me," replied
Katy.
"But it shall be yours just as much as mine, Katy," said Nellie, in
tones so gentle and sweet that her sister ought to have kissed her for
them, and loved her more than she ever loved her before.
But she did not. She was envious. She was sorry the doll had been given
to Nellie--sorry because it was a prettier one than her own. It was a
very wicked feeling. She had some presents of her own, but her envy
spoiled all the pleasure she might have taken in them.
Nellie was almost sorry the doll had been given to her, when she saw how
Katy felt about it. Mrs. Green talked to the envious girl till she
cried, about her conduct. She tried to make her feel how odious and
wicked envy made her.
Whenever Katy saw the new doll, she seemed to be angry with her sister.
Poor Nellie's pleasure was nearly spoiled, and she even offered to
exchange her doll for Katy's, but her mother would not let her do so.
In a few days, however, she seemed to feel better, and the two sisters
had some good times with their dolls. I say she seemed to feel better,
but she really did not. She did not like it that Nellie's doll was a
finer one than her own.
Yet Nellie was happier, for she thought Katy was cured of her ill
feeling. Then she loved her doll more than ever. She was a cunning
little girl, and she thought so much of her new friend that she always
used to say "Dolly and I."
When her mother asked her where she had been, she would reply, "Dolly
and I have been having a nice time up stairs." "Dolly and I" used to do
ever so many things, and no two little ladies could ever enjoy
themselves more than did Dolly and Nellie.
I am sorry to say that Katy did not like Dolly at all. She could never
forgive her for moving her eyes, because Lady Jane could not move hers.
It is true that, after she saw how silly and wicked her envy made her
appear to others, she tried very hard not to show it.
We may be just as wicked without showing our sin to others, as we can be
when we let the world see just what we are. When we are wicked, the sin
is more in the heart than in the actions.
Men may seem to be very good when they are really very bad, though
people almost always find out such persons. Katy was just as wicked,
just as envious, when her sister thought she was kind and loving, as she
was on that Christmas morning, when the doll was found in the chamber.
You will be surprised and sorry when you see just how wicked her envy
made her. I shall tell you about it in the next chapter, and I hope it
will lead you to drive any such feeling from your own hearts. If you
have such feelings, they will make you very unhappy; and the sooner you
begin to get rid of them, the better.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: What Katy did.]
IV.
Lady Jane and Miss Dolly were kept in the lower drawer of the bureau,
for they were very fine young ladies, and Mrs. Green wished to have them
kept clean and nice.
One day, about two weeks after Miss Dolly was given to Nellie, both she
and Katy had been playing with the dolls. When the bell rang for tea,
they ran down stairs; but before they went they put the dolls in the
drawer. As they were in a hurry, they were not very careful, and the
dresses of both the dolls were sadly tumbled.
Mrs. Green, who was in the room, saw in what manner Miss Dolly and Lady
Jane had been thrown into the drawer; and before she went down to tea,
she took them both out, smoothed down their dresses, and put them back
in a more proper manner.
Katy and Nellie had had some talk about their dolls; and the envious
girl had said hers was better than her sister's. Nellie did not dispute
with her about it, but she saw that Katy had not got over that bad
feeling yet.
The children ate their suppers, and not a word more was said about the
dolls; but Katy looked very sour. She was thinking about Miss Dolly's
eyes, and wishing Lady Jane's eyes would move like the other's.
She finished her supper, and ran up stairs again. By this time it was
quite dark in the room where the dolls were kept, and Nellie and her
mother wondered why she went up stairs at that late hour.
Katy was still | 1,775.69872 |
2023-11-16 18:46:39.9532470 | 4,280 | 10 |
THE WOODLANDERS
by
Thomas Hardy
CHAPTER I.
The rambler who, for old association or other reasons, should trace the
forsaken coach-road running almost in a meridional line from Bristol to
the south shore of England, would find himself during the latter half
of his journey in the vicinity of some extensive woodlands,
interspersed with apple-orchards. Here the trees, timber or
fruit-bearing, as the case may be, make the wayside hedges ragged by
their drip and shade, stretching over the road with easeful
horizontality, as if they found the unsubstantial air an adequate
support for their limbs. At one place, where a hill is crossed, the
largest of the woods shows itself bisected by the high-way, as the head
of thick hair is bisected by the white line of its parting. The spot
is lonely.
The physiognomy of a deserted highway expresses solitude to a degree
that is not reached by mere dales or downs, and bespeaks a tomb-like
stillness more emphatic than that of glades and pools. The contrast of
what is with what might be probably accounts for this. To step, for
instance, at the place under notice, from the hedge of the plantation
into the adjoining pale thoroughfare, and pause amid its emptiness for
a moment, was to exchange by the act of a single stride the simple
absence of human companionship for an incubus of the forlorn.
At this spot, on the lowering evening of a by-gone winter's day, there
stood a man who had entered upon the scene much in the aforesaid
manner. Alighting into the road from a stile hard by, he, though by no
means a "chosen vessel" for impressions, was temporarily influenced by
some such feeling of being suddenly more alone than before he had
emerged upon the highway.
It could be seen by a glance at his rather finical style of dress that
he did not belong to the country proper; and from his air, after a
while, that though there might be a sombre beauty in the scenery, music
in the breeze, and a wan procession of coaching ghosts in the sentiment
of this old turnpike-road, he was mainly puzzled about the way. The
dead men's work that had been expended in climbing that hill, the
blistered soles that had trodden it, and the tears that had wetted it,
were not his concern; for fate had given him no time for any but
practical things.
He looked north and south, and mechanically prodded the ground with his
walking-stick. A closer glance at his face corroborated the testimony
of his clothes. It was self-complacent, yet there was small apparent
ground for such complacence. Nothing irradiated it; to the eye of the
magician in character, if not to the ordinary observer, the expression
enthroned there was absolute submission to and belief in a little
assortment of forms and habitudes.
At first not a soul appeared who could enlighten him as he desired, or
seemed likely to appear that night. But presently a slight noise of
laboring wheels and the steady dig of a horse's shoe-tips became
audible; and there loomed in the notch of the hill and plantation that
the road formed here at the summit a carrier's van drawn by a single
horse. When it got nearer, he said, with some relief to himself, "'Tis
Mrs. Dollery's--this will help me."
The vehicle was half full of passengers, mostly women. He held up his
stick at its approach, and the woman who was driving drew rein.
"I've been trying to find a short way to Little Hintock this last
half-hour, Mrs. Dollery," he said. "But though I've been to Great
Hintock and Hintock House half a dozen times I am at fault about the
small village. You can help me, I dare say?"
She assured him that she could--that as she went to Great Hintock her
van passed near it--that it was only up the lane that branched out of
the lane into which she was about to turn--just ahead. "Though,"
continued Mrs. Dollery, "'tis such a little small place that, as a town
gentleman, you'd need have a candle and lantern to find it if ye don't
know where 'tis. Bedad! I wouldn't live there if they'd pay me to.
Now at Great Hintock you do see the world a bit."
He mounted and sat beside her, with his feet outside, where they were
ever and anon brushed over by the horse's tail.
This van, driven and owned by Mrs. Dollery, was rather a movable
attachment of the roadway than an extraneous object, to those who knew
it well. The old horse, whose hair was of the roughness and color of
heather, whose leg-joints, shoulders, and hoofs were distorted by
harness and drudgery from colthood--though if all had their rights, he
ought, symmetrical in outline, to have been picking the herbage of some
Eastern plain instead of tugging here--had trodden this road almost
daily for twenty years. Even his subjection was not made congruous
throughout, for the harness being too short, his tail was not drawn
through the crupper, so that the breeching slipped awkwardly to one
side. He knew every subtle incline of the seven or eight miles of
ground between Hintock and Sherton Abbas--the market-town to which he
journeyed--as accurately as any surveyor could have learned it by a
Dumpy level.
The vehicle had a square black tilt which nodded with the motion of the
wheels, and at a point in it over the driver's head was a hook to which
the reins were hitched at times, when they formed a catenary curve from
the horse's shoulders. Somewhere about the axles was a loose chain,
whose only known purpose was to clink as it went. Mrs. Dollery, having
to hop up and down many times in the service of her passengers, wore,
especially in windy weather, short leggings under her gown for
modesty's sake, and instead of a bonnet a felt hat tied down with a
handkerchief, to guard against an earache to which she was frequently
subject. In the rear of the van was a glass window, which she cleaned
with her pocket-handkerchief every market-day before starting. Looking
at the van from the back, the spectator could thus see through its
interior a square piece of the same sky and landscape that he saw
without, but intruded on by the profiles of the seated passengers, who,
as they rumbled onward, their lips moving and heads nodding in animated
private converse, remained in happy unconsciousness that their
mannerisms and facial peculiarities were sharply defined to the public
eye.
This hour of coming home from market was the happy one, if not the
happiest, of the week for them. Snugly ensconced under the tilt, they
could forget the sorrows of the world without, and survey life and
recapitulate the incidents of the day with placid smiles.
The passengers in the back part formed a group to themselves, and while
the new-comer spoke to the proprietress, they indulged in a
confidential chat about him as about other people, which the noise of
the van rendered inaudible to himself and Mrs. Dollery, sitting forward.
"'Tis Barber Percombe--he that's got the waxen woman in his window at
the top of Abbey Street," said one. "What business can bring him from
his shop out here at this time and not a journeyman hair-cutter, but a
master-barber that's left off his pole because 'tis not genteel!"
They listened to his conversation, but Mr. Percombe, though he had
nodded and spoken genially, seemed indisposed to gratify the curiosity
which he had aroused; and the unrestrained flow of ideas which had
animated the inside of the van before his arrival was checked
thenceforward.
Thus they rode on till they turned into a half-invisible little lane,
whence, as it reached the verge of an eminence, could be discerned in
the dusk, about half a mile to the right, gardens and orchards sunk in
a concave, and, as it were, snipped out of the woodland. From this
self-contained place rose in stealthy silence tall stems of smoke,
which the eye of imagination could trace downward to their root on
quiet hearth-stones festooned overhead with hams and flitches. It was
one of those sequestered spots outside the gates of the world where may
usually be found more meditation than action, and more passivity than
meditation; where reasoning proceeds on narrow premises, and results in
inferences wildly imaginative; yet where, from time to time, no less
than in other places, dramas of a grandeur and unity truly Sophoclean
are enacted in the real, by virtue of the concentrated passions and
closely knit interdependence of the lives therein.
This place was the Little Hintock of the master-barber's search. The
coming night gradually obscured the smoke of the chimneys, but the
position of the sequestered little world could still be distinguished
by a few faint lights, winking more or less ineffectually through the
leafless boughs, and the undiscerned songsters they bore, in the form
of balls of feathers, at roost among them.
Out of the lane followed by the van branched a yet smaller lane, at the
corner of which the barber alighted, Mrs. Dollery's van going on to the
larger village, whose superiority to the despised smaller one as an
exemplar of the world's movements was not particularly apparent in its
means of approach.
"A very clever and learned young doctor, who, they say, is in league
with the devil, lives in the place you be going to--not because there's
anybody for'n to cure there, but because 'tis the middle of his
district."
The observation was flung at the barber by one of the women at parting,
as a last attempt to get at his errand that way.
But he made no reply, and without further pause the pedestrian plunged
towards the umbrageous nook, and paced cautiously over the dead leaves
which nearly buried the road or street of the hamlet. As very few
people except themselves passed this way after dark, a majority of the
denizens of Little Hintock deemed window-curtains unnecessary; and on
this account Mr. Percombe made it his business to stop opposite the
casements of each cottage that he came to, with a demeanor which showed
that he was endeavoring to conjecture, from the persons and things he
observed within, the whereabouts of somebody or other who resided here.
Only the smaller dwellings interested him; one or two houses, whose
size, antiquity, and rambling appurtenances signified that
notwithstanding their remoteness they must formerly have been, if they
were not still, inhabited by people of a certain social standing, being
neglected by him entirely. Smells of pomace, and the hiss of
fermenting cider, which reached him from the back quarters of other
tenements, revealed the recent occupation of some of the inhabitants,
and joined with the scent of decay from the perishing leaves underfoot.
Half a dozen dwellings were passed without result. The next, which
stood opposite a tall tree, was in an exceptional state of radiance,
the flickering brightness from the inside shining up the chimney and
making a luminous mist of the emerging smoke. The interior, as seen
through the window, caused him to draw up with a terminative air and
watch. The house was rather large for a cottage, and the door, which
opened immediately into the living-room, stood ajar, so that a ribbon
of light fell through the opening into the dark atmosphere without.
Every now and then a moth, decrepit from the late season, would flit
for a moment across the out-coming rays and disappear again into the
night.
CHAPTER II.
In the room from which this cheerful blaze proceeded, he beheld a girl
seated on a willow chair, and busily occupied by the light of the fire,
which was ample and of wood. With a bill-hook in one hand and a
leather glove, much too large for her, on the other, she was making
spars, such as are used by thatchers, with great rapidity. She wore a
leather apron for this purpose, which was also much too large for her
figure. On her left hand lay a bundle of the straight, smooth sticks
called spar-gads--the raw material of her manufacture; on her right, a
heap of chips and ends--the refuse--with which the fire was maintained;
in front, a pile of the finished articles. To produce them she took up
each gad, looked critically at it from end to end, cut it to length,
split it into four, and sharpened each of the quarters with dexterous
blows, which brought it to a triangular point precisely resembling that
of a bayonet.
Beside her, in case she might require more light, a brass candlestick
stood on a little round table, curiously formed of an old coffin-stool,
with a deal top nailed on, the white surface of the latter contrasting
oddly with the black carved oak of the substructure. The social
position of the household in the past was almost as definitively shown
by the presence of this article as that of an esquire or nobleman by
his old helmets or shields. It had been customary for every well-to-do
villager, whose tenure was by copy of court-roll, or in any way more
permanent than that of the mere cotter, to keep a pair of these stools
for the use of his own dead; but for the last generation or two a
feeling of cui bono had led to the discontinuance of the custom, and
the stools were frequently made use of in the manner described.
The young woman laid down the bill-hook for a moment and examined the
palm of her right hand, which, unlike the other, was ungloved, and
showed little hardness or roughness about it. The palm was red and
blistering, as if this present occupation were not frequent enough with
her to subdue it to what it worked in. As with so many right hands
born to manual labor, there was nothing in its fundamental shape to
bear out the physiological conventionalism that gradations of birth,
gentle or mean, show themselves primarily in the form of this member.
Nothing but a cast of the die of destiny had decided that the girl
should handle the tool; and the fingers which clasped the heavy ash
haft might have skilfully guided the pencil or swept the string, had
they only been set to do it in good time.
Her face had the usual fulness of expression which is developed by a
life of solitude. Where the eyes of a multitude beat like waves upon a
countenance they seem to wear away its individuality; but in the still
water of privacy every tentacle of feeling and sentiment shoots out in
visible luxuriance, to be interpreted as readily as a child's look by
an intruder. In years she was no more than nineteen or twenty, but the
necessity of taking thought at a too early period of life had forced
the provisional curves of her childhood's face to a premature finality.
Thus she had but little pretension to beauty, save in one prominent
particular--her hair. Its abundance made it almost unmanageable; its
color was, roughly speaking, and as seen here by firelight, brown, but
careful notice, or an observation by day, would have revealed that its
true shade was a rare and beautiful approximation to chestnut.
On this one bright gift of Time to the particular victim of his now
before us the new-comer's eyes were fixed; meanwhile the fingers of his
right hand mechanically played over something sticking up from his
waistcoat-pocket--the bows of a pair of scissors, whose polish made
them feebly responsive to the light within. In her present beholder's
mind the scene formed by the girlish spar-maker composed itself into a
post-Raffaelite picture of extremest quality, wherein the girl's hair
alone, as the focus of observation, was depicted with intensity and
distinctness, and her face, shoulders, hands, and figure in general,
being a blurred mass of unimportant detail lost in haze and obscurity.
He hesitated no longer, but tapped at the door and entered. The young
woman turned at the crunch of his boots on the sanded floor, and
exclaiming, "Oh, Mr. Percombe, how you frightened me!" quite lost her
color for a moment.
He replied, "You should shut your door--then you'd hear folk open it."
"I can't," she said; "the chimney smokes so. Mr. Percombe, you look as
unnatural out of your shop as a canary in a thorn-hedge. Surely you
have not come out here on my account--for--"
"Yes--to have your answer about this." He touched her head with his
cane, and she winced. "Do you agree?" he continued. "It is necessary
that I should know at once, as the lady is soon going away, and it
takes time to make up."
"Don't press me--it worries me. I was in hopes you had thought no more
of it. I can NOT part with it--so there!"
"Now, look here, Marty," said the barber, sitting down on the
coffin-stool table. "How much do you get for making these spars?"
"Hush--father's up-stairs awake, and he don't know that I am doing his
work."
"Well, now tell me," said the man, more softly. "How much do you get?"
"Eighteenpence a thousand," she said, reluctantly.
"Who are you making them for?"
"Mr. Melbury, the timber-dealer, just below here."
"And how many can you make in a day?"
"In a day and half the night, three bundles--that's a thousand and a
half."
"Two and threepence." The barber paused. "Well, look here," he
continued, with the remains of a calculation in his tone, which
calculation had been the reduction to figures of the probable monetary
magnetism necessary to overpower the resistant force of her present
purse and the woman's love of comeliness, "here's a sovereign--a gold
sovereign, almost new." He held it out between his finger and thumb.
"That's as much as you'd earn in a week and a half at that rough man's
work, and it's yours for just letting me snip off what you've got too
much of."
The girl's bosom moved a very little. "Why can't the lady send to some
other girl who don't value her hair--not to me?" she exclaimed.
"Why, simpleton, because yours is the exact shade of her own, and 'tis
a shade you can't match by dyeing. But you are not going to refuse me
now I've come all the way from Sherton o' purpose?"
"I say I won't sell it--to you or anybody | 1,775.973287 |
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THE LAST CRUISE OF THE SAGINAW
[Illustration: LIEUTENANT-COMMANDER MONTGOMERY SICARD]
THE LAST CRUISE OF
THE SAGINAW
BY
GEORGE H. READ
PAY INSPECTOR, U.S.N. (RETIRED)
_With Illustrations from Sketches by Lieutenant
Commander (afterwards Rear-Admiral)
Sicard and from Contemporary
Photographs_
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1912
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY GEORGE H. READ
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published February 1912_
ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY COPIES OF
THIS FIRST EDITION PRINTED AND
BOUND UNCUT WITH PAPER LABEL
THIS BOOK
IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF THE NOBLE
MEN WHO LOST THEIR LIVES IN THE
EFFORT TO OBTAIN RELIEF FOR
THEIR SHIPWRECKED
COMRADES
PREFACE
Dear Mr. Read:--
I am greatly obliged to you for letting me read your deeply
interesting account of the wreck of the poor Saginaw and the loss of
Lieutenant Talbot. With General Cutter's approval I shall take the
manuscript with me to Boston, but I will return it carefully.
I leave the two photographs, but I have the curious drawing and
newspaper scraps, which I will safely return.
Very truly yours,
EDWARD E. HALE.
Dec. 21, 1880.
WASHINGTON.
A recent re-reading of the above old letter from a friend who in his
lifetime stood so high in the literary world, has, together with the
suggestions of other friends and shipmates, decided me to launch my
narrative of the cruise and wreck of the Saginaw on the sea of
publicity.
The story itself may be lost in the immense current of literature
constantly pouring forth, but some good friends advise me to the
contrary.
The fact that stories of sea life and adventure have ever possessed
the power to attract the interest and stir the imagination, adds to
the courage given me to set forth my plain unadorned story without any
pretensions to literary excellence.
Some of the first instructions given to a newly fledged naval officer
enjoin upon him the necessity for brevity and directness in his
official communications, both oral and written, and eventually he
becomes addicted to formal expressions that pervade his entire
correspondence. Eloquence or sentiment would probably be crushed with
a reprimand. I trust, therefore, that the reader will consider the
above conditions as they have surrounded me throughout my service,
should he or she find a lack of decorative language in my narrative.
To my mind, as a participant in the related events, there is material
in the story to rival the fictions of Fenimore Cooper or Marryat, and
I think that the heroes who gave up their lives in the effort to save
their shipmates should stand as high on the roll of fame as do those
lost amid battle smoke and carnage.
G.H.R.
August 16, 1911.
CONTENTS
I. THE BEGINNING OF THE CRUISE 1
II. THE WRECK 12
III. ON THE ISLAND 31
IV. THE SAILING OF THE GIG 58
V. WAITING 72
VI. RESCUED 85
VII. THE FATE OF THE GIG 96
APPENDIX 121
ILLUSTRATIONS
LIEUT.-COMMANDER MONTGOMERY SICARD _Frontispiece_
U.S. STEAMER SAGINAW, FOURTH-RATE 2
THE LANDING AT MIDWAY ISLANDS, SHOWING SEALS AND ALBATROSS 8
_From a sketch by Captain Sicard_
THE MIDWAY ISLANDS AS WE LEFT THEM 8
OCEAN ISLAND AND REEF 14
VIEW OF OCEAN ISLAND, REEF AND LAGOON AS SEEN FROM THE
SOUTH 16
(The island is at the lower edge of the circle)
OCEAN ISLAND AS VIEWED FROM THE NORTH 16
(The arrow shows where the Saginaw struck)
THE SAGINAW IN THE GRIP OF THE BREAKERS 24
THE CONDENSER MADE FROM A SMALL BOILER AND SPEAKING-TUBES 36
_From a sketch by Captain Sicard_
GATHERING TIMBERS FROM THE WRECK 36
_From a sketch by Captain Sicard_
THE CAPTAIN'S TENT 42
_From a sketch by Captain Sicard_
THE STOREHOUSE--ELEVATED TO AVOID THE RATS 42
_From a sketch by Captain Sicard_
LIEUTENANT JOHN G. TALBOT 46
(Who volunteered and navigated the Saginaw's gig a distance
of fourteen hundred miles to the Sandwich Islands and was
drowned when the boat was in sight of land)
THE GIG BEFORE LAUNCHING, WITH SAILS MADE ON THE ISLAND 54
PASSED ASSISTANT ENGINEER JAMES BUTTERWORTH 62
(Who, standing waist deep in the water, put the finishing
touches to the gig)
RIPPING TIMBERS FOR THE SCHOONER 74
_From a sketch by Captain Sicard_
THE FRAME OF THE SCHOONER AS WE LEFT IT 74
_From a sketch by Captain Sicard_
THE FLAGSTAFF FROM WHICH THE KILAUEA WAS SIGHTED 86
CAMP SAGINAW ON THE DAY OF RESCUE 86
_Taken from the masthead of the Kilauea_
CAPTAIN LONG, COMMANDER OF THE HAWAIIAN STEAMER THE
KILAUEA 90
MR. JOHN PATY'S BUNGALOW AT HONOLULU 98
STARBOARD SIDE OF THE GIG AFTER HER EVENTFUL JOURNEY 102
DECK VIEW OF THE GIG AFTER HER EVENTFUL JOURNEY 102
WILLIAM HALFORD, COXSWAIN, THE ONLY SURVIVOR OF THE GIG'S
CREW 110
(He is now a retired chief gunner in the Navy)
THE TABLET NOW ON THE WALLS OF THE CHAPEL AT THE UNITED
STATES NAVAL ACADEMY AT ANNAPOLIS 119
THE LAST CRUISE OF THE SAGINAW
I
THE BEGINNING OF THE CRUISE
During the winter of 1869-70 the United States Steamer Saginaw was
being repaired at the Mare Island Navy Yard, and her officers and crew
were recuperating after a cruise on the west coast of Mexico,--a
trying one for all hands on board as well as for the vessel itself.
The "Alta-Californian" of San Francisco published the following soon
after our return from the Mexican coast. It is all that need be said
of the cruise. We were all very glad to have it behind us and forget
it.
The Saginaw, lately returned from the Mexican coast, had a
pretty severe experience during her short cruise. At Manzanillo
she contracted the coast fever, a form of remittent, and at one
time had twenty-five cases, but a single death, however,
occurring.
On the way up, most of the time under sail, the machinery being
disabled, the voyage was so prolonged that when she arrived at
San Francisco there was not a half-day's allowance of provisions
on board and for many days the officers had been on "ship's
grub."
Our repairs and refitting were but preliminary to another (and the
last) departure of the Saginaw from her native land. Our captain,
Lieutenant-Commander Montgomery Sicard, had received orders to proceed
to the Midway Islands, _via_ Honolulu, and to comply with instructions
that will appear later in these pages. (I should explain here that the
commanding officer of a single vessel is usually addressed as
"Captain," whatever his real rank may be, and I shall use that term
throughout my narrative.)
[Illustration: U.S. STEAMER SAGINAW--FOURTH-RATE
Built at the Navy Yard, Mare Island, California, in 1859]
In a northwesterly direction from the Sandwich Islands there stretches
for over a thousand miles a succession of coral reefs and shoals, with
here and there a sandy islet thrown up by the winds and waves. They
are mostly bare of vegetation beyond a stunted growth of bushes. These
islets are called "atolls" by geographers, and their foundations are
created by the mysterious "polyps" or coral insects.
These atolls abound in the Pacific Ocean, and rising but a few feet
above the surface, surrounded by uncertain and uncharted currents, are
the dread of navigators.
Near the centre of the North Pacific and near the western end of the
chain of atolls above mentioned, are two small sand islands in the
usual lagoon, with a coral reef enclosing both. They were discovered
by an American captain, N.C. Brooks, of the Hawaiian bark Gambia, and
by him reported; were subsequently visited by the United States
Steamer Lackawanna and surveyed for charting.
No importance other than the danger to navigation was at that time
attached to these mere sandbanks. Now, however, the trans-Pacific
railroads, girdling the continent and making valuable so many hitherto
insignificant places, have cast their influence three thousand miles
across the waters to these obscure islets. The expected increase of
commerce between the United States and the Orient has induced the
Pacific Mail Steamship Company to look for a halfway station as a
coaling-depot, and these, the Midway Islands, are expected to answer
the purpose when the proposed improvements are made. To do the work of
deepening a now shallow channel through the reef, a contract has been
awarded to an experienced submarine engineer and the Saginaw has been
brought into service to transport men and material. Our captain is to
superintend and to report monthly on the progress made. Thus, with the
voyages out and return, coupled with the several trips between the
Midways and Honolulu, we have the prospect of a year's deep-water
cruising to our credit.
_February 22, 1870._ Once more separated from home and friends, with
the Golden Gate dissolving astern in a California fog (than which none
can be more dense). Old Neptune gives us a boisterous welcome to his
dominions, and the howling of wind through the rigging, with the
rolling and pitching of the ship as we steam out to sea, where we meet
the full force of a stiff "southeaster," remind us that we are once
more his subjects.
On the fourteenth day out we heard the welcome cry of "Land ho!" at
sunrise from the masthead. It proved to be the island of Molokai, and
the next day, March 9, we passed into the harbor of Honolulu on the
island of Oahu. We found that our arrival was expected, and the ship
was soon surrounded by canoes of natives, while crowds of people were
on the wharves.
After six days spent in refitting and obtaining fresh food and
ship-stores, we took up our westward course with memories of pleasant
and hospitable treatment, both officially and socially, from the
native and foreign people. Nothing happened outside of the usual
routine of sea life until March 24, when we sighted the Midway
Islands, and at 8 P.M. were anchored in Welles's Harbor, so called,
although there is barely room in it to swing the ship. The island is a
desolate-looking place--the eastern end of it covered with brown
albatross and a few seal apparently asleep on the beach. We can see
the white sand drifting about with the wind like snow. The next day a
schooner arrived with the contractor's supplies and lumber for a
dwelling and a scow, the latter to be used by the divers in their
outside work. There also arrived, towards night, a strong gale. It
blew so hard that with both anchors down the engines had to be worked
constantly to prevent drifting either on the island or the reef.
During the month of April work both afloat and ashore was steadily
pushed. The contractor's house was set up and the divers' scow
completed and launched. In addition, a thorough survey of the entire
reef and bar was completed.
Our several trips between the Midways and Honolulu need but brief
mention. They were slow and monotonous, being made mostly under sail.
The Saginaw was not built for that purpose. On one occasion, on
account of head winds, we made but twenty miles on our course in two
days.
The last return to the Midways came on October 12, and the
appropriation of $50,000 having been expended, our captain proceeded
to carry out his orders directing him to take on board the
contractor's workmen with their tools and stores and transport them to
San Francisco.
We found the shore party all well and looking forward with pleasure to
the closing day of their contract. They certainly have had the
monotonous and irksome end of the business, although we have not been
able to derive much pleasure from our sailings to and fro.
A brief resume of the work performed during their seven months'
imprisonment I have compiled from the journal of Passed Assistant
Engineer Bly | 1,776.67318 |
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[Transcriber’s Note:
Text delimited by equal signs is bold.
Text delimited by underscores is italic.]
LIFE IN AFRIKANDERLAND
LIFE IN AFRIKANDERLAND
AS VIEWED BY AN AFRIKANDER
A Story of Life in South Africa, based on Truth
BY
“CIOS”
[Illustration]
LONDON
DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS
18 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1897
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
In all times of stress and struggle, it is not from our friends and
supporters, but from our enemies and opponents, that we receive the
best and most practical instruction. If an evil or a peril exist,
it is surely best to know it; and if serious treason be hatching in
dark places, publicity may easily rob it of its main strength and
neutralise its virulence. Further, in order to rightly understand
racial conflicts--of all the most bitter--we must put ourselves in
our adversary’s place in order to arrive at just conclusions. We are
quite aware that in issuing this uncompromising attack upon British
supremacy in South Africa the writer is viewing everything from an
entirely anti-English standpoint, but surely it is of great practical
importance that we should be accurately informed as to the way in which
our adversaries regard us. More practical instruction can be obtained
thus than in any other manner. The intense hostility of the writer to
England is manifest, and a perusal of these pages is calculated to be
of real service to those to whom, as to ourselves, the solidarity and
permanence of the British Empire is a primary consideration.
Dedication
TO MY MOTHER DO I DEDICATE THIS WORK, WHO, I AM SURE, HAD SHE LIVED TO
READ IT, WOULD HAVE APPROVED THE SENTIMENTS EXPRESSED HEREIN, AND WOULD
HAVE THOROUGHLY SYMPATHISED WITH THE EARNEST OBJECT FOR WHICH THIS WORK
HAS BEEN WRITTEN, VIZ., THE ULTIMATE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH.
CIOS.
PREFACE
TO THE READER,
Gentle Reader, I have written this story in the English language--a
language learned by me, as a foreign language, for the chief purpose of
placing before the English reading public a true and faithful version
of the character and life of an Afrikander. So many libels and false
stories have of late been spread in England and all over the world
about the Boers by enemies of the people inhabiting the Colonies and
States of South Africa, that I could not resist the temptation to write
something in which the truth and nothing but the truth would be told.
I have made the attempt; whether it is to be successful or not, the
reading public must decide.
In this story there is no plot (excepting the Great Complot). It is
simply a story of everyday life, with little or no embellishment. Yet I
trust the reader, in lands far away as well as those living here in my
own beloved native land, will find sufficient to interest him to lead
him on to the end of the book. At the least, there was subject-matter
enough to write about without going out of the paths of Truth. My only
difficulty was not to be led away by my subject and make this work too
large for a first attempt in literature.
The incidents and adventures related, as well as anecdotes by old
Burghers of the South African Republic, are all based upon truth,
and were learned by the writer from the parties themselves. The sad
death by lightning of poor Daniel is true, word for word, even to the
premonition he had of his death, and occurred only as late as the
beginning of this year (1896); and many will recognise the family as
described by the writer.
The writer has mostly made use of Christian names, as all the
characters used in this story are real and living; and it would serve
no purpose to publish real names, while substituted names would only be
misleading. Where politics have been drawn into the story, the reader
may rely upon the truth only having been told of events, as well as
prevailing opinions as expressed by representatives of the different
parties. The latter part of the book is largely devoted to the events
of the New Year (1896) which occurred near Krugersdorp, Johannesburg
and Pretoria, and its results as gathered by one who took note of
everything on the spot, and may be relied upon as being true in every
detail. If I have succeeded in convincing a portion of the public of
the truth, I shall rest well satisfied.
THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS
BOOK I
CHAP. PAGE
I. A DEATH-BED SCENE 1
II. BOYHOOD 3
III. A CONTROVERSY 4
IV. INDEPENDENCE GAINED ONCE MORE--YOUTHFUL PATRIOTISM 5
V. YOUTHFUL PRANKS 11
VI. A CHARACTER SKETCH OF OUR HERO 15
VII. THOUGHTS AND FLOWERS 17
VIII. STEP-CHILDREN 18
IX. FAVOURITE HEROES 21
X. OUT OF SCHOOL 22
XI. HOPES 23
XII. THE TRANSVAAL IN PROSPECTIVE 24
XIII. THE NESTLING PREPARING FOR FLIGHT 26
XIV | 1,776.776231 |
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The Master Mummer
By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
Author of "Anna, the Adventuress," "A Prince of Sinners,"
"The Betrayal," Etc.
WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS
_A. L. BURT COMPANY_
_Publishers New York_
_Copyright_, 1904,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_
[Illustration: "Let the boy have his chance," said Allan.]
The Master Mummer
Book I
CHAPTER I
Sheets of virgin manuscript paper littered my desk, the smoke of much
uselessly consumed tobacco hung about the room in a little cloud. Many a
time I had dipped my pen in the ink, only to find myself a few minutes
later scrawling ridiculous little figures upon the margin of my
blotting-pad. It was not at all an auspicious start for one who sought
immortality.
There came a growl presently from the other side of the room, where
Mabane, attired in a disreputable smock, with a short black pipe in the
corner of his mouth, was industriously defacing a small canvas. Mabane
was tall and fair and lean, with a mass of refractory hair which was the
despair of his barber; a Scotchman with keen blue eyes, and humorous
mouth amply redeeming his face from the plainness which would otherwise
have been its lot. He also was in search of immortality.
"Make a start for Heaven's sake, Arnold," he implored. "To look at you
is an incitement to laziness. The world's full of things to write about.
Make a choice and have done with it. Write something, even if you have
to tear it up afterwards."
I turned round in my chair and regarded Mabane reproachfully.
"Get on with your pot-boiler, and leave me alone, Allan," I said. "You
do not understand my difficulties in the least. It is simply a matter of
selection. My brain is full of ideas--brimming over. I want to be sure
that I am choosing the best."
There came to me from across the room a grunt of contempt.
"Pot-boiler indeed! What about short stories at ten guineas a time, must
begin in the middle, scented and padded to order, Anthony Hopeish, with
the sugar of Austin Dobson and the pepper of Kipling shaken on _ad
lib._? Man alive, do you know what pot-boilers are? It's a perfect
conservatory you're living in. Got any tobacco, Arnold?"
I jerked my pouch across the room, and it was caught with a deft little
backward swing of the hand. Allan Mabane was an M.C.C. man, and a
favourite point with his captain.
"You've got me on the hip, Allan," I answered, rising suddenly from my
chair and walking restlessly up and down the large bare room. "The devil
himself might have put those words into your mouth. They are
pot-boilers, every one of them, and I am sick of it. I want to do
something altogether different. I am sure that I can, but I have got
into the way of writing those other things, and I can't get out of it.
That is why I am sitting here like an owl."
Mabane refilled his pipe and smoked contentedly.
"I know exactly how you're feeling, old chap," he said sympathetically.
"I get a dash of the same thing sometimes--generally in the springtime.
It begins with a sort of wistfulness, a sense of expansion follows, you
go about all the time with your head in the clouds. You want to collect
all the beautiful things in life and express them. Oh, I know all about
it. It generally means a girl. Where were you last night?"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"Where I shall be to-night, to-morrow night--where I was a year ago.
That is the trouble of it all. One is always in the same place."
He shook his head.
"It is a very bad attack," he said. "Your generalities may be all right,
but they are not convincing."
"I have not spoken a word to a woman, except to Mrs. Burdett, for a week
or more," I declared.
Mabane resumed his work. Such a discussion, his gesture seemed to
indicate, was not worth continuing. But I continued, following out my
train of thought, though I spoke as much to myself as to my friend.
"You are right about my stories," I admitted. "I have painted
rose-coloured pictures of an imaginary life, and publishers have bought
them, and the public, I suppose, have read them. I have dressed up
puppets of wood and stone, and set them moving like mechanical
dolls--over-gilded, artificial, vulgar. And all the time the real thing
knocks at our doors."
Mabane stepped back from his canvas to examine critically the effect of
an unexpected dash of colour.
"The public, my dear Greatson," he said abstractedly, "do not want the
real thing--from you. Every man to his _metier_. Yours is to sing of
blue skies and west winds, of hay-scented meadows and Watteau-like
revellers in a paradise as artificial as a Dutch garden. Take my advice,
and keep your muse chained. The other worlds are for the other writers."
I was annoyed with Mabane. There was just sufficient truth in his words
to make them sound brutal. I answered him with some heat.
"Not if I starve for it, Allan? The whole cycle of life goes humming
around us, hour by hour. It is here, there, everywhere. I will bring a
little of it into my work, or I will write no more."
Mabane shook his head. He was busy again upon his canvas.
"It is always the humourist," he murmured, "who is ambitious to write a
tragedy--and _vice versa_. The only sane man is he who is conscious of
his limitations."
"On the contrary," I answered quickly, "the man who admits them is a
fool. I have made up my mind. I will dress no more dolls in fine
clothes, and set them strutting across a rose-garlanded stage. I will
create, or I will leave alone. I will write of men and women, or not at
all."
"It will affect your income," Mabane said. "It will cost you money in
postage stamps, and your manuscripts will be declined with thanks."
His gentle cynicism left me unmoved. I had almost forgotten his
presence. I was standing over by the window, looking out across a
wilderness of housetops. My own thoughts for the moment were sufficient.
I spoke, it is true, but I spoke to myself.
"A beginning," I murmured. "That is all one wants. It seems so hard, and
yet--it ought to be so easy. If one could but lift the roofs--could but
see for a moment underneath."
"I can save you the trouble," Mabane remarked cheerfully, strolling over
to my side. "Where are you looking? Chertsey Street, eh? Well, in all
probability mamma is cooking the dinner, Mary is scrubbing the floor,
Miss Flora is dusting the drawing-room, and Miss Louisa is practising
her scales. You have got a maggot in your brain, Greatson. Life such as
you are thinking of is the most commonplace thing in the world. The
middle-classes haven't the capacity for passion--even the tragedy of
existence never troubles them. Don't try to stir up the muddy waters,
Arnold. Write a pretty story about a Princess and her lovers, and draw
your cheque."
"There are times, Allan," I remarked thoughtfully, "when you are an
intolerable nuisance."
Mabane shrugged his shoulders and returned to his work. Apparently he
had reached a point in it which required his undivided attention, for he
relapsed almost at once into silence. Following his example, I too
returned to my desk and took up my pen. As a rule my work came to me
easily. Even now there were shadowy ideas, well within my mental
grasp--ideas, however, which I was in the humour to repel rather than to
invite. For I knew very well whither they would lead me--back to the
creation of those lighter and more fanciful figures flitting always
across the canvas of a painted world. A certain facility for this sort
of thing had brought me a reputation which I was already growing to
hate. More than ever I was determined not to yield. Mabane's words had
come to me with a subtle note of mockery underlying their undoubted
common-sense. I thrust the memory of them on one side. Certain gifts I
knew that I possessed. I had a ready pen and a facile invention.
Something had stirred in me a late-awakened but irresistible desire to
apply them to a different purpose than ever before. As I sat there the
creations of my fancy flitted before me one by one--delicate, perhaps,
and graceful, thoughtfully conceived, adequately completed. Yet I knew
very well that they were like ripples upon the water, creatures without
lasting forms or shape, images passing as easily as they had come into
the mists of oblivion. The human touch, the transforming fire of life
was wholly wanting. These April creations of my brain--carnival figures,
laughing and weeping with equal facility, lacked always and altogether
the blood and muscle of human creatures. The mishaps of their lives
struck never a tragic note; always the thrill and stir of actual
existence were wanting. I would have no more of them. I felt myself
capable of other things. I would wait until other things came.
The door was pushed open, and Arthur smiled in upon us. This third
member of our bachelor household was younger than either Mabane or
myself--a smooth-faced, handsome boy, resplendent to-day in frock-coat
and silk hat.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed. "Hard at work, both of you!"
Mabane laid down his brush and surveyed the newcomer critically.
"Arthur," he declared with slow emphasis, "you do us credit--you do
indeed. I hope that you will show yourself to our worthy landlady, and
that you will linger upon the doorstep as long as possible. This sort of
thing is good for our waning credit. I am no judge, for I never
possessed such a garment, but there is something about the skirts of
your frock-coat which appeals to me. There is indeed, Arthur. And then
your tie--the cunning arrangement of it----"
"Oh, rats!" the boy exclaimed, laughing. "Give me a couple of
cigarettes, there's a good chap, and do we feed at home to-night?"
Mabane produced the cigarettes and turned back to his work.
"We do!" he admitted with a sigh. "Always on Tuesdays, you know.
By-the-bye, are you going to the works in that costume?"
"Not likely! It's my day at the depot, worse luck," Arthur answered,
pausing to strike a match. "What's up with Arnold?"
"Got the blues, because his muse won't work," Mabane said. "He wants to
strike out in a new line--something blood-curdling, you
know--Tolstoi-like, or Hall Caineish--he doesn't care which. He wants to
do what nobody else ever will--take himself seriously. I put it down in
charity to dyspepsia."
"Mabane is an ass!" I grunted. "Be off, Arthur, there's a good chap, and
don't listen | 1,776.877522 |
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Produced by Dave Morgan, Wilelmina Malliere and the Online Distributed
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LOVE AFFAIRS
OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE
BY
THORNTON HALL, F.S.A.,
Barrister-at-Law,
Author of "Love romancies of the Aristocracy",
"Love intrigues of Royal Courts", etc., etc.
TO
MY COUSIN,
LENORE
CONTENTS
CHAP
I. A COMEDY QUEEN
II. THE "BONNIE PRINCE'S" BRIDE
III. THE PEASANT AND THE EMPRESS
IV. A CROWN THAT FAILED
V. A QUEEN OF HEARTS
VI. THE REGENT'S DAUGHTER
VII. A PRINCESS OF MYSTERY
VIII. THE KING AND THE "LITTLE DOVE"
IX. THE ROMANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL SWEDE
X. THE SISTER OF AN EMPEROR
XI. A SIREN OF | 1,776.877817 |
2023-11-16 18:46:40.8579560 | 133 | 14 |
Produced by Richard Tonsing, Bill Tozier, logista and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
* * * * *
HARRY F. MARKS
[Illustration: CATALOGUE No. 4
1919]
* * * * *
CHOICE AND UNUSUAL
BOOKS
* * * * *
BOOK-LOVERS
WILL FIND LISTED HEREIN MANY
DESIRABLE, CURIOUS, AND _OUT-OF-PRINT
| 1,776.877996 |
2023-11-16 18:46:41.0532200 | 7,435 | 49 |
Produced by readbueno 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.)
[Illustration:
"HE DEALT A CRASHING BLOW AT THE RECREANT KNIGHT."
_Frontispiece._
]
UNDER KING HENRY'S
BANNERS
A STORY OF THE DAYS OF AGINCOURT
By
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
Author of
"The Winning of the Golden Spurs,"
etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN CAMPBELL
LONDON
THE PILGRIM PRESS
16, PILGRIM STREET, E.C.
_Fair stood the wind for France
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry._
_And taking many a fort
Furnish'd in warlike sort
March'd towards Agincourt
In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stop'd his way,
Where the French Gen'ral lay
With all his power._
* * * * *
_Upon Saint Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry;
O when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?_
MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631.)
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I HOW NEWS CAME TO WARBLINGTON CASTLE 1
II THE RETURN OF THE "GRÂCE À DIEU" 12
III HOW A FRIAR AND A LOLLARD MET ON THE HIGHWAY 20
IV HOW GEOFFREY LYSLE CROSSED THE CHANNEL 30
V HOW THE MERCHANTS TRIED CONCLUSIONS WITH LA
BARRE 41
VI THE AFFRAY BY THE RIVER 51
VII HOW GEOFFREY CAME TO TAILLEMARTEL 61
VIII OF THE AMBUSH LAID BY THE MEN OF TAILLEMARTEL 71
IX CONCERNING GEOFFREY'S DESPERATE RESOLVE 85
X THE EVE OF ST. SILVESTER 91
XI HOW SIR OLIVER GAINED HIS FREEDOM 101
XII IN WHICH GEOFFREY IS LAID BY THE HEELS 106
XIII THE POSTERN FACED WITH POINTS OF STEEL 116
XIV HOW ARNOLD GRIPWELL WAS FREED FROM HIS BONDS 130
XV HOW THE THREE COMRADES SEIZED THE FISHING
BOAT 143
XVI THE WRECK OF "L'ETOILE" 153
XVII OF THE COMPANY AT THE "SIGN OF THE BUCKLE" 161
XVIII SQUIRE GEOFFREY 168
XIX TREASON 176
XX THE TRAITORS' DOOM 189
XXI HOW GEOFFREY FARED AT THE SIEGE OF HARFLEUR 198
XXII THE MARCH OF THE FORLORN SEVEN THOUSAND 214
XXIII THE EVE OF AGINCOURT 224
XXIV THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT 240
XXV THE MASSACRE 254
XXVI AT THE CASTLE OF SIR RAOUL D'AULX 267
XXVII THE SIEGE OF ROUEN 280
XXVIII THE FATE OF MALEVEREUX 288
XXIX THE GOLDEN SPURS 303
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
MACE IN HAND, HE DEALT A CRUSHING BLOW AT THE _Frontispiece in
RECREANT KNIGHT Colours_
IT DID NOT TAKE LONG FOR THE ENGLISHMEN TO
GRASP THE SITUATION 48
"THROW ME YON ROPE!" HE SHOUTED 144
"SIRE, WERE THERE ANY WHO DWELT IN FEAR OF
THE ISSUE OF THE BATTLE, WOULD THEY SLEEP SO
QUIETLY?" 224
WITH SPEAR THRUST AND SWEEP OF AXE THEY FELL
UPON THE STORMERS 288
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
UNDER KING HENRY'S
BANNERS
CHAPTER I
HOW NEWS CAME TO WARBLINGTON CASTLE
It was shortly after dawn, on the morning of March 21, 1413, that a
grizzled man-at-arms climbed the spiral staircase in the south-west
angle of the keep of Warblington Castle.
He was dressed in a leathern suit, much soiled and frayed by the
frequent wearing of armour, while on his head was a close-fitting cap,
quilted and padded to ease the weight of a steel headpiece. He was
unarmed, save for a long knife that was counterbalanced by a horn slung
from a shoulder-strap of undressed hide.
Under his left arm he bore a flag, its folds gathered closely to his
side, as if he feared to injure the cherished fabric by contact with the
rough stone walls of the staircase; for the flag he had charge of was
the banner of the renowned knight, Sir Oliver Lysle, of the Castle of
Warblington, in the county of Southampton, and of the Château of
Taillemartel, in the Duchy of Normandy.
At the one hundred and eleventh step the man-at-arms paused, and,
raising his arm, thrust with all his might against an oaken trap-door,
sheeted on the outside with lead. With a dull thud the door was flung
backwards, and the old soldier gained the summit of the turret, which
stood ten feet above the rest of the battlemented keep.
Sheltering from the strong north-westerly breeze that whistled over the
machicolated battlements, the man-at-arms gazed steadily—not in a
landward direction, where an almost uninterrupted view extends as far as
the rolling South Downs, neither to the east, where the tall,
needle-like shaft of Chichester Cathedral spire was gradually rearing
itself heavenwards, nor to the west, where the sea and land blended in
the dreary mud banks of Langstone Harbour—but southwards, where,
partially hidden in wreaths of fleecy vapour, the almost landlocked
waters of Chichester Harbour met the open expanse of the English
Channel.
The sound of footsteps on the stone stairs caused the watcher to turn
his attention to the newcomer.
"Good morning, fair sir," he exclaimed, as a lad of about fourteen years
of age climbed actively through the trap-door.
