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This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler
[Picture: Book cover]
[Picture: And then came Azalea]
AZALEA
_The Story of a Girl_
_in the_
_Blue Ridge Mountains_
* * * * *
By
ELIA W. PEATTIE
* * * * *
_Illustrations by_
_Hazel Roberts_
* * * * *
[Picture: Publisher’s Logo]
* * * * *
The Reilly & Britton Co.
Chicago
* * * * *
Copyright, 1912
by
The Reilly & Britton Co.
* * * * *
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE MCBIRNEYS 9
II NEW FRIENDS 28
III IN HIDING 47
IV NEW CLOTHES 69
V THE SHOALS 88
VI GROWING PAINS 108
VII THE SINGING 123
VIII THE KIDNAPPING 143
IX HAYSTACK THOMPSON 162
X THE ESCAPE 181
XI THE SUMMERS FAMILY 198
XII MA SAYS NO 215
XIII AT HOME AGAIN 236
XIV THE SACRIFICE 247
XV AZALEA CHOOSES 265
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
And then came Azalea _Frontispiece_
“She ran out to meet me,” he cried 92
“So that’s your story, missy.” 178
He stood there, straight and fierce 270
CHAPTER I
THE MCBIRNEYS
The guinea hens wanted everybody to get up. They said so right under the
bedroom window; and the turkey gobbler had the same wish and made it
known in his most important manner. Hours before, Mr. Rhode Island Red,
the rooster, had expressed his opinion on the subject, and from the first
pale hint of dawn till the sun swung up in the clear May sky, a great
company of tanagers, robins, martins, meadow larks and their friends had
suggested, each in his own way, that it was time to be awake.
But really, it didn’t need all of this clamor to get the McBirneys out of
bed. Since sunup, Thomas McBirney had been planting cotton on the red
clay terraces of his mountain farm; and Mary McBirney, his wife, had been
busied laying her hearth-fire, getting the breakfast and feeding the
crowing, cackling, gobbling creatures in the yard. And three times she
had thrust her head in at the door of the lean-to to say that if she were
a boy she’d get up and see what a pretty day it was.
James Stuart McBirney, otherwise Jim, thought his mother was right about
almost everything, but he did differ with her about getting up when a
fellow felt like a log and his eyes were as tight as ticks. He had heard
her say there was a time for everything, and it seemed to him that the
time to sleep was when a fellow was sleepy. Why should sensible people
send him to bed when he wasn’t sleepy and make him get up when he was?
Besides, something kept nagging away in the back of his mind. It was
something that he ought to remember, and couldn’t quite, on account of
being so sleepy. Or perhaps he didn’t want to remember it. At any rate,
it wouldn’t let him rest in comfort, but pecked away like a woodpecker at
a tree. So, in spite of himself, it all came back to him. Ma was out of
“fat pine” for kindling, and he must go hunting it.
Well, if he must—
“It don’t seem as you ought to be so long getting into such a few
clothes, Jimmy,” a soft voice called. “You’ll be falling into lazy
habits if you don’t set a watch on yourself, and you’ll never get shet of
them, long as you live.”
“Yessum,” said Jim.
“I can see your pa a-coming ’cross the fields now, and I reckon if you
don’t do some hustling he’ll catch you dawdling.”
“Yessum.”
“And, Jimmy!”
“Yessum?”
“I’ve been hearing that Aunt Nan Leiter’s got a making of that blue dye
like I’ve been wanting. I reckon after you’ve got the wood you’d better
walk over yon and get the bucket of it she promised to give me.”
“Yessum.”
“And, Jimmy, here’s your pa.”
“Yessum.”
“Ain’t you washed yet, son? Shame on you!”
There was a wild splashing of water on the back porch where the wash
basin stood, a gasping and panting, and then, with one last “Yessum,”
James Stuart McBirney stood in the door. His turned-up nose, his
freckles and his blue eyes all shone as if he had polished them, and his
curling, clay-colored hair had drawn itself up in tight ringlets about
his head.
He had been hoping that no one would pay any attention to him, and he had
his wish. Ma was setting breakfast on the table, steaming hot from the
hearth. Pa was standing outside the door shading his eyes with one hand.
“What all are you peering at that a-way, Pa McBirney?” asked his wife.
“Is it some one coming over the gap? I heard tell that Sam Bixby and his
brothers was about to bring over a string of horses from their place for
trading day at Lee. As like as not it’s them you’re seeing.”
“No it ain’t, Mary—and it ain’t nobody we ever set eyes on before.”
“Why, Thomas, how can you tell that, with them just coming over the top
of the gap?”
“Well!” said Pa McBirney, “I’ll be dumfoundered!”
At that Jim and his mother went to the door. They thought it was about
time to see what was ailing pa. The three had a way of sharing
everything; and it was no wonder that they did so, for they had only
themselves for company. Their cabin, with its two large rooms, its open
chamber between, and the lean-to, where Jim slept, sat on a pleasant
bench of Mount Tennyson, two thousand feet above the level of the sea.
Through their yard ran the road that carried people from over Burlingame
way, on the other side of the mountain, down to Lee, the town that lay
below them in the purple valley. Sometimes, when the wind was right,
they could hear the mill whistles blow at Lee, or the church bells ring;
and sometimes they could see the houses there as plain as anything. But
usually the little town looked to them as if it were wrapped around in
purple veils; and when the rain came, it was swallowed up in white
blankness.
The McBirneys thought they lived in a very pleasant and exciting place.
Sometimes as many as five or six teams passed their door in one day, and
it was seldom indeed that anyone drove by without stopping to pass the
time of day. If by chance the McBirneys were sitting down to a meal, the
travelers were asked to share it with them, and to water their horses and
take a little rest before going on down the mountain. Ma said it was a
fine thing for them, being taken unawares like that. It made them keep
the house tidy and themselves ready to see folks. But there were weeks
of rain or snow there on the mountain side when almost nobody passed, and
when the McBirneys couldn’t get to town; and the only sounds to be heard
were their own voices and the baying of the four hounds, or the crying of
the trees and the crackling of the fire on the hearth.
Not long ago, there had been four of them instead of three. There had
been Molly, Jim’s little sister, a little girl with hair the color of
corn silk, and eyes as dark as “spider lilies.” And now she was lying
under that tiny heap of earth beneath the Pride of India tree, and Jim’s
mother was different—quite different—from what she had been before. Her
face was sweeter, perhaps, but it looked so that Jim couldn’t keep from
crying, to himself, of course. And in spite of all they could do, all
three of them kept counting Molly in; and now as he ran to the door to
see what was going on up there at the gap, he couldn’t help thinking how
much more fun it would have been if he and Molly had been pushing and
scrambling and pretending to see which could get out first, in the old
way. In those old days his mother would have been calling out in the
laughing voice she used to have:
“Come along, children, something’s going on.”
But now father, mother and boy were silent as they stood together looking
up where the red road made its way through the forest over the gap.
Pa was the first to speak.
“As near as I can make out,” he said slowly, “it’s three wagons loaded to
the limit, and a lot of people on foot walking alongside.”
“Queer doings, ain’t it?” murmured ma.
“I allow I’d better run up the road a piece,” Jim said, slipping in his
words softly, as if he hoped they might go unnoticed, “and see what’s
doing.”
“And I allow,” said his father in his most downright voice, “that we-all
will just sit down and eat that there good breakfast ma has cooked, and
if we keep eating steady we’ll be through with the whole business before
them folks, whoever they be, gets anywhere nigh.”
“Oh, yes!” added ma, “I do wish you’d sit down and eat things while
they’re hot and fit for eating.”
So they sat down and went at their breakfast as if it were a piece of
hard work that must be got out of the way, and then, having finished and
slipped what was left to Molly’s cat and the four hounds, they got out of
doors as quickly as they could.
“The procession is hid around the bend of the road,” said ma.
But even as she spoke the words, the “procession” appeared, though it was
almost above the McBirney’s heads. Both men and animals were moving
along very slowly, as if—as pa put it—they were “dead beat.”
“It looks,” said ma softly, “like a funeral.”
“No, it don’t nuther, ma,” pa answered sharply. “It don’t look nothing
like a funeral. It looks like a family moving.”
“It’s a mighty large family then, Thomas.”
“Maybe it’s folks going down to work in the cotton mill at Lee,” Jim
suggested. “I heard Rath Rutherford saying there was agents going all
through the mountains, asking folks to go down and work.”
“Yes, folks with children,” snapped Pa McBirney. “That’s the kind they
want, and that’s the kind that’ll go—folks that can get their boys and
girls in the mill and make ’em work for ’em. I’d see _myself_ lying down
and letting my children put food in my mouth!”
“Well, as near as I can make out,” said Mary McBirney, “there’s only two
children in that company. All the rest is grown folks.”
The three wagons with their sagging cloth tops, swung around the next
curve and turned toward the McBirney cabin. The horses walked with
drooping heads; the people dragged their feet. Pa went forward to meet
them, and close behind him, trying hard to see and not to be seen, went
Jim. Ma McBirney went back and sat on a chair in the doorway, something
as a queen might go back and sit on her throne.
“Howdy,” said pa.
“Howdy,” responded the man who led the first pair of horses.
Pa asked no questions—that would not have been polite according to his
idea. He seemed not to look at the tired horses or the still more weary
men and women, or at the wagons with their queer load. All he said was:
“There’s a good spring of water over yon, if so be you’re wanting water;
and this here bench is a good one to rest on before going on down the
mountain.”
By “bench” he meant, of course, the level bit of land on the mountain
side.
Jim knew that his father was simply quivering inside, just as he was
himself, to know what those people were doing and what they were carrying
in their wagons.
The man looked at pa and nodded.
“We’re about tuckered out,” he admitted.
“Come far?” asked pa. It hurt his pride to ask the question, but he had
to do it. The man looked at pa impatiently.
“Why, we’re always on the road,” he said. “We’ve got a show here.”
A show! Jim felt something running up his spine—something that felt as
cold and swift as a lizard. It was really a thrill of excitement, but
Jim was afraid it was some sort of sickness. He was not used to the
feeling.
The queer procession came to a stop in the McBirney clearing. There were
three covered wagons, six thin horses, five men, two women, a boy and a
girl. All were walking. The man to whom pa had spoken was pale, fat and
tired looking, and while pa was looking him over in his quiet way the man
took off his hat and wiped the moisture from his head.
“We’re out of luck,” he said. “There’s a dying woman in that last
wagon—the smartest performer of the bunch. Sing or dance or anything.
That’s her girl there.” He pointed to a slender girl of about Jim’s own
age, who stood staring off into the valley, though Jim, who had seen that
same sort of a look in his mother’s face, knew she wasn’t really seeing
it. She wasn’t seeing anything, he decided.
“Sho!” murmured Pa McBirney. “Dying? Are you sure?”
The man thwacked a huge horsefly on his horse’s flank.
“Sure,” said he.
One of the women asked pa if they might cook their breakfast in the open
“rock” fireplace that stood there in the yard.
“Yes, ma’am,” said pa quickly. And then he called: “Here, ma, these
folks want to cook their breakfast here a-way. And they say there’s a
mighty sick woman in that tent-wagon yon.”
Mary McBirney, whose shyness had kept her sitting as still as if she were
under some spell, got up at once when she heard this, and came forward.
She nodded to the men and women without really looking at them, because
that was her way with strangers.
“Where’s the sick woman, please?” she asked in her soft voice. The girl
who had stood looking at the valley turned at this.
“I’ll show you, please ma’am,” she said, and her voice sounded so tired
that it made a lump come in Jim’s throat.
Mary McBirney reached down and took the girl’s thin brown hand in her
own, and the two went on to the wagon, the others watching them. They
saw her lean forward and look in the wagon, and then draw back with a
startled face.
“Why, it’s over!” she called. “Pa! Pa! The poor soul’s gone!”
At that the other women ran toward her.
“Why, she was breathing a mile or two back,” the one they called Betty
said. “I looked in at her and gave her a drink.”
“We didn’t stay in the wagon because it shut out the air,” explained the
other. “Zalie here, wanted to stay with her mamma, but we coaxed her not
to, for the poor thing needed all the air she could get.”
But the girl was in the wagon now, letting her tears rain on the face of
the only one in all the world she ever had called her own.
Betty Bowen began to call to her to come out, but Ma McBirney said: “Just
let her cry! Poor little thing—she’s just got to cry.”
Betty Bowen, and her friend Susan Hetter, began to sniffle a little too,
but Mary McBirney looking at them made up her mind that they were not
caring very much. They looked too dragged out to care about anything.
The dust of the road seemed to have got into their very skin; they looked
as if they never had slept in a proper bed or dressed in a proper room;
and though Mrs. McBirney did not like them, and could hardly keep from
drawing away from them, she felt very sorry for them too.
“Where’s the girl’s pa?” she asked them.
“We don’t know,” Betty Bowen said. “Mrs. Knox—that’s the dead woman,
ma’am—never said anything about him.”
“Ain’t she got no kin?” asked ma gently.
“None that we know of, ma’am.”
Jim stood looking on, his lips pressed hard together. The girl’s mother
was dead. _Her mother was dead_! Why, that must be like having the
world come to an end, pretty near. If your mother was dead, it didn’t
matter if you did belong to a show. But that boy over there, his mother
wasn’t dead, and yet he acted as “dumb” as a snail. Jim felt that if he,
himself, belonged to a show he’d be yelling and jumping and having a
whopping time. Every spare minute he’d be practicing up in his part.
But these folks acted as if they hardly had life enough to cross the
yard; and as for the horses, their heads hung down and their bones stuck
out as if they were ready for the buzzards to pick. Jim hated to have
that girl crying like that. There was no fun in having a show in your
yard when a girl was making such a noise. He tried to forget about it,
and walked around looking in the wagons—not the wagon where the girl was,
but the others—hoping to find some wild animals in cages. But the only
wild animals he saw were made out of wood.
“What’s them for?” he asked one of the men, pointing to a wooden zebra
and a somewhat faded tiger.
“For the merry-go-round,” said the man. “Ever see one?” Jim shook his
head, and the man tried to tell him what a merry-go-round was like. Jim
was disgusted to think how long he had lived without seeing anything like
that.
“I should think,” he said to the man, “that this here bench would be a
good place to set up your show.”
“Oh, fine!” answered the man with a disagreeable laugh. “Then all the
jack rabbits and spit cats in the whole neighborhood could come, couldn’t
they?”
“If you’d set it up, please sir,” said Jim, “I’d run all over the
mountain in no time, telling the folks about it. There’s lots of folks
on this mountain—more’n you’d think. They’d pay you money.”
But the head man, Sisson, had come up and begun talking about the dead
woman.
“I’m just figuring,” he said, “whether to take her down to a burying
ground in the next town, or to make a grave up here.”
Just then Jim’s father came up.
“My wife says for you-all to leave that poor woman right up here,” he
said. “She can be buried out there by that Pride of India tree beside
our little girl, and ma will keep everything looking fine—plant roses,
you know, and all that.”
The men didn’t seem to care much about roses.
“Thanks,” said Sisson shortly; “that’ll be all right.”
“How could it be ‘all right’?” Jim wondered. Now that he had stopped
talking about the show he could hear that girl again, and it made him
feel very, very queer. The lump came back in his throat and things sort
of shook before his eyes. He felt as if something in him was going to
burst. And just then some one touched him on the shoulder. He looked up
and saw his mother standing there. Her face seemed unusually thin and
white and her eyes very large, and there was something so kind—so
terribly, heart-breakingly kind—in them, that the something in him did
burst, and he found himself crying in his mother’s dress.
“I reckon if you feel as sorry as that for the poor girl, you’ll like to
do something to help.”
Jim nodded, not being able to speak.
“Well, you get a cup of fresh milk and carry it to my bedroom. I’m going
to get the poor child in there and coax her to lie down.”
Jim ran to the spring house—tormented all the while with those sobs in
his throat—and filled the tall horn cup with milk. When he carried it
into his mother’s room he found the girl lying on the bed, with Ma
McBirney bathing her face and talking to her softly.
“I’m unplaiting your hair, dear,” she was saying in a voice so soft that
it made Jim think of the pigeons out at the barn, “and I’m going to
smooth it. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No’m,” said the girl brokenly.
“And here’s the milk, all nice and cold. If it would please you to drink
a little of that!”
She half-lifted the little figure in her arms and held her so while the
girl let the cool milk run down her hot throat. Jim noticed that when
she lay down again, she took the edge of ma’s apron between her fingers
and held on to it. Jim understood why. He felt just like doing that
himself.
“My little girl that died,” said ma, still in that soft, cooing voice,
“had yellow hair. Yours is brown, but it’s just as pretty.”
The girl twisted ma’s apron in and out around her fingers; she could
think of nothing to say.
“My little Molly’s eyes was blue, but yours is just the color of Job’s
tears.”
“Job’s tears?” asked the girl. “What are they, please ma’am?”
“You don’t know what Job’s tears be, honey? Why they’re the prettiest
little things—sort of beans, they be—and folks dries and strings ’em.
Jimmy, you fetch that string from the bureau.”
Jim brought the string of softly polished gray beadlike things, and Ma
McBirney slipped them softly over the girl’s head.
“They just match your eyes, honey. You must wear them to remember me
by!”
“Thank you, ma’am. But I’ll remember you anyway. You’ll be taking care
of mamma for me.”
“Now here, honey, don’t you start crying again! You can do all the
crying you want by and by. But now I want you to listen to me. What
call have you got to go on with them show people?”
“What else can I do, ma’am? They’re all the people I know.”
“What do you do in the show?”
“Not much now since my pony died. I used to ride him, ma’am. Now I sell
things—peanuts or pictures or songs or anything.”
A wave of scarlet went over her face, and Jim knew she hated being with
the show and he wondered why. He would have liked to do that kind of
thing very well.
“Tell me—I won’t tell no one—be they good to you?” asked ma.
The girl turned her tear-darkened eyes on her.
“Oh, I don’t know—I don’t know!” she broke out. “Oh, I’m so tired! What
shall I do? What shall I do?”
Ma McBirney stooped down and put both arms tight about the girl’s shaking
form.
“I reckon you’d better stay right here with me,” she said. “I’m needing
a little girl terrible; and you’ve lost your ma. You stay right here
with me. What do you say to that?”
The girl sat up in bed and looked straight into Ma McBirney’s eyes.
“They’d never let me!” she cried.
“Now maybe they would, dear. Would you like it?”
“Oh!” sighed the girl; “Oh, ma’am!”
“What was that name I heard them calling you?”
“Zalie, ma’am. My name is Azalea.”
CHAPTER II
NEW FRIENDS
How does news spread on the mountain side? Who carried the word to the
little lonely cabins on the wide sides of old Tennyson mountain that
there were “things going on” at the McBirney’s? Did the buzzards wing
the message—or the bald-headed eagle that kept eyrie in the blasted
Norway pine above the ginseng lot? Or the martins that made their home
in the dried gourds that had been swung for them on the high crosstrees
before the McBirney’s door?
However that may be, by noon the people began to arrive. Some of them
rode their mules or horses; some drove in their carts or wagons; but the
greater number came on foot, slipping along the steep paths on the pine
needles, or leaping among the rocks, sure of foot, long of limb, and
caring nothing for distance.
They were quiet folk with soft voices and with their hearts in the right
place. So, though they wanted as much as if they had been children, to
see the merry-go-round and all the rest of the show, they would not so
much as hint at it because of the dead woman who lay all clean and decent
on the ironing board laid across two sawhorses, there in the open room
between the bedroom and the kitchen, in Mary McBirney’s house. Over her
a fresh sheet fell. On her bosom lay branches of wild azalea, for her
name, too, had been Azalea.
The mistress of the house went about with a strange look on her face.
She listened to all that was said to her, but she seemed not really to
hear.
“Your ma hadn’t ought to be seeing all these folks and going through this
experience,” Thomas McBirney said to his boy Jim. “It’s getting on her
mind.”
“It’s that there girl,” Jim whispered. “I heard her asking her if she
didn’t want to live here with us.”
“Sho!” said pa. “That’s how the land lays! And what did the little girl
say?”
“We might go for some fresh water to the spring,” said Jim, “and then we
can talk.”
So these two good friends set off together, and Jim told his father all
that he had heard his mother and Azalea say to each other.
“There’s a good deal of whiskey being passed around on the quiet among
them show folks,” said pa. “It ain’t only the men that’s taking it
neither. I hold with your ma that we’ve got a call to see to that girl.
What if our Molly had been left like | 1,971.299982 |
2023-11-16 18:49:57.3887990 | 4,217 | 18 |
Produced by Charlene Taylor, Jonathan Ingram, Keith Edkins
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Library of Early
Journals.)
Transcriber's note: on page 399, "Yule College" in the original is
corrected to "Yale College".
* * * * *
{381}
NOTES AND QUERIES:
A MEDIUM OF INTER-COMMUNICATION FOR LITERARY MEN, ARTISTS, ANTIQUARIES,
GENEALOGISTS, ETC.
"When found, make a note of."--CAPTAIN CUTTLE.
* * * * *
No. 208.]
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 22. 1853.
[Price Fourpence. Stamped Edition 5d.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
NOTES:-- Page
A Prophet 381
FOLK LORE:--Folk Lore in Cambridgeshire--New
Brunswick Folk Lore--North Lincolnshire Folk
Lore--Portuguese Folk Lore 382
Pope and Cowper, By J. Yeowell 383
Shakspeare Correspondence, by Patrick Muirson, &c. 383
MINOR NOTES:--Judicial Families--Derivation of
"Topsy Turvy"--Dictionaries and Encyclopaedias--
"Mary, weep no more for me"--Epitaph at Wood
Ditton--Pictorial Pun 384
QUERIES:--
Sir Thomas Button's Voyage, 1612, by John Petheram 385
MINOR QUERIES:--The Words "Cash" and "Mob"
--"History of Jesus Christ"--Quantity of the Latin
Termination -anus--Webb and Walker Families--
Cawdrey's "Treasure of Similes"--Point of Etiquette
--Napoleon's Spelling--Trench on Proverbs--Rings
formerly worn by Ecclesiastics--Butler's "Lives of
the Saints"--Marriage of Cousins--Castle Thorpe,
Bucks--Where was Edward II. killed?--Encore--
Amcotts' Pedigree--Blue Bell: Blue Anchor--
"We've parted for the longest time"--Matthew
Lewis--Paradise Lost--Colonel Hyde Seymour--
Vault at Richmond, Yorkshire--Poems published at
Manchester--Handel's Dettingen Te Deum--
Edmund Spenser and Sir Hans Sloane, Bart. 386
MINOR QUERIES WITH ANSWERS:--The Ligurian Sage
--Gresebrok in Yorkshire--Stillingfleet's Library--
The whole System of Law--Saint Malachy on the
Popes--Work on the Human Figure 389
REPLIES:--
"Namby Pamby," and other Words of the same Form 390
Earl of Oxford 392
Picts' Houses 392
Pronunciation of "Humble" 393
School Libraries 395
PHOTOGRAPHIC CORRESPONDENCE:--Albumenized Paper
--Cement for Glass Baths--New Process for Positive
Proofs 395
REPLIES TO MINOR QUERIES:--The Groaning Elmplank
in Dublin--Passage in Whiston--"When
Orpheus went down"--Foreign Medical Education
--"Short red, good red"--Collar of SS.--Who first
thought of Table-turning--Passage of Thucydides on
the Greek Factions--Origin of "Clipper" as applied
to Vessels--Passage in Tennyson--Huet's Navigations
of Solomon--Sincere--The Saltpetre Man--
Major Andre--Longevity--Passage in Virgil--Love
Charm from a Foal's Forehead--Wardhouse, where
was?--Divining Rod--Waugh, Bishop of Carlisle--
Pagoda 397
MISCELLANEOUS:--
Books and Odd Volumes wanted 401
Notices to Correspondents 401
Advertisements 402
* * * * *
Notes.
A PROPHET.
What a curious book would be "Our Prophets and Enthusiasts!" The literary
and biographical records of the vaticinators, and the heated spirits who,
after working upon the fears of the timid, and exciting the imaginations of
the weak, have flitted into oblivion! As a specimen of the odd characters
such a work would embrace, allow me to introduce to your readers Thomas
Newans, a Shropshire farmer, who unhappily took it into his head that his
visit to the lower sphere was on a special mission.
Mr. Newans is the author of a book entitled _A Key to the Prophecies of the
Old and New Testament_; showing (among other impending events) "The
approaching Invasion of England;" "The Extirpation of Popery and
Mahometisme;" "The Restoration of the Jews," and "The Millennium." London:
printed for the Author (who attests the genuineness of my copy by his
signature), 1747.
In this misfitted key he relates how, in a vision, he was invested with the
prophetic mantle:
"In the year 1723, in the night," says Mr. Newans, "I fell into a
dream, and seemed to be riding on the road into the county of Cheshire.
When I was got about eight miles from home, my horse made a stop on the
road; and it seemed a dark night, and on a sudden there shone a light
before me on the ground, which was as bright as when the sun shines at
noon-day. In the middle of that bright circle stood a child in white.
It spoke, and told me that I must go into Cheshire, and I should find a
man with uncommon marks upon his feet, which should be a warning to me
to believe; and that the year after I should have a cow that would
calve a calf with his heart growing out of his body in a wonderful
manner, as a token of what should come to pass; and that a terrible war
would break out in Europe, and in fourteen years after the token it
would extend to England."
In compliance with his supernatural communication, our farmer proceeded to
Cheshire, where he found the man indicated; and, a year after, his own farm
stock was increased by the birth of a calf with his heart growing out. And
after taking his family, of seven, to witness to the truth of {382} what he
describes, he adds with great simplicity: "So then I rode to London to
acquaint the ministers of state of the approaching danger!"
This story of the calf with the heart growing out, is not a bad type of the
worthy grazier himself, and his _hearty_ and burning zeal for the
Protestant faith. Mr. Newans distinctly and repeatedly predicts that these
"two beastly religions," _i. e._ the Popish and Mahomedan, will be totally
extirpated within seven years! And "I have," says he, "for almost twenty
years past, travelled to London and back again into the country, near fifty
journies, and every journey was two hundred and fifty miles, to acquaint
the ministers of state and several of the bishops, and other divines, with
the certainty, danger, and manner of the war" which was to bring this
about. Commenting on the story of Balaam, our prophet says: "And now the
world is grown so full of sin and wickedness, that if a dumb ass should
speak with a man's voice, they would scarce repent:" and I conclude that
the said statesmen and divines did not estimate these prophetic warnings
much higher than the brayings of that quadruped which they turned out to
be. Mr. Newan professes to gave penned these vaticinations in the year
1744, twenty-one years after the date of his vision; so that he had ample
time to mature them. What would the farmer say were he favoured with a peep
at our world in 1853, with its Mussulman system unbroken; and its cardinal,
archbishops, and Popish bishops firmly established in the very heart of
Protestant England?
J. O.
* * * * *
FOLK LORE.
_Folk Lore in Cambridgeshire._--About twenty years ago, at Hildersham,
there was a custom of ringing the church bell at five o'clock in the
leasing season. The cottagers then repaired to the fields to glean; but
none went out before the bell was rung. The bell tolled again in the
evening as a signal for all to return home. I would add a Query, Is this
custom continued; and is it to be met with in any other place?
F. M. MIDDLETON.
_New Brunswick Folk Lore_:--_Common Notions respecting Teeth._--Among the
lower orders and <DW64>s, and also among young children of respectable
parents (who have probably derived the notion from contact with the others
as nurses or servants), it is here very commonly held that when a tooth is
drawn, if you refrain from thrusting the tongue in the cavity, the second
tooth will be golden. Does this idea prevail in England?
_Superstition respecting Bridges._--Many years ago my grandfather had quite
a household of blacks, some of whom were slaves and some free. Being bred
in his family, a large portion of my early days was thus passed among them,
and I have often reverted to the weird superstitions with which they froze
themselves and alarmed me. Most of these had allusion to the devil:
scarcely one of them that I now recollect but referred to him. Among others
they firmly held that when the clock struck twelve at midnight, the devil
and a select company of his inferiors regularly came upon that part of the
bridge called "the draw," and danced a hornpipe there. So firmly did they
hold to this belief, that no threat nor persuasion could induce the
stoutest-hearted of them to cross the fatal draw after ten o'clock at
night. This belief is quite contrary to that which prevails in Scotland,
according to which, Robin Burns being my authority, "neither witches nor
any evil spirits have power to follow a poor wight any farther than the
middle of the next running stream."[1]
C. D. D.
New Brunswick, New Jersey.
[Footnote 1:
"Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane of the brig:
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na crass."--_Tam O'Shanter._
]
_North Lincolnshire Folk Lore._--Here follow some shreds of folk lore which
I have not seen as yet in "N. & Q." They all belong to North Lincolnshire.
1. Death sign. If a swarm of bees alight on a dead tree, or on the dead
bough of a living tree, there will be a death in the family of the owner
during the year.
2. If you do not throw salt into the fire before you begin to churn, the
butter will not come.
3. If eggs are brought over running water they will have no chicks in them.
4. It is unlucky to bring eggs into the house after sunset.
5. If you wear a snake's skin round your head you will never have the
headache.
6. Persons called Agnes always go mad.
7. A person who is born on Christmas Day will be able to see spirits.
8. Never burn egg-shells; if you do, the hens cease to lay.
9. If a pigeon is seen sitting in a tree, or comes into the house, or from
being wild suddenly becomes tame, it is a sign of death.
10. When you see a magpie you should cross yourself; if you do not you will
be unlucky.
EDWARD PEACOCK.
Bottesford Moors.
_Portuguese Folk Lore._--
"The borderer whispered in my ear that he was one of the dreadful
Lobishomens, a devoted race, held in mingled horror and commiseration,
and never mentioned {383} without by the Portuguese peasantry. They
believe that if a woman be delivered of seven male infants
successively, the seventh, by an inexplicable fatality, becomes subject
to the powers of darkness; and is compelled, on every Saturday evening,
to assume the likeness of an ass. So changed, and followed by a horrid
train of dogs, he is forced to run an impious race over the moors and
through the villages; nor is allowed an interval of rest until the
dawning Sabbath terminates his sufferings, and restores him to his
human shape."--From Lord Carnarvon's _Portugal and Gallicia_, vol. ii.
p. 268.
E. H. A.
* * * * *
POPE AND COWPER.
In Cowper's letter to Lady Hesketh, dated January 18, 1787, occurs a notice
for the first time of Mr. Samuel Rose, with whom Cowper subsequently
corresponded. He informs Lady Hesketh that--
"A young gentleman called here yesterday, who came six miles out of his
way to see me. He was on a journey to London from Glasgow, having just
left the University there. He came, I suppose, partly to satisfy his
own curiosity, but chiefly, as it seemed, to bring me the thanks of
some of the Scotch professors for my two volumes. His name is Rose, an
Englishman."
Prefixed to a copy of Hayley's _Life and Letters of William Cowper, Esq._,
in the British Museum, is an extract in MS. of a letter from the late
Samuel Rose, Esq., to his favourite sister, Miss Harriet Rose, written in
the year before his marriage, at the age of twenty-two, and which, I
believe, has never been printed. It may, perhaps, merit a corner of "N. &
Q."
"Weston Lodge, Sept. 9, 1789.
"Last week Mr. Cowper finished the _Odyssey_, and we drank an
unreluctant bumper to its success. The labour of translation is now at
an end, and the less arduous work of revision remains to be done, and
then we shall see it published. I promise both you and myself much
pleasure from its perusal. You will most probably find it at first less
pleasing than Pope's versification, owing to the difference subsisting
between blank verse and rhyme--a difference which is not sufficiently
attended to, and whereby people are led into injudicious comparisons.
You will find Mr. Pope more refined: Mr. Cowper more simple, grand, and
majestic; and, indeed, insomuch as Mr. Pope is more refined than Mr.
Cowper, he is more refined than his original, and in the same
proportion departs from Homer himself. Pope's must universally be
allowed to be a beautiful poem: Mr. Cowper's will be found a striking
and a faithful portrait, and a pleasing picture to those who enjoy his
style of colouring, which I am apprehensive is not so generally
acceptable as the other master's. Pope possesses the gentle and amiable
graces of a Guido: Cowper is endowed with the bold sublime genius of a
Raphael. After having said so much upon their comparative merits,
enough, I hope, to refute your second assertion which was, that women,
in the opinion of men, have little to do with literature. I may inform
you, that the _Iliad_ is to be dedicated to Earl Cowper, and the
_Odyssey_ to the Dowager Lady Spencer but this information need not be
extensively circulated."
J. YEOWELL.
50. Burton Street.
* * * * *
SHAKSPEARE CORRESPONDENCE.
_"As You Like It."_--Believing that whatever illustrates, even to a
trifling extent, the great dramatic poet of England will interest the
readers of "N. & Q.," I solicit their attention to the resemblance between
the two following passages:
"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players."
"Si recte aspicias, _vita haec est fabula quaedam_.
_Scena autem, mundus versatilis_: _histrio et actor_
_Quilibet est hominum--mortales nam proprie cuncti_
_Sunt personati_, et falsa sub imagine, vulgi
Praestringunt oculos: _ita Diis, risumque jocumque_,
_Stultitiis, nugisque suis per saecula praebent_.
. . . . . . . .
"Jam mala quae humanum patitur genus, adnumerabo.
_Principio_ postquam e latebris male olentibus alvi
Eductus tandem est, materno sanguine foedus,
_Vagit, et auspicio lacrymarum nascitur infans_.
. . . . . . . .
"Vix natus jam vincla subit, tenerosque coercet
Fascia longa artus: praesagia dire futuri
Servitii.
. . . . . . . .
"Post ubi jam valido se poplite sustinet, et jam
Rite loqui didicit, tunc servire incipit, atque
Jussa pati, _sentitque minas ictusque magistri_,
Saepe patris matrisque manu fratrisque frequenter
Pulsatur: facient quid vitricus atque noverca?
_Fit juvenis, crescunt vires_: jam spernit habenas,
Occluditque aures monitis, furere incipit, ardens
Luxuria atque ira: et temerarius omnia nullo
Consilio aggreditur, dictis melioribus obstat,
Deteriora fovens: _non ulla pericula curat_,
Dummodo id efficiat, suadet quod coeca libido.
. . . . . . . .
"_Succedit gravior, melior, prudentior aetas_,
Cumque ipsa curae adveniunt, durique labores;
Tune <DW25> mille modis, studioque enititur omni
Rem facere, | 1,973.408839 |
2023-11-16 18:49:57.4830590 | 744 | 18 |
Produced by Ted Garvin, Andre Lapierre and PG Distributed Proofreaders
The Golden Canyon
by
G.A. Henty
New York
Hurst & Company Publishers.
1899
Contents
The Golden Canyon.
Chapter
I. A Run Ashore
II. Dick's Escape
III. The Gold-Seekers
IV. More Plans
V. The Search For The Canyon
VI. The Map Again
VII. The Scarcity Of Water
VIII. The Golden Valley
IX. The Tree On The Peak
X. Watched
XI. Hard At Work
XII. Retreat
XIII. The Redskin
XIV. In The Ravine
XV. Rifle-Shots
XVI. On The Return
XVII. Conclusion
Contents
The Stone Chest.
Chapter
I. A Mystery Of The Storm
II. Off For Zaruth
III. Among The Icebergs
IV. The Escape From The Icebergs
V. The Arctic Island
VI. The Madman
VII. A Fearful Fall
VIII. A Remarkable Story
IX. The Volcano Of Ice
X. The Escape Of The "Dart"
XI. Among A Strange Foe
XII. Bob's Discovery
XIII. The Big Polar Bear
XIV. The Finding Of The Stone Chest
XV. Bob Rescues His Father--Conclusion
Publishers' Introduction
George Alfred Henty has been called "The Prince of Story-Tellers." To
call him "The Boy's Own Historian" would perhaps be a more appropriate
title, for time has proved that he is more than a story-teller; he is a
preserver and propagator of history amongst boys.
How Mr. Henty has risen to be worthy of these enviable titles is a story
which will doubtless possess some amount of interest for all his
readers.
Henty may be said to have begun his preliminary training for his
life-work when a boy attending school at Westminster. Even then the germ
of his story-telling propensity seems to have evinced itself, for he was
always awarded the highest marks in English composition.
From Westminster he went to Cambridge, where he was enrolled as a
student at Caius College. It is a decided change of scenery and
circumstances from Cambridge to the Crimea, but such was the change
which took place in Mr. Henty's career at the age of twenty-one.
An appointment in connection with the commissariat department of the
British army, took him from the scenes of student life into the
excitement of the Muscovite war.
Previous to this, however, he had written his first novel, which he has
characterized as "Very bad, no doubt, and was, of course, never
published, but the plot was certainly a good one."
Whilst engaged with his duties at the Crimea he sent home several
descriptive letters of the places, people, and circumstances passing
under his notice. His father, thinking some of those letters were of
more than private interest, took a selection of them to the editor of
the _Morning Advertiser_, who, after perusal of them, was so well
pleased with their contents that he at once appointed young Henty as war
correspondent to the paper in the Crimea.
The ability with which he discharged his duties in the commissariat
department at that time soon found for him another sphere of similar
work in connection with | 1,973.503099 |
2023-11-16 18:49:57.4840380 | 742 | 24 |
Produced by Linda Hamilton, Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Les
Galloway and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive)
John Fiske's Writings.
=MYTHS AND MYTH-MAKERS=: Old Tales and Superstitions interpreted by
Comparative Mythology. 12mo, $2.00.
=OUTLINES OF COSMIC PHILOSOPHY.= Based on the Doctrines of Evolution,
with Criticisms on the Positive Philosophy. In two volumes, 8vo, $6.00.
=THE UNSEEN WORLD=, and other Essays. 12mo, $2.00.
=EXCURSIONS OF AN EVOLUTIONIST.= 12mo, $2.00.
=DARWINISM=, and other Essays. 12mo, $2.00.
=THE DESTINY OF MAN=, viewed in the Light of His Origin. 16mo, $1.00.
=THE IDEA OF GOD=, as affected by Modern Knowledge. A Sequel to "The
Destiny of Man." 16mo, $1.00.
[asterism] _For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by mail, post-paid, on
receipt of price, by the Publishers_,
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., BOSTON.
=AMERICAN POLITICAL IDEAS=, viewed from the Stand-point of Universal
History. 12mo, $1.00. HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
THE IDEA OF GOD AS AFFECTED
BY MODERN KNOWLEDGE
[Illustration; Decorative symbol]
BY JOHN FISKE
[Illustration; Decorative panel]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1886
Copyright, 1885,
BY JOHN FISKE.
_All rights reserved._
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge_:
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
To
MY WIFE,
IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE SWEET SUNDAY MORNING
UNDER THE APPLE-TREE ON THE HILLSIDE,
WHEN WE TWO SAT LOOKING DOWN INTO FAIRY WOODLAND PATHS,
AND TALKED OF THE THINGS
SINCE WRITTEN IN THIS LITTLE BOOK,
I now dedicate it.
* * * * *
+Arghyrion kai chrysion ouch hyparchei
moi; ho de echo, touto soi didomi.+
PREFACE
When asked to give a second address before the Concord School of
Philosophy, I gladly accepted the invitation, as affording a proper
occasion for saying certain things which I had for some time wished to
say about theism. My address was designed to introduce the discussion
of the question whether pantheism is the legitimate outcome of modern
science. It seemed to me that the object might best be attained by
passing in review the various modifications which the idea of God
has undergone in the past, and pointing out the shape in which it is
likely to survive the rapid growth of modern knowledge, and especially
the establishment of that great doctrine of evolution which is fast
obliging us to revise our opinions upon | 1,973.504078 |
2023-11-16 18:49:57.5817780 | 7,154 | 6 |
Produced by J.C. Byers and L.M. Shaf
THE ELUSIVE PIMPERNEL
By Baroness Orczy
Contents
I. Paris: 1793
II. A Retrospect
III. Ex-Ambassador Chauvelin
IV. The Richmond Gala
V. Sir Percy and His Lady
VI. For the Poor of Paris
VII. Premonition
VIII. The Invitation
IX. Demoiselle Candeille
X. Lady Blakeney's Rout
XI. The Challenge
XII. Time -- Place -- Conditions
XIII. Reflections
XIV. The Ruling Passion
XV. Farewell
XVI. The Passport
XVII. Boulogne
XVIII. No. 6
XIX. The Strength of the Weak
XX. Triumph
XXI. Suspense
XXII. Not Death
XXIII. The Hostage
XXIV. Colleagues
XXV. The Unexpected
XXVI. The Terms of the Bargain
XXVII. The Decision
XXVIII. The Midnight Watch
XXIX. The National Fete
XXX. The Procession
XXXI. Final Dispositions
XXXII. The Letter
XXXIII. The English Spy
XXXIV. The Angelus
XXXV. Marguerite
Chapter I: Paris: 1793
There was not even a reaction.
On! ever on! in that wild, surging torrent; sowing the wind of anarchy,
of terrorism, of lust of blood and hate, and reaping a hurricane of
destruction and of horror.
On! ever on! France, with Paris and all her children still rushes
blindly, madly on; defies the powerful coalition,--Austria, England,
Spain, Prussia, all joined together to stem the flow of carnage,--defies
the Universe and defies God!
Paris this September 1793!--or shall we call it Vendemiaire, Year I.
of the Republic?--call it what we will! Paris! a city of bloodshed, of
humanity in its lowest, most degraded aspect. France herself a gigantic
self-devouring monster, her fairest cities destroyed, Lyons razed to the
ground, Toulon, Marseilles, masses of blackened ruins, her bravest sons
turned to lustful brutes or to abject cowards seeking safety at the cost
of any humiliation.
That is thy reward, oh mighty, holy Revolution! apotheosis of equality
and fraternity! grand rival of decadent Christianity.
Five weeks now since Marat, the bloodthirsty Friend of the People,
succumbed beneath the sheath-knife of a virgin patriot, a month since
his murderess walked proudly, even enthusiastically, to the guillotine!
There has been no reaction--only a great sigh!... Not of content or
satisfied lust, but a sigh such as the man-eating tiger might heave
after his first taste of long-coveted blood.
A sigh for more!
A king on the scaffold; a queen degraded and abased, awaiting death,
which lingers on the threshold of her infamous prison; eight hundred
scions of ancient houses that have made the history of France; brave
generals, Custine, Blanchelande, Houchard, Beauharnais; worthy patriots,
noble-hearted women, misguided enthusiasts, all by the score and by the
hundred, up the few wooden steps which lead to the guillotine.
An achievement of truth!
And still that sigh for more!
But for the moment,--a few seconds only,--Paris looked round her mighty
self, and thought things over!
The man-eating tiger for the space of a sigh licked his powerful jaws
and pondered!
Something new!--something wonderful!
We have had a new Constitution, a new Justice, new Laws, a new Almanack!
What next?
Why, obviously!--How comes it that great, intellectual, aesthetic Paris
never thought of such a wonderful thing before?
A new religion!
Christianity is old and obsolete, priests are aristocrats, wealthy
oppressors of the People, the Church but another form of wanton tyranny.
Let us by all means have a new religion.
Already something has been done to destroy the old! To destroy! always
to destroy! Churches have been ransacked, altars spoliated, tombs
desecrated, priests and curates murdered; but that is not enough.
There must be a new religion; and to attain that there must be a new
God.
"Man is a born idol-worshipper."
Very well then! let the People have a new religion and a new God.
Stay!--Not a God this time!--for God means Majesty, Power, Kingship!
everything in fact which the mighty hand of the people of France has
struggled and fought to destroy.
Not a God, but a goddess.
A goddess! an idol! a toy! since even the man-eating tiger must play
sometimes.
Paris wanted a new religion, and a new toy, and grave men, ardent
patriots, mad enthusiasts, sat in the Assembly of the Convention and
seriously discussed the means of providing her with both these things
which she asked for.
Chaumette, I think it was, who first solved the difficulty:--Procureur
Chaumette, head of the Paris Municipality, he who had ordered that
the cart which bore the dethroned queen to the squalid prison of the
Conciergerie should be led slowly past her own late palace of the
Tuileries, and should be stopped there just long enough for her to see
and to feel in one grand mental vision all that she had been when she
dwelt there, and all that she now was by the will of the People.
Chaumette, as you see, was refined, artistic;--the torture of the fallen
Queen's heart meant more to him than a blow of the guillotine on her
neck.
No wonder, therefore, that it was Procureur Chaumette who first
discovered exactly what type of new religion Paris wanted just now.
"Let us have a Goddess of Reason," he said, "typified if you will by
the most beautiful woman in Paris. Let us have a feast of the Goddess of
Reason, let there be a pyre of all the gew-gaws which for centuries
have been flaunted by overbearing priests before the eyes of starving
multitudes, let the People rejoice and dance around that funeral pile,
and above it all let the new Goddess tower smiling and triumphant. The
Goddess of Reason! the only deity our new and regenerate France shall
acknowledge throughout the centuries which are to come!"
Loud applause greeted the impassioned speech.
"A new goddess, by all means!" shouted the grave gentlemen of the
National Assembly, "the Goddess of Reason!"
They were all eager that the People should have this toy; something to
play with and to tease, round which to dance the mad Carmagnole and sing
the ever-recurring "Ca ira."
Something to distract the minds of the populace from the consequences of
its own deeds, and the helplessness of its legislators.
Procureur Chaumette enlarged upon his original idea; like a true artist
who sees the broad effect of a picture at a glance and then fills in the
minute details, he was already busy elaborating his scheme.
"The goddess must be beautiful... not too young... Reason can only go
hand in hand with the riper age of second youth... she must be decked
out in classical draperies, severe yet suggestive... she must be rouged
and painted... for she is a mere idol... easily to be appeased with
incense, music and laughter."
He was getting deeply interested in his subject, seeking minutiae of
detail, with which to render his theme more and more attractive.
But patience was never the characteristic of the Revolutionary
Government of France. The National Assembly soon tired of Chaumette's
dithyrambic utterances. Up aloft on the Mountain, Danton was yawning
like a gigantic leopard.
Soon Henriot was on his feet. He had a far finer scheme than that of
the Procureur to place before his colleagues. A grand National fete,
semi-religious in character, but of the new religion which destroyed and
desecrated and never knelt in worship.
Citizen Chaumette's Goddess of Reason by all means--Henriot conceded
that the idea was a good one--but the goddess merely as a figure-head:
around her a procession of unfrocked and apostate priests, typifying
the destruction of ancient hierarchy, mules carrying loads of sacred
vessels, the spoils of ten thousand churches of France, and ballet girls
in bacchanalian robes, dancing the Carmagnole around the new deity.
Public Prosecutor Foucquier Tinville thought all these schemes very
tame. Why should the People of France be led to think that the era of
a new religion would mean an era of milk and water, of pageants and of
fireworks? Let every man, woman, and child know that this was an era of
blood and again of blood.
"Oh!" he exclaimed in passionate accents, "would that all the traitors
in France had but one head, that it might be cut off with one blow of
the guillotine!"
He approved of the National fete, but he desired an apotheosis of the
guillotine; he undertook to find ten thousand traitors to be beheaded on
one grand and glorious day: ten thousand heads to adorn the Place de
la Revolution on a great, never-to-be-forgotten evening, after the
guillotine had accomplished this record work.
But Collot d'Herbois would also have his say. Collot lately hailed from
the South, with a reputation for ferocity unparalleled throughout the
whole of this horrible decade. He would not be outdone by Tinville's
bloodthirsty schemes.
He was the inventor of the "Noyades," which had been so successful at
Lyons and Marseilles. "Why not give the inhabitants of Paris one of
these exhilarating spectacles?" he asked with a coarse, brutal laugh.
Then he explained his invention, of which he was inordinately proud.
Some two or three hundred traitors, men, women, and children, tied
securely together with ropes in great, human bundles and thrown upon a
barge in the middle of the river: the barge with a hole in her bottom!
not too large! only sufficient to cause her to sink slowly, very slowly,
in sight of the crowd of delighted spectators.
The cries of the women and children, and even of the men, as they felt
the waters rising and gradually enveloping them, as they felt themselves
powerless even for a fruitless struggle, had proved most exhilarating,
so Citizen Collot declared, to the hearts of the true patriots of Lyons.
Thus the discussion continued.
This was the era when every man had but one desire, that of outdoing
others in ferocity and brutality, and but one care, that of saving his
own head by threatening that of his neighbour.
The great duel between the Titanic leaders of these turbulent parties,
the conflict between hot-headed Danton on the one side and cold-blooded
Robespierre on the other, had only just begun; the great, all-devouring
monsters had dug their claws into one another, but the issue of the
combat was still at stake.
Neither of these two giants had taken part in these deliberations anent
the new religion and the new goddess. Danton gave signs now and then
of the greatest impatience, and muttered something about a new form of
tyranny, a new kind of oppression.
On the left, Robespierre in immaculate sea-green coat and carefully
gauffered linen was quietly polishing the nails of his right hand
against the palm of his left.
But nothing escaped him of what was going on. His ferocious egoism, his
unbounded ambition was even now calculating what advantages to himself
might accrue from this idea of the new religion and of the National
fete, what personal aggrandisement he could derive therefrom.
The matter outwardly seemed trivial enough, but already his keen and
calculating mind had seen various side issues which might tend to place
him--Robespierre--on a yet higher and more unassailable pinnacle.
Surrounded by those who hated him, those who envied and those who feared
him, he ruled over them all by the strength of his own cold-blooded
savagery, by the resistless power of his merciless cruelty.
He cared about nobody but himself, about nothing but his own exaltation:
every action of his career, since he gave up his small practice in a
quiet provincial town in order to throw himself into the wild vortex
of revolutionary politics, every word he ever uttered had but one
aim--Himself.
He saw his colleagues and comrades of the old Jacobin Clubs ruthlessly
destroyed around him: friends he had none, and all left him indifferent;
and now he had hundreds of enemies in every assembly and club in Paris,
and these too one by one were being swept up in that wild whirlpool
which they themselves had created.
Impassive, serene, always ready with a calm answer, when passion
raged most hotly around him, Robespierre, the most ambitious, most
self-seeking demagogue of his time, had acquired the reputation of being
incorruptible and selfless, an enthusiastic servant of the Republic.
The sea-green Incorruptible!
And thus whilst others talked and argued, waxed hot over schemes for
processions and pageantry, or loudly denounced the whole matter as the
work of a traitor, he, of the sea-green coat, sat quietly polishing his
nails.
But he had already weighed all these discussions in the balance of his
mind, placed them in the crucible of his ambition, and turned them into
something that would benefit him and strengthen his position.
Aye! the feast should be brilliant enough! gay or horrible, mad or
fearful, but through it all the people of France must be made to feel
that there was a guiding hand which ruled the destinies of all, a head
which framed the new laws, which consolidated the new religion and
established its new goddess: the Goddess of Reason.
Robespierre, her prophet!
Chapter II: A Retrospect
The room was close and dark, filled with the smoke from a defective
chimney.
A tiny boudoir, once the dainty sanctum of imperious Marie Antoinette; a
faint and ghostly odour, like unto the perfume of spectres, seemed still
to cling to the stained walls, and to the torn Gobelin tapestries.
Everywhere lay the impress of a heavy and destroying hand: that of the
great and glorious Revolution.
In the mud-soiled corners of the room a few chairs, with brocaded
cushions rudely torn, leant broken and desolate against the walls. A
small footstool, once gilt-legged and satin-covered, had been overturned
and roughly kicked to one side, and there it lay on its back, like some
little animal that had been hurt, stretching its broken limbs upwards,
pathetic to behold.
From the delicately wrought Buhl table the silver inlay had been harshly
stripped out of its bed of shell.
Across the Lunette, painted by Boucher and representing a chaste
Diana surrounded by a bevy of nymphs, an uncouth hand had scribbled in
charcoal the device of the Revolution: Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite
ou la Mort; whilst, as if to give a crowning point to the work of
destruction and to emphasise its motto, someone had decorated the
portrait of Marie Antoinette with a scarlet cap, and drawn a red and
ominous line across her neck.
And at the table two men were sitting in close and eager conclave.
Between them a solitary tallow candle, unsnuffed and weirdly flickering,
threw fantastic shadows upon the walls, and illumined with fitful and
uncertain light the faces of the two men.
How different were these in character!
One, high cheek-boned, with coarse, sensuous lips, and hair elaborately
and carefully powdered; the other pale and thin-lipped, with the keen
eyes of a ferret and a high intellectual forehead, from which the sleek
brown hair was smoothly brushed away.
The first of these men was Robespierre, the ruthless and incorruptible
demagogue; the other was Citizen Chauvelin, ex-ambassador of the
Revolutionary Government at the English Court.
The hour was late, and the noises from the great, seething city
preparing for sleep came to this remote little apartment in the now
deserted Palace of the Tuileries, merely as a faint and distant echo.
It was two days after the Fructidor Riots. Paul Deroulede and the woman
Juliette Marny, both condemned to death, had been literally spirited
away out of the cart which was conveying them from the Hall of Justice
to the Luxembourg Prison, and news had just been received by the
Committee of Public Safety that at Lyons, the Abbe du Mesnil, with the
ci-devant Chevalier d'Egremont and the latter's wife and family, had
effected a miraculous and wholly incomprehensible escape from the
Northern Prison.
But this was not all. When Arras fell into the hands of the
Revolutionary army, and a regular cordon was formed round the town, so
that not a single royalist traitor might escape, some three score women
and children, twelve priests, the old aristocrats Chermeuil, Delleville
and Galipaux and many others, managed to pass the barriers and were
never recaptured.
Raids were made on the suspected houses: in Paris chiefly where the
escaped prisoners might have found refuge, or better still where their
helpers and rescuers might still be lurking. Foucquier Tinville, Public
Prosecutor, led and conducted these raids, assisted by that bloodthirsty
vampire, Merlin. They heard of a house in the Rue de l'Ancienne Comedie
where an Englishmen was said to have lodged for two days.
They demanded admittance, and were taken to the rooms where the
Englishman had stayed. These were bare and squalid, like hundreds of
other rooms in the poorer quarters of Paris. The landlady, toothless and
grimy, had not yet tidied up the one where the Englishman had slept: in
fact she did not know he had left for good.
He had paid for his room, a week in advance, and came and went as he
liked, she explained to Citizen Tinville. She never bothered about him,
as he never took a meal in the house, and he was only there two days.
She did not know her lodger was English until the day he left. She
thought he was a Frenchman from the South, as he certainly had a
peculiar accent when he spoke.
"It was the day of the riots," she continued; "he would go out, and I
told him I did not think that the streets would be safe for a foreigner
like him: for he always wore such very fine clothes, and I made sure
that the starving men and women of Paris would strip them off his back
when their tempers were roused. But he only laughed. He gave me a bit of
paper and told me that if he did not return I might conclude that he had
been killed, and if the Committee of Public Safety asked me questions
about me, I was just to show the bit of paper and there would be no
further trouble."
She had talked volubly, more than a little terrified at Merlin's scowls,
and the attitude of Citizen Tinville, who was known to be very severe if
anyone committed any blunders.
But the Citizeness--her name was Brogard and her husband's brother kept
an inn in the neighbourhood of Calais--the Citizeness Brogard had a
clear conscience. She held a license from the Committee of Public Safety
for letting apartments, and she had always given due notice to the
Committee of the arrival and departure of her lodgers. The only thing
was that if any lodger paid her more than ordinarily well for the
accommodation and he so desired it, she would send in the notice
conveniently late, and conveniently vaguely worded as to the
description, status and nationality of her more liberal patrons.
This had occurred in the case of her recent English visitor.
But she did not explain it quite like that to Citizen Foucquier Tinville
or to Citizen Merlin.
However, she was rather frightened, and produced the scrap of paper
which the Englishman had left with her, together with the assurance that
when she showed it there would be no further trouble.
Tinville took it roughly out of her hand, but would not glance at it.
He crushed it into a ball and then Merlin snatched it from him with a
coarse laugh, smoothed out the creases on his knee and studied it for a
moment.
There were two lines of what looked like poetry, written in a language
which Merlin did not understand. English, no doubt.
But what was perfectly clear, and easily comprehended by any one, was
the little drawing in the corner, done in red ink and representing a
small star-shaped flower.
Then Tinville and Merlin both cursed loudly and volubly, and bidding
their men follow them, turned away from the house in the Rue de
l'Ancienne Comedie and left its toothless landlady on her own doorstep
still volubly protesting her patriotism and her desire to serve the
government of the Republic.
Tinville and Merlin, however, took the scrap of paper to Citizen
Robespierre, who smiled grimly as he in his turn crushed the offensive
little document in the palm of his well-washed hands.
Robespierre did not swear. He never wasted either words or oaths, but he
slipped the bit of paper inside the double lid of his silver snuff box
and then he sent a special messenger to Citizen Chauvelin in the Rue
Corneille, bidding him come that same evening after ten o'clock to room
No. 16 in the ci-devant Palace of the Tuileries.
It was now half-past ten, and Chauvelin and Robespierre sat opposite one
another in the ex-boudoir of Queen Marie Antoinette, and between them on
the table, just below the tallow-candle, was a much creased, exceedingly
grimy bit of paper.
It had passed through several unclean hands before Citizen Robespierre's
immaculately white fingers had smoothed it out and placed it before the
eyes of ex-Ambassador Chauvelin.
The latter, however, was not looking at the paper, he was not even
looking at the pale, cruel face before him. He had closed his eyes and
for a moment had lost sight of the small dark room, of Robespierre's
ruthless gaze, of the mud-stained walls and greasy floor. He was seeing,
as in a bright and sudden vision, the brilliantly-lighted salons of the
Foreign Office in London, with beautiful Marguerite Blakeney gliding
queenlike on the arm of the Prince of Wales.
He heard the flutter of many fans, the frou-frou of silk dresses, and
above all the din and sound of dance music, he heard an inane laugh and
an affected voice repeating the doggerel rhyme that was even now written
on that dirty piece of paper which Robespierre had placed before him:
"We seek him here, and we seek him there,
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere!
Is he in heaven, is he in hell,
That demmed elusive Pimpernel?"
It was a mere flash! One of memory's swiftly effaced pictures, when she
shows us for the fraction of a second, indelible pictures from out our
past. Chauvelin, in that same second, while his own eyes were closed
and Robespierre's fixed upon him, also saw the lonely cliffs of Calais,
heard the same voice singing: "God save the King!" the volley of
musketry, the despairing cries of Marguerite Blakeney; and once again he
felt the keen and bitter pang of complete humiliation and defeat.
Chapter III: Ex-Ambassador Chauvelin
Robespierre had quietly waited the while. He was in no hurry: being a
night-bird of very pronounced tastes, he was quite ready to sit here
until the small hours of the morning watching Citizen Chauvelin mentally
writhing in the throes of recollections of the past few months.
There was nothing that delighted the sea-green Incorruptible quite so
much as the aspect of a man struggling with a hopeless situation and
feeling a net of intrigue drawing gradually tighter and tighter around
him.
Even now, when he saw Chauvelin's smooth forehead wrinkled into an
anxious frown, and his thin hand nervously clutched upon the table,
Robespierre heaved a pleasurable sigh, leaned back in his chair, and
said with an amiable smile:
"You do agree with me, then, Citizen, that the situation has become
intolerable?"
Then as Chauvelin did not reply, he continued, speaking more sharply:
"And how terribly galling it all is, when we could have had that man
under the guillotine by now, if you had not blundered so terribly last
year."
His voice had become hard and trenchant like that knife to which he was
so ready to make constant allusion. But Chauvelin still remained silent.
There was really nothing that he could say.
"Citizen Chauvelin, how you must hate that man!" exclaimed Robespierre
at last.
Then only did Chauvelin break the silence which up to now he had
appeared to have forced himself to keep.
"I do!" he said with unmistakable fervour.
"Then why do you not make an effort to retrieve the blunders of last
year?" queried Robespierre blandly. "The Republic has been unusually
patient and long-suffering with you, Citizen Chauvelin. She has taken
your many services and well-known patriotism into consideration. But
you know," he added significantly, "that she has no use for worthless
tools."
Then as Chauvelin seemed to have relapsed into sullen silence, he
continued with his original ill-omened blandness:
"Ma foi! Citizen Chauvelin, were I standing in your buckled shoes, I
would not lose another hour in trying to avenge mine own humiliation!"
"Have I ever had a chance?" burst out Chauvelin with ill-suppressed
vehemence. "What can I do single-handed? Since war has been declared
I cannot go to England unless the Government will find some official
reason for my doing so. There is much grumbling and wrath over here, and
when that damned Scarlet Pimpernel League has been at work, when a score
or so of valuable prizes have been snatched from under the very knife
of the guillotine, then, there is much gnashing of teeth and useless
cursings, but nothing serious or definite is done to smother those
accursed English flies which come buzzing about our ears."
"Nay! you forget, Citizen Chauvelin," retorted Robespierre, "that we of
the Committee of Public Safety are far more helpless than you. You
know the language of these people, we don't. You know their manners and
customs, their ways of thought, the methods they are likely to employ:
we know none of these things. You have seen and spoken to men in England
who are members of that damned League. You have seen the man who is its
leader. We have not."
He leant forward on the table and looked more searchingly at the thin,
pallid face before him.
"If you named that leader to me now, if you described him, we could
go to work more easily. You could name him, and you would, Citizen
Chauvelin."
"I cannot," retorted Chauvelin doggedly.
"Ah! but I think you could. But there! I do not blame your silence. You
would wish to reap the reward of your own victory, to be the instrument
of your own revenge. Passions! I think it natural! But in the name of
your own safety, Citizen, do not be too greedy with your secret. If the
man is known to you, find him again, find him, lure him to France! We
want him--the people want him! And if the people do not get what they
want, they will turn on those who have withheld their prey."
"I understand, Citizen, that your own safety and that of your government
is involved in this renewed attempt to capture the Scarlet Pimpernel,"
retorted Chauvelin drily.
"And your head, Citizen Chauvelin," concluded Robespierre.
"Nay! I know that well enough, and you may believe me, and you will,
Citizen, when I say that I care but little about that. The question is,
if I am to lure that man to France what will you and your government do
to help me?"
"Everything," replied Robespierre, "provided you have a definite plan
and a definite purpose.
"I have both. But I must go to England in, at least, a semi-official
capacity. I can do nothing if I am to hide in disguise in out-of-the-way
corners."
"That is easily done. There has been some talk with the British
authorities anent the security and welfare of peaceful French subjects
settled in England. After a good deal of correspondence they have
suggested our sending a semi-official representative over there to look
after the interests of our own people commercially and financially.
We can easily send you over in that capacity if it would suit your
purpose."
"Admirably. I have only need of a cloak. That one will do as well as
another."
"Is that all?"
"Not quite. I have several plans in my head, and I must know that I
am fully trusted. Above all, I must have power--decisive, absolute,
illimitable power."
There was nothing of the weakling about this small, sable-clad man, who
looked the redoubtable Jacobin leader straight in the face and brought a
firm fist resolutely down upon the table before him. Robespierre paused
a while ere he replied; he was eying the other man keenly, trying to
read if behind that earnest, frowning brow there did not lurk some
selfish, ulterior motive along with that demand for absolute power.
But Chauvelin did not flinch beneath that gaze which could make every
cheek in France blanch with unnamed terror, and after that slight moment
of hesitation Robespierre said quietly:
"You shall have the complete power of a military dictator in every town
or borough of France which you may visit. The Revolutionary Government
shall create you, before you start for England, Supreme Head of all the
Sub-Committees of Public Safety. This will mean that in the name of the
safety of the Republic every order given by you, of whatsoever nature
it might be, must be obeyed implicitly under pain of an arraignment for
treason."
Chauvelin sighed a quick, sharp sigh of intense satisfaction, which he
did not even attempt to disguise before Robespierre.
"I shall want agents," he said, "or shall we say spies? and, of course,
money."
"You shall have both. We keep a very efficient secret service in
England and they do a great deal of good over there. There is much
dissatisfaction in their Midland counties--you remember the Birmingham
riots? They were chiefly the work of our own spies. Then you know
Candeille, the actress? She had found her way among some of those
circles in London who have what they call liberal tendencies. I believe
they are called Whigs. Funny name, isn't it? It means perruque, I think.
Candeille has given charity performances in aid of our Paris poor,
in one or two of these Whig clubs, and incidentally she has been very
useful to us."
"A woman is always useful in such cases. I shall seek out the Citizeness
Candeille."
"And if she renders you useful assistance, I think I can offer her
what should prove a tempting prize. Women are so vain!" he added,
contemplating with rapt attention the enamel-like polish on his
finger-nails. "There is a vacancy in the Maison | 1,973.601818 |
2023-11-16 18:49:57.6855670 | 3,208 | 12 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Henry Gardiner and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
* * * * *
Transcriber's note: The original publication has been replicated
faithfully except as listed in the List Of Corrections at the end of the
text. Words in italics are indicated like _this_.
* * * * *
Appletons' World Series
_THE REGIONS OF THE WORLD_
EDITED BY
H. J. MACKINDER, M.A.
_Reader in Geography in the
University of Oxford_
Each complete in One Volume, Large 8vo.
BRITAIN AND THE BRITISH SEAS
By the EDITOR
WESTERN EUROPE AND THE MEDITERRANEAN
By ELISEE RECLUS
CENTRAL EUROPE
By JOSEPH PARTSCH, Ph.D.
SCANDINAVIA AND THE ARCTIC REGION
By Sir CLEMENTS R. MARKHAM, K.C.B.,
F.R.S., President Royal Geog. Soc.
THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE
By PRINCE KROPOTKIN
THE NEARER EAST
By D. G. HOGARTH, M.A.
AFRICA
By J. SCOTT KELTIE, LL.D., Sec. R. G. S.
INDIA
By Colonel Sir THOMAS HOLDICH, K.C.I.E.,
C.B., R.E.
THE FARTHER EAST
By ARCHIBALD LITTLE
NORTH AMERICA
By ISRAEL C. RUSSELL, LL.D.
SOUTH AMERICA
By JOHN C. BRANNER, LL.D.
AUSTRALASIA AND ANTARCTICA
By H. O. FORBES, LL.D.
[Illustration: FIG. 1.--North America.
From a photograph of a relief map by Victor and Cosmos Mindeleff. Scales
of original: Horizontal, 120 miles to 1 inch; vertical, 40,000 feet to 1
inch: proportion, 1:16.]
NORTH AMERICA
BY
ISRAEL C. RUSSELL
PROFESSOR OF GEOLOGY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
_With Maps and Diagrams_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1904
COPYRIGHT, 1904
BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
PREFACE
The aim of this book is to give a condensed and, I trust, readable
account of the leading facts concerning the North American continent
which, from the point of view of the geographer, seem most interesting
and instructive. The area of the continent is so vast and the diversity
among its various parts so great, however, that the completeness of
treatment which characterizes the preceding volumes in the series to
which it belongs could not be attempted. To obviate in a measure this
confessed shortcoming, there has been appended to each chapter a list of
books which will enable the reader to continue the studies outlined in
it.
A complete review of the geography of a continent should, as it seems to
me, be divided into two parts: first, a discussion of the natural
conditions, or physical geography, and, second, man's dependence on and
use of the natural resources, or economic geography. Each of these two
leading phases of the subject was embraced in the preliminary outline of
the present volume, but owing to a desire to make each chapter as
complete as practicable, and also on account of limitations as to space,
the treatment of the economic phases of geography has been necessarily
brief. But little more can be claimed for the book as finished than that
it is an attempt to describe some of the more prominent and attractive
aspects of the natural conditions pertaining to North America.
While writing this book I have become more and more impressed with the
incompleteness and inadequacy of the printed records relating to the
geography of the continent of which it treats. Extensive tracts,
particularly in the far North, have not been traversed by observant men,
vast areas throughout the continent have not been surveyed and mapped,
and even in the somewhat thickly inhabited portions of the more
enlightened countries there are large districts in reference to the
geography of which there is but little critical information available.
Under these conditions it seemed best to select typical examples of
various geographical features from the better known portions of the
continent to represent the conditions throughout the less thoroughly
explored domain in which they are situated, and at the same time serve
to illustrate the highly creditable advances made by American
geographers in definitely formulating the principles of physiography.
The book may, in a measure, be considered as an attempt to present in
popular form a report of progress concerning the study of the
geographical development of North America at the beginning of the
twentieth century.
I. C. R.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE MARGIN OF THE CONTINENT 1
The continental shelf--The submarine topography of the
Caribbean region--Movements of the ocean
waters--Islands--Topography of the coast--Estuaries and
harbours.
II. THE TOPOGRAPHY OF THE LAND 60
Coastal plains and plateaus--The Atlantic mountains--The
continental basin--The Pacific mountains--The Antillean
mountains.
III. CLIMATE 173
The elements of climate--Climatic provinces--Secondary
disturbances of the atmosphere--Evaporation.
IV. PLANT LIFE 215
The forests--Prairies, treeless plains, and
plateaus--The treeless mountain tops.
V. ANIMAL LIFE 258
General principles of geographical
distribution--Life-regions and life-zones--The
mammals--Some representative mammals--The birds.
VI. GEOLOGY 299
The growth of the continent--The rocks of which the
continent is composed--The concentration of mineral
substances.
VII. THE ABORIGINES 355
The Eskimos--The Indians.
VIII. POLITICAL GEOGRAPHY 408
Classification of boundaries--Political
control--Population in 1900.
INDEX 427
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
MAPS
PLATE PAGE
I. Orographical features 25
II. Mean annual rainfall and temperature 173
III. Climate and life provinces 185
IV. Leading geological features 306
V. Pleistocene glacial deposits 315
VI. Linguistic stocks of Indians North of Mexico 370
VII. Distribution of governments 410
VIII. Characteristic vegetation 418
OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS
FIG. PAGE
1. Relief map of North America _Frontispiece_
2. Profile of a continental shelf 2
3. Map of Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean region,
showing topography of the sea-floor 17
4. Co-tidal lines 29
5. Profile of sea-cliff and cut-and-built terrace 33
6. Map of a portion of the Atlantic coast of the
United States 35
7. Map of Mobile Bay 36
8. Map of Cape Cod 37
9. Map of the coast of Texas 39
10. Map of a portion of the coast of Maine 45
11. Map of the coast of southeastern Alaska 47
12. Map of the delta of the Mississippi 53
13. Map giving the names of the larger physiographic
divisions of North America 61
14. Altitude map of North America 65
15. Map of the Appalachian Mountains 74
16. Section of anticlinal valleys and synclinal
mountains 78
17. Profile showing relation of ancient peneplains
in the Appalachians 81
18. Section through the Black Hills of Dakota 117
19. Sketch of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River 134
20. Map of the Great Basin 137
21. Map of Crater Lake, Oregon 153
22. Mount Rainier, Washington 154
23. Map of Puget Sound 161
24. Map showing isobars for January and July 175
25. Ice-palace, Montreal 199
26. Map showing tracks of West Indian hurricanes 209
27. Map showing depth of evaporation
in the United States 212
28. Map showing distribution of forests 215
29. Douglas firs, Vancouver 241
30. View in redwood forest of California, from
photograph by U. S. Bureau of Forestry 242
31. Bison at Silver Heights, Winnipeg 275
32. Map showing range of bison 276
33. Maps showing the growth of the North American
continent 303
34. Map showing the distribution of coal-fields 336
35. Ideal section through an oil and gas
pool beneath an anticlinal 339
36. Lodge or tepee of Blackfoot
Indians, Manitoba 387
37. Panorama of Uxmal, Yucatan 390
38. Pointed arches in Central American ruins 393
39. Carved stonework, Uxmal, Yucatan 394
NORTH AMERICA
CHAPTER I
THE MARGIN OF THE CONTINENT--THE
CONTINENTAL SHELF
In beginning the study of the physical geography of North America, one
of the first facts to claim attention is that the true continental
border is in general many miles seaward from the present margin of the
land. The boundary of our field of study is defined with considerable
accuracy by a line drawn on the bottom of the sea adjacent to the
present coast-line of the continent so as to pass through all points
where the soundings show a depth of 100 fathoms of water. This
100-fathom contour in the topography of the sea-floor chances to
coincide in a general way with the outline of the submerged border of
the continent; landward from it the bottom rises with a gentle <DW72>,
while seaward the descent is usually steep down to a depth of 2,000 or
more fathoms.
A gently sloping shelf-like border surrounds the deep central basin of
the Gulf of Mexico (Fig. 3). To the west and north of Yucatan and west
of Florida the shelf is from 140 to 160 miles broad, with a surface
<DW72> towards the centre of the Gulf of less than 6 feet to a mile--a
<DW72> so gentle that were the surface of the shelf exposed to view, no
eye could distinguish it from a perfect plain. The deepest sounding yet
obtained in the central part of the Gulf, approximately midway between
Yucatan and Florida, shows a depth of 2,119 fathoms. The remarkable fact
is that the <DW72> from the 100-fathom line to the bottom of the central
basin of the Gulf is precipitous. In two places on the border of
the Yucatan bank a descent of about 8,500 feet occurs within a
horizontal distance of 15 or 20 miles.
On the east side of the southern extremity of Florida, and again on the
eastern shore of Yucatan, the continental shelf is only about 5 miles
broad; these are the nearest approaches of the present land to the
actual border of the continent to be found on the Atlantic coast. The
explanation of these exceptional conditions is that both Florida and
Yucatan are portions of the continental shelf which have been raised so
as to form low emerged plains.
From Cape Hatteras northward to the extremity of the Newfoundland Banks
the shelf increases gradually in breadth from about 15 miles in the
region of the Carolinas to over 100 miles off the coast of Maine. The
outer border of the shelf is an irregular curving line. Opposite the
coast of Massachusetts and Maine an extension of the Atlantic basin
reaches within 15 or 20 miles of the present margin of the land. The
manner in which the low plain fringing the eastern border of the United
States passes beneath the waters of the Atlantic and becomes a
continental shelf is illustrated by Fig. 2.
[Illustration: FIG. 2.--Ideal profile through a continental shelf.]
Southeast of Newfoundland the continental shelf has an irregular
surface, marked by shoals and depressions, and furnishes the most
valuable fishing-banks in the world. The 100-fathom curve is there over
500 miles from the coast. This is the broadest portion of the
continental shelf now known on the Atlantic border of the continent.
Northward of Newfoundland the Atlantic basin extends far into Davis
Strait and Baffin Bay, and then its border swings outward about
Greenland, but its true margin is there but imperfectly known.
To the north of the arctic coast of North America, as is suggested in
part by the soundings made by Nansen, the submerged margin of the
continent is probably broad and presents a steep escarpment to the
arctic basin, but the outline of the true continent, as in the case of
the present land extension in that direction, is unknown.
Soundings to the north of Cape Lisburne, on the northwest coast of
Alaska, show that the 100-fathom curve is there over 200 miles from
land. The exceptionally shallow sea covering this portion of the shelf
continues westward to the coast of Asia, and southward through Bering
Strait, so as to embrace the eastern portion of Bering Sea. The
continental mass of North America is thus directly connected with the
continental mass of Asia. A rise of the bottom of less than 200 feet in
Bering Strait would bring about a land connection between the Old and
the New World. This, as will appear later, is a most significant fact to
students of geography and geology.
On the Pacific coast of North America the continental shelf is
throughout much narrower than its average breadth on the Atlantic side
of the continent | 1,973.705607 |
2023-11-16 18:49:57.7774380 | 7,153 | 6 |
Produced by Aaron Cannon, and Stephanie Johnson
TWELVE STORIES AND A DREAM
By H. G. Wells
CONTENTS
1. Filmer
2. The Magic Shop
3. The Valley of Spiders
4. The Truth About Pyecraft
5. Mr. Skelmersdale in Fairyland
6. The Story of the Inexperienced Ghost
7. Jimmy Goggles the God
8. The New Accelerator
9. Mr. Ledbetter's Vacation
10. The Stolen Body
11. Mr. Brisher's Treasure
12. Miss Winchelsea's Heart
13. A Dream of Armageddon
1. FILMER
In truth the mastery of flying was the work of thousands of men--this
man a suggestion and that an experiment, until at last only one vigorous
intellectual effort was needed to finish the work. But the inexorable
injustice of the popular mind has decided that of all these thousands,
one man, and that a man who never flew, should be chosen as the
discoverer, just as it has chosen to honour Watt as the discoverer of
steam and Stephenson of the steam-engine. And surely of all honoured
names none is so grotesquely and tragically honoured as poor Filmer's,
the timid, intellectual creature who solved the problem over which the
world had hung perplexed and a little fearful for so many generations,
the man who pressed the button that has changed peace and warfare and
well-nigh every condition of human life and happiness. Never has that
recurring wonder of the littleness of the scientific man in the face of
the greatness of his science found such an amazing exemplification.
Much concerning Filmer is, and must remain, profoundly obscure--Filmers
attract no Boswells--but the essential facts and the concluding scene
are clear enough, and there are letters, and notes, and casual allusions
to piece the whole together. And this is the story one makes, putting
this thing with that, of Filmer's life and death.
The first authentic trace of Filmer on the page of history is a document
in which he applies for admission as a paid student in physics to the
Government laboratories at South Kensington, and therein he describes
himself as the son of a "military bootmaker" ("cobbler" in the vulgar
tongue) of Dover, and lists his various examination proofs of a high
proficiency in chemistry and mathematics. With a certain want of dignity
he seeks to enhance these attainments by a profession of poverty and
disadvantages, and he writes of the laboratory as the "gaol" of his
ambitions, a slip which reinforces his claim to have devoted himself
exclusively to the exact sciences. The document is endorsed in a manner
that shows Filmer was admitted to this coveted opportunity; but until
quite recently no traces of his success in the Government institution
could be found.
It has now, however, been shown that in spite of his professed zeal
for research, Filmer, before he had held this scholarship a year, was
tempted, by the possibility of a small increase in his immediate income,
to abandon it in order to become one of the nine-pence-an-hour computers
employed by a well-known Professor in his vicarious conduct of those
extensive researches of his in solar physics--researches which are still
a matter of perplexity to astronomers. Afterwards, for the space of
seven years, save for the pass lists of the London University, in which
he is seen to climb slowly to a double first class B.Sc., in mathematics
and chemistry, there is no evidence of how Filmer passed his life. No
one knows how or where he lived, though it seems highly probable that he
continued to support himself by teaching while he prosecuted the studies
necessary for this distinction. And then, oddly enough, one finds him
mentioned in the correspondence of Arthur Hicks, the poet.
"You remember Filmer," Hicks writes to his friend Vance; "well, HE
hasn't altered a bit, the same hostile mumble and the nasty chin--how
CAN a man contrive to be always three days from shaving?--and a sort of
furtive air of being engaged in sneaking in front of one; even his
coat and that frayed collar of his show no further signs of the passing
years. He was writing in the library and I sat down beside him in the
name of God's charity, whereupon he deliberately insulted me by covering
up his memoranda. It seems he has some brilliant research on hand that
he suspects me of all people--with a Bodley Booklet a-printing!--of
stealing. He has taken remarkable honours at the University--he went
through them with a sort of hasty slobber, as though he feared I might
interrupt him before he had told me all--and he spoke of taking his
D.Sc. as one might speak of taking a cab. And he asked what I was
doing--with a sort of comparative accent, and his arm was spread
nervously, positively a protecting arm, over the paper that hid the
precious idea--his one hopeful idea.
"'Poetry,' he said, 'Poetry. And what do you profess to teach in it,
Hicks?'
"The thing's a Provincial professorling in the very act of budding, and
I thank the Lord devoutly that but for the precious gift of indolence I
also might have gone this way to D.Sc. and destruction..."
A curious little vignette that I am inclined to think caught Filmer in
or near the very birth of his discovery. Hicks was wrong in anticipating
a provincial professorship for Filmer. Our next glimpse of him is
lecturing on "rubber and rubber substitutes," to the Society of Arts--he
had become manager to a great plastic-substance manufactory--and at
that time, it is now known, he was a member of the Aeronautical
Society, albeit he contributed nothing to the discussions of that body,
preferring no doubt to mature his great conception without external
assistance. And within two years of that paper before the Society of
Arts he was hastily taking out a number of patents and proclaiming in
various undignified ways the completion of the divergent inquiries which
made his flying machine possible. The first definite statement to that
effect appeared in a halfpenny evening paper through the agency of a man
who lodged in the same house with Filmer. His final haste after his long
laborious secret patience seems to have been due to a needless panic,
Bootle, the notorious American scientific quack, having made an
announcement that Filmer interpreted wrongly as an anticipation of his
idea.
Now what precisely was Filmer's idea? Really a very simple one. Before
his time the pursuit of aeronautics had taken two divergent lines, and
had developed on the one hand balloons--large apparatus lighter than
air, easy in ascent, and comparatively safe in descent, but floating
helplessly before any breeze that took them; and on the other, flying
machines that flew only in theory--vast flat structures heavier than
air, propelled and kept up by heavy engines and for the most part
smashing at the first descent. But, neglecting the fact that the
inevitable final collapse rendered them impossible, the weight of the
flying machines gave them this theoretical advantage, that they could
go through the air against a wind, a necessary condition if aerial
navigation was to have any practical value. It is Filmer's particular
merit that he perceived the way in which the contrasted and hitherto
incompatible merits of balloon and heavy flying machine might be
combined in one apparatus, which should be at choice either heavier or
lighter than air. He took hints from the contractile bladders of fish
and the pneumatic cavities of birds. He devised an arrangement of
contractile and absolutely closed balloons which when expanded could
lift the actual flying apparatus with ease, and when retracted by the
complicated "musculature" he wove about them, were withdrawn almost
completely into the frame; and he built the large framework which these
balloons sustained, of hollow, rigid tubes, the air in which, by an
ingenious contrivance, was automatically pumped out as the apparatus
fell, and which then remained exhausted so long as the aeronaut desired.
There were no wings or propellers to his machine, such as there had been
to all previous aeroplanes, and the only engine required was the compact
and powerful little appliance needed to contract the balloons. He
perceived that such an apparatus as he had devised might rise with frame
exhausted and balloons expanded to a considerable height, might
then contract its balloons and let the air into its frame, and by an
adjustment of its weights slide down the air in any desired direction.
As it fell it would accumulate velocity and at the same time lose
weight, and the momentum accumulated by its down-rush could be utilised
by means of a shifting of its weights to drive it up in the air again
as the balloons expanded. This conception, which is still the structural
conception of all successful flying machines, needed, however, a vast
amount of toil upon its details before it could actually be
realised, and such toil Filmer--as he was accustomed to tell the
numerous interviewers who crowded upon him in the heyday of his
fame--"ungrudgingly and unsparingly gave." His particular difficulty was
the elastic lining of the contractile balloon. He found he needed a new
substance, and in the discovery and manufacture of that new substance he
had, as he never failed to impress upon the interviewers, "performed
a far more arduous work than even in the actual achievement of my
seemingly greater discovery."
But it must not be imagined that these interviews followed hard upon
Filmer's proclamation of his invention. An interval of nearly five years
elapsed during which he timidly remained at his rubber factory--he
seems to have been entirely dependent on his small income from this
source--making misdirected attempts to assure a quite indifferent
public that he really HAD invented what he had invented. He occupied
the greater part of his leisure in the composition of letters to the
scientific and daily press, and so forth, stating precisely the net
result of his contrivances, and demanding financial aid. That alone
would have sufficed for the suppression of his letters. He spent such
holidays as he could arrange in unsatisfactory interviews with the
door-keepers of leading London papers--he was singularly not adapted for
inspiring hall-porters with confidence--and he positively attempted
to induce the War Office to take up his work with him. There remains a
confidential letter from Major-General Volleyfire to the Earl of Frogs.
"The man's a crank and a bounder to boot," says the Major-General in
his bluff, sensible, army way, and so left it open for the Japanese
to secure, as they subsequently did, the priority in this side of
warfare--a priority they still to our great discomfort retain.
And then by a stroke of luck the membrane Filmer had invented for his
contractile balloon was discovered to be useful for the valves of a new
oil-engine, and he obtained the means for making a trial model of his
invention. He threw up his rubber factory appointment, desisted from all
further writing, and, with a certain secrecy that seems to have been an
inseparable characteristic of all his proceedings, set to work upon
the apparatus. He seems to have directed the making of its parts and
collected most of it in a room in Shoreditch, but its final putting
together was done at Dymchurch, in Kent. He did not make the affair
large enough to carry a man, but he made an extremely ingenious use of
what were then called the Marconi rays to control its flight. The first
flight of this first practicable flying machine took place over some
fields near Burford Bridge, near Hythe, in Kent, and Filmer followed and
controlled its flight upon a specially constructed motor tricycle.
The flight was, considering all things, an amazing success. The
apparatus was brought in a cart from Dymchurch to Burford Bridge,
ascended there to a height of nearly three hundred feet, swooped thence
very nearly back to Dymchurch, came about in its sweep, rose again,
circled, and finally sank uninjured in a field behind the Burford
Bridge Inn. At its descent a curious thing happened. Filmer got off his
tricycle, scrambled over the intervening <DW18>, advanced perhaps
twenty yards towards his triumph, threw out his arms in a strange
gesticulation, and fell down in a dead faint. Every one could then
recall the ghastliness of his features and all the evidences of extreme
excitement they had observed throughout the trial, things they might
otherwise have forgotten. Afterwards in the inn he had an unaccountable
gust of hysterical weeping.
Altogether there were not twenty witnesses of this affair, and those for
the most part uneducated men. The New Romney doctor saw the ascent but
not the descent, his horse being frightened by the electrical apparatus
on Filmer's tricycle and giving him a nasty spill. Two members of
the Kent constabulary watched the affair from a cart in an unofficial
spirit, and a grocer calling round the Marsh for orders and two lady
cyclists seem almost to complete the list of educated people. There were
two reporters present, one representing a Folkestone paper and the
other being a fourth-class interviewer and "symposium" journalist, whose
expenses down, Filmer, anxious as ever for adequate advertisement--and
now quite realising the way in which adequate advertisement may be
obtained--had paid. The latter was one of those writers who can throw
a convincing air of unreality over the most credible events, and his
half-facetious account of the affair appeared in the magazine page of
a popular journal. But, happily for Filmer, this person's colloquial
methods were more convincing. He went to offer some further screed upon
the subject to Banghurst, the proprietor of the New Paper, and one of
the ablest and most unscrupulous men in London journalism, and Banghurst
instantly seized upon the situation. The interviewer vanishes from
the narrative, no doubt very doubtfully remunerated, and Banghurst,
Banghurst himself, double chin, grey twill suit, abdomen, voice,
gestures and all, appears at Dymchurch, following his large, unrivalled
journalistic nose. He had seen the whole thing at a glance, just what it
was and what it might be.
At his touch, as it were, Filmer's long-pent investigations exploded
into fame. He instantly and most magnificently was a Boom. One turns
over the files of the journals of the year 1907 with a quite incredulous
recognition of how swift and flaming the boom of those days could be.
The July papers know nothing of flying, see nothing in flying, state by
a most effective silence that men never would, could or should fly. In
August flying and Filmer and flying and parachutes and aerial tactics
and the Japanese Government and Filmer and again flying, shouldered
the war in Yunnan and the gold mines of Upper Greenland off the leading
page. And Banghurst had given ten thousand pounds, and, further,
Banghurst was giving five thousand pounds, and Banghurst had devoted his
well-known, magnificent (but hitherto sterile) private laboratories and
several acres of land near his private residence on the Surrey hills
to the strenuous and violent completion--Banghurst fashion--of the
life-size practicable flying machine. Meanwhile, in the sight of
privileged multitudes in the walled-garden of the Banghurst town
residence in Fulham, Filmer was exhibited at weekly garden parties
putting the working model through its paces. At enormous initial cost,
but with a final profit, the New Paper presented its readers with a
beautiful photographic souvenir of the first of these occasions.
Here again the correspondence of Arthur Hicks and his friend Vance comes
to our aid.
"I saw Filmer in his glory," he writes, with just the touch of envy
natural to his position as a poet passe. "The man is brushed and shaved,
dressed in the fashion of a Royal-Institution-Afternoon Lecturer, the
very newest shape in frock-coats and long patent shoes, and altogether
in a state of extraordinary streakiness between an owlish great man and
a scared abashed self-conscious bounder cruelly exposed. He hasn't a
touch of colour in the skin of his face, his head juts forward, and
those queer little dark amber eyes of his watch furtively round him for
his fame. His clothes fit perfectly and yet sit upon him as though he
had bought them ready-made. He speaks in a mumble still, but he says,
you perceive indistinctly, enormous self-assertive things, he backs into
the rear of groups by instinct if Banghurst drops the line for a minute,
and when he walks across Banghurst's lawn one perceives him a little out
of breath and going jerky, and that his weak white hands are clenched.
His is a state of tension--horrible tension. And he is the Greatest
Discoverer of This or Any Age--the Greatest Discoverer of This or Any
Age! What strikes one so forcibly about him is that he didn't somehow
quite expect it ever, at any rate, not at all like this. Banghurst is
about everywhere, the energetic M.C. of his great little catch, and
I swear he will have every one down on his lawn there before he has
finished with the engine; he had bagged the prime minister yesterday,
and he, bless his heart! didn't look particularly outsize, on the very
first occasion. Conceive it! Filmer! Our obscure unwashed Filmer, the
Glory of British science! Duchesses crowd upon him, beautiful, bold
peeresses say in their beautiful, clear loud voices--have you noticed
how penetrating the great lady is becoming nowadays?--'Oh, Mr. Filmer,
how DID you do it?'
"Common men on the edge of things are too remote for the answer. One
imagines something in the way of that interview, 'toil ungrudgingly
and unsparingly given, Madam, and, perhaps--I don't know--but perhaps a
little special aptitude.'"
So far Hicks, and the photographic supplement to the New Paper is in
sufficient harmony with the description. In one picture the machine
swings down towards the river, and the tower of Fulham church appears
below it through a gap in the elms, and in another, Filmer sits at his
guiding batteries, and the great and beautiful of the earth stand around
him, with Banghurst massed modestly but resolutely in the rear. The
grouping is oddly apposite. Occluding much of Banghurst, and looking
with a pensive, speculative expression at Filmer, stands the Lady Mary
Elkinghorn, still beautiful, in spite of the breath of scandal and her
eight-and-thirty years, the only person whose face does not admit a
perception of the camera that was in the act of snapping them all.
So much for the exterior facts of the story, but, after all, they are
very exterior facts. About the real interest of the business one is
necessarily very much in the dark. How was Filmer feeling at the time?
How much was a certain unpleasant anticipation present inside that
very new and fashionable frock-coat? He was in the halfpenny, penny,
six-penny, and more expensive papers alike, and acknowledged by the
whole world as "the Greatest Discoverer of This or Any Age." He had
invented a practicable flying machine, and every day down among the
Surrey hills the life-sized model was getting ready. And when it was
ready, it followed as a clear inevitable consequence of his having
invented and made it--everybody in the world, indeed, seemed to take
it for granted; there wasn't a gap anywhere in that serried front of
anticipation--that he would proudly and cheerfully get aboard it, ascend
with it, and fly.
But we know now pretty clearly that simple pride and cheerfulness
in such an act were singularly out of harmony with Filmer's private
constitution. It occurred to no one at the time, but there the fact is.
We can guess with some confidence now that it must have been drifting
about in his mind a great deal during the day, and, from a little
note to his physician complaining of persistent insomnia, we have the
soundest reason for supposing it dominated his nights,--the idea that it
would be after all, in spite of his theoretical security, an abominably
sickening, uncomfortable, and dangerous thing for him to flap about in
nothingness a thousand feet or so in the air. It must have dawned upon
him quite early in the period of being the Greatest Discoverer of This
or Any Age, the vision of doing this and that with an extensive void
below. Perhaps somewhen in his youth he had looked down a great height
or fallen down in some excessively uncomfortable way; perhaps some habit
of sleeping on the wrong side had resulted in that disagreeable falling
nightmare one knows, and given him his horror; of the strength of that
horror there remains now not a particle of doubt.
Apparently he had never weighed this duty of flying in his earlier days
of research; the machine had been his end, but now things were opening
out beyond his end, and particularly this giddy whirl up above there. He
was a Discoverer and he had Discovered. But he was not a Flying Man, and
it was only now that he was beginning to perceive clearly that he was
expected to fly. Yet, however much the thing was present in his mind he
gave no expression to it until the very end, and meanwhile he went to
and fro from Banghurst's magnificent laboratories, and was interviewed
and lionised, and wore good clothes, and ate good food, and lived in
an elegant flat, enjoying a very abundant feast of such good, coarse,
wholesome Fame and Success as a man, starved for all his years as he had
been starved, might be reasonably expected to enjoy.
After a time, the weekly gatherings in Fulham ceased. The model had
failed one day just for a moment to respond to Filmer's guidance, or he
had been distracted by the compliments of an archbishop. At any rate,
it suddenly dug its nose into the air just a little too steeply as the
archbishop was sailing through a Latin quotation for all the world like
an archbishop in a book, and it came down in the Fulham Road within
three yards of a 'bus horse. It stood for a second perhaps, astonishing
and in its attitude astonished, then it crumpled, shivered into pieces,
and the 'bus horse was incidentally killed.
Filmer lost the end of the archiepiscopal compliment. He stood up and
stared as his invention swooped out of sight and reach of him. His long,
white hands still gripped his useless apparatus. The archbishop followed
his skyward stare with an apprehension unbecoming in an archbishop.
Then came the crash and the shouts and uproar from the road to relieve
Filmer's tension. "My God!" he whispered, and sat down.
Every one else almost was staring to see where the machine had vanished,
or rushing into the house.
The making of the big machine progressed all the more rapidly for this.
Over its making presided Filmer, always a little slow and very careful
in his manner, always with a growing preoccupation in his mind. His care
over the strength and soundness of the apparatus was prodigious. The
slightest doubt, and he delayed everything until the doubtful part could
be replaced. Wilkinson, his senior assistant, fumed at some of these
delays, which, he insisted, were for the most part unnecessary.
Banghurst magnified the patient certitude of Filmer in the New
Paper, and reviled it bitterly to his wife, and MacAndrew, the second
assistant, approved Filmer's wisdom. "We're not wanting a fiasco, man,"
said MacAndrew. "He's perfectly well advised."
And whenever an opportunity arose Filmer would expound to Wilkinson and
MacAndrew just exactly how every part of the flying machine was to be
controlled and worked, so that in effect they would be just as capable,
and even more capable, when at last the time came, of guiding it through
the skies.
Now I should imagine that if Filmer had seen fit at this stage to define
just what he was feeling, and to take a definite line in the matter of
his ascent, he might have escaped that painful ordeal quite easily. If
he had had it clearly in his mind he could have done endless things. He
would surely have found no difficulty with a specialist to demonstrate a
weak heart, or something gastric or pulmonary, to stand in his way--that
is the line I am astonished he did not take,--or he might, had he been
man enough, have declared simply and finally that he did not intend to
do the thing. But the fact is, though the dread was hugely present in
his mind, the thing was by no means sharp and clear. I fancy that all
through this period he kept telling himself that when the occasion came
he would find himself equal to it. He was like a man just gripped by a
great illness, who says he feels a little out of sorts, and expects to
be better presently. Meanwhile he delayed the completion of the machine,
and let the assumption that he was going to fly it take root and
flourish exceedingly about him. He even accepted anticipatory
compliments on his courage. And, barring this secret squeamishness,
there can be no doubt he found all the praise and distinction and fuss
he got a delightful and even intoxicating draught.
The Lady Mary Elkinghorn made things a little more complicated for him.
How THAT began was a subject of inexhaustible speculation to Hicks.
Probably in the beginning she was just a little "nice" to him with that
impartial partiality of hers, and it may be that to her eyes, standing
out conspicuously as he did ruling his monster in the upper air, he had
a distinction that Hicks was not disposed to find. And somehow they must
have had a moment of sufficient isolation, and the great Discoverer a
moment of sufficient courage for something just a little personal to
be mumbled or blurted. However it began, there is no doubt that it did
begin, and presently became quite perceptible to a world accustomed
to find in the proceedings of the Lady Mary Elkinghorn a matter of
entertainment. It complicated things, because the state of love in
such a virgin mind as Filmer's would brace his resolution, if not
sufficiently, at any rate considerably towards facing a danger he
feared, and hampered him in such attempts at evasion as would otherwise
be natural and congenial.
It remains a matter for speculation just how the Lady Mary felt for
Filmer and just what she thought of him. At thirty-eight one may
have gathered much wisdom and still be not altogether wise, and the
imagination still functions actively enough in creating glamours and
effecting the impossible. He came before her eyes as a very central man,
and that always counts, and he had powers, unique powers as it seemed,
at any rate in the air. The performance with the model had just a touch
of the quality of a potent incantation, and women have ever displayed an
unreasonable disposition to imagine that when a man has powers he must
necessarily have Power. Given so much, and what was not good in Filmer's
manner and appearance became an added merit. He was modest, he hated
display, but given an occasion where TRUE qualities are needed,
then--then one would see!
The late Mrs. Bampton thought it wise to convey to Lady Mary her opinion
that Filmer, all things considered, was rather a "grub." "He's certainly
not a sort of man I have ever met before," said the Lady Mary, with a
quite unruffled serenity. And Mrs. Bampton, after a swift, imperceptible
glance at that serenity, decided that so far as saying anything to Lady
Mary went, she had done as much as could be expected of her. But she
said a great deal to other people.
And at last, without any undue haste or unseemliness, the day dawned,
the great day, when Banghurst had promised his public--the world in
fact--that flying should be finally attained and overcome. Filmer saw it
dawn, watched even in the darkness before it dawned, watched its stars
fade and the grey and pearly pinks give place at last to the clear blue
sky of a sunny, cloudless day. He watched it from the window of his
bedroom in the new-built wing of Banghurst's Tudor house. And as the
stars were overwhelmed and the shapes and substances of things grew
into being out of the amorphous dark, he must have seen more and more
distinctly the festive preparations beyond the beech clumps near the
green pavilion in the outer park, the three stands for the privileged
spectators, the raw, new fencing of the enclosure, the sheds and
workshops, the Venetian masts and fluttering flags that Banghurst had
considered essential, black and limp in the breezeless dawn, and amidst
all these things a great shape covered with tarpauling. A strange and
terrible portent for humanity was that shape, a beginning that must
surely spread and widen and change and dominate all the affairs of men,
but to Filmer it is very doubtful whether it appeared in anything but a
narrow and personal light. Several people heard him pacing in the small
hours--for the vast place was packed with guests by a proprietor editor
who, before all understood compression. And about five o'clock, if not
before, Filmer left his room and wandered out of the sleeping house into
the park, alive by that time with sunlight and birds and squirrels and
the fallow deer. MacAndrew, who was also an early riser, met him near
the machine, and they went and had a look at it together.
It is doubtful if Filmer took any breakfast, in spite of the urgency
of Banghurst. So soon as the guests began to be about in some number he
seems to have retreated to his room. Thence about ten he went into the
shrubbery, very probably because he had seen the Lady Mary Elkinghorn
there. She was walking up and down, engaged in conversation with her old
school friend, Mrs. Brewis-Craven, and although Filmer had never met the
latter lady before, he joined them and walked beside them for some time.
There were several silences in spite of the Lady Mary's brilliance. The
situation was a difficult one, and Mrs. Brewis-Craven did not master
its difficulty. "He struck me," she said afterwards with a luminous
self-contradiction, "as a very unhappy person who had something to say,
and wanted before all things to be helped to say it. But how was one to
help him when one didn't know what it was?"
At half-past eleven the enclosures for the public in the outer park were
crammed, there was an intermittent stream of equipages along the belt
which circles the outer park, and the house party was dotted over the
lawn and shrubbery and the corner of the inner park, in a series of
brilliantly attired knots, all making for the flying machine. Filmer
walked in a group of three with Banghurst, who was supremely and
conspicuously happy, and Sir Theodore Hickle, the president of the
Aeronautical Society. Mrs. Banghurst was close behind with the Lady Mary
Elkinghorn, Georgina Hickle, and the Dean of Stays. Banghurst was large
and copious in speech, and such interstices as he left were filled in by
Hickle with complimentary remarks to Filmer. And Filmer walked between
them saying not a word except by way of unavoidable reply. Behind, Mrs.
Banghurst listened to the admirably suitable and shapely conversation of
the Dean with that fluttered attention to the ampler clergy ten years
of social ascent and ascendency had not cured in her; and the Lady
Mary watched, no doubt with an entire confidence in the world's
disillusionment, the drooping shoulders of the sort of man she had never
met before.
There was some cheering as the central party came into view of the
enc | 1,973.797478 |
2023-11-16 18:49:57.9773940 | 1,347 | 9 |
Produced by Moti Ben-Ari and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This file was
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THE RISE OF RAIL-POWER
IN WAR AND CONQUEST
1833-1914
THE
RISE OF RAIL-POWER
IN WAR AND CONQUEST
1833-1914
WITH A BIBLIOGRAPHY
BY
EDWIN A. PRATT
Author of "A History of Inland Transport,"
"Railways and their Rates," etc.
LONDON
P. S. KING & SON, LTD.
ORCHARD HOUSE
WESTMINSTER
1915
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I A NEW FACTOR 1
II RAILWAYS IN THE CIVIL WAR 14
III RAILWAY DESTRUCTION IN WAR 26
IV CONTROL OF RAILWAYS IN WAR 40
V PROTECTION OF RAILWAYS IN WAR 54
VI TROOPS AND SUPPLIES 62
VII ARMOURED TRAINS 67
VIII RAILWAY AMBULANCE TRANSPORT 81
IX PREPARATION IN PEACE FOR WAR 98
X ORGANISATION IN GERMANY 103
XI RAILWAY TROOPS IN GERMANY 122
XII FRANCE AND THE WAR OF 1870-71 138
XIII ORGANISATION IN FRANCE 149
XIV ORGANISATION IN ENGLAND 175
XV MILITARY RAILWAYS 205
XVI RAILWAYS IN THE BOER WAR 232
XVII THE RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR 260
XVIII STRATEGICAL RAILWAYS: GERMANY 277
XIX A GERMAN-AFRICAN EMPIRE 296
XX DESIGNS ON ASIATIC TURKEY 331
XXI SUMMARY AND CONCLUSIONS 345
APPENDIX
INDIAN FRONTIER RAILWAYS 357
THE DEFENCE OF AUSTRALIA 368
BIBLIOGRAPHY 376
INDEX 398
PREFATORY NOTE.
The extent to which railways are being used in the present War of the
Nations has taken quite by surprise a world whose military historians,
in their accounts of what armies have done or have failed to do on the
battle-field in the past, have too often disregarded such matters of
detail as to how the armies got there and the possible effect of good or
defective transport conditions, including the maintenance of supplies
and communications, on the whole course of a campaign.
In the gigantic struggle now proceeding, these matters of detail are
found to be of transcendant importance. The part which railways are
playing in the struggle has, indeed--in keeping with the magnitude of
the struggle itself--assumed proportions unexampled in history. Whilst
this is so it is, nevertheless, a remarkable fact that although much has
been said as to the conditions of military unpreparedness in which the
outbreak of hostilities in August, 1914, found the Allies, there has, so
far as I am aware, been no suggestion of any inability on the part of
the railways to meet, at once, from the very moment war was declared,
all the requirements of military transport. In this respect, indeed, the
organisation, the preparedness, and the efficiency throughout alike of
the British and of the French railways have been fully equal to those of
the German railways themselves.
As regards British conditions, especially, much interest attaches to
some remarks made by Sir Charles Owens, formerly General Manager of
the London and South Western Railway Company, in the course of an
address delivered by him to students of the London School of Economics
on October 12, 1914. He told how, some five or six years ago, he had
met at a social function the Secretary of State for War, who, after
dinner, took him aside and asked, "Do you think in any emergency which
might arise in this country the railways would be able to cope with it
adequately?" To this question Sir Charles replied, "I will stake my
reputation as a railway man that the country could not concentrate men
and materials half so fast as the railways could deal with them; but the
management of the railways must be left in the hands of railway men."
We have here an affirmation and a proviso. That the affirmation was
warranted has been abundantly proved by what the British railways have
accomplished in the emergency that has arisen. The special significance
of the proviso will be understood in the light of what I record in the
present work concerning the control of railways in war.
Taking the railways of all the countries, whether friends or foes,
concerned in the present World-War, and assuming, for the sake of
argument, that all, without exception, have accomplished marvels in the
way of military transport, one must, nevertheless, bear in mind two
important considerations:--
(1) That, apart from the huge proportions of the scale upon which,
in the aggregate, the railways are being required to serve military
purposes, the present conflict, in spite of its magnitude, has thus far
produced no absolutely new factor in the employment of railways for war
except as regards the use of air-craft for their destruction.
(2) That when hostilities were declared in August, 1914, the subject
of the employment of railways for the purposes of war had already been
under the consideration of railway and military experts in different
countries for no fewer than eighty years, during which period, and
as the result of vast study, much experience, and many blunders in
or between wars in various parts of the world, there had been slowly
evolved certain fixed principles and, also, subject to constant
amendments, a recognised and comprehensive organisation which, accepted
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POLLY
OF LADY GAY COTTAGE
BY
EMMA C. DOWD
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY EMMA C. DOWD
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
[Illustration: HAROLD WESTWOOD!]
TO
MY CRITIC, COUNSELOR
AND COMRADE
CONTENTS
I. THE ROSEWOOD BOX 1
II. LEONORA'S WONDERFUL NEWS 12
III. A WHIFF OF SLANDER 20
IV. COUSINS 36
V. A MONOPOLIST AND A FANFARON 46
VI. "NOT FOR SALE" 66
VII. THE BLIZZARD 73
VIII. THE INTERMEDIATE BIRTHDAY PARTY 89
IX. THE EIGHTH ROSE 105
X. A VISIT FROM ERASTUS BEAN 119
XI. UNCLE MAURICE AT LADY GAY COTTAGE 125
XII. LITTLE CHRIS 138
XIII. ILGA BARRON 152
XIV. POLLY IN NEW YORK 165
XV. AN UNEXPECTED GUEST 175
XVI. ROSES AND THORNS 184
XVII. A SUMMER NIGHT MYSTERY 194
XVIII. AT MIDVALE SPRINGS 212
XIX. TWO LETTERS 237
XX. MRS. JOCELYN'S DINNER-PARTY 250
POLLY OF LADY GAY COTTAGE
CHAPTER I
THE ROSEWOOD BOX
The telephone bell cut sharp into Polly's story.
She was recounting one of the merry hours that Mrs. Jocelyn had given
to her and Leonora, while Dr. Dudley and his wife were taking their
wedding journey. Still dimpling with laughter, she ran across to the
instrument; but as she turned back from the message her face was
troubled.
"Father says I am to come right over to the hospital," she told her
mother. "Mr. Bean--you know, the one that married Aunt Jane--has got
hurt, and he wants to see me. I hope he isn't going to die. He was
real good to me that time I was there, as good as he dared to be."
"I will go with you," Mrs. Dudley decided.
And, locking the house, they went out into the early evening darkness.
The physician was awaiting them in his office.
"Is he badly hurt?" asked Polly anxiously. "What does he want to see
me for?"
"We are afraid of internal injury," was the grave answer. "He was on
his way to you when the car struck him."
"To me?" Polly exclaimed.
"He was fetching a little box that belonged to your mother. Do you
recollect it--a small rosewood box?"
"Oh, yes!" she cried. "I'd forgotten all about it--there's a wreath of
tiny pearl flowers on the cover!"
The Doctor nodded.
"Mr. Bean seems to attach great value to the box or its contents."
"Oh, what is in it?"
"I don't know. But he kept tight hold of it even after he was knocked
down, and it was the first thing he called for when he regained
consciousness. I thought he had better defer seeing you until
to-morrow morning; but he wouldn't hear to it. So I let him have his
own way."
"Have you sent word to Aunt Jane?" inquired Polly, instinctively
shrinking from contact with the woman in whose power she had lived
through those dreadful years.
Dr. Dudley gave a smiling negative. "He begged me not to let her
know."
"I don't blame him!" Polly burst out. "I guess he's glad to get away
from her, if he did have to be hurt to do it."
"Probably he wishes first to make sure that the box is in your hands,"
observed the Doctor, rising. "She will have to be notified. Come, we
will go upstairs. The sooner the matter is off Mr. Bean's mind, the
better."
Polly was dismayed at sight of the little man's face. In their
whiteness his pinched features seemed more wizen than ever. But his
smile of welcome was eager.
"How do you do, my dear? My dear!" the wiry hand was extended with
evident pain.
Polly squeezed it sympathetically, and told him how sorry she was for
his accident.
Mr. Bean gazed at her with tender, wistful eyes.
"My little girl was'most as big as you," he mused. "Not quite; she
wasn't but six when she--went. But you look consider'ble like
her--wish't I had a picture o' Susie! I wish't I had!" He drew his
breath hard.
Polly patted the wrinkled hand, not knowing what to say.
"But I've got a picture here you'll like," the little man brightened.
"Yer'll like it first-rate."
His hand moved gropingly underneath the bed covers, and finally
brought out the little box that Polly instantly recognized.
"Oh, thank you! How pretty it is!" She received it with a radiant
smile.
Mr. Bean's face grew suddenly troubled.
"Yer mustn't blame Jane too much," he began pleadingly. "I guess she
kind o' dassent give it to yer, so long afterwards. It's locked,"--as
Polly pulled at the cover,--"and there ain't no key," he mourned. "I
do' know what Jane's done with it. Yer'll have to git another,--there
wa'n't no other way." His voice was plaintive.
"That's all right," Polly reassured him.
The pleasure of once more holding the little box in her hand was
enough for the moment.
"I see it in her bureau drawer the day we was first married," he went
on reminiscently, "an' she opened it and showed me what was in it.
Ther''s a picture of yer mother--"
"Oh!" Polly interrupted excitedly, "of mamma?"
"Yis, so she said. Looks like you, too,--same kind o' eyes. It was
goin' to be for your birthday--that's what she had it took for, Jane
said."
Polly had been breathlessly following his words, and now broke out in
sudden reproach:--
"Oh! why didn't Aunt Jane let me have it! How could she keep it, when
I wanted a picture of mamma so!"
The reply did not come at once. A shadow of pain passed over the man's
face, leaving it more drawn and pallid.
"It's too bad!" he lamented weakly. "I tol' Jane so then; but she
thought 'twould kind o' upset yer, likely, and so--" His voice
faltered. He began again bravely. "You mustn't blame Jane too much, my
dear! Jane's got some good streaks, real good streaks."
Polly looked up from the little box. Her eyes were wet, but she smiled
cheerfully into the anxious face.
"I ought not to blame her, now she's sent it," she said sweetly; "and
I thank you ever so much for bringing it."
A hint of a smile puckered the thin lips.
"Guess if I'd waited f'r her to send it," he murmured, "'t 'ud been
the mornin' Gabriel come! But Jane's got her good streaks," he
apologized musingly.
Then he lay silent for a moment, feeling after courage to go on.
"Ther''s a letter, too," he finally hazarded. "Jane said it was about
some rich relations o' yours some'er's--I forgit where. She said
likely they wouldn't care nothin' 'bout you, seein''s they never'd
known yer, and it would only put false notions into yer head, and so
she didn't"--he broke off, his eyes pleading forgiveness for the woman
whose "good streaks" needed constant upholding.
But Polly was quite overlooking Aunt Jane. This astonishing bit of
news had thrown her mind into a tumult, and she breathlessly awaited
additional items.
They were slow in coming, and she grew impatient.
"What relatives are they?" she prodded. "Papa's, or mamma's?"
Mr. Bean could not positively say. He had not read the letter, and
recollected little that his wife had told him.
"Seems kind o''s if they was Mays," he mused; "but I ain't noways
sure. Anyhow they was millionaires, Jane said she guessed, and she was
afraid 't 'ud spile yer to go and live with 'em,--"
At this juncture Dr. Dudley interposed, his fingers trying his
patient's pulse.
"No more visiting to-night," he smiled, yet the smile was grave and of
short life.
Polly went away directly, carrying the little rosewood box, after
again expressing her grateful thanks to Mr. Bean.
Down in the office her tongue ran wild, until her mother was quite as
excited as she. But there was a difference; Polly's wondering thoughts
flew straight to her lips, Mrs. Dudley's stayed in her heart, restless
and fearsome.
Next morning the injured man seemed no worse, though the physicians
still had grave doubts of his recovery. Dr. Dudley, while appreciating
Mr. Bean's kind intentions towards Polly, and putting out of account
the serious accident, grimly wished to himself that the little man had
suffered the rosewood box to remain hidden in his wife's bureau
drawer. Of course, Polly was legally his own, yet these unknown
relatives of hers,--with what convincing arguments might they confront
him, arguments which he could not honestly refute! Yet he carried the
box to the locksmith's, and he conjectured cheerfully with Polly
regarding the contents of the letter.
Late in the afternoon he put both box and key into Polly's hands.
"Oh!" she squealed delightedly. "Have you opened it?"
"Most certainly not. That pleasure is left for you."
She eagerly placed the key in the lock, and carefully raised the
cover.
A folded tissue paper lay on top, which she caught up, and the
photograph was disclosed.
"Mamma!" she half sobbed, pressing the picture to her lips.
But Dr. Dudley scarcely noticed her emotion, for the displacement
of the card had revealed only an empty box--the letter was gone!
He looked across at his wife, and their eyes met in perfect
understanding. The moment they had both dreaded was postponed, and
they felt a sudden relief. Still, there had been a letter, the Doctor
silently reasoned, and sooner or later its contents must be faced.
"See!" Polly was holding before him the portrait of a lovely, girlish
woman, with dark, thoughtful eyes and beautiful, curving mouth.
"It looks just like her!" came in tremulous tones. "Isn't she sweet?"
She leaned lightly against her father, drawing a long breath of joy
and sorrow.
As he threw his arm about her, the Doctor could feel her efforts to be
calm.
"But where's the letter?" she asked, with sudden recollection, turning
from their satisfying praise of the one she loved, to gaze into the
empty box. She regarded it disappointedly when she heard the truth.
"Now I shan't ever know," she lamented, "whether I have any
grandfather or grandmother, or uncles or aunts,--or anybody! And I
thought, may be, there'd be some cousins too! But, then," she went on
cheerfully, "it isn't as if the letter was from somebody I'd ever
known. I'm glad it is that that's lost, instead of this," clasping the
photograph to her heart.
Mrs. Dudley glanced over to her husband. "Better not tell her!" his
eyes said, and her own agreed. It seemed that Polly did not dream of
what was undoubtedly the case,--that the letter was from her mother,
written as a birthday accompaniment to the picture, and giving
hitherto withheld information concerning her kindred.
It was far better for Polly's peace of heart that the probable truth
was not even surmised, and presently she carried the photograph up to
her own little room, there to feast her eyes upon the well-remembered
face until time was forgotten.
CHAPTER II
LEONORA'S WONDERFUL NEWS
"Polly!"
Dr. Dudley waited at the foot of the short staircase. He had just come
in from an early morning visit to a hospital patient.
"Yes, father," floated down to him, followed by a scurry of light feet
in the corridor overhead.
Directly Polly appeared at the top of the flight, one side of her hair
in soft, smooth curls, the other a mass of fluffy waves.
