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Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have | 1,811.082687 |
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The Mentor, No. 47, Makers of Modern Opera
MAKERS OF MODERN OPERA
_By_ H. E. KREHBIEL
_Author and Music Critic_
[Illustration: WAGNER]
[Illustration: VERDI]
THE MENTOR
SERIAL No. 47
[Illustration]
DEPARTMENT OF FINE ARTS
MENTOR GRAVURES
VERDI · MASSENET · PUCCINI · STRAUSS · GOUNOD · HUMPERDINCK
The form of entertainment called opera had its origin a little more
than three centuries ago in an effort made by a company of scholars and
musical amateurs in Florence to rescue music from the artificiality
into which the composers, who were all churchmen, had forced it.
The Florentine group had convinced themselves by study that music
had been effectively linked with poetry and action in the Greek
stage-plays, and in striving to imitate these they created the art-form
which in time came to be called “opera”--though at first it was known
by names all more or less closely connected with the terms which the
composers of today use to describe their dramatic works,--lyric dramas,
musical dramas, and so forth. The new style quickly spread over Europe,
and inasmuch as Italy was the home of music, it retained for a time
the Italian language and the style of musical composition evolved
by its creators. Soon other nations, impelled by a desire to hear
the new lyric plays, began to translate the Italian books into their
own languages. This brought with it a recognition of the incongruity
between Italian music and the French, German, and English languages,
and the dramatic poets and musicians of these countries began to seek
more satisfactory idioms in which to express their ideals. Thus there
came into existence the three great schools of operatic composers whose
latterday representatives are here considered.
[Illustration: GAETANO DONIZETTI]
Two men mark the point of departure of the lyric drama of today from
the general style which characterized opera all the world over during
the first two centuries following its invention. They are Verdi
(vair-dee), the Italian, and Wagner (vahg´-ner), the German; and,
strangely enough, they were both born in 1813. The latter exercised an
influence which was universal, and Verdi fell under it.
[Illustration: GIOACHINO ROSSINI]
THE GLORY OF VERDI
But neither in precept nor in practice was the great Italian brought
to disavow the native genius of his people. That is the great glory of
Verdi. For decade after decade he kept | 1,811.480019 |
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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 | 1,811.586679 |
2023-11-16 18:47:15.6634640 | 2,143 | 16 |
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by Al Haines.
THE STORY OF SONNY SAHIB
By
MRS. EVERARD COTES
(SARA JEANNETTE DUNCAN)
1894
CHAPTER I
'Ayah,' the doctor-sahib said in the vernacular, standing beside
the bed, 'the fever of the mistress is like fire. Without doubt
it cannot go on thus, but all that is in your hand to do you have
done. It is necessary now only to be very watchful. And it will
be to dress the mistress, and to make everything ready for a
journey. Two hours later all the sahib-folk go from this place in
boats, by the river, to Allahabad. I will send an ox-cart to take
the mistress and the baby and you to the bathing ghat.'
'Jeldi karo!' he added, which meant 'Quickly do!'--a thing people
say a great many times a day in India.
The ayah looked at him stupidly. She was terribly frightened; she
had never been so frightened before. Her eyes wandered from the
doctor's face to the ruined south wall of the hut, where the sun of
July, when it happens to shine on the plains of India, was beating
fiercely upon the mud floor. That ruin had happened only an hour
ago, with a terrible noise just outside, such a near and terrible
noise that she, Tooni, had scrambled under the bed the mistress was
lying on, and had hidden there until the doctor-sahib came and
pulled her forth by the foot, and called her a poor sort of person.
Then Tooni had lain down at the doctor-sahib's feet, and tried to
place one of them upon her head, and said that indeed she was not a
worthless one, but that she was very old and she feared the guns;
so many of the sahibs had died from the guns! She, Tooni, did not
wish to die from a gun, and would the Presence, in the great mercy
of his heart, tell her whether there would be any more shooting?
There would be no more shooting, the Presence had said; and then he
had given her a bottle and directions, and the news about going
down the river in a boat. Tooni's mind did not even record the
directions, but it managed to retain the words about going away in
a boat, and as she stood twisting the bottle round and round in the
folds of her ragged red petticoat it made a desperate effort to
extract their meaning.
'There will be no more shooting,' said the doctor again, 'and there
is a man outside with a goat. He will give you two pounds of milk
for the baby for five rupees.'
'Rupia! I have not even one!' said the ayah, looking toward the
bed; 'the captain-sahib has not come these thirty days as he
promised. The colonel-sahib has sent the food. The memsahib is
for three days without a pice.'
'I'll pay,' said the doctor shortly, and turned hurriedly to go.
Other huts were crying out for him; he could hear the voice of some
of them through their mud partitions. As he passed out he caught a
glimpse of himself in a little square looking-glass that hung on a
nail on the wall, and it made him start nervously and then smile
grimly. He saw the face of a man who had not slept three hours in
as many days and nights--a haggard, unshaven face, drawn as much
with the pain of others as with its own weariness. His hair stood
up in long tufts, his eyes had black circles under them. He wore
neither coat nor waistcoat, and his regimental trousers were tied
round the waist by a bit of rope. On the sleeve of his collarless
shirt were three dark dry splashes; he noticed them as he raised
his arm to put on his pith helmet. The words did not reach his
lips, but his heart cried out within him for a boy of the 32nd.
The ayah caught up her brass cooking-pot and followed him. Since
the doctor-sahib was to pay, the doctor-sahib would arrange that
good measure should be given in the matter of the milk. And upon
second thought the doctor-sahib decided that precautions were
necessary. He told the man with the goat, therefore, that when the
ayah received two pounds of milk she would pay him the five rupees.
As he put the money into Tooni's hand she stayed him gently.
'We are to go without, beyond the walls, to the ghat?' she asked in
her own tongue.
'Yes,' said the doctor, 'in two hours. I have spoken.'
'Hazur![1] the Nana Sahib--'
[1] 'Honoured one.'
'The Nana Sahib has written it. Bus!'[2] the doctor replied
impatiently. Put the memsahib into her clothes. Pack everything
there is, and hasten. Do you understand, foolish one?'
[2] 'Enough.'
'Very good said the ayah submissively, and watched the doctor out
of sight. Then she insisted--holding the rupees, she could
insist--that the goat-keeper should bring his goat into the hut to milk
it; there was more safety, Tooni thought, in the hut. While he
milked it Tooni sat upon the ground, hugging her knees, and
thought.
The memsahib had said nothing all this time, had known nothing.
For two days the memsahib had been, as Tooni would have said,
without sense--had lain on the bed in the corner quietly staring at
the wall, where the looking-glass hung, making no sign except when
she heard the Nana Sahib's guns. Then she sat up straight, and
laughed very prettily and sweetly. It was the salute, she thought
in her fever; the Viceroy was coming; there would be all sorts of
gay doings in the station. When the shell exploded that tore up
the wall of the hut, she asked Tooni for her new blue silk with the
flounces, the one that had been just sent out from England, and her
kid slippers with the rosettes. Tooni, wiping away her helpless
tears with the edge of her head covering, had said, 'Na, memsahib,
na!' and stroked the hot hand that pointed, and then the mistress
had forgotten again. As to the little pink baby, three days old,
it blinked and throve and slept as if it had been born in its
father's house to luxury and rejoicing.
Tooni questioned the goat-keeper; but he had seen three sahibs
killed that morning, and was stupid with fear. He did not even
know of the Nana Sahib's order that the English were to be allowed
to go away in boats; and this was remarkable, because he lived in
the bazar outside, and in the bazar people generally know what is
going to happen long before the sahibs who live in the tall white
houses do. Tooni had only her own reflections.
There would be no more shooting, and the Nana Sahib would let them
all go away in boats; that was good khaber--good news. Tooni
wondered, as she put the baby's clothes together in one bundle, and
her own few possessions together in another, whether it was to be
believed. The Nana Sahib so hated the English; had not the guns
spoken of his hate these twenty-one days? Inside the walls many
had died, but outside the walls might not all die? The doctor had
said that the Nana Sahib had written it; but why should the Nana
Sahib write the truth? The Great Lord Sahib, the Viceroy, had sent
no soldiers to compel him. Nevertheless, Tooni packed what there
was to pack, and soothed the baby with a little goat's milk and
water, and dressed her mistress as well as she was able, according
to the doctor's directions. Then she went out to where old Abdul,
the table-waiter, her husband, crouched under a wall, and told him
all that she knew and feared. But Abdul, having heard no guns for
nearly an hour and a half, was inclined to be very brave, and said
that without doubt they should all get safely to Allahabad; and
there, when the memsahib was better, they would find the captain-sahib
again, and he would give them many rupees backsheesh for
being faithful to her.
'The memsahib will never be better,' said Tooni, sorrowfully; 'her
rice is finished in the earth. The memsahib will die.'
She agreed to go to the ghat, though, and went back into the hut to
wait for the ox-cart while Abdul cooked a meal on the powder-blackened
ground with the last of the millet, and gave thanks to Allah.
There was no room for Tooni to ride when they started. She walked
alongside carrying the baby and its little bundle of clothes.
There was nothing else to carry, and that was fortunate, for the
cart in which the memsahib lay was too full of sick and wounded to
hold anything more. In Tooni's pocket a little black book swung to
and fro; it was the memsahib's book; and in the beginning | 1,811.683504 |
2023-11-16 18:47:15.7611620 | 376 | 20 |
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[Editor's Note:--The chapter numbering for volume 2 & 3 was changed
from the original in order to have unique chapter numbers for the
complete version, so volume 2 starts with chapter XV and volume 3
starts with chapter XXX.]
SYLVIA'S LOVERS.
BY
ELIZABETH GASKELL
Oh for thy voice to soothe and bless!
What hope of answer, or redress?
Behind the veil! Behind the veil!--Tennyson
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
M.DCCC.LXIII.
CONTENTS
XXX HAPPY DAYS
XXXI EVIL OMENS
XXXII RESCUED FROM THE WAVES
XXXIII AN APPARITION
XXXIV A RECKLESS RECRUIT
XXXV THINGS UNUTTERABLE
XXXVI MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS
XXXVII BEREAVEMENT
XXXVIII THE RECOGNITION
XXXIX CONFIDENCES
XL AN UNEXPECTED MESSENGER
XLI THE BEDESMAN OF ST SEPULCHRE
XLII A FABLE AT FAULT
XLIII THE UNKNOWN
XLIV FIRST WORDS
XLV SAVED AND LOST
CHAPTER XXX
HAPPY DAYS
And now Philip seemed as prosperous as his heart could desire. The
business flourished, and money beyond his moderate wants came in. As
for himself he required very little; but he had always looked
forward to placing his idol in a befitting shrine; and means for
this | 1,811.781202 |
2023-11-16 18:47:15.8599190 | 63 | 6 |
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produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project and the Internet Archive.)
The Woman with a Stone Heart
A Romance | 1,811.879959 |
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Produced by John Hamm
THE COUNT'S MILLIONS
By Emile Gaboriau
Translated from the French
A novel in two parts. Part Two of this novel is found in the volume:
Baron Trigault's Vengeance
PASCAL AND MARGU | 1,811.880026 |
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Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
+----------------------------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| * Obvious punctuation and spelling errors repaired. |
| Original spelling and its variations were not harmonized. |
| |
| * Footnotes were moved to the ends of the chapters in which |
| they belonged and numbered in one continuous sequence. |
| The pagination in index entries which referred to these |
| footnotes was not changed to match their new locations |
+ and is therefore incorrect. |
+----------------------------------------------------------------+
Francis Parkman's Works.
NEW LIBRARY EDITION.
Vol. III.
FRANCIS PARKMAN'S WORKS.
New Library Edition.
Pioneers of France in the New World 1 vol.
The Jesuits in North America 1 vol.
La Salle and the Discovery of the Great West 1 vol.
The Old Regime in Canada 1 vol.
Count Frontenac and New France under Louis XIV. 1 vol.
A Half Century of Conflict 2 vols.
Montcalm and Wolfe 2 vols.
The Conspiracy of Pontiac and the Indian War after
the Conquest of Canada 2 vols.
The Oregon Trail 1 vol.
[Illustration]
_La Salle Presenting a Petition to Louis XIV._
Drawn by Adrien Moreau.
La Salle and the Discovery of the Great West, _Frontispiece_
LA SALLE
AND THE
DISCOVERY OF THE GREAT WEST.
FRANCE AND ENGLAND IN
NORTH AMERICA.
Part Third.
BY
FRANCIS PARKMAN.
BOSTON:
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
1908.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
Francis Parkman,
In the Clerk's Office
of the
District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1879, by
Francis Parkman,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
_Copyright, 1897,_
By Little, Brown, and Company.
_Copyright, 1897,_
By Grace P. Coffin and Katharine S. Coolidge.
_Copyright, 1907,_
By Grace P. Coffin.
Printers
S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U. S. A.
TO
THE CLASS OF 1844,
Harvard College,
THIS BOOK IS CORDIALLY DEDICATED
BY ONE OF THEIR NUMBER.
PREFACE OF THE ELEVENTH EDITION.
When the earlier editions of this book were
published, I was aware of the existence of a collection
of documents relating to La Salle, and
containing important material to which I had
not succeeded in gaining access. This collection
was in possession of M. Pierre Margry, director
of the Archives of the Marine and Colonies at
Paris, and was the result of more than thirty
years of research. With rare assiduity and zeal,
M. Margry had explored not only the vast depository
with which he has been officially connected
from youth, and of which he is now the
chief, but also the other public archives of
France, and many private collections in Paris
and the provinces. The object of his search
was to throw light on the career and achievements
of French explorers, and, above all, of La
Salle. A collection of extraordinary richness
grew gradually upon his hands. In the course
of my own inquiries, I owed much to his friendly
aid; but his collections, as a whole, remained
inaccessible, since he naturally wished to be the
first to make known the results of his labors.
An attempt to induce Congress to furnish him
with the means of printing documents so interesting
to American history was made in 1870
and 1871, by Henry Harrisse, Esq., aided by the
American minister at Paris; but it unfortunately
failed.
In the summer and autumn of 1872, I had
numerous interviews with M. Margry, and at his
desire undertook to try to induce some American
bookseller to publish the collection. On returning
to the United States, I accordingly made
an arrangement with Messrs. Little, Brown &
Co., of Boston, by which they agreed to print
the papers if a certain number of subscriptions
should first be obtained. The condition proved
very difficult; and it became clear that the best
hope of success lay in another appeal to Congress.
This was made in the following winter,
in conjunction with Hon. E. B. Washburne;
Colonel Charles Whittlesey, of Cleveland; O. H.
Marshall, Esq., of Buffalo; and other gentlemen
interested in early American history. The attempt
succeeded. Congress made an appropriation
for the purchase of five hundred copies of
the work, to be printed at Paris, under direction
of M. Margry; and the three volumes devoted
to La Salle are at length before the public.
Of the papers contained in them which I had
not before examined, the most interesting are
the letters of La Salle, found in the original by
M. Margry, among the immense accumulations
of the Archives of the Marine and Colonies and
the Bibliotheque Nationale. The narrative of
La Salle's companion, Joutel, far more copious
than the abstract printed in 1713, under the
title of "Journal Historique," also deserves
special mention. These, with other fresh material
in these three volumes, while they add new
facts and throw new light on the character of
La Salle, confirm nearly every statement made
in the first edition of the Discovery of the Great
West. The only exception of consequence relates
to the causes of La Salle's failure to find
the mouth of the Mississippi in 1684, and to the
conduct, on that occasion, of the naval commander,
Beaujeu.
This edition is revised throughout, and in part
rewritten with large additions. A map of the
country traversed by the explorers is also added.
The name of La Salle is placed on the titlepage,
as seems to be demanded by his increased prominence
in the narrative of which he is the central
figure.
Boston, 10 December, 1878.
* * * * *
Note.--The title of M. Margry's printed collection is "Decouvertes
et Etablissements des Francais dans l'Ouest et dans le Sud
de l'Amerique Septentrionale (1614-1754), Memoires et Documents
originaux." I., II., III. Besides the three volumes relating to La
Salle, there will be two others, relating to other explorers. In
accordance with the agreement with Congress, an independent edition
will appear in France, with an introduction setting forth the
circumstances of the publication.
PREFACE OF THE FIRST EDITION.
The discovery of the "Great West," or the
valleys of the Mississippi and the Lakes, is a
portion of our history hitherto very obscure.
Those magnificent regions were revealed to the
world through a series of daring enterprises,
of which the motives and even the incidents
have been but partially and superficially known.
The chief actor in them wrote much, but printed
nothing; and the published writings of his associates
stand wofully in need of interpretation
from the unpublished documents which exist,
but which have not heretofore been used as
material for history.
This volume attempts to supply the defect.
Of the large amount of wholly new material
employed in it, by far the greater part is drawn
from the various public archives of France, and
the rest from private sources. The discovery of
many of these documents is due to the indefatigable
research of M. Pierre Margry, assistant
director of the Archives of the Marine and Colonies
at Paris, whose labors as an investigator of
the maritime and colonial history of France can
be appreciated only by those who have seen their
results. In the department of American colonial
history, these results have been invaluable;
for, besides several private collections made by
him, he rendered important service in the collection
of the French portion of the Brodhead documents,
selected and arranged the two great
series of colonial papers ordered by the Canadian
government, and prepared with vast labor analytical
indexes of these and of supplementary
documents in the French archives, as well as a
copious index of the mass of papers relating to
Louisiana. It is to be hoped that the valuable
publications on the maritime history of France
which have appeared from his pen are an earnest
of more extended contributions in future.
The late President Sparks, some time after the
publication of his Life of La Salle, caused a
collection to be made of documents relating to
that explorer, with the intention of incorporating
them in a future edition. This intention
was never carried into effect, and the documents
were never used. With the liberality which
always distinguished him, he placed them at my
disposal, and this privilege has been kindly continued
by Mrs. Sparks.
Abbe Faillon, the learned author of "La Colonie
Francaise en Canada," has sent me copies
of various documents found by him, including
family papers of La Salle. Among others who
in various ways have aided my inquiries are Dr.
John Paul, of Ottawa, Ill.; Count Adolphe de
Circourt, and M. Jules Marcou, of Paris; M. A.
Gerin Lajoie, Assistant Librarian of the Canadian
Parliament; M. J. M. Le Moine, of Quebec;
General Dix, Minister of the United States
at the Court of France; O. H. Marshall, of Buffalo;
J. G. Shea, of New York; Buckingham
Smith, of St. Augustine; and Colonel Thomas
Aspinwall, of Boston.
The smaller map contained in the book is a
portion of the manuscript map of Franquelin, of
which an account will be found in the Appendix.
The next volume of the series will be devoted
to the efforts of Monarchy and Feudalism under
Louis XIV. to establish a permanent power on
this continent, and to the stormy career of Louis
de Buade, Count of Frontenac.
Boston, 16 September, 1869.
CONTENTS.
Page
INTRODUCTION 3
CHAPTER I.
1643-1669.
CAVELIER DE LA SALLE.
The Youth of La Salle: his Connection with the Jesuits; he goes to
Canada; his Character; his Schemes; his Seigniory at La Chine; his
Expedition in Search of a Western Passage to India. 7
CHAPTER II.
1669-1671.
LA SALLE AND THE SULPITIANS.
The French in Western New York.--Louis Joliet.--The Sulpitians on Lake
Erie; at Detroit; at Saut Ste. Marie.--The Mystery of La Salle: he
discovers the Ohio; he descends the Illinois; did he reach the 19
Mississippi?
CHAPTER III.
1670-1672.
THE JESUITS ON THE LAKES.
The Old Missions and the New.--A Change of Spirit.--Lake Superior and
the Copper-mines.--Ste. Marie.--La Pointe.--Michilimackinac.--Jesuits
on Lake Michigan.--Allouez and Dablon.--The Jesuit Fur-trade. 36
CHAPTER IV.
1667-1672.
FRANCE TAKES POSSESSION OF THE WEST.
Talon.--Saint-Lusson.--Perrot.--The Ceremony at Saut Ste. Marie.--The
Speech of Allouez.--Count Frontenac. 48
CHAPTER V.
1672-1675.
THE DISCOVERY OF THE MISSISSIPPI.
Joliet sent to find the Mississippi.--Jacques
Marquette.--Departure.--Green Bay.--The Wisconsin.--The
Mississippi.--Indians.--Manitous.--The Arkansas.--The
Illinois.--Joliet's Misfortune.--Marquette at Chicago: his Illness;
his Death. 57
CHAPTER VI.
1673-1678.
LA SALLE AND FRONTENAC.
Objects of La Salle.--Frontenac favors him.--Projects of
Frontenac.--Cataraqui.--Frontenac on Lake Ontario.--Fort
Frontenac.--La Salle and Fenelon.--Success of La Salle:
his Enemies. 83
CHAPTER VII.
1678.
PARTY STRIFE.
La Salle and his Reporter.--Jesuit Ascendency.--The Missions and the
Fur-trade.--Female Inquisitors.--Plots against La Salle: his Brother
the Priest.--Intrigues of the Jesuits.--La Salle poisoned: he
exculpates the Jesuits.--Renewed Intrigues. 106
CHAPTER VIII.
1677, 1678.
THE GRAND ENTERPRISE.
La Salle at Fort Frontenac.--La Salle at Court: his
Memorial.--Approval of the King.--Money and Means.--Henri de
Tonty.--Return to Canada. 120
CHAPTER IX.
1678-1679.
LA SALLE AT NIAGARA.
Father Louis Hennepin: his Past Life; his
Character.--Embarkation.--Niagara Falls.--Indian Jealousy.--La Motte
and the Senecas.--A Disaster.--La Salle and his Followers. 131
CHAPTER X.
1679.
THE LAUNCH OF THE "GRIFFIN."
The Niagara Portage.--A Vessel on the Stocks.--Suffering and
Discontent.--La Salle's Winter Journey.--The Vessel launched.--Fresh
Disasters. 144
CHAPTER XI.
1679.
LA SALLE ON THE UPPER LAKES.
The Voyage of the "Griffin."--Detroit.--A Storm.--St. Ignace of
Michilimackinac.--Rivals and Enemies.--Lake Michigan.--Hardships.--A
Threatened Fight.--Fort Miami.--Tonty's Misfortunes.--Forebodings. 151
CHAPTER XII.
1679, 1680.
LA SALLE ON THE ILLINOIS.
The St. Joseph.--Adventure of La Salle.--The Prairies.--Famine.--The
Great Town of the Illinois.--Indians.--Intrigues.--Difficulties.--
Policy of La Salle.--Desertion.--Another Attempt to poison
La Salle. 164
CHAPTER XIII.
1680.
FORT CREVECOE]UR.
Building of the Fort.--Loss of the "Griffin."--A Bold
Resolution.--Another Vessel.--Hennepin sent to the
Mississippi.--Departure of La Salle. 180
CHAPTER XIV.
1680.
HARDIHOOD OF LA SALLE.
The Winter Journey.--The Deserted Town.--Starved Rock.--Lake
Michigan.--The Wilderness.--War Parties.--La Salle's Men give
out.--Ill Tidings.--Mutiny.--Chastisement of the Mutineers. 189
CHAPTER XV.
1680.
INDIAN CONQUERORS.
The Enterprise renewed.--Attempt to rescue Tonty.--Buffalo.--A
Frightful Discovery.--Iroquois Fury.--The Ruined Town.--A Night
of Horror.--Traces of the Invaders.--No News of Tonty. 202
CHAPTER XVI.
1680.
TONTY AND THE IROQUOIS.
The Deserters.--The Iroquois War.--The Great Town of the
Illinois.--The Alarm.--Onset of the Iroquois.--Peril of
Tonty.--A Treacherous Truce.--Intrepidity of Tonty.--Murder
of Ribourde.--War upon the Dead. 216
CHAPTER XVII.
1680.
THE ADVENTURES OF HENNEPIN.
Hennepin an Impostor: his Pretended Discovery; his Actual Discovery;
captured by the Sioux.--The Upper Mississippi. 242
CHAPTER XVIII.
1680, 1681.
HENNEPIN AMONG THE SIOUX.
Signs of Danger.--Adoption.--Hennepin and his Indian Relatives.--The
Hunting Party.--The Sioux Camp.--Falls of St. Anthony.--A Vagabond
Friar: his Adventures on the Mississippi.--Greysolon Du Lhut.--Return
to Civilization. 259
CHAPTER XIX.
1681.
LA SALLE BEGINS ANEW.
His Constancy; his Plans; his Savage Allies; he becomes
Snow-blind.--Negotiations.--Grand Council.--La Salle's
Oratory.--Meeting with Tonty.--Preparation.--Departure. 283
CHAPTER XX.
1681-1682.
SUCCESS OF LA SALLE.
His Followers.--The Chicago Portage.--Descent of the Mississippi.--The
Lost Hunter.--The Arkansas.--The Taensas.--The Natchez.--Hostility.--The
Mouth of the Mississippi.--Louis XIV. proclaimed Sovereign of the Great
West. 295
CHAPTER XXI.
1682, 1683.
ST. LOUIS OF THE ILLINOIS.
Louisiana.--Illness of La Salle: his Colony on the Illinois.--Fort
St. Louis.--Recall of Frontenac.--Le Febvre de la Barre.--Critical
Position of La Salle.--Hostility of the New Governor.--Triumph of
the Adverse Faction.--La Salle sails for France. 309
CHAPTER XXII.
1680-1683.
LA SALLE PAINTED BY HIMSELF.
Difficulty of knowing him; his Detractors; his Letters; vexations of
his Position; his Unfitness for Trade; risks of Correspondence; his
Reported Marriage; alleged Ostentation; motives of Action; charges
of Harshness; intrigues against him; unpopular Manners; a Strange
Confession; his Strength and his Weakness; contrasts of his
Character. 328
CHAPTER XXIII.
1684.
A NEW ENTERPRISE.
La Salle at Court: his Proposals.--Occupation of Louisiana.--Invasion
of Mexico.--Royal Favor.--Preparation.--A Divided Command.--Beaujeu
and La Salle.--Mental Condition of La Salle: his Farewell to his
Mother. 343
CHAPTER XXIV.
1684, 1685.
THE VOYAGE.
Disputes with Beaujeu.--St. Domingo.--La Salle attacked with
Fever: his Desperate Condition.--The Gulf of Mexico.--A Vain Search
and a Fatal Error. 366
CHAPTER XXV.
1685.
LA SALLE IN TEXAS.
A Party of Exploration.--Wreck of the "Aimable."--Landing of the
Colonists.--A Forlorn Position.--Indian Neighbors.--Friendly Advances
of Beaujeu: his Departure.--A Fatal Discovery. 378
CHAPTER XXVI.
1685-1687.
ST. LOUIS OF TEXAS.
The Fort.--Misery and Dejection.--Energy of La Salle: his Journey of
Exploration.--Adventures and Accidents.--The Buffalo.--Duhaut.--Indian
Massacre.--Return of La Salle.--A New Calamity.--A Desperate
Resolution.--Departure for Canada.--Wreck of the
"Belle."--Marriage.--Sedition.--Adventures of La Salle's Party.--The
Cenis.--The Camanches.--The Only Hope.--The Last Farewell. 391
CHAPTER XXVII.
1687.
ASSASSINATION OF LA SALLE.
His Followers.--Prairie Travelling.--A Hunters' Quarrel.--The Murder
of Moranget.--The Conspiracy.--Death of La Salle: his Character. 420
CHAPTER XXVIII.
1687, 1688.
THE INNOCENT AND THE GUILTY.
Triumph of the Murderers.--Danger of Joutel.--Joutel among the
Cenis.--White Savages.--Insolence of Duhaut and his
Accomplices.--Murder of Duhaut and Liotot.--Hiens, the
Buccaneer.--Joutel and his Party: their Escape; they reach the
Arkansas.--Bravery and Devotion of Tonty.--The Fugitives reach
the Illinois.--Unworthy Conduct of Cavelier.--He and his Companions
return to France. 435
CHAPTER XXIX.
1688-1689.
FATE OF THE TEXAN COLONY.
Tonty attempts to rescue the Colonists: his Difficulties and
Hardships.--Spanish Hostility.--Expedition of Alonzo de Leon: he
reaches Fort St. Louis.--A Scene of Havoc.--Destruction of the
French.--The End. 464
APPENDIX.
I. Early Unpublished Maps of the Mississippi and the Great
Lakes 475
II. The Eldorado of Mathieu Sagean 485
INDEX 491
[Illustration:
COUNTRIES
traversed by
MARQUETTE, HENNEPIN
AND
LA SALLE.
G.W. Boynton, Sc.]
LA SALLE
AND THE
DISCOVERY OF THE GREAT WEST.
INTRODUCTION.
The Spaniards discovered the Mississippi. De
Soto was buried beneath its waters; and it was down
its muddy current that his followers fled from the
Eldorado of their dreams, transformed to a wilderness
of misery and death. The discovery was never used,
and was well-nigh forgotten. On early Spanish
maps, the Mississippi is often indistinguishable from
other affluents of the Gulf. A century passed after
De Soto's journeyings in the South, before a French
explorer reached a northern tributary of the great
river.
This was Jean Nicollet, interpreter at Three Rivers on the St. Lawrence.
He had been some twenty years in Canada, had lived among the savage
Algonquins of Allumette Island, and spent eight or nine years among the
Nipissings, on the lake which bears their name. Here he became an Indian
in all his habits, but remained, nevertheless, a zealous Catholic, and
returned to civilization at last because he could not live without the
sacraments. Strange stories were current among the Nipissings of a
people without hair or beard, who came from the West to trade with a
tribe beyond the Great Lakes. Who could doubt that these strangers were
Chinese or Japanese? Such tales may well have excited Nicollet's
curiosity; and when, in 1635, or possibly in 1638, he was sent as an
ambassador to the tribe in question, he would not have been surprised if
on arriving he had found a party of mandarins among them. Perhaps it was
with a view to such a contingency that he provided himself, as a dress
of ceremony, with a robe of Chinese damask embroidered with birds and
flowers. The tribe to which he was sent was that of the Winnebagoes,
living near the head of the Green Bay of Lake Michigan. They had come to
blows with the Hurons, allies of the French; and Nicollet was charged to
negotiate a peace. When he approached the Winnebago town, he sent one of
his Indian attendants to announce his coming, put on his robe of damask,
and advanced to meet the expectant crowd with a pistol in each hand. The
squaws and children fled, screaming that it was a manito, or spirit,
armed with thunder and lightning; but the chiefs and warriors regaled
him with so bountiful a hospitality that a hundred and twenty beavers
were devoured at a single feast. From the Winnebagoes, he passed
westward, ascended Fox River, crossed to the Wisconsin, and descended
it so far that, as he reported on his return, in three days more he
would have reached the sea. The truth seems to be that he mistook the
meaning of his Indian guides, and that the "great water" to which he was
so near was not the sea, but the Mississippi.
It has been affirmed that one Colonel Wood, of Virginia, reached a
branch of the Mississippi as early as the year 1654, and that about 1670
a certain Captain Bolton penetrated to the river itself. Neither
statement is sustained by sufficient evidence. It is further affirmed
that, in 1678, a party from New England crossed the Mississippi, reached
New Mexico | 1,812.0823 |
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BUNCH GRASS
A CHRONICLE OF LIFE ON A CATTLE RANCH
BY HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL
AUTHOR OF "BROTHERS" "THE HILL" ETC. ETC.
1913
TO MY BROTHER
ARTHUR HONYWOOD VACHELL
I DEDICATE
THIS BOOK
FOREWORD
The author of _Bunch Grass_ ventures to hope that this book will
not be altogether regarded as mere flotsam and jetsam of English and
American magazines. The stories, it will be found, have a certain
continuity, and may challenge interest as apart from incident because
an attempt has been made to reproduce atmosphere, the atmosphere of a
country that has changed almost beyond recognition in three decades.
The author went to a wild California cow-country just thirty years
ago, and remained there seventeen years, during which period the land
from such pastoral uses as cattle and sheep-raising became subdivided
into innumerable small holdings. He beheld a new country in the
making, and the passing of the pioneer who settled vital differences
with a pistol. During those years some noted outlaws ranged at large
in the county here spoken of as San Lorenzo. The Dalton gang of train
robbers lived and died (some with their boots on) not far from the
village entitled Paradise. Stage coaches were robbed frequently. Every
large rancher suffered much at the hands of cattle and horse thieves.
The writer has talked to Frank James, the most famous of Western
desperados; he has enjoyed the acquaintance of Judge Lynch, who hanged
two men from a bridge within half-a-mile of the ranch-house; he
remembers the Chinese Riots; he has witnessed many a fight between the
hungry squatter and the old settler with no title to the leagues over
which his herds roamed, and so, in a modest way, he may claim to be a
historian, not forgetting that the original signification of the word
was a narrator of fables founded upon facts.
Apologies are tendered for the dialect to be found in these pages.
There is no Californian dialect. At the time of the discovery of gold,
the state was flooded with men from all parts of the world, and
dialects became inextricably mixed. Not even Bret Harte was able to
reproduce the talk of children whose fathers may have come from
Kentucky or Massachusetts, and their mothers from Louisiana.
Re-reading these chapters, with a more or less critical detachment,
and leaving them--good, bad and indifferent--as they were originally
printed, one is forced to the conclusion that sentiment--which would
seem to arouse what is most hostile in the cultivated dweller in
cities--is an all-pervading essence in primitive communities,
colouring and discolouring every phase of life and thought. One
instance among a thousand will suffice. Stage coaches, in the writer's
county, used to be held up, single-handed, by a highwayman, known as
Black Bart. All the foothill folk pleaded in extenuation of the robber
that he wrote a copy of verses, embalming his adventure, which he used
to pin to the nearest tree. Black Bart would have been shot on sight
had he presented his doggerel to any self-respecting Western editor;
nevertheless the sentiment that inspired a bandit to set forth his
misdeeds in execrable rhyme transformed him from a criminal into a
popular hero! The virtues that counted in the foothills during the
eighties were generosity, courage, and that amazing power of
recuperation which enables a man to begin life again and again,
undaunted by the bludgeonings of misfortune. Some of the stories in
this volume are obviously the work of an apprentice, but they have
been included because, however faulty in technique, they do serve to
illustrate a past that can never come back, and men and women who were
outwardly crude and illiterate but at core kind and chivalrous, and
nearly always humorously unconventional. The bunch grass, so beloved
by the patriarchal pioneers, has been ploughed up and destroyed; the
unwritten law of Judge Lynch will soon become an oral tradition; but
the Land of Yesterday blooms afresh as the Golden State of To-day--and
Tomorrow.
* * * * *
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. ALETHEA-BELLE
II. THE DUMBLES
III. PAP SPOONER
IV. GLORIANA
V. BUMBLEPUPPY
VI. JASPERSON'S BEST GIRL
VII. FIFTEEN FAT STEERS
VIII. AN EXPERIMENT
IX. UNCLE <DW61>'S LILY
X. WILKINS AND HIS DINAH
XI. A POISONED SPRING
XII. THE BABE
XIII. THE BARON
XIV. JIM'S PUP
XV. MARY
XVI. OLD MAN BOBO'S MANDY
XVII. MINTIE
XVIII. ONE WHO DIED
XIX. A RAGAMUFFIN OF THE FOOTHILLS
XX. DENNIS
* * * * *
I
ALETHEA-BELLE
In the early eighties, when my brother Ajax and I were raising cattle
in the foothills of Southern California, our ranch-house was used as a
stopping-place by the teamsters hauling freight across the Coast
Range; and after the boom began, while the village of Paradise was
evolving itself out of rough timber, we were obliged to furnish all
comers with board and lodging. Hardly a day passed without some
"prairie schooner" (the canvas-covered wagon of the squatter) creaking
into our corral; and the quiet gulches and canons where Ajax and I had
shot quail and deer began to re-echo to the shouts of the children of
the rough folk from the mid-West and Missouri. These "Pikers," so
called, settled thickly upon the sage-brush hills to the south and
east of us, and took up all the land they could claim from the
Government. Before spring was over, we were asked to lend an old
_adobe_ building to the village fathers, to be used as a
schoolhouse, until the schoolhouse proper was built. At that time a
New England family of the name of Spafford was working for us. Mrs.
Spafford, having two children of her own, tried to enlist our
sympathies.
"I'm kinder sick," she told us, "of cookin' an' teachin'; an' the hot
weather's comin' on, too. You'd oughter let 'em hev that old
_adobe_."
"But who will teach the children?" we asked.
"We've fixed that," said Mrs. Spafford. "'Tain't everyone as'd want to
come into this wilderness, but my auntie's cousin, Alethea-Belle
Buchanan, is willin' to take the job."
"Is she able?" we asked doubtfully.
"She's her father's daughter," Mrs. Spafford replied. "Abram Buchanan
was as fine an' brave a man as ever preached the Gospel. An' clever,
too. My sakes, he never done but one foolish thing, and that was when
he merried his wife."
"Tell us about her," said that inveterate gossip, Ajax.
Mrs. Spafford sniffed.
"I seen her once--that was once too much fer me. One o' them
lackadaisical, wear-a-wrapper-in-the-mornin', soft, pulpy Southerners.
Pretty--yes, in a spindlin', pink an' white soon-washed-out pattern,
but without backbone. I've no patience with sech."
"Her daughter won't be able to halter-break these wild colts."
"Didn't I say that Alethea-Belle took after her father? She must hev
consid'able snap an' nerve, fer she's put in the last year, sence
Abram died, sellin' books in this State."
"A book agent?"
"Yes, sir, a book agent."
If Mrs. Spafford had said road agent, which means highwayman in
California, we could not have been more surprised. A successful book
agent must have the hide of a rhinoceros, the guile of a serpent, the
obstinacy of a mule, and the persuasive notes of a nightingale.
"If Miss Buchanan has been a book agent, she'll do," said Ajax.
* * * * *
She arrived at Paradise on the ramshackle old stage-coach late one
Saturday afternoon. Ajax and I carried her small hair-trunk into the
ranch-house; Mrs. Spafford received her. We retreated to the corrals.
"She'll never, never do," said Ajax.
"Never," said I.
Alethea-Belle Buchanan looked about eighteen; and her face was white
as the dust that lay thick upon her grey linen cloak. Under | 1,812.183864 |
2023-11-16 18:47:16.1638300 | 4,442 | 49 |
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courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University
(http://digital.library.villanova.edu/))
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING
ADVENTURE
MOTOR
FICTION
NO. 4
MAR. 20, 1909
FIVE
CENTS
MOTOR MATT'S
RACE
THE LAST FLIGHT
OF THE COMET
_By STANLEY R. MATTHEWS_
[Illustration: "I've got it, pard!" shouted Chub, snatching the letter
from Motor Matt's fingers.]
_STREET & SMITH,
PUBLISHERS,
NEW YORK._
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
_Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Entered according to
Act of Congress in the year 1909, in the Office of the Librarian of
Congress, Washington, D. C., by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Avenue,
New York, N. Y._
No. 4. NEW YORK, March 20, 1909. Price Five Cents.
MOTOR MATT'S RACE
OR,
THE LAST FLIGHT OF THE _COMET_.
By the author of "MOTOR MATT."
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. TROUBLE ON THE ROAD.
CHAPTER II. THE STAMPEDE.
CHAPTER III. CLIP'S NOTE.
CHAPTER IV. M'KIBBEN'S TIP.
CHAPTER V. A VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCES.
CHAPTER VI. THE PRIDE OF TOM CLIPPERTON.
CHAPTER VII. LAYING PLANS.
CHAPTER VIII. THE RIFLED CACHE.
CHAPTER IX. THE BREAK IN THE ROAD.
CHAPTER X. PRESCOTT.
CHAPTER XI. MATT MAKES A NEW MOVE.
CHAPTER XII. THE OLD HOPEWELL TUNNEL.
CHAPTER XIII. QUICK WORK.
CHAPTER XIV. STEAM VERSUS GASOLINE.
CHAPTER XV. IN COURT.
CHAPTER XVI. CONCLUSION.
THE TENNIS-GROUND MYSTERY.
MAKE QUEER CATCHES AT CAPE COD.
COLD FIRE.
CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.
=Matt King=, concerning whom there has always been a mystery--a lad
of splendid athletic abilities, and never-failing nerve, who has won
for himself, among the boys of the Western town, the popular name of
"Mile-a-minute Matt."
=Chub McReady=, sometimes called plain "Reddy," for short, on account
of his fiery "thatch"--a chum of Matt, with a streak of genius for
inventing things that often land the bold experimenter in trouble.
=Welcome Perkins=, a one-legged wanderer who lives with Chub and his
sister while their father prospects for gold--Welcome is really a
man of peace, yet he delights to imagine himself a "terror," and is
forever boasting about being a "reformed road-agent."
=Tom Clipperton=, known generally as "Clip," a quarter-blood, who is
very sensitive about his Indian ancestry.
=McKibben=, the sheriff who has both nerve and intelligence.
=Fresnay=, a cowboy who performs some mighty queer stunts.
=Pima Pete=, an Indian to whom Clip is related.
=Hogan=, }
=Leffingwell=, } two deputy sheriffs.
=Short=, a lawyer.
=Burke=, sheriff of an adjoining county.
=Jack Moody=, an engineer friend of Chub.
CHAPTER I.
TROUBLE ON THE ROAD.
"Ye're afeared! Yah, that's what ye are! Motor Matt's scared, an' I
never thought ye was afeared o' nothin'. Go ahead! I dare ye!"
An automobile--a high-powered roadster--was nosing along through the
hills a dozen miles out of the city of Phoenix. The vehicle had the
usual two seats in front and a rumble-seat behind--places for three,
but there were four piled aboard.
Matt King was in the driver's seat, of course, and equally, of course,
he had to have the whole seat to himself. On his left were Chub McReady
and Tom Clipperton, sitting sideways and wedged into their places like
sardines in a can. In the rumble behind was the gentleman with the
wooden leg--Welcome Perkins, the "reformed road-agent."
Matt was giving his friends a ride. The red roadster, in which they
were taking the spin, was an unclaimed car at present in the custody
of McKibben, the sheriff. It had been used for lawless work by its
original owners, and had fallen into the hands of the sheriff, who was
holding it in the hope that the criminals would come forward and claim
it.[A]
[A] See MOTOR MATT WEEKLY, No. 3, "Motor Matt's 'Century' Run; or, The
Governor's Courier."
McKibben and Motor Matt were the best of friends, and McKibben had told
Matt to take the red roadster out for "exercise" whenever he felt like
it. Directly after dinner, that day, they had started from the McReady
home in Phoenix. It was now about half-past one, and they were jogging
at a leisurely pace through the foot-hills.
Welcome, on account of his wooden leg and the necessity of having
plenty of room, had been given the rumble-seat. He was standing up most
of the time, however, leaning over the back of the seat in front of
him, and telling Motor Matt how to drive the car.
That was the third time the old man had ever been in an automobile, but
to hear him talk you'd have thought there wasn't anything about the
machine that was new to him. His constant clamor was for more speed,
and Matt had no intention of taking chances with a borrowed car when a
leisurely pace was entirely satisfactory to himself and his two chums,
Clip and Chub.
"Oh, slush!" grunted Chub, as Welcome leaned forward and dared Motor
Matt to "hit er up." "You'd be scared to death, Welcome, if Matt put on
full speed and hit only a high place here and there. Sit down an' shut
up, or we'll drop you into the road. I wouldn't mind having that seat
of yours myself; eh, Clip?"
"Free kentry, ain't it?" snapped Welcome. "You ain't got no call ter
sot down on me, Chub McReady, if I want to talk. Go on," he added to
Matt; "pull the plug out o' the carburetter an' hit the magneto a lick
jest fer luck."
This was a sample of Welcome's knowledge. Chub let off a delighted yell.
"Yes," he laughed, "an' while you're about it, Matt, strip the
planetary transmission an' short-circuit the spark-plug. Give Welcome
all he wants! Make him sit down, hang on with both hands and bite hard
on his store-teeth."
"When you're running a car that don't belong to you, fellows," said
Matt, "it's best to be on the safe side."
"Sure," agreed Clip. "We're going fast enough. No need to rush things."
"Ye're all afeared!" taunted Welcome. "Snakes alive, I could walk a
heap faster'n what we're goin'. D'ruther walk, enough sight, if ye
ain't goin' any faster'n this. This here ottermobill is an ole turtle.
I hadn't ort ter brag about it, but when I was young an' lawless, I was
that swift I could hold up a stage, then ride twenty miles an' hold up
another, an' clean up the operation complete inside of an hour."
"It wasn't much of a day for hold-ups, either," spoke up Chub gravely.
"Anyways, that's what I done, Smarty," snorted Welcome, "but I didn't
use no ottermobill--jest a plain hoss with four legs."
"Must have had six legs," said Clip. "Couldn't have gone that fast on a
horse with only four."
"Now _you_ butt in," snarled Welcome. "Goin' to put the clutch on the
cylinders, Matt," he added, "an' advance the spark a couple o' feet? If
y'ain't, I'm goin' to git out an' walk home. It's only five hours till
supper, an' we must be all o' twelve miles from town."
"You see, Welcome," explained Matt, with a wink at Chub and Clip, "it
wouldn't do to put the clutch on the cylinders, for I'd strip the gear;
and if I advanced the spark more'n a foot I'd burn out the carburetter."
"D'ye reckon I didn't know that?" demanded Welcome indignantly. "Why,
I kin fergit more about these here ottermobill's in a minit than some
fellers knows in a year. But, say! What's that thing off to the side o'
the road? Looks like a Gila monster."
All three of the boys turned their eyes swiftly to the roadside. The
next instant Welcome had leaned far over, gripped the long lever at
Matt's side and shoved it as far as he could.
They had been on the low gear; that put them on the high with a jump,
and the red roadster flung madly ahead.
Matt shifted his eyes from the side of the road just in time to see
Welcome sail out of the rumble, turn a half somersault and land,
astonished, in a sitting posture in the road.
Both Chub and Clip had had a scare, the sudden plunge of the machine
having made them grab each other, and they only missed going over the
side by a hair's breadth.
As quickly as he could, Matt brought the lever to an upright position
and pressed the primary foot-brake.
"The old freak!" shouted Chub, as the car came to a halt. "He came
within one of putting the lot of us overboard. If he had two good legs,
I'm a farmer if we wouldn't make him walk back to town for that!"
"If he don't agree to sit quiet in the rumble and enjoy the scenery,"
said Matt, "we'll make him walk, anyway. I won't allow any one to mix
up with the machinery as long as I'm doing the driving."
Welcome must have received quite a jolt. For a second or two he acted
as though he were dazed; then he slowly gathered in his hat, got
upright and shook his fist at those in the car.
"Dad-bing!" he yelled. "Ye done it a-purpose, ye know ye did."
"Well, what do you think of that!" muttered Chub.
"Ye jest coaxed me out in that ole buzz-wagon ter hev fun with me,"
ranted Welcome. "Wonder ye didn't break my neck, 'r somethin'. I
hit the trail harder'n a brick house, an' if I wasn't as springy as
injy-rubber I'd hev been scattered all around here like a Chinese
puzzle."
"Come on, Welcome!" called Matt. "But you've got to keep still and keep
away from the machinery if you want to ride with us."
"Wouldn't ride in that ole cross between a kitchen stove an' a hay-rack
fer a hunderd dollars a minit!" fumed Welcome. "I've stood all I'm
a-goin' to. Ye've stirred up my lawlessness a-plenty, an' I'm goin' to
hide out beside the road an' hold up the Montezuma stage when it comes
through. Ye'll hear about it to-night, in town, an' then ye'll be sorry
ye treated me like ye done. If ye got bizness any place else, hit yer
ole gasoline-tank a welt an' don't let me detain ye a minit."
Rubbing the small of his back and muttering to himself, the old man
started along the road in the direction of town.
"Let him walk a spell," said Chub in a low tone. "He wants us to coax
him to get back in; let's make him think we're taking him at his word."
"All right," laughed Matt, who knew the eccentric old man as well as
anybody, "we'll lag along into the hills for a mile or two, and then
come back. I guess Welcome will be glad enough to get in by that time."
Chub got out and scrambled into the rumble. The machine took the spark
without cranking and the red roadster started off.
"So-long, Perk!" shouted Chub hilariously, standing up in the rumble
and waving his hand. "Tell Susie, when you get home, that we'll
straggle in by supper-time."
The old man never looked around, but the way he stabbed the ground with
his wooden pin showed how he felt.
Perhaps half a mile from the place where Welcome had left the car the
boys met a horseman riding at speed in the direction of town. The man
drew rein for an instant.
"Turn around!" he yelled; "p'int the other way! Can't ye hear 'em.
Thar's a stampede on, an' a thousand head o' cattle aire tearin' this
way like an express-train! Listen! If ye don't hike, they'll run right
over ye!"
Startled exclamations escaped the boys. The cowboy's manner, quite as
much as his words, aroused their alarm.
The trail, for several miles in that particular part of the hills, was
walled in on both sides by high, steep ground. This made a sort of
chute of the road, so that those in charge of the cattle would not be
able to get ahead of them and turn them.
Having given his warning and done what he could, the cowboy used his
spurs and dashed on. At that moment a rumble of falling hoofs reached
the ears of the boys, accompanied by the _click, click_ of knocking
horns and a frenzied bellowing.
"Turn 'er, quick!" whooped Chub.
But the command was unnecessary. Motor Matt with a firm hand and a
steady brain, was already manipulating the red roadster, backing and
forging ahead in order to get faced the other way in the cramped space.
Meanwhile the ominous sounds, which came from around the base of a hill
where the road described a sharp bend, had been growing in volume.
Just as the roadster jumped away on the back stretch the cattle began
pouring around the foot of the hill.
CHAPTER II.
THE STAMPEDE.
It was the custom of the ranchers to keep their cattle in the hills
until they were nearly ready for market, then drive them down into Salt
River Valley, turn them into the alfalfa-fields and let them fatten
before shipment.
This herd of lean, brown cattle, wild as coyotes, had been started for
the grass-lands of the valley. Very little was required to start a
panic among them, and this panic had hit them at the very worst place
possible on the entire drive.
With heads down, tongues protruding, foam flying from their open
mouths, and horns knocking, the frenzied animals hurled themselves
onward. Even if the sight of the automobile had frightened them, there
could be no turning back for the leaders of the herd, pressed as they
were by the charging brutes in the rear. And, of course, the character
of the roadside, at that point, prevented any turning out or scattering.
All that lay between the boys and destruction was the speed of the car.
If a tire blew up, or if anything went wrong with the machinery, the
tidal wave of cattle would roll on over the car and its passengers.
"We're in fer it, fellers!" shouted Chub, who was in a good position to
note the full extent of the danger.
There was no hanging back on Motor Matt's part. He was on the high
speed, and caressing the throttle-lever as he steered.
"We're leaving 'em behind!" announced Clip. "Keep it up, Matt."
The red roadster was not only leaving the frightened herd behind, but
was coming up with the cowboy, hand over fist.
"We'll have to slow down!" called Matt, between his clenched teeth,
his flashing gray eyes straight ahead; "if we don't, we'll run over the
man on the horse."
Just then they turned a bit of an angle that gave them a glimpse of
Welcome Perkins. Faint sounds of the uproar behind had reached the old
man. Planted in the middle of the road, he was staring back, wondering,
no doubt, why the horseman was tearing along at such a rate of speed,
and why the red roadster was letting itself out on the back track. But
the old man was not kept long in doubt. Through the haze of dust back
of the automobile he saw the plunging cattle.
The next moment he went straight up in the air with a terrified yell
and made a dash for the side of the road. As fate would have it, the
road at that point was hemmed in with banks too steep to be scaled;
nevertheless, Welcome clawed frantically at the rocks.
"Stand whar ye are!" roared the cowboy. "I'll take ye up with me."
Welcome's peril struck wild alarm to the hearts of the boys. They
realized that if they had insisted on the old man getting into the car
he would not now be in that terrible predicament.
In order to get Welcome up behind him the cowboy had to throw himself
back on the bit and bring the horse to a quick halt. He leaned down to
help Welcome up, and Welcome, who was almost as frenzied as the steers,
gave a wild jump and grabbed saddle-horn and cantle. Under his weight,
and the weight of the cowboy, which was temporarily thrown on the same
side, the saddle turned. Welcome dropped into the road, and his would
be rescuer pitched on top of him. The horse, thoroughly frightened,
jumped away and continued his breakneck pace down the road.
Yells of consternation went up from Chub and Clip. Matt had been
obliged to bring the car almost to a halt while the cowboy was trying
to pick up Welcome. The leaders of the stampeding herd had come
dangerously close.
"They're on us!" whooped Chub despairingly; "we're all done for!"
"Not yet," shouted Matt, sending the car ahead toward the place where
Welcome and the cowboy were scrambling to their feet. "Take 'em both
aboard! Quick on it, now, and we'll get away."
The car rumbled up abreast of the two in the road.
"Jump in!" shouted Clip; "hustle!"
Welcome threw himself into the front of the car and the cowboy made a
flying leap for the rumble. Clip grabbed one and Chub caught the other.
By then the foremost of the steers were almost nosing the rear of the
car.
Matt, without losing an instant, threw the lever clear over, and the
roadster flung away like an arrow from a bow, on the high speed; then,
a second later, he opened the throttle and the six purring cylinders
sent the car along at a gait that was double that of the pursuing
cattle.
"Wow!" panted Welcome, who had both arms around Clip and was hanging
to him like grim death. "Keep holt o' me! I feel like every minute was
goin' to be my next! Slow down a leetle, can't ye? If ye don't we'll
be upside down in the ditch! Whoosh! I'd ruther take chances with them
steers than ridin' a streak o' lightnin' like this. Br-r-r!"
Welcome was getting all the fast riding he wanted. The red roadster
whipped and slewed around the curves | 1,812.18387 |
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Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by Cornell University Digital Collections.)
THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE
Of Literature, Science, and Art.
VOLUME IV
AUGUST TO DECEMBER, 1851.
NEW-YORK:
STRINGER & TOWNSEND, 222 BROADWAY.
FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.
BY THE NUMBER, 25 CTS.; THE VOLUME, $1; THE YEAR, $3.
Transcriber's note: Contents for entire volume 4 in this text. However
this text contains only issue Vol. 4, No. 1. Minor typos have been
corrected and footnotes moved to the end of the article.
PREFACE TO THE FOURTH VOLUME.
The conclusion of the Fourth Volume of a periodical may be accepted as
a sign of its permanent establishment. The proprietors of the
INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE have the satisfaction of believing that, while
there has been a steady increase of sales, ever since the publication
of the first number of this work, there has likewise been as regular
an augmentation of its interest, value, and adaptation to the wants of
the reading portion of our community. While essentially an Eclectic,
relying very much for success on a reproduction of judiciously
selected and fairly acknowledged Foreign Literature, it has contained
from month to month such an amount of New Articles as justified its
claim to consideration as an Original Miscellany. And in choosing from
European publications, articles to reprint or to translate for these
pages, care has been taken not only to avoid that vein of
licentiousness in morals, and skepticism in religion, which in so
lamentable a degree characterize a large portion of the popular
literature of this age, but also to extract from foreign periodicals
that American element with which the rising importance of our country
has caused so many of them to be infused; so that, notwithstanding the
fact that more than half the contents of the INTERNATIONAL are from
| 1,812.183949 |
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Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
MOTHER GOOSE FOR GROWN FOLKS
BY MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY
Illustrated By Augustus Hoppin
Boston
Houghton, Mifflin And Company
1883
[Illustration: 0001]
[Illustration: 0006]
[Illustration: 0007]
[Illustration: 0009]
INTRODUCTORY.
|Somewhere in that uncertain "long ago,"
Whose dim and vague chronology is all
That elfin tales or nursery fables know,
Rose a rare spirit,--keen, and quick, and quaint,--
Whom by the title, whether fact or feint,
Mythic or real, Mother Goose we call.
Of Momus and Minerva sprang the birth
That gave the laughing oracle to earth:
A brimming bowl she bears, that, frothing
high
With sparkling nonsense, seemeth non-
sense all;
Till, the bright, floating syllabub blown by,
Lo, in its ruby splendor doth upshine
The crimson radiance of Olympian wine
By Pallas poured, in Jove's own banquet-
hall.
The world was but a baby when she came;
So to her songs it listened, and her name
Grew to a word of power, her voice a spell
With charm to soothe its infant wearying
well.
But, in a later and maturer age,
Developed to a dignity more sage,
Having its Shakspeares and its Words-
worths now,
Its Southeys and its Tennysons, to wear
A halo on the high and lordly brow,
Or poet-laurels in the waving hair;
Its Lowells, Whittiers, Longfellows, to sing
Ballads of beauty, like the notes of spring,
The wise and prudent ones to nursery use
Leave the dear lyrics of old Mother Goose.
Wisdom of babes,--the nursery Shak-
speare stilly--
Cackles she ever with the same good-will:
Uttering deep counsels in a foolish guise,
That come as warnings, even to the wise;
As when, of old, the martial city slept,
Unconscious of the wily foe that crept
Under the midnight, till the alarm was heard
Out from the mouth of Rome's plebeian
bird.
Full many a rare and subtile thing | 1,812.184043 |
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Produced by Richard E. Henrich, Jr. HTML version by Al Haines.
THE CHRONICLES OF CLOVIS
by
"SAKI" (H. H. MUNRO)
with an Introduction by A. A. MILNE
TO THE LYNX KITTEN,
WITH HIS RELUCTANTLY GIVEN CONSENT,
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED
H. H. M.
August, 1911
INTRODUCTION
There are good things which we want to share with the world and good
things which we want to keep to ourselves. The secret of our favourite
restaurant, to take a case, is guarded jealously from all but a few
intimates; the secret, to take a contrary case, of our infallible
remedy for seasickness is thrust upon every traveller we meet, even if
he be no more than a casual acquaintance about to cross the Serpentine.
So with our books. There are dearly loved books of which we babble to a
neighbour at dinner, insisting that she shall share our delight in
them; and there are books, equally dear to us, of which we say nothing,
fearing lest the praise of others should cheapen the glory of our
discovery. The books of "Saki" were, for me at least, in the second
class.
It was in the WESTMINSTER GAZETTE that I discovered him (I like to
remember now) almost as soon as he was discoverable. Let us spare a
moment, and a tear, for those golden days in the early nineteen
hundreds, when there were five leisurely papers of an evening in which
the free-lance might graduate, and he could speak of his Alma Mater,
whether the GLOBE or the PALL MALL | 1,812.280551 |
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Produced by Ting Man Tsao
Transcriber's Note: This e-book is based on an extant copy at
Special Collections Research Center, Earl Gregg Swem Library,
College of William and Mary. The transcriber is grateful to the
librarians there for providing assistance in accessing this rare
fragile book. A few typos in the original text were corrected.
LETTERS TO CHILDREN.
BY REV. E.C. BRIDGMAN,
MISSIONARY IN CHINA.
Written for the Massachusetts Sabbath School Society,
and Revised by the Committee of Publication.
SECOND EDITION.
BOSTON:
MASSACHUSETTS SABBATH SCHOOL SOCIETY.
Depository, No. 13, Cornhill.
1838.
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1834,
BY CHRISTOPHER C. DEAN,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.
______
INDEX.
LETTER I.
Introduction; Chinese are Idolaters; Confucian, Taon, and Buddha
Sects,
LETTER II.
Temples, Priest, Priestesses and Idols,
LETTER III.
Pagodas, Idol Worship,
LETTER IV.
Soldiers; Merchants,
LETTER V.
Mechanics,
LETTER VI.
Husbandmen,
LETTER VII.
Scholars,
LETTER VIII.
Sailors,
LETTER IX.
Character and Condition of Females,
LETTER X.
Marriage Ceremony,
LETTER XI.
Beggars; Food and Clothing,
LETTER XII.
Crimes: Lying, Gambling, Quarrelling, Theft, Robbery, and
Bribery,
LETTER XIII.
Ideas of Death, style of Mourning, Funerals, &c.
LETTER XIV.
Dr. Morrison translates the Bible into the Chinese Language,
LETTER XV.
Dr. Milne; Missionary Stations,
LETTER XVI.
Leang Afa,
LETTER XVII.
Canton City; Population, &c.
LETTER XVIII.
To Parents and Teachers,
______
TO THE READER
______
This little Book contains eighteen Letters, written by Rev. E.C.
BRIDGMAN, Missionary in China, addressed to the Children of the
Sabbath School in Middleton, Mass. and published in the Sabbath
School Treasury and Visitor. Though the letters were addressed
to children in a particular Sabbath School, they are none the less
adapted to other children, and they cannot fail to interest any
one, who would see China converted to Christ.
______
LETTERS FROM CHINA.
______
Letter I.
_Canton_, (_China_,) _Oct._ 17, 1831
MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS:‑‑The general agent of the Massachusetts
Sabbath School Union has requested me to write something which
I have "seen, heard, or thought of" for the _Treasury_. He proposed
that I should write in the form of letters, and address them to
you. This I shall be very happy to do, so far as I have any leisure
to write.
Some of you, perhaps, will remember what I used to tell you of
the children, and men, and women, who had no Bibles, and who were
ignorant of the true God, and of Jesus Christ the Savior of
sinners. I can remember very well what some of the little children
used to say, and how they used to look, when I talked to them about
being a missionary, and of going far away from home, perhaps never
to return. I did not then think of going so far off; indeed, I
did not know where I should go; had some thoughts of going to
Greece, or to Armenia. We do not always know what is best, but
God does, for He knows all things, and will direct all things for
his own glory; and if we love and obey him. He will make all things
work together for our good.
I am very glad I came to China, and I wish a great many more
missionaries would come here. Before I came among the heathen,
I had no idea how much they are to be pitied, and how much they
need the Bible. Now that I live among them, and see their poor
dumb idols every day, I desire to tell you a great many things
which, I hope, will make you more careful to improve your own
privileges, and more anxious also that the same blessed
privileges may be enjoyed by all other children every where.
Now, children, if you will look on your maps, you will see that
China is situated in that part of the earth, which is directly
opposite to the United States: so that when it is noon in one
place, it is midnight in the other. The two countries, you will
see, occupy nearly the same extent of the earth's surface. They
are, also, bounded on the north and south, by nearly the same
degrees of latitude. (China is situated a little farther south
than the United States.) This makes the seasons,‑‑summer and
winters, spring and autumn,‑‑and also the climate of the two
countries, quite alike. But in regard to population, religion,
and almost every thing else, they are very different from each
other.
China is a very ancient nation; and has, at the present time, a
vast population,‑‑probably twenty or thirty times as many people
as there are in all the United States of America. If there are,
then, _three millions_ in the United States to be gathered into
the Sabbath schools, and there Sabbath after Sabbath, instructed
in the Holy Scriptures; there are here in China more than _sixty
millions_, of the same age, who know not even that there are any
Sabbath, or any Sabbath day, or any Holy Bible.
You can now, dear children, from these few facts, estimate how
many there are in China who need the Bible; and how much there
is to be done, how many missionaries and Christian teachers will
be wanted, before all these millions of immortal beings shall have
the word of God, and be as blessed and as happy in their
privileges, as you now are. You, truly, enjoy great privileges,
because you have the Holy Bible, and can, every day, read of Jesus
Christ: and if you believe in him, you will have great joy and
comfort, and when you die, go to heaven and be forever with the
Lord. But O, what do you think will become of all these poor
heathen children, who have no Bibles, and who have never heard
of the name of Jesus? In the fourth chapter of Acts, you read,
that, "_there is no other name under heaven given among men,
whereby we must be saved_."