"And to thee, Arnold Gripwell. But how goes it? Dost see aught of the
ship?"
"Nay, Master Geoffrey; this wind, which is most unseasonable for the
time o' year, hath stirred up much mist, so that the sea cannot be
clearly discerned."
"'Tis passing strange. Sir Oliver, my father, hath sent word that, God
willing, he would cross the seas from Harfleur on the eve of the Feast
of St. Perpetua. Already fourteen days are spent, and yet he cometh
not."
"The reason is not far to seek," replied Gripwell, pointing towards the
distant Portsdown Hills. "So long as this wind holdeth the ship is bound
to tarry."
"But how long, think you, will it blow thus? Thou art a man skilled in
such matters."
"Nay, I cannot forecast, fair sir. For now, when the husbandman looketh
for the east wind to break the ground, this most unwholesome air doth
hold. Mark my words, Master Geoffrey, when it turneth we shall have
another winter. But the sun is rising. I must display my lord's banner."
So saying, he bent the flag to the halyards, and soon the emblem of the
Lysles was fluttering bravely in the breeze—azure, a turbot argent,
surmounted by an estoile of the last—in other words, a silver turbot,
with a silver star above, both on a field of blue.
Geoffrey knew well the meaning of this device. The first denoted that
the Lord of Warblington was one of the coastwise guardians of the
Channel; the star was in recognition of a former Lysle's service under
Edward I, on the occasion of a desperate night attack upon the Scots.
Always ready on the first summons, the Lysles placed duty to their king
as the highest of their earthly devoirs, and it was their proud boast
that no important expedition had crossed the Channel without the head of
the Manor of Warblington in its ranks.
Like many an English knight of that period, Sir Oliver Lysle had
interests in France. Through his mother he inherited the seigneurie of
Taillemartel in Normandy.
France was in a deplorable condition. The country was torn by a fierce
strife betwixt the Orleanists—or Armagnacs, as they were oft-times
termed—and the Burgundians. Every baron and knight did as he might,
trade was paralyzed, the poor were oppressed, and from Picardy to
Provence, and from Brittany to Dauphiné, chaos prevailed.
In his own interest Sir Oliver had frequently to cross to France, for
his turbulent neighbours, coveting the fair fields surrounding the
feudal castle of Taillemartel, did not hesitate to encroach upon his
lands. Thus, much to the English knight's regret, he found himself
embroiled in the affairs of a foreign country.
"There is a boat coming up the rithe," exclaimed Geoffrey, pointing to a
small, indistinct object slowly moving against the strong tide that
ebbed through the many channels by which Chichester Harbour is
intersected.
"Methinks thou'rt right," replied the man-at-arms, shading his eyes with
his hand, for the sun had broken through the mist and its rays were
dazzling on the water. "Yea, 'tis a craft of sorts. Would my sight were
as good as in the time of the affray of Otterburn."
"'Tis but a fisherman," replied the lad, after some minutes had elapsed.
"Yet he roweth as if he bore tidings."
"Ay; I wot when first I saw him that 'twas not thy father's cog,"
replied Gripwell, unwilling to admit the inferiority of his sense of
vision, although he had recently confessed it. "But, certes, he is not
one of the men of Warblington, and since he cometh herewards methinks
his errand is no idle one," he added.
"Then let us hasten to the wharf and learn his tidings," said Geoffrey,
as he turned towards the stairway.
With the rising of the sun the portcullis had been drawn up and the
drawbridge lowered. So, passing the vigilant sentinel who kept watch and
ward at the gate of the outer bailey, the lad and his companion made
their way across the mead, past the church that, by a strange
strategical blunder, stood betwixt the castle and the sea, and at length
reached the little stone quay which, at all but the lowest tides,
permitted the approach of the largest vessels of that period.
"'Tis Wat, of Sinah," exclaimed Geoffrey, as the rower turned his head
to make sure of his sinuous course 'twixt the mud banks that were
already showing above the ebbing waters.
"How now, Wat?" quoth the man-at-arms, as the boat rubbed sides with the
landing-place, and the fisherman, well-nigh breathless with his
exertions, tossed his oars into the little craft and scrambled up a
rough wooden ladder.
"Sir Oliver!" he gasped.
"And what of him? Stand not babbling like a child. Out with it, gossip."
"The _Grâce à Dieu_ lies off the Poles yonder," continued Wat, pointing
towards the invisible sandbanks that encumbered the mouth of the
harbour. "She hath come in betimes this morning, and even now is
anchored beyond the bar."
Geoffrey gave a cry of delight at the glad news; but Gripwell was far
from satisfied.
"And why has not the cog stood in? And how goeth it with Sir Oliver?"
"The ebb maketh strongly," replied the fisherman. "'Twas only with much
ado that I gained the harbour, my craft being but light. As thou
knowest, gossip, there be none to touch her, not even at Bosham or
Emsworth. And then concerning Sir Oliver. I saw him not, neither was I
able to draw nigh to the _Grâce_. It served my purpose but to come
hither and claim the guerdon that my lady hath promised to him who
brought the news of Sir Oliver's return."
"Then get thee to the castle, Wat. As for thy craft, it must needs take
ground, since the rithe dries within an hour. But that will pass, I'll
warrant, for thy welcome will not be a hasty one."
Already Geoffrey had sped to bear the news to his mother, the Lady
Bertha, while the fisherman and the man-at-arms followed, Wat inwardly
chafing at the measured stride of the old warrior.
Sir Oliver's wife was a tall, dignified matron of forty years; stern,
almost masculine in manner, yet devoted to her husband and son. During
Sir Oliver's frequent absences the care and maintenance of the castle
were entirely in her hands, and, from the merest detail concerning the
domestic ordering of the numerous household to the weighty questions
appertaining to its defence, the Lady Bertha ruled with firmness and
discretion.
Nor was she backward in maintaining her authority. Once, and once only,
did the youthful Geoffrey take upon himself to give certain orders to
the warriors of the outer bailey.
"Geoffrey, my son," quoth his mother, "when thou dost attain the age of
sixteen it is thy father's purpose to entrust thee with the care of this
castle during his sojournings overseas. When that time cometh I shall
willingly give place to thee in the matter, but so long as my lord
thinketh fit to make me châtelaine of Warblington I, and I only, must
have the ordering o' it."
The Lady Bertha was not slow to act on hearing the good tidings that
were now brought to her. In a few minutes the castle was in a state of
bustle. The nineteen men-at-arms donned their plates and headpieces, and
stood to their arms, ready to prove to the Lord of Warblington that they
kept good watch and ward; the two score archers, putting on their
quilted coats and iron caps, in addition to their everyday dress, rushed
hither and thither, gathering evergreens, heaping piles of <DW19>s in
the centre of the courtyard, and bedecking the gateway with the arms and
pennons of bygone days. Old Giles, the cellarer, hied him to his
subterranean retreat, there to broach casks of the best vintages that
Gascony and Burgundy could produce, while the kitchen staff were busy
with two whole oxen.
Then from the adjacent church tower the bells rang out a merry peal.
Almost at the first note the toilers in the fields dropped their hoes
and unyoked the horses from the ploughs. They knew the meaning of the
peal; to them it meant, as it did on each and every occasion that Sir
Oliver returned in safety from the troublous Duchy of Normandy, that the
day was to be given up to feasting and merrymaking.
In the thatch-roofed houses of the little hamlet housewives left their
hearths, tarrying only to thrust a bough from their upper windows as a
sign of welcome, and trooped towards the castle to share with their
husbands the joys of their feudal lord's homecoming.
And now from the summit of the keep a keen-eyed sentinel espied the
bluff, black bows of the _Grâce à Dieu_, as, labouring slowly under
oars, she crept up the tedious Emsworth channel with the young
flood-tide.
The gunners, with port fires lighted and linstocks ready to hand, were
clustering round their cumbersome, iron-hooped bombards, gazing the
while towards the steadily-approaching vessel. The minstrels, with harp,
pipe, and lute, foregathered on the green within the outer bailey, while
the Lady Bertha—who, in order to show that she held the castle,
refrained from leaving the shelter of the battlements—awaited her
husband at the barbican.
Everything was ready for Sir Oliver Lysle's welcome home.
So intent upon the approach of the expected vessel were the crowds that
thronged the castle that none perceived a horseman riding from the
direction of the city of Chichester. In hot haste, he spared not spur,
and, scorning to keep to the road that led from the highway to the
castle, he urged his steed across the newly-ploughed fields, while a
bowshot in the rear a group of mounted men-at-arms followed at a more
leisurely pace.
Skirting the moat, he gained the barbican, then, drawing in his horse,
he looked, with an expression of mingled anger and surprise, upon the
preparations of welcome.
The newcomer was attired in a blue doublet, amber cloak with fur
trimmings, slashed trunks, and long pointed buskins of undressed
leather, while from elbow to wrist his arms were swathed in black cloth.
That he had ridden far and fast was evident by the exhausted state of
his steed and the numerous splashes of mud and chalk that clung
tenaciously to man and beast. By his left side he wore a long, straight
sword, with a plain cross-hilt and a black leather scabbard, while from
the right side of his belt hung a short dagger and a large leather
wallet.
Geoffrey recognized the newcomer as the seneschal of the Castle of
Arundel. Nor was he long in ignorance of the rider's errand, for, in a
loud voice, the officer exclaimed—
"To the Châtelaine of Warblington greeting; but methinks 'tis neither
time nor place for expressions of gladness."
"How so, Sir Scudamour?" asked the Lady Bertha haughtily, for she took
the seneschal's mien with disfavour.
"By this, fair dame," and, pointing to one of the men-at-arms who had
meanwhile arrived at the barbican, he called attention to a shield-like
object the soldier was bearing. It was a hatchment, or escutcheon of a
deceased noble, and the arms were those of King Henry IV—three lions
passant quartered with fleurs-de-lys.
Drawing a soiled parchment from his pouch the seneschal presented it to
the Lady Bertha with a courteous bow, then, giving a meaning look of
displeasure at the preparations for Sir Oliver's return, he wheeled his
horse and galloped away.
Slowly the châtelaine broke the seals and drew out the missive. Silence
had fallen upon the crowd. Instinctively soldier and peasant knew that
King Henry was no more.
The men-at-arms and archers doffed their steel caps, the peasants,
bareheaded and with mouths agape, crowded silently around the stately
figure of the Lady Bertha, as in a loud voice she began to read the
momentous news—
"To all to whom these present letters shall come: Whereas God hath been
pleased to call unto Himself the soul of Henry, King of England,
France——"
"An empty title," muttered a voice. Geoffrey turned; it was Gripwell who
had uttered these words. Fortunately for him the châtelaine heard him
not, and went on reading.
"——Lord of Ireland, and Suzerain of the Kingdom of Scotland, it is
hereby ordained that on the day following his most lamented decease his
worthy son, Henry, Prince of Wales, Earl of Cornwall and Carnarvon, and
Governor of Calais, be proclaimed King of England, France, Lord of
Ireland, and Suzerain of Scotland. Oyez, oyez, oyez. God save King Henry
the Fifth!"
CHAPTER II
THE RETURN OF THE _GRÂCE À DIEU_
For the nonce all thoughts of the expected arrival of Sir Oliver Lysle
were forgotten, save by the Lady Bertha and her son.
The pennons and garlands were already being removed, the minstrels
trooped silently back to the great hall, and the banner of the Lysles
was lowered to half-mast.
Yet, although all outward signs of merrymaking had disappeared, the
feast provided for the tenantry was to be partaken of on the arrival of
the _Grâce à Dieu_.
Soldiers and peasants gathered in small knots, eagerly discussing the
events that were likely to ensue consequent upon the late monarch's
decease.
"But Prince Henry was ever a young gallivant," observed Arnold Gripwell.
"I' faith, 'tis no great advancement to have seen the inside of a gaol."
"Have a care, gossip, or thine ears will suffer for it," remonstrated a
bearded master-archer. "Boys will be boys, they say. Perchance our King
has put off all his ill-deeds."
"They do say that he hath made absolute confession," said another. "I
have it on authority of a member of Sir Thomas Erpingham's household
that the Prince hath repaired to the chapel of a recluse, and, laying
bare to him the misdeeds of his whole life, hath put off the mantle of
vice, and hath returned decently adorned with the cloak of virtue."
"So be it," replied Gripwell stoutly. "The late King, though his title
to the throne were but a hollow one, was ever a soldier and a man. Give
me a man whom I can serve and follow to the wars, say I."
"Then perchance thy wish will be gratified, Arnold," remarked Sampson,
the master-bowman. "Prince Henry bore himself like a man at Homildon
fight, as thou knowest. Who knows but that ere long we shall follow him
to France to win back his own?"
"Pray Heaven it be so," returned the master-at-arms heartily. "For my
part, I'd as lief cross the narrow seas as a common soldier. Well I
remember my grandsire's tales of how the manhood of England crossed
thither in the time of the great Edward. Every mean archer, who went as
poor as a church mouse and did not lay his bones on French soil,
returned laden with rich booty. Did not my grandsire purchase the
copyhold of the farm at Nutbourne out of his ransom of a French knight?"
"But what think you, Master Sampson?" asked an archer eagerly. "Dost
think that the new King will make war?"
"He hath by far a better opportunity than Henry of Lancaster, the saints
rest his soul," replied the bowman. "That base rebel, Glendower, hath
been driven from the Welsh marches, and lies in hiding in the wilds of
that leek-ridden country. The Scots, too, are kept well in hand, so that
peace on the borders is to be depended upon. The King hath but to raise
his hand, and from the length and breadth of the realm the yeomen of
England will flock to his banner."
Sir Oliver's retainers were not far from the mark. Like the household of
many another knight, his men-at-arms and archers were tolerably well
versed in the affairs affecting the kingdom's welfare. To them war was
both a trade and the means of following an honourable profession.
Meanwhile the _Grâce à Dieu_ had gained the mouth of the little rithe
leading up to the quay, and was preparing to anchor.
Again the excitement rose, but in the midst of the hum of suppressed
anticipation an archer called attention to a significant fact: Sir
Oliver's shield was not displayed from the ship's quarter.
"Heaven forfend that he be dead," exclaimed Gripwell. "See, the Lady
Bertha hath noticed the omission."
Unable to conceal her agitation, the châtelaine, quitting the post of
honour, had crossed the drawbridge, and, accompanied by Geoffrey, was
hastening towards the wharf, a crowd of archers and men-at-arms
following at a respectful distance.
Already the small craft that belonged to the manor had put off to the
newly-arrived ship, which, for want of water, could not approach within
a bowshot of the shore.
"Where is thy master, Sir Oliver, Simeon?" asked the Lady Bertha, trying
the while to maintain her composure, as a burly, bow-legged man stepped
out of the boat and scrambled up the steps of the wharf.
Simeon Cross was the master-shipman of the _Grâce à Dieu_. For more than
two-score years had he earned his bread on the waters, being more used
to the heaving planks of a ship than to hard ground.
Awkwardly he shuffled with his feet, scarce daring to raise his eyes to
meet the stern, expectant look of the Châtelaine of Warblington.
"Answer me, rascal. Where is Sir Oliver?"
"Lady, I have ever been unshipshape with my tongue; were I to talk much
my words would trip like a scowed anchor. Ere long black would be white,
and white black, and——"
"Cease thy babbling, Simeon, and answer yea or nay. Is Sir Oliver alive
and well?"
"Lady, yea and nay. Yea, since he is still in the flesh, and nay, by
reason of——"
"The saints be praised!" ejaculated the fair questioner, reassured by
the old seaman's reply. "But stand aside, I pray you, for I perceive
that Oswald Steyning draws near. Tell me, Oswald, how comes it that thou
hast deserted thy master? Is it meet that a squire should return without
his lord?"
"Sweet lady, I had no choice in the matter," replied the squire, a
fair-haired youth of about sixteen years of age. "By the express command
of Sir Oliver and of the Lord of Malevereux I stand here this day. Sir
Oliver is alive and, I wot, in health, but, alas! a prisoner."
"A prisoner?"
"Ay, fair lady, of the Lord of Malevereux, otherwise known as the Tyrant
of Valadour, who sends this letter by my hand."
Drawing from his pouch a sealed packet, the squire knelt and presented
it to the châtelaine.
"From Yves, Baron of Malevereux, Lord of the High, the Middle, and the
Low, to the Lady Bertha, Châtelaine of the Castle of Warblington,
greeting:—
"Whereas, by the grace of the blessed Saint Hilary, Sir Oliver Lysle,
thy husband, hath fallen into my hands, be it known that this is my will
and pleasure: Him will I have and hold until a ransom of ten thousand
crowns be paid for the release of the said Sir Oliver. It is my request
that this sum be paid on or before the eve of the Feast of the blessed
Saint Silvester, failing which Sir Oliver must suffer death."
Twice the châtelaine read the missive, then, turning to the squire, she
asked—
"Knowest aught of this letter?"
"Nay, fair lady, though I wot 'tis of cold comfort."
"How came Sir Oliver to be taken?"
"By stealth, madame. They of Malevereux seized him as he lay abed in a
hostel on the road 'twixt Rouen and Taillemartel. Me they also took, but
the Tyrant set me free in order that I might bear tidings to
Warblington."
"And did Sir Oliver charge thee by word of mouth?"
"Yea, 'twas thus:—'Present my humblest respects to my dear lady, thy
mistress, and say that not a groat is to be paid as ransom for me.' No
more, no less."
"That I will bear in mind," replied the châtelaine resolutely.
"Meanwhile I must devise some answer to this Tyrant of Malevereux. Hast
promise of safe conduct?"
"The word of the Lord of Malevereux is but a poor bond, sweet lady. Yet,
since I have his promise, I will right willingly take the risk."
"'Tis well. Now to return to the castle. Arnold, see to the ordering of
the men-at-arms, the archers, and the tenants. Let them have their
feast, e'en though it be a sad one. Simeon, see to it that the _Grâce à
Dieu_ is warped up to the quay at high tide, and take steps to set a
goodly store of provisions on board, since to France thou must sail once
more. Now, Oswald, bear me company, for there is much on which I must
question thee."
All this time Geoffrey had been a silent yet eager listener. Already he
had grasped the main points of the situation, and, quick to act, he had
made up his mind that the time had come for the son of Sir Oliver Lysle
to prove himself worthy of the ancient and honourable name.
"Tell me all thou knowest concerning this Tyrant of Malevereux, Oswald,"
began Lady Bertha, as the châtelaine and the two lads gained the
comparative seclusion of the hall.
"He is the most puissant rogue in all Normandy, ay, in the whole of
France," replied the squire. "Though I perceive he has written in a
courteous style, worthy of a knight of Christendom, he is but a base
robber and oppressor of the poor, and a treacherous enemy to all true
gentlemen of coat armour. He hath declared that he fears neither God,
man, nor devil, yet withal he is of a craven disposition, and full of
superstitious fears."
"It is said that on one day of the year he throws open his Castle of
Malevereux to all who would fain partake of his hospitality?"
"That is so, sweet lady. On the Feast of Saint Silvester—in
commemoration of a deliverance from a great peril—the Lord of Malevereux
doth hold a joust to which all men may come, saving that they leave
their arms at the gate. Beyond that 'tis said that no man, other than
the Tyrant's retainers, hath set foot within the castle save as a
captive."
"The Feast of Saint Silvester!" exclaimed the Lady Bertha. "On that day
this base knight would fain receive ransom for Sir Oliver."
"Might I not be permitted to go to France?" asked Geoffrey, speaking for
the first time during the conversation. "I would desire to have some
small chance of advancement 'gainst this villainous baron."
"Thou'rt but a lad, Geoffrey," replied his mother. "I commend thy
courage and determination; they do thee honour, but the task is beyond
thee."
"I am almost of the same age as that most puissant knight, Edward the
Black Prince, when he fought at Crécy, and as old as our new King when
he crossed swords with Lord Percy at Otterburn," asserted Sir Oliver's
son. "Oswald hath followed my father Francewards these two years.
Therefore, saving your presence, I ought to be up and doing."
"'Tis a matter that demands careful consideration, Geoffrey, though I do
perceive that thou art not like a girl that hath to stay at home. Even
as a young hawk hath to leave the nest, a knight's son must, sooner or
later, quit the shelter of his parents' roof. But of that more anon. It
is in my mind that the good knight, Sir Thomas Carberry, who holds the
Castle of Portchester should hear of the mishap that hath befallen my
lord."
"Wouldst that I ride thither?" asked Geoffrey eagerly, for the doughty
knight was ever a favourite of the lad.
"That is my desire, Geoffrey. The day is but young, and thou canst
return ere sundown. Oswald shall bear thee company."
CHAPTER III
HOW A FRIAR AND A LOLLARD MET ON THE
HIGHWAY
In a few moments the lads had donned their cloaks, girded on their
swords—since none of quality ever ventured upon the highway save with a
weapon ready to hand—and given orders | 1,777.07326 |
2023-11-16 18:46:41.2535640 | 135 | 32 |
Produced by Katherine Ward, Juliet Sutherland, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
McCLURE'S MAGAZINE
VOL. I JUNE, 1893 No. 1
S. S. McCLURE, Limited
NEW YORK AND LONDON
1893
Copyright, 1893, by S. S. McClure, Limited. All rights reserved.
Press of J. J. Little & Co.
Astor Place, New York
Table of Contents
PAGE
A Dialogue between William Dean Howells and Hjalmar H | 1,777.273604 |
2023-11-16 18:46:41.3570350 | 181 | 8 |
Produced by David Widger
MEMOIRS OF JACQUES CASANOVA de SEINGALT 1725-1798
THE ETERNAL QUEST, Volume 3e--WITH VOLTAIRE
THE RARE UNABRIDGED LONDON EDITION OF 1894 TRANSLATED BY ARTHUR MACHEN TO
WHICH HAS BEEN ADDED THE CHAPTERS DISCOVERED BY ARTHUR SYMONS.
THE ETERNAL QUEST
WITH VOLTAIRE
CHAPTER XIX
M. de Voltaire; My Discussions with That Great Man--Ariosto--The Duc de
Villars--The Syndic and the Three Girls--Dispute with
Voltaire--Aix-en-Savoie--The Marquis Desarmoises
"M. de Voltaire," said I, "this is the happiest moment of my life. | 1,777.377075 |
2023-11-16 18:46:41.5533900 | 4,783 | 9 | HISTORIANS, VOLUME 5***
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Gwidon Naskrent, David King, and the
Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE GREAT EVENTS
BY
FAMOUS HISTORIANS
A COMPREHENSIVE AND READABLE ACCOUNT OF THE WORLD'S HISTORY. EMPHASIZING
THE MORE IMPORTANT EVENTS, AND PRESENTING THESE AS COMPLETE NARRATIVES
IN THE MASTER-WORDS OF THE MOST EMINENT HISTORIANS
NON-SECTARIAN NON-PARTISAN NON-SECTIONAL
ON THE PLAN EVOLVED FROM A CONSENSUS OF OPINIONS GATHERED FROM THE MOST
DISTINGUISHED SCHOLARS OF AMERICA AND EUROPE. INCLUDING BRIEF
INTRODUCTIONS BY SPECIALISTS TO CONNECT AND EXPLAIN THE CELEBRATED
NARRATIVES. ARRANGED CHRONOLOGICALLY. WITH THOROUGH INDICES,
BIBLIOGRAPHIES. CHRONOLOGIES, AND COURSES OF READING
SUPERVISING EDITOR
ROSSITER JOHNSON, LL.D.
LITERARY EDITORS
CHARLES F. HORNE, Ph.D.
JOHN RUDD, LL.D.
DIRECTING EDITOR
WALTER F. AUSTIN, LL.M.
With a staff of specialists
CONTENTS
VOLUME V
An Outline Narrative of the Great Events
CHARLES F. HORNE
Feudalism: Its Frankish Birth and English Development
(9th to 12th Century)
WILLIAM STUBBS
Decay of the Frankish Empire
Division into Modern France, Germany, and Italy
(A.D. 843-911)
FRANCOIS P. G. GUIZOT
Career of Alfred the Great (A.D. 871-901)
THOMAS HUGHES
JOHN R. GREEN
Henry the Fowler Founds the Saxon Line of German Kings
Origin of the German Burghers or Middle Classes (A.D. 911-936)
WOLFGANG MENZEL
Conquest of Egypt by the Fatimites (A.D. 969)
STANLEY LANE-POOLE
Growth and Decadence of Chivalry (10th to 15th Century)
LEON GAUTIER
Conversion of Vladimir the Great
Introduction of Christianity into Russia (A.D. 988-1015)
A. N. MOURAVIEFF
Leif Ericson Discovers America (A.D. 1000)
CHARLES C. RAFN
SAGA OF ERIC THE RED
Mahometans In India
Bloody Invasions under Mahmud (A.D. 1000)
ALEXANDER DOW
Canute Becomes King of England (A.D. 1017)
DAVID HUME
Henry III Deposes the Popes (A.D. 1048)
The German Empire Controls the Papacy
FERDINAND GREGOROVIUS
JOSEPH DARRAS
Dissension and Separation of the Greek and Roman
Churches (A.D. 1054)
HENRY F. TOZER
JOSEPH DEHARBE
Norman Conquest of England
Battle of Hastings (A.D. 1066)
SIR EDWARD S. CREASY
Triumphs of Hildebrand
"The Turning-point of the Middle Ages"
Henry IV Begs for Mercy at Canossa (A.D. 1073-1085)
ARTHUR R. PENNINGTON
ARTAUD DE MONTOR
Completion of the Domesday Book (A.D. 1086)
CHARLES KNIGHT
Decline of the Moorish Power in Spain
Growth and Decay of the Almoravide and Almohade
Dynasties (A.D. 1086-1214)
S.A. DUNHAM
The First Crusade (A.D. 1096-1099)
SIR GEORGE W. COX
Foundation of the Order of Knights Templars (A.D. 1118)
CHARLES G. ADDISON
Stephen Usurps the English Crown
His Conflicts with Matilda
Decisive Influence of the Church (A.D. 1135-1154)
CHARLES KNIGHT
Antipapal Democratic Movement
Arnold of Brescia
St. Bernard and the Second Crusade (A.D. 1145-1155)
JOHANN A. W. NEANDER
Decline of the Byzantine Empire
Ravages of Roger of Sicily (A.D. 1146)
GEORGE FINLAY
Universal Chronology (A.D. 843-1161)
JOHN RUDD
AN OUTLINE NARRATIVE
TRACING BRIEFLY THE CAUSES, CONNECTIONS, AND CONSEQUENCES OF
THE GREAT EVENTS
(FROM CHARLEMAGNE TO FREDERICK BARBAROSSA)
CHARLES F. HORNE
The three centuries which follow the downfall of the empire of
Charlemagne laid the foundations of modern Europe, and made of it a
world wholly different, politically, socially, and religiously, from
that which had preceded it. In the careers of Greece and Rome we saw
exemplified the results of two sharply opposing tendencies of the Aryan
mind, the one toward individualism and separation, the other toward
self-subordination and union.
In the time of Charlemagne's splendid successes it appeared settled that
the second of these tendencies was to guide the Teutonic Aryans, that
the Europe of the future was to be a single empire, ever pushing out its
borders as Rome had done, ever subduing its weaker neighbors, until the
"Teutonic peace" should be substituted for the shattered "Roman peace,"
soldiers should be needed only for the duties of police, and a whole
civilized world again obey the rule of a single man.
Instead of this, the race has since followed a destiny of separation.
Europe is divided into many countries, each of them a vast camp
bristling with armies and arsenals. Civilization has continued
hag-ridden by war even to our own day, and, during at least seven
hundred of the years that followed Charlemagne, mankind made no greater
progress in the arts and sciences than the ancients had sometimes
achieved in a single century. We do indeed believe that at last we have
entered on an age of rapid advance, that individualism has justified
itself. The wider personal liberty of to-day is worth all that the race
has suffered for it. Yet the retardation of wellnigh a thousand years
has surely been a giant price to pay.
DOWNFALL OF CHARLEMAGNE'S EMPIRE
This mighty change in the course of Teutonic destiny, this breakdown of
the Frankish empire, was wrought by two destroying forces, one from
within, one from without. From within came the insubordination, the
still savage love of combat, the natural turbulence of the race. It is
conceivable that, had Charlemagne been followed on the throne by a son
and then a grandson as mighty as he and his immediate ancestors, the
course of the whole broad earth would have been altered. The Franks
would have grown accustomed to obey; further conquest abroad would have
insured peace at home; the imperial power would have become strong as in
Roman days, when the most feeble emperors could not be shaken. But the
descendants of Charlemagne sank into a decline. He himself had directed
the fighting energy of the Franks against foreign enemies. His son and
successor had no taste for war, and so allowed his idle subjects time to
quarrel with him and with one another. The next generation, under the
grandsons of Charlemagne, devoted their entire lives to repeated and
furious civil wars, in which the empire fell apart, the flower of the
Frankish race perished, and the strength of its dominion was sapped to
nothingness.[1]
[Footnote 1: See _Decay of Frankish Empire_, page 22.]
There were three of these grandsons, and, when their struggle had left
them thoroughly exhausted, they divided the empire into three. Their
treaty of Verdun (843) is often quoted as beginning the modern kingdoms
of Germany, France, and Italy. The division was in some sense a natural
one, emphasized by differences of language and of race. Italy was
peopled by descendants of the ancient Italians, with a thin
intermingling of Goths and Lombards; France held half-Romanized Gauls,
with a very considerable percentage of the Frankish blood; while Germany
was far more barbaric than the other regions. Its people, whether Frank
or Saxon, were all pure Teuton, and still spoke in their Teutonic or
German tongue.
The Franks themselves, however, did not regard this as a breaking of
their empire. They looked on it as merely a family affair, an
arrangement made for the convenience of government among the descendants
of the great Charles. So firm had been that mighty hero's grasp upon the
national imagination, that the Franks accepted as matter of course that
his family should bear rule, and rallied round the various worthless
members of it with rather pathetic loyalty, fighting for them one
against the other, reuniting and redividing the various fragments of the
empire, until the feeble Carlovingian race died out completely.
It is thus evident that there was a strong tendency toward union among
the Franks. But there was also an outside influence to disrupt their
empire. Charlemagne had not carried far enough their career of conquest.
He subdued the Teutons within the limits of Germany, but he did not
reach their weaker Scandinavian brethren to the north, the Danes and
Norsemen. He chastised the Avars, a vague non-Aryan people east of
Germany, but he could not make provision against future Asiatic swarms.
He humbled the Arabs in Spain, but he did not break their African
dominion. From all these sources, as the Franks grew weaker instead of
stronger, their lands became exposed to new invasion.
THE LAST INVADERS
Let us take a moment to trace the fortunes of these outside races,
though the main destiny of the future still lay with Teutonic Europe.
In speaking of the followers of Mahomet, we might perhaps at this period
better drop the term Arabs, and call them Saracens. They were thus known
to the Christians; and their conquests had drawn in their train so many
other peoples that in truth there was little pure Arab blood left among
them. The Saracens, then, had begun to lose somewhat of their intense
fanaticism. Feuds broke out among them. Different chiefs established
different kingdoms or "caliphates," whose dominion became political
rather than religious. Spain had one ruler, Egypt[2] another, Asia a
third. In the eleventh century an army of Saracens invaded India[3] and
added that strange and ancient land to their domain. Europe they had
failed to conquer; but their fleets commanded the Mediterranean. They
held all its islands, Sicily, Crete, Sardinia, and Corsica. They
plundered the coast towns of France and Italy. There was a Saracenic
ravaging of Rome.
[Footnote 2: See _Conquest of Egypt by the Fatimites_, page 94.]
[Footnote 3: See _Mahometans in India_, page 151.]
On the whole, however, the wave of Mahometan conquest receded. In Spain
the remnants of the Christian population, Visigoths, Romans, and still
older peoples, pressed their way down from their old-time, secret
mountain retreats and began driving the Saracens southward.[4] The
decaying Roman Empire of the East still resisted the Mahometan attack;
Constantinople remained a splendid city, type and picture of what the
ancient world had been.
[Footnote 4: See _Decline of the Moorish Power in Spain_, page 296.]
While the Saracens were thus laying waste the Frankish empire along its
Mediterranean coasts, a more dangerous enemy was assailing it from the
east. Toward the end of the ninth century the Magyars, an Asiatic,
Turanian people, burst on Europe, as the Huns had done five centuries
before. Indeed, the Christians called these later comers Huns also, and
told of them the same extravagant tales of terror. The land which the
Magyars settled was called Hungary. They dwell there and possess it even
to this day, the only instance of a Turanian people having permanently
established themselves in an Aryan continent and at the expense of Aryan
neighbors.
From Hungary the Magyars soon advanced to the German border line, and
made fierce plundering inroads upon the more civilized regions beyond.
They came on horseback, so that the slower Teutons could never gather
quickly enough to resist them. The marauding parties, as they learned
the wealth and weakness of this new land, grew bigger, until at length
they were armies, and defeated the German Franks in pitched battles, and
spread desolation through all the country. They returned now every year.
Their ravages extended even to the Rhine and to the ancient Gallic land
beyond. The Frankish empire seemed doomed to reenact, in a smaller, far
more savage way, the fate of Rome.
Yet more widespread in destruction, more important in result than the
raids of either Saracens or Magyars, were those of the Scandinavians or
Northmen. These, the latest, and perhaps therefore the finest, flower of
the Teutonic stock, are closer to us and hence better known than the
early Goths or Franks. Shut off in their cold northern peninsulas and
islands, they had grown more slowly, it may be, than their southern
brethren. Now they burst suddenly on the world with spectacular dramatic
effect, wild, fierce, and splendid conquerors, as keen of intellect and
quick of wit as they were strong of arm and daring of adventure.
We see them first as sea-robbers, pirates, venturing even in
Charlemagne's time to plunder the German and French coasts. One tribe of
them, the Danes, had already been harrying England and Ireland. Only
Alfred,[5] by heroic exertions, saved a fragment of his kingdom from
them. Later, under Canute,[6] they become its kings. The Northmen
penetrate Russia and appear as rulers of the strange Slavic tribes
there; they settle in Iceland, Greenland, and even distant and unknown
America.[7]
[Footnote 5: See _Career of Alfred the Great_.]
[Footnote 6: See _Canute Becomes King of England_.]
[Footnote 7: _Leif Ericson Discovers America_.]
Meanwhile, after Charlemagne's death they become a main factor in the
downfall of his empire. Year after year their little ships plunder the
undefended French coast, until it is abandoned to them and becomes a
desert. They build winter camps at the river mouths, so that in the
spring they need lose less time and can hurry inland after their
retreating prey. Sudden in attack, strong in defence, they venture
hundreds of miles up the winding waterways. Paris is twice attacked by
them and must fight for life. They penetrate so far up the Loire as to
burn Orleans.
It was under stress of all these assaults that the Franks, grown too
feeble to defend themselves as Charlemagne would have done, by marching
out and pursuing the invaders to their own homes, developed instead a
system of defence which made the Middle Ages what they were. All central
authority seemed lost; each little community was left to defend itself
as best it might. So the local chieftain built himself a rude fortress,
which in time became a towered castle; and thither the people fled in
time of danger. Each man looked up to and swore faith to this, his own
chief, his immediate protector, and took little thought of a distant and
feeble king or emperor. Occasionally, of course, a stronger lord or king
bestirred himself, and demanded homage of these various petty
chieftains. They gave him such service as they wished or as they must.
This was the "feudal system."[8]
[Footnote 8: See _Feudalism: Its Frankish Birth and English
Development_.]
The inclination of each lesser lord was obviously to assert as much
independence as he could. He naturally objected to paying money or
service without benefit received; and he could see no good that this
"overlord" did for him or for his district. It seemed likely at this
time that instead of being divided into three kingdoms, the Frankish
empire would split into thousands of little castled states.
That is, it seemed so, after the various marauding nations were disposed
of. The Northmen were pacified by presenting them outright with the
coast lands they had most harried. Their great leader, Rolf, accepted
the territory with some vague and ill-kept promise of vassalage to the
French King, and with a very firmly held determination that he would let
no pirates ravage his land or cross it to reach others. So the French
coast became Normandy, and the Northmen learned the tongue and manners
of their new home, and softened their harsh name to "Norman," even as
they softened their harsh ways, and rapidly became the most able and
most cultured of Frenchmen.
As for the Saracens, being unprogressive and no longer enthusiastic,
they grew ever feebler, while the Italian cities, being Aryan and left
to themselves, grew strong. At length their fleets met those of the
Saracens on equal terms, and defeated them, and gradually wrested from
them the control of the Mediterranean. Invaders were thus everywhere met
as they came, locally. There was no general gathering of the Frankish
forces against them.
The repulse of the Huns proved the hardest matter of all. Fortunately
for the Germans, their line of Carlovingian emperors died out. So the
various dukes and counts, practically each an independent sovereign, met
and elected a king from among themselves, not really to rule them, but
to enable them to unite against the Huns. After their first elected king
had been soundly beaten by one of his dukes, he died, and in their next
choice they had the luck to light upon a leader really great. Henry the
Fowler, more honorably known as Henry the City-builder,[9] taught them
how to defeat their foe.
[Footnote 9: See _Henry the Fowler Founds the Saxon Line of German
Kings_.]
Much to the disgust of his simple and war-hardened comrades, he first
sent to the Hungarians and purchased peace and paid them tribute. Having
thus secured a temporary respite, Henry encouraged and aided his people
in building walled cities all along the frontier. He also planned to
meet the invaders on equal terms by training his warriors to fight on
horseback. He instituted tournaments and created an order of knighthood,
and is thus generally regarded as the founder of chivalry, that fairest
fruit of mediaeval times, which did so much to preserve honor and
tenderness and respect for womankind.[10]
[Footnote 10: See _Growth and Decadence of Chivalry_.]
When he felt all prepared, Henry deliberately defied and insulted the
Hungarians, and so provoked from them a combined national invasion,
which he met and completely overthrew in the battle of Merseburg (933).
A generation later the Huns felt themselves strong enough to try again;
but Henry's son, Otto the Great, repeated the chastisement. He then
formed a boundary colony or "East-mark" from which sprang Austria; and
this border kingdom was always able to keep the weakened Huns in check.
At the same time there was growing up in Russia a Slavic civilization,
which received Christianity[11] from the South as it had received
Teutonic dominion from the North, and so developed along very similar
lines to Western Europe. The Russian states served as a barrier against
later Asiatic hordes; and this, combined with the civilizing of the last
remnants of the Scandinavians in the North, and the fading of Saracenic
power in the South, left the tottering civilization of the West free
from further barbarian invasion. We shall find destruction threatened
again in later ages by Tartar and by Turk; but the intruders never reach
beyond the frontier. The Teutons and the half-Romanized ancients with
whom they had assimilated were left to work out their own problems. All
the ingredients, even to the last, the Northmen, had been poured into
the caldron. There remains to see what the intermingling has brought
forth.
[Footnote 11: See _Conversion of Vladimir the Great_.]
FEUDAL EUROPE
We have here, then, somewhere about the middle of the tenth century, a
date which may be regarded as marking a distinctly new era. The
ceaseless work of social organization and improvement, which seems so
strong an instinct of the Aryan mind, had been recommenced again and
again from under repeated deluges of barbarism. To-day for nearly a
thousand years it has progressed uninterrupted, except by disturbances
from within; nor does it appear possible, with our present knowledge of
science and of the remoter corners of the globe, that our civilization
will ever again be even menaced by the other races.
Chronologists frequently adopt as a convenient starting-point for this
modern development the year 962, in which Otto the Great, conqueror of
the Huns, felt himself strong enough to march a German army to Rome and
assume there the title of emperor, which had | 1,777.57343 |
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[Illustration: title page]
VIRGIN SAINTS
AND MARTYRS
By S. BARING-GOULD
Author of “_The Lives of the Saints_”
WITH SIXTEEN FULL-PAGE
ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. ANGER
New York THOMAS Y. CROWELL & Co.
Publishers 1901
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. BLANDINA THE SLAVE 1
II. S. CÆCILIA 19
III. S. AGNES 39
IV. FEBRONIA OF SIBAPTE 53
V. THE DAUGHTER OF CONSTANTINE 75
VI. THE SISTER OF S. BASIL 93
VII. GENEVIÈVE OF PARIS 111
VIII. THE SISTER OF S. BENEDICT 129
IX. S. BRIDGET 149
X. THE DAUGHTERS OF BRIDGET 179
XI. S. ITHA 197
XII. S. HILDA 217
XIII. S. ELFLEDA 231
XIV. S. WERBURGA 253
XV. A PROPHETESS 275
XVI. S. CLARA 295
XVII. S. THERESA 315
XVIII. SISTER DORA 349
[Illustration: BLANDINA THE SLAVE.]
I
_BLANDINA THE SLAVE_
In the second century Lyons was the Rome of Gaul as it is now the second
Paris of France. It was crowded with temples and public monuments. It
was moreover the Athens of the West, a resort of scholars. Seated at the
confluence of two great rivers, the Rhône and the Sâone, it was a centre
of trade. It is a stately city now. It was more so in the second century
when it did not bristle with the chimneys of factories pouring forth
their volumes of black smoke, which the atmosphere, moist from the
mountains, carries down so as to envelop everything in soot.
In the great palace, now represented by the hospital, the imbecile
Claudius and the madman Caligula were born. To the east and south far
away stand Mont Blanc and the snowy range on the Dauphiné Alps.
Lyons is a city that has at all times summed in it the finest as well as
the worst characteristic of the Gallic people. The rabble of Lyons were
ferocious in 177, and ferocious again in 1793; but at each epoch, during
the Pagan terror and the Democratic terror, it produced heroes of faith
and endurance.
The Emperor Marcus Aurelius was a philosopher full of good intentions,
and a sentimental lover of virtue. But he fondly conceived that virtue
could only be found in philosophy, and that Christianity, which was a
doctrine and not a speculation, must be wrong; and as its chief
adherents belonged to the slave and needy classes, that therefore it was
beneath his dignity to inquire into it. He was a stickler for the
keeping up of old Roman institutions, and the maintenance of such rites
as were sanctioned by antiquity; and because the Christians refused to
give homage to the gods and to swear by the genius of the emperor, he
ordered that they should be persecuted to the death.
He had been a pretty, curly-haired boy, and a good-looking young man. He
had kept himself respectable, and looked on himself with smug
self-satisfaction accordingly. Had he stooped to inquire what were the
tenets, and what the lives, of those whom he condemned to death, he
would have shrunk with horror from the guilt of proclaiming a general
persecution.
In Lyons, as elsewhere, when his edict arrived the magistrates were
bound to seek out and sentence such as believed in Christ.
A touching letter exists, addressed by the Church of Lyons to those of
Asia and Phrygia giving an account of what it suffered; and as the
historian Eusebius embodied it in his history, it happily has been
preserved from the fingering, and rewriting, and heightening with
impossible marvels which fell to the lot of so many of the Acts of the
Martyrs, when the public taste no longer relished the simple food of the
unadorned narratives that were extant.
“The grace of God,” said the writers, “contended for us, rescuing the
weak, and strengthening the strong. These latter endured every species
of reproach and torture. First they sustained bravely all the insults
heaped on them by the rabble—blows and abuse, plundering of their goods,
stoning and imprisonment. Afterwards they were led into the forum and
were questioned by the tribune and by the town authorities before all
the people, and then sent to prison to await the coming of the governor.
Vetius Epagathus, one of the brethren, abounding in love to God and man,
offered to speak in their defence; whereupon those round the tribunal
shouted out at him, as he was a man of good position. The governor did
not pay attention to his request, but merely asked whether he, too, were
a Christian. When he confessed that he was, he also was transferred to
the number of the martyrs.”
What the numbers were we are not told. The most prominent among them
were Pothinus, the bishop, a man in his ninetieth year, Sanctus, the
deacon of the Church of Vienne, Maturus, a recent convert, Attalus, a
native of Pergamus, Blandina, a slave girl, and her mistress, another
woman named Biblis, and Vetius, above referred to.
Among those arrested were ten who when tortured gave way: one of these
was Biblis; but, although they yielded, yet they would not leave the
place of trial, and remained to witness the sufferings of such as stood
firm; and some—among these was Biblis—plucking up courage, presented
themselves before the judge and made amends for their apostasy by
shedding their blood for Christ.
The slaves belonging to the Christians of rank had been seized and were
interrogated; and they, in their terror lest they should be put to
torture, confessed anything the governor desired—that the Christians ate
little children and “committed such crimes as are neither lawful for us
to speak of nor think about; and which we really believe no men ever did
commit.”
The defection of the ten caused dismay among the faithful, for they
feared lest it should be the prelude to the surrender of others.
The governor, the proconsul, arrived at the time of the annual fair,
when Lyons was crowded; and he deemed this a good opportunity for
striking terror into the hearts of the Christians.
Those who stood firm were brought out of prison, and, as they would not
do sacrifice to the gods, were subjected to torture.
Blandina was a peculiarly delicately framed young woman, and not strong.
Her mistress, who was one of the martyrs, was apprehensive for her; but
Blandina in the end witnessed the most splendid confession of all. She
was frightfully tortured with iron hooks and hot plates applied to her
flesh from morning till night, till the executioners hardly knew what
more to do; “her entire body being torn and pierced.”
Brass plates, red hot, were also applied to the most tender parts of the
body of the deacon, Sanctus, but he continued unsubdued, firm in his
confession. At last he was thrown down on the sand, a mass of wounds, so
mangled and burnt that he seemed hardly to retain the human shape. He
and Blandina were conveyed back to prison.
Next day “the tormentors tortured Sanctus again, supposing that whilst
his wounds were swollen and inflamed, if they continued to rend them
when so sensitive as not to bear the touch of the hand, they must break
his spirit”—but it was again in vain.
Then it was that Biblis, the woman who had done sacrifice, came forward
“like one waking out of a deep sleep,” and upbraided the torturers;
whereupon she was dragged before the chief magistrate, confessed Christ,
and was numbered among the martyrs.
The proconsul ordered all to be taken back to prison, and they were
thrust into a black and noisome hole, and fastened in the stocks, their
feet distended to the fifth hole—that is to say, stretched apart as far
as was possible without dislocation—and so, covered with sores, wounds
and blisters, unable to sleep in this attitude, they were left for the
night. The suffocation of the crowded den was too much for some, and in
the morning certain of those who had been crowded into it were drawn
forth dead.
Next day the aged bishop Pothinus was led before the magistrate. He was
questioned, and asked who was the God of the Christians.
“If thou art worthy,” answered he, “thou shalt know.”
He was then stripped and scourged, and beaten about the head. The crowd
outside the barriers now took up whatever was at hand, stones,
brickbats, dirt, and flung them at him, howling curses and blasphemies.
The old man fell gasping, and in a state hardly conscious was dragged to
the prison.
And now, on the great day of the fair, when the shows were to be given
to the people, the proconsul for their delectation threw open the
amphitheatre. This was a vast oval, capable of holding forty thousand
spectators. It was packed. On one side, above the arena, was the seat of
the chief magistrate, and near him those reserved for the city magnates.
At the one end, a series of arches, now closed with gates of stout bars
and cross-bars, hinged above and raised on these hinges by a chain,
opened from the dens in which the wild beasts were kept. The beasts had
not been fed for three days, that they might be ravenous.
It was the beginning of June—doubtless a bright summer day, and an
awning kept off the sun from the proconsul. Those on one side of the
amphitheatre, the slaves on the highest row, could see, vaporous and
blue on the horizon, above the crowded tiers opposite, the chain of the
Alps, their crests white with eternal snows.
“No sooner was the chief magistrate seated, to the blare of trumpets,
than the martyrs were introduced. Sanctus had to be supported; he could
hardly walk, he was such a mass of wounds. All were now stripped of
their garments and were scourged. Blandina was attached to a post in the
centre of the arena. She had been forced every day to attend and witness
the sufferings of the rest.”
But even now they were not to be despatched at once. Maturus and Sanctus
were placed on iron chairs, and fires were lighted under them so that
the fumes of their roasted flesh rose up and were dissipated by the
light summer air over the arena, and the sickening savour was inhaled by
the thousands of cruel and savage spectators.
Then they were cast off to be despatched with the sword.
The dens were opened. Lions, tigers, leopards bounded forth on the sand
roaring. By a strange accident Blandina escaped. The hungry beasts paced
round the arena, but would not touch her.