"Leonora sent word for you to come over 'just as soon as you possibly
can,'" smiled the Doctor. "She has something to tell you."
"I don't see what it can be," replied Polly. "Do you know, father?"
"You wouldn't wish me to rob Leonora of the first telling of her
news," he objected.
"No," she admitted slowly; "but I can't imagine why she's in such a
hurry. I wonder if she is to stay at the hospital longer than she
expected--that isn't it, is it?"
Dr. Dudley shook his head.
"My advice is to make haste with your toilet and run over to the
hospital and find out."
"Yes," Polly agreed, "I will." Yet she stood still, her forehead
puckered over the possible good things that could have happened to her
friend.
Dr. Dudley turned away, and then halted.
"Isn't your mother waiting for you?" he suggested.
"Oh, I forgot!" she cried, and flew back to where Mrs. Dudley sat,
brush and comb in hand.
"How my hair grows!" commented Polly, after discussing the news
awaiting her, and silently concluding that whatever her mother knew
she did not intend to disclose. "It will be a year next week since it
was cut. I shall have mermaid tresses before I know it. Isn't it nice
that I was hurt? Because if I hadn't been I should never have known
you and father. Did you expect to marry him when he took you to ride
on Elsie's birthday?"
"Of course not!" laughed Mrs. Dudley. "You were a roguish little
match-maker!"
"I never thought of that," returned Polly. "I only wanted you to have
a good time."
"I had it," her mother smiled, tying a ribbon to hold the bright
curls. "There!" with a final pluck at the bow; "now run along and hear
Leonora's glad story! I am afraid she will be getting impatient."
As Polly skipped up to the hospital entrance, the door flew open, and
Leonora, smiling rapturously, ran to meet her.
"What is it?" entreated Polly. "I can't wait another minute!"
"Seem's if I couldn't, too! I thought you'd never come! What do you
think, Polly May Dudley! I'm goin' to live with Mrs. Jocelyn!--all the
time!--forever! She's adopted me!"
Polly stared, and then let out her astonishment in a big "O-h!" This
was, indeed, something unguessable. "Isn't that lovely!" she cried in
delight. "I'm so glad!--just as glad as I can be!"
"Of course you are! Everybody is," Leonora responded blissfully. They
went in doors arm in arm, stopping in Dr. Dudley's office, their
tongues more than keeping pace with their steps.
"I shouldn't think your father and mother would want to give you up,"
observed practical Polly.
"I guess they're glad," Leonora replied. "Prob'ly I wouldn't go if
they were my own; but I don't belong to them."
"You don't?"
"Why, no. My mother died when I was three years old. I can only just
remember her. In a little while father married again, and pretty soon
he died--he was awful good to me! I cried when they said he wasn't
goin' to get well. Then my stepmother married Mr. Dinnan. So, you see,
I ain't any relation really, and they're prob'ly glad not to have me
to feed any more. And I guess I'm glad--my! But I can't b'lieve it
yet! Say, I'm goin' to your school, and Mrs. Jocelyn is comin' to take
me out in her carriage this forenoon to buy me some new clothes!"
Polly's radiant face was enough to keep Leonora's tongue lively.
"She's goin' to fix me up a room right next to hers, all white and
pink! And she's goin' to get me a beautiful doll house and some new
dolls--she says I can pick 'em out myself! And--what do you
think!--she said last night she guessed she'd have to get me a pair of
ponies and a little carriage just big enough for you and me, and have
me learn to drive 'em!"
"O-h! won't you be grand!" beamed Polly.
And then, while Leonora chattered on, came to her a picture of that
afternoon--so far away it seemed!--when she had been folded in Mrs.
Jocelyn's arms, to be offered these same pleasures, and which she had
refused for love of Dr. Dudley, although the thought of calling him
father had never then come to her. How glad she was that she had not
mentioned this! She had always had an intuitive feeling that the
concern was Mrs. Jocelyn's, to be kept as her secret, and she had
therefore been silent. Now Leonora need never know that she was
"second choice." Her friend's happy confidences recalled Polly's
strolling thoughts.
"I don't b'lieve you have any idea how perfectly splendid it makes me
feel to think I'm goin' to have that sweet, beautiful Mrs. Jocelyn for
my own mother." The last word was | 1,973.997617 |
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THE ESSAYS
OF
ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER
TRANSLATED BY
T. BAILEY SAUNDERS, M.A.
COUNSELS AND MAXIMS.
_Le bonheur n'est pas chose aisee: il est
tres difficile de le trouver en nous, et impossible
de le trouver ailleurs_.
CHAMFORT.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
INTRODUCTION
I. GENERAL RULES
II. OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES
III. OUR RELATION TO OTHERS
IV. WORLDLY FORTUNE
V. THE AGES OF LIFE
INTRODUCTION.
If my object in these pages were to present a complete scheme of
counsels and maxims for the guidance of life, I should have to repeat
the numerous rules--some of them excellent--which have been drawn
up by thinkers of all ages, from Theognis and Solomon[1] down to La
Rochefoucauld; and, in so doing, I should inevitably entail upon the
reader a vast amount of well-worn commonplace. But the fact is that in
this work I make still less claim to exhaust my subject than in any
other of my writings.
[Footnote 1: I refer to the proverbs and maxims ascribed, in the Old
Testament, to the king of that name.]
An author who makes no claims to | 1,973.997646 |
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Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer
THE YELLOW WALLPAPER
By Charlotte Perkins Gilman
It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure
ancestral halls for the summer.
A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house,
and reach the height of romantic felicity--but that would be asking too
much of fate!
Still I will proudly declare that there is something queer about it.
Else, why should it be let so cheaply? And why have stood so long
untenanted?
John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage.
John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience with faith, an
intense horror of superstition, and he scoffs openly at any talk of
things not to be felt and seen and put down in figures.
John is a physician, and PERHAPS--(I would not say it to a living
soul, of course, but this is dead paper and a great relief to my
mind)--PERHAPS that is one reason I do not get well faster.
You see he does not believe I am sick!
And what can one do?
If a physician of high standing, and one's own husband, assures friends
and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but
temporary nervous depression--a slight hysterical tendency--what is one
to do?
My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says
the same thing.
So I take phosphates or phosphites--whichever it is, and tonics, and
journeys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to "work"
until I am well again.
Personally, I disagree with their ideas.
Personally, I believe that congenial work, with excitement and change,
would do me good.
But what is one to do?
I did write for a while in spite of them; but it DOES exhaust me a good
deal--having to be so sly about it, or else meet with heavy opposition.
I sometimes fancy that in my condition if I had less opposition and more
society and stimulus--but John says the very worst thing I can do is to
think about my condition, and I confess it always makes me feel bad.
So I will let it alone and talk about the house.
The most beautiful place! It is quite alone, standing well back from the
road, quite three miles from the village. It makes me think of English
places that you read about, for there are hedges and walls and gates
that lock, and lots of separate little houses for the gardeners and
people.
There is a DELICIOUS garden! I never saw such a garden--large and shady,
full of box-bordered paths, and lined with long grape-covered arbors
with seats under them.
There were greenhouses, too, but they are all broken now.
There was some legal trouble, I believe, something about the heirs and
coheirs; anyhow, the place has been empty for years.
That spoils my ghostliness, I am afraid, but I don't care--there is
something strange about the house--I can feel it.
I even said so to John one moonlight evening, but he said what I felt
was a DRAUGHT, and shut the window.
I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes. I'm sure I never used to
be so sensitive. I think it is due to this nervous condition.
But John says if I feel so, I shall neglect proper self-control; so I
take pains to control myself--before him, at least, and that makes me
very tired.
I don't like our room a bit. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the
piazza and had roses all over the window, and such pretty old-fashioned
chintz hangings! but John would not hear of it.
He said there was only one window and not room for two beds, and no near
room for him if he took another.
He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special
direction.
I have a schedule prescription for each hour in the day; he takes all
care from me, and so I feel basely ungrateful not to value it more.
He said we came here solely on my account, that I was to have perfect
rest and all the air I could get. "Your exercise depends on your
strength, my dear," said he, "and your food somewhat on your appetite;
but air you can absorb all the time." So we took the nursery at the top
of the house.
It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with windows that look
all ways, and air and sunshine galore. It was nursery first and then
playroom and gymnasium, I should judge; for the windows are barred for
little children, and there are rings and things in the walls.
The paint and paper look as if a boys' school had used it. It is
stripped off--the paper--in great patches all around the head of my bed,
about as far as I can reach, and in a great place on the other side of
the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life.
One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic
sin.
It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough
to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the
lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit
suicide--plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard
of contradictions.
The color is repellent, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow,
strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight.
It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in
others.
No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to
live in this room long.
There comes John, and I must put this away,--he hates to have me write a
word.
We have been here two weeks, and I haven't felt like writing before,
since that first day.
I am sitting by the window now, up in this atrocious nursery, and
there is nothing to hinder my writing as much as I please, save lack of
strength.
John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases are serious.
I am glad my case is not serious!
But these nervous troubles are dreadfully depressing.
John does not know how much I really suffer. He knows there is no REASON
to suffer, and that satisfies him.
Of course it is only nervousness. It does weigh on me so not to do my
duty in any way!
I meant to be such a help to John, such a real rest and comfort, and
here I am a comparative burden already!
Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little I am
able,--to dress and entertain, and order things.
It is fortunate Mary is so good with the baby. Such a dear baby!
And yet I CANNOT be with him, it makes me so nervous.
I suppose John never was nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about
this wall-paper!
At first he meant to repaper the room, but afterwards he said that I
was letting it get the better of me, and that nothing was worse for a
nervous patient than to give way to such fancies.
He said that after the wall-paper was changed it would be the heavy
bedstead, and then the barred windows, and then that gate at the head of
the stairs, and so on.
"You know the place is doing you good," he said, "and really, dear, I
don't care to renovate the house just for a three months' rental."
"Then do let us go downstairs," I said, "there are such pretty rooms
there."
Then he took me in his arms and called me a blessed little goose,
and said he would go down to the cellar, if I wished, and have it
whitewashed into the bargain.
But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things.
It is an airy and comfortable room as any one need wish, and, of course,
I would not be so silly as to make him uncomfortable just for a whim.
I'm really getting quite fond of the big room, all but that horrid
paper.
Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious deepshaded
arbors, the riotous old-fashioned flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees.
Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a little private wharf
belonging to the estate. There is a beautiful shaded lane that runs
down there from the house. I always fancy I see people walking in these
numerous paths and arbors, but John has cautioned me not to give way to
fancy in the least. He says that with my imaginative power and habit of
story-making, a nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead to all manner
of excited fancies, and that I ought to use my will and good sense to
check the tendency. So I try.
I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write a little it
would relieve the press of ideas and rest me.
But I find I get pretty tired when I try.
It is so discouraging not to have any advice and companionship about
my work. When I get really well, John says we will ask Cousin Henry and
Julia down for a long visit; but he says he would as soon put fireworks
in my pillow-case as to let me have those stimulating people about now.
I wish I could get well faster.
But I must not think about that. This paper looks to me as if it KNEW
what a vicious influence it had!
There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a broken neck and
two bulbous eyes stare at you upside down.
I get positively angry with the impertinence of it and the
everlastingness. Up and down and sideways they crawl, and those absurd,
unblinking eyes are everywhere. There is one place where two breadths
didn't match, and the eyes go all up and down the line, one a little
higher than the other.
I never saw so much expression in an inanimate thing before, and we all
know how much expression they have! I used to lie awake as a child and
get more entertainment and terror out of blank walls and plain furniture
than most children could find in a toy store.
I remember what a kindly wink the knobs of our big, old bureau used to
have, and there was one chair that always seemed like a strong friend.
I used to feel that if any of the other things looked too fierce I could
always hop into that chair and be safe.
The furniture in this room is no worse than inharmonious, however, for
we had to bring it all from downstairs. I suppose when this was used
as a playroom they had to take the nursery things out, and no wonder! I
never saw such ravages as the children have made here.
The wall-paper, as I said before, is torn off in spots, and it sticketh
closer than a brother--they must have had perseverance as well as
hatred.
Then the floor is scratched and gouged and splintered, the plaster
itself is dug out here and there, and this great heavy bed which is all
we found in the room, looks as if it had been through the wars.
But I don't mind it a bit--only the paper.
There comes John's sister. Such a dear girl as she is, and so careful of
me! I must not let her find me writing.
She is a perfect and enthusiastic housekeeper, and hopes for no better
profession. I verily believe she thinks it is the writing which made me
sick!
But I can write when she is out, and see her a long way off from these
windows.
There is one that commands the road, a lovely shaded winding road, and
one that just looks off over the country. A lovely country, too, full of
great elms and velvet meadows.
This wall-paper has a kind of sub-pattern in a different shade, a
particularly irritating one, for you can only see it in certain lights,
and not clearly then.
But in the places where it isn't faded and where the sun is just so--I
can see a strange, provoking, formless sort of figure, that seems to
skulk about behind that silly and conspicuous front design.
There's sister on the stairs!
Well, the Fourth of July is over! The people are gone and I am tired
out. John thought it might do me good to see a little company, so we
just had mother and Nellie and the children down for a week.
Of course I didn't do a thing. Jennie sees to everything now.
But | 1,975.697936 |
2023-11-16 18:49:59.6781480 | 34 | 7 | DISCONTENTS***
Transcribed from the 1886 Cassell & Company edition by David Price, email
[email protected] and proof | 1,975.698188 |
2023-11-16 18:49:59.7786670 | 4,796 | 21 |
Produced by Moti Ben-Ari 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.)
HISTORY
OF THE
DEWITT GUARD,
COMPANY A,
50th Regiment National Guard,
STATE OF NEW YORK.
PUBLISHED BY THE COMPANY.
ITHACA, N. Y.:
ANDRUS, McCHAIN & CO., STEAM PRINTERS.
1866.
PREFACE.
Our object in giving to the public a full, true, and concise history of
Company A, 50th Regiment National Guard, State of New York, better known
to the citizens of Ithaca as the DeWitt Guard, is to show as honorable a
record as can be produced by any similar organization--so far as the
membership of this Company was connected with the army and navy of the
United States during the late rebellion. We shall show that the total
membership of the Company from the time of its organization, in
December, 1851, to the present time, has been two hundred and two, of
which eighty-two served either in the army or navy during the war
against eighty-eight who did not; twenty-nine names appear on the
Company roll, of whom it is not known to the writer whether they were or
were not in the army, and nine who died previous to the war. We have
undertaken a brief personal history to each, which we believe will be
interesting to the reader.
We also wish to show that the Company has been, from the time of its
organization to the present, a self-supporting and self-sustaining
institution, until recently receiving nothing from the State but arms,
and that the individual members have contributed the sum of two thousand
seven hundred and twenty dollars and fifty-six cents, to which amount
should be added a liberal percentage for disbursements which do not
appear on Company records.
We propose to give the name of each member of the DeWitt Guard from its
organization, the date of his enlistment, his profession, with such
incidents as we think will be of interest to the reader, after which we
shall give the history of the Company collectively. There may be those
who have belonged to the Company whose names will not appear in these
pages. This must be attributed to the fact of their not signing the
muster-roll of the Company, as every name there recorded is introduced
in the following history.
HISTORY.
ARCH. H. MCNEIL, Merchant, enlisted November 5th, 1851. At the first
election of company officers McNeil was chosen second Lieutenant, which
position he honorably and creditably filled to the time of his death,
which occurred November 28th, 1855. To Lieutenant McNeil the Company
were much indebted. To him more than any other one man, belonged the
credit of organizing the Company.
He was loved, respected, and honored by both officers and men, and his
death caused a breach not easily repaired. Upon receiving intelligence
of his death, the Company were immediately called together and the
following resolutions unanimously adopted:
_Resolved_, That in the death of Lieutenant A. H. McNeil the
members of this Company have not only lost a commissioned
officer in whom a zealous, lively and effective interest for the
welfare of the Company always prevailed, but an officer whose
military bearing commanded our respect, and a fellow soldier
whose conduct and kindness has merited and won our esteem. That
we deeply feel his loss, and mourn his untimely departure from
our midst,
_Resolved_, That we tender to the widow and relatives of our
deceased officer our sincere condolence in this their great
affliction.
_Resolved_, That we accompany the remains of our late officer to
the depot on the morrow, and that a delegation of seven men
accompany his remains to the city of Auburn as an escort and
attend his funeral.
_Resolved_, That on all parades we will wear the usual badge of
mourning for one year.
At a special meeting held on the return from Auburn of the escort which
accompanied the remains of Lieut. A. H. McNeil, and after hearing the
report of the officer commanding said escort, the following preamble and
resolutions were unanimously adopted:
WHEREAS, An escort from this Company having been delegated to
accompany and perform the last sad duties over the remains of
our esteemed friend, Lieut. A. H. McNeil, at Auburn, and while
there having met with reception and attention which ever
characterize the true and tried friend and soldier, be it
therefore
_Resolved_, That to General Segoin and Colonel Jenkins, and
their respective staffs, to the Auburn City Guard, Willard
Guard, and to the delegation from other Companies, we as a
Company return them our sincere and heartfelt thanks for the
manner in which they cared for them, and the kindness with which
they were every where greeted by them while there, and in the
admirable arrangements for the funeral made at such short
notice, and for the cheerful and handsome manner in which they
were carried out; gratified as we are, words can only attempt a
description of our feelings of the manner in which they
alleviated our sorrows in the burial of our dead. And although
the deceased had not resided among them for years, yet like us
they appreciated his many virtues and remembered his uniform
kindness to all, and when they but learned of his decease, their
tears mingled with ours at our irreparable loss.
_Resolved_, That in future, should it be possible for us to
repay them in any manner that it will be forthcoming, feeling,
as we do, that no sacrifice will be too great in attempting a
return of their kindness in the hour of our affliction, and as
individuals, as citizens and as soldiers, we hope that the
choicest of Heaven's blessings may be theirs, and that their
respective staffs and Companies may ever meet with prosperity.
GEORGE H. COLLINS, Merchant, enlisted November 5th, 1851. Mr. Collins
was permitted to serve but a short time as a member of the Company, as
he was selected by the Colonel and commissioned Adjutant of the
Regiment, which position he held for many years. Changing his residence
to the city of New York, his connection with the 50th Regiment was
dissolved.
BEN. B. WILCOX, Hotel keeper, enlisted November 5th, 1851. Served with
the Company but a short time; removed to Owego; was for a time
proprietor of the Ah-Wa-Ga House, but more recently of a hotel at
Saratoga Springs.
WILLIAM M. SMITH, Brewer, enlisted November 5th, 1851. Served but a
short time.
H. F. RANDOLPH, Shoe Merchant, enlisted November 5th, 1851. Mr. Randolph
had more than served his time, and reached the rank of Captain, in the
old militia before joining this organization. He was an officer of no
common attainments--prompt, active and generous. The interest he had
always manifested, and now felt, in military matters, compelled him to
join this new enterprise; he enlisted as a private, and is to this day
an honorary member of the Company. He has accompanied them on many an
excursion, and is always invested with the command of the honorary
members. The Captain has now attained the age of sixty-three years, and
is still as smart, hale and hearty as a lad of sixteen.
J. C. MCWHORTER, Merchant, enlisted November 5th, 1851. Remained but a
short time with the Company, but the soul-stirring strains of music, as
rendered by him on the snare drum while he was a member, will long be
remembered by those associated with him during his short military
experience.
FRED. S. LAMOUREUX, Musician, enlisted November 5th, 1851. Was a very
valuable member for a very short time; for while resting from the
fatigue of drill, Lamoureux always furnished the music for the _light
foot_ portion of the Company.
WILLIAM S. ALLEN, Carpenter, enlisted November 6th, 1851. Was a faithful
and exemplary member for a few years, and undoubtedly his connection
with this Company gave him the position he has honorably filled since
his removal from us--that of policeman in New York city. He was
consequently transferred as Sergeant from this Company to Sergeant of
police in that city.
K. MORRIS, Clothing Merchant, enlisted November 7th, 1851. Served but a
short time.
S. NEWMARK, Clothing Merchant, enlisted November 10th, 1851. Served
faithfully for a short time and was granted an honorable discharge.
J. G. CONRAD, Clerk, enlisted November 8th, 1851. Mr. Conrad faithfully
performed the duties of a member of this Company for a short time.
L. R. KING, Merchant, enlisted November 9th, 1851. At the time of the
organization of the Company, Mr. King was elected fourth Sergeant, and
by promotion filled each office up to first Lieutenant, and was in
command of the Company for some time. Lieutenant King, by his kind and
pleasing way, and the interest he ever manifested in the welfare of the
Company, commanded the respect and admiration of every man who served
under him. He held the commission of first Lieutenant from May 28th,
1856, to August 25th, 1862. Upon his resignation being accepted, he was
voted an honorary membership for life. He is one of the enterprising
firm of Treman, King & Co., large manufacturers. We believe that Mr.
King can look back upon the years spent in the DeWitt Guard as not
altogether unprofitable.
W. B. HATFIELD, Clerk, enlisted November 15th, 1851. Mr. Hatfield was a
good soldier; was in the employ of L. H. Culver, Esq.; retained his
connection with the Company and his employer until his removal to the
West.
SPENCE SPENCER, Book Merchant, enlisted November 15th, 1851. Retained
his membership but a short time, but with the liberality which was
always a prominent characteristic of Mr. Spencer, he donated to the
Company a complete uniform, which is the first recorded gift made to
the DeWitt Guard. He is still a citizen of Ithaca, and has of late
attached no small degree of honor to his name by publishing the book
entitled, "The Scenery of Ithaca."
L. MILLSPAUGH, dealer in Harness, Trunks, &c., enlisted November 15th,
1851. Mr. Millspaugh was an old soldier before joining this Company,
having held the commission of Lieut. Colonel in the old militia, issued
by Gov. Seward in 1842; but feeling a deep interest in the organization
of a new Company, enlisted as a private. On the 29th day of January,
1852, he was elected first Corporal, which position he held but a short
time, as he was gradually promoted until he had filled nearly all the
grades of non-commissioned offices. He always declined accepting a
commission, and when it seemed to be the unanimous wish of the Company,
his prompt reply was "No." He continued an invaluable member until long
after he had served his time, (seven years,) when he was granted an
honorable discharge. Our friend, by his emphatic "No," has not been as
successful, however, in a political way, he having repeatedly been
called to fill civil offices of honor and trust; and by his being
re-elected to most of the offices he has held, is in itself sufficient
to show his standing in the community in which he lives. Whether all
this would have been so, had he never joined the DeWitt Guard, we leave
for a discriminating public to judge.
J. B. TERRY, Merchant, enlisted November 15th, 1851. Mr. Terry filled
the office of Secretary of the Company for the first two years of its
existence. He was a good soldier, an exemplary and respected citizen,
and the community generally mourned his loss when he was removed by
death.
JEROME ROWE, Lawyer, enlisted November 18th, 1851. Some unhappy
misunderstanding caused the withdrawal of Mr. Rowe from the Company
during the early part of its history. He was untiring in his endeavors
to establish the organization, and the same energy and devotion which he
displayed at that time, has followed him thus far through life. He
filled the office of Special County Judge of Tompkins County, with honor
to himself and perfect satisfaction to the people. He entered the army
of the United States April 1st, 1861, was commissioned Captain of
Company A, 32d New York volunteers, same date, and served as such one
year.
HUGH MCDONALD, enlisted November 18th, 1851. Was elected Orderly
Sergeant Dec. 31st of the same year, which position he filled as long as
he was a resident of the village. McDonald was a soldier of much
experience, having served in the Mexican war, where he became perfectly
familiar with the duties pertaining to the soldier in the field. As a
drill-master he was not excelled, and under his instruction the Company
soon became very proficient in the manual of arms, and school of the
soldier and Company. At the outbreak of the Rebellion he enlisted in a
Pennsylvania Regiment, was very soon promoted to Captain, and again to
Major. We should be glad to give a full history of his life through the
war, but have been unable to obtain it. This much we can say, he was a
patriotic citizen, a true soldier, and a faithful officer.
N. H. CURTIS, Upholsterer, enlisted November 19th, 1851. Was long
connected with the Company; filled the posts of Corporal and Sergeant.
After a long residence in our village, he removed to the West, where he
survived but a few years.
DANIEL PLACE, Jeweler, enlisted November ---- 1851. Mr. Place joined the
Company in order that the number required by law might be secured, so as
to enable them to proceed with the election of officers. He never served
as an active member.
LUCIUS F. PEASE, Painter, enlisted November 20th, 1851. Mr. Pease well
and faithfully performed the duties required of him as a member of the
DeWitt Guard for the full term of his enlistment, (seven years,) and was
granted an honorable discharge. He is still living in Ithaca, an
industrious mechanic, and a good citizen.
CHRISTOPHER WHALEY, Druggist, enlisted November 21, 1851. Was discharged
on Surgeon's certificate soon after his enlistment.
WILLIAM GLENNY, Clerk, enlisted November 21st, 1851. December 31st was
elected fourth Corporal; March 3d, 1853, was elected Secretary, which
office he most creditably filled, as the records of the Company show, up
to January, 1857; was elected fourth Sergeant Jan. 14th, 1857; May 17th,
1861, second Sergeant, which office he held at the time of his
enlistment in the United States army.
The subject of this sketch reflects great credit upon the Company to
which he formerly belonged, and in the perilous hour honored his
constituency, as well as himself, to a degree unparalleled in the
history of the Rebellion. Having in his former life been a warm and
ardent supporter of the inalienable rights of man, and an exponent of a
free government, the first attempt by traitors to destroy its fair
fabric, bought by the blood of our fathers, and to trample under foot
the time-honored and beloved emblem of our free and independent
nationality, so enraged his sense of right and justice, that he at once
expressed his determination to fulfill his public declarations to the
effect, that when traitors should thrust the bayonet at the nation's
life, he would be found among those who were willing to peril their
lives in its defence.
Being met with opposition and the remonstrance of friends, that there
were single men, and those more inured to hardship, sufficient for the
emergency, whose duty it was to go first, his plans were for a time
delayed, and until a second or third reverse of our arms, when he could
no longer be restrained, went earnestly at work, and by his persistent
efforts succeeded in raising a sufficient number of volunteers for the
basis of a Company; which, by authority of the commandant of the Elmira
rendezvous, in accordance with orders from the Adjutant General of the
State, was organized at Ithaca Sept. 10th, 1861, and by him conducted to
Elmira, where, by a unanimous vote of the Company, he was elected its
Captain, and so commissioned by Gov. Seymour, commission bearing date
Sept. 13th, 1861.
Captain Glenny then went earnestly at work and recruited his Company to
the minimum standard, and by vote of its members united its destinies
with the 64th Regiment N. Y. Volunteers, commanded by Col. Thomas J.
Parker.
On the 10th of December the Regiment moved to Washington, and a month
later crossed the Potomac and camped with the main army three miles west
of Alexandria, and was brigaded under General O. O. Howard, who
commanded the first Brigade, first Division, second Corps. Early in the
spring of 1862, the Brigade moved one week in advance of the main army
for the purpose of repairing the Orange & Alexandria Railroad. A short
distance beyond Fairfax Station signs of the enemy were discovered, and
for safety to the command, two Companies from the 64th, under command of
Captain Glenny, (his own being one of the number) were sent some
considerable distance to the front as an extreme outpost. Here the first
blood of the opening campaign was drawn by shooting a rebel scout by one
of Captain Glenny's men.
The main army soon after advanced to the famous fields of Manassas, but
only to find the enemy beating a hasty retreat, leaving every
conceivable ruin in their track.
At this juncture the army changed its base to the Peninsula and
Chickahominy swamps, where, after the siege of Yorktown, and on the
first of June, was fought the terrific battle of Fair Oaks, in which
Captain Glenny, while leading his men in a charge, received a wound,
which, for a time, was thought to be mortal, a minnie ball passing
through his left shoulder.
In about two months he again returned to his command, but so disabled
that he was detached on recruiting service and stationed at Elmira;
after which he returned to the army, and after nearly another year's
campaign, was, in accordance with orders, again detached at Elmira on
service connected with the draft. After being relieved from this duty,
he rejoined his command, with which he served until the close of the
war.
Owing to circumstances beyond his control, he served near two and a half
years as Captain without promotion, after which in rapid succession he
received the different grades of Major, Lieut. Colonel and Colonel, but
was unable to muster into the latter grade by reason of insufficiency of
numbers in the Regiment. This was, however, in part recompensed for, as
after the smoke of battle and the clash of arms had ceased, and honors
were conferred upon "whom honor was due," Captain Glenny had two grades
by brevet conferred upon him by the President, that of Brevet Colonel
and Brevet Brigadier General, for gallant and meritorious
services--honors which he modestly and unassumingly wears, but of which
he may justly be proud.
From the time of his entry into the service until the close of the war,
near four years, (except while suffering from wounds and on detached
service,) General Glenny fought traitors with unrelenting fidelity to
principle and the inalienable rights of man.
The number of decisive battles of which he may claim to be hero, and in
which he had the honor to bare his breast to the bayonet and bullet, are
twenty-two; six of them being bayonet charges and direct assaults upon
the enemy and their fortifications. Among the principal of these battles
may be placed Fair Oaks, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, Po River,
Wilderness, Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor, Deep Bottom, Petersburg,
Gravelly Run, Southside Road, Farmville, Reams Station, &c. The Regiment
fought in upwards of thirty-three. General Glenny's superior officers
being wounded, he was invested with the command of the Regiment on the
battle-field of Spottsylvania, which command he retained until the close
of the war, except at different periods, by seniority of rank, he
commanded a Brigade. At the battle of Ream's Station he took command of
the Brigade which he retained for some considerable time, as so fierce
had been the campaign that but one other field officer was left for duty
in the Brigade comprising seven Regiments. Had we time and space, many
acts of personal bravery and valorous deeds might be accredited to this
officer during his brief career of warfare, as | 1,975.798707 |
2023-11-16 18:49:59.9785130 | 1,653 | 37 |
Produced by Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
The Golden Key
OR
A HEART’S SILENT WORSHIP
_By_ MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON
AUTHOR OF
“Thrice Wedded,” “Little Miss Whirlwind,”
“The Magic Cameo,” “A Hoiden’s
Conquest,” “Mona,” etc.
[Illustration]
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
POPULAR BOOKS
By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON
In Handsome Cloth Binding
Price per Volume, 60 Cents
Audrey’s Recompense
Brownie’s Triumph
Churchyard Betrothal, The
Dorothy Arnold’s Escape
Dorothy’s Jewels
Earl Wayne’s Nobility
Edrie’s Legacy
Esther, the Fright
Faithful Shirley
False and The True, The
For Love and Honor
Sequel to Geoffrey’s Victory
Forsaken Bride, The
Geoffrey’s Victory
Girl in a Thousand, A
Golden Key, The
Grazia’s Mistake
Heatherford Fortune, The
Sequel to The Magic Cameo
He Loves Me For Myself
Sequel to the Lily of Mordaunt
Helen’s Victory
Her Faith Rewarded
Sequel to Faithful Shirley
Her Heart’s Victory
Sequel to Max
Heritage of Love, A
Sequel to The Golden Key
His Heart’s Queen
Hoiden’s Conquest, A
How Will It End
Sequel to Marguerite’s Heritage
Lily of Mordaunt, The
Little Marplot, The
Little Miss Whirlwind
Lost, A Pearle
Love’s Conquest
Sequel to Helen’s Victory
Love Victorious, A
Magic Cameo, The
Marguerite’s Heritage
Masked Bridal, The
Max, A Cradle Mystery
Mona
Mysterious Wedding Ring, A
Nameless Dell
Nora
Queen Bess
Ruby’s Reward
Shadowed Happiness, A
Sequel to Wild Oats
Sibyl’s Influence
Stella Roosevelt
That Dowdy
Thorn Among Roses, A
Sequel to a Girl in a Thousand
Threads Gathered Up
Sequel to Virgie’s Inheritance
Thrice Wedded
Tina
Trixy
True Aristocrat, A
True Love Endures
Sequel to Dorothy Arnold’s Escape
True Love’s Reward
Sequel to Mona
True to Herself
Sequel to Witch Hazel
Two Keys
Virgie’s Inheritance
Wedded By Fate
Welfleet Mystery, The
Wild Oats
Winifred’s Sacrifice
Witch Hazel
With Heart so True
Sequel to His Heart’s Queen
Woman’s Faith, A
Sequel to Nameless Dell
For Sale by all Booksellers or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price
A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
52 Duane Street New York
Copyright 1896, 1897, 1905
BY STREET & SMITH
THE GOLDEN KEY
THE GOLDEN KEY.
PROLOGUE.
A RESPONSIVE HEART.
“Nannie, I cannot bear it!”
“Hush, Alice; you must not give way to such wild grief--the
excitement will be very bad for you.”
“But what will Adam say? It will be a terrible blow; his heart was
so set upon the fulfilment of his hopes, and now----”
A heart-broken wail completed the sentence as the pale, beautiful
woman, resting upon the snowy pillows of an old-fashioned canopied
bed, covered her face with her delicate hands and fell to sobbing
with a wild sorrow which shook her slight frame from head to foot.
“Alice! Alice! don’t! Adam will come home to find that he has lost
both wife and child if you do not try to control yourself.”
The latter speaker, a tall, muscular woman, with a kindly but
resolute face, which bespoke a strong character as well as a
tender heart, knelt beside the bed, and laid her cheek against
the colorless one upon the pillow with motherly tenderness and
sympathy. But her appealing words only seemed to increase the
violence of the invalid’s grief, and, with a look of anxiety
sweeping over her countenance, the woman arose, after a moment,
when, pouring a few drops from a bottle into a spoon, she briefly
informed her charge that it was time for her medicine.
The younger woman meekly swallowed the potion, although her bosom
continued to heave with sobs, and tears still rained over her
hueless cheeks.
Her companion sat down near her, an expression of patient endurance
on her face, and in the course of fifteen or twenty minutes she was
rewarded by seeing the invalid fall into a profound slumber.
“Thank Heaven!” she muttered at last, with a sigh of relief, “there
will be an interval of rest, but I dread the awakening.”
Miss Nancy Porter was a spinster, upward of forty, and one of those
stanch, reliable women who always seem like a bulwark of strength,
and equal to any emergency.
She was, by profession, a trained nurse, having, many years
previous, served her time in the Massachusetts General Hospital,
of Boston, after which her experience was wide and varied, winning
for herself encomiums from both surgeons and physicians, and the
unbounded confidence of those who were fortunate enough to secure
her services in the sick-room.
She had her own home in one of the suburban towns of Boston, where
she lived with her one trusty maid in a quiet, restful way, when
her services were not in demand elsewhere.
It was into this peaceful home that her only sister had come,
about a month previous, to remain until the return of her husband,
who had been called abroad upon urgent business.
Adam Brewster was a wealthy banker of New York City.
He was several years older than sweet Alice Porter, whom he had met
and fallen in love with some two years previous, and who had been
his idolized wife for little more than twelve months.
It had been a great trial that he could not take his dear one to
Europe with him; but her physician utterly prohibited such a trip
for the young wife, and thus she had gone to spend the interval
of her husband’s absence with her sister, in the home of her
childhood, and where a tiny little girl was born into the world,
only to breathe faintly for a few moments, and them slip away into
the great unknown.
For hours after the birth and death of her little one, Alice
Brewster had lain in a state of unconsciousness, which caused the
heart of her faithful nurse and sister to quake with fear.
But, when consciousness returned, and the youthful mother called
for her little one, and she was obliged to tell her that she was
childless, her heart almost failed her again, in view of the bitter
disappointment and violent sorrow which once more threatened to
snap the slender thread of life.
She could only temporarily quell these outbursts of grief by
administering powerful narcotics to induce sleep and oblivion, with
the hope that calmness and resignation would come with returning | 1,975.998553 |
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by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber's Note
There is some arcane and inconsistent spelling. The dialect, spelling
and punctuation have been preserved as far as possible.
Obvious typographical errors have been altered, for example where a word
was duplicated or a letter duplicated around a hyphen. Hyphenations have
been made consistent.
AN
OLD SAILOR'S YARNS.
BY
N. AMES.
AUTHOR OF "MARINER'S SKETCHES,"
&c. &c. &c.
Extremum hunc, Arethusa, mihi concede laborem.
_Virgil._
NEW YORK: GEORGE DEARBORN, 38 GOLD STREET.
MDCCCXXXV.
* * * * *
Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1835, by
GEORGE DEARBORN, in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the
United States, for the Southern District of New York.
* * * * *
WILLIAM VAN NORDEN, PRINT.
CONTENTS.
* * * * *
MARY BOWLINE....... 15
OLD CUFF .......... 53
RIVALS............ 73
MORTON........... 95
PIRATE OF MASAFUERO.. 329
PREFACE.
Mr. Buckingham, noticing the "Nautical Reminiscences" in the New
England Magazine, says, no author ever stopped at the second book; and
he very gravely proceeds to recommend that my number three should savor
more of the style of Goldsmith or Washington Irving. I should have no
objection whatever to writing like either of these distinguished
authors, _if I could_; but as the case is, I must be content to write as
well as I can. The whole article in Mr. B's magazine bore no faint
resemblance to a dose of calomel and jalap, administered in a
table-spoonful of molasses, in which the sweet and the nauseous are so
equally balanced, that the patient is in doubt whether to spit or to
swallow. I was, however, exceedingly flattered with the notice bestowed
upon me by this literary cynic, as he was never before known to speak
well, even moderately, of any author, except natives of Boston, or
professors in Harvard University.
"Morton" is founded upon an old tradition, now forgotten, but well
known when I first went to sea, of the exploits of some of our
adventurous and somewhat lawless traders in the Pacific. A number of the
crew of one of these smuggling vessels were taken in the act, and, after
a hasty trial, ordered to be sent to the mines. The route to their place
of condemnation and hopeless confinement lay near the coast. A large
party of seamen landed from two or three ships that were in the
neighborhood, waylaid the military escort, knocked most of them on the
head, rescued the prisoners, and got safe off without loss. The story
says nothing of female influence or assistance, but knowing it to be
morally impossible to get through a story without the assistance of a
lady, I pressed one into the service, and took other liberties with the
original, till it became what peradventure the reader will find it. Many
stories are told of the skirmishes, or as sailors call them,
"scrammidges," between our "free-traders" and the guarda-costas in
different parts of the Pacific. In particular, the ship D----, of
Boston, is said to have had a "regular-built fight" with a guarda-costa
of forty-four guns, that retired from the action so miserably mauled,
that it is doubtful to this day whether she ever found her way back into
port. An old sea-dog who was on board the D----, furnished me with many
details of the proceedings of our merchantmen on the coasts of
California, and Mexico, some thirty years since, but most of them have
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OUR YOUNG FOLKS.
_An Illustrated Magazine_
FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.
VOL. I. JANUARY, 1865. NO. I.
HUM, THE SON OF BUZ.
At Rye Beach, during our summer's vacation, there came, as there always
will to seaside visitors, two or three cold, chilly, rainy days,--days
when the skies that long had not rained a drop seemed suddenly to
bethink themselves of their remissness, and to pour down water, not by
drops, but by pailfuls. The chilly wind blew and whistled, the water
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PERSONAL MEMOIRES OF P. H. SHERIDAN
VOLUME 2.
Part 4
By Philip Henry Sheridan
CHAPTER I.
ORGANIZING SCOUTS--MISS REBECCA WRIGHT--IMPORTANT INFORMATION--DECIDE
TO MOVE ON NEWTOWN--MEETING GENERAL GRANT--ORGANIZATION OF THE UNION
ARMY--OPENING OF THE BATTLE OF THE OPEQUON--DEATH OF GENERAL RUSSELL
--A TURNING MOVEMENT--A SUCCESSFUL CAVALRY CHARGE--VICTORY--THREE
LOYAL GIRLS--APPOINTED A BRIGADIER-GENERAL IN THE REGULAR ARMY
--REMARKS ON THE BATTLE.
While occupying the ground between Clifton and Berryville, referred
to in the last chapter of the preceding volume, I felt the need of an
efficient body of scouts to collect information regarding the enemy,
for the defective intelligence-establishment with which I started out
from Harper's Ferry early in August had not proved satisfactory. I
therefore began to organize my scouts on a system which I hoped would
give better results than bad the method hitherto pursued in the
department, which was to employ on this service doubtful citizens and
Confederate deserters. If these should turn out untrustworthy, the
mischief they might do us gave me grave apprehension, and I finally
concluded that those of our own soldiers who should volunteer for the
delicate and hazardous duty would be the most valuable material, and
decided that they should have a battalion organization and be
commanded by an officer, Major H. K. Young, of the First Rhode Island
Infantry. These men were disguised in Confederate uniforms whenever
necessary, were paid from the Secret-Service Fund in proportion to
the value of the intelligence they furnished, which often stood us in
good stead in checking the forays of Gilmore, Mosby, and other
irregulars. Beneficial results came from the plan in many other ways
too, and particularly so when in a few days two of my scouts put me
in the way of getting news conveyed from Winchester. They had
learned that just outside of my lines, near Millwood, there was
living an old <DW52> man, who had a permit from the Confederate
commander to go into Winchester and return three times a week, for
the purpose of selling vegetables to the inhabitants. The scouts had
sounded this man, and, finding him both loyal and shrewd, suggested
that he might be made useful to us within the enemy's lines; and the
proposal struck me as feasible, provided there could be found in
Winchester some reliable person who would be willing to co-operate
and correspond with me. I asked General Crook, who was acquainted
with many of the Union people of Winchester, if he knew of such a
person, and he recommended a Miss Rebecca Wright, a young lady whom
he had met there before the battle of Kernstown, who, he said, was a
member of the Society of Friends and the teacher of a small private
school. He knew she was faithful and loyal to the Government, and
thought she might be willing to render us assistance, but he could
not be certain of this, for on account of her well known loyalty she
was under constant surveillance. I hesitated at first, but finally
deciding to try it, despatched the two scouts to the old <DW64>'s
cabin, and they brought him to my headquarters late that night. I
was soon convinced of the <DW64>'s fidelity, and asking him if he was
acquainted with Miss Rebecca Wright, of Winchester, he replied that
he knew her well. There upon I told him what I wished to do, and
after a little persuasion he agreed to carry a letter to her on his
next marketing trip. My message was prepared by writing it on tissue
paper, which was then compressed into a small pellet, and protected
by wrapping it in tin-foil so that it could be safely carried in the
man's mouth. The probability, of his being searched when he came to
the Confederate picketline was not remote, and in such event he was
to swallow the pellet. The letter appealed to Miss Wright's loyalty
and patriotism, and requested her to furnish me with information
regarding the strength and condition of Early's army. The night
before the <DW64> started one of the scouts placed the odd-looking
communication in his hands, with renewed injunctions as to secrecy
and promptitude. Early the next morning it was delivered to Miss
Wright, with an intimation that a letter of importance was enclosed
in the tin-foil, the <DW64> telling her at the same time that she
might expect him to call for a message in reply before his return
home. At first Miss Wright began to open the pellet nervously, but
when told to be careful, and to preserve the foil as a wrapping for
her answer, she proceeded slowly and carefully, and when the note
appeared intact the messenger retired, remarking again that in the
evening he would come for an answer.
On reading my communication Miss Wright was much startled by the
perils it involved, and hesitatingly consulted her mother, but her
devoted loyalty soon silenced every other consideration, and the
brave girl resolved to comply with my request, notwithstanding it
might jeopardize her life. The evening before a convalescent
Confederate officer had visited her mother's house, and in
conversation about the war had disclosed the fact that Kershaw's
division of infantry and Cutshaw's battalion of artillery had started
to rejoin General Lee. At the time Miss Wright heard this she
attached little if any importance to it, but now she perceived the
value of the intelligence, and, as her first venture, determined to
send it to me at once, which she did with a promise that in the
future she would with great pleasure continue to transmit information
by the <DW64> messenger.
"SEPTEMBER 15, 1864.
"I learn from Major-General Crook that you are a loyal lady, and
still love the old flag. Can you inform me of the position of
Early's forces, the number of divisions in his army, and the strength
of any or all of them, and his probable or reported intentions? Have
any more troops arrived from Richmond, or are any more coming, or
reported to be coming?
"You can trust the bearer."
"I am, very respectfully, your most obedient servant,
"P. H. SHERIDAN, Major-General Commanding."
"SEPTEMBER 16, 1864.
"I have no communication whatever with the rebels, but will tell you
what I know. The division of General Kershaw, and Cutshaw's
artillery, twelve guns and men, General Anderson commanding, have
been sent away, and no more are expected, as they cannot be spared
from Richmond. I do not know how the troops are situated, but the
force is much smaller than represented. I will take pleasure
hereafter in learning all I can of their strength and position, and
the bearer may call again.
"Very respectfully yours,"
............
Miss Wright's answer proved of more value to me than she anticipated,
for it not only quieted the conflicting reports concerning Anderson's
corps, but was most important in showing positively that Kershaw was
gone, and this circumstance led, three days later, to the battle of
the Opequon, or Winchester as it has been unofficially called. Word
to the effect that some of Early's troops were under orders to return
to Petersburg, and would start back at the first favorable
opportunity, had been communicated to me already from many sources,
but we had not been able to ascertain the date for their departure.
Now that they had actually started, I decided to wait before offering
battle until Kershaw had gone so far as to preclude his return,
feeling confident that my prudence would be justified by the improved
chances of victory; and then, besides, Mr. Stanton kept reminding me
that positive success was necessary to counteract the political
dissatisfaction existing in some of the Northern States. This course
was advised and approved by General Grant, but even with his powerful
backing it was difficult to resist the persistent pressure of those
whose judgment, warped by their interests in the Baltimore and Ohio
railroad, was often confused and misled by stories of scouts (sent
out from Washington), averring that Kershaw and Fitzhugh Lee had
returned to Petersburg, Breckenridge to southwestern Virginia, and at
one time even maintaining that Early's whole army was east of the
Blue Ridge, and its commander himself at Gordonsville.
During the inactivity prevailing in my army for the ten days
preceding Miss Wright's communication the infantry was quiet, with
the exception of Getty's division, which made a reconnoissance to the
Opequon, and developed a heavy force of the enemy at Edwards's
Corners. The cavalry, however, was employed a good deal in this
interval skirmishing heavily at times to maintain a space about six
miles in width between the hostile lines, for I wished to control
this ground so that when I was released from the instructions of
August 12, I could move my men into position for attack without the
knowledge of Early. The most noteworthy of these mounted encounters
was that of McIntosh's brigade, which captured the Eighth South
Carolina at Abraham's Creek September 13.
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Transcriber Note
Text emphasis is denoted as _Italic Text._
_Barr's Buffon._
Buffon's Natural History.
CONTAINING
A THEORY OF THE EARTH,
A GENERAL
_HISTORY OF MAN_,
OF THE BRUTE CREATION, AND OF
VEGETABLES, MINERALS,
_&c. &c._
FROM THE FRENCH.
WITH NOTES BY THE TRANSLATOR.
IN TEN VOLUMES.
VOL. IX.
London:
PRINTED FOR THE PROPRIETOR,
AND SOLD BY H. D. SYMONDS, PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1807.
T. Gillet, Crown-court, Fleet-street.
CONTENTS
OF
THE NINTH VOLUME
_Page_
_The Loris_ 1
_The Javelin Bat_ 3
_The Serval_ 6
_The Ocelot_ 9
_The Margay_ 13
_The Jackal and the Adil_ 17
_The Isatis_ 25
_The Glutton_ 29
_The Stinkards_ 35
_The Pekan and the Vison_ 41
_The Leming_ 46
_The Sea Otter_ 51
_The Canakian Otter_ 52
_The Seal, Walrus, and the Manati_ 55
_The Seal_ 57
_The Walrus, Morse, or Sea-Cow_ 78
_The Dugon_ 89
_The Manati_ 92
_The Nomenclature of Apes_ 107
_The Orang-Outang, or the Pongo and the Jocko_ 149
_The Pithecos, or Pigmy_ 177
_The Gibon, or Long-tailed Ape_ 185
_The Magot, or Barbary Ape_ 188
_The Papion, or Baboon, properly so called_ 192
_The Mandrill_ 197
_The Ouanderou, and the Lowando_ 199
_The Maimon_ 202
_The Macaque, and the Egret_ 205
_The Patas_ 208
_The Malbrouck, and the Bonnet Chinois_ 210
_The Mangabey_ 216
_The Mona_ 218
_The Callitrix, or Green Monkey_ 221
_The Moustac_ 224
_The Talapoin_ 225
_The Douc_ 227
_The Sapajous and the Sagoins_ 231
_The Ourine, and the Alouate_ 234
_The Coati, and the Exquima_ 240
_The Sajou_ 247
_The Sai_ 249
_The Siamiri_ 251
_The Saki_ 252
_The Tamarin_ 254
_The Ouistiti_ 255
_The Marikina_ 258
_The Pinch_ 259
_The Mico_ 261
_Account of some Animals not expressly treated
of in this Work_ 264
_The White Bear_ 265
_The Tartarian Cow_ 272
_The Tolai_ 275
_The Zizel_ 276
_The Zemni_ 277
_The Pouch_ 279
_The Perouasca_ 279
_The Souslik_ 280
_The Golden- Mole_ 282
_The White Water-Rat_ 283
_The Guinea-Hog_ 284
_The Wild Boar of Cape Verd_ 285
_The Mexican Wolf_ 293
_The Alco_ 295
_The Tayra, or Galeri_ 299
_The Philander of Surinam_ 300
_The Akouchi_ 302
_The Tucan_ 304
_The Field-Mouse of Brasil_ 305
_The Aperea_ 306
_The Tapeti_ 307
_Supplement to the Quadrupeds_ 309
_The Crab-eater_ 309
_Anonymous Animal_ 312
_Rat of Madagascar_ 314
_Degeneration of Animals_ 315
_Directions for placing the Plates in the Ninth Volume._
Page 1, Fig. 176, 177, 178, 179.
9, Fig. 180, 181.
29, Fig. 182, 183, 184.
35, Fig. 185, 186, 187, 188.
41, Fig. 189, 190, 191.
57, Fig. 192, 193, 194.
150, Fig. 195, 196.
189, Fig. 197, 198.
197, Fig. 199, 200.
202, Fig. 201, 202, 203.
208, Fig. 204, 205, 206, 207.
221, Fig. 208, 209, 210.
225, Fig. 211, 212, 215.
247, Fig. 213, 214, 216.
255, Fig. 217, 218, 219.
BUFFON'S
NATURAL HISTORY.
_OF CARNIVOROUS ANIMALS._
THE LORIS.
The Loris (_fig. 176._) is a small animal found in Ceylon, very
remarkable for the elegance of its figure, and for the singularity of
its conformation: it has, perhaps, of all animals, the longest body
in proportion to its bulk, having nine vertebrae in the loins, whereas
other quadrupeds have only five, six, or seven. The length of the body
is the natural effect of this structure, and it appears the longer
for having no tail; in other respects, it resembles the maki kind, as
well in the hands and feet as in the quality of the hair, the number
of teeth, and the sharpness of its muzzle. Independently of these
singularities, which separates this animal from the makis, he has
other particular attributes. His head is entirely round; his eyes are
excessively large, and very close to each other; his ears are large,
round, and, in their insides, have three auricles in the shape of small
shells; but what is still more singular, and perhaps unmatched in the
whole tribe of animals, is that the female discharges her urine through
the clitoris, which is perforated like the sexual organ of the male,
and who in these two parts perfectly resemble each other.
Linnaeus has given a short description of this animal, which appears to
be exactly conformable to Nature. It is also very correctly delineated
by Seba; and evidently appears to be the same as that which Thevenot
speaks of in the following terms: "I saw, (says he) in the Mogul
country, monkeys which had been brought from Ceylon; they were greatly
valued on account of their size, being not bigger than a man's fist.
They were different from the common monkey, having a flat forehead,
eyes round and large, and of a bright yellow colour, like those of some
cats: their muzzle is very pointed: the inside of the ears is yellow,
and they have no tail. When I examined them they sat erect on their
hind feet, folded the others across, and looked round at the spectators
without the least signs of fear."
_Engraved for Barr's Buffon._
[Illustration: FIG. 176. _Loris._ FIG. 177. _Javelin Bat._]
[Illustration: FIG. 178. _Lame Headed Bat._ FIG. 179. _Shrew Bat._]
THE JAVELIN BAT.
Among the numbers of the bat species, which were neither named nor
known, we indicated some by names derived from foreign languages, and
others by denominations drawn from their most striking characters. We
have called one the _Horse-shoe Bat_, from the exact resemblance the
fore-part of its face bears to a horse-shoe, and the animal in question
we have called the Javelin Bat, (_fig. 177._) from a sort of membrane
on its nose which perfectly resembles the head of an ancient javelin,
or spear. Though this character alone is sufficient to distinguish it
from all other bats, yet we may add, that it has scarcely any tail,
that its hair and size are nearly like the common bat, but that instead
of having six incisive teeth in the lower jaw, it has only four. This
species of bat is very common in America, but is never found in Europe.
There is another bat in Senegal, which has also a membrane upon its
nose, not in the form of a horse-shoe, or javelin, as in the two
bats we have just mentioned, but in the shape of an oval leaf. These
three bats, being of different climates, are not simple varieties but
distinct and separate species. M. Daubenton has given the description
of the Senegal bat, under the name of the _leaf bat_, in the Memoirs of
the Royal Academy of Sciences, 1759, p. 374.
Bats which have great affinities to birds, by the power of flying,
and the strength of their pectoral muscles, seem to resemble them
still more in these membranes, or crests, which they have on their
faces. These redundant parts, which, at first sight, seem only to be
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THE CRIME DOCTOR
_By_ ERNEST W. HORNUNG
Author of Raffles, The Amateur Cracksman, The Thousandth Woman, etc.
_With Illustrations by_
FREDERIC DORR STEELE
INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1914
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
BROOKLYN, N. Y.
[Illustration: "It was struck with--this"]
CONTENTS
I THE PHYSICIAN WHO HEALED HIMSELF 1
II THE LIFE-PRESERVER 40
III A HOPELESS CASE 77
IV THE GOLDEN KEY 118
V A SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD 159
VI ONE POSSESSED 199
VII THE DOCTOR'S ASSISTANT 237
VIII THE SECOND MURDERER 272
THE CRIME DOCTOR
I
THE PHYSICIAN WHO HEALED HIMSELF
In the course of his meteoric career as Secretary of State for the Home
Department, the Right Honorable Topham Vinson instituted many reforms
and earned the reformer's whack of praise and blame. His methods were
not those of the permanent staff; and while his notorious courage
endeared him to the young, it was not in so strong a nature to leave
friend or foe lukewarm. An assiduous contempt for tradition fanned the
flame of either faction, besides leading to several of those personal
adventures which were as breath to the Minister's unregenerate nostrils,
but which never came out without exposing him to almost universal
censure. It is matter for thanksgiving that the majority of his
indiscretions were unguessed while he and his held office; for he was
never so unconventional as in pursuance of those enlightened tactics on
which his reputation rests, or in the company of that kindred spirit who
had so much to do with their inception.
It was early in an autumn session that this remarkable pair became
acquainted. Mr. Vinson had been tempted by the mildness of the night to
walk back from Westminster to Portman Square. He had just reached home
when he heard his name cried from some little distance behind him. The
voice tempered hoarse excitement with the restraint due to midnight in a
quiet square; and as Mr. Vinson turned on his door-step, a young man
rushed across the road with a gold chain swinging from his outstretched
hand.
"Your watch, sir, your watch!" he gasped, and displayed a bulbous hunter
with a monogram on one side and the crest of all the Vinsons on the
other.
"Heavens!" cried the Home Secretary, feeling in an empty waistcoat
pocket before he could believe his eyes. "Where on earth did you find
that? I had it on me when I left the House."
"It wasn't a case of findings," said the young man, as he fanned himself
with his opera hat. "I've just taken it from the fellow who took it from
you."
"Who? Where?" demanded the Secretary of State, with unstatesmanlike
excitement.
"Some poor brute in North Audley Street, I think it was."
"That's it! That was where he stopped me, just at the corner of
Grosvenor Square!" exclaimed Vinson. "And I went and gave the old
scoundrel half-a-crown!"
"He probably had your watch while you were looking in your purse."
And the young man dabbed a very good forehead, that glistened in the
light from the open door, with a white silk handkerchief just extracted
from his sleeve.
"But where were you?" asked Topham Vinson, taking in every inch of him.
"I'd just come into the square myself. You had just gone out of it. The
pickpocket was looking to see what he'd got, even while he hurled his
blessings after you."
"And where is he now? Did he slip through your fingers?"
"I'm ashamed to say he did; but your watch didn't!" its owner was
reminded with more spirit. "I could guess whose it was by the crest and
monogram, and I decided to make sure instead of giving chase."
"You did admirably," declared the Home Secretary, in belated
appreciation. "I'm in the papers quite enough without appearing as a mug
out of office hours. Come in, please, and let me thank you with all the
honors possible at this time of night."
And, taking him by the arm, he ushered the savior of his property into a
charming inner hall, where elaborate refreshments stood in readiness on
a side-table, and a bright fire looked as acceptable as the saddlebag
chairs drawn up beside it. A bottle and a pint of reputable champagne
had been left out with the oysters and the caviar; and Mr. Vinson,
explaining that he never allowed anybody to sit up for him, opened the
bottle with the precision of a practised hand, and led the attack on
food and drink with schoolboy gusto and high spirits.
In the meantime there had been some mutual note-taking. The Home
Secretary, whose emphatic personality lent itself to the discreet pencil
of the modern caricaturist, was in appearance exactly as represented in
contemporary cartoons; there was nothing unexpected about him, since his
boyish vivacity was a quality already over-exploited by the Press. His
frankness was something qualified by a gaze of habitual penetration, but
still it was there, and his manner could evidently be grand or
colloquial at will. The surprise was in his surroundings rather than in
the man himself. The perfect union of luxury and taste is none too
common in the professed Sybarite who is that and nothing more; in men of
action and pugnacious politicians it is yet another sign of sheer
capacity. The bits of rich old furniture, the old glass twinkling at
every facet, the brasses blazing in the firelight, the few but fine
prints on the Morris wallpaper, might have won the approval of an art
student, and the creature comforts that of the youngest epicure.
The young man from the street was easily pleased in all such respects;
but indoors he no longer looked quite the young man. He had taken off an
overcoat while his host was opening the champagne, and evening clothes
accentuated a mature gauntness of body and limb. His hair, which was
dark and wiry, was beginning to bleach at the temples; and up above one
ear there was a little disk of downright silver, like a new florin. The
shaven face was pale, eager, and austere. Dark eyes burnt like beacons
under a noble brow, and did not lose in character or intensity by a
distinct though slight strabism. So at least it seemed to Topham Vinson,
who was a really wonderful judge of faces, yet had seldom seen one
harder to sum up.
"I'm sorry you don't smoke," said he, snipping a cigar which he had
extolled in vain. "And that champagne, you know! You haven't touched it,
and you really should."
The other was on his legs that instant. "I never smoke and seldom
drink," he exclaimed; "but I simply can not endure your hospitality,
kind as it is, Mr. Vinson, without being a bit more honest with you than
I've been so far. I didn't lose that pickpocket by accident or because
he was too quick for me. I--I purposely packed him off."
In the depths of his softest chair Mr. Vinson lolled smiling--but not
with his upturned eyes. They were the steel eyes of all his tribe, but
trebly keen, as became its intellectual head and chief.
"The fellow pitched a pathetic yarn?" he conjectured. He had never seen
a more miserable specimen, he was bound to say.
"It wasn't that, Mr. Vinson. I should have let him go in any case--once
I'd recovered what he'd taken--as a matter of principle."
"Principle!" cried the Secretary of State. But he did not modify his
front-bench attitude; it was only the well-known eyebrows that rose.
"The whole thing is," his guest continued, yet more frankly, "that I
happen to hold my own views on crime and its punishment If I might be
permitted to explain them, however briefly, they would at least afford
the only excuse I have to offer for my conduct. If you consider it no
excuse, and if I have put myself within reach of the law, there, sir, is
my card; and here am I, prepared to take the consequences of my act."
The Home Secretary leaned forward and took the card from a sensitive
hand, vibrant as the voice to which he had just been listening, but no
more tremulous. Again he looked up, into a pale face grown paler still,
and dark eyes smoldering with suppressed enthusiasm. It was by no means
his baptism of that sort of fire; but it seemed to Mr. Vinson that here
was a new type of eccentric zealot; and it was only by an effort that he
resumed his House of Commons attitude and his smile.
"I see, Doctor Dollar, that you are a near neighbor of mine--only just
round the corner in Welbeck Street. May I take it that your experience
as a consultant is the basis of the views you mention?"
"My experience as an alienist," said Doctor Dollar, "so far as I can lay
claims to that euphemism."
"And how far is that, doctor?"
"In the sense that all crime is a form of madness."
"Then you would call yourself----"
The broken sentence ended on a note as tactfully remote from the direct
interrogative as practised speech could make it.
"In default of a recognized term," said Doctor Dollar, "which time will
confer as part of a wider recognition, I can only call myself a crime
doctor."
"A branch not yet acknowledged by your profession?"
"Neither by my profession nor by the law, Mr. Vinson; but both have got
to come to it, just as surely as we all accept the other scientific
developments of the day."
"But have you reduced your practise to a science, doctor?"
"I am doing so," said Doctor Dollar, with the restrained confidence
which could not but impress one who knew the value of that quality in
himself and in others. "I have made a start; if it were not so late I
would tell you all about it. You are the Home Secretary of England, the
man of all others whom I could wish to convert to my views. But already
I have kept you up too long. If you would grant me an appointment----"
"Not at all," interrupted Mr. Vinson, as he settled himself even more
comfortably in his chair. "The night is still young--so is my cigar.
Pray say all you care to say, and say it as confidentially as you
please. You interest me, Doctor Dollar; nor can I forget that I am much
indebted to you."
"I don't want to trade on that," returned the doctor, hastily. "But it
is an old dream of mine to tell you, sir, about my work, and how and why
I came to take it up. I was not intended for medicine, you see; my
people are army people, were Border outlaws once upon a time, and
fighting folk ever since. My father was an ensign in the Crimea--Scots
Fusiliers. I joined the Argyll and Sutherlands the year before South
Africa--where, by the way, I remember seeing you with your Yeomen."
"I had eighteen months of it without a headache or a scratch."
"I wish I could say the same, Mr. Vinson. I was shot through the head at
the Modder, ten days after I landed."
"Through the head, did you say?" asked the Home Secretary, lifting his
own some inches.
The doctor touched the silver patch in his dark strong hair. "That's
where the bullet came slinking out; any but a Mauser would have carried
all before it! As it was, it left me with a bit of a squint, as you can
see; otherwise, in a very few weeks, I was as fit as ever--physically."
"Wonderful!"
"Physically and even mentally--from a medical point of view--but not
morally, Mr. Vinson! Something subtle had happened, some pressure
somewhere, some form of local paralysis. And it left me a pretty
low-down type, I can tell you! It was a case of absolute automatism--but
I won't go into particulars now, if you don't mind."
"On no account, my dear doctor!" exclaimed the Secretary of State, with
inadvertent cordiality. "This is all of extraordinary interest. I
believe I can see what's coming. But I want to hear every word you care
to tell me--and not one that you don't."
"It had destroyed my moral sense on just one curious point; but, thank
God, I came to see the cause as well as to suffer unspeakably from the
effect. After that it was a case of killing or curing oneself by hook or
by crook. I decided to try the curing first. And--to cut a long yarn
short--I _was_ cured."
"Easily?"
"No. The slander may come home to roost, but I shall never think much of
the London specialist! I've dropped my two sovereigns and a florin into
too many of their itching palms, beginning with the baronets and knights
and ending up with the unknown adventures. But not a man-Jack of them
was ashamed to pocket his two guineas (in one case three) for politely
telling me I was as mad as a hatter to think of such a thing as really
was the matter with me!"
"And in the end?"
"In the end I struck a fellow with an open mind--but not in England--and
if I said that he literally opened mine it might be an exaggeration, but
that's all. He did go prospecting in my skull--risked his reputation as
against my life--but we both came out on top."
"And you've been your own man ever since?"
Topham Vinson asked the question gravely; it would have taken as keen a
superficial observer as himself to detect much difference in his manner,
in his eyes, in anything about him. Doctor Dollar was not that kind of
observer. To see far one must look high, and to look high is to miss
things under one's nose. It is all a matter of mental trajectory. In the
sheer height of his enthusiasm, the soaring visionary was losing touch
with the hard-headed groundling in the chair.
"I was cured," he answered with tense simplicity. "It was a miraculous
cure, and yet no miracle. Anybody could perform its like, given the
nerve and skill. Yet it seemed to me a new thing; its possibilities were
almost appalling in their fascination. I must not speak of them, for in
a large measure they are only possibilities still. But I resolved to
qualify, so that at least I might be in a position to do as I had been
done by. I had already left the service; but my fighting days were not
over. I was going to fight Crime as it had never been fought before!"
There was a challenge in the pause made here. But the listener did not
take it up, and the harangue ended on a humbler note:
"I studied at St. Mary's under men whose names you know as well as they
know yours. I was at Berlin under Winterschladen, and with Jens Jennsen
in Stockholm. Before I was thirty I had put up my plate in Welbeck
Street, and there I am still."
"And yet," said the Home Secretary, with a faint and wary smile--"and
yet the possibilities are still only possibilities!"
"On the surgical side, yes; there I was misled by my own abnormal case.
When another sudden injury makes a monkey of an honest man, I know where
to take him; but the average injury is too gradual, too subtle for the
knife. Congenital cases are, of course, quite hopeless in that respect.
Yet there are ways of curing even what I regard as the very worst type
of congenital criminal at the present day."
"I wish I knew of some!" said Mr. Vinson cheerily. "But what, may I ask,
do you regard as the very worst type of congenital criminal at the
present day?"
"The society type," replied the crime doctor without an instant's
hesitation.
His host permitted himself to open his eyes once more.
"Your ideas are rather sensational, aren't they, Doctor Dollar?"
"It's rather a sensational age, isn't it, Mr. Vinson? Your
twentieth-century criminal, with his telephone and his motor-car--for
professional purposes--his high explosives and his scientific tools, has
got to be an educated person, to begin with; and I am afraid there's an
increasing number of educated people who have got to be criminals or
else paupers all their lives. A vicious circle, I think you must agree?"
"If you can square it with the truth."
"Isn't it almost a truism, Mr. Vinson? When society women making a
living out of bridge, traffic in tickets for Royal enclosures, charge a
fat fee for a presentation at Court, and a small fortune for launching
an unlikely family in their own set, there must be some reason for it
apart from their own depravity. They are no more naturally depraved than
I am, but their purse is perhaps even smaller, and their wants are
certainly ten times as great. Cupidity is not the motive power; it's
simple shortage of the needful--from their point of view. Society
increases and multiplies in everything but money, and transmits its
expensive tastes without the means to indulge them. So we get our good
ladies with their tariff of introductions, and our members of the best
clubs always ready for a deal over a horse or a car or anything else
that's going to bring them in a fiver. It's a short step from that sort
of thing to a shady trick, and from a shady trick to downright crime.
But it's a step often taken by the type I mean--though not necessarily
with their eyes open. And that's just where the crime doctor should come
in."
"In opening their eyes?"
"In saving 'em from themselves while they're still worth saving; in that
prevention which is not only better than cure, but the vital principle
of modern therapeutics in every other direction. In keeping good
material out of prison at all costs, Mr. Vinson, and even though you
turn your prisons into country houses with feather beds and moral
entertainments every night in life!"
The Secretary of State smiled again, but this time with some sympathy
and much less restraint. He was beginning to see some method in what had
seemed at first unmitigated mania, and to take some interest in a point
of view at least novel and entertaining. But the prison system was not
to be attacked, even in terms of fantastic levity, without protest from
its official champion.
"Prisons, my dear Doctor Dollar, exist for the benefit of those who keep
out of them rather than those who will insist on getting in. Of course,
the ideal thing would be to benefit both sides; and that's what we're
aiming at all the time. It isn't our fault if a man who gets into quod
is a marked man ever after; he shouldn't get into quod."
"You've put your finger on your own vulnerable point!" cried the eager
doctor. "Why should he be a marked man? Why force a professional status
on the mere dabbler in crime, who might never have dabbled again? It
isn't as if it undid anything he's done; even hanging your murderer
doesn't bring your victim back to life, and the chances are that he
would never want to murder anybody else. On the other hand, how many
serious crimes might be hushed up without anybody being a bit worse off
than they were the very moment after their commission!"
Mr. Vinson had been framing an ironical rebuke in the name of morality
and the Mosaic law; but he was not sorry to drop the irony and pin his
opponent down.
"I hope, Doctor Dollar, it is not to be a function of the new faculty to
collaborate in the concealment of crime and criminals?"
"It is impossible," replied the enthusiast, duly drawn, "to define the
scope of an embryonic science. When the crime doctor has come to
stay--as he will--I can see him playing a Protean part with the full
sanction of his profession and of the law. He will be preventive
officer, private detective, and father confessor in one, if not even
privileged accessory after some awful fact. The humbler pioneer can hope
for no such powers; his only chance is to work in the dark on his own
lines, to use his own judgment and to take his own risks as I've done
to-night. If he really can save a man by screening him, let him do it
and blow the odds! If he can stop a thing without giving it away, all
the better for everybody, and if he fails to stop it all the worse for
him! Let him be a law unto his patient and himself, but let him stand
the racket if his law won't work."
"In other words, you would tackle character as ordinary doctors and
persons devote themselves to the body and the soul?"
"It would come to that, Mr. Vinson. It's a large order, I know, and I
don't expect to see the goods delivered in my time. It will take better
men than I am, and many of 'em, even to start delivery on the scale I
dream about. But that's the idea all right. Punishment has never
signified prevention; what we want is to get under the criminal's skin
_before_ we make it smart, if not before there's an actual criminal in
the case at all!"
"A very plausible confession of faith, Doctor Dollar."
The Minister's tone was dry after the other, but that was all. His fixed
eyes seemed to be looking through the doctor's into the scheme itself,
probing it on its merits in the very spirit in which it had been
propounded. It is only the small men who laugh in the face of genuine
enthusiasm, however wild and flighty it may seem. Topham Vinson was not
a small man; but he, too, had been guilty of some wild flights in his
day, and office had not altogether clipped his wings. The sportsman and
the charlatan within him were only too ready to see themselves in
another, to hear their own voices on other lips. But the appeal to
temperament does not necessarily compromise the mind. And that citadel
still flew a neutral flag.
"What about the practise?" asked Topham Vinson, forcing himself back to
facts.
"Rome took less building than a London practise, by an unknown man
striking out a new line for himself."
"I really don't wonder. Who would come to consult you about a homicidal
tendency, or a trick of tampering with special offertories?"
"In the first instance, most likely, the patient's people; then they
might send him to see me on some other pretext."
"And what form would the treatment take?"
"It would depend, of course, upon the case. They don't all know that
they're being treated for incipient criminality. The majority think they
are in an ordinary nursing home."
"A home!" cried the Secretary of State. The word had brought him to his
feet at last, in a frame of mind no longer to be concealed by nods and
smiles. "You don't mean to tell me, Doctor Dollar, that you actually
run a nursing home for unconvicted criminals?"
"Potential criminals, Mr. Vinson. I have at present no patient who is
actually wanted by the police."
"And where is this extraordinary establishment?"
"Under my own roof here in Welbeck Street."
"A few hundred yards from where we stand, yet this is the first I hear
of it!"
"I can see that. It's not my fault, sir. I have done my best to bring it
before your notice."
"How?"
"By writing many times to tell you all about myself and the home, Mr.
Vinson."
"Then I never saw the letters. A Home Secretary stands to be shot at by
every crank who can hold a pen. I employ more than one young gentleman
expressly to divert that sort of fire. You should have got an
introduction to me, Doctor Dollar."
The doctor had smiled at an expression that he could not but take to
himself. His smile sweetened under the kindlier tone which succeeded
that one unmeasured word.
"I am not sorry I waited for the introduction which time has given me,
Mr. Vinson."
"You wanted me to assist the good work, I take it?"
"By your countenance and influence--if you could."
"I must see something of it first. I must inspect this home of yours,
Doctor Dollar."
The steel eyes of the Vinsons could seldom have cut deeper at a glance,
or been met by a pair more candid and unafraid. And yet there was just
that cruel suspicion of a cast, to prejudice both the candor and the
courage of the finer face.
"It is open to your inspection day or night," said Doctor Dollar.
"Even at this hour? Even to-night?"
The Home Secretary sounded as keen as he looked; but on the other side
there was now just enough hesitation to correspond with that one slight
flaw in the finer eyes.
"This minute, by all means," said the doctor, with resolute cordiality.
"There's always somebody up, and the patients can be seen without being
disturbed."
"Then," said the Home Secretary, "it's a chance at a time when every
moment of the day is full. Let us strike, doctor, while the iron is as
hot as I can assure you that you have made it."
II
That deplorable passion for adventure, which had turned the hope of the
last Opposition into a guerrilla warrior in South Africa, but which the
Home Secretary of England might have subdued before accepting his
portfolio, was by no means a dead volcano as Topham Vinson sallied forth
with his extraordinary companion. It was to be noticed that he took with
him a thick stick instead of an umbrella, though the deserted streets
had become moist with a midnight drizzle. What he expected can only be
surmised. But the odds are that it did not include the shriek of a
police-whistle in the sedate region of Wigmore Street, and the
instantaneous bolting of Doctor Dollar round the first corner to the
left!
Now, the Secretary of State was one of those men who keep up their games
out of a cold-blooded regard for the figure; he considered himself as
fit at forty as any man in England, and he gave chase with his usual
confidence. But the long-legged doctor would have left him behind with
the lamp-posts, but for the fact that he was really tearing toward the
sound, not flying from it as his pursuer was so ready to suppose. In a
matter of seconds they had both fetched up at a brilliantly lighted
house, where a more than usually obese policeman was alternately
pounding on the door and splitting the sober welkin with his whistle | 1,976.198676 |
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Produced by Jim Tinsley
Psmith, Journalist
by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
PREFACE
THE conditions of life in New York are so different from those of
London that a story of this kind calls for a little explanation.
There are several million inhabitants of New York. Not all of them
eke out a precarious livelihood by murdering one another, but there
is a definite section of the population which murders--not
casually, on the spur of the moment, but on definitely commercial
lines at so many dollars per murder. The "gangs" of New York exist
in fact. I have not invented them. Most of the incidents in this
story are based on actual happenings. The Rosenthal case, where
four men, headed by a genial individual calling himself "Gyp the
Blood" shot a fellow-citizen in cold blood in a spot as public and
fashionable as Piccadilly Circus and escaped in a motor-car, made
such a stir a few years ago that the noise of it was heard all over
the world and not, as is generally the case with the doings of the
gangs, in New York only. Rosenthal cases on a smaller and less
sensational scale are frequent occurrences on Manhattan Island. It
was the prominence of the victim rather than the unusual nature of
the occurrence that excited the New York press. Most gang victims
get a quarter of a column in small type.
P. G. WODEHOUSE
New York, 1915
CHAPTER I
"COSY MOMENTS"
The man in the street would not have known it, but a great crisis
was imminent in New York journalism.
Everything seemed much as usual in the city. The cars ran blithely
on Broadway. Newsboys shouted "Wux-try!" into the ears of nervous
pedestrians with their usual Caruso-like vim. Society passed up and
down Fifth Avenue in its automobiles, and was there a furrow of
anxiety upon Society's brow? None. At a thousand street corners a
thousand policemen preserved their air of massive superiority to
the things of this world. Not one of them showed the least sign of
perturbation. Nevertheless, the crisis was at hand. Mr. J. Fillken
Wilberfloss, editor-in-chief of _Cosy Moments_, was about to leave
his post and start on a ten weeks' holiday.
In New York one may find every class of paper which the imagination
can conceive. Every grade of society is catered for. If an Esquimau
came to New York, the first thing he would find on the bookstalls
in all probability would be the _Blubber Magazine_, or some similar
production written by Esquimaux for Esquimaux. Everybody reads in
New York, and reads all the time. The New Yorker peruses his
favourite paper while he is being jammed into a crowded compartment
on the subway or leaping like an antelope into a moving Street car.
There was thus a public for _Cosy Moments_. _Cosy Moments_, as its
name (an inspiration of Mr. Wilberfloss's own) is designed to
imply, is a journal for the home. It is the sort of paper which the
father of the family is expected to take home with him from his
office and read aloud to the chicks before bed-time. It was founded
by its proprietor, Mr. Benjamin White, as an antidote to yellow
journalism. One is forced to admit that up to the present yellow
journalism seems to be competing against it with a certain measure
of success. Headlines are still of as generous a size as
heretofore, and there is no tendency on the part of editors to
scamp the details of the last murder-case.
Nevertheless, _Cosy Moments_ thrives. It has its public.
Its contents are mildly interesting, if you like that sort of
thing. There is a "Moments in the Nursery" page, conducted by
Luella Granville Waterman, to which parents are invited to
contribute the bright speeches of their offspring, and which
bristles with little stories about the nursery canary, by Jane
(aged six), and other works of rising young authors. There is a
"Moments of Meditation" page, conducted by the Reverend Edwin T.
Philpotts; a "Moments Among the Masters" page, consisting of
assorted chunks looted from the literature of the past, when
foreheads were bulgy and thoughts profound, by Mr. Wilberfloss
himself; one or two other pages; a short story; answers to
correspondents on domestic matters; and a "Moments of Mirth" page,
conducted by an alleged humorist of | 1,976.198765 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Albert Laszlo (bertzi), Charlie
Howard, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
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generously made available by The Internet Archive)
[Illustration: THE WRIGHT AEROPLANE IN FRANCE IN 1908.
It will be seen that there are two passengers on the aeroplane, one
being Mr. Wilbur Wright, the other a pupil.]
EVERY-DAY SCIENCE
BY
HENRY SMITH WILLIAMS, M.D., LL.D.
ASSISTED BY
EDWARD H. WILLIAMS, M.D.
VOLUME VII.
THE CONQUEST OF TIME AND SPACE
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
THE GOODHUE COMPANY
PUBLISHERS MDCCCCX
Copyright, 1910, by THE GOODHUE CO.
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
THE CONQUEST OF THE ZONES
Geographical knowledge of the ancient Egyptians, p. 5--The
mariner's compass, p. 7--Reference to the thirty-two points
of the compass by Chaucer, p. 9--Halley's observations on
the changes in the direction of the compass in a century,
p. 10--Deviation of the compass, p. 11--The voyage of the
_Carnegie_, the non-magnetic ship, p. 12--The "dip of the needle"
first observed by Robert Norman, p. 13--The modern compass
invented by Lord Kelvin, p. 14--Sailing by dead reckoning, p.
14--The invention of the "log," p. 15--The modern log, p. 17--The
development of the sextant, p. 18--The astrolabe, p. 19--The
quadrant invented by Hadley, p. 20--The perfected sextant, p.
21--Perfecting the chronometer, p. 23--The timepieces invented
by the British carpenter, John Harrison, p. 25--The prize won by
Harrison, p. 27--Finding time without a chronometer, p. 28--The
_Nautical Almanac_, p. 30--Ascertaining the ship's longitude, p.
31--Difficulties of "taking the sun" at noon, p. 33--Measuring
a degree of latitude, p. 34--The observations of Robert Norman,
p. 35--The function of the _Nautical Almanac_, p. 37--Soundings
and charts, p. 41--Mercator's projection, p. 44--The lure of the
unknown, p. 45--The quest of the Pole, p. 47--Commander Peary's
achievement, p. 49--How observations are made in arctic regions,
p. 50--Making observations at the Pole, p. 52--Difficulties as to
direction at the Pole, p. 54.
CHAPTER II
THE HIGHWAY OF THE WATERS
Use of sails in ancient times, p. 56--Ships with many banks
of oars, p. 57--Mediaeval ships, p. 59--Modern sailing ships,
p. 60--The sailing record of _The Sovereign of the Seas_,
p. 60--Early attempts to invent a steamboat, p. 63--Robert
Fulton's _Clermont_, p. 64--The steamboat of Blasco de Gary,
p. 66--The _Charlotte Dundas_, p. 67--The steamboat invented
by Col. John Stevens, p. 68--Fulton designs the _Clermont_,
p. 71--The historic trip of the _Clermont_ up the Hudson, p.
71--Sea-going steamships, p. 73--Ships built of iron and steel,
p. 74--The _Great Eastern_, p. 76--Principal dimensions of the
_Great Eastern_, p. 78--Twin-screw vessels, p. 80--The triumph
of the turbine, p. 81--The _Lusitania_ and _Mauretania_, p.
82--Submarine signalling, p. 83--The rescue of the _Republic_,
p. 84--How the submarine signalling device works, p. 86--The
_Olympic_ and _Titanic_, p. 90--Liquid fuel, p. 90--Advantages
and disadvantages of liquid fuel, p. 91.
CHAPTER III
SUBMARINE VESSELS
Slow development of submarine navigation, p. 93--The first
submarine, p. 94--Description of David Bushnell's boat, p.
94--Attempts to sink a war vessel during the | 1,976.198981 |
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Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online
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material from the Google Print project.)
A ROMANCE OF TORONTO.
(FOUNDED ON FACT.)
A NOVEL.
BY MRS. ANNIE G. SAVIGNY
_Author of "An Allegory on Gossip," "A Heart-Song of To-day," etc._
TORONTO:
WILLIAM BRIGGS, 78 & 80 KING STREET EAST.
1888.
Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year
one thousand eight hundred and eighty-eight, by _Mrs. Annie Gregg
Savigny_, at the Department of Agriculture.
"I would like the Government to forbid the publication of all
novels that did not end well."--DARWIN.
"What would the world do without story-books."--DICKENS.
[Illustration: TORONTO UNIVERSITY, QUEEN'S PARK.]
NOTE.
_In the following pages are two plots, one of which was told me by an
actor therein; the other I have myself watched from its first page to
its last, being living facts in living lives of fair Toronto's
children._
_THE AUTHOR._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. Toronto a Fair Matron
CHAPTER II. Who is Who in a Medley
CHAPTER III. Instantaneous Photographs
CHAPTER IV. The Foot-ball of Circumstance
CHAPTER V. A Bona Dea
CHAPTER VI. Coffee and Chit-Chat
CHAPTER VII. Across the Sea to a Witch's Caldron
CHAPTER VIII. A Troubled Spirit
CHAPTER IX. Vultures Habited as Christian Pew-holders
CHAPTER X. A Lucifer Match
CHAPTER XI. Their "Rank is but the Guinea's Stamp"
CHAPTER XII. On the Rack
CHAPTER XIII. Lucifer's Votaries Rampant
CHAPTER XIV. Fencing Off Confidence
CHAPTER XV. The Tree of Knowledge
CHAPTER XVI. The Oath in the Tower of Toronto University
CHAPTER XVII. Birds of Prey
CHAPTER XVIII. The Islet-gemmed St. Lawrence
CHAPTER XIX. Eye-openers
CHAPTER XX. "Your Een Were Like a Spell"
CHAPTER XXI. A Happy New Year
CHAPTER XXII. "Better Lo'ed Ye Canna Be"
CHAPTER XXIII. The Three Links
CHAPTER XXIV. A Hand of Ice Lay on Her Heart
CHAPTER XXV. "Here Awa', There Awa'"
CHAPTER XXVI. Electric Tips Among the Roses
CHAPTER XXVII. A Serpent in Paradise
CHAPTER XXVIII. Squaring Accounts
CHAPTER XXIX. "Mair Sweet Than I Can Tell"
A ROMANCE OF TORONTO.
CHAPTER I.
TORONTO A FAIR MATRON.
Two gentlemen friends saunter arm in arm up and down the deck of the
palace steamer _Chicora_ as she enters our beautiful Lake Ontario from
the picturesque Niagara River, on a perfect day in delightful September,
when the blue canopy of the heavens seems so far away, one wonders that
the mirrored surface of the lake can reflect its color.
"Do you know, Buckingham, you puzzle me; you were evidently happier in
our little circle at the Hoffman House than in billiard, smoking, or
reading-rooms, and just now in the saloon you seemed so content with
Miss Crew, my wife and our boy, that I again wonder a man with these
tastes, and who has made his little pile, does not marry," said Mr.
Dale, in flute-like tones, distinctly English in accent. "I really
think, my dear fellow, you would be happier in big New York city with
some one in it to make a home for you."
"I am quite sure your words are kindly meant, Dale, but look at me," he
says tranquilly, "I am not dwarfed by care, being six feet in my
stockings, I have no worrying lines written on my forehead, and between
you and I, I am fifty; to be sure I am bald and grey, but that is New
York life, a bachelor life, then, has not served me ill; there is a
woman at Toronto I should like as my wife, but until I can give her the
few luxuries I now deem necessities, I shall remain as I am."
"I regret your decision, Buckingham, it is a rock many men split on,
this waiting for wealth and missing wifely companionship."
"Perhaps you are right; but I should not care to risk it," he says,
calmly.
"And you a speculator!" his friend said, smiling. At this they drifted
into business and some joint investments in Canadian mineral locations,
when Dale said:
"You must excuse me now, Buckingham, I promised my wife to go and read
her a letter descriptive of Toronto, as we, you know, have not been
there."
"Who is the writer, if I may know?"
"Our mutual friend at Toronto, Mrs. Gower."
"Oh, I am with you then," he said, with unusual eagerness, a fact noted
by his friend.
Entering the saloon, Mrs. Dale, a pretty little woman, fashionably
dressed, with Irish blue eyes and raven hair, said, lifting her head:
"Excuse my recumbent position, but I feel as if my head wasn't level, if
I try to sit up; ditto, Miss Crew."
"Where is Garfield, Ella?"
"Over there with those boys; now read away, hubby, it will do my head
good."
"Very well, let me see where the description commences (the personal
part I may pass). Here it is:
"Toronto is a fair matron with many children, whom she has
planted out on either side and north of her as far as her great
arms can stretch. She lies north and south, while her lips
speak loving words to her off-spring, and to her spouse, the
County of York; when she rests she pillows her head on the
pine-clad hills of sweet Rosedale, while her feet lave at
pleasure in the blue waters of beautiful Lake Ontario.
"Her favorite children are Parkdale, Rosedale, and Scarboro';
Parkdale to her west, ambitious and clear-sighted, handsome and
well-built, the sportive lake at his feet, in which his
children revel at eve; her daughter, charming Rosedale, in
society and quite the fashion even to the immense bouquet she
carries at all seasons--now of autumn leaves, from the hand of
Dame Nature; now of the floral beauties from her own gardens
and conservatories, again, of beauteous ferns gathered in her
own woods across her handsome bridges.
"Scarboro', fair Toronto's favorite son, of whom she is justly
proud, is a handsome young warrior, fearless as his own
heights, robust as his own trees, which seem as one gazes down
his deep ravine, like so many giants marching upwards as though
panting to reach the blue pavilioned heavens where they would
fain rest their heads.
"From the time spring thaws the sceptre out of the frozen hand
of winter, until again he is king, the breath of Scarboro' is
redolent of the rose, honeysuckle and sweet-briar, with a rapid
succession of the loveliest wild flowers in Canada beneath
one's feet, a veritable carpet of sweet-scented blossoms has
her son Scarboro'.
"Fair Toronto is also herself richly robed and jewelled, her
necklet being of picturesque villas, in Rosedale and on Bloor
Street; under her corsage, covered with beauteous blossoms from
her Horticultural Gardens, her Normal School grounds, etc., her
heart throbs with pride as she thinks of her gems, the spires
from her one hundred and twenty churches glistening in heaven's
sunbeams; of her magnificent University of Toronto, with its
great Norman tower, which cost her nearly $500,000; her
handsome Trinity College, in third period pointed English
style; her Knox College, her hotels, her opera houses, her
stately banks; with her diamonds, of which she is vastly proud,
and which are her great newspaper offices--the most valuable
being those of first water, viz., her Church papers as
finger-posts, with her _Sentinel_ as guard; her independent,
cultured _Mail_; her mighty clear-Grit _Globe_; her brilliant,
knowing _Grip_; her often-quoted _World_; her racy town-cry
_News_; her social _Saturday Night_; her _Life_, her _Week_,
her _Truth_, with her _Evening Telegram_, the whole set being
so valued by fair Toronto, that she would as soon be minus her
daily bread as her newspapers.
"It would take too long to enumerate the many attractions fair
Toronto offers--some of those within her walls having throats
full of song, others in the 'Harmony Club,' others
elocutionists, with orators and athletes; her Cyclorama of
Sedan, her Zoo--to which only a trifle pays the piper--her
interesting museums, her fine art galleries.
"And again, one word of her pet river, her picturesque Humber,
where lovers meet, poets dream, and fairies dwell; yes, as
Imrie says:
"'Glide we up the Humber river,
Where the rushes sigh and quiver,
Plight our love to each forever,
Love that will not die.'
"Such, dear Mr. and Mrs. Dale, is my lay of Toronto, which I
hope you will like well enough to come and sojourn here awhile.
You say, Mrs. Dale, that you have 'willed' to go to an hotel,
if so, I shall say no more of my wish, for 'a woman's will dies
hard on the field, or on the sward;' but when your will is
carried out, should you sigh for home-life come to me--even
then Holmnest will have open doors. You may be grave or gay,
you may be _en deshabille_ in mind and robing, or you may have
your war-paint on for the watchful eye of Grundy, be it as you
will it, you are ever welcome, only tell dear Diogenes not to
come in his tub. I can give you both amusement enough in many
subjects or objects at which to level your glass, for Toronto
society is in many instances an amusing spectacle, a droll
conglomeration.
"Yours as always,
"ELAINE GOWER."
"Well, Buckingham, what think you of fair Toronto?" asked Dale, as he
finished reading.
"I think that, though unusual, a Fair Matron has had ample justice from
a fair woman."
"I want to-morrow and Mrs. Gower right now," said Mrs. Dale, "as
Garfield says when he is promised a treat."
"Toronto must be a fine city, and covering a large area," said Miss
Crew.
"Mrs. Gower has a taste for metaphor; I never heard her in that style
before, that is to any extent," said Buckingham.
"I am intensely practical," said Dale; "but confess Toronto described in
metaphor sounds more musical, at all events, than in plain brick and
mortar style."
"Emerson says," said Buckingham, "men are ever lapsing into a beggarly
habit in which everything that is not cyphering is hustled out of sight,
and I think he is right."
"We cannot help it, it is the tendency of the age; but what have we
here, Buckingham? What's the excitement about?"
"Oh, we are only nearing Hanlon's Point; the ladies had better come
outside; every scene will be in gala dress. Miss Crew, can I assist
you?"
"Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed
Their evening shadows o'er Ontario's bed,"
said Dale, coming with the crowd to view the scene.
But since Moore so sang, the hills of the noble red man have
disappeared, save as a boundary to our fair city; the pale faces, in the
interests of progress and civilization, would have it so; and Bloor
Street, to the north, is now reached by a gradual ascent of one hundred
and fifty feet above the lake level. But now the stately and comfortable
palace steamer, _Chicora_, with a goodly number of souls on board, is
rounding Hanlon's Point, and entering our beautiful Bay, when the
illumined city, with the Industrial Exhibition of 1887 in full swing,
burst upon the view. The bands of music in and about the city, at the
Horticultural Gardens and on the fair grounds, with the hum of many
voices, fill the evening air with a glad song of joy.
"What a sparkling scene," cried Mrs. Dale; "see, Garfield, my boy, all
the boats lit from bow to stern."
"They look as pretty as you in your diamonds, mamma."
"It is quite a pretty sight, and the city also," said Miss Crew; "I had
no idea Canada could attempt anything to equal this."
"So much for England's instructions of her 'young ideas how to shoot,'
as to her colonies, Miss Crew," said Dale; "Come, confess that a few
squaws, bearing torches, with their lordly half smoking the calumet, was
the utmost you expected."
"Oh, Mr. Dale, please don't exaggerate our ignorance in this respect; I
am not quite so bad as a lady at home, who thought Toronto a chain of
mountains, and Ottawa an Indian chief."
"One of Fenimore Cooper's, I hope," laughed Buckingham, "who hunted
buffalo on the boundless prairie, instead of your lean gophers who hunt
rusty bacon from agents who, some say, use him to swindle the public and
line their own pockets. But listen; what a medley of sounds."
"And lights," cried Mrs. Dale; "it looks as if annexation was on, and
they were firing up some of our gold dollars as sky rockets."
"It's pretty good for Canada, mamma," said Garfield, patronisingly.
"You say Toronto is quite a business centre, Buckingham?"
"Oh, yes; quite so; it makes one think of commercial union. Do you
advocate it, Dale?"
"Well, as you know, Buckingham, I am not even yet sufficiently
Americanised to look upon it from other than a British standpoint, and
so do not advocate it, as it seems a slight to the Mother Country. What
is your idea of advantages derived by Canada were it _a fait accompli_?"
"She would gain larger markets; her natural resources would be
developed, especially her mineral, in which I am," he added, jokingly,
"looking out for the interest of that most important number _one_, while
also number two would benefit in home manufactures."
"You amuse me; I honestly believe number one is a universal lever; yet
still in a way we are each patriotic; but, again, you must see that
commercial union would be the forerunner of annexation."
"Yes, likely, though not for some time, but evolution will bring that
about in a natural sort of way, as a final settlement of all vexed
questions, whether," he added laughingly, "of humanity or--fish."
"Oh, I don't know that, but you have the fish at all events and mean to
keep them too; humanity may follow, but I should not like to see the
colonies hoist another flag. But here we are at last, at the portals of
the Queen City, and such a multitude of people makes one feel as if one
might be crowded out," he said, uneasily, as the _Chicora_ came in at
Yonge Street wharf.
"Don't bother your head about your rooms, Dale, you secured them by
telegram."
"I did, ten days ago, though."
"You never fear, they will be all right, the manager is a thorough
business man," he said quietly, gathering up the belongings of the
ladies.
"You are invaluable, Mr. Buckingham," said Mrs. Dale, "and are as
gallant as if you had as many wives as Blue Beard."
"Rather a scaly compliment, Buckingham," laughed his friend.
"She means well, but the fish are not far off," he answered, picking up
Garfield, and giving his arm to quiet Miss Crew.
CHAPTER II.
WHO IS WHO IN A MEDLEY.
"What a moving sea of faces!" exclaimed Miss Crew.
"Yes, quite a few, and look as if they required laundrying--bodies,
bones, and all."
"Here, Garfield, though you are'very old' as you say, you had better
take my hand," said Miss Crew, nervously, as Mr. Buckingham set him down
on the wharf.
"Oh, no, he must go with his father," cried Mrs. Dale.
"Oh, I reckon a New York boy can elbow his way through that mean crowd."
And darting through the mass of people, causing the collapse of not a
few tournures, and with the aid of one of his mother's bonnet pins
giving many a woman cause to scream as she unconsciously cleared his
path by getting out of his way, he is on the outskirts of the crowd.
"Say, hackman, drive me off right smart to the Queen's!"
"Is it all square, young gent?"
"Yes; dimes sure as Vanderbilt money."
"Oh, I mean you are but a kid to go it alone."
"Chestnuts!"
And taking another hack, "Pooh, Bah!" quieting his scruples by pocketing
a double insult they are off.
"I feel sure Garfield is quite safe, Ella, and probably choosing a cab
for us; here, take my arm dear, and don't be nervous, Buckingham is
looking after Miss Crew."
But he is on ahead making inquiries.
"Yes, sir, the young gent is all right, if you take my hack we'll catch
him, I lost him by being too careful like."
"Your boy is all right, Mrs. Dale, if you jump in quick we'll overtake
him; allow me, Miss Crew."
"Thank heaven," said his mother fervently, "tell the man to go as quick
as he can through this crowd | 1,976.402967 |
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[Illustration: "HE TOOK OUT HIS EYEGLASS TO STUDY IT."]
BOSTON NEIGHBOURS
IN TOWN AND OUT
BY AGNES BLAKE POOR
[Illustration]
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1898
COPYRIGHT, 1898
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
PAGE
OUR TOLSTOI CLUB 1
A LITTLE FOOL 41
WHY I MARRIED ELEANOR 83
THE STORY OF A WALL-FLOWER 123
POOR MR. PONSONBY 187
MODERN VENGEANCE 239
THREE CUPS OF TEA 274
THE TRAMPS' WEDDING 300
* * * * *
The author and the publishers desire to make acknowledgment to the
publishers of the _Century Magazine_ and of the _New England Magazine_
for their courtesy in permitting the re-issue of certain stories which
were originally published in these periodicals.
[Illustration]
OUR TOLSTOI CLUB
I should be glad to tell a story if I only knew one, but I don't. Some
people say that one experience is as interesting as another, and that
any real life is worth hearing about; but I think it must make some
little difference who the person is. But if I really must tell one, and
since you all have told yours, and such nice ones, and anything is
better than nothing when we are kept in all the morning by a pouring
rain, with nothing to do, because we came only for a week, and did not
expect it to rain, I will try and tell you about our Tolstoi Club,
because that was rather like a story--at least it might have been like
one if things had turned out a little differently.
You know I live in a suburb of Boston, and a very charming, delightful
one it is. I cannot call it by its real name, because I am going to be
so very personal; so I will call it "Babyland," which indeed people
often do in fun. There never was such a place for children. The
population is mostly under seven years old, for it was about seven years
ago that young married people began to move into it in such numbers,
because it is so healthy; but it was always a great place for them even
when it was small. The old inhabitants are mostly grandfathers and
grandmothers now, and enjoy it very much; but they usually go into town
in the winter, with such unmarried children as they have left, to get a
little change; for there is no denying that there is a sameness about
it--the sidewalks are crowded with perambulators every pleasant day, and
at our parties the talk is apt to run too much on nursery-maids, and
milkmen and their cows, and drains, to be very interesting to those who
have not learned how terribly important such things are. So in winter
we--I mean the young married couples, of whom I am half a one--are left
pretty much to our own devices.
Though we are all so devoted to our infant families, we are not so much
so as to give up all rational pleasures or intellectual tastes; we could
not live so near Boston, you know, and do that. Our husbands go into
town every day to make money, and we go in every few days to spend it,
and in the evenings, if they are not too tired, we sometimes make them
take us in to the theatres and concerts. We all have a very nice social
circle, for Babyland is fashionable as well as respectable, and we are
asked out more or less, and go out; but for real enjoyment we like our
own clubs and classes the best. We feel so safe going round in the
neighbourhood, because we are so near the children, and can be called
home any time if necessary. There is our little evening dancing-club,
which meets round at one another's houses, where we all exchange
husbands--a kind of grown-up "puss-in-the-corner"; only, as the supply
of dancing husbands is not quite equal to that of wives, we have to get
a young man or two in if we can; and for the same reason we don't ask
any girls, who, indeed, are not very eager to come. Then there is the
musical club, and the sketching-club, and we have a great many morning
clubs for the women alone, where we bring our work (and it is splendid
to get so much time to sew), and read, or are read to, and then talk
over things. Sometimes we stay to lunch, and sometimes not; and we would
have an essay club, only we have no time to write the papers.
Now, many of these clubs meet chiefly at Minnie Mason's--Mrs. Sydney
Mason's. She gets them up, and is president: you see, she has more time,
because she has no children--the only woman in Babyland who hasn't, and
I don't doubt she feels dreadfully about it. She is not strong, and has
to lie on the sofa most of the time, and that is another reason why we
meet there so often; and then she lives right in the midst of us all,
and so close to the road that we can all of us watch our children, when
they are out for their airings, very conveniently. Minnie is very kind
and sympathetic, and takes such an interest in all our affairs, and if
she is somewhat inclined to gossip about them, poor dear, it is very
natural, when she has so few of her own to think about.
Well, in the autumn before last, Minnie said we must get up a Tolstoi
Club; she said the Russians were the coming race, and Tolstoi was their
greatest writer, and the most Christian of moralists (at least she had
read so), and that everybody was talking about him, and we should be
behindhand if we could not. So we turned one of our clubs, which had
nothing particular on hand just then, into one; and, besides Tolstoi, we
read other Russian novelists, Turgenieff and--that man whose name is so
hard to pronounce, who writes all about convicts and--and other
criminals. We did not read them all, for they are very long, and we can
never get through anything long; but we hired a very nice lady
"skimmer," who ran through them, and told us the plots, and all about
the authors, and read us bits. I forget a good deal, but I remember she
said that Tolstoi was the supreme realist, and that all previous
novelists were romancers and idealists, and that he drew life just as it
was, and nobody else had ever done anything like it, except indeed the
other Russians; and then we discussed. In discussion we are very apt to
stray off to other topics, but that day I remember Bessie Milliken
saying that the Russians seemed very queer people; she supposed that if
every one said these authors were so true to life, they must be, but she
had never known such an extraordinary state of things. Just as soon as
ever people were married--if they married at all--they seemed wild to
make love to some one else, or have some one else make love to them.
"They don't seem to do so here," said Fanny Deane.
"_We_ certainly do not," said Blanche Livermore. "I think the reason
must be that we have no time. I have scarcely time to see anything of my
own husband, much less to fall in love with any one else's."
We all laughed, but we felt that it was odd. In Babyland all went on in
an orderly and respectable fashion. The gayest girls, the fastest young
men, as soon as they were married and settled there, subsided at once
into quiet, domestic ways. At our dances each of us secretly thought
her own husband the most interesting person present, and he returned the
compliment, and after a peaceful evening of passing them about we were
always very thankful to get them back to go home with. Were we, then, so
unlike the rest of humanity?
"Are we sure?" asked Minnie Mason, always prone to speculation. "It is
not likely that we are utterly different from the rest of the world. Who
knows what dark tragedies lie hidden in the recesses of the heart? Who
knows all her neighbour's secret history?" This was being rather
personal, but no one took it home, for we never minded what Minnie said;
and as many of the club were, as always occurred, detained at home by
domestic duties, we thought it might apply to one of them. But I can't
deny that we, and especially Minnie, who had a relish for what was
sensational, and was pleased to find that realistic fiction, which she
had always thought must be dull, was really exciting, felt a little
ashamed at our being so behind the age--"provincial," as Mr. James would
call it; "obsolete," as Mr. Howells is fond of saying--at Babyland as
not to have the ghost of a scandal among us. None of us wished to give
cause for the scandal ourselves; but I think we might not have been as
sorry as we ought to be if one of our neighbours had been obliging
enough to do so. We did not want anything very bad, you know. Of course
none of us could ever have dreamed of running away with a fascinating
young man--like Anna Karenina--because in the first place we all liked
our husbands, and in the next place, who could be depended upon to go
into town to do the marketing, and to see that the children wore their
india-rubbers on wet days? But anything short of that we felt we could
bear with equanimity.
That same fall we were excited, though only in our usual harmless,
innocent way, by hearing that the old Grahame house was sold, and
pleased--though no more than was proper--that it was sold to the
Williamses. It was a pretty, old farm-house which had been improved upon
and enlarged, and had for many years been to let; and being as
inconvenient as it was pretty, it was always changing its tenants, whom
we despised as transients, and seldom called upon. But now it was
bought, and by none of your new people, who, we began to think, were
getting too common in Babyland. We all knew Willie Williams: all the men
were his old friends, and all the women had danced with him, and liked
him, and flirted with him; but I don't think it ever went deeper, for
somehow all the girls had a way of laughing at him, though he was a
handsome fellow, and had plenty of money, and was very well behaved,
and clever too in his way; but we could not help thinking him silly. For
one thing, he would be an artist, though you never saw such dreadful
daubs as all his pictures were. It was a mercy he did not have to live
by them, for he never sold any; he gave them away to his friends, and
Blanche Livermore said that was why he had so many friends, for of
course he could not work off more than one apiece on them. He was very
popular with all the other artists, for he was the kindest-hearted
creature, and always helped those who were poor, and admired those who
were great; and they never had anything to say against him, though they
could not get out anything more in his praise than that he was "careful
and conscientious in his work," which was very likely true. Then he was
vain; at least he liked his own good looks, and, being aesthetic in his
tastes, chose to display them to advantage by his attire. He wore his
hair, which was very light, long, and was seldom seen in anything less
fanciful than a boating-suit, or a bicycle-suit, though he was not given
to either exercise, but wanted an excuse for a blouse, and
knee-breeches, and tights, and a soft hat--and these were all of a more
startling pattern than other people's; while as to the velvet
painting-jackets and brocade dressing-gowns, in which he indulged in
his studio, I can only say that they made him a far more picturesque
figure than any in his pictures. It was a shame to waste such materials
on a man. Then he lisped when he was at all excited, which he often was;
and he had odd ways of walking, and standing, and sitting, which looked
affected, though I really don't think they were.
He made enthusiastic, but very brief, love to all of us in turn. I don't
know whether any of us could have had him; if one could, all could; but,
supposing we could, I don't believe any of us would have had the courage
to venture on Willie Williams. But we expected that his marriage would
be romantic and exciting, and his wedding something out of the common.
Opinions were divided as to whether his ardent love-making would induce
some lovely young Italian or Spanish girl of rank to run away from a
convent with him, or whether he would rashly take up with some artist's
model, or goose-girl, or beggar-maid. We were much disappointed when,
after all, he married in the most commonplace manner a very ordinary
girl named Loulie Latham.
We all knew Loulie too; she went to school at Miss Woodberry's, in the
class next below mine; and she was a nice girl, and we all liked her
well enough, but there never was a girl who had less in her. She was not
bad-looking, but no beauty; not at all the kind of looks to attract an
artist. Blanche Livermore said that he might have married her for her
red hair if only there had been more of it. The Lathams were very well
connected, and knew everybody, and she went about with the other girls,
and had a fair show of attention at parties; but she never had friends
or lovers. She had not much chance to have any, indeed, for she married
very young.
She was a very shy, quiet girl, and I used to think that perhaps it was
because she was so overcrowed by her mother. Mrs. Latham was a large,
striking-looking if not exactly handsome, lady-like though loud, woman,
who talked a great deal about everything. She was clever, but eccentric,
and took up all manner of fads and fancies, and though she was a
thoroughly good woman, and well born and well bred, she did know the
very queerest people--always hand in glove with some new crank. Hygiene,
as she called it, was her pet hobby. Fortunately she had a particular
aversion to dosing; but she dieted her daughter and herself, which, I
fear, was nearly as bad. All her bread had husks in it, and she was
always discovering that it was hurtful to eat any butter or drink any
water, and no end of such notions. She dressed poor Loulie so
frightfully that it was enough to take all the courage out of a girl:
with all her dresses very short in the skirt, and big at the waist, and
cut high, even in the evening, and thick shoes very queerly shaped, made
after her own orders by some shoemaker of her own, and loose cotton
gloves, and a mushroom hat down over her eyes. Finally she took up the
mind-cure, and Loulie was to keep thinking all the time how perfectly
well she was, which, I think, was what made her so thin and pale. Mrs.
Latham always said that no one ever need be ill, and indeed she never
was herself, for she was found dead in her bed one morning without any
warning.
This happened at Jackson, New Hampshire, where they were spending the
summer. Of course poor Loulie was half distracted with the shock and the
grief. There was no one in the house where they were whom she knew at
all, or who was very congenial, I fancy, and Willie Williams, whom they
knew slightly, was in the neighbourhood, sketching, and was very kind
and attentive, and more helpful than any one would ever have imagined he
could be. He saw to all the business, and telegraphed for some cousin or
other, and made the funeral arrangements; and the end of it was that in
three months he and Loulie Latham were married, and had sailed for
Europe on their wedding tour.
This was ten years ago, and they had never come back till now. They
meant to come back sooner, but one thing after another prevented. They
had no children for several years, and they thought it a good chance to
poke around in the wildest parts of Southern Europe--Corsica, and
Sardinia, and the Balearic Isles, and all that--and made their winter
quarters at Palermo. Then for the next six years they lived in less
out-of-the-way places. They had four children, and lost two; and one
thing or another kept them abroad, until they suddenly made up their
minds to come home.
We had not heard much of them while they were gone. Loulie had no one to
correspond with, and Willie, like most men, never wrote letters; but we
all were very curious to see them, and willing to welcome them, though
we did not know how much they were going to surprise us. Willie
Williams, indeed, was just the same as ever--in fact, our only surprise
in him was to see him look no older than when he went away; but as for
Mrs. Williams, she gave us quite a shock. For my part, I shall never
forget how taken aback I was, when, strolling down to the station one
afternoon with the children, with a vague idea of meeting Tom, who might
come on that train, but who didn't, I came suddenly upon a tall,
splendidly shaped, stately creature, in the most magnificent clothes;
at least they looked so, though they were all black, and the dress was
only | 1,976.40398 |
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the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian
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[Transcriber's Note:
This e-text is intended for users whose text readers cannot display
the Unicode (utf-8) version of the file. Greek words have been
transliterated and enclosed in equals signs, e.g. =ho logos=.
_Italic_ and *bold* words have been similarly enclosed in
underscores and asterisks respectively.
A few minor typographical errors and incorrect verse numbers have been
silently corrected.
The Table of Contents and Index refer to page numbers in the original
text.
All advertising material has been placed at the end of the text.]
THE EXPOSITOR'S BIBLE
EDITED BY THE REV.
W. ROBERTSON NICOLL, M.A., LL.D.
_Editor of "The Expositor," etc._
THE EPISTLE TO THE HEBREWS
BY
THOMAS CHARLES EDWARDS, D.D.
London
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
27, PATERNOSTER ROW
MCMIV
THE
EPISTLE TO THE HEBREWS
BY
THOMAS CHARLES EDWARDS, D.D.
PRINCIPAL OF THE UNIVERSITY COLLEGE OF WALES, ABERYSTWYTH
_NINTH EDITION_
London
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
27, PATERNOSTER ROW
MCMIV
_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._
PREFACE.
In this volume the sole aim of the writer has been to trace the unity of
thought in one of the greatest and most difficult books of the New
Testament. He has endeavoured to picture his reader as a member of what
is known in the Sunday-schools of Wales as "the teachers' class," a
thoughtful Christian layman, who has no Greek, and desires only to be
assisted in his efforts to come at the real bearing and force of words
and to understand the connection of the sacred author's ideas. It may
not be unnecessary to add that this design by no means implies less
labour or thought on the part of the writer. But it does imply that the
labour is veiled. Criticism is rigidly excluded.
The writer has purposely refrained from discussing the question of the
authorship of the Epistle, simply because he has no new light to throw
on this standing enigma of the Church. He is convinced that St. Paul is
neither the actual author nor the originator of the treatise.
In case theological students may wish to consult the volume when they
study the Epistle to the Hebrews, they will find the Greek given at the
foot of the page, to serve as a catch-word, whenever any point of
criticism or of interpretation seems to the writer to deserve their
attention.
T. C. E.
ABERYSTWYTH, _April 12th, 1888_.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
THE REVELATION IN A SON 3
CHAPTER II.
THE SON AND THE ANGELS 21
CHAPTER III.
FUNDAMENTAL ONENESS OF THE DISPENSATIONS 51
CHAPTER IV.
THE GREAT HIGH-PRIEST 69
CHAPTER V.
THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF RENEWAL 83
CHAPTER VI.
THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF FAILURE 99
CHAPTER VII.
THE ALLEGORY OF MELCHIZEDEK 113
CHAPTER VIII.
THE NEW COVENANT 133
CHAPTER IX.
AN ADVANCE IN THE EXHORTATION 183
CHAPTER X.
FAITH AN ASSURANCE AND A PROOF 199
CHAPTER XI.
THE FAITH OF ABRAHAM 213
CHAPTER XII.
THE FAITH OF MOSES 233
CHAPTER XIII.
A CLOUD OF WITNESSES 259
CHAPTER XIV.
CONFLICT 273
CHAPTER XV.
MOUNT ZION 293
CHAPTER XVI.
SUNDRY EXHORTATIONS 315
INDEX 331
SUMMARY.
I. THE REVELATION IN A SON: i. 1-3.
1. The previous revelation was in portions; this is a Son, Who is the
Heir and the Creator.
2. The previous revelation was in divers manners; this in a Son, Who is
(1) the effulgence of God's glory; (2) the image of His substance; (3)
the Sustainer of all things; (4) the eternal Priest-King.
II. THE SON AND THE ANGELS: i. 4-ii. 18.
1. The Revealer of God Son of God: i. 4-ii. 4.
2. The Son the Representative of man: ii. 5-18. (1) He is crowned with
glory as Son, that His propitiation may prove effectual, and His
humiliation involves a propitiatory death. (2) His glory consists in
being Leader of His people, and His humiliation fitted Him for
leadership. (3) His glory consists in power to consecrate men to God,
and His humiliation endowed Him with this power. (4) His glory consists
in the destruction of Satan, and Satan is destroyed through the Son's
humiliation.
III. FUNDAMENTAL ONENESS OF THE DISPENSATIONS: iii. i-iv. 13.
1. Moses and Christ are equally God's stewards.
2. The threatenings of God under the Old Testament are in force in
reference to apostasy from Christ.
3. The promises of God are still in force.
IV. THE GREAT HIGH-PRIEST: iv. 4-v. 10.
1. His sympathy.
2. His authority.
V. (A DIGRESSION) THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF RENEWAL IN THE CASE OF SCOFFERS:
v. 11-vi. 8.
Their renewal is impossible (1) because the doctrine of Christianity is
practical, and (2) because God's punishment of cynicism is the
destruction of the spiritual faculty.
VI. (CONTINUATION OF THE DIGRESSION.) THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF FAILURE: vi.
9-20.
VII. THE ALLEGORY OF MELCHIZEDEK: vii. 1-28.
1. Melchizedek foreshadows the kingship of Christ.
2. Melchizedek foreshadows the personal greatness of Christ.
3. The allegory teaches the existence of a priesthood other than that of
Aaron, viz., the priesthood founded on an oath.
4. The allegory sets forth the eternal duration of Christ's priesthood.
VIII. THE NEW COVENANT: viii. 1.
1. A new covenant promised through Jeremiah: viii. 1-13. The new
covenant would excel (1) in respect of the moral law; (2) in respect of
knowledge of God; (3) in respect of forgiveness of sins.
2. A new covenant symbolized in the tabernacle: ix. 1-14.
3. A new covenant ratified in the death of Christ: ix. 15-x. 18.
IX. AN ADVANCE IN THE EXHORTATION: x. 19-39.
X. FAITH AN ASSURANCE AND A PROOF: xi. 1-3.
XI. THE FAITH OF ABRAHAM: xi. 8-19.
1. His faith compared with the faith of Noah.
2. His faith compared with the faith of Enoch.
3. His faith compared with the faith of Abel.
XII. THE FAITH OF MOSES: xi. 23-28.
1. Faith groping for the work of life.
2. Faith chooses the work of life.
3. Faith a discipline for the work of life.
4. Faith renders the man's life and work sacramental.
XIII. A CLOUD OF WITNESSES: xi. 20-xii. 1.
XIV. | 1,976.405062 |
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THE BEGINNINGS OF LIBRARIES
[Illustration:
A COLLECTION OF QUIPUS
AMERICAN MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY, N. Y.