The Chinese are idolaters. Their fathers, and their grandfather,
for hundreds and thousands of generations, have been idolaters,
and worshipped idols of wood and stone which their own hands have
made. These idols are very numerous; as numerous, the Chinese
themselves say, as the sands on the banks of a great river.
The Chinese are divided into three religious sects. The Confucian
sect; the Taon sect; and the Buddha sect. I will now tell you
something about each of these three.
The _Confucian_ sect is composed of the _learned_ men of China,
who are in their disposition and character like the proud and
self‑righteous pharisees, mentioned in the New Testament. They
call them the _disciples_ of Confucius. They adore and worship
him; they have a great many temples dedicated to him; and they
offer various sacrifices to him, as the children of Israel did
to Jehovah, the true God, in the time of Moses. Confucius was born
538 years before Christ. His disciples relate many strange
stories about their master. But he taught them nothing about the
true God and Jesus Christ, and nothing about the soul after death.
_Life and immortality were not revealed to him_. His disciples
are as ignorant as their master was. They neither know nor
acknowledge the eternal power and Godhead, so "clearly seen,
being understood by the things that are made." Professing
themselves to be wise, they become fools, and like the Romans,
"changed the glory of the incorruptible God into an image like
to corruptible man, and to birds, and four‑footed beasts," &c.
&c. I wish you to read the last half of the first chapter of Romans,
and you will have a good account of the disciples of Confucius.
Taontsze, which being interpreted, means _old boy_, was the
founder of the _Taon_ sect. His followers to this day call him
the supreme venerable prince; and relate many curious stories
about him; and say that he was an _ignorant good man_.
The religion of _Buddha_ was brought from India, and became a
common religion of China, probably, about the time, or soon after
the crucifixion of our Savior. Both this religion and that of the
Taon sect are dreadfully wicked, and full of abominations; and
their priests are the most ignorant and miserable people in China.
I will tell you more of these hereafter.
Besides these three sects, there are some Roman Catholics, some
Mohammedans, and a few Jews, scattered in different parts of
China.
Since I have now commenced, I wish to write you several short
letters; and this I will try to do, if God our heavenly Father
gives me time and strength. Earnestly desiring that he will give
you all good things, I remain,
Your true friends,
E.C. BRIDGMAN.
______
LETTER II.
_Canton_, (_China_,) _Oct._ 19, 1831.
MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS,‑‑In the first letter, I told you something | 1,812.282672 |
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The Internet Archive
Transcriber Note
Text emphasis is denoted by _Italics_ and =Bold=.
[Illustration: The Far North.--_Page 67._
(_Frontispiece._)]
THE FAR | 1,812.398861 |
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(Images generously made available by the Hathi Trust)
LEGENDS
AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES
BY
AUGUST STRINDBERG
LONDON: ANDREW MELROSE
3 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN
1912
CONTENTS
I. The Possessed Exorcist
II. My Wretchedness Increases
III. My Wretchedness Increases (cont.)
IV. Miracles
V. My Incredulous Friend's Troubles
VI. Miscellanies
VII. Studies in Swedenborg
VIII. Canossa
IX. The Spirit of Contradiction
X. Extracts from my Diary, 1897
XI. In Paris
XII. Wrestling Jacob
Note
I
THE POSSESSED EXORCIST
Hunted by the furies, I found myself finally in December 1896 fixed
fast in the little university town Lund, in Sweden. A conglomeration
of small houses round a cathedral, a palace-like university building
and a library, forming an oasis of civilisation in the great southern
Swedish plain. I must admire the refinement of cruelty which has chosen
this place as my prison. The University of Lund is much prized by the
natives of Schonen, but for a man from the north like myself the fact
that one stays here is a sign that one has come to an inclined plane
and is rolling down. Moreover, for me who am well advanced in the
forties, have been a married man for twenty years and am accustomed
to a regular family life, it is a humiliation to be relegated to
intercourse with students | 1,812.481967 |
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[Frontispiece: THEY MARCHED... LIKE MEN WHO HAD LOST ALL INTEREST IN
LIFE]
PRINCE RUPERT
THE BUCCANEER
BY
C. J. CUTCLIFFE HYNE
WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS BY G. GRENVILLE MANTON
THIRD EDITION
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
First Published... April 1901
Second Edition ... June 1901
Third Edition.... May 1907
TO
E. C. H.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. The Pawning of the Fleet
II. The Admission to the Brotherhood
III. The Rape of the Spanish Pearls
IV. The Ransoming of Caraccas
V. The Passage-money
VI. The Mermaid and the Act of Faith
VII. The Galley
VIII. The Regaining of the Fleet
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
They marched... like men who had lost all interest in life...
_Frontispiece_
Prince Rupert shone out like a very Paladin
Then one Watkin, a man of iron and a mighty shooter, took the lead
It would be a perpetual sunshine for me, Querida
Master Laughan endeavoured to outdo them all in desperation and valour
"Oh, I say what I think," retorted Watkin with a sour look
The secretary was occupied in leading her own.
There is no mistaking the manner of buccaneers returning well-laden
PRINCE RUPERT THE BUCCANEER
CHAPTER I
THE PAWNING OF THE FLEET
"Not slaves, your Highness," said the Governor. "We call them
_engagés_ here: it's a genteeler style. The Lord General keeps us
supplied."
"I'll be bound he gave them the plainer name," said Prince Rupert.
The Governor of Tortuga shrugged his shoulders. "On the bills of
lading they are written as Malignants; but judging from the way he
packed the last cargo, Monsieur Cromwell regards them as cattle. It is
evident that he cared only to be shut of them. They were so packed
that one half were dead and over the side before the ship brought up to
her anchors in the harbour here. And what were left fetched but poor
prices. There was a strong market too. The Spaniards had been making
their raids on the hunters, and many of the _engagés_ had been killed:
our hunters wanted others; they were hungry for others; but these poor
rags of seaworn, scurvy-bitten humanity which offered, were hardly
worth taking away to teach the craft--Your Highness neglects the
cordial."
"I am in but indifferent mood for drinking, Monsieur. It hangs in my
memory that these poor rogues once fought most stoutly for me and the
King. Cromwell was ever inclined to be iron-fisted with these Irish.
Even when we were fighting him on level terms he hanged all that came
into his hands, till he found us stringing up an equal number of his
saints by way of reprisal. But now he has the kingdom all to himself,
I suppose he can ride his own gait. But it is sad, Monsieur D'Ogeron,
detestably sad. Irish though they were, these men fought well for the
Cause."
The Governor of Tortuga emptied his goblet and looked thoughtfully at
its silver rim. "But I did not say they were Irish, _mon prince_.
Four Irish kernes there were on the ship's manifest, but the scurvy
took them, and they went overside before reaching here."
"Scots then?"
"There is one outlandish fellow who might be a Scot, or a Yorkshireman,
or a Russian, or something like that. But no man could speak his
lingo, and none would bid for him at the sale. You may have him as a
present if you care, and if perchance he can be found anywhere alive on
the island. No, your Highness, this consignment is all English;
drafted from foot, horse, and guns: and a rarely sought-after lot they
would have been, if whole. From accounts, they must have been all
tried fighting men, and many had the advantage of being under your own
distinguished command.--Your Highness, I beseech you shirk not the
cordial. This climate creates a pleasing thirst, which we ought to be
thankful for. The jack stands at your elbow."
Prince Rupert looked out over the harbour, and the black ships, at the
blue waters of the Carib sea beyond. "My poor fellows," he said, "my
glorious soldiers, your loyalty has cost you dear."
"It is the fortune of war," said D'Ogeron, sipping his goblet. "A
fighting man must be ready to take what befalls. Our turn may come
to-morrow."
"I am ready, Monsieur, to take my chances. It is not on my conscience
that I ever avoided them."
"Your Highness is a philosopher, and I take it your officers are the
same. Yesterday they rode with you boot to boot in the field, ate with
you on the same lawn, spoke with you in council across the same
drum-head. To-day they would be happy if they could be your lackeys.
But the chance is not open to them; they are lackeys to the buccaneers."
Prince Rupert started to his feet. "Officers, did you say?"
"Just officers. The great Monsieur Cromwell has but wasteful and
uncommercial ways of conducting a war. He captures a gentle and
gallant officer; he does not ask if the poor man desires to be put up
to ransom, but just claps the irons on him, and writes him for the next
shipment to these West Indies, as though he were a common pikeman."
The Governor toyed with his goblet and sighed regretfully--"'Twas a
sheer waste of good hard money."
"And you?"
"We kept to the Lord General's classification, and sold gentle officer,
and rude common soldier on the same footing. There was no other way.
We were too far off your England here to treat profitably for ransom.
Besides, the estates of most were wasted during the war, and what was
left lay in Monsieur Cromwell's hands."
"All the gentlemen of England are beggared. They sent their plate to
the King's mint to be coined for the troops' pay; they pawned their
lands; and now they are sent to be butcher-boys to horny-handed
cow-killers. I think you have dealt harshly, Monsieur D'Ogeron."
"It was your war," said the Governor good-humouredly, "not mine; and
the harshness of it was out of my hands. The men were sent here, and I
dealt with them in the most profitable way. If it would have paid me
to weed out the officers, I should have done it. As it didn't, I e'en
let them stay herded in with the rest."
"But surely, Monsieur, you must have some regard for gentle blood?"
"Mighty little, _mon prince_, mighty little. I had it once in the old
days, in France; but I lost it out here. It's not in fashion. A quick
eye and a lusty arm we value in Tortuga and Hispaniola more than all
the titles a king could bestow. Gentility will not fill the belly
here, neither will it ward off the Spaniards, neither will it despoil
them of their ill-got treasure to provide the wherewithal for an honest
carouse. What we value most is a little coterie of Brethren of the
Coast sailing in with a deep fat ship, with their numbers few and their
appetites whetted. To those we are ready to bow, as we did once in the
old countries to knights and belted earls--till, that is, they have
spent their gains."
"And then?"
"Why, then, _mon prince_, we are apt to grow uncivil till we see their
sterns again as they go off to search the seas for more. Oh, I tell
you, it's a different life here from the old one at home; and a
rustling blade, if he can contrive to remain alive, soon makes his way
to the top, be he gentle, or be he mere whelp of a seaport drab."
"You state your policy with clearness. This is not known in France,
and there, I make bold to say, Monsieur, it would not be liked."
The Governor drank deeply. "Here's to France," quoth he, "and may she
always stay a long way off! I'm my own master here, and have a strong
place and a lusty following."
"Stronger places have been | 1,812.580087 |
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Produced by Walter Debeuf, Project Gutenberg volunteer.
I Will Repay.
By Baroness Orczy.
PROLOGUE.
I
Paris: 1783.
"Coward! Coward! Coward!"
The words rang out, clear, strident, passionate, in a crescendo of
agonised humiliation.
The boy, quivering with rage, had sprung to his feet, and, losing his
balance, he fell forward clutching at the table, whilst with a
convulsive movement of the lids, he tried in vain to suppress the tears
of shame which were blinding him.
"Coward!" He tried to shout the insult so that all might hear, but his
parched throat refused him service, his trembling hand sought the
scattered cards upon the table, he collected them together, quickly,
nervously, fingering them with feverish energy, then he hurled them at
the man opposite, whilst with a final effort he still contrived to
mutter: "Coward!"
The older men tried to interpose, but the young ones only laughed, quite
prepared for the adventure which must inevitably ensue, the only
possible ending to a quarrel such as this.
Conciliation or arbitration was out of the question. Deroulede should
have known better than to speak disrespectfully of Adele de Montcheri,
when the little Vicomte de Marny's infatuation for the notorious beauty
had been the talk of Paris and Versailles these many months past.
Adele was very lovely and a veritable tower of greed and egotism. The
Marnys were rich and the little Vicomte very young, and just now the
brightly-plumaged hawk was busy plucking the latest pigeon, newly
arrived from its ancestral cote.
The boy was still in the initial stage of his infat | 1,812.580359 |
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Transcriber's Notes:
Underscores "_" before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_
in the original text.
Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals.
Old or antiquated spellings have been preserved.
Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations
in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.
Where double quotes have been repeated at the beginnings of
consecutive stanzas, they have been omitted for clarity.
POEMS BY JULIA C. R. DORR
[Illustration: Julia C. R. Dorr.]
POEMS
BY JULIA C. R. DORR
COMPLETE EDITION
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
MDCCCXCII
COPYRIGHT, 1879, 1885, 1892, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
TROW DIRECTORY
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
NEW YORK
_TO S. M. D._
_Let us go forth and gather golden-rod!
O love, my love, see how upon the hills,
Where still the warm air palpitates and thrills,
And earth lies breathless in the smile of God,
Like plumes of serried hosts its tassels nod!
All the green vales its golden glory fills;
By lonely waysides and by mountain rills
Its yellow banners flaunt above the sod.
Perhaps the apple-blossoms were more fair;
Perhaps, dear heart, the roses were more sweet,
June’s dewy roses, with their buds half blown;
Yet what care we, while tremulous and rare
This golden sunshine falleth at our feet
And song lives on, though summer birds have flown?
August, 1884._
_Let the words stand as they were writ, dear heart!
Although no more for thee in earthly bowers
Shall bloom the earlier or the later flowers;
Although to-day ’tis springtime where thou art,
While I, with Autumn, wander far apart,
Yet, in the name of that long love of ours,
Tested by years and tried by sun and showers,
Let the words stand as they were writ, dear heart!_
CONTENTS
PAGE
DEDICATION. TO S. M. D. v
EARLIER POEMS.
THE THREE SHIPS, 3
MAUD AND MADGE, 6
A MOTHER’S QUESTION, 8
OVER THE WALL, 9
OUTGROWN, 11
A SONG FOR TWO, 14
A PICTURE, 15
HYMN TO LIFE, 16
THE CHIMNEY SWALLOW, 18
HEIRSHIP, 20
HILDA, SPINNING, 22
HEREAFTER, 25
WITHOUT AND WITHIN, 27
VASHTI’S SCROLL, 29
WHAT MY FRIEND SAID TO ME, 37
HYMN. For the Dedication of a Cemetery, 38
YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY, 39
LYRIC. For the Dedication of a Music-Hall, 41
WHAT I LOST, 43
ONCE! 45
CATHARINE, 47
THE NAME, 48
UNDER THE PALM-TREES, 49
NIGHT AND MORNING, 51
AGNES, 53
“INTO THY HANDS,” 55
IDLE WORDS, 56
THE SPARROW TO THE SKYLARK, 58
THE BELL OF ST. PAUL’S, 60
DECEMBER 26, 1910.
A Ballad of Major Anderson, 62
FROM BATON ROUGE, 66
IN THE WILDERNESS, 68
CHARLEY OF MALVERN HILL, 70
SUPPLICAMUS, 73
THE LAST OF SIX, 75
THE DRUMMER BOY’S BURIAL, 79
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE, 82
OUR FLAGS AT THE CAPITOL, 84
MY MOCKING-BIRD, 86
COMING HOME, 88
WAKENING EARLY, 90
BLEST, 92
HELEN, 94
“PRO PATRIA.”
THE DEAD CENTURY, 97
THE RIVER OTTER, 106
PAST AND PRESENT, 109
VERMONT, 114
GETTYSBURG. 1863-1889. 126
“NO MORE THE THUNDER OF CANNON,” 133
GRANT, 135
FRIAR ANSELMO, AND OTHER POEMS.
FRIAR ANSELMO, 141
THE KING’S ROSEBUD, 146
SOMEWHERE, 147
PERADVENTURE, 148
RENA. A Legend of Brussels, 150
A SECRET, 159
THIS DAY, 161
“CHRISTUS!” 163
THE KISS, 167
WHAT SHE THOUGHT, 168
WHAT NEED? 170
TWO, 172
UNANSWERED, 175
THE CLAY TO THE ROSE, 178
AT THE LAST, 180
TO THE “BOUQUET CLUB,” 181
EVENTIDE, 182
MY LOVERS, 184
THE LEGEND OF THE ORGAN-BUILDER, 186
BUTTERFLY AND BABY BLUE, 190
KING IVAN’S OATH, | 1,812.782571 |
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FROM DAN TO BEERSHEBA
┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ │
│ Transcriber’s Notes │
│ │
│ │
│ Punctuation has been standardized. │
│ │
│ Characters in small caps have been replaced by all caps. │
│ │
│ Non-printable characteristics have been given the following │
│ transliteration: │
│ Italic text: --> _text_ │
│ │
│ This book was written in a period when many words had │
│ not become standardized in their spelling. Words may have │
│ multiple spelling variations or inconsistent hyphenation in │
│ the text. These have been left unchanged unless indicated │
│ with a Transcriber’s Note. │
│ │
│ The symbol ‘‡’ indicates the description in parenthesis has │
│ been added to an illustration. This may be needed if there │
│ is no caption or if the caption does not describe the image │
│ adequately. │
│ │
│ Footnotes are identified in the text with a number in │
│ brackets [2] and have been accumulated in a single section │
│ at the end of the text. │
│ │
│ Transcriber’s Notes are used when making corrections to the │
│ text or to provide additional information for the modern │
│ reader. These notes are not identified in the text, but have │
│ been accumulated in a single section at the end of the book. │
│ │
└────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Illustration: JERUSALEM.
FROM
DAN TO BEERSHEBA
A DESCRIPTION OF THE
WONDERFUL LAND
WITH
MAPS AND ENGRAVINGS
AND
A PROLOGUE BY THE AUTHOR CONTAINING THE LATEST
EXPLORATIONS AND DISCOVERIES
BY
JOHN P. NEWMAN, | 1,812.797714 |
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Produced by Clare Graham & Marc D'Hooghe at Free Literature
(Images generously made available by the Hathi Trust)
THE DOOM OF LONDON
Six Stories by
Fred M. White
Illustrated by
Warwick Goble
First published in Pearson's Magazine, London, | 1,812.881304 |
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Produced by John Bickers
ANABASIS
By Xenophon
Translation by H. G. Dakyns
Dedicated To
Rev. B. Jowett, M.A.
Master of Balliol College
Regius Professor of Greek in the University of Oxford
Xenophon the Athenian was born 431 B.C. He was a
pupil of Socrates. He marched with the Spartans,
and was exiled from Athens. Sparta gave him land
and property in Scillus, where he lived for many
years before having to move once more, to settle
in Corinth. He died in 354 B.C.
The Anabasis is his story of the march to Persia
to aid Cyrus, who enlisted Greek help to try and
take the throne from Artaxerxes, and the ensuing
return of the Greeks, in which Xenophon played a
leading role. This occurred between 401 B.C. and
March 399 B.C.
PREPARER'S NOTE
This was typed from Dakyns' series, "The Works of Xenophon," a
four-volume set. The complete list of Xenophon's works (though
there is doubt about some of these) is:
Work Number of books
The Anabasis 7
The Hellenica 7
The Cyropaedia 8
The Memorabilia 4
The Symposium 1
The Economist 1
On Horsemanship 1
The Sportsman 1
The Cavalry General 1
The Apology 1
On Revenues 1
The Hiero 1
The Agesilaus 1
The Polity of the Athenians and the Lacedaemonians 2
Text in brackets "{}" is my transliteration of Greek text into
English using an Oxford English Dictionary alphabet table. The
diacritical marks have been lost.
ANABASIS
BY
XENOPHON
ANABASIS
BOOK I
I.
Darius and Parysatis had two sons: the elder was named Artaxerxes, and 1
the younger Cyrus. Now, as Darius lay sick and felt that the end of
life drew near, he wished both his sons to be with him. The elder, as
it chanced, was already there, but Cyrus he must needs send for from
the province over which he had made him satrap, having appointed him
general moreover of all the forces that muster in the plain of the
Castolus. Thus Cyrus went up, taking with him Tissaphernes as his
friend, and accompanied also by a body of Hellenes, three hundred
heavy armed men, under the command of Xenias the Parrhasian (1).
(1) Parrhasia, a district and town in the south-west of Arcadia.
Now when Darius was dead, and Artaxerxes was established in the
kingdom, Tissaphernes brought slanderous accusations against Cyrus
before his brother, the king, of harbouring designs against him. And
Artaxerxes, listening to the words of Tissaphernes, laid hands upon
Cyrus, desiring to put him to death; but his mother made intercession
for him, and sent him back again in safety to his province. He then,
having so escaped through peril and dishonour, fell to considering,
not only how he might avoid ever again being in his brother's power,
but how, if possible, he might become king in his stead. Parysatis,
his mother, was his first resource; for she had more love for Cyrus
than for Artaxerxes upon his throne. Moreover Cyrus's behaviour
towards all who came to him from the king's court was such that, when
he sent them away again, they were better friends to himself than to 5
the king his brother. Nor did he neglect the barbarians in his own
service; but trained them, at once to be capable as warriors and
devoted adherents of himself. Lastly, he began collecting his Hellenic
armament, but with the utmost secrecy, so that he might take the king
as far as might be at unawares.
The manner in which he contrived the levying of the troops was as
follows: First, he sent orders to the commandants of garrisons in the
cities (so held by him), bidding them to get together as large a body
of picked Peloponnesian troops as they severally were able, on the
plea that Tissaphernes was plotting against their cities; and truly
these cities of Ionia had originally belonged to Tissaphernes, being
given to him by the king; but at this time, with the exception of
Miletus, they had all revolted to Cyrus. In Miletus, Tissaphernes,
having become aware of similar designs, had forestalled the
conspirators by putting some to death and banishing the remainder.
Cyrus, on his side, welcomed these fugitives, and having collected an
army, laid siege to Miletus by sea and land, endeavouring to reinstate
the exiles; and this gave him another pretext for collecting an
armament. At the same time he sent to the king, and claimed, as being
the king's brother, that these cities should be given to himself
rather than that Tissaphernes should continue to govern them; and in
furtherance of this end, the queen, his mother, co-operated with him,
so that the king not only failed to see the design against himself,
but concluded that Cyrus was spending his money on armaments in order
to make war on Tissaphernes. Nor did it pain him greatly to see the
two at war together, and the less so because Cyrus was careful to
remit the tribute due to the king from the cities which belonged to
Tissaphernes.
A third army was being collected for him in the Chersonese, over
against Abydos, the origin of which was as follows: There was a
Lacedaemonian exile, named Clearchus, with whom Cyrus had become
associated. Cyrus admired the man, and made him a present of ten
thousand darics (2). | 1,812.886402 |
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PHILOSOPHY OF THE
PRACTICAL
ECONOMIC AND ETHIC
TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF
BENEDETTO CROCE
BY
DOUGLAS AINSLIE
B.A. (OXON.), M.R.A.S.
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON
1913
Benedetto Croce's Philosophy of the Spirit, in the English translation
by Douglas Ainslie, consists of 4 volumes (which can be read separately):
1. Aesthetic as science of expression and general linguistic. (Second augmented
edition. A first ed. is also available at Project Gutenberg.)
2. Philosophy of the practical: economic and ethic.
3. Logic as the science of the pure concept.
4. Theory and history of historiography.
--Transcriber's note.
NOTE
Certain chapters only of the third part of this book were anticipated
in the study entitled _Reduction of the Philosophy of Law to the
Philosophy of Economy,_ read before the Accademia Pontaniana of Naples
at the sessions of April 21 and May 5, 1907 (_Acts,_ vol. xxxvii.);
but I have remodelled them, amplifying certain pages and summarizing
others. The concept of economic activity as an autonomous form of the
spirit, which receives systematic treatment in the second part of the
book, was first maintained in certain essays, composed from 1897 to
1900, and afterwards collected in the volume _Historical Materialism
and Marxist Economy_ (2nd edition, Palermo, Sandron, 1907).
B. C.
NAPLES,
19_th April_ 1908.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
"A noi sembra che l' opera del Croce sia lo sforzo più potente che il
pensiero italiano abbia compiuto negli ultimi anni."--G. DE RUGGIERO in
_La Filosofia contemporanea,_ 1912.
"Il sistema di Benedetto Croce rimane la più alta conquista del
pensiero contemporaneo."--G. NATOLI in _La Voce,_ 19th December 1912.
Those acquainted with my translation of Benedetto Croce's _Æsthetic
as Science of Expression and General Linguistic_ will not need to be
informed of the importance of this philosopher's thought, potent in its
influence upon criticism, upon philosophy and upon life, and famous
throughout Europe.
In the Italian, this volume is the third and last of the _Philosophy
of the Spirit, Logic as Science of the Pure Concept_ coming second in
date of publication. But apart from the fact that philosophy is like
a moving circle, which can be entered equally well at any point, I
have preferred to place this volume before the _Logic_ in the hands of
British readers. Great Britain has long been a country where moral
values are highly esteemed; we are indeed experts in the practice,
though perhaps not in the theory of morality, a lacuna which I believe
this book will fill.
In saying that we are experts in moral practice I do not, of course,
refer to the narrow conventional morality, also common with us, which
so often degenerates into hypocrisy, a legacy of Puritan origin; but
apart from this, there has long existed in many millions of Britons a
strong desire to live well, or, as they put it, cleanly and rightly,
and achieved by many, independent of any close or profound examination
of the logical foundation of this desire. Theology has for some
taken the place of pure thought, while for others, early training
on religious lines has been sufficiently strong to dominate other
tendencies in practical life. Yet, as a speculative Scotsman, I am
proud to think that we can claim divided honours with Germany in the
production of Emmanuel Kant (or Cant).
The latter half of the nineteenth century witnessed with us a great
development of materialism in its various forms. The psychological,
anti-historical speculation contained in the so-called Synthetic
Philosophy (really psychology) of Herbert Spencer was but one of the
many powerful influences abroad, tending to divert youthful minds
from the true path of knowledge. This writer, indeed, made himself
notorious by his attitude of contemptuous intolerance and ignorance
of the work previously done in connection with subjects which he was
investigating. He accepted little but the evidence of his own senses
and judgment, as though he were the first philosopher. But time has
now taken its revenge, and modern criticism has exposed the Synthetic
Philosophy in all its barren and rigid inadequacy and ineffectuality.
Spencer tries to force Life into a brass bottle of his own making, but
the genius will not go into his bottle. The names and writings of J. S.
Mill, of Huxley, and of Bain are, with many others of lesser calibre,
a potent aid to the dissolving influence of Spencer. Thanks to their
efforts, the spirit of man was lost sight of so completely that I
can well remember hearing Kant's great discovery of the synthesis _a
priori_ described as moonshine, and Kant himself, with his categoric
imperative, as little better than a Prussian policeman. As for Hegel,
the great completer and developer of Kantian thought, his philosophy
was generally in even less esteem among the youth; and we find even the
contemplative Walter Pater passing him by with a polite apology for
shrinking from his chilly heights. I do not, of course, mean to suggest
that estimable Kantians and Hegelians did not exist here and there
throughout the kingdom in late Victorian days (the names of Stirling,
of Caird, and of Green at once occur to the mind); but they had not
sufficient genius to make their voices heard above the hubbub of the
laboratory. We all believed that the natural scientists had taken the
measure of the universe, could tot it up to a T--and consequently
turned a deaf ear to other appeals.
Elsewhere in Europe Hartmann, Haeckel, and others were busy measuring
the imagination and putting fancy into the melting-pot--they offered
us | 1,812.886543 |
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HARPER'S
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
NO. XXVI.--JULY, 1852.--VOL. V.
[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW.]
THE ARMORY AT SPRINGFIELD
BY JACOB ABBOTT
SPRINGFIELD.
The Connecticut river flows through the State of Massachusetts, from
north to south, on a line about half way between the middle of the
State and its western boundary. The valley through which the river
flows, which perhaps the stream itself has formed, is broad and
fertile, and it presents, in the summer months of the year, one widely
extended scene of inexpressible verdure and beauty. The river meanders
through a region of broad and luxuriant meadows which are overflowed
and enriched by an annual inundation. These meadows extend sometimes
for miles on either side of the stream, and are adorned here and there
with rural villages, built wherever there is a little elevation of
land--sufficient to render human habitations secure. The broad and
beautiful valley is bounded on either hand by an elevated and
undulating country, with streams, mills, farms, villages, forests, and
now and then a towering mountain, to vary and embellish the landscape.
In some cases a sort of spur or projection from the upland country
projects into the valley, forming a mountain summit there, from which
the most magnificent views are obtained of the beauty and fertility of
the surrounding scene.
There are three principal towns upon the banks of the Connecticut
within the Massachusetts lines: Greenfield on the north--where the
river enters into Massachusetts from between New Hampshire and
Vermont--Northampton at the centre, and Springfield on the south.
These towns are all built at points where the upland approaches near
to the river. Thus at Springfield the land rises by a gentle ascent
from near the bank of the stream to a spacious and beautiful plain
which overlooks the valley. The town is built upon this declivity. It
is so enveloped in trees that from a distance it appears simply like a
grove with cupolas and spires rising above the masses of forest
foliage; but to one | 1,813.081278 |
2023-11-16 18:47:17.6595460 | 2,851 | 17 |
E-text prepared by Louise Pryor and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustration.
See 26065-h.htm or 26065-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/6/0/6/26065/26065-h/26065-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/6/0/6/26065/26065-h.zip)
Transcriber's note:
Some of the spellings and hyphenations in the original
are unusual; they have not been changed. A few obvious
typographical errors have been corrected, and they and
other possible errors are listed at the end of this e-text.
HUGH, BISHOP OF LINCOLN
London : Edward Arnold : 1901
HUGH
BISHOP OF LINCOLN
A SHORT STORY OF ONE OF THE MAKERS OF MEDIAEVAL ENGLAND
by
CHARLES L. MARSON
Curate of Hambridge
Author of "The Psalms at Work," Etc.
Tua me, genitor, tua tristis imago
Saepius occurens, haec limina tendere adegit.
Stant sale Tyrrheno classes. Da jungere dextram
Da, genitor; teque amplexu ne subtrahe nostro.
AEN. VI. 695.
London
Edward Arnold
37, Bedford Street, Strand
1901
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTION vii
I. THE BOY HUGH 1
II. BROTHER HUGH 12
III. PRIOR HUGH 26
IV. THE BISHOP ELECT AND CONSECRATE 42
V. THE BISHOP AT WORK 60
VI. IN TROUBLES 78
VII. AND DISPUTES 94
VIII. THE BUILDER 111
IX. UNDER KING JOHN 128
X. HOMEWARD BOUND 143
INTRODUCTION
In a short biography the reader must expect short statements, rather
than detailed arguments, and in a popular tale he will not look for
embattled lists of authorities. But if he can be stirred up to search
further into the matter for himself, he will find a list of authorities
ancient and modern come not unacceptable to begin upon.
The author has incurred so many debts of kindness in this work from many
friends, and from many who were before not even acquaintances, that he
must flatly declare himself bankrupt to his creditors, and rejoice if
they will but grant him even a second-class certificate. Among the major
creditors he must acknowledge his great obligations to the hospitable
Chancellor of Lincoln and Mrs. Crowfoot, to the Rev. A. Curtois, Mr.
Haig, and some others, all of whom were willing and even anxious that
the story of their saint should be told abroad, even by the halting
tongues of far-away messengers. The same kind readiness appeared at
Witham: and indeed everybody, who knew already about St. Hugh, has
seemed anxious that the knowledge of him should be spread abroad. It
has snowed books, pamphlets, articles, views, maps, and guesses; and if
much has remained unsaid or been said with incautious brusqueness,
rather than with balanced oppressiveness, the reader who carps will
always be welcome to such material as the author has by him, for
elucidating the truth. If he has been misled by a blind guide, that
guide must plead that he has consulted good oculists and worthy
spectacle-makers, and has had every good intention of steering clear of
the ditch.
Though what a man is counts for more than what he does, yet the services
of St. Hugh to England may be briefly summed up. They were (1)
Spiritual. He made for personal holiness, uncorruptness of public and
private life. He raised the sense of the dignity of spiritual work,
which was being rapidly subordinated to civic work and rule. He made
people understand that moral obligations were very binding upon all men.
(2) Political. He made for peace at home and abroad: at home by
restraining the excesses of forestars and tyrants; abroad by opposing
the constant war policy against France. (3) Constitutional. He first
encountered and checked the overgrown power of the Crown, and laid down
limits and principles which resulted in the Church policy of John's
reign and the triumph of Magna Carta. (4) Architectural. He fully
developed--even if he did not, as some assert, invent--the Early English
style. (5) Ecclesiastical. He counterbalanced St. Thomas of Canterbury,
and diverted much of that martyr's influence from an irreconcileable
Church policy to a more reasonable, if less exalted, notion of liberty.
(6) He was a patron of letters, and encouraged learning by supporting
schools, libraries, historians, poets, and commentators.
Ancient authorities for his Life are:--(1) The Magna Vita, by Chaplain
Adam (Rolls); (2) Metrical Life, Ed. Dimock, Lincoln, 1860; (3) Giraldus
Cambrensis, VII. (Rolls); (4) Hoveden's Chronicle (Rolls); (5)
Benedicti, Gesta R. Henry II. (Rolls); (6) for trifles, Matthew Paris,
I. and II. (Rolls), John de Oxenden (ditto), Ralph de Diceto (ditto),
Flores Histor. (ditto), Annales Monastici (ditto); (7) also for
collateral information, Capgrave Illustrious Henries (Rolls), William of
Newburgh, Richard of Devizes, Gervase's Archbishops of Canterbury, and
Robert de Monte, Walter de Mapes' De Nugis (Camden Soc). Of modern
authorities, (1) Canon Perry's Life (Murray, 1879) and his article in
the Dictionary of National Biography come first; (2) Vie de St. Hughues
(Montreuil, 1890); (3) Fr. Thurston's translation and adaptation of this
last (Burns and Oates, 1898); (4) St. Hugh's Day at Lincoln, A.D. 1900,
Ed. Precentor Bramley (pub. by Clifford Thomas, Lincoln, N.D.); (5)
Guides to the Cathedral, by Precentor Venables, and also by Mr.
Kendrick; (6) Archaeological matter, Archaeological Institute (1848),
Somerset Archaeolog. XXXIV., Somerset Notes and Queries, vol. IV., 1895,
Lincoln Topographical Soc., 1841-2; (7) Collateral information--_cf._
Miss Norgate's "England under Angevin Kings" (Macmillan), Robert
Grosseteste, F. E. Stevenson (ditto), Stubbs' "Opera Omnia" of course,
Diocesan History of Lincoln, Grande Chartreuse (Burns and Oates), "Court
Life under Plantagenets" (Hall), "Highways in Normandy" (Dearmer);(8)
of short studies, Mr. Froude's and an article in the _Church Quarterly_,
XXXIII., and Mrs. Charles' "Martyrs and Saints" (S.P.C.K.) are the
chief.
Of this last book it is perhaps worth saying that if any man will take
the trouble to compare it with John Brady's _Clavis Calendaria_, of
which the third edition came out in 1815, he will see how much the tone
of the public has improved, both in courtesy towards and in knowledge of
the great and good men of the Christian faith.
St. Hugh's Post-Reformation history is worth noting for the humour of
it. He is allowed in the Primer Calendar by unauthorised Marshall, 1535;
out in Crumwell and Hilsey's, 1539; out by the authorised Primer of King
and Clergy, 1545; still out in the Prayer-books of 1549 and 1552; in
again in the authorised Primer of 1553; out of the Prayer-book of 1559;
in the Latin one of 1560; still in both the Orarium and the New Calendar
of the next year, though out of the Primer 1559; in the Preces Privatas
1564, with a scornful _admonitio_ to say that "the names of saints, as
they call them, are left, not because we count them divine, or even
reckon some of them good, or, even if they were greatly good, pay them
divine honour and worship; but because they are the mark and index of
certain matters dependent upon fixed times, to be ignorant of which is
most inconvenient to our people"--to wit, fairs and so on. Since which
time St. Hugh has not been cast out of the Calendar, but is in for ever.
In the text is no mention of the poor swineherd, God rest him! His stone
original lives in Lincoln cloisters, and a reproduction stands on the
north pinnacle of the west front (whereas Hugh is on the south
pinnacle), put there because he hoarded a peck of silver pennies to help
build the House of God. He lives on in stone and in the memories of the
people, a little flouted in literature, but, if moral evidence counts,
unscathedly genuine: honourable in himself, to the saint who inspired
him, and to the men who hailed him as the bishop's mate--no mean builder
in the house not made with hands.
CHAPTER I
THE BOY HUGH
St. Hugh is exactly the kind of saint for English folk to study with
advantage. Some of us listen with difficulty to tales of heroic virgins,
who pluck out their eyes and dish them up, or to the report of antique
bishops whose claim to honour rests less upon the nobility of their
characters than upon the medicinal effect of their post-mortem humours;
but no one can fail to be struck with this brave, clean, smiling face,
which looks out upon us from a not impossible past, radiant with sense
and wit, with holiness and sanity combined, whom we can all reverence as
at once a saint of God and also one of the fine masculine Makers of
England. We cherish a good deal of romance about the age in which St.
Hugh lived. It is the age of fair Rosamond, of Crusades, of lion-hearted
King Richard, and of Robin Hood. It is more soberly an age of builders,
of reformers, of scholars, and of poets. If troubadours did not exactly
"touch guitars," at least songsters tackled verse-making and helped to
refine the table manners of barons and retainers by singing at dinner
time. The voice of law too was not silent amid arms. Our constitutional
government, already begotten, was being born and swaddled. The races
were being blended. Though England was still but a northern province of
a kingdom, whose metropolis was Rouen, yet that kingdom was becoming
rather top-heavy, and inclined to shift its centre of gravity
northwards. So from any point of view the time is interesting. It is
essentially an age of monks and of monasteries; perhaps one should say
the end of the age of monastic influence. Pope Eugenius III., the great
Suger and St. Bernard, all died when Hugh was a young man. The great
enthusiasm for founding monasteries was just beginning to ebb. Yet a
hundred and fifteen English houses were founded in Stephen's reign, and
a hundred and thirteen in the reign of Henry II., and the power of the
monastic bodies was still almost paramount in the church. It was to the
monasteries that men still looked for learning and peace, and the
monasteries were the natural harbours of refuge for valiant men of
action, who grew sick of the life of everlasting turmoil in a brutal and
anarchic world. Indeed, the very tumults and disorders of the state gave
the monasteries their hold over the best of the men of action. As the
civil life grew more quiet and ordered, the enthusiasm for the cloister
waned, and with it the standard of zeal perceptibly fell to a lower
level, not without grand protest and immense effort of holy men to keep
the divine fire from sinking.
Hugh of Avalon was born in Avalon Castle in 1140, a year in which the
great tempest of Stephen's misrule was raging. In France, Louis VII. has
already succeeded his father, Louis VI.; the Moors are in Spain, and
Arnold of Brescia is the centre of controversy. Avalon Castle lies | 1,813.679586 |
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EXPOSITIONS OF HOLY SCRIPTURE
ALEXANDER MACLAREN, D. D., Litt. D.
GENESIS, EXODUS, LEVITICUS AND NUMBERS
EXPOSITIONS OF HOLY SCRIPTURE
ALEXANDER MACLAREN, D. D., Litt. D.
GENESIS
CONTENTS
THE VISION OF CREATION (Genesis i. 26--ii. 3)
HOW SIN CAME IN (Genesis iii. 1-15)
EDEN LOST AND RESTORED (Genesis iii. 24; Revelation xxii. 14)
THE GROWTH AND POWER OF SIN (Genesis iv. 3-16)
WHAT CROUCHES AT THE DOOR (Genesis iv. 7, R.V.)
WITH, BEFORE, AFTER (Genesis v. 22; Genesis xvii. 1; Deuteronomy xiii.
4)
THE COURSE AND CROWN OF A DEVOUT LIFE (Genesis v. 24)
THE SAINT AMONG SINNERS (Genesis vi. 9-22)
'CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN' (Genesis viii. 1-22)
THE SIGN FOR MAN AND THE REMEMBRANCER FOR GOD (Genesis ix. 8-17)
AN EXAMPLE OF FAITH (Genesis xii. 1-9)
ABRAM AND THE LIFE OF FAITH
GOING FORTH (Genesis xii. 5)
COMING IN
THE MAN OF FAITH (Genesis xii. 6, 7)
LIFE IN CANAAN (Genesis xii. 8)
THE IMPORTANCE OF A CHOICE (Genesis xiii. 1-13)
ABBAM | 1,813.680008 |
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
-Obvious print and punctuation errors fixed.
-The only Greek word in this text has been rendered as #...#.
GERMANY'S
DISHONOURED ARMY.
ADDITIONAL RECORDS OF GERMAN
ATROCITIES IN FRANCE.
BY
PROFESSOR J. H. MORGAN.
(Late Home Office Commissioner with the British
Expeditionary Force.)
1915.
THE PARLIAMENTARY RECRUITING COMMITTEE,
12, DOWNING STREET, S.W.
(M 3942) Wt. w. 8147-565 500M 8/15 H & S
A DISHONOURED ARMY.
_In November, 1914, Professor Morgan was commissioned by the Secretary
of State for Home Affairs to undertake the investigation in France
into the alleged breaches of the laws of war by the German troops.
His investigations extended over a period of four or five months.
The first six weeks were spent in visiting the base hospitals and
convalescent camps at Boulogne and Rouen, and the hospitals at
Paris; during the remaining three months he was attached to the
General Headquarters Staff of the British Expeditionary Force.
Professor Morgan orally interrogated some two or three thousand
officers and soldiers, representing almost every regiment in the
British armies and all of whom had recently been engaged on active
service in the field. The whole of these inquiries were conducted by
Professor Morgan personally, but his inquiries at headquarters were
of a much more systematic character. There, owing to the courtesy
of Lieutenant-General Sir Archibald Murray, the late Chief of the
General Staff, he had the assistance of the various services--in
particular the Adjutant-General, the Provost-Marshal, the Director
of Military Intelligence, the Director of Medical Services and their
respective staffs--and also of the civil authorities, within the area
at present occupied by the British armies, such as the sous-prefets,
the procureurs de la Republique, the commissaires de police, and the
maires of the communes. In this way he was enabled not only to obtain
corroboration of the statements taken down at the base in the earlier
stages, but also to make a close local study of the behaviour of the
German troops towards the civil population during their occupation of
the districts recently evacuated by them. The following is extracted
(by permission of the Editor) from statements by Professor Morgan
which appeared in the "Nineteenth Century" for June, 1915_:--
[BY PROFESSOR J. H. MORGAN.]
A German military writer (von der Goltz) of great authority predicted
some years ago that the next war would be one of inconceivable
violence. The prophecy appears only too true as regards the conduct of
German troops in the field; it has rarely been distinguished by that
chivalry which is supposed to characterise the freemasonry of arms.
One of our most distinguished Staff officers remarked to me that the
Germans have no sense of honour in the field, and the almost uniform
testimony of our officers and men induces me to believe that the
remark is only too true.
Abuse of the white flag has been very frequent, especially in the
earlier stages of the campaign on the Aisne, when our officers,
not having been disillusioned by bitter experience, acted on the
assumption that they had to deal with an honourable opponent. Again
and again the white flag was put up, and when a company of ours
advanced unsuspectingly and without supports to take prisoners,
the Germans who had exhibited the token of surrender parted their
ranks to make room for a murderous fire from machine-guns concealed
behind them. Or, again, the flag was exhibited in order to give
time for supports to come up. It not infrequently happened that
our company officers, advancing unarmed to confer with the German
company commander in such cases, were shot down as they approached.
The Camerons, the West Yorks, the Coldstreams, the East Lancs, the
Wiltshires, the South Wales Borderers, in particular, suffered heavily
in these ways. In all these cases they were the victims of organised
German units, _i.e._, companies or battalions, acting under the orders
of responsible officers.
There can, moreover, be no doubt that the respect of the German troops
for the Geneva Convention is but intermittent. Cases of deliberate
firing on stretcher-bearers are, according to the universal testimony
of our officers and men, of frequent occurrence. It is almost certain
death to attempt to convey wounded men from the trenches over open
ground except under cover of night.
_=Killing the Defenceless Wounded.=_--A much more serious offence,
however, is the deliberate killing of the wounded as they lie helpless
and defenceless on the field of battle. This is so grave a charge that
were it not substantiated by the considered statements of officers,
non-commissioned officers, and men, one would hesitate to believe
it. But even after rejecting, as one is bound to do, cases which
may be explained by accident, mistake, or the excitement of action,
there remains a large residuum of cases which can only be explained
by deliberate malice. No other explanation is possible when, as
has not infrequently happened, men who have been wounded by rifle
fire in an advance, and have had to be left during a retirement for
reinforcements, are discovered, in our subsequent advance, with nine
or ten bayonet wounds or with their heads beaten in by the butt-ends
of rifles. Such cases could not have occurred, the enemy being present
in force, without the knowledge of superior officers. Indeed, I have
before me evidence which goes to show that German officers have
themselves acted in similar fashion.
Some of the cases reveal a leisurely barbarity which proves great
deliberation; cases such as the discovery of bodies of despatch-riders
burnt with petrol or "pegged out" with lances or of soldiers with
their faces stamped upon by the heel of a boot, or of a guardsman
found with numerous bayonet wounds evidently inflicted as he was in
the act of applying a field dressing to a bullet wound. There also
seems no reason to doubt the independent statements of men of the
Loyal North Lancs, whom I interrogated on different occasions, that
the | 1,813.80966 |
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note:
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_. Bold text and
text in blackletter font are delimited with ‘=’.
Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been 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.
KITTY ALONE
MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH
KITTY ALONE
A STORY OF THREE FIRES
BY
S. BARING GOULD
AUTHOR OF
“IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA” “THE QUEEN OF LOVE”
“MEHALAH” “CHEAP JACK ZITA” ETC. ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. I
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.
LONDON
1894
CONTENTS OF VOL. I
----------
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE 7
II. A LUSUS NATURÆ 15
III. ALL INTO GOLD 25
IV. THE ATMOSPHERIC RAILWAY 35
V. ON A MUD-BANK 44
VI. A CAPTURE 55
VII. A RELEASE 64
VIII. AN ATMOSPHERE OF LOVE 73
IX. CONVALESCENCE 83
X. THE NEW SCHOOLMASTER 90
XI. DISCORDS 101
XII. DAFFODILS 112
XIII. THE SPIRIT OF INQUIRY 122
XIV. TO THE FAIR 132
XV. A REASON FOR EVERYTHING 140
XVI. THE DANCING BEAR 150
XVII. INSURED 157
XVIII. BRAZIL NUTS 167
KITTY ALONE
CHAPTER I
THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE
With a voice like that of a crow, and singing with full lungs also like
a crow, came Jason Quarm riding in his donkey-cart to Coombe Cellars.
Jason Quarm was a short, stoutly-built man, with a restless grey eye,
with shaggy, long, sandy hair that burst out from beneath a battered
beaver hat. He was somewhat lame, wherefore he maintained a donkey, and
drove about the country seated cross-legged in the bottom of his cart,
only removed from the bottom boards by a wisp of straw, which became
dissipated from under him with the joltings of the conveyance. Then
Jason would struggle to his knees, take the reins in his teeth, scramble
backwards in his cart, rake the straw together again into a heap, reseat
himself, and drive on till the exigencies of the case necessitated his
going through the same operations once more.
Coombe Cellars, which Jason Quarm approached, was a cluster of roofs
perched on low walls, occupying a promontory in the estuary of the
Teign, in the south of Devon. A road, or rather a series of ruts, led
direct to Coombe Cellars, cut deep in the warm red soil; but they led no
farther.
Coombe Cellars was a farmhouse, a depôt of merchandise, an eating-house,
a ferry-house, a discharging wharf for barges laden with coal, a
lading-place for straw, and hay, and corn that had to be carried away on
barges to the stables of Teignmouth and Dawlish. Facing the water was a
little terrace or platform, gravelled, on which stood green benches and
a green table.
The sun of summer had blistered the green paint on the table, and
persons having leisure had amused themselves with picking the skin off
these blisters and exposing the white paint underneath, and then, with
pen or pencil, exercising their ingenuity in converting these bald
patches into human faces, or in scribbling over them their own names and
those of the ladies of their heart. Below the platform at low water the
ooze was almost solidified with the vast accumulation of cockle and
winkle shells thrown over the edge, together with bits of broken plates,
fragments of glass, tobacco-pipes, old handleless knives, and sundry
other refuse of a tavern.
Above the platform, against the wall, was painted in large letters, to
be read across the estuary--
PASCO PEPPERILL,
HOT COCKLES AND WINKLES,
TEA AND COFFEE ALWAYS READY.
Some wag with his penknife had erased the capital H from “Hot,” and had
converted the W in “Winkles” into a V, with the object of accommodating
the written language to the vernacular. One of the most marvellous of
passions seated in the human heart is that hunger after immortality
which, indeed, distinguishes man from beast. This deep-seated and awful
aspiration had evidently consumed the breasts of all the “’ot cockle and
vinkle” eaters on the platform, for there was literally not a spare
space of plaster anywhere within reach which was not scrawled over with
names by these aspirants after immortality.
Jason Quarm was merciful to his beast. Seeing a last year’s teasel by
the wall ten yards from Coombe Cellars’ door, he drew rein, folded his
legs and arms, smiled, and said to his ass--
“There, governor, enjoy yourself.”
The teasel was hard as wood, besides being absolutely devoid of
nutritious juices, which had been withdrawn six months previously. Neddy
would have nothing to say to the teasel.
“You dratted monkey!” shouted Quarm, irritated at the daintiness of the
ass. “If you won’t eat, then go on.” He knelt up in his cart and whacked
him with a stick in one hand and the reins in the other. “I’ll teach you
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[Illustration]
THE
BOOK OF STORIES
FOR THE STORY-TELLER
by
FANN | 1,814.287579 |
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quotation marks and greek text [{~GREEK SMALL LETTER ALPHA WITH PSILI~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER PI~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMICRON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER LAMDA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER UPSILON WITH OXIA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER TAU~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER RHO~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMEGA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER SIGMA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER IOTA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER FINAL SIGMA~}] in this paragraph
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STONES OF THE TEMPLE
R I V I N G T O N S
London _Waterloo Place_
Oxford _High Street_
Cambridge _Trinity Street_
Illustration: STONES OF THE TEMPLE
STONES OF THE TEMPLE or
Lessons from the fabric and furniture of the Church
By WALTER FIELD, M.A., F.S.A.
RIVINGTONS London, Oxford, and Cambridge 1871
"When it pleased God to raise up kings and emperors favouring sincerely
the Christian truth, that which the Church before either could not or
durst not do, was with all alacrity performed | 1,814.490435 |
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
This is Volume 3 of a 3-volume set. The other two volumes are also
accessible in Project Gutenberg using
http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48136 and
http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48137.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.
More detail can be found at the end of the book.
The
WORKS
Of
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, L.L.D.
VOL. 3.
[Illustration: (Stalker Sculptor.)]
PRINTED,
for Longman, Hurst, Rees & Orme, Paternoster Row, London.
THE
COMPLETE
WORKS,
IN
PHILOSOPHY, POLITICS, AND MORALS,
OF THE LATE
DR. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN,
NOW FIRST COLLECTED AND ARRANGED:
WITH
MEMOIRS OF HIS EARLY LIFE,
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
London:
PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD;
AND LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1806.
JAMES CUNDEE, PRINTER,
LONDON.
CONTENTS.
VOL. III.
PAPERS ON AMERICAN SUBJECTS BEFORE THE REVOLUTIONARY
TROUBLES.
_Page._
Albany papers; containing, I. reasons and motives on which the
plan of union for the colonies was formed;--II. reasons against
partial unions;--III. and the plan of union drawn by B. F. and
unanimously agreed to by the commissioners from New Hampshire,
Massachusett's Bay, Rhode Island, New Jersey, Maryland,
and Pensylvania, met in congress at Albany, in July 1754, to consider
of the best means of defending the king's dominions in America,
&c. a war being then apprehended; with the reasons or
motives for each article of the plan 3
Albany papers continued. I. letter to Governor Shirley, concerning
the imposition of direct taxes upon the colonies, without their
consent 30
II. Letter to the same; concerning direct taxes in the colonies imposed
without consent, indirect taxes, and the Albany plan of
union 31
III. Letter to the same, on the subject of uniting the colonies more
intimately with Great Britain, by allowing them representatives
in parliament 37
Plan for settling two Western colonies in North America, with reasons
for the plan, 1754 41
Report of the committee of aggrievances of the assembly of Pensylvania,
dated Feb. 22, 1757 50
An historical review of the constitution and government of Pensylvania,
from its origin; so far as regards the several points of controversy
which have, from time to time, arisen between the several
governors of that province, and their several assemblies. Founded
on authentic documents 59
The interest of Great Britain considered, with regard to her colonies,
and the acquisitions of Canada and Guadaloupe 89
Remarks and facts relative to the American paper-money 144
To the freemen of Pensylvania, on the subject of a particular
militia-bill, rejected by the proprietor's deputy or governor 157
Preface by a member of the Pensylvanian assembly (Dr. Franklin)
to the speech of Joseph Galloway, Esq. one of the members for
Philadelphia county; in answer to the speech of John Dickinson,
Esq. delivered in the house of the assembly of the province of
Pensylvania, May 24, 1764, on occasion of a petition drawn up
by order, and then under the consideration of the house, praying
his majesty for a royal, in lieu of a proprietary government 163
Remarks on a late protest against the appointment of Mr. Franklin
as agent for this province (of Pensylvania) 203
Remarks on a plan for the future management of Indian affairs 216
PAPERS ON AMERICAN SUBJECTS DURING THE REVOLUTIONARY
TROUBLES.
Causes of the American discontents before 1768 225
Letter concerning the gratitude of America, and the probability and
effects of an union with Great Britain; and concerning the repeal
or suspension of the stamp act 239
Letter from Governor Pownall to Dr. Franklin, concerning an equal
communication of rights, privileges, &c. to America by Great
Britain 243
Minutes to the foregoing, by Dr. Franklin 244
The examination of Dr. Franklin before the English house of commons,
in February, 1766, relative to the repeal of the American
stamp act 245
Attempts of Dr. Franklin for conciliation of Great Britain with the
colonies 286
Queries from Mr. Strahan 287
Answer to the preceding queries 290
State of the constitution of the colonies, by Governor Pownall; with
remarks by Dr. Franklin 299
Concerning the dissentions between England and America 310
A Prussian edict, assuming claims over Britain 311
Preface by the British editor (Dr. Franklin) to "The votes and
proceedings of the freeholders, and other inhabitants of the town
of Boston, in town-meeting assembled according to law (published
by order of the town), &c." 317
Account of governor Hutchinson's letters 322
Rules for reducing a great empire to a small one, presented to a late
minister, when he entered upon his administration 334
State of America on Dr. Franklin's arrival there 346
Proposed vindication and offer from congress to parliament, in
1775 347
Reprobation of Mr. Strahan's parliamentary conduct 354
Conciliation hopeless from the conduct of Great Britain to
America 355
Account of the first campaign made by the British forces in
America 357
Probability of a separation 358
Letter to Monsieur Dumas, urging him to sound the several courts
of Europe, by means of their ambassadors at the Hague, as to any
assistance they may be disposed to afford America in her struggle
for independence 360
Letter from Lord Howe to Dr. Franklin 365
Dr. Franklin's answer to Lord Howe 367
Comparison of Great Britain and America as to credit, in 1777 372
PAPERS, DESCRIPTIVE OF AMERICA, OR RELATING TO THAT
COUNTRY, WRITTEN SUBSEQUENT TO THE REVOLUTION.
Remarks concerning the savages of North America 383
The internal state of America; being a true description of the interest
and policy of that vast continent 391
Information to those who would remove to America 398
Concerning new settlements in America 409
A comparison of the conduct of the ancient Jews, and of the
Antifederalists in the United States of America 410
Final speech of Dr. Franklin in the late federal convention 416
PAPERS ON MORAL SUBJECTS AND THE ECONOMY OF LIFE.
The busy-body 421
The way to wealth, as clearly shown in the preface of an old Pensylvania
almanack, intitled, Poor Richard Improved 453
Advice to a young tradesman 463
Necessary hints to those that would be rich 466
The way to make money plenty in every man's pocket 467
New mode of lending money 468
An economical project 469
On early marriages 475
Effect of early impressions on the mind 478
The whistle 480
A petition to those who have the superintendency of education 483
The handsome and deformed leg 485
Morals of chess 488
The art of procuring pleasant dreams 493
Dialogue between Franklin and the gout 499
On the death of relatives 507
The ephemera an emblem of human life 508
APPENDIX, NO. I.--CONTAINING PAPERS PROPER FOR INSERTION,
BUT OMITTED IN THE PRECEDING VOLUMES.
Letter to Sir Hans Sloane 513
Letter to Michael Collinson, Esq. 514
Letter respecting captain Cook 515
An address to the public, from the Pensylvania society | 1,814.650289 |
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THE CHARACTERS OF THEOPHRASTUS
A Translation, with Introduction
by
CHARLES E. BENNETT
and
WILLIAM A. HAMMOND
Professors in Cornell University
Longmans, Green, and Co.
91 and 93 Fifth Avenue, New York
London and Bombay
1902
Copyright, 1902, by
Longmans, Green, and Co.
All rights reserved
[October, 1902]
The University Press
Cambridge, U. S. A.
_To
THOMAS DAY SEYMOUR
In Profound Esteem_
_Preface_
This translation of _The Characters_ of Theophrastus is intended not for
the narrow circle of classical philologists, but for the larger body of
cultivated persons who have an interest in the past.
Within the last century only three English translations of _The
Characters_ have appeared; one by Howell (London, 1824), another by Isaac
Taylor (London, 1836), the third by Professor Jebb (London, 1870). All
of these have long been out of print, a fact that seemed to justify the
preparation of the present work.
The text followed has been, in the main, that of the edition published
in 1897 by the _Leipziger Philologische Gesellschaft_. A few coarse
passages have been omitted, and occasionally a phrase necessary to the
understanding of the context has been inserted. Apart from this the
translators have aimed to render the original with as much precision and
fidelity as is consistent with English idiom.
CHARLES E. BENNETT.
WILLIAM A. HAMMOND.
ITHACA, N.Y., _August, 1902_.
_Contents_
PAGE
INTRODUCTION xi
EPISTLE DEDICATORY 1
THE DISSEMBLER (I.)[1] 4
THE FLATTERER (II.) 7
THE COWARD (XXV.) 11
THE OVER-ZEALOUS MAN (IV.) 14
THE TACTLESS MAN (XII.) 16
THE SHAMELESS MAN (IX.) 18
THE NEWSMONGER (VIII.) 21
THE MEAN MAN (X.) 24
THE STUPID MAN (XIV.) 27
THE SURLY MAN (XV.) 29
THE SUPERSTITIOUS MAN (XVI.) 31
THE THANKLESS MAN (XVII.) 35
THE SUSPICIOUS MAN (XVIII.) 37
THE DISAGREEABLE MAN (XX.) 39
THE EXQUISITE (XXI.) 41
THE GARRULOUS MAN (III.) 46
THE BORE (VII.) 48
THE ROUGH (VI.) 51
THE AFFABLE MAN (V.) 54
THE IMPUDENT MAN (XI.) 56
THE GROSS MAN (XIX.) 58
THE BOOR (IV.) 60
THE PENURIOUS MAN (XXII.) 63
THE POMPOUS MAN (XXIV.) 66
THE BRAGGART (XXIII.) 68
THE OLIGARCH (XXVI.) 71
THE BACKBITER (XXVIII.) 74
THE AVARICIOUS MAN (XXX.) 77
THE LATE LEARNER (XXVII.) 81
THE VICIOUS MAN (XXIX.) 84
[1] Numerals in parenthesis give the corresponding numbers of the
characters as published in the edition of the Leipziger Philologische
Gesellschaft.
_Introduction_
“What stories are new?” asks Thackeray, subtle observer of men.
[Sidenote: _The Antiquity of Modern Character-Types_]
[Sidenote: _Accidental and Essential Types_]
“All types of all characters march through all fables: tremblers and
boasters; victims and bullies: dupes and knaves; long-eared Neddies,
giving themselves leonine airs; Tartuffes wearing virtuous clothing;
lovers and their trials, their blindness, their folly and constancy.
With the very first page of the human story do not love, and lies too,
begin? So the tales were told ages before Æsop; and asses under lions’
manes roared in Hebrew; and sly foxes flattered in Etruscan; and wolves
in sheep’s clothing gnashed their teeth in Sanscrit, no doubt. The sun
shines to-day as he did when he first began shining; and the birds in the
tree overhead, while I am writing, sing very much the same note they have
sung ever since there were finches. There may be nothing new under and
including the sun; but it looks fresh every morning, and we rise with it
to toil, hope, scheme, laugh, struggle, love, suffer, until the night
comes and quiet. And then will wake Morrow and the eyes that look on
it; and so _da capo_.” All this is very true; the changes which may be
observed in human nature are small, and the old types of Theophrastus are
all about us nowadays and really look and act much the same as they did
to the eyes of the ancient Peripatetic. Offices and institutions have
somewhat changed, and many character-types due to new vocations have come
into being since then, _e.g._ the newsboy, the bishop, the reporter,
the hotel-clerk, and the jockey. But these are only accidents of
civilization, and the peculiarities of office or the type or professional
character do not touch the vital essence of human nature, although they
may modify its expression.
When one speaks of a coward, one means an intrinsic quality in human
kind which is essentially the same whether found in a hoplite or in a
modern infantryman, but which may express | 1,814.680633 |
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
RICE PAPERS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
RICE PAPERS
BY
H. L. NORRIS
“EXERCISE YOUR FACULTIES OF SEEING, AND | 1,814.879759 |
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[Illustration: PUNCH VOL CV]
LONDON:
PUBLISHED AT THE OFFICE, 85, FLEET STREET,
AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.
1893.
* * * * *
[Illustration: PREFACE]
"_Vox, et praeterea nihil!_" murmured
Somebody in the background.
"Who made that stale and inappropriate quotation?" exclaimed Mr.
Oracle PUNCH, looking severely around the illustrious group gathered
in his _sanctum_ about the brazen tripod which bore his brand-new
Phonograph.
Nobody answered.
"Glad to see you are ashamed of yourself, whoever you are," snapped
the Seer.
"Rather think the--a--Spook spoke," muttered a self-important-looking
personage, obliquely eyeing a shadowy visitor from Borderland.
"Humph! JULIA may use _your_ hand, but you will not trump _mine_,"
retorted the Oracle. "If _revenants_ knew what nonsense is put into
their spectral mouths by noodles and charlatans, they would never
return to be made spectral pilgarlics of."
"A ghost is a good thing--in a Christmas story!" laughed the jolly old
gentleman in a holly-crown. "Elsewhere it is generally a fraud and a
nuisance."
"Right, Father Christmas!" cried Mr. PUNCH. "But the _Voces_ from
my Oracular Funograph are not ghostly nothings, neither are they
ambiguous, like the oracles of the Sibyl of Cumae,--to which, my
eloquent Premier, some have had the audacity to compare certain of
_your_ vocal deliverances."
The Old Oracular Hand smiled sweetly. "_Nescit vox missa reverti_," he
murmured. "Would that EDISON could invent a Party Leader's Phonograph
whose utterances should satisfy at the time without danger of
being quoted against one fifty years later by CLEON the Tanner, or
AGORACRITUS the Sausage-Seller, to whom even the Sibylline Books would
scarce have been sacred. But you and your Funograph--as you neatly
call it--have never been Paphlagonian, have never had to give up to
Party what was meant for Mankind."