Then a Greek physician, called Alexander, who was looking on, unable to
restrain his enthusiasm, by signs gave encouragement to the martyrs. So
at least it would seem, for all at once we learn that the mob roared for
Alexander, as one who urged on the Christians to obstinacy. The governor
sent for him, asked who he was, and when he confessed that he was a
Christian, sent him to prison.
Attalus was now led forth, with a tablet on his breast on which was
written in Latin, “This is Attalus, the Christian.”
As he was about to be delivered to the tormentors, some one whispered to
the proconsul that the man was a Roman. He hesitated, and sent him back
to prison.
Then a number of other Christians who had Roman citizenship were
produced, and had their heads struck off. Others who had not this
privilege were delivered over to the beasts. And now some of those who
had recanted came forward and offered themselves to death.
Next day the proconsul was again in his place in the amphitheatre. He
had satisfied himself that Attalus could not substantiate his claim to
citizenship, so he ordered him to torture and death. He also was placed
in the iron chair; after which he and Alexander were given up to be
devoured by the beasts.
This was the last day of the shows, and to crown all, Blandina was now
produced, together with a boy of fifteen, called Ponticus. He, like
Blandina, had been compelled daily to witness the torments to which the
rest had been subjected.
And now the same hideous round of tortures began, and Blandina in the
midst of her agony continued to encourage the brave boy till he died.
Blandina had been roasted in the iron chair and scourged.
As a variety she was placed in a net. Then the gate of one of the larger
dens was raised, and forth rushed a bull, pawed the sand, tossed his
head, looked round, and seeing the net, plunged forward with bowed head.
Next moment Blandina was thrown into the air, fell, was thrown again,
then gored—but was happily now unconscious. Thus she died, and “even the
Gentiles confessed that no woman among them had ever endured sufferings
as many and great.” But not even then was their madness and cruelty to
the saints satisfied, for “... those who were suffocating in prison were
drawn forth and cast to the dogs; and they watched night and day over
the remains left by beasts and fire, however mangled they might be, to
prevent us from burying them. The bodies, after exposure and abuse in
every possible way during six days, were finally cast into the Rhône.
These things they did as if they were able to resist God and prevent
their resurrection.”
The dungeons in which S. Pothinus, S. Blandina, and the rest of the
martyrs were kept through so many days, are shown beneath the abbey
church of Ainay at Lyons. It is possible enough that Christian tradition
may have preserved the remembrance of the site. They are gloomy cells,
without light or air, below the level of the river. The apertures by
which they are entered are so low that the visitor is obliged to creep
into them on his hands and knees. Traces of Roman work remain. Adjoining
is a crypt that was used as a chapel till the Revolution, when it was
desecrated. It is, however, again restored, the floor has been inlaid
with mosaics, and the walls are covered with modern frescoes,
representing the passion of the martyrs.
What makes it difficult to believe that these are the dungeons is that
the abbey above them is constructed on the site of the Athenæum founded
by Caligula, a great school of debate and composition, and it is most
improbable that the town prisons should have been under the university
buildings. In all likelihood in the early Middle Ages these vaults were
found and supposed to have been the prisons of the martyrs, and
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The Willoughby Captains
By Talbot Baines Reed
________________________________________________________________________
This is one of this author's famous school stories. Like a new boy or
girl at a school, you will be faced with learning the names of a great
many youngsters, and to an extent, their characters. However, by the
time you get half-way through the book you will be familiar enough with
the principal characters.
Of course, there are numerous small dramas being acted out as the book
proceeds, but the main one concerns a boat-race between two of the
Houses. Along the course there is a very tight bend. The boat on the
outside of the bend is slightly in the lead but will probably lose this
due to the inside boat having less far to travel to the next straight.
At a most crucial moment, when maximum power is being exerted by the cox
on the rudder-lines, one of them snaps, and the boat goes out of
control. The cox shouts the instructions for an emergency stop, and to
back water. The other boat proceeds to the end of the course. It can
now be seen that the rudder-line had been deliberately half cut through,
so that it would snap at that tight bend on the river.
For the rest of the book people are trying to work out who had done this
deed. At one stage we think we know the answer. We become quite
convinced we know the answer, in fact. But we are wrong, and we do not
find out till almost the end of the book. And it is to be hoped that at
that point the promised re-row takes place.
There is some confusion with names in respect of Merrison and Morrison,
but I suspect that to be a printer's error. It is not of great
importance, since he is (or they are) not front-line characters in the
action.
The punctuation becomes very difficult in the reporting of the
proceedings of the school parliament, because not only do you have the
current speaker, but interspersed with it are comments by the raconteur
and by the noisier of the boys. The printed book settled for a
simplified version here, but we have done our best to give you a
version that is more according to rule.
________________________________________________________________________
THE WILLOUGHBY CAPTAINS
BY TALBOT BAINES REED
CHAPTER ONE.
THE LAST OF THE OLD CAPTAIN.
Something unusual is happening at Willoughby. The Union Jack floats
proudly over the old ivy-covered tower of the school, the schoolrooms
are deserted, there is a band playing somewhere, a double row of
carriages is drawn up round the large meadow (familiarly called "The
Big"), old Mrs Gallop, the orange and sherbert woman, is almost beside
herself with business flurry, and boys are going hither and thither,
some of them in white ducks with favours on their sleeves, and others in
their Sunday "tiles," with sisters and cousins and aunts in tow, whose
presence adds greatly to the brightness of the scene.
Among these last-named holiday-making young Willoughbites no one parades
more triumphantly to-day than Master Cusack, of Welch's House, by the
side of his father, Captain Cusack, R.N. Cusack, ever since he came to
Willoughby, has bored friend and foe with endless references to "the
gov., captain in the R.N., you know," and now that he really has a
chance of showing off his parent in the flesh his small head is nearly
turned. He puffs along like a small steam-tug with a glorious man-of-
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GRANIA
VOL. I.
_By the same Author_
HURRISH: a Study
IRELAND (Story of the Nations Series)
MAJOR LAWRENCE, F.L.S.
PLAIN FRANCES MOWBRAY, &c.
WITH ESSEX IN IRELAND
[Illustration: ISLANDS OF ARAN
GALWAY BAY.]
GRANIA
THE STORY OF AN ISLAND
BY THE
HON. EMILY LAWLESS
AUTHOR OF ‘HURRISH, A STUDY’
ETC.
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. I.
LONDON
SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE
1892
[_All rights reserved_]
DEDICATION
To M. C.
This story was always intended to be dedicated to you. It could hardly,
in fact, have been dedicated to anyone else, seeing that it was with you
it was originally planned; you who helped out its meagre scraps of
Gaelic; you with whom was first discussed the possibility of an Irish
story without any Irish brogue in it--that brogue which is a tiresome
necessity always, and might surely be dispensed with, as we both agreed,
in a case where no single actor on the tiny stage is supposed to utter a
word of English. For the rest, they are but melancholy places, these
Aran Isles of ours, as you and I know well, and the following pages have
caught their full share--something, perhaps, more than their full
share--of that gloom. That this is an artistic fault no one can doubt,
yet there are times--are there not?--when it does not seem so very easy
to exaggerate the amount of gloom which life is any day and every day
quite willing to bestow.
Several causes have delayed the little book’s appearance until now, but
here it is, ready at last, and dedicated still to you.
E. L.
LYONS, HAZLEHATCH:
_January, 1892_.
PART I
SEPTEMBER
PART I
_SEP | 1,777.67504 |
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OUR
ARTIST IN CUBA,
PERU, SPAIN AND ALGIERS.
LEAVES FROM
_THE SKETCH-BOOK OF A TRAVELLER_.
1864-1868.
BY
GEORGE W. CARLETON.
"Let observation, with expansive view,
Survey mankind, from China to Peru."
[Illustration]
NEW YORK:
Copyright, 1877, by
_G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers_.
LONDON: S. LOW & CO.
MDCCCLXXVII.
OUR ARTIST, [Illustration: colophon] HIS MARK.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CUBA, 5
PERU, 57
SPAIN, 109
ALGIERS, 131
[Illustration]
AN APOLOGY.
The Author of these unpretending little wayside sketches offers them to
the Public with the hesitating diffidence of an Amateur. The publication
a few years ago, of a portion of the drawings was attended with so
flattering a reception, that a new edition being called for, it is
believed a few more Leaves from the same vagabond sketch-book may not be
intrusive.
The out-of-the-way sort of places in which the Author's steps have led
him, must always present the most enticing subjects for a comic pencil;
and although no attempt is here made to much more than hint at the
oranges and volantes of Cuba, the earthquakes and buzzards of Peru, the
donkeys and beggars of Spain, or the Arabs and dates of Algiers, yet
sketches made upon the spot, with the crispy freshness of a first
impression, cannot fail in suggesting at least a panoramic picture of
such grotesque incidents as these strange Countries furnish.
The drawings are merely the chance results of leisure moments; and Our
Artist, in essaying to convey a ray of information through the glasses
of humor, has simply multiplied with printers' ink his pocket-book of
sketches, which, although caricatures, are exaggerations of actual
events, jotted down on the impulse of the moment, for the same sort of
idle pastime as may possibly lead the reader to linger along its
ephemeral pages.
NEW YORK, _Christmas_, 1877.
PART I.
CUBA.
[Illustration: colophon]
CUBAN SKETCHES.
SICK TRANSIT. THE SPANISH TONGUE.
TWO BOOBIES. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.
A HERCULES. AN AGREEABLE BATH.
THE CUBAN JEHU. A CELESTIAL MAID.
IGLESIA SAN FRANCISCO. A STATUE ON A BUST.
A CUBAN MOTIVE. A TAIL UNFOLDED.
AN INFLUENZA. MONEY IN THY PURSE.
FLEE FOR SHELTER. SUGAR AND WATER.
THE RIDE. GREEN FIELDS.
A COCK-FIGHT. A SEGAR WELL-LIGHTED.
RATHER COOL. SHALL REST BE FOUND.
TAKE YOUR PICK. ALL ABOARD.
A SPANISH RETREAT. THE MATANZAS CAVE.
SPIDERS AND RATS. HARD ROAD TO TRAVEL.
BELLIGERENTS. A SHADY RETREAT.
MATERFAMILIAS. A SPANISH GROCER.
CULINARY DEPARTMENT. HELP.
A BUNDLE OF CLOTHES. VERY MOORISH.
A BUTTON-SMASHER. CHACUN A SON GOUT.
WHITE PANTALOONS. NATURE'S RESTORER.
CARNIVAL ACQUAINTANCE. AGRICULTURAL.
BEAUTY AT THE BALL. A COT IN THE VALLEY.
A DISAPPOINTMENT. A BEAUTY.
DOLCE FAR NIENTE. CORNER STONES.
LOCOMOTION. A SUDDEN DEPARTURE.
THE START.--THE STEAMSHIP COLUMBIA. AT SEA.
[Illustration: First day out.--The wind freshens up a trifle as we get
outside Sandy Hook; but our artist says he is'nt sea-sick, for he never
felt better in his life.]
IN THE GULF OF MEXICO.
[Illustration: A "Booby"--as seen _from_ the ship's deck.]
[Illustration: A "Booby"--as seen _on_ the ship's deck.]
ARRIVAL AT HAVANA.
[Illustration: A side elevation of the <DW52> gentleman who carried our
luggage from the small boat to the Custom House.]
STREETS OF HAVANA.--CALLE MERCADERES.
[Illustration: The first volante driver that our artist saw in Havana.]
VIEW FROM OUR WINDOW AT THE HOTEL ALMY.
[Illustration: The old Convent and Bell Tower of the Church of San
Francisco,--now used as a Custom House.]
STREETS OF HAVANA.--CALLE TENIENTE RE.
[Illustration: A Cuban Cart and its Motive Power.--Ye patient Donkey.]
AT THE CAFE LOUVRE.
[Illustration: Manners and Customs of a Cuban with a Cold in his Head.]
THE [WICKED] FLEA OF HAVANA.
[Illustration: PART I.--The beast in a torpid condition.]
[Illustration: PART II.--When he "smells the blood of an Englishmun."]
THE NATIONAL VEHICLE OF HAVANA.
[Illustration: Manner and Custom of Harnessing ye Animiles to ye Cuban
Volante.]
A COCK-FIGHT IN CUBA.
[Illustration: I.--Chanticleer as he goes in.]
[Illustration: II.--Chanticleer considerably "played out."]
STREETS OF HAVANA.--CALLE LAMPARILLA.
[Illustration: The cool and airy style in which they dress the rising
generation of Havana.]
THE CUBAN TOOTH-PICK.
[Illustration: Two ways of carrying it--behind the ear, and in the
back-hair.]
THE CAPTAIN GENERAL'S QUINTA.
[Illustration: View of the Canal and Cocoa Tree; looking East from the
Grotto.]
THE DOMESTIC INSECTS OF HAVANA.
[Illustration: Ag | 1,777.87483 |
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by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
* * * * *
Transcriber's Note: The original publication has been replicated
faithfully except as shown in the Transcriber's Amendments at the end of
the text. Words in italics are indicated like _this_. Obscured letters in
the original publication are indicated with {?}. Text emphasized with bold
characters or other treatment is shown like =this=. Footnotes are located
near the end of the text.
* * * * *
Dispensary Department Bulletin No. 1
NURSES' PAPERS
ON
TUBERCULOSIS
PUBLISHED BY THE
CITY OF CHICAGO
MUNICIPAL TUBERCULOSIS SANITARIUM
SEPTEMBER 1914
CITY OF CHICAGO MUNICIPAL TUBERCULOSIS SANITARIUM
STAFF OF NURSES
--OF THE--
DISPENSARY DEPARTMENT
ROSALIND MACKAY, R. N., Superintendent of Nurses
ANNA G. BARRETT
BARBARA H. BARTLETT
OLIVE E. BEASON
ELLA M. BLAND
KATHRYN M. CANFIELD
MABEL F. CLEVELAND
ELRENE M. COOMBS
MARGARET M. COUGHLIN
STELLA W. COULDREY
EMMA W. CRAWFORD
FANNIE J. DAVENPORT
ROXIE A. DENTZ
C. ETHEL DICKINSON
ANNA M. DRAKE
MARY E. EGBERT
MAUDE F. ESS{?}
SARA D. FAROLL
MARY FRASER
AUGUSTA A. GOUGH
FRANCES M. HEINRICH
LAURA K. HILL
ISABELLA J. JENSEN
EMMA E. JONES
LETTA D. JONES
JEANETTE KIPP
ELSA LUND
MARY MACCONACHIE
JOSEPHINE V. MARK
ISABEL C. MCKAY
ANNA V. MCVADY
ANNIE MORRISON
KATHERINE M. PATTERSON
LAURA A. REDMOND
GRACE M. SAVILLE
BERYL SCOTT
FLORENCE T. SINGLETON
MABELLE SMITH
FLORENCE A. SPENCER
HARRIETT STAHLEY
GENEVIEVE E. STRATTON
ANNABEL B. STUBBS
ALICE J. TAPPING
OLIVE TUCKER
ELIZABETH M. WATTS
MARY C. WRIGHT
MARY C. YOUNG
KARLA STRIBRNA, Interpreter.
BOARD OF DIRECTORS
THEODORE B. SACHS, M. D., President
GEORGE B. YOUNG, M. D., Secretary
W. A. WIEBOLDT.
GENERAL OFFICE
105 West Monroe Street
FRANK E. WING, Executive Officer.
[Illustration: FIELD NURSES, DISPENSARY DEPARTMENT CHICAGO MUNICIPAL
TUBERCULOSIS SANITARIUM]
Dispensary Department Bulletin No. 1
NURSES' PAPERS
ON
TUBERCULOSIS
READ BEFORE THE
NURSES' STUDY CIRCLE
OF THE
DISPENSARY DEPARTMENT
CHICAGO MUNICIPAL TUBERCULOSIS SANITARIUM
PUBLISHED BY THE
CITY OF CHICAGO
MUNICIPAL TUBERCULOSIS SANITARIUM
105 WEST MONROE STREET
SEPTEMBER 1914
CONTENTS
PAGE
Introduction--Nurses' Tuberculosis Study Circle 5
Historical Notes on Tuberculosis 7
ROSALIND MACKAY, R. N.
Visiting Tuberculosis Nursing in Various Cities of the United
States 11
ANNA M. DRAKE, R. N.
Provisions for Outdoor Sleeping 30
MAY MACCONACHIE, R. N.
Some Points in the Nursing Care of the Advanced Consumptive 37
ELSA LUND, R. N.
Open Air Schools in This Country and Abroad 44
FRANCES M. HEINRICH, R. N.
Notes on Tuberculin for Nurses 56
NURSES' TUBERCULOSIS STUDY CIRCLE
It is well known that the gathering of facts and study of literature
essential to the preparation of a paper on a certain subject is a very
productive method of acquiring information. If the paper is to be
presented to your own group of co-workers, and the subject covered by it
represents an important phase of their work, or an analysis of some of its
underlying principles, then there is a further incentive to do your best,
as well as an opportunity for a general discussion which acts as a sieve
for the elimination of false ideas and gradual formulation of true
conceptions.
Lectures on various phases of the work being done by a particular group of
people are very important. Papers by the workers themselves are, however,
greatest incentives to study and self-advancement.
With this view in mind, I suggested the organization of a Tuberculosis
Study Circle by the Dispensary Nurses of the Municipal Tuberculosis
Sanitarium. The nurses chosen to present papers on particular phases of
tuberculosis are given access to the library of the General Office of the
Sanitarium; they are also given the assistance of the General Office in
procuring all the necessary information through correspondence with
various organizations and institutions in Chicago and other cities.
As the program stands at present, the Nurses' Study Circle meets twice a
month. At one of these meetings a lecture on some important phase of
tuberculosis is given by an outside speaker, and at the next meeting a
paper is read by one of the nurses. At all of these meetings the
presentation of the subject is followed by general discussion. The program
since January, 1914, was as follows:
January 9th, 1914--"Historical Notes on Tuberculosis," by Miss Rosalind
Mackay, Head Nurse, Stock Yards Dispensary of the Municipal Tuberculosis
Sanitarium.
January 23rd, 1914--"Channels of Infection and the Pathology of
Tuberculosis," by Professor Ludwig Hektoen of the University of Chicago.
February 13th, 1914--"Visiting Tuberculosis Nursing in Various Cities of
the United States," by Miss Anna M. Drake, Head Nurse, Policlinic
Dispensary of the Municipal Tuberculosis Sanitarium.
March 13th, 1914--"Provisions for Outdoor Sleeping," by Miss May
MacConachie, Head Nurse, St. Elizabeth Dispensary of the Municipal
Tuberculosis Sanitarium.
March 27th, 1914--"What Should Constitute a Sufficient and Well Balanced
Diet for Tuberculous People," by Mrs. Alice P. Norton, Dietitian of Cook
County Institutions.
April 10th, 1914--"Some Points in the Nursing Care of the Advanced
Consumptive," by Miss Elsa Lund, Head Nurse of the Iroquois Memorial
Dispensary of the Municipal Tuberculosis Sanitarium.
May 15th, 1914--"Open Air Schools in This Country and Abroad," by Miss
Frances M. Heinrich, Head Nurse of the Post-Graduate Dispensary of the
Municipal Tuberculosis Sanitarium.
May 29th, 1914--"Efficient Disinfection of Premises After Tuberculosis,"
by Professor P. G. Heinemann, Department of Bacteriology, University of
Chicago.
The organization of the Tuberculosis Study Circle among the nurses of the
Dispensary Department of the Municipal Tuberculosis Sanitarium, calling
forth the best efforts of the nurses in getting information on various
phases of tuberculosis for presentation to their co-workers in an
interesting manner has, no doubt, stimulated the progress of our entire
nursing force. The first five papers presented by the nurses are given in
this series. The pamphlet is published with the idea of attracting the
attention of other organizations to this method of stimulating more
intensive study among their nurses.
=THEODORE B. SACHS, M. D., President=
Chicago Municipal Tuberculosis Sanitarium.
HISTORICAL NOTES ON TUBERCULOSIS
By ROSALIND MACKAY, R. N.
Head Nurse, Stock Yards Dispensary of the Chicago Municipal
Tuberculosis Sanitarium.
So far as our information goes, pulmonary tuberculosis has always existed.
It is, as Professor Hirsch remarks, "A disease of all times, all
countries, and all races. No climate, no latitude, no occupation, forms a
safeguard against the onset of tuberculosis, however such conditions may
mitigate its ravages or <DW44> its progress. Consumption dogs the steps of
man wherever he may be found, and claims its victims among every age,
class and race."
Hippocrates, the most celebrated physician of antiquity (460-377 B. C.),
and the true father of scientific medicine, gives a description of
pulmonary tuberculosis, ascribing it to a suppuration of the lungs, which
may arise in various ways, and declares it a disease most difficult to
treat, proving fatal to the greatest number.
Isocrates, also a Greek physician and contemporary of Hippocrates, was the
first to write of tuberculosis as a disease transmissible through
contagion.
Aretaeus Cappadox (50 A. D.) describes tuberculosis as a special
pathological process. His clinical picture is considered one of the best
in literature.
Galen (131-201 A. D.) did not get much beyond Hippocrates in the study of
tuberculosis, but was very specific in his recommendation of a milk diet
and dry climate. He held it dangerous to pass an entire day in the company
of a tuberculous patient.
During the next fifteen centuries, a period known as the Dark Ages and
characterized by most intense intellectual stagnation, little was added to
the knowledge of pulmonary tuberculosis. In the seventeenth century
Franciscus Sylvius brought out the relationship between phthisis and
nodules in the lymphatic glands. This was the first step toward accurate
knowledge of the pathology of tuberculosis.
Richard Morton, an English physician, wrote, in 1689, of the wide
prevalence of pulmonary tuberculosis, and recognized the two types of
fever: the acute inflammatory at the beginning, and the hectic at the
end. He also recognized the contagious nature of the disease and
recommended fresh air treatment. He believed the disease curable in the
early stages, but warned us of its liability to recur. Morton taught that
the tubercle was the pathological evidence of the disease.
In 1690, Leeuwenhoek, a Dutch lens maker, started the making of short
range glasses which resulted later in the modern microscope, making
possible the establishment of the germ theory of disease, including the
establishment of that theory for tuberculosis.
Starck, whose observations and writings were published in 1785 (fifteen
years after his death), gave a more accurate description of tubercles than
had ever been given before, and showed how cavities were formed from them.
Leopold Auenbrugger introduced into medicine the method of recognizing
diseases of the chest by percussion, tapping directly upon the chest with
the tips of his fingers. The results of his investigations were published
in a pamphlet in 1761. This new practice was ignored at first, but after
the work of Auenbrugger was translated he attained a European reputation
and a revolution in the knowledge of diseases of the chest followed.
Boyle recognized in miliary tubercle, as it was afterwards called by him,
the anatomical basis of tuberculosis as a general disease, and, in 1810,
published the results of one of the most complete researches in pathology.
He described the stages in the development of the disease, using miliary
tubercle as its starting point. He opposed the theory that inflammation
caused tuberculosis and declared hemorrhage a result and not a cause of
consumption.
Laennec discovered one of the most important, perhaps, of all methods of
medical diagnosis--that of auscultation. By means of the stethoscope,
which he invented in 1819, he recognized the physical signs and made the
first careful study | 1,777.974445 |
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Produced by Eric Eldred
THE NATURALIST IN LA PLATA
BY
W. H. HUDSON, C.M.Z.S.
JOINT AUTHOR OF "ARGENTINE ORNITHOLOGY"
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. SMIT
THIRD EDITION.
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1895
PREFACE.
The plan I have followed in this work has been to sift and arrange the
facts I have gathered concerning the habits of the animals best known to
me, preserving those only, which, in my judgment, appeared worth
recording. In some instances a variety of subjects have linked
themselves together in my mind, and have been grouped under one heading;
consequently the scope of the book is not indicated by the list of
contents: this want is, however, made good by an index at the end.
It is seldom an easy matter to give a suitable name to a book of this
description. I am conscious that the one I have made choice of displays
a lack of originality; also, that this kind of title has been used
hitherto for works constructed more or less on the plan of the famous
_Naturalist on the Amazons._ After I have made this apology the reader,
on his part, will readily admit that, in treating of the Natural History
of a district so well known, and often described as the southern portion
of La Plata, which has a temperate climate, and where nature is neither
exuberant nor grand, a personal narrative would have seemed superfluous.
The greater portion of the matter contained in this volume has already
seen the light in the form of papers contributed to the _Field,_ with
other journals that treat of Natural History; and to the monthly
magazines:--_Longmans', The Nineteenth Century, The Gentleman's
Magazine,_ and others: I am indebted to the Editors and Proprietors of
these periodicals for kindly allowing me to make use of this material.
Of all animals, birds have perhaps afforded me most pleasure; but most
of the fresh knowledge I have collected in this department is contained
in a larger work _(Argentine Ornithology),_ of which Dr. P. L. Sclater
is part author. As I have not gone over any of the subjects dealt with
in that work, bird-life has not received more than a fair share of
attention in the present volume.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. THE DESERT PAMPAS
CHAPTER II. CUB PUMA, OR LION OF AMERICA
CHAPTER III. WAVE OF LIFE
CHAPTER IV. SOME CURIOUS ANIMAL WEAPONS
CHAPTER V. FEAR IN BIRDS
CHAPTER VI. PARENTAL AND EARLY INSTINCTS
CHAPTER VII. THE MEPHITIC SKUNK
CHAPTER VIII. MIMICRY AND WARNING COLOURS IN GRASSHOPPERS
CHAPTER IX. DRAGON-FLY STORMS
CHAPTER X. MOSQUITOES AND PARASITE PROBLEMS
CHAPTER XI. HUMBLE-BEES AND OTHER MATTERS
CHAPTER XII. A NOBLE WASP
CHAPTER XIII. NATURE'S NIGHT-LIGHTS
CHAPTER XIV. FACTS AND THOUGHTS ABOUT SPIDERS
CHAPTER XV. THE DEATH-FEIGNING INSTINCT
CHAPTER XVI. HUMMING-BIRDS
CHAPTER XVII. THE CRESTED SCREAMER
CHAPTER XVIII. THE WOODHEWER FAMILY
CHAPTER XIX. MUSIC AND DANCING IN NATURE
CHAPTER XX. BIOGRAPHY OF THE VIZCACHA
CHAPTER XXI. THE DYING HUANACO
CHAPTER XXII. THE STRANGE INSTINCTS OF CATTLE
CHAPTER XXIII. HORSE AND MAN
CHAPTER XXIV. SEEN AND LOST
APPENDIX
INDEX
THE NATURALIST IN LA PLATA,
CHAPTER I.
THE DESERT PAMPAS.
During recent years we have heard much about the great and rapid changes
now going on in the plants and animals of all the temperate regions of
the globe colonized by Europeans. These changes, if taken merely as
evidence of material progress, must be a matter of rejoicing to those
who are satisfied, and more than satisfied, with our system of
civilization, or method of outwitting Nature by the removal of all
checks on the undue increase of our own species. To one who finds a
charm in things as they exist in the unconquered provinces of Nature's
dominions, and who, not being over-anxious to reach the end of his
journey, is content to perform it on horseback, or in a waggon drawn by
bullocks, it is permissible to lament the altered aspect of the earth's
surface, together with the disappearance of numberless noble and
beautiful forms, both of the animal and vegetable kingdoms. For he
cannot find it in his heart to love the forms by which they are
replaced; these are cultivated and domesticated, and have only become
useful to man at the cost of that grace and spirit which freedom and
wildness give. In numbers they are many--twenty-five millions of sheep
in this district, fifty millions in that, a hundred millions in a
third--but how few are the species in place of those destroyed? and when
the owner of many sheep and much wheat desires variety--for he possesses
this instinctive desire, albeit in conflict with and overborne by the
perverted instinct of destruction--what is there left to him, beyond his
very own, except the weeds that spring up in his fields under all skies,
ringing him round with old-world monotonous forms, as tenacious of their
undesired union with him as the rats and cockroaches that inhabit his
house?
We hear most frequently of North America, New Zealand, and Australia in
this connection; but nowhere on the globe has civilization "written
strange defeatures" more markedly than on that great area of level
country called by English writers _the pampas_, but by the Spanish more
appropriately _La Pampa_--from the Quichua word signifying open space or
country--since it forms in most part one continuous plain, extending on
its eastern border from the river Parana, in latitude 32 degrees, to the
Patagonian formation on the river Colorado, and comprising about two
hundred thousand square miles of humid, grassy country.
This district has been colonized by Europeans since the middle of the
sixteenth century; but down to within a very few years ago immigration
was on too limited a scale to make any very great change; and, speaking
only of the pampean country, the conquered territory was a long,
thinly-settled strip, purely pastoral, and the Indians, with their
primitive mode of warfare, were able to keep back the invaders from the
greater portion of their ancestral hunting-grounds. Not twenty years
ago a ride of two hundred miles, starting from the capital city,
Buenos Ayres, was enough to place one well beyond the furthest
south-western frontier outpost. In 1879 the Argentine Government
determined to rid the country of the aborigines, or, at all events, to
break their hostile and predatory spirit once for all; with the result
that the entire area of the grassy pampas, with a great portion of
the sterile pampas and Patagonia, has been made available to the
emigrant. There is no longer anything to deter the starvelings
of the Old World from possessing themselves of this new land of
promise, flowing, like Australia, with milk and tallow, if not with
honey; any emasculated migrant from a Genoese or Neapolitan
slum is now competent to "fight the wilderness" out there, with his
eight-shilling fowling-piece and the implements of his trade. The
barbarians no longer exist to frighten his soul with dreadful war cries;
they have moved away to another more remote and shadowy region, called
in their own language _Alhuemapu_, and not known to geographers. For
the results so long and ardently wished for have swiftly followed on
General Roca's military expedition; and the changes witnessed during the
last decade on the pampas exceed in magnitude those which had been
previously effected by three centuries of occupation.
In view of this wave of change now rapidly sweeping away the old
order, with whatever beauty and grace it possessed, it might not seem
inopportune at the present moment to give a rapid sketch, from the field
naturalist's point of view, of the great plain, as it existed before the
agencies introduced by European colonists had done their work, and as it
still exists in its remoter parts.
The humid, grassy, pampean country extends, roughly speaking, half-way
from the Atlantic Ocean and the Plata and Parana rivers to the Andes,
and passes gradually into the "Monte Formation," or _sterile pampa_--a
sandy, more or less barren district, producing a dry, harsh, ligneous
vegetation, principally thorny bushes and low trees, of which the chanar
(Gurliaca decorticans) is the most common; hence the name of
"Chanar-steppe" used by some writers: and this formation extends
southwards down into Patagonia. Scientists have not yet been able to
explain why the pampas, with a humid climate, and a soil exceedingly
rich, have produced nothing but grass, while the dry, sterile
territories on their north, west, and south borders have an arborescent
vegetation. Darwin's conjecture that the extreme violence of the
_pampero,_ or south-west wind, prevented trees from growing, is now
proved to have been ill-founded since the introduction of the Eucalyptus
globulus; for this noble tree attains to an extraordinary height on the
pampas, and exhibits there a luxuriance of foliage never seen in
Australia.
To this level area--my "parish of Selborne," or, at all events, a goodly
portion of it--with the sea on one hand, and on the other the
practically infinite expanse of grassy desert--another sea, not "in vast
fluctuations fixed," but in comparative calm--I should like to conduct
the reader in imagination: a country all the easier to be imagined on
account of the absence of mountains, woods, lakes, and rivers. There is,
indeed, little to be imagined--not even a sense of vastness; and Darwin,
touching on this point, in the _Journal of a Naturalist,_ aptly
says:--"At sea, a person's eye being six feet above the surface of the
water, his horizon is two miles and four-fifths distant. In like manner,
the more level the plain, the more nearly does the horizon approach
within these narrow limits; and this, in my opinion, entirely destroys
the grandeur which one would have imagined that a vast plain would have
possessed."
I remember my first experience of a hill, after having been always shut
within "these narrow limits." It was one of the range of sierras near
Cape Corrientes, and not above eight hundred feet high; yet, when I had
gained the summit, I was amazed at the vastness of the earth, as it
appeared to me from that modest elevation. Persons born and bred on the
pampas, when they first visit a mountainous district, frequently
experience a sensation as of "a ball in the throat" which seems to
prevent free respiration.
In most places the rich, dry soil is occupied by a coarse grass, three
or four feet high, growing in large tussocks, and all the year round of
a deep green; a few slender herbs and trefoils, with long, twining
stems, maintain a frail existence among the tussocks; but the strong
grass crowds out most plants, and scarcely a flower relieves its uniform
everlasting verdure. There are patches, sometimes large areas, where it
does not grow, and these are carpeted by small creeping herbs of a
livelier green | 1,778.08552 |
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Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Woodie4 and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced
from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American
Libraries.)
THE HARBOR
THE HARBOR
BY
ERNEST POOLE
[Illustration: Publishers mark]
NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS
Published by Arrangement with The Macmillan Company.
COPYRIGHT, 1915,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Set up and electrotyped. Published February, 1915 Reprinted February,
1915 Twice. March, 1915 Three Times. April, 1915 Twice May, 1915. Twice
June, 1915. Twice July, 1915. August, 1915. September, October,
November, December, 1915. January, 1916. March, 1916
_TO M. A._
THE HARBOR
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
"You chump," I thought contemptuously. I was seven years old at the
time, and the gentleman to whom I referred was Henry Ward Beecher. What
it was that aroused my contempt for the man will be more fully
understood if I tell first of the grudge that I bore him.
I was sitting in my mother's pew in the old church in Brooklyn. I was
altogether too small for the pew, it was much too wide for the bend at
my knees; and my legs, which were very short and fat, stuck straight out
before me. I was not allowed to move, I was most uncomfortable, and for
this Sabbath torture I laid all the blame on the preacher. For my mother
had once told me that I was brought to church so small in order that
when I grew up I could say I had heard the great man preach before he
died. Hence the deep grudge that I bore him. Sitting here this morning,
it seemed to me for hours and hours, I had been meditating upon my hard
lot. From time to time, as was my habit when thinking or feeling deeply,
one hand would unconsciously go to my head and slowly stroke my bang. My
hair was short and had no curls, its only glory was this bang, which was
deliciously soft to my hand and shone like a mirror from much reflective
stroking. Presently my mother would notice and with a smile she would
put down my hand, but a few moments later up it would come and would
continue its stroking. For I felt both abused and puzzled. What was
there in the talk of the large white-haired old man in the pulpit to
make my mother's eyes so queer, to make her sit so stiff and still? What
good would it do me when I grew up to say that I had heard him?
"I don't believe I will ever say it," I reasoned doggedly to myself.
"And even if I do, I don't believe any other man will care whether I say
it to him or not." I felt sure my father wouldn't. He never even came to
church.
At the thought of my strange silent father, my mind leaped to his
warehouse, his dock, the ships and the harbor. Like him, they were all
so strange. And my hands grew a little cold and moist as I thought of
the terribly risky thing I had planned to do all by myself that very
afternoon. I thought about it for a long time with my eyes tight shut.
Then the voice of the minister brought me back, I found myself sitting
here in church and went on with this less shivery thinking.
"I wouldn't care myself," I decided. "If I were a man and another man
met me on the street and said, 'Look here. When I was a boy I heard
Henry Ward Beecher before he died,' I guess I would just say to him,
'You mind your business and I'll mind mine.'" This phrase I had heard
from the corner grocer, and I liked the sound of it. I repeated it now
with an added zest.
Again I opened my eyes and again I found myself here in church. Still
here. I heaved a weary sigh.
"If you were dead already," I thought as I looked up at the preacher,
"my mother wouldn't bring me here." I found this an exceedingly cheering
thought. I had once overheard our cook Anny describe how her old father
had dropped dead. I eyed the old minister hopefully.
But what was this he was saying! Something about "the harbor of life."
The harbor! In an instant I was listening hard, for this was something I
knew about.
"Safe into the harbor," I heard him say. "Home to the harbor at last to
rest." And then, while he passed on to something else, something I
_didn't_ know about, I settled disgustedly back in the pew.
"You chump," I thought contemptuously. To hear him talk you would have
thought the harbor was a place to feel quite safe in, a place to snuggle
down in, a nice little place to come home to at night. "I guess he has
never seen it much," I snorted.
For I had. From our narrow brownstone house on the Heights, ever since I
could remember (and let me tell you that seems a long time when you are
seven years old), I had looked down from our back windows upon a harbor
that to me was strange and terrible.
I was glad that our house was up so high. Its front was on a sedate old
street, and within it everything felt safe. My mother was here, and Sue,
my little sister, and old Belle, our nurse, our nursery, my games, my
animals, my fairy books, the small red table where I ate my supper, and
the warm fur rug by my bed, where I knelt for "Now I lay me."
But from the porch at the back of our house you went three steps down to
a long narrow garden--at least the garden seemed long | 1,778.38631 |
2023-11-16 18:46:42.5534620 | 1,185 | 8 |
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See 40570-h.htm or 40570-h.zip:
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Images of the original pages are available through
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THE CHRONICLES OF COUNT ANTONIO
by
ANTHONY HOPE
Author of The Prisoner of Zenda, etc.
With Photogravure Frontispiece by S. W. Van Schaick
New York
D. Appleton and Company
1895
Copyright, 1895,
By Anthony Hope.
Copyright, 1895,
By D. Appleton and Company.
_TO THE HONOURABLE SIR HENRY HAWKINS._
_MY DEAR SIR HENRY_:
_It gives me very great pleasure to be allowed to dedicate this book
to you. I hope you will accept it as a token of thanks for much
kindness, of your former Marshal's pleasant memory of his service,
and of sincere respect for a clear-sighted, firm, and compassionate
Judge._
_Your affectionate cousin,_
_A. H. H._
_London, August, 1895._
[Illustration: _Behold! She is free._ (Chapter V.)]
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--HOW COUNT ANTONIO TOOK TO THE HILLS 1
II.--COUNT ANTONIO AND THE TRAITOR PRINCE 39
III.--COUNT ANTONIO AND THE PRINCE OF MANTIVOGLIA 71
IV.--COUNT ANTONIO AND THE WIZARD'S DRUG 116
V.--COUNT ANTONIO AND THE SACRED BONES 158
VI.--COUNT ANTONIO AND THE HERMIT OF THE VAULT 202
VII.--COUNT ANTONIO AND THE LADY OF RILANO 245
VIII.--THE MANNER OF COUNT ANTONIO'S RETURN 290
THE CHRONICLES OF COUNT ANTONIO.
CHAPTER I.
HOW COUNT ANTONIO TOOK TO THE HILLS.
Countless are the stories told of the sayings that Count Antonio spoke
and of the deeds that he did when he dwelt an outlaw in the hills. For
tales and legends gather round his name thick as the berries hang on a
bush, and with the passage of every succeeding year it grows harder to
discern where truth lies and where the love of wonder, working together
with the sway of a great man's memory, has wrought the embroidery of its
fancy on the plain robe of fact. Yet, amid all that is of uncertain
knowledge and so must rest, this much at least should be known and
remembered for the honour of a noble family, how it fell out that Count
Antonio, a man of high lineage, forsook the service of his Prince,
disdained the obligation of his rank, set law at naught, and did what
seemed indeed in his own eyes to be good but was held by many to be
nothing other than the work of a rebel and a brigand. Yet, although it
is by these names that men often speak of him, they love his memory; and
I also, Ambrose the Franciscan, having gathered diligently all that I
could come by in the archives of the city or from the lips of aged folk,
have learned to love it in some sort. Thus I am minded to write, before
the time that I must carry what I know with me to the grave, the full
and whole truth concerning Antonio's flight from the city and the Court,
seeking in my heart, as I write, excuse for him, and finding in the
record, if little else, yet a tale that lovers must read in pride and
sorrow, and, if this be not too high a hope, that princes may study for
profit and for warning.
Now it was in the tenth year of the reign of Duke Valentine over the
city of Firmola, its territories and dependent towns, that Count Antonio
of Monte Velluto--having with him a youthful cousin of his, whom he
loved greatly, and whom, by reason of his small stature and of a boyish
gaiety he had, men called Tommasino--came from his own house on the hill
that fronts the great gate of the city, to the palace of the Duke, with
intent to ask His Highness's sanction for his marriage with the Lady
Lucia. This lady, being then seventeen years of age, loved Antonio, and
he her, and troth had been privily plighted between them for many
months; and such was the strength and power of the love they bore the
one to the other, that even to this day the old mock at young lovers who
show themselves overfond, crying, "'Tis Lucia and Antonio!"
But since the Lady Lucia was an orphan, Antonio came now to the Duke,
who enjoyed ward-ship | 1,778.573502 |
2023-11-16 18:46:42.6568620 | 77 | 7 |
Produced by sp1nd and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected
without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have
been retained as printed. Words printed in ital | 1,778.676902 |
2023-11-16 18:46:42.7593960 | 517 | 8 |
Produced by Clare Graham and Marc D'Hooghe at Free
Literature (online soon in an extended version, also linking
to free sources for education worldwide... MOOC's,
educational materials,...) Images generously made available
by the Internet Archive.
THE GOURMET'S GUIDE TO LONDON
BY
LIEUT.-COL. NEWNHAM-DAVIS
_Author of
"The Gourmet's Guide to Europe"_
NEW YORK
BRENTANO'S
1914
PRINTED BY THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED
EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND
[Illustration: THE CHESHIRE CHEESE
_From a drawing by Harry Morley_]
_The pleasures of the table are common to all ages and ranks, to
all countries and times; they not only harmonise with all the other
pleasures, but remain to console us for their loss.--_
BRILLAT SAVARIN.
TO ALL GOOD GOURMETS
PREFACE
In describing in this book some of the restaurants and taverns in and
near London, I have selected those that seem to me to be typical of the
various classes, giving preference to those of each kind which have
some picturesque incident in their history, or are situated amidst
beautiful surroundings, or possess amongst their personnel a celebrated
chef or _maître d'hôtel_.
The English language has not enough nicely graduated terms of praise to
enable me to give to a fraction its value to each restaurant, from the
unpretentious little establishments in Soho to such palaces as the Ritz
and Savoy, but I have included no dining-place in this volume that does
not give good value for the money it charges.
Twelve years ago I wrote a somewhat similar book, "Dinners and Diners,"
which ran through two editions, but when I looked it through last
year I found that there had been so many changes in the world of
restaurants, so many old houses had vanished and so many new ones had
arisen, that it was easier to write a new book than to bring the old
one up to date. Mr Astor very kindly gave me permission to use in this
volume any of the series of "Dinners and Diners" articles that appeared
in _The Pall Mall Gazette_, but it will be found that I have availed
myself very sparingly of his kind permission. The chapters of this
book appeared, | 1,778.779436 |
2023-11-16 18:46:42.8533860 | 138 | 16 |
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: "An Avalanche!" declared Fogg. "Dodge--something's coming!"
Page 254. Ralph on the Overland Express.]
RALPH ON THE OVERLAND EXPRESS
OR
THE TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS OF A YOUNG ENGINEER
BY
ALLEN CHAPMAN
AUTHOR OF "RALPH OF THE ROUNDHOUSE,"
"RALPH IN THE SWITCH TOWER,"
"RALPH ON THE ENGINE,"
"DAREWELL CHUMS SERIES," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
G | 1,778.873426 |
2023-11-16 18:46:42.8863180 | 3,334 | 12 |
Produced by KD Weeks, David Garcia, D Alexander and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber’s Note:
Minor errors in punctuation and formatting have been silently corrected.
Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details
regarding the handling of any textual issues encountered during its
preparation.
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_.
The full-page illustrations are referred to, in the list provided, by a
quote from the text, and the page reference is to the quote, rather than
the position of the illustration in the text. In some cases, these were
re-positioned to fall nearer the scene referenced.
These illustrations also had no captions. They are distinguished, here,
by the first few words of the quoted text.
The
Travelling Thirds
By
Gertrude Atherton
Author of
“Rulers of Kings” “The Conqueror”
“The Bell in the Fog” etc.
[Illustration]
LONDON AND NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1905
Copyright, 1905, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
Published October, 1905.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Travelling Thirds
I
The California cousin of the Lyman T. Moultons—a name too famous to be
shorn——stood apart from the perturbed group, her feet boyishly asunder,
her head thrown back. Above her hung the thick white clusters of the
acacia,[1] drooping abundantly, opaque and luminous in the soft masses
of green, heavy with perfume. All Lyons seemed to have yielded itself to
the intoxicating fragrance of its favorite tree.
Footnote 1:
The acacia of Europe is identical with the American locust.
In the Place Carnot, at least, there was not a murmur. The Moultons had
hushed in thought their four variations on the aggressive American key,
although perhaps insensible to the voluptuous offering of the grove.
Mrs. Moulton, had her senses responded to the sweet and drowsy
afternoon, would have resented the experience as immoral; and as it was
her pale-blue gaze rested disapprovingly on the rapt figure of her
husband’s second cousin. The short skirt and the covert coat of
ungraceful length, its low pockets always inviting the hands of its
owner, had roused more than once her futile protest, and to-day they
seemed to hang limp with a sense of incongruity beneath the half-closed
eyes and expanded nostrils of the young Californian.
It was not possible for nature to struggle triumphant through the
disguise this beneficiary chose to assume, but there was an unwilling
conviction in the Moulton family that when Catalina arrayed herself as
other women she would blossom forth into something of a beauty. Even her
stiff hat half covered her brow and rich brown hair, but her eyes, long
and dark and far apart, rarely failed to arrest other eyes, immobile as
was their common expression.
Always independent of her fellow-mortals, and peculiarly of her present
companions, she was a happy pagan at the moment, and meditating a
solitary retreat to another grove of acacias down by the Saône, when her
attention was claimed by Mr. Moulton.
“Would you mind coming here a moment, Catalina?” he asked, in a voice
whose roll and cadence told that he had led in family prayers these many
years, if not in meeting. “After all, it is your suggestion, and I think
you should present the case. I have done it very badly, and they don’t
seem inclined to listen to me.”
He smiled apologetically, but there was a faint twinkle in his eye which
palliated the somewhat sanctimonious expression of the lower part of his
face. Blond and cherubic in youth, his countenance had grown in dignity
as time changed its tints to drab and gray, reclaimed the superfluous
flesh of his face, and drew the strong lines that are the half of a
man’s good looks. He, too, had his hands in his pockets, and he stood in
front of his wife and daughters, who sat on a bench in the perfumed
shade of the acacias.
His cousin once removed dragged down her eyes and scowled, without
attempt at dissimulation. In a moment, however, she came forward with a
manifest attempt to be human and normal. Mrs. Moulton stiffened her
spine as if awaiting an assault, and her oldest daughter, a shade more
formal and correct, more afraid of doing the wrong thing, fixed a cold
and absent eye upon the statue to liberty in the centre of the Place.
Only the second daughter, Lydia, just departing from her first
quarter-century, turned to the alien relative with a sparkle in her eye.
She was a girl about whose pink-and-white-and-golden prettiness there
was neither question nor enthusiasm, and her thin, graceful figure and
alertly poised head received such enhancement as her slender purse
afforded. She wore—need I record it?—a travelling-suit of dark-blue
brilliantine, short—but at least three inches longer than Catalina’s—and
a large hat about whose brim fluttered a blue veil. She admired and a
little feared the recent acquisition from California, experiencing for
the first time in her life a pleasing suspense in the vagaries of an
unusual character. She and all that hitherto pertained to her belonged
to that highly refined middle class nowhere so formal and exacting as in
the land of the free.
Catalina, who never permitted her relatives to suspect that she was shy,
assumed her most stolid expression and abrupt tones.
“It is simple enough. We can go to Spain if we travel third class, and
we can’t if we don’t. I want to see Spain more than any country in
Europe. I have heard you say more than once that you were wild to see
it—the Alhambra and all that—well, anxious, then,” as Mrs. Moulton
raised a protesting eyebrow. “I’m wild, if you like. I’d walk, go on
mule-back; in short, I’ll go alone if you won’t take me.”
“You will do what?” The color came into Mrs. Moulton’s faded cheek, and
she squared herself as for an encounter. Open friction was infrequent,
for Mrs. Moulton was nothing if not diplomatic, and Catalina was
indifferent. Nevertheless, encounters there had been, and at the finish
the Californian had invariably held the middle of the field, insolent
and victorious; and Mrs. Moulton had registered a vow that sooner or
later she would wave the colors over the prostrate foe.