NOS. B 3453, 8704
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE
BEGINNINGS OF LIBRARIES
BY
ERNEST CUSHING RICHARDSON
LIBRARIAN OF PRINCETON UNIVERSITY
PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS
PRINCETON
LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
1914
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Copyright, 1914, by
Ernest Cushing Richardson_
PUBLISHED FEBRUARY, 1914
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE
A considerable mass of memoranda on the early history of libraries has
been gathered by the author of this essay during the last twenty-five
years, and out of this material various essays have been published from
time to time on Antediluvian Libraries, Medieval Libraries, Some Old
Egyptian Librarians, etc. The fact that the unworked mass of modern
information through excavations is so great as to put off for a long
time still a systematic treatise, has led to the plan of publishing
these essays and addresses from time to time as completed and in uniform
style. Although written for very different audiences and in various
methods, each is an attempt to gather information not generally
accessible and to be, so far as it goes, either a contribution to
knowledge or to the method of knowledge, a sort of preliminary report or
investigation in the field, pending full and systematic report. The
nucleus of this essay on the _Beginnings of Libraries_ was an address to
the Library School of the New York Public Library at the beginning of
the academic year 1912-13, and takes its color from this fact, but it
has been freely enlarged. The writer owes special thanks to the American
Museum of Natural History in New York.
ERNEST CUSHING RICHARDSON.
Princeton University Library,
October 12, 1913.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
Preface v
Contents vii
List of illustrations ix
1. Introduction 1
2. The study of beginnings 5
3. Definition of the Library 14
4. Method 22
5. Antediluvian libraries. General 25
6. Libraries of the gods 27
7. Animal and plant libraries? 34
8. Preadamite libraries 39
9. Adamite and patriarchal libraries before the flood 42
10. Prehistoric and historic libraries 50
11. The evolution of record keeping 54
12. Memory libraries 65
13. Pictorial object libraries 76
14. Mnemonic object libraries 91
15. Picture book libraries 100
16. Ideographic records 114
17. Types of primitive libraries 116
18. Contents of primitive libraries 132
19. The administration of primitive libraries 142
20. The beginnings of library schools 151
21. The beginnings of library research 156
22. Bibliography 159
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. A collection of quipus Frontispiece.
2. A collection of message sticks 94
3. A collection of wampum 98
4. A record ornament of leopard teeth 102
5. Tupai Cupa’s Tattoo Marks 106
6. Picture writing, Lone Dog’s Winter Count 108
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE BEGINNINGS OF LIBRARIES
§ 1. _Introduction_
This talk is addressed to those beginning library work as a life work.
This connects “library work” with two significant phrases, “those
beginning” and “as a life work”.
This phrase “as a life work” suggests what is perhaps the chief value of
a library school training. The distinction of and main justification for
all kinds of higher education is that such education aims to put the
student in position to view his work to be done as a whole | 1,976.503413 |
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FREELAND
A SOCIAL ANTICIPATION
BY
DR. THEODOR HERTZKA
TRANSLATED BY
ARTHUR RANSOM
1891
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE
This book contains a translation of _Freiland; ein sociales Zukunftsbild_,
by Dr. THEODOR HERTZKA, a Viennese economist. The first German edition
appeared early in 1890, and was rapidly followed by three editions in an
abridged form. This translation is made from the unabridged edition, with a
few emendations from the subsequent editions.
The author has long been known as an eminent representative of those
Austrian Economists who belong to what is known on the Continent as the
Manchester School as distinguished from the Historical School. In 1872 he
became economic editor of the _Neue Freie Presse_; and in 1874 he with
others founded the Society of Austrian National Economists. In 1880 he
published _Die Gesetze der Handels-und Sozialpolitik_; and in 1886 _Die
Gesetze der Sozialentwickelung_. At various times he has published works
which have made him an authority upon currency questions. In 1889 he
founded, and he still edits, the weekly _Zeitschrift fuer Staats-und
Volkswirthschaft_.
How the author was led to modify some of his earlier views will be found
detailed in the introduction of the present work.
The publication of _Freiland_ immediately called forth in Austria and
Germany a desire to put the author's views in practice. In many of the
larger towns and cities a number of persons belonging to all classes of
society organised local societies for this purpose, and these local
societies have now been united into an International Freeland Society. At
the first plenary meeting of the Vienna _Freilandverein_ in March last, it
was announced that a suitable tract of land in British East Africa, between
Mount Kenia and the coast, had already been placed at the disposal of the
Society; and a hope was expressed that the actual formation of a Freeland
Colony would not be long delayed. It is anticipated that the English
edition of _Freiland_ will bring a considerable number of English-speaking
members into the Society; and it is intended soon to make an application to
the British authorities for a guarantee of non-interference by the
Government with the development of Freeland institutions.
Any of the readers of this book who wish for further information concerning
the Freeland movement, may apply either to Dr. HERTZKA in Vienna, or to the
Translator.
A.R.
ST. LOYES, BEDFORD: _June_, 1891.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
The economic and social order of the modern world exhibits a strange
enigma, which only a prosperous thoughtlessness can regard with
indifference or, indeed, without a shudder. We have made such splendid
advances in art and science that the unlimited forces of nature have been
brought into subjection, and only await our command to perform for us all
our disagreeable and onerous tasks, and to wring from the soil and prepare
for use whatever man, the master of the world, may need. As a consequence,
a moderate amount of labour ought to produce inexhaustible abundance for
everyone born of woman; and yet all these glorious achievements have
not--as Stuart Mill forcibly says--been able to mitigate one human woe.
And, what is more, the ever-increasing facility of producing an abundance
has proved a curse to multitudes who lack necessaries because there exists
no demand for the many good and useful things which they are able to
produce. The industrial activity of the present day is a ceaseless confused
struggle with the various symptoms of the dreadful evil known as
'over-production.' Protective duties, cartels and trusts, guild agitations,
strikes--all these are but the desperate resistance offered by the classes
engaged in production to the inexorable consequences of the apparently so
absurd, but none the less real, phenomenon that increasing facility in the
production of wealth brings ruin and misery in its train.
That science stands helpless and perplexed before this enigma, that no beam
of light has yet penetrated and dispelled the gloom of this--the
social--problem, though that problem has exercised the minds of the noblest
and best of to-day, is in part due to the fact that the solution has been
sought in a wrong direction.
Let us see, for example, what Stuart Mill says upon this subject: 'I looked
forward... to a future'... whose views (and institutions)... shall be
'so firmly grounded in reason and in the true exigencies of life that they
shall not, like all former and present creeds, religious, ethical, and
political, require to be periodically thrown off and replaced by others.'
[Footnote: _Autobiography_, p. 166.]
Yet more plainly does Laveleye express himself in the same sense at the
close of his book 'De la Propriete': 'There is an order of human affairs
_which is the best... God knows it and wills it_. Man must discover and
introduce it.'
It is therefore an _absolutely best, eternal order_ which both are waiting
for; although, when we look more closely, we find that both ought to know
they are striving after the impossible. For Mill, a few lines before the
above remarkable passage, points out that all human things are in a state
of constant flux; and upon this he bases his conviction that existing
institutions can be only transitory. Therefore, upon calm reflection, he
would be compelled to admit that the same would hold in the future, and
that consequently unchangeable human institutions will never exist. And
just so must we suppose that Laveleye, with his '_God_ knows it and wills
it,' would have to admit that it could _not_ be man's task either to
discover or to introduce the absolutely best order known only to God. He is
quite correct in saying that if there be really an absolutely best order,
God alone knows it; but since it cannot be the office of science to wait
upon Divine revelation, and since such an absolutely best order could be
introduced by God alone and not by men, and therefore the revelation of the
Divine will would not help us in the least, so it must logically follow,
from the admission that the knowing and the willing of the absolutely good
appertain to God, that man has not to strive after this absolutely good,
but after the _relatively best_, which alone is intelligible to and
attainable by him.
And thus it is in fact. The solution of the social problem is not to be
sought in the discovery of an _absolutely good_ order of society, but in
that of the _relatively best_--that is, of such an order of human
institutions as best corresponds to the contemporary conditions of human
existence. The existing arrangements of society call for improvement, not
because they are out of harmony with our longing for an absolutely good
state of things, but because it can be shown to be possible to replace them
by others more in accordance with the contemporary conditions of human
existence. Darwin's law of evolution in nature teaches us that when the
actual social arrangements have ceased to be the relatively best--that is,
those which best correspond to the contemporary conditions of human
existence--their abandonment is not only possible but simply inevitable.
For in the struggle for existence that which is out of date not only _may_
but _must_ give place to that which is more in harmony with the actual
conditions. And this law also teaches us that all the characters of any
organic being whatever are the results of that being's struggle for
existence in the conditions in which it finds itself. If, now, we bring
together these various hints offered us by the doctrine of evolution, we
see the following to be the only path along which the investigation of the
social problem can be pursued so as to reach the goal:
First, we must inquire and establish under what particular conditions of
existence the actual social arrangements were evolved.
Next we must find out whether these same conditions of existence still
subsist, or whether others have taken their place.
If others have taken their place, it must be clearly shown whether the new
conditions of existence are compatible with the old arrangements; and, if
not, what alterations of the latter are required.
The new arrangements thus discovered must and will contain that which we
are justified in looking for as the'solution of the social problem.'
When I applied this strictly scientific method of investigation to the
social problem, I arrived four years ago at the following conclusions, to
the exposition of which I devoted my book on 'The Laws of Social
Evolution,' [Footnote: _Die Gesetze der Sozialentwickelung_ Leipzig, 1886.]
published at that time:
The actual social arrangements are the necessary result of the human
struggle for existence when the productiveness of labour was such that a
single worker could produce, by the labour of his own hands, more than was
indispensable to the sustenance of his animal nature, but not enough to
enable him to satisfy his higher needs. With only this moderate degree of
productiveness of labour, the exploitage of man by man was the only way by
which it was possible to ensure to _individuals_ wealth and leisure, those
fundamental essentials to higher culture. But as soon as the productiveness
of labour reaches the point at which it is sufficient to satisfy also the
highest requirements of every worker, the exploitage of man by man not only
ceases to be a necessity of civilisation, but becomes an obstacle to
further progress by hindering men from making full use of the industrial
capacity to which they have attained.
For, as under the domination of exploitage the masses have no right to more
of what they produce than is necessary for their bare subsistence, demand
is cramped by limitations which are quite independent of the possible
amount of production. Things for which there is no demand are valueless,
and therefore will not be produced; consequently, under the exploiting
system, society does not produce that amount of wealth which the progress
of science and technical art has made possible, but only that infinitely
smaller amount which suffices for the bare subsistence of the masses and
the luxury of the few. Society wishes to employ the whole of the surplus of
the productive power in the creation of instruments of labour--that is, it
wishes to convert it into capital; but this is impossible, since the
quantity of utilisable capital is strictly dependent upon the quantity of
commodities to be produced by the aid of this capital. The utilisation of
all the proceeds of such highly productive labour is therefore dependent
upon the creation of a new social order which shall guarantee to every
worker the enjoyment of the full proceeds of his own work. And since
impartial investigation further shows that this new order is not merely
indispensable to further progress in civilisation, but is also thoroughly
in harmony with the natural and acquired characteristics of human society,
and consequently is met by no inherent and permanent obstacle, it is
evident that in the natural process of human evolution this new order must
necessarily come into being.
When I placed this conclusion before the public four years ago, I assumed,
as something self-evident, that I was announcing a doctrine which was not
by any means an isolated novelty; and I distinctly said so in the preface
to the 'Laws of Social Evolution.' I fully understood that there must be
some connecting bridge between the so-called classical economics and the
newly discovered truths; and I was convinced that in a not distant future
either others or myself would discover this bridge. But in expounding the
consequences springing from the above-mentioned general principles, I at
first allowed an error to escape my notice. That ground-rent and
undertaker's profit--that is, the payment which the landowner demands for
the use of his land, and the claim of the so-called work-giver to the
produce of the worker's labour--are incompatible with the claim of the
worker to the produce of his own labour, and that consequently in the
course of social evolution ground-rent and undertaker's profit must become
obsolete and must be given up--this I perceived; but with respect to the
interest of capital I adhered to the classical-orthodox view that this was
a postulate of progress which would survive all the phases of evolution.
As palliation of my error I may mention that it was the opponents of
capital themselves--and Marx in particular--who confirmed me in it, or,
more correctly, who prevented me from distinctly perceiving the basis upon
which interest essentially rests. To tear oneself away from long-cherished
views is in itself extremely difficult; and when, moreover, the men who
attack the old views base their attack point after point upon error, it
becomes only too easy to mistake the weakness of the attack for
impregnability in the thing attacked. Thus it happened with me. Because I
saw that what had been hitherto advanced against capital and interest was
altogether untenable, I felt myself absolved from the task of again and
independently inquiring whether there were no better, no really valid,
arguments against the absolute and permanent necessity of interest. Thus,
though interest is, in reality, as little compatible with associated labour
carried on upon the principle of perfect economic justice as are
ground-rent and the undertaker's profit, I was prevented by this
fundamental error from arriving at satisfactory views concerning the
constitution and character of the future forms of organisation based upon
the principle of free organisation. _That_ and _wherefore_ economic freedom
and justice must eventually be practically realised, I had shown; on the
other hand, _how_ this phase of evolution was to be brought about I was not
able to make fully clear. Yet I did not ascribe this inability to any error
of mine in thinking the subject out, but believed it to reside in the
nature of the subject itself. I reasoned that institutions the practical
shaping of which belongs to the future could not be known in detail before
they were evolved. Just as those former generations, which knew nothing of
the modern joint-stock company, could not possibly form an exact and
perfect idea of the nature and working of this institution even if they had
conceived the principle upon which it is based, so I held it to be
impossible to-day to possess a clear and connected idea of those future
economic forms which cannot be evolved until the principle of the free
association of labour has found its practical realisation.
I was slow in discovering the above-mentioned connection of my doctrine of
social evolution with the orthodox system of economy. The most
clear-sighted minds of three centuries have been at work upon that system;
and if a new doctrine is to win acceptance, it is absolutely necessary that
its propounder should not merely refute the old doctrine and expose its
errors, but should trace back and lay open to its remotest source the
particular process of thought which led these heroes of our science into
their errors. It is not enough to show _that_ and _wherefore_ their theses
were false; it must also be made clear _how_ and _wherefore_ those thinkers
arrived at their false theses, what it was that forced them--despite all
their sagacity--to hold such theses as correct though they are simply
absurd when viewed in the light of truth. I pondered in vain over this
enigma, until suddenly, like a ray of sunlight, there shot into the
darkness of my doubt the discovery that in its essence my work was nothing
but the necessary outcome of what others had achieved--that my theory was
in no way out of harmony with the numerous theories of my predecessors, but
that rather, when thoroughly understood, it was the very truth after which
all the other economists had been searching, and upon the track of
which--and this I held to be decisive--I had been thrown, not by my own
sagacity, but solely by the mental labours of my great predecessors. In
other words, _the solution of the social problem offered by me is the very
solution of the economic problem which the science of political economy has
been incessantly seeking from its first rise down to the present day_.
But, I hear it asked, does political economy possess such a problem--one
whose solution it has merely attempted but not arrived at? For it is
remarkable that in our science the widest diversity of opinions co-exists
with the most dogmatic orthodoxy. Very few draw from the existence of the
numberless antagonistic opinions the self-evident conclusion that those
opinions are erroneous, or at least unproved; and none are willing to admit
that--like their opponents--they are merely seeking the truth, and are not
in possession of it. So prevalent is this tenacity of opinion which puts
faith in the place of knowledge that the fact that every science owes its
origin to a problem is altogether forgotten. This problem may afterwards
find its solution, and therewith the science will have achieved its
purpose; but without a problem there is no investigation--consequently,
though there may be knowledge, there will be no science. Clear and simple
cognisances do not stimulate the human mind to that painstaking,
comprehensive effort which is the necessary antecedent of science; in
brief, a science can arise only when things are under consideration which
are not intelligible directly and without profound reflection--things,
therefore, which contain a problem.
Thus, political economy must have had its problem, its enigma, out of the
attempts to solve which it had its rise. This problem is nothing else but
the question '_Why do we not become richer in proportion to our increasing
capacity of producing wealth?_' To this question a satisfactory answer can
no more be given to-day than could be given three centuries ago--at the
time, that is, when the problem first arose in view, not of a previously
existing phenomenon to which the human mind had then had its attention
drawn for the first time, but of a phenomenon which was then making its
first appearance.
With unimportant and transient exceptions (which, it may be incidentally
remarked, are easily explicable from what follows) antiquity and the Middle
Ages had no political economy. This was not because the men of those times
were not sharp-sighted enough to discover the sources of wealth, but
because to them there was nothing enigmatical about those sources of
wealth. The nations became richer the more progress they made in the art of
producing; and this was so self-evident and clear that, very rightly, no
one thought it necessary to waste words about it. It was not until the end
of the sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth centuries of our era,
therefore scarcely three hundred years ago, that political economy as a
distinct science arose.
It is impossible for the unprejudiced eye to escape seeing what the first
political economists sought for--what the problem was with which they
busied themselves. They stood face to face with the enigmatical fact that
increasing capacity of production is not necessarily accompanied or
followed by an increase of wealth; and they sought to explain this fact.
Why this remarkable fact then first made its appearance will be clearly
seen from what follows; it is unquestionable _that_ it then appeared, for
the whole system of these first political economists, the so-called
Mercantilists, had no other aim than to demonstrate that the increase of
wealth depends not, as everybody had until then very naturally believed,
upon increasing productiveness of labour, but upon something else, that
something else being, in the opinion of the Mercantilists, money.
Notwithstanding what may be called the tangible absurdity of this doctrine,
it remained unquestioned for generations; nay, to be candid, most men still
cling to it--a fact which would be inconceivable did not the doctrine offer
a very simple and plausible explanation of the enigmatical phenomenon that
increasing capacity of production does not necessarily bring with it a
corresponding increase of wealth.
But it is equally impossible for the inquiring human mind to remain
permanently blind to the fact that money and wealth are two very different
things, and that therefore some other solution must be looked for of the
problem, the existence of which is not to be denied. The Physiocrats found
this second explanation in the assertion that the soil was the source and
origin of all wealth, whilst human labour, however highly developed it
might be, could add nothing to what was drawn from the soil, because labour
itself consumed what it produced. This may look like the first application
of the subsequently discovered natural law of the conservation of force;
and--notwithstanding its obvious absurdity--it was seriously believed in
because it professed to explain what seemed otherwise inexplicable. Between
the labourer's means of subsistence, the amount of labour employed, and the
product, there is by no means that quantitative relation which is to be
found in the conversion of one physical force into another. Human labour
produces more or less in proportion as it is better or worse applied; for
production does not consist in converting labour into things that have a
value, but in using labour to produce such things out of natural objects. A
child can understand this, yet the acutest thinkers of the eighteenth
century denied it with the approval of the best of their contemporaries and
of not the worst of their epigones, because they could not otherwise
explain the strange problem of human economics.
Then arose that giant of our science, one of the greatest minds of which
humanity can boast--Adam Smith. He restored the ancient wisdom of our
ancestors, and also clearly and irrefutably demonstrated what they had only
instinctively recognised--namely, that the increase of wealth depends upon
the productiveness of human labour. But while he threw round this truth the
enduring ramparts of his logic and of his sound understanding, he
altogether failed to see that the actual facts directly contradicted his
doctrine. He saw that wealth did _not_ increase step by step with the
increased productiveness of labour; but he believed he had discovered the
cause of this in the mercantilistic and physiocratic sins of the past. In
his day the historical sense was not sufficiently developed to save him
from the error of confounding the--erroneous--explanations of an existing
evil with its causes. Hence he believed that the course of economic events
would necessarily correspond fully with the restored laws of a sound
understanding--that is, that wealth would necessarily increase step by step
with the capacity of producing it, if only production were freed from the
legislative restraints and fiscal fetters which cramped it.
But even this delusion could not long prevail. Ricardo was the first of the
moderns who perceived that wealth did not increase in proportion to
industrial capacity, even when production and trade were, as Smith
demanded, freed from State interference and injury. He hit upon the
expedient of finding the cause of this incongruity in the nature of labour
itself. Since labour is the only source of value, he said, it cannot
increase value. A thing is worth as much as the quantity of labour put into
it; consequently, when with increasing productiveness of labour the amount
of labour necessary to the production of a thing is diminished, then the
value of that thing diminishes also. Hence no increase in the
productiveness of labour can increase the total sum of values. This,
however, is a fundamental mistake, for what depends upon the amount of
labour is merely the _relative_ value of things--the exchange relation in
which they stand to other things. This is so self-evident that Ricardo
himself cannot avoid expressly stating that he is speaking of merely the
'relative' value of things; nevertheless, this relative value--which,
strictly speaking, is nothing but a value relation, the relation of
values--is treated by him as if it were absolute value.
And yet Ricardo's error is a not less important step in the evolution of
doctrine than those of his previously mentioned predecessors. It signifies
the revival of the original problem of political economy, which had been
lost sight of since Adam Smith; and Ricardo's follower, Marx, is in a
certain sense right when, with bitter scorn, he denounces as 'vulgar
economists' those who, persistently clinging to Smith's optimism, see in
the _productiveness_ of labour the measure of the increase of _actual_
wealth. For all that was brought against Ricardo by his opponents was known
by him as well as or better than by them; only he knew what had escaped
their notice, or what they saw no obligation to take note of in their
theory--namely, that the actual facts directly contradicted the doctrine.
It by no means escaped Ricardo that his attempted reconciliation of the
theory with the great problem of economics was absurd; and Marx has most
clearly shown the absurdity of it. The latter speaks of the alleged
dependence of value, not upon the productiveness of labour, but upon the
effort put forth by the labourer, as the 'fetishism' of industry; this
relation, being unnatural, contrary to the nature of things, ought
therefore--and this, again, is Marx's contribution to the progress of the
science--to be referred back to an unnatural ultimate cause residing, not
in the nature of things, but in human arrangements. And in looking for this
ultimate cause, he, like his great predecessors, comes extremely near to
the truth, but, after all, glides past without seeing it.
On this road, which leads to truth past so many errors, the last stage is
the hypothesis set up by the so-called Historical School of political
economy--the hypothesis, namely, that there exists in the nature of things
a gulf between economic theory and practice, which makes it quite
conceivable that the principles that are correct _in thesi_ do not coincide
with the real course of industrial life. The existence of the problem is
thereby more fully established than ever, but its solution is placed
outside of the domain of theoretical cognisance. For the Historical School
is perfectly correct in maintaining that the abstractions of the current
economic doctrine are practically useless, and that this is true not only
of some of them, but of all. The real human economy does _not_ obey those
laws which the theorists have abstractedly deduced from economic phenomena.
Hence it is only possible either that the human economy is by its very
nature unfitted to become the object of scientific abstraction and
cognisance, or that the abstractions hitherto made have been
erroneous--erroneous, that is, not in the sense of being actually out of
harmony with phenomena from which they are correctly and logically deduced,
but in the sense of being theoretically erroneous, deduced according to
wrong principles, and therefore useless both _in abstracto_ and _in
concreto_.
Of these alternatives only the second can, in reality, be correct. There is
absolutely no reasonable ground for supposing that the laws which regulate
the economic activity of men should be beyond human cognisance; and still
less ground is there for assuming that such laws do not exist at all. We
must therefore suppose that the science which seeks to discover these laws
has hitherto failed to attain its object simply because it has been upon
the wrong road--that is, that the principles of political economy are
erroneous because, in deducing them from the economic phenomena, some fact
has been overlooked, some mistake in reasoning has been committed. There
_must_ be a correct solution of the problem of political economy; and the
solution of the social problem derived from the theory of social evolution
offers at once the key to the other.
The correct answer to the question, 'Why are we not richer in proportion to
the increase in our productive capacity?' is this: _Because wealth does not
consist in what can be produced, but in what is actually produced; the
actual production, however, depends not merely upon the amount of
productive power, but also upon the extent of what is required, not merely
upon the possible supply, but also upon the possible demand: the current
social arrangements, however, prevent the demand from increasing to the
same extent as the productive capacity._ In other words: We do not produce
that wealth which our present capacity makes it possible for us to produce,
but only so much as we have use for; and this use depends, not upon our
capacity of producing, but upon our capacity of consuming.
It is now plain why the economic problem of the disparity between the
possible and the actual increase of wealth is of so comparatively recent a
date. Antiquity and the middle ages knew nothing of this problem, because
human labour was not then productive enough to do more than provide and
maintain the means of production after covering the consumption of the
masses and the possessors of property. There was in those ages a demand for
all the things which labour was then able to produce; full employment could
be made of any increase of capacity to create wealth; no one could for a
moment be in doubt as to the purpose which the increased power of producing
had served; there was no economic problem to call into existence a special
science of political economy. Then came the Renaissance; the human mind
awoke out of its thousand years of hibernation; the great inventions and
discoveries rapidly followed one upon another; division of labour and the
mobilisation of capital gave a powerful impulse to production; and now, for
the first time, the productiveness of labour became so great, and the
impossibility of using as much as labour could produce became so evident,
that men were compelled to face the perplexing fact which finds expression
in the economic problem.
That three centuries should have had to elapse before the solution could be
found, is in perfect harmony with the other fact that it was reserved for
these last generations to give us complete control over the forces of
nature, and to render it possible for us to _make use_ of the knowledge we
have acquired. For so long as human production was in the main dependent
upon the capacity and strength of human muscles, aided by the muscles of a
few domestic animals, more might certainly be produced than would be
consumed by the luxury of a few after the bare subsistence of the masses
had been provided for; but to afford to _all_ men an abundance without
excessive labour needed the results of the substitution of the
inexhaustible forces of nature for muscular energy. Until this substitution
had become possible, it would have availed mankind little to have attained
to a knowledge of the ultimate ground of the hindrance to the full
utilisation of the then existing powers of production.
For in order that the exploitage of man by man might be put an end to, it
was necessary that the amount of producible wealth should not merely exceed
the consumption of the few wealthy persons, but should be sufficient to
satisfy the higher human needs of all. Economic equity, if it is not to
bring about a stagnation in civilisation, assumes that the man who has to
depend upon the earnings of his own labour is in a position to enjoy a
considerable amount of wealth at the cost of moderate effort. This has
become possible only during the last few generations; and herein is to be
sought the reason why the great economists of the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries were not able to rise to an unprejudiced critical
examination of the true nature and the necessary consequences of the
exploiting system of industry. _They_ were compelled to regard exploitage
as a cruel but eternally unavoidable condition of the progress of
civilisation; for when they lived it was and it always had been a necessity
of civilisation, and they could not justly be expected to anticipate such a
fundamental revolution in the conditions of human existence as must
necessarily precede the passage from exploitage to economic equity.
So long as the exploitage of man by man was considered a necessary and
eternal institution, there existed no motive to prompt men to subject it to
a closer critical investigation; and in the absence of such an
investigation its influence upon the nature and extent of demand could not
be discovered. The old economists were therefore _compelled_ to believe it
chimerical to think of demand as falling short of production; for they
said, quite correctly, that man produces only to consume. Here, with them,
the question of demand was done with, and every possibility of the
discovery of the true connection cut off. Their successors, on the other
hand, who have all been witnesses of the undreamt-of increase of the
productiveness of labour, have hitherto been prevented, by their otherwise
well-justified respect for the authority of the founders of our science,
from adequately estimating the economic importance of this revolution in
the conditions of labour. The classical system of economics is based upon a
conception of the world which takes in all the affairs of life, is
self-consistent, and is supported by all the past teachings of the great
forms of civilisation; and if we would estimate the enormous force with
which this doctrine holds us bound, we must remember that even those who
were the first to recognise its incongruity with existing facts were unable
to free themselves from its power. They persisted in believing in it,
though they perceived its incompatibility with the facts, and knew
therefore that it was false.
This glance at the historical evolution of economic doctrine opens the way
to the rectification of all the errors of which the different schools of
political economy have--even in their quest after truth--been guilty. It is
seen that the great inquirers and thinkers of past centuries, in their vast
work of investigation and analysis of economic facts, approached so very
near to the full and complete cognisance of the true connection of all
phenomena, that it needed but a little more labour in order to construct a
thoroughly harmonious definitive economic theory based upon the solution,
at last discovered, of the long vexed problem.
I zealously threw myself into this task, and had proceeded with | 1,976.503494 |
2023-11-16 18:50:00.5849620 | 7,436 | 10 |
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Brett Koonce and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team
ENGLAND AND THE WAR
being
SUNDRY ADDRESSES
delivered during the war
and now first collected
by
WALTER RALEIGH
OXFORD
1918
CONTENTS
PREFACE
MIGHT IS RIGHT
First published as one of the Oxford Pamphlets,
October 1914.
THE WAR OF IDEAS
An Address to the Royal Colonial Institute,
December 12, 1916.
THE FAITH OF ENGLAND
An Address to the Union Society of University
College, London, March 22, 1917.
SOME GAINS OF THE WAR
An Address to the Royal Colonial Institute,
February 13, 1918.
THE WAR AND THE PRESS
A Paper read to the Essay Society, Eton College,
March 14, 1918.
SHAKESPEARE AND ENGLAND
The Annual Shakespeare Lecture of the British
Academy, delivered July 4, 1918.
PREFACE
This book was not planned, but grew out of the troubles of the time.
When, on one occasion or another, I was invited to lecture, I did not
find, with Milton's Satan, that the mind is its own place; I could speak
only of what I was thinking of, and my mind was fixed on the War. I am
unacquainted with military science, so my treatment of the War was
limited to an estimate of the characters of the antagonists.
The character of Germany and the Germans is a riddle. I have seen no
convincing solution of it by any Englishman, and hardly any confident
attempt at a solution which did not speak the uncontrolled language of
passion. There is the same difficulty with the lower animals; our
description of them tends to be a description of nothing but our own
loves and hates. Who has ever fathomed the mind of a rhinoceros; or has
remembered, while he faces the beast, that a good rhinoceros is a
pleasant member of the community in which his life is passed? We see
only the folded hide, the horn, and the angry little eye. We know that
he is strong and cunning, and that his desires and instincts are
inconsistent with our welfare. Yet a rhinoceros is a simpler creature
than a German, and does not trouble our thought by conforming, on
occasion, to civilized standards and humane conditions.
It seems unreasonable to lay great stress on racial differences. The
insuperable barrier that divides England from Germany has grown out of
circumstance and habit and thought. For many hundreds of years the
German peoples have stood to arms in their own defence against the
encroachments of successive empires; and modern Germany learned the
doctrine of the omnipotence of force by prolonged suffering at the hands
of the greatest master of that immoral school--the Emperor Napoleon. No
German can understand the attitude of disinterested patronage which the
English mind quite naturally assumes when it is brought into contact
with foreigners. The best example of this superiority of attitude is to
be seen in the people who are called pacifists. They are a peculiarly
English type, and they are the most arrogant of all the English. The
idea that they should ever have to fight for their lives is to them
supremely absurd. There must be some mistake, they think, which can be
easily remedied once it is pointed out. Their title to existence is so
clear to themselves that they are convinced it will be universally
recognized; it must not be made a matter of international conflict.
Partly, no doubt, this belief is fostered by lack of imagination. The
sheltered conditions and leisured life which they enjoy as the parasites
of a dominant race have produced in them a false sense of security. But
there is something also of the English strength and obstinacy of
character in their self-confidence, and if ever Germany were to conquer
England some of them would spring to their full stature as the heroes of
an age-long and indomitable resistance. They are not held in much esteem
to-day among their own people; they are useless for the work in hand;
and their credit has suffered from the multitude of pretenders who make
principle a cover for cowardice. But for all that, they are kin to the
makers of England, and the fact that Germany would never tolerate them
for an instant is not without its lesson.
We shall never understand the Germans. Some of their traits may possibly
be explained by their history. Their passionate devotion to the State,
their amazing vulgarity, their worship of mechanism and mechanical
efficiency, are explicable in a people who are not strong in individual
character, who have suffered much to achieve union, and who have
achieved it by subordinating themselves, soul and body, to a brutal
taskmaster. But the convulsions of war have thrown up things that are
deeper than these, primaeval things, which, until recently, civilization
was believed to have destroyed. The old monstrous gods who gave their
names to the days of the week are alive again in Germany. The English
soldier of to-day goes into action with the cold courage of a man who is
prepared to make the best of a bad job. The German soldier sacrifices
himself, in a frenzy of religious exaltation, to the War-God. The
filthiness that the Germans use, their deliberate befouling of all that
is elegant and gracious and antique, their spitting into the food that
is to be eaten by their prisoners, their defiling with ordure the sacred
vessels in the churches--all these things, too numerous and too
monotonous to describe, are not the instinctive coarsenesses of the
brute beast; they are a solemn ritual of filth, religiously practised,
by officers no less than by men. The waves of emotional exaltation which
from time to time pass over the whole people have the same character,
the character of savage religion.
If they are alien to civilization when they fight, they are doubly alien
when they reason. They are glib and fluent in the use of the terms which
have been devised for the needs of thought and argument, but their use
of these terms is empty, and exhibits all the intellectual processes
with the intelligence left out. I know nothing more distressing than the
attempt to follow any German argument concerning the War. If it were
merely wrong-headed, cunning, deceitful, there might still be some
compensation in its cleverness. There is no such compensation. The
statements made are not false, but empty; the arguments used are not
bad, but meaningless. It is as if they despised language, and made use
of it only because they believe that it is an instrument of deceit. But
a man who has no respect for language cannot possibly use it in such a
manner as to deceive others, especially if those others are accustomed
to handle it delicately and powerfully. It ought surely to be easy to
apologize for a war that commands the whole-hearted support of a nation;
but no apology worthy of the name has been produced in Germany. The
pleadings which have been used are servile things, written to order, and
directed to some particular address, as if the truth were of no
importance. No one of these appeals has produced any appreciable effect
on the minds of educated Frenchmen, or Englishmen, or Americans, even
among those who are eager to hear all that the enemy has to say for
himself. This is a strange thing; and is perhaps the widest breach of
all. We are hopelessly separated from the Germans; we have lost the use
of a common language, and cannot talk with them if we would.
We cannot understand them; is it remotely possible that they will ever
understand us? Here, too, the difficulties seem insuperable. It is true
that in the past they have shown themselves willing to study us and to
imitate us. But unless they change their minds and their habits, it is
not easy to see how they are to get near enough to us to carry on their
study. While they remain what they are we do not want them in our
neighbourhood. We are not fighting to anglicize Germany, or to impose
ourselves on the Germans; our work is being done, as work is so often
done in this idle sport-loving country, with a view to a holiday. We
wish to forget the Germans; and when once we have policed them into
quiet and decency we shall have earned the right to forget them, at
least for a time. The time of our respite perhaps will not be long. If
the Allies defeat them, as the Allies will, it seems as certain as any
uncertain thing can be that a mania for imitating British and American
civilization will take possession of Germany. We are not vindictive to a
beaten enemy, and when the Germans offer themselves as pupils we are not
likely to be either enthusiastic in our welcome or obstinate in our
refusal. We shall be bored but concessive. I confess that there are
some things in the prospect of this imitation which haunt me like a
nightmare. The British soldier, whom the German knows to be second to
none, is distinguished for the levity and jocularity of his bearing in
the face of danger. What will happen when the German soldier attempts to
imitate that? We shall be delivered from the German peril as when Israel
came out of Egypt, and the mountains skipped like rams.
The only parts of this book for which I claim any measure of authority
are the parts which describe the English character. No one of purely
English descent has ever been known to describe the English character,
or to attempt to describe it. The English newspapers are full of praises
of almost any of the allied troops other than the English regiments. I
have more Scottish and Irish blood in my veins than English; and I think
I can see the English character truly, from a little distance. If, by
some fantastic chance, the statesmen of Germany could learn what I tell
them, it would save their country from a vast loss of life and from many
hopeless misadventures. The English character is not a removable part of
the British Empire; it is the foundation of the whole structure, and the
secret strength of the American Republic. But the statesmen of Germany,
who fall easy victims to anything foolish in the shape of a theory that
flatters their vanity, would not believe a word of my essays even if
they were to read them, so they must learn to know the English character
in the usual way, as King George the Third learned to know it from
Englishmen resident in America.
A habit of lying and a belief in the utility of lying are often
attended by the most unhappy and paralysing effects. The liars become
unable to recognize the truth when it is presented to them. This is the
misery which fate has fixed on the German cause. War, the Germans are
fond of remarking, is war. In almost all wars there is something to be
said on both sides of the question. To know that one side or the other
is right may be difficult; but it is always useful to know why your
enemies are fighting. We know why Germany is fighting; she explained it
very fully, by her most authoritative voices, on the very eve of the
struggle, and she has repeated it many times since in moments of
confidence or inadvertence. But here is the tragedy of Germany: she does
not know why we are fighting. We have told her often enough, but she
does not believe it, and treats our statement as an exercise in the
cunning use of what she calls ethical propaganda. Why ethics, or morals,
should be good enough to inspire sympathy, but not good enough to
inspire war, is one of the mysteries of German thought. No German, not
even any of those few feeble German writers who have fitfully criticized
the German plan, has any conception of the deep, sincere, unselfish, and
righteous anger that was aroused in millions of hearts by the cruelties
of the cowardly assault on Serbia and on Belgium. The late German
Chancellor became uneasily aware that the crucifixion of Belgium was one
of the causes which made this war a truceless war, and his offer, which
no doubt seemed to him perfectly reasonable, was that Germany is willing
to bargain about Belgium, and to relax her hold, in exchange for solid
advantages elsewhere. Perhaps he knew that if the Allies were to spend
five minutes in bargaining about Belgium they would thereby condone the
German crime and would lose all that they have fought for. But it seems
more likely that he did not know it. The Allies know it.
There is hope in these clear-cut issues. Of all wars that ever were
fought this war is least likely to have an indecisive ending. It must be
settled one way or the other. If the Allied Governments were to make
peace to-day, there would be no peace; the peoples of the free countries
would not suffer it. Germany cannot make peace, for she is bound by
heavy promises to her people, and she cannot deliver the goods. She is
tied to the stake, and must fight the course. Emaciated, exhausted,
repeating, as if in a bad dream, the old boastful appeals to military
glory, she must go on till she drops, and then at last there will be
peace.
These may themselves seem boastful words; they cannot be proved except
by the event. There are some few Englishmen, with no stomach for a
fight, who think that England is in a bad way because she is engaged in
a war of which the end is not demonstrably certain. If the issues of
wars were known beforehand, and could be discounted, there would be no
wars. Good wars are fought by nations who make their choice, and would
rather die than lose what they are fighting for. Military fortunes are
notoriously variable, and depend on a hundred accidents. Moral causes
are constant, and operate all the time. The chief of these moral causes
is the character of a people. Germany, by her vaunted study of the art
and science of war, has got herself into a position where no success can
come to her except by way of the collapse or failure of the
English-speaking peoples. A study of the moral causes, if she were
capable of making it, would not encourage her in her old impious belief
that God will destroy these peoples in order to clear the way for the
dominion of the Hohenzollerns.
MIGHT IS RIGHT
_First published as one of the Oxford Pamphlets, October 1914_
It is now recognized in England that our enemy in this war is not a
tyrant military caste, but the united people of modern Germany. We have
to combat an armed doctrine which is virtually the creed of all Germany.
Saxony and Bavaria, it is true, would never have invented the doctrine;
but they have accepted it from Prussia, and they believe it. The
Prussian doctrine has paid the German people handsomely; it has given
them their place in the world. When it ceases to pay them, and not till
then, they will reconsider it. They will not think, till they are
compelled to think. When they find themselves face to face with a
greater and more enduring strength than their own, they will renounce
their idol. But they are a brave people, a faithful people, and a stupid
people, so that they will need rough proofs. They cannot be driven from
their position by a little paper shot. In their present mood, if they
hear an appeal to pity, sensibility, and sympathy, they take it for a
cry of weakness. I am reminded of what I once heard said by a genial and
humane Irish officer concerning a proposal to treat with the leaders of
a Zulu rebellion. 'Kill them all,' he said, 'it's the only thing they
understand.' He meant that the Zulu chiefs would mistake moderation for
a sign of fear. By the irony of human history this sentence has become
almost true of the great German people, who built up the structure of
modern metaphysics. They can be argued with only by those who have the
will and the power to punish them.
The doctrine that Might is Right, though it is true, is an unprofitable
doctrine, for it is true only in so broad and simple a sense that no one
would dream of denying it. If a single nation can conquer, depress, and
destroy all the other nations of the earth and acquire for itself a sole
dominion, there may be matter for question whether God approves that
dominion; what is certain is that He permits it. No earthly governor who
is conscious of his power will waste time in listening to arguments
concerning what his power ought to be. His right to wield the sword can
be challenged only by the sword. An all-powerful governor who feared no
assault would never trouble himself to assert that Might is Right. He
would smile and sit still. The doctrine, when it is propounded by weak
humanity, is never a statement of abstract truth; it is a declaration of
intention, a threat, a boast, an advertisement. It has no value except
when there is some one to be frightened. But it is a very dangerous
doctrine when it becomes the creed of a stupid people, for it flatters
their self-sufficiency, and distracts their attention from the
difficult, subtle, frail, and wavering conditions of human power. The
tragic question for Germany to-day is what she can do, not whether it is
right for her to do it. The buffaloes, it must be allowed, had a
perfect right to dominate the prairie of America, till the hunters came.
They moved in herds, they practised shock-tactics, they were violent,
and very cunning. There are but few of them now. A nation of men who
mistake violence for strength, and cunning for wisdom, may conceivably
suffer the fate of the buffaloes and perish without knowing why.
To the English mind the German political doctrine is so incredibly
stupid that for many long years, while men in high authority in the
German Empire, ministers, generals, and professors, expounded that
doctrine at great length and with perfect clearness, hardly any one
could be found in England to take it seriously, or to regard it as
anything but the vapourings of a crazy sect. England knows better now;
the scream of the guns has awakened her. The German doctrine is to be
put to the proof. Who dares to say what the result will be? To predict
certain failure to the German arms is only a kind of boasting. Yet there
are guarded beliefs which a modest man is free to hold till they are
seen to be groundless. The Germans have taken Antwerp; they may possibly
destroy the British fleet, overrun England and France, repel Russia,
establish themselves as the dictators of Europe--in short, fulfil their
dreams. What then? At an immense cost of human suffering they will have
achieved, as it seems to us, a colossal and agonizing failure. Their
engines of destruction will never serve them to create anything so fair
as the civilization of France. Their uneasy jealousy and self-assertion
is a miserable substitute for the old laws of chivalry and regard for
the weak, which they have renounced and forgotten. The will and high
permission of all-ruling Heaven may leave them at large for a time, to
seek evil to others. When they have finished with it, the world will
have to be remade.
We cannot be sure that the Ruler of the world will forbid this. We
cannot even be sure that the destroyers, in the peace that their
destruction will procure for them, may not themselves learn to rebuild.
The Goths, who destroyed the fabric of the Roman Empire, gave their
name, in time, to the greatest mediaeval art. Nature, it is well known,
loves the strong, and gives to them, and to them alone, the chance of
becoming civilized. Are the German people strong enough to earn that
chance? That is what we are to see. They have some admirable elements of
strength, above any other European people. No other European army can be
marched, in close order, regiment after regiment, up the <DW72> of a
glacis, under the fire of machine guns, without flinching, to certain
death. This corporate courage and corporate discipline is so great and
impressive a thing that it may well contain a promise for the future.
Moreover, they are, within the circle of their own kin, affectionate and
dutiful beyond the average of human society. If they succeed in their
worldly ambitions, it will be a triumph of plain brute morality over all
the subtler movements of the mind and heart.
On the other hand, it is true to say that history shows no precedent for
the attainment of world-wide power by a people so politically stupid as
the German people are to-day. There is no mistake about this; the
instances of German stupidity are so numerous that they make something
like a complete history of German international relations. Here is one.
Any time during the last twenty years it has been matter of common
knowledge in England that one event, and one only, would make it
impossible for England to remain a spectator in a European war--that
event being the violation of the neutrality of Holland or Belgium. There
was never any secret about this, it was quite well known to many people
who took no special interest in foreign politics. Germany has maintained
in this country, for many years, an army of spies and secret agents; yet
not one of them informed her of this important truth. Perhaps the
radical difference between the German and the English political systems
blinded the astute agents. In England nothing really important is a
secret, and the amount of privileged political information to be gleaned
in barbers' shops, even when they are patronized by Civil servants, is
distressingly small. Two hours of sympathetic conversation with an
ordinary Englishman would have told the German Chancellor more about
English politics than ever he heard in his life. For some reason or
other he was unable to make use of this source of intelligence, so that
he remained in complete ignorance of what every one in England knew and
said.
Here is another instance. The programme of German ambition has been
voluminously published for the benefit of the world. France was first to
be crushed; then Russia; then, by means of the indemnities procured from
these conquests, after some years of recuperation and effort, the naval
power of England was to be challenged and destroyed. This programme was
set forth by high authorities, and was generally accepted; there was no
criticism, and no demur. The crime against the civilization of the world
foreshadowed in the horrible words 'France is to be crushed' is before a
high tribunal; it would be idle to condemn it here. What happened is
this. The French and Russian part of the programme was put into action
last July. England, who had been told that her turn was not yet, that
Germany would be ready for her in a matter of five or ten years, very
naturally refused to wait her turn. She crowded up on to the scaffold,
which even now is in peril of breaking down under the weight of its
victims, and of burying the executioner in its ruins. But because
England would not wait her turn, she is overwhelmed with accusations of
treachery and inhumanity by a sincerely indignant Germany. Could
stupidity, the stupidity of the wise men of Gotham, be more fantastic or
more monstrous?
German stupidity was even more monstrous. A part of the accusation
against England is that she has raised her hand against the nation
nearest to her in blood. The alleged close kinship of England and
Germany is based on bad history and doubtful theory. The English are a
mixed race, with enormous infusions of Celtic and Roman blood. The Roman
sculpture gallery at Naples is full of English faces. If the German
agents would turn their attention to hatters' shops, and give the
barbers a rest, they would find that no English hat fits any German
head. But suppose we were cousins, or brothers even, what kind of
argument is that on the lips of those who but a short time before were
explaining, with a good deal of zest and with absolute frankness, how
they intended to compass our ruin? There is something almost amiable in
fatuity like this. A touch of the fool softens the brute.
The Germans have a magnificent war-machine which rolls on its way,
crushing all that it touches. We shall break it if we can. If we fail,
the German nation is at the beginning, not the end, of its troubles.
With the making of peace, even an armed peace, the war-machine has
served its turn; some other instrument of government must then be
invented. There is no trace of a design for this new instrument in any
of the German shops. The governors of Alsace-Lorraine offer no
suggestions. The bald fact is that there is no spot in the world where
the Germans govern another race and are not hated. They know this, and
are disquieted; they meet with coldness on all hands, and their remedy
for the coldness is self-assertion and brag. The Russian statesman was
right who remarked that modern Germany has been too early admitted into
the comity of European nations. Her behaviour, in her new international
relations, is like the behaviour of an uneasy, jealous upstart in an
old-fashioned quiet drawing-room. She has no genius for equality; her
manners are a compound of threatening and flattery. When she wishes to
assert herself, she bullies; when she wishes to endear herself, she
crawls; and the one device is no more successful than the other.
Might is Right; but the sort of might which enables one nation to govern
another in time of peace is very unlike the armoured thrust of the
war-engine. It is a power compounded of sympathy and justice. The
English (it is admitted by many foreign critics) have studied justice
and desired justice. They have inquired into and protected rights that
were unfamiliar, and even grotesque, to their own ideas, because they
believed them to be rights. In the matter of sympathy their reputation
does not stand so high; they are chill in manner, and dislike all
effusive demonstrations of feeling. Yet those who come to know them know
that they are not unimaginative; they have a genius for equality; and
they do try to put themselves in the other fellow's place, to see how
the position looks from that side. What has happened in India may
perhaps be taken to prove, among many other things, that the inhabitants
of India begin to know that England has done her best, and does feel a
disinterested solicitude for the peoples under her charge. She has long
been a mother of nations, and is not frightened by the problems of
adolescence.
The Germans have as yet shown no sign of skill in governing other
peoples. Might is Right; and it is quite conceivable that they may
acquire colonies by violence. If they want to keep them they will have
to shut their own professors' books, and study the intimate history of
the British Empire. We are old hands at the business; we have lost more
colonies than ever they owned, and we begin to think that we have learnt
the secret of success. At any rate, our experience has done much for us,
and has helped us to avoid failure. Yet the German colonial party stare
at us with bovine malevolence. In all the library of German theorizing
you will look in vain for any explanation of the fact that the Boers
are, in the main, loyal to the British Empire. If German political
thinkers could understand that political situation, which seems to
English minds so simple, there might yet be hope for them. But they
regard it all as a piece of black magic, and refuse to reason about it.
How should a herd of cattle be driven without goads? Witchcraft,
witchcraft!
Their world-wide experience it is, perhaps, which has made the English
quick to appreciate the virtues of other peoples. I have never known an
Englishman who travelled in Russia without falling in love with the
Russian people. I have never heard a German speak of the Russian people
without contempt and dislike. Indeed the Germans are so unable to see
any charm in that profound and humane people that they believe that the
English liking for them must be an insincere pretence, put forward for
wicked or selfish reasons. What would they say if they saw a sight that
is common in Indian towns, a British soldier and a Gurkha arm in arm,
rolling down the street in cheerful brotherhood? And how is it that it
has never occurred to any of them that this sort of brotherhood has its
value in Empire-building? The new German political doctrine has bidden
farewell to Christianity, but there are some political advantages in
Christianity which should not be overlooked. It teaches human beings to
think of one another and to care for one another. It is an antidote to
the worst and most poisonous kind of political stupidity.
Another thing that the Germans will have to learn for the welfare of
their much-talked Empire is the value of the lone man. The architects
and builders of the British Empire were all lone men. Might is Right;
but when a young Englishman is set down at an outpost of Empire to
govern a warlike tribe, he has to do a good deal of hard thinking on the
problem of political power and its foundations. He has to trust to
himself, to form his own conclusions, and to choose his own line of
action. He has to try to find out what is in the mind of others. A young
German, inured to skilled slavery, does not shine in such a position.
Man for man, in all that asks for initiative and self-dependence,
Englishmen are the better men, and some Germans know it. There is an old
jest that if you settle an Englishman and a German together in a new
country, at the end of a year you will find the Englishman governor, and
the German his head clerk. A German must know the rules before he can
get to work.
More than three hundred years ago a book was written in England which is
in some ways a very exact counterpart to General von Bernhardi's
notorious treatise. It is called _Tamburlaine_, and, unlike its
successor, is full of poetry and beauty. Our own colonization began with
a great deal of violent work, and much wrong done to others. We suffered
for our misdeeds, and we learned our lesson, in part at least. Why, it
may be asked, should not the Germans begin in the same manner, and by
degrees adapt themselves to the new task? Perhaps they may, but if they
do, they cannot claim the Elizabethans for their model. Of all men on
earth the German is least like the undisciplined, exuberant Elizabethan
adventurer. He is reluctant to go anywhere without a copy of the rules,
a guarantee of support, and a regular pension. His outlook is as prosaic
as General von Bernhardi's or General von der Golt's own, and that is
saying a great deal. In all the German political treatises there is an
immeasurable dreariness. They lay down rules for life, and if they be
asked what makes such a life worth living they are without any hint of
an answer. Their world is a workhouse, tyrannically ordered, and full of
pusillanimous jealousies.
It is not impious to be hopeful. A Germanized world would be a
nightmare. We have never attempted or desired to govern them, and we
must not think that God will so far forget them as to permit them to
attempt to govern us. Now they hate us, but they do not know for how
many years the cheerful brutality of their political talk has shocked
and disgusted us. I remember meeting, in one of the French Mediterranean
dependencies, with a Prussian nobleman, a well-bred and pleasant man,
who was fond of expounding the Prussian creed. He was said to be a
political agent of sorts, but he certainly learned nothing in
conversation. He talked all the time, and propounded the most monstrous
paradoxes with an air of mathematical precision. Now it was the
character of Sir Edward Grey, a cunning Machiavel, whose only aim was to
set Europe by the ears and make neighbours fall out. A friend who was
with me, an American, laughed aloud at this, and protested, without
producing the smallest effect. The stream of talk went on. The error of
the Germans, we were told, was always that they are too humane; their
dislike of cruelty amounts to a weakness in them. They let France escape
with a paltry fine, next time France must be beaten to the dust. Always
with a pleasant outward courtesy, he passed on to England. England was
decadent and powerless, her rule must pass to the Germans. 'But we shall
treat England rather less severely than France,' said this bland apostle
of Prussian culture, 'for we wish to make it possible for ourselves to
remain in friendly relations with other English-speaking peoples.' And
so on--the whole of the Bernhardi doctrine, explained in quiet fashion
by a man whose very debility of mind made his talk the more impressive,
for he was simply parroting what he had often heard. No one criticized
his proposals, nor did we dislike him. It all seemed too mad; a rather
clumsy jest. His world of ideas did not touch our world at any point, so
that real talk between us was impossible. He came to see us several
times, and always gave the same kind of mesmerized recital of Germany's
policy. The grossness of the whole thing was in curious | 1,976.605002 |
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This Memorial Edition of the Writings of
Henry George is limited to one thousand
numbered copies, of which this is
No. 4
MEMORIAL EDITION
OF THE WRITINGS
OF HENRY GEORGE
VOL. I.
Make for thyself a definition or description of the thing which is
presented to thee, so as to see distinctly what kind of a thing it is,
in its substance, in its nudity, in its complete entirety, and tell
thyself its proper name, and the names of the things of which it has
been compounded, and into which it will be resolved. For nothing is so
productive of elevation of mind as to be able to examine methodically
and truly every object which is presented to thee in life, and always
to look at things so as to see at the same time what kind of universe
this is, and what kind of use everything performs in it, and what value
everything has with reference to the whole, and what with reference to
man, who is a citizen of the highest city, of which all other cities
are like families; what each thing is, and of what it is composed, and
how long it is the nature of this thing to endure.—_Marcus Aurelius
Antoninus._
[Illustration: _Henry George when writing “Progress and Poverty” San
Francisco, 1879_]
THE WRITINGS OF
HENRY GEORGE
PROGRESS AND
POVERTY
AN INQUIRY INTO THE CAUSE OF INDUSTRIAL
DEPRESSIONS AND OF INCREASE
OF WANT WITH INCREASE OF WEALTH
THE REMEDY
I
[Illustration: Colophon]
NEW YORK: DOUBLEDAY
AND MCCLURE COMPANY
1898
Copyright, 1891, by
HENRY GEORGE
THE DE VINNE PRESS.
TO THOSE WHO,
SEEING THE VICE AND MISERY THAT SPRING FROM
THE UNEQUAL DISTRIBUTION
OF WEALTH AND PRIVILEGE,
FEEL THE POSSIBILITY OF A HIGHER SOCIAL STATE
AND WOULD STRIVE FOR ITS ATTAINMENT
SAN FRANCISCO, March, 1879.
There must be refuge! Men
Perished in winter winds till one smote fire
From flint stones coldly hiding what they held,
The red spark treasured from the kindling sun;
They gorged on flesh like wolves, till one sowed corn,
Which grew a weed, yet makes the life of man;
They mowed and babbled till some tongue struck speech,
And patient fingers framed the lettered sound.
What good gift have my brothers, but it came
From search and strife and loving sacrifice?
_Edwin Arnold._
Never yet
Share of Truth was vainly set
In the world’s wide fallow;
After hands shall sow the seed,
After hands, from hill and mead,
Reap the harvests yellow.
_Whittier._
PREFACE TO FOURTH EDITION.
The views herein set forth were in the main briefly stated in a
pamphlet entitled “Our Land and Land Policy,” published in San
Francisco in 1871. I then intended, as soon as I could, to present them
more fully, but the opportunity did not for a long time occur. In the
meanwhile I became even more firmly convinced of their truth, and saw
more completely and clearly their relations; and I also saw how many
false ideas and erroneous habits of thought stood in the way of their
recognition, and how necessary it was to go over the whole ground.
This I have here tried to do, as thoroughly as space would permit. It
has been necessary for me to clear away before I could build up, and
to write at once for those who have made no previous study of such
subjects, and for those who are familiar with economic reasonings;
and, so great is the scope of the argument that it has been impossible
to treat with the fullness they deserve many of the questions raised.
What I have most endeavored to do is to establish general principles,
trusting to my readers to carry further their applications where this
is needed.
In certain respects this book will be best appreciated by those who
have some knowledge of economic literature; but no previous reading
is necessary to the understanding of the argument or the passing of
judgment upon its conclusions. The facts upon which I have relied are
not facts which can be verified only by a search through libraries.
They are facts of common observation and common knowledge, which every
reader can verify for himself, just as he can decide whether the
reasoning from them is or is not valid.
Beginning with a brief statement of facts which suggest this inquiry,
I proceed to examine the explanation currently given in the name of
political economy of the reason why, in spite of the increase of
productive power, wages tend to the minimum of a bare living. This
examination shows that the current doctrine of wages is founded upon
a misconception; that, in truth, wages are produced by the labor for
which they are paid, and should, other things being equal, increase
with the number of laborers. Here the inquiry meets a doctrine which
is the foundation and center of most important economic theories,
and which has powerfully influenced thought in all directions—the
Malthusian doctrine, that population tends to increase faster than
subsistence. Examination, however, shows that this doctrine has no
real support either in fact or in analogy, and that when brought to a
decisive test it is utterly disproved.
Thus far the results of the inquiry, though extremely important, are
mainly negative. They show that current theories do not satisfactorily
explain the connection of poverty with material progress, but throw
no light upon the problem itself, beyond showing that its solution
must be sought in the laws which govern the distribution of wealth.
It therefore becomes necessary to carry the inquiry into this field.
A preliminary review shows that the three laws of distribution must
necessarily correlate with each other, which as laid down by the
current political economy they fail to do, and an examination of the
terminology in use reveals the confusion of thought by which this
discrepancy has been slurred over. Proceeding then to work out the laws
of distribution, I first take up the law of rent. This, it is readily
seen, is correctly apprehended by the current political economy. But it
is also seen that the full scope of this law has not been appreciated,
and that it involves as corollaries the laws of wages and interest—the
cause which determines what part of the produce shall go to the land
owner necessarily determining what part shall be left for labor and
capital. Without resting here, I proceed to an independent deduction
of the laws of interest and wages. I have stopped to determine the
real cause and justification of interest, and to point out a source of
much misconception—the confounding of what are really the profits of
monopoly with the legitimate earnings of capital. Then returning to the
main inquiry, investigation shows that interest must rise and fall with
wages, and depends ultimately upon the same thing as rent—the margin
of cultivation or point in production where rent begins. A similar but
independent investigation of the law of wages yields similar harmonious
results. Thus the three laws of distribution are brought into mutual
support and harmony, and the fact that with material progress rent
everywhere advances is seen to explain the fact that wages and interest
do not advance.
What causes this advance of rent is the next question that arises,
and it necessitates an examination of the effect of material progress
upon the distribution of wealth. Separating the factors of material
progress into increase of population and improvements in the arts,
it is first seen that increase in population tends constantly, not
merely by reducing the margin of cultivation, but by localizing the
economies and powers which come with increased population, to increase
the proportion of the aggregate produce which is taken in rent, and to
reduce that which goes as wages and interest. Then eliminating increase
of population, it is seen that improvement in the methods and powers of
production tends in the same direction, and, land being held as private
property, would produce in a stationary population all the effects
attributed by the Malthusian doctrine to pressure of population.
And then a consideration of the effects of the continuous increase
in land values which thus spring from material progress reveals in
the speculative advance inevitably begotten when land is private
property a derivative but most powerful cause of the increase of rent
and the crowding down of wages. Deduction shows that this cause must
necessarily produce periodical industrial depressions, and induction
proves the conclusion; while from the analysis which has thus been made
it is seen that the necessary result of material progress, land being
private property, is, no matter what the increase in population, to
force laborers to wages which give but a bare living.
This identification of the cause that associates poverty with progress
points to the remedy, but it is to so radical a remedy that I have
next deemed it necessary to inquire whether there is any other remedy.
Beginning the investigation again from another starting point, I have
passed in examination the measures | 1,976.697721 |
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education worldwide... MOOC's, educational materials,...)
Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.)
KOTTŌ
BEING JAPANESE CURIOS, WITH
SUNDRY COBWEBS
COLLECTED BY
LAFCADIO HEARN
Lecturer on Literature in the Imperial | 1,976.708796 |
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Produced by Mike Lough
THE STORY OF A PIONEER
By Anna Howard Shaw, D.D., M.D.
With The Collaboration Of Elizabeth Jordan
TO THE WOMEN PIONEERS OF AMERICA
They cut a path through tangled underwood
Of old traditions, out to broader ways.
They lived to here their work called brave and good,
But oh! the thorns before the crown of bays.
The world gives lashes to its Pioneers
Until the goal is reached--then deafening cheers.
Adapted by ANNA HOWARD SHAW.
CONTENTS
I. FIRST MEMORIES
II. IN THE WILDERNESS
III. HIGH-SCHOOL AND COLLEGE DAYS
IV. THE WOLF AT THE DOOR
V. SHEPHERD OF A DIVIDED FLOCK
VI. CAPE COD MEMORIES
VII. THE GREAT CAUSE
VIII. DRAMA IN THE LECTURE FIELD
IX. "AUNT SUSAN"
X. THE PASSING OF "AUNT SUSAN"
XI. THE WIDENING SUFFRAGE STREAM
XII. BUILDING A HOME
XIII. PRESIDENT OF "THE NATIONAL"
XIV. RECENT CAMPAIGNS
XV. CONVENTION INCIDENTS
XVI. COUNCIL EPISODES
XVII. VALE!
ILLUSTRATIONS
REVEREND ANNA HOWARD SHAW IN HER PULPIT ROBES
LOCH-AN-EILAN CASTLE
DR SHAW'S MOTHER, NICOLAS SHAW, AT SEVENTEEN
ALNWICK CASTLE
DR. SHAW AT THIRTY-TWO
DR. SHAW AT FIFTY
DR. SHAW AND "HER BABY"--THE DAUGHTER OF RACHEL FOSTER AVERY
DR. SHAW'S MOTHER AT EIGHTY
DR. SHAW'S FATHER AT EIGHTY
DR. SHAW'S SISTER MARY, WHO DIED IN 1883
LUCY E. ANTHONY, DR. SHAW S FRIEND AND "AUNT SUSAN'S"
FAVORITE NIECE
THE WOOD ROAD NEAR DR. SHAW'S CAPE COD HOME, THE HAVEN
DR. SHAW'S COTTAGE, THE HAVEN, AT WIANNO, CAPE
COD--THE FIRST HOME SHE BUILT
GATE ENTRANCE TO DR. SHAW'S HOME AT MOYLAN
THE SECOND HOUSE THAT DR. SHAW BUILT
SUSAN B. ANTHONY
MISS MARY GARRETT, THE LIFE-LONG FRIEND OF MISS THOMAS
MISS M. CAREY THOMAS, PRESIDENT OF BRYN MAWR COLLEGE
ELIZABETH CADY STANTON
CARRIE CHAPMAN CATT
LUCY STONE
MARY A. LIVERMORE
FOUR PIONEERS IN THE SUFFRAGE MOVEMENT
FIREPLACE IN THE LIVING-ROOM, SHOWING AUNT
SUSAN'S" CHAIR
HALLWAY IN DR. SHAW'S HOME AT MOYLAN
DR. SHAW'S HOME (ALNWICK LODGE) AND HER TWO OAKS
THE VERANDA AT ALNWICK LODGE
SACCAWAGEA
ALNWICK LODGE, DR. SHAW'S HOME
THE ROCK-BORDERED BROOK WHICH DR. SHAW LOVES
THE STORY OF A PIONEER
I. FIRST MEMORIES
My father's ancestors were the Shaws of Rothiemurchus, in Scotland,
and the ruins of their castle may still be seen on the island of
Loch-an-Eilan, in the northern Highlands. It was never the picturesque
castle of song and story, this home of the fighting Shaws, but an
austere fortress, probably built in Roman times; and even to-day the
crumbling walls which alone are left of it show traces of the relentless
assaults upon them. Of these the last and the most successful were made
in the seventeenth century by the Grants and Rob Roy; and it was into
the hands of the Grants that the Shaw fortress finally fell, about 1700,
after almost a hundred years of ceaseless warfare.
It gives me no pleasure to read the grisly details of their struggles,
but I confess to a certain satisfaction in the knowledge that my
ancestors made a good showing in the defense of what was theirs. Beyond
doubt they were brave fighters and strong men. There were other sides to
their natures, however, which the high lights of history throw up
less appealingly. As an instance, we have in the family chronicles the
blood-stained page of Allen Shaw, the oldest son of the last Lady Shaw
who lived in the fortress. It appears that when the father of this
young man died, about 1560, his mother married again, to the intense
disapproval of her son. For some time after the marriage he made no open
revolt against the new-comer in the domestic circle; but finally, on the
pretext that his dog had been attacked by his stepfather, he forced a
quarrel with the older man and the two fought a duel with swords, after
which the victorious Allen showed a sad lack of chivalry. He not only
killed his stepfather, but he cut off that gentleman's head and bore it
to his mother in her bedchamber--an action which was considered, even in
that tolerant age, to be carrying filial resentment too far.
Probably Allen regretted it. Certainly he paid a high penalty for it,
and his clan suffered with him. He was outlawed and fled, only to be
hunted down for months, and finally captured and executed by one of the
Grants, who, in further virtuous disapproval of Allen's act, seized and
held the Shaw stronghold. The other Shaws of the clan fought long and
ably for its recovery, but though they were helped by their kinsmen, the
Mackintoshes, and though good Scotch blood dyed the gray walls of the
fortress for many generations, the castle never again came into the
hands of the Shaws. It still entails certain obligations for the Grants,
however, and one of these is to give the King of England a snowball
whenever he visits Loch-an-Eilan!
As the years passed the Shaw clan scattered. Many Shaws are still to be
found in the Mackintosh country and throughout southern Scotland. Others
went to England, and it was from this latter branch that my father
sprang. His name was Thomas Shaw, and he was the younger son of a
gentleman--a word which in those days seemed to define a man who devoted
his time largely to gambling and horse-racing. My grandfather, like his
father before him, was true to the traditions of his time and class.
Quite naturally and simply he squandered all he had, and died abruptly,
leaving his wife and two sons penniless. They were not, however, a
helpless band. They, too, had their traditions, handed down by the
fighting Shaws. Peter, the older son, became a soldier, and died bravely
in the Crimean War. My father, through some outside influence, turned
his attention to trade, learning to stain and emboss wallpaper by hand,
and developing this work until he became the recognized expert in
his field. Indeed, he progressed until he himself checked his rise by
inventing a machine that made his handwork unnecessary. His employer at
once claimed and utilized this invention, to which, by the laws of those
days, he was entitled, and thus the cornerstone on which my father had
expected to build a fortune proved the rock on which his career was
wrecked. But that was years later, in America, and many other things had
happened first.
For one, he had temporarily dropped his trade and gone into the
flour-and-grain business; and, for another, he had married my mother.
She was the daughter of a Scotch couple who had come to England and
settled in Alnwick, in Northumberland County. Her father, James Stott,
was the driver of the royal-mail stage between Alnwick and Newcastle,
and his accidental death while he was still a young man left my
grandmother and her eight children almost destitute. She was immediately
given a position in the castle of the Duke of Northumberland, and
her sons were educated in the duke's school, while her daughters were
entered in the school of the duchess.
My thoughts dwell lovingly on this grandmother, Nicolas Grant Stott, for
she was a remarkable woman, with a dauntless soul and progressive ideas
far in advance of her time. She was one of the first Unitarians in
England, and years before any thought of woman suffrage entered the
minds of her country-women she refused to pay tithes to the support of
the Church of England--an action which precipitated a long-drawn-out
conflict between her and the law. In those days it was customary to
assess tithes on every pane of glass in a window, and a portion of the
money thus collected went to the support of the Church. Year after year
my intrepid grandmother refused to pay these assessments, and year after
year she sat pensively upon her door-step, watching articles of her
furniture being sold for money to pay her tithes. It must have been
an impressive picture, and it was one with which the community became
thoroughly familiar, as the determined old lady never won her fight and
never abandoned it. She had at least the comfort of public sympathy, for
she was by far the most popular woman in the countryside. Her neighbors
admired her courage; perhaps they appreciated still more what she did
for them, for she spent all her leisure in the homes of the very poor,
mending their clothing and teaching them to sew. Also, she left behind
her a path of cleanliness as definite as the line of foam that follows
a ship; for it soon became known among her protegees that Nicolas Stott
was as much opposed to dirt as she was to the payment of tithes.
She kept her children in the schools of the duke and duchess until they
had completed the entire course open to them. A hundred times, and among
many new scenes and strange people, I have heard my mother describe her
own experiences as a pupil. All the children of the dependents of the
castle were expected to leave school at fourteen years of age. During
their course they were not allowed to study geography, because, in the
sage opinion of their elders, knowledge of foreign lands might make
them discontented and inclined to wander. Neither was composition
encouraged--that might lead to the writing of love-notes! But they were
permitted to absorb all the reading and arithmetic their little brains
could hold, while the art of sewing was not only encouraged, but
proficiency in it was stimulated by the award of prizes. My mother,
being a rather precocious young person, graduated at thirteen and
carried off the first prize. The garment she made was a linen chemise
for the duchess, and the little needlewoman had embroidered on it, with
her own hair, the august lady's coat of arms. The offering must have
been appreciated, for my mother's story always ended with the same
words, uttered with the same air of gentle pride, "And the duchess
gave me with her own hands my Bible and my mug of beer!" She never saw
anything amusing in this association of gifts, and I always stood behind
her when she told the incident, that she might not see the disrespectful
mirth it aroused in me.
My father and mother met in Alnwick, and were married in February, 1835.
Ten years after his marriage father was forced into bankruptcy by the
passage of the corn law, and to meet the obligations attending
his failure he and my mother sold practically everything they
possessed--their home, even their furniture. Their little sons, who were
away at school, were brought home, and the family expenses were cut down
to the barest margin; but all these sacrifices paid only part of the
debts. My mother, finding that her early gift had a market value, took
in sewing. Father went to work on a small salary, and both my parents
saved every penny they could lay aside, with the desperate determination
to pay their remaining debts. It was a long struggle and a painful one,
but they finally won it. Before they had done so, however, and during
their bleakest days, their baby died, and my mother, like her mother
before her, paid the penalty of being outside the fold of the Church of
England. She, too, was a Unitarian, and her baby, therefore, could not
be laid in any consecrated burial-ground in her neighborhood. She had
either to bury it in the Potter's Field, with criminals, suicides, and
paupers, or to take it by stage-coach to Alnwick, twenty miles away, and
leave it in the little Unitarian churchyard where, after her strenuous
life, Nicolas Stott now lay in peace. She made the dreary journey alone,
with the dear burden across her lap.
In 1846, my parents went to London. There they did not linger long,
for the big, indifferent city had nothing to offer them. They moved
to Newcastle-on-Tyne, and here I was born, on the fourteenth day of
February, in 1847. Three boys and two girls had preceded me in the
family circle, and when I was two years old my younger sister came. We
were little better off in Newcastle than in London, and now my father
began to dream the great dream of those days. He would go to America.
Surely, he felt, in that land of infinite promise all would be well with
him and his. He waited for the final payment of his debts and for my
younger sister's birth. Then he bade us good-by and sailed away to make
an American home for us; and in the spring of 1851 my mother followed
him with her six children, starting from Liverpool in a sailing-vessel,
the John Jacob Westervelt.
I was then little more than four years old, and the first vivid memory
I have is that of being on shipboard and having a mighty wave roll
over me. I was lying on what seemed to be an enormous red box under a
hatchway, and the water poured from above, almost drowning me. This was
the beginning of a storm which raged for days, and I still have of it a
confused memory, a sort of nightmare, in which strange horrors figure,
and which to this day haunts me at intervals when I am on the sea. The
thing that stands out most strongly during that period is the white face
of my mother, ill in her berth. We were with five hundred emigrants on
the lowest deck of the ship but one, and as the storm grew wilder an
unreasoning terror filled our fellow-passengers. Too ill to protect her
helpless brood, my mother saw us carried away from her for hours at a
time, on the crests of waves of panic that sometimes approached her
and sometimes receded, as they swept through the black hole in which
we found ourselves when the hatches were nailed down. No madhouse, I am
sure, could throw more hideous pictures on the screen of life than
those which met our childish eyes during the appalling three days of the
storm. Our one comfort was the knowledge that our mother was not afraid.
She was desperately ill, but when we were able to reach her, to cling
close to her for a blessed interval, she was still the sure refuge she
had always been.
On the second day the masts went down, and on the third day the disabled
ship, which now had sprung a leak and was rolling helplessly in the
trough of the sea, was rescued by another ship and towed back to
Queenstown, the nearest port. The passengers, relieved of their
anxieties, went from their extreme of fear to an equal extreme of
drunken celebration. They laughed, sang, and danced, but when we reached
the shore many of them returned to the homes they had left, declaring
that they had had enough of the ocean. We, however, remained on the ship
until she was repaired, and then sailed on her again. We were too poor
to return home; indeed, we had no home to which we could return. We were
even too poor to live ashore. But we made some penny excursions in the
little boats that plied back and forth, and to us children at least
the weeks of waiting were not without interest. Among other places we
visited Spike Island, where the convicts were, and for hours we watched
the dreary shuttle of labor swing back and forth as the convicts carried
pails of water from one side of the island, only to empty them into the
sea at the other side. It was merely "busy work," to keep them occupied
at hard labor; but even then I must have felt some dim sense of the
irony of it, for I have remembered it vividly all these years.
Our second voyage on the John Jacob Westervelt was a very different
experience from the first. By day a glorious sun shone overhead; by
night we had the moon and stars, as well as the racing waves we never
wearied of watching. For some reason, probably because of my intense
admiration for them, which I showed with unmaidenly frankness, I became
the special pet of the sailors. They taught me to sing their songs
as they hauled on their ropes, and I recall, as if I had learned it
yesterday, one pleasing ditty:
Haul on the bow-line,
Kitty is my darling,
Haul on the bow-line,
The bow-line--HAUL!
When I sang "haul" all the sailors pulled their hardest, and I had
an exhilarating sense of sharing in their labors. As a return for my
service of song the men kept my little apron full of ship sugar--very
black stuff and probably very bad for me; but I ate an astonishing
amount of it during that voyage, and, so far as I remember, felt no ill
effects.
The next thing I recall is being seriously scalded. I was at the foot
of a ladder up which a sailor was carrying a great pot of hot coffee. He
slipped, and the boiling liquid poured down on me. I must have had some
bad days after that, for I was terribly burned, but they are mercifully
vague. My next | 1,976.79764 |
2023-11-16 18:50:00.7795590 | 841 | 14 |
Produced by the Mormon Texts Project. See
http://mormontextsproject.org/ for a complete list of
Mormon texts available on Project Gutenberg, to help
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to Benjamin Keogh and Elissa Nysetvold for proofreading.
LEAVES FROM MY JOURNAL
THIRD BOOK OF THE
FAITH-PROMOTING SERIES
By President W. Woodruff
_DESIGNED FOR THE INSTRUCTION AND ENCOURAGEMENT OF YOUNG LATTER-DAY
SAINTS_
SECOND EDITION.
JUVENILE INSTRUCTOR OFFICE,
Salt Lake City, Utah.
1882.
PREFACE
About nine months have elapsed since the first edition of this work
was published, and now the whole number issued--over 4,000 copies--are
exhausted, and there is a demand for more.
We, therefore, have much pleasure in offering the Second Edition of
LEAVES FROM MY JOURNAL for public consideration, and trust that the
young people who pursue it will be inspired to emulate in their lives
the faith, perseverance and integrity that so distinguish its author.
Brother Woodruff is a remarkable man. Few men now living, who have
followed the quiet and peaceful pursuits of life, have had such an
interesting and eventful experience as he has. Few, if any in this
age, have spent a more active and useful life. Certainly no man living
has been more particular about recording with his own hand, in a daily
journal, during half a century, the events of his own career and the
things that have come under his observation. His elaborate journal has
always been one of the principal sources from which the Church history
has been compiled.
Possessed of wonderful energy and determination, and mighty faith,
Brother Woodruff has labored long and with great success in the Church.
He has ever had a definite object in view--to know the will of the
Almighty and to do it. No amount of self-denial has been too great for
him to cheerfully endure for the advancement of the cause of God. No
labor required of the Saints has been considered by him too onerous to
engage in with his own hands.
Satan, knowing the power for good that Brother Woodruff would be, if
permitted to live, has often sought to effect his destruction.
The adventures, accidents and hair-breath escapes that he has met with,
are scarcely equalled by the record that the former apostle, Paul, has
left us of his life.
The power of God has been manifested in a most remarkable manner in
preserving Brother Woodruff's life. Considering the number of bones
he has had broken, and the other bodily injuries he has received, it
is certainly wonderful that now, at the age of seventy-five years, he
is such a sound, well-preserved man. God grant that his health and
usefulness may continue for many years to come.
Of course, this volume contains but a small portion of the interesting
experience of Brother Woodruff's life, but very many profitable lessons
may be learned from it, and we trust at some future time to be favored
with other sketches from his pen.
THE PUBLISHER
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Strictness of the "Blue Laws" of Connecticut--The Old Prophet
Mason--His Vision--His Prophecy--Hear the Gospel, and Embrace it--Visit
Kirtland, and see Joseph Smith--A Work for the Old Prophet.
CHAPTER II.
Preparing to go up to Zion--First Meeting with President Young-Camp of
Zion Starts--Numbers Magnified in the Eyes of Beholders--Remarkable
Deliverance-Selfishness, and its Reward.
CHAPTER III.
Advised to Remain in Missouri--A Desire to Preach--Pray to the Lord for
a Mission--Prayer Answered--Sent on a Mission to | 1,976.799599 |
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Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team
THE UNSPEAKABLE PERK
By Samuel Hopkins Adams
CONTENTS
I. MR. BEETLE MAN
II. AT THE KAST
III. THE BETTER PART OF VALOR
IV. TWO ON A MOUNTAIN-SIDE
V. AN UPHOLDER OF TRADITIONS
VI. FORKED TONGUES
VII. "THAT WHICH THY SERVANT IS--"
VIII. LOS YANKIS
IX. THE BLACK WARNING
X. THE FOLLY OF PERK
XI. PRESTO CHANGE!
XII. THE WOMAN AT THE QUINTA
XIII. LEFT BEHIND
XIV. THE YELLOW FLAG
THE UNSPEAKABLE PERK
I
MR. BEETLE MAN
The man sat in a niche of the mountain, busily hating the Caribbean Sea.
It was quite a contract that he had undertaken, for there was a large
expanse of Caribbean Sea in sight to hate; very blue, and still,
and indifferent to human emotions. However, the young man was a good
steadfast hater, and he came there every day to sit in the shade of the
overhanging boulder, where there was a little trickle of cool air down
the <DW72> and a little trickle of cool water from a crevice beneath the
rock, to despise that placid, unimpressionable ocean and all its works
and to wish that it would dry up forthwith, so that he might walk back
to the blessed United States of America. In good plain American, the
young man was pretty homesick.
Two-man's-lengths up the mountain, on the crest of the sturdy hater's
rock, the girl sat, loving the Caribbean Sea. Hers, also, was a large
contract, and she was much newer to it than was the man to his, for she
had only just discovered this vantage-ground by turning accidentally
into a side trail--quite a private little side trail made by her
unsuspected neighbor below--whence one emerges from a sea of verdure
into full view of the sea of azure. For the time, she was content to
rest there in the flow of the breeze and feast her eyes on that broad,
unending blue which blessedly separated her from the United States of
America and certain perplexities and complications comprised therein.
Presently she would resume the trail and return to the city of Caracuna,
somewhere behind her. That is, she would if she could find it, which
was by no means certain. Not that she greatly cared. If she were really
lost, they'd come out and get her. Meantime, all she wished was to
rest mind and body in the contemplation of that restful plain of cool
sapphire, four thousand feet below.
But there was a spirit of mischief abroad upon that mountain <DW72>.
It embodied itself in a puff of wind that stirred gratefully the curls
above the girl's brow. Also, it fanned the neck of the watcher below and
cunningly moved his hat from his side; not more than a few feet, indeed,
but still far enough to transfer it from the shade into the glaring sun
and into the view of the girl above. The owner made no move. If the wind
wanted to blow his new panama into some lower treetop, compelling him to
throw stones, perhaps to its permanent damage, in order to dislodge it,
why, that was just one more cause of offense to pin to his indictment
of irritation against the great island republic of Caracuna. Such is the
temper one gets into after a year in the tropics.
Like as peas are panama hats to the eyes of the inexpert; far more like
than men who live under them. For the girl, it was a direct inference
that this was a hat which she knew intimately; which, indeed, she had
rather maliciously eluded, riot half an hour before. Therefore, she
addressed it familiarly: "Boo!"
The result of this simple monosyllable exceeded her fondest
expectations. There was a sharp exclamation of surprise, followed by a
cry that might have meant dismay or wrath or both, as something metallic
tinkled and slid, presently coming to a stop beside the hat, where it
revealed itself as a pair of enormous, aluminum-mounted brown-green
spectacles. After it, on all fours, scrambled the owner.
Shock number one: It wasn't the man at all! Instead of the black-haired,
flanneled, slender Adonis whom the trouble-maker confidently assumed to
have been under that hat, she beheld a brownish-clad, stocky figure with
a very blond head.
Shock number two: The figure was groping lamentably and blindly in the
undergrowth, and when, for an instant, the face was turned half toward
her, she saw that the eyes were squinted tight-closed, with a painful
extreme of muscular tension about them.
Presently one of the ranging hands encountered the spectacles, and
settled upon them. With careful touches, it felt them all over. A mild
grunt, presumably of satisfaction, made itself heard, and the figure
got to its feet. But before the face turned again, the girl had stepped
back, out of range.
Silence, above and below; a silence the long persistence of which came
near to constituting shock number three. What sort of hermit had she
intruded upon? Into what manner of remote Brahministic contemplation had
she injected that impertinent "Boo!"? Who, what, how, why--
"Say it again." The request came from under the rock. Evidently the
spectacled owner had resumed his original situation.
"Say WHAT again?" she inquired.
"Anything," returned the voice, with child-like content.
"Oh, I--I hope you didn't break your glasses."
"No; you didn't."
On consideration, she decided to ignore this prompt countering of the
pronoun.
"I thought you were some one else," she observed.
"Well, so I am, am I not?"
"So you are what?"
"Some one else than you thought."
"Why, yes, I suppose--But I meant some one else besides yourself."
"I only wish I were."
"Why?" she asked, intrigued by the fervid inflection of the wish.
"Because then I'd be somewhere else than in this infernal hell-hole of a
black-and-tan nursery of revolution, fever, and trouble!"
"I think it one of the loveliest spots I've ever seen," said she
loftily.
"How long have you been here?"
"On this rock? Perhaps five minutes."
"Not on the rock. In Caracuna?"
"Quite a long time. Nearly a fortnight."
The commentary on this was so indefinite that she was moved to
inquire:--
"Is that a local dialect you're speaking?"
"No; that was a grunt."
"I don't think it was a very polite grunt, even as grunts go."
"Perhaps not. I'm afraid I'm out of the habit."
"Of grunting? You seem expert enough to satisfy--"
"No; of being polite. I'll apologize if--if you'll only go on talking."
She laughed aloud.
"Or laughing," he amended promptly. "Do it again."
"One can't laugh to order!" she protested; "or even talk to order. But
why do you stay 'way out here in the mountains if you're so eager to
hear the human voice?"
"The human voice be--choked! It's YOUR human voice I want to hear--your
kind of human voice, I mean."
"I don't know that my kind of human voice is particularly different from
plenty of other human voices," she observed, with an effect of fine
impartial judgment.
"It's widely different from the kind that afflicts the suffering ear in
this part of the world. Fourteen months ago I heard the last American
girl speak the last American-girl language that's come within reach
of me. Oh, no,--there WAS one, since, but she rasped like a rheumatic
phonograph and had brick- freckles. Have you got brick-
freckles?"
"Stand up and see."
"No, SIR!--that is, ma'am. Too much risk."
"Risk! Of what?"
"Freckles. I don't like freckles. Not on YOUR voice, anyway."
"On my VOICE? Are you--"
"Of course I am--a little. Any one is who stays down here more than a
year. But that about the voice and the freckles was sane enough. What
I'm trying to say--and you might know it without a diagram--is that,
from your voice, you ought to be all that a man dreams of when--well,
when he hasn't seen a real American girl for an eternity. Now I can sit
here and dream of you as the loveliest princess that ever came and went
and left a memory of gold and blue in the heart of--"
"I'm not gold and blue!"
"Of course you're not. But your speech is. I'll be wise, and content
myself with that. One look might pull down, In irrevocable ruin, all the
lovely fabric of my dream. By the way, are you a Cookie?"
"A WHAT?"
"Cookie. Tourist. No, of course you're not. No tour would be imbecile
enough to touch here. The question is: How did you get here?"
"Ah, that's my secret."
"Or, rather, are you here at all? Perhaps you're just a figment of the
overstrained ear. And if I undertook to look, there wouldn't be anything
there at all."
"Of course, if you don't believe in me, I'll fly away on a sunbeam."
"Oh, please! Don't say that! I'm doing my best."
So panic-stricken was the appeal that she laughed again, in spite of
herself.
"Ah, that's better! Now, come, be honest with me. You're not pretty, are
you?"
"Me? I'm as lovely as the dawn."
"So far, so good. And have you got long golden--that is to say, silken
hair that floats almost to your knees?"
"Certainly," she replied, with spirit.
"Is it plentiful enough so that you could spare a little?"
"Are you asking me for a lock of my hair?" she queried, on a note of
mirth. "For a stranger, you go fast."
"No; oh, no!" he protested. "Nothing so familiar. I'm offering you a
bribe for conversation at the price of, say, five hairs, if you can
sacrifice so many."
"It sounds delightfully like voodoo," she observed. "What must I do with
them?"
"First, catch your hair. Well up toward the head, please. Now pull it
out. One, two, three--yank!"
"Ouch!" said the voice above.
"Do it again. Now have you got two?"
"Yes."
"Knot them together."
There was a period of silence.
"It's very difficult," complained the girl.
"Because you're doing it in silence. There must be sprightly
conversation or the charm won't work. Talk!"
"What about?"
"Tell me who you thought I was when you said, 'Boo!' at me."
"A goose."
"A--a GOOSE! Why--what--"
"Doesn't one proverbially say 'Boo!' to a goose?" she remarked demurely.
"If one has the courage. Now, I haven't. I'm shy."
"Shy! You?" Again the delicious trill of her mirth rang in his ears. "I
should imagine that to be the least of your troubles."
"No! Truly." There was real and anxious earnestness in his assurance.
"It's because I don't see you. If I were face to face with you, I'd
stammer and get red and make a regular imbecile of myself. Another
reason why I stick down here and decline to yield to temptation."
"O wise young man! ARE you young? Ouch!"
"Reasonably. Was that the last hair?"
"Positively! I'm scalped. You're a red Indian."
"Tie it on. Now, fasten a hairpin on the end and let it down. All right.
I've got it. Wait!" The fragile line of communication twitched for a
moment. "Haul, now. Gently!"
Up came the thread, and, as its burden rose over the face of the rock,
the girl gave a little cry of delight:--
"How exquisite! Orchids, aren't they?"
"Yes, the golden-brown bee orchid. Just your coloring."
"So it is. How do you know?" she asked, startled.
"From the hair. And your eyes have gold flashes in the brown when the
sun touches them."
"Your wits are YOUR eyes. But where do you get such orchids?"
"From my little private garden underneath the rock."
"Life will be a dull and dreary round unless I see that garden."
"No! I say! Wait! Really, now, Miss--er--" There was panic in the
protest.
"Oh, don't be afraid. I'm only playing with your fears. One look at you
as you chased your absurd spectacles was enough to satisfy my curiosity.
Go in peace, startled fawn that you are."
"Go nothing! I'm not going. Neither are you, I hope, until you've told
me lots more about yourself."
"All that for a spray of orchids?"
"But they are quite rare ones."
"And very lovely."
The girl mused, and a sudden impulse seized her to take the unseen
acquaintance at his word and free her mind as she had not been able to
do to any living soul for long weeks. She pondered over it.
"You aren't getting ready to go?" he cried, alarmed at her long silence.
"No; I'm thinking."
"Please think aloud."
"I was thinking--suppose I did."
There was so much of weighty consideration in her accents that the other
fear again beset him.
"Did what? Not come down from the rock?"
"Be calm. I shouldn't want to face you any more than you want to face
me, if I decided to do it."
"Go on," he encouraged. "It sounds most promising."
"More than that. It's fairly thrilling. It's the awful secret of my life
that I'm considering laying bare to you, just like a dime novel. Are you
discreet?"
"As the eternal rocks. Prescribe any form of oath and I'll take it."
"I'm feeling just irresponsible enough to venture. Now, if I knew you,
of course I couldn't. But as I shall never set eyes on you again--I
never shall, shall I?"
"Not unless you creep up on me unawares."
"Then I'll unburden my overweighted heart, and you can be my augur and
advise me with supernatural wisdom. Are you up to that?"
"Try me."
"I will. But, remember: this means truly that we are never to meet.
And if you ever do meet me and recognize my voice, you must go away at
once."
"Agreed," he said cheerfully, just a bit too cheerfully to be
flattering.
"Very well, then. I'm a runaway."
"From where?"
"Home."
"Naturally. Where's home?"
"Utica, New York," she specified.
"U.S.A.," he concluded, with a sigh. "What did you run away from?"
"Trouble."
"Does any one ever run away from anything else?" he inquired
philosophically. "What particular brand?"
"Three men," she said dolorously. "All after poor little me. They all
thought I ought to marry them, and everybody else seemed to think so,
too--"
"Go slow! Did you say Utica or Utah?"
"Everybody thought I ought to marry one or the other of 'em, I mean.
If I could have married them all, now, it might have been easier, for
I like them ever so much. But how could I make up my mind? So I just
seized papa around the neck and ran away with him down here."
"Why here, of all places on earth?"
"Oh, he's interested in some mines and concessions and things. It's very
beautiful, but I almost wish I'd stayed at home and married Bobby."
"Which is Bobby?"
"He's one of the home boys. We've grown up together, and I'm so fond of
him. Only it's more the brother-and-sister sort of thing, if he'd let it
be."
"Check off No. 1. What's No. 2?"
"Lots older. Mr. Thomas Murray Smith is an unspoiled millionaire. If he
weren't so serious and quite so dangerously near forty--well, I don't
know."
"Have you kept No. 3 for the last because he's the best?"
"No-o-o-o. Because he's the nearest. He followed me down. You can see
his name in all its luster on the Hotel Kast register, when you get back
to the city--Preston Fairfax Fitzhugh Carroll, at your service."
"Sounds Southern," commented the man below.
"Southern! He's more Southern than the South Pole. His ancestors fought
all the wars and owned all the <DW64>s--he calls them '<DW65>s'--and
married into all the first families of Virginia, and all that sort of
thing. He must quite hate himself, poor Fitz, for falling in love with a
little Yankee like me. In fact, that's why I made him do it."
"And now you wish he hadn't?"
"Oh--well--I don't know. He's awfully good-looking and gallant and
devoted and all that. Only he's such a prickly sort of person. I'd have
to spend the rest of my life keeping him and his pride out of trouble.
And I've no taste for diplomacy. Why, only last week he declined to
dine with the President of the Republic because some one said that his
excellency had a touch of the tar brush."
"He'd better get out of this country before that gets back to
headquarters."
"If he thought there was danger, he'd stay forever. I don't suppose
Fitz is afraid of anything on earth. Except perhaps of me," she added
after-thoughtfully.
"Young woman, you're a shameless flirt!" accused the invisible one in
stern tones.
"If I am, it isn't going to hurt you. Besides, I'm not. And, anyway, who
are you to judge me? You're not here as a judge; you're an augur. Now,
go on and aug."
"Aug?" repeated the other hesitantly.
"Certainly. Do an augury. Tell me which."
"Oh! As for that, it's easy. None."
"Why not?"
"Because I much prefer to think of you, when you are gone, as unmarried.
It's more in character with your voice."
"Well, of all the selfish pigs! Condemned to be an old maid, in order
not to spoil an ideal! Perhaps you'd like to enter the lists yourself,"
she taunted.
"Good Heavens, no!" he cried in the most unflattering alarm. "It isn't
in my line--I mean I haven't time for that sort of thing. I'm a very
busy man."
"You look it! Or you did look it, scrambling about like a doodle bug
after your absurd spectacles."
"There is no such insect as a doodle bug."
"Isn't there? How do you know? Are you personally acquainted with all
the insect families?"
"Certainly. That's my business. I'm a scientist."
"Oh, gracious! And I've appealed to you in a matter of sentiment! I
might better have stuck to Fitz. Poor Fitz! I wonder if he's lost."
"Why should he be lost?"
"Because I lost him. Back there on the trail. Purposely. I sent him for
water and then--I skipped."
"Oh-h-h! Then HE'S the goose."
"Goose! Preston Fairfax Fitz--"
"Yes, the goose you said 'Boo!' to, you know."
"Of course. You didn't steal his hat, did you?"
"No. It's my own hat. Why did you run away from him?"
"He bored me. When people bore me, I always run away. I'm beginning to
feel quite fugitive this very minute."
There was silence below, a silence that piqued the girl.
"Well," she challenged, "haven't you anything to say before the court
passes sentence of abandonment to your fate?"
"I'm thinking--frantically. But the thoughts aren't girl thoughts. I
mean, they wouldn't interest you. I might tell you about some of my
insects," he added hopefully.
"Heaven forbid!"
"They're very interesting."
"No. You're worthless as an augur, and a flat failure as a
conversationalist, when thrown on your own resources. So I shall shake
the dust from my feet and depart."
"Good-bye!" he said desolately. "And thank you."
"For what?"
"For making music in my desert."
"That's much better," she approved. "But you've paid your score with the
orchids. If you have one or two more pretty speeches like that in stock,
I might linger for a while."
"I'm afraid I'm all out of those," he returned. "But," he added
desperately, "there's the hexagonal scarab beetle. He's awfully
queer and of much older family even than Mr. Fitzwhizzle's. It is the
hexagonal scarab's habit when dis--"
"We have an encyclopaedia of our own at home," she interrupted coldly.
"I didn't climb this mountain to talk about | 1,976.803059 |
2023-11-16 18:50:00.7849800 | 6,097 | 130 |
Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "An' the bridal couple 'd be holdin' hands an' gazin'
over the spanker-boom at the full moon." [Page 242.]]
RUNNING FREE
BY
JAMES B. CONNOLLY
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
NEW YORK ::::::::::::::::::::: 1917
COPYRIGHT, 1913, 1915, 1917, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published September, 1917
COPYRIGHT, 1912, 1913, 1917, BY P. F. COLLIER & SON, INCORPORATED
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
CONTENTS
The Strategists
The Weeping Annie
The Bull-Fight
A Bale of Blankets
Breath o' Dawn
Peter Stops Ashore
The Sea-Birds
The Medicine Ship
One Wireless Night
Dan Magee: White Hope
ILLUSTRATIONS
"An' the bridal couple'd be holdin' hands an' gazin' over the
spanker-boom at the full moon" Frontispiece
"All stand clear of the main entrance"
"It was drive, drive, drive, from midnight to daylight"
It took till the daylight was all but gone before I knocked him down
for the last time
"You doubted my courage, maybe?" I asked
"'Quiscanto vascamo mirajjar,' which is Yunzano for 'I am satisfied, I
can now die happy'"
The Strategists
I arrived in Santacruz in the early evening, and as I stepped out of
the carriage with the children the majordomo came rushing out from
under the hotel portales and said: "Meesus Trench, is it? Your suite
awaits, madam. The Lieutenant Trench from the American warship has
ordered, madam."
There was a girl, not too young, sitting over at a small table, and at
the name Trench, pronounced in the round voice of the majordomo,
she--well, she was sitting by herself, smoking a cigarette, and I did
not know why she should smile and look at me--in just that way, I mean.
But I can muster some poise of manner myself when I choose--I looked at
her. And she looked me over and smiled again. And I did not like that
smile. It was as if--as Ned would say--she had something on me.
She and I were to be enemies--already I saw that. She was making smoke
rings, and she never hurried the making of a single one of them as she
looked at me; nor did I hurry a particle the ushering of the two
children and the maid into the hotel. But I did ask, after I had
greeted Nan and her mother inside: "Auntie--or you, Nan--who is the
oleander blossom smoking the cigarette out under the portales?"
It spoke volumes to me that Nan and her mother, without looking, at
once knew whom I meant. She was the Carmen Whiffle of whom nearly
every other American woman waiting to be taken home on the next
transport had been whispering--and not always whispering--for weeks in
Santacruz.
Nan, of course, had a good word for her. Is there a living creature on
earth she wouldn't? "I think she is wonderfully good-looking," said
Nan.
"No woman with a jaw like that," said Nan's mother, "can be
good-looking. And she sat at the piano there early this evening and
raved over the 'Melody in F'; but when she tried to play it, it was
with fingers of wood. What she really did play with spirit,
Nettie--when she thought there were none of us American women around to
hear her--was: 'I Want What I Want When I Want _It_.'"
Auntie went on to tell then how this creature was a divorcee who had
married an oil millionaire and within six months got her second divorce
and a half-million alimony out of him. And as a baby she was
christened--not Carmen, but Hannah! "Now, what's the psychology,
Nettie," said auntie, "of a woman who changes her name from Hannah to
Carmen? She wants what she wants when she wants it--and she'll come
pretty near getting it, Nettie. If I had a husband within a thousand
miles of her, I'd lock him up."
You may understand from the foregoing that Mrs. Wedner--Nan's
mother--is a woman of convictions; and so she is. The Lady with the
Wallop is what Ned tells me the men folks call her. But I am not
without convictions myself.
"I have a husband within a thousand miles of her," I said, "and if you
mean that for me, auntie, I won't lock him up--not even if he were the
to-be-locked-up kind. When I can't hold my man, auntie, against any
specimen of her species, I won't call in the police to help me. And I
think I'll give her another look-over before the evening is ended."
"Don't bother your head with her," said auntie. "And sit down and have
something to eat." And we did have something to eat, but up-stairs in
my suite.
The children and I were eating, and Nan and auntie were giving me all
the gossip since I'd seen them last, when the maid came in to say that
the trunk with the children's things in it hadn't been sent up with the
others. There's no use leaving such things to a maid in those
countries--I went down to see about it myself; and there it was, as I
expected, lying in the lobby where a lazy porter hadn't yet got around
to it.
I told the fat majordomo a thing or two, and the trunk was soon on its
upward way; and then--as I was down-stairs--I thought to take a glance
about to see if anybody I knew had arrived in the meantime. You must
remember that American refugees were coming in from the interior on
every train, the revolutionary general Podesta being expected to enter
the city almost any day--or hour.
I saw the back of a man's head, and I said to myself: "If that isn't
Larry Trench's head as anything on earth can be!"--the shapely,
overhanging back head and the uncrushable hair that went with it.
There was a row of palmettos in tubs, and I walked around to make
certain. It was Larry. And he was with a young woman. And the young
woman was Carmen Whiffle, and her heavy-lashed agate eyes were gazing
into the steady, deep-set, blue-green eyes of Larry. One look was all
I needed to know what that lady's intentions were in the present case.
"So!" I said to myself--"that's what you meant when you smiled at the
name Trench? Perhaps you thought Larry was my husband!"
Now, I hadn't seen a single officer or man of our ships on my way from
the station, nor while I had been down-stairs with Nan and auntie
earlier. Which was significant in itself, for a fleet of our
battleships were anchored in the harbor, my Ned's among them. I looked
around now. No, there wasn't one officer of ours in the dining-room,
nor in the plaza outside. So what was Larry, a young officer of our
marine corps, doing all by himself ashore?
And Larry was my Ned's young brother and my own little Neddo's
godfather, and long ago I had decided that Larry should marry my own
chum and cousin Nan, the very best girl that ever lived. And--well, if
ever a woman looked like the newspaper photographs of the other woman
of a dozen celebrated cases, Carmen Whiffle was that woman.
I stood there at the end of that row of palmettos, hesitating; and
while I hesitated the orchestra struck up, and I saw the lady lead
Larry out for a dance.
I did not have to see Carmen Whiffle dance to know that she could
dance. If they never learn to do anything else on earth, women of her
kind do learn to dance. All women who have men in their minds learn to
dance. She could dance. If I had never seen her lift a toe off the
floor, the lines of her figure were there to prove that she could
dance. But she lifted her toe. More than her toe. She danced--I have
to give her credit for it--with grace; and after she warmed up to it,
not only with grace but with abandon; with so much abandon that all the
other women who were trying to dance with abandon ceased their feeble
efforts and stood against the wall to watch her.
After that dance Carmen Whiffle never had another chance with me. I
almost ran up to my room. Little Anna was already asleep; but Neddo,
aged six, was wide-awake. Nan and her mother had gone to their room,
which was across the hall on the same floor.
"Neddo, dear, do you know your uncle Larry is down-stains?" I asked him.
"Oh-h, mummie!" he cried, and came leaping out of his cot bed. "I must
see him, mummie!"
"I'm going to let you go down-stairs all by yourself, Neddo, and see
him. And then be sure to bring him up here, to have a look at sister.
And then be sure to take him to the balcony at the end of the hallway
and tell him to draw the lattices and wait there. It's to be a
surprise, Neddo, tell him; but not a single word more than that."
I waited two minutes or so, and then followed Neddo. I was in time to
see Neddo throw himself at Larry, and wrap his arms around his neck and
smother him with kisses. "Uncle Larry! O Uncle Larry! Come and see
who's up-stairs! No telling, you know!"
From where I was, on the screened balcony overlooking the
lounging-room, I needed no ship's spy-glass to read the suspicion in
Carmen Whiffle's eyes when she looked at little Neddo. I do believe
she could even suspect that innocent, affectionate child with playing a
game.
The tears were in Larry's eyes. "My godson, my brother's boy," he
explained. "If you don't mind my running away for a few minutes, Miss
Whiffle, I'll hurry back. I'll explain to Neddo's mother that you are
waiting and hurry right back."
"Don't explain anything," said Miss Whiffle, just a bit tartly. "Never
mind any explaining, but come back as soon as you can. I shall be
waiting here."
Are you at all given to the habit of fancying in human beings the
resemblance to different kinds of birds and beasts? Looking down on
Carmen Whiffle just then, I could see where, if her well-cushioned
features were chiselled away, she would look startlingly like a hawk.
I may be unjust, I know, but I was thinking of more than one thing just
then. I was thinking of what I read in Carmen Whiffle's glance and
smile at me when I passed under the portales of that hotel that
evening. A devoted, slavish wife and mother was what she was thinking
I was; and possibly I am. But women of her kind are altogether too
quick to think that the devoted wife and mother hasn't any brains.
And more than all the brains in the world is the wisdom that comes of
knowing men. Carmen Whiffle may have known several men in her day; but
if she did it was to know them incompletely; and to know any number of
men incompletely is never truly to know any one, while to know one man
well is to know many. And when that one in my case was Larry's own
brother, why, I wasn't worrying over a battle with Carmen Whiffle,
superbly equipped though she doubtless thought herself.
Ned and his brother Larry were natively pretty much alike; but my Ned
was trained early in a rigid profession and early assumed the
responsibilities of marriage and a home; and--he told me so more than
once--so saved himself more than one drift to leeward. It is no gain
for us women to dodge facts in this life. To a man with a conscience,
a wife and two children are better than many windward anchors, as Ned
would say. Larry was Ned, minus the wife and two children, and plus a
little more of youth and the not yet, perhaps, disciplined Trench
temperament.
And for every child a woman bears mark her up a decade of years in
human wisdom. And twice a decade in hardening resolution. It had
already become marble in me--my resolution to save from the talons of
this hawk this brother of my Ned's--a twenty-five-year-old man of war
according to stupid bureau files, but in reality a little child playing
in the garden of life with never a thought of any bird of prey hovering
in the air above him.
I watched Larry go bounding up the wide staircase with Neddo, and then
I waited long enough for them to get well out of sight ahead; for Neddo
to lead his uncle up the second flight, to show him baby in her bed
asleep; and Larry--I could picture him--time to stoop over and kiss the
dear, warm, plump little face.
"And now you must hide--I'll show you, Uncle Larry--till mummie comes,"
said Neddo, and led him back to the hall and onto the balcony, which
looked down on the patio of the hotel. And there Neddo left him, after
closing him in behind the lattice, as I had told him.
I then went to get Nan, who had been sentenced to read her mother to
sleep with something out of Trollope. Nan's mother carried volumes of
Trollope with her as other women carry hot-water bottles. Twenty
minutes of dear old Trollope and she was good for her eight hours'
sleep, she would say, as she did now; but this time without keeping Nan
twenty minutes.
"Nettie, the way you go around commandeering people, you ought to be a
general in the army," said auntie, but with perfect good nature. "Go
along with her, Nan."
I led Nan to where Neddo was waiting in his crib. "Did you tell Cousin
Nan yet, mummie?" asked Neddo in what he thought was a whisper.
"Tell me what, Neddo?" asked Nan.
"Neddo!" I said, and raised a finger. "Sh-h, Neddo!" and Neddo sh-h-d,
and I led Nan into the hall. "I'm dying to have a talk with you," I
whispered to Nan--"out here, where Neddo won't be kept awake and the
maid won't hear us."
And so, just when Larry was, no doubt, thinking of breaking out of his
hiding-place, he heard a door in the hall open, and through the slats
of the lattice saw two women's shadowy forms tiptoeing down the hall
toward his balcony.
Nan went straight to the lattice. "Let's let the air in, Nettie."
"No, no, Nan," I cried, "don't throw open the lattice!"
"Why not?" she asked, her hands on the latch.
"Flying things! Tropical night-birds! Bats!"
"Bats! Ugh-h-h!" cried Nan, and let the lattice alone.
"Let's sit here," I said, setting our chairs almost against the
lattice. Larry could not escape then if he wanted to, because it was a
twenty-foot drop onto a lot of marble vases or the spiked edges of some
cactus plants, and more than a twenty-foot drop to a marble walk or
into the depths of some kind of a spouting fountain in the patio.
He had to stay, and, being an officer and a gentleman, of course, he
was trying not to hear; but the lattice slats were loose-fitting and we
were sitting not two feet from them.
"Where did you hear of Larry last, Nan?" I began.
"Oh," said Nan, "I've been getting mamma to take all kinds of trips,
Nettie, and every trip with the one idea of seeing Larry somewhere.
Wherever I thought any of our war-ships came, there I'd specially get
mamma to go. I can draw a map of this coast-line with all its ports in
their proper places with my eyes shut. And the places in the different
ports I've peeked into, Nettie!--knowing how curious Larry always was
to see everything going on and hoping to run across him in that way. I
even got mamma to go to a bull-fight last Sunday."
"A bull-fight, Nan!" I said.
"Why not?" retorted Nan. "In our country we have prize-fights. And
which is worse--for men to maul beasts or to maul each other?"
"I know, Nan, but women who have seen them----"
"I know, Nettie--and their writing articles of the horror of it, but
always after they've satisfied their curiosity. The curse of our
training to-day, Nettie, is hypocrisy."
Which was just like Nan--straight from the shoulder! But we just have
to restrain those headstrong ones. "I wouldn't call it hypocrisy
altogether, Nan," I said.
"What else is it? And what else was it when every old hen in our town
went cackling from one house to another when the papers published that
story about Larry losing so much money at cards one night? And some of
these same women not able to afford a second maid and even doing their
own fine laundering in secret--some of them playing afternoon bridge,
Nettie, for a half of a cent a point, and all kinds of signalling to
win. It just makes me sick. How do we know how many of them wouldn't
gamble away ten thousand dollars in one night if they had it?"
And just then I heard "That's you, Nan!" in Larry's fervent voice, from
behind the lattice.
Nan leaped up. I could feel her heart beating when she fell against
me. "Did you hear that, Nettie?"
"I did hear something," I said--"a word from one of the cooks or maids
down-stairs it must have been. They take the air in the patio of an
evening when their work is done. Remember, voices carry far in the
tropics--especially when it is damp."
"I never knew that, Nettie," said innocent Nan--"that voices carry
farther in the tropics. And I'm sure it is clear and lovely out." And
she stood up to look through the lattice.
Now, the best defense to an attack, Ned always told me, is another
attack; so "But Larry did drink too much that time, Nan," I said.
"Why, Nettie Trench--from you!" cried Nan, and plumped back into her
chair. "When did he drink too much? Just once--when he knew so little
of wine that he had no idea how much would upset him. The trouble was
that poor Larry never knew how to hide anything he ever did. No
hypocrisy in him at any rate. And I'd a good deal rather have a man
who did what Larry did, and own to it and be sorry right out, than a
man that you never know when he is lying to you or not, or what he is
likely to be doing when he is out of sight. And he gave me his promise
in a letter that he would never touch another card or drink another
glass of wine until I said he might. Mother wouldn't let me answer the
letter. And he guessed how it was, and I don't blame him for writing
her as he did. Mamma was too harsh. She paid too much attention to
town gossip, and I told her that. And she said: 'I think, Nan, a
little travelling and discipline won't hurt you one bit'; and then
Larry went and got his appointment to the marine corps, thinking there
might be a war and some fighting for him down in this country."
Now, I always have held that women, even as men of any account, are
never so attractive as when they throw aside all affectation and stand
forth just as they are--that is, if they're wholesome and good to begin
with; and no surer way to hold the right kind of a boy to the line than
to let him know that the right girl has never lost faith in him. But
Nan was holding forth altogether too bravely--with the boy in the case
so handy. A few little reservations--a few--at this particular time, I
thought, would do no harm. And so "Sh-h, Nan!" I warned.
"I won't sh-h, Nettie Trench. It's so and you know it. I hate
superior people, Nettie. Father always did, too. And you know how he
liked Larry. Dear papa! One night, Nettie--I was never so
surprised--mamma all at once began to cry--imagine mamma crying! She
was crying for papa, who had to die, she said, before she could
appreciate the gentleness and warm heart that was in him. And papa
always said that no kind of people go further to the bad than those who
really think they're better than others. He used to say that such
beasts, for their punishment, ought to be forced to herd by themselves."
I believe in what Nan said myself, but also, thinking of the wily woman
waiting below, I decided that a little chastening of the spirit of
rebellious girlhood would now be in order. So I said: "But a long
record of the human race, Nan, proves that if we do not intend to try
to be better than the people we happen to be with, then we ought to
take care whom we are with."
"You and your sermons!" exclaimed Nan. "Nettie, dear, talk _with_ me,
not _at_ me. Oh, Nettie"--Nan threw herself on my shoulders--"I never
had a chance to tell him I'm not mad with him. And I'm afraid he'll do
something desperate. And if they get to fighting down here, as
everybody says, he will be killed! He's that kind, Nettie--he will be
killed!"
"And isn't my Ned likely to be killed at all?" I said, beginning to get
frightened too; and then, seeing her so tearful: "But it will be all
right, dear--don't you worry."
"But, Nettie, why shouldn't a woman let a man know--or give him a hint?
'What!' says mamma to me, 'would you run after him?' But why should I
be afraid to let him know that I do care for him?"
"I don't know why not, Nan. It depends on the man, perhaps."
"Did you ever let Ned know you cared for him before he asked--did you,
Nettie?"
She was so wistful I almost forgot Larry behind the lattice, but I
caught myself in time. "I hope, Nan Wedner, you don't think I proposed
to him?"--that was with such dignity as I could quickly assume.
"But, Nettie"--she switched her head on my shoulder--"do you suppose
Ned knew, Nettie?"
"I'm afraid," I sighed--I thought of Larry listening, but I had to tell
her the truth--"he would have been dull not to guess it."
"And Ned isn't dull, is he?" said Nan.
"Ned dull! I guess not!" I said.
And while I stood with Nan tearful and discouraged against my shoulder,
I could hear the patter of the fountain tinkling up from the patio, and
the voices of men and girls, and the music of some kind of a native
instrument; and the song was of home and love by a man to a girl. And
do you know?--no matter what we think of their politics and so
on--those men down that country do seem to be able to put something
terribly sad into their voices when they sing, and somebody somewhere
has said that no man who loves but is more often sad than gay. And it
made no difference--it may have been some low-built kitchen girl he was
singing to, and he one of the hotel porters loafing on his job--not a
mite of difference. The melody of it rose up and clutched me. And Nan
clinging to me--I could feel it clutching her, too. And I knew that
for Larry behind the lattice--it was hard work staying where he was;
and as for myself--I hadn't seen my Ned in almost a year, and, thinking
of Ned and his ways, I felt all at once terribly lonesome and like
crying with Nan. And then a vision of the arrogant beauty down-stairs
came suddenly to my mind. But now without my being so afraid. It
would be safe enough now, I thought, to have Larry and Nan meet in her
presence.
"Let us go down-stairs now, Nan," I said. "We can look at the dancing.
That Miss Whiffle, they say, is a wonderful dancer."
"Yes, but let me look at the children again, Nettie," said Nan. "I
love to see them asleep. Isn't it wonderful to you, Nettie, to think
of your having children of your own--nobody else's but your own?"
"And Ned's," I said.
"Of course. You wouldn't give them up for anything, would you, Nettie,
in all the world? Why, Nettie, I'd go down on my knees and scrub
floors like the old women in the office-buildings every night of my
life in thankfulness to have such lovely little babies of my own!"
"Hush, Nan!" I said, thinking of Larry in hiding.
"And Larry, Nettie--wouldn't Larry love to have children of his own!"
Before she could say any more I hurried her away to look at the
children, and also to give Larry time to make his escape. And after
Nan had cuddled them we headed for the stairs, I wondering just how I
could let Larry see us after we got there. And while descending the
stairs we heard a rifle-shot, and another, and another, and then dozens
of shots.
"Podesta! Podesta!" we heard everybody calling out then, and the
waiters dashed from under the portales to the corner of the plaza to
see what was doing. And as we hurried downstairs we heard a
voice--Larry's voice.
"This plaza is about the best-lighted place in town," Larry was saying
to a group of diners. | 1,976.80502 |
2023-11-16 18:50:00.7851510 | 2,038 | 11 |
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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=).
ACROSS PATAGONIA.
[Illustration: CROSSING THE CABEZA DEL MARE.]
ACROSS PATAGONIA
by
LADY FLORENCE DIXIE
With Illustrations from Sketches by Julius Beerbohm
Engraved by Whymper and Pearson
[Illustration: 'PUCHO.']
London:
Richard Bentley and Son
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen
1880
The rights of Translation and Reproduction are reserved.
Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh.