"_And_ Womankind, surely, Mr. GLADSTONE?" subjoined the Strong-minded
Woman, glaring reproachfully through her spectacles at the
Anti-Woman's-Rights Premier. "I wish I could say as much of _you_,
Sir!"
"Labour and the Ladies seem to have small share in his thoughts,"
began the Striker, hotly, when Lord ROSEBERY touched him gently on his
fustian-clad shoulder, and he subsided.
"Am _I_ not a lady?" queried HIBERNIA, with an affectionate glance at
her aged champion.
"Golly, and me too?" added a damsel of dusky Libyan charms, clinging
close to the stalwart arm of Napoleonic CECIL RHODES.
"Yes--with a difference!" said the Oracle, drily. "'_Place aux dames_'
is a motto of partial and rather capricious application, is it not, my
evergreen Premier?"
"A principle of politeness rather than of politics or Parliament--at
present," murmured the G. O. M.
"Pooh!" sniffed the Strong-minded Woman. "It will _spread_. Read Mr.
H. FOWLER'S Bill, and Dr. ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE'S _Woman and Natural
Selection_; put this and that together, and perpend!"
"The Penny Phonograph," pursued Mr. Oracle PUNCH, "is now prodigiously
patronised. For the popular penny you can hear an American band, a
Chevalier coster ballad, the 'Charge of the Light Brigade,' a comic
song by 'Little TICH,' or a speech by the Old Man eloquent. No;
for the latter I believe they charge twopence. That _is_ fame, my
Pantagruelian Premier. But in _my_ Funograph--charge the unchangeable
Threepence--you can hear the very voice of Wisdom and Wit, of Humanity
and Humour, of Eloquence and Essential Truth, of Music and of Mirth!"
"Hear! hear! hear!" chorussed everybody.
"You _shall_ hear!" said the Oracle. "Stand round, all of you, and
adjust your ear-tubes! DIONYSIUS'S EAR was not an aural 'circumstance'
(as your countryman would say, CLEVELAND) compared with this. _Vox, et
praeterea nihil_, indeed!"
"_Nihil_--or Nihilism," growled the Trafalgar Square Anarchist, "is
the burden of the _vox populi_ of to-day----"
"_Vox diaboli_, you mean," interrupted the great Funographer, sternly.
"And there is no opening for that _vox_ here. Shut up! You are here,
misguided mischief-maker, not to spout murderously dogmatic negation,
but to listen and--I hope--learn!"
"I trust you have guidance for me," murmured gentle but anxious-faced
Charity. "It would, like my ministrations, be most seasonable--as
Father Christmas could tell you--for between my innumerable claims,
and my contradictory'multitude of counsellors,' my friends and
enemies, my gushingly indiscriminate enthusiasts, and my arid,
hide-bound 'organisers,' I was never, my dear Mr. PUNCH, so completely
puzzled in my life."
"Sweet lady," responded the Oracle, with gentle gravity, "there is
guidance here for _all_ who will listen; heavenly Charity and diabolic
Anarchy, eloquent Statesmanship and adventurous Enterprise, scared
Capital and clamorous Labour, fogged Finance and self-assertive
Femininity; for the motley and many-voiced Utopia-hunters who fancy
they see imminent salvation in Imperial Pomp or Parochial Pump,
in Constitutional Clubs or County Councils, in Home Rule, Primrose
Leagues, or the Living Wage, in Democracy or | 1,815.282476 |
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HOW TO READ
HUMAN NATURE:
ITS INNER STATES AND
OUTER FORMS
By WILLIAM WALKER ATKINSON
WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS
L. N. FOWLER & CO.
7, Imperial Arcade, Ludgate Circus
London, E. C., England
1916
THE ELIZABETH TOWNE CO.
HOLYOKE, MASS.
COPYRIGHT 1913
BY
ELIZABETH TOWNE
HOW TO READ
HUMAN NATURE
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
I. Inner State and Outer Form 9
II. The Inner Phase: Character 29
III. The Outer Form: Personality 38
IV. The Temperaments 47
V. The Mental Qualities 68
VI. The Egoistic Qualities 76
VII. The Motive Qualities 81
VIII. The Vitative Qualities 89
IX. The Emotive Qualities 93
X. The Applicative Qualities 100
XI. The Modificative Qualities 107
XII. The Relative Qualities 114
XIII. The Perceptive Qualities 122
XIV. The Reflective Qualities 139
XV. The Religio-Moral Qualities 148
XVI. Faces 156
XVII. Chins and Mouths 169
XVIII. Eyes, Ears, and Noses 177
XIX. Miscellaneous Signs 186
CHAPTER I
INNER STATE AND OUTER FORM
"Human Nature" is a term most frequently used and yet but little
understood. The average person knows in a general way what he and others
mean when this term is employed, but very few are able to give an
off-hand definition of the term or to state what in their opinion
constitutes the real essence of the thought expressed by the familiar
phrase. We are of the opinion that the first step in the process of
correct understanding of any subject is that of acquaintance with its
principal terms, and, so, we shall begin our consideration of the
subject of Human Nature by an examination of the term used to express
the idea itself.
"Human," of course, means "of or pertaining to man or mankind."
Therefore, Human Nature means the _nature_ of man or mankind. "Nature,"
in this usage, means: "The natural disposition of mind of any person;
temper; personal character; individual constitution; the peculiar
mental characteristics and attributes which serve to distinguish one
person from another."
Thus we see that the essence of the _nature_ of men, or of a particular
human being, is the _mind_, the mental qualities, characteristics,
properties and attributes. Human Nature is then a phase of psychology
and subject to the laws, principles and methods of study, examination
and consideration of that particular branch of science.
But while the general subject of psychology includes the consideration
of the inner workings of the mind, the processes of thought, the nature
of feeling, and the operation of the will, the special subject of Human
Nature is concerned only with the question of character, disposition,
temperament, personal attributes, etc., of the individuals making up the
race of man. Psychology is general--Human Nature is particular.
Psychology is more or less abstract--Human Nature is concrete.
Psychology deals with laws, causes and principles--Human Nature deals
with effects, manifestations, and expressions.
Human Nature expresses itself in two general phases, i.e., (1) the
phase of Inner States; and (2) the phase of Outer Forms. These two
phases, however, are not separate or opposed to each other, but are
complementary aspects of the same thing. There is always an action and
reaction between the Inner State and the Outer Form--between the Inner
Feeling and the Outer Expression. If we know the particular Inner State
we may infer the appropriate Outer Form; and if we know the Outer Form
we may infer the Inner State.
That the Inner State affects the Outer Form is a fact generally
acknowledged by men, for it is in strict accordance with the general
experience of the race. We know that certain mental states will result
in imparting to the countenance certain lines and expressions
appropriate thereto; certain peculiarities of carriage and manner, voice
and demeanor. The facial characteristics, manner, walk, voice and
gestures of the miser will be recognized as entirely different from that
of the generous person; those of the coward differ materially from those
of the brave man; those of the vain are distinguished from those of the
modest. We know that certain mental attitudes will produce the
corresponding physical expressions of a smile, a frown, an open hand, a
clenched fist, an erect spine or bowed shoulders, respectively. We also
know that certain feelings will cause the eye to sparkle or grow dim,
the voice to become resonant and positive or to become husky and weak;
according to the nature of the feelings.
Prof. Wm. James says: "What kind of emotion of fear would be left if the
feeling neither of trembling lips nor of weakened limbs, neither of
goose-flesh nor of visceral stirrings, were present, it is quite
impossible for me to think. Can one fancy the state of rage and picture
no ebullition in the chest, no flushing of the face, no dilation of the
nostrils, no clenching of the teeth, no impulse to vigorous action, but
in their stead limp muscles, calm breathing, and a placid face?"
Prof. Halleck says: "All the emotions have well-defined muscular
expression. Darwin has written an excellent work entitled, _The
Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals_, to which students must
refer for a detailed account of such expression. A very few examples
must suffice here. In all the exhilarating emotions, the eyebrows, the
eyelids, the nostrils, and the angles of the mouth are raised. In the
depressing passions it is the reverse. This general statement conveys so
much truth, that a careful observer can read a large part of the history
of a human being written in the face. For this reason many phrenologists
have wisely turned physiognomists. Grief is expressed by raising the
inner ends of the eyebrows, drawing down the corners of the mouth, and
transversely wrinkling the middle part of the forehead. In Terra del
Fuego, a party of natives conveyed to Darwin the idea that a certain man
was low-spirited, by pulling down their cheeks in order to make their
faces long. Joy is expressed by drawing backward and upward the corners
of the mouth. The upper lip rises and draws the cheeks upward, forming
wrinkles under the eyes. The elevation of the upper lip and the nostrils
expresses contempt. A skillful observer can frequently tell if one
person admires another. In this case the eyebrows are raised, disclosing
a brightening eye and a relaxed expression; sometimes a gentle smile
plays about the mouth. Blushing is merely the physical expression of
certain emotions. We notice the expression of emotion more in the
countenance, because the effects are there more plainly visible; but the
muscles of the entire body, the vital organs, and the viscera, are also
vehicles of expression."
These things need but a mention in order to be recognized and admitted.
This is the _action_ of the Inner upon the Outer. There is, however, a
_reaction_ of the Outer upon the Inner, which while equally true is not
so generally recognized nor admitted, and we think it well to briefly
call your attention to the same, for the reason that this correspondence
between the Inner and the Outer--this _reaction_ as well as the
_action_--must be appreciated in order that the entire meaning and
content of the subject of Human Nature may be fully grasped.
That the _reaction_ of the Outer Form upon the Inner State may be
understood, we ask you to consider the following opinions of well-known
and accepted authorities of the New Psychology, regarding the
established fact that a _physical expression related to a mental state,
will, if voluntarily induced, tend to in turn induce the mental state
appropriate to it_. We have used these quotations in other books of this
series, but will insert them here in this place because they have a
direct bearing upon the particular subject before us, and because they
furnish direct and unquestioned authority for the statements just made
by us. We ask you to consider them carefully, for they express a most
important truth.
Prof. Halleck says: "By inducing an expression we can often cause its
allied emotion.... Actors have frequently testified to the fact that
emotion will arise if they go through the appropriate muscular
movements. In talking to a character on the stage, if they clench the
fist and frown, they often find themselves becoming really angry; if
they start with counterfeit laughter, they find themselves growing
cheerful. A German professor says that he cannot walk with a
schoolgirl's mincing step and air without feeling frivolous."
Prof. Wm. James says: "Whistling to keep up courage is no mere figure of
speech. On the other hand, sit all day in a moping posture, sigh, and
reply to everything with a dismal voice, and your melancholy lingers. If
we wish to conquer undesirable emotional tendencies in ourselves, we
must assiduously, and in the first instance coldbloodedly, go through
the _outward movements_ of those contrary dispositions which we wish to
cultivate. Smooth the brow, brighten the eye, contract the dorsal rather
than the ventral aspect of the frame, and speak in a major key, pass the
genial compliment, and your heart must indeed be frigid if it does not
gradually thaw."
Dr. Wood Hutchinson, says: "To what extent muscular contractions
condition emotions, as Prof. James has suggested, may be easily tested
by a quaint and simple little experiment upon a group of the smallest
voluntary muscles of the body, those that move the eyeball. Choose some
time when you are sitting quietly in your room, free from all disturbing
influences. Then stand up, and assuming an easy position, cast the eyes
upward and hold them in that position for thirty seconds. Instantly and
involuntarily you will be conscious of a tendency toward reverential,
devotional, contemplative ideas and thoughts. Then turn the eyes
sideways, glancing directly to the right or to the left, through
half-closed lids. Within thirty seconds images of suspicion, of
uneasiness, or of dislike will rise unbidden to the mind. Turn the eyes
on one side and slightly downward, and suggestions of jealousy or
coquetry will be apt to spring unbidden. Direct your gaze downward
toward the floor, and you are likely to go off into a fit of reverie or
abstraction."
Prof. Maudsley says: "The specific muscular action is not merely an
exponent of passion, but truly an essential part of it. If we try while
the features are fixed in the expression of one passion to call up in
the mind a different one, we shall find it impossible to do so."
We state the fact of the _reaction_ of the Outer upon the Inner, with
its supporting quotations from the authorities, not for the purpose of
instructing our readers in the art of training the emotions by means of
the physical, for while this subject is highly important, it forms no
part of the particular subject under our present consideration--but
that the student may realize the close relationship existing between the
Inner State and the Outer Form. These two elements or phases, in their
constant action and reaction, manifest the phenomena of Human Nature,
and a knowledge of each, and both give to us the key which will open for
us the door of the understanding of Human Nature.
Let us now call your attention to an illustration which embodies both
principles--that of the Inner and the Outer--and the action and reaction
between them, as given by that master of subtle ratiocination, Edgar
Allan Poe. Poe in his story "The Purloined Letter" tells of a boy at
school who attained great proficiency in the game of "even or odd" in
which one player strives to guess whether the marbles held in the hand
of his opponent are odd or even. The boy's plan was to gauge the
intelligence of his opponent regarding the matter of making changes, and
as Poe says: "this lay in mere observation and admeasurement of the
astuteness of his opponents." Poe describes the process as follows: "For
example, an arrant simpleton is his opponent, and, holding up his
closed hand, asks, 'are they even or odd?' Our schoolboy replies, 'odd,'
and loses; but upon the second trial he wins, for he then says to
himself, 'the simpleton had them even upon the first trial, and his
amount of cunning is just sufficient to make him have them odd upon the
second; I will therefore guess odd;'--he guesses and wins. Now, with a
simpleton a degree above the first, he would have reasoned thus: 'This
fellow finds that in the first instance I guessed odd, and, in the
second, he will propose to himself upon the first impulse, a simple
variation from even to odd, as did the first simpleton; but then a
second thought will suggest that this is too simple a variation, and
finally he will decide upon putting it even as before. I will therefore
guess even;' he guesses even and wins."
Poe continues by stating that this "is merely an identification of the
reasoner's intellect with that of his opponent. Upon inquiring of the
boy by what means he effected the _thorough_ identification in which his
success consisted, I received answer as follows: 'When I wish to find
out how wise, or how stupid, or how good, or how wicked is any one, or
what are his thoughts at the moment, _I fashion the expression of my
face, as accurately as possible in accordance with the expression of
his, and then wait to see what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind
or heart, as if to match or correspond with the expression_.' This
response of the school boy lies at the bottom of all the spurious
profundity which has been attributed to Rochefoucauld, to La Bougive, to
Machiavelli, and to Campanella."
In this consideration of Human Nature we shall have much to say about
the Outer Form. But we must ask the reader to always remember that the
Outer Form is always the expression and manifestation of the Inner
State, be that Inner State latent and dormant within the depths of the
subconscious mentality, or else active and dynamic in conscious
expression. Just as Prof. James so strongly insists, we cannot imagine
an inner feeling or emotion without its corresponding outward physical
expression, so is it impossible to imagine the outward expressions
generally associated with a particular feeling or emotion without its
corresponding inner state. Whether or not one of these, the outer or
inner, is the _cause_ of the other--and if so, _which one_ is the cause
and which the effect--need not concern us here. In fact, it would seem
more reasonable to accept the theory that they are correlated and appear
simultaneously. Many careful thinkers have held that action and reaction
are practically the same thing--merely the opposite phases of the same
fact. If this be so, then indeed when we are studying the Outer Form of
Human Nature we are studying psychology just as much as when we are
studying the Inner States. Prof. Wm. James in his works upon psychology
insists upon the relevancy of the consideration of the outward
expressions of the inner feeling and emotion, as we have seen. The same
authority speaks even more emphatically upon this phase of the subject,
as follows:
"The feeling, in the coarser emotions, results from the bodily
expression.... My theory is that the bodily changes follow directly the
perception of the exciting fact, and that our feeling of the same
changes as they occur _is_ the emotion.... Particular perceptions
certainly do produce widespread bodily effects by a sort of immediate
physical influence, antecedent to the arousal of an emotion or emotional
idea.... Every one of the bodily changes, whatsoever it may be, is
_felt_, acutely or obscurely, the moment it occurs.... If we fancy some
strong emotion, and then try to abstract from our consciousness of it
all the feelings of its bodily symptoms, we have nothing left behind....
A disembodied human emotion is a sheer nonentity. I do not say that it
is a contradiction in the nature of things, or that pure spirits are
necessarily condemned to cold intellectual lives; but I say that for
_us_ emotion disassociated from all bodily feeling is inconceivable. The
more closely I scrutinize my states, the more persuaded I become that
whatever 'coarse' affections and passions I have are in very truth
constituted by, and made up of, those bodily changes which we ordinarily
call their expression or consequence.... But our emotions must always be
_inwardly_ what they are, whatever may be the physiological ground of
their apparition. If they are deep, pure, worthy, spiritual facts on any
conceivable theory of their physiological source, they remain no less
deep, pure, spiritual, and worthy of regard on this present sensational
theory."
Kay says: "Does the mind or spirit of man, whatever it may be, in its
actings in and through the body, leave a material impression or trace in
its structure of every conscious action it performs, which remains
permanently fixed, and forms a material record of all that it has done
in the body, to which it can afterward refer as to a book and recall to
mind, making it again, as it were, present to it?... We find nature
everywhere around us recording its movements and marking the changes it
has undergone in material forms,--in the crust of the earth, the
composition of the rocks, the structure of the trees, the conformation
of our bodies, and those spirits of ours, so closely connected with our
material bodies, that so far as we know, they can think no thought,
perform no action, without their presence and co-operation, may have
been so joined in order to preserve a material and lasting record of
all that they think and do."
Marsh says: "Every human movement, every organic act, every volition,
passion, or emotion, every intellectual process, is accompanied with
atomic disturbance." Picton says: "The soul never does one single action
by itself apart from some excitement of bodily tissue." Emerson says:
"The rolling rock leaves its scratches on the mountain; the river its
channel in the soil; the animal its bones in the stratum; the fern and
leaf their modest epitaph in the coal. The falling drop makes its
sculpture in the sand or stone.... The ground is all memoranda and
signatures, and every object covered over with hints which speak to the
intelligent. In nature this self-registration is incessant." Morell
says: "The mind depends for the manifestation of all its activities upon
a material organism." Bain says: "The organ of the mind is not the brain
by itself; it is the brain, nerve, muscles, organs of sense, viscera....
It is uncertain how far even thought, reminiscence, or the emotions of
the past and absent could be sustained without the more distant
communication between the brain and the rest of the body." And, thus, as
we consider the subject carefully we see that psychology is as much
concerned with the physical manifestations of the mental impulses and
states as with the metaphysical aspect of those states--as much with the
Outer Form as with the Inner State--for it is practically impossible to
permanently separate them.
As an illustration of the physical accompaniment or Outer Form, of the
psychical feeling or Inner State, the following quotation from Darwin's
"Origin of the Emotions," will well serve the purpose:
"Fear is often preceded by astonishment, and | 1,815.499449 |
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[Frontispiece: _The First Crusaders in Sight of Jerusalem_]
THE STORY OF
THE CRUSADES
BY
E. M. WILMOT-BUXTON
F.R.Hist.S.
AUTHOR OF
'BRITAIN LONG AGO' 'THE BOOK OF RUSTEM'
'TOLD BY THE NORTHMEN' ETC.
GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO. LTD.
LONDON BOMBAY SYDNEY
_First published December 1910_
_by_ GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO.
_39-4l Parker Street, Kingsway, London, W.C.2
Reprinted September 1913
Reprinted in the present series:
March 1912; May 1914; January 1919; March 1924;
January 1927; November 1927; July 1930_
_Printed in Great Britain by Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh_
Contents
I. The Story of Mohammed the Prophet
II. Mohammed as Conqueror
III. The Spread of Islam
IV. The Rise of Chivalry
V. The Story of Peter the Hermit
VI. The Story of the Emperor Alexios and the First Crusade
VII. The Siege of Antioch
VIII. The Holy City is won
IX. Bernard of Clairvaux and the Second Crusade
X. The Loss of Jerusalem
XI. The Story of the Third Crusade
XII. The Adventures of Richard Lion-Heart
XIII. The Story of Dandolo, the Blind Doge
XIV. The Forsaking of the High Enterprise
XV. The Story of the Latin Empire of Constantinople
XVI. The Story of the Children's Crusade
XVII. The Emperor Frederick and the Sixth Crusade
XVIII. The Story of the Seventh Crusade
XIX. The Crusade of St Louis
XX. The Story of the Fall of Acre
XXI. The Story of the Fall of Constantinople
XXII. The Effect of the Crusades
List of Books Consulted
Index of Proper Names
Illustrations
The First Crusaders in Sight of Jerusalem... _Frontispiece_
The Vision of Mohammed
Pilgrims of the Eleventh Century journeying to the Holy City
The Preaching of Peter the Hermit
Duke Godfrey marching through Hungary
Robert of Normandy at Dorylæum
The Storming of Jerusalem
King Louis surrounded by the Turks
Richard and Philip at the Siege of Acre
Richard of England utterly defeats the Army of Saladin
The Fleet of the Fifth Crusade sets Sail from Venice
The Children crossing the Alps
John of Brienne attacking the River Tower
The Landing of St Louis in Egypt
The Last Fight of William Longsword
The Fall of Acre
Map of the Crusades
{9}
The Story of the Crusades
CHAPTER I
The Story of Mohammed the Prophet
_A poor shepherd people roaming unnoticed in the deserts of Arabia: a
Hero-Prophet sent down to them with a word they could believe: See! the
unnoticed becomes world-notable, the small has grown world-great_.
CARLYLE: _Hero as Prophet_.
The two hundred years which cover, roughly speaking, the actual period
of the Holy War, are crammed with an interest that never grows dim.
Gallant figures, noble knights, generous foes, valiant women, eager
children, follow one another through these centuries, and form a
pageant the colour and romance of which can never fade, for the
circumstances were in themselves unique. The two great religious
forces of the world--Christianity and Islam, the Cross and the
Crescent--were at grips with one another, and for the first time the
stately East, with its suggestion of mystery, was face to face with the
brilliant West, wherein the civilisation and organisation of Rome were
at last prevailing over the chaos of the Dark Ages.
A very special kind of interest, moreover, belongs to {10} the story of
the Crusades in that the motive of the wars was the desire to rescue
from the hands of unbelievers
_Those holy fields
Over whose acres walked those blessed feet
Which, fourteen hundred year before, were nailed
For our advantage on the bitter cross._
But we shall see, as we read the story, that this was only a part of
the real motive power which inspired and sustained the Holy War.
Even if the land of Palestine and the Holy City, Jerusalem, had never
fallen into the hands of the Saracens, some such war was inevitable.
The East was knocking at the doors of the West with no uncertain sound.
An extraordinary force had come into existence during the four
centuries that immediately preceded the First Crusade, which threatened
to dominate the whole of the Western world. It was a religious
force--always stronger and more effective than any other; and it was
only repelled with the greatest difficulty by Christendom, inspired,
not so much by the motive of religion, as by that curious mixture of
romance and adventurous design which we call chivalry.
Let us try, then, first of all, to get some idea of these Men of the
East, the Mohammedans or Saracens, who managed to keep Europe in a
state of constant turmoil for upwards of five centuries, and to do that
we must go back to the latter years of the sixth century after Christ.
About fifty miles from the shores of the Red Sea stands the city of
Mecca, one of the few important towns to be found on the fringe of the
great sandy desert of Arabia. During hundreds of years Mecca had been
the venerated bourne of pilgrims, for, embedded in the walls {11} of
the sacred building known as the Kaaba, was the "pure white stone,"
said to have fallen from heaven on the day that Adam and Eve took their
sorrowful way from the gates of Paradise.
The Arabs, or Saracens, of these early days were closely connected with
their neighbours, the Jews of Palestine, and claimed the same descent
from Abraham through Ishmael, the outcast son. They believed in the
existence of God, whom, to some extent, they worshipped, under the name
of Allah. But they were deeply interested in nature-worship: the sun,
moon, and stars were their deities. They bowed down before the "pure
white stone" in the Kaaba, now from its frequent handling rather black
than white. They peopled the whole realm of nature--oceans, rivers,
mountains, caves--with spirits good and evil, called "jinns" or genii,
made, not of clay, like mortal men, but of pure flame of fire.
Once upon a time these jinns were said to have lived in heaven, and to
have worshipped the Lord of Hosts; but having rebelled, under the
leadership of Iblis, against Allah, they were cast forth, and descended
to the earth, where they became sometimes a pest and annoyance to men,
and sometimes their servants.
Many legends concerning these spirits are to be found in the Koran, the
sacred book of the Mohammedans. One of these tells how the jinns were
wont to roam round about the gates of heaven, peeping and listening and
catching here and there a little of the converse of the angels. But
these were only isolated words, or disjointed phrases; and the
mischievous jinns, hoping that evil would come of these odds and ends
of conversation separated from their context, whispered them
industriously in the ears of the sons of men. These the {12} latter,
always eager to know more of the Unseen World, readily accepted, and
invariably put a wrong interpretation upon them. Hence arose
superstition, black magic, false prophecies, evil omens, and all such
things as had in them the germ of truth, but had been misunderstood and
misapplied.
From the midst of this imaginative and nature-worshipping people there
arose the prophet who was to found one of the most powerful religious
sects in the world.
In the year 570 A.D., in the city of Mecca, a boy child came to the
young mother Amina, to comfort her in her widowhood for the husband who
had died a few weeks before. Tradition has been active regarding the
cradle of this child, the young Mohammed. He is said to have exclaimed
at the moment of birth, "Allah is great! There is no God but Allah,
and I am His prophet."
That same day an earthquake was reported to have overturned the
gorgeous palace of Persia; a wild camel was seen in a vision to be
overthrown by a slender Arab horse; and Iblis, the evil spirit, leader
of the malignant jinns, was cast into the depths of ocean.
What is actually known about the matter is that the babe was presented
to his tribe on the seventh day after his birth, and was named
Mohammed, the "Praised One," in prophetic allusion to his future fame.
For the first five years of his life, according to Arabian custom, the
child was sent to a foster-mother in the mountains that he might grow
up sturdy and healthy. Soon after the end of that period, his mother
died, and he was left to the care of his uncle, Abu Talib, a wealthy
trader, who was so fond and proud of his nephew that he let the boy
accompany him on many of his long caravan {13} journeys to Yemen or
Syria. Thus the young Mohammed became intimately acquainted with all
sorts and conditions of men. He had no books, but he was an eager
listener to the poems recited by the bards in the market-place of each
great town. He quickly absorbed the legends and superstitions of his
country, formed his own opinion about the idol-worship practised by
many of the Arab tribes, and was present on a great historic occasion,
when an oath was taken by his tribe in alliance with others, to be the
champions of the weak and the avengers of the oppressed. Moreover,
since his own home was at Mecca, the "Fair of all Arabia," the centre
of trade for India, Syria, Egypt, and Italy, the boy had plenty of
chances of acquiring that knowledge of the world which subsequently
served him in good stead as a leader of men.
He grew up a silent, thoughtful youth, loved and respected by his
companions, who named him El Amin, the "Faithful One." He was notable
too for his good looks, for his bright dark eyes, clear brown skin, and
for a curious black vein that swelled between his eyebrows when he was
moved to anger. He had wide opportunities for thought and meditation,
since, as was the case with most Arabs, his occupation was for years
that of a shepherd on the hillsides of his native city. Eventually, at
his uncle's wish, he became camel-driver and conductor of the caravan
of a certain rich widow named Kadija. The long journey to Syria was
undertaken with success, and on his return the widow Kadija looked upon
the young man of twenty-five with eyes of favour. She imagined she saw
two angels shielding him with their wings from the scorching sunshine,
and, taking this for an indication that he was under the special
protection of {14} Allah, sent her sister to him, according to a common
custom of Arabia, to intimate her willingness to be his bride.
So the poor camel-driver became the husband of the wealthy Kadija, and
a very happy marriage it turned out to be. Six children came to
gladden the peaceful home, of whom the youngest, Fatima, was to play a
part in future history. To all appearances these were years of calm
existence, almost of stagnation, for Mohammed; but all the time the
inner life of the man was growing, expanding, throwing out fresh
tentacles of thought and inquiry, as he brooded upon the condition, and
especially upon the religious condition, of his fellow-countrymen. For
the Arabs of his day were a degenerate race, much given to drinking and
gaming | 1,815.879064 |
2023-11-16 18:47:19.9932990 | 3,756 | 14 | POLYZOA***
E-text prepared by Bryan Ness, Carol Brown, Sharon Joiner, and
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Images of the original pages are available through
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http://www.archive.org/details/freshwatersponge00anna
The Fauna of British India, Including Ceylon and Burma.
Published Under the Authority of the Secretary of
State for India in Council.
Edited by A. E. Shipley, M.A., Sc.D., HON. D.Sc., F.R.S.
FRESHWATER SPONGES, HYDROIDS & POLYZOA.
by
N. ANNANDALE, D.SC.,
Superintendent and Trustee (_Ex Officio_) of the Indian Museum,
Fellow of the Asiatic Society of Bengal and of the Calcutta University.
London:
Taylor and Francis, Red Lion Court, Fleet Street.
Calcutta:
Thacker, Spink, & Co.
Bombay:
Thacker & Co., Limited.
Berlin:
R. Friedlaender & Sohn, 11 Carlstrasse.
August, 1911.
Printed at Today & Tomorrow's Printers & Publishers, Faridabad
CONTENTS.
Page
EDITOR'S PREFACE v
SYSTEMATIC INDEX vii
GENERAL INTRODUCTION 1
Biological Peculiarities 2
Geographical Distribution 5
Geographical List 7
Special Localities 13
Nomenclature and Terminology 17
Material 20
INTRODUCTION TO PART I. (_Spongillidae_) 27
The Phylum Porifera 27
General Structure 29
Skeleton and Spicules 33
Colour and Odour 35
External Form and Consistency 37
Variation 39
Nutrition 41
Reproduction 41
Development 45
Habitat 47
Animals and Plants commonly associated with Freshwater Sponges 49
Freshwater Sponges in relation to Man 50
Indian Spongillidae compared with those of other Countries 51
Fossil Spongillidae 52
Oriental Spongillidae not yet found in India 52
History of the Study of Freshwater Sponges 54
Literature 55
GLOSSARY OF TECHNICAL TERMS USED IN PART I. 61
SYSTEMATIC LIST OF THE INDIAN SPONGILLIDAE 63
INTRODUCTION TO PART II. (_Hydrida_) 129
The Phylum Coelenterata and the Class Hydrozoa 129
Structure of Hydra 130
Capture and Ingestion of Prey: Digestion 133
Colour 134
Behaviour 135
Reproduction 136
Development of the Egg 139
Enemies 139
Coelenterates of Brackish Water 139
Freshwater Coelenterates other than Hydra 141
History of the Study of Hydra 142
Bibliography of Hydra 143
GLOSSARY OF TECHNICAL TERMS USED IN PART II. 145
LIST OF THE INDIAN HYDRIDA 146
INTRODUCTION TO PART III. (_Ctenostomata_ and _Phylactolaemata_) 163
Status and Structure of the Polyzoa 163
Capture and Digestion of Food: Elimination of Waste Products 166
Reproduction: Budding 168
Development 170
Movements 172
Distribution of the Freshwater Polyzoa 173
Polyzoa of Brackish Water 174
History of the Study of Freshwater Polyzoa 177
Bibliography of the Freshwater Polyzoa 178
GLOSSARY OF TECHNICAL TERMS USED IN PART III. 181
SYNOPSIS OF THE CLASSIFICATION OF THE POLYZOA 183
SYNOPSIS OF THE SUBCLASSES, ORDERS, AND SUBORDERS 183
SYNOPSIS OF THE LEADING CHARACTERS OF THE DIVISIONS OF
THE SUBORDER CTENOSTOMATA 185
SYSTEMATIC LIST OF THE INDIAN FRESHWATER POLYZOA 187
APPENDIX TO THE VOLUME 239
Hints on the Preparation of Specimens 239
ADDENDA 242
Part I. 242
Part II. 245
Part III. 245
ALPHABETICAL INDEX 249
EXPLANATION OF PLATES.
EDITOR'S PREFACE.
Dr. N. Annandale's volume on the Freshwater SPONGES, POLYZOA, and
HYDRIDA contains an account of three of the chief groups of freshwater
organisms. Although he deals mainly with Indian forms the book contains
an unusually full account of the life-history and bionomics of
freshwater Sponges, Polyzoa, and Hydrozoa.
I have to thank Dr. Annandale for the great care he has taken in the
preparation of his manuscript for the press, and also the Trustees of
the Indian Museum, Calcutta, for their kindness in placing material at
the disposal of the Author.
A. E. SHIPLEY.
Christ's College, Cambridge,
March 1911.
SYSTEMATIC INDEX.
Page
PORIFERA.
Order HALICHONDRINA 65
Fam. 1. SPONGILLIDAE 65
1. Spongilla, _Lamarck_ 67
1A. Euspongilla, _Vejdovsky_ 69
1. lacustris, _auct._ 69
1_a_. reticulata, _Annandale_ 71, 241
2. proliferens, _Annandale_ 72
3. alba, _Carter_ 76
3_a_. cerebellata, _Bowerbank_ 76
3_b_. bengalensis, _Annandale_ 77
4. cinerea, _Carter_ 79, 241
5. travancorica, _Annandale_ 81
6. hemephydatia, _Annandale_ 82
7. crateriformis (_Potts_) 83
1B. Eunapius, _J. E. Gray_ 86
8. carteri, _Carter_ 87, 241
8_a_. mollis, _Annandale_ 88
8_b_. cava, _Annandale_ 88
9. fragilis, _Leidy_ 95
9_a_. calcuttana, _Annandale_ 96
9_b_. decipiens, _Weber_ 97
10. gemina, _Annandale _ 97
11. crassissima, _Annandale_ 98
11_a_. crassior, _Annandale_ 98
1C. Stratospongilla, _Annandale_ 100
12. indica, _Annandale_ 100
13. bombayensis, _Carter_ 102, 241
13_a_. pneumatica, _Annandale_ 241
14. ultima, _Annandale_ 104
2. Pectispongilla, _Annandale_ 106
15. aurea, _Annandale_ 106
15 _a_. subspinosa, _Annandale_ 107
3. Ephydatia, _Lamouroux_ 108
16. meyeni (_Carter_) 108
fluviatilis, _auct._ 242
4. Dosilia, _Gray_ 110
17. plumosa (_Carter_) 111
5. Trochospongilla, _Vejdovsky_ 113
18. latouchiana, _Annandale_ 115
19. phillottiana, _Annandale_ 117
20. pennsylvanica (_Potts_) 118
6. Tubella, _Carter_ 120
21. vesparioides, _Annandale_ 120
7. Corvospongilla, _Annandale_ 122
22. burmanica (_Kirkpatrick_) 123
caunteri, _Annandale_ 243
23. lapidosa (_Annandale_) 124
HYDROZOA.
Order ELEUTHEROBLASTEA 147
Fam. 1. HYDRIDAE 147
1. Hydra, _Linne_ 147
24. vulgaris, _Pallas_ 148
25. oligactis, _Pallas_ 158, 245
POLYZOA.
Order CTENOSTOMATA 189
<DW37>. 1. Vesicularina 189
Fam. 1. VESICULARIDAE 189
1. Bowerbankia, _Farre_ 189
caudata, _Hincks_ 189
bengalensis, _Annandale_ 189
<DW37>. 2. Paludicellina 190
Fam. 1. PALUDICELLIDAE 191
1. Paludicella, _Gervais_ 192
2. Victorella, _Kent_ 194
26. bengalensis, _Annandale_ 195
Fam. 2. HISLOPIIDAE 199
1. Hislopia, _Carter_ 199
27. lacustris, _Carter_ 202
27 _a_. moniliformis, _Annandale_ 204
Order PHYLACTOLAEMATA 206
<DW37>. 1. Plumatellina 206
Fam. 1. FREDERICELLIDAE 208
1. Fredericella, _Gervais_ 208
28. indica, _Annandale_ 210, 245
Fam. 2. PLUMATELLIDAE 211
Subfam. A. _Plumatellinae_ 212
1. Plumatella, _Lamarck_ 212
29. fruticosa, _Allman_ 217
30. emarginata, _Allman_ 220, 245
31. javanica, _Kraepelin_ 221
32. diffusa, _Leidy_ 223, 245
33. allmani, _Hancock_ 224, 246
34. tanganyikae, _Rousselet_ 225, 246
35. punctata, _Hancock_ 227
2. Stolella, _Annandale_ 229
36. indica, _Annandale_ 229
himalayana, _Annandale_ 246
Subfam. B. _Lophopinae_ 231
1. Lophopodella, _Rousselet_ 231
37. carteri (_Hyatt_) 232
37 _a_. himalayana (_Annandale_) 233
2. Pectinatella, _Leidy_ 235
38. burmanica, _Annandale_ 235
GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE VOLUME.
Although some zoologists have recently revived the old belief that the
sponges and the coelenterates are closely allied, no one in recent times
has suggested that there is any morphological relationship between
either of these groups and the polyzoa. Personally I do not think that
any one of the three groups is allied to any other so far as anatomy is
concerned; but for biological reasons it is convenient to describe the
freshwater representatives of the three groups in one volume of the
"Fauna."
Indeed, I originally proposed to the Editor that this volume should
include an account not only of the freshwater species, but of all those
that have been found in stagnant water of any kind. It is often
difficult to draw a line between the fauna of brackish ponds and marshes
and that of pure fresh water or that of the sea, and this is
particularly the case as regards the estuarine tracts of India and
Burma.
Pelseneer[A] has expressed the opinion that the Black Sea and the
South-east of Asia are the two districts in the world most favourable
for the study of the origin of a freshwater fauna from a marine one. The
transition in particular from the Bay of Bengal, which is much less salt
than most seas, to the lower reaches of the Ganges or the Brahmaputra is
peculiarly easy, and we find many molluscs and other animals of marine
origin in the waters of these rivers far above tidal influence.
Conditions are unfavourable in the rivers themselves for the development
and multiplication of organisms of many groups, chiefly because of the
enormous amount of silt held in suspension in the water and constantly
being deposited on the bottom, and a much richer fauna exists in ponds
and lakes in the neighbourhood of the rivers and estuaries than in
running water. I have only found three species of polyzoa and three of
sponges in running water in India, and of these six species, five have
also been found in ponds or lakes. I have, on the other hand, found
three coelenterates in an estuary, and all three species are essentially
marine forms, but two have established themselves in ponds of brackish
water, one (the sea-anemone _Sagartia schilleriana_) undergoing in so
doing modifications of a very peculiar and interesting nature. It is not
uncommon for animals that have established themselves in pools of
brackish water to be found occasionally in ponds of fresh water; but I
have not been able to discover a single instance of an estuarine species
that is found in the latter and not in the former.
[Footnote A: "L'origine des animaux d'eau douce," Bull. de
l'Acad. roy. de Belgique (Classe des Sciences), No. 12,
1905, p. 724.]
For these reasons I intended, as I have said, to include in this volume
descriptions of all the coelenterates and polyzoa known to occur in
pools of brackish water in the estuary of the Ganges and elsewhere in
India, but as my manuscript grew I began to realize that this would be
impossible without including also an amount of general introductory
matter not justified either by the scope of the volume or by special
knowledge on the part of its author. I have, however, given in the
introduction to each part a list of the species found in stagnant
brackish water with a few notes and references to descriptions.
BIOLOGICAL PECULIARITIES OF THE SPONGES, COELENTERATES, AND POLYZOA OF
FRESH WATER.
There is often an external resemblance between the representatives of
the sponges, coelenterates, and polyzoa that causes them to be classed
together in popular phraseology as "zoophytes"; and this resemblance is
not merely a superficial one, for it is | 1,816.013339 |
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Produced by David Reed
TO HAVE AND TO HOLD
By Mary Johnston
TO
THE MEMORY OF
MY MOTHER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. IN WHICH I THROW AMBS-ACE
CHAPTER II. IN WHICH I MEET MASTER JEREMY SPARROW
CHAPTER III. IN WHICH I MARRY IN HASTE
CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH I AM LIKE TO REPENT AT LEISURE
CHAPTER V. IN WHICH A WOMAN HAS HER WAY
CHAPTER VI. IN WHICH WE GO TO JAMESTOWN
CHAPTER VII. IN WHICH WE PREPARE TO FIGHT THE SPANIARD
CHAPTER VIII. IN WHICH ENTERS MY LORD CARNAL
CHAPTER IX. IN WHICH TWO DRINK OF ONE CUP
CHAPTER X. IN WHICH MASTER PORY GAINS TIME TO SOME PURPOSE
CHAPTER XI. IN WHICH I MEET AN ITALIAN DOCTOR
CHAPTER XII. IN WHICH I RECEIVE A WARNING AND REPOSE A TRUST
CHAPTER XIII. IN WHICH THE SANTA TERESA DROPS DOWN-STREAM
CHAPTER XIV. IN WHICH WE SEEK A LOST LADY
CHAPTER XV. IN WHICH WE FIND THE HAUNTED WOOD
CHAPTER XVI. IN WHICH I AM RID OF AN UNPROFITABLE SERVANT
CHAPTER XVII. IN WHICH MY LORD AND I PLAY AT BOWLS
CHAPTER XVIII. IN WHICH WE GO OUT INTO THE NIGHT
CHAPTER XIX. IN WHICH WE HAVE UNEXPECTED COMPANY
CHAPTER XX. IN WHICH WE ARE IN DESPERATE CASE
CHAPTER XXI. IN WHICH A GRAVE IS DIGGED
CHAPTER XXII. IN WHICH I CHANGE MY NAME AND OCCUPATION
CHAPTER XXIII. IN WHICH WE WRITE UPON THE SAND
CHAPTER XXIV. IN WHICH WE CHOOSE THE LESSER OF TWO EVILS
CHAPTER XXV. IN WHICH MY LORD HATH HIS DAY
CHAPTER XXVI. IN WHICH I AM BROUGHT TO TRIAL
CHAPTER XXVII. IN WHICH I FIND AN ADVOCATE
CHAPTER XXVIII. IN WHICH THE SPRINGTIME IS AT HAND
CHAPTER XXIX. IN WHICH I KEEP TRYST
CHAPTER XXX. IN WHICH WE START UPON A JOURNEY
CHAPTER XXXI. IN WHICH NANTAUQUAS COMES TO OUR RESCUE
CHAPTER XXXII. IN WHICH WE ARE THE GUESTS OF AN EMPEROR
CHAPTER XXXIII. IN WHICH MY FRIEND BECOMES MY FOE
CHAPTER XXXIV. IN WHICH THE RACE IS NOT TO THE SWIFT
CHAPTER XXXV. IN WHICH I COME TO THE GOVERNOR'S HOUSE
CHAPTER XXXVI. IN WHICH I HEAR ILL NEWS
CHAPTER XXXVII. IN WHICH MY LORD AND I PART COMPANY
CHAPTER XXXVIII. IN WHICH I GO UPON A QUEST
CHAPTER XXXIX. IN WHICH WE LISTEN TO A SONG
TO HAVE AND TO HOLD
CHAPTER I IN WHICH I THROW AMBS-ACE
THE work of the day being over, I sat down upon my doorstep, pipe in
hand, to rest awhile in the cool of the evening. Death is not more still
than is this Virginian land in the hour when the sun has sunk away, and
it is black beneath the trees, and the stars brighten slowly and softly,
one by one. The birds that sing all day have hushed, and the horned
owls, the monster frogs, and that strange and ominous fowl (if fowl it
be, and not, as some assert, a spirit damned) which we English call the
whippoorwill, are yet silent. Later the wolf will howl and the panther
scream, but now there is no sound. The winds are laid, and the restless
leaves droop and are quiet. The low lap of the water among the reeds is
like the breathing of one who sleeps in his watch beside the dead.
I marked the light die from the broad bosom of the river, leaving it
a dead man's hue. Awhile ago, and for many evenings, it had been
crimson,--a river of blood. A week before, a great meteor had shot
through the night, blood-red and bearded, drawing a slow-fading fiery
trail across the heavens; and the moon had risen that same night
blood-red, and upon its disk there was drawn in shadow a thing most
marvelously like a scalping knife. Wherefore, the following day being
Sunday, good Mr. Stockham, our minister at Weyanoke, exhorted us to be
on our guard, and in his prayer besought that no sedition or rebellion
might raise its head amongst the Indian subjects of the Lord's anointed.
Afterward, in the churchyard, between the services, the more timorous
began to tell of divers portents which they had observed, and to recount
old tales of how the savages distressed us in the Starving Time. The
bolder spirits laughed them to scorn, but the women began to weep and
cower, and I, though I laughed too, thought of Smith, and how he ever
held the savages, and more especially that Opechancanough who was now
their emperor, in a most deep distrust; telling us that the red men
watched while we slept, that they might teach wiliness to a Jesuit, and
how to bide its time to a cat crouched before a mousehole. I thought
of the terms we now kept with these heathen; of how they came and went
familiarly amongst us, spying out our weakness, and losing the salutary
awe which that noblest captain had struck into their souls; of how many
were employed as hunters to bring down deer for lazy masters; of how,
breaking the law, and that not secretly, we gave them knives and arms, a
soldier's bread, in exchange for pelts and pearls; of how their emperor
was forever sending us smooth messages; of how their lips smiled
and their eyes frowned. That afternoon, as I rode home through the
lengthening shadows, a hunter, red-brown and naked, rose from behind a
fallen tree that sprawled across my path, and made offer to bring me my
meat from the moon of corn to the moon of stags in exchange for a gun.
There was scant love between the savages and myself,--it was answer
enough when I told him my name. I left the dark figure standing, still
as a carved stone, in the heavy shadow of the trees, and, spurring my
horse (sent me from home, the year before, by my cousin Percy), was soon
at my house,--a | 1,816.17974 |
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Produced by Emmy, MWS and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was | 1,816.279823 |
2023-11-16 18:47:20.3593620 | 1,835 | 10 |
Produced by Greg Bergquist and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
HISTORIC HIGHWAYS OF AMERICA
VOLUME 3
[Illustration: MODERN ROAD ON LAUREL HILL
[_Follows track of Washington's Road; near by, on the right,
Washington found Jumonville's "embassy" hidden in the Ravine_]]
HISTORIC HIGHWAYS OF AMERICA
VOLUME 3
Washington's Road (NEMACOLIN'S PATH)
The First Chapter of the Old French War
BY
ARCHER BUTLER HULBERT
_With Maps and Illustrations_
[Illustration]
THE ARTHUR H. CLARK COMPANY
CLEVELAND, OHIO
1903
COPYRIGHT, 1903
BY
THE ARTHUR H. CLARK COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE 11
I. WASHINGTON AND THE WEST 15
II. THE HUNTING-GROUND OF THE IROQUOIS 40
III. THE ARMS OF THE KING OF FRANCE 63
IV. THE VIRGINIAN GOVERNOR'S ENVOY 85
V. THE VIRGINIA REGIMENT 120
VI. THE CHAIN OF FEDERAL UNION 189
ILLUSTRATIONS
I. MODERN ROAD ON LAUREL HILL, (Follows Track
of Washington's Road) _Frontispiece_
II. WASHINGTON'S ROAD 93
III. A MAP OF THE COUNTRY BETWEEN WILLS CREEK AND
LAKE ERIE (showing designs of the French
for erecting forts southward of the lakes;
from the original in the British Museum) 109
IV. LEDGE FROM WHICH WASHINGTON OPENED FIRE UPON
JUMONVILLE'S PARTY 145
V. SITE OF FORT NECESSITY 157
VI. TWO PLANS OF FORT NECESSITY
(_A_, Plan of Lewis's survey; _B_, Sparks's plan) 175
VII. DIAGRAMS OF FORT NECESSITY 179
PREFACE
The following pages are largely devoted to Washington and his times as
seen from the standpoint of the road he opened across the Alleghanies in
1754. Portions of this volume have appeared in the _Interior_, the _Ohio
State Archaeological and Historical Quarterly_, and in a monograph,
_Colonel Washington_, issued by Western Reserve University. The author's
debt to Mr. Robert McCracken, Mr. Louis Fazenbaker, and Mr. James
Hadden, all of Pennsylvania, is gratefully acknowledged.
A. B. H.
MARIETTA, OHIO, November 17, 1902.
Washington's Road
(NEMACOLIN'S PATH)
The First Chapter of the Old French War
CHAPTER I
WASHINGTON AND THE WEST
If you journey today from Cumberland, Maryland, on the Potomac, across
the Alleghanies to Pittsburg on the Ohio, you will follow the most
historic highway of America, through scenes as memorable as any on our
continent.
You may make this journey on any of the three thoroughfares: by the
Cumberland Road, with all its memorials of the gay coaching days "when
life was interwoven with white and purple," by Braddock's Road, which
was used until the Cumberland Road was opened in 1818, or by
Washington's Road, built over the famous Indian trail known during the
first half of the eighteenth century as Nemacolin's Path. In certain
parts all three courses are identical, the two latter being generally
so; and between these three "streams of human history" you may read the
record of the two old centuries now passed away.
Come and walk for a distance on the old Indian trail. We leave the
turnpike, where it swings around the mountain, and mount the ascending
ridge. The course is hard, but the path is plain before us. Small trees
are growing in the center of it, but no large ones. The track, worn a
foot into the ground by the hoofs of Indian ponies laden with peltry,
remains, still, an open aisle along the mountain crest. Now, we are
looking down--from the Indian's point of vantage. Perhaps the red man
rarely looked up, save to the sun and stars or the storm cloud, for he
lived on the heights and his paths were not only highways, they were the
highestways. As you move on, if your mind is keen toward the long ago,
the cleared hillsides become wooded again, you see the darkling valley
and hear its rivulet; far beyond, the next mountain range appears as it
did to other eyes in other days--and soon you are looking through the
eyes of the heroes of these valleys, Washington, or his comrades Stephen
or Lewis, Gladwin, hero of Detroit, or Gates, conqueror at Saratoga, or
Mercer, who was to give his life to his country at Princeton. You are
moving, now, with the thin line of scarlet uniformed Virginians; you are
standing in the hastily constructed earthen fort; if it rains, you look
up to the dim outlines of the wooded hills as the tireless young
Washington did when his ignorant interpreter betrayed him to the
intriguing French commander; you march with Braddock's thin red line to
that charnel ground beyond the bloody ford--you stand at Braddock's
grave while the army wagons hurry over it to obliterate its sight from
savage eyes.
Explain it as you will, our study of these historic routes and the
memorials which are left of them becomes, soon, a study of its hero,
that young Virginian lieutenant-colonel. Even the battles fought here
seem to have been of little real consequence, for New France fell, never
to rise, with the capture of Quebec. But it is not of little consequence
that here a brave training school was to be had for the future heroes of
the Revolution. For in what did Washington, for instance, need a
training more than in the art of maneuvering a handful of ill-equipped,
discouraged men out of the hands of a superior army? What lesson did
that youth need more than the lesson that Right becomes Might in God's
own good time? And here in these Alleghany glades we catch the most
precious pictures of the lithe, keen-eyed, sober lad, who, taking his
lessons of truth and uprightness from his widowed mother's knee, his
strength hardened by the power of the mountain rivers, his heart, now
thrilled by the songs of the mountain birds, now tempered by a St.
Pierre's hauteur, a Braddock's rebuke, or the testy suspicions of a
provincial governor, became the hero of Valley Forge and Yorktown, the
immeasurable superior of St. Pierre, Dinwiddie, Forbes, Kaunitz, or
Newcastle.
For consider the record of the Washington of 1775, beneath the Cambridge
elm. Twenty-one years before, he had capitulated, with the first army he
ever commanded, after the first day's battle he ever fought. He marched
with Braddock's ill-starred army, in which he had no official position
whatever, until defeat and rout threw on his shoulders a large share of
the responsibility of saving the army from complete annihilation. For
the past sixteen years he had led a quiet life on his farms. Why, now,
in 1775, should he have had the unstinted confidence of all men in the
hour of his country's great crisis? Why should his march from Mount
Vernon to Cambridge have been a triumphal march? Professor McMaster
asserts that the General and the President are known to us, "but George
Washington is an unknown man." How untrue this was, at least, in 1775!
How the nation believed it knew the man! How much reputation he had
gained, while those by his side lost all of theirs! What a hero--of many
defeats! What a man to fight England to a standstill after many a wary,
difficult retreat | 1,816.379402 |
2023-11-16 18:47:20.5902070 | 1,458 | 9 | II (OF 2)***
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THE POEMS OF JOHN DONNE
Edited from the Old Editions and Numerous Manuscripts
with Introductions & Commentary
by
HERBERT J. C. GRIERSON M.A.
Chalmers Professor of English Literature
in the University Of Aberdeen
VOL. II
Introduction and Commentary
Oxford
At the Clarendon Press
1912
Henry Frowde, M.A.
Publisher to the University of Oxford
London, Edinburgh, New York
Toronto and Melbourne
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION v
I. THE POETRY OF DONNE v
II. THE TEXT AND CANON OF DONNE'S POEMS lvi
COMMENTARY 1
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 276
INTRODUCTION
I
THE POETRY OF DONNE
Donne's position among English poets, regarded from the historical and
what we like to call scientific point of view, has been defined
with learning and discrimination by Mr. Courthope in his _History of
English Poetry_. As a phenomenon of curious interest for the student
of the history of thought and literary fashions, there it is. Mr.
Courthope is far too well-informed and judicious a critic to explain
Donne's subtle thought and erudite conceits by a reference to 'Marini
and his followers'. Gongora and Du Bartas are alike passed over in
silence. What we are shown is the connexion of'metaphysical wit' with
the complex and far-reaching changes in men's conception of Nature
which make the seventeenth century perhaps the greatest epoch in human
thought since human thinking began.
The only thing that such a criticism leaves unexplained and undefined
is the interest which Donne's poetry still has for us, not as an
historical phenomenon, but as poetry. Literary history has for the
historian a quite distinct interest from that which it possesses for
the student and lover of literature. For the historian it is a
matter of positive interest to connect Donne's wit with the general
disintegration of mediaeval thought, to recognize the influence on
the Elizabethan drama of the doctrines of Machiavelli, or to find in
Pope's achievement in poetry a counterpart to Walpole's in politics.
For the lover of literature none of these facts has any positive
interest whatsoever. Donne's wit attracts or repels him equally
whatever be its source; Tamburlaine and Iago lose none of their
interest for us though we know nothing of Machiavelli; Pope's poetry
is not a whit more or less poetical by being a strange by-product of
the Whig spirit in English life. For the lover of literature, literary
history has an indirect value. He studies history that he may discount
it. What he relishes in a poet of the past is exactly the same
essential qualities as he enjoys in a poet of his own day--life and
passion and art. But between us and every poet or thinker of the past
hangs a thinner or thicker veil of outworn fashions and conventions.
The same life has clothed itself in different garbs; the same passions
have spoken in different images; the same art has adapted itself to
different circumstances. To the historian these old clothes are in
themselves a subject of interest. His enjoyment of Shakespeare is
heightened by finding the explanation of Falstaff's hose, Pistol's
hyperboles, and the poet's neglect of the Unities. To the lover of
literature they are, until by understanding he can discount them,
a disadvantage because they invest the work of the poet with an
irrelevant air of strangeness. He studies them that he may grow
familiar with them and forget them, that he may clear and intensify
his sense of what alone has permanent value, the poet's individuality
and the art in which it is expressed.
Donne's conceits, of which so much has been made and on whose
historical significance Mr. Courthope has probably said the last word,
are just like other examples of these old clothes. The question for
literature is not whence they came, but how he used them. Is he a
poet in virtue or in spite of them, or both? Are they fit only to be
gathered into a museum of antiquated fashions such as Johnson prefixed
to his study of the last poet who wore them in quite the old way
(for Dryden, who pilfered more freely from Donne than from any of his
predecessors, cut them to a new fashion), or are they the individual
and still expressive dress of a true and great poet, commanding
admiration in their own manner and degree as freshly and enduringly as
the stiff and brocaded magnificence of Milton's no less individual, no
less artificial style?
Donne's reputation as a poet has passed through many vicissitudes in
the course of the last three centuries. With regard to his 'wit',
its range and character, erudition and ingenuity, all generations of
critics have been at one. It is as to the relation of this 'wit' to,
and its effect on, his poetry that they have been at variance. | 1,816.610247 |
2023-11-16 18:47:20.7597940 | 5,752 | 10 |
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Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
http://www.archive.org/details/daveporterinfarn00straiala
Dave Porter Series
DAVE PORTER IN THE FAR NORTH
Or
The Pluck of an American Schoolboy
by
EDWARD STRATEMEYER
Author of "Dave Porter at Oak Hall," "Dave Porter in the South Seas,"
"Dave Porter's Return to School," "Old Glory Series," "Pan American
Series," "Defending His Flag," etc.
Illustrated By Charles Nuttall
[Illustration: In a twinkling the turnout was upset.--_Page 206._]
[Illustration: Publishers mark]
Boston
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.
Published, March, 1908
Copyright, 1908, by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.
All rights reserved
DAVE PORTER IN THE FAR NORTH
Norwood Press
BERWICK & SMITH CO.
Norwood, Mass.
U. S. A.
PREFACE
"Dave Porter in the Far North" is a complete story in itself, but forms
the fourth volume in a line issued under the general title of "Dave
Porter Series."
In the first volume, entitled "Dave Porter at Oak Hall," I introduced a
typical American lad, full of life and vigor, and related the
particulars of his doings at an American boarding school of to-day--a
place which is a little world in itself. At this school Dave made both
friends and enemies, proved that he was a natural leader, and was
admired accordingly.
The great cloud over Dave's life was the question of his parentage. His
enemies called him "that poorhouse nobody," which hurt him deeply. He
made a discovery, and in the second volume of the series, entitled "Dave
Porter in the South Seas," we followed him on a most unusual voyage, at
the end of which he found an uncle, and learned something of his father
and sister, who were at that time traveling in Europe.
Dave was anxious to meet his own family, but could not find out just
where they were. While waiting for word from them, he went back to Oak
Hall, and in the third volume of the series, called "Dave Porter's
Return to School," we learned how he became innocently involved in a
mysterious series of robberies, helped to win two great games of
football, and brought the bully of the academy to a realization of his
better self.
As time went by Dave longed more than ever to meet his father and his
sister, and how he went in search of them I leave the pages which follow
to relate. As before, Dave is bright, manly, and honest to the core, and
in those qualities I trust my young readers will take him as their model
throughout life.
Once more I thank the thousands who have taken an interest in what I
have written for them. May the present story help them to despise those
things which are mean and hold fast to those things which are good.
EDWARD STRATEMEYER.
January 10, 1908.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. ON THE TRAIN 1
II. A ROW IN A RESTAURANT 12
III. OFF THE TRACK 22
IV. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE BARN 32
V. BACK TO OAK HALL 42
VI. GUS PLUM'S CONFESSION 51
VII. HOW JOB HASKERS WENT SLEIGH-RIDING 59
VIII. A MYSTERIOUS LETTER 69
IX. DAVE TALKS TO THE POINT 78
X. AN ADVENTURE ON ROBBER ISLAND 87
XI. A HUNT FOR AN ICE-BOAT 97
XII. THE MEETING OF THE GEE EYES 107
XIII. AN INTERRUPTED INITIATION 116
XIV. GOOD-BYE TO OAK HALL 125
XV. DAVE AND ROGER IN LONDON 134
XVI. SOME IMPORTANT INFORMATION 143
XVII. ON THE NORTH SEA 152
XVIII. IN NORWAY AT LAST 162
XIX. OFF TO THE NORTHWARD 171
XX. AN ENCOUNTER WITH WOLVES 181
XXI. CAUGHT IN A WINDSTORM 190
XXII. SNOWBOUND IN THE MOUNTAINS 200
XXIII. LEFT IN THE DARK 210
XXIV. THE BURGOMASTER OF MASOLGA 219
XXV. TO THE NORTHWARD ONCE MORE 228
XXVI. DAYS OF WAITING 237
XXVII. DAVE STRIKES OUT ALONE 246
XXVIII. A JOYOUS MEETING 255
XXIX. BEARS AND WOLVES 264
XXX. HOME AGAIN--CONCLUSION 274
ILLUSTRATIONS
In a twinkling the turnout was upset (page
206) _Frontispiece_
PAGE
Roger shoved it aside and it struck Isaac Pludding
full on the stomach 25
"Can't stop, I'm on the race-track!" yelled
Shadow 58
The mule shied to one side and sent Dave
sprawling on the ice 101
What was left of the camp-fire flew up in the
air 120
Once they ran close to a three-masted schooner 160
"Out with the lot of them! I will take the
rooms" 229
Dave received a blow from a rough paw that
sent him headlong 267
DAVE PORTER IN THE FAR NORTH
CHAPTER I
ON THE TRAIN
"Here we are at the station, Dave!"
"Yes, and there is Phil waiting for us," answered Dave Porter. He threw
up the car window hastily. "Hi, there, Phil, this way!" he called out,
lustily.
A youth who stood on the railroad platform, dress-suit case in hand,
turned hastily, smiled broadly, and then ran for the steps of the
railroad car. The two boys already on board arose in their seats to
greet him.
"How are you, Dave? How are you, Ben?" he exclaimed cordially, and shook
hands. "I see you've saved a seat for me. Thank you. My, but it's a cold
morning, isn't it?"
"I was afraid you wouldn't come on account of the weather," answered
Dave Porter. "How are you feeling?"
"As fine as ever," answered Phil Lawrence. "Oh, it will take more than
one football game to kill me," he went on, with a light laugh.
"I trust you never get knocked out like that again, Phil," said Dave
Porter, seriously.
"So do I," added Ben Basswood. "The game isn't worth it."
"Mother thought I ought to stay home until the weather moderated a bit,
but I told her you would all be on this train and I wanted to be with
the crowd. Had a fine Thanksgiving, I suppose."
"I did," returned Ben Basswood.
"Yes, we had a splendid time," added Dave Porter, "only I should have
been better satisfied if I had received some word from my father and
sister."
"No word yet, Dave?"
"Not a line, Phil," and Dave Porter's usually bright face took on a
serious look. "I don't know what to make of it and neither does my Uncle
Dunston."
"It certainly is queer. If they went to Europe your letters and
cablegrams ought to catch them somewhere. I trust you get word soon."
"If I don't, I know what I am going to do."
"What?"
"Go on a hunt, just as I did when I found my uncle," was Dave Porter's
reply.
While the three boys were talking the train had rolled out of the
station. The car was but half filled, so the lads had plenty of room in
which to make themselves comfortable. Phil Lawrence stowed away his suit
case in a rack overhead and settled down facing the others. He gave a
yawn of satisfaction.
"I can tell you, it will feel good to get back to Oak Hall again," he
observed. "You can't imagine how much I've missed the boys and the good
times, even if I was laid up in bed with a broken head."
"You'll get a royal reception, Phil," said Dave. "Don't forget that when
you went down you won the football game for us."
"Maybe I did, Dave, but you had your hand in winning, too, and so did
Ben."
"Well, if the fellows---- Say, here comes Nat Poole." Dave lowered his
voice. "I don't think he'll want to see me."
As Dave spoke, a tall, fastidiously dressed youth came down the car
aisle. He was not bad-looking, but there was an air of dissipation about
him that was not pleasant to contemplate. He wore a fur-trimmed overcoat
and a cap to match, and heavy fur-lined gloves.
"Hello!" he exclaimed, on catching sight of Phil Lawrence. "Going back
to the Hall, eh?"