For thirty-two years she had merged, submerged, her individuality, but
in these last four months she had been possessed by a waxing revolt, of
an almost passionate desire for a victorious moment. It was her first
trip abroad, and she had followed where her energetic husband and
daughters listed. Hardly once had she been consulted. Perhaps, removed
for the first time from the stultifying environment of habit, she had
come to realize what slight rewards are the woman’s who flings her very
soul at the feet of others. It was too late to attempt to be an
individual in her own family; even did she find the courage she must
continue to accept their excessive care—she had a mild form of
invalidism—and endeavor to feel grateful that she was owned by the
kindest of husbands, and daughters no more selfish than the average; but
since the advent of Catalina all the rebellion left in her had become
compact and alert. Here was an utterly antagonistic temperament, one
beyond her comprehension, individual in a fashion that offended every
sensibility; cool, wary, insolently suggesting that she purposed to
stalk through life in that hideous get-up, pursuing the unorthodox. She
was not only indomitable youth but indomitable savagery, and Mrs.
Moulton, of the old and cold Eastern civilization, bristled with a
thrill that was almost rapture whenever this unwelcome relative of her
husband stared at her in contemptuous silence.
“You will do what? The suggestion that we travel third class is
offensive enough—but are you aware that Spanish women never travel even
first class alone?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with me. I’m not Spanish; they would
assume that I was ‘no lady’ and take no further notice of me; or, if
they did—well, I can take care of myself. As for travelling third class,
I can’t see that it is any more undignified than travelling second, and
its chief recommendations, after its cheapness, are that it won’t be so
deadly respectable as second, and that we’ll meet nice, dirty,
picturesque, excitable peasants instead of dowdy middle-class people who
want all the windows shut. The third-class carriages are generally big,
open cars like ours, with wooden seats—no microbes—and at this time of
the year all the windows will be open. Now, you can think it over. I am
going to invest twenty francs in a Baedeker and study my route.”
She nodded to Mr. Moulton, dropped an almost imperceptible eyelash at
Lydia, and, ignoring the others, strode off belligerently towards the
Place Bellecour.
Mrs. Moulton turned white. She set her lips. “I shall not go,” she
announced.
“My love,” protested her husband, mildly, “I am afraid she has placed us
in a position where we shall have to go.” He was secretly delighted.
“Spain, as you justly remarked, is the most impossible country in Europe
for the woman alone, and she is the child of my dead cousin and old
college chum. When we are safely home again I shall have a long talk
with her and arrive at a definite understanding of this singular
character, but over here I cannot permit her to make herself—and
us—notorious. I am sure you will agree with me, my love. My only fear is
that you may find the slow trains and wooden seats fatiguing—although I
shall buy an extra supply of air-cushions, and we will get off whenever
you feel tired.”
“Do say yes, mother,” pleaded her youngest born. “It will almost be an
adventure, and I’ve never had anything approaching an adventure in my
life. I’m sure even Jane will enjoy it.”
“I loathe travelling,” said the elder Miss Moulton, with energy. “It’s
nothing but reading Baedeker, stalking through churches and
picture-galleries, and rushing for trains, loaded down with
hand-baggage. I feel as if I never wanted to see another thing in my
life. Of course I’m glad I’ve seen London and Paris and Rome, but the
discomforts and privations of travel far outweigh the advantages. I
haven’t the slightest desire to see Spain, or any more down-at-the-heel
European countries; America will satisfy me for the rest of my life. As
for travelling third class—the very idea is low and horrid. It is bad
enough to travel second, and if we did think so little of ourselves as
to travel third—just think of its being found out! Where would our
social position be—father’s great influence? As for that California
savage, the mere fact that she makes a suggestion—”
“My dear,” remonstrated her father, “Catalina is a most well-conducted
young woman. She has not given me a moment of anxiety, and I think her
suggestion a really opportune one, for it will enable us to see Spain
and give me much valuable literary material. Of course, I do not like
the idea of travelling third class myself, and I only wish I could
afford to take you all in the train de luxe.”
“You are a perfect dear,” announced Lydia, “and give us everything we
want. And if we went in the luxe we couldn’t see any nice little
out-of-the-way places and would soon become blasé, which would be
dreadful. Jane at first enjoyed it as much as we did, and I could go on
forever. No one need ever know that we went third, and when we are at
home we will have something else to talk about except the ever-lasting
Italy and England and Paris. Do consent, mother.”
This was an unusual concession, and Mrs. Moulton was a trifle mollified.
Besides, if her favorite child’s heart was set upon Spain, that dyed the
matter with a different complexion; she could defer her subjection of
the Californian, and, tired as she was, she was by no means averse to
seeing Spain herself. Nevertheless, she rose with dignity and gathered
her cape about her.
“You and your father will settle the matter to suit yourselves,” she
said, with that access of politeness in which the down-trodden manifest
their sense of injury. “But I have no hesitation in saying that I never
before heard a gentlewoman”—she had the true middle-class horror of the
word “lady”—“express a desire to travel third, and I think it will be a
most unbecoming performance. Moreover, I doubt if anything can make us
comfortable; we are reasonably sure to become infested with vermin and
be made ill by the smell of garlic. I have had my say, however, and
shall now go and lie down.”
As she moved up the path, her step measured, her spine protestant, her
husband ran after and drew her arm through his. He nodded over his
shoulder to his youngest daughter, and Lydia, deprecating further
argument, went swiftly off in search of Catalina.
II
“Let us get out and race it,” suggested Catalina; but she spoke with the
accent of indolent content, and hung over the door of the leisurely
train, giving no heed beyond a polite nod to the nervous protests of
Mrs. Moulton. That good lady, surrounded by air-cushions, which the
various members of her attentive family distended at stated intervals,
had propped herself in a corner, determined to let no expression of
fatigue escape her, and enjoying herself in her own fashion. The
material discomforts of travel certainly overbalanced the æsthetic
delights, but, at least, she was seeing the Europe she had dreamed of so
ardently in her youth. Jane sat in another corner reading a volume of
Pater. It was impossible to turn her back on the scenery, for the seats
ran from east to west and they were travelling due south, but she could
ignore it, and that she did.
They were in a large, open car furnished with wooden seats and a door
for each aisle. The carriage was not dirty, and all the windows were
open; moreover, it harbored, so far, no natives beyond two nuns | 1,778.906358 |
2023-11-16 18:46:42.9534970 | 260 | 19 |
Produced by Martin Adamson
A DOLL'S HOUSE
by Henrik Ibsen
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Torvald Helmer.
Nora, his wife.
Doctor Rank.
Mrs. Linde.
Nils Krogstad.
Helmer's three young children.
Anne, their nurse.
A Housemaid.
A Porter.
(The action takes place in Helmer's house.)
A DOLL'S HOUSE
ACT I
(SCENE.--A room furnished comfortably and tastefully, but not
extravagantly. At the back, a door to the right leads to the
entrance-hall, another to the left leads to Helmer's study. Between the
doors stands a piano. In the middle of the left-hand wall is a door, and
beyond it a window. Near the window are a round table, arm-chairs and
a small sofa. In the right-hand wall, at the farther end, another door;
and on the same side, nearer the footlights, a stove, two easy chairs
and a rocking-chair; between the stove and the door, a small table.
Engravings on the walls; a cabinet with china and other small objects;
a | 1,778.973537 |
2023-11-16 18:46:43.0534660 | 828 | 7 |
Produced by Giovanni Fini, sp1nd and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.
By Mary Johnston
HAGAR.
THE LONG ROLL. The first of two books dealing with the war between the
States. With Illustrations in color by N. C. WYETH.
CEASE FIRING. The second of two books dealing with the war between the
States. With Illustrations in color by N. C. WYETH.
LEWIS RAND. With Illustrations in color by F. C. YOHN.
AUDREY. With Illustrations in color by F. C. YOHN.
PRISONERS OF HOPE. With Frontispiece.
TO HAVE AND TO HOLD. With 8 Illustrations by HOWARD PYLE, E. B.
THOMPSON, A. W. BETTS, and EMLEN MCCONNELL.
THE GODDESS OF REASON. _A Drama._
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
[Illustration:
(p. 154)
“GOOD-BYE, MISTRESS FRIENDLY-SOUL!”]
THE WITCH
BY
MARY JOHNSTON
[Illustration: LOGO]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1914
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY MARY JOHNSTON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published October 1914_
CONTENTS
I. THE QUEEN’S CHAMBER 1
II. THE CAP AND BELLS 10
III. THE TWO PHYSICIANS 24
IV. THE ROSE TAVERN 37
V. THE ROAD TO HAWTHORN 54
VI. THE MAN WITH THE HAWK 69
VII. JOAN 82
VIII. THE SQUIRE’S BROTHER 97
IX. THE OAK GRANGE 109
X. IN HAWTHORN FOREST 124
XI. THE PLAGUE 136
XII. HERON’S COTTAGE 151
XIII. HAWTHORN CHURCH 165
XIV. NIGHT 176
XV. NEXT DAY 188
XVI. MASTER THOMAS CLEMENT 204
XVII. MOTHER SPURAWAY 218
XVIII. THE GAOL 235
XIX. ADERHOLD AND CARTHEW 246
XX. THE WITCH JUDGE 260
XXI. THE WITCH 272
XXII. ESCAPE 281
XXIII. THE ROAD TO THE PORT 298
XXIV. THE FARTHER ROAD 312
XXV. THE SILVER QUEEN 327
XXVI. THE OPEN BOAT 342
XXVII. THE ISLAND 351
XXVIII. FOUR YEARS 362
XXIX. THE SPANIARDS 376
XXX. THE ISLET 387
XXXI. THE HOUR-GLASS 404
XXXII. A JOURNEY 420
THE WITCH
THE WITCH
CHAPTER I
THE QUEEN’S CHAMBER
IT was said that the Queen was dying. She lay at Richmond, in the
palace looking out upon the wintry, wooded, March-shaken park, but
London, a few miles away, had daily news of how she did. There was | 1,779.073506 |
2023-11-16 18:46:43.1599050 | 1,159 | 31 |
E-text prepared by Chuck Greif and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team from page images generously provided by the
Internet Archive Million Book Project
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 15604-h.htm or 15604-h.zip:
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PIANO MASTERY
Talks with Master Pianists and Teachers
and
an Account of a Von Buelow Class, Hints on Interpretation, by Two
American Teachers (Dr. William Mason and William H. Sherwood) and a
Summary by the Author
by
HARRIETTE BROWER
Author of _The Art of the Pianist_
With Sixteen Portraits
Frederick A. Stokes Company
The Musical Observer Company
1915
[Illustration: Photo Copyright By Marran IGNACE JAN PADEREWSKI]
CONTENTS
PRELUDE
IGNACE JAN PADEREWSKI
ERNEST SCHELLING.....The Hand of a Pianist
ERNESTO CONSOLO.....Making the Piano a Musical Instrument
SIGISMOND STOJOWSKI.....Mind in Piano Study.
RUDOLPH GANZ.....Conserving Energy in Piano Practise
TINA LERNER.....An Audience the Best Teacher
ETHEL LEGINSKA.....Relaxation the Keynote of Modern Piano Playing
BERTHA FIERING TAPPER.....Mastering Piano Problems
CARL M. ROEDER.....Problems of Piano Teachers
KATHARINE GOODSON.....An Artist at Home
MARK HAMBOURG.....Form, Technic, and Expression
TOBIAS MATTHAY.....Watching the Artist Teacher at Work
HAROLD BAUER.....The Question of Piano Tone
RAOUL PUGNO.....Training the Child
THUEL BURNHAM.....The "Melody" and "Coloratura" Hand
EDWIN HUGHES.....Some Essentials of Piano Playing
FERRUCCIO BUSONI.....An Artist at Home
ADELE AUS DER OHE.....Another Artist at Home
ELEANOR SPENCER.....More Light on Leschetizky's Ideas
ARTHUR HOCHMAN.....How the Pianist Can Color Tone with Action and
Emotion
TERESA CARRENO.....Early Technical Training
WILHELM BACHAUS.....Technical Problems Discussed
ALEXANDER LAMBERT.....American and European Teachers
FANNIE BLOOMFIELD ZEISLER.....The Scope of Piano Technic
AGNES MORGAN.....Simplicity in Piano Teaching
EUGENE HEFFLEY.....Modern Tendencies
GERMAINE SCHNITZER.....Modern Methods in Piano Study
OSSIP GABRILOWITSCH.....Characteristic Touch on the Piano
HANS VON BUeLOW.....Teacher and Interpreter
WILLIAM H. SHERWOOD AND DR. WILLIAM MASON.....Hints on Interpretation
POSTLUDE.....Vital Points in Piano Playing
ILLUSTRATIONS
Ignace Jan Paderewski
Sigismond Stojowski
Rudolph Ganz
Katharine Goodson
Mark Hambourg
Tobias Matthay
Harold Bauer
Raoul Pugno
Ferruccio Busoni
Eleanor Spencer
Teresa Carreno
Wilhelm Bachaus
Fannie Bloomfield Zeisler
Ossip Gabrilowitsch
Hans von Buelow
Dr. William Mason
PRELUDE
TO AMERICAN PIANO TEACHERS AND STUDENTS
The following "Talks" were obtained at the suggestion of the Editor of
_Musical America_, and have all, with one or two exceptions, appeared in
that paper. They were secured with the hope and intention of benefiting
the American teacher and student.
Requests have come from all over the country, asking that the interviews
be issued in book form. In this event it was the author's intention to
ask each artist to enlarge and add to his own talk. This, however, has
been practicable only in certain cases; in others the articles remain
very nearly as they at first appeared.
The summer of 1913 in Europe proved to be a veritable musical
pilgrimage, the milestones of which were the homes of the famous
artists, who generously gave of their time and were willing to discuss
their methods of playing and teaching.
The securing of the interviews has given the author satisfaction and
delight. She wishes to share both with the fellow workers of her own
land.
The Talks are arranged in the order in which they were secured.
PIANO MASTERY
PIANO MASTERY
I
IGNACE JAN PADEREWSKI
One of the most consummate masters of the piano at the present time is
Ignace Jan Paderewski. Those who were privileged to hear him during his
first season in this country will never forget the experience. The
Polish artist conquered the new world as he had conquered the old; his
name became a household word, known from coast to coast; he traveled
over our land, a Prince of Tones, everywhere welcomed and honored. Each
s | 1,779.179945 |
2023-11-16 18:46:43.2599730 | 517 | 11 | Project Gutenberg Etext From Cornhill to Grand Cairo by Thackeray
#6 in our series by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Notes on a Journey from Cornhill to Grand Cairo
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August, 1999 [Etext #1863]
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Produced by David Widger
LITERATURE AND LIFE--Last Days in a Dutch Hotel
by William Dean Howells
LAST DAYS IN A DUTCH HOTEL
(1897)
When we said that we were going to Scheveningen, in the middle of
September, the portier of the hotel at The Hague was sure we should be
very cold, perhaps because we had suffered so much in his house already;
and he was right, for the wind blew with a Dutch tenacity of purpose for
a whole week, so that the guests thinly peopling the vast hostelry seemed
to rustle through its chilly halls and corridors like so many autumn
leaves. We were but a poor hundred at most where five hundred would not
have been a crowd; and, when we sat down at the long tables d'hote in the
great dining-room, we had to warm our hands with our plates before we
could hold our spoons. From time to time the weather varied, as it does
in Europe (American weather is of an exemplary constancy in comparison),
and three or four times a day it rained, and three or four times it
cleared; but through all the wind blew cold and colder. We were
promised, however, that the hotel would not close till October, and we
made shift, with a warm chimney in one room and three gas-burners in
another, if not to keep warm quite, yet certainly to get used to the
cold.
I.
In the mean time the sea-bathing went resolutely on with all its forms.
Every morning the bathing machines were drawn down to the beach from the
esplanade, where they were secured against the gale every night; and
every day a half-dozen hardy invalids braved the rigors of wind and wave.
At the discreet distance which one ought always to keep one could not
always be sure whether these bold bathers were mermen or mermaids; for
the sea costume of both sexes is the same here, as regards an absence of
skirts and a presence of what are, after the first plunge, effectively
tights. The first time I walked down to the beach I was puzzled to make
out some object rolling about in the low surf, which looked like a
barrel, and which two bathing-machine men were watching with apparently
the purpose of fishing it out. Suddenly this object reared itself from
the surf and floundered towards the steps of a machine; then I saw that
it was evidently not a barrel, but a lady, and after that I never dared
carry my researches so far. I suppose that the bathing-tights are more
becoming in some cases than in others; but I hold to a modest preference
for skirts, however brief, in the sea-gear of ladies. Without them there
may sometimes be the effect of beauty, and sometimes the effect of
barrel.
For the convenience and safety of the bathers there were, even in the
last half of September, some twenty machines, and half as many bath-men
and bath-women, who waded into the water and watched that the bathers
came to no harm, instead of a solitary lifeguard showing his statuesque
shape as he paced the shore beside the lifelines, or cynically rocked in
his boat beyond the breakers, as the custom is on Long Island. Here
there is no need of life-lines, and, unless one held his head resolutely
under water, I do not see how he could drown within quarter of a mile of
the shore. Perhaps it is to prevent suicide that the bathmen are so
plentifully provided.
They are a provision of the hotel, I believe, which does not relax itself
in any essential towards its guests as they grow fewer. It seems, on the
contrary, to use them with a more tender care, and to console them as it
may for the inevitable parting near at hand. Now, within three or four
days of the end, the kitchen is as scrupulously and vigilantly perfect as
it could be in the height of the season; and our dwindling numbers sit
down every night to a dinner that we could not get for much more love or
vastly more money in the month of August, at any shore hotel in America.
It is true that there are certain changes going on, but they are going on
delicately, almost silently. A strip of carpeting has come up from along
our corridor, but we hardly miss it from the matting which remains.
Through the open doors of vacant chambers we can see that beds are coming
down, and the dismantling extends into the halls at places. Certain
decorative carved chairs which repeated themselves outside the doors have
ceased to be there; but the pictures still hang on the walls, and within
our own rooms everything is as conscientious as in midsummer. The
service is instant, and, if there is some change in it, the change is not
for the worse. Yesterday our waiter bade me good-bye, and when I said I
was sorry he was going he alleged a boil on his cheek in excuse; he would
not allow that his going had anything to do with the closing of the
hotel, and he was promptly replaced by another who speaks excellent
English. Now that the first is gone, I may own that he seemed not to
speak any foreign language long, but, when cornered in English, took
refuge in French, and then fled from pursuit in that to German, and
brought up in final Dutch, where he was practically inaccessible.
The elevator runs regularly, if not rapidly; the papers arrive
unfailingly in the reading-room, including a solitary London Times, which
even I do not read, perhaps because I have no English-reading rival to
contend for it with. Till yesterday, an English artist sometimes got it;
but he then instantly offered it to me; and I had to refuse it because I
would not be outdone in politeness. Now even he is gone, and on all
sides I find myself in an unbroken circle of Dutch and German, where no
one would dispute the Times with me if he could.
Every night the corridors are fully lighted, and some mornings swept,
while the washing that goes on all over Holland, night and morning, does
not always spare our unfrequented halls and stairs. I note these little
facts, for the contrast with those of an American hotel which we once
assisted in closing, and where the elevator stopped two weeks before we
left, and we fell from electricity to naphtha-gas, and even this died out
before us except at long intervals in the passages; while there were
lightning changes in the service, and a final failure of it till we had
to go down and get our own ice-water of the lingering room-clerk, after
the last bell-boy had winked out.
II.
But in Europe everything is permanent, and in America everything is
provisional. This is the great distinction which, if always kept in
mind, will save a great deal of idle astonishment. It is in nothing more
apparent than in the preparation here at Scheveningen for centuries of
summer visitors, while at our Long Island hotel there was a losing bet on
a scant generation of them. When it seemed likely that it might be a
winning bet the sand was planked there in front of the hotel to the sea
with spruce boards. It was very handsomely planked, but it was never
afterwards touched, apparently, for any manner of repairs. Here, for
half a mile the dune on which the hotel stands is shored up with massive
masonry, and bricked for carriages, and tiled for foot-passengers; and it
is all kept as clean as if wheel or foot had never passed over it. I am
sure that there is not a broken brick or a broken tile in the whole
length or breadth of it. But the hotel here is not a bet; it is a
business. It has come to stay; and on Long Island it had come to see how
it would like it.
Beyond the walk and drive, however, the dunes are left to the winds, and
to the vegetation with which the Dutch planting clothes them against the
winds. First a coarse grass or rush is sown; then a finer herbage comes;
then a tough brushwood, with flowers and blackberry-vines; so that while
the seaward <DW72>s of the dunes are somewhat patched and tattered, the
landward side and all the pleasant hollows between are fairly held
against such gales as on Long Island blow the lower dunes hither and yon.
The sheep graze in the valleys at some points; in many a little pocket of
the dunes I found a potato-patch of about the bigness of a city lot, and
on week-days I saw wooden-shod men slowly, slowly gathering in the crop.
On Sundays I saw the pleasant nooks and corners of these sandy hillocks
devoted, as the dunes of Long Island were, to whispering lovers, who are
here as freely and fearlessly affectionate as at home. Rocking there is
not, and cannot be, in the nature of things, as there used to be at Mount
Desert; but what is called Twoing at York Harbor is perfectly
practicable.
It is practicable not only in the nooks and corners of the dunes, but on
discreeter terms in those hooded willow chairs, so characteristic of the
Dutch sea-side. These, if faced in pairs towards each other, must be as
favorable to the exchange of vows as of opinions, and if the crowd is
ever very great, perhaps one chair could be made to hold two persons.
It was distinctly a pang, the other day, to see men carrying them up from
the beach, and putting them away to hibernate in the basement of the
hotel. Not all, but most of them, were taken; though I dare say that on
fine days throughout October they will go trooping back to the sands on
the heads of the same men, like a procession of monstrous, two-legged
crabs. Such a day was last Sunday, and then the beach offered a lively
image of its summer | 1,779.284427 |
2023-11-16 18:46:43.3564660 | 3,484 | 13 |
Produced by Richard Tonsing, Jonathan Ingram and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
FRANCIS BEAUMONT
Born 1584 Died 1616
JOHN FLETCHER
Born 1579 Died 1625
_BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER_
THE MAID IN THE MILL
THE KNIGHT OF MALTA
LOVES CURE, OR THE MARTIAL MAID
WOMEN PLEAS'D
THE NIGHT-WALKER, OR THE LITTLE
THIEF
THE TEXT EDITED BY
A. R. WALLER, M.A.
[Illustration]
Cambridge:
at the University Press
1909
CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS
London: FETTER LANE, E.C.
C. F. CLAY, MANAGER
[Illustration]
Edinburgh: 100, PRINCES STREET
Berlin: A. ASHER AND CO.
Leipzig: F. A. BROCKHAUS
New York: G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Bombay and Calcutta: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS
PAGE
The Maid in the Mill 1
The Knight of Malta 78
Loves Cure, or the Martial Maid 164
Women Pleas'd 237
The Night-Walker, or the Little Thief 311
Notes 385
THE
Maid in the Mill.
A COMEDY.
The Persons Represented in the Play.
_Don_ Philippo _King of_ Spain.
Otrante _a Spanish Count, in love with_ Florimel.
Julio, _A Noble Man, Uncle to_ Antonio.
Bellides, _Father to_ Ismenia, _Enemy to_ Julio.
Lisauro, _Brother to_ Ismenia, Bellides _Son_.
Terzo, _Kinsman to_ Lisauro, _and friend to_ Bellides.
Antonio, _In love with_ Ismenia, _an enemy to_ Bellides.
Martino, _Friend to_ Antonio, _and his secret Rival_.
Gerasto, _Friend to_ Otrante.
Pedro. } _Two Courtiers._
Moncado. }
Gostanzo, } _Three Gentlemen, Friends to_ Julio.
Giraldo, }
Philippo, }
Vertigo, _A French Taylor_.
_Lords, attending the King in progress._
Franio, _A Miller, supposed Father to_ Florimell.
Bustopha, Franio _his Son, a Clown_.
_Constable._
_Officers._
Pedro, _A Songster_.
_Servants._
WOMEN.
Ismenia, _Daughter to_ Bellides, _Mistriss of_ Antonio.
Aminta, _Cousen to_ Ismenia, _and her private competrix in_
Antonio's _love_.
Florimell, _Supposed Daughter to_ Franio, _Daughter to_ Julio,
_stolen from him a child_.
Gillian, Franio _the Millers Wife_.
_Countrey Maids._
The Scene Spaine.
The principal Actors were
_Joseph Tailor_,
_John Lowin_,
_John Underwood_,
_William Rowly_,
_John Thomson_,
_Robert Benfield_,
_Tho. Polard_.
_Actus Primus. Scaena Prima._
_Enter_ Lisauro, Terzo, Ismenia, _and_ Aminta.
_Lis._ Let the Coach go round, we'll walk along these Meadows:
And meet at Port again: Come my fair Sister,
These cool shades will delight ye.
_Am._ Pray be merry,
The Birds sing as they meant to entertain ye,
Every thing smiles abroad; methinks the River
(As he steals by) curles up his head, to view ye:
Every thing is in love.
_Ism._ You would have it so.
You that are fair, are easie of belief, Cosen,
The theam slides from your tongue.
_Am._ I fair? I thank ye:
Mine's but shadow when your Sun shines by me.
_Ism._ No more of this, you know your worth (_Aminta_)
Where are we now?
_Am._ Hard by the Town (_Ismena_).
_Ter._ Close by the Gates.
_Ism._ 'Tis a fine Ayr.
_Lis._ A delicate;
The way so sweet and even, that the Coach
Would be a tumbling trouble to our pleasures:
Methinks I am very merry:
_Ism._ I am sad:
_Am._ You are ever so when we entreat ye (Cosen)
_Ism._ I have no reason: such a trembling here
Over my heart methinks:
_Am._ Sure you are fasting;
Or not slept well to night; some dream (_Ismena_?)
_Ism._ My dreams are like my thoughts, honest and innocent,
Yours are unhappy; who are these that coast us?
[_Enter Antonio and Martin._
You told me the walk was private.
_Ter._ 'Tis most commonly:
_Ism._ Two proper men: It seems they have some business,
With me none sure; I do not like their faces;
They are not of our Company:
_Ter._ No Cosen:
_Lisauro_, we are dog'd.
_Lis._ I find it (Cosen)
_Ant._ What handsome Lady?
_Mar._ Yes, she's very handsome.
They are handsome both.
_Ant. Martin_, stay we are cosen'd.
_Mar._ I will go up; a woman is no wild-fire.
_Ant._ Now by my life she is sweet: Stay good _Martin_,
They are of our enemies; the house of _Bellides_.
Our mortal enemies:
_Mar._ Let 'em be devils,
They appear so handsomly, I will go forward;
If these be enemies, I'll ne'r seek friends more.
_Ant._ Prethee forbear, the Gentlewomen.
_Mar._ That's it (man)
That moves me like a Gin.
'Pray ye stand off Ladies:
_Lis._ They are both our enemies: both hate us equally;
By this fair day our mortal foes.
_Ter._ I know 'em,
And come here to affront: how they gape at us!
They shall have gaping work.
_Ism._ Why your swords, Gentlemen?
_Ter._ Pray ye stand you off, Cosen,
And good now leave your whistling: we are abus'd all:
Back, back I say:
_Lis._ Go back.
_Ant._ We are no dogs Sir,
To run back on command.
_Ter._ We'll make ye run, Sir.
_Ant._ Having a civil charge of handsome Ladies,
We are your servants: pray ye no quarrel Gentlemen.
There's way enough for both.
_Lis._ We'll make it wider.
_Ant._ If you will fight, arm'd from this Saint; have at ye.
_Ism._ O me unhappy, are ye Gentlemen?
Discreet, and Civil, and in open view thus?
_Am._ What will men think of us; nay you may kill us;
Mercy o'me; through my petticoat; what bloody Gentlemen!
_Ism._ Make way through me, ye had best, and kill an innocent:
Brother, why Cosen: by this light I'll dye too:
This Gentleman is temperate: be you merciful:
Alass, the Swords.
_Am._ You had best run me through [the belly]
'Twill be a valiant thrust.
_Ism._ I faint amongst ye.
_Ant._ Pray ye be not fearful: I have done (sweet Lady)
My swords already aw'd, and shall obey ye:
I come not here to violate sweet beauty,
I bow to that.
_Ism._ Brother, you see this Gentleman,
This noble Gentleman.
_Lis._ Let him avoid then,
And leave our Walk.
_Ant._ The Lady may command Sir,
She bears an eye more dreadful than your weapon.
_Ism._ What a sweet nature this man has! dear brother,
Put up your sword.
_Ter._ Let them put up and walk then:
_Ant._ No more loud words: there's time enough before us:
For shame put up, do honor to these beauties:
_Mar._ Our way is this,
We will not be denyed it.
_Ter._ And ours is this, we will not be cross'd in it.
_Ant._ What ere your way is (Lady) 'tis a fair one;
And may it never meet with rude hands more,
Nor rough uncivil Tongues. [_Exeunt._
_Ism._ I thank ye Sir,
Indeed I thank ye nobly: a brave Enemy,
Here's a sweet temper now: This is a man (Brother)
This Gentleman's anger is so nobly seated,
That it becomes him: Yours proclaim ye Monsters.
What if he be our House-Foe? we may brag on't:
We have ne'er a friend in all our House so honorable:
I had rather from an Enemy, my Brother,
Learn worthy distances and modest difference,
Than from a race of empty friends, loud nothings:
I am hurt between ye.
_Am._ So am I, I fear too:
[I am sure their swords were between my leggs]: Dear Cosen
Why look ye pale? where are ye hurt?
_Ism._ I know not,
But here methinks.
_Lis._ Unlace her gentle Cousen.
_Ism._ My heart, my heart, and yet I bless the Hurter.
_Am._ Is it so dangerous?
_Ism._ Nay, nay, I faint not.
_Am._ Here is no blood that I find, sure 'tis inward:
_Ism._ Yes, yes, 'tis inward: 'twas a subtle weapon,
The hurt not to be cur'd I fear.
_Lis._ The Coach there.
_Am._ May be a fright.
_Ism. Aminta_, 'twas a sweet one,
And yet a cruel.
_Am._ Now I find the wound plain:
A wondrous handsome Gentleman.
_Ism._ Oh no deeper:
Prethee be silent, (wench) it may be thy case.
_Am._ You must be searched; the wound will rancle, Cosen
And of so sweet a nature.
_Ism._ Dear _Aminta_:
Make it not sorer.
_Am._ And on my life admires ye.
_Ism._ Call the Coach, Cosen.
_Am._ The Coach, the Coach.
_Ter._ 'Tis ready bring the Coach there.
_Lis._ Well my brave Enemies, we shall yet meet ye,
And our old hate shall testifie.
_Ter._ It shall (Cosen.) [_Exeunt._
_Scaena Secunda._
_Enter_ Antonio _and_ Martine.
_Ant._ Their swords, alass, I weigh 'em not (dear Friend)
The indiscretion of the Owners blunts 'em;
The fury of the House affrights not me,
It spends it self in words: (Oh me _Martine_)
There was a two edg'd eye, a Lady carried
A weapon that no valor can avoyd,
Nor Art (the hand of Spirit) put aside.
O Friend, it broke out on me like a bullet
Wrapt in a cloud of fire: that point (_Martine_)
Dazled my sence, and was too subtle for me,
Shot like a Comet in my face, and wounded
(To my eternal ruine,) my hearts valor.
_Mar._ Methinks she was no such piece.
_Ant._ Blaspheme not Sir,
She is so far beyond weak commendation,
That impudence will blush to think ill of her.
_Mar._ I see it not, and yet I have both eyes open:
And I could judge, I know there is no beauty
Till our eyes give it 'em, and make 'em handsome;
What's red and white, unless we do allow 'em?
A green face else; and me-thinks such an other.
_Ant._ Peace thou leud Heretick; Thou judge of beauties?
Thou hast an excellent sense for a sign-post (Friend)
Dost thou not see? I'll swear thou art soon blind else,
As blind as ignorance; when she appeared first
_Aurora_ breaking in the east, and through her face,
As if the hours and graces had strew'd Roses,
A blush of wonder flying; when she was frighted
At our uncivil swords, didst thou not mark
How far beyond the purity of snow
The soft wind drives, whiteness of innocence,
Or any thing that bears Celestial paleness,
She appear'd o'th'sodain? Didst thou not see her tears
When she intreated? O thou Reprobate!
Didst thou not see those orient tears flow'd from her,
The little Worlds of Love? A set (_Martine_)
Of such sanctified Beads, and a holy heart to love
I could live ever a Religious Hermite.
_M[a]r._ I do believe a little, and yet methinks
She was of the lowest stature.
_Ant._ A rich Diamond
Set neat and deep, Natures chief Art (_Martine_)
Is to reserve her Models curious,
Not cumbersome and great; and such an one
For fear she should exceed, upon her matter
Has she fram'd this; Oh 'tis a spark of beauty,
And where they appear so excellent in little,
They will but flame in great; Extention spoils 'em:
_Martine_ learn this, the narrower that our eyes
Keep way unto our object, still the sweeter
That comes unto us: Great bodies are like Countries,
Discovering still, toyl and no pleasure finds 'em.
_Mar._ A rare Cosmographer for a small Island,
Now I believe she is handsome.
_Ant._ Believe heartily,
Let thy belief, though long a coming, save thee.
_Mar._ She was (certain) fair.
_Ant._ But heark ye (friend _Martine_)
Do not believe your self too far before me,
For then you may wrong me, Sir.
_Mar._ Who bid ye teach me?
Do you show me meat, and stitch my lips (_Antonio_?)
Is that fair play?
_Ant._ Now if thou shouldst abuse me,
And yet I know thee for an errant wencher,
A most immoderate thing, thou canst not love long.
_Mar._ A little serves my turn, I fly at all games,
But I believe.
_Ant._ How if we never see her more?
She is our enemy.
_Mar._ Why are you jealous then?
As far as I conceive she hates our whole House.
_Ant._ Yet (good _Martine_)
_Mar._ | 1,779.376506 |
2023-11-16 18:46:43.3566260 | 7,222 | 15 | (1856-1876)***
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION v
DATE
1856. NEUTRALITY OF THE BLACK SEA 1
1856. AN UP-TO-DATE MAIL STEAMER 2
1857. RUBINSTEIN IN LONDON 3
1857. FIRST DISTRIBUTION OF THE VICTORIA CROSS 4
1857. REINFORCEMENTS FOR INDIA 5
1857. SIEGE AND RELIEF OF LUCKNOW 9
1858. “CONSPIRACY TO MURDER” BILL 12
1858. FORCING OF THE PEIHO RIVER 13
1858. ADMISSION OF JEWS TO PARLIAMENT 16
1858. AN INADEQUATE NAVY 17
1859. VOLUNTEER RIFLE CORPS 18
1859. NAPOLEON III. AND ENGLAND 20
1859. PROGRESS OF VOLUNTEER MOVEMENT 22
1860. COMMERCIAL TREATY WITH FRANCE 25
1860. ANTI-RITUAL RIOTS 27
1860. CHINESE WAR: CAPTURE OF PEKIN 29
1860. THE FIRST BRITISH IRONCLAD 29
1861. GARIBALDI AND THE GOVERNMENT 30
1861. THE BUDGET: ABOLITION OF THE PAPER DUTY 31
1861. BRITAIN AND ITALIAN UNITY 32
1861. LOSS OF THE COTTON-SUPPLY 33
1861. THE CASE OF THE “TRENT” 34
1861. THE AFFAIR OF THE “TRENT” 37
1862. THE PEABODY TRUST FORMED 38
1862. THE “ALABAMA” CRUISER 40
1863. WAR BETWEEN NORTH AND SOUTH 41
1863. THE BUDGET: EATING THE LEEK 42
1863. DISTRESS IN THE COTTON MANUFACTURING DISTRICTS 44
1863. BRITAIN AND THE CIVIL WAR IN AMERICA (I.) 46
1863. BRITAIN AND THE CIVIL WAR IN AMERICA (II.) 47
1864. A POLICY OF MEDDLE AND MUDDLE 48
1864. ENGLAND AND THE ATTACK ON DENMARK 50
1865. THE ATLANTIC CABLE: SCENE IN IRELAND 52
1865. THE FENIAN CONSPIRACY (I.) 55
1865. THE FENIAN CONSPIRACY (II.) 57
1865. DEATH OF LORD PALMERSTON 57
1866. THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 58
1866. SUCCESSFUL LAYING OF THE ATLANTIC CABLE 60
1866. REFORM DEMONSTRATION AT MANCHESTER 61
1867. ATTEMPTED FENIAN RAID AT CHESTER 62
1867. REFORM BILL: THREE CORNERED CONSTITUENCIES 65
1867. ABYSSINIAN CAPTIVES 67
1868. DISRAELI’S “MAUNDY THURSDAY” LETTER 69
1868. ABYSSINIAN WAR: CAPTURE OF MAGDALA 71
1868. DISESTABLISHMENT OF THE IRISH CHURCH 73
1869. IRISH CHURCH BILL: CRITICAL DAYS 75
1870. THE IRISH LAND BILL 78
1870. EDUCATION BILL: THE COWPER-TEMPLE CLAUSE 81
1870. THE GOVERNMENT AND THE FRANCO-GERMAN WAR 83
1871. MR. LOWE’S BUDGET: THE MATCH-TAX (I.) 84
1871. MR. LOWE’S BUDGET: THE MATCH-TAX (II.) 84
1871. PURCHASE IN THE ARMY ABOLISHED BY ROYAL WARRANT 85
1871. FIRST AUGUST BANK HOLIDAY 86
1871. BIBLE READING IN SCHOOLS 87
1872. THE GENEVA ARBITRATION: THE INDIRECT CLAIMS 89
1872. AN EARLY ELECTION UNDER THE BALLOT ACT 90
1872. THE “ALABAMA” ARBITRATION AWARD 93
1873. REFUSAL OF DISRAELI TO TAKE OFFICE WITHOUT A MAJORITY 94
1873. FIRST LONDON HOSPITAL SUNDAY 98
1874. THE ASHANTEE WAR: FALL OF COOMASSIE 99
1874. FUNERAL OF DR. LIVINGSTONE 103
1874. DISRAELI ON PARTIES IN THE CHURCH 104
1875. THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION 106
1875. PURCHASE OF SUEZ CANAL SHARES (AN OPPOSITION VIEW) 110
1876. DISRAELI’S AIMS IN POLITICS 114
1876. A SPIRITED SPEECH BY DISRAELI 114
1876. THE EASTERN QUESTION: SOME FIERY SPEECHES 115
FROM PALMERSTON TO DISRAELI
(1856–1876)
NEUTRALITY OF THE BLACK SEA (1856).
=Source.=--_Annual Register_, 1856, vol. 98; _State Papers_, pp.
310–312.
TREATY OF PARIS.
ARTICLE XI.--The Black Sea is neutralised; its waters and its ports
thrown open to the mercantile marine of every nation, are formally and
in perpetuity interdicted to the flag of war, either of the Powers
possessing its coasts, or of any other Power, with the exceptions
mentioned in Articles XIV. and XIX. of the present Treaty.
ARTICLE XII.--Free from any impediment, the commerce in the ports
and waters of the Black Sea shall be subject only to the regulations
of health, customs, and police, framed in a spirit favourable to the
development of commercial transactions.
In order to afford to the commercial and maritime interests of every
nation the security which is desired, Russia and the Sublime Porte will
admit Consuls into their ports situated upon the coast of the Black
Sea, in conformity with the principles of international law.
ARTICLE XIII.--The Black Sea being neutralised according to the terms
of Article XI., the maintenance or establishment upon its coast of
military-maritime arsenals becomes alike unnecessary and purposeless;
in consequence, His Majesty the Emperor of all the Russias and His
Imperial Majesty the Sultan engage not to establish or maintain upon
that coast any military-maritime arsenal.
ARTICLE XIV.--Their Majesties the Emperor of all the Russias and the
Sultan having concluded a convention for the purpose of settling
the force and the number of light vessels necessary for the service
of their coasts which they reserve to themselves to maintain in the
Black Sea, that convention is annexed to the present Treaty, and shall
have the same force and validity as if it had formed an integral part
thereof. It cannot be either annulled or modified without the assent of
the Powers signing the present Treaty.
ARTICLE XIX.--In order to insure the execution of the regulations which
shall have been established by common agreement, in conformity with the
principles declared above, each of the contracting Powers shall have
the right to station, at all times, two light vessels at the mouth of
the Danube.
* * * * *
Convention between the Emperor of Russia and the Sultan limiting their
naval force in the Black Sea.
ARTICLE I.--The High Contracting Parties mutually engage not to have in
the Black Sea any other vessels of war than those of which the number,
the force, and the dimensions are hereinafter stipulated.
ARTICLE II.--The High Contracting Parties reserve to themselves each to
maintain in that sea 6 steamships of 50 metres in length at the time of
flotation, of a tonnage of 800 tons at the maximum, and 4 light steam
or sailing vessels of a tonnage which shall not exceed 200 tons each.
AN UP-TO-DATE MAIL STEAMER (1856).
=Source.=--_Annual Register_, 1856, vol. 98; _Chronicle_, p. 1.
A magnificent iron paddle-wheel steamship the _Persia_, built by Napier
and Sons, of Glasgow, for the Cunard Company, has made her trial trip.
This ship will be the largest steamship afloat in the world, until
another shall have been built which shall surpass her. Such have been
the advances made in our ideas of ships, and especially of steamships
of late years, that the giant of to-day is the pigmy of to-morrow;
and the chief use of these records is to show what was a magnificent
ship at the commencement of 1856. The _Persia_ is built of iron; her
dimensions are: Length from figurehead to taffrail, 390 feet; length in
the water, 360 feet; breadth of the hull, 45 feet; breadth over all, 71
feet; depth, 32 feet; burden, 3,600 tons; diameter of paddle-wheels, 40
feet.
By the Government rule of measure, her steam-power would be equal to
900 horses; according to Watt’s mode of reckoning it would be equal to
4,000 horses at least. The ship is of beautiful model, and combined so
as to secure the greatest mechanical strength. Her keel-plates are of
sheet-iron, 11/16 of an inch thick; the bottom plates 15/16; up to the
water-line, 11/16. She is divided into seven water-tight compartments,
besides which she has, in effect, a double bottom. She has two engines
and eight boilers. She will afford separate and roomy accommodation
for 260 passengers, and will carry a crew of 150 men. Besides splendid
saloons and all other requisite apartments for her passengers, she has
a bakery, butcher’s shambles, scullery, cow-house, carpenter’s shop,
doctor’s shop, ice-houses, bath-rooms, and twenty water-closets. The
builders’ calculations as to her speed were not disappointed, for on
her voyage round from Glasgow to Liverpool she made an average of more
than 16 knots, or 19 miles an hour.
RUBINSTEIN IN LONDON: FIRST APPEARANCE AT A PHILHARMONIC CONCERT (1857).
=Source.=--_The Times_, May 19, 1857.
Of Herr Rubinstein, his compositions, and his performances, we would
rather not speak, but just now that there is so much charlatanism
abroad, to the detriment of genuine art, silence is not permitted. We
never listened before to such music--if music it may be called--at
the Philharmonic Concerts, and fervently trust we may never again. So
strange and chaotic a jumble as the Concerto in G defies analysis.
Not a single subject fit to be designated “phrase” or “melody” can
be traced throughout the whole dreary length of the composition;
while, to atone for the absence of every musical attribute, we look
in vain even for what abounds in the pianoforte writings of Liszt
and others of the same school--viz., the materials for displaying
mechanical facility to advantage.... As a player, Herr Rubinstein
(who, when a mere boy, paid London a visit in 1843–4) may lay claim to
the possession of extraordinary manual dexterity. His execution (more
particularly when he has passages in octaves to perform) is prodigious,
and the difficulties he surmounts with apparent ease are manifold and
astonishing. But his mechanism is by no means invariably pure; nor is
his manner of attacking the notes at all favourable to the production
of legitimate tone. A pianist should treat his instrument rather as
a friend than as an enemy, caress rather than bully it; but Herr
Rubinstein seats himself at the piano with a seeming determination to
_punish_ it, and his endeavours to extort the power of an orchestra
from that which is, after all, but an unpretending row of keys,
hammers, and strings, result in an exaggeration of style entirely
antagonistic to real musical expression.
FIRST DISTRIBUTION OF THE VICTORIA CROSS (1857).
=Source.=--_The Times_, June 27, 1857.
A new epoch in our military history was yesterday inaugurated in Hyde
Park. The old and much abused campaign medal may now be looked upon as
a reward, but it will cease to be sought after as a distinction for a
new order is instituted--an order for merit and valour, open without
regard to rank or title, to all whose conduct in the field has rendered
them prominent for courage even in the British Army. A path is left
open to the ambition of the humblest soldier--a road is open to honour
which thousands have toiled, and pined, and died in the endeavour to
attain; and private soldiers may now look forward to wearing a real
distinction which kings might be proud to have earned the right to bear.
The display of yesterday in point of numbers was a great metropolitan
gathering--it was a concourse such as only London could send forth....
A very large space--at least half a mile broad by three-quarters of
a mile long--was enclosed on the northern side of the park for the
evolution of the troops. On the side of this, nearest to Grosvenor
Gate, galleries were erected for the accommodation of 7,000 persons.
The station for the Queen was in the centre of the galleries, which
formed a huge deal semicircle, enclosing at least one-third of the
space in which the troops were formed.... It was evident, from the
arrangements made, that it was expected Her Majesty would dismount
and distribute the crosses at the table. The Queen, however, did not
dismount, but with her charger a little in advance of the suite, with
the Prince of Prussia on her right hand, and the Prince Consort on her
left, awarded the crosses from her seat on horseback. The form observed
was simple in the extreme. The order was handed to Her Majesty, and
the name and corps to which each recipient belonged mentioned as he
presented himself. The officers and men passed before the Queen in
single file, advancing close while she affixed to the breast of each
in turn the plain bronze cross, with a red riband for the army, and
a blue one for the navy. So quietly and expeditiously was this done
in every case that the whole ceremony scarcely occupied ten minutes.
There were 61 in all, of whom 12 belonged to the Royal Navy, 2 to the
Marines, 4 to the Cavalry, 5 to the Artillery, 4 to the Engineers,
and the remainder to various regiments of Infantry. Of all, 25 were
commissioned officers, 15 were warrant and non-commissioned officers,
and the others privates and common seamen.
REINFORCEMENTS FOR INDIA (1857).
=Source.=--Sir Theodore Martin’s _Life of the Prince Consort_, 4th
edit., vol. iv., pp. 78–80. (London: Smith, Elder and Co.)
LETTER FROM QUEEN VICTORIA TO LORD PALMERSTON.
OSBORNE,
_July 19, 1857_.
The Queen is anxious to impress in the most earnest manner upon her
Government the necessity of our taking a comprehensive view of our
military position at the present momentous crisis, instead of going on
without a plan, living from hand to mouth, and taking small isolated
measures without reference to each other. Contrary to the Queen’s
hopes and expectations, immediately after the late war the army was
cut down to a state even _below_ the Peace Establishment recognised
by the Government and Parliament in their own estimates, to meet the
Parliamentary pressure for economy, and this in spite of the fearful
lesson just taught by the late war, and with two wars on hand--one with
Persia, and the other with China! Out of this miserably reduced Peace
Establishment, already drawn upon for the service in China, we are now
to meet the exigencies of the Indian crisis, and the Government, as it
always has done on such occasions, has up to this time contented itself
with sending out the few regiments left at home, putting off the day
for reorganising its forces. When the regiments ordered out shall have
gone, we shall be left with 18 battalions out of 105, of which the army
is composed, to meet all home duty, to protect our own shores, to act
as the reserves and reliefs for the regiments abroad, and to meet all
possible emergencies! The regiments in India are allowed one company,
raised by the last decision of the Cabinet, to 100 men as their depot
and reserve!