TO
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS,
ALBERT EDWARD, PRINCE OF WALES,
THIS WORK
DESCRIPTIVE OF
SIX MONTHS' WANDERINGS OVER UNEXPLORED
AND UNTRODDEN GROUND,
IS BY KIND PERMISSION RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
BY HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS'S
OBLIGED AND OBEDIENT SERVANT,
THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
WHY PATAGONIA?--GOOD-BYE--THE START--DIRTY WEATHER--
LISBON--THE ISLAND OF PALMA--PERNAMBUCO Pages 1-11
CHAPTER II.
BAHIA--RIO DE JANEIRO--RIO HARBOUR--THE TOWN--AN
UPSET--TIJUCA--A TROPICAL NIGHT--MORE UPSETS--SAFETY
AT LAST 12-25
CHAPTER III.
BEAUTIES OF RIO--MONTE VIDEO--STRAITS OF MAGELLAN--
TIERRA DEL FUEGO--ARRIVAL AT SANDY POINT--PREPARATIONS
FOR THE START--OUR OUTFIT--OUR GUIDES 26-39
CHAPTER IV.
THE START FOR CAPE <DW64>--RIDING ALONG THE STRAITS--CAPE
<DW64>--THE FIRST NIGHT UNDER CANVAS--UNEXPECTED
ARRIVALS--OUR GUESTS--A NOVEL PICNIC--ROUGH RIDING--
THERE WAS A SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT Pages 40-51
CHAPTER V.
DEPARTURE OF OUR GUESTS--THE START FOR THE PAMPAS--AN
UNTOWARD ACCIDENT--A DAY'S SPORT--UNPLEASANT EFFECTS OF
THE WIND--OFF CAPE GREGORIO. 52-61
CHAPTER VI.
VISIT TO THE INDIAN CAMP--A PATAGONIAN--INDIAN CURIOSITY
--PHYSIQUE--COSTUME--WOMEN--PROMINENT CHARACTERISTICS
--AN INDIAN INCROYABLE--SUPERSTITIOUSNESS 62-73
CHAPTER VII.
THE PRAIRIE FIRE 74-80
CHAPTER VIII.
UNPLEASANT VISITORS--"SPEED THE PARTING GUEST"--OFF
AGAIN--AN OSTRICH EGG--I'ARIA MISLEADS US--STRIKING
OIL--PREPARATIONS FOR THE CHASE--WIND AND HAIL--A
GUANACO AT LAST--AN EXCITING RUN--THE DEATH--HOME--
HUNGRY AS HUNTERS--"FAT-BEHIND-THE-EYE." 81-99
CHAPTER IX.
ELASTIC LEAGUES--THE LAGUNA BLANCA--AN EARTHQUAKE--
OSTRICH-HUNTING 100-115
CHAPTER X.
DEPARTURE FROM LAGUNA BLANCA--A WILD-CAT--IBIS SOUP--A
FERTILE CANYADON--INDIAN LAW AND EQUITY--OUR FIRST PUMA
--COWARDICE OF THE PUMA--DISCOMFORTS OF A WET NIGHT--A
MYSTERIOUS DISH--A GOOD RUN Pages 116-127
CHAPTER XI.
A NUMEROUS GUANACO HERD--A PAMPA HERMIT--I'ARIA AGAIN
LOSES THE WAY--CHORLITOS--A NEW EMOTION--A MOON
RAINBOW--WEATHER WISDOM--OPTIMIST AND PESSIMIST--WILD
FOWL ABUNDANT 128-137
CHAPTER XII.
A MONOTONOUS RIDE--A DREARY LANDSCAPE--SHORT FUEL
RATIONS--THE CORDILLERAS--FEATURES OF PATAGONIAN SCENERY
--HEAT AND GNATS--A PUMA AGAIN--"THE RAIN IS NEVER
WEARY"--DAMPNESS, HUNGER, GLOOM--I'ARIA TO THE RESCUE--
HIS INGENUITY 138-150
CHAPTER XIII.
A SURPRISE--A STRANGE SCENE--CALIFATE BERRIES--GUANACO
STALKING--A DILEMMA--MOSQUITOES--A GOOD SHOT--
MOSQUITOES 151-161
CHAPTER XIV.
AN UNKNOWN COUNTRY--PASSING THE BARRIER--CLEOPATRA'S
NEEDLES--FOXES--A GOOD RUN--OUR FOREST SANCTUARY--
ROUGHING IT--A BATH--A VARIED MENU 162-173
CHAPTER XV.
EXCURSIONS INTO THE MOUNTAINS--MYSTERIES OF THE
CORDILLERAS--WILD HORSE TRACKS--DEER--MAN THE
DESTROYER 174-183
CHAPTER XVI.
AN ALARM--THE WILD-HORSES--AN EQUINE COMBAT--THE WILD
STALLION VICTORIOUS--THE STRUGGLE RENEWED--RETREAT OF
THE WILD HORSES 184-189
CHAPTER XVII.
EXCURSION TO THE CLEOPATRA NEEDLES--A BOG--A WINDING
RIVER--DIFFICULT TRAVELLING--A STRANGE PHENOMENON--A
FAIRY HAUNT--WILD HORSES AGAIN--THEIR AGILITY--THE
BLUE LAKE--THE CLEOPATRA PEAKS--THE PROMISED LAND 190-200
CHAPTER XVIII.
WE THINK OF RETURNING--GOOD-BYE TO THE CORDILLERAS--THE
LAST OF THE WILD HORSES--MOSQUITOES--A STORMY NIGHT--A
CALAMITY--THE LAST OF OUR BISCUIT--UTILITY OF
FIRE-SIGNALS 201-212
CHAPTER XIX.
ISIDORO--AN UNSAVOURY MEAL--EXPENSIVE LOAVES--GUANACO
SCARCE--DISAPPOINTMENT--NIGHT SURPRISES US--SUPPERLESS
--CONTINUED FASTING--NO MEAT IN THE CAMP 213-223
CHAPTER XX.
THE HORSES LOST!--UNPLEASANT PROSPECTS--FOUND--SHORT
RATIONS--A STRANGE HUNT--A STERN CHASE--THE MYSTERY
SOLVED--THE CABEZA DEL MAR--SAFELY ACROSS--A DAMP
NIGHT--CABO <DW64> AGAIN 224-238
CHAPTER XXI.
CABO <DW64>--HOME NEWS--CIVILISATION AGAIN--OUR
DISREPUTABLE APPEARANCE--PUCHO MISSING--THE COMING OF
PUCHO--PUCHO'S CHARACTERISTICS 239-251
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PUCHO _Title_
CROSSING THE CABEZA DEL MAR _Frontispiece_
A GUANACO ON THE LOOK-OUT _Page_ 1
THE STRAITS OF MAGELLAN _To face page_ 40
"COLLECTING THE 'TROPILLA'--SADDLING UP" " 56
INDIAN CAMP " 64
GUANACOS " 96
THE LAST DOUBLE " 112
THE PUMA'S DEATH-SPRING " 146
RAVINE ENTRANCE TO THE CORDILLERAS " 162
THE "CLEOPATRA NEEDLES" " | 1,976.805191 |
2023-11-16 18:50:00.8851810 | 7,436 | 14 |
Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 58. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, December 1, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: TOBY STRIKES A BARGAIN--DRAWN BY W. A. ROGERS.]
TOBY TYLER; OR, TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS.
BY JAMES OTIS.
CHAPTER I.
TOBY'S INTRODUCTION TO THE CIRCUS.
"Couldn't you give more'n six pea-nuts for a cent?" was a question asked
by a very small boy with big, staring eyes, of a candy vender at a
circus booth. And as he spoke he looked wistfully at the quantity of
nuts piled high up on the basket, and then at the six, each of which now
looked so small as he held them in his hand.
"Couldn't do it," was the reply of the proprietor of the booth, as he
put the boy's penny carefully away in the drawer.
The little fellow looked for another moment at his purchase, and then
carefully cracked the largest one.
A shade, and a very deep shade it was, of disappointment that passed
over his face, and then looking up anxiously, he asked, "Don't you swap
'em when they're bad?"
The man's face looked as if a smile had been a stranger to it for a
long time; but one did pay it a visit just then, and he tossed the boy
two nuts, and asked him a question at the same time. "What is your
name?"
The big brown eyes looked up for an instant, as if to learn whether the
question was asked in good faith, and then their owner said, as he
carefully picked apart another nut, "Toby Tyler."
"Well, that's a queer name."
"Yes, I s'pose so, myself; but, you see, I don't expect that's the name
that belongs to me. But the fellers call me so, an' so does Uncle
Dan'l."
"Who is Uncle Daniel?" was the next question. In the absence of any more
profitable customer the man seemed disposed to get as much amusement out
of the boy as possible.
"He hain't my uncle at all; I only call him so because all the boys do,
an' I live with him."
"Where's your father and mother?"
"I don't know," said Toby, rather carelessly. "I don't know much about
'em, an' Uncle Dan'l says they don't know much about me. Here's another
bad nut; goin' to give me two more?"
The two nuts were given him, and he said, as he put them in his pocket,
and turned over and over again those which he held in his hand, "I
shouldn't wonder if all of these was bad. Sposen you give me two for
each one of 'em before I crack 'em, an' then they won't be spoiled so
you can't sell 'em again."
As this offer of barter was made, the man looked amused, and he asked,
as he counted out the number which Toby desired, "If I give you these, I
suppose you'll want me to give you two more for each one, and you'll
keep that kind of a trade going until you get my whole stock?"
"I won't open my head if every one of 'em's bad."
"All right; you can keep what you've got, and I'll give you these
besides; but I don't want you to buy any more, for I don't want to do
that kind of business."
Toby took the nuts offered, not in the least abashed, and seated himself
on a convenient stone to eat them, and at the same time to see all that
was going on around him. The coming of a circus to the little town of
Guilford was an event, and Toby had hardly thought of anything else
since the highly posters had first been put up. It was yet quite
early in the morning, and the tents were just being erected by the men.
Toby had followed, with eager eyes, everything that looked as if it
belonged to the circus, from the time the first wagon had entered the
town, until the street parade had been made, and everything was being
prepared for the afternoon's performance.
The man who had made the losing trade in pea-nuts seemed disposed to
question the boy still further, probably owing to the fact that trade
was dull, and he had nothing better to do.
"Who is this Uncle Daniel you say you live with--is he a farmer?"
"No; he's a Deacon, an' he raps me over the head with the hymn-book
whenever I go to sleep in meetin', an' he says I eat four times as much
as I earn. I blame him for hittin' so hard when I go to sleep, but I
s'pose he's right about my eatin'. You see," and here his tone grew both
confidential and mournful, "I am an awful eater, an' I can't seem to
help it. Somehow I'm hungry all the time. I don't seem ever to get
enough till carrot-time comes, an' then I can get all I want without
troubling anybody."
"Didn't you ever have enough to eat?"
"I s'pose I did, but you see Uncle Dan'l he found me one mornin' on his
hay, an' he says I was cryin' for something to eat then, an' I've kept
it up ever since. I tried to get him to give me money enough to go into
the circus with; but he said a cent was all he could spare these hard
times, an' I'd better take that an' buy something to eat with it, for
the show wasn't very good anyway. I wish pea-nuts wasn't but a cent a
bushel."
"Then you would make yourself sick eating them."
"Yes, I s'pose I should; Uncle Dan'l says I'd eat till I was sick, if I
got the chance; but I'd like to try it once."
He was a very small boy, with a round head covered with short red
hair, a face as speckled as any turkey's egg, but thoroughly
good-natured-looking, and as he sat there on the rather sharp point of
the rock, swaying his body to and fro as he hugged his knees with his
hands, and kept his eyes fastened on the tempting display of good things
before him, it would have been a very hard-hearted man who would not
have given him something. But Mr. Job Lord, the proprietor of the booth,
was a hard-hearted man, and he did not make the slightest advance toward
offering the little fellow anything.
Toby rocked himself silently for a moment, and then he said,
hesitatingly, "I don't suppose you'd like to sell me some things, an'
let me pay you when I get older, would you?"
Mr. Lord shook his head decidedly at this proposition.
"I didn't s'pose you would," said Toby, quickly; "but you didn't seem to
be selling anything, an' I thought I'd just see what you'd say about
it." And then he appeared suddenly to see something wonderfully
interesting behind him, which served as an excuse to turn his reddening
face away.
"I suppose your uncle Daniel makes you work for your living, don't he?"
asked Mr. Lord, after he had re-arranged his stock of candy, and had
added a couple of slices of lemon peel to what was popularly supposed to
be lemonade.
"That's what I think; but he says that all the work I do wouldn't pay
for the meal that one chicken would eat, an' I s'pose it's so, for I
don't like to work as well as a feller without any father and mother
ought to. I don't know why it is, but I guess it's because I take up so
much time eatin' that it kinder tires me out. I s'pose you go into the
circus whenever you want to, don't you?"
"Oh yes; I'm there at every performance, for I keep the stand under the
big canvas as well as this one out here."
There was a great big sigh from out Toby's little round stomach, as he
thought what bliss it must be to own all those good things, and to see
the circus wherever it went. "It must be nice," he said, as he faced the
booth and its hard-visaged proprietor once more.
"How would you like it?" asked Mr. Lord, patronizingly, as he looked
Toby over in a business way, very much as if he contemplated purchasing
him.
"Like it!" echoed Toby; "why, I'd grow fat on it."
"I don't know as that would be any advantage," continued Mr. Lord,
reflectively, "for it strikes me that you're about as fat now as a boy
of your age ought to be. But I've a great mind to give you a chance."
"What!" cried Toby, in amazement, and his eyes opened to their widest
extent, as this possible opportunity of leading a delightful life
presented itself.
"Yes, I've a great mind to give you the chance. You see," and now it was
Mr. Lord's turn to grow confidential, "I've had a boy with me this
season, but he cleared out at the last town, and I'm running the
business alone now."
Toby's face expressed all the contempt he felt for the boy who would run
away from such a glorious life as Mr. Lord's assistant must lead; but he
said not a word, waiting in breathless expectation for the offer which
he now felt certain would be made him.
"Now I ain't hard on a boy," continued Mr. Lord, still confidentially,
"and yet that one seemed to think that he was treated worse and made to
work harder than any boy in the world."
"He ought to live with Uncle Dan'l a week," said Toby, eagerly.
"Here I was just like a father to him," said Mr. Lord, paying no
attention to the interruption, "and I gave him his board and lodging,
and a dollar a week besides."
"Could he do what he wanted to with the dollar?"
"Of course he could. I never checked him, no matter how extravagant he
was, an' yet I've seen him spend his whole week's wages at this very
stand in one afternoon. And even after his money had all gone that way,
I've paid for peppermint and ginger out of my own pocket just to cure
his stomach-ache."
Toby shook his head mournfully, as if deploring that depravity which
could cause a boy to run away from such a tender-hearted employer, and
from such a desirable position. But even as he shook his head so sadly,
he looked wistfully at the pea-nuts, and Mr. Lord observed the look.
It may have been that Mr. Job Lord was the tender-hearted man he prided
himself upon being, or it may have been that he wished to purchase
Toby's sympathy; but, at all events, he gave him a large handful of
nuts, and Toby never bothered his little round head as to what motive
prompted the gift. Now he could listen to the story of the boy's
treachery and eat at the same time, therefore he was an attentive
listener.
"All in the world that boy had to do," continued Mr. Lord, in the same
injured tone he had previously used, "was to help me set things to
rights when we struck a town in the morning, and then tend to the
counter till we left the town at night, and all the rest of the time he
had to himself. Yet that boy was ungrateful enough to run away."
Mr. Lord paused as if expecting some expression of sympathy from his
listener; but Toby was so busily engaged with his unexpected feast, and
his mouth was so full, that it did not seem even possible for him to
shake his head.
"Now what should you say if I told you that you looked to me like a boy
that was made especially to help run a candy counter at a circus, and if
I offered the place to you?"
Toby made one frantic effort to swallow the very large mouthful, and in
a choking voice he answered, quickly, "I should say I'd go with you, an'
be mighty glad of the chance."
"Then it's a bargain, my boy, and you shall leave town with me
to-night."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
SOUTH AFRICAN DIAMONDS.
A recent report from the Cape of Good Hope states that a diamond
weighing 225 carats has been found at the Du Toits Pan mine, and a very
fine white stone of 115 carats in Jagersfontein mine, in the Free State.
The lucky finders of these stones are vastly richer than they were a few
weeks ago, for if these diamonds are of the best quality, they will be
worth thousands upon thousands of dollars.
It is only ten years ago that all the world was taken by surprise at
hearing that some of these precious stones had been found in the African
colony; and this is how it came about. A little boy, the son of a Dutch
farmer living near Hope Town, of the name of Jacobs, had been amusing
himself in collecting pebbles. One of these was sufficiently bright to
attract the keen eye of his mother; but she regarded it simply as a
curious stone, and it was thrown down outside the house. Some time
afterward she mentioned it to a neighbor, who, on seeing it, offered to
buy it. The good woman laughed at the idea of selling a common bright
pebble, and at once gave it to him, and he intrusted it to a friend, to
find out its value; and Dr. Atherstone, of Graham's Town, was the first
to pronounce it a _diamond_. It was then sent to Cape Town, forwarded to
the Paris Exhibition, and it was afterward purchased by the Governor of
the colony, Sir Philip Wodehouse, for L500.
This discovery of the _first_ Cape diamond was soon followed by others,
and led to the development of the great diamond fields of South Africa.
THE HEART OF BRUCE.[1]
BY LILLIE E. BARR.
Beside Dumbarton's castled steep the Bruce lay down to die;
Great Highland chiefs and belted earls stood sad and silent nigh.
The warm June breezes filled the room, all sweet with flowers and hay,
The warm June sunshine flecked the couch on which the monarch lay.
The mailed men like statues stood; under their bated breath
The prostrate priests prayed solemnly within the room of death;
While through the open casements came the evening song of birds,
The distant cries of kye and sheep, the lowing of the herds.
And so they kept their long, last watch till shades of evening fell;
Then strong and clear King Robert spoke: "Dear brother knights, farewell!
Come to me, Douglas--take my hand. Wilt thou, for my poor sake,
Redeem my vow, and fight my fight, lest I my promise break?
"I ne'er shall see Christ's sepulchre, nor tread the Holy Land;
I ne'er shall lift my good broadsword against the Paynim band;
Yet I was vowed to Palestine: therefore take thou my heart,
And with far purer hands than mine play thou the Bruce's part."
Then Douglas, weeping, kissed the King, and said: "While I have breath
The vow thou made I will fulfill--yea, even unto death:
Where'er I go thy heart shall go; it shall be first in fight.
Ten thousand thanks for such a trust! Douglas is Bruce's knight."
They laid the King in Dunfermline--not yet his heart could rest;
For it hung within a priceless case upon the Douglas' breast.
And many a chief with Douglas stood: it was a noble line
Set sail to fight the Infidel in holy Palestine.
Their vessel touched at fair Seville. They heard upon that day
How Christian Leon and Castile before the Moslem lay,
Then Douglas said, "O heart of Bruce! thy fortune still is great,
For, ere half done thy pilgrimage, the foe for thee doth wait."
Dark Osmyn came; the Christians heard his long yell, "Allah hu!"
The brave Earl Douglas led the van as they to battle flew;
Sir William Sinclair on his left, the Logans on his right,
St. Andrew's blood-red cross above upon its field of white.
Then Douglas took the Bruce's heart, and flung it far before.
"_Pass onward first_, O noble heart, as in the days of yore!
For Holy Rood and Christian Faith make thou a path, and we
With loyal hearts and flashing swords will gladly follow thee."
All day the fiercest battle raged just where that heart did fall,
For round it stood the Scottish lords, a fierce and living wall.
Douglas was slain, with many a knight; yet died they not in vain,
For past that wall of hearts and steel the Moslem never came.
The Bruce's heart and Douglas' corse went back to Scotland's land,
Borne by the wounded remnant of that brave and pious band.
Fair Melrose Abbey the great heart in quiet rest doth keep,
And Douglas in the Douglas' church hath sweet and honored sleep.
In pillared marble Scotland tells her love, and grief, and pride.
Vain is the stone: all Scottish hearts the Bruce and Douglas hide.
The "gentle Sir James Douglas" and "the Bruce of Bannockburn"
Are names forever sweet and fresh for years untold to learn.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See Kerr's _History of Scotland_, Vol. II., p. 499.
[Illustration: AMATEUR THEATRICALS--THE CALL BEFORE THE CURTAIN.]
THE KANGAROO.
In the large island of Australia--an island so vast as to be ranked as a
continent--nature has produced a singular menagerie.
The first discoverers of this country must have stared in amazement at
the strange sights which met their eyes. There were wildernesses of
luxuriant and curious vegetable growths, inhabited by large quadrupeds
which appeared as bipeds; queer little beasts with bills like a duck,
ostriches covered with hair instead of feathers, and legions of odd
birds, while the whole woods were noisy with the screeching and prating
of thousands of paroquets and cockatoos.
[Illustration: THE HOME OF THE KANGAROO.]
The largest and oddest Australian quadruped is the kangaroo, a member of
that strange family, the Marsupialia, which are provided with a pouch,
or bag, in which they carry their little ones until they are strong
enough to scamper about and take care of themselves.
The delicately formed head of this strange creature, and its short
fore-legs, are out of all proportion to the lower part of its body,
which is furnished with a very long tail, and its hind-legs, which are
large and very strong. It stands erect as tall as a man, and moves by a
succession of rapid jumps, propelled by its hind-feet, its fore-paws
meanwhile being folded across its breast. A large kangaroo will weigh
fully two hundred pounds, and will cover as much as sixteen feet at one
jump.
The body of this beast is covered with thick, soft, woolly fur of a
grayish-brown color. It is very harmless and inoffensive, and it is a
very pretty sight to see a little group of kangaroos feeding quietly in
a forest clearing. Their diet is entirely vegetable. They nibble grass
or leaves, or eat certain kinds of roots, the stout, long claws of their
hind-feet serving them as a convenient pickaxe to dig with.
The kangaroo is a very tender and affectionate mother. When the baby is
born it is the most helpless creature imaginable, blind, and not much
bigger than a new-born kitten. But the mother lifts it carefully with
her lips, and gently deposits it in her pocket, where it cuddles down
and begins to grow. This pocket is its home for six or seven months,
until it becomes strong and wise enough to fight its own battles in the
woodland world. While living in its mother's pocket it is very lively.
It is very funny to see a little head emerging all of a sudden from the
soft fur of the mother's breast, with bright eyes peeping about to see
what is going on in the outside world; or perhaps nothing is visible but
a little tail wagging contentedly, while its baby owner is hidden from
sight.
The largest kangaroos are called menuahs or boomers by the Australian
natives, and their flesh is considered a great delicacy, in flavor
something like young venison. For this reason these harmless creatures
are hunted and killed in large numbers. They are very shy, and not very
easy to catch; but the cunning bushmen hide themselves in the thicket,
and when their unsuspecting prey approaches, they hurl a lance into its
body. The wounded kangaroo springs off with tremendous leaps, but soon
becomes exhausted, and falls on the turf.
If brought to bay, this gentle beast will defend itself vigorously. With
its back planted firmly against a tree, it has been known to keep off an
army of dogs for hours, by dealing them terrible blows with its strong
hind-feet, until the arrival of the hunter with his gun put an end to
the contest. At other times the kangaroo, being an expert swimmer, will
rush into the water, and if a venturesome dog dares to follow, it will
seize him, and hold his head under water till he is drowned.
Kangaroos are often brought to zoological gardens, and are contented in
captivity, so long as they have plenty of corn, roots, and fresh hay to
eat.
DECORATIONS FOR CHRISTMAS.
BY A. W. ROBERTS.
A great variety of material abounds in our woods that can be utilized
for Christmas decorations.
All trees, shrubs, mosses, and lichens that are evergreen during the
winter months, such as holly, ink-berry, laurels, hemlocks, cedars,
spruces, arbor vitae, are used at Christmas-time for in-door
ornamentation. Then come the club-mosses (_Lycopodiums_), particularly
the one known as "bouquet-green," and ground-pine, which are useful for
the more delicate and smaller designs. Again, we have the wood mosses
and wood lichens, pressed native ferns and autumn leaves; and, if the
woods are not accessible, from our own gardens many cultivated
evergreens can be obtained, such as box, arbor vitae, rhododendron, ivy,
juniper, etc.
Where it is desirable to use bright colors to lighten up the sombreness
of some of the greens, our native berries can be used to great
advantage. In the woods are to be found the partridge-berries,
bitter-sweet, rose-berries, black alder, holly-berries, cedar-berries,
cranberries, and sumac. Dried grasses and everlasting-flowers can be
pressed into service. For very brilliant effects gold-leaf, gold paper,
and frosting (obtainable at paint stores) are used.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.]
Fig. 1 represents a simple wreath of holly leaves and berries, sewn on
to a circular piece of pasteboard, which was first coated with calcimine
of a delicate light blue, on which, before the glue contained in the
calcimine dried, a coating of white frosting was dusted. The monogram
XMS is drawn on drawing-paper highly illuminated with gold-leaf and
brilliant colors, after which it is cut out, and fastened in position.
[Illustration: Fig. 2.]
Fig. 2 consists of a foundation of pasteboard, shaped as shown in the
illustration. The four outside curves are perforated with a
darning-needle. These perforations are desirable when the bouquet-green
is to be fastened on in raised compact masses. The four crescent-shaped
pieces of board are white, and coated with white frosting. On
the crescents are sewn sprays of ivy and bunches of bright red berries.
From the outer edge of the crescents radiate branches of hemlock or
fronds of dried ferns. For the legend in the centre the monogram
I.H.S.,[2] or "A merry Christmas to all," cut out in gold paper, looks
well.
[Illustration: Fig. 3.]
Fig. 3 consists of a combination of branches of apple wood, or other
wood of rich colors and texture, neatly joined together so as to form
the letters M and X. (In selecting the wood always choose that which has
the heaviest growth of lichens and mosses.)
For the ornamentation of the rustic monogram I use wood and rock
lichens, fungi, Spanish moss, and pressed climbing fern. Holes are bored
into the rustic letters, into which are inserted small branches of holly
in full berry. By trimming the monogram on both sides it looks very
effective when hung between the folding-doors of a parlor, where the
climbing fern may be trained out (on fine wires or green threads) in all
directions, so as to form a triumphal archway. By using large fungi for
the feet of the letters M and X (as shown in the illustration), the
monogram can be used as a mantel-piece ornament, training fern and ivy
from it and over picture-frames. The letter S in the monogram is
composed of immortelles.
[Illustration: Fig. 4.]
Fig. 4 consists of a narrow strip of white muslin, on which is first
drawn with a pencil in outline the design to be worked in evergreens.
For this purpose only the finer and lighter evergreens can be used, as
the intention of this design is to form a bordering for the angle formed
by the wall and ceiling. This wall drapery is heavily trimmed with
berries, to cause it to hang close to the wall, and at the same time to
obtain richer effects of color. The evergreens and berries are fastened
to the muslin with thread and needle.
[Illustration: Fig. 5.]
Fig. 5 is composed of a strip of card-board covered with gold paper on
which the evergreens are sewed. This style of ornamentation is used for
covering the frames of pictures.
Natural flowers formed into groups can be made to produce very beautiful
effects for the mantel-piece and corner brackets of a room. The pots
should be hidden by covering them with evergreens, or the wood moss that
grows on the trunks of trees. For mounting berries fine wire will be
found very useful. I have always used, and with good effect, the rich
brown cones of evergreens and birches for Christmas decorations.
Very rich and heavy effects of color can be produced by using dry colors
for backgrounds in the following manner. On the face of the pasteboard
on which you intend to work the evergreen design lay a thin coating of
hot glue; before the glue dries or chills dust on dry ultramarine blue,
or any of the lakes, or chrome greens. As soon as the glue has set, blow
off the remaining loose color, and the result will be a field of rich
"dead" color. To make the effect still more brilliant, touch up the
blues and lakes with slashings of gold-leaf ("Dutch metal" will answer
every purpose), fastening the gold-leaf with glue. Don't plaster it
down, but put it on loose, so that it stands out from the field of
color.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] Jesus Hominum Salvator.
W. HOLMAN HUNT'S "FINDING OF CHRIST IN THE TEMPLE."
BY THE REV. WILLIAM M. TAYLOR, D.D.
The double-page picture which appears in this week's YOUNG PEOPLE is
well worthy of study, alike for the school to which it belongs, the
subject which it seeks to portray, and the manner in which that subject
is treated by the artist. The original painting, of which the
reproduction (save, of course, in the matter of coloring) is an
admirable representation, is the production of William Holman Hunt. Few
sermons have been so impressive as some of this artist's pictures.
Everybody knows the beautiful one which he has called "The Light of the
World," and no person of any intelligence can look upon that without
having recalled to his mind these words, "Behold, I stand at the door
and knock." But it may not be so generally known that this impression is
thus strongly produced upon the spectator because it was first very
deeply made on the artist himself. A friend of ours told us this
beautiful story. The original painting of "The Light of the World" is in
the possession of an English gentleman, at whose house one known to both
of us had been a guest. While he was there the frame had been taken off
the picture for purposes of cleaning, and the stranger had thus an
opportunity of examining it very closely. He found on the canvas, where
it had been covered by the frame, these words, in the writing of the
artist: "_Nec me praetermittas, Domine!_"--"Nor pass me by, O Lord!"
Thus, like the Fra Angelico, Mr. Hunt seems to have painted that work
upon his knees; and it is a sermon to those who look upon it, because it
was first a prayer in him who produced it.
Much the same, we are confident, may be said of the picture which is now
before us. All our readers must know the story. When the "divine boy"
was about twelve years of age he was taken by Joseph and Mary to the
Passover feast at Jerusalem. They went up with a company from their own
neighborhood, and after the feast was over they had started to return in
the same way. But Jesus was not to be found. Still supposing that he was
somewhere in their company, they went a day's journey, and "sought him
among their kinsfolk and acquaintance." Their search, however, was
fruitless, and so, "sorrowing" and anxious, they returned to Jerusalem,
where they ultimately found him in the Temple, "sitting in the midst of
the doctors, both hearing them, and asking them questions." They were
amazed at the sight; and his mother, relieved, and perhaps also a little
troubled, said, "Son, why hast thou thus dealt with us? behold, thy
father and I have sought thee sorrowing." To which he made reply, "How
is it that ye sought me? wist ye not that I must be about my Father's
business?" These words are remarkable as the first recorded utterance of
conscious Messiahship that came from the lips of our Lord. They indicate
that now his human intelligence has come to the perception of his divine
dignity and mission; and when he went down to Nazareth, and was subject
to Joseph and Mary, it was with the distinct assurance within him that
Joseph was not his father, and that there was ultimately a higher
business before him than the work of the carpenter. Still, he knew that
only through the lower could he reach the higher, and therefore he went
down, contented to wait until the day of his manifestation came.
The artist has seized the moment when Jesus made this striking reply to
his mother, and everything in the picture is made to turn on that. The
scene is the interior of the Temple. The time is high day, for workmen
are busily engaged at a stone on the outside, and a beggar is lolling at
the gate in the act of asking alms. The Jewish doctors are seated. First
in the line is an aged rabbi with flowing beard, and clasping a roll
with his right hand. Over his eyes a film is spread, which indicates
that he is blind; and so his neighbor, almost as aged as himself, is
explaining to him why the boy has ceased to ask his questions, by
telling him that his mother has come to claim him. Beside him, and the
third in the group, is a younger man, whose face is full of eager
thoughtfulness, and whose hands hold an unfolded roll, to which it
appears as if he had been referring because of something which had just
been said.
The other faces are less marked with seriousness, and seem to be
indicative rather of curiosity; but we make little account of them
because of the fascination which draws our eyes to the principal group.
The face of Joseph, as Alford says, is "well-nigh faultless." It is full
of thankful joy over the discovery of the boy; and though to our
thinking Joseph was an older man than he is here depicted, yet
everything about him is natural and manly. The Mary is hardly so
successful. The narrative does not represent her as speaking softly into
the ear of her son, but rather as breaking in abruptly on the assembly
with her irrepressible outcry, "Son, why hast thou thus dealt with us?"
and there might well have been less of the soft persuasiveness and more
of the surprised look of what one might call | 1,976.905221 |
2023-11-16 18:50:00.8853070 | 7,436 | 8 |
BY CONDUCT AND COURAGE
MR. HENTY'S HISTORICAL TALES.
THE CAT OF BUBASTES: A Story of Ancient Egypt. 5_s._
THE YOUNG CARTHAGINIAN: A Story of the Times of Hannibal. 6_s._
FOR THE TEMPLE: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. 6_s._
BERIC THE BRITON: A Story of the Roman Invasion. 6_s._
THE DRAGON AND THE RAVEN: or, The Days of King Alfred. 5_s._
WULF THE SAXON: A Story of the Norman Conquest. 6_s._
A KNIGHT OF THE WHITE CROSS: The Siege of Rhodes. 6_s._
IN FREEDOM'S CAUSE: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. 6_s._
THE LION OF ST. MARK: A Story of Venice in the 14th Century. 6_s._
ST. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND: A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. 5_s._
A MARCH ON LONDON: A Story of Wat Tyler. 5_s._
BOTH SIDES THE BORDER: A Tale of Hotspur and Glendower. 6_s._
AT AGINCOURT: A Tale of the White Hoods of Paris. 6_s._
BY RIGHT OF CONQUEST: or, With Cortez in Mexico. 6_s._
ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S EVE: A Tale of the Huguenot Wars. 6_s._
BY PIKE AND <DW18>: A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic. 6_s._
BY ENGLAND'S AID: or, The Freeing of the Netherlands. 6_s._
UNDER DRAKE'S FLAG: A Tale of the Spanish Main. 6_s._
THE LION OF THE NORTH: A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus. 6_s._
WON BY THE SWORD: A Tale of the Thirty Years' War. 6_s._
WHEN LONDON BURNED: A Story of the Great Fire. 6_s._
ORANGE AND GREEN: A Tale of the Boyne and Limerick. 5_s._
A JACOBITE EXILE: In the Service of Charles XII. 5_s._
IN THE IRISH BRIGADE: A Tale of War in Flanders and Spain. 6_s._
THE BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE: or, With Peterborough in Spain. 5_s._
BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE: A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. 6_s._
WITH CLIVE IN INDIA: or, The Beginnings of an Empire. 6_s._
WITH FREDERICK THE GREAT: The Seven Years' War. 6_s._
WITH WOLFE IN CANADA: or, The Winning of a Continent. 6_s._
TRUE TO THE OLD FLAG: The American War of Independence. 6_s._
HELD FAST FOR ENGLAND: A Tale of the Siege of Gibraltar. 5_s._
IN THE REIGN OF TERROR: The French Revolution. 5_s._
NO SURRENDER! A Tale of the Rising in La Vendee. 5_s._
A ROVING COMMISSION: A Story of the Hayti Insurrection. 6_s._
THE TIGER OF MYSORE: The War with Tippoo Saib. 6_s._
AT ABOUKIR AND ACRE: Napoleon's Invasion of Egypt. 5_s._
WITH MOORE AT CORUNNA: A Tale of the Peninsular War. 6_s._
UNDER WELLINGTON'S COMMAND: The Peninsular War. 6_s._
WITH COCHRANE THE DAUNTLESS: A Tale of his Exploits. 6_s._
THROUGH THE FRAY: A Story of the Luddite Riots. 6_s._
THROUGH RUSSIAN SNOWS: The Retreat from Moscow. 5_s._
ONE OF THE 28TH: A Story of Waterloo. 5_s._
IN GREEK WATERS: A Story of the Grecian War (1821). 6_s._
ON THE IRRAWADDY: A Story of the First Burmese War. 5_s._
THROUGH THE SIKH WAR: A Tale of the Punjaub. 6_s._
MAORI AND SETTLER: A Story of the New Zealand War. 5_s._
WITH LEE IN VIRGINIA: A Story of the American Civil War. 6_s._
BY SHEER PLUCK: A Tale of the Ashanti War. 5_s._
OUT WITH GARIBALDI: A Story of the Liberation of Italy. 5_s._
FOR NAME AND FAME: or, To Cabul with Roberts. 5_s._
THE DASH FOR KHARTOUM: A Tale of the Nile Expedition. 6_s._
CONDEMNED AS A NIHILIST: A Story of Escape from Siberia. 5_s._
WITH BULLER IN NATAL: or, A Born Leader. 6_s._
[Illustration: "AS THEY CLIMBED UP THEY WERE CONFRONTED BY
FULLY A HUNDRED ARMED MOORS"]
BY CONDUCT AND COURAGE
A STORY OF THE DAYS OF NELSON
BY
G. A. HENTY
Author of "With Roberts to Pretoria" "With Buller in Natal"
"With Kitchener in the Soudan" &c.
_ILLUSTRATED BY WILLIAM RAINEY, R.I._
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW DUBLIN BOMBAY
1905
PUBLISHERS' NOTE
Mr. George A. Henty, who died in November, 1902, had completed three new
stories, _With the Allies to Pekin_, _Through Three Campaigns_, and _By
Conduct and Courage_. Of these, _Through Three Campaigns_ and _With the
Allies to Pekin_ were published in the autumn of 1903; the present story
is therefore the last of Mr. Henty's great series of historical stories
for boys.
The proofs have been revised by Mr. G. A. Henty's son, Captain C. G.
Henty.
CONTENTS
CHAP. Page
I. AN ORPHAN 11
II. IN THE KING'S SERVICE 32
III. A SEA-FIGHT 53
IV. PROMOTED 75
V. A PIRATE HOLD 96
VI. A NARROW ESCAPE 119
VII. AN INDEPENDENT COMMAND 137
VIII. A SPLENDID HAUL 157
IX. A SPELL ASHORE 178
X. BACK AT SCARCOMBE 197
XI. CAPTIVES AMONG THE MOORS 212
XII. BACK ON THE "TARTAR" 234
XIII. WITH NELSON 250
XIV. THE GLORIOUS FIRST OF JUNE 264
XV. ESCAPED 284
XVI. A DARING EXPLOIT 300
XVII. ON BOARD THE "JASON" 321
XVIII. ST. VINCENT AND CAMPERDOWN 342
XIX. CONCLUSION 362
ILLUSTRATIONS
Page
"AS THEY CLIMBED UP THEY WERE CONFRONTED BY _Frontis._ 213
FULLY A HUNDRED ARMED MOORS"
AFTER HIS FIRST FIGHT 65
WILL LEADS A PARTY TO TAKE THE ENEMY IN THE REAR 109
THE RESCUE 155
"TOM AND DIMCHURCH MADE A DESPERATE DEFENCE" 191
"HE ORDERED THE MAN AT THE HELM TO STEER FOR THE 286
FRIGATE"
"HE WAS JUST IN TIME TO SEE LUCIEN ALIGHT" 312
"AT LAST HER CAPTAIN WAS COMPELLED TO STRIKE" 355
BY CONDUCT AND COURAGE
CHAPTER I
AN ORPHAN
A wandering musician was a rarity in the village of Scarcombe. In fact,
such a thing had not been known in the memory of the oldest inhabitant.
What could have brought him here? men and women asked themselves. There
was surely nobody who could dance in the village, and the few coppers he
would gain by performing on his violin would not repay him for his
trouble. Moreover, Scarcombe was a bleak place, and the man looked sorely
shaken with the storm of life. He seemed, indeed, almost unable to hold
out much longer; his breath was short, and he had a hacking cough.
To the surprise of the people, he did not attempt to play for their
amusement or to ask, in any way, for alms. He had taken a lodging in the
cottage of one of the fishermen, and on fine days he would wander out with
his boy, a child some five years old, and, lying down on the moorland,
would play soft tunes to himself. So he lived for three weeks; and then
the end came suddenly. The child ran out one morning from his room crying
and saying that daddy was asleep and he could not wake him, and on the
fisherman going in he saw that life had been extinct for some hours.
Probably it had come suddenly to the musician himself, for there was found
among his scanty effects no note or memorandum giving a clue to the
residence of the child's friends, or leaving any direction concerning him.
The clergyman was, of course, called in to advise as to what should be
done. He was a kind-hearted man, and volunteered to bury the dead musician
without charging any fees.
After the funeral another question arose. What was to be done with the
child?
He was a fine-looking, frank boy, who had grown and hardened beyond his
years by the life he had led with his father. Fifteen pounds had been
found in the dead man's kit. This, however, would fall to the share of the
workhouse authorities if they took charge of him. A sort of informal
council was held by the elder fishermen.
"It is hard on the child," one of them said. "I have no doubt his father
intended to tell him where to find his friends, but his death came too
suddenly. Here is fifteen pounds. Not much good, you will say; and it
isn't. It might last a year, or maybe eighteen months, but at the end of
that time he would be as badly off as he is now."
"Maybe John Hammond would take him," another suggested. "He lost his boat
and nets three weeks ago, and though he has a little money saved up, it is
not enough to replace them. Perhaps he would take the child in return for
the fifteen pounds. His old woman could do with him, too, and would soon
make him a bit useful. John himself is a kind-hearted chap, and would
treat him well, and in a few years the boy would make a useful nipper on
board his boat."
John Hammond was sent for, and the case was put to him. "Well," he said,
"I think I could do with him, and the brass would be mighty useful to me
just now; but how does the law stand? If it got to be talked about, the
parish might come down upon me for the money."
"That is so, John," one of the others said. "The best plan would be for
you, and two of us, to go up to parson, and ask him how the matter stands.
If he says that it is all right, you may be sure that you would be quite
safe."
The clergyman, upon being consulted, said that he thought the arrangement
was a very good one. The parish authorities had not been asked to find any
money for the father's funeral, and had therefore no say in the matter,
unless they were called upon to take the child. Should any question be
asked, he would state that he himself had gone into the matter and had
strongly approved of the arrangement, which he considered was to their
advantage as well as the child's; for if they took charge of the boy they
would have to keep him at least ten years, and then pay for apprenticing
him out.
Accordingly the boy was handed over to John Hammond. With the buoyancy of
childhood, William Gilmore, which was the best that could be made of what
he gave as his name, soon felt at home in the fisherman's cottage. It was
a pleasant change to him after having been a wanderer with his father for
as far back as he could remember. The old woman was kind in her rough way,
and soon took to sending him on small errands. She set him on washing-days
to watch the pot and tell her when it boiled. When not so employed she
allowed him to play with other children of his own age.
Sometimes when the weather was fine, John, who had come to be very fond of
the boy, never having had any children of his own, would take him out with
him fishing, to the child's supreme enjoyment. After a year of this life
he was put to the village school, which was much less to his liking. Here,
fortunately for himself, he attracted the notice of the clergyman's
daughter, a girl of sixteen. She, of course, knew his story, and was
filled with a great pity for him. She was a little inclined to romance,
and in her own mind invented many theories to account for his appearance
in the village. Her father would laugh sometimes when she related some of
these to him.
"My dear child," he said, "it is not necessary to go so far to account for
the history of this poor wandering musician. You say that he looked to you
like a broken-down gentleman; there are thousands of such men in the
country, ne'er-do-wells, who have tired out all their friends, and have
taken at last to a life that permits a certain amount of freedom and
furnishes them with a living sufficient for necessary wants. It is from
such men as these that the great body of tramps is largely recruited. Many
such men drive hackney-coaches in our large towns; some of them enlist in
the army; but wherever they are, and whatever they take up, they are sure
to stay near the foot of the tree. They have no inclination for better
things. They work as hard as men who have steady employment, but they
prefer their own liberty with a crust to a solid meal regularly earned. I
agree with you myself that there was an appearance of having seen better
times about this man; I can go so far with you as to admit that I think
that at some time or other he moved in decent circles; but if we could get
at the truth I have no doubt whatever that we should find that he had
thrown away every opportunity, alienated every friend, and, having cut
himself adrift from all ties, took to the life of a wanderer. For such a
man nothing could be done; but I hope that the boy, beginning in vastly
poorer circumstances than his father, will some day come to earn his
living honestly in the position of life in which he is placed."
The interest, however, which Miss Warden took in the boy remained
unabated, and had a very useful effect upon him. She persuaded him to come
up every day for half an hour to the rectory, and then instructed him in
his lessons, educating him in a manner very different from the perfunctory
teaching of the old dame at the school. She would urge him on by telling
him that if he would attend to his lessons he would some day be able to
rise to a better position than that of a village fisherman. His father, no
doubt, had had a good education, but from circumstances over which he had
had no control he had been obliged to take to the life of a strolling
musician, and she was sure that he would have wished of all things that
his son should be able to obtain a good position in life when he grew up.
Under Miss Warden's teaching the boy made very rapid progress, and was,
before two more years had passed, vastly in advance of the rest of the
children of the village. As to this, however, by Miss Warden's advice, he
remained silent. When he was ten his regular schooling was a great deal
interrupted, as it was considered that when a boy reached that age it was
high time that he began to assist his father in the boat. He was glad of
his freedom and the sense that he was able to make himself useful, but of
an evening when he was at home, or weather prevented the boat from going
out, he went up for his lesson to Miss Warden, and, stealing away from the
others, would lie down on the moor and work at his books.
He was now admitted to the society of watchers. He had often heard
whispers among other boys of the look-out that had to be kept upon the
custom-house officers, and heard thrilling tales of adventure and escape
on the part of the fishermen. Smuggling was indeed carried on on a large
scale on the whole Yorkshire coast, and cargoes were sometimes run under
the very noses of the revenue officers, who were put off the scent by many
ingenious contrivances. Before a vessel was expected in, rumours would be
circulated of an intention to land the cargo on some distant spot, and a
mysterious light would be shown in that direction by fishing-boats.
Sometimes, however, the smugglers were caught in the act, and then there
would be a fierce fight, ending in some, at least, of those engaged being
taken off to prison and afterwards sent on a voyage in a ship of war.
Will Gilmore was now admitted as a helper in these proceedings, and often
at night would watch one or other of the revenue men, and if he saw him
stir beyond his usual beat would quickly carry the news to the village. A
score of boys were thus employed, so that any movement which seemed to
evidence a concentration of the coast-guard men was almost certain to be
thwarted. Either the expected vessel was warned off with lights, or, if
the concentration left unguarded the place fixed upon for landing, the
cargo would be immediately run.
Thus another five years passed. Will was now a strong lad. His friend,
Miss Warden, could teach him but little more, but she often had him up of
an evening to have a chat with him.
"I am afraid, William," she said one evening, "that a good deal of
smuggling is carried on here. Last week there was a fight, and three of
the men of the village were killed and several were taken away to prison.
It is a terrible state of affairs."
William did not for a moment answer. It was something entirely new to him
that there was anything wrong in smuggling. He regarded it as a mere
contest of wits between the coast-guard and the fishermen, and had taken a
keen pleasure in outwitting the former.
"But there is no harm in smuggling, Miss Warden. Almost everyone takes
part in it, and the farmers round all send their carts in when a run is
expected."
"But it is very wrong, William, and the fact that so many people are ready
to aid in it is no evidence in its favour. People band together to cheat
the King's Revenue, and thereby bring additional taxation upon those who
deal fairly. It is as much robbery to avoid the excise duties as it is to
carry off property from a house, and it has been a great grief to my
father that his parishioners, otherwise honest and God-fearing people,
should take part in such doings, as is evidenced by the fact that so many
of them were involved in the fray last week. He only abstains from
denouncing it in the pulpit because he fears that he might thereby lose
the affection of the people and impair his power of doing good in other
respects."
"I never thought of it in that way, miss," the lad said seriously.
"Just think in your own case, William: suppose you were caught and sent
off to sea; there would be an end of the work you have been doing. You
would be mixed up with rough sailors, and, after being away on a long
voyage, you would forget all that you have learnt, and would be as rough
as themselves. This would be a poor ending indeed to all the pains I have
taken with you, and all the labour you have yourself expended in trying to
improve yourself. It would be a great grief to me, I can assure you, and a
cruel disappointment, to know that my hopes for you had all come to
naught."
"They sha'n't, Miss Warden," the boy said firmly. "I know it will be hard
for me to draw back, but, if necessary, I will leave the village now that
you are going to be married. If you had been going to stay I would have
stopped too, but the village will not be like itself to me after you have
left."
"I am glad to think you mean that. I have remained here as long as I could
be of use to you, for though I have taught you as much as I could in all
branches of education that would be likely to be useful to you, have lent
you my father's books, and pushed you forward till I could no longer lead
the way, there are still, of course, many things for you to learn. You
have got a fair start, but you must not be content with that. If you have
to leave, and I don't think a longer stay here would be of use to you, I
will endeavour to obtain some situation for you at Scarborough or Whitby,
where you could, after your work is done, continue your education. But I
beg you to do nothing rashly. It would be better if you could stay here
for another year or so. We may hope that the men will not be so annoyed as
you think at your refusal to take further part in the smuggling
operations. At any rate, stay if you can for a time. It will be two months
before I leave, and three more before I am settled in my new home at
Scarborough. When I am so I have no doubt that my husband will aid me in
obtaining a situation for you. He has been there for years, and will, of
course, have very many friends and acquaintances who would interest
themselves in you. If, however, you find that your position would be
intolerable, you might remain quiet as to your determination. After the
fight of last week it is not likely that there will be any attempt at a
landing for some little time to come, and I shall not blame you,
therefore, if you at least keep up the semblance of still taking part in
their proceedings."
"No, Miss Warden," the boy said sturdily, "I didn't know that it was
wrong, and therefore joined in it willingly enough, but now you tell me
that it is so I will take no further share in it, whatever comes of it."
"I am glad to hear you say so, William, for it shows that the aid I have
given you has not been thrown away. What sort of work would you like
yourself, if we can get it for you?"
"I would rather go to sea, Miss Warden, than do anything else. I have, for
the last year, taken a lot of pains to understand those books of
navigation you bought for me. I don't say that I have mastered them all,
but I understand a good deal, and feel sure that after a few years at sea
I shall be able to pass as a mate."
"Well, William, you know that, when I got the books for you, I told you
that I could not help you with them, but I can quite understand that with
your knowledge of mathematics you would be able at any rate to grasp a
great deal of the subject. I was afraid then that you would take to the
sea. It is a hard life, but one in which a young man capable of navigating
a ship should be able to make his way. Brought up, as you have been, on
the sea, it is not wonderful that you should choose it as a profession,
and, though I may regret it, I should not think of trying to turn you from
it. Very well, then, I will endeavour to get you apprenticed. It is a hard
life, but not harder than that of a fisherman, to which you are
accustomed."
When William returned to his foster-father he informed him that he did not
mean to have anything more to do with the smuggling.
The old man looked at him in astonishment. "Are you mad?" he said. "Don't
I get five shillings for every night you are out, generally four or five
nights a month, which pays for all your food."
"I am sorry," the lad said, "but I never knew that it was wrong before,
and now I know it I mean to have nothing more to do with it. What good
comes of it? Here we have three empty cottages, and five or six others
from which the heads will be absent for years. It is dear at any price. I
work hard with you, father, and am never slack; surely the money I earn in
the boat more than pays for my grub."
"I can guess who told you this," the old man said angrily. "It was that
parson's daughter you are always with."
"Don't say anything against her," the boy said earnestly; "she has been
the best friend to me that ever a fellow had, and as long as I live I
shall feel grateful to her. You know that I am not like the other boys of
the village; I can read and write well, and I have gathered a lot of
knowledge from books. Abuse me as much as you like, but say nothing
against her. You know that the terms on which you took me expired a year
ago, but I have gone on just as before and am ready to do the same for a
time."
"You have been a good lad," the old man said, mollified, "and I don't know
what I should have done without you. I am nigh past work now, but in the
ten years you have been with me things have always gone well with me, and
I have money enough to make a shift with for the rest of my life, even if
I work no longer. But I don't like this freak that you have taken into
your head. It will mean trouble, lad, as sure as you are standing there.
The men here won't understand you, and will like enough think that the
revenue people have got hold of you. You will be shown the cold shoulder,
and even worse than that may befall you. We fisher-folk are rough and
ready in our ways, and if there is one thing we hate more than another it
is a spy."
"I have no intention of being a spy," the boy said. "I have spoken to none
of the revenue men, and don't mean to do so, and I would not peach even if
I were certain that a cargo was going to be landed. Surely it is possible
to stand aside from it all without being suspected of having gone over to
the enemy. No gold that they could give me would tempt me to say a word
that would lead to the failure of a landing, and surely there can be no
great offence in declining to act longer as a watcher."
The old man shook his head.
"A wilful man must have his way," he said; "but I know our fellows better
than you do, and I foresee that serious trouble is likely to come of
this."
"Well, if it must be, it must," the boy said doggedly. "I mean, if I live,
to be a good man, and now that I know that it is wrong to cheat the
revenue I will have no more to do with it. It would be a nice reward for
all the pains Miss Warden has spent upon me to turn round and do what she
tells me is wrong."
John Hammond was getting to the age when few things excite more than a
feeble surprise. He felt that the loss of the boy's assistance would be a
heavy one, for he had done no small share of the work for the past two
years. But he had more than once lately talked to his wife of the
necessity for selling his boat and nets and remaining at home. With this
decision she quite agreed, feeling that he was indeed becoming incapable
of doing the work, and every time he had gone out in anything but the
calmest weather she had been filled with apprehension as to what would
happen if a storm were to blow up. He was really sorry for the boy, being
convinced that harm would befall him as the result of this, to him,
astonishing decision. To John Hammond smuggling appeared to be quite
justifiable. The village had always been noted as a nest of smugglers, and
to him it came as natural as fishing. It was a pity, a grievous pity, that
the boy should have taken so strange a fancy.
He was a good boy, a hard-working boy, and the only fault he had to find
with him was his unaccountable liking for study. John could neither read
nor write, and for the life of him could not see what good came of it. He
had always got on well without it, and when the school was first started
he and many others shook their heads gravely over it, and regarded it as a
fad of the parson's. Still, as it only affected children too young to be
useful in the boats, they offered no active opposition, and in time the
school had come to be regarded as chiefly a place where the youngsters
were kept out of their mothers' way when washing and cooking were going
on.
He went slowly back into the cottage and acquainted his wife with this new
and astonishing development on the part of the boy. His wife was full of
indignation, which was, however, modified at the thought that she would
now have her husband always at home with her.
"I shall speak my mind to Miss Warden," she said, "and tell her how much
harm her advice has done."
"No, no, Jenny," her husband said; "what is the use of that? It is the
parson's duty to be meddling in all sorts of matters, and it will do no
good to fight against it. Parson is a good man, all allow, and he always
finishes his sermons in time for us to get home to dinner. I agree with
you that the young madam has done harm, and I greatly fear that trouble
will come to the boy. There are places where smuggling is thought to be
wrong, but this place ain't among them. I don't know what will happen when
Will says that he doesn't mean to go any more as a watcher, but there is
sure to be trouble of some sort."
It was not long indeed before Will felt a change in the village. Previous
to this he had been generally popular, now men passed without seeing him.
He was glad when John Hammond called upon him to go out in the boat, when
the weather was fine, but at other times his only recourse was to steal
away to the moors with his books. Presently the elder boys took to
throwing sods at him as he passed, and calling spy and other opprobrious
epithets after him. This brought on several severe fights, and as Will
made up for want of weight by pluck and activity his opponents more than
once found themselves badly beaten. One day he learned from a subdued
excitement in the village that it was time for one of the smuggling
vessels to arrive. One of his boyish friends had stuck to him, and was
himself almost under a ban for associating with so unpopular a character.
"Don't you come with me, Stevens," Will had urged again and again; "you
will only make it bad for yourself, and it will do me no good."
"I don't care," the former said sturdily. "We have always been good
friends, and you know I don't in the least believe that you have anything
to do with the revenue men. It is too bad of them to say so. I fought Tom
Dickson only this morning for abusing you. He said if you were not working
with them, why did you give up being on the watch. I told him it was no
odds to me why you gave it up, I supposed that you had a right to do as
you liked. Then from words we came to blows. I don't say I beat him, for
he is a good bit bigger than I am, but I gave him as good as I got, and he
was as glad to stop as I was. You talk of going away soon. If you do, and
you will take me, I will go with you."
"I don't know yet where I am going, Tommy, but if I go to a town I have no
doubt I shall be able in a short time to hear of someone there who wants a
strong lad, or perhaps I may be able to get you a berth as cabin-boy in
the ship in which I go. I mean to go for a sailor myself if I can, and I
shall be glad to have you as a chum on board. We have always been great
friends, and I am sure we always shall be, Tommy. If I were you I would
think it over a good many times before you decide upon it. You see I have
learnt a great deal from books to prepare myself for a sea life. Miss | 1,976.905347 |
2023-11-16 18:50:00.8882050 | 7,435 | 60 |
Produced by David Widger
RICHARD CARVEL
By Winston Churchill
Volume 2.
VIII. Over the Wall
IX. Under False Colours
X. The Red in the Carvel Blood
XI. A Festival and a Parting
XII. News from a Far Country
CHAPTER VIII
OVER THE WALL
Dorothy treated me ill enough that spring. Since the minx had tasted
power at Carvel Hall, there was no accounting for her. On returning to
town Dr. Courtenay had begged her mother to allow her at the assemblies,
a request which Mrs. Manners most sensibly refused. Mr. Marmaduke had
given his consent, I believe, for he was more impatient than Dolly for
the days when she would become the toast of the province. But the doctor
contrived to see her in spite of difficulties, and Will Fotheringay was
forever at her house, and half a dozen other lads. And many gentlemen
of fashion like the doctor called ostensibly to visit Mrs. Manners, but
in reality to see Miss Dorothy. And my lady knew it. She would be
lingering in the drawing-room in her best bib and tucker, or strolling in
the garden as Dr. Courtenay passed, and I got but scant attention indeed.
I was but an awkward lad, and an old playmate, with no novelty about me.
"Why, Richard," she would say to me as I rode or walked beside her, or
sat at dinner in Prince George Street, "I know every twist and turn of
your nature. There is nothing you could do to surprise me. And so, sir,
you are very tiresome."
"You once found me useful enough to fetch and carry, and amusing when I
walked the Oriole's bowsprit," I replied ruefully.
"Why don't you make me jealous?" says she, stamping her foot. "A score
of pretty girls are languishing for a glimpse of you,--Jennie and Bess
Fotheringay, and Betty Tayloe, and Heaven knows how many others. They
are actually accusing me of keeping you trailing. 'La, girls!' said I,
'if you will but rid me of him for a day, you shall have my lasting
gratitude.'"
And she turned to the spinet and began a lively air. But the taunt
struck deeper than she had any notion of. That spring arrived out from
London on the Belle of the Wye a box of fine clothes my grandfather had
commanded for me from his own tailor; and a word from a maid of fifteen
did more to make me wear them than any amount of coaxing from Mr. Allen
and my Uncle Grafton. My uncle seemed in particular anxious that I
should make a good appearance, and reminded me that I should dress as
became the heir of the Carvel house. I took counsel with Patty Swain,
and then went to see Betty Tayloe, and the Fotheringay girls, and the
Dulany girls, near the Governor's. And (fie upon me!) I was not
ill-pleased with the brave appearance I made. I would show my mistress
how little I cared. But the worst of it was, the baggage seemed to
trouble less than I, and had the effrontery to tell me how happy she was
I had come out of my shell, and broken loose from her apron-strings.
"Indeed, they would soon begin to think I meant to marry you, Richard,"
says she at supper one Sunday before a tableful, and laughed with the
rest.
"They do not credit you with such good sense, my dear," says her mother,
smiling kindly at me.
And Dolly bit her lip, and did not join in that part of the merriment.
I fled to Patty Swain for counsel, nor was it the first time in my life
I had done so. Some good women seem to have been put into this selfish
world to comfort and advise. After Prince George Street with its gilt
and marbles and stately hedged gardens, the low-beamed, vine-covered
house in the Duke of Gloucester Street was a home and a rest. In my
eyes there was not its equal in Annapolis for beauty within and without.
Mr. Swain had bought the dwelling from an aged man with a history, dead
some nine years back. Its furniture, for the most part, was of the
Restoration, of simple and massive oak blackened by age, which I ever
fancied better than the Frenchy baubles of tables and chairs with spindle
legs, and cabinets of glass and gold lacquer which were then making their
way into the fine mansions of our town. The house was full of twists and
turns, and steps up and down, and nooks and passages and queer
hiding-places which we children knew, and in parts queer leaded windows of
bulging glass set high in the wall, and older than the reign of Hanover.
Here was the shrine of cleanliness, whose high-priestess was Patty
herself. Her floors were like satin-wood, and her brasses lights in
themselves. She had come honestly enough by her gifts, her father having
married the daughter of an able townsman of Salem, in the Massachusetts
colony, when he had gone north after his first great success in court.
Now the poor lady sat in a padded armchair from morning to night, beside
the hearth in winter, and under the trees in summer, by reason of a fall
she had had. There she knitted all the day long. Her placid face and
quiet way come before me as I write.
My friendship with Patty had begun early. One autumn day when I was a
little lad of eight or nine, my grandfather and I were driving back from
Whitehall in the big coach, when we spied a little maid of six by the
Severn's bank, with her apron full of chestnuts. She was trudging
bravely through the dead leaves toward the town. Mr. Carvel pulled the
cord to stop, and asked her name. "Patty Swain, and it please your
honour," the child answered, without fear. "So you are the young
barrister's daughter?" says he, smiling at something I did not
understand. She nodded. "And how is it you are so far from home, and
alone, my little one?" asked Mr. Carvel again. For some time he could
get nothing out of her; but at length she explained, with much coaxing,
that her big brother Tom had deserted her. My grandfather wished that
Tom were his brother, that he might be punished as he deserved. He
commanded young Harvey to lift the child into the coach, chestnuts and
all, and there she sat primly between us. She was not as pretty as
Dorothy, so I thought, but her clear gray eyes and simple ways impressed
me by their very honesty, as they did Mr. Carvel. What must he do but
drive her home to Green Street, where Mr. Swain then lived in a little
cottage. Mr. Carvel himself lifted her out and kissed her, and
handed her to her mother at the gate, who was vastly overcome by the
circumstance. The good lady had not then received that fall which made
her a <DW36> for life. "And will you not have my chestnuts, sir, for
your kindness?" says little Patty. Whereat my grandfather laughed and
kissed her again, for he loved children, and wished to know if she would
not be his daughter, and come to live in Marlboro' Street; and told the
story of Tom, for fear she would not. He was silent as we drove away,
and I knew he was thinking of my own mother at that age.
Not long after this Mr. Swain bought the house in the Duke of Gloucester
Street. This, as you know, is back to back with Marlboro. To reach
Patty's garden I had but to climb the brick wall at the rear of our
grounds, and to make my way along the narrow green lane left there for
perhaps a hundred paces of a lad, to come to the gate in the wooden
paling. In return I used to hoist Patty over the wall, and we would play
at children's games under the fruit trees that skirted it. Some instinct
kept her away from the house. I often caught her gazing wistfully at its
wings and gables. She was not born to a mansion, so she said.
"But your father is now rich," I objected. I had heard Captain Daniel
say so. "He may have a mansion of his own and he chooses. He can better
afford it than many who are in debt for the fine show they make." I was
but repeating gossip.
"I should like to see the grand company come in, when your grandfather
has them to dine," said the girl. "Sometimes we have grand gentlemen
come to see father in their coaches, but they talk of nothing but
politics. We never have any fine ladies like--like your Aunt Caroline."
I startled her by laughing derisively.
"And I pray you never may, Patty," was all I said.
I never told Dolly of my intimacy with the barrister's little girl over
the wall. This was not because I was ashamed of the friendship, but
arose from a fear-well-founded enough--that she would make sport of it.
At twelve Dolly had notions concerning the walks of life that most other
children never dream of. They were derived, of course, from Mr.
Marmaduke. But the day of reckoning arrived. Patty and I were romping
beside the back wall when suddenly a stiff little figure in a starched
frock appeared through the trees in the direction of the house, followed
by Master Will Fotheringay in his visiting clothes. I laugh now when I
think of that formal meeting between the two little ladies. There was no
time to hoist Miss Swain over the wall, or to drive Miss Manners back
upon the house. Patty stood blushing as though caught in a guilty act,
while she of the Generations came proudly on, Will sniggering behind her.
"Who is this, Richard?" asks Miss Manners, pointing a small forefinger.
"Patty Swain, if you must know!" I cried, and added boylike: "And she is
just as good as you or me, and better." I was quite red in the face, and
angry because of it. "This is Dorothy Manners, Patty, and Will
Fotheringay."
The moment was a pregnant one. But I was resolved to carry the matter
out with a bold front. "Will you join us at catch and swing?" I asked.
Will promptly declared that he would join, for Patty was good to look
upon. Dolly glanced at her dress, tossed her head, and marched back
alone.
"Oh, Richard!" cried Patty; "I shall never forgive myself! I have made
you quarrel with--"
"His sweetheart," said Will, wickedly.
"I don't care," said I. Which was not so.
Patty felt no resentment for my miss's haughty conduct, but only a
tearful penitence for having been the cause of a strife between us.
Will's arguments and mine availed nothing. I must lift her over the wall
again, and she went home. When we reached the garden we found Dolly
seated beside her mother on my grandfather's bench, from which stronghold
our combined tactics were powerless to drag her.
When Dolly was gone, I asked my grandfather in great indignation why
Patty did not play with the children I knew, with Dorothy and the
Fotheringays. He shook his head dubiously. "When you are older,
Richard, you will understand that our social ranks are cropped close.
Mr. Swain is an honest and an able man, though he believes in things I do
not. I hear he is becoming wealthy. And I have no doubt," the shrewd
old gentleman added, "that when Patty grows up she will be going to the
assemblies, though it was not so in my time." So liberal was he that he
used to laugh at my lifting her across the wall, and in his leisure
delight to listen to my accounts of her childish housekeeping. Her life
was indeed a contrast to Dorothy's. She had all the solid qualities that
my lady lacked in early years. And yet I never wavered in my liking to
the more brilliant and wayward of the two. The week before my next
birthday, when Mr. Carvel drew me to him and asked me what I wished for
a present that year, as was his custom, I said promptly:
"I should like to have Patty Swain at my party, sir."
"So you shall, my lad," he cried, taking his snuff and eying me with
pleasure. "I am glad to see, Richard, that you have none of Mr.
Marmaduke's nonsense about you. She is a good girl, i' faith, and more
of a lady now than many who call themselves such. And you shall have
your present to boot. Hark'ee, Daniel," said he to the captain; "if the
child comes to my house, the poll-parrots and follow-me-ups will be
wanting her, too."
But the getting her to go was a matter of five days. For Patty was
sensitive, like her father, and dreaded a slight. Not so with Master
Tom, who must, needs be invited, too. He arrived half an hour ahead
of time, arrayed like Solomon, and without his sister! I had to go for
Patty, indeed, after the party had begun, and to get the key to the
wicket in the wall to take her in that way, so shy was she. My dear
grandfather showed her particular attention. And Miss Dolly herself,
being in the humour, taught her a minuet.
After that she came to all my birthdays, and lost some of her shyness.
And was invited to other great houses, even as Mr. Carvel had predicted.
But her chief pleasure seemed ever her duty. Whether or no such
characters make them one and the same, who can tell? She became the
light of her father's house, and used even to copy out his briefs, at
which task I often found her of an evening.
As for Tom, that graceless scamp, I never could stomach him. I wondered
then, as I have since, how he was the brother of such a sister. He could
scarce bide his time until Mr. Swain should have a coach and a seat in
the country with the gentry. "A barrister," quoth he, "is as good as any
one else. And if my father came out a redemptioner, and worked his way,
so had old Mr. Dulany. Our family at home was the equal of his." All of
which was true, and more. He would deride Patty for sewing and baking,
vowing that they had servants enough now to do the work twice over. She
bore with him with a patience to be marvelled at; and I could never get
it through my head why Mr. Swain indulged him, though he was the elder,
and his mother's favourite. Tom began to dress early. His open
admiration was Dr. Courtenay, his confessed hope to wear five-pound
ruffles and gold sword knots. He clung to Will Fotheringay with a
tenacity that became proverbial among us boys, and his boasts at King
William's School were his father's growing wealth and intimacy with the
great men of the province.
As I grew older, I took the cue of political knowledge, as I have said,
from Mr. Swain rather than Captain Daniel, who would tell me nothing. I
fell into the habit of taking supper in Gloucester Street. The meal was
early there. And when the dishes were cleared away, and the barrister's
pipe lit, and Patty and her mother had got their sewing, he would talk by
the hour on the legality of our resistance to the King, and discuss the
march of affairs in England and the other colonies. He found me a ready
listener, and took pains to teach me clearly the right and wrong of the
situation. 'Twas his religion, even as loyalty to the King was my
grandfather's, and he did not think it wrong to spread it. He likewise
instilled into me in that way more of history than Mr. Allen had ever
taught me, using it to throw light upon this point or that. But I never
knew his true power and eloquence until I followed him to the Stadt
House.
Patty was grown a girl of fifteen then, glowing with health, and had
ample good looks of her own. 'Tis odd enough that I did not fall in
love with her when Dolly began to use me so outrageously. But a lad of
eighteen is scarce a rational creature. I went and sat before my oracle
upon the vine-covered porch under the eaves, and poured out my complaint.
She laid down her needlework and laughed.
"You silly boy," said she, "can't you see that she herself has prescribed
for you? She was right when she told you to show attention to Jenny.
And if you dangle about Miss Dolly now, you are in danger of losing her.
She knows it better than you."
I had Jenny to ride the very next day. Result: my lady smiled on me more
sweetly than ever when I went to Prince George Street, and vowed Jenny
had never looked prettier than when she went past the house. This left
my victory in such considerable doubt that I climbed the back wall
forthwith in my new top-boots.
"So you looked for her to be angry?" said Patty.
"Most certainly," said I.
"Unreasoning vanity!" she cried, for she knew how to speak plain.
"By your confession to me you have done this to please her, for she
warned you at the beginning it would please her. And now you complain
of it. I believe I know your Dorothy better than you."
And so I got but little comfort out of Patty that time.
CHAPTER IX
UNDER FALSE COLOURS
And now I come to a circumstance in my life I would rather pass over
quickly. Had I steered the straight course of my impulse I need never
have deceived that dear gentleman whom I loved and honoured above any in
this world, and with whom I had always lived and dealt openly. After my
grandfather was pronounced to be mending, I went back to Mr. Allen until
such time as we should be able to go to the country. Philip no longer
shared my studies, his hours having been changed from morning to
afternoon. I thought nothing of this, being content with the rector's
explanation that my uncle had a task for Philip in the morning, now that
Mr. Carvel was better. And I was well content to be rid of Philip's
company. But as the days passed I began to mark an absence still
stranger. I had my Horace and my Ovid still: but the two hours from
eleven to one, which he was wont to give up to history and what he was
pleased to call instruction in loyalty, were filled with other matter.
Not a word now of politics from Mr. Allen. Not even a comment from him
concerning the spirited doings of our Assembly, with which the town was
ringing. That body had met but a while before, primed to act on the
circular drawn up by Mr. Adams of Massachusetts. The Governor's message
had not been so prompt as to forestall them, and I am occupied scarce the
time in the writing of this that it took our brave members to adopt the
petition to his Majesty and to pass resolutions of support to our sister
colony of the North. This being done, and a most tart reply penned to
his Excellency, they ended that sitting and passed in procession to the
Governor's mansion to deliver it, Mr. Speaker Lloyd at their head, and a
vast concourse of cheering people at their heels. Shutters were barred
on the Tory houses we passed. And though Mr. Allen spied me in the
crowd, he never mentioned the circumstance. More than once I essayed to
draw from him an opinion of Mr. Adams's petition, which was deemed a work
of great moderation and merit, and got nothing but evasion from my tutor.
That he had become suddenly an American in principle I could not believe.
At length I made bold to ask him why our discussions were now omitted.
He looked up from the new play he was reading on the study lounge, with a
glance of dark meaning I could not fathom.
"You are learning more than I can teach you in Gloucester Street, and at
the Stadt House," he said.
In truth I was at a loss to understand his attitude until the day in June
my grandfather and I went to Carvel Hall.
The old gentleman was weak still, so feeble that he had to be carried to
his barge in a chair, a vehicle he had ever held in scorn. But he was
cheerful, and his spirit remained the same as of old: but for that spirit
I believe he had never again risen from his bed in Marlboro' Street. My
uncle and the rector were among those who walked by his side to the dock,
and would have gone to the Hall with him had he permitted them. He was
kind enough to say that my arm was sufficient to lean on.
What peace there was sitting once again under the rustling trees on the
lawn with the green river and the blue bay spread out before us, and
Scipio standing by with my grandfather's punch. Mr. Carvel would have me
rehearse again all that had passed in town and colony since his illness,
which I did with as much moderation as I was able. And as we talked he
reached out and took my hand, for I sat near him, and said:
"Richard, I have heard tidings of you that gladden my heart, and they
have done more than Dr. Leiden's physic for this old frame of mine. I
well knew a Carvel could never go a wrong course, lad, and you least of
any."
"Tidings, sir?" I said.
"Ay, tidings," answered Mr. Carvel. Such a note of relief and gladness
there was in the words as I had not heard for months from him, and a
vague fear came upon me.
"Scipio," he said merrily, "a punch for Mr. Richard." And when the glass
was brought my grandfather added: "May it be ever thus!"
I drained the toast, not falling into his humour or comprehending his
reference, but dreading that aught I might say would disturb him, held my
peace. And yet my apprehension increased. He set down his glass and
continued:
"I had no hope of this yet, Richard, for you were ever slow to change.
Your conversion does credit to Mr. Allen as well as to you. In short,
sir, the rector gives me an excellent good account of your studies, and
adds that the King hath gained another loyal servant, for which I thank
God."
I have no words to write of my feelings then. My head swam and my hand
trembled on my grandfather's, and I saw dimly the old gentleman's face
aglow with joy and pride, and knew not what to say or do. The answer I
framed, alas, remained unspoken. From his own lips I had heard how much
the news had mended him, and for once I lacked the heart, nay, the
courage, to speak the truth. But Mr. Carvel took no heed of my silence,
setting it down to another cause.
"And so, my son," he said, "there is no need of sending you to Eton next
fall. I am not much longer for this earth, and can ill spare you: and
Mr. Allen kindly consents to prepare you for Oxford."
"Mr. Allen consents to that, sir?" I gasped. I think, could I have laid
hands on the rector then, I would have thrashed him, cloth and all,
within an inch of his life.
And as if to crown my misery Mr. Carvel rose, and bearing heavily on my
shoulder led me to the stable where Harvey and one of the black grooms
stood in livery to receive us. Harvey held by the bridle a blooded bay
hunter, and her like could scarce be found in the colony. As she stood
arching her neck and pawing the ground, I all confusion and shame, my
grandfather said simply:
"Richard, this is Firefly. I have got her for you from Mr. Randolph, of
Virginia, for you are now old enough to have a good mount of your own."
All that night I lay awake, trying to sift some motive for Mr. Allen's
deceit. For the life of me I could see no farther than a desire to keep
me as his pupil, since he was well paid for his tuition. Still, the game
did not seem worth the candle. However, he was safe in his lie. Shrewd
rogue that he was, he well knew that I would not risk the attack a
disappointment might bring my grandfather.
What troubled me most of all was the fear that Grafton had reaped the
advantage of the opportunity the illness gave him, and by his insidious
arts had worked himself back into the good graces of his father. You
must not draw from this, my dears, that I feared for the inheritance.
Praised be God, I never thought of that! But I came by nature to hate
and to fear my uncle, as I hated and feared the devil. I saw him with my
father's eyes, and with my mother's, and as my grandfather had seen him
in the old days when he was strong. Instinct and reason alike made me
loathe him. As the months passed, and letters in Grafton's scroll hand
came from the Kent estate or from Annapolis, my misgivings were confirmed
by odd remarks that dropped from Mr. Carvel's lips. At length arrived
the revelation itself.
"I fear, Richard," he had said querulously, "I fear that all these years
I have done your uncle an injustice. Dear Elizabeth was wont to plead
for him before she died, but I would never listen to her. I was hearty
and strong then, and my heart was hard. And a remembrance of many things
was fresh in my mind." He paused for breath, as was his habit now. And
I said nothing. "But Grafton has striven to wipe out the past. Sickness
teaches us that we must condone, and not condemn. He has lived a
reputable life, and made the most of the little start I gave him.
He has supported his Majesty and my Lord in most trying times. And his
Excellency tells me that the coming governor, Eden, will surely reward
him with a seat in the Council."
I thought of Governor Sharpe's biting words to Grafton. The Governor
knew my uncle well, and I was sure he had never sat at his Council.
"A son is a son, Richard," continued Mr. Carvel. "You will one day find
that out. Your uncle has atoned. He hath been faithful during my
illness, despite my cold treatment. And he hath convinced me that your
welfare is at his heart. I believe he is fond of you, my lad."
No greater sign of breaking health did I need than this, that Mr. Carvel
should become blind to Grafton's hypocrisy; forget his attempts to
prevent my father's marriage, and to throw doubt upon my mother's birth.
The agony it gave me, coming as it did on top of the cruel deception,
I shall not dwell upon. And the thought bursting within me remained
unspoken.
I saw less of Dorothy then than I had in any summer of my life before.
In spite of Mrs. Manners, the chrysalis had burst into the butterfly,
and Wilmot House had never been so gay. It must be remembered that
there were times when young ladies made their entrance into the world at
sixteen, and for a beauty to be unmarried at twenty-two was rare indeed.
When I went to Wilmot House to dine, the table would be always full, and
Mr. Marmaduke simpering at the head of it, his air of importance doubled
by his reflected glory.
"We see nothing of you, my lad," he would say; "you must not let these
young gallants get ahead of you. How does your grandfather? I must pay
my compliments to-morrow."
Of gallants there were enough, to be sure. Dr. Courtenay, of course,
with a nosegay on his coat, striving to catch the beauty's eye. And Mr.
Worthington and Mr. Dulany, and Mr. Fitzhugh and Mr. Paca, and I know not
how many other young bachelors of birth and means. And Will Fotheringay,
who spent some of his time with me at the Hall. Silver and China, with
the Manners coat-of-arms, were laid out that had not seen the light for
many along day. And there were picnics, and sailing parties, and dances
galore, some of which I attended, but heard of more. It seemed to me
that my lady was tiring of the doctor's compliments, and had transferred
her fickle favour to young Mr. Fitzhugh, who was much more worthy, by the
way. As for me, I had troubles enough then, and had become used in some
sort to being shelved.
One night in July,--'twas the very day Mr. Carvel had spoken to me of
Grafton,--I had ridden over to Wilmot House to supper. I had little
heart for going, but good Mrs. Manners herself had made me promise, and
I could: not break my word. I must have sat very silent and preoccupied
at the table, where all was wit and merriment. And more than once I saw
the laughter leave Dorothy's face, and caught her eyes upon; me with such
a look as set my beast throbbing. They would not meet my own, but would
turn away instantly. I was heavy indeed that night, and did not follow
the company into the ballroom, but made my excuses to Mrs. Manners.
The lawn lay bathed in moonlight; and as I picked, my way over it toward
the stables for Firefly, I paused to look back at the house aglow, with
light, the music of the fiddles and the sound of laughter floating out
of the open windows. Even as I gaped a white figure was framed in the
doorway, paused a moment on the low stone step, and then came on until
it stood beside me.
"Are you not well, Richard?"
"Yes, I am well," I answered. I scarcely knew my own voice.
"Is your grandfather worse?"
"No, Dorothy; he seems better to-day."
She stood seemingly irresolute, her eyes new lifted, now falling before
mine. Her slender arms bare, save for the little puff at the shoulders;
her simple dress drawn a little above the waist, then falling straight to
the white slipper. How real the ecstasy of that moment, and the pain of
it!
"Why do you not coarse over, as you used to?" she asked, in a low tone.
"I am very busy," I replied evasively; "Mr. Carvel cannot attend to his
affairs." I longed to tell her the whole truth, but the words would not
come.
"I hear you are managing the estate all alone," she said.
"There is no one else to do it."
"Richard," she cried, drawing closer; "you are in trouble. I--I have
seen it. You are so silent, and--and you seem to have become older.
Tell me, is it your Uncle Grafton?"
So astonished was I at the question, and because she had divined so,
surely, that I did not answer.
"Is it?" she asked again.
"Yes," I said; "yes, in part."
And then came voices calling from the house. They had missed her.
"I am so sorry, Richard. I shall tell no one."
She laid her hand ever so lightly upon mine and was gone. I stood
staring after her until she disappeared in the door. All the way home
I marvelled, my thoughts tumultuous, my hopes rising and falling.
But when next I saw her, I thought she had forgotten.
We had little company at the Hall that year, on account of Mr. Carvel.
And I had been busy indeed. I sought with all my might to master a
business for which I had but little taste, and my grandfather
complimented me, before the season was done, upon my management.
I was wont to ride that summer at four of a morning to canter beside Mr.
Starkie afield, and I came to know the yield of every patch to a hogshead
and the pound price to a farthing. I grew to understand as well as
another the methods of curing the leaf. And the wheat pest appearing
that year, I had the good fortune to discover some of the clusters in the
sheaves, and ground our oyster-shells in time to save the crop. Many a
long evening I spent on the wharves with old Stanwix, now toothless and
living on his pension, with my eye on the glow of his pipe and my ear
bent to his stories of the sea. It was his fancy that the gift of
prophecy had come to him with the years; and at times, when his look
would wander to the black rigging in the twilight, he would speak
strangely enough.
"Faith, Mr. Richard," he would say; "tho' your father was a soldier afore
ye, ye were born to the deck of a ship-o'-war. Mark an old | 1,976.908245 |
2023-11-16 18:50:00.9822290 | 544 | 6 |
Produced by sp1nd, Sam W. 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
This book contains a small number of characters which are not
available in this file encoding. These are a and e with a macron
(straight line) above, which are rendered as [=a] and [=e]
respectively, and u with a breve (upward curve) above, which is
rendered as [)u].
THE
WASHER OF THE FORD
LEGENDARY MORALITIES
AND BARBARIC TALES
BY FIONA MACLEOD
[Decoration]
NEW YORK
STONE & KIMBALL
M DCCC XCVI
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Pharais: _A Romance of the Isles_
The Mountain Lovers: _A Romance_
The Sin-Eater
IN PREPARATION:
Green Fire: _A Romance_
Lyric Rimes and Founsheen
CONTENTS
PAGE
Prologue 3
The Washer of the Ford 25
St. Bride of the Isles 51
The Fisher of Men 97
The Last Supper 117
The Dark Nameless One 135
The Three Marvels of Hy 149
I. The Festival of the Birds 151
II. The Sabbath of the Fishes and the Flies 161
III. The Moon-Child 170
The Annir-Choille 183
The Shadow-Seers 237
I. The Sight 239
II. The Dark Hour of Fergus 244
III. The White Fever 254
IV. The Smoothing of the Hand 260
Seanachas 267
The Song of the Sword 271
The Flight of the Culdees 289
Mircath 301
The Laughter of Scathach the Queen 309
Ula and Urla 321
"Here are told the stories of these pictures of the imagination, of
magic and romance. Yet they were gravely chosen withal, and for
reasons manifold.... What if they be but dreams? 'We are such stuff as
dreams are made of.' What if they be but magic and romance? | 1,977.002269 |
2023-11-16 18:50:00.9830470 | 2,278 | 19 |
Produced by David Widger
SKETCHES
By Benjamin Disraeli
THE CARRIER PIGEON
CHAPTER I.
_Charolois and Branchimont_
ALTHOUGH the deepest shades of twilight had descended upon the broad
bosom of the valley, and the river might almost be recognised only
by its rushing sound, the walls and battlements of the castle of
Charolois, situate on one of the loftiest heights, still blazed in the
reflected radiance of the setting sun, and cast, as it were, a glance of
triumph at the opposing castle of Branchimont, that rose on the western
side of the valley, with its lofty turrets and its massy keep black and
sharply defined against the resplendent heaven.
Deadly was the hereditary feud between the powerful lords of these high
places--the Counts of Charolois and the Barons of Branchimont, but the
hostility which had been maintained for ages never perhaps raged with
more virulence than at this moment; since the only male heir of the
house of Charolois had been slain in a tournament by the late Baron of
Branchimont, and the distracted father had avenged his irreparable loss
in the life-blood of the involuntary murderer of his son.
Yet the pilgrim, who at this serene hour might rest upon his staff
and gaze on the surrounding scene, would hardly deem that the darkest
passions of our nature had selected this fair and silent spot for the
theatre of their havoc.
The sun set; the evening star, quivering and bright, rose over the dark
towers of Branchimont; from the opposite bank a musical bell summoned
the devout vassals of Charolois to a beautiful shrine, wherein was
deposited the heart of their late young lord, and which his father had
raised on a small and richly wooded promontory, distant about a mile
from his stern hold.
At the first chime on this lovely eve came forth a lovelier maiden from
the postern of Charolois--the Lady Imogene, the only remaining child of
the bereaved count, attended by her page, bearing her book of prayers.
She took her way along the undulating heights until she reached
the sanctuary. The altar was illumined; several groups were already
kneeling,--faces of fidelity well known to their adored lady; but as she
entered, a palmer, with his broad hat drawn over his face, and closely
muffled up in his cloak, dipped his hand at the same time with hers in
the fount of holy water placed at the entrance of of the shrine, and
pressed the beautiful fingers of the Lady Imogene. A blush, unperceived
by the kneeling votaries, rose to her cheek; but apparently such was her
self-control, or such her deep respect for the hallowed spot, that she
exhibited no other symptom of emotion, and, walking to the high altar,
was soon buried in her devotions.
The mass was celebrated--the vassals rose and retired. According to her
custom, the Lady Imogene yet remained, and knelt before the tomb of her
brother. A low whisper, occasionally sounding,-assured her that someone
was at the confessional; and soon the palmer, who was now shrived, knelt
at her side. 'Lothair!' muttered the lady, apparently at her prayers,
'beloved Lothair, thou art too bold!'
'Oh, Imogene! for thee what would I not venture?' was the hushed reply.
'For the sake of all our hopes, wild though they be, I counsel caution.'
'Fear naught. The priest, flattered by my confession, is fairly duped.
Let me employ this golden moment to urge what I have before entreated.
Your father, Imogene, can never be appeased. Fly, then, my beloved! oh,
fly!'
'Oh, my Lothair! it never can be. Alas! whither can we fly?'
'Sweet love! I pray thee listen:--to Italy. At the court of my
cousin, the Duke of Milan, we shall be safe and happy. What care I
for Branchimont, and all its fortunes? And for that, my vassals are
no traitors. If ever the bright hour arrive when we may return in joy,
trust me, sweet love, my flag will still wave on my father's walls.'
'Oh, Lothair! why did we meet? Why, meeting, did we not hate each other
like our fated race? My heart is distracted. Can this misery be love?
Yet I adore thee------'
'Lady!' said the page, advancing, 'the priest approaches.'
The Lady Imogene rose, and crossed herself before the altar.
'To-morrow, at this hour,' whispered Lothair.
The Lady Imogene nodded assent, and, leaning on her page, quitted the
shrine.
CHAPTER II.
_A Pert Page_
'DEAREST Lady,' said the young page, as they returned to the castle,
'my heart misgives me. As we quitted the shrine, I observed Rufus, the
huntsman, slink into the adjoining wood.' 'Hah! he is my father's most
devoted instrument: nor is there any bidding which he would hesitate to
execute--a most ruthless knave!'
'And can see like a cat in the dark, too,' observed young Theodore.
'I never loved that man, even in my cradle,' said the Lady Imogene;
'though he can fawn, too. Did he indeed avoid us?'
'Indeed I thought so, madam.'
'Ah! my Theodore, we have no friend but you, and you are but a little
page.'
'I would I were a stout knight, lady, and I would fight for you.'
'I warrant you,' said Imogene; 'you have a bold heart, little Theodore,
and a kind one. O holy Virgin. I pray thee guard in all perils my
bright-eyed Lothair!'
'Lord Branchimont is the finest knight I ever set eyes upon,' said
Theodore. 'I would I were his squire.'
'Thou shalt be his squire, too, little Theodore, if all goes well.'
'Oh! glorious day, when I shall wear a sword instead of a scarf! Shall I
indeed be his squire, lady sweet?'
'Indeed I think thou wilt make a very proper squire.'
'I would I were a knight like Lord Branchimont; as tall as a lance, and
as strong as a lion; and such a fine beard too!'
'It is indeed a beard, Theodore,' said the Lady Imogene. 'When wilt thou
have one like it?'
'Another summer, perchance,' said Theodore, passing his small palm
musingly over his smooth chin.
'Another summer!' said the Lady Imogene, laughing; 'why, I may as soon
hope to have a beard myself.'
'I hope you will have Lord Branchimont's,' said the page.
'Amen!' responded the lady.
CHAPTER III.
_Love's Messenger_
THE apprehensions of the little Theodore proved to be too well founded.
On the morning after the meeting of Lady Imogene with Lord Branchimont
at the shrine of Charolois, she was summoned to the presence of her
father, and, after having been loaded with every species of reproach and
invective for her clandestine meeting with their hereditary foe, she was
confined to a chamber in one of the loftiest towers of the castle, which
she was never permitted to quit, except to walk in a long gloomy gallery
with an old female servant remarkable for the acerbity of her mind and
manners. Her page escaped punishment by flight; and her only resource
and amusement was her mandolin.
The tower in which the Lady Imogene was imprisoned sprang out of a steep
so precipitous that the position was considered impregnable. She was
therefore permitted to open her lattice, which was not even barred. The
landscape before her, which was picturesque and richly wooded, consisted
of the en-closed chase of Charolois; but her jailers had taken due care
that her chamber should not command a view of the castle of Branchimont.
The valley and all its moving life were indeed entirely shut out from
her. Often the day vanished without a human being appearing in sight.
Very unhappy was the Lady Imo-gene, gazing on the silent woods, or
pouring forth her passion over her lonely lute.
A miserable week had nearly elapsed. It was noon; the Lady Imogene was
seated alone in her chamber, leaning her head upon her hand in thought,
and dreaming of her Lothair, when a fluttering noise suddenly roused
her, and, looking up, she beheld, to her astonishment, perched on the
high back of a chair, a beautiful bird-a pigeon whiter than snow, with
an azure beak, and eyes blazing with a thousand shifting tints. Not
alarmed was the beautiful bird when the Lady Imogene gently approached
it; but it looked up to her with eyes of intelligent tenderness, and
flapped with some earnestness its pure and sparkling plume. The Lady
Imogene smiled with marvelling pleasure, for the first time since her
captivity; and putting forth her hand, which was even whiter than
the wing, she patted the bright neck of the glad stranger, and gently
stroked its soft plumage.
'Heaven hath sent me a friend,' exclaimed the beautiful Imogene; 'Ah!
what--what is this?'
'Didst thou call, Lady Imogene?' inquired the harsh voice of acid
Martha, whom the exclamation of her mistress had summoned to the door.
'Nothing--nothing--I want nothing,' quickly answered Imogene, as she
seized the bird with her hand, and, pressing it to her bosom, answered
Martha over her shoulder. 'Did she see thee, my treasure?' continued the
agitated Imogene, 'Oh! did she see thee, my joy? Methinks we were
not discovered.' So saying, and tripping along on the lightest step
imaginable, the captive secured the door; then bringing forth the bird
from its sweet shelter, she produced a letter, which she had suddenly
detected to be fastened under its left wing, and which she had
perceived, in an instant, to be written by Lord Branchimont.
Her sight was dizzy, her cheek pale, her breath | 1,977.003087 |
2023-11-16 18:50:01.0792360 | 52 | 14 |
Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Michael Ciesielski and PG Distributed
Proofreaders
THE BOOMING OF ACRE HILL
AND OTHER REMINISCENCES OF URBAN AND SUBURBAN LIFE
[Ill | 1,977.099276 |
2023-11-16 18:50:01.1832050 | 183 | 30 |
Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by the
Internet Archive (Princeton University)
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Internet Archive
https://archive.org/details/ladyfromnowhere00humegoog
(Princeton University)
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
THE
LADY FROM NOWHERE
A DETECTIVE STORY
BY
FERGUS HUME
AUTHOR OF "The MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," ETC.
BRENTANO'S
31 UNION SQUARE, NEW YORK
1900
CONTENTS
I. The Tragedy of the Strange Room
II. The Death-card
III. A Woman without a Past
IV. The Five Landladies
V. A Friend in Need
| 1,977.203245 |
2023-11-16 18:50:01.1851310 | 4,765 | 12 |
Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by Google Books
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Google Books
https://books.google.com/books?id=w8gBAAAAQAAJ
(Oxford University)
KISSING THE ROD.
LONDON:
HOBSON AND SON, GREAT NORTHERN PRINTING WORKS,
PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.
KISSING THE ROD.
A Novel.
BY EDMUND YATES,
AUTHOR OF "BROKEN TO HARNESS," "RUNNING THE GAUNTLET,"
"LAND AT LAST," ETC.
"The heart knoweth its own bitterness."
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18 CATHERINE ST. STRAND.
1866.
[_All rights of translation and reproduction reserved_.]
Inscribed to
THE COUNTESS OF FIFE.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
CHAP.
I. DAZZLED.
II. A MORNING CALL.
III. WITHIN THE PALE.
IV. MR. GUYON'S FRIEND.
V. HESTER GOULD.
VI. IN CHAMBERS.
VII. KATHARINE GUYON.
VIII. AMARYLLIS IN A MARQUEE.
IX. INVESTMENTS.
X. STRUGGLE.
XI. LEFT LAMENTING.
XII. VICTORY.
KISSING THE ROD.
CHAPTER I.
DAZZLED.
There was no name on the doorposts, nothing beyond the
number--"48"--to serve as a guide; and yet it may be doubted
whether any firm in the City was better known to the postman, the
bankers'-clerks, and all who had regular business to transact with
them, than that of Streightley and Son. The firm had been Streightley
and Son, and it had been located at 48 Bullion Lane, for the last
hundred and fifty years. They were money-brokers and scrip-sellers at
the time of the South-Sea bubble, and were among the very few who were
not ruined by that disastrous swindle. So little ruined were they that
they prospered by it, and in the next generation extended their
business and enlarged their profits; both of which, however, were
consider curtailed by rash speculations during the French Revolution
and the American War. Within the first quarter of the present century
the business of Streightley and Son recovered itself; and, under the
careful management of old Sam Streightley and his head clerk, Mr.
Fowler, the house became highly esteemed as one of the safest
bill-broking establishments in the City. It was not, however, until
young Mr. Robert, following the bounden career of all the eldest sons
of that family, joined the business, and, after close application, had
thoroughly mastered its details, that fortune could be said to have
smiled steadily on the firm. Young Mr. Robert's views were so large
and his daring so great, that his father, old Mr. Sam, at first stood
aghast, and had to be perpetually supplicated before he gave
permission to experiment on the least hazardous of all the young man's
suggestions; but after the son had been about two years a partner in
the firm it happened that the father was laid up with such a terrible
attack of gout as to be incapable of attending to business for months;
and when he at length obtained the physician's grudging assent to his
visiting the City he found things so prosperous, but withal so totally
changed, that the old gentleman was content to jog down to Bullion
Lane about three times a month until his death, which was not long in
overtaking him.
Prosperous and changed! Yes; no doubt about that. Up that staircase,
hitherto untrodden save by merchants'-clerks leaving bills for
acceptance or notices of bills due; by stags with sham prospectuses of
never-to-be-brought-out companies; or by third-rate City solicitors
giving the quasi-respectability of their names to impotent
semi-swindles, which, though they would never see the light, yet
afforded the means for creating an indisputable and meaty bill of
costs;--up that staircase now came heavy magnates of the City,
directors of the Bank of England, with short ill-made Oxford-mixture
trousers, and puckered coats, and alpaca umbrellas; or natty
stockbrokers, most of them a trifle horsy in garb, all with undeniable
linen, and good though large jewelry, carefully-cultivated whiskers,
and glossy boots. In the little waiting-room might be found an Irish
member of Parliament; the managing director of a great steam-shipping
company; a West-end dandy, with a letter of introduction from some
club acquaintance with a handle to his name, who idiotically imagined
that that handle would serve as a lever to raise money out of Robert
Streightley; a lawyer or two; and, occasionally the bronzed captain of
a steamer arrived with news from the Pacific; or some burnt and
bearded engineer fresh from the inspection of a silver mine in Central
America. A long purgatory, for the most part, did these gentlemen
spend in the little waiting-room, or in the clerk's room beyond it,
where they were exposed to the sharp fusillade of Mr. Fowler's eyes
and the keen glances of the two young men who assisted him. The only
people who were shown by the messenger at once into Mr. Streightley's
presence were the City editors of the various newspapers, and a very
prettily-appointed young gentleman, wise withal beyond his years, who
occasionally drove down to Bullion Lane from Downing Street in a
hansom cab, and who was private secretary to the Chancellor of the
Exchequer.
Robert Streightley had done all this by his own talent and
exertion--"on his own hook," as the Stock Exchange men phrased it. The
keenness of his business intellect was astounding. He seemed to sift a
proposition as it was being laid before him; and as soon as the
proposer ceased speaking, Robert Streightley closed with or
pooh-poohed the offer, with incontrovertible reasons for his decision.
He spoke out plainly and boldly before the oldest and the youngest who
sought his advice; he was neither deferential nor patronising; and
never sought to please--simply for the sake of pleasing--any of his
clients. The young men looked up to him in wonder, and spoke of him
over mid-day chops and sherry as a "cool card," a "long-headed chap,"
"just about one," and in other complimentary slangisms. The older men
scarcely knew what to make of him; they hated him for his daring and
success, for the dashing manner in which he was passing them all in
the race for wealth and distinction; and they would have well liked to
have shrugged their shoulders and hinted about his being "fast," and
"going ahead," and finally making a grand smash of it; but they had no
pretext. So long as Robert Streightley's business relations were
thoroughly sound and wholesome it would have been against that _esprit
de corps_ which largely prevails among City men to breathe a word
against him; and as for his private life, they could scarcely bring a
charge of reckless extravagance against a man who went home to a
seventy-pound-a-year house at Brixton in the "Paragon" omnibus, and
there indulged in the dissipation of a "meat-tea" in the society of
his mother and sister. So they found another vent for their spleen,
and talked of him as a "doosid close-fisted fellow," a "mean
narrow-minded hunks," and a "niggardly screw." He merited none of
these appellations. He was a straightforward, honourable business-man,
bred in a narrow circle, which his own innate business habits were
narrowing year by year. As a boy he had had instilled into him the
value of money and the secret of money-getting; as a young man the
whole scope of his faculties had been directed to this end. Such
little fancy as he possessed--and with such a father the smallness of
that fancy could be easily divined--had been ruthlessly eradicated,
and all the nascent tendencies of his mind had been directed into one
strong channel of fact. That Jack had ever found giants to slay, that
glass slippers were ever worn by cinder-wenches, or pumpkins could by
any possibility become carriages, were fictions not to be found in
Bonnycastle and ignored by Walkinghame; but that two and two made
four, or that a talent of silver hid in a napkin remained an
unproductive talent of silver, whereas a hundred pounds invested in
Consols produced yearly three pounds as interest to its holder, were
as demonstrable as the light and heat of the sun at noonday.
He lived but for his business, nothing else. He was in his office at
ten o'clock, and he never left it, save on some business errand, until
six. He never took a holiday except on Christmas-day and Good Friday,
when the newspapers proclaimed all business suspended; he never dined
out save twice or thrice a-year at the anniversary banquets of the
directors of some of those companies in which his stake was large. His
enemies wronged him when they said he had no heart. He had sincerely
grieved for the old father who had brought him up and loved him deeply
in his own peculiar way; his purse-strings were always at the command
of those good Samaritans on the Stock Exchange who do so much in such
a quiet and unassuming manner; and the clergyman at Brixton knew he
might always count upon Mr. Streightley for a handsome subscription to
any charity brought under his notice. His manner was odd and
_brusque_, arising partly from his preoccupation, partly from his
having never mixed in society; but there was nothing pretentious or
vulgar, fast or underbred in him: he might have been thought an
oddity; he never could have been set down for a snob.
See him now as he sits at his desk, poring over his diary, a tall
strongly-built man, with long limbs lacking in due amount of muscular
development from want of exercise. With a high forehead, a head
prematurely bald, but surrounded with a thick fringe of brown hair,
with sharp gray eyes looking out from overhanging brows, a thinly-cut
aquiline nose, and rather full lips. He has a full whisker, after the
ordinary respectable "mutton-chop" outline, and might, if he so
pleased, have a large beard, as you can tell by the dark-blue outline
round his chin; but Robert Streightley would as soon think of coming
up to town outside the Paragon omnibus in a turban as of committing
any such unbusiness-like atrocity as growing a beard. One other person
is in the room with him just now--Mr. Fowler, his chief clerk, known
in the City as Downy Fowler; an old gentleman, who is looked upon as
the essence of knowingness, and to whom the fortunes of Streightley
and Son are not a little attributable. When this is hinted at, old Mr.
Fowler smiles enigmatically; but only in strictest confidence, and to
one or two very old friends, declares that, whatever he might have
been to the old gentleman, he does not pretend to hold a candle to Mr.
Robert, "whose head, my dear sir, is something won-der-ful!" A short
sleek gray-headed man, Mr. Fowler; with a high-collared coat much too
long in the sleeves, a waistcoat with traces of bygone snuff-pinches
lingering in the creases, gray trousers, and gaiter boots. A silent
little man, rarely speaking, but in the habit of calling his
principal's attention to matters under consideration, such as letters,
invoices, and share-lists, with his pointed forefinger. That
forefinger was at work at the very moment when they are first
presented to reader. It rested on an entry in the diary, and Mr.
Fowler looked up into his principal's face inquiringly.
"Well?" said Robert Streightley, "I see. Markwell, 1350_l_.; Baxter,
870_l_.; Currie and Tull, 340_l_.; Guyon, 180_l_. 17_s_. 3_d_.; Banks,
97_l_. 6_s_. Total, 2888_l_. 3_s_. 3_d_.--paid to us by Davidson--due
to-day--what of that?"
Mr. Fowler did not answer, but placed his forefinger more decidedly on
one of the items of the account.
"O, I see," said Streightley; "Guyon's acceptance! Ay, ay; I recollect
now. You called my attention to that, and declared that it was
doubtful at the time that Davidson paid it in. Of course you made
inquiries?"
Mr. Fowler nodded.
"And they were unsatisfactory? Well, that's no matter to us. The usual
notice has been served, of course? Very well, we look to Davidson; but
let Boswell's people have the usual instructions to proceed. So Tierra
del Fuegos stand the same, do they? All right then; hold on. Ocean
Marine have gone up; so that advance to Walton and Pycroft is well
covered. Let Brattle step round to--well, what is it, Brattle?" this
to the junior clerk, who, after knocking at the door, entered the
room.
"A lady, sir, to speak with you," said Mr. Brattle, in whom his
brother lunch-_convives_ at the Bay Tree would scarcely have
recognised the youth who now stood blushing before his principal.
"A lady to speak with me?"
"With Messrs. Streightley and Son, sir, she said, and in private,
sir."
"Must be some mistake," said Robert Streightley. "Never mind. Show the
lady in through the private door, Mr. Brattle. Leave me, Fowler, and
don't let any one in till I ring."
If Mr. Fowler could have expressed astonishment, he would have done
so, for never had woman entered that sanctum since he had been
connected with Streightley and Son. But his training did not admit of
any such vagary; so he retired without a word, and the door closed
behind him as Mr. Brattle admitted the visitor into Robert
Streightley's presence.
Robert Streightley, who had been pretending to be absorbed in the
diary, looked up, and carefully scrutinised his visitor. She was a
girl of about twenty, above the ordinary height, slightly and
gracefully built. She threw up her veil as she entered, without the
smallest sign of coquetry, and showed a strikingly-handsome face, very
pale, with greenish-gray eyes, delicate Grecian nose, small white
forehead, over which her dark-brown hair was drawn in flat bands,
short upper lip, and small rounded chin. She was dressed in a
dark-brown silk, with a black-lace cloak; and Streightley--usually
unobservant of such things--noticed the wonderful fit of her lavender
gloves. Streightley rose as she entered, and pointing to the usual
client's chair, begged her to be seated. She bowed, and seated
herself. Then there was a little pause, and Robert said, "You wished
to see me, I believe?"
"You are Messrs. Streightley and Son?" said the lady interrogatively,
in a musical but slightly timid voice.
"I am Mr. Streightley, the representative of the firm."
"That is what I wished to know," she replied a little haughtily. "Of
course I--what I would ask is--I am not accustomed to business
terms--You are the--the person--who sent this?"
She laid her parasol on the table as she spoke, and took from the
purse which she carried in her hand a small printed paper. Glancing at
it, Robert Streightley saw that it was an ordinary commercial
document, intimating to Edward Scrope Guyon, of 110 Queen Anne Street,
that a bill for 180_l_. 17_s_. 3_d_., drawn on him by Davidson
Brothers, lay due at Streightley and Son's, 48 Bullion Court, Lombard
Street. As he returned it to her he said, "It is quite right; it was
sent out by this house. It is the usual notice given in such cases,
stating where the money is to be paid."
She was very pale as she said, "It means then that money--that the
amount named--must be paid?"
"It does indeed."
"And at once?"
"This is the day for payment," said Streightley. Then noticing her
deadly pallor, and the trembling of her lips, he said: "May I ask how
this came into your hands?"
With a visible effort at self-control, the young lady replied: "I--I
should have mentioned it before. I am Miss Guyon, daughter of Mr.
Guyon, to whom that paper is addressed."
She hesitated for a minute, and Streightley, whose eyes were fixed
intently on her face, said:
"Ye-es! I think I understand; and he has sent you here to----"
"My father is not in the habit of sending me about on his
business-errands, sir!" interrupted Miss Guyon, flushing scarlet
(Robert thought that in his life he had never seen any thing so lovely
as she looked, with heightened colour, swelling nostril, and curved
lip.) "Mr. Guyon is out of town on--on very important and pressing
business; and as he will not be back until late at night, I thought it
best to come here to explain his absence, which will account for the
money not being ready."
"Which will account for the money not being ready!" repeated Mr.
Streightley absently. "O, of course, of course. Pray do not say
another word about it, Miss Guyon. I am very sorry that you should
have had the trouble of coming here, except that it--it has procured
me the--the great pleasure of seeing you!" (Robert had never before
paid a woman a compliment, and was horribly awkward in his first
attempt) "I'll call on Mr. Guyon to-morrow morning about eleven,
and----"
"And you'll bring your bill with you, will you?" said Miss Guyon with
supreme _hauteur_.
The word "bill" was in itself always disagreeable to her; but she had
no idea but that this was an ordinary tradesman's account, and thought
Robert Streightley was the tradesman to whom it was owing.
"Ye-es!" said he; "I'll bring the bill with me, and----"
"There is nothing more to be said, I think," interrupted Miss Guyon.
"Good morning."
"Good morning, Miss Guyon. Permit me to see you downstairs."
She did not speak; but he construed a very slight bow into a gesture
of assent, and proceeded down the staircase. Arrived at the door he
called the cabman, who was slumbering on his box; but the man's
movements being slow, Streightley opened the cab-door himself, and
bareheaded held it as Miss Guyon, with just the style of
acknowledgment that she would have given to the shop-walker who handed
her a chair at a linendraper's, passed in. Old Mr. Pommylow, chairman
of the West India Plantation Company, who was crossing the street at
the time, gave him a great nod and a sly wink; and made them all laugh
at the Board five minutes afterwards, by telling them he'd seen Bob
Streightley "doing the polite to a doosid fine gal."
She was gone; but Robert Streightley still stood on the pavement,
gazing after the cab that had carried her off. Then, after a minute,
he turned slowly round and retraced his steps up the staircase,
pondering over the interview.
After remaining for about half-an-hour in a brown study, he touched
the small handbell by which he was accustomed to summon Mr. Fowler,
and, without raising his head, said to that worthy gentleman when he
entered:
"Give me that acceptance we were speaking of, please."
"Guyon's acceptance do you men, sir?"
"Mr. Guyon's, if you please," said Streightley rather sternly, the
familiarity jarring on his ear.
"Will you want the others, sir?" asked the old man. "Markwell's and
Banks's are paid; but they haven't sent about the others yet."
"Only Mr. Guyon's, thank you, Fowler. I--I want to make a few
inquiries about it."
"I don't expect you'll hear much good of the acceptor, sir," said old
Fowler with twinkling eyes. "I suspect it's one of Davidson's private
discounts, and we know what they are--he, he!" and the old gentleman
laughed quietly.
"Let me have the letters, if you please, Mr. Fowler, and any thing
else there may be for signature. I shall be going soon."
"Going, sir!" | 1,977.205171 |
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Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 109.
SEPTEMBER 21, 1895.
[Illustration: IN THE VESTRY.
_Strange Minister_ (_to Elder_). "DO YOU COME UP TO THE PULPIT FOR
THE COLLECTION?"
_Elder._ "NA, NA. WE'RE NO PARTICKLER TO A BAWBEE _HERE!_"]
* * * * *
THE END OF GEORGIE'S AND JACKY'S HOLIDAYS.
(_A Second Extract from the Note-Book of Mr. Barlow the Younger._)
Now that the summer vacation is drawing rapidly to a close, it may
be as well to record the end of the holidays of my two interesting
charges, GEORGIE and JACKY. Some little time since
I wrote the story of one of their exploits. The two lads do not
live a very eventful life even in their hours of recreation. During
the mid-annual recess I usually choose some delightful spot for our
temporary home, combining the joint charms of change of scene and
increased economy. The fashionable watering-place of Drainville-on-Sea
has a suburb in which apartments may be obtained at a very reasonable
figure. The reason for this lowness of price is no doubt to be traced
to the fact that many of the residences are in the habitation of the
superfluous live stock of a very prosperous pork merchant, having
his house of business in the neighbourhood. However, in spite of our
distance from Drainville-on-Sea, my lads have been fairly contented
with their lot. They have been able to fish, to climb trees, and to
take long walks.
[Illustration]
"Revered Sir," said, on one occasion, GEORGIE, who is
generally accepted as the spendthrift of my brace of students, "it
would give great pleasure to JACKY if you were kindly to give
me a shilling with which to purchase Japanese caramel cannon-balls. I
have reasons for believing that his medical attendant, Dr. COFFYN
BLOCKHEAD, considers that this delicious sweetstuff, or, I should
say, pleasing physic, would be of much benefit to him."
"Why is the lad ill?" I asked, with an anxiety tempered with
incredulity.
"No, revered Sir," promptly replied GEORGIE; "and I fancy
that Dr. COFFYN BLOCKHEAD regards the composition, which may
be obtained at a penny the ounce, or two ounces for three halfpence,
rather as a preventative than a curative. Were JACKY to
have a shilling's-worth, he would not only possess enough to ward
off the shaft of the destroyer himself, but would be able to give
me a sufficient quantity to parry the insidious dart of disease;
and that you might be satisfied that the money was expended in the
life-protecting compound in question, _I_ would willingly undertake to
make the purchase."
Here JACKY protested that he was quite old and conscientious
enough to be trusted with the cash himself.
"Not that I have any doubt of my respected comrade's probity," he
quickly added; "but in matters of business one cannot be too careful."
"My dear pupils," said I, "nothing would give me greater pleasure than
to accede to your request, had I the means at hand. I fancy, in spite
of the opinion of Dr. COFFYN BLOCKHEAD--a physician whose name
I now hear for the first time--that I should have to consider the cost
of Japanese caramel cannon-balls as an incident properly chargeable to
pocket-money. Unfortunately you both exhausted that fund a fortnight
since, by causing me to defray the expenses of a donkey ride, which
mounted up in the aggregate to no less an amount than one shilling and
eightpence halfpenny."
"But surely, revered Sir," suggested GEORGIE, who has a bent
for mathematics; "as our parents allow us half-a-sovereign a week each
for the purposes of recreation, the sum you mention, although not
inconsiderable, would scarcely have----"
"Stop!" I cried, with some show of severity; "you really must not argue
with me. I do not give you all your ten shillings a week, as I am
reserving a portion of them to form the nucleus of an old-age pension
to which you will become entitled on reaching eighty. The scheme is not
without complications, so I reserve its description in detail until you
are both old enough to understand it. Enough to say that I must repeat
the present advance of a shilling is impossible."
After this rebuff the lads were silent, and I regret to say not
altogether contented. However, they soon, with the elasticity of
youth, regained their spirits, and were as merry and as happy as
ever. They absented themselves from my society more frequently than
before, and when I saw them, seemed to be unusually prosperous, or to
use an expressive colloquialism, "flush of money." GEORGIE
continually appeared in gigantic collars that could have only been
acquired at considerable expense, and JACKY as often carried
a new walking-stick with a fairly costly handle. On one occasion they
came home with a gift for me. It was a mug with a rough sketch of a
mule or some less noble animal on the side balancing the handle, and
was labelled "A Present from Drainville-on-Sea." I was gratified, but
my satisfaction savoured of curiosity.
During the absence of my pupils I frequently visited the neighbouring
watering-place. Amongst the many distractions of the sands was one
"entertainment" which caused me considerable embarrassment. Two
"mysterious minstrels" disguised in wideawakes, blue spectacles, and
comforters occasionally made what is known as a "dead set" at me. These
vocalists (who were small, but noisy), did a roaring trade amongst the
excursionists. They seemed to have a long _repertoire_ of songs. They
vocally narrated the adventures of a young person from the country,
who seemingly, with a view to enjoying the restorative effects of
sea-bathing, appeared with "her hair hanging down her back," and the
vagaries of a body of revellers who preferred to parade the streets
"nine in a row," instead of in couples or singly, when they were in a
condition subsequently recognised by the presiding magistrate with a
fine of five shillings. These ditties were not altogether unamusing,
and I might have enjoyed them had they not been supplemented by a song
dealing personally with myself. This last effort was mere doggerel,
but it was so insulting that I was forced to give the vocalists into
custody. I explained that the lines were calculated to cause a breach
of the peace, and the local policeman removed the singers to the
station-house.
[Illustration]
This last adventure caused me some annoyance, and I returned to my
suburban lodgings in the hope that in the cheerful conversation
of my charges I might forget my chagrin. Neither GEORGIE
nor JACKY were at home. The hours of dinner, tea, and
supper passed, and they still put in no appearance. This caused me
considerable surprise, as, although not very regular in their habits,
they were accustomed to pay attention to the fixtures of meal time.
Late in the evening, a police constable called, and | 1,977.205418 |
2023-11-16 18:50:01.1862110 | 332 | 17 |
Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by Google Books
THE LAY ANTHONY
A Romance
By Joseph Hergesheimer
New York & London
Mitchell Kennerley 1914
"_... if in passing from this deceitful world into true life love is
not forgotten,... I know that among the most joyous souls of the third
heaven my Fiametta sees my pain. Pray her, if the sweet draught of Lethe
has not robbed me of her,... to obtain my ascent to her._"
--Giovanni Boccaccio
TO
DOROTHY
THIS
FIGMENT OF A PERPETUAL FLOWERING
THE LAY ANTHONY
I--A ROMANCE
NOT for the honor of winning the Vanderbilt Cup, nor for the glory of
pitching a major league baseball team into the world's championship,
would Tony Ball have admitted to the familiar and derisive group in the
drugstore that he was--in the exact, physical aspect of the word--pure.