"I am, and you are going back too, Nat, I suppose."
"Yes," drawled Nat Poole. He turned and caught sight of Dave and Ben.
"Humph!" he muttered, and without saying more continued on his way down
the aisle and through to the next car of the train.
"He's real sociable, he is," observed Ben Basswood, with a grin.
"I knew he wouldn't want to see me," said Dave.
"What's up--more trouble, Dave?" questioned Phil. "Remember, I've been
away from Oak Hall so long I've rather lost track of things."
"This trouble didn't occur at the school," answered Dave. His face grew
a trifle red as he spoke.
"It happened back at Crumville," broke in Ben, and winked one eye. "You
see, Nat wanted to come to a Thanksgiving party the Wadsworths gave. But
Dave told Jessie just what sort Nat was, and she left him out at the
last moment. It made Nat furious, and I've heard that he is going to do
his best to square up with Dave this winter."
"You're mistaken, Ben; I didn't have to tell Jessie anything," corrected
Dave. "A fellow named Bangs wanted Nat invited, but Jessie didn't want
him and neither did her folks. Bangs got mad over it, and said he
wouldn't come either, and he and Nat went to a show instead."
"Well, I heard that Nat blamed it on you."
"He is apt to blame everything on me--if he can," said Dave, with a
short, hard laugh. "It's his style. I suppose he'll even blame me for
getting Gus Plum to reform."
"Well, you did get Gus to do that," declared Ben, heartily. "It's the
best thing I ever heard of, too."
"If Plum cuts Poole, what's the dude to do?" asked Phil. "The two used
to be great cronies."
To these words Dave did not reply. He was wiping the steam from the car
window. Now he peered out as the train came to a stop.
"Hurrah! Here we are!" he cried, and leaped from his seat.
"Where are you going?" demanded Ben.
"After Roger. I know he'll be at the station, for I sent him a special
message," and away went Dave after Roger Morr, one of his best and
dearest schoolmates. The two met on the car platform, and as the train
moved off again, both came in to join Ben and Phil.
To those who have read the former volumes in this "Dave Porter Series"
the boys already mentioned need no special introduction. They were all
pupils of Oak Hall, a first-class boarding school located in the heart
of one of our New England States. At the academy Dave Porter seemed to
be a natural leader, although that place had been at times disputed by
Nat Poole, Gus Plum, and others. It was wonderful what a hold Dave had
on his friends, considering his natural modesty. Physically he was well
built and his muscles were those of a youth used to hard work and a life
in the open air. Yet, though he loved to run, row, swim, and play games,
Dave did not neglect his studies, and only a short time before this
story opens had won the Oak Hall medal of honor, of which he was justly
proud.
In times gone by Dave's enemies had called him "a poorhouse
nobody"--something which had caused him a great deal of pain. When a
child, he had been picked up alongside of the railroad tracks by
strangers and taken to the Crumville poorhouse. At this institution he
remained until he was nine years old, when a broken-down college
professor named Caspar Potts, who had turned farmer, took him out and
gave him a home. At that time Caspar Potts was in the grasp of a
hard-hearted money lender, Aaron Poole, the father of Nat Poole, already
mentioned, and the outlook soon became very dark for both man and boy.
Then came an unexpected turn of affairs, and from that moment Dave's
future seemed assured. As related in my first volume, "Dave Porter at
Oak Hall," the boy called upon Mr. Oliver Wadsworth, a rich manufacturer
of that neighborhood. The gentleman had a daughter Jessie, a bright-eyed
miss some years younger than Dave. She was waiting to take an
automobile ride when the gasoline tank of the machine caught fire. It
was plucky Dave who rushed in and, at the peril of his own life, saved
the girl from being fatally burned.
The Wadsworths were more than grateful, and when Mr. Wadsworth
discovered that Caspar Potts was one of his former college teachers, he
insisted that both the old man and Dave come to live at his mansion. He
took a great interest in Dave, more especially as he had had a son about
Dave's age who had died.
"The lad must go to some boarding school," said Oliver Wadsworth, and at
his own expense he sent Dave to Oak Hall. With Dave went Ben Basswood, a
friend of several years' standing.
Dave made friends with great rapidity. First came Roger Morr, the son of
a United States senator, then Phil Lawrence, whose father was a wealthy
ship-owner, Sam Day, who was usually called "Lazy," because he was so
big and fat, "Buster" Beggs, "Shadow" Hamilton, and a number of others,
whom we shall meet as our story proceeds.
For a while all went well with Dave, but then came trouble with Nat
Poole, who had come to the Hall, and with Gus Plum, the school bully,
and Chip Macklin, his toady. The cry of "poorhouse nobody" was again
raised, and Dave felt almost like leaving Oak Hall in disgust.
"I must find out who I really am," he told himself, and fortune
presently favored him. By a curious turn of circumstances he fell in
with an old sailor named Billy Dill. This tar declared he knew Dave or
somebody who looked exactly like him. This unknown individual was on an
island in the South Seas.
"My father's ships sail to the South Seas," Phil Lawrence told Dave, and
the upshot of the matter was that Dave took passage on one of the
vessels, in company with the ship-owner's son, Roger Morr, and Billy
Dill.
As already related in the second volume of this series, "Dave Porter in
the South Seas," the voyage of the _Stormy Petrel_ proved to be anything
but an uneventful one. Fearful storms arose, and Dave and some others
were cast away on an uninhabited island. But in the end all went well,
and, much to the lad's joy, he found an uncle named Dunston Porter.
"Your father is my twin brother," said Dunston Porter. "He is now
traveling in Europe, and with him is your sister Laura, about one year
younger than yourself. We must return to the United States at once and
let them know of this. They mourn you as dead."
There was a good deal of money in the Porter family, a fair share of
which would come to Dave when he became of age. The whole party returned
to California and then to the East, and word was at once sent to Europe,
to David Breslow Porter, as Dave's father was named. To the surprise of
all, no answer came back, and then it was learned that Mr. Porter and
his daughter Laura had started on some trip, leaving no address behind
them.
"This is too bad," said Dave. "I wanted so much to see them."
"We'll get word soon, never fear," replied his uncle, and then advised
Dave to finish out his term at Oak Hall, Mr. Porter in the meantime
remaining a guest of the Wadsworth family.
How Dave went back to Oak Hall, and what happened to him there has
already been related in detail in "Dave Porter's Return to School." His
enemies could no longer twit him with being a "poorhouse nobody," yet
they did all they could to dim his popularity and get him into trouble.
"He shan't cut a dash over me, even if he has money," said Nat Poole,
and to this Gus Plum, the bully, eagerly agreed. There was likewise
another pupil, Nick Jasniff, who also hated Dave, and one day this
fellow, who was exceedingly hot-tempered, attempted to strike Dave down
with a heavy Indian club. It was a most foul attack and justly condemned
by nearly all who saw it, and thoroughly scared over what he had
attempted to do, Nick Jasniff ran away from school and could not be
found.
There had been a number of robberies around Oakdale, where the academy
was located, and one day when Dave and his chums were out ice-boating
they had come on the track of two of the robbers. Then to his surprise
Dave learned that Nick Jasniff was also implicated in the thefts. He
knew that Jasniff and Gus Plum were very intimate, and wondered if the
bully of the school could be one of the criminals also. At length, one
snowy day, he saw Plum leave the Hall and followed the fellow. Plum made
for the railroad, where there was a deep cut, and into this cut he fell,
just as a train was approaching. At the peril of his life Dave scrambled
to the bottom of the opening and drew the bully from the tracks just as
the train rolled by.
If ever a boy was conquered, it was Gus Plum at that time. At first he
could not realize that Dave had saved him. "To think you would do this
for me--you!" he sobbed. "And I thought you hated me!" And then he broke
down completely. He confessed how he had tried to injure Dave and his
chums, but said he had had nothing to do with the robberies. Nick
Jasniff had wanted him to go in with the robbers, but he had declined.
"I am going to cut Jasniff after this," said Gus Plum, "and I am going
to cut Nat Poole, too. I want to make a man of myself--if I can."
But it was hard work. A short time after the railroad incident the two
robbers were caught and sent to prison, to await trial, and Plum had to
appear as a witness for the state and tell how he had been implicated.
In the meantime Nick Jasniff ran away to Europe, taking several hundred
dollars of the stolen funds with him. Dave thought he had seen the last
of the young rascal, but in this he was mistaken, as the events which
followed proved.
CHAPTER II
A ROW IN A RESTAURANT
The majority of the boys had been home only for the Thanksgiving
holidays. The exception was poor Phil Lawrence, who had been laid up for
a number of weeks as the result of a blow on the head while playing a
game of football. Phil said he felt as well as ever, but he was somewhat
pale and in no humor for anything in the way of roughness.
As the train stopped at one station and another along the line, it began
to fill up with passengers, including a goodly number of Oak Hall
students. At one place Sam Day and Shadow Hamilton came on board,
followed by half a dozen snowballs, sent after them by boys who had come
to see them off.
"Hi! stop that!" cried Sam Day, as he tried to dodge, and just then a
snowball meant for his head took a somewhat stout man in the ear. The
man uttered a cry of surprise, slipped on the platform of the car, and
fell flat, crushing his valise under him. At this a shout of laughter
rang out from the depot platform, and the lads standing there lost no
time in disappearing.
"You--you villains!" roared the stout man when he could catch his
breath. "I'll--I'll have you locked up!"
"It wasn't my fault," answered Sam Day, trying hard to suppress the grin
on his face. "Shall I help you up?"
"No," grunted the man, and arose slowly. "Do you know I have a dozen
fresh eggs in that valise?"
"Sorry, I'm sure."
"A dozen eggs!" cried Shadow Hamilton. "Well, I never! Say, that puts me
in mind of a story. Once a man bought some eggs that weren't strictly
fresh, and----"
"Pah! who wants to listen to your stories?" interrupted the stout man.
"You had better pay for the eggs that are smashed," and he entered the
car in anything but a pleasant humor.
Dave had come to the car door to greet Sam and Shadow and conduct them
to a seat near his own. The stout man was so upset mentally that he
bumped roughly into the youth.
"Get out of my way, will you?" grunted the irate passenger.
"Excuse me, I didn't know you owned the whole aisle," said Dave, coldly.
He did not like the manner in which he had been addressed.
"See here, are you another one of them good-for-nothing schoolboys?"
bellowed the stout individual. "If you are, I want you to understand you
can't run this train--not as far as I am concerned, anyhow."
Dave looked at the man for a moment in silence. "You are very polite, I
must say," he observed. "I haven't done anything to you, have I?"
"No, but you young bloods are all in together. I know you! Last spring I
was on the train with a lot of college boys, and they tried to run
things to suit themselves. But we fixed 'em, we did. And we'll fix you,
too, if you try to run matters here," and with a savage shake of his
head the stout man passed down the aisle and dropped heavily into the
first vacant seat he reached.
"Isn't he a peach?" murmured Sam Day to Dave. "Meekest man I ever saw,
and ought to have a monument for politeness."
"I hope all his eggs are smashed," said Shadow Hamilton. "He certainly
deserves it."
"Shouldn't wonder if they are--he came down hard enough," answered Dave.
By good luck all the students had seats close to each other, and as the
train rolled along they told of their various holiday experiences and
discussed school matters.
"Just four weeks and then we'll close down for Christmas," said Roger.
"We ought to have lots of fun," said Ben. "We can go skating and
ice-boating, and we can build a fort----"
"And snowball Pop Swingly and Horsehair," interrupted Sam, mentioning
the janitor of Oak Hall and the driver for the institution. "Don't
forget them or they'll feel slighted."
"What's the matter with snowballing Job Haskers?" asked Phil, mentioning
a teacher who was anything but popular with the students.
"Oh, we'll attend to him, never fear," answered Roger Morr.
"Has anybody heard from Plum?" questioned Sam, during a lull in the
conversation.
"I got a letter from him," answered Dave, seeing that nobody else
replied. "He is afraid he is going to have a hard time of it to reform.
I hope you fellows will treat him as well as you can."
"I shall," said the senator's son, and several nodded.
"I think I have always treated him better than he deserved," said Shadow
Hamilton. He could not forget what serious trouble the former bully of
Oak Hall had once caused him, when Doctor Clay's valuable collection of
postage stamps had disappeared.
It had been snowing slightly since morning, and now the flakes began to
come down thicker than ever. As a consequence the engineer of the train
could not see the signals ahead and had to run slowly, so that when the
Junction was gained, where the boys had to change for Oakdale, they were
half an hour late.
"We've missed the connection and must remain here for just an hour and a
quarter," declared Dave, after questioning the station master. "We can't
get to Oak Hall until after dark."
"I move we have something to eat," said Roger. "A sandwich, a piece of
mince-pie, and a cup of hot chocolate wouldn't go bad."
"Second the commotion!" cried Ben. "All in favor raise their | 1,816.779834 |
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Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon, Thomas Berger
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE DRAMATIC WORKS
OF
GERHART HAUPTMANN
(Authorized Edition)
Edited By LUDWIG LEWISOHN
Assistant Professor in The Ohio State University
VOLUME TWO: SOCIAL DRAMAS
1913
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
_By the Editor_.
DRAYMAN HENSCHEL (Fuhrmann Henschel)
_Translated by the Editor_.
ROSE BERND (Rose Bernd)
_Translated by the Editor_.
THE RATS (Die Ratten)
_Translated by the Editor_.
INTRODUCTION
The first volume of the present edition of Hauptmann's Dramatic Works is
identical in content with the corresponding volume of the German edition.
In the second volume _The Rats_ has been substituted for two early prose
tales which lie outside of the scope of our undertaking. Hence these two
volumes include that entire group of dramas which Hauptmann himself
specifically calls social. This term must not, of course, be pressed too
rigidly. Only in _Before Dawn_ and in _The Weavers_ can the dramatic
situation be said to arise wholly from social conditions rather than from
the fate of the individual. It is true, however, that in the seven plays
thus far presented all characters are viewed primarily as, in a large
measure, the results of their social environment. This environment is, in
all cases, proportionately stressed. To exhibit it fully Hauptmann uses,
beyond any other dramatist, passages which, though always dramatic in
form, are narrative and, above all, descriptive in intention. The silent
burden of these plays, the ceaseless implication of their fables, is the
injustice | 1,816.791129 |
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Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was made using scans of public domain works put
online by Harvard University Library's Open Collections
Program, Women Working 1800 - 1930)
GIRL SCOUTS
THEIR WORKS, WAYS AND PLAYS
"_Be Prepared_"
[Illustration: Cover]
[Illustration: Girl Scout Logo]
GIRL SCOUTS
Incorporated
NATIONAL HEADQUARTERS
189 Lexington Avenue
New York City
_Series No. 5_
GIRL SCOUTS
MOTTO
"_Be Prepared_"
[Illustration: Girl Scout Logo]
SLOGAN
"_Do A Good Turn Daily_"
PROMISE
On My Honor, I Will Try:
To do my duty to God and to my Country
To help other people at all times
To obey the Scout Laws
LAWS
I A Girl Scout's Honor is to be trusted.
II A Girl Scout is loyal.
III A Girl Scout's Duty is to be useful and to help others.
IV A Girl Scout is a friend to all, and a sister to every
other Girl Scout.
V A Girl Scout is Courteous.
VI A Girl Scout is a friend to Animals.
VII A Girl Scout obeys Orders.
VIII A Girl Scout is Cheerful.
IX A Girl Scout is Thrifty.
X A Girl Scout is Clean in Thought, Word and Deed.
GIRL SCOUTS
Their Works, Ways and Plays
The Girl Scouts, a National organization, is open to any girl who
expresses her desire to join and voluntarily accepts the Promise and
the Laws. The object of the Girl Scouts is to bring to all girls the
opportunity for group experience, outdoor life, and to learn through
work, but more by play, to serve their community. Patterned after the
Girl Guides of England, the sister organization of the Boy Scouts, the
Girl Scouts has developed a method of self-government and a variety of
activities that appear to be well suited to the desires of the girls
as the 60,000 registered Scouts and the 5,000 new applicants each
month testify.
Activities
The activities of the Girl Scouts may be grouped under five headings
corresponding to five phases of women's life today:
I. The Home-maker.
II. The Producer.
III. The Consumer.
IV. The Citizen.
V. The Human Being.
I. _Woman's most ancient way of service--the home-maker, the nurse,
and the mother._ The program provides incentives for practicing
woman's world-old arts by requiring an elementary proficiency in
cooking, housekeeping, first aid, and the rules of healthful living
for any Girl Scout passing beyond the Tenderfoot stage. Of the forty
odd subjects for which Proficiency Badges are given, more than
one-fourth are in subjects directly related to the services of woman
in the home, as mother, nurse or homekeeper. Into this work so often
distasteful because solitary is brought the sense of comradeship. This
is effected partly by having much of the actual training done in
groups. Another element is the public recognition, and rewarding of
skill in this, woman's most elementary service to the world, usually
taken for granted and ignored.
The spirit of play infused into the simplest and most repetitious of
household tasks banishes drudgery. "Give us, oh give us," says
Carlyle, "a man who sings at his work. He will do more in the same
time, he will do it better, he will persevere longer. Wondrous is the
strength of cheerfulness; altogether past comprehension its power of
endurance."
II. _Woman, the producer._ Handicrafts of many sorts enter into the
program of the Girl Scouts. In camping girls must know how to set up
tents, build lean-tos, and construct fire-places. They must also know
how to make knots of various sorts to use for bandages, tying parcels,
hitching, and so forth. Among the productive occupations in which
Proficiency Badges are awarded are bee-keeping, dairying and general
farming, gardening, weaving and needlework.
III. _Woman, the consumer._ One of the features in modern economics
which is only beginning to be recognized is the fact that women form
the consuming public. There are very few purchases, even for men's own
use, which women do not have a hand in selecting. Practically the
entire burden of household buying in all departments falls on the
woman. In France this has long been recognized and the women of the
middle classes are the buying partners and bookkeepers in their
husbands' business. In America the test of a good husband is that he
brings home his pay envelope unopened, a tacit recognition that the
mother controls spending. The Girl Scouts encourage thrifty habits and
learning economy of buying in all of its activities. One of the ten
Scout Laws is that "A Girl Scout is Thrifty."
IV. _Woman, the citizen._ The basic organization of the Girl Scouts
into the self-governing unit of a Patrol is in itself an excellent
means of political training. Patrols and Troops conduct their own
meetings and the Scouts learn the elements of parliamentary law.
Working together in groups they realize the necessity for democratic
decisions. They also come to have community interests of an impersonal
sort. This is perhaps the greatest single contribution of the Scouts
toward the training of girls for citizenship. Little boys play
together and not only play together, but with men and boys of all
ages. The interest of baseball is not confined to any one age. The
rules of the game are the same for all, and the smallest boy's
judgment on the skill of the players may be as valid as that of the
oldest fan. Girls have had in the past no such common interests. Their
games have been either solitary or in very small groups in activities
largely of a personal character. If women are to be effective in
modern political society, they must have from very earliest youth
gregarious interests and occupations.
V. _Woman, the human being._ Political economy was for a long time
known as the "dead science" and was quite ineffective socially. This
was largely because it attempted to split man, the human being, into
theoretical units such as "the producer," or "the consumer." In the
same way many organizations for women have died because they have not
remembered that woman is first of all a human being. Thus nearly all
institutions for women, even those supposedly purely educational in
character, have existed to shelter her from the world, or to segregate
her, or have been designed to make her into a good servant or to
"finish" her for society. The activities of the Girl Scouts have been
selected on quite a different plan. They have not been designed for
women as women, but for women as human beings. Real work may be
followed with a great deal of enjoyment provided it is creative and
awakens the instinct of workmanship. But it is when at play that a
human being realizes his own nature the most fully. So dancing, sports
of all kinds, hiking, camping, boating, athletics and story-telling
are encouraged not only as a means of recreation and for physical
development, but are made a basic part of the Girl Scout program.
Methods
The activities of the Girl Scouts are, of course, not peculiar to this
organization. Every one of them is provided for elsewhere, in schools,
clubs, and societies. But the way in which they are combined and
co-ordinated about certain basic principles is peculiar to the Girl
Scouts.
In the first place all these activities have a common motive which is
preparation for a fuller life for the individual, not only in her
personal, but in her social relations. It is believed that the habits
formed and the concrete information acquired in these activities both
contribute to the girls being ready to meet intelligently most of the
situations that are likely to arise in their later life. This concept
is expressed in the Girl Scouts Motto--"Be Prepared."
The method of preparation followed is that found in nature whereby
young animals and birds _play_ at doing all the things they will need
to do well when they are grown and must feed and fend for themselves
and their babies.
To play any game one must know the rules, so the Girl Scouts have Laws
that they believe cover most of the needs of the Game of Life.
The Girl Scouts Laws are ten:
I A Girl Scout's Honor is to be trusted.
II A Girl Scout is loyal.
III A Girl Scout's Duty is to be useful and to help others.
IV A Girl Scout is a friend to all, and a sister to every
other Girl Scout.
V A Girl Scout is Courteous.
VI A Girl Scout is a friend to Animals.
VII A Girl Scout obeys Orders.
VIII A Girl Scout is Cheerful.
IX A Girl Scout is Thrifty.
X A Girl Scout is Clean in Thought, Word and Deed.
These Laws are known by all Girl Scouts, but the _Promise_ to obey
them is made only after they are understood and voluntarily accepted.
The Promise summarizes the Laws and is:
On My Honor, I Will Try:
To be true to God and my country
To help others at all times
To obey the Scout Laws
The heart of the Laws is helpfulness and so the Scouts have a
_Slogan_: Do a Good Turn Daily. By following this in letter and spirit
helpfulness becomes second nature.
Because the Girl Scouts are citizens they know and respect the meaning
of the flag, and one of the first things they learn is the Pledge:
I pledge allegiance to my flag, and to the republic for which it
stands; one nation indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all.
_Organization and Drill._ Some observers have criticized the Girl
Scout organization because of its apparent military character. It is
true that the girls wear a uniform of khaki, and are grouped in
Patrols, corresponding to the "fours" in the Army; that they salute,
and learn simple forms of drill and signalling. But the reason they do
this is because the military organization happens to be the oldest
form of organization in the world, and it works. It is the best way
men have found of getting a number of persons to work together.
Following directions given to a group is quite a different matter from
doing something alone, and most of us need special training in this. A
group of eight has been found to work the best because it is the
largest number that can be handled by a person just beginning to be a
leader, and moreover elementary qualities of leadership seem to exist
in just about the proportion of one in eight. It is probably on this
account that children take so kindly to the form--rather than because
of any | 1,816.878705 |
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Produced by Gregory Walker, for the Digital Daguerreian Archive Project.
[Illustration: Title page]
This etext was created by Gregory Walker, Austin, Texas, for the
Digital Daguerreian Archive Project.
Internet: [email protected] CompuServe: 73577,677
Page numbers explicitly referred to in the text are marked at their
beginning by "[page ##]" | 1,816.879664 |
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Produced by David Widger.
*MARY STUART*
_By_
*Alexandre Dumas, Pere*
_From the Eight Volume set "Celebrated Crimes"_
1910
CONTENTS
*MARY STUART--1587*
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
*MARY STUART--1587*
CHAPTER I
Some royal names are predestined to misfortune: in France, there is the
name "Henry". Henry I was poisoned, Henry II was killed in a tournament,
Henry III and Henry IV were assassinated. As to Henry V, for whom the
past is so fatal already, God alone knows what the future has in store
for him.
In Scotland, the unlucky name is "Stuart". Robert I, founder of the
race, died at twenty-eight of a lingering illness. Robert II, the most
fortunate of the family, was obliged to pass a part of his life, not
merely in retirement, but also in the dark, on account of inflammation
of the eyes, which made them blood-red. Robert III succumbed to grief,
the death of one son and the captivity of other. James I was stabbed by
Graham in the abbey of the Black Monks of Perth. James II was killed at
the siege of Roxburgh, by a splinter from a burst cannon. James III was
assassinated by an unknown hand in a mill, where he had taken refuge
during the battle of Sauchie. James IV, wounded by two arrows and a blow
from a halberd, fell amidst his nobles on the battlefield of Flodden.
James V died of grief at the loss of his two sons, and of remorse for
the execution of Hamilton. James VI, destined to unite on his head the
two crowns of Scotland and England, son of a father who had been
assassinated, led a melancholy and timorous existence, between the
scaffold of his mother, Mary Stuart, and that of his son, Charles I.
Charles II spent a portion of his life in exile. James II died in it.
The Chevalier Saint-George, after having been proclaimed King of
Scotland as James VIII, and of England and Ireland as James III, was
forced to flee, without having been able to give his arms even the
lustre of a defeat. His son, Charles Edward, after the skirmish at Derby
and the battle of Culloden, hunted from mountain to mountain, pursued
from rock to rock, swimming from shore to shore, picked up half naked by
a French vessel, betook himself to Florence to die there, without the
European courts having ever consented to recognise him as a sovereign.
Finally, his brother, Henry Benedict, the last heir of the Stuarts,
having lived on a pension of three thousand pounds sterling, granted him
by George III, died completely forgotten, bequeathing to the House of
Hanover all the crown jewels which James II had carried off when he
passed over to the Continent in 1688--a tardy but complete recognition
of the legitimacy of the family which had succeeded his.
In the midst of this unlucky race, Mary Stuart was the favourite of
misfortune. As Brantome has said of her, "Whoever desires to write about
this illustrious queen of Scotland has, in her, two very, large
subjects, the one her life, the other her death," Brantome had known her
on one of the most mournful occasions of her life--at the moment when
she was quitting France for Scotland.
It was on the 9th of August, 1561, after having lost her mother and her
husband in the same year, that Mary Stuart, Dowager of France and Queen
of Scotland at nineteen, escorted by her uncles, Cardinals Guise and
Lorraine, by the Duke and Duchess of Guise, by the Duc d'Aumale and M.
de Nemours, arrived at Calais, where two galleys were waiting to take
her to Scotland, one commanded by M. de Mevillon and the other by
Captain Albize. She remained six days in the town. At last, on the 15th
of the month, after the saddest adieus to her family, accompanied by
Messieurs d'Aumale, d'Elboeuf, and Damville, with many nobles, among
whom were Brantome and Chatelard, she embarked in M. Mevillon's galley,
which was immediately ordered to put out to sea, which it did with the
aid of oars, there not being sufficient wind to make use of the sails.
Mary Stuart was then in the full bloom of her beauty, beauty even more
brilliant in its mourning garb--a beauty so wonderful that it shed
around her a charm which no one whom she wished to please could escape,
and which was fatal to almost everyone. About this time, too, someone
made her the subject of a song, which, as even her rivals confessed,
contained no more than the truth. It was, so it was said, by M. de
Maison-Fleur, a cavalier equally accomplished in arms and letters: Here
it is:--
"In robes of whiteness, lo, Full sad and mournfully, Went pacing to and
fro Beauty's divinity; A shaft in hand she bore From Cupid's cruel
store, And he, who fluttered round, Bore, o'er his blindfold eyes And
o'er his head uncrowned, A veil of mournful guise, Whereon the words
were wrought: 'You perish or are caught.'"
Yes, at this moment, Mary Stuart, in her deep mourning of white, was
more lovely than ever; for great tears were trickling down her cheeks,
as, weaving a handkerchief, standing on the quarterdeck, she who was so
grieved to set out, bowed farewell to those who were so grieved to
remain.
At last, in half an hour's time, the harbour was left behind; the vessel
was out at sea. Suddenly, Mary heard loud cries behind her: a boat
coming in under press of sail, through her pilot's ignorance had struck
upon a rock in such a manner that it was split open, and after having
trembled and groaned for a moment like someone wounded, began to be
swallowed up, amid the terrified screams of all the crew. Mary,
horror-stricken, pale, dumb, and motionless, watched her gradually sink,
while her unfortunate crew, as the keel disappeared, climbed into the
yards and shrouds, to delay their death-agony a few minutes; finally,
keel, yards, masts, all were engulfed in the ocean's gaping jaws. For a
moment there remained some black specks, which in turn disappeared one
after another; then wave followed upon wave, and the spectators of this
horrible tragedy, seeing the sea calm and solitary as if nothing had
happened, asked themselves if it was not a vision that had appeared to
them and vanished.
"Alas!" cried Mary, falling on a seat and leaning both arms an the
vessel's stern, "what a sad omen for such a sad voyage!" Then, once more
fixing on the receding harbour her eyes, dried for a moment by terror,
and beginning to moisten anew, "Adieu, France!" she murmured, "adieu,
France!" and for five hours she remained thus, weeping and murmuring,
"Adieu, France! adieu, France!"
Darkness fell while she was still lamenting; and then, as the view was
blotted out and she was summoned to supper, "It is indeed now, dear
France," said she, rising, "that I really lose you, since jealous night
heaps mourning upon mourning, casting a black veil before my sight.
Adieu then, one last time, dear France; for never shall I see you more."
With these words, she went below | 1,816.98664 |
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Produced by J. Niehof, D. Kretz, J. Sutherland, and
Distributed Proofreaders | 1,817.079642 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
[Illustration: There was a sudden flash of flame and the roar of an
explosion.—_Page_ 52.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE
MOTOR RANGERS’
WIRELESS STATION
BY
MARVIN WEST
AUTHOR OF “THE MOTOR RANGERS’ LOST MINE,” “THE MOTOR
RANGERS THROUGH THE SIERRAS,” “THE MOTOR
RANGERS ON BLUE WATER,” “THE MOTOR
RANGERS’ CLOUD CRUISER,” ETC., ETC.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
CHARLES L. WRENN_
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1913
BY
HURST & COMPANY
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE WIRELESS ISLAND 5
II. A PASSENGER FOR THE SHORE 15
III. IN THE GRIP OF THE STORM 28
IV. WHEN THE ENGINE FAILED 36
V. NAT TO THE RESCUE 48
VI. SAVED FROM THE SEA 56
VII. ON “WIRELESS ISLAND” 65
VIII. AN AERIAL APPEAL 78
IX. A STERN CHASE 91
X. MORE BAD LUCK 100
XI. “THERE’S MANY A SLIP” 108
XII. THE SMUGGLER AT BAY 117
XIII. TRAPPED! 125
XIV. NAT A PRISONER 134
XV. UNDER THE EARTH 145
XVI. DRIFTING THROUGH THE NIGHT 153
XVII. ABOARD THE LIGHTSHIP 164
XVIII. JOE RECEIVES VISITORS 176
XIX. AND ALSO GETS A SURPRISE 187
XX. HANK EXPLAINS 201
XXI. IN THE MIDST OF ALARMS 213
XXII. AN UNEXPECTED STUDENT 221
XXIII. A CALL FROM THE SHORE 229
XXIV. WHAT JOE DID 239
XXV. LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT 247
XXVI. DING-DONG’S CLUE 256
XXVII. A LONELY TRAIL 265
XXVIII. AT THE OLD MISSION 276
XXIX. CORNERED AT LAST 291
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE MOTOR RANGERS’
WIRELESS STATION
CHAPTER I.
THE WIRELESS ISLAND.
The drowsy calm of a balmy afternoon at the Motor Rangers’ wireless camp
on Goat Island was abruptly shattered by a raucous, insistent clangor
from the alarm-bell of the wireless outfit. Nat Trevor, Joe Hartley and
Ding-dong Bell, who had been pretending to read but were in reality
dozing on the porch of a small portable wood and canvas house,
galvanized into the full tide of life and activity usually theirs.
“Something doing at last!” cried Nat. “It began to look as if there
wouldn’t be much for us on the island but a fine vacation, lots of
sea-breeze and coats of tan like old russet shoes.”
“I ter-told you there’d be ser-ser-something coming over the
a-a-a-a-aerials before long,” sputtered Ding-dong Bell triumphantly,
athrill with excitement.
“What do you suppose it is?” queried Joe Hartley, his red, good-natured
face aglow.
“Don’t go up in the air, Joe,” cautioned Nat, “it’s probably nothing
more thrilling than a weather report from one of the chain of coast
stations to another.”
“Get busy, Ding-dong, and find out,” urged Joe Hartley; “let’s see what
sort of a message you can corral out of the air.”
But young Bell was already plodding across the sand toward a small
timber structure about fifty yards distant from the Motor Rangers’ camp.
Above the shack stretched, between two lofty poles, the antennæ of the
wireless station. Against these the electric waves from out of space
were beating and sounding the wireless “alarm-clock,” an invention of
Ding-dong’s of which he was not a little proud.
Ding-dong had become inoculated with the wireless fever as a result of
the trip east which the Motor Rangers had taken following their stirring
adventures in the Bolivian Andes in Professor Grigg’s air-ship—which
experiences were related in the fourth volume of this series, The Motor
Rangers’ Cloud Cruiser. On their return to California—where all three
boys lived, in the coast resort of Santa Barbara—nothing would suit
Ding-dong but that they take a vacation on Goat Island and set up a
wireless plant for experimental purposes.
“I want to try it and away from home where a bunch of fellows won’t be
hanging about and joking me if I make a fizzle,” he explained.
As the lads while in the east had done a lot of business, some of it
connected with Nat’s gold mine in Lower California and some with
interests of Professor Griggs, they decided that they were entitled to
at least a short period of inactivity, and Ding-dong’s idea was hailed
as a good one. Goat Island, a rugged, isolated spot of land shaped like
a splash of gravy on a plate, was selected as an ideal camping place.
The wireless appliances, shipped from San Francisco, were conveyed to
the island on board the Rangers’ sturdy cabin cruiser _Nomad_, and three
busy, happy weeks had been devoted to putting it in working order. Since
the day that it had been declared “O. K.” by Ding-dong, the lads had
been crazy for the “wireless alarm” to ring in, and when it failed to do
so Ding-dong came in for a lot of good-natured joshing.
For some further account of the three chums, we must refer our readers
to the first volume of this series, The Motor Rangers’ Lost Mine. This
related how Nat, the son of a poor widow, unexpectedly came into his own
and from an employé’s position was raised to one of comparative
affluence. For a holiday tour when they returned from Lower California,
where Nat by accident had located his mine, the chums took an eventful
trip through the Sierras. What befell them there, and how they combated
unscrupulous enemies and had lots of jolly fun, was all set forth in the
second volume devoted to their doings, The Motor Rangers Through the
Sierras. Some sapphires found by them on this trip led to a strange
series of incidents and adventures attendant on their efforts to restore
them to their rightful owner. The precious stones were stolen,
recovered, and lost again, only to be delivered safely at last. These
exciting times, passed by the lads on their cruiser, the _Nomad_, which
took them half across the Pacific, were described in the third volume of
the young rangers’ doings, The Motor Rangers on Blue Water. Their voyage
in Professor Grigg’s wonderful air-ship, the _Discoverer_, has been
already referred to. With this necessarily brief introduction to the
young campers, let us return to Goat Island.
Directly Ding-dong reached the hut housing the apparatus, he flung
himself down before the instruments and hastily jammed the head-piece,
with its double “watch-case” receivers, over his ears. He picked up a
pencil and placing it conveniently above a pad of paper that was always
kept affixed to the table holding the sending and receiving appliances,
he began to send a storm of dots and dashes winging out in reply to the
wireless impulse that had set the gong sounding.
“_This is Goat Island!_” he banged out on the key, while the spark
leaped and writhed in a “serpent” of steel-blue flame between the
sparking points. It whined and squealed like an animal in pain as
Ding-dong’s trembling fingers alternately depressed and released the
“brass.”
“_Goat Island! Goat Island! Goat Island!_” he repeated monotonously, and
then switched the current from the sending to the receiving instruments.
Against his ears came a tiny pattering so faint as to be hardly
distinguishable. Yet the boy knew that the instruments must be “in
tune,” or nearly so, with whatever station was sending wireless waves
through space, else the “alarm” would not have been sprung.
He adjusted his instruments to take a longer “wave” than he had been
using. Instantly the breaking of the “wireless surf” against the antennæ
above the receiving shed became plainer.
“_This is the steamer_ Iroquois, _San Francisco, to Central American
ports_,” was what Ding-dong’s pencil rapidly transcribed on the pad,
while the others leaned breathlessly over his shoulder and watched the
flying lead. “_A passenger is dangerously hurt. We need assistance at
once_.”
The young operator thrilled. The first message that had come to the
island was an urgent one.
“_Where are you?_” he flashed back.
“_Thirty miles off the coast. Who are you?_” came back the reply.
“_Thirty miles off where?_” whanged out Ding-dong’s key, while he
grumbled at the indefiniteness of the operator on the steamer.
“_Off Santa Barbara. Who are you and can you send out a boat to take our
injured passenger ashore? Hospital attention is necessary._”
“_Wait a minute_,” spelled out the young Motor Ranger’s key.
He turned to the others.
“You see what I’ve got,” he said indicating the pad and speaking
perfectly plainly in his excitement; “what are we going to do about it?”
The lads exchanged glances. It was evident as their eyes met what was in
each one’s mind. The _Nomad_ lay snugly anchored in a cove on the
shoreward side of the island. A run of thirty miles out to sea was
nothing for the speedy, sturdy gasolene craft, and the call that had
come winging through the air from the steamer was an appeal for aid that
none of them felt like refusing to heed. It was clear that the case was
urgent. A life, even, might be at stake. Each lad felt that a
responsibility had been suddenly laid at their door that they could not
afford to shirk.
“Well?” queried Ding-dong.
“_Well?_” reiterated Joe Hartley as they turned by common consent to Nat
Trevor, the accepted leader of the Motor Rangers at all times.
“You’d better tell the man on that ship that we’ll be alongside within
two hours,” said Nat quietly; and that was all; Ding-dong, without
comment, swung around to his key again. Like Joe, he had known what
Nat’s decision would be almost before he gave it. Nat was not the lad to
turn down an appeal like the one sent out from the _Iroquois_. The sea
was smooth, the weather fair, but even had it been blowing half a gale
it is doubtful if Nat would have hesitated a jiffy under the
circumstances to perform what he adjudged to be a duty.
Ding-dong speedily raised the _Iroquois_.
“_We’ll take your injured man ashore_,” he flashed out. “_Lay to where
you are and we’ll pick you up without trouble. Expect us in about two
hours_.”
“_Bully for you, Goat Island_,” came the rejoinder, which Ding-dong
hardly waited to hear before he disconnected his instruments and
“grounded” them.
“Now for the _Nomad_,” cried Nat. “Hooray, boys! It’s good to have
something come along to relieve the monotony.”
“Di-di-didn’t I ter-ter-tell you so!” puffed Ding-dong triumphantly, as
the three lads set out at top speed for their hut to obtain some
necessary clothing and a few provisions for their run to the vessel that
had sent out the wireless appeal for help.
CHAPTER II.
A PASSENGER FOR THE SHORE.
“All right below, Ding-dong?” hailed Nat, as he took his place on the
little bridge of the _Nomad_ with Joe by his side. The anchor was up,
and astern towed the dinghy, which had been hastily shoved off the beach
when the boys embarked.
Through the speaking tube came up the young engineer’s answer, “All
ready when you are, captain.”
Nat jerked the engine room bell twice. A tremor ran through the sturdy
sixty-foot craft. Her fifty-horse-power, eight-cylindered motor began to
revolve, and with a “bone in her teeth” she ran swiftly out of the cove,
headed around the southernmost point of the island and was steered by
Nat due westward to intercept the steamer that had flashed the urgent
wireless.
As the long Pacific swell was encountered, the _Nomad_ rose to it like a
race-horse that after long idleness feels the track under his hoofs once
more. Her sharp bow cut the water like a knife, but from time to time,
as an extra heavy roller was encountered, she flung the water back over
her forward parts in a shower of glistening, prismatic spray. It was a
day and an errand to thrill the most phlegmatic person that ever lived,
and, as we know, the Motor Rangers were assuredly not in this category.
Their blood glowed as their fast craft rushed onward on her errand of
mercy at fifteen miles, or better, an hour.
Nat, his cheeks glowing and his eyes shining, held the wheel in a firm
grip, his crisp black hair waved in the breeze and his very poise showed
that he was in his element. Joe, clutching the rail beside him, was
possessed of an equal fervor of excitement. The Motor Rangers all felt
that they were on the threshold of an adventure; but into what devious
paths and perils that wireless message for aid was to lead them, not one
of them guessed. Yet even had they been able to see into the future and
its dangers and difficulties, it is almost certain that they would have
voted unanimously to “keep on going.”
“What a fine little craft she is,” declared Nat, as the _Nomad_ sped
along.
“She’s a beauty,” fervently agreed Joe, with equal enthusiasm; “and what
we’ve been through on board her, Nat!”
“I should say so. Remember the Magnetic Islands, and the Boiling Sea,
and the time you were lost overboard?”
Chatting thus of the many adventures and perils successfully met that
their conversation recalled to their minds, the two young Motor Rangers
on the bridge of the speeding motor craft kept a bright lookout for some
sign of the vessel that had sent the wireless appeal into space.
Nat was the first to catch sight of a smudge of smoke on the horizon.
“That must be the steamer! There, dead ahead!”
“Reckon you’re right, Nat,” agreed Joe. “The smoke seems stationary,
too. That’s the _Iroquois_ beyond a doubt.”
Nat sent a signal below, to apply every ounce of speed that the engines
were capable of giving. The _Nomad_, going at a fast clip before, fairly
began to rush ahead. In a few minutes they could see the masts of the
steamer, and her black hull and yellow funnel rapidly arose above the
horizon as they neared her.
At close range the Motor Rangers could see that the white upper works
were lined with passengers, all gazing curiously at the speedy _Nomad_
as she came on. As they ranged in alongside, the gangway was lowered and
Nat was hailed from the bridge by a stalwart, bearded man in uniform.
“Motor boat, ahoy!” he cried, placing his hands funnel-wise to his
mouth, “did you come off in response to our wireless?”
“We did, sir,” was Nat’s rejoinder. “What is the trouble?”
“A job with a good lot of money in it for you fellows,” was the
response. “Range in alongside the gangway and Dr. Adams, the ship’s
surgeon, will explain to you what has happened.”
Nat maneuvered the _Nomad_ up to the lower platform of the gangway and
Joe nimbly sprang off and made the little craft fast. She looked as tiny
as a rowboat lying alongside the big black steamer, whose steel sides
towered above her like the walls of a lofty building.
The vessel’s surgeon, a spectacled, solemn-looking young man, came down
the gangway stairs.
“This is a matter requiring the utmost haste,” he said; “the man who has
been injured must be taken to a shore hospital at once.”
“We’ll take the job. That’s what we came out here for,” rejoined Nat
briskly. “Who is your man and how was he hurt?”
“His name is Jonas Jenkins of San Francisco. As I understand it, he is a
wealthy man with big interests in Mexico. He booked passage for
Mazatlan. Early to-day he was found at the foot of a stairway with what
I fear is a fracture of the skull.”
“It was an accident?” asked Nat, for somehow there was something in the
voice of the ship’s doctor which appeared to indicate that he was not
altogether satisfied that Jonas Jenkins’ injury was unavoidable.
The doctor hesitated a minute before replying. Then he spoke in a low
voice:
“I have no right to express any opinion about the matter,” he said, “but
certain things about the case impressed me as being curious.”
“For instance?”
The question was Nat’s.
“The fact that Mr. Jenkins’ coat was cut and torn as if some one had
ripped it up to obtain from it something of value or importance.”
“You mean that you think Mr. Jenkins was pushed down the flight of
stairs and met his injury in that way?”
“That’s my theory, but I have nothing but the tear in the coat to base
it on.”
The surgeon was interrupted at this point by the appearance at the top
of the gangway of a singular-looking individual. He was tall, skinny as
an ostrich and had a peculiar piercing expression of countenance. His
rather swarthy features were obscured on the lower part of his face by a
bristly black beard.
“Are these young men going to take Mr. Jenkins ashore?” he asked in a
dictatorial sort of tone.
“That is our intention,” was Nat’s rejoinder.
“Where are you going to land him?”
The words were ripped out more like an order than a civil inquiry. Nat
felt a vague resentment. Evidently the black-bearded man looked upon the
Motor Rangers as boys who could be ordered about at will.
“We are going to run into Santa Barbara as fast as our boat will take us
there,” was Nat’s reply.
“I want to go ashore with you,” declared the stranger. “I received word
early to-day by wireless that makes it imperative that I should return
to San Francisco at once. Land me at Santa Barbara and name your own
price.”
“This isn’t a passenger boat,” shot out Joe.
“We only came out here as an accommodation and as an act of humanity,”
supplemented Nat. His intuitive feeling of dislike for the dictatorial
stranger was growing every minute.
Perhaps the other noticed this, for he descended the gangway and took
his place beside the ship’s doctor on the lower platform of the gangway.
“You must pardon me if my tone was abrupt,” he said in conciliatory
tones; “the fact of the matter is, that I must return as soon as
possible to San Francisco for many reasons, and this ship does not stop
till she reaches Mazatlan. It was my eagerness that made me sound
abrupt.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” rejoined Nat, liking the cringing tone of the
man even less than he had his former manner, “I guess we can put you
ashore.”
The man reached into his pocket and produced a wallet. He drew several
bills from it.
“And here’s something to pay for my passage,” he said eagerly.
“Never mind that,” said Nat, waving the proffered money aside. “As I
told you, we are not running a passenger boat. If we land you in Santa
Barbara it will be simply as an accommodation.”
“And one for which I will be grateful,” was the reply. “I’ll have a
steward put my baggage on board your boat at once. I may be of aid to
you in caring for Mr. Jenkins, too, for I am a physician.”
“Yes, this is Dr. Sartorius of San Francisco,” rejoined Dr. Adams, as
the other ascended the gang plank with long, swift strides and was heard
above giving orders for the transfer of his belongings.
“You know him, then?” asked Nat of the ship’s doctor.
“Well, that is, he is registered with the purser under that name,” was
the reply, “and I have had some conversation on medical subjects with
him. As a matter of fact, I think it is an excellent thing that he
wishes to go ashore, for Mr. Jenkins is in a serious way and really
needs the constant watching of a physician.”
“In that case, I am glad things have come out as they have,” rejoined
Nat. “Joe, will you go below and fix up the cabin for the injured man’s
use, and then, doctor, if you will have him brought on board I’ll be
getting under way again.”
Dr. Adams reascended the gangway and in a few minutes two sailors
appeared carrying between them a limp form. The head was heavily
bandaged, rendering a good look at the man’s features impossible. But
Nat judged that he was of powerful build and past middle age. He
descended into the cabin with Dr. Adams, and under the surgeon’s
directions Mr. Jenkins was made as comfortable as possible. His baggage,
as well as that of Dr. Sartorius, was brought below, and then everything
was ready for a start.
Dr. Sartorius bent over the injured man and appeared really to take a
deep and intelligent interest in the case. The ship’s doctor indorsed
one or two suggestions that he made and the boys, for Ding-dong had
joined the party, began to think that they might have been mistaken in
their first estimate of the doctor’s character.
“After all,” Nat thought, “clever men are often eccentric, and this
black-whiskered doctor may be just crusty and unattractive without
realizing it.”
When everything had been settled, Nat and Joe made their way to the
bridge and bade farewell to the doctor. The two sailors who had carried
Mr. Jenkins on board cast off the _Nomad’s_ lines, and the steamer’s
siren gave a deep booming note of thanks for their act.
“You’d better lose no time in getting ashore,” hailed the captain, after
he had thanked the boys for their timely aid.
“We shan’t, you may depend on that,” cheerily called back Nat, as the
_Nomad’s_ engines began to revolve and the big _Iroquois_ commenced to
churn the water.
“We’re in for a sharp blow of wind, or I’m mistaken,” came booming
toward them through the captain’s megaphone, for the two craft were by
this time some little distance apart.
Nat looked seaward. Dark, streaky clouds were beginning to overcast the
sky. The sea had turned dull and leaden, while a hazy sort of veil
obscured the sun. He turned to Joe.
“Hustle below and tell Ding-dong to get all he can out of the engines,
and then see that all is snug in the cabin.”
“You think we’re in for a blow?”
“I certainly do; and I’m afraid that it’s going to hit us before we can
get ashore. It is going to be a hummer, too, from the looks of things,
right out of the nor’west.”
“But we’re all right?”
“Oh, sure! The _Nomad_ can stand up where a bigger craft might get into
trouble.”
Nat’s tone was confident, but as Joe dived below on his errand he
glanced behind him at the purplish-black clouds that were racing across
the sky toward them. The sea began to rise and there was an odd sort of
moaning sound in the air, like the throbbing of the bass string of a
titanic viol.
“This is going to be a rip snorter,” he said in an undertone. “I’ll bet
the bottom’s tumbled out of the barometer.”
CHAPTER III.
IN THE GRIP OF THE STORM.
“Phew! Hold tight, Joe; here she comes!”
Under the dark canopy of lowering clouds the leaden sea about the
_Nomad_ began to smoke and whip up till the white horses champed and
careered, tossing their heads heavenward under the terrific onslaught of
the wind.
“Some storm, Nat,” gasped Joe, clutching the rail tightly with both
hands as the _Nomad_ began to pitch and toss like a bucking bronco.
“About as bad a blow as we’ve had on this coast in a long time,” agreed
Nat, raising his voice to be heard above the shrieking tumult of wind
and sea.
“I’ll go below and get the oilskins, Nat,” volunteered Joe.
“You’d better; this will get worse before it’s better.”
Grabbing at any hand-hold to prevent himself being thrown violently on
his back, Joe made his way below once more.
“Goodness, this is fierce,” he muttered, as he went down the
companionway and entered the cabin | 1,817.279304 |
2023-11-16 18:47:21.2912620 | 2,149 | 46 |
Produced by Charles Bowen from by page scans provided Google Books
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
https://books.google.com/books?id=prZLAQAAMAAJ
(The University of Chicago Library)
BURGO'S ROMANCE
BY
T. W. SPEIGHT
AUTHOR OF "BACK TO LIFE," "HOODWINKED," ETC.
_AUTHORIZED EDITION_
--------------------
PHILADELPHIA
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1894
AUTHORIZED EDITION
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. YOUNG MAN ABOUT TOWN.
II. CAPTAIN CUSDEN'S REPORT.
III. CUT ADRIFT.
IV. "OLD GARDEN."
V. A HUMBLE FRIEND.
VI. A LAST INTERVIEW.
VII. BURGO IN A NEW CHARACTER.
VIII. UNCLE AND NEPHEW.
IX. BURGO'S VIGIL.
X. A SLEEP AND AN AWAKING.
XI. A CLUE.
XII. FOUND.
XIII. HELPLESS.
XIV. IN DURANCE VILE.
XV. DACIA ROYLANCE.
XVI. DACIA EXPLAINS.
XVII. A DOOR BETWEEN.
XVIII. IN WHICH THE UNEXPECTED COMES TO PASS.
XIX. THE CAPTAIN OF THE "NAIAD."
XX. RESCUED.
XXI. A SURPRISE FOR BURGO.
XXII. A MYSTERY SOLVED.
BURGO'S ROMANCE
CHAPTER I.
A YOUNG MAN ABOUT TOWN.
A dark handsome face bent close to a fair and glowing one, a trembling
white hand clasped in a sinewy brown one, two black eyes aflame with
the light of love, two blue eyes cast down in a sweet confusion and
shaded by long brown lashes.
The scene was the conservatory at the back of Mrs. Mordaunt's London
house. It was a wilderness--that is to say, a wilderness where art
reigned supreme--of shrubs, ferns, mosses, and sweet-smelling tropical
flowers. Here and there a shaded lamp glowed with chastened radiance
through the greenery; here and there a Chinese lantern hung suspended
in mid-air like some huge transparent insect of many colours; here and
there a statue gleamed snow-white through the leafage. Some one in the
drawing-room was playing a dreamy waltz; in the breaks of the music
the low silvery plash of a hidden fountain made music of another kind.
Time and the place conspired. The dark, handsome face bent closer, the
lean brown fingers tightened their grasp, two hearts fluttered as they
had never fluttered before. Then the words which one was dying to say
and the other one dying to hear, broke forth in accents low, eager,
and impassioned:
"Clara, darling, you must know that I love you. You must know that I
have loved you ever since that day when----"
In smooth, clear accents a voice behind them broke in:
"Clara, love, I have been looking for you everywhere. I want you
particularly. Mr. Brabazon, will you kindly open that slide a few
inches? I can't think what Stevens has been about; the temperature is
perfectly unbearable."
Burgo Brabazon was brought back to mundane matters with a shock as
though a stream of ice-cold water had been poured down his back. He
dropped Miss Leslie's trembling fingers and turned in some confusion
to obey Mrs. Mordaunt's behest. Before doing so however, he contrived
to whisper the one word "To-morrow."
By the time he had arranged the slide, Mrs. Mordaunt and her niece had
disappeared. He muttered an execration under his breath, for Mr.
Brabazon was by no means an exemplary young man.
Ten minutes later he left the house without saying "Good-night" to
anybody.
As he made his way through the drawing-room he saw Miss Leslie sitting
a little apart from the general company in a recessed window. By her
side, and playing with her fan, sat young vacuous-faced Lord
Penwhistle--vacuous-faced, but enormously rich. "Ah-ha! _chère
madame_, so that's your little game, is it?" muttered Burgo to
himself.
A group of three or four men with whom he was slightly acquainted were
talking on the stairs. They became suddenly silent when they saw him
coming down, and each of them greeted him with a solemn nod as he
passed. Burgo felt vaguely uncomfortable, he hardly knew why.
A hansom took him quickly to his club, and there, over a cigarette and
a bottle of Apollinaris, he sat down to meditate.
Burgo Brabazon at this time was within a month of his twenty-sixth
birthday. He might have been a lineal descendant of Coleridge's
_Ancient Mariner_, seeing that, like him, he was "long and lank and
brown"; but his was the lankiness of perfect health, of a frame
trained to the fineness of a greyhound's, which had not an ounce of
superfluous flesh about it. He had a long oval face and clear-cut
aquiline features; he had dark, steadfast-looking eyes, with a fine
penetrative faculty about them which gave you the impression that he
was a man who would not be easily imposed upon; his hair and his small
moustache were jet black. He was seldom languid, and still more rarely
supercilious, while occasionally inclined to be cynical and
pessimistic (in which respect he was by no means singular); but those
were qualities of which he could disembarrass himself as easily as he
could of his overcoat. He dressed fastidiously, but had nothing
whatever of the latter-day "masher" about him, he was far too manly
for that. Finally, no one could have had a more frank and pleasant
smile than Burgo Brabazon, so that it was almost a pity he was not
less chary of it.
It is certainly unpleasant when, after much effort and inward
perturbation, a man has succeeded in screwing up his courage to ask a
certain question which has been trembling on his lips for weeks, to
find himself baulked at the very outset--to be, as it were, dragged
ignominiously back to earth when another moment would have seen him
soaring into the empyrean. It is more than unpleasant--it is
confoundedly annoying.
Till this evening Burgo had had no reason to suppose that Mrs.
Mordaunt regarded him with unfavourable eyes. His evident liking for
her niece had certainly not escaped the observation of that vigilant
matron, and if she had not openly encouraged him, she had certainly
given him no reason to suppose that any advances he might choose to
make would meet with an unfavourable reception at her hands.
Miss Leslie was no heiress; her sweet face was her only fortune. Her
father had been a country rector, and had bequeathed her an income
which just sufficed to save her from the necessity of joining the
great army of governesses. For a young lady so slenderly endowed with
the good things of this world Burgo Brabazon might be looked upon as a
very fair catch in the matrimonial fishpond--for was he not his
uncle's heir?
"It's all that confounded little Penwhistle," he muttered to himself.
"He's evidently entêté with Clara, and Mrs. M. will do her best to
hook him. But I flatter myself I'm first favourite there, and if that
is so, by Jove! no other man shall rob me of my prize. I'll call
to-morrow, and again and again, till I can get five minutes alone with
her. I never cared for any one as I care for that girl."
He was still deep in thought when some one touched him on the
shoulder. It was Tighe, a club friend, to whom he had lost a hundred
or so at cards during the course of their acquaintance.
"You have heard the news, of course?" said the latter.
"No; what is it?" asked Burgo languidly, with a half-smothered yawn.
Just then he did not care greatly about either Tighe or his news.
For reply Tighe handed him an evening paper, his thumb marking a
certain passage. The passage in question ran as under:
"At Nice, on the 12th inst., Sir Everard Clinton, Bart., to Giulia,
relict of the late Colonel Innes."
Burgo stared at the paper for some moments as if his mind were unable
to take in the announcement.
Then he gave it back to Tighe. "What an ancient idiot!" he said in his
usual impassive tone. "He'll never see his sixtieth birthday again.
But he always was eccentric." And Burgo lighted another cigarette.
But truth to tell, although he took the matter so coolly, he was much
perturbed inwardly. The two lines he had just read announced a fact
which might have the effect of altering all his prospects in life.
"I wonder whether Mrs. Mordaunt had heard the news when she carried
off Clara?" was one of the first questions he asked himself. "And
those fellows on the stairs?" Already he began to feel in some
indefinable sort of way that he was no longer quite the same Burgo
Brabazon in the eyes of the world that he had been a couple of hours
previously.
All his life he had been led to believe that he would be his uncle's
heir. The title, together with such portion of the property as was
entailed, would go to his other uncle, Denis Clinton, the | 1,817.311302 |
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E-text prepared by KD Weeks, Greg Bergquist, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) images page generously made
available by Internet Archive/American Libraries
(http://archive.org/details/americana)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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See 43020-h.htm or 43020-h.zip:
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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=).
There are two footnotes, which are positioned directly
following the paragraph where they are referenced.
More detailed comments may be found at the end of this
text.
[Illustration: GARFIELD PEAK.]
THE CREST OF THE CONTINENT:
A Record of a Summer's Ramble in the Rocky Mountains and Beyond.
by
ERNEST INGERSOLL.
"We climbed the rock-built breasts of earth!
We saw the snowy mountains rolled
Like mighty billows; saw the birth
Of sudden dawn; beheld the gold
Of awful sunsets; saw the face
Of God, and named it boundless space."
Twenty Ninth Edition.
Chicago:
R. R. Donnelley & Sons, Publishers.
1887.
Copyright,
By S. K. Hooper,
1885.
R. R. Donnelley & Sons, The Lakeside Press, Chicago | 1,817.379082 |
2023-11-16 18:47:21.3601890 | 7,434 | 26 |
Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.
ALL'S FOR THE BEST.
BY
T. S. ARTHUR.
PHILADELPHIA:
1869.
CONTENTS.
I. FAITH AND PATIENCE.
II. IS HE A CHRISTIAN?
III. "RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE."
IV. NOT AS A CHILD.
V. ANGELS IN THE HEART.
VI. CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED.
VII. GOOD GROUND.
VIII. GIVING THAT DOTH NOT IMPOVERISH.
IX. WAS IT MURDER, OR SUICIDE?
X. THE NURSERY MAID.
XI. MY FATHER.
XII. THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN.
ALL'S FOR THE BEST.
I.
FAITH AND PATIENCE.
"_I HAVE_ no faith in anything," said a poor doubter, who had trusted
in human prudence, and been disappointed; who had endeavored to walk by
the lumine of self-derived intelligence, instead of by the light of
divine truth, and so lost his way in the world. He was fifty years old!
What a sad confession for a man thus far on the journey of life. "No
faith in anything."
"You have faith in God, Mr. Fanshaw," replied the gentleman to whom the
remark was made.
"In God? I don't know him." And Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, in a
bewildered sort of way. There was no levity in his manner. "People talk
a great deal about God, and their knowledge of him," he added, but not
irreverently. "I think there is often more of pious cant in all this
than of living experience. You speak about faith in God. What is the
ground of your faith?"
"We have internal sight, as well as external sight."
There was no response to this in Mr. Fanshaw's face.
"We can see with the mind, as well as with the eyes."
"How?"
"An architect sees the building, in all its fine proportions, with the
eyes of his mind, before it exists in space visible to his bodily eyes."
"Oh! that is your meaning, friend Wilkins," said Mr. Fanshaw, his
countenance brightening a little.
"In part," was replied. "That he can see the building in his mind,
establishes the fact of internal sight."
"Admitted; and what then?"
"Admitted, and we pass into a new world--the world of spirit."
Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, and closed his lips tightly.
"I don't believe in spirits," he answered.
"You believe in your own spirit."
"I don't know that I have any spirit."
"You think and feel in a region distinct from the body," said Mr.
Wilkins.
"I can't say as to that."
"You can think of justice, of equity, of liberty?"
"Yes."
"As abstract rights; as things essential, and out of the region of
simple matter. The body doesn't think; it is the soul."
"Very well. For argument's sake, let all this be granted. I don't wish
to cavil. I am in no mood for that. And now, as to the ground of your
faith in God."
"Convictions," answered Mr. Wilkins, "are real things to a man.
Impressions are one thing; convictions another. The first are like
images on a glass; the others like figures in a textile fabric. The
first are made in an instant of time, and often pass as quickly; the
latter are slowly wrought in the loom of life, through daily experience
and careful thought. Herein lies the ground of my faith in God;--it is
an inwrought conviction. First I had the child's sweet faith transfused
into my soul with a mother's love, and unshadowed by a single doubt.
Then, on growing older, as I read the Bible, which I believe to be
God's word, I saw that its precepts were divine, and so the child's
faith was succeeded by rational sight. Afterwards, as I floated off
into the world, and met with storms that wrecked my fondest hopes; with
baffling winds and adverse currents; with perils and disappointments,
faith wavered sometimes; and sometimes, when the skies were dark and
threatening, my mind gave way to doubts. But, always after the storm
passed, and the sun came out again, have I found my vessel unharmed,
with a freight ready for shipment of value far beyond what I had lost.
I have thrown over, in stress of weather, to save myself from being
engulfed, things that I had held to be very precious--thrown them over,
weeping. But, after awhile, things more precious took their
place--goodly pearls, found in a farther voyage, which, but for my
loss, would not have been ventured.
"Always am I seeing the hand of Providence--always proving the divine
announcement, 'The very hairs of your head are numbered.' Is there not
ground for faith here? If the word of God stand in agreement with
reason and experience, shall I not have faith? If my convictions are
clear, to disbelieve is impossible."
"We started differently," replied Mr. Fanshaw, almost mournfully. "That
sweet faith of childhood, to which you have referred, was never mine."
"The faith of manhood is stronger, because it rests on reason and
experience," said Mr. Wilkins.
"With me, reason and experience give no faith in God, and no hope in
the future. All before me is dark."
"Simply, because you do not use your reason aright, nor read your
experiences correctly. If you were to do this, light would fall upon
your way. You said, a little while ago, that you had no faith in
anything. You spoke without due reflection."
"No; I meant just what I said. Is there stability in anything? In what
can I trust to-morrow? simply in nothing. My house may be in
ruins--burnt to the ground, at daylight. The friend to whom I loaned my
money to-day, to help him in his need, may fail me to-morrow, in my
need. The bank in which I hold stock may break--the ship in which I
have an adventure, go down at sea. But why enumerate? I am sure of
nothing."
"Not even of the love of your child?"
A warm flush came into the face of Mr. Fanshaw. He had one daughter
twelve years old.
"Dear Alice!" he murmured, in a softer voice. "Yes, I am sure of that.
There is no room for doubt. She loves me."
"One thing in which to have faith," said Mr. Wilkins. "Not in a house
which cannot be made wholly safe from fire; nor in a bank, which may
fail; nor in a friend's promise; nor in a ship at sea--but in love! Are
you afraid to have that love tried? If you were sick or in misfortune,
would it grow dim, or perish? Nay, would it not be intensified?