A serious contemplation of such a state of things must strike everybody
with the conviction, that some _comprehensive_ and _immediate_ measure
must be taken by the Government--its _principle_ settled by the
Cabinet, and its details left to the _unfettered_ execution of the
military authorities, instead of which the Cabinet have as yet agreed
only upon recruiting certain battalions up to a certain strength,
to get back some of the men recently discharged and have measured
the extent of their plans by a probable estimate of the amount of
recruits to be obtained in a given time, declaring at the same time
to Parliament that the militia will not be called out, which would
probably have given the force required.
The Commander-in-Chief has laid a plan before the Government which the
Queen thinks upon the whole very moderate, inexpensive, and efficient.
The principle which the Queen thinks ought to be adopted is this: That
the force which has been absorbed by the Indian demand be replaced to
its full extent and in the same kind, not whole battalions by a mere
handful of recruits added to the remaining ones. This will not only
cost the Government nothing because the East India Company will pay the
battalions transferred, and the money voted for them by Parliament will
be applicable to the new ones, but it will give a considerable saving,
as all the officers reduced from the War Establishment and receiving
half-pay will be thus absorbed and no longer be a burden upon the
Exchequer. Keeping these new battalions on a low establishment, which
will naturally be the case at first, the depots and reserves should
be raised in men, the Indian depots keeping at least two companies of
one hundred men each. [The Crimean battalions of eight companies had
eight others in reserve, which, with the aid of the militiamen, could
not keep up the strength of the Service companies. In India there are
_eleven_ to be kept up by _one_ in reserve!]
No possible objection can be urged against this plan except two:
1. That we shall not get the men. This is an hypothesis and not an
argument. Try and you will see. If you do not succeed and the measure
is necessary, you will have to adopt means to make it succeed. If you
conjure up the difficulties yourself, you cannot of course succeed.
2. That the East India Company will demur to keeping permanently
so large an addition to the Queen’s army in India. The Company is
empowered, it is true, to refuse to take any Queen’s troops whom it
has not asked for, and to send back any it may no longer want. But the
Company _has_ asked for the troops now sent at great inconvenience to
the Home Government, and the commonest foresight will show that for
at least three years to come this force cannot possibly be dispensed
with--if at all. Should the time, however, arrive, the Government will
simply have to reduce the additional battalions, and the officers will
return to the half-pay list from which they were taken, the country
having had the advantage of the saving in the meantime. But the Queen
thinks it next to impossible that the European force could again be
decreased in India. After the present fearful experience, the Company
could only send back Queen’s regiments, in order to raise new European
ones of their own. This they cannot do without the Queen’s sanction,
and she must at once make her most solemn protest against such a
measure. It would be dangerous and unconstitutional to allow private
individuals to raise an army of Queen’s subjects larger than her own
in any part of the British dominions. The force would be inferior to
one continually renewed from the Mother Country, and would form no
link in the general military system of England all over the globe of
which the largest force will always be in India. The raising of new
troops for the Company in England would most materially interfere with
the recruiting of the Queen’s army, which meets already with such
great difficulties. The Company could not complain that it was put to
expense by the Home Government in having to keep so many more Queen’s
regiments; for as it cannot be so insane as to wish to reform the old
Bengal army of Sepoys, for every two of these regiments now disbanded
and one of the Queen’s substituted it would save £4,000 (a regiment
of Sepoys costing £27,000, and a Queen’s regiment £50,000). The ten
battalions to be transferred to the Company for twenty Sepoy regiments
disbanded would therefore save £40,000, instead of costing anything;
but in reality the saving to the Company would be greater, because the
half-pay and superannuation of the officers, and therefore the whole
dead weight, would fall upon the Mother Country. The only motive,
therefore, which could actuate the Company would be a palpable love of
power and patronage to which the most sacred interests of the country
ought not to be sacrificed. The present position of the Queen’s army
is a pitiable one. The Queen has just seen, in the camp at Aldershot,
regiments, which, after eighteen years’ foreign service in most trying
climates, had come back to England to be sent out after seven months to
the Crimea. Having passed through this destructive campaign, they have
not been home for a year before they are to go to India for perhaps
twenty years! This is most cruel and unfair to the gallant men who
devote their services to the country, and the Government is in duty and
humanity bound to alleviate their position.
“The Queen wishes Lord Palmerston to communicate this memorandum to the
Cabinet.”
SIEGE AND RELIEF OF LUCKNOW (1857).
=Source.=--_Annual Register_, vol. 99; _Public Documents_, pp. 455, 456.
DESPATCH FROM BRIGADIER-GENERAL HAVELOCK TO THE CHIEF OF THE STAFF TO
THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF.
RESIDENCY,
LUCKNOW,
_September 30, 1857_.
SIR,
Major-General Sir James Outram having, with characteristic generosity
of feeling, declared that the command of the force should remain in my
hands, and that he would accompany it as Civil Commissioner only, until
a junction could be effected with the gallant and enduring garrison
of this place, I have to request that you will inform His Excellency
the Commander-in-Chief that this purpose was effected on the evening
of the 25th instant. But before detailing the circumstances, I must
refer to antecedent events. I crossed the Sye on the 22nd instant, the
bridge at Bunnee not having been broken. On the 23rd I found myself in
the presence of the enemy, who had taken a strong position, his left
resting | 1,779.376666 |
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produced from images generously made available by The
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LETTERS TO SEVERALL PERSONS OF HONOUR
_This edition is limited to six hundred copies_
LETTERS TO SEVERALL PERSONS OF HONOUR
BY JOHN DONNE
THE TEXT EDITED, WITH NOTES, BY
CHARLES EDMUND MERRILL, JR.
NEW YORK
STURGIS & WALTON COMPANY
1910
COPYRIGHT, 1910
BY STURGIS & WALTON COMPANY
TO PAYSON MERRILL
QUALEM NEQUE CANDIDIOREM
TERRA TULIT, NEQUE CUI ME SIT DEVINCTIOR ALTER
NOTE
The Letters to Severall Persons of Honour, _now for the first time
reprinted in their original form, were collected and published by John
Donne, Jr., in 1651, twenty years after the death of the author.
Apparently the sales were not large, for three years later the original
sheets were rebound with a new title page and put on the market as a
second edition. Not many copies of the earlier, and still fewer of the
later date, have come down to us._
_In the present volume changes from and additions to the original text are
indicated by brackets, with a single exception: errors in punctuation have
been corrected without comment when, and only when, they seem seriously to
impair the intelligibility of the text. In the case of a few letters the
reading followed is that of the original manuscripts, for which I am
indebted to the great kindness of Mr. Edmund Gosse._
_Readers of Mr. Gosse's brilliant study_, The Life and Letters of John
Donne _(London: Heinemann, 1899) will not need to be reminded of the
obligations under which he has placed all later students of Donne's life
and work. I have, in addition, to thank him for generous encouragement and
for many helpful suggestions, specific and general._
_C. E. M., Jr._
_Huntington, Long Island
October 14, 1910._
LETTERS TO SEVERALL PERSONS OF HONOUR
[Illustration: JOHN DONNE
_From an engraving by Pierre Lombart, prefixed to the_ POEMS _of 1633,
after a portrait of Donne at the age of forty._]
(_Facsimile of Title Page of Original Edition._)
LETTERS
TO
SEVERALL PERSONS
OF HONOUR:
_WRITTEN BY_
JOHN DONNE
Sometime Deane of
_S{t} Pauls London_.
Published by JOHN DONNE D{r}. of
the Civill Law.
_LONDON_,
Printed by _J. Flesher_, for _Richard Marriot_, and are
to be sold at his shop in S{t} _Dunstans_ Church-yard
under the Dyall. 1651.
To the most virtuous
and excellent Lady, Mris.
_BRIDGET DUNCH_.
MADAM,
_It is an argument of the_ Immortality _of the_ Soul, _that it can
apprehend, and imbrace such a_ Conception; _and it may be some kinde of_
Prophecy _of the continuance and lasting of these_ Letters, _that having
been scattered, more then Sibyls leaves, I cannot say into parts, but
corners of the_ World, _they have recollected and united themselves,
meeting_ at once, _as it were, at the same spring, from whence they
flowed, but by_ Succession.
_But the piety of_ AEneas _to_ Anchises, _with the heat and fervour of his
zeale, had been dazelled and extinguished by the fire of_ Troy, _and his
Father become his Tombe, had not a brighter flame appeared in his_
Protection, _and_ Venus herself _descended with her embraces, to protect
her_ Martiall Champion; _so that there is no safer way to give a
perpetuity to this remnant of the dead Authour, but by dedicating it to
the_ Altar _of_ Beauty _and_ perfection; _and if you, Madam, be but
pleased to shed on it one beame of your_ Grace _and Favour, that very_
Adumbration _will quicken it with a new_ Spirit, _and defend it from all
fire (the fate of most Letters) but the last; which, turning these
into ashes, shall revive the Authour from his Urne, and put him into a
capacity of celebrating you, his_ Guardian Angell, _who has protected that
part of his Soul, that he left behinde him, his_ Fame _and_ Reputation.
_The courtesies that you conferre upon the living may admit of some allay,
by a possibility of a_ Retaliation; _but what you bestow upon the_ Dead
_is a Sacrifice to_ pure Virtue; _an ungifted Deity, 'tis true, without_
Oblation, Altar, _or_ Temple, _if she were not enshrined in your_ noble
brest, _but I must forever become her votary, if it be but for giving me
this_ Inclination, _and_ desire _of being_
Madam
Your most humble servant
_Jo. Donne_.
A COLLECTION of Letters written to severall Persons of Honour.
[i.]
_To the worthiest Lady M{rs}_ Bridget White.
MADAME,
I could make some guesse whether souls that go to heaven, retain any
memory of us that stay behinde, if I knew whether you ever thought of us,
since you enjoyed your heaven, which is your self, at home. Your going
away hath made _London_ a dead carkasse. A Tearm and a Court do a little
spice and embalme it, and keep it from putrefaction, but the soul went
away in you: and I think the onely reason why the plague is somewhat
slackned is because the place is dead already, and no body left worth the
killing. Wheresoever you are, there is _London_ enough: and it is a
diminishing of you to say so, since you are more then the rest of the
world. When you have a desire to work a miracle, you will return hither,
and raise the place from the dead, and the dead that are in it; of which I
| 1,779.379405 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: HE WILDLY TORE AT EVERYTHING AND HURLED IT DOWN
ON HIS PURSUERS _Page_ 86 _Frontispiece_]
Mr. Midshipman Glover, R.N.
A Tale of the Royal Navy of To-day
BY
SURGEON REAR-ADMIRAL
T. T. JEANS, C.M.G., R.N.
Author of "John Graham, Sub-Lieutenant, R.N."
"A Naval Venture" &c.
_Illustrated by Edward S. Hodgson_
BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
LONDON AND GLASGOW
1908
By
Surgeon Rear-Admiral
T. T. Jeans
The Gun-runners.
John Graham, Sub-Lieutenant, R.N.
A Naval Venture.
Gunboat and Gun-runner.
Ford of H.M.S. "Vigilant".
On Foreign Service.
Mr. Midshipman Glover, R.N.
_Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow_
*Preface*
In this story of the modern Royal Navy I have endeavoured, whilst
narrating many adventures both ashore and afloat, to portray the habits
of thought and speech of various types of officers and men of the Senior
Service who live and serve under the White Ensign to-day.
To do this the more graphically I have made some of the leading
characters take up, from each other, the threads of the story and
continue the description of incidents from their own points of view; the
remainder of the tale is written in the third person as by an outside
narrator.
I hope that this method will be found to lend additional interest to the
book.
I have had great assistance from several Gunnery, Torpedo, and Engineer
Lieutenants, who have read the manuscripts as they were written,
corrected many errors of detail, and made many useful suggestions.
The story may therefore claim to be technically correct.
T. T. JEANS,
SURGEON REAR-ADMIRAL, ROYAL NAVY
*Contents*
CHAP.
I. The Luck of Midshipman Glover
II. Helston receives a Strange Letter
III. The Fitting Out of a Squadron
IV. The Pirates are not Idle
V. The Squadron leaves hurriedly
VI. The Voyage East
VII. The Pursuit of the Patagonian
VIII. Mr. Ping Sang is Outwitted
IX. Captain Helston Wounded
X. Destroyer "No. 1" Meets her Fate
XI. The Action off Sin Ling
XII. A Council of War
XIII. The Avenging of Destroyer "No. 1"
XIV. Night Operations
XV. Mr. Midshipman Glover Tells how he was Wounded
XVI. Captain Helston's Indecision
XVII. Spying Out the Pirates
XVIII. The Escape from the Island
XIX. Cummins Captures One Gun Hill
XX. The Fight for One Gun Hill
XXI. On One Gun Hill
XXII. The Final Attack on the Hill
XXIII. The Attack on the Forts
XXIV. The Capture of the Island
XXV. The Fruits of Victory
XXVI. Home Again
*Illustrations*
He wildly tore at everything and hurled it down on his pursuers...
_Frontispiece_
I struck at him with my heavy malacca stick
The sinking of the Pirate Torpedo-Boat
The Commander and Jones overpower the Two Sentries
Map Illustrating the Operations Against the Pirates
[Illustration: MAP ILLUSTRATING THE OPERATIONS AGAINST THE PIRATES]
*CHAPTER I*
*The Luck of Midshipman Glover*
Ordered Abroad. Hurrah!
_Midshipman Glover explains how Luck came to him_
It all started absolutely unexpectedly whilst we were on leave and
staying with Mellins in the country.
When I say "we", I mean Tommy Toddles and myself. His real name was
Foote, but nobody ever called him anything but "Toddles", and I do
believe that he would almost have forgotten what his real name actually
was if it had not been engraved on the brass plate on the lid of his sea
chest, and if he had not been obliged to have it marked very plainly on
his washing.
We had passed out of the _Britannia_ a fortnight before--passed out as
full-blown midshipmen, too, which was all due to luck--and were both
staying with Christie at his pater's place in Somerset.
It was Christie whom we called Mellins, because he was so tremendously
fat; and though he did not mind us doing so in the least, it was rather
awkward whilst we were staying in his house, for we could hardly help
calling his pater "Colonel Mellins".
You see, he was even fatter than Mellins himself, and the very first
night we were there--we were both just a little nervous--Toddles did
call him Colonel Mellins when we wished him "Good-night", and he glared
at us so fiercely, that we slunk up to our room and really thought we | 1,779.573364 |
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[Transcriber’s Note:
Text delimited by equal signs (=) is bold.
Text delimited by pound signs (#) is gesperrt.]
Text delimited by underscores (_) is italics.
=Catalogue B=]
_London, 11, New Burlington Street,
March, 1890._
#_SELECTION_#
FROM
J. & A. CHURCHILL’S GENERAL CATALOGUE
COMPRISING
_ALL RECENT WORKS PUBLISHED BY THEM_
ON THE
ART AND SCIENCE OF MEDICINE
[Illustration]
=N.B.--As far as possible, this List is arranged in the order in
which medical study is usually pursued.=
J. & A. CHURCHILL publish for the following Institutions and Public
Bodies:--
=ROYAL COLLEGE OF SURGEONS.=
CATALOGUES OF THE MUSEUM.
Twenty-three separate Catalogues (List and Prices can be obtained
of J. & A. Churchill).
=GUY’S HOSPITAL.=
REPORTS BY THE MEDICAL AND SURGICAL STAFF. Vol. XXX., Third Series.
7s. 6d.
FORMULÆ USED IN THE HOSPITAL IN ADDITION TO THOSE IN THE B.P. 1s.
6d.
=LONDON HOSPITAL.=
PHARMACOPŒIA OF THE HOSPITAL. 3s.
=ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S HOSPITAL.=
CATALOGUE OF THE ANATOMICAL AND PATHOLOGICAL MUSEUM. Vol.
I.--Pathology. 15s. Vol. II.--Teratology, Anatomy and Physiology,
Botany. 7s. 6d.
=ST. GEORGE’S HOSPITAL.=
REPORTS BY THE MEDICAL AND SURGICAL STAFF. The last Volume (X.) was
issued in 1880. Price 7s. 6d.
CATALOGUE OF THE PATHOLOGICAL MUSEUM. 15s.
SUPPLEMENTARY CATALOGUE (1882). 5s.
=ST. THOMAS’S HOSPITAL.=
REPORTS BY THE MEDICAL AND SURGICAL STAFF. Annually. Vol. XVII.,
New Series. 7s. 6d.
=MIDDLESEX HOSPITAL.=
CATALOGUE OF THE PATHOLOGICAL MUSEUM. 12s.
=WESTMINSTER HOSPITAL.=
REPORTS BY THE MEDICAL AND SURGICAL STAFF. Annually. Vol. IV. 6s.
=ROYAL LONDON OPHTHALMIC HOSPITAL.=
REPORTS BY THE MEDICAL AND SURGICAL STAFF. Half-yearly. Vol. XII.,
Part IV. 5s.
=OPHTHALMOLOGICAL SOCIETY OF THE UNITED KINGDOM.=
TRANSACTIONS. Vol. IX. 12s. 6d.
=MEDICO-PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION.=
JOURNAL OF MENTAL SCIENCE. Quarterly. 3s. 6d.
=PHARMACEUTICAL SOCIETY OF GREAT BRITAIN.=
PHARMACEUTICAL JOURNAL AND TRANSACTIONS. Every Saturday. 4d. each,
or 20s. per annum, post free.
=BRITISH PHARMACEUTICAL CONFERENCE.=
YEAR BOOK OF PHARMACY. 10s.
A SELECTION
FROM
J. & A. CHURCHILL’S GENERAL CATALOGUE,
COMPRISING
ALL RECENT WORKS PUBLISHED BY THEM ON THE
ART AND SCIENCE OF MEDICINE.
N.B.--_J. & A. Churchill’s Descriptive List of Works on Chemistry, Materia Medica,
Pharmacy, Botany, Photography, Zoology, the Microscope, and other Branches
of Science, can be had on application._
=Practical Anatomy=:
A Manual of Dissections. By CHRISTOPHER
HEATH, Surgeon to University College
Hospital. Seventh Edition. Revised by
RICKMAN J. GODLEE, M.S. Lond.,
F.R.C.S., Teacher of Operative Surgery,
late Demonstrator of Anatomy in
University College, and Surgeon to the
Hospital. Crown 8vo, with 24 Coloured
Plates and 278 Engravings, 15s.
=Wilson’s Anatomist’s Vade-Mecum.=
Tenth Edition. By GEORGE
BUCHANAN, Professor of Clinical Surgery
in the University of Glasgow; and HENRY
E. CLARK, M.R.C.S., Lecturer on Anatomy
at the Glasgow Royal Infirmary
School of Medicine. Crown 8vo, with
450 Engravings (including 26 Coloured
Plates), 18s.
=Braune’s Atlas of Topographical
Anatomy=, after Plane Sections of
Frozen Bodies. Translated by EDWARD
BELLAMY, Surgeon to, and Lecturer on
Anatomy, &c., at, Charing Cross Hospital.
Large Imp. 8vo, with 34 Photolithographic
Plates and 46 Woodcuts, 40s.
=An Atlas of Human Anatomy.=
By RICKMAN J. GODLEE, M.S.,
F.R.C.S., Assistant Surgeon and Senior
Demonstrator of Anatomy, University
College Hospital. With 48 Imp. | 1,779.673258 |
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A TEXT-BOOK OF PAPER-MAKING;
BY C. F. CROSS AND E. J. BEVAN (1888)
[Illustration:
COTTON. × 50.
LINEN. × 50.
ESPARTO. × 50.
MECHANICAL WOOD-PULP. × 50.
CHEMICAL WOOD-PULP. × 50.]
A
TEXT-BOOK OF
PAPER-MAKING.
BY
C. F. CROSS AND E. J. BEVAN.
[Illustration]
E. & F. N. SPON, 125, STRAND, LONDON.
NEW YORK: 35, MURRAY STREET.
1888.
PREFACE.
The practical portion of the present work has in part already appeared
as an article, by one of the authors, in ‘Spons’ Encyclopædia of the
Industrial Arts.’ Since its publication, however, many and important
improvements have been introduced in this, as in other branches of
the art of paper-making, which necessitated considerable additions to
the original article. It has at the same time been to a great extent
re-written, and, as the authors hope, improved.
Our object in writing this book has been to bring before students and
others the principles upon which scientific paper-making should be
conducted, a concise exposition of which has not, we believe, been
hitherto attempted.
Considerable prominence has been given to this aspect of the subject,
possibly at the expense of what some may consider more essential
details.
A belief in the importance of a thorough scientific training for
paper-makers has dictated the style and purpose of the book.
We have not thought it necessary to enter into minute details
respecting the construction of machinery, &c.; for these the reader
is referred to such works as Hofmann’s Treatise on the Manufacture of
Paper.
Much of the scientific portion is here published for the first time.
Part of it has already appeared in the form of papers read before
various societies.
The chapter relating to the Treatment of Wood formed the subject of an
essay, which obtained the prize offered by the Scottish Paper-makers’
Association, in connection with the Edinburgh Forestry Exhibition, 1884.
We would here express our obligations to Messrs. G. and W. Bertram,
Messrs. Masson, Scott, and Bertram, Messrs. Rœckner and Co., and
others, for their courtesy in furnishing us with the drawings from
which the illustrations were prepared; to Dr. C. R. A. Wright, F.R.S.,
who kindly communicated the substance of the chapter on the Action of
Cuprammonium on Cellulose; to Mr. Carl Christensen, for drawings and
information regarding the manufacture of mechanical wood-pulp; also
to the following friends, among others, who have, in various ways,
rendered us important assistance:—Messrs. R. C. Menzies, C. M. King, G.
E. Davis, A. Beckwith, and C. Beadle.
Finally, we would tender our thanks to Mr. C. G. Warnford Lock for the
care he has bestowed on the editing of the book. The indexing and the
Chapter on Statistics are entirely his production.
C. F. CROSS and E. J. BEVAN.
4, NEW COURT, LINCOLN’S-INN, W.C.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. . . 1
CHAPTER I.
CELLULOSE—THE CHEMICAL PROPERTIES OF TYPICAL MEMBERS OF
THE CELLULOSE GROUP, WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR NATURAL
HISTORY. . . 4
CHAPTER II.
PHYSICAL STRUCTURE OF FIBRES—MICROSCOPICAL EXAMINATION
. . . 30
CHAPTER III.
CHEMICAL ANALYSIS OF PLANT SUBSTANCES. . . 42
CHAPTER IV.
AN ACCOUNT OF THE CHEMICAL AND PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS
OF THE PRINCIPAL RAW MATERIALS. . . 46
CHAPTER V.
PROCESSES FOR ISOLATING CELLULOSE FROM PLANT SUBSTANCES
. . . 62
CHAPTER VI.
SPECIAL TREATMENT OF VARIOUS FIBRES—BOILERS, BOILING
PROCESSES, &C.. . . 79
CHAPTER VII.
BLEACHING. | 1,779.689853 |
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GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.
VOL. XXXIII. PHILADELPHIA, NOVEMBER, 1848. NO. 5.
THE BRIDE OF FATE.
A TALE: FOUNDED UPON EVENTS IN THE EARLY HISTORY OF VENICE.
BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.
It was a glad day in Venice. The eve of the feast of the Purification
had arrived, and all those maidens of the Republic, whose names had
been written in the "Book of Gold," were assembled with their parents,
their friends and lovers--a beautiful and joyous crowd--repairing, in
the gondolas provided by the Republic, to the church of San Pietro de
Castella, at Olivolo, which was the residence of the Patriarch. This
place was on the extreme verge of the city, a beautiful and isolated
spot, its precincts almost without inhabitants, a ghostly and small
priesthood excepted, whose grave habits and taciturn seclusion seemed
to lend an additional aspect of solitude to the | 1,779.779751 |
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UNCLE SAM'S BOYS IN THE RANKS
Or
Two Recruits in the United States Army
by
H. IRVING HANCOCK
Author of The Motor Boat Club Series, The High School Series, The West
Point Series, The Annapolis Series, The Young Engineers' Series, Etc.,
Etc.
Illustrated
[Illustration: "And These Are Your Applications?"
_Frontispiece._]
Philadelphia
Henry Altemus Company
Copyright, 1910, by Howard E. Altemus
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A LESSON IN RESPECT FOR THE UNIFORM 7
II. AT THE RECRUITING OFFICE 25
III. THE ORDEAL OF EXAMINATION 37
IV. MRS. BRANDERS GETS A NEW VIEW 54
V. IN THE AWKWARD SQUAD 63
VI. THE TROUBLE WITH CORPORAL SHRIMP 79
VII. WHEN THE GUARD CAME 93
VIII. THE CALL TO COMPANY FORMATION 104
IX. ORDERED TO THE THIRTY-FOURTH 112
X. A SWIFT CALL TO DUTY 123
XI. GUARDING THE MAIL TRAIN 129
XII. THE ROOKIES REACH FORT CLOWDRY 139
XIII. "TWO NEW GENERALS AMONG US" 149
XIV. THE SQUAD ROOM HAZING 158
XV. PRIVATE BILL HOOPER LEARNS 167
XVI. THE MYSTERY OF POST THREE 178
XVII. HAL UNDER A FIRE OF QUESTIONS 190
XVIII. THE ANONYMOUS LETTER 198
XIX. A SECRET COWARD 206
XX. THE LUCK OF THE YOUNG RECRUIT 212
XXI. THE DUEL IN THE DARK 221
XXII. CAPTAIN CORTLAND HEADS THE PURSUIT 229
XXIII. THE STIRRING GAME AT DAWN 238
XXIV. CONCLUSION 250
Uncle Sam's Boys in the Ranks
CHAPTER I
A LESSON IN RESPECT FOR THE UNIFORM
"AW, what's the difference between a soldier and a loafer?" demanded
"Bunny" Hepburn.
"A soldier ain't a loafer, and it takes nerve to be a soldier. It's a
job for the bravest kind of a man," retorted Jud Jeffers indignantly.
"Answer my c'nundrum," insisted Bunny.
"It ain't a decent conundrum," retorted Jud, with dignity, for his
father had served as a volunteer soldier in the war with Spain.
"Go on, Bunny," broke in another boy in the group, laughing. "I'll be
the goat. What is the difference between a soldier and a loafer?"
"A soldier gets paid and fed, and the other loafer doesn't," retorted
Bunny, with a broadening grin. A moment later, when he realized that his
"joke" had failed to raise a laugh, Bunny looked disappointed.
"Aw, go on," flared up Jud Jeffers. "You don't know anything about a
soldier."
"But my dad does," retorted Bunny positively. "Dad says soldiers don't
produce anything for a living; that they take their pay out of the
pockets of the public, and then laugh at the public for fools."
"And what does your father do for a living?" demanded Jud hotly.
"He's a man who knows a lot, and he lectures," declared Bunny, swelling
with importance. "When my dad talks a whole lot of men get excited and
cheer him."
"Yes, and they buy him beer, too," jeered Jud, hot with derision for the
fellow who was running down the soldiers of the United States. "Your
father does his lecturing in small, dirty halls, where there's always a
beer saloon underneath. You talk about men being producers--and your
father goes around making anarchistic speeches to a lot of workingmen
who are down on everything because they aren't clever enough to earn as
good wages as sober, industrious and capable workmen earn."
"Speech, Jud!" laughingly roared another boy in the crowd that now
numbered a score of youngsters.
"Don't you dare talk against my dad!" sputtered Bunny, doubling his
fists and trying to look fierce.
"Then don't say anything against soldiers," retorted Jud indignantly.
"My father was one. I tell you, soldiers are the salt of the earth."
"Say, but they're a fine and dandy-looking lot, anyway," spoke up Tom
Andrews, as he turned toward the post-office window in front of which
the principal actors in this scene were standing. The place was one of
the smaller cities in New Jersey.
In the post-office window hung a many-colored poster, headed "Recruits
Wanted for the United States Army." Soldiers of the various arms of the
service were shown, and in all the types of uniforms worn on the
different occasions.
"Oh, yes, they're a fine and dandy lot of loafers--them soldiers!"
declared Bunny Hepburn contemptuously.
This opinion might not have gotten him into trouble, but he emphasized
his opinion by spitting straight at the glass over the center of the
picture.
"You coward!" choked Jud.
Biff!
Jud Jeffer's fist shot out, with all the force there is in
fourteen-year-old muscle. The fist caught Bunny Hepburn on the side of
the face and sent him sprawling.
"Good for you, Jud!" roared several of the young boys together.
"Go for him, Jud! He's mad, and wants it," called Tom Andrews.
Bunny was mad, all the way through, even before he leaped to his feet.
Yet Bunny was not especially fond of fighting, and his anger was
tempered with caution.
"You dassent do that again," he taunted, dancing about before Jud.
"I will, if you give me the same cause," replied Jud.
Bunny deliberately repeated his offensive act. Then he dodged, but not
fast enough. Jud Jeffer's, his eyes ablaze with righteous indignation,
sent the troublesome one to earth again.
This time Bunny got up really full of fight.
From the opposite side of the street two fine-looking young men of about
eighteen had seen much of what had passed.
"Let's go over and separate them, Hal," proposed the quieter looking of
the pair.
"If you like, Noll, though that young Hepburn rascal deserves about all
that he seems likely to get."
"Jud Jeffers is too decent a young fellow to be allowed to soil his
hands on the Hepburn kid," objected Oliver Terry quietly.
So he and Hal Overton hastened across the street.
Bunny Hepburn was now showing a faint daub of crimson at the lower end
of his nose. Bunny was the larger boy, but Jud by far the braver.
"Here, better stop all of this," broke in Hal good-naturedly, reaching
out and grabbing angry Bunny by the coat collar.
Noll rested a rather friendly though detaining hand on Jud Jeffers's
shoulder.
"Lemme at him!" roared Bunny.
"Yes! Let 'em finish it!" urged three or four of the younger boys.
"What's it all about, anyway?" demanded Hal Overton.
"That fellow insulted his country's uniform. It's as bad as insulting
the Flag itself!" contended Jud hotly.
"That's right," nodded Hal Overton grimly. "I think I saw the whole
thing. You're right to be mad about it, Jud, but this young what-is-it
is too mean for you to soil your hands on him. Now, see here,
Hepburn--right about face for you!"
Hal's grip on the boy's coat collar tightened as he swung Bunny about
and headed him down the street.
"Forward, quick time, march! And don't stop, either, Hepburn, unless you
want to hear Jud pattering down the street after you."
Hal's first shove sent Bunny darting along for a few feet. Bunny
discreetly went down the street several yards before he halted and
lurched into a doorway, from which he peered out with a still hostile
look on his face.
"Your view of the uniform, and of the old Flag, is all right, Jud, and
I'm mighty glad to find that you have such views," Hal continued. "But
you mustn't be too severe on a fellow like Bunny Hepburn. He simply
can't rise above his surroundings, and you know what a miserable,
egotistical, lying, slanderous fellow his father is. Bunny's father
hates the country he lives in, and would set everybody to tearing down
the government. That's the kind of a brainless anarchist Hepburn is, and
you can't expect his dull-witted son to know any more than the father
does. But you keep on, Jud, always respecting the soldier and his
uniform, and the Flag that both stand behind."
"It gets on a good many of us," spoke up Tom Andrews, "to hear Bunny
always running down the soldiers. He believes all his father says, so he
keeps telling us that we're a nation of crooks and thieves, that the
government is the rottenest ever, and that our soldiers and sailors are
the biggest loafers of the whole American lot."
"It's enough to disgust anybody," spoke up Oliver Terry quietly. "But,
boys, people who talk the way the Hepburns do are never worth fighting
with. And, unless they're stung hard, they won't fight, anyway."
"Oh, won't they?" growled Bunny, who, listening to all this talk with a
flaming face, now retreated down the street. "Wait until I tell dad all
about this nonsense about the Flag and the uniform!"
Hal and Noll stood for some moments gazing at the attractive recruiting
poster in the post-office window. One by one the boys who had gathered
went off in search of other interest or sport, until only Jud and Tom
remained near the two older boys.
"I reckon you think I was foolish, don't you, Hal?" asked Jud, at last.
"No; not just that," replied Overton, turning, with a smile. "No
American can ever be foolish to insist on respect for the country's Flag
and uniform."
"I simply can't stand by and hear soldiers sneered at. My father was a
soldier, you know, even if he was only a war-time volunteer, and didn't
serve a whole year."
"When you get out of patience with fellows like Bunny Hepburn,"
suggested Noll Terry, "just you compare your father with a fellow like
Bunny's father. You know, well enough, that your father, as a useful and
valuable citizen, is worth more than a thousand Hepburns can ever be."
"That's right," nodded Hal, with vigor. "And there's another man in this
town that you can compare with Bunny's father. You know Mr. Wright?
Sergeant Wright is his proper title. He's an old, retired sergeant from
the Regular Army, who served his country fighting Indians and Spaniards,
and now he has settled down here--a fine, upright, honest American,
middle aged, and with retired pay and savings enough to support him as
long as he lives. I haven't met many men as fine as Sergeant Wright."
"I know," nodded Jud, his eyes shining. "Sergeant Wright is a fine man.
Sometimes he talks to Tom and me an hour at a time, telling us all about
the campaigns he has served in. Say, Hal, you and Noll ought to call on
him and ask him for some of his grand old Indian stories."
"We know some of them," laughed Hal. "Noll and I have been calling there
often."
"You have?" said Jud gleefully. "Say, ain't Sergeant Wright one of the
finest men ever? I'll bet he's been a regular up-and-down hero himself,
though he never tells us anything about his own big deeds."
"He wears the medal of Congress," replied Hal warmly. "A soldier who
wears that doesn't need to brag."
"Say," remarked Jud thoughtfully, "I guess you two fellows are about as
much struck with the soldiers as I am."
"I'll tell you and Tom something--if you can keep a secret," replied Hal
Overton, after a side glance at his chum.
"Oh, we can keep secrets all right!" protested Tom Andrews.
"Well, then, fellows, Noll and I are going to New York to-morrow, to try
to enlist in the Regular Army."
"You are?" gasped Jud, staring at Hal and Noll in round-eyed delight.
"Oh, say, but you two ought to make dandy soldiers!"
"If the recruiting officer accepts us we'll do the best that's in us,"
smiled Hal.
"You'll be regular heroes!" predicted Jud, gazing at these two fortunate
youngsters with eyes wide open with approval.
"Oh, no, we can't be heroes," grimaced Noll. "We're going to be
regulars, and it's only the volunteers who are allowed to be heroes, you
know," added Noll jocosely. "There's nothing heroic about a regular
fighting bravely. That's his trade and his training."
"Don't you youngsters tell anyone," Hal insisted. "Or we shall be sorry
that we told you."
"What do you take us for?" demanded Jud scornfully.
Hal and Noll had had it in mind to stroll off by themselves, for this
was likely to be their last day in the home town for many a day to come.
But Jud and Tom were full of hero worship of the two budding soldier
boys, and walked along with them.
"There's Tip Branders," muttered Tom suddenly.
"I don't care," retorted Jud. "He won't dare try anything on us; and, if
he does, we can take care of him."
"What has Tip against you?" asked Hal Overton.
"He tried to thrash me, yesterday."
"Why?"
"I guess it was because I told him what I thought of him," admitted Jud,
with a grin.
"How did that happen?"
"Well, Tom and I were down in City Hall Park, sitting on one of the
benches. Tip came along and ordered us off the bench; said he wanted to
sit there himself. I told him he was a loafer and told him we wouldn't
get off the bench for anybody like him."
"And then?" asked Hal.
"Why, Tip just made a dive for me, and there was trouble in his eyes; so
I reconsidered, and made a quick get-away. So did Tom. Tip chased us a
little way, but we went so fast that we made it too much work for him.
So he halted, but yelled after us that he'd tan us the next time he got
close enough."
Tip Branders surely deserved the epithet of "loafer." Though only
nineteen he had the look of being past twenty-one. He was a big,
powerful fellow. Though he had not been at school since he was fifteen,
Tip had not worked three months in the last four years. His mother, who
kept a large and prosperous boarding-house, regarded Tip as being one of
the manliest fellows in the world. She abetted his idleness by supplying
him with too much money. Tip dressed well, though a bit loudly, and
walked with a swagger. He was in a fair way to go through life without
becoming anything more than a bully.
Hal Overton, on the other hand, was a quiet though merry young man, just
above medium height, slim, though well built, brown-haired, blue-eyed,
and a capable, industrious young fellow. The elder Overton was a clerk
in a local store. Ill-health through many years had kept the father from
prospering, and Hal, after two years in High School, had gone to work in
the same store with his father at the age of sixteen.
Oliver Terry, too, had been at work since the age of sixteen. Noll's
father was engineer at one of the local machine shops, so Noll had gone
into one of the lathe rooms, and was already accounted a very fair young
mechanic.
Both were only sons; and, in the case of each, the fathers and mothers
had felt sorry, indeed, to see the young men go to work before they had
at least completed their High School courses.
By this time the fathers of both Hal and Noll had found themselves in
somewhat better circumstances. Hal and Noll, being ambitious, had both
felt dissatisfied, of late, with their surroundings and prospects, and
both had received parental permission to better themselves if they
could. So our two young friends, after many talks, and especially with
Sergeant Wright, had decided to serve at least three years in the
regular army by way of preliminary training.
Unfortunately, few American youths, comparatively speaking, are aware of
the splendid training that the United States Army offers to a young
American. The Army offers splendid grounding for the young man who
prefers to serve but a single enlistment and then return to civil life.
But it also offers a solidly good career to the young man who enlists
and remains with the colors until he is retired after thirty years of
continuous service.
Both Hal and Noll had looked thoroughly into the question, and each was
now convinced that the Army offered him the best place in life. Both
boys had very definite ideas of what they expected to accomplish by
entering the Army, as will appear presently.
Tip--even Tip Branders--had something of an ambition in life. So far as
he had done anything, Tip had "trained" with a gang of young hoodlums
who were "useful" to the political machine in one of the tough wards of
the little city. Tip's ultimate idea was to "get a city job," at good
pay, and do little or nothing for the pay.
But Tip dreaded a civil service examination--knew, in fact, that he
could not pass one. In most American cities, to-day, an honorably
discharged enlisted man from the Army or Navy is allowed to take an
appointment to a city position without civil service examination, or
else to do so on a lower marking than would be accepted from any other
candidate for a city job.
So, curiously enough, Tip had decided to serve in the United States
Army. One term would be enough to serve his purpose.
Tip, too, had kept his resolve a secret--even from his mother.
As Hal and Noll, Jud and Tom strolled along they came up with Tip
Branders.
"So this is you, you little freshy!" growled Tip, halting suddenly, and
close to Jud. "Now I'll give ye the thrashing I promised yesterday."
His big fist shot out, making a grab for young Jeffers.
But Hal Overton caught the wrist of that hand, and shoved it back.
"That doesn't look exactly manly in you, Branders," remarked Hal
quietly.
"Oh, it doesn't, hey?" roared Tip. "What have you got to say about it?"
"Nothing in particular," admitted Hal pleasantly. "Nothing, except that
I'd rather see you tackle some one nearer your own size."
"Would, hey?" roared Tip. "O. K!"
With that he swung suddenly, and so unexpectedly that the blow caught
Hal Overton unawares, sending him to the sidewalk.
"I believe I'll take a small hand in this," murmured Noll Terry,
starting to take off his coat.
But Hal was up in a twinkling.
"Leave this to me, please, Noll," he begged, and sailed in.
Tip Branders was waiting, with an ugly grin on his face. He was far
bigger than Hal, and stronger, too. Yet, for the first few moments, Tip
had all he could do to ward off Hal's swift, clever blows.
Then Tip swung around swiftly, taking the aggressive.
It seemed like a bad mistake, for now Hal suddenly drove in a blow that
landed on Brander's nose, drawing the blood.
"Now, I'll fix ye for that!" roared Tip, after backing off for an
instant.
Just as he was about to charge again the big bully felt a strong grip on
his collar, while a deep, firm voice warned him:
"Don't do anything of the sort, Branders, or I'll have to summon an
officer to take you in."
Tip wheeled, to find himself looking into the grizzled face of Chief of
Police Blake. Tip often bragged of his political "pull," but he knew he
had none with this chief.
"I got a right to smash this fellow," blustered Tip. "He hit me."
"I'll wager you hit him first, though, or else gave young Overton good
cause for hitting you," smiled the chief. "I know Overton, and he's the
kind of boy his neighbors can vouch for. I don't know as much good of
you. But I'll tell you, Tip, how you can best win my good opinion. Take
a walk--a good, brisk walk--straight down the street. And start now!"
Something in the police chief's voice told Tip that it would be well to
obey. He did so.
"Too many young fellows like him on the street," observed Chief Blake,
with a quiet smile. "Good morning, boys."
At the next corner Hal and Noll turned.
"Oh, you're going to see Sergeant Wright?" asked Jud.
"Yes," nodded Hal. "Our last visit to him."
"Then you won't want us along," said Jud sensibly. "But say, we wish you
barrels of luck--honest--in the new life you're going into."
"Thank you," laughed Hal good-humoredly, holding out his hand.
"Send me a brass button soon, one that you've worn on your uniform
blouse, will you?" begged Jud.
"Yes," agreed Hal, "if there's nothing in the regulations against it."
"And you, Noll? Will you do as much for me?" begged Tom.
"Surely, on the same conditions," promised Noll Terry.
"But we haven't succeeded in getting into the service yet, you must
remember," Hal warned them.
"Oh, shucks!" retorted Jud. "I wish I were as sure of anything that I
want. The recruiting officer'll be tickled to death when he sees you two
walking in on him."
"I hope you're a real, true prophet, Jud," replied Hal, with a wistful
smile.
Neither of these two younger boys had any idea how utterly Hal Overton
had set his heart on entering the service, nor why. The reader will
presently discover more about the surging "why."
On one of the side streets the boys paused before the door of a cozy,
little cottage in which lived Sergeant Wright and the wife who had been
with him nearly the whole of his time in the service.
Ere they could ring the bell the door opened, and Sergeant Wright, U. S.
Army, retired, stood before them, holding out his hand.
"Well, boys," was the kindly greeting of this fine-looking, middle-aged
man, "have you settled the whole matter at home?"
"Yes," nodded Hal happily. "We go to New York, to-morrow, to try our
luck with the recruiting officer."
"Come right in, boys, and we'll have our final talk about the good old
Army," cried the retired sergeant heartily.
It was that same afternoon that Tip Branders next espied Jud and Tom
coming down a street. Tip darted into a doorway, intent on lying in wait
for the pair.
As they neared his place of hiding, however, Tip heard Jud and Tom
talking of something that changed his plan.
"What's that?" echoed Tip to himself, straining his hearing.
"Say," breathed Tom Andrews fervently, "wouldn't it be fine if we could
go to New York to-morrow morning, too, and see Hal and Noll sworn into
the United States Army?"
Tip held his breath, listening for more. He heard enough to put him in
possession of practically all of the plans of Hal and Noll.
"Oho!" chuckled Tip, as he strode away from the place later. "So that
pair of boobs are going to try for the Army. Oh, I daresay they'll get
in. But so will I--and in the same company with them. I wouldn't have
missed this for anything. I'll be the thorn in Hal Overton's side the
little while that he'll be in the service! I've more than to-day's
business to settle with that stuck-up dude!"
All of which will soon appear and be made plain.
CHAPTER II
AT THE RECRUITING OFFICE
THE solemn time came the following morning.
Both Hal and Noll were "only children," or, at least, so thought their
mothers.
Messrs. Overton and Terry, the elders, gave their sons' hands a last
strong grip. No good advice was offered by either father at parting.
That had already been attended to.
Naturally the boys' mothers cried a good bit over them. Both mothers, in
fact, had wanted to go over to New York with their sons. But the fathers
had objected that this would only prolong the pain of parting, and that
soldiers in the bud should not be unfitted for their beginnings by
tears.
So Hal and Noll met at the station, to take an early morning train.
There were no relatives to see them off. Early as the hour was, though,
Jud Jeffers and Tom Andrews had made a point of being on hand.
"We wanted to see you start," explained Jud, his face beaming and eyes
wistful with longing. "We didn't know what train you'd take, so we've
been here since half-past six."
"We may be back by early afternoon," laughed Hal.
"Not you two!" declared Jud positively. "The recruiting officer will
jump right up, shake hands with you, and drag you over to where you sign
the Army rolls."
The train came along in time to put a stop to a long conversation.
As the two would-be soldiers stepped up to the train platform Jud and
Tom did their best to volley them with cheers.
Noll blushed, darting into a car as quickly as he could, and sitting on
the opposite side of the train from these noisy young admirers.
Hal, however, good-humoredly waved his hand from a window as the train
pulled out. Then, with a very solemn face, all of a sudden, young
Overton crossed and seated himself beside his chum.
Neither boy carried any baggage whatever. If they failed to get into the
Army they would soon be home again. If they succeeded in enlisting, then
the Army authorities would furnish all the baggage to be needed.
"Take your last look at the old town, Hal," Noll urged gravely, as the
train began to move faster. "It may be years before we see the good old
place again."
"Oh, keep a stiff upper lip, Noll," smiled Hal, though he, also, felt
rather blue for the moment. "Our folks will be down to the recruit
drilling place to see us, soon, if we succeed in getting enrolled."
It hurt both boys a bit, as long as any part of their home city remained
in sight. Each tried bravely, however, to look as though going away from
home had been a frequent occurrence in their lives.
By the time that they were ten miles on their way both youngsters had
recovered their spirits. Indeed, now they were looking forward with
almost feverish eagerness to their meeting the recruiting officer.
"I hope the Army surgeon doesn't find anything wrong with our physical
condition," said Hal, at last.
"Dr. Brooks didn't," replied Noll, as confidently as though that settled
it.
"But Dr. Brooks has never been an Army surgeon," returned Hal. "He may
not know all the fine points that Army surgeons know."
"Well we'll know before the day is over," replied Noll, with a catching
of his breath. "Then, of course, we don't know whether the Army is at
present taking boys under twenty-one."
"The law allows it," declared Hal stoutly.
"Yes; but you remember Sergeant Wright told us, fairly, that sometimes,
when the right sort of recruits are coming along fast, the recruiting
officers shut down on taking any minors."
"I imagine," predicted Hal, "that much more will depend upon how we
happen, individually, to impress the recruiting officer."
In this Hal Overton was very close to being right.
The ride of more than two hours ended at last, bringing the young
would-be soldiers to the ferry on the Jersey side. As they crossed the
North River both boys admitted to themselves that they were becoming a
good deal more nervous.
"We'll get a Broadway surface car, and that will take us right up to
Madison Square," proposed Noll.
"It would take us too long," negatived Hal. "We can save a lot of time
by taking the Sixth Avenue "L" uptown and walking across to Madison
Square."
"You're in a hurry to have it over with?" laughed Noll, but there was a
slight tremor in his voice.
"I'm in a hurry to know my fate," admitted Hal.
Oliver Terry had been in New York but once before. Hal, by virtue of his
superiority in having made four visits to New York, led the way
straight to the elevated railroad. They climbed the stairs, and were
just in time to board a train.
A few minutes later they got out at Twenty-third Street, crossed to
Fifth Avenue and Broadway, then made their way swiftly over to Madison
Square.
"There's the place, over there!" cried Noll, suddenly seizing Hal's arm
and dragging him along. "There's an officer and a man, and the soldier
is holding a banner. It has something on it that says something about
recruits for the Army."
"The man you call an officer is a non-commissioned officer--a sergeant,
in fact," Hal replied. "Don't you see the chevrons on his sleeve?"
"That's so," Noll admitted slowly. "Cavalry, at that. His chevrons and
facings are yellow. It was his fine uniform that made me take him for an
officer."
"We'll go up to the sergeant and ask him where the recruiting office
is," Hal continued.
Certainly the sergeant looked "fine" enough to be an officer. His
uniform was immaculate, rich-looking and faultless. Both sergeant and
private wore the olive khaki, with handsome visored caps of the same
material.
The early April forenoon was somewhat chilly, yet the benches in the
center of the square were more than half-filled by men plainly "down on
their luck." Some of these men, of course, were hopelessly besotted or
vicious, and Uncle Sam had no use for any of these in his Army uniform.
There were other men, however, on the seats, who looked like good and
useful men who had met with hard times. Most of these men on the benches
had not breakfasted, and had no assurance that they would lunch or dine
on that day.