Secretly, and in an entirely natural and healthy manner, he was ashamed
of his innocence. He carefully concealed it in an elaborate assumption
of wide worldly knowledge and experience, in an attitude of cynical
comprehension, and indifference toward _girls_.
But he might have spared himself the effort, the fictions, of his
pose--had he proclaimed his ignorance aloud from the brilliantly lighted
entrance to the drugstore no one who knew him in the midweek, night
throng on Ellerton's main | 1,977.206251 |
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Produced by Jo Churcher. HTML version by Al Haines.
THE PRINCESS AND THE GOBLIN
by
GEORGE MACDONALD
CONTENTS
1. Why the Princess Has a Story About Her
2. The Princess Loses Herself
3. The Princess and--We Shall See Who
4. What the Nurse Thought of It
5. The Princess Lets Well Alone
6. The Little Miner
7. The Mines
8. The Goblins
9. The Hall of the Goblin Palace
10. The Princess's King-Papa
11. The Old Lady's Bedroom
12. A Short Chapter About Curdie
13. The Cobs' Creatures
14. That Night Week
15. Woven and then Spun
16. The Ring
17. Springtime
18. Curdie's Clue
19. Goblin Counsels
20. Irene's Clue
21. The Escape
22. The Old Lady and Curdie
23. Curdie and His Mother
24. Irene Behaves Like a Princess
25. Curdie Comes to Grief
26. The Goblin-Miners
27. The Goblins in the King's House
28. Curdie's Guide
29. Masonwork
30. The King and the Kiss
31. The Subterranean Waters
32. The Last Chapter
CHAPTER 1
Why the Princess Has a Story About Her
There was once a little princess whose father was king over a great
country full of mountains and valleys. His palace was built upon one
of the mountains, and was very grand and beautiful. The princess,
whose name was Irene, was born there, but she was sent soon after her
birth, because her mother was not very strong, to be brought up by
country people in a large house, half castle, half farmhouse, on the
side of another mountain, about half-way between its base and its peak.
The princess was a sweet little creature, and at the time my story
begins was about eight years old, I think, but she got older very fast.
Her face was fair and pretty, with eyes like two bits of night sky,
each with a star dissolved in the blue. Those eyes you would have
thought must have known they came from there, so often were they turned
up in that direction. The ceiling of her nursery was blue, with stars
in it, as like the sky as they could make it. But I doubt if ever she
saw the real sky with the stars in it, for a reason which I had better
mention at once.
These mountains were full of hollow places underneath; huge caverns,
and winding ways, some with water running through them, and some
shining with all colours of the rainbow when a light was taken in.
There would not have been much known about them, had there not been
mines there, great deep pits, with long galleries and passages running
off from them, which had been dug to get at the ore of which the
mountains were full. In the course of digging, the miners came upon
many of these natural caverns. A few of them had far-off openings out
on the side of a mountain, or into a ravine.
Now in these subterranean caverns lived a strange race of beings,
called by some gnomes, by some kobolds, by some goblins. There was a
legend current in the country that at one time they lived above ground,
and were very like other people. But for some reason or other,
concerning which there were different legendary theories, the king had
laid what they thought too severe taxes upon them, or had required
observances of them they did not like, or had begun to treat them with
more severity, in some way or other, and impose stricter laws; and the
consequence was that they had all disappeared from the face of the
country. According to the legend, however, instead of going to some
other country, they had all taken refuge in the subterranean caverns,
whence they never came out but at night, and then seldom showed
themselves in any numbers, and never to many people at once. It was
only in the least frequented and most difficult parts of the mountains
that they were said to gather even at night in the open air. Those who
had caught sight of any of them said that they | 1,977.207304 |
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Produced by Nahum Maso i Carcases 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 Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors and misprints have been corrected.
Blank pages present in the printed original have been deleted in
the e-text version.
Text in Italics is indicated between _underscores_
Text in small capitals has been replaced by regular uppercase text.
* * * * *
CHARLIE CODMAN'S CRUISE
A Story for Boys
BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.
AUTHOR OF "FRANK'S CAMPAIGN," "ERIE TRAIN BOY,"
"ADRIFT IN NEW YORK," ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
PREFACE.
In deference to the expressed wishes of some of his young friends,
the author has essayed a story of the sea, and now presents "Charlie
Codman's Cruise," as the third volume of the Campaign Series. It will
be found more adventurous than its predecessors, and the trials which
Charlie is called upon to encounter are of a severer character than
befell Frank Frost or Paul Prescott. But it will be found that they
were met with the same manly spirit, and a like determination to be
faithful to duty at all hazards.
Though not wholly a stranger to the sea, the author is quite aware of
the blunders to which a landsman is exposed in treating of matters and
a mode of life which, at the best, he must comprehend but imperfectly,
and has endeavored to avoid, as far as possible, professional
technicalities, as not essential to the interest of the story.
With these few words he submits the present volume to his young
readers, hoping for it a welcome even more generous than has been
accorded to "Frank's Campaign" and "Paul Prescott's Charge."
CHARLIE CODMAN'S CRUISE.
I.
CHARLIE AND THE MISER.
Charlie Codman turned out of Washington into Bedford Street just as the
clock in the Old South steeple struck two. He was about fourteen, a
handsome, well-made boy, with a bright eye and a manly expression. | 1,977.208368 |
2023-11-16 18:50:01.2784600 | 2,714 | 64 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
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from the Google Print project.)
THE AWAKENING OF SPRING
BOOKS BY FRANK WEDEKIND
_Published by_ BROWN BROTHERS
THE AWAKENING OF SPRING.
A Tragedy of Childhood
Net, $1.25. By mail, $1.35
SUCH IS LIFE. A Play in Five Acts
Net, $1.25. By mail, $1.34
RABBI EZRA AND THE VICTIM.
Two Stories
Net, 25c. By mail, 29c
THE GRISLEY SUITOR. A Story
Net, 25c. By mail, 29c.
The Awakening of Spring
A TRAGEDY OF CHILDHOOD
BY
FRANK WEDEKIND
_Translated from the German by Francis J. Ziegler_
THIRD EDITION
PHILADELPHIA
BROWN BROTHERS
1912
_Copyright, 1910_
BY
BROWN BROTHERS
A PROEM FOR PRUDES
That it is a fatal error to bring up children, either boys or girls,
in ignorance of their sexual nature is the thesis of Frank Wedekind's
drama aEurooeFrA1/4hlings Erwachen.aEuro From its title one might suppose it a
peaceful little idyl of the youth of the year. No idea a could be
more mistaken. It is a tragedy of frightful import, and its action is
concerned with the development of natural instincts in the adolescent
of both sexes.
The playwright has attacked his theme with European frankness; but of
plot, in the usual acceptance of the term, there is little. Instead
of the coherent drama of conventional type, Wedekind has given us a
series of loosely connected scenes illuminative of character--scenes
which surely have profound significance for all occupied in the
training of the young. He sets before us a group of school children,
lads and lassies just past the age of puberty, and shows logically
that death and degradation may be their lot as the outcome of
parental reticence. They are not vicious children, but little ones
such as we meet every day, imaginative beings living in a world of
youthful ideals and speculating about the mysteries which surround
them. Wendla, sent to her grave by the abortive administered with the
connivance of her affectionate but mistaken mother, is a most lovable
creature, while Melchior, the father of her unborn child, is a high
type of boy whose downfall is due to a philosophic temperament, which
leads him to inquire into the nature of life and to impart his
knowledge to others; a temperament which, under proper guidance,
would make him a useful, intelligent man. It is Melchior's very
excellence of character which proves his undoing. That he should be
imprisoned as a moral degenerate only serves to illustrate the
stupidity of his parents and teachers. As for the suicide of Moritz,
the imaginative youth who kills himself because he has failed in his
examinations, that is another crime for which the dramatist makes
false educational methods responsible.
A grim vein of humor is exhibited now and then, as when we are
introduced to the conference room in which the members of a gymnasium
faculty, met to consider the regulation of their pupils' morals, sit
beneath the portraits of Pestalozzi and J. J. Rousseau disputing with
considerable acrimony about the opening and shutting of a window. The
exchange of unpleasant personalities is interrupted only by the
entrance of the accused student, to whose defense the faculty refuses
to listen, having marked the boy for expulsion prior to the formal
farce of his trial.
Wedekind has been accused of depicting his adults as too ignorant and
too indifferent to the needs of the younger generation. But most of
us will have to admit that the majority of his scenes and characters
seem very true to life.
aEurooeFrA1/4hlings ErwachenaEuro may not be pleasant reading exactly, but there
is no forgetting it after one has perused it; there is an elemental
strength about it which grips the intellect. As a play it stands
unique in the annals of dramatic art. That it has succeeded in
attracting much attention abroad is shown by the fact that this drama
in book form has gone through twenty-six editions in its original
version and has been translated into several European tongues,
Russian included, while stage performances of the work have been
given in France as well as in Germany.
The Teutonic grimness of the work puzzled the Parisians, who are not
used to having philosophy thrust at them over the footlights; but in
Germany aEurooeFrA1/4hlings ErwachenaEuro proved much more successful. In Berlin,
indeed, it has become part of the regular stock of plays acted at
aEurooeDas Neue Theater,aEuro where it is said to be certain of drawing a
crowded audience. That the play is radically different from anything
given on the American stage is undoubtedly true. It must be
remembered, however, that the Continental European playwright regards
the stage as a medium of instruction, as well as a place of
amusement. The dictum of the Swedish dramatist, August Strindberg,
that the playwright should be a lay priest preaching on vital topics
of the day in a way to make them intelligible to mediocre intellects,
is not appreciated in this country as it should be; but once admit
the kinship of dramatist and priest, and the position taken by
Wedekind in writing aEurooeFrA1/4hlings ErwachenaEuro becomes self-evident. There
should be no question concerning the importance of his topic, nor
should it be forgotten that the evident lesson he seeks to inculcate
is one now preached by numerous ethical teachers. In order to
estimate the relationship of this play toward modern thought in
Germany, it must be understood that Wedekind's tragedy is merely one
of the documents in a paper war which has resulted at last in having
the physiology of sex taught in many German schools. The fact that
Wedekind's dialogue is frank to a remarkable degree only makes his
preachment more effective: aEurooeOne does not cure the pest with attar of
roses,aEuro as St. Augustine remarked.
Conditions in this country are not so very different from those
depicted in this play, and evidence is not lacking that gradually,
very gradually, we are beginning to realize that ignorance and
innocence are not synonymous; that an evil is not palliated by
ignoring its existence; the Podsnappian wave of the hand has not
disappeared entirely, but it is not quite as fashionable as of yore.
All things considered, the moment seems appropriate for the
publication, of aEurooeFrA1/4hlings ErwachenaEuro in an English version. The
translation given in this volume follows the German original as
closely as the translator can reconcile the nature of the two
languages.
Considered as a work of literature, aEurooeFrA1/4hlings ErwachenaEuro is
remarkable as one of the few realistic studies of adolescence. Its
deceptive simplicity is the hall mark of that supreme literary
ability which knows how to conceal art by art. Dealing with
adolescence, an unformed period of human life, it is necessarily
without the climaxes we expect in dramas in which the characters are
adult, and the gruesome scene in the churchyard with which the play
closes--a scene with such peculiar symbolism could spring only from a
Teutonic imagination--leaves much unended.
It is interesting to note, by the way, that Wedekind himself appears
as the Masked Man when aEurooeFrA1/4hlings ErwachenaEuro is given in Berlin, a
fact which gives this scene somewhat the nature of a _parabasis_.
Frank Wedekind's name is just beginning to be heard in America. In
Germany he has been recognized for some time as one of the leaders in
the new art of the theatre. Naturally enough, his plays are too
outspoken in their realism to appeal to all his fellow-countrymen.
But, if certain Germans reject this mental pabulum, others become
intoxicated by it, and, waxing enthusiastic with a flow of language
almost bacchic, hail Wedekind as the forerunner of a new drama--as a
power destined to infuse fresh strength into the German stage. aEurooeWith
this drink in its body,aEuro writes one admirer, aEurooethe public will never
more endure lyrical lemonade, nor the dregs of dramatic penury.aEuro
Again, these enthusiasts compare Wedekind's work to that of the
pre-Shakesperian dramatists, or even to that of the Bard of Avon
himself, both of which comparisons are difficult to grasp by an
English-speaking student of the British drama.
Wedekind, it is true, has a habit of using the news of the day as
material for plays, just as the old English dramatists did when they
wrote aEurooedomestic tragedies.aEuro He has a fondness, moreover, for gruesome
situations such as we can imagine appealing to the melancholy genius
of Webster; but of the childlike simplicity which marks much of the
Elizabethan drama there is not a particle.
Certainly there is no trace of the gentle romanticism which one finds
in some of the other modern German realists. Gerhart Hauptmann can
turn from the grim task of dramatizing starvation, as he does in aEurooeDie
Weber,aEuro to indulge in the naA-ve Christian symbolism of aEurooeHannele,aEuro or
the mythological poetry of aEurooeDie Versunkene Glocke.aEuro Even the
iconoclast Strindberg writes romantically at times, and gives us
something resembling Maeterlinck; but when Wedekind departs from pure
realism his fancy creates a Gothic nightmare of horrors, peopled with
such terrifying creatures as the headless suicide wandering amid the
graves.
Wedekind's kinship to the dramatists of the aEurooedomestic tragediesaEuro is
shown clearly in the tragedy aEurooeMusik,aEuro which deals with a phase of
music study only too common in Germany. It is asserted that of the
thousands of students of music in that country not one in a hundred
amounts to anything artistically, while of those who master their art
not one in a thousand is capable of profiting financially by it. It
is this condition of affairs which gives additional importance to
this recent work of Wedekind.
aEurooeMusikaEuro is described by the author as a depiction of morals in four
pictures (aEurooeSittengemA¤lde in vier BildernaEuro), to each of which he has
given a separate title, a method which enables him to indulge in his
trick of applying a pretty, inoffensive name to a tragic subject, as
he does in picture two of this series, which he calls aEurooeBehind Swedish
Curtains,aEuro and which represents the interior of a jail. The curtains
to which the playwright refers are the iron bars of the prison.
The central character in aEurooeMusik,aEuro Klara Huhnerwadel, is a neurotic
girl, whose mad love for her singing teacher has entangled her in the
meshes of the legal net drawn to catch Madame Fischer, a notorious
character in real life, who actively engaged the attention of the
German police authorities not long ago. At the instigation of her
lover, Josef Reissner, and with money supplied by Else Reissner,
Josef's wife, Klara flees to Antwerp, only to find existence
insupportable there, and to return to a life in jail which drives her
to the edge of insanity. Released from imprisonment, she continues
her relationship with her teacher until their association becomes
public scandal, and then takes refuge in the country, intending to
dev | 1,977.2985 |
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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See 27678-h.htm or 27678-h.zip:
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NINE LITTLE GOSLINGS.
by
SUSAN COOLIDGE,
Author of "The New Year's Bargain," "Mischief's Thanksgiving," "What
Katy Did," "What Katy Did at School."
With Illustrations.
CURLY LOCKS.
GOOSEY, GOOSEY GANDER.
LITTLE BO-PEEP.
MISTRESS MARY.
LADY BIRD.
ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE.
RIDE A COCK-HORSE.
LADY QUEEN ANNE.
UP, UP, UP, AND DOWN, DOWN, DOWN-Y.
[Illustration]
Boston:
Roberts Brothers.
1893.
Copyright, 1875.
By Roberts Brothers.
[Illustration]
University Press. John Wilson & Son,
Cambridge.
_When nursery lamps are veiled, and nurse is singing
In accents low,
Timing her music to the cradle's swinging,
Now fast, now slow,--_
_Singing of Baby Bunting, soft and furry
In rabbit cloak,
Or rock-a-byed amid the toss and flurry
Of wind-swept oak;_
_Of Boy-Blue sleeping with his horn beside him,
Of my son John,
Who went to bed (let all good boys deride him)
With stockings on;_
_Of sweet Bo-Peep following her lambkins straying;
Of Dames in shoes;
Of cows, considerate,'mid the Piper's playing,
Which tune to choose;_
_Of Gotham's wise men bowling o'er the billow,
Or him, less wise,
Who chose rough bramble-bushes for a pillow,
And scratched his eyes,--_
_It may be, while she sings, that through the portal
Soft footsteps glide,
And, all invisible to grown-up mortal,
At cradle side_
_Sits Mother Goose herself, the dear old mother,
And rocks and croons,
In tones which Baby hearkens, but no other,
Her old-new tunes!_
_I think it must be so, else why, years after,
Do we retrace
And mix with shadowy, recollected laughter
Thoughts of that face;_
_Seen, yet unseen, beaming across the ages,
Brimful of fun
And wit and wisdom, baffling all the sages
Under the sun?_
_A grown-up child has place still, which no other
May dare refuse;
I, grown up, bring this offering to our Mother,
To Mother Goose;_
_And, standing with the babies at that olden,
Immortal knee,
I seem to feel her smile, benign and golden,
Falling on me._
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
CHAP PAGE
I. CURLY LOCKS 1
II. GOOSEY, GOOSEY GANDER 40
III. LITTLE BO-PEEP 65
IV. MISTRESS MARY 101
V. LADY BIRD 137
VI. ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE 165
VII. RIDE A COCK-HORSE 197
VIII. LADY QUEEN ANNE 228
IX. UP, UP, UP, AND DOWN, DOWN, DOWN-Y 259
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CURLY LOCKS.
WHEN a little girl is six and a little boy is six, they like pretty much
the same things and enjoy pretty much the same games. She wears an
apron, and he a jacket and trousers, but they are both equally fond of
running races, spinning tops, flying kites, going down hill on sleds,
and making a noise in the open air. But when the little girl gets to be
eleven or twelve, and to grow thin and long, so that every two months a
tuck has to be let down in her frocks, then a great difference becomes
visible. The boy goes on racing and whooping and comporting himself
generally like a young colt in a pasture; but she turns quiet and shy,
cares no longer for rough play or exercise, takes droll little
sentimental fancies into her head, and likes best the books which make
her cry. Almost all girls have a fit of this kind some time or other in
the course of their lives; and it is rather a good thing to have it
early, for little folks get over such attacks more easily than big ones.
Perhaps we may live to see the day when wise mammas, going through the
list of nursery diseases which their children have had, will wind up
triumphantly with, "Mumps, measles, chicken-pox,--and they are all over
with 'Amy Herbert,' 'The Heir of Redclyffe,' and the notion that they
are going to be miserable for the rest of their lives!"
Sometimes this odd change comes after an illness when a little girl
feels weak and out of sorts, and does not know exactly what is the
matter. This is the way it came to Johnnie Carr, a girl whom some of you
who read this are already acquainted with. She had intermittent fever
the year after her sisters Katy and Clover came from boarding-school,
and was quite ill for several weeks. Everybody in the house was sorry to
have Johnnie sick. Katy nursed, petted, and cosseted her in the
tenderest way. Clover brought flowers to the bedside and read books
aloud, and told Johnnie interesting stories. Elsie cut out paper dolls
for her by dozens, painted their cheeks pink and their eyes blue, and
made for them beautiful dresses and jackets of every color and fashion.
Papa never came in without some little present or treat in his pocket
for Johnnie. So long as she was in bed, and all these nice things were
doing for her, Johnnie liked being ill very much, but when she began to
sit up and go down to dinner, and the family spoke of her as almost well
again, _then_ a time of unhappiness set in. The Johnnie who got out of
bed after the fever was not the Johnnie of a month before. There were
two inches more of her for one thing, for she had taken the opportunity
to grow prodigiously, as sick children often do. Her head ached at
times, her back felt weak, and her legs shook when she tried to run
about. All sorts of queer and disagreeable feelings attacked her. Her
hair had fallen out during the fever so that Papa thought it best to
have it shaved close. Katy made a pretty silk-lined cap for her to wear,
but the girls at school laughed at the cap, and that troubled Johnnie
very much. Then, when the new hair grew, thick and soft as the plumy
down on a bird's wing, a fresh affliction set in, for the hair came out
in small round rings all over her head, which made her look like a
baby. Elsie called her "Curly," and gradually the others adopted the
name, till at last nobody used any other except the servants, who still
said "Miss Johnnie." It was hard to recognize the old Johnnie, square
and sturdy and full of merry life, in poor, thin, whining Curly, always
complaining of something, who lay on the sofa reading story-books, and
begging Phil and Dorry to let her alone, not to tease her, and to go off
and play by themselves. Her eyes looked twice as big as usual, because
her face was so small and pale, and though she was still a pretty child,
it was in a different way from the old prettiness. Katy and Clover were
very kind and gentle always, but Elsie sometimes lost patience entirely,
and the boys openly declared that Curly was a cross-patch, and hadn't a
bit of fun left in her.
One afternoon she was lying on the sofa with the "Wide Wide World" in
her hand. Her eyelids were very red from crying over Alice's death, but
she had galloped on, and was now reading the part where Ellen
Montgomery goes to live with her rich relatives in Scotland.
"Oh, dear," sighed Johnnie. "How splendid it was for her! Just think,
Clover, riding lessons, and a watch, and her uncle takes her to see all
sorts of places, and they call her their White Rose! Oh, dear! I wish
_we_ had relations in Scotland."
"We haven't, you know," remarked Clover, threading her needle with a
fresh bit of blue worsted.
"I know it. It's too bad. Nothing ever does happen in this stupid place.
The girls in books always do have such nice times. Ellen could leap, and
she spoke French _beau_tifully. She learned at that place, you know, the
place where the Humphreys lived."
"Litchfield Co., Connecticut," said Clover mischievously. "Katy was
there last summer, you recollect. I guess they don't _all_ speak such
good French. Katy didn't notice it."
"Ellen did," persisted Johnnie. "Her uncle and all those people were so
surprised when they heard her. Wouldn't it be grand to be an adopted
child, Clover?"
"To be adopted by people who gave you your bath like a baby when you
were thirteen years old, and tapped your lips when they didn't want you
to speak, and stole your Pilgrim's Progresses? No, thank you. I would
much rather stay as I am."
"I wouldn't," replied Johnnie pensively. "I don't like this place very
much. I should love to be rich and to travel in Europe."
At this moment Papa and Katy came in | 1,979.503099 |
2023-11-16 18:50:03.4831820 | 6,097 | 61 |
Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by
Google Books (Harvard University)
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: https://books.google.com/books?id=emlLN6DE1I
(Harvard University)
2. This book was also published as "Aaron the Jew. A Novel," in
London by Hutchinson & Co. in 1895.
A Fair Jewess
BY
B. L. FARJEON,
_Author of "The Last Tenant" Etc_.
NEW YORK:
THE F. M. LUPTON PUBLISHING COMPANY.
Copyright, 1894, by
THE CASSELL PUBLISHING CO.
_All rights reserved_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. The Poor Doctor
II. Dr. Spenlove's Visitor
III. Dr. Spenlove Undertakes a Delicate Mission
IV. "One More Unfortunate"
V. "Come! We Will End It"
VI. The Friend in Need
VII. The Result of Dr. Spenlove's Mission
VIII. What was Put in the Iron Box
IX. Mr. Moss Plays his Part
X. The Vision in the Churchyard
XI. Mr. Whimpole Introduces Himself
XII. The Course of the Seasons
XIII. Aaron Cohen Preaches a Sermon on Large Noses
XIV. A Proclamation of War
XV. The Battle is Fought and Won
XVI. Joy and Sorrow
XVII. Divine Consolation
XVIII. In the New House
XIX. The Doctor Speaks Plainly to Aaron Cohen
XX. A Momentous Night
XXI. The Temptation
XXII. The Living and the Dead
XXIII. Plucked from the Jaws of Death
XXIV. The Curtain Falls
XXV. After Many Years
XXVI. The Foundation of Aaron's Fortune
XXVII. The Farewell
XXVIII. Revisits Gosport
XXIX. What Shall be Done to the Man whom the
King Delighteth to Honor?
XXX. The Honorable Percy Storndale
XXXI. The Spirit of the Dead Past
XXXII. Before All, Duty
XXXIII. A Cheerful Doctor
XXXIV. Ruth's Secret
XXXV. The Honorable Percy Storndale Makes an
Appeal
XXXVI. A Duty Performed
XXXVII. The Mother's Appeal
XXXVIII. A Mother's Joy
XXXIX. A Panic in the City
XL. "Can you Forgive me?"
XLI. A Poisoned Arrow
XLII. Retribution
A FAIR JEWESS.
CHAPTER I.
THE POOR DOCTOR.
On a bright, snowy night in December, some years ago, Dr. Spenlove,
having been employed all the afternoon and evening in paying farewell
visits to his patients, walked briskly toward his home through the
narrowest and most squalid thoroughfares in Portsmouth.
The animation of his movements may be set down to the severity of the
weather, and not to any inward cheerfulness of spirits, for as he
passed familiar landmarks he looked at them with a certain regret
which men devoid of sentiment would have pronounced an indication of a
weak nature. In this opinion, however, they would have been wrong, for
Dr. Spenlove's intended departure early the following morning from a
field which had strong claims upon his sympathies was dictated by a
law of inexorable necessity. He was a practitioner of considerable
skill, and he had conscientiously striven to achieve a reputation in
some measure commensurate with his abilities.
From a worldly point of view his efforts had been attended with
mortifying failure; he had not only been unsuccessful in earning a
bare livelihood, but he had completely exhausted the limited resources
with which he had started upon his career; he had, moreover, endured
severe privation, and an opening presenting itself in the wider field
of London he had accepted it with gladness and reluctance. With
gladness because he was an ambitious man, and had desires apart from
his profession; with reluctance because it pained him to bid farewell
to patients in whom he took a genuine interest, and whom he would have
liked to continue to befriend. He had, indeed, assisted many of them
to the full extent of his power, and in some instances had gone beyond
this limit, depriving himself of the necessaries of life to supply
them with medicines and nourishing food, and robbing his nights of
rest to minister to their woes. He bore about him distinguishing marks
of the beautiful self-sacrifice.
On this last night of his residence among them his purse was empty,
and inclement as was the weather he wore, on his road home, but one
thin coat which was but a feeble protection from the freezing air
which pierced to his skin, though every button was put to its proper
use. A hacking cough, which caused him to pause occasionally, denoted
that he was running a dangerous risk in being so insufficiently clad;
but he seemed to make light of this, and smiled when the paroxysm was
over. In no profession can be found displayed a more noble humanity
and philanthropy than in that which Dr. Spenlove practiced, and needy
as he was, and narrow as had been his means from the start, his young
career already afforded a striking example of sweet and unselfish
attributes. In the divine placing of human hosts the poor doctor and
the poor priest shall be found marching in the van side by side.
During the whole of the day snow had been falling, and during the
whole of the day Dr. Spenlove had had but one meal. He did not
complain; he had been accustomed to live from hand to mouth, and well
knew what it was to go to bed hungry; and there was before him the
prospect of brighter times.
But cheering as was this prospect his walk home through the falling
snow was saddened by the scenes he had witnessed in the course of the
day, and one especially dwelt in his mind.
"Poor creature!" he mused. "What will become of her and her baby? Oh,
pitiless world! Does it not contain a single human being who will hold
out a helping hand?"
Before one of the poorest houses in one of the poorest streets he
paused, and, admitting himself with a private latchkey, unlocked a
door on the ground floor, and entered a room which faced the street.
There was a wire blind to the window, on which was inscribed,
"Consultations from 9 till 11 A. M." This room, with a communicating
bedroom at the back, comprised his professional and private residence.
Dr. Spenlove groped in the dark for the matches, and, lighting a
candle, applied a match to a fire laid with scrupulous economy in the
matter of coals. As he was thus employed his landlady knocked at the
door and entered.
"Is it you, Mrs. Radcliffe?" he asked, not turning his head.
"Yes, sir. Let me do that, please."
The paper he had lit in the grate was smoldering away without kindling
the wood; the landlady knelt down, and with a skillful touch the flame
leaped up. Dr. Spenlove, unbuttoning his thin coat, spread out his
hands to the warmth.
"Any callers, Mrs. Radcliffe?"
"A gentleman, sir, who seemed very anxious to see you. He did not
leave his name or card, but said he would call again this evening."
"Did he mention the hour?"
"Nine, sir."
Dr. Spenlove put his hand to his waistcoat pocket, and quickly
withdrew it, with a smile of humor and self-pity. The landlady noticed
the action, and dolefully shook her head.
"Very anxious to see me, you say, Mrs. Radcliffe?"
"Very anxious, indeed, sir. Dear, dear, you're wet through!"
"It is a bitter night," he said, coughing.
"You may well say that, sir. Bad weather for you to be out, with that
nasty cough of yours."
"There are many people worse off than I am, without either fire or
food."
"We all have our trials, sir. It's a hard world."
"Indeed, indeed," he said, thinking of the female patient whom he had
last visited.
"Where's your overcoat, sir? I'll take it down to the kitchen; it'll
dry sooner there." She looked around in vain for it.
"Never mind my overcoat, Mrs. Radcliffe."
"But you had it on when you went out, sir!"
"Did I? Don't trouble about it. It will dry quickly enough where it
is."
He was now busily employed making a parcel of books and instruments
which he had taken from different parts of the room, and which were
the only articles of value belonging to himself it contained. The
landlady stood for a moment or two watching his movements, and then
she hurried down to her kitchen, and presently returned with a cup of
hot tea. As she passed through the passage with the cup in one hand
and a candle in the other she glanced at the empty umbrella stand.
"His umbrella, too, as well as his overcoat," she muttered. "The man's
heart's too big for his body."
She re-entered the room.
"I've brought you a cup of tea, sir, if you don't mind taking it."
"Not at all, Mrs. Radcliffe. It is very kind of you."
He drank the tea, which warmed him through and through.
"We're all sorry at your leaving us, sir," said the lady. "There's
plenty that'll miss you."
"I am sorry, too," he replied, "but when needs must, you know. I can
do no good to myself or others by remaining. If the gentleman calls
again ask him to wait if his business is of importance. You had better
tell him I am leaving Portsmouth to-morrow morning."
With his parcel under his arm he left the house, and trudging through
the snow again halted at a pawnbroker's shop, lingering a while before
he entered, as sensitive men do before putting the finishing touch to
a humiliating act. Then, shrugging his shoulders and muttering, "I
ought to be used to it by this time," he plunged into the shop, where
he obtained upon his few last treasures as much as would pay his
third-class fare to London and the two weeks' rent he owed his
landlady. Thus safeguarded for a few hours at least, he left the shop,
but instead of immediately retracing his steps to his lodgings he
lingered once more irresolutely, with the air of a man who was at war
with himself upon a momentous question. The sixteen shillings due to
his landlady was in his pocket, and undoubtedly it was simple honesty
that it should be handed over to her without hesitation. But the
hapless female patient who had occupied his thoughts during the last
hour was at this moment in the throes of a desperate human crisis, and
dark as was the present to her suffering soul the terrors which the
future held in store for her were still more agonizing. She had a
young baby at her breast; she had no food in her cupboard, not a loaf
of bread, not a cup of milk; she had not a friend in the world to whom
she could appeal for help. She, too, was in debt to her landlord, a
hard man, who was waiting for another sun to rise to thrust her and
her infant into the white and pitiless streets. It would have been
done to-day but for the intervention of Dr. Spenlove, who had pawned
his overcoat and umbrella to buy of the poor creature's landlord a
respite of twenty-four hours. The sixteen shillings due to Mrs.
Radcliffe would buy her another respite for a longer term, but when
this was expired there was still the hopeless future to face. Dr.
Spenlove thrust aside this latter consideration, and thought only of
the ineffable relief it was in his power to bring to a heart racked
with anguish and despair. He lost sight of the fact that the wretched
woman would still be without food, and that she was too weak to work
for it. Even when she was strong, and able to ply her needle
throughout the whole of the day and the greater part of the night, her
earnings had never exceeded six shillings a week; she had confessed as
much to the good doctor, but for whose timely aid the workhouse would
have been her only refuge. As he stood debating with himself the
sentiment of pity was strong within him, but he could not banish the
voice of justice which whispered that the money was not his to dispose
of. All the people with whom he was acquainted were poor, and his
landlady was as poor as the rest; he knew that she often depended upon
the payment of his rent to pay her own. It might be that just now she
could afford to wait a while for what was due to her; if so he would
dispose of the sixteen shillings as his benevolent instincts impelled
him to do; he must, however, ascertain how the land lay before he
acted. It may appear strange to many fortunate persons that issues so
grave and vital should hang upon a sum of money which to them would
not be worth a thought, but it would be a good lesson for them to
learn that opportunities are not scarce for bringing heaven's
brightest sunshine to overcharged hearts by the judicious bestowal of
a few small coins out of the wealth which yields them all the material
comforts of life.
Having made up his mind upon the important matter, Dr. Spenlove turned
homeward, and as he walked he recalled the incidents in connection
with the unhappy woman in which he had played a part. She was a
stranger in the neighborhood, and had lived her lonely life in a
garret for five months. No person with whom she came in contact knew
anything of her or of her antecedents, and it was by chance that he
became acquainted with her. Attending to his poor patients in the
street in which she resided, he passed her one afternoon, and was
attracted as much by her modest and ladylike appearance as by the
evidence of extreme weakness which could hardly escape the observation
of a man so kindly hearted as himself. He perceived at once that she
was of a superior class to those among whom she moved, and he was
impressed by a peculiar expression on her face when his eyes rested on
her. It was the expression of a hunted woman, of one who dreaded being
recognized. He made inquiries about her, but no one could give him any
information concerning her, and in the press of onerous cares and
duties she passed out of his mind. Some weeks later he met her again,
and his first impressions were renewed and strengthened, and pity
stirred his heart as he observed from her garments that she was on the
downward path of poverty. It was clear that she was frightened by his
observance of her, for she hurried quickly on, but physical weakness
frustrated her desire to avoid him; she staggered and would have
fallen had he not ran forward and caught her. Weak as she was she
struggled to release herself; he kept firm hold of her, however,
animated by compassion and fortified by honest intention.
"You have nothing to fear from me," he said. "Allow me to assist you.
I am Dr. Spenlove."
It was the first time he had addressed her, but his name was familiar
to her as that of a gentleman to whom the whole neighborhood was under
a debt of gratitude for numberless acts of goodness. She glanced
timidly at his face, and a vague hope stirred her heart; she knew that
the time was approaching when she would need such a friend. But the
hope did not live long; it was crushed by a sudden fear.
"Do you know me, sir?"
"No," replied Dr. Spenlove in a cheerful tone. "You are a stranger to
me, as I dare say I am to you."
"No, sir," she said; "I have heard of your kindness to many suffering
people."
"Tush, tush!" he exclaimed. "A man deserves no credit for doing his
duty. You feel stronger now, do you not? If you have no doctor you
will allow me to come and see you. Do not hesitate; you need such
advice as I can give you, and," he added gently, "I will send in my
account when you are rich. Not till then, upon my honor; and meanwhile
I promise to ask no questions."
"I am deeply grateful to you, sir."
From that day he attended her regularly, and she was strengthened and
comforted by his considerate conduct toward her. She was known as Mrs.
Turner, but it was strange if she were wife or widow that she should
wear no wedding ring. As their intimacy ripened his first impression
that she was a lady was confirmed, and although he was naturally
curious about her history, he kept his promise by not asking her any
questions which he felt it would be painful to her to answer. Even
when he discovered that she was about to become a mother he made no
inquiries concerning the father of her unborn child. On the day he
bade her farewell her baby, a girl, was two weeks old, and a dark and
terrible future lay before the hapless woman. His heart bled for her,
but he was powerless to help her further. Weak and despairing, she sat
in her chair, with her child at her wasted breast; her dark and
deep-sunken eyes seemed to be contemplating this future in hopeless
terror.
"I am grieved to leave you so," he said, gazing sadly at her, "but it
is out of my power to do what I would wish. Unhappily I am almost as
poor as yourself. You will try to get strong, will you not?"
"I don't know," she murmured.
"Remember," he said, taking her hand, "you have a duty to perform.
What will you do when you are strong?"
"I don't know."
"Nay, nay," he urged, "you must not speak so despondently. Believe me,
I do not wish to force your confidence, but I have gathered from
chance words you have let drop that you lived in London. I am going
there to-morrow. Can I call upon any person who would be likely to
assist you?"
"There is no one."
"But surely you must have some friends or relations----"
"I have none. When you leave me I shall be without a friend in the
world."
"God help you!" he sighed.
"Will he?"
The question was asked in the voice of one who had abandoned hope, who
had lost faith in human goodness and eternal justice, and who was
tasting the bitterness of death.
Dr. Spenlove remained with her an hour, striving to cheer her, to
instill hope into her heart, but his words had no effect upon her,
and, indeed, he felt at times that the platitudes to which he was
giving utterance were little better than mockery. Was not this woman
face to face with the practical issues of life and death in their most
awful aspect, and was there any other than a practical remedy for
them? She asked for bread, and he was offering her a stone. It was
then he went from her room, and learned the full truth from her
landlord, who was only waiting till he was gone to turn her into the
streets. We know by what means he bought a day's respite for her.
Finally he left her, and bore away with him the darkest picture of
human misery of which he had ever had experience.
CHAPTER II.
DR. SPENLOVE'S VISITOR.
His landlady, Mrs. Radcliffe, met him on the doorstep, and informed
him that the gentleman who had called to see him in the afternoon had
called again, and was in his room.
"A word, Mrs. Radcliffe," he said hurriedly. "I am going to ask a
great favor of you. I owe you two weeks' rent."
"Yes, sir."
His heart sank within him; he divined immediately from her tone that
she was in need of the money.
"Would it inconvenience you to wait a little while for it?"
"I must, sir, if you haven't got it," she replied, "but I am
dreadfully hard pressed, and I reckoned on it. I'm behindhand myself,
sir, and my landlord's been threatening me----"
"Say no more, Mrs. Radcliffe. Justice must be first served. I have the
money; take it, for Heaven's sake. I must not rob the poor to help the
poor."
He muttered the last words to himself as he thrust the sixteen
shillings into her hand.
"I am so sorry, sir," said the distressed woman.
He interrupted her with, "There, there, I am ashamed that I asked you.
I am sure no one has a kinder heart than you, and I am greatly obliged
to you for all the attention you have shown me while I have been in
your house. The gentleman is in my room, you say----"
It was a proof of Mrs. Radcliffe's kindness of heart that there was a
bright fire blazing in the room, made with her own coals, and that the
lamp had been replenished with her own oil. Dr. Spenlove was grateful
to her, and he inwardly acknowledged that he could not have otherwise
disposed of the few shillings which he had no right to call his own.
His visitor rose as he entered, a well-dressed man some forty years of
age, sturdily built, with touches of gray already in his hair and
beard, and with signs in his face and on his forehead indicative of a
strong will.
"Dr. Spenlove?" he asked.
"That is my name."
"Mine is Gordon. I have come to see you on a matter of great
importance."
Dr. Spenlove motioned to the chair from which his visitor had risen,
and he resumed his seat; but although he had said that he had come
upon a matter of great importance, he seemed to be either in no hurry
to open it or to be uncertain in which way to do so, for he sat for
some moments in silence, smoothing his bearded chin and studying Dr.
Spenlove's face with a stern and studious intentness.
"Can you spare me half an hour of your time?" he said at length.
"Longer, if you wish," said Dr. Spenlove.
"It may be longer if you offer no opposition to the service I wish you
to render me; and perhaps it is as well to say that I am willing and
can afford to pay for the service."
Dr. Spenlove bent his head.
"It is seldom," continued Mr. Gordon, "that I make mistakes, and the
reason is not far to seek. I make inquiries, I clear the ground, I
resolve upon a course of action, and I pursue it to its end without
deviation. I will be quite frank with you, Dr. Spenlove; I am a hard,
inflexible man; thrown upon the world when I was a lad, I pushed my
way to fortune; I am self-made; I can speak fair English; I have
received little education, none at all in a classical way, but I
possess common sense, and I make it apply to my affairs. That is
better than education if a man is resolved to get along in life--as I
was resolved to do. When I was a young man I said, 'I will grow rich,
or I will know the reason why.' I have grown rich. I do not say it as
a boast--it is only fools who boast--but I am worth to-day a solid
twenty thousand a year. I make this statement merely as a proof that I
am in a position to carry out a plan in which I desire your assistance
and co-operation."
"My dear sir," said Dr. Spenlove, who could not but perceive that his
visitor was very much in earnest, "the qualities you mention are
admirable in their way but I fear you have come to the wrong man. I am
a doctor, and if you do not need my professional advice----"
"Stop a moment," interrupted Mr. Gordon; "I have come to the right
man, and I do not need professional advice. I am as sound as a bell,
and I have never had occasion to pay a doctor's fee. I know what I am
about in the mission which brings me here. I have made inquiries
concerning you, and have heard something of your career and its
results; I have heard of your kindness and of the esteem in which you
are held. You have influence with your patients; any counsel you might
give them, apart from your prescriptions, would be received with
respect and attention; and I believe I am not wrong when I say that
you are to some extent a man of the world."
"To some slight extent only," corrected Dr. Spenlove, with a faint
smile.
"Sufficient," proceeded Mr. Gordon, "for my purpose. You are not blind
to the perils which lie before weak and helpless women--before, we
will say, a woman who has no friends, who is living where she is not
known, who is in a position of grave danger, who is entirely without
means, and who, at the best, is unable by the work of her hands to
support herself."
Dr. Spenlove looked sharply at his visitor. "You have such a woman in
your mind, Mr. Gordon?"
"I have such a woman in my mind, Dr. Spenlove."
"A patient of mine?"
"A patient of yours."
There was but one who answered to this description whose future seemed
so dark and hopeless. For the first time during this interview he
began to be interested in his visitor. He motioned him to proceed.
"We are speaking in confidence, Dr. Spenlove."
"In perfect confidence, Mr. Gordon."
"Whether my errand here is successful or not, I ask that nothing that
passes between us shall ever be divulged to a third person."
"I promise it."
"I will mention the name of the woman to whom I have referred, or, at
least, the name by which she is known to you. Mrs. Turner."
"You mean her no harm, sir?"
"None. I am prepared to befriend her, to save her, if my conditions
are accepted."
Dr. Spenlove drew a deep breath of relief. He would go to his new
field of labors with a light heart if this unhappy woman was saved.
"You have come at a critical moment," he said, "and you have
accurately described the position in which she is placed. But how can
my mediation or the mediation of any man be necessary in such a case?
She will hail you as her savior, and the savior of her babe. Hasten to
her immediately, dear sir; or perhaps you do not know where she lives,
and wish me to take you to her. I am ready; do not let us lose a
moment, for every moment deepens her misery."
He did not observe the frown which passed into Mr. Gordon's face at
his mention of the child; he was so eager that his hat was already on
his head and his hand on the handle of the door. Mr. Gordon did not
rise from his chair.
"You are in too great a hurry, Dr. Spenlove. Be seated, and listen to
what I have to say. You ask how your mediation can avail. I answer, in
the event of her refusal to accept the conditions upon which I am
ready to marry her."
"To marry her!" exclaimed Dr. S | 1,979.503222 |
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Produced by MWS, Charlie Howard, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
[Illustration (cover)]
THE SAYINGS OF
MRS. SOLOMON
[Illustration]
THE SAYINGS OF
MRS. SOLOMON
BEING THE CONFESSIONS OF THE
SEVEN HUNDREDTH WIFE AS REVEALED TO
HELEN ROWLAND
AUTHOR OF “THE WIDOW”
“REFLECTIONS OF A BACHELOR
GIRL,” ETC.
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED IN NEW YORK BY
DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY DODGE
PUBLISHING COMPANY; NEW YORK
MRS. SOLOMON
CONTENTS
I. GREETING 11
II. BOOK OF HUSBANDS 15
III. BOOK OF FLIRTS 31
IV. BOOK OF DAMSELS 49
V. BOOK OF BACHELORS 67
VI. BOOK OF SIRENS 79
VII. BOOK OF ADMONITIONS 93
VIII. BOOK OF SONGS 109
AND VERILY, A WOMAN
NEED KNOW BUT ONE
MAN WELL, IN ORDER
TO UNDERSTAND _ALL_
MEN; WHEREAS A MAN
MAY KNOW ALL WOMEN
AND UNDERSTAND NOT
ONE OF THEM
[Illustration]
GREETING
Hearken, my Daughter, and give ear unto my wisdom, that thou mayest
understand _man_--his goings and his comings, his stayings out and his
return in the morning, his words of honey and his ways of guile.
Beloved, question me not, whence I have learned of man, his secrets.
Have I not known _one_ man well? And verily, a woman need know but one
man, in order to understand _all_ men; whereas a man may know all women
and understand not one of them.
For men are of but one pattern, whereof thou needest but to discover
the secret combination; but women are as the _Yale lock_--no two of
them are alike.
Lo! What a paradox is man--even a puzzle which worketh backward!
He mistaketh a sweet scent for a sweet disposition, and a subtile
sachet for a subtile mind.
He voweth, “I admire a discreet woman!”--and inviteth the froward
blonde of the chorus to supper.
He muttereth unto his wife, “Lo! I will go unto the corner for a
cigar”--and behold, he wandereth unto many corners and returneth by a
circular route.
He kisseth the woman whom he loveth _not_, and avoideth her whom he
loveth, lest his heart become entangled. Yea, he seeketh always the
wrong woman that he may forget his heart’s desire.
Yet, whichever he weddeth, he regretteth it all the days of his life.
SELAH.
FOR A LONE WOMAN
IN A GREAT
RESTAURANT
LOOKETH PITIFUL;
BUT AN H | 1,979.503378 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THIRTEEN
HISTORICAL
MARINE
PAINTINGS
BY
EDWARD MORAN
REPRESENTING
THIRTEEN CHAPTERS
OF
AMERICAN HISTORY
[Decoration]
By THEODORE SUTRO
1905
[Illustration: Copyright, 1905, by Theodore Sutro.
EDWARD MORAN
From a painting by Thomas Sidney Moran]
THIRTEEN CHAPTERS
OF
AMERICAN HISTORY
REPRESENTED
BY THE
EDWARD MORAN
SERIES OF
THIRTEEN HISTORICAL
MARINE PAINTINGS
[Decoration]
_By_ THEODORE SUTRO
1905
NEW YORK:
THEODORE SUTRO, 280 BROADWAY
AND
THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO.
PUBLISHER'S AGENTS,
33-37 EAST 17TH STREET.
_$1.50 net._
Copyright, 1905, by Theodore Sutro
To
_My Dear Wife_
FLORENCE
THROUGH WHOSE STEADFAST FRIENDSHIP FOR
MR. AND MRS. EDWARD MORAN AND LOYAL DEVOTION
TO ME, I WAS LED TO CHAMPION, AND
ENCOURAGED TO PERSEVERE IN ESTABLISHING,
THE RIGHTS OF THE WIDOW TO THESE MASTERWORKS,
WITHOUT WHICH THE OCCASION FOR
PENNING THESE PAGES WOULD NOT HAVE ARISEN--THIS
LITTLE WORK IS LOVINGLY INSCRIBED,
ON THE
TWENTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF OUR MARRIAGE,
October 1st, 1904.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
PAGE.
FRONTISPIECE--Portrait of Edward Moran, from a painting by
THOMAS SIDNEY MORAN
INTRODUCTORY 7
BIOGRAPHICAL 15
PORTRAIT OF MRS. EDWARD MORAN, from a painting by
THOMAS SIDNEY MORAN Facing page 20
DESCRIPTIVE AND EXPLANATORY:
I. THE OCEAN--THE HIGHWAY OF ALL NATIONS 27
II. LANDING OF LIEF ERICKSON IN THE NEW WORLD IN
THE YEAR 1001 33
III. THE SANTA MARIA, NINA AND PINTA (Evening of October
11th, 1492) 39
IV. THE DEBARKATION OF COLUMBUS (Morning of October
12th, 1492) 39
V. MIDNIGHT MASS ON THE MISSISSIPPI, OVER THE BODY OF
FERDINAND DE SOTO, 1542 47
VI. HENRY HUDSON ENTERING NEW YORK BAY, September
11th, 1609 53
VII. EMBARKATION OF THE PILGRIMS FROM SOUTHAMPTON,
August 5th, 1620 59
VIII. FIRST RECOGNITION OF THE AMERICAN FLAG BY A
FOREIGN GOVERNMENT. In the Harbor of Quiberon,
France, February 13th, 1778 67
IX. BURNING OF THE FRIGATE PHILADELPHIA. In the Harbor
of Tripoli, February 16th, 1804 73
X. THE BRIG ARMSTRONG ENGAGING THE BRITISH FLEET.
In the Harbor of Fayal, September 26th, 1814 79
XI. IRON VERSUS WOOD--SINKING OF THE CUMBERLAND BY
THE MERRIMAC. In Hampton Roads, March 8th, 1862 87
XII. THE WHITE SQUADRON'S FAREWELL SALUTE TO THE
BODY OF CAPTAIN JOHN ERICSSON, New York Bay,
August 25th, 1890 95
XIII. RETURN OF THE CONQUERORS. Typifying Our Victory
in the late Spanish-American War, September 29th, 1899 105
INDEX 111
INTRODUCTORY
[Illustration: T. S. M.]
INTRODUCTORY.
The Thirteen Paintings, to a history and description of which (and
incidentally to a brief memoir of their creator, Edward Moran) these
pages are devoted, are monumental in their character and importance. Mr.
Moran designated them as representing the "Marine History of the United
States." I have somewhat changed this title; for even the untraversed
"Ocean" and the landing of Columbus in the new world represent periods
which necessarily affect the whole American Continent.
The conception of these pictures was in itself a mark of genius, for no
more fitting subjects could have been chosen by the greatest marine
painter in the United States than the heroic and romantic incidents
connected with the sea, which are so splendidly depicted in these
thirteen grand paintings. That their execution required over fifteen
years of ceaseless labor and the closest historical study is not
surprising. The localities, the ships, the armament, the personages, the
costumes, the weapons and all the incidents connected with each epoch
are minutely and correctly represented, in so far as existing records
rendered that possible. And yet, interwoven with each canvas, is a tone
so poetic and imaginative that stamps it at once as the offspring of
genius and lifts it far above the merely photographic and realistic. The
series is the result of a life of prolific production, careful study,
unceasing industry and great experience.
Mr. Moran himself regarded these pictures as his crowning work, and in
token of his many happy years of married life presented them, several
years before his death, to his wife, Annette Moran, herself an artist of
great merit, and whom he always mentioned as his best critic and the
inspirer of his greatest achievements. This loving act, strange to say,
gave rise to a protracted legal controversy, by reason of an adverse
claim to these paintings made by the executor of the estate of Edward
Moran, the final decision of which in favor of the widow, after three
years of litigation, lends additional interest to these remarkable works
of art. Proceedings to recover the pictures from the executor of the
estate, who had them in his possession and refused to deliver them to
her, were commenced on February 5, 1902, and after a trial in the
Supreme Court in the City of New York lasting several days, a jury
decided that the pictures were the property of the widow as claimed. On
a technical point of law raised by the executor this finding of the jury
was temporarily rendered ineffective, but, on an appeal to the Appellate
Division of the Supreme Court, this technicality was overruled and an
absolute judgment awarded in favor of the widow.[A] This was on January
23, 1903. Still not content, the executor appealed to the highest court
in the State, the Court of Appeals at Albany, which, on January 26,
1904, finally and absolutely affirmed the decision of the Appellate
Division.[B] But even then the widow was kept out of her property on
further applications made by the executor to the court. Also in this he
failed, and at last, on April 28, 1904, the judgment in her favor was
satisfied through the delivery of the pictures to her, as her absolute
property, beyond dispute, cavil or further question.
I have deemed it proper to make this explanation, as it is through my
connection as counsel for Mrs. Moran throughout this litigation that the
occasion has presented itself for this publication, and of giving to
the public the opportunity to examine and enjoy, to the fullest extent,
these great pictures at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
It may be added that although these paintings have occasionally been
viewed by artists, they have never before been publicly exhibited as a
series except for a very short period in the year 1900 in Philadelphia
and in Washington. During this time they received the highest encomiums
from critics and the press, and were pronounced the most notable series
of historic pictures ever painted in this country. While each one of the
series is a master work, it is as a group that the greatest interest
attaches to them, and it was Mr. Moran's desire, and it is also that of
the present owner, that they should, if possible, never be separated.
With reference to the exhibition of these paintings at the Metropolitan
Museum of Art, I quote from a full page illustrated article which
appeared in the New York _Herald_ on Sunday, November 6, 1904, as
follows:
"The exhibition of these pictures of scenes connected with the
history of the United States is not only an artistic but an
educational event. Edward Moran was probably the strongest marine
painter of the United States. * * * No more artistically valuable
and | 1,979.699062 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Her Royal Highness
A Romance of the Chancelleries of Europe
By William Le Queux
Published by Hodder and Stoughton.
This edition dated 1914.
Her Royal Highness, by William Le Queux.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.
CHAPTER ONE.
THE NILE TRAVELLERS.
The mystic hour of the desert afterglow.
A large, square wooden veranda covered by a red and white awning, above
a wide silent sweep of flowing river, whose huge rocks, worn smooth
through a thousand ages, raised their backs about the stream, a glimpse
of green feathery palms and flaming scarlet poinsettias on the island
opposite, and beyond the great drab desert, the illimitable waste of
stony, undulating sands stretching away to the infinite, and bathed in
the blood-red light of the dying day.
On the veranda sat a crowd of chattering English men and women of wealth
and leisure--taking tea. The women were mostly in white muslins, and
many wore white sun-helmets though it was December, while the men were
mostly in clean suits of "ducks." An orchestra from Italy was playing
Musetta's waltz-song from "La Boheme," and the same people one meets at
the opera, at supper at the Savoy or the Ritz, were chattering over tea
and pastries served by silent-footed, dark-faced Nubians in scarlet
fezes and long white caftans.
The Cataract Hotel at Assouan is, at five o'clock, when the Eastern
desert is flooded by the wonderful green and crimson of the fading sun,
the most select yet cosmopolitan circle in all the world, the
meeting-place of those seekers after sunshine who have ascended the Nile
to the spot where rain has never fallen within the memory of man.
The poor old played-out Riviera has still its artificial attractions, it
is true. One can, for once in one's life, enjoy the pasteboard of the
Nice carnival, the irresponsible frolic of the Battle of Flowers, the
night gaiety of Ciro's, breathe the combined odour of perspiration and
perfume in the rooms at Monte, eat the _gateaux_ at Vogarde's, play the
one-franc game of _boule_ at the Casino Municipal, or lunch off the
delicious trout from the tanks at the Reserve at Beaulieu. But the Cote
d'Azur and its habitues, its _demi-mondaines_ and its _escrocs_ soon
pall upon one; hence Society nowadays goes farther afield--to Egypt, the
land of wonders, where there is ever-increasing charm, where the winter
days amid those stupendous monuments of a long-dead civilisation are
rainless, the land where Christmas is as warm as our English August,
where all is silent and dreamy beside the mighty Nile, and where the
brown-faced sons of the desert kneel Mecca-wards at sunset and praise
the name of Allah the One. Allah is just; Allah is merciful. There is
no God but Allah!
Some winter idlers go to Cairo, and there indulge in the gaieties of
Shepheard's, the Savoy, or the Gezireh Palace, or the teas and dances at
Mena House, or the breath of freedom at Heliopolis. But Cairo is not
Egypt. To see and to know Egypt one must ascend the Nile a farther
eight hundred miles to Luxor--the town where once stood ancient Thebes,
the City of a Hundred Gates, or to Assouan, the Aswan of the days of the
Pharaohs.
It is there, on the borders of the glowing desert of Nubia, far removed
from the stress of modern life, that one first begins to experience the
new joy of existence--life in that limitless wilderness of sky and sand,
life amid the relics of a mighty and wonderful age long since bygone and
forgotten.
On that afternoon of early December a merry party of four young people--
two girls and two men--sat at one of the small tables on the veranda.
The gay quartette, waited upon by Ahmed, an erect bronze statue,
picturesque in his white caftan and red sash, were laughing merrily as
the elder of the two men recounted the amusing progress of a party whom
he had accompanied on camels into the desert that afternoon.
Around them everywhere was loud chatter and laughter, while the
orchestra played dreamily, the music floating across the slowly
darkening river which flowed on its course from unexplored regions of
Central Africa away to the far-distant Mediterranean.
"I went across to Philae this morning to see the temples--Pharaoh's Bed,
and the rest. Hardy pulled me out of bed at six o'clock," exclaimed the
younger of the two men--a tall, clean-shaven Englishman of a decided
military type. "But I must confess that after flogging the Nile for
nearly three weeks and Mahmoud taking us to see every temple along its
banks, I'm getting just a bit fed up with antiquities and ruins."
"Oh, my dear fellow," cried the elder man in quick reproach, "you must
never admit such a thing in Upper Egypt. It's horribly bad form.
Mademoiselle will agree--eh?"
And the broad-shouldered, handsome man of thirty-five or so in a clean
white linen suit leaned back in his chair and laughed at the pretty,
dark-haired vivacious French girl he had addressed. She was not more
than twenty, with a refined oval face, wonderfully expressive eyes, and
a small delicate mouth which parted as she shrugged her shoulders and
smiled back at him in assent.
"Ah, Waldron, but you're a diplomat, you know!" replied the younger man.
"You fellows always say the right thing in the right place. We chaps
in the Service, however, have a habit of speaking bluntly, I fear."
"It is just as easy to be diplomatic, my dear Chester, as to be
indiscreet," replied the Honourable Hubert Waldron, M.V.O., who was
second secretary at His Britannic Majesty's Embassy at Madrid, and was
now on leave for a winter holiday.
Not yet forty, a smart, well-groomed, athletic, clean-cut Englishman, he
nevertheless possessed the distinct Foreign Office air, and was, at the
same time, a cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans. Essentially a ladies' man,
as every good diplomat should be, he was, in addition, decidedly
handsome, with pale, refined features, a strong face with straight nose,
a pair of dark, deep-set, thoughtful eyes, and a dark, well-trained
moustache.
At Court functions, balls, receptions, official dinners and such-like
festivities when, with his colleague, he was bound to be on show in his
perfect-fitting diplomatic uniform, women always singled him out as a
striking figure, as, indeed, he was, and at Stockholm, Brussels, and
Lima, where he had respectively served as attache he had attained great
popularity among the _corps diplomatique_, and the gay, giddy world of
Society which, in every capital, revolves about it.
The quartette had made each other's acquaintance since leaving Cairo,
having found themselves fellow-passengers on board the fine new
river-steamer, the _Arabia_--members of a smart party of wealthy idlers
which included two of America's most famous millionaires. The party
numbered thirty, all told, and during the three weeks they had travelled
together and had all spent a time which each declared to be the most
delightful of their lives.
The younger Englishman was Chester Dawson, son of Sir Forbes Dawson,
M.P., and a lieutenant in the 19th Hussars, who, like Waldron, was on
leave, while of the two ladies the younger was French, though she spoke
English perfectly, and the other, ten years her senior, was slightly
angular and decidedly English.
Mademoiselle Lola Duprez had attracted Hubert Waldron from the first
moment when they had met on the upper deck an hour after leaving Cairo.
She was bright, vivacious, and extremely _chic_, possessing all the
daintiness of the true Parisienne without her irritating mannerisms.
Slightly _petite_, with an extremely pretty and refined face, big eyes,
a perfect complexion and a slim, erect figure, she was--judged from the
standpoint of a connoisseur of female beauty as Hubert Waldron
undoubtedly was--unusually beautiful and attractive. On many of the
excursions into the desert when the party had landed to visit the
ancient monuments, the pyramid of Sakkara, the Tomb of Thi, the temples
of Abydos Denderah and the rest, Hubert had ridden a donkey at her side,
or spent the long, idle, sunny afternoon hours on deck, lolling in the
padded cane-chairs sipping coffee and gossiping as the steamer, with its
Arab _reis_ or pilot squatting in the bow smoking cigarettes, made her
way up the broad stream.
Thus, in the three delightfully lazy weeks which had gone, they had
become most excellent friends, while Chester Dawson had, with all the
irresponsibility of the young cavalry officer, admired a striking
go-ahead American girl named Edna Eastham who, with her father, had come
from Chelsea, Massachusetts. Mother, father, and daughter were a
loud-speaking, hard-faced trio who bought all the false antiques offered
to them by Arab pedlars.
Mademoiselle's companion, a Miss Gabrielle Lambert, was a woman of quite
a different stamp. She was nearly thirty, with a rather sad, thoughtful
face, but unmistakably a lady by birth and breeding, half English, half
French, though she never spoke much of herself. Travelling with the two
girls was an old and peculiarly shrewd grey-haired Frenchman, an uncle
of mademoiselle named Jules Gigleux, a good type of the dandified though
elderly Parisian, yet to Hubert--a student of men--he was from the first
something of a mystery.
Ahmed, the silent dignified servant with the face of bronze, handed
mademoiselle a small plate of bon-bons. She took one, and then turning
to the diplomat, exclaimed in her pretty broken English:
"I've at last persuaded uncle to take us up to Wady Haifa! I'm longing
to see the Second Cataract. We have booked berths by the steamer next
Monday."
"Next Monday!" Waldron echoed. "Why then we shall be fellow-passengers
again, mademoiselle. I booked my berth a month ago. I've been up there
before. You will be much impressed by the rock-hewn Temple of Abu
Simbel, the finest and most remarkable sight on the Nile."
"I read all about it in the guide-books on board the _Arabia_," she said
with her pretty French accent. "It is to see the wonderful temple that
I want to go there, although my uncle has been trying all day to put
obstacles in the way. It takes a fortnight, and he seems to want to get
back to Paris--whatever for, I fail to imagine."
"He's tired of the Nile, like our young friend Chester," laughed Waldron
mischievously. "I really believe Chester prefers a motor-run to
Brighton with lunch at Crawley and tea at the Metropole."
"All this jargon about Rameses, the great god, Osiris, good old Horus,
Amen Ra, and all those gods with weird heads of birds and horned
animals, the cartouches which the Pharaohs stuck upon everything--oh, it
becomes so horribly boring," declared the young fellow with a yawn.
"And everywhere one goes some Arab appears from nowhere pestering you to
buy an imitation scarab or some blue beads made in Birmingham a few
weeks ago. Why on the _Prince Luitpold Regent_ from Marseilles we had a
man bringing over a fresh consignment of Egyptian antiques for the
season! He showed me some!"
"Ah!" laughed Lola, "I see you are not held by the spell of Egypt, as we
all are. Personally, I love it, and enjoy every moment of the day. It
is all so very different to everything else I have seen."
"You have travelled a good deal, eh, mademoiselle?" asked Waldron, his
tea-cup in his hand.
"Ah, yes; a good deal. I've seen most of the capitals of Europe," was
her rather vague reply. "But there is nothing like Egypt--nothing half
so interesting as life up here, away from modern civilisation and yet so
full of up-to-date comfort. I marvel at everything--even at this hotel.
They tell me all the food--even the fish and poultry--comes from
Europe. All that we eat is brought a couple of thousand miles!"
"Yes," Miss Lambert agreed. "The English have done marvels in Egypt
without a doubt."
Waldron glanced at Lola, and thought he had never seen her looking so
indescribably charming. She was slightly flushed after riding that
afternoon, but in her neat, clean linen gown, with her green-lined
sun-helmet set slightly back on her head she presented a delightful
picture of feminine daintiness and charm.
At that moment Edna Eastham, a tall, well-built girl of twenty-two,
crossed the veranda laughing loudly over to two ladies of the party who
sat near, and took a vacant table for tea, whereupon Chester Dawson,
with a word of excuse, rose quickly and, crossing, joined her.
"Chester seems quite fed up," declared Waldron when the young fellow had
gone.
"Yes. But he's coming with us up to Wady Haifa," said mademoiselle.
"Because Miss Eastham is going," remarked the diplomat with a sarcastic
smile.
"Perhaps so. But do you know," she went on, "I've had such awful
trouble to persuade uncle to take me on. He is anxious to get back to
Europe--says he has some pressing business and all that."
"The heat affects him, I believe; it is trying to one not used to it,"
the man replied.
"Yes. But I think it would be a shame to turn back now that we have got
up here so far. He was saying only last night that the trip up from
Shellal to Wady Haifa was not over-safe--that the Nubians are hostile,
and we might be attacked and murdered!"
"Not much fear of that nowadays," Waldron laughed. "Our rule here has
straightened things out. I admit, however, that there is a good deal of
hostility about here, and I believe there are arms on board the Shellal
steamers in case of trouble. But we anchor each night in mid-stream and
a good watch is kept, while all the crew, though they are Arabs, have
been in the service of the Steamboat Company for many years, and are
quite loyal. So don't be nervous in the least, mademoiselle, for I
assure you there is really no necessity."
"Uncle Jules is always fond of discovering dangers where none exist,"
she laughed. "I haven't given the matter a second thought. We are
going on Monday--and that is sufficient."
The broad-shouldered, rather dandified old Frenchman, Jules Gigleux,
sauntered out from the hotel and joined them a few moments later. He
was rather stout, grey-haired--with a small, well-clipped moustache, and
a pair of sharp beady eyes which seemed to search everywhere--a man who,
though burly and apparently easy-going, was nevertheless remarkably
shrewd and sly.
These latter traits in Monsieur Gigleux's character had aroused Hubert's
suspicions. He seemed ever watchful and curiously distrustful and
shifty--a man who, though he made pretence of being open and
straightforward and easy-going, was full of craft and deep cunning.
"Well, uncle," exclaimed Lola, dropping into French as the man seated
himself in the chair vacated by young Dawson, "we've just been
discussing the possibility of all of us being murdered by Arabs on our
way up to Wady Haifa!" and she laughed mischievously.
"It is not very safe," snapped the old gentleman in French. "I hear
that the Egyptian police have a great deal of trouble to keep the
country in order between Shellal and Wady Haifa."
"Ah!" Waldron exclaimed, "I fear, m'sieur, you are somewhat
misinformed. That portion of the Nile runs through Upper Nubia, and the
people are more loyal to the British than they are even in Cairo."
"Cairo," sniffed the old man. "Why, trouble is expected there every
day. Sedition is rife all over Egypt. If your Kitchener had not taken
such a strong hand a year ago the country would now be in open revolt.
The British are not loved in Europe. I say that," he added quickly,
"without disrespect of your country, m'sieur, please understand."
"Perfectly," was the diplomat's reply. "But while I admit what you say
is the truth, and, further, that there is a growing discontent, yet I
still feel that, as far as we are concerned, though a little handful of
Europeans and a great country peopled by Nubians, we are nevertheless
quite safe. I was up there two years ago, and we did not even have a
police escort when we landed at Kalabsha or Abu Simbel--indeed, we never
saw a policeman."
"Ah, that was two years ago," remarked Monsieur Gigleux, quite
unconcerned.
"Oh, we shan't come to any harm, Uncle Jules," his niece assured him.
"I intend to have a real good time, M'sieur Waldron," added the girl,
who, having finished her tea, rose and went to the balcony, where she
stood alone watching the magnificent glories of the desert sunset.
Below, around the great grey boulders in the river came very slowly a
small Arab boat gaily painted in light green, with only just sufficient
wind to stretch its pointed lateen sail. The three fisher lads which
constituted its crew were singing one of those weird, plaintive songs of
the Nile to the accompaniment of a big earthenware tom-tom--that same
tuneful invocation of Allah to assist them which one hears everywhere
upon the Nile from Alexandria up to Khartoum.
That strange, rhythmic song, the chorus of which is "Al-lal-hey!
Al-lal-hey!" is the song of the Nile and rings always in one's ears at
sundown--the reminder that Allah is great, Allah is merciful; there is
no other God but Allah.
But does that gay, Christian, tango-dancing, bridge-playing world of
Society, who in winter occupy that great white hotel opposite
Elephantine Island, ever heed that call of the black, half-naked, and,
alas! often starving Arab? The call to Allah!
CHAPTER TWO.
AROUSES CERTAIN SUSPICIONS.
The great salle a manger of the Cataract is built like an Eastern
mosque. Its interior is high domed, with old blue glass in the long
narrow windows, and walls striped in yellow and dull red.
At night the scene is gay and animated--a replica of the supper-room at
the Savoy--for over the thickly carpeted floor of the mosque, Society,
clad in the latest _mode_, dines and makes merry at many little tables
bright with electric lights and flowers, while the orchestra is just
near enough to be present.
Waldron and Chester had been invited to old Gigleux's table on their
arrival at Assouan; therefore on that evening the party was, as usual, a
merry one. After dinner, however, the little party dispersed--Miss
Lambert to the reading-room, the old Frenchman to smoke, and Chester to
find Edna Eastham, leaving Waldron and Lola together.
The night was perfectly clear, with a bright and wonderful moon.
"Let's take a boat over to the Savoy?" Waldron suggested. "It's so hot
here."
Mademoiselle, who was in a simple, dead-white gown, with a touch of pale
salmon at the waist, was instantly agreeable, for a stroll through the
beautiful gardens of the Savoy Hotel, over on Elephantine Island, was
always delightful after dinner.
So she clapped her hands, summoning one of the Arab servants named
Hassan, and sent him to her room for her wrap. Then when he had brought
it in his big brown hands and placed it upon her shoulders, the pair
descended through the garden of the hotel, where some boats were waiting
in the moonlight to take parties out for a sail in the light zephyr
which always rises on the Nile about nine o'clock each night.
"Good evenin', laidee," exclaimed the Arab boatman, salaaming, as the
pair stepped into his boat, for the man had often taken them out on
previous occasions; then two young Arabs followed, the boat was pushed
off, and the big heavy sail raised.
Waldron told the man where they wished to go.
"Ver gud, gen'leman," the big, brown-faced giant replied, salaaming, and
soon they were speeding across the face of the wonderful river into
which the moon and the lights of the town were reflected as in a mirror,
while the only sound was the faint ripple of the water at the bows.
"How delightfully refreshing after the heat," Lola exclaimed, pulling
her wrap about her and breathing in the welcome air to the full.
"Yes," replied her companion, lolling near her, smoking his cigarette.
He had on a light coat over his dinner clothes, and wore a straw hat.
"There is nothing in Europe like this, is there?"
"Nothing," she admitted.
And what he said was true. The moon shone with that brilliancy only
witnessed in the East, and the dead silence of the river and the
limitless desert beyond was wonderfully impressive after that gay and
reckless circle which they had just quitted.
Presently the two young Arabs, who had been conversing with each other
in an undertone, spoke to their master--who apparently gave consent.
Waldron had offered each a cigarette from his case, receiving a pleased
grin and a salaam, and all were now in the full enjoyment of smoking.
They smoked on gravely until they had finished their gifts.
"'Merican steamer, he come from Cairo to-night," the boatman announced
as they approached the quay at Assouan.
"He means the new Hamburg-America passenger service," Waldron remarked,
and then, turning to the Arab who was busy with their sail, preparing to
tack, he asked him some questions regarding the steamer.
"He big steamer, gen'leman. _Reis_, he know me--he know Ali." And so
the Arab wandered on in his quaint English, for in Upper Egypt they are
all inveterate gossips.
Then the operation of tacking concluded, one of the younger men produced
a great cylinder of sun-baked clay, across the top of which was
stretched a piece of parchment, and placing it across his knees began
strumming upon it dexterously with his thumb, finger, and palm, after
which the dark-faced trio set up that long-drawn, plaintive song of the
Nile boatmen, in which Allah is beseeched to protect their beloved town,
which has existed ever since the Pharaohs--the town of Aswan.
The weekly steamer from Cairo, gaily lit and filled with Europeans, was
lying at the landing-stage. Hearing the song which the trio in rhythmic
unison took up, a dozen or so Europeans in evening dress crowded to the
side to see who was passing.
Lola, delighted, hailed them in English. They shouted back merry
greetings, and then Ali, their boatman, tacked again, and they were soon
sailing straight for the long, dark river-bank, where one or two lights
showed like fireflies among the palms, until they reached the darkly-lit
landing-stage on Elephantine, that little island whence, in the dim ages
of the Sixth Dynasty, sprang the Kings of Egypt, where the ancient gods,
Khnemu, Sati, and Anuquet were worshipped, and where the Pharaoh,
Amenophis III, built a temple. Upon the site where the orgies of Hathor
were enacted is to-day the modern Savoy, where one can obtain a
whisky-and-soda or a well-mixed "Martini." Other times, other manners.
On landing, Waldron and Lola strolled together along the moonlit,
gravelled path beside the river, and presently sat beneath a great
flowering oleander amid the thousand perfumes of that glorious tropical
garden with its wealth of blossom.
He noted that she had suddenly grown grave and silent. Some people were
sitting upon a seat near, laughing gaily and chattering in English,
though in the deep shadow of the perfumed night they could not be seen.
At their feet the broad Nile waters lapped lazily, while from a native
boat in mid-stream came the low, rhythmic beating of a tom-tom as the
rowers bent to their oars.
"You seem very melancholy," remarked her companion suddenly. "Why?"
"I--melancholy?" she cried in her broken English, suddenly starting.
"I--I really did not know, m'sieur. Oh, please forgive me."
"No, I will not," he said with mock reproach.
"You mustn't be sad when I am with you."
"But I'm not sad, I assure you," she declared. And then, noticing that
he was taking a cigarette from his case, she begged one.
Lola seldom, if ever, smoked in public, nevertheless she was
passionately fond of those mild aromatic cigarettes which one gets in
such perfection in Egypt, and often when with her friend, the
cosmopolitan diplomat, she would indulge in one.
She hated the conventions which so often she set at naught--thus earning
the reputation of a tomboy, so full of life and vivacity was she.
"Uncle is such a dreadful bore sometimes," she sighed at last, dropping
into French. "I rather wish we were, after all, going back to Paris."
"He disagrees with you sometimes, eh?" laughed the man at her side.
"All elderly people become bores more or less."
"Yes. But there is surely no reason for such constant watching."
"Watching!" exclaimed Waldron in feigned surprise. "Is he annoyed at
this constant companionship of ours?"
"Well," she hesitated; "he's not exactly pleased. He watches me like a
cat watches a mouse. I hate his crafty, stealthy ways. To-day I told
him so, frankly."
Waldron was considerably surprised at her sudden outburst of confidence,
for through all the weeks of their close acquaintanceship she had told
him but very little concerning herself. But from what she had said he
gathered that she was entirely dependent upon her uncle, whose
strictness and eccentricities so often irritated her.
"Yes," she went on, "I've really grown tired of being spied upon so
constantly. It is most annoying. Gabrielle, too, is always telling
tales to him--telling him where I've gone, and how long I've been away,
and all that."
The man at her side paused.
"In that case," he said at last, "had we not better keep apart,
mademoiselle--if it would render your life happier?"
"I only wish I could get rid of that old beast," she cried wistfully.
"But, unfortunately, I can't. I'm entirely and utterly in his hands."
"Why?" asked her companion slowly.
But she remained silent, until he had repeated his question.
"Why? Well, because I am," was her vague, mysterious reply.
"Then he often complains of me?" Waldron asked.
For answer she laughed a nervous little laugh.
"He doesn't like me, I suppose. Well, there's no love lost between us,
I assure you, mademoiselle. But if you think it best, then we will
exercise a wiser discretion in future."
"No, no," she replied hastily. "You quite misconstrue my meaning,
M'sieur Waldron. You have been exceedingly kind to me, but--" and then
she sighed without concluding her sentence.
Again a silence fell between them.
From across the broad dark waters, in the bosom of which the stars were
reflected, came the low, strident voices of the Arab boatmen chanting
their monotonous prayer to Allah to give them grace. The still air was
heavy with a thousand sweet scents, while about them the big nocturnal
insects flitted and buzzed.
A peal of English laughter broke from out the deep shadows, and from
somewhere in the vicinity came the twanging of a one-stringed instrument
by an Arab, who set up one of those low, haunting refrains of the Nile
bank--the ancient songs handed down through the Pagan ages before the
birth of Christendom.
Waldron was reflecting deeply. Old Gigleux had always been a mystery.
That he was a crafty, cunning old fox was undoubted, and yet he had, he
remembered, always treated him with marked friendliness. It was
surprising that he should, on the other hand, object to his niece being
so frequently in his company.
Lola's companion questioned her regarding the mysterious old fellow, but
all she would reply was:
"There are certain matters, M'sieur Waldron, which I would rather not
discuss. That is one of them."
With this chilly rebuff her companion was compelled to be content, and
no amount of diplomatic cross-examination would induce her to reveal
anything further.
"Ah," she cried at last, clenching her small hands and starting to her
feet in a sudden frenzy of despair which amazed him, "if you only knew
the horror of it all--ah! if you only knew, m'sieur, you would, I am
sure, pity me."
"Horror of it!" he gasped. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing--nothing," she said hastily, in a voice thick with emotion.
"Let us return. We must get back. He will be so angry at my absence."
"Then you really fear him!" Waldron exclaimed in surprise.
She made no reply. Only as he laid his hand lightly upon her arm to
guide her back along the dark path to where the native boat was moored,
he felt her shudder.
He walked in silence, utterly bewildered at her sudden change of
demeanour. What could it mean? In his career as a diplomat in the
foreign capitals he had met thousands of pretty women of all grades, but
none so sweet or so dainty as herself; none with a voice so musical, not
one whose charm was so ineffable.
Yes, against his own inclination he had become fascinated by her, and
already he felt that her interests were his own.
They stepped into the boat, being greeted by salaams from the
black-faced crew, and then began to row back.
She uttered not a word. Even when one of the boys brought out the big
tom-tom from beneath the seat, she signed to him to put it away. Music
jarred upon her nerves.
Waldron sat in wonder, uttering no word, and the black-faced crew were
in turn surprised at the sudden silence. Ali spoke some low, soft words
in Arabic to his companions which, had the pair been acquainted with
that language, would have caused them annoyance. "They are lovers," he
remarked wisely. "They have quarrelled--eh?" And to that theory the
two boys agreed.
And so there was silence in the boat until it touched the landing-steps
opposite the great hotel, rising dark in the white desert moonshine.
On returning to his room Hubert Waldron found a telegram from Madrid
awaiting him. It was from an intimate friend of his, signed "Beatriz."
He flung himself into a cane chair and re-read the long and rather
rambling message. Then he rose, lit a cigarette savagely, and stood
gazing across the broad moonlit waters. That telegram was a disquieting
one. Its sender was Beatriz Rojas de Ruata, of the Madrid Opera, the
tall, thin, black-haired dancer, who had of late been the rage in
Petersburg and Paris, and who was now contemplating a season in London.
From life in the slums of Barcelona, where her father was a wharf
labourer, she had in three short years risen to the top of her
profession, and was now the idol of the _jeunesse doree_ of Madrid;
though, be it said, the only man she really cared for was the calm-faced
English diplomat who had never flattered her, and who had always treated
her with such profound and courtly respect.
But that message had sorely perturbed him. It was an impetuous demand
that he should return from Egypt and meet her | 1,979.700097 |
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Produced by Robert J. Hall
[Page ii]
[Illustration: Captain Robert F. Scott R.N.
_J. Russell & Sons, Southsea, photographers_]
[Page iii]
THE VOYAGES OF CAPTAIN SCOTT
_Retold from 'The Voyage of the "Discovery"' and 'Scott's Last
Expedition'_
BY CHARLES TURLEY
Author of 'Godfrey Marten, Schoolboy,' 'A Band of Brothers,' etc.
With an introduction by
SIR J. M. BARRIE, BART.
Numerous illustrations in colour and black and white and a map
[Page v]
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
THE VOYAGE OF THE 'DISCOVERY'
Chapter
I. The 'Discovery'.
II. Southward Ho!
III. In Search of Winter Quarters.
IV. The Polar Winter.
V. The Start of the Southern Journey.
VI. The Return.
VII. A Second Winter.
VIII. The Western Journey.
IX. The Return from the West.
X. Release.
THE LAST EXPEDITION
Chapter
Preface to 'Scott's Last Expedition'.
Biographical Note.
British Antarctic Expedition, 1910.
[Page vi]
I. Through Stormy Seas.
II. Depot Laying to One Ton Camp.
III. Perils.
IV. A Happy Family.
V. Winter.
VI. Good-bye to Cape Evans.
VII. The Southern Journey Begins.
VIII. On the Beardmore Glacier.
IX. The South Pole.
X. On the Homeward Journey.
XI. The Last March.
Search Party Discovers the Tent.
In Memoriam.
Farewell Letters.
Message to the Public.
Index.
[Page vii]
ILLUSTRATIONS
_PHOTOGRAVURE PLATE_
Portrait of Captain Robert F. Scott
_From a photograph by J. Russell & Son, Southsea_.
_COLOURED PLATES_
_From Water-Colour Drawings by Dr. Edward A. Wilson._.
Sledding.
Mount Erebus.
Lunar Corona.
'Birdie' Bowers reading the thermometer on the ramp.
_DOUBLE PAGE PLATE_
Panorama at Cape Evans.
Berg in South Bay.
_FULL PAGE PLATES_
Robert F. Scott at the age of thirteen as a naval cadet.
The 'Discovery'.
Looking up the gateway from Pony Depot.
Pinnacled ice at mouth of Ferrar Glacier.
Pressure ridges north side of Discovery Bluff.
The 'Terra Nova' leaving the Antarctic.
Pony Camp on the barrier.
Snowed-up tent after three days' blizzard.
Pitching the double tent on the summit.
[Page viii]
Adelie Penguin on nest.
Emperor Penguins on sea-ice.
Dog party starting from Hut Point.
Dog lines.
Looking up the gateway from Pony Depot.
Looking south from Lower Glacier depot,
Man hauling camp, 87th parallel.
The party at the South Pole.
'The Last Rest'.
Facsimile of the last words of Captain Scott's Journal.
Track chart of main southern journey.
[Page 1]
INTRODUCTION
BY SIR J. M. BARRIE, BART.
On the night of my original meeting with Scott he was but lately
home from his first adventure into the Antarctic and my chief
recollection of the occasion is that having found the entrancing
man I was unable to leave him. In vain he escorted me through the
streets of London to my home, for when he had said good-night I then
escorted him to his, and so it went on I know not for how long through
the small hours. Our talk was largely a comparison of the life of
action (which he pooh-poohed) with the loathsome life of those who
sit at home (which I scorned); but I also remember that he assured
me he was of Scots extraction. As the subject never seems to have
been resumed between us, I afterwards wondered whether I had drawn
this from him with a promise that, if his reply was satisfactory, I
would let him go to bed. However, the family traditions (they are
nothing more) do bring him from across the border. According to
them his great-great-grandfather was the Scott of Brownhead whose
estates were sequestered after the '45. His dwelling was razed
to the ground and he fled with his wife, to whom after some grim
privations a son was born in a fisherman's hut on September 14,
1745. This son eventually settled in Devon, where he prospered,
[Page 2]
for it was in the beautiful house of Oatlands that he died. He
had four sons, all in the Royal Navy, of whom the eldest had as
youngest child John Edward Scott, father of the Captain Scott who
was born at Oatlands on June 6, 1868. About the same date, or perhaps
a little earlier, it was decided that the boy should go into the
Navy like so many of his for-bears.
I have been asked to write a few pages about those early days of
Scott at Oatlands, so that the boys who read this book may have
some slight acquaintance with the boy who became Captain Scott;
and they may be relieved to learn (as it | 1,979.700143 |
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E-text prepared by MWS, Chris Pinfield, Bryan Ness, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images
generously made available by the Making of America digital library
collection, the University of Michigan (https://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/moa/)
Note: Images of the original pages are available through
the Making of America digital library collection,
the University of Michigan. See
https://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/moa/AFZ6813.0001.001?view=toc
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
There are minor differences between the titles of sections
and those given in the Table of Contents. A reference to two
notes, at the end of the book, has been inserted in the table.
NATURAL HISTORY OF ENTHUSIASM.
by
ISAAC TAYLOR
... δύο ἐστὶ, τὸ μὲν ἀρετὴ φυσικὴ, τὸ δ' ἡ κυρία.
From the Ninth London Edition.
New York:
Robert Carter & Brothers
No. 530 Broadway
1859.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The belief that a bright era of renovation, union, and extension,
presently awaits the Christian Church, seems to be very generally
entertained. The writer of this volume participates in the cheering
hope; and it has impelled him to undertake the difficult task of
describing, under its various forms, that FICTITIOUS PIETY which
hitherto has never failed to appear in times of unusual religious
excitement, and which may be anticipated as the probable attendant of a
new development of the powers of Christianity.
But while it has been the writer's principal aim to present to the
Christian reader, in as distinct a manner as possible, the characters of
that specious illusion which too often supplants genuine piety, he has
also endeavored so to fix the sense of the term Enthusiasm as to wrest
it from those who misuse it to their own infinite damage.
The author would say a word in explanation of his choice of a term in
this instance; and of the extent of meaning he has assigned to it. The
best that can be done, when matters of mind are under discussion, is to
select, from the stores of familiar language, a word which, in its usual
sense, approximates more nearly than any other to the abstraction spoken
of. To require from an ethical writer more than this, would be to demand
that, before he enters upon his subject, he should both renovate the
science of mind, and reform his mother tongue: for when things not yet
scientifically defined are to be spoken of, it must needs happen that,
in proportion to the accuracy with which they are described, there will
be apparent occasion for taking exception against the sense imputed to
the term employed.
The author proposed it to himself, as his task, to depict, under its
principal forms, FICTITIOUS SENTIMENT in matters of religion, including,
of course, a consideration of those opinions which seem to be either the
parents or the offspring of such artificial sentiments. Having this
object before him, he would have thought it a very inauspicious, as well
as cumbrous method, to have constructed a many-syllabled phrase of
definition, to be used on every page of his essay. Instead of attempting
any such laborious accuracy, he has boldly chosen his single
term—Enthusiasm; confiding in the good sense and candor of his readers
for allowing him a span or two of latitude when employing it in
different instances, which seem to come under the same general class.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
SECTION I.
Enthusiasm, Secular and Religious, 7
SECTION II.
Enthusiasm in Devotion, 27
SECTION III.
Enthusiastic Pervers | 1,979.80311 |
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Transcribed from the 1915 Martin Secker edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
[Picture: Book cover]
THE
COXON FUND
BY HENRY JAMES
[Picture: Decorative graphic]
* * * * *
LONDON: MARTIN SECKER
NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI
* * * * *
This edition first published 1915
The text follows that of the
Definitive Edition
* * * * *
I
“THEY’VE got him for life!” I said to myself that evening on my way back
to the station; but later on, alone in the compartment (from Wimbledon to | 1,979.89931 |
2023-11-16 18:50:03.8813400 | 7,087 | 25 |
E-text prepared by the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by
Internet Archive/American Libraries
(http://www.archive.org/details/americana)
More: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
http://www.archive.org/details/lifeofrobertburn00carl
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
Mostly by
THOMAS CARLYLE.
New York:
Delisser & Procter, 508 Broadway.
1859.
EDITOR'S PREFACE.
The readers of the "Household Library" will certainly welcome a Life of
Burns. That his soul was of the real heroic stamp, no one who is familiar
with his imperishable lyric poetry, will deny.
This Life of the great Scottish bard is composed of two parts. The first
part, which is brief, and gives merely his external life, is taken from
the "Encyclopedia Britannica." The principle object of it, in this place,
is to prepare the reader for what follows. The second part is a grand
spiritual portrait of Burns, the like of which the ages have scarcely
produced; the equal of which, in our opinion, does not exist. In fact,
since men began to write and publish their thoughts in this world, no one
has appeared who equals Carlyle as a spiritual-portrait painter; and,
taken all in all, this of his gifted countryman Burns is his master-piece.
I should not dare to say how many times I have perused it, and always with
new wonder and delight. I once read it in the Manfrini Palace, at Venice,
sitting before Titian's portrait of Ariosto. Great is the contrast between
the Songs of Burns and the _Rime_ of the Italian poet, between the fine
spiritual perception of Carlyle's mind and the delicate touch of Titian's
hand, between picturesque expression and an expressive picture; yet this
very antithesis seemed to prepare my mind for the full enjoyment of both
these famous portraits; the sombre majesty of northern genius seemed to
heighten and be heightened by the sunset glow of the genius of the south.
Besides giving the article from the "Encyclopedia Britannica," as a kind
of frame for the portrait of Burns, we will here add, from the "English
Cyclopedia," a sketch of Carlyle's life. A severe taste may find it a
little out of place, yet we must be allowed to consult the wishes of those
for whom these little volumes are designed.
* * * * *
Carlyle, (Thomas,) a thinker and writer, confessedly among the most
original and influential that Britain has produced, was born in the parish
of Middlebie, near the village of Ecclefechan, in Dumfries-shire,
Scotland, on the 4th of December, 1795. His father, a man of remarkable
force of character, was a small farmer in comfortable circumstances; his
mother was also no ordinary person. The eldest son of a considerable
family, he received an education the best in its kind that Scotland could
then afford--the education of a pious and industrious home, supplemented
by that of school and college. (Another son of the family, Dr. John A.
Carlyle, a younger brother of Thomas, was educated in a similar manner,
and, after practising for many years as a physician in Germany and Rome,
has recently become known in British literature as the author of the best
prose translation of Dante.) After a few years spent at the ordinary
parish school, Thomas was sent, in his thirteenth or fourteenth year, to
the grammar school of the neighboring town of Annan; and here it was that
he first became acquainted with a man destined, like himself, to a career
of great celebrity. "The first time I saw Edward Irving," writes Mr.
Carlyle in 1835, "was six-and-twenty years ago, in his native town, Annan.
He was fresh from Edinburgh, with college prizes, high character, and
promise: he had come to see our school-master, who had also been his. We
heard of famed professors--of high matters, classical, mathematical--a
whole Wonderland of knowledge; nothing but joy, health, hopefulness
without end, looked out from the blooming young man." Irving was then
sixteen years of age, Carlyle fourteen; and from that time till Irving's
sad and premature death, the two were intimate and constant friends. It
was not long before Carlyle followed Irving to that "Wonderland of
Knowledge," the University of Edinburgh, of which, and its "famed
professors," he had received such tidings. If the description of the
nameless German university, however, in "Sartor Resartus," is to be
supposed as allusive also to Mr. Carlyle's own reminiscences of his
training at Edinburgh, he seems afterwards to have held the more formal or
academic part of that training in no very high respect. "What vain jargon
of controversial metaphysic, etymology, and mechanical manipulation,
falsely named science, was current there," says Teufelsdroeckh; "I indeed
learned better perhaps than most." At Edinburgh, the professor of
"controversial metaphysic" in Carlyle's day, was Dr. Thomas Brown, Dugald
Stewart having then just retired; physical science and mathematics, were
represented by Playfair and Sir John Leslie, and classical studies by men
less known to fame. While at college, Carlyle's special bent, so far as
the work of the classes was concerned, seems to have been to mathematics
and natural philosophy. But it is rather by his voluntary studies and
readings, apart from the work of the classes, that Mr. Carlyle, in his
youth, laid the foundation of his vast and varied knowledge. The college
session in Edinburgh extends over about half the year, from November to
April; and during these months, the college library, and other such
libraries as were accessible, were laid under contribution by him to an
extent till then hardly paralleled by any Scottish student. Works on
science and mathematics, works on philosophy, histories of all ages, and
the great classics of British literature, were read by him miscellaneously
or in orderly succession; and it was at this period, also, if we are not
mistaken, he commenced his studies--not very usual then in Scotland--in
the foreign languages of modern Europe. With the same diligence, and in
very much the same way, were the summer vacations employed, during which
he generally returned to his father's house in Dumfries-shire, or rambled
among the hills and moors of that neighborhood.
Mr. Carlyle had begun his studies with a view to entering the Scottish
Church. About the time, however, when these studies were nearly ended, and
when, according to the ordinary routine, he might have become a preacher,
a change of views induced him to abandon the intended profession. This
appears to have been about the year 1819 or 1820, when he was twenty-four
years of age. For some time, he seems to have been uncertain as to his
future course. Along with Irving, he employed himself for a year or two,
as a teacher in Fifeshire; but gradually it became clear to him, that his
true vocation was that of literature. Accordingly, parting from Irving,
about the year 1822, the younger Scot of Annandale, deliberately embraced
the alternative open to him, and became a general man of letters. Probably
few have ever embraced that profession with qualifications so wide, or
with aims so high and severe. Apart altogether from his diligence in
learning, and from the extraordinary amount of acquired knowledge of all
kinds, which was the fruit of it, there had been remarked in him, from the
first, a strong originality of character, a noble earnestness and fervor
in all that he said or did, and a vein of inherent constitutional contempt
for the mean and the frivolous, inclining him, in some degree, to a life
of isolation and solitude. Add to this, that his acquaintance with German
literature, in particular, had familiarized him with ideas, modes of
thinking, and types of literary character, not then generally known in
this country, and yet, in his opinion, more deserving of being known than
much of a corresponding kind that was occupying and ruling British
thought.
The first period of Mr. Carlyle's literary life may be said to extend from
1822 to 1827, or from his twenty-sixth to his thirty-second year. It was
during this period that he produced (besides a translation of Legendre's
"Geometry," to which he prefixed an "Essay on Proportion,") his numerous
well-known translations from German writers, and also his "Life of
Schiller." The latter and a considerable proportion of the former, were
written by him during the leisure afforded him by an engagement he had
formed in 1823, as tutor to Charles Buller, whose subsequent brilliant
though brief career in the politics of Britain, gives interest to this
connection. The first part of the "Life of Schiller" appeared originally
in the "London Magazine," of which John Scott was editor, and Hazlitt,
Charles Lamb, Allan Cunningham, De Quincey, and Hood, were the best known
supporters; and the second and third parts, were published in the same
magazine in 1824. In this year appeared also the translation of Goethe's
"Wilhelm Meister," which was published by Messrs. Oliver and Boyd, of
Edinburgh, without the translator's name. This translation, the first real
introduction of Goethe to the reading world of Great Britain, attracted
much notice. "The translator," said a critic in "Blackwood," "is, we
understand, a young gentleman in this city, who now for the first time
appears before the public. We congratulate him on his very promising
debut; and would fain hope to receive a series of really good translations
from his hand. He has evidently a perfect knowledge of German; he already
writes English better than is at all common, even at this time; and we
know of no exercise more likely to produce effects of permanent advantage
upon a young mind of intellectual ambition." The advice here given to Mr.
Carlyle by his critic, was followed by him in so far that, in 1827, he
published in Edinburgh, his "Specimens of German Romance," in four
volumes; one of these containing "Wilhelm Meister's Wanderjahre," as a
fresh specimen of Goethe; the others containing tales from Jean Paul,
Tieck, Musaeus, and Hoffman. Meanwhile, in 1825, Mr. Carlyle had revised
and enlarged his "Life of Schiller," and given it to the world in a
separate form, through the press of Messrs. Taylor and Hessay, the
proprietors of the "London Magazine." In the same year, quitting his
tutorship of Charles Buller, he had married a lady fitted in a pre-eminent
degree to be the wife of such a man. (It is interesting to know that Mrs.
Carlyle, originally Miss Welch, is a lineal descendent of the Scottish
Reformer, Knox.) For some time after the marriage, Mr. Carlyle continued
to reside in Edinburgh; but before 1827 he removed to Craigenputtoch, a
small property in the most solitary part of Dumfries-shire.
The second period of Mr. Carlyle's literary life, extending from 1827 to
1834, or from his thirty-second to his thirty-ninth year, was the period
of the first decided manifestations of his extraordinary originality as a
thinker. Probably the very seclusion in which he lived helped to develope,
in stronger proportions, his native and peculiar tendencies. The following
account of his place and mode of life at this time was sent by him, in
1828, to Goethe, with whom he was then in correspondence, and was
published by the great German in the preface to a German translation of
the "Life of Schiller," executed under his immediate care:--"Dumfries is a
pleasant town, containing about fifteen thousand inhabitants, and to be
considered the centre of the trade and judicial system of a district which
possesses some importance in the sphere of Scottish activity. Our
residence is not in the town itself, but fifteen miles to the northwest of
it, among the granite hills and the black morasses which stretch westward
through Galloway almost to the Irish Sea. In this wilderness of heath and
rock, our estate stands forth a green oasis, a tract of ploughed, partly
inclosed and planted ground, where corn ripens and trees afford a shade,
although surrounded by sea-mews and rough-woolled sheep. Here, with no
small effort, have we built and furnished a neat, substantial dwelling;
here, in the absence of a professional or other office, we live to
cultivate literature according to our strength, and in our own peculiar
way. We wish a joyful growth to the roses and flowers of our garden; we
hope for health and peaceful thoughts to further our aims. The roses,
indeed, are still in part to be planted, but they blossom already in
anticipation. Two ponies which carry us every where, and the mountain air,
are the best medicine for weak nerves. This daily exercise, to which I am
much devoted, is my only recreation; for this nook of ours is the
loneliest in Britain--six miles removed from any one likely to visit me.
Here Rousseau would have been as happy as on his island of Saint-Pierre.
My town friends, indeed, ascribe my sojourn here to a similar disposition,
and forbode me no good result; but I came hither solely with the design to
simplify my way of life, and to secure the independence through which I
could be enabled to remain true to myself. This bit of earth is our own;
here we can live, write, and think, as best pleases ourselves, even though
Zoilus himself were to be crowned the monarch of literature. Nor is the
solitude of such great importance, for a stage-coach takes us speedily to
Edinburgh, which we look upon as our British Weimar; and have I not, too,
at this moment, piled upon the table of my little library, a whole
cart-load of French, German, American, and English journals and
periodicals--whatever may be their worth? Of antiquarian studies, too,
there is no lack."
Before this letter was written, Mr. Carlyle had already begun the
well-known series of his contributions to the "Edinburgh Review." The
first of these was his essay on "Jean Paul," which appeared in 1827; and
was followed by his striking article on "German Literature," and by his
singularly beautiful essay on "Burns" (1828). Other essays in the same
periodical followed, as well as articles in the "Foreign Quarterly
Review," which was established in 1828, and shorter articles of less
importance in Brewster's "Edinburgh Encyclopedia," then in course of
publication. Externally, in short, at this time, Mr. Carlyle was a writer
for reviews and magazines, choosing to live, for the convenience of his
work and the satisfaction of his own tastes, in a retired nook of
Scotland, whence he could correspond with his friends, occasionally visit
the nearest of them, and occasionally also receive visits from them in
turn. Among the friends whom he saw in his occasional visits to Edinburgh,
were Jeffrey, Wilson, and other literary celebrities of that capital (Sir
Walter Scott, we believe, he never met otherwise than casually in the
streets); among the more distant friends who visited him, none was more
welcome than the American Emerson, who, having already been attracted to
him by his writings, made a journey to Dumfries-shire, during his first
visit to England, expressly to see him; and of his foreign correspondents,
the most valued by far was Goethe, whose death in 1832, and that of Scott
in the same year, impressed him deeply, and were finely commemorated by
him.
Meanwhile, though thus ostensibly but an occasional contributor to
periodicals, Mr. Carlyle was silently throwing his whole strength into a
work which was to reveal him in a far other character than that of a mere
literary critic, however able and profound. This was his "Sartor
Resartus;" or, an imaginary History of the Life and Opinions of Herr
Teufelsdroeckh, an eccentric German professor and philosopher. Under this
quaint guise (the name "Sartor Resartus" being, it would appear, a
translation into Latin of "The Tailor done over," which is the title of an
old Scottish song), Mr. Carlyle propounded, in a style half-serious and
half-grotesque, and in a manner far more bold and trenchant than the rules
of review-writing permitted, his own philosophy of life and society in
almost all their bearings. The work was truly an anomaly in British
literature, exhibiting a combination of deep, speculative power, poetical
genius, and lofty moral purpose, with wild and riotous humor and shrewd
observation and satire, such as had rarely been seen; and coming into the
midst of the more conventional British literature of the day, it was like
a fresh but barbaric blast from the hills and moorlands amid which it had
been conceived. But the very strangeness and originality of the work
prevented it from finding a publisher; and after the manuscript had been
returned by several London firms to whom it was offered, the author was
glad to cut it into parts and publish it piecemeal in "Frazer's Magazine."
Here it appeared in the course of 1833-34, scandalising most readers by
its Gothic mode of thought and its extraordinary torture, as it was
called, of the English language; but eagerly read by some sympathetic
minds, who discerned in the writer a new power in literature, and wondered
who and what he was.
With the publication of the "Sartor Resartus" papers, the third period of
Mr. Carlyle's literary life may be said to begin. It was during the
negotiations for the publication that he was led to contemplate removing
to London--a step which he finally took, we believe, in 1834. Since that
year--the thirty-ninth of his life--Mr. Carlyle has permanently resided
in London, in a house situated in one of the quiet streets running at
right angles to the River Thames, at Chelsea. The change into the bustle
of London, from the solitude of Craigenputtoch was, externally, a great
one. In reality, however, it was less than it seemed. A man in the prime
of life, when he came to reside in the metropolis, he brought into its
roar and confusion, not the restless spirit of a young adventurer, but the
settled energy of one who had ascertained his strength, and fixed his
methods and his aims.
Among the Maginns and others who contributed to "Frazer," he at once took
his place as a man rather to influence than be influenced; and gradually,
as the circle of his acquaintances widened so as to include such notable
men as John Mill, Sterling, Maurice, Leigh Hunt, Browning, Thackeray, and
others of established or rising fame in all walks of speculation and
literature, the recognition of his rare personal powers of influence
became more general and deep. In particular, in that London circle, in
which John Sterling moved, was his personal influence great, even while as
yet he was but the anonymous author of the "Sartor Resartus" papers, and
of numerous other contributions, also anonymous, to "Frazer's Magazine,"
and the "Edinburgh," "Foreign Quarterly," "British and Foreign," and
"Westminster," Reviews. It was not till 1837, or his forty-second year,
that his name, already so well known to an inner circle of admirers, was
openly associated with a work fully proportional to his powers. This was
his "French Revolution: a History," in three volumes, the extraordinary
merits of which as at once a history and a gorgeous prose-epic, are known
to all. In 1838, the "Sartor Resartus" papers, already re-published in the
United States, were put forth, collectively, with his name; and, in the
same year, his various scattered articles in periodicals, after having
similarly received the honor of re-publication in America, were given to
the world in four volumes, in their chronological series from 1827 to
1837, under the title of "Miscellanies." Mr. Carlyle's next publication
was his little tract on "Chartism," published in 1839, in which, to use
the words of one of his critics, "he first broke ground on the Condition
of England question."
During the time when these successive publications were carrying his name
through the land, Mr. Carlyle appeared in a new capacity, and delivered
four courses of lectures in London to select but crowded audiences,
including many of the aristocracy both of rank and of literature: the
first, a course on "German Literature," delivered at Willis's Rooms in
1837; the second, a course on "The History of Literature, or the
Successive Periods of European Culture," delivered in Edward-street,
Portman-square, in 1838; the third, a course on "the Revolutions of Modern
Europe," delivered in 1839; and the fourth, a course on "Heroes,
Hero-worship, and the Heroic in History," delivered in 1840. This last
course alone was published; and it became more immediately popular than
any of the works which had preceded it. It was followed, in 1843, by "Past
and Present," a work contrasting, in a historico-philosophical spirit,
English society of the middle ages with English society in our own day;
and this again, in 1845, by "Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, with
elucidations and a connecting narrative;" such being the unpretending form
which a work, originally intended to be a history of Cromwell and his
times, ultimately assumed. By the year 1849, this work had reached a third
edition. In 1850, appeared the "Latter-Day Pamphlets," in which, more than
in any previous publication, the author spoke out in the character of a
social and political censor of his own age. From their very nature, as
stern denunciations of what the author considered contemporary fallacies,
wrongs, and hypocrisies, these pamphlets produced a storm of critical
indignation against Mr. Carlyle, which was still raging, when, in 1851,
he gave to the world his "Life of John Sterling." While we write (April,
1856) this, with the exception of some papers in periodicals, is the last
publication that has proceeded from his pen; but at the present the
British public are anxiously expecting a "History of the Life and Times of
Frederick the Great," in which he is known to have been long engaged. A
collection of some of the most striking opinions, sentiments, and
descriptions, contained in all his works hitherto written, has been
published in a single volume, entitled, "Passages selected from the
Writings of Thomas Carlyle," (1855,) from the memoir prefixed to which, by
the editor, Mr. Thomas Ballantyne, we have derived most of the facts for
this notice.
An appreciation of Mr. Carlyle's genius and of his influence on British
thought and literature, is not to be looked for here, and indeed is hardly
possible in the still raging conflict of opinions--one might even say,
passions and parties--respecting him. The following remarks, however, by
one of his critics, seems to us to express what all must admit to be the
literal truth:--"It is nearly half a generation since Mr. Carlyle became
an intellectual power in this country; and certainly rarely, if ever, in
the history of literature, has such a phenomenon been witnessed as that of
his influence. Throughout the whole atmosphere of this island his spirit
has diffused itself, so that there is, probably, not an educated man under
forty years of age, from Caithness to Cornwall, that can honestly say that
he has not been more or less affected by it. Not to speak of his express
imitators, one can hardly take up a book or a periodical, without finding
some expression or some mode of thinking that bears the mint-mark of his
genius." The same critic notices it as a peculiarity in Mr. Carlyle's
literary career, that, whereas most men begin with the vehement and the
controversial, and gradually become calm and acquiescent in things as they
are, he began as an artist in pure literature, a critic of poetry, song,
and the drama, and has ended as a vehement moralist and preacher of social
reforms, disdaining the etiquette and even the name of pure literature,
and more anxious to rouse than to please. With this development of his
views of his own functions as a writer, is connected the development of
his literary style, from the quiet and pleasing, though still solid and
deep beauty of his earlier writings, to that later and more peculiar, and
to many, disagreeable form, which has been nicknamed 'the Carlylese.'
* * * * *
As all the world knows, two volumes of Carlyle's Frederick the Great have
recently appeared. We might add, from personal acquaintance, many
anecdotes, but we have learned, during a long residence abroad, to respect
the hospitality that we have enjoyed.
O. W. WIGHT.
_January, 1859._
LIFE OF BURNS.
_PART FIRST._
Robert Burns, the national bard of Scotland, was born on the 25th of
January, 1759, in a clay-built cottage about two miles south of the town
of Ayr. He was the eldest son of William Burnes, or Burness, who, at the
period of Robert's birth, was gardener and overseer to a gentleman of
small estate; but resided on a few acres of land which he had on lease
from another person. The father was a man of strict religious principles,
and also distinguished for that penetration and knowledge of mankind
which was afterwards so conspicuous in his son. The mother of the poet
was likewise a very sagacious woman, and possessed an inexhaustible store
of ballads and legendary tales, with which she nourished the infant
imagination of him whose own productions were destined to excel them all.
These worthy individuals labored diligently for the support of an
increasing family; nor, in the midst of harassing struggles did they
neglect the mental improvement of their offspring; a characteristic of
Scottish parents, even under the most depressing circumstances. In his
sixth year, Robert was put under the tuition of one Campbell, and
subsequently under Mr. John Murdoch, a very faithful and pains-taking
teacher. With this individual he remained for a few years, and was
accurately instructed in the first principles of composition. The poet and
his brother Gilbert were the aptest pupils in the school, and were
generally at the head of the class. Mr. Murdoch, in afterwards recording
the impressions which the two brothers made on him, says: "Gilbert always
appeared to me to possess a more lively imagination, and to be more of the
wit, than Robert. I attempted to teach them a little church music. Here
they were left far behind by all the rest of the school. Robert's ear, in
particular, was remarkably dull, and his voice untunable. It was long
before I could get them to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's
countenance was generally grave, and expressive of a serious,
contemplative, and thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said, _Mirth, with thee
I mean to live_; and certainly, if any person who knew the two boys had
been asked which of them was the most likely to court the muses, he would
never have guessed that _Robert_ had a propensity of that kind."
Besides the tuition of Mr. Murdoch, Burns received instructions from his
father in writing and arithmetic. Under their joint care, he made rapid
progress, and was remarkable for the ease with which he committed
devotional poetry to memory. The following extract from his letter to Dr.
Moore, in 1787, is interesting, from the light which it throws upon his
progress as a scholar, and on the formation of his character as a
poet:--"At those years," says he, "I was by no means a favorite with
anybody. I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn,
sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot piety. I say
idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost the
schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent scholar; and by the time
I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs,
and particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed much to an old
woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her ignorance, credulity,
and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest collection in the
country, of tales and songs, concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies,
witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lights, wraiths,
apparitions, cantrips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other
trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry; but had so strong an
effect upon my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I
sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious places; and though nobody
can be more skeptical than I am in such matters, yet it often takes an
effort of philosophy to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest
composition that I recollect taking pleasure in, was, _The Vision of
Mirza_, and a hymn of Addison's, beginning, "_How are thy servants blest,
O Lord!_" I particularly remember one-half stanza, which was music to my
boyish ear:
"For though on dreadful whirls we hung
High on the broken wave."
I met with these pieces in _Mason's English Collection_, one of my
school-books. The first two books I ever read in private, and which gave
me more pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were, _The Life of
Hannibal_, and _The History of Sir William Wallace_. Hannibal gave my
young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up and down
after the recruiting drum and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a
soldier; while the story of Wallace poured a tide of Scottish prejudice
into my veins, which will boil along there till the flood-gates of life
shut in eternal rest."
Mr. Murdoch's removal from Mount Oliphant deprived Burns of his
instructions; but they were still continued by the father of the bard.
About the age of fourteen, he was sent to school every alternate week for
the improvement of his writing. In the mean while, he was busily employed
upon the operations of the farm; and, at the age of fifteen, was
considered as the principal laborer upon it. About a year after this he
gained three weeks of respite, which he spent with his old tutor, Murdoch,
at Ayr, in revising the English grammar, and in studying the French
language, in which he made uncommon progress. Ere his sixteenth year
elapsed, he had considerably extended his reading. The vicinity of Mount
Oliphant to Ayr afforded him facilities for gratifying what had now become
a passion. Among the books which he had perused were some plays of
Shakspeare, Pope, the works of Allan Ramsay, and a collection of songs,
which constituted his _vade mecum_. "I pored over them," says he,
"driving my cart or walking to labor, song by song, verse by verse,
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The Great Masters in Painting and Sculpture
Edited by G. C. Williamson
PINTORICCHIO
THE GREAT MASTERS IN PAINTING AND SCULPTURE.
_The following Volumes have been issued, price 5s. net each._
BERNARDINO LUINI. By GEORGE C. WILLIAMSON, Litt.D., Editor of the
Series.
VELASQUEZ. By R. A. M. STEVENSON.
ANDREA DEL SARTO. By H. GUINNESS.
LUCA SIGNORELLI. By MAUD CRUTTWELL.
RAPHAEL. By H. STRACHEY.
CARLO CRIVELLI. By G. MCNEIL RUSHFORTH, M.A., Lecturer in Classics,
Oriel College, Oxford.
CORREGGIO. By SELWYN BRINTON, M.A., Author of "The Renaissance in
Italian Art."
DONATELLO. By HOPE REA, Author of "Tuscan Artists."
PERUGINO. By G. C. WILLIAMSON, Litt.D.
SODOMA. By the CONTESSA LORENZO PRIULI-BON.
LUCA DELLA ROBBIA. By the MARCHESA BURLAMACCHI.
GIORGIONE. By HERBERT COOK, M.A., F.S.A.
MEMLINC. By W. H. JAMES WEALE, late Keeper of the National Art
Library.
PIERO DELLA FRANCESCA. By W. G. WATERS, M.A.
PINTORICCHIO. By EVELYN MARCH PHILLIPPS.
_In preparation._
EL GRECO. By MANUEL B. COSSIO, Litt.D., Ph.D., Director of the Musee
Pedagogique, Madrid.
MICHAEL ANGELO. By CHARLES HOLROYD, Keeper of the National Gallery
of British Art.
FRANCIA. By GEORGE C. WILLIAMSON, Litt.D.
THE BROTHERS BELLINI. By S. ARTHUR STRONG, M.A., Librarian to the
House of Lords.
DURER. By HANS W. SINGER, M.A., Ph.D., Assistant Director of the
Royal Print Room, Dresden.
WILKIE. By LORD RONALD SUTHERLAND-GOWER, M.A., F.S.A., Trustee of
the National Portrait Gallery.
TINTORETTO. By J. B. STOUGHTON HOLBORN, M.A. of Merton College,
Oxford.
MANTEGNA. By MAUD CRUTTWELL.
GIOTTO. By F. MASON PERKINS.
BRUNELLESCHI. By LEADER SCOTT.
_Others to follow._
LONDON: GEORGE BELL & SONS
[Illustration:
Hanfstangl, photo. Dresden Gallery
Portrait of a Boy,
by Pintoricchio.]
PINTORICCHIO
BY
EVELYN MARCH PHILLIPPS
[Illustration]
LONDON
GEORGE BELL & SONS
1901
CONTENTS
PAGE
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS vii
BIBLIOGRAPHY xi
PEDIGREE xiii
Chapter I. BIOGRAPHICAL 1
II. DERIVATION AND CHARACTER OF HIS ART 19
III. FIRST PERIOD IN ROME 36
IV. LIFE IN ROME--CONTINUED 55
V. THE BORGIA APARTMENTS 64
VI. THE SAME, AND THE CASTEL SANT' ANGELO 86
VII. SPELLO 100
VIII. SIENA AND THE LAST OF ROME 106
IX. THE LIBRARY AT SIENA 115
X. PANEL PAINTINGS 139
CATALOGUE OF THE WORKS OF PINTORICCHIO 153
AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 155
BRITISH ISLES 155
FRANCE 156
GERMANY 156
ITALY 157
SPAIN 162
CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE 163
INDEX 167
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Portrait of a Boy _Dresden Gallery_ _Frontispiece_ 16
A Miracle of San Bernardino, by Fiorenzo di Lorenzo
_Perugia Gallery_ 24
Four Heads of Women (From the Sketch-Book) _Venice_ 40
The Journey of Moses _Sixtine Chapel, Rome_ 42
The Baptism of Christ _The same_ 44
The Burial of San Bernardino. (From the Buffalini Chapel)
_Church of Ara Coeli, Rome_ 50
The Glorification of San Bernardino, from the same _The same_ 54
The Annunciation _Borgia Apartments, Vatican, Rome_ 68
Pope Alexander VI. adoring the Risen Christ _The same_ 70
Detail, Figure of the Pope _The same_ 72
Detail from the Assumption of the Virgin--the Kneeling Man
_The same_ 74
The Story of Susanna _The same_ 74
St. Anthony and St. Paul--Hermits _The same_ 76
The Demon Women, a Detail from the above _The same_ 78
The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian _The same_ 78
The Dispute of St. Catherine _The same_ 80
The Figure of St. Catherine, another Detail from the same
_Borgia Apartments, Vatican, Rome_ 80
Group of Heads, a Detail from the above _The same_ 82
General View of the Hall of Liberal Arts and Sciences
_The same_ 86
The Madonna and Child, with Angels (over the door)
_The same_ 88
Figure representing Arithmetic _The same_ 90
Figure representing Music _The same_ 92
The Adoration of the Shepherds
_Sta. Maria Maggiore, Spello_ 102
The Annunciation _The same_ 104
Portrait of Pintoricchio _The same_ 104
The Knight of Aringhieri _Siena_ 110
Symbolical Scene, from the Pavement in the Cathedral
_The same_ 112
The Return of Ulysses _National Gallery, London_ 114
Study for Fresco I., by Raphael _Venice_ 118
Aeneas Piccolomini on his way to the Council at Basel
_The Library, Siena_ 120
Frederick III. crowning Aeneas Piccolomini as Poet Laureate
_The same_ 126
Aeneas Piccolomini sent by Frederick III. to Pope Eugenius IV.