"I think, Mr. Fanshaw," continued his friend, "that you have not tested
your faith by higher and better things--by things real and substantial."
"What is more real than a house, or a ship, or a bill of exchange?"
asked Mr. Fanshaw.
"Imperishable love--incorruptible integrity--unflinching honor," was
replied.
"Do these exist?" Mr. Fanshaw looked incredulous.
"We know that they exist. You know that they exist. History,
observation, experience, reason, all come to the proof. We doubt but in
the face of conviction. Are these not higher and nobler things than
wealth, or worldly honors; than place or power? And is he not serenest
and happiest whose life rests on these as a house upon its foundations?
You cannot shake such a man. You cannot throw him down. Wealth may go,
and friends drop away like withering autumn leaves, but he stands fast,
with the light of heaven upon his brow. He has faith in virtue--he has
trust in God--he knows that all will come out right in the end, and
that he will be a wiser and better man for the trial that tested his
principles--for the storms that toughened, but did not break the fibres
of his soul."
"You lift me into a new region of thought," said Mr. Fanshaw, "A dim
light is breaking into my mind. I see things in a relation not
perceived before."
"Will you call with me on an old friend?" asked Mr. Wilkins.
"Who?"
"A poor man. Once rich."
"He might feel my visit as an intrusion."
"No."
"What reduced him to poverty?"
"A friend, in whom he put unlimited faith, deceived and ruined him."
"Ah!"
"And he has never been able to recover himself."
"What is his state of mind?"
"You shall judge for yourself."
In poor lodgings they found a man far past the prime of life. He was in
feeble health, and for over two months had not been able to go out and
attend to business. His wife was dead, and his children absent. Of all
this Mr. Fanshaw had been told on the way. His surprise was real, when
he saw, instead of a sad-looking, disappointed and suffering person, a
cheerful old man, whose face warmed up on their entrance, as if
sunshine were melting over it. Conversation turned in the direction Mr.
Wilkins desired it to take, and the question soon came, naturally, from
Mr. Fanshaw--
"And pray, sir, how were you sustained amid these losses, and trials,
and sorrows?"
"Through faith and patience," was the smiling answer. "Faith in God and
the right, and patience to wait."
"But all has gone wrong with you, and kept wrong. The friend who robbed
you of an estate holds and enjoys it still; while you are in poverty.
He is eating your children's bread."
"Do you envy his enjoyment?" asked the old man.
Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, and answered with an emphasis--"No!"
"I am happier than he is," said the old man. "And as for his eating my
children's bread, that is a mistake. His bread is bitter, but theirs is
sweet." He reached for a letter that lay on a table near him, and
opening it, said--"This is from my son in the West. He writes:--'Dear
Father--All is going well with me. I enclose you fifty dollars. In a
month I am to be married, and it is all arranged that dear Alice and I
shall go East just to see you, and take you back home with us. How nice
and comfortable we will make you! And you shall never leave us!'"
The old man's voice broke down on the last sentence, and his eyes
filled with tears. But he soon recovered himself, saying--
"Before I lost my property, this son was an idler, and in such danger
that through fear of his being led astray, I was often in great
distress of mind. Necessity forced him into useful employment; and you
see the result. I lost some money, but saved my son. Am I not richer in
such love as he bears me to-day, than if, without his love, I possessed
a million of dollars? Am I not happier? I knew it would all come out
right. I had faith, and I tried to be patient. It is coming out right."
"But the wrong that has been done," said Mr. Fanshaw. "The injustice
that exists. Here is a scoundrel, a robber, in the peaceful enjoyment
of your goods, while you are in want."
"We do not envy such peace as his. The robber has no peace. He never
dwells in security; but is always armed, and on the watch. As for me,
it has so turned out that I have never lacked for food and raiment."
"Still, there is the abstract wrong, the evil triumphing over the
good," said Mr. Fanshaw.
"How do you reconcile that with your faith in Providence?"
"What I see clearly, as to myself," was replied, "fully justifies the
ways of God to man. Am I the gainer or the loser by misfortune? Clearly
the gainer. That point admits of no argument. So, what came to me in
the guise of evil, I find to be good. God has not mocked my faith in
him. I waited patiently until he revealed himself in tender mercy;
until the hand to which I clung in the dark valley led me up to the
sunny hills. No amount of worldly riches could give me the deep
satisfaction I now possess. As for the false friend who robbed me, I
leave him in the hands of the all-wise Disposer of events. He will not
find, in ill-gotten gain, a blessing. It will not make his bed soft;
nor his food sweet to the taste. A just and righteous God will trouble
his peace, and make another's possessions the burden of his life."
"But that will not benefit you," said Mr. Fanshaw. "His suffering will
not make good your loss."
"My loss is made good already. I have no complaint against Providence.
My compensation is a hundredfold. For dross I have gold. I and mine
needed the discipline of misfortune, and it came through the perfidy of
a friend. That false friend, selfish and grasping--seeing in money the
greatest good--was permitted to consummate his evil design. That his
evil will punish him, I am sure; and in the pain of his punishment, he
may be led to reformation. If he continue to hide the stolen fox, it
will tear his vitals. If he lets it go, he will scarcely venture upon a
second theft. In either event, the wrong he was permitted to do will be
turned into discipline; and my hardest wish in regard to him is, that
the discipline may lead to repentance and a better life."
"Your faith and patience," said Mr. Fanshaw, as he held the old man's
hand in parting, "rebuke my restless disbelief. I thank you for having
opened to my mind a new region of thought--for having made some things
clear that have always been dark. I am sure that our meeting to-day is
not a simple accident. I have been led here, and for a good purpose."
As Mr. Fanshaw and Mr. Wilkins left the poor man's lodgings, the former
said--
"I know the false wretch who ruined your friend."
"Ah!"
"Yes. And he is a miserable man. The fox is indeed tearing his vitals.
I understand his case now. He must make restitution. I know how to
approach him. This good, patient, trusting old man shall not suffer
wrong to the end."
"Does not all this open a new world of thought to your mind?" asked Mr
Wilkins. "Does it not show you that, amid all human wrong and disaster,
the hand of Providence moves in wise adjustment, and ever out of evil
educes good, ever through loss in some lower degree of life brings gain
to a higher degree? Consider how, in an unpremeditated way, you are
brought into contact with a stranger, and how his life and experience
touching yours, give out a spark that lights a candle in your soul to
illumine chambers where scarcely a ray had shone before; and this not
alone for your benefit. It seems as if you were to be made an
instrument of good not only to the wronged, but to the wronger. If you
can effect restitution in any degree, the benefit will be mutual."
"I can and I will effect it," replied Mr. Fanshaw. And he did!
II.
IS HE A CHRISTIAN?
"_IS_ he a Christian?"
The question reached my ear as I sat conversing with a friend, and I
paused in the sentence I was uttering, to note the answer.
"Oh, yes; he is a Christian," was replied.
"I am rejoiced to hear you say so. I was not aware of it before," said
the other.
"Yes; he has passed from death unto life. Last week, in the joy of his
new birth, he united himself to the church, and is now in fellowship
with the saints."
"What a blessed change!"
"Blessed, indeed. Another soul saved; another added to the great
company of those who have washed their robes, and made them white in
the blood of the Lamb. There is joy in heaven on his account."
"Of whom are they speaking?" I asked, turning to my friend.
"Of Fletcher Gray, I believe," was replied.
"Few men stood more in need of Christian graces," said I. "If he is,
indeed, numbered with the saints, there is cause for rejoicing."
"By their fruits ye shall know them," responded my friend. "I will
believe his claim to the title of Christian, when I see the fruit in
good living. If he have truly passed from death unto life, as they say,
he will work the works of righteousness. A sweet fountain will not send
forth bitter waters."
My friend but expressed my own sentiments in this, and all like cases.
I have learned to put small trust in "profession;" to look past the
Sunday and prayer-meeting piety of people, and to estimate religious
quality by the standard of the Apostle James. There must be genuine
love of the neighbor, before there can be a love of God; for neighborly
love is the ground in which that higher and purer love takes root. It
is all in vain to talk of love as a mere ideal thing. Love is an active
principle, and, according to its quality, works. If the love be
heavenly, it will show itself in good deeds to the neighbor; but, if
infernal, in acts of selfishness that disregard the neighbor.
"I will observe this Mr. Gray," said I, as I walked homeward from the
company, "and see whether the report touching him be true. If he is,
indeed, a 'Christian,' as they affirm, the Christian graces of meekness
and charity will blossom in his life, and make all the air around him
fragrant."
Opportunity soon came. Fletcher Gray was a store-keeper, and his life
in the world was, consequently, open to the observation of all men. He
was likewise a husband and a father. His relations were, therefore, of
a character to give, daily, a test of his true quality.
It was only the day after, that I happened to meet Mr. Gray under
circumstances favorable to observation. He came into the store of a
merchant with whom I was transacting some business, and asked the price
of certain goods in the market. I moved aside, and watched him
narrowly. There was a marked change in the expression of his
countenance and in the tones of his voice. The former had a sober,
almost solemn expression; the latter was subdued, even to
plaintiveness. But, in a little while, these peculiarities gradually
disappeared, and the aforetime Mr. Gray stood there
unchanged--unchanged, not only in appearance, but in character. There
was nothing of the "yea, yea," and "nay, nay," spirit in his
bargain-making, but an eager, wordy effort to gain an advantage in
trade. I noticed that, in the face of an asservation that only five per
cent. over cost was asked for a certain article, he still endeavored to
procure it at a lower figure than was named by the seller, and finally
crowded him down to the exact cost, knowing as he did, that the
merchant had a large stock on hand, and could not well afford to hold
it over.
"He's a sharper!" said the merchant, turning towards me as Gray left
the store.
"He's a Christian, they say," was my quiet remark.
"A Christian!"
"Yes; don't you know that he has become religious, and joined the
church?"
"You're joking!"
"Not a word of it. Didn't you observe his subdued, meek aspect, when he
came in?"
"Why, yes; now that you refer to it, I do remember a certain
peculiarity about him. Become pious! Joined the church! Well, I'm
sorry!"
"For what?"
"Sorry for the injury he will do to a good cause. The religion that
makes a man a better husband, father, man of business, lawyer, doctor,
or preacher, I reverence, for it is genuine, as the lives of those who
accept it do testify. But your hypocritical pretenders I scorn and
execrate."
"It is, perhaps, almost too strong language, this, as applied to Mr.
Gray," said I.
"What is a hypocrite?" asked the merchant.
"A man who puts on the semblance of Christian virtues which he does not
possess."
"And that is what Mr. Gray does when he assumes to be religious. A true
Christian is just. Was he just to me when he crowded me down in the
price of my goods, and robbed me of a living profit, in order that he
might secure a double gain? I think not. There is not even the live and
let live principle in that. No--no, sir. If he has joined the church,
my word for it, there is a black sheep in the fold; or, I might say,
without abuse of language, a wolf therein disguised in sheep's
clothing."
"Give the man time," said I. "Old habits of life are strong, you know.
In a little while, I trust that he will see clearer, and regulate his
life from perceptions of higher truths."
"I thought his heart was changed," answered the merchant, with some
irony in his tones. "That he had been made a new creature."
I did not care to discuss that point with him, and so merely answered,
"The beginnings of spiritual life are as the beginnings of natural
life. The babe is born in feebleness, and we must wait through the
periods of infancy, childhood and youth, before we can have the strong
man ready for the burden and heat of the day, or full-armed for the
battle. If Mr. Gray is in the first effort to lead a Christian life,
that is something. He will grow wiser and better in time, I hope."
"There is vast room for improvement," said the merchant. "In my eyes he
is, at this time, only a hypocritical pretender. I hope, for the sake
of the world and the church both, that his new associates will make
something better out of him."
I went away, pretty much of the merchant's opinion. My next meeting
with Mr. Gray was in the shop of a mechanic to whom he had sold a bill
of goods some months previously. He had called to collect a portion of
the amount which remained unpaid. The mechanic was not ready for him.
"I am sorry, Mr. Gray," he began, with some hesitation of manner.
"Sorry for what?" sharply interrupted Mr. Gray.
"Sorry that I have not the money to settle your bill. I have been
disappointed----"
"I don't want that old story. You promised to be ready for me to-day,
didn't you?" And Mr. Gray knit his brows, and looked angry and
imperative.
"Yes, I promised. But----"
"Then keep your promise. No man has a right to break his word. Promises
are sacred things, and should be kept religiously."
"If my customers had kept their promises to me there would have been no
failure in mine to you," answered the poor mechanic.
"It is of no use to plead other men's failings in justification of your
own. You said the bill should be settled to-day, and I calculated upon
it. Now, of all things in the world, I hate trifling. I shall not call
again, sir!"
"If you were to call forty times, and I hadn't the money to settle your
account, you would call in vain," said the mechanic, showing
considerable disturbance of mind.
"You needn't add insult to wrong." Mr. Gray's countenance reddened, and
he looked angry.
"If there is insult in the case it is on your part, not mine," retorted
the mechanic, with more feeling. "I am not a digger of gold out of the
earth, nor a coiner of money. I must be paid for my work before I can
pay the bills I owe. It was not enough that I told you of the failure
of my customers to meet their engagements----"
"You've no business to have such customers," broke in Mr. Gray. "No
right to take my goods and sell them to men who are not honest enough
to pay their bills."
"One of them is your own son," replied the mechanic, goaded beyond
endurance. "His bill is equal to half of yours. I have sent for the
amount a great many times, but still he puts me off with excuses. I
will send it to you next time."
This was thrusting home with a sharp sword, and the vanquished Mr. Gray
retreated from the battle-field, bearing a painful wound.
"That wasn't right in me, I know," said the mechanic, as Gray left his
shop. "I'm sorry, now, that I said it. But he pressed me too closely. I
am but human."
"He is a hard, exacting, money-loving man," was my remark.
"They tell me he has become a Christian," said the mechanic. "Has got
religion--been converted. Is that so?"
"It is commonly reported; but I think common report must be in error.
St. Paul gives patience, forbearance, long-suffering, meekness,
brotherly kindness, and charity as some of the Christian graces. I do
not see them in this man. Therefore, common report must be in error."
"I have paid him a good many hundreds of dollars since I opened my shop
here," said the mechanic, with the manner of one who felt hurt. "If I
am a poor, hard-working man, I try to be honest. Sometimes I get a
little behind hand, as I am new, because people I work for don't pay up
as they should. It happened twice before when I wasn't just square with
Mr. Gray, and he pressed down very hard upon me, and talked just as you
heard him to-day. He got his money, every dollar of it; and he will get
his money now. I did think, knowing that he had joined the church and
made a profession of religion, that he would bear a little patiently
with me this time. That, as he had obtained forgiveness, as alleged, of
his sins towards heaven, he would be merciful to his fellow-man. Ah,
well! These things make us very sceptical about the honesty of men who
call themselves religious. My experience with 'professors' has not been
very encouraging. As a general thing I find them quite as greedy for
gain as other men. We outside people of the world get to be very
sharp-sighted. When a man sets himself up to be of better quality than
we, and calls himself by a name significant of heavenly virtue, we
judge him, naturally, by his own standard, and watch him very closely.
If he remain as hard, as selfish, as exacting, and as eager after money
as before, we do not put much faith in his profession, and are very apt
to class him with hypocrites. His praying, and fine talk about faith,
and heavenly love, and being washed from all sin, excite in us contempt
rather than respect. We ask for good works, and are never satisfied
with anything else. By their fruits ye shall know them."
On the next Sunday I saw Mr. Gray in church. My eyes were on him when
he entered. I noticed that all the lines of his face were drawn down,
and that the whole aspect and bearing of the man were solemn and
devotional. He moved to his place with a slow step, his eyes cast to
the floor. On taking his seat, he leaned his head on the pew in front
of him, and continued for nearly a minute in prayer. During the
services I heard his voice in the singing; and through the sermon, he
maintained the most fixed attention. It was communion Sabbath; and he
remained, after the congregation was dismissed, to join in the holiest
act of worship.
"Can this man be indeed self-deceived?" I asked myself, as I walked
homeward. "Can he really believe that heaven is to be gained by pious
acts alone? That every Sabbath evening he can pitch his tent a day's
march nearer heaven, though all the week he have failed in the
commonest offices of neighborly love?"
It so happened, that I had many opportunities for observing Mr. Gray,
who, after joining the church, became an active worker in some of the
public and prominent charities of the day. He contributed liberally in
many cases, and gave a good deal of time to the prosecution of
benevolent enterprises, in which men of some position were concerned.
But, when I saw him dispute with a poor gardener who had laid the sods
in his yard, about fifty cents, take sixpence off of a weary strawberry
woman, or chaffer with his boot-black over an extra shilling, I could
not think that it was genuine love for his fellow-men that prompted his
ostentatious charities.
In no instance did I find any better estimation of him in business
circles; for his religion did not chasten the ardor of his selfish love
of advantage in trade; nor make him more generous, nor more inclined to
help or befriend the weak and the needy. Twice I saw his action in the
case of unhappy debtors, who had not been successful in business. In
each case, his claim was among the smallest; but he said more unkind
things, and was the hardest to satisfy, of any man among the creditors.
He assumed dishonest intention at the outset, and made that a plea for
the most rigid exaction; covering his own hard selfishness with
offensive cant about mercantile honor, Christian integrity, and
religious observance of business contracts. He was the only man among
all the creditors, who made his church membership a prominent
thing--few of them were even church-goers--and the only man who did not
readily make concessions to the poor, down-trodden debtors.
"Is he a Christian?" I asked, as I walked home in some depression of
spirits, from the last of these meetings. And I could but answer
No--for to be a Christian is to be Christ-like.
"As ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them." This is
the divine standard. "Ye must be born again," leaves to us no latitude
of interpretation. There must be a death of the old, natural, selfish
loves, and a new birth of spiritual affections. As a man feels, so will
he act. If the affections that rule his heart be divine affections, he
will be a lover of others, and a seeker of their good. He will not be a
hard, harsh, exacting man in natural things, but kind, forbearing,
thoughtful of others, and yielding. In all his dealings with men, his
actions will be governed by the heavenly laws of justice and judgment.
He will regard the good of his neighbor equally with his own. It is in
the world where Christian graces reveal themselves, if they exist at
all. Religion is not a mere Sunday affair, but the regulator of a man's
conduct among his fellow-men. Unless it does this, it is a false
religion, and he who depends upon it for the enjoyment of heavenly
felicities in the next life, will find himself in miserable error.
Heaven cannot be earned by mere acts of piety, for heaven is the
complement of all divine affections in the human soul; and a man must
come into these--must be born into them--while on earth, or he can
never find an eternal home among the angels of God. Heaven is not
gained by doing, but by living.
III.
"RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE."
"_HAVE_ you noticed Miss Harvey's diamonds?" said a friend, directing
my attention, as she spoke, to a young lady who stood at the lower end
of the room. I looked towards Miss Harvey, and as I did so, my eyes
received the sparkle of her gems.
"Brilliant as dew-drops in the morning sunbeams," I remarked.
"Only less brilliant," was my friend's response to this. "Only less
brilliant. Nothing holds the sunlight in its bosom so perfectly as a
drop of dew.--Next, the diamond. I am told that the pin, now flashing
back the light, as it rises and falls with the swell and subsidence of
her bosom, cost just one thousand dollars. The public, you know, are
very apt to find out the money-value of fine jewelry."
"Miss Harvey is beautiful," said I, "and could afford to depend less on
the foreign aid of ornament."
"If she had dazzled us with that splendid pin alone," returned my
friend, "we might never have been tempted to look beneath the jewel,
far down into the wearer's heart. But, diamond earrings, and a diamond
bracelet, added--we know their value to be just twelve hundred dollars;
the public is specially inquisitive--suggest some weakness or
perversion of feeling, and we become eagle-eyed. But for the blaze of
light with which Miss Harvey has surrounded herself, I, for one, should
not have been led to observe her closely. There is no object in nature
which has not its own peculiar signification; which does not correspond
to some quality, affection, or attribute of the mind. This is true of
gems; and it is but natural, that we should look for | 1,817.380229 |
2023-11-16 18:47:21.5599340 | 1,171 | 8 |
Produced by Edward A. Malone
L'ALLEGRO, IL PENSEROSO, COMUS, AND LYCIDAS
By
John Milton
L'ALLEGRO
HENCE, loathed Melancholy,
............Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born
In Stygian cave forlorn
............'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights
unholy!
Find out some uncouth cell,
............Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-raven sings;
............There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,
............In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But come, thou Goddess fair and free,
In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,
And by men heart-easing Mirth;
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth,
With two sister Graces more,
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore:
Or whether (as some sager sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the spring,
Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a-Maying,
There, on beds of violets blue,
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew,
Filled her with thee, a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful Jollity,
Quips and cranks and wanton wiles,
Nods and becks and wreathed smiles
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it, as you go,
On the light fantastic toe;
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free:
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And, singing, startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow,
Through the sweet-briar or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine;
While the cock, with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack, or the barn-door,
Stoutly struts his dames before:
Oft listening how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of some hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill:
Sometime walking, not unseen,
By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate
Where the great Sun begins his state,
Robed in flames and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight;
While the ploughman, near at hand,
Whistles o'er the furrowed land,
And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
Whilst the landskip round it measures:
Russet lawns, and fallows grey,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains on whose barren breast
The labouring clouds do often rest;
Meadows trim, with daisies pied;
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;
Towers and battlements it sees
Bosomed high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
Hard by a cottage chimney smokes
From betwixt two aged oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met
Are at their savoury dinner set
Of herbs and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses;
And then in haste her bower she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;
Or, if the earlier season lead,
To the tanned haycock in the mead.
Sometimes, with secure delight,
The upland hamlets will invite,
When the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecks sound
To many a youth and many a maid
Dancing in the chequered shade,
And young and old come forth to play
On a sunshine holiday,
Till the livelong daylight fail:
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How Faery Mab the junkets eat.
She was pinched and pulled, she said;
And he, by Friar's lantern led,
Tells how the drudging goblin sweat
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn
That ten day-labourers could not end;
Then lies him down, the lubber fiend,
And, stretched out all the chimney's length,
Basks at | 1,817.579974 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Diane Monico, and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
WILD ANIMALS AT HOME
+---------------------------------------+
| |
| BY THE SAME AUTHOR |
| |
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| | 1,817.879502 |
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Produced by Charles Aldarondo and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team
SYLVIA'S MARRIAGE
A NOVEL
By Upton Sinclair
Author Of "The Jungle," Etc., Etc.
London
SOME PRESS NOTICES
"The importance of the theme cannot be doubted, and no one hitherto
ignorant of the ravages of the evil and therefore, by implication, in
need of being convinced can refuse general agreement with Mr. Sinclair
upon the question as he argues it. The character that matters most is
very much alive and most entertaining."--_The Times._
"Very severe and courageous. It would, indeed, be difficult to deny
or extenuate the appalling truth of Mr. Sinclair's indictment."-- _The
Nation._
"There is not a man nor a grown woman who would not be better for
reading Sylvia's Marriage."--_The Globe_
"Those who found Sylvia charming on her first appearance will find her
as beautiful and fascinating as ever."--_The Pall Mall_.
"A novel that frankly is devoted to the illustration of the dangers
that society runs through the marriage of unsound men with unsuspecting
women. The time has gone by when any objection was likely to be taken to
a perfectly clean discussion of a nasty subject."--_T.P.'s Weekly._
CONTENTS
BOOK I SYLVIA AS WIFE
BOOK II SYLVIA AS MOTHER
BOOK III SYLVIA AS REBEL
SYLVIA'S MARRIAGE
BOOK I. SYLVIA AS WIFE
1. I am telling the story of Sylvia Castleman. I should prefer to tell
it without mention of myself; but it was written in the book of fate
that I should be a decisive factor in her life, and so her story
pre-supposes mine. I imagine the impatience of a reader, who is promised
a heroine out of a romantic and picturesque "society" world, and
finds himself beginning with the autobiography of a farmer's wife on a
solitary homestead in Manitoba. But then I remember that Sylvia found
me interesting. Putting myself in her place, remembering her eager
questions and her exclamations, I am able to see myself as a heroine of
fiction.
I was to Sylvia a new and miraculous thing, a self-made woman. I must
have been the first "common" person she had ever known intimately. She
had seen us afar off, and wondered vaguely about us, consoling herself
with the reflection that we probably did not know enough to be unhappy
over our sad lot in life. But here I was, actually a soul like herself;
and it happened that I knew more than she did, and of things she
desperately needed to know. So all the luxury, power and prestige that
had been given to Sylvia Castleman seemed as nothing beside Mary Abbott,
with her modern attitude and her common-sense.
My girlhood was spent upon a farm in Iowa. My father had eight children,
and he drank. Sometimes he struck me; and so it came about that at
the age of seventeen I ran away with a boy of twenty who worked upon
a neighbour's farm. I wanted a home of my own, and Tom had some money
saved up. We journeyed to Manitoba, and took out a homestead, where I
spent the next twenty years of my life in a hand-to-hand struggle with
Nature which seemed simply incredible to Sylvia when I told her of it.
The man I married turned out to be a petty tyrant. In the first five
years of our life he succeeded in killing the love I had for him; but
meantime I had borne him three children, and there was nothing to do but
make the best of my bargain. I became to outward view a beaten drudge;
yet it was the truth that never for an hour did I give up. When I lost
what would have been my fourth child, and the doctor told me that I
could never have another, I took this for my charter of freedom, and
made up my mind to my course; I would raise the children I had, and grow
up with them, and move out into life when they did.
This was when I was working eighteen hours a day, more than half of
it by lamp-light, in the darkness of our Northern winters. When the
accident came, I had been doing the cooking for half a dozen men, who
were getting in the wheat upon which our future depended. I fell in my
tracks, and lost my child; yet I sat still and white while the men ate
supper, and afterwards I washed up the dishes. Such was my life in
those days; and I can see before me the face of horror with which Sylvia
listened to the story. But these things are common in the experience
of women who live upon pioneer farms, and toil as the slave-woman has
toiled since civilization began.
We won out, and my husband made money. I centred my energies upon
getting school-time for my children; and because I had resolved that
they should not grow ahead of me, I sat up at night, and studied their
books. When the oldest boy was ready for high-school, we moved to a
town, where my husband had bought a granary business. By that time I
had become a physical wreck, with a list of ailments too painful to
describe. But I still had my craving for knowledge, and my illness was
my salvation, in a way--it got me a hired girl, and time to patronize
the free library.
I had never had any sort of superstition or prejudice, and when I got
into the world of books, I began quickly to find my way. I travelled
into by-paths, of course; I got Christian Science badly, and New Thought
in a mild attack. I still have in my mind what the sober reader would
doubtless consider queer kinks; for instance, I still practice "mental
healing," in a form, and I don't always tell my secret thoughts about
Theosophy and Spiritualism. But almost at once I worked myself out of
the religion I had been taught, and away from my husband's politics,
and the drugs of my doctors. One of the first subjects I read about was
health; I came upon a book on fasting, and went away upon a visit and
tried it, and came back home a new woman, with a new life before me.
In all of these matters my husband fought me at every step. He wished
to rule, not merely my body, but my mind, and it seemed as if every new
thing that I learned was an additional affront to him. I don't think
I was rendered disagreeable by my culture; my only obstinacy was in
maintaining the right of the children to do their own thinking. But
during this time my husband was making money, and filling his life with
that. He remained in his every idea the money-man, an active and bitter
leader of the forces of greed in our community; and when my studies took
me to the inevitable end, and I joined the local of the Socialist party
in our town, it was to him like a blow in the face. He never got over
it, and I think that if the children had not been on my side, he would
have claimed the Englishman's privilege of beating me with a stick
not thicker than his thumb. As it was, he retired into a sullen
hypochondria, which was so pitiful that in the end I came to regard him
as not responsible.
I went to a college town with my three children, and when they were
graduated, having meantime made sure that I could never do anything but
torment my husband, I set about getting a divorce. I had helped to lay
the foundation of his fortune, cementing it with my blood, I might say,
and I could fairly have laid claim to half what he had brought from
the farm; but my horror of the parasitic woman had come to be such that
rather than even seem to be one, I gave up everything, and went out into
the world at the age of forty-five to earn my own living. My children
soon married, and I would not be a burden to them; so I came East for
a while, and settled down quite unexpectedly into a place as a
field-worker for a child-labour committee.
You may think that a woman so situated would not have been apt to meet
Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver, _nee_ Castleman, and to be chosen for her bosom
friend; but that would only be because you do not know the modern world.
We have managed to get upon the consciences of the rich, and they invite
us to attend their tea-parties and disturb their peace of mind. And
then, too, I had a peculiar hold upon Sylvia; when I met her I possessed
the key to the great mystery of her life. How that had come about is a
story in itself, the thing I have next to tell.
2. It happened that my arrival in New York from the far West coincided
with Sylvia's from the far South; and that both fell at a time when
there were no wars or earthquakes or football games to compete for
the front page of the newspapers. So everybody was talking about the
prospective wedding. The fact that the Southern belle had caught
the biggest prize among the city's young millionaires was enough to
establish precedence with the city's subservient newspapers, which had
proceeded to robe the grave and punctilious figure of the bridegroom in
the garments of King Cophetua. The fact that the bride's father was
the richest man in his own section did not interfere with this--for how
could metropolitan editors be expected to have heard of the glories of
Castleman Hall, or to imagine that there existed a section of America so
self-absorbed that its local favourite would not feel herself exalted in
becoming Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver?
What the editors knew about Castleman Hall was that they wired for
pictures, and a man was sent from the nearest city to "snap"
this unknown beauty; whereupon her father chased the presumptuous
photographer and smashed his camera with a cane. So, of course, when
Sylvia stepped out of the train in New York, there was a whole battery
of cameras awaiting her, and all the city beheld her image the next day.
The beginning of my interest in this "belle" from far South was when I
picked up the paper at my breakfast table, and found her gazing at me,
with the wide-open, innocent eyes of a child; a child who had come from
some fairer, more gracious world, and brought the memory of it with her,
trailing her clouds of glory. She had stepped from the train into the
confusion of the roaring city, and she stood, startled and frightened,
yet, I thought, having no more real idea of its wickedness and horror
than a babe in arms. I read her soul in that heavenly countenance, and
sat looking at it, enraptured, dumb. There must have been thousands,
even in that metropolis of Mammon, who loved her from that picture, and
whispered a prayer for her happiness.
I can hear her laugh as I write this. For she would have it that I was
only one more of her infatuated lovers, and that her clouds of glory
were purely stage illusion. She knew exactly what she was doing with
those wide-open, innocent eyes! Had not old Lady Dee, most cynical
of worldlings, taught her how to use them when she was a child in
pig-tails? To be sure she had been scared when she stepped off the
train, and strange men had shoved cameras under her nose. It was almost
as bad as being assassinated! But as to her heavenly soul--alas, for the
blindness of men, and of sentimental old women, who could believe in a
modern "society" girl!
I had supposed that I was an emancipated woman when I came to New York.
But one who has renounced the world, the flesh and the devil, knowing
them only from pictures in magazines and Sunday supplements; such a
one may find that he has still some need of fasting and praying.
The particular temptation which overcame me was this picture of the
bride-to-be. I wanted to see her, and I went and stood for hours in a
crowd of curious women, and saw the wedding party enter the great Fifth
Avenue Church, and discovered that my Sylvia's hair was golden, and her
eyes a strange and wonderful red-brown. And this was the moment that
fate had chosen to throw Claire Lepage into my arms, and give me the key
to the future of Sylvia's life.
3. I am uncertain how much I should tell about Claire Lepage. It is a
story which is popular in a certain sort of novel, but I have no wish
for that easy success. Towards Claire herself I had no trace of the
conventional attitude, whether of contempt or of curiosity. She was to
me the product of a social system, of the great New Nineveh which I was
investigating. And later on, when I knew her, she was a weak sister whom
I tried to help.
It happened that I knew much more about such matters than the average
woman--owing to a tragedy in my life. When I was about twenty-five years
old, my brother-in-law had moved his family to our part of the world,
and one of his boys had become very dear to me. This boy later on
had got into trouble, and rather than tell anyone about it, had shot
himself. So my eyes had been opened to things that are usually hidden
from my sex; for the sake of my own sons, I had set out to study the
underground ways of the male creature. I developed the curious custom of
digging out every man I met, and making him lay bare his inmost life to
me; so you may understand that it was no ordinary pair of woman's arms
into which Claire Lepage was thrown.
At first I attributed her vices to her environment, but soon I realized
that this was a mistake; the women of her world do not as a rule go to
pieces. Many of them I met were free and independent women, one or two
of them intellectual and worth knowing. For the most part such women
marry well, in the worldly sense, and live as contented lives as the
average lady who secures her life-contract at the outset. If you had met
Claire at an earlier period of her career, and if she had been concerned
to impress you, you might have thought her a charming hostess. She
had come of good family, and been educated in a convent--much better
educated than many society girls in America. She spoke English as well
as she did French, and she had read some poetry, and could use the
language of idealism whenever necessary. She had even a certain
religious streak, and could voice the most generous sentiments, and
really believe that she believed them. So it might have been some time
before you discovered the springs of her weakness.
In the beginning I blamed van Tuiver; but in the end I concluded that
for most of her troubles she had herself to thank--or perhaps the
ancestors who had begotten her. She could talk more nobly and act more
abjectly than any other woman I have ever known. She wanted pleasant
sensations, and she expected life to furnish them continuously.
Instinctively she studied the psychology of the person she was dealing
with, and chose a reason which would impress that person.
At this time, you understand, I knew nothing about Sylvia Castleman
or her fiance, except what the public knew. But now I got an inside
view--and what a view! I had read some reference to Douglas van Tuiver's
Harvard career: how he had met the peerless Southern beauty, and had
given up college and pursued her to her home. I had pictured the
wooing in the rosy lights of romance, with all the glamour of worldly
greatness. But now, suddenly, what a glimpse into the soul of the
princely lover! "He had a good scare, let me tell you," said Claire. "He
never knew what I was going to do from one minute to the next."
"Did he see you in the crowd before the church door?" I inquired.
"No," she replied, "but he thought of me, I can promise you."
"He knew you were coming?"
She answered, "I told him I had got an admission card, just to make sure
he'd keep me in mind!"
4. I did not have to hear much more of Claire's story before making up
my mind that the wealthiest and most fashionable of New York's young
bachelors was a rather self-centred person. He had fallen desperately in
love with the peerless Southern beauty, and when she had refused to
have anything to do with him, he had come back to the other woman for
consolation, and had compelled her to pretend to sympathize with his
agonies of soul. And this when he knew that she loved him with the
intensity of a jealous nature.
Claire had her own view of Sylvia Castleman, a view for which I
naturally made due reservations. Sylvia was a schemer, who had known
from the first what she wanted, and had played her part with masterly
skill. As for Claire, she had str | 1,818.07918 |
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Produced by David Edwards and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
By Joel Chandler Harris.
NIGHTS WITH UNCLE REMUS. Myths and Legends of the Old
Plantation. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50; paper, 50 cents.
MINGO, and other Sketches in Black and White. 16mo, $1.25;
paper, 50 cents.
BALAAM AND HIS MASTER, and other Sketches and Stories. 16mo,
$1.25.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
BOSTON AND NEW YORK.
BALAAM AND HIS MASTER
_AND OTHER SKETCHES AND
STORIES_
BY
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
AUTHOR OF “UNCLE REMUS, HIS SONGS AND HIS SAYINGS,” “FREE
JOE,” “DADDY JAKE, THE RUNAWAY,” ETC.
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1891
Copyright, 1891,
BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.
_All rights reserved._
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
BALAAM AND HIS MASTER 7
A CONSCRIPT’S CHRISTMAS 45
ANANIAS 112
WHERE’S DUNCAN? 149
MOM BI 170
THE OLD BASCOM PLACE 192
BALAAM AND HIS MASTER.
What fantastic tricks are played by fate or circumstance! Here is a
horrible war that shall redeem a nation, that shall restore civilization,
that shall establish Christianity. Here is a university of slavery that
shall lead the savage to citizenship. Here is a conflagration that
shall rebuild a city. Here is the stroke of a pen that shall change the
destinies of many peoples. Here is the bundle of fagots that shall light
the fires of liberty. As in great things, so in small. Tragedy drags
comedy across the stage, and hard upon the heels of the hero tread the
heavy villain and the painted clown.
What a preface to write before the name of Billville!
Years ago, when one of the ex-Virginian pioneers who had settled in
Wilkes County, in the State of Georgia, concluded to try his fortune
farther west, he found himself, after a tedious journey of a dozen days,
in the midst of a little settlement in middle Georgia. His wagons
and his <DW64>s were at once surrounded by a crowd of curious but
good-humored men and a swarm of tow-headed children.
“What is your name?” he asked one of the group.
“Bill Jones.”
“And yours?” turning to another.
“Bill Satterlee.”
The group was not a large one, but in addition to Jones and Satterlee,
as the newcomer was informed, Bill Ware, Bill Cosby, Bill Pinkerton,
Bill Pearson, Bill Johnson, Bill Thurman, Bill Jessup, and Bill Prior
were there present, and ready to answer to their names. In short, fate
or circumstance had played one of its fantastic pranks in this isolated
community, and every male member of the settlement, with the exception of
Laban Davis, who was small and puny-looking, bore the name of Bill.
“Well,” said the pioneer, who was not without humor, “I’ll pitch my tent
in Billville. My name is Bill Cozart.”
This is how Billville got its name—a name that has clung to it through
thick and thin. A justifiable but futile attempt was made during the
war to change the name of the town to Panola, but it is still called
Billville, much to the disappointment of those citizens who have drawn
both pride and prosperity in the lottery of life.
It was a fortunate day for Billville when Mr. William Cozart, almost by
accident, planted his family tree in the soil of the settlement. He was a
man of affairs, and at once became the leading citizen of the place. His
energy and public spirit, which had room for development here, appeared
to be contagious. He bought hundreds of acres of land, in the old
Virginia fashion, and made for himself a home as comfortable as it was
costly. His busy and unselfish life was an example for his neighbors to
follow, and when he died the memory of it was a precious heritage to his
children.
Meanwhile Billville, stirred into action by his influence, grew into a
thrifty village, and then into a flourishing town; but through all the
changes the Cozarts remained the leading family, socially, politically,
and financially. But one day in the thirties Berrien Cozart was born, and
the wind that blew aside the rich lace of his cradle must have been an
ill one, for the child grew up to be a thorn in the side of those who
loved him best. His one redeeming quality was his extraordinary beauty.
This has, no doubt, been exaggerated; but there are still living in
Billville many men and women who knew him, and they will tell you to-day
that Berrien Cozart was the handsomest man they have ever seen—and some
of them have visited every court in Europe. So far as they are concerned,
the old saying, “Handsome is that handsome does,” has lost its force.
They will tell you that Berrien Cozart was the handsomest man in the
world and—probably the worst.
He was willful and wrongheaded from the first. He never, even as a child,
acknowledged any authority but his own sweet will. He could simulate
obedience whenever it suited his purpose, but only one person in the
world had any real influence over him—a <DW64> named Balaam. The day
Berrien Cozart was born, his proud and happy father called to a likely
<DW64> lad who was playing about in the yard—the day was Sunday—and said:—
“How old are you?”
“I dunno ’zackly, marster, but ole Aunt Emmeline she know.”
| 1,818.225556 |
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Produced by Robert Connal, Wilelmina Malliere and PG Distributed
Proofreaders
[Illustration: FRONTISPIECE THE COLUMN OF JULY (HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF)]
PARIS
UNDER THE COMMUNE: OR,
THE SEVENTY-THREE DAYS OF THE
SECOND SIEGE
WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS, SKETCHES TAKEN ON THE SPOT, AND PORTRAITS
(FROM THE ORIGINAL PHOTOGRAPHS).
BY JOHN LEIGHTON, F.S.A.,
&C.
LONDON:
1871.
Socialism, or the Red Republic, is all one; for it would
tear down the tricolour and set up the red flag. It would make
penny pieces out of the Column Vendome. It would knock down
the statue of Napoleon and raise up that of Marat in its
stead. It would suppress the Academie, the Ecole
Polytechnique, and the Legion of Honour. To the grand device
Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity, it would add "Ou la mort."
It would bring about a general bankruptcy. It would ruin the
rich without enriching the poor. It would destroy labour,
which gives to each one his bread. It would abolish property
and family. It would march about with the heads of the
proscribed on pikes, fill the prisons with the suspected, and
empty them by massacres. It would convert France into the
country of gloom. It would strangle liberty, stifle the arts,
silence thought, and deny God. It would bring into action
these two fatal machines, one of which never works without the
other--the assignat press and the guillotine. In a word, it
would do in cold blood what the men of 1793 did in fever, and
after the grand horrors which our fathers saw, we should have
the horrible in all that was low and small.
(VICTOR HUGO, 1848.)
PREFACE.
Early in June of the present year I was making notes and sketches,
without the least idea of what I should do with them. I was at the
Mont-Parnasse Station of the Western Railway, awaiting a train from
Paris to St. Cloud. Our fellow passengers, as we discovered afterwards,
were principally prisoners for Versailles; the guards, soldiers; and the
line, for two miles at least, appeared desolation and ruin.
The facade of the station, a very large one, was pockmarked all over by
Federal bullets, whilst cannon balls had cut holes through the stone
wall as if it had been cheese, and gone down the line, towards Cherbourg
or Brest! The restaurant below was nearly annihilated, the counters,
tables, and chairs being reduced to a confused heap. But there was a
book-stall and on that book-stall reposed a little work, entitled the
"Bataille des Sept Jours," a brochure which a friend bought and gave to
me, saying, "_Voila la texte de vos croquis_," From seven days my ideas
naturally wandered to seventy-three--the duration of the reign of the
Commune--and then again to two hundred and twenty days--that included
the Commune of 1871 and its antecedents. Hence this volume, which I
liken to a French chateau, to which I have added a second storey and
wings.
And now that the house is finished, I must render my obligations to M.
Mendes and numerous French friends, for their kind assistance and
valuable aid, including my confreres of "_The Graphic_," who have
allowed me to enliven the walls with pictures from their stores; and
last, and not least, my best thanks are due to an English Peer, who
placed at my disposal his unique collection of prints and journals of
the period bearing upon the subject--a subject I am pretty familiar
with. Powder has done its work, the smell of petroleum has passed away,
the house that called me master has vanished from the face of the earth,
and my concierge and his wife are reported _fusilles_ by the
Versaillais; and to add to the disaster, my rent was paid in advance,
having been deposited with a _notaire_ prior to the First Siege.... But
my neighbours, where are they? In my immediate neighbourhood six houses
were entirely destroyed, and as many more half ruined. I can only speak
of one friend, an amiable and able architect, who, alas! remonstrated in
person, and received a ball from a revolver through the back of his
neck. His head is bowed for life. He has lost his pleasure and his
treasure, a valuable museum of art,--happily they could not burn his
reputation, or the monument of his life--a range of goodly folio volumes
that exist "_pour tous_."
L.
LONDON, 1871
CONTENTS.
PREFACE
CONTENTS
LIST OF PLATES AND ILLUSTRATIONS
INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER--The 30th October, 1870--The Hotel de Ville
invaded--Governor Trochu resigns--A Revolt attempted--Meetings, Place de
la Bastille--The Prussians enter Paris--Hostility of the National Guard
I. The Memorable 18th of March--Line and Nationals
Fraternise--Discipline at a Discount
II. Assassination of Generals Lecomte and Clement Thomas
III. Proclamation of M. Picard--The Government retires to Versailles
IV. The New Regime Proclaimed--Obscurity of New Masters
V. Paris Hesitates--Small Sympathy with Versailles
VI. The Buttes Montmartre
VII. An Issue Possible--An Approved Proclamation
VIII. Demonstration of the Friends of Order
IX. The Drama of the Rue de la Paix--Victims to Order
X. A Wedding
XI. The Bourse and Belleville
XII. Watching and Waiting
XIII. A Timid but Prudent Person
XIV Some Federal Opinions
XV. Proclamation of Admiral Saisset--Paris Satisfied.
XVI. A Widow
XVII. The Central Committee Triumphs
XVIII. Paris Elections
XIX. The Commune a Fact--A Motley Assembly
XX. Proclamation of the Elections
XXI. A Batch of Official Decrees--Landlord, and Tenant
XXII. Re | 1,818.279595 |
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HOCUS POCUS; OR THE WHOLE ART OF LEGERDEMAIN, IN PERFECTION. BY HENRY | 1,818.481818 |
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TALES OF A TRAVELLER
BY
WASHINGTON IRVING
CONTENTS.
PART FIRST.
STRANGE STORIES BY A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN.
A Hunting Dinner
Adventure of my Uncle
Adventure of my Aunt
Bold Dragoon
Adventure of the Mysterious Picture
Adventure of the Mysterious Stranger
Story of the Young Italian
PART SECOND.
BUCKTHORNE AND HIS FRIENDS.
Literary Life
Literary Dinner
Club of Queer Fellows
Poor Devil Author
Buckthorne; or, the Young Man of Great Expectations
Grave Reflections of a Disappointed Man
Booby Squire
Strolling Manager
PART THIRD.
THE ITALIAN BANDITTI.
Inn at Terracina
Adventure of the Little Antiquary
Adventure of the Popkins Family
Painter's Adventure
Story of the Bandit Chieftain
Story of the Young Robber
PART FOURTH.
THE MONEY-DIGGERS.
Hell Gate
Kidd, the Pirate
Devil and Tom Walker
Wolfert Webber; or, Golden Dreams
Adventure of Sam, the Black Fisherman
TALES OF A TRAVELLER
PART FIRST
STRANGE STORIES BY A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN.
I'll tell you more; there was a fish taken,
A monstrous fish, with, a sword by's side, a long sword,
A pike in's neck, and a gun in's nose, a huge gun,
And letters of mart in's mouth, from the Duke of Florence.
_Cleanthes_. This is a monstrous lie.
_Tony_. I do confess it.
Do you think I'd tell you truths!
FLETCHER'S WIFE FOR A MONTH.
[The following adventures were related to me by the same nervous
gentleman who told me the romantic tale of THE STOUT GENTLEMAN,
published in Bracebridge Hall.
It is very singular, that although I expressly stated that story to
have been told to me, and described the very person who told it, still
it has been received as an adventure that happened to myself. Now, I
protest I never met with any adventure of the kind. I should not have
grieved at this, had it not been intimated by the author of Waverley,
in an introduction to his romance of Peveril of the Peak, that he was
himself the Stout Gentleman alluded to. I have ever since been
importuned by letters and questions from gentlemen, and particularly
from ladies without number, touching what I had seen of the great
unknown.
Now, all this is extremely tantalizing. It is like being congratulated
on the high prize when one has drawn a blank; for I have just as great
a desire as any one of the public to penetrate the mystery of that
very singular personage, whose voice fills every corner of the world,
without any one being able to tell from whence it comes. He who keeps
up such a wonderful and whimsical incognito: whom nobody knows, and
yet whom every body thinks he can swear to.
My friend, the nervous gentleman, also, who is a man of very shy,
Retired habits, complains that he has been excessively annoyed in
consequence of its getting about in his neighborhood that he is the
fortunate personage. Insomuch, that he has become a character of
considerable notoriety in two or three country towns; and has been
repeatedly teased to exhibit himself at blue-stocking parties, for no
other reason than that of being "the gentleman who has had a glimpse
of the author of Waverley."
Indeed, the poor man has grown ten times as nervous as ever, since he
has discovered, on such good authority, who the stout gentleman was;
and will never forgive himself for not having made a more resolute
effort to get a full sight of him. He has anxiously endeavored to call
up a recollection of what he saw of that portly personage; and has
ever since kept a curious eye on all gentlemen of more than ordinary
dimensions, whom he has seen getting into stage coaches. All in vain!
The features he had caught a glimpse of seem common to the whole race
of stout gentlemen; and the great unknown remains as great an unknown
as ever.]
A HUNTING DINNER.
I was once at a hunting dinner, given by a worthy fox-hunting old
Baronet, who kept Bachelor's Hall in jovial style, in an ancient
rook-haunted family mansion, in one of the middle counties. He had been
a devoted admirer of the fair sex in his young days; but having
travelled much, studied the sex in various countries with distinguished
success, and returned home profoundly instructed, as he supposed, in
the ways of woman, and a perfect master of the art of pleasing, he had
the mortification of being jilted by a little boarding school girl, who
was scarcely versed in the accidence of love.
The Baronet was completely overcome by such an incredible defeat;
retired from the world in disgust, put himself under the government of
his housekeeper, and took to fox-hunting like a perfect Jehu. Whatever
poets may say to the contrary, a man will grow out of love as he grows
old; and a pack of fox hounds may chase out of his heart even the
memory of a boarding-school goddess. The Baronet was when I saw him as
merry and m | 1,818.58062 |
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[Illustration: ]
A LITTLE BOY LOST
By W. H. Hudson
Illustrated by A. D. M'Cormick
CONTENTS
_CHAPTER_
I THE HOME ON THE GREAT PLAIN,
II THE SPOONBILL AND THE CLOUD,
III CHASING A FLYING FIGURE,
IV MARTIN IS FOUND BY A DEAF OLD MAN,
V THE PEOPLE OF THE MIRAGE,
VI MARTIN MEETS WITH SAVAGES,
VII ALONE IN THE GREAT FOREST,
VIII THE FLOWER AND THE SERPENT,
IX THE BLACK PEOPLE OF THE SKY,
X A TROOP OF WILD HORSES,
XI THE LADY OF THE HILLS,
XII THE LITTLE PEOPLE UNDERGROUND,
XIII THE GREAT BLUE WATER,
XIV THE WONDERS OF THE HILLS,
XV MARTIN'S EYES ARE OPENED,
XVI THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST,
XVII THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA,
XVIII MARTIN PLAYS WITH THE WAVES,
CHAPTER I
THE HOME ON THE GREAT PLAIN
Some like to be one thing, some another. There is so much to be done,
so many different things to do, so many trades! Shepherds, soldiers,
sailors, ploughmen, carters--one could go on all day naming without
getting to the end of them. For myself, boy and man, I have been
many things, working for a living, and sometimes doing things just
for pleasure; but somehow, whatever I did, it never seemed quite the
right and proper thing to do--it never quite satisfied me. I always
wanted to do something else--I wanted to be a carpenter. It seemed
to me that to stand among wood-shavings and sawdust, making things
at a bench with bright beautiful tools out of nice-smelling wood,
was the cleanest, healthiest, prettiest work that any man can do.
Now all this has nothing, or very little, to do with my story: I
only spoke of it because I had to begin somehow, and it struck me
that I would make a start that way. And for another reason, too.
_His father was a carpenter_. I mean Martin's father--Martin, the
Little Boy Lost. His father's name was John, and he was a very good
man and a good carpenter, and he loved to do his carpentering better
than anything else; in fact as much as I should have loved it if I
had been taught that trade. He lived in a seaside town, named
Southampton, where there is a great harbour, where he saw great
ships coming and going to and from all parts of the world. Now, no
strong, brave man can live in a place like that, seeing the ships
and often talking to the people who voyaged in them about the
distant lands where they had been, without wishing to go and see
those distant countries for himself. When it is winter in England,
and it rains and rains, and the east wind blows, and it is grey and
cold and the trees are bare, who does not think how nice it would be
to fly away like the summer birds to some distant country where the
sky is always blue and the sun shines bright and warm every day? And
so it came to pass that John, at last, when he was an old man, sold
his shop, and went abroad. They went to a country many thousands of
miles away--for you must know that Mrs. John went too; and when the
sea voyage ended, they travelled many days and weeks in a wagon
until they came to the place where they wanted to live; and there,
in that lonely country, they built a house, and made a garden, and
planted an orchard. It was a desert, and they had no neighbours, but
they were happy enough because they had as much land as they wanted,
and the weather was always bright and beautiful; John, too, had his
carpenter's tools to work with when he felt inclined; and, best of
all, they had little Martin to love and think about.
But how about Martin himself? You might think that with no other
child to prattle to and play with or even to see, it was too lonely
a home for him. Not a bit of it! No child could have been happier.
He did not want for company; his playfellows were the dogs and cats
and chickens, and any creature in and about | 1,867.650356 |
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THE ADVENTURES OF THE U-202
AN ACTUAL NARRATIVE
BY
BARON SPIEGEL
VON UND ZU PECKELSHEIM
(CAPTAIN-LIEUTENANT, COMMANDER OF THE U-202)
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1917
Copyright, 1917, by
THE CENTURY CO.
Copyright, 1917, by
JOHN N. WHEELER, INC.
_Published, February, 1917
by arrangement with New York World_
PREFACE
I was sitting on the conning tower smoking a cigarette. Then the splash
of a wave soaked it. I tried to draw another puff. It tasted loathsome
and frizzled. Then I became angry and threw it away.
I can see my reader's surprised expression. You had expected to read a
serious U-boat story and now such a ridiculous beginning! But I know
what I am doing. If I had once thrown myself into the complicated U-boat
system and used a bunch of technical terms, this story would be shorter
and more quickly read through, but you would not have understood half of
it.
Seriousness will come, bitter and pitiable seriousness. In fact,
everything is serious which is connected with the life on board a
submarine and none of it is funny; although in fact it is the hundred
small inconveniences and peculiar conditions on a U-boat which make life
on it remarkably characteristic. And in order to bring to the public a
closer knowledge concerning the peculiar life on board a U-boat I am
writing this story. Good--therefore my log-book! Yes, why should I not
make use of it? To this I also wish to add that I not only used my own
log-book but also at many places had use of other U-boats' logs in order
to present one or another episode which is worth the while relating.
Thus, for example, the story of the many fishing-smacks, which are
spoken of in the chapter called "Rich Spoils," is borrowed, but the
happenings in the witch kettle, the adventure with the English bulldog,
and also most of the other chapters are my own feathers with which I
have adorned this little story. This is the only liberal right of an
author which I permit myself. The style of the story from a log-book is
simple and convenient, and one buys so willingly such stories. See there
two valid reasons for making use of it.
THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I OUR FIRST SUCCESS 3
II AN EVENTFUL NIGHT 21
III THE SINKING OF THE TRANSPORT 46
IV RICH SPOILS 68
V THE WITCH-KETTLE 91
VI A DAY OF TERROR 115
VII A LIVELY CHASE 140
VIII THE BRITISH BULL-DOG 163
IX HOMEWARD BOUND! 189
THE ADVENTURES OF THE U-202
THE ADVENTURES OF THE U-202
I
OUR FIRST SUCCESS
_At the hunting grounds North Sea, April 12, 19 | 1,867.754327 |
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DAISY MILLER: A STUDY
IN TWO PARTS
The text is that of the first American appearance in book form, 1879.
PART I
At the little town of Vevey, in Switzerland, there is a particularly
comfortable hotel. There are, indeed, many hotels, for the entertainment
of tourists is the business of the place, which, as many travelers will
remember, is seated upon the edge of a remarkably blue lake--a lake that
it behooves every tourist to visit. The shore of the lake presents an
unbroken array of establishments of this order, of every category, from
the "grand hotel" of the newest fashion, with a chalk-white front, a
hundred balconies, and a dozen flags flying from its roof, to the little
Swiss pension of an elder day, with its name inscribed in German-looking
lettering upon a pink or yellow wall and an awkward summerhouse in the
angle of the garden. One of the hotels at Vevey, however, is famous,
even classical, being distinguished from many of its upstart neighbors
by an air both of luxury and of maturity. In this region, in the month
of June, American travelers are extremely numerous; it may be said,
indeed, that Vevey assumes at this period some of the characteristics
of an American watering place. There are sights and sounds which evoke a
vision, an echo, of Newport and Saratoga. There is a flitting hither
and thither of "stylish" young girls, a rustling of muslin flounces,
a rattle of dance music in the morning hours, a sound of high-pitched
voices at all times. You receive an impression of these things at the
excellent inn of the "Trois Couronnes" and are transported in fancy to
the Ocean House or to Congress Hall. But at the "Trois Couronnes," it
must be added, there are other features that are much at variance with
these suggestions: neat German waiters, who look like secretaries of
legation; Russian princesses sitting in the garden; little Polish boys
walking about held by the hand, with their governors; a view of the
sunny crest of the Dent du Midi and the picturesque towers of the Castle
of Chillon.
I hardly know whether it was the analogies or the differences that were
uppermost in the mind of a young American, who, two or | 1,867.947292 |
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IRELAND UNDER THE STUARTS
VOL. II.
_By the same Author_
IRELAND UNDER THE TUDORS
Vols. I. and II.--From the First Invasion of the
Northmen to the year 1578.
8vo. 32_s._
Vol. III.--1578-1603. 8vo. 18_s._
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
London, New York, Bombay, and Calcutta
IRELAND
UNDER THE STUARTS
AND
DURING THE INTERREGNUM
BY
RICHARD BAGWELL, M.A.
AUTHOR OF 'IRELAND UNDER THE TUDORS'
VOL. II. 1642-1660
_WITH MAP_
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA
1909
All rights reserved
CONTENTS
OF
THE SECOND VOLUME
CHAPTER XXI
MUNSTER AND CONNAUGHT, 1641-1642
PAGE
The rebellion spreads to Munster 1
The King's proclamation 3
St. Leger, Cork, and Inchiquin 3
State of Connaught 5
Massacre at Shrule 6
Clanricarde at Galway 7
Weakness of the English party 8
State of Clare--Ballyallia 10
Cork and St. Leger 12
CHAPTER XXII
THE WAR TO THE BATTLE OF ROSS, 1642-1643
Scots army in Ulster--Monro 14
Strongholds preserved in Ulster 16
Ormonde in the Pale 17
Battle of Kilrush 18
The Catholic Confederation 19
Owen Roe O'Neill 20
Thomas Preston | 1,867.947317 |
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ST. PATRICK'S EVE
By Charles James Lever
Illustr. by Phiz.
London:
Chapman And Hall, 186 Strand.
MDCCCXLV.
TO MY CHILDREN
MY DEAR CHILDREN,
There are few things less likely than that it will ever be your lot
to exercise any of the rights or privileges of landed property. It may
chance, however, that even in your humble sphere, there may be those
who shall look up to you for support, and be, in some wise, dependent
on your will; if so, pray let this little story have its lesson in your
hearts, think, that when I wrote it, I desired to inculcate the truth,
that prosperity has as many duties as adversity has sorrows; that those
to whom Providence has accorded many blessings are but the stewards of
His bounty to the poor; and that the neglect of an obligation so sacred
as this charity is a grievous wrong, and may be the origin of evils
for which all your efforts to do good through life will be but a poor
atonement.
Your affectionate Father,
CHARLES LEVER.
Templeogue, March 1, 1845.
[Illustration: 012]
FIRST ERA.
IT was on the 16th of March, the eve of St. Patrick, not quite twenty
years ago, that a little village on the bank of Lough Corrib was
celebrating in its annual fair "the holy times," devoting one day to
every species of enjoyment and pleasure, and on the next, by practising
prayers and penance of various kinds, as it were to prepare their minds
to resume their worldly duties in a frame of thought more seemly and
becoming.
If a great and wealthy man might smile at the humble preparations for
pleasure displayed on this occasion, he could scarcely scoff at the
scene which surrounded them. The wide valley, encircled by lofty
mountains, whose swelling outlines were tracked against the blue sky, or
mingled gracefully with clouds, whose forms were little less fantastic
and wild. The broad lake, stretching away into the distance, and either
lost among the mountain-passes, or contracting as it approached the
ancient city of Galway: a few, and but very few, islands marked its
surface, and these rugged and rocky; on one alone a human trace was
seen-the ruins of an ancient church; it was a mere gable now, but you
could still track out the humble limits it had occupied-scarce space
sufficient for twenty persons: such were once, doubtless, the full
number of converts to the faith who frequented there. There was a wild
and savage grandeur in the whole: the very aspect of the mountains
proclaimed desolation, and seemed to frown defiance at the efforts of
man to subdue them to his use; and even the herds of wild cattle seemed
to stray with caution among the cliffs and precipices of this dreary
region. Lower down, however, and as if in compensation of the infertile
tract above, the valley was marked by patches of tillage and grass-land,
and studded with cottages; which, if presenting at a nearer inspection
indubitable signs of poverty, yet to the distant eye bespoke something
of rural comfort, nestling as they often did beneath some large rock,
and sheltered by the great turf-stack, which even the poorest possessed.
Many streams wound their course through this valley; along whose
borders, amid a pasture brighter than the emerald, the cattle grazed,
and there, from time to time some peasant child sat fishing as he
watched the herd.
Shut in by lake and mountain, this seemed a little spot apart from all
the world; and so, indeed, its inhabitants found it. They were a poor
but not unhappy race of people, whose humble lives had taught them
nothing of the comforts and pleasures of richer communities. Poverty
had, from habit, no terrors for them; short of actual want, they never
felt its pressure heavily.
Such were they who now were assembled to celebrate the festival of their
Patron Saint. It was drawing towards evening; the sun was already low,
and the red glare that shone from behind the mountains shewed that he
was Bear his setting. The business of the fair was almost concluded;
the little traffic so remote a region could supply, the barter of a few
sheep, the sale of a heifer, a mountain pony, or a flock of goats, had
all passed off; and now the pleasures of the occasion were about to
succeed. The votaries to amusement, as if annoyed at the protracted
dealings of the more worldly minded, were somewhat rudely driving away
the cattle that still continued to linger about; and pigs and poultry
were beginning to discover that they were merely intruders. The canvass
booths, erected as shelter against the night-air, were becoming crowded
with visitors; and from more than one of the number the pleasant sounds
of the bagpipe might now be heard, accompanied by the dull shuffling
tramp of heavily-shod feet.
[Illustration: 016]
Various shows and exhibitions were also in preparation, and singular
announcements were made by gentlemen in a mingled costume of Turk and
Thimble-rigger, of "wonderful calves with two heads;" "six-legged pigs;"
and an "infant of two years old that could drink a quart of spirits at a
draught, if a respectable company were assembled to witness it;"-a feat
which, for the honour of young Ireland, it should be added, was ever
postponed from a deficiency in the annexed condition.
Then there were "restaurants" on a scale of the most primitive
simplicity, where boiled beef or "spoleen" was sold from a huge
pot, suspended over a fire in the open air, and which was invariably
surrounded by a gourmand party of both sexes; gingerbread and cakes of
every fashion and every degree of indigestion also abounded; while
jugs and kegs flanked the entrance to each tent, reeking with a
most unmistakable odour of that prime promoter of native drollery and
fun--poteen. All was stir, movement, and bustle; old friends, separated
since the last occasion of a similar festivity, were embracing
cordially, the men kissing with an affectionate warmth no German ever
equalled; pledges of love and friendship were taken in brimming glasses
by many, who were perhaps to renew the opportunity for such testimonies
hereafter, by a fight that very evening; contracts, ratified by whisky,
until that moment not deemed binding; and courtships, prosecuted with
hopes, which the whole year previous had never suggested; kind
speeches and words of welcome went round; while here and there some
closely-gathered heads and scowling glances gave token, that other
scores were to be acquitted on that night than merely those of commerce;
and in the firmly knitted brow, and more firmly grasped blackthorn, a
practised observer could foresee, that some heads were to carry away
deeper marks of that meeting, than simple memory can impress;--and thus,
in this wild sequestered spot, human passions were as rife as in the
most busy communities of pampered civilisation. Love, hate, and hope,
charity, fear, forgiveness, and malice; long-smouldering revenge,
long--subdued affection; hearts pining beneath daily drudgery, suddenly
awakened to a burst of pleasure and a renewal of happiness in the sight
of old friends, for many a day lost sight of; words of good cheer;
half mutterings of menace; the whispered syllables of love; the
deeply-uttered tones of vengeance; and amid all, the careless reckless
glee of those, who appeared to feel the hour one snatched from the grasp
of misery, and devoted to the very abandonment of pleasure. It seemed in
vain that want and poverty had shed their chilling influence over hearts
like these. The snow-drift and the storm might penetrate their frail
dwellings; the winter might blast, the hurricane might scatter their
humble hoardings; but still, the bold high-beating spirit that lived
within, beamed on throughout every trial; and now, in the hour of
long-sought enjoyment, blazed forth in a flame of joy, that was all but
frantic.