It was to the better elements among these men that the sergeant and the
private soldier were intended to appeal. Yet the sergeant was not
seeking unwilling recruits; he addressed no man who did not first speak
to him.
In the tidy, striking uniforms, their well-built bodies, their well-fed
appearance and their whole air of well-being, these two enlisted men of
the regular army must have presented a powerful, if mute, appeal to the
hungry unfortunate ones on the benches.
"Good morning, Sergeant," spoke Hal, as soon as the two chums had
reached the Army pair.
"Good morning, sir," replied the sergeant.
"You're in the recruiting service?" Hal continued.
"Yes, sir."
Always the invariable "sir" with which the careful soldier answers
citizens. In the Army men are taught the use of that "sir," and to look
upon all citizens as their employers.
"Then no doubt you will direct us to the recruiting office in this
neighborhood?" Hal went on.
"Certainly, sir," answered the sergeant, and wheeling still further
around he pointed north across the square to where the office was
situated.
"You can hardly miss it, sir, with the orderly standing outside," said
the sergeant, smiling.
"No, indeed," Hal agreed. "Thank you very much, Sergeant."
"You're welcome, sir. May I inquire if you are considering enlisting?"
"Both of us are," Hal nodded.
"Glad to hear it, sir," the sergeant continued, looking both boys over
with evident approval. "You look like the clean, solid, sensible, right
sort that we're looking for in the Army. I wish you both the best of
good luck."
"Thank you," Hal acknowledged. "Good morning, Sergeant."
"Good morning, sir."
Still that "sir" to the citizen. The sergeant would drop it, as far as
these two boys were concerned, if they entered the service and became
his subordinates.
It seemed to Hal and Noll as if they could not get over the ground fast
enough until they reached that doorway where the orderly stood. The
orderly directed them how to reach the office upstairs, and both boys,
after thanking him, proceeded rapidly to higher regions.
They soon found themselves before the door. It stood ajar. Inside | 1,780.005582 |
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MARGARET CAPEL.
A NOVEL.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE."
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1846.
LONDON:
Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.
MARGARET CAPEL.
CHAPTER I.
For not to think of what I need's must feel,
But to be still and patient all I can,
And haply, by abstruse research, to steal
From my own nature all the natural man:
This was my sole resource, my only plan.
COLERIDGE.
And time, that mirrors on its stream aye flowing
Hope's starry beam, despondency's dark shade;
Green early leaves, flowers in warm sunshine blowing,
Boughs by sharp winter's breath all leafless made.
ANON.
Margaret remained for more than a year in the most perfect retirement.
The solitude of Ashdale was nothing to that of Mrs. Fitzpatrick's
cottage. This tranquillity was well adapted to her state of feeling:
she never experienced a wish to interrupt it. She was sincerely attached
to her hostess. Although reserved, Mrs. Fitzpatrick was even-tempered;
and she became very fond of Margaret, whose society filled up such a
painful blank in her home. Both had suffered much, though neither ever
alluded to her sufferings: and sorrow is always a bond of union. When
first she came to Mrs. Fitzpatrick's, her health was so delicate, that
the poor lady feared she was to go through a second ordeal, similar to
the one she had lately submitted to with her own child. Margaret had a
terrible cough and frequent pain in the side, and whenever Mrs.
Fitzpatrick saw her pause on her way down stairs with her hand pressed
on her heart, or heard the well-known and distressing sound of the
cough, the memory of her daughter was almost too painfully renewed. But
Mr. Lindsay pronounced the cough to be nervous, and the pain in the side
nothing of any consequence; and though winter was stealing on, his
opinion was borne out by Margaret's rapid amendment.
Circumstances had long taught Margaret to suffer in silence: she found
then no difficulty in assuming a composure of manner that she did not
always feel; and soon the healing effects of repose and time were
visible in her demeanour. The loss of her uncle was become a softened
grief--for her other sorrow, she never named it even to herself. Yet
still if any accident suggested to her heart the name of Mr. Haveloc, it
would be followed by a sudden shock, as though a dagger had been plunged
into it. She could not bear to think of him, and it was a comfort to be
in a place where she was never likely to hear him named.
And in the beautiful country, among those fading woods, on that
irregular and romantic shore, was to be found the surest antidote for
all that she had endured--for all she might still suffer. In the soft,
yet boisterous autumn wind--in the swell of the mighty waves--in the
fresh breath, ever wafted over their foam, there was health for the
body, there was peace to the mind. The scenery was so delightful that
she was never tired of rambling--and so secluded, that there was no harm
in rambling alone. And though a beauty, and by no means a portionless
one, she found means to pass her time without an adventure, unless the
vague admiration entertained for her by a young coxcomb who was reading
for college with the clergyman, might deserve that name.
This youth, not being very skilful in shooting the sea-gulls, had
nothing on earth to do except to make love to the first pretty woman he
might encounter. He had literally no choice; for Margaret was the only
young lady in the parish. She was waylaid, stared at--was molested in
church by nosegays laid on the desk of her pew, and annoyed at home by
verses that came in with the breakfast things. She was reduced to walk
out only with Mrs. Fitzpatrick; she was debarred from sitting on the
beach--gathering nuts in the woods--even from wandering in the garden,
unless she could submit to be stared at from the other side of the
hedge. Trained, as she was, in the school of adversity, (a capital
school, by the way, to make people indifferent to minor evils), she
could not help crying with vexation when the butler coolly brought her
up the fiftieth copy of wretched verses, setting forth her charms and
her cruelty in no measured terms.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick had smiled to see the contempt with which Margaret
brushed down the first bouquet among the hassocks, and left the second
unnoticed upon the desk; even the sweet scent of the Russian violets had
not softened her resolution, and the verses wrapped round their stems
became the property of the beadle. But Mrs. Fitzpatrick, really sorry
for the annoyance of her young charge, spoke confidently to the good Mr.
Fletcher; and she had the pleasure to assure Margaret that the Hon. Mr.
Florestan was going away at Christmas. Still she had felt some surprise
and more curiosity at the conduct of so very young a girl, under such
circumstances--there had appeared no vanity, no agitation, none of the
natural emotion resulting from the novelty of inspiring a passion.
Mr. Florestan was a boy of good family; some people would have called
him a man, for he was seventeen and a half; he wrote rhymes and bought
hot-house flowers; so many girls would have been delighted at his
homage. Margaret seemed merely bored: she cried, as she said, from
absolute weariness of him and his scented paper; from the perpetual
chafing of a small annoyance. His love was too contemptible to cause a
stronger feeling; for herself she had never looked at him, and did not
know whether he was tall or short. Once or twice when Mrs. Fitzpatrick
had called to her, 'Look, Margaret, there goes your devoted swain!' she
had been so long in putting down her work, and coming to the window,
that he had turned the rocks, or the corner of the road, and the
opportunity was lost. And he actually left the place, without her ever
having seen more of him than a green coat and brass buttons, with which
he was wont to enliven their parish church every Sunday, and which being
on an exact level with her eye, she could not without affectation avoid.
Such entire indifference to a conquest, Mrs. Fitzpatrick could not
understand, and she told Margaret with a smile, that some day she would
be more indulgent to the feelings of a lover than she seemed at present.
The well-known sharp pain went through Margaret's heart as she spoke;
but she smiled too, and said she had a great respect for lovers, but she
saw no cause to enrol the Hon. Mr. Florestan in their ranks. And so the
subject dropped.
After this, many months passed in such stillness, that Margaret hardly
knew how they flew. Her only regular correspondent was Lady d'Eyncourt.
Her letters formed the one excitement of her life. It was so delightful
to trace her from place to place; to hear the little anecdotes of her
travels--even the name of Captain Gage, mentioned casually, brought back
vividly to her remembrance, the many happy days she had passed at Chirke
Weston. And in the few allusions to her husband that her letters
contained, it was evident that the devotion she felt for him before
marriage, had increased, and was still gathering strength in a degree
that it was perilous to indulge. She said, herself, that the unclouded
sunshine of her life could hardly last. To say that she adored Sir
Philip, was no figure of speech in her case. The more intimately she
became acquainted with his character, the more she found to love and to
respect. He had no _little_ faults. The reserve which repelled others,
vanished entirely with her; and the most exacting of an exacting sex,
must have been content with the measure of his fondness. She was not so
much his first, as his only object. Captain Gage often said that they
were made for each other, and neither party seemed inclined to dispute
the opinion. At last, the storm came. After an unusual silence on the
part of Elizabeth, Margaret received a letter--a few lines from Captain
Gage, announcing the terrible news of Sir Philip's death. He had been
carried off in a few weeks by a fever, at Marseilles. Elizabeth was
expecting to become a mother; and the next hurried intelligence from her
father announced the disappointment of her hopes,--and spoke of his
intention of taking her on to Italy as soon as her health would permit.
These few lines had been sent to her at the desire of Elizabeth, and she
could not but feel them a proof of her unaltered friendship.
Margaret felt, after this shock, as young people cumbered with much
feeling are apt to do, when they see and hear around them so much of
sorrow and alarm. Every thing seemed insecure; she could picture no
happiness sufficiently stable to be worth desiring; she looked round to
see what new misfortune threatened herself; she was possessed with a
feeling of vague apprehension. But her religious impressions, always
sincere, and now deepened by the experience of sorrow, enabled her in
time to combat this feeling of undue depression.
Always gentle, she became more grave than was common at her years; more
than would have been graceful in so young a person, had it not been
tempered by the remarkable sweetness of her disposition. She found too
the benefit of constant occupation. She learned that nothing so
effectually dispels regret.
Her improvement in every branch of knowledge was great enough to content
even herself; and in music, her favourite recreation, Mrs. Fitzpatrick
often told her that she could at any time have gained her living by her
proficiency.
The next event of her tranquil life was the receipt of a box of
bride-cake, and a letter from Harriet Conway. This was in the month of
November; just three months after the death of Sir Philip.
The letter, which was written in a good bold hand, ran as follows:----
"Ma mie,
"Do not take it into your head that this is a piece of my
bride-cake. Somewhere in the box you will find the cards--Lord and
Lady Raymond. I wonder if you recollect who I am. Also, I wonder if
you are as pretty as you were two years ago? To be sure you think I
might have asked the question a little earlier. But we returned from
Germany only a short time before Lucy's marriage.
"I am now at Singleton Manor, and desire you, on the receipt of
this, to set off directly, and join me there. I have your promise,
and, therefore, you cannot very well be off paying the visit. So
come instantly; I cannot endure to wait for anything; and stay as
long as ever I please.
So say Uncle and Aunt Singleton, besides the veritable mistress of
the mansion,"
"HARRIET CONWAY."
Margaret at last found the cards Harriet mentioned under a quantity of
bon-bons. She rather wondered that her friend was still Harriet Conway;
but she was glad that this singular young lady still bore her in mind.
She showed the letter to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and obtained her ready
consent to the visit. There was no objection to Margaret travelling with
Mason; a steady creature, who had been so long with her, and who could
pay the post-boys as well as a manservant.
Mason was in ecstacies. Of course she understood paying the post-boys.
She would have undertaken to pay the National Debt, if that could have
delivered her from the hated seclusion of the cottage. She confessed to
Miss Capel, in confidence, that it had really fretted her to see Miss
Capel growing handsomer every day, and not a soul coming, or likely to
come, to this wilderness of a place, since poor Mr. Florestan. She
confessed she should like to see Miss Capel have her due; and now that
she had her health again, she thought it was high time to get out of
this dungeon and mix in the world; and for that purpose, she supposed
Miss Capel would choose to have a new bonnet, and a new silk walking
dress, and a few evening dresses, and more things than she could
recollect at once; but she could sit down and make a list of them.
Margaret gratified her by leaving entirely in her hands, the reforming
of her wardrobe; and that important matter being arranged, and a warm
and reluctant farewell taken of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, she stepped into the
post-chaise that was to convey her to Singleton Manor.
She was to make one long day's journey of it--a fatiguing
performance--but she was anxious to avoid sleeping on the road.
The last few stages seemed to be interminably long; she was almost
exhausted with fatigue. It had been dark for some miles, and she was
just beginning to convince herself that there was no chance of reaching
their destination that night, when the carriage turned abruptly round;
the wheels echoed over the rough stones of a paved court-yard; lights
glimmered; the Gothic outline of a grey stone porch became visible; and
Margaret alighted at Singleton Manor.
CHAPTER II.
The gnawing envy, the heart-fretting fear,
The vain surmises, | 1,780.673178 |
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DEFICIENT SAINTS
DEFICIENT SAINTS
A Tale of Maine
BY
MARSHALL SAUNDERS
AUTHOR OF
"BEAUTIFUL JOE," "ROSE À CHARLITTE,"
"THE KING OF THE PARK," ETC.
"Keep who will the city's alleys,
Take the smooth-shorn plain,
Give to us the cedar valleys,
| 1,780.786167 |
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Internet Archive)
[Illustration: [See page 64
"I KNOW," HE SAID--"I KNOW A WAY"]
MR. TURTLE'S FLYING ADVENTURE
[Illustration: HOLLOW TREE STORIES
BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE
ILLUSTRATED BY J. M. CONDE]
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HOLLOW TREE STORIES
BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE
12mo, Cloth. Fully Illustrated
MR. TURTLE'S FLYING ADVENTURE
MR. CROW AND THE WHITEWASH
MR. RABBIT'S WEDDING
HOW MR. DOG GOT EVEN
HOW MR. RABBIT LOST HIS TAIL
MR. RABBIT'S BIG DINNER
MAKING UP WITH MR. DOG
MR. 'POSSUM'S GREAT BALLOON TRIP
WHEN JACK RABBIT WAS A LITTLE BOY
HOLLOW TREE AND DEEP WOODS BOOK
Illustrated. 8vo.
HOLLOW TREE SNOWED-IN BOOK
Illustrated. 8vo.
HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK
MR. TURTLE'S FLYING ADVENTURE
* * * * *
Copyright, 1915, 1916, 1917, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
Published October, 1917
CONTENTS
PAGE
MR. TURTLE'S FLYING ADVENTURE 9
THE DEEP WOODS ELOPEMENT 33
IN MR. MAN'S CAR 55
MR. 'POSSUM'S CAR 75
HOW MR. 'POSSUM'S TAIL BECAME BARE 99
MR. TURTLE'S FLYING ADVENTURE
MR. TURTLE TELLS ABOUT HIS CHILDHOOD AND EXPLAINS A VERY OLD FABLE
ONCE upon a time, when it was early summer in the Big Deep Woods, the
Hollow Tree people and Jack Rabbit went over to spend the day with Mr.
Turtle, who lives in a very nice stone house which he built himself on
the edge of the Wide Blue Water. Mr. Turtle fishes a good deal, and
makes most of his living that way, and knows all the best places, so
when his friends came he said that perhaps they would enjoy fishing a
little--which they could do and sit in a pleasant place at the same
time, and talk, and look out over the Wide Blue Water, which was
especially blue at this season.
[Illustration: A CATFISH NEARLY JERKED HIS POLE OUT OF HIS HANDS]
That just suited the Hollow Tree people, for they enjoyed fishing when
they had somebody to pick out a good place, and Mr. 'Possum found a nice
stump to lean back against, and presently went to sleep, but was waked
up soon after, when a big catfish nearly jerked his pole out of his
hands. Mr. 'Possum had to use all his strength to pull it out.
Then he was so proud he didn't think about going to sleep again, and
told how all his family had been quite smart at catching fish; and
pretty soon Jack Rabbit caught a good-sized perch, and Mr. '<DW53> hooked
a croppie, which got away the first time, though he caught it the next;
and Mr. Crow caught a "punkin-seed," which made the others laugh,
because it is a funny little fish; while Mr. Turtle just went right
along pulling out one kind after another, without saying a word, because
fishing is his business and doesn't excite him.
Then by and by the fish stopped biting, as they'most always do, by
spells, and the Deep Woods people leaned back and looked out over the
Wide Blue Water, and away out there saw Mr. Eagle swoop down and pick up
something which looked at first like a shoe-string; then they saw it
wriggle, and knew it was a small water-snake, which was going to be Mr.
Eagle's dinner; and they talked about it and wondered how he could enjoy
such food.
Mr. Turtle said that Mr. Eagle enjoyed a good many kinds of food, and
that he was reminded of an adventure he once had himself with Mr. Eagle,
when he (Mr. Turtle, of course) was quite small. Then they all asked Mr.
Turtle to tell them his adventure, because they thought it must have
been exciting if it was anything like the snake's adventure which they
had just witnessed. Mr. Turtle said it was--quite a good deal like it,
in some ways--then he said:
"That was the only time I ever flew, or ever had a chance to, or ever
wanted to, that I can remember. Very likely you have already heard how
once, a long time ago, I thought I could fly, and persuaded an eagle to
take me up in the air to give me a start. That old story has been told a
good deal, and I believe has even been put into some of Mr. Man's books
for his children to read."
Mr. Turtle paused, and the others all said they did remember something
of a story of that sort, but never thought it had really happened,
because, knowing Mr. Turtle as they did, they didn't believe any of his
family would try such an experiment.
"Well," said Mr. Turtle, "it did really happen, though not in the way
you have heard. You are right about thinking my family would not care to
experiment in that way, and would not do it unless somebody else
arranged it for them and gave the experiment a good start."
Mr. Turtle went on to say that in this case it was Mr. Eagle and one of
the ancient ancestors of the little water-snake he had just carried off
that had started the experiment, though he thought none of it had been
really planned.
"I was very small then," Mr. Turtle went on, "about the size of Mr.
Man's fist, though I suppose much heavier, for my shell was very thick
for my age, and everybody said that if I lived a thousand years or so I
might have a shell as big and thick as the one that Father Storm Turtle,
up at the Forks, uses to make the thunder with.[1] Then they would laugh
and say that Old Man Moccasin, up at the Drifts, would certainly have
trouble with his digestion if he ever caught me; which used to scare my
mother, for Old Man Moccasin was the biggest water-snake that anybody
ever saw, and there was nobody around the Wide Blue Water that didn't
give him room, especially fish-fry, and Mr. Frog, and young turtles like
me, and even some older ones. My mother used to warn us children all the
time, and scold us every day about going away so far from the house and
not keeping a good watch-out for Old Man Moccasin, who would surely get
us, she said, unless we were more careful. Then she would tell us to
look out for Mr. Eagle, too, who was likely any time to come soaring
about, and would pick up any food he saw lying handy.
"Well, it used to scare us when we thought about it. Old Man Moccasin
was seven feet long, and I judge about half a foot thick. He could lift
himself two feet out of the water when he was swimming, and with his
far-sighted glasses on could see a mile. Mr. Eagle was fully twice as
big as any of the Eagle family I know of nowadays, and didn't need any
glasses to see an article the size of a bug floating on the Wide Blue
Water, no matter how high he was flying. We tried to keep a lookout in
several directions, but, of course, as we got older without accidents,
we grew careless, and our mother used to count us every night and be
surprised that we were all there, and give us a good scolding to go to
bed on.
"Nothing happened to any of us for a good while, and then it happened to
me. I was the biggest and strongest of our lot, and had the thickest
shell, and I liked to show how grown-up I was, and would swim out
farther, and make believe I wasn't afraid any more of Mr. Eagle and Old
Man Moccasin, which wasn't true, of course, for Mr. Eagle could have
handled me with one claw and Old Man Moccasin could have swallowed me
like a pill and enjoyed the operation.
"Well, one day I was showing off more than usual and had paddled out
farther toward the Drifts, saying to the others that I was going to pay
a call on Old Man Moccasin. I kept on farther than I intended, for it
was a nice summer day and the water felt good. I didn't know how far I
had gone until I turned around to look, and then I didn't think about
that any more, for a quarter of a mile away, and between me and the
shore, was Old Man Moccasin, coming straight in my direction. He was a
good two feet out of the water and had on his far-sighted glasses, and I
knew he was after me. He was coming, too. He was swimming with a wide,
wavy motion, and making a little curl of white foam in front, and
leaving a long trail behind.
"I was so scared, at first, that I couldn't do anything. Then I thought
I'd better dive, but I knew that Old Man Moccasin could swim faster
under the water than on top of it, and see just as well. I began to
paddle for dear life toward the other side of the Wide Blue Water, which
was a long way off, with Old Man Moccasin gaining fast. I knew he was
bound to overtake me before I got across, and I was getting weaker every
minute, from being so scared and trying so hard, and I could hear Old
Man Moccasin's steady swimming noise coming closer all the time.
[Illustration: "OLD MAN MOCCASIN WAS ONLY ABOUT TWENTY FEET AWAY"]
"Of course it wasn't very long until I gave up. I was too worn out to
swim another stroke. Old Man Moccasin was only about twenty feet away,
and when I looked back at him over my shoulder I saw that he was smiling
because he was so sure he had me. It was an awful smile, and I don't
like to remember it often, even now, and that was ever so long ago, as
much as three hundred and fourteen or fifteen years, this spring.
"Well, when I saw Old Man Moccasin at that close distance, and smiling
in that glad way, and his spectacles shining, because he was so pleased
at the prospect, I said to myself, I'm gone now, for certain, unless
something happens right off; though, of course, I didn't see how
anything _could_ happen, placed as I was. But just as I said those
words, something did happen--and about the last thing I would have
expected. The first I saw was a big shadow, and the first I heard was a
kind of swish in the air, and the first I knew I wasn't in the water any
more, but was on the way to the sky with Mr. Eagle, who had one great
claw around my hind leg and another hooked over my shell, not seeming to
mind my weight at all, and paying no attention to Old Man Moccasin, who
was beating his tail on the water and calling Mr. Eagle bad names and
threatening him with everything he could think of. I didn't know where
I was going, and couldn't see that I was much better off than before,
but I did enjoy seeing Old Man Moccasin carry on about losing me, and I
called a few things to him that didn't make him feel better. I said Mr.
Eagle and I were good friends, and asked him how he liked the trick we
had played on him. I even sang out to him:
"'Old Man Moccasin,
See you by and by;
Mr. Eagle's teaching me
How to learn to fly.'
which was a poem, and about the only one I ever made, but it seemed to
just come into my head as we went sailing along. Mr. Eagle, he heard it,
too, and said:
"'Look here,' he said, 'what are you talking about? You don't think you
could ever learn to fly, I hope?'
"'Why, yes, Mr. Eagle,' I said, 'if I just had somebody like you to give
me a few lessons. Of course, nobody could ever fly as well as you can,
but I'm sure I could learn to fly some.'
"Then I thanked him for having saved me from Old Man Moccasin, and said
how kind he was, and told him how my folks had always told us what a
great bird Mr. Eagle was--so strong and grand, and the best flyer in the
world--and how we must always admire and respect him and not get in his
way, and how I thought if I could only fly a little--perhaps about as
much as a hen--I could keep from being caught by Old Man Moccasin, which
was the worst thing that could happen, and wouldn't Mr. Eagle please
give me a lesson.
"Then Mr. Eagle said, very politely, that he guessed he'd keep me from
being caught by Old Man Moccasin, but it wouldn't be by teaching me to
fly.
"'You couldn't fly any more than a stone,' he said, 'and a stone can't
fly at all.'
"'But a stone can't swim, either, Mr. Eagle,' I said, 'and I can swim
fine. I could learn to swim right through the air--I know I could--I can
tell by the way I feel,' and I made some big motions with my front
legs, and kicked with my free hind leg to show him how I would do it;
and I really did feel, the way that air was blowing past, so fresh and
strong, that if he would let go of me I could swim in it a little,
anyway.
"But Mr. Eagle laughed, and said:
"'You have to have wings to fly with,' he said. 'You couldn't fly a
foot. If I should drop you, you'd go down like a shot, and would
probably break all to pieces!'
"I was looking down as he spoke, and I noticed that we were passing over
Mr. Man's marsh meadows, for we were not flying very high, and I could
see locations quite plain, and even some objects. I knew those meadows
were soft in places, for I had been there once to a spring overflow
picnic. There were also a great number of little hay-piles, which Mr.
Man had raked up, getting ready to make his big stacks when the hay was
dry. So I said, as quick as I could:
"'Oh, Mr. Eagle, I am certain I could fly this minute. I never felt so
much like it in my life. Just give me a big swing, Mr. Eagle, and let me
try. If I fall and break, it won't be your fault, and you can take the
pieces home to your family. I'll be handier for them that way than any
other.'
"When Mr. Eagle heard that, he laughed, and said:
"'Well, that's so, anyway. You people always are a tough proposition for
my young folks. Much obliged for the suggestion.'
"And just as he said that, Mr. Eagle quit flying straight ahead and
started to circle around, as if he were looking for something, and
pretty soon I saw down there a flat stone, and Mr. Eagle saw it, too,
and stopped still in the air right over it, as near as he could judge,
making all the time a big flapping sound with his wings, until he got me
aimed to suit him, and I could feel him beginning to loosen up his hold
on my hind leg and shell. Then, all of a sudden, he let me go.
[Illustration: "NOW FLY!" HE SAYS, AND DOWN I WENT]
"'Now fly!' he says, and down I went.
"Well, Mr. Eagle certainly told the truth about the way he said I'd
drop. I made the biggest kind of swimming motions in the direction of
one of those little haycocks, but if I made any headway in that
direction I couldn't notice it. I didn't have time, anyway. It seemed to
me that I struck bottom almost before I started from the top; still, I
must have turned myself over, for I landed on my back, exactly in the
center of that flat stone, Mr. Eagle being a center shot.
"He was wrong, though, about me breaking to pieces, and so was the story
you've heard. Our family don't break very easy, and as I said before, my
shell was thick and tough for my age. It was the stone that broke, and
probably saved my life, for if I had hit in a soft place in that marsh
meadow I'd have gone down out of sight and never been able to dig out.
"As it was, I bounced some, and landed right side up close to one of
those little haycocks, and had just about sense and strength enough left
to scrabble under it before Mr. Eagle came swooping down after me, for
he saw what had happened and didn't lose any time.
"But he was too late, for I was under that haycock, and Mr. Eagle had
never had much practice in pitching hay. He just clawed at it on
different sides and abused me as hard as he could for deceiving him, as
he called it, and occasionally I called back to him, and tried to soothe
him, and told him I was sorry not to come out and thank him in person,
but I was so shaken up by the fall that I must rest and collect myself.
Then, by and by he pretended to be very sweet, and said I had done so
well the first time, I ought to take another lesson, and if I'd come out
we'd try it again.
"But I said I couldn't possibly take another lesson to-day, and for him
to come back to-morrow, when I had got over the first one; and then I
heard him talking to himself and saying it was growing late and he must
be getting home with something to eat for those brats, and pretty soon I
heard his big wing sound; but I didn't come out, for I thought he was
most likely just trying to fool me, and was sailing around overhead and
waiting, which I still think he was, for a while. After a long time,
though, I worked over where I could see out a little, and then I found
it was night, and, of course, Mr. Eagle had really gone home.
"So then I worked along across the meadows, being pretty sore and
especially lame in the left hind leg, where Mr. Eagle had gripped me,
though I felt better when I got into the Wide Blue Water and was
swimming toward home. It took me all night to get there, and the folks
were so worried they couldn't sleep, for some one had seen Old Man
Moccasin out in the middle of the water, chasing something, during the
afternoon.
"Well, of course I told everything that had happened, and almost
everybody in the Wide Blue Water came to hear about it, and they told it
to others, and Old Man Moccasin heard so much about how Mr. Eagle had
fooled him, and how I had fooled Mr. Eagle, that he moved to another
drift, farther down, and probably lives there still. And Mr. Eagle heard
so much about the way he tried to teach me to fly that he made up a
story of his own and flew in all directions, telling it; and that is the
story most people know about to-day and the one that Mr. Man put into
his books. But it isn't true, and I can prove it."
Mr. Turtle got up and turned around toward the Hollow Tree people. He
had his coat off, and he reached back and pointed to a place about in
the center of his shell.
"Feel right there," he said, which Mr. Rabbit did, and said:
"Why, there's quite a lump there. It hardly shows, but you can feel it
plainly."
[Illustration: "YES," SAID MR. TURTLE, "THAT'S WHERE I STRUCK"]
"Yes," said Mr. Turtle, "that's where I struck. It was quite sore for a
good while. There was a lump there, at first, as big as an egg. It
flattened a good deal afterward, but it never quite went away. Feel how
smooth it is. It kept just about as it was when it happened."
Then all those other Deep Woods people came up and felt of the queer
lump on Mr. Turtle's back, and said how perfectly that proved everything
and how Mr. Turtle always could prove things, and they noticed the
inscription about the old race with Mr. Hare, and said in some ways Mr.
Turtle was about the most wonderful person anywhere and they were
certainly proud to be his friends.
Then Mr. Turtle said they might all sit there and talk about it a
little, while he went in to cook the fish and make a pan of biscuits and
a nice salad for dinner.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] "Mr. | 1,781.092996 |
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THE STORY OF OUR COUNTRY
Every Child Can Read
Edited by
REV. JESSE LYMAN HURLBUT, D.D.
Illustrated
[Illustration: STEAM SHOVEL AT WORK IN CULEBRA CUT, PANAMA CANAL.]
[Illustration]
The John C. Winston Co.
Philadelphia
Copyright, 1910, By
The John C. Winston Co.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
A Talk with the Young Reader 9
CHAPTER I
COLUMBUS, THE GREAT SAILOR
Bold Sailors of the Northern Countries--The
Northmen--Columbus the Little Boy--Columbus
and the Egg--He Crosses the Atlantic, Braves
the Sea and Discovers New Land 15
CHAPTER II
THREE GREAT DISCOVERERS
John and Sebastian Cabot--Balboa Discovers the
Pacific--The Fountain of Youth and Ponce de
Leon--The Naming of America 27
CHAPTER III
THREE EARLY HEROES
The Story of John Smith and First English
Settlement--Miles Standish and the Pilgrims--Roger
Williams, the Hero Preacher 36
CHAPTER IV
HOW THE DUTCH AND QUAKERS CAME TO AMERICA
Captain Hudson and His Ship, the _Half Moon_--The
Trip up the Hudson--Adventures with the
Indians--William Penn and the Quakers--How They
Settled on the Delaware River 48
CHAPTER V
THE CAVALIER COLONIES OF THE SOUTH
The Cavaliers and Lords | 1,781.093679 |
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LEAVES FROM MY JOURNAL
THIRD BOOK OF THE
FAITH-PROMOTING SERIES
By President W. Woodruff
_DESIGNED FOR THE INSTRUCTION AND ENCOURAGEMENT OF YOUNG LATTER-DAY
SAINTS_
SECOND EDITION.
JUVENILE INSTRUCTOR OFFICE,
Salt Lake City, Utah.
1882.
PREFACE
About nine months have elapsed since the first edition of this work
was published, and now the whole number issued--over 4,000 copies--are
exhaust | 1,781.173247 |
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SCIENTIFIC ROMANCES.
BY
C. H. HINTON, B.A.
What is the Fourth Dimension?
The Persian King.
A Plane World.
A Picture of Our Universe.
Casting Out the Self.
[Illustration: _FIRST SERIES._]
_London._
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO., LIM.,
Paternoster Square.
1886.
What is the Fourth Dimension?
CHAPTER I.
At the present time our actions are largely influenced by our theories.
We have abandoned the simple and instinctive mode of life of the earlier
civilisations for one regulated by the assumptions of our knowledge and
supplemented by all the devices of intelligence. In such a state it is
possible to conceive that a danger may arise, not only from a want of
knowledge and practical skill, but even from the very presence and
possession of them in any one department, if there is a lack of
information in other departments. If, for instance, with our present
knowledge of physical laws and mechanical skill, we were to build houses
without regard to the conditions laid down by physiology, we should
probably—to suit an apparent convenience—make them perfectly
draught-tight, and the best-constructed mansions would be full of
suffocating chambers. The knowledge of the construction of the body and
the conditions of its health prevent it from suffering injury by the
development of our powers over nature.
In no dissimilar way the mental balance is saved from the dangers
attending an attention concentrated on the laws of mechanical science by
a just consideration of the constitution of the knowing faculty, and the
conditions of knowledge. Whatever pursuit we are engaged in, we are
acting consciously or unconsciously upon some theory, some view of
things. And when the limits of daily routine are continually narrowed by
the ever-increasing complication of our civilisation, it becomes doubly
important that not one only but every kind of thought should be shared
in.
There are two ways of passing beyond the domain of practical certainty,
and of looking into the vast range of possibility. One is by asking,
“What is knowledge? What constitutes experience?” If we adopt this
course we are plunged into a sea of speculation. Were it not that the
highest faculties of the mind find therein so ample a range, we should
return to the solid ground of facts, with simply a feeling of relief at
escaping from so great a confusion and contradictoriness.
The other path which leads us beyond the horizon of actual experience is
that of questioning whatever seems arbitrary and irrationally limited in
the domain of knowledge. Such a questioning has often been successfully
applied in the search for new facts. For a long time four gases were
considered incapable of being reduced to the liquid state. It is but
lately that a physicist has succeeded in showing that there is no such
arbitrary distinction among gases. Recently again the question has been
raised, “Is there not a fourth state of matter?” Solid, liquid, and
gaseous states are known. Mr. Crookes attempts to demonstrate the
existence of a state differing from all of these. It is the object of
these pages to show that, by supposing away certain limitations of the
fundamental conditions of existence as we know it, a state of being can
be conceived with powers far transcending our own. When this is made
clear it will not be out of place to investigate what relations would
subsist between our mode of existence and that which will be seen to be
a possible one.
In the first place, what is the limitation that we must suppose away?
An observer standing in the corner of a room has three directions
naturally marked out for him; one is upwards along the line of meeting
of the two walls; another is forwards where the floor meets one of the
walls; a third is sideways where the floor meets the other wall. He can
proceed to any part of the floor of the room by moving first the right
distance along one wall, and then by turning at right angles and walking
parallel to the other wall. He walks in this case first of all in the
direction of one of the straight lines that meet in the corner of the
floor, afterwards in the direction of the other. By going more or less
in one direction or the other, he can reach any point on the floor, and
any movement, however circuitous, can be resolved into simple movements
in these two directions.
But by moving in these two directions he is unable to raise himself in
the room. If he wished to touch a point in the ceiling, he would have to
move in the direction of the line in which the two walls meet. There are
three directions then, each at right angles to both the other, and
entirely independent of one another. By moving in these three directions
or combinations of them, it is possible to arrive at any point in a
room. And if we suppose the straight lines which meet in the corner of
the room to be prolonged indefinitely, it would be possible by moving in
the direction of those three lines, to arrive at any point in space.
Thus in space there are three independent directions, and only three;
every other direction is compounded of these three. The question that
comes before us then is this. “Why should there be three and only three
directions?” Space, as we know it, is subject to a limitation.
In order to obtain an adequate conception of what this limitation is, it
is necessary to first imagine beings existing in a space more limited
than that in which we move. Thus we may conceive a being who has been
throughout all the range of his experience confined to a single straight
line. Such a being would know what it was to move to and fro, but no
more. The whole of space would be to him but the extension in both
directions of the straight line to an infinite distance. It is evident
that two such creatures could never pass one another. We | 1,781.17333 |
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Transcriber’s Note:
###################
This e-text is based on the 1908 edition of the book. Minor
punctuation errors have been tacitly corrected. Inconsistencies
in hyphenation and spelling, such as ‘ale-house’/‘alehouse’ and
‘Mary Wilcocks’/‘Mary Willcocks,’ have been retained. The asterism
symbols in the book catalogue at the end of this text have been
inverted for presentation on electronic media.
The following passage has been corrected:
# p. 126: ‘1852’ → ‘1825’
# p. 685: ‘fro mthe’ → ‘from the’
Italic text has been symbolised by underscores (_italic_); forward
slashes represent small caps (/small caps/). Caret symbols (^)
signify superscript characters; multiple characters have been
grouped inside curly braces: ^{superscript}.
DEVONSHIRE CHARACTERS
AND STRANGE EVENTS
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
YORKSHIRE ODDITIES
TRAGEDY OF THE CÆSARS
CURIOUS MYTHS
LIVES OF THE SAINTS
ETC. ETC.
[Illustration:
_G. Clint, A.R.A., pinxt._ _Thos. Lupton. sculpt._
MARIA FOOTE, AFTERWARDS COUNTESS OF HARRINGTON, AS MARIA DARLINGTON IN
THE FARCE OF “A ROWLAND FOR AN OLIVER” (1824)]
DEVONSHIRE
CHARACTERS
AND STRANGE EVENTS
BY S. BARING-GOULD, /M.A./
WITH 55 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
REPRODUCED FROM OLD PRINTS, ETC.
O Jupiter!
Hanccine vitam? hoscine mores? hanc dementiam?
/Terence/, _Adelphi_ (Act IV).
LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMVIII
PLYMOUTH: WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LIMITED, PRINTERS
PREFACE
In treating of Devonshire Characters, I have had to put aside the chief
Worthies and those Devonians famous in history, as George Duke of
Albemarle, Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Drake, Sir Joshua Reynolds,
the Coleridges, Sir Stafford Northcote, first Earl of Iddesleigh, and
many another; and to content myself with those who lie on a lower
plane. So also I have had to set aside several remarkable characters,
whose lives I have given elsewhere, as the Herrings of Langstone (whom
I have called Grym or Grymstone) and Madame Drake, George Spurle the
Post-boy, etc. Also I have had to pretermit several great rascals,
as Thomas Gray and Nicholas Horner. But even so, I find an _embarras
de richesses_, and have had to content myself with such as have had
careers of some general interest. Moreover, it has not been possible to
say all that might have been said relative to these, so as to economize
space, and afford room for others.
So also, with regard to strange incidents, some limitation has been
necessary, and such have been selected as are less generally known.
I have to thank the kind help of many Devonshire friends for the
loan of rare pamphlets, portraits, or for information not otherwise
acquirable--as the Earl of Iddesleigh, Lady Rosamond Christie, Mrs.
Chichester of Hall, Mrs. Ford of Pencarrow, Dr. Linnington Ash, Dr.
Brushfield, Capt. Pentecost, Miss M. P. Willcocks, Mr. Andrew Iredale,
Mr. W. H. K. Wright, Mr. A. B. Collier, Mr. Charles T. Harbeck, Mr.
H. Tapley Soper, Miss Lega-Weekes, who has contributed the article
on Richard Weekes; Mrs. G. Radford, Mr. R. Pearse Chope, Mr. Rennie
Manderson, Mr. M. Bawden, the Rev. J. B. Wollocombe, the Rev. W. H.
Thornton, Mr. A. M. Broadley, Mr. Samuel Gillespie Prout, Mr. S. H.
Slade, Mr. W. Fleming, Mrs. A. H. Wilson, Fleet-Surgeon Lloyd Thomas,
the Rev. W. T. Wellacott, Mr. S. Raby, Mr. Samuel Harper, Mr. John
Avery, Mr. Thomas Wainwright, Mr. A. F. Steuart, Mr. S. T. Whiteford,
and last, but not least, Mr. John Lane, the publisher of this volume,
who has taken the liveliest interest in its production.
Also to Messrs. Macmillan for kindly allowing the use of an engraving
of Newcomen’s steam engine, and to Messrs. Vinton & Co. for allowing
the use of the portrait of the Rev. John Russell that appeared in
_Bailey’s Magazine_.
I am likewise indebted to Miss M. Windeatt Roberts for having
undertaken to prepare the exhaustive Index, and to Mr. J. G. Commin for
placing at my disposal many rare illustrations.
For myself I may say that it has been a labour of love to grope among
the characters and incidents of the past in my own county, and with
Cordatus, in the Introduction to Ben Jonson’s _Every Man out of his
Humour_, I may say that it has been “a work that hath bounteously
pleased me; how it will answer the general expectation, I know not.”
* * * * *
I am desired by my publisher to state that he will be glad to
receive any information as to the whereabouts of pictures by another
“Devonshire Character,” James Gandy, born at Exeter in 1619, and a
pupil of Vandyck. He was retained in the service of the Duke of Ormond,
whom he accompanied to Ireland, where he died in 1689. It is said that
his chief works will be found in that country and the West of England.
Jackson of Exeter, in his volume _The Four Ages_, says: “About the
beginning of the eighteenth century was a painter in Exeter called
Gandy, of whose colouring Sir Joshua Reynolds thought highly. I heard
him say that on his return from Italy, when he was fresh from seeing
the pictures of the Venetian school, he again looked at the works of
Gandy, and that they had lost nothing in his estimation. There are many
pictures of this artist in Exeter and its neighbourhood. The portrait
Sir Joshua seemed most to value is in the Hall belonging to the College
of Vicars in that city, but I have seen some very much superior to it.”
Since then, however, the original picture has been taken from the
College of Vicars, and has been lost; but a copy, I believe, is still
exhibited there, and no one seems to know what has become of the
original.
Not only is Mr. Lane anxious to trace this picture, but any others in
Devon or Ireland, as also letters, documents, or references to this
artist and his work.
CONTENTS
PAGE
/Hugh Stafford and the Royal Wilding/ 1
/The Alphington Ponies/ 16
/Maria Foote/ 21
/Caraboo/ 35
/John Arscott, of Tetcott/ 47
/Wife-sales/ 58
/White Witches/ 70
/Manly Peeke/ 84
/Eulalia Page/ 95
/James Wyatt/ 107
/The Rev. W. Davy/ 123
/The Grey Woman/ 128
/Robert Lyde and the “Friend’s Adventure”/ 136
/Joseph Pitts/ 152
/The Demon of Spreyton/ 170
/Tom Austin/ 175
/Frances Flood/ 177
/Sir William Hankford/ 181
/Sir John Fitz/ 185
/Lady Howard/ 194
/The Bidlakes, of Bidlake/ 212
/The Pirates of Lundy/ 224
/Tom D’Urfey/ 238
/The Bird of the Oxenhams/ 248
/“Lusty” Stucley/ 262
/The Bideford Witches/ 274
/Sir “Judas” Stukeley/ 278
/The Sampford Ghost/ 286
/Philippa Cary and Anne Evans/ 292
/Jack Rattenbury/ 301
/John Barnes, Taverner and Highwayman/ 320
/Edward Capern/ 325
/George Medyett Goodridge/ 332
/John Davy/ 351
/Richard Parker, the Mutineer/ 355
/Benjamin Kennicott/, /D.D./ 369
/Captain John Avery/ 375
/Joanna Southcott/ 390
/The Stoke Resurrectionists/ 405
/“The Beggars’ Opera” and Gay’s Chair/ 414
/Bampfylde-Moore Carew/ 425
/William Gifford/ 436
/Benjamin R. Haydon/ 457
/John Cooke/ 478
/Savery and Newcomen, Inventors/ 487
/Andrew Brice, Printer/ 502
/Devonshire Wrestlers/ 514
/Two Hunting Parsons/ 529
/Samuel Prout/ 564
/Fontelautus/ 581
/William Lang, of Bradworthy/ 594
/William Cookworthy/ 600
/William Jackson, Organist/ 608
/John Dunning, First Lord Ashburton/ 618
/Governor Shortland and the Princetown Massacre/ 633
/Captain John Palk/ 700
/Richard Weekes, Gentleman at Arms and Prisoner in the Fleet/ 709
/Steer Nor’-West/ 718
/George Peele/ 726
/Peter Pindar/ 737
/Dr. J. W. Budd/ 754
/Rear-Admiral Sir Edward Chichester, Bart./ 772
ILLUSTRATIONS
/Maria Foote, afterwards Countess of
Harrington/ _Frontispiece_
From an engraving by Thomas Lupton, after a picture by
G. Clint, /A.R.A./
to face page
/Hugh Stafford/ 2
From the original painting in the collection of the
Earl of Iddesleigh
/The Roasted Exciseman, or the Jack Boot’s Exit/ 4
From an old print
/The Tyburn Interview: a New Song/ 8
By a Cyder Merchant, of South-Ham, Devonshire.
Dedicated to Jack Ketch
/The Misses Durnford. The Alphington Ponies/ 16
| 1,781.173451 |
2023-11-16 18:46:45.1574900 | 842 | 12 |
Produced by Graeme Mackreth and The Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE TO THE YSER
_Frontispiece._
[Illustration: LIEUTS. KLOTZ, STRATHY AND CURRY AT AMESBURY.]
FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE
TO THE YSER
WITH THE 1st CANADIAN BRIGADE
BY
FREDERIC C. CURRY
LATE CAPTAIN 2ND EASTERN ONTARIO REGIMENT
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAPS
McCLELLAND, GOODCHILD & STEWART,
PUBLISHERS... TORONTO.
_Printed in Great Britain._
To
LIEUT.-GENERAL SIR SAM HUGHES,
K.C.B., M.P., MINISTER OF MILITIA,
TO WHOSE EFFORTS
THE EFFICIENCY OF THE CANADIAN CONTINGENTS
IS LARGELY DUE.
PREFACE
In presenting this little work to the public the writer wishes to thank
those of his fellow-officers and others who brought to his notice
incidents that did not come under his personal observation.
Valuable assistance has been gained from the official accounts of Sir
Max Aitken, and from the historical writings of Mr. John Buchan with
regard to the parts played by other brigades and divisions with which we
were co-operating.
In spite of these attempts to broaden its outlook, the book stands in
the main a personal account of the actions of the 1st Brigade, Canadian
Infantry.
As such, however, the writer hopes it will be accepted, and not as a
detailed history of the events chronicled, though every attempt has been
made to check the accuracy of the facts stated.
One fictitious character has been introduced, that of Begbie Lyte, in
order to make the tale impersonal.
In all other cases the true names of persons mentioned, or initials,
have been used.
To Dr. Shipley, Master of Christ's College, Cambridge, the writer owes
much for his kindly criticisms and encouragement in this work.
F.C. CURRY.
_October, 1916._
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. ANTE-BELLUM 1
II. PETEWAWA 11
III. MOBILISATION 24
IV. VAL CARTIER 31
V. THE CONVOY 37
VI. IN ENGLAND 44
VII. INTERIM 49
VIII. YPRES, 1915 54
IX. WITH THE DRAFT 63
X. THE BREAKING IN 72
XI. RESERVE BILLETS 80
XII. BAILLEUL 88
XIII. THE TREK SOUTH 95
XIV. FESTUBERT, 1915 103
XV. CARPE DIEM 110
XVI. GIVENCHY, 1915 117
XVII. NORTHWARD AGAIN 126
XVIII. NIGHTS OF GLADNESS! 132
XIX. IN FRONT OF MESSINES 140
XX. MINE WARFARE 145
XXI. MYTHS, FAIRIES, ETC. 152
XXII. THE WINTER MONTHS 160
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
LIEUTS. KLOTZ, STRATHY AND CURRY AT AMESBURY _Frontispiece_
_Facing page_
SAILING DOWN THE ST. LAWRENCE, NEAR BIC 38
CHURCH PARADE 40
EASTERN ONTARIO REGIMENT, NEAR STONEHEN | 1,781.17753 |
2023-11-16 18:46:45.1574960 | 1,469 | 18 | SOUTH***
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland and the Project Gutenberg Online
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 28491-h.htm or 28491-h.zip:
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or
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DISHES & BEVERAGES OF THE OLD SOUTH
by
Martha McCulloch-Williams
Author of "Field Farings," "Two of a Trade," "Milre," "Next to the
Ground," etc.
Decorations by Russel Crofoot
[Illustration]
New York
McBride Nast & Company
1913
Copyright, 1913, by
Mcbride, Nast & Co.
Published, October, 1913
CONTENTS
PAGE
GRACE BEFORE MEAT 9
THE STAFF OF LIFE 26
SAVING YOUR BACON 39
HAMS AND OTHER HAMS 59
FOR THIRSTY SOULS 72
PASTE, PIES, PUDDINGS 90
CREOLE COOKERY 118
CAKES, GREAT AND SMALL 136
MEAT, POULTRY, GAME, EGGS 158
SOUPS, SALADS, RELISHES 185
VEGETABLES, FRUIT DESSERTS, SANDWICHES 202
PICKLES, PRESERVES, COFFEE, TEA, CHOCOLATE 220
WHEN THE ORCHARDS "HIT" 239
UPON OCCASIONS 257
SOAP AND CANDLES 292
Dishes & Beverages
of the
Old South
[Illustration: _Grace before Meat_]
"Let me cook the dinners of a nation, and I shall not care who makes its
laws." Women, if they did but know it, might well thus paraphrase a
famous saying. Proper dinners mean so much--good blood, good health,
good judgment, good conduct. The fact makes tragic a truth too little
regarded; namely, that while bad cooking can ruin the very best of raw
foodstuffs, all the arts of all the cooks in the world can do no more
than palliate things stale, flat and unprofitable. To buy such things is
waste, instead of economy. Food must satisfy the palate else it will
never truly satisfy the stomach. An unsatisfied stomach, or one
overworked by having to wrestle with food which has bulk out of all
proportion to flavor, too often makes its vengeful protest in dyspepsia.