_The same_ 128
A Group of Men, Detail from Fresco IX. _The same_ 132
Aeneas Piccolomini elected Pope under the name of Pius II.
_The same_ 134
Pope Pius II. at Ancona _The same_ 136
The Madonna and Child, with St. John. (From the
large _ancona_) _Perugia Gallery_ 140
The Madonna and Child, with Angels and a Donor
_Duomo, San Severino_ 142
The Madonna and Child _National Gallery, London_ 146
St. Augustine, St. Benedict, and St. Bernard, from
the Reliquary _Berlin Gallery_ 148
The Christ-Child and St John the Baptist. (From
the Holy Family) _Siena Gallery_ 148
Christ bearing the Cross _Pal. Borromeo, Milan_ 150
BIBLIOGRAPHY
VASARI. Ed. G. C. Sansoni. Firenze, 1878.
CROWE AND CAVALCASELLE. "History of Painting in Italy." 1866.
VERMIGLIOLI. "Memorie di Pinturicchio." Perugia, 1837.
EHRLE AND STEVENSON. "Gli affreschi del Pinturicchio nell'
Appartamento, Borgia." 1897.
A. SCHMARSOW. "Raphael und Pinturicchio in Siena." Stuttgart, 1880.
A. SCHMARSOW. "Pinturicchio in Rom." Stuttgart, 1882.
E. STEINMANN. "Pinturicchio," No. 37, Knackfuss Series. 1898.
B. BERENSON. "Central Italian Painters of the Renaissance." 1897.
DEAN KITCHIN. "History of Pius II."
GREGOROVIUS. "History of the City of Rome in the Middle Ages."
BIAGIO.
|
BENEDETTO.
|
BERNARDINO,
Painter, called Il Pintoricchio,
_b. circa_ 1454; _d._ 1513;
_m._ Grania, daughter of Niccolo of Modena or Bologna
|
+-----------+---------+----------+-------------+----------+
| | | | | |
GIULIO CAMILLO, FAUSTINA EGIDIA, FAUSTINA, ADRIANA,
CESARE, _b._ 1509 GIROLAMA, or GILIA, _m._ _d._ 1519;
_b._ 1506 in Siena. _b._ 1510 _m._ Filippodi _m._
in Siena. in Siena. Girolamo di Guiseppe
di Paolo, Paolo da
a Perugian, of Giovanni
called Il Deruta. of
Paffo, Perugia
soldier
of the
Piazza
in Siena.
(From MILANESI'S _Appendix to Vasari_.)
PINTORICCHIO
CHAPTER I
BIOGRAPHICAL
Pintoricchio is not one of the most famous painters of the Italian
Renaissance, and perhaps no painter who has left us such a mass of work,
and work of such interest, has attracted so little criticism and
inquiry. From the time of Vasari's slighting biography onwards, he has
been included among minor painters and passed over with very superficial
examination. No separate life of him in English exists, no attempt has
been made to consider his work in anything like exhaustive detail, or to
define his charm. It would be idle to claim for him a place in the first
rank: some may question his right to stand in the second; in some of the
greatest essentials he will not pass muster--yet charm he does possess,
qualities whose fascination draws those who are open to it back to him
again and again with fresh pleasure; and for this, and because he
presents us with so true a type of the Umbrian painter of the
Renaissance, it is worth while trying to unravel his history.
Before we try to disentangle the origin of his art, before we compare
his different periods and examine the paintings he has left us, we must
make some attempt to arrive at his personality, to see the man as he
was, to gain what clue we may, by this means, to the work in which his
life was spent.
Nothing can be more meagre than the few hints we have of his origin and
early history, and yet we can probably construct a pretty correct
outline of their chief features. Vermiglioli in 1837 made a careful
examination of the archives of Perugia and Siena, and was the first to
endeavour to rehabilitate the artist, and to re-awaken that public
interest which was so liberally bestowed on him in his lifetime. He was
born at Perugia about 1454, if we are to believe Vasari, who tells us
that when he died in 1513 he was in his fifty-ninth year. His father was
one Benedetto or Benedecto, and he was christened Bernardino Benedetto
(afterwards shortened to Betto or Betti). The famous saint, Bernardino
of Siena, had died ten years earlier and was canonised in 1550. During
his last years his preaching had made a great sensation in Perugia, and
no doubt numbers of children born at this time were dedicated to him. A
document of 1502 exists at Siena,[1] in which Pintoricchio is styled the
son of Benedetto di Biagio, so that we thus learn the bare names of his
father and grandfather. We have no means of knowing their standing, but
the entire absence of any mention of relatives or inheritance makes it
probable that he came of poor people, and was not blessed with any close
family ties. We know nothing of what was the childhood of the "little
painter," only the nickname of "il sordicchio," the deaf one, suggests
that this infirmity may have been one reason why he was dedicated to an
artist's career; but the deafness could hardly have been very
remarkable, as it is never alluded to otherwise, nor does it appear to
have hampered Bernardino's intercourse with the world. There is a faint
tradition[2] that his home was near the Porto San Christoforo, which,
while hardly worth notice, indicates that his youth was passed in
Perugia.
[1] _Archivio dei Contratti._ Vasari, iii. p. 513, note I._e._
[2] Vermiglioli, p. 8.
From the tendencies which all his life clung about his work, we surmise
that he began his artistic career under one of the miniature painters
who then flourished in Perugia. Vermiglioli refers to a series of
miniature paintings belonging to his family, which Orsini, in his
researches into the history of Umbrian painting, had already mentioned
as resembling Pintoricchio's work, especially in the use made of
architecture. At the time he was growing up there was a flourishing
college of miniaturists in Perugia, which had reconstructed its statutes
in 1436.
Vasari thus comments upon Bernardino: "Some are helped by fortune,
without being much endowed by merit;... one knows that Fortune has sons
who depend on her help without any virtue of their own, and she is
pleased that they should owe their exaltation to her favour, when they
would never have been known for their own merit."[3] But Vasari
evidently knew nothing of the good or bad fortune of Pintoricchio's
early days, and was merely balancing his own estimate of the artist
against the consideration he received in later years.
[3] Vasari, iii. p. 493.
Natural bent and circumstance combined to form Bernardino Betti into an
Umbrian of the Umbrians, placing him on the less powerful but more
indigenous side of the sharply-divided line which ran through the
artistic life of the country. There is sufficient suggestion of
Benedetto Bonfigli in some of his work, to make it probable that he
joined the school which Bonfigli had established in Perugia in the early
part of the fifteenth century. Vasari speaks of him as an assistant and
friend of the older master. Here he would have been brought into close
contact with Fiorenzo di Lorenzo, who must have been considerably the
senior of Pintoricchio, as he was undertaking important commissions as
early as 1472.[4] It is this master whose influence is most strongly
stamped upon him. Afterwards, as we shall see, he constantly transferred
figures from Fiorenzo's panels to his own, while in the older man's
compositions we can pick out others which have more of Pintoricchio than
Fiorenzo; but the latter, though full of originality and attraction as
he is, never advances beyond a certain point, and always retains
something of the archaic.
[4] Crowe and Cavalcaselle, iii. 153.
It is in 1482 that Bernardino first emerges from the realm of
conjecture, and appears, forming part of that brilliant group which was
gathered together in Rome to decorate the walls of Sixtus IV.'s
newly-built chapel.
Already he may have been confused in Umbria with the very inferior
master, Bernardino Mariotto of Perugia, who lived for many years at San
Severino, where he had a school in the monastery of the old town. His
paintings have often been assigned to his contemporary, and this is
very likely the reason that the latter always signs and calls himself
Pintoricchio. While he endeavoured to guard against being credited with
works he had not produced, he has been robbed of those really due to
him. It is strange indeed that for several centuries the part he took in
such a great work as the Sixtine Chapel should have been ignored, for it
was the success of these frescoes which sufficed to establish his fame
in Rome, and for some years after this we find him in full employment
there. The chapel was completed in 1485, but Pintoricchio's part was
probably finished earlier, and it is at this time that most critics
concur in placing his work in the church of Ara Coeli. He had
commended himself to the patronage and friendship of Domenico della
Rovere, brother of Pope Sixtus, and was a guest at his house in the
Palazzo di SS. Apostoli, where he painted a decoration, and he was also
employed at this time in the Palazzo Colonna. In the two following
years, Pintoricchio was employed in the Belvedere of the Vatican by Pope
Innocent VIII. He painted there the series of pictures of towns owning
the papal sway, which Taja mentions as existing, though in a much
injured condition, in 1750, and which was repainted under Pius VII.[5]
In the years immediately following he was decorating the chapels in
Santa Maria del Popolo, doing much with his own hand, but already
employing assistants and superintending their share.
[5] Vasari, iii. p. 498, note "Milanesi."
A document in the archives of the cathedral at Orvieto, as to which
Vasari knew nothing, or was silent, dated 1492, informs us of an
agreement made with the chapter to paint two evangelists and two
Fathers in the cathedral. The price was to be a hundred ducats. There
was a good deal of coming and going between Rome and Orvieto, and in
that year he was paid fifty ducats for the portion of work done, and
also began a small picture in the tribune, but fell into a violent
quarrel with the ecclesiastics, who averred that the first part of the
work was not painted according to agreement. Their real objection seems
to have been that they were getting frightened at the quantity of gold
and ultramarine employed, which was more than the chapter could afford.
There was some talk of taking the work from him, and it was certainly
interrupted for a time.[6] He was probably very willing to return to
Rome, for a third Pope was now providing him with work,--no less a
personage than Alexander VI., who, as Cardinal Borgia, had already given
great encouragement to the artist in Rome, and who now entrusted
Pintoricchio with the decoration of his private apartments. The quarrel
with the monks at Orvieto must, however, have been made up, and he
returned to finish their transept, for we find Pope Alexander writing to
the Orvietans in March 1494 to beg that they will release Pintoricchio
and let him come back to Rome to finish what he had begun in the Borgia
rooms.
[6] Della Valle. _Storia del duomo d'Orvieto._
In this year the Pope remunerated him by adding to the money paid in the
contracts a grant of an ample piece of land, situated at Chiugi near
Perugia, at an annual rent of thirty baskets of grain.[7] The Borgia
rooms could but just have been completed when, in January 1495, the Pope
was driven to take refuge from the French king's invasion of his city in
the fortified castle of Sant' Angelo. His court painter would naturally
have gone with him, and when the Pope fled to Orvieto and Perugia in the
summer of 1495, Pintoricchio went homewards in his train. In the next
few months, an altar-piece for the monks of the monastery of Santa Maria
degli Angeli must have been under discussion; for in February 1496 the
contract was signed for the great polyptych now in the Gallery at
Perugia. The fulfilment of this contract had to await the master's
leisure; for a month later, on March 15th, he signs a fresh contract
with the Orvietans for two Fathers of the church to be painted in the
great chapel over the principal altar. He was to receive fifty ducats,
six quarters of grain, such wine as might be necessary, and to have the
use of a house, besides what gold and ultramarine he might require. The
archives of the cathedral contain minute records of every payment made,
and on the 15th November of that year he received the last
instalment.[8] The documents contain allusions to other paintings by
him, but the only traces that remain are a St. Gregory, a prophet, and
two angels which have some likeness to his school or his followers.
[7] _Archives of Perugia_, vol. viii. ter.
[8] Della Valle. _Storia del duomo d'Orvieto._
In 1497 we have a deed, issued October 24th, commuting the tax levied
upon the painter's grant of land. In this is recited and set forth
Pintoricchio's complaint that the tax is too heavy, and that it swallows
up all the revenues. The claim is admitted to be well founded on the
part of "a faithful and devoted servant of Alexander and the Church, to
whom a recompense is due for his art in painting and adorning the
apostolic palace and our residence in arc castri Angeli." Instead of the
grain, a yearly tax of two pounds of white wax was adjudged on July
28th, to be paid on the Feast of the Assumption, for two years, by
decree of the Cardinal Camerlengo.[9] A further endorsement shows that
the municipal authorities were inclined to ignore the papal decree; but
a third brief, in May 1498, confirms the tenure of the land and
tenements, and in February 1499 the first commutation is extended for a
further term. After all these gracious concessions, it is surprising to
find the tax-gatherers in the same year again trying to exact the
condoned thirty baskets. Pintoricchio once more appealed to the Pontiff,
with whom he was in high favour, and Alexander ordered that restitution
should be made in effects or money, according to the price at which
grain was valued on the Piazza in Perugia on the first Saturday in
August; and in September we find Pintoricchio receiving of the
vice-treasurer, Bonifazio Coppi, eighty florins in return for the tax
extorted in opposition to the papal behest.[10]
[9] Vermiglioli, App. pp. viii. and x.
[10] Mariotti, p. 131.
While this interesting decision was in the balance, Bernardino was once
more in Rome, and able to plead his own cause, for about July 1497 he
was recalled there, and spent a year frescoing the castle of Sant'
Angelo for the Pope, but in the following year he was back at home, and
finished the polyptych for Santa Maria dei Fossi. Probably about this
time he married, and he may also have visited Spoleto, besides
producing a good many panel paintings, for no very definite work can be
assigned to these years in Perugia. He was very naturally engrossed with
his new wife, and busy with his little property, and not undertaking any
important commissions.
In October of the following year, Caesar Borgia, son of the painter's
great patron, was encamped at Deruta, the little town that lies out
among the hills, a few miles west of Perugia. Pintoricchio visited him
here while he was resting after his campaign in the Romagna, and
obtained an order desiring the vice-treasurer to get permission for him
to sink a cistern in his house in Perugia. What interests us even more
than this domestic detail is Caesar's statement that he has "again" taken
into his service Bernardino Pintoricchio of Perosa, whom he always loved
because of his talents and gifts, and he desires that in all things he
shall be treated "as one of ours."[11] Caesar's expression that he had
"again" taken him into his service, suggests that he had not quite
recently been retained by the Pope.
[11] _Conestabile Archives._
Very soon after his visit to the Borgia's camp, he was in treaty with
the Cardinal of Spello, thirteen miles from Perugia, to decorate the
chapel of his House; but before leaving home he was elected Decemvir of
the city, a proof of how high he stood in repute among his
fellow-citizens. It could only have been an honorary distinction, for
his work in Spello must have taken all his remaining time in Umbria to
accomplish. One short visit he was to pay to his own province, but
early in 1502 the summons reached him which changed the course of his
life. Cardinal Francesco Piccolomini made him the offer which caused him
to move to Siena and begin one of his most important undertakings.
Siena is a long journey from Perugia across the hills and plains that
lie around Lake Thrasymene, past Chiugi, and so through the breadth of
Italy. It brought the painter into new surroundings, and took him quite
out of the beaten track. The long and elaborate contract between the
Cardinal and the painter must have taken no little time to discuss and
agree upon, but it was finished and signed June 29, 1502. During the
following autumn and winter, he made his preparations, gathered his
workmen and assistants together, and by the spring of | 1,980.001763 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[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 | 1,980.504116 |
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(http://mormontextsproject.org), with thanks to Christopher
Dunn for proofreading.
THE
BIBLE & POLYGAMY.
DOES THE BIBLE SANCTION POLYGAMY?
A DISCUSSION
BETWEEN
PROFESSOR ORSON PRATT,
One of the Twelve Apostles of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day
Saints,
AND
REV. DOCTOR J. P. NEWMAN,
Chaplain of the United States Senate,
IN THE NEW TABERNACLE, SALT LAKE CITY,
August 12, 13, and 14, 1870.
TO WHICH IS ADDED
THREE SERMONS ON THE SAME SUBJECT,
BY
PREST. GEORGE A. SMITH,
AND
ELDERS ORSON PRATT AND GEORGE Q. CANNON,
SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH,
1874.
CORRESPONDENCE
BETWEEN
REVEREND DR. J. P. NEWMAN,
Pastor of the Metropolitan Methodist Church, Washington, D. C.,
AND
BRIGHAM YOUNG,
President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
-----
Salt Lake City, Aug. 6th, 1870.
TO PRESIDENT BRIGHAM YOUNG:
Sir:--In acceptance of the challenge given in your journal, "The Salt
Lake Daily Telegraph," of the 3rd of May last, to discuss the question,
"Does the Bible sanction polygamy?" I have hereby to inform you that I
am now ready to hold a public debate with you as the head of the Mormon
Church upon the above question, under such regulations as may be agreed
upon for said discussion; and I suggest for our mutual convenience
that, either by yourself or by two gentlemen whom you shall designate,
you may meet two gentlemen whom I will select for the purpose of making
all necessary arrangements for the debate, with as little delay as
possible. May I hope for a reply at your earliest convenience, and at
least not later than 3 o'clock to-day?
Respectfully, etc.,
J. P. NEWMAN.
-----
Salt Lake City, U. T., Aug. 6th, 1870.
REV. DR. J. P. NEWMAN:
Sir:--Yours of even date has just been received, in answer to which I
have to inform you that no challenge was ever given by me to any person
through the columns of the "Salt Lake Daily Telegraph," and this is the
| 1,980.504799 |
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Produced by Suzanne Shell, Project Gutenberg Beginners
Projects, Riikka Talonpoika, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team
LOVE AT SECOND SIGHT
by ADA LEVERSON
First published London, 1916
(Book Three of THE LITTLE OTTLEYS)
TO TACITUS
CHAPTER I
An appalling crash, piercing shrieks, a loud, unequal quarrel on a
staircase, the sharp bang of a door....
Edith started up from her restful corner on the blue sofa by the fire,
where she had been thinking about her guest, and rushed to the door.
'Archie--Archie! Come here directly! What's that noise?'
A boy of ten came calmly into the room.
'It wasn't me that made the noise,' he said, 'it was Madame Frabelle.'
His mother looked at him. He was a handsome, fair boy with clear grey
eyes that looked you straight in the face without telling you anything
at all, long eyelashes that softened, but gave a sly humour to his
glance, a round face, a very large forehead, and smooth straw-coloured
hair. Already at this early age he had the expressionless reserve of the
public school where he was to be sent, with something of the suave
superiority of the university for which he was intended. Edith thought
he inherited both of these traits from her.
* * * * *
She gazed at him, wondering, as she had often wondered, at the
impossibility of guessing, even vaguely, what was really going on behind
that large brow. And he looked back observantly, but not expressively,
at her. She was a slim, fair, pretty woman, with more vividness and
character than usually goes with her type. Like the boy, she had
long-lashed grey eyes, and _blond-cendre_ hair: her mouth and chin were
of the Burne-Jones order, and her charm, which was great but
unintentional, and generally unconscious, appealed partly to the senses
and partly to the intellect. She was essentially not one of those women
who irritate all their own sex by their power (and still more by their
fixed determination) to attract men; she was really and unusually
indifferent to general admiration. Still, that she was not a cold woman,
not incapable of passionate feeling, was obvious to any physiognomist;
the fully curved lips showed her generous and pleasure-loving
temperament, while the softly glancing, intelligent, smiling eyes spoke
fastidiousness and discrimination. Her voice was low and soft, with a
vibrating sound in it, and she laughed often and easily, being very
ready to see and enjoy the amusing side of life. But observation and
emotion alike were instinctively veiled by a quiet, reposeful manner, so
that she made herself further popular by appearing retiring. Edith
Ottley might so easily have been the centre of any group, and yet--she
was not! Women were grateful to her, and in return admitted that she was
pretty, unaffected and charming. Today she was dressed very simply in
dark blue and might have passed for Archie's elder sister.
'It isn't anything. It wasn't my fault. It was her fault. Madame
Frabelle said _she_ would teach me to take away her mandolin and use it
for a cricket bat. She needn't teach me; I know already.'
'Now, Archie, you know perfectly well you've no right to go into her
room when she isn't there.'
'How can I go in when she is there?... She won't let me. Besides, I
don't want to.'
'It isn't nice of you; you ought not to go into her room without her
permission.'
'It isn't her room; it's your room. At least, it's the spare room.'
'Have you done any harm to the mandolin?'
He paused a little, as he often did before answering, as if in absence
of mind, and then said, as though starting up from a reverie:
'Er--no. No harm.'
'Well, what have you done?'
'I can mend it,' he answered.
'Madame Frabelle has been very kind to you, Archie. I'm sorry you're not
behaving nicely to a guest in your mother's house. It isn't the act of a
gentleman.'
'Oh. Well, there are a great many things in her room, Mother; some of
them are rather jolly.'
'Go and say you're sorry, Archie. And you mustn't do it again.'
'Will it be the act of a gentleman to say I'm sorry? It'll be the act of
a story-teller, you know.'
'What! Aren't you sorry to have bothered her?'
'I'm sorry she found it out,' he said, as he turned to the door.
'These perpetual scenes and quarrels between my son and my guest are
most painful to me,' Edith said, with assumed solemnity.
He looked grave. 'Well, she needn't have quarrelled.'
'But isn't she very kind to you?'
'Yes, she isn't bad sometimes. I like it when she tells me lies about
what her husband used to do--I mean stories. She's not a bad sort.... Is
she a homeless refugette, Mother?'
'Not exactly that. She's a widow, and she's staying with us, and we must
be nice to her. Now, you won't forget again, will you?'
'Right. But I can mend it.'
'I think I'd better go up and see her,' said Edith.
Archie politely opened the door for his mother.
'I shouldn't, if I were you,' he said.
Edith slowly went back to the fire.
'Well, I'll leave her a little while, perhaps. Now do go and do
something useful.'
'What, useful? Gracious! I haven't got much more of my holidays,
Mother.'
'That's no reason why you should spend your time in worrying everybody,
and smashing the musical instruments of guests that are under
your roof.'
He looked up at the ceiling and smiled, as if pleased at this way of
putting it.
'I suppose she's very glad to have a roof to her mouth--I mean to her
head,' he hurriedly corrected. 'But, Mother, she isn't poor. She has an
amber necklace. Besides, she gave Dilly sixpence the other day for not
being frightened of a cow. If she can afford to give a little girl
sixpence for every animal she says she isn't afraid of!'...
'That only proves she's kind. And I didn't say she was poor; that's not
the point. We must be nice and considerate to anyone staying with
us--don't you see?'
He became absent-minded again for a minute.
'Well, I shouldn't be surprised if she'll be able to use it again,' he
said consolingly--'the mandolin, I mean. Besides, what's the good of it
anyway? I say, Mother, are all foreigners bad-tempered?'
'Madame Frabelle is not a foreigner.'
'I never said she was. But her husband was. He used to get into
frightful rages with her sometimes. She says he was a noble fellow. She
liked him awfully, but she says he never understood her. Do you suppose
she talked English to him?'
'That's enough, Archie. Go and find something to do.'
As he went out he turned round again and said:
'Does father like her?'
'Why, yes, of course he does.'
'How funny!' said Archie. 'Well, I'll say I'm sorry... when I see her
again.'
Edith kissed him, a proceeding that he bore heroically. He was kissable,
but she seldom gave way to the temptation. Then she went back to the
sofa. She wanted to go on thinking about that mystery, her guest.
CHAPTER II
Madame Frabelle had arrived about a fortnight ago, with a letter of
introduction from Lady Conroy. Lady Conroy herself was a vague, amiable
Irishwoman, with a very large family of children. She and Edith, who
knew each other slightly before, had grown intimate when they met, the
previous summer, at a French watering-place. The letter asked Edith,
with urgent inconsequence, to be kind to Madame Frabelle, of whom Lady
Conroy said nothing except that she was of good family--she had been a
Miss Eglantine Pollard--and was the widow of a well-to-do French
wine merchant.
She was described as a clever, interesting woman who wished to study
English life in her native land. It did not surprise Lady Conroy in the
least that an Englishwoman should wish to study English in England; but
she was a woman who was never surprised at anything except the obvious
and the inevitable.
Edith had not had the faintest idea of asking Madame Frabelle to stay at
her very small house in Sloane Street, for which invitation, indeed,
there seemed no possible need or occasion. Yet she found herself asking
her visitor to stay for a few days until a house or a hotel should be
found; and Bruce, who detested guests in the house, seconded the
invitation with warmth and enthusiasm. As Bruce was a subconscious snob,
he may have been slightly influenced by the letter from Lady Conroy, who
was the wife of an unprominent Cabinet Minister and, in a casual way,
rather _grande dame_, if not exactly smart. But this consideration could
not weigh with Edith, and its effect on Bruce must have long passed
away. Madame Frabelle accepted the invitation as a matter of course,
made use of it as a matter of convenience, and had remained ever since,
showing no sign of leaving. Edith was deeply interested in her.
* * * * *
And Bruce was more genuinely impressed and unconsciously bored by Madame
Frabelle than by any woman he had ever met. Yet she was not at all
extraordinary. She was a tall woman of about fifty, well bred without
being distinguished, who could never have been handsome but was
graceful, dignified, and pleasing. She was neither dark nor fair. She
had a broad, good-natured face, and a pale, clear complexion. She was
inclined to be fat; not locally, in the manner of a pincushion, but with
the generally diffused plumpness described in shops as stock size. She
was not the sort of modern woman of fifty, with a thin figure and a good
deal of rouge, who looks young from the back when dancing or walking,
and talks volubly and confidentially of her young men. She had, of
course, nothing of the middle-aged woman of the past, who at her age
would have been definitely on the shelf, doing wool-work or collecting
recipes there. Nor did she resemble the strong-minded type in perpetual
tailor-made clothes, with short grey hair and eye-glasses, who belongs
to clubs and talks chiefly of the franchise. Madame Frabelle was soft,
womanly, amiable, yet extremely outspoken, very firm, and inclined to
lay down the law. She was certainly charming, as Bruce and Edith agreed
every day (even now, when they were beginning to wonder when she was
going away!). She had an extraordinary amount of personal magnetism,
since she convinced both the Ottleys, as she had convinced Lady Conroy,
that she was wonderfully clever: in fact, that she knew everything.
A fortnight had passed, and Edith was beginning to grow doubtful. Was
she so clever? Did she know everything? Did she know anything at all?
Long arguments, that grew quite heated and excited at luncheon or
dinner, about the origin of a word, the author of a book, and various
debatable questions of the kind, invariably ended, after reference to a
dictionary or an encyclopaedia, in Madame Frabelle proving herself, with
an air of triumph, to be completely and entirely wrong. She was as
generally positive as she was fatally mistaken. Yet so intense a belief
had she in her intuition as well as in her own inaccurate information
that her hypnotised hosts were growing daily more and more under her
thumb. She took it for granted that everyone would take her for
granted--and everyone did.
Was all this agreeable or otherwise? Edith thought it must be, or how
could they bear it at all? If it had not been extremely pleasant it
would have been simply impossible.
The fair, gentle, pretty Edith, who was more subtle than she appeared on
the surface, while apparently indolent, had a very active brain. Madame
Frabelle caused her to use it more than she had ever done before. Edith
was intensely curious and until she understood her visitor she could not
rest satisfied. She made her a psychological study.
For example, here was a curious little point. Madame Frabelle did not
look young for her age, nor did she seem in the least inclined to wish
to be admired, nor ever to have been a flirt. The word 'fast', for
example, would have been quite grotesque as associated with her, though
she was by no means prudish as to subjects of conversation, nor prim in
the middle-class way. Yet somehow it would not have seemed incongruous
or surprising if one had found out that there was even now some romance
in her life. But, doubtless, the most striking thing about her--and what
made her popular--was her intense interest in other people. It went so
far as to reach the very verge of being interference; but she was so
pleasant that one could scarcely resent it either as curiosity or
intrusion. Since she had stayed with the Ottleys, she appeared to think
of no-one and nothing else in the world. One would think that no-one
else existed for her. And, after all, such extreme interest is
flattering. Bruce, Archie, Edith, even Dilly's nurse, all had, in her,
an audience: interested, absorbed, enchanted. Who could help
enjoying it?
* * * * *
Edith was still thinking about Madame Frabelle when a few minutes later,
Bruce came in.
Bruce also was fair, besides being tall, good-looking and well built.
Known by their friends for some reason as the little Ottleys, these two
were a rather fine-looking pair, and (at a casual glance) admirably
suited to one another. They appeared to be exactly like thousands of
other English married couples of the upper middle class between thirty
and forty; he looked as manly (through being sunburnt from knocking a
little ball over the links) as if he habitually went tiger-shooting;
but, though not without charm, he had much less distinction than his
wife. Most people smiled when Bruce's name was mentioned, and it was
usual for his intimates to clap him on the back and call him a silly
ass, which proves he was not unpopular. On the other hand, Edith was
described as a very pretty woman, or a nice little thing, and by the
more discriminating, jolly clever when you know her, and don't you
forget it.
When Bruce told his wife that no-one had ever regretted consulting him
on a difficult, secret, and delicate matter, Edith had said she was
quite sure they hadn't. Perhaps she thought no-one had ever regretted
consulting him on such a subject, simply because no-one had ever tried.
'Oh, please don't move, Edith,' he said, in the tone which means, 'Oh,
please do move.' 'I like to see you comfortable.'
There was something in his manner that made her feel apologetic, and she
changed her position with the feeling of guilt about nothing, and a
tinge of shame for something she hadn't done, easily produced by an air
of self-sacrifice Bruce was apt to show at such moments.
'Your hair's coming down, Edith,' he said kindly, to add to her vague
embarrassment.
As a matter of fact, a curl by the right ear was only about one-tenth of
an inch farther on the cheek than it was intended to be But, by this
observation, he got the advantage of her by giving the impression that
she looked wild, unkempt, and ruffled, though she was, in reality,
exactly as trim and neat as always.
'Well--about the delicate matter you were going to talk over with me,
Bruce?'
'Oh yes. Oh, by the way,' he said, 'before we go into that, I wonder if
you could help me about something? You could do me a really great
service by helping me to find a certain book.'
'Why, of course, Bruce, with pleasure. What is the book?' asked the
amiable wife, looking alert.
Bruce looked at her with pity.
'What is the book? My dear Edith, don't you see I shouldn't have come to
you about it if I knew what the book was.'
'I beg your pardon, Bruce,' said Edith, now feeling thoroughly in the
wrong, and looking round the room. 'But if you can't give me the name of
the book I scarcely see how I can find it.'
'And if I knew its name I shouldn't want your assistance.'
It seemed a deadlock.
Going to the bookcase, Edith said:
'Can't you give me some idea of what it's like?'
'Certainly I can. I've seen it a hundred times in this very room; in
fact it's always here, except when it's wanted.'
Edith went down on her knees in front of the bookcase and
cross-questioned Bruce on the physiognomy of the volume. She asked
whether it was a novel, whether it was blue, whether it belonged to the
library, whether it was Stevenson, whether it was French, or if it was
suitable for the children.
To all of these questions he returned a negative.
'Suitable for the children?' he repeated. 'What a fantastic idea! Do you
think I should take all this trouble to come and request your assistance
and spend hours of valuable time looking for a book that's suitable for
the children?'
'But, Bruce, if you request my assistance without having the slightest
idea of what book it is, how shall I possibly be able to help?'
'Quite so... quite so. Never mind, Edith, don't trouble. If I say that
it's a pity there isn't more order in the house you won't regard it, I
hope, dear, as a reproach in any way. If there were a place for
everything, and everything in its place-- | 1,980.505086 |
2023-11-16 18:50:04.6792270 | 333 | 42 |
Produced by Ted Garvin and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
BOHN’S CLASSICAL LIBRARY
DIOGENES LAËRTIUS
G. BELL AND SONS, LTD.
LONDON: PORTUGAL ST., KINGSWAY
CAMBRIDGE: DEIGHTON, BELL AND CO.
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN CO.
BOMBAY: A. H. WHEELER AND CO.
THE LIVES AND OPINIONS OF
EMINENT PHILOSOPHERS
BY
DIOGENES LAËRTIUS.
LITERALLY TRANSLATED
BY C. D. YONGE, M.A.,
_Fellow of the Royal University of London;
Regius Professor of English Literature and Modern
History, Queen’s College, Belfast._
[Illustration]
LONDON
G. BELL AND SONS, LTD
1915
[_Reprinted from Stereotype plates._]
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
PREFACE 1
BOOK I.
INTRODUCTION 3
THALES 14
SOLON 23
CHILO 32
PITTACUS 35
BIAS 38
CLEOBULUS 41
PERIANDER 43
ANACHARSIS, THE SCYTHIAN 46
MYSON 49
EP | 1,980.699267 |
2023-11-16 18:50:04.6803050 | 7,089 | 40 |
Produced by David Widger
YOU NEVER KNOW YOUR LUCK
[BEING THE STORY OF A MATRIMONIAL DESERTER]
By Gilbert Parker
CONTENTS:
Volume 1.
PROEM
I. "PIONEERS, O PIONEERS"
II. CLOSING THE DOORS
III. THE LOGAN TRIAL AND WHAT CAME OF IT
IV. "STRENGTH SHALL BE GIVEN THEE"
V. A STORY TO BE TOLD
Volume 2.
VI. "HERE ENDETH THE FIRST LESSON"
VII. A WOMAN'S WAY TO KNOWLEDGE
VIII. ALL ABOUT AN UNOPENED LETTER
IX. NIGHT SHADE AND MORNING GLORY
X. "S. O. S."
XI. IN THE CAMP OF THE DESERTER
Volume 3.
XII. AT THE RECEIPT OF CUSTOM
XIII. KITTY SPEAKS HER MIND AGAIN
XIV. AWAITING THE VERDICT
XV. "MALE AND FEMALE CREATED HE THEM"
XVI. "'TWAS FOR YOUR PLEASURE YOU CAME HERE, YOU GO BACK FOR MINE"
XVII. WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT IT?
EPILOGUE
INTRODUCTION
This volume contains two novels dealing with the life of prairie people
in the town of Askatoon in the far West. 'The World for Sale' and the
latter portion of 'The Money Master' deal with the same life, and 'The
Money Master' contained some of the characters to be found in 'Wild
Youth'. 'The World for Sale' also was a picture of prairie country with
strife between a modern Anglo-Canadian town and a French-Canadian town
in the West. These books are of the same people; but 'You Never
Know Your Luck' and 'Wild Youth' have several characters which move
prominently through both.
In the introduction to 'The World for Sale' in this series, I drew a
description of prairie life, and I need not repeat what was said there.
'In You Never Know Your Luck' there is a Proem which describes briefly
the look of the prairie and suggests characteristics of the life of
the people. The basis of the book has a letter written by a wife to her
husband at a critical time in his career when he had broken his promise
to her. One or two critics said the situation is impossible, because no
man would carry a letter unopened for a long number of years. My reply
is: that it is exactly what I myself did. I have still a letter written
to me which was delivered at my door sixteen years ago. I have never
read it, and my reason for not reading it was that I realised, as I
think, what its contents were. I knew that the letter would annoy, and
there it lies. The writer of the letter who was then my enemy is now my
friend. The chief character in the book, Crozier, was an Irishman, with
all the Irishman's cleverness, sensitiveness, audacity, and timidity;
for both those latter qualities are characteristic of the Irish race,
and as I am half Irish I can understand why I suppressed a letter and
why Crozier did. Crozier is the type of man that comes occasionally to
the Dominion of Canada; and Kitty Tynan is the sort of girl that the
great West breeds. She did an immoral thing in opening the letter that
Crozier had suppressed, but she did it in a good cause--for Crozier's
sake; she made his wife write another letter, and she placed it again
in the envelope for Crozier to open and see. Whatever lack of morality
there was in her act was balanced by the good end to the story, though
it meant the sacrifice of Kitty's love for Crozier, and the making of
his wife happy once more.
As for 'Wild Youth' I make no apology for it. It is still fresh in the
minds of the American public, and it is true to the life. Some critics
frankly called it melodramatic. I do not object to the term. I know
nothing more melodramatic than certain of the plots of Shakespeare's
plays. Thomas Hardy is melodramatic; Joseph Conrad is melodramatic;
Balzac was melodramatic, and so were Victor Hugo, Charles Dickens, and
Sir Walter Scott. The charge of melodrama is not one that should disturb
a writer of fiction. The question is, are the characters melodramatic.
Will anyone suggest to me the marriage of a girl of seventeen with a man
over sixty is melodramatic. It may be, but I think it tragical, and so
it was in this case. As for Orlando Guise, I describe the man as I knew
him, and he is still alive. Some comments upon the story suggested that
it was impossible for a man to spend the night on the prairie with a
woman whom he loved without causing her to forget her marriage vows. It
is not sentimental to say that is nonsense. It is a prurient mind that
only sees evil in a situation of the sort. Why it should be desirable to
make a young man and woman commit a misdemeanor to secure the praise of
a critic is beyond imagination. It would be easy enough to do. I did it
in The Right of Way. I did it in others of my books. What happens to one
man and one woman does not necessarily happen to another. There are men
who, for love of a woman, would not take advantage of her insecurity.
There are others who would. In my books I have made both classes do
their will, and both are true to life. It does not matter what one book
is or is not, but it does matter that an author writes his book with a
sense of the fitting and the true.
Both these books were written to present that side of life in Canada
which is not wintry and forbidding. There is warmth of summer in both
tales, and thrilling air and the beauty of the wild countryside. As for
the cold, it is severe in most parts of Canada, but the air is dry, and
the sharpness is not felt as it is in this damper climate of England.
Canadians feel the cold of a March or November day in London far more
than the cold of a day in Winnipeg, with the thermometer many degrees
below zero. Both these books present the summer side of Canada, which is
as delightful as that of any climate in the world; both show the modern
western life which is greatly changed since the days when Pierre
roamed the very fields where these tales take place. It should never
be forgotten that British Columbia has a climate like that of England,
where, on the Coast, it is never colder than here, and where there is
rain instead of snow in winter.
There is much humour and good nature in the West, and this also I tried
to bring out in these two books; and Askatoon is as cosmopolitan as
London. Canada in the West has all races, and it was consistent of me to
give a Chinaman of noble birth a part to play in the tragicomedy. I
have a great respect for the Chinaman, and he is a good servant and a
faithful friend. Such a Chinaman as Li Choo I knew in British Columbia,
and all I did was to throw him on the Eastern side of the Rockies, a few
miles from the border of the farthest Western province. The Chinaman's
death was faithful in its detail, and it was true to his nature. He had
to die, and with the old pagan philosophy, still practised in China
and Japan, he chose the better way, to his mind. Princes still destroy
themselves in old Japan, as recent history proves.
YOU NEVER KNOW YOUR LUCK
PROEM
Have you ever seen it in reaping-time? A sea of gold it is, with gentle
billows telling of sleep and not of storm, which, like regiments afoot,
salute the reaper and say, "All is fulfilled in the light of the sun and
the way of the earth; let the sharp knife fall." The countless million
heads are heavy with fruition, and sun glorifies and breeze cradles
them to the hour of harvest. The air-like the tingle of water from a
mountain-spring in the throat of the worn wayfarer, bringing a sense of
the dust of the world flushed away.
Arcady? Look closely. Like islands in the shining yellow sea, are
houses--sometimes in a clump of trees, sometimes only like bare-backed
domesticity or naked industry in the workfield. Also rising here and
there in the expanse, clouds that wind skyward, spreading out in a
powdery mist. They look like the rolling smoke of incense, of sacrifice.
Sacrifice it is. The vast steam-threshers are mightily devouring what
their servants, the monster steam-reapers, have gleaned for them. Soon,
when September comes, all that waving sea will be still. What was gold
will still be a rusted gold, but near to the earth-the stubble of the
corn now lying in vast garners by the railway lines, awaiting transport
east and west and south and across the seas.
Not Arcady this, but a land of industry in the grip of industrialists,
whose determination to achieve riches is, in spite of themselves,
chastened by the magnitude and orderly process of nature's travail which
is not pain. Here Nature hides her internal striving under a smother of
white for many months in every year, when what is now gold in the sun
will be a soft--sometimes, too, a hard-shining coverlet like impacted
wool. Then, instead of the majestic clouds of incense from the
threshers, will rise blue spiral wreaths of smoke from the lonely home.
There the farmer rests till spring, comforting himself in the thought
that while he waits, far under the snow the wheat is slowly expanding;
and as in April, the white frost flies out of the soil into the sun, it
will push upward and outward, green and vigorous, greeting his eye with
the "What cheer, partner!" of a mate in the scheme of nature.
Not Arcady; and yet many of the joys of Arcady are here--bright, singing
birds, wide adventurous rivers, innumerable streams, the squirrel in the
wood and the bracken, the wildcat stealing through the undergrowth,
the lizard glittering by the stone, the fish leaping in the stream, the
plaint of the whippoorwill, the call of the bluebird, the golden flash
of the oriole, the honk of the wild geese overhead, the whirr of the
mallard from the sedge. And, more than all, a human voice declaring by
its joy in song that not only God looks upon the world and finds it very
good.
CHAPTER I. "PIONEERS, O PIONEERS"
If you had stood on the borders of Askatoon, a prairie town, on the
pathway to the Rockies one late August day not many years ago, you would
have heard a fresh young human voice singing into the morning, as its
possessor looked, from a coat she was brushing, out over the "field of
the cloth of gold," which your eye has already been invited to see.
With the gift of singing for joy at all, you should be able to sing very
joyously at twenty-two. This morning singer was just that age; and if
you had looked at the golden carpet of wheat stretching for scores of
miles, before you looked at her, you would have thought her curiously in
tone with the scene. She was a symphony in gold--nothing less. Her hair,
her cheeks, her eyes, her skin, her laugh, her voice they were all gold.
Everything about her was so demonstratively golden that you might have
had a suspicion it was made and not born; as though it was unreal, and
the girl herself a proper subject of suspicion. The eyelashes were so
long and so black, the eyes were so topaz, the hair was so like such a
cloud of gold as would be found on Joan of Are as seen by a mediaeval
painter, that an air of faint artificiality surrounded what was in every
other way a remarkable effort of nature to give this region, where she
was so very busy, a keynote.
Poseurs have said that nature is garish or exaggerated more often than
not; but it is a libel. She is aristocratic to the nth degree, and
is never over done; courage she has, but no ostentation. There was,
however, just a slight touch of over-emphasis in this singing-girl's
presentation--that you were bound to say, if you considered her
quite apart from her place in this nature-scheme. She was not wholly
aristocratic; she was lacking in that high, social refinement which
would have made her gold not so golden, her black eyelashes not so
black. Being unaristocratic is not always a matter of birth, though it
may be a matter of parentage.
Her parentage was honest and respectable and not exalted. Her father had
been an engineer, who had lost his life on a new railway of the West.
His widow had received a pension from the company insufficient to
maintain her, and so she kept boarders, the coat of one of whom her
daughter was now brushing as she sang. The widow herself was the origin
of the girl's slight disqualification for being of that higher circle of
selection which nature arranges long before society makes its judicial
decision. The father had been a man of high intelligence, which his
daughter to a real degree inherited; but the mother, as kind a soul
as ever lived, was a product of southern English rural life--a little
sumptuous, but wholesome, and for her daughter's sake at least, keeping
herself well and safely within the moral pale in the midst of marked
temptations. She was forty-five, and it said a good deal for her ample
but proper graces that at forty-five she had numerous admirers. The girl
was English in appearance, with a touch perhaps of Spanish--why, who
can say? Was it because of those Spanish hidalgoes wrecked on the Irish
coast long since? Her mind and her tongue, however, were Irish like her
father's. You would have liked her, everybody did,--yet you would have
thought that nature had failed in self-confidence for once, she was so
pointedly designed to express the ancient dame's colour-scheme, even to
the delicate auriferous down on her youthful cheek and the purse-proud
look of her faintly retrousse nose; though in fact she never had had a
purse and scarcely needed one. In any case she had an ample pocket in
her dress.
This fairly full description of her is given not because she is the most
important person in the story, but because the end of the story would
have been entirely different had it not been for her; and because she
herself was one of those who are so much the sport of circumstances or
chance that they express the full meaning of the title of this story.
As a line beneath the title explains, the tale concerns a matrimonial
deserter. Certainly this girl had never deserted matrimony, though she
had on more than one occasion avoided it; and there had been men mean
and low enough to imagine they might allure her to the conditions of
matrimony without its status.
As with her mother the advertisement of her appearance was wholly
misleading. A man had once said to her that "she looked too gay to be
good," but in all essentials she was as good as she was gay, and indeed
rather better. Her mother had not kept boarders for seven years without
getting some useful knowledge of the world, or without imparting useful
knowledge; and there were men who, having paid their bills on demand,
turned from her wiser if not better men. Because they had pursued the
old but inglorious profession of hunting tame things, Mrs. Tyndall Tynan
had exacted compensation in one way or another--by extras, by occasional
and deliberate omission of table luxuries, and by making them pay for
their own mending, which she herself only did when her boarders behaved
themselves well. She scored in any contest--in spite of her rather small
brain, large heart, and ardent appearance. A very clever, shiftless
Irish husband had made her develop shrewdness, and she was so busy
watching and fending her daughter that she did not need to watch and
fend herself to the same extent as she would have done had she been free
and childless and thirty. The widow Tynan was practical, and she saw
none of those things which made her daughter stand for minutes at a time
and look into the distance over the prairie towards the sunset light or
the grey-blue foothills. She never sang--she had never sung a note in
her life; but this girl of hers, with a man's coat in her hand, and eyes
on the joyous scene before her, was for ever humming or singing. She
had even sung in the church choir till she declined to do so any longer,
because strangers stared at her so; which goes to show that she was not
so vain as people of her colouring sometimes are. It was just as bad,
however, when she sat in the congregation; for then, too, if she sang,
people stared at her. So it was that she seldom went to church at all;
but it was not because of this that her ideas of right and wrong were
quite individual and not conventional, as the tale of the matrimonial
deserter will show.
This was not church, however, and briskly applying a light whisk-broom
to the coat, she hummed one of the songs her father taught her when
he was in his buoyant or in his sentimental moods, and that was a fair
proportion of the time. It used to perplex her the thrilling buoyancy
and the creepy melancholy which alternately mastered her father; but as
a child she had become so inured to it that she was not surprised at the
alternate pensive gaiety and the blazing exhilaration of the particular
man whose coat she now dusted long after there remained a speck of dust
upon it. This was the song she sang:
"Whereaway, whereaway goes the lad that once was mine?
Hereaway I waited him, hereaway and oft;
When I sang my song to him, bright his eyes began to shine--
Hereaway I loved him well, for my heart was soft.
"Hereaway my heart was soft; when he kissed my happy eyes,
Held my hand, and pressed his cheek warm against my brow,
Home I saw upon the earth, heaven stood there in the skies--
'Whereaway, whereaway goes my lover now?'"
"Whereaway goes my lad--tell me, has he gone alone?
Never harsh word did I speak, never hurt I gave;
Strong he was and beautiful; like a heron he has flown--
Hereaway, hereaway will I make my grave.
"When once more the lad I loved hereaway, hereaway,
Comes to lay his hand in mine, kiss me on the brow,
I will whisper down the wind, he will weep to hear me say--
'Whereaway, whereaway goes my lover now?'"
There was a plaintive quality in the voice of this russet maiden in
perfect keeping with the music and the words; and though her lips
smiled, there was a deep, wistful look in her eyes more in harmony with
the coming autumn than with this gorgeous harvest-time.
For a moment after she had finished singing she stood motionless,
absorbed by the far horizon; then suddenly she gave a little shake of
the body and said in a brisk, playfully chiding way:
"Kitty Tynan, Kitty Tynan, what a girl you are!" There was no one near,
so far as eye could see, so it was clear that the words were addressed
to herself. She was expressing that wonder which so many people feel
at discovering in themselves long-concealed characteristics, or find
themselves doing things out of their natural orbit, as they think. If
any one had told Kitty Tynan that she had rare imagination, she would
have wondered what was meant. If anyone had said to her, "What are you
dreaming about, Kitty?" she would have understood, however, for she had
had fits of dreaming ever since she was a child, and they had increased
during the past few years--since the man came to live with them whose
coat she was brushing. Perhaps this was only imitation, because the
man had a habit of standing or sitting still and looking into space for
minutes--and on Sundays for hours--at a time; and often she had watched
him as he lay on his back in the long grass, head on a hillock, hat
down over his eyes, while the smoke from his pipe came curling up from
beneath the rim. Also she had seen him more than once sitting with a
letter before him and gazing at it for many minutes together. She had
also noted that it was the same letter on each occasion; that it was a
closed letter, and also that it was unstamped. She knew that, because
she had seen it in his desk--the desk once belonging to her father, a
sloping thing with a green-baize top. Sometimes he kept it locked, but
very often he did not; and more than once, when he had asked her to get
him something from the desk, not out of meanness, but chiefly because
her moral standard had not a multitude of delicate punctilios, she
had examined the envelope curiously. The envelope bore a woman's
handwriting, and the name on it was not that of the man who owned the
coat--and the letter. The name on the envelope was Shiel Crozier, but
the name of the man who owned the coat was J. G. Kerry--James Gathorne
Kerry, so he said.
Kitty Tynan had certainly enough imagination to make her cherish a
mystery. She wondered greatly what it all meant. Never in anything else
had she been inquisitive or prying where the man was concerned; but
she felt that this letter had the heart of a story, and she had made up
fifty stories which she thought would fit the case of J. G. Kerry, who
for over four years had lived in her mother's house. He had become part
of her life, perhaps just because he was a man,--and what home is a
real home without a man?--perhaps because he always had a kind, quiet,
confidential word for her, or a word of stimulating cheerfulness;
indeed, he showed in his manner occasionally almost a boisterous
hilarity. He undoubtedly was what her mother called "a queer dick," but
also "a pippin with a perfect core," which was her way of saying that
he was a man to be trusted with herself and with her daughter; one who
would stand loyally by a friend or a woman. He had stood by them both
when Augustus Burlingame, the lawyer, who had boarded with them when
J. G. Kerry first came, coarsely exceeded the bounds of liberal
friendliness which marked the household, and by furtive attempts at
intimacy began to make life impossible for both mother and daughter.
Burlingame took it into his head, when he received notice that his rooms
were needed for another boarder, that J. G. Kerry was the cause of it.
Perhaps this was not without reason, since Kerry had seen Kitty Tynan
angrily unclasping Burlingame's arm from around her waist, and had used
cutting and decisive words to the sensualist afterwards.
There had taken the place of Augustus Burlingame a land-agent--Jesse
Bulrush--who came and went like a catapult, now in domicile for three
days together, now gone for three weeks; a voluble, gaseous, humorous
fellow, who covered up a well of commercial evasiveness, honesty and
adroitness by a perspiring gaiety natural in its origin and convenient
for harmless deceit. He was fifty, and no gallant save in words; and,
as a wary bachelor of many years' standing, it was a long time before
he showed a tendency to blandish a good-looking middle-aged nurse named
Egan who also lodged with Mrs. Tynan; though even a plain-faced nurse
in uniform has an advantage over a handsome unprofessional woman. Jesse
Bulrush and J. G. Kerry were friends--became indeed such confidential
friends to all appearance, though their social origin was evidently
so different, that Kitty Tynan, when she wished to have a pleasant
conversation which gave her a glow for hours afterwards, talked to the
fat man of his lean and aristocratic-looking friend.
"Got his head where it ought to be--on his shoulders; and it ain't
for playing football with," was the frequent remark of Mr. Bulrush
concerning Mr. Kerry. This always made Kitty Tynan want to sing, she
could not have told why, save that it seemed to her the equivalent of a
long history of the man whose past lay in mists that never lifted, and
whom even the inquisitive Burlingame had been unable to "discover" when
he lived in the same house. But then Kitty Tynan was as fond of singing
as a canary, and relieved her feelings constantly by this virtuous and
becoming means, with her good contralto voice. She was indeed a creature
of contradictions; for if ever any one should have had a soprano voice
it was she. She looked a soprano.
What she was thinking of as she sang with Kerry's coat in her hand
it would be hard to discover by the process of elimination, as the
detectives say when tracking down a criminal. It is, however, of no
consequence; but it was clear that the song she sang had moved her,
for there was the glint of a tear in her eye as she turned towards the
house, the words of the lyric singing themselves over in her brain:
"Hereaway my heart was soft; when he kissed my happy eyes,
Held my hand, and pressed his cheek warm against my brow,
Home I saw upon the hearth, heaven stood there in the skies'
Whereaway, whereaway goes my lover now?"'
She knew that no lover had left her; that none was in the habit of
laying his warm cheek against her brow; and perhaps that was why she had
said aloud to herself, "Kitty Tynan, Kitty Tynan, what a girl you are!"
Perhaps--and perhaps not.
As she stepped forward towards the door she heard a voice within the
house, and she quickened her footsteps. The blood in her face, the look
in her eye quickened also. And now a figure appeared in the doorway--a
figure in shirt-sleeves, which shook a fist at the hurrying girl.
"Villain'!" he said gaily, for he was in one of his absurd, ebullient
moods--after a long talk with Jesse Bulrush. "Hither with my coat; my
spotless coat in a spotted world,--the unbelievable anomaly--
"'For the earth of a dusty to-day
Is the dust of an earthy to-morrow.'"
When he talked like this she did not understand him, but she thought
it was clever beyond thinking--a heavenly jumble. "If it wasn't for me
you'd be carted for rubbish," she replied joyously as she helped him on
with his coat, though he had made a motion to take it from her.
"I heard you singing--what was it?" he asked cheerily, while it could
be seen that his mind was preoccupied. The song she had sung, floating
through the air, had seemed familiar to him, while he had been greatly
engaged with a big business thing he had been planning for a long
time, with Jesse Bulrush in the background or foreground, as scout or
rear-guard or what you will:
"'Whereaway, whereaway goes the lad that once was mine?
Hereaway, I waited him, hereaway and oft--'"
she hummed with an exaggerated gaiety in her voice, for the song had
saddened her, she knew not why. At the words the flaming exhilaration of
the man's face vanished and his eyes took on a poignant, distant look.
"That--oh, that!" he said, and with a little jerk of the head and a
clenching of the hand he moved towards the street.
"Your hat!" she called after him, and ran inside the house. An instant
later she gave it to him. Now his face was clear and his eyes smiled
kindly at her.
"'Whereaway, hereaway' is a wonderful song," he said. "We used to sing
it when I was a boy--and after, and after. It's an old song--old as the
hills. Well, thanks, Kitty Tynan. What a girl you are--to be so kind to
a fellow like--me!"
"Kitty Tynan, what a girl you are!"--these were the very words she had
used about herself a little while before. The song--why did it make
Mr. Kerry take on such a queer look all at once when he heard it? Kitty
watched him striding down the street into the town.
Now a voice--a rich, quizzical, kindly voice-called out to her:
"Come, come, Miss Tynan, I want to be helped on with my coat," it said.
Inside the house a fat, awkward man was struggling, or pretending to
struggle, into his coat.
"Roll into it, Mr. Rolypoly," she answered cheerily as she entered.
"Of course I'm not the star boarder--nothing for me!" he said in
affected protest.
"A little more to starboard and you'll get it on," she retorted with
a glint of her late father's raillery, and she gave the coat a twitch
which put it right on the ample shoulders.
"Bully! bully!" he cried. "I'll give you the tip for the Askatoon cup."
"I'm a Christian. I hate horse-racers and gamblers," she returned
mockingly.
"I'll turn Christian--I want to be loved," he bleated from the doorway.
"Roll on, proud porpoise!" she rejoined, which shows that her
conversation was not quite aristocratic at all times.
"Golly, but she's a gold dollar in a gold bank," remarked Jesse Bulrush
warmly as he lurched into the street.
The girl stood still in the middle of the room looking dreamily down the
way the two men had gone.
The quiet of the late summer day surrounded her. She heard the dizzy din
of the bees, the sleepy grinding of the grass hoppers, the sough of
the solitary pine at the door, and then behind them all a whizzing,
machine-like sound. This particular sound went on and on.
She opened the door of the next room. Her mother sat at a sewing-machine
intent upon some work, the needle eating up a spreading piece of cloth.
"What are you making, mother?" Kitty asked. "New blinds for Mr. Kerry's
bedroom-he likes this green colour," the widow added with a slight
flush, due to leaning over the sewing-machine, no doubt.
"Everybody does everything for him," remarked the girl almost pettishly.
"That's a nice spirit, I must say!" replied her mother reprovingly, the
machine almost stopping.
"If I said it in a different way it would be all right," the other
returned with a smile, and she repeated the words with a winning soft
inflection, like a born actress.
"Kitty-Kitty Tynan, what a girl you are!" declared her mother, and she
bent smiling over the machine, which presently buzzed on its devouring
way. Three people had said the same thing within a few minutes. A look
of pleasure stole over the girl's face, and her bosom rose and fell with
a happy sigh. Somehow it was quite a wonderful day for her.
CHAPTER II. CLOSING THE | 1,980.700345 |
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Produced by Charlene Taylor, Paul Clark, Marilynda
Fraser-Cunliffe and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible, including inconsistencies in hyphenation. It seems that
the italic typeface used in this book did not have an ae ligature.
Names of genera and higher taxonomic groups are not capitalized in
the printed book: they have bee left unchanged. Some changes have
been made. They are listed at the end of the text.
Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
OE ligatures have been expanded.
THE RIDDLE OF THE UNIVERSE
| 1,980.800629 |
2023-11-16 18:50:04.7807770 | 1,799 | 57 |
Produced by Chris Curnow and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR
Edited by J. A. HAMMERTON
Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself,
the cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic
draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to “Punch,” from its
beginning in 1841 to the present day.
MR. PUNCH IN SOCIETY
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _He._ “By the bye, talking of old times, do you remember
that occasion when I made such an awful ass of myself?”
_She._ “_Which?_”]
MR. PUNCH IN SOCIETY
BEING THE HUMOURS OF SOCIAL LIFE
_WITH 133 ILLUSTRATIONS_
BY
GEORGE DU MAURIER, CHARLES KEENE, PHIL MAY, L. RAVEN-HILL, C.
E. BROCK, J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE, A. S. BOYD, REGINALD CLEAVER,
LEWIS BAUMER, F. H. TOWNSEND AND OTHERS
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH
THE PROPRIETORS OF “PUNCH”
THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD
THE PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR
_Twenty-five Volumes, crown 8vo, 192 pages fully illustrated_
LIFE IN LONDON
COUNTRY LIFE
IN THE HIGHLANDS
SCOTTISH HUMOUR
IRISH HUMOUR
COCKNEY HUMOUR
IN SOCIETY
AFTER DINNER STORIES
IN BOHEMIA
AT THE PLAY
MR. PUNCH AT HOME
ON THE CONTINONG
RAILWAY BOOK
AT THE SEASIDE
MR. PUNCH AFLOAT
IN THE HUNTING FIELD
MR. PUNCH ON TOUR
WITH ROD AND GUN
MR. PUNCH AWHEEL
BOOK OF SPORTS
GOLF STORIES
IN WIG AND GOWN
ON THE WARPATH
BOOK OF LOVE
WITH THE CHILDREN
[Illustration]
INTRODUCTION
[Illustration]
It would be difficult to think of _Mr. Punch’s_ prototype of the
immortal drama as “in Society”; but, however much our national jester
may resemble in facial detail the somewhat rude and impulsive character
from whom he took his name, he is in all his instincts a gentleman. In
other words, it is just here that PUNCH has differed from most comic
journals, being, if not absolutely from the first number, certainly
from its early days, distinguished for refinement of taste and good
manners, not less than for its wit and humour. “MR. PUNCH in Society”
is indeed MR. PUNCH in his most congenial surroundings, as he has been
above all else the untiring, irrepressible satirist of the social world.
If an analysis were made of all the drawings which have appeared in
PUNCH from 1841 to the present day, we venture to think that those
devoted to Society’s ways, its foibles, its follies, would greatly
outnumber the illustrations of any other phase of life. And was not
the entire career of one of MR. PUNCH’S most celebrated artists
devoted exclusively to social satire? The name of George du Maurier
is pre-eminent in the history of modern humorous art. To an unerring
instinct for character, shrewd but never unkindly satire, he united a
profound sense of beauty which made his work unique and individual. It
was thus that to a vast public, of which only a very small proportion
could be expected to possess any art culture, Du Maurier’s work
appealed with irresistible force, his charming lightness of touch,
his gaiety, which came no doubt from his Gallic origins, rendering
everything from his pencil a source of delight to the general public,
no less than to the students of draughtsmanship.
Du Maurier’s connection with PUNCH began in 1860 and his earliest work
displayed very little of that wonderful grace to which it attained
before many years had passed, but Mr. Henry James, discussing his
art so long ago as 1883, said that “since 1868, PUNCH has been,
artistically speaking, George du Maurier,” an opinion which would
certainly be accepted in America, where for a generation the cultured
classes looked to Du Maurier, as Mr. Spielman reminds us, “almost
exclusively, not only for English fashions in male and female attire,
the _dernière mode_ in social etiquette, but for the truest reflection
of English life and character.”
When we consider that almost exclusively in the pages of MR. PUNCH
is the artistic life-work of Du Maurier contained, we shall see
how inexhaustible a treasury is there to be drawn upon for such a
collection as the present. We have thought it wise, however, not to
limit “MR. PUNCH in Society” to the work of any one humorist, but have
sought to present a collection of Du Maurier’s best social satires in
company with those of many other artists who, in their individual ways,
have also depicted the humours of social life.
[Illustration]
MR. PUNCH IN SOCIETY
* * * * *
A SEASONABLE LETTER
[Illustration]
_Huntingthorpe Hall._
MY DEAR JACK,--I want you to come down on Monday and stay a couple of
days with me. My wife will be delighted, as you can help her with a
children’s party, and also play Pantaloon in a little thing being got
up by the young people. I will mount you on the Tuesday with our Stag
hounds, as I know you are fond of a day’s hunting. No, don’t thank me,
my dear chap--I shall be only too glad if you will go, as the horse I
am intending to put you on is a rank brute, and when he doesn’t refuse
his fences--which is a rare occurrence--he invariably falls into them.
However, you won’t mind _that_, will you?
You will have to put up with real bachelor accommodation, I am afraid,
as the house is crammed. The best I can do for you is a half share of
one of the attics. Our cook has left us, all unexpectedly, so this
places her room at our disposal for two of you. The kitchen-maid is
doing her best to keep us from starving; but, though she means well, I
can hardly class her as a _cordon bleu_.
Louise Dearlove, that pretty little girl you were so sweet upon last
season, is unable to come; but her brother--the red-headed youth who
was always trying to pick a quarrel with you--will be here.
I am so short of horses that I fear I must ask you to cab the four
miles up from the station; but I am sure you won’t mind taking the
rough with the smooth.
Yours ever,
JOHN JOSTLER.
As the recipient of the above invitation, I ask which is “the smooth”?
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHAT THE DANCING MAN HAS COME TO
“Not dancing any more to-night, Fred?”
“No; and, what’s more, I’ll never put my foot in this house again! Why,
I’ve been _introduced three times_!”]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE TERRORS OF SOCIAL LIFE
_Stout Lady (at a charity ball)._ “Excuse me, Lady Godolphin, but I
_should_ so like to make some notes of your charming costume--may I?”
_Lady Godolphin._ “Pardon me, but really I’m afraid I haven’t the
pleasure of----”
_Stout | 1,980.800817 |
2023-11-16 18:50:04.7818990 | 1,089 | 10 | WAR, VOL. I (OF 2)***
E-text prepared by Brian Coe, David Tipple, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 58256-h.htm or 58256-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/58256/58256-h/58256-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/58256/58256-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/russianarmyjapan01kuro
Transcriber’s note:
Underscores are used for italic markup; the three words that
end this sentence _are in italics_.
Equals signs are used for bold-face markup; the four words
that end this sentence =are in bold face=.
There are 91 footnotes in the source book marked by characters
such as * and †. The footnote markers have been replaced by
numbers and each footnote has been moved to the end of the
chapter that contains its marker.
THE RUSSIAN ARMY AND THE
JAPANESE WAR
[Illustration: _General Kuropatkin._]
THE RUSSIAN ARMY AND
THE JAPANESE WAR,
Being Historical and Critical Comments on
the Military Policy and Power of Russia
and on the Campaign in the Far East,
by
GENERAL KUROPATKIN.
Translated by
Captain A. B. Lindsay,
2nd King Edward’S Own Gurkha Rifles
Translator of “The Battle of Tsu-Shima”;
“The Truth about Port Arthur,” etc.
Edited by
Major E. D. Swinton, D.S.O., R.E.,
Author of “The Defence of Duffer’S Drift”;
and Editor of “The Truth about Port Arthur.”
With Maps and Illustrations
IN TWO VOLUMES: VOL. I.
New York
E. P. Dutton and Company
1909
Printed in Great Britain
TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE
“The General stands higher than any other Russian officer, not only in
Russian opinion, but in that of professional soldiers all the world
over, and if any human agency can change the deplorable situation
to Russia’s advantage, Kuropatkin may be the man to do it.”[1] This
sentence, written by the military correspondent of the _Times_ in
February, 1904, well expresses the sentiment that predominated when
General Kuropatkin’s appointment to command the Russian army in
Manchuria was announced.
“It may be that a military genius would have overcome the moral and
physical difficulties we had to encounter. Possibly; but an Alexeieff,
a Kuropatkin, a Linievitch, a Grippenberg, a Kaulbars, and a Bilderling
were unable to do so,”[2] were the words used by the General himself
two years later when reporting to his Sovereign.
Though these two quotations epitomize the _raison d’être_ and
tendency of this book, they by no means afford a complete description
of its scope. Were it nothing but an _apologia_, not even the former
reputation and position of its author would save it from the neglect
which invariably awaits the excuses of the man who has failed. But it
is no mere _apologia_. For, apart from its tone of disappointment,
apart from the dominant note of failure which is current throughout,
and the explanations and reasons repeated on almost every page, the
work is one long-continued protest. It is a protest from first to last
that the war was not—as far as Russia was concerned—fought to anything
like a finish; that it was brought to a premature conclusion; that
peace was declared at the moment when victory lay within Russia’s
grasp, when her strength was at its greatest, and that of her enemy
had begun to ebb. Whether true or otherwise, this view should not be
rejected without consideration as the natural cry of an unsuccessful
party. These pages give food for thought; they, moreover, contain much
that has hitherto rested in obscurity with regard to the attitude of
the Russian War Ministry, its efforts to prevent the war, its general
policy, and other matters.
The author endeavours to drive home his protest by marshalling an array
of facts, and by analogy from the military history of his country for
more than two centuries. Whether he proves his case is for the reader
to judge. Be that as it may, his book must claim attention as being the
absolute opinion of the one man on the Russian side best qualified to
throw light upon the causes and course of the greatest world-disturbing
international struggle that has taken place for more than a third of a
century. It has also a sentimental interest in that it is the utterance
of one who, after a | 1,980.801939 |
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Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 73. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, March 22, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE LUCK OF THE HORSESHOE.--DRAWN BY W. R. YEAGER.]
TOMMY TUCKER'S HORSESHOE.
BY MRS. FRANK McCARTHY.
Tommy Tucker lives on a "farm" in the city of New York, near the Central
Park. Some people make fun of Tommy's way of living, and call his place
the "sunken lots," and say his family are squatters; but it makes very
little difference to Tommy what remarks were made about his home or his
people, so long as they were happy. And they were happy for a very long
time, so happy that they didn't know what it was to be miserable, and it
makes a wonderful difference to be able to tell one from the other. Up
to the beginning of this winter they had the longest run of luck on
record in any family in that neighborhood. A long while since, a horse
had been turned out to die in a lot near the Tucker's. It wasn't such a
very old horse, but it was dreadfully sick, and something was the
matter with its windpipe, so that Mr. Tucker heard it wheezing away
while he was at work on the farm. He had a very kind heart, and always
did what he could for poor dumb creatures, as well as those that could
tell what was the matter with them; and what with kind treatment and a
wonderful skill Mr. Tucker had with animals, that horse came around so
that you'd hardly know it from a spirited charger of Mr. Croesus--a
gentleman who lives up in that neighborhood. It grew so strong that it
was able to drag a cart-load of vegetables down town to Mr. Tucker's
customers, and Mr. Tucker was able to put another lot or two under
cultivation. And if the lots were a little rough and sunken, it was very
pretty to see them full of "green things a-growing." Up to this last
winter there was almost always something to sell, and pretty soon after
Mr. Tucker cured his horse he got a cow. She wasn't a first-class cow
when Mr. Tucker first traded off some pigs for her, and gave some silver
to boot out of Mother Tucker's stocking. What little milk she had seemed
to be turned to gall, and even that couldn't be got from her until she
was tied to the side of the house; then she would have kicked the whole
mansion down if it hadn't been founded on a rock, like the wise man's
house Mr. Tucker read about in the Bible. Mr. Tucker and Tommy think
there are only two books worth reading in the whole world: one is the
Bible, and the other is _Robinson Crusoe_. Tommy hadn't minded depending
on his goats for milk, because it seemed so much like Crusoe's way of
living; but Mrs. Tucker and Tommy's three little brothers liked cow's
milk the best; for one thing, there was so much more of it, and Tommy's
three little brothers had such excellent appetites. For Mr. Tucker's
wisdom extended to the udders of the cow, and pretty soon she was almost
as good as an Alderney cow around the corner, so called, Mr. Tucker
said, because she belonged to an Alderman.
Tommy Tucker's family prospered exceedingly. The horse drew more and
more vegetables to market, the cow gave more and more milk, the hens
laid more and more eggs, and the cheery chink in Mother Tucker's
stocking became more and more musical to the ear, until the last winter
set in. Then the Tucker luck, which was proverbial in that neighborhood,
suddenly took an evil turn.
First, and worst, Mr. Tucker fell on the ice and broke his leg. You may
know it was a particular kind of ice that could bring Mr. Tucker down.
It was about a dozen layers thick, and very treacherous. The winter had
closed in some time before in a very unusual way. It was bitter cold,
day in and day out; the heavens opened, and the snow fell, and opened
again, and more snow came down, and kept on opening, and more snow kept
falling, until the familiar gullies were all filled up, and the country
around there grew white and level and changed, so that Tommy wondered
sometimes if the world had lost its reckoning, and stopped turning when
it reached the north pole.
And it gave Tommy a dreadful sickly feeling to know that his father's
leg _could_ break. It wasn't natural to see him lying on the bed in the
corner, when he had always been up and doing. Nothing ever seemed so far
gone that his father couldn't fetch it around, and it shook Tommy's
confidence considerably to see the obstinacy of that leg. Tommy had
always gone to bed before his father, and his father had always got up
before Tommy, so that it was a new experience to Tommy to see his father
down.
It took the heart out of all of them, and everything went wrong. It went
on freezing, snowing, and blowing outside; and do what Tommy could, the
live stock began to give out. That charity waif of a horse yielded to
the weakness in his windpipe again, and sprawled his legs and hung his
head in the most ungrateful way; the cow went dry; two of the best pigs
got frost-bitten, so that their squeal mingled with the melancholy
soughing of the north wind around the Tucker mansion; and the hens
wouldn't lay an egg for Mr. Tucker, though the doctor had particularly
ordered it.
And about that doctor: Tommy used to dread to see him come, for instead
of brightening things up, he made them gloomier. He took some of the
cheery chink out of Mother Tucker's stocking every time he came, and Mr.
Tucker seemed none the better for it, but lay with his face to the wall
for hours together, and wouldn't read any book in the Bible but Job; and
Tommy's three little brothers went on eating just the same as when milk
was plenty and times were good.
The music in Mother Tucker's stocking got away down to the toe; and one
morning, when Mr. Tucker had no appetite for anything, and Tommy's three
little brothers had an appetite for everything, even their mother's poor
share of what was left, Tommy saw the shadow of a big wolf called Hunger
prowling around the door-sill, and out he ran and down the road,
frightened, and sobbing as if his heart would break. He thought nothing
of the poor shivering brutes that were left to his care, or thought they
might as well all starve together. Luck was against them; there was no
use trying any more; when all at once, over in the middle of the road,
he saw through his blinding tears something round and shining. It wasn't
a gold piece, nor one of silver, but he plunged through a snow-bank and
over a ditch to get it. He dug it out of a chunk of ice, and cut his
hands and tore his finger-nails; and his honest little face took the
keen and hungry exultation of a miner's just then, though it was neither
silver nor gold, but an old battered-out horseshoe.
For all the music in Mother Tucker's stocking hadn't helped his father's
leg, but Tommy had heard say that a horseshoe honestly found was the
best bit of luck to stumble on in the world.
He warmed the cold bit of metal against his heart, and ran home with it
as fast as he could, never stopping until he reached his father's bed.
"Cheer up, Pop!" he cried. "See! Everything'll come right now. I've
found a horseshoe."
Poor Mr. Tucker | 1,980.8975 |
2023-11-16 18:50:04.9812770 | 184 | 16 | RAVEN***
Transcribed from the 1913 Thomas J. Wise pamphlet by David Price, email
[email protected]
THE NIGHTINGALE
THE VALKYRIE AND RAVEN
AND OTHER BALLADS
BY
GEORGE BORROW
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION
1913
_Copyright in the United States of America_
_by Houghton_, _Mifflin and Co. for Clement Shorter_.
THE NIGHTINGALE, OR THE TRANSFORMED DAMSEL
I know where stands a Castellaye,
Its turrets are so fairly gilt;
With silver are its gates inlaid,
Its walls of marble stone are built.
Within it stands a linden tree,
With lovely leaves its boughs are hung,
| 1,981.001317 |
2023-11-16 18:50:05.0845120 | 554 | 18 |
Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer
THE GOLD BAG
By Carolyn Wells
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE CRIME IN WEST SEDGWICK
II. THE CRAWFORD HOUSE
III. THE CORONER'S JURY
IV. THE INQUEST
V. FLORENCE LLOYD
VI. THE GOLD BAG
VII. YELLOW ROSES
VIII. FURTHER INQUIRY
IX. THE TWELFTH ROSE
X. THE WILL
XI. LOUIS'S STORY
XII. LOUIS'S CONFESSION
XIII. MISS LLOYD'S CONFIDENCE
XIV. MR. PORTER'S VIEWS.
XV. THE PHOTOGRAPH EXPLAINED
XVI. A CALL ON MRS. PURVIS
XVII. THE OWNER OF THE GOLD BAG
XVIII. IN MR. GOODRICH'S OFFICE
XIX. THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN
XX. FLEMING STONE
XXI. THE DISCLOSURE
THE GOLD BAG
I. THE CRIME IN WEST SEDGWICK
Though a young detective, I am not entirely an inexperienced one, and
I have several fairly successful investigations to my credit on the
records of the Central Office.
The Chief said to me one day: "Burroughs, if there's a mystery to be
unravelled; I'd rather put it in your hands than to trust it to any
other man on the force.
"Because," he went on, "you go about it scientifically, and you
never jump at conclusions, or accept them, until they're indubitably
warranted."
I declared myself duly grateful for the Chief's kind words, but I was
secretly a bit chagrined. A detective's ambition is to be, considered
capable of jumping at conclusions, only the conclusions must always
prove to be correct ones.
But though I am an earnest and painstaking worker, though my habits are
methodical and systematic, and though I am indefatigably patient and
persevering, I can never make those brilliant deductions from seemingly
unimportant clues that Fleming Stone can. He holds that it is nothing
but observation and logical inference, but to me it is little short of
clairvoyance.
The smallest detail in the way of evidence immediately connotes in his
mind some important fact that is indisputable, but which would never
have occurred to me. I suppose this is largely a natural bent of his
brain, for I have not yet been able to achieve it, either by study or
experience | 1,981.104552 |
2023-11-16 18:50:05.0853440 | 1,831 | 15 |
Produced by Chris Pinfield and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber's Note.
Apparent typographical errors have been corrected. The use of hyphens has
been rationalised. Variations in the use of accents have been retained.
Italics are indicated by _underscores_. Small capitals have been
replaced by full capitals. Two lines in blackletter font are indicated
by +plus signs+.
IN A SYRIAN SADDLE
BY
A. GOODRICH-FREER
AUTHOR OF
"INNER JERUSALEM," "OUTER ISLES," ETC.
METHUEN & CO
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
_First Published in 1905_
THIS RECORD IS DEDICATED
BY THE LADY
TO THE DOCTOR
ON THE EVE OF STARTING TOGETHER UPON A LONGER JOURNEY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
IN MOAB
I. GOING TO JERICHO 1
II. STEPPING EASTWARD 20
III. MADABA 51
IV. MSHATTA 64
V. AMMÂN 93
VI. JERASH, AND THE FORDS OF JABBOK 116
VII. ES-SALT 145
VIII. THE JORDAN VALLEY 161
IN GALILEE AND SAMARIA
I. TO NABLUS 178
II. TO SAMARIA 194
III. TO TAANAK AND MEGIDDO 217
IV. HAIFA AND CARMEL 244
V. NAZARETH AND TABOR 258
VI. THE SEA OF GALILEE 277
VII. TIBERIAS AND BESAN 302
VIII. WEST OF THE JORDAN 323
INDEX 347
IN A SYRIAN SADDLE
IN MOAB
CHAPTER I
GOING TO JERICHO
"A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho"
Life is, in many respects, made very easy in the Holy Land. You can
return home in the afternoon with no anxious forebodings as to how much
waste of time is awaiting you in the shape of cards and notes on the
hall table; you may wear clothes for covering, you may eat for
nourishment; without taking thought for fashion in the one case, or of
competition with your neighbour's cook or gardener in the other.
But—according to our Occidental standards—you cannot consistently
indulge any taste you may happen to have for being grand. Your attempts
at a London, or shall we say a suburban, drawing-room, your "At Home"
days, your Europeanised service, the dress of your womankind—distantly
reminiscent of the ladies' papers and of Answers to Correspondents—are
certain to be complicated by some _contretemps_ provocative only of
mirth. The Oriental himself makes no attempt at being consistent. When
you arrive at his house he spreads a priceless carpet, but omits to
remove last week's dust from off the furniture; he gives you perfumed
coffee, which is like a dream of Olympus, and his servant brings you a
piece of bread in his fingers.
These reflections, and many more, were suggested during the waiting
which accompanied our start in the early sunrise at half-past five on
Saturday, 3rd October 1903. No one could have guessed how grand we
really were, and there were moments then, and later, when the fact
escaped even our own notice. We four, the Lady, the Doctor (of various
forms of scholarship) and the two Sportsmen, were the chosen and proud
companions of the Professor; and the Professor, besides being the
greatest epigraphist in Europe, was the representative of a Royal
Personage, and armed with all the permits and safe-conducts and special
privileges useful in a land of cholera, quarantine, and backsheesh. Our
eight horses were innocent of grooming, and their equipment was fastened
together mainly with tin tacks, pieces of rope, and bits of string; but
it would have been difficult to find in England any animal to whom you
could have proposed, still less with whom you could have carried
through, one tithe of what our ragged regiment accomplished. Our two
grooms, _mukaris_, appealed to certain senses as vaguely horsey, though
they suggested nothing more distinguished than stable-helps; but their
management of eight animals, under conditions which seemed especially
designed for their destruction, when there was not a blade of grass,
perhaps for a whole day not a drop of water; when they were ridden for
ten, twelve, or even fourteen hours at a stretch with merely an hour's
rest—without forage—at noon, would have done credit to any groom at
Badminton or Berkeley. As we proposed to ourselves both pleasure and
profit we took no servants—still less a dragoman. Our portable food had
been very carefully selected, and was the best obtainable. Bread, eggs,
chickens, grapes, and lemons we could count upon getting as we went
along.
Each member of the party had clothing and a blanket in a pair of
saddle-bags—mostly of goats' hair or camels' hair, gaily decorated with
tassels—and these, with an extra pair for the baskets of food,
spirit-lamps, plates, knives, and tin cups, were distributed among the
three baggage animals, who also carried, in turn, the two mukaris,
perched on the top of the pile, but capable of climbing up and down with
incredibly rapid agility.
At length the cavalcade was ready, and we turned our faces towards
Jericho. First came the Professor, on a tall, white Circassian horse,
with a tail which almost swept the ground, and was dyed with henna for
protection from the Evil One, who was further defied, by each of us, by
means of a large blue bead hanging round the neck of every horse on a
worsted rope. The Professor himself exhibited five foot of
humanity, mostly brains; a personality which consisted, to the eye, of a
large scarlet and gold silk _keffeeye_ (head covering) with a goats'
hair _akal_ (rope to keep it in place) and an elaborate silk fringe,
below which emerged a pair of black leggings, into one of which a whip
was jauntily stuck. He was mounted on a peaked, military saddle, and he
alone of all the party refused to be separated from his saddle-bags,
which contained an assortment of cigars, cigarettes, tobacco, and the
long wooden pipe, for use in the saddle, such as is in favour with the
Bedu.
Next came the Lady, mounted on a long-legged Arab steed, several sizes
too large for her, but selected for her use mainly because he could do
the _rahwân_, the light canter special to the desert horses, and which
reduces fatigue to a minimum. It was discovered, later in the day, that
he was also capable, apparently, of running for the Derby, an incident
which may as well be recorded at once, as it resulted in his banishment
to the second class, and the society of the mukaris.
The road from Jerusalem to Jericho still retains the character recorded
some two thousand years ago, but the thieves among whom you inevitably
fall are now licensed by the Government. There is a whole village full
of them, called Abu-dis, and they have the privilege of protecting
travellers from Bethany to Jericho—that is, of enforcing payment for
preventing anyone else from robbing you. It is but some few years ago
that an Englishman, suspected of seeking to dispense with this
advantage, had his donkey shot under him. At Bethany, accordingly, we
were joined by our escort, but, as became our dignity, he was an
officer, picturesquely attired, and mounted, unfortunately, on a
beautiful Arab mare. The misfortune lay in the fact that all our horses,
with one exception, were stallions, most of whom became restless and
uneasy, that of the Professor so | 1,981.105384 |
2023-11-16 18:50:05.4831430 | 2,657 | 12 |
Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
EACH VOLUME SOLD SEPARATELY.
COLLECTION OF BRITISH AUTHORS
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
VOL. 3970.
THE HOUSE OF DEFENCE. BY E. F. BENSON.
IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. I.
LEIPZIG: BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.
PARIS: LIBRAIRIE CH. GAULON & FILS, 39, RUE MADAME.
PARIS: THE GALIGNANI LIBRARY, 224, RUE DE RIVOLI, AND AT NICE, 8, AVENUE
MASSENA.
_The Copyright of this Collection is purchased for Continental
Circulation only, and the volumes may therefore not be introduced into
Great Britain or her Colonies._
(_See also pp. 3-6 of Large Catalogue._)
Latest Volumes.--June 1907.
=The Princess Priscilla's Fortnight.= By the author of "Elizabeth and
her German Garden." 1 vol.--3880.
The tale of a German Princess who runs away to England to live the
simple life accompanied by her aged teacher. The story is a
delightful mixture of smiles and tears.
=The Adventures of Elizabeth in Ruegen.= By the author of "Elizabeth
and her German Garden." 1 vol.--3881.
An account of a holiday spent in one of the pleasantest of German
island resorts, so plentifully sprinkled with humorous incident as
to make the book fascinating even to those unable to travel there
except in imagination.
=A Dazzling Reprobate.= By W. R. H. TROWBRIDGE. 1 v.--3882.
A very original study of high life and society in England, in which
it is shown how hard regeneration is made for a fallen member.
=The Way of the Spirit.= By H. RIDER HAGGARD. 2 vols.--3883/84.
A psychological romance and at the same time a tale of modern
Egypt, in which a daughter of the ancient kings plays an important
and novel _role_.
"=If Youth but knew!=" By AGNES and EGERTON CASTLE. 1 vol.--3885.
An idyl of Westphalia in the days of Jerome Bonaparte's pinchbeck
court and reign. A delicate and pretty love-story.
=Mr. John Strood.= By PERCY WHITE. 1 vol.--3886.
A story, written somewhat on the lines of "Mr. Bailey-Martin," of
the career of a public man. The snobbishness of the quondam friend
who is here supposed to write the biography is cunningly revealed
throughout.
=The Artful Miss Dill.= By F. FRANKFORT MOORE. 1 vol.--3887.
A modern English romance, the opening scene of which, however, is
laid in Caracas, and is of a most stirring nature.
=Genius Loci=, and =The Enchanted Woods.= By VERNON LEE. 1 vol.--3888.
A collection of essays and articles on towns and villages in
France, Germany, Italy, and Switzerland, in which the authoress
paints her impressions of their romanticism or interest.
=The House of Mirth.= By EDITH WHARTON. 2 vols.--3889/90.
An American society novel in which the hollow life of a certain
moneyed clique of New York is admirably described.
=Ring in the New.= By RICHARD WHITEING. 1 vol.--3891.
This book might almost be described as socialistic. It is a description
of the difficulty experienced at the present day by man or woman of
earning their daily bread.
=Beyond the Rocks.= By ELINOR GLYN. 1 vol.--3892.
A love-story, treating of modern English life, by the favourite and
well-known authoress of "The Visits of Elizabeth."
=Fenwick's Career.= By MRS. HUMPHRY WARD. 2 vols.--3893/94.
Mrs. Ward's new book describes the life of an artist in England,
the vicissitudes through which he passes, and his ultimate
reconciliation with the wife who had abandoned him.
COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
VOL. 3970.
THE HOUSE OF DEFENCE. BY E. F. BENSON.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
By the same Author,
DODO 1 vol.
THE RUBICON 1 vol.
SCARLET AND HYSSOP 1 vol.
THE BOOK OF MONTHS 1 vol.
THE RELENTLESS CITY 1 vol.
MAMMON & CO. 2 vols.
THE CHALLONERS 1 vol.
AN ACT IN A BACKWATER 1 vol.
THE IMAGE IN THE SAND 2 vols.
THE ANGEL OF PAIN 2 vols.
PAUL 2 vols.
THE
HOUSE OF DEFENCE
BY
E. F. BENSON
AUTHOR OF "DODO," "THE CHALLONERS," "THE IMAGE IN THE SAND,"
"THE ANGEL OF PAIN," "PAUL," ETC.
_COPYRIGHT EDITION_
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. I
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1907.
DEDICATION
TO
C. E. M.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
It is with your permission that I dedicate this book to you, and with
your permission and by your desire that I explain the circumstances of
its dedication. You were cured, as both you and I know, of a disease
that medical science had pronounced incurable by a certain Christian
Science healer, who used neither knife nor drugs upon you.
I, a layman in medical affairs, think, as you know, that your disease
was nervous in origin, and you will readily admit that the wise and
skilful man who figures here as Sir James thought the same. But it was
already organic when you went to him, and, after consultation with
others, he pronounced it incurable. At the same time, he acknowledged
its nervous origin, and you will acknowledge that with the utmost
frankness he confessed entire inability to say _how_ a nervous affection
entered the more obviously material world of organic trouble. He had
instances in plenty: fear, anxiety, he said, affected circulation and
digestion, and that, of course, is patent to everybody. So, too, is the
cure: remove the anxiety or fear, and you will get gastric affairs to go
smoothly again, _unless_ organic trouble has begun.
I suppose it is because we are all so used to that sort of mental
healing (do not contradict me yet) that we no longer see any mystery
attaching to it. But in such a cure there is no doubt whatever that the
mind acts on the body, even as it acted before, when fear produced the
imperfect action of the digestion, and heals just as it hurt. To go a
step farther, I see no reason why the mind should not heal the disease
of drinking or drug-taking, for in these, too, it is the brain that is
the seat of the trouble, and its disease and desire is the real cause of
the damage done to bodily tissue. But when--still logically, though in a
scale that swiftly ascends--you tell me that some power not surgical can
heal a compound fracture, then I must part company. At least, I do not
believe that any man living upon this earth can make it happen that
bones that are broken should join together (especially when the fracture
is compound and they stick out of the skin) without assisting Nature by
what you call "mere manipulation," but by what I call, "setting the
bone."
It is here we join issue.
We have often discussed these points before, and the discussion has ever
ended in laughter. But the discussion ends this time in the book which I
have written.
You have read these pages, and you know that in some points you seem to
me to be very like Alice Yardly, but those are the points on which we
agree to differ. I think Alice Yardly and you are often too silly for
words. But you are much more essentially like Bertie Cochrane, and it is
to you, in the character of him, that I dedicate this book. You, sick
with a mortal disease, found healing in Christian Science, and in it
found happiness. And now you yourself heal by the power that healed you.
For I hope I shall never forget that which I with my own eyes saw you
do--that which is the foundation of the last scene of the healing in
"The House of Defence." To save that drug-logged wreck, who was our
friend, when you saw no other way of convincing him of the beastliness
of his habit, you drank that which by all that is known of the drug
should have killed you, and you drank it with complete and absolute
confidence that it could not possibly hurt you. It is true--at least,
Sir James tells me so--that it is not quite easy to poison oneself with
laudanum, because the amateur will usually take too much, and be sick,
or too little, and thus not imbibe a fatal dose. But you drank a good
deal--I can see now the brown stuff falling in your glass--and it
appeared to have no effect whatever on you. I will go further: it had no
effect whatever on you. But it had the effect you foresaw on your
patient: it cured him.
Now, again and again I ask myself, how did it cure him? He was very fond
of you; he saw you, in the desire to save him, apparently lay down your
life for him. I believe that his brain, his will-power, received then so
tremendous and bracing a shock that laudanum for that moment became to
him a thing abhorrent and devilish, as no doubt it is. The sight of you
swallowing the deadly thing gave a huge stimulus to his will. That seems
to me not only possible, but natural. Only, if this is the case, it was
again his own mind, on which your action acted, that healed him.
That, however, does not explain why the drug had no effect on you. There
again we part company. I believe it to have been your absolute
confidence that it could not hurt you that left you unharmed and
unaffected. You said, with a faith that to me is transcendent, "This
thing shall not hurt me, because it is necessary for me to drink it."
And your body obeyed the orders of your mind, and was not harmed. But
you will have none of that explanation. You say it could not harm you,
because there is neither healing nor hurt in material things.... And
here we are again!
Let me cease to argue with you. Let me only say that to me that evening
was an epoch. I have seen and heard of cheerful and serene heroism
before, but it never before came so close to me as then, when the storm
bugled outside, and the fire spluttered, and you drank your deadly
glass.
Affectionately yours,
E. F. BENSON.
THE HOUSE OF DEFENCE.
CHAPTER I.
The little travelling-clock that stood on the broad marble
chimney-piece, looking strangely minute and insignificant on the slab
supported by two huge Caryatides, had some minutes ago rapped out the
hour of eight in its jingling voice, but here, in these high latitudes
of Caithness, since | 1,981.503183 |
2023-11-16 18:50:05.4834270 | 4,609 | 8 |
Produced by Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
TREVLYN HOLD
A Novel
BY MRS. HENRY WOOD
AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," "JOHNNY LUDLOW," ETC.
_ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTH THOUSAND_
London
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1904
_All rights reserved_
TREVLYN HOLD
CHAPTER I
THOMAS RYLE
The fine summer had faded into autumn, and the autumn would soon be
fading into winter. All signs of harvest had disappeared. The farmers
had gathered the golden grain into their barns; the meads looked bare,
and the partridges hid themselves in the stubble left by the reapers.
Perched on the top of a stile which separated one field from another,
was a boy of some fifteen years. Several books, a strap passed round to
keep them together, were flung over his shoulder, and he sat throwing
stones into a pond close by, softly whistling as he did so. The stones
came out of his pocket. Whether stored there for the purpose to which
they were now being put, was best known to himself. He was a slender,
well-made boy, with finely-shaped features, a clear complexion, and eyes
dark and earnest. A refined face; a good face--and you have not to learn
that the face is the index of the mind. An index that never fails for
those gifted with the power to read the human countenance.
Before him at a short distance, as he sat on the stile, lay the village
of Barbrook. A couple of miles beyond the village was the large town of
Barmester. But you could reach the town without taking the village _en
route_. As to the village itself, there were several ways of reaching
it. There was the path through the fields, right in front of the stile
where that schoolboy was sitting; there was the green and shady lane
(knee-deep in mud sometimes); and there were two high-roads. From the
signs of vegetation around--not that the vegetation was of the richest
kind--you would never suspect that the barren and bleak coal-fields lay
so near. Only four or five miles away in the opposite direction--that
is, behind the boy and the stile--the coal-pits flourished. Farmhouses
were scattered within view, had the boy on the stile chosen to look at
them; a few gentlemen's houses, and many cottages and hovels. To the
left, glancing over the field and across the upper road--the road which
did not lead to Barbrook, but to Barmester--on a slight eminence, rose
the fine old-fashioned mansion called Trevlyn Hold. Rather to the right,
behind him, was the less pretentious but comfortable dwelling called
Trevlyn Farm. Trevlyn Hold, formerly the property and residence of
Squire Trevlyn, had passed, with that gentleman's death, into the hands
of Mr. Chattaway, who now lived in it; his wife having been the Squire's
second daughter. Trevlyn Farm was tenanted by Mr. Ryle; and the boy
sitting on the stile was Mr. Ryle's eldest son.
There came, scuffling along the field-path from the village, as fast as
her dilapidated shoes permitted her, a wan-looking, undersized girl. She
had almost reached the pond, when a boy considerably taller and stronger
than the boy on the stile came flying down the field on the left, and
planted himself in her way.
"Now then, little toad! Do you want another buffeting?"
"Oh, please, sir, don't stop me!" she cried, beginning to sob loudly.
"Father's dying, and mother said I was to run and tell them at the farm.
Please let me go by."
"Did I not order you yesterday to keep out of these fields?" asked the
tall boy. "The lane and roads are open to you; how dare you come this
way? I promised you I'd shake the inside out of you if I caught you here
again, and now I'll do it."
"I say," called out at this juncture the lad on the stile, "keep your
hands off her."
The child's assailant turned sharply at the sound. He had not seen that
any one was there. For one moment he relaxed his hold, but the next
appeared to change his mind, and began to shake the girl. She turned her
face, in its tears and dirt, towards the stile.
"Oh, Master George, make him let me go! I'm hasting to your house,
Master George. Father's lying all white upon the bed; and mother said I
was to come off and tell of it."
George leaped off the stile, and advanced. "Let her go, Cris Chattaway!"
Cris Chattaway turned his anger upon George. "Mind your own business,
you beggar! It is no concern of yours."
"It is, if I choose to make it mine. Let her go, I say. Don't be a
coward."
"What's that you call me?" asked Cris Chattaway. "A coward? Take that!"
He had picked up a clod of earth, and dashed it in George Ryle's face.
The boy was not one to stand a gratuitous blow, and Mr. Christopher,
before he knew what was coming, found himself on the ground. The girl,
released, flew to the stile and scrambled over it. George stood his
ground, waiting for Cris to get up; he was less tall and strong, but he
would not run away.
Christopher Chattaway slowly gathered himself up. He _was_ a coward; and
fighting, when it came to close quarters, was not to his liking.
Stone-throwing, water-squirting, pea-shooting--any annoyance that might
safely be carried on at a distance--he was an adept in; but hand-to-hand
fighting--Cris did not relish that.
"See if you don't suffer for this, George Ryle!"
George laughed good-humouredly, and sat down on the stile as before.
Cris was dusting the earth off his clothes.
"You have called me a coward, and you have knocked me down. I'll enter
it in my memorandum-book, George Ryle."
"Do," equably returned George. "I never knew any _but_ cowards set upon
girls."
"I'll set upon her again, if I catch her using this path. There's not a
more impudent little wretch in the whole parish. Let her try it, that's
all."
"She has a right to use this path as much as I have."
"Not if I choose to say she sha'n't use it. _You_ won't have the right
long."
"Oh, indeed!" said George. "What is to take it from me?"
"The Squire says he shall cause this way through the fields to be
closed."
"_Who_ says it?" asked George, with marked emphasis--and the sound
grated on Cris Chattaway's ear.
"The Squire says so," he roared. "Are you deaf?"
"Ah," said George. "But Mr. Chattaway can't close it. My father says he
has not the power to do so."
"_Your_ father!" contemptuously rejoined Cris Chattaway. "He would like
his leave asked, perhaps. When the Squire says he shall do a thing, he
means it."
"At any rate, it is not done yet," was the significant answer. "Don't
boast, Cris."
Cris had been making off, and was some distance up the field. He turned
to address George.
"You know, you beggar, that if I don't go in and polish you off it's
because I can't condescend to tarnish my hands. When I fight, I like to
fight with gentlefolk." And with that he turned tail, and decamped
quicker than before.
"Just so," shrieked George. "Especially if they wear petticoats."
A sly shower of earth came back in answer. But it happened, every bit of
it, to steer clear of him, and George kept his seat and his equanimity.
"What has he been doing now, George?"
George turned his head; the question came from one behind him. There
stood a lovely boy of some twelve years old, his beautiful features set
off by dark blue eyes and bright auburn curls.
"Where did you spring from, Rupert?"
"I came down by the hedge. You were calling after Cris and did not hear
me. Has he been threshing you, George?"
"Threshing me!" returned George, throwing back his handsome head with a
laugh. "I don't think he would try that on, Rupert. He could not thresh
me with impunity, as he does you."
Rupert Trevlyn laid his cheek on the stile, and fixed his eyes on the
clear blue evening sky--for the sun was drawing towards its setting. He
was a sensitive, romantic, strange sort of boy; gentle and loving by
nature, but given to violent fits of passion. People said he inherited
the latter from his grandfather, Squire Trevlyn. Other of the Squire's
descendants had inherited the same. Under happier auspices, Rupert might
have learnt to subdue these bursts of passion. Had he possessed a kind
home and loving friends, how different might have been his destiny!
"George, I wish papa had lived!"
"The whole parish has need to wish that," returned George. "I wish you
stood in his shoes! That's what I wish."
"Instead of Uncle Chattaway. Old Canham says I ought to stand in them.
He says he thinks I shall, some time, because justice is sure to come
uppermost in the end."
"Look here, Rupert!" gravely returned George Ryle. "Don't go listening
to old Canham. He talks nonsense, and it will do neither of you any
good. If Chattaway heard a tithe of what he sometimes says, he'd turn
him from the lodge, neck and crop, in spite of Miss Diana. What _is_,
can't be helped, you know, Rupert."
"But Cris has no right to inherit Trevlyn over me."
"He has legal right, I suppose," answered George; "at least, he will
have it. Make the best of it, Ru. There are lots of things I have to
make the best of. I had a caning yesterday for another boy, and I had to
make the best of that."
Rupert still looked up at the sky. "If it were not for Aunt Edith,"
quoth he, "I'd run away."
"You little stupid! Where would you run to?"
"Anywhere. Mr. Chattaway gave me no dinner to-day."
"Why not?"
"Because Cris carried a tale to him. But it was false, George."
"Did you tell Chattaway it was false?"
"Yes. But where's the use? He always believes Cris before me."
"Have you had no dinner?"
Rupert shook his head. "I took some bread off the tray as they were
carrying it through the hall. That's all I have had."
"Then I'd advise you to make double haste home to your tea," said
George, jumping over the stile, "as I am going to do to mine."
George ran swiftly across the back fields towards his home. Looking
round when he was well on his way, he saw Rupert still leaning on the
stile with his face turned upward.
Meanwhile the little tatterdemalion had scuffled along to Trevlyn
Farm--a very moderately-sized house with a rustic porch covered with
jessamine, and a large garden, more useful than ornamental, intervening
between it and the high-road. The garden path, leading to the porch, was
straight and narrow; on either side rose alternately cabbage-rose trees
and hollyhocks. Gooseberries, currants, strawberries, raspberries, and
other plain fruit-trees grew amidst vegetables of various sorts. A
productive if not an elegant garden. At the side of the house the
fold-yard palings and a five-barred gate separated it from the public
road, and behind the house were the barns and other outdoor buildings
belonging to the farm.
From the porch the entrance led direct into a room, half sitting-room,
half kitchen, called "Nora's room." Nora generally sat in it; George and
his brother did their lessons there; the actual kitchen being at the
back of it. A parlour opening from this room on the right, whose window
looked into the fold-yard, was the general sitting-room. The best
sitting-room, a really handsome apartment, was on the other side of the
house. As the girl scuffled up to the porch, an active, black-eyed,
talkative little woman, of five or six-and-thirty saw her approaching
from the window of the best kitchen. That was Nora. What with her ragged
frock and tippet, broken straw bonnet, and slipshod shoes, the child
looked wretched enough. Her father, Jim Sanders, was carter to Mr. Ryle.
He had been at home ill the last day or two; or, as the phrase ran in
the farm, was "off his work."
"If ever I saw such an object!" was Nora's exclamation. "How _can_ her
mother keep her in that state? Just look at Letty Sanders, Mrs. Ryle!"
Sorting large bunches of sweet herbs on a table at the back of the room
was a tall, upright woman. Her dress was plain, but her manner and
bearing betrayed the lady. Those familiar with the district would have
recognised in her handsome but somewhat masculine face a likeness to the
well-formed, powerful features of the late Squire Trevlyn. She was that
gentleman's eldest daughter, and had given mortal umbrage to her family
when she quitted Trevlyn Hold to become the second wife of Mr. Ryle.
George Ryle was not her son. She had only two children; Trevlyn, a boy
two years younger than George; and a little girl of eight, named
Caroline.
Mrs. Ryle turned, and glanced at the path and Letty Sanders. "She is
indeed an object! See what she wants, Nora."
Nora, who had no patience with idleness and its signs, flung open the
door. The girl halted a few paces from the porch, and dropped a curtsey.
"Please, father be dreadful bad," began she. "He be lying on the bed and
don't stir, and his face is white; and, please, mother said I was to
come and tell the missus, and ask her for a little brandy."
"And how dare your mother send you up to the house in this trim?"
demanded Nora. "How many crows did you frighten as you came along?"
"Please," whimpered the child, "she haven't had time to tidy me to-day,
father's been so bad, and t'other frock was tored in the washin'."
"Of course," assented Nora. "Everything is 'tored' that she has to do
with, and never gets mended. If ever there was a poor, moithering,
thriftless thing, it's that mother of yours. She has no needles and no
thread, I suppose, and neither soap nor water?"
Mrs. Ryle came forward to interrupt the colloquy. "What is the matter
with your father, Letty? Is he worse?"
Letty dropped several curtseys in succession. "Please,'m, his inside's
bad again, but mother's afeared he's dying. He fell back upon the bed,
and don't stir nor breathe. She says, will you please send him some
brandy?"
"Have you brought anything to put it into?" inquired Mrs. Ryle.
"No,'m."
"Not likely," chimed in Nora. "Madge Sanders wouldn't think to send so
much as a cracked teacup. Shall I put a drop in a bottle, and give it to
her?" continued Nora, turning to Mrs. Ryle.
"No," replied Mrs. Ryle. "I must know what's the matter with him before
I send brandy. Go back to your mother, Letty. Tell her I shall be going
past her cottage presently, and will call in."
The child turned and scuffled off. Mrs. Ryle resumed:
"Should it be another attack of internal inflammation, brandy would be
the worst thing he could take. He drinks too much, does Jim Sanders."
"His inside's like a barrel--always waiting to be filled," remarked
Nora. "He'd drink the sea dry, if it ran beer. What with his drinking,
and her untidiness, small wonder the children are in rags. I am
surprised the master keeps him on!"
"He only drinks by fits and starts, Nora. His health will not let him do
more."
"No, it won't," acquiesced Nora. "And I fear this bout may be the ending
of him. That hole was not dug for nothing."
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Ryle. "How can you be so foolishly superstitious,
Nora? Find Treve, will you, and get him ready."
"Treve," a young gentleman given to having his own way, and to be kept
very much from school on account of "delicate health," a malady less
real than imaginary, was found somewhere about the farm, and put into
visiting condition. He and his mother were invited to take tea at
Barbrook. In point of fact, the invitation had been for Mrs. Ryle only;
but she could not bear to stir anywhere without her darling boy Trevlyn.
They had barely departed when George entered. Nora had then laid the
tea-table, and was standing cutting bread-and-butter.
"Where are they all?" asked George, depositing his books upon a
sideboard.
"Your mother and Treve are off to tea at Mrs. Apperley's," replied Nora.
"And the master rode over to Barmester this afternoon, and is not back
yet. Sit down, George. Would you like some pumpkin pie?"
"Try me," responded George. "Is there any?"
"I saved it from dinner,"--bringing forth a plate from a closet. "It is
not much. Treve's stomach craves for pies as much as Jim Sanders's for
beer; and Mrs. Ryle would give him all he wanted, if it cleared the
larder----Is some one calling?" she broke off, going to the window.
"George, it's Mr. Chattaway! See what he wants."
A gentleman on horseback had reined in close to the gate: a spare man,
rather above the middle height, with a pale, leaden sort of complexion,
small, cold light eyes and mean-looking features. George ran down the
path.
"Is your father at home?"
"No. He is gone to Barmester."
A scowl passed over Mr. Chattaway's brow. "That's the third time I have
been here this week, and cannot get to see him. Tell your father that I
have had another letter from Butt, and will trouble him to attend to it.
And further tell your father I will not be pestered with this business
any longer. If he does not pay the money right off, I'll make him pay
it."
Something not unlike an ice-bolt shot through George Ryle's heart. He
knew there was trouble between his house and Mr. Chattaway; that his
father was, in pecuniary matters, at Mr. Chattaway's mercy. Was this
message the result of his recent encounter with Cris Chattaway? A hot
flush dyed his face, and he wished--for his father's sake--that he had
let Mr. Cris alone. For his father's sake he was now ready to eat
humble-pie, though there never lived a boy less inclined to humble-pie
in a general way than George Ryle. He went close up to the horse and
raised his honest eyes fearlessly.
"Has Christopher been complaining to you, Mr. Chattaway?"
"No. What has he to complain of?"
"Not much," answered George, his fears subsiding. "Only I know he does
carry tales."
"Were there no tales to carry he could not carry them," coldly remarked
Mr. Chattaway. "I have not seen Christopher since dinner-time. It seems
to me that you are always suspecting him of something. Take care you
deliver my message correctly, sir."
Mr. Chattaway rode away, and George returned to his pumpkin pie. He had
scarcely finished it--with remarkable relish, for the cold dinner he
took with him to school daily was little more than a luncheon--when Mr.
Ryle entered by the back-door, having been round to the stables with his
horse. He was a tall, fine man, with light | 1,981.503467 |
2023-11-16 18:50:05.4850420 | 186 | 7 |
Produced by Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
* * * * *
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as
faithfully as possible; please see detailed list of printing issues at
the end of the text.
* * * * *
[Illustration: ASHLEY DOWN ORPHAN HOUSES, BRISTOL, ENG.]
THE LIFE OF TRUST:
BEING A
NARRATIVE OF THE LORD'S DEALINGS
WITH
GEORGE MUeLLER, WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
EDITED AND CONDENSED BY
REV. H. LINCOLN WAYLAND,
PAST | 1,981.505082 |
2023-11-16 18:50:05.4881510 | 7,091 | 11 | LIGHT OF SALVATION***
Transcribed from the 1810 Ann Kemmish edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
SPIRITUAL VICTORIES,
THROUGH THE
_Light of Salvation_.
* * * * *
BEING THE SUBSTANCE OF A
SERMON,
Preached on SUNDAY, March the 11th, 1810,
AT THE
OBELISK CHAPEL,
* * * * *
BY J. CHURCH,
Minster of the Gospel.
* * * * *
_PUBLISHED BY REQUEST_.
* * * * *
“O House of Jacob, come ye, let us walk in the Light of the Lord.”
* * * * *
_SOUTHWARK_:
Printed by ANN KEMMISH, King-Street, Borough.
* * * * *
1810.
* * * * *
_PREFACE_.
_TO those Friends who requested the Publication of this Sermon_—_I have
only to say_, _I have endeavored to recollect a considerable part of it_;
_many ideas I have omitted_, _and others I have introduced_, _as I had
not the least intention of making this public_, _nor should I but for
your very pressing solicitation_. _I would remark by way of Preface_,
_that the success of Sermons_, _in point of usefulness_, _depends upon
the operations of God the divine Spirit_; _and these influences are
entirely sovereign_. _That although this Sermon was blest to you in the
hearing_, _it may not be so to you in the reading_—_nevertheless_, _as
the friends of immortal truth_—_you being in the possession of that love_
(_which rejoiceth in the truth_) _will also rejoice in every attempt to
exalt the Person of Jesus as the truth_; _to comfort and establish
Believers in the truth_, _and to encourage all the heralds of truth_, _to
be faithful unto death_. _I have sent forth the truth in a very plain
style_; _to you who know her excellencies she will shine with unfading
charms_; _while you adore the God of all grace_—_and I subscribe myself_,
_Your willing Servant in the cause of truth_,
_J. CHURCH_.
A SERMON.
JUDGES viith Chap. 20th Verse.
“_And the three companies blew the trumpets_, _and brake the
pitchers, and held the lamps in their left hands_, _and their
trumpets in their right_, _to blow withal_; _and they cried_, _The
Sword of the Lord and of Gideon_!”
THE history of the church of God, in all ages past, as recorded in the
Scriptures, is intended by the Spirit to exhibit many things of vast
importance to us, on whom the ends of the world are come.
FIRST.—The rebellion, ingratitude, and idolatry of the Israelites, give
us an awful proof of human depravity, and teach an humbling lesson to the
spiritual Israel, who have the same sinful nature, are prone to the same
sins, and would often fall into them and their consequences, but for the
grace of God.
SECONDLY.—The patience and long-suffering of God, particularly marked out
in this history—he bare long with them; his mercy was extended,
prolonged, and manifested to them, notwithstanding all their
provocations, in forgetting his deliverances of them in times past, and
practising the same sins he had before resented.
THIRDLY.—His disapprobation of their conduct, and the means he took to
testify it, are set before us. Our God is never at a loss for means to
accomplish his wise and holy purposes of justice or mercy, as is evident
from the history before us. The blessed Spirit operating upon the souls
of his people, often by his influence reproves their consciences of sin,
as it is so opposite to the purity of that divine nature, or holy
principle he has blessed them with. Sin, committed by a believer, is a
transgression of the law, or dictates of faith; for there is no sin,
condemned under the first covenant, but what, under the covenant of
grace, is pointed out in more odious colours.—Hence the idolatry,
rebellion, and ingratitude of the believer, are seen and lamented by him
as a child of God; and as God the Spirit communicates light to his
understanding, to discover it as sinful, he perpetually testifies that
his sins are more sinful than those who know not God.
FOURTHLY.—The inseparable connection between sin and sorrow, is felt by
all, both elect and non-elect. By nations, families, and individuals,
the moral and penal evils of the Fall, will be, must be, and are felt by
all. The non-elect feel it in many awful forms, as transgressors, in the
curse of the ground, in the calamities of war, in all the dreadful
horrors of a guilty conscience, and in the wrath of a sin-avenging God.
Nations feel it universally; this is evident by the calamities which
befell the land of Canaan—so the 6th Chapter begins: “And the children of
Israel did evil in the sight of the Lord; and the Lord delivered them
into the hand of Midian.” Their sin was resented in this form, by the
Lord—the prevailing of their enemies, which forced them to hide in dens,
caves, mountains, and strong holds—their enemies destroyed the increase
of their country, and reduced them almost to a famine; “and Israel was
greatly impoverished because of the Midianites” and people of Arabia.
FIFTHLY.—The tender mercy of God the Saviour appears as remarkable in
their deliverance; in the remembrance of his covenant of old, with their
fore-fathers; his good hand was seen in bringing them out of trouble,
although they had brought these troubles on themselves—what a solemn, but
gracious proof; “O! Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself! but in me is
thine help.” And what encouragement does this give to poor backsliders
to return to Jesus, their first husband; for although they have brought
these troubles on themselves, yet Jesus is ready to deliver them! What a
striking account does the pious Nehemiah give of the conduct of the
Israelites, and the goodness of God to man—9th chap. 28th verse; “But
after they had rest, they did evil again before thee, therefore thou
leftest them in the hands of their enemies, so that they had dominion
over them; yet when they cried unto thee thou heardest them from heaven;
and many times thou didst deliver them, according to thy tender mercies.”
SIXTHLY.—I remark again, that our God has ever manifested himself a God,
hearing prayer: the children of Israel cried unto the Lord, and the Lord
sent a prophet to them; and after reproving them, we have an account of a
deliverer, raised up by the Lord himself. What encouragement does this
give to us in all our trials, without and within, whether in body, soul,
circumstances, family, or nation. God has even condescended to hear the
cries of many who had no grace, yet, led by the light of nature to call
on him in trouble; and will he turn a deaf ear to his saints in trouble?
surely not. Believer, the remedy’s before thee—PRAY.
In taking one more view of this history, we must admire the conduct of
God in over-turning all the schemes of men, their wisdom, counsel, and
power: that in providence as well as in grace, his wisdom, power, and
faithfulness, might be clearly seen and adored by his people. His wisdom
in the permission of the Fall, and its awful consequences, seems to go
before, and make way for the displays of his love, mercy, power, and
faithfulness. This is seen in his dispensations, generally, and
particularly in grace & providence. How often has infinite wisdom
permitted heavy troubles to come on the Church, to wean her from the
creature—to shew her the value of Jesus, as a deliverer—and to lead her
to him by many intreaties; that while we feel our strength perfect
weakness, we may the more clearly discover the good hand of our God, in
our support and deliverance, and give him the glory due to his name for
it. The principal end God has in view in all his dispensations, is his
own glory—this is the first cause and last grand end of all things—“for
of him, and through him, and to him, are all things.” Had the victory we
are considering been gained by well disciplined men, led on by wise,
noble, valiant generals, who had often been successful in war—had this
been the case, the creature would have been extolled, and God nearly
forgotten. But this victory was a display of the power of Jehovah—his
hand clearly seen, his mercy displayed, and all the honor given to him to
whom it is due. The means, the feeble means the Lord made use of were
simply, a weak un-armed man, with only three hundred men, led by him,
with lamps, trumpets, and pitchers—to carnal reason a very unlikely
method to conquer two hundred thousand Midianites, well skilled in the
art of war. But this was God’s method, and we have a right to submit our
wisdom to God’s plan; “for my thoughts are not as your thoughts, nor my
ways as your ways, saith the Lord; for as the heavens are high above the
earth, so are my ways above your ways.” And this victory, through such
feeble means, is a confirmation of this truth—the angel Jehovah Jesus,
appeared to Gideon as he was threshing wheat, in a secret place, to hide
it from the enemy; and assured him, that however mean himself and family
were, he should deliver Israel from their present servitude. Gideon,
astonished at such an appearance, such a salutation, and such a
declaration, began to ask, “How this could be?” The blessed Jesus tells
him, “Surely I will be with thee.” Gideon, like the rest of God’s
people, could not give God the credit of God, nor take him at his word—he
could not honor him by believing on him, and prays, “If I have found
grace in thy sight, shew me a sign that thou talkest with me.”—As
believers in Jesus, we are called to walk by faith, and not by sight, as
seeing him who is invisible, or out of sight—depending on his word, oath,
and faithfulness, as the word of a covenant God, who cannot lie: this is
honoring Jesus—yet God condescended to give Gideon the request of his
lips; and to confirm his faith, he, with a rod, touched the rock, and
caused fire to come out of it, and, consume the slain Kid and unleavened
cakes, all moistened with the broth, which Gideon, at his command, had
put thereon. Gideon was fearful and apprehensive of immediate death, as
he had seen an angel; but the Lord kindly assured him that he was in no
danger.—How strange and groundless the fears of God’s people—frequently
they take covenant-love dispensations as tokens of wrath; forgetting it
is written, “I will no more be wroth with thee, nor forsake thee.”—We are
seldom satisfied with the wise and gracious conduct of our God; when we
have no sign or clear evidences we murmur—when we have we often fear they
are not of a right kind. Well may saints be called children, seeing they
possess the weakness of them.