The step that but yesterday fell wearily upon the ground, now smote the
earth with a proud beat, that told of manhood's daring; the voices were
high, the eyes were flashing; long pent-up emotions of every shade and
complexion were there; and it seemed a season where none should wear
disguise, but stand forth in all the fearlessness of avowed resolve;
and in the heart-home looks of love, as well as in the fiery glances of
hatred, none practised concealment. Here, went one with his arm round
his sweetheart's waist,--an evidence of accepted affection none dared
even to stare at; there, went another, the skirt of his long loose coat
thrown over his arm, in whose hand a stick was brandished--his gesture,
even without his wild hurroo! an open declaration of battle, a challenge
to all who liked it. Mothers were met in close conclave, interchanging
family secrets and cares; and daughters, half conscious of the parts
they themselves were playing in the converse, passed looks of sly
intelligence to each other. And beggars were there too--beggars of a
class which even the eastern Dervish can scarcely vie with: <DW36>s
brought many a mile away from their mountain-homes to extort charity by
exhibitions of dreadful deformity; the halt, the blind, the muttering
idiot, the moping melanc holy mad, mixed up with strange and motley
figures in patched uniforms and rags--some, amusing the crowd by their
drolleries, some, singing a popular ballad of the time--while through
all, at every turn and every corner, one huge fellow, without legs, rode
upon an ass, his wide chest ornamented by a picture of himself, and a
paragraph setting forth his infirmities. He, with a voice deeper than
a bassoon, bellowed forth his prayer for alms, and seemed to monopolise
far more than his proportion of charity, doubtless owing to the more
artistic development to which he had brought his profession | 1,867.948188 |
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MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
THE HALL OF FANTASY
It has happened to me, on various occasions, to find myself
in a certain edifice which would appear to have some of the
characteristics of a public exchange. Its interior is a spacious
hall, with a pavement of white marble. Overhead is a lofty dome,
supported by long rows of pillars of fantastic architecture, the
idea of which was probably taken from the Moorish ruins of the
Alhambra, or perhaps from some enchanted edifice in the Arabian
tales. The windows of this hall have a breadth and grandeur of
design and an elaborateness of workmanship that have nowhere been
equalled, except in the Gothic cathedrals of the Old World. Like
their prototypes, too, they admit the light of heaven only through
stained and pictured glass, thus filling the hall with many-colored
radiance and painting its marble floor with beautiful or grotesque
designs; so that its inmates breathe, as it were, a visionary
atmosphere, and tread upon the fantasies of poetic minds. These
peculiarities, combining a wilder mixture of styles than even an
American architect usually recognizes as allowable,--Grecian,
Gothic, Oriental, and nondescript,--cause the whole edifice to give
the impression of a dream, which might be dissipated and shattered
to fragments by merely stamping the foot upon the pavement. Yet,
with such modifications and repairs as successive ages demand, the
Hall of Fantasy is likely to endure longer than the most substantial
structure that ever cumbered the earth.
It is not at all times that one can gain admittance into this
edifice, although most persons enter it at some period or other of
their lives; if not in their waking moments, then by the universal
passport of a dream. At my last visit I wandered thither unawares
while my mind was busy with an idle tale, and was startled by the
throng of people who seemed suddenly to rise up around me.
"Bless me! Where am I?" cried I, with but a dim recognition of the
place.
"You are in a spot," said a friend who chanced to be near at hand,
"which occupies in the world of fancy the same position which the
Bourse, the Rialto, and the Exchange do in the commercial world.
All who have affairs in that mystic region, which lies above, below,
or beyond the actual, may here meet and talk over the business of
their dreams."
"It is a noble hall," observed I.
"Yes," he replied. "Yet we see but a small portion of the edifice.
In its upper stories are said to be apartments where the inhabitants
of earth may hold converse with those of the moon; and beneath our
feet are gloomy cells, which communicate with the infernal regions,
and where monsters and chimeras are kept in confinement and fed with
all unwholesomeness."
In niches and on pedestals around about the hall stood the statues
or busts of men who in every age have been rulers and demigods in
the realms of imagination and its kindred regions. The grand old
countenance of Homer; the shrunken and decrepit form but vivid face
of AEsop; the dark presence of Dante; the wild Ariosto; Rabelais's
smile of deep-wrought mirth, the profound, pathetic humor of
Cervantes; the all-glorious Shakespeare; Spenser, meet guest for an
allegoric structure; the severe divinity of Milton; and Bunyan,
moulded of homeliest clay, but instinct with celestial fire,--were
those that chiefly attracted my eye. Fielding, Richardson, and
Scott occupied conspicuous pedestals. In an obscure and shadowy
niche was deposited the bust of our countryman, the author of Arthur
Mervyn.
"Besides these indestructible memorials of real genius," remarked my
companion, "each century has erected statues of its own ephemeral
favorites in wood."
"I observe a few crumbling relics of such," said I. "But ever and
anon, I suppose, Oblivion comes with her huge broom and sweeps them
all from the marble floor. But such will never be the fate of this
fine statue of Goethe."
"Nor of that next to it,--Emanuel Swedenborg," said he. "Were ever
two men of transcendent imagination more unlike?"
In the centre of the hall springs an ornamental fountain, the water
of which continually throws itself into new shapes and snatches the
most diversified lines from the stained atmosphere around. It is
impossible to conceive what a strange vivacity is imparted to the
scene by the magic dance of this fountain, with its endless
transform | 1,871.649211 |
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Produced by David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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THE LOST HEIR
BY G. A. HENTY
AUTHOR OF "STURDY AND STRONG," "RUJUB, THE JUGGLER," "BY ENGLAND'S AID,"
ETC., ETC.
THE MERSHON COMPANY
RAHWAY, N. J.
NEW YORK
CONTENTS.
I. A BRAVE ACTION 1
II. IN THE SOUTH SEAS 14
III. A DEAF GIRL 27
IV. THE GYPSY 40
V. A GAMBLING DEN 52
VI. JOHN SIMCOE 65
VII. JOHN SIMCOE'S FRIEND 77
VIII. GENERAL MATHIESON'S SEIZURE 90
IX. A STRANGE ILLNESS 102
X. TWO HEAVY BLOWS 112
XI. A STARTLING WILL 124
XII. DR. LEEDS SPEAKS 137
XIII. NETTA VISITS STOWMARKET 150
XIV. AN ADVERTISEMENT 164
XV. VERY BAD NEWS 176
XVI. A FRESH CLEW 193
XVII. NETTA ACTS INDEPENDENTLY 206
XVIII. DOWN IN THE MARSHES 220
XIX. A PARTIAL SUCCESS 233
XX. A DINNER PARTY 247
XXI. A BOX AT THE OPERA 262
XXII. NEARING THE GOAL 274
XXIII. WALTER 287
XXIV. A NEW BARGE 301
XXV. A CRUSHING EXPOSURE 316
XXVI. A LETTER FROM ABROAD 329
[Illustration: SIMCOE RAN IN WITH HIS KNIFE AND ATTACKED THE TIGER.
_--Page 4._]
THE LOST HEIR.
CHAPTER I.
A BRAVE ACTION.
A number of soldiers were standing in the road near the bungalow of
Brigadier-General Mathieson, the officer in command of the force in the
cantonments of Benares and the surrounding district.
"They are coming now, I think," one sergeant said to another. "It is a
bad business. They say the General is terribly hurt, and it was thought
better to bring him and the other fellow who was mixed up in it down in
doolies. I heard Captain Harvey say in the orderly-room that they have
arranged relays of bearers every five miles all the way down. He is a
good fellow is the General, and we should all miss him. He is not one of
the sort who has everything comfortable himself and don't care a rap how
the soldiers get on: he sees to the comfort of everyone and spends his
money freely, too. He don't seem to care what he lays out in making the
quarters of the married men comfortable, and in getting any amount of
ice for the hospital, and extra punkawallahs in the barrack rooms during
the hot season. He goes out and sees to everything himself. Why, on the
march I have known him, when all the doolies were full, give up his own
horse to a man who had fallen out. He has had bad luck too; lost his
wife years ago by cholera, and he has got no one to care for but his
girl. She was only a few months old when her mother died. Of course she
was sent off to England, and has been there ever since. He must be a
rich man, besides his pay and allowances; but it aint every rich man who
spends his money as he does. There won't be a dry eye in the cantonment
if he goes under."
"How was it the other man got hurt?"
"Well, I hear that the tiger sprang on to the General's elephant and
seized him by the leg. They both went off together, and the brute
shifted its hold to the shoulder, and carried him into the jungle; then
the other fellow slipped off his elephant and ran after the tiger. He
got badly mauled too; but he killed the brute and saved the General's
life."
"By Jove! that was a plucky thing. Who was he?"
"Why, he was the chap who was walking backwards and forwards with the
General when the band was playing yesterday evening. Several of the men
remarked how like he was to you, Sanderson. I noticed it, too. There
certainly was a strong likeness."
"Yes, some of the fellows were saying so," Sanderson replied. "He passed
close to me, and I saw that he was about my height and build, but of
course I did not notice the likeness; a man does not know his own face
much. Anyhow, he only sees his full face, and doesn't know how he looks
sideways. He is a civilian, isn't he?"
"Yes, I believe so; I know that the General is putting him up at his
quarters. He has been here about a week. I think he is some man from
England, traveling, I suppose, to see the world. I heard the Adjutant
speak of him as Mr. Simcoe when he was talking about the affair."
"Of course they will take him to the General's bungalow?"
"No; he is going to the next. Major Walker is away on leave, and the
doctor says that it is better that they should be in different
bungalows, because then if one gets delirious and noisy he won't disturb
the other. Dr. Hunter is going to take up his quarters there to look
after him, with his own servants and a couple of hospital orderlies."
By this time several officers were gathered at the entrance to the
General's bungalow, two mounted troopers having brought in the news a
few minutes before that the doolies were within a mile.
They came along now, each carried by four men, maintaining a swift but
smooth and steady pace, and abstaining from the monotonous chant usually
kept up. A doctor was riding by the side of the doolies, and two mounted
orderlies with baskets containing ice and surgical dressings rode fifty
paces in the rear. The curtains of the doolies had been removed to allow
of a free passage of air, and mosquito curtains hung round to prevent
insects annoying the sufferers.
There was a low murmur of sympathy from the soldiers as the doolies
passed them, and many a muttered "God bless you, sir, and bring you
through it all right." Then, as the injured men were carried into the
two bungalows, most of the soldiers strolled off, some, however,
remaining near in hopes of getting a favorable report from an orderly or
servant. A group of officers remained under the shade of a tree near
until the surgeon who had ridden in with the doolies came out.
"What is the report, McManus?" one of them asked, as he approached.
"There is no change since I sent off my report last night," he said.
"The General is very badly hurt; I certainly should not like to give an
opinion at present whether he will get over it or not. If he does it
will be a very narrow shave. He was insensible till we lifted him into
the doolie at eight o'clock yesterday evening, when the motion seemed to
rouse him a little, and he just opened his eyes; and each time we
changed bearers he has had a little ice between his lips, and a drink of
lime juice and water with a dash of brandy in it. He has known me each
time, and whispered a word or two, asking after the other."
"And how is he?"
"I have no doubt that he will do; that is, of course, if fever does not
set in badly. His wounds are not so severe as the General's, and he is a
much younger man, and, as I should say, with a good constitution. If
there is no complication he ought to be about again in a month's time.
He is perfectly sensible. Let him lie quiet for a day or two; after that
it would be as well if some of you who have met him at the General's
would drop in occasionally for a short chat with him; but of course we
must wait to see if there is going to be much fever."
"And did it happen as they say, doctor? The dispatch told us very little
beyond the fact that the General was thrown from his elephant, just as
the tiger sprang, and that it seized him and carried him into the
jungle; that Simcoe slipped off his pad and ran in and attacked the
tiger; that he saved the General's life and killed the animal, but is
sadly hurt himself."
"That is about it, except that he did not kill the tiger. Metcalf,
Colvin, and Smith all ran in, and firing together knocked it over stone
dead. It was an extraordinarily plucky action of Simcoe, for he had
emptied his rifle, and had nothing but it and a knife when he ran in."
"You don't say so! By Jove! that was an extraordinary act of pluck; one
would almost say of madness, if he hadn't succeeded in drawing the brute
off Mathieson, and so gaining time for the others to come up. It was a
miracle that he wasn't killed. Well, we shall not have quite so easy a
time of it for a bit. Of course Murdock, as senior officer, will take
command of the brigade, but he won't be half as considerate for our
comfort as Mathieson has been. He is rather a scoffer at what he calls
new-fangled ways, and he will be as likely to march the men out in the
heat of the day as at five in the morning."
The two sergeants who had been talking walked back together to their
quarters. Both of them were on the brigade staff. Sanderson was the
Paymaster's clerk, Nichol worked in the orderly-room. At the sergeants'
mess the conversation naturally turned on the tiger hunt and its
| 1,871.947412 |
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Produced by Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
A CHRISTMAS MORALITY
[Illustration: Remember my ears are so quick I can hear the grass
grow. _Frontispiece._]
[Illustration]
LITTLE PETER
A Christmas Morality
for Children of any Age
By LUCAS MALET
AUTHOR OF 'COLONEL ENDERBY'S WIFE' ETC.
[Illustration]
WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY PAUL HARDY
LONDON
KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE
1888
TO
CECILY
IN TOKEN OF AFFECTION
TOWARDS HERSELF, HER MOTHER, AND HER STATELY HOME
THIS LITTLE STORY IS DEDICATED
BY
HER OBEDIENT SERVANT
LUCAS MALET
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Which deals with the opinions of a Cat, and the sorrows of
a Charcoal-burner 1
II. Which introduces the Reader to an Admirer of the Ancient
Romans 19
III. Which improves our acquaintance with the Grasshopper-man 36
IV. Which leaves some at Home, and takes some to Church 50
V. Which is both Social and Religious 68
VI. Which attempts to show why the Skies fall 84
VII. Which describes a pleasant Dinner Party, and an
unpleasant Walk 95
VIII. Which proves that even Philosophic Politicians may
have to admit themselves in the wrong 115
IX. Which is very short because, in some ways, it is rather
sad 132
X. Which ends the Story 143
_ILLUSTRATIONS._
'Remember my ears are so quick I can hear
the grass grow' _Frontispiece_
'What will happen? please tell me' _To face p._ 10
'Go to bed when you are told' " 34
'You all despise me' " 66
Going to Church " 72
Lost " 110
Waiting " 120
Found " 138
The Charcoal-burner visits Little Peter " 150
[Illustration: Little Peter.]
CHAPTER I.
WHICH DEALS WITH THE OPINIONS OF A CAT, AND THE SORROWS OF A CHARCOAL
BURNER.
The pine forest is a wonderful place. The pine-trees stand in ranks
like the soldiers of some vast army, side by side, mile after mile, in
companies and regiments and battalions, all clothed in a sober uniform
of green and grey. But they are unlike soldiers in this, that they are
of all ages and sizes; some so small that the rabbits easily jump
over them in their play, and some so tall and stately that the fall
of them is like the falling of a high tower. And the pine-trees are
put to many different uses. They are made into masts for the gallant
ships that sail out and away to distant ports across the great ocean.
Others are sawn into planks, and used for the building of sheds; for
the rafters and flooring, and clap-boards and woodwork of our houses;
for railway-sleepers, and scaffoldings, and hoardings. Others are
polished and fashioned into articles of furniture. Turpentine comes
from them, which the artist uses with his colours, and the doctor in
his medicines; which is used, too, in the cleaning of stuffs and in a
hundred different ways. While the pine-cones, and broken branches and
waste wood, make bright crackling fires by which to warm ourselves on a
winter's day.
But there is something more than just this I should like you to think
about in connection with the pine forest; for it, like everything else
that is fair and noble in nature, has a strange and precious secret of
its own.
You may learn the many uses of the trees in your school books, when
men have cut them down or grubbed them up, or poked holes in their
poor sides to let the turpentine run out. But you can only learn the
secret of the forest itself by listening humbly and reverently for it
to speak to you. For Nature is a very great lady, grander and more
magnificent than all the queens who have lived in sumptuous palaces and
reigned over famous kingdoms since the world began; and though she will
be very kind and gracious to children who come and ask her questions
modestly and prettily, and will show them the most lovely sights and
tell them the most delicious fairy tales that ever were seen or heard,
she makes very short work with conceited and impudent persons. She
covers their eyes and stops their ears, so that they can never see her
wonderful treasures or hear her charming stories, but live, all their
lives long, shut up in the dark fusty cupboard of their own ignorance,
and stupid self-love, and self-satisfaction, thinking they know all
about everything as well as if they had made it themselves, when they
do not really know anything at all. And because you and I dislike fusty
cupboards, and because we want to know anything and everything that
Nature is condescending enough to teach us, we will listen, to begin
with, to what the pine forest has to tell.
When the rough winds are up and at play, and the pine-trees shout and
sing together in a mighty chorus, while the hoarse voice of them is
like the roar of the sea upon a rocky coast, then you may learn the
secret of the forest. It sings first of the winged seed; and then of
the birth of the tiny tree; of sunrise and sunset, and the tranquil
warmth of noon-day, and of the soft, refreshing rain, and the kindly,
nourishing earth, and of the white moonlight, and pale, moist garments
of the mist, all helping the tree to grow up tall and straight, to
strike root deep and spread wide its green branches. It sings, too, of
the biting frost, and the still, dumb snow, and the hurrying storm,
all trying and testing the tree, to prove if it can stand firm and
show a brave face in time of danger and trouble. Then it sings of the
happy spring-time, when the forest is girdled about with a band of
flowers; while the birds build and call to each other among the high
branches; and the squirrel helps his wife to make her snug nest for the
little, brown squirrel-babies that are to be; and the dormice wake up
from their long winter sleep, and sit in the sunshine and comb their
whiskers with their dainty, little paws. And then the forest sings of
man--how he comes with axe and saw, and hammer and iron wedges, and
lays low the tallest of its children, and binds them with ropes and
chains, and hauls them away to be his bond-servants and slaves. And,
last of all, it sings slowly and very gently of old age and | 1,871.949082 |
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THE LIFE AND LABORS
OF
ELIAS HICKS
BY
Henry W. Wilbur
Introduction by
ELIZABETH POWELL BOND
PHILADELPHIA
Published by Friends' General Conference Advancement Committee
1910
COPYRIGHTED 1910 BY
HENRY W. WILBUR
CONTENTS.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 5
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 7
INTRODUCTION 11
CHAPTER I, Ancestry and Boyhood 17
CHAPTER II, His Young Manhood 22
CHAPTER III, First Appearance in the Ministry 28
CHAPTER IV, Early Labors in the Ministry 32
CHAPTER V, Later Ministerial Labors 38
CHAPTER VI, Religious Journeys in 1828 46
CHAPTER VII, Ideas About the Ministry 57
CHAPTER VIII, The Home at Jericho 66
CHAPTER IX, The Hicks Family 71
CHAPTER X, Letters to His Wife 76
CHAPTER XI, The Slavery Question 84
CHAPTER XII, Various Opinions 95
CHAPTER XIII, Some Points of Doctrine 107
CHAPTER XIV, Before the Division 121
CHAPTER XV, First Trouble in Philadelphia 126
CHAPTER XVI, The Time of Unsettlement 139
CHAPTER XVII, Three Sermons Reviewed 152
CHAPTER XVIII, The Braithwaite Controversy 161
CHAPTER XIX, Ann Jones in Dutchess County 171
CHAPTER XX, The Experience with T. Shillitoe 181
CHAPTER XXI, Disownment and Doctrine 188
CHAPTER XXII, After the "Separation" 195
CHAPTER XXIII, Friendly and Unfriendly Critics 202
CHAPTER XXIV, Recollections, Reminiscences and Testimonies 211
CHAPTER XXV, Putting off the Harness 218
APPENDIX 226
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
ELIAS HICKS (from bust, by Partridge) Frontispiece
HICKS HOUSE AND JERICHO MEETING HOUSE, facing 57
CHILDREN OF ELIAS HICKS, facing 97
FACSIMILE OF LETTER, facing 105
ELIAS HICKS (from painting, by Ketcham), facing 121
SURVEYOR'S PLOTTING, BY ELIAS HICKS, facing 144
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Distributed Proofreading Team ( | 1,872.049215 |
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THE MINISTER'S CHARGE
OR, THE APPRENTICESHIP OF LEMUEL BARKER
By William Dean Howells
Author Of "The Rise Of Silas Lapham," "A Modern Instance," "Indian
Summer," Etc.
THE MINISTER'S CHARGE;
OR, THE APPRENTICESHIP OF LEMUEL BARKER.
I.
On their way back to the farm-house where they were boarding, Sewell's
wife reproached him for what she called his recklessness. "You had no
right," she said, "to give the poor boy false hopes. You ought to have
discouraged him--that would have been the most merciful way--if you knew
the poetry was bad. Now, he will go on building all sorts of castles
in the air on your praise, and sooner or later they will come tumbling
about his ears--just to gratify your passion for saying pleasant things
to people."
"I wish you had a passion for saying pleasant things to me, my dear,"
suggested her husband evasively.
"Oh, a nice time I should have!"
"I don't know about _your_ nice time, but I feel pretty certain of my
own. How do you know--Oh, _do_ get up, you implacable <DW36>!" he broke
off to the lame mare he was driving, and pulled at the reins.
"Don't saw her mouth!" cried Mrs. Sewell.
"Well, let her get up, then, and I won't. I don't like to saw her
mouth; but I have to do something when you come down on me with your
interminable consequences. I dare say the boy will never think of my
praise again. And besides, as I was saying when this animal interrupted
me with her ill-timed attempts at grazing, how do you know that I knew
the poetry was bad?"
"How? By the sound of your voice. I could tell you were dishonest in the
dark, David."
"Perhaps the boy knew that I was dishonest too," suggested Sewell.
"Oh no, he didn't. I could see that he pinned his faith to every
syllable."
"He used a quantity of pins, then; for I was particularly profuse of
syllables. I find that it requires no end of them to make the worse
appear the better | 1,872.154182 |
2023-11-16 18:48:16.1341890 | 1,390 | 14 | VALDEMAR AND HIS SISTER***
Transcribed from the 1913 Thomas J. Wise pamphlet 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.
THE TALE OF BRYNILD
AND
KING VALDEMAR AND HIS SISTER
TWO BALLADS
BY
GEORGE BORROW
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION
1913
_Copyright in the United States of America_
_by Houghton_, _Mifflin & Co. for Clement Shorter_.
THE TALE OF BRYNILD
Sivard he a colt has got,
The swiftest 'neath the sun;
Proud Brynild from the Hill of Glass
In open day he won.
Unto her did of knights and swains
The very flower ride;
Not one of them the maid to win
Could climb the mountain's side.
The hill it was both steep and smooth;
Upon its lofty head
Her sire had set her, knight nor swain
He swore with her should wed.
Soon to the Danish monarch's court
A messenger repaired,
To know if there was any one
To try the adventure dared.
'Twas talked about, and Sivard then
His purpose soon made known;
Said he: "I'll try upon my colt
To bring Brynilda down."
He rode away, the way was far,
The path was of the worst;
He saw the shining Glass Hill, where
The maid her durance curs'd.
And he away proud Brynild bore,
Nor deemed the adventure hard;
To bold Sir Nielus her he gave
To show him his regard.
Proud Brynild and proud Signelil
Those maids of beauteous mien,
Down to the river's side they went
Their silken robes to clean.
"Now do thou hear, thou proud Brynild,
What now I say to thee,
Where didst thou get the bright gold ring
I on thy finger see?"
"How did I get the bright gold ring
Which on my hand you see?
That gave me Sivard Snareswayne,
When he betrothed me."
"And though young Sivard gave thee that
When he his love declar'd,
He gives thee to Sir Nielus now
In proof of his regard."
No sooner than did Brynild hear,
The haughty hearted may,
Than to the chamber high she went,
Where sick of rage she lay.
It was the proud Brynild there
Fell sick, and moaning lay;
And her the proud Sir Nielus then
Attended every day.
"Now hark to me, thou Brynild fair,
My mind is ill at ease;
Know'st thou of any medicine
Can cure thy sad disease?
"If there be aught this world within
Can make thee cease to moan,
That thou shalt have, e'en if it cost
All, all the gold I own."
"I know of nought within this world
Can do my sickness good,
Except of Sivard Snareswayne
It be the hated blood.
"And there is nothing in this world
Which can assuage my pain,
Except of Sivard Snareswayne
The head I do obtain."
"To draw of Sivard Snareswayne
The blood I have no might;
His neck is hard as burnished steel,
No sword thereon will bite."
"O hark, Sir Nielus, hark to me,
My well beloved lord,
Borrow of him his Adelring,
His famous trusty sword.
"Tell him thou needest it so oft
When thou dost wage a fight,
But soon as 'tis within thy hand
Hew off his head outright."
It was the bold Sir Nielus then
His mantle puts he on;
To Sivard, his companion true,
To the high hall he's gone.
"Now hear, O Sivard Snareswayne,
Thy sword unto me lend,
For I unto the field of fight
Full soon my course must bend."
"My trusty faulchion Adelring
I'll freely lend to thee;
No man be sure shall thee o'ercome,
However strong he be.
"My trusty faulchion Adelring
To thee I'll freely yield,
But, oh! beware thee of the tears
Beneath the hilt conceal'd.
"Beware thee of those frightful tears,
They all are bloody red;
If down thy fingers they should run
Thou wert that moment dead."
Upstood the bold Sir Nielus then,
Drew out the sword amain;
One blow and off the head is hewn
Of Sivard Snareswayne.
Beneath his mantle then he takes
The head, distilling blood,
And hurrying to the chamber high
Before Brynilda stood.
"Behold the head, the bloody head,
Thou didst so crave to gain;
For thee I've done a felon deed
Which gives my heart such pain."
"O lay aside the bloody head,
It fills my heart with fright;
And come to me, my dearest lord,
Beneath the linen white."
"I crave thee, woman, not to think
I came for sport and play;
Thou wast the wicked cause that I
From honour went astray."
It was the bold Sir Nielus then
His faulchion he drew out;
It was the beauteous Brynild whom
He all to pieces smote.
"Now have I slain my comrade dear,
And eke my lovely may,
Yet still I am resolved in mind
A third, a third to slay."
So then against the hard stone floor
He placed the trusty glaive;
To his heart's root the point in went,
And him his death wound gave.
'Twere better that this maid had died
Within her mother's womb,
Than that these princely men through her
To such an end should come.
Now will I rede, each honest man
Well to deliberate ever;
Unequalled woman's cunning is,
Though guiles of men be clever.
She laughs when ' | 1,872.154229 |
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Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
gutcheck/gutspell/jeebes/ and spell check run
Transcriber's Note:
1. Page scan source:
http://www.archive.org/details/childrenworld00heysgoog
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
[Illustration: Portrait of Paul Heyse.]
THE CHILDREN OF
THE WORLD
BY
PAUL HEYSE
"The children of this world are in their generation wiser than the
children of light."
NEW YORK
WORTHINGTON CO., 747 BROADWAY
1890
Copyright, 1889, By
WORTHINGTON CO.
Barr-Dinwiddie
Printing and Book-Binding Co.,
Jersey City, N. J.
THE CHILDREN OF THE WORLD.
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
A few years ago, in the Dorotheen-strasse, in the midst of the Latin
Quarter of Berlin, whose quiet, student-like appearance threatens to
become effaced by the growing elegance of the capital, a small, narrow,
unpretending two-story house, stood humbly, as if intimidated, between
its broad-shouldered neighbors, though every year it received a washing
of a delicate pink hue, and recently had even had a new lightning-rod
affixed to its ancient gable roof. The owner, an honest master
shoemaker, had in the course of time accumulated money enough to have
comfortably established himself in a new and far more elegant dwelling,
but he had experienced beneath this sharply sloping roof, all the
blessings of his life and though a man by no means given to sentimental
weaknesses, he would have thought it base ingratitude to turn his back,
without good reason, upon the old witnesses and protectors of his
happiness. He had, at one time or another, laid his head in almost
every corner, from the little attic chamber, where, as a poor dunce of
an apprentice, he had, many a night, been unable to close his eyes on
account of the pattering raindrops, to the best room on the first
story, where stood his nuptial couch, when, after a long and faithful
apprenticeship, he brought home, as head journeyman, the daughter of
his dead master. But he was far too economical to permit himself to
occupy these aristocratic quarters longer than six months, preferring
to live in the second story, unassuming as it was--the little house
having a front of but three windows--and there, two children had grown
up about him. These first-floor apartments were rented to a childless
old couple, to whom the owner would not have given notice to quit on
any account; for in the white-haired old man he honored a once famous
tenor, whom in his youth, he had heard and admired; while the little
withered old woman, his wife, had, in her time, been a no less
celebrated actress. They had already been pensioned twelve years, and,
without song or noise of any kind, spent their quiet days in their tiny
rooms, adorned with faded laurel-wreaths and pictures of their famous
colleagues. These celebrities, according to the ideas of the
proprietor, gave to his little house a certain artistic reputation, and
if there were customers in the shop at noon when the old couple
returned from their walk, he never failed to direct attention to them
and with boastful assurance to revive the fame of the two forgotten and
very shrivelled great personages.
On the ground floor was the shop, over which a black sign bore the
inscription in gilt letters: "Boot & Shoe Making Done by Gottfried
Feyertag." The shoemaker had ordered the large brown boot and red
slipper, which had originally been painted on the right and left side,
to be effaced, because it annoyed him to see them, when they no longer
represented the fashion. He kept up with the times in his trade, and
could not possibly alter his sign at every change of style. The shop,
he generally left to the management of his wife he himself spending
most of the day in the workroom, where he kept a sharp eye on his four
or five journeymen. A narrow entry led past the shop into a small,
well-kept courtyard, in whose centre stood a tall acacia-tree, three
quarters of which had died for want of air and sunlight, so that only
its topmost branches were still adorned with a few pale green,
consumptive-looking leaves, which every autumn turned yellow some weeks
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JUST DAVID
BY
ELEANOR H. (HODGMAN) PORTER
AUTHOR POLLYANNA, MISS BILLY MARRIED, ETC.
TO
MY FRIEND
Mrs. James Harness
CONTENTS
I. THE MOUNTAIN HOME
II. THE TRAIL
III. THE VALLEY
IV. TWO LETTERS
V. DISCORDS
VI. NUISANCES, NECESSARY AND OTHERWISE
VII. "YOU'RE WANTED--YOU'RE WANTED!"
VIII. THE PUZZLING "DOS" AND "DON'TS"
IX. JOE
X. THE LADY OF THE ROSES
XI. JACK AND JILL
XII. ANSWERS THAT DID NOT ANSWER
XIII. A SURPRISE FOR MR. JACK
XIV. THE TOWER WINDOW
XV. SECRETS
XVI. DAVID'S CASTLE IN SPAIN
XVII. "THE PRINCESS AND THE PAUPER"
XVIII. DAVID TO THE RESCUE
XIX. THE UNBEAUTIFUL WORLD
XX. THE UNFAMILIAR WAY
XXI. HEAVY HEARTS
XXII. AS PERRY SAW IT
XXIII. PUZZLES
XXIV. A STORY REMODELED
XXV. THE BEAUTIFUL WORLD
CHAPTER I
THE MOUNTAIN HOME
Far up on the mountain-side the little shack stood alone in the clearing.
It was roughly yet warmly built. Behind it jagged cliffs broke the north
wind, and towered gray-white in the sunshine. Before it a tiny expanse of
green sloped gently away to a point where the mountain dropped in another
sharp descent, wooded with scrubby firs and pines. At the left a
footpath led into the cool depths of the forest. But at the right the
mountain fell away again and disclosed to view the picture David loved
the best of all: the far-reaching valley; the silver pool of the lake
with its ribbon of a river flung far out; and above it the grays and
greens and purples of the mountains that climbed one upon another's
shoulders until the topmost thrust their heads into the wide dome of
the sky itself.
There was no road, apparently, leading away from the cabin. There was
only the footpath that disappeared into the forest. Neither, anywhere,
was there a house in sight nearer than the white specks far down in the
valley by the river.
Within the shack a wide fireplace dominated one side of the main room.
It was June now, and the ashes lay cold on the hearth; but from the
tiny lean-to in the rear came the smell and the sputter of bacon
sizzling over a blaze. The furnishings of the room were simple, yet, in
a way, out of the common. There were two bunks, a few rude but
comfortable chairs, a table, two music-racks, two violins with their
cases, and everywhere books, and scattered sheets of music. Nowhere was
there cushion, curtain, or knickknack that told of a woman's taste or
touch. On the other hand, neither was there anywhere gun, pelt, or
antlered head that spoke of a man's strength and skill. For decoration
there were a beautiful copy of the Sistine Madonna, several photographs
signed with names well known out in the great world beyond the
mountains, and a festoon of pine cones such as a child might gather and
hang.
From the little lean-to kitchen the sound of the sputtering suddenly
ceased, and at the door appeared a pair of dark, wistful eyes.
"Daddy!" called the owner of the eyes.
There was no answer.
"Father, are you there?" called the voice, more insistently.
From one of the bunks came a slight stir and a murmured word. At the
sound the boy at the door leaped softly into the room and hurried to
the bunk in the corner. He was a slender lad with short, crisp curls at
his ears, and the red of perfect health in his cheeks. His hands, slim,
long, and with tapering fingers like a girl's, reached forward eagerly.
"Daddy, come! I've done the bacon all myself, and the potatoes and the
coffee, too. Quick, it's all getting cold!"
Slowly, with the aid of the boy's firm hands, the man pulled himself
half to a sitting posture. His cheeks, like the boy's, were red--but
not with health. His eyes were a little wild, but his voice was low and
very tender, like a caress.
"David--it's my little son David!"
"Of course it's | 1,872.255462 |
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Produced by David Widger
SHIP'S COMPANY
By W.W. Jacobs
[Illustration: "Can I 'ave it took off while I eat my bloater, mother?"]
FINE FEATHERS
Mr. Jobson awoke with a Sundayish feeling, probably due to the fact that
it was Bank Holiday. He had been aware, in a dim fashion, of the rising
of Mrs. Jobson some time before, and in a semi-conscious condition had
taken over a large slice of unoccupied territory. He stretched himself
and yawned, and then, by an effort of will, threw off the clothes and
springing out of bed reached for his trousers.
He was an orderly man, and had hung them every night for over twenty
years on the brass knob on his side of the bed. He had hung them there
the night before, and now they had absconded with a pair of red braces
just entering their teens. Instead, on a chair at the foot of the bed
was a collection of garments that made him shudder. With trembling
fingers he turned over a black tailcoat, a white waistcoat, and a pair of
light check trousers. A white shirt, a collar, and tie kept them
company, and, greatest outrage of all, a tall silk hat stood on its own
band-box beside the chair. Mr. Jobson, fingering his bristly chin,
stood: regarding the collection with a wan smile.
"So that's their little game, is it?" he muttered. "Want to make a toff
of me. Where's my clothes got to, I wonder?"
A hasty search satisfied him that they were not in the room, and, pausing
only to drape himself in the counterpane, he made his way into the next.
He passed on to the others, and then, with a growing sense of alarm,
stole softly downstairs and making his way to the shop continued the
search. With the shutters up the place was almost in darkness, and in
spite of his utmost care apples and potatoes rolled on to the floor and
travelled across it in a succession of bumps. Then a sudden turn brought
the scales clattering down.
"Good gracious, Alf!" said a voice. "Whatever are you a-doing of?"
Mr. Jobson turned and eyed his wife, who was standing at the door.
"I'm looking for my clothes, mother," he replied, briefly.
"Clothes!" said Mrs. Jobson, with an obvious attempt at unconcerned
speech. "Clothes! Why, they're on the chair."
"I mean clothes fit for a Christian to wear--fit for a greengrocer to
wear," said Mr. Jobson, raising his voice.
"It was a little surprise for you, dear," said his wife. "Me and Bert
and Gladys and Dorothy 'ave all been saving up for it for ever so long."
"It's very kind of you all," said Mr. Jobson, feebly--"very, but--"
"They've all been doing without things themselves to do it," interjected
his wife. "As for Gladys, I'm sure nobody knows what she's given up."
"Well, if nobody knows, it don't matter," said Mr. Jobson. "As I was
saying, it's very kind of you all, but I can't wear 'em. Where's my
others?"
Mrs. Jobson hesitated.
"Where's my others?" repeated her husband.
"They're being took care of," replied his wife, with spirit. "Aunt
Emma's minding 'em for you--and you know what she is. H'sh! Alf! Alf!
I'm surprised at you!"
Mr. Jobson coughed. "It's the collar, mother," he said at last. "I
ain't wore a collar for over twenty years; not since we was walking out
together. And then I didn't like it."
"More shame for you," said his wife. "I'm sure there's no other
respectable tradesman goes about with a handkerchief knotted round his
neck."
"P'r'aps their skins ain't as tender as what mine is," urged Mr. Jobson;
"and besides, fancy me in a top-'at! Why, I shall be the laughing-stock
of the place."
"Nonsense!" said his wife. "It's only the lower classes what would
laugh, and nobody minds what they think."
Mr. Jobson sighed. "Well, I shall 'ave to go back to bed again, then,"
he said, ruefully. "So long, mother. Hope you have a pleasant time at
the Palace."
He took a reef in the counterpane and with a fair amount of dignity,
considering his appearance, stalked upstairs again and stood gloomily
considering affairs in his bedroom. Ever since Gladys and Dorothy had
been big enough to be objects of interest to the young men of the
neighbourhood the clothes nuisance had been rampant. He peeped through
the window-blind at the bright sunshine outside, and then looked back at
the tumbled bed. A murmur of voices downstairs apprised him that the
conspirators were awaiting the result.
He dressed at last and stood like a lamb--a redfaced, bull-necked lamb--
while Mrs. Jobson fastened his collar for him.
"Bert wanted to get a taller one," she remarked, "but I said this would
do to begin with."
"Wanted it to come over my mouth, I s'pose," said the unfortunate Mr.
Jobson. "Well, 'ave it your own way. Don't mind about me. What with
the trousers and the collar, I couldn't pick up a sovereign if I saw one
in front of me."
"If you see one I'll pick it up for you," said his wife, taking up the
hat and moving towards the door. "Come along!"
Mr. Jobson, with his arms standing out stiffly from his sides and his
head painfully erect, followed her downstairs, and a sudden hush as he
entered the kitchen testified to the effect produced by his appearance.
It was followed by a hum of admiration that sent the blood flying to his
head.
"Why he couldn't have done it before I don't know," said the dutiful
Gladys. "Why, there ain't a man in the street looks a quarter as smart."
"Fits him like a glove!" said Dorothy, walking round him.
"Just the right length," said Bert, scrutinizing the coat.
"And he stands as straight as a soldier," said Gladys, clasping her hands
gleefully.
"Collar," said Mr. Jobson, briefly. "Can I 'ave it took off while I eat
my bloater, mother?"
"Don't be silly, Alf," said his wife. "Gladys, pour your father out a
nice, strong, Pot cup o' tea, and don't forget that the train starts at
ha' past ten."
"It'll start all right when it sees me," observed Mr. Jobson, squinting
down at his trousers.
Mother and children, delighted with the success of their scheme, laughed
applause, and Mr. Jobson somewhat gratified at the success of his retort,
sat down and attacked his breakfast. A short clay pipe, smoked as a
digestive, was impounded by the watchful Mrs. Jobson the moment he had
finished it.
"He'd smoke it along the street if I didn't," she declared.
"And why not?" demanded her husband--always do."
"Not in a top-'at," said Mrs. Jobson, shaking her head at him.
"Or a tail-coat," said Dorothy.
"One would spoil the other," said Gladys.
"I wish something would spoil the hat," said Mr. Jobson, wistfully.
"It's no good; I must smoke, mother."
Mrs. Jobson smiled, and, going to the cupboard, produced, with a smile of
triumph, an envelope containing seven dangerous-looking cigars. Mr.
Jobson whistled, and taking one up examined it carefully.
"What do they call 'em, mother?" he inquired. "The 'Cut and Try Again
Smokes'?"
Mrs. Jobson smiled vaguely. "Me and the girls are going upstairs to get
ready now," she said. "Keep your eye on him, Bert!"
Father and son grinned at each other, and, to pass the time, took a cigar
apiece. They had just finished them when a swish and rustle of skirts
sounded from the stairs, and Mrs. Jobson and the girls, beautifully
attired, entered the room and stood buttoning their gloves. A strong
smell of scent fought with the aroma of the cigars.
"You get round me like, so as to hide me a bit," entreated Mr. Jobson, as
they quitted the house. "I don't mind so much when we get out of our
street."
Mrs. Jobson laughed his fears to scorn.
"Well, cross the road, then," said Mr. Jobson, urgently. "There's Bill
Foley standing at his door."
His wife sniffed. "Let him stand," she said, haughtily.
Mr. Foley failed to avail himself of the permission. He regarded Mr.
Jobson with dilated eyeballs, and, as the party approached, sank slowly
into a sitting position on his doorstep, and as the door opened behind
him rolled slowly over onto his back and presented an enormous pair of
hobnailed soles to the gaze of an interested world.
"I told you 'ow it would be," said the blushing Mr. Jobson. "You know
what Bill's like as well as I do."
His wife tossed her head and they all quickened their pace. The voice of
the ingenious Mr. Foley calling piteously for his mother pursued them to
the end of the road.
"I knew what it 'ud be," said Mr. Jobson, wiping his hot face. "Bill
will never let me 'ear the end of this."
"Nonsense!" said his wife, bridling. "Do you mean to tell me you've got
to ask Bill Foley 'ow you're to dress? He'll soon get tired of it; and,
besides, it's just as well to let him see who you are. There's not many
tradesmen as would lower themselves by mixing | 1,872.256278 |
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Produced by 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)
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
The page numbers of this Volume start with 275 (continuing the
numbering from Volume 1 of this work).
On page 282 guerillas should possibly be guerrillas.
On page 293 vigilants should possibly be vigilantes.
[Illustration]
_EDITION ARTISTIQUE_
The World's Famous
Places and Peoples
AMERICA
BY
JOEL COOK
In Six Volumes
Volume II.
MERRILL AND BAKER
New York London
THIS EDITION ARTISTIQUE OF THE WORLD'S FAMOUS PLACES AND PEOPLES IS
LIMITED TO ONE THOUSAND NUMBERED AND REGISTERED COPIES, OF WHICH THIS
COPY IS NO. 205
Copyright, Henry T. Coates & Co., 1900
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
VOLUME II
PAGE
MAMMOTH HOT SPRINGS, YELLOWSTONE _Frontispiece_
THE SUSQUEHANNA WEST OF FALMOUTH 284
THE CONEMAUGH NEAR FLORENCE 312
ON THE ASHLEY, NEAR CHARLESTON, S. C. 352
ON THE OCKLAWAHA 382
LINCOLN MONUMENT, LINCOLN PARK, CHICAGO 432
CROSSING THE ALLEGHENIES.
IV.
CROSSING THE ALLEGHENIES.
The Old Pike -- The National Road -- Early Routes Across the
Mountains -- Old Lancaster Road -- Columbia Railroad -- The
Pennsylvania Route -- Haverford College -- Villa Nova -- Bryn
Mawr College -- Paoli -- General Wayne -- The Chester Valley --
Pequea Valley -- The Conestogas -- Lancaster -- Franklin and
Marshall College -- James Buchanan -- Thaddeus Stevens --
Conewago Hills -- Susquehanna River -- Columbia -- The
Underground Railroad -- Middletown -- Lochiel -- Simon Cameron
-- The Clan Cameron -- Harrisburg -- Charles Dickens and the
Camel's Back Bridge -- John Harris -- Lincoln's Midnight Ride
-- Cumberland Valley -- Carlisle -- Indian School -- Dickinson
College -- The Whisky Insurrection -- Tom the Tinker -- Lebanon
Valley -- Cornwall Ore Banks -- Otsego Lake -- Cooperstown --
James Fenimore Cooper -- Richfield Springs -- Cherry Valley --
Sharon Springs -- Howe's Cave -- Binghamton -- Northumberland
-- Williamsport -- Sunbury -- Fort Augusta -- The Dauphin Gap
-- Duncannon -- Duncan's Island -- Juniata River -- Tuscarora
Gap -- The Grasshopper War -- Mifflin -- Lewistown Narrows --
Kishicoquillas Valley -- Logan -- Jack's Narrows -- Huntingdon
-- The Standing Stone -- Bedford -- Morrison's Cove -- The
Sinking Spring -- Brainerd, the Missionary -- Tyrone --
Bellefonte -- Altoona -- Hollidaysburg -- The Portage Railroad
-- Blair's Gap -- The Horse Shoe -- Kittanning Point -- Thomas
Blair and Michael Maguire -- Loretto -- Prince Gallitzin --
Ebensburg -- Cresson Springs -- The Conemaugh River -- South
Fork -- Johnstown -- The Great Flood -- Laurel Ridge --
Packsaddle Narrows -- Chestnut Ridge -- Kiskiminetas River --
Loyalhanna Creek -- Fort Ligonier -- Great Bear Cave --
Hannastown -- General Arthur St. Clair -- Greensburg --
Braddock's Defeat -- Pittsburg, the Iron City -- Monongahela
River -- Allegheny River -- Ohio River -- Fort Duquesne --
Fort Pitt -- View from Mount Washington -- Pittsburg Buildings
-- Great Factories -- Andrew Carnegie -- George Westinghouse,
Jr. -- Allegheny Park and Monument -- Coal and Coke -- Davis
Island Dam -- Youghiogheny River -- Connellsville -- Natural
Gas -- Murrysville -- Petroleum -- Canonsburg -- Washington --
Petroleum Development -- Kittanning -- Modoc Oil District --
Fort Venango -- Oil City -- Pithole City -- Oil Creek --
Titusville -- Corry -- Decadence of Oil-Fields.
THE OLD PIKE.
The American aspiration has always been to go westward. In the early
history of the Republic the Government gave great attention to the
means of reaching the Western frontier, then cut off by what was
regarded as the almost insurmountable barrier of the Alleghenies.
General Washington was the first to project a chain of internal
improvements across the mountains, by the route of the Potomac to
Cumberland, then a Maryland frontier fort, and thence by roads to the
headwaters of the Ohio. The initial enactment was procured by him from
the Virginia Legislature in 1774, for improving the navigation of the
Potomac; but the Revolutionary War interfered, and he renewed the
movement afterwards in 1784, resulting in the charter of the
Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, of which Washington was the first
President. Little was done at that early period, however, in building
the canal, but the Government constructed the famous "National Road,"
the first highway over the Allegheny Mountains, from Cumberland in
Maryland, mainly through Southwestern Pennsylvania, to Wheeling on
the Ohio. This noted highway was finished and used throughout in 1818,
and, until the railways crossed the mountains, it was the great route
of travel to the West. It was familiarly known as the "Old Pike," and
Thomas B. Searight has entertainingly recorded its pleasant memories,
for it has now become mainly a relic of the past:
"We hear no more of the clanging hoof,
And the stage-coach, rattling by;
For the steam king rules the travelled world,
And the Old Pike's left to die."
He tells of the long lines of Conestoga wagons, each drawn by six
heavy horses, their broad wheels, canvas-covered tops and huge cargoes
of goods; of the swaying, rushing mail passenger coach, the
fleet-footed pony express; the flocks of sheep and herds of cattle,
the droves of horses and mules sent East from the "blue-grass" farms
of Kentucky; and occasionally of a long line of men and women, tied
two and two to a rope, driven by a slave-master from the South, to be
sold in the newer region of the Southwest. He describes how the famous
driver, Sam Sibley, brings up his grand coach at the hotel in
Uniontown with the great Henry Clay as chief passenger, and then after
dinner whirls away with a rush, but unfortunately, dashing over a pile
of stone in the road, the coach upsets. Out crawls the driver with a
broken nose, and a crowd hastens to rescue Mr. Clay from the upturned
coach. He is unhurt, and brushing the dust from his clothes says:
"This is mixing the Clay of Kentucky with the limestone of
Pennsylvania." Many are the tales of the famous road. One veteran
teamster relates his experience of a night at the tavern on the
mountain side--thirty six-horse teams were in the wagon-yard, one
hundred mules in an adjoining lot, a thousand hogs in another, as many
fat cattle from the West in a field, and the tavern crowded with
teamsters and drovers--the grunts of the hogs, the braying of the
mules, the bellowing of the cattle and the crunching and stamping of
the horses, "made music beyond a dream." In 1846 the message arrived
at Cumberland at two o'clock in the morning that war was declared
against Mexico, and a noted driver took the news over the mountains,
past a hundred taverns and a score of villages, one hundred and
thirty-one miles to Wheeling, in twelve hours. Over this famous road
the Indian chief Black Hawk was brought, but the harness broke, the
team ran away and the coach was smashed. Black Hawk crept out of the
wreck, stood up surprised, and, wiping a drop of blood from his brow,
earnestly muttered, "Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!" Barnum brought Jenny Lind over
this road from Wheeling, paying $17.25 fare apiece to Baltimore.
Lafayette came along it in 1825, the population all turning out to
cheer him. Andrew Jackson came over it four years later to be
inaugurated the first Western President, and subsequently also came
Presidents Harrison, Polk and Taylor. What was thought of the "Old
Pike" in its day of active service was well expressed at a reception
to John Quincy Adams. Returning from the West, he arrived at Uniontown
in May, 1837, and was warmly welcomed. Hon. Hugh Campbell, who made
the reception address, said to the ex-President: "We stand here, sir,
upon the Cumberland Road, which has broken down the great wall of the
Appalachian Mountains. This road, we trust, constitutes an
indissoluble chain of Union, connecting forever, as one, the East and
the West."
In the early part of the nineteenth century, Lancaster in Pennsylvania
was the largest inland city of the United States. It is sixty-nine
miles from Philadelphia, and the "old Lancaster Road," the finest
highway of that period, was constructed to connect them. This began
the Pennsylvania route across the Alleghenies to the West, which
afterwards became the most travelled. In 1834 the Pennsylvania
Government opened its State work, the Columbia Railroad between the
Delaware and the Susquehanna. In 1836 there were four daily lines of
stages running in connection with this State railroad between
Philadelphia and Pittsburg, making the journey in sixty hours.
Gradually afterwards the Pennsylvania Railroad was extended across the
mountains, and the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad was completed to
Wheeling, and they then took away the business from the "Old Pike"
and all the other wagon or canal routes to the Ohio River.
CHESTER AND LANCASTER VALLEYS.
Let us go westward across the Alle | 1,872.256388 |
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Produced by Judith Boss
RIDERS TO THE SEA
A PLAY IN ONE ACT
By J. M. Synge
INTRODUCTION
It must have been on Synge's second visit to the Aran Islands that he
had the experience out of which was wrought what many believe to be his
greatest play. The scene of "Riders to the Sea" is laid in a cottage
on Inishmaan, the middle and most interesting island of the Aran group.
While Synge was on Inishmaan, the story came to him of a man whose body
had been washed up on the far away coast of Donegal, and who, by reason
of certain peculiarities of dress, was suspected to be from the island.
In due course, he was recognised as a native of Inishmaan, in exactly
the manner described in the play, and perhaps one of the most poignantly
vivid passages in Synge's book on "The Aran Islands" relates the
incident of his burial.
The other element in the story which Synge introduces into the play is
equally true. Many tales of "second sight" are to be heard among Celtic
races. In fact, they are so common as to arouse little or no wonder in
the minds of the people. It is just such a tale, which there seems no
valid reason for doubting, that Synge heard, and that gave the title,
"Riders to the Sea", to his play.
It is the dramatist's high distinction that he has simply taken the
materials which lay ready to his hand, and by the power of sympathy
woven them, with little modification, into a tragedy which, for dramatic
irony and noble pity, has no equal among its contemporaries. Great
tragedy, it is frequently claimed with some show of justice, has
perforce departed with the advance of modern life and its complicated
tangle of interests and creature comforts. A highly developed
civilisation, with its attendant specialisation of culture, tends ever
to lose sight of those elemental forces, those primal emotions, naked to
wind and sky, which are the stuff from which great drama is wrought by
the artist, but which, as it would seem, are rapidly departing from us.
It is only in the far places, where solitary communion may be had with
the elements, that this dynamic life is still to be found continuously,
and it is accordingly thither that the dramatist, who would deal with
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Produced by K Nordquist, Chris Logan 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 FLAG
By
HOMER GREENE
Author of
"The Unhallowed Harvest,"
"Pickett's Gap," "The Blind Brother," etc.
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA
GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1917
George W. Jacobs & Company_
_All rights reserved
Printed in U. S. A._
[Illustration: He Glared Defiantly About Him]
List of Illustrations
He Glared Defiantly About Him _Frontispiece_
Aleck Turned it Upside Down and Rightside Up,
But Failed to Find the Place _Facing p. 54_
Into the Face of Death He Led the Remnant of
His Brave Platoon " 274
The French Hospital's Greeting to the
American Colonel " 316
THE FLAG
CHAPTER I
Snow everywhere; freshly fallen, white and beautiful. It lay unsullied
on the village roofs, and, trampled but not yet soiled, in the village
streets. The spruce trees on the lawn at Bannerhall were weighted with
it, and on the lawn itself it rested, like an ermine blanket, soft and
satisfying. Down the steps of the porch that stretched across the
front of the mansion, a boy ran, whistling, to the street.
He was slender and wiry, agile and sure-footed. He had barely reached
the gate when the front door of the square, stately old brick house
was opened and a woman came out on the porch and called to him.
"Pen!"
"Yes, Aunt Millicent." He turned to listen to her.
"Pen, don't forget that your grandfather's going to New York on the
five-ten train, and that you are to be at the station to see him off."
"I won't forget, auntie."
"And then come straight home."
"Straight as a string, Aunt Milly."
"All right! Good-by!"
"Good-by!"
He passed through the gate, and down the street toward the center of
the village. It was the noon recess and he was on his way back to
school where he must report at one-fifteen sharp. He had an abundance
of time, however, and he stopped in front of the post-office to talk
with another boy about the coasting on Drake's Hill. It was while he
was standing there that some one called to him from the street. Seated
in an old-fashioned cutter drawn by an old gray horse were an old man
and a young woman. The woman's face flushed and brightened, and her
eyes shone with gladness, as Pen leaped from the sidewalk and ran
toward her.
"Why, mother!" he cried. "I didn't expect to see you. Are you in for a
sleigh-ride?"
She bent over and kissed him and patted his cheek before she replied,
"Yes, dearie. Grandpa had to come to town; and it's so beautiful after
the snow that I begged to come along."
Then the old man, round-faced and rosy, with a fringe of gray whiskers
under his chin, and a green and red comforter about his neck, reached
out a mittened hand and shook hands with Pen.
"Couldn't keep her to hum," he said, "when she seen me hitchin' up old
Charlie."
He laughed good-naturedly and tucked the buffalo-robe in under him.
"How's grandma?" asked Pen.
"Jest about as usual," was the reply. "When you comin' out to see us?"
"I don't know. Maybe a week from Saturday. I'll see."
Then Pen's mother spoke again.
"You were going to school, weren't you? We won't keep you. Give my
love to Aunt Millicent; and come soon to see us."
She kissed him again; the old man clicked to his horse, and succeeded,
after some effort, in starting him, and Pen returned to the sidewalk
and resumed his journey toward school.
It was noticeable that no one had spoken of Colonel Butler, the
grandfather with whom Pen lived at Bannerhall on the main street of
Chestnut Hill. There was a reason for that. Colonel Butler was Pen's
paternal grandfather; and Colonel Butler's son had married contrary to
his father's wish. When, a few years later, the son died, leaving a
widow and an only child, Penfield, the colonel had so far relented as
to offer a home to his grandson, and to provide an annuity for the
widow. She declined the annuity for herself, but accepted the offer of
a home for her son. She knew that it would be a home where, in charge
of his aunt Millicent, her boy would receive every advantage of care,
education and culture. So she kissed him good-by and left him there,
and she herself, ill, penniless and wretched, went back to live with
her father on the little farm at Cobb's Corners, five miles away. But
all that was ten years before, and Pen was now fourteen. That he had
been well cared for was manifest in his clothing, his countenance,
his bearing and his whole demeanor as he hurried along the partly
swept pavement toward his destination.
A few blocks farther on he overtook a school-fellow, and, as they
walked together, they discussed the war.
For war had been declared. It had not only been declared, it was in
actual progress.
Equipped and generalled, stubborn and aggressive, the opposing forces
had faced each other for weeks. Yet it had not been a sanguinary
conflict. Aside from a few bruised shins and torn coats and missing
caps, there had been no casualties worth mentioning. It was not a
country-wide war. It was, indeed, a war of which no history save this
veracious chronicle, gives any record.
The contending armies were composed of boys. And the boys were
residents, respectively, of the Hill and the Valley; two villages,
united under the original name of Chestnut Hill, and so closely joined
together that it would have been impossible for a stranger to tell
where one ended and the other began. The Hill, back on the plateau,
had the advantage of age and the prestige that wealth gives. The
Valley, established down on the river bank when the railroad was built
through, had the benefit of youth and the virtue of aggressiveness.
Yet they were mutually interdependent. One could not have prospered
without the aid of the other. When the new graded-school building was
erected, it was located on the brow of the hill in order to
accommodate pupils from both villages. From that time the boys who
lived on the hill were called Hilltops, and those who lived in the
valley were called Riverbeds. Just when the trouble began, or what was
the specific cause of it, no one seemed exactly to know. Like Topsy,
it simply grew. With the first snow of the winter came the first
physical clash between the opposing forces of Hilltops and Riverbeds.
It was a mild enough encounter, but it served to whet the appetites of
the young combatants for more serious warfare. Miss Grey, the
principal of the school, was troubled and apprehensive. She had
encouraged a friendly rivalry between the two sets of boys in matters
of intellectual achievement, but she greatly deprecated such a state
of hostility as would give rise to harsh feelings or physical
violence. She knew that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to
coerce them into peace and harmony, so she set about to contrive some
method by which the mutual interest of the boys could be aroused and
blended toward the accomplishment of a common object.
The procuring of an American flag for the use of the school had long
been talked of, and it occurred to her now that if she could stimulate
a friendly rivalry among her pupils, in an effort to obtain funds for
the purchase of a flag, it might divert their minds from thoughts of
hostility to each other, into channels where a laudable competition
would be provocative of harmony. So she decided, after consultation
with the two grade teachers, to prepare two subscription blanks, each
with its proper heading, and place them respectively in the hands of
Penfield Butler captain of the Hilltops, and Alexander Sands commander
of the Riverbeds. The other pupils would be instructed to fall in
behind these leaders and see which party could obtain, not necessarily
the most money, but the largest number of subscriptions. She felt
that interest in the flag would be aroused by the numbers contributing
rather than by the amount contributed. It was during the session of
the school that afternoon that she made the announcement of her plan,
and delivered the subscription papers to the two captains. She aroused
much enthusiasm by the little speech she made, dwelling on the beauty
and symbolism of the flag, and the patriotic impulse that would be
aroused and strengthened by having it always in sight.
No one questioned the fact that Pen Butler was the leader of the
Hilltops, nor did any one question the similar fact that Aleck Sands
was the leader of the Riverbeds. There had never been any election or
appointment, to be sure, but, by common consent and natural selection,
these two had been chosen in the beginning as commanders of the
separate hosts.
When, therefore, the subscription blanks were put into the hands of
these boys as leaders, every one felt that nothing would be left
undone by either to win fame and honor for his party in the matter of
the flag.
So, when the afternoon session of school closed, every one had
forgotten, for the time being at least, the old rivalry, and was ready
to enlist heartily in the new one.
There was fine coasting that day on Drake's Hill. The surface of the
road-bed, hard and smooth, had been worn through in patches, but the
snow-fall of the night before had so dressed it over as to make it
quite perfect for this exhilarating winter sport.
As he left the school-house Pen looked at his watch, a gift from his
grandfather Butler on his last birthday, and found that he would have
more than half an hour in which to enjoy himself at coasting before it
would be necessary to start for the railroad station to see Colonel
Butler off on the train. So, with his companions, he went to Drake's
Hill. It was fine sport indeed. The bobs had never before descended so
swiftly nor covered so long a stretch beyond the incline. But, no
matter how fascinating the sport, Pen kept his engagement in mind and
intended to leave the hill in plenty of time to meet it. There were
especial reasons this day why he should do so. In the first place
Colonel Butler would be away from home for nearly a week, and it had
always been Pen's custom to see his grandfather off on a journey, even
though he were to be gone but a day. And in the next place he wanted
to be sure to get Colonel Butler's name at the head of his flag
subscription list. This would doubtless be the most important
contribution to be made to the fund.
At half-past four he decided to take one more ride and then start for
the station. But on that ride an accident occurred. The bobs on which
the boys were seated collapsed midway of the descent, and threw the
coasters into a heap in the ditch. None of them was seriously hurt,
though the loose stones among which they were thrown were not
sufficiently cushioned by the snow to prevent some bruises, and
abrasions of the skin. Of course there was much confusion and
excitement. There was scrambling, and rubbing of hurt places, and an
immediate investigation into the cause of the wreck. In the midst of
it all Pen forgot about his engagement. When the matter did recur to
his mind he glanced at his watch and found that it lacked but twelve
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Transcriber's note
Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Printer
errors have been changed and are listed at the end. All other
inconsistencies are as in the original.
ADDRESS
DELIVERED BY
HON. HENRY H. CRAPO,
Governor of Michigan,
BEFORE THE
CENTRAL MICHIGAN AGRICULTURAL SOCIETY,
AT THEIR
SHEEP-SHEARING EXHIBITION,
HELD
AT THE AGRICULTURAL COLLEGE FARM,
On Thursday, May 24th, 1866.
LANSING:
JOHN A. KERR & CO., STEAM BOOK AND JOB PRINTERS.
1866.
ADDRESS.
_Mr. President, and Members of the "Central Mich. Ag'l Society:"_
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: Remote from the theatre of action in the late
rebellion, Michigan has experienced comparatively few of the evils that
followed immediately in its path. The usual pursuits of peaceful life,
were here scarcely disturbed, and by the permission of a Gracious
Providence, the industry of the inhabitants of our State was but little
diverted from its legitimate channels. Nevertheless, while so many of
her patriot sons were engaged in the deadly strife of Southern
battle-fields, and the result of the struggle was in the uncertain
future, a sombre cloud could not fail to brood over our daily life,
interfering with the full enjoyment of the blessings we retained.