It is said underdone mutton cost Napoleon the battle of Leipsic, and
eventually his crown. I wonder, now and then, if the prevalence of
divorce has any connection with the decline of home cooking?
A far cry, and heretical, do you say, gentle reader? Not so far after
all--these be sociologic days. I am but leading up to the theory with
facts behind it, that it was through being the best fed people in the
world, we of the South Country were able to put up the best fight in
history, and after the ravages and ruin of civil war, come again to our
own. We might have been utterly crushed but for our proud and pampered
stomachs, which in turn gave the bone, brain and brawn for the conquests
of peace. So here's to our Mammys--God bless them! God rest them! This
imperfect chronicle of the nurture wherewith they fed us is inscribed
with love to their memory.
Almost my earliest memory is of Mammy's kitchen. Permission to loiter
there was a Reward of Merit--a sort of domestic Victoria Cross. If, when
company came to spend the day, I made my manners prettily, I might see
all the delightful hurley-burley of dinner-cooking. My seat was the
biscuit block, a section of tree-trunk at least three feet across, and
waist-high. Mammy set me upon it, but first covered it with her clean
apron--it was almost the only use she ever made of the apron. The block
stood well out of the way--next the meal barrel in the corner behind the
door, and hard by the Short Shelf, sacred to cake and piemaking, as the
Long Shelf beneath the window was given over to the three water
buckets--cedar with brass hoops always shining like gold--the piggin,
also of cedar, the corn-bread tray, and the cup-noggin. Above, the log
wall bristled with knives of varying edge, stuck in the cracks; with
nails whereon hung flesh-forks, spoons, ladles, skimmers. These were for
the most part hand-wrought, by the local blacksmith. The forks in
particular were of a classic grace--so much so that when, in looking
through my big sister's mythology I came upon a picture of Neptune with
his trident, I called it his flesh-fork, and asked if he were about to
take up meat with it, from the waves boiling about his feet.
The kitchen proper would give Domestic Science heart failure, yet it
must have been altogether sanitary. Nothing about it was tight enough to
harbor a self-respecting germ. It was the rise of twenty feet square,
built stoutly of hewn logs, with a sharply pitched board roof, a movable
loft, a plank floor boasting inch-wide cracks, a door, two windows and a
fireplace that took up a full half of one end. In front of the fireplace
stretched a rough stone hearth, a yard in depth. Sundry and several
cranes swung against the chimney-breast. When fully in commission they
held pots enough to cook for a regiment. The pots themselves, of cast
iron, with close-fitting tops, ran from two to ten gallons in capacity,
had rounded bottoms with three pertly outstanding legs, and ears either
side for the iron pot-hooks, which varied in size even as did the pots
themselves.
Additionally there were ovens, deep and shallow, spiders, skillets, a
couple of tea-kettles, a stew kettle, a broiler with a long
spider-legged trivet to rest on, a hoe-baker, a biscuit-baker, and
waffle-irons with legs like tongs. Each piece of hollow | 1,781.177536 |
2023-11-16 18:46:45.2533600 | 7,435 | 15 |
E-text prepared by Clarity, Paul Marshall, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive/American Libraries
(https://archive.org/details/americana)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 52680-h.htm or 52680-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/52680/52680-h/52680-h.htm)
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(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/52680/52680-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
https://archive.org/details/caillauxdrama00raphiala
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by equal signs was underlined in the
original text (=underlined=).
A carat character is used to denote superscription. A
single character following the carat is superscripted
(example: M^e).
Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals.
THE CAILLAUX DRAMA
[Illustration: _Waiting._]
THE CAILLAUX DRAMA
by
JOHN N. RAPHAEL
London: Max Goschen Ltd
20 Great Russell Street W.C.
MCMXIV
TO MY MOTHER
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I THE STORY OF THE DRAMA 1
II CELL NO. 12 44
III THE CRIME AND THE PUBLIC 64
IV MONSIEUR CAILLAUX’S EXAMINATION 87
V THE CAMPAIGN OF THE “FIGARO” 102
VI CALMETTE _v._ CAILLAUX 114
VII THE “TON JO” LETTER 143
VIII AGADIR 150
IX L’AFFAIRE ROCHETTE 179
X “THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH...” 230
XI ABOUT FRENCH POLITICS 251
XII BEFORE THE LAST ACT OF THE DRAMA 267
INDEX 307
ILLUSTRATIONS
“WAITING” _Frontispiece_
OFFICES OF “LE FIGARO” ON THE EVENING OF THE MURDER 20
GASTON CALMETTE IN HIS OFFICE AT THE “FIGARO” 20
M. BOUCARD (THE EXAMINING MAGISTRATE) AND THE DOCTORS
LEAVING THE PRIVATE HOSPITAL WHERE M. CALMETTE DIED 26
M. VICTOR FABRE, THE PROCUREUR GÉNÉRAL 57
THE FUNERAL OF M. CALMETTE 63
THE BROTHERS, SONS AND RELATIVES OF M. CALMETTE AT THE
FUNERAL 67
MME. CAILLAUX (AND DETECTIVE) ON HER WAY TO THE LAW COURTS
TO BE EXAMINED 71
SŒUR LEONIDE 77
THE CORRIDOR OUTSIDE THE PISTOLES 81
“JEANNE,” THE “SOUBRETTE” OF PISTOLE NO. 12 85
THE LORRY WHICH PARIS JOURNALISTS THOUGHT WAS FULL OF
MME. CAILLAUX’S FURNITURE 90
LA COUR DES FILLES IN SAINT LAZARE 90
MADAME CAILLAUX’S CELL EXACTLY AS IT IS 102
MONSIEUR CAILLAUX IN HIS OFFICE AT THE MINISTÈRE DES
FINANCES 108
PRESIDENT POINCARÉ GIVES EVIDENCE ON OATH IN THE CAILLAUX
DRAMA BEFORE THE PRESIDENT OF THE APPEAL COURT, WHO
WAITED ON HIM FOR THIS PURPOSE AT THE ELYSÉE 122
MONSIEUR CAILLAUX LEAVING THE LAW COURTS 131
M. PRIVAT-DESCHANEL WHO WITNESSED THE DESTRUCTION OF
THE LETTERS BY MME. GUEYDAN-CAILLAUX 140
M. BARTHOU MOUNTING THE STAIRS OF THE LAW COURTS ON HIS
WAY TO GIVE EVIDENCE IN THE CAILLAUX CASE 149
MONSIEUR CAILLAUX’S FRIEND, M. CECCALDI 179
THE “TON JO” LETTER FROM THE “FIGARO” 197
ROCHETTE IN COURT 241
MONSIEUR BARTHOU 300
MME. CAILLAUX IN THE DRESS SHE WAS TO WEAR AT THE
ITALIAN EMBASSY ON THE EVENING OF THE MURDER 339
M. JOSEPH CAILLAUX 350
I
THE STORY OF THE DRAMA
Late on Monday afternoon, March 16, 1914, a rumour fired imaginations,
like a train of gunpowder, all over Paris. In newspaper offices, in
cafés, in clubs, people asked one another whether they had heard the
news and whether the news were true. It seemed incredible. The wife of
the Minister of Finance, said rumour, Madame Joseph Caillaux, one of
the spoiled children of Paris society, had gone to the office of the
_Figaro_, had waited there an hour or more for the managing editor,
Monsieur Gaston Calmette, had been received by him, and had shot him
dead in his own office. Nobody believed the story at first. Nobody
could believe it. The very possibility of such a happening made it
appear impossible. It was known, of course, that for some weeks before
the _Figaro_ had been waging an unsparing campaign against the Minister
of Finance. It was known that Monsieur Caillaux had been and was
infuriated at this campaign, but nobody believed that tragedy had
followed. There was a rush to the _Figaro_ office. Paris is a small
town compared with London, and the _Figaro_ building in the Rue
Drouot is in a more central position in the throbbing news and
sensation-loving heart of Paris than is either Piccadilly or Fleet
Street in London. Within ten minutes of the first news of the tragedy
there was a large crowd gathered in the Rue Drouot, and even those who
could not get into the _Figaro_ building soon received confirmation
that the drama really had occurred. People had seen a large and
luxurious motor-car stationed outside the building. There was nothing
at all unusual in this, for the offices of the _Figaro_ are the resort
in the afternoon of many people with big motor-cars. What was unusual,
and had attracted notice, was the fact that the driver of the car had
worn the tricolour cockade which in Paris is worn only by the drivers
of cars or carriages belonging to the Ministers. Even this evidence was
in no way conclusive, for courtesy permits Ambassadors and Ministers
accredited to the French Government by foreign countries to give their
servants the red white and blue cockade, and it was thought by many
that the car had not belonged to a French Minister at all, but was the
property of an Ambassador. Then the story gained precision. A woman, it
was said, escorted by police, had come out of the _Figaro_ office and
seated herself in the car. The driver, as she entered, had removed his
tricolour cockade and driven round the corner to the police-station.
The doors of the _Figaro_ office were closed and guarded. A few minutes
later all Paris knew the story. In the big grey motor-car in which
she had driven to the Rue Drouot that afternoon, Madame Caillaux had
been taken in custody to the police-station in the Rue du Faubourg
Montmartre. Monsieur Gaston Calmette, the editor of the _Figaro_,
lay dying in his office. His friend, Doctor Reymond, who was with
him, gave little hope that his life could be saved, and those of the
members of the staff of the paper who could be approached could only
murmur confirmation of the same sad news. Later in the evening Monsieur
Calmette was taken out to Neuilly to the private hospital of another
friend, Professor Hartmann. He died there just before midnight.
Madame Caillaux had arrived in her motor-car at No. 26 Rue Drouot at
about five o’clock, and had asked for Monsieur Calmette. She was told
that Monsieur Calmette was out, but that he would certainly arrive
before long. “Then I will wait,” she said.
[Illustration: _Agence Nouvelle—Photo, Paris_
OFFICES OF _LE FIGARO_ ON THE EVENING OF THE MURDER]
[Illustration: _Agence Nouvelle—Photo, Paris_
GASTON CALMETTE IN HIS OFFICE AT THE _FIGARO_]
The customs of a Paris newspaper differ considerably from those of
newspapers in London. They are, if I may put it so, more social. In a
London newspaper office nearly all the business of the day with the
outside world is transacted by express letter, by telegram, or over the
telephone. The editor and his collaborators see fewer members of the
public in a week in the offices of a London newspaper than the editor
and collaborators of a Paris newspaper of the same importance see in an
afternoon. The difference in the hours of newspaper work in Paris and
in London, the difference in the characteristics of Frenchmen and of
Englishmen have a great deal to do with this difference in newspaper
methods. To begin with, the London newspaper goes to press much earlier
than does the newspaper in Paris, for Paris papers have fewer and later
trains to catch, and “copy” is therefore finished much later in Paris.
The principal London editors are invariably in their offices at latest
at noon every day, and prefer to see their visitors between the hours
of twelve and four o’clock. In Paris practically every newspaper editor
receives between five and seven in the evening, and it is very rare
to find heads of newspaper departments (the business side of course
excepted) in their offices before five P.M. In other words the
business of the day begins at about five o’clock in a Paris newspaper
office, when the business of the evening begins in London and the
business of the day is finished, and the real hard work of the night
staff hardly begins until ten. The hour at which Madame Caillaux called
therefore, to see Monsieur Calmette, was a perfectly normal one. She
was told that he would certainly come in before long, and was asked
for her name. She did not give it, said that she would wait, and was
shown into a waiting-room where curiously enough she sat down directly
beneath a large framed portrait of the King of Greece, who met his
death at the hands of a murderer not very long ago. Madame Caillaux
waited over an hour. We learned, afterwards, that in her muff, during
this long period of waiting, she carried the little revolver which she
had bought that day, and with which she was presently to shoot Monsieur
Calmette to death. She grew impatient at length, made inquiries of
one of the men in uniform whose duty it is to announce visitors, and
learned that Monsieur Calmette, who had just arrived, was now in his
office with his friend Monsieur Paul Bourget, the well-known novelist.
“If Madame will give me her card,” said the man. Madame Caillaux took a
card from her case, slipped it into an envelope which was on the table
by her side, and gave it to the man in uniform, who took it to Monsieur
Calmette’s office. Monsieur Calmette and Monsieur Bourget were on the
point of leaving the _Figaro_ office together for dinner. Monsieur
Calmette showed his friend the visiting card which had just been handed
to him. “Surely you will not see her?” Monsieur Bourget said. “Oh yes,”
said Monsieur Calmette, “she is a woman, and I must receive her.”
Monsieur Bourget left his friend as Madame Caillaux was shown into the
room. A few moments afterwards the crack of a revolver startled everybody
in the building. The interview had been a very short and tragic one.
Madame Caillaux, drawing her revolver from her muff, had emptied all
six chambers of it. Gaston Calmette fell up against a bookcase in the
room. He was mortally wounded. There was a rush from all the other
offices of members of the _Figaro_ staff, the revolver was snatched
from the woman’s hand, a member of the staff who happened to be a
doctor made a hasty examination, and a friend of M. Calmette’s, Dr.
Reymond, was telephoned for immediately. Somebody ran or telephoned for
the police, but for a long time Madame Caillaux remained in a passage
near the room where her victim lay dying. Before the ambulance was
brought on which Monsieur Calmette was carried out into the street he
had time to give his keys and pocket-book to one of his collaborators,
and to say farewell to them. Madame Caillaux had said very little
before she was taken away. When the revolver was snatched from her hand
she had said, “There is no more justice in France.” She had also said:
“There was no other way of putting a stop to it,” alluding, no doubt, to
the campaign in the _Figaro_ against her husband. Then she had given
herself into the hands of the police, and the curtain had fallen on
this first act of the drama.
[Illustration: _Agence Nouvelle—Photo, Paris_
M. BOUCARD (THE EXAMINING MAGISTRATE) AND THE DOCTORS LEAVING
THE PRIVATE HOSPITAL WHERE M. CALMETTE DIED.
M. Boucard is in front]
The first feeling in Paris when the crime became generally known
was one of stupefaction. The special editions of the evening papers
appeared while Paris was at dinner, were snatched with wild eagerness
from the hands of the hawkers, and nothing else was talked of all
that evening. Gradually, as details became known, a popular wave of
indignation against the murderess became so fierce that the police,
informed of it, took special measures to preserve order, and numbers
of police with revolvers in the great leather cases which are worn in
emergencies appeared in the streets. As a proof of the hold which the
drama took immediately on the imagination of the public, it may be
mentioned that the theatres were almost empty that evening and that in
each entr’acte the audience rushed out of the theatre altogether to
get further news, or if a few remained, they waited in the auditorium
for news to appear on the screens usually devoted to advertisements,
instead of strolling about the theatre corridors as they usually do. An
immense crowd gathered round the police-station in the Rue du Faubourg
Montmartre, where Madame Caillaux had been taken. The crowd, composed
for the most part of riffraff—for the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre is a
favourite haunt of the very worst kind of criminals—formed a surging
mass in front of the police-station with which the strong force of
police found it difficult to cope. Barely a quarter of an hour after
the police commissioner, Monsieur Carpin, had begun to question Madame
Caillaux, her husband arrived at the police-station in a taxicab. He
was recognized and hooted by the crowd, but though his usually ruddy
face was deadly pale he gave no other sign that he had noticed this
hostility. The only man who did not recognize Monsieur Caillaux was the
policeman on duty at the door. He had orders to allow no one to pass,
and barred his passage. “I am the Minister of Finance,” said Monsieur
Caillaux, and pushing past the man, who stood and stared at him, he
added, “You might as well salute me.” Other Ministers and politicians
of note had forced their way into the police-station, and a number of
journalists were among them. Stories of all sorts circulated, one to
the effect that Monsieur and Madame Caillaux had had a stormy scene,
and that the Minister had reproached his wife bitterly for what she had
done; another, which proved to be true later on, that he had telephoned
to the Prime Minister, and resigned his portfolio and his seat in the
Cabinet. Monsieur Carpin, the police commissioner, received some of the
journalists in his office, and gave them a short report of what had
occurred. “I saw Madame Caillaux at once when she came,” he said. “She
was perfectly self-possessed, but complained of feeling cold.” “You are
aware,” she said, “of the campaign which Monsieur Gaston Calmette was
waging against my husband. I went to some one, whose name I prefer not
to mention, for advice how to put a stop to this campaign. He told me
that it could not be stopped. A letter was published. I knew that other
letters were to be published too. This morning I bought a revolver, and
this afternoon I went to the office of the _Figaro_. I had no intention
of killing Monsieur Calmette. This I affirm, and I regret my act
deeply.” I quote this first statement of Madame Caillaux as Monsieur
Carpin repeated it to the journalists in his office on the evening
on which the crime was committed, and as the _Figaro_ and other
newspapers reproduced it word for word next morning. As will be seen
later, these first statements which the prisoner made are of vital
importance. It was now nine o’clock. The journalists were told that
Monsieur Boucard, the examining magistrate, had given orders for Madame
Caillaux to be locked up in St. Lazare prison, and were asked to leave
the police-station. The crowd outside in the streets had in some way
learned that Madame Caillaux was going, and became denser and more
menacing. The officials inside the police-station realized that there
was danger to the safety of their prisoner, and heard the cries from
the mob in the street below against the Minister of Finance. These
were if anything more threatening than those which Madame Caillaux’s
name provoked. All of a sudden a yell rose from below. “He’s getting
out by the back way! Down with the murderer! Death to Caillaux!” The
police-station has two entrances, one, the main one, in the Rue
du Faubourg Montmartre, the other leading through a passage and a
grocer’s shop out into a little side street, the Rue de la Grange
Batelière. There was a wild stampede round to this little
shop, and the first of the crowd to arrive there were in time to see
Monsieur Caillaux and the Minister of Commerce, Monsieur Malvy, jump
into a taxicab at the door. The cab got away amid a storm of shouts
and imprecations. “Death to Caillaux! Murderer! Démission!—Resign!
Resign!” Madame Caillaux, under the escort of two high police
officials, had been smuggled out of the police-station through the
grocery shop and taken away in another cab a few moments before her
husband left, but the crowd had missed her. She was taken directly to
St. Lazare prison, where she has been since, and locked into _pistole_,
or cell No. 12, where Madame Steinheil, Madame Humbert, and other
prisoners of notoriety awaited trial in their day.
On the morning of Monday, March 16, Madame Caillaux had held a
conference at her house in the Rue Alphonse de Neuville with the
President of the Civil Court, Monsieur Monier. It was to Monsieur
Monier she referred when she told Monsieur Carpin and Monsieur Boucard,
the examining magistrate, that she had been informed by a person, whom
she preferred not to mention, that there was no means of putting a
stop to the _Figaro_ campaign against her husband. A few moments after
Monsieur Monier had left the Rue Alphonse de Neuville Madame Caillaux
was called up on the telephone by Monsieur Pierre de Fouquières of the
Protocol. There was to be a dinner-party, in honour of the President
of the Republic, at the Italian Embassy in Paris that evening, and
Monsieur de Fouquières rang Madame Caillaux up on the telephone to know
at what time exactly she and her husband would arrive at the Embassy.
She told him that they would be there punctually at a quarter-past
eight, and reminded Monsieur de Fouquières, at the same time, that she
was counting on his help to place her guests at an important dinner
which was to be given at the Ministry of Finance on March 23. This
dinner of course never took place. After her conversation with Monsieur
de Fouquières, Madame Caillaux telephoned to her hairdresser, whom she
ordered to call and do her hair at seven o’clock for the dinner at the
Italian Embassy. At eleven o’clock that morning, her manicure called,
and Madame Caillaux then drove to her dentist, Dr. Gaillard, whom,
on leaving, she arranged to see again on the Wednesday at half-past
two. From the dentist’s Madame Caillaux drove to the Ministry of
Finance, to fetch her husband. On her way back in the car with him to
the Rue Alphonse de Neuville, Madame Caillaux told her husband of her
conference with the President of the Civil Tribunal, Monsieur Monier,
that morning, and of his declaration that there was no legal means
to put an end to the campaign in the _Figaro_ against the Minister
of Finance. Monsieur Caillaux is a hot-tempered man. He flew into a
violent rage, and declared to his wife “Very well then! If there’s
nothing to be done I’ll go and smash his face.” From my personal
knowledge of Monsieur Joseph Caillaux, from my personal experience of
his attitude when anything annoys him, I consider it quite probable
that his rage would cause him to lose quite sufficient control of
himself to speak in this manner under the circumstances. On one
occasion, not very long ago, Monsieur Caillaux received me in his
office at the Ministry of Finance and spoke of his causes of complaint
against the British Ambassador, Sir Francis Bertie. Although he was
talking to an English journalist about the Ambassador of his king
his language on that occasion was so unmeasured, and his anger was
expressed with such freedom, that in the interview I published after
our conversation I was obliged to suppress many of the things he said.
In fact when he read some of them in the interview which I took to the
Ministry to show him before I had it telephoned to London, Monsieur
Caillaux himself suggested their suppression. Madame Caillaux knew, she
has said afterwards, that her husband’s anger and violence of temper
were such that his threat was by no means a vague one. She has declared
that it was this threat of Monsieur Caillaux’s which gave her the first
idea of taking her husband’s place, and going to inflict personal
chastisement on the editor of the _Figaro_. It is a truism that small
occurrences often have results out of all proportion to their own
importance. That morning Monsieur and Madame Caillaux made a very bad
luncheon. Madame Caillaux, who has been under medical treatment for
some time, ate nothing at all, and the bad luncheon threw her husband
into another rage. He was so angry that they almost quarrelled, and
Madame Caillaux, to pacify him, promised that she would dismiss the
cook there and then, go to a registry office that afternoon, and secure
another cook for the next day. Monsieur Caillaux went back to the
Ministry of Finance immediately after luncheon, and his wife, who had
an engagement for tea at the Hôtel Ritz in the afternoon, rang for her
maid to put her into an afternoon dress. She says that she felt very
ill while she was dressing, and very worried by her husband’s outburst
with regard to the _Figaro_ campaign against him. She felt that she
must do all she could, she has declared, to prevent the publication of
certain letters which she believed, rightly or wrongly, that it was
Monsieur Calmette’s intention to publish in the _Figaro_. At half-past
two that afternoon, before going out, Madame Caillaux was, she has told
the examining magistrate, taken ill in her room and obliged to lie
down, and she described with great vividness a sort of vision which she
declares passed like a picture on the cinematograph before her eyes. “I
knew my husband to be a good swordsman, and a good pistol shot,” she
said. “I saw him killing Monsieur Calmette, I saw his arrest, I saw him
in the Assize Court standing in the dock. All the terrible consequences
of the ghastly drama which I foresaw passed before my eyes, and little
by little I made up my mind to take my husband’s place, and I decided
to go and see Monsieur Calmette that same evening.”
As I have already explained, Madame Caillaux knew, as every Parisian
knows, that the most likely time to find a newspaper editor in his
office was after five o’clock, and, as we know, she had promised to be
at the Italian Embassy at a quarter-past eight and had telephoned to
her hairdresser to go to her and dress her hair in the Rue Alphonse de
Neuville at seven. It is fairly clear therefore, that when she left
her house at three she had no very definite idea of what she was going
to do. At three o’clock Madame Caillaux left home—the home to which
neither she nor her husband has returned since—and drove in her grey
motor-car to a registry office, where she engaged a new cook for the
next day. She then drove to the sale-rooms of the armourer Monsieur
Gastinne-Renette in the Avenue d’Antin. Even then, she declares, she
had no intention of killing the editor of the _Figaro_, but intended
to ask him to cease his campaign against her husband, to refrain from
publishing letters which she was convinced he intended to publish, and
in the event of his refusal, to “show him of what she was capable”
(these words are a quotation from her statement to the examining
magistrate, Monsieur Boucard), and fire her revolver not to kill, but
to wound him. I wish it to be understood, clearly, that I am quoting
the foregoing from the evidence of Madame Caillaux herself. I do not
wish in any way to comment on this evidence. It is my object merely
to try, to the best of my endeavour, to place before the public the
state of this wretched woman’s mind immediately before the crime which
she committed, and by so doing to allow my readers to form their own
judgment of her motives. Madame Caillaux was well known to Monsieur
Gastinne-Renette, who for that matter knows everybody in Paris society.
She told the armourer that she would be motoring a good deal, by
herself, between Paris and her husband’s constituency of Mamers, during
Monsieur Caillaux’s coming electoral campaign, and that she wanted
a revolver for her own protection. The first weapon which was shown
her did not satisfy her. It was expensive, costing £3 19_s._ 6_d._,
and she hurt her finger, she says, when she pulled the trigger. She
was then shown a Browning which cost only £2 4_s._, and worked more
easily. She went downstairs to the shooting-gallery below Monsieur
Gastinne-Renette’s sale-rooms, and tried her new acquisition, firing
six shots from it. By a tragic coincidence her shots struck the metal
figure in almost exactly the same places as the bullets she fired
afterwards struck her victim. She then put six bullets into the loader,
and she told the examining magistrate that her first intention was to
put only two cartridges in, but that the salesman was watching her and
she thought he might think it strange if she only loaded her revolver
partially. At this point in Madame Caillaux’s examination, Monsieur
Boucard interrupted her. “If you did this,” said the magistrate, “you
must surely have made your mind up to murder Monsieur Calmette?” “Not
at all,” said Madame Caillaux. “The thought in my mind was that if he
refused to stop his campaign I would wound him.” From the armourer’s,
Madame Caillaux drove home again to the Rue Alphonse de Neuville, where
she wrote a note to her husband. In this note, which is now in the
hands of the lawyers, she wrote, “You said that you would smash his
face, and I will not let you sacrifice yourself for me. France and the
Republic need you. I will do it for you.” I have not seen this letter
myself. My quotation from it is taken from the report in the French
papers of March 25 of the examination of Madame Caillaux by Monsieur
Boucard. She gave this letter to her daughter’s English governess Miss
Baxter, telling her that she was to give it to Monsieur Caillaux at
seven o’clock if she had not returned home by then. It seems only fair
to believe that Madame Caillaux at that time, while she foresaw the
likelihood of a stormy interview with the editor of the _Figaro_, did
not intend committing murder. Madame Caillaux’s engagement for tea with
friends was at the Hôtel Ritz, but she did not go there to keep it. She
arrived at the _Figaro_ office exactly at a quarter-past five, and she
waited until a little after six o’clock for Monsieur Calmette to come
in. When she heard that he had arrived, she asked one of the men in
uniform to tell him that a lady whom he knew, but who did not wish to
give her name, wanted to speak to him. “He will only receive you,” said
the man, “if you let him know your name.” Madame Caillaux then, as I
have already said, put her visiting card in an envelope, and sent it
in to Monsieur Calmette. In her evidence to the examining magistrate
Madame Caillaux stated that she heard Monsieur Calmette a few moments
afterwards say aloud, “Let Madame Caillaux come in.” This statement of
the prisoner is flatly contradicted by the man who took her card in to
the editor of the _Figaro_, and by Monsieur Paul Bourget, who was with
Monsieur Calmette when Madame Caillaux’s card was brought to him. It
is contradicted also by a gentleman, who was in the waiting-room with
Madame Caillaux, waiting to see another member of the _Figaro_ staff,
and by a friend who was there with him. Madame Caillaux, however,
declared in her evidence to Monsieur Boucard that she heard Monsieur
Calmette speak her name aloud, and that she was furiously angry
because her identity had been made known. This is Madame Caillaux’s
own account of the crime itself. “The man opened the door to usher me
into Monsieur Calmette’s office, and as I walked to his room from the
visiting-room, I had slipped my revolver, which was in my muff, out of
its case. I held the weapon in my right hand, inside the muff, when
I entered Monsieur Calmette’s private office. He was putting his hat
on an armchair and said to me, ‘Bonjour madame.’ I replied, ‘Bonjour
Monsieur,’ and added, ‘No doubt you can guess the object of my visit.’
‘Please sit down,’ he said.” Madame Caillaux declares that she lost her
head entirely when she found herself facing her husband’s mortal enemy.
“I did not think of asking him anything,” she said. “I fired, and fired
again. The mouth of my revolver pointed downwards.” This statement is
undoubtedly true, for the first two bullets fired were found in the
bookcase quite near the ground. Madame Caillaux says that she went
on firing without knowing what she did. Two of her bullets inflicted
mortal wounds, and though everything was done that science could do,
her victim died a few hours later.
Monsieur Caillaux had spent the greater part of the afternoon in the
Chamber of Deputies, and his first news of the crime, which his wife
had committed, reached him at the Ministry of Finance. He had returned
to his office there to sign some necessary papers before returning
home to dress for the dinner at the Italian Embassy, and he did not
therefore receive his wife’s note until much later in the evening,
after the commission of the crime. Monsieur | 1,781.2734 |
2023-11-16 18:46:45.2622930 | 4,285 | 46 |
Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive.)
SCIENCE AND THE CRIMINAL
_UNIFORM WITH THIS BOOK_
HYPNOTISM AND SUGGESTION
By BERNARD HOLLANDER, M.D.
"It is the work of a man of established reputation, who has devoted
himself for years to the subject, and whose aim it is to tell what
Hypnotism really is, what it can do, and to what conclusions it seems to
point."--_Globe._
[Illustration: TRIAL OF CAROLINE RUDD
_Frontispiece_]
SCIENCE AND THE CRIMINAL
BY C. AINSWORTH MITCHELL
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1911
TO MARK HANBURY BEAUFOY, ESQ., J.P. AS A MARK OF REGARD AND ESTEEM
PREFACE
In the following pages I have endeavoured to give some account of the ways
in which scientific discovery has been utilised in the struggle between
society and the criminal.
I have tried to describe the principles upon which different kinds of
scientific evidence are based, and at the same time to bring human
interest into what would otherwise tend to be dry detail by giving an
outline of trials in which such evidence has been given. It is, perhaps,
hardly necessary to mention that in many of these illustrative trials the
accused persons were proved innocent of the charges brought against them,
and that although their cases were tried in the criminal courts the title
of the book in no way applies to them.
For the accounts of the older trials I have drawn freely upon Cobbett's
_State Trials_, Paris and Fonblanque's _Medical Jurisprudence_, and the
first edition of Taylor's _Medical Jurisprudence_, while I must also
acknowledge my indebtedness to the _Circumstantial Evidence_ of Mr.
Justice Wills and the recent excellent lectures on _Forensic Chemistry_,
by Mr. Jago.
In the later cases I have mainly relied upon contemporary accounts and
upon my own impressions of some of the trials at which I have been
present.
My best thanks are due to all those who have given me valuable and
ungrudging assistance. In particular I would mention Major Richardson, who
has kindly given me a photograph of one of his trained bloodhounds and has
allowed me to quote the description of an actual man hunt with
bloodhounds, from his book, _War, Police, and Watch Dogs_; and
Mademoiselle Arlette Clary (and the _Daily Mirror_) who have supplied me
with a photograph of a Paris police dog.
I am further indebted to the late Sir Francis Galton and his publishers,
Messrs. Macmillan & Co., who gave me permission to reproduce illustrations
from his book on _Finger Prints_; and to Mr. Thorne Baker and the _Daily
Mirror_ for photographs illustrating the use of telegraphy in transmitting
portraits.
The excellent drawings of the hairs of different animals were made by my
friend Mr. R. M. Prideaux, and are reproduced here by the kind permission
of Messrs. Scott Greenwood & Co.
Finally, I would thank the proprietors of _Knowledge_ and the Editor, Mr.
Wilfred Mark Webb, for the loan of various blocks and for permitting me to
make use of material from several articles of mine on handwriting, which
have appeared in that journal.
C. A. M.
_White Cottage,
Amersham Common,
Buckinghamshire._
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION
Conflict between the Law-maker and the Law-breaker--
Illustrations of Deductive Reasoning in Criminal Cases--
Scientific Evidence--Scientific Assistance for the
Accused--Instances of Advantages of Conflict of Scientific
Evidence--Scientific Partisanship 1
CHAPTER II
DETECTION AND CAPTURE OF THE CRIMINAL
Contrasts between Eighteenth, Nineteenth and Twentieth
Centuries--Margaret Catchpole--Tawell--Crippen--Portraits
and the Press--Charlesworth Case--Bloodhounds--Police
Dogs--Circumstantial Detection 22
CHAPTER III
PERSONAL IDENTIFICATION
McKeever's Experiment on Fallibility of Eye-witnesses--
Gorse Hall Murder--Cases of Mistaken Identity--Gun-flash
Recognition--Self-deception--Tichborne Case 37
CHAPTER IV
SYSTEMS OF IDENTIFICATION
Photography--Anthropometry--Finger-prints and their Uses 48
CHAPTER V
IDENTIFICATION AND HANDWRITING
Heredity--Emotional Influences--Effects of Disease on
Handwriting 70
CHAPTER VI
EVIDENCE AS TO HANDWRITING
Illustrative Cases--Handwriting Experts 85
CHAPTER VII
FORGED DOCUMENTS
Use of Microscope--Erasures--Photographic Methods--
Typewritten Matter--Examinations of Charred Fragments--
Forgery of Bank Notes 93
CHAPTER VIII
DISTINGUISHING INKS IN HANDWRITING
Elizabethan Ink--Milton's Bible--Age of Inks--Carbon
Inks--Herculaneum MSS.--Forgery of Ancient Documents 105
CHAPTER IX
TWO NOTABLE TRIALS
Trial of Brinkley--Trial of Robert Wood 116
CHAPTER X
SYMPATHETIC INKS 130
CHAPTER XI
REMARKABLE FORGERY TRIALS
Trials--William Hale--The Perreaus--Caroline Rudd--Dr.
Dodd--Whalley Will Case--Pilcher, etc. 135
CHAPTER XII
IDENTIFICATION OF HUMAN BLOOD AND HUMAN HAIR
Structure of Blood--Human Blood--Blood of Animals--Blood
Crystals--Libellers of Sir E. Godfrey--Trial of Nation in
1857--Physiological Tests--Precipitines--First Trial in
France--Gorse Hall Trials--Human Hair--Hairs of Animals 154
CHAPTER XIII
EARLY POISONING TRIALS
Murder of Sir T. Overbury--Mary Blandy--Katharine Nairn,
etc. 171
CHAPTER XIV
NOTABLE POISONING TRIALS
Use of Poisons--Arsenic and Antimony--Chapman Case--
Strychnine in Palmer Trial--Physiological Tests--Case of
Freeman--Error from Quantitative Deductions--Poisonous Food
Given to Animals--Mary Higgins--Negative Result of
Physiological Tests--Hyoscyamus Poisons--Crippen Case--
Experiment on Cats--Time Limit for Action of Arsenic--
French Case 190
CHAPTER XV
THE MAYBRICK CASE 206
CHAPTER XVI
ADULTERATION OF FOOD
National Loss from Adulteration--"Adulterated"
Electricity--The Beer Conner--Conflict of Evidence--The
Notice Dodge--Preservatives--Standards for Food--Court of
Reference--Administration of the Law 214
INDEX 239
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
TRIAL OF CAROLINE RUDD _Frontispiece_
WAR PLAN SENT BY WIRELESS TELEGRAPHY 24
PHOTO SENT BY TELEGRAPHY FROM PARIS 26
PORTRAIT SENT BY "WIRELESS" 28
MAJOR RICHARDSON'S MAN-TRACKER "PATHAN" 30
FRENCH POLICE DOG 32
PURKENJE'S STANDARD FINGER-PRINTS 64
TYPES OF FINGER-PRINTS 66
HEREDITY IN HANDWRITING 71
INFLUENCE OF TRAINING ON HANDWRITING 74
SIGNATURES OF NAPOLEON AT DIFFERENT PERIODS OF HIS CAREER 77
WRITERS' CRAMP 78
SPECIMEN OF AGRAPHIA 78
WRITING OF LENAU, BEFORE AND DURING INSANITY 79
WRITING OF HOeLDERLIN, BEFORE AND DURING INSANITY 79
MIRROR WRITING IN PARALYSIS 80
HYPNOTIC HANDWRITING 82
GARIBALDI'S SIGNATURE 83
DETECTION OF FORGERY BY MEANS OF CAMERA AND MICROSCOPE 100
FURTHER SPECIMENS OF DETECTION OF FORGERY, AND TESTS TO
DISTINGUISH OLD FROM NEW INKS 102
ELIZABETHAN DOMESTIC RECIPE FOR INK 107
THE TINTOMETER 109
GOAT'S AND COW'S HAIR 162
KANGAROO'S AND HUMAN HAIR, AND THE HAIR OF A CAT AND A DOG 164
FIBRES OF CHINESE SILK 164
RABBIT'S AND HORSE-HAIR 166
WOOL FIBRES FROM DIFFERENT BREEDS OF SHEEP 168
COTTON AND FLAX FIBRES 170
ANNE TURNER 172
Science and the Criminal
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION
Conflict between the Law-maker and the Law-breaker--Illustrations of
Deductive Reasoning in Criminal Cases--Scientific Evidence--Scientific
Assistance for the Accused--Instances of Advantages of Conflict of
Scientific Evidence--Scientific Partisanship.
In the constant state of warfare between the law-maker and the
law-breaker, which began when mankind first organised itself into
communities and has existed ever since, every new invention or practical
application of scientific discovery has supplied each side with new
weapons frequently of much greater precision.
The advantage thus conferred tends to be on the side of the law-maker but
not invariably so; for in spite of all the facilities of investigation now
available it is surprising how many crimes remain undetected, or how
frequently in suspicious cases it is impossible to discover the truth. The
law-breaker's primitive weapon of natural cunning has thus often proved
more than a match for all the weapons at the disposal, of his opponent.
There is much to be said, therefore, for the suggestion which has recently
been put forward on many sides that a department specially trained for
the work of criminal investigation should be created.
Under the present conditions the rank and file of the detective force,
recruited as it is from the best of the uniformed policemen, contains many
men of acute intellect and reasoning capacity, but it cannot be doubted
but that in many cases their efficiency would have been enormously
increased by a scientific training.
The present system somewhat recalls that under which doctors acquired
their knowledge of medicine in the early part of last century. Their
mistakes taught them what not to do, but in the meantime the patient
sometimes died.
Methods of scientific reasoning so as to draw deductions from observed
facts cannot be acquired by solitary night watches upon a "beat," nor does
the facility for breaking up a tangle in traffic which the constable
acquires as the outcome of his daily duties, necessarily render him more
capable of extricating from a mass of confused details the essential facts
upon which stress should be laid.
In some of the unsolved mysteries that have occurred during the last few
years the presence of a highly trained intellect at the first hour of the
investigation might conceivably have led to the detection of the criminal.
As a rule, it is only after the first examination is over and the case
appears likely to be a difficult one, that the best brains of the
department are brought to bear upon the facts, and it may then be too late
for effective action.
It should be made possible for a man who possesses a facility for this
type of work to join the criminal investigation department without having
to go through the routine work of a police constable, which will probably
add nothing to his powers of following up a clue; but, on the other hand,
this period of probation should be occupied by practical training in
scientific methods of working.
The present conditions both of payment and of status are not of the kind
that will attract the highest type of brain to the work of criminal
investigation, and yet there is no reason why it should not be made to
offer the advantages of other branches of professional work.
An apt illustration of the use of acute observation and deduction in
solving a mystery is afforded by the strange story of a shooting accident,
that, according to a writer in one of the leading morning papers, took
place many years ago.
A country gentleman was found lying dead upon a sofa, with the whole of
the charge of a sporting gun in his body. The discharged gun was hanging
in its usual place upon the wall, and there were no indications of any
struggle having taken place. All the circumstances apparently pointed to
the man having been murdered in his sleep, for it was impossible for him
to have shot himself and have then replaced the gun upon the wall, and
strong suspicion fell upon one of the servants in the house.
This man was arrested, and would probably have been convicted had it not
been for the detective noticing that the dead man's watch, which had been
smashed by some of the shot, had been stopped early in the afternoon, and
that at exactly the same moment the sun was focussed through a bottle of
water that was standing upon the table in such a way that the ray fell
upon the nipple of the gun upon the wall.
Accordingly he loaded the gun again, hung it in the same spot, and placed
a dummy figure upon the sofa, and as soon as the sun's rays passed through
this unintended burning-glass and were focussed upon the gun, an explosion
occurred and the contents were discharged into the figure.
The writer has been unable to trace the date of this occurrence, but even
if it is not founded upon fact it is not impossible, for there are
undoubtedly cases where papers have been set on fire by the rays of the
sun being concentrated upon them, through a bottle of water.
An instance of the way in which one small fact may give conclusive proof
that a crime has been committed is afforded by the trial of Swan and
Jefferies in the early part of last century.
The prisoners, who were indoor servants, had committed a murder and then
raised an alarm with the object of throwing the suspicion upon burglars,
who they alleged had broken into the house. But an examination of the
grass outside the house showed that although dew had fallen heavily
through the night there were no indications of its having been disturbed
by footsteps. This piece of circumstantial evidence led to their arrest,
and they were subsequently convicted and executed.
Equally convincing were the clues that led to the arrest of Courvoisier in
1840, for the murder of Lord William Russell, who was then seventy-five
years of age.
The prisoner had only been in the service of the murdered man for a short
time. He stated that on the night before the murder he had left his master
reading in bed, as was his frequent custom, and a fact in support of this
was that the candle had burned down to the socket.
Early in the morning the housemaid found the silver plate scattered about
the room, and various articles of value tied up in bundles, as though
burglars had broken into the house and had been interrupted in their work.
She called Courvoisier, and he appeared almost immediately, fully dressed,
and going into the room of Lord William Russell found him with his throat
cut.
On a door were marks which indicated that it had been broken in by the
supposed burglars, but closer examination showed that the damage had been
done from the inside. In addition to this, any burglars entering the house
through this door must have passed over a wall, and this was found to be
thickly coated with dust which had not been disturbed.
For a long time no trace of the missing valuables were discovered, but
finally after a thorough search of the premises, some of the money was
found hidden behind the skirting in the pantry of the accused, while later
on the stolen plate was discovered in the keeping of a man with whom
Courvoisier had formerly lived.
Mainly on the circumstantial evidence of these facts the prisoner was
convicted; afterwards he made a full confession of the crime.
Clever deductive reasoning was also shown in the following case, in which
the author of a shooting outrage that occurred in 1831 at Ayr was
discovered in a singular manner. Someone had maliciously fired a gun into
a church, and had hoped to escape detection. It was noticed, however, that
some of the bullets, after having passed through the windows, had left a
mark upon the wall opposite. By drawing a straight line between these
marks and the holes in the windows, and extending the line outside the
church, the other end was found in a window on the other side of the
street. Subsequently other proof was obtained that the gun had been fired
from this window.
Numerous cases might also be quoted where the trained observation of a
doctor has called attention to some slight point which would otherwise
have been overlooked, but which has furnished the clue to the detection of
a crime.
In the year 1806 a man named Blight was shot with a pistol at Deptford by
someone unknown, and died from the wound. Sir Astley Cooper, who was
called in to attend to the victim, carefully noted the relationship of the
body to other objects in the room, and from the position of the wound
concluded that the shot had been fired by a left-handed person. This
inference drew suspicion upon a gentleman named Patch who was the only
left-handed person who had been seen with Mr. Blight. He was a close
personal friend of the latter, and no one had dreamed of suspecting him of
the crime. The results of further inquiries proved that this man had
fired the shot, and after his conviction he confessed that he had been
guilty of the murder.
The fact that a weapon is tightly held in the hand of a person who has
been shot is strong presumptive evidence that it is a case of suicide,
since it is improbable that the hand of a dead man could subsequently be
made to grasp a pistol.
There is a remarkable case on record, however, in which the fact that a
pistol was found clenched in the hand of a dead man was at first regarded
as evidence of a murder. A son of the deceased, who had slept in the same
room was accused of having killed him and of then placing the discharged
pistol in his hand to give the suggestion of suicide. Experiments were
made in which the hand holding the pistol was lifted into the position in
which it must have been held if it had been a case of suicide, and in each
instance the hand, when allowed to fall, did not retain the pistol. For
the defence medical evidence was given that the spasmodic contraction of
the muscles after death would account for the pistol being still clenched
in the hand, while the inability of the hand to grasp it afterwards did
not prove anything. Evidence as to the presence of a motive was given, but
the scientific evidence was regarded as decisive and the prisoner was
discharged.
The question whether a person who has apparently committed suicide could
possibly have made use of the degree of force to which circumstances
pointed has frequently arisen.
The most notable instance of the kind was in reference to the | 1,781.282333 |
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Produced by Jonathan Ingram, David Garcia and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 150.
MAY 31, 1916.
[Illustration: _Retired Major (to mendicant who has claimed to have seen
service in the South African War)._ "WRETCHED IMPOSTOR! THAT IS AN
INDIAN MUTINY RIBBON."
_Mendicant._ "LUMME! IS IT?"]
* * * * *
CHARIVARIA.
A conscientious objector told the Cambridge tribunal that he could not
pass a butcher's shop without shuddering. The suggestion that he should
obviate the shudders by going inside seems almost too simple a solution.
* * *
According to a report of the committee appointed to investigate the
matter, water is the best agent for suppressing conflagrations caused
by bombs. It is not suggested, however, that other remedies now in
use for the purpose, such as the censorship of the Press, should be
completely abandoned.
* * *
According to Reuter (whom we have no reason to doubt) a campaign is now
being waged in German East Africa against giraffes, which have been
inconveniencing our telegraphic system by scratching the wires with
their necks. It will be remembered that the policy of using giraffes
instead of telegraph poles was adopted by the War Office in the face
of a strong body of adverse opinion.
* * *
It is reported that, as the result of the prohibition by Sweden of the
exportation of haddock, salmon, cleverly disguised to resemble the
former, are being sold by unscrupulous fishmongers in the Mile End Road.
* * *
An arsenal worker has pleaded for exemption on the ground that he had
seven little pigs to look after. The Tribunal however promised him that
in the German trenches he would find as many full-grown pigs to look
after as the heart of man could desire.
* * *
"In showing how to use as little meat as possible," says a contemporary
in the course of a review of the Thrift Exhibition of the National
School of Cookery, "a cook mixed the steak for her pudding in with
the pastry." This is a striking improvement upon the old-fashioned
method of serving the pastry by itself and mixing the steak with the
banana-fritters.
* * *
"A cricketer from the Front" (says an evening paper) "believes a lot of
fellows would escape wounds if they would watch missiles more carefully."
It would, of course, be better still if there was a really courageous
umpire to cry "No-ball" in all cases of objectionable delivery.
* * *
Addressing the staff at SELFRIDGE's on Empire Day, Mr. GORDON SELFRIDGE
said he was glad that President WILSON, "who had had his ear to the ground
for a long time, had at last seemed to realise that the American nation
was at heart wholly with the principles that animated the Allies in
this world struggle." But why put his ear to the ground to listen? Does
he imagine that the heart of the American nation is in its boots?
* * *
The Lord Mayor of LONDON states that he expects that within a couple of
years he will be able to reach his estate, seventy miles from London,
in half-an-hour by aeroplane. We hope his prophecy may be realised,
but we cannot help wondering what would happen if his aeroplane were
to turn turtle on the way.
* * *
A legal point has been raised as to whether a woman who, while attempting
to kill a wasp, breaks her neighbour's window is liable for damages.
Counsel is understood to have expressed the view that, if the defendant
had broken plaintiff's window while trespassing through the same
in pursuit of the wasp, or had failed to give the wasp a reasonable
opportunity of departing peaceably, or if it could be shown that the
wasp had not previously exhibited a ferocious disposition, then judgment
must be for the plaintiff.