After this, Gideon built an altar, and called it Jehovah Shalom—believing
what the Lord had declared, “that he would send peace to Israel.” It is
worthy of observation, that the people of God only rear up altars to the
Lord, as they believe in him—there is no praying or praising but by faith
in Jesus; this leads the soul out to God, and “without faith it is
impossible to please God.” Gideon then testified his zeal for the
service of God, and in God’s strength he threw down the altar of Baal,
and cut down the grove that was by it. This shews the effect of faith in
Jesus; it is a faith which worketh by love to God’s service, and produces
a zeal for his glory. This alarms Satan, who stirs up persecution
against all who love the Redeemer’s cause, as in the instance of
Gideon—his fellow-citizens sought his life, for opposing their idolatry;
but Joash, his father, remonstrated with them, that it did not become the
people of God to plead for Baal; and that if Baal was truly God, he ought
to exert his power in punishing those who had broken down his altar; and
he called his son Jerubbaal, that is, let Baal contend with himself (if
he can).
Understanding the Midianites had crossed Jordan, Westward, and were
encamped in the valley of Jezreel, at no great distance—filled with the
Spirit of God, as a spirit of courage, Gideon sounded a trumpet, and
assembled his friends, to the number of thirty-two thousand men. But,
alas! what was this little army to meet and encounter with two hundred
thousand! Perhaps his heart might fail him once more—he begs another,
even a double sign. We must never forget that God has said “Open thy
mouth wide; ask great things;”—the Lord graciously answers him, and by
bedewing a fleece of wool, while the adjacent ground was dry—and again
bedewing the ground, while the fleece of wool was dry, the Lord confirmed
his doubtful mind. Thus assured of victory Gideon marched his forces
directly towards the Midianites. What the army thought we know not, in
their march, knowing their fewness and the vast army of the other—but
every natural gift is of the Holy-Ghost, as the God of nature and
providence, as well as every spiritual one; and all the wisdom and
courage of warriors are the work of God the Spirit, and no man has any of
these gifts inherent in himself, they are the peculiar gifts of God, to
answer his holy purposes. And now Gideon’s faith is put to a double
trial. If God gives his people grace, he tries that grace, especially
the grace of faith. At the well of Harod God ordered him to warn his
army, that every one who was timorous should return home, and there
returned home twenty-two thousand! so that Gideon was left but with ten
thousand. God was wisely securing the honor of this victory to
himself—hence he assigns this reason, “lest Israel vaunt themselves and
say, Not the Lord, but mine hand hath done this:” and so it is in our
salvation—God has wisely permitted man to become as weak as he was
wicked, that he might take occasion to honor the riches of his grace, in
saving those who could not save themselves: and how often is this seen in
his providential dealings, when brought into circumstances of sore trial,
and every door shut up? then it is that the Lord’s hand is more clearly
seen, and the glory redounds to him. His glory is great in our
salvation—this made the ancients say, “When the bricks are doubled, then
comes Moses;” that is, “Man’s greatest extremity is God’s opportunity.”
Gideon’s faith is tried again: “The people are yet too many for me,”
saith the Lord.—He was then ordered to cause all of his people to drink
out of the river, without using any vessel. On this trial only three
hundred lapped the water, putting their hands to their mouths; the rest
bowed on their knees to drink water. This was emblematic of their
spirits and minds—some, apparently careless of their country, took their
ease at the water-side—the three hundred, set upon the battle, (which
they saw God’s hand was in), they only lapped the little out of their
hands they had hastily caught up. What an emblem of the different
characters that compose the visible church of Jesus—some who only have a
name to live, and are dead! who are taking their ease in Zion, and
resting beside the waters of creature comforts; while the humble and
zealous believer is using the world as a traveller at an Inn, knowing
that he is but a stranger and a pilgrim here below; and that as he is
engaged in a warfare, it will not be for God’s glory to load himself with
thick clay. The Lord then says, “By the three hundred men that lapped
will I save Israel.”—These three hundred were ordered to provide victuals
for some days; and each a trumpet, a lamp, and a pitcher. We hear
nothing of arms; but, just before the victory, Gideon and Phurah his
servant, went into the Midianitish camp, at night, as directed of God.
Here, for the confirmation of his faith, and once more, to assure him of
success, he heard a soldier in the host tell his comrade of a strange
dream he had, of a barley cake rolling from the hill, and over-turning
his tent. The other explained the dream, and said, “This is no other
than the Sword of Gideon, the son of Joash, a man of Israel, for into his
hand hath God delivered the Midianites.”—Doubtless the Midianites had
heard before that the God of Israel had raised up one to oppose them; but
they were not intimidated with that, perhaps only laughed at the weakness
of the Israelites, in placing any dependence on their God—as Satan and
the world, pharisees, and hypocrites, laughing at believers, walking by
faith, and not by sight; it will be the believer’s turn to laugh another
day, when their enemies shall gnaw their tongues in anguish, and say, We
fools counted their lives madness, and their end without honor.
Gideon was now encouraged, divided his army into three companies, and
ordered them to imitate him in all he did—16th verse; “And he divided the
three hundred into companies,” one hundred in each company, partly to
make the better figure; a shew of an army, with right and left wing, and
partly that they might fall upon the camp of Midian in different
parts—and he put a trumpet in every man’s hand—they that returned of the
trumpeters having left their trumpets behind, so that there was a
sufficient number of trumpets for three hundred men; and these were put
into their hands, that when they blew together the noise would be very
great, and it would seem, by the noise, like a great army, and so terrify
their enemies. “With empty pitchers, and lamps within the pitchers:” the
pitchers were of earth, and so very easily broken, and made a great noise
in clashing together one against another; and these were empty of water,
or otherwise would not have been fit to put lamps into—and the lamps put
into them were not of oil, for then when the pitchers were broken the oil
would have run out—but were a kind of torches, made of rosin, wax, pitch,
and such like things; and these were put in the pitchers to preserve them
from the wind, and conceal them from the enemy till just as they came
upon them, and then they held them out—which, in a dark night, would make
a terrible blaze, as before this they were of use to light them down the
hill to the camp. Gideon stood forward first, and as he acted so were
they to act; and as they were acting so they were to exclaim, “The Sword
of the Lord and of Gideon!” or, for the Lord and for Gideon. The name
Jehovah, these heathens might often have heard as the God of Israel, and
would now sound dreadful to them; and the name of Gideon also:—this was
the reason why Gideon is added, and not out of arrogance and vanity, but
put after the name of the Lord, as being only an instrument the Lord
thought fit to make use of; but all the glory belonged to the Lord.
Verse 19.—So Gideon, and the three hundred men that were with him, which
was one of the three companies his army was divided into, came unto the
out-side of the camp, in the beginning of the middle watch, (the second
watch). In early times the Jews divided their nights into three watches;
Gideon choose the middle—had he come the first, all might not have been
in bed—had he come the last, some might have been rising; but he took
this time, a little after midnight in the dead of the night, when the
whole army was fast asleep—and the three companies blew the trumpets, and
brake the pitchers, and held the lamps in their left hands, and the
trumpets in their right hands, to blow withal—and they cried, The Sword
of the Lord, and of Gideon! The noise, and the blaze of light were very
surprising to the host of Midian, just awaking out of their sleep,
perhaps—an awful emblem of the surprise a soul experiences, when it
leaves the body without a hope, and without a God!—a greater emblem of
that period, when the midnight cry shall be made—when the arch-angels
trumpet shall wake the dead!—shake the vast creation when the blaze of a
burning world, and the sword of vindictive justice shall be seen.—“The
host of Midian ran, and cried, and fled.”—Such shall the terror be in
that dread moment. See this finely represented by the excellent Admiral
Kempenfelt, who was drowned in the Royal George, and who composed some
excellent verses on the Last Day. I will only mention these two verses,
as suitable to this subject, and will be acceptable to the believer,
while it is a terror to those Midianites who will experience the horrors
of that day.—
Hark! ’tis the trump of God
Sounds thro’ the worlds abroad—
Time is no more!
Horrors invest the skies!
Graves burst and myriads rise!
Nature, in agonies,
Yields up her store.
Chang’d in a moment’s space!
See the affrighted race
Shrink and despair!
Now they attempt to flee—
Curse immortality?
And view their misery
Dreadfully near!
But while the Midianites fled, the Israelites stood every man in his
place;—so it will be at the final consummation of all things. Clothed in
the righteousness of Jesus, we shall stand in our lot, and see a burning
world, and the misery of the damned. But while Jesus descends as our
salvation we shall glorify, and for ever admire him.—This will surely be
thy experience and thy privilege, O believer, as sure as ever the Holy
Spirit has brought you, in time, to believe on him, to seek him, rejoice
in him, and live to his praise.
To close the history of Gideon—we find, that the Midianites in the dark,
and in their terror, took their friends for their foes, and killed one
another—one hundred and twenty thousand Midianites were slain; fifteen
thousand got over Jordan with Zebah and Zalmunna, their kings.—Gideon
pursued them at their heels. His men being faint he desired the elders
of Penuel and Succoth, as he passed, to give them victuals; but they,
accounting him a fool to pursue such an army with such an handful of men,
refused his troops refreshment, which he, afterwards, justly
resented.—After his victories the Israelites offered him the government
of their country, which he as piously declined, and told them the Lord,
alone, was their rightful sovereign.—Thus was Midian conquered in such a
manner that they lifted up their heads no more, to threaten or overcome
the Israelites.—After judging Israel seventy years, Gideon dies, leaving
behind him seventy sons, all of whom were basely murdered by Abimelech.
We cannot close this history of pious, valiant, honored Gideon, without
taking a view of the grand design of God the Holy Ghost, in this, as well
as in many more instances of renowned warriors, pious judges, and noble
deliverers.—I humbly conceive in the history of Gideon is sweetly
exhibited the adorable Redeemer, as the Christ of God, as the Deliverer
of his saints, as the Saviour of sinners, as the Judge of Israel, and the
glorious leader of his people. His poverty and meanness, set forth the
abasement and humiliation of him who was rich, yet, for our sakes, became
poor, in every sense of the word. Gideon’s call to his work, sets forth
Christ’s call to save sinners, which he willingly accepted for the sake
of his Israel. Hence the Father, in the Covenant, is represented as
saying, “I have called thee in righteousness; thou art my servant, in
whom I will be glorified.” So the Redeemer says, “Now the Lord God, and
his Spirit hath sent me—the Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he
hath anointed me to preach the Gospel.” The miraculous confirmation of
Gideon’s call, leads us to remark the miracles of our blessed Jesus, as
proofs of his Divinity, and to confirm his Messiahship as the sent of the
Father; not forgetting the Father’s testimony at his baptism and
transfiguration. The zeal Gideon shewed for the service of God, reminds
us of him who once said, “The zeal of thy house hath eaten me up;” and
who drove the buyers and sellers out of his Father’s house.—By a few
weak, unarmed men, Gideon did wonders. What a type of him who, by a few
poor illiterate preachers, sounding the Gospel trumpet, and displaying
the light and fire from their earthen vessels, foiled sin and Satan, and
the lying and delusive systems of Scribes, Pharisees, and idolatrous
Priests, in the Jewish and Gentile world.—As Gideon invited others to
share in his victories, so does our glorious Immanuel, Christ; having
obtained peace by the blood of his cross, and wrought out a complete
obedience, he invites his friends, and bids them an hearty welcome, with
an “Eat, O friends.”—Gideon mildly pacified the unreasonable
Ephraimites—and how mildly does our Jesus often pacify our rebellious
spirits, when he overcomes us with sweet discoveries of his covenant
love, tender mercy, covenant faithfulness, and finished work.—Gideon
resented the cruelty of the men of Penuel, for refusing his men
refreshment—he, tore flesh, killed their chief men, and destroyed their
tower—a striking emblem how Christ will deal with mystical Babylon, and
with all who deny his poor people help in time of need—(see the 25th
Matthew) “When I was hungry ye gave me no meat—and these shall go away
into everlasting punishment, but the righteous into life eternal.”—After
his victories he arrives to great honor; and our Jesus is highly exalted.
Gideon judges Israel; and all judgment is committed to Jesus.—Gideon asks
a present of those for whom he had done so much; and Jesus says, “My son,
give me thine heart!”—and by Paul, “I beseech you by the mercies you have
received, to dedicate yourselves to God, which is your reasonable
service.”
I cannot pass by this history without enlarging a little more, which I
shall do, God leading me, only to make a few remarks, in a spiritual way,
upon that part which I first read as a text; and I hope, without any
injustice to the subject, or straining it, or putting a sense on it, that
was never intended, there can be no impropriety in my leading the minds
of my hearers from the lesser to a greater subject; and I must give it as
my most decided opinion, that the greatest part of the Old Testament
circumstances were really designed to hold forth something of Jesus, and
the salvation of the Gospel. To exhibit from the text the Person and
Work of the Son of God—to point out the qualifications and work of Gospel
ministers, with an application of the text to the whole body of God’s
elect, in the present state of things, is my design. The Person of
Jesus, as God-Man Mediator, and the Redemption of men, by him, was
exhibited to the Old Testament saints, by many figures; these, the
excellent Milton stiles Religious Rights of Sacrifices; informing men, by
types and shadows, of that destined Seed to bruise the Serpent—by what
means he shall atchieve deliverance.—Our blessed Lord owns many of the
shadows: the Apostle, or rather the Holy-Ghost by the Apostle, applies
many others; the Brazen Serpent, Solomon’s Temple, the Prophet Jonah in
the Whale’s belly, the Smitten Rock, the Vail of the Temple, the divided
Waves of the Sea, the Cloud by Day and the Pillar of Fire by Night, with
a vast many other emblems. Nor can I see why our blessed Jesus should
not be pointed out to the faith and hope of God’s saints, by the lamp and
pitcher, while he, at the same time sounded the trumpet of free grace and
eternal mercy, which was “a savour of life unto some, and of death unto
others.” May not the pitcher be an emblem of his earthen nature, and the
lamp within, of his divinity—and by virtue of union of the two natures,
our God is manifest in the flesh—married our nature, conferred an honor
upon poor sinners that he never conferred on the angels. This was Job’s
triumph, “in my flesh shall I see God.” He took part of the children’s
flesh and blood; he was truly human—bone of our bone and flesh of our
flesh. God sent forth his Son, made of a woman, without the intervention
of a human father, but by the miraculous impregnation of the Holy-Ghost;
so that his human nature appears to be the joint work of the Trinity—the
Father provides it—“a body hast thou prepared me,”—the Son assumed it—“he
took on him the form of a servant;”—the Spirit formed it—“that holy thing
that shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God—thus the word
was made flesh and dwelt among us.” The lamp within the pitcher may be
an emblem of his Godhead, as the light of life—he wrapped up his divinity
in his manhood—here it was he concealed his glory: well may the Prophet
exclaim, “Verily thou art a God that hidest thyself, O God of Israel the
Saviour.” What a mystery! a child born—“the everlasting Father, the
mighty God.” How great is the mystery of godliness! Angels are amazed,
saints admire, and sinners triumph—a God in every perfection, a Man in
every faculty—God-Man | 1,981.508191 |
2023-11-16 18:50:05.5828280 | 1,805 | 66 |
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produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
THE GNOSTIC CRUCIFIXION
WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR
_Net._
THRICE GREATEST HERMES (3 vols.) 30/-
FRAGMENTS OF A FAITH FORGOTTEN 10/6
DID JESUS LIVE 100 B.C.? 9/-
THE WORLD-MYSTERY 5/-
THE GOSPEL AND THE GOSPELS 4/6
APOLLONIUS OF TYANA 3/6
THE UPANISHADS (2 vols.) 3/-
PLOTINUS 1/-
ECHOES FROM THE GNOSIS
BY G. R. S. MEAD
VOL. VII.
THE GNOSTIC CRUCIFIXION
THE THEOSOPHICAL PUBLISHING SOCIETY
LONDON AND BENARES
1907
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
ECHOES FROM THE GNOSIS.
Under this general title is now being published a series of small volumes,
drawn from, or based upon, the mystic, theosophic and gnostic writings of
the ancients, so as to make more easily audible for the ever-widening
circle of those who love such things, some echoes of the mystic
experiences and initiatory lore of their spiritual ancestry. There are
many who love the life of the spirit, and who long for the light of
gnostic illumination, but who are not sufficiently equipped to study the
writings of the ancients at first hand, or to follow unaided the labours
of scholars. These little volumes are therefore intended to serve as
introduction to the study of the more difficult literature of the subject;
and it is hoped that at the same time they may become for some, who have,
as yet, not even heard of the Gnosis, stepping-stones to higher things.
G. R. S. M.
THE GNOSTIC CRUCIFIXION
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE 9
THE VISION OF THE CROSS 12
COMMENTS 20
POSTCRIPT 69
TEXTS
Bonnet (M.), _Acta Apostolorum Apocrypha_ (Leipzig, 1898).
James (M. R.), _Apocrypha Anecdota, T. & S._, v. i. (Cambridge, 1897).
_F._ = _Fragments of a Faith Forgotten_, 2nd. ed. (London, 1906).
_H._ = _Thrice Greatest Hermes_ (London, 1906).
ECHOES FROM THE GNOSIS
VOL. I. THE GNOSIS OF THE MIND.
VOL. II. THE HYMNS OF HERMES.
VOL. III. THE VISION OF ARIDAEUS.
VOL. IV. THE HYMN OF JESUS.
VOL. V. THE MYSTERIES OF MITHRA.
VOL. VI. A MITHRIAC RITUAL.
VOL. VII. THE GNOSTIC CRUCIFIXION.
SOME PROPOSED SUBJECTS FOR FORTHCOMING VOLUMES
THE CHALDAEAN ORACLES.
THE HYMN OF THE PRODIGAL.
SOME ORPHIC FRAGMENTS.
THE GNOSTIC CRUCIFIXION.
PREFACE.
The Gnostic Mystery of the Crucifixion is most clearly set forth in the
new-found fragments of _The Acts of John_, and follows immediately on the
Sacred Dance and Ritual of Initiation which we endeavoured to elucidate in
Vol. IV. of these little books, in treating of _The Hymn of Jesus_.
The reader is, therefore, referred to the "Preamble" of that volume for a
short introduction concerning the nature of the Gnostic Acts in general
and of the Leucian _Acts of John_ in particular. I would, however, add a
point of interest bearing on the date which was forgotten, though I have
frequently remarked upon it when lecturing on the subject.
The strongest proof that we have in our fragment very early material is
found in the text itself, when it relates the following simple form of the
miracle of the loaves.
"Now if at any time He were invited by one of the Pharisees and went to
the bidding, we used to go with Him. And before each was set a single loaf
by the host; and of them He Himself also received one. Then He would give
thanks and divide His loaf among us; and from this little each had enough,
and our own loaves were saved whole, so that those who bade Him were
amazed."
If the marvellous narratives of the feeding of the five thousand had been
already in circulation, it is incredible that this simple story, which we
may so easily believe, should have been invented. Of what use, when the
minds of the hearers had been strung to the pitch of faith which had
already accepted the feeding of the five thousand as an actual physical
occurrence, would it have been to invent comparatively so small a wonder?
On the other hand, it is easy to believe that from similar simple stories
of the power of the Master, which were first of all circulated in the
inner circles, the popular narratives of the multitude-feeding miracles
could be developed. We, therefore, conclude, with every probability, that
we have here an indication of material of very early date.
Nevertheless when we come to the Mystery of the Crucifixion as set forth
in our fragment, we are not entitled to argue that the popular history was
developed from it in a similar fashion. The problem it raises is of
another order, and to it we will return when the reader has been put in
possession of the narrative, as translated from Bonnet's text. John is
supposed to be the narrator.
(The Arabic figures and the Roman figures in square brackets refer
respectively to Bonnet's and James' texts. I have added the side figures
for convenience of reference in the comments.)
THE VISION OF THE CROSS.
1. [97 (xii.)] And having danced these things with us, Beloved, the Lord
went out. And we, as though beside ourselves, or wakened out of sleep,
fled each our several ways.
2. I, however, though I saw the beginning of His passion could not stay to
the end, but fled unto the Mount of Olives weeping over that which had
befallen.
3. And when He was hung on the tree of the cross, at the sixth hour of the
day darkness came over the whole earth.
And my Lord stood in the midst of the Cave, and filled it with light, and
said:
4. "John, to the multitude below, in Jerusalem, I am being crucified, and
pierced with spears and reeds, and vinegar and gall is being given Me to
drink. To thee now I speak, and give ear to what I say. 'Twas I who put it
in thy heart to ascend this Mount, that thou mightest hear what disciple
should learn from Master, and man from God."
5. [98 (xiii.)] And having thus spoken, He showed me a Cross of Light set
up, and round the Cross a vast multitude, and therein one form and a
similar appearance, and in the Cross another multitude not having one
form.
6. And I beheld the Lord Himself above the Cross. He had, however, no
shape, but only as it were a voice--not, however, this voice to which we
are accustomed, but one of its own kind and beneficent and truly of God,
saying unto me:
7. "John, one there needs must be to hear those things, from Me; for I
long for one who will hear.
8. "This Cross of Light is called by Me for your sakes sometimes Word
(Logos), sometimes Mind, sometimes Jesus, sometimes Christ, sometimes
Door, sometimes Way, sometimes Bread, sometimes Seed, sometimes
Resurrection, sometimes | 1,981.602868 |
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Produced by Judith Boss and David Widger
FALK
A REMINISCENCE
By Joseph Conrad
Several of us, all more or less connected with the sea, were dining in
a small river-hostelry not more than thirty miles from London, and less
than twenty from that shallow and dangerous puddle to which our coasting
men give the grandiose name of "German Ocean." And through the wide
windows we had a view of the Thames; an enfilading view down the Lower
Hope Reach. But the dinner was execrable, and all the feast was for the
eyes.
That flavour of salt-water which for so many of us had been the very
water of life permeated our talk. He who hath known the bitterness of
the Ocean shall have its taste forever in his mouth. But one or two
of us, pampered by the life of the land, complained of hunger. It was
impossible to swallow any of that stuff. And indeed there was a strange
mustiness in everything. The wooden dining-room stuck out over the mud
of the shore like a lacustrine dwelling; the planks of the floor seemed
rotten; a decrepit old waiter tottered pathetically to and fro before
an antediluvian and worm-eaten sideboard; the chipped plates might have
been disinterred from some kitchen midden near an inhabited | 1,981.603821 |
2023-11-16 18:50:05.6810090 | 4,611 | 6 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Pilar Somoza and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: "_She dragged off the engagement ring, and dashed it on
the floor in front of his feet._" _See p._ 335.]
PRINCE FORTUNATUS
A Novel
BY
WILLIAM BLACK
AUTHOR OF "A PRINCESS OF THULE" "MACLEOD OF DARE"
"IN FAR LOCHABER" ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
1905
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A REHEARSAL 5
II. THE GREAT GOD PAN 21
III. NINA 37
IV. COUNTRY AND TOWN 55
V. WARS AND RUMORS 78
VI. A DEPARTURE 90
VII. IN STRATHAIVRON 106
VIII. THE TWELFTH 123
IX. VENATOR IMMEMOR 142
X. AIVRON AND GEINIG 159
XI. THE PHANTOM STAG 174
XII. A GLOBE OF GOLD-FISH 192
XIII. A NEW EXPERIENCE 207
XIV. A MAGNANIMOUS RIVAL 225
XV. "LET THE STRUCKEN DEER GO WEEP" 243
XVI. AN AWAKENING 259
XVII. A CRISIS 276
XVIII. AN INVOCATION 294
XIX. ENTRAPPED 310
XX. IN DIRER STRAITS 326
XXI. IN A DEN OF LIONS, AND THEREAFTER 342
XXII. PRIUS DEMENTAT 359
XXIII. A MEMORABLE DAY 376
XXIV. FRIENDS IN NEED 393
XXV. CHANGES 410
XXVI. TOWARDS THE DAWN 425
XXVII. A REUNION 430
ILLUSTRATIONS.
"SHE DRAGGED OFF THE ENGAGEMENT-RING, AND DASHED
IT ON THE FLOOR IN FRONT OF HIS FEET" _Frontispiece._
"'YOU SAY AT YOUR FEET THAT I WEPT IN DESPAIR'" _Facing p._ 18
"WHEN THEY HAD FINISHED SUPPER, LIONEL MOORE
LIT A CIGARETTE, AND HIS FRIEND A BRIAR-ROOT PIPE" " 34
"THEY PASSED IN THROUGH THE GATE, AND FOUND THE
DOOR LEFT OPEN FOR THEM" " 64
"AND YET HERE WAS THIS GIRL WATCHING COOLLY
AND CRITICALLY THE MOTION OF THE LINE" " 116
"CAUTIOUSLY OLD ROBERT CREPT DOWN. WHEN HE
WAS CLOSE TO THE WATER, HE BARED HIS RIGHT
ARM AND GRASPED THE GAFF BY THE HANDLE" " 170
"ROBERT GOT THE SMALL PARCELS AND THE DRINKING-CUPS
OUT OF THE BAG, AND ARRANGED THEM ON THE WARM TURF" " 198
"AND NINA, HANGING SOME WAY BACK, COULD SEE
THEM BEING PRESENTED TO MISS BURGOYNE" " 252
"'WHY, YOU SEEM TO KNOW EVERYBODY, MR. MOORE!'
SHE SAID TO HIM, WITH A SMILE" " 264
"HE THREW HIS ARMS ON THE TABLE BEFORE HIM,
AND HID HIS FACE" " 310
"AND AGAIN SHE FILLED UP HIS GLASS, WHICH HE HAD
NOT EMPTIED" " 322
"THERE WAS A SLIGHT TOUCH OF COLOR VISIBLE ON
THE GRACIOUS FOREHEAD WHEN SHE OFFERED HIM HER HAND" " 346
"HE UTTERED A LOUD SHRIEK, AND STRUGGLED
WILDLY TO RAISE HIMSELF" " 394
"SHE THREW HERSELF ON HER KNEES BY THE BEDSIDE
AND SEIZED HIS HAND" " 400
"MAURICE WALKED BACK UNTIL HE FOUND A GATE,
ENTERED, AND WENT FORWARD AND OVERTOOK HER" " 420
"I HAVE AN EXTREMELY IMPORTANT LETTER TO SEND OFF" " 430
PRINCE FORTUNATUS.
CHAPTER I.
A REHEARSAL.
When the curtain fell on the last act of "The Squire's Daughter," the
comedy-opera that had taken all musical London by storm, a tall and
elegant young English matron and her still taller brother rose from
their places in the private box they had been occupying, and made ready
to depart; and he had just assisted her to put on her long-skirted coat
of rose-red plush when an attendant made his appearance.
"Mr. Moore's compliments, your ladyship, and will you please to step
this way?"
The box was close to the stage. Lady Adela Cunyngham and her brother,
Lord Rockminster, followed their guide through a narrow little door, and
almost at once found themselves in the wings, amid the usual motley
crowd of gas-men, scene-shifters, dressers, and the like. But the
company were still fronting the footlights; for there had been a general
recall, and the curtain had gone up again; and probably, during this
brief second of scrutiny, it may have seemed odd to these two strangers
to find themselves looking, not at rows of smiling faces on the stage,
but at the backs of the heads of the performers. However, the curtain
once more came down; the great wedding-party in the squire's hall grew
suddenly quite business-like and went their several ways as if they had
no longer any concern with one another; and then it was that the
squire's daughter herself--a piquant little person she was, in a
magnificent costume of richly flowered white satin, and with a
portentous head-gear of powdered hair and brilliants and strings of
pearls--was brought forward by a handsome young gentleman who wore a
tied wig, a laced coat and ruffles, satin knee-breeches, shining silken
stockings, and silver-buckled shoes.
"Lady Adela," said he, "let me introduce you to Miss Burgoyne. Miss
Burgoyne has been kind enough to say she will take you into her room for
a little while, until I get off my war-paint. I sha'n't keep you more
than a few minutes."
"It is very good of you," said the tall young matron in the crimson coat
to this gorgeous little white bride, whose lips were brilliant with
cherry-paste, and whose bright and frank eyes were surrounded by such a
mighty mass of make-up.
"Not at all," she answered, pleasantly enough, and therewith she led the
way down some steps into a long, white-tiled corridor, from which
branched the various dressing-rooms. "I'm afraid I can't give you any
tea now; but there's some lemonade, of my own making--it has become very
popular in the theatre--you would hardly believe the number of callers I
have of an evening."
By this time Lionel Moore, who was responsible for these strangers being
in the theatre, had gone quickly off to his own dressing-room to change
his attire, so that when the two ladies reached a certain half-open door
where the prima-donna's maid was waiting for her, Lord Rockminster
naturally hung back and would have remained without. Miss Burgoyne
instantly turned to him.
"Oh, but you may come in too!" she said, with great complaisance.
Somewhat timorously he followed these two into a prettily furnished
little sitting-room, where he was bidden to take a seat and regale
himself with lemonade, if he was so minded; and then Miss Burgoyne drew
aside the curtain of an inner apartment, and said to her other guest:
"_You_ may come in here, if you like. Mr. Moore said you wished to
know about stage make-up and that kind of thing--I will show you all the
dreadful secrets--Jane!" Thereupon these three disappeared behind the
curtain, and Lord Rockminster was left alone.
But Lord Rockminster liked being left alone. He was a great thinker, who
rarely revealed his thoughts, but who was quite happy in possessing
them. He could sit for an hour at a club-window, calmly gazing out into
the street, and be perfectly content. It is true that the pale
tobacco-tinge that overspread the young man's fair complexion seemed to
speak of an out-of-door life; but he had long ago emancipated himself
from the tyranny of field-sports. That thraldom had begun early with
him, as with most of his class. He had hardly been out of his Eton
jacket when gillies and water-bailiffs got hold of him, and made him
thrash salmon-pools with a seventeen-foot rod until his back was
breaking; and then keepers and foresters had taken possession of him,
and compelled him to crawl for miles up wet gullies and across
peat-hags, and then put a rifle in his hand, expecting him to hit a
bewildering object on the other side of a corrie when, as a matter of
fact, his heart was like to burst with excitement and fear. But the
young man had some strength of character. He rebelled; he refused to be
driven like a slave any longer; he struck for freedom and won it. There
was still much travelling to be encountered; but when he had got that
over, when he had seen everything and done everything, and there was
nothing more to do or to see, then he became master of himself and
conducted himself accordingly. Contemplation, accompanied by a
cigarette, was now his chief good. What his meditations were no one
knew, but they sufficed unto himself. He had attained Nirvana. He lived
in a region of perpetual thought.
But there was one active quality that Lord Rockminster certainly did
possess: he was a most devoted brother, as all the town knew. He was
never tired of going about with his three beautiful sisters, or with any
one of them; he would fetch and carry for them with the most amiable
assiduity; "Rock" they called him, as if he were a retriever. Then the
fact that they followed very different pursuits made all the greater
demand on his consideration. His youngest sister, Lady Rosamund Bourne,
painted indefatigably in both water and oils, and had more than once
exhibited in Suffolk Street; Lady Sybil devoted herself to music, and
was a well-known figure at charitable concerts; while the eldest sister,
Lady Adela, considered literature and the drama as more particularly
under her protection, nor had she ceased to interest herself in these
graceful arts when she married Sir Hugh Cunyngham, of the Braes, that
famous breeder of polled cattle. The natural consequence of all this was
that Lord Rockminster found himself called to a never-ending series of
concerts, theatres, private views, and the like, and always with one or
other of his beautiful, tall sisters as his companion; while on a
certain occasion (for it was whispered that Lady Adela Cunyngham was
engaged in the composition of a novel, and her brother was the soul of
good-nature) he had even gone the length of asking a publisher to dine
at his club. And here he was seated in an actress's room, alone, while
his sister was inspecting powder-puffs, washes, patches, and paste
jewelry; and not only that, but they were about to take an actor home to
supper with them. What he thought about it all he never said. He sat and
stroked his small yellow moustache; his eyes was absent; and on his
handsome, almost Greek, features there dwelt a perfect and continuous
calm.
Presently the door was opened, and the smart-looking young baritone who
had stolen away the hearts of half the women in London made his
appearance. He was a young fellow of about eight-and-twenty,
pleasant-featured, his complexion almost colorless, his eyes gray with
dark lashes, his eyebrows also dark. In figure he was slight and wiry
rather than muscular; but where he gave evidence of strength was in his
magnificent throat and in the set of his head and shoulders. It may be
added that he possessed, what few stage-singers appear to possess, a
remarkably well-formed leg--a firm-knit calf tapering to a small ankle
and a shapely foot; but, as he had now doffed his professional silken
stockings and silver-buckled shoes for ordinary evening wear, his merits
in this respect were mostly concealed.
No sooner had he begun to talk to Lord Rockminster than the sound of his
voice summoned forth from the inner apartment Lady Adela, who, with many
expressions of thanks, bade good-night to the prima-donna, and put
herself under charge of the young baritone.
"My sisters are at the Mellords' to-night," said she, as she accompanied
him along the corridor and up the steps and through the now almost
deserted wings. "They were dining there, and we left them as we came to
the theatre, and promised to pick them up on our way home. There will be
a bit of a crush, I suppose; you won't mind coming in for a few minutes,
will you, Mr. Moore?"
"I don't know Mrs. Mellord," said he, with becoming modesty.
"But everybody knows you--that is the great point," said this tall
young Englishwoman, who looked very gracious and charming, and who, when
she turned to talk to her companion, had a quick, responsive smile ever
ready in her clear, intelligent, gray-blue eyes. "Oh, yes, you must
come. It is one of the prettiest houses in London; and Mrs. Mellord is
one of the nicest women. We will get Sybil and Rose away as soon as we
can; and I shouldn't at all wonder if we found Georgie Lestrange and her
brother there too. Oh, almost certain, I should say. Then we could carry
them off to supper, and after that Pastora might try over her duet with
Damon. But as regards the Mellords, Mr. Moore," said she, with a
pleasant smile, as he handed her into her brougham, which had been
brought round to the stage-door, "I shall consider you to be under my
protection, and I will take care no one shall ask you to sing."
"But you know, Lady Adela, I am always delighted to sing for any friend
of yours," said he, promptly enough; and then, when he and Lord
Rockminster had entered the carriage, and the footman had shut the door
and got on the box, away they drove through the busy midnight world of
London.
It did not take them long to get from the New Theatre to the house of
the famous Academician; and here, late as it was, they found plenty of
people still arriving, a small crowd of onlookers scanning the various
groups as they crossed the pavement. On this hot night in May, it seemed
pleasantly cool to get into the great hall of white and black marble,
where the miniature lake, on which floated an alabaster swan, was all
banked round with flowers; and when Lady Adela had dispossessed herself
of her long plush coat, it was evident she had dressed for the reception
before going to the theatre, for now she appeared in a costume of
silver-gray satin with a very considerable train, while there were
diamond stars in her light brown hair, and at her bosom a bunch of deep
crimson roses. At the head of the stairs they encountered Mrs. Mellord,
who received the famous young baritone with the most marked kindness.
Indeed, he seemed to be known to a considerable number of the people who
were assembled in these spacious rooms of white and gold; while those
who were not personally acquainted with him easily recognized him, for
were not his photographs in every stationer's window in London? The
Ladies Sybil and Rosamund Bourne they found in the studio, talking to
the great Academician himself. These two young ladies were even taller,
as they likewise were fairer in complexion, than their married sister;
moreover, they were much more dignified in demeanor than she was, though
that may have merely arisen from maidenly reserve. But when Mr. Mellord
exhibited at the Royal Academy his much-talked-of picture of the three
sisters, most people seemed to think that though the two younger ladies
might have carried off the palm for their handsome, pale, regularly cut
features and their calm, observant eyes, there was something in the
bright, vivacious look of the eldest that outweighed these advantages;
while in society, and especially as a hostess in her own house, the
charm of Lady Adela's manner, and her quick, sympathetic, engaging ways
made her a universal favorite. And one was tempted, in amazement, to ask
how it came about that a woman so alert and intelligent, so conversant
with the world, so ready to note the ridiculous side of things, could
not understand what a poor and lamentable figure she made as an amateur
authoress? But had the Lady Sybil any less confidence in her musical
attainments, when she would undertake to play a duet with one of the
most distinguished of professional musicians, she on the violin, he at
the piano? And here, at this very moment, was Lady Rosamund talking to
by far and away the greatest painter in England, and there was a picture
before them on an easel, and she was saying to him, with perfect
coolness,
"Why, I see you use cadmium yellow, Mr. Mellord! I _never_ do."
Somehow an impression got abroad through these brilliant rooms that Mr.
Moore was going to sing; and at length Mrs. Mellord came to the young
man and frankly preferred her request.
"Oh, yes," said he, most good-naturedly.
"The serenade?" she ventured to hint.
"Oh, not the serenade!" said he, with a laugh. "Every butcher's boy in
the streets whistles it."
"All England is singing it--and a good thing, too," she made answer; and
then she said, with some emphasis: "I am sure no one rejoices more than
myself at the great popularity of 'The Squire's Daughter.' I am very
glad to see that a comedy-opera may be based on the best traditions of
English music; and I hope we shall have a great deal less of the
Offenbach tinkle-tankle."
"The serenade, if you like, then," said he, with, careless good-humor;
what did it matter to him?
"And whom shall I get to play an accompaniment for you?"
"Oh, you needn't trouble; I can do that for myself--"
"But you must make one young lady supremely happy," said she, with
insidious flattery.
He glanced round the studio.
"I see Miss Lestrange over there--she has played it for me
before--without the music, I mean."
"Then I'll go and fetch her," said the indefatigable hostess; and now
everybody seemed to know that Mr. Lionel Moore was about to sing "The
Starry Night."
Miss Georgie Lestrange was no sooner appealed to than she came through
the crowd, smiling and laughing. She was an exceedingly pretty lass,
with fresh-complexioned cheeks, a pert and attractive nose, a winsome
mouth, and merry blue eyes that were hardly made grave by the
_pince-nez_ that she habitually wore. She was very prettily dressed,
too--in blue-and-silver brocade, with a high Medici collar of silver
lace, puffed sleeves with twisted cords of silver, and silver fillets
binding the abundant masses of her ruddy-golden hair. She sat down at
the piano, and the first notes of the accompaniment deepened the silence
that now prevailed, not only in this big studio, but throughout the
communicating rooms.
Probably there was not a human being in the place who had not heard this
serenade sung a dozen times over, for it was the most popular air of the
most popular piece then being played in London; but there was some kind
of novelty in listening to the same notes that had thrilled through the
theatre (rather, that had sent their passionate | 1,981.701049 |
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[Illustration: SHANKLIN CHINE.
The picturesque ravine carved by a small stream on the south side of the
town.]
_Beautiful Britain_
_The Isle of Wight_
_By_
_G.E.Mitton_
_A & C Black Ltd_
_45 & 6 Soho Square London W_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE ISLAND 5
II. CARISBROOKE AND ITS MEMORIES 13
III. CONCERNING LITERARY MEN AND MAKERS OF HISTORY 29
IV. YACHTS AND MEN-OF-WAR 41
V. THE SCENERY AND HOW IT CAME TO BE 49
VI. FOOTPRINTS OF THE INVADERS 54
INDEX 63
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. SHANKLIN CHINE _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
2. SANDOWN BAY 9
3. YACHTING AT COWES 16
4. THE UNDERCLIFF 25
5. FRESHWATER BAY 32
6. BONCHURCH OLD CHURCH, NEAR VENTNOR 41
7. GODSHILL 48
8. THE NEEDLES 51
_Plan of Carisbrooke Castle_ 62
THE ISLE OF WIGHT
CHAPTER I
THE ISLAND
Islands have always exercised a peculiar fascination over Englishmen,
perhaps because, accustomed as they are to a sense of security induced
by the surrounding sea, they never feel more comfortable than when the
sea is on all sides at a measurable distance. It has been the ambition
of many an Englishman to possess an island, however small, of his own.
But England is not particularly blessed in this matter, and we may look
with envy at the fringe of islands, large and small, precipitous and
flat, scattered along the rugged shores of the west coast of Scotland.
The only two English islands which can claim exceptional interest are
the Isle of Man and the Isle of Wight. Of the other well-known ones, the
Scilly Isles and Channel Isles are too inaccessible to count, Sheppey
and Thanet and Holy Island too small, and Anglesea is separated by so
very diminutive a channel from the mainland that it hardly seems like an
island at all.
Of the two that stand pre-eminent the Isle of Wight cannot claim the
peculiar customs and survivals that give the Isle of Man a special
place, yet it has much charm of its own to compensate for this, and it
otherwise fulfils all the conditions of what an island should be. It is
separated from the mainland by a channel varying from one mile to six in
breadth, a distance sufficient to give dignity but not to imperil
approach. It is large enough to be supremely interesting, yet not so
large as to be indigestible to the visitor who has only a short holiday
at his disposal. It is, in fact, a little larger than London of the
Boroughs and the County Council--that is to say, twenty-three miles by
about thirteen, as against some seventeen by twelve. It is in shape an
elongated diamond, with the extreme points lying eastward and westward,
and it contains 93,341 acres. These acres are so diversified by hills
and rivers, so broken up, that they count for twice as much as a flat
surface of the same extent. The island, in fact, presents every variety
of scenery, from richly wooded lanes, tiny inland villages bowered in
greenery, high sweeping downs, to bold coast scenery, with chalk cliffs
rising 200 feet above a sea often grand in the extreme. Ship-building at
Cowes and cement works on the Medina are the only important
manufactures, thus the fresh sea-air is untainted by smoke. Of the
stone, Sir Richard Worsley, the chief island historian, says: "There are
several quarries which produce varieties of stone applicable to
different uses. Those near Quarr Abbey were once in such esteem as to
furnish stone for building the cathedral at Winchester, as appears by a
grant made by William Rufus to Walkelyne, Bishop of that diocese.... The
stone continued in reputation till the reign of Edward III., and in the
registers of Winchester it is recorded that William of Wykeham used it
in building the body of that cathedral, whence it seems as if Portland
stone was not then known, since it is certainly preferable to this both
in colour and durability." Farms and fishing, chiefly for shell-fish and
supplying the wants of numerous visitors, provide work for the
inhabitants.
The island is also noted for its sheep, the mildness of its climate
being suitable for early lambs, while the high chalk downs supply just
the herbage most necessary for grazing. Naturally it follows that the
trade in wool is good, and it has been so noted for many centuries.
Drayton in his _Polyolbion_, speaking of the wool, says: "Not Leemster's
self can show a finer fleece."
In Sir John Oglander's Memoirs (seventeenth century) he says: "It is,
and hathe bene a tax layd on this island, that it never produced any
extraordinary fayr handsome woman, nor a man of any super-eminent
gwyftes in witt or wisdome, or a horse excellent for goodness. I can
answer that no part of England in generall, the quantitie considered,
hath produced more exquisite in either species than this island."
As for visitors, honeymoon couples and invalids have a special
predilection for the island, and are to be found there at all times of
the year enjoying the glorious sweep and firm sands of Sandown Bay, with
its record for sunshine, the sheltered warmth of Ventnor, with its mild
winter and equable climate, or the many beauties of Shanklin, which
claims a better summer season than its rival--apt to be, perhaps, a
trifle too warm at times. The island has been called "The Garden of
England," a title by which it is referred to so long ago as 1781.
[Illustration: SANDOWN BAY.
The white cliffs of Culver Down are the eastward end of the rib of chalk
which has its other extremity at the Needles.]
The narrow lanes crowded in by high, many-flowering hedges, the sharp
descents and sudden turns, are not conducive to ease in motoring or
cycling, and cyclists who ride as an end in itself, and not as a means
to enjoyment, will find they had better go elsewhere. A capable cyclist
could run all round the island in a day, but much would he miss thereby!
For the attractions of the island are varied, appealing to historian,
antiquarian, geologist, and botanist, man of letters, and lover of
scenery, no less than the sportsman, and he who loves a game. From the
historic castle of Carisbrooke, with its pathetic memories, to the
yachting week at Cowes, almost every kind of man can find something to
interest him.
The facilities for getting about are good, for though in the northern
part of the island the roads are sometimes a little rough, with stones
not deeply enough set, they are always dry, being sandy; and west of
Newport, and south, and also in the south-eastern corner, over quite
three-quarters of the island in fact, they are excellent, dry, smooth,
and firm. In spite of the hills and sudden turns, therefore, there is
much to be commended to cyclists.
The two railways, the Isle of Wight and the Isle of Wight Central,
divide the ground between them, the former running from Ventnor to Ryde,
with a branch to Bembridge, and the other, which is much the larger,
covering the rest of the ground. By their peculiar position they are
enabled to give certain kinds of tickets which could not be offered
except on a small island. Of such are the "go-where-you-please" weekly
tickets, limited only by time, and not by distance. These enable one,
for the sum of about a pound, to travel first-class in any direction,
and over the same lines, as often as one likes for a week; while each
railway also offers cheaper tickets for its own lines exclusively, and
the lower classes are correspondingly cheaper.
In this general survey we have not so far touched upon one aspect of the
island which in the minds of some people looms so large as altogether to
eclipse all others, and that is its attractions as a health resort.
The fortune of Ventnor was made by the celebrated physician, Dr. James
Clark (1780-1870), who pronounced it to be the English Madeira. From a
little fishing hamlet it grew prodigiously fast into a fashionable
watering-place, with good shops and fine buildings. Numerous sanatoria
for consumptives, ranging downwards from the Royal National Hospital,
show the opinion of its climate held by medical men in our own day.
The town, which stands on the side of a steep incline, is extremely
picturesque, and some of the streets seem absolutely to tumble
downwards. The different levels, however much they may add to its beauty
from an artist's point of view, are, however, a little trying to the
large number of invalids who come to Ventnor. Bathing, golf, tennis, and
all the usual recreations are found in abundance, and the number of
coaches starting for different excursions on a summer's day are legion.
Shanklin differs from Ventnor in having houses above and below the
cliff, instead of being planted on its side--a feat here rendered
impossible by the precipitous nature of the cliffs. The two parts are
connected with a lift, which does not in itself add to the beauties of
the landscape, and there are also, of course, zigzag paths and graded
roads, and the famous chine already referred to, by which one can reach
the higher level from the lower. Shanklin faces eastward, and is "round
the corner" from Ventnor, which makes it not quite so warm in summer.
Sandown, again, which is northward, faces, like Shanklin, over a wide
bay, and it boasts a high record in sunshine, having been, in fact,
first for the whole of the United Kingdom in 1908. The sands are also
exceptionally good.
These three are the best known health resorts, but visitors throng
equally to the rapidly rising Totland Bay on the west, and Freshwater,
Cowes, Ryde, and other places are seldom altogether deserted to their
own inhabitants.
CHAPTER II
CARISBROOKE AND ITS MEMORIES
Carisbrooke is the central attraction for visitors, just as, by
position, it is well-nigh the centre of the island. Even from childish
days the picture of the patient donkey walking in a wheel to draw up
water from the well, or the touching tale of the little Princess
Elizabeth, who pined to death in the castle, has been familiar to
everyone. The donkey who now holds the office is probably just as great
an interest to the thousands of tourists--one Whit-Monday has been known
to bring ten thousand--as the historical associations with which the
castle is so richly endowed. The well is 150 feet deep, but that the
work is not unduly hard is evidenced by the longevity of the donkeys,
one of which lived to the age of thirty-two and another to twenty-one
years. There are two at present, who relieve each other, both
comparatively young and much petted.
Carisbrooke is bound up with the history of the island. Its origin goes
back into the dim mists of antiquity, and the earliest record is of a
British fort which stood on the site. This was eventually succeeded by a
Roman camp. The Romans called | 1,981.701847 |
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Transcriber's Notes: Words in italics in the original are surrounded by
_underscores_. A row of asterisks represents a thought break. A complete
list of corrections as well as other notes follows the text.
ANECDOTES
OF THE
MANNERS AND CUSTOMS
OF
LONDON
DURING THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY;
INCLUDING
THE CHARITIES, DEPRAVITIES, DRESSES, AND AMUSEMENTS,
OF THE CITIZENS OF LONDON,
DURING THAT PERIOD;
WITH A REVIEW
OF THE
STATE OF SOCIETY IN 1807.
TO WHICH IS ADDED,
A SKETCH OF THE DOMESTIC ARCHITECTURE, AND OF
THE VARIOUS IMPROVEMENTS IN THE METROPOLIS.
ILLUSTRATED BY FORTY-FIVE ENGRAVINGS.
BY JAMES PELLER MALCOLM, F. S. A.
AUTHOR OF "LONDINIUM REDIVIVUM," &c. &c.
THE SECOND EDITION.
VOLUME II.
_LONDON_:
PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME,
PATERNOSTER ROW.
1810.
John Nichols and Son, Printers,
Red Lion Passage, Fleet Street, London.
_CONTENTS_
OF
THE SECOND VOLUME.
CHAP. V. Page.
Public Methods of raising Money exemplified in
Notices relating to Lotteries, Benefit Societies, &c. 1
CHAP. VI.
The Religious and Political Passions of the Community
illustrated by Anecdotes of popular Tumults 11
CHAP. VII.
Amusement--Detail of its principal Varieties since
1700 107
CHAP. VIII.
Anecdotes of Dress, and of the Caprices of Fashion 312
CHAP. IX.
Domestic Architecture traced from its origin to its
present improved state in London--Lighting and
improving of Streets--Obstructions in them--Ornaments,
&c. 358
CHAP. X.
Sketch of the present State of Society in London 406
_PLATES_
TO
THE SECOND VOLUME.
The Plates of Dress (chronologically) 312
Croydon Palace }
Brick Gateway near Bromley } 364
The Views of Antient and Modern Houses 366
The general Views 404
CHAP. V.
PUBLIC METHODS OF RAISING MONEY EXEMPLIFIED, IN NOTICES
RELATING TO LOTTERIES, BENEFIT SOCIETIES, &C.
The community of London had superior advantages an hundred years past
in the State Lotteries, though, if interested Office-keepers could be
credited, the Londoners of the present Century enjoy greater gaming
privileges than the world ever yet produced. The reader shall judge
between the schemes of 1709 and 1807. The | 1,981.70307 |
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SONNETS
AND
CANZONETS.
BY
A. BRONSON ALCOTT.
“LOVE CAN SUN THE REALMS OF LIGHT.”
_Schiller._
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1882.
_Copyright, 1882_,
BY A. BRONSON ALCOTT.
UNIVERSITY PRESS:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION.
PAGE
TO A. BRONSON ALCOTT, A LETTER BY F. B. SANBORN 5-10
AN ESSAY ON THE SONNET 11-35
SONNETS OF ILLUSTRATION 21-35
I. Love in Spring 21
II. The Maiden in April 22
III. The Estrangement 23
IV. Love in Time 24
V. To those of Noble Heart 24
VI. The Ocean a blessed God 27
VII. The Nightingale 28
VIII. The Fair Saint 29
IX. Love a Poor Palmer 30
X. Love against Love 31
XI. Death 32
XII. Ah, Sweet Content! 34
XIII. The Poet’s Immortality 34
PART FIRST.
PROEM 39
DOMESTIC SONNETS AND CANZONETS 41-8
PART SECOND.
SONNETS OF CHARACTER 94-145
A PROPHETIC ODE 146-149
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
TO A. BRONSON ALCOTT,
UPON READING HIS OCTOGENARIAN POEMS.
The period to which the scholar of two and eighty years belongs, is
seldom that of his youngest readers: it is more likely to be the epoch
of his own golden youth, when his masters were before his eyes, and
his companions were the books and the friends of his heart. Thus the
aged Landor could not bring his thoughts down from the grand forms of
Greek and Roman literature to which they were early accustomed; he had
swerved now and then from that loyalty in middle life, impressed and
acted upon as he was by the great political events of the Napoleonic
era,--but he returned to the epigram and the idyl in the “white winter
of his age,” and the voices of the present and of the future appealed
to him in vain. In the old Goethe there was something more prophetic
and august; he came nearer to his contemporaries, and prepared the way
for a recognition of his greatness by the generation which saw the
grave close over him. In this, that strange but loyal disciple of his,
the Scotch Carlyle, rendered matchless service to his master; yet he,
too, in his unhappy old age, could only at intervals, and by gleams
of inspiration,--as at the Edinburgh University Festival,--come into
communication with the young spirits about him. To you, dear Friend
and Master, belongs the rare good fortune (good genius rather) that
has brought you in these late days, into closer fellowship than of
yore with the active and forthlooking spirit of the time. In youth and
middle life you were in advance of your period, which has only now
overtaken you when it must, by the ordinance of Nature, so soon bid
you farewell, as you go forward to new prospects, in fairer worlds
than ours.
It is this union of youth and age, of the past and the present--yes,
and the future also--that I have admired in these artless poems, over
which we have spent together so many agreeable hours. Fallen upon an
age in literature when the poetic form is everywhere found, but the
discerning and inventive spirit of Poesy seems almost lost, I have
marked with delight in these octogenarian verses, flowing so naturally
from your pen, the very contradiction of this poetic custom of the
period. Your want of familiarity with the accustomed movement of verse
in our time, brings into more distinct notice the genuine poetical
motions of your genius. Having been admitted to the laboratory, and
privileged to witness the action and reaction of your thought, as it
crystallized into song, I perceived, for the first time, how high
sentiment, by which you have from youth been inspired, may become the
habitual movement of the mind, at an age when so many, if they live at
all in spirit, are but nursing the selfish and distorted fancies of
morose singularity. To you the world has been a brotherhood of noble
souls,--too few, as we thought, for your companionship,--but which you
have enlarged by the admission to one rank of those who have gone,
and of us who remain to love you and listen to your oracles. The men
and the charming women who recognized your voice when it was that of
one crying in the wilderness--“Prepare ye the way of our Lord,” are
joined, in your commemorative sonnets, with those who hearken to its
later accents, proclaiming the same acceptable year of the Lord.
It is the privilege of poets--immemorial and native to the clan--that
they should share the immortality they confer. This right you may
vindicate for your own. The honors you pay, in resounding verse, to
Channing, to Emerson, to Margaret Fuller, to Hawthorne, Thoreau,
and the rest of the company with whom you trod these groves, and
honored these altars of the Spirit unnamed, return in their echoes to
yourself. They had their special genius, and you yours no less, though
it found not the same expression with theirs. We please our love
with the thought that, in these sonnets and canzonets of affection,
you have celebrated yourself with them; that the swift insight, the
ennobling passion for truth and virtue, the high resolve, the austere
self-sacrifice, the gentle submission to a will eternally right, in
which these friends, so variously gifted, found a common tie,--all
these are yours also,--and may they be ours! The monuments and
trophies of genius are perishable, but the soul’s impression abides
forever, _forma mentis æterna_. To that imperishable, ever-beauteous,
self-renouncing, loyal, and steadfast Spirit of the Universe which
we learned to worship in our youth, and which has never forsaken our
age and bereavement, may these offerings, and all that we are, be
consecrated now and forever!
F. B. SANBORN.
CONCORD, January 1, 1882.
[Illustration]
AN ESSAY ON THE SONNET AND THE CANZONET.
[Illustration]
THE SONNET AND THE CANZONET.
“Scorn not the sonnet,” said Wordsworth, and then gave us at least
fifty noble reasons why we should not,--for so many at least of his
innumerable sonnets are above languor and indifference, and all of
them above contempt. Milton was more self-restrained than Wordsworth,
and wrote fewer sonnets, every one of which is a treasure, either for
beauty of verse, nobility of thought, happy portraiture of persons,
or quaint and savage humor,--like that on “Tetrachordon,” and the
elongated sonnet in which he denounces the Presbyterians, and tells
them to their face, “New Presbyter is but old Priest writ large.”
Shakespeare unlocked his heart with sonnets in another key than
Milton’s,--less conformed to the model of the Italian sonnet, but more
in keeping with English verse, of which Shakespeare had the entire
range. His sonnets are but quatrains following each other by threes,
with a resounding couplet binding them together in one sheaf, and
his example has made this form of the sonnet legitimate for all who
write English verse,--no | 1,981.703976 |
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THE BOY ALLIES WITH UNCLE SAM'S CRUISERS
By Ensign Robert L. Drake
CHAPTER I
JACK'S ADVENTURE
Frank Chadwick jumped from a chair in the front window and ran toward
the door. A form had swung from the sidewalk along the drive that
marked the entrance to Lord Hasting's London home and at sight of it
Frank had uttered an exclamation. Now, as the figure climbed the
steps, Frank flung open the door.
"Jack!" he exclaimed with outstretched hand. "I feared something had
happened, you have been gone so long and we had heard nothing of you."
"I'm perfectly whole," laughed Jack, grasping his friend's hand. "Why,
I've been gone less than two weeks."
"But you expected to be gone only a day or two."
"That's true, but a fellow can't tell what is going to happen, you
know. I wasn't sure I should find you here when I returned, though."
"You probably wouldn't had you come a day later," returned Frank.
"How's that?"
"We sail tomorrow night," said Frank.
"By George! Then I'm back just in time," declared Jack. "Where bound
this time?"
"I don't know exactly, but personally I believe to America."
"Why?"
"The United States, I understand, is about to declare war on Germany. I
have heard it said that immediately thereafter American troops will be
sent to Europe."
"What's that got to do with our voyage?"
"I'm coming to that. There will be need, of convoys for the American
transports. I believe that is the work in which we will be engaged."
"That will be first rate, for a change," said Jack.
"But come," said Frank, leading the way into the house. "Where have
you been? Tell me about yourself."
"Wait, until I get a breath," laughed Jack, making himself comfortable
in a big armchair. "By the way, where is Lord Hastings?"
"He is in conference with the admiralty."
"And Lady Hastings?"
"Shopping, I believe. However, both will be back before long. Now
let's have an account of your adventures."
"Well, they didn't amount to much," said Jack.
"Where've you been?"
"Pretty close to Heligoland."
"What! Again?"
"Exactly. You remember how Lord Hastings came to us one day and said
that the admiralty had need of a single officer at that moment, and
that we both volunteered?"
"I certainly do," declared Frank, "and we drew straws to see which of
us should go. I lost."
"Exactly. Well, when I reached the admiralty I found there a certain
Captain Ames. I made myself known and was straightway informed that I
would do as well as another. Captain Ames was in command of the
British destroyer Falcon. He was bound on active duty at once, and he
took me along as second in command."
"Where was he bound?" demanded Frank. "And what was the nature of the
work?"
"The nature of the work," said Jack, "was to search out German mines
ahead of the battleships, who were to attempt a raid of Heligoland."
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Frank. "I hadn't heard anything about that.
Was the raid a success?"
"It was not," replied Jack briefly.
"Explain," said Frank.
"I'm trying to," smiled Jack. "Give me a chance, will you?"
He became silent and mused for a few moments. Then he said
meditatively:
"The destroyer service might well be called the cavalry of the sea. It
calls for dashing initiative, aggressiveness and courage and daring to
the point of rashness. Where an officer would be justified--even duty
bound--by navy standards to run away with a bigger and more valuable
vessel, the commander of a destroyer often must close in to almost
certain annihilation."
"Hm-m-m," said Frank slyly. "You are not feeling a bit proud of
yourself, are you?"
"Oh, I'm not talking about myself," said Jack quietly. "I was thinking
of a man like Captain Ames--and other men of his caliber. However,
I've been pretty close to death myself, and having come as close to a
fellow as death did to me, I believe he'll become discouraged and
quit. Yes, sir, I don't believe I shall ever die afloat."
"Don't be too cock-sure," said Frank dryly. "However, proceed."
"Well," Jack continued, "I followed Captain Ames aboard the Falcon and
we put to sea immediately. It was the following night that we found
ours | 1,981.799625 |
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JOSH BILLINGS ON ICE,
And Other Things.
* * * * *
_A NEW COMIC WORK_
JUST PUBLISHED, UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME, ENTITLED
Josh Billings, His Book.
WITH TWELVE COMIC ILLUSTRATIONS.
[Symbol: Asterism] Copies sent by mail free
of postage, on receipt of price, $1.50 by
G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers.
New York.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Josh Billings visits the new Skating Pond, and witnesses
a rather interesting accident, which he describes as "a living lovely
| 1,981.799775 |
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by tilde characters is in bold face (~bold~).
[Illustration: THE GREEN TRAVELER,
[See page 62.]
THE WORLD ON WHEELS AND OTHER SKETCHES
bY
BENJ. F. TAYLOR
Chicago,
S. C. Griggs & Co.
1874
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
S. C. Griggs & Co.,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
Printed at the Lakeside Press,
Clark and Adams Sts.,
Chicago.
ONLY THIS:
The Wheels in this book ran, during the summer of 1873, through the
columns of THE NEW YORK EXAMINER AND CHRONICLE, to "the head and front
of whose offending," the
REV. EDWARD BRIGHT, D.D.,
who gave those wheels "the right of way," the old rolling stock and a
miscellaneous cargo is
CORDIALLY CONSIGNED.
ROLLING STOCK AND BILL OF LADING.
_THE WORLD ON WHEELS._
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. THE "WHEEL" INSTINCT 13
II. THE CONCORD COACH 17
III. THE RAGING CANAL 23
IV. THE IRON AGE 30
V. THE IRON HORSE 35
VI. PLUNGING INTO THE WILDERNESS 45
VII. VICIOUS ANIMALS 51
VIII. HABITS OF ENGINES AND TRAIN-MEN 60
IX. IN THE SADDLE 68
X. RACING AND PLOWING 74
XI. SNOW BOUND 82
XII. SCALDED TO DEATH 89
XIII. ALL ABOARD! 94
XIV. EARLY AND LATE 103
XV. DEAD HEADS 112
XVI. WORKING "BY THE DAY" 118
XVII. A SLANDERER AND A WEATHER MAKER 123
XVIII. DREAMING ON THE CARS 128
XIX. "MEET ME BY MOONLIGHT" 136
XX. THE MAKER OF CITIES 144
XXI. A CABOOSE RIDE 150
XXII. HATCHING OUT A WOMAN 154
XXIII. A FLANK MOVEMENT 159
XXIV. LIGHT AND SHADE 162
XXV. PRECIOUS CARGOES 168
_BAGGAGE._
I. MY STARRY DAYS 175
II. "NO. 104,163" 193
III. OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER 206
IV. OUT-DOOR PREACHING 216
V. THE STORY OF THE BELL 223
VI. "MY EYE!" 226
VII. THE OLD ROAD 241
VIII. A BIRD HEAVEN 251
ILLUSTRATIONS.
THE GREEN TRAVELER _Frontispiece._
THE CONCORD COACH 19
THE BAGGAGE SMASHER 63
A LITTLE LATE 110
BAGGAGE 173
SWITCH OFF 258
THE WORLD ON WHEELS.
CHAPTER I.
THE "WHEEL" INSTINCT.
The perpetual lever called a wheel is the masterpiece of mechanical
skill. At home on sea and land, like the feet of the Proclaiming Angel,
it finds a fulcrum wherever it happens to be. It is the alphabet of
human ingenuity. You can spell out with the wheel and the lever--and
the latter is only a loose spoke of that same wheel--pretty much
everything in the Nineteenth Century but the Christian Religion and the
Declaration of Independence. Having thought about it a minute more, I
am inclined to except the exceptions, and say they translate the one
and transport the other.
Were you ever a boy? Never? Well, then, my girl, wasn't one of your
first ambitions a finger-ring? And there is your wheel, with a small
live axle in it! But whatever you are, did you ever know a boy worth
naming and owning who did not try to make a wheel out of a shingle, or
a board, or a scrap of tin? Maybe it was as eccentric as a comet's
orbit, and only _wabbled_ when it was meant to whirl, but it was the
genuine curvilinear aspiration for all that. Boys, young and old,
"take to" wheels as naturally as they take to sin. I am sorry for the
fellow that never rigged a water-wheel in the spring swell of the
meadow brook, or mounted a wind-mill on the barn gable, or drew a
wagon of his own make. My sympathies do not extend to his lack of a
velocipede, which is nothing if not a bewitched and besaddled
wheelbarrow.
In fact, it seems to be the tendency of everything to _be_ a wheel.
There's your tumbling dolphin, and there's your whirling world. The
conqueror whose hurry set on fire the axles of his chariot was no
novelty. Who knows that the Aurora Borealis and the Aurora Australis,
lighting up the sky about the polar circles in the night-time, may not
be the flashes from the glowing axles of the planet? Who knows that
the ice and snow may not be piled up about the Arctic and Antarctic
just to keep the flaming gudgeons as cool as possible? Does Sir John
Franklin? Does _any_body?
Take an old man's memory. Only give it a touch, and it turns like a
wheel between his two childhoods, and 1810 comes round before you can
count the spokes, and 1874 hardly out of sight.
When they made narrow wooden hands with slender wrists, and called them
oars, and galleys swept the Eastern seas in a grave and stately way,
they did well. When they fashioned broad and ghastly palms of canvas
that laid hold upon the empty air, and named them sails, they did
better. When they grouped around an axle the iron hands that buffeted
the waves and put the sea, discomfited, rebuked, behind the flying
ship, they had their wheel, and they did best!
A one-horse wagon--for nothing was buggy then, but neglected
bedsteads--artistically bilious, and striped like a beetle, with a
paneled box high before and behind, like an inverted _chapeau_,
and a seat with a baluster back, softened and graced with a buffalo
robe, warm in winter--and in summer also--was one of the wheeled
wonders of my boyhood. No sitting in that wagon like a right-angled
triangle--room in front for any possible length of leg, and a
foot-stove withal--room behind for two or three handfuls of children,
and a little hair-trunk with a bit of brass-nail alphabet on the cover.
Curiously enough, the wagon was owned by that noble Baptist pioneer of
the New York North Woods, Elder--not Reverend but revered--JOHN
BLODGETT, and in it he used to traverse "East road," and "West road,"
and "Number Three road," and go to Denmark and Copenhagen and Leyden
and Turin, and other places in foreign parts, without shipping a sea,
or, to borrow a mors | 1,981.808449 |
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Produced by Emmy, Beth Baran and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic
text is surrounded by _underscores_.]
Our Little Jewish Cousin
THE
Little Cousin Series
(TRADE MARK)
Each volume illustrated with six or more full page plates in
tint. Cloth, 12mo, with decorative cover
per volume, $1.00
LIST OF TITLES
By COL. F. A. POSTNIKOV, ISAAC TAYLOR HEADLAND, EDWARD C. BUTLER, AND
OTHERS
=Our Little African Cousin=
=Our Little Alaskan Cousin=
=Our Little Arabian Cousin=
=Our Little Argentine Cousin=
=Our Little Armenian Cousin=
=Our Little Australian Cousin=
=Our Little Austrian Cousin=
=Our Little Belgian Cousin=
=Our Little Bohemian Cousin=
=Our Little Boer Cousin=
=Our Little Brazilian Cousin=
=Our Little Bulgarian Cousin=
=Our Little Canadian Cousin of the Maritime Provinces=
=Our Little Chinese Cousin=
=Our Little Cossack Cousin=
=Our Little Cuban Cousin=
=Our Little Czecho-Slovac Cousin=
=Our Little Danish Cousin=
=Our Little Dutch Cousin=
=Our Little Egyptian Cousin=
=Our Little English Cousin=
=Our Little Eskimo Cousin=
=Our Little Finnish Cousin=
=Our Little French Cousin=
=Our Little German Cousin=
=Our Little Grecian Cousin=
=Our Little Hawaiian Cousin=
=Our Little Hindu Cousin=
=Our Little Hungarian Cousin=
=Our Little Indian Cousin=
=Our Little Irish Cousin=
=Our Little Italian Cousin=
=Our Little Japanese Cousin=
=Our Little Jewish Cousin=
=Our Little Korean Cousin=
=Our Little Malayan (Brown) Cousin=
=Our Little Mexican Cousin=
=Our Little Norwegian Cousin=
=Our Little Panama Cousin=
=Our Little Persian Cousin=
=Our Little Philippine Cousin=
=Our Little Polish Cousin=
=Our Little Porto Rican Cousin=
=Our Little Portuguese Cousin=
=Our Little Quebec Cousin=
=Our Little Roumanian Cousin=
=Our Little Russian Cousin=
=Our Little Scotch Cousin=
=Our Little Servian Cousin=
=Our Little Siamese Cousin=
=Our Little Spanish Cousin=
=Our Little Swedish Cousin=
=Our Little Swiss Cousin=
=Our Little Turkish Cousin=
THE PAGE COMPANY
53 Beacon Street Boston, Mass.
[Illustration: ESTHER.]
Our Little
Jewish Cousin
By
Mary Hazelton Wade
_Illustrated by_
L. J. Bridgman
[Illustration]
Boston
The Page Company
_PUBLISHERS_
_Copyright, 1904_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
_All rights reserved_
Published September, 1904
Fourth Impression, June, 1908
Fifth Impression, March, 1910
Sixth Impression, February, 1912
Seventh Impression, April, 1914
Eighth Impression, April, 1917
Ninth Impression, July, 1921
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.
Preface
IN whatever direction you may travel,--north, south, east, or west,--you
will doubtless meet some of your little black-eyed Jewish cousins. They
live among us here in America. They also dwell in the countries far away
across the wide ocean.
Why are they so scattered, you may ask. Is there no country which is
really theirs, and which is ruled over by some one they have chosen? Is
there not some place where they can gather together happily whenever
they please? The answer is always no.
They cannot say of this land or of that, "It is ours," for they are
homeless. Palestine, which was once theirs, is now in the hands of the
Turks. Jerusalem, the city they love best in the whole world, is in the
power of those who look with scorn upon the Jewish people.
For many centuries they have been scattered far and wide. Their children
learn to speak the language of the country where they happen to be born.
They play the games and dress in the fashion of that country.
What is it that keeps them Jews? It is their religion, and their
religion alone. It binds them as closely together now as it did in the
days when they worshipped in the great temple at Jerusalem, two thousand
years ago.
These Jewish cousins would say to us, "Our people have suffered greatly.
Yet they do not lose courage. Our parents tell us stories of the
glorious past, over and over again. They will not let us forget it, and
they teach us to hope for the time when Jerusalem will again be ours,
and a new temple, in which we shall be free to worship, will stand upon
the spot where the old one was destroyed."
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE PLACE OF WAILING 1
II. THE GAZELLE 17
III. THE FEAST OF THE PASSOVER 33
IV. THE ORPHAN 42
V. THE JEWS OF LONG AGO 49
VI. QUEER SIGHTS 57
VII. THE CAVE 67
VIII. THE SWEET SINGER OF ISRAEL 76
List of Illustrations
PAGE
ESTHER _Frontispiece_
"IT WAS A DARK, DREARY COURT WITH STONE
WALLS ON THREE SIDES OF IT" 4
LEVI AND HIS CAMEL 26
A WOMAN OF BETHLEHEM 60
A STREET IN JERUSALEM 62
A BEDOUIN 68
Our Little Jewish Cousin
CHAPTER I.
THE PLACE OF WAILING
"COME, Esther! Come, Solomon! I am waiting for you," cried a woman's
voice.
The two children were in the courtyard, but, when they heard their
mother calling, they ran into the house at once.
They knew why they were called, for it was Friday afternoon. Every week
at this time they went to the "Place of Wailing" with their parents to
weep over the troubles of their people and to think of the old days of
Jerusalem, before the Romans conquered the city.
"Esther, your hair needs brushing. Solomon, make your hands and face as
clean as possible," said their mother, as she looked at the children.
She loved them very dearly. She was proud of them, too. Solomon was a
bright, clever boy, quick in his studies, while Esther was really
beautiful. Her glossy black hair hung in long curls down her back. Her
black eyes were soft and loving. Her skin was of a pale olive tint, and
her cheeks were often flushed a delicate pink.
Her mother looked tenderly at her as she brushed the little girl's hair.
"Mamma, grandma says I look ever so much as you did when you were my
age," said Esther, as she trudged by her mother's side down the narrow
street.
"Yes, yes, my child, I have heard her say so. But never mind your looks
or mine now. Think of where we are going."
It was a hot walk. The sun was shining brightly. The street, the stone
houses, everything around shone dusty gray in colour. There were no
sidewalks. When a camel drew near with his load, or a horseman passed
by, Esther had to walk close to the walls of the houses for fear the
animals would rub against her.
She was born in this old city of Jerusalem. She had never been far away
from it, and knew little of the wide streets and broad sidewalks found
in many other cities.
She had sometimes heard her father and mother talk of their life in
Spain. They came from that country before Esther and her brother were
born. It was a long journey, but they had said, "We cannot be happy
anywhere except in Jerusalem. That alone is the home of our people."
Esther's father might have grown rich in Spain. He was a trader. He
understood his business well. But in Jerusalem it was harder for him to
get money.
What a strange name for the place where the family were going this
afternoon! But it well deserved to be called "The Place of Wailing." It
was a dark, dreary court with stone walls on three sides of it. Many
Jews were already there when Esther and her people arrived.
[Illustration: "IT WAS A DARK, DREARY COURT WITH STONE WALLS ON THREE
SIDES OF IT."]
Some of them were seated on the ground. They were weeping bitterly and
rocking their bodies to and fro. Others, with sad faces, were reading
from the Hebrew Bible. Still others were kissing the wall and bumping it
with their foreheads. Some parts of the rock had actually been worn
smooth by the lips of those who had come here week after week and year
after year. For they really believed it was a part of the old temple
wall.
Little Esther, with her glossy black curls, did just what she saw the
others do. The tears began to fall from her eyes as she went close up
to the wall and kissed the cold gray stone.
Did all of these people really feel as bad as they seemed to do?
Certainly. For they were grieving that Jerusalem was no longer great and
no longer theirs. It was now in the hands of the Turks, but, long before
they came, the Romans had taken the city from the Jews, after a long and
bitter fight.
Saturday is the Jewish Sabbath. It is their holy day, and the time when
they rest from work. On Friday afternoon they begin to prepare for the
Sabbath. Hundreds of the Jews in Jerusalem gather at the Place of
Wailing at that time. They not only weep and read from their Bible, but
they also pray to the Lord to take their country out of the hands of
their enemies and give it back to them.
As Esther walked home she looked up at the mosque of Omar. It is the
Turks' grandest place of worship in the city. Her father told her that
it stands on the very spot where Solomon's wonderful temple was built.
"That temple was the most beautiful one ever seen by men," said the Jew.
"Its brightness was enough to dazzle the eyes of those who looked upon
it. Its walls were plated with gold. The very gate was golden.
"A beautiful golden vine, with clusters of grapes as large as a man's
body, was draped over the gate. The floor was paved with gold. Golden
lilies were carved upon the pillars and mouldings.
"There was no door. But there was a reason for this. It was to show that
the heavens are always open. They are closed to no one."
"And now, papa, nothing is left of that beautiful building," said
Esther.
"Not one stone, my dear. But we Jews all hope the time will come when
it will be rebuilt."
"It was not the first temple which was destroyed by the Romans when they
took Jerusalem, was it?"
"Oh, no. The second temple had been standing in its place for hundreds
of years at that time. It was wonderfully beautiful, too. Herod the
Great spent vast sums of money on it. It was the wonder of every one who
looked upon it. But our enemies destroyed it, as you well know."
That evening, while Esther and her brother sat by their father's side,
he told them the story of the destruction of Jerusalem and of the brave
men and women who tried to save it.
The Jews had feared for some time that something dreadful would happen.
They had seen strange visions. While the feast of the Passover was
taking place, the great temple was filled with a light like that of
noonday. And this happened at the ninth hour of the night.
Something else quite as wonderful as this took place. The bronze door of
the Gate Beautiful opened of itself at the sixth hour of the night. Yet
this very gate was so heavy that twenty men could scarcely move it, even
when the great iron bolts had been drawn.
Esther looked up at her father with surprised eyes as he told of these
things. But when he spoke of seven chariots that drove across the sky,
and of the armies the frightened people saw in the clouds, she was still
more astonished.
"I should think our soldiers would have lost courage before they were
attacked," she exclaimed.
"Not so, Esther. But listen, my child, as I describe the mighty Roman
army that soon drew near Jerusalem. Multitudes of Syrians had joined
them, and these led the way as they came marching up the heights.
"Titus, the Roman general, followed the Syrians. The spearmen came with
him. Next came the legions with their terrible short swords and the
trumpets that filled the air with word of their approach.
"Every footman among the Romans was armed with a sword, a lance, and a
shield. Besides these, he carried with him a saw, axe, hook, pickaxe,
and enough food to last him for three days. The horsemen were also
furnished with everything they needed for battle or for a long siege.
"This great army steadily drew nearer and nearer. Do you think the brave
soldiers guarding our city trembled with fear as they looked forth from
the watch-towers and saw them?"
"Not so, father. A Jew fears nothing."
"You are quite right. But now, let us return to Jerusalem as she stood
then. A triple wall, thirty feet high, had been built around the city,
except where it was separated from the rest of the country by deep
ravines. One wall was quite enough to protect it in such places. Many
watch-towers had been set up around the city. It seemed impossible to
take it by surprise at any point.
"The temple stood on Mount Moriah in all its glory. But it was not a
temple alone. It was also a strong fortress."
"How could the Romans take the city, even if their numbers were so
great?" asked Solomon.
"They could never have won, except for one thing. Our people were not
wholly united. A party | 1,981.898116 |
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THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE
[Illustration: _Frontispiece._
GROUP OF BEECHES, BURNHAM. _Page 167._]
THE
BEAUTIES OF NATURE
AND THE
WONDERS OF THE WORLD
WE LIVE IN
BY
THE RIGHT HON.
SIR JOHN LUBBOCK, BART., M.P.
F.R.S., D.C.L., LL.D.
New York
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND LONDON
1892
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1892,
BY MACMILLAN AND CO.
TYPOGRAPHY BY J. S. CUSHING & CO., BOSTON, U.S.A.
PRESSWORK BY BERWICK & SMITH, BOSTON, U.S.A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 1
Beauty and Happiness 3
The Love of Nature 5
Enjoyment of Scenery 14
Scenery of England 19
Foreign Scenery 21
The Aurora 33
The Seasons 34
CHAPTER II
ON ANIMAL LIFE 39
Love of Animals 41
Growth and Metamorphoses 43
Rudimentary Organs 45
Modifications 48
Colour 50
Communities of Animals 57
Ants 58
CHAPTER III
ON ANIMAL LIFE--_continued_ 71
Freedom of Animals 73
Sleep 78
Senses 84
Sense of Direction 93
Number of Species 96
Importance of the Smaller Animals 97
Size of Animals 100
Complexity of Animal Structure 101
Length of Life 102
On Individuality 104
Animal Immortality 112
CHAPTER IV
ON PLANT LIFE 115
Structure of Flowers 128
Insects and Flowers 134
Past History of Flowers 136
Fruits and Seeds 137
Leaves 138
Aquatic Plants 144
On Hairs 148
Influence of Soil 151
On Seedlings 152
Sleep of Plants 152
Behaviour of Leaves in Rain 155
Mimicry 156
Ants and Plants 156
Insectivorous Plants 158
Movements of Plants 159
Imperfection of our Knowledge 163
CHAPTER V
WOODS AND FIELDS 165
Fairy Land 172
Tropical Forests 179
Structure of Trees 185
Ages of Trees 188
Meadows 192
Downs 194
CHAPTER VI
MOUNTAINS 201
Alpine Flowers 205
Mountain Scenery 206
The Afterglow 213
The Origin of Mountains 214
Glaciers 227
Swiss Mountains 232
Volcanoes 236
Origin of Volcanoes 243
CHAPTER VII
WATER 249
Rivers and Witchcraft 251
Water Plants 252
Water Animals 253
Origin of Rivers 255
The Course of Rivers 256
Deltas 272
CHAPTER VIII
RIVERS AND LAKES 277
On the Directions of Rivers 279
The Conflicts and Adventures of Rivers 301
On Lakes 312
On the Configuration of Valleys 323
CHAPTER IX
THE SEA 335
The Sea Coast 337
Sea Life 344
The Ocean Depths 351
Coral Islands 358
The Southern Skies 365
The Poles 367
CHAPTER X
THE STARRY HEAVENS 373
The Moon 377
The Sun 382
The Planets 387
Mercury 388
Venus 390
The Earth 391
Mars 392
The Minor Planets 393
Jupiter 394
Saturn 395
Uranus 396
Neptune 397
Origin of the Planetary System 398
Comets 401
Shooting Stars 406
The Stars 410
Nebulae 425
ILLUSTRATIONS
FIG. PAGE
1. Larva of Choerocampa porcellus 53
2. Bougainvillea fruticosa; natural size. (After Allman) 107
3. Do. do. magnified 108
4. Do. do. Medusa-form 109
5. Medusa aurita, and progressive stages of development.
(After Steenstrup) 110
6. White Dead-nettle 124
7. Do. 125
8. Do. 125
9. Salvia 127
10. Do. 127
11. Do. 127
12. Primrose 131
13. Do. 131
14. Arum 135
15. Twig of Beech 140
16. Arrangement of leaves in Acer platanoides 142
17. Diagram to illustrate the formation of Mountain Chains 216
18. Section across the Jura from Brenets to Neuchatel. (After Jaccard) 219
19. Section from the Spitzen across the Brunnialp, and the
Maderanerthal. (After Heim) 221
20. Glacier of the Bluemlis Alp. (After Reclus) 228
21. Cotopaxi. (After Judd) 237
22. Lava Stream. (After Judd) 239
23. Stromboli, viewed from the north-west, April 1874. (After Judd) 242
24. Upper Valley of St. Gotthard 257
25. Section of a river valley. The dotted line shows a <DW72> or
talus of debris 260
26. Valley of the Rhone, with the waterfall of Sallenches, showing
a talus of debris 261
27. Section across a valley. _A_, present river valley; _B_, old
river terrace 262
28. Diagram of an Alpine valley, showing a river cone. Front view 263
29. Diagram of an Alpine valley, showing a river cone. Lateral view 265
30. Map of the Valais near Sion 266
31. View in the Rhone Valley, showing a lateral cone 267
32. Do. showing the <DW72> of a river cone 268
33. Shore of the Lake of Geneva, near Vevey 269
34. View in the district of the Broads, Norfolk 271
35. Delta of the Po 273
36. Do. Mississippi 274
37. Map of the Lake District 281
38. Section of the Weald of Kent, _a, a_, Upper Cretaceous strata,
chiefly Chalk, forming the North and South Downs; _b, b_, Escarpment of
Lower Greensand, with a valley between it and the Chalk; _c, c_, Weald
Clay, forming plains; _d_, Hills formed of Hastings Sand and Clay. The
Chalk, etc., once spread across the country, as shown in the dotted
lines 283
39. Map of the Weald of Kent 284
40. Sketch Map of the Swiss Rivers 291
41. Diagram in illustration of mountain structure 296
42. Sketch Map of the Aar and its tributaries 299
43. River system round Chur, as it used to be 308
44. River system round Chur, as it is 309
45. River system of the Maloya 311
46. Final <DW72> of a river 317
47. Do. do. with a lake 318
48. Diagrammatic section of a valley (exaggerated). _R R_, rocky basis of
a valley; _A A_, sedimentary strata; _B_, ordinary level of river;
_C_, flood level 329
49. Whitsunday Island. (After Darwin) 359
50. A group of Lunar volcanoes; Maurolycus, Barocius, etc.
(After Judd) 380
51. Orbits of the inner Planets. (After Ball) 388
52. Relative distances of the Planets from the Sun. (After Ball) 389
53. Saturn, with the surrounding series of rings. (After Lockyer) 395
54. The Parallactic Ellipse. (After Ball) 413
55. Displacement of the hydrogen line in the spectrum of Rigel.
(After Clarke) 416
PLATES
BURNHAM BEECHES _Frontispiece_
WINDSOR CASTLE. (From a drawing by J. Finnemore) _To face page_ 13
AQUATIC VEGETATION, RIO. (Published by Spooner and Co.) 145
TROPICAL FOREST, WEST INDIES. (After Kingsley) 179
SUMMIT OF MONT BLANC 203
THE MER DE GLACE, MONT BLANC 229
RYDAL WATER. (From a photograph by Frith and Co., published by
Spooner and Co.) 247
WINDERMERE 253
VIEW IN THE VALAIS BELOW ST. MAURICE 264
VIEW UP THE VALAIS FROM THE LAKE OF GENEVA 268
THE LAND'S END. (From a photograph by Frith and Co., published by
Spooner and Co.) 334
VIEW OF THE MOON NEAR THE THIRD QUARTER. (From a photograph by Prof.
Draper) 371
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION
If any one gave you a few acres, you would say that you had
received a benefit; can you deny that the boundless extent of
the earth is a benefit? If any one gave you money, you would
call that a benefit. God has buried countless masses of gold
and silver in the earth. If a house were given you, bright with
marble, its roof beautifully painted with colours and gilding,
you would call it no small benefit. God has built for you a
mansion that fears no fire or ruin... covered with a roof
which glitters in one fashion by day, and in another by
night.... Whence comes the breath you draw; the light by which
you perform the actions of your life? the blood by which your
life is maintained? the meat by which your hunger is
appeased?... The true God has planted, not a few oxen, but all
the herds on their pastures throughout the world, and furnished
food to all the flocks; he has ordained the alternation of
summer and winter... has invented so many arts and varieties
of voice, so many notes to make music.... We have implanted in
us the seed of all ages, of all arts; and God our Master brings
forth our intellects from obscurity.--SENECA.
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION
The world we live in is a fairyland of exquisite beauty, our very
existence is a miracle in itself, and yet few of us enjoy as we might,
and none as yet appreciate fully, the beauties and wonders which
surround us. The greatest traveller cannot hope even in a long life to
visit more than a very small part of our earth, and even of that which
is under our very eyes how little we see!
What we do see depends mainly on what we look for. When we turn our eyes
to the sky, it is in most cases merely to see whether it is likely to
rain. In the same field the farmer will notice the crop, geologists the
fossils, botanists the flowers, artists the colouring, sportsmen the
cover for game. Though we may all look at the same things, it does not
at all follow that we should see them.
It is good, as Keble says, "to have our thoughts lift up to that world
where all is beautiful and glorious,"--but it is well to realise also
how much of this world is beautiful. It has, I know, been maintained, as
for instance by Victor Hugo, that the general effect of beauty is to
sadden. "Comme la vie de l'homme, meme la plus prospere, est toujours au
fond plus triste que gaie, le ciel sombre nous est harmonieux. Le ciel
eclatant et joyeux nous est ironique. La Nature triste nous ressemble et
nous console; la Nature rayonnante, magnifique, superbe... a quelque
chose d'accablant."[1]
This seems to me, I confess, a morbid view. There are many no doubt on
whom the effect of natural beauty is to intensify feeling, to deepen
melancholy, as well as to raise the spirits. As Mrs. W. R. Greg in her
memoir of her husband tells us: "His passionate love for nature, so
amply fed by the beauty of the scenes around him, intensified the
emotions, as all keen perception of beauty does, but it did not add to
their joyousness. We speak of the pleasure which nature and art and
music give us; what we really mean is that our whole being is quickened
by the uplifting of the veil. Something passes into us which makes our
sorrows more sorrowful, our joys more joyful,--our whole life more
vivid. So it was with him. The long solitary wanderings over the hills,
and the beautiful moonlight nights on the lake served to make the
shadows seem darker that were brooding over his home."
But surely to most of us Nature when sombre, or even gloomy, is soothing
and consoling; when bright and beautiful, not only raises the spirits,
but inspires and elevates our whole being--
Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings.[2]
Kingsley speaks with enthusiasm of the heaths and moors round his home,
"where I have so long enjoyed the wonders of nature; never, I can
honestly say, alone; because when man was not with me, I had companions
in every bee, and flower and pebble; and never idle, because I could not
pass a swamp, or a tuft of heather, without finding in it a fairy tale
of which I could but decipher here and there a line or two, and yet
found them more interesting than all the books, save one, which were
ever written upon earth."
Those who love Nature can never be dull. They may have other
temptations; but at least they will run no risk of being beguiled, by
ennui, idleness, or want of occupation, "to buy the merry madness of an
hour with the long penitence of after time." The love of Nature, again,
helps us greatly to keep ourselves free from those mean and petty cares
which interfere so much with calm and peace of mind. It turns "every
ordinary walk into a morning or evening sacrifice," and brightens life
until it becomes almost like a fairy tale.
In the romances of the Middle Ages we read of knights who loved, and
were loved by, Nature spirits,--of Sir Launfal and the Fairy Tryamour,
who furnished him with many good things, including a magic purse, in
which
As oft as thou puttest thy hand therein
A mark of gold thou shalt iwinne,
as well as protection from the main dangers of life. Such times have
passed away, but better ones have come. It is not now merely the few,
who are so favoured. All those who love Nature she loves in return, and
will richly reward, not perhaps with the good things, as they are
commonly called, but with the best things, of this world; not with money
and titles, horses and carriages, but with bright and happy thoughts,
contentment and peace of mind.
Happy indeed is the naturalist: to him the seasons come round like old
friends; to him the birds sing: as he walks along, the flowers stretch
out from the hedges, or look up from the ground, and as each year fades
away, he looks back on a fresh store of happy memories.
Though we can never "remount the river of our years," he who loves
Nature is always young. But what is the love of Nature? Some seem to
think they show a love of flowers by gathering them. How often one finds
a bunch of withered blossoms on the roadside, plucked only to be thrown
away! Is this love of Nature? It is, on the contrary, a wicked waste,
for a waste of beauty is almost the worst waste of all.
If we could imagine a day prolonged for a lifetime, or nearly so, and
that sunrise and sunset were rare events which happened but a few times
to each of us, we should certainly be entranced by the beauty of the
morning and evening tints. The golden rays of the morning are a fortune
in themselves, but we too often overlook the loveliness of Nature,
because it is constantly before us. For "the senseless folk," says King
Alfred,
is far more struck
At things it seldom sees.
"Well," says Cicero, "did Aristotle observe, 'If there were men whose
habitations had been always underground, in great and commodious houses,
adorned with statues and pictures, furnished with everything which they
who are reputed happy abound with; and if, without stirring from thence,
they should be informed of a certain divine power and majesty, and,
after some time, the earth should open, and they should quit their dark
abode to come to us; where they should immediately behold the earth, the
seas, the heavens; should consider the vast extent of the clouds and
force of the winds; should see the sun, and observe his grandeur and
beauty, and also his creative power, inasmuch as day is occasioned by
the diffusion of his light through the sky; and when night has obscured
the earth, they should contemplate the heavens bespangled and adorned
with stars; the surprising variety of the moon, in her increase and
wane; the rising and setting of all the stars, and the inviolable
regularity of their courses; when,' says he, 'they should see these
things, they would undoubtedly conclude that there are Gods, and that
these are their mighty works.'"[3]
Is my life vulgar, my fate mean,
Which on such golden memories can lean?[4]
At the same time the change which has taken place in the character of
our religion has in one respect weakened the hold which Nature has upon
our feelings. To the Greeks--to our own ancestors,--every River or
Mountain or Forest had not only its own special Deity, but in some sense
was itself instinct with life. They were not only peopled by Nymphs and
Fauns, Elves and Kelpies, were not only the favourite abodes of Water,
Forest, or Mountain Spirits, but they had a conscious existence of their
own.
In the Middle Ages indeed, these spirits were regarded as often
mischievous, and apt to take offence; sometimes as essentially
malevolent--even the most beautiful, like the Venus of Tannhaeuser, being
often on that very account all the more dangerous; while the Mountains
and Forests, the Lakes and Seas, were the abodes of hideous ghosts and
horrible monsters, of Giants and Ogres, Sorcerers and Demons. These
fears, though vague, were none the less extreme, and the judicial
records of the Middle Ages furnish only too conclusive evidence that
they were a terrible reality. The light of Science has now happily
dispelled these fearful nightmares.
Unfortunately, however, as men have multiplied, their energies have
hitherto tended, not to beautify, but to mar. Forests have been cut
down, and replaced by flat fields in geometrical squares, or on the
continent by narrow strips. Here and there indeed we meet with oases, in
which beauty has not been sacrificed to profit, and it is then happily
found that not only is there no loss, but the earth seems to reward even
more richly those who treat her with love and respect.
Scarcely any part of the world affords so great a variety in so small an
area as our own island. Commencing in the south, we have first the blue
sea itself, the pebbly beaches, the white chalk cliffs of Kent, the
tinted sands of Alum Bay, the Red Sandstone of Devonshire, Granite and
Gneiss in Cornwall: inland we have the chalk Downs and clear streams,
the well-wooded weald and the rich hop gardens; farther westwards the
undulating gravelly hills, and still farther the granite tors: in the
centre of England we have to the east the Norfolk Broads and the Fens;
then the fertile Midlands, the cornfields, rich meadows, and large oxen;
and to the west the Welsh mountains; farther north the Yorkshire Wolds,
the Lancashire hills, the Lakes of Westmoreland; lastly, the swelling
hills, bleak moors, and picturesque castles of Northumberland and
Cumberland.
There are of course far larger rivers, but perhaps none lovelier than
The crystal Thamis wont to glide
In silver channel, down along the lee,[5]
[Illustration: WINDSOR CASTLE.
_To face page 13._]
by lawns and parks, meadows and wooded banks, dotted with country houses
and crowned by Windsor Castle itself (see Frontispiece). By many
Scotland is considered even more beautiful.
And yet too many of us see nothing in the fields but sacks of wheat, in
the meadows but trusses of hay, and in woods but planks for houses, or
cover for game. Even from this more prosaic point of view, how much
there is to wonder at and admire, in the wonderful chemistry which
changes grass and leaves, flowers and seeds, into bread and milk, eggs
and cream, butter and honey!
Almost everything, says Hamerton, "that the Peasant does, is lifted
above vulgarity by ancient, and often sacred, associations." There is,
indeed, hardly any business or occupation with reference to which the
same might not be said. The triviality or vulgarity does not depend on
what we do, but on the spirit in which it is done. Not only the regular
professions, but every useful occupation in life, however humble, is
honourable in itself, and may be pursued with dignity and peace.
Working in this spirit we have also the satisfaction of feeling that, as
in some mountain track every one who takes the right path, seems to make
the way clearer for those who follow; so may we also raise the
profession we adopt, and smooth the way for those who come after us.
But, even for those who are not Agriculturists, it must be admitted that
the country has special charms. One perhaps is the continual change.
Every week brings some fresh leaf or flower, bird or insect. Every month
again has its own charms and beauty. We sit quietly at home and Nature
decks herself for us.
In truth we all love change. Some think they do not care for it, but I
doubt if they know themselves.
"Not," said Jefferies, "for many years was I able to see why I went the
same round and did not care for change. I do not want change: I want the
same old and loved things, the same wild flowers, the same trees and
soft ash-green; the turtle-doves, the blackbirds, the
yellow-hammer sing, sing, singing so long as there is light to cast a
shadow on the dial, for such is the measure of his song, and I want
them in the same place. Let me find them morning after morning, the
starry-white petals radiating, striving upwards up to their ideal. Let
me see the idle shadows resting on the white dust; let me hear the
humble-bees, and stay to look down on the yellow dandelion disk. Let me
see the very thistles opening their great crowns--I should miss the
thistles; the reed grasses hiding the moor-hen; the bryony bine, at
first crudely ambitious and lifted by force of youthful sap straight
above the hedgerow to sink of its weight presently and progress with
crafty tendrils; swifts shot through the air with outstretched wings
like crescent-headed shaftless arrows darted from the clouds; the
chaffinch with a feather in her bill; all the living staircase of the
spring, step by step, upwards to the great gallery of the summer, let me
watch the same succession year by year."
After all then he did enjoy the change and the succession.
Kingsley again in his charming prose idyll "My Winter Garden" tries to
persuade himself that he was glad he had never travelled, "having never
yet actually got to Paris." Monotony, he says, "is pleasant in itself;
morally pleasant, and morally useful. Marriage is monotonous; but there
is much, I trust, to be said in favour of holy wedlock. Living in the
same house is monotonous; but three removes, say the wise, are as bad as
a fire. Locomotion is regarded as an evil by our Litany. The Litany, as
usual, is right. 'Those who travel by land or sea' are to be objects of
our pity and our prayers; and I do pity them. I delight in that same
monotony. It saves curiosity, anxiety, excitement, disappointment, and a
host of bad passions."
But even as he writes one can see that he does not convince himself.
Possibly, he admits, "after all, the grapes are sour"; and when some
years after he did travel, how happy he was! At last, he says,
triumphantly, "At last we too are crossing the Atlantic. At last the
dream of forty years, please God, would be fulfilled, and I should see
(and happily not alone), the West Indies and the Spanish Main. From
childhood I had studied their Natural History, their Charts, their
Romances; and now, at last, I was about to compare books with facts, and
judge for myself of the reported wonders of the Earthly Paradise."
No doubt there is much to see everywhere. The Poet and the Naturalist
find "tropical forests in every square foot of turf." It may even be
better, and especially for the more sensitive natures, to live mostly in
quiet scenery, among fields and hedgerows, woods and downs; | 1,981.998628 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+-------------------------------------------------+
|Transcriber's note | 1,981.999377 |
2023-11-16 18:50:05.9805460 | 557 | 58 |
Produced by Emmy, Juliet Sutherland and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE CHAUTAUQUAN.
_A MONTHLY MAGAZINE DEVOTED TO THE PROMOTION OF TRUE CULTURE.
ORGAN OF THE CHAUTAUQUA LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC CIRCLE._
VOL. V. JUNE, 1885. No. 9.
OFFICERS OF THE CHAUTAUQUA LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC CIRCLE.
_President_, Lewis Miller, Akron, Ohio. _Chancellor_, J. H. Vincent,
D.D., New Haven, Conn. _Counselors_, The Rev. Lyman Abbott, D.D.;
the Rev. J. M. Gibson, D.D.; Bishop H. W. Warren, D.D.; Prof. W. C.
Wilkinson, D.D.; Edward Everett Hale. _Office Secretary_, Miss Kate
F. Kimball, Plainfield, N. J. _General Secretary_, Albert M. Martin,
Pittsburgh, Pa.
Contents
Transcriber’s Note: This table of contents of this periodical was created
for the HTML version to aid the reader.
REQUIRED READING
The Mechanism of the English Language 497
Home Studies in Chemistry and Physics
Chemistry of Organisms 500
Physics of Organisms 503
Sunday Readings
[_June 7_] 504
[_June 14_] 504
[_June 21_] 505
[_June 28_] 505
The Heart Busy With Things About Us 505
Easy Lessons in Animal Biology
Chapter III. 509
Summer Homes for the City Poor 514
Learn to Enjoy People 517
Our Ladies of Sorrow 517
The Nicaragua and Panama Routes to the Pacific 518
Geography of the Heavens for June 520
How to Win
Chapter IV. 521
The Catlin Paintings 524
George Bancroft 526
How Perseus Began To Be Great 529
Canada of To-Day 529
Some American Museums 531
Natural History and People of Borneo 533
The What-To-Do Club 536
Criticisms 537
Outline and Programs 539
Local Circles 540
The C. L. S. C. Classes 545
| 1,982.000586 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
A Bunch of Cherries
A STORY OF CHERRY COURT SCHOOL
BY
Mrs. L. T. MEADE
AUTHOR OF
"A Modern Tomboy," "The School Favorite," "Children's Pilgrimage,"
"Little Mother to the Others," Etc.
CHICAGO:
M. A. DONOHUE & CO.
1898
CONTENTS
CHAPTER.
I. The School
II. The Girls
III. The Telegram
IV. Sir John's Great Scheme
V. Florence
VI. Kitty and Her Father
VII. Cherry-Colored Ribbons
VIII. The Letter
IX. The Little Mummy
X. Aunt Susan
XI. "I Always Admired Frankness"
XII. The Fairy Box
XIII. An Invitation
XIV. At the Park
XV. The Pupil Teacher
XVI. Temptation
XVII. The Fall
XVIII. The Guests Arrive
XIX. Tit for Tat
XX. The Hills for Ever
XXI. The Sting of the Serpent
XXII. The Voice of God
A BUNCH OF CHERRIES.
CHAPTER I.
THE SCHOOL.
The house was long and low and rambling. In parts at least it must
have been quite a hundred years old, and even the modern portion was
not built according to the ideas of the present day, for in 1870 people
were not | 1,982.105258 |
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produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
HISTORY
OF THE
THIRTY-SIXTH REGIMENT
MASSACHUSETTS VOLUNTEERS.
1862-1865.
_BY A COMMITTEE OF THE REGIMENT._
BOSTON:
PRESS OF ROCKWELL AND CHURCHILL.
89 ARCH STREET.
1884.
TO
Our Comrades
OF THE
_THIRTY-SIXTH MASSACHUSETTS VOLUNTEERS_
THIS RECORD OF A COMMON EXPERIENCE
IS
_AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED_.
_Ah, never shall the land forget_
_How gushed the life-blood of her brave,--_
_Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,--_
_Upon the soil they sought to save._
_Now all is calm, and fresh, and still;_
_Alone the chirp of flitting bird,_
_And talk of children on the hill,_
_And bell of wand'ring kine, are heard._
_No solemn host goes trailing by,_
_The black-mouthed gun and stag'ring wain;_
_Men start not at the battle-cry;_
_Oh, be it never heard again!_
--WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
PREFACE.
Not long after the close of the war a plan was proposed, by some of
the officers of the regiment, for the preparation of a history of the
Thirty-sixth Regiment of Massachusetts Volunteers; but the plan was
not carried into execution. At the regimental reunions, in subsequent
years, parts of such a history were read by Comrades White, Ranlett,
and Hodgkins, and the desire for a complete history of the regiment,
which found expression on these occasions, was so strong that, at the
reunion of the regiment at Worcester, in September, 1876, a committee,
consisting of Comrades White, Ranlett, Burrage, and Hodgkins, was
appointed to procure materials for a history of the regiment.
Some progress was made by the committee in the performance of the
work thus assigned to them; but it was not so great as they, or their
comrades of the Thirty-sixth, desired. At the reunion, September 2,
1879, the matter was again considered, and it was finally voted, "that
Comrades White, Ranlett, Hodgkins, Burrage, and Noyes, be chosen a
committee to have charge of the compiling, revising, and printing the
history of the regiment, to be ready for delivery at our next reunion;
and that the committee have power to procure any help they may need."
Many difficulties were encountered in the progress of the work, and it
was found that it would be impossible to prepare, within the limit of
time prescribed, such a history as would be worthy of the regiment. The
different members of the committee, amid the activities of busy lives,
could give to the work only such intervals of leisure as they could
find amid their daily tasks. At the annual reunions of 1880, 1881, and
1882,--testing the patience of their comrades who had entrusted to them
this important task,--they were compelled to report progress only. In
September, 1883,--the last reunion,--however, they were able to say
that the work was already in press, and would be ready for delivery in
the course of a few weeks.
In the table of contents will be found the names of the authors of
the different chapters. The work of Comrades White, Ranlett, Olin,
and Noyes, entitles them to the hearty thanks of all their companions
in arms. Especially, however, are such thanks due to Comrade W. H.
Hodgkins, not only for his own contribution to the history, but
also for his careful attention to the innumerable details which the
preparation of such a work required. Indeed, without his unwearied
endeavors in gathering materials, securing the coöperation of others,
and attending to the business of publication, the history would not so
soon, and might never, have been completed.
To the writer of these lines was assigned the editorial supervision
of the work. From the materials placed in his hands he arranged the
history of the regiment as it now appears. Two proofs of the entire
work have passed under his eye, and in this part of his task he has had
the invaluable assistance of Major Hodgkins. The history, of course,
is not free from errors of statement; and it will doubtless be found
that there are omissions which the writers of the different chapters,
as well as their comrades, will deeply deplore. Yet, with all its
imperfections, this volume is believed to be substantially a faithful
history of the part which the regiment had in the great conflict for
the preservation of the National Union, which was waged during the
years 1862-1865; and, as such, it is certainly a history of which all
those who participated in it may well be proud.
H. S. B.
PORTLAND, ME., Sept. 26, 1883.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE
ORGANIZATION OF THE REGIMENT.--ALONZO A. WHITE 1-10
CHAPTER II.
TO THE FRONT.--ALONZO A. WHITE 11-18
CHAPTER III.
IN VIRGINIA.--ALONZO A. WHITE 19-36
CHAPTER IV.
THE KENTUCKY CAMPAIGN.--S. ALONZO RANLETT 37-48
CHAPTER V.
IN THE REAR OF VICKSBURG.--S. ALONZO RANLETT 49-57
CHAPTER VI.
THE MOVEMENT ON JACKSON.--S. ALONZO RANLETT 58-72
CHAPTER VII.
THE RETURN TO KENTUCKY.--S. ALONZO RANLETT 73-78
CHAPTER VIII.
IN EAST TENNESSEE.--S. ALONZO RANLETT 79-87
CHAPTER IX.
THE RETREAT FROM LENOIR'S AND THE BATTLE OF CAMPBELL'S
STATION.--HENRY S. BURRAGE 88-100
CHAPTER X.
THE SIEGE OF KNOXVILLE.--HENRY S. BURRAGE 101-122
CHAPTER XI.
SUBSEQUENT OPERATIONS IN EAST TENNESSEE.--HENRY S. BURRAGE 123-134
CHAPTER XII.
REORGANIZATION.--WILLIAM H. HODGKINS 135-145
CHAPTER XIII.
IN THE WILDERNESS.--WILLIAM H. HODGKINS 146-159
CHAPTER XIV.
AT SPOTTSYLVANIA.--WILLIAM H. HODGKINS 160-177
CHAPTER XV.
ON THE NORTH ANNA AND THE PAMUNKEY.--WILLIAM H.
HODGKINS 178-187
CHAPTER XVI.
AT COLD HARBOR.--WILLIAM H. HODGKINS 188-200
CHAPTER XVII.
THE MOVEMENT ON PETERSBURG.--WILLIAM H. HODGKINS 201-215
CHAPTER XVIII.
IN THE TRENCHES.--WILLIAM H. HODGKINS 216-222
CHAPTER XIX.
DIARY OF THE SIEGE.--WILLIAM H. HODGKINS 223-232
CHAPTER XX.
THE MINE AFFAIR.--WILLIAM H. HODGKINS 233-241
CHAPTER XXI.
THE SIEGE CONTINUED.--WILLIAM H. HODGKINS 242-252
CHAPTER XXII.
IN THE PINES.--EDMUND W. NOYES 253-257
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE ACTION AT PEGRAM FARM.--EDMUND W. NOYES 258-265
CHAPTER XXIV.
AGAIN IN THE TRENCHES.--EDMUND W. NOYES 266-275
CHAPTER XXV.
IN WINTER QUARTERS.--WILLIAM H. HODGKINS 276-281
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE FINAL ASSAULT AT PETERSBURG.--WILLIAM M. OLIN 282-291
CHAPTER XXVII.
CLOSING SCENES.--WILLIAM H. HODGKINS 292-311
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CONCLUSION.--WILLIAM H. HODGKINS 312-315
ROSTER AND RECORD OF THE THIRTY-SIXTH REGIMENT OF
MASSACHUSETTS VOLUNTEERS, COMPILED AND CORRECTED
BY WILLIAM H. HODGKINS 316
RECAPITULATION 385
NAMES OF MEMBERS OF THE REGIMENT WHO DIED IN REBEL
PRISONS 386
NARRATIVE OF ISRAEL H. SMITH 387
INDEX 391
THIRTY-SIXTH REGIMENT,
MASSACHUSETTS VOLUNTEERS.
CHAPTER I.
ORGANIZATION OF THE REGIMENT.
Early in July, 1862, when the war of the rebellion had been in progress
a little more than a year, President Lincoln issued an order for three
hundred thousand volunteers, to serve three years, or during the war.
It was a time of sore discouragement and general depression throughout
the loyal States. Our army in Virginia, under General McClellan, during
a seven days' fight near the Chickahominy, had met with such reverses
that it had been compelled to "make a change of base," and fall back
to the James river, near Harrison's Landing. Nobly, however, and
cheerfully, did the people of the North respond to the President's call
for reinforcements. On every hand was heard the chorus:--
"We're coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more."
Massachusetts was not behind her sister States in raising her quota,
which was fifteen thousand men. In a general order, dated July 7, 1862,
Governor Andrew announced the call which had been made upon him by the
President, stated the number of men which every city and town would
be required to furnish, and closed with these words: "The government
demands new regiments, and our brave men who have so nobly upheld
the honor of Massachusetts call loudly from the battle-fields of the
South to their brethren at home to come forward at once and fill their
decimated ranks, and take the places of the brave men who have fallen
and suffered in the cause of the Union and of American Constitutional
Liberty." Like the blast of a trumpet this order stirred the hearts
of the people in all parts of the state, and cities and towns vied
with each other, in patriotic endeavors to hurry forward the work of
enlistment.
A subsequent order, dated July 16, 1862, containing instructions
relative to the new recruitment, designated Camp John E. Wool, at
the city of Worcester, as the general rendezvous for the counties of
Berkshire, Franklin, Hampden, Hampshire, and Worcester. Colonel George
H. Ward, of the Fifteenth Massachusetts Volunteers, who had lost a
leg at the battle of Ball's Bluff, and was now at home on account of
disability, was placed in command of the camp.
The order of July 7th contained this announcement: "The new regiments
now partly formed, and to be formed, are the Thirty-second,
Thirty-third, Thirty-fourth, Thirty-fifth, Thirty-sixth, and
Thirty-seventh. To complete these regiments to the maximum standard,
the Thirty-second regiment requires 300 men; the Thirty-third, 650
men; the Thirty-fourth, 800 men; and the Thirty-fifth, 850 men." It
was accordingly ordered that recruiting for the Thirty-sixth and
Thirty-seventh regiments should not commence until the four first named
were filled. The order, however, was not strictly observed.
The first detachment for the Thirty-sixth entered Camp Wool August 1st,
and was a part of the quota of the town of Fitchburg. This detachment
consisted of sixty-four men, under the command of Captain T. L. Barker.
Recruits for the regiment had been received at Camp Wool previous to
August 1st; but this was the first organized company in camp, and, in
the organization of the regiment, it was assigned to the right of
the line, and known as Company A. As early as August 6th this company
had its minimum number of recruits; and, in a few days, others, from
Fitchburg, Leominster, and adjacent towns, raised the number to the
maximum.
Company B, Captain John B. Norton, was recruited in Charlestown during
the month of July. It was at first intended that this company should
be attached to the Thirty-fourth Regiment as a flank company, and
the officers at first received commissions in that regiment; but the
requisite authority for such a company could not be obtained at the
War Department, and the company was transferred to the Thirty-sixth,
and the officers recommissioned. For a time, very naturally, it was
a disappointment to the members of this company that they could not
remain in the Thirty-fourth; but of the survivors there is, doubtless,
not one who is not satisfied that the record of the company was made
with the Thirty-sixth.
Recruiting for Company C was commenced in the city of Worcester, August
8th, and on the 12th the company was full. Eight days after, under the
command of Captain Arthur A. Goodell, the company entered Camp Wool. No
other company in the regiment was raised in so brief a space of time.
Company D was recruited principally in the towns of Templeton and
Winchendon. The first detachment entered Camp Wool, August 4, under the
command of Captain Amos Buffum, of Baldwinville, late second lieutenant
in the Twenty-fifth Massachusetts Volunteers. In a few days the ranks
of this company were full.
The men of Company E were recruited from the towns of Palmer, Monson,
and the western towns of Worcester County. The first detachment entered
Camp Wool, August 10th, under the command of First Lieutenant R. M.
Cross. Captain S. C. Warriner, who had been discharged from the Tenth
Massachusetts Volunteers, in order to accept a captain's commission
in the Thirty-sixth, arrived in camp about the 20th of August, and
assumed command of the company, and completed its organization.
Company F was formed principally of recruits from Milford and vicinity,
with a detachment from Sutton. The first detachment arrived at Camp
Wool August 10th, under the command of Second Lieutenant A. S. Tuttle.
He remained in command of the company until September 17, when Captain
William F. Draper, promoted from first lieutenant in the Twenty-fifth
Massachusetts Volunteers, joined the regiment then in the field, and
assumed command of the company.
Company G was organized from unassigned recruits, representing the
eastern towns of Worcester County. S. Henry Bailey, of Northboro', was
commissioned captain of the company August 22d.
Company H was formed by adding to the quotas of Gardner and Orange
the unassigned recruits then in camp; and Christopher Sawyer, of
Templeton, who had entered Camp Wool as first sergeant of Company D,
was commissioned captain of this company August 22d.
Company I was recruited in Berlin, Marlboro', Upton, Uxbridge, and
adjoining towns, and entered Camp Wool in the early part of August,
under the command of Captain Christopher Hastings, of Berlin. The
company was filled to the maximum a few days after entering camp.
Indeed, Captain Hastings recruited men enough nearly to fill two
companies.
Company K, like G and H, was formed of unassigned recruits from the
various towns whose quotas reported at Camp Wool. James B. Smith, late
first lieutenant in the Twenty-fifth Massachusetts Volunteers, was
commissioned captain of the company.
On the 27th of August these ten companies, constituting the
Thirty-sixth Massachusetts Volunteers, having completed their
organization, were mustered into the United States service, for three
years, unless sooner discharged.
The field, staff, and line officers were not mustered into the service
until September 2d, the day the regiment left Camp Wool for the seat of
war. Indeed, for the most part, the field officers were not appointed
until after the mustering in of the regiment.
Lieutenant-Colonel John W. Kimball, of Fitchburg, then serving in the
Fifteenth Regiment,--a true and accomplished officer,--was commissioned
colonel of the Thirty-sixth, August 11th, and application was made
by Governor Andrew for his discharge from the Fifteenth, in order to
accept promotion. But, in the critical state of affairs at that time,
it was not deemed advisable by the authorities at Washington to grant
the governor's request. Consequently, on the 22d of August, Major Henry
Bowman, of the Thirty-fourth regiment, then at Camp Casey, on Arlington
Heights, was promoted to the colonelcy of the Thirty-sixth; and,
receiving his discharge from the Thirty-fourth, he at once joined his
command at Camp Wool.