Now, however, the roar of cannon and the noise and tumult of war is no
longer heard in our land; the scenes of carnage and blood which our once
peaceful and happy country has recently witnessed are at an end; the
turmoil and strife of armed hosts in deadly conflict have ceased; the
public mind is no longer excited, and the hearts of the people are no
longer pained, by the fearful news of battles fought, and of the
terrible slaughter of kindred and friends. Social order again invites us
to renewed efforts in our respective labor and callings; and we are
permitted "to beat our swords into plow-shares and our spears into
pruning-hooks."
Like the calm and quiet repose of peace when it follows the clamor and
din of war, so is the delightful, cheering and invigorating approach of
spring, as it succeeds the chilling blasts and pelting storms of dreary
winter.
The truth of this is verified to us on the present occasion. We have
come together at this delightful spot, and on this beautiful spring day,
not only for the enjoyment of a festive season, but also for the
improvement of our minds and the increase of our present stock of
knowledge on subjects with which our several interests and our
respective tastes are more or less identified.
At your request and upon your kind invitation, I am here to contribute
my share--small though it be--to the general fund. I should, however,
have much preferred the position of a quiet learner to that of an
incompetent teacher--to have _listened_ rather than to have _spoken_.
But being here, it will be my purpose--by your indulgence--to speak, in
general terms, upon such topics as seem to me appropriate to the
occasion. I shall not presume to theorize, or to speculate; neither
shall I travel through unexplored fields with no other guide than
imagination; nor shall I attempt to entertain you with any rhetorical
flourishes, or figures of speech; but in a simple manner endeavor to
give briefly my own views on the several subjects discussed.
The occasion is undoubtedly one affording a wide field for profitable
discussion; yet the space which your greatest indulgence can be expected
to allow me will render it necessary that I confine myself to a very few
topics, and will barely permit a hasty glance at some of those only
which may be considered appropriate in this address. You will therefore,
I trust, remember that in case I do not refer to subjects which you may
deem of importance, it will be from this reason, and not because I may
have considered them unimportant.
* * * * *
In the first place, then, permit me a brief reference to this
Association, under whose auspices, and by whose directions--acting in
connection with the officers of the Agricultural College--this festival
is held. Your Society, I understand, extends over the counties of
Ingham, Eaton, Clinton, Livingston and Shiawassee, and has been formed
for the purpose of combining and concentrating a wider scope of
individual action than could otherwise be attained, with a view to an
increased interest in the subject of Agriculture and of Agricultural
Fairs; thereby recognizing the principle that "in union there is
strength."
The effort is not only laudable, but will, I have no doubt, be
productive of the most beneficial results. In fact we have in this very
effort to bring into notice and give an increased interest to one of our
most important branches of husbandry in our State--the growth and
production of wool--abundant evidence that such will be the result. By
coming together, as on the present occasion, in the spirit of a free,
frank and social interchange of ideas, an increased interest cannot fail
of being awakened, as well as an extensive inquiry instituted, among
farmers generally, not only as to the most desirable breed of sheep, but
also as to the best modes of tending and keeping and feeding the
different kinds, with a view to the greatest profits. The influence of
such a gathering as this is of much value--not only in encouraging a
desire for excellence and creating a spirit of competition and of
laudable emulation, but as furnishing the means for an active exchange
of the more desirable specimens. Those who assemble are enabled to enjoy
a season not merely of relaxation from toil, but also for mutual
consultation and discussion; and a healthy and growing interest in
everything pertaining to Agriculture, in all its varied forms and
branches, is thereby induced.
In | 1,872.354158 |
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BOOKS LATELY PUBLISHED BY
ADAM BLACK, EDINBURGH, AND LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, & GREEN LONDON.
A SYSTEM of UNIVERSAL GEOGRAPHY, by M. MALTE-BRUN, Editor of the "Annales
des Voyages," &c. Parts I. to XII. price 7s. 6d. each. To be completed in
Fourteen Parts.
The Publishers are extremely happy to be able to state, that,
notwithstanding the lamented death of M. Malte-Brun, the remainder of this
great work, comprising the description of WESTERN EUROPE, will be
completed in a style every way worthy of what has been already executed.
The papers and collections of M. Malte-Brun have been placed in the hands
of M. Valcknaer, with whose numerous and valuable contributions to
geographical science the scientific portion of the public have been long
and familiarly acquainted. M. Balbi, the celebrated author of the _Essai
Statistique sur le Royaume de Portugal_, has undertaken to superintend and
complete that portion of the work which relates to Italy, Spain, and
Portugal. There can, therefore, be no doubt, that the high and established
character of the Original Work will be maintained to its close; and the
British Public may be assured, that no efforts will be spared to render
the Translation, now in course of publication, not only equal, but even
superior, to the original. The account of the British Empire will be
carefully revised, and, if necessary, re-written by gentlemen who are
extremely well versed in statistical inquiries. The reports and papers
printed by order of the House of Commons will be referred to for every
fact of importance; and the Publishers believe that they may venture to
say, that the account which will be given in this work of the
Agriculture, Manufactures, and Commerce of Great Britain, will be
decidedly superior to any that has hitherto appeared.
The account of the United States, given in the Translation, is an entirely
_original composition_; and it is admitted by the Americans themselves, to
contain the most able, comprehensive, and luminous account of that
powerful confederacy that has ever been published.
"M. MALTE-BRUN is probably known to most of our readers as the author
of a systematic work on Geography. He is, besides, the editor of a
periodical digest, under the title of _Nouvelles Annales des Voyages
de la Geographie et de l'Histoire_; the first as much superior to the
| 1,872.453407 |
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Produced by David Widger
LETTERS TO HIS SON
1766-71
By the EARL OF CHESTERFIELD
on the Fine Art of becoming a
MAN OF THE WORLD
and a
GENTLEMAN
LETTER CCLXXXIV
LONDON, February 11, 1766
MY DEAR FRIEND: I received two days ago your letter of the 25th past; and
your former, which you mention in it, but ten days ago; this may easily
be accounted for from the badness of the weather, and consequently of the
roads. I hardly remember so severe a win ter; it has occasioned many
illnesses here. I am sure it pinched my crazy carcass so much that, about
three weeks ago, I was obliged to be let blood twice in four days, which
I found afterward was very necessary, by the relief it gave to my head
and to the rheumatic pains in my limbs; and from the execrable kind of
blood which I lost.
Perhaps you expect from me a particular account of the present state of
affairs here; but if you do you will be disappointed; for no man living
(and I still less than anyone) knows what it is; it varies, not only
daily, but hourly.
Most people think, and I among the rest, that the date of the present
Ministers is pretty near out; but how soon we are to have a new style,
God knows. This, however, is certain, that the Ministers had a contested
election in the House of Commons, and got it but by eleven votes; too
small a majority to carry anything; the next day they lost a question in
the House of Lords, by three. The question in the House of Lords was, to
enforce the execution of the Stamp-act in the colonies 'vi et armis'.
What conclusions you will draw from these premises, I do not know; but I
protest I draw none; but only stare at the present undecipherable state
of affairs, which, in fifty years' experience, I have never seen anything
like. The Stamp-act has proved a most pernicious measure; for, whether it
is repealed or not, which is still very doubtful, it has given such
terror to the Americans, that our trade with them will not be, for some
years, what it used to be; and great numbers of our manufacturers at home
will be turned a starving for want of that employment which our very
profitable trade to America found them: and hunger is always the cause of
tumults and sedition.
As you have escaped a fit of the gout in this severe cold weather, it is
to be hoped you may be entirely free from it, till next winter at least.
P. S. Lord having parted with his wife, now, keeps another w---e, at a
great expense. I fear he is totally undone.
LETTER CCLXXXV
LONDON, March 17, 1766.
MY DEAR FRIEND: You wrong me in thinking me in your debt; for I never
receive a letter of yours, but I answer it by the next post, or the next
but one, at furthest: but I can easily conceive that my two last letters
to you may have been drowned or frozen in their way; for portents and
prodigies of frost, snow, and inundations, have been so frequent this
winter, that they have almost lost their names.
You tell me that you are going to the baths of BADEN; but that puzzles me
a little, so I recommend this letter to the care of Mr. Larpent, to
forward to you; for Baden I take to be the general German word for baths,
and the particular ones are distinguished by some epithet, as Weissbaden,
Carlsbaden, etc. I hope they are not cold baths, which I have a very ill
opinion of, in all arthritic or rheumatic cases; and your case I take to
be a compound of both, but rather more of the latter.
You will probably wonder that I tell you nothing of public matters; | 1,872.554923 |
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Absurdities of Immaterialism,
Or,
A Reply to T. W. P. Taylder's Pamphlet,
Entitled,
"The Materialism of the Mormons or Latter-day Saints, Examined and
Exposed."
By Orson Pratt,
One of the Twelve Apostles of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day
Saints.
"What is truth?" This is a question which has been asked by many. It
is a question supposed to be of difficult solution. Mr. Taylder in
his tract against materialism, says, "It is a question which all the
philosophers of the Grecian and Roman schools could not answer." He
seems to think the question was unanswerable until the introduction of
the gospel; since which time he considers that the veil is taken away,
and that "we now enjoy the full blaze of truth." He further confidently
asserts, that "with the materials afforded us in that sacred book,
(meaning the New Testament,) we are enabled satisfactorily to answer
the question, What is truth?"
What does this author mean by the foregoing assertions? Does he mean,
that no truth was understood by the Grecian and Roman schools? That
no truth was discerned by the nations, during the first four thousand
years after the creation? Or, does he mean, that the gospel truths
were not understood until they were revealed? He certainly must mean
the latter and not the former. Both the Romans and Grecians could,
without the least difficulty, answer the question. "What is truth?"
Nothing is more simple than an answer to this question. It is a truth,
_that something exists in space,_ and this truth was just as well
perceived by all nations before the book called the New Testament
existed as afterwards. It is a truth that, "the three angles of a
triangle are equal to two right angles." This was not learned from that
sacred book--the Bible. We admit that the question, what is _gospel_
truth, could not be answered by any one to whom the gospel had never
been revealed. Dr. Good, in his "Book of Nature," says, "general
truth may be defined, the connexion and agreement, or repugnancy and
disagreement, of our ideas." This definition we consider erroneous;
for it makes general truth depend on the existence of ideas. Now
truth is independent of all ideas. It is a necessary truth that,
_space is boundless,_ and that _duration is endless,_ abstract from
all connexion and agreement of our ideas, or even of our existence,
or the existence of any other being. If neither the universe nor its
Creator existed, these eternal unchangeable, and necessary truths would
exist, unperceived and unknown. Truth is the relation which things bear
to each other. Knowledge is the perception of truth. Truth may exist
without knowledge, but knowledge cannot exist without truth.
The New Testament unfolds, not all the truths which exist, but some
few truths of infinite importance. The vast majority of truths of less
importance were discovered independently of that book.
"The followers of Joseph Smith," says this author, "hold the doctrine
of the materiality of all existence in common with the ancient
academics." This, sir, we admit. Our belief, however, in this doctrine,
is founded, not on any modern supernatural revelation, unfolding this
doctrine, as this author insinuates, but on reason and common sense.
The doctrine of immaterialism, in our estimation, is false, and in the
highest degree absurd, and unworthy the belief of any true Christian
philosopher.
The author of the treatise against materialism has stated his first
proposition as follows:--
"_The Philosophy of the Mormons is_ IRRATIONAL."
What the author means by this proposition is, that it is "irrational"
to believe _all substance material._ To substantiate this proposition
he sets out in quest of proof. An _immaterial substance_ is the thing
wanted. No other proof will answer. If he can prove the existence of an
immaterial substance his point is gained,--his proposition established,
and the irrationality of the material theory will be demonstrated.
As we are about to launch forth into the wide field of existence in
search of an "immaterial substance," it may be well to have the _term_
correctly defined, so as to be able to distinguish such a substance
from _matter. _It is of the utmost importance that every reasoner
should clearly define the terms he employs. Two contending parties
may use the same word in altogether different meanings; and each draw
correct conclusions from the meaning which he attaches to the same
word; hence arise endless disputes. As we have no confidence in the
immaterial theory, we shall let the immaterialist define his own terms.
We shall give,
Taylder's Definition.--"What is meant by an _immaterial substance_
is merely this, that something exists which is _not matter_ and is
evidently _distinct_ from matter, which is _not dependent_ on matter
for its existence, and which possesses properties and qualities
_entirely different_ from those possessed by matter." (Taylder's Tract
against Materialism. Page 14.)
This definition of an "immaterial substance" is ambiguous. It needs
another definition to inform us what he means. Does he mean that ALL
of "the properties and qualities" of an immaterial substance are
"entirely different from those possessed by matter;" and that it
possesses NO properties in common with matter? Or does he mean that
while it "possesses SOME properties and qualities entirely different"
from matter it inherits OTHERS in common with matter? If the latter be
his meaning, we see no reason for calling _any_ substance "immaterial."
Iron possesses SOME properties and qualities "entirely different"
from all other kinds of matter, and other properties it inherits in
common with every other kind. Shall we therefore say that iron is not
matter? Among the various kind of matter, each has its _distinct_
properties, and its _common_ properties; and notwithstanding each
possesses "entirely different" properties and qualities from all other
kinds, yet each is called matter because it possesses some properties
in common with all other kinds. Hence the term _matter_ should be
given to all substances which possess _any_ properties in common,
however wide they may differ in other respects. A substance to be
_immaterial_ must possess NO properties or qualities in common with
matter. All its qualities must be entirely _distinct_ and _different_.
It is to be regretted that our opponent has not defined an _immaterial
substance_ more clearly. As he is ambiguous in his definition, we shall
presume that he entertains the same views as the modern advocates of
immaterialism generally entertain.
That celebrated writer, Isaac Taylor, says,--"a disembodied spirit,
or we should rather say, an unembodied spirit, or sheer mind, is
NOWHERE. Place is a relation belonging to extension; and extension is
a property of matter; but that which is wholly abstracted from matter,
and in speaking of which we deny that it has _any property_ in common
therewith, can in itself be subjected to none of its conditions; and
we might as well say of a pure spirit that it is hard, heavy, or red,
or that it is a cubic foot in dimensions, as say that it is _here_
or _there._ It is only in a popular and improper sense that any such
affirmation is made concerning the Infinite Spirit, or that we speak of
God as _everywhere_ present." * * * "Using the term as we use them of
ourselves, God is not _here_ or _there_." * * * "When we talk of an
absolute immateriality," continues this author, "and wish to withdraw
mind altogether from matter, we must no longer allow ourselves to
imagine that it is, or can be, in any place, or that it has any kind of
relationship to the visible and extended universe." (Taylor's "Physical
Theory of Another Life." Chapter II.) Dr. Good says, "The metaphysical
immaterialists of modern times freely admit that the mind has NO PLACE
of existence, that it does exist NOWHERE; while at the same time they
are compelled to allow that the immaterial Creator or universal spirit
exists EVERYWHERE, substantially as well as virtually." (Good's "Book
of Nature," Series III., Lecture I.)
Dr. Abercrombie, in speaking upon _matter_ and _mind,_ says, that "in
as far as our utmost conception of them extends, we have no grounds for
believing that they have _anything_ in common." (Abercrombie on the
"Intellectual Powers." Part I. Sec. I.)
With these definitions, we shall follow our opponent in his researches
after an "immaterial substance." After taking a minute survey of man,
he believes he has found in his composition, and in connexion with his
bodily organization, something _immaterial._ He says, "the spirit is
the purely immaterial part, which is capable of separation from the
body, and can exist independently of the body."
"The _body_ is that _material_ part, 'formed out of the dust of the
ground,' and is the medium through which the mind is manifested."
(Taylder's Tract against Materialism. Page 8.)
That the mind or _spirit_, "is capable of separation from the body,
and can exist independently of the body," we most assuredly believe;
but that it is "immaterial" we deny; and it remains for Mr. Taylder
to _prove_ its _immateriality_. His first proof is founded on his
own assertion, that "mind is simple, not compounded." If this
assertion be admitted as true, it affords not the least evidence
for the _immateriality_ of _mind._ Every material atom is simple,
not compounded. Is it, therefore, not matter? Must each simple,
uncompounded elementary atom be _immaterial?_
Mr. Taylder next says, "Mind is not perceivable to corporeal organs,
matter is so perceivable." This assertion is altogether unfounded.
"Corporeal organs" can perceive neither _matter_ nor _mind_. The
mind alone can perceive: corporeal organs are only the instruments
of perception. Bishop Butler, in his Analogy, expressly says, that
"our organs of sense prepare and convey on objects, in order to their
being perceived, in like matter as foreign matter does, without
affording any shadow of appearance, that they themselves perceive."
(Butler's Analogy. Part I. Chap. I.) The mind clearly perceives its
own existence as well as the existence of other matter. _Perception_,
then, is a quality peculiar to that kind of matter called mind. Mr.
Taylder further remarks, that "All the qualities of matter are not
comparable with the more excellent qualities of mind, such as power and
intelligence." We willing to admit that _power_ and _intelligence,_
and some other qualities of mind, are far superior to the qualities of
other matter; but we do not admit that the superiority of some of the
qualities of a substance prove its _immateriality_. The superiority
of some qualities has nothing to do with the _immateriality_ of the
_substance_. OXYGEN possesses some qualities, not only distinct from,
but superior to, those qualities possessed by BARIUM, STRONTIUM,
SILICIUM, GLUCINIUM, ZIRCONIUM, and many other metals and material
substances; yet no one from this will draw the conclusion, that
_oxygen_ is _immaterial_. Oxygen is material though it possesses some
distinct and superior qualities to other matter; so mind or spirit is
material, though it differs in the superiority of some of its qualities
from other matter.
It is strange, indeed, to see the inconsistencies of this learned
author: he remarks, "Mind thinks, matter cannot think. It is the
existence of this thinking principle which clearly proves the
immateriality of the mind or spirit." This method of reasoning may
be termed (_petitio principii_), begging the question. First, he
assumes that "matter cannot think;" and, second, draws the conclusion
that a _thinking substance_ is _immaterial._ This conclusion is a
legitimate one if the premises are granted; but the premises are
assumed, therefore the conclusion is false. Prove that _mind_ is _not_
matter before you assume that "matter cannot think." It would seem
from the assertions of this author, that the quality of "thinking" is
to be the touchstone--the infallible test--the grand distinguishing
characteristic between _material_ and _immaterial_ substances.
It matters not, in his estimation, how many qualities different
substances inherit in common, if one can be found that thinks, it must
be immaterial. There is no one substance out of the fifty or more
substances discovered by chemists, but what possesses some qualities
"entirely different" from any of the rest; therefore, each substance,
when compared with others, has equal claims with that of mind to be
placed in the _immaterial_ list. In proving that mind is immaterial, it
is not enough to prove that it has _some_ properties entirely distinct
from other substances; but | 1,872.646428 |
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Produced by David Widger
AT SUNWICH PORT
BY
W. W. JACOBS
Drawings by Will Owen
Contents
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
List of Illustrations
"His Perturbation Attracted the Attention of His Hostess."
"A Welcome Subject of Conversation in Marine Circles."
"The Suspense Became Painful."
"Captain Hardy Lit his Pipe Before Replying."
"Mr. Wilks Watched It from the Quay."
"Master Hardy on the Beach Enacting The Part of David."
"Mr. Wilks Replied That he Was Biding his Time."
"A Particularly Hard Nut to Crack."
"A Stool in the Local Bank."
"A Diversion Was Created by the Entrance of a New Arrival."
"He Stepped Across the Road to his Emporium."
"'Most Comfortable Shoulder in Sunwich,' She Murmured."
"The Most Astounding and Gratifying Instance of The Wonders Effected by Time Was That of Miss Nugent."
"Mr. Swann With Growing Astonishment Slowly Mastered The Contents."
"Fullalove Alley."
"She Caught Sight of Hardy."
"Undiluted Wisdom and Advice Flowed from his Lips."
"'What Do You Want?' Inquired Miss Kybird."
"He Regarded the Wife of his Bosom With a Calculating Glance."
"He Even Obtained Work Down at the Harbor."
"Miss Kybird Standing in the Doorway of The Shop."
"Me Or 'im--which is It to Be?"
"I Wonder What the Governor'll Say."
"A Spirit of Quiet Despair."
"A Return Visit."
"He Set off Towards the Life and Bustle of The Two Schooners."
"For the Second Time he Left The Court Without a Stain On His Character."
"The Proprietor Eyed Him With Furtive Glee As he Passed."
"Miss Nugent's Consternation Was Difficult Of Concealment."
"He Found his Remaining Guest Holding His Aching Head Beneath the Tap."
"Mr. Nathan Smith."
"It Was Not Until he Had Consumed a Pint Or Two of The Strongest Brew That he Began to Regain Some of his Old Self-esteem."
"The Man on the Other Side Fell On All Fours Into The Room."
"He Pushed Open the Small Lattice Window and Peered Out Into the Alley."
"Tapping the Steward on The Chest With a Confidential Finger, he Backed Him Into a Corner."
"He Finished up the Evening at The Chequers."
"The Meagre Figure of Mrs. Silk."
"In Search of Mr. Smith."
"I 'ave Heard of 'em Exploding."
"He Stepped to the Side and Looked Over."
"You Keep On, Nugent, Don't You Mind 'im."
"Hadn't You Better See About Making Yourself Presentable, Hardy?"
"It Was Not Without a Certain Amount of Satisfaction That He Regarded Her Discomfiture."
"Mr. Hardy Resigned Himself to his Fate."
"The Carefully Groomed and Fastidious Murchison."
"'Why Do You Wish to Be on Friendly Terms?' She Asked."
"He Said That a Bit O' Wedding-cake 'ad Blowed in His Eye."
"Mr. Wilks Drank to the Health of Both Of Them."
"A Popular Hero."
"He Met These Annoyances With a Set Face."
"'Can't You Let Her See That Her Attentions Are Undesirable?'"
"He Took a Glass from the Counter and Smashed It on The Floor."
"The Great Thing Was to Get Teddy Silk Home."
"Captain Nugent."
"Sniffing at Their Contents."
"'Puppy!' Said the Invalid."
"Bella, in a State of Fearsome Glee, Came Down the Garden To Tell the Captain of his Visitor."
"'Get out of My House,' he Roared.
"I Do Hope he Has Not Come to Take You Away from Me."
"Are You Goin' to Send Cap'n Nugent an Invite for The Wedding?"
"Are There Any Other of My Patients You Are Anxious To Hear About?"
"He Wondered, Gloomily, What She Would Think when She Heard of It."
"'Some People 'ave All the Luck,' he Muttered."
"If You've Got Anything to Say, Why Don't You Say It Like A Man?"
"Mrs. Kybird Suddenly Seized Him by the Coat."
"Mr. Kybird and his Old Friend Parted."
"He Took up his Candle and Went off Whistling."
"He Could Just Make out a Dim Figure Behind the Counter."
"'But Suppose She Asks Me To?' Said the Delighted Mr. Nugent, With Much Gravity."
"'You're a Deceiver,' She Gasped."
"'It Was Teddy Done It,' Said Mr. Kybird, Humbly."
"Pausing Occasionally to Answer Anxious Inquiries."
"She Placed Her Other Arm in That of Hardy."
CHAPTER I
The ancient port of Sunwich was basking in the sunshine of a July afternoon. A rattle of cranes and winches sounded from the shipping in the harbour, but the town itself was half asleep. Somnolent shopkeepers in dim back parlours coyly veiled their faces in red handkerchiefs from the too ardent flies, while small boys left in charge noticed listlessly the slow passing of time as recorded by the church clock.
It is a fine church, and Sunwich is proud of it. The tall grey tower is a landmark at sea, but from the narrow streets of the little town itself it has a disquieting appearance of rising suddenly above the roofs huddled beneath it for the purpose of displaying a black-faced clock with gilt numerals whose mellow chimes have recorded the passing hours for many generations of Sunwich men.
Regardless of the heat, which indeed was mild compared with that which raged in his own bosom, Captain Nugent, fresh from the inquiry of the collision of his ship Conqueror with the German barque Hans Muller, strode rapidly up the High Street in the direction of home. An honest seafaring smell, compounded of tar, rope, and fish, known to the educated of Sunwich as ozone, set his thoughts upon the sea. He longed to be aboard ship again, with the Court of Inquiry to form part of his crew. In all his fifty years of life he had never met such a collection of fools. His hard blue eyes blazed as he thought of them, and the mouth hidden by his well-kept beard was set with anger.
Mr. Samson Wilks, his steward, who had been with him to London to give evidence, had had a time upon which he looked back in later years with much satisfaction at his powers of endurance. He was with the captain, and yet not with him. When they got out of the train at Sunwich he hesitated as to whether he should follow the captain or leave him. His excuse for following was the bag, his reason for leaving the volcanic condition of its owner's temper, coupled with the fact that he appeared to be sublimely ignorant that the most | 1,872.748759 |
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Produced by Tim Rowe, Ginny Brewer and PG Distributed Proofreaders
A HIDDEN LIFE
And | 1,873.248564 |
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Produced by Chris Pinfield, Dave Kline 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)
RELIGION AND THE WAR
RELIGION AND THE WAR
BY MEMBERS OF THE FACULTY OF THE
SCHOOL OF RELIGION, YALE UNIVERSITY
EDITED BY
E. HERSHEY SNEATH, PH.D., LL.D.
[Illustration]
NEW HAVEN
YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS
LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
MDCCCCXVIII
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY
YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS
PUBLISHED ON THE FOUNDATION
ESTABLISHED IN MEMORY OF
JAMES WESLEY COOPER
OF THE CLASS OF 1865, YALE COLLEGE
The present volume is the second work published by the Yale University
Press on the James Wesley Cooper Memorial Publication Fund. This
Foundation was established March 30, 1918, by a gift to Yale
University from Mrs. Ellen H. Cooper in memory of her husband, Rev.
James Wesley Cooper, D.D., who was born in New Haven, Connecticut,
October 6, 1842, and died in New York City, March 16, 1916. Dr. Cooper
was a member of the Class of 1865, Yale College, and for twenty-five
years pastor of the South Congregational Church of New Britain,
Connecticut. For thirty years he was a corporate member of the
American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions and from 1885
until the time of his death was a Fellow of Yale University, serving
on the Corporation as one of the Successors of the Original Trustees.
Not in dumb resignation,
We lift our hands on high;
Not like the nerveless fatalist,
Content to do and die.
Our faith springs like the eagle's,
That soars to meet the sun,
And cries exulting unto Thee,
"O Lord, Thy will be done."
When tyrant feet are trampling
Upon the common weal,
Thou dost not bid us bend and writhe
Beneath the iron heel;
In Thy name we assert our right
By sword, or tongue, or pen,
And e'en the headsman's axe may flash
Thy message unto men.
Thy will,--it bids the weak be strong;
It bids the strong be just:
No lip to fawn, no hand to beg,
No brow to seek the dust.
Wherever man oppresses man
Beneath the liberal sun,
O Lord, be there, Thine arm made bare,
Thy righteous will be done.
--JOHN HAY.
PREFACE
Religious interests are quite as much involved in the world war as
social and political interests. The moral and spiritual issues are
tremendous, and the problems that arise concerning "the mighty hopes
that make us men,"--hopes that relate to the Kingdom of God on
earth,--are such as not only to perplex our most earnest faith, but
also to challenge our most consecrated purpose. It is the sincere hope
of those who have contributed to this volume that it may prove helpful
in the solution of some of these problems.
E. H. S.
Yale University,
August 21, 1918
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. Moral and Spiritual Forces in the War 11
Charles Reynolds Brown, D.D., LL.D., Dean of
the School of Religion and Pastor of the University
Church
II. God and History 22
Douglas Clyde Macintosh, Ph.D., Professor of
Theology
III. The Christian Hope in Times of War 33
Frank Chamberlin Porter, Ph.D., Professor of
Biblical Theology
IV. Non-Resistance: Christian or Pagan? 59
Benjamin Wisner Bacon, D.D., Litt.D., LL.D.,
Professor of New Testament Criticism and
Interpretation
V. The Ministry and the War 82
Henry Hallam Tweedy, M.A., Professor of Practical
Theology
VI. The Effect of the War upon Religious Education 105
Luther Allan Weigle, Ph.D., D.D., Professor of
Christian Nurture
VII. Foreign Missions and the War, Today and Tomorrow 122
Harlan P. Beach, D.D., F.R.G.S., Professor of the
Theory and Practice of Missions
VIII. The War and Social Work 141
William Bacon Bailey, Ph.D., Professor of
Practical Philanthropy
IX. The War and Church Unity 151
Williston Walker, Ph.D., D.D., Professor of
Ecclesiastical History
X. The Religious Basis of World Re-Organization 161
E. Hershey Sneath, Ph.D., LL.D., Professor of
the Philosophy of Religion and Religious Education
I
MORAL AND SPIRITUAL FORCES IN THE WAR
CHARLES REYNOLDS BROWN
In one of our more thoughtful magazines we were favored last February
with an article entitled, "Peter Sat by the Fire Warming Himself." It
was a bitter, undiscriminating arraignment of the ministers and
churches of the United States for their alleged lack of intelligent,
sympathetic interest in the war. It was written by an Englishman who
for several years has been vacillating between the ministry and
secular journalism, but is now the pastor of a small church in
northern New York. The vigor of his literary style in trenchant
criticism was matched by an equally vigorous disregard for many of the
plain facts in the case. His tone, however, was loud and confident, so
that the article secured for itself a wide reading.
"What became of the spiritual leaders of America during those
thirty-two months when Europe and parts of Asia were passing through
Gehenna?" the writer of this article asked in scornful fashion. And
then after listing the enormities of the mad military caste which
heads up at Potsdam, he asked the clergymen of the United States, "Why
were you so scrupulously neutral, so benignly dumb?" His main
contention was to the effect that the religious leaders of this
country had been altogether negligent of their duty in the present
world struggle, and that the churches were small potatoes and few in a
hill.
It has been regarded as very good form in certain quarters to cast
aspersion upon the ministers of the Gospel. When the war came men
began to ask, sometimes with a sneer, and sometimes with a look of
pain, "Why did not Christianity prevent the war?" It never seemed to
occur to anyone to ask, "Why did not Science prevent the war?" No one
supposed that Science would or could. It was the most scientific
nation on earth which brought on the war.
It never occurred to anyone to ask, "Why did not Big Business, or the
Newspapers, or the Universities prevent the war?" No one supposed that
commerce or the press or education could avert such disasters. These
useful forms of social energy are not strong enough. They do not go
deep enough in their hold upon the lives of men to curb those forces
of evil which let loose upon the world this frightful war. It was a
magnificent tribute which men paid to the might of spiritual forces
when they asked, sometimes wistfully, and sometimes scornfully, "Why
did not Christianity prevent the war?"
The terrible events of the last four years have taught the world a few
lessons which it will not soon forget. They have shown us the utter
impotence of certain forces in which some shortsighted people were
inclined to put their whole trust: The little toy gods of the
Amorites--Evolution, with a capital E, not as the designation of a
method which all intelligent people recognize, but as a kind of
home-made deity operating on its own behalf! The Zeitgeist, the Spirit
of the Age, all in capitals! The "Cosmic Urge," whatever that
pretentious phrase may mean in the mouths of those who use it in
grandiloquent fashion! The "Stream of Progress," the idea that there
are certain resident forces in the physical order itself which make
inevitably for human well-being and advance quite apart from any
thought of God!
All these have shown themselves no more able to safeguard the welfare
of society than so many stone images. They broke down utterly in the
presence of those forces of evil which now menace the very fabric of
civilization. The forces of self-interest unhallowed and undirected by
any finer forms of spiritual energy have covered a whole continent
with grief and pain. They have written a most impressive commentary
upon that word of the ancient prophet, "The wicked shall be turned
into hell, and all the nations that forget God." Men are saying on all
sides that unless hope is to be found in religion, in the action of
the spirit of the Living God upon the lives of men, then hope there is
none. What other guarantee have we that the greed and the lust, the
hatred and the ambition of wrong-hearted men may not again wreck the
hopes of the race!
But still that question presses for an answer--Why did not these
spiritual forces for which Christianity stands prevent the war? I have
my own idea about that. It was because we did not have enough of
Christianity on hand in those fateful summer days of 1914, and what we
had was not always of the right sort. In certain countries the
churches had been emphasizing the personal and private virtues of
sobriety, chastity, kindliness and the like; they had been preparing
the souls of men for residence in a blessed Hereafter. But they had
not given adequate attention to the organized life of men in political
and economic relations. They had not sufficiently exalted the
weightier matters of justice, mercy and truth in the social organism.
These things they ought to have done, and not to have left the other
undone.
The founder of our faith in the first public address he gave there in
the synagogue at Nazareth struck the social note clearly and firmly.
"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me because he hath anointed me to
preach good tidings to the poor. He hath sent me to bind up the
broken-hearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, to set at
liberty them that are bruised, and to proclaim"--in all the high
places of the organized life of the race--"the acceptable year of the
Lord."
This was the platform on which he stood. This indicated the spirit and
method of his mission. Organized and corporate righteousness was to be
an essential element in the Gospel of the Son of God. The leaders of
our Christian faith should have been voicing that same demand for
social righteousness all the way from Berlin to Bagdad, and from
London to the uttermost parts of the earth. The only Christianity
which can avert similar disaster in the future is that Christianity
which, like the Apostles of old, goes everywhere, preaching and
practising the Gospel of the Kingdom, the sway and rule of the Divine
Spirit in all the affairs of men.
It was highly significant, however, that the one nation in Europe
which had gone farthest toward an atheistic materialism, toward a
philosophy of force, a complete reliance upon physical efficiency and
mental cleverness quite apart from any moral considerations, toward a
flat indifference to all those manifestations of the religious spirit
which are found in public worship, in missionary effort, and in the
cultivation of a humble, devout spirit--it was the nation which had
gone farthest in that direction which did more than any other nation
to bring on the war.
And, conversely, it was that nation which had gone farther than any
other nation in Europe toward making the religion of Jesus Christ a
power for good in public and in private life which did more than any
other single nation in those fateful July days to avert the war, and
when war came it was that same nation which did more than any other
nation to resist the encroachments of lawlessness and crime as we have
seen them in Belgium and in northern France. We have had abundant
reason to thank God for the Christianity there was in the lives of
such men as Herbert H. Asquith, Arthur J. Balfour, and David Lloyd
George, and in the lives of the brave men and women who have nobly
sustained them in their righteous contention. We could only have
wished that the world had been possessed of a hundred times as much of
that sort of Christianity; that would have prevented the war.
And when war came these spiritual forces still had something to say
for themselves. Christianity had been pressing home upon the hearts of
men those more vital principles until nine-tenths of all the earth was
ashamed of the war. Not a single nation was willing to stand up and
accept responsibility for bringing it on--not even Germany. That
military caste in Potsdam has tried by all manner of intellectual
shuffling to save its face by seeking to make it appear to its own
people that the war was one of self-defense thrust upon them by
unscrupulous enemies. The claim was so absurd that the whole world
laughed it to scorn, even before the striking | 1,873.254373 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: A flower shot down amid the crowd. Page 19.]
*Latter-Day Sweethearts*
By
*MRS. BURTON HARRISON*
Author of
"A Bachelor Maid,"
"The Carlyles," "The Circle of a Century,"
"The Anglomaniacs," Etc.
"La Duchesse.--'L'amour est le fleau du monde. Tous
nos maux nous viennent de lui.'
"Le Docteur.--'C'est le seul qui les guerisse,"
--"_Le Duel_," _Henri Lavedan_.
Illustrated in Water-Colors by FRANK T. MERRILL
A. S. & T. HUNTER
SPECIAL EDITION,
UTICA, N. Y.
NEW YORK AND LONDON
THE AUTHORS AND NEWSPAPERS ASSOCIATION
1907
COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY
CONSTANCE BURTON HARRISON.
_Entered at Stationers' Hall._
_All Rights Reserved._
Composition and Electrotyping by
J. J. Little & Co.
Printed and bound by the
Plimpton Press, Norwood, Mass.
[Illustration: (Facsimile Page of Manuscript from LATTER-DAY
SWEETHEARTS)]
*LATTER-DAY
SWEETHEARTS*
*CHAPTER I*
In going aboard the "Baltic" that exceptionally fine October morning,
Miss Carstairs convinced herself that, of the people assembled to see
her off, no one could reasonably discern in her movement the suggestion
of a retreat. The commonplace of a sailing for the other side would not,
indeed, have met with the recognition of any attendance at the pier
among her set, save for her hint that she might remain abroad a year.
There had been a small rally on the part of a few friends who had
chanced to meet at a dinner overnight, to go down to the White Star
docks and say good-by to Helen Carstairs. Helen sincerely wished they
had not come, both because the ceremony proved a little flat, and
because, when she had time to think them over, she was not so sure they
were her friends.
But the main thing was that she had been able to withdraw, easily and
naturally, from a doubly trying situation. She had not wanted to go
abroad. All the novelty and sparkle had gone out of that business long
ago. She knew foreign travel from A to Z, and she loathed tables
d'hote, even more than the grim prospect of private meals with Miss
Bleecker in sitting-rooms redolent of departed food, insufficiently
atoned for by an encircling wilderness of gilding and red plush. The
very thought of a concierge with brass buttons lifting his cap to her
every time she crossed the hall, of hotel corridors decked with strange
foot gear upon which unmade bedrooms yawned, of cabs and galleries and
harpy dressmakers, of sights and fellow tourists, gave her a mental
qualm. But it was better than staying at home this winter in the big
house in Fifth Avenue where Mr. Carstairs had just brought a stepmother
for her, in the person of "that Mrs. Coxe."
There was apparently no valid reason for Helen's | 1,873.345926 |
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Produced by Sam Whitehead, Suzanne Shell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE PRICE
BY
FRANCIS LYNDE
AUTHOR OF
THE TAMING OF RED BUTTE WESTERN, ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Published by Arrangement with Charles Scribner's Sons
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published May, 1911
[Illustration]
To
MR. LATHROP BROCKWAY BULLENE
SOLE FRIEND OF MY BOYHOOD, WHO WILL RECALL BETTER
THAN ANY THE YOUTHFUL MORAL AND SOCIAL SEED-TIME
WHICH HAS LED TO THIS LATER HARVESTING OF CONCLUSION,
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. AT CHAUDIERE'S 1
II. SPINDRIFT 9
III. THE RIGHT OF MIGHT 16
IV. _IO TRIUMPHE!_ 26
V. THE _BELLE JULIE_ 34
VI. THE DECK-HAND 44
VII. GOLD OF TOLOSA 53
VIII. THE CHAIN-GANG 59
IX. THE MIDDLE WATCH 68
X. QUICKSANDS 75
XI. THE ANARCHIST 84
XII. MOSES ICHTHYOPHAGUS 94
XIII. GRISWOLD EMERGENT 110
XIV. PHILISTIA 116
XV. THE GOTHS AND VANDALS 126
XVI. GOOD SAMARITANS 143
XVII. GROPINGS 154
XVIII. THE ZWEIBUND 165
XIX. LOSS AND GAIN 175
XX. THE CONVALESCENT 187
XXI. BROFFIN'S EQUATION 201
XXII. IN THE BURGLAR-PROOF 218
XXIII. CONVERGING ROADS 234
XXIV. THE FORWARD LIGHT 248
XXV. THE BRIDGE OF JEHENNAM 260
XXVI. PITFALLS 274
XXVII. IN THE SHADOWS 286
XXVIII. BROKEN LINKS 295
XXIX. ALL THAT A MAN HATH 312
XXX. THE VALLEY OF DRY BONES 332
XXXI. NARROWING WALLS 347
XXXII. THE LION'S SHARE 354
XXXIII. GATES OF BRASS 368
XXXIV. THE ABYSS 375
XXXV. MARGERY'S ANSWER 384
XXXVI. THE GRAY WOLF 396
XXXVII. THE QUALITY OF MERCY 408
XXXVIII. THE PENDULUM-SWING 416
XXXIX. DUST AND ASHES 428
XL. APPLES OF ISTAKHAR 438
XLI. THE DESERT AND THE SOWN 448
THE PRICE
I
AT CHAUDIERE'S
In the days when New Orleans still claimed distinction as the only
American city without trolleys, sky-scrapers, or fast trains--was it
yesterday? or the day before?--there was a dingy, cobwebbed cafe in an
arcade off Camp Street which was well-beloved of newspaperdom;
particularly of that wing of the force whose activities begin late and
end in the small hours.
"Chaudiere's," it was called, though I know not if that were the name of
the round-faced, round-bodied little Marseillais who took toll at the
desk. But all men knew the fame of its gumbo and its stuffed crabs, and
that its claret was neither very bad nor very dear. And if the walls
were dingy and the odors from the grille pungent and penetrating at
times, there went with the white-sanded floor, and the marble-topped
tables for two, an Old-World air of recreative comfort which is rarer
now, even in New Orleans, than it was yesterday or the day before.
It was at Chaudiere's that Griswold had eaten his first breakfast in the
Crescent City; and it was at Chaudiere's again that he was sharing a
farewell supper with Bainbridge, of the _Louisianian_. Six weeks lay
between that and this; forty-odd days of discouragement and failure
superadded upon other similar days and weeks and months. The breakfast,
he remembered, had been garnished with certain green sprigs of hope; but
at the supper-table he ate like a barbarian in arrears to his appetite
and the garnishings were the bitter herbs of humiliation and defeat.
Without meaning to, Bainbridge had been strewing the path with fresh
thorns for the defeated one. He had just been billeted for a run down
the Central American coast to write up the banana trade for his paper,
and he was boyishly jubilant over the assignment, which promised to be a
zestful pleasure trip. Chancing upon Griswold in the first flush of his
elation, he had dragged the New Yorker around to Chaudiere's to play
second knife and fork at a small parting feast. Not that it had required
much persuasion. Griswold had fasted for twenty-four hours, and he would
have broken bread thankfully with an enemy. And if Bainbridge were not a
friend in a purist's definition of the term, he was at least a friendly
acquaintance.
Until the twenty-four-hour fast was in some measure atoned for, the
burden of the table-talk fell upon Bainbridge, who lifted and carried it
generously on the strength of his windfall. But no topic can be
immortal; and when the vacation under pay had been threshed out in all
its anticipatory details it occurred to the host that his guest was less
than usually responsive; a fault not to be lightly condoned under the
joyous circumstances. Wherefore he protested.
"What's the matter with you to-night, Kenneth, old man? You're more than
commonly grumpy, it seems to me; and that's needless."
Griswold took the last roll from the joint bread-plate and buttered it
methodically.
"Am I?" he said. "Perhaps it is because I am more than commonly hungry.
But go on with your joy-talk: I'm listening."
"That's comforting, as far as it goes; but I should think you might say
something a little less carefully polarized. You don't have a chance to
congratulate lucky people every day."
Griswold looked up with a smile that was almost ill-natured, and quoted
cynically: "'Unto everyone that hath shall be given, and he shall have
abundance; but from him that hath not, shall be taken away even that
which he hath.'"
Bainbridge's laugh was tolerant enough to take the edge from his retort.
"That's a pretty thing to fling at a man who never knifed you or
pistoled you or tried to poison you! An innocent by-stander might say
you envied me."
"I do," rejoined Griswold gravely. "I envy any man who can earn enough
money to pay for three meals a day and a place to sleep in."
"Oh, cat's foot!--anybody can do that," asserted Bainbridge, with the
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CONISTON
By Winston Churchill
BOOK III
CHAPTER I
One day, in the November following William Wetherell's death, Jethro Bass
astonished Coniston by moving to the little cottage in the village which
stood beside the disused tannery, and which had been his father's. It was
known as the tannery house. His reasons for this step, when at length
discovered, were generally commended: they were, in fact, a
disinclination to leave a girl of Cynthia's tender age alone on Thousand
Acre Hill while he journeyed on his affairs about the country. The Rev.
Mr. Satterlee, gaunt, red-faced, but the six feet of him a man and a
Christian, from his square-toed boots to the bleaching yellow hair around
his temples, offered to become her teacher. For by this time Cynthia had
exhausted the resources of the little school among the birches.
The four years of her life in the tannery house which are now briefly to
be chronicled were, for her, full of happiness and peace. Though the
young may sorrow, they do not often mourn. Cynthia missed her father; at
times, when the winds kept her wakeful at night, she wept for him. But
she loved Jethro Bass and served him with a devotion that filled his
heart with strange ecstasies--yes, and forebodings. In all his existence
he had never known a love like this. He may have imagined it once, back
in the bright days of his youth; but the dreams of its fulfilment had
fallen far short of the exquisite touch of the reality in which he now
spent his days at home. In summer, when she sat, in the face of all the
conventions of the village, reading under the butternut tree before the
house, she would feel his eyes upon her, and the mysterious yearning in
them would startle her. Often during her lessons with Mr. Satterlee in
the parlor of the parsonage she would hear a noise outside and perceive
Jethro leaning against the pillar. Both Cynthia and Mr. Satterlee knew
that he was there, and both, by a kind of tacit agreement, ignored the
circumstance.
Cynthia, in this period, undertook Jethro's education, too. She could
have induced him to study the making of Latin verse by the mere asking.
During those days which he spent at home, and which he had grown to value
beyond price, he might have been seen seated on the ground with his back
to the butternut tree while Cynthia read aloud from the well-worn books
which had been her father's treasures, books that took on marvels of
meaning from her lips. Cynthia's powers of selection were not remarkable
at this period, and perhaps it was as well that she never knew the effect
of the various works upon the hitherto untamed soul of her listener.
Milton and Tennyson and Longfellow awoke in him by their very music
troubled and half-formed regrets; Carlyle's "Frederick the Great" set up
tumultuous imaginings; but the "Life of Jackson" (as did the story of
Napoleon long ago) stirred all that was masterful in his blood.
Unlettered as he was, Jethro had a power which often marks the American
of action--a singular grasp of the application of any sentence or
paragraph to his own life; and often, about this time, he took away the
breath of a judge or a senator by flinging at them a chunk of Carlyle or
Parton.
It was perhaps as well that Cynthia was not a woman at this time, and
that she had grown up with him, as it were. His love, indeed, was that of
a father for a daughter; but it held within it as a core the revived love
of his youth for Cynthia, her mother. Tender as were the manifestations
of this love, Cynthia never guessed the fires within, for there was in
truth something primeval in the fierceness of his passion. She was his
now--his alone, to cherish and sweeten the declining years of his life,
and when by a chance Jethro looked upon her and thought of the suitor who
was to come in the fulness of her years, he burned with a hatred which it
is given few men to feel. It was well for Jethro that these thoughts came
not often.
Sometimes, in the summer afternoons, they took long drives through the
town behind Jethro's white horse on business. "Jethro's gal," as Cynthia
came to be affectionately called, held the reins while Jethro went in to
talk to the men folk. One August evening found Cynthia thus beside a
poplar in front of Amos Cuthbert's farmhouse, a poplar that shimmered
green-gold in the late afternoon, and from the buggy-seat Cynthia looked
down upon a thousand purple hilltops and mountain peaks of another state.
The view aroused in the girl visions of the many wonders which life was
to hold, and she did not hear the sharp voice beside her until the woman
had spoken twice. Jethro came out in the middle of the conversation,
nodded to Mrs. Cuthbert, and drove off.
"Uncle Jethro," asked Cynthia, presently, "what is a mortgage?"
Jethro struck the horse with the whip, an uncommon action with him, and
the buggy was jerked forward sharply over the boulders.
"Er--who's b'en talkin' about mortgages, Cynthy?" he demanded.
"Mrs. Cuthbert said that when folks had mortgage held over them they had
to take orders whether they liked them or not. She said that Amos had to
do what you told him because there was a mortgage. That isn't so is it?"
Jethro did not speak. Presently Cynthia laid her hand over his.
"Mrs. Cuthbert is a spiteful woman," she said. "I know the reason why
people obey you--it's because you're so great. And Daddy used to tell me
so."
A tremor shook Jethro's frame and the hand on which hers rested, and all
the way down the mountain valleys to Coniston village he did not speak
again. But Cynthia was used to his silences, and respected them.
To Ephraim Prescott, who, as the days went on, found it more and more
difficult to sew harness on account of his rheumatism, Jethro was not
only a great man but a hero. For Cynthia was vaguely troubled at having
found one discontent. She was wont to entertain Ephraim on the days when
his hands failed him, when he sat sunning himself before his door; and
she knew that he was honest.
"Who's b'en talkin' to you, Cynthia?" he cried. "Why, Jethro's the
biggest man I know, and | 1,873.353716 |
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OVERLAND TALES
by
JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD.
[Illustration]
San Francisco:
A. L. Bancroft & Co.
1877.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by
Josephine Clifford,
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
[Illustration: J. FAGAN & SON, STEREOTYPERS, PHILAD'A.]
COLLINS, PRINTER.
Dedicated
TO MY KINDEST
AND
_MOST CONSTANT READER_,
MOTHER.
PREFACE.
In the book I now lay before the reader, I have collected a series of
stories and sketches of journeyings through California, Arizona, and New
Mexico. There is little of fiction, even in the stories; and the
sketches, I flatter myself, are true to life--as I saw it, at the time I
visited the places.
A number of these stories first appeared in the OVERLAND MONTHLY, but
some of them are new, and have never been published. I bespeak for them
all the attentive perusal and undivided interest of the kind reader.
THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
_LA GRACIOSA_, 13
_JUANITA_, 53
_HETTY'S HEROISM_, 68
_A WOMAN'S TREACHERY_, 87
_THE GENTLEMAN FROM SISKIYOU_, 101
_SOMETHING ABOUT MY PETS_, 119
_POKER-JIM_, 137
_THE TRAGEDY AT MOHAWK STATION_, 153
_LONE LINDEN_, 161
_MANUELA_, 188
_THE ROMANCE OF GILA BEND_, 204
_A LADY IN CAMP_, 219
_THE GOLDEN LAMB_, 237
_IT OCCURRED AT TUCSON_, 260
_A BIT OF "EARLY CALIFORNIA"_, 274
_HER NAME WAS SYLVIA_, 282
_CROSSING THE ARIZONA DESERTS_, 296
_DOWN AMONG THE DEAD LETTERS_, 310
_MARCHING WITH A COMMAND_, 321
_TO TEXAS, AND BY THE WAY_, 354
_MY FIRST EXPERIENCE IN NEW MEXICO_, 367
OVERLAND TALES.
_LA GRACIOSA._
It was a stolid Indian face, at the first casual | 1,873.451799 |
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ORATORY
SACRED AND SECULAR:
OR, THE
Extemporaneous Speaker,
WITH
SKETCHES OF THE MOST EMINENT SPEAKERS OF ALL AGES
BY WILLIAM PITTENGER,
Author of “Daring and Suffering.”
_INTRODUCTION BY HON. JOHN A. BINGHAM_,
AND
_APPENDIX_
CONTAINING A “CHAIRMAN’S GUIDE” FOR CONDUCTING PUBLIC MEETINGS ACCORDING
TO THE BEST PARLIAMENTARY MODELS.
New York:
SAMUEL R. WELLS, PUBLISHER, 389 BROADWAY.
1869.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868,
By SAMUEL R. WELLS.
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for
the Southern District of New York.
EDWARD O. JENKINS,
PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER,
20 North William Street.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.
When we first began to speak in public, we felt the need of a manual
that would point out the hindrances likely to be met with, and serve as
a guide to self-improvement. Such help would have prevented many
difficult and painful experiences, and have rendered our progress in the
delightful art of coining thought into words more easy and rapid. In the
following pages we give the result of thought and observations in this
field, and trust it will benefit those who are now in the position we
were then.
We have freely availed ourself of the labor of others, and would
especially acknowledge the valuable assistance derived from the writings
of Bautain, Stevens and Holyoake. Yet the following work, with whatever
merit or demerit it may possess, is original in both thought and
arrangement.
We have treated general preparation with more than ordinary fullness,
for although often neglected, it is the necessary basis upon which all
special preparation rests.
As the numerous varieties of speech differ in comparatively few
particulars, we have treated one of the most common—that of preaching—in
detail, with only such brief notices of other forms as will direct the
student in applying general principles to the branch of oratory that
engages his attention.
We are not vain enough to believe that the modes of culture and
preparation pointed out in the following pages are invariably the best,
but they are such as we have found useful, and to the thoughtful mind
may suggest others still more valuable.
CONTENTS.
PREFACE.—Objects of the Work stated 3
INTRODUCTION—By Hon. JOHN A. BINGHAM, Member of Congress 7
=PART I.=—_GENERAL PREPARATIONS._
CHAPTER I.
THE WRITTEN AND EXTEMPORE DISCOURSE COMPARED—Illustrative Examples 13
CHAPTER II.
PREREQUISITES—Intellectual Competency; Strength of Body; Command of
Language; Courage; Firmness; Self-reliance 18
CHAPTER III.
BASIS OF SPEECH—Thought and Emotion; Heart Cultivation; Earnestness 27
CHAPTER IV.
ACQUIREMENTS—General Knowledge; of Bible; of Theology; of Men;
Method by which such Knowledge may be obtained 35
CHAPTER V.
CULTIVATION—Imagination; Language; Voice; Gesture; Confidence;
References to Distinguished Orators and Writers. 42
=PART II.=—_A SERMON._
CHAPTER I.
THE FOUNDATION FOR A PREACHER—Subject; Object; Text; Hints to Young
Preachers 69
CHAPTER II.
THE PLAN—Gathering Thought; Arranging; Committing; Practical
Suggestions; Use of Notes 80
CHAPTER III.
PRELIMINARIES FOR PREACHING—Fear; Vigor; Opening Exercises;
Requisites for a Successful Discourse 96
CHAPTER IV.
THE DIVISIONS—Introduction, Difficulties in Opening; Discussion,
Simplicity and Directness; Conclusion 104
CHAPTER V.
AFTER CONSIDERATIONS—Success; Rest; Improvement; Practical
Suggestions 115
=PART III.=—_SECULAR ORATORY._
CHAPTER I.
INSTRUCTIVE ADDRESS—Fields of Oratory; Oral Teaching; Lecturing 123
CHAPTER II.
MISCELLANEOUS ADDRESS—Deliberative; Legal; Popular; Controversial;
the Statesman; the Lawyer; the Lecturer; the Orator 127
=PART IV.=
EMINENT SPEAKERS DESCRIBED—St. Augustine; Luther; Lord Chatham;
William Pitt; Edmund Burke; Mirabeau; Patrick Henry; George
Whitefield; John Wesley; Sidney Smith; F. W. Robertson; Henry
Clay; Henry B. Bascom; John Summerfield; C. H. Spurgeon; Henry
Ward Beecher; Anna E. Dickinson; John A. Bingham; William E.
Gladstone; Matthew Simpson; Wendell Phillips; John P. Durbin;
Newman Hall, and others 133
=APPENDIX.=
THE CHAIRMAN’S GUIDE—How to Organize and Conduct Public Meetings
and Debating Clubs in Parliamentary style 199
------------------------------------------------------------------------
INTRODUCTORY LETTER.
REV. WM. PITTENGER: CADIZ, O., _19th Nov., 1867_.
DEAR SIR,—I thank you for calling my attention to your forthcoming work
on Extemporaneous Speaking. Unwritten speech is, in my judgment, the
more efficient method of public speaking, because it is the natural
method. The written essay, says an eminent critic of antiquity, “is not
a speech, unless you choose to call epistles speeches.” A cultivated
man, fully possessed of all the facts which relate to the subject of
which he would speak, who cannot clearly express himself without first
memorizing word for word his written preparation, can scarcely be called
a public speaker, whatever may be his capacity as a writer or reader.
The speaker who clothes his thoughts at the moment of utterance, and in
the presence of his hearers, will illustrate by his speech the admirable
saying of Seneca: “Fit words better than fine ones.”
It is not my purpose to enter upon any inquiry touching the gifts,
culture and practice necessary to make a powerful and successful
speaker. It is conceded that in the art of public speaking, as in all
other arts, there is no excellence without great labor. Neither is it
the intent of the writer to suggest the possibility of speaking
efficiently without the careful culture of voice and manner, of
intellect and heart, an exact knowledge of the subject, and a careful
arrangement, with or without writing, of all the facts and statements
involved in the discussion. Lord Brougham has said that a speech written
before delivery is regarded as something almost ridiculous; may we not
add, that a speech made without previous reflection or an accurate
knowledge of the subject, would be regarded as a mere tinkling cymbal. I
intend no depreciation of the elaborate written essay read for the
instruction or amusement of an assembly; but claim that the essay, read,
or recited from memory, is not speech, nor can it supply the place of
natural effective speech. The essay delivered is but the echo of the
dead past, the speech is the utterance of the living present. The
delivery of the essay is the formal act of memory, the delivery of the
unwritten speech the living act of intellect and heart. The difference
between the two is known and felt of all men. To all this it may be
answered that the ancient speakers, whose fame still survives, carefully
elaborated their speeches before delivery. The fact is admitted with the
further statement, that many of the speeches of the ancient orators
never were delivered at all. Five of the seven orations of Cicero
against Verres were never spoken, neither was the second Philippic
against Mark Antony, nor the reported defence of Milo. We admit that the
ancient speakers wrote much and practised much, and we would commend
their example, in all, save a formal recital of written preparations.
There is nothing in all that has come to us concerning ancient oratory,
which by any means proves that to be effective in speech, what is to be
said should be first written and memorized; there is much that shows,
that to enable one to express his own thoughts clearly and forcibly,
reflection, culture and practice are essential.
Lord Brougham, remarking on the habit of writing speeches, says: “That a
speech written before delivery is something anomalous, and a speech
intended to have been spoken is a kind of byword for something laughable
in itself, as describing an incongruous existence.” This distinguished
man, in his careful consideration of this subject, says: “We can hardly
assign any limits to the effects of great practise in giving a power of
extempore composition,” and notices that it is recorded of Demosthenes,
that when, upon some rare occasions, he trusted to the feeling of the
hour, and spoke off-hand, “his eloquence was more spirited and bold, and
he seemed sometimes to speak from a supernatural impulse.” If this be
true of the great Athenian who notoriously would not, if he could avoid
it, trust to the inspiration of the moment, and who for want of a
prepared speech, we are told by Æschines, failed before Philip,—might it
not be inferred that one practised in speaking, would utter his thoughts
with more spirit and power when not restrained by a written preparation
and fettered by its formal recital?
Did not Fox often, in the Parliament, achieve the highest results of
speech without previous written preparation; and is it not a fact never
to be questioned, that the wonderful speech of Webster, in reply to
Hayne, was unwritten?
In his admirable lecture on Eloquence, Mr. Emerson says: “Eloquence that
so astonishes, is only the exaggeration of a talent that is universal.
All men are competitors in this art. * * A man of this talent finds
himself cold in private company, and proves himself a heavy companion;
but give him a commanding occasion, and the inspiration of a great
multitude, and he surprises us by new and unlooked for powers.” * *
Indeed, there is in this lecture of Mr. Emerson, in few words, much to
sustain your theory. He says, “the word eloquence strictly means
out-speaking; the main power, sentiment—the essential fact is heat, the
heat which comes of sincerity. Speak what you know and believe, and are
personally answerable for. This goes by weight and measure, like
everything else in the universe. A man to be eloquent must have faith in
his subject, and must have accurate knowledge of that subject. * * The
author of power—he is the great man who always makes a divine
impression, a sentiment more powerful in the heart than love of country,
and gives perceptions and feelings far beyond the limits of thought.
Eloquence is the power to translate a truth into a language perfectly
intelligible to the person to whom you speak. Such a practical
conversion of truth, written in God’s language, is one of the most
beautiful weapons forged in the shop of the Divine Artificer. God and
Nature are altogether sincere, and art should be as sincere.” How can
sincerity be fully attained in the great art of public speech, if every
word to be uttered must be previously written down in the closet, and
memorized and recited? Was not Lord Brougham right in saying a speech
written before delivery is inconsistent with the inspiration of the
moment, and the feelings under which the orator is always supposed to
speak? What feelings? The felt-conviction of the truth of what he has to
say. What inspiration? The inspiration which, at the moment, clothes and
expresses the honest thought in appropriate words.
Surely the living voice, rightly cultivated, and rightly employed, is a
power in the world, and to condemn you for calling attention to what you
believe to the most efficient method of human speech, would be one of
those decisions of ignorant arrogance which it costs no labor and needs
no intellect to pronounce.
Is not the man who well and truthfully speaks his own thoughts, as
Shakspeare and Bacon wrote, in some sense their peer? Is not the mere
reciter of their words, but their shadow?
It is said of Plato, that he poured forth the flood of his eloquence as
by inspiration, and that, had the Father of the gods spoken in Greek, he
would have used none other language than Plato’s; and yet this master of
language takes pains, in reporting the apology of Socrates on trial for
his life, to represent him as saying that it would not become him to
speak “studied terms and expressions, but only the truth expressed in
the plainest language.” I quote the words of Socrates as given by Plato:
“Among the false statements which my accusers made, there was one at
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GOBLINS AND PAGODAS
BY
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1916
TO
DAISY
Thanks are due to the editor of The Egoist, London, for permission to
reprint The Ghosts of an Old House and the Orange Symphony; to the
editor of Poetry, Chicago, for permission to reprint the Blue Symphony;
and to the editor of The Little Review for permission to reprint the
Green Symphony.
PREFACE
I
The second half of the nineteenth and the first fifteen years of the
twentieth century have been a period of research, of experiment, of
unrest and questioning. In science and philosophy we have witnessed an
attempt to destroy the mechanistic theory of the universe as developed
by Darwin, Huxley, and Spencer. The unknowable has been questioned:
hypotheses have been shaken: vitalism and idealism have been proclaimed.
In the arts, the tendency has been to strip each art of its inessentials
and to disclose the underlying basis of pure form. In life, the
principles of nationality, of racial culture, of individualism, of
social development, of Christian ethics, have been discussed, debated,
and examined from top to bottom, until at last, in the early years of
the twentieth century we find all Europe, from the leaders of thought
down to the lowest peasantry, engaged in a mutually destructive war of
which few can trace the beginnings and none can foresee the end. The
fundamental tenets of thought, art, life itself, have been shaken: and
either civilization is destined to some new birth, or mankind will
revert to the conditions of life, thought, and social intercourse that
prevailed in the Stone Age.
Like all men of my generation, I have not been able to resist this
irresistible upheaval of ideas and of forces: and, to the best of my
ability, I have tried to arrive at a clear understanding of the
fundamentals of aesthetic form as they affect the art to which I have
felt myself instinctively akin, the art of poetry. That I have
completely attained such an understanding, it would be idle for me to
pretend: but I believe, and have induced some others to believe, that I
have made a few steps towards it. Some explanation of my own peculiar
theories and beliefs is necessary, however, to those who have not
specifically concerned themselves with poetry, or who suffer in the
presence of any new work of art from the normal human reaction that all
art principles are so essentially fixed that any departure from accepted
ideas is madness.
II
The fundamental basis of all the arts is the same. In every case art
aims at the evocation of some human emotion in the spectator or
listener. Where science proceeds from effects to causes, and seeks to
analyze the underlying causes of emotion and sensation, art reverses the
process, and constructs something that will awaken emotions, according
to the amount of receptiveness with which other people approach it. Thus
architecture gives us feelings of density, proportion, harmony:
sculpture, of masses in movement; painting, of colour-harmony and the
ordered composition of lines and volumes from which arise sensations of
space: music, of the development of sounds into melodic line, harmonic
progression, tonal opposition, and symphonic structure.