* * * * *
"Here in a circular letter from the Home Office we find the
sentence: 'The increase in the number of juvenile offenders is
mainly caused by an increase of nearly 50 per cent. in cases
of larceny.' In ordinary human language this only means that
nearly twice as many children were caught thieving as in the
year before. But it would be all that an official's place was
worth to say so."
_The Nation._
Certainly it would, if his duties required a knowledge of elementary
arithmetic.
* * * * *
THE BRITISH DRAGON.
[The KAISER's Chancellor, in | 1,781.373451 |
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Produced by Paul Haxo from page images generously made
available by the Internet Archive and the University of
California, Berkeley and Cornell University libraries.
THE MAGISTRATE
THE PLAYS OF ARTHUR W. PINERO
Paper cover, 1s 6d; cloth, 2s 6d each
THE TIMES
THE PROFLIGATE
THE CABINET MINISTER
THE HOBBY-HORSE
LADY BOUNTIFUL
THE MAGISTRATE
DANDY DICK
SWEET LAVENDER
THE SCHOOLMISTRESS
THE WEAKER SEX
THE AMAZONS
*THE SECOND | 1,781.473273 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: Adeline in her garden.]
PETER PIPER'S
PRACTICAL PRINCIPLES
OF
PLAIN AND PERFECT
PRONUNCIATION
[Illustration: Title page art]
PHILADELPHIA:
Willard Johnson, No. 141, South Street
1836.
PREFACE.
Peter Piper, without Pretension to Precocity or Profoundness, Puts Pen
to Paper to Produce these Puzzling Pages, Purposely to Please the
Palates of Pretty Prattling Playfellows, Proudly Presuming that with
Proper Penetration it will Probably, and Perhaps Positively, Prove a
Peculiarly Pleasant and Profitable Path to Proper, Plain and Precise
Pronunciation.
He Prays Parents to Purchase this Playful Performance, Partly to Pay
him for his Patience and Pains; Partly to Provide for the Printers and
Publishers; but Principally to Prevent the Pernicious Prevalence of
Perverse Pronunciation.
A a
[Illustration: Andrew Airpump]
Andrew Airpump ask'd his Aunt her ailment;
Did Andrew Airpump ask his Aunt her ailment?
If Andrew Airpump ask'd his Aunt her ailment,
Where was the Ailment of Andrew Airpump's Aunt?
B b
[Illustration: Billy Button]
Billy Button bought a butter'd Biscuit:
Did Billy Button buy a butter'd Biscuit?
If Billy Button bought a butter'd Biscuit,
Where's the butter'd Biscuit Billy Button bought?
C c
[Illustration: Captain Crackskull]
Captain Crackskull crack'd a Catchpoll's Cockscomb:
Did Captain Crackskull crack a Catchpoll's Cockscomb?
If Captain Crackskull crack'd a Catchpoll's Cockscomb,
Where's the Catchpoll's Cockscomb Captain Crackskull crack'd?
D d
[Illustration: Davy Dolldrum]
Davy Dolldrum dream'd he drove a Dragon:
Did Davy Dolldrum dream he drove a dragon?
If Davy Dolldrum dream'd he drove a dragon
Where's the dragon Davy Dolldrum dream'd he drove?
E e
[Illustration: Enoch Elkrig]
Enoch Elkrig ate an empty Eggshell:
Did Enoch Elkrig eat an empty Eggshell?
If Enoch Elkrig ate an empty Eggshell,
Where's the empty eggshell Enoch Elkrig ate?
F f
[Illustration: Francis Fribble]
Francis Fribble figured on a Frenchman's Filly:
Did Francis Fribble figure on a Frenchman's Filly?
If Francis Fribble figured on a Frenchman's Filly,
Where's the Frenchman's Filly Francis Fribble figured on?
G g
[Illustration: Gaffer Gilpin]
Gaffer Gilpin got a Goose and Gander:
Did Gaffer Gilpin get a Goose and Gander?
If Gaffer Gilpin got a Goose and Gander,
Where's the Goose and Gander Gaffer Gilpin got?
H h
[Illustration: Humphrey Hunchback]
Humphrey Hunchback had a hundred Hedgehogs:
Did Humphrey Hunchback have a hundred Hedgehogs?
If Humphrey Hunchback had a hundred Hedgehogs,
Where's the hundred Hedgehogs Humphrey Hunchback had?
I i
[Illustration: Inigo Impey]
Inigo Impey itched for an Indian Image:
Did Inigo Impey itch for an Indian Image?
If Inigo Impey itched for an Indian Image,
Where's the Indian Image Inigo Impey itch'd for?
J j
[Illustration: Jumping Jackey]
Jumping Jackey jeer'd a Jesting Juggler:
Did Jumping Jackey jeer a Jesting Juggler?
If Jumping Jackey jeer'd a Jesting Juggler,
Where's the Jesting Juggler Jumping Jackey jeer'd?
K k
[Illustration: Kimbo Kemble]
Kimbo Kemble kicked his Kinsman's Kettle:
Did Kimbo Kemble kick his Kinsman's Kettle?
If Kimbo Kemble kick'd his Kinsman's Kettle,
Where's the Kinsman's Kettle Kimbo Kemble kick'd? | 1,781.516507 |
2023-11-16 18:46:45.6581620 | 140 | 6 |
Produced by D. Alexander, Diane Monico, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE WHITE DOE
THE FATE OF
VIRGINIA DARE
_AN INDIAN LEGEND_
BY
SALLIE
SOUTHALL
COTTEN
[Illustration]
Printed for the Author
BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA
Copyright, 1901
BY SALLIE SOUTHALL COTTEN
_All rights reserved_
[Illustration:
"While within its bright'ning dimness,
With the misty halo 'round her,
| 1,781.678202 |
2023-11-16 18:46:46.2585190 | 2,684 | 7 | The Project Gutenberg Etext of Lord Ormont and his Aminta, v3
by George Meredith
#85 in our series by George Meredith
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Title: Lord Ormont and his Aminta, v3
Author: George Meredith
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
Release Date: September, 2003 [Etext #4479]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on February 25, 2002]
The Project Gutenberg Etext Lord Ormont and his Aminta, v3, by Meredith
*********This file should be named 4479.txt or 4479.zip**********
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BOOK 3.
XII. MORE OF CUPER'S BOYS
XIII. WAR AT OLMER
XIV. OLD LOVERS NEW FRIENDS
XV. SHOWING A SECRET FISHED WITHOUT ANGLING
XVI. ALONG TWO ROADS TO STEIGNTON
CHAPTER XII
MORE OF CUPER'S BOYS
Entering the dining-room at the appointed minute in a punctual household,
Mrs. Lawrence informed the company that she had seen a Horse Guards
orderly at the trot up the street. Weyburn said he was directing a boy
to ring the bell of the house for him. Lord Ormont went to the window.
'Amends and honours?' Mrs. Lawrence hummed and added an operatic
flourish of an arm. Something like it might really be imagined. A large
square missive was handed to the footman. Thereupon the orderly trotted
off.
My lord took seat at table, telling the footman to lay 'that parcel'
beside the clock on the mantelpiece. Aminta and Mrs. Lawrence gave out a
little cry of bird or mouse, pitiable to hear: they could not wait, they
must know, they pished at sight of plates. His look deferred to their
good pleasure, like the dead hand of a clock under key; and Weyburn
placed the missive before him, seeing by the superscription that it was
not official.
It was addressed, in the Roman hand of a boy's copybook writing, to
General the Earl of Ormont, I.C.B., etc.,
Horse Guards,
London.'
The earl's eyebrows creased up over the address; they came down low on
the contents.
He resumed his daily countenance. 'Nothing of importance,' he said to
the ladies.
Mrs. Lawrence knocked the table with her knuckles. Aminta put out a
hand, in sign of her wish.
'Pray let me see it.'
'After lunch will do.'
'No, no, no! We are women--we are women,' cried Mrs. Lawrence.
'How can it concern women?'
'As well ask how a battle-field concerns them!'
'Yes, the shots hit us behind you,' said Aminta; and she, too, struck the
table.
He did not prolong their torture. Weyburn received the folio sheet and
passed it on. Aminta read. Mrs. Lawrence jumped from her chair and ran
to the countess's shoulder; her red lips formed the petitioning word to
the earl for the liberty she was bent to take.
'Peep? if you like,' my lord said, jesting at the blank she would find,
and soft to the pretty play of her mouth.
When the ladies had run to the end of it, he asked them: 'Well; now
then?'
'But it's capital--the dear laddies!' Mrs. Lawrence exclaimed.
Aminta's eyes met Weyburn's.
She handed him the sheet of paper; upon the transmission of which empty
thing from the Horse Guards my lord commented: 'An orderly!'
Weyburn scanned it rapidly, for the table had been served.
The contents were these:
'HIGH BRENT NEAR ARTSWELL.
'April 7th.
'To GENERAL THE EARL OF ORMONT
'Cavalry.
'May it please your Lordship, we, the boys of Mr. Cuper's school,
are desirous to bring to the notice of the bravest officer England
possesses now living, a Deed of Heroism by a little boy and girl,
children of our school laundress, aged respectively eight and six,
who, seeing a little fellow in the water out of depth, and sinking
twice, before the third time jumped in to save him, though unable to
swim themselves; the girl aged six first, we are sorry to say; but
the brother, Robert Coop, followed her example, and together they
made a line, and she caught hold of the drowning boy, and he held
her petycoats, and so they pulled. We have seen the place: it is
not a nice one. They got him ashore at last. The park-keeper here
going along found them dripping, rubbing his hands, and blowing into
his nostrils. Name, T. Shellen, son of a small cobbler here, and
recovered.
'May it please your Lordship, we make bold to apply, because you
have been for a number of years, as far as the oldest can recollect,
the Hero of our school, and we are so bold as to ask the favour of
General Lord Ormont's name to head a subscription we are making to
circulate for the support of their sick mother, who has fallen ill.
We think her a good woman. Gentlemen and ladies of the
neighbourhood are willing to subscribe. If we have a great name to
head the list, we think we shall make a good subscription. Names:--
'Martha Mary Coop, mother.
'Robert Coop.
'Jane Coop, the girl, aged six.
'If we are not taking too great a liberty, a subscription paper will
follow. We are sure General the Earl of Ormont's name will help to
make them comfortable.
'We are obediently and respectfully,
'DAVID GOWEN,
'WALTER BENCH,
'JAMES PANNERS PARSONS,
'And seven others.'
Weyburn spared Aminta an answering look, that would have been a begging
of Browny to remember Matey.
'It's genuine,' he said to Mrs. Lawrence, as he attacked his plate with
the gusto for the repast previously and benignly observed by her. 'It
ought to be the work of some of the younger fellows.'
'They spell correctly, on the whole.'
'Excepting,' said my lord, 'an article they don't know much about yet.'
Weyburn had noticed the word, and he smiled. 'Said to be the happy
state! The three signing their names are probably what we called bellman
and beemen, collector, and heads of the swarm-enthusiasts. If it is not
the work of some of the younger hands, the school has levelled on minors.
In any case it shows the school is healthy.'
'I subscribe,' said Mrs. Lawrence.
'The little girl aged six shall have something done for her,' said
Aminta, and turned her eyes on the earl.
He was familiar with her thrilled voice at a story of bravery. He said--
'The boys don't say the girl's brother turned tail.'
'Only that the girl's brother aged eight followed the lead of the little
girl aged six,' Mrs. Lawrence remarked. 'Well, I like the schoolboys,
too--"we are sorry to say!" But they're good lads. Boys who can
appreciate brave deeds are capable of doing them.'
'Speak to me about it on Monday,' the earl said to Weyburn.
He bowed, and replied--
'I shall have the day to-morrow. I 'll walk it and call on Messrs.' (he
glanced at the paper) 'Gowen, Bench, and Parsons. I have a German friend
in London anxious to wear his legs down stumpier.'
'The name of the school?'
'It is called Cuper's.'
Aminta, on hearing the name of Cuper a second time, congratulated herself
on the happy invention of her pretext to keep Mrs. Pagnell from the table
at midday. Her aunt had a memory for names: what might she not have
exclaimed! There would have been little in it, but it was as well that
the 'boy of the name of Weyburn' at Cuper's should be unmentioned. By an
exaggeration peculiar to a disgust in fancy, she could hear her aunt
vociferating 'Weyburn!' and then staring at Mr. Weyburn opposite--perhaps
not satisfied with staring.
He withdrew after his usual hearty meal, during which his talk of boys
and their monkey tricks, and what we can train them to, had been pleasant
generally, especially to Mrs. Lawrence. Aminta was carried back to the
minute early years at High Brent. A line or two of a smile touched her
cheek.
'Yes, my dear countess, that is the face I want for Lady de Culme
to-day,' said Mrs. Lawrence.' She likes a smiling face. Aunty--aunty
has always been good; she has never been prim. I was too much for her,
until I reflected that she was very old, and deserved to know the truth
before she left us; and so I went to her; and then she said she wished to
see the Countess of Ormont, because of her being my dearest friend. I
fancy she entertains an 'arriere' idea of proposing her flawless niece
Gracey, Marchioness of Fencaster, to present you. She's quite equal to
the fatigue herself. You 'll rejoice in her anecdotes. People were
virtuous in past days: they counted their sinners. In those days, too,
as I have to understand, the men chivalrously bore the blame, though the
women were rightly punished. Now, alas! the initiative is with the
women, and men are not asked for chivalry. Hence it languishes. Lady
de Cul | 1,782.278559 |
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Produced by Suzanne Shell, Steve Flynn, Virginia Paque,
Peter Klumper, Tonya Allen, Thierry Alberto and PG
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[Illustration: "_THE FAIR AND SOMETIMES UNCERTAIN DAUGHTER OF THE HOUSE
OF MILBREY_." (See page 182.)]
THE SPENDERS
A TALE OF THE THIRD GENERATION
BY
HARRY LEON WILSON
_Illustrated by_ O'NEILL LATHAM
1902
To L. L. J.
FOREWORD
The wanderers of earth turned to her--outcast of the older lands | 1,782.278582 |
2023-11-16 18:46:46.3548250 | 823 | 217 |
Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
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generously made available by The Internet Archive)
BRITISH
ARTISTS
JOHN PETTIE, R.A., H.R.S.A.
[Illustration: Bonnie Prince Charlie (Cover Page)]
IN THE SAME SERIES
BIRKET FOSTER, R.W.S.
KATE GREENAWAY
GEORGE MORLAND
A. AND C. BLACK . 4 SOHO SQUARE . LONDON, W.
AGENTS
AMERICA THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
64 & 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
AUSTRALASIA OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
205 FLINDERS LANE, MELBOURNE
CANADA THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA, LTD.
27 RICHMOND STREET WEST, TORONTO
INDIA MACMILLAN & COMPANY, LTD.
MACMILLAN BUILDING, BOMBAY
309 BOW BAZAAR STREET, CALCUTTA
[Illustration: Portrait of John Pettie]
JOHN PETTIE
R.A., H.R.S.A.
SIXTEEN EXAMPLES IN COLOUR
OF THE ARTIST'S WORK
WITH
AN INTRODUCTION
BY
MARTIN HARDIE, B.A., A.R.E.
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED BY A. & C. BLACK
4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON
MCMX
LIST OF PLATES
OWNER OF ORIGINAL
1. Portrait of John Pettie _Tate Gallery_
2. The Vigil "
3. The Step _Kenneth M. Clark, Esq._
4. A Drum-head Court-Martial _Mappin Art Gallery, Sheffield_
5. Treason "
6. Rejected Addresses _The Rt. Hon. Baron Faber_
7. Ho! Ho! Old Noll! _W. J. Chrystal, Esq_.
8. A Sword-and-Dagger Fight _Corporation Art Gallery, Glasgow_
9. Two Strings to her Bow "
[A]10. Bonnie Prince Charlie _Charles Stewart, Esq._
11. Disbanded _Fine Art Institution, Dundee_
12. Portrait of Sir Charles
Wyndham as David Garrick _Sir Charles Wyndham_
13. The Clash of Steel _John Jordan, Esq._
14. A Storm in a Teacup _Colonel Harding_
15. Grandmother's Memories _Trustees of the late Alex. Rose, Esq._
16. The Chieftain's Candlesticks _By permission of the late Mrs. Morten_
[A] _On the cover_
JOHN PETTIE, R.A.
Like many great painters, John Pettie was of humble origin. Born in
Edinburgh in 1839, he was the son of a tradesman who, having reached
some prosperity, purchased a business in the village of East Linton and
moved there with his family in 1852. The boy was born with art in his
blood, and Nature never intended him for the dull and respectable
vocation to which his father was anxious that he should succeed. More
than once, when despatched on an errand to storeroom or cellar, he was
discovered making drawings on the lid of a wooden box or the top of a
cask, totally oblivious of his journey and its object. A portrait | 1,782.374865 |
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Produced by Al Haines
Through the Postern Gate
_A ROMANCE IN SEVEN DAYS_
By
Florence L. Barclay
Author of
"The Rosary," "The Mistress of Shenstone,"
"The Following of the Star," etc
London and New York
G. P. Putnam's Sons
1912
146_th Thousand_
_Made and Printed in Great Britain by
The Camelot Press Limited,
Southampton._
TO
MY MOTHER
Contents
THE FIRST DAY
THE STORY OF LITTLE BOY BLUE
THE SECOND DAY
MISS CHARTERIS TAKES CONTROL
THE THIRD DAY
THE BOY INVADES THE KITCHEN
THE FOURTH DAY
CHRISTOBEL SIGNS HER NAME
THE FIFTH DAY
GUY CHELSEA TAKES CONTROL
THE SIXTH DAY
MISS ANN HAS "_MUCH_ TO SAY"
AN INTERLUDE
"AS A DREAM, WHEN ONE AWAKETH"
THE SEVENTH DAY
THE STONE IS ROLLED AWAY
THE FIRST DAY
THE STORY OF LITTLE BOY BUTE
"But it was not your niece! It was always you I wanted," said the Boy.
He lay back, in a deep wicker chair, under the old mulberry-tree. He
had taken the precaution of depositing his cup and saucer on the soft
turf beneath his chair, because he knew that, under the stress of
sudden emotion, china--especially the _best_ china--had a way of flying
off his knee. And there was no question as to the exquisite quality of
the china on the dainty tea-table over which Miss Christobel Charteris
presided.
The Boy had watched her pouring the tea into those pretty rose-leaf
cups, nearly every afternoon during the golden two weeks just over. He
knew every movement of those firm white hands, so soft, yet so strong
and capable.
The Boy used to stand beside her, ready to hand Mollie's cup, as
punctiliously as if a dozen girls had been sitting in the old garden,
waiting to be quickly served by the only man.
The Boy enjoyed being the only man. Also he had quite charming
manners. He never allowed the passing of bread-and-butter to interfere
with the flow of conversation; yet the bread-and-butter was always
within reach at the precise moment you wanted it, though the Boy's
bright eyes were fixed just then in keenest interest on the person who
happened to be speaking, and not a point of the story, or a word of the
remark, was missed either by him or by you.
He used to watch the Aunt's beautiful hands very closely; and at last,
every time he looked at them, his brown eyes kissed them. The Boy
thought this was a delightful secret known only to himself. But one
day, when he was bending over her, holding his own cup while she filled
it, the Aunt suddenly said: "Don't!" It was so startling and
unexpected, that the cup almost flew out of his hand. The Boy might
have said: "Don't _what_?" which would have put the Aunt in a
difficulty, because it would have been so very impossible to explain.
But he was too honest. He at once _didn't_, and felt a little shy for
five minutes; then recovered, and hugged himself with a fearful joy at
the thought that she had _known_ his eyes had kissed her dear beautiful
hands; then stole a look at her calm face, so completely unmoved in its
classic beauty, and thought he must have been mistaken; only--what on
earth else could she have said "Don't!" about, at that moment?
But Mollie was there, then; so no explanations were possible. Now at
last, thank goodness, Mollie had gone, and his own seven days had
begun. This was the first day; and he was going to tell her
everything. There was absolutely nothing he would not be able to tell
her. The delight of this fairly swept the Boy off his feet. He had
kept on the curb so long; and he was not used to curbs of any kind.
He lay back, his hands behind his head, and watched the Aunt's kind
face, through half-closed lids. His brown eyes were shining, but very
soft. When the Aunt looked at them, she quickly looked away.
"How could you think the attraction would be gone?" he said. "It was
always you, I wanted, not your niece. Good heavens! How can you have
thought it was Mollie, when it was _you_--YOU | 1,782.473274 |
2023-11-16 18:46:46.6682600 | 3,290 | 503 |
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THE WORKS OF
MARY ROBERTS RINEHART
AFFINITIES
AND OTHER STORIES
THE REVIEW OF REVIEWS CORP.
_Publishers_ NEW YORK
PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY.
_Copyright, 1920,
By George H. Doran Company_
_Copyright, 1909, 1913, 1914, 1915, by the Curtis Publishing
Company_
_Printed in the United States of America_
CONTENTS
I AFFINITIES 9
II THE FAMILY FRIEND 55
III CLARA'S LITTLE ESCAPADE 103
IV THE BORROWED HOUSE 161
V SAUCE FOR THE GANDER 237
AFFINITIES
I
Somebody ought to know the truth about the Devil's Island affair and I
am going to tell it. The truth is generally either better or worse than
the stories that get about. In this case it is somewhat better, though I
am not proud of it.
It started with a discussion about married women having men friends. I
said I thought it was a positive duty--it kept them up to the mark with
their clothes and gave a sort of snap to things, without doing any harm.
There were six of us on the terrace at the Country Club at the time and
we all felt the same way--that it was fun to have somebody that
everybody expected to put by one at dinners, and to sit out dances with
and like the way one did one's hair, and to say nice things.
"And to slip out on the links for a moonlight chat with you," said
Annette, who is rather given to those little pastimes, the most
harmless in the world.
We were all awfully bored that Sunday afternoon. Most of the men were
golfing; and when you meet the same people all the time--day after day,
dinner after dinner, dance after dance--anything new is welcome. Really
the only variety we had was a new drink now and then. Some one would
come home from his vacation with a brand-new idea in beverages and order
one all round, and it was a real sensation.
That was all we had had all summer for excitement, except the time
Willie Anderson kissed Sybilla--she was his wife--on a wager. They had
been rather cool to each other for a month or so.
We would sit on the terrace and the conversation would be about like
this:
"There's the Jacksons' car."
"Why on earth does Ida Jackson wear green?"
"Hello, Ida! When d'you get back?"
"Yesterday. Bully time!"
Just in time to save us from utter boredom somebody would yawn and
remark:
"Here comes the Henderson car."
"Jane Henderson's put on weight. She's as big as a house! Hello, Jane!"
"Hello, everybody! My goodness! Why did I come back? Isn't it hot?"
More excitement for a minute and then more yawns. It was Ferd Jackson
who suggested the affinity party. He had heard about what I had said on
the terrace, and he came to me while Day was playing on the links. Day
is my husband.
"Had a nice afternoon?" he asked.
"Only fair. Day's been underfoot most of the time. Why?"
"How'd you like a picnic?"
"I would not!" I said decisively. "I hate cold food and motoring in a
procession until you choke with dust--and Day getting jealous and
disagreeable and wanting to get home early."
"Poor little girl!" said Ferd, and patted my hand in a friendly way.
Ferd was a good scout always; we got along together pretty well and sat
together at dinners whenever we could. He never made love to me or
anything like that, but he understood me thoroughly, which Day never
took the trouble to do. It is absurd, now that it's all over, to have
the others saying he was my affinity or anything of the sort. I never
cared for him.
"I didn't mean the usual sort of picnic," Ferd said. "How has it got its
pretty hair fixed to-day? Rather nice, lady-love; but why do you hide
your pretty ears?"
Lady-love was only a nickname.
"So I won't be able to hear Day bragging about his golf score. What sort
of a picnic?"
"It's a peach of an idea!" Ferd said. "It came to me out of a clear sky.
Every picnic we've ever had has been a failure--because why? Because
they were husband-and-wife picnics. There's no trouble about a picnic
where nobody's married, is there?"
"Humph! What's the peach of an idea? To get divorces?"
"Certainly not! Have husbands and wives--only somebody else's husband or
somebody else's wife. You and I--do you see?--and Annette and Tom; Jane
Henderson and Emerson Riley; Catherine Fredericks and that fellow who's
visiting the Moores. How about it?"
"Day would have a convulsion, Ferd."
"Good gracious, Fanny!" he said. "Haven't you any imagination? What has
Day got to do with it? You wouldn't tell him, of course!"
Well, that was different. I was rather scared when I got to thinking of
it, but it sounded amusing and different. One way and another I see such
a lot of Day. He's always around unless there's a golf tournament
somewhere else.
"It's moonlight," Ferd said. "The only thing, of course, is to get off.
I can stay over at the club or go on a motor trip. It's easy enough for
the fellows; but the girls will have to work out something."
So we sat and thought. Day came in from the links just then and stopped
by my chair.
"Great afternoon!" he said, mopping his face. "Y'ought to hear what I
did to Robson, Fan--I drove off my watch and never touched it. Then he
tried it with his. Couldn't even find the case!"
"Go away, Day," I said. "I'm thinking."
"Ferd doesn't seem to interfere with your thinking."
"He's negative and doesn't count," I explained. "You're positive."
That put him in a good humour again and he went off for a shower. I
turned to Ferd.
"I believe I've got it," I said--"I'll have a fight with Day the morning
of the picnic and I'll not be there when he gets home. I've done it
before. Then, when I do go home, he'll be so glad to see me he'll not
ask any questions. He'll think I've been off sulking."
"Good girl!" said Ferd.
"Only you must get home by ten o'clock--that's positive. By eleven he'd
be telephoning the police."
"Sure I will! We'll all have to get home at reasonable hours."
"And--I'm a wretch, Ferd. He's so fond of me!"
"That's no particular virtue in him. I'm fond of you--and that's mild,
Fan; but what's a virtue in Day is a weakness in me, I dare say."
"It's an indiscretion," I said, and got up. Enough is a sufficiency, as
somebody said one day, and I did not allow even Ferd to go too far.
Annette and Jane and Catherine were all crazy about it. Annette was the
luckiest, because Charles was going for a fishing trip, and her time was
her own. And Ferd's idea turned out to be perfectly bully when the eight
of us got together that evening and talked it over while the husbands
were shooting crap in the grill room.
"There's an island up the river," he explained, "where the men from our
mill have been camping; and, though the tents are down, they built a
wooden pavilion at the edge of the water for a dining hall--and, of
course, that's still there. We can leave town at, say, four o'clock and
motor up there--you and Tom, Annette and----"
"I've been thinking it over, Ferd," I put in, "and I won't motor. If the
car goes into a ditch or turns over you always get in the papers and
there's talk. Isn't there a street car?"
"There's a street car; but, for heaven's sake, Fanny----"
"Street car it is," I said with decision. "With a street car we'll know
we're going to get back to town. It won't be sitting on its tail lamp
in a gully; and we won't be hiding the license plates under a stone and
walking home, either."
There was a lot of demur and at first Annette said she wouldn't go that
way; but she came round at last.
"I'll send a basket up late in the afternoon," Ferd said, "with
something to eat in it. And you girls had better put on sensible things
and cut out the high heels and fancy clothes. If you are going in a
street car you'd better be inconspicuous."
That was the way we arranged it finally--the men to take one car and the
girls another and meet opposite the island on the river bank. We should
have to row across and Ferd was to arrange about boats. We set Thursday
as the day.
Some sort of premonition made me nervous--and I was sorry about Day too;
for though the picnic was only a lark and no harm at all, of course he
would have been furious had he known. And he was very nice to me all the
week. He sent flowers home twice and on Wednesday he said I might have a
new runabout. That made it rather difficult to quarrel with him
Thursday, as I had arranged.
I lay awake half the night trying to think of something to quarrel
about. I could not find anything that really answered until nearly dawn,
when I decided to give him some bills I had been holding back. I fell
asleep like a child then and did not waken until eleven o'clock. There
was a box of roses by the bed and a note in Day's writing.
"Honey lamb!" he wrote: "Inclosed is a telegram from Waite calling
me to Newburyport to the tournament. I'll hardly get back before
to-morrow night. I came to tell you, but you looked so beautiful
and so sound asleep I did not have the heart to waken you. Be a
good girl! DAY."
Somehow the note startled me. Could he have had any suspicion? I felt
queer and uneasy all the time I was dressing; but after I had had a cup
of tea I felt better. There is nothing underhanded about Day. He has no
reserves. And if he had learned about the picnic he would have been
bleating all over the place.
The weather was splendid--a late summer day, not too warm, with a
September haze over everything. We met at the hairdresser's and Jane
Henderson was frightfully nervous.
"Of course I'm game," she said, while the man pinned on her net; "but my
hands are like ice."
Catherine, however, was fairly radiant.
"There's a sort of thrill about doing something clandestine," she
observed, "that isn't like anything else in the world. I feel like
eloping with Mr. Lee. You'll all be mad about him. He's the nicest
thing!"
Mr. Lee was the Moores' guest.
I had got into the spirit of the thing by that time and I drew a long
breath. Day was safely out of the way, the weather was fine, and I had
my hair over my ears the way Ferd liked it.
II
Everything went wonderfully--up to a certain point. Have you ever known
it to fail? Everything swims along and all is lovely--and the thing,
whatever it may be, is being so successful that it is almost a
culmination; and then suddenly, out of a clear sky, there is a slip-up
somewhere and you want to crawl off into a corner and die.
Ferd had got there early and had a boat ready, all scrubbed out and
lined with old carpets. He was just as excited as any of us.
"The trouble with us," he said, as we rowed over to the island, "is that
we are all in a rut. We do the same things over and over, at the same
places, with the same people. The _hoi polloi_ never make that mistake
and they get a lot more out of life. Every now and then the puddlers
from the mill come over here and have a great time."
There were two islands, one just above the other, with about a hundred
feet of water between them. The upper island was much the nicer and it
was there that Ferd had planned the party.
He does things awfully well, really. He had had a decorator out there
early in the day and the pavilion was fixed up with plants and vines
which looked as if they grew on it. He had the table fixed too, with a
mound of roses and the most interesting place cards. Mine had a little
jewelled dagger thrust through it, and the card said:
_That's as much as to say, they are fools that marry._
He said the quotation was from Shakespeare and the dagger was for Day.
Annette's card said:
_She was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three,_
which delighted Annette, she being more than twenty-three.
Ferd's own card said:
_Another woman now and then
Is relished by the best of men._
I have forgotten the others. The dagger was a pin, and each card had
something pretty fastened to it.
We sat and gossiped while we waited for the others and then we wandered
round. The island was not very pretty--flat and weedy mostly, with a
good many cans the campers had left, and a muddy shore where a broken
dock, consisting of two planks on poles, was the boat landing. But it
was only later that I hated it, really. That afternoon we said it was
idyllic, and the very place for a picnic.
The other men arrived soon after, and it was really barrels of fun. We
made a rule first. No one was to mention an absent husband or wife; and
the person who did had to tell a story or sing a song as a forfeit. I
was more than proud of Ferd. He had even had a phonograph sent up, with
a lot of new music. We danced the rest of the afternoon and the Lee man
danced like an angel. I never had a better time. Jane voiced my feelings
perfectly.
"It's not that I'm tired of Bill," she said. "I dote on him, of course;
but | 1,782.6883 |
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THE LAND OF JOY
THE LAND OF
JOY
_By_
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
Youth, with swift feet, walks onward in the way;
The land of joy lies all before his eyes.――_Butler._
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1903
Copyright, 1903, by
Curtis Publishing Company
Copyright, 1903, by
Doubleday, Page & Company
Published May, 1903
For My Wife
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I 3
CHAPTER II 18
CHAPTER III 33
CHAPTER IV 49
CHAPTER V 66
CHAPTER VI 86
CHAPTER VII 103
CHAPTER VIII 114
CHAPTER IX 131
CHAPTER X 149
CHAPTER XI 163
CHAPTER XII 185
CHAPTER XIII 198
CHAPTER XIV 216
CHAPTER XV 235
CHAPTER XVI 247
CHAPTER XVII 263
CHAPTER XVIII 280
CHAPTER XIX 300
CHAPTER XX 315
CHAPTER XXI 332
CHAPTER XXII 351
CHAPTER XXIII 367
CHAPTER XXIV 376
CHAPTER XXV 396
CHAPTER XXVI 408
THE LAND OF JOY
CHAPTER I
John North unlocked the door and threw it open. The study was in
semi-darkness and filled with the accumulated heat and fust of the
summer. Ghostlike objects took shape before him and resolved themselves
into chairs and couches and tables draped with sheets or, as in the
case of the low book-shelves, hidden beneath yellowing folds of
newspapers. The windows were closed and the shades drawn. At the side
casements the afternoon sunlight made hot, buff oblongs on the curtains.
He crossed the room impatiently, overturning on the way a waste-basket
and sending its contents――old books, battered golf-balls, brass
curtain-rings, a broken meerschaum pipe, crumpled letters and
invitations dating back to class day――rolling over the rug and beneath
the big table. With mutterings of disgust he sent the front windows
crashing upward, letting in a rush of fresher air, moist from the
newly sprinkled pavement below. At the side casements, however, he drew
down the shades again, for Dunster Street was as full of heat and glare
as an Arizona cañon.
Laying aside coat and vest, he stretched his arms luxuriously, and,
thrusting big, brown hands into trousers pockets, looked disconsolately
from a window. Cambridge was sweltering. Although it was late September
summer had returned in the night, unexpected and unwelcome, and had
wrapped the city in a smothering blanket of heat and humidity. The
square was a broad desert of arid, shimmering, sun-smitten pavement
that radiated heat like the bed-plate of a furnace. The trees across
the way looked wilted, dusty and discouraged. The Yard, which he could
glimpse here and there around the corners of the buildings, appeared
cool and inviting, but instead of bringing comfort, only increased
his longing for the breezy Adirondack lake which he had left the
day before. The cumbersome crimson cars buzzed to and fro with much
clanging of bell and gong, interspersed with impatient shrillings from
the whistle of the starter in front of the waiting station. From the
outbound cars men with suit cases slid dejectedly to the pavement and
wandered away toward all points of the compass, seeking their rooms.
College would begin again on the morrow.
John’s thoughts went back to the day three years before when from this
very window he had watched, as he was watching now, the scene beneath.
Then he had been filled with the keenest interest, even excitement; had
been impatient for the morrow and the real commencement of his college
life. His mind had been charged with thoughts of the great things he
was going to do. Well, that had been three years ago, he reflected;
to-day his thoughts were somewhat soberer. In the three years he
had seen many illusions fade and had stored by a certain amount of
practical common sense. As for the great things, some few of them had
come to pass; unfortunately, seen in retrospect they were shrunken out
of all similitude to the glorious subjects of his early dreams.
It must not be thought, however, that disillusionment had soured him.
At twenty-four, given a sane mind and a healthy body, one can bear
with equanimity more disenchantment than had fallen to the lot of John
North. And John, being the possessor of twenty-four years, sanity and
health, dismissed memories of the olden visions with a sigh, shrugged
his very broad shoulders and looked about for a pipe.
It was necessary to uncover most of the furniture before the pipe
was found. And then he remembered that his tobacco pouch was in his
kit-bag, that his kit-bag was outside the door, and that the door was
twenty feet away. So after a moment of hesitation he | 1,782.697646 |
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[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 713. SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
A STRANGE FAMILY HISTORY.
For the following curious episode of family history we are indebted to
a descendant of one of the chief personages involved; his story runs as
follows.
Somewhat less than one hundred years ago, a large schooner, laden with
oranges from Spain, and bound for Liverpool, was driven by stress of
weather into the Solway Firth, and after beating about for some time,
ran at last into the small port of Workington, on the Cumberland
coast. For several previous days some of the crew had felt themselves
strangely 'out of sorts,' as they termed it; were depressed and
languid, and greatly inclined to sleep; but the excitement of the
storm and the instinct of self-preservation had kept them to their
duties on deck. No sooner, however, had the vessel been safely moored
in the harbour than a reaction set in; the disease which had lurked
within them proclaimed its power, and three of them betook themselves
to their hammocks more dead than alive. The working-power of the ship
being thus reduced and the storm continuing, the master determined to
discharge and sell his cargo on the spot. This was done. But his men
did not recover; he too was seized with the same disease; and before
many days were past most of them were in the grave. Ere long several of
the inhabitants of the village were similarly affected, and some died;
by-and-by others were smitten down; and in less than three weeks after
the arrival of the schooner it became evident that a fatal fever or
plague had broken out amongst the inhabitants of the village.
The authorities of the township took alarm; and under the guidance of
Squire Curwen of Workington Hall, all likely measures were taken to
arrest or mitigate the fatal malady. Among other arrangements, a band
of men was formed whose duties were to wait upon the sick, to visit
such houses as were reported or supposed to contain victims of the
malady, and to carry the dead to their last home.
Among the first who fell under this visitation was a man named John
Pearson, who, with his wife and a daughter, lived in a cottage in
the outskirts of the village. He was employed as a labourer in an
iron foundry close by. For some weeks his widow and child escaped the
contagion; but ere long it was observed that their cottage window was
not opened; and a passer-by stopping to look at the house, thought
he heard a feeble moan as from a young girl. He at once made known
his fears to the proper parties, who sent two of the 'plague-band'
to examine the case. On entering the abode it was seen that poor Mrs
Pearson was a corpse; and her little girl, about ten years old, was
lying on her bosom dreadfully ill, but able to cry: 'Mammy, mammy!' The
poor child was removed to the fever hospital, and the mother to where
her husband had been recently taken. How long the plague continued
to ravage the village, I am not able to say; but as it is about the
Pearson family, and not about the plague I am going to write, such
information may be dispensed with.
The child, Isabella Pearson, did not die; she conquered the foe, and
was left to pass through a more eventful life than that which generally
falls to the lot of a poor girl. Although an orphan, she was not
without friends; an only and elder sister was with relatives in Dublin,
and her father's friends were well-to-do farmers in Westmoreland.
Nor was she without powerful interest in the village of her birth:
Lady Curwen, of the Hall, paid her marked attention, as she had done
her mother, because that mother was of noble descent, as I shall now
proceed to shew.
Isabella Pearson (mother of the child we have just spoken of), whose
maiden name was Day, was a daughter of the Honourable Elkanah Day
and of his wife Lady Letitia, daughter of the Earl of Annesley. How
she came to marry John Pearson forms one of the many chapters in
human history which come under the head of Romance in Real Life,
or Scandal in High Life, in the newspaper literature of the day.
Isabella's parents were among those parents who believe they are at
liberty to dispose of their daughters in marriage just as they think
fit, even when the man to whom the girl is to be given is an object
of detestation to her. Heedless of their daughter's feelings in the
matter, they had bargained with a man of their acquaintance, to whom
they resolved that Isabella should give her hand--be her heart never
so unwilling. The person in question was a distant relative of their
noble house, had a considerable amount of property in Ireland, and was
regarded, by the scheming mother especially, as a most desirable match
for her daughter. But what if the young lady herself should be of a
contrary opinion? In the instance before us the reader will be enabled
to see.
Captain Bernard O'Neil, the bridegroom elect, was nearly twice the
age of Isabella Day; and although not an ill-looking man, was yet one
whom no virtuous or noble-minded girl could look upon with respect,
for he was known to be addicted to the vice of gambling, to be able to
consume daily an enormous quantity of wine, and to be the slave of all
sorts of debauchery. So habituated had O'Neil become to these degrading
vices, that no sensible girl could hope to reclaim and reform him. The
gratification of his propensities had been spread over so long a time
that his entailed estate had become heavily burdened with debt, whilst
his creditors, even his dependents, were clamorous for the money which
he owed them.
Such being the man to whom the Honourable Elkanah Day and his noble
wife had agreed to give their daughter, can it be wondered at that
that daughter should not only be indisposed to comply with their wish,
but should also be so disgusted and indignant at its expression as to
give way to her feelings in words and acts which in themselves are
incapable of justification? One day the captain had called at the house
by appointment to arrange for the marriage, being anxious to have it
consummated, that he might be helped out of a pressing embarrassment
through the portion which he knew would be given to his bride. Isabella
had been present at the interview. Her father and mother knew full well
that she was far from being pleased with the match, but of this they
took little heed, believing that once married, their daughter would
reconcile herself to | 1,782.89502 |
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[ILLUSTRATION: Cover]
{Transcriber's Note: Quotation marks have been standardized to modern
usage. Footnotes have been placed to immediately follow the paragraphs
referencing them.}
LIFE OF BRANDT
Life
of
JOSEPH BRANT--THAYENDANEGEA:
INCLUDING
THE BORDER WARS
OF THE
AMERICAN REVOLUTION,
AND
SKETCHES OF THE INDIAN CAMPAIGNS OF GENERALS
HARMAR, ST. CLAIR, AND WAYNE.
AND OTHER MATTERS
CONNECTED WITH THE INDIAN RELATIONS OF THE UNITED STATES
AND GREAT BRITAIN FROM THE PEACE OF 1783 TO
THE INDIAN PEACE OF 1795.
BY WILLIAM L. STONE.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
NEW-YORK:
ALEXANDER V. BLAKE, 38 GOLD STREET.
1838.
[Entered according to Act of Congress of the United States of America
in the year 1838, by George Dearborn & co., in the Clerk's Office of
the District Court for the Southern District of New-York.]
New-York:
Printed by Scatcherd & Adams.
No. 38 Gold Street.
TO THE HONORABLE
STEPHEN VAN RENSSELAER,
OF ALBANY,
These volumes are most respectfully inscribed. If the efforts of the
writer to illustrate more fully and minutely than has hitherto been done,
the most interesting portion of American history, in its immediate
connection with the large and populous State of which The Patroon has
so long been one of the most distinguished citizens, shall be so
fortunate as to merit the regard, and receive the approbation, of one
so excellently qualified to judge of its interest and value, there will
be nothing left unsatisfied to the ambition and the hopes of
His friend and servant,
THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
Birth and parentage--Discussion of the doubts cast upon his origin--Visit
of Mohawk chiefs to Queen Anne--Evidence of Brant's descent from one
of those--Digression from the main subject, and Extracts from the
private and official journals of Sir William Johnson--Connexion between
Sir William and the family of Brant--Incidental references to the old
French war--Illustrations of Indian proceedings, speeches, &c.--Brant's
parentage satisfactorily established--Takes the field in the Campaign
of Lake George (1765.)--Is engaged at the conquest of Niagara
(1759.)--Efforts of Sir William Johnson to civilize the Indians--Brant
is sent, with other Indian youths, to the Moor Charity School, at
Lebanon--Leaves school--Anecdote--Is engaged on public business by Sir
William--As an Interpreter for the Missionaries--Again takes the field,
in the wars against Pontiac--Intended massacre at Detroit--Ultimate
overthrow of Pontiac--First marriage of Brant--Entertains the
Missionaries--Again employed on public business--Death of his
wife--Engages with Mr. Stewart in translating the Scriptures--Marries
again--Has serious religious impressions--Selects a bosom friend and
confidant, after the Indian custom--Death of his friend--His grief, and
refusal to choose another friend.
Page 1
CHAPTER II.
Early symptoms of disaffection at Boston--Origin of the Revolutionary
War--First blood shed in 1770--Stirring eloquence of Joseph | 1,782.975187 |
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THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.
NUMBER 15. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1840. VOLUME I.
[Illustration: THE TOWN AND CASTLE OF LEIXLIP, COUNTY OF KILDARE.]
Localities are no less subject to the capricious mutations of fashion in
taste, than dress, music, or any other of the various objects on which
it displays its extravagant | 1,783.073373 |
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CREATURES THAT ONCE WERE MEN
By
MAXIM GORKY
INTRODUCTORY.
By G. K. CHESTERTON.
It is certainly a curious fact that so many of the voices of what is
called our modern religion have come from countries which are not only
simple, but may even be called barbaric. A nation like Norway has a
great realistic drama without having ever had either a great classical
drama or a great romantic drama. A nation like Russia makes us feel
its modern fiction when we have never felt its ancient fiction. It has
produced its Gissing without producing its Scott. Everything that is
most sad and scientific, everything that is most grim and analytical,
everything that can truly be called most modern, everything that can
without unreasonableness be called most morbid, comes from these fresh
and untried and unexhausted nationalities. Out of these infant peoples
come the oldest voices of the earth. This contradiction, like many
other contradictions, is one which ought first of all to be registered
as a mere fact; long before we attempt to explain why things contradict
themselves, we ought, if we are honest men and good critics, to
register the preliminary truth that things do contradict themselves.
In this case, as I say, there are many possible and suggestive
explanations. It may be, to take an example, that our modern Europe is
so exhausted that even the vigorous expression of that exhaustion is
difficult for every one except the most robust. It may be that all the
nations are tired; and it may be that only the boldest and breeziest
are not too tired to say that they are tired. It may be that a man
like Ibsen in Norway or a man like Gorky in Russia are the only people
left who have so much faith that they can really believe in scepticism.
It may be that they are the only people left who have so much animal
spirits that they can really feast high and drink deep at the ancient
banquet of pessimism. This is one of the possible hypotheses or
explanations in the matter: that all Europe feels these things and that
they only have strength to believe them also. Many other explanations
might, however, also be offered. It might be suggested that
half-barbaric countries like Russia or Norway, which have always lain,
to say the least of it, on the extreme edge of the circle of our
European civilisation, have a certain primal melancholy which belongs
to them through all the ages. It is highly probable that this sadness,
which to us is modern, is to them eternal. It is highly probable that
what we have solemnly and suddenly discovered in scientific text-books
and philosophical magazines they absorbed and experienced thousands of
years ago, when they offered human sacrifice in black and cruel forests
and cried to their gods in the dark. Their agnosticism is perhaps
merely paganism; their paganism, as in old times, is merely
devilworship. Certainly, Schopenhauer could hardly have written his
hideous essay on women except in a country which had once been full of
slavery and the service of fiends. It may be that these moderns are
tricking us altogether, and are hiding in their current scientific
jargon things that they knew before science or civilisation were. They
say that they are determinists; but the truth is, probably, that they
are still worshipping the Norns. They say that they describe scenes
which are sickening and dehumanising in the name of art or in the name
of truth; but it may be that they do it in the name of some deity
indescribable, whom they propitiated with blood and terror before the
beginning of history.
This hypothesis, like the hypothesis mentioned before it, is highly
disputable, and is at best a suggestion. But there is one broad truth
in the matter which may in any case be considered as established. A
country like Russia has far more inherent capacity for producing
revolution in revolutionists than any country of the type of England or
America. Communities highly civilised and largely urban tend to a
thing which is now called evolution, the most cautious and the most
conservative of all social influences. The loyal Russian obeys the
Czar because he remembers the Czar and the Czar's importance. The
disloyal Russian frets against the Czar because he also remembers the
Czar, and makes a note of the necessity of knifing him. But the loyal
Englishman obeys the upper classes because he has forgotten | 1,783.074906 |
2023-11-16 18:46:47.0653620 | 265 | 21 |
Produced by David Garcia, Stephen Blundell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Kentuckiana Digital Library)
PATH FLOWER
_All rights reserved_
PATH FLOWER
AND
OTHER VERSES
BY
OLIVE T. DARGAN
[Device]
MCMXIV
LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS LTD.
NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
CONTENTS
PAGE
PATH FLOWER 1
THE PIPER 6
TO A HERMIT THRUSH 8
THANKSGIVING 14
THE ROAD 16
LA DAME REVOLUTION 23
THE REBEL 24
THESE LATTER DAYS 25
ABNEGATION 26
THE LITTLE TREE 27
THE GAME 28
BALLAD 31
A DIRGE 37
HIS ARGUMENT 39
THE CONQUEROR 40
TO MOINA 41
"THERE'S ROSEMARY" 42
AT THE GRAVE OF HEINE | 1,783.085402 |
2023-11-16 18:46:47.1533010 | 133 | 64 |
Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Barry Abrahamsen, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This book was produced from images made available by the
HathiTrust Digital Library.)
THE QUARTERLY OF THE OREGON HISTORICAL SOCIETY
(Vol. 1, No. 1)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE QUARTERLY
OF THE
OREGON HISTORICAL SOCIETY
---------------------------------------------------------
VOL. 1 MARCH, 1900 NO. 1
---------------------------------------------------------
| 1,783.173341 |
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