Captain John B. Norton, of Charlestown, who entered Camp Wool as
captain of Company B, was commissioned lieutenant-colonel, August 28th,
and on the same day, James H. Barker, of Milford, was commissioned
major.
James P. Prince, of Lynn, was commissioned surgeon, with Warren
Tyler, of North Brookfield, and Albert H. Bryant, of Natick, as
assistant-surgeons. Rev. Charles T. Canfield, of Worcester, was
commissioned chaplain, and F. B. Rice, also of Worcester, as first
lieutenant and quartermaster. An adjutant was not appointed until a
later date.
The regiment was now nearly ready for the field. Most of the men had
been hurried into camp, with the promise of a few days' furlough
before leaving the State. Many of them had left their business affairs
unsettled and their families unprovided for. But all applications for
furlough were denied by the United States officer at Boston, who was
in charge of mustered regiments. Colonel Ward endeavored to secure
a furlough for the men; but his efforts proved unavailing. Colonel
Bowman, on joining the regiment, and learning the condition of affairs,
renewed these efforts, stating his unwillingness to leave the State
until the pledge which had been given to the men had, in a measure at
least, been redeemed.
On Saturday, August 30th, Colonel Bowman received orders to have
the Thirty-sixth Regiment ready to leave for Washington as early as
September 2d. At the same time he was given permission to grant to his
men furloughs for twenty-four hours, one-half of the regiment only to
be absent from camp at the same time. This order was not received by
Colonel Bowman until late Saturday afternoon. Accordingly, furloughs
were granted first of all to those men whose homes were at the greatest
distance from the camp. These were to return Monday morning, when the
rest of the men would receive their furloughs. This second half of
the regiment, by some mysterious process, became very small Saturday
evening and on Sunday. The sentinels paced their beats, but in some
instances so absorbed in their duties as seemingly to have lost the
sense both of sight and hearing.
A sergeant, with a comrade, making the rounds of his guard late on one
of these nights, found a faithful son of Erin walking his beat with
soldier-like precision. As they approached he promptly challenged:
"Who goes there?" and was as quickly answered, "Friend, with the
countersign." As they approached to give the countersign, the sergeant
asked, in confiding tones, "Could anyone get out here?" The sentinel,
as confidingly, asked, "Would ye bring a little whiskey? Be jabbers a
pint of whiskey might make a man both blind and _dafe_!" He then turned
his back, and marched away.
But while it was a great disappointment to the men to lose the few
days' furlough which had been promised to them, and especially to those
who had important business interests that demanded attention, leading
in some cases to a seeming disregard of discipline, yet all of the
companies were in camp on Tuesday morning. At an early hour on that
day the company commanders drew arms (Enfield rifles) and equipments
for their men, and these were at once distributed among them. All was
bustle and confusion throughout the camp. Few of the men had had any
experience as soldiers, and the selection and adjustment of their arms
and equipments, as well as the brief space of time allotted for these
and other preparations for moving, made it look still more difficult
and annoying.
Late in the forenoon the regimental line was formed, and a beautiful
national flag was presented to the regiment by Honorable P. Emory
Aldrich, Mayor of Worcester. In presenting the flag the Mayor said:--
"_Colonel Bowman_,--Your friends, and the friends of your command
in this city, have procured this beautiful banner, and requested me
to present it to you as the worthy commander of the Thirty-sixth
Regiment of Massachusetts Volunteers for the war. It will be seen
that its azure fold is studded with the full constellation of
stars, representing the undivided Union, and that not one of the
original stripes is omitted or erased, showing that, however much
your friends may deplore the present unhappy condition of our
distracted and bleeding country, they still firmly believe that,
when the clouds of war that now lower upon us shall have passed
away, these stars will again shine as from a clear and cloudless
sky with none of their ancient lustre lost or obscured. And permit
me to say that this flag, still unchanged and radiant, signifies,
in the truest and highest sense, the kind of service expected
of you and this noble regiment you are about to lead from this
comparatively peaceful camp of preparation to the stern and heroic
duties of the field; that you are to aid, by force of arms, in
restoring the Union, which traitors have temporarily impaired, and
in reestablishing the supremacy of the constitution and laws over
every portion of territory lying within the acknowledged boundaries
of the Union, from the great lakes to the gulf, and from the
Atlantic to the Pacific oceans, so that, when you and your brave
comrades return, as we trust you will, with this flag, soiled and
rent it may be by the smoke and leaden hail of battle,[1] you
shall bring it back, not as the sign of a shattered constitution,
and dissevered Union, but as the proud emblem of a reunited and
indivisible republic, and then it shall continue to be known and
honored throughout the civilized world, and everywhere become a
free and safe passport to all men of every race who have the right
to claim protection beneath its ample folds.
[1] "Soiled and rent," its staff shattered, this flag, which was
carried by the regiment throughout its entire period of service, is
now preserved in the State House, in Boston, with the flags of the
Massachusetts regiments.
"In delivering this proud ensign of our nationality into your
hands, your friends know they are entrusting it to one who is not
only familiar with the ordinary duties of the soldier, but to one
who has been tried and not found wanting amidst the perils and
carnage of the battle-field, and who has suffered what is more
intolerable to every true soldier than any dangers of field or
camp, and that is captivity and confinement for weary months in
the loathsome prisons of the enemy; and now, after protracted
and vexatious delays, you have but recently been relieved from
your parole, so that you can, without dishonor, enter again the
military service of your country; and, having availed yourself
of the earliest opportunity to return to avenge your own and
your country's wrongs, may a propitious Providence and all good
influences attend you, and protect you, and your command in every
hour of trial and danger.
"Yours is the fourth regiment which has been organized within
this enclosure, which may now very properly be called our _Campus
Martius_, and the fifth that has gone out from our city within
the last twelve months. The Fifteenth, beginning its brilliant
career at Ball's Bluff,--where, indeed, it encountered a repulse
for which neither its officers nor men were responsible,--has
with signal gallantry fought its way over many a bloody field
to a high position on the roll of fame. And the Twenty-first
and Twenty-fifth, being with each other in the performance of
patriotic duty, and in the memorable race for military renown, have
made Roanoke and Newberne, and other fields, wherein they have
exhibited the highest qualities of the soldier, ever memorable both
to friend and foe. And it is not altogether improbable that the
Thirty-fourth, which took up its line of march but a few days since
from this camp, under the accomplished Wells,[2] may have already
found itself involved in the smoke of its first battle, and taking
its first lesson in the art of war. And scarcely will your regiment
have left our presence, before another will encamp within the
limits of the city. And we bid you tell our brethren in the field
that thus shall regiment after regiment, in endless succession,
be sent to their aid until this accursed rebellion is utterly
extinguished.
[2] Colonel Wells was killed near Cedar Creek, Va., Oct. 13, 1864.
"The lateness of the hour, the necessity of your moving at once,
admonish me that I should omit a portion of what I had proposed to
say on this occasion; but this is of little account, and I would
not delay your march for a single moment to listen to any poor
words of mine. Words in this hour are simply air. Action--instant,
resistless, heroic action--is the only thing that can avail us
in this perilous crisis. And I can only add that, while you and
these brave men who are to follow you, will do your full duty in
upholding and restoring the authority of the constitution and its
laws, you can never fail in loyalty, and the great idea of liberty
which now inspires the hearts and nerves the hands of all the loyal
men of the land; and that, when you have marched through rebel
districts, none but loyal and _free men_ shall be found. And now
accept this standard, proffered by friendly hands, and let it be
borne in your regiment as the emblem of liberty and law. And should
you or any of those, your comrades in arms, fall in its defence,
your memories shall be held in grateful remembrance, and history
will preserve their names among those of heroes and martyrs who
have died to defend or consecrate a great and noble cause. Remember
that the life is longest which best answers life's great end, and
that to die upon the battle-field in defence of the liberties of
mankind is the most cherished road to immortality."
The band played the "Star-Spangled Banner," and Colonel Bowman
responded in patriotic terms.
The several companies of the regiment then marched to Agricultural
Hall,--a large building on the camp ground,--where a bountiful
collation had been provided by the friends of the regiment. Then
followed the filling of haversacks, the packing of knapsacks, and all
were soon in readiness for the order to move.
CHAPTER II.
TO THE FRONT.
There was no delay. At noon, Tuesday, September 2d, the assembly was
sounded, the line was formed, and the Thirty-sixth, with a large number
of the friends of the regiment, who had come to say a long and perhaps
a last farewell, left Camp Wool amid the cheers of a great throng of
people assembled along the line of march to witness the departure of
the regiment, and moved up Highland street, through Main street, to
the Common. There cars were in waiting. These were soon filled, the
horses and baggage were taken aboard, the last farewells were spoken,
and, about two o'clock, followed by the loud cheers of the multitude,
and the waving of adieus, the long train drew out of the station, and
hurried toward Boston. On the arrival of the regiment in Boston the
line was again formed, and the Thirty-sixth, receiving a brilliant
ovation from the citizens, marched through Washington street, down
State street to Battery wharf, where the steamer "Merrimac," a new and
large ocean steamer, was in readiness to receive us. One-half of the
steamer had been assigned to the Twentieth Maine, Colonel Adelbert
Ames, and his regiment was already on board, having arrived from
Portland earlier in the day. In the crowded condition of the steamer
there was, necessarily, some delay in getting the companies into the
places to which they were assigned, and also in transferring the
horses and baggage; and it was not until late in the evening that the
embarkation was accomplished; then the steamer dropped out into the
stream. Early the next morning, September 3d, the "Merrimac" left her
anchorage and steamed down the harbor into the bay.
We soon learned that our destination was Alexandria, Va. The voyage
throughout was a pleasant one, and the men of the two regiments mingled
in friendly companionship. On the second day out, on the quarter-deck,
some of the men of Company B gave an exhibition, consisting of
singing, declamations, etc., which was greatly enjoyed by a large
and enthusiastic audience. Friday noon we reached the capes of the
Chesapeake, had a glimpse of Fortress Monroe, and, moving up the bay,
many of us looked upon the "sacred soil" for the first time; the
steamer entered the Potomac river about ten o'clock in the evening, and
shortly after midnight came to anchor. At five o'clock Saturday morning
we again were under way, and had a most delightful sail up the Potomac,
with both shores in full view. At length we passed Mt. Vernon, once the
home and now the grave of Washington, and soon after, about noon, we
were at the wharf in Alexandria.
Here we learned that the Thirty-fourth Massachusetts, which left
Worcester August 15th, was doing guard duty and building fortifications
near Alexandria. The Twentieth Maine was landed, but we remained on
the steamer during the night. The next morning, Sunday, September 7th,
we were transferred to the steamer "City of Norwich," in which we
proceeded up the river to Washington, and landed not far from the Navy
Yard.
Lee, in the last days of August, had defeated Pope within sound of the
capitol, and was now pushing his victorious columns northward with
the purpose of carrying the war into the Union States. The forces
under General McClellan, who was again in command of the army, were
also moving northward, but through Maryland, in order to intercept
Lee's columns and give him battle. We encamped near the capitol until
September 9th, when, having been assigned to General Burnside's
command, the Ninth Corps, we left Washington, and marched to
Leesboro'. But Burnside was no longer there, and several days were lost
in obtaining further orders. September 12th the regiment left Leesboro'
at an early hour, and marched about twelve miles, to Brookville, near
which we went into camp on a beautiful grassy <DW72> belonging to the
estate of Hon. John Hall, formerly of the United States Post-Office
Department. Near us was the camp of the First Rhode Island Cavalry.
On Sunday, September 14th, we held our first religious service in the
field, and the chaplain preached. On that day the distant sound of
artillery was heard, and we knew that, somewhere beyond us, the two
armies had again met. It was the day of the battle of South Mountain,
in which General Burnside, it will be remembered, gained an important
battle, carrying the mountain pass which Lee had directed his forces to
hold "at every hazard."
On Monday, September 15th, Colonel Bowman received from a mounted
orderly a note written in pencil, which purported to be an order from
General McClellan, signed "R. B. Marcy, Chief of Staff," directing all
troops on the road to hurry forward as rapidly as possible. Colonel
Bowman doubted the genuineness of this hasty scrawl, and the more so
on account of the appearance of suspicious persons about the camp the
night before. Not knowing the result of the battle of the previous
day, and afraid that an attempt might be made to capture his regiment
in its isolated position, he decided not to | 1,982.105444 |
2023-11-16 18:50:06.4805520 | 746 | 36 |
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
* Obvious printer errors have been silently corrected.
* Original spelling was kept.
* Variant spellings were made consistent when a predominant usage
was found.
* Italics are represented between underscores as in _italics_.
* Small caps are represented in upper case as in SMALL CAPS.
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[Illustration: THE QUEEN OF SHEBA.
_Frontispiece & Page 309._]
THE ADVENTURES
OF
CAPTAIN MAGO
OR
_A Phœnician Expedition_
B.C. 1000
BY
LÉON CAHUN
_ILLUSTRATED BY P. PHILIPPOTEAUX, AND TRANSLATED FROM
THE FRENCH BY ELLEN E. FREWER_
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1889
TROW'S
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,
NEW YORK.
PREFACE.
The following pages pretend to no original or scientific research. It
is their object to present, in a popular form, a picture of the world
as it was a thousand years before the Christian Era, and to exhibit,
mainly for the young, a summary of that varied information which is
contained in books, many of which by their high price and exclusively
technical character are generally unattainable.
* * * * *
It would only have encumbered the fictitious narrative, which is the
vehicle for conveying the instruction that is designed, to crowd
every page with references; but it may be alleged, once for all, that
for every statement which relates to the history of the period, and
especially to the history of the Phœnicians, ample authority might
be quoted from some one or other of the valuable books which have
been consulted.
Of the most important of these a list is here appended:--
1. F. C. MOVERS. Das Phönizische Alterthum.
2. RENAN. Mission en Phénicie.
3. DAUX. Recherches sur les Emporia phéniciens dans le Zeugis
et le Byzacium.
4. NATHAN DAVIS. Carthage and her Remains.
5. WILKINSON. Manners and Customs of Ancient Egyptians.
6. HŒCKH. Kreta.
7. GROTE. History of Greece.
8. MOMMSEN. Geschichte der Römischen Republik (Introduction and
Chap. I.).
9. BOURGUIGNAT. Monuments mégalithiques du nord de l'Afrique.
10. FERGUSSON. Rude Stone Monuments.
11. BROCA and A. BERTRAND. Celtes, Gaulois et Francs.
12. A | 1,982.500592 |
2023-11-16 18:50:06.4806080 | 3,213 | 19 | OF ACHOR: VOL. 1 [OF 2]***
Transcribed from the 1820 (second) R. Thomas edition by David Price,
email [email protected]
[Picture: Public domain book cover]
THE
VOICE OF FAITH,
IN THE
_Valley of Achor_:
BEING A
Series of Letters
_TO SEVERAL FRIENDS_,
ON RELIGIOUS SUBJECTS.
* * * * *
By Ruhamah.
* * * * *
_SECOND EDITION_.
* * * * *
SOUTHWARK;
PRINTED BY R. THOMAS, RED LION STREET, BOROUGH.
1820.
* * * * *
LETTER I.
_Valley of Achor_, _Aug._ 10, 1818.
To Mr. K—G.
DEAR SIR.
MANY thanks for the loan of the invaluable books, containing the last
fragments of the late venerable and spiritual JENKINS, of Lewes.—Surely
it may be said with propriety, “He being dead yet speaketh,” but it is
only to those who are taught of God. We speak, says the Apostle, to wise
men, not to unhumbled, unrenewed, carnal men, nor to mere nominal
professors, nor to those who are barely resting in a form of words, tho’
sound—such persons cannot digest the experimental truths they contain;
there was a time once when they would not suit me, but I have found them
exceedingly precious; nor do I think that tried man had a sensation, a
trial, a grief, a temptation, an enemy, a sin, a corruption, a fear, a
doubt, or misgiving, but what the Lord has permitted me to feel; nor do I
think he was favored me with one token or pleasing hope, an help, a
deliverance, a gracious smile, or a display of the divine faithfulness,
in the application and fulfilment of the promises, but the Lord has also
indulged me with similar mercies. I must recommend them to the poor of
Christ’s flock who wait on and for the Lord, till pardoning mercy is
revealed with some power.—I know you are anxious to learn how I go on in
soul matters, this is the main concern with you and with all my real
friends in Christ. I have now no other way left to inform you
satisfactorily, but by letter, and I certainly could fill volumes on the
subject of my daily experience of the teachings of the ever blessed
Spirit; nor have I any objection to make this subject known to you, and
to all those who are concerned for my best interest: this is the
principal point, to exalt the Lord Jesus, in the grand displays of _his_
grace to the most unworthy—and I can say to _his_ glory, _he_ has, I
trusts most effectually humbled me in the dust, laid me low, shewed me
such views of sin as I never saw before, and quickened my soul to feel
what it never so sensibly and deeply felt before. I do experience that
the tendency of _his_ gracious influences meeken, soften, and humble the
heart; rendering it also teachable and grateful. This I could
demonstrate by reciting a variety of experiences I have been favored
with, but I pass by numbers, to relate one in particular, that I can
never forget in this and a coming world.
After I had been in this furnace some weeks, in which I felt as others do
in similar cases, much grief, anger, rebellion, and discontent, but not
quite without a spirit of prayer, that I might be favored with the very
gracious visits of the Saviour, and a sense of God’s approbation in my
own soul, though despised by others. I entreated the Lord to shew me the
exceeding sinfulness of sin, as well as I could bear it, for I am
convinced no man could ever behold sin in all its malignity, none but the
God-Man could bear that—yet I desired to see sin as most abominable in
God’s sight. These petitions were in time answered; the Lord led me to
reflect deeply in my retired moments, on the nature of sin, original and
actual.—This knowledge of it increased, till one evening, being alone, I
was most completely overpowered with a solemn stillness of spirit, a view
of sin, my own sins of heart, lip, and life; these crouded in my mind. I
felt guilty. I stood condemned. I had a fearful apprehension of God’s
just displeasure; all was dark within, except sin and the anger of
God—these were clear enough; horror overwhelmed me, and I sunk low at the
footstool of divine mercy; I feared, I trembled, I was brought low, I was
troubled. I saw nothing of a Saviour, though I had so often preached
about him. Head notions were nothing now—past experience was hid, and
every gracious promise of the Bible was closed up for a time. What a
state to be in! But I believe this was drinking of the bitter cup our
Saviour drank so deeply: this was, in one sense, being crucified with
Christ, and having fellowship with him in his sufferings. These feelings
will give a man a real understanding of all those texts which refer to
soul trouble, in the book of Job, the Psalms of David, the feelings of
Jeremiah, and perhaps, what Paul felt during the three days he was
without sight, and did neither eat nor drink. These feelings will make
me sympathize with the soul that is afflicted, and experiences the
terrors of the Almighty.
But I do esteem it among my many special favors, that this did not
continue but part of a night. I sank down in shame and guilt, condemning
myself and acknowledging the justice of God in my condemnation. But
while in this state, thus broken, contrite, and filled with holy awe, I
was kept pleading for mercy, present mercy as well as future. While on
my knees prostrate, as Elijah on another occasion, or, as Jeremiah words
it, Putting my mouth in the dust; and although I really was filled with
fear lest I should be cut off, yet at this very time the Lord gently led
my mind, or rather brought the following words, very softly to my heart;
they were at first seemingly at a distance, but drew nearer at I listened
and observed them. The words were, “I have caused thine iniquities to
pass from thee, and have clothed thee with change of raiment.” I
observed, my mind could not gladly receive this sentence, fearing
presumption—but they still followed me, and abode with me, till the
horror, terror, fears, and darkness gradually dispersed, and my mind was
enabled so far to receive them as to cause a present ease, which
continued with me a few days longer. I found the peace they brought with
them continue, and I was in a small degree helped to believe they were
from God to me, and as much mine as they were Joshua’s, to whom they were
spoken; but though my thoughts were in a measure fixed upon them, yet I
was not without being assaulted with some misgivings of heart. I
concluded it best to entreat the Lord to shew me this more powerfully,
and not only to put the words in my mind, but to write them so
effectually that I might know, without the shadow of a doubt, I was
actually interested in the capital blessings the words contained. This
was most divinely manifested in a few days afterwards, as I was in the
act of reading some remarks of the truly excellent Mr. TOPLADY, on
Justification by the imparted Righteousness of the adorable God-Man. I
was actually overcome with a sweet surprize of the love of God to me in
Christ Jesus, making his dear Son a sin offering, and his people
righteousness in him. I was enabled to feel such solid peace, holy joy,
and sacred pleasure in my soul as can never be described by tongue or
pen. I was melted by the power of his love, and indulged with such
access to God, that every doubt, fear, and misgiving of heart was
removed. I saw, I knew, I felt that I was reconciled to God, and that
God was my Father, my Saviour, and my Comforter.—Oh, that I had then sunk
into the arms of death! O that I had been permitted to take my flight;
at that time the Saviour had engaged my heart, nor could I then have
sinned against him for the world. I want many such sweet manifestations
of his sensible presence; and I can assure you, painful as my situation
is, I would gladly endure it again for such enjoyments. But I must
observe, these blessed seasons are unknown to carnal professors, and
never enjoyed, even by the favorites of heaven while in a light,
careless, carnal frame of soul; no—the promise runs thus, “To this man
will I look, (and surely it was a look of love which I experienced) and
with him will I dwell, who is poor and of a contrite heart, and that
trembles at my word.”
Knowing you can rejoice in my prosperity, having mourned in my adversity,
I write thus freely.—Do as you please with the letter; if it is of any
consolation to your spiritual acquaintances, let them read it likewise,
but let them remember, I do not send it to gain applause, but that they
may glorify God on my behalf. And as to many others, I am very sorry I
ever had their good opinion at all.
I must just remark, that such blessed sensations as I have here
described, is not believing, but rather the end of our faith, the present
salvation of the soul. It is a manifestation of pardoning mercy, as an
evidence of full and free justification in Christ—this is, in the best of
senses, obtaining mercy; as such, I shall make bold to change my
subscription from J. C. to the name the Lord has given to elect Gentiles,
in the second chapter of Hosea.—Wishing you a clean hand, a warm heart,
and a holy life,
I remain, your’s in him,
_Ruhamah_.
LETTER II.
_Achor’s Vale_, _April_ 7, 1818.
Mrs. H—L, Sen.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
I HAVE been much grieved to hear of your deep afflictions of body. I
wish it lay in my power to visit you, to read, pray, and converse with
you. We have spent some pleasant hours together in speaking of _him_ who
loved us better than _he_ loved himself; who did not grudge to give _his_
very life for us; and I really believe, if it was needful, _he_ would do
it again, and not only so, but I believe _he_ would have done all _he_
did, if it was only for the salvation of one individual of _his_ people.
Alas, my dear Mother; what do we know of _his_ love, the love of a God?
All the knowledge the brightest saint upon earth has of that subject is a
mere nothing to the subject itself. I want clearer apprehensions of it.
I want to feel its warming power. I want to see its divine excellency.
I want to rejoice in the God of love; he has dealt well with me since I
have been in this place. I trust _he_ has both pardoned and subdued
_that_ in me which was contrary to _his_ holy will. But I want this
blessing carried on in every hour’s experience. May the ever-blessed
Spirit give us to believe in the love which God has for us, and enable us
to give credit to this most precious truth for ourselves, “I have blotted
out as a thick cloud thy sins.”
I really think we are often mistaken about our love to Christ; for we
fancy we have no spiritual affection for him, because we are not in
raptures of love with him; but let me remind you of what the holy Apostle
says of the matter. I have not time or room in this short letter, to
enlarge upon the subject, yet by reading it yourself in the 13th of the
1st of _Cor._ it may stir up your mind, and confirm you in the persuasion
of God’s love to you: “Charity thinketh no evil.” The Apostle does not
say he, as a man, thinketh no evil, but Charity, the love of God, the
holy principle in him thinketh no evil, of God or the doctrines of the
Gospel. It rejoiceth not in iniquity; then it is not a principle of
libertinism; but it rejoiceth in the truth, in Christ, and in his word.
It beareth all things God puts upon it, although the old man rebels
against the will of God. It hopeth all things which God has promised.
It hateth iniquity. The carnal part in the regenerate, loves sin, and
seeks to be gratified, but this holy principle hates it. It is kind,
when the Saviour’s sorrows are in view. It suffereth long the unkindness
of others, and waiteth till God is pleased to deliver. It envieth no
man’s gifts or goodness, but rests satisfied with God in Christ. It is
not puffed up, nor can it boast of what it does, but it extols the
Saviour; it delights in the Saviour; it is willing to owe its all to the
Saviour.—This is love, or gospel Charity. This is that which is born of
the Spirit, which cannot sin. This is the seed of God, the new nature;
and these are the evidences of an interest in Christ, and you can bless
God at times, that you know these things by experience, in some good
degree. We have very sinful natures, but Christ is our sanctification,
in the holiness of his nature, before God. We have broken the holy Law
of God in thought, word, and deed, but Jesus gave it all its vast | 1,982.500648 |
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Produced by Martin Adamson
A DOLL'S HOUSE
by Henrik Ibsen
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Torvald Helmer.
Nora, his wife.
Doctor Rank.
Mrs. Linde.
Nils Krogstad.
Helmer's three young children.
Anne, their nurse.
A Housemaid.
A Porter.
(The action takes place in Helmer's house.)
A DOLL'S HOUSE
ACT I
(SCENE.--A room furnished comfortably and tastefully, but not
extravagantly. At the back, a door to the right leads to the
entrance-hall, another to the left leads to Helmer's study. Between the
doors stands a piano. In the middle of the left-hand wall is a door, and
beyond it a window. Near the window are a round table, arm-chairs and
a small sofa. In the right-hand wall, at the farther end, another door;
and on the same side, nearer the footlights, a stove, two easy chairs
and a rocking-chair; between the stove and the door, a small table.
Engravings on the walls; a cabinet with china and other small objects;
a small book-case with well-bound books. The floors are carpeted, and a
fire burns in the stove. It is winter.
A bell rings in the hall; shortly afterwards the door is heard to open.
Enter NORA, humming a tune and in high spirits. She is in outdoor dress
and carries a number of parcels; these she lays on the table to the
right. She leaves the outer door open after her, and through it is seen
a PORTER who is carrying a Christmas Tree and a basket, which he gives
to the MAID who has opened the door.)
Nora. Hide the Christmas Tree carefully, Helen. Be sure the children
do not see it until this evening, when it is dressed. (To the PORTER,
taking out her purse.) How much?
Porter. Sixpence.
Nora. There is a shilling. No, keep the change. (The PORTER thanks her,
and goes out. NORA shuts the door. She is laughing to herself, as she
takes off her hat and coat. She takes a packet of macaroons from her
pocket and eats one or two; then goes cautiously to her husband's door
and listens.) Yes, he is in. (Still humming, she goes to the table on
the right.)
Helmer (calls out from his room). Is that my little lark twittering out
there?
Nora (busy opening some of the parcels). Yes, it is!
Helmer. Is it my little squirrel bustling about?
Nora. Yes!
Helmer. When did my squirrel come home?
Nora. Just now. (Puts the bag of macaroons into her pocket and wipes her
mouth.) Come in here, Torvald, and see what I have bought.
Helmer. Don't disturb me. (A little later, he opens the door and looks
into the room, pen in hand.) Bought, did you say? All these things? Has
my little spendthrift been wasting money again?
Nora. Yes but, Torvald, this year we really can let ourselves go
a little. This is the first Christmas that we have not needed to
economise.
Helmer. Still, you know, we can't spend money recklessly. Nora. Yes,
Torvald, we may be a wee bit more reckless now, mayn't we? Just a tiny
wee bit! You are going to have a big salary and earn lots and lots of
money.
Helmer. Yes, after the New Year; but then it will be a whole quarter
before the salary is due.
Nora. Pooh! we can borrow until then.
Helmer. Nora! (Goes up to her and takes her playfully by the ear.) The
same little featherhead! Suppose, now, that I borrowed fifty pounds
today, and you spent it all in the Christmas week, and then on New
Year's Eve a slate fell on my head and killed me, and--Nora (putting her
hands over his mouth). Oh! don't say such horrid things.
Helmer. Still, suppose that happened,--what then?
Nora. If that were to happen, I don't suppose I should care whether I
owed money or not.
Helmer. Yes, but what about the people who had lent it?
Nora. They? Who would bother about them? I should not know who they
were.
Helmer. That is like a woman! But seriously, Nora, you know what I think
about that. No debt, no borrowing. There can be no freedom or beauty
about a home life that depends on borrowing and debt. We two | 1,982.500772 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: "He sat down to rest himself."--_Page_ 10.]
*THE CAPTAIN'S STORY*
OR
*THE DISOBEDIENT SON*
ADAPTED PROM THE GERMAN
BY
WILLIAM S. MARTIN
JAMES NISBET & CO. LIMITED
21 BERNERS STREET
1868
*CONTENTS.*
CHAPTER I.
The Stranger--The Castle--The Captain's Soliloquy--The Pastor--The
Invitation
CHAPTER II.
The Children's Expectation Disappointed--The Scapegrace--The Forester's
House--Curiosity of the Villagers--Their Remarks--The Captain's Luggage
CHAPTER III.
Invitation to Tea--<DW64>s--Curiosities--The Fable of the Grasshopper
and the Ant--The Explanation
CHAPTER IV.
The Portrait--The Captain begins his Story--His Wilfulness--Goes to the
University--Bad Behaviour there--His Father's Letter--Refuses to send
him Money--He Runs Away
CHAPTER V.
He writes to his Father--Arrives at Amsterdam--His Father's Answer--The
Curse--On the Quay--Meets a Fellow-Countryman--Is Kidnapped and
Robbed--Sent to Sea--Endures many Hardships
CHAPTER VI.
The Tempest--All Hope Lost--The Ship Founders--The only Survivor--The
Spar--Remorse--The Rock--A Sail in Sight--The Signal--Despair--The Sail
in Sight again--The Signal Seen--Saved--He Works his Passage to
England--Is Tired of a Seafaring Life
CHAPTER VII.
He Arrives at Portsmouth--Resolves to Return to his Father--Arrives at
Rotterdam--Sunday Morning--Writes to his Father--Is Penniless--The Curse
of Disobedience--The Sermon--Is Starving--Obtains Temporary Relief from
an Old Fellow-Student--Receives News of his Father's Death--His Sorrow
and Remorse--Goes to Sea Again--Becomes Captain of a Ship
CHAPTER VIII.
His Marriage--The Portrait--His Terror--His Good Fortune Deserts
him--Heavy Losses--The Beggar--Recognises an Old Enemy--His Two Children
are Drowned--His Wife Dies--Is Bankrupt--In Prison--The English
Clergyman--Is Brought to Repentance--Is Set Free--The Fisherman and
Basket-maker
CHAPTER IX.
Accepts the Command of a Ship--The Pirates--The Fight--Victory--Meets an
Old Friend--His Friend's Adventures
CHAPTER X.
Makes Several Successful Voyages--Becomes Rich--Buys a Ship of his
Own--Makes his Fortune--Retires from the Sea--Returns to his Native
Village
CHAPTER XI.
The Curse Revoked--Conclusion
*THE CAPTAIN'S STORY.*
*CHAPTER I.*
The Stranger--The Castle--The Captain's Soliloquy--The Pastor--The
Invitation.
"I travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor did I know, sweet home, till then,
What love I bore to thee.
"'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.
--WORDSWORTH.
Towards the close of a beautiful day in autumn, the last rays of the
setting sun were gilding the tops of the mountains, which overhang the
picturesque valley of Bergstrasse, along which winds the road from
Heidelberg to Frankfort. The heavily laden country carts and waggons
were toiling slowly along the dusty highway, both horses and drivers
looking hot and tired, and both, no doubt, very glad that they had
nearly reached the end of their day's journey; while every now and then
a horseman, or a carriage with ladies and gentlemen inside, dashed
rapidly along, and soon left the more heavily loaded vehicles far
behind. What a striking picture of human life and the great journey we
all are taking--some of us struggling wearily, and oftentimes painfully,
but always, let us trust, hopefully, under a heavy load, and others
trotting merrily along their course, happy, and apparently at least free
from care. Who shall say which of the two shall reach the end most
safely!
While the broad high-road presented this animated scene, the steep rocky
footpath cut in the side of the mountain, and leading up to the old
ruined castle of Aurburg on its summit, was almost deserted; not quite
deserted, though; for, toiling up the steep ascent was an old man, who,
in spite of the help afforded him by his stout bamboo cane, looked very
tired as he went slowly along. He was rather a strange-looking old man,
respectably dressed, and with a pleasant-looking face; but his clothes
and general appearance were different from those of the people commonly
seen about there, and his bronzed, weather-beaten features showed him to
be, if not a foreigner, one who had evidently been for some time in a
foreign country. Indeed, the little boy who passed him on his way down
to the valley with his goats, and the little girl going home with her
bundle of sticks for the fire, seemed half afraid of him as they bade
him good-night, and even when he had gone by, they turned round to look
at him as he went on up the mountain-side.
In spite of his evident weariness, the stranger kept bravely on; and
just as the sun was disappearing behind a long range of mountains in the
west, he reached the ruins of the old castle, of which only one tower
and a few walls were then standing. Here he sat down to rest himself on
a large heap of stones which had long since fallen from the walls of the
castle, and were now all overgrown with lichens and ferns, and seemed
for some moments lost in thought. His eyes wandered over the rich
landscape which lay spread out beneath his feet; then, giving vent to
the emotions which filled his heart, he exclaimed: "Yes, this is the old
place again, and after forty years' absence I have at last returned to
take one more look at these mountains and forests which I remember so
well. There, too, far away down the valley, glides the beautiful river,
along whose banks I so often wandered when I was a boy. Ah, it is a
true saying, 'There is no place like home!' And yet, after all, our
real home is not in this world, but in heaven. There are all who were
dear to me, and there I trust soon to meet them again; but now I am left
alone--alone in the world! What a change a few short years have made!"
The old man sat silent for a few minutes, and then in a voice full of
emotion began singing part of a beautiful English hymn which touchingly
expresses the instability of all human affairs:--
"Change and decay on all around I see:
O Thou that changest not, abide with me."
While he was singing, two children, hearing him, came close up behind
him, and when he had finished began to cough in order to attract his
attention. For some time he took no notice, but at last he turned, and
saw two nicely-dressed children, a little boy and girl, who wished him
good evening and made a bow. He was about to speak to them, when their
father, who had also heard him singing, came up, and supposing him to be
an Englishman, said to him in English, "Although, sir, we are strangers,
it is true, those beautiful words you were singing, which I am sure come
from your heart, prove to me that we both look up to one common Father
in heaven. I am the pastor of the little village you can see down
there, at the foot of the mountain. But it is growing dark, and if, as
I presume, you are a stranger in these parts, I can gladly offer you the
simple accommodation of my cottage for the night."
The stranger answered in German: "Your kind invitation is very welcome,
sir. An old sea-captain like me is not much in the habit of paying
compliments; I can only say I gladly accept your hospitality."
Guided by the last glimmer of twilight, they took their way at once
towards the peaceful village, the steeple of which was just peeping up
above the trees. On their way the captain told the pastor that he bad
only arrived at the neighbouring village of Aurbach that afternoon.
"But," said he, "I could not rest, tired as I was with my day's
travelling, until I had been up here to look at the old castle, which I
have not seen for forty years."
*CHAPTER II.*
The Children's Expectation Disappointed--The Scapegrace--The Forester's
House--Curiosity of the Villagers--Their Remarks--The Captain's Luggage.
"I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near;
And I said, 'If there's peace to be found in the world,
A heart that was humble might hope for it here.'
"It was noon, and on flowers that languished around,
In silence reposed the voluptuous bee;
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound
But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree."
--MOORE.
Night had already closed in when they reached the village, and the moon
was just appearing over the tops of the mountains. Here they were met by
the pastor's wife. She had already heard of the stranger's arrival from
the two children, who had run home before. "Pray do not be alarmed at
the sight of a strange and unexpected guest," said the old man to her,
"I hope my arrival will not inconvenience you at all." "Not in the
least, sir," replied she, "you are very welcome to such accommodation as
we can offer."
Upon this they entered the house, and were soon comfortably seated in
the parlour, while the children, who had heard that the stranger was a
great traveller, listened very attentively, hoping that he would begin
talking of his long voyages, and perhaps tell them some interesting
stories of his adventures. This evening, however, they were doomed to
be disappointed, for though the captain could easily have satisfied
their curiosity, and amused them for a long time with an account of some
of the dangers he had passed through, and the many foreign countries he
had visited, he seemed just then to be more inclined to seek for
information on different points, than to talk about himself and his own
doings.
He began by asking the pastor a great many questions about different
places in the neighbourhood, and the people (several of whose names he
knew) who used to live there; and seemed very much interested in all he
heard. He then inquired whether there were still living any descendants
of the former pastor, a Mr Buchman. "So far as I know, there are none,"
replied the pastor, "indeed, I understand he had only one son, a regular
scapegrace, who left home a long time ago, and has never been heard of
since." "It must be nearly forty years since Pastor Buchman lived
here," he added, "perhaps you remember him?"
"Indeed I do," said the captain, "I remember him well, for he was my
father, and I am no other than the only son you spoke of!"
"Is it possible?" cried the worthy man, a little disconcerted; "are you
indeed that very young man, of whose wilful character I have heard so
many speak? Forgive me, my friend, for having spoken of you as a
scapegrace. How could I imagine that you, who as a boy were so wild and
disobedient, would have become a quiet and pious man, as you seem to me
to be." "Yes, thank God," said the captain in a voice trembling with
emotion, "He has at length, after many hard trials and severe
chastisements, shown me the error of my ways, and guided my feet into
the way of peace. But pray excuse my speaking more on this subject just
now. I could scarcely relate all the details of my long story to-night,
and, fatigued as I am, it would be too much for me; indeed, as it is,
the idea of passing the night under your roof almost overcomes me; for
this is the very house that I was born in, and here, too, my parents
both died."
Notwithstanding his anxiety to hear a full account of the extraordinary
events in the life of his guest, the worthy pastor considerately
forebore to touch on the subject again during the evening. As to the
children, they did not cease to pay the greatest attention, hoping to
hear, at least, something interesting, but in vain. The captain sat
buried in thought, and during the short time before supper scarcely
spoke a word. Directly after supper, the pastor read a chapter from the
Bible, and made a short evening prayer, and then the children had to go
to bed. This seemed to them a greater hardship to-night than it had
ever done before, and they could not help thinking, as they went
up-stairs, that perhaps the captain might relate his adventures after
they had gone, and so they should miss hearing them. They kept all these
thoughts to themselves, however, for they were good, obedient children,
and went to bed without murmuring.
After they had left the room, the captain still refrained from speaking
on the subject of his travels, only telling the pastor of his intention
of spending the rest of his life in his native village, if he could find
a suitable house, either to rent or buy. His host heard this resolution
with pleasure, and told him that there was a neat, comfortable cottage,
close by his own parsonage, which was for sale; it had belonged to a
forester who had died about six months ago, and would, he thought, be
very likely to suit him. They continued talking on various subjects for
some little time, till the pastor's wife reminded them that it was past
ten o'clock. Upon this they went up to bed; but for nearly an hour
afterwards the pastor heard his guest, who slept in an adjoining room,
walking up and down, and occasionally praying in a loud voice. After a
time, however, all was silent, and peaceful sleep closed the labours of
the day.
The next morning the two children were the first down-stairs. They had
always been accustomed to get up early, and little Willie, when only
four years old, once said to his father, "Isn't it a shame, papa, to let
the sun get up before we do? He must be more tired than we are, for he
has such a long way to go every day." Their father usually employed the
first part of the morning in taking them both out for a walk, either up
the mountains, or in the fields, or perhaps into the forest, where they
would gather ferns or flowers, and get him to tell them their names.
But to-day they seemed so anxious to hear the captain's adventures, that
they did not like to go out far, for fear they might miss some
opportunity of hearing his story; and they could scarcely contain their
joy when their mother told them that he was not going to leave Dornbach
(that was the name of the village), but was going to live at the
forester's house.
In a retired country village like Dornbach, where everything went on
from one week's end to another in the same quiet manner, it was rarely
indeed that anything occurred to furnish the villagers with a new topic
of conversation, and every traveller who stopped at the road-side inn,
if it were only to bait his horse, created quite a sensation. If the
stranger should happen to get into conversation with any one, for the
next three days at least every one in the place would be talking about
him. This was specially the case now when the report was spread that
the captain of a ship had arrived at the parsonage, not for a passing
visit, but with the intention of settling in the neighbourhood; and when
it was further reported that this old captain was no other than the much
talked-of son of the late Pastor Buchman, well remembered by the older
inhabitants as the scapegrace, the excitement of the good people of
Dornbach was immense. This was now the subject of everybody's
conversation. The people all seemed to have forgotten their ordinary
occupations; everywhere they were to be seen gathered together in
groups, talking about the news of the day, of which, however, as yet
they knew very little.
"Oh yes, I have seen him," said old Hannah; "I saw him yesterday, when
he first came to the village."
"Is he not very rich?" asked another.
"Of course he is," said Frau Margaret; "how can he be otherwise, if he
is really the captain of a ship? I'm sure he must have a million of
money."
"A million of money!" muttered the old bailiff; "if he had half as much
as that he would never think of shutting himself up in an out-of-the-way
village like this."
"If he had twice as much," said old father Nicholas, with an air of
irony, "he would not have it long, if he is anything like what he used
to be. Ah, I remember him well: I was at school with him, and if ever
there was a spendthrift in the world, one who did not even seem to know
there was such a word as'save,' believe me, he is the man."
In short, every one had something to say on the subject, in spite of the
fact that no one knew anything about it; and after a great deal had been
said, they came to the conclusion that there was nothing for it but to
wait and see what would happen.
While all this was going on in the village, the captain had sent down to
the inn at Aurbach, where he had left his luggage, and ordered it to be
sent to Dornbach, to his new house, which the bailiff had put into good
repair for him. He had also borrowed some necessary furniture from his
good friend the pastor, until he could get some of his own from the
neighbouring town. When the cart arrived with his boxes and portmanteaus
in it, the curiosity of the villagers received a fresh impetus. "What
can he have in that strong-looking box?" said one. "If it were money,
two men could could never carry it. And look what a number of packages
besides! I can't think what a single man can want with so much
luggage."
"How do you know he is single?" answered another: "he may, for all we
know, have a wife and family, who will come down here when his house is
ready for them."
"Well, well, perhaps that is it," said a third, who stood opposite; "we
must wait and see."
Willie and his sister Mary were quite as curious as any one else, and
kept asking their papa what all those boxes contained. "I really do not
know," was his answer; "perhaps when he has unpacked them he will show
you some day, if you are good children."
The captain soon set to work unpacking, but for more than a week he did
not ask any of his friends to go and look at his treasures. Even the old
servant whom he had engaged was not allowed to go into the room where
most of his boxes were, so that for a time every one's curiosity
remained unsatisfied. As it was only a few steps through his garden
(which joined that of the pastor) to the parsonage, he had made
arrangements with the pastor's wife to dine with them regularly, so that
he might not be troubled with the duties of housekeeping.
*CHAPTER III.*
Invitation to Tea--<DW64>s--Curiosities--The Fable of the Grasshopper
and the Ant--The Explanation.
"Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round;
And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in."
--COWPER.
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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. Temples were in
all places erected, no cost was spared: nothing judged too
dear which that way should be spent. The whole world did
seem to exult, that it had occasion of pouring out gifts
to so blessed a purpose. That cheerful devotion which
David did this way exceedingly delight to behold,
and wish that the same in the Jewish people
might be perpetual, was then in Christian
people every where to be seen.
So far as our Churches and their
Temple have one end, what
should let but that they
may lawfully have one
form?"--Hooker's
"Ecclesiastical
Polity."
{~MALTESE CROSS~}
CONTENTS
PREFACE.
_Chap._ _Page_
I. THE LICH-GATE 1
II. LICH-STONES 11
III. GRAVE-STONES 19
IV. GRAVE-STONES 31
V. THE PORCH 43
VI. THE PORCH 51
VII. THE PAVEMENT 63
VIII. THE PAVEMENT 73
IX. THE PAVEMENT 81
X. THE PAVEMENT 91
XI. THE WALLS 103
XII. THE WALLS 111
XIII. THE WINDOWS 123
XIV. A LOOSE STONE IN THE BUILDING 145
XV. THE FONT 155
XVI. THE PULPIT 167
XVII. THE PULPIT 175
XVIII. THE NAVE 187
XIX. THE NAVE 197
XX. THE AISLES 209
XXI. THE TRANSEPTS 217
XXII. THE CHANCEL-SCREEN 225
XXIII. THE CHANCEL 235
XXIV. THE ALTAR 245
XXV. THE ORGAN-CHAMBER 255
XXVI. THE VESTRY 265
XXVII. THE PILLARS 275
XXVIII. THE ROOF 285
XXIX. THE TOWER 295
XXX. THE HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS 311
INDEX OF ENGRAVINGS
_Page_
St. Mildred's Church and Lich-Gate, Whippingham 3
Lich-Gate at Yealmton 5
Lich-Gate at Birstal 7
Heywood Church, Manchester 13
Lich-Stone, Great Winnow, Cornwall 15
Lich-Stone at Lustleigh 18
Church of St. Nicholas, West Pennard 21
Grave-Stones in Streatham Churchyard 23
Grave-Stones in High-Week Churchyard 24
Easter Flowers 28
Stinchcombe Church 33
Grave-Stones 35, 39, 41
Llanfechan Church 42
Godmersham Church 45
Porch of Luebeck Cathedral 53
Porch and Parvise of St. Mary's Church, Finedon 55
Parvise, Westbury-on-Trim 60
Church of SS. Philip and James, Oxford 65
Brass of John Bloxham and John Whytton in Merton College, Oxford 67
Heywood Church 75
Brass of Henry Sever, at Merton College, Oxford 77
Chancel of Whippingham Church 83
Brass of Sir Roger de Trumpington 85
Church of St. John the Baptist, Kidmore End 93
Encaustic Tiles, Brooke Church 95, 97
St. Andrew's Church, Halstead 105
Ancient Wall Paintings in Kimpton Church 108, 109
St. Michael's Church, Gloucester 113
Ancient Wall Painting in Bedford Church 118
Wall Painting 121
Church of St. John, Brandenburg 125
Doorway, St. Stephen's Church, Tangermuende 127
Crowmarsh Church 131
Stained Glass Windows in Great Malvern Church 137, 139, 141
Rose Window, Cremona Cathedral 143
Amberley Church, in ruin, and restored 147
Ancient Font in West Rounton Church 157
Stone Pulpit in Dartmouth Church 169
Church of St. Mary, Henley-on-Thames 177
Stone Pulpit in North Kilworth Church 179
St. Mary's Church, Sherborne 189
All Saints' Church, Bradford 199
Castle Cary Church 211
Church of SS. Peter and Paul, Ringwood 219
Church of St. John, Walworth 227
Sutton Benger Church 237
Llanfaenor Church 243
St. Alban's Church, Holborn 247
Icklesham Church 257
Harpsden Church 267
Church of St. John, Highbridge 277
Keynsham Church 287
Clerestory Window 294
Meopham Church 297
Tower, Saragosa 303
Window, Church of St. Petronius, Bologna 309
"Who is able to build Him an house, seeing the heaven and heaven of
heavens cannot contain Him? who am I then, that I should build
Him an house, save only to burn sacrifice before Him?
"Send me now therefore a man cunning to work in gold, and
in silver, and in brass, and in iron, and in purple, and
crimson, and blue, and that can skill to grave with the
cunning men that are with me in Judah and in Jerusalem,
whom David my father did provide. Send
me also cedar-trees, fir-trees, and algum-trees,
out of Lebanon: for I know that thy servants
can skill to cut timber in Lebanon;
and, behold, my servants shall be
with thy servants, even to prepare
me timber in abundance:
for the house which
I am about to build
shall be great and
wonderful."--
2 Chron. ii.
6--9.
{~MALTESE CROSS~}
PREFACE
The following chapters are an attempt to explain in very simple language
the history and use of those parts of the Church's fabric with which
most persons are familiar.
They are not written with a view to assist the student of Ecclesiastical
Art and Architecture--for which purpose the works of many learned
writers are available--but simply to inform those who, from having paid
little attention to such pursuits, or from early prejudice, may have
misconceived the origin and design of much that is beautiful and
instructive in God's House.
The spiritual and the material fabric are placed side by side, and the
several offices and ceremonies of the Church as they are specially
connected with the different parts of the building are briefly noticed.
Some of the subjects referred to may appear trifling and unimportant;
those, however, among them which seem to be the most trivial have in
some parishes given rise to long and serious disputations.
The unpretending narrative, which serves to embody the several subjects
treated of, has the single merit of being composed of little incidents
taken from real life.
The first sixteen chapters were printed some years since in the _Church
Builder_.
The writer is greatly indebted to the Committee of the Incorporated
Church Building Society for the use of most of the woodcuts which
illustrate the volume.
W. F.
GODMERSHAM VICARAGE,
_Michaelmas_, 1871.
_CHAPTER I_
THE LICH-GATE
"These words which I command thee; thou shalt write them on thy gates."
Deut. vi. 6, 9.
"Who says the Widow's heart must break,
The Childless Mother sink?--
A kinder, truer Voice I hear,
Which even beside that mournful bier
Whence Parent's eyes would hopeless shrink,
"Bids weep no more--O heart bereft,
How strange, to thee, that sound!
A Widow o'er her only Son,
Feeling more bitterly alone
For friends that press officious round.
"Yet is the Voice of comfort heard,
For Christ hath touch'd the bier--
The bearers wait with wondering eye,
The swelling bosom dares not sigh,
But all is still, 'twixt hope and fear.
"Even such an awful soothing calm
We sometimes see alight
On Christian mourners, while they wait
In silence, by some Churchyard gate,
Their summons to the holy rite."
_Christian Year._
Illustration: St. Mildred's Church and Lich-Gate, Whippingham
THE LICH-GATE
Illustration: Lich-Gate at Yealmton
"Any port in a storm, Mr. Ambrose," said old Matthew
Hutchison, as with tired feet, and scant breath, he hastened to share
the shelter which Mr. Ambrose, the Vicar of the Parish, had found under
the ancient and time-worn Lich-gate of St. Catherine's Churchyard. For a
few big drops of rain that fell pattering on the leaves around, had
warned them both to seek protection from a coming shower. "Ah, yes, my
old friend," the Vicar replied, "and here we are pretty near the port to
which we must all come, when the storm of life itself is past."
"I've known this place,--man and boy,--Mr. Ambrose, for near eighty
years; and on yonder bit of a hill, under that broken thorn, I sit for
hours every day watching my sheep; but my eye often wanders across here,
and then the thought takes me just as you've said it, sir. Ah! it can't
be long before Old Matthew will need some younger limbs than these to
bring him through the churchyard gate;--that's what the old walls always
seem to say to me;--but God's will be done." And as the old Shepherd
reverently lifted his broad hat, his few white hairs, stirred by the
rising gale, seemed to confirm the truth of his words.
"Well, Matthew, I am glad you have learnt, what many are slow to learn,
that there are 'Sermons in stones,' as well as in books. Every stone in
God's House, and in God's Acre--as our Churchyards used to be
called,--may teach us some useful lesson, if we will but stop to read
it."
"Please, sir, I should like to know why they call the gate at the new
churchyard over the hill, a _lich_-gate;--these new names puzzle a poor
man like me[1]."
"The name is better known in some parts of the country than it is here;
but it is no new name, I assure you, for in the time of the Saxons, more
than thirteen hundred years ago, it was in common use; but I will tell
you all about this, and some other matters connected with the place
where we now stand."
"I shall take it very kind if you will, sir, for you know we poor people
don't know much about these things."
"Very often quite as much as many who are richer, Matthew,--but here
comes our young squire, anxious like ourselves to keep a dry coat on his
back; so I shall now be telling my story to rich and poor together, and
I hope make it plain to both." After a few words of friendly greeting
between Mr. Acres and himself, the three sat down on the stone seats of
the Lich-Gate, and he at once proceeded to answer the old Shepherd's
question. "The word _Lich_[2]," he said, "means a _Corpse_, and so
_Lich-Gate_ means a Corpse-gate, or gate through which the dead body is
borne; and that path up which you came just now, Matthew, used formerly
to be called the _Lich-path_[3], because all the funerals came along
that way. In some parts of Scotland is still kept up the custom of
_Lyke-wake_ (_Lich-wake_), or watching beside the dead body before its
burial[4]. The pale sickly-looking moss, which lives best where all else
is dead or dying, we call _lichen_. Then you know the _Lich-owl_ is so
called because some people are silly enough to think that its screech
foretells death. And I must just say something about this word _lich_ in
the name of a certain city; it is _Lichfield_. Now _lich-field_ plainly
means the field of the dead: and where that city now stands is said to
have been the burial-place of many Christian Martyrs, who were slain
there about the year 290. You will remember, Mr. Acres, that the Arms of
the City exhibit this field of the dead, on which lie three slaughtered
men, each having on his head, as is supposed, a martyr's crown. Now,
Matthew, I think I have fully replied to your question; but I should
like to say something more about the use and the history of these
Lich-Gates."
Illustration: Lich-Gate at Birstal
"Will you kindly tell us," said Mr. Acres, "how it is that there are so
few remaining, and that of these there are probably very few indeed so
much as four centuries old[5]."
"I think the reason is, that at first they were almost entirely made of
wood, and therefore were subject to early decay--certainly they must at
one time have been far more general than at present. The rubrical
direction at the beginning of the Burial Office in our Prayer Book seems
to imply some such provision at the churchyard entrance. It is there
said 'the Priest and Clerks' are to'meet the Corpse _at the entrance of
the Churchyard_.' But in this old Prayer Book of mine, printed in the
year 1549, you see the Priest is directed to meet the corpse at the
'Church-stile,' or Lich-Gate. Now as in olden times the corpse was
always borne to its burial by the friends or neighbours of the deceased,
and they had often far to travel, their time of reaching the Churchyard
must have been very uncertain, and this uncertainty no doubt frequently
caused delay when they had arrived, therefore it was desirable both to
have a place of shelter on a rainy day, and of rest when the way was
long. Hence I suppose it is, that the older Lich-Gates are to be found,
for the most part, in widespread parishes and mountainous districts;
they are most common in the Counties of Devon and Cornwall, and in
Wales[6]. But even where the necessity of the case no longer exists, the
Lich-Gate, adorned, as it ever should be, with some holy text or pious
precept, is most appropriate as an ornament, and expressive as a symbol.
Its presence should always be associated in our minds with thoughts of
death, and life beyond it. It should remind us that though we must ere
long 'go to the gates of the grave,' yet that it is 'through the grave
and gate of death' that we must 'pass to our joyful resurrection.' It
is here the Comforter of Bethany so often speaks, through the voice of
His Church, to His sorrowing brethren in the world:--'I am the
resurrection and the life: he that believeth in Me, though he were dead,
yet shall he live[7]."
"Ah! sir," said the shepherd, "many's the poor heart-bowed mourner
that's been comforted here with those words! They always remind me of
Jesus saying to the widow of Nain, 'Weep not,' when he stopped the bier
on which was her only son, and the bearers, and all the mourners, at the
gate of the city."
"Yes! and all this makes us look on the old Lich-Gate as no gloomy
object, but rather as a 'Beautiful Gate of the Temple' which is
eternal,--a glorious arch of hope and triumph, hung all round with
trophies of Christian victory. But I see the rain is over, and the sun
is shining! so good-bye, Mr. Acres, we two shepherds must not stay
longer from our respective flocks:--old Matthew's is spread over the
mountains, mine is folded in the village below." The old shepherd soon
took his accustomed seat under the weather-beaten thorn, the Vicar was
soon deep in the troubles of a poor parishioner, and the young Squire
went to the village by another way.
_CHAPTER II_
LICH-STONES
"Man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets."
Eccles. xii. 5.
"Say, was it to my spirit's gain or loss,
One bright and balmy morning, as I went
From Liege's lovely environs to Ghent,
If hard by the wayside I found a cross,
That made me breathe a prayer upon the spot--
While Nature of herself, as if to trace
The emblem's use, had trail'd around its base
The blue significant Forget-me-not?
Methought, the claims of Charity to urge
More forcibly, along with Faith and Hope,
The pious choice had pitch'd upon the verge
Of a delicious <DW72>,
Giving the eye much variegated scope;--
'Look round,' it whisper'd, 'on that prospect rare,
Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue;
Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh and fair,
But'--(how the simple legend pierced me thro'!)
'Priez pour les Malheureux.'"
_T. Hood._
Illustration: Heywood Church, Manchester
LICH-STONES
Illustration: Lich-Stone, Great Winnow, Cornwall
"Good morning, Mr. Acres, and a happy Easter-Tide to you. This is indeed
a bright Easter sun to shine on our beautiful Lich-Gate at its
re-opening. I little thought on what good errand you were bent when last
we parted at this spot. Hardly however had I reached my door when
William Hardy came with great glee to tell me you had engaged his
services for the work. May God reward you, sir, for the honour you have
shown for His Church."
"And an old man's blessing be upon you, sir, if you will let Old Matthew
say so; for the Church-gate is dearer to me than my own, seeing it has
closed upon my beloved partner, and the dear child God gave us, and my
own poor wicket shuts on no one else but me now."
"Thank you heartily, honest Matthew, and you too, sir," replied the
squire, giving to each the hand of friendship; "I am rejoiced that what
has been done pleases you so well. The restored Gate is in every respect
like the original one, even to the simple little cross on the top of
it. I have added nothing but the sentence from our Burial Office,
'Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord,' which you see over the
arch, and which I hope will bring comfort to some, and hope to all who
read it. But the work would never have been done by me, Mr. Vicar, had
you not so interested Matthew and myself in these Lich-Gates when last
we met. And so, as you see, your good words have not been altogether
lost, I hope you will kindly to-day continue the subject of our last
conversation."
"Most gladly will I do so; and as I have already spoken of the general
purpose and utility of these Lich-Gates, I will now say a little about
their construction and arrangement.
"Their most common form, as you know, is a simple shed composed of a
roof with two gable ends, covered either with tiles or thatch, and
supported on strong timbers well braced together. But they are
frequently built of stone, and in the manner of their construction they
greatly vary. At Burnsall there is a curious arrangement for opening and
closing the gate. The stone pier on the north side has a well-hole, in
which the weight that closes the gate works up and down. An upright
swivel post or 'heart-tree,' (as the people there call it,) stands in
the centre, and through this pass the three rails of the gate; an iron
bent lever is fixed to the top of this post, which is connected by a
chain and guide-pulley to the weight, so that when any one passes
through, both ends of the gate open in opposite directions. The Gate at
Rostherne churchyard, in Cheshire, is on a similar plan. At
Berry-harbour is a Lich-Gate in the form of a cross. At only one place,
I believe,--Troutbeck, in Westmoreland,--are there to be found three
stone Lich-Gates in one churchyard. Some of these gates have chambers
over them, as at Bray[8], in Berkshire, and Barking[9], in Essex. At
Tawstock there is a small room on either side of the gate, having seats
on three sides and a table in the centre. It seems that in this, as in
some other cases, provision is made either for the distribution of
alms, or for the rest and refreshment of funeral attendants. It was
once a common custom at funerals in some parts, especially in
Scotland[10], to hold a feast at the Church-gate and these feasts
sometimes led to great excesses: happily they are now discontinued, but
the custom may help to point out the purpose for which these Lich-Gate
rooms were sometimes erected. In Cornwall it is not customary to bear
the corpse on the shoulders, but to carry the coffin, under-handed, by
white cloths passed beneath and through the handles[11] and this partly
explains the peculiar arrangement for resting the corpse at the entrance
to the churchyard, common, even now, in that county, and which is called
the _Lich-Stone_. The Lich-Stone is often found without any building
attached to it, and frequently without even a gate. The Stone is either
oblong with the ends of equal width, or it is the shape of the ancient
coffins, narrower at one end than the other, but without any bend at the
shoulder. It is placed in the centre, having stone seats on either side,
on which the bearers rest whilst the coffin remains on the Lich-Stone.
When there is no gate, the churchyard is protected from the intrusion of
cattle by this simple contrivance:--long pieces of moor-stone, or
granite, are laid across, with a space of about three inches between
each, and being rounded on the top any animal has the greatest
difficulty in walking over them, indeed a quadruped seldom attempts to
cross them.
"Lich-Stones are,--though very rarely,--to be found at a distance from
the churchyard; in this case, doubtless, they are intended as rests for
the coffin on its way to burial.
"At Lustleigh, in Devonshire, is an octagonal Lich-Stone called Bishop's
Stone, having engraved upon it the arms of Bishop Cotton[12]. It seems
not unlikely that the several beautiful crosses erected by King Edward
I. at the different stages where the corpse of his queen, Eleanor[13],
rested on its way from Herdeby in Lincolnshire to Westminster, were
built over the Lich-Stone on which her coffin was placed. And now, my
kind listeners, I think I have told you all I know about Lich-Stones."
Illustration: Lich-Stone at Lustleigh
"These simple memorials of Church architecture are very touching,"
replied Mr. Acres, as he rose to depart; "and the Lich-Stone deserves a
record before modern habits and improvements sweep them away. They have
a direct meaning, and surely might be more generally adopted in
connexion with the Lich-Gate, now gradually re-appearing in many of our
rural parishes, as the fitting entrance to the churchyard."
_CHAPTER III_
GRAVE-STONES
"When I am dead, then bury me in the sepulchre wherein the man of God is
buried; lay my bones beside his bones."
1 Kings xiii. 31.
"I've seen
The labourer returning from his toil,
Here stay his steps, and call the children round,
And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes,
And in his rustic manner, moralize.
We mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken,
With head uncover'd, his respectful manner,
And all the honours which he paid the grave."
_H. Kirke White._
"I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
"Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
"With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and acre of our God:
This is the place where human harvests grow."
_Longfellow._
Illustration: Church of St. Nicholas, West Pennard
GRAVE-STONES
Illustration: Grave-Stones in Streatham Churchyard
"And so, Matthew, the old sexton's little daughter is to
be buried to-day. What a calm peaceful day it is for her funeral! The
day itself seems to have put on the same quiet happy smile that Lizzie
Daniels always carried about with her, before she had that painful
lingering sickness, which she bore with a meekness and patience I hardly
ever saw equalled. And then it is Easter Day too, the very day one would
choose for the burial of a good Christian child. All our services to-day
will tell us that this little maid, and all those who lie around us here
so still beneath their green mounds, are not dead but sleeping, and as
our Saviour rose from the grave on Easter Day, so will they all awake
and rise up again when God shall call them. I see the little grave is
dug under the old yew-tree, near to that of your own dear ones. Lizzie
was a great favourite of yours, was she not, Matthew?"
"Ah, she was the brightest little star in my sky, I can tell you, sir;
and I shall miss her sadly. She brought me my dinner, every day for near
two years, up to the old thorn there, and then she would sit down on the
grass before me, and read from her Prayer Book some of the Psalms for
the day; and when she had done, and I had kissed and thanked her, she
used to go trotting home again, with, I believe, the brightest little
face and the lightest little heart in England. Well, sir, it's sorry
work, you know, for a man to dig the grave for his own child, and so I
asked John Daniels to let me dig Lizzie's grave: but it has been indeed
hard work for me, for I think I've shed more tears in that grave than I
ever shed out of it. But the grave is all ready now, and little Lizzie
will soon be there; and then, sir, I should like to put up a stone, for
I shall often come here to think about the dear child. Poor little
Lizzie! she seemed like a sort of good angel to me,--children do seem
like that sometimes, don't they, sir? Perhaps, Mr. Ambrose, you would be
so good as to tell Robert Atkinson what sort of stone you would like him
to put up."
"Certainly I will; and I think nothing would be so suitable as a simple
little stone cross, with Lizzie's name on the base of it. And as she is
to be buried on Easter Day, I should like to add the words, 'In Christ
shall all be made alive.'"
"Thank you, sir; that will do very nicely. I'm only thinking, may be,
that wicked boy of Mr. Dole's, at the shop, will come some night and
break the cross, as he did the one Mr. Hunter put up over his little
boy. But I think that was more the sin of the father than of the son,
for I'm told the old gentleman's very angry with you, sir, 'cause he
couldn't put what he call's a 'handsome monument' over his father's
grave; and he says, too, he's going to law about it."
Illustration: Grave-Stones in High-Week Churchyard
"Ah, he'll be wiser not to do that, Matthew. The churchyard is the
parson's freehold, and he has the power to prevent the erection of any
stone there of which he disapproves; and I, for one, don't mean to give
up this power. 'Tis true that every one of my parishioners has a right
to be buried in this churchyard, nor could I refuse this if I would; but
then, if I am to protect this right of my parishioners, as it is my duty
to do, and to preserve my churchyard from disfigurement and desecration,
I must take care that the ground is not occupied by such great ugly
monuments as Mr. Dole wishes to build[14]. Why I hear he bought that
large urn[15] which was taken down from Mr. Acres' park gates, to put on
the top of the tomb. And then I suppose he would like to have the sides
covered with skulls and crossbones, and shovels and mattocks, and fat
crying cherubs, besides the usual heathen devices, such as inverted
torches and spent hour-glasses; all which fitly enough mark an infidel's
burial-place, but not a Christian's. For you see, my friend, that _none
of these things represent any Christian truth_; the best are but emblems
of mortality; some are the symbols of oblivion and despair, and others
but mimic a heathen custom long gone by. The stones of the churchyard
ought themselves to tell the sanctity of the place, and that it is a
Christian's rest[16]. The letters we carve on them will hardly be read
by our children's children. The lines on that stone there tell no more
than is true of all the Epitaphs around us:
'The record some fond hand hath traced,
To mark thy burial spot,
The lichen will have soon effaced,
To write thy doom--Forgot.'
But even then, if the symbol of our redemption is there, 'the very
stones will cry out,' and though time-worn and moss-grown, will declare
that | 1,982.602748 |
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A PRINCESS OF THULE.
BY
WILLIAM BLACK,
AUTHOR OF
“A DAUGHTER OF HETH,” “MADCAP VIOLET,” “STRANGE
ADVENTURES OF A PHAETON,” ETC.
NEW YORK:
JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY,
14 & 16 VESEY STREET.
A PRINCESS OF THULE.
By WILLIAM BLACK.
CHAPTER I.
“LOCHABER NO MORE.”
On a small headland of the distant island of Lewis, an old man stood
looking out on a desolate waste of rain-beaten sea. It was a wild and
wet day. From out of the lowering Southwest fierce gusts of wind were
driving up volumes and flying rags of clouds, and sweeping onward at the
same time the gathering waves that fell hissing and thundering on the
shore. Far as the eye could reach, the sea and the air and the sky
seemed to be one indistinguishable mass of whirling and hurrying vapor,
as if beyond this point there were no more land, but only wind and
water, and the confused and awful voice of their strife.
The short, thick-set, powerfully-built man who stood on this solitary
point paid little attention to the rain that ran off the peak of his
sailor’s cap, or to the gusts of wind that blew about his bushy gray
beard. He was still following, with an eye accustomed to pick out
objects far at sea, one speck of purple that was now fading into the
gray mist of the rain; and the longer he looked the less it became,
until the mingled sea and sky showed only the smoke that the great
steamer left in its wake. As he stood there, motionless and regardless
of everything around him, did he cling to the fancy that he could still
trace out the path of the vanished ship? A little while before it had
passed almost close to him. He had watched it steam out of Stornoway
Harbor. As the sound of the engines came nearer and the big boat went
by, so that he could have almost called to it, there was no sign of
emotion on the hard and stern face, except, perhaps, that the lips were
held firm and a sort of frown appeared over the eyes. He saw a tiny
white handkerchief being waved to him from the deck of the vessel; and
he said, almost as though he were addressing some one there:
“My good little girl!”
But in the midst of that roaring of the sea and the wind how could any
such message be delivered? And already the steamer was away from the
land, standing out to the lonely plain of waters, and the sound of the
engines had ceased, and the figures on the deck had grown faint and
visionary. But still there was that one speck of white visible; and the
man knew that a pair of eyes that had many a time looked into his
own--as if with a faith that such intercommunion could never be
broken--were now trying, through overflowing and blinding tears, to send
him a last look of farewell.
The gray mists of the rain gathered within their folds the big vessel
and all the beating hearts it contained, and the fluttering of that
little token disappeared with it. All that remained was the sea,
whitened by the rushing of the wind and the thunder of waves on the
beach. The man, who had been gazing so long down into the Southeast,
turned his face landward and set out to walk over a tract of wet grass
and sand toward a road that ran near by. There was a large wagonette of
varnished oak and a pair of small powerful horses waiting for him there;
and having dismissed the boy who had been in charge, he took the reins
and got up. But even yet the fascination of the sea and of that sad
farewell was upon him, and he turned once more, as if, now that sight
could yield him no further tidings, he would send her one more word of
good-by. “My poor little Sheila!” That was all he said; and then he
turned to the horses and sent them on, with his head down to escape the
rain, and a look on his face like that of a dead man.
As he drove through the town of Stornoway the children playing within
the shelter of the cottage doors called to each other in a whisper and
said: “That is the King of Borva.”
But the elderly people said to each other, with a shake of the head, “It
iss a bad day, this day, for Mr. Mackenzie, that he will be going home
to an empty house. And it will be a ferry bad thing for the poor folk of
Borva, and they will know a great difference, now that Miss Sheila iss
gone away, and there is nobody--not anybody at all--left in the island
to tek the side of the poor folk.”
He looked neither to the right nor to the left, though he was known to
many of the people, as he drove away from the town into the heart of the
lonely and desolate land. The wind had so far died down, and the rain
had considerably lessened, but the gloom of the sky was deepened by the
drawing on of the afternoon, and lay heavily over the dreary wastes of
moor and hill. What a wild and dismal country was this which lay before
and all around him, now that the last traces of human occupation were
passed! There was not a cottage, not a stone wall, not a fence, to break
the monotony of the long undulations of moorland, which in the distance
rose into a series of hills that were black under the darkened sky. Down
from those mountains ages ago, glaciers had slowly crept to eat out
hollows in the plains below; and now in those hollows were lonely lakes,
with not a tree to break the line of their melancholy shores. Everywhere
around were the traces of this glacier drift--great gray boulders of
gneiss fixed fast into the black peat moss, or set amid the browns and
greens of the heather. The only sound to be heard in this wilderness of
rock and morass was the rushing of various streams, rain-swollen and
turbid, that plunged down their narrow channels to the sea | 1,982.806879 |
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THE VALLEY OF VISION
A Book Of Romance
And Some Half-Told Tales
By Henry Van <DW18>
_"Your old men shall dream dreams,
Your young men shall see visions."_
TO MY CHILDREN
AND CHILDREN'S CHILDREN
WHO MAY REMEMBER THESE TROUBLOUS TIMES WHEN WE ARE GONE ON NEW ADVENTURE
PREFACE
"Why do you choose such a title as _The Valley of Vision_ for
your book," said my friend; "do you mean that one can see farther
from the valley than from the mountain-top?"
This question set me thinking, as every honest question ought to
do. Here is the result of my thoughts, which you will take for what
it is worth, if you care to read the book.
The mountain-top is the place of outlook over the earth and the sea.
But it is in the valley of suffering, endurance, and self-sacrifice
that the deepest visions of the meaning of life come to us.
I take the outcome of this Twentieth Century War as a victory over
the mad illusion of world-dominion which the Germans saw from
the peak of their military power in 1914. The united force of the
Allies has grown, through valley-visions of right and justice and
human kindness, into an irresistible might before which the German
"will to power" has gone down in ruin.
There are some Half-Told Tales in the volume--fables, fantasies--mere
sketches, grave and gay, on the margin of the book of life,
"Where more is meant than meets the ear."
Dreams have a part in most of the longer stories. That is because
I believe dreams have a part in real life. Some of them we remember
as vividly as any actual experience. These belong to the imperfect
sleep. But others we do not remember, because they are given to
us in that perfect sleep in which the soul is liberated, and goes
visiting. Yet sometimes we get a trace of them, by a happy chance,
and often their influence remains with us in that spiritual refreshment
with which we awake from profound slumber. This is the meaning of
that verse in the old psalm: "He giveth to His beloved in sleep."
The final story in the book was written before the War of 1914
began, and it has to do with the Light of the World, leading us
through conflict and suffering towards Peace.
AVALON, November 24, 1918.
CONTENTS
A Remembered Dream
Antwerp Road
A City of Refuge
A Sanctuary of Trees
The King's High Way
HALF-TOLD TALES
The Traitor in the House
Justice of the Elements
Ashes of Vengeance
The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France
The Hearing Ear
Sketches of Quebec
A Classic Instance
HALF-TOLD TALES
The New Era and Carry On
The Primitive and His Sandals
Diana and the Lions
The Hero and Tin Soldiers
Salvage Point
The Boy of Nazareth Dreams
ILLUSTRATIONS
The sails and smoke-stacks of great shift were visible, all passing
out to sea
The cathedral spire... was swaying and rocking in the air like the
mast of a ship at sea
All were fugitives, anxious to be gone... and making no more speed
than a creeping snail's pace of unutterable fatigue
"I will ask you to choose between your old home and your new home
now"
"I'm going to carry you in,'spite of hell"
"I was a lumberjack"
"I am going to become a virtuous peasant, a son of the soil, a
primitive"
The Finding of Christ in the Temple
A REMEMBERED DREAM
This is the story of a dream that came to me some five-and-twenty
years ago. It is as vivid in memory as anything that I have ever
seen in the outward world, as distinct as any experience through
which I have ever passed. Not all dreams are thus remembered. But
some are. In the records of the mind, where the inner chronicle of
life is written, they are intensely clear and veridical. I shall
try to tell the story of this dream with an absolute faithfulness,
adding nothing and leaving nothing out, but writing the narrative
just as if the thing were real.
Perhaps it was. Who can say?
In the course of a journey, of the beginning and end of which
I know nothing, I had come to a great city, whose name, if it was
ever told me, I cannot recall.
It was evidently a very ancient place. The dwelling-houses and
larger buildings were gray and beautiful with age, and the streets
wound in and out among them wonderfully, like a maze.
This city lay beside a river or estuary--though that was something
that I did not find out until later, as you will see--and the newer
part of the town extended mainly on a wide, bare street running
along a kind of low cliff or embankment, where the basements of
the small houses on the water-side went down, below the level of
the street, to the shore. But the older part of the town was closely
and intricately built, with gabled roofs and heavy carved facades
hanging over the narrow stone-paved ways, which here and there
led out suddenly into open squares.
It was in what appeared to be the largest and most important of
these squares that I was standing, a little before midnight. I
had left my wife and our little girl in the lodging which we had
found, and walked out alone to visit the sleeping town.
The night sky was clear, save for a few filmy clouds, which floated
over the face of the full moon, obscuring it for an instant, but
never completely hiding it--like veils in a shadow dance. The spire
of the great cathedral was silver filigree on the moonlit side, and
on the other side, black lace. The square was empty. But on the
broad, shallow steps in front of the main entrance of the cathedral
two heroic figures were seated. At first I thought they were statues.
Then I perceived they were alive, and talking earnestly together.
They were like Greek gods, very strong and beautiful, and naked
but for some slight drapery that fell snow-white around them. They
glistened in the moonlight. I could not hear what they were saying;
yet I could see that they were in a dispute which went to the very
roots of life.
They resembled each other strangely in form and feature--like twin
brothers. But the face of one was noble, lofty, calm, full of a vast
regret and compassion. The face of the other was proud, resentful,
drawn with passion. He appeared to be accusing and renouncing his
companion, breaking away from an ancient friendship in a swift,
implacable hatred. But the companion seemed to plead with him,
and lean toward him, and try to draw him closer.
A strange fear and sorrow shook my heart. I felt that this
mysterious contest was something of immense importance; a secret,
ominous strife; a menace to the world.
Then the two figures stood up, marvellously alike in strength and
beauty, yet absolutely different in expression and bearing, the
one serene and benignant, the other fierce and threatening. The
quiet one was still pleading, with a hand laid upon the other's
shoulder. But he shook it off, and thrust his companion away with
a proud, impatient gesture.
At last I heard him speak.
"I have done with you," he cried. "I do not believe in you. I have
no more need of you. I renounce you. I will live without you. Away
forever out of my life!"
At this a look of ineffable sorrow and pity came upon the great
companion's face.
"You are free," he answered. "I have only besought you, never
constrained you. Since you will have it so, I must leave you, now,
to yourself."
He rose into the air, still looking downward with wise eyes full
of grief and warning, until he vanished in silence beyond the thin
clouds.
The other did not look up, but lifting his head with a defiant
laugh, shook his shoulders as if they were free of a burden. He
strode swiftly around the corner of the cathedral and disappeared
among the deep shadows.
A sense of intolerable calamity fell upon me. I said to myself:
"That was Man! And the other was God! And they have parted!"
Then the multitude of bells hidden in the lace-work of the high
tower began to sound. It was not the aerial fluttering music of
the carillon that I remembered hearing long ago from the belfries
of the Low Countries. This was a confused and strident ringing,
jangled and broken, full of sudden tumults and discords, as if the
tower were shaken and the bells gave out their notes at hazard, in
surprise and trepidation.
It stopped as suddenly as it began. The great bell of the hours
struck twelve. The windows of the cathedral glowed faintly with a
light from within.
"It is New Year's | 1,982.809035 |
2023-11-16 18:50:06.7891610 | 7,435 | 10 |
Produced by David Edwards, Melissa McDaniel and the Online
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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_, and Old English text by
+plus marks+.
The [bracketed] footnotes are as in the original.
Inconsistent or incorrect accents and spelling in passages in French,
Latin and Italian have been left unchanged.
ς (final form sigma) in the middle of a word has been normalized to σ.
Greek diacritics were normalized to be all present or all missing,
according to their preponderance in the quotation.
The following possible inconsistencies/printer errors/archaic
spellings/different names for different entities were identified
but left as printed:
Vanderkemp and Vander Kemp
Mellish and Melish
Rochefaucault, Rochefoucauld, Rochfaucauld
De Tutt, Destutt, Dustutt Tracy
Machiavilian and Machiavelian
ascendancy and ascendency.
M. DE LOMERIE omitted from the table of contents.
Page 76: "orders of council have been repeated" should possibly be
"orders of council have been repealed"
Page 155: "Tries's" most outrageous riot and rescue should possibly
be "Fries's".
Page 159: Hallicarnassensis should possibly be Halicarnassus.
Page 163: Shaise's rebellion should possibly be Shay's rebellion.
Page 186: There is a possible punctuation error in the entry for "herb"
in the list under the heading "Adj."
Page 357: Pythagonic should possibly be Pythagoric.
Page 359: "The refractory siston" should possibly be "The refractory
system".
Page 402: Pretorian should possibly be Preætorian.
Page 505: homony should possibly be hominy.
Table of Contents references Putty, but text references Pully.
The formulas for calculating an annuity on page 200 were possibly
printed incorrectly.
THE
WRITINGS
OF
THOMAS JEFFERSON:
BEING HIS
AUTOBIOGRAPHY, CORRESPONDENCE, REPORTS, MESSAGES,
ADDRESSES, AND OTHER WRITINGS, OFFICIAL
AND PRIVATE.
PUBLISHED BY THE ORDER OF THE JOINT COMMITTEE OF CONGRESS ON THE
LIBRARY, FROM THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPTS,
DEPOSITED IN THE DEPARTMENT OF STATE.
WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES, TABLES OF CONTENTS, AND A COPIOUS INDEX
TO EACH VOLUME, AS WELL AS A GENERAL INDEX TO THE WHOLE,
BY THE EDITOR
H. A. WASHINGTON.
VOL. VI.
NEW YORK:
H. W. DERBY, 625 BROADWAY.
1861.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by
TAYLOR & MAURY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of
Columbia.
STEREOTYPED BY
THOMAS B. SMITH,
32 & 84 Beekman Street.
CONTENTS TO VOL. VI.
BOOK II.
PART III.--CONTINUED.--LETTERS WRITTEN AFTER HIS RETURN TO THE UNITED
STATES DOWN TO THE TIME OF HIS DEATH.--(1790-1826,)--3.
Adams, John, letters written to, 35, 48, 59, 85, 120, 125, 142,
191, 217, 231, 302, 352, 488, 458, 523, 575.
Armstrong, General, letter written to, 103.
Astor, John Jacob, letters written to, 55, 247.
Austin, Benjamin, letters written to, 520, 553.
Bailey, General, letter written to, 100.
Barrow, Mr., letter written to, 456.
Barbour, Governor, letter written to, 38.
Bentley, William, letter written to, 503.
Burnside, Samuel M., letter written to, 290.
Burwell, W. A., letter written to, 5.
Cabell, Joseph C., letters written to, 299, 309, 389, 537, 540.
Cains, Clement, letter written to, 13.
Canby, Wm., letter written to, 210.
Carr, Mathew, letter written to, 132.
Carr, Dabney, letter written to, 527.
Christian, Charles, letter written to, 44.
Clay, Mr., letter written to, 7.
Clarke, John, letter written to, 307.
Clas, Charles, letter written to, 412.
Cook, Amos, J., letter written to, 531.
Cooper, Thomas, letters written to, 71, 311, 371, 375, 389.
Cooper, Dr. Thomas, letter written to, 290.
Correa, Mr., letter written to, 480.
Crawford, Mr., letter written to, 417.
Crawford, Dr., letter written to, 32.
Dearborne, H. A. S., letter written to, 27.
Dearborne, General, letter written to, 450.
Delaplaine, Mr., letters written to, 343, 373.
Duane, Colonel Wm., letters written to, 75, 79, 98, 109, 211.
Dufief, M., letter written to, 339.
Edwards, James L., letter written to, 8.
Eppes, Mr., letter written to, 15.
Eppes, John W., letters written to, 136, 194, 228.
Evans, Oliver, letter written to, 297.
Fleming, George, letter written to, 504.
Flourney, Thomas C., letter written to, 82.
Gallatin, Albert, letter written to, 498.
Galloway, Benjamin, letter written to, 41.
Gerry, Eldridge, letter written to, 62.
Girardin, Mr., letters written to, 335, 411, 439, 455.
Gray, Francis C., letter written to, 436.
Granger, Gideon, letter written to, 329.
Green, Nathaniel, letter written to, 71.
Greenhow, Samuel, letter written to, 308.
Humboldt, Baron de, letter written to, 267.
Jones, Dr. Walter, letter written to, 284.
King, Miles, letter written to, 387.
Kosciusko, General, letters written to, 67, 77.
La Fayette, Marquis de, letter written to, 421.
Latrobe, Mr., letter written to, 74.
Law, Thomas, letter written to, 348.
Leiper, Thomas, letters written to, 281, 463.
Letre, Thomas, letter written to, 79.
Lincoln, Levi, letter written to, 7.
Logan, Dr., letters written to, 215, 497.
Lyon, James, letter written to, 10.
Macon, Nathaniel, letter written to, 534.
Manners, Dr. John, letter written to, 319.
Martin, James, letter written to, 213.
Maury, James, letter written to, 51.
Maury, Mr., letters written to, 467, 469.
Maury, Thomas W., letter written to, 548.
Mellish, Mr., letters written to, 93, 403.
McMatron, Thomas Paine, letter written to, 107.
McPherson, Isaac, letter written to, 42.
Middleton, Henry, letter written to, 90.
Milligan, Joseph, letter written to, 568.
Mitchell, Andrew, letters written to, 6, 483.
Mole, Baron de, letter written to, 363.
Monroe, James, letters written to, 34, 123, 130, 394, 407, 550.
Morrell, Dr., letter written to, 99.
Nash, Melatiah, letter written to, 29.
Nelson, Hon. Mr., letter written to, 46.
Nemours, Dupont de, letters written to, 428, 457, 507, 589.
Nicholas, Governor, letters written to, 560, 578.
Onis, Chevalier de, letter written to, 341.
Patterson, Dr. R. M., letters written to, 10, 17, 26, 83, 301, 396,
397.
Partridge, Captain, letters written to, 495, 510.
Peale, Mr., letter written to, 6.
Pintard, John, letter written to, 289.
Plumer, Governor, letter written to, 414.
President of the United States, letters written to, 47, 57, 58, 70,
77, 101, 111, 133, 385, 391, 452.
Putty, Thomas, letter written to, 34.
Ritchie, Thomas, letter written to, 532.
Roane, Judge, letter written to, 493.
Rodman, Mr., letter written to, 54.
Ronaldson, Mr., letter written to, 91.
Rodney, Cæsar A., letter written to, 448.
Sargeant, Ezra, letter written to, 42.
Say, Jean Baptiste, letter written to, 430.
Shecut, John, letter written to, 153.
Short, Wm., letters written to, 127, 398.
Serra, Correa de., letters written to, 405, 595.
Small, Abraham, letter written to, 346.
Smith, Samuel H., letter written to, 383.
Spafford, Horatio G., letter written to, 334.
Stael, Madame de, letter written to, 481.
Taylor, John, letter written to, 604.
Tessé, Madame de, letter written to, 271.
Thompson, Charles, letter written to, 518.
Todd, Paine, letter written to, 16.
Torrence, W. H., letter written to, 460.
Tyler, Judge, letter written to, 65.
Valentin, Don de Toronda Coruna, letter written to, 273
Vander Kemp, Mr., letters written to, 44, 593.
Vaughan, John, letter written to, 416.
Watson, John F., letter written to, 345.
Wendover, Mr., letter written to, 444.
Wheaton, Dr., letter written to, 43.
Wilson, John, letter written to, 190.
Wilson, Dr. Peter, letter written to, 529.
Wirt, William, letters written to, 364, 483.
Worcester, Rev. Mr., letter written to, 538.
Wright, Hon. Mr., letter written to, 78.
Yancey, Colonel, letter written to, 514.
Address lost, letters written to, 129, 260, 391, 557.
Adams, John, letters written by, 146, 150, 154, 204, 208, 249,
251, 254, 263, 316, 324, 357, 473, 474, 491, 500, 545, 554,
598, 601.
PART III.--CONTINUED.
LETTERS WRITTEN AFTER HIS RETURN TO THE U. S. DOWN TO THE TIME OF HIS
DEATH.
1790-1826.
TO DR. RUSH.
POPLAR FOREST, August 17, 1811.
DEAR SIR,--I write to you from a place ninety miles from Monticello,
near the New London of this State, which I visit three or four times a
year, and stay from a fortnight to a month at a time. I have fixed myself
comfortably, keep some books here, bring others occasionally, am in the
solitude of a hermit, and quite at leisure to attend to my absent friends.
I note this to show that I am not in a situation to examine the dates of
our letters, whether I have overgone the annual period of asking how you
do? I know that within that time I have received one or more letters from
you, accompanied by a volume of your introductory lectures, for which
accept my thanks. I have read them with pleasure and edification, for I
acknowledge facts in medicine as far as they go, distrusting only their
extension by theory. Having to conduct my grandson through his course of
mathematics, I have resumed that study with great avidity. It was ever
my favorite one. We have no theories there, no uncertainties remain on
the mind; all is demonstration and satisfaction. I have forgotten much,
and recover it with more difficulty than when in the vigor of my mind
I originally acquired it. It is wonderful to me that old men should not
be sensible that their minds keep pace with their bodies in the progress
of decay. Our old revolutionary friend Clinton, for example, who was a
hero, but never a man of mind, is wonderfully jealous on this head. He
tells eternally the stories of his younger days to prove his memory, as
if memory and reason were the same faculty. Nothing betrays imbecility so
much as the being insensible of it. Had not a conviction of the danger
to which an unlimited occupation of the executive chair would expose
the republican constitution of our government, made it conscientiously
a duty to retire when I did, the fear of becoming a dotard and of being
insensible of it, would of itself have resisted all solicitations to
remain. I have had a long attack of rheumatism, without fever and without
pain while I keep myself still. A total prostration of the muscles of the
back, hips and thighs, deprived me of the power of walking, and leaves it
still in a very impaired state. A pain when I walk, seems to have fixed
itself in the hip, and to threaten permanence. I take moderate rides,
without much fatigue; but my journey to this place, in a hard-going gig,
gave me great sufferings which I expect will be renewed on my return as
soon as I am able. The loss of the power of taking exercise would be a
sore affliction to me. It has been the delight of my retirement to be in
constant bodily activity, looking after my affairs. It was never damped
as the pleasures of reading are, by the question of _cui bono?_ for
what object? I hope your health of body continues firm. Your works show
that of your mind. The habits of exercise which your calling has given
to both, will tend long to preserve them. The sedentary character of my
public occupations sapped a constitution naturally sound and vigorous,
and draws it to an earlier close. But it will still last quite as long
as I wish it. There is a fulness of time when men should go, and not
occupy too long the ground to which others have a right to advance. We
must continue while here to exchange occasionally our mutual good wishes.
I find friendship to be like wine, raw when new, ripened with age, the
true old man's milk and restorative cordial. God bless you and preserve
you through a long and healthy old age.
TO WM. A. BURWELL, ESQ.
POPLAR FOREST, August 19, 1811.
DEAR SIR,--I am here after a long absence, having been confined at home
a month by rheumatism. I thought myself equal to the journey when I set
out, but I have suffered much coming, staying, and shall, returning.
If I am not better after a little rest at home, I shall set out for
the warm springs. The object of this letter is to inform Mrs. Burwell
that a ring, which she left where she washed the morning of leaving
Fludd's, is safe and will be delivered to her order or to herself when
she passes. I have not seen the President since he came home, nor do I
know what has passed with Foster from the fountain head; but through a
channel in which I have confidence, I learn he has delivered a formal
note in the name of his government, declaring that the circumstances
of the war oblige them to take possession of the ocean, and permit no
commerce on it but through their ports. Thus their purpose is at length
avowed. They cannot from their own resources maintain the navy necessary
to retain the dominion of the ocean, and mean that other nations shall
be assessed to maintain their own chains. Should the king die, as is
probable, although the ministry which would come in stand so committed
to repeal the orders of Council, I doubt if the nation will permit it.
For the usurpation of the sea has become a national disease. This state
of things annihilates the culture of tobacco, except of about 15,000
hhds. on the prime lands. Wheat and Flour keep up. Wheat was at 9s. 6d.
at Richmond ten days ago. I have sold mine here at the Richmond price,
abating 2s., but 8s. a bushel has been offered for machined wheat. Present
me respectfully to Mrs. Burwell, and accept assurances of affectionate
respect and esteem.
TO MR. PEALE.
POPLAR FOREST, August 20, 1811.
It is long, my dear Sir, since we have exchanged a letter. Our former
correspondence had always some little matter of business interspersed;
but this being at an end, I shall still be anxious to hear from you
sometimes, and to know that you are well and happy. I know indeed that
your system is that of contentment under any situation. I have heard that
you have retired from the city to a farm, and that you give your whole
time to that. Does not the museum suffer? And is the farm as interesting?
Here, as you know, we are all farmers, but not in a pleasing style. We
have so little labor in proportion to our land that, although perhaps we
make more profit from the same labor, we cannot give to our grounds that
style of beauty which satisfies the eye of the amateur. Our rotations are
corn, wheat, and clover, or corn, wheat, clover and clover, or wheat,
corn, wheat, clover and clover; preceding the clover by a plastering.
But some, instead of clover substitute mere rest, and all are slovenly
enough. We are adding the care of Merino sheep. I have often thought
that if heaven had given me choice of my position and calling, it should
have been on a rich spot of earth, well watered, and near a good market
for the productions of the garden. No occupation is so delightful to me
as the culture of the earth, and no culture comparable to that of the
garden. Such a variety of subjects, some one always coming to perfection,
the failure of one thing repaired by the success of another, and instead
of one harvest a continued one through the year. Under a total want of
demand except for our family table, I am still devoted to the garden.
But though an old man, I am but a young gardener.
Your application to whatever you are engaged in I know to be incessant.
But Sundays and rainy days are always days of writing for the farmer.
Think of me sometimes when you have your pen in hand, and give me
information of your health and occupations; and be always assured of my
great esteem and respect.
TO MR. CLAY.
POPLAR FOREST, August 23, 1811.
DEAR SIR,--While here, and much confined to the house by my rheumatism,
I have amused myself with calculating the hour lines of an horizontal
dial for the latitude of this place, which I find to be 37° 22´ 26´´.
The calculations are for every five minutes of time, and are always
exact to within less than half a second of a degree. As I do not know
that any body here has taken this trouble before, I have supposed a copy
would be acceptable to you. It may be a good exercise for Master Cyrus
to make you a dial by them. He will need nothing but a protractor, or a
line of chords and dividers. A dial of size, say of from twelve inches to
two feet square, is the cheapest and most accurate measure of time for
general use, and would I suppose be more common if every one possessed
the proper horary lines for his own latitude. Williamsburg being very
nearly in the parallel of Poplar Forest, the calculations now sent would
serve for all the counties in the line between that place and this, for
your own place, New London, and Lynchburg in this neighborhood. Slate,
as being less affected by the sun, is preferable to wood or metal, and
needs but a saw and plane to prepare it, and a knife point to mark the
lines and figures. If worth the trouble, you will of course use the
paper enclosed; if not, some of your neighbors may wish to do it, and
the effect to be of some use to you will strengthen the assurances of
my great esteem and respect.
TO LEVI LINCOLN, ESQ.
MONTICELLO, August 25, 1811.
It is long, my good friend, since we have exchanged a letter; and yet
I demur to all prescription against it. I cannot relinquish the right
of correspondence with those I have learnt to esteem. If the extension
of common acquaintance in public life be an inconvenience, that with
select worth is more than a counterpoise. Be assured your place is high
among those whose remembrance I have brought with me into retirement,
and cherish with warmth. I was overjoyed when I heard you were appointed
to the supreme bench of national justice, and as much mortified when I
heard you had declined it. You are too young to be entitled to withdraw
your services from your country. You cannot yet number the _quadraginta
stipendia_ of the veteran. Our friends, whom we left behind, have ceased
to be friends among themselves. I am sorry for it, on their account
and on my own, for I have sincere affection for them all. I hope it
will produce no schisms among us, no desertions from our ranks; that no
Essex man will find matter of triumph in it. The secret treasons of his
heart, and open rebellions on his tongue, will still be punished, while
_in fieri_, by the detestation of his country, and by its vengeance in
the overt act. What a pity that history furnishes so many abuses of the
punishment by exile, the most rational of all punishments for meditated
treason. Their great king beyond the water would doubtless receive them as
kindly as his Asiatic prototype did the fugitive aristocracy of Greece.
But let us turn to good-humored things. How do you do? What are you
doing? Does the farm or the study occupy your time, or each by turns? Do
you read law or divinity? And which affords the most curious and cunning
learning? Which is most disinterested? And which was it that crucified
its Saviour? Or were the two professions united among the Jews? In that
case, what must their Caiaphases have been? Answer me these questions,
or any others you like better, but let me hear from you and know that
you are well and happy. That you may long continue so is the prayer of
yours affectionately.
TO MR. JAMES L. EDWARDS.
MONTICELLO, September 5, 1811.
SIR,--Your letter of August 20th has truly surprised me. In this it is
said that, _for certain services performed_ by Mr. James Lyon and Mr.
Samuel Morse, formerly editors of the Savannah Republican, I promised
them the sum of one thousand dollars. This, Sir, is totally unfounded. I
never promised to any printer on earth the sum of one thousand dollars,
nor any other sum, for certain services performed, or for any services
which that expression would imply. I have had no accounts with printers
but for their newspapers, for which I have paid always the ordinary price
and no more. I have occasionally joined in moderate contributions to
printers, as I have done to other descriptions of persons, distressed or
persecuted, not by promise, but the actual payment of what I contributed.
When Mr. Morse went to Savannah, he called on me and told me he meant to
publish a paper there, for which I subscribed, and paid him the year in
advance. I continued to take it from his successors, Everett & McLean,
and Everett & Evans, and paid for it at different epochs up to December
31, 1808, when I withdrew my subscription. You say McLean informed you
"he had some expectation of getting the money, as he had received a
letter from me on the subject." If such a letter exists under my name,
it is a forgery. I never wrote but a single letter to him, that was of
the 28th of January, 1810, and was on the subject of the last payment
made for his newspaper, and on no other subject; and I have two receipts
of his, (the last dated March 9, 1809,) of payments for his paper, both
stating to be _in full of all demands_, and a letter of the 17th of April,
1810, in reply to mine, manifestly showing he had no demand against me
of any other nature. The promise is said to have been made to Morse &
Lyon. Were Mr. Morse living, I should appeal to him with confidence, as
I believe him to have been a very honest man. Mr. Lyon I suppose to be
living, and will, I am sure, acquit me of any such transaction as that
alleged. The truth, then, being that I never made the promise suggested,
nor any one of a like nature to any printer or other person whatever,
every principle of justice and of self-respect requires that I should
not listen to any such demand.
TO MR. JAMES LYON.
MONTICELLO, September 5, 1811.
SIR,--I enclose you the copy of a letter I have received from a James
L. Edwards, of Boston. You will perceive at once its swindling object.
It appeals to two dead men, and one, (yourself,) whom he supposes I
cannot get at. I have written him an answer which may perhaps prevent
his persevering in the attempt, for the whole face of his letter betrays
a consciousness of its guilt. But perhaps he may expect that I would
sacrifice a sum of money rather than be disturbed with encountering a bold
falsehood. In this he is mistaken; and to prepare to meet him, should
he repeat his demand, and considering that he has presumed to implicate
your name in this attempt, I take the liberty of requesting a letter
from you bearing testimony to the truth of my never having made to you,
or within your knowledge or information, any such promise to yourself,
your partner Morse, or any other. My confidence in your character leaves
me without a doubt of your honest aid in repelling this base and bold
attempt to fix on me practices to which no honors or powers in this world
would ever have induced me to stoop. I have solicited none, intrigued
for none. Those which my country has thought proper to confide to me
have been of their own mere motion, unasked by me. Such practices as
this letter-writer imputes to me, would have proved me unworthy of their
confidence.
It is long since I have known anything of your situation or pursuits. I
hope they have been successful, and tender you my best wishes that they
may continue so, and for your own health and happiness.
TO DOCTOR PATTERSON.
MONTICELLO, September 11, 1811.
DEAR SIR,--The enclosed work came to me without a scrip of a pen
other than what you see in the title-page--"A Monsieur le President
de la Société." From this I conclude it intended for the Philosophical
Society, and for them I now enclose it to you. You will find the notes
really of value. They embody and ascertain to us all the scraps of
new discoveries which we have learned in detached articles from less
authentic publications. M. Goudin has generally expressed his measures
according to the old as well as the new standard, which is a convenience
to me, as I do not make a point of retaining the last in my memory.
I confess, indeed, I do not like the new system of French measures,
because not the best, and adapted to a standard accessible to themselves
exclusively, and to be obtained by other nations only from them. For, on
examining the map of the earth, you will find no meridian on it but the
one passing through their country, offering the extent of land on both
sides of the 45th degree, and terminating at both ends in a portion of
the ocean which the conditions of the problem for an universal standard
of measures require. Were all nations to agree therefore to adopt this
standard, they must go to Paris to ask it; and they might as well long
ago have all agreed to adopt the French foot, the standard of which they
could equally have obtained from Paris. Whereas the pendulum is equally
fixed by the laws of nature, is in possession of every nation, may be
verified everywhere and by every person, and at an expense within every
one's means. I am not therefore without a hope that the other nations
of the world will still concur, some day, in making the pendulum the
basis of a common system of measures, weights and coins, which applied
to the present metrical systems of France and of other countries, will
render them all intelligible to one another. England and this country
may give it a beginning, notwithstanding the war they are entering
into. The republic of letters is unaffected by the wars of geographical
divisions of the earth. France, by her power and science, now bears down
everything. But that power has its measure in time by the life of one
man. The day cannot be distant in the history of human revolutions, when
the indignation of mankind will burst forth, and an insurrection of the
universe against the political tyranny of France will overwhelm all her
arrogations. Whatever is most opposite to them will be most popular, and
what is reasonable therefore in itself, cannot fail to be adopted the
sooner from that motive. But why leave this adoption to the tardy will
of governments who are always, in their stock of information, a century
or two behind the intelligent part of mankind, and who have interests
against touching ancient institutions? Why should not the college of the
literary societies of the world adopt the second pendulum as the unit
of measure on the authorities of reason, convenience and common consent?
And why should not our society open the proposition by a circular letter
to the other learned institutions of the earth? If men of science,
in their publications, would express measures always in multiples and
decimals of the pendulum, annexing their value in municipal measures as
botanists add the popular to the botanical names of plants, they would
soon become familiar to all men of instruction, and prepare the way for
legal adoptions. At any rate, it would render the writers of every nation
intelligible to the readers of every other, when expressing the measures
of things. The French, I believe, have given up their Decada Calendar,
but it does not appear that they retire from the centesimal division of
the quadrant. On the contrary, M. Borda has calculated according to that
division, new trigonometrical tables not yet, I believe, printed. In the
excellent tables of Callet, lately published by Didot, in stereotype,
he has given a table of Logarithmic lines and tangents for the hundred
degrees of the quadrant, abridged from Borda's manuscript. But he has
given others for the sexagesimal division, which being for every 10´´
through the whole table, are more convenient than Hutton's, Scherwin's,
or any of their predecessors. It cannot be denied that the centesimal
division would facilitate our arithmetic, and that it might have been
preferable had it been originally adopted, as a numeration by eighths
would have been more convenient than by tens. But the advantages would
not now compensate the embarrassments of a change.
I extremely regret the not being provided with a time-piece equal to the
observations of the approaching eclipse of the sun. Can you tell me what
would be the cost in Philadelphia of a clock, the time-keeping part of
which should be perfect? And what the difference of cost between a wooden
and gridiron pendulum? To be of course without a striking apparatus, as
it would be wanted for astronomical purposes only. Accept assurances of
affectionate esteem and respect.
TO CLEMENT CAINE, ESQ.
MONTICELLO, September 16, 1811.
SIR,--Your favor of April 2d was not | 1,982.809201 |
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Produced by Anne Grieve and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
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Transcriber’s Note: This text is reproduced with its original printing
errors intact, save for minor amendments to punctuation, capitalisation
and word spacing. The author was prone to misquoting poetry, the
typesetter was apparently not being paid enough to ensure accuracy, and
it doesn’t seem a proofreader was asked to participate at all. The best
laid schemes o’ “mince” and men have indeed gone aft agley.
OAT MEAL
THE
War Winner
[Illustration]
BY
J. R. Grieve, M. D.
Acting Assistant Surgeon
U. S. Army, 1865
Copyright Applied for. Price Ten Cents.
“OATMEAL”
BEING GLIMPSES AN REMINISENCES OF SCOTLAND AND ITS PEOPLE.
By J. R. Grieve, M.D.
INTRODUCTION.
At the present time when every one is being urged to bend every energy
toward the conservation of food supplies, it is surprising to me that so
little has been written in behalf of the extraordinary value of oatmeal
as a diet on which people can live and continue more healthy than on any
other cereal in the world.
I wish to present =facts=, not =theories=. I wish to tell of what I know
personally on this subject. I have not consulted any of the laboratories
of research or taken for granted any data from the many-published
statistics of individual food sufficiency for sustaining life, but I have
only taken =facts= and invite my readers | 1,982.89812 |
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HathiTrust Digital Library.)
PLEASING
POETRY AND PICTURES:
FOR THE
MIND AND THE EYE.
[Illustration]
Here’s a pretty new Book, full of verses to sing,
And Mary can read it--oh, what a fine thing;
Then such pretty verses, and pictures too, look!
Oh, I’m glad I can read such a beautiful book.
NEW HAVEN.
PUBLISHED BY S. BABCOCK.
1849.
[Illustration: THE BEE-HIVE.]
PLEASING
POETRY AND PICTURES.
[Illustration]
The Little Busy Bee.
_An Example of Industry, for Young Children._
How doth the little busy Bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower?
How skilfully she builds her cell,--
How neat she spreads her wax,
And labors hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labor, or of skill,
I must be busy too,
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be past,
That I may give for every day
Some good account at last.
[Illustration]
The Dead Bird.
_What we call Sport is too often Cruelty._
Ah! there it falls, and now ’tis dead!
The shot went thro’ its pretty head,
And broke its shining wing?
How dull and dim its closing eyes;
How cold, and stiff, and still it lies!
Poor harmless little thing!
It was a lark, and in the sky,
In mornings fine, it mounted high,
To sing a pretty song;
Cutting the fresh and healthy air,
It whistled out its music there,
As light it skimmed along.
How little thought its pretty breast,
This morning, when it left its nest
Hid in the springing corn,
To find some breakfast for its young,
And pipe away its morning song,
It never should return.
[Illustration: THE DEAD BIRD.]
Those pretty wings shall never more
Its tender nestlings cover o’er,
Or bring them dainties rare:
But long with gaping beaks they’ll cry,
And then they will with hunger die,
All in the open air!
Poor little bird! If people knew
The sorrows little birds go through,
I think that even boys
Would never call it sport and fun
To stand and fire a frightful gun,
For nothing but the noise.
[Illustration]
My Kind Mother.
_A Dutiful Child is the Joy of its Parents._
I must not tease my mother,
For she is very kind;
And every thing she says to me,
I must directly mind;
For when I was a baby,
And could not speak or walk,
She let me in her bosom sleep,
And taught me how to talk.
I must not tease my mother;
And when she likes to read,
Or has the headache, I will step
Most silently, indeed.
I will not choose a noisy play,
Or trifling troubles tell;
But sit down quiet by her side,
And try to make her well.
I must not tease my mother;
I have heard my father say,
When I was in my cradle sick,
She tended me all day.
She lays me in my little bed,
She gives me clothes and food,
And I have nothing else to pay,
But trying to be good.
I must not tease my mother;
She loves me all the day,
And she has patience with my faults,
And teaches me to pray;
How much I’ll strive to please her
She every hour shall see,
For, should she go away, or die,
What would become of me!
[Illustration]
Good Night.
_Little Children should go to Bed Early._
The sun is hidden from our sight,
The birds are sleeping sound;
’Tis time to say to all, “Good night,”
And give a kiss all round.
Good night! my father, mother dear,
Now kiss your little son;
Good night! my friends, both far and near;
Good night! to every one.
Good night! ye merry, merry birds,
Sleep well till morning light;
| 1,982.898944 |
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Proofreaders
BAMBI
by Marjorie Benton Cooke
Illustrated by Mary Greene Blumenschein
Originally Published in 1914
DEDICATION
TO BAMBI
With thanks to her for being Herself!
M.B.C.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
She saw Jarvis before the curtain, making a first-night speech.
Bambi fluttered the joy-bringing letter above her head and circled the
breakfast-room in a whirl of happiness.
"Good evening, Mrs. New York, and all you people out there! We're here,
Jarvis and I."
"Well, believe me, that high-brow stuff is on the toboggan."
"Tell your husband to put you in a play, and I'll put it on." "Much
obliged, I'll tell him. Good morning."
Her tale had the place of honour and was illustrated by James Montgomery
Flagg, the supreme desire of every young writer.
"Softlings! Poor softlings!" Jarvis muttered, Bambi's words coming back
to him.
"I have got to do something violent, Ardelia. I am going to jerk the
stems off of berries, chop the pits out of cherries, and skin peaches."
He taught himself to abandon his old introspective habits during these
days on the box.
BAMBI
I
"Professor James Parkhurst, I consider you a colossal failure as an
educator," said Francesca, his daughter, known to friend and family as
Bambina, or Bambi for short.
Professor Parkhurst lifted a startled face from his newspaper and
surveyed his only child across the breakfast table.
"My dear, what causes this sweeping assertion of my incompetence?"
"I do! I do! Just what did you expect me to do when I grew up?"
"Why, to be happy."
"That's the profession you intended me for? Who's to pay the piper? It's
expensive to be happy and also unlucrative."
"I have always expected to support you until your husband claimed that
privilege."
"Suppose I want a husband who can't support me?"
"Dear me, that would be unfortunate. It is the first duty of a husband
to support his wife."
"Old-fashioned husbands, yes--but not modern ones. Lots of men marry to
be supported nowadays. How on earth could I support the man I love?"
"You are not without talents, my dear."
"Talents? You almost said accomplishments! If you were not living in the
Pliocene age, Professor James Parkhurst, you would know that
accomplishments are a curse--accomplishment is the only thing that
counts. I can sing a little, play the piano a little, auction bridge a
good deal; I can cook, and sew fancy things. The only thing I can do
well is to dance, and no real man wants to be supported by his
wife's toes."
The Professor smiled mirthlessly. "Is this a general discussion, or are
you leading to a specific point, Bambi?" he inquired.
"It's a specific charge of incompetence against you and me. Why didn't
you teach me something? You know more about mathematics than the man who
invented them, and I am not even sure that two and two make four."
"You're young yet, my dear; you can learn. What is it you want to
study?"
"Success, and how to get it."
"Success, in the general sense of the word, has never seemed very
important to me. To do your work well----"
"Yes, I know. It is the fact that you have not thought success important
that hampers me so in the choice of a husband."
"Bambina, that is the second time a husband has been mentioned in this
discussion. Have you some individual under consideration?"
"I have. I have practically decided on him."
"You don't tell me! Do I know the young man?"
"Oh, yes--Jarvis Jocelyn."
"He has proposed to you?"
"Oh, no. He doesn't know anything about it. I have just decided on him."
"But, my dear, he is penniless."
"That's why I reproach you that you haven't brought me up to support
Jarvis in a luxury he will have to get used to."
"But why have you settled on this youth? I seem to recall a great many
young men who are always about. I presume they admire you. Certainly
this dreamer is the most ineligible of them all."
"Oh, that--yes. That's why I must take him. He'll starve to death unless
some one takes him on, and looks after him."
"Isn't there some asylum, perhaps?"
Bambi's laugh rang out like a chime.
"A home for geniuses. There's an idea! No, Professor Parkhurst, Society
does not yet provide for that particular brand of incompetents."
"It seems as if you were going rather far in your quixotism to marry
him."
Again the girl laughed.
"I total him up like this: fine family, good blood, decent habits,
handsome, healthy, poetic. He might even be affectionate. His one fault
is that he is not adjusted to modern commercial standards. He cannot
make money, or he will not--it comes to the same thing."
"I am unable to see why you are elected to take care of him. He must fit
his time, or perish. You don't happen to be in love with him, do you?"
"No, I--I think not. He interests me more than anybody. I suppose I am
fond of him rather."
"Have you any reason for thinking him in love with you?"
"Mercy, no! He hardly knows I'm alive. He uses me for a conversational
blotting-pad. That's my only use in his eyes."
"He's so very impractical."
"I am used to impractical men. I have taken care of you since I was five
years old."
"Yes, my dear. But I am not trying to feed the world bread when it
demands cheese."
"No, you are distinctly practical. You are only trying to prove a fourth
dimension, when three have sufficed the world up to date."
"Yes, but----"
"No buts. If it had not been for me you would have gone naked and been
arrested, or have forgotten to eat and starved to death."
"Now, my dear Bambi, I protest----"
"It will do you no good. Don't I remember how you started off to meet
your nine o'clock class clad in your pyjamas?"
"Oh, my child!"
"Don't talk to me about impracticality. It's my birthright."
"Well, I can prove to you----"
"I never believe anything you have to prove. If I can't see it, first
thing, without any process, it isn't true."
"But if you represent yourself as Y, and Jarvis as X, an unknown
quantity----"
"Professor Parkhurst, stop there! There's nothing so unreliable as
figures, and everybody but a mathematician knows that. Figures lie right
to your face."
"Bambina, if you could coin your conversation----" Professor Parkhurst
began.
"I am sorry to find you unreasonable about Jarvis, Professor."
He gazed at her, in his absent-minded, startled way. He had never
understood her since she was first put into his hands, aged six months,
a fluffy bundle of motherless babyhood. She never ceased to startle him.
She was an enigma beyond any puzzle in mathematics he had ever brought
his mind to bear upon.
"How old are you, Bambina?"
"Shame on you, and you a mathematician. If James is forty-five, and
Bambina is two thirds of half his age, how old is Bambi? I'm nineteen."
His startled gaze deepened.
"Oh, you cannot be!" he objected.
"There you are. I told you figures lie. It says so in the family Bible,
but maybe I'm only two."
"Nineteen years old! Dearie me!"
"You see I'm quite old enough to know my own mind. Have you a nine
o'clock class this morning?"
"I have."
"Well, hasten, Professor, or you'll get a tardy mark. It's ten minutes
of nine now."
He jumped up from his chair and started for the door.
"Don't you want this notebook?" she called, taking up the pad beside his
plate.
"Yes, oh, yes, those are my notes. Where have I laid my glasses? Quick,
my dear! I must not be late."
"On your head," said she.
She followed him to the hall, reminded him of his hat, his umbrella,
restored the notebook, and finally saw him off, his thin back, with its
scholarly stoop, disappearing down the street.
Bambina went back to the breakfast table, and took up the paper. She
read all the want "ads" headed "female."
"Nothing promising here," she said. "I wonder if I could bring myself to
teach little kids one, two, and one, two, three, in a select dancing
class? I'd loathe it."
A ponderous black woman appeared in the door and filled it.
"Is you froo?"
"Yes, go ahead, Ardelia."
"Hab the Perfessor gone already?"
"Yes, he's gone."
"Well, he suttinly did tell me to remin' him of suthin' this mohnin',
and I cain't des perzactly bemember what it was."
"Was it important?"
"Yassum. Seemed lak I bemember he tell me it was impo'tant."
"Serves him right for not telling me."
"It suttinly am queer the way he can't bemember. Seem lak his haid so
full of figgers, or what you call them, ain' no room for nuthin' else."
"You and father get zero in memory--that's sure."
"I ain't got no trubble dat way, Miss Bambi. I bemember everything,
'cepting wot you tell me to bemember."
The dining-room door flew open at this point, and a handsome youth, with
his hair upstanding, and his clothes in a wrinkle, appeared on the
threshold. Bambi rose and started for him.
"Jarvis!" she exclaimed. "What has happened? Where have you been?"
"Sleeping in the garden."
"Dat's it--dat's it! Dat was wat I was to remin' the Perfessor of, dat a
man was sleepin' in the garden."
"Sleeping in our garden? But why?"
"Because of the filthy commercialism of this age! Here I am, at the
climax of my big play, a revolutionary play, I tell you, teeming with
new and vital ideas, for a people on the down-slide, and a landlady, a
puny, insignificant ant of a female, interrupts me to demand money, and
when I assure her, most politely, that I have none, she puts me out,
actually puts me out!"
Bambi choked back a laugh.
"Why didn't you come here?"
"I did. Your father refused to see me; he was working at his crazy
figures. I burst in, and demanded you, but he couldn't remember where
you had gone."
"What a pity! Well----"
"I told him I would wait in the garden. If necessary, I would sleep
there."
"Yas'm, yas'm, dat's when he called me in, to tell me | 1,983.007123 |
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