The object of literature is not dissimilar from these. Literature aims
at releasing the emotions that arise from the formed words of a certain
language. But literature is probably a less pure--and hence more
universal--art than any I have yet examined. For it must be apparent to
all minds that not only is a word a definite symbol of some fact, but
also it is a thing capable of being spoken or sounded. The art of
literature, then, in so far as it deals with definite statements, is
akin to painting or photography: in so far as it deals with sounded
words, it is akin to music.
III
Literature, therefore, does not depend on the peculiar twists and quirks
which represent, to those who can read, the words, but rather on the
essential words themselves. In fact, literature existed before writing;
and writing in itself is of no value from the purely literary sense,
except in so far as it preserves and transmits from generation to
generation the literary emotion. Style, whether in prose or poetry, is
an attempt to develop this essentially musical quality of literature, to
evoke the magic that exists in the sound-quality of words, as well as
to combine these sound-qualities in definite statements or sentences.
The difference between prose and poetry is, therefore, not a difference
of means, but of psychological effect and reaction. The means employed,
the formed language, is the same: but the resultant impression is quite
different.
In prose, the emotions expressed are those that are capable of
development in a straight line. In so far as prose is pure, it confines
itself to the direct orderly progression of a thought or conception or
situation from point to point of a flat surface. The sentences, as they
develop this conception from its beginning to conclusion, move on, and
do not return upon themselves. The grouping of these sentences into
paragraphs gives the breadth of the thought. The paragraphs, sections,
and chapters are each a square, in that they represent a division of the
main thought into parallel units, or blocks of subsidiary ideas. The
sensation of depth is finally obtained by arranging these blocks in a
rising climacteric progression, or in parallel lines, or in a sort of
zigzag figure.
The psychological reaction that arises from the intelligent appreciation
of poetry is quite different. In poetry, we have a succession of curves.
The direction of the thought is not in straight lines, but wavy and
spiral. It rises and falls on gusts of strong emotion. Most often it
creates strongly marked loops and circles. The structure of the stanza
or strophe always tends to the spherical. Depth is obtained by making
one sphere contain a number of concentric, or overlapping spheres.
Hence, when we speak of poetry we usually mean regular rhyme and metre,
which have for so long been considered essential to all poetry, not as a
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PUNCH AND JUDY,
With Instructions
How to Manage the Little
WOODEN ACTORS;
CONTAINING
New and Easy Dialogues
ARRANGED FOR THE USE OF
BEGINNERS, DESIROUS TO LEARN
HOW TO WORK THE PUPPETS.
--FOR--
Sunday Schools, Private Parties, Festivals and
Parlor Entertainments.
BY THOS. A. M. WARD,
Attorney at Law.
JANESVILLE, WIS.:
VEEDER & LEONARD, PRINTERS,
1874.
Entered according to an Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
THOS. A. M. WARD,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District
of Pennsylvania.
PREFACE.
The Invention of Puppet Shows, Tumbling and other public amusements,
carries us back to a period in history long anterior to the birth of
MOSES.
In fact, Games of Chance, as well as the sports and pastimes usually
enjoyed in their Plays, by the early people of Egypt, were in their
zenith in the reign of the RAMESES.
RAMESES the II. was a magnificent patron of letters as well as art.
The "Sacred Library," which Diodorus mentions, has been discovered in
his Palace, the Rameseum at Karnak.
Nine men of learning were attached to the person of this King, and at
their head was a certain KAGABU, as "Master of the Rolls," (Books) a man
"unrivaled in elegance of style and diction."
From the pen of this master, who may have helped to train the mind of
MOSES, the King's adopted grandson, in "all the learning of the
Egyptians," we still possess the oldest Fairy Tale in the world, a moral
story, resembling that of Joseph and his Brethren, composed for the
King's son Meneptha, who afterwards became the opponent of Moses, at the
time of the exodus of the Jews from Egypt.
Our object is not so much with the antiquity of shows, as it is directly
with the introduction of "PUNCH AND JUDY" into polite society; in proper
character, free from superfluous verbiage, and dressing the play in
phraseology commensurate with the progress of the age--good taste and
refinement.
The performance of PUNCH in the streets of European cities, unpurified
of the vulgar colloquies put into his mouth, by the man who works the
Puppets, would not for an instant be tolerated by the people of this
country.
"The Play of PUNCH AND JUDY," observes a writer in _Harper's Monthly_,
"was exhibited for a short time at a popular place of amusement in New
York City, in 1870, but did not take sufficiently with the audience to
induce the managers to go on with it."
The true cause of its failure, at the time, doubtless arose from the
vulgar and impure language, used by the fellow that worked the Figures.
Where the little Puppets have been properly conducted, the popularity of
the show has been unbounded.
| 1,873.746021 |
2023-11-16 18:48:17.7269560 | 1,732 | 6 | The Project Gutenberg Etext of Love or Fame; and Other Poems by Fannie
Isabelle Sherrick
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things, Def | 1,873.746996 |
2023-11-16 18:48:17.7327570 | 616 | 7 |
Produced by Marius Masi, Don Kretz and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's notes:
(1) Numbers following letters (without space) like C2 were originally
printed in subscript. Letter subscripts are preceded by an
underscore, like C_n.
(2) Characters following a carat (^) were printed in superscript.
(3) Side-notes were relocated to function as titles of their respective
paragraphs.
(4) Macrons and breves above letters and dots below letters were not
inserted.
(5) [root] stands for the root symbol; [alpha], [beta], etc. for greek
letters.
(6) The following typographical errors have been corrected:
ARTICLE KIU-KIANG FU: "Unfortunately, however, it stands above
instead of below the outlet of the Po-yang lake, and this has
proved to be a decided drawback to its success as a commercial
port." ''commercial'' amended from ''commerical''.
ARTICLE KLONDIKE: "Gold is practically the only economic product of
the Klondike, though small amounts of tin ore occur, and lignite
coal has been mined lower down on the Yukon." ''practically''
amended from ''practially''.
ARTICLE KNARESBOROUGH: "In 1317 John de Lilleburn, who was holding
the castle of Knaresborough for Thomas duke of Lancaster against
the king, surrendered under conditions to William de Ros of Hamelak
..." ''Knaresborough'' amended from ''Knaresburgh''.
ARTICLE KNUTSFORD: "... on the Cheshire Lines and London &
North-Western railway. Pop. of urban district (1901), 5172."
''Cheshire'' amended from ''Chesire''.
ARTICLE KOREA: "Buddhism, a forceful civilizing element, reached
Hiaksai in A.D. 384, and from it the sutras and images of northern
Buddhism were carried to Japan, as well as Chinese letters and
ethics." ''Buddhism'' amended from ''Buddism''.
ARTICLE KUEN-LUN: "... have the appearance of comparatively gentle
swellings of the earth's surface rather than of well-defined
mountain ranges." ''surface'' amended from ''service''.
ARTICLE KURDISTAN: "... like another Saladin, the bey ruled in
patriarchal state, surrounded by an hereditary nobility, regarded
by his clansmen with reverence and affection, and attended by a
bodyguard of young Kurdish warriors..." ''patriarchal'' amended
from ''partriarchal''..
ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNICA
A DICTIONARY OF | 1,873.752797 |
2023-11-16 18:48:17.7338650 | 1,448 | 55 |
Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced from
scanned images of public domain material from the Google
Print archive.
_Plashers Mead_
Compton Mackenzie
PLASHERS MEAD
[Illustration: GUY AND PAULINE]
PLASHERS MEAD
BY
COMPTON MACKENZIE
AUTHOR OF _CARNIVAL_
[Illustration]
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK & LONDON
Copyright, 1915, by Harper & Brothers
TO
GENERAL
SIR IAN HAMILTON
G.C.B., D.S.O.
AND THE GENERAL STAFF OF THE
MEDITERRANEAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. AUTUMN
SEPTEMBER: OCTOBER: NOVEMBER 3
II. WINTER
DECEMBER: JANUARY: FEBRUARY 55
III. SPRING
MARCH: APRIL: MAY 99
IV. SUMMER
JUNE: JULY: AUGUST 155
V. ANOTHER AUTUMN
SEPTEMBER: OCTOBER: NOVEMBER 205
VI. ANOTHER WINTER
DECEMBER: JANUARY: FEBRUARY 253
VII. ANOTHER SPRING
MARCH: APRIL: MAY 297
VIII. ANOTHER SUMMER
JUNE: JULY: AUGUST 339
IX. EPIGRAPH
GUY: PAULINE 371
AUTUMN
SEPTEMBER
The slow train puffed away into the unadventurous country; and the bees
buzzing round the wine-dark dahlias along the platform were once again
audible. The last farewell that Guy Hazlewood flung over his shoulder to
a parting friend was more casual than it would have been had he not at
the same moment been turning to ask the solitary porter how many cases
of books awaited his disposition. They were very heavy, it seemed; and
the porter, as he led the way towards the small and obscure purgatory
through which every package for Shipcot must pass, declared he was
surprised to hear these cases contained merely books. He would not go so
far as to suggest that hitherto he had never faced the existence of
books in such quantity, for the admission might have impugned official
omniscience; yet there was in his attitude just as much incredulity
mingled with disdain of useless learning as would preserve his dignity
without jeopardizing the financial compliment his services were owed.
"Ah, well," he decided, as if he were trying to smooth over Guy's
embarrassment at the sight of these large packing-cases in the
parcel-office. "You'll want something as'll keep you busy this
winter--for you'll be the gentleman who've come to live down Wychford
way?"
Guy nodded.
"And Wychford is mortal dead in winter. Time walks very lame there, as
they say. And all these books, I suppose, were better to come along of
the 'bus to-night?"
Guy looked doubtful. It was seeming a pity to waste this afternoon
without unpacking a single case. "The trap...." he began.
But the porter interrupted him firmly; he did not think Mr. Godbold
would relish the notion of one of these packing-cases in his new trap.
"I could give you a hand...." Guy began again.
The porter stiffened himself against the slight upon his strength.
"It's not the heffort," he asserted. "Heffort is what I must look for
every day of my life. It's Mr. Godbold's trap."
The discussion was given another turn by the entrance of Mr. Godbold
himself. He was not at all concerned for his trap, and indeed by an
asseverated indifference to its welfare he conveyed the impression that,
new though it were, it was so much firewood, if the gentleman wanted
firewood. No, the trap did not matter, but what about Mr. Hazlewood's
knees?
"Ah, there you are," said the porter, and he and Mr. Godbold both stood
dumb in the presence of the finally insuperable.
"I suppose it must be the 'bus," said Guy. On such a sleepy afternoon he
could argue no longer. The books must be unpacked to-morrow; and the
word lulled like an opiate the faint irritation of his disappointment.
The porter's reiterated altruism was rewarded with a fee so absurdly in
excess of anything he had done, that he began to speak of a possibility
if, after all, the smallest case might not be squeezed... but Mr.
Godbold flicked the pony, and the trap rattled up the station road at a
pace quite out of accord with the warmth of the afternoon. Presently he
turned to his fare:
"Mrs. Godbold said to me only this morning, she said, 'You ought to have
had a luggage-flap behind and that I shall always say,' And she was
right. Women is often right, what's more," the husband postulated.
Guy nodded absently; he was thinking about the books.
"Very often right," Mr. Godbold murmured.
Still Guy paid no attention.
"Very often," he repeated, but as Guy would neither contradict nor agree
with him, Mr. Godbold relapsed into meditation upon the justice of his
observation. The pony had settled down to his wonted pace and jogged on
through the golden haze of fine September weather. Soon the village of
Shipcot was left behind, and before them lay the long road winding
upward over the wold to Wychford. Guy thought of the friend who had left
him that afternoon and wished that Michael Fane were still with him to
enjoy this illimitable sweep of country. He had been the very person to
share in the excitement of arranging a new house. Guy could not remember
that he had ever made a suggestion for which he had not been asked; nor
could he call to mind a single occasion when his appreciation had
failed. And now to-night, when for the first time he was going to sleep
in his own house, his friend was gone. There had been no hint of
departure during the six weeks of preparation they had spent together at
the Stag Inn, and it was really perverse of Michael to rush back to
London now. Guy jumped down from the trap, which was climbing the hill
very slowly, and stretched his long legs. | 1,873.753905 |
2023-11-16 18:48:17.8283220 | 1,393 | 19 | II (OF 8)***
E-text prepared by Chris Curnow, Jane Robins, 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 numerous original illustrations.
See 50710-h.htm or 50710-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/50710/50710-h/50710-h.htm)
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Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/cassellshistoryo02londuoft
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
CASSELL'S ILLUSTRATED HISTORY OF ENGLAND
CASSELL'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND
From the Wars of the Roses to the Great Rebellion
With Numerous Illustrations, Including and Rembrandt Plates
VOL. II
The King's Edition
Cassell and Company, Limited
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
MCMIX
All Rights Reserved
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
WARS OF THE ROSES. PAGE
Cade's Rebellion--York comes over from Ireland--His Claims
and the Unpopularity of the Reigning Line--His First
Appearance in Arms--Birth of the Prince of Wales--York made
Protector--Recovery of the King--Battle of St. Albans--York's
second Protectorate--Brief Reconciliation of Parties--Battle of
Blore Heath--Flight of the Yorkists--Battle of Northampton--York
Claims the Crown--The Lords Attempt a Compromise--Death of York
at Wakefield--Second Battle of St. Albans--The Young Duke of York
Marches on London--His Triumphant Entry 1
CHAPTER II.
REIGN OF EDWARD IV.
The Battle of Towton--Edward's Coronation--Henry escapes to
Scotland--The Queen seeks aid in France--Battle of Hexham--Henry
made Prisoner--Confined in the Tower--Edward marries Lady
Elizabeth Grey--Advancement of her Relations--Attacks on the
Family of the Nevilles--Warwick negotiates with France--Marriage
of Margaret, the King's Sister, to the Duke of Burgundy--Marriage
of the Duke of Clarence with a Daughter of Warwick--Battle of
Banbury--Rupture between the King and his Brother--Rebellion of
Clarence and Warwick--Clarence and Warwick flee to France--Warwick
proposes to restore Henry VI.--Marries Edward, Prince of Wales,
to his Daughter, Lady Ann Neville--Edward IV.'s reckless
Dissipation--Warwick and Clarence invade England--Edward
expelled--His return to England--Battle of Barnet--Battle
of Tewkesbury, and ruin of the Lancastrian Cause--Rivalry
of Clarence and Gloucester--Edward's Futile Intervention in
Foreign Politics--Becomes a Pensioner of France--Death of
Clarence--Expedition to Scotland--Death and Character of the King
17
CHAPTER III.
EDWARD V. AND RICHARD III.
Edward V. proclaimed--The Two Parties of the Queen and of
Gloucester--Struggle in the Council--Gloucester's Plans--The Earl
Rivers and his Friends imprisoned--Gloucester secures the King and
conducts him to London--Indignities to the young King--Execution
of Lord Hastings--A Base Sermon at St. Paul's Cross--Gloucester
pronounces the two young Princes illegitimate--The Farce at
the Guildhall--Gloucester seizes the Crown--Richard crowned
in London and again at York--Buckingham revolts against
him--Murder of the two Princes--Henry of Richmond--Failure
of Buckingham's Rising--Buckingham beheaded--Richards title
confirmed by Parliament--Queen Dowager and her Daughters quit the
Sanctuary--Death of Richard's Son and Heir--Proposes to Marry his
Niece, Elizabeth of York--Richmond lands at Milford Haven--His
Progress--The Troubles of Richard--The Battle of Bosworth--The
Fallen Tyrant--End of the Wars of the Roses 46
CHAPTER IV.
PROGRESS OF THE NATION IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY.
The Study of Latin and Greek--Invention of Printing--Caxton--New
Schools and Colleges--Architecture, Military, Ecclesiastical,
and Domestic--Sculpture, Painting, and Gilding--The Art of
War--Commerce and Shipping--Coinage 64
CHAPTER V.
REIGN OF HENRY VII.
Henry's Defective Title--Imprisonment of the Earl of Warwick--The
King's Title to the Throne--His Marriage--Love Rising--Lambert
Simnel--Henry's prompt Action--Failure of the Rebellion--The
Queen's Coronation--The Act of Maintenance--Henry's Ingratitude
to the Duke of Brittany--Discontent in England--Expedition to
France and its Results--Henry's Second Invasion--Treaty of
Etaples--Perkin Warbeck--His Adventures in Ireland, France,
and Burgundy--Henry's Measures--Descent on Kent--Warbeck in
Scotland--Invasion of England--The Cornish Rising--Warbeck
quits Scotland--He lands in Cornwall--Failure of the
Rebellion--Imprisonment of Warbeck and his subsequent
Execution--European Affairs--Marriages of Henry's Daughter and
Son--Betrothal of Catherine and Prince Henry--Henry's Matrimonial
Schemes--Royal Exactions--A Lucky Capture--Henry proposes for
Joanna--His Death 76
CHAPTER VI.
REIGN OF HENRY VIII.
The King's Accession--State of Europe--Henry and Julius
II.--Treaty between England and Spain--Henry is duped by
Ferdinand--New Combinations--Execution of Suffolk--Invasion of
France--Battle of Spurs-- | 1,873.848362 |
2023-11-16 18:48:17.8285190 | 533 | 6 |
Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer,
Ernest Schaal, and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 62.
FEBRUARY 3, 1872.
=PRIVATE SCHOOL CLASSICS.=
(_Letter from a Lady._)
[Illustration]
DEAR MR. PUNCH,
THOUGH you love to laugh, and we all love to laugh with you, I know that
you are kindness itself when an afflicted woman throws herself upon your
sympathy. This letter will not be quite so short as I could wish; but,
unless you have my whole story, you will not understand my sorrow.
My boy, JOHNNY, is one of the dearest boys you can imagine. I send you
his photograph, though it does not half justice to the sweetness and
intelligence of his features; besides, on the day it was taken, he had a
cold, and his hair had not been properly cut, and the photographer was
very impatient, and after eight or nine sittings, he insisted that I
ought to be satisfied. I could tell you a hundred anecdotes of my boy's
cleverness, but three or four, perhaps, will be enough.
[_More than enough, dear Madam. We proceed to the paragraph that
follows them._]
His father, I regret to say, though a kind parent, does not see in
JOHNNY the talent and genius which I am certain he possesses. The child,
who is eleven years and eleven months old, goes (alas, I must say went)
to a Private Academy of the most respectable description. Only twelve
young gentlemen are taken, and the terms are about L100 a-year, and most
things extra. The manners of the pupils are strictly looked after; they
have no coarse amusements; and, to see them neatly dressed, going
arm-in-arm, two and two, for a walk, was quite delightful. I shall never
see them again without tears.
My husband was desirous that JOHNNY should have a sound classical
education, and we believed--I believe still--that this is given at the
Private School in question. One evening during the holidays, my husband
asked JOHNNY what Latin Book he was reading. The child replied, without
hesitation or thought--"_Horace_." "Very good," said his father, taking
down | 1,873.848559 |
2023-11-16 18:48:17.8296080 | 2,294 | 13 |
Produced by Joyce Wilson and David Widger
THE BROKEN CUP
By Johann Heinrich Daniel Zschokke
Translated by P. G.
Copyright, 1891, by The Current Literature Publishing Company
Author's Note.--There is extant under this name a short piece by the
author of "Little Kate of Heilbronn." That and the tale which here
follows originated in an incident which took place at Bern in the year
1802. Henry von Kleist and Ludwig Wieland, the son of the poet, were
both friends of the writer, in whose chamber hung an engraving called
_La Cruche Cassee_, the persons and contents of which resembled the
scene set forth below, under the head of The Tribunal. The drawing,
which was full of expression, gave great delight to those who saw it,
and led to many conjectures as to its meaning. The three friends agreed,
in sport, that they would each one day commit to writing his peculiar
interpretation of its design. Wieland promised a satire; Von Kleist
threw off a comedy; and the author of the following tale what is here
given.
MARIETTA.
NAPOULE, it is true, is only a very little place on the bay of Cannes;
yet it is pretty well known through all Provence. It lies in the shade
of lofty evergreen palms, and darker orange trees; but that alone would
not make it renowned. Still they say that there are grown the most
luscious grapes, the sweetest roses, and the handsomest girls. I don't
know but it is so; in the mean time I believe it most readily. Pity that
Napoule is so small, and can not produce more luscious grapes, fragrant
roses, and handsome maidens; especially, as we might then have some of
them transplanted to our own country.
As, ever since the foundation of Napoule, all the Napoulese women have
been beauties, so the little Marietta was a wonder of wonders, as the
chronicles of the place declare. She was called the _little_ Marietta; yet
she was not smaller than a girl of seventeen or thereabout ought to be,
seeing that her forehead just reached up to the lips of a grown man.
The chronicles aforesaid had very good ground for speaking of Marietta.
I, had I stood in the shoes of the chronicler, would have done the
same. For Marietta, who until lately had lived with her mother Manon
at Avignon, when she came back to her birthplace, quite upset the whole
village. Verily, not the houses, but the people and their heads; and not
the heads of all the people, but of those particularly whose heads and
hearts are always in danger when in the neighborhood of two bright eyes.
I know very well that such a position is no joke.
Mother Manon would have done much better if she had remained at Avignon.
But she had been left a small inheritance, by which she received at
Napoule an estate consisting of some vine-hills, and a house that lay in
the shadow of a rock, between certain olive trees and African acacias.
This is a kind of thing which no unprovided widow ever rejects; and,
accordingly, in her own estimation, she was as rich and happy as though
she were the Countess of Provence or something like it.
So much the worse was it for the good people of Napoule. They never
suspected their misfortune, not having read in Homer how a single pretty
woman had filled all Greece and Lesser Asia with discord and war.
HOW THE MISFORTUNE CAME ABOUT.
Marietta had scarcely been fourteen days in the house, between the olive
trees and the African acacias, before every young man of Napoule knew
that she lived there, and that there lived not, in all Provence, a more
charming girl than the one in that house.
Went she through the village, sweeping lightly along like a dressed-up
angel, her frock, with its pale-green bodice, and orange leaves and
rosebuds upon the bosom of it, fluttering in the breeze, and flowers
and ribbons waving about the straw bonnet, which shaded her beautiful
features--yes, then the grave old men spake out, and the young ones were
struck dumb. And everywhere, to the right and left, little windows and
doors were opened with a "Good morning," or a "Good evening, Marietta,"
as it might be, while she nodded to the right and left with a pleasant
smile.
If Marietta walked into church, all hearts (that is, of the young
people) forgot Heaven; all eyes turned from the saints, and the
worshiping finger wandered idly among the pearls of the rosary. This
must certainly have provoked much sorrow, at least, among the more
devout.
The maidens of Napoule particularly became very pious about this time,
for they, most of all, took the matter to heart. And they were not to
be blamed for it; for since the advent of Marietta more than one
prospective groom had become cold, and more than one worshipper of some
beloved one quite inconstant. There were bickerings and reproaches on
all sides, many tears, pertinent lectures, and even rejections. The talk
was no longer of marriages, but of separations. They began to return
their pledges of troth, rings, ribbons, etc. The old persons took part
with their children; criminations and strife spread from house to house;
it was most deplorable.
Marietta is the cause of all, said the pious maidens first; then the
mothers said it; next the fathers took it up; and finally all--even the
young men. But Marietta, shielded by her modesty and innocence, like
the petals of the rosebud in its dark-green calix, did not suspect
the mischief of which she was the occasion, and continued courteous to
everybody. This touched the young men, who said, "Why condemn the pure
and harmless child--she is not guilty!" Then the fathers said the same
thing; then the mothers took it up, and finally all--even the pious
maidens. For, let who would talk with Marietta, she was sure to gain
their esteem. So before half a year had passed, everybody had spoken to
her, and everybody loved her. But she did not suspect that she was the
object of such general regard, as she had not before suspected that she
was the object of dislike. Does the violet, hidden in the downtrodden
grass, think how sweet it is?
Now every one wished to make amends for the injustice they had done
Marietta. Sympathy deepened the tenderness of their attachment. Marietta
found herself greeted everywhere in a more friendly way than ever; she
was more cordially welcomed; more heartily invited to the rural sports
and dances.
ABOUT THE WICKED COLIN.
All men, however, are not endowed with tender sympathy; some have
hearts hardened like Pharaoh's. This arises, no doubt, from that natural
depravity which has come upon men in consequence of the fall of Adam, or
because, at their baptism, the devil is not brought sufficiently under
subjection.
A remarkable example of this hardness of heart was given by one Colin,
the richest farmer and proprietor in Napoule, whose vineyards and olive
gardens, whose lemon and orange trees could hardly be counted in a day.
One thing particularly demonstrates the perverseness of his disposition;
he was twenty-seven years old, and had never yet asked for what purpose
girls had been created!
True, all the people, especially damsels of a certain age, willingly
forgave him this sin, and looked upon him as one of the best young men
under the sun. His fine figure, his fresh, unembarrassed manner, his
look, his laugh, enabled him to gain the favorable opinion of the
aforesaid people, who would have forgiven him, had there been occasion,
any one of the deadly sins. But the decision of such judges is not
always to be trusted. While both old and young at Napoule had become
reconciled to the innocent Marietta, and proffered their sympathies
to her, Colin was the only one who had no pity upon the poor child. If
Marietta was talked of he became as dumb as a fish. If he met her in the
street he would turn red and white with anger, and cast sidelong glances
at her of the most malicious kind.
If at evening the young people met upon the seashore near the old castle
ruins for sprightly pastimes, or rural dances, or to sing catches,
Colin was the merriest among them. But as soon as Marietta arrived the
rascally fellow was silent, and all the gold in the world couldn't
make him sing.--What a pity, when he had such a fine voice! Everybody
listened to it so willingly, and its store of songs was endless.
All the maidens looked kindly upon Colin, and he was friendly with all
of them. He had, as we have said, a roguish glance, which the lasses
feared and loved; and it was so sweet they would like to have had it
painted. But, as might naturally be expected, the offended Marietta
did not look graciously upon him. And in that he was perfectly right.
Whether he smiled or not, it was all the same to her. As to his roguish
glance, why she would never hear it mentioned; and therein too she
was perfectly right. When he told a tale (and he knew thousands) and
everybody listened, she nudged her neighbor, or perhaps threw tufts of
grass at Peter or Paul, and laughed and chattered, and did not listen to
Colin at all. This behavior quite provoked the proud fellow, so that he
would break off in the middle of his story and stalk sullenly away.
Revenge is sweet. The daughter of Mother Manon well knew how to triumph.
Yet Marietta was a right good child and quite too tenderhearted. If
Colin was silent, it gave her pain. If he was downcast, she laughed no
more. If he went away, she did not stay long behind: but hurried to her
home, and wept tears of repentance, more beautiful than those of the
Magdalen, although she had not sinned like the Magdalen.
THE C | 1,873.849648 |
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RED WAGON STORIES
OR
TALES TOLD UNDER THE TENT
BY
WELLS HAWKS
[Illustration]
I. & M. OTTENHEIMER
PUBLISHERS
NO. 321 WEST BALTIMORE STREET
BALTIMORE, MD.
Cover Design by
J. R. CROSSLEY.
Copyrighted 1904.
I. & M. OTTENHEIMER.
BALTIMORE, MD.
Between the shows there were seven of the circus outfit who would sit
around the ring bank and on the carpet pads just to talk. Here are some
of the tales told under the big round top when the tent was empty.
And to those happy days of bread and preserves, when we bare-footed kids
sneaked out of the backyard gate to the circus lot and led the spotted
ponies to water, these little yarns are affectionately dedicated:--
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
THE PRESS AGENT’S STORY 7
THE OLD GRAFTER’S LAMENT 14
THE BILL POSTER’S VISIT 21
THE CANDY BUTCHER’S DREAM OF LOVE 30
THE BOSS CANVASMAN’S YARN 33
THE SIDE SHOW SPIELER SPEAKS 48
THE BAND MASTER’S SOLO 54
THE CANDY BUTCHER TALKS ABOUT A LOVE AFFAIR AND HIS
ENCOUNTER WITH THE BUCKWHEAT MAN 59
THE CONCERT MANAGER GETS REMINISCENT 70
THE HANDS AT THE WINDOW 75
THE CONCERT MANAGER TELLS THE BOYS AN ELEPHANT STORY 83
THE PRESS AGENT’S STORY.
The Press Agent of the Big Show had formerly been dramatic editor of
the leading daily in Council Bluffs. It was his star boast that he was
the only critic in the Middle West that ever had the nerve to roast Joe
Jefferson, and he said he did it in the interest of art.
“Art,” says he, “must be preserved, an’ the only way to do it is by
knockin’.”
The Press Agent wore his hair long, had a smooth face, and looked like
a police reporter out on a three-column story with the facts coming in
slowly. He hadn’t much baggage, but he always carried about a ream of
adjective hit paper, two lead pencils, and a pass-pad. No man ever heard
him talk without wondering what kind of stuff he beat out on a typewriter.
The saw dust spreader was smoothing out the ring for the night acts
and the rest of the gang were sitting around roasting the route when
the Press Agent came through the red curtains at the dressing tent
entrance picking his teeth with a straw. He sat down on the box where the
Greaser Knife Thrower kept his keen steels, and filling his pipe waited
for a break in the conversation. Then he asked the gasoline man for a
match. After he got the fire he saw there were no words loose from the
ring-bankers, so he starts his skein.
“Well, lads, we hit ’em up hard at the mat today, 12,000 on the blue
boards an’ the ticket wagon window down before the harness is on for
the entree. S’pose them laddy-bucks in No. 2 car will say it was a good
billin’, but I’m tellin’ you people that this is a readin’ community, an’
it was the press work that had the coin hittin’ the window this date, an’
that’s no cold cream con, either. The Gov’nor knows it, for he gives me
a good word an’ a back pat jus’ as the parade was startin’ for the main
highway.
“I’m given youse the real word, an’ it’s this--when you can get ’em
readin’ about the Big Show you’ve already got ’em feelin’ for change to
buy, an’ that’s as true as ticker talk. The old man sees in the paper
that the Big Show will soon be on the lot, an’ when he gets home to daily
bread he tells it to the old woman; the kids get next and there’s no let
up on papa ’till he promises to buy in for the whole family. An’ workin’
one is workin’ all--that’s my motto. It’s the press work that gets ’em
talkin’, an’ it’s the talkin’ that’ll make ’em give up even when wheat is
down to 48 an’ interest on mortgages is starin’ ’em in the face. Get the
paper talk an’ the money is so sure that you can be plannin’ new acts for
next season before the first pasteboard hits the bottom of the red box on
the gate.
“But, say, it ain’t no children’s game to get this paper talk. The good
old days when you could blow into the newspaper offices with a loud vest
and a tiger claw hangin’ on your watch guard is done. Them times the old
agent would lay down a cigar on the editor’s desk, spread a lot of salve
about the greatest yet and the only one in captivity story, and then work
the gag ‘write me somethin’, old man.’ But them days is strictly past.
It’s a new make up now, an’ a new line of talk that wins ’em. You want
to enter quiet like just as if you were one of them Sunday school boys
with a write-up on a rally in the church basement. The editor gives you
the size-up for this, an’ when you says ‘I’m ahead of the Big Show comin’
25th and 26th,’ he’s so surprised that he’s glad to see you, an’ it’s
once aroun’ the track before the bunch sees the flag that he asks you out
to drink before you spring your pass-pad. And, if you don’t believe me,
ask soft talking Jim Jay Brady and have it passed off for gospel.
“It’s the approach that makes the center shot this new century. Go in
easy, be skimp with your talk, don’t spread the salve too thick, an’ give
’em clean copy--that’s the game; be you ahead of Henry Irving with ten
carloads of stuff, a dinky little farce comedy with a society dame doin’
the lead, a melodrama with a real convict a-cracking the safe, or one
of them Broadway big ones--no matter, it’s the same, an’ what goes for
them goes for the Big Show, whether you’ve got 68 cars on the sidin’, or
you have slipped in after night with rubber boots on--and that’s no Tody
Hamilton catch line.
“But you don’t want to be too certain; you can get your chances in this
line just as easy as in the shootin’ gallery when its bullets against
clay pipes. Some of the boys that handles the copy for the Eastern press
can put up a frost that would keep Chicago beef around the world in a
sailin’ ship. But you can melt ’em if you make good. Remember hittin’
Boston las’ season an’ runnin’ up against one of these heady boys with a
foldin’ forehead. I give it to ’em easy, an’ when I says circus he looks
at me through his windows an’ says so haughty:
“‘Ah, the circus! Quite a diverting entertainment. Originated with the
Greeks.’
“Now wouldn’t that make you itch? Me mind gets to chasin’ ’roun’ for a
proper come-back, an’ I tries to recollect the names of some of them old
guys what went paddlin’ ’roun’ in a sheet an’ sandals spittin’ out wise
words that no one has forgot. An’ mem’ry lands me at the right dock, so I
han’s this to the college boy:
“‘Yes,’ sez I, ‘I believe it was Aristophanes who wrote an epic on the
circus to be read at one of Nero’s spring openin’s.’
“The words is hardly out of me mouth when he gives me one of those
looks that would have made Peary thought he had found the pole. So I
lays me copy on the desk and gives five bells to back water an’ I’m in
the elevator. An’ | 1,873.85342 |
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Images of the original pages are available through
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https://archive.org/details/zuifolktales00cushrich
ZUÑI FOLK TALES
Recorded and Translated by
FRANK HAMILTON CUSHING
With an Introduction by J. W. Powell
[Illustration: TÉNATSALI]
New York and London
G. P. Putnam’S Sons
The Knickerbocker Press
1901
Copyright, 1901
By
Emily T. M. Cushing
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
[Illustration: {Photograph of Frank Hamilton Cushing}]
LIST OF TALES
PAGE
THE TRIAL OF LOVERS: OR THE MAIDEN OF MÁTSAKI AND THE
RED FEATHER 1
THE YOUTH AND HIS EAGLE 34
THE POOR TURKEY GIRL 54
HOW THE SUMMER BIRDS CAME 65
THE SERPENT OF THE SEA 93
THE MAIDEN OF THE YELLOW ROCKS 104
THE FOSTER-CHILD OF THE DEER 132
THE BOY HUNTER WHO NEVER SACRIFICED TO THE DEER HE HAD
SLAIN: OR THE ORIGIN OF THE SOCIETY OF RATTLESNAKES 150
HOW ÁHAIYÚTA AND MÁTSAILÉMA STOLE THE THUNDER-STONE AND
THE LIGHTNING-SHAFT 175
THE WARRIOR SUITOR OF MOKI 185
HOW THE COYOTE JOINED THE DANCE OF THE BURROWING-OWLS 203
THE COYOTE WHO KILLED THE DEMON SÍUIUKI: OR WHY COYOTES
RUN THEIR NOSES INTO DEADFALLS 215
HOW THE COYOTES TRIED TO STEAL THE CHILDREN OF THE
SACRED DANCE 229
THE COYOTE AND THE BEETLE 235
HOW THE COYOTE DANCED WITH THE BLACKBIRDS 237
HOW THE TURTLE OUT HUNTING DUPED THE COYOTE 243
THE COYOTE AND THE LOCUST 255
THE COYOTE AND THE RAVENS WHO RACED THEIR EYES 262
THE PRAIRIE-DOGS AND THEIR PRIEST, THE BURROWING-OWL 269
HOW THE GOPHER RACED WITH THE RUNNERS OF K’IÁKIME 277
HOW THE RATTLESNAKES CAME TO BE WHAT THEY ARE 285
HOW THE CORN-PESTS WERE ENSNARED 288
JACK-RABBIT AND COTTONTAIL 296
THE RABBIT HUNTRESS AND HER ADVENTURES 297
THE UGLY WILD BOY WHO DROVE THE BEAR AWAY FROM SOUTHEASTERN
MESA 310
THE REVENGE OF THE TWO BROTHERS ON THE HÁWIKUHKWE, OR THE
TWO LITTLE ONES AND THEIR TURKEYS 317
THE YOUNG SWIFT-RUNNER WHO WAS STRIPPED OF HIS CLOTHING
BY THE AGED TARANTULA 345
ÁTAHSAIA, THE CANNIBAL DEMON 365
THE HERMIT MÍTSINA 385
HOW THE TWINS OF WAR AND CHANCE, ÁHAIYÚTA AND MÁTSAILÉMA,
FARED WITH THE UNBORN-MADE MEN OF THE UNDERWORLD 398
THE COCK AND THE MOUSE 411
THE GIANT CLOUD-SWALLOWER 423
THE MAIDEN THE SUN MADE LOVE TO, AND HER BOYS: OR THE
ORIGIN OF ANGER 429
LIST OF PLATES
PAGE
PORTRAIT OF FRANK HAMILTON CUSHING _Frontispiece_
THE YOUTH AND HIS EAGLE 34
ZUÑI FROM THE SOUTH 64
WAÍHUSIWA 92
A BURRO TRAIN IN A ZUÑI STREET 132
THUNDER MOUNTAIN FROM ZUÑI 174
A HOPI (MOKI) MAIDEN 184
A DANCE OF THE KÂKÂ 228
ACROSS THE TERRACES OF ZUÑI 276
THE PINNACLES OF THUNDER MOUNTAIN 344
PÁLOWAHTIWA 388
ZUÑI WOMEN CARRYING WATER 428
INTRODUCTION
It is instructive to compare superstition with science. Mythology is the
term used to designate the superstitions of the ancients. Folk-lore is
the term used to designate the superstitions of the ignorant of today.
Ancient mythology has been carefully studied by modern thinkers for
purposes of trope and simile in the embellishment of literature, and
especially of poetry; then it has been investigated for the purpose of
discovering its meaning in the hope that some occult significance might
be found, on the theory that the wisdom of the ancients was far superior
to that of modern men. Now, science has entered this field of study to
compare one mythology with another, and pre-eminently to compare
mythology with science itself, for the purpose of discovering stages of
human opinion.
When the mythology of tribal men came to be studied, it was found that
their philosophy was also a mythology in which the mysteries of the
universe were explained in a collection of tales told by wise men,
prophets, and priests. This lore of the wise among savage men is of the
same origin and has the same significance as the lore of Hesiod and
Homer. It is thus a mythology in the early sense of that term. But the
mythology of tribal men is devoid of that glamour and witchery born of
poetry; hence it seems rude and savage in comparison, for example, with
the mythology of the _Odyssey_, and to rank no higher as philosophic
thought than the tales of the ignorant and superstitious which are
called folk-lore; and gradually such mythology has come to be called
folk- | 1,873.85414 |
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CHRISTINA OF DENMARK
DUCHESS OF MILAN AND LORRAINE
1522-1590
[Illustration: _Christina, Duchess of Milan_]
CHRISTINA OF DENMARK
DUCHESS OF MILAN AND
LORRAINE
1522-1590
BY JULIA CARTWRIGHT
(MRS. ADY)
AUTHOR OF "ISABELLA D'ESTE," "BALDASSARRE CASTIGLIONE,"
"THE PAINTERS OF FLORENCE," ETC.
"Dieu, qu'il la fait bon regarder,
La gracieuse, bonne et belle!
Pour les grans biens qui sont en elle,
Chacun est prest de la louer.
Qui se pourrait d'elle lasser?
Toujours sa beauté renouvelle.
Dieu, qu'il la fait bon regarder,
La gracieuse, bonne et belle!
Par deça, ne delà la mer,
Ne sçay Dame ne | 1,873.951342 |
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Digital Library.)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ
LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ:
A BOOK OF LYRICS:
BY
BLISS CARMAN
[Illustration: logo]
CHARLES L. WEBSTER AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK MDCCCXCIII
COPYRIGHT, 1893,
BY BLISS CARMAN.
(_All rights reserved._)
PRESS OF
JENKINS & MCCOWAN,
NEW YORK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The poems in this volume have been collected with reference to their
similarity of tone. They are variations on a single theme, more or less
aptly suggested by the title, _Low Tide on Grand Pré_. It seemed better
to bring together between the same covers only those pieces of work
which happened to be in the same key, rather than to publish a larger
book of more uncertain aim.
B. C.
_By Grand Pré, September, 1893._
CONTENTS
PAGE
LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ 11
WHY 15
THE UNRETURNING 18
A WINDFLOWER 19
IN LYRIC SEASON 21
THE PENSIONERS 23
AT THE VOICE OF A BIRD 27
WHEN THE GUELDER ROSES BLOOM 31
SEVEN THINGS 44
A SEA CHILD 47
PULVIS ET UMBRA 48
THROUGH THE TWILIGHT 61
CARNATIONS IN WINTER 63
A NORTHERN VIGIL 65
THE EAVESDROPPER 73
IN APPLE TIME 77
WANDERER 79
AFOOT 89
WAYFARING 94
THE END OF THE TRAIL 103
THE VAGABONDS 111
WHITHER 118
TO
S. M. C.
_Spiritus haeres sit patriae quae tristia nescit._
LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ
The sun goes down, and over all
These barren reaches by the tide
Such unelusive glories fall,
I almost dream they yet will bide
Until the coming of the tide.
And yet I know that not for us,
By any ecstasy of dream,
He lingers to keep luminous
A little while the grievous stream,
Which frets, uncomforted of dream—
A grievous stream, that to and fro
Athrough the fields of Acadie
Goes wandering, as if to know
Why one beloved face should be
So long from home and Acadie.
Was it a year or lives ago
We took the grasses in our hands,
And caught the summer flying low
Over the waving meadow lands,
And held it there between our hands?
The while the river at our feet—
A drowsy inland meadow stream—
At set of sun the after-heat
Made running gold, and in the gleam
We freed our birch upon the stream.
There down along the elms at dusk
We lifted dripping blade to drift,
Through twilight scented fine like musk,
Where night and gloom awhile uplift,
Nor sunder soul and soul adrift.
And that we took into our hands
Spirit of life or subtler thing—
Breathed on us there, and loosed the bands
Of death, and taught us, whispering,
The secret of some wonder-thing.
Then all your face grew light, and seemed
To hold the shadow of the sun;
The evening faltered, and I deemed
That time was ripe, and years had done
Their wheeling underneath the sun.
So all desire and all regret,
And fear and memory, were naught;
One to remember or forget
The keen delight our hands had caught;
Morrow and yesterday were naught.
The night has fallen, and the tide....
Now and again comes drifting home,
Across these aching barrens wide,
A sigh like driven wind or foam:
In grief the flood is bursting home.
WHY
For a name unknown,
Whose fame unblown
Sleeps in the hills
For ever and aye;
For her who hears
The stir of the years
Go by on the wind
By night and day;
And heeds no thing
Of the needs of spring,
Of autumn's wonder
Or winter's chill;
For one who sees
The great sun freeze,
As he wanders a-cold
From hill to hill;
And all her heart
Is a woven part
Of the flurry and drift
Of whirling snow;
For the sake of two
Sad eyes and true,
And the old, old love
So long ago.
THE UNRETURNING
The old eternal spring once more
Comes back the sad eternal way,
With tender rosy light before
The going-out of day.
The great white moon across my door
A shadow in the twilight stirs;
But now forever comes no more
That wondrous look of Hers.
A WINDFLOWER
Between the roadside and the wood,
Between the dawning and the dew,
A tiny flower before the sun,
Ephemeral in time, I grew.
And there upon the trail of spring,
Not death nor love nor any name
Known among men in all their lands
Could blur the wild desire with shame.
But down my dayspan of the year
The feet of straying winds came by;
And all my trembling soul was thrilled
To follow one lost mountain cry.
And then my heart beat once and broke
To hear the sweeping rain forebode
Some ruin in the April world,
Between the woodside and the road.
To-night can bring no healing now;
The calm of yesternight is gone;
Surely the wind is but the wind,
And I a broken waif thereon.
IN LYRIC SEASON
The lyric April time is forth
With lyric mornings, frost and sun;
From leaguers vast of night undone
Auroral mild new stars are born.
And ever at the year's return,
Along the valleys gray with rime,
Thou leadest as of old, where time
Can naught but follow to thy sway.
The trail is far through leagues of spring,
And long the quest to the white core
Of harvest quiet, yet once more
I gird me to the old unrest.
I know I shall not ever meet
Thy still regard across the year,
And yet I know thou wilt draw near,
When the last hour of pain and loss
Drifts out to slumber, and the deeps
Of nightfall feel God's hand unbar
His lyric April, star by star,
And the lost twilight land reveal.
THE PENSIONERS
We are the pensioners of Spring,
And take the largess of her hand
When vassal warder winds unbar
The wintry portals of her land;
The lonely shadow-girdled winds,
Her seraph almoners, who keep
This little life in flesh and bone
With meagre portions of white sleep.
Then all year through with starveling care
We go on some fool's idle quest,
And eat her bread and wine in thrall
To a fool's shame with blind unrest.
Until her April train goes by,
And then because we are the kin
Of every hill flower on the hill
We must arise and walk therein.
Because her heart as our own heart,
Knowing the same wild upward stir,
Beats joyward by eternal laws,
We must arise and go with her;
Forget we are not where old joys
Return when dawns and dreams retire;
Make grief a phantom of regret,
And fate the henchman of desire;
Divorce unreason from delight;
Learn how despair is uncontrol,
Failure the shadow of remorse,
And death a shudder of the soul.
Yea, must we triumph when she leads.
A little rain before the sun,
A breath of wind on the road's dust,
The sound of trammeled brooks undone,
Along red glinting willow stems
The year's white prime, on bank and stream
The haunting cadence of no song
And vivid wanderings of dream,
A range of low blue hills, the far
First whitethroat's ecstasy unfurled:
And we are overlords of change,
In the glad morning of the world,
Though we should fare as they whose life
Time takes within his hands to wring
Between the winter and the sea,
The weary pensioners of Spring.
AT THE VOICE OF A BIRD
_Consurgent ad vocem volucris._
Call to me, thrush,
When night grows dim,
When dreams unform
And death is far!
When hoar dews flush
On dawn's rathe brim,
Wake me to hear
Thy wildwood charm,
As a lone rush
Astir in the slim
White stream where sheer
Blue mornings are.
Stir the keen hush
On twilight's rim
When my own star
Is white and clear.
Fly low to brush
Mine eyelids grim,
Where sleep and storm
Will set their bar;
For God shall crush
Spring balm for him,
Stark on his bier
Past fault or harm,
Who once, as flush
Of day might skim
The dusk, afar
In sleep shall hear
Thy song's cool rush
With joy rebrim
The world, and calm
The deep with cheer.
Then, Heartsease, hush!
If sense grow dim,
Desire shall steer
Us home from far.
WHEN THE GUELDER ROSES BLOOM
When the Guelder roses bloom,
Love, the vagrant, wanders home.
Love, that died so long ago,
As we deemed, in dark and snow,
Comes back to the door again,
Guendolen, Guendolen.
In his hands a few bright flowers,
Gathered in the earlier hours,
Speedwell-blue, and poppy-red,
Withered in the sun and dead,
With a history to each,
Are more eloquent than speech.
In his eyes the welling tears
Plead against the lapse of years.
And that mouth we knew so well,
Hath a pilgrim's tale to tell.
Hear his litany again:
"Guendolen, Guendolen!"
"No, love, no, thou art a ghost!
Love long since in night was lost.
"Thou art but the shade of him,
For thine eyes are sad and dim."
"Nay, but they will shine once more,
Glad and brighter than before,
"If thou bring me but again
To my mother Guendolen!
"These dark flowers are for thee,
Gathered by the lonely sea.
"And these singing shells for her
Who first called me wanderer,
"In whose beauty glad I grew,
When this weary life was new."
Hear him raving! "It is I.
Love once born can never die."
"Thou, poor love, thou art gone mad
With the hardships thou hast had.
"True, it is the spring of year,
But thy mother is not here.
"True, the Guelder roses bloom
As long since about this room,
"Where thy blessed self was born
In the early golden morn
"But the years are dead, good lack!
Ah, love, why hast thou come back,
"Pleading at the door again,
'Guendolen, Guendolen'?"
When the Guelder roses bloom,
And the vernal stars resume
Their old purple sweep and range,
I can hear a whisper strange
As the wind gone daft again,
"Guendolen, Guendolen!"
"When the Guelder roses blow,
Love that died so long ago,
"Why wilt thou return so oft,
With that whisper sad and soft
"On thy pleading lips again,
'Guendolen, Guendolen'!"
Still the Guelder roses bloom,
And the sunlight fills the room,
Where love's shadow at the door
Falls upon the dusty floor.
And his eyes are sad and grave
With the tenderness they crave,
Seeing in the broken rhyme
The significance of time,
Wondrous eyes that know not sin
From his brother death, wherein
I can see thy look again,
Guendolen, Guendolen.
And love with no more to say,
In this lovely world to-day
Where the Guelder roses bloom,
Than the record on a tomb,
Only moves his lips again,
"Guendolen, Guendolen!"
Then he passes up the road
From this dwelling, where he bode
In the by-gone years. And still,
As he mounts the sunset hill
Where the Guelder roses blow
With their drifts of summer snow,
I can hear him, like one dazed
At a phantom he has raised,
Murmur o'er and o'er again,
"Guendolen, Guendolen!"
And thus every year, I know,
When the Guelder roses blow,
Love will wander by my door,
Till the spring returns no more;
Till no more I can withstand,
But must rise and take his hand
Through the countries of the night,
Where he walks by his own sight,
To the mountains of a dawn
That has never yet come on,
Out of this fair land of doom
Where the Guelder roses bloom,
Till I come to thee again,
Guendolen, Guendolen.
SEVEN THINGS
The fields of earth are sown
From the hand of the striding rain,
And kernels of joy are strewn
Abroad for the harrow of pain.
I.
The first song-sparrow brown
That wakes the earliest spring,
When time and fear sink down,
And death is a fabled thing.
II.
The stealing of that first dawn
Over the rosy brow,
When thy soul said, "World, fare on,
For Heaven is here and now!"
III.
The crimson shield of the sun
On the wall of this House of Doom,
With the garb of war undone
At last in the narrow room.
IV.
A heart that abides to the end,
As the hills for sureness and peace,
And is neither weary to wend
Nor reluctant at last of release.
V.
Thy mother's cradle croon
To haunt thee over the deep,
Out of the land of Boon
Into the land of Sleep.
VI.
The sound of the sea in storm,
Hearing its captain cry,
When the wild, white riders form,
And the Ride to the Dark draws nigh.
VII.
But last and best, the urge
Of the great world's desire,
Whose being from core to verge
Only attains to aspire.
A SEA CHILD
The lover of child Marjory
Had one white hour of life brim full;
Now the old nurse, the rocking sea,
Hath him to lull.
The daughter of child Marjory
Hath in her veins, to beat and run,
The glad indomitable sea,
The strong white sun.
PULVIS ET UMBRA
There is dust upon my fingers,
Pale gray dust of beaten wings,
Where a great moth came and settled
From the night's blown winnowings.
Harvest with her low red planets
Wheeling over Arrochar;
And the lonely hopeless calling
Of the bell-buoy on the bar,
Where the sea with her old secret
Moves in sleep and cannot rest.
From that dark beyond my doorway,
Silent the unbidden guest
Came and tarried, fearless, gentle,
Vagrant of the starlit gloom,
One frail waif of beauty fronting
Immortality and doom;
Through the chambers of the twilight
Roaming from the vast outland,
Resting for a thousand heart-beats
In the hollow of my hand.
"Did the volley of a thrush-song
Lodge among some leaves and dew
Hillward, then across the gloaming
This dark mottled thing was you?
"Or is my mute guest whose coming
So unheralded befell
From the border wilds of dreamland,
Only whimsy Ariel,
"Gleaning with the wind, in furrows
Lonelier than dawn to reap,
Dust and shadow and forgetting,
Frost and reverie and sleep?
"In the hush when Cleopatra
Felt the darkness reel and cease,
Was thy soul a wan blue lotus
Laid upon her lips for peace?
"And through all the years that wayward
Passion in one mortal breath,
Making thee a thing of silence,
Made thee as the lords of death?
"Or did goblin men contrive thee
In the forges of the hills
Out of thistle-drift and sundown
Lost amid their tawny rills,
"Every atom on their anvil
Beaten fine and bolted home,
Every quiver wrought to cadence
From the rapture of a gnome?
"Then the lonely mountain wood-wind,
Straying up from dale to dale,
Gave thee spirit, free forever,
Thou immortal and so frail!
"Surely thou art not that sun-bright
Psyche, hoar with age, and hurled
On the northern shore of Lethe,
To this wan Auroral world!
"Ghost of Psyche, uncompanioned,
Are the yester-years all done?
Have the oars of Charon ferried
All thy playmates from the sun?
"In thy wings the beat and breathing
Of the wind of life abides,
And the night whose sea-gray cohorts
Swing the stars up with the tides.
"Did they once make sail and wander
Through the trembling harvest sky,
Where the silent Northern streamers
Change and rest not till they die?
"Or from clouds that tent and people
The blue firmamental waste,
Did they learn the noiseless secret
Of eternity's unhaste?
"Where learned they to rove and loiter,
By the margin of what sea?
Was it with outworn Demeter,
Searching for Persephone?
"Or did that girl-queen behold thee
In the fields of moveless air?
Did these wings which break no whisper
Brush the poppies in her hair?
"Is it thence they wear the pulvil—
Ash of ruined days and sleep,
And the two great orbs of splendid
Melting sable deep on deep!
"Pilot of the shadow people,
Steering whither by what star
Hast thou come to hapless port here,
Thou gray ghost of Arrochar?"
For man walks the world with mourning
Down to death, and leaves no trace,
With the dust upon his forehead,
And the shadow in his face.
Pillared dust and fleeing shadow
As the roadside wind goes by,
And the fourscore years that vanish
In the twinkling of an eye.
Beauty, the fine frosty trace-work
Of some breath upon the pane;
Spirit, the keen wintry moonlight
Flashed thereon to fade again.
Beauty, the white clouds a-building
When God said and it was done;
Spirit, the sheer brooding rapture
Where no mid-day brooks no sun.
So. And here, the open casement
Where my fellow-mate goes free;
Eastward, the untrodden star-road
And the long wind on the sea.
What's to hinder but I follow
This my gypsy guide afar,
When the bugle rouses slumber
Sounding taps on Arrochar?
"Where, my brother, wends the by-way,
To what bourne beneath what sun,
Thou and I are set to travel
Till the shifting dream be done?
"Comrade of the dusk, forever
I pursue the endless way
Of the dust and shadew kindred,
Thou art perfect for a day.
"Yet from beauty marred and broken,
Joy and memory and tears,
I shall crush the clearer honey
In the harvest of the years.
"Thou art faultless as a flower
Wrought of sun and wind and snow,
I survive the fault and failure.
The wise Fates will have it so.
"For man walks the world in twilight,
But the morn shall wipe all trace
Of the dust from off his forehead,
And the shadow from his face.
"Cheer thee on, my tidings-bearer!
All the valor of the North
Mounts as soul from flesh escaping
Through the night, and bids thee forth.
"Go, and when thou hast discovered
Her whose dark eyes match thy wings,
Bid that lyric heart beat lighter
For the joy thy beauty brings."
Then I leaned far out and lifted
My light guest up, and bade speed
On the trail where no one tarries
That wayfarer few will heed.
Pale gray dust upon my fingers;
And from this my cabined room
The white soul of eager message
Racing seaward in the gloom.
Far off shore, the sweet low calling
Of the bell-buoy on the bar,
Warning night of dawn and ruin
Lonelily on Arrochar.
THROUGH THE TWILIGHT
The red vines bar my window way;
The Autumn sleeps beside his fire,
For he has sent this fleet-foot day
A year's march back to bring to me
One face whose smile is my desire,
Its light my star.
Surely you will come near and speak,
This calm of death from the day to sever!
And so I shall draw down your cheek
Close to my face—So close!—and know
God's hand between our hands forever
Will set no bar.
Before the dusk falls—even now
I know your step along the gravel,
And catch your quiet poise of brow,
And wait so long till you turn the latch!
Is the way so hard you had to travel?
Is the land so far?
The dark has shut your eyes from mine,
But in this hush of brooding weather
A gleam on twilight's gathering line
Has riven the barriers of dream:
Soul of my soul, we are together
As the angels are!
CARNATIONS IN WINTER
Your carmine flakes of bloom to-night
The fire of wintry sunsets hold;
Again in dreams you burn to light
A far Canadian garden old.
The blue north summer over it
Is bland with long ethereal days;
The gleaming martins wheel and flit
Where breaks your sun down orient ways.
There, when the gradual twilight falls,
Through quietudes of dusk afar,
Hermit antiphonal hermit calls
From hills below the first pale star.
Then in your passionate love's foredoom
Once more your spirit stirs the air,
And you are lifted through the gloom
To warm the coils of her dark hair.
A NORTHERN VIGIL
Here by the gray north sea,
In the wintry heart of the wild,
Comes the old dream of thee,
Guendolen, mistress and child.
The heart of the forest grieves
In the drift against my door;
A voice is under the eaves,
A footfall on the floor.
Threshold, mirror and hall,
Vacant and strangely aware,
Wait for their soul's recall
With the dumb expectant air.
Here when the smouldering west
Burns down into the sea,
I take no heed of rest
And keep the watch for thee.
I sit by the fire and hear
The restless wind go by,
On the long dirge and drear,
Under the low bleak sky.
When day puts out to sea
And night makes in for land,
There is no lock for thee,
Each door awaits thy hand!
When night goes over the hill
And dawn comes down the dale,
It's O for the wild sweet will
That shall no more prevail!
When the zenith moon is round,
And snow-wraiths gather and run,
And there is set no bound
To love beneath the sun,
O wayward will, come near
The old mad willful way,
The soft mouth at my ear
With words too sweet to say!
Come, for the night is cold,
The ghostly moonlight fills
Hollow and rift and fold
Of the eerie Ardise hills!
The windows of my room
Are dark with bitter frost,
The stillness aches with doom
Of something loved and lost.
Outside, the great blue star
Burns in the ghostland pale,
Where giant Algebar
Holds on the endless trail.
Come, for the years are long,
And silence keeps the door,
Where shapes with the shadows throng
The firelit chamber floor.
Come, for thy kiss was warm,
With the red embers' glare
Across thy folding arm
And dark tumultuous hair!
And though thy coming rouse
The sleep-cry of no bird,
The keepers of the house
Shall tremble at thy word.
Come, for the soul is free!
In all the vast dreamland
There is no lock for thee,
Each door awaits thy hand.
Ah, not in dreams at all,
Fleering, perishing, dim,
But thy old self, supple and tall,
Mistress and child of whim!
The proud imperious guise,
Impetuous and serene,
The sad mysterious eyes,
And dignity of mien!
Yea, wilt thou not return,
When the late hill-winds veer,
And the bright hill-flowers burn
With the reviving year?
When April comes, and the sea
Sparkles as if it smiled,
Will they restore to me
My dark Love, empress and child?
The curtains seem to part;
A sound is on the stair,
As if at the last... I start;
Only the wind is there.
Lo, now far on the hills
The crimson fumes uncurled,
Where the caldron mantles and spills
Another dawn on the world!
THE EAVESDROPPER
In a still room at hush of dawn,
My Love and I lay side by side
And heard the roaming forest wind
Stir in the paling autumn-tide.
I watched her earth-brown eyes grow glad
Because the round day was so fair;
While memories of reluctant night
Lurked in the blue dusk of her hair.
Outside, a yellow maple tree,
Shifting upon the silvery blue
With small innumerable sound,
Rustled to let the sunlight through.
The livelong day the elvish leaves
Danced with their shadows on the floor;
And the lost children of the wind
Went straying homeward by our door.
And all the swarthy afternoon
We watched the great deliberate sun
Walk through the crimsoned hazy world,
Counting his hilltops one by one.
Then as the purple twilight came
And touched the vines along our eaves,
Another Shadow stood without
And gloomed the dancing of the leaves.
The silence fell on my Love's lips;
Her great brown eyes were veiled and sad
With pondering some maze of dream,
Though all the splendid year was glad.
Restless and vague as a gray wind
Her heart had grown, she knew not why.
But hurrying to the open door,
Against the verge of western sky
I saw retreating on the hills,
Looming and sinister and black,
The stealthy figure swift and huge
Of One who strode and looked not back.
IN APPLE TIME
The apple harvest days are here,
The boding apple harvest days,
And down the flaming valley ways,
The foresters of time draw near.
Through leagues of bloom I went with Spring,
To call you on the <DW72>s of morn,
Where in imperious song is borne
The wild heart of the golden wing.
I roamed through alien summer lands,
I sought your beauty near and far;
To-day, where russet shadows are,
I hold your face between my hands.
On runnels dark by <DW72>s of fern,
The hazy undern sleeps in sun.
Remembrance and desire, undone,
From old regret to dreams return.
The apple harvest time is here,
The tender apple harvest time;
A sheltering calm, unknown at prime,
Settles upon the brooding year.
WANDERER
I
Wanderer, wanderer, whither away?
What saith the morning unto thee?
"Wanderer, wanderer, hither, come hither,
Into the eld of the East with me!"
Saith the wide wind of the low red morning,
Making in from the gray rough sea.
"Wanderer, come, of the footfall weary,
And heavy at heart as the sad-heart sea.
"For long ago, when the world was making,
I walked through Eden with God for guide;
And since that time in my heart forever
His calm and wisdom and peace abide.
"I am thy spirit and thy familiar,
Child of the teeming earth's unrest!
Before God's joy upon gloom begot thee
I had hungered and searched and ended the quest.
"I sit by the roadside wells of knowledge;
I haunt the streams of the springs of thought;
But because my voice is the voice of silence,
The heart within thee regardeth not.
"Yet I await thee, assured, unimpatient,
Till thy small tumult of striving be past.
How long, O wanderer, wilt thou a-weary,
Keep thee afar from my arms at the last?"
II
Wanderer, wanderer, whither away?
What saith the high noon unto thee?
"Wanderer, wanderer, hither, turn hither,
Far to the burning South with me,"
Saith the soft wind on the high June headland,
Sheering up from the summer sea,
"While the implacable warder, Oblivion,
Sleeps on the marge of a foamless sea!
"Come where the urge of desire availeth,
And no fear follows the children of men;
For a handful of dust is the only heirloom
The morrow bequeaths to its morrow again.
"Touch and feel how the flesh is perfect
Beyond the compass of dream to be!
'Bone of my bone,' said God to Adam;
'Core of my core,' say I to thee.
"Look and see how the form is goodly
Beyond the reach of desire and art!
For he who fashioned the world so easily
Laughed in his sleeve as he walked apart.
"Therefore, O wanderer, cease from desiring;
Take the wide province of seaway and sun!
Here for the infinite quench of thy craving,
Infinite yearning and bliss are one."
III
Wanderer, wanderer, whither away?
What saith the evening unto thee?
"Wanderer, wanderer, hither, haste hither,
Into the glad-heart West with me!"
Saith the strong wind of the gold-green twilight,
Gathering out of the autumn hills,
"I am the word of the world's first dreamer
Who woke when Freedom walked on the hills.
"And the secret triumph from daring to doing,
From musing to marble, I will be,
Till the last fine fleck of the world is finished,
And Freedom shall walk alone by the sea.
"Who is thy heart's lord, who is thy hero?
Bruce or Cæsar or Charlemagne,
Hannibal, Olaf, Alaric, Roland?
Dare as they dared and the deed's done again!
"Here where they come of the habit immortal,
By the open road to the land of the Name,
Splendor and homage and wealth await thee
Of builded cities and bruited fame.
"Let loose the conquering toiler within thee;
Know | 1,873.952429 |
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